kike

20 | br

[luvvcecee]

Could someone make a jude bellingham fanfic as spiderman.. 🌚

(NOT MY WORK, CREDS GO TO madebyjass)

[hansolsticio]

( ✶. ) 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ── “𝐄𝐆𝐎.”

𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒆. “Em noites como esta, era impossível domar a 𝘀𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗮 sob suas unhas – nada seria capaz de apagar o sorrisinho presunçoso. Porque 𝗝𝘂𝗱𝗲 sabia exatamente o quanto você precisava do 𝗲𝗴𝗼 enorme dele.”

─── 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗼! 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗺 × 𝗹𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗮. 𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗚✷𝗥𝗜𝗔: smut. 𝗣𝗔𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗥𝗔𝗦: 3333. 𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦✷𝗦: tem castigo do monstro (denial), size kink (big dick jude), leve objetificação, cum play, dois centavos de pain kink, penetração desprotegida. ─── 𝗡✷𝗧𝗔𝗦: eu entrei aqui achando que era a disney e hoje em dia escrevo com jogador de futebol.

A abstinência sexual em atletas não tem efeito comprovado antes de competições. Você sabe disso. Jude sabe disso. Porém, saber nunca impediu as tendências antiquadas do homem que gostava do “certo pelo certo” se o assunto era a própria carreira — mesmo quando não havia base científica alguma. Na verdade, ele parecia especialmente se agarrar às coisas mais ilógicas possíveis por algum motivo. E te irritava que ele não tivesse largado a mão da superstição nem mesmo quando você estava se dando ao trabalho de desobedecer mais uma das crendices do seu namorado só por estar cheia de saudades.

Quer dizer, que homem em sã consciência larga a própria mulher toda fogosa e carente na cama dele e sai para jantar com os colegas de trabalho? Você ainda não tinha uma resposta concreta. A “tradição” nasceu logo após o jogo de estreia e o seu namorado se recusava a deixá-la morrer sob a justificativa de que aquele havia virado um ritual de vitória e, por mais que você quisesse contrariá-lo, parecia estar funcionando. Você não estaria sendo tão amarga sobre toda essa situação se Jude estivesse cumprindo verdadeiramente com as atribuições dele enquanto seu homem — a constância da vida sexual de vocês havia decaído drasticamente com essa história de abstinência, ainda que a libido permanecesse igual ou mesmo maior que antes.

Era incômodo o quanto tinha que esperar e se privar, pois só se via livre do hábito maldito quando seu namorado finalmente jogava e ficava “desimpedido” por pelo menos uma semana, só que isso estava longe de ser suficiente. E hoje deveria ser seu dia de sorte, porém a ocorrência infeliz, que, segundo Jude, realmente não poderia ser adiada, ainda estava de pé: a equipe precisava sair para jantar.

“Vem aqui fazer ‘pra mim, vida.”, o dono do seu mau humor repetiu o pedido pelo que deveria ser a terceira vez em menos de dez minutos. A voz vinha de dentro do banheiro e, ainda que o quarto do hotel fosse estupidamente grande, você jurava que sentia ela ecoar bem no seu ouvido. “Por favor…”, o modo exagerado de arrastar as palavras te arrancou um sorriso, Jude era dramático de um jeito caricato, mas não agia feito um bebezão na frente de qualquer um. “Só você sabe fazer como eu gosto.”

Você tentou não fazer alarde com os próprios passos quando se apoiou no batente da porta muito à contragosto, queria ao menos pegá-lo de surpresa quando aparecesse, porém Jude já estava olhando quando você chegou.

“Você não quer mesmo que eu vá, não é?”, se referiu ao seu jeito aborrecido de encará-lo e um sorriso provocativo surgiu na boca bonita.

“Não.”, nem ao menos tentou soar indiferente. Havia feito o seu drama no momento em que finalmente conseguiu ficar à sós com seu namorado, ele já conhecia o chão no qual estava pisando. Empurrou Jude pelo quadril quando se aproximou, mas somente o suficiente para se colocar entre ele e a bancada da pia. Apoiando as mãos nas margens sinalizou que precisava de ajuda para se sentar ali a fim de compensar a diferença de altura — durante toda a interação se recusou a falar propriamente, era uma mulher de poucas palavras sob frustração. O homem ergueu seu corpo ainda sorrindo, parecia se deleitar no jeitinho marrento.

Dar um toque final no cabelo dele foi o que te restou para fazer, afinal ele já havia adiantado metade do serviço nos dez minutos em que gastou resmungando sobre preferir que você o finalizasse. O excesso de água ainda escorria pelo pescoço dele quando tudo terminou, mesmo que você se esforçasse para recolher o líquido usando uma toalha de mão. Estava comicamente apática, nem o corpo gostoso do seu homem ainda úmido pelo banho parecia trazer luz aos seus olhos.

“Tô orgulhosa de você.”, murmurou, a atenção concentrada nos olhos dele.

“Você já disse isso.”, ele retrucou, tirando a toalhinha das suas mãos para fazer você abraçar o pescoço dele entre elas.

“E quero dizer de novo.”, deu de ombros. O biquinho natural que descansava na sua boca foi preso entre os lábios dele e a carência logo se rendeu entre os estalinhos molhados que encheram o cômodo. “Nem parece que você ‘tá com vontade de ir…”, sussurrou cheia de dengo, brincando com a pontinha da língua contra a dele.

“Tô esperando você tentar me convencer a ficar.”, ele riu de canto, uma das mãos se enchendo com o cabelo da sua nuca.

“De novo?”, se afastou rapidinho só para questionar numa incredulidade cínica. Ele quis rir mais, porém preferiu retornar à brincadeira gostosa das línguas de vocês dois. E, para quem era sonso o suficiente ao ponto de fingir que não estava a fim de foder naquele exato momento, Jude estava sendo fogoso demais. Os cantinhos da boca se esticavam num sorriso sujo enquanto ele chupava seus lábios forte ao ponto de deixá-los inchadinhos, latejando sob o toque. As mãos eram tão descaradas quanto, apertando cada canto só para te lembrar que o seu corpinho não era nada dentro do toque dele — era frágil, simples de quebrar.

E, porra, você tremia, rendia-se fácil. Os peitinhos já latejando sob a imaginação de serem engolidos com tanto gosto quanto sua boca estava sendo. Ergueu o quadril da bancada para buscar pelo dele, já tinha se melado inteira desde o momento em que cruzou a porta daquela suíte — não iria fingir o contrário. Esbarrou na toalha que cobria o volume avantajado, mas isso não te desencorajou a levantar o tecido da camiseta que você vestia, enrolando o tecido folgado como pôde. Tampouco quis disfarçar que a intenção era exibir a calcinha minúscula que havia escolhido só para ele, talvez fosse a última chance de conseguir qualquer coisa antes de se ver sem o homem.

“Você é linda.”, ele correu os olhos pelo seu corpo, ainda buscando fôlego ao afastar a boca da sua. E a doçura fingida de Jude fazia sua cabeça arder em afobação. Em qualquer outra situação esse não seria o caso, mas não sabia como evitar: não estava carente disso. O corpo claramente reclamava a falta de uma foda bem gostosa, de ser pega com vontade até cair exausta na cama.

Nem por um segundo achou que abrir a boca para argumentar seria a solução pro seu problema — tinha o fracasso das outras quatro tentativas pesando no seu julgamento. Jude não começaria nada contigo que não tivesse tempo para terminar e vocês dois sabiam que quando começavam nunca dava para parar. Você soltou o ar baixinho em chateação, suas opções esgotando.

“O que é essa carinha, hm?”, indagou num selo molhado aquilo que ele já sabia bem a resposta. “É ‘pra eu falar que você ‘tá sexy, amor?”, questionou outra vez, os olhos bebendo a expressão irritada no seu rostinho. “Você ‘tá sexy, bebê. Sempre ‘tá.”, pode ter soado até meio abobado, porque realmente era gamado no jeitinho que você agia quando ficava toda carentinha de sexo, parecia prestes a fazer de tudo só para conseguir um carinho mais safado. “Gostosa ‘pra caralho.”, afirmou como se fosse senso comum.

E se Jude fosse inteligente o bastante saberia que ouvir isso era bom:

“Mas não é suficiente…”, ele murmurou baixinho, te conhecia bem demais. “Tá toda afobada porque eu não te comi ainda, não tá?”, a pergunta passou direto pelos seus ouvidos, focada demais em derreter dentro do aperto gostoso que não deixava a sua cintura. Mal registrou quando ele praticamente colou a boca contra a sua orelha: “Então tenho que falar que ‘tô louco ‘pra abrir essa xotinha inteira no meu pau.”, o sussurro fez a pele arder, é desnecessário falar que se contraiu completamente — quase gemendo só de escutar. “Que quero fazer essa boquinha de buceta e te colocar ‘pra me mamar a noite toda, bem gostoso.”, instigou mais um pouco, era um tesão do caralho. Seu coração palpitava dentro das suas orelhas quando ele se afastou. “É ‘pra falar assim?”, te olhou nos olhos, o tom de voz voltando ao normal. “É, amor?”

Jude tinha uma vocação fodida para ser arrogante e você todos os dias agradecia aos céus que esse não fosse realmente o caso. Quer dizer, é mais canalhice e provocação que qualquer outra coisa quando ele resolve te encher o saco. Não é novidade que o homem gosta de agir todo cheio de si só para te deixar molinha, o ego queimando nas chamas da adrenalina depois de uma disputa tão intensa — especialmente uma na qual a participação dele foi tão brilhante.

“Porra, você é um filho da puta…”, você protestou baixinho, porque a vontade sequer era de realmente ofender — só não sabia lidar com o quão corroída por tesão sua mente estava. A expressão de deleite do homem não fez nada além de sobrecarregar mais um pouquinho. Em noites como esta, era impossível domar a soberba sob suas unhas — nada seria capaz de apagar o sorrisinho presunçoso. Porque Jude sabia exatamente o quanto você precisava do ego enorme dele.

Deitou a cabeça no ombro largo, o corpo enfraquecendo só de sentir o volume tão apertadinho contra sua intimidade quando tudo o que conseguiu fazer foi forçar o quadril contra o dele um pouco mais.

“Me fode…”, implorou sem inibição alguma, até a voz de putinha que saiu da sua garganta não passou por filtro algum na sua mente.

“Você é tão teimosa.”, te recriminou como se não tivesse tornado tudo pior. Um filho da puta, você mesma já havia dito.

“Coloca em mim só um pouquinho.”, pediu mansinha, de um jeito quase sonolento. As unhas correram pelo torso forte até alcançar a barra da toalha, como se já soubesse que receberia um sim. “Eu gozo rapidinho.”, a boquinha molhada largou beijinhos desde o ombro até a orelha do homem.

“Amor-”

“Eu prometo.”, reforçou, os dedinhos já se enchendo com o caralho coberto pelo tecido. “Não vou te forçar a ficar. Só me come um pouquinho…”, já lhe faltavam forças para pedir, era insuportável quando necessitada desse jeito — não sossegava até conseguir o que queria. As sobrancelhas dele se apertaram junto com os olhos, a decisão provavelmente correndo nos pensamentos. Assistiu-o se esticar até o canto da bancada, dando dois toques na tela do telefone para checar o horário.

“Vai reclamar depois?”, perguntou ameno demais para alguém que não queria ter se rendido tão fácil.

“Não vou.”, você negou rapidinho com a cabeça, quase suspirando em alívio.

“Por quê não pede ‘pra eu te chupar, hm?”, os braços fortes te encurralaram contra o espelho, roçando a boquinha na sua. “É mais fácil.”

“Porque eu quero dar ‘pra você.”, soou penosa demais e isso fez o homem gargalhar baixinho.

“Justo.”, chupou seus lábios devagarinho, soltando a toalha da cintura enquanto te ouvia suspirar baixinho dentro da boca dele.

No entanto, a menção não havia sido em vão, Jude não dava ponto sem nó. Selou desde o seus tornozelos até a intimidade quentinha assim que finalmente te livrou da calcinha. Prendeu seu pontinho entre os lábios, grunhindo baixinho enquanto mamava. A cabeça se movia inquieta pros lados, esfregando o lugarzinho no processo. A barbinha fazia arder, mas era tão bom. Jude era frenético, esfomeado, abria a boca como se tentasse encaixar sua bucetinha inteira dentro dela. Ergueu os olhos para enfim notar o quão paciente você parecia, mesmo quando tudo o que conseguia fazer era choramingar pela sensibilidade.

“Já se melou ‘pra caralho, vida. Nem preciso mamar essa bucetinha.”, beijou seu pontinho com delicadeza uma última vez como se fosse algo puro, imaculado. Mordeu o interior de cada uma das coxas, lambendo a marquinha que os dentes deixaram. Subia aos poucos, nem o tecido da camiseta foi capaz de diminuir o calor que sentiu quando ele finalmente beijou seus seios, ou quando deixou uma lambida quente no seu pescoço. Mas foi a língua molhando a pontinha da sua orelha que te trouxe de volta a tempo de gemer baixinho quando ele voltou para sorver a pele do seu pescoço entre os dentes.

A distração te tirou o privilégio de ver ele esfregando a cabecinha melada contra as dobrinhas da sua buceta, os dedos experientes espalharam o melzinho no resto da extensão porque nenhum cuidado era demais. Estava tão excitada que nem reclamou quando ele forçou, o começo sempre deslizava gostosinho — o problema de verdade só começava quando passava da glande. Mal teve tempo para se enganar e fingir que aguentaria Jude inteirinho sem reclamar, a entradinha logo se apertou todinha, obrigando-o a parar por ali.

“Amor…”

“Shhhh… Eu sei…”, selou seu pescoço outra vez. Era versado naquilo, tanto que saiu com cuidado, voltando devagarinho só até onde a bucetinha deixava — estocando um pouquinho mais da metade. Acolheu seus peitinhos entre os dedos, puxando os biquinhos na tentativa de levar seu foco para outra coisa.

Porém não adiantava, o barulhinho molhado fazia suas costas se arrepiarem, sentia o estômago revirar só de pensar no quanto pingava por Jude. Quase deitou o corpo na bancada para apoiar um dos pés na borda e choramingou baixinho quando conseguiu suporte para se foder sozinha com muito esforço.

As coxas formigavam, manter as perninhas abertas estava te fazendo queimar. Mordia um sorrisinho safado entre os dentes, a entradinha ardia para tentar receber ao menos metade do homem — Jude realmente estava te deixando mal acostumada. Largou o peso do torso num braço só, a outra mão deslizando até o meio das coxas na tentativa de dilatar mais a bucetinha. Esticou a pele com os dedos o quanto conseguiu, precisava se abrir inteirinha para fazer ele caber.

Um engasgo sôfrego travou na garganta quando ele forçou mais um pouquinho da extensão. Tanto que mal conseguiu continuar rebolando, se rendendo a um movimento errático, meio ridículo — não conseguia parar, não dava para parar. Uma delícia, não era possível nem para se contrair direito. As perninhas agonizavam e não sabia como retomar o controle delas.

“Tá fraca, amor?”, apoiou os braços ao lado do seu corpo outra vez para te cercar contra o mármore. A proximidade fez entrar mais um pouquinho e suas coxas quase desistiram. “Não fecha.”, apertou a carne entre os dedos segurando-as no lugar.

“Vai machucar…”, resmungou rouquinha, o corpo tremendo num tesão nojento.

“Vai?”, ele mordeu um sorrisinho sonso. “Eu tiro então, minha vida.”, ameaçou cumprir com o que disse e você se desesperou.

Droga, estava tão molhadinha e ainda assim não dava para aguentar? Era injusto. Não era nenhuma virgenzinha estúpida, queria dar com gosto, ficar burrinha de pica. Irritou-se, mesmo frágil, queria tanto… as pernas se enlaçaram em volta do quadril dele, puxou num solavanco — a única sorte sendo que ele era forte demais para se deixar levar.

“Se eu empurrar aí é que vai machucar de vez.”, alertou cauteloso e isso pareceu te deixar ainda mais irritadiça.

“Faz caber então, Jude.”, resmungou, socando dois dedinhos na boca para molhá-los e logo esfregando seu grelinho com afinco porque queria se fazer relaxar a todo custo. “Porra, você ‘tá com dó parece…”, definitivamente saiu sem pensar, o desejo mexia com sua cabecinha de jeitos estranhos.

O homem ergueu as sobrancelhas e um sorriso desacreditado despontou na boca, não havia gostado minimamente de ser desafiado assim. Tirou o pau devagarinho só para assistir seu rostinho se contorcer em desgosto, as mãos calejadas castigando sua cintura para garantir que você não se movesse um centímetro sequer.

“Cala a boca.”, o timbre desceu num murmúrio firme, calmo ao ponto de ser desconcertante. “Não pede o que você não aguenta.”, forçou a cabecinha novamente, a entradinha babona se alargando mais fácil que da primeira vez. O carinho no seu pontinho se tornou mais letárgico, mais gostoso — conseguiu até mesmo voltar a se foder devagarinho.

“Você sabe que eu aguento.”, sussurrou burrinha, claramente não dava mais atenção ao que dizia.

“Aguenta?”, desafiou, forçando mais um pouco para dentro. “Me responde.”, socou lentinho, vendo seus olhinhos revirando por baixo das pálpebras.

“Jude, porra…”

“Sabe o que ‘cê vai fazer quando eu terminar, amor?”, indagou baixinho. Você, no entanto, estava ocupada demais se tocando, gemendo cheia de dengo. “Eu tô falando com você.”, estocou mais forte, fazendo seu corpo saltar, os olhos abrindo. “Sabe?”

“N-não...”

“Ah, você sabe sim, meu amor.”, o jeito que forçava o caralho melado em nada combinava com o quão atencioso ele soou. “Você vai ficar aqui quietinha me esperando.”, as mãos grandes envolveram seus rosto. “Esquentando meu travesseiro.”, se inclinou, mordendo seu queixo com carinho. “E vai abrir essa bucetinha bem gostoso ‘pra eu meter quando voltar, tá ouvindo?”, ameaçou selar sua boca, mas só o fez quando te viu confirmar com a cabeça. “Já deixei molhadinha ‘pra ajudar, não deixei?”, indagou baixinho, fodendo o quanto cabia com lentidão. Você concordou com a cabeça outra vez — estava estúpida ‘pra caralho, as perninhas tão fracas que sabia bem o que estava por vir. “Então se vira.”, deixou dois tapinhas leves no seu rosto. “Goza ‘pra eu não me atrasar.”

Tornou-se mais bruto, judiando da bucetinha sensível que não parava de expulsar o melzinho quente. Sua voz se tornou esganiçada, quase ininteligível, só sabia gemer e implorar. E o homem pareceu ter perdido a paciência enfim, pois substituiu seus dedinhos para fazer o trabalho inteiro sozinho — brincando com o grelinho que não parava de pulsar.

“Jude…”, soluçou contra a boca dele. “Me fode gostoso… assim, porra…”, soava perdida, meio embaralhado. A bucetinha se apertava inteira sem que você pudesse controlar, pulsando em volta do caralho grosso como se quisesse expulsá-lo. Jude saía somente o suficiente para ser capaz de socar a glande avantajada no fundo do canalzinho que não parecia disposto a se esticar mais para deixar ele entrar totalmente. “Eu quero mais, amor… Mais… Porra, isso…”, o chorinho se intensificou junto com o jeito que ele castigava seu clitóris, o polegar desenhando círculos cada vez mais apertadinhos.

Era quase constrangedor o quanto soluçava quando percebeu o orgasmo chegando. Maltratava os lábios grossos do homem num beijo afoito, babando ele inteirinho na tentativa de disfarçar a própria manha. Ele sorria abertamente, mal retribuindo o beijo, porque te ouvir soando como uma ninfetinha desesperada parecia muito mais gostoso. Foi parar no abraço de Jude quando terminou de se molhar por completo, tão entorpecida que nem ouvia mais os próprios gemidos.

Deixou um som esganiçado escapar da garganta quando o homem se retirou rapidinho, usando somente um dos braços para envolver sua cintura com firmeza e evitar que você caísse contra o espelho. A mão livre envolveu o caralho pesado num aperto rude, Jude parecia fazer questão de pincelar os lábios da sua entradinha enquanto se punhetava com força.

Você encarava a cena inerte, a mente ainda presa no estado que havia ficado sua intimidade. O local latejava por completo numa sensação vertiginosa, quente ao ponto de estar meio dormente; era confusa a sensação. Não precisava ver para ter certeza que estava tão esfoladinha que sequer conseguia se fechar propriamente quando pulsava, não seria necessária a preocupação em se esticar — com certeza ainda estaria larguinha quando ele voltasse.

Subiu para observar o rosto dele, não se surpreendendo ao encontrar o olhar fixo na sua bucetinha arruinada. Parecia claramente orgulhoso do estrago que havia feito, espalhando todos os resquícios do seu melzinho até alcançar as bolas cheias de porra. Apertou-as entre os dedos quando finalmente esporrou num gemido meio bruto, costumava soltar demais, porém ainda assim tentava jogar tudo no mesmo lugar — mirando exatamente no canalzinho judiado.

“Eu jogo na boquinha quando voltar, ‘tá bom?”, a promessa veio entre arfares, conquistando sua atenção outra vez, já que estava absorta demais em notar pela milésima vez que nem as mãos grandes do seu namorado davam conta da piroca pesada. “Mas tem que ser boazinha.”, a condição acompanhou um estalinho molhado na sua boca. Sorriu mansinha, tão cheia de dengo que parecia até mesmo bêbada. Ganhou mais alguns antes que ele se afastasse com pressa, provavelmente atrasado.

“Jude.”, chamou antes que ele atravessasse a porta. “Só uma hora.”, nem sabe de onde tirou forças para soar tão firme. Ganhou um sorriso sacana:

“Você quem manda.”

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [32] - Trap

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Southern ploys can be ruthless.

Word Count: 8k

Check the warnings before you read, please🩷

Warnings: Angst, explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, miscarriage, blood, pregnancy, periods, medieval era expectations and medieval era viewpoints on marriage and gender, mentions of childbirth. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Back in the Reach, you had so few responsibilities.

After your education and court training was complete, the only things you and Margaery were expected to do was to represent your houses well whenever there was an outing, and attend every feast, celebration and tourney. Sometimes you found it difficult to choose what gown to wear or what tourney to attend, and often you had to endure your sister-in-law and her comments, but that was the only chaos you had, other than that it was all fun and games.

Winterfell was different.

Lady Stark had left the castle after Bran was attacked, to go to King’s Landing and let Lord Stark know about it, saying that she didn’t trust any messenger, nor anyone else in the Red Keep that could have access to her letters before Lord Stark could see them. She had her suspicions about the royal family considering the dagger that was found on the assassin, but she had asked you and Robb not to share it with anyone else until she was back in Winterfell. So for the last few days, you and Robb had been the lord and the lady of the castle, but now Robb had to visit Lord Hornwood, which meant he would be away for a week, leaving you in charge.

Though the thought of it caused you enough distress to give you nausea, you didn’t want him to worry or think you weren’t ready for such responsibility, so you sat in the bed with the furs wrapped around you, watching him get ready at the earliest light of the day.

“But couldn’t someone else go?”

The question made him look over his shoulder with a grin while he put his doublet on.

“Like who?”

“A messenger. A friendly envoy if you will, just within the north.”

“But who?”

“Someone else,” you said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Theon.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You think Theon, of all people, would be a good envoy?”

“Not really,” you admitted. “He’d be terrible at it, but perhaps he’d get lost on his way there. One could hope.”

 “Nah, he’d still find his way back,” he commented, fixing his sleeves. “So we’d just end up disrespecting House Hornwood.”

Your stomach turned again, making you grimace but you cleared your throat, then pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them.

“Then tell Lord Hornwood he can come here rather than you going there,” you whined, aware of the petulant tone of your voice. “We’ll throw him a feast and such.”

There was a playful glint in his eyes as he made his way to bed and sat on the edge, entwining his fingers with yours before he lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it.

“Lord Hornwood is too old for journeys, my love,” he said. “My father visited his banners, now I must in his absence.”

You heaved a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Come on,” he cooed. “No sulking.”

You tilted your head, your mood taking a rather strange turn for some reason that remained a mystery to you at least for now. If it were any other time, you would have remembered how Lady Olenna had once told you and Margaery that there was a big line between luring attention and demanding it, and how you were never, ever supposed to demand it in an outright manner. A lady had to be subtle in such mind games so as not to appear needy and walk the line between admiration and nonchalance expertly, however, the words that left your lips were anything but subtle:

“Does this not upset you at all?”

Robb was rather confused at your question. “What?”

“We’ll be away from each other for a week, and you’re very willing to go to Castle Hornwood,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle.

“Lamb…”

“I’m just saying, it bothered you before but it appears to me you’re no longer bothered but more willing, as if—” you started but the rest of your sentence was claimed in a kiss, the pestering thought disappearing into the fog in your mind. His hand cradled your cheek while your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, not willing to let him go even when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours with a smile.

“I am both bothered and very unwilling to go to Castle Hornwood and leave you here,” he assured you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It’s torment to be away from you for an hour, let alone a week. You know this.”

You traced the tip of your finger over the direwolf clasps at the front of his doublet.

“It was different, when my father was here,” he added. “Before, attending to these things was a chore. Now it’s my duty.”

Of course.

How could you forget about the biggest currency in the north along with honor?

Judging by the chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest, he could tell what you felt about duty from your mere expression.  

“I’ll miss you every second of it,” he told you, nudging your nose with his before stealing another kiss from you and making you giggle, but your head whipped around when a servant knocked on the door.

“M’lord, your horse is ready.”

Your shoulders dropped as he let out a huff, then kissed you again and got up from the bed. He grabbed his cloak to fasten it while you let yourself fall back on the bed, and the moment he opened the door, Grey Wind darted inside. He jumped on the bed with a whine as if he was complaining about the trip he was being forced to go before he plopped down on you, resting his head on the furs on your stomach.

“I know, I know,” you said softly like you were speaking to a babe, scratching behind his ears. “I’ll miss you too, my sweet.”

“You spoil him too much,” Robb commented while you planted kisses on top of the direwolf’s head.

“He deserves to be spoiled,” you said, earning a yawn that turned into a small ‘awoo’. “Do you not my love? Are you the sweetest baby in the entire realm? Are you?”

“Grey Wind,” Robb said, “come. Time to go.”

The direwolf licked your hand, then jumped down from the bed with a huff to make his way out of the room, but even his gait was sulky, making you bite back a smile. Robb came closer to peck you on the lips.

“Be careful.”

“You too,” you said. “Miss me.”

“You too,” he answered with a grin before he left the bedchambers and closed the door behind him. You pouted, then let out a groan and pulled the furs over you.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Very well. A week, then.”

 You couldn’t go back to sleep, so you figured you’d start the day earlier than usual.

By the time you were done with your bath in your own bedchambers and your maid finished helping you with your gown and hair, your nausea was even worse due to distress. You had debated going to Maester Luwin, but you knew he was busy with Bran, so you decided to take care of it yourself and asked your maid for a cup of hot water. After she brought it to you, you gave her leave until it was time for breakfast which was more than an hour away, and put the cup on the table before you made your way to the chest of herbs Arys had brought you.

“Where are you?” you sang to yourself, going through the carefully labelled pouches in his impeccable handwriting. “Where are—yes!”

You skimmed the instructions, then took out a generous amount of mixture of leaves and put them in the cup, the smell making you scrunch up your nose. You still had to go through the ledgers the Winterfell carpenters had given you days ago, which you figured you could do while you waited for the tea to brew, so you grabbed the ledgers and the cup, then went to sit on the bed, carefully placing the cup on your bedside table and opening the ledgers on the bed. It was a rather boring task, but the outcome was going to be so lovely for so many people, so you forced yourself to go through the first couple of pages until you decided the tea was ready. You took another sniff, then held your breath and downed it in one go, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“Gods, Arys…” you grumbled to yourself. “Could’ve put something sweet in it.”

You put the cup back on your bedside, but before you could turn back to the ledgers, small yet rushed footsteps approached before the door opened and Rickon appeared at the threshold, with Shaggydog right behind him.

“Oh good morrow my sweet!” You beamed at him. “You’re awake already? It’s rather early.”

He pouted and took a trembling breath like he was on the verge of tears, causing you to push yourself off the bed to rush to him and crouch down to his eye level.

“What’s happened?” 

“Robb left?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “They say he left.”

“Oh, for a week only!” you assured him, gently pinching his chubby cheek. “He’ll be back in a week. Remember how he and Lord Stark left earlier with Jon and Theon? It’ll be like that.”

“Will he see Sansa and Arya?”

“No my sweet, Sansa and Arya are in the south.”

“Will he see mother?”

“She’s also going to the south,” you managed to say. “Robb is right here in the north.”

“Where in the north?” he asked and you pretended to think for a moment.

“Remind me, which house has a bull moose on their flag?”

“House Hornwood!” he exclaimed and you gasped.

“That one, yes!”

“Their flag is orange,” he said, proud of himself for knowing it. “Orange and brown.”

“I’m told they live near,” you said. “And when Robb is back, we’ll have so much to tell him about what Winterfell was like in his absence.”

He looked over his shoulder to Shaggydog, then turned to you.

“I want to go see Frost,” he demanded. “To give her breakfast. She eats funny.”

“We can do that,” you said. “She’s probably awake already. But before we go, do you remember what I said about how we ask for things when speaking to a lady?” 

He thought for a moment, a frown pinching his forehead.

“Can we go see Frost…” he mumbled. “Please?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “That’s such a good job, Rickon! You remember!”

He gave you a toothless smile, his giggle echoing in the room while he jumped in his spot in excitement.

“And thank you!” he added in a haste. “We say please and thank you to ladies.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You are so smart, that’s exactly what we say!” you encouraged him. “I almost forgot about that part, it’s of utmost importance!”

He nodded, his curls bouncing around his head as he did.

“Alright, let’s go to the kitchen to get some carrots,” you said as you stood up and took his small hand into yours. “And then we can go give Frost her breakfast, she’ll be so happy to see you!”

The breakfast passed without any issues, and around noon you sent your ladies-in-waiting to the seamstress because apparently Barbrey’s cousin and her husband were soon coming to Winterfell, and seeing that Barbrey wanted to make her jealous, she needed opinions on her new gown. You stayed in the Great Hall, chatting with some of the guests and listening to their many opinions about your plan to have the carpenters make toys for the children who would come to Wintertown with their mothers.

“Galbert disagrees if I must admit, but I think it’s a great idea,” Lady Erena said. “Orphans get jobs, children get toys, and their mothers get some comfort seeing their children happy.”

“Well, yes but in the upcoming winter…” Lady Lynara heaved a sigh. “My lord husband disagrees as well. He thinks it unnecessary.”

“And what do you think?” you asked her and she hummed.

“I myself think it may offer some comfort to those mothers and children, but will it not interrupt the carpenters' usual work? Teaching the craft takes time and effort. Those orphans will walk in without any skills.”

“The carpenters will be compensated for their time and effort,” you said. “And most of the orphans end up without jobs, I’ve learned. It is hard without a family.”

Lady Lynara scoffed. “Winter is hard, my lady. They must learn the ways of life without you throwing them opportunities.”

You tried not to roll your eyes at her.

“Winter is indeed hard, so it is our responsibility to make life easier to everyone who’s in need,” you said. “Of jobs or comfort or opportunities.”

Lady Erena nodded her head. “I agree wholeheartedly,” she said. “I told Galbert the same thing, we must help. For example, our sons are nearly men grown, they have no need for toys. I’ve already sent a raven back home, all the toys from when they were babes will be given to carpenters in the nearby villages, so that they’ll have an idea of what to create.”

“Thank you, Lady Erena,” you said with a bright smile. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“My lord husband says it’s a very southern way to approach winter,” Lady Lynara pointed out, and you tried to keep your expression calm.

“It is true that in the south, we don’t have people who have to move from their homes to survive the winter,” you said. “However, I truly think that if we—”

The sudden sharp pain that hit you out of nowhere took your breath away mid-sentence, and something churned in your lower abdomen, the ache familiar and strange at the same time. Lady Erena frowned slightly.

“My lady?”

Your head whipped up, and you tried to smile as if you couldn’t feel the warmth between your legs.

“Forgive me I—um,” you stammered. “I just remembered an urgent letter I must send, if you’ll excuse me.”

You left the Great Hall, walking as fast as you could with small, deliberate steps, praying to the gods that the blood sticking your underclothes to your skin would not drip to the ground until you got to the safety of your bedchambers. If it were any other time, you would have gladly stopped and chatted with multiple people in the hallway but now you could barely nod at the in acknowledgment as you passed by them. The dull throbbing got worse with every second, and it was only when you hurried into your chambers that you realized your hands had balled up into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

How long had it been since you had your last moon blood?

You quickly shed your gown down to your chemise that already had a growing red stain on it, straining your mind to remember when you’d had your last moon blood. The knife that turned in your abdomen made you double up as the wave of pain rippled through you, and you squeezed your legs in a pitiful attempt to block the blood from dripping to the ground, pressing a hand on your stomach. It made no sense, your moon blood had never been as painful on your first day, nor had it been this heavy, it always started light—

The idea crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making your breath hitch.

…Oh.

This was not your moon blood.

Something sunk its claws into your heart, your whole body freezing in terror. For a moment, you stayed right where you were, bent from the waist, your eyes wide yet unseeing, unblinking. There was an ache at the back of your throat, a sob already forming there, but the cramps snapped you out of it and you forced yourself to take a deep breath, as shaky as it was.

“Okay,” you whispered, forcing yourself to grab at the edge of the table so that you wouldn’t lose your balance, tears burning your eyes. “Okay. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

It was not the tremors that ripped your breath from your lungs this time, but the utter disbelief that it was happening; it was happening to you, right here and right now, miles away from anyone you could call for help. The arm of the sofa supported you for a moment, but as soon as you took another step your legs gave out and you crumpled to the floor, swallowing a sob while you blindly pushed the plush furs aside. A strangled cry ripped itself from your chest when the invisible dagger drove deeper into your guts and you curled up on your knees, one hand shooting up to wipe your nose, the other already stained with blood—

And to your absolute terror, that was when the door opened.

“My lady, I called out but…” Jorelle stopped talking at once when she stepped in, her eyes darting over your collapsed figure and the skirt of your chemise, drenched in blood.

Oh no.

No no no, this could not be happening.

Jorelle was the last person who was supposed to see you like this. She was the one whom the north loved and supported, the one who they thought was the better option for your status; the very same status that was now hanging by a thread, with you bleeding on the floor. Anyone who saw you in this situation would be able to tell what was happening, and the moment the word got out, the moment the north suspected you were unable to provide an heir to House Stark?

It wouldn’t matter how much Robb loved you, or how much you mesmerized him.

You were no fool, you knew very well how it worked. Beyond uniting your families, beyond all those grains and food your family would provide the north in winter and beyond how much House Stark would pull your family up in influence and power and status, this marriage had one, very specific expectation from you and Robb; to make sure the Stark bloodline continued.

An heir and a spare, minimum.

Though there were exceptions, the lack of heirs in a marriage usually came with two options, the annulling of the said marriage, or the husband siring heirs from a mistress and legitimizing them. In both of those options, you and your reputation would be dragged through the mud, and you would either be sent away with the whole realm knowing the reason, or you would turn into a living ghost right here in Winterfell, with no influence, no power, no respect or love.

And those banners and important families of the north would push Jorelle into the picture, especially now that she was the one who had caught you in such position and was surely going to use this to her advantage, as every other lady in the south would have.

It was all but a gift to her by the gods.

If you weren’t rendered speechless by the fear that took your body and mind hostage, you could’ve at least tried to come up with an excuse, as feeble and weak as it would’ve been. Jorelle seemed as frozen as you were, but her head whipped around when the chattering of the servants got louder with approaching footsteps. Her hand shot up to grab the door handle to pull it to herself when it rattled, your eyes widening as you pushed yourself to sit up, your whole body shaking.

“No—” you started but she shushed you, then opened the door just a little to slip through the crack and closed it before anyone could peek inside.

“Would you like to be louder?” She snapped at the servants at the door. “My lady is taking a nap, and she does not want to be disturbed. Shall I tell her whatever you’re talking of is more important than her rest, or would you like to shout into her bedchambers while you’re at it?”

The servants mumbled something you couldn’t hear.

“And Kyra, I expected better from you.”

“I apologize, m’lady. I was just going to check whether—”

“She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Jorelle repeated. “Nor does she want anyone’s chatter or footsteps in the hallway, her sleep is very light. Make sure everyone stays away from this hallway until she wakes up.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

The sound of footsteps grew faint and Jorelle entered the bedchambers again, bolted the door, and rushed to you.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked. “Do you want me to get Maester Luwin?”

Pain burned down your lower back, and there were tears in your eyes, but that didn’t stop you from gritting your teeth to force yourself to glare at her.

“No,” you managed to say, your voice hoarse as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It’s just my moon blood, leave me be.”

Jorelle gave you an exasperated look before she ran to the corner of the room to grab the fresh towels for your morning baths. She helped you up, then slipped the towel under you and gently sat you down, a worried frown pinching her brows while you tried your hardest to mimic Margaery despite the cold sweat dripping down your back.

“If you utter a word of this—”

“I won’t,” she cut you off. “This goes to the grave with me, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

That made you pause halfway through your threat.

“And so will what you’re going to answer me right now,” she said. “Has anything happened before the wedding? With Lord Robb or anyone else?”

“What? No!”

“If it was conceived on your wedding night, at most it’s been six weeks,” she murmured more to herself. “That’s good. That’s early. Bleeding should stop in a couple of hours, the worst part at least—my castle is quite crowded,” she added when she saw the quizzical look on your face. “You’re not the first woman I’ve seen who’s having a miscarriage.”

You wetted your dry lips. “If anyone hears…”

“They won’t, because once the bleeding lessens, we’ll burn the towels in the hearth,” she said. “Things get lost in a big castle all the time. No one will ever know, including the servants.”

You winced when you tried to shift your weight, your movements rigid and short. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting over your face before she reached out to take your hand between hers, making your head snap around.

“It’ll help,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Not with the pain I’m afraid, but the rest.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again when no sound came out, so you gulped and tried again.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, and she squeezed your hand in an attempt to assure you.

“It’ll be okay.”

No it wouldn’t.

You knew it wouldn’t, so did she.

But neither of you could do anything but just sit there and stare at the flames in the hearth, waiting for it to pass.

Jorelle was right, the worst part of bleeding was the first hour, and though the deep ache were still there, you were either getting used to it, or it was getting slightly better. Silence filled the room for almost an hour, the only sound your gasps of pain from time to time along with the crackling of wood in the hearth.

But after a while, you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat and turned to her.

“You didn’t have to help me.”

“Yes I did.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to tell you since we met, I have no intention nor desire to be your enemy.”

You would have laughed if you had the energy. “The whole north thinks otherwise.”

“I care not what they think,” she said. “I don’t know why people are under the impression that I’m somehow a rival to you, but I’m not. There was only friendly affection and a promise of potential companionship between me and Lord Robb, and contrary to what everyone seems to think, I am not devastated over our broken arrangement, if you can even call it that. There wasn’t a betrothal.”

“No,” you admitted. “There wasn’t. But you know how these things work, if they wanted to push you...”

“They can push me all they want, I won’t move,” she said. “I won’t. He is in love with you, and you’re in love with him, what others hope for does not matter. Besides, even if you two weren’t in love, I still would not try to jam myself in between, I respect myself way too much to do that.”

Well, that hadn’t crossed your mind before.

This kind of thinking simply didn’t exist in the south. If there was any possibility of more power, no one stopped to think before they stabbed people in the back, personal feelings and pride and respect all came second when one could climb higher in status even at the expense of others.

And most of the time, it was indeed at the expense of others.

“Anyone else in your place would not hesitate,” you couldn’t help but point out, “back in the south.”

“This is not the south,” she said. “Things in the north work a bit differently. For which I’m glad.”

For some reason you doubted that; power was tempting, in the south or the north.

“And your family?”

Jorelle made a face.

“Well, my mother hates you,” she said with a chortle. “I wouldn’t take it personally. Everyone in the north wanted their daughter to wed Lord Robb, she’s no exception, though she was more intense than any other. I used to think she wanted me to wed him more than I wanted to wed him.”  She paused for a moment. “Now to think of it, I’d say she wanted to wed him more than I did.”

A burst of hysterical laughter escaped you and echoed in the room, surprising even yourself.

“I’d keep an eye on her if I were you,” she added, a grin playing on her lips. “She is as ambitious as a southron, and she would indeed leave my father for your husband.”

Gods, this was the worst time to be laughing.

Yet, you didn’t seem to be able to stop yourself even though you covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. You doubled over, resting a hand on the floor to support yourself while your shoulders shook, tears running down your cheeks from amusement or the pain, you could no longer tell. A hiccup escaped you, the ache in your chest as heavy as the one in your abdomen while you tried to breathe through the sobs and Jorelle sat up straighter.

 “No no no, we’re not crying right now,” she said in a rush. “We’re not crying, we’re talking of other things—um, so I didn’t tell you because you hated me, but funny thing, speaking of southrons, your brother asked me to be his mistress.”

Your head whipped up, your vision still blurry with tears while she nodded with wide eyes.

“I know,” she said. “I came up with one thousand retorts since he left. I’ve been writing them down, and I think I’ll turn it into a book and send it to Dorne on a ship.”

“Which—what?” you stammered, already distracted. “Which one?”

“Of the ships?”

“Of my brothers!”

“Perceon.”

“Perce?!” you exclaimed and wiped your nose in a haste. “Seven hells, Perce was who you were talking about in the kitchens?”

“Oh yes.”

“But you—I didn’t—” You hiccupped, trying to pick the right words. “I wasn’t aware you two were…”

“I’m as confused as you are, because we were not.” She motioned at you, flailing her arms. “We danced at your wedding, and then at the Harvest Feast, and I thought, well, he is very handsome.” A blush spread over her pale cheeks. “So I didn’t mind him courting me, but he wasn’t courting me. He asked me to be his mistress right after he almost kissed me.”

“Almost kissed you?” You sniffled. “He asked you to be his mistress before you two even kissed?”

“As I’ve said before. The audacity.”

You rolled your eyes.

“The twins came after Arys, so Arys claimed their share of wit in advance,” you said. “That’s why he’s so smart and Perce is an idiot. I apologize for his behavior, I’ll make sure to smack him when I see him again.”  

“But is that what southrons do?”

“Things work differently in Dorne, and Perce belongs more in Dorne than the Reach at this point,” you said. “Mistresses in Dorne have official titles, and they have all the luxuries and none of the responsibilities of the wives. And he won’t wed, so he probably thought it was a good offer—though, this is the first time I hear a man asking a lady to be his mistress before a kiss.”

Her cheeks got redder as she fixed her gaze in the hearth.

“I was going to kiss him before that,” she admitted. “I wanted to, but then I got scared because I was worried I’d be, I don’t know, bad at it—gods, you must think me a fool.”

“I don’t,” you assured her, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t. I was terrified of being bad at it too.”

“Was Lord Robb your first kiss?”

That made you scoff a laugh.

“No.” Margaery’s face flashed before your eyes and you tried to focus. “No, I had a lot of…practice—but the Reach is different!” you added in a haste. “We have different customs and education. The North is stricter in such matters, and you have different priorities.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have some knowledge,” she grumbled, her shoulders dropping. “The south got that right, at least. Some of the north dislikes you yes, but they all agree that Lord Robb is mesmerized by you.”

There was a fist clenching your heart, but you managed to give her a smile.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you rasped out and gestured at the towels you were sitting on, stained in deep red. “I’m on borrowed time.”

She frowned. “That’s untrue.”

“Come on.” You let out a dry laugh. “You know what it means if it started like this.”

“I do know what it means, it means nothing,” she insisted. “My mother lost a babe on her fourth moon before my brother, but she carried my brother very easily, with little to none sickness. My cousin, she had three miscarriages, and now she has twins. Granted they’re little brats, but they’re very healthy, growing like beanstalks.”

You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“And how many miscarriages do you think I’d be allowed to have until the north started whispering?” you asked. “Until all the prominent families started pushing Robb for a replacement, for an heir? They already dislike me, already looking for a fault.”

“He loves you—”

“We’re in the north, Jo,” you muttered. “You tell me what’s more important in the north, love or duty?”

“Loyalty,” she answered. “Loyalty is of most importance in the north, it means everything here. And one miscarriage means nothing at all. You and your husband are young and healthy, you apparently conceived on your wedding night, you’ll easily do it again.”

You turned your bracelet around your wrist, your gaze fixed on it as you sniffled.

“You’ll see I speak the truth once the pain passes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Our maester told my mother to drink water during this, it’s better to be safe.”

She moved about in the room and grabbed the cup that you had drank your tea from earlier to dispose of the pulp, but she stopped dead in her tracks, falling quiet. You looked up from your bracelet and shifted your weight on the towel, pointing at the table.

“There’s another cup over there—”

She cut you off, her voice stern: “Who served you this tea?”

“No one,” you said. “I made it, it’s for nausea.”

Jorelle lifted the cup to her nose to sniff it, then shook her head. “Who told you it was for nausea?”

“My brother Arys brought me many herbs, they’re over there,” you said as she rushed to the chest you were pointing at, then lifted the lid to find the pouch in it. She untied it to spill the crushed leaves into her palm, her frown deepening.

“Did your brother oppose this marriage?”

“No,” you said. “All of them support it. Why?”

“Then you told someone else what was in the chest?”

“No, I—why do you ask?”

“This is not for nausea,” she told you. “This is moon tea.”

Confusion crashed down on you and you stared at her before you huffed out a laugh.

“It’s not,” you argued. “Of course it’s not, it’s for nausea. Arys made sure to write clear instructions on everything, especially after the wedding. He would never make such mistake.”

“I’ve seen moon tea before, this is moon tea.” She held out her hand to show the herbs in her palm. “One of my maids had to drink it in secret, I was with her. I swear to you, it looks and smells like this. And you’re supposed to take it with honey to help with the pain, you’re not supposed to just brew it and drink it as it is.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the warning tone of her voice when she said your name as she took a step towards to catch you in case you fell. The skirt of your chemise was drenched in blood—most of which dried down, sticking the fabric to your skin, making you grimace. The room spun around you, but you forced yourself to focus, blinking away the dots flying in your vision.

If she was not mistaken, if it was moon tea, that meant this was no natural miscarriage. This was not the first sign of a lifelong distress of trying for heirs only to lose them again and again, with the threat of being replaced hanging over your head, this was—

Jorelle’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Who else knew about these herbs?”

“No one,” you said, approaching the chest on shaky legs. “Only my lady maid whom I’d trust with my life. She was here when I ate a sort of root to relax my mind before the wedding, she disagreed but then Eli—”

The thought hit you so hard that your breath caught in your throat and you took a step back, unable to tear your gaze from the chest.

Elinor.

That was what she was doing in your room the morning of their departure, at dawn when everyone else was asleep and you were supposed to be in Robb’s bedchambers. She had seen that chest, she had seen you close it, she could’ve easily sneaked into your bedchambers and…

“Elinor,” you rasped through frozen lips. “My brother Alton’s wife. She did this.”

“But why?”

“Because I—we—” you stammered, the hot rage spreading through your veins like poison. “We had a fight, and I told her I’d ask Robb to march his men to the Reach and root Alton out of his castle to replace him with another brother of mine, and I told her he’d do as I asked. It was a mere bluff because she attacked me and…” you trailed off. “She must have swapped the pouches.”

“She did this because you had a fight?”

“What’s the first sign of pregnancy?” you asked through your teeth. “Nausea. She swapped moon tea with nausea tea, because then I’d be drinking moon tea every single time I got pregnant, and I’d lose it every single time. In front of Robb. Over and over again.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“She wanted to make sure he’d stop loving me, because if he stopped loving me, I’d hold no power,” you managed to say. “All the power I have here goes through him, she knows that. What better way to ensure he wouldn’t be mesmerized by me any longer? Everyone would be asking for an heir and I…”

How dare she?

A snarl twitched your lips, your nails biting into your palms. You squeezed your eyes shut to get rid of the red haze of anger clouding your vision, a thousand needles pricking the top of your head and spreading to your temples. All traces of pain sunk deep under a wave of fury tensing your muscles, the pounding in your ears getting louder and louder until Jorelle spoke.

“I wouldn’t last a day in the south,” she stated, her voice muffled like you were underwater as you opened your eyes again. “This is too much plotting.”

You swayed on your feet for only a second before your spine straightened like a puppet with its strings pulled, as if the southern courtier in you had decided that this was enough slouching with or without the pain; chin up, shoulders squared, a small, yet feral smile baring your teeth. It was clear from Jorelle’s worried gaze on you that you looked rather deranged; the skirt of your chemise drenched in blood, your legs and hands stained red, wisps of hair that were carefully pinned into a braid in the morning now sticking to your forehead with sweat.

When you spoke, your voice didn’t even sound like your own: “Not a good one.”

“Hm?”

“Not a good one,” you repeated. “I’ll survive. She will not.”

“You—”

“I can be patient,” you said, nodding to yourself. “I can and I will be, and I’ll wait for the right time, but I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her, and then I’m going to kill Alton if he knew and didn’t tell me.”

“You might not have to lift a finger, when Lord Robb hears—”

“He won’t hear.”

“He won’t hear?” she repeated with a tilt of her head. “I understand not telling anyone else, but you won’t tell him either?”

“No,” you said, a strange calmness settling in your mind like a fog. “There are only two people in the world who I could tell about this, both miles away from me. I love Robb with all my heart, but he is not one of them.”

“He’s your husband.”

“And that’s the reason,” you said. “You wanted to learn about the southern ways to mesmerize someone, did you not? Here’s the first lesson. You cannot do anything to break the illusion. Ever.”

“You must be jesting,” she said. “You love him, surely you trust him.”

“This has nothing to do with love or trust, this is survival.”

“Survival?”

You weighed the words in your mind, then scrunched up your nose.

“I recognize that parenting styles are different in the north and the south,” you said, “but in the Reach, me and Margaery and all my friends, we were all taught one thing from the moment we could walk, something they apparently don’t teach anywhere else in the realm. Every castle that isn’t your home is a trap waiting to swallow you the second you take the wrong step.” You pointed at the cup. “This is the wrong step.”

“But how is this the wrong step?” she asked. “He won’t blame you. This was your sister-in-law’s doing, you couldn’t have known.”

“No,” you admitted. “No I couldn’t have, but it matters not. This is how you play the court game, this is why everyone sleeps with one eye open in the south. Robb loves me yes, he would—he would console me, yes.” You gulped when your voice cracked. “But in the long run, it’s still the wrong step. Love is one thing, heirs are another. And if he…”

Every word was a hot coal burning your throat, but you willed yourself to focus.

“It all comes down to power, I’m afraid,” you murmured. “Once you have it, you sink your teeth and your claws in, and you don’t let go. It’s no different than trying to survive in battle, I just make it look pretty.”

A breath of disbelief left her as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her before, and you dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip.

“I love Robb,” you added. “I do. I genuinely love him, which is more dangerous than any other court scheme. But that doesn’t change the fact that my power here, it’s linked to him. My status, my influence, how involved I am in decisions, it all depends on his feelings for me. That’s why I can’t risk it, I can’t afford any flaws.”

“This is no flaw,” she managed to say, and you shrugged your shoulders.

“No, but this is something he might bring up when he’s angry,” you said. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. I’m not going to break the illusion just so that he can use the shards to hurt me.”

A stunned silence fell upon the room and you fixed your hair, ignoring how badly your hand was shaking.

“So, this simply never took place,” you said, making her head whip up. “We will burn the towels as you said, and we will burn my chemise, and I will have the maids draw me a bath. And once that’s done, that’s it.”

“My lady…”

“Nothing happened,” you told her, your eyes locked in hers. “I came here, I took a nap, woke up and had my moon blood. Nothing more.”

It was clear from the expression on her face that she wanted to argue, and though she pursed her lips, it seemed that she still couldn’t stop herself.

“Does it not get tiring?” she blurted out. “Looking at everything that way?”

The simple question pulled your lips into a wry smile and you blinked back the tears, a dull ache making its way to your temples.

“It’s exhausting,” you admitted. “But I don’t have any other windows to look through.”

She held your gaze captive for a moment, the defiant light in her eyes melting into something else entirely; sadness or compassion, you couldn’t tell. An exhale left her, and she shook her head slightly like she couldn’t believe you or herself before she clicked her tongue.

 “Very well then,” she ended up saying. “As you wish. Nothing happened.”

You were no stranger to performing.

It was second nature to you at this point. You, Silas, Margaery, Loras, you were all masters at keeping the mask on and not letting it slip, no matter how heavy it got. Even when you were sick, even when Silas was heartbroken, even when Margaery was angry and Loras was frustrated, that teasing courtier smile didn’t falter, nor did the straight posture or playful words.

It’s your armor, Lady Olenna used to say. Only a fool takes off their armor in front of the enemy.

And you were no fool back in the Reach, and you certainly were no fool here in Winterfell, miles away from every member of your family.

So, you did exactly what you said you were going to do. Once the bleeding lessened, you and Jorelle burnt the towels and your chemise, you changed into a new chemise and asked the maids to draw you a scorching hot bath where you spent nearly an hour, scrubbing at your flesh until the water went cold.

It was all without forethought, like you were sleepwalking.

You would’ve thought you were indeed asleep, if it weren’t for the knife turning deep in your abdomen.

You changed into a gown, made sure to put not just one or two, but three folded pieces of linen cloth in your undergarments, then sat in front of the mirror so that your maid could do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting chattered in the room; Wylla and Lyra disagreeing about some northern lady, and Alys and Barbrey talking about Barbrey’s new gown.

Yet, no amount of chatter could distract Jorelle from watching you like a hawk.

She did join the discussion from time to time, whether to make sure Wylla and Lyra’s discussion didn’t escalate, or answering Alys and Barbrey’s questions about Barbrey’s gown and the seamstress’ suggestions on it, but you could tell she was still worried about you. She had suggested you would take your dinner in your bedchambers, saying that sometimes she did the same on the first day of her moon blood because it made her tired, all the girls agreeing with her.

But with everyone away, it fell on you to host the guests and show them good hospitality as the lady of the castle, and attending dinner with them was a way for that.

The pain had mostly subdued. It felt more like your moon blood and less like a miscarriage, but now you had the most painful throbbing in your temples that didn’t even tolerate the candlelight while you walked down the hallway with your ladies-in-waiting around you.

“And as I was saying, she claims blue will look better—”

“It will look better.”

“But purple is more eye-catching. Wylla agrees, do you not Wylla?”

“Deep purple or light purple?”

“Wait, which one do you think is better?”

“Deep purple.”

“But the beads we bought looked better on blue.”

“Jo, what do you think?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Jorelle brushed Barbrey off, walking beside you. “My lady, I must insist that we cut this dinner short, you have been awake since early hours of the morning, you said.”

“She does have a point, you look rather tired,” Lyra added, brutally honest as always. “Your eyes are bloodshot, perhaps you need some rest.”

You did need rest.

You had no idea whether it was the blood loss or the pain, or the emotional toll of the day, but you felt so tired. Your maid had prepared you a bag full of hot stones that had been in the hearth, so that you could press it on your stomach to help with the cramps, and you had already decided you’d have it with you tonight in bed as well, perhaps that could help you sleep the exhaustion away.

One could hope.

“I’ll retire to my bedchambers afterwards,” you said, your voice calm and composed. “However, we must—”

The hallway spun around you for a moment, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your hand shot up to the wall so that you could support yourself, the voices growing faint with the blood rushing in your ears, heat creeping up your spine while your ladies-in-waiting rushed to you.

“My lady?”

No.

No, you were not going to do that.

You were not going to collapse and give anyone any reason to think you were anything but alright, that was how the whispers started.

You blinked away the black dots flying in your vision and forced yourself to take a breath, your hand slipping from the wall so that you could wipe the cold sweat off your forehead, then cleared your throat.

“I’m alright.”

 Wylla and Jorelle exchanged glances.

“Shall I go fetch Maester Luwin?”

“There’s no need for that,” you said, your heart slamming against your ribcage, “thank you.”

“Maybe Jo is right, let’s go back.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, thank you!”

“Aye, I don’t even like these people.”

“Lyra!”

“Wha—I don’t!”

“We can eat in your bedchambers my lady, I’ll tell one of the maids—”

“No,” you said. “We’re attending dinner here.”

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Lyra insisted while you let yourself linger in your spot for a moment, still swaying on your feet before you took a deep breath.

Nothing had happened.

And nothing was happening.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you managed to say. “Trust me.”

Your legs were still trembling, pain was churning your insides, and your hands were clammy, but you straightened your back, lifted your chin, and plastered that well-trained courtier smile on your face, then walked into the Great Hall.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ not going anywhere.

pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader summary – six days late turns an unfinished dresser, four pregnancy tests, and one awful accusation into the most terrifying night of their relationship. warnings – pregnancy scare, late period, accusation of cheating, relationship tension, crying, parental abuse discussion, fear of parenthood. notes from me – hi loves!! as requested here!! fleshing out the kitty!reader story a lil more 😌 word count – 6.2k

navigation – masterlist |

The apartment still smells like cardboard. It smells like dust and tape adhesive and the faint chemical bite of flat-pack furniture, every open box breathing out two weeks’ worth of trapped air into rooms that are technically hers and still feel like somebody else’s.

There are clothes folded on the kitchen island because the bedroom dresser currently exists in fourteen white pieces across the living-room rug. Three framed prints lean against the wall waiting for Garrett to hang them, although he’s already complained that one of them is crooked inside its own frame and therefore cannot be made level. 

Her coffee table is upside down near the balcony doors. A roll of bubble wrap has unspooled halfway down the hall. Somewhere under the kitchen sink is a box labelled BATHROOM STUFF that contains no bathroom stuff whatsoever and, for reasons she cannot begin to explain, one single champagne flute wrapped in a dish towel.

Her mother had called the apartment charming when she helped arrange it, which is rich-person language for expensive but smaller than the house you grew up in. It has pale timber floors, high windows, a little balcony overlooking a tree-lined street, and a second bedroom her father keeps referring to as the study despite the fact that she owns neither a desk nor the emotional discipline required to study at one.

For the last six minutes, she’s been sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor between a box of wine glasses and another marked PANTRY, staring at the calendar on her phone like she might be able to intimidate it into changing.

The little pink circle remains exactly where it is. Six days ago.

She closes the app. Opens it again. As if the second viewing might reveal that she has accidentally entered the wrong month or skipped over an entire week through some glamorous administrative failure. It doesn’t. The neat row of dates sits there with the smug, bloodless confidence of technology that’s never had to consider what it might feel like to grow a person by accident.

From the living room comes the short mechanical complaint of Garrett’s screwdriver, then his voice, edged with growing hostility. “This hole’s in the wrong place.”

She doesn’t answer.

There’s a pause. Another turn of the screwdriver. “No, seriously. They drilled it wrong.”

She presses the side button on her phone until the screen goes black.

Garrett’s on the rug with the half-built dresser between his knees, grey sweatpants riding low enough to make the waistband of his boxers visible every time he leans forward. 

He’s been at it for almost an hour, wearing an old Briar Hockey shirt and the expression of a man being betrayed by Swedish engineering. His curls are pushed back messily from running his hands through them, and there’s a pencil tucked behind his ear that he keeps forgetting is there and searching for beneath instruction sheets.

Normally, this would be excellent material. Normally she would point out that a captain trusted to coordinate a power play should probably be capable of identifying screw C, or suggest that the dresser can sense his fear, or sit on the unfinished frame until he tells her to get off and then refuse.

Instead, she opens the calendar again. Six days.

Her period has been weird before. Enough that a late cycle shouldn’t have her blood moving cold under her skin. Stress can do it. Moving can do it. Sleeping badly, eating badly, forgetting lunch and then consuming half a garlic bread at eleven-thirty at night because Garrett brought one over can probably do it.

A fertilised egg can also do it.

The thought moves through her with the same sickening drop as missing a stair in the dark. She locks her phone again.

Garrett finally looks up. His gaze finds her on the floor, lingers for half a second, then narrows. He has a wooden panel balanced against his thigh and the tiny metal tool still in one hand. “What’s your problem?”

There are probably kinder ways to ask. Garrett occasionally even knows them. But they’ve never built anything between them that requires gentleness as an opening move, and under normal circumstances she would tell him her problem is that he’s been constructing one drawer for forty-seven minutes.

Her mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out.

Garrett’s expression shifts by a fraction. The irritation eases first, then the amusement. He sets the tool down slowly on the instruction booklet. “Hey.”

She looks at the dead screen of her phone. There’s a pressure sitting behind her ribs now, broad and heavy, making it difficult to pull in a proper breath without feeling every inch of it. “I might be pregnant.”

Garrett half chokes on absolutely nothing. It comes out as one sharp, strangled cough, his head jerking back as if the words have physically struck him in the throat. “What?”

She swallows. The inside of her mouth feels dry enough to catch. “My period’s late.”

He stares at her. His face seems to close, every warm, familiar part of it hardening so quickly she can practically watch the shutters come down. His shoulders pull tight beneath the t-shirt. His jaw sets. 

The hand still resting on the piece of white timber curls slightly against its edge. “How late?”

“Six days.”

Garrett drags his tongue over his bottom lip. His eyes leave her face and flick toward the windows, then the boxes, then nowhere at all. “Okay.”

It isn’t an okay that means okay. It’s clipped and thin and scraped clean of anything that might tell her which part of his brain has caught fire first. She waits.

Garrett’s eyes return to her, darker now. Guarded. “Why’re you telling me?”

For a second, she genuinely doesn’t understand the question. Her brows pull together. “What?”

“Why are you telling me?” he repeats, and something ugly has moved into his voice. It’s there in the deliberate space between each word, in the way he sits too straight behind the pieces of her dresser, like he’s already decided this is something being done to him. “It’s probably not even mine.”

Every word lands with horrible, perfect clarity. It just takes her body a second to understand that Garrett is the one who said them. The apartment blurs faintly at the edges. 

She blinks once, hard, and the sting behind her eyes turns sharper instead of disappearing. “What the fuck?”

Garrett’s jaw shifts, but he doesn’t take it back. “You said that guy from your class wanted to take you out. And the guy from that party. None of that is really a secret.”

She stares at him. The project partner. The stupid project partner she had mentioned in the shower because Garrett got jealous so easily and denied it so badly that winding him up had felt practically charitable.

Her phone digs into her palm. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else, you asshole.”

His face changes. Only slightly. A flicker across the eyes. His shoulders stay rigid, but something in them loses its certainty.

“If I’m pregnant,” she says, and her voice comes out thinner than she wants, the words catching against the pressure in her throat, “it’s yours.”

Garrett blinks. “What?”

“I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”

“But what about–”

“I was fucking with you.” Her breath shudders on the way out, humiliatingly close to a sob, and she looks away before he can properly see what his stupid mouth has done. “There’s no one else.”

The silence afterward is enormous. Somewhere outside, a truck reverses with three distant electronic beeps. The refrigerator hums. A piece of packing paper shifts near the balcony doors in the weak breeze coming through the open window, the sound dry and whispery over the floor.

Garrett’s face has gone slack around the edges. “Oh.”

She wipes beneath one eye with the heel of her hand before anything can actually fall. “Yeah. Oh. Dickhead.”

He drops his gaze. For the first time since she met him, Garrett Graham seems to have no immediate defence available. No grin. No clever little redirection. No way to turn the whole thing sideways until they’re both laughing and the real point has escaped through an open window.

His mouth opens, then closes. He sets the wooden panel down with exaggerated care, like sudden movements might make everything worse. “I’m sorry.”

She laughs once, except there is no humour in it and barely any sound. “Great.”

“No, I–” He scrubs both hands over his face, pressing hard enough to drag the skin beneath his eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry. That was… I don’t know why I said that.”

“You thought I was sleeping around.”

“I didn’t think.” Garrett looks up at her, and there’s panic showing now beneath the shame, bright and unhidden in a way that almost makes her angrier. “That was the problem. I just heard pregnant and my brain– fuck, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

She presses her lips together because they’ve started trembling and she refuses to perform that particular humiliation while sitting beside a box of wine glasses in an apartment that doesn’t even have a finished dresser.

Garrett looks at her phone, then back at her. “Do you have a test?”

She shakes her head. “No. I need to go get one.”

He nods immediately, then changes his mind halfway through it. “No. I’ll go.”

She looks at him.

“I’ll go now.” He’s already pushing himself up from the floor, nearly catching his foot beneath one of the dresser panels in his hurry. He stumbles, swears under his breath, then rights himself without looking away from her. “You stay here. I’ll get one.”

She hates that the thought of walking into a pharmacy feels impossible. Hates that Garrett going instead makes the thing in her chest loosen by one tiny degree despite what he said. Hates him a little for having the ability to hurt her and help her in the same five-minute window.

“Okay,” she says. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. “Yeah. Good. Now is good.”

Garrett grabs his keys off the kitchen counter. He gets as far as the front door before stopping, one hand curled around the handle. For a second, she thinks he might turn around and say something else. Something worse, maybe. Or something soft enough to split her open completely.

Instead he comes back.

He crosses the apartment in four quick steps, hesitates once when he reaches her, then bends and presses his mouth to the top of her head. It’s barely a kiss. Warm, brief, awkward with apology. His hand hovers near her shoulder without quite touching.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time.

Then he leaves. The lock clicks behind him. She sits on the kitchen floor for another ten seconds, staring at the unfinished dresser as if it might provide instructions for this too.

Attach side panel B to base using six cam screws. Do not overtighten. Try not to become pregnant by the hockey captain who refuses to call himself your boyfriend.

She lets out a breath that hurts.

The apartment seems different without Garrett in it. Larger, somehow, though half the floor is covered in his tools and the hoodie he abandoned over the back of her new couch. The quiet gets inside every open box. It gathers in the hallway, presses against the high windows, settles around the mug he drank from earlier and left beside the sink.

Her palm finds her stomach before she realises she has moved it.

There’s nothing to feel. Obviously. Six days late doesn’t turn her body into some glowing maternal exhibit. Her stomach is exactly the same as it was yesterday: soft beneath her shirt, slightly bloated, marked near one hip by a fading bruise from walking into the corner of a moving box. Still, her hand stays there.

What the fuck would she do?

She’s not ready to be somebody’s mother. She’s only lived alone for two weeks and yesterday she ate cereal out of a mixing bowl because the actual bowls were still packed. There’s a bag of laundry in her bedroom she keeps stepping over because she hasn’t worked out where the hamper should go. 

She cannot keep basil alive. She’s twice forgotten which day the bins go out and had to sprint downstairs in pyjama shorts when she heard the truck. A baby isn’t a basil plant, which is somehow both obvious and deeply unhelpful.

Her chest tightens again. She pictures telling her parents and immediately stops. Her mother’s silence. Her father putting both hands on his hips and starting every sentence with right, as if an action plan can make anything respectable. 

Money wouldn’t be the problem. That almost makes it worse. Nobody would let her drown, but they would all look at her differently while they pulled her out.

Then there’s Garrett. Garrett, who had looked at her as though she had thrown a live explosive onto the carpet. Probably not even mine. The words crawl back under her ribs.

What if he doesn’t want it? What if he doesn’t want any part of it? They’re not even properly together, not in any way he’ll admit while wearing clothes. He calls her baby with his mouth against her skin and my girl when he forgets to be afraid, but in daylight he still handles the whole thing like naming it might trap him beneath something.

A baby isn’t a name. A baby is appointments and decisions and her body changing and a whole human being at the end of it, loud and hungry and entirely innocent of the fact that neither of its parents knows what the fuck they’re doing.

She gets up too quickly and the room tilts. Her hand catches the edge of the island. “Cool,” she mutters to nobody. “Amazing.”

She paces to the living room, turns around near the half-built coffee table, then walks back. Her phone says Garrett has been gone four minutes. She opens the period app again. Still late.

By the time the lock turns, she’s reorganised the same stack of unopened mail twice and consumed half a glass of water without remembering drinking it.

Garrett steps inside carrying a white plastic pharmacy bag in one hand. His breathing is slightly uneven, like he parked illegally and jogged from the car. He shuts the door behind him, eyes finding her immediately.

Neither of them says hello. He walks over and holds out the bag. She takes it without meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t know which one.”

She looks inside. There are four boxes. Two digital, one with pink dye, one with blue dye, all promising varying degrees of speed, accuracy, clarity, and emotional devastation. 

Beneath them is a bottle of water, a packet of sour gummy worms, and a chocolate bar she likes but has never told him she likes, which means he’s noticed her buying it somewhere and stored the information without permission.

She looks back up. “Did you buy the whole shelf?”

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. “I panicked.”

“Clearly.”

“The woman working there asked if I needed help.”

Her mouth twitches despite everything. “And?”

“I said no. Then I stood there reading boxes for ten minutes until she came over anyway.”

A laugh threatens, small and inappropriate, and she kills it before Garrett can mistake it for forgiveness. He sees it anyway. His shoulders loosen by barely an inch.

She pulls out one of the digital tests because the box uses the word pregnant rather than making her interpret lines like an ancient prophet. The bathroom feels too bright when she steps into it. There are still toiletries arranged along the counter in temporary, untidy groups and a cardboard box shoved beneath the towel rail. 

Garrett follows as far as the doorway, then stops. “You want me to–”

“No.”

He nods too quickly. “Right.”

She shuts the door. The instructions are printed in six languages and somehow none of them seem written for a person whose hands will not stop shaking. She reads the English section twice, then once more because the phrase replace cap and lay flat has become advanced medical science.

It’s humiliatingly ordinary once she does it. She pees. She caps the test. She washes her hands. The test lies facedown on the edge of the sink like a tiny white threat while her phone begins counting down three minutes.

Three minutes. She has had microwave popcorn take longer than that.

She opens the bathroom door. Garrett’s sitting on the couch with his elbows planted on his knees and his head in his hands. He looks up when she comes out, face drawn tight beneath the messy fall of his hair.

“It’s going,” she says.

He nods. “Okay.”

She stays where she is for a second. The space beside him is technically available. So is the armchair. So is the entire hardwood floor.

Eventually she crosses the room and sits on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a cushion between them with all the diplomatic hostility of a border dispute.

Garrett notices. His eyes drop to the empty cushion, then lift to her face. “You’re still mad.”

She turns her head slowly. “Are you actually surprised?”

“No.” He exhales and rubs both palms over his face again. “No, I deserve that.”

“Good.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“And I heard you.”

He looks toward the balcony doors. His knee has started bouncing beneath his forearm, fast enough to make the couch tremble faintly. “I don’t think you sleep around.”

“You did about twenty minutes ago.”

“I didn’t.” Garrett presses his lips together, visibly frustrated by the fact that language will not rearrange itself in his favour. “I mean, I said it. Obviously I said it. But it wasn’t because I actually think that about you.”

She folds her arms. “That makes so much sense. Thanks.”

“Can you not?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is my attitude making your pregnancy scare difficult?”

His face tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, I know what you meant. You want me to stop being a bitch so you can feel less bad about acting like a dick.”

Garrett looks at her then. Really looks. Whatever answer had risen into his mouth disappears before he says it. His knee stops bouncing.

“You’re scared,” he says.

The gentleness of it makes her want to claw something. “No shit.”

“I’m scared too.”

“Then maybe you should’ve started there.”

“I know.”

Her arms tighten over her chest. The phone timer ticks invisibly on the coffee table between them, silent but present enough that she can feel every second passing through her body.

Garrett leans back, then forward again immediately, unable to settle in either direction. His fingers knit between his knees. “I heard you say it and I just…” He swallows. “I thought you were about to tell me there was a chance it was mine, and then I thought maybe there was a chance it wasn’t, and that felt–”

“What? Better?”

“No.” His answer comes too quickly to be polished. “Worse.”

Garrett stares at his clasped hands. His knuckles are scraped from practice, one faint bruise sitting near the base of his thumb. 

“It felt worse, and then I got pissed off because it felt worse, because I don’t get to be pissed off about that when I’m the one who keeps saying we’re not…” He trails off.

“Dating?”

His jaw works. “Yeah.”

She gives a quiet, brittle laugh. “God forbid.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I do know.” He glances up, irritation flaring briefly before it burns itself out beneath something more tired. “I know I’m fucking this up.”

The apartment settles around them with a faint creak from the pipes. She looks at him, at the tightness across his shoulders, the way his hands have locked together like he doesn’t trust them loose.

“Why did you look like that?” she asks.

Garrett’s brows pull together. “Like what?”

“Like I told you I killed someone.”

His gaze drops again. For a second, she thinks he won’t answer. He does that sometimes – goes very still when she gets too near something he’s decided belongs behind a locked door, his whole body pretending calm while his eyes start searching for an exit.

This time, there’s nowhere for him to go that wouldn’t be obvious.

“I don’t think I’d be good at it,” he says finally.

“At what?”

“Being a dad.”

The words are quiet enough that she almost misses them beneath the hum of the refrigerator.

She uncrosses her arms slowly. “Garrett.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do.” He gives a short laugh that sounds wrong in his mouth. “I know hockey. I know how to make a kid skate, I guess. I know what drills work and how much sleep you need before a game and how to tell when someone’s favouring one leg. But that’s not…” His fingers flex once. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

“My dad knew all that stuff too.”

There’s something in the way he says dad that makes the back of her neck go cold. She knows Garrett’s strange about him. Everyone knows, at least in the broad, carefully edited way Garrett allows. 

Phil Graham is famous, demanding, impossible to impress. Garrett doesn’t talk about home unless the conversation can be steered toward statistics or old games, and even then there’s a tightness in him that never quite fits the story he’s telling.

Garrett looks toward the unfinished dresser on the rug. “He had this whole plan for me before I was old enough to know what hockey was. Everything had a reason. Food, training, school, sleep. If I did something wrong, he made sure I knew.”

The words remain clean. Almost clinical. His voice doesn’t. She watches his thumb drag repeatedly over the scrape on his knuckle.

“I used to think that was just what fathers did,” he says. “Push you until you got good enough. Make sure you didn’t get soft. Then I got older and started going to other guys’ houses, and their dads were…” He shrugs, but the movement pulls too tightly across his back. “Normal. Annoying, but normal. They’d yell about the thermostat or tell shitty jokes. Nobody was… watching the room all the time.”

She goes quiet.

Garrett’s mouth twists. “I don’t know what I’d do if I had a son.”

The word son lands heavily between them.

“Why a son?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes stay fixed on the floor. “That’s what I pictured.”

Something pinches beneath her ribs. Garrett drags a hand through his hair.

“What if I got angry?” he asks.

Her breath catches slightly.

He continues before she can answer, the words coming quicker now, scraped raw by momentum. “What if he did something stupid or wasn’t listening or I was tired and I–” His jaw locks. “I don’t know. People act like you automatically know how to do it differently, but what if you don’t? What if all you know is what you saw?”

She looks at his profile. At the muscle jumping in his jaw. At his hands, opened now over his knees, palms empty. At the faint white scar near one knuckle she’s kissed without ever asking where it came from.

The anger she has been holding doesn’t disappear. It shifts. Makes room. “You think you’d hurt him.”

Garrett’s eyes close for half a second. “I think,” he says carefully, “I wouldn’t know for sure that I wouldn’t.”

She moves before deciding to. The cushion stays between them, but her hand crosses it and settles over his wrist. Garrett looks down at her fingers.

“You were a complete asshole before,” she says.

His mouth twitches without humour. “Yeah.”

“I’m not letting you turn this into some tragic little speech where I tell you it’s fine because you had a bad reaction for a reason.”

“I know.”

“But.” Her thumb presses once against his pulse, which is beating much too fast beneath his skin. “Being scared of becoming him isn’t the same as being him.”

Garrett says nothing.

“You apologise,” she continues. “Badly, sometimes. You check if I’m okay even when I’m literally asking you to do something filthy enough to get us banned from the property. You brought me four pregnancy tests and sour worms because your brain melted in aisle six.”

“Aisle four.”

She gives him a look.

“Sorry.”

“You stop when I say stop. You ask for words when I’m being stubborn. You notice when I haven’t eaten. You made Tucker pay me back for mozzarella sticks I didn’t even know he ate.”

“He knew they were yours.”

She sighs. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s part of the point.”

Despite herself, her mouth pulls at one corner. Garrett watches it happen, the tension in his face easing just enough to let him breathe.

She looks back down at his wrist. “You would have to learn. Obviously. So would I. Being afraid you’d fuck it up doesn’t mean you definitely would.”

“What if it’s in me?”

She knows what he means without him saying more. The question is so small compared to him that it does something unpleasant to her chest.

She tightens her fingers around his wrist. “Then you deal with it before it gets to decide things for you.”

Garrett lets out a breath through his nose.

“That’s not me saying we should have a baby,” she adds quickly. “To be extremely fucking clear.”

A startled sound leaves him, almost a laugh. “Yeah. No. I got that.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I lost my passport in this apartment yesterday.”

“You found it.”

“It was in the freezer.”

Garrett turns his head. “You never told me that. What was it doing in the freezer?”

“I don’t know. Chilling.”

His laugh gets out properly this time, rough and brief and grateful. She hates how much relief she feels hearing it. Then his face settles again.

“I don’t want you doing this alone,” he says.

Her fingers still against his skin. He looks directly at her now, and there’s no easy shine in him. Only Garrett, frightened enough to finally stop pretending fear makes him indifferent.

“If it’s positive,” he says, “I’m not leaving.”

She searches his face. “You don’t have to say that because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not.”

“You looked like you wanted to run through the wall.”

“I did.” His thumb shifts beneath her hand, catching lightly against her palm. “Doesn’t mean I’d leave you here.”

Her throat tightens. “What would we do?” she asks.

Garrett glances toward the bathroom, where the test is quietly rearranging the rest of their lives or doing absolutely nothing at all. “I don’t know.”

She leans back into the couch, though she keeps hold of his wrist. “I couldn’t have a baby right now.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, I don’t think I could.”

“Okay.”

“But what if I took the test and then…” Her voice catches. She clears it impatiently. “What if I saw it and felt differently?”

“Then we’d talk about that.”

“And if I didn’t?”

His gaze does not leave hers. “We’d talk about that too.”

The steadiness in his answer loosens something painful beneath her sternum.

She looks away. “You’re being suspiciously reasonable.”

“I’m trying to recover from accusing you of carrying another man’s child.”

“Good luck.”

“I know.” His fingers turn beneath hers until their palms meet. “It was a really bad opening.”

“It was possibly your worst.”

“I once called Coach’s wife his mother.”

She looks back at him. “What?”

“Freshman year. From behind.”

A laugh bursts out of her before she can stop it. “Oh my God.”

“They had the same coat.”

“That doesn’t help.”

He grimaces. “She was not happy.”

Her laugh comes thinner this time, catching around all the pressure still sitting in her body, but Garrett smiles faintly anyway. His hand closes around hers. For a few seconds, they sit there with their fingers threaded over the cushion between them.

Then she says, “Did you really picture a son?”

Garrett’s eyes flick to hers. “Yeah.”

“What did he look like?”

His mouth shifts, almost embarrassed. “I don’t know. A kid.”

“Great imagination.”

“He had dark hair.”

“Groundbreaking.”

“And your attitude.”

She recoils. “Then we’d have to give him away.”

Garrett’s thumb moves over her knuckle. “He’d be a nightmare.”

“He’d bite people.”

“You bite people.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

“You bit me because I told you to stop stealing the blankets.”

“You’re very dramatic for somebody who plays an ice sport.”

His smile appears properly, small but real, and for half a second she can see it – the picture he admitted to building while she was in the bathroom. A dark-haired little boy with an impossible mouth. 

Garrett tying tiny skates. Her yelling because he bought some hideous sports-themed crib. The whole thing bright and domestic and completely absurd. The image doesn’t make her want it. Not now.

But it doesn’t make her recoil as quickly as she expects either, and that’s terrifying in an entirely separate direction. Her phone alarm goes off. Both of them jump.

The cheerful little chime cuts through the apartment with obscene brightness. Her hand clamps around Garrett’s. His smile disappears. The air seems to leave the room all at once.

Neither moves. The alarm continues. Garrett reaches out with his free hand and silences it.

“That was three minutes,” he says.

“I know.”

His fingers tighten around hers. “You want me to look?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I have to.”

“Okay.”

She stands, then immediately sits back down. Garrett rises beside her. He doesn’t laugh. He holds out his hand again. She takes it.

The walk to the bathroom is approximately twelve steps and lasts several years. The overhead light is still on, too white and revealing, glaring off the mirror and the chrome tap. The pregnancy test lies facedown beside the sink exactly where she left it.

Her stomach rolls. Garrett stays half a step behind her, his hand warm around hers. She can feel the roughness of his palm, the steady pressure of his thumb against the side of her finger.

“Okay,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to rush.”

“It’s already done.”

“I know.”

She reaches for the test. Her fingers miss the first time. She grips it more firmly, lifts it from the counter, and holds it facedown in front of them.

Garrett’s breath moves near her temple. She flips it over. The tiny digital screen reads:

NOT PREGNANT.

For one suspended second, her brain refuses to interpret the words. Then everything inside her drops. “Oh, thank fuck.” The breath tears out of her so hard she folds slightly at the waist, one hand flying to the edge of the sink. “Holy shit. Oh my God. Thank God.”

Garrett’s hand lands at her back.

She laughs, except it comes out wet and shaky and completely unhinged, relief flooding through her limbs so quickly her knees weaken beneath it. “I’m not pregnant.”

“You’re not pregnant,” he echoes.

She turns and grabs him. Her arms go around his middle, face pressing into his chest, and Garrett catches her with a startled grunt before wrapping both arms around her. One hand spreads over the back of her head. The other locks firmly around her waist.

For a little while, they only breathe. His shirt smells like clean laundry and the faint wood dust from the dresser. His heart beats hard beneath her cheek, slower than hers but not by much. Garrett’s mouth presses into her hair once, then again.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters against him.

“Yeah.”

“I thought my life was over.”

His arms tighten. “I know.”

“I know that’s dramatic.”

“No, it’s not.”

She pulls back enough to look at him. Garrett’s face is pale beneath his warm skin, relief visible in the loosened line of his mouth and the way his shoulders have finally dropped. But there’s something else too. Something quieter sitting behind his eyes as he glances past her toward the test on the counter.

She follows his gaze. “You look weird.”

His eyes return to hers. “I’m relieved.”

“That’s not all.”

Garrett’s mouth opens. He seems to consider lying, then thinks better of it after the evening they have just survived.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“That’s convincing.”

“I am relieved.” His hand remains at her waist, thumb moving once over the fabric of her shirt. “I don’t want a kid right now. Obviously. I’ve got practice tomorrow and you keep your passport with frozen peas.”

“It was beside the ice tray.”

“Much better.”

She tilts her head. “But?”

He glances at the test again. “For a minute,” he says slowly, “when you were in here, I pictured it.”

Her chest goes tight in a completely new way. “A son?”

“Yeah.” His expression twists, faintly embarrassed. “Not even anything major. Just… stupid stuff.”

“Like?”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You yelling at me because I bought the wrong stroller.”

“I would.”

“I know. And a tiny hockey jersey.”

“Absolutely not.”

“See? Already yelling.”

She pinches his side. Garrett’s mouth twitches, but the look in his eyes stays soft and slightly shaken.

“I pictured him in your apartment,” he says. “Which is insane because there’s nowhere to walk in here now, let alone put a baby.”

“The study.”

“Your dad would be devastated.”

“He’d build another room.”

“Probably.”

Garrett takes a breath. “And then the test was negative, and I was relieved. Really fucking relieved. But I guess…” His hand shifts against her waist. “I didn’t hate the picture.”

Her eyes sting again. This time for an entirely different, equally inconvenient reason. “You’re disappointed?”

“No.” He thinks about it. “Maybe for, like, half a second. Which is stupid.”

“It’s a little stupid.”

“Thanks.”

“But not bad,” she whispers.

Garrett watches her face closely. “You?”

She looks at the test. The word NOT remains clear on the screen.  “No,” she says honestly. “I’m not disappointed.”

He nods.

“But the little jersey would’ve been cute.”

Garrett’s smile breaks across his face before he can stop it, bright and exhausted and so warm around the edges that it hurts to look at directly. “Yeah?”

“One. You’d get one.”

“Home and away,” he counters.

“One, Graham.”

“Fine.”

“And if you ever accuse me of sleeping with someone else again, I’ll use it to strangle you.”

His smile fades into something more careful. “I won’t.”

“You better not.”

“I’m serious.”

She studies him for a second, then nods.

Garrett reaches up and wipes beneath her eye with his thumb. She hadn’t realised anything had escaped. His touch lingers against her cheek, gentle enough to make her want to hide, so she turns her face and bites lightly at the pad of his thumb.

He exhales, half laugh, half surrender. “There she is.”

“Don’t.”

“Kitty.”

She glares.

His hand slides around the back of her neck and pulls her forward until her forehead rests beneath his chin. “I’m sorry.”

She stays there, arms looped loosely around his waist. “I know,” she says after a while. “You were still a dick.”

“I know.”

“You have a lot of furniture left to build before I forgive you.”

Garrett looks past her toward the living room, where the half-constructed dresser waits among screws, cardboard, and the abandoned instruction booklet. “That thing is fucked up.”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“It’s a safety concern.”

She presses her face into his chest to hide the small laugh that slips out. Garrett feels it anyway. His arms close more securely around her, holding her through the last trembling edge of the adrenaline as it finally begins to leave her body.

They remain in the bathroom longer than necessary, tangled together beneath the unforgiving overhead light with four pregnancy-test boxes sitting in a plastic bag outside and one negative result on the sink beside them. Their relationship is still a thing they keep living inside without properly naming. Her period is still late, and she will probably have to take another test in a few days if it doesn’t come, because one evening of emotional ruin isn’t enough for the human reproductive system.

But Garrett is here. His hand moves slowly up and down her back. His cheek rests against the top of her head. When she shifts closer, he makes room without thinking.

Eventually, she murmurs, “You’re not allowed to name our hypothetical son.”

Garrett’s chest moves beneath her with a quiet laugh. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“You named my vibrator Douglas.”

“We named him Douglas.”

“You suggested it.”

“It suited him,” he shrugs.

“It’s an old-man name.”

“He’s dependable.”

She pulls back enough to stare at him. “You’re jealous of a vibrator and emotionally attached to it.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’re deeply strange.”

Garrett bends and kisses her forehead, lingering there until the last sharp little ache beneath her ribs eases into something tired and warm. “Yeah,” he murmurs against her skin. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

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[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [31] - Fire

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: There are lines that should not be crossed, even in enmity.

Word Count: 4,8k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, blood, mentions of wounds. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

It was very, very clear that your house and House Stark was complete opposites.

You had been in Winterfell for just a little over two moons, and you were proven the difference over and over again almost each day. Your house was all about ambition, House Stark was all about honor. Your house had agriculture and fertile lands as its strength, House Stark had military power and loyalty as its. Your house was a vassal house that had to claw its way to power, House Stark was the most ancient and powerful House in the north, with no need or taste for court games and intrigue.

And as you found out very recently, the parenting styles of your house and House Stark was no exception to such difference.

“Listen, I get that—”

“Do you really?” you asked, leaning on your hip. “Because from where I’m standing, you do not.”

“Things are different in the south, but I told you,” Robb said, making you narrow your eyes at him. “He cannot run to you crying every single time he’s scared.”

“Because winter is coming?” You mimicked his deep voice with his northern accent. “He’s a child—”

“You’re not his mother.”

You threw your head back with an impatient—and very unladylike—groan, then glared up at him.

“I know very well I’m not his mother, Robb,” you said. “Would you like to be reminded the reason why he runs to me crying?” You pointed at the door of the solar. “Because his actual mother is by his sick brother’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up!”

“Bran will wake up,” he said. “And in the meantime, Rickon needs to understand what is expected of him as a Stark.”

“And are the Stark babes born fully in control of their emotions?” you snarked. “Is that what happens? Did you all come out holding a sword and told the midwife the north remembers?”

“Quite the criticism from the girl whose midwife had to wear silk gloves to tend to her.”

Your mouth fell open with a gasp.

“Those were my nursemaids!”

“My apologies,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Of course. Your nursemaids.”

“And we’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about the fact that Rickon is terrified—”

“And he’s going to stay terrified if you keep coddling him.”

“No, he’s going to stay terrified if he feels like he has to deal with this alone.” You crossed your arms. “I understand that things may be different in the north, but mayhaps it’s high time you reconsidered it when it comes to Rickon—”

“I’m doing what my father would have done,” he told you, “if he were here.”

Of course.

Of course Ned Stark could do no wrong in Robb’s eyes as a father, so Robb wanted to walk the path his father carved.

…Except, it was quite obvious that he was refusing to address a very specific situation that had been taking place since Lord Stark’s departure. While ruling in his stead, Robb was making some changes, especially now that Lady Stark was confined to Bran’s chambers and was not seeing any of it.

“You do realize I was trained in politics as well?” you asked. “Do you honestly think I don’t know the reason why Jon is in the room in almost every meeting you hold with the northern lords ever since your father left? Something he didn’t do when he was indeed here?”

A blush spread over his cheeks and reached his ears as he averted his eyes from yours like he was caught doing some mischief.

“My brother being by my side is no politics,” he mumbled way too fast as if he had already practiced the answer in his mind, and you rolled your eyes.

“Robb, come on now...”

“It is not politics.”

“It is if you’re making your vassals perceive his presence,” you taunted him, moving about in the solar. “It is indeed politics if you’re legitimizing his status by your side even if it’s not in name. Which is more than alright, you do that. But don’t pretend it’s not political, when you and I both know what it signals to your vassals about the future.”

“Jon is not who we’re talking about right now,” he insisted, eager to change the subject. “Rickon is. He’s not going to learn the ways of the world if he thinks you’ll be there every—”

He was cut off when someone knocked on the door and a servant’s voice reached inside.

“M’lord, the blacksmiths from Wintertown are in the Great Hall.”

Robb ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture almost making you smile before you looked over your shoulder at the door, then turned to him.

“And once you’re done with your duties of the day, you must talk to your mother,” you said. “She hasn’t been out of that room for days now.”

He nodded with a sigh and stood up from his chair. It appeared that Grey Wind decided at that moment that he had been patient enough, because he padded across the room to nudge at you, pushing you back with his snout in the process. You cooed at him and scratched at his head.

“Can we—” Robb started, but this time it was Barbrey who knocked on the door.

“My lady, the carpenters are ready for you.”

“Thank you!” you called out while Robb tilted his head in confusion.

“The carpenters?”

“Oh, I…” You cleared your throat. “When we first visited Wintertown, you said more and more people would arrive there now that the maesters announced the arrival of autumn. Farmers and villagers and mountain clans.”

“Mm hm.”

“And you said they send women and children and the men stay behind, if the winter is hard,” you added. “So I thought um—I thought if children are going to be away from their fathers not even knowing they’ll see them again, even the smallest gesture of hospitality could help them and their mothers feel some comfort. And I came up with a plan.”

“Shocking,” he said, though it seemed he was battling with a smile. “What is it?”

“I— alright, so before you say no,” you said, shifting your weight. “Promise me you’ll listen first.”

A laugh climbed his throat as he rounded the table, then leaned back to it. “What did you do?”  

“Regardless of the north or south, all children like toys,” you said. “So I will ask the carpenters to make some toys for the children who will arrive here, or any of the nearby castles. And I’m actually going to hit two birds with one stone, because when I first shared it with my ladies-in-waiting, Alys said the carpenters might need some help with that, and I found a solution to that also!” You bounced on the balls of your feet, pride distracting you from your anger just now. “The carpenters here and in Wintertown will hire the orphans without jobs, so that they can get the help they need, and those poor orphans can learn the tricks of the craft and get paid. They’ll be the ones making the toys. And once all that is done, they’ll have a job that can make it possible for them to earn money not only here, but wherever they want!”

His eyes softened, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m told most of the toys—if they have any—pass from sibling to sibling for many smallfolk, so mayhaps having something of their own may cheer them up a little,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “I doubt it’ll look perfect, but it’ll be theirs.”

He took a deep breath, then reached out to grab your hand so that he could pull you closer to him, his thumb caressing the back of your hand while he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“We can argue about it,” you informed him, making him huff out a laugh. “But we’re expected, so it’ll have to—”

“I think it’s a great idea,” he told you and your eyes shot up to his.

“You do?”

“Mm hm.”

“No arguments? Because I practiced.”

“You practiced for arguments?” he asked with a confused frown, but before you could answer, Barbrey knocked on the door again.

“My lady.”

“I’m coming!” you called out and stepped out of his arms much to his displeasure, walking backwards to the door. “And I meant what I said about Rickon.”

He shot you a look. “So did I.”

“I suppose we’ll have to argue about that instead,” you pointed out and gave Grey Wind a quick peck on his head. “Lucky for me, I practiced for that too. I’ll find you later.”

 With that, you pulled open the door and walked out of the room to make your way down the hallway with Barbrey following you in a haste.

Your conversation with the carpenters took longer than you had expected. After it was done, you and your ladies-in-waiting had spent some time with Rickon playing the games he wanted until Maester Luwin came to take him away, and it was only then you realized just how tired you were. You figured you could take a short nap but visiting Lady Stark in Bran’s room before that sounded like a good idea, so you gave your ladies-in-waiting leave until dinner time while you made your way to Bran’s room, but before you could reach his door, you heard your maid Kyra’s voice.

“M’lady!” She rushed through the hallway, holding a cup. “Your tea.”

“Oh thank you Kyra, you’re the sweetest.” You took the cup from her as the door opened and another maid stepped outside, carrying an untouched plate of food that no doubt was supposed to be Lady Stark’s breakfast. The smell of eggs turned your stomach, making you grimace and you held your breath until she walked away with the plate. You lifted the cup to inhale the sweet scent of your tea before you took a sip, then smiled at Kyra.

“I’ll take a nap after this,” you whispered, approaching the door. “So you can take the time off until dinner.”

“Thank you m’lady.”

You took another sip in an attempt to settle your stomach, knocked on the door and stepped in, Kyra helpfully closing the door behind you.

“Good afternoon, Lady Stark.”

Gods, she was a mess.

And rightfully so. You couldn’t even imagine being in her place right now, with her little boy lying there asleep for weeks and her husband gone with both of her daughters, miles away from her. She was weaving a sort of a talisman, and she only raised her head from it for a second to look at you, her blue eyes red-rimmed with tears and lack of sleep.

“Good afternoon,” she rasped out and you put your tea aside, then took a step towards her after stealing a look at little Bran who laid asleep in his bed with his wolf Summer at the foot of the bed.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, I just wanted to see if you or Bran need anything?”

She shook her head, her whole attention on the talisman again. “No, thank you.”

“I’ve been told I’m quite good at crafts,” you offered. “I imagine you must be tired. I could do that for you if you would like?”

She shook her head again.

“It’s for protection of a child,” she whispered. “Only a mother can make it.”

“Oh,” you said after a beat. “I am not familiar with it, I’m afraid.”

“And I hope you won’t have to learn it,” she said. “I hope your and Robb’s children never need it.”

There wasn’t much you could say to that, so you offered her a small smile, your gaze darting around the room.

“How is he?” she asked, making your head whip up.

“Robb?” you asked back and cleared your throat. “He’s alright. He’s doing a great job ruling in Lord Stark’s stead. But he’s also worried about you and Bran, the whole castle is.”

She nodded slowly.

“Rickon is alright as well,” you added in a haste. “My ladies-in-waiting and I just played hide-and-seek with him. I’m the least familiar with the layout of the castle so I always get caught first, and it amuses him a lot.”

You decided against mentioning Rickon’s nightmares, the poor woman didn’t have to worry about that on top of everything right now.

“And I wrote to my brother,” you said. “Arys. He’s studying to be a maester at the Citadel as you know, and he’s incredibly smart. Perhaps he’ll have some ideas as to how we can help Bran.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

“Of course.”

A silence fell upon the room, and you fidgeted with your bracelet before taking a deep breath.

“Lady Stark, if you would like to rest—”

“I cannot,” she cut you off, her voice hoarse. “Bran needs me.”

“And I will send for you immediately if—when he wakes up,” you corrected yourself. “If he wakes up in your absence. But you must think of your own health as well, not just Bran’s.”

Even you could tell she was deaf to your suggestions, as you knew she would be. You looked from her to Bran and opened your mouth to insist, then changed your mind and forced yourself to smile.

“Please send for me if you change your mind,” you said. “Have a good day, Lady Stark.”

You grabbed your cup on your way out and shut the door behind you, then leaned back to it and let out a breath, closing your eyes.

Robb really needed to talk to her.

You opened your eyes again, then pushed yourself off the door, took a huge sip of your tea, and walked down the hallway to get to stairs so that you could go to your room for a much needed nap.

You were supposed to wake up before dinner.

And this nap was supposed to help you regain some energy.

Neither had happened.

When Robb’s gentle touch on your cheek and his lips on your forehead pulled you out of the depth of sleep, it took you more than just a couple of seconds to get rid of the haze. You let out a small whine that made him chuckle as he pulled back to look down at you.

“Well hello there,” he said, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Are you alright?”

You blinked groggily, now noticing how the room was completely dark.

“What…” you rasped out, kicking the fur covers off of you. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I wasn’t in the hall for dinner, did you eat?”

You shook your head, hunger clawing at your stomach at the mention of dinner. He pressed his palm on your forehead.

“I can’t tell if it’s fever or it’s because the room is boiling.”

“It’s not fever,” you assured him, pulling yourself to sit up in the bed. “I’m not sick, I…Gods, I wasn’t supposed to sleep the dinner away. My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “Rickon has been keeping both of us up for three nights now, you needed it.”

You yawned, rubbing at your eyes.

“Where is he anyway?”

“Rickon?” he asked. “He’s asleep in his own room.”

You dropped your hands to shoot him a look.

“Did you tell him to?”

“No, I just asked Jon and Theon to keep him busy while you were occupied, so he’s been running around the Godswood for the last couple of hours. He should be tired enough to sleep throughout the night.”

A scoff of laughter escaped you. “Robb!”

“I had to find a solution!” he defended himself as he easily got on top of you to settle between your legs, making you giggle. “I haven’t had my wife in ages—”

“Three nights,” you corrected him with a grin and he made a noise of disagreement, cradling your cheek to steal a kiss from you.

“It’s the same thing.”

“And we must—” You swallowed thickly when his lips found your throat. “Um, we— we must fight first because I practiced for it.”

“We’ll fight all you want after this,” he muttered into your neck, his touch making your breath hitch before you grabbed his wrist.

“But I’m hungry.”

That made him pause.

“…Now?”  

You nodded your head when he pulled back to see you better.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” you whined. “Surely you don’t want me to perish.”

“No!” He was quick to assure you. “Of course not, but…”

“But nothing, I’m starving!”

You would’ve been lying if you said the sight of utter torment on his face at the mention of waiting to have you didn’t make you giddy. Lady Olenna had always said being married didn’t mean you couldn’t play with your husband’s patience, and it filled you with a strange sense of pride to see that even though it had been a month after your wedding and he laid with you almost each night since then, he still craved you. You pushed him a little and he got off of you to fall back on the bed with a dramatic groan while you crossed the room to grab your dressing gown to put it on.

“Just tell one of the servants,” he said from the bed and you shook your head.

“I don’t wish to disturb them,” you said. “And I don’t even know what I want to eat yet, I’ll decide it in the kitchens—by the way, did you talk to your mother?”

His hesitation was all the answer you needed, and you spun around on your heels.

“Robb.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“You have time now,” you said. “While I go get myself something to eat. Go talk to her, I’m certain she’s awake.”

“And say what?” he asked, sulking. “She doesn’t listen.”

“I talked to her today.”

He raised his brows. “And did she listen?”

“The point is not whether she listens or not,” you told him as you made your way to him, and he reached out to wrap his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your chest. “The point is that we must talk to her until she hears it. She needs to get out of that room, it won’t...” You trailed off. “It won’t do her any good if she spends her days there.”

“It won’t do anyone any good,” he muttered into your skin and raised his head to rest his chin there. You ran your nails over the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing under your touch.

“She asked me about you.”

That made him open his eyes again to roll them.

“What for?” he grumbled. “She knows where I have been since my father left.”

…Oh.

Oh you were an idiot for not seeing it sooner, Lady Olenna would’ve been disappointed.

Robb was trying to step into his role as Lord Stark, and this was the first time for him to be able to prove himself as the future Warden of the North, and he was doing a great job but—

But Lady Stark hadn’t even acknowledged it with so much as a word, too worried to leave Bran’s side.

You had to be very careful, because you knew very well that the moment Robb so much as sensed that you could tell he wanted approval, he would refuse to listen and insist that he didn’t need it in the most northern manner. People in the north thought even mere children had to deal with their fears alone with no help or comfort from anyone else, you could already tell the rules were even stricter when it came to grown-ups.

Which was nonsense to you.

But from Robb’s perspective, he had to be the perfect heir and the future Lord of Winterfell, and praise, comfort and reassurance was for southerners, not for the Warden of North.

“I think she was worried,” you said, still playing with his hair. “But I told her not to. Not to sound arrogant, but I was very convincing with the way I was singing your praises.”

Confusion flashed over his handsome features. “Hm?”

“Mayhaps you don’t realize it my love, but you’re doing a wonderful job ruling in your father’s stead,” you said gently. “It’s no easy task, but I think the whole north sees that they have nothing to worry about once the title eventually falls on you for good.”

The light in his eyes softened before he lowered his head so that you wouldn’t see the fire burning his cheeks, but you could see the tips of his ears growing pink, making you bite back a proud smile.

Aw, the big bad Young Wolf Robb Stark blushed at flattery.

You were going to have fun with that information.

He cleared his throat and stood up from the bed, adapting the solemn expression of the north, a frown pinching his brows.

“Aye, it’s—” he said gruffly as if he was trying to pull himself together, though the sight of pink on his cheeks betrayed him. “It’s duty.”

“I’m aware it’s duty,” you said, your voice airy. “And I would’ve loved you if you were Benjen the servant just as I love you as the future Lord of Winterfell who’s already proving himself to the north.”

A playful grin curled his lips. “Is that right?”

“Very much so. That’s why I’m not quite certain if what I say counts here,” you stated, “but I still think it’s important for you to know that you’re doing so well. Duty or not, I’m so proud of you.”

He gawked at you and blinked a couple of times, his cheeks getting even redder.

“It’s my—I—” he stammered. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Your expression was completely innocent.

“I have no idea what you speak of,” you said, then gave him a bright smile. “Though, you do look so sweet blushing.”

“I don’t blush!” he defended himself, coaxing a laughter out of you as he spun you around to gently shove you in the direction of the door with him following you. “Go eat and come back as fast as you can.”

“But—” you were cut off when he smacked your butt, making you gasp and turn around at the door.

“Scandalous behavior!” you accused him, pointing a finger at him but he grabbed your wrist, that mischievous light glimmering in his eyes.

“You’ll see what scandalous behavior is when you come back,” he told you. “Go.”

“Talk to Lady Stark while I’m in the kitchens!” you called out as you rushed down the hallway, aware of his glances on you until you turned the corner. A giggle escaped you as you went downstairs and made your way to the kitchens, the whole castle asleep as you guessed.

However, your guess turned out to be inaccurate.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Jorelle who whirled around on her heels the moment she heard you, holding a plate with a piece of cake.

“Hello,” she said after a beat. “I uh…I couldn’t sleep, and I got hungry. What are you doing here?”

“Slept too much and got hungry,” you answered, shifting your weight. “Are those lemon cakes?”

“Oh.” You took the plate from her and went to sit on the table while she leaned back to one of the counters. “Thank you.”

She nodded and turned around to grab a piece, then put it on another plate with a fork and held it out for you.

 “Don’t mention it.” She waved her fork dismissively. “We were going to wake you up, then Lyra said maybe we shouldn’t. Do you feel alright?”

You nodded your head, pushing your fork into the cake.

“I feel groggy,” you admitted and took your fork into your mouth, closing your eyes at the tart yet sweet taste of the spongey cake for a moment. “Gods, this is the best remedy.”

Sometimes you wondered what kind of friends you and Jorelle would’ve made if you met in different circumstances. You were quite certain you would have been close with her, if it weren’t for…

Well.

Everything.

Her family pushing her, the whole north being ready to rally behind her, thinking that she would’ve been better at being the future Lady of the North.

Perhaps the worst part was that you knew very well she would’ve been great at it. She was the personification of the north with her cold and distant beauty even now in the middle of the night with no embellishments; her dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves, her gray eyes gleaming in the dimly lit kitchen.

“Are you certain you feel alright?”

You snapped out of your own thoughts and offered her a small smile.

“Of course,” you said. “How about you? Why couldn’t you sleep?”  

“Ruminating, I suppose.”

You knew you were supposed to keep distant, Margaery would have advised you to keep distant, yet you couldn’t help but ask:

“About what?”

She looked like she was battling herself not to say anything, but then she exhaled through her nose.

“Are—” She stopped herself, then gritted her teeth. “Are southern men always so…full of audacity?”

A huff of laughter you couldn’t stop escaped you, and you nodded your head in a solemn manner.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought they were all courteous and knightly in the south.”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“They’re supposed to be,” you admitted. “But being knighted doesn’t mean a man is in fact knightly. What’s happened?”

“Your—one of the southern guests,” she corrected herself mid-sentence, “he disrespected me.”

Your heart skipped a painful beat.

“When you say disrespect…?” you asked and she frowned, then shook her head vigorously.

“Oh no, with words,” she assured you in a haste, making you let out a relieved breath. “Nothing happened. Just a very disrespectful statement.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say that also.”

You hummed while you chewed on your bite, then swallowed it.

“Well, Silas is unfortunately in Dorne,” you said. “Had you told me before, we could’ve asked him to beat up whoever it was for his disrespect.”

She raised her brows. “You would’ve done that?”

A knowing smile curled your lips and you put your plate aside with a sigh.

“I’m well aware what the north thinks of you and me,” you said. “But there’s still a line. I wouldn’t let you or any other woman be disrespected by a man, no matter how we might feel about each other.”

She stared at you in silence for a couple of seconds like she was at a loss for words, but before she could say anything, hurried footsteps approached the kitchens and Theon appeared at the door, making you frown.

“What is it?”

“There’s a fire,” he said breathlessly. “In the library tower.”

You jumped on your feet, your stomach churning in worry. “Is everyone alright?”

“Aye, but Robb asked me to take you to safety.” Theon’s eyes found Jorelle over your shoulder. “You too, my lady.”

You grabbed Jorelle’s wrist to rush out of the kitchens with her, now hearing the wolves howling outside along with people shouting. Someone started ringing the bell, the sound echoing through the yard and reaching the halls while some of the servants ran past you. You took a look outside the window, the flames shooting from the windows of the library catching your eye and making your breath hitch.

“Gods,” you murmured, “all those books…”

Jorelle tugged at your hand to get you away from the window and you all turned a corner, your head shooting up with the sudden thought hitting you out of nowhere.

“Theon wait, has anyone told Lady Stark?”

“She knows, Robb was with him just now,” he answered while you all approached Bran’s open door. “Either way, it’s—get back!”

He drew his sword and stepped in front of you at the same time Jorelle pushed you behind her with a gasp. Your hands shot up to your mouth at the sight of Lady Stark standing in the middle of the room with blood pouring from the gashes in her palms, and Bran’s wolf Summer standing over a man who laid dead in the corner of the room with his throat torn out, his knife beside him.

“Lady Stark?” Theon stepped into the room with his sword at ready, and she raised her gaze from her hands, still stunned.

“I’ll get Maester Luwin,” Jorelle said and darted, her footsteps echoing in the hallway while you rushed to Lady Stark, your heart beating in your ears.

“I’m unharmed, so is Bran,” she said and you stole a look at Bran who still laid asleep in his bed, then grabbed the handkerchief on the table beside the untouched plate of food to press it on her bleeding palms.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a haste when she hissed. “I’m sorry, we must stop the blood—what happened?”

Her eyes snapped to yours.

“Someone—” she rasped out, then took a shaky breath. “Someone tried to kill Bran.”

Author's note 2 : Thank you so much for reading my loves! This is a friendly reminder that the next chapter will include certain topics that may be triggering, so please make sure to check the warnings. Love you! 🩷

[idegaff]

Forever Your Girl

Summary: Garrett Graham doesn’t do relationships. Something everyone at Briar U knows. It’s honestly the most trivial fact that anyone could imagine. However, to nearly every girl on campus, it’s more of a challenge. Girls throw themselves at him and think they can change his mind, but so far, no one has succeeded.

Except for you… kinda? 

w/c: 5.1k

c/w: not proofread, fwb!garrett, jealous!garrett, mature content, mentions of alcohol/intoxication, no smutt but mentions of sex, very minimal cursing, minimal use of y/n, pet names (princess, bug), mostly fluff... and I think that's it

a/n: This is my first time writing fanfiction in a longgggggg time, pls be kind :) This is just a story about two idiots that cant admit they're in love with each other. If anyone likes it, I'd love to make another part, so let me know!!

You and Garrett met in your sophomore year of college in an African history class. You were paired together for a research project about the social and political movements in African Countries. At first, you thought you were doomed. Paired together with a college jock on a research project? There’s no way there would be any useful contribution from him, let alone any contribution at all. 

But he surprised you…

What you didn’t know was that Garrett wasn’t just some dumb jock. He took his school work just as seriously as he did Hockey. Getting good grades and applying himself academically were highly important to him. And this kinda shocked you.

You had never taken notice of him in the same way that other girls at Briar did. You just saw him as any other guy, but that project changed your perspective on him. During the time spent together in those few weeks of research, he had grown on you. Dare you say… You kinda liked him?

Well, maybe more than just liked him. The two of you had started hanging out almost every day. It started with just the two of you hanging back after class to work on your project and quickly developed into grabbing lunch together. Then he started inviting you over to the off-campus house, and the research project sessions turned into hang sessions. 

And well… hanging sessions led to hookups.

You’re not quite sure why being research project partners led to friends with benefits, but it’s best not to question it. Why question something that just works so well? He doesn’t do relationships, and you don’t particularly care for them either. So for over a year now, you and Garret have been hooking up with no strings attached while also being best friends. And it’s perfect. A true “everyone wins” type of situation. What could go wrong?

“Where’s the princess?” Dean asks as Garrett gruffly walks through the front door of the house. He drops his bag at the bottom of the stairs and glances at his friend with a shrug.

Logan shifts his gaze from the TV to Garrett for a moment and furrows his eyebrows. “W S I Y C?” he says, honing his attention back in on the game.

“Logan, no one knows what that means.” Tucker chimes in from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m really not in the mood for your dumbass acronyms right now.” Garret huffs, making his way to the fridge and grabbing a beer.

“Who shit in your Cheerios… duh.” Logan says, looking at Dean as he laughs and shakes his head.

“Seriously, though, she isn’t coming over tonight? Last day of midterms week, and you two aren’t hanging out? You haven’t had her over all week.” Tuck asks, glancing at Garrett as he opens his beer. “I made sure to make an extra piece of salmon just for her.” 

Garrett takes a sip of his beer and leans against the counter, closing his eyes before acknowledging the pressing question that seems to be on everyone’s minds. “She’s busy.” He shrugs again and glances up from his beer to see the curious expressions on his friend’s faces. “What?”

“Busy? Like she picked up a shift at Malone’s?” Tuck questions.

“No.”

“So… she’s got a theater thing?” Logan glances away from the game again.

“No.”

“Then she-“ before Dean can finish his guess, Garrett stops him with a groan.

“Why does it matter so much to the three of you what she’s doing?” He asks, running a hand over his face. “She’s going on a date. So she’s busy and not coming over… that’s all.”

The three guys look at each other, then back at Garrett and smirk. Dean chuckles, “Ohhh, so you’re jealous, man. Could have led with that.”

Garrett chokes on his sip of beer and stands up straight. “What? I’m not jealous. She can- she can do whatever or whoever she wants. We’re just friends.”

“Okay, so you wouldn’t mind if I-“ Garrett once again cuts Dean off. “Shut the fuck up.” he says, starting to walk off toward the stairs. 

“If jealousy was a disease, you’d be on life support!” Dean calls after him as Tuck and Logan try to suppress their laughter. 

***

“We should do this again.” The tall brunette guy from your literature class says as he walks you to the door to your apartment. 

You smile softly and nod, “Uh, yeah, it was fun,” you say, not really meaning it. You did have a somewhat nice time, but all he did was talk about himself. Not once did he ask you anything about yourself, and barely let you get a word in. So no, this will not be happening again, but he doesn’t need to know that for now. “Thanks again for dinner.”

He nods and leans in to kiss you, but you dodge it, turning your head so that his lips land on your cheek. “Have a good night!” you say hurriedly and scurry into your apartment, shutting the door without another word.

“Back so soon?” Your roommate, Aria, says from the couch. 

The two of you were dorm roommates in freshman year and have been inseparable ever since. She’s the closest friend you’ve made at Briar, like the sister you never had.

“He makes the top five worst first dates list.” You grumble, slipping off your coat and slumping onto the couch next to Aria. “I’ll tell you the details later. It’s too soon for me to relive it.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she chuckles, and you glare at her playfully.

“Think it’s too late for me to become a nun?” you ask, jokingly, and she shakes her head in reply with a smirk. 

“I’ll find you a nice convent if you’d like,” she says.

You nod your head. “Please do, maybe one near a beach.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” she jokes, offering you the bowl of popcorn, which you gladly take a handful. “Why don’t you go over to G’s? I’m sure he’d help you forget all about your terrible night with… what was his name?”

“Henry,” you sigh, munching on a couple of pieces of popcorn. “I don’t know, it’s kinda late, and Gare was acting kinda weird when I told him what I was doing tonight.”

“Weird how?” she quirks an eyebrow.

“Like I don’t know… he seemed kinda offended? His expression kinda gave ‘you’d rather go on a date with this guy than hook up with me?’ vibes, which is fair cause clearly I chose wrong.” You pop another piece of popcorn in your mouth and glance at Aria to see that her smirk has returned. “Don’t start with your theories of him being in love with me. Friends who have sex sometimes, nothing more.”

“He so is in love with youuuuuuuuu,” she says, giddily as she reaches for her phone. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to peer over her shoulder.

“Asking Tuck what they’re all up to,” she responds, tapping away on her phone. You sit back and focus your attention on the movie she has playing on the TV, not bothering to stop her. A couple of minutes pass before she abruptly grabs the remote and turns off the TV. You look up as she gets off the couch and beelines it to her bedroom. “Malone’s in 20! Put your new red top on! Oh, and the black boots I let you borrow last week!”

***

The guys had convinced Garrett to come out with them to Malone’s after dinner. “If you’re not getting any action tonight, you can’t sit here and sulk about it.” Logan had warned him before proceeding to nag him until he caved into joining them. 

“When are you gonna admit that you’ve got a problem?” Logan asks Garrett as the two of them sit at their friend group's usual booth. Dean is across the room making out with a random girl as usual, and Tuck’s at the bar, grabbing another round. 

Garrett looks up with a raised brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.

“Yes, you do.” Logan rolls his eyes. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Mister ‘I can’t have a girlfriend’ has finally met his match. You’re hooked on her, dude… Admit it.”

Garrett rolls his eyes and tunes his friend out as his eyes glance around the room. Just as he’s about to tell Logan to shut up, his eyes land on you walking in through the front door with Aria in tow. Damn, you looked stunning, he thought to himself. He wondered if that was what you wore on your date. Then suddenly his stomach tightened, and his mind started whirling with more thoughts. It’s not the first time you’ve gone on a date since you guys met. As he said before, you guys weren’t exclusive in any way, shape, or form. You were free to do what you wanted, and you were a beautiful girl with an amazing personality. What guy wouldn’t want to take you on a date? Every time you mentioned a new guy you were seeing to Garrett, it made him uneasy, but he’d never admit that. No stings meant he had no right to voice any opinions on you seeing other people. 

Garrett didn’t realize that he had been staring at you until Logan’s irritating voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Huh?” he said, tearing his eyes away from you for a moment to glance at Logan. His eyes snapped back at you to get one more look before he committed to listening to Logan.

“I said- never mind, you’ll never fucking listen.” He says, after following Garrett’s gaze to see that it led to you.

Aria and you walk over to the bar to grab a drink and talk to Tucker. He sets his hand on your shoulder and turns back to motion towards Logan and Garrett sitting at the booth. “You guys are gonna join us, right? And share the details on your date?” He smiles, nudging your shoulder. “Can’t believe you didn’t mention it in the group chat, by the way.”

Your face starts to heat up, and you shake your head. “If someone asks me about that, I will have to go jump off a bridge, Tuck. And I’ll drag you with me.” You say in the most serious tone, making Aria laugh.

“Oh, um, noted,” he nods, starting to slowly back away. “No, mentions of the date. Promise!” Aria continues to laugh as Tucker quickly turns on his heels and makes his way to the booth. You glance past him and notice Garrett looking at you, so you smile and wink at him before turning back to Aria.

“Listen up! No, and I mean absolutely no, mentions of her date. I’ve been threatened.” Tucker warns, moments before the two of you make your way to the table.

Logan grins, looking from you to Tucker. “Well, well, well, how was-“ Tucker practically dives into the booth, almost knocking over the beers he’d just set down, and slaps his hand over Logan’s mouth. “HOW WERE YOUR MIDTERMS?” He practically shouts, smiling at you and Aria before shooting a glare at Logan.

You feel your face start to flush again as you slide into the booth next to Garrett and cross your arms. “Midterms were just swell.” You say sarcastically, slipping off your jacket and setting it in your lap. Garrett instinctively snakes his arm over your shoulders, and you lean back without a thought.

“You missed out on Tuck’s honey-glazed salmon tonight,” Logan says after prying Tucker’s hand off of his face. 

You frown, “John Tucker, you made my favorite? Without me there?” you say, shaking your head. “For shame.”

“He didn’t know you weren’t coming over,” Garrett says, reaching for one of the fresh beers and bringing it to his lips. He adds “in his defense” before taking a sip. 

“Yeah, you usually come over on Fridays, so I was honestly making it for you. I saved your piece tho! Buried it under some stuff in the vegetable bin, so Dean wouldn’t find it.” Tuck says with a smile. 

“Oh well, I take back the ‘for shame’ comment, please accept my humblest of apologies, sweet Tuck.” You say with a hand to your heart for the extra dramatic effect.

“Consider yourself forgiven.” He winks.

“You guys think we can convince them to set up Karaoke?” Aria asks, changing the subject. “I’m itching to sing some Michael Jackson, but I’m gonna need like 2 shots first. I need to completely forget midterms even happened.”

“I don’t-“ Tuck starts to say before Aria elbows him and flashes a threatening look at him.

“Let’s go, we have to sweet-talk Robin!” She announces, sliding out of the booth, pulling Tuck with her as he rubs his side. “You too, Logan! I need both Johns in on this.”

“Robin doesn’t even-“ She flashes Logan the same look she gave Tuck, and he instantly straightens his spine and scoots toward the edge of the booth. “I mean, sure, yeah. We all have to hear you perform Thriller… Robin will understand.” 

The three of them walk off, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch them rush to where the manager, Robin, is standing behind the bar. You know why she’s doing this, and you also know it’s useless. Garrett Graham, the king of the anti-relationship club, is not in love with you. But Aria will never give up on her theory that he is.

“So you don’t wanna talk about your date with Harry?” Garrett asks, tracing shapes over your shoulder with his thumb as he looks down at you.

“Henry.” You correct him, lifting your drink to your lips and taking a long sip. “And no, G… I don’t particularly want to talk about it.” You glance at him to see that his eyes are set on you with a concerned look on his face. You realize that looking into his eyes was a big mistake because you can feel yourself starting to melt under his gaze. “He just made it all about him.” You cave after a few more seconds and sigh. “He seemed like a sweet guy when we were in study group together the last couple of weeks, but the whole dinner, he would just talk about himself. What he likes to do, his goals for after he graduates, his spring break plans, and it was just on and on and on. Not one question about me. When I would try to relate to something, he’d just steer the conversation back to him. I eventually just stopped trying to speak. And then when he drops me off, he suggests seeing each other again and tries to kiss me… I bet he thought I would invite him in.” You roll your eyes at the thought.

Garrett chuckles after you finish your little rant, and you glare up at him. “It’s not funny, Gare.” You huff, crossing your arms. You shrug his arm off your shoulders and turn to slide out of the booth. As your bottom makes it to the edge, you feel his large hands grab your waist and pull you back to him. “Sorry.” He says softly as you look back up at him. “I was really rooting for you and Harry,” he bites his lip to hold back another laugh. 

“Oh fuck you, Garrett.” You try to push away from him, but one of his hands is still firmly planted on your waist. “Stop, I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself. I’m done with the jokes. I swear,” he maintains his grip on your waist and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “And fuck that guy. You’re the most interesting woman I know, and if he didn’t want to get to know you, it’s his loss.”

You can tell he’s being genuine, and it makes your heart flutter a little. “Thanks.” You say with a smile. “I am pretty interesting.” 

“And sweet. And sexy. And smart. I could go on.” He smiles.

“Oh, feel free to.”

“A bit of a brat.” He smirks. “With a nice-“

You glare at him again and slap his shoulder as you cut him off. “That’s enough,” you say sternly and turn your head away to hide the blush that’s surely rising to your cheeks. Aria starts to near the booth, so Garrett leans in to whisper in your ear. “Seriously, though, you deserve a guy who will take the time to get to know you. You’ll find better.” You turn your head back just enough, you glance at him, and he winks at you, causing your cheeks to heat up even more.

Aria slams her hands on the table, snapping your attention away from Garrett. “Karaoke is being set up as we speak, my friends. Feel free to thank me with a tequila sunrise.” She smirks as Logan and Tucker walk up behind her. Tuck hands you a shot. “Ari said it was a necessity for you to participate.” He says. “Double of tequila.”

“No lime?” You frown. “Despicable.” You knock it back anyway and take the last sip of your vodka cran as your chaser. 

“That’s my girl,” Aria says, grabbing your hand and tugging it for you to stand. “Please release her, G. Her and I will be performing Chicago, and we must get our names on the list as soon as Robin hangs it.” Garrett removes his hand from your waist reluctantly, and you slip out of the booth quickly to save your arm from nearly being ripped off by your best friend. She drags you over to the bar to grab another while you wait for the list.

“Did she tell you about her date?” Logan asks as he and Tuck sit back down.

“Yeah, she said he just talked about himself the entire time like a narcissist douche bag.” He shrugs, grabbing a mozzarella stick. “She’ll find better.”

“She’ll find better?” Tucker repeats, furrowing his brows. “You want that for her?”

“Uh, why wouldn’t I want her to find a better guy?”

“Well, there’s a better guy that’s been right in front of her, doofus,” Logan says, prompting Garrett to roll his eyes.

“Dude, you know that if her date had gone well and she kept seeing this guy, you would be pissed,” Tucker says.

“Who’s pissed?” Dean asks, sliding into the booth next to Garrett. 

“G would be pissed if y/n’s date had gone well.”

“Ah, so it didn’t go well? That’s a win for you, Graham.” Dean pats Garrett on the back, and he grimaces. “Man, you were in the worst mood just because she was going on a date. If she had a good time, you’d be murdering the guy.”

“Don’t worry, we’d help you hide the body.” Logan teases.

Garrett sighs, looking over to see you and Aria writing your names down on the Karaoke sheet. His eyes rake over you, and he doesn’t know if the pit in his stomach is just because of the greasy order of mozzarella sticks he’s been eating or if it's that he is genuinely coming to terms with his feelings for you. “Even if I wanted her all to myself-“ Garrett starts, and Dean interjects. “You do.” Garrett shoots him a warning look. “Even if I did… She doesn’t want that. If she did, she wouldn’t be going on dates with other guys.”

The three guys look at each other before collectively looking back to Garrett. “She’s gone on plenty of dates since meeting you, and none have been successful, right? Well, at least not successful enough for her to explore a relationship with one of them. Don’t you think there’s a reason? Like maybe they don’t compare to you in her eyes?” Tucker speaks up.

Before Garrett can answer, Chicago by Michael Jackson starts playing over the bar speakers. He looks to the stage to see you and Aria back to back with mics in hand. He smiles, watching as you start singing. You were in your element on the stage, being goofy and theatrical and so unapologetically yourself. It was one of the things he liked most about you, but it wasn’t something everyone got to see. It was only when you loosened up or were surrounded by people whom you’re really comfortable around that this side of you came out. 

“She feels the same way about you, G, but if you wait for her to tell you it’s never gonna happen. She’s not going to confess her love to the guy who’s notorious for shooting down relationships.” Dean says, regaining Garrett’s attention. 

“Whatever, I need another drink.” Garrett nudges Dean’s shoulder, prompting him to move. Dean shakes his head and gets up to let Garrett out of the booth. “All I’m saying is get your girl before she actually does find someone else.”

Garrett brushes past him without a word and makes his way to the part of the bar closest to the stage. He assumes you downed your drink before going on stage, so he orders you another and a beer for himself before sitting on one of the free stools. While watching you sing, he starts to mull over what the guys were saying. They’ve been bringing this up to him at least once a month for at least the past six months, and it just leaves him feeling frustrated and confused. Talking about feelings has never been his strong suit, and he couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to confess his to you. Not when he wasn’t 100% sure they’d be reciprocated. He couldn’t tell you he was falling in love with you when there was even the smallest possibility of you not feeling the same way and then ending what you guys already had together. Because what you have now is just too good to risk. 

While Garrett’s mind was racing, you had finished the song and made your way over to him. “Gare, were you watching?” You ask excitedly, stepping between his legs and setting your hands on his shoulders. He looks at you with a smile and nods. “Of course, Bug,” he says, leaning in to give you a quick kiss as his hands move to your sides and slide into place at the small of your back. “I got you another drink.”

You smile widely and kiss his cheek before picking up the vodka cran with lime, your favorite. “Thank you.” You take a sip and tell him you've already signed up for another song. “Oh yeah, what’s your next song?” he asks, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. You were so beautiful and obviously drunk. Your face always flushed a bit when you were drunk, but somehow you made it just makes you even cuter. “I haven’t decided, but another oldie for sure.” You lean into him and rest your forehead against his. “Any suggestions?” 

He ponders for a moment, but before he can offer up a suggestion, your name is called from the stage by Robin, who looks like she is really regretting setting up karaoke. “Oh! My turn!” You hand Garrett your drink and quickly walk over to the stage, stumbling a little in your drunken state. You whisper your song choice to Robin before taking the mic and waiting for the music to start.

“Hey, baby, you gotta remember I’m forever your girl.” You start singing, your eyes set on none other than Garrett. He blushes and proceeds to watch you dancing around and singing your heart out on the stage. His attention was so locked on you that he hadn't even noticed Dean sitting next to him. “No denying that this song is dedicated to you, buddy,” Dean smirks. 

He looks to Dean for a few seconds, too tired to argue with him at this point. “I can’t risk what we have now.” Is all he says, watching you and not even attempting to hide how completely enamored he is by you. “If she didn’t feel the same… it’d ruin everything. I just can’t.”

“Sometimes the benefits outweigh the risks, my friend.” Dean pats Garrett on the back. He sighed and tried to ignore Dean’s words so that he could see more of your theatrics, but in the back of his mind, her couldnt stop wondering if Dean was actually right. Was he too oblivious to realise that his feelings for you would be reciprocated? 

Your song comes to an end, and you skip back to the bar, flushed and buzzing. Garrett and Dean both tell you how great you were, and you grin so wide your cheeks hurt. “Karaoke is the best.” You sigh contentedly. “Where are the guys?” You ask, scanning the room. It’s definitely getting late, and the crowd of people is trickling out. “And Ari?”

“Aria got a little too enthusiastic with the tequila,” Dean says, standing up. “Logan and Tuck took her home. I’m gonna head out too.” The moment he leaves, the bar feels quieter. Smaller. Just you nd Garette and the hum of the music. 

“Aw man…” You pout, grabbing your drink from Garrett’s hand. “I don’t wanna go yet.”

Garrett reaches to take your drink, and you take a step back. He shakes his head, “Mmm, I don't think you need to finish that. And Dean is right, time to go.”

You raise your glass defiantly and finish what's left of your drink. “Can I sleep over?” you ask, setting the now empty glass down on the bar counter. Garrett nods and stands up, placing his hands on your waist to turn you around. “Of course, who else was I gonna cuddle with tonight?”

The two of you walk out of Malone’s together, hand in hand, and make your way to Garrett’s car. He opens the passenger side door for you, helping you get in before shutting the door and walking to his side. “I’m glad I ended the night with you.” You say as he gets in and starts the car. “Way better than how my night began.” He smiles at you and sets his hand on your thigh. “Me too, Bug.”

You watch the city lights blur for a moment before looking over at Garrett and shutting your eyes. Before you know it, he parks the car and looks over to see that you’re practically asleep. “Y/n, we’re here,” He says softly, reaching over to place his hand on your cheek, producing a small smile from you. You hum in response, feeling too tired for words, and he chuckles. “Come on, let's go inside,” He says. You peek one of your eyes open. “Carry me?” You ask, quietly, with the puppy dog eyes that you know he can’t say no to. He chuckles again. “Anything for you, princess.” He gets out of the car and makes his way around to your side, opening the door and reaching in to unbuckle your seat belt. He picks you up and lifts you out of the car, shutting the door with his foot and smirking as he decides to throw you over his shoulder. “Hold on tight.”

“Hey!” you shout, suddenly wide awake and upside down. “Put me down, Garrett.” He carries you to the front door and up the stairs like this despite your protests. Finally, he gently throws you down on his bed and grins. “Feeling dizzy?” He asks. “If I throw up in your bed, it’s your fault,” You murmur, burying your face in a pillow. He laughs and starts looking through his dresser to find a shirt for you to wear. “Here ya go, sleepy head.” He tosses it to you, and you sit up slowly. You start to undress, tossing your clothes to the floor. He watches you as he strips down to his boxers himself, his eyes studying your body as if he hasn't already seen every inch a million times over. 

You eventually pull his t-shirt over your head and settle back against the headboard of the bed. He settles in beside you and kisses your forehead-a gentle gesture that makes your heart ache. “C’mere,” he says softly as he lies down and opens his arms. You don’t hesitate. You move under the covers and close the distance between the two of you, your body fitting into the hollow of his like it always does. For a moment, you just look at him. His dark curls are messy, falling across his forehead. Your hand reaches up to push them back without a thought. He watches you, patient and still, something in that quiet moment makes your breath catch. Maybe the look of adoration in his eyes. 

Then you’re leaning in, and his lips meet yours. Soft at first, but as your palm finds his cheek, the kiss deepens. His hand tightens on your waist, and you moan into him. The familiar ache of wanting someone you’ve been trying not to want too much floods both your senses. For a second, he lets himself have this before pulling away. “Sleep,” he murmurs against your mouth, and it’s not a suggestion. His hand moves in steady circles across your back, and you want to protest, want to stay in this moment, but your body has other ideas. The day has caught up to you-midterms, the bad date, the bar, him- and the exhaustion wins.

You feel goosebumps forming on your arms, and a shiver runs down your spine from his touch. Moments like this with him just feel too perfect to be real. You tuck your head under his chin and start to doze off as you listen to his heartbeat. “I love you,” you whisper, too drunk and tired to realize what just came out of your mouth. 

Garrett goes completely still as he feels his heart rate spike. ‘I love you’ is something the two of you have never said to each other, at least not in such an intimate way. There’s been the casual ‘love ya’ said between friends. But this… This felt very different. This was you, unguarded and honest, and the sound of it sparks something in him that he has been trying to keep at bay.

He wants to say it back. He needs to. 

“I love you, too.” He whispers once he’s sure that you’re asleep. 

A confession to himself.

[shojizbae]

Puck Baby

Garrett Graham x Baby Mama! Reader

There were reasons Garrett Graham “didn’t do girlfriends”. Yes, he needed to focus on school, practice, and building his career. Yes, he didn’t have the bandwidth to let anyone into a messy family. Especially since at the end of his senior year, things got a whole lot messier. A prom night went sour when, in July, while Garrett was packing his bags for a summer intensive, he got a very threatening text

“I’m coming over right now. Don’t move an inch.”

Twenty minutes later, you were in his bathroom with a box of pregnancy tests and two positive ones dated for the two days prior in your favorite teal Sharpie. Tears rolled down your cheeks as the third test showed two pink lines. Garrett let you absolutely soak his shirt with your snot while you repeated: “What are we supposed to do?” Personally, Graham would support whatever decision you made. He knew his dad would be beyond angry, and part of him really enjoyed that. But he knew you. The two of you met in your freshman year at your boarding school. And you were a good catholic girl. You wore your cross every moment you breathed, and you enjoyed going to mass, even on Wednesday. You hoped one day to be a stay-at-home wife and take your kids to Sunday school. So Garrett wasn’t surprised when you wanted to keep your baby. He even agreed to elope with you at the town hall. What his dad didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

Eventually, when Garrett’s notarized marriage license arrived in the mail, Phil found out. Garrett expected rage, wrath, fury, or something. After he spilled the whole story, his dad just looked at him. He kind of got a distant look in his eye.

“You stepped up. Nice. I’ll talk to the accountant about setting up some allowance with her. That’s good, you’ll be young for your child’s life. See more of it.” Graham had been gripping the counter so hard he forgot whether he was breathing. “I guess we’re starting the next Graham generation early,” Phil joked, slapping his son on the back.

Now three years had gone by in a blur. He had just gotten back from practice, having showered and donned his sweats. There was a knock at the front door, and from the kitchen, Tuck shouted: “It’s open.” There you were in jeans, some white tank top, and a sensible sweater, and little Isaac in your arms. Graham had come down with the sound of shouting.

“Hey, daddy,” you smiled at the curly-haired boy, releasing Isaac to the floor.

“DADDY.” His son shouted and ran right into his legs as Garrett squatted down.

“Isaac!” He yelled back, scooping his kid into his arms and blowing raspberries on the toddler's stomach.

“Game tomorrow?” You ask, noting the utter lack of calamity

“You know it.”

“And you’re done with homework for the night?”

“Yep.” He looks into his son’s eyes, yes, and remembers the night he was conceived and bricked with the exact same iris.

“Well, I figured I’d drop him off for a sleepover since you won’t have a morning lift.

“Got a hot date tonight?” Dean saunters in, giving you a side hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Just with forensic files and a stack of dishes."

"What are you not sticking around?"

"Logan! Hey, when you get the chance, can you look at my car? It's making that noise again?"

"Yeah, in the morning I'm taking Jules to go see our mom."

"Thank you, sweetheart, I'll bring snickerdoodles next time I bring Isaac over." You hug Logan as he grabs his jacket and his car keys. "Tell your mom I'm praying for her, and I'll bring oatmeal cookies with lots of cinnamon."

"She'll love that." Like that, Logan is gone in a flash. Dean takes Isaac from Garrett's arms with a " Come here, little man. Garrett stocks over to you. You can smell his body wash and his relief at seeing his son. He lowers his voice when he talks to you, even though he knows Isaac is well distracted by Dean, Tuck, and now Beau.

"You're really not gonna stick around?"

"Gare.."

"Come on, he loves getting time with both of us. Unless you do have a date.

"Hey! Nothing PG-13 or over." You warn them as they sit your son down and put on SpongeBob. "No, my only dates lately have been sneaky sessions with my vibrator during nap time. Garrett tried not to choke at the thought. “Anyways, how are you?”

“I’m good. Teams good. Are you going to bring him tomorrow?”

“I can try. Is Phil gonna be there?”

“I don’t know, he’s been hounding me about this new girlfriend, and I know he wants to see his grandkid.”

“You know I don’t like leaving him alone with Phil.”

“I know you don’t. I’d never make you. I’ll see if I can get you seats near me.”

“Okay, just text me when you get to the rink, I’ll see how busy I am.” You start walking toward your son and sit next to him on the couch. He’s deeply invested in jelly fishing. “I’m gonna go back home, bud, you’re gonna be good and spend the night with dad.”

“No, Mom, stay!” The toddler immediately launches up and wraps his arms around your neck. He's completely in your lap with his legs secured on your waist.

"Isaac, honey," you try to pull his arms off you. "I'm sorry he's going through this clinging phase-" you whisper over your shoulder, "I can barely pee without him banging down my door." Garrett smiles at the incredibly domestic scene.

"That's fine, i have an idea." he whispers back taking his son by the wrists "Isaac bud why don't we have a one quick dance party and then we're going to brush our teeth and go to bed." the prospect of a dance party distracts the toddler enough that the captain can remove him from his mothers chest and carry him up the stairs to his bedroom.

"No mom comes too!" Isaac objects as they begin the climb

"It's fine, I'm coming." You can't help it; you have to indulge him. You follow Garrett up the stairs, stealing glances at his wrought buttocks. The house is cleaner than you had imagined, especially since Graham had reported a party last night. Below, you hear SpongeBob switch to Call of Duty, and controllers get thrown between teammates. Upstairs, Garrett's room is spotless and swept of any evidence of his college life. He spins around a few times and drops Isaac on his bed. Garrett pulls his black phone out of his pocket and taps around on it. He walks over to a speaker and moments later Do It Again by Dan Steely starts playing. Isaac shoots up and starts grooving with his dad.

Garrett does his sexy little dance, and you watch from the door frame. He's doing his half salsa-half shimmy, and Isaac is loudly screeching along to the song. "Oh, come on, Mom, you're not going to join us?" You roll your eyes with your arms crossed, but Garrett extends a hand. "Don't be a party pooper." You walk in and take his hand. He pulls you to his chest, and you shuffle along with him. For just a moment, your chests are pressed together, and your eyes are locked. You feel your body teleported back to your prom. How nervous Garrett was to pick you up, how his hands shook when he poured you a punch. Then, when you danced together just this way. It all feels like yesterday, and the traumas of pregnancy and post-partum life all melt away when you're in his arms.

Isaac jumps up at his legs, and he picks him up easily while swaying to the rhythm of the song. eventually, as all good things do, the song ended and with it the moment. "Ok, bud, go brush your teeth." He puts Isaac down and points him toward the bathroom. He trots off, and Garrett assesses you again.

"Do you have PJs for him?"

"Of course," he holds your shoulders and spins you around before starting to roll out the knots in them,

"Gare,"

"Going home, know?" he teases

"Yes," you state with rising contempt despite your quickly sinking shoulders

"You seem pretty stationary for someone who's leaving."

"Just shut up and keep rubbing, hockey boy." Down the hall, Isaac shouts DAD, I GOTTA PEE and Isaac laughs

"Ok, bud, there's a toilet in there, last I looked," he yells back OKAY and Garrett spins you around again before looping his arms around your shoulders. "You're not going to even sleep well when he's not around"

"I know, but I need alone time."

"You can crash on Logan's bed."

"No, he's coming home tonight."

"Sleep on mine, I'll take the couch"

"You know Isaac will sleep on the couch with you, and I know Dean has definitely had a girl on it in the last two weeks"

"Try nights," you drop your forehead into his chest

"This is what I mean, I don't need my son on someone else's bodily fluids."

"I have a King-sized bed," he raises his eyebrows in exasperation, "just crash here, and Isaac will sleep on the bed with us."

"What about my dishes?"

"What about them? They've sat for three days; they can wait another night." You don't even realize he's slowly started swaying you back and forth. "I'll give you some sweats, you can just chill out here, and Isaac will be happy. We can pretend like we're a real family, not two 21-year-olds with a toddler." In that moment, your son comes barreling in with washed hands and a big smile.

"Hey, bud, go grab some pj's from your drawer." Isaac excitedly runs over to his dresser, opens the bottom drawer, retrieves a pair of sweatpants and a shirt with a truck pattern, and returns to the bathroom. Garrett stalks over to his closet, retrieves one of his shirts, and extends it to you. You give him a pouty look, and he rolls his eyes before pulling his own shirt off and handing you the one he was just wearing. He puts on the new shirt and turns around while you pull off your sweater and tank top, then puts on his used one. You unbuckle and peel off your jeans, then fold all your clothes and put them on top of his dresser. You nearly float over to his bed before peeling his covers back and bundling into bed. Isaac joins and jumps up to the mattress, nestling into your side.

Garrett smiles at the scene and drops his phone on the charger before flicking off the light switch. He stalks over to the bed and joins the bundle of his family. Everything. His whole world is right here. Nothing outside of this bed matters to him. No hockey, not his dad, nothing. Here with his kids drooling on his arm and with you snoring in his face, he couldn't feel more composed and content.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [30] - Conflict

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: The north and the south have different approaches to nightmares.

Word Count: 4,4k

Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Days after Bran’s fall, he still wasn’t awake.

And once again, you were seeing just how different the north was to south.

Though none had been as serious as Bran’s case, you were no stranger to falling ill when you were little. And whenever you did fall ill, every single time, the life in the castle would all but stop; your father would always assign someone else to handle his duties so that he could be by your side while the maesters treated you, just like Silas who would refuse to leave the room no matter how much your father insisted.

That hadn’t been the case in Winterfell.

Granted, Lady Stark hadn’t left Bran’s room ever since that morning. She was a mess, anyone could see that, and you couldn’t even decide whether your heart broke more for Bran or her. She didn’t sleep, she barely ate, and though you had tried your hardest to offer words of comfort, you were quite certain she was deaf to all.

However, not everyone had taken the same approach to such tragedy.

“What do you mean, your father is still leaving?”

Robb heaved a sigh, looking over his shoulder to the window to Bran’s room in the keep before he turned to you, drumming his fingertips on the table.

“He’s telling my mother now.”

“But Robb, surely he—” You paused. “He cannot leave. Bran hasn’t woken yet.”

“He gave his word to the king that he would be the Hand.”

If it were any other person in the south, you would’ve assumed it was the ambition that dragged him away from his sick son and already mourning wife, but Lord Stark was the last person to do that. Your brows furrowed while you tried to wrap your head around the idea, staring at him.

“But if Bran…”

“He won’t die,” he cut you off, his voice determined like thought he could force the reality to bend to his words if he said them with enough conviction. “He’ll wake soon, and he’ll be fine.”

You blinked a couple of times, then nodded fervently.

“Oh I know.”

No you didn’t.

Neither did Robb. Neither did anyone.

“I just think—” You licked your lips. “Will your mother not be upset that he’s leaving at such time?”

“He gave his word,” Robb repeated. “It’s a matter of honor and duty. She will understand.”

You wouldn’t.

Gods forbid, if you found yourself in such state; if someday your child was fighting for his life and Robb left to ‘do his duty’?

You were not like Lady Catelyn, honor and duty would have to wait.

Robb raised his hand to wave at Jon who lingered by the entrance of the keep for a moment, then made his way to you.

“Good morrow,” he said. “Robb, father wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Aye.”

“Did you talk to him yet?”

“Not yet,” Jon answered as you looked between them. “Tonight, perhaps.”

Robb bit inside his cheek. “And you’re sure about this?”

“About what?” you asked and Robb ran a hand through his curls.

“Jon is thinking of joining the Night’s Watch.”

Your eyes widened.

“What?” you squealed, your stomach doing a painful flip. “Jon, you must be jesting.”

“It’s a great honor.”

Alright, you had it up there with northerners and their honor, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

“I’ll be back,” Robb said and pressed a kiss on top of your head, then crossed the yard to enter the keep. You gawked at Jon who motioned at the seat as if asking for your permission and you nodded.

“Please,” you said in a rush and he sat down. “You cannot be serious.”

“It’s—”

“A great honor, I heard you the first time,” you finished his sentence, too impatient to wait. “The Wall is far from Winterfell.”

“That’s the idea.”

You pulled back a little when it dawned on you. “Jon…”

“Me being there will put a lot of people’s hearts at ease.”

No actually, it was going to put only one person’s heart at ease.

Lady Stark.

You were guessing Lord Stark’s departure was related to this. He was the one who had a soft spot for Jon, unlike Lady Stark who disliked his presence, and made no attempt to hide it. You couldn’t blame Jon for wanting to be out of her sight, but spending his life at the Wall as a soldier did not sound like the perfect solution to that.

Not to mention, Silas would never forgive you if you let his affair go off to the Wall to spend the rest of his life celibate and frozen.

“Not any of your siblings’ hearts.”

“Sansa and Arya will be in the south.”

“Robb will be here,” you reminded him. “So will Bran, who I’m sure would be devastated if he woke up and couldn’t find you here. And Rickon.”

“They’ll understand,” he said. “With my father in the Capital, Lady Stark will rule in his stead as the Lady of Winterfell—”

“Current,” you corrected him, making him tilt his head like a confused puppy, a gesture you had seen Robb do multiple times.

“Hm?”

“Current Lady of Winterfell. Funny how titles work, because as Robb likes to remind me, I’m to be the future Lady of Winterfell, and I’d very much like to have you here,” you said. “And I’m afraid you’re mistaken. With your father in the Capital, Robb will be ruling in his stead, and he wants you here as well.”

A frown pinched his forehead while he stayed silent, and you reached out to squeeze his forearm in an assuring manner.

“Please,” you said. “Stay, at least for a while. If you still think the same in a year, I swear I’ll embroider you a handkerchief that says the Lord of Night’s Watch for you to take it with you—”

“The Night’s Watch doesn’t have lords,” he stated, although your jest seemed to twitch his lips into a tiny smile. “It’s a brotherhood.”

“Whatever it is that they have over there.” You waved a hand dismissively. “But Jon, come on. You’re the only person I can talk to here, and Robb is going to be so busy. I’d like to have someone who I can trust, gods know I lack those here.”

Jon swallowed thickly, lowering his gaze to his hands.

“My whole family is away,” you reminded him. “And I already see you as one of my brothers. It’d put my heart at ease to have you here, as I know it would Silas’. You are one of the very few people whom he trusts.”

When his eyes snapped up to yours again, the stubborn light in them softened albeit in hesitance. You couldn’t help but smile at the unfamiliar sight, and he blinked a couple of times like he was trying to pull himself together, letting out a breath.

“You’d still have Theon,” he joked, making you grimace.

“Gods, even more reason for you to stay,” you muttered. “Can he not join the Night’s Watch?”

Jon bit back his grin. “I doubt he would.”

“Can we not offer his name?” you asked, and for once that managed to make Jon burst into laughter while you giggled. “No I’m serious—Jon listen, we can write a letter of recommendation, I’m quite good at those!”

On the day of departure, Lady Stark didn’t come out of Bran’s room to see Lord Stark and the girls off, they went there instead. You were almost certain that it was because she was angry at the fact that Lord Stark was leaving for the south, but it wasn’t as if you could ask her, or anyone else. On happier news for you, Robb had told you that Jon decided to wait a little before he joined the Night’s Watch, and though you knew it would’ve made Lady Stark upset if she knew you had made him change his mind, you were glad for it either way, and so was Robb.

Right after breakfast, while the squires readied the horses, you gifted Sansa two of your silk gowns that you had asked the seamstress alter for her. She hugged you tight, telling you all her plans to become the best queen the realm had ever seen, and even though you still weren’t sure about Prince Joffrey, you made sure to share her enthusiasm, promising her that you’d come to see her in King’s Landing before her wedding. You also told her to make friends and stay close to Margaery as much as she could, hoping that she would listen.

Arya, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy to give advice, or presents.

“I have been straining my mind to find out what to gift you,” You plopped down next to her on the stairs while the servants carried the chests into carriages, her direwolf Nymeria curled up at her feet. “And I’m told Jon already gave you a sword?”

Arya grinned at you.

“He did! I named it Needle.”

“A very fitting name.”

“And you don’t have to gift me anything,” she added. “I don’t need silk gowns.”

You hummed.

“Do you have no trust in me at all?” you asked and held out the small package, Arya’s face lighting up. She tore the paper open, then held her breath when she saw the armguard that you embroidered with direwolves. “Consider it my thank you for teaching me how to shoot arrows. Even though I’m not quite as good as you at that just yet.”

She threw herself into your arms, making you let out a laugh and hug her tight.

“Thank you!”

“Of course, my sweet,” you said when she pulled back. “And I have another thing for you.”

You placed the small gold medallion into her palm, making her frown as she lifted it to inspect it.

“What is this?”

“That is a special medallion that Cliff gave all of my brothers and I,” you said and paused for a second, then took a deep breath. “Arya, King’s Landing can be a very dangerous place. And I know how adventurous you are, so you might find yourself in trouble away from the Red Keep. If that happens…” you trailed off. “Find a harbour. Tell a captain there you’re Cliff Greensted’s sister, and show them this. They’ll take you to him, and he’ll bring you to safety. No matter what.”

She shifted her weight. “Will he teach me how to be a pirate if I do that?”

A small burst of laughter escaped you.

“We’ll see,” you said. “Keep this with you all the time, promise?”

“Promise. But think about it, I could be a great pirate.”

“If there’s anyone in the realm who could be anything they want, it’s you,” you told her. “And it’s a good thing you have a lot of time to decide what it is.”

“If I were a pirate like Cliff,” she mused, “I’d go on so many adventures, and come back with many stories.”

“He has great stories, does he not?”

“And I’d bring your babe things from all over the realm too.”

Your head shot up. “Hm?”

“Your and Robb’s I mean,” she said as if that wasn’t clear, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

“We don’t have a babe, my sweet.”

“Sansa thinks you will.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So do your ladies-in-waiting, I heard them talking.”

“Only the gods know those things,” you managed to say. “In the meantime, promise me you’ll use that medallion when you need it, not when being a pirate sounds like a fun idea.”

“Fine, fine…” she mumbled and stole a look at you. “Do you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That I could be what I want to be.”

Well, that was a complicated question; the realm didn’t offer many options to girls. While your brothers got to be whatever they wanted to be, you yourself had always known you’d wed one day and become a lady of a castle. Thankfully your father and Silas protected you from the fate that many unfortunate women faced and made sure you wed someone who was handsome, kind and honorable who turned out to be the love of your life, but at the end of the day, marriage was one of the very limited options you had as a woman.

The other was becoming a septa.

But you weren’t going to tell Arya that. Instead, in the future, when her father—and Robb— decided it was time for her to be betrothed, you were going to make sure to find someone who would be to her liking.

And who knew, really? Arya’s family loved her, and times were changing.

Perhaps she could indeed be something else other than a lady of the castle.

“All my brothers chose their own paths,” you commented. “It can’t be that hard if they did it.”

She frowned in deep thought. “Did you choose yours?”

“Not in the sense my brothers did,” you admitted. “But I’m very lucky either way, and very happy.”

“You’ve always wanted to wed Robb?”

“I’ve known him for two moons, my sweet,” you told her with a laugh. “I didn’t even know he existed until I was informed of our betrothal. I…” You paused for a moment, then reached out to hold her hand. “I think there’s nothing wrong with having different goals. Mine were quite similar to my friends’ when I was your age, yours are not. It doesn’t mean either of us are in the wrong; everyone’s happiness looks different, simple as that.”  

She heaved a deep sigh, then turned your head when Sansa’s voice reached you both from the yard.

“Arya, time to go!”

“Coming!” she called out and you both got up from the stairs, then made your way to the yard with Nymeria following you behind. Sansa and her wolf Lady were already by the carriages, and it seemed that the whole family except Lady Stark and Bran were in the yard to see them off. Arya went directly to Jon and Robb, and you curtsied at the king and the queen before approaching Lord Stark.

“I wish you and the girls a safe trip, Lord Stark.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said and his eyes found Robb over your shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t throw himself into another duel if anyone from the south comes by?”

A laugh climbed your throat.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“And uh—” He cleared his throat. “If Bran…”

“Robb will send you a raven as soon as he wakes up,” you assured him. “And I’ll make sure to help Lady Stark in the meantime. Do not worry about here, Robb and I already talked of what to do in your absence.”

That managed to make him smile, even if it was a little.

“I appreciate that.”

“And I haven’t got the chance to thank you before,” you added. “For agreeing to our union. I recognize the rest of the north hoped for something different, but I love Robb, and I’ll be grateful to you my whole life.”

“I gave him the same advice yesterday, but he stops listening whenever you’re anywhere within his sight,” he said, a fire awakening under your cheeks. “I’m glad you two are happy, but a marriage takes more effort than just depending on love. With all these new responsibilities on both of you, do keep that in mind.”

“I will.”

“Let’s go!” the king’s loud voice rang in the yard, and you rushed to bid the girls goodbye, then went over to Robb’s side. Rickon was clinging to his leg, Shaggydog by Grey Wind and Ghost’s side while Robb nodded at his father in acknowledgment, no trace of worry on his face in such northern manner. Lord Stark mounted on his horse and turned his head, his eyes stopping on Bran’s window. For a moment you wondered whether Lady Stark was looking out the window, but you forced yourself not to check seeing that it would’ve been rather intruding, so you smiled at Rickon instead, whose brows were furrowed in worry. He blinked back the tears when his father turned his horse around and followed the king out of the yard, and Robb ruffled his hair.

“You’re alright,” he told him, more of a statement than a question while Maester Luwin approached Robb to mutter something into his ear.  

“I’ll be right there,” Robb told him, and you tilted your head.

“What is it?”

“There are some petitions I must listen to,” he said and pressed a kiss on your temple. “I’ll find you later. Jon, I need you in the room as well.”

Jon nodded his head and they both walked away from you and Rickon, who lingered in his spot as if he didn’t know what to do. You could see your ladies-in-waiting by the entrance of the keep and Wylla motioned at you as if asking you whether you needed anything, but you shook your head, then crouched down get to Rickon’s eye level.

“Rickon my sweet,” you said, reaching to push his hair out of his eyes, noting once again that just like most of his siblings, he took after his mother in looks. “May I ask something of you and Shaggydog?”

He nodded in silence.

“You’ve met Frost, have you not?”

His hand shooting up to his mouth so that he could bite at his thumb. “Yes.”

“I’ll go to the stables to check on her and give her some treats,” you said. “And then I’ll visit my horse Silk to do the same. Do you mind helping me?”

He looked up at you with wide eyes. “Me?”

“Of course,” you said. “And Shaggydog can wait at the door to protect us, how does that sound?”

He held his breath and nodded fervently, an adorable look of determination settling on his face as if you had just given him the most important duty in the realm.

“He will!” he said. “Shaggy already knows not to hurt Frost. And I’ll help you!”

“Wonderful,” you said and straightened up, then took his small hand into yours. “Now come. We need to get treats from the kitchens, Frost loves carrots, and Silk loves green apples.”

You had spent the entire day with Rickon; at first letting him feed Frost and Silk, and then you and the rest of your ladies-in-waiting made sure to keep an eye on him. Lyra had volunteered to be a monster to spar with him with wooden swords while Jorelle and Wylla pretended to be maidens he had to save until dinner time, the simple game managing to distract him from Bran and his mother, and the rest of the family who had left for the Capital.

With Lady Catelyn nowhere in sight, it had fallen upon you to converse with the other northern guests and be the lady of the castle, despite them being more familiar with Winterfell than you.  The irony wasn’t lost on you or them, but surprisingly no one had commented on it, and you couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because Robb was in charge of the castle and by extension the north now. Robb had sent you word with a servant that he wouldn’t be joining dinner, and he had been busy with some northern lords in his father’s solar—or his solar now, if you had to guess—until after you retired to your and his bedchambers. You took a bath, got into your nightgown and were just in the process of writing a letter to Silas when Robb entered the room and flung himself on the bed facedown. You looked up from your scroll, biting back a smile.

“I take it you’ve had a very peaceful day.”

Robb groaned into the pillow before he reached to open and close his hand as if grasping air without lifting his head from the pillow. You raised your brows.

“Am I supposed to understand—”

“Come here,” he said, raising his head a little so that you could make out what he was saying, and you repressed a grin.

“Am I being commanded?”

“Implored,” he whined. “Please?”  

You took your time crossing the room with deliberately slow steps, and the moment you reached bed Robb sat up so that he could wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you to his lap in haste. A giggle climbed your throat while he buried his face to the deep plunge of your cleavage, his beard scratching at your skin in the most pleasant way.

“They are so vexing,” Robb’s voice came out muffled while you played with his auburn curls, tension washing off his shoulders. “And unreasonable.”

You hummed, running your nails over his scalp and down to the nape of his neck.

“Gods, you smell amazing,” he mumbled into your skin, coaxing a smile out of you.

“If you think flattery will make me forget that I couldn’t see you whole day…” you teased him and he lifted his head to look at you with heavy lids, the sight making your heart skip a happy beat. The rest of what you were going to say long forgotten, you leaned in to brush your lips against his, but you both snapped out of it when someone knocked on the door, making your stomach drop.

Gods, if it was this late at night…

You slipped off his lap and put on your dressing gown, your heart slamming against your ribcage while Robb made his way to the door with a frown on his face, but the moment he opened it, Rickon rushed inside to clutch at his leg.

“I had a nightmare!”

You pressed a hand on your chest and let out a breath, thanking the gods that it wasn’t bad news about Bran.

“Rickon…” Robb said with a tired sigh and crouched down while Rickon sniffled, clutching his direwolf toy to his chest.

“I had a nightmare, father was dead and they put him in the crypts—”

“Father is on his way to King’s Landing,” Robb told him while you crossed the room, and Rickon’s big tearful eyes snapped up to you, your heart clenching at the sight of fear in them. “He’s not in the crypts, and he’s most certainly not dead.”

“But he was!” Rickon insisted as you crouched down as well, reaching out to hold his little hand. “He was, I swear it!”

“It was just a nightmare, that’s all,” Robb said, wiping the tears off Rickon’s chubby cheeks. “Come on now. You’re a northman, and a Stark. We don’t cry.”

You frowned at Robb, then turned to Rickon to give him a smile.

“Nightmares can be very scary,” you told him while he hiccupped. “Would you like to sleep between us tonight, my sweet?”

“Wait, what?” Robb asked incredulously, then shook his head. “No. Rickon, go back to your own room. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Robb, would you mind stepping out with me for a moment?” you asked and straightened up, then grabbed his wrist to lead him out of the room into the hallway where Grey Wind was curled up by the door, but this time he was accompanied by Shaggydog. You stepped away from the door so that Rickon wouldn’t hear you, then whirled around on your heels to glare up at Robb. “Is this your first time hearing what a nightmare is?”

“He’s not sleeping between us just because he had a nightmare,” he said. “He’s a northerner, and a Stark.”

“He’s a child,” you reminded him, pointing back at the room, “and he’s terrified!”

“He won’t be a child forever,” Robb insisted. “And he must learn to face his fears.”

“He can’t expect to be soothed whenever he’s scared.”

“And you think he must learn to face his fears at this moment, when his brother is sick, half of his family have left, and his mother is too worried to leave Bran’s room?”

Robb’s jaw clenched.

“When else should he expect to be soothed?” you asked. “When I was his age, whenever I had a nightmare—”

“We’re not coddling him,” he cut you off. “We don’t do that in the north. I understand that things are different in the south, but winter is coming. He must learn.”

Of course.

You should’ve known. Lord Stark had taken Bran to watch a traitor be executed just last month, and Robb was raised believing that was normal and expected.

It was very clear House Stark raised children much differently than House Greensted.

You gritted your teeth, then looked in the direction of the room over your shoulder before you turned to him, crossing your arms.

“Are you going to be like this when we have our own?”

“Are you?” he asked back with a tense chuckle. “Because we’re not going to be raising little southern lordlings who cling to their mother’s skirts whenever they’re scared.”

Anger shot through you faster than lightning.

“We’re not going to be raising little northern lordlings who’re not even allowed to cry after a nightmare either—you know what?” You held up a hand. “I’m not going to stay here and argue with you when your little brother is terrified.”

“He’s going back to his room—”

“He’s not,” you retorted. “He either sleeps between us tonight, or he can sleep in my bedchambers with me and Frost while you sleep alone in your own.”

He scoffed in disbelief. “My wife sleeps in my bed—”

“Your wife sleeps wherever she wants!” you snapped, glaring up at him. “It’s up to you where you sleep, but I am not sending a terrified child to his own room.”

Your name left his lips in exasperation while you walked away from him and entered the bedchambers to find Rickon already sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs while still clutching to his direwolf toy. You went over to sit next to him as Robb entered the bedchambers and closed the door behind him.

“Would you like a bedtime story, my sweet?” you asked Rickon who sniffled and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, then nodded vigorously and pulled himself up to get comfortable under the covers. Robb threw his head back, then held up his hands to gesture surrender after you shot a curt glare in his direction.

“I said nothing,” he grumbled as you raised your brows at him, then smiled at Rickon.

“Alright then,” you said, your voice soft. “Would you like to hear about the first king of the Reach?”

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ take it off.

pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader summary – a joke with dean’s jersey stops being funny the second garrett sees another name across her back. warnings – jealousy, public argument, possessive-ish behaviour, post-breakup/rebuilding relationship, strong language notes from me – i combined these two asks for this one!! jealous garrett is 🥵 word count – 5.1k

navigation – masterlist |

The thing about Dean Di Laurentis was that he had a very dangerous understanding of comedy. In the way a person became dangerous when they had too much confidence, too little shame, and a girlfriend who was willing to stand beside him in the entryway of the hockey house saying, “No, wait, that’s actually evil,” while laughing so hard she had to grip the bannister.

“It’s not evil,” Dean had said, holding his jersey out to her like a formal offering. 

Allie had made a sound. “Garrett’s going to throw up.”

“Garrett throws up when someone beats him at pool,” Dean said. “This is nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Allie said, delighted, already looking at the jersey. “This is, like, emotional terrorism with shoulder patches.”

And maybe she should have listened to that. Maybe, somewhere between Allie leaning against Dean’s side in the foyer with glitter still on her eyelids from rehearsal and Dean grinning like a man who had discovered a loophole in the laws of decency, she should have thought, carefully and with maturity, that Garrett Graham was already a little too wound up about her lately for this to land as cleanly as a joke.

Because Garrett had been laying it on thick. He had been remembering the light ice and carrying her bag without making a ceremony of it and texting her before games with stupid little things like wish me luck, baby. 

He had been walking her home with his hands in his pockets because he knew better than to reach too much, looking at her mouth like it was taking actual captain-level discipline not to kiss it, and then saying goodnight. He had been careful and funny and patient and so visibly trying not to rush her that every part of her body had begun to feel like a room with the heat turned up too high.

The boys were sick of him. Dean had said this with enormous satisfaction. Logan had threatened to start charging Garrett for every time he looked at his phone and made a face. Tucker, who rarely entered other people’s emotional disasters unless invited, had told Garrett last week, very calmly, that if he sighed one more time into his cereal, someone was going to put him outside.

So, really, if a person thought about it from the correct angle, this was community service.

Which was how she ended up at the hockey house after a game, standing in the front hallway in a black mini skirt that had made Allie go briefly silent before saying, “Oh, he’s going to die,” knee-high boots, and Dean’s jersey half tucked at her waist like she hadn’t just committed a crime against Garrett Graham’s emotional stability. 

The party was already loud enough to make the floor feel alive under her heels, music thudding from the living room, laughter spilling out of the kitchen, the whole house smelling like beer and deodorant and someone’s aggressively cheap cologne. Dean had walked in beside her with Allie tucked under his arm, far too pleased with himself, and every few steps he glanced down at the name across her back and started laughing again.

“You’re so annoying,” she’d told him, but she was laughing too, because at that point it had still felt light. Stupid. Harmless. Dean’s jersey swallowed her a little through the shoulders and sleeves, the hem loose over her skirt, soft from too many washes and carrying the faint smell of laundry detergent and house air and Dean’s cologne, which was objectively ridiculous but not intimate. 

Not to her. Not to Allie, who had watched her tuck the front in and nearly folded in half from laughter. Not to Dean, who loved Garrett like a brother and irritated him like a calling.

Then Garrett saw her. It happened from across the living room, so quickly and so completely that the joke died before she had time to put a drink in her hand.

He was near the kitchen entrance with Logan and Tucker, shower-damp curls, black Briar shirt pulled tight across his chest, a faint flush high on his cheekbones from whatever mix of adrenaline and beer and victory had been buzzing through him before she walked in. 

He was smiling at something Logan was saying, mouth open, head tilted, easy and bright and Garrett enough that her stomach had done the stupid little flip it always did lately when she saw him before he saw her. And then his eyes landed on Dean’s jersey, and the smile disappeared so fast it was almost ugly.

Anger took it’s place. A clean, immediate lock of his jaw, the bottle in his hand lowering an inch, his eyes going dark in a way that made the noise around her seem to lift and thin.

He looked at the sleeves, the half-tucked hem, the name she knew was stretched across her back, and something moved through his face that made her spine straighten before she had decided whether she was in trouble or just watching him become a problem.

“Oh,” Allie said softly beside her, laughter gone. “Shit.”

Dean, because Dean had been dropped as a baby directly into a vat of bad instincts, grinned wider. “Oh, this is beautiful.”

“It’s not,” Allie muttered, eyes tracking Garrett as he set his beer down on the nearest table without looking. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean said, still smiling, though even he had begun to notice the lack of comedy in Garrett’s expression. “It’s funny.”

Garrett crossed the room like nobody else existed. People moved without really understanding they were moving, bodies shifting around the direct line of him, conversation breaking in tiny startled pieces as he came through.

He didn’t shove anyone, didn’t need to. Garrett had that athlete thing where his body made decisions faster than the room could argue with them, all broad shoulders and purpose and the low, dangerous quiet of a man who hadn't come over to be charming.

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she caught the clean, warm smell of him under the party air. His eyes flicked once to Dean beside her and then back to the jersey, and when he spoke, his voice was low enough that it should not have cut through the music the way it did. “Take it off.”

Her eyebrows lifted before her brain fully caught up. “Uh. Hi to you too?”

Garrett didn’t smile. That was the first real warning. Garrett could usually find a smile even when he was pissed, could wrap the sharp thing in something bright enough to make everyone else think the blade wasn’t there. But now his mouth was flat, his eyes fixed on the jersey like if he stared hard enough it might remove itself out of fear. “Take that shit off.”

The back of her neck warmed, like every person within ten feet had suddenly been handed a flashlight and directed toward her skin. “Garrett.”

“I’m not kidding.” His jaw shifted, tight enough that the muscle jumped near his cheek. “Take it off. Now.”

Something in her, the proud little reflexive thing that always reached for a weapon when embarrassment got too close, snapped its head up. “Well, I can’t exactly stand here in my bra, so.”

Dean made the mistake of laughing. A surprised little breath of amusement, barely anything, but Garrett’s eyes cut to him with such force that Dean’s grin stalled halfway across his face.

“Bro,” Dean started, holding up one hand, still playing it loose because Dean would flirt with danger until danger punched him in the throat. “Come on. It’s obviously–”

“I will punch you in the mouth if you keep talking,” Garrett said, so evenly that the threat landed worse than if he’d yelled it. “Shut the fuck up.”

Dean blinked. Allie’s hand tightened around his wrist, her expression going sharp in a way that suggested she was deciding whether to remove her boyfriend from the blast radius or let natural consequences finish raising him.

Logan, over Garrett’s shoulder, had stopped mid-sip near the kitchen doorway, eyes wide with the kind of interest usually reserved for sudden injuries. Tucker stood beside him, quieter, watching Garrett’s face instead of the jersey.

Her stomach had started doing something unpleasant. The joke, the stupid harmless little spark Dean had struck and she had fed because it was easier than admitting Garrett had been making her feel too much lately, was suddenly a live wire in her hands.

“It’s Dean’s,” she said, lower now, trying to drag the whole thing back down into sense. “It’s not some random guy’s jersey. He’s literally standing here with Allie. It’s not that deep.”

Garrett’s eyes came back to her, and there was something worse under the anger now, more exposed. Like the jersey had caught on a place he had been trying to keep covered. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m crazy for having a reaction when you walked into my house wearing another guy’s name across your back.”

The words hit harder than they should have because he said my house and another guy’s name like both things mattered in a way she hadn’t given either of them permission to matter. Her fingers curled once at her side, nails brushing her palm. “You’re acting like I came in wearing an ex’s shirt.”

“You came in wearing Dean’s jersey to piss me off.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, because the worst thing was that Garrett wasn’t wrong. She had done it to get a reaction. She had wanted him to look. She had wanted, maybe, to make him feel one sharp little fraction of the twist she used to feel every time a girl leaned too close to him in public and he acted like the whole thing didn’t matter.

But she hadn’t expected this. She had expected Garrett’s annoyed grin. A muttered really? Maybe a tug at the jersey, a low comment near her ear, Dean cackling in the background until Allie elbowed him. She hadn’t expected Garrett to look at her like she had placed something bruised between them and pressed down.

“It was a joke,” she said, and this time her voice didn’t have as much bite in it.

“Yeah?” Garrett’s laugh was short and humourless, barely making it out of his chest. “Funny.”

Dean shifted beside them, and Garrett’s head turned a fraction, eyes warning. Dean, to his credit or survival, shut his mouth. It lasted exactly three seconds.

“Okay, not to make this worse,” Dean said, which meant he was absolutely about to make it worse, “but technically she does look great in it, so–”

Garrett moved so fast she barely registered it before his shoulder had turned toward Dean and Allie was between them with both hands up, saying, “Nope. Absolutely not. Nobody is getting punched over cotton-poly blend, thank you.”

Dean stepped back, finally smart enough to look like he understood that Garrett wasn’t playing the role he had written for him. “I’m joking, man.”

“I’m not,” Garrett said.

The living room around them had gone quieter in patches. She could feel attention glancing off them from every side. Her skin prickled under the jersey. All at once, she was horribly aware of her skirt riding high on her thighs, of the boots, of Dean’s name on her back, of Garrett’s eyes and everyone else’s curiosity and the old, sickly-familiar feeling of being seen in the wrong way.

That seemed to be what reached Garrett through the jealousy. His gaze moved over her face, catching on whatever her expression had done before she could hide it, and something in him tightened differently.

“Come upstairs,” he said.

Her chin lifted. “Excuse me?”

His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for her and knew better. “Please.”

The please did something irritating to her ribs. Softened one edge when she had been very prepared to keep both hands around her pride. Garrett looked furious still, but he was holding it with visible effort now, forcing himself back from the part of him that wanted to drag her out of Dean’s jersey by sheer will and probably bad language. 

His voice dropped lower. “I have one of mine upstairs. You can change. I won’t– I don’t care. Just–” His eyes flicked down, then up again, jaw working. “Please don’t stand down here in that.”

The anger in her didn’t vanish, it reorganised. Became something more complicated and warmer at the edges, which was deeply inconvenient because she had been doing so well with offended. “You could have led with that.”

Garrett stared at her for half a second like he was seconds away from saying something stupid and knew it. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I know.”

Tucker’s voice came from behind him, calm and mild as a seatbelt clicking into place. “G.”

Garrett didn’t look back, but some of the tension in his shoulders shifted at Tucker’s tone.

She looked at Allie, who was still holding Dean by the wrist like he was a badly trained dog near traffic. Allie gave her a tiny apologetic grimace that said, with devastating clarity, we may have overcooked this.

Dean mouthed, sorry, which was frankly so rare and unsettling that she almost forgave him on principle.

“Fine,” she said, because the room felt too hot and the jersey had started to feel less like a joke and more like evidence she didn’t want to keep wearing. “I’ll change.”

Garrett’s face didn’t relax, but the relief moved through him anyway, quick and badly hidden. He stepped aside enough to let her pass without touching her, then followed her toward the stairs so closely she could feel him at her back without his hand ever landing there. That was Garrett lately. All this heat and restraint. All this wanting with its hands clasped behind its back.

Behind them, Logan whispered, much too loudly, “So we’re not chirping him right now, right?”

Tucker said, “Read the room.”

Dean said, “I did read it. It said homicide.”

Garrett stopped on the first stair and looked back. “Dean.”

Dean pressed his mouth shut with two fingers and nodded solemnly. Allie smacked his arm anyway.

The stairs creaked under them as they went up, the noise from the party getting duller with each step, bass turning into a thud through the walls, laughter blurring into the old wood and plaster. She kept one hand near the hem of the jersey because the skirt really was incredibly short and because she suddenly needed something to do that wasn’t think about Garrett behind her, angry and jealous and careful enough not to touch.

His room was exactly as it had been the last time she had seen it, which was unfair. Bed half-made in the way men considered close enough. Textbooks stacked on the desk beside a roll of hockey tape and an empty water bottle. A hoodie dropped over the chair. The faint smell of detergent, clean sheets, and Garrett living in a space. It hit her with such force that she paused just inside the doorway, breath catching in a small stupid place she hoped he didn’t notice.

He moved past her without comment and opened his closet, shoulders still tight under his black shirt. For a few seconds he shifted hangers with more force than necessary, then pulled out a Briar jersey with Graham across the back and held it out to her. His name looked different in his hands. Familiar in a way that made her stomach dip.

“Here,” he said.

She took it, fingers brushing the fabric. “Thanks.”

Garrett nodded once, then turned his back immediately, facing the desk with his hands braced low on his hips like he needed somewhere to put them or they might do something unwise.

She looked at the line of his shoulders. Still stiff. Still pissed. Still giving her privacy even though his jaw looked like it had been carved out of annoyance.

A laugh almost slipped out of her, but it snagged on something softer before it made it. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

His head tipped slightly, but he didn’t turn around. For a second, the party noise filled the space where his answer should have been, muffled bass under the floorboards, someone downstairs yelling Logan’s name like either Logan had done something amazing or unforgivable.

“Yeah,” Garrett said finally, voice lower. “But only when you want me to.”

The music kept thudding. Someone laughed in the hallway. A door opened somewhere and slammed shut again. But inside her body, something small and protected went very still. The kind of stillness that came before a feeling had a name, before it decided whether it wanted to be relief or ache or some awful third thing that made her fingertips tingle around the fabric of his jersey.

She swallowed, looking down before he could somehow see her face through the back of his own head. “Right.”

Garrett’s shoulders moved once with a breath. He didn’t turn.

So she changed. Pulled Dean’s jersey over her head carefully, the fabric sliding up her ribs, cool air hitting her stomach and the bare line above her skirt. For one strange second she stood there in her bra and mini skirt and boots in Garrett’s bedroom, holding his jersey in both hands, and the whole situation felt so absurdly teenage and stupid and emotionally lethal that she almost laughed again. Instead, she tugged his jersey on.

It fell differently. Longer, for one thing. Softer in a way she had no right to notice. It smelled like clean laundry and the closet and a faint trace of Garrett, enough that her body recognised it before she did, a warm little pull low in her stomach. She tucked the front loosely into her skirt the same way she’d done with Dean’s, then looked down at herself and felt something settle despite her best efforts.

“Okay,” she said. “All good.”

Garrett turned. Whatever he’d been prepared to say didn’t survive the sight of her. She watched it fail in real time, his eyes dropping from her face to the jersey, to the hem tucked into the tiny black skirt, to her bare thighs above the boots, then back up again with an effort so visible it made heat climb her neck.

He exhaled through his nose. “Jesus.”

She folded her arms, mostly because if she didn’t, she might do something with her hands that would embarrass them both. “Better?”

Garrett’s eyes snapped to hers, and there was still anger there, yes, but it had been dragged through something darker and more helpless on the way up. “Don’t.”

Her brows lifted. “I’m asking.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m standing here in your jersey because you almost murdered your best friend over the other one.”

Garrett raised a shoulder. “He deserved it.”

“He’s dating Allie.”

“Congratulations to him.”

“It was a joke.”

Garrett’s mouth tightened again, but this time the anger didn’t flare as sharp. It came out tired around the edges. “I know it was a joke to you.”

She stared at him for a second, then looked away because his room was too small for that kind of honesty. Her gaze caught on the desk, the tape, the textbooks, a pen lying uncapped near the edge like Garrett had abandoned it mid-thought. “Garrett.”

“No, I get it,” he said, though his voice made it very clear he didn’t enjoy getting it. “You and Dean wanted to fuck with me. Fine. Great. Everyone’s hilarious.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “We didn’t think you’d actually be upset.”

He laughed once, without humour. “Yeah, well. I was.”

“I noticed.”

His eyes flashed. “Did you?”

Her head turned back to him. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

Garrett stopped. The anger in his face faltered, and for a second he looked at her like he’d forgotten where the line was and hated himself a little for stepping on it. He dragged one hand through his curls, rough enough to make them worse. “Sorry.”

The apology came fast, real enough that her shoulders loosened by a fraction.

He dropped his hand, looking at her with all that jaw-clenched frustration and something underneath it that made her want to be gentler than she felt. “I know you’re not my girlfriend right now.”

Her throat moved.

Garrett’s gaze flicked down briefly, then back to her face. “I know that. I know I don’t get to tell you what to wear or who to talk to or whose jersey you put on. I know all of that, okay? I’m trying really hard not to fuck this up by acting like I have a claim I haven’t earned back yet.”

The back of her eyes warmed so quickly she had to blink. Once. Hard.

“But you walked in downstairs with his name on you,” Garrett said, quieter now, and the heat in his voice shifted into something rougher. “And I know it’s Dean. I know he’s with Allie. I know he’s a fucking idiot who thinks ruining my night is foreplay for his own relationship. But for about two seconds, all I saw was you looking like that in someone else’s jersey, and I–” He stopped, jaw working around the rest like it was too ugly to hand over cleanly. “I fucking hated it.”

She looked down at the jersey, at Garrett’s name across her, at the place her fingers had started worrying the hem without permission. Her stomach had gone tight, with recognition, maybe. With the awful tenderness of watching someone tell the truth before he could make it charming.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and it came out smaller than she meant it to.

Garrett’s face softened immediately, which was almost unbearable considering he was still pissed off. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad.”

“You kind of were downstairs.”

He grimaced. “Yeah. I know.”

“You came over and started ordering me to take it off like I’d walked in wearing enemy colours.”

“You did.”

“Dean plays for the same team.”

“Not right now.”

The laugh gets out before she could stop it. Small and stupid and a little wet at the edges. Garrett’s mouth twitched too.

He leaned back against the edge of the desk, folding his arms like he needed the extra barrier. His eyes went to the jersey again, and this time the look did something slow and unmistakable to the air between them. “You look better in mine.”

Her skin warmed under the fabric. “Yeah?”

Garrett’s eyes lifted to hers, dark and steady. “Yeah.”

She took one step closer before she’d fully decided to move. Then another, because Garrett didn’t move away. His gaze stayed on her face now, but she could feel every place he wasn’t looking like a touch. 

The boots, the skirt, his name across her chest. The room seemed too warm suddenly, or maybe it was just her, standing there in his jersey after weeks of careful coffee and cheek kisses and all the almosts they kept stepping around like cracks in the pavement.

“I like this one better anyway,” she said.

Garrett’s expression changed. Something quieter, more dangerous because it didn’t try to hide behind smugness. “Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

His arms unfolded slowly. She watched his hand lift, giving her enough time to step back if she wanted to. She didn’t. His fingers came to her jaw, warm and careful, thumb resting near her cheek like he was relearning the permission there. 

The contact made her breath go shallow. Ridiculous, really, considering they had done so much more than this once. But that was before. Before the coffee shop fights and the public invisibility and the break-up and Drunk Shakespeare and light ice and all of this careful, aching reconstruction.

Now, Garrett’s thumb on her cheek felt like something with weight.

His eyes moved over her face, searching the way they’d started to do lately, as if he was trying to read every small shift before he made a mistake. He still looked wound up. She could feel it in the way his fingers held still instead of stroking, in the tightness around his mouth, in the way his gaze kept dipping to her lips and dragging itself back up.

“Please don’t do that again,” he said, and the words were low, almost a request with the bruise left in.

She nodded once. “I won’t.”

Garrett’s thumb moved then, one slow pass along her cheekbone. “I mean it.”

“I know.” She let her hand come up, fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist. “I didn’t realise it would piss you off like that.”

“It wasn’t just pissed.”

She knew that. She could feel the shape of it now. The jealousy, yes, hot and immediate and almost flattering in the stupidest way, but under that something else. Garrett had been spending weeks trying not to overstep, trying not to touch what he had not been given back, trying to earn every small piece of her trust with coffee orders and public boundaries and not kissing her even when his whole face said he wanted to. And she had walked into a party wearing someone else’s claim as a joke.

Her chest tightened. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

Garrett looked at her mouth. Neither of them moved for a second, then both of them did, barely. A tilt. A shift closer. His hand firmed at her jaw, and her fingers tightened around his wrist as her chin lifted. The space between them thinned into something hot and quiet and overdue, the party downstairs dropping away until all she could hear was the muffled bass through the floor and the unsteady little breath Garrett took through his nose.

His lips were so close she could feel the warmth of him.

The door burst open.

“Oh shit,” Logan laughed.

She jerked back so fast her shoulder hit the closet door. Garrett’s hand dropped from her face like it had been burned, his head snapping toward the doorway with murder already written across his features.

Logan stood frozen just inside the room, eyes wide, one hand still on the knob. Dean was half behind him, peering over his shoulder with the doomed fascination of a man who had never once survived his own curiosity.

For one silent, horrific second, nobody moved. Then Dean’s gaze dropped to the jersey she was wearing. Garrett’s jersey. The grin that began spreading across his face was so slow and so pleased and so full of future consequences that she wanted to throw a shoe at him.

“Oh,” Dean said softly. “Okay. So the plan worked.”

Garrett took one step toward them. “I’m going to kill you.”

Logan backed up immediately, both hands raised. “I didn’t know! He said you had beer in here.”

Dean looked offended. “You followed me.”

“You said beer.”

“I said maybe beer.”

“Both of you,” Garrett said, voice flat with the kind of calm that suggested violence had moved from impulse to schedule. “Out.”

Dean leaned slightly around Logan, because apparently the threat of death only improved his posture. “For the record, G, I do think this is a healthier colour palette on her.”

Garrett moved again. Dean yelped and disappeared into the hallway so fast he almost took Logan with him. 

Logan stumbled back, laughing now because Logan had a brain injury in spirit if not in current medical fact, and shouted, “Sorry! Sorry. Great jersey. Very normal situation,” before Garrett slammed the door in their faces.

The second it shut, the room went quiet again. She stood near the closet with her heart still somewhere in her throat, one hand pressed to her hair even though nothing had happened to it, and Garrett stayed facing the door for a second with both hands on his hips, breathing like he was reminding himself that prison would interfere with playoffs.

“I’m seriously gonna kill them,” he said.

She tried not to laugh. Failed a little. “Please don’t. Tucker would have to do paperwork.”

Garrett turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the sound in her voice. “You think this is funny?”

“No.” She pressed her lips together. “A little.”

He stared at her. Then the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, annoyed and helpless and so Garrett that it made her chest ache. “You’re all awful.”

“Me?”

“You started this.”

“Dean started this.”

Garrett’s brows lifted. “You wore it.”

“Under peer pressure.”

“From Dean?”

“He’s very persuasive.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s Allie’s idiot now,” she said, which made Garrett exhale something almost like a laugh, his head tipping back for half a second as if asking the ceiling for patience and being denied.

The heat between them hadn’t disappeared, it had just been shoved sideways by Logan’s face and Dean’s mouth and the knowledge that the entire downstairs would know, within ninety seconds, that she had gone upstairs in Dean’s jersey and would be coming down in Garrett’s. 

She looked down, smoothing the front of the jersey with both hands. “I should go back downstairs.”

Garrett’s attention came back to her immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed, then looked up. “Before they make it weirder.”

“They’re going to make it weird no matter what.”

“True.”

Neither of them moved.

Garrett looked at her, and the almost-kiss sat between them with its hands folded, patient and unfinished. His eyes dipped once to her mouth again, but he didn’t step closer. Didn’t try to grab the moment back from where Logan and Dean had kicked it across the floor. 

He only ran a hand through his hair and let out a low breath, half frustrated, half amused, all of it so careful it made her feel tender in places she hadn’t agreed to soften. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“With…” His eyes flicked to the jersey. “This?”

Her fingers pressed lightly into the fabric at her waist. Graham, tucked against her body. His name, not as a claim, not yet. But as something she had chosen after the joke stopped being funny.

“Yeah,” she said, and this time she let herself smile a little. “I’m okay with this.”

Garrett’s face changed, just slightly. “Good,” he said.

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[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [29] - Unease

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Fears burden the mind.

Word Count: 4,3k

Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Back at the Reach, one of the things both you and Margaery would get reprimanded for was gossip.

It wasn’t rare for either of you to stay up until the hour of the wolf and going over what happened during the day over and over again, focusing on a different person each time. Sometimes it’d be about fashion, or paramours, or the latest scandal, but there was always something.

And now, especially with the king’s visit, you had so much to go over, yet Margaery wasn’t here, and you still didn’t trust anyone in Winterfell.

So you had found a different solution.

“Robb, wake up!”

Robb let out a small groan when you shook him by the chest.

“Wake up,” you insisted. “I have things to tell you.”

“Can it wait?” he mumbled into his pillow, and you shook your head even though he couldn’t see you.

“Do you not find it strange that the king ignores the queen all the time?”

Robb’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted at you, the sight of his messy auburn curls making your chest all warm.

“What time is it?” he rasped out and you shrugged.

“Early. It’s rather rude of him, is it not? He ignored her in front of everyone when they first got here. And then at the feast too.”

“Why are you—”

“And not only did he ignore her, he also humiliated her at the feast, in front of people!” you insisted. “Does he not like her at all, do you think?”

“You woke up at this hour to gossip?”

“We barely talked last night,” you whined, your shoulders dropping in defeat while he smirked.

“We were too busy to talk.”

“But I wanted to talk!” you insisted. “And now that you’re awake—”

“I’m not awake.” He threw his arm around your torso to pull you to his chest, coaxing a giggle out of you as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

“Is it not strange?” you asked. “I mean when they wed, everyone agreed that she was the most—” You shook him, making him groan again. “Robb, I don’t think you’re listening!”

“Gods be good…”

“Has your father said anything about them?”

“No.”

“How come you—” A squeal escaped you when he squeezed your butt still half asleep, but you reached back to grab his wrist. “Not now, focus! Why didn’t you ask?”

“Why would I ask?”

You rolled your eyes.

“I swear I will never understand men,” you grumbled. “How are you not curious? He doesn’t like her, it’s very surprising.”

“Is it?” he asked with a yawn and opened his eyes, then ran a hand over his face as if trying to get rid of the haze of sleep. “Of course he doesn’t like her, she’s not pleasant at all.”

“Maybe not to other people, but she probably was pleasant to him at least at first,” you said. “She must have tried. There is no way she did not.”

“I suppose sometimes it just doesn’t work.”

“Her family is powerful,” you insisted, counting with your fingers, “she’s beautiful, educated, fashionable—”

A chuckle escaped him. “I don’t think the king cares much about fashion.”  

“It helps still,” you commented. “I don’t know, the realm thinks she’s everything a queen is expected to be. And they have three children together, one would assume…”

“Hm?”

“How did he not eventually fall in love with her?”

He folded an arm under his head. “Maybe his love for Aunt Lyanna does not let him love anyone else.”

“It is rather odd, how every man has a different reaction to being left behind,” you muttered, heaving a sigh as you rested your chin on his chest, absentmindedly tracing his muscles. “The king wed and fathered children, but he still loves your aunt. And my father never recovered after my mother. No mistresses or wife, even though everyone kept pressuring him. It makes me wonder what she would think. Or what your aunt would think had she lived.”

If you hadn’t been so lost in your own thoughts, you would’ve noticed the silence falling upon the room, or his body tensing up.

“I guess there’s a reason why so many love ballads are sad,” you mused. “Heartbreak one way or another. That might be the one thing years cannot take away.”

He was so quiet that for half a minute you were convinced he had fallen asleep again. Yet, his deep voice that rumbled in his chest and vibrated underneath your palm didn’t sound sleepy at all when he finally spoke, the stern command almost taking you by surprise.

“You’re not allowed to do that.”

You lifted your head to blink up at him.

“Do what?”

“You’re not allowed to die before me.”   

You couldn’t stop your chortle. “Robb…”

“I’m serious. You cannot.”

“When it comes to longevity, the gods seem to favor men more,” you couldn’t help but point out. “Men die in battle in wartime. Women die in childbirth regardless of war or peace.”

His eyes found yours.

“Is that what you fear?” he asked quietly and you pinched your lips, trying to pick the right words.

“I don’t think fear is the right word for it,” you ended up saying. “I’m no fool, I know what happened to my mother was largely related to the very short time between the twins’ birth and mine.”

Silas and Arys had told you that. Upon hearing your septa talking about how motherhood came with a price and the childbirth was the ultimate sacrifice, Silas had said fuck off to her face, making you burst into laughter even with the fear churning your stomach.

“My sister will not be sacrificed just so that some prick somewhere can have an heir,” Silas had spat. “And she will be educated to minimize the danger. Stop filling her head with nonsense, unless you want my father to release you of your duties.”

Arys had been the one to tell you all about it; how it was of importance that one’s body was given enough time to rest.

“When you wed,” he had told you, “you’ll have many herbs at your disposal. We’re not letting you wed anyone who you might not like, but regardless of how much you might like your future husband, you are putting your own health first. Always. No babe is more important than you, and you’re not making the same mistake mother and father did. You will only have kids when you’re ready, and they will have at least 3 years between them, not like us.”

“We won’t…” Robb started, then paused and shook his head. “I would never put you through that.”

Nor were you going to put yourself through that. You were going to be very careful and take nothing for granted, because you knew how it went for your mother; she’d had such easy childbirths until you, and each time she had bounced back so fast that both she and your father were convinced nothing bad would happen.

So the gods had decided to prove to them otherwise.

“No,” you said in an attempt to sound more confident than you felt, willing yourself not to think about Arrana’s bad wish. “It won’t be like that for me.”

But there was still that danger.

Even if you did everything right, there was still that danger, for you and for every woman in the realm.

However, Robb was never going to hear that from you, not even with a blade to your throat. He wasn’t going to hear that, your own family wasn’t going to hear that, none of the Starks were going to hear that, none of your ladies-in-waiting or your maids were going to hear that.

The only person whom you had shared those concerns with was Margaery, and it was going to stay that way.

“Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” you added, desperate to disperse the gloomy air that felt almost suffocating around you. “Besides, no use worrying about any of that, only the gods know these things. Look at your own mother, she’s very healthy and she’s had five children so far—”

He pulled his brows together, confusion snapping him out of his own thoughts. “So far?”

Of course it worked.

“Well yes.” You shrugged your shoulders. “So far. You never know, they’re both still young—”

From the grimace twisting his handsome face, one would’ve thought you had spoken of something utterly unacceptable.

“Seven hells, don’t say that!”

A burst of laughter escaped you. “Robb, my love, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the fact that you have four other siblings—”

“That happened in the past!”

“Rickon is still little,” you argued. “And your mother and father are in love, anyone could see that. It’s normal!”

“It’s not normal,” he said, still grimacing while he motioned at the door. “He loves her from…from afar.”

“Mm, from up close. Very close, I’d say, because five kids is no duty—”

“From a respectable distance.”

“No to that also.”

He made a noise of disgust. “Can we stop talking about this? They’re too old to have a babe.”

“They’re not too old.”

“Fine, I’m too old to have a sibling,” he said, your laughter bouncing off the walls. “And I refuse to believe they would betray me like that.”

“Oh, such betrayal,” you said in an exaggerated manner, a hand on your chest. “Disaster, if you will.”

“Aye, it would be.”

You rolled your eyes at him while his gaze darted over your face, a frown pinching his forehead again.

“But you’ll be—” He swallowed thickly. “You’ll be fine, when…” 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence, you knew exactly what he was referring to. You turned your bracelet around your wrist, heaving a dramatic sigh.

“How about this?” you said. “You give me your word that you won’t die in war, and I’ll give you my word that nothing will happen to me in childbirth. That’s called diplomacy, if you’re too northern to recognize such concept.”

That managed to make him huff out a chuckle, though the haunted look in his eyes didn’t disappear, not completely. He nodded after a beat, reaching out to cradle your cheek in his palm.

“Very well,” he said. “I give you my word. Do you?”

You lifted yourself a little to brush your lips against his, his hand slipping from your cheek to the side of your neck. His other arm snaked around your waist to press you to his body, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

“I do,” you said, a smile warming your face. “See? Who said the north and the south can’t negotiate?”

All your ladies-in-waiting agreed that the queen had to have grown bitter in time, perhaps because of her husband, perhaps because of her responsibilities, and perhaps because she had fewer admirers now than when she first wed the king. You didn’t know the reason, nor did you say too much out loud, but you were more than aware that she did not look happy at any time, with the exception of when she was talking to her brother.

Well, one of them, at least. Her other brother, Tyrion had arrived in Winterfell nearing the end of last night’s feast, having spent the whole day in a brothel in Wintertown, so if you had to guess, he was going to get along well with Theon.

Robb was busy throughout the afternoon, and so were you. While he went on a hunt with his father and the king, you and some of your ladies-in-waiting were tasked with taking baskets of food and herbs to Wintertown per Lady Stark’s orders. As much as you liked going to Wintertown, you still wondered whether there were no servants left in the castle to do this exact task, but you managed to keep your mouth shut.

She was probably making sure everyone in Wintertown had seen you and talked to you, and this was a good way to make sure of that.

Or perhaps she was trying to keep you out of the queen’s sight after that little exchange of yours the other night, that could’ve been the reason as well.

Alys, Lyra and Wylla had gone into the other street, leaving you with Barbrey and Jorelle. It had taken you a much shorter time to give the baskets to all the houses you were supposed to visit, so now you were waiting for the others while you explored the market, making small talk with vendors as Barbrey and Jorelle trailed after you. This was yet another instance that you couldn’t help but note was different in here, because back in the south, the vendors sold many different types of jewelry seeing that it was popular among noble ladies. In the north, rather than jewelry, women embroidered their gowns with beads and intricate pieces of bronze, copper and ivory.

Perhaps you could use some of those on your cloaks at least.

“…And my cousin will visit Winterfell with her lord husband, and she’ll die when she sees me,” Barbrey chattered. “I doubt she believed me when I wrote to her to tell her I’m a lady-in-waiting. I’m planning to get a new gown and embroider it by the time she visits, she’ll be so jealous!”

You accidentally exchanged glances with Jorelle who looked like she was trying her hardest to keep herself from rolling her eyes at Barbrey.

“Her wedding was two years ago, and she had the audacity to criticize what I wore to it. And let me tell you, her wedding gown wasn’t so impressive either! Her lord husband is of House Flint, and her gown had eyes all over it, it looked so weird.”

You raised your brows. “Her gown had eyes?”

“House Flint’s words are Ever Vigilant,” Jorelle explained, “and their banner has a pair of eyes on it.”

“And it looked like she was wearing the banner itself,” Barbrey added. “Let’s see whose gown is better now. And also, if I may, I’m sure I’ll make a better marriage now that I’m—”

“Barbrey, did you see that vendor over there?” Jorelle cut her off. “I think they have more colorful beads over there, they’d look good on your purple gown.”

“You’re right!” Barbrey gasped. “My lady, may I—?”

“Please go ahead,” you said a bit quicker than intended, but Barbrey was too excited to notice that. She rushed to the stall Jorelle was pointing at, and Jorelle let out a breath.

“There. Some peace and quiet.”

You bit back a smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 You sometimes wondered whether you would’ve been able to get along well with Jorelle if it weren’t for her family and her whole almost betrothal with Robb. She probably held some resentment for you, and you still felt rather threatened by her. Despite that, sometimes she reminded you of Margaery with the calm air around her that made it nearly impossible to see through her, but you cast the thought away from your mind, forcing yourself to look at the beads on the tray.

“These look nice,” you commented as you approached the counter. “Are you good at embroidery, Jorelle?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not my absolute favorite, but yes.”

“What is your absolute favorite?”

“I like riding.”

Right.

Of course she liked riding.

“So do I,” you said, taking a couple of bronze pieces into your palm to inspect them. “Silk is faster than my horses back in the Reach, but I’m getting used to such speed.”

“Your brother gifted her to you, did he not?”

“Yes. Cliff.”

She stole a look at you.

“And you’re close with all your brothers?”

“Mm hm. Well, Silas is the one I’m closest with, and then the twins. Arys and Cliff left home quite early, so I see them very rarely. Mostly on my namedays and such.” You lifted your gaze from the pieces in your hand. “I think you’ve talked to Perceon?”

Jorelle blinked a couple of times, her cheeks betraying her nonchalant demeanor when they turned pink.

“Yes,” she said, making herself busy with the beads. “He was—he is very southern.”

“Dornish, more like.”

 A silence fell upon you and Jorelle nibbled on her lip, her eyes falling on Barbrey before turning to you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You put the bronze pieces back and grabbed a particularly shiny bead. “Of course.”

“Why did you…” she trailed off. “Why did you choose her to be among your ladies-in-waiting? After what Arrana has said?”

That question wasn’t about Barbrey, and you both knew it.

You had to give it to Jorelle, unlike other northerners, she did know how to be subtle. A bitter smile twitched your lips as you put the bead down, then reached for a thin silver chain, pretending to direct your attention on it.

“I’m very southern,” you said, your voice silky. “That’s one of the many cultural differences, I’ve found. Northerners are quite direct about alliances or enmity, but back in the south, it’s more complex than that. We’re taught to keep some people close, precisely because of lack of trust.”

She raised her brows, staring at you as if the remark had taken her by surprise.

“Ah,” she said after a beat, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I see.”

“My lady!” Wylla called out, making you look over your shoulder to see her approach you with Lyra and Alys following her. “We’re finished. Shall we go back?”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.

“Let’s stay a while longer,” you said, linking your arm through hers to lead her to the nearest stall. “I have plans for some of my cloaks, and I am in a desperate need of some beads.”

Much to your displeasure, you couldn’t see Robb for the rest of the day. He had been with his father and the king in the Wolfswood the entire day, and they hadn’t returned to the castle during dinner either, because of the king’s request to have their dinner in the woods like he and Lord Stark used to whenever they went hunting in their youth.

At least that was the explanation Robb mumbled into your ear when he joined you in bed at dawn, waking you up with kisses instead of going to sleep himself. At first you had assumed he would be too tired, especially after having spent the whole night in the woods, but you were soon proven wrong.

There were many things, you had found, that you loved when it came to marital bed. The act itself was pleasurable beyond words, Robb always made sure you enjoyed it every single time, unlike what that lady of the night had told you back in the Reach. You hadn’t even thought it possible before, but it made you fall in love with him even more, your heart so full of him that it sometimes made you worry whether there would be room for anything else. You enjoyed his kisses, his touch, his weight upon you, and how he made you feel before and during, and after.

That was one of your favorite parts as well.

After.

How he held you until your trembling passed, with chaste kisses and the sweetest praises that made your stomach flutter happily. Even now, while you tried to catch your breath with his arm around you that pressed you tight against his chest, you felt half delirious, all thoughts but him shattered to different corners in your mind, impossible to put back together. He pressed a kiss on your damp forehead, his other hand brushing back your hair before he dipped his head and his lips found yours. You couldn’t decide if the fire that colored his cheeks was because of the heat of the room or the chase of pleasure more; a sheen of sweat making him glow under the sunlight spilling through the thin curtains around the bed. His curly auburn hair was a mess in the most handsome way, and the light in his eyes was so soft that you could swear your heart melted when he looked down at you with a fond smile, awakening your own.

You felt tired, and sore, and sticky all over, but most of all; completely and utterly happy.

“What are you thinking about?” you whispered while your fingertips traced his chest up and down, light as a feather.

“How pretty you are,” he said, the northern accent in his deep voice drawing a giddy giggle out of you before you brushed your lips against his.

“Right answer,” you said. “Especially after spending a whole day away from me.”

“It wasn’t by choice,” he grumbled. “I considered sneaking back into the castle like a common thief, more than once.”

The image his words conjured up in your mind was too funny for you to hold back your laughter. “Really?”

“My beautiful wife was in our bed waiting for me, and I was in the woods with a bunch of men.”

“But you were hunting,” you told him. “You love hunting.”

“Lamb, I promise you, there’s nothing I love more than this.” He motioned at your naked body, making you scrunch up your nose in embarrassment. “I was all but taken hostage. Just because the king doesn’t want to go back to his wife doesn’t mean he should assume the rest of us share that sentiment.”

…Was that—?

Was that Robb gossiping?

“Did he say that?”

“No, but he said something else while drunk,” he answered with a grimace, making your jaw drop. “I will not repeat those words to you, but he dislikes her even more than you assume.”

Very well, there was room for improvement there.

Not everyone could be a natural like you and Margaery, you’d teach him how to gossip in time.

“The queen drinks too,” you said. “I noticed it at the feast, and tonight’s dinner as well. Too much wine.”

“Might be the only thing they have in common.”

“Not the only thing, because she doesn’t like him either,” you said. “Have I told you the other night at the feast, she tried to give me advise, and then she said…”

“Hm?”

“She said she hopes we’ll be as happy as her and the king.”

Robb flicked his gaze up for a second with a scoff, the gesture so similar to the way you rolled your eyes whenever you were annoyed.

“She can keep hoping,” he said. “Seven hells, I can’t wait until they all leave.”

“But you don’t think—” You paused. “Do you think it was like that always?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s rather bitter, and all my ladies-in-waiting have many ideas about the reason. The queen had a lot of admirers when she was young, and Lyra has this theory that when one who’s used to compliments grows old…” you trailed off. “I don’t believe time takes away beauty, but I don’t want to be bitter like that when I grow old.”

His fingertips traced shapes on your bare skin. “You won’t.”

“It worried me all day today.”

“It shouldn’t have.”

“But perhaps she wasn’t like that either at first, because—”

“You couldn’t be bitter if you tried, it’s not in you.” The corners of his mouth curled, the glint in his eye making you blink up at him in confusion. “And I would know, I was just in you.”

A gasp left you and you pushed at his shoulder, heat sweeping over your face like a firestorm.

“I’m talking about something of importance!” you whined when he caught your wrist, his laugh echoing in the room. “And you’re making jests—”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he cooed, though that mischievous smile of his betrayed the gentle tone of his voice. “I’m sorry. Come here.”

He pulled you to himself while you pouted at him, your brows knitted together in defiance. He bit back his grin, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the pinch of your frown before he cradled your cheek, his lips finding yours. That familiar warmth dripped down and down, a half sigh hitching in your throat as the kiss deepened, melting away your frustration along with every other thought that was plaguing your mind. Your eyes fluttered open when he nudged your nose with his, then pressed a kiss on the corner of your mouth, coaxing a giggle out of you.

“Jesting aside,” he said, the pleasant rumble of his voice vibrating under your palm resting on his chest. “It shouldn’t have worried you.”

“But what if you—”

“It shouldn’t have worried you, because there will never come a time when I look at you and not forget to breathe.”

Whatever you were going to say disappeared somewhere between your mind and your mouth while you gazed up at him, painfully aware of the lovesick smile on your face.

“And also,” he added, idly playing with your hair. “I meant it when I said you couldn’t if you tried. Your heart is too soft to be anything like her.”

That made your smile falter. You bit inside your cheek in deep thought, and when you spoke, your voice was almost too low to hear in the already quiet room:

“Everyone says life has a way of hardening hearts.”

He ran his knuckles down your spine as if trying to assure you.

“You entrusted me with yours to safekeep,” he murmured. “I will protect it from harm, for as long as I draw breath. Such fears will never come true, I promise.”

Tears rushed to your eyes out of nowhere but you blinked them away fast, desperate to swallow the lump in your throat. You captured his lips with yours, his hand slipping to your jaw to tilt your head, but you were both pulled out of the haze when someone pounded on the door, making you recoil in his arms.

“What?” Robb snapped at whoever it was behind the door. “What is it?”

It took you only a second to understand something was wrong.

 “Robb, it’s—” Jon’s voice cracked mid-sentence before he took a shaky breath. “It’s Bran. He fell from the Broken Tower.”

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [28] - Grudges

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Royal visitors can cause problems.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Explicit language, (canon) comments about weight, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

It wasn’t that you weren’t good at holding grudges.

You were excellent at it, actually. Your very own sister-in-law was the proof of it, you hadn’t been able to get along well with her ever since you were a child.

So it wasn’t that you lacked the ability to hold grudges, it was just that Robb made it very difficult.

Day by day, your resilience was chipped away. You were still angry at him for calling that lady “pleasant” but he kept claiming it was for Jon, and though you hated to admit it, he also had a way of…

Well.

Convincing you and quenching your anger at the same time.

You were trying to choose between two pairs of earrings when Robb walked into your bedchambers, and you had to do a double-take to realize it was not a stranger who barged in, but your husband. You gasped, your hands shooting up to cover your mouth.

“What happened to your beard?!”

“My mother made me shave it,” he grumbled while you gawked at him. “For the king’s arrival.”

You had never seen Robb without a beard; he always had either a stubble or a very short beard, so this was the first time you were seeing him clean-shaven. Though he was handsome as always with his sharp jawline which was even more prominent without a beard, the sight felt rather strange to you, and it took you a couple of seconds to understand the reason. A huff of laughter escaped you, muffled by your hands before you lowered them.

“You look like a Reach knight!”

The way his expression turned from annoyed to complete and utter betrayal could’ve made a simple observer think you had just insulted him. He let out a displeased exhale through his nose, then strode past you to approach your mirror like it could magically grow his beard back if he glared at his reflection hard enough.

“I do not understand why she insists so much,” he mumbled while you tilted your head, watching him in the mirror with your arms crossed. “A northman cannot be without his beard, it’s just not right.” 

You covered your laughter by clearing your throat and plopped down on the bed, a grin curling your lips.

“Recite me a poem,” you demanded, and he turned around to scowl at you.

“I don’t know any.”

“You look like you do,” you said airily. “Can you sing, at least? Play any instruments? Almost every knight in the Reach can.”

“I’m no Reach knight,” he grumbled. “And it’ll grow back.”

“Are you saying that to me or yourself?”

He took another look at his reflection, running a hand over his face.

“I look like a boy.”

“A handsome Reach boy,” you chirped, earning an annoyed glare in return.  

“Don’t.”

You held up your hands in a mock of surrender before you pushed yourself off the bed.

“Well, I must go,” you said. “Lady Stark needed me today, so I’ll leave you and my mirror alone.”

“Wait—” He caught up with you to grab your wrist so that he could pull you closer, drawing a giggle out of you. You playfully slipped your wrist out of his grasp with a gasp, feigning shock.

“I’m very offended by you daring to believe I’d kiss you,” you said with a hand on your chest. “As handsome as you are, I’ll have you know I’m very loyal to my husband.”

“I am your husband!”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“My husband has a beard,” you pointed out, taking a step back. “You appear to be one of the knights who used to follow me around in the ballroom begging for a dance.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true; none of those knights were as handsome as Robb was, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Learn a poem in the meantime,” you told him, walking backwards to the door. “Or grow your beard back. Whichever is faster.”

With that, you walked out of the room and left him there, your laughter echoing in the hallway.

Though you both had very different trainings, it was times like these you could see that Lady Stark was in fact raised in the south.

Being the lady of the castle—especially when the said castle was Winterfell—came with so many responsibilities. Hosting guests was not only duty but also an art, which she pulled off flawlessly, even before the guests were there. The bedchambers, the feast, the entertainment, it was all ready the moment you got the news that the king would be arriving today. There were direwolf banners hanging in and outside the castle, and by the time you and the Starks gathered in the yard, you could already hear the sound of the horses approaching.

You had picked a pearly gray silk gown for the day, to blend in with the rest of the family, with your pelt thrown over your shoulders. Jon wasn’t allowed to stand with the family per Lady Stark’s orders, and it had put Robb in a rather sullen mood that he only snapped out of at the sight of Arya rushing to cross the yard with a helmet on her head. Lord Stark quickly pulled it off of her head and sent her to go stand between Sansa and Bran. You were right beside Robb, your hand in his while he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb almost absentmindedly, making you bite back a smile before you looked over your shoulder to steal a glance at your ladies-in-waiting in the crowd.

You hadn’t met the king or the queen before, and it had been on purpose, thanks to Silas and your father. The king’s many affairs with other women was not unheard of throughout the realm, and two years ago, around the time that title of yours started being thrown around, he and the queen had visited the Reach. A week before that, per Silas’ counsel and your father’s orders, you weren’t allowed to go outside so that when you missed the feast in King’s honor, the whole Reach thought you had been too sick to join any feast the whole week. The reason was simple; neither your father nor Silas wanted to risk the possibility of you catching the king’s interest, seeing that if you did, there would be so little that they could do except send you to Dorne to keep you safe and away from the most powerful man of the realm.

Though many families in the Reach would be delighted at the idea of their daughter catching the king’s eye and elevating their status, your family loved you way too much to put you in a situation where you would be forced to be a mistress.

But thankfully, you were safe now.

Not that the married women were safe in the southern court, especially from the king. However, you were Robb’s wife now, the future Lady of Winterfell, and nobody, not even the king, could risk the wrath of House Stark and the North by crossing a line.

You were probably the safest lady in the whole realm.

You snapped out of your thoughts when the horsemen passed the gates and entered the yard, a young boy that could only be a couple years older than Sansa—the prince, if you had to guess— at the front. Sansa sighed beside you, making Robb turn to her and then frown at the boy who gave Sansa a smirk, and you had to bite back your smile.

Of course Sansa would admire the prince.

The queen’s carriage entered the yard as well, followed by the Kingsguard and the king, whom you only recognized because of the crown. He was a heavy man with a serious look on his face, his eyes darting around the yard as his horse stopped and his squire rushed to help him dismount. Lord Stark bent a knee, the rest of the family and the whole yard following him suit, and it was only when the king motioned at him to rise that he stood up, all of you doing the same.

The king held Lord Stark’s gaze. “You got fat.”

You blinked a couple of times, holding your breath to see what Lord Stark would say, but he only lowered his eyes to the king’s stomach before raising his brows at him, as if returning the statement without so much as a word. The king burst into laughter, making Lord Stark smile as well before he pulled him into a hug.

…Gods, you were never going to understand men’s humor or their idea of friendship.

“Cat!” he greeted Lady Stark with a happy smile, hugging her as well. Sansa was still staring at the prince, and you leaned closer to her so that Robb couldn’t hear your whisper.

“You might want to pretend to be a little more nonchalant, my sweet.”

Sansa gave you an abashed smile while the king and Lord Stark exchanged words.

“Do you think he finds me beautiful?”

“Of course he does,” you whispered back, watching the queen step out of the carriage. She was beautiful, the displeasure on her face wasn’t enough to take away from it, and she looked around the yard before her eyes stopped on you.

“You must be Robb.” The king shook Robb’s hand before his eyes found you. “And the newest member of the family, I assume. The tales of your beauty weren’t lying, my lady.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you accepted the compliment with a well-practiced graceful smile. The queen approached Lord Stark who kissed her hand, but everyone’s attention turned to the king in a second when he spoke:

“Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects.”

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love,” the queen said kindly, and you had to wonder for a second whether everyone else could hear just how forced it sounded or just you. “Surely the dead can wait.”

The king didn’t even spare her a glance.

“Ned,” he said curtly before he walked away, and Lord Stark followed him into the Keep.

…Ah.

The crypt.

Where Lord Stark’s sister who was also the king’s alleged true love laid in her eternal sleep.

The Queen looked like she wanted to argue, but her brother touched her arm as if signaling her to stop talking, and you averted your eyes, making yourself busy with your bracelet.

It was one of the many things you and Margaery were taught when you were little.

If someone above your rank was insulted or ignored in front of you, you never saw it.

Lord Stark and the king spent almost an hour in the crypts while the queen retired to her bedchambers to rest. It seemed that Lord Stark had much to speak with the king, because Robb had come to find you in the yard around an hour before the feast, clearly released from his father’s solar. You quickly dismissed your ladies-in-waiting so that you could speak freely at the far corner of the yard, and to be completely honest, the way you two sat was not appropriate at all; rather than sitting across from one another, you had your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you while he nuzzled to your hair.

It had been rather peaceful, at least until a moment ago.

“A betrothal?” you repeated, craning your neck to look up at him. “Between Sansa and…”

“Prince Joffrey,” Robb finished your sentence for you, letting out a displeased noise as you pulled out of his arms to turn to see him better. “Don’t—”

“And Lord Stark said yes?”

“Sansa would cry for the rest of her life if he did not,” Robb said with a grimace. “She is in love already, and they haven’t even talked to each other yet. My mother talked my father into it, he will take the girls with him when he goes to King’s Landing to be the Hand.”

A frown pinched your forehead while Robb’s fingers drew shapes in your palm absentmindedly.

“Robb, I don’t think…”

Gods, how were you going to approach this?

You had to walk a very thin line here. You couldn’t risk anyone think you were trying to sabotage Sansa’s future, especially when the root of your worries was her future. Sansa was the sweetest girl ever, and you were certain she would grow up to be the loveliest lady and queen, but it was because of that you weren’t as excited as Lady Stark about this union.

Sansa was too sweet and naive for King’s Landing.

Not to mention, you knew nearly nothing about Prince Joffrey. There was a reason why it had taken Silas so much time to make a decision about your husband, marriage couldn’t be decided in a haste. Granted the king and Lord Stark were friends, but it didn’t mean their children would form a good union, and the moment they wed, Sansa would be bound to Prince Joffrey forever, regardless of how strong her house was.

And this was yet another time you were thankful to the gods for Silas and the rest of your family.

Those rules didn’t apply to you.

“What is it?” Robb asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You opened your mouth and closed it again, then took a deep breath.

“Sansa is very young still.”

“Oh they won’t wed right away,” Robb said. “They’ll wait until my father deems it the right time. Sansa will just be in King’s Landing in the meantime, with Arya.”

You stole a look at the rest of the yard, deep in thought.

“Well, perhaps…” You paused. “Perhaps if they won’t wed right away, Sansa could stay here a bit longer so that I can teach her things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to survive in the southern court.”

He huffed a laugh. “Oh come on.”

“Robb, I’m serious.”

“My father will be with her, she’ll be fine.”

“Your father cannot save her from everything,” you said. “Nor can he help her in everything, especially when it comes to the south. It’s a different world than here, and please don’t get me wrong, but Sansa still believes in fairytales. She must learn know how to—”

You stopped yourself and Robb pulled his brows together.

“How to what?”

Manipulate people.

It was beyond you how no one had given her the necessary training, especially if the southern court had been a possibility all along. You were rather sheltered and very much aware of it, but when it came to southern court games and wielding power, you and Margaery were given a very strict education.

Although you falling in love was unexpected, your husband falling in love with you had always been the plan.

“The southern court is an incredibly dangerous place,” you told him. “I fear she might not be ready for it just yet. If she stays here a little longer—”

“Nothing bad will happen to her in the southern court,” he assured you. “My father and the king are close as brothers.”

“Which is wonderful, but think about it,” you insisted. “Silas didn’t make our union happen because of my father and yours. He made it, because he approved you above all that. Does your father know Prince Joffrey? Do you? Beyond the fact that he will sit the Iron Throne once his father passes?”

“He can’t do anything to Sansa,” Robb brushed you off. “Sansa is a Stark.”

You caught the sight of the queen’s brother Jaime Lannister and Prince Joffrey stepping out of the keep into the yard, then huffed out.

“Can you please ask your father either way?” you asked. “If she can stay here for a moon or two?”

His eyes softened as he cupped your cheek gently, then dipped his head to give you the sweetest kiss, making your heart skip a beat. A giggle escaped you, your cheeks growing hot.

“We’re in public!”

“And we’re on our honeymoon,” he defended himself while you dragged your fingertip over the snarling wolf clasps on his doublet before you buried your face to his chest where his laugh rumbled deep. He pressed a kiss on top of your head, his hand still cradling your cheek.

“But you’ll ask?” you insisted and he heaved a sigh.

“I’ll ask,” he said. “Happy?”

“Very,” you chirped as you lifted your head to beam at him. “Thank you!”

He held your gaze in his, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“I’ll never be able to tell you no, will I?” he asked and you scrunched up your nose, then grinned.

“Probably not,” you said airily. “But then again, why would you want to?”

That drew a chuckle out of him, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe himself.

“Aye,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. “Why would I want to indeed?”

Thanks to Lady Stark, the feast was going perfectly.

And everyone was having fun. Sansa was over the moon with the news, and she had made you promise that you would lend her one of your gowns for her to wear in the King’s Landing, so that she could impress the ladies there. Though you wanted to say it would take more than a gown, you decided not to say anything until Robb asked Lord Stark, so instead you assured her that you would help her with choosing the perfect gown and jewelry so that she would make an impeccable first impression on the southern court. Just until a moment ago that you and Robb were sitting at one of the tables among your peers, drinking and laughing, but when Arya threw food at Sansa’s dress, Lady Stark had shot him a look that clearly said to step in, so that the royal family wouldn’t notice the chaos that was about to erupt. Robb heaved a sigh and kissed your temple before he made his way to Arya and lifted her out of her seat, telling her it was time for bed. Arya pouted, but one gentle push from Robb made her start walking, and they both left the Great Hall so that he could tuck her in.

Watching Robb take care of his siblings never failed to make your chest all warm. He knew how to handle all of them, adapting a softer approach with Sansa and Bran while roughhousing Arya and Rickon who loved it. For a moment, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering off, so you found yourself imagining what a great father he would make one day, to your own kids.

You knew it was too early, you still couldn’t tell whether you were ready, especially with your mother’s fate, yet the simple image of him with a baby made you smile.

You wondered whether they would take after him or you. Or perhaps they would be the perfect combination of you both—

“My lady.” Alys’ voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Lady Stark and the queen ask for you, I think.”

You turned your head to take a look at the High Table where only Lady Stark and the queen sat—everyone else had scattered around the Great Hall. Lady Stark nodded at you and you pushed your chair back.

“Thank you Alys,” you whispered and stood up, then made your way to the High Table. You swept a well-trained curtsy, then straightened up and smiled at them, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Your Grace,” you said. “Lady Stark.”

“Hello my dear.”

“I wanted to see the infamous Blossom of the Reach,” the queen said, making your smile wider. “Everyone sings your praises, even miles away.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

“Including your best friend,” she said, making your head whip up. “Margaery Tyrell. She is dazzling the capital as we speak.”

And judging by the tone of her voice, she was not happy about that.

You would’ve been lying if you said it was unexpected. Margaery never feared anyone, no matter their social standing.

“As she dazzled the Reach,” you said. “I’m sure she flourishes in King’s Landing.”

“Do remind me, who had more admirers in the Reach? You or her?”

The attempt was nearly pitiful, and you had to hold back your laughter. This wasn’t new, the way people would try to sow discord between you and Margaery so that you would turn against each other and become rivals for—

For what?

Attention?

The queen wasn’t the first, nor would she be the last to find out your and Margaery’s bond ran too deep to get harmed by such comments. Margaery could be crowned the most beautiful girl in the realm tomorrow—in your opinion, she deserved it—, and you would be cheering her at the top of your lungs. She could be the queen, and you would be the first to bow down; there was no possibility of you turning bitter for her accomplishments and happiness, you loved her way too much for that.

And it was mutual too. Margaery never held contempt for you even when that title started being thrown around in the Reach, instead she fueled it, so that even more people would talk about it.

There was nothing anyone could do to make you and Margaery turn into enemies, no matter how much they tried.

“Oh, one stops counting after a while,” you said with a laugh. “It was rather hard for us to keep track of it, but the last I remember she had poems and I had songs. You would have to ask her though.”

“The Reach does love its songs, does it not?” the queen asked. “Just as singers love their embellishments, I’d say.”

…Ah.

Well, alright then.

There were only three people in this hall who could tell what that veiled comment really meant; the queen herself, Lady Stark, and you, seeing that you were all quite fluent in the language of the southern court and how it held insults behind compliments, or simple statements.

Like that one.

“Such admirers can affect a lady in a certain way,” the queen added. “Like excess pride. You and your friend should be careful.”

So now not only were your looks exaggerated, but you and Margaery were both arrogant.

Very well.

If she came all this way to your home to insult you and your best friend, you could play the game.

“Both my best friend and I look up to you as the pinnacle of humility, we grew up with the tales of your beauty, Your Grace,” you said airily. “Back when we were little girls, that was all we would hear from King’s Landing. To this day, I still remember how many admirers you used to have back in the day. I’m sure you’re delighted that his majesty relieved you of them, even after so many years!”

The tiny twitch of her lips reminded you of a snarl, but it was gone as fast as it came.

“Well,” she said after a beat. “I hope that you and your husband will be as happy as me and the king have been.”

The same king who had spent the majority of the feast drunk with another woman in his lap.

Sure.

She could keep hoping, Robb would never do that to you.

“I’m sure it would please you, Your Grace,” you said with a bright smile and she held your gaze in hers, then gave you a curt nod, signaling you could leave. You dropped a curtsy straight down with your head held high, then walked away from the High Table to join your ladies-in-waiting.

“The queen does not look happy,” Lyra murmured and Jorelle raised her brows, stealing a look at the table.

“Would you be?” she asked. “If my husband humiliated me like that…”

“I will never wed.”

“You might have to,” Barbrey said and Lyra shrugged her shoulders.

“Not really. I’m not the heir, I have no such responsibilities. One of my sisters has two children, she was never wed.”

“Bear Island has different customs than the rest of the North,” Wylla said. “If my father tried to wed me to someone like the king, I’d run away.”

“She’s still the queen,” Barbrey said and Wylla shook her head.

“I’m too northern to accept such disrespect.”

“By the way, have any of you talked to her ladies-in-waiting?”

“I’ve been avoiding them like the plague.”

“Well, I’ve talked to them, and…”

The rest of Alys’ words disappeared into a buzz when the familiar feeling hit you, making you frown slightly. Your theory was that it was instinct for ladies of the court, you just learned to notice when men were looking at you even without a glance in their direction. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was a way to survive, but you knew when they were watching.

And sure enough, when you turned your head, you found Robb, Lord Stark, the king and Prince Joffrey all looking in your direction. Robb did not look happy for some reason, he had his jaw clenched while he listened to the king, and Prince Joffrey scowled before his eyes found mother and his frown deepened, as if she had done something of great offense. You let a lovesick smile light up your face as you waved at Robb without sparing the rest of them a glance, and that seemed to snap him out of his mood, that familiar soft light appearing in his gaze as he lifted his cup a little to greet you. The king said something and smacked him on the back, letting out a boisterous laugh and you lingered there for a moment, then rolled your shoulders back.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” you said and walked away from your ladies to approach the men on the other side of the hall.

“Your Graces, my lord,” you greeted the king, the prince and Lord Stark, then beamed at Robb and turned to them. “May I please borrow my lord husband for a minute if you don’t mind?”

The king laughed.

“Oh he stopped listening to us the moment you looked his way,” he said. “But that’s how a newlywed must be, huh Robb? Your father used to have the same look on his face whenever you looked at your mother.”

“Robert, come on now,” Lord Stark said and the king grinned.

“You did,” he insisted while you laced your fingers through Robb’s. “The same tortured look, even when I dragged you to hunts! That’s how you know it’s a good match.”

 “Speaking of matches, I’ve heard the happy news,” you told Prince Joffrey with a smile. “I’m certain you and our beautiful Sansa will be as happy as we are, Your Grace.”

Prince Joffrey didn’t seem delighted at all, his eyes finding his mother again before forcing himself to smile.

 “Thank you, my lady.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, the whole North is talking of that duel! The future Warden of the North is a great fighter just like his father!”

A shadow crossed Prince Joffrey’s face but you paid him no mind.

“I’m glad the whole North is entertained, but I was rather terrified,” you said, leaning sideways to Robb’s arm and he pressed a kiss on top of your head as if trying to soothe you at the mention of the duel.

“You had nothing to worry about, I told you that,” Robb muttered into your hair and you shot him a mischievous look.

“The love of my life putting himself in danger scares me, that’s no crime,” you said, earning a chuckle from the king. “Is it, Your Grace?”

“Not at all,” the king said. “Even the strongest men are defeated by love more than sword, my boy. Great warrior or not, you might want to keep that in mind.”  

“I will, Your Grace.”

“If you’ll excuse us please.”

Robb followed you as you both crossed the Great Hall, still holding your hand tight until you stopped and turned to him. He seemed rather tense, frowning at Prince Joffrey who had just approached the queen to mutter something to her ear with a sour expression. You raised your brows, watching Robb grab a cup from one of the servants before he took a sip, still glaring at the High Table.

“Is everything alright?”

His attention snapped back to you. “Mm hm.”

“Are you certain?” you asked. “What were you all talking about before I approached?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Though you wanted to insist, you decided otherwise. “Have you had the chance to talk to your father yet?”

“About?”

“About Sansa!” you whispered. “If she can stay a bit longer.”

“I mentioned it, he said no.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “And I’ve told you, he’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll be safe.”

You pursed your lips before taking a deep breath.

“Alright, then I’ll send a letter to Margaery first thing in the morning,” you said. “She’s in King’s Landing, she should be able to help Sansa.”

He tilted his head.

“Margaery Tyrell?”

“Do you know another Margaery?”

“Your best friend whom you’re angry at?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m angry at her or not,” you said. “At the end of the day, I trust her with my life. We both know what’s important and when to put aside disagreements, she’s never going to deny me if I ask her for a favor.”

“Even after what happened?”

“Don’t underestimate her loyalty to me, or mine to her,” you said. “Trust me. If I need help, she’ll help.”

“I’ll never understand you two,” he muttered. “And I still think you’re worrying for nothing and Sansa will be fine, but very well. Write to her if it’ll put your heart at ease.”

“Hey.” Jon’s voice reached you and you looked over your shoulder to find him smiling. The sight seemed to have taken Robb by surprise as much as you, because he scoffed a laugh.

“Did Theon get maimed?” he asked. “How come you’re smiling?”

“Uncle Benjen is here.”

Robb’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Wait, Benjen Stark does exist?” you asked, looking between him and Jon, and Robb nodded fervently.

“Our uncle. He’s the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.”

You were guessing that was an impressive title in the North, from the proud tone of Robb’s voice.

“Come,” Robb added. “I must introduce you to him, he’s amazing.”

“I mean to be honest, I doubt introductions are needed,” you pointed out, drawing chuckles out of both brothers. “I feel like I know him already.”

“Yeah, maybe—” Robb paused. “Maybe don’t mention the…”

“Name issue?” you asked and exchanged glances with Jon who all but read your mind, because you both shook your heads at the same time.

“No way.”

“Aye, he’s gonna hear it. If not from her, then from me.”

“Great,” Robb grumbled as you all started walking. “It was worth the try. And just so you both know, I do not like this alliance.”

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [28] - Grudges

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Royal visitors can cause problems.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Explicit language, (canon) comments about weight, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

It wasn’t that you weren’t good at holding grudges.

You were excellent at it, actually. Your very own sister-in-law was the proof of it, you hadn’t been able to get along well with her ever since you were a child.

So, it wasn’t that you lacked the ability to hold grudges, it was just that Robb made it very difficult.

Day by day, your resilience was chipped away. You were still angry at him for calling that lady “pleasant” but he kept claiming it was for Jon, and though you hated to admit it, he also had a way of…

Well.

Convincing you and quenching your anger at the same time.

You were trying to choose between two pairs of earrings when Robb walked into your bedchambers, and you had to do a double-take to realize it was not a stranger who barged in, but your husband. You gasped, your hands shooting up to cover your mouth.

“What happened to your beard?!”

“My mother made me shave it,” he grumbled while you gawked at him. “For the king’s arrival.”

You had never seen Robb without a beard; he always had either a stubble or a very short beard, so this was the first time you were seeing him clean-shaven. Though he was handsome as always with his sharp jawline which was even more prominent without a beard, the sight felt rather strange to you, and it took you a couple of seconds to understand the reason. A huff of laughter escaped you, muffled by your hands before you lowered them.

“You look like a Reach knight!”

The way his expression turned from annoyed to complete and utter betrayal could’ve made a simple observer think you had just insulted him. He let out a displeased exhale through his nose, then strode past you to approach your mirror like it could magically grow his beard back if he glared at his reflection hard enough.

“I do not understand why she insists so much,” he mumbled while you tilted your head, watching him in the mirror with your arms crossed. “A northman cannot be without his beard, it’s just not right.” 

You covered your laughter by clearing your throat and plopped down on the bed, a grin curling your lips.

“Recite me a poem,” you demanded, and he turned around to scowl at you.

“I don’t know any.”

“You look like you do,” you said airily. “Can you sing, at least? Play any instruments? Almost every knight in the Reach can.”

“I’m no Reach knight,” he grumbled. “And it’ll grow back.”

“Are you saying that to me or yourself?”

He took another look at his reflection, running a hand over his face.

“I look like a boy.”

“A handsome Reach boy,” you chirped, earning an annoyed glare in return.  

“Don’t.”

You held up your hands in a mock of surrender before you pushed yourself off the bed.

“Well, I must go,” you said. “Lady Stark needed me today, so I’ll leave you and my mirror alone.”

“Wait—” He caught up with you to grab your wrist so that he could pull you closer, drawing a giggle out of you. You playfully slipped your wrist out of his grasp with a gasp, feigning shock.

“I’m very offended by you daring to believe I’d kiss you,” you said with a hand on your chest. “As handsome as you are, I’ll have you know I’m very loyal to my husband.”

“I am your husband!”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“My husband has a beard,” you pointed out, taking a step back. “You appear to be one of the knights who used to follow me around in the ballroom begging for a dance.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true; none of those knights were as handsome as Robb was, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Learn a poem in the meantime,” you told him, walking backwards to the door. “Or grow your beard back. Whichever is faster.”

With that, you walked out of the room and left him there, your laughter echoing in the hallway.

Though you both had very different trainings, it was times like these you could see that Lady Stark was in fact raised in the south.

Being the lady of the castle—especially when the said castle was Winterfell—came with so many responsibilities. Hosting guests was not only duty but also an art, which she pulled off flawlessly, even before the guests were there. The bedchambers, the feast, the entertainment, it was all ready the moment you got the news that the king would be arriving today. There were direwolf banners hanging in and outside the castle, and by the time you and the Starks gathered in the yard, you could already hear the sound of the horses approaching.

You had picked a pearly gray silk gown for the day, to blend in with the rest of the family, with your pelt thrown over your shoulders. Jon wasn’t allowed to stand with the family per Lady Stark’s orders, and it had put Robb in a rather sullen mood that he only snapped out of at the sight of Arya rushing to cross the yard with a helmet on her head. Lord Stark quickly pulled it off of her head and sent her to go stand between Sansa and Bran. You were right beside Robb, your hand in his while he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb almost absentmindedly, making you bite back a smile before you looked over your shoulder to steal a glance at your ladies-in-waiting in the crowd.

You hadn’t met the king or the queen before, and it had been on purpose, thanks to Silas and your father. The king’s many affairs with other women was not unheard of throughout the realm, and two years ago, around the time that title of yours started being thrown around, he and the queen had visited the Reach. A week before that, per Silas’ counsel and your father’s orders, you weren’t allowed to go outside so that when you missed the feast in King’s honor, the whole Reach thought you had been too sick to join any feast the whole week. The reason was simple; neither your father nor Silas wanted to risk the possibility of you catching the king’s interest, seeing that if you did, there would be so little that they could do except send you to Dorne to keep you safe and away from the most powerful man of the realm.

Though many families in the Reach would be delighted at the idea of their daughter catching the king’s eye and elevating their status, your family loved you way too much to put you in a situation where you would be forced to be a mistress.

But thankfully, you were safe now.

Not that the married women were safe in the southern court, especially from the king. However, you were Robb’s wife now, the future Lady of Winterfell, and nobody, not even the king, could risk the wrath of House Stark and the North by crossing a line.

You were probably the safest lady in the whole realm.

You snapped out of your thoughts when the horsemen passed the gates and entered the yard, a young boy that could only be a couple years older than Sansa—the prince, if you had to guess— at the front. Sansa sighed beside you, making Robb turn to her and then frown at the boy who gave Sansa a smirk, and you had to bite back your smile.

Of course Sansa would admire the prince.

The queen’s carriage entered the yard as well, followed by the Kingsguard and the king, whom you only recognized because of the crown. He was a heavy man with a serious look on his face, his eyes darting around the yard as his horse stopped and his squire rushed to help him dismount. Lord Stark bent a knee, the rest of the family and the whole yard following him suit, and it was only when the king motioned at him to rise that he stood up, all of you doing the same.

The king held Lord Stark’s gaze. “You got fat.”

You blinked a couple of times, holding your breath to see what Lord Stark would say, but he only lowered his eyes to the king’s stomach before raising his brows at him, as if returning the statement without so much as a word. The king burst into laughter, making Lord Stark smile as well before he pulled him into a hug.

…Gods, you were never going to understand men’s humor or their idea of friendship.

“Cat!” he greeted Lady Stark with a happy smile, hugging her as well. Sansa was still staring at the prince, and you leaned closer to her so that Robb couldn’t hear your whisper.

“You might want to pretend to be a little more nonchalant, my sweet.”

Sansa gave you an abashed smile while the king and Lord Stark exchanged words.

“Do you think he finds me beautiful?”

“Of course he does,” you whispered back, watching the queen step out of the carriage. She was beautiful, the displeasure on her face wasn’t enough to take away from it, and she looked around the yard before her eyes stopped on you.

“You must be Robb.” The king shook Robb’s hand before his eyes found you. “And the newest member of the family, I assume. The tales of your beauty weren’t lying, my lady.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you accepted the compliment with a well-practiced graceful smile. The queen approached Lord Stark who kissed her hand, but everyone’s attention turned to the king in a second when he spoke:

“Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects.”

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love,” the queen said kindly, and you had to wonder for a second whether everyone else could hear just how forced it sounded or just you. “Surely the dead can wait.”

The king didn’t even spare her a glance.

“Ned,” he said curtly before he walked away, and Lord Stark followed him into the Keep.

…Ah.

The crypt.

Where Lord Stark’s sister who was also the king’s alleged true love laid in her eternal sleep.

The Queen looked like she wanted to argue, but her brother touched her arm as if signaling her to stop talking, and you averted your eyes, making yourself busy with your bracelet.

It was one of the many things you and Margaery were taught when you were little.

If someone above your rank was insulted or ignored in front of you, you never saw it.

Lord Stark and the king spent almost an hour in the crypts while the queen retired to her bedchambers to rest. It seemed that Lord Stark had much to speak with the king, because Robb had come to find you in the yard around an hour before the feast, clearly released from his father’s solar. You quickly dismissed your ladies-in-waiting so that you could speak freely at the far corner of the yard, and to be completely honest, the way you two sat was not appropriate at all; rather than sitting across from one another, you had your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you while he nuzzled to your hair.

It had been rather peaceful, at least until a moment ago.

“A betrothal?” you repeated, craning your neck to look up at him. “Between Sansa and…”

“Prince Joffrey,” Robb finished your sentence for you, letting out a displeased noise as you pulled out of his arms to turn to see him better. “Don’t—”

“And Lord Stark said yes?”

“Sansa would cry for the rest of her life if he did not,” Robb said with a grimace. “She is in love already, and they haven’t even talked to each other yet. My mother talked my father into it, he will take the girls with him when he goes to King’s Landing to be the Hand.”

A frown pinched your forehead while Robb’s fingers drew shapes in your palm absentmindedly.

“Robb, I don’t think…”

Gods, how were you going to approach this?

You had to walk a very thin line here. You couldn’t risk anyone think you were trying to sabotage Sansa’s future, especially when the root of your worries was her future. Sansa was the sweetest girl ever, and you were certain she would grow up to be the loveliest lady and queen, but it was because of that you weren’t as excited as Lady Stark about this union.

Sansa was too sweet and naive for King’s Landing.

Not to mention, you knew nearly nothing about Prince Joffrey. There was a reason why it had taken Silas so much time to make a decision about your husband, marriage couldn’t be decided in a haste. Granted the king and Lord Stark were friends, but it didn’t mean their children would form a good union, and the moment they wed, Sansa would be bound to Prince Joffrey forever, regardless of how strong her house was.

And this was yet another time you were thankful to the gods for Silas and the rest of your family.

Those rules didn’t apply to you.

“What is it?” Robb asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You opened your mouth and closed it again, then took a deep breath.

“Sansa is very young still.”

“Oh they won’t wed right away,” Robb said. “They’ll wait until my father deems it the right time. Sansa will just be in King’s Landing in the meantime, with Arya.”

You stole a look at the rest of the yard, deep in thought.

“Well, perhaps…” You paused. “Perhaps if they won’t wed right away, Sansa could stay here a bit longer so that I can teach her things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to survive in the southern court.”

He huffed a laugh. “Oh come on.”

“Robb, I’m serious.”

“My father will be with her, she’ll be fine.”

“Your father cannot save her from everything,” you said. “Nor can he help her in everything, especially when it comes to the south. It’s a different world than here, and please don’t get me wrong, but Sansa still believes in fairytales. She must learn know how to—”

You stopped yourself and Robb pulled his brows together.

“How to what?”

Manipulate people.

It was beyond you how no one had given her the necessary training, especially if the southern court had been a possibility all along. You were rather sheltered and very much aware of it, but when it came to southern court games and wielding power, you and Margaery were given a very strict education.

Although you falling in love was unexpected, your husband falling in love with you had always been the plan.

“The southern court is an incredibly dangerous place,” you told him. “I fear she might not be ready for it just yet. If she stays here a little longer—”

“Nothing bad will happen to her in the southern court,” he assured you. “My father and the king are close as brothers.”

“Which is wonderful, but think about it,” you insisted. “Silas didn’t make our union happen because of my father and yours. He made it, because he approved you above all that. Does your father know Prince Joffrey? Do you? Beyond the fact that he will sit the Iron Throne once his father passes?”

“He can’t do anything to Sansa,” Robb brushed you off. “Sansa is a Stark.”

You caught the sight of the queen’s brother Jaime Lannister and Prince Joffrey stepping out of the keep into the yard, then huffed out.

“Can you please ask your father either way?” you asked. “If she can stay here for a moon or two?”

His eyes softened as he cupped your cheek gently, then dipped his head to give you the sweetest kiss, making your heart skip a beat. A giggle escaped you, your cheeks growing hot.

“We’re in public!”

“And we’re on our honeymoon,” he defended himself while you dragged your fingertip over the snarling wolf clasps on his doublet before you buried your face to his chest where his laugh rumbled deep. He pressed a kiss on top of your head, his hand still cradling your cheek.

“But you’ll ask?” you insisted and he heaved a sigh.

“I’ll ask,” he said. “Happy?”

“Very,” you chirped as you lifted your head to beam at him. “Thank you!”

He held your gaze in his, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“I’ll never be able to tell you no, will I?” he asked and you scrunched up your nose, then grinned.

“Probably not,” you said airily. “But then again, why would you want to?”

That drew a chuckle out of him, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe himself.

“Aye,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. “Why would I want to indeed?”

Thanks to Lady Stark, the feast was going perfectly.

And everyone was having fun. Sansa was over the moon with the news, and she had made you promise that you would lend her one of your gowns for her to wear in the King’s Landing, so that she could impress the ladies there. Though you wanted to say it would take more than a gown, you decided not to say anything until Robb asked Lord Stark, so instead you assured her that you would help her with choosing the perfect gown and jewelry so that she would make an impeccable first impression on the southern court. Just until a moment ago that you and Robb were sitting at one of the tables among your peers, drinking and laughing, but when Arya threw food at Sansa’s dress, Lady Stark had shot him a look that clearly said to step in, so that the royal family wouldn’t notice the chaos that was about to erupt. Robb heaved a sigh and kissed your temple before he made his way to Arya and lifted her out of her seat, telling her it was time for bed. Arya pouted, but one gentle push from Robb made her start walking, and they both left the Great Hall so that he could tuck her in.

Watching Robb take care of his siblings never failed to make your chest all warm. He knew how to handle all of them, adapting a softer approach with Sansa and Bran while roughhousing Arya and Rickon who loved it. For a moment, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering off, so you found yourself imagining what a great father he would make one day, to your own kids.

You knew it was too early, you still couldn’t tell whether you were ready, especially with your mother’s fate, yet the simple image of him with a baby made you smile.

You wondered whether they would take after him or you. Or perhaps they would be the perfect combination of you both—

“My lady.” Alys’ voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Lady Stark and the queen ask for you, I think.”

You turned your head to take a look at the High Table where only Lady Stark and the queen sat—everyone else had scattered around the Great Hall. Lady Stark nodded at you and you pushed your chair back.

“Thank you Alys,” you whispered and stood up, then made your way to the High Table. You swept a well-trained curtsy, then straightened up and smiled at them, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Your Grace,” you said. “Lady Stark.”

“Hello my dear.”

“I wanted to see the infamous Blossom of the Reach,” the queen said, making your smile wider. “Everyone sings your praises, even miles away.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

“Including your best friend,” she said, making your head whip up. “Margaery Tyrell. She is dazzling the capital as we speak.”

And judging by the tone of her voice, she was not happy about that.

You would’ve been lying if you said it was unexpected. Margaery never feared anyone, no matter their social standing.

“As she dazzled the Reach,” you said. “I’m sure she flourishes in King’s Landing.”

“Do remind me, who had more admirers in the Reach? You or her?”

The attempt was nearly pitiful, and you had to hold back your laughter. This wasn’t new, the way people would try to sow discord between you and Margaery so that you would turn against each other and become rivals for—

For what?

Attention?

The queen wasn’t the first, nor would she be the last to find out your and Margaery’s bond ran too deep to get harmed by such comments. Margaery could be crowned the most beautiful girl in the realm tomorrow—in your opinion, she deserved it—, and you would be cheering her at the top of your lungs. She could be the queen, and you would be the first to bow down; there was no possibility of you turning bitter for her accomplishments and happiness, you loved her way too much for that.

And it was mutual too. Margaery never held contempt for you even when that title started being thrown around in the Reach, instead she fueled it, so that even more people would talk about it.

There was nothing anyone could do to make you and Margaery turn into enemies, no matter how much they tried.

“Oh, one stops counting after a while,” you said with a laugh. “It was rather hard for us to keep track of it, but the last I remember she had poems and I had songs. You would have to ask her though.”

“The Reach does love its songs, does it not?” the queen asked. “Just as singers love their embellishments, I’d say.”

…Ah.

Well, alright then.

There were only three people in this hall who could tell what that veiled comment really meant; the queen herself, Lady Stark, and you, seeing that you were all quite fluent in the language of the southern court and how it held insults behind compliments, or simple statements.

Like that one.

“Such admirers can affect a lady in a certain way,” the queen added. “Like excess pride. You and your friend should be careful.”

So now not only were your looks exaggerated, but you and Margaery were both arrogant.

Very well.

If she came all this way to your home to insult you and your best friend, you could play the game.

“Both my best friend and I look up to you as the pinnacle of humility, we grew up with the tales of your beauty, Your Grace,” you said airily. “Back when we were little girls, that was all we would hear from King’s Landing. To this day, I still remember how many admirers you used to have back in the day. I’m sure you’re delighted that his majesty relieved you of them, even after so many years!”

The tiny twitch of her lips reminded you of a snarl, but it was gone as fast as it came.

“Well,” she said after a beat. “I hope that you and your husband will be as happy as me and the king have been.”

The same king who had spent the majority of the feast drunk with another woman in his lap.

Sure.

She could keep hoping, Robb would never do that to you.

“I’m sure it would please you, Your Grace,” you said with a bright smile and she held your gaze in hers, then gave you a curt nod, signaling you could leave. You dropped a curtsy straight down with your head held high, then walked away from the High Table to join your ladies-in-waiting.

“The queen does not look happy,” Lyra murmured and Jorelle raised her brows, stealing a look at the table.

“Would you be?” she asked. “If my husband humiliated me like that…”

“I will never wed.”

“You might have to,” Barbrey said and Lyra shrugged her shoulders.

“Not really. I’m not the heir, I have no such responsibilities. One of my sisters has two children, she was never wed.”

“Bear Island has different customs than the rest of the North,” Wylla said. “If my father tried to wed me to someone like the king, I’d run away.”

“She’s still the queen,” Barbrey said and Wylla shook her head.

“I’m too northern to accept such disrespect.”

“By the way, have any of you talked to her ladies-in-waiting?”

“I’ve been avoiding them like the plague.”

“Well, I’ve talked to them, and…”

The rest of Alys’ words disappeared into a buzz when the familiar feeling hit you, making you frown slightly. Your theory was that it was instinct for ladies of the court, you just learned to notice when men were looking at you even without a glance in their direction. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was a way to survive, but you knew when they were watching.

And sure enough, when you turned your head, you found Robb, Lord Stark, the king and Prince Joffrey all looking in your direction. Robb did not look happy for some reason, he had his jaw clenched while he listened to the king, and Prince Joffrey scowled before his eyes found mother and his frown deepened, as if she had done something of great offense. You let a lovesick smile light up your face as you waved at Robb without sparing the rest of them a glance, and that seemed to snap him out of his mood, that familiar soft light appearing in his gaze as he lifted his cup a little to greet you. The king said something and smacked him on the back, letting out a boisterous laugh and you lingered there for a moment, then rolled your shoulders back.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” you said and walked away from your ladies to approach the men on the other side of the hall.

“Your Graces, my lord,” you greeted the king, the prince and Lord Stark, then beamed at Robb and turned to them. “May I please borrow my lord husband for a minute if you don’t mind?”

The king laughed.

“Oh he stopped listening to us the moment you looked his way,” he said. “But that’s how a newlywed must be, huh Robb? Your father used to have the same look on his face whenever you looked at your mother.”

“Robert, come on now,” Lord Stark said and the king grinned.

“You did,” he insisted while you laced your fingers through Robb’s. “The same tortured look, even when I dragged you to hunts! That’s how you know it’s a good match.”

 “Speaking of matches, I’ve heard the happy news,” you told Prince Joffrey with a smile. “I’m certain you and our beautiful Sansa will be as happy as we are, Your Grace.”

Prince Joffrey didn’t seem delighted at all, his eyes finding his mother again before forcing himself to smile.

 “Thank you, my lady.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, the whole North is talking of that duel! The future Warden of the North is a great fighter just like his father!”

A shadow crossed Prince Joffrey’s face but you paid him no mind.

“I’m glad the whole North is entertained, but I was rather terrified,” you said, leaning sideways to Robb’s arm and he pressed a kiss on top of your head as if trying to soothe you at the mention of the duel.

“You had nothing to worry about, I told you that,” Robb muttered into your hair and you shot him a mischievous look.

“The love of my life putting himself in danger scares me, that’s no crime,” you said, earning a chuckle from the king. “Is it, Your Grace?”

“Not at all,” the king said. “Even the strongest men are defeated by love more than sword, my boy. Great warrior or not, you might want to keep that in mind.”  

“I will, Your Grace.”

“If you’ll excuse us please.”

Robb followed you as you both crossed the Great Hall, still holding your hand tight until you stopped and turned to him. He seemed rather tense, frowning at Prince Joffrey who had just approached the queen to mutter something to her ear with a sour expression. You raised your brows, watching Robb grab a cup from one of the servants before he took a sip, still glaring at the High Table.

“Is everything alright?”

His attention snapped back to you. “Mm hm.”

“Are you certain?” you asked. “What were you all talking about before I approached?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Though you wanted to insist, you decided otherwise. “Have you had the chance to talk to your father yet?”

“About?”

“About Sansa!” you whispered. “If she can stay a bit longer.”

“I mentioned it, he said no.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “And I’ve told you, he’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll be safe.”

You pursed your lips before taking a deep breath.

“Alright, then I’ll send a letter to Margaery first thing in the morning,” you said. “She’s in King’s Landing, she should be able to help Sansa.”

He tilted his head.

“Margaery Tyrell?”

“Do you know another Margaery?”

“Your best friend whom you’re angry at?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m angry at her or not,” you said. “At the end of the day, I trust her with my life. We both know what’s important and when to put aside disagreements, she’s never going to deny me if I ask her for a favor.”

“Even after what happened?”

“Don’t underestimate her loyalty to me, or mine to her,” you said. “Trust me. If I need help, she’ll help.”

“I’ll never understand you two,” he muttered. “And I still think you’re worrying for nothing and Sansa will be fine, but very well. Write to her if it’ll put your heart at ease.”

“Hey.” Jon’s voice reached you and you looked over your shoulder to find him smiling. The sight seemed to have taken Robb by surprise as much as you, because he scoffed a laugh.

“Did Theon get maimed?” he asked. “How come you’re smiling?”

“Uncle Benjen is here.”

Robb’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Wait, Benjen Stark does exist?” you asked, looking between him and Jon, and Robb nodded fervently.

“Our uncle. He’s the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.”

You were guessing that was an impressive title in the North, from the proud tone of Robb’s voice.

“Come,” Robb added. “I must introduce you to him, he’s amazing.”

“I mean to be honest, I doubt introductions are needed,” you pointed out, drawing chuckles out of both brothers. “I feel like I know him already.”

“Yeah, maybe—” Robb paused. “Maybe don’t mention the…”

“Name issue?” you asked and exchanged glances with Jon who all but read your mind, because you both shook your heads at the same time.

“No way.”

“Aye, he’s gonna hear it. If not from her, then from me.”

“Great,” Robb grumbled as you all started walking. “It was worth the try. And just so you both know, I do not like this alliance.”

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [27] - Jealousy

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Rumors can cause jealousy.

Word Count: 4,7k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Back in the Reach, when Lady Olenna hired that lady of the night to tutor you and Margaery on marital acts and what husbands liked, she had assured both of you that unlike what everyone around you kept telling you, your name, your family’s wealth, any heirs you’d have with your future husband; none of that was a guarantee that he would fall in love with you.

According to her, it was all about how mesmerizing you would be, and your marital bed was the key. That night, while you and Margaery laid in the bed trying to silence your giggles so as not to wake Loras again and get a scolding, you had both agreed that it was exaggeration; surely it couldn’t have been the case for everyone.

But judging by Robb’s reaction after what you had done last night, you were beginning to believe that lady.

“My maid will be here any moment!” you said as you pushed him gently, making him walk backward to the door. “I must get ready for breakfast—we already overslept!”

He grabbed your wrist and in a blink, you had your back against the wall, a giggle escaping you.

“Robb!”

“Dismiss her when she comes.”

“And what of my ladies-in-waiting?”

He grinned at you. “Dismiss them too.”

“That would be rude!”

“Fine, I’ll dismiss all of them—”

“You’ll do no such thing!” you exclaimed, the look of shock on your face coaxing a chuckle out of him as he cupped your face in his palm, your heart skipping a happy beat.

Gods, he looked irresistible.

He had put on his breeches, but his white linen shirt was half open, letting you peek at his chiseled chest. His curly hair was tousled thanks to last night’s—and this morning’s—activities, and there was a mischievous light gleaming in his eyes as he looked at you, tracing the line of your bottom lip.

You frowned, willing yourself to focus.

“I don’t suppose anyone has told you this,” you said, sticking your nose in the air, “but a lady needs her own time to get ready to be seen in public.”

“A lady or my lady?” 

A smile curled your lips before you could stop it, and you pointed in the direction of the door, making him whine.

“I’ve been away from you for a week!”

You shrugged your shoulders, feigning nonchalance as if you weren’t currently battling yourself not to drag him back to bed. “That was of your own making.”

“Just a moment!”

“That, my sweet wife, is a cruel lie,” he murmured, leaning to brush his lips against yours. A pleasant sigh left you, the familiar warmth blooming in your lower stomach, your mind going blank once again as it always did whenever Robb kissed you. Your body moved at its own accord; you threw your arms over his broad shoulders so that you could pull him closer, ready to lose yourself in his arms but a knock on the door snapped you out of it and made you pull back. Robb blindly chased your lips as you pressed a hand on his chest to push him back again, turning your head.

You went under Robb’s arm to get away from him, whirling on your heels before you stepped back, clasping your hands behind you with a grin. He raised his brows like he was warning you.

“Do not—” he started, but before he could finish his sentence, you had already swung the door open to beam at your maid. She was a sweet girl, only a couple years younger than you. Just like the other northerners you had met, she wasn’t very fond of sharing too much, nor did she jump at the opportunity to gossip unlike what you were used to back in the Reach, but you were certain you were going to be friends soon enough.

“Good morrow Kyra!” you chirped. “My lord husband was just leaving, you may come in.”

Kyra stepped in and curtsied.

“M’lord. M’lady.”

“And I shall see you, my wife,” he said, kissing your temple as he walked past you and left the room. You turned to Kyra, looking down to pretend to fix the silky skirt of your nightgown.

Your grin widened at the look of utter betrayal on Robb’s face. “I shall see you at breakfast, my husband.”

“Kyra, would you mind telling the maids to draw me a bath?” you asked. “And I’d really appreciate it if you could help me take off my necklace, thank you.”

With the King and his court arriving next week, Lady Stark was busy beyond words. She had to foresee anything and everything about their visit, and while you had been following her like her shadow to learn and help out if needed, you also had your own duties.

While the preparations were being made for the feasts upon the King’s arrival, Wintertown could not be expected to put everything on hold, especially with the arrival of autumn. Thus, you and your ladies were tasked with preparing certain supplies for the smallfolk. The baskets mostly consisted of blankets and food, and while back in the south your father had certain people responsible for overseeing such help, in the north, it fell upon Lady Stark—and per her request, you.

You would’ve been lying if you said it didn’t surprise you, but you figured it was just one of the many differences between the south and the north.

Everyone did something here, regardless of who they were.

Your ladies-in-waiting were already in the granary, and you had every intention to go join them when you stepped out into the yard after having a short conversation with Lady Stark, but you stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Theon sparring with Jon while Bran watched them and Robb sat beside him, no doubt having just finished sparring with either of them. You could feel your heart skip a happy beat as you stole a look in the direction of the granary, but the urge to be with Robb—fleeting as it would be, for mere minutes—overcame your hesitation. You made your way to him, a smile twitching his lips the moment you entered his sight and sat beside him.

“Hello,” you said. “I figured I could take some fresh air before I went inside, I hope you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly while Bran waved at you, still quite shy. You gave him a warm smile, both your and his attention turning to Jon when he blocked Theon’s strike with his sword, pushing him hard enough to make him stumble back.

“But will it happen?” Bran insisted while you rested your head on Robb’s shoulder and he pressed his lips on top of your head, sneaking an arm around your waist to subtly pull you closer. Jon rolled his eyes.

“Of course not, Bran.”

“You never know,” Theon sang and Bran huffed.

“Even if father says so?”

“Father won’t say so.”

“He said so to Robb.”

“He asked me,” Robb corrected him, “it’s not the same thing.”

“What are we talking about?” you asked and Bran turned to you with a scowl on his face.

“Jon getting wed.”

“I’m not getting wed.”

“Silas said he was the one who approved Robb,” Bran said. “And if Robb had to approve your future lady…”

Robb let out a scoff. “I don’t think that falls on me.”

“There’s usually more things to consider than your older brother approving someone,” you pointed out. “Silas saying that isn’t the whole truth.”

“But Jon, would you have to wed Ser Tallhart’s daughter if father said so?”

You bit back a laugh at the exasperation on Jon’s face. While you didn’t know the details of how he and Silas separated, it was quite obvious that Jon’s attention wouldn’t belong to anyone else for a long time, judging by how sulky he had been since your brother left. As much as you wanted him to share his feelings with you, you figured he didn’t want you or anyone else to know, so you had to keep your silence despite seeing his sadness.

Perhaps you could imply you would keep his secret, but you would have to earn his trust for that.

“Ser Tallhart’s daughter?” you asked, making Theon let out a laugh.

“I doubt that’ll happen, Bran.”

“But!” Bran insisted. “But listen. Silas approved Robb, right? And you already said, about Ser Tallhart’s daughter, that Robb approved.”

Robb made a face. “I didn’t say I approved.”

“But Theon said that you called her pleasant and said southern girls and northern girls are different,” Bran said, making your head shoot up from Robb’s shoulder. “You approved, and Jon doesn’t have a southern betrothed, and...”

The look of panic that settled on all three men would’ve been funny if it weren’t for the fury crashing down on you. Theon and Jon stopped sparring as if someone had just barked an order at them, and Robb’s eyes widened as he stared at Bran at a loss for words. Bran seemed oblivious to their reactions, ranting about how Jon couldn’t wed because that’d mean he’d see him less like Robb, while you tried your hardest to keep your expression calm, considering you were in public.

Ser Tallhart’s daughter, was it?

“…Ah,” you said and arched a brow at Robb, an overly sweet smile curling your lips. “Is that what Robb said?”

One simple observer would’ve thought Robb was being accused of treason with the way he shook his head vigorously.

“That’s not what I—Bran, you make it sound very different than what actually took place.”

“But Theon and Jon were saying—”

“I said nothing.”

“I’m not involved in this conversation.” Theon and Jon spoke at the same time, desperate to absolve themselves of any crime but Robb wasn’t so lucky and by the looks of it, he knew it.

“I just said for—for Jon, she looked pleasant.” He waved a hand in Jon’s direction without even sparing him a glance while you tilted your head, still smiling. “For Jon only. I wasn’t even—”

“My lady?” Alys’ voice reached you, making you look over your shoulder. “Maester Luwin says we may start if you’re ready.”

“Of course,” you said as if your stomach wasn’t churning, the familiar ache whenever you were nervous back in its full strength. You got up from the bench to follow Alys, leaving Robb dumbfounded but he snapped out of it before you could reach the granary and caught up with you.

“Wait—”

“I cannot,” you said airily without a glance at him, “I have things to do.”

“That sounded wrong, back there.” He stepped in front of you to block your path, making you narrow your eyes. “I didn’t call her—I did call her pleasant, but only because I was trying to encourage Jon. He’s been sulkier than usual, and Theon thinks it’s because he didn’t like any southern girls at our wedding.”

“And one look at Theon makes you think of wisdom?”

“No,” he admitted after a beat. “Not really. But what else could be the reason?”

Your brother was the reason, but it wasn’t like you could tell Robb that. Besides, that wasn’t the point, you were not going to stand here and get into an argument where the whole yard could see, you were way too trained for that. Jealousy was not mesmerizing, most of the time it held the opposite effect. Lady Olenna used to say that the more a lady looked bothered, the more her influence slipped away. Grasping too tightly would signal to the court that you were insecure, and insecurity was unbecoming of a lady. 

Which meant that even though it took every ounce of control in you, you couldn’t appear angry.

“I don’t find anyone more pleasant than you,” Robb added, almost breathless. “My lady, surely you must know that.”

You could swear the words you were not supposed to say were clawing at your throat, but you took a deep breath and forced yourself to smile.

“Alright.”

Robb pulled back slightly, his eyes darting over your face.

“…Alright?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice holding no trace of grudge unlike your heart. “And if you’ll excuse me, I must be going now.”

“But—” He stopped you, holding your arm before you could turn around. “But we’re alright?”

 As much as you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, that also would appear very unladylike, so you nodded your head instead.

“Of course,” you chirped. “How selfless of you to assess and compare ladies for Jon, I’m certain he’s grateful.”

“See, that comment right there doesn’t assure me that we’re alright—”

“And though I’d love to hear about the differences between southern and northern ladies, I really must be going now,” you cut him off, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Have a good day, my lord.” 

With that, you walked away from him, anger still pulsing in your temples.

Who even was Ser Tallhart’s daughter? No one had told you anything about her.

There was no wonder your ladies-in-waiting would know about her, seeing that they had likely crossed paths at a wedding or a feast. If you were back home, you could’ve asked your friends, but here in Winterfell you had to be more careful than that.

Any wrong question could lead to many speculations.

Not to mention, you still didn’t trust them. Alys, Wylla and Lyra seemed rather sweet, but when it came to Jorelle and Barbrey, you were still very cautious. Barbrey was going to have to work hard to prove her loyalty to you, and Jorelle…

Well.

You weren’t certain that you could ever lower your guard with her.

It wasn’t even about her at this point, it was more about her family. You knew very well that at any given moment, her family would push her forward if they knew they could undermine you, Lady Cerwyn’s condescending manners were a proof of it. Not only that, the whole North would support them, as they were already fond of Jorelle and her family.

Your family, however, were outsiders to the north, and no matter how much help they would send when the winter came, northerners didn’t trust or like outsiders.

You were pulled away from your thoughts when Wylla spoke.

“That’s a very beautiful necklace.”

Your head snapped up, and you willed a lovesick smile on your face despite the storm in your head.

“Aw thank you,” you said, dipping the spoon into the salt bag to pour some of it into the small container before you walked to place it in a basket. “Robb kindly brought me a gift from Torrhen’s Square.”

Alys and Barbrey exchanged smirks while Lyra and Jorelle folded the blankets to put into the rest of the empty baskets.

“Do you know…” you trailed off, nibbling on your lip. “Have any of you been to Torrhen’s Square before?”

Jorelle lifted her head for only a moment before she returned her attention to the blankets, clearly deciding against whatever she was going to say. Alys nodded her head.

“I have, once.”

“I don’t think I’ve met House Tallhart,” you mused. “I’ve heard high praises though.”

“Did Gilliane come to the wedding?” Lyra asked and you turned your head.

“Gilliane?”

“Their oldest daughter, my lady,” Wylla said. “And no, she didn’t.”

“I think only Erena came,” Alys said. “I’m certain I caught a glimpse of her—her younger sister.”

“I’ve met too many people to count at the wedding, I’m afraid,” you said. “Perhaps I met them and don’t remember it.”

“Erena is very sweet, Gilliane however…”

“Lyra,” Alys warned her and she held up her hands.

“I said nothing.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, now I must know.”

Barbrey grinned. “Gilliane is very emotional.”

“It’s no crime against the king to be emotional!” Alys insisted while Lyra made a face.

“It should be.”

Jorelle bit back her smile.

“Gilliane gets affected by anything and everything,” she told you. “A bit of a crier.”

“And she falls in love with someone different at every Harvest Feast,” Wylla added and fixed her hair in an exaggerated manner. “And if anyone would like to ask me why she didn’t come to the wedding, I have the answer.”

“How?”

“One of her brothers holds affections for me, and he’s a gossip.”

Alys’ jaw dropped. “Which brother?”

“Benton.” Wylla reached out to grab an apple to take a bite, coaxing a laugh out of you while Lyra narrowed her eyes.

“Have you started living in Wintertown and we don’t know about it?”

“It’s just one apple!”

“Don’t let Maester Luwin see you,” Jorelle said and Wylla shrugged her shoulders.

“I am famished, would he rather if I fainted?”

“That is a very sound logic I admit,” you teased them and Wylla gestured at you.

“See?”

“But in return, we hear why she didn’t come to the wedding,” you added, plopping down on the nearest chair and cracking your neck with a grimace. “Sounds interesting.”

“Alright, so…” Wylla jumped to sit on the table. “Benton says she was heartbroken.”

“That’s no news, she gets heartbroken whenever someone looks at her wrong.”

“Jo!”

“Am I lying?”

“No wonder she and I can’t get along well, she has too many feelings for my taste,” Lyra mused and Alys pressed her fist on her lips in an attempt to hide her smile. Barbrey leaned in.

“Who was she heartbroken over?”

“And that’s what is so interesting about it,” Wylla said and turned to you. “Don’t misunderstand this, because I would know if there was anything between them, but…”

You pulled back, your mouth half agape. “Robb?”

The whole room erupted into chaos.

“Wylla!”

“Have they even spoken to each other before?”

“I have never ever seen them exchange words in any wedding or feast.”

“Yeah, Benton says the same. She was admiring him from afar, pushed her father to make an offer of betrothal, but…”

Well, if that was the pleasant girl, at least now you knew she was no real threat to your position or your heart.

“A lot of fathers made—” Barbrey started but Alys elbowed her, stealing a look at Jorelle whose calm face was impossible to read as usual. Lyra shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll say it if you won’t. Everyone’s fathers made proposals.”

“Lyra, don’t say that!”

“What, like she doesn’t know?”

“I do know,” you assured them. “And I don’t mind at all. If Robb held a grudge over everyone who made a proposal to wed me, our marriage would be cold until we’re old and gray. That’s simply how such arrangements work, it makes sense that families made proposals, I could never hold grudges over that.”

At least that was what Lady Olenna would want you to say.

Untroubled and amused.

That’s what you had to appear when it came to possible former betrothals; untroubled and amused.

Even though what you felt was the complete opposite of that.

“And I don’t want any of you to guard your tongues around me,” you added in a haste, as if you yourself hadn’t been trained to guard your tongue around people since you could speak. “Not when it’s just us, at least.”

No one back in the south would believe or entertain such thought. In fact, if you and Margaery were ever told what you had just said, you both would’ve taken it as an insult to be seen so naïve, but this was the north.

And you could not seem resentful or insecure.

“Now,” you said and grabbed an apple to bite it as well. “Tell me more about this person. I have been suffering from lack of gossip ever since I came here, and I’d like to catch up.”

By dinner time, you had learned everything there was to learn about House Tallhart and their daughters, and thankfully, nothing seemed alarming.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t angry at Robb.

And although Lady Olenna would’ve advised you otherwise, you were going to make sure he knew exactly how you felt.

Lord Stark had made it much easier, albeit not on purpose. He had kept Robb with him the whole day for meetings and petitions, and you had managed to excuse yourself to your own bedchambers right after dinner before he could come back. A week away from home must have meant Lord Stark had much to catch up on, because it was nearly midnight by the time you heard Robb’s heavy gait pass your door. You raised your brows, keeping your attention on your book in your lap when the door to his bedchambers opened, then closed after a couple of complete silence. His footsteps approached your door before he opened it and peeked his head in.

“What are you doing here?”

You flipped the page without pulling your gaze off the book. “Reading.”

“Here?”

“Seems that way.”

“But…” He stepped inside. “But I’m back.”

“Hasn’t escaped me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s my bedchambers,” you replied. “Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t find you in—are you still angry at me?”

“No,” you lied through your teeth. “I simply decided to sleep here tonight.”

Judging by the look on his face, you might as well have announced you meant to annul your marriage: “You’re not sleeping here tonight.”

“I am,” you said, pretending to be engrossed in your book though you barely had any idea what you were reading. “And you can sleep in your own bedchambers and think about Ser Tallhart’s daughter all you want.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “I told you, I only said that for—”

“I care not.” You pointed at the door, your gaze fixed on the page. “Leave me be.”

He lingered there for a moment as if he was trying to find the best approach, then took a step towards the bed.

“My sweet wife—” he started, but stopped dead on his tracks when you lifted your head to glare daggers at him. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat.

“I was trying to encourage Jon.”

“I heard you the first time,” you said and closed to book to give him a snake like smile. “Now that you’re here though, what exactly is so different between southern and northern girls? Since you are an expert, you should have no issues enlightening me?”

“That’s—” He pointed back at the door like Jon was standing outside, stumbling over his words. “I simply said, if Jon didn’t find any southern girls to his liking, northern girls might be uh—different?” The last word came out like an uncertain question. “In terms of his uh, his…affections.”

You raised your brows, still glaring at him.

“I swear it was for Jon only.”

“Wonderful,” you deadpanned. “You may leave now. Have pleasant dreams.”

A ghost of a smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re jealou—”

“Robb if you finish that sentence, I will make you suffer in a very southern way, and then you’ll know the actual difference between northern and southern girls,” you growled, and he held up his hands, biting back his smile.

“Be angry at me if you wish,” he said, stepping closer to the bed, “but we’re not sleeping in different beds.”

“I’m not coming there, and you’re not welcomed here.”

“Oh you are coming there,” he said and before you could so much as blink, he had thrown you over his shoulder, a surprised shriek spilling from your lips.

“Put me down this instant!” you exclaimed, your voice going high-pitched while he made his way to the door. You pressed your palms on his shoulder to throw him off his balance and wiggle out of his grip, but much to your frustration, it didn’t work. “How dare you? This is actual disrespect, you—”

“You left me no other choice,” he stated, stepping out of your bedchambers into the hallway. “Whose fault is it? Not mine.”

“Put me down!”

He turned, but stopped in an instant, and though you hoped it was because he decided to listen to you, the real reason turned out to be very different. He shifted his weight and let out a curt cough like he was trying to regain his composure.

“Father.”

Oh Gods.

Oh Gods no.

Lord Stark could not see you like this, absolutely not.

“…Robb.”

Alright then, Lord Stark was indeed seeing you like this.

You shut your eyes tight, half hoping it would make both of you disappear from Lord Stark’s vision, scrunching up your face.

“Good evening, Lord Stark,” you squealed out, the angle Robb was holding you in preventing you from seeing your father-in-law, perhaps by mercy.

“My wife and I were just…” Robb started, but even you could tell he had no idea where the sentence would go. “We were uh, going to sleep.”

Well, Robb was a terrible liar, so at least you could find some solace in that for the future of your marriage, especially now that you were going to have to spend the rest of the said marriage not being able to look at his father in the eye. A silence fell upon the hallway before Lord Stark heaved a sigh as if he had the realm’s weight on his shoulders, and even though you couldn’t see his face, you could picture the exasperation on his face.

“I saw nothing,” he ended up saying. “I saw nothing, and I am walking away before I see anything.”

“Good idea, father,” Robb stated, nodding solemnly. “Very wise.”

You heard Lord Stark go past him and you watched him walk to the other end of the hallway without sparing a glance back. A whine climbed your throat and you slumped over his shoulder, hiding your face in your hands until Robb entered his—your—bedchambers and dropped you on the bed. You grabbed the nearest pillow to throw at him, your cheeks burning.

“I won’t be able to look at your father anymore, Robb!”

“He doesn’t mind.”

“He—that—” you stammered, gesturing at the door. “He saw!”

“Aye, and he doesn’t mind,” Robb said, catching the other pillow in the air. “To repeat, you gave me no other choice!”

You gritted your teeth and turned to Grey Wind who was watching you both from beside the fireplace.

“Grey Wind, up,” you commanded and he leaped on the bed, making Robb frown.

“What are you doing?”

“He will sleep between us.”

“No he won’t.”

“Yes he will,” you said and pulled the fur covers on top of you, the direwolf curling up next to you. “You can sleep on your side, or you can sleep somewhere else dreaming of Ser Tallhart’s pleasant daughter, your choice.”

“That’s a vile accusation and a terrible insult—Grey Wind, down.”

“Grey Wind, stay,” you shot back and Grey Wind let out a huff, looked between you and Robb, then yawned and nudged your arm with his snout. “See? He’s staying.”

Robb threw his head back with a groan while you pulled your pillow to yourself.

“Lamb…”

“I’m too sleepy to argue.”

“Then just listen?”

“I shall not,” you said, closing your eyes. “Goodnight.”

“But…”

“Goodnight, I said.”

 Robb exhaled through his nose impatiently and moved about in the room, his heavy steps enough of a clue to what he was doing. Despite trying to control yourself, you still ended up opening an eye to watch him take off his shirt, but you shut your eyes again before he could see you gawking at him. He got under the furs, and after a couple of seconds you dared steal a peek again to find him half naked, his arm thrown over his eyes to block the candlelight, oblivious to the way your gaze followed down his chiseled body while you bit at your lip.

Oh well.

Just because you were angry at him didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the sight.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [26] - Moonstone

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Honeymoon is made better with gifts.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Life in the North was full of responsibilities.

Robb knew that. As the heir to House Stark and the future Lord of Winterfell, he had always known he would have responsibilities to his house, his family, and the north.

However, as a new husband, he also had responsibilities to his wife, and those outweighed anything and everything else, in spite of the rest of the realm thinking otherwise.

It had been his father’s request of course. After postponing everything for over a moon because of the wedding, he now had to go back to his regular visits to his bannermen and lords to ensure loyalty, and as usual, Robb was expected to go with him. Before his wedding, Robb never had any problems with it, instead he found it useful for the future but now…

It was different now.

He pulled on his breeches and went over to the hearth to feed the fire so that the room would still be hot when he left. After giving Grey Wind a quick scratch behind the ears, he got into a white linen shirt and put on his boots, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to around his lady from her slumber. He sat at the foot of the bed fixing his sleeves, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the bed shift before his lady draped herself across his back like a cloak, her arms thrown over his shoulders. The warmth of her naked skin seeped through his shirt while she tucked her face into the crook of his neck with a sleepy sigh and Robb smiled, his chest tightening with the rush of happiness flooding it.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, his voice low in the quiet of the room save for the crackling of wood in the fireplace. She shook her head, letting out a noise of displeasure.

“No,” she said, her breath caressing his neck. “But you should have.”

He entwined his fingers with hers to press a kiss on the back of her hand. “It’s early in the morning still.”

“Mayhaps, but you’re leaving for a week.”

He didn’t even have to look at her to know she had a sulky expression on her face, it was clear as day from her voice. With another curt kiss on her wrist, he slipped out of her arms to turn to see her better, but that turned out to be the wrong move, especially considering he was expected outside.

Gods, he was never going to get used to this.

The sight of her sitting there all prim and proper as if she wasn’t bare before him was enough to make his breath hitch in his throat, desire shooting through him faster than a lightning strike. It took every ounce of willpower in him not to pounce on her, the familiar fire burning low in his veins while she blinked slowly, sleep still clinging to her eyes. He couldn’t help but reach out to graze his fingertips up her waist, awakening goosebumps on her soft skin.

“And how,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with want, “am I supposed to leave you when you look like this?”

A teasing smile curled her lips.

“You’re not,” she answered. “And yet…”

Robb found himself mirroring her smile before he leaned in to steal a kiss from her, his hand cupping the side of her neck as he gently pushed her on her back so that he could settle between her legs, a giggle escaping her.

“Robb!”

It was simply cruel; to expect him to be anywhere but here in her arms while she looked up at him with such a pretty pout.

“Yes, my lady?”

She fiddled with the laces of his shirt as if she wanted to focus on something else, her brows pulled into a worried frown.  

“Is it very far?” she asked. “Torrhen’s Square?”

“Not very far but we’ll stay for a night or two,” he muttered, dipping his head to kiss her neck but she stopped him.

“But you’ll be back in seven days for certain?” she insisted. “No longer?”

“Seven days is long enough.”

“No I know, I just…” she trailed off while he played with her hair absentmindedly. “I don’t want you to be away any longer than necessary, that’s all.”

“Trust me,” Robb grumbled, “I wouldn’t be leaving if it were up to me.”

That irresistible pout pulled at her lips again.

“Or so you claim.”

He shot her a half-hearted glare. “Do you honestly think I’d rather spend a night in Ser Tallhart’s castle—”

“I thought he was a lord.”

“House Tallhart is a masterly house.”

“Masterly house?”

“It’s…” Robb trailed off. “Think of landed knights but northern.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, you honestly think I’d rather spend a night in Ser Tallhart’s castle than be here with you?” 

“Well, where will you be for a week? Here with me or Ser Tallhart’s castle?”

“I’ll be on horseback for most of it,” he corrected her and she pushed at his shoulder, making him chuckle. She nibbled on her lip, then took a deep breath.

“While you’re away,” she said. “May I ask something of you?”

“Anything.”

She raised her brows. “Anything?”

“I’d give you the realm if you wanted,” he muttered, nudging her nose with his, drawing a giggle out of her.

“I suppose it’s lucky that I don’t wish for the realm,” she said softly. “I only wish for your attention and affection.”

His heart melted in his ribcage.

“But since I’m to be deprived of both for a week,” she added before he could assure her she’d have them forever. “I want you to bring me a gift from there, wherever Torrhen’s Square is.”

His grin widened. “A gift?”

“Yes,” she said, wrapping the laces of his shirt around her index finger. “So that I’ll know you thought of me.”    

 He frowned down at her.

“And my wife, who has conquered my heart and my soul,” he said, caressing her cheekbone, “believes it possible that I will not think of her?”

She shrugged despite the smile playing on her lips, but before she could say anything, a servant knocked on the door.

“My lord, the horses are ready, your father is waiting for you.”

Robb repressed a groan and dipped his head to give her a goodbye kiss, unable to make himself pull back until she did, her eyes darting over his face.

“Promise me you’ll miss me,” she said, nearly breathless as he captured her lips with his again.

“I will,” he murmured. “I swear it. Promise me you’ll miss me back?”

“Every second,” she said and he stole another kiss from her, then forced himself to get off of her, already longing for her warmth. He grabbed his doublet to put it on while she pulled the furs up to her chest, then leaned over the edge of the bed so that she could give Grey Wind head scratches.

“What kind of gift?” Robb couldn’t help but ask as she cooed at Grey Wind, then turned her head.

“Hm?”

He clasped his cloak. “What kind of gift?”

“That’s for you to choose.” She kissed Grey Wind’s head who gave her a happy rumble. “You be careful out there, my sweet.”

Robb went over to her to peck her on the lips. “And you be careful here.”

“I will.” She beamed at him and let herself fall back on the bed while he walked to the door. “Miss me!”

“I will,” Robb chuckled and let himself gaze at her once more, then opened the door and stepped out with Grey Wind following him suit. The direwolf let out a whine, turning his head to look back at the door and Robb heaved a sigh.

“I know,” he said as he made his way down the hallway. “Trust me, I know.”

At least the road hadn’t been troublesome.

Ser Tallhart and his family were good friends of House Stark, as they had been for centuries. They were very welcoming too, so after the meetings were over and the petitions were listened, the dinner was turned into a small feast. Though northern houses had less resources than houses of the Reach, they made up for it in hospitality, and this was yet another occasion for the two houses to get together along with some of the other vassals. He and his father had been talking to Ser Tallhart for the last ten minutes, and it was only when he excused himself to go to talk to another lord that his father turned to Robb.

“You look tormented.”

“I left my lady wife in Winterfell.”

“So did I, Robb,” his father reminded him and Robb made a face.

“It’s not the same, father.”

Or at least he wanted to think it was not.

His father raised his brows, biting back a smile.

“It’ll be good for you,” he said after a beat while Robb took a sip of his ale. “To be away for a week. Your mother tells me the whole North is talking about how you barely let your wife out of your bedchambers, they should see that’s not the case.”

“It’s not the case,” Robb insisted. “What, because we skipped breakfast a couple of times?”

“And keep excusing yourselves right after dinner,” his father pointed out. “And just the other day you all but snatched her when she was merely walking down the hallway—”

“We had things to talk of,” he defended himself, his ears burning. “And it may have escaped people, but we’re on our honeymoon.”

His father hummed. “It hasn’t escaped people, but you don’t want them to think you’re ruled by…excitement.”

 Robb was fully aware of the fire spreading over his face, but he looked down at his cup and took a sip again while his father glanced around the hall, then heaved a sigh.

“Do you know what’s happening with Jon?”

Robb turned his head to find his brother in the crowded hall. The last he checked, he and Theon were talking to Ser Tallhart’s sons, but it was clear that Jon had left the conversation to go drink at the table by himself, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn’t a new occasion to see him sulk, but at least in the feasts and such he used to hold a conversation, especially if Theon or Robb were around.

And strangely enough, this wasn’t the first time Robb noticed it. Jon had been in low spirits for a couple of days, since the day before the Greensteds left Winterfell.

“He’s tired, perhaps.”

“For days?” his father asked and Robb shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said and made his way to Jon to sit across from him, making his head snap up.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Robb said. “You look sulkier than I am, and I’m away from my lady. What’s going on with you?”

“Uh….” Jon blinked a couple of times. “I’m tired.”

“See, I just gave the very same excuse to father, and he didn’t believe it either,” Robb pointed out while he filled his cup, and Jon’s brows pinched together.

“Father asked?”

“Aye, you’ve been upset for the last couple of days.” Robb took a sip of his ale again. “Jon, be honest with me. Is this because of the southerners?”

Jon’s eyes widened. “…What?”

“They left and you’re upset?” Robb asked as Jon pulled back a little, swallowing thickly. “Who was that lady you danced with at the wedding, Lady Florys? Is it because she left?”

Jon stared at him for a couple of seconds and let out a breath, a look of relief crossing his features.

“No,” he said. “No, she was nice, but I don’t…”

“Was there another guest who caught your attention then?”

Jon pursed his lips, then shook his head.

“No.”

“Because my lady says—”

“What are we talking about?” Theon plopped down next to Robb, and Jon took a huge sip of his drink.

“Robb thinks just because he’s in love, I must be in love as well.”

“That’s not what I said.” Robb pointed at him. “I’m just trying to find a reason for your sulking being worse than usual, that is all.”

  “Oh I think I know what this is about,” Theon told them, his eyes a little glassy no doubt thanks to ale. “But it’s good that you didn’t fall in love with a southern girl, Snow. Everyone knows the southern girls are—”

“Careful there,” Robb cut him off, glaring at him and Theon held up his hands, gesturing surrender.

“Your lady excluded, obviously,” he corrected himself. “But come on, Jon is not gonna wed a southerner.” He clasped a hand over his shoulder to shake him. “He’ll wed a northerner, that’s more his type!”

“I don’t even know what you mean to say, Greyjoy.”

“I mean to say, look around,” Theon pointed out. “Just because the whole Reach came to Winterfell and a lot of northerners and southerners found each other to their liking, does not mean you have to be among them. No need to feel excluded, maybe you simply like northern girls better than southern girls.”

Oh, Robb hadn’t thought about that possibility.

Perhaps Theon was right, it wasn’t because Jon liked any of the southern ladies, it was because he couldn’t find someone to his liking even with so many of them in Winterfell, and felt excluded.

Even his lady had said many of her friends would be exchanging letters with the northern men they’d met at the wedding.

“Am I wrong?” Theon asked Robb who shook his head.

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “Southern girls are different than northern girls, and not every northern girl came to the wedding.”

“Aye.”

“There are a bunch of people you have not talked with,” Robb said, stealing a glance around the hall. “A bunch of houses who are loyal to House Stark, like—oh, like Ser Tallhart’s daughter over there, see? She seems pleasant.”

“Very pleasant,” Theon said. “But mayhaps not that one.”

“Why not? Is she betrothed?”

“Her brothers said she held a lot of admiration for you,” Theon said with a grin. “Asked her father to make an offer of betrothal before you were betrothed to your lady.”

Fuck, that was not going to help Jon here.

Robb gave Theon a warning glare who sat up straighter.

“But he has another daughter,” Theon added in a haste. “Prettier if you ask me. Over there, talking to Lord Glover’s daughter—”

“I think I’m gonna go outside and find Ghost,” Jon mumbled and pushed back his chair, then made his way out of the hall while Robb and Theon exchanged glances.

“Did I make it worse?” Theon asked and Robb shrugged.

“Nah,” he said. “I doubt it.”

“And what of you?” Theon asked, leaning back. “Eager to be back in Winterfell already?”

Robb brushed a hand over his face. “That obvious?”

“Very obvious,” Theon said, then gave him a grin. “But hey, at least your lady is free to roam in the castle now that you’re not there to keep her captive in your bedchambers.”

Robb scoffed a laugh, then flipped him and took another sip of his ale.

They arrived in Winterfell at the hour of the wolf, a week after they left.

The last couple of hours had been a test on Robb’s willpower; ever since they had entered the Wolfswood he had been trying to keep himself from galloping his horse to the castle and leave the others behind. He knew that his lady was asleep—the whole castle was asleep, but he still couldn’t wait to have her in his arms and take in her sweet scent and see her, after torturous days of being away from her.

No matter how tired he was from the road, the mere promise of her presence was enough to make him feel refreshed as if he’d had a full night’s sleep rather than having spent hours on horseback. 

He made his way into the keep with Grey Wind following him, leaving his horse to his squire to handle without a glance back. After climbing the stairs, he walked down the hallway and pushed his door open, but what greeted him was the sight of the dark and empty bedchambers, making him frown.

Where was his lady?

The bed was made and the hearth was empty, so it was clear that she hadn’t gone out for a stroll. He glanced around as if she could jump out of the shadows, then looked down at Grey Wind who wagged his tail at him.

“Do you know where she is?”

Grey Wind sniffed the air, then turned around to leave the room, this time with Robb following him. Even though Robb half expected him to lead him out of the keep, he was proven otherwise when the direwolf padded down the hallway, then went to sit in front of the closed door to his lady’s bedchambers and looked up at him.

“Good work,” Robb whispered and scratched Grey Wind’s head, then pushed open the door and stepped inside, the warmth of the room hitting his face, no doubt thanks to the fully lit hearth.

Considering she spent every night with him, he hadn’t been inside his lady’s bedchambers since they were wed, nor had he understood why she couldn’t just use their bedchambers, but now that he was seeing it for the first time, it made sense.

The room completely belonged to her.

As she had mentioned earlier, she was given the room with the best light, the huge windows letting the moonlight inside at night and sunlight in the morning. Her vanity was at the corner, and on the other corner, there were three panels of full length mirrors together, reminding him of a room divider. The frames were carved with flowers and goats, but on the top there were two snarling wolves, making him smile. The other side of the room was spared to her wardrobe and chests of accessories, he could already tell, seeing that one of them was left open.

And at the center of the room, there was the bed she laid, too lost in her dreams to notice his presence. 

Even in her sleep she managed to take his breath away. For a moment, Robb wondered whether she knew just how enchanting she was, but all the thoughts in his head washed away as his gaze devoured her sleeping form, the furs drawn to her chest while she lay on her side, the strap of her nightgown slipped off one shoulder. He took a step towards the bed, and as if on cue, Frost’s head popped up behind her as she blearily blinked at him, then rested her head on her waist.

By the Gods, of course she had taken Frost from the stables so that she could sleep in the bed.

Robb heaved a sigh and made his way to bed to pick up the lamb, earning a soft bleat in return.

“You can stay with Grey Wind,” he muttered to her and opened the door to put her next to Grey Wind who had curled up by the door, as if he was on watch duty. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the tiny lamb was glaring up at him before she heaved a sigh, then plopped on top of Grey Wind in a dramatic manner, making the direwolf huff. Robb bit back a smile, then closed the door again to approach the bed.

Her scent filled his lungs as he carefully dipped his head to nuzzle into the crook of her neck, running his fingertips down her arm. She shifted a little, muttering something into her pillow, and it was only when Robb pressed a kiss on her neck that the haze of sleep slipped off of her, making her jolt with a sharp breath.

“It’s me,” Robb said with a chuckle and an exhale left her before she grabbed the nearest pillow to hit him with it.

“You scared me!” she exclaimed, drawing a laugh out of him as she dropped the pillow to press a hand on her chest. “Seven hells, Robb!”

“I missed you too.” He grinned before stealing a kiss from her. “Though I must admit, being struck with a pillow was not the welcome I had in mind.”

She let out a giggle and pushed at his arm, still breathless.

“I feared you were some sort of a thief in the night.”

“No thief can enter the keep, my love.”

“Well, still!” she insisted and pulled herself up in the bed to lean her back to the headboard, fixing her hair. “How fared your visit?”

“Torturous.”

She sat up straighter, her eyes gleaming even in the dim room. “What did you bring me?”

Robb hissed in a breath.

“Ah,” he said. “I forgot about that.”

Teasing her was nothing new to him, and it always made him laugh when she got all flustered, but this time was different. His stomach churned at once when her grin faltered, that shine in her eyes getting dim as she blinked a couple of times in hesitation.

“Oh,” she said softly after a beat and tried to smile. “That’s alright, I have um—I have enough things anyway!”

Yeah no, he couldn’t take her sadness even if it was for a second.

“Right,” he said and reached into his doublet to pull out a small pouch. “I suppose you don’t need this then?”

Her jaw dropped and she gasped, then hit him with the pillow again.

“Robb!”

“I mean I could always throw it away—” He let out a laugh when she snatched it from his hand. “Or not.”

“You didn’t forget!”

“Of course I didn’t forget,” he told her. “If my lady wife requests something, she shall have it.”

She untied the pouch and turned it over, the necklace falling into her palm, making her breath hitch. It wasn’t overly intricate; tiny drop shaped blue-white gems dangling from two gold wires twisted around each other, but when Robb found it in the market of Torrhen’s Square at a merchant’s stall, all he could think about was how beautiful it would look around his lady’s neck.

“The merchant said it was—”

“Moonstone,” she finished his sentence for him, lifting her head from the necklace to beam at him. “It’s gorgeous, thank you! I love it!”

Before he could kiss her, she had already leaped out of the bed to rush to the full length mirrors on the other side of the room, holding the necklace over her neck, trying to see it from all angles. He pushed himself off the bed to make his way to her, and she fixed her hair so that he could clasp the necklace before he wrapped his arms around her torso, her sweet scent engulfing him. She looked down at the necklace, her hand shooting up to adjust the gemstones while he watched her in the mirror, desire making him nearly lightheaded.

“Whoever said husbands didn’t know how to choose gifts doesn’t know of you,” she said airily before turning in his arms to look up at him with a big smile, and Robb found himself mirroring it. “Thank you so much, it’s so beautiful!”

“Of course,” he muttered, pressing a kiss under her jaw. “And you look very beautiful, my lady. You and your gown.”

“And my necklace!”

“And your necklace.” He huffed a chuckle while his hands tugged at the laces of her nightgown, but she pulled back a little.

“Wait—” She reached back to feel the clasp of the delicate chain. “Help me take it off first?”

A wolfish grin curled his lips before he leaned in to kiss her, walking her back to the bed until her legs hit the edge of the bed and she fell on the furs with a small squeal that turned into the sweetest giggle when he all but pounced on her.

“But my necklace—”

“Keep it on,” Robb murmured, dipping his head to trail his lips down her neck. “I want to see you come undone wearing nothing but that.”

[souryam]

stark girlies in another universe

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [25] - Distance

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Saying goodbye to family is always difficult.

Word Count: 5,7k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Growing up in your family, you were led to believe some things were so certain that they could have been laws of nature.

You would have a complete change of wardrobe every year in addition to the gowns you had made for special days, such as your nameday or Margaery’s.

You would get a gift from your father whenever he had to travel to a different part of the realm and came back home.

You would get a monthly allowance of jewelry so that—according to your father— you could learn the importance of patience, though you never really understood why he was so insistent on that.

And most important of all; you would never be out of your family’s sight, but that was about to change and you were nowhere near ready.

Sleep decided to leave you early in the morning, while Robb was still deep in his slumber. It took you less than an hour to understand you wouldn’t be able to doze off again; your mind was way too troubled to give you such peace. You tried to move out of his arms as slowly as possible so that you wouldn’t wake him up, but his grip around your waist tightened before he buried his face to the crook of your neck with a small groan.

“Robb?” you whispered and he let out a sleepy hum that vibrated in his chest. “Are you awake?”

He lifted his head just a little to peek at the window before he dropped it back to your neck. “It’s barely morning.”

“I think perhaps I should go and see if my father needs anything.”

“He’s asleep,” he murmured into your skin. “Just like the rest of the castle. Like you and I should be.”

“But what if he needs something?”

“He needs rest before the road, sweeting,” he said, his voice deep and drowsy. “It’s a long way from here to the Reach. Let him sleep.”

You could feel your heart dropping to your stomach, but you took a trembling breath.

“But um, mayhaps he woke up early to get ready.”

“Not this early.”

“But Silas always sets out bef—”

“They won’t sneak out before you wake up,” he assured you, already half-asleep. “I promise.”  

You nibbled on your lip, trying to remember whether any of your brothers had said anything about when exactly your father and the rest of the household would leave, but came up empty. Robb’s breaths turned into soft snores behind you, and you made sure not to wake him again as you slipped out of the bed, Grey Wind raising his head from where he lay by the fireplace. You scratched at his head, grabbed your dressing gown and put it over your nightgown, stealing a glance outside the window. Robb had a point; you were sure no one else was awake just yet, but you didn’t want to lose any more time to sleep when your whole family would be getting on the road today.

Your father’s chambers were the first one you tried, but when you knocked on the door, he didn’t answer. A quick peek into the room from the door made it clear that he was indeed asleep, so you closed the door as quiet as a mouse, then made your way to Silas’s door. Your time in the Reach had taught you not to barge into Silas’ bedchambers, so you knocked on the door and took a deep breath.

“Silas?” you called out from behind the door. “Are you awake?”

His voice didn’t sound sleepy at all when he answered: “What is it?”

“Are you alone?”

“Uh….no,” he said. “I’m not.”

You bit back a smirk, fighting the urge to say good morning to Jon.

“I’ll be in my bedchambers, can you come there when you can?” you asked. “I must talk to you.”  

“Of course,” he said and you walked away from his door to enter the hallway that led to your own bedchambers, but the sight of Elinor stepping out of your room made you stop dead in your tracks. She seemed as shocked as you were to see you there, but she overcame it rather fast.

“What were you doing in my room?” you asked with a frown, and she shrugged her shoulders.

“My maids haven’t been able to find my favorite necklace, I thought maybe it was there.”

You made a face. “I have my own jewelry with taste, thank you very much.” 

To your surprise, she didn’t even retort, instead she just walked past you and made her way out of the hallway. You rushed to your bedchambers in fear of her having done something to your gowns, and though they all looked untouched, you pursed your lips, then heaved a sigh.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Now I have to check all of them.”  

You weren’t even close to being done inspecting the first chest when Silas arrived in your bedchambers, but for the first time in your life there were more pressing matters than your gowns, especially when your brother seemed to share your low spirits.

“Does Aunt Anya know you’re going there with the twins?”

“Perce sent a raven a few days back.”

 You played with the intricate embroidery of the pillow in your lap. “Should be fun.”

He just shrugged his shoulders, sprawled on the sofa across from where you sat.

“It’s about time I met Braxton’s betrothed, I suppose.”

“He is so in love.”

“Yeah but he’s also a fool, so we need to make sure she can be trusted,” he pointed out, making you roll your eyes.

“Silas. Come on.”

“I just don’t want another Elinor.”

“Don’t remind me,” you muttered and tilted your head. “When you said you weren’t alone just now, was it Jon?”

“Mm hm.”

“How’s—” You motioned vaguely. “Will you two exchange letters?”

He bit inside his cheek.

“This affair will stay within the walls of Winterfell,” he said. “It was just entertainment, nothing more, nothing less. He knows.”

“Does he know, or do you just assume he knows?”

“He very clearly does, seeing that I suggested he could come with me to Dorne and he said no.”

Your eyes widened. “You did what?”

“Dorne is much less restricted, especially compared to the North—”

“You suggested he could come with you to Dorne?”

“And I knew he would say no, so drop it,” he said. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means. He’s just a good man who’d be happier in Dorne, that’s it.”

“Fine, fine…”

“And you?” He eyed you up and down. “Are you sure you’re staying here in the north?”

“Seeing that I’m wed to the heir to the north,” you joked with a small grin, “I kind of have to, I think.”

“That rule applies to other people, not you,” he reminded you. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You shook your head, your chest tightening.

“I do want to stay, Silas,” you managed to say. “Robb and I are in love.”

“Oh that didn’t escape anyone, the whole North talks about how he barely lets you out of his bedchambers—”

“And you shouldn’t worry about me,” you cut him off, a fire spreading over your cheeks. “Nothing bad is going to happen to me after you leave. I promise.”

He heaved a sigh, then brushed a hand over his face.

“I know,” he muttered. “I’ll still visit before I go back home from Dorne, let’s see if you feel the same after the honeymoon.”

A smile curled your lips. “Dorne and The Reach share a border, the North is on the other side. It’s not as if it’s on your way.”

“I’ll make it my way,” he pointed out. “Besides, I’m in no rush to go home. Who knows? Maybe I’ll stay until Braxton’s wedding and come back here with you.”

Your smile faded from your lips as your eyes started burning, but you blinked back the tears.

“You can’t escape forever, Silas,” you rasped out and his gaze snapped to yours. He swallowed thickly, then gave you that perfect courtier smile of his.

“Maybe I can,” he said. “Maybe I don’t want to go back to the Reach when you’re not there. Maybe I’ll just join Cliff and become a pirate and never go home ever again.”

“A merchant.”

“Oh please, he’s a pirate,” he said with a scoff. “He’s just too rich for others to call him that. I’m his brother, I can say it.”

A burst of laughter escaped you despite the lump in your throat and that seemed to coax Silas’ own laugh that echoed in the room, the heaviness threatening to crush your ribcage lifting a little at the familiar sound.

“You haven’t seen his crew!” he insisted through laughter, gesturing at the window. “I have been losing sleep over how I’m going to explain it to father when we all get to White Harbor and he sees his ship—”

Someone knocked on the door and Eadith peeked her head in.

“My lady,” she said, her voice lacking its usual cheerful tone even though she tried to smile. “Good morning. Would you like me to help you get dressed?”

The lump in your throat felt like it was growing bigger when you realized this was going to be the last time she helped you with your gowns, but you managed to smile back and nodded your head.

“That’d be great, thank you Eadith,” you said and Silas got up from the sofa.

“I’ll go and check whether father has woken up,” he said. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He pressed a kiss on top of your head and left the room, closing the door behind him. You licked your lips and stood up as well, then made your way to the table and grabbed the small box on the table.

“Eadith,” you said and held it out. “This is for you.” 

Her head shot up. “For me, my lady?”

“A small parting gift,” you said while she took it from you in the most careful manner, and lifted the lid, a gasp leaving her.

“My lady…”

The box was filled with gold coins, and on top of them laid a scroll, an emerald necklace, a pair of diamond earrings and a silk ribbon you had embroidered with flowers yourself.

“You’ve always liked that necklace and those earrings,” you said. “They’ll look much more beautiful on you than they ever did on me. I have a matching ribbon with that one, I made sure to embroider both of them the same. And the scroll is my recommendation letter, in case Elinor tries to test your patience. I’m quite certain it’ll open many doors for you, including House Tyrell’s. I’ll also send a letter to Lady Olenna if you’d like, she’ll be happy to have you in her service.”

A sob ripped itself from her chest and she covered her mouth in an attempt to cover it before you wrapped your arms around her to pull her into a hug.

“It’ll be fine,” you said, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to sound calm. “We’ll exchange letters, and it’ll all be fine. You enjoy the Reach for me, and I’ll enjoy the North.”

Breakfast had come way too fast for your taste, especially when you knew the servants were readying the carriages outside. Yet, you weren’t alone in your misery; Jon had barely touched his plate the whole breakfast, stealing looks at Silas who was uncharacteristically silent the whole time, only speaking when he had to answer a question. For some reason, Perceon had the same guilty look on his face as he would when he was a mere boy and did something he wasn’t supposed to; chewing inside his cheek and pouting his lips—the only difference was that he was now too tall to swing his legs back and forth off the edge of his chair. Though you knew your father wasn’t in his best mood, he covered it up very well, jesting and laughing with Lord and Lady Stark.

“Are you alright?” Robb’s deep voice pulled you out of your thoughts, making your head whip up before you willed yourself to smile.

“Of course.”

“You woke up early,” he pointed out. “And troubled.”

“By my own thoughts only,” you assured him, and he laced his fingers with yours, giving you a soft smile.

“It’s alright to be upset about their departure.”

Except it was not. At least not in front of the northerners in Winterfell.

You were more than aware of their perception of you, and how it had gotten even worse upon seeing you in shambles during Robb’s duel with Ser Fossoway. Their sarcastic remarks the next morning had been as subtle as it could’ve been expected of northerners, carrying a hint of pity at your naiveté, and you were not going to make the same mistake and crumble in front of them again.

Robb was different, but the rest of the north did not excuse or entertain sentimentality.

“I’m just worried about my father,” you said while a footman approached your father to mutter something in his ear. “I know Arys says he’s fine, and so does Maester Luwin, but…”

“But you remain unconvinced?” he asked with a playful glint in his eye, and you couldn’t help but huff out a laugh.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I just know he’s leaving too early for my liking.”

“I tried to persuade him to stay for another moon,” he told you, making you raise your brows. “Last night.”

“Did you?”

“Mm hm, so has my father. But your stubbornness is a family trait, it seems.”

You heaved a sigh and lifted your cup to your lips, but turned your head when you heard your father’s voice.

“My flower,” he said. “Come take a walk with me before we leave, hm?” 

 You blinked a couple of times in confusion, then put your cup on the table and pushed your chair back in a haste.

“Of course,” you said and rushed to him as he stepped down from the High Table, then both of you made your way out of the hall to the yard. You couldn’t help but notice that even the air felt colder than usual, but you chose not to comment on it and instead linked your arm through his while he led you to the sept grounds, then both of you sat down on the nearest bench.

It was rather peaceful today, despite the cold weather. This part of the yard wasn’t as crowded—probably because only Lady Stark went to the sept— so it was like a small, secluded corner away from the chaos of Winterfell. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees, causing you to look up for a moment before you turned your gaze to him.

“I wish you would stay a bit longer,” you said after a beat and he gave you a gentle smile.

“There are people waiting for me, my dearest,” he said. “And when it comes to departure, I’m afraid no time feels long enough.”

 Your vision got a little blurry from the tears rushing to your eyes, but you blinked them back as fast as you could.

“I know,” you said. “But you—father, you will be alright, will you not?”

“Oh don’t worry about me,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “I will be alright, and so will you.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise,” he assured you. “We’ll see each other soon enough, and until then, you have your mother’s spirit. If there’s anyone who’s going to flourish regardless of where she’s planted, it’s you. With or without me.”

A tear managed to escape your eye, but you wiped your cheek in a hurry.

“And if I don’t feel ready?”

“I’m afraid no one ever does,” he said, reaching out to engulf your hand in his. “But it’s life, my blossom. Happiness has a way of finding you, even though it may feel difficult to believe in times of parting.”

You nibbled on your lip and nodded.

“But I’ll miss you terribly,” you couldn’t help but rasp out, making him smile again.

“So will I,” he said. “You know, I told the same thing to Ned yesterday, sons and daughters are so different. Sons grow into men, but daughters…” He breathed out a laugh. “A daughter never stops being your little girl who fills your castle with her laughter as she runs in the hallways, no matter how much she’s grown. You’ll understand that in the future, and so will Robb.” 

“If Robb is half as good of a father as you are, our children will be the luckiest in the realm,” you said. “Just as I am. I’ll never stop being thankful to the gods for making me your daughter, I—” You took a trembling breath. “Father, I love you so much.”

You could swear he had tears in his eyes, but he blinked them back and pulled you into a tight hug just like he would whenever you ran up to him early in the morning to talk his ear off when you were still a child. The mere memory was enough to make you feel like you were back in the Reach again, and if you closed your eyes, you could make yourself believe you were in the garden of your father’s castle, choosing a gown for a feast being your only worry instead of being away from your father or Silas.

“I love you too, my flower,” he whispered. “And I’m so proud of you, don’t you ever forget that.”

 You rested your forehead in the crook of his neck, trying your hardest to swallow the sob threatening to climb your throat.

“I won’t,” you whispered into the wind. “I won’t, I promise.”

One of the many things you had learned back in the Reach was keeping your mask in place.

You had seen it multiple times with multiple people. Silas was probably the best at it; no one except you could ever read through him or have an idea about how he was feeling at any given moment. To outside, he was always in a good mood, his smile signaling both amusement and nonchalance at anyone and everyone it was directed to. You and Margaery were taught not to let the mask slip in that exact way your older brothers did not; anyone who so much as looked at you had to think you were untouched by sadness or worry no matter what situation you were in. You were to appear calm and unreadable not only to your enemies but also to your allies, and you were beginning to think that although no one in your life had thought of the north while teaching you those skills, it was going to be one of the most important weapons you would wield in here.

If you were to be Lady Stark in the future, the nobles in the yard, who were watching you like hawks right now, could not see you cry at your family’s departure.

“We’ll see you in Dorne,” Braxton told you while your father talked to Robb who was nodding solemnly to whatever he was saying, his hands clasped behind him, his back straight. “My wedding is next summer, I already talked to Robb. He’ll bring you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” you said. “And it’s about time I met your lovely betrothed! I’ll make sure to come at least a week before the wedding so that I can spend time with her.”

“Oh you’ll love her,” he said. “And she’ll adore you, I already know it. Right Perce?”  

Perceon’s head whirled around and he cleared his throat. “Hm?”

“What’s going on with you today?”

“Nothing.” He shifted his weight. “Nothing, I just don’t like goodbyes.”

“It’s barely a goodbye, genius, she’s coming to the wedding.”

“I hate goodbyes too.” You reached out to squeeze Perceon’s hand and he tried to smile, his eyes darting over your face.

“And you’re sure you’ll be happy here?” he asked. “Because if you find it otherwise, you only need to send a raven and—”

“Silas would beat you to it,” Arys’ voice reached you before he clasped Perceon’s shoulder. “He memorized the secret pathways already.”

“I’ll send ravens to both Silas and you if I’m in need to saving,” you jested. “Hearing that does remedy my heartbreak of your departure even if it’s just a little. Thank you Perce.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Don’t mention it.”

“You’ll be sick of my letters, all of you,” you warned them, making them chuckle. “I’m warning you beforehand. I’ll report everything that’s happening here.”

“The reports will be; it snowed yesterday, it is snowing today, it will snow tomorrow,” Arys pointed out as you pushed at his arm. “I’m saying this as a future maester who knows of the North’s climate! Do you doubt my knowledge? Winter is coming and all that.” 

“Maybe after Brax’s wedding, I’ll visit you in Oldtown,” Perceon said and Braxton shrugged.

“We can all go. Me, Myria and you.”

“You should,” Arys said. “None of you will want to go back to Dorne.”

“See, that’s a very bold claim—” Perceon started but Braxton elbowed him when Alton stepped closer to you.

“Hey,” he said after a beat and gestured at the carriages. “We’ve said goodbye to Lord and Lady Stark, and everything is ready, so…”

“Ah,” you said. “Very well.”

Perceon and Braxton exchanged glances while Arys rolled his eyes and kept his gaze on Alton as if he was trying to make him speak with mind power alone.

“Take care,” you said after a couple seconds of uncomfortable silence and Alton pursed his lips, then nodded his head.

“You too,” he said. “I hope you and Robb have a happy union.”

Perceon narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth but Braxton jabbed him in the ribs before he could say anything.

“It won’t be the same without you,” Alton added, unable to meet your eyes. “The castle.”

“It’ll be more peaceful,” you jested, a chuckle spilling from his mouth.

“Yeah,” he muttered more to himself. “Yeah, and quiet.”

Over his shoulder, you could see Elinor eyeing you up and down before she got in the carriage without so much as a word to you. Arys gritted his teeth, crossing his arms while Alton turned his head to look back at the carriage, then offered you a small smile.

“I’ll see you later,” he said. “Stay safe.”

He walked away from you to the carriage, and Perceon threw his head back.

“Are we sure he’s related to us?” he asked as Cliff made his way to you. “Are we sure he’s not a ward father decided to take in?”

Arys raised his brows. “I feel like father would’ve let us know at some point if that were the case, Perce.”

“I’m just saying, none of us was around when he was born.”

“When who was born?” Cliff joined the conversation and Perceon gestured vaguely in the direction of the carriage.

“Alton,” he said. “I refuse to believe we’re related.”

“Refuse it all you want, he’s still family,” Cliff said and threw an arm over your shoulder. “Speaking of family, are we really leaving you here?”

You smiled up at him. “Seems that way.”

“You’ll see me sooner than you see these three.” He gestured at the twins and Arys. “I meant what I said earlier. I do a lot of business in the White Harbor, I’ll make sure to visit Winterfell whenever I’m there.”

“Please do,” you told him. “Seeing you will make me happy beyond words.”

“But everyone is coming to my wedding,” Braxton pointed at all of you. “Cliff, I don’t care what kind of pirate business you’ll be busy with, you will be there.”

“Merchant. And yes, I will be.”

“Arys?”

“Oh I’m definitely coming, I need to meet the poor girl who willingly said yes to marrying you.”

“After she bested him in combat,” Cliff reminded him and Perceon grinned.

“I’ll tell all about that to their future children.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Silas stepping out of the keep with Jon following him not far behind, but he approached Theon while your brother made his way to you without so much as another glance in Jon’s direction. Lord and Lady Stark was now conversing with your father, and Silas heaved a sigh.

“Hey.” He smiled at you before turning to your brothers. “We’re ready to go, go bid farewell to Lord and Lady Stark and thank them.”

“You’d think we’re still children,” Braxton grumbled but they all walked away from you to Lord and Lady Stark to do as Silas asked.

“Is everything alright with you and…?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course,” he said. “Just uh, a last minute goodbye.”

“You’ll see each other when you come visit me,” you reminded him. “Which you will. A lot.”

“I will.”

Your throat started aching again but you looked down to pretend to fix your bracelet. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he said. “You remember all our secret codes for the letters?”

You nodded, still fiddling with your bracelet. “I will use them if they’re needed.”

“Good.”   

You lifted your head from your bracelet once you made sure your expression would be serene for anyone who was watching you.

“Thank you Silas,” you managed to say as your other brothers started getting into the carriages. “For everything. I love you.”

He swallowed thickly, then pulled you into a tight hug so that he could hide his face into your hair.

“Remember,” he muttered. “Just like how we used to play monsters-and-maidens. I’ll save you from anything and everything, you just say the word.”  

He pressed a kiss on top of your head, then pulled back to smile down at you as your father stepped closer to you.

“Well, my flower,” he said, pinching your cheek. “I guess I’ll see you in Dorne next summer.”

“And I shall have many tales to tell you,” you told him. “So much gossip too, but you must follow Arys’ advice until then.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Father!” you protested and he let out a boisterous laugh before giving you a hug.

“Take care, my blossom.”

“You too father.” You kissed him on the cheek, commanding yourself not to cry for what felt like the hundredth time today. He bowed at Lord and Lady Stark, then made his way to the carriage while Robb stepped closer to you to touch your lower back as if he wanted to assure you he was there. You entwined your fingers with his, leaning sideways to his arm as Silas mounted his horse.

“Robb, I like you, but I will kill you if you hurt her.”

Your eyes widened. “Silas!”

“I’ll hand you the sword myself if I ever hurt her,” Robb told him and you squeezed his hand.

“How about nobody kills each other?” you mused and Silas nibbled on his lip, then nodded at you.

“Be careful.”

“Be happy,” you replied and he scoffed a laugh, then cantered his horse out of the court yard like he couldn’t trust himself to be there any longer.

Your father stood by the carriage for a moment, watching you with a sad smile on his face as if he wanted to etch you into his memory. You forced yourself to smile back despite the heavy weight in your chest, then waved at him, coaxing a small chuckle out of him before he waved back, then got in the carriage. You sniffled when the carriage moved and watched it pass through the gate, Robb snaking an arm around your waist.

“Hey,” he said. “Do you want to retire for the day?”

The offer was way too tempting especially with the threat of tears rushing to your eyes, but you blinked fast, then gulped and shook your head.

“No,” you managed to rasp out. “I’ll be fine, my love. Thank you though.”

In your defense, you tried, you really did.

Throughout the day, Robb kept you within his sight like he half expected you to burst into tears at any moment, but you were too good of a courtier to let anything slip. You were all smiles all afternoon, you made small talk with your ladies-in-waiting, you helped Sansa decide what to embroider on her new gown, you had even entertain the ladies Lady Stark introduced you to with stories from the Reach.

It was only when Robb went to his father’s solar with a northern lord and you stepped away from the ladies that you turned your head to look for Silas in the hall, the joke you had thought of dying in your throat when you remembered he wasn’t there anymore.  

Hence where you were now. Sitting on your and Robb’s bed, with Frost—who was brought to by a very confused maid per your request—resting her head in your lap while you stitched tiny flowers to a ribbon that was to be her leash. There was a heavy ache in your temples, no doubt because of how hard you had cried before you sent for Frost, but at least your sobs had calmed down a little, letting you focus on your work.

“I think you should have different colored ribbons,” you muttered to Frost. “For different days. So that you can match my gowns, no?”

She purred like a cat and you sniffled, then held the ribbon next to her head before you shook your head.

“Mayhaps I could stitch hearts on it too,” you said, running your fingers through her wool. “Flowers and hearts. And what else—wheats as well? For my house?”

Frost heaved a sigh, then nudged at your hand when you went back to stitching so that you would drop it and keep petting her instead. You smiled at her, then leaned down and pressed a kiss on her head.

“We can also braid the ribbons,” you muttered to her. “That would look pretty too.”

Frost bleated at you and as if on cue, the door to your bedchambers opened, making you turn your head to see Robb. Even you had to admit that you probably made a rather strange picture; surrounded by ribbons with a lamb happily resting on top of them, but Robb didn’t comment on it, the only clue to how funny he found it was the small twitch on the corner of his lips.

“Here you are,” he said. “I’ve been wondering where you were.”

You pouted your lips, then shrugged.

“I couldn’t….” you trailed off. “I needed some peace and quiet, away from everyone.”

He heaved a sigh, then made his way to the bed and lifted Frost easily, earning himself a bleat of displeased protest.

“Go play with Grey Wind,” he told her and placed her on the floor. “Go on.”

Frost bleated at him again, but ran out of the room, the click-clack of her hooves echoing in the hallway. You lowered your head, then stuck the needle to the side of the bed and started picking up the rest of the ribbons just so that you could keep yourself busy, but your sniffle gave you away when Robb sat beside you. A sob ripped itself from your chest while he pulled you into his arms without so much as a word and you wiped your eyes, his pleasant scent soothing the pain in your chest just a little.

“They all left,” you managed to say, your throat tightening. “Silas too.”

“I know.” He shushed you gently when you hiccupped, pressing a kiss on top of your hair while he cradled the back of your head, his other hand rubbing your back. “I know, lamb.”

“I just thought of something to tell him—and he’s not—he’s not here.” You hiccupped again, the lump in your throat growing bigger and bigger as you buried your face to Robb’s chest. “He’s not here and my father isn’t here and Margaery isn’t here, they’re all away and I feel so—so utterly alone...”  

“I’m here, sweeting,” he said, his voice soft. “And I promised you on your very first night here, remember? You will never be alone here.”

The memory was enough to make you smile even with the ache in your chest.

“You promised as Benjen the servant,” you murmured, your tone so low that it was almost inaudible, and he hummed.

“I’m still at your service,” he said, drawing a teary giggle out of you. “And very well then, if my beautiful wife wants me to promise as her husband, I shall follow her wishes. You’ll never be alone here, my love. No matter what, you’ll always have me.”

You moved to rest your head on his shoulder, and he ran his knuckles over your cheek to wipe the tears away while you played with the laces of his shirt.

“Even with the flimsy gowns?”

“Especially with the flimsy gowns,” he corrected you in such a solemn manner that a simple listener would’ve thought you were talking of the future of the realm. “Why do you think I said yes to Braxton so fast when he invited us to Dorne? So that you can wear even flimsier gowns, I’m told that’s the norm there.”

Your laughter echoed in the room. “Robb!”

“Oh now you dislike honesty, is that—” His question was interrupted when you pushed at his arm and he easily caught your hand before you fell on the soft furs with him on top of you. A giggle escaped you despite the tears in your eyes, and he dipped his head to give you a curt kiss, then pulled back to let you breathe as you sniffled again.

Gods, even with all this sadness in your heart, you still couldn’t help but realize how handsome he was for the hundredth time.

“It’ll be okay, lamb,” he assured you. “And you will see them soon enough, I promise.”

You didn’t know it back then but Robb was right; though not all of them, you would indeed see most of your family again soon enough.

It just wouldn’t be how you pictured it at all.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [24] - Subtlety

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Ladies of the southern court are taught to yield words like weapons.

Word Count: 4,4k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Even when he was young, Robb knew very well that his parents’ marriage was more fortunate than anyone else’s in the north. Many lords and ladies who were wed either despised each other’s presence or had a distance between them; only talking to each other when they needed to in public. Those who had been blessed with mutual love and respect seemed to have put a lot of effort and time into growing such affections, and though he used to hope for the same, it all came down to two options:

He and his future wife disliking each other or putting some deliberate effort into making themselves love each other.

That felt like such nonsense now.

Because he had been a husband for less than a week, yet he already couldn’t even imagine the possibility of not being utterly in love with her.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Robb tilted his head even though his lady couldn’t see him. “Or perhaps you keep moving.”

“I’ve been still as a statue!” she defended herself with a huff. “I’m telling you, you’re doing it wrong.”

Fine, perhaps he had been distracted just a little.

But that was more than expected, considering the state they were in. The room was hot –too hot for his taste, but his lady liked it that way— and she was completely naked except for one of the furs she had pulled up to her chest while she sat in front of him in the bed, hugging her knees. Robb couldn’t help but lean forward to press his lips to her bare shoulder, biting back a smirk.

“You can’t even see what I’m doing.”

“I can feel it.” Her hand shot back to feel the braid he had been battling with. “And it’s supposed to be tighter.”

“I tried to make it tighter, and you said it hurt.”

“Because that was too tight,” she whined. “And my skin is sensitive, you know that.”

“Did we not put that behind us when—” He let out a laugh as she reached back to push at his arm. “It was a mere question.”

She made a noise of disagreement, then took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

“Speaking of questions,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Robb hummed, still trying to decide which section of hair went above which.

“Is Jon by any chance sad that Malory left?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Because it came to my attention he was rather happy at our wedding, and he was actually talking to people.”

“It came to your attention even though you were drunk beyond words?” he taunted her, dodging her hand when she reached back to push at his shoulder. “I don’t think he is interested in Lady Malory, my love.”

“Is he interested in anyone else?”

“I doubt it.”

“But how do you not know for sure?” she insisted. “He’s your brother.”

“Do you know everything about Silas’ affairs?”

“Yes.”

“Is it not difficult to keep track when there are so many people?”

She shrugged her shoulders while he put a section of hair on top of other, then undid it and put it under the other.

“I have so many friends who were rather interested in him,” she told him. “At our wedding. And I was wondering, if his heart doesn’t belong to anyone already…”

“Sansa used to make me do this with three sections, not two.”

“This one is more difficult—so he has never fallen in love?” she asked. “Nobody has captured his attention all this time?”

“Not really,” he muttered, his whole attention on the braid while he pulled the two pieces apart. “But things are more complicated for him, you know that. Him being in love with a lady would bring many things to consider if there was any courtship.”

She scoffed. “The North is so different than what I’m used to.”

“I’m certain it’s the same in the south as well.”

“Not in the Reach, and definitely not in Dorne,” she said. “Besides, you’re telling me Jon simply decided not to fall in love because of the circumstances of his birth?”

He tried to untangle the knot of his own doing as subtly as possible. “Mm hm.”

“I used to think differently, but I don’t believe matters of heart can be controlled.”

“Not in the south perhaps,” he taunted her with a grin, causing her to look at him over her shoulder with a frown. “It’s not tangled, I just put the wrong piece on—”

“So you would not love me if we met and weren’t betrothed?”  

 A huff of laughter left him, but his heart dropped to his stomach when he saw his lady’s frown deepening as she pulled back to see him better, no sign of playfulness on her expression.

“Wh—no!” he said in a rush. “Why would you think that?”

“That’s what you’re insinuating.”

“I don’t insinuate things, we’ve been over this.”

“Fine, then you’re directly telling me that you would not—Robb!” The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a surprised screech when he grabbed her by the waist to pull her under him, a wide grin pulling at his lips. She bit back her smile and scrunched up her nose, trying her hardest to glare at him as he brushed her hair off her face.

“If we were not betrothed—”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” Robb finished her sentence for her. “My heart belongs to you, you know that.”

“But if, let’s say, your family had betrothed you to someone else, and then we met?” she insisted. “Would you have gone through with that arrangement?”

He couldn’t.

He knew he couldn’t.

Despite his upbringing, despite the honor and duty, despite the expectations placed upon him before he was even born, he couldn’t spend his life with anyone else but her. His life was already divided into before and after her, and the idea of spending his life with anyone else when she was the rightful ruler of his heart was nothing short of a nightmare, so he shook his head, looking down at her.

“Never.”

“Never?” She narrowed her eyes like she was trying to see whether he was lying. “And what of duty?”

He swallowed thickly, then shook his head again.

“It leaves the room when you enter.”

That seemed to coax a smile out of her, every sign of her anger from earlier washing off her beautiful face like waves of the sea on a shore. He dipped his head to brush his lips against hers, the sweet taste of her more enticing than air itself as her fingers curled in his hair, desire dripping down his spine and stirring back to life—

A frustrated growl left him when someone knocked on the door, pulling them both out of the haze.

“Leave!” he called out as she squeezed at his arm.

“Be nice!” she whispered, but then turned her head when the familiar voice of her maid carried into the room from behind the closed door.

“My lady, I apologize for the interruption but your presence is required.” Her maid paused for a moment. “It’s your father. He has fallen ill.”

Lord Greensted’s voice assuring everyone he was alright could be heard from the hallway even before they reached his door, which Robb figured was a good sign, but his lady was in too much of a hurry to even notice that. She rushed through the door and made her way to her father without sparing a glance at the rest of the crowd, crouching down by his chair to grasp his hand, her skirts fanning around her.

“Father?”

“I’m alright, my flower.” He pinched her cheek in an assuring manner while Robb nodded at his parents in the room, clasping his hands behind him. “I told them not to alarm you.”

“While you’re ill?”

“I’m not ill,” he told her and turned to Robb with an amused chuckle. “It’s your responsibility to pull her back from distress now, you know.”

“She loves you way too much to listen to a word I say, Lord Greensted.”

“But what’s happened?” she insisted, her eyes darting between Silas and Arys while Cliff squeezed Perceon’s shoulder like he wanted to remind him he was still there. Braxton went over to the window as if he wanted to get some air, and Silas cleared his throat.

“He got dizzy after breakfast—”

 “Only for a moment.”

“And this is exactly why I’ve been telling you that you need to try to be healthier,” Arys pointed out and Lord Greensted waved a dismissive hand in the air. “So that you don’t get dizzy.”

“Maester Luwin is preparing something for him,” his mother assured her as Elinor muttered something in Alton’s ear that made him look over his shoulder, but before he could do anything, Silas made his way to join Braxton by the window. Whatever he said to Braxton was too soft and low for anyone else to hear it, and Braxton swallowed thickly, then nodded his head. “He says there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m also saying there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re not a maester,” she told her father before turning to Arys. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a sign for him to take better care of himself,” Arys said. “All this eating and drinking whatever you want, father…”

“Let me live, will you?”

“I told you it was too early to leave, Garmund,” Robb’s father said. “This is your gods giving you a sign.”

“Can’t they send a more pleasant sign?”

“Surely you’re not planning on leaving before you’re fully recovered,” his lady said and Lord Greensted squeezed her hand.

“There’s nothing to recover from, I’m alright.”

“Not to worry, we’ll keep him here until he’s recovered no matter what he says,” his father gave her an assuring smile. “I’ll put men by his door if needed.”

“Lord Stark?” A footman entered the room with Maester Luwin. “Lord Glower asks for counsel if you’re not busy.”

“Go,” Lord Greensted said. “Please. I’m fine, and do tell Lord Glower I’ll beat him on our next hunt.”

“Father, you’re not going on a hunt!” his lady insisted while his father chuckled.

“He’ll take it as a challenge, just so you know,” he told Lord Greensted. “Robb.”

“I’ll be there in a minute, father.”

His father walked out of the room, and his lady watched Maester Luwin give a cup filled with some sort of draught to Lord Greensted.

“He’ll be alright, will he not?”

“He just needs some rest in his bed, my lady,” Maester Luwin said. “That is all.”

 “We should all leave you to rest, I’m certain the crowd isn’t helping,” his mother added, making Lord Greensted nod fervently.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Come, everyone. Your father needs some peace and quiet while he rests.”

Once Lord Greensted made his way to bed, all the brothers left the room one by one even though Robb could tell they didn’t really want to. His lady stole a look at the door, then took a deep breath and stepped closer to Robb.

“I’ll stay.”

Lord Greensted heaved a sigh. “Blossom…”

“I’ll tell you all about the rumors I’ve heard at the wedding, father,” she said. “Every house of the Reach. You like hearing tales of scandals, it’ll be like the old times!”

 Robb nuzzled into her hair, cradling her cheek in his palm. “Would you like me to stay as well?”

“Your father requires your presence, Robb,” Lord Greensted reminded him. “And you’ve heard my daughter. We’ll gossip about the Reach, apparently.”

 Robb bowed his head with a chuckle.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said, and traced her cheekbone with his thumb. “Send for me if you need me, alright my love?”

She offered him a small smile and squeezed his wrist. “I will, thank you.”

“Get well soon, Lord Greensted,” he told him before he kissed his lady on the forehead, walked out of the room and closed the door behind him to join Silas and Arys. Cliff led Braxton and Perceon out of the hall while Elinor and Alton stood by the corner, talking in whispers. Any observer could tell Alton was shaken, but the tension on his shoulders seemed to dissipate a little when Elinor lifted their joined hands to press her lips on his knuckles, a tiny smile flickering over Alton’s face. Robb averted his gaze immediately and cleared his throat.

“Maester Luwin is really good at what he does,” he told Silas. “If he says it’s not dangerous, I doubt it is.”

“No I know.” Silas bit inside his cheek. “I know.”

“He’s not used to northern food,” Arys told Silas. “And you’ve been here for a month. And he goes on hunts yes, but that’s the only exercise he does. With all that eating and drinking as if he’s still a young man, it’ll catch up to him eventually.”

“He’s not travelling until he feels better, I don’t care what he says.”

“Of course not.”

“My mother can tell the cooks to make whatever dish he eats back in the Reach,” Robb said while Alton made his way to them. “Would it help?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Arys said. “That’s actually a good idea, I’ll ask Lady Stark. Thanks Robb.”

“Don’t mention it. I told you before, my lady’s family is my family.”

“Hey.” Alton greeted them. “Silas, do you know if there are any letters from the Reach that needs father’s attention? He mentioned an issue in one of the smaller fields, which one was it?”  

Silas gawked at him for a couple of seconds in complete silence, then scoffed a laugh and shook his head.

“I’m gonna walk away before I punch you,” he muttered and stormed out of the hallway without sparing him another glance. Arys raised his brows while Alton let out a breath, then threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

“What did I say now?” he asked Arys. “It’s my responsibility to step up while father is ill. What does Silas expect me to do?”

“Showing any sign of concern would be a good start.”

“Of course I’m concerned!” Alton defended himself. “Have you forgotten he’s my father as well?”

Arys shrugged his shoulders. “Have you?”

It seemed like Alton wanted to retort, but then he changed his mind and stomped away from them both, turning the corner that led to the stairs. Arys clicked his tongue, then gave Robb a grin.

“Welcome to the family.”

“Listen, I get it,” Robb said. “I really do, but he does have a point. That’s what he’s supposed to do right now as the heir, my father would expect the same of me if he were ill.”

Arys heaved a sigh, then leaned back to the wall and stole a look at the end of the hallway Silas had stormed off to.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I can’t help but agree with Perce sometimes. In our family, the gods chose the wrong son to be the firstborn.”

Thankfully his father’s meeting with Lord Glover hadn’t taken that long. Maester Luwin had said Lord Greensted was feeling much better after the draught he had given him, so Robb decided he would sit with Theon and Jon in the yard until his father sent for him again. He was pretty distracted from the conversation while he tried to figure out when he could see his lady, yet Theon’s comment about one of the girls he had danced with back at the wedding snapped his attention back to them, his head whipping up.

“Jon,” he cut Theon’s nonsense off while Grey Wind and Ghost playfully chased each other in the yard. “Has uh…has anyone caught your eye at the wedding?”

Jon blinked a couple of times, gawking at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Theon danced with people, so have you.”

“Barely.”

“But the whole Reach was here,” Robb said while Theon leaned back with a grin on his face. “And you know, since I’m wed now…”

“What, that means I’m supposed to wed as well?”

“Aye.” Robb nodded while Jon’s eyes widened. “Your time is coming.”

“My time is not coming!”

“I don’t understand why everyone is so terrified of marriage,” Robb mused while Theon gave him an incredulous look. “It’s the most perfect thing anyone ever came up with.”

“Just over a moon ago, you were sitting right here and whining about your betrothal,” Theon reminded him. “You were terrified.”

“I was not terrified!”

“Do you remember his face when you asked what he’d do if she turned out to be ugly?” Jon asked Theon, making him let out a laugh.

“I’ll remember it forever.”

“And look at me now,” Robb said. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I’m happy beyond words.”

“We got that Robb, you barely let the poor girl out of your bedchambers.”

Robb ignored the remark.

“What about Lady Malory?”

“She’s nice.”

“Who was that other lady you danced with, Snow?”

“Lady Florys,” Jon answered Theon. “She’s nice too.”

“Come on, there’s no way no one was to your liking.” Robb paused, frowning at him. “Jon, is there…is there a lady already? Here in the North?”

Jon averted his gaze to look around the yard, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just because you’re in love, doesn’t mean everyone else has to be in love.”

“What my lady and I have is deeper than such simple terms,” Robb said. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“A lot of girls caught my interest at the wedding,” Theon said and Robb grimaced.

“That’s no news, Theon.”

“No seriously, there was this really pretty one, from House Lyberr or something?”

Jon’s eyes caught something in the yard, but by the time Robb turned his head to see what he was looking at, the only familiar person in the yard was Silas who was making his way into the keep. Jon pursed his lips, then feigned a cough and stood up.

“I’ll find you two later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have this—thing.” Jon motioned vaguely in the direction of the keep. “I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

He walked away from them without so much as a glance back, and both Robb and Theon tilted their heads at the same time while Jon caught up to Silas.

“We would know if he had a lady, would we not?” Robb asked and Theon hummed.

“For sure.”

“You think he’d tell us?”

“Even if he didn’t, it’d be very obvious,” Theon said. “He’d probably follow her around like a lost pup.” 

Robb shrugged his shoulders and scratched at Grey Wind’s head when the direwolf stepped closer to him.

“I guess you’re right,” he muttered as Silas and Jon entered the keep. “I mean, when has Jon ever been subtle?”

Later in the afternoon he had to drop by Wintertown per his father’s request, and by the time he was back, it was nearly dinner time. He caught the sight of his lady talking to Wylla Manderly after one glance into the Great Hall—he was beginning to think finding her in a crowd was a skill he was developing fast—so he immediately made his way inside, gave Wylla an acknowledging nod and touched the small of his lady’s back. She was quick to excuse herself, a happy smile lighting up her face before she tugged his wrist so that he would follow her to a far corner of the hall, away from the crowd.

“You’re back!”

“I am.” Robb cupped her cheek in his palm and kiss her temple, her sweet scent like a remedy to the torturous hours he had spent away from her presence. “How’s your father?”

“He’s alright, but—” She frowned up at him with a pout. “Arys all but kicked me out of the room!”

Robb had to control the laugh threatening to climb his throat upon her petulant whine. “Did he?”

“Maester Luwin was being so nice, letting me stay there while my father slept, and then Arys came and said father had to rest and I had to leave. And I wasn’t even making any noise while he slept, I was just sitting there reading my book!”

The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Is that right?”

“And Cliff took his side.”

Robb shook his head in a solemn manner. “Betrayal.”

“It really is!” she insisted and huffed out. “Anyway, what about you? What did you do whole day? I asked around when I left my father’s chambers, and Sansa said you had gone to Wintertown.”

“My father sent me,” he said. “And hey, guess what I’ve learned before that?”

“Hm?”

“Jon isn’t in love with anyone.”

She tilted her head. “…Oh?”

“I asked him,” he said. “Which wasn’t even needed, to be honest. I would know if a lady caught his interest.”

She raised her brows, then blinked a couple of times and pursed her lips like she was trying not to smile.

“Would you?”

“Certainly.”

“So uh—” She stole a look around the room as if she was trying to find a familiar face before she turned her glances to him. “So no one at the wedding was to his liking?”

“He’s not the type to—no offense to the southerners in the room,” he added with a grin, “but he’s not the type to like a southern lady.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Very well. Not a southern lady then.”

Robb let his gaze slip to her lips, then down to the soft swell of her chest, pushed up by the tight laces of her gown. His hand found hers again so that he could drag his fingertips over her soft palm, his mind far away from the hall and the crowd, the memory of her gasping underneath him—

She dug her nails into his hand as if warning him.

“Robb.”

He gave her a mischievous grin. “I’m not doing anything.”

“I can see you doing something in your mind.”

That coaxed a chuckle out of him while he reached out to play with the small pendant of her necklace. “And what am I doing in my mind?”

“Something very improper.”

“Funny, I remember you singing a very different tune last night—”

She flailed her hands, her eyes widening. “Shh!”

“Or this morning—” He gave a laugh when she pushed at his arm and he caught her hand, pulling her closer to him. “I’m merely reminiscing!”

“My lord.” A servant approached him. “Your father requests your presence.”

Robb managed to not groan in annoyance before he found his eyes fell upon his father who was now talking to one of the few remaining southern guests. He had no idea who the lady was, but he nodded anyway and laced his fingers through his lady’s.

“Your father didn’t request my presence,” she reminded him and he winked at her.

“I could barely see you today, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

When they reached his father, he only gave them a nod of acknowledgement before he turned to the lady.

“Thank you for your kind words, Lady Bulwer.”

“Of course!” Lady Bulwer said. “May the seven give him rest. Jon Arryn may have had his flaws as the Hand of the King, but the gods know any man would crack under such pressure.”

Robb looked from Lady Bulwer to his father, whose annoyance flashed on his face at the mention of Jon Arryn’s flaws. His lady rested her head on his arm, a pleasant warmth spreading in his chest at the simple gesture, distracting him from the conversation.

“The King’s Landing could make a septon question his ways, and I for one believe as long as the Hand does his job, his vices should be judged by no—”

“Lady Bulwer!” His lady gave her a bright smile. “How is Ser Medwick? My brother talks of him being such a worthy opponent in the jousts, yet we haven’t seen him for a year! He’s alright, I hope?”  

Lady Bulwer stared at her for a couple of seconds as if she was taken by surprise, and opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again and cleared her throat.

“He’s alright.”

“Ser Loras was asking the other day how long his vacation would last,” his lady stated. “He’s such a beloved knight among his peers, they’re all looking forward to his return I’m sure.”

Lady Bulwer let out a nervous laugh.

“He is,” she said and feigned a gasp. “Oh! I see that my husband is looking for me, if you’ll excuse me.”

She made her way to the other side of the hall, and both Robb and his father turned to look at his lady at the same time. She raised her brows at the sight of their quizzical expressions, then shrugged her shoulders.

“What?”

“What was that?” Robb asked and her lady rolled her eyes.

“I just don’t believe one should be throwing around the word ‘vices’ when her own firstborn and heir owes money to every single person in the Reach because he loves gambling too much,” she said silkily. “To the point that he had to be sent away to the Free Cities so as not to bring any more dishonor to his house.”

His father looked as if he was battling with a smile and his lady turned her head when Sansa called out her name.

“Oh I almost forgot, Sansa wanted to talk to me about her new gown,” she said and pecked Robb on the cheek. “I’ll be back. Have a nice evening, Lord Stark. Do send for me if anyone else from the Reach bothers you.”

She walked away from them, her steps light and smooth like a dance, the skirt of her pretty gown gliding on the floor. Robb felt a grin curl his lips and his father let out a chuckle, then clasped his hand on Robb’s shoulder.

“Your lady wife yields a dagger behind her words.”  

Robb nodded, still grinning.

“She does,” he said, unable to drag his gaze away from her. “I think she is the best warrior in the realm when it comes to that.”