Pairing: Fezco O'Neill x Dealer!Reader
Summary: Fez is getting a delivery from a new supplier - you. You're not what he expected, but he's pleasantly surprised.
Themes & Warnings: drugs, guns, reader is a dealer, reader is lowkey a gun toting princess, fem!reader who's super girly, mentions of death, blood, fluff, falling for each other, slight angst
Efficiency. It was what you preached and practiced.
Getting a job done and doing it well was your forte. You'd picked this hustle up from an old mentor - a man named Dante who'd found you at fifteen, all sharp elbows with a clever tongue. You were quiet, alone, and running nickel bags to college kids who underestimated you. He'd seen something in you instantly. Potential beyond how pretty you were.
He'd taught you everything. How to cut product without compromising its quality, how to spot a narc from a mile away, and even how to smile at men while palming a blade. With his help, you walked into rooms and owned them before anyone could even question your place there. He'd been a business man first, a criminal second, and had drilled it all into your young, impressionable skull.
Look the part, baby girl. Nobody suspects a little girl wearing pink.
Luckily, you didn't just look the part. You were that girl.
Even before, you'd always had painted nails, immaculately done hair, and clean shoes. Your mother had been absent in the ways that raised a proper girl, but she'd left you with one thing: understanding that looking put-together was the way to live. People treated you differently when you looked soft and expensive. They held doors. They underestimated your intelligence. They saw a pretty face and bright colors and assumed you were fragile.
You let them.
The femininity wasn't a costume you put on for the job. It was you. The acrylics, the gold hoops, the lip gloss that left sticky prints on coffee cups and cheeks alike, all of it was genuine. You just happened to have learned that it was also deeply, profoundly useful. Men saw pink and thought harmless. They saw a skirt and thought easy. They saw you smile and never once clocked the calculation behind it.
Dante had recognized the weapon you already carried. All he did was sharpen it.
He was gone now. Two years dead, buried in a plot you still visited on his birthday. His death had been a lesson all its own. Someone in the inner circle had gotten greedy. Someone had mistaken Dante's age for weakness. You'd corrected that assumption personally.
Afterward, there was no question of who would take over. The men who'd worked under Dante grumbled at first. A woman, barely twenty, with a closet full of pastels and a perfume collection that cost more than their cars. But you restructured the operation from the ground up. Streamlined supply lines. Cut dead weight. Within a year, your product was the cleanest on the East Coast, and your reputation was immaculate. You didn't start conflicts, but you ended them with surgical precision. Everyone who mattered knew: you were not to be fucked with.
Now you were expanding. East Highland was fresh territory: a quiet suburb full of bored kids with trust funds and insufficient supervision. A goldmine. Through the grapevine, you'd heard about a local dealer worth knowing. Fezco O'Neill. Quiet, professional, ran his business out of a convenience store with his younger brother. No turf disputes, no attention, no mess.
Your kind of people.
You'd arranged the first meeting through a mutual contact. Tuesday night. Behind the store. After closing. Samples for cash. Straightforward. Clean.
Fezco, however, had never heard of you. To be quite honest, he was suspicious. He was reluctant to even meet with you.
Your messages didn't come through with a name. They came through with initials, so he didn't even know who to expect. Whether you were a man or a woman, trouble like Mouse or harmless like Laurie.
The first text had come through three weeks ago.
Heard you're the man to talk to in East Highland. I've got product. Clean. Consistent. I'm looking to expand. - D.
No name. No number he recognized. Just a letter and a business proposition. Fez had stared at his phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, before showing it to Ash.
"The fuck is 'D'?" Ash had asked, not looking up from his Playstation he was playing.
"That's what I'm tryna figure out."
"You text back?"
"Nah. Not yet."
He'd waited two days. Let the message sit. In his experience, people who pushed too fast were either desperate or dangerous, and he didn't have time for either. However, the follow-up never came. No double-text. No pressure. Just silence, patient and professional. That, more than anything, made him curious.
So he'd responded. Short. Careful.
Who put you on to me?
The reply came within the hour. Mutual friend. Used to run product through the East Coast. Said you were solid.
No name-dropping. No sloppiness. Just enough to let him know it wasn't a setup. Fez respected that.
Still. A new supplier was a risk. His last connect had flaked, leaving him scrambling to keep up with demand. He needed someone reliable, but need made you vulnerable. Need made you sloppy. And Fezco O'Neill did not do sloppy.
Over the following weeks, the messages stayed sparse. All business. You proposed a meeting, neutral ground, after hours, his territory so he'd feel comfortable. You offered to bring samples first, no commitment. When he mentioned he ran the operation with his brother, you didn't flinch or question it. Just acknowledged it and moved on.
Tuesday night came slow and heavy, the air thick with the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer even after dark. Fez had sent Ash to close up the store while he waited out back, leaning against the hood of the Cadillac. A blunt burned between his fingers, more for something to do than anything else. He wasn't nervous, exactly. Just... alert.
The text had said midnight. It was 11:57.
"You think they're gonna show?" Ash appeared at his elbow, quiet as always. The kid moved like a ghost when he wanted to.
"Three minutes early," Fez said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Ain't late yet."
"Could still be a cop."
"Could be."
"You keep saying that."
"'Cause it's true."
Ash didn't respond. Just crossed his arms and stared out at the dark parking lot, his small face unreadable. Fez sometimes wondered what it must be like inside his brother's head. If he was scared. If he ever got tired. Ash never showed it. He just stood there, solid as a pit bull, ready to bite if things went sideways.
Headlights cut through the darkness.
Not a cop car - too old, too sleek. A Mustang. Cherry red. Vintage. It rolled into the lot with a low, throaty purr, chrome catching the flickering glow of the broken streetlight. Fez straightened slightly, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his sneaker.
"Nice car," Ash muttered.
"Yeah."
The engine cut. Silence rushed back in. Through the tinted windshield, Fez could just make out a silhouette. Small. Waiting. After a long moment, the driver's side door opened.
And you stepped out.
The first thing he registered was the heels. Strappy. Pink. Six inches, easy. The kind of shoes that announced themselves before you did, clicking sharp against the asphalt like a countdown. His gaze traveled up, long legs, a white dress that skimmed your thighs, a coat the color of cotton candy cinched tight at the waist. Gold glittered at your ears and wrists. Your hair fell in soft waves past your shoulders, and even in the dim light he could see your nails, perfectly shaped and painted the same shade of pink as the coat.
You looked like a cupcake. Like a trap.
"What the fuck," Ash breathed.
Fez didn't answer. His brain was still buffering, trying to reconcile the professional, clipped messages with the woman walking toward them. You moved like you owned the parking lot, the night, the whole damn city. Chin up. Shoulders back. A small smile playing at the corners of your mouth, like you knew exactly what he was thinking.
You stopped a few feet away, close enough to talk but far enough to run. Smart.
"Fezco?" Your voice was sweeter than he'd imagined. Soft. Warm. Like honey poured over steel.
He realized he hadn't said anything yet. He cleared his throat.
"Yeah."
You extended your manicured hand, the small smile widening into a Cheshire grin. Lip gloss shimmered in the moonlight.
"I'm D." You tilted your head, waiting for him to shake.
He took your hand. Your grip was firmer than he'd expected, your palm warm against his. The acrylics pressed lightly into the back of his hand-not painful, just present. A reminder that the softness had edges.
"D," he repeated, letting go. "That your name?"
"D stands for something else." Your eyes glittered with amusement. "I'm Y/n. My old mentor was Dante. That's where the D comes from."
Fez filed that away. Dante. The name rang a faint bell, something from years back, whispers in the kind of circles that didn't make it to polite conversation. A businessman. A legend in certain circles.
"Dante," he said slowly. "Heard of him. Didn't know he had a.. princess."
"Most people didn't." Your smile flickered, just for a second, something softer and sadder bleeding through before you tucked it away. "He liked it that way. Kept me out of the spotlight until I was ready."
"And now?"
"Now I'm ready."
Ash shifted his weight behind Fez, a silent reminder that they were still standing in a dark parking lot. Fez cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the back door.
"Come inside. We can talk."
You followed him, heels clicking steadily on the asphalt, completely unbothered by the dim lighting or the barred windows or the way Ash kept glaring at you like you might sprout fangs. Inside the store, you draped your pink coat over a dusty chair near the counter and turned to face them both, hands clasped loosely in front of you. Patient. Poised.
"So." You looked from Fez to Ash and back again. "You've been having supply issues. Your last connect flaked. You've been buying smaller, paying more, and stretching product thinner than you'd like. That about sum it up?"
Fez tensed. "You been asking around about me?"
You scoffed, like it was obvious. "Of course I have. Running this business, you gotta know your clients inside and out," you hummed, examining your nails. "If you're not doing that, that's probably why your people flake out. You're not choosing the right ones."
Fez opened his mouth. Closed it. Behind him, Ash made a sound that might've been a laugh. It was stifled quick, but Fez heard it anyway.
He didn't have a rebuttal. You weren't wrong. His last connect had been a recommendation from someone he'd trusted, and that trust had blown up in his face. He'd been so focused on keeping the day-to-day running that he'd let his vetting slip. It stung to hear it from a stranger in pink stilettos, but the sting meant it was true.
"Aight," he admitted, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. "Fair."
Your eyes flicked up from your nails, something like approval glinting in them. "At least you can take criticism. That's rare."
"It's rare 'cause most people don't like being told they're messing up."
"Most people stay messy, then." You shrugged. "Their loss."
You unclasped your tiny lipstick-shaped purse and pulled out a velvet pouch, sliding it across the counter toward him. The movement was casual, practiced, like you'd done it a thousand times.
"Sample. On the house. See what you're missing."
Fez nodded at Ash. The kid stepped forward, still watching you with those sharp, suspicious eyes, and took the pouch. He disappeared into the back room without a word.
Silence filled the room. Fez's blue eyes, missing nothing, analyzed you thoroughly. You stared back, crossing your arms. Without asking, you took a seat in the chair that held your jacket, waiting patiently.
"How old are you?" Fez asked.
You answered honestly. Honesty was important.
"Nineteen." You hummed.
Nineteen. Fez didn't know why that surprised him; maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the weight of someone who'd been doing this for decades instead of years. But no.
"Huh," he said.
"Huh?" You tilted your head, amused. "What's that mean?"
"Means you're younger than I thought."
"You're what, twenty? Don't act like you got years on me."
"Twenty-one." He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms to mirror you. "Just figured someone runnin' an operation like yours would be... older."
"Dante started teaching me at fifteen. I've been doing this for four years." You examined your cuticles, unbothered. "Age doesn't mean much in this line of work."
The back door creaked open. Ash reappeared, velvet pouch in hand. He caught Fez's eye and nodded once. Clean. Good quality. The tension in Fez's shoulders eased a fraction.
"Told you," you said, not smug, just satisfied.
"How much?"
You named your price. Fair. Better than fair.
"That includes delivery," you added. "I come to you. Every Tuesday. Same time, same place. No middlemen, no runners. Just me."
"Why?"
You blinked. "Why what?"
"Why you sellin' to me?" He gestured at the store, at you, at this whole situation. "You could sell anywhere. Why me?"
You shrugged, grinning.
"I liked what I heard about you. Reliable. Plus, no one raising a kid in this world could be some flaky pussy."
Ash snorted. Actually snorted. A sharp, surprised sound that he tried to cover with a cough. Fez just stared at you for a second, caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to laughter.
Then the corner of his mouth tugged up despite himself. "That your professional assessment?"
"It's served me well so far." You leaned back in the chair, crossing your legs with the casual elegance of someone who'd just commented on the weather. "You'd be amazed how many people in this business turn out to be flaky pussies. It's an epidemic."
"That so."
"Tragic, really." You examined your nails, the picture of mock solemnity. "All these big tough dealers, and the second things get hard, they fold. And short you and hope you won't notice." Your eyes flicked up to meet his. "You didn't strike me as that type. Was I wrong?"
Fez held your gaze. "No."
"Didn't think so." You stood, smoothing down your dress, and extended your hand. "So. We got a deal?"
He took your hand. Firm grip. Warm palm. Acrylics pressing lightly against his skin.
"Yeah," he said. "We got a deal."
The deal was simple. Easy to commit to, even easier to follow through with. Every Tuesday night, you'd bring him what you had to offer, and he'd pay for it. Sometimes, you'd grab a snack from out front of the store and chat to him while he counted shit out. Sometimes you'd tease and fuck with Ashtray, who'd gotten used to you finally a couple of weeks ago when he'd realized you weren't some sparkly narc. You became friends, almost close friends. Fez respected you, Ash admired you (even though he'd never say that shit), and you had come to like both of them. Very much.
Maybe Fez more than you'd let yourself admit.
On occasion, you sat in the living room with him until 3AM, sharing a blunt and telling stories. You'd hear him laugh - actually laugh, not just a stifled chuckle. He'd tell you about his shitty childhood, his badass grandma that you reminded him of. He'd tell you about how much he loved Ashtray and wanted to see him succeed.
You'd exchange eye contact. The type you tried to ignore, but simultaneously couldn't. Tension. Heaviness, but still soft. You always told him to be safe when you left, and he'd always say he'd try his best. It was a promise, though, hidden behind Fez's standoffishness.
Today, shit was weird. Shit was concerning. Because you, normally polished and up-beat, were bruised and bloody.
The Mustang pulled up at the usual time, but you didn't get out right away. Fez noticed that first. He was leaning against the back door, a fresh blunt between his fingers, and the seconds stretched long enough that he started to straighten up, a prickle of unease creeping down his spine.
The door opened, and you stepped out. You didn't wear heels tonight - flats, scuffed at the toes, but still clean. Your hair was in a high bun, messy ringlets falling into your face rather than your usual roller curls. Your coat was still pink, but a red stain tainted the front. You wore makeup, as usual, but it didn't fully hide the split in your lip or the dark bruise blooming along your cheekbone.
Fez went very still.
"Oh shit," Ash said.
You walked toward them like nothing was different, but your usual stride was off. Slightly stiff. Favoring your right side.
"I'm fine," you said before either of them could ask. Your voice was steady. Tired, but steady.
"You're bleedin'," Fez said. His voice came out flatter than he meant it to.
"It's not my blood." You held up a hand, and he saw now that your knuckles were split and raw, the pretty pink polish chipped in places. "Mostly."
He stared at you. You stared back.
"Inside," he said. "Now."
You rolled your eyes. "Fezco, I'm fine. I have product to-"
"Don't give a fuck," his voice was as calm as usual, chill, but it held a different vibe. A firm, uptight vibe. "Get inside, Y/n. Now."
Surprise flickered across your face. But you didn't argue. You'd never heard Fez talk like that. It may have had something to do with you being a lady or you being a distributor with such high status, but he'd never used any firm tones. For the first time since they'd met you, you didn't have a smart remark ready. You just followed them inside, Ash locking the door after them.
Fez didn't stop walking until he was in the back room, the one with the worn couch and the old TV and the stacks of inventory that lined the walls. He turned to face you, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"Sit."
You sat. Not because you were scared of him - you weren't scared of anyone - but because the way he was looking at you made something in your chest twist. Concern. Real, genuine concern. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at you like that.
Ash hovered near the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. But he wasn't glaring anymore. His eyes kept darting to the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your coat. He was analyzing the damage.
And he was a little snitch.
"She ain't even putting any pressure on her right." He said, acknowledging the way your body leaned to the left like you were afraid to let your right ribs feel any pressure. "Somethin's under the coat."
You shot Ash a look. A warning. He didn't flinch, the little traitor.
Fez's gaze dropped to your torso, to the way you were holding yourself. The stiff, careful posture. The arm tucked just slightly against your right side. He'd been so focused on your face, your hands, the blood, that he hadn't noticed. But Ash had. Ash noticed everything.
"Take off the coat," Fez said.
"It's fine."
Fez moved, reaching for the right side of your pink coat, but before he could lay his fingers on it, you moved in retaliation. Your fingers wrapped around the gun in your thigh holster, tearing it out and pointing it towards the man. A Glock 19, sleek and packed.
It was supposed to deter him. To get him away. You were afraid of the concern, afraid of the care. It had been so long since someone gave a shit.
The only catch was that Fezco wasn't deterred. Your finger wasn't even near the trigger. You were just waving it around. He knew a scare tactic when he saw one, and you weren't particularly scary to him. Last week, you had literally been playing Crash Bandicoot with Ash on his Playstation.
He rolled his eyes.
"Put that shit away. 'Fore I take it from you."
Your grip tightened on the Glock. "Back off, Fezco."
"No."
The word was simple. Flat. He didn't even blink. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you like you were a kitten hissing at a bear.
"I'll shoot your-"
With an impatient yet passive grunt, he plucked the gun from your hand, clicking the safety on and tossing it onto the table behind him. He worked his jaw in annoyance, annoyance you'd never even seen him wear.
"You ain't shootin' shit. Take the coat off. I don't wanna have to do it and have you kickin' and screamin' and shit at midnight."
You stared at him. No one had ever disarmed you that easily. No one had ever dared try. And he'd done it like you were a child waving around a toy.
"Fez-"
"Y/n." His voice was still calm, still low, but there was steel underneath. "You're bleedin' through your shirt. You can barely stand straight. You just pointed a gun at me, which, by the way, we gonna talk about later. Right now, I need you to let me help you. Can you do that?"
Ash snickered from the doorway. "She really tried to shoot you."
"She didn't try shit. Finger wasn't even on the trigger." Fez didn't look away from you. "She's just scared."
"I'm not scared," you said, but your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.
Ash came forward. He sat on the couch next to you, his voice soft but still a bit raspy. His eyes were still locked onto you, but you couldn't meet them. The kid was too perceptive, just too smart.
"You are scared. We ain't gonna hurt you. But we don't want you bleedin' out in here."
His fingers inched forward. You looked up at the ceiling, purposefully trying to ignore what was happening. Trying to ignore that they were exploring your bleeding wounds, your vulnerabilities, and you had no idea what their intentions were. People always had intentions. They had since you were 15 - ulterior motives, reasons to do what they were doing. But you couldn't read theirs. And that was what scared you.
Ash slowly pulled the shoulder of your coat down. Complete silence fell upon the room.
Underneath, your white blouse was ruined. A dark red stain spread across the right side. The fabric was torn, and beneath the tear, wrapped haphazardly around your ribs, was a bandage. Amateur work. Uneven. Already soaking through. The tear in the fabric revealed the edge of the wound itself, jagged and still seeping.
Fez inhaled sharply through his nose. He didn't say anything. But his hands, still raised from taking your gun, curled into fists at his sides.
Ash was the one who broke the silence.
"That's a lot of blood," he said quietly. Not squeamish. Not scared. Just observing. Cataloging. Like he was memorizing every detail for later use.
"I know," you said. Your voice sounded far away, even to yourself.
Ash, gently working your arm out of the sleeve, let the coat fall. You were limp, accepting your fate.
"You were tryin' to do business with a stab wound. And it's not even bandaged right." Ash said. His tone was almost comical, a motherly lecture. But you honestly hurt too much to laugh. "Looks like shit. You're bleeding still. Bad."
"I was in a hurry," you muttered.
"A hurry to bleed out on our couch?"
"Didn't plan on bleeding out. Planned on dropping off product and going home."
Ash gave you a look. It was the kind of look a disappointed parent might give a child who'd done something particularly stupid. Coming from a fourteen-year-old with a teardrop tattoo, it was almost surreal.
"Dumbest shit I've ever heard," he said.
Fez still hadn't spoken. He was staring at the wound, at the soaked-through bandage, at the jagged edges of torn skin visible through the rip in your blouse. When he finally looked up at your face, his expression was unreadable.
"Ash," he said. "Get the suture kit. And clean towels."
Ash slid off the couch and disappeared down the hall. Fez moved closer, crouching in front of you again. He reached for the hem of your blouse, then paused, eyes meeting yours.
"Gotta take this off too," he said. "Can't fix you through the shirt."
You hesitated. It wasn't modesty - you'd lost that years ago, in and out of motel rooms and back-alley patch-ups. It was the vulnerability. The exposure. The fact that once the shirt came off, there was nothing left to hide behind.
But Fez was waiting. Patient. His hands hovering, not touching. Letting you decide.
"Okay," you said finally. "Just... do it."
He was careful. So careful it made your throat tight. He helped you lift your arms, the right one barely moving, the pain too sharp, and eased the ruined blouse over your head. His eyes stayed on the wound, clinical and focused, never wandering.
Underneath, the bandage was even worse than it had looked through the shirt. Wrapped too loose in some places, too tight in others. The blood had soaked through multiple layers. And the wound itself - when Fez gently peeled back the edge of the bandage - was ugly. Jagged. Still oozing.
"Who did this?" Fez asked. His voice was calm. Dangerously calm.
"Fez."
He sighed, looking up at you. His eyes held a message - no more bullshit.
"You gonna tell me who did this? Or do I gotta test out my detective skills 'n shit?"
"Why does it matter who did it?"
Silence for a moment.
"'Cuz I'm gonna kill his ass."
The words hung in the air. Flat. Certain. Like he was commenting on the weather.
You blinked. "You're not killing anyone."
"The hell I'm not."
"Fezco."
"Y/n." He said your name the same way you'd said his. A mirror. A challenge. "Somebody put a hole in your side. You think I'm just gonna let that slide?"
"It's handled."
"Handled means he's still breathin'."
"He's got two bullets in his leg and a broken nose. He's not breathing easy."
"Not good enough."
Ash hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. His eyes flicked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. "Nah, Y/n, that motherfucker is going in the ground. Wouldn't be right if not."
You turned your head to look at him, ignoring the spike of pain the movement caused. "Ash, you're fourteen."
"Age ain't got nothing to do with it." He shrugged, casual as anything. "Someone stabs you, they don't get to walk around after. That's just how it works."
"That's not-"
"You shot him twice and he's still breathing. That's a loose end." Ash's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining basic math to someone who wasn't getting it. "Loose ends get people killed. You know that. Fez knows that. I know that. Only person who don't seem to know that is the guy who stabbed you, and he's about to find out the hard way."
"You ain't comin'," Fez said without looking at his brother.
"I'm definitely coming."
"You're staying here with Y/n."
"She don't need a babysitter. She's got a gun."
"She just pointed that gun at me ten minutes ago. She's clearly not thinkin' straight."
"I'm right here," you said.
Both of them ignored you.
"If I stay here, who's gonna watch your back?" Ash crossed his arms. "You always say never go in alone. I heard you tell Rue that. I heard you tell Mouse that. Now you're gonna go after some guy who already stabbed one person tonight and you're gonna do it solo? That's stupid."
"He's got a point," you muttered.
"I said stay out of this."
"You're not my boss either," Ash shot back. "You're my brother. That means we do this together. Same as everything else."
The room went quiet. Fez stared at Ash. Ash stared back. Neither of them blinked.
Finally, Fez exhaled through his nose. "Fine. But you stay behind me the whole time. You don't move unless I say move. And if anything goes sideways, you run. You don't look back. You understand me?"
"Understood."
"I mean it, Ash. You run."
"I said understood." Ash stood, brushing off his jeans. "We going tonight?"
"Nah. Tomorrow. Let him sit with those bullets in his leg for a minute." Fez finally looked back at you. "You got an address?"
You should've said no. You should've told them to drop it, to let you handle your own mess. That was what you always did. What you'd been doing since you were fifteen.
But you looked at Fez, at the steady certainty in his eyes, the way his hands were still curled into fists, the way he'd stitched you up without hesitation and talked about killing for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then you looked at Ash, at the fourteen-year-old who'd held your hand while you bled, who'd called you stupid with the affection of a brother, who was now calmly discussing a murder like it was a weekend errand.
"There's a warehouse on Fifth and Darrow," you said quietly. "Industrial district. Old meatpacking plant. He uses the basement level as a hideout."
Fez nodded, filing the information away. "Anyone with him?"
"The two guys who ran earlier might have circled back. Couldn't say for sure."
"We'll handle it."
You sighed.
"If you're going to do this, you do it clean. No mess. No attention. I meant what I said earlier, I don't need a murder investigation screwing up my supply chain."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "You worried about your supply chain? Right now?"
"Business doesn't stop just because I got stabbed."
Ash snorted. "She's got a point."
He reached for the suture kit again, threading the needle with steady hands. "Don't move. This is gonna sting." You let him work. The first stitch went in, sharp and burning, and your hand found Ash's again. He held on without complaint.
"You know," you said through gritted teeth, staring at the ceiling, "most business partners don't offer to kill people for each other."
"We ain't most business partners," Fez said.
"No. I guess we're not."
Another stitch. Another spike of pain. Ash's grip tightened around your fingers.
"When this is over," you said, "I'm buying you both dinner. Something nice. Not gas station snacks."
"We like gas station snacks."
"Something healthier than gas station snacks."
"That's ain't a high bar," Ash said.
"Shut up."
"You shut up. You're the one who got stabbed."
"I didn't get stabbed. I got cut with a broken bottle. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Stabbing implies precision. This was messy."
Fez tied off the last stitch and sat back on his heels, shaking his head. "You the only person I know who would argue while actively bleeding out."
"Not actively bleeding out anymore. You fixed it." You looked down at the fresh bandage, the neat row of stitches beneath.
He shrugged. "Don't mention it."
"I mean it. Both of you." You looked at Ash, then back at Fez. "I'm not good at this stuff. People doing things for me, actually giving a fuck." You stopped. Swallowed. "You didn't have to do any of this."
Ash let go of your hand and stood, stretching. "Can we stop with the emotional stuff? I'm tryna go to bed. We got a busy day tomorrow."
"Murder is a busy day," you said, shrugging.
"It's on the to-do list." He headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Night, Y/n. Don't bleed on the couch. It's ugly enough already."
"Night, Ash."
He disappeared down the hall. Fez lingered, gathering the bloody supplies, tossing them into a trash bag.
"You know he likes you," Fez said quietly. "He don't offer to kill people for just anyone."
You snorted, letting yourself lean back onto the couch. Your head lolled against the ugly floral pillows, watching Fez with somewhat relaxed eyes.
"Didn't think murder was a love language. This business teaches you a lot of things."
He sighed, sitting down next to you. Ignoring the blood smeared into the cushions. The silence, once heavy, was now comfortable. These nights, here in Fez's presence, were normally the most relaxed you got to be.
"Nah. It don't teach you nothing good." He admitted, his eyes finally moving over to you. The weight of his gaze was different now. Softer. He wasn't looking at the wound or the bruises or the blood on your ruined blouse. He was looking at you. Just you.
"Dante taught me a lot," you said quietly. "Some of it was good, some of it wasn't, but he taught me how to survive. I don't know if that's the same thing."
"Survival ain't living."
"You sound like a fortune cookie."
"I'm serious." He shifted on the couch, turning to face you. "You spend too much time survivin' and doin' nothing else. You push away all the real shit about you."
You didn't have an answer for that. You'd been running for so long, running Dante's operation, running from enemies, running from the grief of losing the only father figure you'd ever known, that you'd never stopped to think about what came after. What happened when the running was over.
"Maybe I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"How to be a person." You swallowed. "Y/n. Whoever that is."
Fez didn't say anything. He just waited patiently and steadily. The way he always was, without being frantic or angry.
"Dante used to say I was born for this," you continued. "Said I had a gift, and I do, I think. I'm really good at this shit. But sometimes I wonder if I'm good at anything else. If there's anything else left."
"There is."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." He shifted closer, his knee brushing yours. "I seen it. When you're playin' Crash Bandicoot with Ash and you let him win 'cause you know his ego can't take another loss. And you bring those fancy snacks from the organic store even though you know I got a whole aisle of chips right here. You talk about Dante and your voice gets all sappy and shit, like you're still that fifteen-year-old girl he pulled off the street."
"I don't let Ash win. He's just better than me at Crash Bandicoot."
"Bullshit. You let him win every time. I ain't stupid. I notice everything," Fez said, as if reading your mind. "About you. Always have, even the sad shit."
The words hung in the air between you. Heavy. Meaningful. Your heart was beating faster than it should've been for someone who'd just lost a concerning amount of blood. You swallowed hard, feeling his blue eyes on your face. You couldn't ignore how your chest felt. Like when you were in 8th grade and you were meeting up with your crush for your first kiss.
You turned and met his eyes. You thought your heart would explode, but he was just too intoxicating.
"I notice you, too. At first, it was just business. Now it's.." You couldn't finish.
"Personal." He finished for you, his voice a low, solid sound.
Yeah." The word came out barely above a whisper. "Personal."
He didn't move. Didn't push. Just sat there, knee brushing yours, those blue eyes steady and patient. Waiting for you to decide what came next. You both knew what was being said. It was an exchange of unspoken words through the spoken ones. A language that only the two of you understood.
It was in the way he'd taken your gun without flinching. The way he'd stitched you up with hands steadier than any doctor's. The way he'd promised to kill a man for you and meant it. The way he was looking at you now, like you were something precious. Something worth protecting and waiting for, and a language written on a wall that he understood completely.
"Dante always told me there was nothing personal about business." You said quietly.
His lip quirked up a little, that lazy smile that he wore. Usually, when he was high. But there was no weed involved. He was high on something else.
"I don't think this is business no more, ma."
You exhaled, your eyes still on his face. The steadiness on it, the lack of panic. As if he hadn't just signed himself up to kill for you, and wasn't subtly admitting he wanted to be more than business partners. You fought the urge to shudder.
"I'm scared. To be honest." Your voice was small.
"Of what?"
"This," you chuckled breathlessly. "It's dangerous. It's wrong to feel this.. when you're dealing drugs and running around with people who could kill you. This will kill you quicker than any gun."
Fez cleared his throat.
"Like I said before.. Business got you so outta touch. You a real person, not just a distributor," he said, his hands shoved into his pockets, as if to resist touching.
You stared at him. At his hands, buried in his hoodie like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you. At the tension in his jaw, the way he was fighting every instinct to close the distance between you.
"Dante-"
"Dante's dead." His voice was gentle, but firm. "I ain't tryna be disrespectful. I know he was like a father to you. I know he taught you everything. But he's gone, Y/n. And you're still here, runnin' his operation and killin' it. But you ain't livin'. You're just... survivin'."
"Survival kept me alive."
"Survival kept you alone." He pulled one hand from his pocket, gesturing at the room around them. "Look where you at. It's two in the morning. You got stabbed. You showed up at my store 'cause some part of you knew that this was the safest place you could be. Not a hospital. Not your own crib. Here. With me and Ash." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That ain't survival. It's some shit you been fightin' 'cause you think it makes you weak."
"What is it, then?"
"Trust." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "You trust us. You trust me. And that scares you 'cuz you think it's wrong."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because he was right. He was right about all of it.
"I ain't gonna lie and say this life ain't dangerous," he continued. "It is. People die, they go to prison. I know that's some scary ass business. But pushin' everyone away don't make you safer. It just makes you lonely. And you been lonely a long time."
"How do you know?"
"'Cause I was too. Before Ash and Rue. And before you." He pulled his other hand from his pocket and reached for you, slow, giving you time to pull away. "I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you. And I ain't gonna let you push me away 'cause you think carin' about someone is wrong. It's the only thing that makes this shit worth it."
You looked at his outstretched hand. Scarred knuckles. Blunt nails. The hand that had taken your gun, stitched you up and held you steady.
"You're really not gonna let this go, are you?"
"Nope."
"And if I try to push you away?"
"I'mma push back."
"If I tell you it's too dangerous?"
"I'll tell you you're wrong."
"You're annoying," you whispered.
"Yeah. You've mentioned that before."
"I'm serious, Fez. This is-"
"Dangerous, whatever else. I heard you the first time." He still hadn't lowered his hand. "You done?"
"Done?"
"Done listin' reasons we shouldn't do this. 'Cause I got a whole list of reasons we should, and my list is longer."
You shook, but you finally lowered your fingers into his. You intertwined them through his calloused ones, feeling his warmth and feeling the certainty of all his words. His words were comforting, solid, and never panicked. His touch was exactly the same - the most sure thing you'd ever felt.
He looked down at your hand, brushing a small smudge of blood off the back of it. He smoothed a finger over your damaged knuckles.
"'S easy now, right?" He said softly. "Lettin' yourself feel shit instead of fightin'."
You stared at your joined hands, at his thumb tracing gentle circles over your bruised skin. At the way his palm dwarfed yours. At the scars on his hand.
You didn't respond. Instead, you started to cry.
You knew why the tears were gathering. Not because Fez had done something wrong. You were crying because of Dante, you were crying because you got stabbed, and you were crying because your favorite silky white blouse was completely ruined. You took a breath of air, looking up at the ceiling, refusing to let the tears drop from your eyes.
You were crying because you felt safe enough to do it.
"Fuck." You said, a watery, breathless laugh puffing from your lips.
Fez, his face developing a slight frown, gently turned you towards him a bit more.
"You hurtin'?" He was worried about the stab wound. Maybe the bottle had hit something more important than they'd thought.
You sniffled, pressing down on your eyes with the heels of your hands. You almost didn't want to answer. It was so embarrassing, you were worried he wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand that beneath the distributor was still a girl who cared about her clothes.
"C'mon, ma. Talk to me."
You laughed again, though it was tearful.
"My blouse. It's ruined."
Silence. You couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see the confusion, the judgment, the reminder that you were supposed to be tougher than this. You were the boss. The distributor. The girl who'd shot a man twice and driven herself to a convenience store with a hole in her side. And here you were, crying over fabric.
The blouse, ripped and covered in blood, was at the other end of the couch, discarded.
Fez was still quiet, gears turning.
"We can get you a new one. Tomorrow." He said softly. Not judgmental. Not questioning or rude.
Another sniffle, then a sob.
"But that one.. It was designer."
Fez looked at the ruined blouse. Then back at you. His expression didn't change, still soft, still patient, but something flickered in his eyes. Understanding.
"Designer," he repeated. "Like, fancy designer? The kind with the names?"
"The kind with the names," you confirmed, your voice wobbling. "Vintage Dior. Fall 2004 collection. I found it at this little shop in SoHo. The owner didn't know what she had. I paid two hundred dollars for something worth ten times that."
Silence again.
Another string of sobs, embarrassed and full of mixed emotions, dribbled from your lips. Your face was officially wet. Then an arm, nudging you closer.
"Shh, c'mere."
You went. You didn't have the strength to resist, didn't have the walls left to keep him at arm's length. You let him pull you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you careful and warm, mindful of your bandaged ribs. Your face pressed into the soft fabric of his hoodie, and you cried. Really cried. The kind of crying you hadn't done since you were a kid, since before Dante, since before you learned that tears were a luxury you couldn't afford.
He didn't tell you it was okay or that it was just a blouse or that you were being silly. He just held you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. Solid. Calm.
"I got you," he murmured. "Let it out. I got you."
"I'm sorry," you hiccuped into his chest. "I'm getting snot on your hoodie."
"I got other hoodies."
"It's a nice hoodie."
"It's from Target. Cost me twelve bucks. You can ruin ten of 'em if you want."
A watery laugh escaped you. "Target doesn't sell twelve-dollar hoodies."
"Okay, it was fifteen. You caught me." His hand smoothed over your hair.
You let yourself cry for the blouse and the broken bottle and the two years of loneliness. For Dante, who'd never see what you'd built. For the girl you'd been at fifteen. For every night you'd patched yourself up alone. And for the fact that you weren't alone anymore.
And through all of it, Fez held you. Steady. Patient. A solid anchor in the storm.
When the sobs finally faded into hiccups, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. His hoodie was damp. His eyes were soft. He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little." You sniffled. "My face is a mess."
"You look beautiful."
"I have mascara all over my cheeks."
"Yeah. Beautiful."
"You're lying."
"I ain't never lied to you." He said it simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Not once. Not gonna start now."
You stared at him. At the freckles. The scar. The steady blue eyes that had seen straight through every wall you'd ever built.
"What did I do to deserve you?" you whispered.
"Nah." He shook his head. "That's my line."
You turned slightly to wipe your face, smudging your mascara further.
"I should let you sleep. You and Ash have shit to do tomorrow."
Fez looked down at you, cradled in his arms like an injured bird. He looked over at the blood soaked blouse, and immediately, his mind was made.
"You ain't driving home tonight."
You scoffed, a small smirk forming on your face.
"This is a business partnership. You're not my boss." You asserted, although weakly.
Fez hummed, still rubbing soft circles into your back. "Told you it ain't business no more. And Ash swiped your car keys earlier, so you ain't leavin' anyway."
You pulled back just enough to stare at him, your mouth falling open. "He what?"
"Swiped your keys. When he sat down next to you. Kid's got quick hands. Learned from his grandma."
"That little-" You looked toward the hallway where Ash had disappeared, then back at Fez. The smirk on his face was infuriatingly calm. "You were never gonna let me leave."
"Guilty."
You rolled your eyes. "Why?"
"I want you to stay where I can see you." He said it without embarrassment, without hesitation. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You're hurtin', not as strong. Somebody's still out there who wants to hurt you more. If you're here, I know you're safe. That's all."
You looked at him. At the steady certainty in his eyes. At the way his arm was still wrapped around you, holding you close but not too tight. At the ugly plaid couch and the flickering TV and the stacks of inventory lining the walls. You softened.
"You have anywhere for me to sleep besides the bloody couch?" You said quietly, but not angrily, giving up on fighting.
He cleared his throat. "I can take it. You can have my room. 'Long as you don't mind guns. A lot of 'em."
"I'm not kicking you out of your bed."
"You ain't kickin' me out. I'm offerin'." He shifted, already moving to stand. "C'mon. I'll show you where it is. Got clean sheets and everything. Put 'em on last week."
You frowned. "You're really giving me your bed."
"Yeah."
"And you're gonna sleep on the couch."
"Yeah."
"On the bloody couch."
"I'll throw a towel over it. It'll be fine." He wiggled his fingers. "You gonna take my hand, or we gonna debate furniture all night?"
You took his hand. He pulled you up gently, careful of your ribs, steadying you when you swayed slightly on your feet.
"Easy," he murmured. "You lost a lot of blood. Don't need you passin' out on me."
"I'm not gonna pass out."
He led you down the hallway, past the bathroom and what you assumed was Ash's room, door closed, no light underneath, to the last door at the end. His room was simple. A bed with a plain navy comforter, a nightstand with a lamp and a book you couldn't quite make out in the dim light, a closet with the door slightly ajar. True to his word, there were guns. A shotgun propped in the corner. A handgun on the nightstand. A rifle mounted on the wall above the bed.
"Told you," he said, following your gaze. "Lot of 'em."
"I'm not intimidated by guns, Fez."
"I know you're not. Just warnin' you in case you rolled over and got a face full of barrel."
"Your pillow talk needs work."
He laughed, a warm sound you'd gotten used to. You didn't know it was only for you.
"Shit, I'll remember for next time."
The implication hung in the air. Next time. Like there would be a next time. Like this wasn't a one-off, an emergency, a favor he was doing for a business associate.
"You're very sure of yourself," you said quietly.
"'Bout some things. Yeah." He pulled back the comforter, revealing the clean sheets he'd promised. "Bathroom's the next door down. There's a clean shirt on the dresser if you want somethin' to sleep in. It's gonna be huge on you, but it's better than-" He gestured vaguely at your ruined blouse.
"Better than sleeping in a bloody Dior?"
"For sure."
You stood in the doorway, suddenly very aware that you were in his bedroom. His space. Surrounded by his things, his guns, his books, his clean sheets. You felt awful. This was his space, and you were taking it up.
You couldn't let him sleep on the dirty couch.
"Fez."
He turned back, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"
"You're not sleeping on the couch."
"It's fine. I've slept on worse. Slept in the back of the Cadillac once. Couch is luxury compared to that."
"There's blood on it. That's disgusting."
"I'mma throw a towel down. Told you that already, ma."
Silence for a moment. You stood there staring at each other.
"Fezco," you said, preparing yourself for the move you were about to make. "Sleep with me. Please? I.. I don't want to sleep alone."
The words hung in the air between you. Vulnerable. Raw. Nothing like the polished, put-together distributor who'd walked into his store months ago in six-inch heels and a pink trench coat. This was just you. Asking for what you needed. Terrified he might say no.
Fez's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Softened. Deepened.
"You sure?"
"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't."
He held your gaze for a beat longer. Then he nodded, slow and steady.
"Aight." He pushed off the doorframe and walked back toward the bed. "Which side you want?"
"Don't care. Just want you to stay."
"I'm stayin'." He pulled back the comforter on the left side and climbed in, then held it open for you. "C'mon. Before you fall over. You're swayin' a little."
You were. The exhaustion and blood loss were catching up, making the edges of your vision blur. You slid into the right side of the bed, hyper-aware of the warmth of him inches away, the clean scent of his sheets, the gun on the nightstand glinting in the dim light.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You lay there side by side, staring at the ceiling, the silence stretching. Then, you turned towards him, shifting up. He did the same, face-to-face. His warmth spread closer to you.
You broke the silence.
"Your eyes are pretty."
He blinked. Then, slowly, that lazy smile spread across his face. The one you'd come to know. The one that made your chest feel too tight and too warm all at once.
"You hittin' on me, ma?"
"Maybe." You were too tired to deflect, too drained to put the walls back up. "Is it working?"
"Yeah." His voice was softer now. Lower. "It's workin'."
"Good."
The space between you felt electric. His face was inches from yours, close enough that you could count his freckles if you wanted to. Close enough that you could see the way his pupils had widened, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then back up to your eyes.
"You got pretty eyes too," he said quietly. "Always thought so. Since that first night. You stepped out the car and looked at me and I thought.." He paused.
"What?"
"I thought, 'Damn. That's gonna be a problem.'"
"A problem?"
"Mmhmm. 'Cause I knew right then. You were gonna mess up my whole life." His hand found yours under the covers again. "And I was right. You messed it all up. I was fine before you. Just business. Just me and Ash. And then you showed up with your pink heels, your glittery ass gun and your organic snacks and now I'm plannin' a murder, shoppin' for vintage blouses and sharin' my bed for the first time in-" He stopped and thought. "Ever, actually. Never shared my bed before."
"Never?"
"Never wanted to. Not 'til you."
You stared at him. This man who'd killed people. Who'd raised a child that wasn't his. Who'd built an empire in a convenience store and still found time to buy granola just in case you were hungry when you showed up. Who was looking at you like you were the most precious thing he'd ever held.
"I must be a really special girl." You said softly, cool breath fanning over his face.
"For real. You don't know how special, ma."
Your heart stuttered. The way he said it, not like a line, not like flattery. Like a fact. Like he was stating something obvious, something undeniable, something he'd known for a long time and was just now getting around to saying out loud. You couldn't even speak, your chest squeezed so hard you felt like your heart might explode.
"Y/n?" He saif, gruff voice gentle.
".. Yeah?" You managed.
"Gonna kiss you now. That okay?"
You didn't answer with words. You just nodded, a small, breathless movement, your eyes never leaving his.
He leaned in slow. Giving you time to change your mind. To pull back. To put the walls up one last time. But you didn't. You stayed exactly where you were, heart pounding, ribs aching, feeling more alive than you had in years.
His lips encased yours. There was no desperation, like you'd drunkenly had before with some random man outside of a bar. It was soft and deliberate, like worship and reverence. His hand came up to gently cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek and tilting your face to just slightly fit against his. He kissed you with no rush, like there was all the time in the world to do this. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Because truthfully, there wasn't.
You shifted closer, a manicured hand pressing against his chest. His heart thumped against it, steady. He smelled like woody aftershave and clean laundry and gunpowder. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a hum, and it was the best thing you'd ever heard.
He was gentle with your body, his hand avoiding your bandages. He rubbed your back, gripping the t-shirt hanging loosely off your body. When he finally pulled back, his forehead came to rest against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, his breath warm against your lips.
"Gotta be careful with you," he said, his voice low. "You ain't healed up yet. Not even close."
You could still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the gentle pressure of his hand on your back. Your heart was racing, your skin tingling everywhere he'd touched.
"I'm not made of glass, Fez."
"I know you ain't. You're a tough girl." He opened his eyes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "But you got stabbed tonight and lost a shit tonna blood. I ain't about to be the guy who hurts you more 'cause he couldn't keep his hands to himself."
"You weren't hurting me."
He chuckled. "Could never. Not a chance. That's why we had to stop for the night."
You whined, flopping back against the pillows. He found you under the covers, putting a warm hand back around your waist.
"You gonna be fine. You lived through worse." He shifted closer, his chest pressing against your shoulder. "You want me to feel bad for bein' responsible?"
"I want you to feel bad for being a tease."
"I ain't a tease. I'm a gentleman who ain't gonna rip your stitches back open."
"You're annoying."
"You mentioned that. Lotta times tonight."
"Because it's the truth. Hot, but annoying."
He laughed, low and warm, his breath fanning over your hair. "You know what I think?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"I think you're just mad 'cause for the first time in your life, somebody's takin' care of you instead of the other way around. And you don't know what to do with it."
You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it. He wasn't wrong. God, he wasn't wrong.
"Now go to sleep, mama. We got shit to handle tomorrow."
And for the first time in two years, you fell asleep without fear. Quickly, surrounded by warmth and certainty. You even slept through the night, without a single nightmare.
When the morning light began to filter through the curtains, you even slept through that. However, you didn't sleep through Ashtray walking in.
"Yo, Fez, where's the -- what the fuck?"
You pulled the blankets over your head, groaning.
"Ash, man." Fez's voice was thick with sleep, but still somehow calm. You felt him shift beside you, the mattress dipping. "The hell you doin' bargin' in here?"
You heard a loud snort.
"I fuckin' knew it. I knew you two were feelin' each other!"
"Lower your voice. She's sleepin'."
"She's clearly awake, she just pulled the blankets over her head like a turtle." Footsteps. Then Ash's voice, closer now, directed at the lump of blankets that was you. "Y/n. I know you're awake."
You, sensing your defeat, came out from under the blankets. Ash's eyes widened further.
"In his clothes, too. That's wild, the Wu-Tang shirt," he said, an amused grin forming on his face. "My brother is dating his whole ass supplier!"
"It's not-we're not-" You looked to Fez for help. He was absolutely no help. He was lying back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, watching the whole thing with a lazy smile.
"Ash," Fez said calmly, "you gonna stand there and roast us all morning, or you gonna let my girlfriend sleep?"
Girlfriend. The word hit you square in the chest. You turned to stare at him. He met your eyes, that smile still playing at his lips, and shrugged.
"What? Too soon?"
"No, I just.." You blinked. "We didn't exactly define anything last night. There was a lot of blood."
"Consider it defined, ma."
Ash snorted.
"No way out now, girl. I knew it like, a month ago. You were hella close on the couch, making goo-goo eyes at each other."
"We were not making goo-goo eyes," you protested weakly.
"You definitely were. Fez would pass you the blunt and your fingers would touch and you'd both just-" Ash made a face, half disgusted, half delighted. "Stare at each other for like five seconds. Every time. Rue noticed it too. We had a whole conversation about it."
"You and Rue talk about us?"
"Someone has to. You two clearly weren't talkin' about it yourselves." He crunched a chip, a purple bag in his hand. "You're welcome, by the way."
"For what?"
"For stealin' your keys last night. If I hadn't, you woulda driven home and bled out on your fancy apartment floor and none of this-" He gestured broadly at the bed, the two of you, the situation in general. "-woulda happened. So technically, I'm the reason you're together. You owe me."
"We owe you, bruh?" Fez raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. Big time. I'm thinkin' a new PlayStation game. Or maybe a car when I turn sixteen."
"You're fourteen."
"Fifteen in March. Never too early to start plannin'."
"Ash." Fez's voice was firm, but there was no real heat behind it. "Get out, man. Start breakfast and we can make a deal later."
"Fine. But this ain't over." He pointed a Takis-stained finger at you. "Y/n, you're my favorite supplier. Don't break his heart or I'll have to kill you. And I don't wanna kill you 'cause you bring those fancy snacks."
"Noted."
"Cool. Welcome to the family." He turned and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder: "Pancakes in ten. Don't do anything gross while I'm gone. The walls are thin and I've already seen enough."
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.”
My Heart Was Not So Heavy Then [Yandere Spring Spirit x Reader]
Title: My Heart Was Not So Heavy Then [Yandere Spring Spirit x Reader]
Synopsis: You've always known you were going to die in the spring.
Word Count: 8600ish
Notes: yandere, reader is a married woman, misogyny, mentions of expected pregnancies and childbirth, reader becomes pregnant, physical abuse (slapping); some animal birthing descriptions
You have always known that you were going to die in the spring. It was not a fact that you shared with others--you learned very early that such talk was not acceptable. It earned you stares and whispered words and on one occasion, sore knuckles from your mother rapping them with a stick, sternly telling you to stop talking like that.
So you did.
You pretended not to know that one spring, when the flowers were in bloom, you would die and cease to be. You kept this knowledge with you, a secret in your pocket, but you no longer let it slip from your lips. You kept your thoughts to yourself between the snow melting and the heat of summer rising, wondering, always wondering: is this the spring?
And if you grew up with death woven into your thoughts, stitched like embroidery into your heart, was that so bad? You still grew up. You had friends and played. You learned to read enough to get by and you loved to paint, when your parents could afford the materials, and life was sweet and bitter in all the right turns.
And now you were old enough to marry, though the prospect of it all--marriage, birth, death--seemed almost fruitless sometimes. What was the point? How long would it last?
You were going to die in the spring. And your husband didn’t even know.
--
You had a beautiful dream that morning. A lovely thing. Hazy--perfect for spring. Something that would no doubt be half-remembered by the early afternoon, only recalled in desperate snatches that you could not possibly hold onto for very long. Not when there were chores to be done and your husband’s younger sisters and brother to mind and neighbors to visit and your mother-in-law to appease.
Such beautiful dreams were lost in the tumult of life. It was to be expected that you’d never fully retain them past childhood, and certainly not now, married and expected to carry your load in your husband’s household while you waited to start your own.
When you were a child, the thought of your impending death was almost like an adventure. But now, you’ve found, it makes your heart feel sick with worry. Would it be worse to die before or after you had a child? Should you even have children? Was it wrong not to tell your husband what you knew?
But you remembered your sore knuckles and the way people stared when you told them, voice high and babbling, that you were going to die in the spring. So you said nothing. You woke up and you ate and you worked and you slept and you dreamed.
Even snatches of beautiful dreams, fleeting and whispered, were better than nothing.
Your mother-in-law--and you all live under the same room, mother-in-law, husband, wife, and his younger siblings--doesn’t care much for dreams. She told you so, the first time she caught you smiling at the breakfast table, still lost in the dizziness of a lovely dream.
Dreams are for children, not for married women, she had said. Someone about to have children of their own, running around your feet. Someone who is expected to be a proper spouse, a proper mother, a proper everything.
Best forget about your dreams, is what she told you. And you knew she meant it in every way possible.
Your husband, Thomas, doesn’t seem to mind your dreams. Figurative and otherwise. When he has a few extra coins in his pocket, he sometimes buys you paints, a little easel. The paints are cheap and the easels need to be carefully prepared before they will accept paint, but you don’t mind the effort. When you’re ready, he always ushers his mother into the house and lets you sit outside and work.
Your paintings will outlive you, and maybe that’s why you like it so much.
Not that your mother-in-law sees the benefit in any of it. Though you’re glad, at least, that she prefers to send you outside the home to work. Go to town, collect herbs, collect wood to be chopped by your husband or his brother that is old enough to wield an ax.
You don’t mind that she puts you to work outside the home so much. There will be plenty to do inside once you’re married, she tells you now and then, and even more once there’s a baby in your belly.
The thought makes you feel already heavy, leaden, like there’s a chain wrapped around your stomach keeping you to the floor… but you don’t tell her that.
Instead, you briskly step through the threshold as soon as you can, sometimes pulling off your husband’s younger sister who loves you (and you do love her, despite her clinginess, despite the knowledge that you won’t be here forever) and wishes you would stay home with her instead.
But you like the woods. You’re always alone in the woods. There’s nobody here to judge you. For your secrets or your paintings or anything else.
--
The woods are quiet and not-quiet, all the same. Buzzing insects and the trill of birds and the snap of branches from foxes and deer and perhaps, on occasion, a bear.
But there are no squealing children, shouting neighbors, or nagging mothers-in-law here. No children dragging against your skirts, no mother-in-law staring at your belly, tsking, wondering no doubt: when will you be ripe?
Ripe. What a thought. Your hand goes to your belly. You and Thomas had already started… becoming one, as they say, before you were married. You’re not meant to do so, until you’re married. But you were betrothed and Thomas said no one would mind very much, if your belly was a little round at the wedding that winter. But you weren’t pregnant at your wedding. And not now, either.
You wish you could avoid town for a little longer. And, more wistfully, you wish you could remember your dream from this morning. It was something beautiful and fresh. It made you feel renewed that morning, gave you a spring in your step. But what was it?
You sigh, ready to turn at the fork and head into town--when you hear it.
A horrible bleat.
You know that sound, and what it means.
Your legs carry you quick as anything towards the wild, primal noise, and sure enough, there--on the other side of a fence is a sheep, keeled over on her side, bleating awfully with one fresh lamb sitting at her head. She licks it in between her awful screams and you know that there must be another one still beside her. But it won’t come out.
You hop over the fence and her bleats intensify at the sight of you, despite the soft hushings you give her. Your hands reach towards her exposed underside and you see the edge of a leg, tiny and jerking. But no matter how much she bleats, it does not progress.
It’s stuck.
You tug your sleeves up to your elbow--they’ll probably get bloody anyway, but best to spare them as much as you can--and stick your arms inside, feeling the wet, squirming gore covering the lamb that refuses to be born.
“Do you need help?”
Your mind jerks but you force your body to stay still, lest you injure the lamb. You glance up and there is a young man standing in front of you, behind the fence. A stranger. He has chestnut hair that glints a little golder in the spackle of the spring light.
“I--”
The lamb tries to push again, which only seems to make the little thing underneath your hands tremble. But it moves no further.
“It’s stuck,” you say, tongue almost sticking to your mouth. There is no time for introductions or questions when there is a bleeding sheep and a stuck lamb before you. That can come later, as it always does, in times like these. “I need someone to push on her while I move it.” You pause, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Or I need four hands.”
The man laughs and leaps easily over the fence, landing right next to you. When he crouches, the smell of forest flowers spreads, though there is no breeze to bring them. He wastes no time in assisting you, and he must be the son of a farmer, you think, the way his hands deftly manipulate the lamb through the sheep’s thick wool and skin.
As he does so, your hands slip further inside, gripping the slick bloody wool and turning, turning--until there is a little rush of thickened blood and the lamb slides out. There is a moment of silence in which you think, poor lamb, poor thing.
But it bleats. It lives. And the mother jerks her body up, terrified bleats turning to ones of relief, and soon the stubborn second lamb is joining the first in getting its first mother’s bath.
“Bluebells,” you say. And then your mouth goes to your lips.
The man looks at you, and quirks his head to the side. “Hm?”
“Bluebells,” you say again. Then you smile and look down at your hands, covered in wetness and blood and birthing gore. “I… dreamt about them last night. I’ve been trying to remember my dream all morning, and it came to me just then as the lamb came out. How funny.”
He stares at you. You think back to your mother, your neighbor, your friends--the look they gave you when you told them about your spring-induced death. But you just told him about a dream. Why should he look at you so intensely?
But the look is gone before you know it, and instead he smiles. It’s a toothy smile. He stands, and then extends his hand to you. You glance down at your bloody hands and help yourself up, and he merely shrugs, and lets out a little laugh.
He insists on following you to the farmer’s door, so that you can let him know about the lambs. He tells you that his name is Robert, but everyone calls him Robin, and you can call him that, if you don’t mind.
You don’t mind, so you do.
“Did you make a wish?” He asks suddenly, as the two of you make your way up the winding, cleared path between the neighbor’s fences.
You’re busy wiping your hands on your apron--oh, how Thomas’ mother will seethe at the sight of it. “A wish?”
The man does a little spin as he walks--a spin!--and you can’t help but smile at him. He looks to be about your age, but he seems more carefree than the other men in town. Certainly more carefree than Thomas, who as of late has begun to calculate how much he will need to work, to make, to save, in order to expand his family’s home for your own children. You try not to think about that.
“A wish,” he repeats. “during your dream. On the first bluebell of spring.”
You laugh, and a cow somewhere on the other side of the fence moos in response. Silly thing. You’re not sure whether you’re referring to the cow or yourself.
“I’m afraid not,” you say, shaking your head. “I didn’t know.”
The man pauses his steps and hums. His fingers go to his lips, as if this is a serious conundrum, indeed. You remember, then, that you never asked his name. He hops back over the fence and you’re about to call out when he lets out a noise of success, and saunters back with a sprig of bluebells in his hand.
You didn’t see them there before. But you were paying more attention to your hands than the flowers.
He holds them out to you, and raises his eyebrows. “They aren’t the first bluebells this year, but I don’t think it will matter much.”
Making a wish on bluebells. How silly. But it’s just the sort of thing you used to do, when you let yourself indulge more in your secrets.
You reach out and brush the petals with your fingertips, letting the soft petals and stems tickle your skin. Then you close your eyes and make a wish.
You keep that wish in your pocket with your other secrets.
---
That night, Thomas holds you too roughly in bed and pushes too roughly inside you and you close your eyes and think, suddenly, of the bluebells. And the lamb. And the blood. And Robin.
When he pulls out, the stickiness of it all makes you wince. You don’t tell him that you pretended at your own release, and he doesn’t notice the lie.
“That should take,” he says, voice breathy. He rests his head back against his pillow and glances at you. Is it wariness in his eyes, or weariness? Sometimes you wonder if he regrets the marriage. Most of your friends, married off earlier than you, were already with child. Or had one weaning from a wet nurse already.
You wonder if any of them missed their dreams and took them out of drawers and gazed at them, the way you like to do. Any notions you had of leaving town and being a painter died long ago. When your parents died, maybe--but perhaps earlier. When your parents tutted at the idea of paying for painting lessons or when they pulled you out of schooling because you didn’t need much, they said, to run a household. Or when you had that first realization that you were going to die someday, in the spring, when the flowers bloomed, and was there any point to pursuing a life when it was all going to end, anyway?
Thomas says your name and you’re pulled out of your reverie. He leans forward and kisses your cheek, and you lean against him. He’s not a bad man, really. He buys you paints. He peels his mother-in-law from your presence when she’s overbearing.
But sometimes you catch him staring at your empty belly with a frustrated sadness that makes your fingers curl.
Beside you, on the bedside table, is a sketch of bluebells you made when you came home. You didn’t bother using your paints on it--you don’t have the right blues to capture them just right.
--
The next day, you dutifully visit the farmer to ask about the lamb. You tell your mother-in-law this, and she smiles, grateful that you’re enduring yourself to their neighbors. It is essential, she has told you before, that you maintain a good standing in the community.
And you aren’t exactly uninterested in the lamb or the farmer. But you’re mostly hoping to run into Robin on your way there, if only to ask him to help you find more bluebells like the ones he gave you yesterday. You want to dry them out and save them, and perhaps the next time Thomas’ purse is heavy (though when that will be, considering all the things he is planning, you don’t know) he might be able to find a suitable paint.
But when you ask the farmer if he’s seen the man who helped you yesterday, he gives you a look. A look that reminds you of rapped knuckles and whispers.
“I don’t recall anyone with you yesterday,” he says, glancing behind you before giving you a look that was perhaps skin to pity. Maybe he remembers the dusty rumors from your childhood. Or maybe the sun is in his eyes.
“Well…” you start, and it’s best to shrug it all off, isn’t it? “I’m sorry to have bothered. I’m glad to hear that the lambs are doing well.”
It’s funny how easy it is to wash away strange looks with complacent, neighborly smiles. Funny and a little sad. The farmer waves you off and gives you a basket of fresh bread his wife baked and vegetables his son harvested and a tin of jam his daughter made. You imagine baking bread to give to neighbors and something inside you shudders.
So the farmer didn’t remember seeing Robin. Perhaps Robin was standing behind you. Perhaps the farmer had gotten into the drink a little early.
Perhaps Robin wasn’t real and you were losing your mind and dying from some unknown illness that was finally, finally going to kill you and--
But when you reach the fork in the road that leads in and out of town, there is Robin, leaning up against a tree, a thistle of something dancing in his teeth. He’s wearing a loose white top with frills, almost akin to an undershirt than anything else, and plain black trousers. When he catches your eye, it drops from his mouth as he practically runs toward you.
You think to ask him about the farmer, but he’s talking--there is a bit of green stem in his teeth--before you can speak.
“Did you dream of bluebells again?”
You smile, a forced politeness, and shake your head. You didn’t dream of bluebells, and it was a shame. Instead you dreamt of your belly growing big and there was an awful pain and grayness, and you were dead before your child could even walk, and your husband didn’t care--all he did was pick up the beautifully squirming baby and go on his merry way.
“I dreamt about…” But you can’t tell him about that. You wouldn’t tell your husband about this dream, much less a stranger wearing
Robin’s grin broadens. “What? You can tell me. I like hearing about these first dreams in spring, you know.”
You’ve known this man for less than two hours, yesterday’s lamb birth and walk to the farmhouse considered, but you find him refreshingly strange.
But you shake your head. You shake your head. You wouldn't burden a stranger with the troubles of your life that spill into dreams. What would this young man care about the woes of your life, anyway? Your fears about death and life and marriage. Though perhaps he had a wife. Perhaps she was at home, toiling over the hearth, while he sprawled about the woods and talked gaily with others and grinned at them and gave them flowers.
You force down the bitter kernel of resentment. It wasn't fair to him, you suppose, to spin such an assumption out of nothing. He looked young enough to remain untethered, and men often went longer without marrying, anyway. He was a helpful--albeit unusual--young man who helped you pull a lamb out of a stuck sheep and escorted you to-and-fro afterwards. That was all.
“You think too much,” he says, and the shock of it pulls you out of your thoughts and brings a bit of heat to your cheeks. You do think a lot. It’s a bad habit, started from childhood, when thinking about things (you’re going to die in the spring) was revealed as preferable to saying them out loud.
“You’ll get wrinkles,” he points out, voice sing-song, and gestures a finger towards your lips, which are set in a somewhat serious frown.
He grins.
“It doesn’t matter. Look--” He sweeps his hand down towards the ground, and you instinctively step back as you notice for the first time that there is a carpet of bluebells underneath your feet. They weren’t there before… or were they? You were so often lost in thought in the spring that you perhaps paid more attention to the limited nature of your future than you did the world around you.
And aren’t these just the most vibrant bluebells you’ve ever seen? Their color reminds you of something old, something sweet.
“Witches' thimbles,” you blurt out. He quirks his head again, like you’re a fascinating specimen at a museum. Not that you’ve ever been to one, or will likely ever go. “That’s… another name for them, isn’t it?”
Heat blossoms across your cheeks. You feel stupid. Silly. Who cares about another name for bluebells? It’s exactly the sort of thing that made people give you strange looks when you were younger--blurting out facts that no one cared to hear. Whether it was the fact of your impending demise or a stream of names for spring flowers.
But he doesn’t look at you like you’re strange. Instead, he busts out laughing.
“Yes!” Like an extremely enthusiastic tutor, thrilled that his pupil has finally gotten an answer correct. “Or wood hyacinth, lady’s nightcap…”
He crouches down and brushes his hands over the blossoms, drooping blue-purple bells that sway just enough in the breeze.
You crouch down--oh, it’s so untoward--and take a sniff. Bluebells don’t have a very strange fragrance, and you only get a bit of bright greenness. And then another name comes to you, and you can’t help the carefree grin that spreads across your face before you spit it out.
“Crow’s toes!”
He stares at you, and there’s a split second where you think ah, that was too much and now I’ve ruined everything, before he bursts into laughter.
“Cuckoo’s boots!” He counters, voice choking with mirth.
It takes you only a moment before you’re the one bursting with laughter, and your crouch turns into a full blown sit right on the ground. Your skirt will be dirty and if someone comes across the pair of you, the local gossip will never end, but you don’t seem to care in the presence of the laughing, strange young man in front of you.
When the laughter fades and you’re left inexplicably sitting on the ground in a pile of bluebells, you finally think to ask something of him. Something you really ought to have asked before, but you were distracted. By lambs and bluebells and the season itself.
“Why haven’t I seen you around before, Robert?”
“Robin,” he says, light and easy. He shrugs just as easily. “I’m only around sometimes. I like to travel.”
His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue. Not quite deep enough to mimic a bluebell, but there’s a dancing light in them. The thought is too much, and you clear your throat and help yourself to your feet.
There is a difference, you think, between being yourself (when is the laugh time you laughed giddily? The last time you made a joke? Your husband could be kind, but he was not silly or carefree or funny…) and being improper.
“Well,” and your voice is back to sounding almost prim, an echo of your mother-in-law. You are a married woman, after all. “I’m glad I’ve caught you when you’re visiting, then. Thank you--” He looks up at you, and there’s confusion in his eyes. Maybe a little hurt, too. “For your help with the lamb,” you finish.
He doesn’t stand up, which is odd enough. Instead he pulls his knees up to his chest and stares up at you. “I didn’t do much.” He sighs, a soft, long sound that makes you want to contradict him. “You could have done it even without four hands, I bet!”
The compliment makes you want to stay. It also makes you want to leave.
“It’s nothing.” You glance down at your hands. They aren’t a painter’s hands, though you often wished they were. They were a farmer’s hands. “My parents were farmers and I grew up here. It’s not the first lamb I’ve helped birth… or cow… or goat.” A low sound from your throat, a mirthless chuckle. “Or a person.”
He blinks up at you.
“Do you have children?”
Your hand goes to your stomach.
“No.”
Your lips get tight and thin and yes, perhaps it is time you left.
He groans, suddenly, and flops back on the grass. One hand splays over his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding annoyed and sorrowful and pouting all in one breath. “Ugh!” He opens his eyes and stares up at the sky. “Sore subjects, there’s always sore subjects…”
You almost feel a little sorry for him. He reminds you of… yourself. Somewhere, deep down, buried under layers of corrections that began with rapped knuckles.
“It’s all right,” you tell him, voice soft. “You didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a common enough question, I suppose.”
“Please don’t go,” he asks, and you want to smile a little at the wheedling tone in his voice. “You’re fun. I like it.”
You shake your head and lift up your skirts. It’s too much, isn’t it? Someone might see. And even if they don’t, there’s that pit growing in your stomach, a pit all women must cultivate for situations like these.
He continues to lay in the grass for a few moments, before he hoists himself up and jumps back into a standing position. He’s back to smiling, as if nothing had ever been said between you.
“If you stay…” His voice is teasing you, drawing you in, pulled candy held on a stick. “I’ll let you use these.”
And you take a step back now, when he crouches and reaches for a bag left loitering on the ground. You don’t remember seeing that bag. Maybe you are too overworked lately. Your brain must be frazzled and fried like eggs in a hot pan.
But instead of pulling out a weapon or something else that has your lips ready to shout for help, he pulls out… paints.
A set of paints. And a traveling easel, with a sheet of cloth ready to be bolted over it.
You stare at the paints. Then at the bluebells. And then at him.
“I… could stay for a little while.”
--
That evening, blue paint stains your fingertips while you finish your sewing for the evening. Your husband’s shirts, first; then your mother-in-law’s; then the children’s; and then your own.
There is a robin perched in the window and you laugh. A bright, beautiful sound in a room that has seen little giddiness since you and your husband have made it your home. Your husband, busy with his own work, looks up at you with a peculiar expression.
But he says nothing.
He said nothing about your fingertips, either. Although he clearly saw them when you came home. Instead of asking--and you would have told him, surely?--he pursed his lips and gave your arm an affectionate squeeze and told you that he’d bartered for some fresh cheese from the neighbor.
You like cheese, so you’d thanked him, and went about your day.
And now it was evening, bordering nightfall, and the time for chores has ended as a new nightly task was set before you. The task that had you unfastening the laces of your dress, and then your stays, and climbing into bed in your night chemise to wait for your husband.
The window behind you was open, letting in the cool spring air. Singing crickets were as good as music and darkened pinks and purples filtered through the window, the last bits of dappled colors before night would come.
The robin is still there when you tilt your head up and look out the window to catch the fleeting sunlight.
And you swear the bird quirks its head as your husband unfastens his trousers and climbs into bed.
--
It’s not right to do this. You know it’s not. But you meet Robin again, and again, and again. The spring seems longer than ever and for once you are not fretting about childhood prophecies, you are not foregoing thoughts of happiness and friendships because you’re worried about the fact that you won’t live to cherish them forever.
Instead, you’re meeting with Robin at the same spot, the far far end of the neighbor’s fence where only the lambs like to go. Where the stubborn lamb was born and comes, sometimes, sneaking underneath the fence and sitting between the two of you.
Together, you paint. After a while, Robin brought a proper easel with him, along with a canvas worth more than ten of the canvases your husband could ever afford to buy you. And the paints, oh the paints! Such rich shades that perfectly mimic the natural colors of the world around you. For once, you are making progress on bluebells that aren’t hampered by a limitation in color or quantity.
But you don’t just paint. You talk. About your dreams and the future and everything but your secret. Because for once, you’re not thinking about it.
Because Robin makes you laugh.
Because he makes you feel like yourself, or someone you used to be. Like you can peel off layers of smoke and grease and find yourself again, fresh and new.
Because he makes you feel unmarried.
And if you come home later than usual, if you sing more than you ever had before, if your smiles and laughs fill the house with a lightness it has been sorely missing… is that such a bad thing? Your paintings of bluebells are hung up in your bedroom, and your husband hums at them and says they look pretty. And it’s not exactly like being a real painter but it’s nice enough for the life that you have--and that’s all we can ever hope for, isn’t it?
--
Robin’s kisses are tinged with the flowers he likes to nibble on now and then. Spicy and sweet.
Today his kiss tastes of honey and you draw back and press disbelieving fingers to your lips. When he grins, as he always does, his mouth is sticky with thick, orange honey.
“Wh--where did you get--” You sputter, licking the taste in your mouth. A delicious floral honey, earthy and sweet.
“Honeycomb.” He gestures behind him, somewhere in that wild, beautiful forest that surrounds the carefully plotted paths the townspeople made so long ago. Then he pulls out a chewed piece of raw honeycomb, jagged and broken. It’s a wonder he didn’t get stung.
You laugh--oh Robin, silly Robin--and say nothing more, but lean forward and begin to lick the rest of it from his lips.
Before the afternoon is out, the two of you make love for the first time. Beneath the tree, above the bluebells, yards away from the stubborn lamb who fell asleep by the fencepost hours before.
--
“You wicked slut!”
There is a flesh-colored blur and then a sting across your face. Not painful but humiliating and surprising and oh God, you think, at least it wasn’t my knuckles.
She knew. They knew. Your mother-in-law and your husband and probably half the town, if not the whole of it. Someone saw you two (the farmer? You hope not, thinking of his basket and his smile, but thinking of his strange look at you, too) and your mother-in-law has put two and two together to make four.
Four being that you and this young man are clearly engaged in something other than paintings and picnics. You could tell her that you’ve only kissed, nothing more. But it would be worse to admit to anything right now, when gossip has inflamed her imagination.
Do you dare look at your husband? No. Not for more than a second. He stands, firm, his mouth pressed into a frown. But he says nothing as his mother screams at you and slaps you once, and then twice.
“Have you been together?” She practically shrieks the words out, and spittle flies towards your tingling cheek.
“I--” You don’t answer, but your stuttering is enough. Your face is enough. The way your body seems to shrink inward is enough.
Your mother-in-law’s voice turns into a ragged gasp, and she huffs until she sits herself down in a chair pulled from the kitchen. She’s done, burnt out, probably thinking of ways to turn you out of the house.
You don’t know what else to do, so you turn towards Thomas and look at him as fully as you can despite the pain in your cheek and the guilt rolling about your chest.
He stares at you for a moment. And then he raises a hand to slap you, the way his mother had slapped you, the way that his mother has slapped the children and no doubt, the way she slapped him, when he was a child.
But he doesn’t touch you. His hand lowers, slow, and you catch a hint of tears in his voice as he tells you to go to the bedroom and stay there.
Guilt, regret and rebellion, turn over in equal measure in your stomach.
--
You’re not allowed to walk beyond the plot of the garden fence surrounding your home. Your mother-in-law forbids it, and your husband does not contradict her.
He does tell her that you are never to be slapped again, and that is at least something.
But what relief comes from that is overshadowed when he throws away your paints and your papers, your sketch pad and your pencils.
“No more,” he says, voice low. “No more.”
“Why?” You ask, and you see yourself in his eyes. A wife who sneaks out of the home to dally with young men in the forest, a wife who comes home with paint on her fingers, who stains his mended shirts with the color of bluebells.
He says nothing. He gives your shoulder a squeeze and asks you to mind the cooking supper while his mother goes into town.
--
You begin to throw up in the mornings.
You begin to have strange dreams, feverish ones, of bluebells and births and sticky dark lamb’s blood.
It’s not until your mother-in-law treats you more tenderly that you realize what it all means. The sickness and dreams and odd feeling in yourself.
You haven’t bled since the end of winter.
You are with child.
--
The news lightens the household. At least, it lightens Thomas and his mother, who is beside herself with preparations for you. She spends the evenings working on a pile of baby clothes and often comes home from the market with fruits said to ease your stomach, poultices she swears will be ideal when you begin to have swollen feet.
You don’t want to have swollen feet. You don’t want to think about how Thomas must now build the addition to the home sooner than anticipated, and how you’ll have to learn how to feed your child and raise your child, and how there will always be a tether between the two of you that could be snipped at any moment.
Your husband brings you things that are pretty and sweet. But never paints. You don’t think you’ll ever see him walk through the threshold with those again.
But you can’t complain about how he treats you. He insists on buying cushions for the chairs, so you don’t have to sit down as far. He minds what you eat. He holds you in the night, and no longer insists on entering you--a respite in several ways.
He says nothing when you look pensive in the evenings, hands itching for your pencils, your paints.
He never asks whether or not the child might be his, which is just as well--because you have no idea.
The robin comes back only once, which dispels your fantastical notions that perhaps it’s been Robin in disguise all along. That would be ridiculous, of course. Just as ridiculous as the notion that you were some carefree unmarried thing, free to dance about with a stranger in the woods. Just as ridiculous as the notion that you’re going to die in the spring.
--
“Please?”
Thomas frowns. You haven’t been allowed past the garden in several weeks. It was now nearing the end of spring, your dreaded season, and something deep inside you was going mad with the need to see something past the confines of your marital home.
“Just to the end of the path and back.” You sigh and stretch your legs, lifting up your skirts to show him your swollen ankles. “It will be good for my legs. And fresh air is good for the baby, or so your mother says.”
Thomas can be stern. He has a right to be, you assure yourself, all things considered. But he is not terribly cruel. And so he sighs and tells you yes, but only to the end of the path, and don’t stop for strangers, and come right home.
And you intend to obey him like a dutiful spouse. You really do.
It’s just… when you get to the end of the path, near the fork in the road…
There is the bleating of the lamb.
The smell of bluebells, richer than before.
The twitch of your hand, aching for a brush and paints.
And Robin, leaning up against a tree, a flower rolling in between his teeth like a wayward goat.
He catches your eye, and pushes himself off the tree. His grin is as easy as it was the day you met him and the many days in between.
What do you say in situations like these? Your heart thuds, but offers no answer. Your stomach twists, but says nothing at all.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, head downcast. “I haven’t been able to come.”
“Hm?” You glance up, and he quirks his head. Like a bird. “It hasn’t been that long.”
It’s been weeks, and there’s a stinging in your chest. You’re one of many, most certainly. Or he does have a wife at home and he’s been busy with her and you’re a silly, stupid fling that he’s forgotten about. Heat rushes to your cheek faster than it should--damned pregnancy.
“Sorry,” he says, his eyes wide and his smile chipper. “I said something stupid, didn’t I? I don’t have a head for time.” He sighs, and the soft, languid sound of it goes a long way towards soothing your hurt.
Then he finally looks down at the swell of your stomach and his eyes get wide, the crisp blue of them seeming to glitter as he takes you in.
“I see…”
He walks a few paces back to the tree and plops down, his back against the bark. You hesitate. You should go home. Someone will see you. More than that, you said you’d go back. You can’t even keep your word, how are you ever going to raise a child?
But you take one step and then another, and Robin reaches out and helps you lower yourself to the ground.
The silence between you feels uncomfortable. But apparently Robin feels nothing of the sort, because all he does is stretch out his legs and pull out his bag (and God, you swear, where did it come from today?) to retrieve paints and easels and your fingers practically shake as he hands them to you.
You talk while you paint, but there is nothing light about your conversation this afternoon. Just as there is nothing light about your painting. It is bluebells, yes. But not a pretty field of them buzzing with bees and floating dandelion seeds and spring sun. Instead it is dark and overcast, the soggy aftermath of a storm.
“I want it on my terms,” you say, and your frown is so set that your teeth begin to ache. Robin hums, and your brush drags down over the canvas, agitated. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s…
Robin watches you paint, and then pulls up a long blade of grass and begins to chew on it.
“Tell me, then.” As if it’s the easiest thing in the world to say to anyone. Much less him, in your current state.
“Thomas told me this morning,” you begin, laying it out with a simmering anger. “That perhaps I can paint again when we’re done having children. When they’re grown. When it will be… appropriate.” The word drips from your mouth like poison.
How often have you heard that damned word in this world? It’s not appropriate to tell people that you see green people in the woods. It’s not appropriate to tell your mother that you met a fairy and she was very nice, and gave you a flower to put under your bed when you slept. It’s not appropriate to mention at breakfast that the flower was magic and it told you your future, that you were going to die in the spring and that was that.
You don’t notice that you’ve stopped painting until Robin’s hand is on yours. When you glance at him, he looks a little serious, and it’s so unlike him that the brush slides from your fingers so that they can intertwine with his own.
“Tell me,” he says. “About the secret in your pocket.”
Your throat constricts. “I don’t have a secret… in my pocket or otherwise.” You feel heavy, suddenly. Because of your skirts and your child and your life.
“I was your secret for a while, wasn’t I?” He taps your nose, a gesture that might have made you giggle a few weeks ago, but now only makes you frustrated. He’s never serious enough, when you need him to be. “You can tell me.” He quirks his head--the bird--and adds, lightly. “I already know, but I’d rather you tell me.”
And… you do.
You tell him about the woods and things you weren’t supposed to see, and your dream about your death that has followed you ever since. You tell him about the way people looked at you until you stopped talking about it at all. You tell him about Thomas’ mother slapping you and the baby growing inside you and the fear that you will die before it is born or die before it is old or die before you’re ever, ever allowed to paint again.
When you’re done, he laughs. He throws back his head and laughs, and it hurts and confuses and tears are blinked away as you try to muster up what to say to him.
The blade of grass gets curled up in his mouth, and he blows on it--a whistle.
“It’s easy. Just don’t get any older.”
It was your turn to laugh. A short, bitter thing.
“Everyone grows old.”
They do, don’t they? Growing old has been a part of you since childhood. Eggs to chicks to hens to table. Watching your grandfather go from lifting you up high to sitting in a chair to lying on a table, his body looking waxy and stiff as everyone wept around you and the room smelled funny.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. As if the very idea was ridiculous.
“You don’t have to do what they want. Grow old--or don’t. Be a painter--or don’t.”
Your fingers brush over the unfinished canvas in front of you.
“Even if I could stay young forever--and I can’t. I… I can’t be a painter when my husband won’t buy me paints.” You frown, which only deepens as you speak. “Or when I’m about to have a child, who will need me to nurse it and care for it, who will pull on my skirts when it learns to walk, who will need to be wiped and washed and taught. And soon enough I’ll be just like Thomas’ mother, and I’ll nag my own daughter-in-law and maybe I’ll slap her when she displeases me. And then my children will be grown but I’ll be old and I won’t be able to hold a brush even if I wanted to.” You take a breath. “And that’s assuming I don’t die well before then, in a spring just like this, and everyone else moves on after me because that’s just what you do when people die.”
He shakes off your words like morning dew. Unimportant, silly things.
“You made a wish.” He picks a bluebell and twirls the stem in his fingers. “You dreamt of bluebells and you got the first wish of spring, and it will come true.”
There’s a pang of stinging irritation in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed. It feels like no time at all has passed between you and all the time in the world at the same time.
“Robin.” There’s patience in your voice, and something sterner that reminds you of Thomas’ mother. “Wishes aren’t real. Not like that.” You can’t just wish yourself to never grow old or be a painter or do whatever it is you want in this practical, limited place called life.
His smile softens, sweetly. You’re reminded of the kiss with honey between his teeth.
“You had a dream that you would die in spring, and that is real. But you don’t trust in wishes?”
His fingers tighten over yours. Just enough for you to notice. And then they loosen and he’s splaying his hand out, palm up. “Come with me, then. I’ll make your wish come true.”
And he doesn't say it soft and honeyed and low, a temptation. He says it with sureness--with a grin on his face, with the gold in his hair shimmering in the afternoon light, with the blueness of flowers in his eyes.
“It could always be like this,” he says, looking out towards the fence across the way. “If you come with me.” The stubborn little lamb toddles after its mother and there are bluebells surrounding you and Robin at your side.
And a baby in your belly.
“What about my baby?” You blurt out the words, a hand resting on your stomach.
He shrugs, and far away, the lamb bleats. You realize that he never asked if it was his child. Like Thomas, he says nothing of it. It's a baby in your belly and that is that, or so it seems.
“Keep it if you want to. Or we can give it away, if you feel bad.”
You don’t ask to whom you’ll be giving it away, but the way he says it unnerves you, untethers you just a little.
You don’t think he’s talking about leaving the child with an orphanage or on the doorstep of a kindly neighbor. Beads of sweat stick to your back and you think of the stones you used to see in the woods as a child. Large, smooth paved stones. Someone (your grandmother? A neighbor? A whispering thing that dripped words in your ear while you slept?) told you that women left babies there to be taken by fairies and spirits and anything else that would have them.
Green men didn’t always look green, and just where did Robin get his bag and his paints and his bluebells?
You don’t bother asking him what he meant. You’re not sure, really, that he’d tell you.
The thought of not keeping your child never actually registered before today. But then, running away with Robin never registered until this moment either.
What do you want? You stare at Robin’s outstretched palm and look at your own naked one. The memory of the stinking rich lifeblood on it comes to mind, as does the sight of your friend’s round bellies, the screams and sweat of the birthing rooms you attended with your mother.
Is that what you want? A child? That life? The uncertainty of wondering when when when will I die?
There’s a lurch in your chest and you want to leave before it becomes too much. You stand, wobbling, refusing Robin’s hand and starting down the path without another word.
He yells after you, jovial, unconcerned.
“Tomorrow! It has to be tomorrow!”
--
On the way home, your hand plucks the last of the blooming spring flowers so that you can explain your long absence in front of what you’re sure will be frowning, tutting faces.
But when you stride frantically in, skin flushed and hand clutching a bouquet, everyone stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. You were gone less than a half hour--the time it normally takes to walk up the path and back.
That night, your bed feels rock hard. Or maybe it’s just your nerves that keep you afloat, refusing to let you sink into the mattress as you’d like to do.
Your hand rests on your stomach and Thomas isn’t in bed yet, late nights doing work to make more money to build you an attachment so that you aren’t sharing the same space as his mother forever, and you both love and hate that he’s not here.
If he was here, you might not have the luxury of thinking about anything at all.
But you do, and the thoughts race inside your head, bouncing to and fro like frantic children.
Do you go with Robin? Is Robin a human? Do you keep the baby? Can you leave Thomas? Is it better to live here and die here or go somewhere else and perhaps, be there forever?
There is no bird in your window that night, but you swear you smell the delicate scent of bluebells. Fresh and green and bitter, right under your nose.
--
Thomas lets you walk to the end of the path again, because you complain about your swelling legs and he thinks getting out of the house is better for your increasingly isolated mind.
And so, here you stand at the fork in the road.
You could turn around and walk home. Back to your husband and his mother and the new life that awaits there. You would let your mother-in-law tut over you and tell you the best way to nurse and feed and how long to wait after birth to conceive another. You would let Thomas guide you and hold you and look at you with stern pity when you wanted nothing more than to paint. You would live there and die there, and who knows when that would be? Could you stand the agony of each spring, every shifting season, promising life for others and death for you? Could you stand never picking up your paints again?
You could walk towards the farm. To the lamb and to Robin, to a beginning that might not have an end at all. You could see if Robin’s skin would peel back green or if he knew where to leave your child so that it could have a good life (but would it?) and ask him if he meant it, when he said you never grow old.
What life do you choose? Which one could be called a life at all? Both? Neither?
Take a step back. Take a step forward.
Stop keeping secrets in your pocket and splay them out on the table and make a choice.
Make a damned choice.
But you don’t get to make one, after all.
Instead, a familiar hand grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, and you stumble over bluebells that don’t crumple down even when you trample on them.
“Robin--”
He’s there, smiling and holding onto you, and behind him is a wild field of bluebells that are so thick and fragrant it’s as if you walked into a maze of them. You spin around, his wrist still holding your own, but the path is gone. That world is gone, lost and brushed over with this hazy spring afternoon.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to your nose. He smells like flowers and honey and something bitter underneath that has perhaps always been there, covered with the scent of paints and lamb's blood and your own uncertainty.
“Well?” His grin is as vivacious as ever, and his chestnut hair seems to shine more deeply here, glimmering with golden hues that beg to be run through with your fingers.
In his eyes is the lamb, the roundness of your belly, the deep hue of the bluebells in your dream and the paint that stained your fingers. Were his eyes always so rich? Or did you fill them with your conversations and your laughter, your kisses and your touches? Just as he filled you with dreams and smiles and an airiness you'd long since plastered over.
“Come on!”
He pulls you along, laughing and you don’t know where you’re going. Whether you will live forever or ever paint again or what it will be like. You only know the three of you will start there together, whether you wanted it or not.
You were always, in the end, going to die in the spring.
A.N: This is the end of Act I, my loves! 🩷 You have now read 148k words, so basically finished two books, congratulations! 🥰 Act II is starting on May 3! 🩷
And 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: Harvest follows patience.
Word Count: 5,7k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Even with the small crack that let the light in through the haze of sleep, despite the pounding in his head and the exhaustion of last night, Robb couldn’t help but think that this was the most peaceful moment he had ever had.
At first he just thought the bed smelled like her. The sweet scent of the flowers surrounded him, making him feel like he was lying in a summer garden, and it was only when her hair tickled his nose that he realized her head was resting on his chest. He dipped his head to bury his nose into her hair, his arms wrapping tighter around her as he felt himself slip back into blissful daze, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth.
However, that bliss was short-lived.
“Robb?”
Gods, it couldn’t have been five minutes—
She shook him by the arm, her whisper nearly frantic. “Robb, wake up!”
“Mm?”
“Have the maids already been here?”
It was with great difficulty that he managed to open his eyes, but the sight that greeted him was so dazzling that the answer had already left his mind before he could speak. She was still in last night’s gown—her infamous wedding gown that the whole North was going to talk about for the centuries to come, if the many comments that he heard last night were anything to go by. She was bathed in the warmth of the sun coming from the window and spilling through the sheer curtains around the bed, the moonlight still clinging to her in the form of her dress even in the morning, as if it couldn’t bring itself to abandon her.
By the gods, she was the most breathtaking vision he had ever cast his gaze upon, even with worry etched on her face.
A grin pulled at his lips while he reached out to run his fingers over her arm. “Good morning, my wife.”
“The maids,” she insisted. “Have they been here?”
“Only for a moment before I dismissed them.”
Her eyes widened.
“Gods,” she breathed out. “We—Robb, we haven’t…”
She didn’t have to finish her sentence for him to understand the root of her worry, any trace of sleep washing away from his mind. The fur covers pooled in his lap when he pulled himself up to sit in the bed as well, her eyes following his every move.
“They’ll say—”
“They’ll say nothing.”
“They’ll say everything!”
“They will not, because I already took care of it.”
That made her gaze snap up to his, whatever protest she was about to direct at him claimed by stunned silence instead. She looked down at her gown, then back at him, the unasked question making him scoff.
“I’m no wildling to take advantage of you at such state,” he told her and turned his palm up. “I cut my finger, so there was blood on the sheets.”
Her brows furrowed and she blinked a couple of times as if she was straining her mind to remember. Robb wouldn’t have been surprised if the memory had left her completely considering how drunk she had been last night, but he was proven wrong when a look of realization dawned on her face, her lips parting.
“Oh,” she said after a moment, coaxing a smile out of him.
“Come here,” he murmured before he pulled her to his lap, the closeness of her making his heart gallop in his chest. Her fingers caressed over his palm, her gentle touch barely there as if she was hesitant, but then she took his hand in hers to glance down at the tiny slice over the tip of his thumb.
He couldn’t have looked away if he tried.
She had to be a gift to him from the old gods; wrapped in light and warmth, halting all thoughts in his head with her mere presence. Robb swallowed when she ran her fingertips over the back of his hand in an almost absentminded manner, awakening fire underneath before she frowned slightly and raised her eyes to meet his.
“Did it hurt very terribly?”
Robb couldn’t help but smile at the genuine concern in her tone.
“You’re the one with sensitive skin,” he teased her, making her scrunch her nose up at him before he leaned in to kiss her, sneaking an arm around her waist to pull her closer to him. It took everything in him not to flip them over and get rid of all these stupid, unnecessary clothes that kept her away from his gaze and his touch, desire burning through him as he slowly started to bunch up the skirt of her gown—
She pulled back with a gasp and turned her head to look at the door when someone pounded their fist on it, followed by his brother’s gruff voice.
“Robb?”
“Just ignore him,” Robb muttered, trailing kisses down her jaw and she shifted in his lap, making his grip tighten around her thighs.
“I don’t think—”
“Robb, it’s noon!” Theon’s loud voice from behind the door cut off her whisper, and Robb dropped his head on her shoulder with an exhausted sigh.
“Aye,” Jon added, “father sent me to wake you up. Theon is also here for some reason.”
“Fuck you too, Snow.”
“I’m going to kill them,” he muttered into her skin while she ran her nails over the nape of his neck gently.
“You can kill Theon,” she said, still a little breathless. “But I happen to like Jon.”
Much to his displeasure, she got off of him to walk to the other side of the room to grab her dressing gown and Robb discreetly adjusted himself, then pushed himself off the bed to make his way to the door to swing it open.
“Has someone died?”
Jon frowned. “No?”
“Would you like me to change that?”
Theon grinned at him. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“Father sent me,” Jon grumbled. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but you two missed breakfast already, and the feast is starting in the yard.”
Robb gritted his teeth, then his eyes found his lady’s maid standing behind them.
“Eadith?”
“I just wanted to inform my lady that her bath is ready,” she said, averting her eyes while Theon stole a look at the bed, earning a glare from Robb who pulled the door closer to him so that no one could see inside. “In her bedchambers.”
“Thank you Eadith,” she called out before she pulled the door open. “Good morrow.”
Theon mumbled a greeting and glanced up at the ceiling while Jon offered her a smile, and before Robb could say anything, she had already walked past him and stepped into the hallway, making him frown.
“Wait, wha—”
“I must get ready for the feast but I’ll find you in the yard!” she called out and walked down the hallway to enter her bedchambers, her maid following her close. She closed the door behind them, and Robb let out a breath, slumping sideways to the doorframe.
“So,” Theon said with a grin while Jon raised his brows at him. “Judging by the murderous look on your face, I take it your wedding night went well?”
After a quick bath, a change of clothes and being all but dragged to the yard, Robb had already made up his mind:
This was nonsense.
This whole Harvest Feast was nonsense.
He was supposed to be in bed with his wife—who was still nowhere in sight— enjoying their marriage. He could’ve been in her bedchambers or even better, in the bathtub with her, and yet here he was, being stuck in a conversation with his father and multiple lords.
He took a big sip of his drink, his eyes darting around the yard. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, many couples were dancing to the musicians’ tune, some cheering, and some still drunk from last night. Perceon and Braxton were laughing at something Cliff was telling them, Arys was talking with Alton, and for a second Robb wondered where Silas was, but he figured he was with one of his many admirers from the Reach, still in bed.
“…and Robb will come with.”
His head whirled around. “Hm?”
His father exchanged glances with Lord Cassel, both grinning.
“Ease off on him, Ned,” Lord Cassel said. “At least for the day. You pulled him out of the south’s prettiest girl’s bed, he’s bound to be distracted.”
“I’m not distracted,” Robb lied through his teeth while his father hummed.
“Will your lady wife be joining us?”
Finally, now everyone referred to her as his lady wife.
“She’s getting ready,” Robb replied. “It takes her a while and we—we woke up late.”
“I’d gather she’s quite tired,” Lord Umber joked, clasping his shoulder. “As a husband of thirty years, let me give you some wisdom, my boy. You must let her have her rest, otherwise you’ll suffer during the day.”
Well he was way ahead of that, already suffering.
“Aye, she’ll make sure of that,” Lord Karstark said, laughter erupting from the small crowd. “Did you let her sleep last night at all?”
Robb rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh huh.”
“I must admit, I doubt I have ever seen a happier bride,” Lord Cassel chuckled. “Even my lady wife…”
The rest of his sentence disappeared into rest of the chatter when Robb’s eyes caught the sight of his beautiful lady enter the yard with Silas, claiming the air in his lungs without so much as a glance in his direction.
Just as she was the silver moonlight last night, today she was pure sunlight. Her gown looked like it was made of liquid gold, silk shimmering under the bright sun, giving her the look of a vision from beyond this realm even more than usual. The skirt of her gown was embroidered with wheats in accordance with harvest feast—and her own house Robb was guessing, since their sigil had wheats around the goat— as well as tiny flowers scattered along them. To match with the rest of her gown, she also had small golden wheat earrings dangling from her ears, and it was only when she turned to say something to Silas that he realized she had heart shaped braids on the back of her head, making his chest feel all warm.
“I’ll be back,” he heard himself say before he crossed the yard to make his way to them, his heart beating in his ears.
“So you’re seriously not going to tell me—” Silas stopped talking when Robb entered his sight, and his lady turned to him, a smile lighting up her face immediately.
“My husband!” she chirped with an excited lilt in her voice before she took his hand in both of hers, then leaned sideways to his arm. “I’ve missed you already I’m afraid.”
The whole yard was watching, but Robb couldn’t care less as he dipped his head to kiss on top of her head, his hand cradling the side of her neck.
“Good afternoon my beautiful wife.”
“I hate this,” Silas announced with a grimace. “Can you two not do this in front of me?”
“Do what, be in love?”
“I strictly remember your septa telling you it’s a virtue to be humble, and that you should not gloat about your fortune in front of those who are less fortunate.”
She tilted her head. “And you are the less fortunate in this situation?”
“Do you see me looking at people with love shining in my eyes?”
“I see a lot of people looking at you with love shining in their eyes,” Robb pointed out, glancing around the yard to prove his point, momentarily getting distracted by Jon immediately turning around as if he wanted to walk away but ended up bumping into Theon and making him spill his ale instead. “I doubt there’s a lack of fortune there.”
Silas blinked a couple of times, a slight frown pulling his brows together at the sight of Jon walking away. “…Right. Yeah.”
“Besides, we had the same septa and she also said it’s a sin to be a hypocrite,” his lady stated. “I’ve spent my entire life having to endure your wave of admirers—”
“I’ve been through worse, in case you forgot,” Silas insisted, “Ever since that title started being thrown around. How about your wave of suitors who kept ambushing me? I’ve been all over the realm to find you a suitable husband—”
“And to find yourself one hundred lovers,” she cut him off smugly while Robb repressed his laugh, and Silas shot him a look.
“You owe me, and yet you’re encouraging this?”
“My wife speaks the truth,” Robb said with a shrug of his shoulders and Silas heaved a sigh.
“I’m going to have to get drunk again if you two insist on calling each other husband and wife,” he muttered and walked past them to make his way to one of the servants who was carrying a tray of drinks. His lady glanced up at him, a smile warming her face.
“He’ll be alright,” she stated, swaying their entwined hands. “I didn’t make you wait long I hope?”
“Of course not,” he said, lifting her hand to press a light kiss on the back of it. “You look very beautiful today, my lady. You and your gown.”
A giggle escaped her.
“Why thank you, my lord,” she played along, her eyes finding the dancing couples on the yard. “Will we dance today too?”
“If you wish to,” he said and she nodded fervently.
“I wish to!” she said. “I must say hello to my father first—have you seen him?”
“He’s with Lord Manderly.” Robb nodded in their direction through the crowd, his lady following his line of sight, her father’s boisterous laugh echoing in the yard.
“I fear my father likes northern lords more than southern lords,” she pointed out and Robb grinned at her.
“Good,” he said. “They can keep him entertained when he comes to visit, you and I will be busy.”
Her jaw dropped as she shoved his arm playfully, coaxing a laugh out of him before he pulled her closer and they both started walking towards Lord Greensted.
It wasn’t that Robb was an impatient man.
On the contrary he was very patient, he had been the paragon of patience since his lady had arrived in Winterfell, but this was pushing it too much.
He hadn’t got to get her to himself the whole day, not even once.
First it was their families, and now, for the last hour, it had been the rest of the guests. On one hand Robb was glad more and more northern families were accepting her now that they were wed before the guests and witnesses, but he did not appreciate them hogging all her time.
“Father will be angry if you keep glaring at the guests.”
Robb lowered his cup to shrug at Jon while Theon plopped down beside him, then pulled a plate to himself to dig in. Jon grimaced, turning to shoot him a glare.
“Ghost chews quieter than you, Greyjoy.”.
“I’m hungry!” Theon defended himself and nodded at Robb. “And you’re glowering.”
“My wife has been taken hostage.”
“She seems too happy for a hostage,” Theon pointed out while his lady, who was surrounded by many other ladies, let out a clear laugh at something one of them said. Jon’s eyes stopped on someone over Robb’s shoulder, then he cleared his throat, shifting his weight.
“Aye, she seems like she’s having fun.”
“It’s our first day of marriage—”
“And you spent the last night consummating the said marriage, so you can wait a little.”
Robb chewed on his lip, keeping his gaze on his lady.
“Besides what else are you going to do?” Theon asked with a smirk, wiggling his brows. “Drag her back to your bedchambers in the middle of the feast to sheathe your sword?”
Robb’s silence seemed enough of an answer for both of them and Jon’s eyes widened.
“You’re doing no such thing.”
“Not like anyone would notice.”
“Everyone is watching you two,” Jon insisted. “She is standing in the middle of a crowd of ladies hanging onto her every word right now, in case you went blind all of a sudden. People would notice.”
“Then perhaps they should notice,” Robb grumbled. “Why are they still here anyway?”
“Because it’s the Harvest Feast.”
“I’ll rephrase, why am I here?”
“Because you’re the heir,” Jon deadpanned while Rickon crawled under the table with a growl, no doubt mimicking Shaggydog who was somewhere in the Godswood with Grey Wind and the rest of his siblings. “And you have to be here until it’s finished.”
“Well—” He sneaked his plate under the table so that Rickon could grab it, then started running around with a piece of steak in his hand, still growling while Robb got up. “If I’m to be here until it’s finished, there’s no harm in taking a break.”
“Robb!” Theon and Jon said at the same time but he paid them no mind as he passed Perceon and Jorelle who were dancing along with many others, then made his way to his lady.
“…and the children took up calling you The Shiny Lady,” Lady Woolfield was telling her, making her smile bigger as she pressed a hand on her chest.
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” Lady Berena nodded. “My daughter Bess, she already asked me for a gown similar to yours, she is enchanted.”
“Everyone is.”
“My seamstress is the most talented lady that the realm has ever seen, and my brother Cliff is a merchant who’s been all over the realm, he always sends me the best—hello my lord!” She beamed at him, immediately distracted from what she was saying. Robb bowed his head slightly, his chest tight with pride upon hearing her call him her husband.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted the others, then turned to her. “My lady, could I borrow you for a moment? Some news of importance requires our attention.”
Her smile faltered a little, a worried frown pulling her brows together.
“Of course,” she said and excused herself, her hand finding his as if it was second nature while he led her away from the crowd. “What’s happened? Is everyone alright?”
“Mm hm.”
“A raven then?” she asked as they both entered the keep. “Is it from the Reach or—”
The rest of her sentence turned into a squeal when he pulled her into a dark corner in the hallway, wasting no time to crash his lips on hers. A surprised gasp hitched in her throat as his grip around her waist tightened, but then she pressed a hand on his chest to push him back gently.
“What news?”
“The news that I missed my wife while everyone is convinced they should keep her away from me.”
“Robb!” she chastised him while he let out a chuckle. “Those were northern ladies, they finally like me!”
“They can wait,” Robb brushed her off as he dipped his head to kiss her neck, making her let out a breath before she pushed him back again.
“I’m a lady, in case it escaped you,” she whispered. “I will not be—be pulled to corners for…”
He grinned at her. “For what?”
“You know for what!”
“You wound me,” Robb said, clutching at his chest as if she just stabbed him. “I’m not pulling you to corners for that.”
“No?”
“No, I’m pulling you to our bedchambers,” he said and grabbed her wrist to tug it, earning a surprised yelp from her before a laugh escaped her.
“My lord!”
“Your husband.”
She tried to yank her arm back with her full strength, leaning back on her heels like a stubborn goat. “We cannot just sneak out of the feast!”
He tried to keep a straight face, biting back his laugh. “Well, not if you lack faith.”
“Someone will take notice of our—” Her laugh echoed in the hallway as he easily pulled her forward. “Our absence!”
“So what?”
“It’s disrespectful!”
“Even better, maybe they’ll leave if they find us disrespectful—”
“Robb.”
His father’s voice snapped both of them out of it, his lady’s head whipping around, her eyes widening. Robb made a face, then turned his head to look at his father, slowly letting go of his lady’s wrist as she stepped to stand beside him, offering his father that perfect courtier smile he had seen multiple times on Silas.
“Lord Stark!” she said breathlessly while Robb grasped the silk skirt of her gown so that she wouldn’t walk away. “Good afternoon! We were just um—”
“Talking,” Robb finished her sentence for her while she nodded fervently.
“Something of…” She cleared her throat. “Great importance.”
“Aye, very important.”
His father glared at Robb, then turned to smile at her.
“My lady, could I have a moment with him please?”
“Of course!” She took a step forward with Robb still holding onto her skirt and immediately pushed his hand away, shooting him a warning look. She walked away from them both, her heels echoing in the hallway before she stepped out to the yard, and Robb turned to his father who was pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.
“Father,” he greeted him and his father lowered his hand to glare at him.
“Robb,” he said after a couple of seconds of silence. “I hope to the gods that you have many sons just like you.”
Robb shrugged his shoulders.
“When?” he asked. “It’s not as if I can work on making those sons, with the way I’m not left alone with my wife.”
His father brushed a hand over his face with a sigh, as if praying for patience.
“Is that what you want, father?” Robb insisted with a solemn expression. “Do you want our line to end? Do you want House Stark to—”
“Out.” His father pointed in the direction of the entrance to the keep, and Robb held up his hands, gesturing surrender.
“If I’m being blamed for thinking of our house’s future…” He started walking as his father pushed him forward by the shoulder blades, the same way Robb would push Rickon.
“You’ll be with me for the rest of the day.”
“I cannot,” Robb argued. “I’m a lord husband now, I have responsibilities to my lady wife—”
“You also have responsibilities to our house,” his father stated. “Since you’re so concerned about its future, you must be very involved with any possible issues it might face in the future. What better way to do so than listening to all our vassals and their issues?”
Robb threw his head back to let out a groan, then stepped outside with his father beside him.
“Come,” his father said. “Lord Ryder has news from the Rills.”
His father was a man of his word, which meant that for the rest of the day, Robb had to be stuck with many, many vassal lords and their issues instead of enjoying the first day of his marriage with his wife. Eventually his father had decided to talk to the lords in his solar—with Robb beside him— and it had taken such a long time that by the time they were finished, it was way past supper. Robb went straight to the Great Hall once he left his father’s solar, his eyes darting around the hall.
Where was his lady?
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jon getting himself a drink, so he made a beeline to him.
“Jon.”
“Ah, you’re back,” Jon said. “Where have you been?”
“Father’s solar, listening to almost all of the guests,” he said. “I swear, for a moment I thought he’d keep me there until the dawn—who are you glaring at?”
Jon’s eyes snapped back to his. “Hm?”
Robb looked over his shoulder to see what he had been glaring at, but he couldn’t see anything that captured his attention other than Silas talking to a knight, so he turned back to him.
“What’s going on with you?” he asked. “You’ve been strange the whole day.”
“I’m not.” Jon took a sip of his drink. “You’re the one who’s been strange.”
“With good reason,” Robb grumbled. “Where’s my lady?”
“She retired to your bedchambers an hour ago.”
Robb’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Aye. Braxton just asked the same to Cliff, that’s how I know. Do you—”
Robb did not even waste a second. Without another word or so much as bidding goodnight to his brother he crossed the hall as fast as he could while making sure he wasn’t running, but the moment he stepped out of the hall and into the hallway, he darted for the stairs. He jumped over multiple steps as he ascended them to get to the hallway leading to his—their—bedchambers and only when he reached the door he stopped, his heart beating in his ears.
…Now what?
He couldn’t just pounce on her like a damn wildling. No matter how much he wanted her, no matter how hot the fire of desire burned through his veins, he knew he had to be slow. His father had advised him just yesterday at the wedding feast right before he made way to wake his lady up to carry her to their bedchambers:
“Do not rush things and scare her,” he had said. “Love requires patience, do not harm what’s blooming between you two in your haste.”
Not that Robb hadn’t already decided to let her sleep that night even before his father had opened his mouth, but that was valuable advice for the rest of their marriage.
Including now.
He was just going to ask her. That seemed like a good solution; they were both still learning to communicate with each other, and he didn’t want to push her into something she was not ready for.
If his touch scared her, then he had to soothe that fear before touching her.
Was he supposed to knock, or—?
He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, then shrugged to himself and knocked on the door before he pushed it open, his heart slamming against his ribcage hard enough to make it ache. He half expected to find her in bed but he was proven otherwise; she was cozily sitting on the soft furs before the fireplace when he stepped in and closed the door behind him, the warmth of the room surrounding him. She jumped on her feet, blinking fast like she was trying to pull herself out of her thoughts before she smoothed the skirts of her nightgown, a shaky breath leaving her.
Seven hells, she had to have access to some sort of dark spell; it was not fair for her to be able to make him speechless just by standing there.
The soft light coming from the hearth and the candles illuminated her sheer nightgown; the tiny stars on the air light fabric glimmering even in the dim room. Her hair was loose from any braids, all the jewelry and adornments from earlier abandoned except her favorite goat head bracelet clasped around her wrist. The memory of the very first night they met shot through Robb’s head faster than lightning, a warmth dripping inside his chest.
Though he knew she wouldn’t believe him, he found her the most beautiful like this; in her nightgown, simply her.
Simply his.
His voice was hoarse with desire when he spoke: “My lady.”
Hesitation flashed over her face before she managed to give him a mischievous smile, then her fingers grasped the side of her skirt, the thin fabric shining with the light of the flames behind her before she gave him the courtliest curtsy.
“My lord,” she greeted him back and straightened up, her eyes searching his face as if she was trying to read his mind. Robb had to command in his head that he was not supposed to rush to her, so he ended up taking agonizingly slow steps while he crossed the room, the crackling of the burning wood echoing in the silence of the room. She gulped, shifting her weight.
“You—you don’t mind I hope,” she stammered, vaguely motioning at the fireplace. “The maids lit it but it still felt rather cold, so I…I made it bigger, the fire.”
He tilted his head. “You know how?”
“I’m learning,” she said with a ghost of a proud smile that faded as her gaze fell on the bed before it darted back to his face, the unasked question as loud as a scream between them. She nibbled on her lip, then took another trembling breath, her fingers grasping the skirt of her gown.
“Should I, um—”
“Would you like some wine?” he cut her off as soon as the bottle and the goblets on the small table caught his attention. She blinked a couple of times like he had asked the most confusing question before nodding her head vigorously.
“That’d be lovely, thank you.”
“Sit, I’ll bring it.” Robb filled the two goblets with wine, his heart still pounding in his ears before he made his way to the furs, then sat beside her and held one of the goblets out of her reach with a grin.
“Didn’t eat anything Arys gave you, did you?”
“Gods no.” She huffed out a nervous laugh. “I’m planning to stay away from what he brought me unless the situation is dire.”
Her hand was slightly shaky as she took the goblet from him, then took a huge sip before she lowered it to steal a glance at him. Robb took it as a sign to sip his wine as well, the tart taste burning its way down his throat.
“Thank you, by the way,” she rasped out, making him turn his head. “For earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“The sheets. That was a…” she trailed off, “strangely southern way of thinking.”
A small smirk curled his lips. “I’m learning.”
That managed to coax a small giggle out of her before she downed her wine and put the empty goblet down. He could swear she was able to hear his heartbeat, perhaps the whole castle was, with the way it echoed in his head.
Slow.
He had to be slow.
He had to be slow and gentle and not scare her off, no matter how beautiful she was just sitting there, the orange flames from the fireplace illuminating half of her face.
He swallowed thickly, then put his goblet aside before reaching out to brush his fingertips over her bare shoulder. The thin strap of her nightgown slipped down a little as he leaned in press a chaste kiss on her shoulder, her sweet scent wrapping itself around him and pulling him deeper under her spell.
Go slow.
Go slow.
Go fucking slow, Stark.
“My lady—”
Her breath was a gentle caress on his temple: “Your wife.”
“I will not touch you unless I’m given leave,” he managed to murmur through the haze of desire, nuzzling into her shoulder before lifting his head to look at her. “Am I given leave?”
He didn’t know what it was, nor would he have been able to describe it later on had someone asked, but something in her expression shifted. Gone was the worry pinching her brows, and the hesitance swirling behind her eyes just a second ago, melting into something much lovelier, much softer. Her hand came up to cradle his cheek, a genuine smile, brighter than the sun and the moon and the stars, lighting up her face before she nodded, then leaned in to kiss him.
He had tried, he really had, but the feeling of her lips was more than enough to wash away any thought from his mind. If he were able to think he would’ve realized he was supposed to take her to the bed, but somehow what he was supposed to do held no power against what he was feeling, not when she was in his arms, not when he finally could kiss her, not when—
Not when she was his, completely.
How was it that every time they kissed it felt like the first time?
He leaned over her, resting a hand on the floor as he laid her down on the furs and settled between her legs. Her fingers curled over his shoulders before she tugged at his shirt with a small whine, and he pulled it off to throw it somewhere in the room, his heart leaping to meet her palm where it belonged, her touch awakening goosebumps on his skin. He was nearly dizzy as the familiar fire made its way down, his hands slipping from the soft swell of her chest to her waist before squeezing her hips but her breath hitched in her throat when he blindly reached down to bunch up the skirt of her gown. He buried his nose into the crook of her neck, intoxicated by her sweet scent.
“We have unfinished business, wife.” He smirked against her skin. “From two nights ago.”
“But my skin is sensitive!” She giggled, coaxing a chuckle out of him as he pulled back to look down at her, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb when she pouted. “You have a beard, it’d be uncomfortable.”
He grinned before leaning down to brush his lips against hers.
“Is it uncomfortable when I kiss you here then?”
A pleasant sigh left her. “…No.”
“And here?”
She shook her head, her hands shooting up to cover her face to muffle her giggle while he kissed his way down. He gently pulled them off of her face before lacing his fingers with hers, and she buried her other hand into his hair as if she wanted to soothe herself, playing with his curls.
“None of that,” he murmured. “Don’t deny me the sight of you.”
Then, without wasting another second, he lowered his head to kiss her right where he wanted to, taking her breath away.
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, 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: Weddings can be very chaotic.
Word Count: 9k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, getting drunk, a Borgias inspired scene. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
You could swear you woke up smiling.
It was as if the sun itself had decided to rise inside your chest this morning, too excited to wait for your maid to pull open the curtains to let the light in. You were quite certain that you were the happiest woman in the North—or in the realm, delight filling you even before you opened your eyes and sat up in the bed.
Your wedding day.
It had taken you a long time to fall asleep last night, first from the excitement, then thanks to Robb and his drunk midnight visit that made your face burn even now; what he suggested—
Well.
It had to be because he was drunk, surely.
This was the North, you were certain they didn’t do that here.
“Tell me it’s not snowing,” you told your maid who was looking out the window and she turned to smile at you, then shook her head.
“No sign of snow,” she said, making you exhale in relief. “All from yesterday seems to have melted with the sunlight too. I’d say it’s a good sign from the gods.”
A happy laugh escaped you and you stretched out your arms over your head, then dropped them.
“I’m to wed the love of my life!”
“Yes you are, but before that happens we have a very strict plan for today.”
You nodded your head. “Yes.”
“You’ll have breakfast with the family first…”
“Then go to the sept, pray to the gods, and then—” You thought for a moment. “I still feel like I should pray to his gods as well.”
“Your wedding is happening in front of his gods, you’ll have the time to pray to them.”
You heaved a sigh. “Alright. I’ll have breakfast, go to the sept, pray to the gods, visit Frost quickly—”
“My lady.”
“She hasn’t seen me for a whole day!” you insisted, causing her to pinch the bridge of her nose before she heaved a sigh.
“I’ll bring her here while you’re getting ready, how about that?”
“Oh that sounds better,” you said, “thank you.”
“Remember,” she told you. “The wedding ceremony will hold place when the sun sets, so you must be here in the afternoon latest. It’ll take us hours and hours.”
You nodded your head again.
“The other maids will bring you luncheon, I’ve already arranged it. But once you’re back in this room, you’re staying. I don’t want you to try sneaking out to go see your betrothed while we’re getting you ready.”
Your eyes widened. “But Eadith, if I miss him during the day—”
“You’ll have all the time to see him tonight,” she cut you off and winked. “All of him.”
Your heart skipped a beat and you swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the heavy worry crashing down on you to poison the excitement in your chest.
The wedding night.
Gods, tonight had to go perfect.
Margaery’s grandmother Lady Olenna had always told you the wedding night would determine how the rest of your marriage would go. That was the reason why she had hired that lady of the night for you and Margaery, so that you two would know what to do to mesmerize your husbands on your wedding night completely, and so that you could pull them under your spell, ensuring that they would be under your control. The wedding bed, as everyone kept reminding you, was the place you could manipulate your husband and make him do your bidding outside your bedchambers but now that you knew you were in love, everything was much more complicated than that.
You wanted it to go great, not because it would serve your interests in the future and give you more power over him, but because you loved him.
You couldn’t take a wrong step. You couldn’t falter or fail. You couldn’t do anything that’d shatter tonight’s perfection because if you did—
“My lady?”
You blinked a couple of times, trying to snap out of your own worried thoughts but before you could answer, someone knocked on your door. You and Eadith exchanged glances and you shrugged, so she went to open the door.
Silas.
You furrowed your brows when he stepped in, a small laugh spilling from your lips.
“You look terrible!”
“I came back to the castle while the sun was rising.” He squinted his eyes at the bright room, then ran a hand over his face before fixing his gaze on you. “How do you feel?”
“Much better than you, I’d say,” you said with a grin and he came to sit beside your bed.. “How much did you drink?”
“Too much,” he mumbled and took a deep breath. “Are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
“Being wed to him,” he said. “Because we can just leave if you changed your mind.”
You tilted your head to the side. “Leave?”
“I’ve learned the secret pathways out of the castle. Say the word, and we will sneak out and go to the White Harbor, get on a ship to Dorne and—”
“Silas.”
“I mean the North is so far from the Reach, and it’s a completely different culture, I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“You were thinking of my happiness as you always do,” you assured him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “For which I’ll be thankful to you my whole life. But I haven’t changed my mind, nor will I ever. I love Robb, and he loves me back, and I want to wed him.”
“But…” He pursed his lips. “But are you certain?”
“Very much so.” You gave him a bright smile. “You’ve made the perfect choice, why are you sad?”
There was a haunted look in his eyes before he blinked it away, then smiled back at you.
“I feel overly emotional, can you blame me?” he asked. “It’s my little sister’s wedding day.”
“I’m a woman grown, Silas.”
“Yes yes, I’ve heard you the first hundred times.” He waved a hand in the air. “So then. If I’m not sneaking you out of the castle, what’s the plan for the day?”
Robb and most of your brothers except Alton and Silas ended up not joining breakfast. You weren’t so surprised, Robb was in fact pretty drunk when he came to your door last night even though he kept claiming otherwise, so you figured he would sleep the exhaustion off. You had no idea what time the rest of your brothers had returned to the castle, but if you had to guess, it had to be around dawn like Silas, or perhaps even later.
You just hoped everyone would be feeling much better and awake by the ceremony.
On other news, Robb had a point in saying Lady Stark presided over the wedding in a way stricter manner than Lord Stark ruled the North. There really wasn’t much for you to do except to get ready and be in the Godswood at the specified time; everything else was ready for the evening and for the feast. When you thanked Lady Stark and expressed your concern about whether she would be too tired from handling all this, she only gave you a smile and told you that you would understand just how not tiring this was when the time would come for you to do the same for your future children with Robb.
If your calculations didn’t fail you, based on all the tales about the war and Lord and Lady Stark’s wedding, Robb was conceived on their wedding night.
You wondered if Lady Stark expected the same from you and Robb.
Even if she did, this was peace time. Back then, during war, heirs were of crucial importance, a matter of life-and-death for houses and bloodlines. It was different now; Lord Stark was alive, there was no war, no impending danger,—the noble families’ never ending battle for more power aside— no threat to the realm itself or the crown, or the North. Besides, Robb had never so much as mentioned wanting heirs this early on, so you figured he wasn’t in a hurry.
You just wanted to enjoy your marriage, anything and everything else could wait regardless of others’ expectations.
After lighting your candle in the sept and saying a quick prayer to the gods, you stepped out of the sept, your mind still plagued with thoughts but you quickly snapped out of them when someone grabbed your arm. The small scream that left your lips turned into a giggle upon seeing Robb, and you let him pull you behind the nearest tree, your heartbeat speeding up as you leaned back to the trunk of the tree to look up at him. He cupped your face and stole a kiss from your lips, taking your breath away before he smiled down at you, a fond light gleaming in his eyes.
“Good morrow my love.”
You beamed at him, your face growing hotter.
“Good morrow,” you said, your fingers idly playing with the laces of his linen shirt. “You’re awake, finally. Any longer and I was going to come to wake you up myself.”
“Had I known, I would’ve stayed in bed,” he joked, making you scrunch up your nose at him. “Not too late still. Come to my bedchambers.”
“I cannot,” you said with a small pout. “I’m under very strict orders for today. My seamstress and my maids are in my bedchambers already, I’m sure. Every hour of today is planned.”
His thumb caressed your cheekbone. “Is that right?”
“Yes, I’ll have a bath first, and then—”
“You can have a bath in my bedchambers.”
You pushed at his arm, trying your hardest not to giggle. “Robb!”
“To save you the time!” he defended himself with a playful grin. “I’m merely asking you to come so that you can decide whether the room is to your liking. With your four poster bed and canopy with sheer curtains and such.”
Your eyes darted over his face. “What?”
“The carpenters put everything together while I was away last night, it looks like what you described,” he said. “But I think you should see it closer—the bed, to be exact, you should see the bed closer—”
“Are you serious?” you asked him. “You had them change it to my liking?”
“Of course I did, you said you wanted it,” he said, as if that was all the explanation you could ever need. You could swear your heart melted in your chest as you let out a breath, then pecked him on the lips before you pulled back to smile up at him.
“Thank you!”
He smiled back and dipped his head to kiss you again, but you pulled back and went under his arm to step away from him like you two were in a dance. He almost stumbled in his haste to chase your lips, but managed to regain his balance before catching up with you.
“Will I be able to get you alone before the wedding at least?”
You shook your head. “I’m told no.”
“By who?”
“By my maid.”
“By your—?”
“There’s so much to do!” You entwined your fingers with his, leaning sideways to his arm as you entered the courtyard. “I’ve made a very extensive list, and I’m still terrified I’ll forget something. I had a nightmare the other night, I was in the Godswood but forgot my earrings back in my bedchambers, and no one warned me.”
He stifled a laugh. “Disaster.”
“I know!” you insisted, then heaved a sigh. “Robb, can I ask you for something?”
“Name it and it’s yours.”
You could feel the butterflies in your stomach.
“I won’t have the time to see Silk,” you said, biting on your lip. “Eadith will bring Frost to my bedchambers, but I obviously cannot have Silk there. Can you take her out today? I fear she’ll grow restless if she spends the whole day in the stables, I don’t trust anyone else with her.”
A soft smile appeared on his face before he tugged you by your hand to pull you closer so that he could kiss the top of your head, making you gasp.
“People are watching!”
“They’re here for our wedding, they’ll be fine,” he brushed you off as you both entered the keep and ascended the stairs. “And consider it done, I’ll take her out for a ride.”
“Thank you!” you chirped. “And please make sure to give her an apple. A green apple, she likes green apples better than red ones.”
“Of course.”
You opened your mouth and closed it again, thinking over your question before you took a deep breath.
“Lady Stark tells me not everyone will be in the Godswood for the wedding?”
“The feast is a part of the wedding,” he corrected you. “For the Godswood ceremony, it’s going to be only specific people apart from our families. Everyone else will be waiting back in the Great Hall, at the feast.”
You hummed. “And the feast is as good of a confirmation as the Godswood ceremony even though they don’t see it?”
“Exactly.”
“The ceremony itself sounds rather simple,” you wondered aloud. “I memorized every step of it, but now to think of it, you are certain no one missed anything?”
That seemed to make him chuckle as you both turned the corner to your bedchambers.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know!” you insisted with a small laugh before you pouted. “I don’t know. I just—I overthink things when I’m nervous, you know that. I don’t want anything to go wrong, that is all.”
He stopped you, his hands cradling your face in the gentlest manner, making your heart skip a beat.
“Nothing will go wrong,” he assured you. “The ceremony sounds simple, because it is very simple. You have nothing to worry about, I swear it.”
You had a lot to worry about, he just didn’t know all of them yet.
You nodded your head, your eyes fluttering close as he dipped his head to kiss you again, making you heave a sigh and lean into his touch, nearly melting in his arms. You were certain that you were never going to grow tired of his kiss, and you had to repress a whine when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours, nudging your nose with his to make you giggle.
“You might want to go in there before I change my mind about not dragging you to my bedchambers.”
You breathed out a laugh before you stole a kiss from him, then stepped out of his embrace despite your body begging you not to.
“I believe they are to be our bedchambers and not yours as of tonight,” you teased him as you walked backwards. “Since it’s decorated to my taste and all. Get used to it.”
“Get used to being there,” he teased you back, coaxing a giggle out of you.
“Sounds a fair trade,” you said. “See you in the Godswood tonight.”
With that, you dropped an exaggerated curtsy and entered your already crowded bedchambers, then closed the door behind you.
Eadith was right, getting you ready took hours and hours. You had spent more than an hour in the bathtub, soaking in warm water and flower oils that made your skin softer than silk. The real preparations began when you finally left the bathtub; your hair, your jewelry, your wedding gown and your cloak, they all had to look as planned. It had taken you a long time to decide on everything, but now that you were seeing all of it together, you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself and everyone else for their efforts.
You had chosen to abandon the intricate braids of the south and instead adapted the loose hairstyles of the north, save for two braided pieces that were wrapped around the thin crown of blue winter roses atop your head. Diamonds dangled from the silver filigree earrings in your ears, catching light whenever you so much as moved your head, much like the bracelet around your wrist. Though it was your favorite, you were leaving your signature goat head bracelet and Margaery’s gift on your vanity for the night, opting for a silver bracelet adorned with tiny diamonds you had custom made before you came here.
But even the most delicate jewelry couldn’t compete with your gown.
You had joked about it before with your seamstress. Back in the Reach, while you were planning it and coming up with ideas for your gown, she had asked you what you had in mind, and you had grinned at her.
“He’s a wolf, is he not?” you had asked. “Everyone says so. Then I’m to be his moonlight, for him to follow and admire.”
“Rylene,” you breathed out, gawking at your reflection while she fixed the back of your dress. “You are the most talented woman I’ve ever met, and I’ll cry for days when you go back to the Reach.”
She shushed you.
“This is not the time to speak of crying,” she chastised you lightheartedly. “Because I’ll cry as well, so let’s just focus on how beautiful you look, hm?”
You had no idea how she did it, but she had woven the moonlight into silk.
The gown itself was iridescent, many different shades of gray and the softest blue coming together to gleam in harmony at the smallest motion you’ve made, may it be your arm moving or your chest rising with your breath. To make it even brighter, she had spun a second layer; a net of pure silver threads as light as air draped over the gown. The soft fabric didn’t even seem like it belonged in this world, rather something that was gifted from far beyond, from the stars themselves perhaps, letting you borrow their shine for the night. If you weren’t the one wearing it, you would’ve thought it was a trick of light, too fragile to even gaze upon like the shy light of the moon who, despite being so powerful to rule the waters, had to retire behind night clouds from time to time to breathe in peace.
Your maiden cloak, which was decorated with your own house’s sigil, was only going to be on you until Robb replaced it with his own, yet you had made sure to stitch the small squares of goat embroidery Sansa and Arya had given you upon your arrival here on it. It was much bigger and heavier than the gown, but thankfully Eadith said she would carry it until you reached the Godswood, so you didn’t have to worry about whether it would make you trip or mess up your gown somehow on your way there.
“This is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen in my life,” Sansa said from behind you and you exchanged glances with Rylene in the mirror.
“You’ll have an even prettier one when you wed my sweet,” you told her, and Sansa batted Arya’s hand away when she reached out to touch the skirt.
“Ouch!”
“Don’t touch it you idiot, you’ll stain it!”
“I won’t!”
“Mother, Arya is trying to ruin the wedding gown!”
“But my hands are clean!”
“Arya, don’t touch the wedding gown,” Lady Stark called out from the other end of the room and you smiled at Arya while Rylene crouched down to inspect the hem of the skirt.
“You can touch it once we’re sure Robb has seen it,” you whispered as if giving her a secret and she shifted her weight, her gray eyes darting over the fabric.
“Your everything is shiny,” she pointed out. “Your gown, your jewels…Even your horse.”
“Silk is so gorgeous!” Sansa added. “I saw Robb take her out for a ride earlier.”
“Oh, good!” you said. “I was worried he wouldn’t have the time.”
“No no, he did,” Sansa said and frowned. “Do people in the south ride horses after their wedding?”
“Hm?”
“I heard some lords say Robb was going to have enough of a ride later tonight, so he shouldn’t have bothered.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach, your insides churning with worry but you managed to smile at Sansa, Rylene lifting her head from your skirts to steal a look at her.
“We sometimes hold jousts for wedding feasts,” you lied through your teeth. “Some southern guests still think we’re in the Reach and not the north, I suppose. They’re not familiar with northern weddings or customs.”
It was fine.
Everything was going to be fine tonight.
You weren’t going to mess it up.
“My flower, time to go!” Your father’s voice reached inside the room and Rylene fixed your skirts before she stepped away from you. You quietly thanked her, then tried to smile at Lady Stark who approached you.
“You look so beautiful my dear,” she said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Actually, can I—can I have the room for a moment before we leave?” you asked, your voice cracking mid-sentence and she reached out to squeeze your hand.
“Of course,” she said. “Are you sure everything is alright?”
You nodded fervently. “I just need a moment, I think. I’m afraid I’m too excited.”
She gave you a knowing smile, then squeezed your hand in an assuring manner and turned to the rest of the room.
“Out, everyone.”
“Mother—”
“Yes Sansa, you too. You’ll wait outside with me.”
“But I could help!”
“You’ll help by waiting outside, come on,” Lady Stark said, and everyone in the room followed her, leaving you with Eadith.
“I know what you’re going to say—”
“I cannot mess this up, Eadith,” you said, blinking back the tears. “I cannot.”
“And you will not,” she said. “He loves you.”
“Right now,” you corrected her, pacing in the room. “But if I do something wrong, if I…if what I do tonight is not to his pleasure—”
“Not to his pleasure?” she repeated. “Do you hear yourself? He is too mesmerized by you to be displeasured with you, you know that.”
You shook your head, wishing for the thousandth time that Margaery were here despite how badly she broke your heart.
“I’m supposed to be perfect tonight,” you reminded Eadith, wringing your hands. “Everything that I do is supposed to be seductive and confident. But I—I don’t feel that way, I feel like a clumsy idiot who’ll say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, and then Robb will change his mind and he will stop loving me because he’ll be disappointed in me, and I’ll be heartbroken and replaced and—”
“My lady.” She stopped you, rushing to grasp you by your upper arms so that you would stop pacing. “You will not say or do the wrong thing. I doubt he’ll hear a word you say while you look like this, he’ll be too busy trying to get the prettiest girl in the realm out of the prettiest gown in the realm.”
“Lady Olenna would always say the result of desire had to be even better than the anticipation,” you whispered, stealing a look at the door. “I’ve been keeping him on the edge for a month. That comes with a price, his expectations must be high, and if I fail to meet them—”
“His expectations are just you,” she whispered back. “You being your sweet self. Which will be more than enough, I promise you. He’s in love with you, you couldn’t disappoint him if you tried. You’ll calm down, and it will go great.”
You fanned your face and opened your mouth to argue, but the idea struck your mind like lightning, making your breath hitch in your throat. Eadith raised her brows as you stepped away from her, then turned around to rush to the chest Arys had brought you.
“What are you doing?”
“Arys brought me herbs for everything, and I checked all of them earlier, I swear I saw something…” You opened the chest and pulled open one of the drawers to take a look at the pouches before you moved to the next drawer. “Because he knows everything about everything, and—there!”
You took out the pouch that was labeled “Relaxing the Mind” with Arys’ graceful handwriting, then untied the string around the top part.
“My lady,” Eadith warned you as you took a look inside the pouch, then took out two pieces of what seemed like dried pieces of plant roots. You popped one in your mouth to chew and swallow it, the taste making you grimace before you shoved the other into her hand.
“Keep it with you please,” you said. “If one doesn’t work, I’ll take another before we retire to our bedchambers.”
“I don’t think that’s wise—” she started but was cut off when the door opened, and Elinor stepped in to close it behind her.
“Make haste, everyone is waiting outside,” she said, her eyes finding the chest behind you. “What are you doing?”
You shot her a glare and put the pouch into its place, then closed the chest while Elinor leaned on her hip.
“What’s that?”
“It’s nothing!” you snapped. “Leave me be.”
“Aw, what’s happened?” she mocked. “Too scared to wed your barbarian? Now you remember there’s a reason why southern girls don’t marry into the north?”
You gritted your teeth and narrowed your eyes at her before you let a smirk pull at your lips, then nodded at her.
“How’s your arm?”
That was enough to wipe that smug smile off her face and you scoffed a laugh, then walked past her. Eadith rushed to open the door for you and you took a deep breath, then stepped outside and plastered a smile on your face.
“I’m ready.” You went to press a kiss on your father’s cheek. “Let’s go.”
The Northern wedding customs were rather different than those of the south.
In the south, all weddings took place in the sept in the morning, led by a septon. In the North however, the weddings were held at night by the torchwood, and the moonlight. There was no septon because the old gods didn’t have such structure, instead the groom’s father would officiate the wedding.
So, Lord Stark.
Gods, Arys’ herb hadn’t done anything to soothe your nerves, you were still shaking as you reached the Godswood. Eadith helped you put your maiden cloak over your gown before you clutched your father’s arm and started walking beside him, your brothers following you two close.
“You are the most beautiful bride in the whole realm, my dearest,” your father whispered to you as if he could hear your thoughts. “That being said, are you certain about this?”
You stifled a laugh despite the nerves. “Father, we’re quite literally walking in the Godswood to my wedding.”
“So what? I’ll start a war with the North if my beautiful flower has changed her mind.”
You blinked back the tears and shook your head.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” you said. “Nor will I ever, father. I love him.”
“I know sweeting,” he said with a smile, squeezing your hand in an assuring manner. “He loves you too.”
You could see the light of the torchwoods and the weirwood, so you swallowed thickly, your heart slamming against your ribcage before you stole a look at him.
“Father?”
“Yes dearest?”
“Thank you,” you said, making him turn his head to you. “For everything. I know that you like to say mother would be proud of me, but she’d be proud of you too, and how happy you’ve made me my whole life.”
You could see the tears rushing to his eyes but he let out a breath and waved a hand in the air.
“Don’t make me cry in front of all these northerners my flower, they already think we’re not as tough as them.”
That coaxed a small giggle out of you and you nodded your head.
“Alright,” you whispered, catching the sight of Grey Wind and his siblings afar. “Alright, I won’t.”
It was rather strange, how almost every woman, for thousands of years, had said the same words and went through the same ceremony, but somehow you felt as if you were the only one. You knew the ceremony, you had practiced it in your mind thousands of times but now that you were here, your whole mind had gone empty, especially the moment your gaze fell upon Robb.
By the Gods, he was so handsome.
The look of surprise that settled over his face was almost too familiar; it was the very same expression of awe when he had first seen you in that hallway, on your first night in Winterfell. You could hear the whispers of the guests as your father led you to the weirwood tree, and you gave Robb a tentative smile that made him let out a breath as if he was in too much of a daze at the sight of you. Your heart was beating in your ears so loud that for a moment, you were worried all these people could hear it over the words being exchanged; with Lord Stark asking who came before the gods, and your father introducing you and himself and your house, and Robb introducing himself as well. Much like steps to a dance, you found yourself repeating the words in your head along with them as they spoke, and it was almost a relief to find that no one said a different word than what you had already memorized.
In a second now, Lord Stark was going to ask you—
Your head snapped up when you heard your name, and Lord Stark gave you a small nod.
“Do you take this man?”
Seven hells, who were you going to look at when you made your vows? You had forgotten to ask that, were you supposed to look at the tree or Robb?
You swallowed thickly and decided to focus your gaze on Robb’s handsome face, praying that it was the right move.
“I take this man,” you said, your voice not shaky by a miracle, and a smile curled Robb’s lips before he let out an exhale of relief. He held out his hand and you entwined your fingers with his, then you knelt down before the weirwood tree with him, the whole Godswood going quiet while it waited for your silent prayer.
I know I’m not of the north, you prayed in your head, closing your eyes, but thank you. For him and for this, thank you. I’ll try my hardest to earn your approval, I swear it.
You could see the darkness behind your eyelids light up just a little as if someone lit a thousand candles. The moment you opened your eyes, you had to blink a couple of times because of the sudden brightness, then lifted your head to look up at the full moon bathing you in silver. Grey Wind howled at the moon, his siblings joining him immediately while you stole a glance at Robb who looked like he couldn’t drag his gaze from you.
That was a good sign from the gods if you said so yourself.
Lord Stark cleared his throat as if he was giving him a signal, and Robb snapped out of his daze before he helped you up, and went behind you to take your maiden cloak off your back. You could hear the surprised gasps of the guests at the sight of your gown shining under direct moonlight before Robb placed his own cloak over your shoulders, then dipped his head so that you could hear him.
“You look very beautiful tonight, my lady,” he murmured, his smile apparent in his voice. “You and your gown.”
You had to swallow your giggle before you turned your head. You could now see everyone under the moonlight; Lady Stark was smiling wider than you had ever seen her before, Sansa was wiping at her eyes while Arya clung to Jon’s side with a small frown. Rickon looked rather confused at the reason why Sansa crying and tugged at Bran’s sleeve to whisper something to him but Bran shook his head, whispering something back. You could see your father clasping Silas’s shoulder who faked a cough and used that pretense to wipe at his eyes, Elinor leaned her head on Alton’s shoulder, squeezing his arm as he rubbed her back. Cliff offered Arys his flask, and Perceon grabbed it before Arys could, earning a warning hiss from Braxton. Lord Stark gave you and Robb a smile and approached Lady Stark, all the guests making their way away from the weirwood tree and in the direction of the keep. You nibbled on your lip, at last turning your gaze to Robb to beam at him.
“Good evening, my husband.”
“Good evening, my wife,” he greeted you back, that fond light playing in his eyes before he kissed your temple. “Ready?”
“For what?”
Your answer came in the form of him literally sweeping you off your feet to lift you up in his arms, the high pitched squeal that escaped you echoing in the woods, earning laughter from the crowd. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging tight.
“Robb!”
“I’m supposed to carry you to the feast,” he told you with a wink. “Northern customs. Did they forget to tell you about that part?”
An hour, the second piece of Arys’ herb and multiple drinks later, you were finally relaxed and having fun.
Had it been an hour or two? Or mayhaps three, you really couldn’t tell.
But what you could tell was, from your first dance alone, Robb was a very good dancer even though he preferred not to take part in the rest of the dances. It wasn’t just you having fun, a lot of northerners had already told you that this was the biggest celebration the North had ever seen, and though you weren’t familiar with the other northern celebrations, you were very familiar with southern ones.
And this surpassed even the biggest feast back in the Reach.
You had danced with everyone after Robb. You had danced with your father, and your brothers, and Lord Stark, you had even danced with little Rickon and Bran; both of whom had very serious expressions on their faces as if it was the most important matter, so you had made sure to compliment their dancing skills afterwards.
In addition to that, as a very pleasant surprise, the southerners and northerners looked like they were getting along much better than anyone could’ve anticipated. In fact, you had already heard multiple of your friends planning to exchange letters with their northern dance partners once they were back in the Reach, and many lords and ladies seemed rather taken with each other. Loras had asked you for a dance for old times’ sake, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were back in the Reach, like you were going to rush back to Margaery once the dance was over.
“The infamous Knight of Flowers,” you teased him as you circled each other and he grinned.
“The infamous Blossom of the Reach,” he teased you back. “Or do we call you the Flower of Winterfell now?”
You let out a giggle as you took a step towards each other, your movements fluid as if you were trailing on water, both of you too trained to look anything but perfect.
“You seem happier than ever, and that’s saying something.”
“I am!” you chirped. “I really am.”
“Good,” he said with a chuckle before he twirled you, your skirt flowing around you like waves in the ocean. “I really hope he’ll make you happy, Blossom.”
“He will,” you told him. “And can you tell Lady Olenna I said thank you for everything?”
He made a face. “I did not need to know that.”
“I said nothing!”
“You don’t have to say it, I know what it means.”
Your laughter echoed in the hall, your body following the steps of the dance almost on instinct after years and years of practice.
“Blossom.” He took a deep breath, his eyes searching your face. “About Margaery—”
“I’m not talking about her tonight,” you cut him off and he raised his brows, then nodded.
“Very well,” he said after a second. “Just like we’re not talking about what exactly you’re thanking my grandmother for.”
“To repeat, I said nothing!”
“And to repeat, you don’t have to say it,” he joked. “Will I get my face broken by your husband for daring to dance with you? I’m asking because I watched him beat a knight merely two days ago.”
“Loras!”
“But hey, at least now we know the North is in good hands. If the whitewalkers come, he’ll just beat them up.”
You both took a step back before stepping towards each other again, your hands brushing as the dance required.
“I still remember you joking about white walkers to scare me and Margaery off,” you told him, scrunching your nose up. “Father had to swear to me they weren’t real.”
“You were so easily scared as a child,” he reminisced with a chuckle before eyeing you up and down. “Now look at you. The Lady of Winterfell, hm? It’s your turn to scare people.”
You let out a giggle, sticking your nose up in the air with an air of exaggerated arrogance. “And all shall tremble before me.”
When the music came to a stop and applause rippled in the hall, you dropped a curtsy and thanked him, and he bowed before you two walked away from each other back into the crowd. Robb seemed like he was trapped in a conversation with Lord and Lady Karstark, stealing a glance at you while you tilted your head, trying to decide whether you should interrupt or not—
By the gods, Robb was so very handsome.
Someone touched your arm, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you smiled brightly at Arys.
“Hello!”
“Hello back,” he said with a small smile. “Having fun?”
You nodded your head so fast that for a moment you got dizzy.
“So much fun!” You grabbed a goblet from the tray a footman was carrying, then took a sip of wine. “I got upset about Margaery for a moment but um—I wanted to thank you!”
“Thank me for what?”
You took a deep breath. “The herbs you brought, they work! At first I thought they didn’t but they do, I feel so relaxed and calm and…warm, strangely enough.”
He pulled back a little. “Herbs?”
“I was rather nervous earlier, so I checked the herbs you brought me, and I found the pouch with the uh…it looked like pieces of dried roots? It said Relaxing the Mind,” you said. “I had to eat two pieces, but they’re working!”
Arys blinked a couple of times, his gaze falling on the cup in your hand before back to your face.
“You ate two pieces,” he repeated. “And you’ve been drinking?”
You nodded again. “I ate one before the Godswood, and then it didn’t work, so I ate the second piece when I got here.”
It wasn’t everyday Arys was at a loss for words, and the last time you had seen this exact expression on his face was when Braxton had dared Perceon to swallow a dead grasshopper when they were six. He muttered a curse under his breath, running a hand over his eyes before grabbing you by the arm.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Closer to the light, come,” he said and pulled you closer to one of the candles, then tilted your head up. “Let me see your eyes.”
You blinked up at him and he carefully inspected your eyes, then lowered his hand to take out a coin from his pocket.
“Catch this.” He flipped it in your direction and you caught it, then squinted your eyes at him.
“Why are you throwing me a coin?”
“What’s going on?” Silas’s voice made both of you turn to him and Arys licked his lips.
“She’s fine—you’re fine,” he told you and stifled a laugh. “Good news my dear sister, you won’t be nervous at all for the rest of the night.”
You pumped your fist in the air. “Hooray!”
“Bad news is, you might not remember tonight in general.”
“Oh.” You pouted, your shoulders dropping. “Not hooray.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Silas asked and Arys cleared his throat.
“Remind me to give you a very long speech about herbs and responsibilities tomorrow,” he told you, then stopped a footman. “You. Your duty is to bring my sister water for the rest of the night, alright?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“But I’m drinking wine!”
“You don’t need to drink anymore, trust me.”
“Are you drunk already?” Silas asked you and Arys heaved a sigh.
“Worse.”
“What do you mean worse?” Silas asked, his gaze sharpening in a second. “Arys?”
“Don’t Arys me, I did nothing—”
“He threw me a coin!”
Silas’ frown deepened. “What in the seven hells are you two talking about?”
“He threw me a coin but I caught it,” you said helpfully and Arys pinched the bridge of his nose while you opened your palm to show Silas the coin. “Here. Is it a charm of the sort?”
“Uh, sure. A charm.”
“And his herbs are working, Silas!”
Silas gawked at you in complete silence before he slowly turned his head. “Arys…”
“Before you finish that sentence, let’s all remember that the gods curse the kinslayers,” Arys recited in a solemn manner. “I’m your kin, Silas.”
Silas gave him that perfect courtier smile of his in case anyone was watching. “The gods didn’t say anything about breaking your kin’s jaw, you fucking—”
You gasped when Robb touched the small of your back, a bright smile lighting up your face.
“My betrothed!”
“Your husband, lamb,” Robb corrected you with a smirk before he pressed a kiss on top of your head, and you giggled, hanging onto his arm with both hands to rest your head on his shoulder.
“I forgot,” you said. “It’ll take me a while I think. It’s so strange, being married, you’d think I’d get used to it by now. I mean how long has it been since the weirwood, four hours? Five?”
“Barely two,” Robb said, stifling a chuckle. “How much did you drink?”
“That’s my fault,” Arys said before you could say anything. “She was uh…she was rather nervous, and I gave her an herb to relax her mind. Didn’t think to tell her not to drink, wine heightens the effect.”
Robb’s smirk was replaced by a worried frown in a second. “What?”
“But she’ll be fine!” Arys said in a haste while Silas ran a hand over his face as if trying to control himself. “It poses no danger to her wellbeing at all, she’s just drunk.”
“M’lady.” The footman brought you a cup of water and you smiled at him, then took the cup from him.
“Thank you!”
“Silas!” Your father called out, making him turn his head. “Arys! Come here!”
Silas cursed under his breath while you gulped down your water.
“I’ll be back, just…”
“I’m with her, don’t worry,” Robb assured him. “You go ahead.”
“Come on.” Arys tugged him by the arm and they both made their way to your father while Robb stepped up to stand in front of you, his gaze softening.
“And how does my lady feel?”
You lowered the cup and took a deep breath.
“Time is strangely slow—Robb, I was thinking,” you added, gazing up at him. “Should I tell my gods?”
He reached out to push your hair behind your ear. “Tell them what, my love?”
“That we’re wed,” you said. “I mean your gods already know, but mine might not? I feel like I should go tell them, lest they misunderstand. The sept is right there, I doubt anyone would notice my absence if I tell them very fast and come back—” You stopped mid-sentence when Perceon who was holding a bloodied cloth to his nose entered your sight. “Perce, why are you bleeding?!”
“Oh it’s nothing,” Perceon brushed you off. “Not broken or anything. Robb, is House Fenn important to House Stark?”
“Depends. Why?”
“I just broke their heir’s jaw,” Perceon said, making your eyes widen.
“You what?”
Robb looked rather calm about the issue. “What for?”
“Where’s Braxton?” you insisted and Perceon waved a hand in the air.
“He’s fine, he’s in the rookery.”
“In the middle of my wedding feast?”
“He’s drunk,” Perceon said. “So naturally he decided that it was of utmost importance Myria knew how much he loves her. He is going to send her a raven, I think he’s still writing a letter there.”
You pressed a hand on your chest, getting distracted for a moment by the idea striking your mind. “Robb, we should send each other ravens too!”
“It’d be a short flight,” Robb pointed out, “considering we both live in Winterfell now.”
“It’d still be rather romantic!”
“So anyway, I went out to find him, but on my way there I heard two idiots talking about courting a lady in a very vulgar manner, so of course I had to stop them, and I find breaking someone’s jaw is the perfect way to do so,” He lifted the handkerchief from his nose to motion with his hand. “One is lying in the courtyard face down and the other has multiple broken teeth, I doubt either of them will be able to speak for a while.”
“Good work,” Robb commented while you covered your mouth and Perceon grinned.
“Thank you. Who’s Jorelle Cerwyn?”
You exchanged glances with Robb before lowering your hand. “Why?”
“That’s the lady they were speaking of, and courtesy demands I go apologize to her for letting such talk take place anywhere near me before I stopped it.”
Robb repressed a smile and nodded in Jorelle’s direction, who was in a deep conversation with a lord. “Over there.”
Perceon followed Robb’s line of sight and did a double take the second his eyes found her.
“That one?”
“Aye, in the green gown.”
“…Oh,” Perceon said after a beat and cleared his throat. “How do I look?”
“Bloody,” you replied and Robb smacked his back.
“She’s northern, she won’t mind. Go on.”
Perceon lingered in his spot for a moment before he took a deep breath, then made his way to Jorelle while Robb turned to grin at you.
“Should we have told him about the mistress issue?”
You shoved at his arm. “Very funny.”
“You never know, he might be disturbed by our vast and passionate history of dancing twice—”
“Why did we dance only once?” you cut him off, your brows pulled into a small frown. “You danced with her twice, why did you dance with me once?”
His grin widened. “You’re certain you can dance?”
“That’s the same as asking if I can sleep, Robb,” you whined. “Just as natural for me.”
“Very well then,” he said as he laced his fingers with yours, then lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it, making you giggle. “If my lady wife wants to dance, who am I to say no?”
Robb, holding every promise sacred, indeed danced with you as many times as you wanted, so much that eventually Lady Stark had to approached you to remind you that you were both also dance with other people even though it was your wedding feast. Robb entrusted you to Jon, muttering something to his ear that made Jon suppress a laugh though he had looked rather unwilling to dance at first. After you danced with Jon and then with Theon, your brothers pulled Robb aside for some reason while Jon took you to the High Table so that you could sit a little. It was yet another good surprise that he was allowed to sit at the High Table with you during the wedding, but you had a feeling it had less to do with Lady Catelyn and more to do with Robb’s insistence.
When you crossed your arms on the table to rest your head on them, you were still talking with Jon, so you had no idea when exactly it was that you dozed off. All you knew was that one moment you were talking to Jon about how he had to see the Reach, and the other you were having the weirdest dream about someone asking Robb—very loudly— whether it was the time for the bedding ceremony, and many guests cheering for it.
“There will not be one, Lord Burley,” Robb’s voice had none of the warmth it usually held with you, earning many displeased groans from the hall.
“Robb, it’s the tradition!”
“Aye, it is!”
“Come on!”
“The whole Reach came all this way!”
“We came all this way too!”
“There will not be a bedding ceremony,” Robb repeated sternly. “If anyone wants to disagree, make sure to ask Ser Gwayne how his injuries feel first.”
His words had the same effect of drawing a sword, the whole hall falling into stunned silence for a couple of seconds before Ser Gwayne spoke.
“Not good!” he called out, making laughter erupt in the hallway, dissipating the tension in the air. “Wouldn’t say it’s a pleasant experience.”
Music and loud chatter filled the room again, and you felt yourself being pulled out of the comfortable embrace of sleep as Robb’s soft murmur of your name caressed your ears, his hand on the small of your back. You raised your head, squinting your eyes at the bright light, barely aware of the pout on your lips before you blinked a couple of times, trying to focus. He helped you up and your father forced a smile as if he was trying to hide the worried look in his eyes.
“Good night, my dearest.”
“Good night father,” you muttered, leaning to Robb’s side before he scooped you up into his arms. Your head dropped to the crook of his neck, your fingers curling into his shirt as he carried you out of the hall, away from the chatter and music. You repressed a yawn while he walked down the hallway, then started climbing the stairs.
“I wasn’t done dancing,” you murmured. “I was just resting.”
Laughter vibrated in his chest as he reached the top of the stairs, then turned the corner to step into the hallway leading to his bedchambers. “You can dance all you want tomorrow, time to retire now.”
“Where’s Grey Wind?”
“In the Godswood with his siblings,” he said. “Too many people in the hall.”
“We must make sure to see him tomorrow, I don’t want him to feel excluded.” You couldn’t stop your yawn this time. “I have so much to tell you, I’ve met so many people, and I think some of them like me. Well, I hope. I don’t know, northerners smile less than southerners so it’s still rather difficult to tell, but they seemed rather friendly. And Jon isn’t half bad when it comes to dancing, I have no idea why he looked that tormented at the suggestion of it.”
“That’s just his face at this point.”
“And before I forget,” you mumbled, “I’m glad you were so calm and polite to Lord Meadows’ comment about Winterfell’s warmth.”
“What do you mean, calm and polite?” He frowned down at you. “Wasn’t he asking about how we keep it warm?”
You shook your head, trying to keep your eyes open though they felt like they weighed a ton. “No, he was being rude.”
“Is that why you brought his castle into it?” he asked with a small laugh. “When you said he had nothing to worry about the upcoming winter in the Reach, because his castle is small and cozy?”
“That was an insult.” You nodded this time. “I insulted him.”
“I will never understand the way you southerners speak.” He opened the door to his bedchambers, stepped in, then closed the door and made his way to the bed to put you on it gently.
Despite your vision being slightly hazy because of wine, you could still tell that the room looked exactly like how you described it to him. There was a sofa and a smaller table by the fireplace, a plate of fresh fruit and a bottle of wine and two cups on it. The furs bundled up in front of the fireplace looked so cozy that if you could stand, you would go and bury your hands into them to see if they were as soft as they appeared. The bed looked nothing like how you remembered it either; each corner of it had a wooden column carved with direwolves. The sheer curtains draped around it made it look out of an enticing dream in the candle light, and your eyes darted over the carvings of snarling direwolves on the huge headboard before you reached out to trace the small figure of a lamb with a smile.
“It’s so beautiful,” you breathed out, sleep still laced in your voice even though you tried your hardest to sound sober. Robb pulled the half folded sheet on top of the actual sheet from underneath you, coaxing a giggle out of you while he walked to the small table to grab the knife from the fruit plate. You lifted yourself on your elbows and narrowed your eyes to get rid of the blurriness on the corners of your vision while he nicked his thumb.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing of importance my love, go back to sleep.” He came back to the bed to let the blood drip from his finger to the half folded sheet before he threw it near the door so that the maids could pick it up next morning when they entered the room, though you had no idea why he wanted to stain a perfectly good sheet. Although you wanted to ask him, you were rather exhausted and your eyes were way too heavy to keep them open so you fell back on the bed.
“Robb?” you murmured into the pillow when he sat beside you on the bed, and you couldn’t help but heave a sigh when he leaned in to kiss your forehead, his pleasant scent filling your lungs.
“Yes, my beautiful wife?”
You let out a giggle. “We’re bound forever now.”
“We are,” he whispered, his voice as soft as his touch on your cheekbone. “Finally.”
And in less than a mere second, the warm haze of sleep claimed you, pulling you into darkness.
Hi there! Here’s the masterlist of my completed and ongoing works, I hope you enjoy them!❤️
[ONGOING WORK]:
Avalanche: Robb Stark x Reader [In Progress]
Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match, but sometimes fate liked to play its game.
Avalanche Masterlist
Declassified:Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Reader [In Progress]
Summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.
Declassified Masterlist
Sunshine: Logan Howlett x Reader [In Progress]
Summary: The first ray of sunlight holds many promises.
Sunshine Masterlist
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, 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: Weddings can be very chaotic.
Word Count: 9k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, getting drunk, a Borgias inspired scene. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
You could swear you woke up smiling.
It was as if the sun itself had decided to rise inside your chest this morning, too excited to wait for your maid to pull open the curtains to let the light in. You were quite certain that you were the happiest woman in the North—or in the realm, delight filling you even before you opened your eyes and sat up in the bed.
Your wedding day.
It had taken you a long time to fall asleep last night, first from the excitement, then thanks to Robb and his drunk midnight visit that made your face burn even now; what he suggested—
Well.
It had to be because he was drunk, surely.
This was the North, you were certain they didn’t do that here.
“Tell me it’s not snowing,” you told your maid who was looking out the window and she turned to smile at you, then shook her head.
“No sign of snow,” she said, making you exhale in relief. “All from yesterday seems to have melted with the sunlight too. I’d say it’s a good sign from the gods.”
A happy laugh escaped you and you stretched out your arms over your head, then dropped them.
“I’m to wed the love of my life!”
“Yes you are, but before that happens we have a very strict plan for today.”
You nodded your head. “Yes.”
“You’ll have breakfast with the family first…”
“Then go to the sept, pray to the gods, and then—” You thought for a moment. “I still feel like I should pray to his gods as well.”
“Your wedding is happening in front of his gods, you’ll have the time to pray to them.”
You heaved a sigh. “Alright. I’ll have breakfast, go to the sept, pray to the gods, visit Frost quickly—”
“My lady.”
“She hasn’t seen me for a whole day!” you insisted, causing her to pinch the bridge of her nose before she heaved a sigh.
“I’ll bring her here while you’re getting ready, how about that?”
“Oh that sounds better,” you said, “thank you.”
“Remember,” she told you. “The wedding ceremony will hold place when the sun sets, so you must be here in the afternoon latest. It’ll take us hours and hours.”
You nodded your head again.
“The other maids will bring you luncheon, I’ve already arranged it. But once you’re back in this room, you’re staying. I don’t want you to try sneaking out to go see your betrothed while we’re getting you ready.”
Your eyes widened. “But Eadith, if I miss him during the day—”
“You’ll have all the time to see him tonight,” she cut you off and winked. “All of him.”
Your heart skipped a beat and you swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the heavy worry crashing down on you to poison the excitement in your chest.
The wedding night.
Gods, tonight had to go perfect.
Margaery’s grandmother Lady Olenna had always told you the wedding night would determine how the rest of your marriage would go. That was the reason why she had hired that lady of the night for you and Margaery, so that you two would know what to do to mesmerize your husbands on your wedding night completely, and so that you could pull them under your spell, ensuring that they would be under your control. The wedding bed, as everyone kept reminding you, was the place you could manipulate your husband and make him do your bidding outside your bedchambers but now that you knew you were in love, everything was much more complicated than that.
You wanted it to go great, not because it would serve your interests in the future and give you more power over him, but because you loved him.
You couldn’t take a wrong step. You couldn’t falter or fail. You couldn’t do anything that’d shatter tonight’s perfection because if you did—
“My lady?”
You blinked a couple of times, trying to snap out of your own worried thoughts but before you could answer, someone knocked on your door. You and Eadith exchanged glances and you shrugged, so she went to open the door.
Silas.
You furrowed your brows when he stepped in, a small laugh spilling from your lips.
“You look terrible!”
“I came back to the castle while the sun was rising.” He squinted his eyes at the bright room, then ran a hand over his face before fixing his gaze on you. “How do you feel?”
“Much better than you, I’d say,” you said with a grin and he came to sit beside your bed.. “How much did you drink?”
“Too much,” he mumbled and took a deep breath. “Are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
“Being wed to him,” he said. “Because we can just leave if you changed your mind.”
You tilted your head to the side. “Leave?”
“I’ve learned the secret pathways out of the castle. Say the word, and we will sneak out and go to the White Harbor, get on a ship to Dorne and—”
“Silas.”
“I mean the North is so far from the Reach, and it’s a completely different culture, I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“You were thinking of my happiness as you always do,” you assured him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “For which I’ll be thankful to you my whole life. But I haven’t changed my mind, nor will I ever. I love Robb, and he loves me back, and I want to wed him.”
“But…” He pursed his lips. “But are you certain?”
“Very much so.” You gave him a bright smile. “You’ve made the perfect choice, why are you sad?”
There was a haunted look in his eyes before he blinked it away, then smiled back at you.
“I feel overly emotional, can you blame me?” he asked. “It’s my little sister’s wedding day.”
“I’m a woman grown, Silas.”
“Yes yes, I’ve heard you the first hundred times.” He waved a hand in the air. “So then. If I’m not sneaking you out of the castle, what’s the plan for the day?”
Robb and most of your brothers except Alton and Silas ended up not joining breakfast. You weren’t so surprised, Robb was in fact pretty drunk when he came to your door last night even though he kept claiming otherwise, so you figured he would sleep the exhaustion off. You had no idea what time the rest of your brothers had returned to the castle, but if you had to guess, it had to be around dawn like Silas, or perhaps even later.
You just hoped everyone would be feeling much better and awake by the ceremony.
On other news, Robb had a point in saying Lady Stark presided over the wedding in a way stricter manner than Lord Stark ruled the North. There really wasn’t much for you to do except to get ready and be in the Godswood at the specified time; everything else was ready for the evening and for the feast. When you thanked Lady Stark and expressed your concern about whether she would be too tired from handling all this, she only gave you a smile and told you that you would understand just how not tiring this was when the time would come for you to do the same for your future children with Robb.
If your calculations didn’t fail you, based on all the tales about the war and Lord and Lady Stark’s wedding, Robb was conceived on their wedding night.
You wondered if Lady Stark expected the same from you and Robb.
Even if she did, this was peace time. Back then, during war, heirs were of crucial importance, a matter of life-and-death for houses and bloodlines. It was different now; Lord Stark was alive, there was no war, no impending danger,—the noble families’ never ending battle for more power aside— no threat to the realm itself or the crown, or the North. Besides, Robb had never so much as mentioned wanting heirs this early on, so you figured he wasn’t in a hurry.
You just wanted to enjoy your marriage, anything and everything else could wait regardless of others’ expectations.
After lighting your candle in the sept and saying a quick prayer to the gods, you stepped out of the sept, your mind still plagued with thoughts but you quickly snapped out of them when someone grabbed your arm. The small scream that left your lips turned into a giggle upon seeing Robb, and you let him pull you behind the nearest tree, your heartbeat speeding up as you leaned back to the trunk of the tree to look up at him. He cupped your face and stole a kiss from your lips, taking your breath away before he smiled down at you, a fond light gleaming in his eyes.
“Good morrow my love.”
You beamed at him, your face growing hotter.
“Good morrow,” you said, your fingers idly playing with the laces of his linen shirt. “You’re awake, finally. Any longer and I was going to come to wake you up myself.”
“Had I known, I would’ve stayed in bed,” he joked, making you scrunch up your nose at him. “Not too late still. Come to my bedchambers.”
“I cannot,” you said with a small pout. “I’m under very strict orders for today. My seamstress and my maids are in my bedchambers already, I’m sure. Every hour of today is planned.”
His thumb caressed your cheekbone. “Is that right?”
“Yes, I’ll have a bath first, and then—”
“You can have a bath in my bedchambers.”
You pushed at his arm, trying your hardest not to giggle. “Robb!”
“To save you the time!” he defended himself with a playful grin. “I’m merely asking you to come so that you can decide whether the room is to your liking. With your four poster bed and canopy with sheer curtains and such.”
Your eyes darted over his face. “What?”
“The carpenters put everything together while I was away last night, it looks like what you described,” he said. “But I think you should see it closer—the bed, to be exact, you should see the bed closer—”
“Are you serious?” you asked him. “You had them change it to my liking?”
“Of course I did, you said you wanted it,” he said, as if that was all the explanation you could ever need. You could swear your heart melted in your chest as you let out a breath, then pecked him on the lips before you pulled back to smile up at him.
“Thank you!”
He smiled back and dipped his head to kiss you again, but you pulled back and went under his arm to step away from him like you two were in a dance. He almost stumbled in his haste to chase your lips, but managed to regain his balance before catching up with you.
“Will I be able to get you alone before the wedding at least?”
You shook your head. “I’m told no.”
“By who?”
“By my maid.”
“By your—?”
“There’s so much to do!” You entwined your fingers with his, leaning sideways to his arm as you entered the courtyard. “I’ve made a very extensive list, and I’m still terrified I’ll forget something. I had a nightmare the other night, I was in the Godswood but forgot my earrings back in my bedchambers, and no one warned me.”
He stifled a laugh. “Disaster.”
“I know!” you insisted, then heaved a sigh. “Robb, can I ask you for something?”
“Name it and it’s yours.”
You could feel the butterflies in your stomach.
“I won’t have the time to see Silk,” you said, biting on your lip. “Eadith will bring Frost to my bedchambers, but I obviously cannot have Silk there. Can you take her out today? I fear she’ll grow restless if she spends the whole day in the stables, I don’t trust anyone else with her.”
A soft smile appeared on his face before he tugged you by your hand to pull you closer so that he could kiss the top of your head, making you gasp.
“People are watching!”
“They’re here for our wedding, they’ll be fine,” he brushed you off as you both entered the keep and ascended the stairs. “And consider it done, I’ll take her out for a ride.”
“Thank you!” you chirped. “And please make sure to give her an apple. A green apple, she likes green apples better than red ones.”
“Of course.”
You opened your mouth and closed it again, thinking over your question before you took a deep breath.
“Lady Stark tells me not everyone will be in the Godswood for the wedding?”
“The feast is a part of the wedding,” he corrected you. “For the Godswood ceremony, it’s going to be only specific people apart from our families. Everyone else will be waiting back in the Great Hall, at the feast.”
You hummed. “And the feast is as good of a confirmation as the Godswood ceremony even though they don’t see it?”
“Exactly.”
“The ceremony itself sounds rather simple,” you wondered aloud. “I memorized every step of it, but now to think of it, you are certain no one missed anything?”
That seemed to make him chuckle as you both turned the corner to your bedchambers.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know!” you insisted with a small laugh before you pouted. “I don’t know. I just—I overthink things when I’m nervous, you know that. I don’t want anything to go wrong, that is all.”
He stopped you, his hands cradling your face in the gentlest manner, making your heart skip a beat.
“Nothing will go wrong,” he assured you. “The ceremony sounds simple, because it is very simple. You have nothing to worry about, I swear it.”
You had a lot to worry about, he just didn’t know all of them yet.
You nodded your head, your eyes fluttering close as he dipped his head to kiss you again, making you heave a sigh and lean into his touch, nearly melting in his arms. You were certain that you were never going to grow tired of his kiss, and you had to repress a whine when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours, nudging your nose with his to make you giggle.
“You might want to go in there before I change my mind about not dragging you to my bedchambers.”
You breathed out a laugh before you stole a kiss from him, then stepped out of his embrace despite your body begging you not to.
“I believe they are to be our bedchambers and not yours as of tonight,” you teased him as you walked backwards. “Since it’s decorated to my taste and all. Get used to it.”
“Get used to being there,” he teased you back, coaxing a giggle out of you.
“Sounds a fair trade,” you said. “See you in the Godswood tonight.”
With that, you dropped an exaggerated curtsy and entered your already crowded bedchambers, then closed the door behind you.
Eadith was right, getting you ready took hours and hours. You had spent more than an hour in the bathtub, soaking in warm water and flower oils that made your skin softer than silk. The real preparations began when you finally left the bathtub; your hair, your jewelry, your wedding gown and your cloak, they all had to look as planned. It had taken you a long time to decide on everything, but now that you were seeing all of it together, you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself and everyone else for their efforts.
You had chosen to abandon the intricate braids of the south and instead adapted the loose hairstyles of the north, save for two braided pieces that were wrapped around the thin crown of blue winter roses atop your head. Diamonds dangled from the silver filigree earrings in your ears, catching light whenever you so much as moved your head, much like the bracelet around your wrist. Though it was your favorite, you were leaving your signature goat head bracelet and Margaery’s gift on your vanity for the night, opting for a silver bracelet adorned with tiny diamonds you had custom made before you came here.
But even the most delicate jewelry couldn’t compete with your gown.
You had joked about it before with your seamstress. Back in the Reach, while you were planning it and coming up with ideas for your gown, she had asked you what you had in mind, and you had grinned at her.
“He’s a wolf, is he not?” you had asked. “Everyone says so. Then I’m to be his moonlight, for him to follow and admire.”
“Rylene,” you breathed out, gawking at your reflection while she fixed the back of your dress. “You are the most talented woman I’ve ever met, and I’ll cry for days when you go back to the Reach.”
She shushed you.
“This is not the time to speak of crying,” she chastised you lightheartedly. “Because I’ll cry as well, so let’s just focus on how beautiful you look, hm?”
You had no idea how she did it, but she had woven the moonlight into silk.
The gown itself was iridescent, many different shades of gray and the softest blue coming together to gleam in harmony at the smallest motion you’ve made, may it be your arm moving or your chest rising with your breath. To make it even brighter, she had spun a second layer; a net of pure silver threads as light as air draped over the gown. The soft fabric didn’t even seem like it belonged in this world, rather something that was gifted from far beyond, from the stars themselves perhaps, letting you borrow their shine for the night. If you weren’t the one wearing it, you would’ve thought it was a trick of light, too fragile to even gaze upon like the shy light of the moon who, despite being so powerful to rule the waters, had to retire behind night clouds from time to time to breathe in peace.
Your maiden cloak, which was decorated with your own house’s sigil, was only going to be on you until Robb replaced it with his own, yet you had made sure to stitch the small squares of goat embroidery Sansa and Arya had given you upon your arrival here on it. It was much bigger and heavier than the gown, but thankfully Eadith said she would carry it until you reached the Godswood, so you didn’t have to worry about whether it would make you trip or mess up your gown somehow on your way there.
“This is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen in my life,” Sansa said from behind you and you exchanged glances with Rylene in the mirror.
“You’ll have an even prettier one when you wed my sweet,” you told her, and Sansa batted Arya’s hand away when she reached out to touch the skirt.
“Ouch!”
“Don’t touch it you idiot, you’ll stain it!”
“I won’t!”
“Mother, Arya is trying to ruin the wedding gown!”
“But my hands are clean!”
“Arya, don’t touch the wedding gown,” Lady Stark called out from the other end of the room and you smiled at Arya while Rylene crouched down to inspect the hem of the skirt.
“You can touch it once we’re sure Robb has seen it,” you whispered as if giving her a secret and she shifted her weight, her gray eyes darting over the fabric.
“Your everything is shiny,” she pointed out. “Your gown, your jewels…Even your horse.”
“Silk is so gorgeous!” Sansa added. “I saw Robb take her out for a ride earlier.”
“Oh, good!” you said. “I was worried he wouldn’t have the time.”
“No no, he did,” Sansa said and frowned. “Do people in the south ride horses after their wedding?”
“Hm?”
“I heard some lords say Robb was going to have enough of a ride later tonight, so he shouldn’t have bothered.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach, your insides churning with worry but you managed to smile at Sansa, Rylene lifting her head from your skirts to steal a look at her.
“We sometimes hold jousts for wedding feasts,” you lied through your teeth. “Some southern guests still think we’re in the Reach and not the north, I suppose. They’re not familiar with northern weddings or customs.”
It was fine.
Everything was going to be fine tonight.
You weren’t going to mess it up.
“My flower, time to go!” Your father’s voice reached inside the room and Rylene fixed your skirts before she stepped away from you. You quietly thanked her, then tried to smile at Lady Stark who approached you.
“You look so beautiful my dear,” she said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Actually, can I—can I have the room for a moment before we leave?” you asked, your voice cracking mid-sentence and she reached out to squeeze your hand.
“Of course,” she said. “Are you sure everything is alright?”
You nodded fervently. “I just need a moment, I think. I’m afraid I’m too excited.”
She gave you a knowing smile, then squeezed your hand in an assuring manner and turned to the rest of the room.
“Out, everyone.”
“Mother—”
“Yes Sansa, you too. You’ll wait outside with me.”
“But I could help!”
“You’ll help by waiting outside, come on,” Lady Stark said, and everyone in the room followed her, leaving you with Eadith.
“I know what you’re going to say—”
“I cannot mess this up, Eadith,” you said, blinking back the tears. “I cannot.”
“And you will not,” she said. “He loves you.”
“Right now,” you corrected her, pacing in the room. “But if I do something wrong, if I…if what I do tonight is not to his pleasure—”
“Not to his pleasure?” she repeated. “Do you hear yourself? He is too mesmerized by you to be displeasured with you, you know that.”
You shook your head, wishing for the thousandth time that Margaery were here despite how badly she broke your heart.
“I’m supposed to be perfect tonight,” you reminded Eadith, wringing your hands. “Everything that I do is supposed to be seductive and confident. But I—I don’t feel that way, I feel like a clumsy idiot who’ll say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, and then Robb will change his mind and he will stop loving me because he’ll be disappointed in me, and I’ll be heartbroken and replaced and—”
“My lady.” She stopped you, rushing to grasp you by your upper arms so that you would stop pacing. “You will not say or do the wrong thing. I doubt he’ll hear a word you say while you look like this, he’ll be too busy trying to get the prettiest girl in the realm out of the prettiest gown in the realm.”
“Lady Olenna would always say the result of desire had to be even better than the anticipation,” you whispered, stealing a look at the door. “I’ve been keeping him on the edge for a month. That comes with a price, his expectations must be high, and if I fail to meet them—”
“His expectations are just you,” she whispered back. “You being your sweet self. Which will be more than enough, I promise you. He’s in love with you, you couldn’t disappoint him if you tried. You’ll calm down, and it will go great.”
You fanned your face and opened your mouth to argue, but the idea struck your mind like lightning, making your breath hitch in your throat. Eadith raised her brows as you stepped away from her, then turned around to rush to the chest Arys had brought you.
“What are you doing?”
“Arys brought me herbs for everything, and I checked all of them earlier, I swear I saw something…” You opened the chest and pulled open one of the drawers to take a look at the pouches before you moved to the next drawer. “Because he knows everything about everything, and—there!”
You took out the pouch that was labeled “Relaxing the Mind” with Arys’ graceful handwriting, then untied the string around the top part.
“My lady,” Eadith warned you as you took a look inside the pouch, then took out two pieces of what seemed like dried pieces of plant roots. You popped one in your mouth to chew and swallow it, the taste making you grimace before you shoved the other into her hand.
“Keep it with you please,” you said. “If one doesn’t work, I’ll take another before we retire to our bedchambers.”
“I don’t think that’s wise—” she started but was cut off when the door opened, and Elinor stepped in to close it behind her.
“Make haste, everyone is waiting outside,” she said, her eyes finding the chest behind you. “What are you doing?”
You shot her a glare and put the pouch into its place, then closed the chest while Elinor leaned on her hip.
“What’s that?”
“It’s nothing!” you snapped. “Leave me be.”
“Aw, what’s happened?” she mocked. “Too scared to wed your barbarian? Now you remember there’s a reason why southern girls don’t marry into the north?”
You gritted your teeth and narrowed your eyes at her before you let a smirk pull at your lips, then nodded at her.
“How’s your arm?”
That was enough to wipe that smug smile off her face and you scoffed a laugh, then walked past her. Eadith rushed to open the door for you and you took a deep breath, then stepped outside and plastered a smile on your face.
“I’m ready.” You went to press a kiss on your father’s cheek. “Let’s go.”
The Northern wedding customs were rather different than those of the south.
In the south, all weddings took place in the sept in the morning, led by a septon. In the North however, the weddings were held at night by the torchwood, and the moonlight. There was no septon because the old gods didn’t have such structure, instead the groom’s father would officiate the wedding.
So, Lord Stark.
Gods, Arys’ herb hadn’t done anything to soothe your nerves, you were still shaking as you reached the Godswood. Eadith helped you put your maiden cloak over your gown before you clutched your father’s arm and started walking beside him, your brothers following you two close.
“You are the most beautiful bride in the whole realm, my dearest,” your father whispered to you as if he could hear your thoughts. “That being said, are you certain about this?”
You stifled a laugh despite the nerves. “Father, we’re quite literally walking in the Godswood to my wedding.”
“So what? I’ll start a war with the North if my beautiful flower has changed her mind.”
You blinked back the tears and shook your head.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” you said. “Nor will I ever, father. I love him.”
“I know sweeting,” he said with a smile, squeezing your hand in an assuring manner. “He loves you too.”
You could see the light of the torchwoods and the weirwood, so you swallowed thickly, your heart slamming against your ribcage before you stole a look at him.
“Father?”
“Yes dearest?”
“Thank you,” you said, making him turn his head to you. “For everything. I know that you like to say mother would be proud of me, but she’d be proud of you too, and how happy you’ve made me my whole life.”
You could see the tears rushing to his eyes but he let out a breath and waved a hand in the air.
“Don’t make me cry in front of all these northerners my flower, they already think we’re not as tough as them.”
That coaxed a small giggle out of you and you nodded your head.
“Alright,” you whispered, catching the sight of Grey Wind and his siblings afar. “Alright, I won’t.”
It was rather strange, how almost every woman, for thousands of years, had said the same words and went through the same ceremony, but somehow you felt as if you were the only one. You knew the ceremony, you had practiced it in your mind thousands of times but now that you were here, your whole mind had gone empty, especially the moment your gaze fell upon Robb.
By the Gods, he was so handsome.
The look of surprise that settled over his face was almost too familiar; it was the very same expression of awe when he had first seen you in that hallway, on your first night in Winterfell. You could hear the whispers of the guests as your father led you to the weirwood tree, and you gave Robb a tentative smile that made him let out a breath as if he was in too much of a daze at the sight of you. Your heart was beating in your ears so loud that for a moment, you were worried all these people could hear it over the words being exchanged; with Lord Stark asking who came before the gods, and your father introducing you and himself and your house, and Robb introducing himself as well. Much like steps to a dance, you found yourself repeating the words in your head along with them as they spoke, and it was almost a relief to find that no one said a different word than what you had already memorized.
In a second now, Lord Stark was going to ask you—
Your head snapped up when you heard your name, and Lord Stark gave you a small nod.
“Do you take this man?”
Seven hells, who were you going to look at when you made your vows? You had forgotten to ask that, were you supposed to look at the tree or Robb?
You swallowed thickly and decided to focus your gaze on Robb’s handsome face, praying that it was the right move.
“I take this man,” you said, your voice not shaky by a miracle, and a smile curled Robb’s lips before he let out an exhale of relief. He held out his hand and you entwined your fingers with his, then you knelt down before the weirwood tree with him, the whole Godswood going quiet while it waited for your silent prayer.
I know I’m not of the north, you prayed in your head, closing your eyes, but thank you. For him and for this, thank you. I’ll try my hardest to earn your approval, I swear it.
You could see the darkness behind your eyelids light up just a little as if someone lit a thousand candles. The moment you opened your eyes, you had to blink a couple of times because of the sudden brightness, then lifted your head to look up at the full moon bathing you in silver. Grey Wind howled at the moon, his siblings joining him immediately while you stole a glance at Robb who looked like he couldn’t drag his gaze from you.
That was a good sign from the gods if you said so yourself.
Lord Stark cleared his throat as if he was giving him a signal, and Robb snapped out of his daze before he helped you up, and went behind you to take your maiden cloak off your back. You could hear the surprised gasps of the guests at the sight of your gown shining under direct moonlight before Robb placed his own cloak over your shoulders, then dipped his head so that you could hear him.
“You look very beautiful tonight, my lady,” he murmured, his smile apparent in his voice. “You and your gown.”
You had to swallow your giggle before you turned your head. You could now see everyone under the moonlight; Lady Stark was smiling wider than you had ever seen her before, Sansa was wiping at her eyes while Arya clung to Jon’s side with a small frown. Rickon looked rather confused at the reason why Sansa crying and tugged at Bran’s sleeve to whisper something to him but Bran shook his head, whispering something back. You could see your father clasping Silas’s shoulder who faked a cough and used that pretense to wipe at his eyes, Elinor leaned her head on Alton’s shoulder, squeezing his arm as he rubbed her back. Cliff offered Arys his flask, and Perceon grabbed it before Arys could, earning a warning hiss from Braxton. Lord Stark gave you and Robb a smile and approached Lady Stark, all the guests making their way away from the weirwood tree and in the direction of the keep. You nibbled on your lip, at last turning your gaze to Robb to beam at him.
“Good evening, my husband.”
“Good evening, my wife,” he greeted you back, that fond light playing in his eyes before he kissed your temple. “Ready?”
“For what?”
Your answer came in the form of him literally sweeping you off your feet to lift you up in his arms, the high pitched squeal that escaped you echoing in the woods, earning laughter from the crowd. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging tight.
“Robb!”
“I’m supposed to carry you to the feast,” he told you with a wink. “Northern customs. Did they forget to tell you about that part?”
An hour, the second piece of Arys’ herb and multiple drinks later, you were finally relaxed and having fun.
Had it been an hour or two? Or mayhaps three, you really couldn’t tell.
But what you could tell was, from your first dance alone, Robb was a very good dancer even though he preferred not to take part in the rest of the dances. It wasn’t just you having fun, a lot of northerners had already told you that this was the biggest celebration the North had ever seen, and though you weren’t familiar with the other northern celebrations, you were very familiar with southern ones.
And this surpassed even the biggest feast back in the Reach.
You had danced with everyone after Robb. You had danced with your father, and your brothers, and Lord Stark, you had even danced with little Rickon and Bran; both of whom had very serious expressions on their faces as if it was the most important matter, so you had made sure to compliment their dancing skills afterwards.
In addition to that, as a very pleasant surprise, the southerners and northerners looked like they were getting along much better than anyone could’ve anticipated. In fact, you had already heard multiple of your friends planning to exchange letters with their northern dance partners once they were back in the Reach, and many lords and ladies seemed rather taken with each other. Loras had asked you for a dance for old times’ sake, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were back in the Reach, like you were going to rush back to Margaery once the dance was over.
“The infamous Knight of Flowers,” you teased him as you circled each other and he grinned.
“The infamous Blossom of the Reach,” he teased you back. “Or do we call you the Flower of Winterfell now?”
You let out a giggle as you took a step towards each other, your movements fluid as if you were trailing on water, both of you too trained to look anything but perfect.
“You seem happier than ever, and that’s saying something.”
“I am!” you chirped. “I really am.”
“Good,” he said with a chuckle before he twirled you, your skirt flowing around you like waves in the ocean. “I really hope he’ll make you happy, Blossom.”
“He will,” you told him. “And can you tell Lady Olenna I said thank you for everything?”
He made a face. “I did not need to know that.”
“I said nothing!”
“You don’t have to say it, I know what it means.”
Your laughter echoed in the hall, your body following the steps of the dance almost on instinct after years and years of practice.
“Blossom.” He took a deep breath, his eyes searching your face. “About Margaery—”
“I’m not talking about her tonight,” you cut him off and he raised his brows, then nodded.
“Very well,” he said after a second. “Just like we’re not talking about what exactly you’re thanking my grandmother for.”
“To repeat, I said nothing!”
“And to repeat, you don’t have to say it,” he joked. “Will I get my face broken by your husband for daring to dance with you? I’m asking because I watched him beat a knight merely two days ago.”
“Loras!”
“But hey, at least now we know the North is in good hands. If the whitewalkers come, he’ll just beat them up.”
You both took a step back before stepping towards each other again, your hands brushing as the dance required.
“I still remember you joking about white walkers to scare me and Margaery off,” you told him, scrunching your nose up. “Father had to swear to me they weren’t real.”
“You were so easily scared as a child,” he reminisced with a chuckle before eyeing you up and down. “Now look at you. The Lady of Winterfell, hm? It’s your turn to scare people.”
You let out a giggle, sticking your nose up in the air with an air of exaggerated arrogance. “And all shall tremble before me.”
When the music came to a stop and applause rippled in the hall, you dropped a curtsy and thanked him, and he bowed before you two walked away from each other back into the crowd. Robb seemed like he was trapped in a conversation with Lord and Lady Karstark, stealing a glance at you while you tilted your head, trying to decide whether you should interrupt or not—
By the gods, Robb was so very handsome.
Someone touched your arm, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you smiled brightly at Arys.
“Hello!”
“Hello back,” he said with a small smile. “Having fun?”
You nodded your head so fast that for a moment you got dizzy.
“So much fun!” You grabbed a goblet from the tray a footman was carrying, then took a sip of wine. “I got upset about Margaery for a moment but um—I wanted to thank you!”
“Thank me for what?”
You took a deep breath. “The herbs you brought, they work! At first I thought they didn’t but they do, I feel so relaxed and calm and…warm, strangely enough.”
He pulled back a little. “Herbs?”
“I was rather nervous earlier, so I checked the herbs you brought me, and I found the pouch with the uh…it looked like pieces of dried roots? It said Relaxing the Mind,” you said. “I had to eat two pieces, but they’re working!”
Arys blinked a couple of times, his gaze falling on the cup in your hand before back to your face.
“You ate two pieces,” he repeated. “And you’ve been drinking?”
You nodded again. “I ate one before the Godswood, and then it didn’t work, so I ate the second piece when I got here.”
It wasn’t everyday Arys was at a loss for words, and the last time you had seen this exact expression on his face was when Braxton had dared Perceon to swallow a dead grasshopper when they were six. He muttered a curse under his breath, running a hand over his eyes before grabbing you by the arm.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Closer to the light, come,” he said and pulled you closer to one of the candles, then tilted your head up. “Let me see your eyes.”
You blinked up at him and he carefully inspected your eyes, then lowered his hand to take out a coin from his pocket.
“Catch this.” He flipped it in your direction and you caught it, then squinted your eyes at him.
“Why are you throwing me a coin?”
“What’s going on?” Silas’s voice made both of you turn to him and Arys licked his lips.
“She’s fine—you’re fine,” he told you and stifled a laugh. “Good news my dear sister, you won’t be nervous at all for the rest of the night.”
You pumped your fist in the air. “Hooray!”
“Bad news is, you might not remember tonight in general.”
“Oh.” You pouted, your shoulders dropping. “Not hooray.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Silas asked and Arys cleared his throat.
“Remind me to give you a very long speech about herbs and responsibilities tomorrow,” he told you, then stopped a footman. “You. Your duty is to bring my sister water for the rest of the night, alright?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“But I’m drinking wine!”
“You don’t need to drink anymore, trust me.”
“Are you drunk already?” Silas asked you and Arys heaved a sigh.
“Worse.”
“What do you mean worse?” Silas asked, his gaze sharpening in a second. “Arys?”
“Don’t Arys me, I did nothing—”
“He threw me a coin!”
Silas’ frown deepened. “What in the seven hells are you two talking about?”
“He threw me a coin but I caught it,” you said helpfully and Arys pinched the bridge of his nose while you opened your palm to show Silas the coin. “Here. Is it a charm of the sort?”
“Uh, sure. A charm.”
“And his herbs are working, Silas!”
Silas gawked at you in complete silence before he slowly turned his head. “Arys…”
“Before you finish that sentence, let’s all remember that the gods curse the kinslayers,” Arys recited in a solemn manner. “I’m your kin, Silas.”
Silas gave him that perfect courtier smile of his in case anyone was watching. “The gods didn’t say anything about breaking your kin’s jaw, you fucking—”
You gasped when Robb touched the small of your back, a bright smile lighting up your face.
“My betrothed!”
“Your husband, lamb,” Robb corrected you with a smirk before he pressed a kiss on top of your head, and you giggled, hanging onto his arm with both hands to rest your head on his shoulder.
“I forgot,” you said. “It’ll take me a while I think. It’s so strange, being married, you’d think I’d get used to it by now. I mean how long has it been since the weirwood, four hours? Five?”
“Barely two,” Robb said, stifling a chuckle. “How much did you drink?”
“That’s my fault,” Arys said before you could say anything. “She was uh…she was rather nervous, and I gave her an herb to relax her mind. Didn’t think to tell her not to drink, wine heightens the effect.”
Robb’s smirk was replaced by a worried frown in a second. “What?”
“But she’ll be fine!” Arys said in a haste while Silas ran a hand over his face as if trying to control himself. “It poses no danger to her wellbeing at all, she’s just drunk.”
“M’lady.” The footman brought you a cup of water and you smiled at him, then took the cup from him.
“Thank you!”
“Silas!” Your father called out, making him turn his head. “Arys! Come here!”
Silas cursed under his breath while you gulped down your water.
“I’ll be back, just…”
“I’m with her, don’t worry,” Robb assured him. “You go ahead.”
“Come on.” Arys tugged him by the arm and they both made their way to your father while Robb stepped up to stand in front of you, his gaze softening.
“And how does my lady feel?”
You lowered the cup and took a deep breath.
“Time is strangely slow—Robb, I was thinking,” you added, gazing up at him. “Should I tell my gods?”
He reached out to push your hair behind your ear. “Tell them what, my love?”
“That we’re wed,” you said. “I mean your gods already know, but mine might not? I feel like I should go tell them, lest they misunderstand. The sept is right there, I doubt anyone would notice my absence if I tell them very fast and come back—” You stopped mid-sentence when Perceon who was holding a bloodied cloth to his nose entered your sight. “Perce, why are you bleeding?!”
“Oh it’s nothing,” Perceon brushed you off. “Not broken or anything. Robb, is House Fenn important to House Stark?”
“Depends. Why?”
“I just broke their heir’s jaw,” Perceon said, making your eyes widen.
“You what?”
Robb looked rather calm about the issue. “What for?”
“Where’s Braxton?” you insisted and Perceon waved a hand in the air.
“He’s fine, he’s in the rookery.”
“In the middle of my wedding feast?”
“He’s drunk,” Perceon said. “So naturally he decided that it was of utmost importance Myria knew how much he loves her. He is going to send her a raven, I think he’s still writing a letter there.”
You pressed a hand on your chest, getting distracted for a moment by the idea striking your mind. “Robb, we should send each other ravens too!”
“It’d be a short flight,” Robb pointed out, “considering we both live in Winterfell now.”
“It’d still be rather romantic!”
“So anyway, I went out to find him, but on my way there I heard two idiots talking about courting a lady in a very vulgar manner, so of course I had to stop them, and I find breaking someone’s jaw is the perfect way to do so,” He lifted the handkerchief from his nose to motion with his hand. “One is lying in the courtyard face down and the other has multiple broken teeth, I doubt either of them will be able to speak for a while.”
“Good work,” Robb commented while you covered your mouth and Perceon grinned.
“Thank you. Who’s Jorelle Cerwyn?”
You exchanged glances with Robb before lowering your hand. “Why?”
“That’s the lady they were speaking of, and courtesy demands I go apologize to her for letting such talk take place anywhere near me before I stopped it.”
Robb repressed a smile and nodded in Jorelle’s direction, who was in a deep conversation with a lord. “Over there.”
Perceon followed Robb’s line of sight and did a double take the second his eyes found her.
“That one?”
“Aye, in the green gown.”
“…Oh,” Perceon said after a beat and cleared his throat. “How do I look?”
“Bloody,” you replied and Robb smacked his back.
“She’s northern, she won’t mind. Go on.”
Perceon lingered in his spot for a moment before he took a deep breath, then made his way to Jorelle while Robb turned to grin at you.
“Should we have told him about the mistress issue?”
You shoved at his arm. “Very funny.”
“You never know, he might be disturbed by our vast and passionate history of dancing twice—”
“Why did we dance only once?” you cut him off, your brows pulled into a small frown. “You danced with her twice, why did you dance with me once?”
His grin widened. “You’re certain you can dance?”
“That’s the same as asking if I can sleep, Robb,” you whined. “Just as natural for me.”
“Very well then,” he said as he laced his fingers with yours, then lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it, making you giggle. “If my lady wife wants to dance, who am I to say no?”
Robb, holding every promise sacred, indeed danced with you as many times as you wanted, so much that eventually Lady Stark had to approached you to remind you that you were both also dance with other people even though it was your wedding feast. Robb entrusted you to Jon, muttering something to his ear that made Jon suppress a laugh though he had looked rather unwilling to dance at first. After you danced with Jon and then with Theon, your brothers pulled Robb aside for some reason while Jon took you to the High Table so that you could sit a little. It was yet another good surprise that he was allowed to sit at the High Table with you during the wedding, but you had a feeling it had less to do with Lady Catelyn and more to do with Robb’s insistence.
When you crossed your arms on the table to rest your head on them, you were still talking with Jon, so you had no idea when exactly it was that you dozed off. All you knew was that one moment you were talking to Jon about how he had to see the Reach, and the other you were having the weirdest dream about someone asking Robb—very loudly— whether it was the time for the bedding ceremony, and many guests cheering for it.
“There will not be one, Lord Burley,” Robb’s voice had none of the warmth it usually held with you, earning many displeased groans from the hall.
“Robb, it’s the tradition!”
“Aye, it is!”
“Come on!”
“The whole Reach came all this way!”
“We came all this way too!”
“There will not be a bedding ceremony,” Robb repeated sternly. “If anyone wants to disagree, make sure to ask Ser Gwayne how his injuries feel first.”
His words had the same effect of drawing a sword, the whole hall falling into stunned silence for a couple of seconds before Ser Gwayne spoke.
“Not good!” he called out, making laughter erupt in the hallway, dissipating the tension in the air. “Wouldn’t say it’s a pleasant experience.”
Music and loud chatter filled the room again, and you felt yourself being pulled out of the comfortable embrace of sleep as Robb’s soft murmur of your name caressed your ears, his hand on the small of your back. You raised your head, squinting your eyes at the bright light, barely aware of the pout on your lips before you blinked a couple of times, trying to focus. He helped you up and your father forced a smile as if he was trying to hide the worried look in his eyes.
“Good night, my dearest.”
“Good night father,” you muttered, leaning to Robb’s side before he scooped you up into his arms. Your head dropped to the crook of his neck, your fingers curling into his shirt as he carried you out of the hall, away from the chatter and music. You repressed a yawn while he walked down the hallway, then started climbing the stairs.
“I wasn’t done dancing,” you murmured. “I was just resting.”
Laughter vibrated in his chest as he reached the top of the stairs, then turned the corner to step into the hallway leading to his bedchambers. “You can dance all you want tomorrow, time to retire now.”
“Where’s Grey Wind?”
“In the Godswood with his siblings,” he said. “Too many people in the hall.”
“We must make sure to see him tomorrow, I don’t want him to feel excluded.” You couldn’t stop your yawn this time. “I have so much to tell you, I’ve met so many people, and I think some of them like me. Well, I hope. I don’t know, northerners smile less than southerners so it’s still rather difficult to tell, but they seemed rather friendly. And Jon isn’t half bad when it comes to dancing, I have no idea why he looked that tormented at the suggestion of it.”
“That’s just his face at this point.”
“And before I forget,” you mumbled, “I’m glad you were so calm and polite to Lord Meadows’ comment about Winterfell’s warmth.”
“What do you mean, calm and polite?” He frowned down at you. “Wasn’t he asking about how we keep it warm?”
You shook your head, trying to keep your eyes open though they felt like they weighed a ton. “No, he was being rude.”
“Is that why you brought his castle into it?” he asked with a small laugh. “When you said he had nothing to worry about the upcoming winter in the Reach, because his castle is small and cozy?”
“That was an insult.” You nodded this time. “I insulted him.”
“I will never understand the way you southerners speak.” He opened the door to his bedchambers, stepped in, then closed the door and made his way to the bed to put you on it gently.
Despite your vision being slightly hazy because of wine, you could still tell that the room looked exactly like how you described it to him. There was a sofa and a smaller table by the fireplace, a plate of fresh fruit and a bottle of wine and two cups on it. The furs bundled up in front of the fireplace looked so cozy that if you could stand, you would go and bury your hands into them to see if they were as soft as they appeared. The bed looked nothing like how you remembered it either; each corner of it had a wooden column carved with direwolves. The sheer curtains draped around it made it look out of an enticing dream in the candle light, and your eyes darted over the carvings of snarling direwolves on the huge headboard before you reached out to trace the small figure of a lamb with a smile.
“It’s so beautiful,” you breathed out, sleep still laced in your voice even though you tried your hardest to sound sober. Robb pulled the half folded sheet on top of the actual sheet from underneath you, coaxing a giggle out of you while he walked to the small table to grab the knife from the fruit plate. You lifted yourself on your elbows and narrowed your eyes to get rid of the blurriness on the corners of your vision while he nicked his thumb.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing of importance my love, go back to sleep.” He came back to the bed to let the blood drip from his finger to the half folded sheet before he threw it near the door so that the maids could pick it up next morning when they entered the room, though you had no idea why he wanted to stain a perfectly good sheet. Although you wanted to ask him, you were rather exhausted and your eyes were way too heavy to keep them open so you fell back on the bed.
“Robb?” you murmured into the pillow when he sat beside you on the bed, and you couldn’t help but heave a sigh when he leaned in to kiss your forehead, his pleasant scent filling your lungs.
“Yes, my beautiful wife?”
You let out a giggle. “We’re bound forever now.”
“We are,” he whispered, his voice as soft as his touch on your cheekbone. “Finally.”
And in less than a mere second, the warm haze of sleep claimed you, pulling you into darkness.
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, 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: Drinks can lead to recklessness.
Word Count: 4,5k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
As the future lord of Winterfell, Robb was no stranger to expectations. It was as natural as breathing at this point; he was the heir to House Stark, so he was expected to follow his father’s footsteps, and take over his responsibilities when the time came. He was expected be a fair and honorable lord to their vassals and to the North, he was expected to make sure his people and his house survived in the winter, and of course, he was expected to wed.
Beyond others’ expectations, he had let himself hope that in time, he and his wife would grow to love each other just as his parents did, but this?
He hadn’t expected this.
“I cannot believe you betrayed me like that.”
Jon lowered his cup and ran a hand over his face, heaving an exhausted sigh. “Robb—”
“My own brother,” Robb said, glaring at him, “has stabbed me in the back.”
“I only interrupted you and your betrothed!”
“My wife!” he corrected him. “We were in the middle of something.”
“Aye, kissing.”
Robb leaned in so that Jon could hear his hiss in the crowded hall. “It could’ve been more if you hadn’t interrupted!”
Jon shot him a look that was the perfect combination of pity and disbelief.
“As if she’d let you do that in the Godswood,” he snarked. “Besides, you’re lucky it was me and not father. He sent a maid first, the poor woman came back to say she couldn’t interfere because you two were yelling at each other.”
“We were but that was before.” Robb let out a breath, a smile pulling at his lips. “We’re in love.”
“Congratulations,” Jon said drily. “Hasn’t escaped me or anyone else in the castle.”
“I cannot believe my mother is hoarding her like a dragon with its treasure, she all but forced her to go with her right after breakfast.”
“She is going over the details of tomorrow’s ceremony with her,” Jon corrected him. “Your wedding.”
“Well yes, but—” he stopped talking for a moment when he saw Theon making his way to them. “but everything has been handled, I’m told.”
“She’s a southerner,” Jon said, “she might not know everything about a northern wedding.”
“I could’ve explained it to her,” Robb insisted and nodded at Theon. “Hey.”
Theon sat down as well with a grin on his face. “Ready for tonight?”
Robb blinked a couple of times. “Hm?”
“Your last night as an unmarried man!” Theon said, clasping a hand over his shoulder to shake him slightly. “Your last night of freedom, Stark!”
“Theon, I know this will sound difficult to believe because I’ve been rather subtle about it,” Robb deadpanned, “but I actually want to wed my lady.”
“Subtle as a dagger to the throat,” Jon commented before turning to Theon. “I fear to ask what you’ve planned.”
Theon wiggled his brows. “Then don’t.”
“Whatever you’ve planned, it cannot take long,” Robb told him, making Theon’s eyes widen.
“We’re not coming back home until the morning!”
Robb scoffed a laugh. “That’s not happening.”
“Robb, come on!”
“You two can stay outside and drink all you want—”
“Your brothers-in-law are coming as well,” Theon said and Robb shrugged his shoulders.
“All of you can stay outside and drink all you want,” he corrected himself. “I’m coming back to the castle before midnight.”
“Why?”
Robb shot him a look.
“My mother has all but taken my wife hostage,” he said, “And I’d like to spend time with her.”
“You’ll spend your whole life with her!”
“Wait a moment.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like one of the plans for tonight includes a visit to the brothel?”
“Because it does.”
Robb rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to a brothel, I’ve told you that a hundred times.”
“Yes but it’s your last night as an unwed man!” Theon insisted as Robb sipped his drink. “It’s a special occasion! All men do it, she won’t mind—”
A chuckle escaped Robb and he lowered his cup.
“I don’t want anyone but her,” he told him. “We’ll drop you off at the brothel at the end of the night.”
Theon huffed out and turned to Jon. “Snow?”
“As always, no.”
“I’ll just convince one of the Greensteds then,” Theon muttered. “I’m sure Silas will come.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jon said, causing Theon to give him a quizzical glance. “He doesn’t like paying for it, sees it beneath him.”
“What?” Theon sounded as if Silas had come to the table to personally offend him. “How do you know that?”
“He said it once.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.” Jon shrugged his shoulders. “Some time earlier.”
“And you two are best friends all of a sudden?” Theon asked while a footman approached their table, then bowed his head.
“My lord, your father wants to see you in his solar.”
Robb nodded his head, then downed his drink and got up from his seat.
“Robb.” Theon stopped him. “If you’re serious about coming back before midnight—”
“I am.”
“Then we’re skipping dinner to start earlier.”
Robb opened his mouth to argue, then exchanged glances with Jon and heaved a sigh.
“Fine,” he groaned. “Tell Silas and the rest.”
“Yes!” Theon pumped his fist in air in victory, coaxing a laugh out of Jon while Robb walked away from them to go to his father’s solar, shaking his head despite the fond smile on his face.
His father was talking to the swordsmith but he dismissed him when Robb got there so that they could talk alone. Robb frowned slightly, clasping his hands behind him, his back straight.
“Father.”
His father motioned at the seat across from his desk.
“Maester Luwin says Ser Gwayne is healthy enough to attend the wedding.”
Robb’s jaw clenched as he sat down. “Is he?”
“And when he does as it’s his right, you will be respectful.”
This was even more proof that he should have thrown more punches to break his face and a couple of bones regardless of his mother had told him, but judging by the look on his father’s face, he already knew what he was thinking.
“Robb,” he said. “You won. The duel is over, let it rest.”
Robb gritted his teeth. “He already renounced the guest right, he doesn’t really have the—”
“He does,” his father cut him off. “That was for the duel. Now that it’s finished, so will your hostility. You’re the heir, your feelings on the matter cannot affect your judgement.”
Robb gave a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair.
“Theon tells me there’s to be a celebration tonight,” his father added, making his head shoot up. “In Wintertown.”
“Aye.” Robb cleared his throat. “We’ll skip dinner but I’ll be back before midnight. The guys will probably come around dawn, I’d say.”
“Jon and Theon and…?”
“The Greensteds.”
“All of them?”
“I don’t know if Theon invited Alton, now that I think of it,” Robb muttered. “But yes, I’ll ask him.”
“He’s going to be the head of the house after Lord Greensted, you must be on good terms with him.”
“As long as he’s on good terms with my lady, I’ll be on good terms with him.”
His father kept his gaze on him, then cleared his throat.
“Speaking of your lady,” he said, drumming his fingertips on the table. “You two seem to have come to a solution with your disagreement?”
Right.
His father knew about their argument, that was the reason why he had sent Jon.
Robb chewed on his lip and nodded. “Mm hm.”
“In fact, you were almost too…joyful, when you came back to the Great Hall.”
“Too joyful?” Robb repeated with a confused frown. “Should we not be? We’re to be wed tomorrow.”
“You should, but it hasn’t escaped anyone’s attention how something between you has changed right before the wedding, after you disappeared into the Godswood with no one to see you,” his father said. “And you’ve been quite impatient lately.”
Realization dawned on him like a ton of bricks and he threw his head back, his whole face on fire. “Father…”
“If something has happened in the Godswood—”
“Nothing has happened!” he insisted. “I don’t—I was unaware the rumors would arise every time we’re out of sight.”
“Just be patient until the wedding and avoid causing any more rumors,” his father said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “Your mother is right, with the way you have been behaving, we should throw our own celebration if we manage to get through this wedding without a scandal.”
“There’s no scandal,” Robb said, his ears burning. “My lady is too careful about that.”
His father lowered his hand to shoot him an incredulous look.
“And not you?”
“Why would I? We exchanged vows in front of the weirwood tree—”
“You did what?”
“Before the gods,” Robb continued as if his father didn’t cut him off. “We’re wed already.”
His father stared at him for a couple of seconds in complete silence, then took a deep breath as if reminding himself to keep his composure.
“The wedding is tomorrow,” he said slowly. “You’re telling me you two went ahead and wed before that?”
“We didn’t plan it, it was an accident.”
“An accident—Robb, who was the witness? Jon?”
“Why does everyone keep bringing up witnesses?” Robb wondered aloud. “It was just us but it matters not. She’s my wife now and I’m her husband, though she insists we’re not wed yet. It doesn’t count without the witnesses, she says.”
“At least one of you refuses to abandon logic when it comes to this union,” his father muttered. “Do you think you can wait one more day to start calling her your wife in public?”
“Do I have a choice in the matter?”
“No,” his father stated, making him huff, but someone knocked on the door before he could retort.
“A moment,” his father called out and pointed at Robb who stood up from his seat. “You’re not telling your mother any of this, do you hear me?”
“Sure.”
“And Robb, if I so much as see you in the hallway to her bedchambers…”
Robb held up his hands, gesturing surrender at his father’s warning tone.
“I’ll be in Wintertown,” he said as he walked to the door. “I doubt I’ll get to see her until tomorrow.”
Well, no.
That was a lie.
He was going to make sure he saw her until tomorrow, especially when he came back from Wintertown, but his father looked like he was two seconds away from sending him to the Wall, so he didn’t need to hear that.
This had to be some sort of intentional backstab both from his father and his mother, because his mother still hadn’t left his lady be by the time he was to leave for Wintertown. Not only that, she had all but sent him away from her door when he went there to see his lady before they left, saying that she and her seamstress and multiple maids were busy with her wedding gown to make sure it would look perfect tomorrow.
He had only had the chance to hear her giggle before she wished him a fun night before his mother closed the door in his face and Theon pulled him away.
The alehouse was crowded with both northerners and southerners tonight, the food warm and the drinks unending. Cliff had somehow managed to start a game of cards that had no shortage of willing participants even though they kept losing, Arys was by his side, sipping his ale and watching the game, Theon was already drunk and talking to a couple of southern lords, and the twins were exchanging stories about Dorne and the rest of their family, especially Alton who had kindly turned down the offer to join them, saying that Elinor had been feeling rather down lately.
But at least everyone seemed to be having a good time.
Well, everyone but Silas, who had been uncharacteristically silent save for a couple of jokes.
“I wouldn’t have come if Myria asked me not to either,” Braxton said. “Trust me, I blame Alton on a lot of things, but not on this particular instance.”
Perceon made a face. “Except that Myria wouldn’t have asked you not to come, because she knows you have your own life and friends just like she does.”
“Myria?” Jon asked and Braxton turned to him.
“She’s my betrothed.”
“You have a betrothed?”
“Mm hm.”
“I’m guessing from the smile on your face that you’re happy about that union?” Robb asked and Perceon let out a laugh.
“He’s been in love with her for a while now,” he said. “Ever since she beat him at a sparring contest.”
“She’s such a good warrior,” Braxton said, pride clear in his tone. “She’s good at everything, really.”
“Just not good at rejecting a less skilled warrior for some reason,” Perceon joked and Braxton scoffed.
“She rejected me just fine at first,” he told Jon and Robb. “Merely for the fun of it, she says. I was put through utter torment for almost a year.”
Robb’s eyes found Cliff and Arys over his shoulder before he returned his gaze to Braxton.
“But hey.” Braxton tilted his cup in his direction. “I don’t care how far it is, you are bringing my sister to Dorne for my wedding, Stark.”
Robb smiled and nodded his head, barely aware of the way Silas took a huge sip of his ale.
“I am,” he assured Braxton. “I’ve never seen Dorne, but everyone says it’s beautiful.”
“Once you’re there, you won’t want to come back,” Perceon told him. “Trust me. It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”
“Once the winter arrives in the North, you can just wait it out in Dorne.” Braxton shrugged his shoulders, making Robb chuckle.
“That’s not an option I’m afraid,” he said. “But we’ll certainly come to Dorne for your wedding. And Perceon’s, one day.”
“That day will never come!” Perceon protested immediately. “We’ve divided the family in a certain way. Alton and Brax and our sister will be the ones who wed. Arys is out of the equation, because you know—”
“The celibacy vow.”
Braxton covered his laugh by scoffing into his cup, his gaze following Arys, Cliff and Theon who were making their way to them through the crowd.
“Because even he has to play by some rules, is what I was going to say. But me and Cliff and this heartbreaker here,” Perceon slapped Silas’s leg, “will not ever wed.”
“You won’t?” Jon asked Silas who snapped out of his thoughts, then shook his head.
“No.”
“No sons or daughters?”
“I cannot be bothered with the wailing of babes,” he said and motioned at his brothers. “I raised all these fools, that’s enough for me. No reason to wed.”
“Not for a lack of prospects, mind you,” Cliff slapped his shoulder and flung himself next to him while Theon took the seat across from Robb. Arys sat next to Perceon, snatching his drink out of his hand.
“Hey!”
“Go get your own.”
“That was my own, prick!”
“I forgot mine back at the gambling table,” Arys said as if it was the perfect explanation, taking a huge sip before motioning for another cup at the innkeeper. “What are we talking about?”
“Marriage.”
“Ah.” Arys grimaced. “How dull.”
Theon grinned. “Not everyone can take a vow of chastity, my friend.”
“Vows are open to interpretation,” Arys told Theon. “I made a vow not to father any children, which I shall not. Anything else is no more than a small obstacle which anyone can walk around.”
Robb and Jon exchanged glances.
“But vows are sacred,” Jon said and Arys made a noise of disagreement.
“To you,” he said. “And no gods have come down to punish me, I’d gather they’re fine with my choices.”
Silas reached out to smack him in the back of the head, making the twins burst in laughter. “Maybe don’t say that in front of our very northern brother-in-law?”
He did very much mind to see vows being perceived as unimportant and unbinding, but he held up his hands.
“Your gods,” he pointed out, “not mine.”
“There you go.”
“Speaking of vows.” Cliff said. “Any uneasiness about tomorrow, Stark?”
Robb sipped his ale. “Uneasiness?”
“Yeah, you’ll be forever bound to our sister.”
“I am already,” Robb said, earning a warning cough from Jon, but no one seemed to have picked up on that. “And to be honest, it cannot come soon enough.”
“It cannot come soon enough for me either,” Jon commented while Theon nodded fervently. “At least after you’re wed I’ll have some peace of mind.”
Robb flipped him without so much as a glance in his direction.
“Gods, I’m still not used to picturing her as the Lady of the North,” Cliff commented as Silas swallowed thickly. “But she seems to like you, that’s good enough for me. I do business at White Harbor sometimes, I’ll be sure to visit.”
“The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” Robb said. “My lady will be very happy to see you, I’m sure.”
Silas downed his drink and stood up.
“I’ll take a walk to get some fresh air, excuse me,” he muttered and made his way through the crowd to go outside. Arys shook his head slightly while the twins exchanged glances, and Jon stood up before Robb could.
“It’s easy to get lost at night,” he said to the table. “I’ll take a walk with him, it’s too hot here anyway.”
Robb watched him cross the room to step outside, and Braxton raised his hand to motion for another bottle.
“Well then, heir to the North,” he said. “It’s your last night before your wedding. While I’m certain you’re in love with your soon to be lady wife, you are still obligated to get drunk.”
While the southerners did not take all the vows seriously, it appeared that there were exceptions because by the time Robb went back to Winterfell, he was drunk.
Well, tipsy.
He knew better than to appear drunk in public as the heir to Winterfell. His father would have his head on a spike otherwise, so he had made sure that he didn’t stumble or anything as he left the rest of the party behind, insisting that he had to wish his lady goodnight before tomorrow. He hadn’t seen her since breakfast, first because of his parents and then because of Theon, but he was not going to end the day before he talked to her.
It wasn’t even midnight yet, surely she was awake.
He meant to knock light and whisper, but all the drinks in his system seemed to have affected him more than he had assumed.
“My lady!” His voice boomed in the hallway the moment his knuckles touched the wood, the sound of rushed footsteps reaching his ears before the door swung open.
Seven Hells, she was so beautiful.
Robb couldn’t even bring himself to snap out of the daze that settled upon his mind at the sight of her. She looked like a dream that decided to grace him with the vision of her, and Robb half wondered whether she would disappear into the fog in her room if he touched—
Why was there fog in her room?
“My betrothed!” she said breathlessly, opening the door wider so that he could see the maids preparing her a bath. “The excitement of tomorrow did not let me sleep so I asked for a bath, and your maids were kind enough to draw me one at such hour. How kind of you to come to let me know you’ve returned just as I asked you to, I feared you would not!”
…She hadn’t asked him to.
“Come, tell me what mischief my brothers have been up to!” She stepped out of the room and grabbed him by the arm, closed the door behind her, and tugged him to the other side of the hallway.
“How are you so beautiful?” Robb breathed out in awe and a smile pulled at her lips despite the chastising glare she gave him.
“Are you drunk?”
“I don’t get drunk in public,” he defended himself while she leaned back to the stone wall to look up at him, still smiling.
“You appear drunk.”
He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus. “I drank a little.”
“How much is a little?”
“Some ale, wine,” he listed, absentmindedly playing with her loose hair. “Mead. Cliff brought rum apparently...”
“Sounds a lot,” she commented. “Is everyone back in the castle safe and sound?”
“I came back, they’re still there,” he said. “I uh…I wanted to tell you earlier but my mother kept you hostage—”
“She was kindly helping me with some last minute details about my gown.”
“But I don’t want any other misunderstandings between us,” he continued as if she didn’t cut him off. “And knowing Theon, he’ll be joking about it. Some of them will go to a—do you know what a brothel is?”
She pressed her lips together as if trying to hold back her laugh. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Aye, some of them will go to a brothel, I think. I mean Theon will for sure, I don’t know who he’ll drag with him. But I didn’t—I didn’t go. And I don’t want you to misunderstand it, so I’m telling you beforehand I didn’t go.”
She raised her brows, tilting her head to the side in an amused manner.
“Oh?” she said. “Why not?”
“I don’t go to those places, and I don’t want anyone but you—and it’s your husband.”
“I know who you are Robb, you’re standing in front of me.”
“No, you called me your betrothed just now,” he corrected her. “You should be calling me your husband.”
“And I will,” she said, a playful light glimmering in her beautiful eyes, “starting tomorrow night.”
“No I meant now,” he whined. “We’re already wed—”
She shushed him, looking around in in the hallway. “Not so loud!”
“I’m your husband,” he insisted. “You should call me such.”
“Will you call me your wife if I call you my husband, then?” she asked with a teasing smile and he carefully cupped her face in both hands, coaxing a giggle out of her as he pressed his lips on her forehead.
“My wife,” he murmured and lowered his head to kiss the tip of her nose. “My lamb.” His lips brushed over hers. “My love.”
He didn’t believe in the new gods or their practices or their promises, but Robb was quite sure that she was the eighth heaven.
For once she didn’t withdraw from the kiss, instead she let him pull her closer, a small gasp leaving her the moment his arm tightened around her waist, his other hand cradling the back of her head. Desire shot through him faster than an arrow through his heart, sending a shiver down his spine as her pleasant scent surrounded him, swirling around him like the sweetest summer day, filling his lungs in warmth and sunshine.
Nothing but her was real.
Nothing but her and how good it felt to have her in his arms, and how her kiss managed to silence everything in his mind, and—
And how he needed more.
Her skin was softer than any silk he ever touched as he kissed his way down her throat, her fingers curling in his hair, a small gasp taking her breath away the moment his lips traced down where her heartbeat was the strongest, the flimsy gown keeping her body hidden from his gaze, though not from his touch. He blindly reached down to grab the smooth fabric of her skirt to bunch it up in his hands, slowly pushing it up as he got on his knees, but as soon as he did, she let out a surprised squeal, pushing her skirt down.
“Wh—what’re you—?”
Robb gave her a grin despite his heavy lidded gaze as he looked up at her, his hands going to her hips to squeeze them.
“Can a man not kiss his wife?”
She gawked at him.
“But you…” she stammered and swallowed thickly, then tugged at the arm of his shirt so that he would stand up, her eyes not leaving his face even once. “How—?”
His mind was still hazy with desire, yet he couldn’t help but chuckle before he stole a chaste kiss from her lips, cupping her cheek.
“I’ll show you how if you let me.”
She blinked a couple of times as if trying to focus, her mouth half agape in confusion.
“…But you have a beard.”
He tilted his head in confusion. “Hm?”
“Your beard!”
“What of it?”
“I’ve heard of such um—such practices,” she stammered, her cheek growing hot under his palm. “Back in the Reach, there was a lady who told me and Margaery about it, but I brushed it off because I assumed it was a…a regional custom.”
He tried his hardest to keep a straight face. “A regional custom?”
“My skin is very sensitive, you know that!” she whined, coaxing a laugh out of him which she responded by shoving at his arm, pouting her lips almost petulantly. “I’m serious! It sounds like it’d be—um, it’d cause discomfort to the lady. In the North I mean, seeing that beards are fashionable here unlike in the Reach.”
By the Gods, she was the sweetest creature to ever walk the realm.
“And I know you like to tease me but I don’t see how it’d—”
She was cut off when he kissed her again, the rest of her sentence turning into a soft sigh against his lips but the bliss was shattered when her maid’s voice carried into the hallway, causing her to withdraw from him immediately.
“My lady, your bath is getting cold!”
“I’m coming, Eadith!” she called out and took a step but he grasped her wrist to pull her back, making her giggle.
“Don’t leave yet,” he said, aware of the pleading tone of his voice but she pecked him on the lips, skillfully wriggling out of his grip as she turned around to give him a proud grin, walking backwards while he stepped towards her.
“I shall see you tomorrow my lord—”
“Your husband,” he corrected her and made a move to catch her arm but she jumped out of his reach with an excited squeal that turned into a giggle, the pleasant sound echoing in the hallway before she swept a well-trained curtsy.
“I shall see you tomorrow my husband,” she beamed at him and whirled around to rush to her bedchambers, the silky skirt of her gown flowing behind her, light as a whisper. Her happy laugh reached outside as she closed the door behind her, her sweet scent still clinging to air, making his heart gallop in his chest.
Just one more night.
One more night, and then she was going to be in his arms.
Forever.
Grey Wind let out a howl outside somewhere in the Godswood, making Robb turn his head before he let out a breath and willed himself to walk away from her door, running a hand through his hair.
“I know,” he muttered as if the direwolf could hear him, his heart still beating in his ears. “Trust me, I know.”
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, 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: Honesty is the solution to many issues.
Word Count: 5,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI. By clicking 'keep reading', or asking to be tagged, you confirm you're 18 +.
Thank you to my wonderful beta @chibi-lioness !
Series Masterlist
The wedding was in two days, and Robb couldn’t have been more confused.
He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t expect his lady’s cold demeanor to warm up after he won the duel for her hand, and he had even managed to stop himself from breaking that knight’s face as his mother had made him promise, but his lady didn’t look pleased at all.
For some reason.
“I don’t understand,” Robb muttered and sipped his ale. “Aren’t girls supposed to like it when men fight over them?”
Theon nodded wistfully. “Aye, they do.”
“All those ballads say little else!” Robb insisted and Theon tilted his cup in his direction.
“They say nothing else.”
“Then what is happening?” He ran a hand through his hair, then turned to Jon. “What do you think?”
“I think there are no girls at this table,” Jon pointed out. “Which means it’s not much use to assume what they like.”
“I know what girls like,” Theon said, making Jon grimace.
“Has anyone informed them of it?”
“Aw don’t be so envious Snow, someone will warm your bed eventually.”
Robb raised his hand to get Silas’ attention when he stepped into the hall and he approached them to plop down next to Jon.
“Here’s the victor’s table,” he joked and nodded at Robb. “How’s your hand?”
Robb clenched and unclenched it, ignoring the bruises on his knuckles.
“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “How’s my lady?”
Silas puffed up his cheeks in deep thought, stealing a glance over his shoulder as if he expected her to appear out of thin air.
“Your maester prepared her a draught, she’s resting,” he said after a beat. “Better let her. It’s been a long day for one so…”
“Angry?” Theon suggested, earning warning glares from both Robb and Silas. “At Robb, I mean.”
“She’ll calm down,” Silas said, “she just doesn’t have the stomach for violence. Even in the jousts, Margaery has to tell her if it’s alright to look because she doesn’t want to see the bloodshed—her best friend,” he added when he saw Jon’s confusion, and Robb scoffed.
“I still don’t know how I feel about her.”
“Makes one of you,” Silas replied. “Because trust me, Margaery has already decided how she feels about you.”
Robb drummed his fingers on the table.
“And my wife?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” Silas said with a smug smile. “But if you’re asking about my sister, who is your betrothed and not yet your wife, I can tell you that her anger does simmer down eventually.”
Except that she was indeed his wife, Silas just didn’t know it yet.
Robb chewed on his lip, trying to ignore the sinking in his stomach. “It didn’t sound like it’d simmer down.”
“No wonder.” Silas rolled his eyes. “Her biggest issue back home was to decide on which gown to wear for which feast, not her betrothed putting himself in danger—”
“I wasn’t in danger.”
“At least not in the way she thought, but Lord Stark would’ve disowned his precious heir if he lost to a Reach knight,” Theon joked, clasping a hand over his shoulder to shake him, and Robb huffed out a laugh.
“Aye, he would have.”
“We’d have Mikken melt down your sword for horseshoes.” Jon grinned at Robb. “So that you could take up needlework with the girls.”
Robb flipped him with a chuckle. “Fuck off.”
“Simpler than my plan” Silas said, “I would’ve killed Ser Gwayne if you lost.”
Jon raised his brows. “Would you?”
“My sister is not going to be wed to that prick,” Silas said. “Robb’s wellbeing has nothing to do with that, no offense.”
Robb sipped his ale. “None taken.”
“I’d just betroth her to the prince of Dorne.”
Robb lowered his cup immediately. “What?”
“Yeah, don’t tell the twins though.” Silas motioned at a servant. “It took me a lot of time to decide between you and him earlier, so it only makes sense.”
The mere idea of her being wed to anyone else made jealousy shoot through his veins so fast that for a moment his mind went black before he cleared his throat, aware of the frown pinching his forehead while the servant put a cup in front of Silas, then filled it with ale.
“My lord.”
“Thank you,” Silas said. “Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t die and I don’t have to go through this whole nonsense again. Much appreciated.”
She wasn’t going to wed anyone else. Not in Dorne, not in anywhere, she was staying right here in Winterfell to be his lady, and—
Well. That was if she ever forgave him.
“Could you two give us a moment?” Robb asked Jon and Theon, taking Silas by surprise. Theon frowned but let Jon pull him by the shoulder and walked away with him to another table while Silas sipped his drink.
“Well, this can only be about my sister,” he commented. “What is it?”
“She’s cross with me.”
“Hasn’t escaped me.”
“And she has been for a while.”
“I have a feeling this duel made the earlier times look like friendly banter,” Silas pointed out. “But yes?”
“She wanted me to withdraw before the duel,” Robb said. “I don’t think she understands—”
“She doesn’t, but nor do you.”
That made Robb frown. “What do you mean?”
Silas ran his tongue over his teeth, then sucked in a breath.
“It appears,” he said, “she cares for you more than I’d like her to.”
“More than you’d like her to?” Robb repeated. “We’re to be wed in two days. Is it so bad that she cares for me?”
Silas lifted his cup to his lips.
“Your maester just had to give her a draught so that she can sleep the remnants of today’s fear away,” he muttered and took a sip. “Because she was worried you’d die in that duel, and wouldn’t listen to anyone including me for the very first time. So you tell me if that’s bad, Stark.”
Robb’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, guilt crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. The memory of her on the verge of tears flashed in his mind, making him let out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair.
“I know why you did it,” Silas continued. “I know you wouldn’t withdraw and that you would win, that’s exactly why you’re the one who’s betrothed to her and not one of these idiots who are here for the wedding. I can understand the way the North works, and dislike its toll on my sister at the same time.”
“Silas, I—” He licked his lips, his stomach doing a painful flip. “I hate that I made her cry.”
“Good,” Silas said and downed his drink, then gave him that perfect courtier smile of his. “Do keep that in mind. Because the next time my sister cries, so will the rest of House Stark for losing their heir.”
With that, he walked away from him, leaving him there dumbfounded.
He decided to go to her door around dinner time to see if she had woken, but the sight of Arys leaving her room greeted him as soon as he turned the hallway leading to her bedchambers. Arys gave Robb a quick smile and closed the door behind him, then stepped away.
“She’s still asleep,” he said, making Robb’s stomach drop in disappointment. “I don’t want to wake her for dinner, she can eat when she wakes. Her maid will be with her for the night, until the morning.”
Robb swallowed thickly and nodded, then went to sit on the windowsill facing her door.
“She should rest,” he muttered, chewing on his lip. “But she’s…she’s alright, is she not?”
“She’s fine,” Arys assured him. “She’ll be completely rested tomorrow morning, trust me. After sudden fear, the body has a way of fixing things. Sleep is the best way to do so, the draught Maester Luwin prepared is just making it faster.”
Robb nodded again, keeping his eyes on the door as if it would magically open to let him see his lady without disturbing her slumber.
“I would listen to me and not Silas on this if I were you.”
Robb’s head shot up. “How did you…?”
“I know my brother,” Arys said with a chuckle. “Don’t take anything he says today as a personal offense. It is now dawning on him that he’s going to leave her here after the wedding, and that he’s going to have to trust you with her.”
“He can.”
Arys offered him the same smile he had seen on Lord Greensted multiple times.
“He won’t,” he muttered as he went to sit beside him on the windowsill. “And it has nothing to do with you. He’s going to need more time than my sister to handle the fact that she will be away from the Reach. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go back home.”
“He can stay in Winterfell as long as he wants.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “All of you can. Her family is my family now.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied. “But in any case, don’t let what he said haunt your mind.”
“It’s not what he said,” he admitted, making Arys hum.
“Then?”
Robb fell quiet for a moment before he forced himself to take a deep breath.
“What happens if she never forgives me?” He couldn’t help but ask. “She claimed she would never.”
“As southerners, not every word coming out of our mouths is an oath unlike you and your countrymen,” Arys told him. “We’re taught to yield our words as weapons. You’re a good warrior, you know better than anyone that not everyone who swings their swords is trying to kill another. Some simply use it to protect themselves.”
Robb brushed a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him.
“I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t like that I’m the source of her sadness. I’m supposed to be sheltering her from any distress as her husband, not impose such upon her.”
Arys raised his brows and shook his head.
“Don’t blame yourself on that either,” he said. “Nothing you can do, really. It’s the family curse, Cliff used to say.”
Robb tilted his head in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve seen our family,” Arys said. “We tend to stand out in one way or another. You’d think it’d make things easier, but seems to be the opposite. Alton evaded it with Elinor somehow, but Silas, and Cliff, and the twins, and my sister...In a vast sea of admirers, we’re drawn to the one who’ll torment us the most, purposefully or otherwise.”
Robb’s frown deepened and Arys shook his head as if trying to shake off the thoughts, then slapped a hand over Robb’s shoulder in an assuring manner and stood up.
“You should follow her example and get some rest,” he said, nodding in the direction of his lady’s bedchambers. “Congratulations on your victory, Stark. Let my sister sleep.”
Robb watched him make his way down the hallway and turn the corner in complete silence, his thoughts like a storm in his head. He exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then turned his head when he saw Grey Wind enter the hallway. A small smile curled his lips despite his mood, and he reached out to scratch the direwolf behind his ears, earning a low rumble in return.
“Very well then,” he murmured. “Let’s go get some fresh air, hm? I don’t feel like attending dinner yet.”
Eventually, he would decide to forgo dinner altogether in order to avoid the crowd that was surely still going to be there in the morning for breakfast as well. He could barely sleep that night, only falling into slumber towards the dawn, his dreams restless as if he knew what tomorrow morning would bring.
Summer snow.
All the southerners in the castle seemed rather excited to see it. The hallways were buzzing with chatter, but all Robb could think about was how his lady wasn’t going to like it if it snowed tomorrow during their wedding as well. He couldn’t help but wonder whether that old saying was correct after all, seeing that at least the start of their marriage was going to be cold as winter itself if he didn’t explain himself and made his lady understand why he could not have withdrawn.
He went to her bedchambers first thing in the morning, but her maid informed him she had left, so he made his way into the Great Hall with Grey Wind, his eyes darting around to catch a sight of his lady, yet she was nowhere to be found. As if it wasn’t enough, his presence seemed to have gathered attention, judging by many of the northern lords congratulating him for the duel, some slapping his back and some squeezing his shoulder as they walked past.
“You and I both know you’re not genuine, and so does she—” He heard Lady Jorelle chastise her mother who shushed her as he walked past, but he was in too much of a hurry to stop and greet them. He approached the twins who were in a deep conversation with Theon by the corner, and Braxton nodded at him as Perceon turned around to see him better.
“Good morrow.”
“Good morrow,” Robb said. “Is my lady around?”
“She was here half an hour ago,” Theon said. “She just left.”
“Where?”
“She said she would go to the Godswood to enjoy the snow,” Perceon said and Braxton nodded.
“Alone,” he added. “She wants to enjoy it alone, she said.”
Robb looked over his shoulder in the direction of the entrance, then nodded and took a step but Braxton stopped him.
“Robb, that’s not a good idea.”
“What?”
“You don’t want to talk to her right now,” Perceon said. “Listen, I get that you’re this great warrior, but even a Targaryen on a dragon wouldn’t be able to handle my sister when she’s truly angry. Let her anger simmer down.”
“We’re to be wed tomorrow evening,” Robb reminded him. “I need to talk to her beforehand, if I explain—”
“She’s not going to listen to your explanation,” Braxton said. “She’s not going to listen to anyone. Let her calm down, then try to talk to her, you’ll still have the time until tomorrow evening.”
Robb shook his head.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” he said and strode away from them with Grey Wind padding along beside him. He ignored the lords and ladies on the way that bowed or greeted him as he went down the stairs, then stepped outside to the yard. He crossed it and passed the gates that led to the Godswood, Grey Wind picking up the pace as if he was too excited to stall.
He found her sitting on a fur cloak under the weirwood tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her back resting against the trunk of the tree. It was almost funny, how the mere sight of her was enough to make him stop dead in his tracks, his heart galloping in his chest without her even realizing he was there. She was watching the snowflakes fall from the sky, the wide branches and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree almost sheltering her, but the rest of the Godswood was already covered in a thin layer of snow, bound to melt away at the first rays of sunlight.
Was he ever going to get used to the sight of her? Or was he going to lose the air in his lungs every time he cast his gaze on her?
Grey Wind made his way to her, seemingly pulling her away from her own thoughts as she cooed at him, reaching out to give him head scratches. The direwolf rumbled deep, plopping down in front of her so that she could pet him better, and Robb tried to ignore the tension churning his stomach.
“My lady.”
The only clue to how she felt about his presence was the momentary clench of her jaw, yet she sounded calm when she spoke.
Almost too calm.
“Is my presence wanted in the Great Hall?”
He shook his head, now daring to enter her sight though she didn’t lift her head to look up at him, instead kept petting the direwolf.
“No,” Robb said after a beat. “Unless of course you want to go back.”
“I do not,” she said. “I decided to enjoy the scenery.”
He licked his lips. “I thought it would bother you.”
“The weather?”
“The snow,” he corrected her. “Because of that oldwives tale. I doubt it’ll still snow tomorrow, but—”
The rest of whatever he was going to say got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth when she lifted her head to give him a glare sharper than any sword. She eyed him up and down as if she didn’t just pin him to his spot without uttering a word, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t need a sign from the gods to understand what kind of marriage we will have,” she deadpanned. “You’ve demonstrated it perfectly yesterday.”
His stomach sank.
“My lady.” He took a step towards her. “About yesterday…”
She heaved an exhausted sigh and pushed herself to her feet, dusting off the skirt of her gown.
“I require no explanations.”
“I’d like to give them anyway,” Robb insisted as Grey Wind left them there to go deeper into the woods, no doubt to find the rest of his siblings. “I know that you’ve been cross with me, I know this duel did not help, but I assure you, I was never in danger. You had no reason to—”
“Worry?” She finished his sentence for him. “How strange, that’s what everyone kept telling me back in the Great Hall before I excused myself. Singing your praises, telling me I had nothing to worry about. Lady Cerwyn even dared tell me there was no reason to cry.”
“There wasn’t.”
“Just like there was no reason to fall for childish provocations?”
Robb’s head shot up, his jaw clenching at the remark.
“That was no childish provocation.”
“It was,” she said, “and you entertained it.”
“What did you expect me to do?” he asked tersely. “Not accept it?”
She threw her hands up. “Yes!”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Honor demands—”
“Who cares?!” she exclaimed. “Nobody cares about that—”
“Maybe not in the south where they lack it.”
…That was the wrong thing to say.
It took Robb less than a second to realize that was the wrong thing to say.
She stared at him in complete silence for a heartbeat before a burst of laughter left her lips, making her lower her head, covering her mouth. If it were any other time, the sight of her shoulders shaking with laughter could’ve been a good sign, but for some reason, Robb had a feeling this was a way, way worse than her glare. She stayed like that for a couple of seconds, then lowered her hand and looked up at him, a menacing smile pulling at her lips.
“I only meant—”
“You’re right,” she cut him off, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re absolutely right. Honor means everything in the north and nothing in the south. You seem to have enough of it for the both of us anyway, so it should be of no issue if I started breaking promises. If anything it’s expected of me, so would you like to be the one to tell Jorelle Cerwyn I withdraw my offer, or should that responsibility fall upon me?”
Well, that was completely irrelevant to this conversation.
He strained his mind to understand how this had anything to do with the reason why she was angry at him, but came up empty.
“Because I think you should do it,” she spat. “While you’re at it, tell her neither her nor her family will ever step foot in Winterfell while I live here. And don’t you ever give me a speech about honor, when you hold no regard for anyone else’s but your own.”
Robb rushed to follow her when she moved away from him. “My lady, I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Yet you’ve done nothing but!” Her voice rose as she whirled around on her heels. “Ever since I arrived here! So allow me to return the favor; if you wish to bed your mistress so much, you’ll have to go to her cute little castle. I’m told it’s near here, should be easy enough.”
He gawked at her. “…What mistress?”
“Or if that’s too much of an inconvenience for you, go back in there and tell your family we’re breaking the betrothal,” she snapped, making his heart drop. “The whole north would rejoice, and you could go tumble in the snow with her. I’ll be all the way down in the south, and never even think about you ever again.” She pointed back at the castle. “Off you go!”
A silence fell upon them while he tried to wrap his mind around what she had just said.
“You—” He paused, disbelief numbing his mind so badly that he had to force himself to ask: “You think I have a mistress?”
“What game are you playing at?” she asked back, disdain etched on her beautiful face, a couple of snowflakes falling upon her lashes. “There’s no one else here.”
She was jesting. She had to be jesting.
There was no way she believed he could so much as look at another woman let alone take a mistress when she occupied every corner of his heart and his mind. A chuckle escaped him despite his attempt to control himself, but that seemed to awaken a new wave of anger in her.
“You know what?” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “Forget it. I’ll go back to the Great Hall and announce that I will never, ever wed you!”
When he was a mere boy, there was that one time he had heard his mother angrily insisting his father would send Jon away. The idea had scared him so badly that he had stopped in the hallway to listen, and soon enough his father had left his mother’s bedchambers with anger etched on his face. After taking him to his solar to assure him Jon would be going nowhere, Robb had asked his father why he had walked out of those bedchambers looking that angry if Jon was to stay anyway, and his father had heaved a sigh.
“Robb,” he had said. “You’re nearly a man grown. And as the heir to House Stark, it is your duty to make our house proud and set an example. As a Stark and as a man, no matter if it’s your mother, or your sisters, your future lady wife, or any woman you see on the street, you will never be the source of fear for any woman. On the contrary, you will protect them from any man who may impose fear on them. Do you hear me?”
Robb had nodded fervently.
“And,” his father had added, “if you ever find yourself in any kind of argument with a woman, you will never, ever raise your voice or advance upon her. No matter what she says. The only time you move, you walk in the opposite direction. Do you understand me?”
In his defense, he was going to walk in the opposite direction, but with his lady.
He grabbed her hand before she could walk away from him, making her let out a squeal before he pulled her towards the weirwood tree.
“How dare you?” Her voice went high-pitched while she tried to yank her hand back. “Let go of me this instant, or else—”
He stopped in front of the tree and turned to her, letting go of her hand.
“Ask me.”
“What?” She narrowed her eyes, still breathing hard. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re standing in front of the weirwood tree,” he stated. “I cannot lie here. It’s clear you don’t take my words as they are even if I told you to, so ask me whatever you want.”
“You think I won’t?” she taunted him. “Go on. Say it in front of your gods that your mistress—”
“I don’t have a mistress,” he cut her off. “I swear it by my gods and yours.”
“Not yet perhaps, but you plan to take Lady Jorelle as your mistress.”
“No!” Robb said with a huff of indignation. “I do not, and I will not. Do you believe me to be that low?”
“You said—”
“I’ve never said I’d have a mistress,” he insisted. “I told you I would never dishonor you or our marital vows. What part of that suggests I’d do such a thing?”
She pulled back slightly, stealing a glance at the weirwood tree as if she wanted to make sure it was indeed the right tree before turning to him.
“Then what?” she demanded. “You’ll love her from afar and yearn for her your whole life while wed to me?”
He knew he had to set this right and make her stop believing whatever folly she seemed to believe, but seven hells, it took everything in him not to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless.
“No!” he exclaimed. “Of course not, why would you think that?”
“You said I should put her in my ladies-in-waiting—”
His hands shot up so that he could run them through his hair in an attempt to control himself. “You asked for my help!”
“You said you had an arrangement not so different than the southern court!”
Robb dropped his hands, trying to find the right words through disbelief.
“Her family,” he started slowly, as if that could make her understand it better, “has been loyal to mine for generations. There were talks of a betrothal between us, like I’ve told you. I figured it would be a good idea to include her in your ladies-in-waiting as a way of honoring her family and their loyalty, so that they wouldn’t feel spurned. Is that not the same as the southern court? Keeping loyal families close to reward them and keep the alliances going?”
“But you disappeared with her just the other night! You followed her outside and left me in the Great Hall, and—”
“Jon said everyone talked to her family and not her,” he said. “So I wanted to talk to her to make sure she wasn’t heartbroken, and she wasn’t. That whole conversation took less than five minutes, then my father pulled me into a meeting with Lord Bolton as I’ve told you—do you not hear anything that comes out of my mouth, or do you simply refuse to believe it?”
She gawked at him with wide eyes before she averted her gaze, her brows furrowed in deep thought as if she was trying to find more proof of his infidelity.
“So then, you—” she said after a torturous minute and cleared her throat, sticking her nose in the air. “Am I to understand you don’t have affections for her or anyone else?”
The look he gave her was nearly chastising.
“Or anyone else?” he repeated and she shrugged her shoulders, still pouting.
“You said to ask.” She pointed at the weirwood tree. “You cannot lie.”
“I would not,” he said, his heartbeat speeding up. “I do not. My lady, I…”
Gods, now he knew what his father meant when he used to say he was more intimidated by his mother than by the war. A fire spread over his face and ears despite the cool wind shuffling the leaves above them, his stomach doing flip after flip as if his lady held a sword to his throat instead of just standing there, looking up at him.
He could’ve laughed at the absurdity of her having to hear what he felt if he wasn’t so tense all of a sudden, how did she not know?
The whole castle knew. The whole North knew by now.
But perhaps that was the reason. Perhaps he hadn’t been open enough in southern standards, with their flowery language and court banter.
“I wasn’t raised to embellish my words.” He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, clasping his hands behind him. “Nor write ballads or poetry.”
“I require neither,” she was quick to say. “I’ve grown tired of them long ago. I don’t crave flattery, but honesty.”
“Then trust my honesty when I say you’ve never had to worry about any mistresses,” he told her. “I’ll be loyal to you until my last breath.”
“Because honor and duty demands it?” she asked, making him swallow thickly before he shook his head.
“Because my heart is at your command,” he rasped out, barely able to hear his own voice from the blood rushing in his ears. “For you to decide its fate. Beyond honor or duty. I yield and welcome the defeat if it’s by your love.”
Silence clung to snow as it descended upon the Godswood.
He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to, he realized, not even if his own gods willed him to, not when she held his gaze captive. She stared at him in complete disbelief before realization dawned on her beautiful face, and she let out a breath as if a terrible weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Despite the tears still sparkling in her eyes a soft smile curled her lips, sending hope through his veins faster than lightning in a storm.
“Your heart’s fate is forever twined with my own I’m afraid,” she told him, stealing the air from his lungs. “Yours is at my command, mine is at your mercy. It’s no defeat, I’ve found, though it may appear such when one is not used to the idea of truce. But I’m yours and you’re mine, where’s the defeat in that?”
…She loved him back.
By the Gods, she loved him back.
Any hope of finding the right words deserted him, his ears muffled with the blood rushing in them, excitement almost too much to bear. He lifted his hand to wipe the remnant of tears before cupping her cheek, her eyes fluttering close, her skin almost icy under his warm palm. He pulled her closer in an instant, wrapping an arm around her waist to shield her from the cold wind blowing through the woods before he traced her cheekbone with his thumb, his heart still slamming against his ribcage hard enough to hurt. A giggle escaped her when he playfully ran the tip of his nose over hers, the pleasant sound warming his insides like liquid fire.
He was nearly in a daze when he spoke: “Where have you been all this time?”
Her face lit up with a happy smile, her gaze slipping down to his lips before it snapped up to his eyes again while she traced the direwolf clasps holding his cloak together as if she was too delighted to keep still. Her sweet scent was all around him when he leaned in, flooding his senses, pulling him deeper under her spell and making him lightheaded as it settled in his lungs to make them its rightful home.
“Down in the south,” she breathed out softly. “Waiting for you.”
Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match; the South was too polished for the North, and the North was too discourteous for the South.
And yet, sometimes fate liked to play its game in an arranged marriage.
Warnings: Mature themes, blood, usual Game of Thrones violent themes (No Red Wedding), separate and specific warnings will be included in each chapter. MDNI.
Important Notes: Robb and the reader and all their friends are in their 20s, the fic will not follow most of the canon, and the parts from the show will be explained within the fic.
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Chapter 1 : Big plans require unexpected moves.
Chapter 2 : First impressions can make or break a union.
Chapter 3 : Cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
Chapter 4 : Proceeding with caution is wise in a new environment.
Chapter 5 : Disrespect has consequences.
Chapter 6 : Desire ignites even in the coldest places.
Chapter 7 : What is said and what is meant can be two different things.
Chapter 8 : Southern court training has different strengths from the North.
Chapter 9 : Patience is a skill that can be honed.
Chapter 10 : There’s a time and place for subtlety.
Chapter 11 : There are many different ways to find warmth in the cold.
Chapter 12 : Promises must be made carefully.
Chapter 13 : Courtesy demands good manners.
Chapter 14 : Not every invitation is accepted.
Chapter 15 : One must be careful while mending bridges.
Chapter 16 : It's wise to pay attention to the signs.
Chapter 17 : Words can easily turn into oaths.
Chapter 18 : The heir to the north is raised not only to rule, but also to fight.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In which a dragon burns and a wolf freezes.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 12.8k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: angst (so much angst), they're both sick with desire, injury mention, yearning and pining; just feels all around. Not much to say about this one other than I have gone on 20 side quests and discovered about ten other ships I love for LS but coming back to writing canon HW reminds me why I'm 🧎♀️ for this man every time. Thank you so much for support as always, we're really getting into the deep end of this fic now.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but you remember waking.
After that, the days blur together.
At first, they tell you it’s been three; then five; then a week since the Kingswood. Long enough that the edges of things stop swimming whenever you sit up. Long enough that you can make it from bed to chair to window without your knees buckling beneath you.
The arrow wound still pulls when you move incorrectly. Aerys, with his grave mouth and intense eyes, anoints it a good pain. The type of hurt means the poison hasn’t eaten anything vital, like nerves. Your shoulder is now little more than a patchwork of tight skin and bruises under the linen; it feels like someone else’s flesh, in truth, clumsy and traitorous, stiff when you want it soft and weak when you want it strong.
Baelor’s absence hurts more than the wound itself. He has not requested to see you, not even once, and you hate a small part of you that’s wounded deeper by that knowledge than the arrow you took in his stead.
Your father visits as often as the maesters permit instead. Each time, his hand finds yours in the blankets with a grip that could crack bone if he forgot himself. And each time, his jaw works like he is swallowing down something sour.
Every visit brings the same tired reminder that you’re leaving as soon as possible. You don’t ask him why King Daeron still insists on meetings if that is the case. You don’t need to. He’s doing what every good king must: make the best out of the terrible.
But when your father leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him, you lay staring at the carved canopy—a riot of dragons and vines—and feel something in your chest claw at the walls of its cage. As if some part of you had grown used to the board, even knowing it means that you’re a piece on it.
—
The Red Keep’s godswood is smaller than you expected.
Back at Winterfell, it’s a world unto itself—deep and ancient, a tangle of roots and shadows and the thick, breathing silence of snow whenever the weather cools enough. This is more so a tucked-away secret in the corner of the world that few eyes ever glimpse, and even fewer appreciate.
The weirwood grows crooked in the centre of the cramped yard. Its trunk twists up from a bed of dark earth, white bark stained pink where the sap seeps down. The leaves rustle in the slight breeze; a dense, uneasy red, as if the tree has bled into itself and never stopped.
The face itself is softer than the ones at home. Less harsh in the lines. The eyes still know you, though.
They always do.
You had to argue with the maester to be allowed here at all. With your father, a little. With the white cloak who insisted on trailing three paces behind you from your chamber to the godswood gate.
“Wait here,” you told him, before he could step onto the moss. “The old gods have no love for your steel.”
He hesitated at your order—torn between duty and superstition, between his oath and the stories he’d likely heard about strange trees that like to keep watch—and then stationed himself outside the low stone arch, within shouting distance but out of sight. You’re not foolish enough to dismiss protection entirely after such an attack, even if you crave privacy for your thoughts.
Now, for the first time since the Kingswood, you are truly alone.
Your shoulder complains as you sink down at the base of the weirwood, back to the trunk, boots braced in the damp earth. A low, pulsing ache flares and then settles. You let your head fall against the bark, eyes slipping shut for a single breath. It’s cool, faintly damp to the touch and smells faintly of sap and rain. You close your eyes properly this time and breathe, slow and indulgent, until your pulse stops hammering in your ears.
The dream clings to you.
Fire on stone. Blood in your hair. The feel of Baelor’s mouth almost on yours, the word wife warming the shell of your ear before it all went red. Fog and horses. Crypts and ravens and the roar of something huge and distant. A boy’s thin, fierce face above dark water, eyes like a dragon’s, saying—
You don’t remember what he said. That might be the worst of it. The words feel important, the way the moment before a fall is important.
“I don’t know what you want of me,” you confess the weirwood quietly. “I’m trying.”
The wind shifts ever so slightly.
“You are,” another voice responds, from somewhere behind the curtain of leaves. “In your way.”
You go very still.
The knife at your hip is not there; they have not let you have steel since the maesters cut the arrow out. But your hand goes for it anyway, finds nothing but wool and your own useless fingers there, grasping at nothing. You push off the trunk, biting down on a gasp as your shoulder spikes white-hot.
He steps out of the shadow of the tree like the shadow given a body of a man.
Brynden Rivers is unmistakable without the red drip across one side of his face. Here, under the leaves, with his bone-pale hair loose around his shoulders and his birthmark livid against skin gone almost translucent in the stilted light, he looks more like a creature from some old northern tales than a man. There’s a stillness to him that doesn’t feel like ease so much as coiled intent.
“My lord Rivers,” you say, because you were not raised in a barn. Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Do your king’s spies make a habit of lurking in other men’s godswoods?”
He inclines his head, the gesture precise as a knife drawn from its sheath. “Only when invited.”
You look pointedly at the empty grass between you. “I don’t recall inviting you.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you came here. Alone. Which suggests you might be thinking along paths not unlike mine.”
Above him, the ravens announce themselves in an eerie little chorus—three of them, hunched in the branches, feathers a blacker shadow against red leaves. One gives a harsh, rattling croak, as if amused by your palpable unease. You dislike how closely he’s watching you, him and his birds. Not leering, not hungry. Just… picking you apart with ruthless abandon. The way a man might note the shape of a lock he means to pick.
“If you’ve come to offer sympathy, Lord Rivers,” you say, folding your hands in front of you in some attempt at composure, “I warn you I’ve had my fill of men telling me how close it was that I died.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile but a shade of some private amusement. On his ruined face, even that much looks a little like mockery.
“I don’t waste condolences on the living,” he tells you. “They’re usually busy wasting them on themselves.”
You huff, despite yourself. The movement tugs at your stitches and heat spikes promptly under your bandages in an unspoken reminder.
“Then why are you here?” you wonder. “Aside from the pleasure of unnerving a convalescent.”
“Because,” Brynden says, “it occurs to me that you are angry.”
He says it mildly, like he’s commenting on the weather.
You bristle instinctively, mouth flattening into something less open for him. “If you’ve come to scold me for that, you’re late. The maesters have already tutted about my humours, and my father has already told me anger is no use to a woman who can’t draw a bow with her bad arm.”
“The maesters,” he says dryly, glancing boredly around the small yard, “collect leeches, not enemies. And your father is wrong about anger. It’s plenty useful. It just needs a direction, lest it chew holes in its owner instead of its target.”
He takes a few steps closer, unhurried and relaxed, until he’s at the opposite side of the trunk’s roots. Not looming. Just… there. A presence you feel pressing into you as if he had his mouth by your ear and breathing directly into it. His odd red eye flicks from your shoulder to your face, to the faint tremor in your fingers that you hadn’t noticed until he looked. You have the uncomfortable feeling that if he wished, he could list everything you are feeling in order of strength.
“You were shot,” he goes on, tone still maddeningly even. “Poisoned. Hauled back from the Stranger’s door at some cost. And the man who loosed that arrow did not do so on a whim. He knew you would be on that road. He knew when you would pass. He knew enough to tip his shaft, because simply killing you would not have sent a message quite sharp enough.”
A muscle in your jaw jumps. “I am aware.”
His head tilts, bird-like. “Are you?”
You stare at him, unblinking despite the ache already forming behind your eyes. Something whispers, deep inside you, that to lower your eyes now would be a mistake.
“You’ve been lying in bed, dreaming fever-dreams, being told by men with ink on their fingers that it was all a terrible misfortune. An outrage, yes, but not what they meant to happen. That you were merely an unfortunate piece of scenery between Blackfyre and the crown.” His mouth curves, thin and sharp. “Tell me you don’t believe as much.”
You think of blood in your mouth, of how those men charged into battle with intent to kill, all in the name of a man, a symbol, that is no longer breathing. You remember the shape of Baelor’s fear as he clutched you to him, hauling you closer and screaming for his brother.
“I think,” you reply slowly, measuring each word, “that if I had not been there, they’d have killed someone else. A prince, if they were lucky. They were not careful men.”
“Mm.” Brynden glances up into the leaves, as if the ravens are a more interesting audience. “Careless enough with their own lives, certainly. Less so with their planning.”
His gaze drops back to you, sharp enough to pin, and you almost bristle beneath the scrutiny of it, the weight..
“You were not scenery, my lady. You were bait. A wolf’s pelt hung where everyone could see it, to drag the dragons out of their walls so they may be slayed.”
The idea is not new. You have brushed its edges in the small hours while in bed, when the pain was at its worst and the corridor outside your door too quiet. Hearing it said aloud makes your throat tighten, as if his words have hands that have found purchase there.
“If that’s all you came to tell me, you can save your breath. I already know my worth to ambitious fools.”
“Do you?” he asks, immediate and almost gentle with amusement. “Then perhaps you might be inclined to make it more expensive.”
There’s a glint there now. Not kindness, but something needling, almost flaying.
You stare at him for a breath. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Brynden replies, “that the prince came to me. To ask for my help in finding the traitor who sold that information.”
The tree is cool at your back; you press into it until you can feel the faint give of living wood.
“Baelor went to you,” you repeat.
Brynden’s mouth crooks, acknowledging the crack in your voice without comment. “He did. It cost him, I think, far more than he enjoyed. He does not like me much, you see. I cannot fault him for that. But I am the crown’s servant, and I do what I must to preserve it.”
He takes another step closer, enough that you can see where the scar bites down into the empty socket on one side of his face, the way the puckered skin drags his expression when he moves his mouth. It looks like two different men sharing one skull, neither of whom is wholly your friend.
“Still,” he goes on, “his concern was… instructive.”
Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You look away, toward the carved eyes of the weirwood.
“This is not about the prince,” you state stiffly.
“Isn’t it?”
His voice is soft, almost amused. Again. And a small part of you wishes to snap your teeth at his throat.
“You are heir to Winterfell. He is heir to the Iron Throne. An arrow meant for him goes into you instead. The North saves the dragon with its own blood, and the realm looks on.” His fingers tap once against the hilt of the sword at his hip—a soft, thoughtful little patter that somehow sounds like he’s counting something in his head you cannot see. “There are a great many ways to spend that story, if one is… imaginative enough.”
You think of Daeron in his solar, talking of alliances and symbols. Of Baelor in the woods, voice raw as he begged you to breathe. There are a thousand ways to spin what you did, which pains you even more, because in that moment, you simply wanted to save Baelor. Instinct, old and roaring, had moved your body before any sense could hold it still. No calculation, no real intent other than to see a man unharmed.
“You mean the match his Grace suggested.” The word match tastes sour on your tongue. “To Maekar.”
“I mean, all the matches he didn’t suggest,” Brynden answers instead. “And the ones he may be thinking of now that he’s had to pacify half his court with assurances the North isn’t about to snatch up its wolf and sulk back home forever.”
Something sharp blazes through you. Hope. Anger. Want. You’re not sure which has the stronger teeth.
“You think he would match me to Baelor,” you say, your tone terse. “After telling my father otherwise.”
Brynden snorts, a short, inelegant sound. It sits strangely on him, as if the noise belongs to someone more human than what he is.
“I think Daeron likes to believe he can have both: the stability of the match he’s chosen, and the comfort of knowing his eldest son will swallow it like every other bitter draught he has handed him.” His good eye gleams, red and unreadable when it finds you again. “I also think he has misjudged how deeply that draught cuts. On both sides.”
You glare at him. “What do you want of me, Lord Rivers?”
“Two things,” he answers promptly, as if he’s been waiting for that specific question and is glad you finally arrived there, too. “First: your help in finding the rat who thought tipping an arrow into your blood would be a clever move. Second: for you to stop lying to yourself about the nature of the game you’re in.”
You laugh once, but it comes out harsher than you hoped; you can practically hear the snarl in the words when you speak. “Is that all, my lord?”
“For the first,” he continues, as if you haven’t spoken, “I need only that you allow yourself to be a stone in the pond. Word has already gone out that Stark means to quit the city as soon as you can sit a saddle. When that day is fixed, we will watch who takes a sudden interest in gates and departure times. Who sends letters at odd hours. Who asks after your health with more than polite curiosity.”
He shrugs his lean, bony shoulders. On him, the gesture looks almost skeletal, something else trying to play at being a man. “My little birds are very good at knowing who listens at doors. It will narrow the field.”
“And if whoever it is decides to try again?” you ask. “While my father thinks he’s simply taking his half-healed pup home?”
“Then we catch them,” Brynden says, so matter-of-fact it almost startles you. “Preferably before they loose another shaft. Failing that—” his mouth curls into something almost wolfish, almost pleased, “—we make sure it’s their hand the arrow falls out of when I bring it back to the king.”
He is too casual about this, too sure of the eventuality of it. It should unsettle you more than it does. Or perhaps it does, and you are simply too tired to feel it properly right now. Perhaps the South has taught you enough to recognise that the biggest danger between these walls is the very man standing in front of you.
“Why ask me?” you question after a fraught pause. “You could do this without warning me at all.”
“I could,” he agrees. His eye never leaves your face, tracking every minute twitch and change. “But I find bait struggles less when it understands the hook. And I am not entirely without… fellow-feeling.”
You blink at the word. “Fellow-feeling.”
He skims his attention over your face like you’re being slow on purpose.
“I have loved unwisely myself, Lady Stark,” he reveals, and it surprises you to hear him speak it so candidly. “It does strange things to a man’s judgement. Makes him send his enemies to the Wall when they should have gone to the grave. Makes him bleed for a crown that will never sit on his own head. Makes him, occasionally, walk up a great many stairs to a godswood he does not worship in, to offer a northern lady a choice.”
Your mouth goes dry. “What choice?”
It closes around you, like a viper coiling around your ankle, the awareness of something else. The thing you’ve felt coiling in his words since he stepped out of the shadow.
“To move yourself,” he says simply. “Instead of letting other men do it for you.”
You hear your father’s voice layered over his: And if I move myself? Then I’ll be very proud. And worried sick, no doubt.
“How,” you demand, biting out each word, “exactly.”
Brynden glances up at the carved face, as if asking for permission to speak. The leaves whisper overhead. One raven ruffles its feathers and peers down, head cocked as it monitors you both with its beady, black eyes.
“You are heir to Winterfell,” he says again, as if it bears repeating. “Because your father had only one pup. You. But he has brothers still. An uncle for you. Cousins. A whole second line that could, with a word from your mouth and his, step into the place you currently occupy.”
Your stomach drops. “You’re suggesting I… give up my birthright.”
“I am suggesting,” Brynden corrects, hearing the jagged fury in your words, “that the realm could learn to love a northern queen very easily, if there were a man in Winterfell to soothe the North’s nerves. Your uncle. The Old Wolf’s own grandson. A Stark with winters behind him already.”
The words land like a blow straight to your chest, mangling your insides from the inside out.
Because you know there’s truth to his words.
Winterfell is yours by birthright. By law, by blood, by every story the North tells itself about wolves and succession. You are well enough liked by your father’s bannermen. Some have called you our girl since you were small; some have drunk with you at your father’s board and watched you ride and smiled as if they could already see a direwolf cloak on your shoulders and imagine you as their lady. The North is loyal to its own, even when uncertain; you knew these gruff men would rally around you.
And yet.
You can see their faces, clear as the sky on a sunlit day, as they hear this suggestion. The guarded relief they would not dare name. The way men would shift in their seats and tell themselves that of course, of course this is sensible. A man in the high seat, a true Stark, a known quantity. A lord with years and victories to his name. A man whose body is not a battlefield the way yours will be the moment you take a husband.
A girl can always be replaced in their minds. By a husband. By a son. By a boy they can pin their hopes on. You know that. You’ve watched the way their eyes move to the cradle whenever some lord’s lady produces an heir, as if she has already become background to the main event.
The knowledge stings. It feels like being skinned because it’s so unfair yet true.
“My father would never ask that of me,” you choke out, and your voice is thin around the edges.
“No,” Brynden says. “Which is why it would have to come from you.”
The godswood seems to press in closer. Bark at your back, stone at your sides, sky narrowed above to a strip of grey between red leaves where the world feels too hot and too far from home.
“Your father wants you alive,” Brynden goes on. “He wants Winterfell safe. In that order, I suspect, though he would pretend otherwise if you forced him to choose. He brought you south to be seen, not sold. If Daeron tells him the only way to have peace is to chain you to one brother or another, he will snarl and swallow it for his people’s sake. Unless you give him another path.”
“And what path is that?” you demand, and this time you do show him your teeth; a brief, terrible flash. “I denounce my claim, hand Winterfell to my uncle, and become what? The South’s pet wolf? A queen whose people whisper that she abandoned them for dragons and southern comforts?”
“You become,” Brynden retorts, still infuriatingly calm, like you’ve already had this conversation a thousand times already, and he knows every word you’ll utter, “a woman whose life is her own in more ways than one. Who can look at a dragon and decide whether she wants to burn with him or not, without an entire kingdom’s weight hung on the scale.”
There is something almost gentle in the way he says it. Almost. It sits uneasily in his mouth, like a language he doesn’t speak often. Heat prickles behind your eyes. You look away, out over the low encircling wall, where the city sprawls in sun and smoke and distant noise. Here, it is muted, as if you and Brynden and the tree exist in another world entirely.
“You speak as if it were simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple,” he answers with careful bluntness. “It will hurt, whatever you choose. You will owe debts either way. To your father, to your house, to the prince whose life you dragged back from the Stranger’s teeth with your own flesh.”
Wind rises around you, a rustling gust that tugs at the silky, pale strands of his hair, catching red light.
“But pain you choose,” he adds softly, “sits differently under the skin than pain chosen for you.”
The wind moves through the leaves again. One crimson leaflet spins down in a lazy arc and lands near your boot. It looks like a drop of fresh blood on the moss. Not quite a sign, but not quite nothing, either.
“If I listen to you,” you whisper, working over your own thudding heart, “and do as you suggest, who does it serve? The North, or the crown?” You search his face. “Or you?”
He considers that, head cocked.
“All three,” he says at last. “Or neither. I am not in the business of kindness, Lady Stark. I am in the business of keeping my king and his heirs alive long enough to drag this realm, kicking and screaming if it must, into something better than it was when I was a boy. You are… a nexus. A point where too many lines cross. Remove you from some of those lines, and the tangle lessens.”
There is truth in that, as strange as it sounds in his mouth. There is also something else, too, coiled and private, entirely unspoken. You can’t see its full shape, you realise, but you feel it. The way his eye gleams when he speaks of fewer knots. The way his mouth almost curves when he talks of dragging the realm. You can’t tell if he wants it tidier for Daeron’s sake—or for his own.
“And Baelor?” The name escapes before you can stop it.
Brynden’s mouth twitches again, that almost-smile, wrong on half his face and too sharp on the other.
“And Baelor,” he says, “gets a chance to decide whether he wants you as his queen enough to fight for it, or whether he prefers the comfort of the chain already around his neck.” His eye glints, a glimmering ruby in the light. “Love, as I said, does strange things to men. I am curious what it will do to him.”
You want to be angry. At him, for prodding. At yourself, for the way your heart stutters traitorously at the idea of Baelor choosing you on purpose. Of simply cutting ties and freeing yourself from obligation, even when something old and stubborn in you balks at the mere thought of leaving your people or your position. But would it not serve the North even more if you were here, if you stood in some position of power rather than being constantly doubted and overlooked in your own halls? A Queen. The thought is dizzying because it’s never something you’ve imagined for yourself.
Instead, you find your fingers have curled in the moss until your nails bite dirt.
“And the traitor?” You hear yourself ask because that is safer ground than the shape of your own wanting. “You truly think they will try again.”
“I think,” Brynden says idly, “that men who fail rarely sit quietly with their failure. They tell themselves it was bad luck, not bad judgment. They tell themselves next time will be cleaner.”
He looks up into the branches once more. The ravens shift there as if hearing something in his tone you can’t.
“Let them,” he murmurs. “I will be waiting.”
There is a chill in the way he says it that has nothing to do with Godswood shade. You believe him. You suspect, dimly, that being the man Brynden Rivers is waiting for is a very short road to a very long fall.
He steps back from the tree, giving you space you hadn’t realised you needed. At the edge of the clearing, he pauses.
“Think on what I’ve said,” he tells you over his shoulder, pale hair slipping over the lean length of him. “Speak to your father, if you dare. Or don’t. This is your move, my lady of the North. For once, no one can make it for you.”
You flinch at the title; it sits on you heavier than any southern courtesy, and he speaks as if it is something you could lay down like a cloak.
“Why are you helping me?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
He pauses in the act of turning. In the mottled light, with his pale hair and his ruined face, he looks almost like one of the carved kings in the Winterfell crypts, you think, dragged south and given a pulse again and unfit to prowl these halls.
“Because,” Brynden answers, “I serve the crown, not Daeron’s plans nor yours. And because if my prince burns himself hollow for a woman, I would rather it be for one who knows exactly what she’s doing.”
His gaze snaps to the bandage peeking at the edge of your collar. “And because,” he adds, so quiet the keep almost drowns him out, “women who stand between dragons and arrows deserve more than to be spent like coins.”
You cannot tell, for the life of you, whether that last part is for you, or for his own sense that good pieces are hard to come by.
Then he is gone. Back into the trees, into the stones, into whatever hidden stair he used to reach this place without your guard hearing. The godswood swallows him as if he were never there to begin with. Only the ravens mark his passing, shifting once, then settling again.
You lean your head back against the bark and close your eyes in despair.
—
“You’re on your feet.”
Your father’s voice hits you before the rest of him does. It’s flat, roughened by a morning spent swallowing his temper, no doubt.
He stands in the doorway a heartbeat later, broad shoulders filling the frame.
You’d heard him coming because he made it impossible not to. His bootsteps thudded down the corridor with more force than the Red Keep’s delicate tiles deserve, sending a faint shiver through the stone under your bare feet. The guard outside your chamber had murmured a soft, deferential, “My lord Stark,” and then gone abruptly silent.
You understand why when you glimpse his expression.
Now Barthogan Stark takes in the sight of you at the window intently, one hand braced on the sill, your injured arm held close.
“Mostly,” you answer. “The maesters will be terribly offended if I start sprinting, but standing seems to offend them only a little.”
He looks like a man who’s been chewing iron since dawn. His jaw is set hard enough to crack teeth. The grizzle in his beard bristles like frost-rimed shrub. Someone convinced him back into his proper lord’s garb—a dark doublet, clean shirt, grey and white stitched at the collar with Stark sirewolf on his breast—but it sits on him more like armour today.
His gaze rakes over you, a soldier’s quick inventory: the steadiness of your stance, the way you’re favouring your wounded shoulder, the slight pinch at the corner of your mouth when you shift your weight. Something in him loosens ever so slightly.
“Sit,” he orders.
You arch a brow. “If I do, can I trust you not to pace a hole through the floor?”
“Probably not,” he mutters.
You obey anyway, easing back into the cushioned chair by the window. The motion tugs on the healing flesh in your shoulder; a flare of hot ache follows and ebbs in rolling waves you try your best to hide from your expression. Your father waits until you’re settled before he starts to move, crossing to the middle of the room and turning on his heel in a tight, irritated circle like a wolf testing the size of his cage.
You watch him.
Bloodraven’s words crawl back into your mind as you watch him prowl.
A northern queen, if a man took Winterfell instead…
Your uncle. The Old Wolf’s own grandson. A Stark with winters behind him.
Pain you choose sits differently than pain chosen for you.
You hadn’t slept well after that. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your uncle’s face in the high seat at Winterfell, snow drifting past the windows, your father at the board with a weight lifted you hadn’t known he carried.
You want to be furious at Bloodraven for saying it. The problem is that part of you knows it’s true.
“Let me guess,” you say now, because if you don’t speak, you will start thinking again about uncles and birthrights and what it would mean to lay Winterfell down. “Breakfast with the king did not go as planned.”
He snorts. “He does not eat this early. He summons.”
“Of course he does.” You fold your good hand in your lap, fingers restless. “What did his Grace want of you?”
“To thank me,” Barthogan says, with such savage irony you almost wince. “To tell me again how very sorry he is that his city allowed my pup to be shot. To assure me he’s doing everything in his power to find the snake in his walls.” He stops, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, though on your father, the gesture looks less tired and more homicidal. “And to remind me, very gently, of what insult it would be if the North walked away now.”
You grimace.
You can see it perfectly. Daeron in some smaller audience chamber, thin and composed, those tired eyes fixed on your father. Your father standing there unmoved and stubborn, breathing hard through his nose.
“And the marriage?” you prod.
His mouth flattens into a line you know too well. “Still dangling it. Neatly. Like meat over a pit. Talk of unity. Of how the realm watches what we do next. How refusing would give Blackfyre fools a story they’d dine on for years—‘see how the wolf spurns the dragon; see how the king cannot keep his own allies in line.’”
You can hear Daeron in the phrasing even without the king’s careful tone. Bloodraven had said there were many ways to spend this story. Daeron clearly means to spend it profitably.
“And what did you say?” you ask.
“I said,” Barthogan growls, “that I had not brought my only child south to be bartered like salt cod, arrow or no arrow.”
His hands open and close at his sides, fists forming and loosening as if he can feel Daeron’s words on his knuckles.
“I said the North will not be bullied into a marriage by men who cannot keep their own roads safe. I said if he pushes too hard, he’ll find his union talk snowbound until his grandchildren’s time.”
You almost smile at that, despite the painful knot in your stomach. Your father turning the full weight of cold Stark fury on the king of the Seven Kingdoms, and Daeron bearing it like a man weathering a storm he knew was coming, measuring exactly how much he can afford to push before something breaks.
“And he reminded me,” your father finishes, voice rough, “that if I snarl loudly enough, there are a dozen other houses who’d happily give him a bride to shore up his broken realm. Houses that don’t have our grain, but who have ships, and gold, and ambitions sharp enough to cut themselves on.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, muttering something in a sharp Northern tongue you haven’t heard since you were small enough to get lost in the woods.
You try to swallow over your dry throat, words rising up. You could say it right now. There is another way. Give Winterfell to my uncle. Let him be the Stark the North looks to, while I become the Stark the realm looks to.
The words sit on your tongue, as heavy as lead. You picture your father’s face if you spoke them. The hurt. The pride. The fear. The way he would see it as cutting out his own heart to hand to someone else.
You let the silence stretch instead. Because you cannot say them until you know where Baelor stands. You will not give up your home for someone who might not wish you beside him.
“Why did he send you back here?” you ask at last, when the air feels a little less likely to crackle.
Barthogan makes a face like he’s bitten something sour. “To tell you that his gracious family would be honoured to dine with us at noon, now that you are well enough not to fall into your soup. Southern habit of eating every time the sun moves an inch.”
Your stomach, traitorous, chooses that moment to complain that it has seen nothing but broth and boiled grain for days. You ignore it with all the dignity you can muster.
“So the king wishes to lay his gratitude at our feet with an audience,” you say. “And perhaps see if the wolf’s pup will growl less than her sire.”
His eyes flash. He doesn’t deny it.
“Can you manage it?” he asks abruptly. “Sitting at their table.”
You think of Bloodraven under the weirwood, all pale hair and scars, suggesting you step aside and let an uncle take your seat so the realm might love you. You think of his red eye watching you, weighing how much of this you will endure before you crack the board yourself.
You think of Baelor’s hand over yours and the word wife hanging unspoken over both of you like a blade.
“Yes,” you say. “If I don’t move too quickly. And if you don’t start a blood feud before the roast.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ll do my best.”
—
Afternoon light slants through the high windows of the royal solar. The ceiling beams are low enough to feel almost intimate, carved with twisting vines and tiny dragons that watch over the table with blank golden eyes. Copper plates and silver knives gleam on linen. Steam curls from dishes of river fish and stewed greens, from loaves of bread torn open to cool, from little boats of honey and butter waiting to be plundered.
They are already there when you and your father are shown in.
Daeron rises first, because he is king and because he is polite. Myriah, beside him, is already half-standing, shawl sliding from one shoulder, dark eyes raking over you like a mother hen inspecting you for damage.
The princes stand as well, chairs scraping on stone.
Baelor.
You see him and, for a moment, everything else ceases to exist.
He’s in dark red and black today, simple but well cut; the pin of the Hand rests heavy above his heart, an invisible weight that seems to bow his body. His hair has been newly combed, but one rebellious strand escapes to fall over his brow. There’s a faint bruise along his jaw you don’t remember from before, yellowing at the edges like old lightning. His eyes find yours at once, like they’ve been starved of the sight.
The space between you tightens, crackling.
You remember the dream of him barefoot on warm stone, calling you wife in a voice that was all heat and aching promise. You remember the reality of him in the Kingswood, arms around you at the gallop, breath burning in your ear as he whispered you back from the dark. Now he inclines his head like a man greeting an honoured guest. His face is composed, every line schooled to courtesy. His fingers on the back of his chair are white to the knuckles.
“Lady Stark.” His voice is rougher than you’re used to, like a blade that’s seen hard use and not yet been fully honed. “It is very good to see you awake.”
“Your Highness,” you reply, and if your mouth feels dry, you blame the wound and the maesters’ poppy. “I am glad to oblige you by not dying.”
Something flickers in his eyes—pain, humour, something sharp and fragile—and is gone almost before you can decide which it was.
Maekar stands at his brother’s shoulder, broader and more obviously ill at ease. He looks you over with an unvarnished frankness, taking in the sling, the stiffness in your movements, the tightness in your jaw when you shift. Relief loosens his posture, his shoulders dropping a fraction.
“Lady Stark,” he grunts. “You look less like death. That’s… good.”
You nod to him, a small smile blooming despite yourself. “And you look as if you’ve survived another rebellion, Your Grace,” you answer. “I’m glad of that, too.”
There’s a faint cut along his cheek, fading now; a new split scar along the ridge of one knuckle where a sword hilt must have bitten. He snorts, an almost approving sound from him you’ve come to realise.
At the far end, Aerys—fine-boned, ink-stained fingers already worrying at the stem of his cup—offers you a reticent, earnest smile. Rhaegel sits half in his own head, as always, looking at you and somewhere beyond you at once, as if seeing layers you’re not privy to.
Myriah breaks the moment.
“My sweet wolf,” she calls out, and you don’t know when that became your name in her mouth, but it has. She comes forward, takes your face gently between her hands, thumbs brushing your temples, then kisses your brow as if you are one of her boys, and the unadorned affection nearly steals your breath, making you miss your own mother so fiercely you bite back a whimper. “Sit, before you fall.”
“I won’t fall, Your Grace,” you protest, but you let her shepherd you toward the empty chair to Daeron’s right, opposite Baelor.
Your father takes the seat beside you, near the end, within reach. His hand brushes your arm as he sits, a wordless promise you’ve known since childhood: I’m here.
Once everyone’s settled, food begins to move. You take bread because it’s safe, fish because refusing would be remarked on. The smell of herbs and roasting fat makes your stomach cramp with sudden, embarrassing hunger.
Conversation trickles around the edges of the table at first. Rhaegel murmurs something to Aerys about an odd turn of phrase in a Valyrian scroll, and Aerys nearly spills his wine in his eagerness to answer. Maekar and your father exchange a few stiff, practical words about horseflesh and armour repairs, men who know how to measure one another without needing courtly flourishes.
Baelor does not speak to you again, but you feel him like a heat source in a cold room. When you reach for your cup and your fingers tremble, his gaze snaps to the movement. When you suppress a wince at a careless jolt to your shoulder, you catch the way his jaw clenches from the corner of your eye.
It is like sitting across from a banked forge. The danger is not in the flame you see, but in how hot the iron already is.
Daeron waits until plates are half-emptied, wine poured again, the worst of the initial awkwardness worn down by chewing and swallowing.
Then he sets his cup aside and rises.
“My lord Stark,” he says. His voice is mild, made to carry without effort. “Lady Stark.”
Conversation dies at once, the room tightening around his words. You lay your fork down, careful not to clatter it. Your father’s hand curls into a fist under the table.
“I have already spoken my apologies to your lord father,” Daeron continues, inclining his head toward Barthogan. “And my thanks, though neither seems equal to what has passed. But it would be poor courtesy, and poorer truth, not to speak them to you as well, my lady.”
His eyes settle on you. They are tired, those eyes. Tired and sharp and weighing.
“You came south at my invitation,” he says. “You rode in my sons’ company under the protection of my walls. You bled for my heir under my trees. The North has shown this house a loyalty that cannot be bought or commanded. It can only be answered.”
The phrasing is lovely and neat. You can almost hear Bloodraven in your head, amused: There are a great many ways to spend such a story, if one is imaginative.
“I would answer it,” Daeron says decisively, “with more than speeches.”
Your heart stutters inside your chest. Across the table, Baelor’s fingers go utterly still on the stem of his cup.
“It is my wish,” the king goes on, “and that of my council, to bind our houses not only in ink but in blood. To take this hurt done to you and turn it into proof. To show all who watch that when the North stands for the dragons, the dragons stand with the North.”
He breathes once, shallow but controlled. “If you are willing, Lady Stark, I would see you wed to my son Maekar. As thanks. As honour. And as a promise to the realm that such courage as yours is not forgotten.”
Utter silence falls over the solar. You’re not sure anyone is breathing.
For a heartbeat, no one moves or speaks at all.
Maekar is the first to break the stalemate.
His head jerks up, eyes wide, stripped for once of his usual scowl. “What?” he blurts.
The sound is so blunt, so unvarnished, that even Myriah startles. Aerys makes a strangled noise halfway between a cough and a laugh; Rhaegel blinks, dragged back from whatever distant landscape he’d been wandering.
Maekar seems to realise, a heartbeat too late, what he’s done.
“Forgive me,” he says quickly, colour climbing the back of his neck. He looks from you to his father and back again, as if searching for something solid to hold. “I only meant— I wasn’t told—”
His gaze snags on Baelor, as if pulled there.
You follow it.
Baelor sits utterly still, more stone than flesh. His cup is untouched in his hand, but you can see the faint quiver in his fingers where they grip the stem. The muscles in his jaw work once, twice, as if he’s grinding something between his teeth. His eyes are dark, fixed not on his father, not on Maekar, or you, but on some point along the grain of the table as if looking anywhere else would make him break.
For a foolish moment, you think—hope, fear, both—that he will speak. That he will rise and cut his father off, declare you as unavailable for both your sakes and make you foolish enough to consider givingup your birthright and duty for him.
He doesn’t.
He swallows once, throat moving with tension that looks like it borders on painful. His gaze flickers to yours, quick and bare. What you see there is a storm. Want and worry and something else, more ancient and dark. Fury held so tight it’s almost trembling behind the restraint. And under all of it, a plea you can’t quite name.
Move yourself, Bloodraven had told you, and your mind can conjure up the rest. Or watch them move you and call it duty.
Baelor drops his eyes.
“The king speaks wisely.” His voice is even, only the tightness at the corners of his mouth betrays him. “As Maekar’s elder brother, I can say he would not find a braver bride.”
Maekar’s hand clenches on the table hard enough that the tendons stand out like cords. He looks away, jaw bunched. Your father is stone beside you. You can feel the rage rolling off him like heat from a forge, contained only because there is nowhere in this room to let it out without cracking the world. Myriah’s hands are folded carefully in her lap. Her gaze moves between you and Baelor with a quiet, dawning sorrow, as if watching something she has seen coming and hoped, against sense, to avoid.
This is the shape of your future, laid out bare: Maekar’s wife, Winterfell’s lady, a symbol on a board men much older than you have been playing at for decades. Your life yoked to a purpose you did not choose.
Unless you make the choice yourself.
Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat. The dream of the burning keep flickers at the edges of your mind, that boy’s dragon-bright eyes saying words you still can’t remember. Bloodraven’s voice threads through it all.
Your fork is still in your hand. You set it down very carefully, as if it weighs a great deal.
“My lord.”
Your voice is steady. You feel absurdly proud of yourself for managing as much.
Daeron inclines his head. “Lady Stark.”
“My father and I are… honoured by your words,” you begin. It’s the right opening, you know as much, the instincts of courtesy run deep enough to find the path even now. “What you offer would bind our houses in a way no one could mistake. I do not take that lightly.”
You can feel all of them watching you. Baelor’s gaze is a physical thing on your skin.
“However,” you say, and the word feels like stepping out onto river ice, “I am only just risen from my bed. The maesters tell me the poison is not wholly done with me yet. I fear I am not fit, at this moment, to give your Grace an answer of the weight such an offer deserves.”
Daeron’s eyes narrow by a hair. Myriah’s fingers tighten around her napkin.
“I would beg,” you continue, “that you allow me a little more time to regain my strength—and to speak further with my father—before we discuss the future of both our houses over a meal.”
You manage a faint, apologetic curve of your mouth. “At present, I confess, I can barely think past the ache in my shoulder.”
There’s enough truth in it to stand, but also enough lie in it to count as a move of your own.
A beat of silence follows your words.
Then Myriah speaks, soft but firm. “The girl is still fever-touched, Daeron. Let her breathe.”
The king’s jaw twitches. He’s not a man accustomed to being stayed in his own solar. He looks from you to your father.
Barthogan doesn’t move, shoulders hunched, his expression carved from stone and northern ice. “If my daughter says she needs time,” he rumbles. “Then she needs time.”
For a moment, you think Daeron will push anyway, demand because he can, because he’s king and he’s of conqueror’s blood. Then you watch him remember the weight of the northern loyalty, your father’s temper, and the realm watching for any excuse to call him a tyrant.
He inclines his head, a barely there dip of his head.
“Very well,” he says after a moment. “We will speak of it again when you are stronger.”
“Thank you, your Grace,” you say, with all the Stark dignity you possess.
You bought yourself a few breaths, a voice at the back of your head whispers. Use them.
You set your napkin aside and push your chair back, more slowly than you’d like. The room tilts for a moment, but you steady yourself on the armrest, refusing to grip hard enough for anyone to see your knuckles strain.
“If you’ll forgive me,” you add, barely keeping onto your voice, “I fear I must beg another courtesy and retire. The maesters warned me I might tire quickly.”
You feel Baelor’s attention leap like a struck thing.
He’s on his feet before Daeron can answer, chair scraping back.
“I’ll see Lady Stark returned to her chambers.” There’s a bit more haste in it than he probably meant to show. “The corridors are crowded at this hour, and we still have a traitor in our midst. I’d rather not have Lady Stark elbowed by every courtier in the city.”
“Baelor,” Daeron says.
Just his son’s name., but there’s an unmistakable edge in it; a warning. Not merely a father chiding a son for overstepping into gallantry, but a king reminding his heir that his heart has an audience.
You freeze.
You hear and feel it land on Baelor like a hand to the shoulder. Or his throat. You feel the way he goes still beside you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Maekar’s expression shutter. His gaze drops to his plate. Something like guilt flashes across his face; then he clamps down on it, looking instead at the far wall like it holds an answer to his unspoken questions.
Baelor swallows thickly.
“With your leave,” he says again, more measured this time, “I will escort our guest.”
Daeron’s mouth presses into something that is not quite a frown. Myriah reaches under the table and, very deliberately, touches her husband’s wrist. She doesn’t speak. You suspect she doesn’t need to. The king’s shoulders ease by a fraction.
“Very well,” he intones. “Do not keep her standing.”
Baelor’s gaze finds yours. He comes around the table in controlled steps and offers you his arm.
It is a simple thing, a courtly gesture. Men offer arms to ladies a hundred times a day in this castle. You’ve given your hand to half a dozen since you arrived, let them take a fraction of your weight without thinking.
This feels nothing like that.
His sleeve brushes your fingers first, the fine wool whispering over your skin. Then your hand settles in the crook of his elbow, palm against the warm, solid line of his forearm. Heat jumps between you like static; his muscles tense under your touch, and you feel your own body answer, a matching clench up your arm.
You look up at him.
His face is arranged in perfect princely composure. Up close, you can see the crack in it—the way his throat works once before he speaks, the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth, the shadows that haven’t yet left his eyes since the Kingswood. Those mismatched eyes search yours, quick and hungry, as if trying to read the shape of your choice in the set of your jaw, the tightness around your eyes, the way your hand is holding his arm just a little too tightly.
You don’t know what he sees. You’re not entirely sure what’s there.
“Lady Stark,” he says formally, giving the smallest of bows he can manage without jostling you.
“Prince Baelor,” you reply, matching his tone.
Between you, your fingers curl a fraction tighter on his arm.
Behind you, you can sense Daeron’s gaze like a weight on your back. Myriah’s, softer but no less keen. Your father’s, hard and sharp and fiercely protective. Maekar’s, turned deliberately away, jaw clenched as if he’s bracing for some blow only he can see.
Baelor turns you toward the door.
The white cloaks fall behind you at a respectful distance. The door opens before you reach it, and the solar—with its careful words and shining plates and its king who would bind you where he needs you most—falls away as you step into the corridor’s cooler air.
—
The walk back to your chambers feels longer than the whole road to the Kingswood.
The corridor is wide enough for six men abreast, tapestries softening the stone, sunlight spilling in pale bars through high-arched windows. You and Baelor take up no more space than any well-bred lady and prince ought. Your hand rests just so on his arm, your steps remain measured, your pace neither hurried nor slow enough to draw remark.
It doesn’t matter.
The air between you vibrates.
You feel him in every line—the set of his shoulder under your palm, the contained force in his stride, the way his jaw jumps whenever you pass another servant or guard and the man’s gaze lingers a fraction too long on the sling holding your arm. Up close, you can see other things now that the formal light of the solar washed out: the fine grooves of exhaustion at the corners of his eyes, the telltale stiffness in his left knee when he turns, the way the pin of the Hand sits wrong on his chest, like it’s heavier today than it was yesterday.
For a while, you let the silence stand. There is too much in it for easy words. Only once the murmur of the royal solar has faded behind you into ordinary castle noise do you speak.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask.
Your voice is quiet, but it still cuts.
Baelor doesn’t pretend not to understand. His other hand tightens where it braces behind his back. You feel the flex of muscle beneath your fingers; the tendons in his forearm stand out for a heartbeat, then ease.
“I am the king’s heir,” he replies, after a moment. “In public, before my own blood, I do not contradict my father like a sulking boy.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
You pass through a slant of light; it spills across his face, catching on the faint yellowing bruise along his jaw, the tired shadows under his eyes. The pale eye looks almost colourless, the dark one near-black.
You stop pretending to be strong and let more of your weight lean onto his arm. Your shoulder aches in that deep, hot way that makes you want to bare your teeth at the world. He doesn’t comment, but his body adjusts without thinking—angling just so, stride shortening a fraction, taking more of you into him so you can breathe easier around the pain.
“He offered me to your brother,” you remind him, hearing the hurt in your own words. “As a reward. As a lesson. As a promise.” Your mouth twists. “You sat there and praised the match.”
His breath leaves him in something too thin to be a laugh.
“What would you have had me do?” he asks, low. “Knock the goblets off the table? Tell my father, in front of you and my mother and my brothers, that if he gives you to anyone but me I’ll tear this fragile peace to pieces just to prove I can?”
You consider it. “It would have been… clarifying.”
His mouth does a strange little contortion—half pained, half unwillingly amused. Behind you, the white cloak coughs, soft but pointed; Baelor’s shoulders stiffen at the reminder of someone else’s presence.
“Here,” Baelor murmurs.
Your door is suddenly there to your right, your quarters behind the closed door. The guard straightens as if a spear has gone up his spine at the sight of you both.
“My lady.”
His gaze slides to Baelor, then skitters away, fixing on a safe point somewhere over your head. Baelor eases your hand from his arm only long enough to push the door open himself.
“I’ll take her in,” he says to the guards, not looking back.
“My prince, our orders were—”
“—to see the lady safely to her chamber,” Baelor cuts in. “You’ve done so. If I intend to murder our guest in her own rooms, I promise I’ll call you to watch.”
The words are dry enough to lash and you blink at the cutting edge that’s so unlike Baelor’s usual imperturbable nature. The guards flush, step back in an uneven, near comical stumble. The white cloak behind you goes quiet and still by the wall.
You step through the doorway, Baelor a shadow at your back.
The room smells of you and maesters’ herbs and beeswax polish. The bed is neatly made. The brazier glows low and steady. Someone has set a bowl of fruit on the table by the window. Bright oranges and figs like small captured suns, as if colour might coax your appetite back to you.
Baelor shuts the door with his own hand.
“Out,” you tell the maid perched on her stool by the hearth.
She jumps. “My lady, the maester said—”
“I know what the maester said.” You don’t raise your voice; you don’t need to. “I say I wish to speak with the prince in private. Go.”
Torn between dragon and wolf, she hesitates only a breath before bobbing a curtsey and scurrying out. The door opens and closes again, the murmur of the guards outside a brief rustle, then nothing.
Silence.
Baelor stands just inside the threshold, as if he’s not sure how far he’s permitted to come. For all the straightness of his shoulders and the silent power his very presence seems to carry, there’s something raw about him in this moment, fragile and uneven like hot metal bent wrong.
“Why didn’t you come?” you ask. “To my room. After the Kingswood.”
His head snaps up as if you’ve struck him.
“I couldn’t,” he says eventually, the admission rough, and he looks away. “Every time I thought of opening that door, I felt—” He huffs out a breath, angry with himself. “There’s something in me I don’t entirely trust, when it comes to you. Some… violence. Some wanting. I have to strangle it every time I see you. In that bed, half dead—” His throat closes for a moment. “I was afraid if I came back, I’d break. Or I’d frighten you. So I did the only thing I know how to do.”
“And what is that?” you ask, your voice quieter now.
Baelor meets your eyes, the shame in his face plainly offered.
“I worked,” he replies simply. “I sat with my father. I hunted the man who hurt you. I turned every hour I should have been at your bedside into a blade I could put in someone else’s hand. It was cowardice, not coming. But it was the only way I could be sure I was doing you more good than harm.”
You hold his gaze a moment longer, feeling that settle alongside all the other sharp truths between you. You cross to the table—slow, because your body insists on it, not because you want to—and brace your good hand on the back of the nearest chair. You do not sit.
“If you feel nothing,” you say instead, turning to face him again, “tell me now.”
His shoulders lock.
The words taste like rotten fruit in your mouth, but you keep your expression even, your words matter-of-fact.
“If you feel nothing,” you repeat, because you were raised with Winterfell’s cold in your lungs and it taught you early not to flinch from painful truths, “say it plainly. I’ll do the respectable thing. The northern thing. I’ll wed your brother and make peace with it. I will not be the woman who clings where she’s not wanted.”
All colour seems to drain from his sun-kissed face.
“I—” The word breaks in his throat. Baelor takes a step toward you, then stops himself like a horse checked at the last instant, fingers curling uselessly at his sides. “Don’t say that,” he manages, voice rough. “Don’t put that in my mouth.”
“Why not?” you ask, sharper than you mean to be. “Your father seems very sure of the match. Maekar could be worse. He has a kind heart under all that iron. He’ll make a decent lord of Winterfell if your father lets him stay long enough to learn it. He’ll be loyal, I think. To me. To my people.”
Something flickers across Baelor’s face—pain, and a sort of bleak humour, and the ghost of a thought you recognise because you’ve had it yourself: He’d fit. North would become him, given enough time.
He closes his eyes briefly, and when Baelor opens them again, both irises are too bright.
“Do you know what it does to me,” he says slowly, as if each word has to be hauled up from somewhere so deep he’s too afraid to give the thought shape, “to picture it?”
Your heart trips.
“Picture what?” you ask.
Your tone is flat. You don’t trust it to be anything else. Baelor laughs, once. It’s not a sound you’ve heard from him before. Short and ugly, with no amusement in it.
“Everything,” he says. “Your hand on his arm at feasts. Your chair beside his in Winterfell’s hall. Your direwolf carved next to his dragon on banners over your walls. You at his side in council, speaking of snows and grain while he speaks of steel, and you looking at him the way you look at me.”
His throat works.
“And further,” you prod, because if you are going to hurt yourself with this, you might as well cut all the way to bone. “Go on. Don’t stop halfway.”
Baelor’s jaw locks. You eye the way his teeth grind, how his nostrils flare, his hands two balled fists of bone and strength.
“Does it drive you mad,” you ask quietly, ruthlessly, “to imagine Maekar wedding me? Maekar bedding me? Me bearing his children?”
The questions slice through him with such precision you briefly think he’s knees will fold. They don’t. But Baelor does flinch. There’s no other word for it.
“Yes,” he spits out, barely controlled, and now there’s nothing careful left in him. The word scrapes out, low and ragged. “Yes. It makes something in me… ugly. A thing I don’t like. I am not proud of the thoughts I have when I let myself follow that line too far.”
Your fingers bite into the chair-back until your knuckles ache.
“Then claim me.”
You feel the world tilt around those three simple words. They hang there, bright and dangerous, between wolf and dragon.
“If you feel what I feel,” you go on, voice steadier than the pulse hammering in your throat, “say it. Claim me. Claim this. Go to your father and tell him the only way he gets his pretty story of wolf and dragon is if you stand beside me, not your brother. Tell him you won’t spend my life like coin to pay for his peace. Give me something better than ghost promises and almosts, Baelor, or let me go.”
His composure breaks like thin ice.
“I did,” he says.
You blink. “You what?”
He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh except far too hateful to be anything but bitterness.
“When he told me,” Baelor says, “when he first spoke of binding you to Maekar—before this luncheon, before he had the room as witness—I went to him.” His gaze goes distant for a heartbeat, seeing another room, another door closing. “To his solar. I shut us in. I told him he couldn’t use this.”
You stare at him, waiting for more, waiting for anything that might give you some shred of hope.
“I told him that you are not a piece he can move,” he continues, and now his voice has that same hard, flat undertone. “I told him if there must be a match, it should be me.”
He paces, a short, restrained half-circle like a tethered thing.
“I told him,” Baelor continues, “that I love Maekar with everything in me, but he is not the one you bled for. I am. That you laugh with me. That you listen. That when I speak, you see me, not the crown. That some days the only time I remember I am a man and not just a function of his peace is when you look at me.”
The words make something in your chest yaw open.
“I told him,” he finishes, quieter, his back to you, “that if he sends you to anyone but me, he will kill something in me I don’t think will grow back.”
That last sentence hangs there, heavy and suspended.
Your eyes squeeze shut. “What did he say?”
Baelor shifts, just barely for you to hear the rustle of cloth.
“He said the crown is a hungry god,” he recalls, and you can almost hear his father’s voice overlaid with his. “That it eats us all. That we do not marry for ourselves. That if his heir is seen taking joy instead of making a sacrifice, every man waiting for an excuse to pull this realm apart will take it.” His hands flex at his sides. “He told me our fire might save the realm… or burn it down. And that he cannot risk another war for my heart, when he has spent his whole life trying to keep the last one from flaring up again.”
You listen to him speak as if in a daze, your thoughts fuzzy at the edges.
“He put the choice in my hands,” Baelor says, and now the bitterness curls in like smoke. “He is clever that way. He did not command. He told me the truth plainly, and then he looked at me, and waited to see whether I would strike the match.”
“And you?” you ask. “What did you choose?”
You’re not sure why you ask, because deep down you know. The choice was answered in his silence. Baelor finally turns to glance at you, his pale eye focused, even though there’s something pained burning behind it.
“I chose not to burn you alive with me.”
The words land like a blow to the sternum.
“I chose,” he goes on, halting, “to keep standing between him and a war, instead of standing between him and what he thinks that war would take. I chose to put the realm first because that is what he taught me to be. Because that is what I know how to do.” His head lowers marginally. “Because I am a coward when it comes to you in ways that have nothing to do with fear.”
You frown. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he explains softly, stepping closer despite himself, “that I can face an enemy army without blinking, but the thought of dragging you into the centre of the realm’s wars… that is the one thing I cannot stand while still calling myself a decent man. If I drag you into this fire, I need to know we’ll build something out of the ashes that’s worth every curse, every hungry mouth, every dead boy that might follow such an upset. I cannot promise that. Not yet. Not with the kingdom this cracked, this ready to split.”
He’s near enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him, the tension singing through him like a string wound too tight. The words wash over you like a wave, threatening to pull you under.
“I feel so much for you,” he admits, barely above a whisper, “that it is dangerous.”
His hand lifts again, like it did in the Kingswood. This time, he doesn’t stop it. Baelor’s palm finds your jaw, warm and rough; his other hand braces at the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. The touch is not careful. It’s frantic, searching, clutching onto a future you can feel slipping from you.
“Every time you walk into a room,” he breathes, “it feels like someone opens a door in my chest. I watched you bleed for me, I watched you laugh with me and accept me, and now they ask me to give you up.”
His forehead comes to rest against yours, breath hot, the words brushing your mouth.
“I burn for you, do you understand?” he whispers, something broken and wretched in the gentle, sad admission. “And I cannot put it out. I have tried.”
Your good hand finds his wrist, fingers curling around the frantic beat there. That’s all there is for a heartbeat. The heat of him, the smell of horse and smoke and you on his skin, the thrum of his pulse under your thumb.
This is the moment, you think.
This is where you close that last inch between you and let the future fall where it may. Where wolf and dragon both stop pretending there isn’t already a fire, and simply decide whether to tend it or step back and let it gutter.
You lean closer, your breath rasping against his mouth.
Baelor flinches.
It’s small—a catch in his breath, the barest pull back of his head—but you feel the restraint slam back into place in his hands, the prince and the Hand grabbing the dragon by the throat. A shudder rolls through him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, the fire is still there, but you can see the mortar of duty being slapped over it in fast, desperate handfuls.
“The realm needs more from us than this,” he says hoarsely.
You go very still.
He isn’t wrong. That’s the worst part.
You search his face. You see the war written there. The part of him that would give anything to throw Daeron’s hungry god to the wolves and keep you, and the larger part that has been built, brick by careful brick, on the certainty that his wants are the least important thing about him.
Slowly, you feel yourself nod, edging back until there’s more space between you. “Then that is your answer.”
The pain on his face is so raw you almost fold in on yourself.
“I don’t want it to be,” he says.
“I know.” Your voice does not crack. You are quietly furious with your own body for wanting to. “But it is.”
Baelor looks at you like a man looking for an opening in a wall he built himself. You let him see everything inside your heart: anger, hurt, the small grim shard of why am I never worth the ruin—and over all of it, the same clear-eyed understanding that has kept Starks alive through worse storms than dragonfire.
“I won’t go against your wishes,” you tell him, words flat. “Not on this. I won’t destroy my life for a man who isn’t ready to stand up, in daylight, and choose it. Choose me.”
You ease his hand from your face. His fingers slip away as if the air has turned to ice between you.
“When the king asks again,” you add, straightening despite the pull in your shoulder, “I’ll give him a Stark’s answer. My father will do the same. We’ll find a way through that doesn’t tear your realm apart. We are very good at surviving other people’s bad ideas.”
“Don’t—” he starts, then breaks off, hands balling into fists. “Don’t make this sound easy,” he says, almost angry. “It isn’t.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But it’s done.”
You see the moment Baelor understands that anything further will just be picking at an open wound. You think he’ll ignore all of it—close the space again, damn the realm and his father and every hungry eye, and kiss you anyway. The thought flashes across his face bright and wild and his.
His body jerks towards you, and then you witness him strangle the impulse with his bare hands before he can take another step. He doesn’t move again.
Instead, Baelor bows.
It’s a prince’s bow. Perfect, precise, the right depth for the heir of Winterfell. It feels like you’re two strangers standing on opposite sides of a battlefield, two survivors but neither of you victors.
“Rest well, my lady,” he rasps.
You incline your head, because you don’t quite trust your voice. Baelor turns to the door. His hand pauses on the latch before he can open it. His shoulders go tight; you see his spine straighten, as if something inside him has just shifted into its new, painful place.
He half-turns back, enough that you can see the line of his profile, the hollow at the base of his throat.
“You should know,” Baelor says quietly, “that whatever else I am—Hand, heir, dutiful son—you are the shape my heart has taken, and always will.”
The words land like an arrow, clean through your heart.
Before you can answer—before you can decide what answer there even is—he opens the door and steps out.
It closes behind him with a soft, firm click.
You stand in the middle of your borrowed southern room, shoulder throbbing, palm still tingling where it touched his skin, and let that sound echo.
—
“Pup?”
You scrub the back of your hand across your cheeks, once, hard, and turn from the fire.
You hadn’t meant to cry. You’d meant to stand where Baelor left you and start turning hurt into something sharp and useful. You’d made it as far as the chair by the hearth before your knees went soft and the tears came—silent, hot, and humiliating. Now your eyes sting, your throat feels scraped raw, but the tears have stopped. The fire blurs only a little.
Barthogan Stark steps in and shuts the door carefully behind him, like he’s afraid it might slam of its own accord. His shoulders are knotted up around his ears; his beard is roughened where he’s dragged his hand through it too many times. His gaze flicks around the room, taking in the empty maid’s stool, the untouched fruit, the smooth bedcovers—
Then he sees your face.
“What happened?” he demands, all softness burned away in an instant.
He takes two strides in, stopping only because he clearly makes himself stop. His hands open and close at his sides, itching for someone’s throat.
“Look at me, girl.”
You do. Slowly.
Whatever he was about to say strangles itself in his mouth. For a moment, he just stares—at your reddened eyes, the way you’re sitting too straight, like posture is all that’s holding you together.
“I’ll go back to him now,” he snarls. “Tell that thin bastard he can keep his son and his stories. We’re done. We ride north at dawn, and if he doesn’t like it, he can—”
“Father.”
It comes out sharper than you mean. It stills him like a hand on a hound’s ruff. You push yourself up from the chair. Your legs protest, your shoulder throbs, but you force yourself to stand anyway. This isn’t something you say sitting down.
He moves as if to catch you when you sway; you lift your good hand, stopping him with a small, precise gesture.
“I’m not going to fall,” you reassure him. “Not for this.”
You hold his gaze. You think of Bloodraven under the weirwood, of Daeron in his solar, of Baelor by your fire saying I burn for you and still stepping back. Of all the roads that end in other people’s hands on your life.
Something inside you—something old and winter-hard—clicks into place. So many Starks have come before you, have fulfilled their duty without thought to their own happiness. Winter is coming, you remind yourself, drawing strength from your house words. Your place is not here, in this southern finery. You are a wolf of Winterfell, and it’s time you put foolish, childish fancies to bed. It’s time you bury your heart and grow up.
“Tell King Daeron,” you tell your father, and your voice is steady, Stark-clear, “that I accept his proposal.”
an: Aerion was onto something, we should all drink some wildfire!!! I'm sorry but also... walk with me 👀 Next chapter you'll be finding out why the fic is titled Holy Waters, so that's something to look forward to at least!
summary: you, a lannister lady, accompany your father to king’s landing for the name day tourney thrown for prince valarr targaryen. you approach prince valarr with the intention of seducing him how you had been taught, by batting of your lashes and giggling softly— yet you mess up. everything goes horribly and you are sure that the prince will avoid you from that moment on. you are wrong.
tags/cw: fem!reader, clumsy + anxious!reader, reader’s father is toxic, kind + attentive valarr, but nothing happens because of propriety
a/n: i really like this one and i hope you do too! i definitely see it having a part 2 if anyone is interested👀 i wrote reader a bit anxious and i hope it comes off genuine
The name day of a Targaryen calls for great celebration, especially when said Targaryen is the grandson of the king and the first son to the heir. The occasion was a week-long event; high-ranking nobles flocked to the capital.
Including you and your father, Lord Damon Lannister. He had deemed this the perfect event to introduce you to the Keep’s court, for he wishes to find you a husband.
“Prince Valarr,” your father names, motioning to the prince a few paces before you. He speaks with simpering nobles, unintimidated of how they seemed to surround him like trapping prey.
The sight of him steals your breath, in honesty.
He is beautiful. His face is the kind that bards sing about, cut as clean as glass. His expression is open, encouraging those around him to continue with quiet prompting. His pale lips press together as he listens, hands tucked behind his back. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, drawing your attention to his eyes.
They are two different colours. You tilt your head slightly as your focus reins in upon his irises. One blue, and one brown. It is an odd trait, yet it is not off putting how you may have imagined. He moves his head as he listens, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the silver streak within his brown hair.
He is enchanting.
You watch as he stands tall, but not towering. He stays engaged with those he speaks to, and his voice is soft from what you can hear faintly from your place.
He seems kind, far less arrogant than you expected of a prince.
And you were meant to take advantage of that.
“Father, I do not know if—” you attempt to argue your father’s plans, making your voice small to attract no one’s attention but his own. Despite who you direct your voice at, you are still staring at the prince.
“Nonsense,” your father cuts you off, voice firm. He casts a glance around to make sure no one is near enough to listen to his words. He has always been a private man.
With his body angled to hide his words, head ducked so only you may hear, he speaks harshly: “You will speak to him as I taught you.”
You shrink slightly underneath his glare, but he does not soften until you nod in agreement.
“Of course, father,” you say, a small smile on your lips. You lean forward to place a kiss upon his cheek, before slipping from his grip. You do not wish to stay for more scolding.
Your feet bring you in the direction of the prince no matter how your brain argues. It is the perfect time to approach, for he is currently alone, having finished his prior conversations. You feel dread beginning to form, heavy and solid within your stomach. You exhale shakily.
Your grip tightens upon the folded fan you carry, wishing to use it to cool yourself down. Yet your lessons of how to seduce with it linger in your mind. It was a tool meant for more than fanning the sweat from your brow.
In a quick motion, you use your free hand to pinch at your cheeks in hopes of bringing colour back to them. You always looked ghostly when you were nervous.
Although when you lift your eyes, fingers in the midst of squeezing your flesh, you find the prince’s mismatched eyes locked upon you.
You straighten, lowering your hand as if it had burned you. Your brain flounders. How utterly embarrassing to be caught off guard by him.
“My—” you begin to greet, though you falter when a servant passes through the space between you with a quick apology. You are too far away to speak comfortably at all, your mind swirling with mortification and regret as you move closer.
You have to fight to keep your eyes upon him, for you long to duck your head in shame. He has turned towards you now, and you swear you see a twitch of his lips but you must have imagined it.
At least he is not mocking you.
“My prince,” you say politely as you stop before him. You hope you can make him forget your mistakes with a few pretty words.
“My lady,” he says courteously, inclining his head. He puts forth one of his hands to take yours, but you startle slightly. He stops.
You are merely caught off guard by the action, no matter how used to it you should be. You did not have a kind relationship with touch.
He does not move until you relax, his grip gentle as his fingers cradle your hand. He brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. You watch the entire thing transfixed, focused on how his lips look touching your skin.
“It is an honour to meet you, my prince,” you marvel quietly, realizing you’ve been silently staring for too long now. It is hard to think properly when he is so close, his chin lowered to hear you better.
You feel your cheeks warm, pulling your hand back.
“As is you, my lady,” he replies. His hand flexes briefly as it drops from yours, before he returns it behind his back.
You fidget with your fan, thinking of what your father told you. How to make him fawn, how to make him fall.
“…your father?” The prince asks, eyes shifted away from you. Your own eyes widen as you stare at him, worried that you spoke your thoughts aloud. His jaw flexes as he surveys the space behind you.
“What?” You whisper in question, completely convinced he is speaking of something that slipped from your lips, instead of the man watching you both.
His gaze finds yours again, and his eyes soften slightly at your expression. He cocks his head slightly, leaning in to whisper to you.
“Lord Damon, is your father, isn’t he, my lady?” He mutters, casting a look past you once more. You take the hint to take a look yourself.
Your father was poorly hiding his attention upon the pair of you, sipping wine as another man spoke to him. You flushed further, placing a hand over your face.
“Yes,” you confirm in a shy voice, turning back to the prince. “I apologize, he only cares much for me.”
“Yes, of course,” Prince Valarr nodded, pressing his lips together as his forehead wrinkled.
With the reminder of who is watching, and what is relying upon this conversation, you plaster a smile upon your face. It is one that you practiced many times in preparation. Many mornings had been spent being taught how to entice men.
You hoped you looked charming enough to vanish his questions about how it happened so abruptly, but that hope is crushed when his eyebrows furrow. He seems confused, but you do not let him speak.
“I apologize, my prince,” you say airily, the embarrassment making your breathing shallow. Thinking only in half thoughts for a way to earn favour back, you lift the fan within your hand before he can respond to you.
You flick it open—
Too hard.
It falls to the ground between you and the prince, the corner of the handle scraping against the stone path.
All you can see is that something your mother had given is lying dirtied below you, so you bend at the knees to fetch it. Your fingers miss it twice in your haste, humiliation filling you as you rise.
You can feel the eyes that are now upon you, the murmurs that stir at your expense.
“My lady,” the prince tries, his voice softened. You had not noticed he moved, but now he straightened and withdraws his hand. It only makes you feel worse, and you wish you could leave.
“Forgive me, I…” you whisper, drawing in a slightly shaky breath. Your throat feels tight, eyes stinging with the warning of tears. You keep your gaze lowered, not wishing for him to see you in such a pitiful state.
You hear someone laugh to your right, and it makes your heart sink. Everything has gone so wrong because you are too much of a coward to right it.
He does not join their laughing.
“My lady,” the prince tries to gain your attention again, stepping forward slightly. He keeps himself at a proper distance away so as not add more scandal to the situation.
You think the act is a kind thing to do, and it helps you to calm yourself a bit.
“I am fine,” you clear your throat, raising your eyes again. You blink a few times to keep moisture from gathering and you faintly hope it looks as if you are batting your lashes. It is silly, for you are aware how you are more likely to gain pity than desire.
All that time you spent being taught how to charm men, and you could not even apply it in a true conversation with the man it was meant for.
“I did not mean it, I am so very sorry, your Grace,” you rush out, your gaze shifting away from him to an entrance to the Keep. You dip into a curtsy, bowing your head. You need to leave, you have to get away from these last few moments.
Your fingers grasp the skirt of your dress, lifting it slightly as you turn on your heel with a respectful parting bow of your head. You walk fast towards the door that would lead you inside, ignoring how your father stares you down. You do not wish to see him so soon.
You hear the prince call for you once, but you do not slow.
You had not even wished him happy name day.
Your father leads you through the section that holds nobles who are important to the crown. Like your father, and you.
His face has been tight with irritation since you had that poor interaction with Prince Valarr, and he had not spared you lectures upon lectures. He sent you to bed without supper three days in a row, claiming that you did not deserve to eat.
You spent your days with your septa as if you were nine again, her harsh voice not helping with your mood.
You sit within your seat, casting a glance at the ladies near you who you know well. You are sure that is is you who they are whispering about behind their hands as they giggle, but you try to ignore it.
Chatter echoes from the stands, both from where nobles sit and peasants stand. The sun is bright above, but thankfully not sweltering. It shines kindly off the softly flowing banners and armour. You thank the Seven that you will not need to squint to see, for you would end the day with a worse headache than you already possess.
You have your fan again. It feels like a great weight in your hands after the situation that had occurred days ago, but you refuse to leave it behind. It had been a comfort for years, one your father clearly disliked. He always said that you carry your mother’s tender heart.
You flick it open gently, fanning yourself as your dress begins to feel tight.
It was an extravagant gown that your father had commissioned for this event, meant to flaunt the wealth of your House. It was a pretty crimson, hugging your frame.
You did not like what it symbolized.
Your father was never a man who gave up, and even now you could see how he watches the men who are to compete. You follow his gaze nervously, roaming over the men who are each older than you. Strangers.
Your breathing picks up as you allow your thoughts to wander. One of these men could become your husband if that is your father’s wish. A man who will own your every movement and thought, who will want for nothing more than you to birth an heir.
You feel as if the heat has become worse. Your dress is too tight, almost as if it will not let you breathe. Everything is too much; too loud and too bright.
But then your eyes land upon him.
He is standing beside his horse, dressed in dark steel armour as servants adjust it in final preparations. It looks heavy, elegant. It has his House sigil upon the chestplate, a red three-headed dragon that does not allow you to forget his importance. He wears his helm, and yet somehow you feel as if he is staring at you.
The idea of his attention on you of all people makes you tense, but your breathing has calmed and your body cooled. You shift within your seat in an attempt to see him better, but you cannot truly see where he is looking from so far away.
You had prayed that he would forget you. Before bed and in the morning at the Sept, you would kneel and beg for the prince to forget that he had ever met you.
You feel as if you have gone mad, for he plagues your every thought.
You watch him as he hauls himself up onto his horse with ease, making the motion look effortless in a way that stalls your thoughts. His hands gather the reins as he turns the horse toward you, the stallion moves forward with the nudge of his heel.
He was approaching the stands.
You wish to shrink back, but you only hide behind your fan. You curse him in your mind for his decision, which you quickly apologize to the Seven for. He has done nothing wrong and surely is not ill-intentioned.
But you do not understand why. Your father had told you that Prince Valarr would not ask for any lady's favour until he was betrothed, for it often got twisted into politics. You had only brought your favour in case another knight thought to ask.
You turn to your father in hopes he will provide guidance, yet he is talking with other lords about plans and such. He does not draw his attention away from them until the noise of others hushes into murmurs at the prince’s path towards your section.
He then looks to you, his expression twisting with disappointment as he sees how you cower. He snatches your fan from your grip, giving you a glare that makes you sit straight.
You know he thinks he trained you better than this, and you hate that assumption.
“Your favour,” your father directs, gesturing to the Myrain silk ribbon within your lap. You obey, your fingers grasping the ruby coloured fabric. It was something you had personalized yourself, embroidering the edges with golden stitching of flowers. It had kept your mind busy.
You are not able to think about it long as your father pushes you to stand, which is the custom thing to do. You catch yourself on the gallery rail with your free hand, your heart pounding as you stay there for a few moments to collect yourself.
Prince Valarr is before you in seconds, giving you a small nod of his head in greeting as he gets the horse to stay where he wants it. The animal is big, clearly bred strong for a man like the prince. It seems impatient, stomping its foot before the prince calms it with a gentle pat.
The young man below you then reaches up to remove his helm, lifting it to reveal himself beneath. His short brown hair is slightly tousled from being under the armour, the silver behind his ear catching in the sun.
He tilts his head back to look up at you properly, blinking a few times to adjust to the change in light. He squints slightly as he stares at you.
You wonder if his lighter eye is more sensitive to the sun than his other.
“My lady, would you allow me to ride with your favour?” he asks, his voice even as you feel nauseous enough to actually bring up. You give him a small smile that you hope looks encouraging instead of concerning. It is a miracle he has approached you at all, and you cannot waste it.
You swallow as you nod, for it would be stupid to deny his ask. You have no real reason to. You do not think anyone would accept your excuse of feeling like a cornered animal.
“It would be an honour, my prince,” you accept, leaning forward over the rail to extend your favour to him. The breeze blows the fabric gently as it dangles from your hand, the prince’s gaze fixated upon it as he moves his horse closer.
He raises his hand to grasp for it, yet the steel of his armoured fingers wraps around your hand fleetingly. You almost gasp before he pulls back, making that brief contact known by only the two of you. His grip is upon only the fabric now, so you release it to allow him to have it.
Your pulse races as you straighten back up, hands settling upon the wooden rail with a tight grip born of the stress of him.
His head is ducked, seemingly caught in looking at the details of what you have embroidered. You feel even more embarrassed at the thought, for even if there is nothing scandalous in the stitching, you had still not thought it would be seen by anyone else.
You did not think you would be asked for your favour.
“My prince,” you call, the words impulsive. You solely needed his gaze somewhere else.
It works, Prince Valarr raises his head to look at you once more. You know he is not the only one awaiting your words, and you know you must make them good.
“Good luck, and happy name day, your Grace,” you wish, your voice softening as you become unsure of what you say. Is that the best thing to tell him? You did not wish to insinuate that he needed luck.
Your brows furrow as you overthink your own words, feeling as if you have messed everything up again. But the sight of how the corner of his mouth is pulling faintly tears you from your doubt.
“Thank you, my lady,” he responds. He puts his helmet back on over his head, your favour still tangled within one of his hands as they return to the reins. He lingers for a moment longer, eyes upon you through the visor, before he steers his horse away with a measured pull. The stallion carries him back towards where he is waited on as you step back from the rail.
You smooth your hands over your skirts, wiping off your sweating palms as you settle back within your seat next to your father. You look at the man, hoping he may be proud of you for having Prince Valarr ask your favour, but he looks as satisfied as usual.
Which is little.
“Good,” he says simply, as if that entire thing was entirely expected. He hands you back your fan as he leans back in his seat.
Your shoulders relax as you realize it has pleased him, even just some. You try to calm down, but it only stresses you out more to feel how fast your heart is beating within your chest. You wish to place your hand over your breast to check, but you do not dare.
Instead, you let the noise of the crowd stirring draw your attention back to the tourney.
Your eyes lift to look for Prince Valarr, and you find him sitting upon a still horse instead of moving to the lists as others were. He waits as a servant knots your favour around his upper arm, the soft silk looking delicate compared to his blackened armour.
You thought he would have tied it upon his lance. Instead, it rests in a safe place tied to his bicep.
It seems he does not intend to lose your favour.
thank you for reading! don’t forget to like/comment /repost if you enjoyed!
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