ミ★ 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 ★彡

aquarius, enfp, she/her, bisexual, writer, poet, 24

[strangegirl26sff]

𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙉𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

Hi! I'm Tunis and i like to write and recommend fics <3

My fandoms are: Stranger Things, Animal Kingdom, The pitt, Southland, Game of thrones universe, MCU, DCU, Riordanverse, The walking dead, Invincible, The boys, Hunger games, Bridgerton, My hero academia, Dr. house, Avatar universe, Black clover, Frieren: beyond journey's end, ER, Jojo's bizarre adventures, Dandadan, Mob psycho 100, atypical, Supernatural, Dexter, Gilmore girls, Bojack horsemen + romantic comedies, comedy shows and more.

My favorite artists are: DJO, Sabrina Carpenter, Taylor Swift, Chappel Roan, Olivia Rodrigo, Charli XCX, The neighbourhood, Twenty one pilots, Lady Gaga, Ariana Grande, Paramore, Harry Styles, David Bowie, Metallica, Queen, The Cure, The Smiths, AC/DC, Lana del Rey, Hayley Williams, Lorde, Ed Sheeran, Hozier, Noah Kahan, Nirvana, Selena Gomez, Billie Eilish and more.

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FIC MASTERLIST

⋆˚࿔ Series 𝜗𝜚˚

Epic Nerd Journey

OC insert in Stranger Things, Multiple OC'S and love stories simultaneously. Cross posted on Wattpad.

Danger Zone

Spidey!Keys x Stacey!Reader SMAU

⋆˚࿔ Shorts 𝜗𝜚˚

Steve Harrington teasing Eddie Munson

Steve Harrington pouting

Hopper's Mirror

divider credits @dividers-are-us

[pr33tygirlavenue]

Chloe... i need more of my beloved Steve and Bee (Beeve?? Stee??)

if you're doing blurbs for them i would LOVE something where Bee gets hurt, just a little thing like a scraped knee or something, and Steve helps patch it up and make her feel better. the way he looked after her during the lightning was so cute!!

i'm imagining him putting WAY too many plasters on a tiny cut (maybe they're cute ones with dinosaurs on :(((()

LOVE YOU MWAH

Blurb: Such a Baby…

WC: 913

Authors Note: Christina!!! 🫶🏻 This request is so cute I had to do it, sorry it did take me days to complete though I was writing the second chapter at the same time. But I hope you love this little blurb of Stevie and bee! (Also good point what is their ship name?) Thank you for all the support girlie 💕 I am also happy to do more of these requests if anyone is interested!

13th of May 1972

The tree was yours and Steve’s new favourite place to play, even if Steve wasn’t able to keep his promise when the lightning stuck again. But Linda told you both it was extremely lucky and rare for that to happen. So your tree wasn’t just anything; it was lucky.

“Slow down Stevie!” You giggle as you chase him around the tree. “You're such a slow poke Bee.” Steve laughs as he continues running.

“Stevie, you're being soooooo unfair.” You huff out with a whine as you stop, leaning against your tree.

Steve stops turning towards you. “You're such a baby, Bee.”

You let out a gasp, “I am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“You so are!” Steve teases, sticking his tongue out at you.

You gasp, your little hands falling to your sides. “I am not!”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Catch me!” Steve takes off running before you can answer.

“Stevie!” you squeal, immediately chasing after him.

You run around the tree as fast as your little legs will carry you, determined to catch him this time. “I’m gonna get you!”

“You’re too slow!”

“I am not!” You turn the corner of the tree, but your foot catches on one of the roots sticking out of the ground.

Suddenly before you know it you tumble onto the ground and pain erupts through your knees, you can help but let out a painful yelp. “OW!”

Steve instantly stops in his tracks as he hears your cry. “Bee!” Forgetting all about the game, he runs straight back towards you.

Steve takes your hand gently to help you up, your legs shake as tears stream down your face. “You're okay Bee, I’m really really sorry.” Steve says softly in an attempt to help soothe you.

You hold onto Steve and you look down to see both knees pouring with blood, dripping down your legs. Steve follows your gaze down to your knees, and his face immediately drops. “Oh…”

Seeing all the blood makes your lip wobble again.

“It hurts, Stevie,” you cry, as you squeeze his hand tightly. “I know, I know.” He quickly wraps his little arms around you. “We can fix it.”

You shake your head through your tears. “I want Daddy.”

Steve thinks for a second before looking towards his house. “My house is closer.”

You sniffle, still clinging onto him.

“My mom has stuff that makes cuts better.”

You don’t really want to move, but Steve carefully takes your hand.

“Come on. I’ll carry you.”

He crouches down in front of you, and you slowly climb onto his back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Steve stands up with a little wobble. “You’re heavy.” He huffs out as if you weigh a ton.

You sniffle. “I am not.”

“I know. I was joking.” He carries you towards his house, taking much smaller steps than usual so you don’t get jostled around.

When you reach the back door, Steve carefully kneels so you can get off his back, he pushes the back door open and immediately puts a finger against his lips. “Shhh. We gotta be quiet.”

“Why?” You look at him confused.

“Because Mom doesn’t like when we keep coming inside.”

You nod, trying your best to stop crying.

“If she catches me, I can’t go back outside.”

That seems serious enough to you, so you stay quiet as Steve sneaks you through the house and down into the downstairs bathroom, gently lifting you to sit on the toilet seat. He closes the door before running off somewhere.

A few moments later, he comes back carrying the first-aid kit, looking far too proud of himself. “I know what I’m doing.”

You sniffle. “You do?”

“Yep, Linda showed me when I scraped my arm.”

He opens the kit and stares at everything inside, Steve picks up the antiseptic wipe ripping open the packet. He carefully wipes your leg where the blood has trickled down. Before dabbling it onto the scrape, making you immediately flinch. “Ow!”

“Sorry!” Steve panics, quickly blowing on it. “I’ll do it softer.”

It doesn’t make much difference, but he’s trying so hard that you let him continue. Once he’s finished, he reaches into the kit and pulls out a box of plasters.

His eyes light up. “Look, Bee!”

He pulls out a dinosaur plaster. You sniffle as he carefully sticks it over your knee.

Then another.

And another.

“Stevie…”

“Hold still.” Another dinosaur plaster goes on.

“There’s too many.”

“No there isn’t.”

“But I only have two knees.”

Steve looks at your knees covered in dinosaurs and considers this. “Yeah, but they’re really hurt.”

He adds another plaster. “There. Now the dinosaurs are protecting them.”

A tiny giggle escapes you despite the tears still sitting on your cheeks. “That’s silly.”

“No it isn’t.” He proudly looks at his work. “See? All better.”

You look down at your knees. “You made them funny.”

“Do you feel better now?” Steve asks softly.

You wrap your arms around him. “A little, thank you for saving me Stevie…”

He hugs you back tightly. “Anytime, Bee.”

Then he suddenly looks towards the bathroom door. “We should probably go before Mom finds us.”

You nod, taking his hand. Steve carefully helps you stand, keeping hold of you as you make your way back outside; your knees still hurting, but now covered in an absolutely ridiculous number of dinosaur plasters. But you wouldn’t have it any other way…

Series Masterlist | the library | the welcome sign

Taglist: @xpeachsunsidex @youreasnack @votel4dybird @maemeru @cymbalta-slut @kurtsw7rld96 @itmekelpy @strangegirl26sff @eli0eli0 @beelstoy @ann-aatn @miahslt91 @xstaticandsilence @mysticbellie

Dividers by: @designlikenonsense & @moonstoneandmoonlight

[laceybunbun]

𝐀 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭’𝐬 𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲

Ser Gwayne Hightower x Princess!reader

Part 1!

Pairing 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ A Knight & His Princess

tw 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ angst & emotional hurt, fluff, heavy yearning, slight slow burn, mutual pining, heavy themes of forced marriage, sensual content & physical proximity, making out, emotional vulnerability, mild distress, Gwayne is a fucking saint it makes you wanna cry & scream, he’s already acting like a husband, jealousy issues

Summary 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ What starts as defensive hostility softens through daily archery lessons, muddy meadow laughter, and hearthside sanctuary. But as the final iron fittings are hammered for tomorrow's departure, a devastating kiss forces them both to confront the cruel road ahead: a heartbreaking choice between duty and a forbidden love.

Word count & song rec 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ 4.7k & Coming Up Roses - Harry Styles

Notes 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ please do not hate me after this part…and thank you for all the supportive comments, I love you all so much. Part three will be just as devastating, I’m so sorry. And fics for both Baelor and Maekar Targaryen will be out soon so watch out for them too! Reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated

The rain started as a dull gloom before turning the Roseroad into a torrential sea of black clay. Inside the wheelhouse, you sat with your hands clenched in your lap, fuming.

Not because of the weather. And certainly not because of Ser Gwayne.

Not at all. Your temper could be entirely justified. This was about efficiency.

Two hours ago, during a brief stop at a roadside holdfast, the daughter of the local landed knight—a girl with bright eyes, pristine skirts, and far too much courage—had practically thrown herself into Gwayne's path. She had giggled, lingering far too long while filling his water skin, her fingers brushing his forearm as she praised the "brave knights of House Hightower."

And Ser Gwayne—being the polite, oblivious fool he was—hadn't immediately shoved her into a ditch and gotten the column moving. He had only stood there, showing that empty court smile, thanking her for her hospitality while the precious daylight burned away.

He is delaying the journey, you had told yourself, staring out the carriage window with a burning chest. That is why I am angry. Every minute he spent exchanging pleasantries with country girls is another minute added to this miserable trek. 

It obviously had nothing to do with the way the girl had looked at him. Nothing with the ugly knot that had tightened in your stomach when her hand touched his arm. You had not fallen for him and you definitely weren't jealous. 

To keep yourself grounded in that rational truth, you had spent the rest of the afternoon making his life an absolute misery. You had complained about the route, questioned his pace, and snapped at him every time his stallion rode past your window, masking your pathetic frustration behind a wall of highborn disdain.

And now, your worst fears were coming true. The journey was being delayed again...

The carriage lurched suddenly to the left, grinding to a halt with a painful clunk. The rain beat down on the wooden shutters outside. Through the curtain, you could hear the men cursing as the big iron-rimmed wheels plunged axle-deep into the churning mud. 

A moment later, two firm knocks rapped against the door.

It swung open, framing Ser Gwayne against the storm-wept woods. He was soaked to the bone, rain dripping from his auburn hair and running down the lines of his features. His Hightower mantle was plastered against his shoulders, heavy with water. He looked unbothered by the tempest—and infuriatingly unaffected by the fact that you had been biting his head off all afternoon. 

He extended a gloved hand toward you, his words were composed and civilized. 

“My Lady, please. The wheelhouse is bogged down. We need you out."

"I am fine where I am, Ser," you barked, pulling your cloak down and staring straight at the wooden wall opposite him. "I have no desire to ruin my skirts in your precious mud while your men waste more time."

Gwayne didn't sigh. He didn't roll his eyes or lose his temper. "I did not ask you if you were comfortable," he said, a dangerous edge cutting through the sound of the storm. "I said you must leave the carriage."

"And I said—"

The knight stepped up into the doorway just before you could finish your bitter refusal. In one swift move, he reached out, hooked one arm under your knees, the other around your waist, and scooped you straight up out of the seat.

"Wait—Ser Gwayne—!"

"The carriage is stuck," he replied simply.

Just before your mind could process the indignity—or the sudden, solid wall of his chest under your palm—he turned and carried you through the heavy rain. 

Your hands flew to his shoulders, more from instinct than intention, just to keep from falling. He was impossibly warm despite the downpour, smelling of cedar and wet pine. Rainwater dropped from the ends of his auburn hair directly onto your collarbone, making you shudder. 

Gwayne cut through the calf-deep, rushing mud without a single wobble, holding you high against his chest until he reached a dry rocky ledge sheltered under a canopy of pine trees. Slowly, he set your feet down on the stone.

He didn't immediately step away. He stood before you, his frame shielding you from the wind and rain. For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Your hands still remembered the weight of his shoulders; his eyes remained fixed upon yours.

"Are your skirts intact, My Lady?" Gwayne asked.

You swallowed hard, pulling your hands back from his soaked tunic as if you had been burned. "They are fine." you stammered.

Then, without a word, he unclipped his wool cloak, and draped it over your shoulders. It felt immense with the warmth of his body, instantly enveloping you in his scent.

"Stay beneath the trees," Gwayne instructed, walking back into the pouring rain in just his linen shirt and leather vest, seemingly oblivious to the chill. "The axle is snapped. We will not be moving this carriage tonight."

The waycastle was old, a small stone watchtower left to rot beside the Roseroad. It smelled of ancient moss and old wood, but the upper chamber was dry, ventilated by narrow arrow slits that let in the drumming beat of the storm.

While his men settled the horses in the ruined courtyard below, Ser Gwayne had built a small fire in the hearth, making certain you were comfortable before disappearing into the rain to assess the carriage.

Now, you sat on the edge of the narrow cot, wrapped in your dry mantle, staring into the flames and trying to resurrect the indignation you had felt that afternoon.

It was an exhausting effort. Every time you tried to summon the image of the girl at the holdfast, your mind betrayed you with something far more inconvenient: the weight of Gwayne's arms beneath your knees and the gravelly rumble of his voice when he had set you down.

Just then, a double knock at the heavy door broke your spiral.

"You may enter," you called out, stiffening your spine and smoothing down your gown.

Ser Gwayne closed the door behind him quietly. He had stripped off his drenched leather vest, wearing only a clean linen tunic and dark trousers. His auburn hair was still damp, pushed back from his forehead, and his expression was as grave as ever.

He paused near the hearth, crossing his hands loosely behind his back.

"The damage is worse than we anticipated, Princess," he began. "The main axle is snapped cleanly in two. In the middle of these woods without proper timber or a blacksmith's forge, it will take several days—perhaps a week—to harvest the wood, craft a replacement, and secure the carriage."

You looked up at him, arranging your features into a dismissive sneer to hide the violent flutter in your chest. 

"Wonderful," you drawled, turning your eyes back to the crackling fire with an airy wave of your hand. "At this rate, perhaps I shall arrive at my wedding just in time for the bedding."

The silence that followed was absolute.

You waited for him to offer a soldierly apology or defend his men's effectiveness. Instead, Gwayne didn't even say a word.

Through the corner of your eye, you watched him take a slow step forward. Then another, stopping a respectful distance from the cot.

"Have I done something to offend you, My Lady?"

The question wasn't sharp or defensive. It was asked with an honest sincerity that stripped away all your anger.

Your mouth opened, a biting remark hovering on the tip of your tongue—You were slow at the holdfast, you let another woman touch you, you carried me through the mud and ruined my mind—but the words were never formed. You had nothing. Not a single logical thing you could say without exposing the desperate truth of your own heart.

You fell utterly silent, your eyes wide as you stared up at him.

Gwayne observed your lack of words. He did not press you, nor did he offer a knowing look. But interpreting your quiet distress as a genuine failure of his duty, he slowly sank down onto one knee before you.

He took your hand carefully, as though asking permission even in the gesture, and lowered his head. His lips brushed your knuckles. Once. Briefly and properly. 

And somehow, that made it so much worse. 

"Whatever has displeased you, My Lady, I will endeavor not to repeat it," the knight murmured against your skin, his steady eyes rising to meet yours as he held your hand in his calloused palm. "You have my word."

He released your hand gently, pulling himself up to his feet, and turned to leave you to your rest. 

Leaving you alone in the quiet room with the crackling fire, you stared at the closed door. Then looked down at your hand, still burning where his lips had touched your skin. 

Seven save me. 

Six excruciating days passed in the stone tower. Six days of living under the same roof and pretending that a single night in the firelight didn’t permanently altered the course of your life.

Ser Gwayne had been the flawless picture of knightly perfection. He brought your meals on silver-plated trays, tended the hearth before the chill could reside in your bones, and updated you on the axle's slow progress with military brevity. 

He never brought up the hand-kiss. He never looked at your knuckles with anything less than distant reverence. Watching him act so unbothered—while your own replayed the feel of his mouth against your skin every time you closed your eyes—was an exquisite form of torture. 

By the end of the first week, the rain relented into a lingering mist. the confines of your room felt like a tomb. You had spent eight days staring at arrow slits and counting the cracks in the masonry, nursing a bitter feeling in your chest that grew bigger with every hour you spent avoiding the man who put it there.

When you finally descended the winding stairs into the courtyard, it wasn't just to complain about the mold. It was because the silence between you had grown louder than the storm outside.

You found Gwayne near the old stable archway.

He was stripped of his plate, wearing a leather jerkin over a linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He sat on a flat rock, a wooden whetstone in one hand and his broadsword across his lap.

The rhythmic shh-shh of steel over stone echoed through the yard. A stray strand of his hair fell across his forehead as he worked, looking so grounded and so unbothered. 

Taking a deep breath, you marched right across the grass toward him. "Is this how House Hightower trains its finest commanders, Ser?" you called out, "by sitting in the dirt, obsessing over a blade that hasn't seen a battle in weeks?"

The pace of his whetstone didn't miss a beat as he slid the stone down the length of the steel one last time before stopping. He raised his head, those unreadable eyes resting on you. A faint twitch caught the corner of his mouth. 

"The blade remains sharp precisely because I obsess over it in the dirt, My Lady," Gwayne replied. He set the whetstone down, resting his forearms on his knees, "and I was under the impression you preferred an escort prepared for danger. Or have you found a new flaw in my command?"

You stopped two steps away, crossing your arms to keep your hands from fidgeting. "The air in that tower smells of old mold, and your men are singing tavern songs in the hall that would make a Septa faint."

"Ah," Gwayne noted, his eyes fixing on your flushed face. "So it is my men's musical taste that displeases you. A grave offense. I shall have them executed at dawn."

The dry, deadpan delivery caught you so off guard that a huff of laughter escaped your lips before you could stop it. You quickly bit your lower lip, trying to reclaim your cold composure, but the damage was done.

The knight watched the laughter slip past your defenses, his expression softening at the sight. The stoic wall he usually built around himself seemed to fade away. He shifted on the rock, gesturing toward a dry section of the low wall beside him. 

"Come sit, Princess," he said, "before you tire yourself out looking for things to criticize."

You thought about refusing, if only out of principle. But the air was fresh, the courtyard was quiet, and for the first time since arriving at the waycastle, you did not feel quite so restless. Stepping forward, you gathered your skirts and sat on the low wall, keeping a foot of space between you.

Gwayne wiped his sword clean with a oil-stained rag, sliding the steel back into its scabbard with a small clack. "Tell me." He leaned back against the timber archway, resting his head on the wood as he looked over at you. "Are you truly so eager to arrive at the Reach, or are you simply fond of complaining about the road?"

"I am eager for this journey to be over," you whispered, your eyes fixed on your hands resting in your lap. "Every league we travel feels like...watching the door close behind me."

The teasing light in his eyes faded, replaced by that solemn understanding that always took you off guard. Gwayne didn't defend court politics or try to sell you on the grandeur of highborn life.

"So you do not wish to go," he said, state-of-fact rather than a question.

"Does it matter what I wish?" you let out a humorless breath, gazing across the overgrown courtyard. "It is my duty. I will smile. I will walk down the aisle, and I will play the dutiful lady House Targaryen required me to be. But that does not mean I must pretend to enjoy the march to my own cage."

He watched you, his blue eyes tracing the tense line of your shoulders.

He reached over, his thumb brushing a speck of mortar from the stone beside your knee. He withdrew just as quickly, leaving the space between you strangely noticeable. 

"The wood the men harvested is still too green," Gwayne said, his gaze steady on your face. "If we forge a new axle now, it will snap five leagues down the road. We are stranded here another week, at least."

You looked up, surprised by the sudden expanse of time looming ahead. "Another week?"

Gwayne stood tall, looking down at you with a deliberate intent. "If you are to be locked away in a castle, My Lady," he muttered, "then we ought not spend your remaining freedom sitting in a ruined yard. I am taking you out of this waycastle. Have you ever learned to handle a hunting bow?"

You blinked, utterly stunned. "A bow? I am a princess, Ser Gwayne. I was taught harp and embroidery."

"Then it is a good thing I am your escort," the ghost of a dry smile returning to his lips. "Consider it a lesson in surviving the Reach. A lady who can shoot won't be quite so easily caged."

What began as a simple lesson turned into a scared routine over the next four days. Every morning before the camp woke, Gwayne led you out past the waycastle boundary to a sunlit clearing in the pines.

At first, you had been atrocious. Your fingers were bruised, your shoulders ached, and your first dozen arrows had done little more than terrorize the local squirrel population. But Gwayne had been a patient teacher—never raising his voice, never making you feel small, simply correcting your stance with a soft word or a light touch to your elbow. 

By the twelfth day of your isolation at the unfamiliar place, you no longer needed his hands to guide your frame—though every time he stood close behind you, your pulse still fluttered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You stood in the wet grass, your feet planted shoulder-width apart, eyes fixed on the thick trunk of a tree fifty yards away. You notched the iron-tipped arrow, drew the linen string back, and held your breath.

Two paces behind you, Gwayne watched you in silent concentration.

Hold. Breathe. Let go.

And the string snapped forward with a clean shot.

The arrow cut through the morning mist and struck the tree with a deafening THUNK—dead center of the crude circle Gwayne had carved into the bark.

A loud gasp escaped your throat. You stared at the vibrating fletching in disbelief before dropping the bow into the grass.

"I did it!" you squealed, turning on your heel, your face lit up with the brightest grin you had worn since leaving King's Landing. "Ser Gwayne, look! Right in the middle!"

Overcome by pure triumph, you didn't think. You didn't remember court etiquette, or the council chamber, or the fact that he was a knight.

You launched yourself forward and threw your arms around his neck.

The impact knocked Gwayne back half a step. Instinct took over before his brain could process what was happening—his arms instantly wrapped around your waist to catch you, lifting you an inch off the ground as he absorbed your momentum against his chest.

For three glorious seconds, you were laughing against his neck, clinging to him in joy.

And then, to your surprise, Gwayne laughed too.

It was almost disbelieving—a sound you had heard only a handful of times, but one that made something tender bloom beneath your ribs.

"You did it," he murmured, his voice rumbling right against your collarbone.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still resting loosely around his neck. "I did..."

His smile was unmistakable now. Not the polite curve he offered at holdfasts or the smirk he wore when teasing you. He was undeniably happy for you.

Somehow, that affected you far more than the embrace itself. You had spent your whole life being managed, packaged, and handed away. But right here, in the damp ground, you had made this unyielding knight laugh.

Your smile slowly faded. And so did his.

Neither of you seemed willing to be the first to move.

You became acutely aware of everything at once: his hands still firm and grounding around your waist, the heat of his body against yours, the uneven rise of his chest under your palms.

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips. It was so quick you might have imagined it, a fleeting beat of desire.

Then his eyes returned to yours. And this time, neither of you looked away.

Gwayne's grip on your waist loosened just a fraction, his thumb unconsciously smoothing over the wool of your dress before he remembered himself. Reluctantly, your hands slipped down from his shoulders, your fingers brushing the leather of his vest as you took a hesitant step back onto the grass. 

He then let his hands fall to his sides. "Your...your arrow is still in the tree," Gwayne rasped softly.

You cleared your throat, staring past him because looking him in the eyes felt like jumping off a cliff. "I know."

"You should retrieve it?"

"I should,"  you whispered.

"Good."

"Good," you repeated weakly.

But none of you moved toward the tree. You just stood there in the quiet clearing, two feet apart, breathing the same cool air, looking at each other like two ruined idiots.

On your fourteenth night, the bubble finally burst.

Down in the courtyard, the clatter of iron and wood echoed through the stone as the men hammered the final fittings into the newly seasoned axle. The carriage was fixed. The road was waiting. Tomorrow, the sanctuary you had built in the middle of nowhere would vanish, and you would be forced to step back into the unforgiving reality of your title, your duty, and your betrothal.

And as if the heavens knew your time was running out, the sky opened up one last time.

You had wandered into the overgrown meadows just past the courtyard when the clouds broke, drenching both of you in seconds. Instead of running for cover, a reckless fever seized you.

"Gwayne!" you called out, wiping the rain from your eyes as he trotted out from the archway, holding his cloak over his head to shelter you. "Come catch me!"

"My Lady, get inside before you take a fever!" Gwayne shouted over the roar of the rain, stepping through the slick grass toward you.

Instead of obeying, you scooped up a handful of wet mud from the edge of the path and hurled it straight at him.

It struck him square in the middle of his clean shirt with a heavy splat.

Gwayne looked at the dripping streak across his chest, then raised his head slowly. The unyielding commander was gone, replaced by a flashing glint in his blue eyes.

"You did not—" he said with a dry laugh.

Taking a step backward. “Your form was terrible, Ser. You didn't even attempt to dodge."

"That," he spoke, taking a stride toward you, "was an act of war."

You shrieked and turned on your feet, sprinting across the muddy meadow as fast as your waterlogged skirts would allow. Gwayne gave chase right away. He could have caught you in three strides with his legs, but he let you run, his deep laughter echoing through the trees behind you.

You slipped on a patch of slick grass, losing your footing with a gasp.

He reached out, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind to catch you before you hit the ground. The momentum carried both of you down into the soft ground, tumbling through the mud until you landed flat on your back, breathless, laughing, and coated in silt.

Gwayne hovered above you, resting his weight on his forearms to keep from crushing you. His auburn strands were plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the tip of his nose onto your cheek, his face flushed red with exertion.

He was grinning—a breathtaking and unguarded smile that showed his white teeth.

"Yield, My Princess," he wheezed, laughing quietly as he looked down at your mud-splattered nose.

"Oh, never!" You teased, trying to shove his shoulder, only for your hands to slide uselessly on his drenched skin.

He laughed along, a sound that made your chest ache with how much you loved it. For a long beat, you lay together in the grass, soaked, filthy, and giggling like children while the storm raged around you.

Then, the edge of the rain began to sink into your skin, a shiver running through your frame.

He pushed himself up, standing in the mud and offering his hand down to you. "Come on," he said, his eyes warm with affection and fondness. "Before I truly have to explain to House Targaryen why I let their princess freeze in a field."

You took his head, letting him pull you up, and walked back to the waycastle side-by-side, splashing through every puddle on the path.

By the time your burst inside the upper chamber, you where shivering, your clothes soaked with rainwater and mud.

Gwayne immediately knelt at the hearth, blowing on the coals until a bright fire crackled to life. he shed his soaked vest, clad only in his damp clothe, steam rising from his shoulders as he ran his hands through his dripping hair.

You picked up a dry fabric from the bench, stepping up behind him before your courage could fail you.

"Move," you commanded, your voice still shaking slightly from the cold. "You will catch cold."

He tilted his head up to look at you, an amused curve returning to his lips. "I have spent half my life sleeping beneath the rain, Lady."

"And miraculously, you have survived despite having no sense," you retorted, dropping to your knees on the floor right behind him.

Before he could protest, you draped the dry cloth over his head and began rubbing the water from his damp hair.

Initially, you were brisk, tossing out light, teasing complaints. but as the warmth of the fire filled the room, the teasing faltered into quietness. Your movements grew softer, your fingers gently working through the strands at the nape of his neck.

Gwayne didn't move but leaned back into your touch, letting out a long exhale that sounded like a man surrendering.

You realized, but with a suffocating certainty, how close you were—kneeling right behind him, your knees touching his hip, your fingers buried in his hair.

Your hands slowed to a halt.

He turned, shifting on the floor until he was facing you. The firelight flickered across his soft features, catching the raw heat in his gaze.

"My Lady?" he asked.

"Yes?"

He hesitated, the restraint he had held onto for two long weeks hanging by a thin wire. "May I?"

You simply gave a small nod as permission.

Gwayne's hand came up, his palm settling over the side of your face. He gave you time to pull away, to remember your title, to remember your duty. But you didn't move.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss started soft—a reverent confession. For several heartbeats, neither of you seemed to remember there was a world beyond these four stone walls. His thumb moved along your cheek. Your fingers remained curled in the linen at his shoulders.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper—but still careful, as though some part of him was desperately trying to memorize the feeling rather than simply surrender to it.

Then came the sound.

A heavy iron hammer striking wood somewhere in the courtyard below.

Once. Twice.

The unmistakable noise of the men securing the newly mended axle for departure. The inescapable truth of tomorrow settled between you with a cruelty the rain could never have managed.

His forehead rested against yours. “We leave at first light," he whispered, his eyes closing.

For the first time since you had met him, he looked less like an immovable commander and more like a man who had been handed something precious, only to be told he must surrender it by dawn.

You pulled an inch closer, "do not look at me as though I am already gone."

Gwayne opened his eyes, searching yours with a look of searing agony. "That is precisely the problem."

He didn't move away, but he couldn't press forward either. He sat there on the floor, his hand still cupping your face, fighting the fiercest war of his life. He had sworn to protect you. You had trusted him—not as a royal war, not as a political bargaining chip, but as a man. And taking advantage of this quiet hour to claim what could never be his felt like the ultimate betrayal of that trust.

"If I take more than you offer," he continued, in a protective whisper. "I make a liar of every vow I have ever sworn to protect you."

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, placing your hand over his knuckles. "I am not asking you to lie."

"I'm aware," he muttered, "which makes it infinitely harder."

He leaned in one last time. The kiss wasn't frantic or desperate; it was a heartbreaking farewell. He planted his lips onto yours with tenderness, pouring every unspoken word, every ounce of forbidden devotion into the heat of your mouths.

When he pulled back, his hand slid from your cheek, dropping to his side as he took a long, unsteady breath. He stood up, towering over you in the firelight, his posture returning to that soldierly line—though his eyes remained shadowed.

"You should rest."

You looked up at him from the stone ground, your pulse still hammering. "That is all you have to say?"

Gwayne paused at the door, his hand gripping the iron latch. He didn't turn around but his shoulder tensed beneath his shirt. "If I say what I wish to say, My Lady, I fear I will not have the strength to leave this chamber."

The latch clicked and the door closed quietly behind him.

You were left sitting alone by the dying fire, wrapped in the wool cloak he had given you, watching the embers fade as the road to the Reach waited beyond the walls.

Taglist 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ @stillinraccooncity @belladonna74527 @fivefootfuryanon @beckyninja @visd3stele @laruestars @strangegirl26sff @that-antler-queen

[frootybb]

Fairy Lights & Grumpy Mornings

Steve Harrington x roommate!Reader

Summary: You’re the new roommate. An art teacher with too many boxes, fairy lights, and a personality that doesn’t know how to be quiet. Steve isn’t thrilled. Eddie and Dustin are delighted. Between forced karaoke, shared pizza, and a late-night kitchen conversation, the apartment starts to feel a little less temporary, and Steve starts to feel a little less closed off.

Word count: 3.4K

Warnings: soft domestic fluff, New Girl-inspired roommate AU, grumpy Steve, light emotional vulnerability, No major angst, no smut, no Upside Down, found family vibes with Eddie & Dustin

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Steve Harrington had been awake since 6:47 a.m., which was already a personal offense.

He sat at the kitchen table in a faded Hawkins High basketball shirt and sweatpants, nursing the same cup of coffee that had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago. The apartment was quiet in the early way that only happened before Eddie started blasting Dio and Dustin started explaining something scientific at full volume. Outside the open window, Indianapolis was already humming, car horns, a distant bus, the low grind of a city that never quite slept the way Hawkins had. It was 1995. The air smelled like summer asphalt and someone burning toast two floors down.

Steve hated moving days.

He hated them even more when the person moving in was a complete stranger whose entire existence had been decided by a newspaper ad and a five-minute phone call.

“She’s a teacher,” Eddie had said last week, sprawled across the couch with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos balanced on his chest. “Art teacher. Middle school. Sounded nice. Kinda floaty. Said she paints and takes pictures and shit. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Steve had stared at him. “We already have you. That’s the worst that could happen.”

Eddie had only grinned, orange dust on his fingers. “She’s paying rent on time, Harrington. Unlike some people.” He’d shot a pointed look at Dustin, who was currently using the coffee table as a desk for what looked like a science fair project involving magnets and a broken Walkman.

Dustin hadn’t even looked up. “I’m a college student. We’re legally allowed to be broke.”

That was the situation. Three guys in a slightly too small three-bedroom apartment on the near-east side of Indianapolis, two years out of Hawkins and still figuring out how the hell adult life was supposed to work.

Steve’s version of adult life currently involved managing the sporting goods section at the big Sports Authority off 38th Street, driving a slightly beat-up Camaro that still smelled like old leather and regret, and pretending he didn’t still check the answering machine hoping someone from home would call. His dad had offered him a desk job at the company once. Steve had declined without explaining why. Some things were easier left in Hawkins.

Eddie Munson had washed up in Indy the year before, chasing a vague idea of “the scene” and landing a job at a used record and guitar shop called Second Hand Sound. He still wore the same rings, still played the same battered electric guitar, still talked like every sentence was a performance. The metal shows in the city were louder and dirtier than anything Hawkins had ever offered, and Eddie thrived in them. He also thrived in leaving half-empty beer cans on every flat surface and arguing with Steve about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper.

Dustin Henderson was the youngest and somehow the most functional. He’d gotten into IUPUI on a partial scholarship, studying something with computers and physics that Steve only half understood. He still called Steve “Steve” like it was a title, still showed up with weird gadgets and even weirder optimism. When his dorm situation had gone sideways freshman year, Steve had simply said, “There’s a couch. And eventually a room if someone moves out.” Someone had. The previous roommate: an engineering major who never did dishes had transferred. The third bedroom had sat empty for two months until the ad went up.

And now the ad had worked.

Steve glanced at the clock on the microwave. 8:12. She was supposed to be here between nine and ten.

He stood, rinsed the mug, and started pacing. The apartment wasn’t fancy. Hardwood floors that creaked, a living room that always smelled faintly of Eddie’s incense and Dustin’s microwave popcorn, a kitchen with a fridge covered in magnets and takeout menus. Steve had hung a few posters, mostly sports, one old Fleetwood Mac one Robin had forced on him but the place still felt temporary. Like they were all waiting for something better to start.

He wasn’t sure he wanted a fourth person in the waiting.

The buzzer rang at 9:03.

Steve pressed the intercom. “Yeah?”

A bright, slightly breathless voice crackled through. “Hi! It’s me—the new roommate? I have like… an unreasonable amount of boxes. Is there parking or should I just start a pile on the sidewalk and hope for the best?”

Steve closed his eyes. “There’s a spot in the back. I’ll come down.”

He took the stairs two at a time. Outside, the morning was already warm. A beat-up blue hatchback sat half on the curb, the trunk open, the back seat packed so full the windows looked like they were holding their breath. And standing beside it, hands on her hips, was her.

You.

You were wearing an oversized paint-splattered button-down over a tank top, denim cutoffs, and scuffed sneakers. Your hair was pulled up in a messy way that still looked intentional. There was a Polaroid camera hanging around your neck and a bright yellow bag over one shoulder that said something about art supplies in faded marker. You turned when the door opened and smiled like you’d been waiting for good news all morning.

“You must be Steve,” you said. “Hi. I’m—”

“I know,” he said, then immediately regretted how flat it sounded. He cleared his throat. “Steve. Harrington. You’re early.”

“I’m always early when I’m nervous. Or late. There’s no in-between. Here—” You shoved a box into his arms before he could protest. “This one’s books and lighter than it looks. The ones labeled ‘fragile’ are actually fragile. The ones labeled ‘maybe fragile’ are just me being dramatic.”

Steve looked down at the box. Then at you. Then at the car that seemed to be mostly art supplies, plants in various states of survival, and what looked like a rolled-up tapestry.

“You know this is a three-bedroom apartment, right? Not a gallery.”

You laughed. It was a bright, unbothered sound. “I know. I just… collect things that make spaces feel alive. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it mostly in my room. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Steve repeated under his breath, already calculating how many trips this was going to take.

Eddie appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned by chaos, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a Black Sabbath shirt with the sleeves cut off. He took one look at you and the car and grinned like Christmas had come early.

“Holy shit. You’re real. And you brought plants. Dustin’s gonna lose his mind. I’m Eddie.”

“I figured,” you said, already handing him a box. “You look exactly like someone who would own a guitar named something dramatic.”

Eddie clutched the box to his chest like it was sacred. “Her name is Lucille and she only answers to metal. You’re gonna fit in great.”

Dustin came down a minute later, still in pajama pants and a oversized science camp shirt from 1991. He took one look at the Polaroid around your neck and lit up.

“Is that a real Polaroid? Like the kind that prints right away? Can I see how it works later? Also hi, I’m Dustin, I live here, please ignore Steve’s face, he always looks like that when new people show up.”

Steve scowled. “I do not.”

“You do,” Eddie and Dustin said at the same time.

You just smiled again, soft and easy, and started directing traffic. Within twenty minutes the hallway was a disaster of boxes, a half-dead fern, three canvases wrapped in old sheets, and a lamp that looked like it had been rescued from a thrift store and then painted with gold stars. Steve carried the heaviest ones. He didn’t complain out loud, but every time you thanked him with that same bright sincerity he felt something twitch behind his ribs that he refused to name.

By eleven the car was empty and your room, formerly the engineering major’s sad beige box, looked like a tornado had hit an art classroom. You stood in the middle of it with your hands on your hips, surveying the damage.

“I can work with this,” you announced.

Steve leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re gonna need more than work. You’re gonna need a storage unit.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “You always this cheerful in the morning?”

“Only when strangers rearrange my apartment before noon.”

“Our apartment,” Eddie corrected from the hallway, already carrying in a small bookshelf he’d found in the basement. “Democracy, Harrington. She’s got a vote now.”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and walked to the kitchen for another coffee that would also go cold.

The rest of the morning blurred into a rhythm of carrying, unpacking, and mild arguments.

You insisted on hanging fairy lights around the living room window even though Steve pointed out they were “unnecessary and a fire hazard.” Eddie sided with you immediately. Dustin offered to help string them and somehow ended up explaining the physics of light refraction while standing on a chair. You listened like it was the most interesting thing you’d heard all week.

Steve watched from the couch, pretending to read the sports section of the Indianapolis Star. Every few minutes your laugh would cut through the apartment, light, unselfconscious, and something in his chest would tighten. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like how easily the other two had folded you into the space. He didn’t like that when you asked where the cups were he almost told you the left cabinet without thinking, like you’d already been here long enough to need to know.

Lunch was pizza from the place down the street because no one felt like cooking. You sat cross-legged on the floor with a slice in one hand and a Polaroid in the other, snapping a blurry photo of Eddie mid-bite. He protested. You grinned and shook the photo like you’d done it a hundred times.

“For the fridge,” you said. “Every apartment needs evidence that people actually live here.”

Steve took a long drink of his Coke. “We live here just fine without photographic evidence.”

You tilted your head, studying him the way someone might study a painting that wasn’t quite finished. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer.

By late afternoon the worst of the boxes were unpacked or at least stacked neatly against the wall. You had claimed a corner of the living room for a small easel “just temporarily” and Steve had already moved it three times in his head. The apartment smelled like new cardboard and the citrus cleaner you’d used on the windowsill without being asked. It felt different. Brighter. He hated that he noticed.

Eddie clapped his hands together around six. “Alright. Moving day tradition. We order more food, we drink whatever’s in the fridge, and we do karaoke.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “We do not have a karaoke tradition.”

“We do now,” Eddie said cheerfully. “I found a machine at a yard sale last month. It’s ancient. It works. Sort of. Dustin already tested it with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ It was a religious experience.”

Dustin nodded solemnly. “I hit every note. Spiritually.”

You looked delighted. “I love karaoke. I’m terrible at it. That’s the best part.”

Steve stood. “I’m going to my room.”

“No you’re not,” Eddie said, already dragging the battered karaoke machine out of the hall closet. It looked like it had survived a war. “Democracy, remember? Three against one.”

“That’s not how democracy works.”

“It is in this apartment.”

Steve looked at you, hoping for an ally. You only shrugged, already flipping through a book of song sheets Eddie had produced from somewhere. “Come on. One song. You can pick something safe. Or something embarrassing. I’m not picky.”

He lasted twenty minutes before the combination of Eddie’s relentless enthusiasm, Dustin’s actual singing ability, and your complete lack of self-consciousness wore him down. You had already belted out a disastrous but joyful version of “I Will Survive” with Eddie on backup vocals that somehow made it worse and better at the same time. Dustin had done a surprisingly solid “Don’t Stop Believin’.” The machine crackled and the microphone smelled like old beer, but the living room was loud and warm and full of the kind of noise Steve usually left the apartment to avoid.

Eddie shoved the mic at him. “Your turn, pretty boy. Don’t make me choose for you.”

Steve took it with the same energy he used to take a basketball when the game was already lost. “One song. Then I’m done.”

You flipped pages. “How about something from the 80s? You look like an 80s guy.”

“I am an 80s guy,” he muttered.

You found it before he could stop you. The opening notes of “Jessie’s Girl” started crackling through the speakers. Eddie whooped. Dustin started clapping off-beat on purpose. Steve glared at the screen, then at you, then sighed like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

He sang.

He wasn’t good. He wasn’t trying to be good. But somewhere in the second verse his shoulders loosened, and by the chorus he was almost smiling at how ridiculous the whole thing was. You were singing along from the couch without the mic, off-key and completely committed, and when the song ended Eddie demanded an encore that Steve refused on principle.

“See?” you said afterward, dropping onto the couch beside him while Eddie and Dustin argued over the next track. “Not so bad.”

“It was bad.”

“It was fun. There’s a difference.”

Steve looked at you. Up close, in the low light of the fairy lights you’d insisted on, you looked softer. Less like a disruption and more like someone who had simply walked into a room and decided it could be better. He looked away first.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

You only smiled, small and knowing. “Too late.”

-

The apartment settled into something quieter after midnight.

Eddie had disappeared into his room with headphones and a new cassette. Dustin had fallen asleep on the couch mid-conversation about some computer thing Steve still didn’t understand. The karaoke machine sat dark in the corner like it was resting after a long shift. Steve stood in the kitchen in the half-dark, drinking water from a glass that didn’t match any of the others, when soft footsteps padded in behind him.

You were in an oversized sleep shirt and shorts, hair down, face scrubbed clean. You moved like you belonged in kitchens at strange hours.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Didn’t try yet.”

You opened the fridge, peered inside, and pulled out the carton of orange juice like you’d lived here for years. “Mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

You poured a glass, leaned against the counter across from him, and drank in silence for a minute. The only light came from the stove hood. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere distant and faded.

“Thanks for today,” you said eventually. “I know it’s a lot. New person. Boxes. Fairy lights. I can dial it back if it’s too much.”

Steve set his glass down. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’ve been doing this face all day.” You scrunched your nose in an exaggerated impression of his scowl. “Like someone rearranged your sock drawer without permission.”

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched. “The sock drawer is sacred.”

“Noted.” You set your glass down too. “For what it’s worth, I get it. New roommate energy is weird. I had a place with a friend from college that fell through last minute, she got engaged, they needed the space, whole thing. So I scrambled. Found your ad. Figured three guys in their twenties would be better than another dorm situation or something worse. Hope I wasn’t wrong.”

Steve studied the floor. “We’re not that bad.”

“I can tell. Eddie’s like a human fireworks show. Dustin’s basically a golden retriever in human form. And you…” You tilted your head. “You’re the one who makes sure there’s coffee and that the lease gets paid. I respect that.”

He didn’t know what to do with the observation. Most people didn’t bother looking past the surface with him anymore. He cleared his throat.

“How’d you end up teaching middle school art in Indy anyway?”

You smiled, softer this time. “Needed a job. Needed a change. Everything felt… decided already. I wanted somewhere I could start over without everyone knowing the version of me from high school. Teaching felt like a way to do something that mattered without having to have it all figured out. Kids don’t care if you’re still figuring it out. They just want you to show up and mean it.”

Steve nodded slowly. He understood that more than he wanted to admit. Hawkins had a way of deciding who you were before you got the chance to argue. He’d left for a lot of the same reasons, space, distance, the chance to be someone who wasn’t just “Steve from the basketball team” or “Steve who used to date Nancy Wheeler.” Indianapolis didn’t care about any of that. It just cared if you showed up to work on time and paid your share of the rent.

“What about you?” you asked. “How’d the three of you end up here?”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “Long story.”

“I’ve got time. And orange juice.”

So he told it, in pieces.

How after graduation he’d stayed in Hawkins longer than he meant to, working at the video store, then the family business for a stretch that felt like wearing someone else’s clothes. How the offer to move to the Indianapolis branch had felt like an escape hatch. How the first apartment had been too expensive alone. How he’d put up an ad mostly as a joke and Eddie had answered it because he’d recognized Steve’s name from the old high school grapevine and decided “rich kid with a Camaro” was either going to be the best or worst roommate possible. How Dustin had shown up the next year with a duffel bag and a look that said he wasn’t asking so much as informing Steve that the couch was now his. How somehow it had worked. How they still argued about dishes and music volume and whose turn it was to take out the trash, but the apartment had started to feel less like a stopping place and more like a strange, loud, temporary home.

You listened without interrupting, just nodding, sometimes smiling at the parts with Eddie. When he finished, the kitchen felt smaller and warmer.

“Sounds like you built something good,” you said.

Steve shrugged. “It’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever. It’s a place people want to come home to. That’s rarer than it should be.”

He didn’t have an answer for that. The clock on the microwave read 1:17. Somewhere in the building a door closed. You finished your juice, rinsed the glass, and set it in the rack.

“I’m gonna try to sleep,” you said. “Big first day of school prep tomorrow. Thanks for not making this weirder than it had to be.”

“Yeah. Well. Welcome to the apartment, I guess.”

You paused in the doorway. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night.”

He stayed in the kitchen a long time after you left, staring at the empty glass on the counter and the faint glow of the fairy lights still strung across the living room window. The apartment was quiet again, but it didn’t feel the same. Something had shifted in the air, small, almost nothing, like the first warm day after a long winter when you notice the light is different even if the temperature hasn’t changed yet.

Steve rinsed his own glass, turned off the stove light, and walked down the hall to his room. He paused outside your closed door for half a second, then kept going.

In the morning he would probably still be grumpy. He would still complain about the fairy lights and the easel and the way you left your Polaroids on the fridge like evidence of a life that was already overlapping with theirs. But when he finally lay down and closed his eyes, the last thing he thought wasn’t about how temporary this was going to be.

It was about the way you’d smiled when he finished the song, and how the apartment had felt, for a few hours, less like a place they were all just passing through.

He fell asleep to the distant sound of the city and the quiet knowledge that, whether he liked it or not, things had already started to change.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

Taglist: @athenaelle @strangegirl26sff @jas-mines-things @eller41 @charlisgarden @soggycerealtbh @eli0eli0 @powerpuffedbjtch @stevethehairlover @tiredpurpleee @louisbelongstome28 @shecleansup @whispersoflost @folkwhore8 @keerygirlie98 @exooojongdaeee @stoneyggirl2 @mikefaistwife @lookalivesunshine-x

[novaursa]

Remnants

- Summary: At Harrenhal, Jaime Lannister reunites with his lost love.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: The Angst That Was Promised. 😏

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @meleeys @idenyimimdenial @albekstime @human169

The stench of rot and damp iron hit first, the kind that clung to the stones of Harrenhal like a curse. Jaime had thought he’d known misery—mud, filth, and the choking drag of fever—but the air here carried something older, something that felt carved into its marrow. He stumbled as the guards shoved him forward, half blind with exhaustion, the bandaged stump of his wrist throbbing in time with his pulse. Brienne was beside him, all grim silence and bloodstains, her jaw set like she might kill the next man who looked at him too long. She needn’t have bothered. No one here looked at him as a man anymore. They looked at him as a prize—a maimed lion, caged and bleeding.

The hall swallowed them whole, dim torchlight catching on the rusted edges of chains that hung from the ceiling. Somewhere water dripped, slow and patient. Jaime’s knees buckled when a soldier shoved him forward again, and when he caught himself on the uneven stone, the world swam. He thought he heard someone call his name. He turned, half-expecting his fever to conjure Tywin’s cold voice or Cersei’s whisper. But then—gods—he saw her.

You stood at the far end of the hall, draped in gray and black, your hair unbound, your face too pale for this place. The torchlight flickered against your eyes, and for a second he thought the fever had won. Because it couldn’t be you. It couldn’t. You were supposed to be in the North—buried under the snow and quiet dignity of your cursed marriage, or dead, as so many good things had died in this war. But there you were. Older, yes. Sharper at the edges. But you.

“Take him to the healers before he festers apart,” your voice cut through the murmurs—low, measured, and undeniably real. Every sound in the hall seemed to flatten beneath it.

The guard hesitated. “My lady—”

“Do it,” you said, and your gaze flicked to Jaime. “That man is no use to anyone dead.”

The soldier obeyed, dragging him forward again. Jaime tried to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. He forced them out anyway, a hoarse rasp. “Tell me I’m dreaming.”

You looked down at him, and your lips tightened—not with anger, not quite with pity. “If you are, Ser Jaime, it’s a cruel dream indeed.”

He blinked hard, the effort burning his eyes. The sound of his name in your voice nearly undid him. The last time he’d heard it had been in the golden light of a tourney long ago, when your hair was bound with ribbons and his hand still held a sword instead of a memory. He remembered the taste of your laugh, the way you’d said Lannister like it was both a promise and a warning.

“Y/N Stark,” he said, disbelief catching in his throat. “I thought the gods had taken you back to your snows.”

Your expression didn’t shift, though your eyes did flick briefly to his ruined wrist. “The gods take who they please. I remain for reasons known only to them.” Then, quieter, “You shouldn’t speak so loudly. You’ll bleed yourself dry.”

He managed something like a smile, bitter at the corners. “Always did have that effect on you.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of your mouth—almost a ghost of the woman he’d once known. “You haven’t changed,” you murmured, and the sound of it nearly broke him. “Even like this.”

“Like this?” he said, forcing himself to straighten. “Missing a hand, filthy, and paraded like some butcher’s prize?”

“Still proud,” you said. “Still looking for a mirror to adore yourself in.”

Jaime laughed, a short, jagged sound. “And you’re still cruel when you’re frightened.”

Your gaze sharpened, and for a heartbeat he saw the wolf beneath the silk. “If I were frightened, Kingslayer, you’d already know it. I would have flinched.”

He wanted to tell you that he didn’t deserve the name anymore, that the world had peeled it from him piece by piece, but his strength was leaking out with every heartbeat. The fever roared back up behind his eyes, and when the torchlight blurred, you moved closer—too close, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of pine and smoke that always seemed to follow you.

“Get him to a bed,” you said, this time to the guards, your voice dropping. “If he dies of rot before I decide what to do with him, you’ll follow him.”

The men hurried to obey, and as they dragged him away, Jaime turned his head, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. “You’re not real,” he muttered. “You can’t be.”

Your reply followed him down the corridor like a shadow. “I am, Jaime. More real than you deserve.”

He drifted in and out as they carried him through Harrenhal’s endless corridors, his thoughts snagging on your face, the lines that hadn’t been there before, the way your voice still curved around his name like it was something fragile. When they finally dropped him on a cot, Brienne at his side, he let his eyes close.

“Who was she?” Brienne asked after a while, her voice wary, too perceptive.

“No one,” he lied, because saying your name out loud might’ve been the thing that killed him.

He dreamed that night of a frozen river, of your hand slipping from his, of a castle burning in the distance while wolves howled through the snow. And when he woke, sweating and shaking, he still swore he could smell your skin—the faint bite of winter and something older, something that belonged to both of you, buried deep and never forgotten.

Qyburn worked like a man too calm for the job he was doing. The air was thick with the sting of boiled wine and something sour underneath—the unmistakable rot of old blood and slow healing. Jaime gritted his teeth and forced himself not to flinch as the old man peeled back the cloth from his wrist. The flesh beneath looked worse than he remembered. Red, swollen, the edges gray and puckered. The fever had been biting at him for days, and every pulse sent a dull fire crawling up his arm.

“Hold still,” Qyburn murmured, his voice light, almost kind. “You’d think a man who once slayed a king could suffer a little washing.”

Jaime barked a weak laugh. “I’ve suffered worse company than yours, maester—if you even are one.”

Qyburn smiled, thin and secretive. “Titles are for those who need to be believed, ser. I’ve found results do the convincing.” He dabbed at the wound, and Jaime hissed between his teeth. The pain shot white-hot to his shoulder. “Ah, yes. Still angry, is it? I told the Lady Stark it would be. She said you’d earned it.”

The words twisted something low in his chest. “She’s here, then,” Jaime said, voice rough. “I didn’t dream her.”

“No, ser. She’s no ghost.” Qyburn wrung out the cloth, eyes flicking to him with that strange, clinical curiosity. “Though I do think she’s haunted—don’t we all carry our ghosts? Hers just walk a little closer.”

Jaime didn’t answer. He turned his face away, toward the wall slick with damp and age. His stomach churned. He could still see you in his mind’s eye, standing at the far end of that cursed hall—gray gown, quiet power. It didn’t fit. You weren’t meant to be here, under the command of a man like Bolton. Harrenhal was a place for monsters, and you had never been one, not even when you should have been.

The door creaked open. Boots clicked on stone—measured, deliberate, the kind of pace meant to remind a room who it belonged to. Qyburn straightened, stepped back, and Jaime didn’t need to look to know who it was. The air changed when Roose Bolton entered. Cold. Careful. Like the silence before a knife goes in.

“Ser Jaime,” Roose said smoothly. “I trust Qyburn is tending you adequately. We would hate for your infection to spread before your usefulness does.”

Jaime turned his head just enough to see him. Bolton’s face was pale and bloodless, the sort that made one wonder if the man had any blood left to begin with. “You flatter me,” Jaime muttered. “I wasn’t aware I was useful to anyone anymore.”

Bolton’s mouth curved in what might’ve been a smile if one didn’t know better. “A Lannister is always useful. Especially a broken one. Your father’s gold still has reach, even if your sword does not.”

“You’ve met him, then?” Jaime asked. “My father. I imagine he didn’t weep when you sent him word I was maimed.”

“No tears. But interest,” Roose said, studying the stump like a jeweler appraising flawed silver. “You see, Tywin Lannister values his blood more than most men value their gods. He’ll pay handsomely for its safe return. And perhaps for the silence of those who know what shape it’s in.”

The implication was as clean as a blade. Jaime forced a smirk, though it made his head pound. “And what do you get, Lord Bolton? Gold? Favors? A pat on the head from the lion you can’t cage?”

Roose tilted his head, pale eyes unreadable. “I have all I need here. But peace is profitable, ser. As is mercy.”

“Mercy?” Jaime scoffed. “Is that what you call this?” He nodded toward his ruined hand. “Because if it is, you’re worse at it than I am.”

Bolton moved closer. Jaime caught the faint scent of old leather and cold air. “Your arrogance has survived better than your flesh. I find that fascinating.”

“Then you’re easily entertained.”

Bolton let the silence stretch until it almost hummed. Then, softly, “My lady wife spoke of you.”

Jaime went still. Every nerve in his body seemed to twist. “Did she?”

“She told me she once knew you at court,” Roose said, his tone the same bland civility one might use discussing the weather. “Said you were charming, reckless. Too handsome for your own good. She didn’t mention you by name at first, but I saw it in her eyes when you were dragged in. The kind of memory a husband doesn’t ask about.”

Jaime swallowed hard. “She’s too kind. My memory of her was much the same—beautiful, sharp-tongued, too good for the company she kept.”

“Goodness,” Bolton mused, “is such a fragile thing. I’ve found it rarely survives the march south.”

He looked at Jaime for a long moment, as though measuring how deep the fever had sunk into him, how close to the edge he was. “Rest, ser. You’ll need your strength for the road ahead. Harrenhal is not a place that forgives weakness.”

When he left, the door closed like a sigh. Qyburn went back to his work in silence, though his eyes darted once toward Jaime’s face, curious.

Jaime lay back, sweat cooling on his skin. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. You had spoken of him. Remembered him. Married to Bolton—gods, of all men. The image of your face beside that pale leech’s turned his stomach. He could almost hear your voice again, soft but firm: You shouldn’t bleed yourself dry.

Too late for that. He’d been bleeding since the day he left you.

He closed his eyes, the room spinning slow around him, and whispered to the dark, “What did they do to you, little wolf?”

The next day’s meal was served in a hall that still looked half like a ruin and half like a mausoleum. Firelight crawled up the blackened walls and made the shadows look alive. The scent of smoke, boiled meat, and damp stone clung to everything. Jaime sat at the long table, feeling the scrape of the wooden chair beneath him and the strange heaviness of being clean again. His hair was damp from the wash, his clothes too fine for a captive, and his wrist—bandaged neatly—ached with a dull, punishing pulse. Brienne sat to his right, stiff-backed, her gaze fixed somewhere past the far wall like she was bracing herself for an ambush. Qyburn hovered nearby, pouring wine like a polite vulture. And across the table, just left of Roose Bolton’s chair, sat you.

The gods had a cruel sense of humor.

You wore a gown of gray silk that caught the firelight like stormclouds. The color of the North, but softer—tempered. Your hair was coiled back in a simple knot, a few strands loose enough to frame your face. You looked neither surprised nor pleased to see him seated there. You looked... still. As if stillness were the only armor you had left.

Roose lifted his cup with that pale, bloodless composure of his. “Ser Jaime,” he began, “you look far less likely to die today. I take it Qyburn’s ministrations were effective?”

Jaime forced a smirk and raised his own goblet, though the tremor in his wrist betrayed him. “If by effective you mean I’m still breathing, then yes. Though I’ve had gentler butchers.”

Bolton’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Survival often depends less on gentleness than skill.” He turned his gaze toward you. “My lady wife ensured your recovery was seen to. She was... insistent you not rot in my hall.”

The words landed heavy between them. Jaime’s stomach twisted. So that was it—he’d been cleaned, dressed, and fed because Roose Bolton liked to show off his trophies. He could almost taste the amusement behind the man’s pale eyes: to sit the Kingslayer across from the one woman who could remind him what he’d lost.

You didn’t look at your husband when you spoke. “He would have died otherwise,” you said, tone even, measured. “And that would have been wasteful.”

Jaime studied your face, searching for something familiar. There it was—the flicker in your gaze, the quiet steel under all that calm. You had always been pragmatic, but never cold. Now, you were both.

He leaned back, feigning ease he didn’t feel. “You always did hate waste. I remember you once said the same thing when you saw me throw wine on the floor. I thought you’d have me whipped.”

That earned you both a look from Bolton, mild curiosity focusing just a fraction. “Ah. So the acquaintance was not exaggerated,” he murmured.

You ignored the bait. “That was a lifetime ago, Ser Jaime.”

“Two lifetimes, perhaps,” he said softly. “You and I have both lived through deaths since then.”

Brienne shifted in her seat, her unease practically vibrating. The tension around the table was thick enough to chew through. Bolton, to his credit—or to his design—appeared perfectly at peace, sipping wine like a man listening to a dull sermon.

“My lady spoke often of the capital,” Roose said idly, turning his knife in the light. “Of the tournaments, the songs, the... gallantry. I imagine it must be strange for you both, meeting again here. Harrenhal is not a place for gallant things.”

Jaime gave a small, humorless laugh. “No, it isn’t. Gallantry tends to die somewhere between the screaming and the smoke.”

Bolton’s eyes glinted. “And yet here you sit, still trying to wear its corpse.”

Jaime looked straight at him. “We all wear corpses in our own way, my lord.”

For the first time, Roose’s expression faltered—barely. The faintest tightening around his mouth, the smallest flicker of disdain. Then, smoothly, he rose from his seat. “My lady, I’ll leave you to see that our guests finish their meal.” He inclined his head, almost mocking. “I trust you’ll see that Ser Jaime’s... appetite... returns.”

When he left, the sound of his boots fading down the hall felt like the room finally exhaled. Jaime looked down at his food—lukewarm stew and stale bread—and found it impossible to swallow. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t lifted your gaze from the table.

“He enjoys that,” Jaime said quietly. “Setting pieces where they’ll hurt most. You sitting here, me bleeding on your table. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” you said, still not looking at him. “But if I refused, he’d have assumed you were more than you are.”

“And what am I?”

You met his eyes then, and for a moment, all the brittle calm cracked. “A ghost, Jaime. One that doesn’t know it’s dead.”

He flinched, but didn’t look away. “You used to see better than that.”

“I used to believe better than that,” you corrected, voice quiet. “We all did.”

The fire crackled, and Brienne, bless her discomfort, kept her gaze on her plate like she wished herself a thousand miles away. Jaime’s throat felt raw. He wanted to tell you that you’d been the only thing that made the capital bearable, that every laugh, every stolen moment had meant something, that he still saw your face when he dreamed of snow. But all he said was, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I could say the same,” you replied.

“Why did you marry him?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stared at him, long and steady, until the quiet turned sharp. “Because the North was burning,” you said finally. “Because someone had to keep what was left of it alive. Because love is a luxury for people who win.”

He swallowed hard. “And what did it buy you?”

Your gaze didn’t waver. “A seat beside a monster instead of under one.”

That silenced him. His hand trembled as he reached for the cup, but he didn’t drink. He couldn’t taste anything but the ghost of you and the weight of your words.

The meal ended in brittle silence. Brienne rose first, bowing slightly toward you before following the guards. Jaime lingered just long enough to catch your eye again.

“You said I’m a ghost,” he murmured. “Maybe I am. But you look like one too.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a moment. Then, softly, “The living envy the dead, sometimes.”

And as he was led out, the sound of your voice stayed with him—low, steady, and breaking somewhere beneath the surface.

The bear pit stank of sweat, mud, and blood—human and otherwise. Jaime still tasted iron on his tongue and the sour rush of fear that hadn’t yet burned out of him. The memory of Brienne’s scream as she stumbled backward from the beast echoed in his skull, and the sight of her swinging that broken spear still burned behind his eyes. His hand—his gods-damned missing hand—throbbed where the bandage bit into his skin, but he was alive. She was alive. For the first time in days, that counted for something.

Locke and his men had dragged them up from the pit like carcasses, laughing, until her voice cut through the noise.

“Enough.”

The sound froze them before it even registered to Jaime who had spoken. You stood on the upper steps, framed by torchlight and smoke, cloak half-slipped from your shoulders, eyes sharp enough to silence a crowd. The torchlight made your hair gleam like a blade, and for one disoriented instant he thought he’d died and the gods had decided to mock him one last time.

Locke turned, half sneering. “My lady, this is Lord Bolton’s business. The Kingslayer needed reminding what happens to arrogant pricks who think themselves above—”

“I said enough.” Your tone didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. The authority in it was older, colder. “Release them both.”

Locke spat, but the laughter behind him died. Even his own men hesitated. “Your husband—”

“—is not here,” you interrupted, walking down the steps until you stood close enough that the bear’s blood darkened your hem. “And I am.” You stopped before him. “If you wish to test your loyalty to House Bolton, by all means—defy me.”

The silence that followed was so taut Jaime thought he could hear the drip of blood from his torn sleeve. Locke’s mouth twisted. Then, with visible restraint, he signaled his men to step back.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, venomously polite. “Let the lion limp home.”

Jaime straightened, still breathing hard, his muscles trembling from exhaustion and the brutal rush of adrenaline. You didn’t look at him immediately—only at Brienne, who stood beside him, dirt and blood streaking her face, defiance still alive in her eyes.

“Get them washed and fed,” you told one of the guards, then added, “and bring Ser Jaime his horse.”

The men moved quickly, perhaps too eager to be away from you. When they were gone, Jaime finally found his voice, ragged but steady. “You always did like making an entrance.”

That earned you a glance. “You always did like needing one.”

He might have smiled if it didn’t hurt to breathe. Instead, he just looked at you. Up close, the firelight caught the hollows beneath your eyes, the exhaustion that makeup couldn’t hide, the faint tremor in your hand where it rested on your cloak.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. “Bolton—he won’t forgive you for embarrassing his dogs.”

“I don’t need his forgiveness,” you replied. “Only his silence.” You studied him for a moment. “You saved her.”

He met your gaze without flinching. “I owed her that much.”

“And what do you owe yourself, Jaime?”

The question landed deeper than you meant it to. His throat felt tight. For a heartbeat, the world around him—the smoke, the stench, the noise—faded away. He saw only you, and he remembered.

The last night before the war, before honor and loyalty had split the world in two. You in his arms, skin cold from the rain, hair tangled in his fingers. You’d laughed against his mouth when he’d called you a Stark wolf. You’d told him not to say your name so softly; that it made promises neither of you could keep. He’d kissed the inside of your wrist and sworn he’d return. He’d lied without meaning to. When he’d come back to King’s Landing, you were gone, married off to a man whose smile never reached his eyes.

He swallowed hard, pulling himself out of the memory before it gutted him. “You should go before Bolton hears what you’ve done.”

“I will,” you said. “After you ride south.”

Brienne, who had been silent until then, straightened. “My lady,” she said, voice formal but gentle. “Forgive me if it’s not my place, but... I don’t know your story. I don’t know what passed between you and Ser Jaime, or what’s been lost. But I’ve fought beside him. I’ve seen him bleed for honor when no one else would. He’s a good man. Whatever you think of him, know that.”

You looked at her then, truly looked, and something softened at the edges of your expression. “I know,” you said simply. “I always did.”

Jaime’s chest felt like it was caving in. You turned to him then, and the years fell away.

“When you reach your father,” you said, your voice low but steady, “tell him Lord Bolton kept his word. Tell him his son lives. And tell him the North remembers who it once called friend.”

He nodded, unable to speak. You stepped closer, so near he could see the faint sheen of sweat on your skin, could smell the faint trace of pine and smoke that had never left you.

“I thought I’d buried this,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “Whatever it was between us. I was wrong.”

“Then don’t,” he said before he could stop himself. “Don’t bury it.”

You exhaled a small, broken sound that wasn’t quite laughter. “It’s already in the ground, Jaime. We’re just the ghosts that keep standing over it.”

He wanted to reach for you, but the bandaged stump where his hand used to be hung useless at his side. And maybe that was fitting. He had nothing left to give.

Brienne cleared her throat gently, and you stepped back. The air between you felt colder.

“Ride south,” you said. “Before I change my mind.”

He managed a smile—crooked, tired, but real. “You always did like pretending you had one to change.”

You almost smiled back. Almost.

As the guards led the horses out and the gates of Harrenhal opened to the gray dawn, Jaime looked back once. You stood at the top of the stairs, cloak lifted by the wind, watching them go. You didn’t wave. You didn’t speak. But he felt it—the quiet pull, the weight of something unfinished.

When Brienne glanced at him, he said nothing. He just rode.

Behind them, Harrenhal faded into mist, and so did you.

But long after the sun rose, and the world turned bright again, Jaime swore he could still feel your fingers in his hair, still hear your voice whispering through the years between them:

The living envy the dead, sometimes.

[hirethia]

Night

Jaime Lannister x Baratheon!reader

Jaime couldn’t sleep. He had just come back to Kingslanding this afternoon and the only person he wanted to see was his wife. He was probably the last person she wanted to see, but after everything he needed to be close to her. 

When he got to meet the sister of Robert Baratheon he instantly got attracted to her. Not only was she pretty, but she was also caring, something Jaime never got to experience in his life. For his father, being soft and gentle meant being weak and he made sure his children didn’t grow to become weak. So when she started to care for him, Jaime fell in love with her. But he fucked up everything. 

That day right before their wedding, she saw him with Cersei. He thought she would run away, cancel their wedding or make a scandal, but instead she stayed silent. Too silent. Surrounded by the lions, she had no other choice than to keep everything to herself to survive. So that’s what she did, she married him and pretended that everything was fine in public, but in private in their chamber, she just refused to speak or acknowledge him. 

It hurt Jaime to see the woman he loved ignore him, refusing to speak to him. He knew he deserved it but every time he saw her speak to Tyrion or another guard he couldn’t help but get jealous, wishing he was the one she would speak to. And right now, after losing his hand and finally being back home to her, he just wished he could hug her. 

When he entered their chambers, he saw her looking at his missing hand but she didn’t say anything. When they lay down to sleep, she faced away from him like every night, making sure their bodies wouldn’t touch. Her hair was sprawled on her pillow, sitting only a few inches from Jaime. He slowly reached out to them, caressing them softly, doing his best not to wake her up. It was the only way he could touch her without disturbing her, the only way he could calm himself down after a nightmare or when he was stressed. Feeling her soft hair between his fingers reassured him she was still there, still alive and next to him. She might hate him with all her heart but to him she was all his life, and he would fight the entire kingdom and his family to keep her safe.

[perkqularkreashions]

Girl Made in Riverrun

Description: Jamie Lannister is forced to marry a Tully, he didn’t expect to fall in love with Catelyn’s sister.

-anon- requested!

Warnings: Twincest (Jamie x Cersei cannon event), Smut p in v, oral F received, smut in public places, violence, mentions of death. Time skips (like a lot), it’s pretty lengthy.

Up Next:

Sandor Clegane x Reyne!Reader - requested

Daemon Targaryen x Greyjoy!Reader -requested

Tywin Lannister x Dorne!Reader

Petyr Baelish x Reader

Cregan Stark x Celtigar!Reader - requested

Young!Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader - requested

Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader - requested

Credit to the owners of the pictures! I got them from Pinterest!

Tywin Lannister, Lion of the West, stood with one hand resting lightly on the carved lion-head arm of his chair, a satisfied glint in his pale eyes as he watched King Robert pace the length of the chamber. The king’s brow was furrowed, thick fingers raking through his beard as he weighed the proposition laid before him. Beside Tywin, Ser Jaime stood silent, his jaw locked and hand clenched into a fist at his side—whether from anticipation or fury, none could tell. The torchlight danced against the golden plates of his armor, the Kingsguard’s white cloak draped still across his shoulders, though it hung now like a relic from another life.

“He serves no purpose, not as he is,” Tywin said, voice calm and unyielding as steel. “His post was earned by convenience, not merit. But he can still be of use—your sworn sword, aye, but also a husband. Heirs, Robert. Sons bearing the lion’s name. That’s what he was born for.”

Robert halted mid-step, turning with a grunt. “You’ve a match in mind then? Or is this another ploy of yours, Tywin?”

“I do,” Tywin replied smoothly. “Lady Tully. The youngest daughter of Hoster Tully—sister to Edmure and Lady Stark. A proper girl, bred of good stock. Lord Edmure has already sent word of his approval. The girl is en route to the capital as we speak. They’ll wed here, before the royal party rides north. A festival, a celebration to set the tone, maybe she’ll even visit her sister. Gods knows you adore the Starks. It’ll do her good to see her sister again.”

Robert scratched at his chin, then shrugged. “A wedding might cheer the people. Put something warm in their bellies before the cold of the North sets in. Two weeks, you said?”

“Within the fortnight,” Tywin confirmed. “The preparations have already begun. Two week celebration.”

Robert nodded slowly. “Alright… alright then. Let it be done.”

Tywin inclined his head, already satisfied, his fingers brushing the fabric of his crimson sleeve as though dusting off the matter entirely. Jaime, however, remained frozen, his golden brows drawn tight, his shoulders rigid.

“You’ll take your new oath after the wedding,” Robert added with a smirk, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips. “And keep the armor, boy. Suits you. Might even distract the girl from your sour temper.”

“When does she arrive?” Robert asked, glancing over at Tywin once more.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tywin replied coolly. “And she’ll be yours to present at court.”

Cersei stormed down the corridor, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent with every furious step. Servants scattered at the sight of her, heads bowed low, skirts gathered quickly out of her path. When she reached Jaime’s chamber door, she didn’t knock. She shoved it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“I found out through Tyrion—Tyrion, of all people!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. Her golden hair was unbound, wild about her shoulders, and her eyes burned with fury.

Jaime turned from where he stood near the hearth, already tense, his jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that, Cersei,” he said quickly, raising his hands in something like surrender. “Please—it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then why didn’t you fight harder?” she snapped, advancing on him like a lioness with blood in her mouth. “You’re Tywin’s heir, his golden son. You could’ve refused—should’ve refused!”

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to keep distance between them. “You know how he is. It was already done before I was even told. The match was signed, sealed, and ridden for Riverrun before I could speak a word.”

“You’re marrying her,” Cersei snarled. “A Tully. One of Catelyn’s sisters. Do you know what they’ll say? What they’ll think?”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of that a thousand times?”

She turned away from him then, as if disgusted by the sight of him, hands curling at her sides. “You’re mine,” she said, voice trembling—not with weakness, but with rage. “You’ve always been mine. And now you’re just—giving yourself away?”

“I didn’t give anything,” he bit back. “He took it from me.”

Cersei rounded on him once more, eyes glassy with unshed fury. “Then take it back.”

Cersei’s breath caught as the silence thickened between them, heavy as smoke. Her fists trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move away. Not when Jaime stepped closer. Not when his voice lowered.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, gaze pinned to hers, the firelight flickering gold across his face. “I swear it, Cersei. I tried—I tried to make him see, but he wouldn’t bend. He never bends.”

Her lip curled, but the anger faltered just slightly. “You’re stronger than him,” she whispered. “You’re better.”

“I’m yours,” he said, voice raw.

His hands came to her waist—hesitant, almost reverent. She let him. Her body was taut with tension, but she didn’t resist when he drew her in. Her hands found his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic. He ducked his head, their foreheads brushing. His voice was a breath against her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to face you.”

And then she kissed him.

Her kiss wasn’t tender—it was a punishment. Her mouth crashed into his with the heat of a wildfire, angry and possessive, like she meant to devour the apology right out of his throat. Jaime grunted against her, stumbling backward as she pushed him, lips bruising, hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic like she wanted to tear it apart.

He didn’t stop her.

His hands gripped her waist, hard, dragging her against him as if he needed to feel her anger to believe she still wanted him. Her teeth caught his lip, and he hissed. She smiled into the kiss, wicked and breathless.

“You let him chain you,” she snarled, lips brushing his jaw as she bit at the skin there. “You said you were mine, Jaime—mine.”

“I am,” he gasped, kissing her again, sloppier this time—off-center, raw, all tongue and desperation. “I didn’t ask for her—I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back so she could look at him—lips red, eyes shining, chest heaving like she’d just fought a war.

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

He kissed her again before the words finished falling, hands moving rough under her skirts, pressing her back toward the table, knocking over a goblet and not caring for a single heartbeat. Her thighs hit wood. His mouth never left hers.

“Say you still love me,” she said, half a breath, half a challenge.

“I do,” he said, panting, forehead against hers. “Gods, Cersei—always. Only you.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You arrived without fanfare, just as you preferred—no banners, no trumpets, no company beyond a modest escort of Tully men who said little and kept their heads down. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was cloaked in shadow. A few lanterns flickered near the gates, their flames swaying in the wind. You dismounted with practiced ease, your cloak fluttering behind you in the night breeze, your blue silks catching only the faintest kiss of firelight.

Tywin Lannister was waiting at the top of the steps. Regal as ever, stone-faced and imposing even in silence. But when you smiled—softly, without pretense—it startled him. You were younger than he remembered. More beautiful than he’d expected. And far, far softer. There was no hard edge to you, no sharp tongue. Just river-steady grace and that keen, unbothered composure that made men underestimate you far too easily.

“Lord Tywin,” you said lightly, lifting a hand in greeting, fingers curled in a gentle wave. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” he replied with a nod, his voice unreadable. But his eyes did not leave your face.

You stepped forward, skirts whispering against the stone. “My brother didn’t come. He trusts me in your care,” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “For the wedding, I mean. I’ve not told my sisters yet either—though I suppose I’ll have to now, won’t I?”

Your smile widened, sweet as spring rain. “I trust everything is in order—your hands are known for order, after all. Robert, in his drunken ramblings, speaks of you often. Not all bad, mind you. He said the feasts would come after the ceremony. Then we ride north.” You paused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “All very well planned. Very… Lannister.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment. And though he said nothing, there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—something between respect and concern.

Because you were not what he expected. You were worse. You were gentle. And that made you dangerous.

“Come,” Tywin said, turning with the authority of a man who expected obedience. “You shall meet Jaime.”

You froze. Hands clutched together before you, the lace at your wrists trembling faintly in the night breeze.

“Oh, gods—no, I can’t!” you said quickly, cheeks flushing as you shook your head. “It’s… against Riverrun tradition. I’m not to see him until the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”

Your voice was light, teasing, but your eyes flicked nervously toward the great doors of the Keep, as if the Kingslayer himself might come strolling out to catch you mid-sentence.

“Hopefully,” you went on with a breathless laugh, “he’ll find me beautiful. And not just another old, sour-faced Tully.” You scrunched your nose slightly. “You Lannisters have such strong features. I always worried the Riverlands bred girls a little too plain.”

Tywin paused at that, glancing back at you. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. But not quite.

“He’ll find you pleasing enough,” he said. “You are young. You are lovely. And, more importantly, you are useful. That is more than most women can claim.”

You smiled, but the weight of his words pressed behind your ribs.

“I’ll have my steward take you to your chambers,” he added. “You’ll be presented properly before the court at the feast.”

You dipped into a polite, practiced curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He watched you one last time before turning, the click of his boots fading into stone. And as you followed the steward through the quiet halls of the Red Keep, you touched your cheeks and whispered to yourself—

“Please let him have kind eyes.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Jaime paced the length of his chamber like a caged lion, his golden armor half-undone, the clasps at his shoulders hanging loose where he’d started to tear it off in frustration. His breath came short, sharp, like every step might somehow undo what had already been set in stone.

“She’s here,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s actually here. Gods, why—why did Father have to find her so soon?”

Tyrion lounged in a carved chair by the hearth, a goblet in one hand and a smirk on his lips, watching the dramatics unfold with barely veiled amusement.

“You knew this day was coming,” Tyrion said mildly. “Father made it quite clear you’d be married off the moment Robert gave permission. You should be thanking him—he could’ve saddled you with a Frey.”

Jaime spun around, eyes wild. “Lysa Arryn was a Tully. She was supposed to be beautiful too.”

“She was, once,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Many say this one favors her—delicate, they claim. Polite. She has the hair. The eyes. That Riverlands charm.”

“If she looks anything like that sickly hag of the Eyrie I swear to the gods, I’ll—” he choked on the thought. “Her eyes! They were like a fish pulled too long from water. That awful limp hair. Pale as bone, and her voice—”

He shuddered dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“I’ll surely die.”

“You won’t,” Tyrion said with a sigh, setting down his cup. “She’s young. That much I know. And she’s no fool. She knows what this marriage means. You’ll get through tomorrow, and then you can return to pretending to hate politics.”

“I was fine,” Jaime snapped. “Content with life. My white cloak, my sword. Her. I didn’t ask for this.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “You mean Cersei?”

Jaime didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“She’ll be at the feast tomorrow,” Tyrion added quietly. “And by the look of things, she’s not what Father expected.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”

Tyrion’s smile was slow, knowing. “You’ll see.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Morning came too quickly.

The halls of the Red Keep were transformed, the stone corridors draped in sweeping banners of Tully blue and burgundy, braided together with Lannister red and gold. The colors twisted in perfect harmony—rivers and lions bound in silk—a symbol of alliance, though few would dare call it love. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was enough to sour Cersei’s mood. She watched from her place near the dais, her jaw clenched behind a forced smile, envy roiling beneath the surface. You were all anyone spoke of. No one had seen the youngest Tully since girlhood, and now here you were—grown, radiant, untouched by time or scandal. Some whispered that your beauty rivaled hers. Others said it surpassed it.

Your hair was a striking Tully red—brighter than Catelyn’s, longer than Lysa’s—and it shimmered like copper fire in the sunlight spilling through the stained glass. Your eyes, soft sea-blue with a ring of storm grey, carried the hush of deep water. You looked like a memory come to life. And gods, you were perfect.

Jaime stood at the end of the hall, stiff and irritable beneath layers of polished gold. He looked like a knight carved from sunlight—handsome, proud, and visibly annoyed by the fanfare. But when the horns sounded and the guests rose, when the great oak doors creaked open, and you stepped into the light of the throne room—

Even he went still.

You walked slowly, unbothered by the weight of every eye in the hall. Your gown was a vibrant blue, soft but rich in color, stitched with fine silver thread. It hugged your form, dipping low across your chest where a silver trout gleamed at the center of your bodice. You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were beautiful, but carried it like a secret rather than a weapon.

You paused when you saw him—your betrothed.

Your eyes met his across the distance. He was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Golden. He looked nothing like the boy you once glimpsed from afar.

“His eyes are… sorta kind,” you murmured to the maiden at your side.

“He’s the Kingslayer,” she whispered with a smirk. “And more handsome than I imagined.”

“He looks… bright,” you said softly, as if the word surprised you.

“Well, he’s your husband now,” she teased.

Jaime stepped forward as you neared, every movement rehearsed, mechanical. He reached for your hand, but before his fingers could graze yours, you laughed—low and warm, barely above a whisper, and yet it echoed in his ears.

“No need to be so formal, Ser Jaime,” you said, your voice sweet as summer wine. “You don’t need to kiss my hand.”

He faltered, blinking at you like you’d struck him. Something in your softness stunned him. You weren’t cold. You weren’t haughty. You weren’t what he feared.

You smiled at him—genuine and quiet.

And for the first time that morning, he didn’t know what to say.

“You grew,” Jaime said, eyes trailing over you with quiet disbelief, like he still expected the child from long ago to emerge beneath the silk and ceremony.

You tilted your head, grinning. “Well, I’m not the sniveling girl you saw clinging to Edmure’s leg at your sister’s wedding.”

You giggled then, the sound light and sweet. “Cersei looked beautiful that day.”

He smiled at the memory, despite himself. He remembered you now—the way you’d peeked out from behind your brother’s cloak, wide-eyed and wary, flinching every time the crowd roared too loud. A little thing in pale blue, red hair in tangled ribbons, constantly twisting your fingers. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences.

“And what were you so afraid of?” Jaime asked, amusement tugging at his lips.

You leaned closer, your breath brushing his shoulder, smiling too brightly—too kindly—for a girl about to marry a man the realm called Kingslayer.

“In truth?” you whispered. “Your steed. That damned horse of yours.”

He blinked. “My horse?”

A bark of laughter escaped him, far louder than he meant. Heads turned. The hall fell quiet. Cersei’s eyes narrowed from the dais. But you only beamed up at him, utterly unbothered.

“Gods, yes,” you said with a playful grimace. “A creature that large, able to kill me simply by twitching wrong? That is no friend of mine. I’ve never learned to ride. I don’t wish to. I’m quite sure they hate me as much as I hate them.”

“You hate horses,” Jaime said, still grinning, voice lowered now. “You’re marrying a knight and you hate horses.”

You laughed again, musical and unbothered. “I adore fish. Small, harmless, until they’re not. I grew up beside the river, not in a stable. A trout is a far nobler beast, in my opinion.”

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted.

Because this wasn’t the marriage he expected.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t bitter. You were soft and bright and quietly strange in a way that unsettled him and gods help him, he was starting to like it.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Jaime said with a short nod, offering his arm.

You placed your hand there softly, your fingers light against the hard muscle beneath his crimson sleeve. He began walking, slow and measured, the two of you moving through the corridor toward the sept, steps echoing beneath vaulted stone.

“The wedding,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter than before, “as you so adamantly requested, has now become a documented contract—signed, sealed, and quite literally paraded before the realm.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, your smile warm, but edged with mischief. “Well yes, I assumed your disdain at being plucked from the Kingsguard would sour any desire to celebrate being tethered to the trout girl.”

You said it lightly, teasing, but your voice never lost its softness. “Edmure told me—very firmly—not to mention cloaks, kings, or guards. I fear if I so much as say the word ‘oath,’ he’ll emerge from the stone itself to strangle me.”

That pulled the smallest laugh from Jaime, short and genuine.

“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I don’t need you to temper my mood.”

You smiled gently, eyes forward now. “I know. But still… it’s alright to grieve. To mourn what you’ve lost. I don’t fault you for that. I wouldn’t even blame you if you chose to walk away—if you rejected all of this. I wouldn’t be angry.”

The words hung between you for a moment, too tender, too real.

Jaime’s jaw shifted. He looked down at you, not with pity or coldness, but something quieter. Something harder to name.

“I would never dishonor you,” he said simply.

And in that vow, however soft, was the first crack in the armor he wore far beneath his gold.

“Ahhh! My little trout girl!” Robert’s voice boomed across the hall, slurred and far too loud for the closeness of the space. He barreled forward, flushed from drink and grinning like a man half his age, and before Jaime could so much as blink, the king had snatched you from his side.

You squealed with laughter, caught off guard by the sheer force of the man’s affection. “Robbie!” you gasped, eyes bright, arms barely catching around his barrel chest.

He hugged you tight, swaying slightly, then leaned back to grin at you as if you were some long-lost treasure he’d only just remembered. “Beautiful trout! Gods, look at you. Go on—go! Jon’s been begging to see you. Poor lad’s near chewed my ear off. You know how he gets.”

You looked past the king’s shoulder and saw Jon Arryn seated in the corner of the hall, watching you with a warm, expectant gaze. You nodded quickly, touched by the thought. As you moved to pull away, your eyes found Jaime’s again across the crowd—his smile small, real, and caught half behind his hand.

Robert clapped Jaime hard on the back—twice. The kind of blow that rattled armor.

“You married a good one,” Robert said, voice thick with wine and sentiment. “I thought for certain she’d be a Stark, you know. Madly in love with Benjen. Gods, he loved her too. Quiet boy, but fierce where it counted. I remember her first kiss to him—”

“I rather don’t care,” Jaime cut in, tone cool but even. “She’s my wife now. Whatever came before me is her own. Just as I had a life before her.”

Robert blinked, then let out a loud, wheezing chuckle. “Aye. Fair enough, fair enough.” He smacked Jaime’s back again, even harder this time, before staggering off toward another cask.

Jaime stood still for a moment, watching you slip through the crowd toward Jon Arryn. Your laughter trailed behind you, soft and clear.

And yet… Robert’s words lingered like smoke in Jaime’s chest. “The North has a way of bringing up old feelings.”

Now you both stood in the center of the hall, the contract signed, the rites spoken, the knots tied. A simple union, formalized before the realm with only the faintest brush of ceremony—no silken bedding speeches, no wild fanfare, no drunken debauchery. Just you and Jaime, side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Red Keep, the air heavy with roses and smoke, the murmurs of lords and ladies still echoing along the stone.

You were now Lady Lannister.

A soft tune played from the minstrels’ corner, delicate and low, and he led you into the first dance with hesitant fingers resting at your waist. You moved like water—effortless, light. You smelled of wildflowers and river reeds warmed by sunlight, of quiet summer mornings along the banks of the Trident. You didn’t cling to him or press too close. Your hand at the nape of his neck was soft, steady—nothing like Cersei’s sharpened claws and possessive touch. It unsettled him, that gentleness. How it made him ache.

“You’d make a fine Lord Tully,” you said, eyes sparkling. “A golden-haired fisherman. A beard would suit you, I think. And longer hair to shield you from the summer sun.”

He snorted—an inelegant, surprised sound. “A Tully?” he repeated with a smirk.

You grinned up at him, spinning just slightly beneath his arm. “A quiet life. Far from court. Far from lions and crowns and whispered plots. It’s what most girls dream of when they marry, you know. Not power. Peace.”

Your words were sweet, light—but they landed heavy.

He looked down at you, your face tilted toward his, your smile still resting there like it belonged. You weren’t scheming. You weren’t pretending. You meant it.

And for one strange moment, Jaime found himself picturing it. A river keep. A slower life. Your hand still in his.

“And what do you dream of?” he asked, his voice low.

Your smile turned wistful, eyes drifting past his shoulder. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

The music lingered soft around you, the low hum of harp strings wrapping gently through the air as you turned beneath Jaime’s hand, laughing quietly at something only the two of you could hear. He was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time that night, the corners of his mouth soft and unguarded, as if, for once, he had stopped bracing for the weight of expectation.

Then she came.

Cersei moved through the hall like a storm cloaked in silk—green velvet clinging to every curve, golden hair piled high, eyes glittering with something colder than envy. She stopped just beside you, her hand gliding over Jaime’s arm with practiced familiarity.

“May I steal my brother for a moment?” she asked sweetly, her smile anything but.

You didn’t flinch. You turned to her, your face open and kind, too kind for someone so clearly being challenged.

“Of course, my Queen,” you said gently, bowing your head with grace honed from years at Riverrun. Before stepping back, you gave Jaime’s hand the smallest squeeze—a silent farewell, and perhaps, a warning.

You disappeared into the crowd, and the space between them collapsed like a trap sprung shut.

“Only one day,” Cersei hissed, stepping in close, her breath hot against his cheek, “and you’ve already forgotten you were in my cunt.”

Jaime stiffened, color rising to his face. “Stop,” he said low. “No one’s forgotten.”

Her hand slid across his chest, possessive, venomous. “Your hand was on her back, lower and lower. Her fingers at your neck like she already knows what makes you weak. And tonight, you’ll bed her, won’t you?”

Her voice cracked with restrained fury.

“Will you think of me?” she asked, voice quieter now. “When she breathes your name? When her legs wrap around you? When she gasps and you have to pretend she feels like home?”

Jaime closed his eyes for just a moment. And in the smallest, most broken whisper, he said “Of course. Of course I will.”

But even as he spoke it, he turned to look back through the crowd, trying to find the river girl in blue.

And he hated himself for how much he already missed your hand.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The fire burned low in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows across the stone walls of the wedding chamber. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose oil, and the silence that stretched between you both was fragile—heavy with unspoken thoughts, sharpened by expectation.

Jaime moved first.

His lips found yours with no warning, mouth hot and desperate, hands framing your face as if he feared you might vanish. It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t elegant. It was hungry, wild with need. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he needed your mouth to breathe.

“Jaime—Jaime,” you gasped between kisses, your palms pressing gently against his chest, breath caught somewhere between surprise and laughter.

He stilled, forehead brushing yours, panting.

“Wait,” you said softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go slow. We have all our lives to be quick and hungry.”

Your fingers moved with care, tugging at the laces of his shirt, easing the fabric back from his shoulders until his skin was bare beneath the firelight. “Unless,” you said with a crooked smile, “you’re ready to get this over with?”

“No,” he said at once, voice rough. “No—gods, no.” He looked away, jaw flexing like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You stepped back, wordless, and let your gown fall from your shoulders.

The silk pooled at your feet with a whisper, and the chill of the chamber kissed your skin. You stood bare before him, chest rising slowly, heart thudding, but you did not hide. There was something reverent in your stillness. Something brave.

“I am a maiden,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “And I wish my first time to be slow. Gentle. And full of love.” You paused, meeting his eyes. “Even if it is only for one night, Ser Jaime.”

Your smile was the kind that wrecked men—gentle, sure, and aching. Jaime stared at you like he’d never seen something so painfully real. And then, with trembling hands, he reached for you—not as a conqueror, but as a man humbled.

“Then slow,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And gentle. And like love.”

He kissed you slow, the back of your legs meet the bed. Teasingly, you crawled back, your eyes low full of want. He grabbed your ankle, yanking towards him. “Let me taste you, River girl.” You bit your lip, nodding too eagerly.

His mouth was hot, reverent, and far too patient.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first—once, then again, slower the second time, his stubble scraping softly against your skin. His hands kept you open, gentle but firm, and he watched you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like awe. Like hunger smothered beneath restraint. When he lowered himself fully, breath ghosting over your most delicate place, you barely had time to brace before his mouth found you.

He kissed your clit like it was his, like he’d done it before in dreams and now meant to do it right—slowly. His tongue dragged across you, lazy and deliberate, not searching for the peak but drawing it out, warming you with long, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble around his head.

You gasped, spine arching off the mattress.

“Gods—” the word spilled from your lips in a breathless cry, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting tight in those golden strands. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

That made him groan—deeply—the sound sending a pulse through your whole body. He pressed his mouth harder against you, tongue flattening, circling, teasing the sensitive pearl with slow, worshipful flicks that had your hips lifting, grinding softly, needing more.

He didn’t give you more. Not yet.

He licked you through every twitch and gasp, lips dragging over the slick heat of you, soft and wet and sloppy, so soaked from his tongue alone that he had to drag his hand down and part you again, groaning when he felt how much you gave him.

“You taste like summer,” he murmured against you, voice thick, drunk on you. “Sweet river girl.”

Then he went back to it—louder now, messier. His mouth moved with open hunger, tongue pressing, sucking, flicking faster, then easing back just enough to hear you whine. You were soaked down your thighs, clenching at nothing, thighs quivering, head tossing back on the pillow.

You felt wild beneath him—shaking, panting, begging—but he just held you still, thumbs stroking circles into your hips like he had all night to ruin you slowly.

“Jaime—Jaime, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking, your hand reaching for anything, for him, dragging his name from your throat like a prayer.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His mouth was soaked with you—chin glistening, lips slick, breath ragged as he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His tongue moved in filthy, wet strokes now, no longer gentle, no longer teasing. He was feasting on you, devouring every whimper, every twitch, every cry of his name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When he sucked hard—right on the clit—you cried out, body jerking like he’d struck some hidden nerve. Your thighs tried to close, to squirm away, but his arms locked you in place. His grip was tight now, possessive, dragging your hips closer to his mouth, forcing you to stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene lick he gave you. He was messy with it—his tongue flicking fast and eager, his nose pressed against the soft heat of you, and gods, he was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked.

“This your first time coming?” he groaned, voice muffled, lips dragging over your swollen pearl. “On my tongue?”

You nodded frantically, hands pulling at his hair, back arched off the bed, desperate and close and wild.

“Yes! Gods—yes,” you whimpered, your voice barely human.

That did something to him—broke something. He growled low in his throat and sucked again, harder this time, his tongue working you over like he wanted to brand the feeling of him into your body forever. Sloppy, filthy, perfect—his mouth sliding against your soaked folds, his tongue curling up to catch every drop of you like he was starving.

Your body locked up—legs trembling, belly tightening, breath catching in your chest—and when your release hit, it hit like a wave crashing over stone.

You screamed.

Your thighs clamped around his head, hands fisting tight in his hair as your hips bucked, and he didn’t stop. Not for a second. He moaned as you came, mouth still moving, still kissing you through it, drinking you down with feverish, worshipful hunger. He let you ride it, every spasm, every broken cry, until you were limp beneath him—shaking, gasping, soaked and ruined.

He pulled back slowly, face wet, chest heaving.

“Sweet gods,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I could die with that taste on my tongue.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, your body still trembling from the force of it.

Jaime hovered over you, his body taut with restraint, golden hair tousled, lips still wet with your release. His tunic was discarded long ago, leaving him bare to the waist, muscles flexed as he braced himself on either side of you. But it was your movement—slow and sinfully deliberate—that shattered what control he had left.

Your legs curled around his hips, and your body arched, grinding up against the hot, heavy length of him—bare now, pressed against your soaked entrance but not yet inside. The heat of you dragged along him with every slow roll of your hips, and the friction made his breath stutter, made his arms shake.

“Gods,” he hissed through clenched teeth, dropping his head against your shoulder. “What are you doing to me…already ruining me with those sweet whines”

Your hands threaded into his hair, your lips brushing his ear as you rocked again, the tip of him dragging through the slick mess between your thighs. Not quite entering—teasing. Coating him. Driving him mad.

“I want it to feel real,” you whispered, voice trembling. “All of you. All of this.”

He grunted—deep, guttural—the sound scraping from somewhere low in his chest. You rolled again, slower this time, your clit catching just beneath the ridge of him, and his hips jerked like he couldn’t help it.

“Seven hells,” he groaned, breath shuddering against your neck. “I’ve never—”

He cut himself off, teeth gritting.

“Never had someone like this. Needy for me. Wanting me like this.”

Your mouth kissed along his jaw, soft and slow. “I need you, Jaime,” you whispered. “Please.”

He pulled back to look at you then, eyes burning, his hands moving to grip your hips like he was anchoring himself. The tip of him nudged against you, almost there, his breath ragged.

“Say it again,” he said hoarsely. “Say you need me.”

“I need you.”

“Then gods forgive me,” he whispered, and he pushed in—slow, every inch of him pressing through slick heat, stretching you open until he was fully seated inside, thick and deep and shaking above you.

Your gasp tore into his mouth as he kissed you—desperate, messy, teeth catching on lips, both of you groaning as your hips adjusted to each other.

He started to move—long, slow thrusts that dragged against every inch of your trembling walls. His forehead rested against yours, his hands everywhere—cupping your cheek, gripping your waist, brushing your breast, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

“You feel like godsdamned heaven,” he groaned. “You were made for me.” He lost himself the moment he sank into you.

There was no grace left in him—not with how warm and soaked you were, how your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for him all along. His first thrust was deep, sloppy, too rough for the tenderness he’d promised, and your gasp shattered between his lips as his hips slammed flush to yours, the sound of it loud and filthy in the quiet of the chamber.

He moaned—loudly—his head dropping to your shoulder, golden hair clinging to his brow as he fought to breathe.

“Fuck—gods, you feel—you feel like sin,” he groaned, grinding deep into your soaked cunt, hips jerking as your walls fluttered around him, wet and eager.

You cried out beneath him, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked high around his waist as you pulled him back in.

He fucked you hard—messy and fast, every thrust sloppy with wet sounds, your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your skin slapped together again and again as he pounded into you like he couldn’t stand the thought of ever leaving your body. Sweat slicked between you. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, your breast—kissing, biting, claiming.

“You’ll only have me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face as he fucked you through another wave of pleasure.

His hand slammed against the headboard, gripping it like a man trying to hold on to reason, while the other arm wrapped tight beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip, spreading you wider, deeper. His strokes were brutal now—filthy and fast, wet and relentless, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the bed beneath you both. The sound of him inside you—flesh slapping flesh, the obscene squelch of every thrust—filled the chamber louder than the fire crackling at your side.

He groaned—loudly—his head dropping low as he watched himself disappear into you again and again, jaw clenched so tight it looked like pain.

He groaned like you’d struck him in the gut, his head snapping up, gold hair sticking to his sweat-drenched brow.

“It’s just you,” he growled. “Only you—gods, my wife—my sweet river girl.”

He bent low, lips finding yours, kissing you hard as he fucked you harder. One hand still braced on the headboard, the other still locked tight around your thigh, holding you in place as he drilled into you with fevered, soaking thrusts. You could hear how wet you were for him—hear it every time his cock slammed back in, thick and heavy, stretching you until your toes curled.

He was trembling now, breath stuttering, voice broken with need.

“So close—so fucking close—gods, tell me you want it—tell me you want me to fill you.”

You nodded fast, clutching at him, gasping against his lips. “I want it—I want you. Give it to me, Jaime—please—please.”

Jaime was shaking above you now—truly shaking, his muscles flexed and locked as he thrust into you with desperate, brutal rhythm, like every inch inside you dragged him closer to the edge of sanity. His hand stayed clenched around the headboard, the wood creaking with each slam of his hips, while the other hand gripped your thigh so tightly your skin ached. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even as sweat dripped from his temples, even as his jaw tensed like he was in pain from holding back.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” he groaned, his voice breaking into something feral.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, back arching, your hands clawing at his waist, at his arms, at anything. “Jaime—please—please give it to me.”

That ruined him.

“Gods,” he gasped, voice raw, wrecked. “You want it? My wife—my sweet, wet little thing—beg me.”

“I’m begging,” you sobbed, your thighs trembling, your body soaked and aching from how deep he was buried. “I want you—I want all of it—please, inside—inside me, Jaime—please—please—”

He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

And then he broke.

His whole body locked above you, his abs tightening, his teeth bared as the first hot, violent spurt of his release spilled into you. He growled—the sound harsh and stunned—like it hurt to finally let go. His cock jerked inside you, pulse after pulse, pumping you full, soaking you from the inside out as your walls clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of him.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” he choked, trembling through it, voice high, nearly frantic. “So good—so good—I’ve never—never—gods, I can feel it.”

You moaned beneath him, body curling into his, your cunt so sensitive, so wet from everything he gave you that you could feel his seed leak out before he’d even stopped moving.

But he wasn’t done.

He kept thrusting—slow, now—shallow and filthy, pushing his cum deeper inside you, hips still twitching as his body rode the last waves of his climax.

“You wanted this,” he panted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You took it so well—so greedy for it—gods, I don’t want to pull out.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft and ruined. “Stay in me. Fill me again.”

He kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, desperate—and nodded.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered against your lips. “Everything.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The night crept in slow and heavy, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of glowing coals. Shadows danced faintly across the walls of the wedding chamber, long and soft, curling like tendrils across the stone. The air smelled of sweat and sex and sweet rose oil—the scent of a marriage not only sealed, but consumed.

You lay sprawled atop him, your cheek against his chest, his arm draped around your waist with the lazy weight of a man too exhausted to pretend anymore. His hand rested just above the curve of your hip, fingers twitching now and then, as if even in sleep he refused to let go of you. His other hand was tangled in your hair, thumb stroking absently over your scalp. Jaime’s breath was slow. Deep. Peaceful.

Neither of you stirred when the chamber door cracked open.

Cersei moved like a ghost. Silent. Cloaked in black. She had waited for hours. Waited until the moon was high, until the maester had finished his whispers and returned to the Keep, until the guards had yawned and shifted, their attention dulled by late hour and too much wine. She’d spoken to the maidens, all of them. Each said the same thing.

He never left.

She had demanded truth from the steward. From the servants who passed the chamber door. One claimed she’d heard laughter—low and warm—and then quiet murmurs, like lovers breathing each other in.

Now, here she stood. At the edge of the bed.

Watching.

Your red hair spilled like wine across Jaime’s bare chest, one of your legs curled possessively over his. The covers had fallen to his hips, revealing the flush of his skin, the shine of dried sweat still lingering across his abdomen. The mark of you.

Cersei didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched.

You looked soft in sleep. Disarmed. Not like the clever, smiling thing that had teased him in the hall or bowed so sweetly when she asked to cut in. No. Now you looked his. And worse still—he looked yours.

His arm was wrapped around you like instinct. Not habit. Not performance.

“You fool,” she whispered, so quiet it barely left her lips. “You gave yourself away.”

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She only stared.

Because for all the things she’d feared… nothing had prepared her for this. For the way Jaime held you in his sleep. Like you were peace. Like you were home.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You quickened faster than anyone expected.

The court had only just settled into the comfort of your union when whispers began to spread like ivy between pillars. At first, it was idle talk—sidelong glances at your fuller face, murmurs about how often Ser Jaime’s hand rested at the small of your back, the way his eyes trailed you when you left the room. But by the end of the second moon, the whispers grew teeth. By the third, your gowns—once effortlessly elegant—had begun to shift, your corsets laced looser, your silhouette softening in ways no feast could explain. By the fourth moon, it was undeniable: Lady Lannister was with child.

And Cersei Lannister hated you for it.

She hated you with a venom that festered behind her smile, behind every forced curtsy and every cordial greeting. She watched you across the great hall with wine in her hand and acid in her throat. Watched the way Jaime drifted toward you like gravity itself bent for your comfort. Watched how your hands found his without needing to search. How you smiled up at him, and he smiled down. Always down—softly, privately, like no one else was in the room.

She saw the way his hand slipped around your waist as you walked, how his thumb sometimes brushed over the small swell of your belly like he was trying to remember it, trying to feel the child even before it moved. She watched the way he kissed your temple, your cheek, your hair, in moments no one else seemed to notice—but she did. She always noticed.

It wasn’t just the touch. It wasn’t just the tenderness.

It was the quiet. She could live with passion. She knew how to match fire with fire. But what you and Jaime shared was worse—it was peaceful. It was domestic. It was real.

And then came the moment that undid her.

You were seated together, not even touching—just speaking in low voices, Jaime’s golden head bowed slightly toward yours. You laughed gently, tilting your head with that same unbearable grace you carried everywhere.

“Fisherman Tully,” you teased, a whisper she heard clear as bells. “Still no beard. Still no boat. I suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

Jaime’s smile bloomed slow and warm. He reached for you, fingers cupping your face like it was made of something delicate and rare. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and he leaned forward until your brows nearly touched.

“Gods help me,” he said, “but I would fish for you.” You flushed, glowing like hearthlight.

Cersei flinched. Physically. She felt it—sharp and hot in her chest, like a brand pressed beneath her ribs.

She turned away quickly, biting down on her wine cup so hard her lip bled. The worst part? You weren’t trying. You weren’t flaunting anything. You were simply… loved. Gently, openly, and without need for performance. She had been everything to him once. And now she was nothing more than his sister.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

It was eight moons into your marriage, and you were round with child—visibly, proudly, undeniably his. Your walk had slowed, your steps heavy with life, but none of that stopped him. Not when you looked at him the way you did. Not when your voice dipped low and teasing, when your fingers brushed his wrist at supper, when you whispered something sweet behind your cup and he smiled like a man undone.

That night, you didn’t make it to the wedding chambers. You barely made it past the corridor.

Cersei had turned a corner in time to see it all—the two of you tangled against the stone wall, just past the curve of the gallery arch, torchlight flickering against golden armor and sapphire silk. Jaime’s hands were on you already—everywhere—gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you as if your swollen belly weighed nothing at all. Your skirts were bunched up around your hips, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, his mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hungry it bordered on violence.

She froze.

You moaned into his mouth, breathless and soft, and his groan followed—low, guttural, wrecked.

“I couldn’t wait—fuck, I couldn’t wait,” he gasped, pinning you harder against the wall, grinding into you, still fully clothed but undone just enough to thrust deep inside you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the stone.

“Jaime—gods, Jaime,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back as he buried himself again. “You shouldn’t—someone could see—”

“Let them,” he grunted. “Let them see you like this. Round with my child, moaning for me, taking me like you were made for it.”

Cersei couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stood in the shadows—watching.

You gasped when he shifted, lifting you higher, your hands flying to his hair as he thrust up into you, messy and deep, the wet sounds between your bodies so lewd, so filthy, it felt like a spell had been cast in the corridor.

“When you have this one,” he groaned against your neck, “my firstborn—you’ll give me another. Gods, I don’t care what it is. Boy, girl—doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s ours.”

You sobbed softly, legs trembling around his hips.

“You’ll give me three,” he growled. “Four. Fill this keep with little lions that look like you.”

His hand slid to your belly as he fucked you against the stone, reverent and obsessed, his moans growing louder with every thrust, every squeeze of your soaked walls around him. And Cersei—Cersei—stood there hearing it all.

Her fingers shook at her sides. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Because he already had three children—her children. A son with her jaw. Another with her smile. A daughter named for a dead woman he never even loved.

And he had never said those words to her. Not once.

Not when Joffrey was born. Not when Myrcella wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Not even when Tommen cried in his arms.

“My wife,” he moaned into your mouth. “My sweet river girl.”

Cersei turned away, tears burning, rage swallowing her whole. She needs control, she needed him back.

The next morning came slow and gray, with a hush over the Keep as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Cersei waited in the covered walk outside the training yard, where the sun barely touched the stone. She wore no crown, no paint on her lips—only fur draped over her shoulders and her golden hair braided back from her face the way she wore it when she wanted to be disarming. A picture of softness. The illusion of warmth. But there was cold behind her eyes.

She had sent for him before breakfast, a single note with no seal. Jaime had hesitated, standing at the window with the parchment still open in his hand, your body asleep in the bed behind him, belly round beneath furs and sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. But old habits—old loyalties—dragged him from the room.

He found her as she always was when she meant to twist him—silent, poised, patient.

“You look tired,” Cersei said quietly as he approached. Her voice was gentle, too much so. “Is the little trout keeping you up?”

He said nothing at first, just clenched his jaw and stepped into the shadowed arch with her.

“She stirs often,” he said at last. “The child moves a great deal.”

“Hmm,” Cersei hummed, her eyes trailing to his chest, where the collar of his tunic was still crooked from your hands. “That happens in the late moons. They grow restless. Kicking. Turning. Demanding.”

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

“Has she ever tended a newborn?” she asked, voice light. “Has she seen one gasp for breath with blood still wet between its legs? Or does she think it will arrive sweet and silent, cooing like the doves in her window?”

He glanced at her, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Why are you saying this?”

Cersei smiled, slow and tired. “Because I remember what it cost to be a mother. You forget. You weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” he said.

“And yet you weren’t.”

That silence stretched between them like a blade. She circled him slowly, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder—touches she used to command him with. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in.

“You were never made for this, Jaime,” she murmured. “Not for quiet. Not for softness. You are steel. You were born with a sword in your hand and a war in your name.”

He looked away.

“She’ll find out what you are,” Cersei continued, voice like honey and ash. “Not a father. Not a husband. Just a lion with his claws clipped, trying to play house with a girl who dreams of rivers and names her belly love.”

Jaime said nothing. He stared past her. Until her voice lowered, sharper now, closer.

“Will she still smile when she sees what you’ve done? Will she call you Fisherman Tully when the blood runs dry in her sheets and the babe’s cries don’t stop for nights on end? Will she laugh when your patience fails?”

He turned then, something shifting in his face, but before he could speak— A voice echoed down the corridor.

“Oh! My fish!”

Jaime froze. His body turned instinctively toward the sound, and Cersei’s hand slipped from his arm like it had never belonged there at all.

You stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a simple cloak, your hair half-braided, loose strands curling around your cheeks. You moved slowly, carefully, but your smile—your smile was bright enough to chase away the fog of her voice.

“I thought you were at Robert’s door,” you said, breathless from the walk. “I missed you, I hate waking up without you.”

You waddled forward with one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching for him. Jaime met you halfway. Without thinking. Without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his lips brushed your temple, and his other hand instinctively covered the swell of your stomach like it belonged there.

Cersei watched it all, silent. Stone.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered up at him, your palm resting over his heart.

He exhaled slowly, then smiled—small and broken and true.

“Nothing, my river girl,” he murmured. “Just spoke with my sister. She always knows how to damper a mood.”

You tilted your head and chuckled gently. “That is what siblings are for. Edmure would purposely ruin my mood before my favorite meal.” You giggled.

You pressed your face against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head like he couldn’t bear to let go. Cersei turned then, the hem of her cloak snapping as she walked away—not fast, but hollow.

She had three children by him. She had given him a dynasty in secret. But you? You had his peace.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The moons passed faster than anyone could hold them.

Your daughter—Elia Lannister—was born just after dawn on a morning soaked in gold. The air had been warm that day, and the bells had rung not for death, but for life. A bright, shining life. The halls of the Red Keep had swelled with laughter, the scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, Jaime’s joy so radiant that even the oldest servants said they hadn’t seen him smile like that since he was a boy.

She was beautiful from the moment she was placed on your chest. Dark strawberry-blonde hair, soft as down, skin warm and flushed, her little eyes squinting up at the light as if even the world dared not blind her. She was loud, too—cried fiercely when she didn’t like the cold water or the way her father took too long to bundle her. But in your arms, she softened. And in Jaime’s arms, she shined.

He named her himself.

“Elia,” he whispered, holding her so carefully, his hand cradling her entire back. “Elia Lannister.”

You had blinked in surprise, but when you looked at his face—at the guilt and softness and something mournful buried beneath the pride—you said nothing. You only kissed his cheek and said,

“Then Elia she is.”

The first moon after her birth passed in warmth and quiet joy. You healed slowly, the maester pleased with your progress, your appetite returning, your sleep only interrupted by Elia’s whimpers in the night. Jaime was often there, even when he had duties. He’d return to find her in your arms, asleep against your breast, and he’d kneel beside the bed just to press his lips to her hair.

“You’ve made me into something else,” he whispered to you once, late at night, when the fire had burned low. “Something I never thought I could be.”

But peace in the Red Keep never lasted long.

In the second moon, the winds shifted.

Whispers crept through the corridors—nothing certain, nothing official. Then came the messenger ravens from the Vale, then the locked doors, the urgent meetings. Then came the silence.

Jaime was called away more frequently. He never told you much when he returned, only that the King was restless, that Cersei had taken to pacing the halls again at night, that something was coming. And still, you tried to keep your world small. Focused. Your child. Your husband. The sound of Elia’s breathing as she napped on your chest. The smell of pine oil and old wood in the nursery.

Then, near the end of the second moon—

The bells rang again.

But not for life this time.

Not for joy.

They rang for death.

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, was dead.

The announcement echoed through the Keep with a force that made the tapestries tremble. You had just laid Elia down in her crib when the thunderous chime struck, and you felt it in your chest before you even heard the words.

Jaime came to you that night with his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

He looked older than he had the day before.

“He’s dead,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your nightdress, your hair braided loosely down your back. Elia stirred in the cradle, but did not cry.

“So it begins,” you whispered. And it did.

Everything moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Faster than a new mother could bear. Faster than a husband could stand.

Robert demanded a feast. He demanded new banners be sewn. He demanded Ned Stark. The North was to send its wolf to court.

And Jaime? Jaime didn’t leave your side that night. Not once. “The world is spinning,” he said, lying beside you, his hand on your belly where Elia once rested.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The corridor outside your chambers had barely gone silent when Jaime threw the door open without knocking. He was seething, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides from the moment Robert left the council room. His words echoing,

“Congratulations on your babe,” Robert had said, voice booming with false warmth, “even though our congratulations are short-lived. I need you to travel north with me. We leave at the turn of the first moon.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And Jaime had no say in the matter.

By the time he reached your chambers, the wet nurse had taken Elia for her night feeding. You hated the arrangement, loathed the distance, but Jaime had begged you to rest. Promised it would only be for a few nights. Promised he’d be near.

Now, he was.

The door shut hard behind him. Jaime kicked off his boots like a man starved of gentleness and made his way to your bed, where you’d just begun to drift into the first real sleep you’d had in days.

“Jaime?” you stirred softly.

He didn’t answer—not with words. He climbed into bed and reached for you with a need that bordered on desperation, mouth already pressing against yours, hard and fast.

“My fish—” you tried to speak, but he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands were warm and trembling slightly as they cupped your face.

“I’ve been deprived,” he groaned against your mouth, every word drenched in want. “The maester said you’ve healed. Tell me. Tell me you want me. Tell me I have permission to enter you…to feel you.”

His forehead rested against yours, breaths tangled, golden hair brushing your cheek. There was something unsteady in his voice, like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Of course you do,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair.

But before the sentence could finish, he kissed you again—hungrier now. Mouth slanted over yours, swallowing every word, every breath. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice breaking as his lips traced along your jaw. “Before they take me from this. From you. From the only thing that’s ever felt like home.”

You felt the weight of it then—not just lust, not just need. It was grief for the time you wouldn’t have. Fury that Robert was stealing him away, that duty still dragged him by the throat. And love. Gods, so much love it hurt to breathe through it. “What’s going on Jamie?” You whispered

Your legs tangled beneath the sheets as you pulled him closer.

The breath he let out—gutted, raw—hitched in his throat like it hurt to hold it. Jaime buried his face in your neck, his weight sinking down over you, one hand braced above your head on the carved wood of the bed, the other sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it up around his hip.

He wasn’t patient tonight.

His movements were frantic, but reverent. The kind of aching that only came from nights spent watching, waiting, too afraid to touch you while you healed, while your body ached from the beauty you brought into the world. Now, he had you—cleared by the maester, no longer fragile in the ways that had terrified him.

“Mine,” he whispered into your skin, dragging his mouth down your neck like a man who’d been parched for moons. “You’re mine—gods, tell me—say it.”

Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling gently. “Yours. Always yours.”

That broke something in him.

He groaned so softly it sounded like prayer, hips rolling as he found you again for the first time in weeks. The stretch drew a gasp from your throat, your spine arching under him. He cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to yours as he held still, just for a moment, trembling.

“Gods, you’re still so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, only whimpered against your lips as your name fell from him like a sin.

You kissed him through it. Softly. Desperately. He tasted like longing, like a man running out of time.

He moved with aching tenderness at first—hips rocking, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing you. Then faster. Messier. His grip on your thigh tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushed deeper, overwhelmed by the sounds you made, the way your hand slid down to feel where your bodies joined.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he breathed, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “I’ll—gods, I’ll lose it.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then lose it. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

He kissed you again, but this time he broke apart mid-kiss, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Say it again,” he gasped, panting into your mouth. “That I’m not going anywhere. That I can stay here. With you. That you love me.”

“I love you,” you said between the thrusts, each one deeper than the last. “I love you, Jaime. I love you—I’ll wait for you, but gods, I wish they didn’t have to take you.”

He moaned so loudly at that, shameless and desperate, his fingers curling into the headboard as he held himself above you. “I’ll give you another,” he gasped, mouth at your ear. “Another child, I swear it—Elia won’t be the only one—”

Fucking gods—” he groaned into your mouth, voice hoarse and broken. “Missed you—missed this—missed you, my sweet girl, my fish—”

You whimpered into him, nails dragging down his back as he pressed you into the mattress, pace already desperate. He couldn’t hold still. Couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your breast, your thigh slung high around his hip as he ground deep, chasing that ache that had haunted him every night he lay alone in his chambers.

“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you missed me. Say you’re mine.”

“I missed you,” you whispered between moans, lips swollen, eyes wet. “I’m yours, Jaime—I’ve always been yours.”

His groan cracked in his throat. He kissed you too hard, too fast, teeth knocking together before he dragged his mouth down to your jaw, your neck, sucking until you gasped and clung to him tighter. Every thrust was sloppy, hungry, his forehead pressed against yours as he rutted into you like a man starving.

“Come with me,” he begged, voice shaking. “To the North—fuck—I’ll take you with me, Elia too, we’ll ride behind Robert—I’ll get a carriage, I’ll—gods, please.”

“Jaime—” you tried, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You hate the wet nurse,” he groaned, dragging his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. “And I can’t sleep without you, I—need you.”

You were pulsing around him now, your walls fluttering tight. He felt it, nearly collapsed from it.

“Say yes,” he moaned, losing all rhythm. “Say yes, fuck, please—I’ll keep you warm, I’ll build you a bath from snow and rocks if I have to, just—just don’t stay behind.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m scared to travel with her so young.”

“Then let me carry her. I’ll do it all—fuck, I’ll wear her on my chest like a milkmaid if it means you’ll come. Just don’t—don’t leave me here like this.”

He was close, so close, fucking into you like he could drag the answer from your body. You clung to him, kissed him, moaned his name with every breath.

“Please come,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth crushed to your cheek. “I can’t leave without you.”

That was when you tightened, crying out his name as the pleasure crashed over you—hot and helpless, thighs trembling around his hips as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you with a moan that nearly broke you in two.

He didn’t move after. Just held you there, buried inside, shaking from the force of it.

“I’ll ask Robert,” he whispered, breathless. “I’ll beg him if I have to.”

Your hands brushed his hair back. Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed behind him as he drove into you with rough, trembling thrusts. He was everywhere—breath on your neck, hand fisting the headboard, the other holding your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The bed creaked loud, rhythm uneven, like he’d been denied for years not weeks.

“Say yes,” he groaned again, panting into your shoulder. “Say you’ll come north with me—say it—please gods say it—”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, dragging him closer as your hips tilted up to meet every thrust.

“I—Jaime—” you gasped, words caught on a moan as his cock hit deep, too deep, just the way you liked.

“Say it,” he begged again, voice cracking. “You—you’re mine, not Robert’s court, not this castle—me. Come with me. Let me keep you close—fuck—I can’t breathe without you.”

He was shaking. Desperate. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the room, your slick soaking his cock as he rutted harder, rougher, hips slapping into you with no grace left. Just need.

“I’ll build a tent,” he whispered wildly, biting your jaw. “A whole fucking tower of snow if I have to, just—say you’ll come. I’ll take Elia. I’ll guard you both with my fucking life, I swear it—”

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I’ll go—Jaime—I’ll go with you—gods, don’t stop—” He groaned like a wounded animal. Everything in him buckled.

“Fuck, fuck, my girl,” he choked, kissing you like he was drowning, thrusts suddenly frantic, pace ruined. “You’ll come with me—you’ll stay with me—say it again—”

“Yes—yes—I said yes!” you sobbed against his lips, legs shaking as he drove you toward the edge.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck—my wife, my fucking wife—” You fell apart with a cry, pulsing so hard around him he nearly collapsed, fucking through your high with curses and whimpers. He didn’t last another second. “Mine—mine—mine,” he moaned, voice low and broken as he spilled into you with a sob, burying himself as deep as he could go. “You’re coming with me, sweet girl—you’re mine.”

When it was done, he didn’t move. Just lay there shaking, still inside you, whispering your name over and over.

“I’ll tell Robert tomorrow,” he said against your neck. “You’re coming with me. Our daughter too. We ride north… as a family.”

Your thighs still trembled as you curled against him, breath hot against his chest, one hand draped lazily over his heart. His seed still inside you, sticky and warm, a mess neither of you cared to clean yet. His body hadn’t moved far, still draped half over yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he gave you space.

“When do we leave?” you murmured, voice hoarse and soft, edged with the ache of being stretched for the first time in moons.

He sighed, almost guiltily, as he brushed sweat-slick hair from your cheek.

“A moon. Maybe two.” His voice was low, gentle now that the desperation had passed. “Preparing to ride north is no easy feat. Horses, wagons, guards—it’ll take five weeks just to reach Winterfell.”

You shifted under him, heart skipping, and he saw it in your eyes. The flicker of doubt, the ache of new motherhood, the fear of leaving the only home you’ve known—of dragging a baby through snow and dirt and gods-know-what. Your face faltered, just a little.

And he panicked.

“No—my girl,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he cupped your face again, kissed your lips like a promise. “Don’t take it back. Don’t let fear ruin what we just—don’t, please—”

You blinked, but he kept going, nose brushing yours, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“It’ll be comfortable. I swear it. I’ll make it so. You won’t lift a finger. I’ll get a nurse for Elia, extra cloaks, furs, a litter if I have to carry you both like queens.” He kissed you again. “You’ll have your own tent, with a fire. With blankets. With me. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Jaime—”

“No more courts. No more hiding. I want to fall asleep with you every night and wake up to Elia’s cry. I want to sit by a fire and brush your hair. I want to be a father in front of the world and call you mine without shame.”

Your fingers curled against his jaw.

“You’ll hate the cold,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

“I’d eat snow if it meant I could have you beside me.” He kissed your forehead, a different kind of reverent now. “Just… don’t leave me there. Don’t let them take you from me.”

You leaned up, kissing him slow and certain.

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” His eyes shut like that yes was a prayer.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The morning air clung soft and cool against the stone corridors, the hush of a castle slowly waking. You stood in the sun-drenched gallery near the window alcove, swaying gently with your babe in your arms—little Elia curled against your chest, drowsy from her morning feed, her fingers clutching your gown with milky satisfaction. You hummed under your breath, a river song your father used to sing on storm-heavy nights.

Your other hand rested low on your belly, already heavy with your second child.

A moon ago, you’d begun to swell again. Three moons after birthing Elia, and the gods had quickened you once more—much to the shock of the midwives and the rage that roiled behind Cersei’s perfect smile. You’d hardly left the birthing bed before Jaime had put another child in you. And it showed.

Your cheeks glowed, your skin dewed with that soft fullness that came with being wanted, kept, loved. Every corner of you was bloomed and softened. Jaime hadn’t stopped touching you since.

Tyrion, leaning on the edge of a carved table, raised his goblet with a smirk. “You know, you’re becoming quite the legend in court. Some say you’re carrying the fourth lion already. Others say you’re a witch who’s bewitched my brother.”

You smiled over Elia’s curls. “Only a fool would believe it took witchcraft. I simply loved him. That was enough.”

Tyrion hummed and toasted your honesty. “And he worships you for it. That’s rarer than magic in this place.”

From the far end of the gallery, Jaime stood listening—half-shadowed, arms crossed, his eyes not on Tyrion but you. The way you leaned into the light. The way your smile bloomed just for his brother. He trusted you, but still, something curled hot and green in his gut.

“Talking to our brother again?” Cersei’s voice cut like a blade. She’d come from the other hall, her steps soft as a snake. “You’ll see her old lover soon enough.”

Jaime didn’t look at her.

“She loved him to death,” Cersei continued, soft, serpentine. “Benjen Stark. The one who took the Black. She cried when he took the oath. I remember—gods, the way she wept.”

He finally turned. “Stop.”

She smiled, too wide. “What? You’ve knocked her up again—twice in one year, Jaime. Shouldn’t you know who you’re breeding with? Or would you rather be surprised if the next one’s born with Northern eyes?”

His jaw clenched. Across the room, your laugh floated up at something Tyrion had said, and Elia cooed.

“You’re vile,” Jaime said low.

“She’s a Tully,” Cersei hissed. “They drown in emotion. You think she’s forgotten him?”

But her words melted away when you looked over your shoulder, catching Jaime’s eye. Your smile was soft, tired, glowing. You mouthed something to him.

“Come”

He was already moving before Cersei even blinked.

He left her there, fuming behind her perfect hair, her hands clenched so tight the knuckles went white. She needed him back, she needed him to see that it was only her.

[starking-inthenorth]

To catch a mouse

she was his shadow, his confidante, and his sharpest blade, standing quietly at his shoulder through a war that ate the world—all while he remained entirely blind to the way she loved him. genre: angst, unrequited love, friends to lovers, slowburn, hurt/comfort pairings: robb stark x reader

main masterlist notes: talisa mentioned. oneshot wordcount: 15.1k

The winter of your seventh year was the kind of season that did not simply drop temperatures; it murdered. It was a vicious, unyielding frost that choked the Last River into stillness, drove the wolves howling down from the high passes, and turned the mud of the wolftown into iron-hard ridges.

Two leagues outside the stone gates of Winterfell, a small, battered trading caravan from the south had learned the cost of testing the northern wilderness. They had thought themselves safe within sight of the smoke rising from the castle’s glass gardens, but the snow-choked pine forests harbored things far worse than the weather: outlaws, deserters, and men who looked at a wagon of salt fish and flour as a reason to spill blood.

By the time Ser Rodrik Cassel’s patrol crunched through the blood-stained slush two days later, the ambush was already a ghost story. The horses were frozen stiff in their harnesses, the drivers lay facedown in the red-flecked snow, and the canvas-topped wagons had been slashed open, their contents pillaged and scattered across the white expanse.

The guardsmen were turning away, muttering prayers to the old gods and cursing the lawlessness of the river roads, when Ser Rodrik heard it.

It wasn't a cry. A crying child would have frozen hours ago. It was a faint, rhythmic scrape of wood against wood, coming from deep beneath the splintered wreckage of a salt-fish crate.

Dismounting with a heavy grunt of leather and plate, the old knight knelt in the snow, his massive white sideburns brushing the ice as he hauled a heavy oak board away.

Beneath it, wedged into a dark, suffocating space no larger than a hound’s kennel, was you.

You were half-frozen, your lips split and purple, your small frame wrapped in a tattered wool cloak that smelled of fish brine and old sweat. But what stopped Ser Rodrik’s breath in his throat wasn't your size or the blue tint of your skin. It was your hands.

Clutched tightly in your small, raw fingers was a rusted, broken-off kitchen knife, the blade jagged and useless, pointed straight toward the light with a terrifying, absolute intent to kill whatever reached for you. And your eyes—wide, hollowed out by terror, and burning with a fierce, unnatural defiance—didn't blink. 

You didn't cry. You didn't beg. You just stared up at the towering, armored giant with the grey-steel gaze of a cornered animal that had already decided it would rather die than surrender.

Ser Rodrik stared down at you for a long, silent moment. Beneath his gruff, battle-scarred exterior, a quiet realization settled deep into his bones.

He didn't pull you out by the scruff of your neck like a stray cat. Instead, he slowly lowered his gauntleted hand, palm up, offering it to you.

"Put the iron down, child," Rodrik had grumbled softly, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut through the howling wind. "There is no need for it.

You had looked at his hand, then up at his face, searching his features for any sign of the men who had slaughtered the only world you knew. Slowly, trembling so violently your small bones rattled against your skin, your fingers loosened. The broken knife slipped from your grip, clattering softly against the packed snow.

Ser Rodrik reached in, scooped your frozen, weightless body up into his arms, and pulled you tightly against his mail, shielding you from the bitter northern wind. He carried you all the way back through the gates of Winterfell, straight into a fortress that would shape your blood, your steel, and your heart—forever anchoring you to a destiny you never asked for, beside a boy who would eventually break your world.

Ser Rodrik Cassel had lived a long, hard life in the service of House Stark. He had buried friends, broken bones in a dozen tourneys, and spent decades drilling the martial discipline into lords and squires who would go on to live and die by the sword.

He had a great, sweeping walrus mustache that twitched when he was annoyed, and a heart far softer than his bristly exterior cared to admit. But he had no house of his own. No blood to carry the Cassel name. No sons to toss a wooden sword to in the courtyard, and no daughters to braid with ribbons by the hearth.

Three days after you were brought within the thick, stone walls of Winterfell, Ser Rodrik knocked on the heavy oak door of Lord Eddard Stark’s solar.

Inside, the peat fire crackled low, casting long, warm light across the sheepskins and the thick maps of the North. Lord Eddard sat behind his desk, reviewing timber counts with quiet concentration, while Lady Catelyn sat nearby by the window, her fingers flying over a piece of needlework.

"Ser Rodrik," Ned looked up, marking his place with a calloused finger. "Has the guard rotation shifted? You look as though you've come to tell me the stables have frozen shut again."

The old knight shifted his weight from one heavy boot to the other, his hand coming up to nervously stroke his magnificent mustache. He cleared his throat once—a low, gravelly sound—before meeting his lord's steady gray eyes.

"Not the stables, my lord," Rodrik muttered, shifting his weight from one heavy boot to the other as his hand came up to nervously stroke his massive white mustache. "It’s... a girl. The child we pulled from the ruins of that ambushed caravan out by the town." 

Catelyn’s needle paused mid-stitch. She looked over her embroidery frame, her sharp, protective instincts immediately rising to the surface. "What of her, Ser Rodrik? Is she ill? We’ve already instructed the maester to see that she’s fed and given a pallet in the warm quarters near the kitchens."

"She’s not ill, my lady," Rodrik replied, his voice dropping into a gruff, defensive rumble. "She’s recovering. But she won't stay in the kitchens. By the Old Gods, I found her out in the yard this morning before dawn, trying to lift a broken quarterstaff that weighed half as much as she did. She has fire in her, that one."

Ned leaned back in his chair, his expression softening as a faint, melancholy smile touched the corners of his mouth—the kind of look he often wore when he watched Arya chase cats across the ramparts. "And what does that have to do with you, old friend?"

Rodrik stiffened, squaring his broad shoulders as if he were preparing to charge a shield wall. He had never asked for much from the Starks—only his post, his duty, and a sword in his hand.

"I’ve spent forty years teaching boys how to die for this realm, my lord," Rodrik said, his voice uncharacteristically rough around the edges. "I’ve never had a child of my own to teach me how to live. I have no blood left in the hills, and my rooms in the guardhouse are too damn quiet."

He swallowed hard, looking straight at Ned, then shifting his gaze to Catelyn.

"I’m asking your leave, Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. I want to take the girl under my tutelage. Not as a scullery maid, and not as a ward to sit in a tower and sew. I want to give her a name in this fortress, a place in the yard, and a shield to put over her heart."

Catelyn opened her mouth, the traditional instincts of a southern lady rising to protest—a girl with no lineage, learning to fight, a girl running wild among the squires?—but before she could utter a single word, she caught her husband's eye.

Ned Stark looked at the old knight, then thought of the harsh, unforgiving world waiting outside their gates—a world where winter took the weak, and where having a sword in your hand was sometimes the only difference between drawing breath and becoming a ghost.

Ned let out a soft, quiet sigh, his thumb slowly tracing the worn grain of the wooden desk. "Give me until the morrow, Rodrik," he said quietly, his gray eyes steady. "A decision like this is not made on the back of an hour. Let me think on it."

Ser Rodrik stiffened, then dipped his head in a curt, respectful nod. "Of course, my lord."

Before the heavy oak door could even click shut behind the old knight, Catelyn’s needle paused. She laid her embroidery frame down on her lap, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as she looked across the table at her husband.

"Ned," she began, her voice carrying that cautious, southern cadence she used when she felt the ancient walls of Winterfell were being stretched too thin. "You cannot seriously entertain this. A nameless girl pulled from a pile of dead merchants... to raise her in the yard among squires and lords? What would the bannermen say? It is highly uncustomary, and—"

"I know," Ned interrupted gently, holding up a hand to stem the tide. He stood up, walking over to the tall arched window to watch the flurries dancing in the courtyard below. 

"Tradition says no, Cat. Tradition says she belongs in the kitchens, or sent off to the septon when the road south clears. But Rodrik is aging, and the gods know he has poured every ounce of his soul into guarding these walls and raising our sons. If he sees something in this child... let us see what the girl is made of first."

Catelyn pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line, but she said no more.

The next morning, long before the sun had even managed to punch a pale, bruised light through the thick winter gray, Catelyn wrapped herself tightly in a heavy fur-lined cloak and stepped out into the quiet chill of the upper walkway. Her steps were silent as she made her way toward the lower ward, drawn by a strange, nagging curiosity she wouldn't entirely admit to feeling.

She expected to find a frightened child crying by the hearth or hiding behind a barrel.

Instead, peering down into the shadow of the armory wall, she saw you.

You were barely older than Sansa, wrapped in an oversized wool tunic that swallowed your frame, your hands red and raw from the biting frost. You weren't crying. You were standing before a crude, child-sized wooden dummy Ser Rodrik must have cobbled together in the night, staring at it with a cold, terrifying focus. In your small hands was a wooden training sword that was entirely too heavy for you.

You swung. You missed, your footing slipping in the slush, sending you crashing hard into the frozen mud.

Catelyn winced, almost stepping forward to pull the child away from the cruel, punishing cold. But then she stopped.

You didn't stay down. You didn't wipe your eyes. With a sharp, quiet hitch of breath, your small jaw locked into a hard, stubborn line. You planted your boots deeper into the muck, hoisted the heavy wooden blade back up with both hands, and swung again. This time, the wood cracked cleanly against the dummy's center.

Standing a few paces away, arms crossed and mustache twitching with a fierce, protective pride, Ser Rodrik nodded approvingly.

Catelyn watched you haul yourself up out of the mud for a third time, saw the absolute refusal to break written in the fierce set of your shoulders, and something in her chest unexpectedly softened. 

She thought of her own children, safe behind these massive stone walls, and then she thought of the lonely, aging knight who had given his whole life to House Stark without ever asking for a legacy of his own.

When night fell and the solar was finally quiet, Ned sat at his desk, staring down at a blank parchment, bracing himself to gently break the news to Ser Rodrik come morning that it simply wouldn't do.

"Cat," Ned sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his brow before she could even speak. "I thought on it, and the lords—"

"Do it," Catelyn said softly, interrupting him.

Ned blinked, his hand dropping from his face as he looked up in genuine surprise. He stared at his wife, searching her face for sarcasm, but found only a quiet, resolute calm in her eyes.

"What? But earlier you said—"

"I know what I said," she murmured, walking over to the desk and placing a warm, steady hand over his calloused knuckles. 

She looked toward the window, her mind lingering on the image of the small, muddy girl refusing to stay down in the snow. "Ser Rodrik has served this house faithfully for forty winters. He has buried his own ambitions, carried our burdens, and loved our sons as if they were his own flesh and blood. If he wants a daughter to train, and if that child possesses the kind of spirit that refuses to break... then let him have her."

She looked back down at Ned, a faint, rare smile touching her lips. "He deserves that kind of love, Ned."

When night fell and the solar was finally quiet, Ned sat at his desk, staring down at a blank parchment. The weight of tradition and the harsh realities of the North had warred in his mind all day, and he had finally made his choice.

"Summon Ser Rodrik to the solar," Ned instructed the guard at the door quietly.

It wasn't long before heavy, familiar footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, followed by a sharp knock. Ser Rodrik pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping inside with a stiff, respectful bow, his massive white mustache twitching slightly as he braced himself for whatever verdict the Lord of Winterfell had reached.

Ned let out a soft, quiet sigh, the gentle, unyielding protector in him winning out over tradition every single time.

"The girl’ll need a warm wool tunic," Ned said quietly, his gray eyes shining with an approving warmth as he reached for a quill. "And a proper wooden sword made to size. See that she gets them, Rodrik."

Ser Rodrik blinked, a rare, sheepish grin breaking through his massive white mustache. He gave a sharp, crisp bow that nearly knocked over a stack of ledgers.

"Aye, my lord," Rodrik rumbled, his chest swelling with a sudden, fierce pride. "I’ll make a Northman out of her yet."

The biting chill of the lower ward did little to thaw the stiff silence in the training yard.

Ser Rodrik stood with his legs planted wide, his heavy belt creaking as he looked down at the three boys lined up before him. Jon Snow stood with his hands resting easily on his hips, his dark eyes sharp and guarded. Robb was already twirling a wooden practice sword between his fingers, his brow furrowed with curiosity. Beside them, Theon Greyjoy leaned lazily against a wooden post, tossing a chunk of ice from hand to hand with a bored smirk.

"There will be a new student joining us in the yard today," Ser Rodrik announced, his voice booming over the frozen slush. He gestured sharply toward the armory doors. "A girl. And I expect you all to be on your best behavior. She works twice as hard as any two of you put together, and if I catch any nonsense or teasing, you'll be running laps until your boots fill with mud."

Jon blinked, glancing sideways at Robb with a look of mild, cautious surprise. Robb stopped twirling his sword, his blue eyes brightening with sudden interest.

Theon, however, let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter, pushing off the post. "A girl? In the yard? What’s next, Ser Rodrik, are we knitting caps for the direwolves? Winterfell's training yard is for swordsmen, not—"

"Quiet, Greyjoy," Ser Rodrik growled, his massive white mustache bristling as his hand twitched toward the hilt of his practice blade.

"He protests for a girl he has not even seen yet," a small, cold voice piped up from directly behind the master-at-arms. "I should be the one complaining about sharing my yard with a peacock in iron boots, not him."

Ser Rodrik froze mid-scowl. The three boys jerked their heads upward in unison.

Emerging from the shadows behind the old knight’s heavy wool cloak was you. You were small, wrapped in an oversized, stiff wool tunic that smelled of woodsmoke and sheep fat, your hair pulled back into a messy, uneven braid. 

You looked up at the ward with a deadpan, unflinching stare that could curdle milk.

Jon Snow, you figured, let out a sudden, snorting chuckle, quickly raising a hand to hide a grin behind his knuckles. The other boy, Robb, didn't even try to hide it—he threw his head back and burst out into a loud, bright giggle, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you with absolute delight.

Ser Rodrik cleared his throat, puffing out his chest with a heavy, internal swell of pride even as he raised a warning finger at you. 

"Watch your tongue, little mouse," he scolded, though there was no real bite to the warning. "You’ve earned yourself an extra twenty laps for talking back to a ward of Winterfell."

Theon’s face flushed a furious, ugly crimson, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Who do you think you're calling a peacock, you little—"

"A mouse," Robb interrupted brightly, stepping past Ser Rodrik with a grin that reached his eyes, his gaze locking onto you with an instant, undeniable fascination. 

He lowered his wooden sword slightly, his voice dropping into a warm, teasing cadence. "She’s quiet, she pops out of nowhere when you least expect it, and she bites when you corner her. From now on, that's what you are. A mouse."

“And you are an airhead.” you snapped.

“Girl!” Ser Rodrik all but shouted. 

You glared up at him, the heavy wool of your tunic weighing you down, though you kept your gaze firmly fixed on the muddy slush at your boots rather than meeting his eyes directly. 

You knew who he was—the eldest son, the heir whose shadow loomed over the entire fortress. Direct defiance was a luxury for highborn lords, not a foundling from an ambushed caravan.

"I... did not mean to overstep, my lord," you muttered, the words heavily clothed in the polite, forced deference Ser Rodrik had drilled into you, even if your jaw remained stubbornly tight.

Beside you, Jon let out a quiet, muffled chuckle behind his hand, his dark eyes gleaming with suppressed amusement. Theon raised a single, arched brow, looking between you and the young heir with sharp, mocking interest.

Robb did not look angry. Instead, a slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he stared down at you.

"I have not yet heard of girls who have wit as quick as yours," Robb said softly, stepping closer and extending a hand toward you, palm open. "I am Robb."

You looked at his outstretched hand. The calloused skin, the signet of a lord’s son, the easy grace of a boy who had never had to claw his way out from beneath a pile of dead fish.

Instead of taking it, you reached down, snatched a spare wooden training sword from the rack, and thrust it directly into his open palm.

"I know," you muttered, stepping back into the shadow of Ser Rodrik's shoulder.

For a heartbeat, the yard went entirely still. Then, Robb’s chest shook with a sudden, bright laugh as his fingers closed around the hilt.

"Enough!"

Ser Rodrik’s heavy boots crunched against the ice as he stepped back into your line of sight, his massive white mustache bristling with theatrical disapproval, though his eyes gave away a deep, impossible fondness. He shot you a sharp, warning glare.

"Dawdling and handing out weapons instead of minding your stance!" the old knight barked, his voice carrying across the bailey. "Twenty laps around the bailey, right now, little mouse! Let's see if your feet are as fast as your tongue!"

You didn't groan, though your shoulders slumped ever so slightly as a small pout found its way to your lips. With a final, lingering look at Robb—who was still grinning like a fool as he hefted the wooden blade—you turned and broke into a steady, rhythmic trot through the gray northern slush.

Behind you, the sound of wooden swords clacking against shields resumed, the steady heartbeat of a fortress that had somehow made room for a stray.

In the training yard of Winterfell, the snow was churned into a grey, frozen slush by midday, kicked up by the heavy boots of boys who were growing too fast for their gambeson.

As the years ground on, the nickname stuck like burrs to wool, echoing across the bailey through every season of growing pains and scraped knuckles.

You grew up alongside them, an impossible shadow woven into the daily life of the castle. You spent long afternoons sitting by the hearth in the Great Hall with Arya, trading whispered insults while Sansa sighed over her embroidery and Bran practiced his archery in the lower courtyard. 

You learned the intricate, winding corridors of Winterfell better than the castle cats, slipping past the guards to steal hot tarts from the kitchens for Robb when he stayed up too late reviewing grain ledgers with Maester Luwin.

You were there the day Jon got into his first real fistfight with a visiting karstark squire, and you were the one who helped him clean the split skin above his eye with a damp cloth while Robb stood guard at the door, threatening to break the squire's other arm if he ever looked at his brother that way again.

Yet, for all your fierce loyalty to the Starks, you found a stranger, quieter sort of kinship in the shadows with Theon Greyjoy.

While Robb and Jon were expected to lead by the sword, and the trueborn daughters were bound by the needle, you and Theon both shared the strange, hollow ache of being neither here nor there—neither true Stark nor entirely free. 

You caught him once behind the stables, long past midnight, staring out toward the western sea with a look so bitterly homesick it nearly matched your own memories of the road. Instead of trading insults, you simply dropped a stale loaf of honey-cake onto his lap, sat two paces away in the frozen mud, and said nothing at all. 

From that night on, a silent, unspoken truce took root: when Theon’s arrogant laughter grew a fraction too loud to mask his exile, you were the only one allowed to give him a look sharp enough to shut him up, and he was the only one who didn't laugh when your own nightmares woke the lower guardhouse.

You were a fixture of their childhood—the tiny, sharp-tongued girl who could spar with Ser Rodrik until her arms shook, who held her ground against Theon’s arrogant taunts, and who looked at Robb and Jon with a fierce, unwavering loyalty that she kept locked tight behind her ribs.

In the training yard of Winterfell, the snow was churned into a grey, frozen slush by midday, kicked up by the heavy boots of boys who were growing too fast for their gambeson.

At fourteen, Jon Snow’s jaw was a sharp edge of bruised pride, Theon Greyjoy’s laugh was always a half-beat too loud to mask the phantom salt of Pyke, and Robb Stark’s hair was forever plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes fixed on the dummy with an intensity that belonged to a man twice his age.

And you—dusty, breathless, and nursing a split knuckle from where Jon’s parry had slipped—stood beside them, wiping your face with the back of a woolen sleeve.

"She has no business with the lances, Ser Rodrik," a visiting Glover captain had muttered three winters ago, his mouth curling into a sour line as he watched you sweep Jon’s legs out from under him with a quarterstaff. "The North is cold enough without girls playing at being guardsmen."

Robb hadn't even dropped his blade. He had simply stepped sideways, placing his broad shoulders directly between you and the captain, his breath pluming white in the freezing air.

"She spends longer in the yard than my brothers do, my lord," Robb had said, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute authority he inherited from his father. "If her guard is broken, it’s because the snow is slick. Not because she lacks the stomach for it."

Jon had nodded right beside him, his dark eyes flashing with that familiar, defensive fire he reserved for anyone who tried to narrow the world for the people he loved. "She took the ring off the post twice today, ser. You’re welcome to try your hand if you think the mud makes her slow."

The captain had scoffed and walked away, but the damage was already done.

That was how it started. Not with poems or stolen glances by the glass gardens, but with wood splinters in your palms, the smell of horse sweat and leather, and boys who refused to let the old men of the North tell you where you belonged.

By seventeen, the line between training partner and shadow had blurred into nothingness. 

You knew the exact rhythm of Robb’s breathing when he was tired; you knew he dropped his shield-arm just a fraction to the left when he swung too hard with the bastard sword; you knew he hated cold porridge and loved the way his mother baked trout with heavy brown ale.

And you loved him. 

Stupidly. Quietly. With the desperate, enduring loyalty of someone who sat across a war table by day and spent the dark hours staring at the stone ceiling of her chamber, cursing herself for every beat of her heart.

To Robb, though, you were simply you.

"You're leaning into your left again, mouse," he laughed one afternoon, clapping a heavy, leather-gloved hand against your shoulder with enough force to rattle your teeth. 

“Stop talking and fight back, Robb.” you grumbled but a smile was plastered on your lips.

He grinned down at you, all bright blue eyes and crooked teeth, completely oblivious to the way your breath caught in your throat at the casual weight of his hand. "By the Old Gods, if you fight like that against the Greatjon’s men down south, I’ll be spending half my campaign pulling you out of ditches."

"I was testing the footing, my lord," you muttered, ducking away from his touch before he could feel how fast your pulse was hammering against your ribs.

"My lord?" He snorted, rolling his eyes as he slung his shield over his back. "Since when do you call me that? Gods, you’re insufferable when you try to be proper. Come on. The vanguard’s moving at dawn, and if we don't check the grain-stores, my mother will have my hide before the Lannisters even get a shot off."

He walked ahead, his long cloak sweeping the snow, completely unaware that the mere sound of his voice could make your chest ache until it was hard to breathe. He thought you were his best friend. His most reliable sword next to Jon. The one person in the world who didn't want anything from him except his survival.

It was an exquisite, agonizing kind of torture. And you took it every single day without a word.

When King Robert Baratheon roared through the gates with his sprawling, bloated retinue of Lannisters, queens, and sycophants, the castle turned upside down. 

That quiet, fragile rhythm of Winterfell shattered the day the heavy iron portcullis groaned upward to admit a southern king. The lower ward smelled of foreign perfumes, grease, and sour wine. While Sansa drifted in a daze of southern daydreams and Arya glared daggers from corners, you found yourself clinging closer to the edges, a small, dark shadow watching the wolves dance among lions.

That night, the Great Hall was a deafening roar of roasted meat, clinking flagons, and raucous laughter.

Sitting near the lower end of the high tables, you spent the evening dodging drunk southern knights and keeping your eyes fixed on the focal points of your entire world. 

Across the crowded room, Jon sat quietly in his dark wool, nursing a cup of small beer and watching the southern lords with wary, defensive eyes. Not far from him, Theon was already three cups deep into arbor gold, laughing too loudly at some crude joke told by a Lannister man-at-arms, though his eyes kept darting back to the high table with a restless, bitter edge.

And then there was Robb.

He had been forced to sit through hours of speeches, toasts, and heavy-handed political pleasantries, his broad shoulders stiff beneath a new doublet. But as soon as a lull in the noise allowed, his blue eyes scanned the crowded hall until they found yours near the pillars.

He didn't yell across the room—he didn't have to. With a subtle, rolling motion of his head and a conspiratorial grin, he jerked his chin toward the heavy side doors that led out to the dark, freezing quiet of the inner bailey. An unspoken invitation to escape the stench of southern wine and courtly lies.

You slipped out first, fading through the heavy oak doors like smoke. A minute later, Robb joined you in the shadows of the courtyard, leaning back against the freezing stone wall with a soft sigh of relief, his breath pluming white in the crisp air.

"By the old gods," Robb muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at you with a lopsided, exhausted smile. "If Joffrey opens his mouth about his damn tourneys one more time, I’m going to feed him his own silk doublet.”

You laughed, though he could see that something was amiss. 

“Are you holding up alright inside? I saw some southern knight eyeing you like a hawk." he asked.

"I was thinking," you murmured quietly, your arms crossed tight against the chill, "I know better than to run into a den full of fat, lazy lions.They're too loud to catch anything anyway."

Robb let out a sudden, bright laugh that cut through the howling wind, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. 

He nudged your shoulder gently with his own—a casual, grounding weight that anchored you entirely. "Let them talk their southern nonsense," he whispered, his smile softening into something steady and reassuring. "When the dust settles, it’ll just be us and the North. Won't it?"

You looked up at him, at the bright, unshakable loyalty burning in his blue eyes, and swallowed hard against the tight knot in your throat. 

Just us, you thought bitterly. 

"It won't be just us," you said softly, your gaze dropping to the frozen flags beneath your boots as the phantom warmth of the moment began to bleed away. "Jon is leaving."

Robb’s smile faltered, the easy light in his eyes dimming. He went very still beside you, his arm dropping from your shoulder. "What do you mean? Jon is right inside—"

"Not for long," you interrupted quietly, the words tasting like ash. "The talk in the lower guard is heavy tonight. Uncle Benjen is riding back for the Wall soon, and Jon's going with him. He's taking the black."

The silence that followed was heavier and colder than the winter air.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there side by side in the dark shadow of the stone wall, staring out into the snowy bailey as the distant sound of southern laughter echoed faintly from the Great Hall. It felt as though the high, protective walls of Winterfell were suddenly shrinking, cracking open to let a terrifying, ruthless world rush in.

You were only children—or had been, until a heartbeat ago. But the world was growing too big, too fast, tearing the edges of your small, unbreakable circle apart before you even knew how to stand on your own. Jon gone to the ends of the map, Lord Stark riding south into a den of vipers and lions, and the vast, unknown war looming just over the horizon.

Robb swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he stared up at the dark, starless northern sky, his eyes suspiciously bright. He didn't say anything, but his hand reached out blindly in the dark, his fingers wrapping tightly around your own cold hand and squeezing until it hurt.

Until the world demanded everything he had to give.

The months that followed were a blur of marching orders, sharpening steel, and the heavy, suffocating dread of a war that crept closer by the day. When the royal summons finally came and Ned Stark rode south for King's Landing, the heart of Winterfell was ripped clean out.

Robb was suddenly a lord, forced to stand at the head of the war councils while still a boy in his heart, his hands calloused from mail and map-reading. You stood at his shoulder through every sleepless night in the command tent, a silent blade and a steady anchor when the lords bickered and the northern banners began to muster. You were there when the ravens arrived with ink-stained warnings, and you were there when the call finally went out to march.

The tower had always belonged to the sky, a jagged tooth of grey stone where only the crows and the wind went. But when Bran fell, the sky felt like it had collapsed inward, crushing the chest of every soul left within the massive stone ribs of Winterfell.

He didn't die. That was the cruelest mercy the old gods could afford. 

Instead, little Bran lay suspended in a terrifying, motionless twilight in his bedchamber, his sweet eyes unseeing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, agonizing hitches. Lady Catelyn locked herself away in that suffocating room of tallow candles and herbal poultices, refusing to leave his side. She sat day and night, skin pale as parchment, her fingers knitted permanently into her son's limp hand, her eyes hollowed out by a mother’s infinite, silent terror.

You spent your hours hovering outside the door or sitting cross-legged on the cold flags of the corridor, listening to the crushing silence of the sickroom.

It was during those hollow, ticking days that Jon left.

There was no grand gathering in the yard for him, no ringing of bells or waving of banners. Jon walked out of Winterfell quietly, dressed in heavy black wool that seemed to swallow the pale morning light. You found him standing near the outer gatehouse, holding his horse's reins, his face a hard mask of quiet resignation. Robb was already there, clutching his brother in a fierce, breathless embrace that lasted a fraction too long, both of them swallowing hard against the tears neither would admit to shedding.

When Robb stepped back, Jon’s dark eyes shifted to you where you stood half-hidden in the shadow of the stone archway. He didn't offer a grand farewell; he just gave a single, tight nod, acknowledging the silent history between you—the shared scraped knuckles, the stolen moments, the quiet understanding of what it meant to be half-outsiders in a castle of trueborn lords.

"Keep him upright," Jon murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp meant only for you, before swinging himself up onto his saddle.

You watched him ride out into the grey northern frost, heading north toward an endless wall of ice, feeling yet another irreplaceable piece of your world get ripped away.

And before the castle could even catch its breath from the parting, the night of the fire fell.

The low-burning hearth in Bran’s room caught, or was made to catch. When the frantic shouts broke out through the corridors, you had sprinted down the stone steps ahead of the guards, bursting into the bedchamber just as the smoke cleared.

A cut-throat with cold, dead eyes had tried to finish what the tower window started, armed with a dagger of Valyrian steel and a total lack of mercy. Summer, the grey direwolf, had torn the assassin's throat out on the floorboards in a spray of hot crimson, but the terror left behind hung in the air like a shroud.

Someone wanted a child dead. Someone in the dark, slithering web of the south wanted the Stark blood drained entirely.

The castle became a tomb with open doors, the stone halls echoing with ghosts before the war had even begun. And in the eye of that gathering storm, the inevitable, agonizing tear came.

Lady Catelyn, shaken to her very soul by the attempt on her dying son’s life and the desperate need for answers, commanded Ser Rodrik to escort her south. 

She needed trusted steel. She needed the man who had kept Winterfell standing for many winters.

Ser Rodrik Cassel, the weathered, grey-bearded master-at-arms who had pulled you from beneath a heap of salted fish a lifetime ago, stood in the lower armory with his breastplate half-buckled. The heavy iron greaves felt too loud against the flagstones.

He was leaving Winterfell. He was leaving you.

"You are a woman grown fierce in this yard, little mouse," Ser Rodrik rumbled, his voice thick as gravel as he looked down at you. His hands, usually steady on the pommel of a sword, trembled slightly as he reached out to grip your shoulder. "You do not need an old man to tell you how to hold a blade anymore. But you must watch the boys. Watch Robb. He carries a weight that would crush a grown bull, let alone a boy who was tossing pinecones in the yard only moons ago."

Your throat tightened until it burned, a hot, suffocating pain pressing against your ribs. The fierce, unbreakable armor you had spent years forging against the world cracked entirely down the middle. For a fraction of a second, you weren't the sharp-tongued, stoic shadow of the high table; you were that shivering seven-year-old girl in the snow once more, clutching a broken knife and staring up at a giant who had decided to give her a home when the world wanted her frozen and forgotten.

"Don't go," you whispered, the words tearing past your lips, stripped of all pride, all defiance, all dignity. "Father—please."

At the sound of that single word, the old knight let out a ragged, broken sound—half a gasp, half a sob—that you had never heard pass his lips in all the years you had known him. His arms tightened around you until your ribs ached, holding you as if sheer strength could keep the cruel world from pulling you apart.

He dropped his gear and pulled you into a crushing, clumsy embrace, smelling of horse sweat, old wool, and cold iron.

"Duty calls us both, child," he murmured against your hair, his voice cracking. "The North remembers. And so do you. Keep him safe."

You buried your face deep into the rough wool of his gambeson, your hands clutching desperately at his back as the dam inside you shattered completely. The word had sat heavy and unspoken behind your teeth for a decade, swallowed down through every scraped knee and every harsh winter, too sacred and too terrifying to claim. But as the terrifying reality of his absence closed around your throat, you couldn't hold it back anymore.

"I am here, little mouse," he whispered fiercely against your hair, a tear cutting a clean path through the dirt on his weather-beaten cheek. "I am always here."

But when he mounted his warhorse and rode out through the iron gates beside Catelyn’s carriage under the pale, mocking northern sun, the silence he left behind felt like an amputated limb.

There was no time to mourn the departures. 

Before the echo of the iron portcullis had even faded, the war room inside the stone keep was heavy with the smell of tallow, ink, and rising panic. A fresh raven scroll lay unrolled across the heavy oak table, the wax seal broken, the black handwriting jagged and hurried.

Maester Luwin stood over it, his thin hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his chain collar. Theon Greyjoy leaned against the stone pillar with his arms crossed, his jaw tight, staring down at the parchment as if it might bite. You stood just behind Robb’s right shoulder, your fingers still numb from the cold gates, your eyes glued to the dark ink.

"Is it confirmed, then?" Robb's voice was remarkably steady, though his knuckles were white as he braced both hands against the edge of the table.

"The messenger rode three horses to death between here and the Neck, my lord," Maester Luwin said softly, his voice heavy with age and sorrow. "Lord Eddard is wounded. The Lannisters have turned the city. The gold cloaks betrayed him at the King's Gate. Jory... Jory and half his men are dead in the mud of the street."

Theon pushed off the pillar, running a hand through his dark hair, a bitter scoff breaking from his throat. "I told you all the southern vipers couldn't be trusted. Lord Stark walked right into a lion's den with a wooden shield."

"He went because he was an honest man," Robb snapped, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous heat that silenced Theon instantly. 

Robb looked back down at the scroll, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged breaths as the full, crushing weight of what it meant to be Lord of Winterfell finally descended upon his shoulders. His father—the only true north he had ever known—was bleeding in a dungeon a thousand leagues south, and the boys who played in the snow were gone forever.

You stepped half a step closer, your hand hovering near his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to offer some anchor, some shred of the comfort Ser Rodrik had denied you.

Robb didn't look back, but his shoulders squared. He stared down at the parchment until the ink blurred beneath his gaze, every boyhood dream burning away in the cold northern air. When he finally spoke, his voice didn't crack. It dropped into a low, iron-hard command that left no room for doubt.

"Call the banners."

Within hours, the courtyard was a deafening chaos of clanking steel, snorting destriers, and shouting serjeants. The northern banners were called. Greatjon Umber roared in the Great Hall, demanding his vanguard; the Boltons mustered their pale, silent men; and the Karstarks arrived with eyes dark with vengeance.

Robb was thrust violently into the mantle of Lord of Winterfell and Commander of the North, a boy wearing a father’s heavy iron crown that sat too wide upon his brow.

Night had fallen over the inner bailey, though no one slept. The torches flickered against the driving sleet, casting long, writhing shadows across the muddy stones. Inside the command tent, maps were scattered across a trestle table, weighed down by daggers and heavy silver chalices. The lords had finally cleared out, leaving behind a suffocating haze of woodsmoke, wet wool, and stale wine.

Robb sat slumped on a rough wooden stool, his elbows braced on his knees, his face buried deep in his calloused hands.

You stood quietly in the corner, your fingers resting lightly on the hilt of your short sword, watching him. You had watched him grow from a boy who chased direwolf pups into a man forced to trade in blood and strategy. But right now, beneath the heavy fur cloak and the too-large steel gorget, he looked utterly, terrifyingly young.

A soft rustle of canvas announced Theon Greyjoy as he entered. Theon looked around, noting the empty tables and the exhausted stillness, before walking over to stand near Robb.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. The wind howled against the canvas walls, threatening to tear the stakes from the frozen mud.

Then, Theon noticed it.

Robb’s right hand, resting loosely against his knee, was shaking. Not a subtle tremor, but a violent, uncontrollable twitch of muscle and bone—the physical manifestation of a boy whose adrenaline had peaked and crashed, leaving behind the stark, paralyzing reality of the war he was about to unleash.

Theon’s eyes locked onto the shaking hand. He didn't mock him. He didn't offer a flippant, arrogant jest. Instead, a quiet, somber understanding passed over the ironborn ward's face.

Theon stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, flat whisper.

"Are you scared, Robb?"

Robb didn't look up immediately. He swallowed hard, his jaw working as he tried to steady his breath. Slowly, he lifted his head, his blue eyes bloodshot, exhausted, and desperately ashamed as he met Theon’s gaze.

"I must be," Robb muttered, his voice cracking slightly on the edge of a whisper.

Theon offered a slow, wry smile—not a cruel one, but a bitter, defensive shield of humor.

Standing near the shadows of the tent pole, you let out a sharp, shuddering sigh, the tension in your chest nearly snapping the ribs beneath your leather jerkin.

Theon glanced over at you, then back down at Robb, his smile softening just a fraction.

"Good," Theon said softly.

Robb blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his pale face.

"Because that means you're not stupid," Theon interrupted quietly, clapping a heavy, grounding hand onto Robb’s rigid shoulder. "Only a bloody fool goes into a war without pissing himself just a little bit. The ones who think they're invincible are the ones the Lannisters will butcher first."

A wet, breathless sound broke from Robb’s throat—half a sob, half a disbelieving laugh. He looked up at Theon, the dark humor cutting through the suffocating dread like a knife.

"Aye," Robb muttered, a faint, tired ghost of a smile touching his lips as he scrubbed a hand over his face to steady his nerves. "I suppose you've got a point, Greyjoy."

"I usually do," Theon murmured, though his arrogant smirk lacked its usual bite.

You let out a quiet breath, stepping out from the shadows of the tent pole to stand beside them, your hand coming up to rest lightly against the back of Robb’s chair—a silent anchor, a steady pulse in a room full of ghosts and impending slaughter.

For a few heartbeats, the three of you stood there in the flickering torchlight, wrapped in the quiet, desperate intimacy of a childhood that was ending right then and there. The silence shielded you from the heavy, blood-soaked road that waited just beyond the gates.

Because tomorrow, the horns would blow. Tomorrow, the banners would rise.

The march south was a living nightmare wrapped in wool and iron.

When the news of Eddard Stark’s execution hit the camp outside the Twins, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Robb had destroyed half his tent in a blind, sobbing rage, smashing oak chairs to splinters before collapsing onto his knees in the mud, his hands raw and bleeding from where he’d punched through a wooden chest.

You had been the only one he let in.

You didn't offer him empty platitudes or talk of vengeance. You simply knelt beside him in the freezing dirt, pulled his trembling hands into your lap, and cleaned the dirt and splinters from his skin with a rag soaked in cool water, letting him bury his face in your shoulder while the King in the North wept like a boy who had lost the sun.

In the months that followed, you were his right hand. 

You mapped the river crossings, interrogated the outriders, and kept the bannermen from cutting each other's throats over beef rations. Your bond with him grew into something terrifyingly seamless—you finished each other’s sentences, traded sharp-tongued banter over cold campfires, and shared a tent layout that made the older lords murmur behind their hands.

"You're working yourself into an early grave, mouse," Robb muttered one night, tossing a bundle of dried meat onto your desk while you squinted at a candle-lit parchment.

"Someone has to keep the northern host from starving or marching directly into Tywin Lannister's boot-knives, Robb," you shot back without looking up, though a small, traitorous smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "If I die of exhaustion, you'll have to do your own counting, and we both know you'd end up trading three thousand horses for a basket of turnips."

He let out a rich, genuine laugh—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made you forget, just for a second, about the war. He leaned over your shoulder, his chest brushing your back as he pointed a finger at the map. "Turnips are a sound investment this time of year. Do not underestimate my financial acumen."

"Your financial acumen is currently bankrupting Riverrun," you teased, turning your head just enough that your cheek nearly brushed his jaw.

Robb froze. 

For a heartbeat, the banter died. His blue eyes dropped to your lips, widening just a fraction, the air between you suddenly turning thick and heavy with something unsaid, something dangerous and electric.

Then, the tent flap whipped open.

"My lord," a messenger panted, breathless and smelling of rain. "The scouts have brought back a wounded healer from the Red Fork. She’s... she’s tending to the wounded in the lower ward, but she insists on speaking to the King."

Robb blinked, tearing his gaze away from you as if he’d just woken from a dream. The sharp, royal mask slid back over his features, washing away the warmth.

"Send her in," he said, his voice instantly dropping into command.

Talisa Maegyr.

A girl from Volantis, with dark, curling hair, eyes the color of old amber, and a fierce, sharp-tongued defiance that cut through the stuffy solemnity of the northern camp like a naked blade. 

She didn't bow; she argued. She didn't cower before the Greatjon; she talked back and made sure her voice was clear as well as heard.

And Robb was utterly, hopelessly captivated.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Just another refugee of war, another casualty of the Riverlands needing a king's ear. But as the weeks bled together, the shift was unmistakable.

Robb’s visits to your map tent grew shorter. His laughs around the campfire weren't directed at your dry remarks anymore; they were aimed at the way Talisa threw her head back when she laughed, or the way she poured vinegar over infected wounds without flinching.

You watched them from the periphery of the torchlight—watching him look at her with that same raw, incandescent intensity he used to reserve for the training yard. The intimacy you had spent years building, brick by painful brick, was dismantled in a matter of fortnights by a foreign girl with ink-stained fingers and a healer's satchel.

The jealousy didn't roar; it burned slow and cold in your chest, eating away at your stomach until every word you spoke to him felt like swallowing glass. 

You pulled back. You stopped teasing him. You buried yourself in logistics reports, skipped meals, and when he walked into your tent, you kept your eyes glued to the parchment, giving him only clipped, monosyllabic answers.

Even when Jaime Lannister had been captured you all but looked at him with the look of a stranger. You were side by side when the battle had occurred and yet it seemed you were worlds away, you had covered his blind side when a Lannister soldier had tried, poorly, to strike him and he had shielded you from an arrow that was headed for your back. 

Robb was not a man of words when he fought and you were not known to be talkative when the war raged on, but something heavy settled on the king’s chest when you hadn’t so much as looked at him when you rode back, despite being victorious.

It took him three days to notice and it took him four to track you down behind the supply wagons where you were inventorying sacks of dried barley.

"Are you cross with me?" Robb demanded, his shadow falling heavily over your work-bench.

You didn't look up. You just dragged a piece of chalk across the slate. "I am not cross with you, your grace. The inventory is balanced. The horses are shoed. If you need someone to converse with, I am certain Lady Talisa is free."

Robb let out a sharp, frustrated breath, stepping closer. "There it is again. That damned tone. You’ve barely spoken two words to me since we crossed the Red Fork, and when you do, you sound like a stranger. What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," you snapped, your control finally cracking as you slammed the slate down onto the wood. You looked up at him, your eyes burning with a volatile mix of exhaustion and heartbreak. "I am doing my job, your grace. The one you wanted me for. Or did you forget I am your sword, not your shadow?"

Robb stared at you, genuinely bewildered, his brows furrowing in that stupid, infuriating way that proved just how utterly blind he truly was.

Why were you calling him that?

"My shadow?" He let out a disbelieving scoff, running a hand through his thick red hair. "You’re not my shadow, mouse. You’re... you’re my best friend. You’re the only person I can talk to without having to wear this bloody crown. Why are you acting like I’ve cut you out?"

Best friend.

The words hit you like a physical blow, driving the remaining air straight out of your lungs. A cold, bitter laugh rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper.

"Right," you whispered, your voice dropping to a dangerous, brittle hum as you turned your face away so he wouldn't see the tears stinging the backs of your eyes. "My apologies, your grace. I forgot my place. Is there anything else you require, or may I return to the armory?"

Robb stood there for a long, heavy moment, the silence stretching between you like a chasm. You could feel the heat of his gaze, searching for something he was too dense to ever find.

“Spare me your theatrics, mouse.” he had all but pleaded, his voice laced with the fatigue of a boy who carried the weight of his men and their horses. “Tell me what has happened.”

You paused at his tone. You had no right to a tantrum, no right to what you are feeling right now. He was your king, your friend — your best friend. And he was tired. So were you. The war had taken too much and was beginning to eat away at the remnants of your childhood. 

“Nothing has happened, Robb.” you had lied through your teeth. Robb still did not buy it. He moved to open his mouth to respond but you stopped him.

“I was just frustrated with the men. I apologize.” you reasoned and he tilted his head.

“Have they said something about you being here again?” he asked, you shook your head but he had walked toward you in record speed and grabbed your shoulders for you to look him in the eye. Your heart thudded in your ears at the sudden proximity.

“You being here is the only reason I do not turn back to Winterfell,” he said and your eyes widened then.

“Your grace I—”

“Robb.” he said and you furrowed your brows, moving away for fear he might hear the drumming behind your ribs.

“What?” you asked.

“To you, I am Robb.” he said and your eyes softened. “Please do not treat me like some kind of stranger. You, mother, and Theon are the only ones I have left.” he pleaded and there you were again. Back to his side, your previous feelings cast aside just by a mere look in his blue eyes. 

“Robb.” you sighed, moving away from him, feeling incredibly down when his touch left your shoulders. “I am sorry.” 

His worries did not leave him still. 

“Are you certain they do not—”

“Yes, Robb. I promise.” you said, looking at him earnestly. You hoped it would ease his worries and you willed your heart to stop making you act like a fool. 

He was looking at you like that again. Like you were the only thing that anchored him. Like you mattered to him more than the friend he swore you were. It made you nauseous.

Ser Rodrik’s voice rung in your head.

‘Hope is dangerous, little mouse. It clouds your judgment. Pray, scream, do whatever you have to do to push this out of your mind and move on.’ 

A squire interrupted your thoughts.

“Your grace,” he greeted Robb and turned to you, “My lady, Lord Karstark summons you.” he said and eyed Robb who turned his attention to the parchment below. You cleared your throat and nodded at the boy who scurried away as Robb looked at him.

“I have to go.” you told him and he turned his gaze to you. Still worrying, still unsure. But he nodded nonetheless.

"Just... be at the council meeting tonight," he muttered quietly, his voice losing its edge, replaced by a strange, heavy confusion. He turned on his heel and walked away, his boots crunching in the mud.

You stood alone behind the wagons, your hands trembling so violently you had to grip the edge of the workbench to keep from falling. 

You hated him. You hated how easily he broke you. And yet, when you wiped the hot tears from your cheeks with a dirty sleeve, you picked up your sword and went right back to work. 

Because the North was bleeding, and whether he loved you or not, you couldn't let him die.

The tent was thick with the stench of wet wool, sour wine, and a rage so palpable it felt like electricity dancing across your skin.

Something had happened. An unthinkable, unforgivable mistake.

Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer, the man whose hands were dripping with the blood of your northern kin—was walking free. 

Catelyn Stark, in a blind, grief-stricken bid to reclaim her daughters from King’s Landing, had released him into the custody of Brienne of Tarth, trading their most valuable hostage for a ghost and a promise.

Robb was pacing the length of the command tent like a caged direwolf, his face drained of all color except for the furious, white-hot scar of his jaw.

"She let him go," Robb choked out, his voice shaking with a rage that was terrifying to behold. He slammed his fist against the central tent pole, making the canvas shudder. "My own mother. Behind my back. After everything we bled for to capture him!"

"She traded our leverage for her daughters, Robb," you said, your voice cold and level as you stood beside the war table, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. "It was a mother’s gamble, but it was a King’s war she just dismantled."

"A gamble?" Catelyn’s voice cut sharply through the entrance of the tent as she stepped inside, her face set in that immovable Tully stone. "Sansa and Arya’s lives are worth more than a prisoner in chains, Robb. You would know that if you had a fraction of—"

"Enough!" Robb roared, whirling around to face her. The veins in his neck stood out like corded steel. "You had no right! You bypassed my command, you undermined my bannermen, and you handed our greatest advantage to the enemy on a silver platter! If any other lord had done this, I would have had his head on a spike by sundown!"

"He is your brother's murderer!" Catelyn shouted back, stepping right into his space, matching his fury with her own.

"And I am the King!" Robb shouted back, the word tearing out of him like a physical wound.

The tent went dead silent. Even the guards outside seemed to hold their breath.

You looked between them—mother and son, locked in the ugliest fracture you had ever witnessed. It was the first time since Talisa had entered their lives that you and Robb were standing on the exact same side of a blade.

"We cannot let him reach King's Landing," you said, breaking the silence, your eyes fixed coldly on Catelyn. "If the Kingslayer gets back to Tywin, our entire rear flank is compromised. We need to secure the perimeter and lock down the camps. What are your orders, your Grace? Do we send outriders after Brienne?"

Robb didn't answer immediately. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his mail, his eyes darting wildly between the maps, his mother, and you. The weight of the world—the war, the betrayal, the crushing, inescapable failure of it all—was finally cracking him down to the bone.

“Get Lord Umber to accompany her to a tent, make sure she is guarded by at least three spears.” came his cold reply.

“Robb—”

He did not look at her as his voice rang out. “That is an order, mother.” 

Catelyn’s eyes welled up with tears as she willed herself to walk away from her son. Your heart drummed against your chest as you looked at your king.

"Robb," you pressed gently, taking a step toward him, forgetting your jealousy, forgetting your heartbreak, because he was drowning right in front of you. "Tell me what to do. We fix this. Just give the order."

Robb threw his hands up, a harsh, humorless laugh bursting from his chest. He looked at you—truly looked at you—with a look of such absolute, desperate helplessness that it made your breath hitch.

"Fix it?" Robb snapped, his voice cracking with a manic, breaking edge. "How in the seven hells do you expect me to fix this? How do I fix an army that's falling apart when I can't even fix my own damn life?!"

"Robb—"

"She’s pregnant!" he shouted.

The words dropped into the center of the tent like a falling stone, heavy and absolute, silencing every breath, every heartbeat, every thought in your head.

She’s pregnant.

Talisa.

The name echoed in your skull like a tolling bell. The world around you didn't spin; it simply shattered into a million tiny, silent pieces, scattering across the floor like broken glass. The frantic roaring of the wind outside the command tent, the clanking of armor from the bailey, the distant shouting of men preparing for the morning march—it all evaporated, fading into a distant, roaring hum of absolute nothingness.

You felt the blood drain entirely from your face in a single, sickening rush, leaving your skin ice-cold and pale as winter snow. Your fingers locked rigid at your sides, your fingernails biting so hard into your palms that the sharp sting of pain was the only proof you were still breathing.

For a breathless second, you couldn't move. You couldn't even draw air into your burning lungs.

All those endless nights standing at his shoulder over maps and ink-stained ledgers; all those freezing hours in the training yard where you traded bruised knuckles and secret, effortless smiles; all those quiet promises whispered in the dark when the world was ending—when the dust settles, it’ll just be us and the North—evaporated into thin air.

He had looked at you a thousand times with fierce, unwavering loyalty, calling you his most reliable sword, his closest confidante, his best friend. But loyalty and friendship were fragile, paper-thin things when weighed against a southern wife, a royal bloodline, and a new life growing in the dark.

You weren't a Stark. You weren't a highborn lady who could secure an alliance or carry an heir. You were just the sword. The mouse. The stray girl from an ambushed caravan who had learned how to hold a sword just to stay close enough to burn in the fire of him.

And now, the fire had finally reached your skin.

Your throat seized up, choking back the jagged, suffocating lump of grief that threatened to tear its way out of your chest. You couldn't scream. You couldn't cry. You couldn't even afford the luxury of breaking down, because a soldier does not weep when her commander gives the order that destroys her entire world.

With a trembling, agonizing effort, you forced your frozen muscles to twitch. You swallowed the taste of copper and ash in your mouth, raised your chin an inch, and retreated behind the only thing you had left.

Silence.

Robb immediately stopped, his chest still heaving as the weight of what he had blurted out crashed down on him. His eyes widened slightly as he looked at you, the panic flaring in his blue eyes as he realized what he had just said, and to whom.

"Mouse..." he breathed, his voice dropping an octave, reaching out a hand instinctively toward you.

It slipped past his lips so naturally, a ghost of an old, familiar teasing tone from the days when the world was smaller and the worst thing they had to worry about was Ser Rodrik's wooden practice swords.

When he said it now—rough with exhaustion, raw with everything he was too late to fix—it didn't sound like a taunt. It sounded like a lifeline. A quiet, desperate anchor in the middle of a world that had tried to tear you both apart.

You didn't flinch away. You didn't yell. You simply drew yourself up, pulling every last shred of northern pride you possessed around your shoulders like a tattered cloak, holding the pieces of your cracking heart together with pure, unadulterated willpower.

"Please excuse me, your Grace," you whispered, your voice chillingly polite, entirely devoid of life.

You didn't wait for his permission. You turned your back on the King in the North, walked past men and lords who called out your name, without a glance, and slipped out of the tent into the freezing dark, finally letting the tears fall once you were out of sight.

The realization didn't hit you all at once; it unraveled in slow, agonizing increments.

The camp was already bleeding out from a dozen different wounds. The Kingslayer had been freed by Catelyn’s desperate, frantic hands, half the northern host lay rotting in the mud of the Riverlands, and Robb’s war was slipping through his blood-soaked fingers like water. Desperation had settled over the Stark camp like a shroud of freezing fog.

It was late into the third night of your isolation—while you sat shivering in the damp shadow of your tent, clutching the hilt of your short sword to keep your hands from shaking—that Theon found you.

He didn't look like the arrogant ironborn ward who used to toss ice cubes in the training yard. His face was drawn, pale as salted bone, his dark eyes hunted and hollow. He stood over you for a long moment, the wind catching the edge of his heavy fur cloak, before he let out a harsh, bitter breath.

"I'm going to Pyke," Theon said, his voice flat, stripped of all its usual swagger.

You looked up at him, your throat tight. "Balon is at war with the North, Theon. If you go back now..."

"My father is still my father," he interrupted, jaw tightening into a hard, defensive line. "Robb’s war is falling apart. Half our men are dead, the Lannisters are laughing, and the King in the North is running out of cards. Balon has a fleet. If Robb lets me go, I can sail to Pyke, bend my knee, and bring back a hundred ironborn longships to smash the Lannister coasts. It's the only play left."

You stared at him, seeing the desperate, trapped boy beneath the ironborn armor—a hostage caught forever between two worlds, desperate to prove he belonged to neither and both. You stood up, brushing the dirt from your knees, and for the first time in days, the heavy, suffocating pain in your chest eased just a fraction. You reached out, gripping his forearm in a firm, silent northern farewell.

"Do not lose yourself out there on the salt, Greyjoy," you murmured softly.

Theon offered a tight, tragic ghost of a smile, his eyes lingering on you with a quiet, lingering ache. "Keep the wolves from tearing each other apart while I'm gone, mouse."

He turned and strode away into the dark, heading straight for Robb’s tent to plead his case, completely unaware that he was walking straight into a trap of his own making, stepping onto a path that would lead him back to Winterfell with fire in his hand and blood on his soul.

You had watched him leave, believing it was just another painful departure in a world full of them.

You were entirely wrong.

Just two weeks later, the news of Winterfell’s fall hit the camp like a plague of locusts, tearing through the tents with the blinding speed of a wildfire.

Burnt to the ground. 

Bran and Rickon murdered. 

The smoke of the north star choked out by the ironborn bastards.

And at the center of the nightmare, wearing the crown of betrayal, was Theon.

The news of Winterfell’s fall didn't just feel like a tragedy; it felt like a personal, vicious mutilation. The words echoed in your skull like a death knell. But what shattered the remaining pieces of your soul wasn't just the smoke or the blood—it was the name whispered by every panicked soldier in the camp.

Theon.

Theon Greyjoy. The ironborn ward who had stood beside you in the frozen mud of the supply wagons just weeks ago.

Sitting alone on a rotting stump outside your tent, clutching your worn leather satchel as a bitter rain began to spit from the grey sky, a memory clawed its way up from the past to tear open the wound. 

You were twelve years old, shivering behind the stables during a biting northern gale. 

You had found Theon crouched there in the dark, his knuckles split and his face bruised from an older boy's taunts about being a hostage, about the sea he couldn't reach, about a father who had traded him away like a spare hound. 

You hadn't mocked him. You hadn't called him proud. You had simply sat two paces away in the frozen hay, shoved a piece of stolen honey-cake into his frozen hand, and stayed until the shaking stopped.

He had looked at you then with naked, desperate vulnerability, whispering that Winterfell was the only home he had left, that the Starks—that you—were the only family he knew.

And he had repaid that silent, enduring sanctuary by putting a torch to the heart of the North. 

When the full, horrific details of Winterfell’s sacking finally trickled through the camp, they didn't arrive as mere words—they felt like physical blows. The broken gates. The slaughtered innocents. And then, the executioner's block in the snow outside the winter town.

Theon had sat in judgment. Theon had swung the sword.

A choked, breathless sob tore from your throat, tearing your chest wide open as your knees buckled beneath you in the mud.

Ser Rodrik.

The grey-bearded master-at-arms who had pulled you, a terrified, freezing orphan, from beneath a pile of salted fish a lifetime ago. The old knight who had taught you how to hold a blade, who had mended your torn clothes, and who had stood in the lower armory as you wept into his gambeson, finally daring to whisper the forbidden, sacred word: Father.

The man you had begged not to leave. The man who had promised, “I am always here.”

He had returned from the south only to find his home stolen by the very boy he had watched grow up in the yard. And then, broken, bound, and bloodied, Ser Rodrik had refused to bow. He had spat defiance in the face of the sea-born usurper.

And Theon—Theon, who had shared silent fires with you, who had eaten stolen honey-cake in the dark, who knew precisely what Ser Rodrik meant to the castle and to you—had raised a heavy steel sword and hacked away the life of the only real father you had ever known.

The rain poured down in sheets, washing the mud over your hands as you curled inward, clutching your stomach as if you could physically hold your shattering organs together.

He had murdered the children who grew up beside him. He had slaughtered the guards, broken the walls, and driven a blade straight through the back of every single person who had ever dared to let him in.

First Robb, choosing a southern crown and a stranger over the girl who had bled beside him through every campaign. And now Theon, burning the very foundation of your childhood to ash just to prove he was a kraken.

You sat there in the mud as the rain soaked through your woolen cloak, mixing with the hot, silent tears streaming down your face. They had all broken you—every single one you had ever sworn to protect, every single piece of a family that had left you standing alone in the ruins.

You pulled your satchel tighter against your chest, swallowed the bitter taste of ash and betrayal, and turned your face toward the north. There was nothing left for you here.

Only Catelyn had come to your tent on the final morning, her face grave, handing you a sealed scroll with the Stark direwolf stamped in red wax.

"You are the only one he trusts, and the only one I trust to make it through the Neck without drawing every ironborn blade in the marshes," Catelyn had told you quietly, her eyes heavy with a shared, bitter sorrow. "Go north. Find what is left of our home. Keep them safe."

You had taken the scroll, mounted your horse under the gray dawn sky, and ridden north alone.

You were halfway to the Barrowton crossroads when the tavern at the bend of the river changed everything.

You had stopped for a flagon of sour ale, sitting in the dark corner of the common room, when two merchants by the hearth dropped words that made your blood run instantly cold.

A wedding at the Twins.

Old Walder Frey had demanded his price for crossing the river. Not gold, not men—blood and vows. Robb was to take a Frey girl to wife, sealing a fractured alliance with a hasty, desperate ceremony to patch the holes of a sinking war.

The words struck you not with a sudden explosion, but with a dull, sickening thud, as though a heavy stone had dropped straight through your chest.

It was not Talisa. Or perhaps it was just the next name on the ledger of convenience. It didn't matter. The crown required another sacrifice, and Robb was paying it with whatever was left of his honor.

Standing alone in the shadow of your tent, the bitter realization closed around your throat like a tightening cord. 

You had already lost everything that had ever mattered. You had lost Ser Rodrik to a butcher’s block in the snow, murdered by a boy you once called brother. You had lost Winterfell to ash and iron. And now, you were losing Robb, twice no less—not to a battlefield, not to a glorious death with a sword in his hand, but to a cold, calculated transaction in a damp hall, married off to a stranger to salvage a war he had already lost.

And the most agonizing, pathetic part of it all was that you had never even told him.

You had stood at his shoulder through every sleepless night, held his armor, patched his cloaks, and swallowed every jagged piece of your own heart, waiting for a moment that would never come. You had been his most reliable sword, his silent shadow, his best friend—and you had let him go to his ruin without ever so much as whispering a single word of the truth. Without ever letting him know that beneath the leather jerkin and the sharp tongue, there was a girl who had loved him with a quiet, devastating fierceness that could have warmed the entire North.

Instead, you had kept your silence. You had watched him choose crowns, and southern and northern brides, and political debts, while you starved on the periphery of his life.

Memories surged unbidden through your mind, sharp and cruel as glass. 

You remembered the boy with melted snow in his red-gold hair, laughing in the training yard before the world turned to blood. You remembered the way his blue eyes would soften in the flickering torchlight of the command tent, the casual, grounding weight of his shoulder nudging yours when the terrors of the world grew too heavy. You remembered the breathless, frantic boy who whispered, “When the dust settles, it’ll just be us and the North.”

He had lied. Or worse, he had simply forgotten that you were flesh and bone, and not just a piece of the furniture he left behind when he rode out to conquer a world that was eating him alive.

Now, he was marching straight into the Twins, walking blindly toward an old man with a grudge and a blood-soaked bridge, ready to trade his life away for a girl he had never met.

Your chest heaved, a raw, suffocating sob tearing past your lips in the empty dark. You had sworn to stay away. You had packed your satchel, resigned your post, and turned your back on the King in the North to die in the snow with your dignity intact.

Let him go, a cold, hollow voice whispered in your mind. Was it Ser Rodrik? Or maybe Jon or Theon? He chose his path. Let him burn.

You gripped the edge of the wooden table inside your tent to steady your trembling legs, staring blindly down at the rough planks.

And then, the sound of a tavern girl walking past with a tray of drinks echoed outside, the clink of ceramic breaking the silence.

Your mug slipped from your fingers, shattering against the wooden floorboards, the dark ale splashing across your boots.

You didn't think. You didn't calculate the odds, or the miles, or the madness of riding back into the lion's den. You grabbed your reins, vaulted back onto your horse, and whipped the mare into a dead, frantic sprint straight back toward the Twins.

If by death or marriage, you would not let Robb go without a fight. You needed to tell him that his hair was stupid as it was pretty. How his smile and his laugh left you speechless and rendered every witty remark you had stored since the yard, useless. And how, with every bit of a stray and the mouse you were, you loved him. You loved him. You love him and you hoped it would be enough.

By the time you reached the outer walls of the castle under the cover of a moonless, weeping sky, the chaos was already reaching its fever pitch. The gates were heavily guarded by Frey men-at-arms, but you didn't try the front.

Remembering the old architectural logs you had read in the command tent—the forgotten drainage culverts and maintenance tunnels running beneath the water gates—you ditched your horse in the thicket, slid down the slick stone embankment, and waded waist-deep through the freezing, sewage-choked runoff directly into the bowels of the fortress.

You pulled yourself up through a rusted iron grate, your boots silently hitting the stone floor of the lower passages beneath the Great Hall.

Above you, the ceiling vibrated with a sickening, chaotic cacophony. The heavy thud of boots, the clash of steel, the screams of dying men, and the haunting, mournful notes of The Rains of Castamere bleeding down through the cracks in the oak floorboards.

No.

You pushed open a low, rotting service door that led directly behind the dais of the Great Hall.

The sight that greeted you was a slaughterhouse.

Arrows bristled from the oak tables. Men lay face down in pools of wine and blood. And right in the center of the chaos, Robb was on his knees, his hands locked desperately around Talisa, who was gasping for air against his chest, multiple, deep dagger wounds blooming dark and wet through the front of her tunic.

You froze in the shadows, your breath catching in your throat.

Robb wasn't fighting back. He was completely, catatonically frozen. 

He was clutching her body to his chest, whispering her name over and over again like a frantic prayer, tears streaming down his face as he watched the life drain out of her eyes, completely blind to the two Frey soldiers creeping up behind him with their broadswords raised for the kill.

Something inside you snapped. Not into heartbreak, but into pure, cold, unyielding iron.

He is an idiot, a fierce, desperate voice screamed in your mind. Theon. A glorious, tragic, idiotic boy who doesn't know how to survive without you.

You didn't hesitate.

You drew your bow in a single, fluid motion, pulled the string to your cheek, and let fly. The arrow took the first Frey soldier clean through the throat before he could drop his blade. As the second man whirled around in shock, you threw yourself out of the shadows, slamming the heavy pommel of your dagger directly into his temple, dropping him like a stone.

"Robb!" you screamed, your voice cutting through the blood-soaked din of the hall like a whip. "ROBB, GET UP!"

The sound of your voice—sharp, familiar, and utterly commanding—shattered the trance. Robb jerked his head up, his wide, bloodshot eyes locking onto you as you stood over him, your chest heaving, your bow in one hand and a blood-slicked blade in the other.

"Mouse...?" he choked out, his voice a broken whisper.

"If you die here, I swear to the Old Gods I will dig you up just to kill you myself," you snarled, grabbing the front of his mail and hauling him bodily to his feet. "Gather the survivors! The vanguard outside is breaking through the water gates—we fight our way out, do you hear me?!"

The sheer, furious reality of you standing there—alive, fierce, and bleeding from a scrape on your temple—hit Robb like a physical shockwave. 

The blank, hopeless despair in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, desperate surge of survival. He gripped your wrist with a bruising force, gave a sharp, guttural nod, and reached for his sword.

With you covering his blind side, your blades flashing in the torchlight, the remaining loyalists rallied. You tore through the Great Hall, beating the Freys back at their own game until the courtyard was cleared and the castle belonged to the North once more.

It was as if you were back at the battle weeks ago. Side by side battling the Lannister army with such grace that the lords would talk about how the king and the mouse moved together like an orchestrated dance. Only now it was fueled with something more. Robb with betrayal coursing through his veins, the cold clutches of grief etched in his heart as he swung his sword at any Frey who dared stand up. You, with your only purpose was to keep him safe, gritting your teeth as you ducked a blow and delivered slash by slash, your movements as fluid and as deadly. 

Shaped by the yard in Winterfell and hardened by the war, both you and Robb fought alongside the vanguard who broke through the doors of the Great Hall of the Twins.

The morning sun broke over the blood-stained stones of the Twins like a cold judgment.

The scene was a chaotic scene of triage and recovery. Wounded northern soldiers leaned against stone walls, wrapping bloody bandages, while the surviving lords gathered near the stables, speaking in hushed, stunned whispers about the miracle of their survival.

Catelyn Stark, her face pale and carved from stone, stood near the center of the yard, directing the litters. Half the surviving vanguard and nursing a knife wound on her arm—surrounding the Greatjon and Ser Brynden Tully—was gathered in a loose circle, their eyes darting toward the solar stairs.

Everyone expected the King in the North to do what a grieving lord was supposed to do.

They all assumed he would be inside the dimly lit chamber, kneeling beside Talisa’s body, weeping over the fallen Volantene girl and the unborn heir to Winterfell. It was written all over Catelyn’s face—a quiet, heavy expectation of sorrow and duty.

Instead, the heavy oak doors of the solar swung open.

Robb walked out.

His clothes were caked in dried blood and mud. His hair was a wild, untamed mess around his face. But he didn't turn toward the chambers. He didn't look back at the ruin of his camp.

His blue eyes scanned the hall with a fierce, burning intensity until they locked onto a single figure standing near the well, trying quietly to wash the blood from her forearms with a bucket of cold water.

Robb didn't walk; he strode across the cobblestones, his boots ringing out loud and clear in the silent yard.

Catelyn turned, her brow furrowing in confusion, her lips parting to call out his name. "Robb, where—"

He didn't even look at his mother. He walked straight past her, past the Greatjon, past every single dumbfounded lord and soldier who stood watching with bated breath.

He stopped right in front of you.

You froze, your hands still hovering over the water, your heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs as you looked up at him.

Robb didn't speak. He reached out with hands that were shaking violently, grabbed your wet wrists, and pulled your arms up out of the bucket. His eyes frantically scanned your skin, tracing every inch of your forearms, checking for cuts, for bruises, for the red bloom of a blade wound.

"You're bleeding," he whispered, his voice cracking horribly, the tough, unbreakable King in the North entirely dissolved into a terrified, raw boy.

"It's just a scratch, your grace," you breathed, your voice trembling as his thumbs brushed gently against your skin.

“Robb.” he said. You blinked once. Twice.

“I am just Robb, mouse.” he continued.

Robb let out a ragged, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping down against your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the violent, frantic thumping of his heart. 

He didn't care about the lords watching. He didn't care about his mother’s sharp, assessing stare from across the yard. He didn't care about the war, or the crown, or the ghost of the girl inside the solar.

He just buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and shaking against your skin.

"Do not ever do that again," he choked out, his arms locking around you like iron bands, as if he believed that if he let go, the world would tear you away from him forever. "Don't you ever leave me behind again."

You stood there in the center of the bloody courtyard, the cold wind whipping your hair across your face, your hands hovering uncertainly in the air before slowly, tentatively, coming up to rest against the broad of his back.

A heavy, suffocating knot tightened in your throat, the phantom ache of a thousand shattered nights rising up to choke you. You pulled back just an inch, your hands pressing against his chest, your voice trembling as the question forced its way past your lips.

"Talisa..." you whispered, the name tasting like ash and broken glass. "What about her? Is she... is she safe?"

Robb’s body went rigid against yours. He let out a harsh, broken exhale, shaking his head fiercely into the dark fabric of your tunic, refusing to look at you.

"Don't," he muttered, his voice thick with a sudden, agonizing shame. "Do not talk about her. I don't want to talk about her right now."

"Robb, she is your wife—"

"She is gone," he interrupted, his voice cracking, the raw, bleeding grief in his tone stopping you dead. 

He gripped you tighter, his fingers digging desperately into the leather of your jerkin. "The Freys... they didn't just break the guest right. They took everything else, too. I lost the war, I lost my crown, I lost my home, and I lost my future. There is nothing left of that life, mouse. There is only this."

He pressed his face back into your neck, a shuddering sob tearing out of him that you had never, in all your years, expected to hear from the King in the North.

"I do not want a crown," he whispered, his voice a ragged, desperate plea against your skin. "I don't want an alliance, or a southern bride, or a war. I just want you. I only want you."

Your breath caught, your heart stuttering violently against your ribs. Confusion and old, buried agony warred inside you, tearing you open. Your eyes darted past his shoulder to the edges of the courtyard, where surviving northern lords, Umbers and Karstarks and weary soldiers alike, stood in stunned, exhausted silence, staring openly at the King in the North weeping against his stray, sword-swinging shadow.

Panic flared hot in your chest. You tried to gently pry his hands away, pushing against his broad shoulders.

"Robb, stop," you whispered frantically, your voice shaking. "Look at them. Look at your men. You can't just—you can't hold me like this. They're watching us. You are the King—"

"Let them watch," Robb cut you off fiercely, refusing to budge an inch. He tightened his grip until it hurt, burying his face deeper, his voice dropping into a desperate, breaking whisper that shattered every last defense you had left.

"Please do not push me away, mouse," he begged, the raw terror in his tone baring his soul to the cold air. "Not again. I spent every mile of the march south waiting to come back to you, and I almost lost that, too. Don't leave me in the dark again. I can't survive it."

You closed your eyes, a single, hot tear slipping down your cheek and mingling with the river water on your skin.

It hurt. 

Gods be good, it hurt so much. 

But as you held him back—as the King in the North finally stopped running and let himself be held by the only person who had ever truly known him—you realized something quiet and absolute.

Love was a poor shield against a world that demanded everything you had. 

A/N: HELLO FRIENDS!! finally a robb oneshot. amiright? LOLL

let me know what you think through comments, likes, or reblogs (all and any of them are very much appreciated!). see you all in the next one ! :D

[finchytv]

GIVE ME MY WIFE BACK

— ROBB STARK ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

summary: robbs family are obsessed with his wife to the point he can’t get a moment alone with her

content: fluff, robb going insane, no war au!!

notes: this fic gave me an unmatched sense of joy. I love house stark!! I’m actually sansa starks biggest fan on my editing account I’ve posted 128 edits with her in. I saw we dub me head sansa stan. Also I will do a THOUSAND of these happy house stark fics w robb x reader it’s my fav

Robb should have known this would happen.

He married you in the godswood beneath the heart tree, snow drifting softly through the air, his entire family watching with shining eyes. It had been perfect. Quiet. Sacred.

He had thought, foolishly, that marriage would mean more time with you.

Instead, it has meant that the entire Stark family has decided you belong to them.

It begins before breakfast.

Robb wakes with you tucked against his chest, your hair a mess across his shoulder. For once, the castle is quiet. Pale morning light creeps through the shutters.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“This,” he murmurs, half-asleep, “is what I imagined marriage would be.”

You hum sleepily. “You imagined me drooling on your shoulder?”

“I did not say it was dignified.”

You laugh softly, and he feels victorious already.

Then the door bursts open.

“Robb!”

Arya’s voice.

No knocking.

No hesitation.

He doesn’t even move at first. Surely this is a dream. Surely..

“Robb, Ghost stole my boot again and Jon won’t help because he says it builds character! oh.”

There is a pause.

You pull the blankets up instinctively. Robb stares at the ceiling.

In the doorway stands Arya, hands on her hips, entirely unrepentant.

Behind her, Jon leans casually against the frame, smirking.

“You’re married,” Arya says flatly. “Not dead.”

“Out,” Robb says, voice muffled in the pillow.

Jon grins. “Father says breakfast waits for no man.”

“I am not just any man.”

“You are when you’re late.”

You are trying very hard not to laugh.

Robb finally turns his head to glare at them. “This is my chamber.”

Arya shrugs. “It’s our castle.”

And just like that, they leave, satisfied.

Robb groans.

“It is too early for this,” he mutters.

You kiss his cheek. “Your family loves you.”

“They love you,” he corrects darkly.

Breakfast is worse.

You barely make it to the table before you are intercepted.

Sansa is immediately beside you, discussing fabric choices for a new gown. Bran wants you to hear about something he saw from the battlements. Rickon climbs into your lap without permission.

Across the hall, Theon raises an eyebrow at Robb.

“You look troubled, Stark.”

“My wife has not sat beside me once,” Robb replies.

Theon glances toward you, currently laughing as Bran animatedly gestures about something involving ravens.

“She did marry into a large family.”

“She married me not them.”

“And yet she appears to be preferring their company over yours. Shame.”

Robb shoots him a look that promises violence.

At the head of the table, Ned watches the scene with quiet amusement.

Catelyn leans slightly toward him. “He is sulking.”

“He is learning,” Ned replies mildly.

Robb finally manages to reach you… only for Jon to clap a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re needed in the yard.”

“I am needed here.”

Jon looks pointedly at you being tugged away by Sansa and Arya simultaneously.

“I think you’ve lost this battle.”

The yard offers no relief.

Grey Wind bounds toward you the moment you step outside later that morning, nearly knocking you off balance. You laugh, dropping to your knees to bury your hands in his fur.

“Traitor,” Robb mutters.

Ghost appears at your side as well, serene and watchful. Even the wolves have chosen you.

Shaggydog barrels past, chasing Rickon, who is shrieking in delight.

“See?” Theon says, nudging Robb with his elbow. “Even the direwolves adore her.”

“They are my wolves.”

“They are her wolves now.”

Robb watches as you rise, brushing snow from your skirts, only to be immediately handed a practice sword by Arya.

“She said she’d spar,” Arya announces.

“You said you were terrible,” Robb protests.

“I am,” you reply cheerfully. “But she insists.”

Arya grins wickedly.

You take a stance.

Jon folds his arms, intrigued. “This should be interesting.”

You swing too wide. Arya disarms you in seconds.

You laugh.

Robb does not.

He is watching the way your cheeks flush from the cold, the way you push hair from your face, the way you beam at his sister like you have always belonged here.

He loves that they love you.

He does.

But he would also like to hold his wife without an audience.

You finally slip away from Arya, cheeks flushed, hair slightly wild.

Robb finds you in the library.

Alone.

Reading.

Hope surges.

He shuts the door behind him quietly.

You glance up, surprised, and smile.

“There you are.”

He crosses the room in three strides.

“You vanished.”

“You were sparring.”

“I would have stopped.”

You tilt your head. “Would you?”

“Yes.”

He reaches for your hand…

The door opens.

“Ah!” says Sansa brightly. “I thought you might be here.”

Robb’s shoulders drop.

Sansa steps inside with a stack of fabrics.

“I need help choosing trims.”

You blink between them.

Robb says very evenly, “Now?”

“Yes,” Sansa replies innocently. “It will only take a moment.”

It takes an hour.

Robb sits in the corner like a storm cloud while the two of you debate silks.

By midday you are seated beside Jon at lunch, discussing archery techniques you learned watching him.

Robb sits across from you.

Again.

Again.

Theon leans over. “You’ve spoken to her… what, twice?”

Robb counts silently.

“…something like that.”

Jon is demonstrating hand placement using your fingers.

Robb nearly inhales a bone.

“That is enough,” he mutters.

You look up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

But he doesn’t stop staring.

After lunch you all find yourselves in the yard again. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you cross to where Robb is.

Robb is sparring with Theon, wooden swords clashing sharply.

You pause to watch.

Theon spots you first.

“Ah,” he says, ducking a swing. “The true ruler of the North arrives.”

Robb rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

You laugh softly and lean against the fence.

Within minutes, Arya Stark appears at your side.

“Bet on Robb,” she mutters. “He sulks if he loses in front of you.”

“I do not sulk!” Robb calls.

“You do!” Arya shouts back.

Theon grins wickedly. “He fights worse when you watch.”

Robb lunges at him.

You clap when Robb finally disarms Theon.

He looks immediately toward you.

Victorious.

Breathless.

Snow in his hair.

You smile at him like he’s done something extraordinary.

He forgets entirely that Theon is still speaking.

Then Bran tugs your sleeve. “Come. You promised.”

Robb’s expression falls.

“For what?”

“She said she’d read me all the books and fairytales she brought from home.”

Robb lowers his sword slowly. “You promised?”

You hesitate. “Briefly.”

“How long is briefly?”

Bran answers for you. “Long enough.”

And just like that…

You’re gone again.

Jon steps beside Robb.

“You look wounded.”

“I just want my wife.”

“She will return.”

“She said that yesterday.”

From the tower above, your laughter drifts down.

He softens instantly.

“Gods,” he sighs. “I cannot even be angry.”

Late afternoon.

Robb finally corners you in the corridor.

“You are avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I have been busy.”

“With everyone except me.”

You soften. “Robb,”

“Reader!” calls Sansa’s voice from the stairwell. “Oh!! there you are! I was hoping,”

Robb goes very still.

Sansa approaches sweetly.

“Could you walk with me? I wanted to ask you about court etiquette.”

Robb stares at his sister like she’s declared war.

You hesitate.

He sees it.

He sighs through his nose. “Go.”

You squeeze his hand before leaving.

“Not as if she had time with you before.” He mumbled under his breath.

He stands alone in the corridor.

Again.

It’s nearly evening when you finally return to your chambers.

Robb is there.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Waiting.

You close the door gently.

“Are you angry?”

He shakes his head once.

“No.”

“Robb.”

He stands slowly.

“I woke with you this morning.”

“Yes.”

“And since then I have seen you in passing.”

Your chest tightens a little.

“They love you,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“And you love them.”

“I do.”

He steps closer.

“But I married you.”

The words are quiet.

Honest.

And for a moment, it feels like the world narrows back down to just the two of you…

A horn sounds.

Dinner.

Robb closes his eyes.

You almost laugh.

The Great Hall is loud.

Warm.

Full.

You are seated between Arya and Sansa.

Robb is three seats away.

Three.

You’re laughing at something Arya says.

You haven’t noticed him staring for several minutes now.

Theon leans in. “This is painful.”

Jon adds, “I almost pity you.”

Robb stands.

The bench scrapes loudly against stone.

Conversation dies down.

He walks around the table deliberately.

Stops behind your chair.

Places both hands on it.

“My lady.”

You look up, smiling. “Yes?”

“I require you.”

“For what?”

“For my sanity.”

Laughter ripples.

You open your mouth…

And he doesn’t wait.

He lifts you straight from the bench.

The hall erupts.

“Robb Stark!” Catelyn scolds, though she’s smiling.

“You have all had her since dawn,” he declares. “I am reclaiming my wife.”

Grey Wind barks.

Theon laughs.

Jon shakes his head.

Arya shouts, “That’s unfair!”

Robb ignores them all.

He carries you out of the hall, up the stairs, down the corridor.

Into your chamber.

He shuts the door.

Turns the key.

Leans back against it, breathing out like he’s just survived battle.

You’re laughing in his arms.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I am patient,” he corrects.

“Since when?”

“Since this morning.”

You wrap your arms around his neck.

“And now?”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice warm and low, “they can knock all they like because I am not stopping.”

Right on cue…

A pounding hits the door.

Rickon’s voice rings through the wood.

“We know you’re in there!”

Robb closes his eyes slowly.

You dissolve into laughter.

And this time…

He laughs too.

But he does not unlock the door.

[tismfanatic]

I Told You I’d See You Again

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Pairing: Jon Snow X Fem!LadyInWaiting!Reader

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Genre: fluff • angst

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: When you left with Sansa to Kings Landing, you and Jon made a promise full of whispered confessions and kisses that you’d see eachother again. Now, after four years of physical and psychological trauma, you and Sansa were brought to the wall where you reunited with a lost love.

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: Joffery and Ramsay. Yes they are warnings in themselves. Physical abuse. Beheading (RIP Ned Stark). Death. (RIP Jon but like then not RIP???)

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Word Count: 6.6k

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: this is probably the most angst/yearning filled story I’ve ever written. But I don’t like just sad times so don’t worry, has a bit of a happy ending.

The godswood was hushed in the way only Winterfell’s heart could be, snow dusting the red leaves of the weirwood as if the old gods themselves had drawn a shroud over their sacred place.

You had slipped away from the warmth of the hall hours ago, heart pounding in your chest like a caged bird, cloak drawn tight against the late-winter air.

The fire inside had been stifling, filled with last-minute farewells and worried glances from those sworn to Sansa’s side. You had smiled where you were supposed to, dipped your head politely, hidden the way your stomach twisted at every mention of King’s Landing.

The capital was a world away—bright, dangerous, and full of vipers. Everyone knew it, though few dared to say so aloud.

It was Jon who had found you here.

His boots crunched softly over the frosted ground, his breath misting pale in the moonlight. You turned at the sound, and even before your eyes landed on him, something inside you eased. Jon Snow was not a man who belonged to many things, but he had always belonged to you.

“I knew you’d be out here.” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

“Jon.” You tried to smile, though it trembled. “I thought you’d be with Robb and your brothers.”

“They’ll have me enough in the morning.” He shifted his weight, his dark curls falling into his eyes. “I wanted… one last moment. With you.”

The words cracked something open in your chest. You held your cloak tighter, not against the cold, but against the swell of longing you feared might undo you entirely.

Jon stepped closer, the moonlight catching on his pale skin, the soft fur at his collar catching the few snowflakes that were falling. He had always been beautiful to you—quietly so, in the way snow was beautiful. Not dazzling, but steadfast. Constant. A quiet kind of wonder that settled deep in your bones.

“You leave tomorrow,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud made it more real. “With Sansa.”

“Yes.” Your throat tightened around the word.

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there as though he fought with words he did not know how to shape. His fingers twitched through his gloves. That was Jon’s way—full of things he wanted to say, never certain how to say them. But tonight, perhaps, the weight of time pressed too heavy for silence.

“I don’t like it,” he confessed at last. “I don’t trust the south. I don’t trust their people, or their court. You shouldn’t have to go.”

“I serve Sansa,” you said gently, though your own doubts had plagued you for weeks.“Where she goes, I go. She’ll need me.”

Jon nodded, though his eyes burned with a helplessness that hollowed you. “Aye. She will. But who will I have, when you’re gone?”

The words were like a knife twisted between your ribs, but you knew he never meant it in a malicious way.

You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his gloved hand. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he caught your hand firmly, as though anchoring himself to the only truth he knew.

“Jon,” you whispered.

“I don’t have much to give you, there not much a bastard can offer,” he said, voice rough with urgency, “but I swear this: I’ll see you again. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs.”

Your eyes stung, tears threatening as you tried to hold them back. “Don’t promise me that,” you breathed. “You don’t know what the world will bring.”

“Then let it bring what it will.” He stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup your cheek. His palm was cold, roughened with callouses, but the touch set your skin alight. “I’ll find you again. Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”

You couldn’t fight it anymore. The tears slid hot down your cheeks, and before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question neither of you had dared to ask. Then it deepened, desperation bleeding into every brush of lips, every shiver of breath.

Jon held you as if he feared you’d vanish with the morning, and you clung back with equal fervor, pouring every unsaid word, every hidden longing, into that single moment.

When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“You’re mine,” Jon whispered, as if speaking it might make it true across distance and years. “No matter where you go. No matter what happens. You’ll always be mine.”

Your heart broke and healed in the same beat. You nodded, letting your hand rest over his racing heart. “And you, mine.”

The godswood bore witness to your vow, the red leaves whispering overhead like a thousand unseen eyes. In the stillness, you almost believed that the promise would be enough to hold back the storm.

You did not know, then, how cruel the years would be. You did not know the faces of kings or monsters, the taste of blood in your mouth, or the weight of scars yet unearned.

But you carried that kiss with you. That promise.

And so did Jon.

The road south seemed endless. Spring crept cautiously across the land, but to you, it felt nothing like the renewal you had known in the North.

Here, the air grew warmer too quickly, the winds carried dust instead of snowflakes, and the nights were louder—filled with insects, strangers, and the constant groaning wheels of the royal carriage.

Sansa rode ahead often, her auburn hair glinting bright in the sun, a sight that caught the king’s eye far too easily. She carried herself proudly, as she had been taught, the picture of a lady betrothed to a prince. You followed quietly, as was your place, a shadow at her side. Lady-in-waiting, companion, shield when needed. You did not envy her; you pitied her, though you did not let her see it.

At night, when the fires burned low and the camp settled, Sansa would sometimes lie awake, staring at the stars as though they might tell her the shape of her future. You’d sit beside her, mending a sleeve or brushing her hair.

“Do you think it will be as wonderful as they say?” she asked once, her voice wistful. “King’s Landing. The Red Keep. The court. The songs always speak of it as though it’s a dream.”

You hesitated. “Dreams can be fair or foul, my lady.” You didn’t want to dim her spark but you also needed her to understand that things could be different than the way they were exaggerated in the songs and tales.

Sansa frowned, childlike, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “It has to be wonderful,” she said, almost fiercely. “It must.”

You smoothed her braid and said nothing. Deep inside, you thought of Jon’s eyes in the godswood—dark, worried, warning—and wished you could carry that look with you as armor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The capital was dazzling in its own way: white stone towers catching the sunlight, banners snapping in the breeze, streets teeming with color and sound. Sansa gasped at the sight, her hands clasped in yours like a child too excited to contain themselves.

You, however, did not gasp. Your stomach twisted. For all its splendor, King’s Landing smelled of rot beneath the perfume—fish left too long on the docks, waste tossed into alleys, sweat baking in the sun.

You had such a bad feeling in your gut but you were here for Sansa. You wouldn’t let your fears and doubts get in the way of her happiness.

In the Red Keep, you learned your place quickly. Sansa was betrothed to the crown prince, and every eye turned on her with calculation. The queen’s smiles were sharp like knives. The courtiers’ laughter hid teeth. Even the servants seemed sharper here, watching for weakness they could exploit.

You walked a step behind Sansa, hands folded, eyes lowered, and yet still you felt the weight of it pressing on you. They saw you as hers—her shadow, her confidante. That meant you were worth something, and in King’s Landing, worth was a dangerous thing.

The cruelties began softly. A jab at dinner about your northern accent. A mocking look when you stumbled over the endless stairs of the Keep. Servants whispering when you passed, calling you “the wolf girl’s shadow.”

You bore it quietly, for Sansa’s sake. She needed to shine, to impress, to stand proud before her prince. When she blushed beneath Joffrey’s compliments, you forced yourself to smile too, though something about his smirk made your skin crawl.

At night, Sansa would chatter about him—how handsome he was, how noble, how gallant. You nodded, you hummed agreement, and you swallowed your doubts.

But sometimes, when she slept, you sat by the window and thought of Winterfell. Of snow on your lashes, of quiet halls, of Jon’s arms around you. The memory of his kiss was still fresh enough to warm you against the cold stone of your chambers.

The first true cruelty came on the kingsroad, long before King’s Landing had taught you its lessons in full. The clash between Arya and Joffrey, the chaos with Nymeria, the way Sansa was pulled between love for her sister and her betrothed—it cracked something in her.

That night, she wept in your lap.

“I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed, clutching at your gown. “I didn’t want her hurt. I only wanted him to—”

“I know.” You stroked her hair, rocking her gently, holding her close as if you could take away the pain that way. “I know, Sansa.”

Her tears soaked your skirts, but you let them. Better you than anyone else. You whispered the old songs of the North until she slept, your own eyes burning with helplessness.

In the months that followed, you learned the rhythms of the court. The morning greetings, the endless prayers, the meals where every bite carried hidden meaning. Sansa grew more quiet as the days went on, her laughter grew stiff, and her smiles were painted on with effort.

You stayed close to her, ever ready with a handkerchief, a brush, a word of comfort. When Joffrey snapped at her, you bowed your head. When the queen corrected her, you curtsied deeper. When Sansa trembled after, you whispered courage in her ear.

You found yourself doing the same for other handmaidens in your court. Wiping their tears when a nobles hand touched where it shouldn’t, sneaking them food when they’ve been dealing with a particularly cruel noble.

Once, when Joffrey struck a handmaiden across the face for hesitating too long over an answer, you stepped forward without thinking. The king’s eyes landed on you, sharp and amused.

“Would you take her punishment, girl?” he sneered.

You did not flinch. You would not give him that satisfaction. “If it pleases you, your grace.”

The back of his hand came fast and cruel. Your lip split, your cheek burned, but you kept your gaze steady. Sansa cried out, but you shook your head quickly, silently begging her not to speak for the fear he would turn his hand onto her.

Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a cool cloth to your face with trembling hands.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered to you, her concern evident in her voice.

“I’d do it again,” you said simply.

Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on your shoulder and clutched your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish too.

It was not all torment. There were moments—brief, fragile—where Sansa’s old self shone through. When she laughed at a story, when she hummed as you braided her hair, when she whispered to you about the snow she missed so dearly.

But those moments grew fewer. The queen’s shadow loomed long, and Joffrey’s moods turned sharper.

You bore the weight with her. You let them mock you, hurt you, use you as shield and scapegoat. Because every time you stepped between Sansa and their cruelty, you saw relief in her eyes, and that was enough.

At night, when she finally slept, you let yourself think of Jon. You remembered the way he would hold your face, the warmth of his kisses. The love in his words. You wondered if he thought of you still.

And when you whispered his name into the silence, you almost believed the old gods carried it northward, across the leagues of stone and snow, to where he waited.

The day everything broke began with shouting in the streets. Rumors ran faster than the wind: Ned Stark, arrested. Treason. Plotting to steal the throne.

You could hardly breathe as you ran to Sansa’s side, finding her pale and shaking in her chamber. “They’ve lied,” she said to you over and over, as though repeating it could change what was happening. “He’s good, he’s honorable—he would never—”

You held her, though your own heart cracked. You knew Eddard Stark was an honorable man. He held the laws and regulations of court as well as his duties to high regard. He would never do or be what they’ve accused. But you and Sansa were just small pieces in a too big and malicious world. There was nothing you two could do.

The days blurred. Pleas to the queen and Joffery. Tears. Desperation. You stayed strong for her, even as your stomach continued to fill with dread.

And then came the day of the execution.

You were given the ‘courtesy’ to stand with Sansa next to the execution block. You believed it gave Joffery a sort of sick pleasure for you to be there to witness Sansa’s life officially fall apart. The sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and every sound seemed to echo.

When the axe fell, when Ned Stark’s head struck the ground, Sansa screamed.

You caught her before she collapsed, though your own knees nearly gave way. The world tilted, broke, shattered. Around you, the crowd roared, jeered, cheered.

You held her face to your chest, shielding her eyes, your own tears hot on your cheeks, your eyes locked on the severed head that laid disrespected on the ground. But you could not shield her ears, nor your own, from the sound that would haunt you both forever.

The moment Winterfell’s dream died.

The days after Lord Stark’s beheading blurred together in shades of grief and terror.

The North had always been your compass, its honor a steady star, but in King’s Landing that star had been shattered before your eyes.

Sansa hardly spoke if it wasn’t to you. She moved like a doll wound too tightly, her smiles brittle, her eyes empty. You dressed her, brushed her hair, whispered comfort she no longer seemed to hear. You wanted to rage, to weep, but you swallowed it. She needed you strong, even if she could not be strong herself.

The court was merciless. Joffrey preened with his crown, the queen smirked her triumph, and the courtiers whispered gleefully of treason and justice. You became Sansa’s shield in truth, stepping forward when she faltered, bowing deeper when she forgot herself.

When Joffrey forced her to look upon her father’s head on a spike, Sansa swayed as if she might faint. You caught her hand tightly, whispering, “Don’t let them see you fall.”

Your own knees nearly gave way when the boy-king turned his eyes on you. “Ah, the little wolf’s shadow,” he said with a cruel grin. “Still following her around like a dog? Perhaps we’ll find a place for you at court too. A whipping girl, maybe.”

The laughter that followed was jagged as broken glass.

You bowed your head, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms. You said nothing. Later, in the quiet of her chamber, you let Sansa sob against your shoulder until her throat was raw.

Life in the Red Keep became a game of endurance for you two. Each day brought new humiliations, new cruelties. You learned to read Joffrey’s moods before he struck. You learned when to distract the queen’s attention to spare Sansa a question. You learned silence was often the only shield you had.

And yet—there were unlikely mercies.

Tyrion Lannister was not like the rest of his kin. Sharp-tongued, yes, but his wit never carried cruelty. When he became Hand of the King, the court sneered at him, but you watched closely. He listened to Sansa where others mocked her. He offered small kindnesses—a word, a nod, a cup of watered wine when her hands shook.

You began to exchange quiet words with him too. Once, after Joffrey had humiliated Sansa before the court, Tyrion found you in a corridor, your hands trembling with fury you dared not show.

“Best not to let the boy see your anger,” he advised softly.

You stiffened, but his eyes held no malice. Only weariness.

“I don’t need your counsel, my lord,” you murmured.

“Perhaps not.” He inclined his head. “But the both of you need allies, even small ones. And you’ll find few here willing to bleed for the last two wolves in the keep.”

It startled you. But over time, you allowed small trust to grow. Tyrion never overstepped, never treated you with scorn. It was a strange friendship—quiet, unspoken, but real.

Sometimes, when Sansa slept, you wondered if he saw in you the same thing in you two that you saw in him: a soul trying to survive in a place built to crush the weak.

The day of Joffrey’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell dawned bright and hot. You dressed Sansa carefully, smoothing her gown, braiding her hair with steady hands though your stomach churned with dread. Weddings were meant to be joyful, but here, joy felt like a dangerous facade.

The feast was a blur of music and laughter, though every sound seemed brittle. Joffrey strutted, drunk on power and wine, tormenting Sansa with jests and cruel mockery. You kept your gaze down, your hands folded tight, praying silently for the night to end.

And then—chaos.

Joffrey coughing, choking, his face turning purple as he clawed at his throat. Screams. Shouts. The queen’s shrill cry.

You froze, one arm instinctively around Sansa’s waist. You watched as the boy-king convulsed, as the hall erupted. You felt no pity. You felt no mourning. Only a hollow, stunned silence.

But then all eyes turned. To Sansa. To Tyrion. To you. To anyone who might bear blame.

“Come,” whispered Ser Dontos, suddenly urgent at your side. “Now. Quickly, if you two want to live.”

Sansa trembled, wide-eyed, and you pulled her close. You trusted no one—but in that instant, you knew staying meant nothing but death. You nodded sharply and tugged her along.

The next moments were a blur of rushing feet, pounding heartbeats, shadows and alleys. You clutched Sansa’s hand as though letting her go meant losing her forever.

By the time you reached the river, breathless and terrified, the Red Keep was behind you.

King Joffrey was dead.

And you were fugitives.

The escape was not salvation. It was the beginning of a new kind of prison.

Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion had never been consummated, yet it still marked her in the eyes of Westeros. She was a pawn, a prize, a Stark of Winterfell with claim and name worth killing for.

Wherever you went, hunters followed.

When Littlefinger’s schemes wound their way to the Eyrie and beyond, you found yourself swept into a web of lies and dangers. You absolutely loathed him, yet you had no power to break free. All you could do was cling to Sansa, whispering reassurance when she doubted herself, bearing the scorn of others so her shoulders could remain lighter.

But nothing could prepare you for Ramsay Bolton.

When Sansa was handed to him, you went too—her shadow still, her shield, her sister in all but name.

The dread set in the moment you stepped through the gates of Winterfell reborn. The castle was familiar yet twisted, its stones haunted by memory. The banners bore the flayed man now, crimson on pale, a grotesque mockery of what was once your home.

Sansa’s face was carved from ice as she was presented as bride. You stood at her side, head bowed, every muscle tight with foreboding.

And Ramsay… Ramsay smiled.

Life in Winterfell under Ramsay was worse than King’s Landing in its cruelty. Joffrey had been a spoiled boy with far too much power; Ramsay was something else entirely. Something darker.

He delighted in fear, in pain, in breaking spirits. And when he turned that attention to Sansa, you stepped between them as often as you dared.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.

When Ramsay struck her, you moved forward. When he demanded obedience, you took the punishment in her stead. He seemed to relish it, amused by your defiance, by how far you would go to protect her.

The bruises became your constant companions. The nights bled into terror. But Sansa endured, and so did you.

“Why do you always stand in front of me?” she asked once, her voice trembling as you cleaned blood from your lip.

“Because I can,” you whispered. “Because I must.”

Her eyes glistened. “I don’t want you hurt for me.”

“It’s too late for that,” you said softly. “You mean a lot to me, Sansa. If taking a beating means you live another day, I would do it ten times over.”

You embraced then, two broken pieces clinging together in the cold. In that moment, you were not lady and servant, not Stark and companion—you were sisters.

And always, in the silence of your heart, you thought of Jon.

On the darkest nights, when Ramsay’s laughter echoed in the halls and despair threatened to swallow you, you clung to the memory of the godswood. Of his lips against yours, his voice promising, “Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”

You repeated it to yourself like a prayer. You had to believe it. You had to believe he was somewhere at the wall also repeating your words in his mind. You had to.

Because if you didn’t, you feared you would not survive.

Unbeknownst to you, Jon was going through his own version of struggles.

The Wall did not sleep. It groaned and sighed like some great beast, its ice shifting with the wind, its surface glittering cold beneath the pale sun. For Jon Snow, it had long since ceased to be a wonder. It was home now, though home was a word that rang hollow in his chest.

Winterfell was gone to him. The halls of his childhood, the voices of his kin, the warmth of the hearth—those belonged to another life. His was the black now: the rough wool of his cloak, the bite of wind against his skin, the weight of duty on his shoulders.

And yet, even here, your memory would sit with him.

At first it was only at night. He would close his eyes and remember the day you met, the way your love grew until the two of you couldn’t ignore it. He remembered the godswood, the snow in your hair, the way your lips had trembled against his when you kissed him. He would remember the promise he had made—I’ll see you again.

When the days were long and grueling, when his muscles ached from training recruits or from long patrols on the ice, he would hear your laughter in his memory. He had not realized how often you laughed, how often your smile had cut through the gloom of Winterfell’s stone halls. Here, without it, the silence was heavier.

He never spoke of you. Not to Sam, not to Grenn, only to Ghost, who watched him with red eyes that seemed to know too much.

You were his secret, his solace.

When the Watch brothers named him Lord Commander, Jon felt the weight of it settle like a yoke across his shoulders. He had not sought it, had not desired it, yet it was his. He bore it with quiet resolve.

But still, there were nights when he stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into endless white, and thought of you. Did you still live? Did you still smile? Or had the vipers of the south swallowed you whole?

The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He had promised. He had promised. What was a man if he could not keep his word?

Sometimes, when exhaustion left him weak, he let himself imagine you walking through the gates of Castle Black, cloak heavy with snow. He would step forward, take your hand, kiss your snow touched lips and at last breathe again.

It was foolish. But it kept him warm when the wind cut sharp enough to bleed.

The knives came fast.

He had known discontent brewed among the brothers. His choice to side with the Wildlings was not a choice they approved of. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks. But he had not expected the steel.

“For the Watch.”

The first blade pierced his side. Jon gasped, the cold sharper than fire. Faces swam before him—men he had led, men he had trusted. And yet they carved him open as though he were nothing.

Another blade. Another voice. “For the Watch.”

Jon fell to his knees, his vision darkening. He thought of Robb, of Arya and Sansa, and Bran and Rickon. He thought of Winterfell, of snow falling on the courtyard.

And then—he thought of you.

Your face rose in his mind, clearer than any memory of banners or blades. The way you had looked at him that night, eyes full of fear of the future and love for him, lips whispering his name. He felt the press of your hand against his chest as though it were there still.

As the final knife slid home, Jon let the darkness take him with one thought: At least… perhaps I’ll see her again.

But death was not the end.

He woke gasping, the world searing bright, his lungs burning as if they had forgotten how to draw breath. His body was cold, too cold, and his heart hammered as though it might burst.

They told him later of Melisandre, of sorcery and fire. Jon heard, but he hardly listened. The only thing he knew was this: he had been given back.

Why?

He did not know. But in the dark of his chamber, he whispered your name, voice hoarse, and something inside him ached with fierce certainty.

Not even death could keep him from you.

Afterward, everything felt rawer. The cold sharper, the silence deeper, the world thinner. He did his duty still—met with the wildlings, bore the stares of the brothers, walked the halls like a ghost among men. He had brought the betrayers to justice with a face too tired to give away any other emotion.

But the thought of you no longer brought him solace. It was a knife twisting in his ribs, sharper now than ever. Because he had come so close to never keeping his promise. Because he feared he had failed you already.

Yet he clung to it. To you.

He remembered your hand in his. The vow spoken beneath the weirwood. The kiss that had been both beginning and farewell.

Jon Snow was many things—bastard, brother, commander, corpse—but he was still yours. And if there was any justice left in the world, any bit of good, the old gods would lead you back to him.

Winterfell was a cage.

Its stones were familiar, but they carried no warmth. They echoed with Ramsay’s laughter, with the scrape of locks and bolts, with screams muffled by walls too thick.

The days blurred into dread. Sansa endured with a face carved from frost, but you saw the cracks: the way her hands trembled as you braided her hair, the way she flinched when boots sounded in the corridor. You hid your own bruises, your own scars, as best you could, but some could not be hidden.

You shielded her when you could, always stepping forward, always drawing Ramsay’s cruelty toward yourself. He delighted in it. Sometimes he hurt you simply to watch Sansa break. And each time, you wondered how much more your body could take, how much more your spirit could bear.

But still you clung to the promise whispered years ago in the godswood. I’ll see you again. You whispered Jon’s name into the dark, and sometimes it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing.

Hope came in flickers.

Sansa whispered of an old woman in the kitchens, of promises that help would come if she lit a candle in the tower. You listened, heart pounding, afraid to believe.

But one night, you crept with her to the broken window, the cold biting your skin. Together, you struck the flint, the flame trembling as though it too feared discovery.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the two of you staring into the night, praying someone saw.

“Do you think anyone will come?” she asked softly.

You took her hand, squeezing. “Someone will.”

For both your sakes, you had to believe it.

Theon Greyjoy was a ghost of the arrogant boy you once knew. You had grown up with him in Winterfell, seen him boast, laugh, strut like a rooster. That boy was gone. In his place was a broken man who called himself Reek, eyes hollow, shoulders bent beneath invisible chains.

At first, you despised him. For betraying your house, for standing idle as you and Sansa suffered. For being Ramsay’s creature.

But there were moments—small, trembling—where his old self flickered through. A glance, a word, a hand hesitating where once it would have obeyed.

And then one night, when Ramsay’s cruelty pressed too far, Theon found you both.

“You can’t stay here,” he whispered, eyes darting in terror. “He’ll kill you. Or worse.”

Sansa stiffened, her voice icy. “And why should we trust you?”

“Because…” His throat worked, tears glinting in his broken eyes. “Because I can’t watch him hurt you anymore. Not after everything I’ve done.”

You studied him, your heart heavy. He was no longer the boy you’d known, but something in his voice rang true. Perhaps even broken things could still choose to stand.

“Then help us,” you said softly, taking his shaking hand in your own. “Prove it.”

The escape came on a night when the snow fell heavy, muffling the world in white. Theon led you through hidden passages, his steps sure even as his hands shook. You held Sansa’s arm tightly, your heart pounding with every creak of the stones.

Behind you, Winterfell slept fitfully. You prayed Ramsay did not wake.

At the battlements, the drop yawned below, the snow piled thick.

“We’ll never survive it,” Sansa whispered.

“We’ll die if we stay,” you murmured back.

Theon’s face was pale, his breath ragged. “It’s the only way.”

You looked at Sansa, at the girl you had followed from Winterfell to King’s Landing to this twisted mockery of home. You thought of all you had endured together, all the nights you had held her when she cried, all the blows you had taken for her.

“If you jump, I jump,” you said firmly.

Her eyes filled, but she nodded. Together, you grasped hands. And then—

You leapt.

The air tore past you, the snow rushed up, the world spun white. Impact stole your breath, pain lancing through your body. But you lived. You lived.

And for the first time in years, the gates of Winterfell no longer held you prisoner.

The snows were merciless, but hope was fiercer. You stumbled through the drifts with Sansa, half-carrying her when she faltered, half-dragged yourself forward when your own legs nearly gave out. Theon pressed on too, his face a mask of determination and guilt.

When riders came—Bolton men, hunting—the end felt near. You braced yourself, clutching the small dagger you’d stolen, prepared to die before you let them take you back.

And then a shadow thundered from the trees.

A woman, tall as a tower, sword flashing in the pale light. She struck with fury, cutting down men twice her size as though they were stalks of wheat. Beside her, a squire fought valiantly, though clumsily.

Brienne of Tarth.

You had heard whispers of her—a woman knight, sworn to Catelyn Stark.

You knew the squire too. Podrick had been a good friend to you in your years in Kings Landing.

When she dismounted before you, kneeling in the snow, her voice rang with a vow that made your knees weak.

“Lady Sansa. I swore to your mother I would keep her daughters safe. I offer you my sword and my life.”

Sansa’s lips trembled, tears freezing on her cheeks as she looked at you. She looked afraid to trust another person and you couldn’t blame her. Both of your walls had been built with iron, refusing to crumble anymore. You steadied her with a hand, your own chest aching.

“You can trust her,” you whispered, though your voice shook.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

Under Brienne’s protection, the path turned northward. The snow was bitter, the road perilous, but for the first time in years you felt a flicker of true hope.

At night, huddled by the fire, you and Sansa whispered of what lay ahead.

“Jon is Lord Commander now,” she said softly, as though afraid the words might vanish if spoken too loud.

Your heart clenched at his name. “Jon?”

“Yes.” A small, trembling smile touched her lips. “At Castle Black. If we can reach him—”

You closed your eyes, the image burning bright. Jon, alive. Waiting. The promise not yet broken.

Sansa reached from her own horse to hold your hand, the same flicker of hope in her eyes. She knew what Jon meant to you.

You let yourself whisper into the wind, so quiet no one else could hear: “Not even the Wall could keep him from me.”

And as the snow fell, you prayed the gods were listening.

The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the weight of the storm. Snow swirled in great white sheets, the wind cutting through wool and fur alike, but you barely felt it. Your pulse thundered too loud, your chest too tight. Each step forward was an agony of anticipation.

Sansa’s hand gripped yours from her own horse, trembling though she tried to hide it. Brienne and Pod fell behind, giving her space. Even Theon lingered back, eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched in shame.

And then he was there.

Jon.

Standing in the courtyard, dark cloak swirling about him, hair damp with snow. His face was pale, lined with weariness deeper than his years, but his eyes—gods, his eyes were the same. Grey as a storm sky, piercing as ever, widening now with disbelief.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind howled, snow whipped, and the years between you stretched like a chasm. Jon and Sansa simply stared at eachother, almost as if they believed the other was simply an illusion.

Then Sansa broke.

She stumbled forward, a sound torn from her throat, half a sob, half a laugh. Jon caught her, arms wrapping around her so tightly you thought he might never let her go and you found your lips curling into a smile for the first time in a long time.

“Jon,” she gasped, clinging to him. “It’s you—it’s really you.”

He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking. “Sansa.” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost you as well.”

You watched, tears stinging your eyes, your chest aching with the sight of them. Brother and sister, torn apart, reunited at last. You wanted to give them this moment, every heartbeat of it.

When at last Sansa pulled back, Jon cupped her face in his hands, studying her with a mix of grief and relief. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.

To you.

His breath caught. His hands fell away from Sansa’s face, hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something rawer than you had ever seen.

“Love…?”

Your ever lasting pet name on his lips shattered you.

It was not the first time you had heard it—he had whispered it to you many in Winterfell’s court and godswood, murmured it in stolen kisses. But now, after four years of silence, after the weight of torment and separation, it felt like a miracle.

You stepped forward, your legs unsteady, tears blurring the world. “Jon…”

And then you were finally in his arms.

He crushed you against him, as though afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You buried your face in his neck, sobs tearing free, your fists clutching tightly at his cloak.

“I thought—you were gone,” you choked.

“I thought the same of you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His hands framed your face then, trembling as his thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. His eyes devoured you, searching every line, every scar, as though to assure himself you were real.

“You’re alive,” he said, over and over, like a prayer. “Gods, you’re alive.”

Your laugh was a broken thing, wet with tears. “Barely.”

At that, his expression shifted. Grief. Rage. His gaze dropped to the faint bruises at your throat, the scars you could not hide. His jaw clenched, his whole body taut with fury held barely in check.

“What did they do to you?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous.

You shook your head quickly, pressing your forehead to his. “Not now. Please. Just hold me.”

And he did. He held you as though he could keep the world itself at bay.

Later, when the storm eased and warmth could be found in the Great Hall, the four of you—Jon, Sansa, you, Brienne—sat together. Food was laid out, though you barely touched it. Your eyes stayed on Jon, drinking in every detail, afraid to blink.

Sansa held your hand, her head resting on your shoulder, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in years. Brienne stood guard nearby, silent as ever, but you felt her watchful gaze soften.

Jon reached across the table, his hand finding yours beneath the wood. His fingers twined with yours, rough and warm, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed.

“I kept my promise,” he murmured low, for you alone.

Tears burned again. “So did I.”

That night, in the quiet of a chamber that held nothing but you and him, you showed him the truth.

You let the cloak fall from your shoulders, revealing the bruises, the scars, the thinness of a body too long starved and beaten. His eyes roved over you, and the pain there nearly undid you.

“Every mark,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered just shy of your skin, “is one more I’ll carry with you. They’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”

You reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing his stormy gaze to meet yours. “Jon Snow,” you said softly, firmly, “you are the only thing that kept me alive. Every day, every night, I thought of you. Of our promise. That’s why I survived.”

His lips trembled, and then he kissed you.

It was not the hurried, secretive kiss of Winterfell, nor the desperate imagining of years apart. It was broken and healing all at once, tasting of tears and firelight, of longing finally, finally fulfilled.

When you pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, Jon whispered, “Not even death could keep me from you.”

And for the first time in years, you believed in tomorrow.

[cherryofthenorth]

❆ Northbound ❆

King in the North! Jon Snow x Fem! reader

Part 3/?

part 2 here! :)

Summary: You wake up with the sun, and the embarrassment of your wedding night causes you to avoid Jon for the rest of the day. He won't accept that, though. You're his wife.

Warnings: SMUT (finally), virginity loss (kinda mentioned but not super harped on), Jon eats pussy cannon confirmed, service dom Jon (once again, duh)

w/c: 5.6k 

a/n: GUYSSSS I am so sorry it is ridiculous how long it took but its HERE!!! Smut finally for the couple, and a will to live for me (LOL) were so back. Anyway hugs kisses hope you enjoy. I had lots of fun writing the small council meeting too. too much lore but you're used to that by now.   

Your eyes flutter open softly as the lights pours through the window. An ache pounds against your skull and a soft groan escapes your lips. You shift a bit, ready to pull yourself off the bed, and you feel a strong pair of arms tighten around your waist.

Oh 

You turn your head, trying to look behind you. Jon.

Memories from last night come flooding in, you can feel the heat pooling in your cheeks. You had gotten drunk for the first time and practically threw yourself at him. The shame pools deep in your stomach. You feel sick.

You look to see Jon stirring softly, and his eyes open slowly. He blinks a few times before turning to you. 

“Good morning”

His hair is a mess, sticking up every which way. It almost made you laugh. Almost.

“Hi” you whisper back, awkward. You’re painfully aware of the hands splayed on your stomach. You’re not sure of what to do.

“How did you sleep?” He asks, voice gravelly, it sends a shiver up your spine.

“Good” you answer back, soft and short. You’re uncomfortable, it's obvious. You sit up. 

Jon stares at you, eyes swimming with something, but stays silent. His eyes never leave you as he watches you stand up. 

A soft knock raps against the door of the chambers. You silently thank the gods for the intrusion, worried about having to talk to Jon more. You know it's unfair, but the shame coursing through your body is clouding all judgement. Lyessa, your ladies maid, enters the room. 

“I’ve come to get you ready for the day, Your Grace.” 

There it is again, the title you’re not sure you deserve. It sounds so foreign. 

“Thank you, Lyessa.”

You don’t turn to look at Jon as you walk behind the partition on the other side of the room, Lyessa following right behind you with a beautiful grey gown. 

You can hear Jon shuffling on the other side of the chambers, probably getting ready himself. You keep your eyes fixed on the ground as you drop your nightgown around your ankles. 

“I trust you had a good night, Your Grace?” She gets very close to you, ensuring only you can hear her words. She has a small coy smile on her face. 

You swallow and try to plaster the most convincing smile you can muster while nodding. 

She laces your gown up, the fabric warm and lined with fur. You hear the door open and close. Jon has left the room. 

“You look beautiful, now for the hair.” She leads you over to a small stool, and starts braiding here and pinning there. “Should I have your things moved into the king's chambers?” She asks softly, her eyes fixed on the strand she was wrangling. 

You blink a few times “I don’t know” you whisper out. 

Lyessa decides to stop with the questions for now. 

Once your hair is complete she steps away from you with a smile. She hands you your cloak, similar to the one you wore yesterday, but the fur is black. The Stark crest embroidered on the collar, you feel mixed emotions as you rub your thumb over it. 

“Time for breakfast my queen, would you like me to walk you down?” She smiles at you, a hint of pity behind her eyes. You hate that look. 

“I’m okay Lyessa, but thank you” you nod at her as you slowly stand up from the stool. You smooth out the non-existent wrinkles from your dress. Lyessa crosses the room and holds the door open for you, you walk through the doors and bid her a small smile. 

You step slowly down the hallway, taking in the sights of the castle that’s now yours, and hoping that if you take enough time you’ll miss Jon and be able to have breakfast alone.

“Your Grace.” a voice speaks from behind you, and you turn quickly.

“Ah Samwell!” you smile at the man behind you, giving you an awkward bow. “I hope you enjoyed the feast.”

Sam smiles at you with a nod “We had a wonderful time, thank you. It was good to see Jon again, and meet you of course!” 

You soften at his words. He seems very sweet. “That makes me happy to hear. I was just heading to the great hall to have some breakfast. Have you and your family eaten yet?” You ask softly. Partially hoping to get to hold little Sam again. 

“Gilly’s dressing the little one now. We’ll be along shortly.” 

You smile at him with a nod. “I will see you down there then.” and you continue your trip through the castle. 

You open the heavy doors to the hall, eyes scanning the room. They fall on Sansa and Jon sitting at the table, a chair in between them left open for you. 

“Good morning, Your Grace” Sansa smiles at you, her voice is laced with amusement. 

You let out a soft laugh “Ah ah ah… where is my curtsy?”  

She rolls her eyes playfully and pulls out your chair for you. “That is all you will receive from me.”

You smile at her, and eyes drift to Jon. He's looking right at you, you offer him a small but awkward smile. He returns it. 

The servants come and place a plate in front of you, you thank them. The smell of the meat wafts into your nose, you’re hungrier than you thought. You lift a bite to your mouth. 

“There’s a small council meeting today. In about an hour's time.”

Your head turns to Jon, eyes wide. You swallow the bite in your mouth.

“And I’m invited?” you ask, hopeful. 

Jon cocks his head at you. “You’re the queen are you not?”

Heat rises to your cheeks “Well last I checked I am, I didn’t know that queens were allowed.” 

Jon shakes his head at you, a small smile ghosting his lips. “That’s not how I do it here. You’re too smart to be sat on a shelf.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at his words. This is what you always wanted, what your father never allowed. Who were you to question this? 

“I’ll be there” Sansa smiles at you “and Lady Lyanna Mormont. I think you’ll quite like her.” 

You nod your head, deep in thought. 

Jon eyes you softly before standing up. “I have some paperwork to get ready before the meeting. I’ll see you both there.” He places his hand on your back before walking off. 

Sansa watches him walk about before whipping her head over to you. “What is the problem?”

Your eyes widen, she's always been good at reading you. “Nothing.” you mumble out, pushing your breakfast around with your fork. 

“Liar” her eyes narrow. She places her hand over yours “Tell me everything that happened. Or… not everything” she laughs a bit “There are some things I do not wish to hear” 

Your cheeks burn at the implication of her words. You let out a soft groan before dramatically letting your face drop into your hands. “I don’t know” 

Sansa looks at you, waiting for you to continue. 

“I just… we were… ugh!” Your face is burning hot. You can’t seem to spit the words out. The shame is clawing up at your throat. 

Sansa softens immediately, she speaks your name sweetly, like she did when you were children. “You’re a married woman, whatever happened, there should be no shame. He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Sansa panics slightly. 

No! no , of course he didn't" you quickly reassure her. “We did, something, partially, not quite the whole thing…” you trail off slightly looking away from her. “And I enjoyed it. I was not acting like a lady, he must be so disappointed in me.”

Sansa can’t help the small laugh that claws up her throat.

“Sansa!” your voice is a mix of a yell and a whine. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. You think Jon thinks less of you… because you enjoyed an intimate moment? A moment that occurred within the bounds of marriage?” She shakes her head, unsure of how to navigate this. The last thing she wants to hear about is her brother's marital bed… but as a friend she's dying to know. “Who in the gods’ name has gotten into your head? What kind of mad septas did you have in the south?”

You can’t help it, a laugh escapes your lips “Come on Sansa I’m serious” 

“As am I” She shakes her head with a smile on her lips. “There is nothing improper about what happened between you and your husband. Seriously.” 

“I know that… in my head I know that. But I can’t get past this horrendous feeling in my chest. I didn’t even want to look at him” You sigh, looking at her. 

Sansa gives you an apologetic smile. “Your family did you no favors, you know. I know they were trying to raise a proper lady, but someone should’ve told you the truth of things.”

You roll your eyes. “My father was more concerned with selling me off to the highest bidder than he was making sure I would lead a happy life.” 

Sansa’s deep in thought for a moment before looking at you “I really wish you married someone else.” She crinkles her nose in disgust. “I don’t want to hear about you bedding my brother.”

You laugh, exasperated. “That is fine with me because I think I’d sooner die than tell you about it right now.”

“We should go,” you say to her as you rise to your feet. “I don’t want the council's first impression of me to be tarnished by my tardiness” 

Sansa stands with you and eyes your mostly fully breakfast plate “Do not tell Jon you didn’t finish. He’ll be unhappy.” 

You smile at that and roll your eyes.

Sansa laughs all the way down the hall, her steps light and confident. The sound is comforting, even if your nerves are not.

You stop together in front of the small council chamber.

“Ready?” she asks, offering you a soft smile.

You nod, clenching your hands at your sides as the doors open. You step into the room, trying to steady your breath.

The council stands the moment you enter.

“Your Grace,” several voices echo in unison.

It feels strange. Surreal. You manage a polite smile and scan the room quickly for familiar faces. There’s Sam, smiling kindly. And the large ginger man you remember from the feast.

You walk toward the empty seat beside Jon. When you sit, the rest of the room follows. Jon doesn’t speak, but you feel the brush of his gaze on you. It helps, slightly.

Sansa walks behind you and takes the seat across the table. You offer her a small, grateful smile.

A man with a weathered face and kind eyes leans forward slightly.

“Your Grace. I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth. Hand of the King. I apologize that I was not able to greet you sooner.”

You smile back at him, your voice calm despite the flutter in your chest. “No apologies necessary, Ser. I imagine being Hand of the King keeps you quite busy.”

Davos nods, clearly appreciative of your grace.

Your attention shifts to the small, fierce-looking girl seated next to him. Her expression is unreadable.

“Your Grace. Lyanna Mormont, Representative of the smaller houses.” Her voice is steady and sharp.

“Nice to meet you, Lady Mormont,” you reply with a soft smile.

She does not return it.

The large ginger man stands next, grinning from ear to ear.

“Tormund Giantsbane. Representative of the Free Folk.”

“Nice to see you again, Tormund,” you say, a genuine smile forming. “I’m still waiting to hear the story behind your name.”

Tormund opens his mouth, but Jon speaks before he can begin.

“No.”

You shake your head, laughing quietly, and wink at Tormund. He grins.

“Samwell Tarly, Your Grace,” Sam says with a nod. “Grand Maester.”

“Yes, hello Sam.” Your smile warms, and your voice softens. “It’s good to see you again.”

The last man in the room hasn’t looked at you once. When he speaks, his voice is cool.

“Lord Umber. Representative of the Old North and tradition.”

You keep your tone gracious. “Pleased to meet you, my lord.”

He does not respond.

Jon clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming.”

The room quiets immediately. You sit up a little straighter in your chair.

“There are several matters we need to discuss today,” Jon continues. “But first: winter supplies. Some of the outer villages have begun sending word. Food is already running low in certain areas.”

Davos speaks up. “We planned well, but the winter was longer than expected. Stores in White Harbor and Bear Island are holding, but the smaller, inland villages near the Wolfswood are struggling.”

Lyanna Mormont frowns. “We’ll share what we have, of course, but Bear Island can only stretch so far. The fishing’s been poor this season. Storms have made the waters too dangerous.”

“Same in the Northmarch,” Lord Umber says, arms crossed. “I don’t see how we're meant to keep feeding mouths that don’t belong to our lands. If the smaller villages are starving, maybe their lords should have prepared better.”

You blink, surprised at the coldness in his voice.

Jon leans forward. “We are all one North now. The war ended that division. We can’t afford to start thinking about borders again.”

Tormund grunts. “Maybe you lot should start thinking about how many of those mouths are alive because of us. We fought your wars. We bled on your snow. Now we’re told we eat too much?”

“No one said that,” Sansa cuts in smoothly, always composed. “But rations are tighter than expected. We need a solution, not a fight.”

There’s a beat of silence. You glance around the table. Every face looks strained.

You clear your throat. The sound feels loud in the quiet room.

“If I may,” you say softly. All heads turn toward you.

You swallow, but keep going. “What if we organize traveling granary wagons? One from each of the major strongholds. They could move along a set route, delivering supplies to the struggling villages on rotation. It wouldn’t strain any one house too much, and no village would be left behind.”

Davos leans back in his chair, considering. “That could work.”

Sansa nods slowly. “It would show unity, as well. A symbol that the North stands together, practically and politically.”

Tormund shrugs. “As long as we’re fed, I don’t care what it’s called.”

Lyanna Mormont looks at you for a long moment. “It’s a decent plan.” Her voice is still blunt, but something in her eyes has shifted.

Lord Umber doesn’t look at you, but his jaw ticks.

Jon speaks, and when he does, his voice is low but sure. “I agree. Make it happen. Draft a list of how much each house can safely send. We’ll finalize the routes in the next meeting.”

Davos starts writing notes. Sansa is already murmuring something to Sam.

Jon turns to you briefly. His hand rests just barely on the table between you, his pinky brushing yours.

You don’t look at him, but you feel the warmth of it anyway.

The scrape of quills on parchment fills the room as the council finalizes the ration rotation. Sam is scribbling notes, and Davos reads them aloud for clarity.

Just as the meeting begins to shift to the next topic, Lord Umber speaks, his voice cutting through the quiet like frostbite.

“I wonder,” he says, eyes not on the parchment, but on you, “if it’s wise to take advice on Northern survival from someone who’s never spent a true winter here.”

The words hang in the air.

Jon’s eyes lift slowly from the table. Sansa stiffens beside him. Tormund looks up from picking at a splinter in the wood, his grin gone.

Lord Umber leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but it’s no secret you were raised in the Reach. Southern bred. Soft winters. Softer customs. This isn’t the South. We don't thrive on words and dresses.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t flinch. 

“I wasn’t aware survival was only reserved for those raised in the snow,” you say evenly.

He lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “You might dress in fur, but you weren’t forged for the cold. The people see it. The lords whisper it. You sit in the Queen’s seat, but you don’t speak like one of us.”

Before you can respond, Jon speaks. His voice is low, but there's iron behind it.

“She’s your queen, Lord Umber. You’ll treat her as such.”

Umber doesn’t back down. “I swore my sword to you, Your Grace. Not to her.”

Jon’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air shifts. Cold. Still.

“She is my wife. My queen. You show her disrespect in this room, you show it to me.”

A quiet falls. Tense. Waiting.

Sansa’s voice is the one to cut through it, calm and sharp. “The last time a Northern lord refused to accept the queen beside his king, we lost a kingdom. You may remember how that ended.”

Umber’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t speak again.

You finally meet his gaze.

“I may have been raised in the Reach,” you say, voice steady, “but I was born in the North. It would do you well to remember that half my blood is of House Dustin. I was not raised blind. I know what it means to be dismissed. I know what it means to earn respect, not inherit it. If you’re waiting for me to apologize for where I grew up, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Across the table, Lyanna Mormont nods once, almost imperceptibly. Tormund lets out a low, approving grunt.

Jon doesn’t touch you, doesn’t need to. The weight of his silence is enough.

“Is there anything else, Lord Umber?” Davos asks smoothly, pen poised.

He doesn’t respond

“You are all dismissed. Thank you” Jon's voice cuts through the silence. 

The room stands, as you and Jon walk out. His hand on the small of your back. He leans in close, “I need to talk to you.” 

You nod slightly, he leads you all the way to your shared chambers. 

 Once inside he turns to you, a small smile “You did well.”

You smile back at him “Lord Umber is an ass” 

Jon nods his head in thought. “He is.” His face falls slightly “He should not have spoken to you like that. I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again” 

You shake your head “it is alright, no need to worry.”

His eyes scan your face for a moment, he knows he needs to talk to you about this morning, but he doesn’t want to scare you off even more. He says your name. 

“If… if I did anything last night that you were not okay with, please understand that I am so sorry.”

Your head whips up, eyes wide “Oh Jon no, Gods no you did nothing wrong.” 

He blinks at you for a moment. “Then... what happened?” 

Heat creeps up your cheeks, you clench your hands at your sides, head down “It is hard to explain”. It’s really not, you just don’t want to. 

Jon grabs your hand in his “Try”

You sigh soft “Jon… I’m ashamed of how I acted.” your mouth feels dry. “I know..I know it’s silly to feel this way. I know you taught me what it meant to be intimate with someone you care about last night, but I can’t shake the feeling deep down that it was wrong. I was taught that a woman's desires were wrong, and disgraceful even. I know I initiated most of last night's events, and it feels wrong. I’m worried you might’ve thought differently of me. ” your voice shakes as you try to steady your breath “I just feel like there’s something wrong with me. That I missed a piece on what it means to be a lady.” 

Jon looks at you a moment before stepping forward, hooking a finger under your chin. You look up at him. 

“You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Truly.” he looks away trying to find his words, before looking back at you. “To see you the way I did last night, was the most beautiful thing in the world. Breathless and pleading, I cannot describe the way it made me feel. The first girl I had ever loved, the one I dreamt of as a boy, sat in my lap with those beautiful eyes. All mine.” 

His words make your breath hitch in your throat and heat pool in your belly. 

“You are my wife. There is no more shame between us, there's nothing you could do that would be ‘improper’, do you understand me?”

You nod breathlessly, heat spreading through your body. 

“And do not be mistaken, the only reason I did not initiate is because you told me you were unsure. I would’ve taken any part of you that you offered up.” His eyes are scanning over your face, a soft blush dusts his cheeks. 

   “Jon” you whisper out, you crash your lips onto his, hands gripping his arms.

He kisses you back passionately for a moment, before scooping you into his arms. He walks over to the bed and places you softly on it. 

He kicks off his boots before crawling over you, his lips don’t leave yours for one moment. 

He whispers your name against your lips, before pulling away. His face is serious. “You are not to run from me, especially after we have been intimate. You can talk to me about anything.” 

You nod at him, fisting his shirt, before pulling him back to your mouth. He smiles against your lips. 

He plants his hands firmly on your hips, as he kneels between your legs. He pulls away again, a whine escapes you. 

“Eager are we?” he teases, his voice low in your ear.

“Shut up” you glare at him. 

A smile crosses his face as he picks his head up from the crook of your neck. “What… what do you want me to do?” His eyes are serious as he looks at you. 

You writhe underneath him, every part of your body feels like it's on fire, the wetness has already pooled in your smallclothes. “I - I want you Jon, I want you to take me.” Your voice is a whisper, soft and nervous.

A small groan leaves his mouth, “Are you certain?”

You nod at him, desperate “Please” 

Like a flash, he's back on you. His hands trail softly down your sides, gripping your hips. “Sit up.”

You sit up quickly, your breath hitching in your throat 

Jon’s hands are on you in an instant, flipping you around and unlacing your bodice. “So pretty” he murmurs softly, pressing a chaste kiss to your spine. 

You shudder under him, a soft gasp catching in your throat, his fingers send a trail of tingles down where he touches “Jon” you whisper, your eyes darting around the room. 

His hands slip your gown down your body, tossing it carelessly in the room. His eyes drag down your naked frame, hungry. He chants your name like a prayer, fire burning in his veins. He kneels between your legs, planting soft kisses down your neck. 

You writhe beneath him 

He says your name again, his voice shakes, he places your legs over his shoulders, burying his head between your thighs, he licks a long stripe on your core. 

“Gods!” you call out, whimpering “Jon, this isn’t-“ your words are cut off by his tongue flicking at your clit, the sensation makes you bury your hands firmly in his dark hair. 

You can hear a deep laugh against your core, the vibrations sending chills up your spine. Your thighs clamp against his head, and he buries himself deeper into you. Your chest is heaving and you’re hot. So very hot. 

Jon picks his head up, his thumb moving to toy with your clit, in small circles. “You alright?” His voice is deep and husky as he looks at you, a small smirk pulling up the corner of his lip. 

You look down and nod quickly, your pupils blown and face warm “Good, I am good” your breathing is ragged. Any thoughts you had of propriety are gone, replaced with the need to keep him between your legs and never let him up.

He dives back in, his tongue swirling circles on your clit, the slurping noises he makes are abhorrent, he digs his hands into the meat of your hips, pulling you closer to his face.

Your body shakes, small gasps leave your mouth, you need to grab onto something. Your hands find their way into his dark curls once more, resting gently. 

He continues his assault on your clit, tasting you like a man starved. His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks gently. 

You gasp and moan, hands tugging on his hair hard. You can feel him groan and smirk against your core, and you want to hear it again. You tug a little harder this time. 

He pops his head up, pupil dilated, his mouth covered in you. He looks sinful. “Careful” his gravely voice sends another pang of heat between your legs. “Don’t start something you can’t finish” his lips tug up at the sides as he smirks at you. 

You pant softly as your eyes lock onto him. A small smile appears on your face as you tug his hair again. 

He raises his eyebrows, a dry chuckle falls from his lips. “Aye, that's how you want to play it?”

You’re no longer as sure of yourself as you were a moment ago, but nonetheless you don't relent “Yes”. Your voice was more of a squeak than a rebuttal.

He crawls up your body, arms caging you on either side of your head, his hand drops down to play with your clit. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you moan softly, head falling back against the pillows. You feel Jon shift, eye popping over when his clothes bulge presses against your hip.

He tries to bite back his smirk, he presses soft open mouth kisses down your neck, all the way to your breast.

You’re panting like an animal now, the ache between your legs growing as Jon relentlessly bullies your clit with his quick movements. He wraps his mouth around one of your nipples and you swear you can see stars. You feel the pressure building in your stomach, small gasps and moans fall from your lips. 

He smirks around your nipple, his tongue lapping at the bud while his lips are sealed around it. He pops off and whispers in your ear “That's my girl, give it to me.”

His words send you over the edge, with a loud moan you finish, your legs shake and chest heaving. 

He groans, a deep rumble in his chest, as he watches you fall apart. “So good” he kisses your cheek softly. 

Your head lolls back, soft pants fall from your lips as you look over at him. 

He smiles at you, and crawls back down your body, planting soft kisses on your inner thigh. “I’m going to get you ready for me, okay?” His voice is warm and sweet. “Let me know if it hurts”

You look down at him and nod, your head falling back again.

He presses a soft kiss to your clit, chuckling as it twitches.

 “Sensitive” he murmurs, almost like he was noting it for later. He licks a fat stripe between your folds. You can feel his finger poking at your entrance, you tense up for a moment. Jon notices instantly, “Shh, relax, I have you” his voice is low as he strokes your thigh lovingly. 

You nod again, relaxing yourself at his words. 

He begins again, he's a mess between your legs, slurping and sucking. You feel him smirk against you when you moan again, fisting his hair. He pushes one finger into you slowly, his mouth doesn't stop for one moment. 

The feeling is odd, but it's subdued by the heavenly feeling of his tongue. You’re moaning again, louder. 

The second finger is hardly noticed by you, too lost in the bliss of his tongue lapping you up like you're the first meal he's had in weeks.

“Gods be good” you stammer out utterly breathless, fingers fisting in his dark curls. “You are an animal”

He chuckles against your flesh, his head pops up for a moment. Pupils blown and wild, his lips glistening with you. The sight makes you quiver. 

“Aye. An animal” He responds. His voice is hoarse. His northern burr sends shivers straight to your core. “Your animal.”

 He dives down once more, the sinful noises of his mouth against you makes you blush. The heat from before builds in your belly again, feeling stronger.

“Jon, oh gods, Jon it.. It’s happening again” Your words are broken by ragged gasps as you begin to twitch, arching toward the ceiling.

Jon doesn't relent. You catch him starting up at you at the apex of your thighs. His tongue lolled out of his mouth while he licked you, and his arm pumping his two fingers inside you, stretching you more than you've ever felt before. The sight throttles you right over the edge. You shout his name as you tense. Like a drawn bowstring, before you slump against the mattress. 

Jon does not stop. He helps you ride out the waves of your orgasm.

“Thats it, my queen. Give me everything”. He murmurs softly, picking his head up while he continues to pump his fingers lazily into you. “I think you’re ready for me now”. His words are not a question, but he watches your face with the intensity of a man who would never force himself onto you. 

Your chest heaves with ragged puffs of air as you look down at him. You give him a soft nod. 

He crawls up your body, planting soft kisses up your navel, chest, neck, then finally your lips. You can taste yourself on him. 

He gently withdraws his fingers from you, they glisten under the light of the hearth. You’re still catching your breath when he nudges the fingers against your lips. 

“You taste sweeter than anything I’ve ever tried” His voice is husky, eyes dark as he looks at you. “It wouldn't be fair if I kept it all to myself, would it?”

You part your lips shyly, your tongue darts out against his fingers for a fleeting moment. “It’s… Good” You murmur softly, cheeks burning ever hotter. 

He smiles at you. “Good?” He shakes his head, before planting a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Better than good, my queen.”

He kneels between your spread legs, one hand moving to cup your face while the other positions the blunt head of his manhood at your core. Just the feeling of your slick heat makes him suck in a sharp breath.

“Gods” He grits out “I’ll be gentle with you, sweet girl. I swear it.” He looks down at you “Are you ready?”

You take in a soft breath, looking up into his eyes. You nod. “Yes… I am”

He pushes forward with more tenderness and care than he ever thought possible. 

You let out a soft gasp at the fullness, clenching around him, the feeling is a velvet fist.

He groans your name, a punched out breath, as his forehead finds purchase at the crook of your neck. “You feel like the seventh heaven.” 

You let out a soft whine, there is a stretch, sweet and hot, pain and pleasure. His hand finds the bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. “Oh… Oh Jon. Yes”

The voice ripped from your throat does not even sound like you, high pitched and breathy. Then he begins to move. 

“Jon. Jon. Jon.” You chant his name like a prayer, your head back against the furs and the feather pillows. 

“That's it, that's right. You take it so well, my queen.” He moans into your ear, his voice thick and husky. “So well. Look at me.” 

He picks up his head, and his eyes lock onto yours, hips moving rhythmically. Each thrust steals another breath from your lungs, relishing in the sweetest noises that fall from your lips.

“Mine. You're my wife. Say it”

You let out soft gasps, desperately trying to gather your thoughts as a tight coil winds in your belly.

“Yoursssss” You whine out, high pitched and needy. “Yours yours yours– Oh Gods!”

He drives into your, keeping pace with the soft sighs that fall from your lips. The sounds coming from your body are lewd, wet, and they drive him deeper. 

“You whine so pretty, wife” He grunts out into your ear. His free hand travels around your body. He cups your breast, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on it until it forms a peak, then pinching it gently. 

“Beautiful… just beautiful”

It's all too much. His hands, his cock, the sweet words he whispers into your ear, it drives you right over the edge, finding your pleasure once more. 

‘Yes. That's it. Oh.” He moans out, your name falling from his mouth. His careful rhythm shattering into something far more primal

‘Mine, mine mine mine”

He gives one final thrust, his body tensing with a grunt, spilling inside you. His body slumps against yours, murmuring soft things into your ear. 

“Good” you murmur, words slurred with pleasure and sleep “Very good”.

❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆❆

tagging everyone that asked for part three!

@midnightheat , @idkwhattodosooo , @sparkljumpropequeen12 , @viotetsforoses , @biribinhabride , @lov3blond777

[daniellewritesfr]

𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐲

Paring: Jon Snow x f!Reader

Summary: You arrive in Winterfell lending aid to House Stark but seeing Jon brings back lost feelings you both share.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, kissing, fluff.

Word count: 1.4k

Your heart pounded in your chest as you rode through the gates of Winterfell the familiarity of the high stone walls and the sight of Stark banners bringing back the memories of your childhood. You had, in the past, spent many years in Winterfell growing up with the Stark children. Your father became a good friend of Ned Stark; while fighting alongside each other during Robert's rebellion. Leading to many years spent in the castle. 

You arrived in the courtyard of Winterfell, the cloak you’re wearing doing surprisingly little to suppress the cold winds of the North. You had been called as a bannerman of house Stark to lend aid and fight the white walkers beyond the wall. You look around, all the people of Winterfell seem to have solemn faces ‘it’s quieter than I remember’ you think to yourself while dismounting your horse stirrups rattling, the stable boy rushes over to take the reins from your gloved hands leading your horse away. Your men follow you, dismounting their horses, gathering their things and moving supplies, all of a sudden the yard is buzzing with movement.  

“Y/n!” you turn at the sound of your name to see Sansa walking towards you, “lady Stark” you bow slightly she lets out a small laugh as she embraces you, “you mustn't call me that y/n” she smiles “well you are lady of the North are you not” you ask “that I am yes, but to you it will always be just Sansa” she states “very well than Sansa” you smile “take me to Lord Snow.” 

The castle is darker than you remember, as Sansa leads you through the doors of the great hall, you catch sight of Jon, the young man you once remembered as a solemn and brooding child.  

Walking past the large tables in the middle of the hall you pull off your gloves, you look up to see Jon sitting at the high table reading a letter “Jon” Sansa says he looks up, his face breaking into a warm smile when his eyes land on you. You can’t help but smile back. You haven’t seen Jon in a long time, not since before he left to join the Night’s Watch. “My lord,” you take a slight bow, he stands and begins to walk towards you not saying a word, his gaze lingering.  

Finally he speaks “My lady”. He lets out a small laugh before wrapping his arms around you, you can feel the warmth radiating off of him even with the layers of fur between you, he lets go resting his hands on your shoulders before they move to cup your face.

 “Look at you” he mutters, eyes raking across you he pulls away “I didn’t think you’d come.” 

“I’m sworn to House Stark my lord” you reply “it is an honor to fight for your family.” 

 “My lord” Jon repeated “since when were you one to be so formal”? He teased.  

You can’t help but smirk, while walking past him with your hands clasped behind your back making your way to the table running your fingers along the edge,the teasing tone in Jon’s voice luring out your own wit. “And here I thought that being declared King of the North automatically earned you the title of ‘my lord’.” 

Jon chucked, a low rumble escaping his throat, “yes it does except, we grew up together there is no need for formality between us.” 

“I suppose you're right” you agree, your voice lightening. “However don’t let that get to your head, a little formality never hurt anyone.” 

Jon raises an eyebrow playfully. “Is that so? Then perhaps I should start using ‘my lady’ whenever I address you.” 

You laugh “you can certainly try but, I can’t promise I won’t retaliate” 

Jon shakes his head, a smile dancing on his lips. 

A fortnight had passed since you'd first arrived back in Winterfell, and tonight you were dining with the Starks and their men in the great hall, enjoying the loud conversations and laughter ringing throughout the room. It had been a long while since you’d allowed yourself a good time. You spent the night laughing and socializing with the others. Not noticing the way Jon was looking at you. 

As the talking and laughter slowly began to die, people began to retire to their chambers, you being one of them as the fatigue from the day's ride was finally wearing on you. Standing up making your way out to a long hallway lined with sconces providing a small amount of light as you pass various chambers while walking to your own.   

Opening the door you’re greeted with warmth radiating from the fireplace, you walk to a small table in the corner of the room picking up a few letters that you had yet to open, before dropping them back down rubbing your temples knowing that the night would be full of endless reading.  

Jon hadn’t put much thought into what he was about to do, maybe it was the wine or maybe it was just pure ignorance he thought to himself, as he was making his way through the dimly lit corridors. When he arrived at the door, his heart was pounding in his chest taking a deep breath before he raised his fist to leave a soft knock. 

While on your 3rd letter of the night you hear a light knock at your door, getting up from your seat at the table curious as to who it could be. Unlatching the door expecting it to be Sansa you were startled to see Jon standing on the other side.

“Jon” you said surprised “it’s late” 

For a moment he didn’t say anything, his gaze lingering on your face. 

 “Evening” he said “I hope I haven’t disturbed you”   

“No, it’s alright” your eyes scanning his face for any indicator of what he was there for. Tilting your head slightly to one side. “Has something happened?” you asked 

“No, no, may I come in?” 

“Yes of course. Please come in.” 

Moving aside Jon steps through, making his way to stand in front of the fireplace. He looks nervous, still thinking something had happened you ask once again. 

“Jon” you pause, he looks up, his eyes finally meeting yours. The look on his face starting to worry you. 

The silence hung like smoke in the air as you awaited his response. 

 He mumbles, moving one of his hands to run through his hair, turning back to face the fire watching the flames dance. You cautiously walk up behind him reaching to put a hand on his shoulder, he turns to face you leaning into your touch.

 Long forgotten feelings wash over you.   

“Jon, please tell me” you insist, your hand now resting at his jaw he leans further into your touch before covering your hand with his. You stayed like this for a short time relishing in the moment, the unspoken understanding filling the space between you. Removing his hand from yours to cup your jaw as he draws himself closer, his eyes searching yours for permission.

You quickly nod, before he closes the gap between you, lips brushing together. Your lips part slightly, letting his tongue slip inside. His hand glides to the nape of your neck, then moving to your waist, pressing your bodies together. You moan into the kiss, hands running through his hair while he trails gentle kisses leading from your jaw to your collarbone, small breaths escaping your lips. 

Pulling away, his gaze meeting your own.  

“You have no idea what you do to me” he whispers. 

The look in his eyes was evidence enough revealing what he felt without uttering a word. Yet he continues to speak. Hands coming back to hold your face.

“I-” he pauses for a brief moment gathering his thoughts. “You are my every thought” He breathes. “The only person able to ground me, make me feel whole. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of you. How I wasted all those years believing I had no chance, only to be standing here right now. With you.” 

Tears begin to swell in your eyes threatening to fall. 

“You consume every part of me, body and soul.” He gently wipes away the tears that begin to fall. “You are everything to me.” 

You smile at him, leaning into his touch. 

“I love you.” 

The words feel heavy. 

He starts to speak afraid of your rejection, you cut him off colliding your lips together for a brief kiss before pulling away resting your forehead against his, shallow breathing filling the room. 

“And I you.” 

The words so lightly spoken, Jon wasn’t sure he heard them. 

Leaning in to kiss you softly once more, running a hand through your hair, his eyes full of nothing but affection. “My lady.” 

[fantasydreamland]

Longing

jorah mormont x fem reader

Summary: You follow your friend Daenerys when she leaves Pentos with the Dothraki. The journey is much harder than you expected but the company of the older knight you now longed after makes it all worth it.

Notes: 18+ ONLY!!! Smuttt, p in v, fluff, angst, dothraki violence, age gap, longing, s1 spoilers

Word count: 2.2k

masterlist

You were the daughter of Magister Illyrio and the only true friend of Daenerys while she lived with you. When she was sold to the Dothraki you were surprised that your father granted you leave to join her when she left Pentos but you were happy to go and experience more of the world.

It was definitely not an easy adjustment going from living in a castle with proper cooks and servants to living in tents and eating mostly horse meat. Going from being around lords and ladies with proper manners to being around the Dothraki savages. But you cared deeply for your friend whom you were just a few years older than and did not want to abandon her with a group of strangers and her cruel brother Viserys.

There was one person you met that made the journey a little easier and that was Ser Jorah Mormont from Westeros. He was the sworn sword to Daenerys. He was an older man but quite handsome and wise and very kind to you. Overtime you developed a bit of a crush on him, feeling flustered or blushing when he was around you. Though you’d never act on those feelings because you did not think he would ever reciprocate them. You didn’t care about his age but you feared he looked at you as no more than still a child.

Little did you know he had developed strong feelings for you. He cared about you deeply, even more so than the Khaleesi he was sworn to. It was hard for him not to when you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and your personality was unlike anyone he’d ever met. He did not know what it was but you were different. He couldn’t help but stare at you when you weren’t looking. His chest would tighten at the sight of your lovely smile or your carefree laugh especially if it was directed at him. He knows he would never confess those feelings to you or anyone, he assumed you would never think of him the same way because he was a fair amount older than you. Why would someone as beautiful as you want an old knight like him?

So you both carried on as if you weren’t secretly falling for each other. The days went by full of small sweet moments and longing looks. You started to notice the way he looked at you and even Dany began to tease you about it. It made your heart race to think he might think of you romantically, the way you thought of him. Yet he remained completely unaware of your feelings for him.

**********

The day the khalasar raided a city was an especially rough day. You knew the Dothraki were savages but the brutality still came as a shock to you. The city was filled with cries and screams of people being slaughtered or beaten, and women made into slaves being taken over and over again by many members of the khalasar. Dead bodies and severed heads were everywhere you look. You were light headed and extremely nauseous. When you couldn’t stomach it anymore you fled away from the group in search of your tent.

The distant sounds of the savagery faded as the day turned to night. You had been crying alone in your tent, your hands pressed over your ears until the horrid sounds were replaced by the Dothraki feasting and celebrating outside.

You heard shuffling by the door of your tent before a soft voice called to you.

“(Y/n)?” Jorah says softly.

“Come in.” You say as you get up from your bed and attempt to make yourself look presentable.

When he entered the tent he could see the few lit candles illuminating the despair in your red puffy eyes as you looked at him.

“Ser Jorah.” You greet him politely.

“Are you alright, my lady?” He asks.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You try to fake a smile.

He looks at you with concern, clearly unconvinced you were fine. He had seen you run away earlier and came to check on you as soon as he was able. You let out a heavy sigh in defeat.

“This is just… much harder than I imagined it would be.” You admit quietly, your voice shaking as you hold back tears. “I’m grateful for the way they have treated me and also Daenerys but… the Dothraki are…” You trailed off.

“Savages.” He states and you nod sadly. “I understand how difficult it must be for you, my lady. Don’t take this the wrong way but… why do you stay? I could safely see you home to return to your father in Pentos.”

“I stayed for Daenerys because I did not want to send her away alone with that horrid brother of hers. But even after the death of Viserys I…” You stop yourself.

Jorah gives you a questioning look as he slowly steps closer to you.

“I have found other reasons to stay…” You say in a whisper as you look up at him with glossy eyes.

The small distance between you and the way he looked deeply into your eyes made your heart race. Without thinking, your hand comes up to brush his cheek and his breathing nearly stops as he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. You lean in slowly, pushing yourself up on your toes slightly to reach his height. You press your lips to his so gently they barely touch, nervous to how he will react. When you pull back there is shock on his face but a firey look in his eyes. To your surprise he leans down and captures your lips again, his hands coming to cup your cheeks as his lips press to yours, firm yet gentle, claiming yet caring.

Your arms wrap around his neck and you slip your tongue into his mouth as he gladly allows you, a low grumble of a moan escaping him that sends shivers down your spine. The kiss is slow, passionate, there was no need for words when so many feelings are spoken through the soft dance of your tongues. Your hands grasp his loose shirt and tug lightly in a silent command, he breaks the kiss for a quick second to pull his shirt over his head. When he looks back to you you’re pulling your own shirt off and he gulps as his eyes greedily take in the sight of your bare breasts.

“You are… so beautiful.” He says lowly in that deep raspy voice of his.

“So are you…” You whisper shyly, running your hands along his tone chest and arms, his breath catching at your touch.

A small smile crosses his features before he turns serious again, your mouths reconnecting. You walk backwards with your lips still connected, leading him to the small bed that was set up in your tent. Your fingers lightly run down his chest and torso, making him shiver under your touch, until they reach the hem of his trousers. You break the kiss to look into his eyes as you pull the string of his pants loose. You watch as his jaw clenches and his breathing becomes heavier.

“Is this ok?” You ask in a whisper.

He quickly nods and captures your lips once again but this time in an all consuming hungry kiss. A near growl rumbles in his throat as your tongues dance passionately together. You part to pull off your own skirts before helping him tug off his pants. Your breath catches at the sight of his hard length standing proud before you. You wrap your fingers around him and he throws his head back with a moan as you stroke him.

“(Y/n)…” He moans your name in a low grumble, the sound shooting straight to your core.

You pull him onto the bed as you lay on your back. He fits perfectly on top of you as you wrap your legs around him. You whimper when you feel his hardness pressing against your core and Jorah swears he has never heard a sweeter sound. He kisses you again then slowly moves his lips along your jaw and neck as you grind against him.

“Are you certain?” He mumbles against your skin, causing goosebumps.

“Yes.” You breathe.

He groans and presses a firm kiss to your lips as he slowly enters you. Both of your mouths drop open at the feeling and you let out a needy drawn out moan as you take him in inch by inch until he is fully sheathed inside you. He stills for a long moment, breathing heavily against your neck. It had been years now since he had been with a woman and the way your warmth gripped him so tightly made his head spin. It was an effort not to embarrass himself and come inside of you right then and there.

There had been a couple late nights where he shamefully gave into his desires when he could not stop thinking about you, about this. But the pleasure his hand and imagination brought him was nothing compared to the real thing. The real feeling of being inside you, the sight of your bare body underneath him, the sweet sweet sounds you made, even your scent, it was all so intoxicating.

Finally, he pulls most of the way out of you before slowly sliding back in. A moan escapes his lips and the sound sets your whole body aflame. He sets a slow pace, basking in the feeling of you. You rhythmically rock your hips together as you both let out low moans and heavy breaths at the feeling.

“I love you…” You whisper, the words escaping you beyond your control.

He freezes, and for a moment you regret the words until a hand brushes your cheek and he places a sweet kiss to your lips.

“I love you, (y/n).” He says as he looks deeply into your eyes.

Hearing the words come from him made your heart melt and you grab his face before capturing him in another passionate kiss. You move to change your position so you are straddling him. You sink back down onto his length with a moan and his head shoots back with his eyes scrunched closed at the feeling. He quickly opens his eyes again to look at you like he does not want to miss a single second of this.

Your hands rest on his torso as you begin slowly rocking your hips, a loud moan escaping you as pleasure shoots through you at the new position. The beautiful sound of it nearly makes him lose the last of his restraint but he was determined for you to reach your peak first. You had been with a man only once and it was painful and quick, nothing at all like the pleasure Jorah was bringing you.

He stares up at you like you are a goddess as you continue to ride him slowly, taking in the heavenly sight of you in all your glory. He couldn’t believe this was happening as he watched you grind against him, it all felt too good to be true. It truly felt like he was living in a dream and he would kill the man who would dare to wake him.

His hands roam from your hips up your body until he reaches your breasts, squeezing them gently. Your own hands come to rest on top of his, the extra support allowing you to move faster. You quickly barrel towards the edge as you move faster against him, your moans steadily growing louder. Jorah was muttering something too quiet to catch, you could not hear the desperate prayers he whispered to the gods begging to help him last just a little longer while you reach your pleasure.

Lucky for him your orgasm quickly crashes into you like a tidal wave as you cry out above him, not caring if the whole khalasar could hear you. Not even a split second later his hands shoot back to your hips to pull you hard against him as he comes deep inside you with a low guttural groan. You ride out your high with the feeling of him pulsing inside you.

You fall down onto the beside him on the bed as you both pant, catching your breaths. You look to him and he looks back at you with a smile, a beautiful genuine smile you did not see often. His head was still reeling, hardly believing what just happened. You giggle shyly and lean over to kiss his cheek.

“I meant it, by the way.” You say, breaking the silence.

“Meant what?” He asks, still panting.

“That I love you…” You say quietly.

His smile returns and he brings your lips to his in a chaste but romantic kiss.

“You have no how precious you are to me (y/n).” He says before placing another kiss to your lips. “I have loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

You cuddle up to his chest and let out a content and satisfied sigh. You begin to fall asleep listening to his heartbeat as he gently strokes your messy hair.

“I want many more nights like this…” You mumble sleepily.

“Me too.” He says in a sleepy grumble and places a kiss to the top of your head.

masterlist

taglist: @mormont19 @lena-wolvie

(tagged based on comments pls lmk if you want to be removed from the list)

[interestingplan]

In Time of Need

Jorah Mormont x F!Reader

a/n - i decided to write this on a whim because we all have our moments and times and i just needed mine, hope you guys enjoy

Summary: After finding out your brother has passed, Jorah comforts you in a time of need.

Warnings: fluff content, emotions (literally), romance, a bit of angst

You've been working alongside Daenerys for a while now, helping and attending to her every need during her time of trying to take back the iron throne. However, when you decided to attend alongside Dany your brother was well off-away somewhere. Before you decided to serve Daenerys you had always been with your family in some way, tending and taking care of everyone else's needs but your own. Your brother and you ended up getting separated as he feared the idea of the iron throne and the corruption of the seven kingdoms. Both of you having polar opposite opinions, he took off a while back ago sending you letters whenever he could. Recently, he hasn't sent anymore letters too you which has made you worried and tiresome, until today.

You hear a faint knock on the door to your chambers, you opened the door to see one of the fellow guards out-front. He hands you a sealed letter that was marked with light green penmanship addressed to you personally.

"My Lady, please forgive the intrusion but this letter is for you"

the guard hands you the letter.

You take the letter from his hands and nod him a farewell before you turn around to close your chamber doors. Standing behind the door your hands started to feel clammy as you noticed the familiar writing. You slowly open the letter revealing it's contents as you read. Your body becomes shaky and uneasy, the letter revealing to you that your brother had been killed out near the Doarthraki Sea. Clenching your arms you drop the letter to the floor along with yourself as tears began to weep from your eyes. You where always so close with your brother and it brought you immense grief, knowing he was no longer out there. While letting yourself grief amongst the cold cobblestone, you hear a faint knock on the door. Picking yourself up quickly you wiped the tears and redness away from your face, afraid you where summoned for a meeting. You opened the door to see Ser Jorah standing there before your quarters.

You and Jorah have had a weird type of relationship, you couldn't understand how he felt about you mainly because his behaviors confused you at times. Daenerys would constantly tease you about noticing how Jorah looks over and stares at you at times, but tending to shrug it off because you didn't know how to feel. However, feelings started to arise for him after he handed you a small wildflower and said that it reminded him of you. This started the feelings which continued to grow and grow even more, he tugged on your heart-strings so many times with every small encounter and interaction you had with the knight.

"Ser Jorah..!" You exclaim still wiping your face a bit from the tears

"My Lady, may I come in if that's alright?" Jorah seems to ask hesitantly

"Why yes of course," You open the door for him a little more while covering your face with your arm to try and hide the redness in your eyes

You close the door as Jorah faces you and notices your eyes seeming red and irritated. Removing your arm from your face you sniffle a bit and fix the bottom of your trousers

"What may I do for you Ser. Jorah?" You ask

Jorah felt a bit hesitant to even ask you, he knew exactly why he came into your chambers in the first place. Overhearing your sobbing taking place as he was walking by, he quietly listened hearing every tear-drop on the cold cobblestone floor. Jorah ultimately wanted to make sure that you where okay and that nothing was wrong, but going about asking you was much harder than anticipated. Jorah cleared his throat and decided to ask you the question.

"My Lad- well.. Y/n, are you alright?" Jorah asks you trying not to break eye-contact

Your face becomes a bit numb as you feel yourself starting to well up with tears again as you unexpectedly started crying once more about your brother. Jorah's face becomes concerned as you walk towards him out of emotion, you start to fall down to the floor one more as Jorah reaches your level to ground you. He gently takes your hand in his and lifts you up and guides you over to the bed in your chambers. He sits down with you on the bed still his hand in yours as you wipe away your tears with your arm.

"Y/N, what's the matter? Did something happen?" Jorah asks so softly and reassuring

Clearing your throat once more to try to speak you gather yourself to tell him what had happened

"My.. brother.., I just received word that he has.. died." Speaking while looking down at the floor

Jorah looks at you so sympathetically, he truly felt bad for the way you where currently feeling. He wanted to do something for you, anything. He decided to ask you then in there, what you needed in the moment.

"Do you.. need anything, from me right now..?" Jorah speaks suddenly

You look up at him in shock, you became so surprised by his words and how he seemed to genuinely care about you.

"I guess.. yes.." As you still began to weep your tears

Jorah decides to take you close to him and embraces you into his arms. His hands resting gently on you, as your head rests onto his chest. Jorah's heart-beat was fast and very quick as you could hear his heart pounding in his chest. You enjoy his embrace as he enjoyed yours, he wanted you to feel safe in that moment letting you grieve your sadness and loss. You look up at him for a moment feeling your tears subside as your eyes and cheeks felt flush and red.

"Jorah.." you speak as your voice sounds raspy

"Yes?"

You pause for a moment still looking up at him into his eyes as he looks down back at you, never breaking the eye contact. You get closer to Jorah's face as he looks a bit confused and puzzled by your actions, you place your forehead on his as he looks even more confused along with feeling flushed at the same time. His embrace around you tightens even more as you both where now staring at each other faces just inches apart. Jorah gently places a small kiss on your forehead, he knew in such a vulnerable moment like this that turning it into something else wouldn't be wise. You look up at him as he removes his lips from your forehead and in that very small moment of loss and grief, you felt some love restored in your heart. Still looking at him you smile a soft and somber smile, he felt relieved at this moment as he looks at you and smiles.

"Jorah.." you continue to still look up at him

"Thank you again, for being with me when I need it.." you speak softly

He still looks down at you as he wipes some remaining tears away from your eyes, he knew this moment was to beautiful

"Anything for you.. my love.."

[chemical-killjoy]

Mr. Bloody Brightside

Spike x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: very silly and fluffy

Summary: Spike has a pity-party when he thinks Y/N likes someone else, only to be very wrong

Bloody bastard, Spike thought, as he paced his crypt. Tosser. Who did he think he is, Mr soddin' Perfect? Y/N probably thinks so.

It had been a rough day. Bored out of his mind, he thought he'd come find you, hang out. All the scoobies thought you were crazy, befriending Spike since a little before he got the chip in his head (Buffy didn't know you were friends before hand), and getting so close. Why would you want to be friends with a killer? But you saw there was a man beneath the monster, and you didn't mind the monster so much anyway. You'd bonded over your sense of style, hatred of the man, music and poetry. And Spike was everything to you. Unfortunately for him, he didn't know that.

So it was a warm Thursday evening when Spike got to your shitty apartment. Sometimes he'd dream of moving in with you, buying a better place so you didn't have to live in that shit hole. Put up some black-out curtains and he'd be good to go. But he didn't dare risk suggesting it. He knocked on the splintering door and was surprised when Willow greeted him.

“Spike, hey!”

“Willow, hi,” Spike looked behind her, craning his head a little. “Is Y/N here?”

“Oh, no, she's out with Charlie, I think he's finally gonna make a move!” Willow smiled up at him, not knowing the pain she was causing.

“Charlie, right. Charlie.” He huffed.

“Something wrong, Spike? You look a little paler than usual, and that's kinda saying something.”

“Yeah, yeah all good. Just, uh, tell her I was lookin' for her, will you? And that...” Spike took a breath, turning away. “No, just tell her that. Thanks, love.” He attempted to smile at Willow before leaving.

There were many benefits to being your friend. And one of them was your ability to find cheap CDs and your love of giving gifts. A while back, after seeing how barren his crypt was, you new what he needed. A few days later, there was a box on his doorstep, a CD player with built in radio, and a bunch of old CDs, both yours and ones you bought in a pile on top. Spike spent hours on the phone with you that night, listening to songs and asking which you liked, which were gag gifts and which you'd stake him if people knew you listened to.

And that's how Spike found himself blasting The Killer's 'Mr. Brightside' and singing along at only 9pm. He spent hours getting angry, training for fights, beating up the air, reasoning with himself why he was better for you, until he eventually gave up and sank into the misery. He picked up a half-full bottle of whisky, turned on the song and played it on repeat, singing, crying, dancing and drinking until the bottle hollowed into a microphone. It was a hell of a pity party, perfect for heartbreak such as this.

He was so sure you'd pick Charlie. You sure talked about him enough. And he was such a good guy it made Spike want to puke. He was tall, dark hair, muscly, with a smooth voice. He played guitar, and was teaching you, and what's more romantic than that? And he was only a year older than you. You probably thought Spike was an old man. But he's only a few decades past 100!

But more importantly, Spike was reminded of how much he isn't worthy of you. Like so many women he'd loved before, he was probably beneath you. He was lucky you were even friends with him, after all. He was a shit man, and now a shit vampire. Why would you care for him at all? He took another swig of what was left of the quickly diminishing liquor, and screamed the chorus into the bottle, laughing into a half sob-half scream. He huffed. And then he continued to sing and dance.

You'd know that tune anywhere. Mr. Brightside. One of your favourites, blasting from Spike's crypt. You could hear it outside, and were smirking for a minute before you knocked on the door.

No answer.

“Spike,” you yelled. “I know you're in there!”

“IT WAS ONLY A KISS!” Spike yelled the lyrics, and you giggled. No way had he heard you.

You tried the door, and it was unlocked. Weird, Spike wouldn't normally leave it unlocked... Unless he's going through something.

The sight before you told you he definitely was.

Spike was dancing with his back to you, black short sleeved shirt and black jeans, hair a mess, singing into a bottle of whisky. You couldn't help but laugh at the sight before you.

Spike jumped, and turned around so fast he nearly fell over. His eyes couldn't have been wider.

“Y/N, hi.” Spike rushed to turn the song off. “What're you doin' here, love?”

“Evidently crashing a one-man party.”

“I, er, I thought you'd be out with Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, Willow said, I went to visit you today.” Spike took another, smaller, swig. “You know, I think that boy is, uh, I think he'd be good for you, you know. He's got, uh, stability, for one, I guess, and-”

“Spike.”

“Yes?”

“I don't like Charlie, not like that.”

“You don't.”

“I don't.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! He asked me out today, and while I was flattered, I said no. He's not the kinda guy I want to go on dates with.”

“What, cause he's so perfect?”

“Well, yeah, actually. He's so... nice. He's such a good guy, he has no faults, no flaws, nothing of real strength to him. Like he's sweet, don't get me wrong, and I like being his friend, but it's not like I'm into him. He's too... soft.”

“...oh.” Spike's brows raised and he nodded.

“Oh?” you couldn't help but giggled. “Spike, don't tell me you were jealous? You weren't gonna lose me even if I went out with him. We'd still be friends.”

“Yeah. Right. Friends.” Spike put the bottle down and sat on the couch. You came to sit next to him.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?” He hated how his heart leapt at you simply saying his name, and you loved how his eyes, open and honest, bore into yours.

“I, um,” you said, scooching closer. Spike took a sharp breath, feeling more intoxicated by your perfume than the whisky. “Do you, um, did you not want to be just friends?”

“Careful there, pet, what're you really asking?” Spike could swear he sobered up at your words.

You swallowed nervously before asking properly.

“Do you like me? As more than a friend?” You looked into his blue eyes, and he took a minute to process your words. If he said no, he'd be damned. If he said yes, he could lose you. He glanced down at your lips. Screw it.

“I adore you, Y/N. As much more than a friend.” His voice was low but soft. “I don't throw a bloody pity party when I think a girl's datin' someone because I think she's neat... I love you.” Spike was breathing faster with the words out in the open, and you didn't know what to say.

You opened and closed your mouth, not sure how to respond.

“Really?”

“Yes, of course, I-” Spike gave up, lurching forward and crashing his lips against yours.

You smiled into his lips, and sighed softly into the kiss, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him closer towards you, tasting the whisky on his tongue and pulling softly at short strands of pale hair. Spike put his arms around your waist and pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him. You stayed that way, lips locked, smiling, then you pulled away.

“I love you too.” And your lips were back on his.

If you like my writing, please considering buying me a coffee <3

Taglist: @fandomfoodiedancer

[jacksabbotts]

. ⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  DON'T FORGET ME ━━ . ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary following the death of your mother, joyce summers, you ( the reader ) visit her grave and have an unfortunate interaction with a vampire and are saved by spike.

main masterlist || inbox ━━━ . * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @huraxy + @we-die-like-fools + @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato

. . ᵒ .༄ s5!SPIKE x SUMMERS!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘┊͙ # 🩸 possible trigger warnings post joyce death ( it is not stated whether or not reader is biologically a summers ) ◞ grief ◞ attempted suicide by vampire ◞ depression and isolation ◞ overuse of the word "bloody" ( lmao im american i only know the way british people talk in movies 🤷‍♀️ ) ◞ mean!spike ◞ buffy and dawn slander :( ‧ 🪦 ‧ ━━ WC 3.7k

you shouldn’t be here.

you know that.

not just in the vague, “it’s a bad part of town after dark” kind of way—but in the gut-wrenching, skin-prickling, blood-deep kind of way. the kind of knowing that lives in your bones. the kind of warning that hums at the base of your spine like a knife’s edge held just a little too close.

the cemetery is quiet. almost too quiet. an eerie silence.

you don’t hear birds. you don’t hear bugs. you don’t hear anything except the sound of your own breathing—too fast, too shallow—and the rustle of dead leaves under your knees as you kneel in the dirt.

your jeans are wet from it. you didn’t even realize. cold earth soaking through the fabric, making your skin sting. you haven’t moved in—how long? an hour? two?

the stone in front of you reads joyce summers in elegant serif letters. beneath it, the years. a dash. a final insult of punctuation.

she’s in the ground. she’s not coming back.

you came here because you couldn’t breathe in the house anymore. because the walls were too quiet, too still. because buffy’s grief was rage and dawn’s was weeping and yours—was silent.

you don’t cry.

not because you’re strong, but because you don’t know how.

“i didn’t bring the flowers for you,” you say aloud, just to break the silence. your voice is hoarse, dry. you swallow, but it doesn’t help. “i brought them for me. because if i walked up empty-handed, i’d feel like a bad daughter.”

you pause.

it’s a confession. a wound.

the kind that spills when no one else is around to catch it.

“i keep thinking you’re going to walk through the door again. that you’re just at the store. that maybe buffy’s wrong. maybe the paramedic was wrong. that maybe there was a spell, or a demon, or some horrible mystical reason that can be fixed if we just figure it out—if we just find the right book, or the right fight, or the right hero to bleed for it.”

you press your fingers to your lips. they’re trembling.

“but you’re not coming back. are you?”

the breeze doesn’t answer.

your stomach twists. you want to scream, to tear the grass up by the roots, to hit something until your fists split open and you can finally feel something again—but you don’t.

you just sit there.

and you don’t hear the footsteps.

not until the shadows shift behind you. not until you feel it: the wrongness. not until the thing steps into view.

he’s tall, lean. his face is human, almost. until it isn’t.

one moment, he looks like a man. the next, his features ripple—stretch—snap into something grotesque. fangs glint. eyes flash yellow. hands flex like claws. you recognize it for what it is only because the deepest part of you remembers.

a vampire.

of course a vampire would be roaming the cemetary after sundown. you’re in sunnydale. the literal hellmouth of the world.

you should run. you should scream. you should fight.

but you don’t.

you stare at it like it’s a dream. a hallucination born of grief and sleepless nights and too many words swallowed whole.

the vampire snarls—and charges.

you don’t move. you don’t blink. you just think : fine. let it end here. let it take you. maybe then the silence in your chest will finally make sense.

it all happened in seconds.

one blink and you were kneeling at your mother's grave. the next, you were halfway to being a corpse yourself.

the vamp was young. sloppy. probably starving, desperate enough to go for something close to slayer-adjacent. but that wasn’t what made spike see red. it wasn’t the attack.

it was the fact that you didn’t fight back.

you didn’t scream. didn’t move. you just stood there. like you were waiting for it. and that made him angrier than he had been in a long time.

spike hit the bastard so hard he heard the neck break. but he didn’t stake him right away—no, he wanted him to feel it. two more punches. a knee to the ribs. then finally the stake. dust exploded in his face and still—it wasn’t enough.

you were on the ground now, dazed, bleeding from your neck, eyes glazed over like you weren’t even here. he stalked toward you. "you stupid, stupid girl—"

you blinked at him, like you didn’t understand the words. he grabbed your arm—rough, tight, not gentle—and hauled you upright.

“were you trying to get yourself killed?” he snapped. “that it? huh? came out here to cry over mum and thought you’d just make a night of it?!”

“i wasn’t—” you tried, voice hoarse.

he shook you, just once. “don’t. don’t give me some half-assed excuse.”

“i didn’t mean—”

“didn’t mean what?” he snarled. “didn’t mean to stand there like a bloody sacrifice? didn’t mean to go limp while some fanger chewed through your throat like you were a bag of crisps?”

his voice was razor-sharp. he was shouting now. you winced. “i wasn’t trying to die,” you said, too quiet. that was true. you hadn't come to the cemetery to die but right now the thought didn't seem so terrible to you. you imagine there were worse ways to go.

“could’ve fooled me,” he hissed. “you didn’t even raise a fist.”

“i couldn’t—” your breath hitched. “i couldn’t move. i just—”

“what, the grief got so loud you forgot you were made of meat?” his eyes burned into yours. “you know comes out when the sun goes down and you still—”

you choked on a sob, and that was what made him stop.

that sound.

like a child trying not to cry in front of a man who might snap her in half. like someone who hadn’t been held in a long, long time. his jaw clenched. he looked away. swore under his breath.

then—a quiet, “come on.”

he didn’t give you a choice.

you assumed he was taking you home to your sister like you were a child. you assumed he was going to yell at buffy for letting you—a stupid, stupid girl as he has already made clear—outta her sight.

but you didn’t recognize the path he took—over tombstones, past cracked statues, under a rotted archway covered in vines. the graveyard blurred into stone and earth and cold wind until he shoved open a heavy slab of concrete and pushed you inside.

his crypt.

it was colder than you expected. damp. lit by candles that had burned halfway down their wicks. a tattered armchair. a threadbare rug. the lingering scent of blood, whiskey, and old smoke.

the crypt door slammed shut behind you with a metallic clank that echoed through the stone chamber. you flinched and spike was already dragging the bolt down with a heavy thunk, his back to you, his shoulders drawn up like a coiled spring.

you stood there, half-frozen in the middle of the room, your neck stinging beneath dried blood, heart thudding too loud in your chest.

he turned. slowly—deliberately.

he stalked across the crypt, ripped open a trunk, and pulled out a first aid kit that looked like it had been looted from a world war. slapped it on a coffin. popped the lid open and sorted through gauze, tape, a stained bottle of antiseptic.

then he turned to you—eyes shadowed, jaw tight.

“sit.”

you hesitated.

“i said sit.”

you sat.

he crouched in front of you, grabbed your chin—not gently—and tilted your head to the side. the wound was messy. superficial, but angry-looking. already bruising.

“tried to go for the jugular,” he muttered. “would’ve got it, too. if i’d been two seconds later, you’d be worm food.”

“i said i wasn’t trying to die,” you said again, weaker now.

he scoffed, unscrewing the antiseptic. “yeah, well. try acting like it next time.” the sting hit like fire. you flinched hard. he didn’t apologize. just kept working, hands steady, mouth set in a grim line.

“i’ve seen slayers go down swinging,” he said. “hell, i’ve killed slayers. you? you didn't even try to stop him from biting you.”

you turned your face away. he grabbed your jaw, forced you to look at him. “don’t. don’t look away from me when i’m talkin’ to you.”

“then don’t talk to me like i wanted this,” you snapped, surprising both of you.

his eyes narrowed. “you didn’t fight. that’s enough.”

you stared at him.

he let you go. finished cleaning the wound, working in tense, brittle silence. the only sound was your uneven breathing and the rustle of gauze against skin.

when he taped the final strip down, he stood and turned away—back to the candles, the shadows, the thick silence of the crypt.

“you’re lucky it was me,” he muttered. “another vamp wouldn’t have stopped.”

“i know.”

“you should be grateful i even bothered.”

“i am.” you snapped.

he spun on you. “then prove it. stay alive.” the words slammed into the air like a gunshot. he didn’t wait for a response.

“you’re not leavin’,” he said. not a question. a decree. final and uncompromising.

your breath hitched. “it’s my life—”

“not out there, it’s not,” he cut you off, crossing the space in two long strides. “you think you can just wander out, no sunlight, neck still bleeding? i can smell you a mile away, i did. you think the other can't smell you right now?”

he was standing so close now you could smell the cigarette smoke on his coat, the faint tang of blood he hadn’t cleaned from his knuckles.

you shook your head. “i can take care of myself—”

“clearly,” he sneered, eyes narrowing. “you did a bloody bang-up job of that tonight.”

your jaw clenched. “i don’t need this.”

“what you need,” he growled, backing you toward the coffin-seat with deliberate steps, “is someone to smack some bloody sense into you. someone who isn’t so busy being the sodding golden child that they don’t notice you’re one cemetery stroll away from getting your throat ripped out!”

you stopped walking.

he didn’t.

he stepped closer, boots thudding against the stone floor, voice rising, “buffy’s off slaying gods and playing hero, dawn’s off crying in corners, and you—what? you check out? you think that’s what joyce would’ve wanted?”

your chest twisted. burning hot.

“don’t talk about her,” you said, voice low.

“why not?” he snapped. “she’s dead! everyone’s pretendin’ they’re coping, and you’re out here beggin’ to join her!” you moved past him—toward the door.

he beat you to it.

one hand slammed flat against the cement beside your head, pinning you in place without touching you, breath hot, teeth gritted. “not leavin’. not until sunup. not with every vamp in sunnydale smellin’ your blood like it’s a christmas dinner.”

you shoved him.

he didn’t budge.

“get out of my way!”

“no.”

you shoved harder, fists striking his chest. he let you. didn’t flinch. just stood there, unmovable, eyes locked on yours with that infuriating, soul-deep intensity.

“why did you save me if you hate me so much?!”

the words tore out of you—ragged, desperate, real.

silence.

a beat.

two.

then Spike laughed.

low. bitter. joyless.

“hate you?” he repeated, voice sharp. “that what you think?”

you blinked.

“i don’t bloody hate you,” he said, suddenly quiet. dangerous quiet. “i hate what you did. i hate that you gave up. i hate that you looked that bastard in the eye and said, ‘come on then.’”

you swallowed hard. “i didn’t say that.”

“didn’t have to,” he said. “your silence bloody screamed it.”

he backed off a step. ran a hand through his hair. pacing now. cigarette out of his coat in a flash—lit before you could blink. he exhaled smoke like it hurt him.

“i hate that they don’t see you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “hate that you’re invisible in that damn house. hate that you think being forgotten means being disposable.”

your throat tightened.

“i’m not invisible,” you said.

he shot you a look. sharp and brutal.

“you are,” he said, voice flat. “you are to them.” you flinched and silence fell again—thick and messy. them being your so called family made the statement hit harder than it should have.

the crypt was cold. you hadn’t noticed before. the fire from your rage had masked it. now it seeped into your bones. now you felt the sting at your throat. the ache in your limbs. the weight of it all.

"you're not leaving. so get bloody comfortable." he grunted.

you sat. you didn’t mean to. but your legs gave out, and the coffin’s edge was there, and suddenly you were hunched over, hands on your knees, trying not to cry.

spike didn’t come to you.

he stayed by the wall, watching and smoking, jaw clenched.

but he didn’t look away either.

not even for a second.

it was the cold that woke you.

that, and the ache in your neck. a slow throb under the bandage, tender and raw. your head was foggy, your mouth dry, and there was something heavy and scratchy draped over your shoulders that smelled like cigarettes and leather and old, angry cologne.

spike’s coat.

you blinked blearily at the ceiling above you—stone, cracked, dust collecting in the grooves—and tried to remember how you got here.

then it hit you.

the graveyard. the vamp. the fight. all the shouting. the way he slammed the crypt door shut like a jail cell and told you, you’re not leavin’.

you sat up slowly, pushing the coat off your chest. the bandage tugged at your skin. your hair was a mess. your shirt was wrinkled and your limbs were stiff, like your body didn’t quite know what it was allowed to feel.

spike was by the far wall. sitting in his chair, one ankle propped on a knee, cigarette held limp between two fingers. eyes already on you.

you stared back.

neither of you spoke.

then you swung your legs off the makeshift bed and stood up.

his voice cut through the room, dry and casual like it wasn’t burning behind his teeth, “don’t flatter yourself. i was makin’ sure you didn’t bleed out on my rug.”

you didn’t answer.

didn’t need to.

you knew he’d watched you sleep.

knew by the way his cigarette hadn’t burned down more than half. by the way he didn’t look surprised when your eyes opened. by the way his gaze dropped—fast—when you stood, like he’d been memorizing the shape of you, then caught himself doing it.

“i should go,” you said, throat scratchy.

he snorted. “right. back to the castle. back to your queen sister.”

you flinched.

spike saw it. of course he did. he was a predator. he could smell weakness like blood in the water. “she even know you were gone?”

“stop it.”

“bet she doesn’t. bet she just rolled over in her cozy little slayer bed and thought, ‘ah, she’s probably fine. she’s not the important one, anyway.’”

you clenched your fists. “i said stop.”

he stood. lazy and controlled. but there was something twitching under the surface—something mean. “you know what i think?” he asked, voice sharp. “i think you wanted to get bit so someone would finally notice you were bleeding.”

you hit him.

open palm. right across his face.

the crack of it echoed.

he didn’t move. didn’t flinch. just stood there, cheek red, jaw tight.

“go. to. hell,” you breathed.

“already there, love.”

you tried to step past him. he caught your arm. not hard—but firm. you turned, eyes flashing.

“let go of me.”

“you’re still healing.”

“let go of me, spike.”

he did, but not before he said, “you’re not the only one who’s been cast aside.”

you froze.

he exhaled through his nose, like the words had cost him something. “you think i don’t know what it’s like? to be the one who gets left behind? you think i haven’t stood in the corner and watched everyone move on without me?”

your lip curled. “oh, poor spike. killer vampire with a chip in his head and a hero complex.”

“i’m not a hero.”

“no? then why do you keep saving me anyway?”

he laughed. it was bitter and cruel. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“you’ve said that already.” you were toe-to-toe now. too close. both breathing hard, like an argument was just foreplay to something else.

“you gonna hit me again?” he asked, low.

you stared at his mouth. “maybe.”

he stared at yours.

and then—he kissed you.

hard and desperate. like it was the only way he could shut you up without destroying something. your teeth clicked. your breath caught. you froze for half a second—and then you kissed him back.

it was messy. frantic. more collision than kiss. his hands on your jaw. yours gripping the fabric of his shirt. you hated him. you hated him—but he was the first one to see you in weeks. the first one to stay.

when you pulled back, gasping, he stared at you like he didn’t recognize what he’d just done. like maybe he hated you for it. you beat him to it.

"don't you dare make that mean something." the words hung in the air like smoke, bitter and burned.

and spike—he had the nerve to smirk, even after the kiss, even with your breath still ragged and your hands still clenched in his shirt. “i wasn’t gonna,” he muttered, voice low. he licked his bottom lip. a smear of your lip balm clung to the corner of his mouth.

you stared at each other like guns drawn.

and that should’ve been the end of it.

you should’ve walked out. slammed the door. let the awkward silence stew in his crypt for the next hundred years. but you didn’t. you didn’t move at all.

because suddenly the air was hot.

your skin prickled with heat that wasn’t there a moment ago. his pupils were blown wide. your mouth still buzzed with the taste of his.

and the way he said it—i wasn’t gonna—like it was a lie, like he was still reeling from the feel of you, like he wanted it to mean something even if he’d never admit it—

something broke.

you tightened your grip the front of his shirt before pulling him back down to your level and kissed him again.

this time, you had started it.

and spike didn’t hesitate.

he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding it back for years.

his hands were on you instantly—your waist, your hips, the small of your back—grabbing, grounding, taking. his fingers dug in like he couldn’t believe you were real. like he expected you to vanish if he didn’t hold on hard enough.

the kiss wasn’t neat. it wasn’t gentle.

it was clumsy and needy and violent with want.

your mouths crashed together again and again, teeth clashing, lips bruising. he kissed like he fought—wild, filthy, and no patience for pretense. he bit your bottom lip just to hear the little gasp you gave, and you shoved him back until he hit the stone pillar behind him, laughing into your mouth like you’d just proven something.

the coat—his coat—slipped from your shoulders. your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. and god, the way he touched you.

like he’d wanted to for months.

like he hated himself for it.

like he just didn’t care anymore who knew.

the sun had risen by the time you made it back to revello drive.

the streets were quiet. pale light stretched across the pavement like fingers reaching for something long gone. you kept your hoodie zipped all the way up even though the morning was already warm, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves to hide the tremble in your hands.

you didn’t know what this feeling was.

it wasn’t happiness. not exactly. but it was warm.

a hum in your bones. a flush under your skin. your lips were still swollen. your neck still throbbed—the stinging bruise from when the vampire stuck his teeth into you—but it was also the blooming hickey from spike and it was your pain this time.

for the first time since the death of your mother, you didn't feel so sad. you weren't happy by any means but something had shifted.

you’d left spike’s crypt without another word. without a goodbye. without a promise. just a look that said, i don't know what just happened but it made me feel.

you hadn’t looked back. not even once.

the front door creaked when you pushed it open. you stepped inside and shut it softly behind you, careful not to make noise, half-expecting someone to come barreling down the stairs, yelling your name—

but nothing happened.

no footsteps. no gasps. no “where were you?!”

just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the clink of a spoon against ceramic in the kitchen. you moved into the hallway, your shoes barely making a sound on the tile.

buffy was at the counter in her pajamas, hair tied up, eating cereal out of the box. dawn sat at the table, swinging her legs, flicking through a teen magazine with wet hair and a towel around her shoulders.

they looked up when you walked in. just briefly. “hey,” dawn said, casual. “you’re up early.”

you blinked. “i was out.”

buffy glanced at you, then back at her cereal. “yeah? get some air?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. your fingers curled tighter in your sleeves. you heart felt tight, building with so much pressure it cracked because how could your own sisters not realize that you had gone missing. all night, nonetheless.

“i was gone all night.”

buffy shrugged. “thought you were just in your room.”

dawn didn’t even look up. “you’re really quiet when your in your room. like ninja quiet.” as if that excused the fact that they clearly didn't care about whether you were safe or not.

your throat tightened.

no one had even noticed the bandage on your neck.

no one noticed the dirt on your jeans. the crusted blood under your collar. the bruise blooming just under your jawline. no one asked why your hoodie smelled like leather and ash.

no one noticed anything.

Ⓒ jacksabbotts

[brunettemarionette]

Hey! I hope you're recovering well ❤️‍🩹

Your sweetheart season event is so incredibly cute, I love it!

And I can't believe you write for Spike! I just gotta send a request in.

I was hoping I could request something with Spike x fem or gn reader, no preference, for the Valentine's Date Planner event? I was thinking of stargazing and the prompt "I can't stop thinking about you" from the lots and lots of flirting list. I was hoping it could have a soft and sweet undertone if that's okay?

If you write this, thank you so much!

Have a great rest of your day/night and I really hope you enjoy writing these events as much as I know I, and countless others, will enjoy reading them!

title; all I see is you

pairing; spike x fem!reader

prompt/s; "I can't stop thinking about you" — lots and lots of flirting prompt list

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The night air carried a faint chill, the kind that made you grateful for someone to lean against. You'd driven out past the edge of town, where the streetlights gave up, and the sky opened wide—like someone had punched holes in black velvet just to let the light spill through.

Spike had insisted on the spot. "None of that poncy observatory rubbish," he'd grumbled earlier, cigarette dangling from his lips as he leaned against the hood of his DeSoto. "Real stars need real dark. Trust me, pet. Been lookin' at 'em longer than your great-great-grannies were in nappies."

Now the two of you were stretched out on a thick blanket he'd somehow produced from the trunk—black, of course, because Spike. A half-empty bottle of cheap red wine sat between you. He'd called it "plonk," but he'd still poured you the first glass with surprising care. The grass was cool beneath the fabric, and every so often a breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

You tilted your head back, tracing constellations you half-remembered from school. Orion. The Big Dipper. Nothing fancy, but beautiful in their quiet way.

Spike was quiet beside you, unusually so. No quips about how humans romanticized twinkling gas balls, no mocking poetry references. Just the soft rhythm of his unnecessary breathing, slow and steady, like he was trying to match yours.

You turned your face toward him. The moonlight caught the sharp lines of his cheekbones, turned his bleached hair almost silver. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes—were fixed on the sky, but you could tell his thoughts were somewhere else.

"Penny for 'em?" you asked softly.

He huffed a small laugh, the sound low and fond. "Dangerous currency, love. Might bankrupt you." But he rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand so he could look at you properly. The motion brought him closer; you could smell the faint leather of his duster mixed with smoke and something uniquely him.

"Been thinkin'," he said after a moment, voice quieter than usual. "About you."

Your heart gave a little skip. "Yeah?"

"Can't seem to help it." He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the backs of his fingers—gentle, almost hesitant, like he was afraid he'd break something fragile. "Day or night. Awake or… whatever passes for sleep with me. You're there. In my head. Under my skin. I can't stop thinking about you."

The words hung between you, simple and unguarded. No grand declarations, no dramatic flourishes—just the truth, raw and quiet, the way only Spike could deliver it when the walls were down.

You felt warmth bloom in your chest, soft and steady. "Spike…"

He gave a crooked half-smile, the kind that didn't quite hide the vulnerability underneath. "Soppy, yeah? Big bad vampire gone all soft over a girl and a few stars. Dru'd laugh herself sick. Or stake me. One or the other."

You shifted closer until your shoulder pressed against his. "I like it. The soft part."

His gaze dropped to your lips for a second, then back up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. His skin was cool, but the contact sent warmth racing up your arm anyway. "I think about you, too. All the time."

He exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, and tugged you gently until you were curled against his side, your head resting on his chest. No heartbeat, but the rise and fall was there if you listened close enough, like he was breathing just for this moment.

"Look," he murmured, pointing upward with his free hand. "Right there. That bright one? Venus. Evenin' star. Bloody poetic, innit? All glow and mystery. Reminds me of you."

You smiled into the leather of his coat. "Flatterer."

"Truth, pet." His arm tightened around you, thumb tracing lazy circles on your shoulder. "Whole bloody sky full of stars, and all I see is you."

The night stretched on—quiet, endless, perfect. No apocalypses, no demons, no pasts clawing at the edges. Just the two of you, a blanket, and a universe that for once felt kind enough to let you have this.

You tilted your chin up, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I can't stop thinking about you either."

Spike's eyes softened, the smirk melting into something real and tender. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like wine and starlight and forever possibilities.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "Good," he whispered. "Means I'm doin' somethin' right."