#dippys 1k

[dipperscavern]

dippy I’m sorry I’m a bit stupid I did not read either of the prompt bit 😭 but if possible could I just add a prompt to my previous Cregan bit? If so, ‘voices change around each other’, bc pookie would be all ‘👹👺fuck y’all I am the lord of winterfall RAGGHHH- Oh hi darling 🤗😘’

urs truly, ur very stupid cheeky anon

you’re ALL GOOD!! thank u for your congrats & i hope u enjoy!!

9. voices changing around each other (whether it deepens or their tone in which they speak changes)

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

in cregans defense, he was usually ever level-headed.

being lord of winterfell and warden of the north, you had to be — patience and understanding is cregans middle name. it’s not often he loses his temper, even less often is it unjustified when it happens, and right now, his men had royally fucked up.

winter is approaching, and with it, cregans main task has been securing enough food to last winterfell & its inhabitants for as long as necessary. the maesters can foretell when winter comes and summers ended, but how long winter lasts is never known. strengthening alliances with other houses, expanding food stores, implementing more farms and crop production — cregan had pushed everything else aside to ensure the security of the people.

even if it put pressure on cregans soldiers, his hard work had made it so winterfells’ food stores were filled to the brim — and cregan was looking forward to being able to cease his constant worrying about having enough to eat.

unfortunately for him, the gods see fit to test him once more.

one of his men hadn’t closed a food store properly, and wasn’t aware until cregan himself checked on it a few days later. by then, the food inside of it had rotted.

it wasn’t the guard himselfs fault, as one of cregans council members had failed to instruct the newly appointed guards on how to close the stores properly. in cregans opinion, error truly laid with his council. you cannot expect people to perform properly if not taught or instructed, and this was so simple a lesson, cregan felt frustration at the prospect of having to teach it.

“Am I to understand, that because of your err, we’ve been lessened an entire store?”

the men in front of him glance at one another, attempting to swallow their nerves. the food store was now being emptied in the background, as cregan had not waited to “properly” assemble in the council room. they stood outside, where cregans tone had deepened, the way it does when lord stark is angered (which is, thankfully, not often)

cregan pauses, waiting for a response, and is only offered a- “Yes, I’m afraid so, my lord….”

“Winter is almost upon us, and you intend on crippling me further. How are you meant to advise me if I must coddle you as a babe?” his tone is harsh, unforgiving. he thinks to hear ideas of solution, about what could be done, but cregan notices something else.

instead of looking at him, every man is looking past him instead. ‘have they no respect for their liege lord?’, a part of him whispers; but curiosity takes over. he turns around, and is met with you.

he blinks in surprise. “Wife.” he says, not expecting your presence. his tone is light now, airy — alike to the cregan that usually graces winterfell. the contrast in his voice from a moment ago to now would make some grin if they weren’t afraid of inciting more of their lords anger.

“I missed my lord husband at supper,” you say, as if nothing was even amiss. “You worried me, Cregan.”

cregans tongue darts out to wet his lip, momentarily forgetting about the men behind him. “That was not my intention, I-“ he cuts himself off, turning back for a moment to glance at the food store being emptied. he sighs, choosing his next words carefully.

“I shall join you momentarily.” he says, turning to face you once more.

you hum, reaching to interlock pinkies (you’re close enough to be discreet). you lean to look past cregans shoulders (a hard task), and you’re met with the faces of cregans council. instead of their usual smug-ness, their faces are a mix of awkwardness, discontent, and embarrassment. the sight of it only makes you smirk, and when you return to cregans gaze, you find a hint of bashfulness swimming in his pupils.

“Behave yourself, my love.”

cregan nods, and you shoot him one last knowing smile before you move to return to the castle.

your presence has calmed him, allowing him to think without the cloud of emotions hanging over his head. he turns back around, and shoots a look at his council before focusing all his attention on the nearby food store.

“What can be done?” he says, tone still edgy, but nowhere near what it was before. his council share an equal relief, grateful to their lady stark for her rescue.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

[dipperscavern]

potion brewing ✨✨✨✨✨ very specific but I need Cregan eating out his pregnant wife 😭 she’s just so needy and he’s so busy but he always finds him for her

hi lovely, thanks for the ask!! hope u enjoy :3

okay, so, i think cregan would take in careful consideration on how he wants to do this. remember when i said he’d love eating you out laid beneath soft furs in front of the hearth??? none of that!

he’s afraid your back will get sore (🙄) so instead, he always makes sure youre laid on the bed. he’s right, of course, the floor fucks with your back when you’re pregnant (for some reason), but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

it would be one of his many ways of paying you back for giving him a family, and, strangely, it does great wonders to relieve your emotions (seemingly overwhelming lately). it’s relief that you finally get some of your husbands attention, and finishing melts away your stress like no other. also, cumming on his tongue has always been one of your favorite pass-times.

he’s more gentle with you, and extra careful to gauge your reactions. but he’s also more focused on making you feel good — more so than normally. you’re doing something extraordinary, why shouldn’t you be given an extraordinary orgasm? cregan knows how to give them.

it’s also one of the easier positions, as cregan doesn’t have to do much maneuvering around your belly (not that he minds in the slightest when he does) (he is a strategist after all)

and imagine if you’re a bit overdue. the maesters suggest numerous solutions, none of which help. eating fruit, long walks, exercise, herbal teas, every trick in the book. until one of the older maesters pipes up, adding a quite unordinary method to the mix. imagine that being the one thing that kickstarts you into labor. can you guess what it is? wink and explosion thank you

[dipperscavern]

hi dippy 😇😇

potion brewing: jon snow & becoming a father for the first time!

sshireens the father of my children. HI :3 hope you enjoy!!

you can fight me, this man is the best at helping you throughout pregnancy. i would even daresay rank him above cregan… yes. i would. because jon just knows, without you having to say it aloud. even if you brush him off, saying you’re fine, he’s massaging your aching muscles anyways. and it was exactly what you needed.

don’t even think about being embarrassed in front of him. he may bomb russia (wait that’s me sorry) (anyways) he does not care whatsoever. you need help walking to the bathroom? done. a foot rub? he’s pulling your feet into his lap before you can even blink. clothes sewn wider and looser for your growing belly? done. help getting dressed/out of bed in the mornings? DONE DONE DONE IDC FIGHT ME.

speaking of your changing body, he thinks you’re the most attractive thing to ever walk this earth, pregnant and all. and don’t even think about a halt in intimacy, you’re getting it tongiht! (but there is a change in how it’s done as time goes on, he doesn’t wanna hurt you) (aka head between the thighs 25/8)

is there the entire time with you during birth if you wish him to be. no, he’s not leaving, yes he’s got you, you’ve got this. literally boom shakalaka in the birthing room, jon’s presence is calming.

would hold his babe so tenderly. gazes down at them, and he can’t believe something so pure coukd come from him. and he thanks you everyday for what you’ve given him.

i feel like parenting just comes so naturally to jon. his kid is climbing all over him like a jungle gym, and he doesn’t even blink. just shifts to aid them so they don’t fucking fall.

and he loves teaching them. to shoot, to ride, to wield a sword, to govern, he’s (somehow) a master at it all. and no — jon doesn’t have favorites. he endured too much preferential treatment at catelyns hands, he wouldn’t subject his children to that too, even if only the slightest.

[dipperscavern]

Congrats on 1k, Dippy!!!! I don’t know if you do angstier prompts, but for the potion brewing, Stark of your choice and them thinking you’re dead (you’re not)?

thank you very much !! i chose robb for this, felt like y’all haven’t seen him in a while <3

robb stark x fem!reader

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“Robb.”

catelyn sits across from her eldest son, whom hasn’t stopped pacing since the battle ended more than an hour ago. whether it be pacing, tapping his fingers, or absentmindedly moving his hands while he thinks, she hasn’t been able to get him to cease his ministrations.

of course, her words have no effect, and his fingers continue in their incessant tapping. she sighs, knowing her attempts are fruitless.

you’ve always fought with robb. though advised against it — what would become of the war if you both were killed? — you unsheathed your sword nonetheless. some argue robb fought harder knowing you were at his side. while anxiety inducing, you both had won every battle you’d fought, always returning side by side. until now.

you had been swarmed by horsemen, separated in the midst of the fight. no matter how much he wanted to drop everything to find you again, robb had a duty to his men, and had to trust your ability to take care of yourself. so he didn’t — and he’s been blaming himself for it ever since the battles end.

cat has no doubt robb mulls over that very decision in his mind now, replaying it and wishing he had decided differently. what difference it could’ve made, they’re both unsure, but guilt leaves him wondering nonetheless.

robb stands, turning and walking toward where his sword lay on the bed. catelyn knows what he thinks. “Where are you going?”

“To find her.”

“You can’t.” she stresses. again, he doesn’t seem to hear her, moving to walk past her and to the exit. she stands up, blocking his path before he can get the chance. he stops, sighing. “Mother,”

she tries reason. “You’ve already sent men searching.”

“Move.”

“You are a king, you cannot act in rashness.” his brows furrow at her words, and he frowns. “Aye, a king without his queen.”

“If you act in emotion, your men will think—”

“My men think it a miracle I’ve not yet ordered hangings in my emotion. Father would—”

“Your father knows—” commotion stirs in the background, but they’re both too immersed in their argument to pay it mind. words and steel are weapons alike, and cat is no swordsman. she’s desperate to steer him toward rationality.

their voices mingle together in bickery, volume increasing by the moment. the volume of commotion in the background increases with them. soon, footsteps quickly approach, and the tents flap is opened. robb and catelyn both are fast in silencing themselves, attention now on the guard in front of them.

“I beg pardon your graces, but her grace has been found.”

silence ensues for only a moment, shock reverberating throughout the atmosphere. robb and cat look at each other, eyes wide and lips parted. wordless, robb begins to move, with cat falling in behind him.

robb spots the search party he sent out, and the commotion settles down once they realize they’re in the presence of their king. he scans the small crowd for you; lord karstark, ser rodrick, theon, other men of theirs robb is yet to learn the names of. he and theon make eye contact, and then behind him, emerges you. bloody, dirty, and exhausted; but it’s you.

and in this moment, robb forgets himself. he forgets all “kinglike” mannerisms, quick to rush to you. you’re equal in your want, accepting him with open arms.

he nearly knocks you off balance, but in that moment, with you finally in his hold again, he can’t find it in himself to care. a shuddering exhale as he presses his face into the crook of your shoulder, a hand coming to rest in his curls; he never did enjoy anyone’s touch as much as yours. he melts into you, grime and filth covered and audience and all.

“It’s okay,” you say, breathless. “I’m okay.”

he only pulls you closer.

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[dipperscavern]

Lord dippy!! Congrats on 1k they're soooo well deserved <3 you're ensuring the safety and well-being of your people (stark men's wives) and keeping us warm and well-fed (writing tons of amazing stuff), without you we'd never manage to survive trough the unforgiving long winter (the lack of good fanfics & blurbs)...anyways :3 may I humbly ask for an angst/comfort blurb with Jon?? In my mind he never left Winterfell and was forever happy with his alive siblings and he never had to feel like a bastard outsider. he didn't deserve all dat

hi baby!! this was so sweet omg thank you so much :( i hope you enjoy <3 (spoiler alert i got carried away) (as per usual)

jon snow x gn!reader

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jon winces, a small noise emitting from his throat as pain seeps up his torso.

his cuts run deep; they’ll scar, melisandre says, but stannis’ closest thing to a maester insists on jon using a paste and bandages to allow them to heal. the paste certainly helps, but it still aggravates the skin when applied — no matter how soothing it was crafted to be.

the process is dreadful. it took minutes of him staring at the marks where he knows his blood left him, hesitation clawing up his throat before he worked up the ability to even begin. the open wounds have scabbed over, allowing the paste to coat them, but to jon, it doesn’t make the sight any prettier. he thinks the marred flesh a grisly spectacle.

memory of his fathers words echo in the back of his mind. lord eddard stark always appreciated scars on a man, saying it not only told a story, but spoke of how they survived it. a sick part of jon wishes there was no story of survival to tell.

a sharp intake of air passes through his lips as his hands shake, making his movements sloppy — accidentally pressing on the sensitive area more than he wished. he remembers when arrows pierced his skin, having a similar maintenance process as this; only these daggers wound unseen layers.

a knock on the door brings him out of his thoughts. it’s soft, tentative. he knows who it is before your honeyed voice rings from behind it. “Jon?”

he hums in question. “Can I come in?”

a second passes, a brief thought of covering himself enters his mind — a flash of insecurity pooling in his gut. it’s you, he reasons. but a different voice raises the question, would you reject the ugly parts of him?

his eyes flicker to his abdomen, another part of him now unworthy.

against his own better judgement, he hums in approval. he doesn’t turn to face you as the door opens; that small, aching part of him always wins one way or another.

he hears you turn the lock after you come in. he pretends not to know it’s because you realize he’s compromised, and you’re the only person he’d let see him like this. if he acknowledges it in full, he doubts his ability to keep his breathing steady — and these days his hands shake enough already.

another thumb-smooth of paste over a gash, another sharp ache. he grits his teeth in effort to conceal any noises that threaten to escape him. not in your company, not now. the atmosphere since his prominent death and return is tense as is.

unfortunately for him, you’re far too attentive to let it go unnoticed. a small turn of his head, and he sees your look of worry; the way your fingers grasp one another, no doubt in attempt to keep your qualms to yourself. it doesn’t work, it never has. not when it comes to jon, anyway.

“Jon, please let me help you.” a plea, a whisper of comfort you wish to offer him in the form of your saccharine hands. even as children, you insisted on bandaging his small cuts. putting cream on his bruises, dutifully checking on them until healed.

he stills. his voice a low, quiet rasp. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” your voice comes closer, and he feels you enter his space. what he wouldn’t give to make sure you never leave. “I want to. Can I?”

your hand wraps around his bicep, thumb moving slowly across his skin. a small, soothing touch that sends a warm feeling crawling up his spine. he’s lucky you don’t face him now, as you’d see the way his lashes have fluttered shut. such a seemingly simple thing you give him, and it makes his breath hitch all the same.

it doesn’t take much lately to set his emotions in disarray, and your touch is the only thing that helps. you seem to know this too, for your hands seek him now more than ever — and he would be a liar if he said he doesn’t cling to the respite you bring him like a lifeline.

his agreeance is nearly unheard, a small murmur accompanied by an even smaller nod. jon’s always had a hard time accepting help, especially it in the form of gentle touches and kind words; the kind he thinks himself undeserving of.

but you know jon. you know what he needs, even if he can’t bring himself to ask for it.

you press a small kiss to his bare shoulder, moving to stand in front of him. goosebumps trail his body at the feeling of your lips, and he bites back the want to close his eyes. he wants to savor the feeling, but he cherishes the moments gets to admire you even more.

your brows pinch ever so lightly when you see his abdomen, even with some of the severed skin already covered in paste. though you take the bowl harboring the medicine, a pang of embarrassment courses through him at your disdain. when your fingers reach to make contact, he expects pain, but none ever comes.

you touch him with a gentleness thats featherlight, and he subconsciously relaxes under your fingertips. he feels like his senses are on overdrive, feeling every touch, every breath. every unspoken word communicated through your treatment of him.

the silence is comforting, even as you frown. all of jon’s attention is on you, so much so that he doesn’t even feel the usual dull ache of torn skin healing itself. even so, you can’t seem to help yourself.

you whisper an apology, a hesitant confession. one that jon is caught off guard by. he almost doesn’t know what you mean, until he tears his gaze away from your expression enough to notice yours is trapped on the place where four daggers took his life. something clicks into place for him.

he stops your hand, his own wrapping around your wrist. not harshly, jon never is. “Hey,” he says. your eyes meet his. “You didn’t do this.”

though not directly said aloud, you know his true meaning. he doesn’t like when you apologize for things that aren’t your fault. even in his current state, he’s ever quick to reassure. “Y’ hear me?”

you nod, and while it’s not enough to remove the pity from your gaze, you don’t have that guilty look in your eye — like you did something wrong. jon knows you carry his death on your shoulders, even when the weight isn’t yours to bear.

he brings your wrist to his lips, kissing it before allowing you to continue. he can see the ghost of a smile grace your lips, and that’s enough for him.

minutes pass like that; you, tending to his wounds with the touch of embodied delicacy, and him, soaking up every piece of you he can. jons content to spend a lifetime in this very moment.

his wish isn’t granted, and soon, he’s reaching for fresh bandages. deja-vu of the arrows shot by a red archer lingers in the back of his mind, but the back is where it stays, as you’re forefront. always.

when he’s finished wrapping the white material, he turns to face you. “You don’t have to do that. Again.”

“Do you not want me to?” you’re sincere in your asking, and he knows you wouldn’t if he asked you not to — but he doesn’t, and his silence is telling.

you can’t help the small smile at his lack of words, and when you smile, jon can’t help but follow suit. mere days from being released from the strangers clutches, and you have him smiling. you’re a godsend. angelic. he’d tell you so if he could ever find the words.

but you’ve never relied on things only spoken. you step forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek and wrapping your arms around him; careful to avoid your torso touching his. jon’s appreciative of your effort, but he’s less hesitant, pulling you flush to him regardless. his head finds the crook of your shoulder, and he has no intent on letting you go anytime soon — unless there’s another knock on the door.

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[dipperscavern]

Hi Dippy! Congrats on 1k!! You’re fr the best!

May I pleaseee have a spell casting with Robb and the prompt: the look of absolute admiration and love one gives when the other isn't looking/cue their other friends gagging and telling them to “stand up”? Maybe an archery component watching in awe, betrothed fluffy pre war vibes? All the creative freedom to you there!

Tysm! 🎉🥳💚

- 🍏

hi my lovely!! thanks for requesting, the starklings were so fun to write :3

18. the look of absolute admiration and love one gives when the other isn't looking, cue their friends gagging & telling them to “stand up”

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

“That’s not fair — you’re cheating!”

brans voice reverberates through the courtyard, where he’s decided to accuse robb of cheating in your archery competition. theon, jon, and arya all perk up at the accusation. robb, your betrothed, takes it as serious as any other; and ceases nocking his arrow to address it properly.

“It’s not cheating if I’m better than you, Bran.” he says, bending towards brans level. you put a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh, and ned & catelyn, watching, both find themselves smiling at the sight.

“You hit the bullseye each of your turns!” robb’s only gone twice, but that doesn’t seem to mean much to the little starkling.

arya has a look of disbelief written on her face, and turns to bran. “Just because you can’t hit the target more than twice—“

knowing his father & lady catelyn are watching, jon clears his throat, interrupting the fight before it has a chance to begin. “My lady, I believe it’s your turn.”

jon is successful, aryas mouth clamping shut as soon as you’re mentioned. the chance to watch your skill with a bow always captures her full attention. as you move to exchange places in front of the target with robb, your eyes meet, sharing a knowing look with barely concealed smiles.

you hit bullseye, of course, which makes bran sigh. arya, on the other hand, has a massive grin on her face; and when robb sees it, he knows he’ll be fighting her for your attention.

as bran moves to exchange places with you, you notice the dejected expression he wears. you remember how hard it was to hone your archery skills, and that was without an older sibling you felt like you had to live up to.

you sling your bow around your shoulder, stepping aside to give bran room, while also not leaving his side. he looks at you, confused. you nod to the target. “Notch your arrow,” you say, noting his nerves. “Go on.”

he gulps, but heeds your command anyways. the others watch with peaked interest, but none as much as robb. how lovely can you be? apparently, much lovelier than he thought possible. you crouch next to bran, and gently fix his position.

“You and the arrow are a team. It waits for your guide.” you say, both of you watching the target. brans lips part in concentration. “Breathe.”

bran deeply breathes in, and then breathes out. only a second after he expels the air from his lungs, he lets go, and while it’s no bullseye — it’s not far from it. cheers erupt, and you & bran share a smile at his small victory.

“He hit the target!” arya exclaims, and jon nudges her with his hip.

“Nicely done!” ned calls down, and bran grins widely at the open praise from his father. you grin at seeing bran succeed.

robb, arms crossed, notices that; and looks at you the way his parents look at each other. admiration and appreciation swims in his gaze.

he can’t help it, watching you guide his siblings with such kindness tugs on his heartstrings, making him forget himself — and he stares openly. the way he looks at you as you has arya gagging, as theon gives robb a look of his own. (equal disgust)

“Stand up.”

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

[dipperscavern]

hello, it's me again!! (sorry if I'm sending to many requests) could you make a potion brewing for robb preparing to became a father?? reader is pregnant and it's like 3/4 months in it already and Robb is getting things ready for the baby while also taking care of his wife ofc

sorry again if I'm sending too many I just really love your writing and this 1K celebration thing is really fun ❤

you’re all good, thank you for requesting!! starks won/robb is the lord of winterfell AU

• robb would definitely pay attention to a lot of the more intricate details when it comes to preparing for the babe. you’re more focused on how the room will be prepared during the birth (aka which servants, what towels, what furs on the bed etc) and the birth itself, and while robb would definitely help you in that aspect too, he’s more focused on the smaller details most may not think about.

• meeting with the master at arms about if a boy, when they’ll begin training, the master of horse about riding, septa/septons about schooling etc.

• you gave him the honor of choosing the room they’ll reside in once they start growing/unlatch, and he takes great pride in that as well. would commission a small tapestry with the direwolf sigil to wrap the babe in/hang in their room

• when presenting the babe to his men/winterfell/its people, you can best believe that babe is wrapped in the tapestry

• would also put a lot of importance on security. positioning the most guards in the hall of the birthing room, and doubling them all around winterfell itself. you’ll be at your most vulnerable, and he & the entire castles focus will be on you and the babe, and robb knows this. he’s a foot battle strategist, and this would be an opportune moment for someone to attack — so he makes sure that’s taken care of. as soon as you begin your labors, he needs only nod at his commander of guards, and winterfell is on lockdown.

• praying. he would spend a lot of time in the godswood, kneeling to speak to the gods or his father (assuming ned has passed). praying for your easy labors and that you make it through the birth without hiccup, praying to be guided through fatherhood, and (secretly) praying that the babe has your eyes <3

• and he speaks about your birth plan so many times you’ve begun to get sick of hearing about it. he will be alerted when you start your labors, and if you want him with you, it shall be so. you’ll have an army of midwives, maesters, and your usual ladies in waiting. the ladies in waiting will prepare the room, maesters their medicines and herbs, and midwives will be attuned to your every move. you will have your every wish and desire, and naught is to be done regarding you and your babe without your command.

[dipperscavern]

stop dippy im blushing

can i do potion brewing: enemies to lovers with Robb? feel free to throw in some smut

congrats again💕💕

-🍰

hi my love, absolutely!! i apologize so dearly for the length omg

so, let’s say you’re a lannister. cersei’s daughter, and traveling with jamie to (eventually) make your way to kingslanding. except you both get captured by robb & his army

even if robb has a lot of distaste for your house, or you specifically, he would not tolerate any mistreatment of you whatsoever. sure, he wasn’t as gentle with jamie as he could’ve been, but jamie wasn’t thoroughly mistreated. and neither shall you be.

robb would find himself visiting you more often then not, and be quite frustrated with himself, because he doesn’t just grow to tolerate your company — but enjoy it.

would have an internal pull, and would go a few days without visiting you sometimes. he’s fighting with his head and his heart, as he feels like he’s betraying his house

you find you enjoy not just robb’s company, but catelyns as well. the more you realize what house stark stands for, the more you start doubting your loyalty to your own last name.

if you’re the open-minded type, you and robb would have some really interesting conversations. hearing his side of the war, and how it actually started (compared to what your mother told you), and i think that’s when your loyalty switches (whether you know it or not)

you don’t sleep much that night, mind keeping you awake. you have some sense of faded loyalty to your house, but will it be blind? will you choose what you’ve been told to, or what is right?

when morning comes, you swear allegiance to house stark.

it would take a while for you to actually gain the trust of anyone. and you would stick by catelyn (and brienne) virtually all the time.

you would give advice to catelyn when you think it might help, keep your head down, and do any task assigned to you in a test of trust.

you’re kept very far away from jamie, and any request to see him is denied.

robb distances himself from you for a while, things with your loyalty too fresh to be seen “catering” to you.

but, eventually, fate decides to bring you back together. sneaking to the kitchens of the castle hosting robb and his army, and catching robb up late at night. he’s reminded how easy you are to speak to.

you’re trusted more as time goes on, and you and robb strike a sort of understanding. you both are desperate for someone that will listen to you, and your gazes keep finding the others lips — but none of it will ever be said aloud.

you’re by him & catelyns side as they find out about bran and rickon, and slowly, they begin to put their trust into you.

as their political situation worsens, talk of a betrothal begins to reach your ears.

you and robb have a conversation. he says he wished to marry for love, and you laugh. you tell him the only ones that marry for love are the lucky and the lowborn. but you also tell him that love can be developed over time, and he nods. you both have an understanding.

you’re given more responsibilities and they show their (almost) full trust in you as you and robb become betrothed (officially). you decide to be fully devoted to him, and one day visit your uncle, still bound in his chains.

you tell him the truth. about your shared house, about your mother, your grandsire, even jamie himself. and you tell him you’re wiping the lion-maned stain off your name. you tell him of the love once held for him and your mother, and you tell him goodbye.

he calls out for you, but not by name. “traitor,” he says — and you turn your back on him. he may rot.