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i look better in the dark

Cregan Stark x Celtigar!Reader

Description: 16 moons ago, Rhaenyra begged you to go North to be the Maester of coins for Cregan. What Rhaenyra didn’t expect was the Blood Pirate to fall in love with the Warden of the North

Warnings: smut-p in v-, oral female receiving, mentions of sexual relationships with Lady Jeyne Arryn, pregnancy trope at the end, I feel like it’s a bit long! Lowkey don’t know how I feel about this one! Please Enjoy!

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⋆ ─── Nineteen Moons Later ─── ⋆

The moon had completed its slow, silver circuit 17 times since the first fires were lit, and with each passing cycle, the weight upon Cregan’s shoulders seemed to double. The fancy banners of his house, once snapped vibrantly in the crisp northern air, now felt like heavy iron shrouds draped over the walls of Winterfell.

Cregan sat hunched in his solar, the room smelling of old wax, stale ink, and the sharp tang of woodsmoke. The hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting a rhythmic, bloody pulse of light across the room. His hair, long and matted from days of neglect, was yanked back and cinched with a crude piece of scarred leather. It was a utilitarian knot, meant only to keep the dark strands from falling into the ink as he bent over his desk.

He scribbled on the parchment, the quill scratching a frantic, jagged rhythm that mirrored the pounding in his temples. He read over the ledger again, his vision blurring until the columns of numbers swam like insects. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing until sparks flew behind his eyelids, yet when he opened them, the ink still bled into the grain of the paper—just as his people were bleeding into the snow.

The reports were a litany of disasters. What had begun as isolated skirmishes had curdled into a relentless tide of violence. The wildings were no longer merely scavenging; they were raiding with a desperate, starving ferocity. Smallfolk villages—names of hamlets that had stood for generations—were being wiped off the map in a single night of fire and screaming.

Each raid was a domino falling. Less grain in the silos meant the coming winter would be a season of starvation. Less timber from the wolfswood meant the Great Hall would grow cold, and the smithies would fall silent. Cregan could almost hear the voices of his bannermen, a cacophony of dissent rising from the Rills to White Harbor. They didn't want excuses or ledgers; they wanted heads on pikes and safety for their lands. He was a Lord of Winter, but as he stared at the mounting debts of blood and bone, he felt less like a ruler and more like a man trying to hold back an avalanche with nothing but his bare, ink-stained hands.

The heavy oak doors groaned on their hinges, but Cregan didn’t bother to lift his gaze from the blurring ink of the ledger. He assumed it was the heavy, impatient tread of his brothers—Rickard or Benjen, or perhaps both of them coming to badger him about the missed mid-day meal or the sharpening of swords for a hunt he had no intention of joining.

"Go away," Cregan muttered, his voice raspy from disuse and the dry heat of the solar. "I have no time for the two of you. The accounts won't balance themselves while you're out playing at war."

"Oh?"

The voice wasn't the deep, gruff timbre of a Stark. It was soft, melodic, and carried a teasing lilt that cut through the gloom like a blade.

Cregan froze. Slowly, he looked up, the quill still poised over a half-finished sentence.

There you stood, and for a moment, the flickering firelight seemed to center entirely on you. You were beautiful—gods, so beautiful it made the breath catch in his dry throat. Your silver hair, usually a wild halo that defied the harsh Northern winds, was partially tamed into a loose braid that draped over your shoulder, though stubborn strands still escaped to frame your face. Your skin appeared soft, glistening with a gentle warmth under the orange glow of the hearth, a stark contrast to the cold, grey stone of the walls.

You wore the colors of his House—charcoal greys and deep, midnight blacks—fabrics that should have looked somber but instead made you look like a queen of the winter frost. When his eyes finally met yours, you offered him a gentle, knowing smile.

You were different from the others. Many women had roamed through these halls over the past twelve moons, daughters of bannermen and ambitious ladies seeking a Lord’s favor with practiced giggles and lowered lashes. But you didn't seek his favor; you simply held it. In the suffocating darkness of his duties, you were the only light that didn't burn his eyes.

“Wife?” he whispered, the word catching in his throat like a secret he wasn’t quite ready to let go of. The flickering candlelight played across his tired features, making the disbelief in his grey eyes look almost like hope.

You let out a soft, melodic laugh as you closed the distance between the door and his heavy oak desk. “You keep calling me that, I might just have to marry you, my winter’s wolf,” you teased, the silk of your skirts whispering against the stone floor.

You didn't wait for an invitation. You moved behind his chair, the scent of winter roses and woodsmoke following you. Lean and graceful, you leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the corded tension of his neck. Cregan let out a jagged sigh, his shoulders dropping an inch for the first time in hours.

“What are you doing up this late?” you murmured against his skin.

“Balancing ledgers,” he grumbled, though his hand—still stained with the ink of a dozen failures—reached up instinctively to find yours.

Your brow arched, your lips still grazing the warm skin of his nape, sending a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the drafty solar. “Aren’t I… your Master of Coin?”

The question was spoken low, vibrating against his neck. You reached over his shoulder, your slender, soft fingers trailing over the parchment he had been obsessing over. You gently nudged the quill out of his hand, your touch a silent command to stop.

“You’re squinting at numbers that don't want to be found, Cregan,” you added, your voice dropping to a soothing hum. “And you’re doing a very poor job of a task you officially gave to me moons ago. Are you doubting my math, or just looking for a reason to suffer?”

Cregan didn't offer an argument; instead, his large, calloused hands reached out and snagged your waist, pulling you firmly into his lap. The ledger was forgotten, buried beneath the weight of your skirts as he buried his face for a fleeting second in the crook of your neck.

"I am doing what the Lord of Winterfell does," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your skin.

"And what is that?" you whispered back, your fingers threading into the messy dark silk at the nape of his neck, gently tugging at the leather cord that bound it. You felt the tension in his jaw begin to crack, his breath hitching as you deconstructed the wall he’d built around himself all day.

"How is my boy?" he asked suddenly, his voice shifting, desperate to change the subject from the crumbling borders of his kingdom.

Your brow raised at the redirection. Baelon was not his by blood—the silver of his hair and the fire in his spirit spoke of a different lineage—but Cregan had been the one to catch him when he stumbled. He was the one who had cheered when those small, uncertain feet took their first true steps across the Great Hall. Now, the boy called only for "Da" when he woke from a nightmare, and he flatly refused the blood-red silks or silver leathers of his own house. He wanted only the soot-grey wool and heavy furs of the North. He wanted to be a wolf.

"Yours?" you said with a soft, knowing smile. "He’s asleep. Dreaming of the kennel pups, no doubt."

Cregan’s expression softened, a ghost of a smile touching his tired lips. "And how’s my little crab?" he whispered.

He meant Brandon. His biological son was a mirror held up to his own soul—a true Stark with hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes the color of a winter storm. Brandon was a shadow that followed you everywhere, clinging to your skirts until he was old enough to realize he preferred the weight of a wooden practice sword.

"He’s with Rickard in the armory," you said, your thumb brushing rhythmically against the rough stubble on his cheek. "Helping with—what do you call it?—'playing war.' I suspect your brother is teaching him how to properly hold a shield, though the boy is currently convinced he can take down a giant by himself."

Cregan let out a low, huffed laugh, finally leaning his head back against the chair and looking up at you. For a moment, the raids, the timber shortages, and the bleeding ledgers felt a thousand leagues away.

"He has his father's stubbornness," Cregan sighed, his eyes searching yours. "And his mother's heart. A dangerous combination."

“Speak to me, what is troubling that you’re going over ledgers.” You whispered, he lifted his head.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, the muscle leaping beneath his stubble. He tried to turn his gaze back to the parchment—to the safety of cold ink and hard math—but your fingers were firm against his skin, anchoring him to the present, to the warmth of your lap and the honesty in your eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he grunted, the lie sounding hollow even to his own ears. It was the instinctive reflex of a Stark—to bury the struggle beneath a mountain of silence and duty.

"But you will," you whispered, your voice a soft command that held no argument. "You will talk. What is going on that you are hiding? I know when you’re lying, Cregan. We do not spin tales to each other."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind of sound a man makes when he finally stops trying to hold up a collapsing roof. He leaned his forehead against yours, the heat of your skin a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in his bones.

"I know," he whispered back, his eyes finally closing.

"So—spill your heart. What is it?"

"It’s the villages in the Gift," he began, the words tumbling out now that the dam had broken. "The raids... they aren't just for food anymore. They’re burning the homes, leaving the bodies for the crows. The Wildlings are desperate, and because of them, my own men are becoming desperate. Lord Karstark is demanding more men for his borders, and the Manderlys are holding back grain because they fear the sea-raiders."

He gripped your waist a little tighter, his voice dropping to a jagged rasp. "I look at those ledgers and I see a winter coming that we cannot feed. I see Baelon and Brandon growing up in a North that is eating itself alive. I’m the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North... and I am counting every bushel of grain like a beggar while my people scream in the dark. I feel like I'm failing them. I feel like I'm failing you."

“You think you’re failing the grass if it won’t grow right,” you said with a soft, bittersweet smile, your fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw. “Isn’t that why Rhaenyra sent me sixteen moons ago? To aid the North. Ever since, you’ve had me. You’ve let me sit by your side, counting your coin—busy work, Cregan. Safe work. But you know the true reason she sent me.”

“No,” he grunted, the sound muffled as he buried his face back into the crook of your neck, his grip on your waist tightening as if he could physically hold back the conversation. “You promised you’d try—for our sons. You promised a life without that fire.”

“Yet, our sons will eat the leather from their own swords if we do not act,” you answered, your voice steady and cool against the heat of his skin. You weren't just a ledger-keeper or a wife in the shadows; there was a dragon's blood in your veins that no Northern winter could freeze. “We are counting copper and grain while the wildlings burn the very fields we're tallying. My ledgers tell me we are dying, Cregan. Slowly, quietly, and politely.”

“I won’t allow it,” he whispered. But the words lacked the iron conviction of the Young Wolf. His tone was frayed, worn thin by the reality of the empty silos and the bloody reports. He was a man trying to protect his family from the monster he knew you could be, even if that monster was the only thing that could save them.

“You won’t allow them to starve? Or you won’t allow me to fly?” you whispered, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. The firelight caught the silver of your hair, a reminder of the heritage he tried so hard to make him forget. “One dragon’s shadow over the Gift would do more than a thousand of Rickard’s scouts. The raids would end in a single night of ash.”

Cregan’s grey eyes were clouded with a sudden, sharp pain. He looked at you—not as his Master of Coin, but as the woman he had carved a life with. “And what happens to the woman I love when the war-fire takes her back? I didn't bring you to Winterfell to turn you into a weapon again.”

"Fine—no dragon," you conceded, though the words tasted like cold iron. You leaned in closer, your forehead resting against his, forcing him to meet the steady, unflinching silver of your gaze. "Still, I would get results. You know this—I was bred to be a killer. You know this."

Your voice was a gentle caress, a silk ribbon wrapped around a sharpened blade. It was the truth that haunted the quiet corners of Winterfell: behind the ledgers and the soft smiles, there was a predator that had been raised in the pits of Dragonstone.

"Wife—" he whispered, his voice cracking. It was a plea, an attempt to call back the woman who read stories to Baelon and Brandon, the woman who laughed at his brothers' crude jokes. He wanted the hearth-fire, not the wildfire.

"Yes," you answered, your thumb tracing the pulse point at his throat. You could feel his heart hammering—not with fear of you, but with fear for you. "I am your wife. I am the mother of your sons. And because I am, I will not sit here and watch you wither away over ink and parchment while our people are butchered in their sleep."

You sat back just a fraction, your hands sliding down to rest firmly on his chest. "You have the North, Cregan. You have the swords and the honor and the ancient names. But I have the instincts you’re too noble to use. Let me handle the dissenters. Let me ride with Rickard to the Gift. Not as a dragon-rider, if that is what scares you—but as a wolf who knows exactly where to bite to make a man bleed out."

Cregan’s grip on your waist tightened until it was almost painful. He looked at you, really looked at you, seeing the lethal grace that no amount of Northern wool could ever truly hide. "If I let you go," he rasped, "if I let that part of you out of the cage... will you come back to me? Or will I find a stranger in my bed when the snow clears?"

The smirk that pulled at the corner of your mouth was a dangerous thing—a ghost of the Rogue Prince himself. As Daemon’s protégé, that fire wasn't just in your blood; it was in your education. Your eyes darkened, the silver turning to the color of a storm-tossed sea as you leaned in, your breath warm against his lips.

"I will come back, my love," you promised, the words a vow and a threat all at once.

Cregan let out a long, ragged sigh that surrendered every bit of his resistance. He kissed you then, a desperate, bruising thing that tasted of ink and longing. A soft moan escaped you as you pulled him closer, your fingers digging into the thick wool of his doublet. He rose from the chair slowly, never breaking the contact, his sheer physical mass crowding you until he pushed you back against the heavy oak desk.

The ledgers and parchments scattered, sliding to the floor in a frantic rustle of paper, but neither of you cared. His lips left yours to trail a path of fire down your throat, burying his face in the sensitive crook of your neck.

"You have to promise... you have to come back to me," he whimpered against your skin, the Lord of Winterfell sounding like a man drowning. "Promise me."

The urgency in his voice sparked a corresponding heat in your gut. In a hurried, fluid motion, you reached down, your hand finding him through the heavy fabric of his breeches. You shifted your skirts with a sharp tug, baring yourself to the cool air of the solar before slicking your own entrance with a deft, teasing touch.

"Tell me you'll come back to me. Tell me!" Cregan groaned, his restraint finally snapping.

He didn't wait for the answer he already knew. He moved with a sudden, violent need, slamming into you with a force that made the heavy desk groan against the stone floor. He slumped against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder as the heat of his body seeped through your thin chemise.

He was trembling—a fine, deep shudder that started in his chest and moved through his arms.

"Don't go back to being that girl," he whimpered, his voice cracked and hollowed out. "The one Daemon made. The one who saw the world as nothing but ash and targets."

He pulled back just enough to frame your face with his large, ink-stained hands. His grey eyes were wet, searching yours with a desperation that made the Great Lord of Winterfell look fragile. He wasn't looking at a Master of Coin or a warrior; he was looking at the woman who had taught him that the North didn't always have to be cold.

"I love the woman who laughs with my brothers," he choked out, a stray tear carving a path through the grit on his cheek. "The woman who sings to Baelon when the thunder scares him. The woman who looked at me sixteen moons ago and saw a man, not a political alliance."

He pressed his brow against yours, his grip tightening on your face as if he could physically hold your soul in place.

"Promise me," he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper. "Kill who you must to keep our sons fed. Burn the fields if there is no other way. But come back to me as the woman I fell in love with. Don't let the war-fire swallow the part of you that is mine. I cannot lose you to the shadow of your father's house. I won't survive it."

Your whimper was a broken, melodic thing that seemed to shatter the last of his hardened exterior. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper into you, anchoring him to the heat of the moment and the reality of your body. Your mouth stayed open, soft, airy sounds escaping as you sought his lips, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders.

“Cregan—” you whispered, the name a plea and a tether.

“Yes… yes,” he answered, his voice thick with a raw, jagged emotion.

The frantic, desperate pace of his movements began to shift. The violent urgency that had driven him against the desk softened into a slow, deliberate grounding. His thrusts becoming deep and heavy, as if he were trying to imprint the very feel of you into his bones before the sun could rise and the war could take you.

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours again, his nose brushing against your own. He moved within you with a heavy, rhythmic pressure that forced the breath from your lungs in jagged hitches. His large hands slid from your face, down the arch of your throat, and gripped your thighs, hitching them higher over his hips to drive himself deeper.

“I have you,” he growled low in his throat, a sound more animal than man. He was sweating now, the heat of his skin searing against yours in the drafty solar. He leaned down, catching one of your dark nipples between his teeth through the thin, damp silk of your chemise, tugging just enough to make you cry out. His tongue flickered gently, sucking trying to draw out that sound. When you did cry out the sound seemed to undo him.

His control, already frayed, snapped again. He began to hammer into you with a renewed, primal hunger, his movements wet and loud in the quiet room. You were slick and tight around him, your internal muscles clenching instinctively with every deep, sliding thrust. You arched your back, your breasts brushing against the rough wool of his doublet, your hands roaming frantically over his back, pulling him in as if you could pull him inside your very soul.

"Tell me," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in a fast, cruel circle that sent white-hot sparks behind your eyelids. "Tell me you’re mine. Not the Rogue Prince's, not the Crown's... mine."

You couldn't speak, your voice lost to a series of high, needy whimpers as the tension coiled in your gut like a spring. The world narrowed down to the sensation of him filling you, the rough wood of the desk against your spine, and the overwhelming scent of ink, sweat, and Northern winter.

"Yours," you finally choked out, your body beginning to shudder as the first waves of your release started to take hold. "Always... yours."

In the flickering amber light, he watched the way you came undone—the way your lips parted in a silent, needy gasp and the way your skin flushed a deep, feverish and warm.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated deep in your gut.

When you met his grey eyes, they were dark with a primal, suffocating hunger. He began to move again, a long, agonizingly deep slide that seemed to touch the very back of you. You whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscle of his forearms, your nails leaving crescent moon marks in his skin. He didn't flinch; he leaned into the pain, his thumb finding the swollen, sensitive bud of your clit again and circling it with a relentless, rhythmic pressure that synchronized with every heavy thrust.

The sounds in the solar were raw and wet—the slick slap of skin on skin, the frantic rustle of discarded parchments under your back, and the high, desperate hitches of your breath. He was filling you so completely it felt like you were stretching to the point of breaking, yet you only wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in, “Fuck don’t— don’t stop.”

"You feel... like home," he groaned against your mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. He began to pick up the pace, the thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more frantic. The desk jolted against the stone floor with every strike of his hips, the wood biting into your spine, but the ache only fueled the fire coiling tighter and tighter in your lower belly.

You were a mess of silver hair and tangled grey silk, your body arching off the wood as he hit that one perfect, sensitive spot over and over. You could feel the tension building, a white-hot pressure that made your inner muscles clench instinctively around him, squeezing him so hard he let out a choked, pained sound of pleasure.

"Not yet," he whispered, though his own control was visibly snapping, the corded muscles in his neck standing out like iron. "Stay with me... just like this. Don't let go."

Cregan’s breath was a scorched against your collarbone as he felt you tightening around him, your body beginning to tremble with the sheer force of the tension he’d built. He groaned, a low, vibration that started deep in his chest, and reached down between your fused bodies.

His large, calloused hand—the same hand that had been cramping over cold ink all night—was still rubbing on your clit. He didn't just touch you; he claimed you. His thumb began to move in a relentless, rhythmic grind against your clit, perfectly timed with the heavy, punishing slide of his hips.

The friction was agonizingly perfect. Each deep, wet thrust of his cock stretched you to your limit, while the sharp, focused pressure of his thumb sent jolts of white-hot lightning straight to your core. You let out a high, broken sob, your head now laying against the scattered parchments on the desk. The sound of it seemed to drive him over the edge; he hitched your legs even higher, pinning your knees almost to your shoulders so he could drive into you with a brutal, unobstructed depth.

"Look at what you do to me," he rasped, his voice cracking as he watched the way your eyes rolled back, the silver of your irises disappearing into a haze of pure pleasure. "The North can burn... the Wall can fall... but I will have this. I will have you."

He began to hammer into you now, the slow deliberation replaced by a frantic, starving pace. The slap of his thighs against yours was loud in the room, a drumbeat that drowned out the wind outside. You were slick, dripping against the dark wood of the desk, every muscle in your body coiled like a spring about to snap. You clawed at his desk.

"Cregan... please... Cregan—"

He didn't stop. He pushed harder, his thumb pressing firmer, his entire body a rigid cord of muscle as he chased the peak alongside you. Bent over, he was breathing your name into the hollow of your throat.

His thumb never ceasing that frantic, slick friction that had your hips bucking uncontrollably against the oak. He watched with a dark, possessive intensity as your face contorted, your lips pulled back in a silent scream of pleasure. He was pushing you right to the jagged edge of the cliff, holding you there just to watch you tremble.

He withdrew almost entirely, the cool air hitting you for a fleeting, agonizing second before he plunged back in with a sharp, wet force that made the desk slide an inch across the floor. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his unbound hair, yanking his head down so you could sob into his mouth. The taste of salt and heat was everywhere.

“You’re so tight,” he growled against your tongue, his voice a guttural ruin. “Squeezing me like you never want to let me go.”

He shifted his grip, his hand moving from your center to cup the underside of your jaw, forcing you to look at him while his other hand stayed pinned beneath your hip, tilting you to take him even deeper. He began to grind his pelvis against yours in a slow, circular motion, the crown of his head buried in your shoulder as he focused every ounce of his strength into the friction. The wet, slapping sounds of his entry filled the room, competing with the crackle of the dying fire.

You could feel the sweat from his chest slicking your skin, making the two of you slide together in a feverish, messy heat. Every time he hit the entrance of your womb, a fresh jolt of electricity raced up your spine, making your vision spark. You were a mess of silver hair and tangled limbs, your heels digging into the small of his back, urging the heavy, rhythmic thud of his body to never stop.

“Cregan, please,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the coiling tension in your core became a physical ache, a desperate need for the release he was cruelly withholding.

“Not yet,” he pleaded, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck, his breath hot and smelling of the wine he’d had hours ago. He was relentless, his thrusts becoming shallower but faster, a vibrating, humming friction that had you clawing at the wood of the desk until your fingertips bled. He was building a pyre out of your nerves, waiting for the exact moment to let the spark catch.

Cregan’s hand suddenly shifted from your jaw to your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising, desperate strength. Before you could even catch your breath from the last lightning-strike of pleasure, he grunted, hauling you up from your back and flipping you over onto the cold, ink-stained oak of the desk.

Your palms slammed against the wood, scattering the remaining ledgers to the floor as you were forced down, your chest pressed against the grain. The contrast of the cool wood against your feverish skin made you gasp, but the sensation was short-lived. Cregan was behind you in an instant, his heavy, solid weight pinning you down, his chest a wall of heat against your back.

He didn't wait. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white as he pulled you back against him, and with one low, guttural growl, he drove himself back into your slick heat.

"Tell me," he rasped into your ear, his breath a scorched gale that sent shivers down your damp skin. "Tell me who you belong to while I'm buried in you like this."

The wet, slapping sound of his pelvis hitting your backside filled the quiet room, a steady, carnal drumbeat. You could feel the sheer size of him stretching you, the friction of every thrust sending waves of white-hot electricity through your lower belly. You clawed at the edges of the desk, your knuckles turning white as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was unleashing.

He reached around, his large hand sliding beneath you to find that sensitive, swollen clit once more. He began to rub with a fast, merciless rhythm that matched the frantic pace of his hips. You were caught in a vice of pleasure—the deep, full ache of him behind you and the sharp, electric friction in front.

"Cregan... gods... Cregan!" you sobbed, your voice breaking as the coiling tension in your gut reached a screaming, unbearable peak.

"I have you," he groaned, his voice a raw ruin as he felt your inner muscles begin to spasm around him, milking him with a desperate, clenching heat. "I've got you, my dragon... right where you belong."

The tension that had been coiling in your gut finally snapped like a frayed bowstring. As Cregan drove into you from behind, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, wet thud that echoed off the stone walls, the world outside the solar simply ceased to exist.

His hand was a frantic, blurring pressure against your clit, perfectly synced with the deep, bruising rhythm of his thrusts. You let out a high, broken cry, your forehead slamming against the oak desk as the first wave of your orgasm hit you—a white-hot explosion of sensation that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingertips felt like they were sparking.

Your internal muscles clamped around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse, milking him with a ferocity that tore a raw, guttural roar from his throat.

"That's it... give it all to me," he groaned, his voice a jagged ruin.

He didn't slow down; he pushed harder, his fingers digging into your hips until he left bruises in the shape of his devotion. He buried himself to the absolute hilt, his entire body turning to iron as he reached his own peak. He came with a violent, shuddering intensity, his breath hitching in his chest as he spilled himself deep inside you, his forehead dropping to the space between your shoulder blades.

The only sound in the room for a long minute was the ragged, synchronized gasping of two people who had just fought a war and won. The ledgers lay ruined on the floor, soaked in spilled ink and the sweat of your skin, but as Cregan slumped against your back, his heart hammering against your spine, the debt of the North felt lighter than it had in a dozen moons.

He stayed there, anchored inside you, his lips pressing a lingering, salt-tasted kiss to the nape of your neck. "My wife," he whispered.

— ☼ The Next Morning ☼ —

The morning air was as sharp as a flayed skin, the courtyard of Winterfell a chaotic symphony of clanking mail, stamping hooves, and the frozen breath of men and horses. Rickard stood tall, checking the cinches on his saddle with a grim focus, while Benjen hovered nearby, his face clouded with a youthful, restless irritation at being left behind to guard the walls.

Cregan stood at the head of the party, his face a mask of Northern granite. The exhaustion of the night before was hidden behind a cold, predatory alertness.

"My Lord—" Lord Dustin stepped forward, his furs dusted with a light frost as he gestured toward the horses. "Are you certain this is a wise course? A woman, leading our vanguard into the Gift? It is... unorthodox."

Cregan’s eyes shifted, cutting toward the older man like a whetted blade. "She is my wife. Choose your next words with extreme care, My Lord."

A heavy silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by the crackle of a nearby torch. Lord Karstark stepped up beside Dustin, his voice low and cautious, though his eyes remained defiant.

"She is your wife in the eyes of the South, perhaps. But not in the eyes of the Old Gods. We... we just worry, Lord Stark. This isn't some skinny, one-eyed prince she’s facing in a dance in the sky. These are wildlings. They don't know songs or chivalry; they know only blood and hunger. Are you sure this... Celtigar can handle the cold of a Northern slaughter?"

The air in the courtyard seemed to drop another ten degrees. Rickard paused his work, his hand going instinctively to the pommel of his sword, sensing the shift in his brother's temperament. They spoke of you as a fragile thing, a porcelain doll sent from a softer world, forgetting that the blood of Old Valyria didn't just bring beauty—it brought the heat of a thousand suns.

Cregan’s hand was stilled white-knuckled on the pommel of Ice, his jaw set to deliver a verbal flaying that would have stripped the skin from Lord Karstark’s bones, but he stopped mid-breath. The breath of the horses came in thick, rhythmic plumes of steam, and the clatter of sharpening stones died a sudden, strangled death.

The sound of your boots on the frozen stone was unmistakable—a steady, heavy click-thud that commanded the silence.

You didn't emerge in the heavy, sodden wools of a Northern lady, nor the stifling velvet of a courtier. You were encased in your pirate leathers—deep, sea-salt-stained black hide that had been molded to your frame through years of spray and blood. It wasn't the attire of a Lord's wife; it was the skin of a predator. Over your shoulder, the massive, wicked curve of your Valyrian steel battle-axe caught the pale morning sun, its edge shimmering with a lethal, smoky ripple.

In the crook of your arm, you held your helm. It wasn't the crab of House Celtigar as the bannermen had whispered behind their hands; it was a snarling, dragon-crested masterpiece of Valyrian steel that seemed to smoke in the frigid air.

Then, the sky didn't just darken; it groaned.

A shadow, vast and terrifying, swept over the battlements of Winterfell like the hand of an angry god. The clouds tore open as Verimother banked low, the sheer, concussive force of her wings sending a localized blizzard swirling through the courtyard, knocking men off their feet and sending horses into a screaming frenzy. The roar that followed wasn't a sound—it was a physical blow that rattled the teeth in the bannermen's skulls and vibrated through the very foundations of the Great Keep.

At the main gate, a group of your own men—scarred, salt-crusted veterans from the Stepstones who had followed you into the frozen wastes—shifted with a collective, predatory grin. They stood apart from the Stark men, dressed in mismatched armor and smelling of old ale and the sea.

"Oi! Look Cap’n!" one of them barked, a man with a jagged scar across his throat. "Thought she’d be wrapped in wolves' pelt and whimpering by now!" He threw his head back in a mocking, jagged howl that made the Northern scouts bristle and reach for their hilts.

You didn't look at the bannermen. You didn't even acknowledge the lords who had just questioned your blood. You looked only at Cregan. With a slow, deliberate movement of your hand, you signaled upward. Verimother ascended, her massive, obsidian-scaled form shimmering like wet coal as she pierced the grey ceiling of the sky.

Your hair, that striking, untamed silver, was pulled back tight and bound with the very strip of scarred leather Cregan had used to tie his own hair the night before. It was a silent, intimate claim—a declaration that while you carried the fire of the South, you wore the knot of the North.

You barked a sharp, melodic command in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue cutting through the crisp air like a whip.

"Done, Cap’n," one of your veterans laughed, resting a hand on a curved blade. "No dragon—for now. We tried to warn the bastard to stay put, but he’s restless. He senses the Rogue’s shadow in the wind."

The man turned his gaze toward Lord Karstark, who was currently trembling so hard his mail was jingling. The pirate spat a dark glob into the pristine snow. "He don't like the smell of 'worried' men. Makes his stomach turn."

Cregan stepped toward you, his eyes raking over your lethal silhouette with a dark, terrifying pride. The man who had whimpered in your arms hours ago was gone, replaced by the Lord of Winterfell. He turned back to his stunned, silent bannermen, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that promised blood.

"Does anyone else wish to discuss the 'eyes of the gods'?" Cregan asked, his hand dropping from his sword to rest firmly on the small of your back, his fingers claiming the leather he had lent you. "Or are we ready to ride? My wife has a schedule to keep, and I find I’ve lost my patience for Northern hospitality."

The courtyard fell into a brief, stunned silence as the sound of your laughter—clear and silver as a bell—cut through the tension. It was a jarring contrast to the heavy Valyrian steel on your back and the dragon-shadow still cooling the stones.

Your quartermaster, a man whose face looked like a piece of weathered oak, groaned as he checked the girth on your mare. He gestured toward the massive, wicked blade of the axe peering over your shoulder. "Must you carry the battle axe, Cap'n? It’s enough to tip the horse over before we even hit the Kingsroad. We’ve got plenty of Northern steel in the wagons."

You laughed softly, the sound catching in the crisp morning air. "Baelon has claimed the Greyjoy ancestral sword for the morning," you said, shaking your head. "He’s taken a liking to playing 'Fake Lord of Winterfell' with it. The boy nearly cried when I tried taking it from his bedside this morning. I hadn't the heart to strip a future Kraken-slayer of his prize."

Cregan’s lips twitched, a spark of genuine amusement breaking through his icy facade. The image of the silver-haired boy dragging a heavy, pillaged iron-born blade across the rushes of the Great Hall was enough to soften even his hardened heart.

"He has his mother’s taste for trophies," Cregan murmured, stepping closer so only you could hear. "And his father's stubbornness. If he wants the Ironborn steel, let him have it. It’ll keep him occupied while his mother reminds the Gift why they should fear the sky."

The bannermen exchanged uneasy looks. The mention of the children—of the sons of the Wolf and the Dragon—brought the reality of the stakes home. This wasn't just a punitive raid; this was a mother and father clearing a path for their legacy.

"The boy has a good eye for balance, at least," Rickard called out from his mount, a wry grin finally breaking his stoic expression. "Better he plays with a sword than those wooden pups. He’ll be leading the vanguard himself in ten years at this rate."

The Steward’s eyes widened, his face pale as he bobbed a frantic, stuttering bow. He scrambled toward the stables, the crunch of his boots on the frost the only sound in the sudden, heavy silence that followed your words.

"Go fetch my stag," you called after him, your voice smooth as polished glass. "The gift from that Baratheon I almost killed. It’s been far too long since he’s smelled the mountain air."

A low, collective murmur rippled through the Northern ranks. Even the stoic Karstarks exchanged looks of dawning realization. They had heard whispers of the Stormbreaker—the massive, coal-black warhorse with a temper like a hurricane, taken as a prize of war from a Lord who had dared to underestimate a dragon’s daughter.

You smiled, a slow, dangerous thing that reached your eyes but offered no warmth. "He’s a stubborn beast," you added, glancing at Cregan as he stood by your side. "But then again, I’ve always had a fondness for creatures that refuse to be broken."

The Steward returned moments later, leading a beast that looked less like a horse and more like a mountain of muscle and spite. The stallion let out a sharp, piercing whinny, its hooves striking the stone with the force of a mason's hammer, sparks flying in the dim morning light. Its coat was the color of a midnight storm, and its eyes burned with a restless, wild intelligence.

"Careful, lad," one of your veterans chuckled, watching the Steward struggle to keep the lead. "He’s tasted Northern blood once already this week. He don't take kindly to being kept in a pen."

You stepped forward, the heavy dragon-crested helm tucked under one arm and the weight of the Valyrian axe steady on your back. As you reached for the reins, the stallion immediately stilled, its ears twitching back as it lowered its massive head to nudge your shoulder.

You swung up into the saddle with a fluid, lethal grace that made the Northern lords look clumsy by comparison. From the height of the Great Stag, you looked down at the men who had questioned your blood, your silver hair gleaming like a crown against the dark leather of your collar.

"My Lord," you said, looking down at Cregan, your smirk widening. "Shall we show them how a 'killer' clears a path? Or are we going to wait for the snow to reach our waists?"

Should you signal the march with a sharp whistle to your dragon above, or will you let the thunder of your stallion's hooves be the only command your men need?

The sharp, piercing whistle sliced through the frozen morning air like a Valyrian blade. It wasn't a lady’s call; it was a commander’s signal. In a single, deafening motion, your veterans moved as one body—boots hitting stirrups and leather creaking in a synchronized rhythm that made the Northern lords flinch.

"Shit," Rickard muttered under his breath, his eyes wide as he watched the sheer, practiced discipline of your crew. These weren't just sailors; they were a war party that moved like a single shadow.

One of your men, a massive brute with a sea-salt beard and a jagged scar across his cheek, kicked his horse forward. He reached into the heavy leather satchel slung across his saddle, his grin showing more iron than teeth.

“Whose banner we raising today, Cap’n?” he barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the keep. “Targaryen? The Greyjoy banners we stole from the Iron Islands? Or—those Vale bastards we stripped at the Eyrie?”

Cregan stiffened at the name of the Vale.

A ripple of nervous muttering broke out among the bannermen. They were beginning to realize that the woman sitting atop the Baratheon warhorse hadn't just come to the North to be a wife—she had come with a history written in the blood of every Great House that had crossed her.

You adjusted your grip on the reins of the Great Stag, the beast dancing beneath you, eager for the hunt. You looked back at the terrified faces of the Karstarks and the Umbers, then at Cregan, whose hand still rested possessively on your thigh, his thumb tracing the seam of your pirate leathers.

You smiled, a slow, predatory curve of your lips that promised a very long, very bloody day.

“Let’s raise Celtigar,” you said, your voice carrying a chilling lightness. “Let’s remind them that the sea has a long memory. Let’s have some fun today.”

With a snap of his wrist, your man unfurled the banner. The white parchment-like fabric caught the wind, revealing the red crabs of House Celtigar. To the Northerners, it was a sigil of a minor house, but under your command, it looked like a warning.

Above, as if sensing your intent, Verimother let out a bone-shaking roar that shattered the remaining icicles from the battlements of Winterfell. The dragon banked hard, her shadow swallowing the courtyard once more before she streaked toward the North, a living comet of obsidian and fire.

“Open the gates!” Cregan roared, his voice finally finding its iron.

The heavy iron-studded gates of Winterfell hadn't even fully groaned open before you dug your heels into the flanks of the Baratheon stag. The great black beast let out a defiant snort, lunging forward with a power that kicked up a blinding spray of snow and gravel.

You didn't just ride; you ignited.

With a fluid, practiced motion, you reached over your shoulder and unsheathed the Valyrian battle-axe. The metal didn't just shine; it seemed to drink the pale morning light, ripples of dark smoke dancing along the edge of the blade. You held it high, a silver-haired Valkyrie leading a swarm of salt-stained devils, and the roar that left your throat was answered by the bone-shaking scream of Verimother overhead.

"For the Cap'n!" your men howled, their horses thundering behind you in a terrifying, synchronized wave of steel and leather.

The Northern bannermen were left scrambling, their stoic discipline shattered by the sheer, violent velocity of your departure. Cregan was already moving, his face a mask of grim, dark pride as he spurred his own mount to keep pace with the whirlwind you’d unleashed.

"Brother!" Rickard’s voice drifted back through the roar of hooves, cracking with a mix of genuine awe and sudden, frantic regret. He was leaning low over his horse's neck, desperately trying to keep up as you cleared the outer perimeter at a breakneck gallop. "Brother! I don't think I want to go anymore!"

He whined it loudly enough for the scouts to hear, his eyes wide as he watched you vault over a frozen log without breaking stride, the massive axe in your hand looking light as a feather.

"Too late, Rickard!" Cregan roared back, his laughter lost to the wind as he watched your silver braid whip behind you like a banner of war. "The Dragon is out of the cage! You either run with the pack or you get trampled by the hooves!"

You didn't look back. The air was screaming past your ears, the scent of pine and impending slaughter filling your lungs. Ahead lay the Gift, and beyond that, the wildlings who thought the North was easy prey. They were expecting a wolf’s bite, but they were about to feel the focused, methodical fury of a woman who had been bred to turn the world to ash.

—

The Great Stag’s hooves hammered a rhythmic thunder against the frozen Kingsroad, the sound echoing off the ancient weirwoods as you pulled ahead of the pack. The cold wind bit at your cheeks, but the blood of the dragon was running hot, a feverish contrast to the biting Northern frost.

"We have a stop to make first—Manderly!" you shouted over your shoulder, your voice carrying with a sharp, ringing authority that brooked no argument.

"Manderly?" Rickard yelled back, his face a mask of confusion as he struggled to keep his horse from slipping on a patch of black ice. "White Harbor is days off our route to the Gift! Why the hell are we stopping for the fat lord now?"

"Cregan’s going to have my head for this!" Rickard yelled, his horse foaming at the bit as he struggled to keep pace. "White Harbor is days away, and we're supposed to be hunting wildlings in the Gift! Why are we turning east?"

You didn't slow. You didn't even look back. You just adjusted the weight of the Valyrian axe on your shoulder, the dark ripples of the steel catching the dim light.

"The Manderlys are hoarding grain while the smallfolk starve," you called out, your voice cutting through the wind like a whip. "They think because they sit behind white walls and silver coins, they can wait for the winter to pass while the rest of the North bleeds. They forgot who keeps the seas safe for their precious trade."

"And you think they'll just hand it over because you asked?" Rickard scoffed, though he looked increasingly nervous.

You smirked, a dark, predatory expression that would have made Daemon Targaryen proud. "I'm not going to ask, Rickard. I'm going to remind them of the debt they owe the Crown. And I'm going to do it before the sun sets."

You whistled once, a sharp, piercing note. High above, hidden in the thick, charcoal-grey clouds, a low, vibrating rumble answered you. Verimother was still there, a silent shadow tracking your movement, her heat radiating through the damp air.

"Heavens above," Rickard whispered, looking up at the swirling mist. "You're not negotiating. You're raiding."

"I'm balancing the ledgers, Rickard," you replied, your eyes fixed on the horizon where the scent of salt and fish began to mingle with the pine. "Just like Cregan asked."

∿ A Few Days Later ∿

The white stone of the city didn't just gleam; it glared. As the massive, silver-veined gates of White Harbor loomed ahead, the air changed—the biting, dry chill of the wolf-woods was replaced by the heavy, salt-choked fog of the Bite.

You didn't slow the Great Stag. The beast’s hooves struck the cobblestones with a rhythmic, bone-jarring thunder that sent merchants diving for cover and stall-keepers scrambling to pull in their silks. Behind you, the hundred black-clad killers of the Stepstones rode in a tight, predatory wedge, their mismatched armor clinking like a bag of stolen coins.

"My Lady—Sister! Please!" Rickard’s voice was a frantic, wind-whipped howl as he spurred his horse to keep pace with your flank. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated panic. "Think twice! By the Old Gods, be calm! At least talk to him! He’s a Lord of the North, not a pirate king!"

You didn't even look at him. Your silver hair, bound tight in Cregan’s leather, whipped behind you like a storm-cloud. You reached over your shoulder, the dark, rippled steel of the Valyrian battle-axe singing as you drew it. The sound was a cold, sharp promise that silenced the street.

"Talk?" you spat, the word a jagged shard of ice. "Cregan has talked until his throat is raw, Rickard! He’s bled ink for a year while these mermen fat themselves on grain and silver! I’m done with words!"

You rounded the corner into the Great Court, the Stag’s hooves throwing up sparks as you skidded to a halt. Lord Wyman Manderly stood on the steps of the New Castle, surrounded by his silver-clad guards, his face turning the color of a fish’s belly as he saw the dragon-crested helm tucked under your arm and the smoking steel in your hand.

You vaulted from the saddle before the horse had even stopped moving. Your boots hit the stone with a heavy, metallic thud.

"Lord Manderly!" you roared, the sound echoing off the white towers.

Rickard scrambled off his horse, nearly tripping over his own cloak as he rushed to get between you and the Lord of White Harbor. "Wyman! Forgive her! She’s... she’s traveled long! My lady, please, just a moment of—"

You shoved Rickard aside with a strength that caught him off guard, marching straight into Manderly’s personal space. The heavy lord flinched, his triple chin trembling. Your hand moved to his shoulder, forcing him down.

"I’ve been starving, Wyman," you whispered, your voice dropping into a low, terrifying purr that made the guards' hands shake on their pikes. You leaned in close, your eyes tracking the sweat beads on his brow. "And you know what I want?"

You smiled—a wicked, predatory flash of teeth.

"Whatever it is you have! Every grain in the silo! Every copper in the vault! Every salted cod in the barrels!"

You straightened, raising the axe high. The shadow of Verimother suddenly eclipsed the sun, the dragon’s low, vibrating growl shaking the windows of the castle.

"TAKE IT ALL!" you commanded.

"Cap'n's orders!" your men howled, swarming past the frozen Manderly guards like a tide of black iron.

Rickard stood there, his hands in his hair, watching the systematic looting of the wealthiest city in the North. "Cregan is going to kill me," he whimpered. "He’s actually going to kill me."

You turned to him, the axe resting casually on your shoulder. "Don't be dramatic, Rickard. He'll be too busy eating to kill anyone."

Come on, why don’t you help!" you said, your voice dropping into a conversational, almost girlish lilt that made Rickard’s hair stand on end. "You send such a nice letter, Wyman! All those flowery words about 'shared burdens' and 'winter's bite'—it was truly moving."

Manderly nodded so vigorously his jowls shook. "I—I didn't know you were North, my lady! Truly! The rumors said you were... occupied in the capital! I would’ve done more! I would’ve sent the wagons weeks ago if I’d known the Dragon was watching the hearth!"

"I know!" you chirped, patting his cheek with a gloved hand—a gesture that felt more like a threat than a comfort. "Which is why I like you! You’re always so kind, so full of excuses! It’s almost charming."

You stood back, hands on your hips, surveying the chaos of your men stripping his storehouses. The air was thick with the scent of dry grain and old salt.

"You know what? Because we're such old friends, I’ll let you keep some," you said, tilting your head thoughtfully. "Just a sliver, so you don't actually wither away before spring. I'll even let you keep some of that Arbor Gold and that spicy red wine you like from the Stepstones. The vintage I 'liberated' from the triarchy, remember?"

Manderly let out a choked sob of gratitude. "You are... you are too merciful, My Lady. A saint of the Seven..."

"Don't push it, Wyman," you interrupted, your smile sharpening into a blade again. "The wine stays because I don't want my husband drinking fermented fish oil when I get back. But the grain? The salted beef? The iron? All of it goes into the wagons. Now, get up."

You turned to Rickard, who was staring at you with his mouth hanging open, his horse’s reins limp in his hand.

"See, Rickard? Negotiation," you said, wiping a smudge of soot from your leather sleeve. "He’s happy, I’m happy, and the North gets fed. Now, find the harbormaster. Now ready the ships for the Vale!”

"Wyman!" you called out, not looking back. "Ready the slips! My ships need to be watered and provisioned by sundown. We aren't staying to watch the snow fall."

Rickard’s face went from pale to a ghostly, translucent white. He stumbled after you, his hand shaking as he reached for your arm, then flinching back as if the dragon-fire might burn him.

"The Vale?" he choked out, his voice cracking. "My lady—sister—please! The grain is one thing! We have the wagons, we have the men to take it back to Winterfell! We can send the bannermen back now and tell Cregan we’ve succeeded! Why the Vale?"

You stopped at the edge of the stone pier, looking out toward the horizon where the sea met the sky. "The grain goes back to Winterfell," you said, your voice flat and cold. "Send half my men and the Northern bannermen to guard the caravans. Cregan will have his bread."

You turned to Rickard, a slow, wicked glint in your eyes. "But the Vale has the gold. They have the fine wools, the seasoned timber, and the mountain goats that keep their bellies full while the North eats bark. I’m a pirate, Rickard. I don't care for this war of kings and queens, but I do care for a full treasury."

"I promised him!" Rickard wailed, ignoring the snickering of your veterans. "I promised Cregan on my life and the Old Gods that I would keep you safe! If I let you sail for the Vale to raid the Arryns, he won't just kill me—he’ll skin me and hang me from the Heart Tree!"

"Then you’d better stay close to me," you smirked, reaching out to pat his cheek. "I’d hate for my favorite brother-in-law to lose his hide."

You looked back at Wyman, who was being hauled up by two of your men. "Wyman, tell your harbormaster if my ships aren't ready to sail for the Eyrie by the evening tide, I’ll let Verimother use your 'Merman’s Court' as a nesting ground. Do we understand each other?"

Manderly could only nod, a broken, rhythmic motion of his head.

Rickard looked at the wagons being loaded with the grain that was supposed to save his people, and then at the dark, lethal ships waiting to take him to a war he never asked for. He looked utterly petrified, a wolf caught in a dragon's whirlwind.

"This isn't balancing the ledgers anymore," Rickard whispered to the sky. "This is a massacre."

⌃ At the Vale ⌃

The Eyrie sat atop its mountain peak like a crown of ice, but the reception you received was anything but cold. As you marched through the High Hall, the click of your boots echoing against the marble, Rickard followed three paces behind, his hand trembling on the hilt of his sword. He had expected arrows; he had expected a siege. Instead, the Vale guards stood aside with knowing smirks as soon as they saw the dragon-crested helm beneath your arm.

Lady Jeyne Arryn stood from her throne of carved weirwood, her eyes brightening with a spark that wasn't for politics. She didn't wait for a formal greeting. She met you halfway down the hall.

“Cap’n?” she murmured, the title a private endearment between you.

“Jeyne,” you replied.

The hug was brief but crushing, and when she pulled back, her lips brushed yours in a lingering, familiar graze—a ghost of the nights you had spent together before the North had claimed you. Behind you, you heard Rickard let out a strangled, muffled sound, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“You come here for what exactly?” Jeyne asked, her hands resting on your leather-clad shoulders. “To kill me? Or to protect me with your dragon?”

“Supplies,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Sheepeater has been seen in the passes. You’ve always been protected, Jeyne.”

“Yes, Commander of Dragons—always looking out for me,” she teased, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw, “unless you want to kill me.”

“I always want to kill you,” you countered with a wicked smile.

Jeyne laughed, a clear, sharp sound, and turned to her startled stewards. “Give her what she needs! And double it! She’ll plunder more anyway the moment my back is turned. Better to give it freely than have her burn my mountain for a lark.”

She turned back to you, her gaze softening as she ignored the petrified Stark brother-in-law. “How’s Baelon? And little Brandon?”

“Northman and Sea-Pirate,” you laughed, the tension of the journey finally bleeding out of your shoulders. “I didn’t expect Baelon to fall in love with the North so deeply—he drags that iron-born sword everywhere. And I didn't expect Brandon to be so much like me. He already looks at the horizon like he wants to own it.”

Jeyne smiled, a bit wistfully. “They have the best of you, then. And the worst of the Wolf.”

Rickard finally found his voice, stepping forward with a shaky cough. “My Lady... Lady Arryn. I am Rickard Stark. I... I was under the impression we were raiding the Vale.”

Jeyne arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “You are a Stark, aren't you? So serious. Your brother chose well, it seems—he got the dragon, and I got the memories. Now, come. We have wine that hasn't been frozen through, and your 'Cap’n' has stories to tell.”

—

The descent from the Eyrie was steep, the wind howling through the Giant’s Lance as if the mountains themselves were gossiping. You walked with the steady, arrogant grace of a woman who had just been given the keys to the kingdom, while Rickard followed, his face a shifting mosaic of confusion and dawning horror.

He kept glancing back at the high, white towers, then at you, then down at his own boots. He cleared his throat once. Then twice.

"That was... quite a reception," Rickard started, his voice strained as he tried to navigate the rocky path. "I’ve heard the Maid of the Vale is a cold woman. Hard as the marble she sits on. But she seemed... different with you."

"Jeyne is practical," you replied, your eyes fixed on the horizon where your ships waited. "She knows the value of a good partnership."

"A partnership. Right." Rickard adjusted his cloak, his eyes darting to the side. "It’s just... the way she looked at you. And that kiss. It wasn't exactly a... a diplomat’s greeting, was it? It seemed a bit more... thorough."

You smirked, enjoying the way he was squirming, practically tripping over his own tongue. "She’s a woman of deep passions, Rickard. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"I’m saying she looked like she wanted to eat you alive, and you looked like you were going to let her!" Rickard blurted out, his face turning a violent shade of crimson. "The way she whispered to you... the way her hands lingered on your leathers... Gods, the way she touched your mouth! There’s an alliance, and then there’s... that."

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. Rickard nearly ran into the head of your battle-axe. You leaned in close, the smell of Jeyne’s expensive rose-water still clinging to your skin.

"We used to fuck, Rickard," you said flatly, your voice devoid of any shame. "You don't have to tiptoe around it. She has an affliction for cunt. Most women with taste do."

Rickard made a sound like a dying bird. He looked around frantically as if the very rocks might have ears. "My Lady! The bannermen! My brother! You can't just—you can't say it like that!"

"Why not?" You laughed, turning back to the path. "It’s the truth. I raided her ships, she captured my interest, and we spent a very long, very warm winter together before I ever saw a snowflake in the North. Cregan didn't marry a maiden from a motherhouse, Rickard. He married a pirate. He knows I’ve tasted more than just Northern ale."

Rickard looked like he wanted to dissolve into the mountain fog. "I’m going to have to look my brother in the eye," he whispered to himself, clutching his horse's reins for dear life. "I’m going to have to stand there while he asks how the 'negotiations' went, and I’m going to remember... afflictions."

"Don't worry," you called out over your shoulder as the harbor came into view. "Just tell him we got the wool and the gold. He’s a man of the North—he’ll be too busy counting the grain to worry about who I shared a bed with five years ago."

⋆ ≈ At White Harbor ≈ ⋆

The salty air of White Harbor felt different this time—heavier, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. As your boots hit the pier, the Quartermaster stepped forward, his face grimy but his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a job well done.

"The Gift has been handled, Cap’n," he grunted, nodding toward the crates of Northern steel being moved. "Though I suspect more movement from the Wildlings soon. For right now, though? They’re tempered—really tempered. They saw the shadow in the clouds and decided the forest was a better place to hide than the road."

You nodded gently, your hand resting on the pommel of your axe, the weight of the Vale’s gold already settled in your hold. But before you could respond, Rickard’s horse let out a nervous whinny.

Rickard had frozen mid-step on the gangplank, his eyes fixed on the far end of the docks where a familiar, massive silhouette stood framed against the white stone of the city.

"No!" Rickard hissed, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. "It’s Cregan! He looks pissed!"

You followed his gaze. Cregan wasn't just standing there; he was a statue of obsidian and ice. He wasn't wearing his fine Lordly furs; he was in his travel-worn leathers, Ice strapped to his back, his jaw so tight you could practically hear the bone grinding from the water. He didn't look like the man who had whimpered in your arms; he looked like the Winter King coming to collect a blood debt.

"He looks more than pissed, Rickard," you murmured, a slow, fearless smirk spreading across your lips. "He looks like he’s about to remind us why the North belongs to the Wolf."

Cregan’s eyes locked onto yours across the crowded pier. He didn't move. He didn't wave. He simply stood there, radiating a cold, suffocating fury that made even your hardened pirates stop their shouting and lower their crates. He had clearly ridden hard to meet you, likely having heard the rumors of the "raids" on his own allies before the grain had even reached Winterfell.

Rickard grabbed your sleeve, his knuckles white. "He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me and then he’s going to lock you in the Maidenvault and melt the key. Tell me you have a plan. Tell me you have a really, really good lie."

“No plan—I didn’t expect him to meet us at the Harbor, maybe the gates” you whispered back

Rickard looked like he was about to drop dead of a heart attack right there on the salt-stained wood. "You have NO plan!?" he hissed, his voice reaching a pitch that only dogs and nervous Starks could hear.

"None whatsoever," you responded coolly, adjusting the heavy strap of the Valyrian axe on your shoulder. You didn't break eye contact with Cregan, whose gaze was currently boring a hole through your skull. "Unload our spoils from the Vale. I’m sure seeing Arryn silver and fine silks will piss him off even more."

"You're a madwoman," Rickard whimpered, but he moved, scurrying to bark orders at the men just to avoid standing still under Cregan’s mounting shadow.

You stepped off the gangplank, your boots hitting the stone with a steady, defiant rhythm. Behind you, the pulleys began to groan as crates marked with the moon and falcon were lowered onto the docks. The contrast was absurd—the rugged, starving North meeting the opulence of the Vale, all brought to the pier by a woman who looked like she’d just finished a brawl at sea.

Cregan began to walk. It wasn't a fast pace, but it was heavy, each step echoing with the weight of a Lord who had been pushed to his absolute limit. He stopped ten feet away, his chest heaving slightly, the cold air turning his breath into a dragon’s mist.

"The grain arrived at Winterfell three days ago," Cregan said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that skipped right past 'angry' and landed squarely on 'dangerous.' "The bannermen told me my wife had turned brigand. That she was shaking down my allies and disappeared toward the Bite."

He looked past you to Rickard, who was trying to hide behind a stack of wool blankets. "Rickard. Why is there Vale silver being unloaded in my harbor?"

Rickard opened his mouth, but only a squeak came out.

You stepped into Cregan’s space, closing the gap until you could smell the pine and the cold sweat of his long ride. You looked up at him, your silver hair windblown and messy, a smudge of dried blood on your cheek from the journey.

"It’s not just silver, Cregan," you said, your voice a smooth, provocative purr. "It's timber for the ships, wool for the cloaks, and enough gold to pay for the scouts for the next three years. Jeyne was... very generous."

Cregan’s eyes snapped back to yours, his nostrils flaring. The mention of Jeyne Arryn seemed to make the muscle in his jaw twitch violently. "Generous? You raided White Harbor and then vanished to the Eyrie without a word to your Lord. Do you have any idea what the Manderlys are calling you?"

"They’re lucky I didn’t kill him," you countered, your voice as cold and sharp as a Northern winter. You didn't flinch at his tone; if anything, you stepped closer, your chest nearly brushing his leather doublet. "Wyman is fine. He’s fat, he’s breathing, and he wouldn’t dare raise a hand against you or me. I’ve killed one of his cousins for lesser insults in the Stepstones—he knows exactly how merciful I was being by only taking his wheat."

"That’s not the point!" Cregan snapped, his roar momentarily silencing the entire dock. Even the seagulls seemed to stop screaming.

He turned his fury toward Rickard, who looked like he wanted to jump into the icy water and swim for the Bite. Cregan’s finger pointed like a spear at his brother. "You! You allowed her to come here? To go to the Vale? Why were you there in the first place!"

"I—I didn't allow anything!" Rickard stammered, his hands held up in surrender. "Cregan, she has a dragon! And an axe! And she told me we were 'balancing the ledgers'! By the time we hit the sea, I was just trying to make sure she didn't set fire to the Gulltower!"

Cregan turned back to you, his grey eyes dark with a turbulent mix of betrayal and sheer, unadulterated possessiveness. He grabbed your upper arm—not enough to bruise, but enough to anchor you.

"The Vale is not our territory," he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration. "Jeyne Arryn is a sovereign of her own mountain. You went behind my back to a woman you..." He trailed off, his jaw working as he struggled with the rumors he’d clearly heard long ago. "Why the Vale? Why her?"

You tilted your head, a stray silver lock falling over your eye. "Because she has what you need, Cregan. And because unlike your 'staunch allies' who whine about the cold, she knows that when I show up, it’s better to give with an open hand than to lose the whole arm."

You leaned in, your voice dropping so only he could hear the edge of your smirk. "Are you angry that I took the gold, or are you angry that I didn't need your permission to get it from her?"

The atmosphere on the White Harbor docks thickened until it felt like breathing silt. Cregan’s hand tightened on your arm, his leather glove creaking against your skin as he pulled you into the private, suffocating circle of his heat.

"Or are you angry about something else completely?" you murmured, your voice a dangerous, velvet challenge. You tilted your head, your silver hair catching the pale sun. "It’s not like I let her do anything she hasn't done a thousand times before—"

Cregan surged forward, his chest slamming against yours, forcing you back a step. The raw, territorial power radiating off him made the nearby dockworkers scramble away.

"Please, brother!" Rickard yelped, his hands up as if to physically catch the falling sky. "I was there! I stayed by her side the whole time! She was... she was perfectly cordial!"

"Cordial?" Cregan’s head snapped toward his brother, his eyes flashing with a wolf’s predatory light. "That woman wants my wife. She would be dead already if I’d known you were sailing for her mountain."

He turned that lethal gaze back to you, his voice dropping to a hiss that was far more terrifying than the shout. "She used to sleep in your bed. She used to hold you the way I do—and you went back to her. You walked right into her arms." His grip shifted, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of your wrist. "Tell me. Did she kiss you?"

You didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, gentle smile bloomed on your lips—the kind of smile that only added fuel to the pyre of his jealousy. It was a silent admission of a history he couldn't erase.

Cregan’s breath hitched, his jaw working as if he were physically holding back a roar of grief and rage. He whipped his head back toward Rickard, his voice a jagged command. "Did she?!"

Rickard jumped a foot into the air, his face pale as a ghost. "She—she didn't kiss back! I swear it on the Old Gods! Our lady just stood there! She was like stone, Cregan! Cold as the Wall!"

Cregan turned back to you, searching your eyes for the lie. His possessiveness was a physical weight now, his fingers trembling where they gripped you. He wasn't the Lord of Winterfell in this moment; he was a man terrified that a piece of your heart still belonged to a falcon in the Vale.

"You let her touch you," he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours, his voice breaking. "You let her put her mouth on what belongs to the North. On what belongs to me."

The air between you didn't just chill; it solidified. Cregan’s hand, which had been gripping your arm like a vice, suddenly trembled. The raw, territorial fury in his eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp pain as you threw his own caution back at him.

“We’re not married, my Lord,” you whispered, the words hanging like icicles in the salt air.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” Cregan snapped, his voice cracking. He was losing control, the composed Lord of Winterfell stripping away to reveal a man who was terrified of the distance between you. He surged closer, his chest heaving against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

You didn't back down. You leaned into his heat, your voice dropping to a low, lethal hum that only he could hear—a secret meant for a husband, even if the scrolls weren't signed.

“She is nothing but a friend, Cregan. She has a lover—and I have mine,” you murmured, your silver hair brushing against his stubbled jaw. “She will never be what I desire.”

You paused, your eyes tracing the hard, jagged lines of his face, the dark intensity that made men half his age flee in terror.

“Unless,” you continued with a slow, wicked smile, “she grew taller. Unless she had darker hair and that cold, brooding look that makes the sun hide. Unless she was a Warden of the North with a cock dangling between her legs.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Rickard, who had been ready to bolt for the nearest ship, made a sound like a choked-out wheeze and turned his head so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. The veterans behind you shared a collective, knowing smirk, shifting their weight as they waited for the explosion.

Cregan’s eyes widened, the pupils blowing out until his gaze was almost entirely black. The fury was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a dark, hungry possessiveness that burned hotter than any dragon’s fire. His grip on your arm shifted, his fingers sliding down to lace through yours, squeezing until your knuckles popped.

“You have a foul tongue,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, heavy tension. He didn't let go. If anything, he pulled you closer, claiming the space between you as his own. “A foul, pirate’s tongue that I should have cut out the moment you stepped off that ship.”

“And yet,” you whispered, your smirk growing, “you’d miss the taste of it, wouldn’t you?”

Cregan’s jaw worked, his gaze dropping to your mouth with an intensity that promised you wouldn't be sleeping in separate beds tonight. He looked back at Rickard, who was still trying to pretend he was part of the stonework.

“Rickard!” Cregan barked, not breaking eye contact with you. “Get the gold and the grain to the wagons. Now. If I see a single coin missing, I’ll have your head for the Arryn’s theft.”

“Yes! Moving! We’re moving!” Rickard scrambled, practically shoving the Manderly guards to get the crates onto the carts.

Cregan didn't give you the chance to answer the crew or even offer a parting wink to your quartermaster. His hand was a ring of iron around your wrist as he hauled you toward his massive warhorse, his stride so long and furious you nearly had to jog to keep up.

"You're riding with me," he commanded, his voice vibrating with a dark, low-frequency growl that signaled the end of any and all debate.

"Yes, my lord," you teased, your voice tilting into that mocking, melodic lilt that usually made his blood boil. You let him hoist you up onto the saddle, the leather creaking under your combined weight as he swung up behind you, his chest slamming into your back like a wall of granite.

He didn't just take the reins; he wrapped his arms around you, caging you against the pommel. He leaned down, his face buried in the crook of your neck where the scent of Jeyne’s roses was being aggressively overwritten by his own smell of woodsmoke, old snow, and sheer, possessive rage.

"Now I'm your lord—No! I'm your husband!" he grunted into your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your lobe. The heat of his breath sent a shiver racing down your spine that had nothing to do with the Northern cold.

"Is that what the papers say, Cregan?" you whispered back, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Because I seem to remember a certain Warden of the North telling me he wasn't ready to let a pirate rule his hearth."

Cregan’s response was a sharp, guttural sound—half-snarl, half-groan. He dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, and the beast surged forward, tearing away from the docks and the prying eyes of the Manderlys. He didn't head toward the main road where the caravans were forming; he steered the horse toward the treeline, away from the noise and the gold.

"The papers can burn," he rasped, his grip tightening until you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart against your shoulder blades. "You belong to the North. You belong in Winterfell. And if I have to chain you to the heart tree to keep you from flying back to that falcon’s nest, I will."

Behind you, you could still hear Rickard’s distant, frantic shouting as he tried to manage the chaos of the unloading, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the rhythmic drumming of hooves and the heavy, ragged breathing of the man holding you.

The rhythm of the horse's gallop slowed as the white walls of the harbor faded into the grey-green blur of the Wolfswood. The biting sea wind was replaced by the scent of damp earth and ancient pine. You shifted in the saddle, leaning your weight back until your head rested against the cold steel of his gorget, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine.

“So you will marry me then, huh?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the creak of the leather. “To keep wandering hands away? Or because you love me?”

The tension that had been coiling in Cregan’s muscles since the moment he saw your black sails finally broke. He didn't answer with a roar or a command. Instead, he pulled the reins, bringing the great warhorse to a staggering halt in the shadow of a massive, snow-dusted weirwood.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and warm against your skin. His arms tightened around you, not as a cage this time, but as if he were trying to pull you into his very marrow.

“I love you,” he rasped, the words raw and stripped of his Lordly pride. “You know this, my light. I love you.”

He turned his head, his lips pressing a hard, desperate kiss to the pulse point below your ear. “I don’t want the papers to keep others away. I want them so that when the sun sets, the world knows there is no path you take that doesn’t lead back to me. I want the gods to see that the North and the Dragon are one.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his grey eyes no longer icy, but burning with a vulnerability that he only ever showed in the dark of your chambers. “I spent every night you were gone staring at the empty side of my bed, wondering if I’d finally pushed you too far into the sky. Don't ever do that to me again. Don't leave me with only the wind for company.”

You reached up, your gloved hand cupping his jaw, feeling the scratch of his beard and the heat of his skin. The "killer" and the "pirate" were still there, but in the silence of the woods, under the red eyes of the carved tree, you were just his.

“Then make me a Stark, Cregan,” you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. “Give me the name, and I’ll give you the world—starting with the gold I stole from your allies.”

The sound of the wind through the weirwood leaves died away, leaving only the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts beating against leather and fur. Cregan didn’t kiss you with the fire of a conqueror this time; he kissed you with the desperation of a man who had spent days convinced he was breathing ash.

It was soft, lingering, and tasted of the salt on your skin and the winter on his. His forehead stayed pressed against yours, his eyes closed tight as if he were trying to memorize the very air between you.

"I love you," he whimpered again, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. It was a vulnerable, raw confession—a side of the Winter Wolf that would have horrified his bannermen and terrified his enemies.

You smiled, a genuine, warm curve of your lips that reached your eyes, softening the sharp edges of the pirate queen. You reached up, threading your fingers through the dark, tangled hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a fraction closer.

“I know,” you whispered back.

— ❄︎ At Winterfell ❄︎ —

The courtyard of Winterfell was a symphony of chaos and homecoming. The heavy, rhythmic thud of the grain sacks being unloaded from the wagons provided a bass note to the sharp, excited babbles of the children.

You stood there for a moment, the weight of the North on one side and the fire of the South on the other. Baelon was a solid, wriggling weight on your hip, his small hands sticky with whatever honey-cake he’d pilfered before your arrival. He was currently trying to show you a "trick" with the Greyjoy sword, which mostly involved him leaning dangerously far back while pointing at the sky.

"Mama, did you see?" he asked, his eyes wide and shimmering with the same violet-grey intensity as yours. "The big shadow! I told Brandon it was you! I told him the sky was coming home!"

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, his skin cool from the snow but his spirit burning hot. "I saw you, little kraken-slayer," you whispered. "I saw you guarding the gates."

Then, you turned your attention to the youngest. Brandon was a squirming force of nature in his nurse's arms. When you reached for him, the transition was seamless. He didn't just come to you; he launched himself, his tiny fingers instantly tangling in the silver silk of your hair with a grip that promised he would never let go. At seven moons, he didn't have words, but he had a gaze—dark, stormy, and ancient—that seemed to see right through the pirate leathers and the Valyrian steel to the soul of the woman beneath.

"He’s been a terror," the nurse whispered, though she was smiling. "He doesn't want the cradle, my Lady. He wants the battlements. He spends hours just staring at the clouds."

Cregan stepped in closer, his massive frame shielding the four of you from the biting wind that whipped through the gatehouse. He looked down at his sons, then at you, and for the first time in weeks, the deep lines of worry around his eyes seemed to smooth out. He reached out, his large, calloused thumb stroking Brandon’s chubby cheek. The baby responded by trying to bite his father's finger, which earned a rare, booming laugh from the Lord of Winterfell.

"He’s got your temper," Cregan murmured, his voice thick with a dark, honeyed pride. "And your restlessness. I fear the North isn't going to be big enough for this one."

"The North is plenty big, Cregan," you replied, leaning your head against his shoulder as the boys babbled between you. "It just needs to learn how to breathe a little fire now and then."

Baelon squirmed out of your grasped for a moment.

You shifted your weight, cradling the squirming infant closer, and spun in a slow, graceful circle. The hem of your pirate leathers flared out, dusting the fresh snow as you pressed your face against the soft, milk-scented skin of Brandon’s cheek.

“My little northern crab!” you sighed, the title a tender bridge between your Celtigar roots and his Stark blood.

The baby let out a gurgling, high-pitched crow of delight, his tiny hands patting clumsily at your face, his dark eyes wide with the reflection of your silver hair. The fierce "Cap’n" who had brought a Lord to his knees and a city to its breaking point was gone, replaced by a mother whose heart was visibly aching with the relief of the return.

“I missed you so,” you whispered into the crook of his neck, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief heartbeat.

Cregan watched the two of you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. The iron-willed Warden of the North, the man who had just been ready to flay his brother for a perceived slight, was now a silent sentinel. He reached out, his hand covering both you and the baby, his palm resting flat against Brandon’s back as if to anchor the two of you to the earth.

“He missed the fire,” Cregan murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. “He’s been cold since you left, no matter how high we piled the peat in the hearth. He knew his mother was out there chasing the wind.”

Baelon, not wanting to be left out of the warmth, latched onto your leg, burying his face in your leather breeches. “I missed you too, Mama! I guarded the wolves! I told them you’d bring back the sun!”

You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to chase away the lingering chill of the journey. You looked from the heavy, obsidian-scaled dragon circling in the grey sky above to the two small lives in your arms, and then finally up at the man who stood as the center of it all.

The plunder from the Manderlys was being inventoried, the Vale’s wool was being stacked, and your crew was already eyeing the ale barrels—but here, in the quiet bubble of your family, the "Killer" was finally at peace.

“Well,” you said, looking at Cregan with a spark of your old mischief returning to your eyes. “The sun is back. And she’s very hungry. Shall we go inside before Brandon decides my ear is a better snack than his pottage?”

—

The solar was a blur of orange firelight and long, dancing shadows. Cregan, the man who commanded the respect of every hardened lord from the Wall to the Neck was now pinning you against the heavy oak table, the wood groaning under your weight as he ripped your pirate leathers open with a desperation that bordered on violence. He wasn't just looking for pleasure; he was looking for evidence.

He pressed a hard, desperate kiss to your stomach, his stubble grazing your skin as he let out a low, broken whimper. "Did she?" he rasped against your flesh, his voice thick with the kind of agonizing jealousy that only a Northman could carry. "Did she rub against you? Did she touch you where I touch you! Did she taste the salt?"

"No!" you gasped, your fingers digging into his dark hair as the cool air hit your skin.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the word died in your throat the moment his tongue found you. He didn't wait for your permission; he claimed you with a sharp, possessive flick that made your knees buckle. He was licking your clit with a rhythmic, frantic intensity, his growls muffled against your thighs.

He was marking you, trying to scrub away the phantom touch of the Lady of the Vale with his own heat. Every stroke was a claim, a violent re-declaration of his ownership.

"She didn't," he muttered against you, his breath hot and damp, "because you’re mine. Every inch of you. Every drop. You’re the North’s. You're mine."

The fire in the hearth roared, but it was nothing compared to the stifling, jealous heat radiating off Cregan.

He spread you completely to the flickering orange light. He looked at you—truly looked at you—his eyes scanning every inch of your wetness for a scent or a mark that wasn't his.

"She touched you," he snarled, his voice a guttural, wet sound. "I can smell the Vale on you. I can smell her desperation."

He leaned in, his face inches from your cunt, his breath hitching as he saw how slick you were. "Did she make you this wet? Did she use her fingers to open you up like a prize? Did she put her face here and drink from you until you forgot you had a husband waiting in the snow?"

"Cregan—" you tried to moan, but your voice was cut off as he slammed his mouth against you.

He didn't start gently. He lashed his tongue against your pearl with a punishing, rhythmic force, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you cry out. He was whimpering into your skin, a sound of pure, tortured possessiveness. He used his thumbs to stretch you open further, his gaze fixed on the way your folds pulsed against his tongue.

"No one else," he rasped, pulling back for a split second, his chin glistening with your nectar. "No one else gets to taste this. If I find her mark on you, I'll carve it out of your skin."

He plunged two fingers deep inside you, mirroring the aggressive lap of his tongue. He was stretching you, claiming the internal heat with a rough, territorial urgency. "Answer me! Did she feel how tight you are? Did she hear you make that sound when she bit your thigh?"

He didn't wait for the answer. He buried his face back between your legs, his tongue swirling and probing with a frantic, hungry energy. He was eating you as if he were starving, his hands wandering up to squeeze your breasts, twisting the nipples until you arched off the table, your silver hair sweeping the floor.

"You're mine," he growled against your clitoris, the vibration hummed through your entire body. "I'm going to eat every trace of her out of you. I'm going to fill you so full of the North that you'll never be able to stand the smell of the sea again."

He grabbed your waist and flipped you onto the table, pressing your chest into the hard oak and hiking your hips high. He was behind you now, a wall of burning muscle, his heavy member thick and pulsing as it brushed against your soaking folds. He didn't enter you yet; he just teased the entrance, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.

Cregan’s hand shifted from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you down until your cheek was crushed against the cool, dark wood of the table. He remained poised at your entrance, the thick, twitching head of his length stretching you open, teasing the very edge of your sanity. He wasn't moving—he was waiting.

"You want to be a pirate?" he whispered, his voice a jagged, vibrating low that rumbled through your spine. "You want to wander the Bite and let the Lady of the Vale look at you like you’re hers to keep? If I let go of these reins, you'll just fly away again, won't you?"

He nipped at the sensitive skin of your earlobe, his breath hot and damp. "Tell me what happens if I fill you, little dragon. Tell me what happens to those pirate leathers when your belly starts to swell with my mark. You won't be climbing rigging then. You'll be by my hearth, heavy and warm, carrying the weight of the North."

You let out a broken moan, your hips bucking instinctively against him, pleading for the friction he was denying you. "Cregan, please... I can't... just do it..."

"Do what?" he growled, his hand snaking around to your front, his fingers dragging through your wetness and then rubbing the salt back into your own skin. "Ask me properly. I want to hear you admit it. I want to hear the Dragon beg for the Wolf to claim her for good."

He surged forward just an inch—a shallow, agonizingly slow slide that made you gasp—before pulling back out to the very tip.

"Beg me to make you a Stark," he commanded, his teeth grazing your shoulder. "Beg me to put a son in you. Or a daughter with my hair and your fire. Tell me you want to be rooted in this dirt so deep you'll never think of the sea again."

"Make me a Stark!" you cried out, your fingers clawing at the edge of the table, leaving gouges in the wood. "Put a baby in me, Cregan! I want a son... I want a daughter... I want to be yours! Please, fill me! Breed me!"

He let out a guttural, animalistic sound—a triumph that was more growl than word. "Say it again. Tell me whose blood you want flooding your womb."

"Yours!" you shrieked, your voice breaking as he finally plunged into you with a soul-crushing force. "Yours! Only yours! Fill me up, Lord Stark! Make me heavy with your name! Give me a Stark! Breed me until I can't walk!"

He began to hammer into you with a brutal, territorial rhythm that rattled the very foundations of the room. He wasn't just taking his pleasure; he was planting a flag. Every thrust was a violent claim, his heavy weight crushing you into the table as he buried himself to the hilt over and over again.

"A son to lead my vanguards," he grunted, his pace accelerating until it was a blur of skin and sweat. "A daughter to rule the halls. I’m going to fill you so full of me that there won't be room for anyone else’s thoughts. Not Jeyne's, not the sea's. Just mine."

He reached around, his fingers tangling in your silver hair and pulling your head back so your eyes met his in the mirror of the solar. He wanted you to see him—to see the dark, starving possessiveness in his gaze as he hit the back of your womb.

"Look at me," he rasped, his voice thick with the coming release. "Look at the man who's going to keep you in the North. Beg for it one last time. Beg for the seed."

"Give it to me!" you sobbed, your body vibrating, your walls clenching around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse. "All of it! Give me everything! Breed me, Cregan! Make me yours!"

He let out a strangled roar, his muscles locking like iron as he slammed himself deep inside you one final time, pinning you to the table. He stayed there, his entire body shuddering as he poured himself into you in great, hot surges, his forehead pressed against your spine as he whimpered your name into the dark.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the ragged, synchronized gasps of your breath. Cregan didn’t move; he stayed buried deep inside you, his weight a comforting, possessive anchor that pinned you to the dark wood of the table. He was still trembling, the aftershocks of his release rippling through his powerful frame.

He leaned down, his face pressing into the valley of your shoulder blades, his skin slick with sweat against yours.

“I love you, my light,” he whispered into your back, the words muffled, raw, and stripped of the biting jealousy that had consumed him moments before.

— ☾ Moons Later ☽ —

The solar was draped in the long, blue shadows of a Northern twilight, the only light coming from the orange embers in the hearth and the flickering tallow candles on your desk. You sat in a chair lined with thick, white bearskin, though even the plush fur couldn't quite ease the ache in your lower back.

You were heavy—far heavier than you had been with Brandon. Your belly was a high, firm mountain beneath your velvet gown, a constant reminder of that frantic, jealous night in the solar after your return from the Vale. The "Northern Crab" was making its presence known with every rhythmic kick against your ribs.

Spread before you were the ledgers of Winterfell, now balanced with a precision that made the Manderlys weep. The Vale gold had been put to work; the granaries were overflowing, and the shipyards at White Harbor were humming with the construction of your new fleet. But your eyes weren't on the numbers tonight.

They were on the wax seal of a raven-sent scroll from Dragonstone.

"...the tides of the Gullet are stained red, and the sky over the Reach burns with the breath of the Sunfyre. I look to the North, sister. I look for the Wolf's winter breath to cool the flames the Usurper."

"Still reading the Queen's pleas?"

The heavy thud of boots announced Cregan's arrival before he even crossed the threshold. He smelled of snow and the iron-tang of the practice yard. He walked over to you, but he didn't look at the ledgers or the letter. His gaze dropped immediately to the swell of your stomach.

He moved behind you, his large, calloused hands sliding over your shoulders to rest firmly on the peak of your belly. He leaned down, his beard scratching your cheek as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

"She wants her dragons," Cregan murmured, his voice a low rumble that made the baby kick in response. He felt the movement under his palms and a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. "But the North has its own fire to tend to right now."

"She's losing ground, Cregan," you whispered, leaning back into his heat. "The Stepstones are a mess, and the Hightowers are pushing closer to the capital."

"Let them push," Cregan grunted, his hands shifting to cradle the underside of your bump, supporting the weight as if it were the most precious cargo he’d ever overseen. "My vanguards are ready, and the grain is stored. But I'm not leaving this gate until I see the color of this one's eyes. I promised you a Stark, and it seems you’re intent on giving me a giant."

He turned your chair gently, kneeling between your legs—a position he had become very fond of in these later moons. He pressed his ear to your stomach, listening to the life he had planted there with such ferocious intent.

"Restless," he noted, his eyes darting up to yours with a smirk. "Just like the mother. I think this one will be a girl. A girl with a pirate’s heart and a wolf’s bite."

“I love you my light, you will stay here where it is safe, where I know that my reach will never be far.” Cregan whispered

“I love you more.” You whispered back

#got imagine

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