Love Takes Its Time
𖤓 Cregan Stark x emotional!reader
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Syn- In which Cregan fears all marriages are doomed, you fear stepping out of line, and you both learn misconceptions are the downfall of love, not duty.
Anonymous request
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WC: 4k
Tags n Warnings: mentions of abuse (NOT from Cregan), talks of sex (MDNI), abortions, near-death experience, pain, crying, cold!Cregan, enemies to lovers, bedding ceremony, panic attacks (?)
AN: This was so fun to write, y’all have seen me posting about crybaby!reader stuff!! I hope I did this right for you anon. Enjoy everyone!!
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You had not a clue how you got here, married to the Wolf of the North. You had long turned nine and ten, you were past being a woman by now. Your father was an affluent lord of the Riverlands, your mother a lady of Dorne. You always believed you were born unlucky. Folk in the Riverlands often mocked your mother's culture, laughing at how women could lead lives without the chain of a man. If only she married a Martell, you thought. You would be a princess. You would have choice. You wouldn't be whipped in shape for a man you did not know, you would not be forced to revolve your life since seven around the idea that you would someday be meant to serve the same kind of man your mother had to endure.
Cregan, on the other hand, had a sour attitude for a much different reason. His past marriage had failed horribly. He and his wife were friends—great friends. But the marriage quickly devolved into bickering and held more resentment than love toward the end, even though it was short-lived. He did not want to marry again. His wife died, and left him a son. An heir. He had no need to remarry, but the lords of The North are stubborn, and he could not deny his duty any longer. He wished not for a wife of a big house, settling for one simpler. One whose father would not breathe down his neck. And so, that is how he chose you.
You'd arrived with your family, but they did not stay long. You had little time alone, and even less with your mother. But when you did, it was spent weeping.
"Mama, I'm afraid. I want to go home-"
"You cannot," she shushed you, wiping a tear from your face. "Be strong. You are a cat in a wolve's den. You are clever, you are quick, and your strength is greater than mine. You must prevail, my heart." Her comfort soothed your heart, but the tears poured hot and fast in how she used her house's sigil to calm you, and not your father's. His was but a stallion. Hers was a tiger, it brought you strength when you needed it.
And so, they left after but a week after the wedding. And gods, it was horrid. You were sure your face showed nothing but melancholic fear, but it looked entirely different to those whom did not know you personally.
You looked angry—vengeful, even. Deep down, you were. But it was an emotion meant to be suppressed in a lady. Fury was not womanly, but the heart speaks on its own accord. You looked like you hated every second of the wedding, all the way up to the bedding ceremony. Your mother had never explained it to you. It was a memory she wished to keep buried, and you could not blame her.
You sat in your seat next to your lord husband, eyes downcast on the table. You thought of nothing, truly. That was until you heard the loud cheers of Northerners rush toward you, and you were suddenly in the air. It surprised—no—it horrified you. You felt the hands of men on your body, carrying you through the crowd. Your screams sounded exactly like you felt. You kicked and pleaded and yelled as if you were being taken to the slaughter.
Cregan heard the screams ahead—the ladies were much faster in taking him to the wedding chambers—and had them stop.
"Put her down," his voice commanded, deep and unwavering. A lord went to speak up, but when he seen his Warden's face harden at their hesitation, he took step back, the rest following.
You felt humiliated as they put you down. Your dress was torn and you had to hold what you could to keep the shirt from showing. They stared at you like you were the barbaric one. Like you overreacted. Your heart beat hard in your ears, making the lord's command for privacy inaudible.
He pulled you into the bedroom by your tricep, eyes swirling with confusion, surprise, and even guilt. You shook like a leaf, your eyes unfocused and wet from steady falling tears. You looked angry not ten minutes ago. And here you were, looking like a frightened doe more than anything.
The silence was awkward for Cregan. He had not a clue of what to do. He had let calling the bedding ceremony slip from his mind, your father and other lords always at his neck about something new. But he did not imagine he would get such a reaction.
"I will not bed you tonight," he finally spoke up, sliding his tunic back down his body. His words snapped you from your trance, burning into his with an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"What?" Your words slipped, "Why not, my lord?" Such words tended to produce a softer sound. But you…you sounded bitter.
"I will not take a woman weeping, I'm no animal," he responded with a tone equal to that of yours. But it only stirred your fire further.
"It is your duty,” the word coming off more as mockery to his house than anything. “So what of my tears?" You rebutted, intentionally softening your voice when you remembered who you were speaking to. You were upset. He could choose when to spare you, he got the choice. You did not.
He stared at you for a silent few moments, trying to rein in his own irritation. It reminded him of his late wife.
"Goodnight, Lady Roote. You will be sent for at break fast," he huffed, leaving before you could continue.
That did not mean he did not bed you at all. You had more choice in the matter than you initially believed. Cregan Stark was an honorable man, that was something you could not deny even through your internal turmoil.
The goal was only ever to do your duty as a wife. To have the finalization of your marriage completed.
Not to get pregnant.
Lord Stark already had a son, Rickon, and you had begun to adore him. He lost his mother before he could open his eyes, he'd needed a maternal figure around. And in your heart, you could not deny such a lovely child a mother's love.
And that is why you drank moon tea each time you laid with Cregan. The tea was dangerous. If brewed wrong, you could make yourself sick enough for death. But you believed he wanted no children with you, nor did you mind that. Clearly, the plan was not well thought out. The people spoke of your womb being barren after months of no signs. You would fix it later. Maybe.
Cregan was ignorant to the tea, but not to your clear devotion to his child. He never spoke to you, nor about you. He would get reports from servants and his men that you were with him, or that you had helped in some way. It confused him. You held no love for him, but loved something he had created? It unnerved him, for he'd heard of stories where children were made martyrs in unsavory situations. He would not have his child subjected to (imagined) cruelty because he was as cold as his name.
And so he watched. He watched his son reach for you. Watched you play with him, coo at his achievements or sadness. You treated him like the mother he needed. The warmth it made him feel was involuntary entirely, as were the thoughts that followed.
‘I want to know her.’
He was still cold, as were you. But he spoke to you more, peaked in when he knew you were there with Rickon, asked your handmaids about you.
He watched you from afar, refusing to come to terms with the ache that stirred in his chest at the distance. He'd begun to care for you, and it felt like a betrayal.
He felt like he betrayed himself, and his late wife. Cregan Stark was not a religious man, but he found himself praying to the Old Gods in confusion. He'd loved Arra before marraige, but felt something close to aversion toward the end. With you, it was not like that at all. He believed his aversion would last, but it was as if the process had inverted with you.
Each time he seen your nose scrunch at the cold chill in the air, heard you laugh with a friend you'd made, heard the squeals from his son as you tossed and carried him through the air, heard your voice, seen you in passing—he could not help wanting more.
You would be a fool if you denied you had not begun to feel the pull too. Cregan was cold, but he was not cruel.
You grew up seeing your mother endure the strikes and beratings from your father, and expected no less from the Wolf of the North. But he did none of that. He was intense, commanding, strong, and noble. And for some reason, you found yourself enjoying it.
You did not have the same cycle of denial and confusion he did, for you did not realize what was happening in your heart. Your accidental glares began to melt into quiet acknowledgment of his presence. You eventually begun to expect it, and found yourself trying to appear approachable, silently asking for his attention. He gave it in small ways. Still icy, but it was him.
A moment in particular where you both recognized the spring blooms between you happened not long after. You were playing with Rickon. The boy was ever-talented, carving small figurines with your supervision. The knife was dull and the wood was soft, so he could never truly harm himself.
He'd turned away from you, checking over his shoulder with a mischievous grin on his face a few times to make sure you would not peak. You feigned ignorance, looking up at the ceiling with your finger on your chin, tapping in false wonder. As your eyes trailed over, your eyes locked with Cregan's. Time had slipped by you, and supper was amongst you. Cregan's feet slowed in curiosity. You seemed nervous, anxious—fearful.
His steps sounded angry to you, making your heart race in the same way it did when your mother rushed you from her chambers some nights. Cregan gave you a quick glance before going to his son, smiling softly at his protests.
"It's time for supper, little lord. You can continue later," he scolded playfully, attempting with his other hand to remove the materials from his hands. You stood and fixed your dress to leave, but the child's words stopped you immediately.
"No! Mama, wait!" He squirmed in his father's grip, whose head snapped to his son's face in bewilderment at what he called you.
You saw the lord's confusion, and immediately stammered. At the lack of actual words coming out, you shook your head, and walked back to the two cautiously.
"I'm not mama, remember? I exp—" you began.
"No, you are! Here," he exclaimed, cutting you off and shoving the horse he'd carved into your hands. Your father's sigil. You hated the man, but the child's care and want to connect with you made your eyes burn. Tears always came easy for you, something you'd hidden from your lord husband until this moment. His own eyes filled with worry and confusion, but he was at a true loss for words then.
You fought back your emotions, and gave the boy a soft smile. "Go with your papa. You must eat, and then we may play again," you pinched his cheek between your fingers softly, earning a small giggle from the boy.
As you walked off, Cregan couldn't help but watch you go. Many emotions and thoughts swirled his mind, and many could not find their way into coherent thoughts.
He soon had enough of his own passing glances and silent yearn for your presence, as for the endearing wonder in your eyes when he was caught staring, and how hesitant you still were around him, especially after the moment with him and his son. His gods made their message clear. He needed to speak with you.
A week after the encounter, he sent a servant to fetch you for break fast. For the first time since he was but six and ten, Cregan was nervous. What would he say to you? He had been a cold man, nothing of how he liked to carry himself around a lady. Especially one that was his wife. He could only wait, and see how you approached. You initially were hostile, something he could not fault you for. But in watching you, he seen how you'd warmed up. He wasn't even sure you noticed that, either.
You had slept together two nights before. You stuck with your tradition of drinking moon tea each time, even when you had to force yourself to. It took an extra day to gather the ingredients without being spotted or caught, and even more time to brew it. It needed to be perfect, or else you risked harm.
And you must have been inaccurate in measurements, or taken it too late, for the cramps aches and heat waves that took over your body were unbearable.
You hung off the end of your bed, hands weakly clasped on the wooden frame to keep yourself upright. Your whimpers and low groans filled the air, your hips rocking and squirming to try and give you relief. You did not hear the servant enter until she spoke.
"M'lady? Are you alright?" Her voice questioned, panic filling her tone at the state of you.
You whimpered first, "Leave me, please," you begged, a low, agonizing wail leaving you as the pain radiated up your torso.
"M'lady, the lord has requested your presence—I will get the maester and alert-"
"No! You will not," you immediately snapped. "Tell the lord his—the lady is bleeding. Go, please," you begged once more. Tears cascaded down your face as she fled, and you began to get into a position to try and ease the burn and pressure more.
When the servant returned, Cregan looked expectant, and then irritated.
"Where is my wife?" His eyebrows pinched.
"M'lord, the lady sent me away, told me she was bleeding," the woman reported. It was clear she was holding something back, and Cregan was not ignorant.
"And?"
The girl hesitated, but spilled at the fear that you were truly sick—which you were at this point.
"The lady, she—m'lord, I fear she is unwell. Her skin was wet with sweat, and she could not keep herself upright. She refused a maester, and for you to know," she concluded, anxiously wringing her hands together to the point the skin went raw.
Concern filled him immediately. What could have made you so ill in such a short time? He had just laid with you two suns ago, and you were fine throughout the day after.
"Send for the maester, tell him to go to my wife's chambers. Immediately," he rushed, standing from his seat to make a beeline for his wife's chambers first.
The servant had not warned him completely about the sight. He heard your cries from a hall down. They sent jolt of fear through him, and they only got worse as he neared your door. He entered cautiously, and seen you holding a hand atop your womb, the other resting on the cushion of a chair while your head rested on it. You didn't even realize who it was.
"I said leave me," you whimpered softly, unable to truly fight now.
"What kind of man would I be if I left my wife in agony?" He argued softly, ignoring your confused sounds to pick you up from your arms. It made you cry out louder than before, clearly taking energy from you. He immediately let you go, then seen how your legs immediately curled beneath you again. You could not be stretched out, and so he picked you up differently. One arm beneath your knees, the other holding your back up, carrying you in bridal style to your bed.
You made soft, low sounds of pain as he sat you down, immediately turning to lay in fetal position. He stopped you, keeping you on your back to try and gauge a better look at what was wrong. Your voluminous, tight curls got in your face, covering parts of your expression. He held your legs with an arm to press over your womb since you stopped whimpering in pain, and brushed the hair from your face. You were covered in sweat, and your eyes were dazed. You involuntarily leaned into his hand, whimpering when he pulled away.
"This is not just your moon blood, is it?" He questioned as his eyes moved down your body, spotting no trace of blood. Cregan knew you couldn't respond, either, seeing how your energy was depleting by the second. It felt like ice-cold water was being poured onto him repeatedly. He'd just begun to care for you, and now it felt The Stranger was claiming you for themself.
The maester rushed in. The servant was much more descriptive when she reported to him, and the maester felt a strong sense of urgency.
Cregan reluctantly pulled back, and let the maester work. He stood outside your chambers the entire time, heart sinking with every cry and pained sound you let out. For what felt like hours, he waited. He waited until the sun begun to set, and the maester calmly exited your chambers with relief on his face.
"What happened? Will she live?" Cregan questioned immediately, eyes searching the man's face for answers.
"Yes. Yes she will, my lord," he assured him, earning a sigh of relief from the man. "The lady was in great pain, but once I found its cause, there was no difficulty to solve it."
"What was the source?" He questioned immediately, still lost.
"I- the moon tea, my lord. It seems the lady made some of her own. It is not uncommon for women to try on their own, too nervous to consult a maester on the matter," he explained, but his tone slowly grew professional as his lord's face grew more confused. He had not a clue that his wife had been avoiding carrying his child, especially to such an extent.
When Cregan did not answer, the maester spoke up, but was cut off with a quick word.
"You're dismissed, I will speak with you later," he mumbled, pushing past the man to speak with the resting woman. You were not asleep yet, only letting the effects of the tea wear off now. When the door opened again, and you saw your husband, you sat up—nose scrunching in discomfort.
"No, no," he made his way to you, a hand pressing your shoulder back to the bed. "Lie down." You looked puzzled. His tone was soft. His eyes were not.
"Am I needed, my l-"
"You drank moon tea?" He questioned, a multitude of feelings swirling through his eyes. Hurt, worry, and realization were the most prominent.
"I-" you began stammering.
"And you hid it from me. Nearly killing yourself," he finished, his face falling more as the words solidified his earlier worries. You did not respond, how would you when you had been caught so obviously? He sat in the seat next to your bed, staring at you as you fought your tears again. Damned emotions got in the way of everything. “Why?”
"I…I did not believe you wanted children with me. You have an heir, and I am no fool. You did not want another wife," you explained through a shaky voice, your thumb rubbing comforting back and forth motions on your aching womb. "And I did not believe a babe would survive in the conditions of a stressed womb.”
He stared at you for a long time, his eyes burning holes through you as the tears continued pouring silently. You were so smart, yet so ignorant at the same time. That, or you truly did hold denial toward his growing affections.
You could deny it no longer when his hand pushed yours aside, the heavy warmth of his hand sending waves of relief through your womb and legs forcing a sigh out of you. His thumb began the same motions yours did not too long ago, and he finally spoke.
"You foolish, foolish woman," he chuckled with no humor. He was furious. But the anger dissipated each time he heard the pat of water drip from your eyes to the pillow beneath your head.
"I will not deny this: I did not want to remarry. My past marriage was filled with false hope and bitterness. I would not subject another, nor myself to the ailment of failed love," he began, his gaze meeting yours as your guilty, wet eyes stared into his. "I believed this marriage would fall to the same fate, and that I had no control over it. I found peace in that, or I believed I had," he swallowed thickly. He was never so open about his feelings. But the warmth in your eyes pulled it from him like a trance. "But I saw you feverish and sickly, and I wanted control over that fate.”
Your mouth twitched as you fought off a true sob, his words melting your heart in a way that always brought tears. Your soft whimpers made his eyebrows come together, and his free hand come to wipe your tears. His soft cooes only drew more, and he realized he simply needed to allow them free.
"Do not ever do something as rash and imprudent as this again," he commanded, though his voice lacked its true power. “Do you understand me?” Earning a quick nod from you.
"I did not realize you cared for me," you sniffled.
"As did I, my girl," he grinned—the name of endearment being a slip of the tongue. At the surprise in your eyes, he realized what he'd said. But, he did not regret it. Neither did you.
"I believe my heart warmed for you long before I realized, as well," you confessed softly. "I did not wish to drink the tea for quite some time, but found it would only anger you if I fell with-child."
"Gods, no," he shook his head, pulling a hand from your face to bring yours to his lips. "I'm angered and ashamed that you believed that to be true," his forehead rested on your knuckles, the days worries crashing upon his mind finally.
"I will leave you to rest, my wife. Do not do anything hasty in my absence," he jested and began standing from his seat. Though, your hand shooting for his in a panic stopped him immediately.
"Wait-" you called, but the words disappeared from your mind. He stood, waiting and patient as you tried to find them again.
"…You would leave your wife, weeping and in pain?" You tried to jape through your desire for him to lie with you for comfort rather than duty, and your tone of voice made that quite clear.
His lips formed into a soft grin slowly, then he shook his head once.
"No. No, I would not."
You'd only experienced the cruelty of men until you met your husband. He'd been cold, indifferent, and then warm, and intense. But never cruel, you did not think he had it in him by then. Your night was spent being treated in a way you believed only existed in books. And, well. You couldn't doubt his growing love for you now.
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AN: I love this sm