you temptress

tpwk | harry era 21 she/her

[perfectfeelings]

“Stop shrinking to fit places you’ve outgrown.”

— Unknown

[milanesa42]

“The employees need a larger salary” “hmmmm large celery”

[haughtyraban]

“there’s an ai tool for that” okay ?? there’s probably an ed sheeran song for it too who gives a fuck

[djoispunkrry]

look at my doctor dawg i’m taking off my pants 😭😭😭

[pretendusername-deactivated2021]

Happy plagueiversary

[quantumshade]

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

The Brit Awards, 2026.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!!

authors note - last night was amazing!! i feel like it’s been forever, so enjoy this lovelies, you all deserve it!! xx

word count - 5k

in which, harry is attending the brit awards, and you his fabulous wife, is his gorgeous date and the night is turning out just the way it was supposed to.

The Manchester house is warm with early evening light.

There’s quiet movement downstairs — stylists packing away garment bags, a member of his team checking timings near the kitchen island, someone murmuring about cars arriving in twenty minutes.

It feels busy.

But it also feels like home.

You’re upstairs in your dressing room, smoothing your hands down the silk of your gown one last time. The ivory fabric catches the light softly, the black pinstripes flowing down your body in long, deliberate lines — echoing his suit perfectly.

You take one steady breath.

Then you open the door.

Downstairs, Harry is adjusting his cufflinks in the hallway mirror. The Chanel jacket fits him perfectly, pinstripes sharp and clean against the dark fabric. His mint-striped shirt peeks neatly beneath the lapels.

Someone says something to him — he nods absently.

Then he hears your heels on the staircase.

He turns.

And goes completely still.

You don’t rush. You don’t say anything.

You just start walking down.

The silk moves around you with every step, the stripes aligning almost poetically with his own. The house lights catch the soft sheen of the fabric. For a moment, the chatter in the hallway fades.

He doesn’t blink.

One of the team members glances between you both and quietly smiles before stepping out of the way.

You reach the middle of the staircase and he’s still staring — not in a dramatic way, not exaggerated.

Just… stunned.

“Harry?” you say softly.

He exhales like he’s just remembered how to breathe.

“Wow.”

It’s barely above a whisper.

You descend the last few steps slowly, heart fluttering a little under his gaze.

When you reach the bottom, he takes a step toward you without even thinking.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be that,” he says quietly, eyes moving over the dress — the matching stripes, the way the silk curves at your waist.

“That?” you tease gently.

He shakes his head slightly, almost laughing at himself.

“We match.”

“I know.”

He looks down at his suit, then back at you.

“It’s like…” he trails off, stepping closer. “It’s like we’re one look.”

Your smile softens.

“That was the idea.”

His hands find your waist slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid to crease the fabric.

“You look…” He stops, searching for the right word. “You look unreal.”

You reach up and straighten his lapel slightly, fingers brushing the crisp edge of his jacket.

“So do you.”

He studies you for another second — quieter now. Softer.

There’s pride in his eyes.

But there’s something else too.

Awe.

“You’re going to walk next to me like this?” he asks gently.

“Of course I am.”

He lets out a small, disbelieving laugh.

“People aren’t going to look at me.”

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead — careful, so careful not to disturb your makeup.

“You always do this,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Make it better.”

A voice from the kitchen calls, “Cars are here!”

Reality rushes back in.

He doesn’t step away immediately.

Instead, he squeezes your waist once, steady and warm.

“You ready?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He offers you his arm — not performative, not dramatic.

Just natural.

And as you step toward the door of the Manchester house you built together, matching stripes side by side, you catch his reflection in the hallway mirror.

He’s still looking at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

The night hasn’t even started yet.

And already, you’ve taken his breath away.

The car door opens and the noise hits you first — flashes, shouting, Manchester humming with anticipation. For a split second, it’s blinding.

He steps out ahead of you, black-and-white Chanel pinstripes sharp against the night, the cut of his double-breasted jacket precise, deliberate. Every camera turns toward him instantly.

But before he straightens fully, before he gives them that composed red-carpet smile, his hand reaches back into the car for you.

It’s automatic. Like breathing.

Your fingers slide into his, and he gives you that small squeeze — the one that says stay with me without ever having to speak it.

You step out beside him in your own Chanel gown, ivory silk skimming your figure, threaded with the same black pinstripes running through his suit. The lines are softer on you — curved at your waist, trailing long and fluid to the floor — but they mirror him perfectly. Two silhouettes cut from the same idea.

The cameras go wild.

They catch the outfits.

They catch the coordinated stripes.

They catch the way his hand never leaves yours.

What they don’t catch is the way his thumb traces slow circles against your knuckles.

“Ready, love?” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer, voice low enough that only you hear it.

He looks effortless — mint-striped shirt crisp beneath the jacket, bow-detailed ballet flats peeking beneath tailored hems — but you feel it. The tiny shift in his grip. The grounding. The way the noise presses in.

You tilt your head toward him, offering the smallest smile. The one meant just for him.

“I’m right here,” you whisper back.

And just like that, his shoulders drop a fraction. The superstar expression settles into place, polished and calm, but his fingers tighten once more before he turns toward the carpet.

You move together.

You’re halfway up the path when it starts to feel real.

The carpet is just ahead — flashes already going off further down the line, the roar of the crowd rising in waves. Harry’s hand is still wrapped around yours, warm, steady, but you can feel the adrenaline humming under his skin.

He exhales softly.

Then—

“Harry! Can I borrow you both for a quick chat?”

You both turn at the same time.

Tyler West is grinning, mic already in hand, Charley Marlowe beside him looking equally delighted as producers gesture you over.

Harry glances at you first. Always you first.

“Go on then,” he murmurs with a tiny smile, squeezing your hand before guiding you both toward them.

The cameras pivot instantly.

Tyler beams. “Look at you two! Coordinated Chanel, we see it.”

Harry laughs under his breath, glancing down at your gown — the ivory silk catching the light, black pinstripes echoing the sharp lines of his suit.

“She’s the best-dressed one,” he says easily, thumb brushing against the small of your back.

Charley smiles warmly at you. “You’re matching — was that planned?”

You tilt your head slightly, playful but composed. “We just happened to show up in the same wardrobe,” you say, and Harry snorts quietly beside you.

Tyler raises an eyebrow. “Right, of course you did.”

The crowd cheers his name somewhere behind the barricades, loud and insistent. Harry instinctively shifts closer to you, arm settling more firmly around your waist.

You feel his thumb brush against your hand again — grounding himself more than you.

Tyler tilts the mic closer. “Big night for you — performing, nominated. How are you feeling right now?”

Harry inhales slowly, then exhales through a small smile.

“Grateful,” he says. “Bit overwhelmed. It’s loud.” He gestures lightly toward the screaming crowd. “But it’s nice to be back. Especially here.”

He pauses, then adds — quieter — “Feels better when she’s here with me.”

The crowd reacts instantly.

You keep your composure, but he gives your hand another squeeze, like he’s the one who needed to say that out loud.

Charley looks at you briefly. “Do you help calm the nerves?”

Before you can answer, Harry nods.

“Yeah. She does.” He glances down at you again, softer now. “I get in my own head sometimes. She doesn’t let me stay there too long.”

Tyler laughs warmly. “We love that.”

“Alright,” Tyler says, clapping his hands lightly. “Before we let you go, we’re playing a quick game — Wishful WhatsApp.”

Harry grins. “Oh no.”

Tyler laughs. “If you could have a group chat with anyone in the world — past or present — who’s in it?”

Harry looks down for a second, thinking. His thumb brushes against your knuckles.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’d have Stevie Nicks in there.” The crowd cheers immediately. “Paul McCartney. Probably David Bowie.” He shrugs slightly. “Just see what they talk about. I wouldn’t even message much. Just observe.”

Tyler nods approvingly. “Solid group chat.”

Charley turns to you. “Your turn.”

You glance at Harry, and he gives you a small encouraging nod.

“I think I’d go with people who’d never realistically be in the same room,” you say. “Princess Diana. Audrey Hepburn. And maybe… Harry.”

The crowd laughs.

Harry looks genuinely startled. “Me?”

You smile softly. “Just to see if you’d behave.”

He laughs properly at that, head tipping back slightly. “Absolutely not.”

Tyler grins. “We’d all pay to see that group chat.”

Harry squeezes your hand again, still smiling down at you.

“Alright,” Tyler says, stepping back. “We won’t keep you from the madness. Time to hit that carpet.”

Harry straightens his jacket, posture settling, that calm public composure sliding into place.

He leans in slightly toward you.

“Ready, love?”

You nod.

Together, stripes aligned and fingers laced, you step forward toward the roar of the red carpet — flashes exploding as the night officially begins.

The second your shoes hit the red carpet, the noise doubles.

Flashes burst in rapid succession, photographers shouting his name — your name — directions overlapping in a blur.

“Harry! This way!”

“Together! Straight ahead!”

“Over the shoulder!”

His hand tightens around yours instinctively, and you move as one. The pinstripes on his suit sharp and structured under the lights, the matching lines on your gown catching every flash as the silk shifts when you turn.

“Just here, you two!” someone calls.

You stop, bodies angled slightly toward each other. His arm settles around your waist, warm and protective. Your hand rests against his chest, fingers brushing the lapel of his Chanel jacket.

“Harry, look at her!”

“Can we get a kiss?”

“Harry, down the middle!”

He glances down at you instead of the cameras for half a second — just long enough to make it feel private.

“Smile for me,” he murmurs quietly.

You do.

The flashes explode.

You turn slightly, giving the photographers your side profile, the stripes of your gown flowing against the clean lines of his tailoring. He adjusts his stance, hand firm at your waist, fingers pressing lightly into your hip — grounding, always grounding.

You feel him relax the more you pose together. He’s steady when you’re next to him.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

“Harry, can we grab one of you on your own?”

It’s inevitable.

You feel the subtle shift in him — not reluctance, just awareness. He looks down at you immediately, silent question in his eyes.

You give him the smallest nod.

Before you step away, you rise slightly onto your toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek — just beneath the corner of his smile.

The crowd reacts instantly.

A collective gasp. More flashes. Louder shouting.

He lets out a quiet laugh, cheeks faintly pink beneath the lights, one hand instinctively catching your waist for a second longer than necessary.

“Go on,” you whisper, smoothing the front of his jacket gently. “You’ve got this.”

His hand lingers at your side before he steps forward into the solo marks.

You move toward the side of the carpet, standing just out of the frame — close enough that he can still see you if he looks.

And he does.

Between camera turns. Between over-the-shoulder shots.

He finds you.

You watch him shift into that composed red-carpet presence — shoulders squared, chin lifted, effortless and magnetic. The Chanel stripes sharp against the lights. The mint shirt peeking cleanly from beneath the jacket. The faint imprint of your lipstick on his cheek still visible if someone zooms in closely enough.

Your hands fold gently in front of you as you stand in the corner, a fond, almost private smile resting on your face.

The world sees a global icon under flashing lights.

You see the man who squeezed your hand twice before stepping forward.

And when he finishes the solo photos and glances toward the edge of the carpet again, his expression softens — just for you.

As if to say,

Still here?

Always.

The dressing room is quieter than the arena, but you can still feel it.

The bass from the crowd seeps faintly through the walls. Distant cheers. The hum of anticipation. There’s a countdown somewhere in the building.

Twenty-five minutes.

Harry stands in front of the mirror, jacket off now, mint-striped shirt sleeves rolled slightly at the wrists. His in-ear pack clipped neatly at his back. Hair styled perfectly, stage-ready.

But his fingers give him away.

He’s twisting his wedding ring.

Slowly at first. Then again. Then back the other way.

You don’t say anything immediately.

You just watch him for a second — the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way he exhales through his nose, pretending he’s calmer than he feels.

You walk up behind him, gently, slipping your arms around his waist.

His shoulders drop instantly.

“Hi,” you murmur against his back.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Hi.”

His fingers are still fidgeting with the ring.

You slide one hand down and lace your fingers with his, stilling them gently.

“You’re doing it again,” you say quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Twiddling.”

He glances at your reflection in the mirror, sheepish. “Didn’t realise.”

You smile softly. “You always do when you’re nervous.”

He turns in your arms then, facing you fully. Close enough that the world outside the door feels miles away.

“I’m not that nervous,” he says, but it comes out half breath, half confession.

You lift a hand and smooth it through his hair, pushing it back gently from his forehead.

“Course you are,” you say warmly. “It means you care.”

His hands settle at your waist now — grounding himself in you the way he always does. His thumbs trace slow lines against the fabric of your dress.

“What if I forget the words?” he mutters quietly. “Or trip. Or my voice goes.”

You cup his face gently, forcing him to look at you instead of the spiralling thoughts.

“You’ve sung this a hundred times,” you say softly. “You could do it half asleep.”

He gives you a tiny smile, but you can still see it — the flicker of doubt.

“You know what they’re going to see tonight?” you continue.

He shakes his head slightly.

“The man who loves what he does. The one who wrote that song because he had something to say.” You brush your thumb lightly along his cheek. “Not the nerves. Not the ‘what ifs.’ Just you.”

He swallows.

His hands tighten at your waist.

“I don’t ever want to let anyone down,” he says quietly.

“You won’t,” you answer instantly. “Because you show up. Every time.”

There’s a knock at the door — distant, a warning that time is ticking.

Twenty minutes now.

He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

“I hate this bit,” he admits. “The waiting.”

You smile against him.

“Then don’t wait,” you whisper. “Just breathe.”

You place his hand flat over your heart.

“Match me.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

His breathing begins to sync with yours. Slower. Steadier.

The tension in his shoulders loosens.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs softly.

“Why?”

“Because you fix it every time.”

You lean up and press a gentle kiss to his lips — soft, lingering, grounding.

“You don’t need fixing,” you whisper against him. “You just need reminding.”

Another knock.

Ten-minute warning.

He pulls back slightly, but keeps his forehead resting against yours.

“Stay where I can see you?” he asks quietly.

“Always.”

He squeezes your hand once — the same grounding squeeze from earlier — but this time it’s steadier. Stronger.

And when he finally steps toward the door, jacket sliding back on, ring no longer twisting nervously around his finger…

He looks calm.

Not because the nerves disappeared.

But because you’re still there.

You’re not backstage anymore.

You’re seated at a round table near the front, the soft glow of candles flickering against crystal glasses and polished silverware. The arena hums around you — conversations overlapping, camera cranes sweeping overhead, producers rushing in the aisles.

Anne sits beside you, elegant and calm, though you can see it in her hands — folded just a little too tightly in her lap.

Across from you, Olivia Dean leans forward in her chair, smiling warmly. A couple of her management team sit beside her, murmuring something about lighting cues. Further down the table, Stephen from The Traitors is animatedly chatting with his boyfriend, both of them glancing toward the stage every few seconds like they’re waiting for Christmas morning.

The lights begin to dim.

The chatter softens into a ripple.

Your heart doesn’t.

You feel Anne’s hand brush lightly against yours under the table.

“You alright, love?” she asks gently.

You nod.

You’re not sure you trust your voice.

The stage goes dark.

A hush falls over the entire arena — thick, electric, expectant.

And then—

The opening notes of Aperture drift through the speakers.

Soft at first. Almost fragile.

Your breath catches.

The spotlight snaps on.

There he is.

Standing alone at the mic, Chanel sharp under the stage lights, mint-striped shirt glowing faintly beneath the wash of blue. The arena erupts instantly — screaming, cheers, phones lifting into the air.

But you barely hear it.

All you see is him.

You press your lips together, holding your breath as he closes his eyes for the first line.

He sings.

Clear. Steady.

Your chest tightens.

Anne squeezes your hand again, this time a little firmer, and you realise she’s holding her breath too.

Olivia leans toward you slightly. “He sounds incredible,” she whispers.

You nod, eyes never leaving the stage.

He moves with the music — controlled, deliberate, every lyric carried with that quiet intensity that only comes when he means every word. The lights shift warmer, then brighter, catching the sharp lines of his suit.

You can see it — the way he settles into it. The way the nerves melt the second he starts singing.

Halfway through the first chorus, he scans the crowd.

Just once.

Your heart stumbles.

He finds your table.

You know the exact second he spots you — his expression softens almost imperceptibly, shoulders relaxing just a fraction more.

You don’t even realise you’ve stood up slightly until Anne gently nudges you back into your chair with a small laugh.

“Sit, darling,” she murmurs fondly.

You laugh breathlessly, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes.

Stephen from across the table is openly swaying now, mouthing along dramatically. His boyfriend is filming, completely entranced.

The chorus swells.

The arena lights up in waves, thousands of phone screens glittering like stars.

And there he is — centre stage, voice soaring, completely in his element.

You finally let yourself breathe.

Because he’s not nervous anymore.

He’s home up there.

And as the final note hangs in the air and the crowd explodes into applause so loud it vibrates through the floor, you’re already on your feet.

Clapping.

Smiling so wide it hurts.

Anne wipes at the corner of her eye discreetly.

“That’s my boy,” she says softly.

But when he looks out at the audience again — scanning, searching —

You know.

He’s looking for you.

And when your eyes meet across the sea of lights and noise, his smile shifts.

Not the stage smile.

The real one.

The one that says,

I did it.

And you mouth back, steady and certain—

I know.

The applause is still echoing through the arena when you’re already moving.

“Backstage?” you ask one of his team, barely waiting for a full answer.

“Come on,” they grin, weaving you through the maze of curtains and cables.

Your dress makes it difficult to run properly — the silk hugging your legs, the pinstripes catching in the dim corridor lights — but you don’t care. You lift the hem slightly and hurry as fast as dignity allows.

You can still hear the crowd chanting his name.

Your heart is pounding just as hard.

You turn the final corner—

And there he is.

Fresh off stage. Slightly breathless. Hair tousled from movement. Eyes still bright with adrenaline.

For half a second he doesn’t see you.

Then he does.

His entire face changes.

You don’t even think — you just hurry the last few steps and jump as much as your dress will allow.

He laughs — a surprised, breathless sound — and catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around you as your heels lift clean off the ground.

“Whoa—” he grins, spinning you slightly. “Careful.”

“I don’t care,” you laugh, arms around his neck.

His chest is still rising quickly from the performance, heartbeat fast beneath your hands. You can feel the warmth of him, the faint vibration of adrenaline that hasn’t settled yet.

“You were incredible,” you breathe.

He presses his face into your neck for a second — hiding there like he needs the shield.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer now. Smaller. Just for you.

“Yes,” you insist, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You didn’t miss a single thing. You were steady. You were perfect.”

He shakes his head slightly, almost disbelieving. “I nearly rushed the second verse.”

“You didn’t.”

“I felt like I did.”

“You didn’t,” you repeat gently, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

He exhales slowly, finally setting you back down but keeping his hands firmly at your waist — like he’s not quite ready to let go.

The corridor is busy — crew members moving, producers congratulating him — but it all feels blurred at the edges.

“You came straight back?” he asks.

“Of course I did.”

His forehead drops against yours, just like in the dressing room earlier.

“I looked for you,” he admits quietly.

“I know,” you whisper. “I saw.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief more than anything else.

“I was so nervous before,” he says, almost laughing at himself now. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up.”

“You didn’t,” you smile. “You never do.”

He studies your face for a second — the matching pinstripes, the slightly breathless smile, the pride you’re not even trying to hide.

“I’m glad you were there,” he says softly.

“I’ll always be there.”

He squeezes you tighter at that — arms wrapping around you fully again, less frantic now. More steady.

The roar of the crowd swells faintly through the walls as the show continues without him.

But here, backstage, it’s just the two of you.

His ring isn’t twisting anymore.

His hands are still.

Because they’re holding you.

The adrenaline has settled now.

The applause is a memory, the stage lights dimmed, and the show rolls on around you — but your table feels warmer, louder, lighter.

“Mate,” Stephen says, leaning forward, “that was insane. I’ve watched you for years. Genuinely one of my biggest influences.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly in surprise.

“Me?” he laughs softly. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m serious,” Stephen insists. “The way you carry yourself, the creative risks — I’ve always admired that.”

Harry ducks his head, a little shy in the face of it.

“That means a lot,” he says honestly. “I’m obsessed with The Traitors, by the way. It’s one of my favourite shows.”

Stephen nearly chokes on his drink. “Stop it.”

“No, genuinely,” Harry continues, animated now. “We watch it religiously. I’m convinced I’d be terrible at it.”

You laugh. “You would.”

He turns to you, mock offended. “Excuse me?”

“You cannot lie convincingly.”

“I absolutely can.”

“You blush,” you counter immediately.

Stephen is laughing so hard now he has to set his glass down.

“I love this,” Stephen grins. “Harry Styles saying he’d fail at psychological warfare.”

Harry leans back in his chair, arm sliding around the back of yours.

“I’d get attached to everyone and then feel bad,” he admits.

“That’s because you’re soft,” you murmur teasingly.

He nudges you gently with his shoulder. “Careful.”

The drinks keep coming.

A glass of champagne turns into another. Laughter grows louder. The music between award segments feels more infectious.

Harry’s hand, which started neatly resting on your chair, slowly migrates to your waist.

Then your thigh.

Then back to your hand, fingers lazily intertwining with yours beneath the tablecloth.

Stephen is still talking animatedly about strategy and alliances, but Harry’s attention drifts back to you every few seconds.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs at one point, leaning close enough that his lips brush your ear.

“You’ve told me three times,” you whisper back, amused.

“I stand by it.”

His cheeks are faintly pink now — not from stage lights, but from champagne.

At some point he decides your chair is too far away.

He shifts closer.

Closer.

Until his knee is hooked loosely around yours and his arm is firmly wrapped around your waist.

“You’re very clingy tonight,” you tease softly.

“I had a big moment,” he replies, dramatic. “I deserve affection.”

“You always have affection.”

“Not enough,” he says, leaning in to press an exaggerated kiss to your cheek.

Stephen watches the interaction with a grin. “You two are sickeningly adorable.”

Harry doesn’t even look embarrassed.

“Thank you,” he says proudly.

As the night wears on, he grows softer — laugh louder, posture looser, eyes brighter.

He rests his chin on your shoulder at one point, watching the stage from behind you.

“You proud of me?” he asks quietly, almost vulnerable again despite the tipsy smile.

You turn your head slightly, brushing your nose against his.

“Always.”

That seems to settle something in him.

His fingers trace idle patterns against your arm. Your hand smooths absentmindedly over the back of his neck. The world around you fades into warm noise and golden light.

By the time another award is announced, he’s practically folded into you — stripes rumpled slightly, bow-detailed shoes kicked under the table, completely unbothered by who’s watching.

And when someone nearby jokes, “Get a room,”

Harry just grins lazily and replies,

“We have one.”

Before pulling you just a little closer.

The door shuts and it’s like the whole world disappears.

No cameras.

No cheering.

No expectations.

Just you and him in the dim backseat, city lights streaking past the windows.

He’s still looking at you like he hasn’t quite recovered from the staircase earlier.

“You have no idea what you did to me tonight,” he murmurs, voice lower now, roughened by champagne and adrenaline.

“Oh, I think I do,” you tease softly, sliding closer.

His hand moves instantly — firm at your waist, pulling you onto his lap like he’s been waiting for permission all night.

You let out a small laugh as you settle, the silk of your dress shifting against his suit trousers, stripes brushing stripes.

He exhales slowly.

“God,” he breathes.

Your fingers slide into his hair first this time — gently at first, then firmer when he tilts his head to kiss you.

It starts slow.

Soft lips. Warm. Familiar.

But there’s something different in it tonight.

It’s deeper. Hungrier.

Like he held it in for hours and now there’s nothing stopping him.

His hand spreads across your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s barely space between you. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still charged from performing.

“You were unreal,” he murmurs against your mouth, barely breaking the kiss.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

His thumb traces slowly along your waist through the fabric, lingering where the silk dips slightly. You shiver — not from cold.

The car turns gently and you instinctively brace yourself against him, your palm flat against his chest. He smiles into the kiss, amused.

“Stay,” he whispers.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He deepens the kiss again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hand slides up your spine, fingers curling lightly at the back of your neck, holding you there like he wants to memorise it.

The faint taste of champagne lingers between you.

Your nails drag softly through his hair and he exhales sharply, grip tightening at your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, but he’s grinning.

“Why?” you breathe back.

“You’re testing me.”

“Good.”

He laughs under his breath, then pulls you in again — this time angling his head slightly, kissing you with a lazy, unhurried confidence that makes your stomach flip.

His other hand moves to your thigh — not rushed, just resting there, thumb tracing absent patterns over the silk.

The world outside the windows blurs completely.

There’s only the warmth of him.

The press of his hands.

The slow build of breathless laughter between kisses.

He breaks away for a second, just to look at you.

Hair slightly undone. Lips flushed. Matching pinstripes tangled together.

“You looked at me like that during the chorus,” he says softly.

“Like what?”

“Like I was the best performer in that room .”

Your expression softens.

“You were.”

He kisses you again at that — softer now, but just as intense. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek with surprising tenderness.

The heat doesn’t disappear.

It just shifts.

Less frantic. More consuming.

You lean your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavier now.

“Driver’s definitely judging us,” you whisper.

He glances toward the front for half a second before pulling you closer again.

“He can’t see,” he murmurs. “And even if he could… I don’t care.”

You laugh quietly, pressing another lingering kiss to his lips.

He responds immediately, hands firm at your waist again, holding you steady as the car rolls through the Manchester streets toward home.

By the time the house comes into view, his tie is completely loose, your lipstick slightly smudged, and neither of you has stopped touching the other for more than a few seconds at a time.

When the car slows, he rests his forehead against yours.

“We are not composed,” he says softly.

“Not even a little bit.”

He smiles — slow, warm, completely yours.

“Good.”

And when the car finally stops, he keeps you in his lap just a second longer before whispering,

“Race you to the front door.”

[you-sunshine]

i hate heated rivalry with such a passion. the story's bad, the actings bad, the fans are weird, and to top it off, the actors are ugly.

[ficauthor]

[godmadeaterribleerror]

✦bucky yearning✦

✧･ﾟ: Bucky loves you silently, but well. There is nothing and no one he knows better. Not a single person on the planet he bothers with, the way he consumes himself with everything about you. Foods you like and book you read, what spot you like most on the couch—so he can keep it free for you—and every word you say, another piece of the most beautiful puzzle he’s ever seen.

✧･ﾟ: He tries to show you, though he worries he’s not very good at it. It’s not just the couch seat. He hides the snacks you like from everyone else, watches every show and reads every book so that you have someone to talk to about it, even memorizes your coffee order so he can buy it whenever he goes out. He leaves it on the counter for you to find, and smiles when he sees you drinking it later. He did something. And even if you never know it was him, at least you smiled.

✧･ﾟ: There are jokes, that he’s a guard dog. That there’s so way someone could be in your presence, without Bucky somewhere behind you. He opens doors. Glares at people that step too close. Huffs laughs at dry jokes, his eyes never leaving you as you speak. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been found out. For a trained spy, he’s not exactly subtle.

✧･ﾟ: Even more obvious is how the only one he speaks to. The one he seeks at events, who he mentions in every conversation, who he finds a way to be near without the veil of any reason. He’ll talk to you about anything, as long as you talk to him back, and he gets to hear your voice say his name.

✧･ﾟ: He shares with you. Things nobody else gets, stories that he pretends not to remember, when Bucky remembers everything. You know of his life before the war, because it is easy to tell you. He shares jokes because they make you laugh, and songs because you listen to them after, and there is a glory he’s never had before, in knowing you have thought of him.

✧･ﾟ: For someone who doesn’t like to be touched, he always seems to be finding a way to touch you. Hands and fingers brushing, pulling you back but letting himself linger, helping you out of a car or down a hall. Every moment is sacred, when your skin brushes his. He imagines it’s what heaven feels like, and hopes he’s at least tortured with the memory, when he ends up in hell.

✧･ﾟ: And he touches himself. Of course he does. He is only a man, and you follow him into his dreams. If he’s not fisting his cock, thinking of ever dirty, wet, hot way he’d want you splayed out below him, he’s waking up humping the mattress from a dream. You haunt him, but he’d have it no other way. He cums with your name on his lips, and cling to all those touches, imagine what more would feel like every time he’s alone in the dark.

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦Author's Note: experiment part two. i love this old werid man.✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦

[iydiamartinx]

HER DRAGON

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell! Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @rmstitanics & @uzmacchiato & @pepsipoet word count: 7.4k synopsis: He was fire, you were thorns. Forced into an unwanted marriage, Daemon Targaryen slowly comes to realize that being bound to you might not be the curse he once thought—but the perfect match he never expected. a/n: I may have gotten a little carried away with this one. There are a few potentially triggering moments—nothing overly graphic, but I’ve listed the warnings below just in case. Please read with care. warnings: Attempted SA (not by Daemon), mutilation, infertility accusations, political manipulation, and Otto being a power-hungry ass.

The wedding feast was suffocating. The air thick with roses, gold, and polite falsities. You sat beside Daemon Targaryen—your new husband—while the King raised a goblet and smiled through his teeth. Everyone knew what this was, another political match meant to tame Daemon’s reputation and bind your allied family tighter to the Crown.

Daemon hadn’t looked at you once. Not when you exchanged vows. Not when Viserys gave a speech about you two. Not even when you boldly reached for his cup, having already drained your own.

When he finally did, it was with that same infuriating sneer you were already learning to hate.

“So this is my reward for everything I’ve done,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only you to hear. “A fragile Tyrell rose.”

You smiled without warmth, your tone as sharp as Darksister that was resting at Daemon’s hip. “And I’m to believe I should be grateful to be shackled to a dragon of my own?”

His eyes flicked toward you and narrowed, his tone as cold as yours despite the faint trace of amusement threading through his disdain. “I’m not your dragon, wife,” he drawled, voice soft but edged with warning for you not to get your expectations up. Not that you had any. You knew exactly where you stood with your new husband—unwanted. “You may find you’ve married something you cannot handle.”

You hummed, entirely unbothered. “Only time will tell,” you said evenly, meeting his violet gaze without flinching. “Which one of us can’t handle the other.”

Daemon made no effort to hide his dislike in the weeks that followed. He avoided dinners, ignored the courtiers who dared offer their congratulations, and left your marriage bed untouched and cold. He refused even to consummate the union—much to your quiet relief.

You, in turn, perfected the art of pretending not to care.

You did not rise to his baiting remarks or sharp-edged insults. You ignored the whispers that slithered through the halls, the rumours that spread like wildfire about the cold marriage between the Rogue Prince and his southern bride. 

Instead, you smiled sweetly, your wit sharp enough to charm but never offend the members of court around you. Where Daemon made enemies, you made allies. You had learned quickly how to survive the venom of court: with polite smiles, measured words, and alliances that grew quietly in the shadows. People underestimated you because you were young, southern, and soft-spoken. That suited you perfectly.

Daemon, however, did not take kindly to being ignored despite his own actions—especially by his wife.

He found you one afternoon in the gardens, sunlight filtering through the lemon trees, deep in conversation with a few of the court’s lords. His sharp stare cut across the courtyard like a blade, but you met it with nothing more than a polite nod before returning to your discussion, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Only that dismissal didn’t suit him and decided to interrupt and remind that fat lord just who you belonged too.

“Lord Redwyne,” he drawled as he approached, hands clasped loosely behind his back, tone deceptively casual. “I wasn’t aware my wife required your company quite so often.”

The poor lord paled instantly, words tumbling from his lips as he stammered a hurried apology before bowing and making a hasty retreat. You waited until the echo of his boots faded before finally turning to Daemon.

“Was that truly necessary?” you asked, annoyance lacing your voice as you regarded your husband with open disdain.

Daemon’s mouth curved into a smirk, his violet eyes glinting with something between mockery and challenge. “I find men at court need reminding of their boundaries.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear. “And yet here you are,” you said evenly, “forgetting yours.”

You turned to leave, skirts whispering against the stone, but his hand shot out—fingers curling tightly around your wrist. His grip was firm and possessive, eyes dark with anger at your audacity.

“I am your husband,” he hissed, his grip tightening around your wrist. “There are no boundaries placed upon me. I could choose to take you here and now, and no one would dare stop me. Do well to remember who exactly you belong to.”

You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing, lips curling into a sharp, cold sneer. “And you’d do well to remember,” you said, voice low and venomous as you wrenched your wrist free of his hold, “that dragons aren’t the only danger in this world. Poison can be equally as effective as fire.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. The echo of your steps trailed behind you as you stormed down the hall, leaving Daemon standing there,  the tension in his jaw slowly easing before a faint grin tugged at his mouth.

You were still his unwanted wife, but the longer he watched, the more Daemon realized your indifference fascinated him. There was something intoxicating about the way you carried yourself. He had thought you soft, too weak to stand by his side as his wife, yet beneath that deceptively innocent exterior laid an unyielding spine and a quiet, hidden fire he found himself wanting to provoke—to see how brightly it might burn.

You had adapted to court life far faster than he’d anticipated, and the fact that you offered him nothing—no submission, no craving for his approval—only deepened his fascination. He had expected you to run back to Highgarden, to crumble beneath the weight of court politics, or perhaps to come crawling to him for protection once the vipers began to circle. Instead, you had stood your ground. You may not have carried the blood of the dragon, but your thorns proved sharp enough to rival one’s bite.

And as the days passed, he watched you closer, beginning to notice a shift in court—the way certain lords now looked at you with measured respect, the way your words began to carry more weight when you spoke. You were earning favour, allies, influence—without his name, without his help.

Daemon would never say it aloud, but the truth lingered all the same: the woman he had dismissed was quickly becoming the only person in the Red Keep he could not ignore.

It was deep into the night when he found you.

He hadn’t meant to—restless and half-drunk, he’d been wandering the castle’s corridors in search of quiet when a sound stopped him. A scuffle. A muffled cry.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword before his mind even caught up with his body. He turned the corner—steel half-drawn—and what he saw turned his blood to fire.

A knight, one of the Reach’s lesser sons, had you pinned against the cold stone wall. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other tearing at the thin fabric of your nightgown. You shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble, but he caught you again, slamming your shoulder into the wall with a brutal thud. You fought like a cornered animal—kicking, clawing, the sound of your muffled scream cutting through the stillness of the Keep.

Daemon didn’t think. He moved.

In two long strides, he was on the knight, seizing him by the collar and hurling him against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the stone. The clang of metal filled the hall as the knight’s sword hit the floor, followed by a strangled gasp of pain.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Daemon snarled, every word vibrating with barely contained fury.

The knight barely had time to register who stood before him before Daemon’s fist collided with his face, the impact sending him sprawling across the stone floor. The sickening crack of bone echoed down the corridor, followed by a sharp cry of pain.

“Please—” the knight gasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to crawl away.

Daemon said nothing. His expression was carved from ice, his fury so cold it burned. He drove his boot into the man’s ribs once—hard—then again, each strike landing with the force of restrained rage. But restraint only lasted so long.

“Tell me,” Daemon hissed, his voice low and venomous, “why I should stop—when you saw fit to ignore my lady wife as she begged you to let her go?”

He seized the knight by the collar, yanking him upright with a violent jerk. The man’s head lolled, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth as he blubbered incoherently—pleas for mercy, apologies, excuses.

Daemon’s lip curled. “Pathetic.”

The words were little more than a growl before his fist crashed into the man’s face again. The wet, sickening sound of impact echoed down the corridor, followed by another and another, until the knight’s desperate cries dissolved into gurgled whimpers. Bone crunched beneath Daemon’s knuckles; blood splattered his sleeve.

The knight’s feeble attempts to shield himself only stoked Daemon’s fury further. He struck until the man finally collapsed—crumpled and half-conscious, his face a ruined mess of blood, swelling, and shattered bone.

Daemon’s breathing came harsh and ragged. He straightened slowly, wiping a streak of the man’s blood from his knuckles with a calm that contrasted his earlier fury. He should have called for the guards—those useless bastards who had clearly been asleep at their posts—but he had no intention of delegating this.

No, this was personal.

He would make a spectacle of this wretch. He would ensure that every knight, lord, and servant in the Red Keep knew what became of any man foolish enough to lay a hand on what belonged to him.

Because as unwanted as you had been, you were still his wife. And compared to his late bronze bitch, you were far more tolerable—infuriatingly so.

He was already moving, intent on dragging the vermin to the dungeons, when a flicker of movement stopped him.

You stepped forward.

Your nightgown was torn, the fabric clutched tightly to your chest to preserve what little modesty you had left. Blood stained your lip, your hair hung loose and tangled, and your eyes—seven hells, your eyes—burned with a cold, unflinching fire.

Before Daemon could speak, your hand darted for the dagger at his belt. His fingers twitched in surprise, but you were faster—ripping it free in one fluid motion. He opened his mouth, perhaps to stop you, perhaps to warn you, but the words never left his tongue.

You dropped to your knees beside the fallen knight.

Daemon watched, frozen, as the trembling in your hand steadied with terrifying purpose. And in that heartbeat, he realized he had gravely underestimated you. The danger you carried wasn’t in your silver tongue or your deceptively soft appearance. It was in the fire he so often enjoyed provoking—the one that now burned, fierce and unrestrained, revealing a brutality that mirrored his own.

The blade came down. Once. Twice. The sound was wet and final.

The scream that followed ripped through the Keep, sharp and ragged, echoing off the stone. Blood spattered across your cheek, soaking into your torn nightgown as the severed hand hit the flagstones with a dull, wet thud.

You didn’t look away, your eyes burning with something perilously close to satisfaction. You only took a single deep breath, your grip on the slick dagger tightening for a brief moment before you finally straightened up.

“He won’t be touching anyone again,” you said, your voice calm—eerily so. Then, as if the act had been no more than pruning a hedge in the garden, you turned the dagger in your hand and offered it back to Daemon, blood still dripping from the blade. “You can do the rest.”

Daemon stared at you—really stared—as if seeing you for the first time. The sharp edge of his anger faltered, giving way to something dangerously close to admiration. Then, slowly, a low laugh rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t mocking or cruel, but low and genuine—born of disbelief more than mirth.

“Seven hells,” he murmured, a crooked grin curving his lips. “Perhaps the gods aren’t so cruel after all. You’re full of surprises, little flower.”

You met his gaze without flinching, the flickering torchlight catching on the blood still splattered across your cheek. 

“You married a Tyrell,” you said evenly, “not a delicate flower.”

His grin widened, sharp and feral. “No,” he said, almost admiringly. “It seems I married a thorn.”

He reached out, his thumb brushing a streak of blood from your cheek. The touch lingered—longer than it should have, longer than either of you cared to admit. His eyes, glinting in the dim torchlight, softened into something dark and dangerous. “Perhaps,” he murmured, voice low, “I should’ve agreed to this marriage sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by the sudden warmth in his tone. “Save your charm for someone who cares, husband,” you said coolly, stepping past him.

The hem of your ruined nightgown dragged across the stones, leaving thin streaks of crimson in your wake. You didn’t look back—not even when another low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Daemon watched you go, the sound of your fading footsteps echoing through the corridor. You didn’t rush away, nor offer him a single glance.

For a man like him, so accustomed to obedience, fear, or devotion, that quiet defiance was nothing short of intoxicating.

By the time you disappeared around the corner, Daemon’s grin had widened, but it was darker and less amused. He glanced down at the severed hand still lying in a growing pool of blood, then toward the path you’d taken.

“Definitely a thorn,” he muttered to himself, before raising his dagger to do as you ordered and finish what you started.

By the time the task was done and the wretch was dragged to the dungeons, you were long gone. When Daemon finally reached your shared martial chambers, he found the door barred from within. There was a faint flicker of candlelight beneath the door, telling him there was a high chance you were still awake.

He stood there for a moment, silent, debating whether to knock. His hand hovered near the handle, but he didn’t move. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he let his hand fall away.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured under his breath, turning on his heel.

As he walked down the dim corridor, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone, Daemon found something unfamiliar curling in his chest as he once again thought of you.

For the first time in years, he was smiling at the thought of someone daring to tell him no.

The story spread quickly—faster than wildfire and twice as hot.

By morning, the entire court knew that a knight had been maimed and stripped of his title, Daemon Targaryen had been involved, and the new Lady Targaryen was not to be trifled with. Servants whispered in corridors, eyes wide with both fear and fascination. Lords traded embellished versions over their morning wine, each claiming to know the true tale. And by the time the sun reached its peak, it had reached the ears of the Small Council.

Viserys wasted no time. Before the morning was out, the two of you were summoned before the Iron Throne.

Daemon stood tall at your side, hands clasped behind his back, his smirk unmistakably smug as though the entire affair amused him. You, however, remained composed, despite the split lip and the faint bruise still shadowing your jaw.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. His patience, always thin when it came to his brother, was clearly stretched to its limits. “Seven hells, Daemon,” he muttered, his tone sharp with exasperation. “Can you not go a single month without bloodshed in the Keep?”

Daemon’s smirk only deepened. “It wasn’t entirely my doing this time,” he drawled lazily, almost playful. “My wife saw to most of it.”

The council chamber fell into utter silence. as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to thinly veiled horror, as though they’d just realized the soft-spoken lady from the Reach was no lady at all.

You did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. When you spoke, your tone was calm yet cold. “The knight was drunk and violent, Your Grace,” you said evenly. “My husband stopped him before he could do worse. I merely… ensured it would never happen again.”

Otto Hightower regarded you as though you’d sprouted fangs. “You ensured it?” he repeated, his voice slow and dripping with disdain. “By cutting off his hands? The man was brutalized.”

“Hand,” you corrected smoothly. “I took only one. My husband saw to the other in his own form of retribution.” You tilted your head slightly, meeting Otto’s stare without wavering. “Would you prefer I’d waited for the court to deliberate while he still had the use of it? It is the law, is it not—to lose them for such crimes?”

For a moment, silence hung over the council chamber. Then Daemon broke it as he chuckled under his breath, low and amused.

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his irritation bleeding into every measured word. “The law, Lady Tyrell—”

“Targaryen,” Daemon interrupted, his tone deceptively mild. 

The single word landed like a slap. Otto blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his expression smoothed back into something resembling civility. He inclined his head slightly, though the muscle in his jaw twitched. “The law, Lady Targaryen,” he corrected, voice clipped and cold, “is not yours to carry out. You have overstepped your station. The King’s justice does not come from the hands of women—or from vigilantes acting on impulse.”

Your expression didn’t falter, though the tension in the room thickened. “Then perhaps,” you said evenly, “the King’s justice should arrive before a woman needs to defend herself.”

A few councillors shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. Otto’s expression darkened, his composure fraying at the edges. “You forget yourself, my lady,” he snapped. “Such defiance is unbecoming of—”

“Careful, Otto,” Daemon drawled, his voice cutting cleanly through the chamber. “You seem to be forgetting yourself.”

The Hand froze mid-sentence. The smirk that usually curved Daemon’s lips had vanished, replaced by something colder and dark. His words simmered with threat. He took a slow step forward, the click of his boots echoing against the stone floor.

“My wife,” Daemon declared, looking to the members of the council, “was attacked in her own hall. And the man who dared touch her breathes still. I’d say we’ve already shown the court more mercy than it deserves.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “Mercy?” he repeated with a scoff. “You call mutilation mercy?”

Daemon’s gaze turned sharp as a blade. “That, Otto,” he said evenly, “is leniency. Were it my full measure of justice, you’d be discussing a corpse, not a cripple.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing at his temple as though warding off an oncoming headache. “Daemon—”

But Daemon wasn’t finished. He moved closer to Otto, enough that the old man’s hand twitched to grab the edge of the table. 

“You should choose your next words carefully, my lord Hand,” Daemon said softly, the quiet in his tone somehow more dangerous than a shout. “Because the only reason this matter reached your ears at all is that I allowed it to. Had I wished otherwise, that knight would’ve vanished before sunrise — and not a soul would be the wiser.”

Otto’s mouth tightened, his knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. “You threaten the Hand of the King in open council?”

Daemon’s grin returned — thin, wolfish, and entirely without warmth. “No,” he said. “I’m reminding you where your authority ends.” His gaze flicked toward you, lingering for a heartbeat before returning to Otto. “Whether you like it or not, she is a princess. Her word carries the same weight as mine — as any Targaryen’s. You’d do well to remember that the next time you choose to address her so brazenly. Next time,” his voice dropped, dangerous and deliberate, “I may not be so… lenient.”

“Enough,” Viserys interjected sharply, his patience at last fraying. He sank back against the Iron Throne with a weary exhale. “Gods save me, the two of you are well-matched. The knight’s punishment will stand as delivered. Now — let us not waste more of the realm’s time on this nonsense.”

Otto looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at Daemon’s expression silenced him. The prince’s violet eyes burned with quiet warning, and the faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned back toward you, brushing his fingers briefly against yours

You didn’t return the gesture, though your lips curved just slightly as you met his gaze.

For the first time since your marriage, Daemon’s smirk wasn’t cruel. It was proud. And worse still, it was genuine.

After the council incident, something between you and Daemon shifted. It wasn’t a sudden change, nor one you could easily define. It was noticeable enough that conversations faltered when you entered a room together. Even Otto Hightower, ever the picture of composure, could not disguise the way his mouth tightened and his expression soured the moment his gaze landed on either of you.

You had become something of a spectacle: the Rogue Prince and the Southern Rose, a union that should have burned under the weight of its own volatility—but hadn’t.

Daemon, of course, took delight in every ounce of scandal your union was inspiring.

At council meetings, he no longer sat opposite you but beside you, close enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against your sleeve when he leaned in. He had made it his personal amusement to whisper comments low enough for only you to hear — wicked little asides designed to test your composure.

“I think,” he murmured one morning, as Otto began another of his long, tedious speeches, “if the old vulture glares any harder, his eyes might fall out.”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips, forcing your expression into something neutral. “Try not to provoke him,” you whispered back. “He’s still the Hand.”

Daemon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous humour. “He’s a hand I’d gladly cut off,” he murmured. “Care to help me, wife? You did quite well the last time.”

You sighed, though the faint curl of your lips betrayed you. In truth, you disliked Otto Hightower just as deeply as Daemon did. The man was a vulture — always circling the throne, always overreaching, always pretending his ambition was piety.

“You enjoy making enemies far too much,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Daemon’s smirk only deepened, that infuriating glint in his eyes suggesting he found your disapproval endlessly entertaining.

He began to appear everywhere.

At dinners, his chair was suddenly beside yours, his presence commanding attention no matter how much you tried to ignore it. In the gardens, you’d feel his gaze long before you turned to find him watching, his expression unreadable. Even during court sessions, he lingered near you, standing just close enough to make it impossible for anyone to forget whose wife you were.

He hovered close enough to unsettle you, close enough that the courtiers began to whisper behind gloved hands. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Daemon Targaryen had made no secret of his disdain for this marriage, for you. Yet now, wherever you went, he followed — a shadow that refused to fade, a dragon circling what he had once dismissed as unworthy prey.

And in all his watching, Daemon came to a realization.

The lords who had once made their disdain for him plain were now markedly more tolerant—some even deferential. Conversations that used to die the moment he entered no longer did. The same mouths that had once whispered against him now spoke with murmurs of cautious respect.

It hadn’t been his doing. It had been yours.

For all your ice, for all the cruelty he’d shown you, you had never once turned against him. In your own quiet way, you had stood beside him. Those endless interactions he had dismissed as meaningless pleasantries, the soft smiles and chatters he’d mistaken for you wasting your time on simpering lords in what he had thought had been in indulgence, hadn’t been acts of vanity or spite.

You had been securing him power. Turning enemies into allies. Shifting the court’s favour not through fear, but through quiet influence — a kind of power he’d never learned to wield.

And you had done it all without asking for credit, without expecting his gratitude.

It unsettled him—how easily you’d done what he, with all his fire and fury, never could. For perhaps the first time in his life, Daemon Targaryen found himself forced to admit that he had gravely underestimated the woman the gods had chained him to.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” Daemon drawled one evening as he joined you on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The setting sun bled across the sky, painting the water in molten gold and fire, while the wind carried the faint scent of salt and smoke through the air.

“Half the court is terrified of you now,” he continued, his tone lazy, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Are they now?” you mused, lifting your goblet and taking a slow sip of wine. “Perhaps it’s you they fear, husband.”

Daemon snorted, resting one shoulder against the carved stone rail. “Of course they fear me,” he said easily, almost amused. “But you, my lady wife—” his gaze swept over you, lingering in that way that felt like admiration, “— you’ve built a reputation entirely your own. And a powerful one at that.”

You arched a brow, setting your goblet down with a soft clink. “You almost sound impressed.”

A low hum rumbled in his throat, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, crooked smile that had begun to lose some of its cruelty. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted, leaning in as his tongue swept briefly across his lips.

You turned to face him fully, the sea breeze catching a loose strand of your hair and brushing it against your cheek. “Then you should be careful,” you said lightly, though the warning in your voice was unmistakable. “It seems I’ve earned a reputation for maiming men who touch without asking.”

His answering grin was wicked, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement. “Don’t worry, wife,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and far too sure of itself. “When I touch you, it’ll be because you begged me to.”

You didn’t blush at his implication. You simply rolled your eyes, “Need I remind you that you hate me?”

“I’m reconsidering that fact,” he said without hesitation, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Don’t bother,” you replied coolly, your tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re not forgiven.”

“Forgiveness,” he said, leaning just close enough for your breath to catch, “was never what I wanted.”

You didn’t move away. The space between you felt taut, charged, alive. His nearness carried heat — the faint scent of smoke and steel that always clung to him — but you refused to yield an inch.

“Then what is it you do want, my prince?” you asked, your voice measured, daring him to answer truthfully.

“Husband,” he corrected softly, taking another slow step forward. “I’m your husband, and you are my wife.” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. “And what I want…” He paused, the ghost of a smile curling his mouth. “…is you.”

You studied him for a long moment, the torchlight flickering across the sharp planes of his face — the proud line of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his violet eyes. He wasn’t jesting. There was something different in him now, something that unsettled you far more than his cruelty ever had.

Finally, you exhaled and shook your head, turning away. “Goodnight, Daemon.”

He didn’t try to stop you. He only watched as you passed him, his gaze following the graceful sweep of your figure as the faint scent of roses lingered in the air, as you made your way down the corridor.

“Sleep well, wife,” he called after you, his voice carrying that maddening blend of amusement and promise. “You’ll dream of me before long.”

You didn’t look back, though your lips curved faintly as you rounded the corner. “Not likely,” you murmured under your breath — but even as you said it, you knew it for a lie.

If the gods had cursed you with Daemon Targaryen, they had done so knowingly. For all his temper, his wickedness, and his arrogance, the man was beautiful. And worse still — he knew it.

Despite the growing ease between you and Daemon, there were still some in the court who looked upon the change with thinly veiled displeasure. Power unsettled men like Otto Hightower — especially when it didn’t belong to them.

Daemon had been gone for days, called to Dragonstone on some errand for Viserys, and though you would never admit it aloud, the castle felt quieter in his absence. You told yourself it was a welcome reprieve — fewer stares, fewer annoying grins, fewer games — but there were moments when you caught yourself missing the sound of his voice, the heat of his presence. You buried the thought quickly.

When the summons came, you were told it was a matter of court business — routine, nothing more. But the moment you stepped into the council chamber, you knew better.

Viserys sat slumped at the head of the table, his crown slightly askew, weariness written in every line of his face. Beside him stood Otto Hightower, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression smooth as polished marble. Around them sat a small cluster of lords and septons — enough to make the meeting official.

“My lady,” Otto said as you approached, inclining his head with mock civility. “We thank you for attending on such short notice. Please, be seated.”

You didn’t move. “What is this?”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering between you and his Hand. “There have been… concerns raised,” he began, his tone hesitant. “You understand how closely the court watches the stability of the royal line. It has been several months since your wedding to my brother and…” His words trailed off as he rubbed at his temple. “Questions have been asked.”

You stared at him, suspicion already twisting in your gut. “Questions,” you repeated slowly. “About what?”

“About heirs,” Otto said smoothly, seizing the opening. “Or rather—” he paused, letting the silence linger for a moment, “—the lack thereof.”

For a heartbeat, you could only stare at him, the meaning of his words sinking in like ice water down your spine. Then disbelief hardened into fury.

“You summon me before the council,” you began coldly, taking a step closer to the table, “to discuss my womb?”

Otto smiled faintly, the perfect picture of reason. “Not to discuss, my lady — merely to clarify,” he said smoothly. “You see, the matter has caused… some unrest. There are whispers that perhaps the marriage has not been—” he paused delicately, “—fruitful.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails biting into the polished wood. “Fruitful,” you repeated, the word falling from your tongue like venom. “Tell me, Lord Hand — are you in the habit of inquiring into the private matters of every marriage in the realm, or only those that inconvenience you?”

Otto’s expression didn’t flicker. His tone remained calm, reasonable — the voice of a man who hid malice behind measured words. “I inquire only when the stability of the realm may be affected,” he replied smoothly. “The King’s council must consider every possibility. You and Prince Daemon have been wed for—” he glanced down at a parchment, the motion purely performative, “—five months. No announcement has been made. No signs of an heir. Naturally, the court wonders if perhaps the gods have seen fit to close the womb of the Princess.”

The air in the chamber seemed to still at the thinly veiled implication.

Your jaw tightened, but your voice, when it came, was soft and cutting. “Careful, my lord. The gods are fickle creatures. They might decide to close your mouth next.”

A few of the lords shifted, uncertain whether to look at you or the Hand.  Otto, of course, merely smiled — that thin, patronizing curve of his lips that made you want to drive a goblet straight through his throat. “I assure you, Princess,” he said mildly, “no offence was meant. But when the succession of the realm may hang in the balance, His Grace is right to seek certainty.”

You stared at him, the realization sliding into place like a dagger between ribs. This wasn’t about heirs. It wasn’t about the stability of the realm. Otto Hightower, ever the vulture, had scented blood — your rising influence, your ability to temper Daemon’s fury—and meant to get rid of you down before you became unassailable.

Turning toward the King, you met Viserys’s weary gaze, disbelief and anger threading through your voice. “Surely, you don’t mean to entertain this insult.”

Viserys shifted again, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not an insult, child,” he said, his voice carrying that weary gentleness he used when trying to placate. “Merely… a concern. You know how these things spread. If the marriage is troubled, it would be better to resolve it quietly before others make assumptions.”

Resolve it quietly. The words settled like ice in your chest. He meant annulment.

Otto’s eyes gleamed — the satisfaction barely hidden behind his veneer of civility. “The Faith could be called to confirm the matter, of course,” he added smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “A physician or septa might—”

The doors slammed open.

The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder.

Daemon strode in. His cloak billowed behind him, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, and though his expression was deceptively calm, the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. Every man in the room went still. Even Otto Hightower’s composure faltered.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Daemon drawled lazily. “I’d hate to interrupt such an important meeting.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Viserys exhaled heavily, already bracing himself. “Daemon…” he began, but it was useless.

The prince was already in motion, his steps measured — a predator circling prey. His gaze swept over the gathered lords, past the nervous septons, before locking on Otto like a dragon sizing up a meal.

“I heard,” Daemon said, his voice low but carrying easily through the room, “that my wife was summoned before the council.” He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Imagine my curiosity when I discovered the topic of discussion was of our martial bed.”

He reached your side in three long strides, his arm winding around your waist and pulling you close without hesitation. The sudden gesture was possessive, protective and it startled you more than you cared to admit. You had expected to stand alone in your defence; part of you had even braced for Daemon to use this as an opportunity to accept an annulment and cast you aside.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood beside you, unyielding, his hand firm against your hip as though daring anyone in the chamber to try and take you from him. Whatever else he was to you—your unwanted husband, your tormentor, your frustration—right now, he was your shield, and the weight of his presence filled the room like a drawn sword.

“So tell me, my lords,” Daemon drawled, his tone deceptively casual, “which of you volunteered to climb into my bed in my stead?”

An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the room, the councillors shifting uncomfortably at the implication. No one dared to meet his eye.

Otto’s composure faltered only for a breath before he recovered. “Your Grace, no one meant offence,” he said quickly, though his voice carried an edge. “Concerns were raised for the good of the realm—”

“Concerns,” Daemon echoed, turning his head toward the Hand with slow, deliberate menace. “About what, exactly? My performance? My wife’s virtue?” His smile thinned, the faintest hint of a snarl curling beneath the words. “Or is this your latest attempt to worm your way deeper into my brother’s ear?”

Otto straightened, his restraint beginning to fray. “I advise the King as duty requires,” he replied tightly. “The realm must have heirs.”

Daemon’s expression sharpened, all trace of humour gone. “And you presume to dictate when they come?” His tone dropped lower. “Or from whose womb?”

“Of course not,” Otto began smoothly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his intent. “However, if your wife cannot fulfill her duties, it would be prudent to consider other options. My daughter, Alicent—”

“Alicent Hightower?” Daemon scoffed, his laughter low and mocking. “The only thing she could breed is boredom.”

The insult hit its mark. A few of the councillors coughed into their hands, poorly hiding their amusement. Otto’s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of fury breaking through his polished restraint.

“I have no interest in your spawn,” Daemon continued sharply, each word laced with venom. He leaned forward, his head angling just over your shoulder, his voice dropping to a low growl that slithered through the chamber like smoke. “And the next time you dare to question my wife’s worth—or her body—you’ll be counting your teeth instead of heirs.”

You fought the urge to smirk, but gave in to the temptation of leaning into him, placing your hand to rest over his. It was a simple gesture, but it showed your solidarity. Daemon Targaryen had once claimed he was not your dragon, yet here he stood, defending you as fiercely as one. And though he infuriated you more than any man alive, you had no intention of letting him go either.

“This is unseemly,” Otto hissed, his composure splintering. “The Prince misinterprets the council’s intent.”

Viserys rose from his seat, attempting calm though his tone frayed with irritation. “Daemon, enough,” he said, voice heavy with exasperation. “The matter was only raised to ensure stability—”

“Then let me assure you, brother,” Daemon said, his tone dropping to something low and dangerous, “my marriage is quite stable. And as for heirs—”

He turned toward you, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile that made heat creep up your neck. “They will be provided when I decide the time is right. In the meantime, how my wife and I fuck in our marital bed should not be of concern to anyone in this hall.”

Ignoring the gasps rippled that through the chamber. He turned on his heel, using the hand on your waist to guide you to follow him out of the chamber. The doors slammed behind you, the echo reverberating through the marble corridor, leaving a stunned silence in your wake.

Only when the noise of the council faded did you finally exhale, tension bleeding from your shoulders. “You didn’t need to do that,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

Daemon’s tone was calm as he took you in. “If you think I’d let them humiliate you while I breathe, wife,” he said softly, “then you truly don’t know me yet.”

You turned to look at him—and for the first time since your marriage, there was no mockery in his eyes. No smirk. No cruel amusement.

“Why?” you asked, your voice low. “You made it quite clear you never wanted this marriage. That was your chance to be rid of me.”

Daemon stopped walking. The torchlight from the corridor flickered across his face, throwing sharp shadows over the hard lines of his jaw. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He only studied you, eyes dark and searching, as though weighing truths he’d rather keep buried.

Finally, he said quietly, “I didn’t want a marriage forced on me.” His voice had lost its usual bite—no swagger, no arrogance—just the faint rasp of honesty. “But I’ll be damned before I let Otto Hightower, or anyone else, decide what’s mine to keep or discard.”

You stared at him, uncertain whether to scoff or believe him. “So this is about pride, then?” you asked, your tone measured. “Possession?”

He gave a faint, humourless huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching but never quite forming a smile. “At first,” he admitted. “Perhaps. But pride doesn’t make a man ride through the night when he hears his wife’s being paraded before the council and being accused that she is some barren broodmare.”

Your breath caught — just a fraction. You searched his face, expecting him to be mocking you, but what you found instead was something dangerously close to sincerity.

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him seeped through the thin layers of your gown. 

“You’ve done what no one else at court has managed,” he said, voice low, roughened by truth. “You’ve made them listen. You’ve made them respect me—support me—without ever drawing a single blade. You stood before them with nothing but your tongue and your will, and you bent the court to heel. You’re a threat to Otto, and that’s why he went after you today.”

Your pulse quickened, steady composure slipping beneath the weight of his words. “And that’s why you defended me?”

“No,” he said simply. “I defended you because I wanted to.”

The air between you grew heavier. You could feel it — the shift that had been building for weeks now was impossible to ignore.

You tried to look away, but he reached out—gloved fingers brushing beneath your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You are my wife, from now until my death, you are mine to protect.”

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. The fierce promise in his eyes rooted you in place, stealing the air from your lungs. You searched his face for the lie—for that familiar smirk that always followed his provocations—but it never came. Daemon Targaryen—your infuriating, impossible husband—was entirely, terrifyingly sincere.

“So let them whisper about heirs all they like,” he murmured. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about soon enough.”

You swallowed hard, forcing composure back into your voice. “You think one grand gesture and a few flowery words erase months of your cruelty?”

His thumb grazed the line of your jaw. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s a start.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I hope this doesn’t mean you expect me to let you into my bed.”

A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, a glimmer of the man you knew too well. “I’ve told you, wife,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “When I touch you, it will be because you begged me to—not because some fat lords on a council demand it.”

“I may not have wanted this marriage,” Daemon said. “But the thought of losing you… that, I find I want even less.” His gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “They thought forcing this marriage would tame me,” he murmured, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “But all they’ve done is tie me to the one person as untameable as myself. You and I—we were never meant to be gentle. A dragon needs fire to burn…” His thumb brushed once more against your skin, the gesture feeling less like flirtation and more like a vow. “And I’ve found mine.”

For once, you didn’t have a sharp retort. The words lingered between you, fragile and unguarded, like something that might shatter if either of you dared to break it. Your gaze danced between his, taking in the depth of his lilac eyes, and slowly—almost against your better judgment—you stepped forward, your hand resting lightly against his chest.

He stilled beneath your touch, watching you closely as you leaned up, your lips brushing his softly. Daemon’s breath hitched, and then he returned the kiss instantly—hungry, wanting, alive. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it burned like wildfire. You were the one to pull away first.

“Thank you, Daemon,” you murmured, your voice softer now, though not without its steel. “For coming to my defence—and for your honesty. Perhaps… there’s hope for us yet.”

He released your wrist, stepping back just enough to let you go. His gaze lingered on your face, unreadable. “Rest, wife,” he murmured, his tone softer than you had ever heard it. “The realm can damn itself for all I care. They’ll not touch you again.”

You hesitated only a moment before offering the faintest of smiles. “Goodnight, husband.”

Daemon’s lips curved, the ghost of a grin playing there. “Goodnight, wife.”

And as you walked away, your steps echoing down the quiet corridor, neither of you could quite ignore the truth that had finally taken root—whatever bound you together was no longer duty, nor politics, nor the will of others.

It was something far more dangerous.

[iydiamartinx]

THE LION AND THE WOLF

Pairing: Robb Stark x Baratheon! Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina word count: 15.5k synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm. a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story. warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.

The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.

Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.

Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.

At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.

You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror. 

But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.

You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.

As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.

He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.

You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.

The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.

You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.

It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.

You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.

“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.

Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.

Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side. 

One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.

Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.

But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.

He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.

His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.

And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.

Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. 

You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different. 

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him. 

For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.

You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.

The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.

You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.

Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.

You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.

It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.

“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”

Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.

You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.

Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.

Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.

“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.

You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.

Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.

The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.

Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”

Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.

Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.

When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.

Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold. 

You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants.  And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.

As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.

Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.

No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.

The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.

Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.

Steel striking wood.

You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.

There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.

The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.

“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.

“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”

Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”

Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”

Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten. 

“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.

He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.

“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”

That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.

“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”

“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”

Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”

You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”

Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.

You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”

When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”

You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”

Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.

“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness. 

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”

Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”

Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.

“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.

At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.

“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”

Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”

Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.

“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.

You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”

“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”

Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him. 

When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”

Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.

Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”

You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”

The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”

Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.

“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.

Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”

That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”

Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”

When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”

He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”

You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”

Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.

“Jon.”

Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”

You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”

Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”

He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”

With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.

Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.

He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.

Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”

Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”

Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”

Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”

Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”

Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.

“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”

Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”

Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”

Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.

Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”

That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”

Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes. 

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.

Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?

Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.

“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”

“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”

You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.

You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.

At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.

It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.

Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.

You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.

“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”

His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.

“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”

He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”

Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”

Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”

Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.

Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”

Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”

A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.

Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”

Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.

You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.

At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.

Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.

Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.

You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.

You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.

It was harsh—but it was honest.

And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.

When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.

“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.

“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.

You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”

“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”

You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”

The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.

A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.

“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”

“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”

You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”

The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.

“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”

“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.

Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”

You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”

“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.

Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him.  “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.

He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.

“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”

You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.

“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”

You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”

Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”

You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”

“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”

He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”

You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”

Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”

The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.

Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”

Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”

You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”

“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”

Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”

A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”

You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”

Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”

You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest. 

You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.

“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”

Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”

You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”

You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”

It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.

Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.

You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.

He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.

There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.

The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming. 

Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.

Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.

The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.

And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.

The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.

He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.

He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.

You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.

Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.

“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”

You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.

Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.

He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.

You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.

You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.

He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.

“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”

“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”

You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”

Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”

You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.

“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.

He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”

You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.

You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”

“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”

Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”

You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”

The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”

You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”

He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”

That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.

“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”

Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”

You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.

Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”

“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.

Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”

He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”

You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”

Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”

“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”

Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”

You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”

Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”

You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”

You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.

Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.

“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”

Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.

The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”

You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.

“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”

For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.

“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”

Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”

You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.

“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”

You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”

He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.

You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”

Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”

For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”

Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”

You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”

You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.

And then—

Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.

You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.

Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”

“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”

You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.

“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”

Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”

From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.

Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”

Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”

You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”

Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.

You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.

Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.

“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”

You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”

Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”

“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”

You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”

But he did.

The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.

“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”

That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”

Robb’s grin widened. “I’d expect nothing less, princess.”

In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.

Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.

You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.

For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.

Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.

At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.

Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.

“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”

The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.

She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”

Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”

Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”

But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”

Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”

“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.

“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”

Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”

You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”

His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”

You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”

He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”

“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”

Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”

And that was when his hand moved.

He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.

But Robb was faster.

He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.

“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”

Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”

Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”

The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.

Yet now there was no denying it.

Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.

The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.

“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.

You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.

He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.

He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.

The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.

Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.

The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.

“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.

You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”

The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.

“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”

You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”

Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”

Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.

“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”

You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”

Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”

You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.

The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.

A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”

Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”

You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”

Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.

As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.

He wanted you to stay.

Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.

And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.

The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.

Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.

Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.

Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.

And behind her, you stood.

Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark. 

Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”

Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”

Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.

His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.” 

Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.

He imagined a life without you.

You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.

The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.

You were duty, yes. But you were also more.

And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.

He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.

Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”

But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.

He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you. 

Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.

His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”

Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.

Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.

But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”

The hall went still.

Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”

Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”

All eyes turned to Robb.

The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.

It found you.

Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted. 

And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”

The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.

A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.

Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.

Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”

Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”

Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.

And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.

You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”

The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.

Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.

For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.

Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”

Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”

The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.

Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.

“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”

Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.

And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.

A strange, unexpected calm.

Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.

You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.

And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.

For the first time, it felt like choice.

[archiveofsnow]

Stark men marking their wives as theirs with their scent... rubbing up against her and holding her close all the time until she smells just like them. Also love doing this by hugging her from behind, arms warm around her waist and face buried in the crook of her neck

[headspace-hotel]

[finnskeeper]

What's your word?

I got "spot"

[queer-as-city-folk]

I got "perfect"

[confettiwhiskers]

SPECTRUM????

[your-naked-magic-oh-dear-lord]

Mastermind

[datasoong47]

I got "master"

[brightlotusmoon]

Satisfied...

[naamahdarling]

Mood

[buhdderkupp]

Rage 😂

[merrinish]

Fuck yeah I got SHARK.

[legallybrunettedotcom]

ever since i learned abt the concept of networking i knew i was going to have to do everything alone and do it the hard way

[legallybrunettedotcom]

i believe i can do everything in this life except feign interest and suck up to people

[pixiecaps]

Bad Bunny after winning best música urbana album with “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS” at the 2026 Grammy Awards:

“I’m going to say ICE out. We’re not savage, we’re not animals, we’re not aliens. We are humans and we are Americans. Also, I will say to people, I know it’s tough to know not to hate on these days and I was thinking sometimes, we get contaminados [contaminated], I don’t know how to say that in English. The hate gets more powerful with more hate. The only thing that is more powerful than hate is love. So please, we need to be different. If we fight, we have to do it with love. We don’t hate them. We love our people. We love our family, and that’s the way to do it. With love. Don’t forget that please. Thank you.”

[styleshourly]

[insecuregodcomplex]

“ten years ago” and it’s 2016 oh ill throw up