Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Okay, so with all the Daeron sexualization going on. I really need to ask this, so I’m over 18 and I’m planning on writing a long daeron fic series with no sexual content or smut, I’m not shipping him with any other character or anyone over 18 but rather the foster child of Marna and Leo (Hugh hammer in laws) who is the same age as him.
I want to know cause I’m not trying to get into trouble here but if its okay for me to write that cause people are getting canceled for interacting with any daeron fanfics and im now wondering if i can even write a daeron fic.
Respectfully trying to keep myself safe over here and not cause any problems.
edit: I would like a verbal yes or no rather than a like.
edit: umm in case anybody needs this, this is the meaning of sexualization - Sexualization (or sexualisation) is the process of viewing or treating a person, object, or concept in primarily sexual terms. According to the American Psychological Association (APA), it occurs when a person's worth is tied to sexual appeal, they are held to narrow standards of physical attractiveness, they are objectified, or sexuality is inappropriately imposed upon them.
In my fic, daeron is not treat in any way shape or form like that it’s rather focused more on two people lying to each other because they thought that was right and wanted to protect themselves, yes it’s is a bit of romance but it’s more so about them trying to survive in this war and using their intelligence to their advantage.
if we don’t getting a meeting them (I think we do since their is a shot with Gwayne and Ormind in tumbleton) I will tear the entire set apart and condal better sleep with his eyes open.
The boy with crimson hair was only a steward named Ben—or so he claimed.
When a chance meeting in the woods leads to an unlikely friendship, she finds herself helping the charming servant boy with everything from gathering rare herbs to escaping the endless duties of the Hightower camp. With every stolen afternoon, every shared laugh, and every secret entrusted between them, the line between friendship and something more begins to blur.
But wars do not spare the innocent, and neither do princes. As loyalties are tested and grief takes root, she learns that some lies are far more dangerous than others. Unknown to the prince, she had her own secret.
Author note: I have yet to make a banner for this series but I'm open to ideas cause i tried to make one and failed miserably
if the rumors of Alicent going to tumbleton are true, imagine if this scene is her reaction to Daeron on dragon back raining fire on bitterbridge. Doing the opposite of everything Gwayne described him as. Like my girl was probably a bit happy to see her son again, the only son who came out to be kind and she just sees him murdering innocent people in a sept.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
My idea is HOTD related cause I need this fandom alive again on this app!! Namely my man Cregan!! So my idea! Cregan takes Kings Landing for the Blacks as per, but there is another Targtower sibling who’s recluse, innocent played no part in the war, the council decide her fate, most want her to die to be made an example of. Cregan suggests they spare her, he suggests marriage under the guise of her being the furthest place away she could be. He takes pity on her, sort of an enemies to lovers where she’s cautious of him, he’s unsure of her innocence whether she would plot and she thinks he’s her punishment. That’s what I’ve got 🫠 cause I feel like most Cregan stories are getting samey samey
The Cost of Mercy
Pairing: Cregan x Targtower Reader
Word Count: 1.6k+
Author’s Note: Ik i said no targaryen readers but technically she is a hightower, no physical description but i do imagine her with Alicent’s colors.
I remember the silence more than the shouting. The shouting ended with executions. The silence lingered. No one comes to tell you your family is dead in the songs. They speak of ravens, of weeping queens, of princes dying gloriously upon dragonback. They do not tell you about the servants who stop meeting your eyes. The trays of food that arrive untouched because no one knows whether you are to be fed or forgotten. The corridors that empty when you appear, as though grief itself has become contagious.
I counted the bells the morning they came for me.
One.
Two.
Three.
By the fourth, the door opened.
“Your Grace.” No one had called me that in weeks. Not sincerely. “You are summoned before the council.”
I rose without asking why. There was no point. If they meant to kill me, I would learn soon enough. If they meant to imprison me, I would learn soon enough. If they meant to spare me… No. I had long since abandoned hope. Hope was for people who still had futures. Mine had burned with the dragons.
The throne room no longer belonged to us. It scarcely belonged to anyone. The Iron Throne stood unchanged, yet everything else felt wrong. The banners had changed. The faces had changed. Even the silence had changed. Men spoke in quieter voices around conquerors. I kept my gaze lowered until I reached the center of the hall. Someone began listing names.
Traitors. Executions. Confiscated lands. Oaths. Each sentence sounded like another stone sealing a tomb. Then came mine.
“The princess.”
No one bothered saying my name. I wondered if forgetting it would make killing me easier.
“Her blood alone makes her dangerous.”
“She remains a claimant.”
“A marriage elsewhere would not prevent conspiracies.”
“Every rebellion begins with someone.”
“End it now.”
Their words drifted over me like winter rain.
Dangerous.
Claimant.
Dragon.
Execution.
I had heard them all before. I folded my hands together to stop them trembling. If this was to be my end, I would not beg. My father had once said that dragons did not kneel. We also died. I learned that much. A voice cut through the chamber.
Deep.
Steady.
Northern.
“No.”
The hall quieted.
I looked up for the first time. Lord Stark stood among them. He did not look at me. He looked only at the council.
“If you kill her,” he said evenly, “you give every discontented lord a corpse to mourn.”
Someone scoffed.
“She is a Green.”
“She is also harmless.”
“Harmless dragons grow teeth.”
“They cannot if they are kept where no one can reach them.”
Another lord frowned.
“And where is that?”
“The North.”
The room laughed. Not loudly. Disbelievingly. Someone asked whether he truly intended to cart a princess across the realm like baggage. His answer came without hesitation.
“I intend to remove the last excuse for further bloodshed.”
Another voice.
“You would imprison her?”
“I would marry her.”
Silence. Real silence. Even I forgot to breathe.I stared at him. Surely I had misheard. Marriage? To me? The council erupted. Arguments flew like arrows. Madness. Insult. Political disaster. Mercy. Necessity. I heard none of it.
My thoughts had frozen.Marriage. Not death. Not freedom. Something far stranger. Someone finally addressed me directly.
“Princess.”
I forced myself to answer.
“My lord.”
“Do you object?”
I nearly laughed. Object? To what? Had anyone asked whether I objected when my brothers rode to war? When my family died? When my life became a bargaining piece?Choice had left me long ago.
“I will do as the Lord Hand commands.”
It was the only answer left to me.
The wedding took place before I had time to understand it.There were no celebrations.No singers.No joyful crowds. No family standing beside me. The sept felt impossibly large. Every vow echoed. When the ceremony ended, people congratulated Lord Stark. Not me. No one knew what to say to a woman who had survived because someone decided death would be inconvenient.
The journey north lasted forever. Every mile carried me farther from everything I had ever known. The air changed. The trees changed. Even the sky seemed larger. Lord Stark rarely spoke. I appreciated that. What comfort could he offer? He had conquered my home. I had lost mine.
Words would only expose wounds. Sometimes we rode side by side in complete silence. Sometimes he rode ahead. Sometimes behind. I wondered if he watched me expecting betrayal. I wondered whether he regretted saving me. One evening he finally spoke.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
It was a lie. He looked at me for a long moment before dismounting. The next morning there were heavier furs waiting with my belongings. No explanation accompanied them. Neither did thanks. I could not decide which would embarrass us more.
Winterfell was unlike any place I had imagined. Not cruel. Simply…Unyielding. The stones themselves seemed older than kingdoms. Older than dragons. Older than ambition. The people bowed because I was their lord’s wife. Nothing more. Some looked at me with curiosity. Others with open distrust. I could not blame them. Their sons had died fighting people who shared my blood. If I had been born among them, perhaps I would have hated me too.
The servants spoke softly around me. Conversations ended when I entered. Children stared before being hurried away. The castle accepted my presence. It did not welcome it. Lord Stark noticed. He noticed everything. He said very little. One afternoon I entered the hall as two men discussed supplies. One glanced toward me.
“A strange thing.”
“What is?”
“A dragon beneath a wolf’s roof.”
The other chuckled. I turned to leave. Before I reached the door, Lord Stark spoke. “She has a name.” The room fell silent, neither man answered. “She is Lady Stark.”
Nothing more. He returned to his work. The conversation ended there. He never mentioned it again. Neither did I. Yet something shifted. Not within them. Within me.
For the first time since the war ended… Someone had claimed me. Not as a princess. Not as a hostage. Not as a Green. Simply as his wife.
Winter arrived in earnest. Everyone assured me this was only the beginning. I almost feared asking what they considered a true winter. Snow swallowed the world. The godswood became silent beneath white branches. The nights stretched endlessly. Sometimes I missed the sound of gulls. Sometimes I missed nothing at all.
Grief is peculiar. Some mornings I woke convinced I heard my mother’s voice. Some nights I forgot it entirely. Those frightened me most.
I found purpose among ledgers. The steward looked exhausted. Stores needed counting. Letters required organizing. Accounts had fallen behind while every able hand prepared for war. I asked if I might help. He blinked.
“You know numbers?”
“I should hope so.”
Within days the work became routine. Inventories. Harvest records. Trade. Winter stores. No one praised me. They simply began bringing more work. I preferred that. Pity had become unbearable. Responsibility was lighter.
Lord Stark appeared one evening after supper. He glanced over the parchment covering the table.
“You’ve reorganized everything.”
“Was I not meant to?”
“No.”
I looked up. His expression remained unreadable.
“No one else thought to.”
That was the closest thing to praise I had received in months. I treasured it far more than I admitted.
Time passed strangely in Winterfell. Not quickly. Not slowly. Steadily. Like snow accumulating against stone. One morning he asked whether I slept well. Another day he inquired whether the library held enough books. Weeks later he asked if I wished more lemon seeds brought north in the spring. Each question was small. Forgettable. Together they became something larger. Care. Not spoken. Practiced.
I stopped flinching whenever footsteps approached my chambers. I stopped expecting messengers bearing another sentence. I stopped counting bells. Perhaps healing begins with the habits we quietly abandon.
The first time I laughed, it startled both of us. A stable boy proudly informed me he’d named an exceptionally stubborn goat after a southern lord because “it complains even when fed.” I laughed before I could stop myself. Lord Stark happened to be passing. He paused. The boy immediately paled.
“I—I meant no offense, my lord.”
Lord Stark looked between us. Then, after an impossibly long pause, the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Keep the goat out of my kitchens.”
The boy fled. I laughed harder. It was brief. But it was real. When I looked back at him, he was watching me with quiet surprise. As though he had forgotten I was capable of joy. Perhaps I had forgotten too.
Sometimes I still dreamed of dragons. Not flying. Falling. Always falling. I would wake before dawn convinced I smelled smoke. Instead there was only cold stone and distant wolves. It took time to realize I no longer feared opening my chamber door. There were no guards waiting.
No council. No sentence. Only another day. Another northern morning. Another chance to become someone other than the last daughter of a defeated house. I do not know when Winterfell ceased feeling like exile. Perhaps it never truly did. Perhaps exile simply became home. The songs would never sing of such things. They would remember the Hour of the Wolf. The executions. The judgments. The conqueror who came south.
They would not remember the frightened princess who believed marriage was merely another form of punishment. Nor would they remember the quiet lord who proved, not through grand declarations or impossible promises, but through countless ordinary kindnesses, that survival could become living. Some wounds never close. Some names are never forgotten. I still grieve. I always will. But when the bells ring now, I no longer count them. I simply listen.
Guys should I write for maze runner?? I have a few ideas that are stuck in my head.
ps. I apologize to the requests sitting in my inbox I will get to them I promise.
Edit:
I just read “the fire in the winter”. When I got to the last few paragraph “wonder of you” started playing and I started shedding some tears. This series will always be my favorite Cregan stark fic. Have a good night or day!
oh my god, this actually so sweet cause I was genuinely debating on how to end it on a sweet note or if i did the ending justice but good to know I was able to end it well and that it will be your all time favorite series!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ugh you all have gwayne’s character so wrong (imo). he is not going to try to stave off his desire for the reader (in whatever role you might have in his life but especially if the reader is a targaryen or daemon’s neglected bride etc) by going to street of silk and drowning it in the touch of another. the touch of a thousand whores could not undo the hold reader has on his heart. no, he is going to the sept. that man is pious (whether it be towards the gods or you, you choose). he is going to get on his hands and knees, sword laid across his lap, head hung in solemn devotion and pray that reader leave his thoughts, pray that the image of reader's soft supple curves and the sight of their beautiful lips parting in a smile at something he said would stop torturing him every time he closes his eyes. he would pray that this sickeningly sweet sense of devotion leave him, that the gods absolve him of it. when he leaves and lays his head to rest that night, however, he dreams of kissing reader, by some pond deep in the godswood, where lilies float on the surface of the pond, and the late afternoon sun drifts through the leaves, and when he wakes up suddenly, in the hour of the wolf, the ghost of an ‘i love you’ is imprinted on his lips and his hand is clutching the ring that hangs on the chain about his neck — his mother’s wedding ring, given to him upon her passing, to be exact. he can’t help but take it as a sign, a sign that his love is not something to abstain from, some sin to absolve himself of — nay, it’s his gods given duty. and so he finally gives in and claims the reader for himself and all the while he is gentle — his touch feather light as it drifts across their cheekbone, his lips soft as they find the reader's over and over in a sweet rhythm, his body practically radiating his joy at the proximity to their own, his tongue (when it isn’t vying for control over the readers mouth) sings sweet nothings and praise in hushed tones and reverent devotion. the only name on his lips is reader's. the only pleasure his heart finds is with reader's.
gwayne is not one to drown himself in pleasure, unless it is given by his gods given beauty, the reader
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
♖For the individual chapters cause the warning are getting too long.
Pairing: Cregan x Dornish/Martell Reader
Word Count: 5.1K +
Warnings: giving birth ,Emotional ig?
Author Note: I tried to end it on a sweet note and make it as wholesome as possible but this is the end!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Winterfell had become a battlefield long before any sword had been drawn.
The whispers had spread through every corridor, every servant’s stair, every training yard and kitchen. Men lowered their voices when I entered rooms. Women watched me from behind folded hands. Children repeated stories they did not understand.
The Dornish murderer.
The foreign spy.
The witch.
Every day a new name seemed to follow me. I tried to ignore them. I truly did. But even the strongest walls cracked eventually. And mine had begun to fracture.
The accusations regarding my first husband’s death had reached every corner of the North. Lords who had once greeted me warmly now watched me with uncertainty. Some still stood by me. Others remained silent.
Silence, I had learned, could be just as painful as betrayal. For nearly a fortnight after the emissary’s visit, Winterfell remained divided. Then Cregan called a gathering. Every major bannerman within Winterfell’s walls attended. The Great Hall overflowed.
I stood beside the high table, my hands trembling beneath my sleeves. The child growing within me had already begun to show. Not enough for strangers to notice.
Enough for me.
Enough for Cregan.
The hall quieted as he rose. The room immediately obeyed. There was something about Cregan Stark when he commanded a room. The North listened.
Always.
His grey eyes swept across the gathered lords. No smile. No warmth.
Only authority.
“I have allowed these rumors to continue for too long.”
His voice echoed across the hall. Instant silence followed. Every man watched him. Every woman listened. Even the servants paused. The hall felt frozen.
“The accusations against my wife end today.”
My breath caught.
Cregan continued.
“Lady Stark has governed Winterfell during my absence.”
Several lords shifted uncomfortably.
“She fed our people.” Another pause. “Protected our stores.” Another. “Supported our widows.” Another. “Strengthened our alliances.” Another. “Served this castle more faithfully than many born within the North.”
That last statement landed heavily. Several bannermen visibly stiffened.
One lord stepped forward.
“My lord—”
Cregan raised a hand.
The man immediately fell silent.
“I am not finished.”
The hall grew still again.
“My wife is not on trial.”
His gaze swept over the room.
“Nor will she ever be.”
A chill ran through me.
Not fear.
Relief.
Because for the first time since our marriage, Cregan wasn’t simply defending me privately. He wasn’t comforting me in our chambers. He wasn’t reassuring me beside a fire. He was choosing me.
Openly.
Before everyone, Including his own men.
“If any man has proof against Lady Stark,” he said, “he may present it now.”
Silence. No one moved. No one spoke. Because there was no proof. Only rumors. Only whispers. Only poison.
Cregan nodded slowly.
“Then we are finished.”
The matter should have ended there. But instead something remarkable happened. Lord Cerwyn stood. Then Lord Tallhart. Then Lord Manderly’s representative. One after another.
Men who had watched. Men who had doubted. Men who had waited. They stepped forward. Not for Cregan.
For me.
“Lady Stark saved our villages during winter.”
“She sent grain when we needed it.”
“She cared for our widows.”
“My daughter owes her life to the infirmary she funded.”
Voices filled the hall. Not all. But enough. The tide had begun to shift. For the first time, I felt tears threatening my eyes. Not because I was weak. Because I was exhausted. And finally…
Finally someone besides Cregan was speaking on my behalf. When the gathering ended, Cregan found me standing alone near the hall entrance. I couldn’t speak. Neither could he.
For a moment we simply looked at each other. Then he reached for my hand. And held it. Not hidden. Not private. Openly.
Where everyone could see. The hall fell silent once more. This time for a different reason. The moons passed. Winter slowly loosened its grip. And my child grew. Cregan became unbearable. Absolutely unbearable.
“You’re carrying firewood?”
“Cregan.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I carried firewood before I married you.”
“You’re carrying my child now.”
I rolled my eyes.
He ignored me and took the wood anyway. That became his solution to everything. If I lifted something, he carried it. If I walked somewhere alone, he appeared. If I missed a meal, he somehow knew. At first it annoyed me. Then it amused me. Eventually it became comforting. Because beneath all of it was fear. Not control.
Fear.
Fear of losing me. Fear of losing the child. Fear of happiness being taken away. One evening I found him sitting alone in our chambers. His hand rested on my stomach. The baby had just kicked. The expression on his face nearly broke my heart.
Wonder.
Pure wonder.
“Did you feel that?”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
“No, I mean really feel it.”
“Cregan, it’s inside me.”
He looked completely serious.
“I think it kicked harder this time.”
I laughed so hard I nearly cried.
The labor began during a storm. Of course it did. Nothing in Winterfell ever happened simply. The pain struck shortly after midnight. At first I ignored it. Then another came. And another. By dawn, the entire castle knew.
Hatice nearly crushed my hand. The maester barked orders. Women rushed around the room. Someone was praying. Someone else was crying. It may have been me. I wasn’t entirely sure.
Hours blurred together. Pain became time itself. The world narrowed to breathing. To surviving. To enduring.
Then— A cry. Small. Loud. Perfect. Everything stopped.
The room fell silent. For one impossible moment, all I heard was that cry.
My child.
My baby.
Tears immediately filled my eyes. The midwife smiled.
“A healthy son.”
A son.
The room erupted into celebration. I barely heard any of it. Because they were placing him in my arms. Tiny. Warm. Beautiful. I immediately loved him.
The feeling hit like a tidal wave. Overwhelming. Terrifying. Perfect. The door opened moments later. Cregan entered. The maester had tried to stop him. The midwives had tried to stop him. Apparently none of them had succeeded.
He looked terrified. More terrified than any battlefield had ever made him. Then he saw the child. Everything changed. He stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped speaking. I had never seen Cregan Stark speechless. Until that moment. Slowly he approached. His eyes never left the baby.
“He’s…” His voice broke.
The great Lord Stark actually lost his words.
I smiled weakly.
“Say something.”
Cregan laughed. Then cried. Actually cried. The sight shocked everyone. Including me. His hand gently touched the baby’s cheek.
“So small.”
I laughed softly.
“That’s usually how babies work.”
He ignored me completely. Still staring. Still overwhelmed. Still in love already. Hours later he remained seated beside us. Refusing to leave. Refusing food. Refusing sleep. Simply watching.
As if afraid we might disappear. The truth emerged three days later. It began with a servant. Then a guard. Then another witness. Small pieces.
Tiny inconsistencies. Enough to start questions. Questions became investigations. Investigations became answers. And answers eventually led to Alysanne.
Not to kidnapping. Not to murder. But to something almost as destructive. The rumors. The emissary. The accusations. The whispers. She had encouraged them. Fed them. Allowed them to spread.
Perhaps believing it would separate me from Cregan. Perhaps believing Winterfell would reject me. Perhaps believing she still had a chance. She had been wrong. Terribly wrong.
When confronted before the council, Alysanne stood proud. Defiant. Even then. But Cregan’s disappointment proved stronger than any anger. That was what finally broke her. Not rage. Not punishment. Disappointment.
“You betrayed this household,” he told her.
The words struck harder than any sentence. Alysanne never looked at me. Not once. Perhaps she couldn’t. Perhaps she wouldn’t.
When she departed Winterfell days later, few came to see her leave. The gates closed behind her. And with them closed an ugly chapter of our lives.
The weeks that followed felt different. Lighter. Not perfect. Never perfect. But different. The whispers faded. The suspicions weakened. People smiled more often. The servants relaxed.
The lords stopped watching me as though I were a puzzle. One afternoon, while carrying my son through the courtyard, an elderly woman stopped me.
One of the widows. Her hands were rough from work. Her smile gentle. She looked at the baby, then at me, and curtsied. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
“Our Lady of Winterfell.”
The words nearly brought tears to my eyes. Not because of the title, because of the sincerity. More people began using it afterward.
Not Lady Stark.
Not the Dornish Princess.
Not the foreign bride.
Their Lady of Winterfell.
As I stood in the courtyard holding my son, I looked across the snow-covered grounds. At the castle, at the people, at the life we had built, and for the first time since arriving in the North, I realized something.
I wasn’t merely living in Winterfell anymore. I belonged to it and perhaps, at long last— It belonged to me too.
The fire crackled softly between us.
Outside, winter winds scraped against the walls of Winterfell, carrying snow across the battlements and through the dark night beyond. Inside our chambers, however, the world felt smaller. Quieter.
Peaceful.
A rare thing in my life.
The children had finally gone to sleep.
Rickon had spent half the evening insisting he was old enough to stay awake with the adults. Our younger son had promptly fallen asleep halfway through dinner with a piece of bread still in his hand.
Cregan had laughed so hard he nearly spilled his ale.
Now both boys slept in their chambers, leaving the castle unusually silent.
I sat near the hearth wrapped in a fur blanket, staring into the flames.
Cregan occupied the chair opposite mine. For a while neither of us spoke. We rarely needed to anymore. The years had changed us.
When we first married, silence had been a weapon. Now it felt like companionship. The fire shifted. A log collapsed inward. Sparks rose toward the chimney.
And without meaning to, my thoughts drifted backward. To another life. Another marriage. Another version of myself. The smile slowly faded from my face.
Apparently Cregan noticed.
He always noticed.
“What is it?”
His voice broke the silence gently. I looked up. Nothing escaped his attention anymore. Not after all these years. I considered lying. I had become quite skilled at it. Instead, I sighed.
“I was thinking about him.”
The words hung between us. Cregan didn’t ask which him. He knew. His expression didn’t change. He simply leaned back in his chair and waited. Giving me room to speak. Or not. That was another thing the years had taught him. Patience. I stared into the flames again.
“When I first married him, I thought I loved him.”
The confession surprised even me. I hadn’t spoken those words aloud in years. Across the room, Cregan remained silent. Listening.
I continued.
“I truly believed I did.”
The memory felt distant now. Like watching someone else’s life.
“I was young.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “Stupid.”
“You were young,” Cregan corrected.
“Same thing.”
His mouth twitched slightly. That earned the smallest smile from me. Only for it to disappear again.
“For a while I was happy.”
The words felt strange. Because they were true. For a while I had been happy. Before disappointment. Before betrayal. Before bitterness. Before everything else.
“I thought we would build something together.”
The fire crackled.
“I defended him.”
I swallowed.
“I defended him when people warned me.”
My hands tightened around the blanket.
“I defended him when I should have listened.”
Across the room, Cregan remained motionless. Not interrupting. Not judging. Just listening. The old gods knew he wasn’t always good at talking. But he had become very good at listening.
“I loved him.”
The admission hurt. Not because I still loved him. Because I remembered how completely that love had died. Slowly. Painfully. Piece by piece. Until nothing remained. My gaze lowered.
“And then I hated him.”
The words escaped before I could stop them. The chamber grew quiet. The fire suddenly seemed very loud. Cregan didn’t flinch. Didn’t look shocked. Didn’t ask questions. Which somehow made the confession easier.
“He changed.” I stared into the flames. “Or maybe I finally saw who he really was.” Another pause. “I don’t know which is worse.”
For a long moment neither of us spoke. Then Cregan finally asked: “Did he hurt you?”
The question was simple. Yet difficult. I thought about it. About years of disappointment. About anger. About resentment. About loneliness.
“He never struck me.” The answer came honestly. “But there are other ways to hurt someone.”
Cregan’s jaw tightened. I noticed but said nothing and neither did he. Instead, he stared into the fire alongside me thinking. Understanding more than I was saying. Perhaps understanding exactly what I wasn’t saying. Eventually he spoke. “Sometimes people become strangers.”
His voice was quiet. I looked at him. He wasn’t speaking about my husband anymore. Not entirely. He was speaking about people. About loss. About disappointment. About grief. The things that shape lives.
“You marry one person,” he continued. “And years later you wake up beside someone else.”
I blinked. The statement sounded suspiciously personal. His eyes met mine briefly. Then returned to the fire. A silent acknowledgment. His own wounds. His own memories. His own ghosts. We both carried them. The difference was that neither of us pretended otherwise anymore.
“I wasn’t always a good man.”
The statement surprised me.
I laughed softly.
“You’re Lord Stark.”
“I know.”
“You remind everyone constantly.”
That earned a snort. For a moment the heaviness eased. Then Cregan leaned forward slightly.
“When I was younger, I thought strength meant never bending.” I listened. “Never forgiving.” His gaze remained fixed on the flames. “Never letting people see weakness.” The firelight danced across his face. “But all that does is make you lonely.”
My chest tightened unexpectedly. Because I knew exactly what he meant. Loneliness could exist even in crowded rooms. Even in marriages. Even in families. I had lived it. So had he. For a while neither of us spoke.
Then I quietly asked:
“And now?”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Now I let you insult me daily.”
I laughed, actually laughed, a real laugh. The kind that came from somewhere deep.
“You deserve it.”
“Usually.”
The answer made me laugh harder.
Across the room, Cregan looked strangely pleased with himself. As if making me laugh was some great accomplishment. Which, knowing him, it probably was. The fire continued burning. Hours passed unnoticed. Stories followed. Old memories. Embarrassing mistakes. Arguments long forgotten.
The sort of conversations only happen when years of trust exist between two people. At some point the topic shifted to the children. It always did.
“They’re impossible.”
I sighed dramatically.
Cregan looked offended.
“They’re perfect.”
“They nearly started a sword fight over a chicken.”
“It was an important chicken.”
I stared at him. He stared back. Completely serious. Then his expression cracked. I threw a cushion at him. He laughed. The sound filled the room. Warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Eventually we settled again. The conversation becoming softer. More reflective.
“Our eldest has your stubbornness.”
I groaned.
“That’s unfortunate.”
“He has your eyes too.”
The statement made me smile.
“And the younger one?”
Cregan considered.
Then shook his head.
“That one belongs to chaos.”
I laughed immediately because it was true. Painfully true. The younger child somehow possessed the worst and best traits from both sides of the family. Northern stubbornness. Dornish cleverness. A dangerous combination.
“They’re both strange.”
“They’re ours.”
That simple answer settled warmly inside my chest. Because it was true. Our children reflected both worlds. Northern and Dornish.
Wolf and sun.
Snow and sand.
And somehow they carried both without conflict. Something their parents still struggled to do. Sometimes our eldest prayed beneath the heart tree. Sometimes he listened to stories from Dorne. Sometimes he asked impossible questions about both. Neither world belonged to him entirely. Yet both did.
I often wondered if that would make his life easier. Or harder. Perhaps both. The fire burned lower. The castle settled deeper into sleep. Eventually silence returned. Not uncomfortable. Not empty. Just peaceful.
I studied Cregan across the room. The man I had once hated. The man who had once hated me. The man I had married out of duty. The man who had become my home. Not because we were perfect.
Far from it. We argued. Frequently. We annoyed each other. Constantly. We carried scars neither of us fully understood. And yet somehow…
It worked.
Not because we were destined. Not because songs would be written about us. But because every day we chose each other anyway. Despite the past. Despite the mistakes. Despite the darkness we both carried. Especially because of it. My gaze met his.
For a moment neither of us spoke. Then he raised his cup slightly. A small gesture simple but meaningful to us. I smiled. And raised mine in return. No grand declaration followed. No dramatic confession.
We had long passed the point where words were necessary. The truth sat comfortably between us already. What began as duty had become trust. Trust had become friendship. Friendship had become something deeper. Something stronger. Something neither of us had expected.
Love.
Strange.
Quiet.
Imperfect.
Real.
And somehow, that made it stronger than any fairy tale ever could. Winterfell looked different now. Not because the castle had changed. The ancient stone walls still stood against the cold. The towers still stretched toward gray skies. Snow still blanketed every rooftop and courtyard as it always had.
No.
The difference was me.
Years ago, when I had first arrived at Winterfell, everything had felt foreign.
The cold.
The people.
The customs.
The endless white landscape that seemed to stretch forever. I had been a stranger among wolves. Now, as I stood upon the balcony overlooking the courtyard below, Winterfell felt more like home than any place I had ever known.
The wind tugged gently at my cloak.
Beside me stood Cregan.
Older now.
A few silver strands had begun appearing among his dark hair. Lines marked the corners of his eyes. The years had changed him. Softened him in some places. Strengthened him in others. Not many people noticed the difference.
I did.
Because I had been there for every step of it. Below us, the courtyard echoed with laughter. Children’s laughter, Our children’s laughter. I smiled immediately. There were so many of them now. Far more than I had ever imagined.
Rickon was nearly grown.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Already beginning to resemble his father in ways that made me feel impossibly old. The younger boys were engaged in what appeared to be a snowball battle. A battle they were losing spectacularly.
Mostly because their sisters had somehow formed an alliance against them. I watched one of my daughters launch a snowball directly into her brother’s face. The poor boy stood frozen in shock. A second snowball struck him before he could recover. The girls erupted into victorious laughter.
“That’s not fair.”
Cregan sounded offended.
I raised an eyebrow.
“You only think that because the boys are losing.”
“They’re being ambushed.”
“They’re being outsmarted.”
A third snowball struck another son.
Cregan sighed heavily.
“A tragedy.”
I laughed.
The sound carried away on the wind. Below us, one of the children noticed. Tiny arms immediately began waving. The others followed. Soon the entire courtyard was shouting greetings toward the balcony. I waved back. Cregan lifted a hand.
The children cheered as though they had won some great victory. Then immediately returned to their war. The girls remained dominant.
As expected.
“Your daughters are terrifying.”
I smirked.
“Our daughters.”
“Unfortunately.”
That earned him a look. He pretended innocence. Badly. I had become quite skilled at recognizing when Lord Stark was attempting humor. The years had given me plenty of practice. The courtyard settled into comfortable chaos once more.
For a while we simply watched. Neither of us speaking. Neither needing to. The children ran through snowdrifts.
Built forts.
Started arguments.
Ended arguments.
Created new arguments.
All within the span of a few minutes. Exactly as children should. My gaze followed them. A strange warmth settled in my chest. There had been a time when I never thought I would have this.
A family.
A home.
Peace.
The simple happiness of watching children play.
Life had taken so many unexpected turns.
Some terrible.
Some wonderful.
Many both at once.
I felt Cregan shift beside me. When I glanced up, he was still watching the courtyard, still watching our children. His expression had grown thoughtful.
Quiet.
“What?”
He didn’t answer immediately. The wind moved through the courtyard below. Snow drifted from the rooftops. Eventually he spoke.
“I was wrong.”
I blinked.
That alone was shocking enough. Lord Cregan Stark voluntarily admitting he was wrong? The gods truly were working miracles.
I waited.
Curious.
His gaze remained fixed on the children.
“When I was younger…”
A pause.
“I never thought I could love a Dornishwoman.”
I froze.
The confession surprised me. Not because I didn’t know. I did. He had never hidden his hatred of Dorne. Not in those early years. Not after what had happened to his family. Not after the losses he carried. The wounds that had shaped him. Still… Hearing him say it aloud felt different. His jaw tightened slightly.
“I thought every story ended the same way.”
The words were quiet.
Honest.
“I thought I already knew who you were before I met you.”
A bitter smile touched his face.
“I thought I knew what kind of person a Dornish princess would be.”
I leaned against the balcony railing.
Watching him.
Listening.
The man who once barely tolerated me. The man who had spent months glaring at me across tables. The man who had expected the worst. His eyes finally met mine.
“I was wrong.”
The statement carried years behind it.
Years of growth. Years of mistakes. Years of understanding. A thousand conversations. A thousand arguments. A thousand choices. All leading here.
I smiled softly.
“You were.”
His eyes narrowed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That look.”
I laughed.
“What look?”
“The one you get whenever you’re right.”
I laughed harder.
Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“To be fair,” I said, “I usually am.”
The offended sound he made was deeply satisfying. Below us, one of the children fell into a snowbank. Several others immediately followed. Apparently on purpose. Chaos. Pure chaos.
“Look what you’ve done.”
Cregan gestured toward the courtyard.
“My children inherited your troublemaking.”
I stared at him.
“Your children?”
He immediately regretted his choice of words.
I could see it.
Which made it even better.
“Our children,” he corrected.
“Too late.”
“Our children.”
“Too late.”
His sigh echoed dramatically.
I smiled victoriously. The silence that followed felt comfortable.
Easy.
Years ago, moments like this would have been impossible. Now they happened almost daily. The realization made me strangely emotional. Perhaps age was making me sentimental.
Gods.
That was a horrifying thought. I glanced toward Cregan. He was still watching the children. Still smiling faintly. A rare sight. Most people saw Lord Stark.
Lord of Winterfell.
Warden of the North.
The Wolf of Winterfell.
They saw power.
Duty.
Responsibility.
They didn’t see this version.
The father.
The husband.
The man who secretly allowed his daughters to cheat during games because he found it amusing. The man who pretended to hate being interrupted during work even though he immediately stopped everything whenever the children appeared. The man who laughed more now than he ever had before.
A man I had almost never gotten the chance to know. My chest tightened unexpectedly. Not with sadness. With gratitude. The years had not been easy. We had survived scandals. Political disputes.
Loss.
Fear.
Secrets.
More arguments than I could count. Yet somehow we had survived all of it. Together. I leaned slightly against his shoulder. A habit I would have found ridiculous years ago. He didn’t move away. Another habit. The wind howled beyond the walls. Winter stretching endlessly across the North.
Cold.
Harsh.
Unforgiving.
And yet… Warmth remained. Not despite the winter. Within it. Cregan glanced down at me. A faint smile appearing.
“What are you thinking?”
I considered the question.
Then grinned.
“That you were very lucky.”
His expression immediately became suspicious.
“Dangerous start.”
“I mean it.”
“Do you?”
“Absolutely.”
I nodded seriously.
“You married me.”
His groan echoed across the balcony.
I laughed.
Loudly.
“You walked into that one.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
He shook his head.
“The years have made you impossible.”
“The years have made me experienced.”
“Dangerous.”
“Beautiful.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Arrogant.”
“Beloved.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
I knew I was winning.
“Insufferable.”
“Yet here you are.”
His smile finally broke free.
Real.
Open.
Unhidden.
Not the restrained smiles of council meetings. Not the polite smiles given to bannermen. A genuine laugh escaped him.
Deep.
Warm.
Honest.
For a moment I simply stared. Because years ago I never would have imagined hearing that sound. Not from him. Not because of me. Yet here we were. The wind carried the laughter across the courtyard. One of the children looked up. Immediately suspicious.
“Father laughed!”
The announcement spread like wildfire. Several children stopped playing. Apparently this was a noteworthy event. I buried my face in my hands. Cregan looked horrified.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
“My fault?”
“Obviously.”
The children were already running toward the keep. Intent on investigating. Disaster approached. Quickly.
“We should leave.”
“Agreed.”
Neither of us moved. Because it was too late. The stampede had begun. We could hear it already. Boots against stone. Excited voices. Questions. Accusations. Demands. The normal sounds of parenthood.
I sighed dramatically.
“Our peaceful moment lasted almost ten minutes.”
“A new record.”
“Truly.”
We exchanged a look. Then laughed again. Together.
Below us, Winterfell stretched beneath falling snow. Ancient walls. Ancient traditions. Ancient history. Yet life continued. Children grew. Families changed.
New stories replaced old ones. The North endured. As it always would. The first child burst onto the balcony moments later. Followed by another. And another. And another.
Chaos arrived with impressive efficiency. I felt small arms wrap around my waist. Someone else collided with Cregan. Questions erupted immediately. Complaints followed. A detailed explanation involving stolen snowballs began.
Apparently very important. I caught Cregan’s eye across the crowd of children. Neither of us said anything. We didn’t need to. The answer existed all around us. In the laughter. In the noise. In the family we had built together.
Years ago we had been enemies. Strangers bound by duty. A wolf and a flame forced into the same story. Neither believing the other belonged. Now, standing amid our children while winter surrounded us, that old hatred felt like something from another lifetime.
The snow continued falling. The children continued laughing. The future stretched ahead. Uncertain. As all futures are. But for once, that uncertainty didn’t frighten me. Because whatever came next… We would face it together.
And as the sun dipped behind the snowy horizon, casting gold across Winterfell’s ancient stones, I looked at the life we had built and finally understood something. Fire did not always destroy.
discoholicmusic
areudirty
jacobvanloon
