This Barbie Is Godzilla

You had tried to convince Wilhem not to rebel, no matter his grievances against Cregan Stark. House Stark, you had implored, is too powerful with too much of the North fiercely loyal to it, as was demonstrated by the amount of men who stood behind the Stark banners, bearing the head of a snarling direwolf. And you tried to remind Wilhem of the love he and Cregan shared as brothers in arms for so long. Wilhem had shrugged you off, and you’re sure now that he had been betrayed by his own men, but you suppose that will be confirmed soon enough. You know that the two uneven sides understood that a battle would have been over quickly, and so your brother and five other men were rounded up and thrown at Lord Stark’s feet. Those five men were ordered to take the black and would be sent to the Wall, but your brother was beheaded with Cregan’s Valyrian steel blade, Ice. You’re sure that Cregan knew what you did too: that the rebellion was Wilhem’s idea, and his alone. 

And now here you stand, the last Bolton in the North, your family destroyed, and the honor of your house deeply tarnished. You watch melting snow drip down the window pane, and you feel nothing other than exhaustion and emptiness, for not even the death of your foolish brother seems to bring you to tears. Because of Wilhem’s recklessness, your life is now in the hands of a man you’ve known and cared for all of your life, but have no clue of his intentions for you now: to be killed, tortured for more information, to be sold off, who knows. You’re nothing more than a prisoner in your own home, to be easily discarded or made a pawn for some other use. You swallow thickly, and your eyes focus once more on the gash of red, willing even just one tear to fall and slip down your cheek – like the melting snow on the window – for the state of your misfortunes.

But before you can even manage to blink, you hear a key rattle in the door, unlocking it. You don’t bother to turn around. You know who has come.

“Lord Cregan Stark for you, my lady,” Jonas says quietly – an elderly servant who has served your family for your entire life. You don’t acknowledge his announcement, nor turn to face Cregan. You simply stare at the crimson snow, and the rushing river beyond it.

Your quiet is further disturbed by the sound of heavy footsteps carrying Cregan further into the room, no doubt weighed down by his leather-coated armor. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and you wait to hear your sentence. 

He clears his throat, likely hoping you’ll turn to face him and make this easier for him. You will not.

“I’m sorry to be here under such circumstances, my lady,” he says softly, his deep voice cutting through the silence of the room. Such formality carried by his familiar voice twists in you like a knife. He’s never been this guarded with you. “It’s my understanding that you had nothing to do with this.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, still keeping your back to him. So this is how it’s going to be then? “I’m your prisoner, my lord. What does that matter?”

He’s silent for a moment. He must be choosing his next words with care, you think with rancor, as a man of his ilk ought to. If he wishes to be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North with you, and not the man you’ve always known, so be it.

“It matters a great deal to me that you were not a part of your brother’s rebellion,” he states gently, and you can hear him shift his weight, leaning from one foot to the other, his armor creaking as he does. He and Wilhem had been so close, assuming their lordships at the same time. But none of that matters any more. “And you’re not my prisoner.”

Your jaw clenches sharply, and you finally spin around. “Then what am I?” You snarl. He visibly recoils from your sudden harshness, strands of his brown tresses sweeping along his cheeks as he jerks his head back, but then he quickly tries to smooth his expression. You feel your insides twist even more with anger, and perhaps a hint of grief, to see his fur cloak and armor still faintly splattered with red. He must have hastily wiped away Wilhem’s blood before coming to your chambers, but he did a poor job of it.

“That’s up to you,” he replies calmly, steeling his expression and folding his hands over the pommel of the secondary sword at his hip. Despite Cregan’s towering height, the longsword that killed your brother is strung across his back, too long to carry at his waist.

You clasp your hands at your front, wringing them together in irritation. “Up to me?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steadier this time. 

Cregan nods, his familiar gray eyes – two storms swirling around pools of black – never leaving yours. “You’re a noblewoman, and one who has done nothing wrong. I wouldn’t judge a sister by the sins of her brother,” he explains, taking a hesitant step closer to you. You automatically tense up and shrink back, pressing against the window. He watches you do this, his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, but doesn’t make an attempt to move any closer. “And so I offer you a choice: work with me to repair the reputation of House Bolton and bring peace to our realm, or leave the North and all of this all behind forever.”

You breathe hard, and cross your arms at your front, as you take in his words. But you want clarification. You want him to say what he means. “Work with you? What does that mean?”

He swallows thickly and tilts his head to the side as his eyes search your face. “I’m offering you my hand in marriage so that we might heal the North together,” he says quietly. He glances at his feet then, almost as if he’s nervous. It’s then that you remember that he’s only four and twenty, just three years older than you – his youth and inexperience are showing; his ignorance to what he’s just done to you. And it infuriates you.

“Marry you?” You ask, your tone thick with incredulity. You take your own step closer to him now, having regained a shred of confidence through your anger. “I just watched you behead my brother from this window, my house and family are destroyed, and you think, my lord, that I would want to marry you?”

His eyes find yours once more and you watch his lips part slowly, for he appears even more unsure of himself now, but he also finds his nerve to speak again. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, just like I can’t undo what Wilhem tried to do to me and the North. But I can ask for your forgiveness, and the chance to prove–”

“I want to leave,” you cut him off sharply, taking another step towards him. “I want to leave, and I hope to never see your face again.” In contrast to your lack of emotions earlier, your voice breaks on the last bit.

You can tell your words sting him, for though he’s a lord seasoned in masking his emotions and nerves, you know it’s not always an easy thing to do. His shoulders sag a bit, now doubt under the weight of his armor and his decisions. His jaw clenches again and he swallows slowly, his gaze holding yours. A tense moment passes between you before he speaks again.

“I shall have four of my guards escort you south to White Harbor at first light, and I will send you with coin to board a ship. To where is up to you,” he explains quietly, his thumb rubbing over the pommel of his sword, clearly for something to do in his moment of discomfort. “I wish you good fortune, my lady.” He inclines his head before looking up to meet your eyes once more. You can see what looks like sadness in them – undoubtedly from what he’s had to face and do today.  Though you’ve known him a long time, he appears like a stranger before you now, and his plight can’t get through your own rage and grief. You feel no pity for him. Your life is the one that’s destroyed, not his. You lift your chin in defiance.

His sadness seems to intensify as he takes one last sweeping look over you, and then turns to leave, rolling his broad shoulders a bit under his thick armor, and exits the room without another word.

The icy wind whips fiercely, biting your cheeks more harshly than you’ve ever felt as a daughter of the North. You and your escorts of House Stark are caught in a violent winter storm – one you had sensed was coming from the change in the air pressure last night, but had ignored due to your overwhelming desire to leave the Dreadfort. You didn’t care what you faced, so long as you could put all of this behind you.

But the head guard stops his horse abruptly, interrupting your thoughts and making your own mount nearly bump into his before it halts too. He turns to look at you.

“My lady, we must turn back,” he shouts over the wind.

“We can’t go back to the Dreadfort,” you yell back, panic rising in your chest. You can’t go back. You absolutely can’t.

“We’ll go to Winterfell,” he explains, raising an arm to shield his face from some of the wind and snow. “Our orders were to bring you safely to White Harbor, or to Winterfell if we can’t do that. We have no other choice, my lady. This storm is coming from the South. We can’t continue on.”

Your stomach drops and you can feel your heart ice over even more. Going to Winterfell seems worse than returning to the Dreadfort, but you know you really have no choice now. These men are loyal to Cregan, and they will heed his commands only, not yours. 

You nod your head, the battle lost, and you turn your horse to follow the guards. Even through the swirling, blinding snow, you know they’re leading you up the Sheepshead Hills, then down towards a stone bridge that crosses the White Knife, and into the territory of Winterfell and House Stark. 

Despite your heavy cloak, your limbs are frozen as they cling to your horse. You’re hungry too, and exhausted, having slept very little the night before. Sleep evaded you as your mind was plagued with a sense of guilt for abandoning the North and the chance to redeem your house, which has stood faithfully with House Stark for generations. But how could you ever sleep at night knowing you’ve given yourself to the man who executed your brother and left House Bolton without a lord or heir? What would your parents have thought? Your grandparents? And on, and on, back in your family line? Would they see you as a traitor to your own kin, unworthy of the Bolton name? The thought makes your empty stomach churn painfully as you steer your horse over the rocky terrain of the hills, desperate now for some reprieve of the wind the downslope might offer. Your hope is all for naught, for the storm whips fiercely on the western side of the hills too. But the White Knife is now in sight, as well as the bridge you’re meant to cross. 

Eventually, you and the four guards make it to the bridge, the horses treading cautiously. The water rushes swiftly beneath the stone, for the current is strong here as the river narrows before its two branches collide further south. 

Safely over the water, you urge your horse on and follow the men along a path to Winterfell. You try to quiet your mind and fight back the tears that threaten to leak from your eyes. They’ll only freeze on your raw cheeks.

After what seems like an eternity, the castle comes into view – sprawling and made out of gray granite stone, as formidable as you remember. But the only thing welcome about the sight before you is the thought of sitting by a warm fire to thaw out your weary bones. You resign that you must wait out the storm, but you will bid the men to take you south once more to White Harbor as soon as possible, for you’re determined not to stay at Winterfell a moment longer than necessary.

Upon approaching the East Gate, you find your sense of dread snaking even tighter around your throat, for servants hurrying around the courtyard slow their steps and then stop to stare as you enter Winterfell, surrounded by four guards. You know they know who you are.

You try not to look at them, and slowly dismount your horse, your frozen toes prickling painfully as you land on the ground.

“Lady Bolton,” calls a weathered voice. You look up and see an old man approaching, a heavy set of chains bumping against his torso. Oryn, the maester of House Stark. “Welcome back to Winterfell, my lady.”

You don’t respond, for your teeth are chattering violently from the cold, though some of the wind is blocked by the high stone walls of the castle. You simply look at the old man, letting him decide your fate. 

He seems to understand. “If you’ll follow me, my lady.”

You wrap your cloak tighter around your body, and follow him down a stone path and then through a passageway of the castle, before coming out of the other side. You have been to Winterfell many times, and you know the way to the Guest House well, but follow the old many anyway. Despite having always found your accommodations at this castle to be welcoming and comfortable, you’re sure you won’t feel the same on this occasion.

Grateful to finally be out of the wind, you follow the maester up a set of stairs and into a spacious guestroom. A fire is already burning in the hearth, as if he knew you were coming. He slowly stoops down to set another log on the grate, as if giving you a moment to collect yourself too.

He finally straightens up, his chains rattling as he moves. “If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here, please call upon me, my lady. I will have food brought to your rooms and a maid will draw you a bath.”

You nod your head again and then find the nerve to meet his eye. “Is he here?” You hate how your voice quivers, but you’re still chilled to the bone, and upset to be in this castle.

The maester gives you a sad smile. “No, my lady. Lord Stark has traveled to the Wall,” he explains gently, and you understand what he’s trying to tell you. That Cregan has accompanied the men that are traitors, like your brother, to the Wall to see their sentences through. “He shall return within the week.”

You nod again, worrying your teeth over your lower lip, and look down at your chest to unbuckle your cloak with stiff fingers.

“I will leave you now. Please know that, by the orders of Lord Stark, you’re welcome here, my lady. No one will treat you as anything other than an honored guest.” The maester takes a step towards the door.

“Did he really say that?” You ask quietly. The old man pauses his wrinkled hand on the doorknob before his green eyes find yours again. 

“He did,” he replies with a nod. “I expect that he had a hunch that you would find yourself here.” He gives you another sad smile, and then turns once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts and despair.

The days turn from one to the next at Winterfell, each much the same as the last. The storm subsided the night before, but left snow in thick, windswept banks, which only get deeper the further south one travels. You know it would be foolish to try to go to White Harbor now, meaning you’ll have to wait an indefinite amount of time before leaving. You take a steadying breath as you look around the library, neat shelves of leather-bound books tucked snugly against the curved stone walls. You’ve learned that it’s a place you’re unlikely to be disturbed, for it seems that you and Maester Oryn are the only ones who seek out books at Winterfell. You find you really don’t have an interest in reading any of them too closely today, but it’s a small comfort to change your scenery from the guest chambers you’ve been staying in. You absentmindedly flip to the next page of the book in your lap – one you’ve been reading for a few days now – letting your thoughts wander instead to where you might head once you depart White Harbor. Volantis, perhaps? Or Lys? You might be able to find work as a healer or midwife, for you’ve always favored the art of medicine.

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the oak door on the far side of the room opens gently, and you expect to see Maester Oryn walk through, his heavy chains clinking with his stiff movements. 

He does not.

Instead, it’s the one person you were hoping not to see while you’re here. The person you told you hoped you’d never lay eyes on again. 

He’s wearing a different cloak now than the last time you saw him, gray fur sweeping over his broad shoulders. He looks weary from the road, half of his brown, shoulder-length hair pulled back loosely, with strands having come free to frame his face. His cheeks are red too, as if he got off his horse and came in from the cold, straight here. Perhaps he did.

You eye him from where you sit, feeling sheepish. You’ve no idea what to say to him, having spoken so harshly to him the last time he stood before you. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you remain bitter with him, and with your situation.

He clears his throat gently. “Maester Oryn said I’d find you up here. I wanted to see that you’re alright,” he explains, his voice carrying softly through the stillness of the library. “That you have everything you need while you’re here.”

“I do,” you say, just as quietly. “Thank you,” you add as well before you can stop yourself, for years of learned-politeness for a noblewoman don’t fade overnight.

He nods, and looks at the ground for a moment, and then back up at you, as if he’s trying to decide something. He takes a deep breath.

“I also came to say that I made a grievous error the last time we spoke,” he states, a little more loudly, as if he wants to make sure that both of you hear his words. “You’re your father’s trueborn daughter, and nothing but tradition says a woman can’t rule in her own right in the North. Should you wish, I would name you the Lady of the Dreadfort and of House Bolton, and escort you back across the Sheepshead Hills as soon as the roads are passable.”

You breathe slowly, taking in his words and offer, and simply look at him for a moment. For years, you’ve stolen lingering glances at his face, which turned from the softness of youth to the hardness of manhood. It’s odd for you, now, to look at him and have his full attention. As you stare, his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, likely unsure with how to proceed. Waiting for your reply. He’s never been shy with you, but perhaps he thinks he might have offended you once again. Perhaps the two of you don’t really know each other anymore.

“Have you ever read this book?” You ask softly, looking down at the open pages in your lap, and then back up at him.

His expression shifts from one of discomfort to one of confusion by your change in subject, and lack of acknowledgment of his revised offer. He shifts on his feet. 

“Which book is it?” He asks, clasping his hands together at his front. He’s always done that when he’s trying to keep his composure.

“The Great Northern Houses by Maester Elwic Bryson,” you state, gently shutting the book and showing him the cover.

He nods slowly. “I have.” You can see questions in his eyes now.

“I didn’t know that House Bolton had rebelled against House Stark so many times in the past,” you explain, your fingers curling gently against the book’s worn leather binding.

A faint sadness comes back to his expression – the one you saw briefly the last time. “Aye.”

You nod slowly. “And each time, the Stark’s forgave the Bolton’s.”

He nods, taking a deep breath as he does. “We have.”

You suck in a shaky inhale too. “Why?” 

He takes a hesitant step closer to you, his eyes holding yours. “Because stability and peace among the northern houses means more than the pride of one king, or one lord.” His words are careful, but they acknowledge how far back your family’s treason stretches – back to the days when the Starks ruled as Kings in the North.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, and look down at the book, feeling the emotions you’ve tamped down suddenly bubble up to the surface.

“I won’t force my presence on you any further, my lady, as you made your preferences clear the last time we spoke. But should you need anything, or if you would like to discuss my offer, please don’t hesitate to call upon me,” he says quietly, and you can hear the faint pain in his voice. My lady, again, not your name. You’ve truly hurt him, you think, as he’s hurt you. He turns to leave.

“Cregan,” you call softly, your chest rattling as you try to hold back the tears that threaten to flow.

He turns in the doorway, and seems to find the courage to meet your gaze once more.

So do you. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a moment, a faint softness falling across his features. He dips his head in acknowledgement and then vanishes through the doorway, the deafening silence left behind him echoing around the library.

You stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dance around the blistering wood. 

“Cassandra,” you murmur, getting the attention of the lady’s maid that has been assigned to you. You’ve found that she’s a kind woman, and just a few years younger than you.

“My lady?” She asks, finishing folding one of your shifts and placing it in the wardrobe on the other side of your chambers, before walking over to where you sit by the hearth.

You take a steading breath. “Will Lord Stark be dining alone tonight?”

Cassandra pauses for a moment before answering. “Aye, he will.”

You nod, catching her eye. You force yourself to be confident. You’ll never get what you want if you aren’t. “Do you think he would prefer it that way?”

Cassandra smooths the folds of her dress before looking back up at you. “It’s hard to know the mind of Lord Stark, my lady, but I think he might welcome some company.”

You nod once more. “I think I’ll put my best dress on then,” you say quietly. She nods too, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and goes to retrieve a fur-lined dress from the wardrobe. It’s a deep blue, lined with simmering gray fur. She brings over a matching shawl too – made from the same gray fur – which will drape over your shoulders for warmth, and elegance.

You stand, and she helps you dress, lacing you up comfortably and smoothing the fur over your shoulders. Only the front strands of your long hair are pulled and tied behind your head, leaving the rest of your tresses to cascade down your back.

Cassandra finishes fussing with your hair and outfit, and then steps back to admire you with a gentle smile. “You look lovely, my lady.”

You feel the ice that has had a firm grip around your heart thaw just a little bit more from her kindness. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

She gives you a small curtsy, and then opens the door and ushers you through.

You steadily walk the long, winding corridors through Winterfell, past the armory and the Great Keep, to find your way to the Great Hall, grateful for your familiarity with these areas of the castle. It gives you some time to think about how you’d like to approach your thoughts with Cregan, and how to make him understand your perspective.

You take a deep breath as you approach the massive doors of the Great Hall. The guards nod to you in deference, and then one announces your presence. “Lady Bolton, my lord.”

As you enter the hall, your eyes land on the long dining table in the center, polished wood gleaming in the light of the flickering torches and the roaring hearth behind the lord’s chair at the head of the table. Your gaze comes to rest on him as he pauses the bite he was about to take, seemingly shocked for a moment that you’re here, in the Great Hall, standing before him. He lowers his fork before standing, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

“Are you alright, my lady?” You can hear the concern in his voice, and his eyes sweep over your body, as if searching for something wrong.

“My lord,” you greet him with a small curtsy. “Aye, I’m fine… I just wished to speak with you.” You’re pleased that your voice has remained steady despite your nerves. You’re just as unsure about standing before him as he’s clearly surprised that you’re suddenly in his Great Hall.

He nods, swallowing slowly. “Would you like to join me?” He asks quietly, gesturing a hand to the seat to his right.

“That would be welcome, thank you,” you reply softly, walking over to the seat, your dress swishing around your legs. A servant beats you to the chair though, tugging it out to assist you with sitting. You give the servant a polite smile, but he doesn’t catch it before he hurries away, likely to get another place setting for you, since Cregan was, as Cassandra predicted, dining alone.

Cregan settles back down into his chair, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You know you should speak first, and put him at ease. You’ve both done enough to make the other uncomfortable every time you’ve been in each other’s presence.

“I wished to discuss with you the offer you made to me earlier.” You fold your hands in your lap, and find the nerve to meet his gaze fully. There is a softness in his gray eyes, but the rest of his expression is unreadable as he takes in your words. It reminds you of your father. “Of your offer to support my role as the Lady of the Dreadfort.”

He nods once, but then his eyes flick to the servant returning with a place setting for you. The servant pours wine into your glass as well, and then disappears once more into the shadows.

“Please help yourself,” Cregan says, gesturing to platters in front of you, filled with steaming meat, vegetables, and bread.

You do, filling your plate, and then look up at him once more. 

“I take it you’d like to accept my offer, and become the Lady of the Dreadfort?” His tone is calm as he glances at you before resuming eating his own dinner. 

You take a bite yourself, savoring the comforting taste of roast duck. It’s a common dish in the North, one both of you have grown up eating. 

“I would not,” you say after finishing your bite, and reaching for your wine glass.

He takes a sip of ale, his brows tugging together. “Why not?” There is an edge to his voice, one you’ve rarely heard in the past.

You take another sip of your wine before answering. “Because I’m a woman, my lord. It’s unlikely that the men who were loyal to my house would respect me as their liege lord… Especially not after what happened,” you finish quietly, holding his gaze.

He inhales roughly as he processes your words, as if he’s bothered by them. “I would order them to respect you as they would any other lord. I promise you that.”

You shake your head. “As honorable as your intentions are, I don’t know if that would be enough. Northmen might forgive, but they never forget.”

He lets out a low laugh that has nothing to do with amusement. “You’d still like to leave then?”

“Aye,” you confirm, skewering a roasted potato with your fork. “But I would ask you for something else.”

He eyes you for a moment, the muscle in his jaw feathering, but then nods for you to continue.

“Should I marry, I would ask that one of my sons be granted the Dreadfort, its lands, and the title of Lord Bolton, when he comes of age.” You hope it came out more confident than you feel.

You watch Cregan slow in cutting his meat before he meets your gaze once more. “I will agree to your request, so long as you agree that he’s raised here, as my ward, to learn the ways of the North.” He takes a slow sip of his ale, watching you take in his words now.

You feel your blood begin to simmer as you stare at him. “You’d ask me to give up my son, from a young age, to be raised by you?” You try hard to keep your voice steady – to mask your rising anger – but you’re not sure you succeed. You remember that he too knows you well.

He lifts his chin a bit and shifts slightly in his chair, making the black wolf fur on his cloak ripple in the firelight – a not so subtle reminder of who he is. “You plan to leave the North, and I would need to guarantee that your son would be prepared to lead in the North. He won’t be able to do that from wherever you plan to go.” His tone is a little sharper now, though you can see he’s trying to keep his frustration in check, just like you.

But he’s better at it then you are. “You’re impossible,” you hiss, standing quickly, your chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.

He does the same, following you as you march from the hall. “What would you have me do?”

You don’t look at him as you hurry down the hall, not having any idea of where you’re heading to in this part of the castle, but wanting desperately to get away from him. “You would let me raise my son as I see fit because I’m a Bolton, and you’re not.” You seethe, attempting to length your strides, but his long legs allow him to keep pace with you.

You turn a corner, following a more narrow corridor, your breath coming hard.

“I’m the Warden of the North, and I could teach him the ways of all northern houses,” he grits out, trying to catch your eye as you refuse to look at him.

“You know nothing about being a Bolton–”

But before you can take one more step, he shoves open a door, grabs your wrist and tugs you through. What little strength you have is no match for his, and you find yourself being pulled into some kind of study. You can’t take it all in quick enough before he slams the door shut and backs you up against it, caging you in with his bulk. You look up at his face, both of you breathing hard. His nostrils flare as he stares down at you, his familiar gray eyes boring into yours. You’ve clearly struck a nerve with him.

But so has he with you. “You don’t know anything about being a Bolton, and I do. He should be raised by me,” you snap, tilting your chin up in defiance now. “Or do you wish to make me suffer more?”

“I’m trying to help you. Why must you refuse me at every turn?” He growls, baring his teeth as he leans in closer, like the wolves of his house.

But you won’t back down, snarling back at him. “You’re not trying to help me–”

“I am–”

But his words are cut off and replaced by the loud sound of your palm colliding with his cheek, ringing clearly through the quiet room. You breathe hard, watching his skin redden from where you’ve just slapped him. He breathes hard too, his exhales fanning across your own reddening cheeks. He looks furious.

Something twists inside you – hatred morphing into something different – as you hold his incensed gaze. He’s so warm against you from where he’s caged you in against the door, his body pressed up against yours. His scent fills the air around you too, and you breath him in with every shuddering breath that you take: pine, woodsmoke, and leather. 

“You don’t understand what it’s like–” you start, your voice wobbling with emotion.

“I don’t understand what it’s like to be ripped from my home because of another’s mistake?” He cuts you off harshly, leaning even closer to you; so close your noses could brush. You can hear the disbelief in his voice. As if you could forget how his uncle tried to thwart his inheritance and titles, seizing them for his own.

“And have you forgotten that mine own father fought beside you? And died so that you might rule these lands?” You demand, eyes frantically searching his face. How could he forget?

He exhales roughly. “I could never forget the sacrifice your father made for me and for this realm.”

“Then why are you torturing his only daughter like this?” You ask, your voice breaking. You feel the hot tears you’ve been trying so hard to hold back finally begin to slip.

You watch his face crumble a bit, and he tilts his head. “Because I don’t want you to leave,” he breathes.

Tears roll swiftly down your cheeks as you take in his words, momentarily stunned into silence.

“You’re your father’s daughter, and you belong in the North. You should raise your son in the North,” he continues, and you can hear the pain in his voice. Pain both of you have caused.

But you push your hands roughly against his chest, which surprises him enough to step back, allowing you to slip from his grasp and walk into the middle of the room, hugging your arms around yourself. You try to steady your breaths and blink your tears away.

You hear him slowly follow you, and then sit in a chair near the desk you’re now bracing your hands against.

“What does that mean, Cregan?” Your arms shake as your tears drip onto the wood surface.

You wait, but he’s silent behind you. It’s only until you turn to face him once more, that you see it in his expression – something you’ve forbidden yourself from ever hoping for, even after he voiced his original offer to you. At the time, you had assumed he was only offering what was right, not what he truly wanted.

“Do you really not know? After all this time?” His voice is ragged, his eyes flickering over your face with disbelief.

You shake your head, leaning your weight back against the desk. 

His head tilts to the side as he swallows painfully. “I love you. I’ve always loved you,” he breathes.

Your own breath catches in your throat.

“I had planned to offer you my hand, but my plans were cut short when Wilhem rebelled. It’s why I was able to get to the Dreadfort so quickly – I was preparing to go there anyway. To you.” His words come out shakily, making your body shake as well as you process his words. He was going to come to propose. He loves you.

Your lower lip trembles. “Cregan–”

“I should have told you. But you were so angry with me, with what happened. I didn’t think you’d believe me.” He leans back in his chair, looking up at you. You can truly see the weight now of everything he carries – all of the hard choices, all of the things he must keep to himself no matter how much it pains him.

You finally find your voice. “But you let me go – let me try leave the North, forever.”

His expression softens even more, his sadness rippling over his body in waves. “I thought you’d never forgive me, and I so I wouldn’t yolk you to me, no matter how much I love you. I wanted you to have a choice.”

You push off the table and cross the few steps separating you from where he sits, his eyes tracking your movements. His left knee brushes against your dress when you stop before him.

“And what about now?” You whisper, holding his gaze as your fingers curl into the velvet fabric of your dress to stop them from shaking.

He takes a shuddering breath before slowly lifting his own hands to lightly curl around the backs of your thighs. You feel the warmth of his massive hands through your clothes, his thumbs gently caressing you, before slowly tugging you forward so you straddle his thigh. Your dress bunches up against his leg, and despite your frustration with him, your body heats with the desire to have your dress, and his clothes, removed entirely.

You slowly settle on his thigh as his hands slide up the sides of your thighs and hips to lightly encircle your waist. Your own hands come up to rest against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat beneath your palm, matching the force of your own thumbing against your ribcage. His ragged breath fans across the exposed skin of your face, neck, and chest, making you shiver in his hold. 

“Your second child – boy or girl – would be named the ruler of the Dreadfort…” He takes a steading breath. “And your first would be the heir to Winterfell, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart leaps at his words, his honesty – what he’s always wanted is laid before you, and what he wants now is reflected with what you want. Your hands slip up the planes of his chest, bumping over the quilted fabric of his gambeson, and up the sides of his neck before framing his stubbled cheeks. He’s so warm beneath your palms, especially the cheek that you slapped mere minutes ago. Shame sweeps through you at how vicious you’ve been with him, at how you’ve assumed the worst of him. In your anger and grief, you’d forgotten about who he is, how deeply he cares, and how sometimes he’s forced to make impossible decisions.

You lean forward and press your lips gently against his. His lips are soft and plush despite the rough exterior of him as a hardened, rugged warrior. His lips move tentatively against yours at first, as if he still can’t believe you’re kissing him, but then his hands pull you closer, your core sliding against his thigh.

You gasp softly against his lips from the delicious friction of slipping against his sturdy leg, and he sighs against you too. You know deep in your bones that he understands how you feel. Years worth of desire, affection, and familiarity between the two of you comes rushing to the surface.

His tongue gently swipes against your bottom lip, as if he can’t help but taste you. You part for him with a sigh of your own as his tongue sweeps in to taste you fully, and you follow his lead.

Your fingers curl against his cheeks as you taste him, a shiver rushing up and down your spine. It’s better than you’ve ever imagined, ever dreamed. A sweetness like nothing you’ve ever experienced, an essence that is his alone. His hands sweep gently along the lines of your hips and back, clearly marveling at having you in his lap, in his arms. And you know he’s holding back as he licks into you and touches you.

You break the kiss. “I accept,” you breathe against his lips. “I want you. And I want our children to be raised here, to rule the North.”

A shudder rattles through his chest as he opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours. The warmth you have always known in him fills his features.

“I’ve always loved you too,” you add, your nose brushing gently against his.

A noise escapes his throat that sounds like a mix of relief and desire, and it shoots right through you, turning your core molten as affection swirls through your veins too. 

He crushes his lips to yours again, licking deeply and you do the same. No longer just to taste, but to savor.

His hands slip down your back to cup your ass, hauling you even closer to his chest. Your hands move too, sliding down to curl against his chest, fingers toying at the laces of his gambeson. You’re so close to him now that you feel the outline of him pressed against your thigh that is wedged between his legs. He lets out a soft groan as you roll your hips slowly, chasing the feeling of his muscular thigh rubbing against your core, and wanting him to feel a similar pleasure as your thigh brushes against his manhood.

His fingers dig deliciously into your ass, gripping you tighter as he helps guide your hips against him, both of you lost in the feeling. But you want more – you’ve always wanted everything from him.

You break the kiss once more but he chases your mouth, evidently not wanting to give you up for a single second.

“Will you touch me?” You breathe, shocked that you can even speak, let alone those words, for the need coursing through you has clouded your brain. Everything about him has flooded your senses – the way he smells, so like the lands that you love so much. The way he tastes, more delicious than anything you’ve ever sampled. The way he sounds, with ragged breaths and a rumbling desire in his chest that become the things you want to hear the most for the rest of your life. The way he feels against your body, warm and solid, making you feel hot all over. But you want to feel all of him. You always have.

His tongue traces the curve of your lower lip while his hands continue to move you on his thigh, your sensitive core starting to soak the layers of your dress.

When he speaks, his voice is more gravelly and deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “When I touch you – really touch you, you beautiful woman – I want you to be my wife… And I want you spread out, naked on our bed, so I can show you just how much I love you.” 

Your fingers dig into his chest, and a whimper escapes your lips, as you squeeze your thighs tighter around his own. You didn’t even know he knew words like that, and they wrap around your heart, starting to fill the cracks that have formed there, all while he sets fire coursing through your veins. You feel a frenzied desperation to let this fire burn out of control, for him to give you what you long for. To feel the depths of his desire too.

But you nod your head, knowing he’s right. Knowing that straddling his thigh like this, kissing him like you have been, letting your thoughts run wild, is well beyond the bounds of propriety. And once again, you’re reminded that he always strives to do what’s right, even when it’s hard. 

To your surprise though, he doesn’t stop moving your hips as he leans in to mold his lips against yours once more. In fact, one of his hands continues to rock you against him as the other slips around to trail down your thigh, gathering a fistful of your dress in his massive hand. He slowly tugs on the fabric, and you lift your hips just the slightest, instantly missing the contact, but allow him to gather the front of your dress against his hips. Then he settles you back against his thigh – the thin layer of your lace underwear now the only thing separating your dripping, sensitive core from his leather trousers and solid muscle beneath. 

As you roll your body against his, tilting your hips forward, the friction is maddening. You moan into his mouth as his tongue delves deeper, sweeping against the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth.

“Cregan,” you manage to whimper, the taut leather over his thigh becoming a slippery mess as you move and move. 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice thick with desire, as his hand snakes back around your hip to grip your ass. “Let go for me.”

You clench even tighter around his thigh, and around the emptiness in your core too. But even as you do, he tilts your hips forward even more so the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs brush against his. It sends pleasure coursing through your body, making you moan far too loudly. 

He doesn’t seem to care as a growl looses from his throat, vibrating against your lips, while he slides your hips up and down the length of his thigh, again and again. Faster, and faster, his trousers becoming truly soaked from your wetness, but he doesn’t seem phased by that either. All he seems concerned with is making you feel good, knowing exactly what to do in this moment – showing you, you realize, just a glimpse of how deep his love and desire runs for you.

The thought and the way his hands glide you over him is enough to send your peak crashing over you, washing you in bliss you’ve never felt before. You cry out against him, and he swallows your moans with a deep kiss. You shake against his sturdy frame, feeling his hands grip you even tighter as he continues to roll your hips, seemingly drawing out your pleasure for as long as he can. 

Your hands slide back up his chest to cup the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair as he finally stills your hips. You gasp against his lips and feel his warm breath fan over your cheeks, his chest heaving to catch his breath. He gently tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, making you whimper again. How is it that your desire still burns brightly in your body, and that you’re still so close to begging him for everything he can give you?

He tugs you flush against his chest, and you feel him hot and hard against your thigh wedged between his legs, trapped in what you imagine are now painfully tight trousers.

You open your mouth to beg, but he speaks before you do.

“Will you meet me in the Godswood in thirty minutes?”

You settle back against the furs draped over Cregan’s large bed – your bed now too – and watch as Cregan leans forward from where he stands at the foot of the bed to place kisses on your ankles.

It’s been a whirlwind of a day – waking up still angry with him, the conversation in the library and at dinner, the events in the study. You’ve now come to learn that it’s his private study, where he spends long hours answering correspondence and pouring over account books. It’s as if your feet knew exactly where to take you to have those intimate moments with him – to confess what you’ve both been keeping tucked away in your hearts for so long. And then the quiet ceremony in the Godswood, proceeded over by Maester Oryn and witnessed by some household staff, Cassandra included. She had tears in her eyes at the end of it. Cregan swore before all and the Old Gods to honor and cherish you, to protect you for all nights to come. You vowed the same, and you’ve never seen him smile brighter. Then he draped a frosted blue cloak decorated with direwolves over your shoulders, officially bringing you under his protection. He sealed that promise with a kiss, breaking away eventually and whispering “Lady Stark” against your lips.

He insisted on carrying you from the Godswood to his chambers, in the way that husbands do with their new brides, all while you laughed with a lightness you haven’t felt in ages and stole as many kisses as possible without distracting him from climbing the stairs. 

As he entered the chambers – now marital chambers for both of you – he sat you down gently in a chair by the roaring fire in the hearth and knelt before you, taking your hands in his. “I asked Maester Oryn to write to the lords of the North, inviting them to attend a banquet in a fortnight in honor of our marriage. I trust you with my life, and so they should too. I wish for them to bend the knee to you, and to vow to support our children too, when they someday lead from Winterfell and the Dreadfort,” he’d said softly, his eyes searching yours. “I know I can’t change the past, my love, but I can set us on the right path for the future. I want to heal the North, and you.”

Tears came forth, and spilled gently down your cheeks. You know now that he’s truly loved you for so long, and he means what he says. You felt what little ice that still clung to your heart melt away completely, knowing he will do everything in his power to mend what has been broken.

You took a deep breath, and held his hands tightly as you said, “I forgive you, Cregan. And I love you.”

Tears pricked at his eyes too, and he leaned down to kiss your hands in his, before standing once more and pulling you up into his chest. For a long while he simply held you against him, kissing your forehead with such tenderness that it made you ache. 

Your hands had slowly slid up his chest between you, your fingers pulling at the laces of his gambeson, this time not willing to stop. One of his strong, calloused hands had lifted to cup your cheek, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you. It was a slow, lingering kiss – nothing like the desperate, wild kisses from earlier. A shiver rushed down your spine as you realized he meant to savor every moment tonight with you, his wife. 

It was with the utmost care that he unlaced your dress, never breaking your kiss as he let it fall to the floor and pool at your feet. He did eventually part from you, only to kneel before you again to peel off your underwear, long socks, and remove your shoes, leaving you naked before him, still clad in his own clothing and cloak. He’d softly kissed your hips and belly before standing again. You felt your nerves start to get the better of you – though it’s him, losing your maidenhood is not something you expected to happen today.

He leaned down to kiss you softly. Clearly sensing your apprehension, he said, “We don’t have to tonight. It’s alright.”

You shook your head. “No, I want to. I want to, Cregan. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

He kissed your forehead again before he bent his knees and reached down to lift you into his arms, his forearms wrapped securely under your thighs. Your chest brushed against his clothing, the fur of his cloak caressing your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.  

“Let me show you,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he carried you to the bed.

And now you’re watching him remove his last layer of clothing, smiling softly at each other until he’s completely naked before you. Your eyes travel along the sharp angle of his jaw, down the column of his throat and across the broad planes of his chest, before following the light trail of hair leading down his stomach. Your eyes sweep over the v of his hips, before landing on the considerable length of him hanging between his sturdy thighs. Despite your nerves, your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. Your eyes flick back up to catch a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips to see you admire him like this. He moves to climb onto the bed, crawling over you and caging you in with his knees and hands as he slowly kisses his way up your body. Your shins and knees, your inner thighs and hips, your belly and the valley between your breasts. As he does so, you reach out tentatively to touch him, fingertips trailing over his warm skin and tracing the faint scars on his forearms and shoulders – the marks of a seasoned warrior. 

“I love feeling you touch me,” he whispers against your skin, the tip of his nose brushing along the curve of your breast.

“It feels nice when you touch me too,” you agree breathlessly. “I love the way you kiss me.”

His lips skim higher, brushing lightly over your nipple. “Do you?” He asks, and you can hear the playfulness in his tone. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his lips close over the taut peak and swirls his tongue, making you gasp and arch up into him. It’s as if a bolt of lightning shoots right through your body from where he’s touching you, striking straight in your core. You grip his forearms where his hands are braced on the bed, framing your ribs. He swirls his tongue again, and then sucks in earnest.

You writhe beneath him in pleasure, your hips lifting to meet his. It makes his cock rub against your hips and belly, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

He moans against the friction and the sound reverberates through your body, making you even more wet for him. 

“Does that feel good?” He murmurs, moving over to your other breast and repeating his movements.

“Cregan,” you breathe, squeezing your thighs together from the pleasure rushing through you. Your hands sweep up to tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck as his mouth works over you.

He hums in response, kissing, licking and sucking, until his mouth travels up your neck, his tongue laving over your thrumming pulse. He pauses to kiss the soft spot behind your ear before finding your lips again, your heart hammering in your chest.

You kiss him deeply, needing to taste every bit of him, as he lowers himself so his chest and hips cover yours. He still braces his weight on his forearms, so as not to crush you, but you can feel every muscle clench and ripple against you as writhe beneath him, lost in the feeling of being enveloped by him.

His own fingers card through your hair, and the way the pads of his fingers skim over your skin sends shivers down your spine. “Can I touch you?” He husks in between kisses.

The question makes your shivers turn into a moan, and you nod, lips still brushing against his. You feel him smile against you, and your own smile spreads to mirror his.

Before he makes his way down your body, he grabs a pillow and pulls it with him, setting it next to your hips. Then he kisses his way down, pausing again to flick his tongue over one of your nipples, before leaving a wet trail down your belly and hips. Carefully, he shifts your legs to kneel between them, and then lifts your hips to place the pillow beneath you, with very little effort. His strength is something to marvel at, and you know you’ll always see him differently after tonight. Muscles coiled with desire, ready at any moment to lift you and tug you to him, before lavishing you with pleasure and affection. Your husband. You still can’t believe it – it’s real, he’s real, in your arms.

His eyes meet yours as he settles back down on his stomach, his head so close to your core that you can feel his warm breath tickle your skin. His eyes are glossy, only slivers of gray can be seen now. It steals your breath to be looked at like this – to be gazed upon with such hunger by him.

Slowly turning his head to kiss your inner thigh, he lifts your legs to drape them over his shoulders, before settling down to touch you, as you know you’ve both wanted for so long.

He kisses around your core, as if he wants to make you just as hungry for his touch – as if you aren’t already starving. You feel him smile against your skin as you shift your hips, a small whimper escaping your lips, and then you feel your world shift entirely.

Nothing, nothing, could prepare you for the feeling of his tongue dragging up and down through the wetness of your folds, making you even more drenched for him. You let out a breathy moan, your hands finding his hair again, desperate for something to hold onto as he licks you open.

“You taste even better than I ever dreamed,” he groans against your core, making pleasure throb so deeply inside you, you’re sure the spot could never be reached by either of you. You gasp, your thighs squeezing around his head for a moment before letting go, not wishing to hurt him. 

In response, his eyes meet yours with a playful smile while he shifts up to swirl his tongue over your pearl, with wet, quick flicks. 

“Oh gods, Cregan,” you moan softly, trying not to be too loud. Your fingers tighten in his hair as you try to ground yourself, but you can’t help but grind your hips against his mouth too. The pleasure is like nothing you’ve ever experienced, filling every fiber of your being more and more with every swipe of his tongue.

“Let me hear you, my love,” he encourages you before sucking on your pearl, drawing a loud gasp from you. “That’s it, my beautiful wife,” he says, his voice dripping with desire and affection. “I love the sounds you make.” As he speaks, you feel one of his fingertips drag through your wetness, and then swirl around the entrance of your core. 

Suddenly you’ve never needed anything more than to feel him push inside you, fill you up. 

“Cregan, please,” you plead, pressing your hips down against his digit. He flicks his tongue over your pearl once more as he obliges you, sliding his finger in slowly. You clench around him, marveling at how big just one of his fingers feels inside you. You have no idea how his cock might fit inside you, but you’re desperate to try.

Slowly, sliding in just a bit more, and then sliding back to your entrance, he helps you adjust with each thrust in and out, all while his tongue continues to work over your pearl. It all feels so incredible, making you moan over and over again.

Finally, down to the last knuckle, he curls his finger inside you, brushing over a spot that you didn’t know existed.

You gasp, spine arching off the bed. He tilts his head to kiss your inner thighs while he continues to sweep his fingertip over that spot inside you, as if he wants you to feel just that pleasure alone. It’s overwhelming in the best way, but you whimper when you feel him draw his finger backwards, away from that pleasure, only to arch again off the bed when he presses in again, but with a second finger next to the first. The stretch is pleasure that borders pain, making you gasp.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” he praises you, kissing your hip. “Just breathe for me.”

You do that as he works his fingers inside of you, any pain subsiding almost immediately as he finds that bundle of nerves again, both fingers curling to brush against it. And as he does, his tongue resumes playing with your pearl, sending your pleasure coursing through your body in waves that quickly rise to peak.

You cry out his name as his fingers and tongue move to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible – just like he did earlier in his study. As if he wants nothing more than for you to feel this blissful, this weightless, forever. And when he does finally slow, finally stills, your fingers slide down to brush tenderly against his jaw while he rests his head against your thigh, gaze meeting yours.

“Gods, I want to make you come again and again, everyday, for the rest of my life,” he husks, and turns his head to kiss the center of your palm.

You let out a light laugh and feel him chuckle against your hand.

“I’d like that too,” you agree breathlessly. “Will you…will you teach me how to make you come?” You ask, a little nervously. You want to make him feel the same pleasure you’ve felt – want to be everything he needs and more.

He kisses your palm again before shifting his body, crawling up to kneel between your thighs before dropping down to his elbows once more. Your legs lift instinctively to frame his hips, the pillow still nestled beneath you, and you feel the heft of his cock, hard, hot, and leaking against the apex of your thighs, brushing against your sensitive peal.

“Aye,” he agrees softly, kissing you with such tenderness that you’re sure your heart might burst. “But if you’ve had enough for tonight, we can always continue tomorrow or whenever you feel ready.” He lifts his head to look down at you, and you can see the depths of his love in his eyes. He clearly doesn’t want to overwhelm you, knowing you have the rest of your lives to learn how to make each other’s bodies and hearts sing. How is it possible to love him even more?

Your hands find his cheeks again as your thighs slide slowly along his hips. “I want you,” you breathe, fingers brushing softly against his skin. “I need to feel you inside me. I want to make you feel so good too, Cregan.”

A shudder ripples through his body as he leans down to kiss you once more, soft and lingering. “I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back just a bit.

“I love you too,” you breathe, eyes searching his. He smiles down at you, content, but you can see the hunger and the passion filling his gaze again. And you want nothing more than to feel the full force of his desire.

As if he can read your mind, he leans his weight onto one arm, and snakes a hand between your bodies, his knuckles brushing over your heated skin. He holds your gaze as you feel him take himself in hand, and then press the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

“Just breathe, my love,” he says gently, noticing the hitch in your breath. You do, as he presses himself inside you, just an inch or so, making you gasp at the stretch around him. He stills his hips as he drags his hand back up, framing his forearms on either side of your shoulders. He gently cradles your head in his massive hands, mirroring how you’re holding his face.

Slowly, he moves his hips, pressing a bit more into you. You tilt your head back into the bed, gasping again and squeezing your eyes shut.

He breathes your name, and your eyes fly open again. “Keep your eyes on me,” he says, and you do, finding his eyes again, trusting him so completely. You find you couldn’t look away now even if you wanted to. “Just like that,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. He slides back out, nearly to your entrance, and then presses back in just a bit more, eyes locked with yours.

And so he sets a rhythm, pulling back and pressing back in just a bit more each time, giving you all the time you need to adjust, all while watching you carefully, his love and protection of you coming through with every thrust he takes. It fills your heart so deeply as he fills you so completely.

Finally, with the last thrust, he buries himself inside you, and you both share the same moan. “I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he gasps, nose brushing against yours.

“Yours,” you agree, “and you’re mine.” He nods in your hands that still hold his face, and then kisses you deeply before drawing his hips out and plunging back into you.

The rush of him against your inner walls sends pleasure cascading through your body, like water rushing over rapids, filling parts of you that you didn’t know existed.

He sets a delicious pace, your legs tightening around him as you clench around his length too.

“Fuck,” he moans, tilting his head to leave wet kisses on your neck, making you moan too. Your arms slip around his neck and your hands clutch at his shoulders, feeling his muscles ripple in time with his thrusts. Your lips brush against his shoulder too, your tongue slipping out to lick at the salty sweat on his skin. He kisses and kisses your neck, and you clench around him again – you can’t help it. He feels so amazing inside you, and his kisses leave you shivering with pleasure, every movement bringing another orgasm to wound tightly in your core.

And then he slows, panting against your neck and presses up to look down at you, amazement on his face. Before you can say anything, he rolls to his side, tugging you with him. He hitches your leg around his hip, stroking your leg in wonder, before curling his arm around your back, warm and strong. Your head nestles against his other bicep, and he kisses you deeply and thoroughly, his tongue swiping sensually against yours.

When he thrusts again, you gasp loudly and arch your back against his arm, for his cock not only reaches a depth you hadn’t thought possible – that place deep inside you that you thought neither of you could ever reach – his tip brushes against that same bundle of nerves his fingers had before.

Pleasure shoots through you like lightning as he does it again and again, making you a moaning mess in his arms, your peak so close. He seems to sense it; seems to note the way you’re fluttering around his length, when he says, “Come for me, beautiful.” He says it again, but this time with your name leaving his lips too. Hearing your name in that deep, gravely voice that you’ve only ever heard in your dreams, and his request, does it for you.

One more thrust has you crying out and clenching around him, your orgasm breaking over you in wave after wave – rolling thunder to match the lightning of pleasure striking through your veins. You find his mouth again for another searing kiss and you can feel his own orgasm before it happens, a tightened throb of him inside you as his muscles coil, and then release. 

He groans your name – something you want to hear everyday for the rest of your life – and buries himself deeper than he has yet, spilling and spilling hot ribbons inside you. You flutter around him, wanting to milk him for every drop, every bit of pleasure. He shudders in your arms, until finally he slows and stills.

He pants against your mouth, and pulls back just an inch to find your eyes. “You’re amazing,” he says, voice sounding wrecked. It makes your clench around him again, and he chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “Are you okay?”

You nod, a smile spreading across your cheeks as your hands slide down to caress his chest. “I’m perfect.” Your eyes search his. “I’ve never been more perfect.”

His hand brushes softly up and down your spine as he kisses your forehead tenderly.

“Was that okay for you?” You ask, praying that it was.

“Perfect,” he repeats your words. “You’re perfect.” 

You nuzzle into his chest, still amazed that you’re in his arms, that you’ve just made love, that you’re his wife and the Lady of Winterfell. The pain and grief you’ve felt for days now seems to be fading into a distant memory. You’re not completely healed, but you know you he will strive to make sure you are.

After a few moments of blissfully listening to each other breathe, hands travelling softly over the other’s body, he speaks. “I was thinking you could practice your healing skills here too. I know you’ve always favored medicine and helping people, and I’m sure Maester Oryn would be grateful for your knowledge and skills.”

You pull back just a fraction to look up into his eyes, seeing the hope and peace in them. You had no idea he noticed that detail about you – had no idea he’d want you to bring your passions here, to Winterfell, too.

“You remembered that?” You ask, your voice wobbling a bit from emotion.

“Of course,” he breathes, his warm hand splaying lovingly over your back. “I could never forget how brilliant and selfless you are. The North is better with you in it, my love.” He says it with such tenderness, such sincerity, you feel as if your heart is reaching out to touch his.

You close the tiny space between you, kissing him with a love you never dreamed would be possible, but now couldn’t imagine living without.

You lean back into the sturdy, warm body behind you while you gaze down at the twin babies sleeping peacefully in matching bassinets, a content smile on your face. Cregan’s arms are wrapped around you, hands lovingly splayed over your belly. He kisses your neck softly before you feel him turn his attention back to your children. You know his gaze is filled with love too.

Twin boys, who will be taught how to lead the North by both of their parents. Brothers, who you and Cregan will raise to never have cause to betray the other, and to always support one another and maintain peace throughout the North. The future Lord of Winterfell and Lord of the Dreadfort. 

The last fissure in your broken heart has finally sealed over, filled only now with a love that knows no bounds.

©still-jon-snow: This work is prohibited from copying or from being entered into AI software. Thank you.

lord karstark shakes your shoulders hard. "my lady!" he yells, face closer to yours. his breath smells like strong ale and the persimmon cakes that the ladies and lords had been enjoying during the hunt. it makes you feel nauseous, and that makes you feel elated because you're feeling something, smelling something. you're alive, not frozen, not drowned.

there's some more commotion as you try to force water from your lungs. you sit up enough to get on your elbow, lord karstark supporting your back with one hand. you don't pay any mind to what's happening behind you, diaphragm convulsing as you choke and gasp.

you question it when lord karstark's hands falter, desperate for some support and help. what if he gets up? what if he leaves you here to freeze and choke? why would he do that? you aren't thinking rationally.

the packed snow crunches behind you, at least three sets of feet approaching. you know his gait, you know his steps. you can recognize cregan even in a pack.

"up," you hear his stern voice. his hands replace lord karstark's, warm through his gloves. "sit up."

you do it, because he manhandles you into a sitting position, supporting your upper body and hitting your back with the heel of his hand. that helps, forcing water from your lungs. it hurts coming up, sharp and icy.

"good girl," cregan murmurs, cupping his free hand under your chin to mitigate much of the water you cough up from landing on your gown. not that it would matter, seeing as you are completely and entirely soaked.

you sag in his arms, chest so tight that your breath is wheezy, harder to get out, moreso with the violent chattering of your teeth. you hear cregan snap at some poor squire, "my horse! i said get my horse!" you would reprimand him in a normal circumstance, but in a normal circumstance cregan is the most level-headed man in the world and wouldn't snap at a squire. and in a normal circumstance you wouldn't be near drowned and halfway to frostbite.

cregan scoops you up then, shushing you softly when you gasp at the sudden movement. he adjusts you in his arms, bringing your head to rest against his shoulder.

"your clothes," you manage through chattering teeth.

"i don't care," he replies, not making you voice your distress over getting him wet. he knows, like he can read your mind. "they're clothes. i will change them."

there's some debate as his bannermen trail him: 'go back to the castle?' 'no, too far, she'll freeze.' 'surely she'll get pneumonia if she stays out here.' 'the castle has a maester, she should be there.' cregan doesn't pay it any attention, making his way to the camp with single-minded determination.

he loses the lords when he ducks into his tent.

cregan deposits you onto a thick fur, cupping your face between both gloved hands. he looks at you very seriously, searching for your focus behind the fog of freezing. "i will be gone for one moment. you stay right here; you have to stay awake. can you do that?" he strokes your cheekbone with his gloved thumb. "can you sit here just like this for one moment?"

he waits for you to nod to get up, frantically searching through his trunk. items are flung to the floor in his haste, discarded and forgotten; cregan doesn't do that, he's usually so tidy.

he returns as promised, a thick length of cloth in one hand and a clean wool-lined fur cloak in the other. he makes quick work of undressing you, so gentle to move cold-stiff limbs that you can't. your gowns are heavy with the water soaked into them, and each layer makes a sick thunk on the tent floor as they slough off.

he discards his golves then, cloak following. you're naked and freezing, cregan's skin so warm that his hands feel like brands against your biceps. "i know," he murmurs, voice mirroring your pain as you whine and writhe against the uncomfortable heat. "i know, sweetheart."

he drapes the fur over your shoulders, frantically unbuttoning his jerkin and untying his tunic to provide some sort of body heat. he lets you lean against him yourself, using the length of cloth to begin toweling you off. arms and torso first, legs second, because that requires you to shift. when he gets to your face he's unyieldingly gentle, patting the fabric against your skin to absorb the remaining dampness.

he guides your head to his chest with one hand, focusing his attention on the length of your hair. it's dripping, stiff in some parts from being wet and exposed to the cold air. he scrunches the bottom, soaking up most of the excess water, and ruffles the top of your hair with the towel until he's satisfied that your hair is dry enough to prevent any extra discomfort. it will be tangled, you'll be upset, but he'll sort it. he'll sit behind you in the bath and finger every knot until it's smooth again. he just wants to get to that bath without you freezing.

with his warm, warm hand, he cups your chin and guides your face up. "look at me," he says. "look at me, pet. look."

you do, focusing your eyes with some intention.

"good girl," he provides again. the casual observer wouldn't notice, but you can tell that his voice is edged with panic. "you warmer?" when you nod, a relieved little smile cracks on his face.

cregan sits then, cradling your cold body to his chest. you're frigid and shivering, and he is unyielding. he is glad that you are alive, above all else.

"what were you thinking?" cregan whispers. "on a frozen lake. you know better."

you do know better, and you confirm it with a nod. "the baker, the one who lives past the god's wood and brings us our bread — his son was so far out, in the middle of the lake."

he strokes your damp hair, looking down at your shaking form. "and you went to fetch him."

another nod; that makes him hold you closer. "brave girl," he coos lowly, alarming and uncharacteristic against his brooding disposition. "please, please, do not pull such an act again."

"i got him off the ice before it broke under me," you defend weakly.

he kisses your damp forehead, "i would expect no different."

for a long while you stay like that — bundled in his cloak, sitting in his lap, leeching his body heat. he rubs your arms under the fur, your shoulders and the back of your neck as he works up.

"i want to wait to ride back to winterfell until dawn breaks," he murmurs, grey eyes finding yours. "i'm afraid if we go now you will be subjected to more cold, and i will not see you catch your death." he sighs, leaning closer to pepper soft kisses to your features. "no more hunts-" your nose. "i hate them, i don't know why i agree to go," your right cheek, and the your jaw. "better that we stay in when it's cold," the same on the left, "you and i, warm by the fire, that sounds insurmountably better." he lands the final kiss to your mouth, soft and chaiste in a way that you wouldn't think anyone capable of.

"i love you," cregan whispers against your mouth. "i'll keep you warm."

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

you nod, turning to face him, coming almost nose to nose. “i’m having a very pleasant time,” you reply. “the cooks have outdone themselves, everything is spectacular.”

“aye,” he replies. “i think the entertainment suffices as well.” 

you look out into the hall, watching the dancing and singing, the musicians with their lutes and lyres. yes, the entertainment would suffice.

“do you wish to dance?” you ask, turning back to look at him.

cregan smiles, cocking his head to look at you. “why don’t you go?” he offers, voice gentle. “I’ll join you shortly.”

“you don’t want to come with me?” you ask. 

his heart aches at your little frown, the crease that appears between your brows. “i do want to join you,” he assures, thumb running up your nose bridge to smooth the furrow. “but i want to watch you for a while first.” his hand moves down, cupping your cheek. he strokes your cheekbone when you lean into his palm, fully aware of the power that he holds over you. “may i? hm?”

you nod, smiling up at him. “but you will come and dance with me soon?” you ask.

cregan nods, hooking a finger under your chin to guide your face to his. he presses his mouth to yours, a slow kiss, unashamed to express this affection in front of her bannermen. 

you give him a little wave as you make your way into the crowd of jolly dancers, immediately occupied by lord karstark. he’s a large man, intimidating to look upon, but a true gentle giant. cregan watches from the dias, ceramic goblet of ale in hand. 

you get through two songs, upbeat and fast-paced, lord karstark practiced in the steps. you’re both ended and nearly doubled over in laughter when the second song ends, lord karstark departs while you’re catching your breath to find his own lady-wife, and as you watch him leave, warm hands settle on your waist. 

“i’ve come for my dance, lady stark,” cregan murmurs against the shell of your ear.

you spin in his hold, arms coming quickly to wrap around his neck. the tempo slows, cello picking up as the room transitions to waltzing. “just in time,” you murmur, settling in the hold of his arms.

“you look lovely,” he tells you, voice soft. “have i told you that tonight?”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･