~ Save the Dragons, ride a Targaryen ~

Recently at the head of your house since the passing of your uncle without any issue, you were among the few women at this table, but no less respected or feared. While Cregan had met you on several occasions throughout your youth, he knew little more than your name and your reputation for being skilled with the sword and the ax. 

“War will soon be at our doorstep, Lord Karstark, whether or not the young prince flies to us,” you admonished. “Do you think the North would be spared from the fire of dragons if the usurper flew to us, or Gods forbid, won this war?”

“It is a Targaryen matter—” the old man tried to defend once more.

“It may be a Targaryen matter, but House Stark swore an oath,” you reminded them, and all fell silent at the mention of Rickon Stark bending the knee. “Would you have us betray it?”

“Would you have our men fighting south while our women and children suffer the winter alone?” Lord Glover inquired, setting his empty cup down sharply.

“Well, our women can fight as well, can’t they?” the young Manderly suggested, which seemed to please you, and you gave him a friendly pat to the shoulder.

“It is a matter of honor, lads,” Lord Umber finally joined the debate. “We northerners never forget an oath, and as Lady Cerwyn said, will we allow a usurper to take the throne and govern us?”

At that Cregan finally rose as well, followed a second later by Prince Jacaerys, whose gaze was fleeting from him to you. The Warden gave you a slow, grateful nod, which you answered with pride. “In the end, if Lord Cregan judges it necessary that we march south, then we shall,” you said decidedly, as though you were speaking for all. “We will follow you, my Lord.”

“We shall march south, then,” Cregan addressed his men. “Gather your warriors and your banners, and we shall meet at the Crossing in two moons time.”

Hayford castle was small and devastated, not nearly large enough to host their wounded nor offer a resting place for their dead, but it would have to do. It had been over a year now since the North had marched and joined forces with the Riverlands, and now their goal was within reach, but not before war had extracted a heavy toll. Mere days prior they had faced the Baratheon army and won at great cost to their numbers.

Some of the men had dug rows of trenches on the estate, turning the field behind the castle into the largest resting place Cregan had ever seen. Cregan had noticed young Kermit holding a journal with notes with as precise an account of each man as possible even though it was an impossible endeavor. All trenches were set ablaze one by one, not after a word of solemn respect and a minute of quiet contemplation. 

Cregan thought these men deserved better than to be laid to rest so far from their homes, but such was the way of war, and he suspected many would fall again when they would take King’s Landing, which was where they marched towards, now.

He had been given the rooms reserved for the king when he travelled to the crownlands on procession or for hunting, and it was more comfort than he had seen in months. A large basin of steaming water had been brought, and while it was not quite a bath, it would serve, however he struggled to take his armor off without a squire or a fellow knight to assist him.

Instead it was you who entered the borrowed chambers without so much as a knock—he suspected that in so close quarters with men on camps and battlefields, you had learned to set aside any bashfulness. 

“The maester gave me a salve for bruises. I thought it would serve,” you said, setting the vial on a nearby table. “Shall I assist you?”

It was not the first time you had served as a squire should have, helping him in or off his armor, but it was the first time it was in such close quarters. The battlefield often resulted in bonds of brotherhood, closeness that could only be born out of sheer desperation to remain alive and save the man fighting back to one’s back, and you had been no exception to it.

From the first day, you had followed him almost blindly, shielding him as he shielded you, and fighting as fiercely as any man.

“Are you wounded?” he asked. 

“Let us tend to you first. You led us to victory, allow me to ensure you live long enough to see us home,” you replied quietly, and while it made him smile privately, he knew you meant every word. 

Setting the steel aside, you did not avert your eyes when he shed his stained gambeson and shirt, which you took from him and dropped into a bucket that would be collected by the maids in the morning. He was broad and big, with bulky muscle under thick, bruised skin.

His chest was black and purple, with a shallow gash across his stomach, following the front curve of his ribs—you could see the marks of close fighting, where maces had been swung into his back or chest, or swords had attempted to pierce his armor.

“It is not victory yet,” he reminded you, reaching for the large basin the maid had left on the dinner table along with a pitcher and linen cloths. However before he could pick it up, you had reached for one and dipped it into the fresh water.

“We’re only a day’s ride from King’s Landing now,” you reasoned as you ran the wet cloth across his chest and shoulders, and the quiet intimacy of the gesture settled in his bones. 

He was usually the one to care for his men, to watch over them as they caught an hour of rest on the side of the road, hold them down as the Maester treated them, or wipe their brows when the healers were stretched thin and could not tend to them all. 

“The city might be ours within the week,” he said quietly, to which you hummed your agreement. 

He groaned when you ran the cloth at the back of his neck, leaning into you instinctively. Water rivulets were running down his abdomen and into the waistband of his trousers, but he did not dare reach for them. While you were one of his soldiers, you were still a woman, and he doubted you would appreciate the sigh of a bare man outside of a bed you had invited him to.

“Think not of it for tonight,” you murmured, reaching for his face gently. “You’ll need all your strength and a clear head.”

Cregan paused then, but did not pull away. It wasn’t until you were wiping at the grime on his temple that he realized how sore and weary he truly was, and for a moment, he allowed you to hold him upright, and bear his burden.

“Assist me, will you?” you asked, as normal as could be, reaching for your own belt and shedding your doublet—your armor no doubt laid somewhere in the castle, perhaps even with the blacksmith. 

Before he could inquire about modesty, you had turned your back to him and reached for the nape of your neck, pulling your undershirt over your head. That was when he noticed the thick linens wrapped around your chest. You looked at him over your shoulder as he cut the fabric that bound your breasts, and the trust you had in him made his throat tight.

As you had done for him, Cregan wet a cloth and ran it across your back, mindful of the bruises that had bloomed under your skin. Fighting his instincts and the rising warmth in his stomach, he resisted the urge to press a kiss to your shoulders, to follow the trickle of water that fell into the divot of your spine, then down past the waistband of your trousers.

“Cregan,” you called softly, one eye still observing him from over your shoulder, holding his gaze as you turned to face him, baring your chest to him.

He swallowed heavily but did not say a word, instead mirrored the care you had shown him, washing the grime gathering at your collarbone, focusing his attention away from the two mounds of your breasts that peaked in the cold—or perhaps from his touch. Without a word you unlaced your trousers, and it made him want to curse aloud, even more so when you stepped out of them, not before kicking your boots aside, and stood entirely bare in front of him. 

He indulged in the sight of your skin, as bruised as his own was, and the curves of your body, and followed the rivulets of water down your navel, then lower. The way you sighed as he touched you, the damp cloth the only barrier between your folds and his fingers, was more soothing than any salve on his sore heart. 

“Allow me?” you asked, reaching for his own trousers, and he could only manage a quiet grunt in answer.

His stomach quivered as you unlaced the leathers and he kicked the remainder of his clothes much as you had. His cock had started to stir, heavy between his legs, and your mere gaze upon it was enough to make him widen his stance, shifting to accommodate his growing desire.

The wet cloth was passed back and forth then, wiping skin clear and stoking the embers of desire until it could not be ignored anymore. Despite the exhaustion and the thrumming pain, you fell into each other, your mouth finding his, and he groaned into your kiss. 

He pulled you into him by the small of your back and you felt his cock fill and harden against your belly, igniting a fire within your core. Rolling his hips into yours, he hissed, a groan tearing out of his chest as a burst of pain erupted behind his ribs.

“I don’t think I can—” he said regretfully, which you silenced with a short press of your lips to his.

“Trust me,” you said, and he wanted to reply that were you to hold his very life in your hands, he would trust you with it, but instead he let you guide him to the large bed and press him to the sheets, climbing after him with the same focus he’d seen whenever you drew your bow and aimed.

The first lick to his cock nearly made him shout, throwing his head back against the cover, and he hardly managed to swallow his desperate moan when you closed your mouth around the head and sucked, gentle, easing him into it. He could not remember the last time he had tended to his own needs, even less when he’d had a woman’s mouth between his thighs.

Slowly, stroke after stroke, he melted into the sheets, tension bleeding out of his very bones. The heat of your mouth around his cock was a touch of heaven, and it took all his strength to mind his wounds and not thrust into the tight pressure. 

Within a minute he was panting out loud, his hips quivering under your hands with the force of his restraint. To have such a warrior splayed as he was beneath you was heady. You enjoyed the weight of him on your tongue, the sharp focus it required, and how it forced you to calm your breath and slow your mind.

Listening to his groans and occasional frustrated hisses, you followed the sounds of his pleasure to guide the rhythm of your head and the swirls of your tongue, your hand reaching between your thighs to soothe your own throbbing desire.

“Gods be good—” he cursed, bitterness spreading on your tongue, and you knew he was not far from his breaking point.

Hand on his hip, you held him down firmly, the rhythm of your mouth unrelenting, and he tensed to the point where you feared he would hurt himself. Suddenly the rope snapped and he groaned aloud, spilling inside your mouth in hot bursts—the sound of his ecstasy only made you grind your hips down, chasing your own pleasure.

Cregan caught his breath while you pulled away and wiped your mouth on a corner of the sheets, but then he was eager to tend to you. “Come,” he said, his voice rough, guiding you to straddle his stomach, still mindful of his ribs. 

He was quick to join his fingers to yours—he pushed inside at your silent request, two of his thick fingers pressing against the spot inside of you that made you clench and shiver.

With a hand on your hip to rock you against him, he let you take your pleasure as you wished. He crooked his fingers in time with the tight circles you were drawing on your core, keeping the same rhythm until your mouth dropped open and you stilled, clenching around his digits as your body shuddered.

Once the waves had passed and you grew languid again, Cregan cradled you against his chest, uncaring for the sting in his ribs and you settled into him with a contented sigh, slumber crawling at the edges of both your minds. 

On the morrow the two of you would ride side by side towards King’s Landing and face your last enemy—if victory indeed awaited you as you seemed to believe, Cregan knew what he would ask then, for you to return north not only as one of his loyal bannermen, but as his lady wife.

A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on a request by @zaldritzosrose.

Cregan taglist: @kateris-world @elleclairez @watercolorskyy @praline357 @whodis-26

@elle-28 @hb8301 @flawroses @random-shit-i-like-2 @heavenly1927

@thegeminithrone @vixemi @rockerchick05 @maniccrystalhippie @melsunshine

@siimiasoi @mxtokko @apollonshootafar @thenameswinter99 @multyfangirl

@alawnuhyawpp @arrozyfrijoles23 @r-3dlips @yujyujj @lessdepressy

@blessedbymoon @deltamoon666 @writingjourney @still-jon-snow @vampzv