~ Save the Dragons, ride a Targaryen ~

This proposal gave him pause, but he could not see any flaw in it. It was long time for him to take a second wife, he knew, at the least to secure his line, but for his own benefit as well. He longed for companionship and the warmth of a woman, and he thought a maternal presence would help in his son’s welfare.

“I shall think on it,” he replied, and Sabitha seemed satisfied. Those were not empty words, and he truly meant to think on the matter.

“One of the men you led to King’s Landing is upstairs,” she then said, catching him off-guard—while she had ladylike manners, she was blunt and direct, which he appreciated. “His wife, my oldest daughter, is sitting with him.”

“How is he faring?” he asked with a frown.

“Dying a slow death, the one any soldier fears,” Sabitha replied, a frown of sorrow on her face.

At that, Cregan pushed from the table and rose. “Might I visit him?” he inquired, and she rose with him, gesturing for him to step into the hallway. She guided him up a few flights of stairs, higher in the tower, and he followed. At the end of a wide corridor, she knocked on a painted wooden door, then stepped aside, allowing him to enter. 

The chamber was kept comfortably warm, a blazing fire in the hearth. At the foot of the bed, sitting in a large armchair, a young woman was falling asleep on her knitting—it looked like a shawl of some sort, in a deep forest green. You startled as you saw him in the threshold, and were quick to rise, putting your knitting aside.

Cregan gestured for you to sit, but you remained standing. “I do not wish to intrude,” he said. “I simply wanted to pay my respects to my man.”

“Forgive me, my lord, for not coming down to supper,” you replied with a sad smile. “I was told you had arrived, but I was needed here.”

Cregan glanced at the sleeping man, his chest heavy—no matter how many deaths he had seen in this war, the weight of his responsibility never eased. “No need for apologies, my lady,” he offered, and at that you finally sat again, gathering your knitting on your lap.

He recognized the shield and sword propped against the foot of the bed, although the man’s face was so gray and gaunt, he could not recognize him. “He’s one of my bannermen, sworn to White Harbor,” he said solemnly, as though the recollection would help him heal.

“He was wounded during the battle on the Kingsroad. For a while we thought he would recover, as he seemed better, but then his wound would not heal, and the fever spread,” you explained with a wavering voice. “It comes and goes, but the Maester is not certain that he’ll ever regain his strength.”

Approaching the bed, he watched the man’s face with attention. “May I be of any service?” he asked.

“There is nothing to be done but pray,” you replied. “The master says he has many wounds on the inside that only the Gods can heal.”

“Then I shall pray,” he promised.

To your greatest surprise, it was not the only night Lord Cregan came to visit. Night after night he sat with you, watching as life faded from your husband’s face. Whether it was out of guilt or a strong sense of duty, you could not tell, but you were grateful nonetheless. 

“Surely you have better things to do, Lord Stark,” you said after a week of his nightly visits. 

An armchair had been brought near the fire, at the other side of the bed from you, and the two of you spoke in whispers all through the darkness. You spoke of the ways this war had changed the realm, of your hopes for the winter and beyond, and you found a true, honest friend in him. He was younger than he appeared, and than you would have expected from the Warden of the North, but his calm presence grounded you and gave you courage.

The two of you spoke until slumber claimed you where you sat, and every morning, you woke up with a shawl draped over you, and the other chair empty. 

“Your husband gave his life for this realm under my orders, I can give him my time,” he replied. “Perhaps you would like to sleep in your own bed tonight. I shall sit with him.”

Grateful for the offer, you still shook your head. “I would not leave him when he needs me most,” you argued. “The Maester says he knows I am here, even when he is not conscious.”

It was a foolish hope, perhaps, to think that he knew of your presence. In truth you prayed that he did not feel a thing, nor understand the slow decay of his own body. It was the only way you could keep your sanity, and it seemed your nightly companion understood.

During the day Cregan saw to his men resting and gathering provisions for the journey to Winterfell and to their own keeps—it was taking longer than anticipated and Sabitha had requested that he remained longer, to oversee the matches between some of his soldiers and Riverland widows.

He could tell that the prospective marriage between him and her youngest daughter was still very much on her mind, and he knew it would do his people well if he were to return from war with a wife and a new, beneficial alliance.

Therefore one gray afternoon he lingered in the hall after luncheon, the Freys’ youngest girl having no doubt been instructed to entertain him. She was comely but barely of age, and he regretted that he had so little patience and judged her so harshly. War had not soothed his temper, if anything it had made him more severe than he used to be.

“I don't understand why she sits with him for days on end,” the young woman said in the course of conversation, taking him aback. “They were barely husband and wife before he was summoned to war.”

“She is his wife. She is living by her vows,” he replied, confused and dismayed. 

“She does not love him,” the young woman continued, and while he could not blame her for her directness, he disliked her lack of care for the fundamentals of duty. “She does not know him enough to love him, and yet she is wasting away, watching him die.”

“Love is not needed to sustain a marriage,” Cregan tried to explain. “Duty is enough.”

She did not seem convinced by his explanation, and he found himself rather disappointed by her words. Instead he rose when a servant walked past with a basket of fresh linens, and he offered to take what she was carrying to the wounded man upstairs. The young lady Frey seemed sorry that he would take his leave from her, but let him go without protest. 

Cregan entered the room as he had done every day for nearly a fortnight now, and kept his silence as he wiped the sweat from his man’s brow and pulled the covers tighter around him. “You seem upset,” he finally said, noticing how unusually crestfallen your face was.

“My sister means no harm, but she still causes it sometimes,” you replied, and he understood then what had prompted her words, and the reason why the matter had been on the young lady’s mind. “She has childish fancies. I don't hold them against her, after all she is young and she will still learn. I simply pray she does not learn through grief as I have.”

“Grief comes for all of us, at one time in our life or another,” he replied, rather clumsily, but you did not contradict him.

“No one here knows what it is like, to stand watch over a spouse at the Stranger’s door, waiting for death to take them,” you said, tears strangling your voice.

At that Cregan set the wet cloth aside and took his seat in the armchair, pondering his words before he said them. “As a matter of fact, I do know,” he replied solemnly. “I watched my own wife die of childbed fever.”

It was a terrible admission, his voice still full of pain, and yet you were soothed by it, knowing you were not alone in your sorrow. “I am sorry,” you whispered, to which he answered with only silence. “I suppose I can only be grateful I did not know him well.”

“Your sister spoke of it,” he said, prompting her to continue.

With the shadow of a smile upon your lips, you did. “We were betrothed quickly, once war was declared,” you told him. “We barely had time to say our vows that he had gone. Mere days. He served the realm, and now I serve him.”

“Duty means a lot to you,” Cregan remarked, letting his admiration show in the tone of his voice.

“Duty is everything. Sacrifice comes with it,” you replied. 

Then, as you had rarely done when he was present, you allowed your tears to flow down your cheeks, sorrow shaking your shoulders. “I have thought, at times, when he writhes in pain in his sleep, to take a pillow and deliver him of his misery,” you sobbed, and Cregan was speared by your admission, his admiration only burning brighter. “Do you think me a monster?” you asked. 

“No, on the contrary,” he answered honestly. “I have had to do it only too often on the battlefield.”

He wished to reach out and lay a hand on your shoulder, but he did not know whether his gesture would be welcome. “All any soldier wishes is to die in battle. It is unfair that he should lay in this bed and wait for death to claim him,” he mused out loud. “I pray that she comes for him quickly.”

“She?” you inquired.

“I believe in the old gods of the North. To me, death is an old woman,” he explained. “She comes and takes you by the hand into a gentle river.”

The way you looked at him then, your eyes wide and earnest, displaced something in his chest he did not know had stuck. “It sounds peaceful,” you said with a small smile.

For the next few days, Cregan braced himself for the inevitable—he could see the resolve in your eyes, the certainty of what you had to do, and were preparing yourself to. He knew it to be mercy, having watched as your husband writhed in agony, his skin gone pale and wet with fever, the wounds on his body infected beyond what the Maester could heal, or even soothe.

On the third night of this agony, near dawn, Cregan slipped into the room only to find it empty. You were not standing vigil as you usually were, and he saw it as confirmation of what he had to do. He had already seen many deaths and caused too many himself—perhaps this one would be the only meaningful one, if he could spare you the act of taking a life.

In solemn silence, he approached the bed and kissed the man’s brow. “Rest now, lad. The realm is safe, you may go in peace,” he murmured for only the Gods to hear, and did his duty.

It was only a few hours later, once dawn had risen over the two towers, that you found him outside, near the Weirwood tree, sitting in silent prayer. He raised his gaze to you, finding your eyes rimmed with red but a sense of relief in the line of your shoulders. “Thank you,” you said.

“Whatever for?” he asked, rising to meet you.

“For guiding him into the river,” you replied, your face falling in grateful sobs.

This time he did not restrain himself, taking a step forward until you were sobbing in his arms, his hand into your hair, holding the back of your head. “I took him to the battlefield. I could not let him cross the river alone,” he simply said, and somehow, it was enough.

Soon after that, the day of departure came, following the funeral ceremony of your husband, but Cregan knew he could not leave the Twins without making his intentions known. He found Lady Sabitha in her private sitting room, at her desk with a quill and ink. She looked up at him expectantly when he entered, as though she knew why he was requesting an audience.

“I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand,” he said, and Sabitha’s eyes crinkled in satisfaction. “But not the youngest,” he added after a beat of silence.

At that, she seemed taken aback, setting down her parchment. “Oh?” she asked, and for a moment he worried she was displeased with the proposal.

These few weeks sitting at your side had only convinced him that this was the right choice to make—as the battlefield bonded men that fought together, watching over your husband had shown him enough of your character for him to know he could not ask for your sister’s hand. He did not need a young woman with fancies about love, but someone who would stand on equal ground with him, and not shy away from grievous matters.

“I have seen too much of war and grief,” he explained as gracefully as he could. “Your oldest daughter knows much of the harshness of the world already, and I need someone by my side who can bear the burden of duty.”

“I pray you do not feel an obligation towards her, as her husband was your bannerman,” she said, and he appreciated her concern.

“I do not,” he refuted calmly. “She would do well in the North as Lady of Winterfell, whereas I feel your youngest too delicate for the duties that await.”

“Very well,” Sabitha said. “However she still mourns her husband, and will for quite some time.”

“I shall return when spring comes, and make my proposal then,” he offered, and Sabitha agreed.  

Time passed and he thought of you often, through the darkest and coldest months of winter. He told little Rickon of the woman whose companionship he hoped for, and that with spring a new Lady of Winterfell would surely arrive. After nearly sixteen moons, a shorter winter than he had expected, spring started to thaw the lakes, and green returned to the large fields around the castle.

Delegating his duties to the young lord Cerwyn who assisted him, he was readying to depart and ride south again in a few days to renew his proposal when he was interrupted by one of the men that guarded the ramparts. 

“There is a small party coming,” the guard told him. “A few horses carrying the Frey banners.”

Cregan was surprised by this, but suddenly hopeful that his proposal would take place sooner than he had expected. He came outside into the courtyard, and was proved right with who awaited him.

“I hope my presence is not an imposition,” you said as you dismounted your mare with ease, running a hand along the great gray horse’s side. 

Winter had changed you, he thought at first, but then realized it was the first time he was seeing you without the veil of grief. It suited your face, turning your eyes brighter. “Not at all, I believe it to be quite expected,” Cerwyn said with a pointed look before taking his leave.

“He is right. I was readying to ride to the Twins within the week,” Cregan confirmed. “I take it your mother has told you of my proposal.”

“Indeed she has,” you replied. “I have come here to accept it.”

Cregan breathed a sigh of relief at this, gesturing for you to follow him inside. “Then I welcome you to Winterfell, my lady,” he said. “If you are certain this is what you wish.”

“I have had enough time to sit with my grief,” you said as he welcomed you into the main hall where a large hearth was blazing, warmth seeping into the stones. “You carried me through my darkest time, and now I can only hope you will carry me through happier years.”

“I will,” he replied.

The rest of the day was used to show you the castle, as well as to settle you into your chambers, which were smaller than the ones you’d enjoyed at the Twins, but kept warmth far more easily. You had brought with you tapestries and your deceased husband’s shield, which you had kept as a precious token.

Once your possessions had been put away as you liked, you sought Cregan out and found him in his own room, divested of his heavy leathers and furs—it was the first time you were seeing him as a simple man, and not the Lord of Winterfell. 

The way he was looking at you, with infinite gentleness in his dark eyes, banished any lingering doubts you may have had. “I was told it was tradition for the Warden to share a chamber with his wife,” you said with a small smile.

“Indeed,” he confirmed. 

Without a word you came to him, and without any question needing to be asked aloud, walked into his arms. The tenderness he had felt for you at the Twins roared back to life, and he pulled you tighter against him, waving his fingers through your hair. Your own hands tightened into the fabric of his shirt, cradling his broad back. Never had he thought he would find the first embers of love in such a dark place as the one he had met you, but he was grateful the Gods had brought him to you.

“When I told my sister of my departure, she said you had told her you do not believe love to be necessary to sustain a marriage,” you said after a minute of blissful silence, your voice muffled into his chest.

“That is true,” he confirmed.

“I hope you might find it in your heart to love me one day, as I know I will surely come to love you,” you admitted, and at that he reached for your chin, bringing it up until you were facing him, and dipped his head to press a kiss to your lips.

“I know I will, and I would show you, if you allowed it?” he asked, to which you nodded. 

Solemnly, almost reverently if such was possible from a man of his stature, he undid the laces at your back, but you did not feel the cold as your skin was bared from its layers. Pulling his own shirt above his head, he took you into his arms once more, and you were grateful to bury your face into his skin, enjoying the soft, dark hair that grew over his chest and stomach.

The two of you shared a joyful breath as he pulled you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and guided you to the bed, where he set you down upon the warm furs. Looming over you, he kissed you harder, his tongue curling with yours as one of his hands explored the curve that ran from your side to your knee, hooking it over his hip.

In the cradle of your thighs, his hardness was pressing a line of heat at your core. He allowed you the time to rock back against him as you wished, content to kiss your neck and your breasts while you found your pleasure underneath him. He had missed the touch of a woman, the heady feeling of a woman’s desire against his own, and even though he knew what he felt was not quite yet love, he was certain that it would not take long. 

“Slow,” he murmured when he finally pressed his length inside of you—you arched your back and sighed as though he was soothing an ache in your body, and it made him groan aloud. Whether his instruction was for your sake or his, he could not tell. 

The extent of your mutual longing only made itself clear when pleasure took hold of the both of you. Tears came to the corner of your eyes and he kissed them, cradling you against him, your own hands digging half-moons into his broad back. “Cregan,” you sighed, and uttering his name felt like a deliverance, an oath.

Pleasure crested slow and steady, strong, anchoring you into your flesh. The weight of war and grief poured out of you and him alike, the two of you finally finding solace in each other’s touch, and in the promise that whatever fate would befall you, neither of you would face it alone.

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

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