Peppermint Ash

When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.

"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."

"But I'm working for us—for the baby—"

"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."

You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.

He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.

"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."

"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."

The physical abuse escalated slowly.

A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?

Giving birth was a nightmare.

You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.

He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.

"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."

"Baby, I'm sorry, I can't—I can't walk—"

"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."

"B-But I can't."

Five minutes later, he grabbed your arm—the same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruised—and yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.

He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.

At home, things got worse.

The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.

If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.

If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.

If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.

"Shut that thing up or I will."

If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.

"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."

The beatings became routine.

Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.

He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.

Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.

Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.

Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.

Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.

Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.

He dislocated your shoulder twice.

The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.

"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."

So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."

He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.

He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."

One time you talked back.

Just once.

You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.

You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.

And you comforted him.

You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.

The isolation deepened.

He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.

He has "needs."

He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.

"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."

When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.

When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.

When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,

"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."

He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake up—your body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.

He'd choke you during sex.

Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.

Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,

"See? You can take it. My good girl."

He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.

He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."

He cheated constantly.

Openly. In your bed. On your couch.

He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.

"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."

And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.

One girl felt sorry for you.

"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."

He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."

The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mind—that never really went away.

"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"

"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."

"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."

"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"

"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."

"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."

And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.

You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.

You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.

You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.

Because you believed him.

God, you believed him with your whole heart.

You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.

So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.

"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"

"More than anything. More than my own life."

"Even after what I did?"

"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."

"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."

"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."

Until one day he just... left.

You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:

"You can keep the brat. I'm done."

It was after he left that you found out about the debt.

He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.

Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.

He destroyed your life.

But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."

You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.

And now Aerion wanted to take him.

You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.

"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."

"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."

"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "

You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.

They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.

And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.

You started screaming.

You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.

You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.

You remember Aerion's smile — quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.

You lost.

The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.

"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama please—"

You couldn't save him.

You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.

You watched his little hands pressed against the window.

You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.

And then they were gone.

And you were alone.

And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.

Two days later, they send you an email.

Official. Signed by his lawyer.

"Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately."

Ha.

Look at that.

Aerion fucking Targaryen — trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes —

Wanted you to pay child support.

At least he lets you see your son.

Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.

With him sitting right there.

Watching.

He's always there. He doesn't have to be—he has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the system—but he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.

Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.

"Your father took you back, I see."

You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.

He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.

Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?

"Of course. He's my father, after all."

After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.

"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"

"Bills don't pay themselves."

"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."

He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.

"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."

You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."

"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."

You just stare at him. The audacity.

"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."

His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.

"Oh, you're jealous, I see."

Jealous?

He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

What can you even say to a narcissist like him?

His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.

“So...” he murmurs, tilting his head.

Hmm?

“You got a boyfriend or something?”

If you want to be in my "shitty baby daddy" taglist let me know :)

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