linen sheets soften as they get washed more often

The bathing chamber has been prepared by your maids. A fire has been lit in the hearth to keep the room warm, and the equally warm water is infused with lavender and flowers to give you the sweet scent you carry through Winterfell. 

Your long, silver hair runs down the edge of the copper tub in a braid, long enough to almost reach the ground in that position. There's a maid left and right of you, gently scrubbing your arms and legs. "You may leave," your soft voice rings out eventually, sending them away to grant yourself some sense of solace and quiet.

But as if he’s timed it like that on purpose, the door creaks open, and your husband steps in without a word, cloaked in black, northern furs. He doesn’t immediately look at you, just grunts lowly as he pulls of his gloves. 

“You’re using half the firewood of the gods-damned North.“ His voice is rough, but there’s no real heat behind it. Not anymore, at least. He moves towards the hearth, stoking the flames with a poker as though he didn’t just interrupt your peace. 

“The men grumble that they’ll freeze while you bathe like some Lyseni courtesan,“ he continues, his voice slightly muffled with his back facing you. When there doesn’t come an immediate reply, you spot him glancing over his shoulder, and notice him looking away just as quickly — as if he’s been caught. 

You smile faintly at the motion and in response to his barb, closing your eyes to the crackling of the fire. It’s strange. You’ve come to the North dreading him, dreading the marriage and this life, and instead you’ve found… you don’t quite know. There’s no words for how he makes you feel, but you can feel it just in this moment, stirring warmly in your chest. 

Cregan is oblivious to what’s happening inside of you, just continuing with the thoughts that run through his mind. „We ride for Hornwood at first light. Try not to drown yourself before then.“

Instead of answering, or even asking what will await you there, you just dip your chin into the water. You hum softly to yourself, making it more than clear that you‘re not in the mood to talk, and suddenly hear him beginning to undress. 

He pulls off his furs and cloak, laying them aside on a nearby stool. He shrugs off his boots, leathers and the tunic he always wears, exposing his muscular, battle-hardened torso in the dim firelight. Your gaze drifts over the many scars that cover his back and arms — the ones you have traced with your fingers countless of times. Cregan Stark is a Northerner, through and through, built to survive even the harshest of winters.  

As he turns, he catches your gaze straying lower and cocks an eyebrow, as if he knows you’ve been staring. 

“You have turned this castle upside down with your southern whims. The silks, the perfumes, these baths… Winterfell isn’t a pleasure house,“ he gruffs, as if he’s annoyed you haven’t granted him any reaction. 

But that does tickle something inside of you. “No,“ you murmur, raising your chin from the water, eyes gleaming in the dim light of the hearth. “It’s my prison… and you’re its most insufferable warden.“

Cregan takes a step closer at that, and then stops himself.

There‘s a moment of silence between you where you just look at each other.

Until you scoot forwards with a grin, making room for him behind you. 

He lets out a short, raspy chuckle that’s more breath than sound. “A prisoner doesn’t bathe like she’s being crowned in scented steam,“ he mutters, already moving toward you. 

He steps into the tub with all the grace of a man surrendering to something greater than duty, hissing through his teeth at the heat of the water. “Gods, you’re spoiled.“

But then he settles behind you, broad, hairy chest against your back, legs bracketing yours beneath the water. His arms come around you, not holding you close but rather anchoring himself, and his voice drops low enough that it trembles in your bones. “Try not to mistake my warmth for weakness, wife. I’m still your warden.“

You tilt your head back, resting it against his shoulder, your braided hair slipping sideways like a waterfall. “Mmm,“ you hum, eyes half-lidded. “I know you like it… my lord.“

Your fingers trail along his forearm, just the ghost of a touch but deliberate. 

“’Tis not my fault you Northerners can’t stand a little comfort.“

Your response it soft but pointed, and Cregan huffs at that. He pulls you closer against the hard, unyielding muscles of his chest like a rebuke — the gesture both possessive and rough. 

“You Southerners,“ he grumbles, “all you want is silk, gold, and songs. I know your type.“

Then you shift, on purpose, nestling deeper against him, until there’s not an inch of space between you that’s not warm and heavy with unspoken things. 

“Spoiled.“

You try to turn and face him at that, to tease and argue and taunt, as always, but his arms only tighten at your waist, and he pulls you back. 

“Stay still,“ he murmurs into the crook of your neck, half a command, half a plea, and the sudden hoarseness in his voice almost makes you shiver. 

You’re suddenly way too aware of him — the way his grip tightens, the heat of his chest against your back, the hardness pressing against the curve of your arse. You feel yourself lean into him, your body responding to every shift and move like it was made for him to hold. 

There is a tremor low in your belly as his heavy breath ghosts over the curve of your neck, his calloused hands gripping you just shy of bruising. 

Are you spoiled? Perhaps. But so is he — spoiled by you, by this quiet war you wage each night beneath furs and flame. 

“Sit still,“ he repeats, the command firmer this time, punctuated with a sharp nip to your earlobe. 

His large hand splays over your stomach, and moves down slowly, tracing every dip and curve of your body as if to memorize you by feel alone. His touch is gentler now, teasing almost, and follows the path down your navel. 

Your legs part as much as the tub allows them to as if he’s a bard and you’re his lute, knowing how to strum all your right chords with just his fingers. Your head lulls against his shoulder again, and an arm instinctively reaches behind you, fingers burying themselves into the thick, dark curls at the nape of his neck. 

You pull his face towards yours, his lips kissing your cheek with his hot breath fanning over your heated skin. Turning your head, you allow your lips to meet in a kiss as his fingers disappear between your legs. 

“You're the one who's spoiled," you breathe against his lips, voice low and honeyed—half-laughing, half-undone. Your hips shift instinctively into his touch, betraying you before you can school your face into feigned indifference.

As you meet his stormy gaze, his silver eyes gleam with defiance — and desire. “Pretending you don’t crave this… that you don’t need it… as if you weren’t the one who stormed King’s Landing demanding your bride like a man possessed.“

His thumb brushes just there, and you gasp softly but don’t look away.

“Tell me again how I'm spoiled," you challenge, breath hitching as he drags a finger lazily over your pearl. “Mhhm— go... go on.“

But your husband doesn’t speak, at least not yet. He just grins against your skin, that feral, wolfish grin that has set your heart racing for moons. 

“You’re spoiled,“ he repeats, rough and guttural, the words thick and full of meaning as his free hand drifts up your back and tangles in the end of your braid. It‘s wrapped around his large palm, holding it in a loose grip. “Insatiable… demanding..“

And then, with a sharp tug at your hair to the side, Cregan has you leaning back against him with an arch of your back, exposing the curve of your neck — the soft expanse of flesh he has marked and claimed as his own plenty of times before. 

Your breasts emerge from the water, your nipples taut and perky, showing just how much you truly enjoy this. 

One of his thick digits slips inside of with ease, working its magic and unraveling you right in front of his very eyes. You sharply tug at his hair in return, as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. 

A sound resembling half a growl and half a groan escapes his throat, the tug making his hips twitch beneath the water. He is instinctively chasing friction against the curve of your arse, knowing all too well already that he needs to feel you. 

“By the Gods, woman,“ he hisses through clenched teeth as your walls tighten around his finger, wet and pulsing. “You’re going to pull my bloody head off.“

But he doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, he curls deeper into you, almost relentlessly, and adds a second finger with deliberate slowness. His thumb circles your pearl firmly and rhythmic, the pace unyielding. 

Cregan can’t think now, at least not in the way he usually does. The water around him is warm enough to drive him mad, and the scent of you fills every breath he’s barely able to take in. 

You’re trembling, gasping and shifting against him, so responsive to him like you always are. Your breath hitches, and when you tug at his hair again, it’s not in defiance but surrender. 

He has his strong arm hooked around you in an instance, fingers pulled out to clasp around your thigh instead. You have barely any time to whimper and whine at the loss before you’re effortlessly hoisted up by him. He’s carrying you to your martial chambers, throwing you onto your bed belly first. 

Your chambers are not as warm as the ones you’ve just left, the fire in the hearth been lit just a bit too late by your servants, but neither of you minds right now. 

His fingers curl around your ankles, flipping you over onto your back. You watch him carefully now, noticing the way his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and how his length stands to full attention. It has you squeezing your thighs together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing. 

You’re swamped by his actions and the sight, and barely have any time to properly act or speak before he’s on top of you, his large frame covering yours completely. 

There are no words exchanged between you. No teasing, no banter — only raw need and desire. 

His hands move swiftly to align his member with your wet folds, sliding inside with a harsh snap of his hips. Cregan moves fast and ruthless. It’s like he wants to take you apart as brutally as he would an enemy, as if he wants to brand you with every thrust of his hips. 

You gasp — his name torn from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once. 

He drives into you with that northern ruthlessness, deep and unrelenting, each thrust pushing you further into the furs beneath you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving marks, and Cregan growls, arching into it like punishment in pleasure, like the pain is the proof you’re real. 

“Cregan!“ You whimper as he changes the angle, hitting deeper than before, something primal flashing in his eyes. 

But he doesn’t answer with words. 

Instead, one hand snakes between your bodies to tease your pearl, ruthless precision meeting raw force, and suddenly you’re teetering on the edge of release faster than anticipated — too fast to stop it. 

He leans down onto his elbow, putting some of his weight on you, as his cock and fingers alike work you through your release. You’re caged in beneath him now, pinned to the bed with his teeth digging not-so-gently into your shoulder. As you fall apart under him with a cry, he muffles it with a sudden kiss. 

Your clenching heat drags every ounce of restraint from his bones, yet he doesn’t slow down. His thrusts grow erratic, fiercer, and still you meet him with fire of your own, legs locking around his waist to draw him deeper. One of his hands fists your braid again, tugging your head back to nibble at your throat, reminding you who holds the power. 

He doesn’t pull out — he can’t. His hips are still thrusting into you, a tad slower now, deeper, grinding into you with possessiveness as the heat between you grows thicker.

Your walls flutter around him, sensitive from your prior release, but he’s still not done. 

He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, at your reddened face, at your kiss-swollen lips parted in breathless little gasps. 

And then his hand slides from your pearl up to rest on your lower belly. 

“Tonight shall be the night I’ll breed you,“ he growls, voice thick with lust. 

“Before this winter ends…“ he pants, fingers pressing into the softness of your stomach as if he’s already claiming what might grow there. “… you will carry a Stark under your heart… and no one will ever question who you belong to.“ The thought of it alone makes his cock twitch inside of you. 

Cregan’s body suddenly tenses. Every muscle in his back and thighs goes rigid as the coil inside of him snaps. His breath comes out in a harsh, broken groan as he drives deep into you, and empties himself inside of you with a pulse of heat that makes you whimper beneath him. 

“Gods…“ he grits out, fingers tightening on your stomach, your bodies pressing flush where they’re still joined. “You’re all mine.“

He spills inside of you, filling your trembling walls, and perhaps bringing him closer the heir he so desperately wants from you. Each twitch of his cock brings another hot rush of his seed, filling you to the brim — until he doesn’t move anymore. 

A moment passes in which he tries to adjust to the tightness of your walls. You’re clenching around him like you never want to let go, as if you want him to make promise of what he’s just said. 

He finally lowers himself slowly again, breathing heavy into the crook of your neck. His weight is heavy, but not unfamiliar to you. “I’ll breed you," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough. "I'll fill you up and take you over and over again, until I know you're with my child… until you're mine in every way.“

Your fingers thread through his dark hair as you turn your face towards his, pressing your lips to his stubbled jaw. “I’m already yours,“ you murmur softly. „Forever.“

Then you shift, just slightly, feeling his cock still buried deep inside of you, although he’s grown soft. It makes you swallow thickly, and your thighs tighten around his hips to keep him right there.