Blissfully Ignorant

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May 29th

8:10 am

You: IM GOING TO KILL HIM

Nat: good morning to you too

You: Nat he is the WORST AVENGER EVER

You: WHO EVEN LET HIM JOIN

Nat: Tony probably

Nat: I’m assuming ur talking about Bucky?

You: don’t say that stupid name to me

You: he totally ditched me we were supposed to do a mission together

Nat: YH I saw him on the jet this morning

You: WHAT A DICK

Nat: calm down babe

You: no he thinks I’m Ike incompetent and he doesn’t even know me

Nat: just breatheeeee

Nat: and tell Tony he’ll sort him out

You: ykw ur right

May 29th

7:24 pm

WS: You told Tony?

You: welcome home x

WS: I just got ambushed the second the jet landed.

You: awww poor winter soldier

WS: Didn’t take you for a rat.

You: UR the one who left without telling me

You: I’d call that pretty rat like behaviour

WS: Well, thanks to you, Tony says that for the next month we have to do every mission he assigns to either of us together.

You: WJAT????

You: WHY

WS: Why are you yelling?

WS: He said it’s for team-building purposes.

You: fuck sake

WS: Just don’t get in the way.

You: shut up!!!!!!!!

April 1st

6:46am

WS: This mission is a week long.

You: wowww does the super serum make u super smart too??

WS: What the hell do you need all these bags for?

You: its two bags..

WS: It’s too many bags.

You: the fuck

WS: All you need is clothes, what else could you possibly be taking?

You: none of your business

WS: Whatever.

You: whatever is right

April 3rd

6:45pm

You: can u be careful with those daggers of urs

You: you almost took my eyes out like ten times

WS: Just dodge them?

You: just kys?

WS: 👍

April 4th

12:54 pm

WS: What does “wsg” mean?

You: what

WS: Sam keeps saying it to me and I don’t know what it means

You: just google it

WS: What’s google?

You: …

You: are u fucking with me

WS: No?

You: you are actually hopeless

April 4th

7:24am

WS: Did you get the files I sent you?

You: no

WS: Fuck me.

You: no thanks I’m not interested x

WS: Shut up.

You: rude

You: can u send them or what

WS: I can’t.

WS: How do I work Gmail? I don’t know how to add the files.

You: yk u don’t need to type in perfect grammar over text

You: also who doesn’t know how to work gmail??

You: where the hell have you been

WS: On ice.

You: oh

You: right

You: okay to make up for that tasteless comment I will teach you how to use Gmail and then I’m going to hopefully never speak to you again outside our missions

You: sounds good?

WS: Sounds perfect to me.

April 4th

12:40pm

You: hey so just because I taught u how to email doesn’t mean u need to email me every five seconds

You: I don’t need to know what you had for dinner

WS: I’m practising.

You: practise on someone else?

WS: No

You: why??

WS: It’s funny how annoyed you’re getting.

You: stfu

WS: I don’t know what that means.

April 5th

8:34am

You: do u think tony is the group leader of the avengers

WS: What?

WS: Why are you messaging me?

You: because this meeting is soooo boring and bruce is not even looking at us

WS: Okay, what do you want me to do about your boredom?

You: and here i am trying to ease the tension between us

WS: Bruce just told me off for looking at my phone.

You: ha ha ha

April 8th

12:07

WS: Are you nearly here?

You: yh I’m sorry one second

WS: What’s wrong?

You: I can’t find my gum 😞

You: my ears pop so bad on the plane I need it

WS: It’s fine.

You: ? no it’s not fine I need it

WS: No, I mean I have some in my bag.

You: you do?

WS: I saw you ran out last time we were on the jet so I grabbed some more.

You: oh

You: thank you

WS: No worries.

WS: Just get here.

You: so bossy.. on my way

WS: 👍

April 8th

12:11 am

WS: You were right.

WS: I think she liked the gum.

Steve: I’m always right

Steve: This is step one towards friendship

WS: Let’s not get ahead of ourself here.

WS: I think she’s gone from hatred to dislike, though. Which is good.

Steve: It’s very good

Steve: Make sure to invite me to the wedding

WS: Fuck off.

Okay so this is kindaaa short but that’s because I plan on making it a series!! So there’ll be a few parts

very excited for this… Peter Parker black widow and Bucky are THE BEST marvel characters I will hear no arguments to that

Daeron is taken aback, to say the least. His face contorts in confusion at your question, how would you know he saw anything beyond the nightmares of a tortured mind? You seemingly sense his unease. 

“In the North, there are people- some say they see things. Things that haven’t happened yet, or things that happened before.” 

It all seems so simple, the way you say it. He doesn’t want to scare you, but the Starks are known to be honorable and he knows you won’t chastise him. 

After his confession, he still wakes suddenly most nights. Sometimes he wakes you, accidentally, and he whispers stories of fire and castles and dragons. Other nights, just having you close is enough to calm him. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin; he presses himself up against your side and sighs deeply when you unconsciously wrap an arm around him. 

Daeron would have no trouble with you participating in a hunt. In fact, he quite enjoys the look on his father’s face when he sees his heir reclined on the dais sipping wine. The young Prince just shrugs when he’s questioned, gesturing to where you’re readying your horse and stringing your bow. Maekar makes a pinched face, but Daeron only laughs. 

“My wife will be taking my place in The hunt, father. She won’t disappoint you, she’s far more skilled than I am.” 

Side note I think the idea of Lady Stark out-weirding Daeron is so silly like him very nervously telling you about how he sees these visions of the future and fearing you’ll deem him insane and working himself up about it and you say something like “Oh like how I can see through the eyes of my direwolf.” and he’s like “…..what.”

Maekar:

To me, this match makes the most sense. There is definitely a lot of disagreeing, butting heads, arguing back and forth loud enough to shake Summerhall, but in the end Maekar has a lot of the same ideologies the Starks do. I’m not the first person who’s said this, but the Anvil is the type of man who sticks out in the lush, relaxed sort of atmosphere of the southern houses, but slots perfectly into the harsh realities of the North. There's a no-nonsense sort of attitude that is imperative to the lord and lady of Winterfell, no room for prattle and frivolity. Life is hard in winter, they need someone who will help their lady Stark make difficult decisions, and defend her until his dying breath. 

Maekar is fiercely loyal, willing to do almost anything for the people he cares for. It's a trait you share. Maekar doesn't really know what to say when you defend him, speaking out against a knight who made a snide comment about your match. Or when you go out of your way to take care of him; ordering him to stop training and rest, asking him to be careful for you on a hunt. He’s used to being the one who takes care of everybody. Six children, two brothers in need of defending, the other set on overexerting himself to an early grave. You cross your arms, square your shoulders, tilt your head back to look him in the eye, and tell him he will take a hot bath and eat something, otherwise he’ll have to answer to you. He grumbles about it, but is not in the business of denying his lady what she asks for. 

Maekar is also very amused at your inability to handle the southerly heat when visiting his parents and brother in the capital. There are times where it snows in the summer back at Winterfell, and you look so crestfallen when you shed your wolfskin cloak, that Maekar almost agrees to leaving his family and returning to your home. Even your gowns are meant to fight the harsh winds and morning chills, sweltering in the sun of King’s Landing. The Prince is quietly charmed by your humidity-frizzed hair and crabby disposition; the glower you show him when he reaches to brush the thin glimmer of perspiration at your forehead before he presses a kiss there.

He loses his mind the first time you arrive at a feast dressed in the stylings of the south. He adores your traditional clothing, the grey fur and the black leather and the white cashmere, but seeing you dressed in so little has his head spinning. He’s on his feet in an instant, determined to intercept you before any knight or lordling has the gall to stand before his lady Stark. You’re no less regal in the shimmering gossamer, but he still feels like a green boy staring at your exposed décolletage. 

“My love, has something distracted you?” 

There’s a small smirk on your face, but he doesn’t return it. He wastes no time taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. You’re absolutely right: he was staring. 

“You are- my wife, I-” 

He can barely find the words, ears turning an adorable shade of pink, but you give him some grace. 

“Do you like my gown? I had it made when I knew we’d be coming south.” 

It's not the last time you must adjust your wardrobe for the weather. How delighted he is, upon reaching your chambers at the end of a long, hot day, forced into endless meetings with lords who wish to gain favor with the North- as if he was the one whose approval they needed- to find you sprawled out, atop the bedclothes, not a stitch of fabric on you. 

“The heat, dearest, I cannot stand it.” 

You reach for him, and he says a prayer to the old gods and the new before stomping to your bed. He’s no help in cooling you down, but you don’t complain, not when he’s following you into nakedness and climbing into your arms. 

Aerion:

Aerion is obsessed. 

A sort of one-way stalking that slowly takes control over his life. You’re busy; settling grain disputes, meeting with masons, attending to duties of Winterfell with strength and poise appropriate for a woman raised to warden the North. Aerion is your shadow, following behind and watching you with an intensity one can only describe as reptilian. It's enough to make most uncomfortable, and the Prince is no stranger to piercing the young ladies at court with his gaze, but you barely acknowledge the Targaryen. It drives him insane. What woman isn’t instantly drawn to his delicate, Valerian features? 

He throws himself into trying to impress you; ears red and nose dripping from the cold, yet he still tugs his shirt over his head while training in the yard. Aerion knows you're watching from the battlements, looking down your nose with the careful expression that constantly paints your face. He can feel your eyes on him, and it makes him hot. Lithe and wiry, the young dragon impresses you when he knocks down strapping northern boys twice his size. You don’t mention you’re affected, nor do you compliment his swordsmanship, but he preens when you allow him moments of council. 

Every time he moves to speak to you, to get close enough to catch the smell of your evergreen soap you bathe with (he’d spent more than enough time thinking about that), a deep, growling noise startles him. It's primal, the fear that creeps up his spine, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling unguarded. Your direwolf is never far from you, scenting the air and smelling the pampered Prince’s desperation for his lady. It's not that she dislikes him, she's never lunged or snapped at him, it's more that she is completely indifferent- and it's almost worse. Some girl’s silly dog doesn’t see Aerion as a threat? What he doesn’t understand is that the connection between the Starks and their wolves is far deeper than anything a southerner could understand. You thought a Targaryen, so long bound to their dragons, would see the soul-connection with your companion; the way she could sense what you needed, how you felt. She doesn’t read the Prince as a threat because you don’t see him that way. He’s far too busy stewing in his irritation over the Stark sigil still being around to bond with. 

Aerion becomes someone you take to counsel, not because he’s particularly good at strategy, or navigating noble court, but you know he will stand up for what you believe wholeheartedly. You do not need to speak out of turn, to draw attention to the fact that you are a woman ruling Winterfell and there are more than a few lords who think you unqualified. Aerion will happily use that tone of his, the one that means “I don’t respect you and I want you to know it,” to back any claim you make. Misogynistic lords will argue with a lady they believe is playing at being the warden of the North, but who can argue with a Prince? Especially that Prince? Aerion knows he’ll get a kiss, and possibly even a smile, after; he’s ready to swing on any man who tries to discredit his lady Stark. 

Dunk:

A Stark would have more respect for Dunk than most of the southern lords do. Knighthood is intrinsically tied to the Seven, and so the idea of needing the gods to anoint you a knight doesn’t really mean anything to Northerners. It’s his character that determines your admiration for him. Brave, honorable, good-hearted; he’s the type of man you can depend on, and that’s a valued thing when the nights grow long and cold. 

Dunk, like Daeron, falls victim to the intimidation of his Lady Stark. As a noble, there is an uncomfortability in the disparity of your standings. Dunk, while having no problem speaking to those of higher birth, does occasionally fall prey to the incongruence. There is also the notion of your Stark character; direct, clever, just, he’s not used to anyone really acting that way. He’s acutely aware of the horrors the world has to offer, and the cruelty that can come from those with power, seeing you wield your influence (and Ice) with strength and justice throws him for a loop. We see how quickly he idolizes Baelor after showing his character, Dunk just wants a kind, fair lady to follow. 

Dunk is honest to a fault (except for the knight thing lol), and does not appreciate those who lie and scheme to get what they want. Starks of course are known for their honesty- whether it gets them into trouble or not. Treachery is not the true Northern way. When you comment on these attributes, praising his strength and fortitude, pleased with his need to help others, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Ears red, shrugging his shoulders and fumbling with his words. “‘Tis nothin’, m’lady. Only doin’ what's right.” 

You’re not one to give approval when it's not warranted. Because of this, Dunk tucks each little thing you tell him close to his heart. He is utterly devoted to his lady; he acts like he’s your personal guard dog (or wolf), especially when in the south. In true Dunk fashion, he cannot help but confess to you the truth of his knightship. On his knees before you, big blue eyes wet and brows drawn, head hung low, he begs you to forgive him. 

But there is nothing to forgive.

An oath sworn to faraway gods means nothing to those who know real winter. When the storms come, when houses clash, when there is no one to turn to but your own, what use is a man who has only his word to sustain him?

“You have proven yourself through your presence; I know the nature of your heart.” 

He becomes your shadow- a big, hulking shadow, keeping close and surveying crowds with a watchful glance. It's not that you cannot handle yourself, but he finds himself needing to ease any burden he can assist you with. If that means standing between you and danger, so be it. He is especially fond of helping you stay warm. It's all for your safety- obviously. No other reason to peel back the layers of leather and chainmail, linen and fur, to tuck you against his bare chest in your bed. It's his job, really, sworn to protect you, even from the elements. On particularly cold nights, he’ll pull the blankets and furs into a great pile by the fire, wrapping you in his big arms and cradling you close. The winds howl, the snow blows hard against the windows, but you're safe and warm in your knight’s arms.

Baelor:

For a man so proper, so rule-abiding, so utterly fixed toward propriety, Baelor immediately takes a liking to the wild in your veins. It's not that you're carefree, there's a seriousness that comes from understanding the harsh reality of living in the North, but you have no love for the prim rules of court. For that, Baelor finds you endlessly captivating. You wear your hair loose, speak out when you disagree, and handle a bow better than any man in the yard. He’s quick to shut down any unkind word thrown toward you, the Prince’s “Wildling bride,” sent from the North to plead for alliances. 

He can’t quite understand why the other southerners cannot see the beauty in the fierceness, and has little patience, or tolerance, for cruelty toward his betrothed. 

You do not immediately return the gesture. It's no secret the Starks are suspicious of the Valyrian dynasty, and Baelor is the heir, set to inherit a crown and sit on the throne that forced your ancestors to kneel. Initially, you find him trying. Constantly striving for perfection, working long past any other council member, stuck up in the tower of the hand, doing whatever his father says- you imagine. What else would a spoiled, first-born son do but follow in the footsteps of those who came before him? But you watch him anyway, telling yourself it's protecting your people. It's important, of course, to know the man who will one day rule your kingdom; better to understand him now than to guess later down the line.

What you find is a man devoted to the realm, and it's hard to fault him for that. You also observe that he is not as well respected as you would have thought him to be. You roll your eyes at the lords of the Reach, who whisper nonsense about dark hair and Dornish dispositions. It helps you understand him, his need to be the best. To prove to those who doubt him that he’s worthy of the crown. 

He feels your resentment toward him ease. Gone are the days of clipped responses, poor excuses, and snide looks. Baelor can sense you studying him; but instead of the uneasy feeling he’s felt all his life at other nobles watching, he finds himself warmed that you care to know him. You agree with him in a meeting discussing trade agreements, nodding your approval and dismissing the lordling who dared to insinuate Baelor favoring his mother’s kingdom. You ask him to share a meal with you one evening, just the two of you in your chambers, and he can’t quite believe it to be true. He pauses at the door before knocking, straightening his velvet doublet and hoping his hair lays flat. A blush catches on his cheeks when you open the door to find him preening himself. The embarrassment is worth getting to hear you speak unbound to the niceties of court. You can feel the bond forming between you, the northern outsider and the Valyrian Prince who doesn’t look the part, what a pair you make. 

Baelor listens when you talk, so unlike the men who see you as a prize, a ticket to wardenhood- even if it’s in the North. It's not even just a curiosity for the woman who will be his wife, he genuinely wants to know you. The two of you find common ground most easily in nature. Riding out in the cool morning air, sword at his belt the only guard, and the wind whistling the only mindless chatter. He likes to see you in your element like this, a smile on your lips, eyes bright from the exertion, nothing to bind you into the confines of society. He can just be a man, in love with a woman, deep in the King’s Wood. often on your rides, you find yourselves off your horses; Baelor’s fine woolen cloak laid out in the grass, your hands in his hair and his mouth at your neck. He especially likes those mornings.

Lyonel: 

Definition of he fell first AND harder. You’ve heard all about Lyonel Baratheon before you even see him. Whispers traveled up the King’s Road of a beast of a man; wild, lascivious, barbaric, each rumor cruder and more shocking than the next. You knew most of the gossip was just meant to frighten you, a young wolf traveling south to your betrothed. Surely a knight had more honor than what was spoken of him, but it did not stop your trepidation.

He finds you in the misty gardens of Storm’s End, bracing yourself on a low branch, attempting to hop the garden wall. 

“My lady, are you in need of assistance?” 

You spin, silver gown whipping around your feet, to see a handsome stranger leaning against the archway. His blue eyes watch you playfully, and there's an easy grin across his lips. You don’t return the gesture. 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. No need to stare.” 

Hastily, you turn back to your task at hand, so rarely does a man’s smile alone shake a woman of Winterfell. You hear a shout from behind:

“What is it you’re doing?” 

Eyes roll, is it not obvious? 

“Nothing.” 

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” 

You huffed, your attempts at climbing the lattice proving futile. It did not help the penetrating stare of your gawker, boring into the back of your head. 

“Are you afraid of him, then?” 

His words made you pause. 

“Afraid? No. It is only that I have no desire to marry a silly southern knight. No doubt he’s off drinking or whoring right now, what kind of a life for a lady is that?” You say, haughtily, struggling again to climb the rain-slick branches. 

A glower paints your face when you hear him laugh. A deep, thunderous thing, rolling off his tongue in a way that makes your heart quicken. You turn, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep your upper hand. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to choke out a response.

“My dear lady, I can assure you that Ser Lyonel is, at least mostly, sober at the moment, and far from any brothel. Though I’m sure if the lady was willing, he would be happy to be of service.” 

Like any Lyonel romance, he is the ultimate ragebaiter. He loves to push your buttons, seeing how far he can take a joke before you snap. Sometimes it's well thought out, playing into your serious tone and pretending to be on the same page until you see a tell-tale glint in his eye. Other days, he's immediately doing what comes to mind; a quick tug on a braid, scooping you up from behind while you're focused, taking something out of your hands and holding it above your head. He doesn't mind if you growl, if you slap his arm or bite, he is thrilled to have your attention on him. Gods help any southern courtiers who try to do the same, commenting on the strange northern customs or the stoic set of your face, Lyonel goes from his usual smile to needing to be restrained. 

He is constantly at your elbow, ready to speak enough for the two of you. He adores it when you take his arm, not because you need it, but because you’re laying a claim on him. Lyonel loves too, to grab you up in his big arms and smother your face in kisses. There's a particular joy in you grumbling about distractions and decorum, but he can always feel you nuzzling closer. 

(Of course inspired by the scene in Queen Charlotte.)