Emma

———————

You didn’t know what you were expecting when you went to get your daughter, Sarra, from her room for her afternoon lessons, but you certainly weren’t expecting to see Cregan, your very large husband, trying to sit on one of the little chairs around her little table. He had shedded his fur cloak in favor of one of her small summertime cloaks that had been dyed pink. It hardly went down past his broad shoulders but you assumed he was simply wearing it to get more in character. Sarra had also placed a flower crown on his head that she had made herself and in his hands, he held a small tea cup.

You leaned on the door to just watch, not wanting to interrupt the sweet moment.

“Lady Sarra, may I have another cup of tea? All of this…” he leans close to whisper, “gossiping,” he leans back, “has made me in dire need of a drink.”

Sarra giggles and obliges, “Oh but how could you not gossip after you saw what Lady Littlefoot was wearing?”

He hums, “So last season.”

“And did you hear about the potential betrothal between her and Lord Knight?”

You cover your mouth with your hand, they weren’t talking about real people, no. They were talking about her dolls. Lady Littlefoot had been your first attempt at sewing a doll and while it went well enough, the feet were much too small proportionally. Lord Knight was the small wooden carved figure Cregan had given her. In a way, they almost represented you and him.

Cregan sips his tea, “I had thought they were already promised to one another.”

“Gosh no,” Sarra laughs, “have you not heard? Lord Knight has been trying to court her for ages with all sorts of gifts…”

“As any man should,” Cregan interrupts her and you know in that moment he is not speaking of Lord Knight and Lady Littlefoot but speaking directly to Sarra, “any man actually worth consideration.”

Sarra grins, showing off the gap from where her tooth had fallen out, “Of course! But Lady Littlefoot is very…”

“Particular?” Cregan offers.

“What’s that mean?”

“If someone is particular it means they like things a certain way, things almost need to be that way for them. Like how you have all your dolls in very specific spots they must go in.”

Sarra nods, “Yes! Lady Littlefoot is particular.”

“Well perhaps Lord Knight needs to step up his act, maybe he is not doing enough.”

Your daughter sets her tea cup down and takes her own flower crown off, setting it on the table, signaling she was done playing tea party, “Father, how did you court mother?”

Cregan smiles and sets down his own tea cup, “I courted her for years… we would go on walks together into the woods—with a chaperone, of course—and I would bring her the finest furs I could, jewelry as well, and brooches for her cloaks.”

Sarra is in awe at the information but quickly furrows her brows, “How long did it take mother to agree?”

“She agreed after a few months…” Cregan trails off, remembering the day you had said yes in the Godswood and when the chaperone had turned around for a split second you placed a quick peck on his lips.

“And you still courted her after that?” Sarra asks, a bit confused.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be called courting at that point… but yes, I continued to gift her things and I still do to this day… I wanted and still want to show her that I care in that way, I still do and I will til the day I meet the Gods.”

“What if when I am courted, the man does not—“

“You are many years away from being courted,” Cregan cuts her off, “but when you are, whatever Lord tries will have to meet my approval and your mothers, and most importantly… yours.”

Sarra throws herself into her fathers arms, “I love you, father.”

“I love you too, little wolf.”

It is when your daughter pulls back from her father’s embrace that she notices you standing by the door.

“Mother!” she shouts, scurrying out of her fathers arms and runs to you, wrapping her arms around your waist.

You pick Sarra up and hold her on your hip, she was not as little as she was when she was just a babe so, unfortunately, you knew your side and back would hurt later. Cregan smiles, quickly standing from the little chair to walk over to you and your daughter. He presses a kiss to your forehead and one to Sarra’s.

“It is time for your lessons,” you smile at Sarra before setting her back down. She immediately ran out of the door and off to where her lessons would take place, leaving you and Cregan alone.

You rubbed your side, dramatically, making Cregan chuckle. He pulls you to his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head while he now rubbed your side.

“She is not as little as she once was,” you pout, happy yet sad to see your little girl was growing up.

“No, she is not,” Cregan sighs, pulling back to look at your face, he brushes the hair from your face and grins, “we could always have another pup.”

“I can not lie and say I have not thought about it…” you admit shyly before pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

When you pull back you tug at the pink cloak he still wore, “the pink compliments your eyes, you know.”

He raises a brow, clearly amused, “Perhaps I will add the color to my wardrobe.”

You fake gasp, “Oh but you couldn’t, this particular shade is very last season… you wouldn’t want to look like Lady Littlefoot.”

“Well, Lord Knight thinks Lady Littlefoot looks beautiful regardless of the season of her dress.”

“Is that so, my lord?”

“It is, my lady.”

i imagine him as having a few boys, maybe two or three, before your daughter is born. so, when cregan hears the maester's declaration of "it's a girl, lord stark" his heart stops for a brief moment. he knows how to deal with boys. they're easier to raise than girls, though his sons can be a bit rowdy at times. and his little girl looks so tiny in his big hands. it does take a bit of reassurance from you that he won't just break her. she is delicate, but no more than her brothers when they were newborns.

back to how tiny she is. cregan's daughter is a lot smaller than his sons were. healthy, of course, but almost small enough to fit entirely in the palm of his hand at a few days old. he is sure he has never felt more protective. this little life is entirely dependent on her mother and father, and cregan already knows that he'd fight heaven and hell, a hoard of dragons, an army of men, single-handedly if it meant keeping his daughter safe. he's always been protective of his family, but this new addition only triples that wolfish instinct.

he loves to simply hold his daughter. cregan could spend hours looking at his babe, studying her downy locks and the roundness of her cheeks. the way her little eyelashes kiss her cheeks when she sleeps. the shape of her lips. the color of her eyes. "she looks just like you, my lady," he's probably said the same thing for all of your older children, but cregan truly means it this time. "lovely."

he had never been so adamant about holding one of his kids before. cregan loved the sight of you, all motherly and soft and gentle with them, but he will hold his daughter as much as possible. good luck getting her back. when she isn't feeding, sleeping in her cradle, or needing her mother specifically, you bet she's right there in his arms. he can sit for hours as he works in his solar, answering letters and working on the endless amount of paperwork that comes with being the warden of the north. he'll have the babe tucked into the crook of his arm as he writes, her soft snores a gentle ambience. cregan isn't afraid to show off fatherhood either. whenever his sons ask, he'll sit one in his lap during council meetings so they can play at being the future head of the house. but before his girl is old enough to even speak, he'll hold her during meetings or conversations with his vassal houses. she'll be nestled right in his arms, peacefully asleep or watching her daddy with bright eyes as he talks. (he wouldn't admit it but he does like to show his children off) it's funny to see their stoic lord stark, as big and intimidating as he is, holding a tiny bundle in his arms as she babbles or sleeps.

when she starts teething he'll literally just let her gnaw on him. his hands, his fingers, his face. whatever.

and when she says her first word, good lord. your sons' first words had been "mama." cregan would never say so aloud, but he was a teensy little bit jealous. but his daughter's first word is "papa." just how he cried when he first held her, he'll probably cry then, too. cregan is known as being cold and stoic, his nature formed from the responsibilities that were thrust onto him when he was so young, but his family always gets to see his softer side. his children are what keep his heart beating in his chest. and he may say that he doesn't pick favorites, but his little girl always has a special place in his heart.

taglist: @snow-blower @oldtowrs @konigslittleliebling @nlnny @joygrey

The sword he'd just thrusted through the body of the leader of this revolt twisted in a sickly manner.

"I. Have Had. Enough."

…

Blood rained through the castle, the best swordsman in the Realm killing off each last one that dared to fight him. If there was ever a part of him that hurt to kill his own Northman, it never showed. 

He swung his family longsword with ease. The ache in his biceps only pushed him harder. 

He won a war for the Targaryens while neglected the battle within his own castle. 

There was nothing that would stop him.

The Wolf was true to his name. Adapted for hunting. Powerful, large. Deadly.

One of them offered mercy, saying, "our leader is dead. Let us have peace now that we are not a threat." He bowed low, "Let's have open arms instead."

Cregan stepped closer, reaching out and grabbed the man by the hair to tip his head up. He leaned down to make close eye contact. A fire burned behind his eyes. 

"No."

…

Once finished, his finally dropped the bloody sword. It clashed against the stone floor loudly.

Blood stained his fur cloak, sleeves, armor, and skin up his neck. 

He sighed, looking less than he'd hoped for his bride.

But as the silence settled, light, hurried steps echoed through the corridors until it stopped on the main staircase. "Cregan?"

His eyes closed in bliss, a deep comfort finally settling into his chest for the first time in two years with the sound of her voice. 

He turned, taking his time to absorb this moment. 

His wife stood at the top of the main staircase. 

She was different. More grown. Her hair was longer, her body more full in ways, soft and gentle. Her brows lifted as they made eye contact. 

The tips of his lips quirked up, his stance adjusting, "My love."

A hand moved to her chest, as if to soothe herself. The other rested against the railing of the staircase. "You look different," she acknowledged softly before beginning to very slowly descend down the stairs. "Is it really you?"

He stepped forward before stopping himself as the shame and guilt set in of what he'd done for the Crown. "I am not the man you loved, sweet girl. Things are… different now."

She paused, confusion sweeping over her once relieved features. "Different?"

"I have done things. Awful things I'd never tell you."

"You did what you were trusted to do. That doesn't make you a bad man, Cregan." Her voice gained confidence for the both of them. "You're not a bad man."

"You don't know what I did." His head shook in hurt. "The men I killed. I'm heartless. Ruthless."

"No," her voice quieted. "You…" she hesitated. "You've come back. That is what matters." She continued down the stairs to him. "Oh, I prayed for your safe return every evening—"

"Don't," he interrupts when she gets close, stepping back. "I am not who I was."

"You are my husband," she whispered. "The Lord Stark. The fierce Wolf of the North."

"I am. But I'm not your Cregan. Forgive me." His head tips down before bending to one knee before her. "You would be a foolish woman to accept and fall for me again. But I humbly ask for your intelligent mind to be foolish once. Love me anew, if your heart allows. If not, I would never fault you."

It's a long and painful silence. Her shoes come into his sight before her hand cups his chin and tips his head up. The mere brush of her soft skin against his own made his breath catch. 

"Your scruff has grown so."

That pulls a smile and a low chuckle from him. His bloody hand comes up and pauses millimeters from her wrist. "I… I've missed you, my girl."

She brushes his long hair from his forehead with her other hand. "How long has it been?"

He has to physically swallow. "Two years."

"What did you do?"

He finally lets his hand clasp her wrist. "You would never love me if you knew."

"I would," she quietly counters. Oh, how her soft voice could quiet unruly storms in his heart. "I would love you as I always have, Cregan."

"I can't let you. But perhaps, I can let you fall in love with me, as I am? Now?"

"You're truly not my Cregan?" She finally relents.

He stands, catching both of her hands in his own. "My love for you remains. But the rest of me, my girl… it's tainted. I could never allow myself to drag you through such a foul marriage now, ruined by my hunger and spoil of war."

"Then," she says, her head tilted in thought. "Perhaps you could do something for me?"

His interest peaked, like a dog's ears perking at a curious sound. "Anything."

"My cloak. Would you take it? Burn it for me? Its time is through."

"Your fur cloak?" He asked incredulously, a sudden insulted look flooding his features.

"Oh, yes. Would you?" 

"Your wedding cloak? The one I wrapped over your shoulders the day you became mine? Burn?" His grip tightened. "How could you ask something so horrid? I hunted that dire wolf myself. I carried it through the Godswood muttering to whatever gods were listening that I could be enough for you once I had your hand. That I could be proper." His eyes searched hers for an antidote to his worries. "You would have it burned?"

Her eyes softened. "Only my Cregan knows that. Does that make him you?"

His jaw slackens. 

"When I donned my wedding cloak, Cregan Stark, I vowed to remain yours. Not of duty, or sacrifice, but of love and devotion." She pressed herself against his chest. "You would have me break that vow?"

"No," he rushed. "N—" he paused, letting the worry from his chest absolve. "You clever girl."

"I waited for you so long, Cregan." Her face neared his, her eyes venturing over the sight of his lips. "Years without your touch. Thinking of your skin marred that I could not mend. Your broad shoulders as swing your sword. Your lips as—" she stops. 

He smiles. "As what, sweet wife?"

"I love you."

Having enough, his cups the back of her head and her waist and crashes his lips against hers.

She gasps in the kiss, her hands resting on his biceps as she stands on her tiptoes to get closer.

His bloody hands clung to her like a lifeline. Heavy breaths between kisses as he took all he could. "My p— My perfect wife," he pants between kisses. "All mine, huh?"

When she leans towards him to connect their lips yet again, he leans away just enough to tease. "Are you all mine, Lady Stark?" He whispers.

"Yes," immediately spills from her lips.

"All of it, every drop of blood I spilled, was to bring me home to you."

The dull ache in his muscles could wait. 

The bloody war was over and won by the same Northern Wolf that left two years ago.

...........................................................