Emma

"Oh! Let me feed you."

You shove a fry into Jack's mouth. He chews slowly, breathing low while the neon light above him catches all the silver of his hair and the lines of his face, besides his eyes and around his mouth.

"Is the kid trying to get herself thrown over my shoulder?"

You put a hand to your stomach and bear a shit-eating grin. "This is all it takes? Have another."

You shove another fry against his lips with your chest pressing into his bicep.

Fucking evil is what you are.

Jack decides, with how much you've drank...and with how little you're walking properly, that three bars is enough.

"I wanna bite your nose. Lemme bite your nose."

Jack wraps one arm around your waist and leads you outside, grip tight enough to remind your drunk, perfect, frustrating body that it has a place to lean on.

"Time to go. You're done hopping."

"Noooo. You're a bar hop hater."

You let him steer you outside anyway, mostly because his hand is big and warm at the small of your back. The night air hits your cheeks in a cool wave.

"Sorry, I'm trying to keep you from puking in my truck. I'd call that pretty loving. Of you. And my truck."

The sidewalk is slight from an hour-ago drizzle as the rest of Pittsburgh glows around you, which makes the brick wall outside the bar look so, so pretty.

This is where you live now. On this beautiful brick wall.

"You're shivering, Sleepy. I told you to bring a jacket."

Jack stands in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, and his scowl doesn't scare you. You'll turn it into a smile soon enough.

"I'm shivering with nightlife---ah! Wait. Come here. You're a genius, you just gave me the perfect idea."

The revelation blooms, watered by alcohol and soiled with the manipulation of Jack's words.

You lift both arms. "Pleaseeee."

The tone of your plea always works on him, and he steps closer, grumbling under his breath. Dr. Jack Audrey Abbot is a liar. A weak man when it comes to you making grabby hands at him.

You catch his wrists and tug. He lets you, and for some reason, those videos of big dogs being dressed up by babies come to mind.

"Arms. Around me. Now. Thank you."

Your voice goes high and airy with your thanks, as if you haven't just given Jack a command that you already expect him to follow, but you're not wrong to.

Jack wraps both arms around you, one settling on your upper back and the other around your waist. He pulls you in until your cheek squishes against his chest.

The Jack-formed bulk of him blocks the wind. Your sigh is only made up of bliss.

You nuzzle into him.

"So much better."

"Maybe next time you’ll listen to me. I buy you a bajillion jackets, and for what? Guess they make the coat rack look useful."

You don’t answer right away...because Jack's just mentioned jackets.

Suddenly, you're having the greatest thought anyone has ever had in the history of having a brain. Your eyes widen against his shirt as you gasp.

Jack stiffens. You pull back just enough to look up at him, face bright, maybe too much for his liking.

"You’re my JACKet."

And despite your gracious reveal of a genius pun, Jack only stares. Unblinking. Whatever, you're already laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world.

It is.

"My JACKet. Because your name is Jack, and you’re being a jacket. Oh my God. Jackie. Jackie, did you get it?"

Jack's eyes drop and once over you as you laugh so hard you nearly fall forward, except Jack’s arms hold you up. That only makes it funnier. Your actual human JACKet is keeping you from collapsing over your own joke.

Life is good. You've got the hottest, most mature jacket in the whole wide world, and he's looking at you like he wants to eat you.

"...I got it, baby."

"Because you’re Jack. And a jacket. JACKet." You slap his chest weakly. "I have to...I have to copyright that. Will you help me when we get home?"

Jack sighs as low as where his eyes find you, only before they find your face again. And okay, maybe you're a little too drunk to realize his mouth is twitching again.

"Sure, baby."

That, and you're now aware of how warm you are. Jack's a good jacket, but now your priority is not to lose weight in sweat. You wriggle.

"Okay. I’m not cold anymore. You can let go."

You wait for Jack to release, but with every second that goes by, he only pulls you in tighter.

How dare he not listen to you?

You squirm again, whining, pushing too weakly at his chest again. "Jackie. You're too warm now. Let go."

Jack shrugs.

"You made me your jacket. I’m committed to the role. Should’ve thought of that before branding me."

You whine again, and louder when he smacks your ass. He stops it from jiggling with a harsh grope.

"No whining. You’re the one who wanted arms. You get all loose and happy, start wobbling around the sidewalk, calling me outerwear. Yeah, I’m gonna hold on."

He brushes his mouth against your forehead. You don't think it's a kiss, but you're not sober enough to realize he's trying not to devour you right on the sidewalk.

Jack’s mouth brushes your hairline. Not quite a kiss. Worse. Softer. Like he’s trying not to devour the drunk sweetness out of the moment.

"Humor me, as you've been doing for the past ten minutes."

It's only the city that feels very far off from the brick wall from where he's decided to hold you hostage, his body his own wall against the wind, and his heartbeat against your ear.

You smile into his chest.

"Whatever you say, my jacket."

The sun shines into the room and tickles Cregan's nose. He grimaces. Doesn't want to open his eyes yet, so he turns onto his other side and reaches his hand out. But instead of feeling your warm body next to his, Cregan just touches the cold sheets. His eyes fly open. A slight headache throbs at his temple as he stares at your empty side of the bed.

Is it that late already?

He rubs his face, tiredness pulling him back into the soft pillows, but he overcomes himself and pushes himself out of bed. Without his wife beside him, there's no point in staying in bed any longer. Cregan stretches, rolls his shoulders slightly, then pulls a shirt over his torso.

A glance at the sun tells him that the day isn't far advanced. Nevertheless, there's no trace of you in your chambers.

Cregan turns away from the bright sunlight, walks over to the bowl of water on the dresser, and splashes a handful on his face. The cold water feels good, but the tiredness still lingers in his bones.

He shouldn't had the last whiskey last night. However, the card game was too tempting, and so Cregan stayed with his Lords longer than planned.

Cregan gets dressed to set off to break his fast. When he arrives in the hall he expects to find you there with Rickon, but he is disappointed. He asks a servant for you. You went down to the town with Rickon to visit the market. So Cregan breaks his fast alone and then devotes himself to his duties as Warden of the North.

Later a messenger tells him that you are back in the castle. Although everything in him longs to go to you, he must first answer the letters in front of him.

When he arrives for dinner, he's almost relieved to see you sitting at the high table next to Rickon. His footsteps quickly lead him up the few steps to his seat.

Cregan leans forward to kiss you on the lips, just at that second you turn to Rickon, so his lips only land on your cheek. For a heartbeat Cregan thinks you deliberately avoided him, but why would you? The Lord of Winterfell tries to banish the uneasy feeling. However, a spark of doubt lingers in the back of his mind as he sinks into his seat next to you.

Are you mad at him? Because it was late yesterday? No, then you would have told him a thing or two yesterday when he accidentally woke you by dropping his belt and sword with a clatter to the floor while undressing. Yesterday, you giggled and welcomed him into your bed. The goodnight kiss you gave Cregan quickly turned passionate, and when you moaned softly, he was gone.

"I hope you slept well, my Love." your gentle voice pulls him from his thoughts of last night, and he looks at you. You smile at him, but the slight nagging in the back of his mind doesn't go away.

"Honestly; no. I don't sleep well unless you're lying next to me, my Heart."

You give him a smile, his heart stumbles in his chest for a moment. He can't tear his eyes away from his beautiful wife.

"I'm sorry, but I promised Rickon I would take him to the market so he could pick out a new toy. As a reward for his good progress in reading." your voice takes on a hint of pride as you stroke Rickon's dark curls. At the sight of his family a warm feeling spreads through Cregan. You love Rickon like he is your own blood. Cregan is glad for it every day. You turn away from Rickon. Place your fork on your empty plate and lower your voice a little before continuing. "The butcher told me that meat is so expensive at the moment because a pack of wolves is causing trouble."

Cregan smiles at you reassuringly. "Don't worry, we are currently training the dogs. I've got it under control." he suppresses his slight anger at the butcher for bothering you with this. Taking care of such matters is his job. Not his wife's. You shouldn´t have a care in the world. 

You nod. "That's good. We should still make sure that meat prices go down again, perhaps by giving the hunters subsidies. So close to winter our people shouldn´t already have to abstain. Hunger will come soon enough."

"I'll discuss it with the master and the treasurer. Thank you, my Heart."

Servants clear your plate, and the nanny fetches Rickon to take him to the nursery. You stay seated next to him and wait until Cregan has finished his meal.

To ensure Rickon has a regular daily routine, dinner is served even without the Lord of the castle.

The familiar routine almost makes Cregan forget the strange feeling in this mind. 

"You said Rickon is making progress with reading aloud?" Cregan asks. Even though he would like to be more involved in Rickon's upbringing, his duties as Lord of Winterfell often keep him away.

"Yes. He's also stopped skipping longer words," you say with a slight smile. "Counting is giving him trouble." you glance at him sideway as you start to giggle. "He is like his father in that."

Cregan tries to hide his laughter in a snort. "I miscalculated once." he reaches for your hand, out of habit, but you suddenly reach for your cup of wine.

Cregan wants to think it was just a coincidence again. However, the way your hand is shaking tells him otherwise. His jaw clenches uncomfortably. His laughter has vanished, and he feels tension creeping through his shoulders as his brain begins to replay every moment of the last few days you have spent together. Trying to figure out how he could have upset you. He knows something's wrong, but he doesn't know what exactly.

Of course you have noticed his change in mood and start fiddling with the rings on your fingers as you slide back in your chair. An uncomfortable silence spreads between you.

Cregan can handle this unfamiliar situation for exactly three heartbeats before he says the first thing that comes to his mind. "I'm meeting with the saddler right now. He's fitted a new saddle to my stallion.He wants me to try it out." You look at him expectantly, as if you don't know what to say. "Would you like to join me for a little ride?" he suggests. Having to concentrate so his voice doesn't sound desperate. Maybe that way he can figure out what had upset you.

"No, I'm meeting Sara." you answer. For the first time in your marriage Cregan isn't sure if you telling him the truth. "But I have a moment now. I will accompany you to the stables if you like that?"

Relief washes over him like a wave. "Of course." he smiles at you and quickly finishes his meal.

Cregan first descends the few steps from the platform and then tries to reach for your hand like he does every day, but he stops himself. Obviously you don't want to be touched by him. But why? He still hasn't found an answer. Cregan suppresses a frustrated sigh. Instead, he holds out his arm. You falter for two heartbeats. Then a smile creeps onto your lips and you place your hand on his arm.

You walk side by side through the corridors of your home toward the stables. Cregan watches you out of the corner of his eye. You look absently at the path ahead. From the way you slightly furrow your eyebrows he can tell you are deep in thought. He wishes he could read your mind.

Cregan concentrates on the path for the both of you, and when you arrive at the outer gate, two servants with cloaks are already waiting for you. After Cregan has put on his cloak, the servant tries to hand him your cloak so that Cregan can put it over your shoulders. Like he always does. Suddenly he's no longer sure if you want that. He stops and looks at you. You give him a smile and then take your cloak from the servant and put it on yourself. Cregan feels the gaze of the servants and guards on his neck as you step out into the courtyard together. The cold air immediately turns your cheeks and nose slightly red so you take a step closer to Cregan. His heart leaps and butterflies flutter in his stomach as your arm brushes against his. Like a little boy in love he smiles down at you and revels in the sight of you.

You feel his gaze on you and look up at him. Cregan is about to open his mouth to tell you how beautiful you are when the saddler calls him and approaches with his already waiting horse.

Cregan turns to him with a heavy heart and takes the reins.

"Be careful, my Love," you say, and then, to Cregan's complete surprise, you stand on your tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his lips. "Come back safely."

"Always," he promises you, just like every time you say goodbye. Cregan mounts his horse and rides off.

He is grateful that his horse walks the familiar path without instructions. Cregans thoughts are a mess. He doesn't understand your behavior. Did he do something wrong? Or not?

Was it all just a coincidence? His head starts pounding again.

Cregan doesn't feel like he's getting any closer to the solution, even as he extends his ride a little. His thoughts keep coming back to the same point.

The hoped-for solution doesn't come.

The Lord of Winterfell has only one option: He has to talk to you.

Because he returns later than he had planned, he is behind schedule. And because duty comes before love, Cregan has to suppress the urge to run to you immediately to clear everything up.

Cregan doesn't see you again until you arrive in your chambers that evening. He's taking a bath. Your chambers are lit only by a few candles.

"Hello, my Heart," he greets you as you close the door behind you and take off your cloak.

"Hello, my Love," you say. Cregan watches as you go through the room and begin to undo your braids. "I just put Rickon to bed. How was the ride? Do any adjustments need to be made?" you begin to change for the night as you speak. 

Cregan was so lost in thought during his ride that he didn't pay any attention to the saddle at all.

"The ride was good," he answers anyway. Only when you completely got yourself ready and disappeared behind the doors into your bedroom does Cregan notice that you didn't kiss him.

He sighs and slides so far down in the bathtub that his head is underwater. He wants to scream. He just needs to know what is going on. This isn't something that can put off until tomorrow. There is nothing you two can't talk about.

Determined the Lord of Winterfell emerges from the water and gets out of the tub. He quickly dries himself off and dresses for the night. He takes a moment to collect himself, putting his frustration aside. There is no way he will take it out on his sweet wife.

When he enters your bedroom it is also lit by soft candlelight. You are already lying in bed under the warm furs, however when Cregan closes the door behind him you sit up a little. Tension weaves through the room. It makes his skin crawl.

You start picking at your nail beds, now that you are no longer wearing rings to distract you. Nevertheless, you look him in the eyes and take a deep breath.

Cregan holds back his questions. Giving you time to collect yourself.

You press your lips together. Cregan is becoming more nervous with each moment. It feels like he stands right in front of a blizzard, unable to move. He is burning to find out what's going on, to talk everything out that stands between you. His gaze goes to your fingers. Your nail beds are already bloody. Cregan can't bear the sight.

"Please don't pick, my Heart," he says quietly. You immediately stop. Placing your hands in your lap.

"Cregan," you begin after a moment of silence, your voice trembling. He immediately looks into your eyes again. Tears gather in them. Cregan's heart sinks into his stomach. "Last night you were rough and you hurt me." you swallow and take a deep breath.

Cregans whole body goes ice cold as his heart clenches painfully with guilt. The next breath is heavy. He takes a step toward you but stops the next moment. You probably don't want him anywhere near you. His eyes burn so he has to blink.

His thoughts race back to last night. He was drunk. But not so drunk that he imagined your moans. You pulled him closer, your legs wrapped around his waist, right? His thoughts are unclear, slightly clouded by the alcohol. Did he imagine all this? How could he? Cregan has to swallow acid.

"My heart," he begins, but you interrupt him.

"No, wait, please, I have something else to say. Please let me finish. I want to tell you this." your voice still trembles, but you hold his gaze. Cregan immediately closes his mouth again and looks at you, waiting for you to collect your thoughts and continue speaking. Cregan hates that your voice trembles when you speak to him. It should never be like this between you. You two love each other. The thought that you are afraid of him makes him sick. But your fear is justified. He hurt you. He wants to fall to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. "I know you were drunk. I know you didn't mean to hurt me, Cregan. It's just…" you swallow, forcing the words out of your mouth. "I was afraid to say something because I thought it would upset you." you sob quietly, lower your gaze and clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle your sobs.

Everything in Cregan is screaming to take you in his arms and wipe away your tears. He knows that is the last thing you need right now. So he plants his feet in the ground as cold fear courses through his veins. He feels as if he will break under the weight of his guilt. He has to swallow before he can ask the question. Even if he already panics about the answer. 

"My Love, please be honest with me. Have I ever given you any reason to fear that your rejection in the marital bed would upset me? Would be something that isn't entirely fine?" this time it is his voice that trembles.

You gasp in shock and shake your head. "No. No, of course not," you say, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You take a deep breath trying to compose yourself. "No, I didn't mean it like that. I..." you interrupt yourself. You look at him as tears stream down your cheeks again. You start to speak again, but only stutter. "I..." it seems like you don't quite know how to express your thoughts. "My mother, she..." again you pause. Cregan tries to make some sense of your words. He fails.

It takes three heartbeats for you to gather your thoughts. This time when you speak, your voice is calm. "I wanted to share our bed with you yesterday. You didn't force me."  it is a statement, and a tiny bit of guilt lifts from Cregan's shoulders. Still, his heart aches. He hates himself, will never be able to forgive himself for hurting you. "It was beautiful. But then suddenly everything was too much. It was too warm, your breath smelled a little too much of whiskey, the fur tickled. I really wanted to say something. But then I suddenly remembered what my mother said. "Your comfort isn't important as long as you give your husband pleasure." I heard her voice so clearly as if she had been standing next to me and I froze," you explain. "So I just endured it until you were done."

Cregan's mouth goes dry. It feels like you have shoved a sword into his chest. His heart shatters when you use the word "endure" to describe sex with him. It shakes him to his core. Guilt and shame wash over him like a wave.

For a heartbeat he is angry at you for not saying anything. He quickly shakes off the feeling. It is not your fault. Your mother made you believe it. He can't believe your mother said such a thing to you.

You look at him. It takes Cregan a moment to understand that you're waiting for him to say something. "I'm so terribly sorry. I should have known."

You shake your head. "No. You can't read minds."

"Your comfort is above everything. Even above my life," Cregan clarifies, it feels like a vow.

A smile twitches on your lips, but tears still well up in your eyes. You reach out your hand to him. "Please come to me."

His body reacts automatically and moves toward you before his brain has even properly processed your words. He gently takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. You smile slightly and pat his side of the bed with your free hand.

Relief spreads through him when you allow him to climb into bed next to you. He leans against the headboard, turning his head slightly to the side to look at you. You look at your intertwined fingers drawing invisible patterns with your thumb.

"My heart please look at me” he begs. You raise your gaze again. Cregan tries to read every emotion in your expression. "Please. In the future, please let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable. Your mother is wrong. I only find fulfillment in your pleasure. Stop paying attention to her words." he wants to get through to you, even though he knows he can't just wipe away years of upbringing.

"It's hard. She told this things all the time, like a lullaby. Bear everything your husband does in silence. Anger, arguing, screaming, crying. It will only make it worse. Be quiet and endur it. Try to make your husband happy. His comfort matters, his pleasure matters," you repeat her words. "I can't even be angry with her," you almost sigh.

"I am angry with her," Cregan admits.

"It was her way of protecting my sister and me. From false hope and disappointment. She thought she was doing the right thing. My father isn't a nice man. You know that."

Cregan nods. "Will you hit me if we fight?" You hadn't been married for a week when you asked him that. You weren't afraid. Just wanted to know what to expect. As if being hit by your husband was the most normal thing in the world for you. Cregan was deeply shaken by your question. Only weeks later, when you opened up to him completely about your family, did he fully understand why you had asked him that.

As Warden of the North he could do little more than write a letter to Lord Tully about his lord's behavior. The letter remained unanswered.

"Are you afraid I'll become like your father?" his voice sounds rough.

You suddenly laugh and look at him as if he's gone crazy. "You couldn't be further from becoming like my father. I know that, Cregan. I love you. And you love me, I know all that. Yet all I could think about was my mother's words. It's stupid, I know." you sigh.

"It's not stupid," he assures you. He himself still struggles sometimes with the feeling of not being enough, of not fulfilling his duties as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Just as his uncle had told him for years to prepare for his own rise to power. "I only wish you hadn't had to hear all of this."

Now you shrug. "I was lucky," you whisper softly. Cregan's heart sinks. He hurt you last night, and despite that you hold him high. You describe yourself as the lucky one. But you are the one who brings happiness to every moment of Cregan's life. He should thank the gods everyday that they bring you into his life.

"What can I do to make it right?" he knows there is nothing. He will always carry his guilt with him. Let it be a constant reminder to be more attentive, more careful, a better husband.

"There's nothing to make up for, Cregan. Just today. You didn't know what was going on, but you understood. You gave me all the space I needed. You are the proof that my mother has no idea what a marriage should be like. What a husband should be like."

"How can I be a good husband if I hurt my wife?" guilt and pain seeps into his voice.

You stroke his hand, say his name and wait until he looks at you again.“My father beats my mother if she steps even half a step out of line. My sister bled for three days after her wedding night and cried for even longer. Her letters are full of bitterness about her cruel husband. My cousin died in childbirth because her husband forced himself on her again shortly after giving birth, so she became pregnant again before her body could properly heal. The only thing my aunt said about it was that this is the life of a wife." you take a shaky breath as your grip on his hand tightens slightly. This time it's Cregan who gently strokes your skin with his thumb. "And I have you. I never felt pressure from you to lie with you. Your desire for me, yes. But never an expectation. You give me so much love, Cregan,” you say softly. “You are caring, gentle, would never raise your voice against me, never your hand. You love me. And you show me every day that you love me. I pity them that they are so unlucky and I'm so lucky. And sometimes I feel guilty. But nothing could ever make me regret having you as my husband. I love you so much, Cregan. You make me feel safe. Yes, you hurt me. But not because you were mean or wanted to hurt me. It was an accident."

Your words settle like a gentle veil over his heart. He turns his body slightly toward you, about to place his hand on your cheek but stops just before he does. He feels the warmth of your skin. You lean into his touch. Cregan gently caress your cheek.

"May I kiss you?" he asks softly, not wanting to overstep.

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.

The snow fell lightly over Winterfell, a soft veil that hushed the world and turned the ancient stones of the keep into something almost gentle. Lord Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard near the stables, cloak heavy on his broad shoulders, breath curling white in the chill air as he spoke with one of the master-at-arms about the training of the newest recruits. Winter was always coming, and the North remembered its duties even in moments of relative peace.

A small figure darted between the legs of the horses and grooms, clutching something carefully in both mittened hands. The boy could not have been more than six, cheeks flushed red from the cold, dark hair poking out from beneath a wool cap. He stopped before Cregan, tilting his head back to look up at the towering lord with the fearless innocence only children possess.

“Lord Stark,” the boy piped, voice clear despite the way his teeth nearly chattered. “Where’s Lady Stark? I brought her a winter rose from the glass gardens. It bloomed just this morning, and Ma says they’re her favorite.”

Cregan’s grey eyes flicked down, one dark brow rising. A flicker of amusement softened the stern line of his mouth, though he kept his expression mostly solemn. The North did not smile easily, even at small wonders. “I have no wife, lad,” he said, voice low and steady as the rumble of distant thunder. “You must be mistaken.”

The boy shook his head vigorously, undeterred. He lifted the flower—a delicate thing of pale blue petals edged in frost, still impossibly alive in the biting cold. “But I seen her! She’s Lady Stark. She’s real pretty, with kind eyes that crinkle when she laughs. And her hair—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, nearly dropping the rose—“it catches the light like it’s got snow in it, even when it don’t. She talks to me when I help Da with the horses. Calls me ‘little lord’ sometimes and asks if the mares are foaling true. She even mended my cloak last week when I tore it on a nail. Said the North needs strong lads with warm backs.”

Cregan felt something shift in his chest, quiet as a wolf’s step in fresh powder. He knew exactly who the boy meant. You. The lady who had come into his household seasons ago—first as a guest of honor from a lesser Northern house, then somehow becoming part of the very rhythm of Winterfell. You often walked the glass gardens with the maesters, tended to the smallfolk without ceremony, and met his gaze across the high table with a steadiness that unsettled and steadied him in equal measure. No formal betrothal. No public words. Only long conversations by the hearth, shared silences on the battlements, and the way his hand sometimes lingered near yours when passing the salt.

Yet the boy spoke as if it were known to all the gods.

Cregan crouched, bringing himself closer to the child’s level. The snow crunched beneath his boots. “And you think this lady is my wife?” he asked, a hint of warmth threading through the gravity in his tone.

The boy nodded solemnly. “She smiles at you different than everyone else. Like the sun on ice. And you look at her the same. Da says that’s how lords and ladies are when they’re married proper.” He thrust the winter rose forward. “Will you give it to her? Please? It’ll die if I keep holding it out here.”

For a moment, Cregan simply looked at the boy—at the earnest faith in his small face—and felt the strangest stirring of something like hope. The North was stone and duty and endless winter, yet here was proof that even ice could foster tenderness.

He accepted the flower carefully, its fragile petals brushing his callused fingers. “I will see it reaches her,” he promised, voice grave as any oath sworn before a weirwood. “You’ve done well, lad. What is your name?”

“Eddard, m’lord. Like the old King in the North, Da says.”

A faint smile touched Cregan’s lips then, brief as a winter sunrise. “A strong name. Go on back to your father, Eddard. And tell him his son has a sharp eye.”

The boy beamed and scampered off, leaving tiny footprints in the snow.

Cregan rose slowly, turning the rose in his hand. Its scent was faint and sweet, a whisper of life defying the cold. He thought of you—your quiet strength, the way you listened when he spoke of the burdens of Winterfell, the way your shoulder sometimes brushed his when you walked the covered bridges together. No words of love had passed between you. Not yet. But the boy had seen what others perhaps whispered about in the halls.

He made his way toward the glass gardens, boots crunching steadily through the snow. The flower felt warm against his palm, or perhaps it was only the thought of giving it to you that heated his blood.

You were there, as he knew you would be—hood drawn up against the chill, examining a tray of young herbs with the same careful attention you gave everything. When you looked up at his approach, your eyes met his and something in the world seemed to settle, the way snow finds its resting place on ancient stone.

Cregan stopped before you, tall and solemn, yet the grey of his eyes held a rare softness. He lifted the winter rose between you.

“A young messenger insisted this belongs to Lady Stark,” he said, voice low, almost teasing beneath the gravity. “He described her quite well. Kind eyes. Hair like captured starlight. A smile that warms even the North.”

He watched the faint color rise in your cheeks, the way your lips parted in quiet surprise. For a heartbeat, the weight of duty, war, and winter receded, leaving only the two of you amid the green and glass and falling snow.

Cregan stepped closer, offering the flower with a hand that had wielded Ice in battle yet now trembled, just slightly, with something far gentler.