#* cregan.

SHE EXPECTED VERY LITTLE WHEN SHE CAME TO WINTERFELL. she knew she would likely find her new home strange and cold, and that it might take a while for her husband, the grieving widower, to warm to her. she had not expected there to be love. yet the castle was full of it now: the love she held for the north and its raw beauty, for sweet rickon, who had become the apple of her eye, and perhaps above all for cregan. she had come to adore his gravity and quiet demeanor, appreciate the care he held for each of his subjects, whether kin or lords or smallfolk, and admire his determination and courage. indeed, she dearly loved every facet of him, and though she did not dare assume it as fact, she frequently caught herself thinking he must have grown fond of her too, especially after their prolonged separation. they shared a bed every night at least, ( and sometimes in the mornings as well ). elia has long since stopped sleeping in her own quarters: it seemed a hassle to have to wander from her rooms to his bed and vice versa every time, and more importantly, she no longer desired to spend the night alone, much preferring to drift to sleep in the safe warmth of his arms.

she is startled from her reveries by the warmth of his touch. cregan kisses the swell of her breast, a tender gesture that never fails to stir something in her. she sweeps her fingers through his dark hair in response, and looks down at him with a thoughtful, soft gaze. it is a marvel he can make himself feel so light, when his broad frame and weight could easily crush her; it must require quite some effort on his part. " careful, " she says, a small smile finding her lips. she briefly wonders if he has already noticed; surely he must have realized that she hasn't bled in a while. she has suspected herself for some weeks, after she missed her first month, had felt herself tire easily, and the smell of stew had suddenly made her feel sick. it was only out of fear of being wrong that she has waited to tell him at all. " they feel more sensitive as of late. "

the cry of a rooster, morning light filtering through the slits of the wooden shutters. despite the heavy blankets and pelts she can feel the cold of the passing night nipping at her feet. elia utters a soft noise of protest, not quite ready to face the day yet. she buries her head back into her pillows, eyes shut firmly, cheek pressed hard against the fabric as she attempts to will herself back into sleep. she knows it is a lost battle. the household is already awake; she can hear the footsteps from servant girls as they go from room to room, lighting the hearths, hushed chattering of maids waiting outside their door to dress her, and the shouting of someone in the yard, as well as the wildly irritating rattle of wheelbarrows being rolled over the frozen, uneven ground.

the second groan of protest turns into a soft laugh when she feels her husband stir, then move closer elia cranks one eye open, groans again and halfheartedly tries to roll away when she realizes he is already fully awake, always is before her. no sooner has she turned around, however, or she is dragged back into cregan's warm embrace. she peers over her shoulder at him ( his gentle, beautiful face ), feigning indignation when they both know how much she enjoys this game — they play it near every morning. " mhmm, " is all she utters. he kisses her then, before she can wish him a good morning, a kiss that is warm, and lazy, and still tastes of sleep. she leans, no, melts into it, half - turned in his arms, hips pushed back against him. only after a minute does she pull away. by then mirth dances in green eyes. she grins as she splays a hand over his face. " tsk. don't get me started before the day has even begun. there's about a thousand matters that require our attention, petitions from some of the smallfolk in winter town, the counting and distribution of grain, household administration ... "

WHAT POWER BUT LOVE is capable of bringing a lord to his knees ? cregan stark lowers himself to her level, a tree bending to the wind, a wolf bowing to the lamb. his tall, broad frame sinks to wooden floors as though in worship, as though she is his queen rather than lady, the object of his prayers instead of a mere mortal. she watches and trembles. the gesture is so reverent, so loving that she does not know what to do with herself. after a sweet moment's hesitation, gentle hands come to cup his cheeks, lifting his face so that their gazes meet. the orange of the flickering fire is reflected in his eyes, grey as the winter skies outside, grey as the storm clouds that gather. the warm glow of the hearth lights his skin too, breathing life into otherwise pale cheeks, crowning his dark hair. her heart gives a fragile thrum. she arches forward, curtain of chestnut hair falling over her shoulders, shielding both of them from the world, nose affectionately brushing his. there is but a brief pause before she closes the distance between them and kisses him, deeply, desire on the tip of her tongue.

forehead remains tipped to his when lips finally part. she nudges her nose against his once more. " my lord. " it has become an affectionate nickname. another kiss follows, more chaste this time, succeeded by a small smile. " and what have i done, to deserve such affection from you this night ? "

winter fell softly. snowflakes flurry down, dusting the damp ground with their white like a silk cover. it was silent, absent the sound of feet scuffing the snow to keep warm, AS THOUGH THE WHOLE NORTH HELD ITS BREATH IN ANTICIPATION OF ITS LORD'S RETURN. elia casts an anxious glance at the heavy grey sky, instinctively holding little rickon closer to her, hand rubbing his back to warm him. though they had been told numerous times by the steward to wait inside where it was more pleasant, cold seemed a rather small price to pay to see cregan again. any fault she may have found with her husband before has been long forgotten, replaced instead with a deep yearning and affection. she had dreamt of him nightly, read his letters with rapt attention, wept unashamedly on those evenings when no raven came. countless hours were spent writing back with news of winterfell and his son, letters written by faint candlelight in his rooms — she refused to sleep in her own bed, preferring instead to lay her head on his pillows.

the long - awaited noise of horses nickering in the cold, the sound of their hooves dragging through slurry snow. there is a thick swallow when she catches sight of him at last, set upon his steed like a prince. the sinking sense of relief almost breaks her. she clings onto those last strands of decorum and sets rickon down gently, kneels next to him, caring not that her velvet dress drags through the mud. " go on, " she whispers encouragingly in his ear. " greet your father. "

fingers fidget. she waits as her station demands, poised and proud and tall, lovely and pale as the snow itself. flakes have made their home in her hair, woven like pearls in the chestnut, glistening where they have begun to melt. " my lord, " she starts when he approaches, meaning to curtsy, to lower her eyes, to inform him on the state of his home, but all sense is lost to her when she meets his gaze. what good are manners, what use old customs ? a sudden, gasped sob wrangles itself from her lips. she picks up her heavy skirts and strides towards him, collides with his broad frame and closes the final distance between their lips. his are cold but pliant, and taste of the salt of her own tears. she pulls away again and again to ensure he truly is there, trembling hands touching his face and shoulders and chest; she has dreamt of this moment so often it seems a mirage. there are a thousand things she could say, a thousand things she wishes to ask him. but the moment finds her wordless entirely; instead she draws in a shuddering breath and nudges her nose against his. she will kill the man who tears him from her now. " i have missed you terribly, " she manages finally, her voice low enough that only he may hear.

a large silk wolf leaping over woolen canvas, shining greys against black forming the opened maw and lean body of the direwolf, whites for its fierce snarling teeth, ruby red for the eyes; AN ELEGANT REPLICA OF WINTERFELL'S SIGIL. she has lost count of the many hours she spent tirelessly embroidering the cloak, carefully selected different hues of grey to convey its bushy, hackled fur, and using not one but six different shades of red for the eyes ( burgundy, maroon, garnet and vermillion, rose - pink for the light, oxblood in the corners ). it is the most beautiful thing she has ever made. perhaps too beautiful, part of her fears, for cregan's taste. but she knew not what else to gift him. aside from a child, a snide voice whispers in her head, reminding her of her failure to conceive months into their marriage. another heir.

she studies her husband's reaction closely. though they have spent more time together these last sweet weeks, she finds it no easier to read him; his thoughts remain a mystery, shielded from her behind those winter grey eyes, a color she's grown more fond of than expected. " i wished to thank you, " she says. the words tumble out awkward, hurried, as though she owes him an explanation; they are no less genuine. " for your kindness. you- you have been a good husband to me. "

he could not have known how devastating his reply would be. the words stem not from malice or thoughtlessness but decency and duty. it is perhaps exactly the fact that they are spoken so earnestly that makes them painful. A MARRIAGE IS A MARRIAGE, LOVE OR ARRANGED. THEY REQUIRE THE SAME LEVEL OF COMMITMENT. the contrast ( love or arranged ) stings. her hurt is quickly succeeded by mortification. the two take root in her body and spread through it like a poison, painting her cheeks red with shame, wetting doe eyes. her glazed gaze falls to the gift, fabric held in his large gentle hands; a work of labor, she realizes only now, made not out of gratitude but love. apparently over the course of these past few weeks, her affection for the northern lord has deepened into something new. and how could it not have, after spending so many cold nights together in the same bed, making love to each other ? ( out of commitment, the voice in her head cries, out of duty ! ) cregan is her first. but he has loved before. and she was a fool to have hoped that an arranged marriage could replace that first well - loved wife. his childhood sweetheart, the woman who saw him through his first years of rule and gave him a son.

she is too proud to speak her hurt. she swallows her tears and straightens her shoulders. only a brief tick in her jaw exposes the turmoil underneath. " indeed. " behind her back, nails dig into skin until they draw blood. she will not weep in front of him. naive reach girl. " i will make one for rickon too. do you think he would like it ? "

she has been venturing out of her chamber more and more, exploring the rooms and courtyards of her new home. she has taken a liking to the library with its many books, and especially the warm glass gardens where the air is thick with the scent of fresh earth, vegetables, fruits and flowers. the godswood is significantly colder, and very different from the forests in the reach. the trees, many of them evergreen or semi - deciduous, are squat and significantly older, their thick roots close together as though they too are trying to keep warm. their canopy so thick that it filters what little light there is, so that the mossy ground appears even greener than it is. she found the wrought trunks, black pools and weirwood heart tree strange and frightening at first, and the cold air blowing through the woods simply OFF - PUTTING, but over the course of the past few weeks she has been growing fond of the woods. she likes the sharp, fresh scent of the sentinels and soldier pines, the sound of the occasional snow shrike and calls of ravens, and found that the pools offered a rare beauty, not unlike black pearls or the blue blanket of a dark winter's night. the cold bothers her less too, now that she has sown herself new dresses from heavy velvet and thick wool fabrics, in greyish blues and gentle whites and soft browns, northern colors she's adopted. she enjoys embroidering the dresses at night, stitching endless rows of winter roses, wolves, snow shrikes and pines over the sleeves and necks and hems.

elia walks over the meandering path of stones that have cracked under the weight of their own age. her breath fogs in the air. she feels the cold bite at every inch of exposed skin, no doubt turning her pale cheeks pink. she rubs her hands together, though they are not so cold now that she has doe - skin gloves, a gift from her husband. he is stoic and somber and says very little, but brings her comfort with kind gestures and gifts: a wool, fur - lined grey cloak, soft lambswool slippers trimmed with satin, seeds for reach flowers that she may plant in the glass gardens. he is another reason she likes to frequent the godswood, though she will not yet admit it to herself. she knows she may find him sitting underneath the heart tree, sharpening his sword or merely staring at the black pool, whether remembering his late lady wife, thinking of the problems winter brings, or engaged in silent prayer to his old gods, she does not know.

true to her hopes, she finds him there. cregan is sat in front of the weirwood tree, its red leaves casting a mysterious light on him, breathing life into his skin, coloring his leather a warm brown. he looks at her and she wonders what he sees. wind - bitten cheeks and a pink nose, her long chestnut hair falling over her ears and shoulders and down her back, frizzy and wavy from the damp air, with only a small braid across the back of her head to add at least some decorum; she has taken to wearing her hair down rather than upswept as they do in the reach, so the BITING AIR bothers her less when she goes outside. she's nothing like the elegant girl who arrived at winterfell. and yet — " you look too beautiful in the cold, " he says.

elia halts in surprise. she feels an unexpected warmth rush to her neck and cheeks, heart giving a fragile flutter in her chest. she's not sure if she's heard him utter a compliment before, least of all about her beauty; in fact, she had half - convinced herself he cared little for such matters. a soft, pleased smile finds her lips. " you have made me blush. " she moves closer and chooses to sit down on the mossy rocks beside him, fabric of her cloak and dress pooling at her feet. she remains silent for a moment, studying him from under her lashes. she thinks of taking his hand or kissing his cheek, but stops short of any such affectionate gesture. she still isn't sure what pleases him. " i'm happy to see you. i thought perhaps— " she stops again, feeling bashful suddenly. were she not still pink from his last compliment, she surely would be now. " i thought perhaps i could visit you tonight. "

elia does not know which one of them initiated the kiss. all she remembers is looking at him and thinking how handsome he looked in the soft candlelight, how gentle his grey eyes were. how familiar it felt to have him close; how safe. she remembers the heat she felt rushing to her cheeks, being unable to look away from him, the sound of her heart suddenly pounding in her ears. that first bruise of their lips came almost as a relief, as if it was something she had been waiting for. parting, a sweet breath, a careful look exchanged before they kiss again. she loses all rational thought. she parts her lips to taste him, to drink him in. it's still not enough.

she grasps him by his shirt and pulls him closer, clinging to him, a sudden need for him burning in the back of her throat, warming the low of her stomach. she tastes his lips and his tongue and shares his breath and thinks of the maid and stable boy she once caught in a corner of the gardens, taking what pleasure they could from each other. briefly she imagines cregan's hands under her skirts, sliding over her thighs, his hips rutting into hers. it wrangles a shallow breath from her. she pulls away for the first time to look at him, at his swollen lips and his square jaw and his sweet eyes. her chest heaves. she takes his face in her hands, runs her thumb carefully over his cheek, down to the corner of his lips. she nods imperceptibly, keeping his gaze, praying he will understand. take me. take me. make me yours.

you are my wife. i would not see my lady wife looking miserable for all court to see.

doe eyes shining with curiosity, the lovely flush of youth and flattery flooding her cheeks, her long pale neck. a soft, careful smile pulls at her lips, while confusion mars her brows. she circles the object in the midst of the room, covered by a conspicuously large white cloth. whatever the mystery, it must be wooden; even from a distance she can smell the oak and the sweet oils used to prepare it. she glances over her shoulder at her husband, hesitant and apprehensive, seeking his permission. only then does she dare pull at the cloth. the fabric comes down with a dramatic rush.

it is a loom. elia cannot suppress her gasp of surprised delight. it is larger than the one she had at home, finer too — expertly crafted. she runs a finger over the oaken woodwork in admiration, tracing the edges and perfect seams, before she notices the recurring pattern notched on the sides; carved roses, painted gold and green, a piece of home. unexpectedly her eyes fill with tears. she looks to cregan and, driven by sudden impulsive, rushes to embrace him. arms fly around his neck, kisses peppered on his cheeks. the musty smell of his furs, the roughness of his cheek, his broad frame against hers feels more welcome than ever. " thank you ! thank you, thank you, thank you. it is perfect. i love it. "