#bolton

Your father sent you here with clear instructions and colder expectations. Speak for your house. Play the part. Negotiate peace if you can. You agreed because someone had to, but peace is not your language. You don’t belong in a room full of wolves dressed in honor and tradition. You don’t believe in the purity they preach. You believe in survival. In strength. In remembering exactly who bled for what and who walked away clean. The Starks have always pretended their hands were washed in snow. But your memory is sharper than that.

Cregan Stark has not looked away from you since you arrived. You noticed the way his eyes tracked your movements, the way his fingers curled slightly on the table every time you spoke. He says little. He doesn’t need to. Men like him try to win arguments with silence and stare you into obedience. But you were born in a house where silence means danger, not power, and you never learned to flinch. You speak with clarity and bite, each word chosen to provoke, to test, to watch his composure shift. He does not rise to it. Not yet.

But you can feel it. The tension coils like a bowstring pulled too tight. Every glance from him carries weight, not just scrutiny but something heavier. Curiosity. Contempt. Something hot and slow simmering beneath that cold northern discipline. You see it in the flicker of his expression when you mention your house’s role in the war. You hear it in the way he calls you "Lady Bolton" like it tastes foreign on his tongue. He thinks you are dangerous. And he’s right.

You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to make nice with wolves who once howled for your family’s end. But you will sit in this chair, and you will speak your mind, and you will meet Lord Stark’s stare without blinking. Because if this is a game of pride, of endurance, of who cracks first, you already know how it ends.

Every conversation with Lord Stark ends with tension so thick it chokes the room. You speak, he answers, and the words twist. No matter the topic, no matter how calmly it starts, it always sharpens into something more. You are not trying to find common ground. Neither is he. You are testing each other, pressing against the edges to see who gives first.

“You speak like you’ve never tasted war,” you say one evening, voice low and unbothered as you trace a finger along the rim of your goblet. “Like honor alone kept your people warm while the rest of us bled in the mud.”

Cregan’s eyes are steady on you. He doesn’t react, not outwardly, but you can see it—something cold and flickering just behind the stillness. “And you speak like your house didn’t light half the North on fire before the snow even fell.”

You smile, sharp and slow. “We don’t lie about who we are. That’s what offends you, isn’t it? That we stopped pretending.”

He tilts his head, watching you. “You think brutality is strength. You wear it like armor.”

“I think pretending at mercy is weakness,” you reply. “And you wear it like virtue.”

His voice lowers. “You forget whose hall you’re standing in.”

You stand, calm and deliberate, setting your goblet aside with a soft clink. “No. I know exactly where I am. Winterfell, seat of House Stark. Full of wolves who play at restraint but bare their teeth the moment anyone speaks truth in their presence.”

You cross the space between you slowly, each step deliberate. He watches, unmoving, except for the way his hand curls slightly against the table.

“Tell me,” you murmur, gaze fixed on his, “does it rattle you? That I don’t fear you? That I don’t bow like the rest?”

He doesn't look away. He doesn’t shift. He doesn’t blink.

“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” he says evenly. “You’re here to represent your house, not to be liked. And not to be indulged.”

The words land like stone. His voice is steady, cut clean, meant for others to hear. His men are watching, silent behind him. Not openly, but you know they are. Waiting to see how their lord handles the daughter of House Bolton who smiles like she has nothing to lose.

You tilt your head, offering the ghost of a smirk. “So you’re not rattled. Just stiff.”

There’s a flicker of warning in his eyes. That was too close. And you know it. So does he.

Cregan takes a step forward—not as a threat, not as a man tempted, but as a lord reclaiming the ground beneath his feet. His presence fills the space between you, calm and unshakable.

“You’re used to men losing their tempers with you,” he says, quiet enough to seem like a mercy. “That won’t happen here.”

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to. He just lets the silence stretch, lets it settle like frost between your ribs.

“You’ll speak your piece. Then you’ll listen to mine. And you’ll keep your clever little games out of my hall, or you’ll find yourself escorted back to the Dreadfort before the snow thaws.”

He steps back, slow, precise, never taking his eyes off you.

“Lady Bolton,” he finishes, with the barest nod, the kind that almost hides the insult.

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Later, the summons comes with no ceremony. A quiet knock. A Stark boy at your door, eyes fixed on the floor, voice clipped. “The Lord of Winterfell requests your presence in the council chamber. Alone.”

You don’t bother asking why. You already know.

The hall is quiet when you arrive. The fire low. Maps still scattered across the table like bones waiting to be read. Cregan stands near the window, facing the snow. He doesn't look at you when you enter.

You close the door behind you, slow and deliberate, and wait.

“You embarrassed me,” he says, voice low. Not raised. Not shaken. But you can feel it under the surface. A warning just beginning to fracture.

You step closer. “No. I exposed you. There’s a difference.”

He turns then. Eyes hard. Jaw set. “You speak like you’re untouchable.”

You shrug. “You summoned me alone. That says more than I ever could.”

He steps forward, sharp and clean, boots heavy on stone. “You forget yourself.”

“No,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I remember exactly who I am. The question is whether you do.”

There’s a beat of silence. A thick, dangerous thing. Then—

“Enough.”

He grabs your wrist, fast. Not rough. Not yet. But tight enough to make it clear this isn’t politics anymore. You don’t pull away.

“You think this is strength,” he says, close now. “Mocking me. Provoking me. But you’re just looking for a reaction.”

“And you keep giving me one.”

That’s when it happens. The pause between words vanishes. He slams you back against the stone wall, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, not hard enough to hurt. His hand presses just below your jaw, not choking, just holding. Just claiming.

You don’t flinch.

His breath is hot against your mouth. His eyes burn. You think he’s going to speak again, some last warning. But he doesn’t. He kisses you instead.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s heat and fury and everything he’s tried to chain down since the moment you walked into his hall. You kiss him back like a dare, like you’ve wanted this since the second he told you to hold your tongue.

His hand moves from your jaw to your hair, gripping tight, angling your face to deepen the kiss. You taste anger on his tongue, but beneath it something hungrier, something that's been coiled tight since you first locked eyes across his hall. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his doublet, not pushing away but pulling closer, making it clear this isn't surrender—this is collision.

When you break apart, his breathing is ragged against your neck. The great Lord Stark, undone by a Bolton girl with a sharp tongue and sharper eyes. There's power in that. You know it. He knows it too.

"This changes nothing," he says, voice rough.

You laugh, low and dangerous. "It changes everything."

His eyes flash, and for a moment you think he might step away, might remember himself and all the reasons this can't happen. Instead, he presses his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air.

"You came to Winterfell to sow discord," he murmurs, his fingers still tangled in your hair. "To unsettle me."

"I came to represent my house," you reply, tracing a finger along his jaw. "Unsettling you was merely a pleasure I discovered along the way."

He kisses you again, harder this time, like he's trying to silence the truth in your words. His hand slides down to your throat, thumb pressing against your pulse point—feeling how your heart races despite your cool exterior. You bite his bottom lip, drawing a growl from deep in his chest.

"Your father would have you flayed for this," he mutters against your mouth.

"My father isn't here," you reply, dragging your nails down his back. "And I've never been very obedient."

His laugh is dark, almost bitter. "No. You certainly haven't."

There's a moment—brief but electric—where you both realize what's happening. Enemy houses. Ancient hatreds. Blood feuds that have stained the North red for generations. And yet here you stand, pressed against each other in the shadows of his council chamber, hands grasping, breathing ragged.

He steps back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for hesitation, for weakness. Finding none, he moves with decisive strength, lifting you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, skirts bunching between you, the cold stone at your back a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressed against yours.

"I should send you back to the Dreadfort," he says, voice rough as his hands grip your thighs.

"But you won't," you reply, fingers working at the laces of his doublet. "You want this too much."

His mouth finds your neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. "I want to hate you."

"Then hate me," you challenge, head tilting back against the wall. "Hate me with your hands, with your mouth. Show me how much you despise me, Lord Stark."

His control snaps like a taut rope. His mouth crashes against yours with bruising force, all pretense of restraint abandoned. There's nothing gentle in the way he kisses you now—it's all heat and hunger and years of accumulated fury given flesh. His hands tear at the laces of your dress with rough efficiency, fabric giving way beneath his fingers.

"You want to see what hatred looks like?" he growls against your throat, voice raw. "You want to know what happens when wolves stop pretending at civility?"

You gasp as he bites down on the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to mark. "Show me," you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders through the wool of his doublet.

He spins you around, pressing your palms flat against the cold stone wall. His body cages you in, solid and unyielding, one hand splayed possessively across your stomach while the other gathers your skirts, shoving them up with an impatience that makes heat pool between your thighs. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a dangerous rumble.

"Is this what you wanted when you came here? To provoke a wolf into showing its teeth?"

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, a smirk playing at your lips. "Perhaps I wanted to see if the wolf was all legend and no bite."

His hand finds its way between your legs, fingers sliding against slick heat, and your breath catches. There's no tenderness in his touch—just raw, demanding need. He knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to make your body betray your composure.

"You're wet for your enemy," he observes, voice like winter wind through bare branches. "What does that say about your precious Bolton pride?"

You press back against him, feeling the hard length of him through his breeches. "It says I take what I want, even from wolves who think they're above wanting it back."

His fingers curl inside you, drawing a gasp that echoes off the stone walls. "And what makes you think I want this?"

You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand. "Because you're hard as steel and trembling like a green boy. Because you summoned me here alone instead of dismissing me in front of your men. Because you can't stop touching me even as you tell yourself you hate me."

He stills for a moment, and you think you've pushed too far.

"You came here for power," he growls in your ear, his free hand gripping your hair, yanking your head back. "You think this is a game?"

"No," you gasp out. "I never thought it was a game."

His answer is a low growl of frustration as his hand leaves your core, the sudden absence of his touch almost painful. You whimper in protest, but before you can process the loss, his palm lands on your bottom with a stinging smack. Heat

blooms across your skin, sharp and shocking, and you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out.

"You think you can manipulate me with your body?" His voice is rough, dangerous. "Think again."

Another sharp slap makes you gasp, your palms pressing harder against the stone. The pain mingles with arousal in a way that makes your head spin, makes you push back against him despite yourself.

"I think," you manage, voice breathless but defiant, "that you're the one who's been manipulated. You called me here, remember?"

His hand smooths over the heated skin he just struck, a mockery of gentleness. "I called you here to remind you of your place."

"And what place is that?" you challenge, turning your head to meet his burning gaze. "On my knees? Against your wall? Spread beneath the great Lord of Winterfell?”

The words hit their mark. His eyes darken, and his grip on your hair tightens until it borders on painful. "Careful," he warns, voice low and deadly. "You're testing limits you don't understand."

"Then teach me," you breathe, arching against him. "Show me what happens when I cross them."

The sound of his laces being viciously torn open is loud and abrupt, mixing with your sudden gasp as he positions himself behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance. There's no romantic preamble, no soft words or gentle touches—only the brutal pressure of him, hot and insistent, pushing against you.

Your breath hitches as he enters you, a raw, guttural sound escaping your throat as he fills you completely. You can feel every inch of him, stretching you, opening you, until you're sure your body can't possibly accommodate any more. But it does. Your fingers curl against the cold stone wall, nails scraping against the rough surface as he starts to move, setting a harsh, unforgiving rhythm that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

"Is this what you wanted?" he rasps against your neck, each thrust driving you harder against the unyielding wall. His breath is hot on your skin, his words a harsh growl. "To be taken like this? Used like an object, a plaything?"

You can't form coherent words, can only manage sharp, desperate gasps as he drives into you with a force that speaks of years of pent-up fury finally finding release. His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, fingers digging into your flesh, holding you exactly where he wants you.

"Answer me," he demands, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not to hurt, but to command, to control. His fingers press lightly against your pulse, feeling your heartbeat race.

"Yes," you manage to say, the word ripped from your lips like a confession. "Yes, I wanted this, wanted you."

He stills completely, buried deep inside you. The sudden absence of movement is almost cruel, leaving you trembling and desperate, your body craving more.

"Say it properly," he commands, his voice rough and low against your ear. "Tell me exactly what you want. Beg for it. You know the words."

You try to move against him, to create the friction your body aches for, but his grip keeps you perfectly still. The power play is clear—he'll give you nothing until you surrender your pride, until you give him the words he wants.

"I want you to fuck me," you breathe, the crude words falling from your lips like a secret, a confession.

"I want you to take me hard, take me rough, until I can't think, until I forget every reason we should hate each other, every reason we should fight it."

His laugh is dark, satisfied. "There," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "Was that so difficult? Was it so hard to admit you want this as much as I do?"

He begins to move again, each thrust deliberate and deep, designed to unravel you completely. The sound of skin against skin echoes in the chamber, loud and obscene, mingling with your gasps and his harsh breathing. You can feel yourself climbing toward something devastating, something that will shatter the careful walls you've built around yourself, brick by brick.

His pace quickens, driven by a need that matches your own. The careful control he's maintained, the noble restraint that defines him, crumbles with each movement. You feel him losing himself in you, his breathing ragged against your neck, his grip tightening until you're sure there will be bruises tomorrow.

"You're going to come for me," he growls, one hand sliding between your legs to find that sensitive spot that makes you arch against him. "You're going to fall apart on my cock, and tomorrow you'll sit in that hall knowing exactly what I did to you."

The dual sensation overwhelms you—his fingers working skillfully while he drives into you with increasing desperation. Your body betrays every attempt at composure, muscles tensing as pleasure builds like a storm gathering strength.

"I hate you," you gasp, but the words lack conviction, lost in the breathless need that consumes you.

"I know," he rasps back, his fingers pressing harder against your most sensitive flesh.

His control splinters completely as he pounds into you with abandon, each thrust desperate and claiming. You can feel him trembling against you, his breath coming in sharp bursts against your neck as he chases his own release.

Your climax hits like a blade through silk—sudden, violent, consuming. You cry out, the sound echoing off the stone walls as your body convulses around him. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, waves of sensation that leave you gasping and shaking.

He follows moments later with a harsh groan, his body going rigid as he spills inside you. His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as he rides out his release, your name falling from his lips like a curse.

For long moments, you both remain there, bodies joined, breathing ragged in the cold chamber. Neither of you speaks. Neither wants to be the first to acknowledge what just happened. The stone wall feels too solid against your palms, the reality of your position too stark now that pleasure no longer clouds your judgment.

Cregan withdraws first, the sudden absence of him leaving you feeling strangely hollow. You hear the rustle of fabric as he rights his clothing, the heavy sound of his breathing slowly steadying. You remain facing the wall, gathering your composure before turning to face him.

When you finally do, his expression is unreadable. The mask of the Lord of Winterfell has returned, though his hair remains mussed from your fingers, his lips still swollen from your kisses. 

When you finally do, his expression is unreadable. The mask of the Lord of Winterfell has returned, though his hair remains mussed from your fingers, his lips still swollen from your kisses. The only proof that anything happened at all is written on his skin.

You smooth your dress back into place with slow, precise movements. Neither of you speaks. The fire crackles softly, casting shifting shadows across the stone floor, and somewhere far off, the wind groans against the old walls. You let the silence stretch, curious to see how long he’ll wear that mask.

He is the one to break it. “This never happened.”

You lift your brow. “That’s a convenient story.”

His eyes stay cold. “This changes nothing.”

You take a step forward, slow and certain. “It changed you.”

“No.” That’s all. No stammer. No softness. Just finality.

You stop just shy of touching him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink.

“Do you always lie to yourself that easily?” you ask. “Or is it just with me?”

Still nothing. Not even a flicker.

He turns away, pacing toward the table. Plants both hands on it like he’s bracing against something heavier than the wood.

“I let it go too far,” he says.

“You wanted it,” you reply. “You still do.”

His grip tightens on the table. “Wanting something doesn’t make it right.”

You move behind him, close enough that your presence brushes his spine. “You said that like it’s ever stopped you before.”

Silence.

“You can go now,” he says. Flat. Dismissive. Like it’s the end.

You don’t move. “Are you giving me permission, Lord Stark?”

That finally gets him to turn. His eyes meet yours. Cold. Unmoving. Not regretful. Not conflicted. Just done.

“Go,” he repeats.

You nod, once. Turn without a word.

The door shuts behind you.