#brandon x reader

The crowd's roar of excitement feels almost suffocating as you sit upon the high dais, a living ornament of regal grace and Targaryen beauty. The silk of your gown, dyed a deep shade of crimson and embroidered with silver thread, glints faintly in the sunlight. Beside you sits your father, King Aerys II, his nails clawing into the armrests of his ornate chair. His pale hair falls in unkempt strands over his shoulder, and his violet eyes dart between the two knights below with a mixture of irritation and suspicion.

Your mother, Queen Rhaella, sits on the other side, her hands trembling as they clutch the edge of her cloak. She looks far too frail to be attending a tourney, her pallor nearly blending into the ivory silk she wears. Her gentle whispers to you earlier—pleas to keep your head down and avoid catching undue attention—linger in your ears.

But avoiding attention has never been your gift, not when your lilac eyes gleam like polished amethysts beneath the sunlight and your hair catches the wind like a cascade of molten silver and gold. The eyes of the realm are always on you, including, it seems, those of Brandon Stark.

You try not to meet his gaze as he sits astride his stallion, his broad shoulders and wolf's-head cloak making him look every bit the Stark heir that he is. Yet, the air crackles with unspoken words as his gray eyes flicker to you once, twice, before shifting back to his opponent: your older brother, Rhaegar.

Rhaegar looks serene, as always, the perfect picture of a prince. His armor is brilliant in the sunlight, polished to perfection, and his hair silver falls in elegant waves. His hands grip the lance as if it were merely an extension of himself. The dragon and the wolf, facing each other on the field, as if the gods themselves had orchestrated this moment.

“Do you see how the Stark boy stares at you, daughter?” Aerys mutters, leaning toward you. His voice is a rasp, low and sharp like a dagger drawn across stone. “He thinks himself worthy of what is mine.”

Your chest tightens, but you do not answer. You know better than to draw your father’s wrath in public, even though your heart hammers with dread at what he might do later. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the jousting field below, willing yourself to stay calm.

“Brandon Stark is a fool,” Aerys continues under his breath, though his tone is low enough that only you can hear. “Like his father. Wolves do not belong in the company of dragons.”

Rhaella shifts uncomfortably beside you, her hand trembling as it rests briefly on yours. A silent plea: endure this.

The herald’s voice rings out, announcing the final tilt. The crowd erupts as Rhaegar and Brandon lower their lances and spur their horses forward.

You grip the armrests of your chair tightly, your breath catching as their steeds charge toward each other. The earth beneath them trembles with the force of their gallop, and your heart clenches as Rhaegar’s lance strikes Brandon’s shield with a deafening crack. But Brandon’s aim is truer. His lance collides with Rhaegar’s chest plate, shattering upon impact and sending your brother tumbling from his horse.

The crowd gasps. You shoot to your feet, your hands clenching the edge of your seat.

“Rhaegar!” you call, fear lacing your voice.

Rhaegar moves almost immediately, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace but no visible injury. Relief floods you as he raises a hand to signal his well-being, and the crowd erupts into cheers.

Brandon wheels his horse around, his expression victorious yet restrained. He dismounts smoothly, handing off his shattered lance and accepting the victor’s crown from the herald. It is a wreath of blue roses, the color vibrant and fresh against the dusty field.

You expect him to crown his betrothed, Lady Catelyn Tully, seated among the northern contingent. But he does not. Instead, Brandon mounts his horse once more, his wolf’s-head cloak billowing behind him as he rides toward the royal dais.

The murmurs in the crowd swell into a crescendo of astonishment as Brandon halts directly before you. His steel-gray eyes meet yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“My queen of love and beauty,” he declares, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out and places the crown of blue roses in your lap.

Your heart stops. The world around you seems to blur as the enormity of what he’s done settles over you. This is no simple act of admiration—it is a public claim, a defiance of the natural order. He has passed over his betrothed, and he has chosen you.

“Brandon, no,” you whisper under your breath, your voice barely audible. But it is too late.

Beside you, Aerys stiffens. His nails dig into the armrest, and his eyes narrow with barely-contained fury. “He dares,” he hisses, so quietly that only you and Rhaella can hear. “That wolf dares.”

Rhaella’s trembling hand grips yours tightly, silently urging you to keep your composure. Across the field, you see Lord Rickard Stark rise from his seat, his face pale and drawn. He descends the stairs quickly, presumably to speak with his son in private. But the damage is already done. The crown in your lap feels like a brand, scorching you with the weight of its implications.

Brandon inclines his head slightly, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips as he turns his horse and rides away.

The crowd erupts into cheers once more, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own pounding heart. You glance at Rhaegar, who has remounted his horse. His expression is unreadable, though his gaze flickers to you briefly before he turns his attention back to the field.

Aerys leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “He has signed his death warrant,” he mutters, his voice laced with venom. “And his father’s. I will see to it.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling as you clutch the blue roses in your lap. Brandon Stark’s defiance may have ignited the spark, but it is your father’s madness that will set the realm aflame.

Brandon barely dismounts his horse before his father, Lord Rickard Stark, strides toward him with long, purposeful steps. His cloak of gray wool lined with dark fur trailing behind him, and his expression is as cold as the snow of his homeland. The crowd’s cheers fade into a dull hum as Rickard seizes Brandon by the arm, his grip firm but not violent, and pulls him toward a quieter corner behind the pavilion.

“What were you thinking, boy?” Rickard’s voice is low but cutting, the tone that always made Brandon feel like a chastised pup.

Brandon shrugs off his father’s grip, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “I was thinking of her,” he says simply, his voice steady but firm. “Y/N deserves better than to be caged in King’s Landing, surrounded by her father’s madness. She deserves—”

Rickard cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “You crowned a Targaryen princess as Queen of Love and Beauty in full view of the court and her father, the Mad King! Do you realize what you’ve done? This isn’t the North, Brandon. Down here, every word, every gesture is a weapon.”

Brandon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “You think I don’t know that? I don’t care. I won today, Father. Me, not Rhaegar. And when I saw her sitting there, looking like something out of a song, I knew I couldn’t let it pass. She’s more than just a Targaryen—she’s the woman I—”

Rickard raises a hand, his eyes darkening. “Don’t finish that sentence. Not here. Not now.” He glances around, his instincts honed from years of navigating court politics. “You may have won the tilt, but you’ve dragged our house into dangerous waters. Aerys won’t forget this, nor will Rhaegar.”

Brandon smirks, a flash of his wolfish grin showing. “Let Aerys stew in his madness. And as for Rhaegar—he knows he’s lost her. That’s why he tilted against me so fiercely.”

Rickard’s expression softens slightly, a glimmer of concern breaking through his stern facade. “Brandon, this isn’t just about her. It’s about the North, about our family. You’ve made enemies today, powerful ones. And you’ve slighted Catelyn Tully in the process. Have you thought of that?”

The mention of Catelyn makes Brandon’s grin fade. He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “I didn’t mean to dishonor her. But I can’t pretend to love someone I barely know, not when—” He hesitates, lowering his voice. “Not when my heart belongs to Y/N.”

Rickard steps closer, lowering his voice as well. “And do you think Aerys will simply allow you to take her? That he’ll overlook what you’ve done today? The man burned his own courtiers for less, Brandon. He’s mad, yes, but not stupid. He’ll see this as a challenge to his power.”

Brandon’s defiance wavers for a moment, the weight of his father’s words sinking in. “Then what should I have done? Sit back and let Rhaegar crown her? Let her be his, or worse, left to wither in her father’s shadow?”

Rickard exhales heavily, his hand briefly resting on Brandon’s shoulder. “I know you think you’re protecting her, but you’ve made things more dangerous for her, for all of us. The court is a viper’s nest, and you’ve kicked it. Now we’ll all feel the venom.”

Brandon’s eyes harden again, his stubbornness flaring up. “I’d face a hundred vipers for her. You know that.”

Rickard studies his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “You’ve always been headstrong, Brandon. Too much like your mother. But headstrong doesn’t win wars, and make no mistake—war is what you’ve invited today.”

“I’ll face it,” Brandon says, his voice steady. “I’ll face whatever comes. For her.”

Rickard doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps back, his gaze shifting toward the royal dais, where King Aerys still sits, his expression unreadable but his violet eyes burning with something dangerous. The old wolf’s instincts scream at him to act, to salvage what he can before it’s too late.

“Come,” Rickard says finally, his voice quieter now. “We need to leave this place before more damage is done.”

Brandon hesitates, his gaze flickering back toward the dais. Your lilac eyes meet his for a brief moment, filled with worry and something unspoken. He nods slightly, a silent promise passing between you.

Rickard notices the exchange and sighs. “The heart of a wolf will always defy reason,” he mutters under his breath. “Let’s pray it doesn’t cost us all.”

With that, he steers his son away from the pavilion, the blue roses in your lap the only lingering reminder of what Brandon Stark has done.

The night is heavy with the lingering scents of spilled ale and crushed flowers, the din of the tourney fading as lords and ladies retreat to their pavilions. You walk alone through the dimly lit garden adjoining Harrenhal’s grand hall, your heart pounding in your chest as you glance over your shoulder. The festival atmosphere still hums faintly in the distance, but here, surrounded by ancient stone walls and shadowed paths, the air is hushed, conspiratorial.

The blue roses Brandon placed in your lap earlier remain tucked into the crook of your arm, their delicate petals bruised from your grip. You press deeper into the garden, past hedges and fountains, until you reach a secluded alcove where the lanterns do not reach. The moonlight filters through the overhanging branches, casting silvery shadows on the ground. You wait, the stillness broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant murmurs of drunken revelers.

“Y/N.”

The voice is low but unmistakable. You turn swiftly to find him emerging from the shadows, his wolf’s-head cloak blending into the darkness. Brandon moves with a predatory grace, his broad shoulders framed by the dim light as he approaches. There is no hesitation in his stride, no hint of regret in his eyes, only determination.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper, though your voice lacks conviction. “If anyone sees us—”

“They won’t,” he interrupts, his voice steady but fierce. He steps closer, his gray eyes locking onto yours. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, but you quickly avert your eyes, clutching the roses tighter. “Brandon, do you have any idea what you’ve done? My father—he’s furious. He didn’t say much, but I could see it in his eyes. He’s plotting something. And Rhaegar—” You pause, your voice trembling. “Rhaegar won’t forget this insult.”

Brandon reaches out, his hand brushing against yours, his touch warm despite the chill of the night. “Let him plot. Let Rhaegar brood. None of it matters.”

You shake your head, stepping back from him even as your heart aches to stay close. “It does matter. You’ve put yourself—and your family—in danger. My father is mad, Brandon. Truly mad. He’s burned men alive for less than what you did today.”

“I’d do it again,” he says without hesitation. “A hundred times over. I won that tilt, and I wasn’t about to hand that crown to anyone else. You deserve better than this—better than being paraded around as some prize in a mad king’s court.”

“Better than being the reason your father and brothers suffer?” you retort sharply, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear. “Do you think Aerys will stop at just you? He’ll find a way to punish all of you for your defiance. And me? He’ll—he’ll—” Your voice falters, and you look away, tears threatening to spill.

Brandon’s hand cups your cheek gently, his thumb brushing away a tear that escapes despite your best efforts. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says softly, his voice steady but laced with unyielding resolve. “Whatever comes, I’ll protect you. I swear it.”

“You can’t make that promise,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You’re just one man, Brandon. You can’t fight a king.”

“I’ll fight a hundred kings if it means keeping you safe,” he replies fiercely, his grip on your cheek firm but tender. “You’re worth it, Y/N. You’ve always been worth it.”

Your resolve crumbles under the weight of his words, and you lean into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment. “You’re a fool,” you murmur. “A brave, stubborn fool.”

“And you love me for it,” he says, a hint of a grin breaking through his intensity.

You open your eyes, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the weight of the world fades. In the moonlight, he looks like the wolf you’ve always known him to be—wild, fierce, and unrelenting. Your lips part to respond, but before you can, he leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is both tender and desperate.

The roses fall from your arms, forgotten, as you cling to him, your fingers tangling in his cloak. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he can shield you from everything beyond this moment. The kiss deepens, a silent promise of love and defiance, of everything you wish the world could allow you to have.

When you finally part, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a whisper. “Say the word, and I’ll take you away from all of this. Tonight. Now.”

You shake your head, tears spilling freely this time. “And where would we go? My father would hunt us to the ends of the earth. Your family—your brothers—they’d pay the price.”

He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching in frustration. “Then what? Do we just keep sneaking around like this? Hiding in shadows?”

“For now, we survive,” you say softly, placing a hand against his chest. “For now, we love in secret. Until we can find a way to be together without bringing ruin to everyone we care about.”

His hand covers yours, his warmth grounding you despite the chill of the night. “Then I’ll wait. For however long it takes.”

You nod, your voice trembling as you reply, “And I’ll hold you to that.”

The two of you linger a moment longer, stealing what little time you can before the weight of the world presses down once more. Then, reluctantly, Brandon steps back, his eyes lingering on you as if memorizing every detail.

“Go,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Before someone sees us.”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the wolf’s-head cloak tighter around him as he slips back into the shadows. You watch until he disappears, your heart aching with every step he takes away from you. Only when you are certain he is gone do you stoop to pick up the blue roses, their petals crushed but still fragrant.

As you make your way back to the hall, the weight of his love and your fears settles heavily on your shoulders. You know this affair is dangerous, reckless even. But you also know that for Brandon Stark, you would face every shadow in this world.

The journey to King’s Landing was supposed to be routine—a formality, Lord Rickard Stark had said, though there was tension behind his words. Aerys had summoned them to court after Brandon’s brash actions at Harrenhal moons prior. The blue roses, the crown, the whispered conversations in shadowed corners—it had all led to this.

Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf of Winterfell, had ridden alongside his father with his jaw clenched, his mind racing. He had not shared his full plan with anyone, not even his father. But now, as the Red Keep loomed like a blood-red sentinel in the morning sun, he knew there was no turning back.

The Red Keep’s air was stifling, heavy with the weight of unseen eyes and whispered schemes. Servants scurried about like mice, their heads bowed, while guards in Targaryen black stood like statues, their hands resting on their swords. Brandon walked alongside his father, his cloak trailing behind him, the leather of his boots scuffing against the cold stone floors.

"Keep your head down," Rickard muttered under his breath, his voice low and firm. "This isn’t the time for your pride, boy."

Brandon bristled but said nothing. He wasn’t here to grovel, not when so much was at stake. The thought of you—your lilac eyes filled with fear as you clutched your stomach, your voice trembling as you begged him to leave you behind—gnawed at him. He had promised to protect you, and this was the only way.

As they turned a corner, Brandon's steps faltered, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword. He glanced over his shoulder, his keen eyes scanning for any sign of pursuit.

"You’re distracted," Rickard observed, his voice sharp. "What have you done, Brandon?"

Brandon hesitated, his heart pounding. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, piercing and unyielding, demanding the truth. But he couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

"Nothing you wouldn’t have done in my place," Brandon replied cryptically, his voice tight. "Just trust me, Father."

Rickard frowned but said nothing, though his suspicion was visible.

It wasn’t until they reached the small chamber set aside for them that Rickard cornered his son. The room was sparse, the only furnishings a table, two chairs, and a narrow bed. A single window overlooked the city, its sprawling streets winding toward the distant horizon.

Rickard shut the door firmly, his face grim. "Out with it. What madness have you brought upon us this time?"

Brandon leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression defiant. "I did what needed to be done."

Rickard’s patience snapped. "Stop dancing around it, boy! What did you do?"

Brandon pushed off the wall, his voice rising. "I sent her away."

Rickard’s eyes widened, his jaw tightening. "You what?"

"I smuggled her out of the Red Keep last night," Brandon confessed, his voice steady but his heart racing. "She’s gone, safe, far from here."

Rickard took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And where, exactly, have you sent the princess of the Seven Kingdoms? With whom?"

Brandon shook his head. "I won’t tell you. It’s better if you don’t know."

Rickard stared at him, his disbelief turning into fury. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Aerys will see this as treason! You’ve not only defied him but stolen his daughter from under his nose. You’ve doomed us all."

"I had to," Brandon said, his voice breaking slightly. "Don’t you understand? They would have hurt her. Or worse."

Rickard’s anger faltered for a moment, replaced by confusion. "Hurt her? What are you talking about?"

Brandon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. "She’s with child."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking like a stone into the air. Rickard’s face paled, his breath catching. "By the gods… Brandon, is it—?"

"Mine," Brandon said firmly, meeting his father’s gaze. "The child is mine. And I wasn’t going to let them use her—or our child—as pawns in their games."

Rickard staggered back a step, his hand gripping the back of the chair for support. "Do you know what this means? Aerys will burn us for this. Both of us. And when he finds her—"

"He won’t," Brandon interrupted, his voice steel. "She’s gone, and no one will find her unless I want them to. I made sure of it."

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, his anger rekindling. "You arrogant fool. You think you can outmaneuver a king? Aerys will burn the North to ash to get to her."

"I couldn’t leave her here!" Brandon snapped, his voice echoing in the small room. "Not when I knew what he’d do to her. Not when I knew they’d take our child—use them, hurt them. I won’t let that happen, Father."

Rickard stared at his son, a mix of anger, disbelief, and something resembling admiration flickering in his eyes. He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy. "You’ve set the realm on fire, Brandon. And we’ll both pay the price for it."

Brandon’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes unwavering. "I’ll pay whatever price I have to. But I won’t let them touch her—or my child."

A knock at the door shattered the moment, and a guard’s voice called out from the other side. "Lord Rickard, Prince Rhaegar requests your presence in the great hall. His Grace awaits."

Rickard straightened, his face hardening as he turned toward the door. "This is it," he said quietly, his voice tinged with resignation. "We’ll die in that hall, you know that."

Brandon squared his shoulders, his wolfish defiance returning. "Then so be it."

Rickard hesitated for a moment, then nodded, opening the door. Together, they stepped into the corridor, the sound of the guards’ boots echoing around them as they were escorted toward the great hall—and their fate.

The great hall of the Red Keep is a cavern of shadows and firelight, its high vaulted ceiling seeming to echo the weight of the accusations hurled across the chamber. Rows of courtiers, guards, and lords line the walls, their faces painted with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and malice. At the far end of the room, the Iron Throne rises like a jagged mountain, its ominous blades reflective in the flickering torchlight.

Seated atop the throne is King Aerys II, his frail frame nearly swallowed by the massive seat of power. His silver hair falls in wild, tangled strands around his gaunt face, his violet eyes blazing with an unholy fire. His nails, long and yellowed, tap erratically against the armrests, the sound reverberating in the sinister silence.

At the base of the throne stands Prince Rhaegar, his expression carefully composed. His indigo eyes flicker to Brandon and Rickard Stark as they are led into the hall, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Brandon walks with his head high, his wolf’s-head cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his jaw clenched in defiance. Beside him, Rickard Stark’s face is a mask of stoic calm, though his eyes betray the storm brewing within. They are the embodiment of the North—unyielding, proud, and unbroken.

Aerys leans forward on the throne, his voice slicing through the silence like a dagger. "Rickard Stark," he hisses, the words dripping with venom. "You come before your king as a traitor. As a thief."

Rickard steps forward, his voice calm but firm. "I am no traitor, Your Grace. I have come to answer your summons and to demand justice for my son."

Aerys’s laughter erupts, high-pitched and manic, echoing through the hall. "Justice? Justice? You speak of justice, yet your wild wolf has stolen what is mine!"

Brandon steps forward before his father can reply, his gray eyes blazing. "She is not yours!" he snarls. The words reverberate through the hall, causing a ripple of gasps from the gathered courtiers. "Y/N is not a prize to be kept in a cage. She’s free now, far from your madness."

Aerys’s face contorts with rage, his nails clawing at the armrests of the throne. "You dare defy me, boy? You dare steal my daughter and think there will be no consequence?"

Rhaegar’s expression tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he says nothing. His eyes, however, flicker briefly to Brandon, a flicker of suspicion passing through his gaze.

Rickard steps forward, his voice rising over the chaos. "Your Grace, I came to King’s Landing in good faith, to answer your summons. My son’s actions were not sanctioned by me. I demand trial by combat, as is my right."

Aerys’s lips curl into a cruel smile, his eyes alight with glee. "Trial by combat, is it? Very well. You shall have your combat, Stark." He gestures to the pyromancers standing by the walls. "Bring the wildfire."

The room erupts into murmurs as pyromancers begin to move, fetching the green liquid that glows with a sickly light. Rickard’s calm demeanor does not waver, though Brandon stiffens beside him, his fists clenching.

"You call this justice?" Brandon spits, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is madness!"

Aerys’s laughter cuts him off, a shrill and terrible sound. "Madness, you say? No, boy. This is power. This is the price of treason."

Two guards seize Rickard, dragging him toward the pyre set in the center of the hall. The wildfire is poured into the brazier, its noxious fumes filling the air. Rickard glances back at his son, his eyes calm and steady. "Brandon," he says quietly, his voice firm. "Do not lose yourself."

Brandon shakes his head, his voice breaking. "Father—"

The guards tie Rickard to the pyre, stepping back as the wildfire is lit. Green flames roar to life, climbing hungrily around Rickard’s form. The heat is unbearable, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh. But Rickard does not scream. His eyes remain fixed on his son, unyielding to the very end.

"Father!" Brandon roars, his voice raw with anguish. He surges forward, but guards grab him, forcing him back. Aerys gestures with a flick of his hand, and a noose of Tyroshi rope is brought forth. It is looped around Brandon’s neck and tied to the brazier.

"Let the wolf choke on his own defiance," Aerys says with a sneer.

The guards begin to tighten the rope, pulling it taut. Brandon fights, his hands clawing at the noose, his boots skidding against the stone floor as he struggles to reach his father. His face turns red, veins bulging as the rope cuts into his neck.

Through the haze of pain and fire, Brandon’s gaze finds Rhaegar, who stands motionless at the base of the throne. His lips move, a whisper barely audible over the crackling flames and Aerys’s mad laughter.

"Y/N," Brandon whispers, his voice hoarse. The name carries through the hall like a ghost, reaching Rhaegar’s ears.

Rhaegar’s eyes widen, his composure cracking for the first time. He takes a step forward, his gaze flickering to his father, who is too consumed by his triumph to notice. The name lingers in the air, a spark in the dry kindling of the North’s fury.

Brandon’s struggles slow, his strength ebbing away as the noose tightens. His vision blurs, the last thing he sees the green flames consuming his father. With one final, ragged breath, he collapses, his body limp against the restraints.

The hall falls silent, the only sounds the crackling of the wildfire and Aerys’s quiet, satisfied laughter.

Rhaegar’s fists clench at his sides as he stares at the lifeless form of Brandon Stark. The name whispered in death echoes in his mind. Y/N.

The North will not forget. And neither will he.

The gates of Winterfell groaned open as Eddard Stark rode through, his grim face framed by the gray fur of his cloak. The chill wind of the North cut through the courtyard, carrying whispers of his return as servants hurried to greet their lord. His bannermen followed close behind, their horses weary from the long ride. At the center of the company, wrapped tightly in thick furs, was the child.

The infant stirred, his small cries barely audible over the clatter of hooves and the rustle of banners. Eddard held him protectively, his jaw clenched, his expression as cold and unreadable as the snow-dusted landscape around him.

At the top of the stairs leading into the great hall, Lady Catelyn Stark stood waiting. Her auburn hair spilled down over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the pale blue of her gown. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line as she watched her husband dismount.

The sight of the bundled infant in Eddard’s arms was like a blow. Her heart sank, dread pooling in her stomach as the truth dawned on her. A bastard. He’s brought a bastard into our home.

When Eddard finally reached her, the tension between them was palpable. He paused, cradling the child, and looked into her eyes. “Catelyn,” he said softly, his voice steady but distant. “We need to talk.”

Her gaze flickered to the child, then back to him, her expression tight with fury. “You dare to bring him here? After everything?”

“Not here,” Eddard said firmly, nodding toward the doors of the great hall. “Inside.”

The warmth of the great hall was nothing to the frost in Catelyn’s glare. She stood rigid near the hearth, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as Eddard laid the baby in a cradle brought by a servant. The child, with dark hair and pale skin, cooed softly, unaware of the storm brewing around him.

Catelyn’s voice trembled with barely contained anger. “You bring this… this boy into my home, and you expect me to accept him? To raise him among our children, as if he were one of them?”

Eddard turned to face her, his expression unreadable but resolute. “He is my blood.”

“Your blood,” she repeated bitterly, her voice rising. “A bastard! Do you know what they will say, Eddard? What they will whisper behind my back? They already called me the jilted bride of The Wild Wolf. Brandon’s betrayal humiliated me before the realm, and now this?” She gestured toward the cradle. “Another Stark disgrace for me to bear?”

Eddard’s face hardened, his voice sharp. “I will not let this child suffer for the choices of men.”

“Choices you made!” she snapped, her voice echoing in the hall. “What of me, Eddard? What of your wife? Did you think of me when you lay with another woman? When you fathered a child out of wedlock?”

Eddard flinched, but his resolve did not waver. “You know nothing of what I’ve done,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with unspoken pain. “And you never will.”

Catelyn stared at him, her chest rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “You owe me more than that, Eddard. I am your wife. The mother of your heir.”

“You are,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “And I will never dishonor you again. But Jon is here now, and he will stay. He is innocent in all of this.”

“Innocent,” she repeated bitterly, her gaze flickering to the cradle. “And what of Robb? What of our son? What will he think when he grows older and learns his father brought a bastard into his home? How do I explain this to him?”

Eddard sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You will tell them the truth—that Jon is my son. That he is their brother, no matter the circumstances of his birth.”

Catelyn shook her head, her voice trembling with anger and pain. “You ask too much of me, Eddard. Too much.”

Eddard stepped closer, his gray eyes meeting hers. “I ask only for your kindness. For the sake of the boy.”

Catelyn’s throat tightened, her nails digging into her palms. “You’ve already asked for my forgiveness. Don’t ask for my kindness too.”

Eddard’s face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of sorrow. He nodded once, then turned back to the cradle, his hand resting on the edge as he looked down at the child.

“This is Jon,” he said softly. “He will be raised as a Stark. And I will ensure he knows he is loved, no matter what the world says.”

Catelyn turned away, unable to bear the sight of her husband and his bastard child. The pain of betrayal cut deep, the wounds still raw. She knew she had no choice but to endure, for the sake of her family, but the bitterness in her heart was a cold comfort.

“Brandon, dear man, wishing for a wife is no manner of incurring one,” said Mrs Jennings, shaking her head before buttering another slice of bread while tutting with rosy cheeks from the warmth of the room and drink on offer. He smiled at her, a soft but somewhat forced expression, saying nothing. “You know, Colonel, it is not as if a wife shall simply appear from the sky to be swept away.” “Indeed, Mrs Jennings.” He said no more than that, yet the woman insisted on continuing the conversation for many more long minutes, wishing to make connections with single women he was already aware of, and not at the slightest interested in or fond of.

“Oh, come away, Mrs Jennings, my boy Brandon will find a wife when fate allows it,” Sir John said, endeavouring to steer the woman away in thought and conversation, it appeared. “Yes, but she will not be falling from the sky—” she flicked the butterknife about “—by simply being wished upon to appear. It would be grand, for sure, but it simply isn’t the way of the world.” Sir John smiled with mirth at the woman. “You mean it is not the way you shall find him a wife.” They both laughed, continuing their jesting regarding finding him a wife. He saw no joy in the conversation, nor did he engage in their civil mockery.

“Oh, such a grave man you are today, Colonel,” said Mrs Jennings when he did not take a turn in the conversation. “Indeed,” he admitted, and Mrs Jennings laughed so deeply her bosom shook to the extent he wondered if the dress would hold up to her voluptuous curves when in such a laughing mood. “And he admits it himself, oh my dear, what a man you are, Colonel.”

“I shall excuse myself; I must return to Delaford before the storm turns worse.” At that, the whole company looked out the windows. “Have a pleasant evening,” he continued while rising and bowing to the room. “Ride safe, we shall await your Christmas Lunch invitation, Colonel,” Mrs Jennings called after him with a tutting he knew all too well before he had the chance to escape without such a demand being laid upon his shoulders.

Stepping down two flights of stairs, moving through the halls of the grand estate of Barton Park, his heart remained burdened by the void within it. He was not to find a wife, it appeared, and no matter his thoughts on the matter, there was not much for him to do about the situation.

Most found him grave, found him stiff, or even dreary despite his gentlemanly ways. Perhaps it is so, perhaps I have become enclosed and resolved to a life of loneliness, much like in the words of many great poets as they wrote of vast seas and endless skies. Perhaps, such loneliness is to be my life. He did not enjoy the thought, but there was a certain cold solace to be found within the kindred words of poetry from great men and women. Yet, a Christmas wish of true companionship is perhaps not too much of a childish thought to have, when kept private, of course.

A servant pushed the large oak doors open as he reached them, stepping out into the howling wind with fluttering snow obscuring much of the landscape, he drew a steadying breath while the stable boy came jogging with his black steed. “Good lad—” “Waaah!” came the shriek of a woman, and he had but one moment to look up and stretch out his arms before a flurry of fabric came hurling toward him; as if she had fallen from the sky itself.

⩤• YOU •⩥

You had not expected to die before Christmas. But, there you were, falling helplessly toward doom from one simple, meagre, tiny slip of the foot. You shrieked like a ghoul. The snow swished by your face. Your arms flailed out and your dress fluttered between your legs for two endless seconds of free-fall.

The air was knocked out of you the third second. Terror came first, then the force had you losing your breath. You were caught, yet had still plummeted to the snow-covered ground below with double exhales and impacts. “Miss— Miss, are you alright?” came the deepest of voices and your heart — already in complete disarray — decided to skip several beats and nearly end you right there atop the gentleman who had broken your deadly fall with his own body it appeared. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, oh, dear lord,” you whimpered between sharp inhales and quick exhales as you attempted to rise in a scramble from atop the man you had surely crushed. I’m alive. Heavens. I’m alive.

You managed to roll over, your back only mildly protesting, and your breathing had no chance to even out as shame flooded in while you knelt in the snow with your head bowed. Your glove-clad hands dug into the snow as your arms shook uncontrollably. I almost died, almost died, oh, my lord, I almost died. “Sir, I ap-apolo-apologise,” you stuttered out, endeavouring to stop yourself from the threat of crying. “Miss, are you well? Unharmed?” he asked, the sound of crunching snow telling you he moved. “Y-yes, sir. You broke my fall. Oh, dear lord, are you hurt, sir?” you asked quietly while finally tilting your head back, only to lose your breath all over.

Squatting before you was a gorgeous man with not a single fault to his appearance or posture. His warm eyes claimed yours fully, and the warmth spreading across your cheeks and neck had your lips parting as you drew a deeper breath. “Are you hurt, miss?” he asked while you lost yourself in his shadow. “No. No, sir, I’m-, I’m alright.” You were not truly alright, but more alright than you ought to have been.

“Did my fall c-cause you harm, sir?” you asked, feeling a dread creep along your spine at the thought. He smiled softly as you straightened, sitting back on your heels a your legs trembled too much to stand upon them that second, as he looked down on you. “No. I am well, miss.” “Oh, thank goodness, whatever should I have done had I harmed you,” you whispered with relief. “Surely, that is not a concern as of now? You were near a painful death.” “I— Yes, I apologise, sir.” “It is not every day women fall from the sky,” he said, nearly wishfully so, while his head tilted and his warmth seemed to reach within your ribs by mere proximity. “Tell me, are you well enough to stand?” “Oh, why yes, yes of course, sir,” you blubbered out, rushing to get on your feet when the man’s voice had you so wholly enamoured it made thinking a struggle. “Ahh—”

He grabbed you firmly when your knees buckled. Pain was not the cause of it as much as shock and the remnants of fear; there was some pain in your back, of course, but not to the extent it swayed you. “Gently, miss. Gently,” he encouraged, keeping you up and stable with a firm but gentle hold of your arm. “Do not make haste after such an ordeal. Come, allow me to escort you inside.” Inside? Through the front door? Mrs Raventire will flay me! “Oh, no, sir, please, I can manage on my own. I have already burdened you, in all manners,” you rushed to say as your heels dug into the snow-covered stone stairs.

The man stood tall and straight, his black winter coat made of the finest material and the large hat atop his head with its wide brim kept much of his face protected from the snow, while you had to avert your gaze to wipe snowflakes out of your eyes. Perhaps I did die, and this is some strange form of heaven? Surely, a man such as this does not simply appear out of thin air like a Christmas wish come true? That is absurd. But just the day before, you had stupidly spent the evening wishing — with all your heart — for a warm love to one day find you. But it was nonsensical wishing. It was a way of softening the pain of the dark winter. It was a childish manner of thinking to get through yet another harsh day of servitude and poverty.

He stood in the fluttering snow, backdropped by a magnificent black steed, and he had just saved your life. He was the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes upon, and the voice he spoke with had chills travelling down the inside of your spine as it was beyond perfection. Your imagination had already installed him on a picnic blanket during sunset with a book of poems in his large hand, with the golden light of dusk making that hair of his shimmer. Such a dream…

“Miss? Are you well?” he asked, a flare of worry enlarging his eyes as he stepped closer when your cheeks began to burn. “Yes, yes, sir, I’m so well,” you blubbered, not truly speaking correctly, but he captivated your mind and had you struggling for coherent thoughts when he looked at you so gently, so warmly, and there was not an ounce of disgust or annoyance despite your apparent state of being in servitude and not one of status. “I shall lead you in—” “Oh, no, sir.” Your hands shot out as you took a swaying step back from the kind gentleman.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out slowly toward you as if wanting to steady you further. “I-, I-, I shall walk myself, sir. I will not take up any more of your time.” You backed up, nearly tripping over some snow before your foot took one step down on the stairs hiding below. “I shall take greater care when removing snow off the windowsills from now on, too,” you continued, not that you hadn’t been taking the greatest care to not fall when leaning over earlier. “You will put yourself in danger once more?” he asked, his eyes widening and his back stiffening as his eyes flicked toward the sky for a second, it appeared. “Why, yes, sir. It is my duty to clear the estate of overhang, sir. I am but hired as a temporary worker for such tasks during this winter season. So as not to put the original staffing in danger, sir.” Your smile was surface-level only, for the value of your life had just been uttered to the man who had your heart in a twist by simply existing — and doing so in a grand part of society. “Goodbye, sir.” You did not allow yourself to linger in the warmth of the stiff, nearly grave appearing gentleman’s eyes for another second…

TO BE CONTINUED

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: FIRST BRANDON FIC OF THE YEAR! Oh my gosh, I’m already so in love with these two - I can’t wait to continue their story as soon as possible! 😍👏

NEXT PART >

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The first snow of December drifted past my window like glittering confetti, settling against the glass and frosting the world outside in silver. Most people loved snow because it meant Christmas lights and cozy sweaters, but for me, it meant extra layers to fight the cold that snuck through the cracks in our tiny apartment. 

Mom was at her second job against, pulling a double shift at the diner. My little brother was sprawled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that had seen better days, doing homework by the light of our crooked little lamp. The scent of instant ramen clung to the air, and the heater made a tired rattling sound every time it kicked on. Christmas was two weeks away, and we hadn’t even put up a tree yet. Not because we didn’t want one, we just couldn’t. Rend came first. Always. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t make Christmas special for someone else. That someone being Brandon Foster. 

The thought of him made me smile instantly; his easy grin, the way his hair always fell into his eyes when he played piano, the way his hands looked when he moved across the keys like he was translating emotion into sound. Brandon didn’t care that I didn’t have fancy clothes or expensive gifts; he loved me for me. Still, I wanted to give him something, something that said ‘I love you’ in a way words couldn’t. That’s how I got the idea for mittens. 

It started a few nights ago when Brandon and I had walked home from Anchor Beach, our breath visible in the cold. He’s tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, blowing warm air onto them every few minutes. 

“Should’ve brought glvoed.” He said with a little laugh. 

I remember watching his fingers, red from the cold, and thinking, I could make those warm. Literally. 

Now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room, I stared down at the yarn I bought from the dollar store, soft gray with tiny white flecks that reminded me of snow. I saved up the money from babysitting the neighbor’s kid, resisting every temptation to buy coffee or snacks after school. 

Knitting wasn’t something I was great at. I learned from YouTube tutorials last year when I wanted to make scarves for my mom and brother, and those had turned out… okay. Not perfect, but mittens felt doable. At least, that’s what I told myself. 

The first attempt was a disaster. One mitten looked like it could fit a toddler, and the other like it belonged to a small bear. My stitches were uneven, the thumbs were crooked, and I accidentally dropped a loop somewhere in the middle. I sighed, undoing the yarm and starting over. 

“Maybe this was a dumb idea…” I muttered under my breath, glancing at the clock. Midnight. My fingers ached, but I refused to give up. Brandon was worth the effort. 

The next day, after school, I sat on the steps outside before heading home, knitting needles in my lap. Callie walked by and gave me a curious look 

“Hey, Y/N. What’re you making?” 

“Mittens.” I said, biting my lip in concentration as I tried not to mess up another row. 

“For Brandon?” She asked, grinning. 

I blushed. “Maybe…” 

She laughed softly. “That’s sweet. He’ll them them.” 

I hope she was right. 

By the end of the week, I had one mitten finished, and it wasn’t half bad. The stitches were tight and even, and when I slipped my hand inside, it actually felt warm. I imagined Brandon wearing it, maybe while he played piano, his fingers safe from the cold for once. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought. 

The second mitten took another few days. Between school, babysitting, and helping Mom with groceries, I worked on it every chance I got. During lunch, before bed, even while watching TV with my brother. He teased me, of course. 

“You’re such a grandma.” He said, laughing when he caught me knitting. 

“Grandmas are cool.” I shot back, tossing a ball of yarn at him. 

By the time I tied off the last stitch, it was Christmas Eve Eve, and I finally had a matching pair. They weren’t perfect; one was a little looser than the other, and the left thumb leaned slightly sideways. But they were soft, warm, and made with love, every single loop a tiny piece of me. I wrapped them in brown paper from an old grocery bag and tied it with a string. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt right. 

Christmas morning came faster than I expected. Our apartment smelled faintly of cinnamon oatmeal and the cheap pine candle Mom lit to make up for not having a tree. My little brother had woken me up way too early, shaking my shoulder and yelling,

“It’s Christmas!” until I threw a pillow at him. 

Now, sitting on my bed with my gift for Brandon in my lap, I felt… nervous. Which was ridiculous, right? I worked hard on those mittens. They were warm and soft and full of love. But all I could think about was the small, perfectly wrapped box he gave me last night. I hadn’t opened it yet. He told me to wait until Christmas morning. 

I stared at the brown paper package sitting next to my pillow, my handmade mittens, and then at the shiny little box tied with golden ribbon. The difference between the two made my stomach twist. His gift looked like something out of a jewelry store commercial. Mine looked like something a kid made for an art project. Still, I told myself, he’ll appreciate it. Brandon wasn’t shallow. He wasn’t the type to care about expensive things. But a tiny voice in the back of my head whispered, What if he doesn’t understand? 

Later that afternoon, after helping Mom wash dishes and hugging my brother about a dozen times, I headed to the Fosters’ house. The world outside was a winter postcard, soft snowflakes falling in the sunlight, kids laughing down the street, everything shining and white. 

When I got to the Fosters’, I could hear Christmas music playing from inside. The door opened before I could even knock. 

“Sam!” Brandon grinned, pulling me inside and kissing my cheek. 

“Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas.” I said, trying not to blush as he took my coat. 

The house smelled amazing, cookies, cocoa, and pine from their huge, perfectly decorated tree. I could hear laughter from the living room, and for a second, I just stood there, letting it all sink in. 

He handed me a mug of hot chocolate, and we sat on the couch near the window. I noticed he was wearing one of those soft flannel shirts that made him look effortlessly cozy. 

“So…” He said, eyes bright. “Did you open my gift yet?” 

I shook my head. “I wanted to do it with you.” 

“Perfect.” He said softly, handing me the little box. 

My fingers trembled slightly as I untied the ribbon and opened it. Inside, resting on the bed of white cotton, was a silver heart-shaped necklace, simple, delicate, and beautiful. The letters B+Y/F/I were engraved in the center, with a tiny music note etched beside them. 

I gasped softly. “Brandon…” 

He smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted you to have something that… you know, shows how much you mean to me. It’s not fancy or anything-” 

“Brandon, it’s perfect.” I whispered, tears already blurring my vision. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

He smiled, relief washing over his face. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

He took it from the box and fastened it around my neck, his fingers brushing the back of my skin. The metal was cool against my collarbone, but it warmed quickly. When I turned back to face him, his eyes softened. 

“Looks even better on you.” He said. 

I laughed quietly, blinking back tears. “Okay, now I’m really nervous about my gift.” 

He tilted his head. “Nervous? Why?” 

I bit my lip, pulling out the brown paper package from my bag. 

“Because yours is all shiny and perfect and… well, mine isn’t.” 

He frowned. “Sam…” 

“I just- promise you won’t laugh, okay?” 

“I would never laugh at something from you.” He said seriously. 

I handed him the package, my stomach twisting. “Merry Christmas, Brandon.” 

He opened it carefully, unfolding the paper like it was something precious. When them mittens came into view, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. 

“Mittens?” He said, smiling. 

I nodded quickly, rushing to explain. “Yeah, um, I noticed your hands are always freezing, and I couldn’t really afford anything from a store, so I-” 

He cut me off by slipping one mitten on. Then the other. 

“They fit perfectly.” He said quietly, flazing his fingers.

“Wait… did you make these?” 

I hesitated. “Yeah. I, uh, I knitted them. Took me a while, but-” 

Before I could finish, he set his cocoa aside and pulled me into his arms. 

“Sam,” He murmured against my hair. “This is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.” 

I froze for a second, then laughed breathlessly. 

“You’re just saying that.” 

“No,” He said firmly, leaning back to look at me. “I mean it. You made these with your hands. You spent hours on them. That means more to me than anything I could buy.” 

His eyes were soft and shining, the kind of look that made my chest ache in the best way. 

“I love them.” He said again, rubbing his thumb over the yarn. 

“I love you for making them.” 

I laughed, relief and warmth washing through me like sunlight. He leaned forward, kissed the tip of my nose, and whispered, 

“Now, when my hands are warm, I’ll think of you.” 

I swallowed hard, smiling through the lump in my throat. 

“Guess that means I did okay, huh?” 

“You did perfect.” He said softly.

"Colonel Brandon sir! We've found her! We've found the poor darling! She was all covered with snow but she's safe now!"

The boisterous voice of his stout housekeeper rang through his drawing room where he had been pacing all morning worried to death, yet unable to do anything but wait until news of her return.

So this news that his little beloved was back had his heart pounding in both relief and joy, as his housekeeper appeared in front of him. Her cheeks were rosy, and she wore a large smile on her face as Brandon rushed up to her with so many questions about what had happened.

"Oh thank heavens is she well? Where is everyone? Please take me to them Martha!"

"Of course sir! Everyone is in the foyer, she is alright just warming up in front of the fire! Come sir! Oh goodness! how wonderful and such luck," Martha exclaimed with great energy as they both made their way in a rush to the foyer. 

When they arrived, they were greeted with the sight of two maids that were beside [Y/n] who was crouched down near the fire.

"Christopher!" [Y/n] cried, popping up from the floor in front of the fireplace, her husband's worried features, turning into relief when they saw each other.

A high pitched whimper came from her arms as the tiny, fluffy animal that was still damp from its sudden adventure outside was disturbed from the movement, still attempting to dry off and recover its energy.

"My love where was she? I thought we had lost her forever. Oh you silly little pup," Brandon chastised gently, kissing [Y/n] before stroking the poor animal who had been lost in the snow all day, after being accidentally let out by one of the farmhands.

The tiny thing whined and whimpered at the warm touch before snuggling close to [Y/n] and her layers of clothing for warmth.

"The silly girl somehow made it to the dove cote near the lake," [Y/n] spoke as she sat back down in front of the fire to help warm the puppy. Kneeling by her ,Brandon listened tentatively to her speak as he stroked the tiny animal who they had thought was lost to the snow. "Peter, the little farm hand, he saw her paw prints in the snow when they went searching, and there she was covered in snow and exhausted. Oh my poor thing don't ever frighten us again like that!"

The puppy whimpered in what seemed like agreement, and both [Y/n] and Brandon seemed to get a laugh of it.

"Shh, hopefully you’ve learned a lesson you mischievous little thing," Brandon cooed, his voice rumbling with emotion that most would find strange when it came to such an animal. "You nearly put your poor mother in an early grave," he added, as he watched [Y/n] cuddle the shaking pup.

"Oh she did she really did," [Y/n] agreed, eyes teary as she pressed her lips to the top of the dog's head grateful that it was alright.

Her little Tulip was okay. It may be strange, but the little pup was her favourite as it had been the runt of the litter, always fighting to get milk from it's mother's teets. Her litter mates also seemed to be keen on stepping all over her and [Y/n]'s poor heart couldn't take the squeals that she would let out.

And maybe because she too had always been treated as less by her family and others that she had begged Brandon to let her keep her. And Brandon, with a soul as soft as his, allowed her to, seeing how desperate she was to care for the sweet pup.

So he knew, when one of the servants had told him that the animal had run off that they had to find it as soon as possible. Not only because snow had begun to fall quickly and the little thing was too young to survive. But, he knew how devastated [Y/n] would be if something happened to the animal as she was never the one to blame others, but to shoulder it herself. And he could not have his darling one do that.

The relief they tasted was sweet, as the little animal let out a little yawn and cozied itself up into [Y/n]'s bosom, and they both let out a small laugh at how comfy it looked now.

"Mayhap she's learned her lesson that the snow is not quite to her liking," [Y/n] whispered, smiling at the little thing that she cradle just as one would a child.

As one would a child. She bit her lips at that thought. The thought of cradling a child  that was both hers and Christopher’s making. It had her heart fluttering a bit.

"Yes, hopefully she will not try to give us a scare again, though it seems that she just as her mother, ]has a mischievous side," the older man teased as she looked up at him with a small smile, yet she said nothing for a moment as she stroked the dog in her arms.

Just as her mother.

His words echoed in her mind, and while they were said in jest she couldn't stop thinking about the phrase. There was only silence and the crackling of the wood in the fireplace before she spoke gently and hushedly only wishing for her husband to hear.

"Christopher I-." Pausing, [Y/n] looked up to search for the maids who had been in the room with her along with Martha, but they were all gone. Which left the Brandon's alone to their little reunion.

When had that happened? No worries though, it was actually perfect timing.

The older man looked at her with a little raise of an eyebrow, yet his gentle gaze was steady as he watched her shyly look down at the animal who was snoozing away now.

"I wonder whether or not we would make good parents?" She whispered, averting the gaze of her husband's for fear that his eyes would tell her the opposite of what she wished him to say. "Of course, considering this little one tried to get it self lost in a snow storm today, mayhap I think I may not be too fit for it."

"Darling stop! Do not say such a cruel thing about yourself," he pleaded, fully sitting next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder, bringing her to lay her head on his own shoulder. "One can hardly measure their aptitude for motherhood based on a young dog running away. It was not you who let this silly one out in any case."

"Yes I know but-."

"No, I will no hear of you speak cruelly about yourself," he interrupted sternly, turning and leaning down to kiss the top of her head. "You would make a wonderful mother, I am sure of it. It is me who I think am too old for fatherhood."

"You too old?" [Y/n] asked, flabbergasted with eyes going wide like saucers because it had to be the most incredulous thing she had heard. "Chirstopher my love, you have more life in you than men with less winters on them. You are the sweetest, gentlest, most generous soul that one could ever meet. And you say you are not fit to be a father? Mayhap we both need a lesson on being less cruel towards oneself."

"Mayhap we do…but my words they are true, you would make a wonderful mother my love a wonderful mother indeed."

"And you a wonderful father Christopher." She responded softly.

They turned to face each other, a smile on their lips and eyes full of warmth as the fireplace in front of them warmed them as well. Brandon's arm opened to embrace his wife, and as she leaned in to his hold they were both startled by the high pitch and sudden,

"Awoo!" From the little dog that was being held. It startled them and caused them to look at the dog who had woken up suddenly.

Its beady eyes stared at its parent's as if it was asking them what they were doing and they both couldn't help the laughter that flowed through them.

"And you shall make the children a wonderful companion when they arrive." [Y/n] giggled, patting the dog who let out another playfully bark before cuddling in the arms of its mother who went to cuddle its father.

A/N: heheh i know it was short but i hope it was still a nice read! the colonel is such a soft man and i love that!