“ 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐲 ” 🐺 Cregan Stark
pairing: cregan stark x targ!wife!reader
type: sfw, fluff, oneshot
a/n: post-war, it is up to ur own interpretation but is written with the intent on reader being aemma’s younger daughter, cregan is the bday boy and his wife takes care of him!!
Hisses of snow clawed at the tall window panes of Lord Cregan Stark’s solar. Charcoal-hued eyes lingered over the recent trade made between House Cerwyn and House Hornwood, who now have brought their dispute before their Warden.
Maester Kennet stood cross-armed to the side, the glint of his chains bouncing off with the firelight. “The sale was struck before the deep frost,” He explained, “But both report thinning stores now.”
“These men marched with me,” Cregan grunted, as he did so frequently, rubbing his temples, “They’ll achieve nothing divided. Let them speak their grievances before me— send word at first light.”
The maester bows and slowly rises, “Yes, my lord. Riders shall be sent early on in the morrow.” A soft sigh left Cregan’s mouth, and the maester left shortly after.
Kennet would attempt to turn the corner as he passed the halls but, he was interrupted in doing so--he was met with you, who appeared before him, wearing a knowing smile.
“My Lady,” Stiffly, he bowed to the Targaryen princess, now Lady of Winterfell, who stood, assertively, with her dark furs and silver curls.
"Maester Kennet,” You began, a sly smile forming—and one would almost mistake you for a fox, not a dragon— “I presume you already know I heard all which was discussed. You are aware it is your lord’s nameday on the morrow?”
The maester raised a brow, puzzled, then nodded, “…Yes, my Lady, but duty calls—“
“And you know I am relentless, so be no fool— you will send word immediately, yes?”
You cocked your head to the side, continuing, “I want full accounting of grain stores from both Castle Cerwyn and Hornwood. Barley, oats, root vegetables, livestock numbers, fodder remaining. I want it tallied and sworn,” Your eyes narrowed, “And it will be ready by the first light, before my husband wakes.”
To argue against a Targaryen princess, and this one especially, would be a foolish thing to do. To reason, perhaps, would be smarter, “My lord has given instruction.”
“And I amend it. This dispute will not reach Winterfell. It will be resolved before it does."
“…And this is for Lord Stark’s judgement?”
You observed your nails, feigning disinterest, “Call it what you will, I do this in his good name. I will arrive on dragonback with our steward. It will be quick,” You sighed, “My husband’s nameday will not be tainted by petty lords. By the time he wakes, he’ll find this matter resolved.”
Kennet could only incline his head and comply, "...It will be as you wish it, my lady.” For if the wolf could be matched in wit and bite, it would be by none other than his own wife.
Blankets of pure, white snow stretched over the northern lands. Wagons stood on each side. Northern men would carve one another into oak if they could, but community meant everything in the North, and it could not afford a moment of fragility.
Even in conflict, they had one thing in common. Southerners repulsed them, and moreover, they shied away from southern politics. So to be summoned by a southern woman in their own lands, much less a Targaryen dragonrider who was now their overseer, needless to say— they were not happy, not at all.
A shriek echoed throughout the vast void that was this blizzard of a field, and a large shadow was cast above the men. You descended beyond the skies, with your dragon landing safely.
Groups of men bow to the Lady of the North. Without much flourish, you dismount your companion, and waste no time:
“Which party withheld grain first?” Stern. Stable, in control. Your past shaped you into what you were now; if not adored, you were at least respected to a degree here.
Lord Cerwyn shivered. Was it from the brutal chill of winter, or the possibility of getting smoked like a little lamb?
“Payment was delayed.” He'd finally manage.
Lord Hornwood’s eyes widened, “Our granary roof fell! We asked f'time, not mercy!”
You raised your hand. Your steward opened up the pamphlet of the tallies gathered at dawn, and handed it over elegantly, “…The contract stands." You began, "The purchase was made under law, and payment shall be honored,”
Hornwood protested, “My Lady—“
“The laws of trade cannot be disrupted. However,” You continued, “Lord Cerwyn shall release the withheld grain immediately. Half of the original amount will be paid now. The rest repaid in spring with added barley from the first harvest.”
You fixed a shocked Cerwyn with a level look, as he returned it with one of oblivion, “If Lord Hornwood’s stores fail, your east flank weakens. May I remind you, that the North must always stand united as one. A slip of one house, and you will not fear wheats my lords, already raiders.”
The lords shared a look.
You continued your judgement, “No grain wagons move without the seal of Winterfell. I will see to it. This, it is shared survival.”
The men bow. They dare not protest, only follow your word, “It will be done, my Lady."
The two houses do not hold hands and sing off into the flakes of the cold. They don’t hold each other in affection.
But they are all bound in necessity and in survival. You understood. They understood.
And perhaps, that is enough.
Frantic and heavy footsteps left marks in the deep snow. Cregan Stark, in all his disarray, headed over to the dragonpit he had built for his princess all those years ago. Humble in comparison to the original, now ruined one in King’s Landing, but a sweet gift.
What his dear wife did, was not so sweet. Once Cregan rose in the morn, he had grasped the empty sheets next to him, which had already grown cold. Only to hear from his maester that his lady rode off into the skies little after dawn, to solve a conflict you had overheard (you sneaky minx).
You hadn't been back for hours.
Thankfully, your dragon was a little less discreet than you were. He stormed into the pit, the slam of the doors echoing throughout it as they hit the walls. He rolled his eyes once he spotted you getting off your dragon, as if he were the princess and not you.
You turned to find your slightly agitated husband standing still. You rushed toward him, but he had already begun his monologue.
“What have you done? Did I have to pray to the Old Gods and new that some raider did not shoot you down—“ Clasping your arms around his neck, you pulled him down till your foreheads met, and you whispered against his lips,
“Happy nameday, love,” You giggled at his little frown, and crashed your lips against his before he could retaliate. There was nothing for Cregan to do, other than return it, before you pulled away and he grumbled at the loss of contact. “May your winters be many.”
"My winters will be scarce if you do not quit." He snaked his arms around you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t adore the way he hovered over you completely, “Is that your gift to me? A heart attack?”
You could but laugh at that.
“A haart-uh-tack.”
Cregan scoffed, and a truly devout smile made its way to his lips, as he lifted you off the ground and spun you around. You laughed, and once he set you down, he went in for more.
He smelled of firewood smoke. Even amidst all this cold, you could smell him— take him in, all of him. The way pieces of his hair tickled your forehead, how the black furs of his attire loomed over, prickling at your chin and neck, how he could unapologetically swing you around if he wanted…
And despite all the fieriness you held, Cregan found patience in his heart for you. He learned to be gentle with you; not in the patronizing way, but out of true admiration. A soft sound left you once you felt him pull away. When he looked at you again, he was serious,
“I trust you to do just about anything. But,” His gloved hand stroked your cheek, “Just tell me you’re flying off next time.”
“I thought I would be back by noon,” You leaned into his hand, and intertwined your two arms around his singular one, “I helped some men carry over logs on dragonback, their barrow broke in the heaps of snow."
“Still—“
“It saves you the hassle and the headache,” With your hands on his chest, you gave a kiss to his jaw, “You deserve peace on this day. Your day. And I am sorry for worrying you."
He searched your eyes, and a certain spark overtook his. “You are good.” He rested his chin on your head, hugging you wholly, “So good to me. Only sometimes, you like to tip me over the edge, wife.”
You murmured an unusually unapologetic sorry in the ruffles and layers of his clothes, giggling when he’d respond, “No, you’re not.”
You’d take him riding afterwards on your dragon, which he was (more than he’d like to admit) always quite scared of, but he and the big thing grew friendlier each day. He loved looking down on Winterfell, its tall walls of granite and castles circling the Godswood.
The Great Hall of Winterfell bristled with crowds of nobles. In it, lords and ladies alike toasted and indulged in the banquet, a lively image.
The Lady of the North took it upon herself to curate this feast. Walked the markets, made spares as not to endanger the winter reserves, and commissioned fishermen and hunters expensively to gather food.
Your long curls hung over the chair, and you observed every move. You’d fix a smile at every lord that would bow in passing, and have already indulged in the crude gossips of the ladies. Your lord husband sat beside you, having drunk a cup or three of black beer.
You felt the scent linger as he leaned in to whisper, “You’ll scare ‘em off,” A wolfish smirk graced his features, “You’re scary, got more fangs than a direwolf."
“I am simply making sure all is well,” You placed your hand over his, and though yours paled in size compared to his, it still weakened him in the knees. You traced your fingers over his knuckles, smiling, “You’re quite pretty today, nameday boy.”
“Boy.” Cregan huffed, planting a soft kiss to your head. “Pretty, aye. You’re the only one who thinks so.”
A gasp feigning shock left your lips, and you gently rubbed along his jaw with your thumb, “Non-sense. You’re quite the beauty. Had I been born a man, I would joust and crown you king of love and beauty.”
He laughed, a deep and rough sound it was— but managed to still be kind on your ears. “You’d joust, even as a lady, I fear.”
“You fear?”
“I fear for the men you’d cripple.” Without a beat, he said, as if it were not even a question in his mind.
“I would not cripple them,” You waved him off, “But it would hurt them...” Your finger trailed over the interlaces of his braid. It made you smile, the sight of it.
You scooted over, closer to your husband, “You let me braid your hair, Cregan.” You murmured softly, “You are adorable.”
To see a man so big, both in reputation and size, be reduced to almost a pup of sorts— He blushed at your words, but retained a tight hold of your hand. “Yes. That I did. It made you happy… obviously.”
He turned to you fully, and scattered small pecks atop your head. Men and women could simply watch off to the side, the two of you being continuously enveloped around each other. Whether it was inappropriate or not, mattered nada amount to either of you.
“Thank you,” He cooed against you, “You did not have to do this.”
“No, I had to. Gods, your eyebags have been getting horrendous lately.” You smirked, and he pinched the skin on your hand.
“...Well, if I was born a man, would you love me the same?”
Cregan tilted his head, “You are still on the talk of that jousting bit,” He rolled his eyes, those beautiful greys of his,
“I would love you the same, were you a cedar-tree, moonbloom or dragonfly.”
“That is quite more complicated than the proposition of me having a cock.” Which elicited a harsher pinch now, and it made you squeal and lightly slap his hand away, but he grinned so hard, you could only smile back.
A dramatic sigh departed from you, “I love you too,” You said finally, and grasped around your cup of wine. It was not long after, that the two of you abandoned that feast, in search of a different dragonride.
wc: 2,147
