Summary: You decide Robb needs a break from learning how to be the Lord of Winterfell, what better place for a break than by the forests hot springs?
Warnings: Grey Wind being a wingman while simultaneously cock blocking, Grey Wind being adorable, Reader is implied to be a Tyrell, Slightly suggestive, Inconsistences in the tense it’s written in
Notes: This is a happy universe where the Starks never left Winterfell. Ned is still Lord but Robb will be the future Lord and his wife the future Lady.
Word Count: 1k
FLUFFTOBER 2025 , MASTER POST , ASOIAF MASTERLIST
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“Grey Wind, where are you going?” Robb asks, following after the wolf that looks back at him every few minutes to make sure he’s still following.
The direwolf huffs at the question and picks up the pace, sensing Robb’s confusion and impatience. They quickly reach a clearing to one of the hot springs. You smile when you see your husband and Grey Wind.
“Wife,” Robb greets, taking in the sight of you bundled in the warm furs he had gifted you—you still hadn’t fully adjusted to the cold chill of the north. You had laid out an older blanket that didn’t get much use to sit on, there was a large basket next to you that was no doubt, filled with goodies.
“Husband,” you grin, “Grey Wind,” you call out and the beast immediately comes to your side. He is awarded with pets.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Robb says seriously, “Wildlings have been climbing the walls more frequently, it is not safe to be alone.”
“I’m not alone, you’re here, Grey Winds here,” you gesture with your head to the wolf that rests his head in your lap as you scratch behind his ears.
Robb rolls his eyes, “You know exactly what I meant, love.”
“I am fine, I have my dagger from my grandmother and if that doesn't work, all I need to do is shout for Grey Wind and the wolf will be at my side in a second.”
Robb doesn’t look convinced, making you sigh. This was meant to be a nice surprise for him, he had been working so hard to learn all the ways his father handled things in Winterfell. Especially since Ned would be leaving soon for a trip to The Wall meaning Robb would be left as the eldest Stark heir in Winterfell.
“Robb, please just come sit with me,” you pat the spot next to you and when he does, setting his sword right beside him, you take his hands in yours, “I’ve set this up so we could get away for a bit… you need a break…”
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs a bit, “What would I do without you?”
“Get lost in your own head- crushed by your responsibilities?”
“Hm,” he hums, leaning in close, lips ghosting over yours, “it’s a good thing I don’t have to find out then.”
“No you don’t,” you smile cupping his cheek as you finally connect your lips. The kiss is soft and sweet, a reminder to you both that you have each other.
Grey Wind huffs and moves from his place in your lap to sit on the very edge of the blanket.
You and Robb finally pull away from each other for air, panting, resting your foreheads together. Robb’s eyes are dilated and you’re sure yours look the same. He looks at you with nothing but the purest affection.
“So, my love, what have you got for us?” he asks softly.
You peck his lips quickly before reaching for the basket. Opening it, you revealed the treats you had packed. You had brought a bottle of wine to share, strawberries, bread, and cheese. It wasn’t meant to be a lot, just a little treat for the two of you.
Robb immediately reaches for the strawberries and pops one into his mouth. Strawberries were difficult to grow in the North as they didn’t really grow naturally and if they had, the plants would often die off if not tended to constantly. But ever since your marriage, loads more fresh fruit has found its way to Winterfell. And ever since then, Robb had completely fallen in love with the little red fruit. You took the wine bottle and the two small goblets out of the basket and set them on the blanket.
“Perhaps there is one good thing that has come out of the South,” Robb says, cheekily while holding up another strawberry.
“Only one thing?” you raise a brow, hands leaving the goblets and bottle of wine to rest in your lap.
“You’re right, my mother.”
“Oh, she is lovely,” Catelyn had been so sweet when you had come up North, she knew what it was like to be new there. But still, you wanted to continue the teasing game “and…?” you trail off, raising a brow.
“I suppose you’re good as well.”
You gasp, reaching over to shove his shoulder. He allows himself to fall back but in the process he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you down with him. You land with your hands on his chest, you’re both face to face, and he’s grinning like a cat when you narrow your eyes.
“I only jest, my lady, you are the greatest thing to come from the South,” he brushes some of the hair behind your ear.
You giggle and kiss him once more before pulling back to whisper in his ear, “Hurry and finish your strawberries, my love, I wish to go for a swim,” you pull back, eyes glimmering with mischief.
A wolfish grin breaks out on Robb’s face, “a swim?” he repeats, voice slightly deeper just from the thought alone.
You hum, quickly climbing off of him so you can stand, he’s still laying down. You reach for the direwolf clasp that holds your large fur cloak on and carefully unclasp it, dropping it safely onto the blanket.
Turning to face away from him, you make your way to the hot springs but not before glancing over your shoulder, “You’ll have to help me with the laces…”
Robb quickly shovels the strawberries into his mouth, eating them all as quickly as possible before practically running to join you at the hot springs.
He presses a kiss to your neck, nipping lightly at the skin as he unlaces your dress. It was then that Grey Wind had begun to make noise and when you both looked, you cackled, doubling over in a fit of giggles. The large direwolf, the ferocious beast, had gotten its head stuck in the basket while trying to steal the bread and cheese when you two weren’t looking.
Your husband practically groans before going to help his wolf and after doing so, he turns back to see your dress and shift laying on the rocks. And you, grinning at him from the water.
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table of contents; fluff, mutual attraction, your teeth might rot from the cuteness, suggestive in places, awkward!gendry, sexual tension, strong language.
it’s finally hereee. i think i’m more excited for this than you lot 🌚 oh well. and why are there no fics with this man?? he’s so fine! enjoy, loves <3
“i miss the north.” you grumble, eyeing the scum of flea bottom as you wade through them atop your silver, a fast-growing direpup at your hoof and heel.
elenei. one eye of reddish-purple and the other almost as light as the silver-blond fur that dusts her muzzle. as for the rest of her, black as pitch, save for the white streak down her neck’s right side; similar to the platinum strand that grows from your own head of noir.
“aye, so do i.” says your father, riding a little ways in front. “but you’ll learn a lot from this place, and it’ll be good for you to see some more of the world.”
you roll your eyes and flick a dark curl from your brow. “i wish you never brought me with you.” and your wolf whines as if to agree.
ned sighs, shoulders slumping wearily. you and your sisters haven’t been giving him the easiest of times. “i know, love. i just thought you’d rather be here with me than with your step-mother.”
stuck in winterfell with catelyn. that would be worse than this; but at least you’d have robb and rickon and the godswood.
“besides, arya would’ve spat feathers had you stayed behind.” he adds, and jory cassel chuckles at your flank.
you smirk, then tug gently on your mount’s reins when your father starts to slow.
“are you sure this is the place for a lady, m’lord?” jory asks him, scanning the narrow street. “in fact, you shouldn’t be here either. there are eyes everywhere, milord, and you never know who’s watching.”
“let them look.” ned tells him, stepping down from his saddle. you who was riding side-saddle simply slide from your horse, then pet her braided mane — white like the hills at home. “good girl, mag.”
“elenei, come.” you beckon your pup and she follows you into the blacksmith’s forge, the next location on your father’s list of places his predecessor last visited.
the workshop hasn’t a door, only a thick wall of steam, and the smell of malted steel and sweat fills your nostrils. you blink, eyes watering. it’s like the royal saunas in here.
“lord hand.” greets who you presume to be the owner of this rather fine establishment. not the word most would use, but it’s rather fascinating to you. “i wasn’t expecting you, not that it’s a bother.”
beyond him, where the ringing of steel sings beneath a cross-peen hammer, you spot a young man. no older than you, but quite the bit bigger. you take a step forward whilst your father asks the forge keeper of jon arryn, and a pair of blue eyes look up from their smith work.
a very striking blue. not like the sky or the sea, but far more beautiful than that. his arms glisten against the flame he works over — shredded, rippling muscles swollen beneath the skin that stretches over them. you can see each tendon flexing, his strength not stopping at the wrist. his hands look too old for him, blistered and covered in patches of black—probably where dust and grime have caked to the residues of quenching oil.
“he came to see the boy.” you hear who you now figure must be the younger man’s master say.
“i want to see the boy, too.” your father replies.
you won’t be disappointed. you muse, still admiring him.
“as you wish, my lord. gendry!”
those pretty eyes tear from you at the call of his name and he steps away from his station, hands behind his back when he joins you. he glances at you again, then lowers his head.
“here he is.” introduces his master. “strong for his age.”
you don’t say. your gaze latches to the slither of bare chest you can see through his rags — solid and defined.
“show the hand that helmet you made.”
gendry looks between his master and your father, then turns to retrieve something from the table behind him. a gorgeous steel helm, shaped like a bull’s head. the finish of it is smooth, some of the best forgery you’ve ever seen. you take another look at his hands, astonished by their ability to craft such an intricate design.
he passes it to your father who appears just as wonder-struck as you. he turns it in his hands, marvelling the attention to detail and its polished sheen just as you had. “this is fine work.”
“it’s not for sale.” gendry tells him, nonchalant.
you quirk a brow, not expecting him to be so casually forward. your father smirks, nodding.
his master doesn’t find it amusing. “this is the king’s hand, boy! if the lord wants the helm, he shall have it!”
“i made it for me.” gendry shrugs, stubborn.
he glances at you, the corner of his lips tugging upward when he catches your amusement.
“forgive him, my lord.” the master asks of your father, unimpressed.
“there’s nothing to forgive.” ned tells him, handing gendry his helmet back. “when lord arryn came to visit you, what did you talk about?”
the lad with hair the same shade as your own frowns, then looks quizzically at his master. “just asked me questions is all, m’lord.”
your father narrows his eyes. “what kinds of questions?”
gendry looks to the older smith again who nods, then averts his gaze. “about my work, first. if i was being treated well, if i liked it here.” he pauses, hands resting at his belt. “then he started asking me ‘bout my mother.”
you tilt your head, curious.
“your mother?” your father echoes, just as confused as you.
gendry nods. “who she was, what she looked like.”
you’ve asked similar questions about your own mother. questions that have yet to be answered. you look to your father who avoids your gaze, then divert your attention to the ground.
ned stares at the boy intently. “what did you tell him?”
“she died when i was little,”
so did mine.
“she had yellow hair,”
i don’t know what mine looked like.
“she used to sing to me sometimes.”
at least you knew yours long enough to be sang to.
as if hearing your inner monologue, his gaze flits to meet yours again — gentle and warm.
your father shuffles beside you, fixated on the boy. “look at me.”
gendry does, and only now do you see it — the man from your father’s stories. eyes like ice; hair like coal; hands like spades. you know by the look on ned’s face who the young apprentice must be, you only need look at him to see.
there’s a short pause, then your father returns to the present. “get back to work, lad.”
without a word, gendry turns on his heel and returns to his labours. you find yourself admiring the bull’s head helm once more, then your feet are carrying you through the steam and toward his station.
“are you a one-trick pony?” you ask him, and those pretty blues snap up to confront yours.
he appears stunned, like he’s never spoken to a girl before. perhaps he hasn’t.
then he looks down again, like he’s forbidden from conversing with you. “what’s that mean?” he mumbles, hammering away at what looks to be the beginning of a rather impressive sword.
“could you make something like that again?” you motion to his helm.
“sure,” he looks you up and down. “why?”
“i know someone who would love a helmet like this.” you reach over to twist it in your hands again, gripping the slopes of its horns and feeling the wrinkles of its snarl.
gendry watches you, enticed. “what did you have in mind?”
“a wolf.” you reach back to unfasten your hair pin and hold it out to him. he takes it, mucky fingers grazing your palm. “a direwolf, to be precise.”
he holds it up, inspecting the design of house stark’s sigil. “how big?”
“my sister’s head is only small.” you tell him, and look down at elenei when she whines at your feet. “up.” you command her, patting the wooden worktop. she balances on her hind legs and leaps up so she’s eye-to-eye with gendry. you scratch the underside of her chin. “this is how it should look.”
he doesn’t question that you’re asking he make a helm for a little girl, nor does he appear frightened in the presence of your pup. “she bite?” he asks you, grabbing some sort of measuring device from the shelf.
“not unless i tell her to.” you smile, stroking a comforting hand down her back. gendry smirks, then wraps what appears to be string around her head, then stretches it taut from her snout to her neck.
“alright.” he says, snipping the string where it overlaps. “it’ll take some time, but nothin’ i can’t do.”
“down, girl.” you order softly, and the pup hops down from the counter. “thank you, gendry.”
his eyes flit between yours, totally mesmerised. then your father calls you from the horses and you both take a step back. you hadn’t realised you’d been standing so close. he clears his throat. “uh, yeah. no problem, m’lady.”
“i’m no lady.” you tell him sweetly. “i’m a bastard, too.” then you leave him to his work, wishing his master farewell on your way out.
“you forgot your pin, m’la— miss!” gendry shouts after you.
“keep it! it’s worth thrice your annual pay!” you shout back as you clamber atop mag.
your father watches you, hands poised at his ride’s reins. “what’re you up to?”
“nothing,” you smile, blowing your platinum ringlet from your face. “he’s king robert’s son, isn’t he?”
ned glances at jory, then clicks his tongue at his horse. “yes, love.” he lowers his voice. “i think he is.”
as the days roll by you find yourself stopping by often to check up on gendry’s progress, without your father’s knowledge, no less.
“visiting again, miss snow?” asks the forge master.
“most certainly am.” you parrot back, making your way to the back of the shop.
you spot gendry hunched over a spread-out scroll of parchment and peep over his shoulder, stretching on your toes. “watcha doing?”
he peers over at you, lips quirking. “same as i was yesterday.” he steps aside so you can get a better look. “still ironing out the details and whatnot.”
your brows shoot up at the different sketches that ink the page. some are detailed designs that’ve been scored out, others are just rough drafts. either way, they’re all beautifully drawn and some of the best etches you’ve seen.
“you entered the wrong profession.” you jest, coasting a finger over his doodling. “you’ve quite the talent. . . not a one-trick pony at all.”
he sniffs awkwardly, fidgeting at your side. “yeah, well. . . they’re just ideas. which one do you like best?”
you hum, leaning down to inspect them a little closer. “they’re all exquisite.”
you’re met with silence and turn back to him, a small smile curling at your lips when you see he’s already staring at you. “it quite literally means fine craftsmanship.”
“i know what it means.” he says, eyes dancing over your features.
you feel a strange warmth spread to your cheeks, one you can’t blame on the forge ovens around you, and quickly avert your attention back to the scroll. “i like this one.”
he moves closer, leaning over you to follow your finger when you point to it. he nods. “me too.”
when you turn your face to the side, his is barely an inch from yours and his eyes snap up, then meander south. you swallow. “you’re the expert.”
his gaze lingers at your lips. “mm-hmm.”
you stay as you are for a moment, then the clanging of metal snaps you from your daze and you push yourself away. “okay, well. . . i best let you work.”
he looks in the direction of where the noise came, then reaches his hand back to scratch at his neck. “uh, yeah. i’m sure you’ve got shi— stuff to do, anyway.”
you nod, suddenly shy or nearer to bashful. “yes, stuff. i do have stuff.”
you exchange awkward smiles, unsure of what to do with yourselves, and you spin on your heels to take your leave, only something catches your eye.
beneath some discarded tools hides a pile of scrap paper, dogeared and crumpled. “oh, are these the ones that never made the cut?” you ask, reaching for them.
gendry appears confused for a second, then realisation dawns on him and he steps forward to stop you. “no, that’s nothin—”
but you’ve already unveiled it, holding the tattered sheets up to the light. you barely get a glimpse before he’s snatched them off you and concealed them behind his back. he moved with such speed that you’re surprised you’ve not any paper cuts to show for it. you shoot him a puzzled look. “well? what are they? let me see.”
you reach for him but he takes another step back. “really, it’s nothin’. just old plans from previous weapons, boring stuff.”
“so why can’t i see? this sort of thing really interests me, i always used to visit the forge back home.” you try to approach him again but he goes stiff and you stop dead, frowning. “what’s wrong?”
“nothin’.” he blurts, a little harsh. you shrink back at his tone and he sighs. “they’re just not that good, is all. you’re not missin’ much.”
you smile softly, a mischievous flash in your expression. “you’ve not been drawing naked ladies, have you?”
he looks horrified as if you’re being serious. “what? no, i’d never— no. like i said, it’s nothin’.”
“alright, then.” you eventually relent, and make it look as though you mean to sidle past him. he offers you a flat, embarrassed smile and relaxes slightly.
“i’ll just be on my way. . .” once you’re close enough you shoot your arm out and rip the papers from his grasp, almost tearing them in half. he lunges to take them back but you dodge him and slink to the other side of his work station.
“i’ve got four brothers,” you tell him with a triumphant grin, waving the papers tauntingly. “you need to do better than that.”
his shoulders sag and he grimaces the way one would after treading in a heap of horse dung. the shameful look of dread on his face only fuels your curiosity all the more.
you peer down at the wrinkled papers in your hands, a little stained and aged by stray sparks and soot, but you’re still able to make out what’s been pencilled onto them.
they’re not forgotten weapon designs at all, but girls just as you said. only, each page portrays just the one girl, and she’s not naked.
her hair is wild and has been shaded to the led’s darkest capacity, probably coloured with black chalk; but one strand at the front of her head appears blank, save for the light pencil strokes that depict a reflective shine. freckles pepper her nose and subtle shadows have been shaded to carve out her cheekbones where a small scar curves toward her left ear.
you lift a subconscious hand to touch the pinkish stripe of flesh that stretches over your own left cheek, a wound you’d obtained when you fell into the brambles as a child.
then your eyes find those of the girl, glossy and full of life. they’re blacker than her hair, wispy eyelashes sprouting from their lids.
as soon as you’re able, you shuffle it to the back of the pile so you can look at the next one. it’s a portrait of the same girl, the only thing that differentiates her from the previous sketch being the alteration of a few minor details. her hair is curlier and her eyebrows bushier. you can see the disturbance on the paper’s surface where her mouth has been erased and redrawn a few times. in this final draft, she sports a pair of pouty lips, plump and bowed at the top, shaded to appear rouged.
“what is this?” you finally muster, bearing to drag yourself from the artwork long enough to regard him with a stunned gape that opens and closes again.
he shifts his weight between feet, head lowered. “like i said, it’s nothin’.” he speaks with a small voice that you scarcely hear.
you do a double-take between him and his sketches. “nothing? gendry these are remarkable.”
he lifts his head at your words, stammering like his neck is too weak to do so. “you don’t have to spare my feelings—”
“i’m not, these are incredible! well. . . maybe a slight exaggeration of my appearance, but incredible still.”
“i didn’t exaggerate nothin’.” he says, then looks away again, clearing his throat. “i just mean, it’s difficult to capture faces by memory. . . like, their essence and beauty and all that.” then he cringes, like he wishes he could swallow his words, then have the ground swallow him afterwards.
your insides thaw and you clutch the papers to your front like a rogue gust of wind might slither in from the street and pluck them from you. “i think you captured my essence very well, gendry.”
his eyes widen like he was hoping you wouldn’t realise the sketches are of you, but of some other girl who just so happens to be your spit. “oh, well—”
“may i buy these from you?” you make your way back toward him, holding them out to gaze at them again. some might call you vain, but in truth this is the biggest compliment anyone’s ever given you.
he appears thunder-struck that you’d even ask. “no.”
your face drops.
“i only meant, you can have them for free.” he trips over his words slightly, and there was you thinking you couldn’t like him enough.
your face lights up. “thank you.”
he shrugs. “it’s—”
“nothin’?” you assume, mirroring his drawl. “well, to me it’s something.”
his mouth twitches, teasing a laugh. “besides, you already gave me this.” he reaches into his chest pocket and pulls out your hairpin. you wonder if it’s been in there since you gave it to him. “worth thrice my pay, remember?”
you quirk a brow. “are you even paid?”
“no, i’m an apprentice. an apple is worth thrice my pay.”
you snort at that. so he’s got jokes.
“you should come back to the keep with me, you’d be paid well by the royal forgery. i’m sure the lannisters would greatly appreciate some steel as fine as yours.” you squint at him while he says nothing, eyes glued to the metal he’s yet to make a miracle of that scatters his workbench.
“. . .or i could employ you as my personal painter.” you propose in jest, though you wouldn’t mind. “jon and i were never included in family portraits; catelyn forbade it.”
“that’s hardly fair.” he frowns, all too aware of the discrimination one faces as a bastard, not that he knows of his true paternity.
“eh, she’s done worse.” you tell him, indifferent.
he allows a small smile to grace his lips, and it feels like forever since the last time you saw that. “you should smile more often.”
“don’t have much to smile ‘bout.” he shrugs again, small wonder his shoulders are so broad. “but, uh, i do with you. i mean, you’re nice and. . .” he trails off.
a comfortable silence settles between you like dust and this time it’s you who can’t maintain eye contact, suddenly very interested in the cobbled flooring.
“erm. . . your sister’s helm should be ready in a couple days.” he tells you after a beat, hands fiddling behind his back.
“oh, that’s good! i’ll come by and pick it up.”
he nods, eyes darting aimlessly as he thinks of a way to fill the silence. “but, uh, if you wanted to come down tomorrow — just y’know, to make any last changes or anythin’, you can.”
you smile, sheepish, and rock back and forth on the balls of your feet. you don’t know what else to do with yourself, strangely conscious. “aye, okay. i can do that. only if it’s no trouble—”
“no trouble.” he blunders, eager. “uh, yeah,” he corrects himself. “no trouble at all.”
you giggle. men don’t come like this in the north. “great.”
“miss snow!”
you both jump at the interruption. in all honesty you forgot you weren’t alone.
gendry’s master appears from the shopfront. “jory cassel is here for you.”
“shit.” you murmur, and gendry’s brow shoots up in amusement at your use of language. you turn to him, tucking your latest prized possessions under a protective arm. “um. . . same time tomorrow, then?”
he gives you a nod. “lookin’ forward to it, m’lady.”
you glare back at him on your way out. “thought i told you to stop calling me that.”
“you’re no less your lord father’s daughter than your sisters.” he tells you, genuine.
your heart flutters, and you offer him an appreciative smile in response, then utter your goodbyes to his master.
“your father has been worried sick.” jory warns you as he helps you onto his horse, then lifts himself to mount the saddle. “you girls will send the poor man to an early grave. arya especially.”
you hold onto him with your free hand, the other gripping gendry’s sketches in an iron claw. “how did you know where to look for me?”
“sansa said you won’t stop talking about a boy named gendry.” jory says, a kidding undertone to his words.
blood rushes to your cheeks. “oh.”
“are you wearing makeup?” your youngest sister pesters you like she has been all morning. “why are you wearing makeup?”
“because i want to.” you tell her, touching up the paint that lightly stains your lips. it’s not too much, but enough to make your eyes pop, or whatever.
“can i come with you?” she continues to badger, following you around like a lost dog.
“no, arya.” you huff, fixing your hair. “i’ll be back later.”
the young girl groans, shoulders sagging like sacks of grain. “it’s not fair!” she gripes, “you and sansa get to go out and do things while i’m stuck inside all day.”
“sansa has important duties to tend to.” you tell her, ferreting around your cedar chest for a pair of shoes. “and i’m an adult, so i can do as i please.”
“well, i’m not that much younger, you know. i’m nearly ten.” she whips out her sword, swiping at the air with it.
you feel a waft against the back of your head. “stop that! you’ll have somebody’s eye out.”
she resheathes it with some begrudging and mumbles something under her breath. “please?”
“no.” you repeat yourself, growing tired of her nagging. “besides, you have your lessons with syrio. i thought you were excited about that.”
“i’m not allowed to fight anyone yet.” she grumbles, flopping down onto your bed. “i’m only allowed a wooden sword but it’s really heavy, and i barely even get to use it. he has me chasing after stray cats and now i’ve got blisters.”
“you’ll get better.” you assure her, finally finding your shoes beneath numerous books and other items that accompanied you to the capital.
“but what does running around with cats have to do with fighting? it’s stupid.”
the mattress dips when you sit beside her to tug on your shoes, her scrawny body sliding against you.
“it’s supposed to improve your speed and agility. father used to have jon and robb chase chickens when they were learning, and that was before they had wooden swords.” you sit up once your shoes are on, and scrape a long chestnut strand of hair from her face. “you might look a little silly, but it’s all for the greater good.”
she considers your words for a minute, then wrinkles her nose up when you boop it.
“always expect the unexpected.” you warn, then lay an onslaught of tickle attacks upon her underarms and torso.
she squeals and lets out a series of snotty laughs, wriggling and kicking against you. it’s the happiest you’ve seen her since you came here. “stop, i can’t breathe!”
so you surrender, grinning as she catches her breath.
“and anyway, if you come with me, it’ll ruin the surprise.” you then tell her, standing from the bed.
arya frowns as you shoulder your cloak. “what surprise?”
you eye her from the door. “if i tell you, it won’t be a surprise. and if you catch a cat today, i might let you come beyond the castle walls with me next time. how does that sound?”
her eyes widen and she shoots upright, beaming over at you. “really!?”
“really.” you promise, pulling your hood over your head. “and don’t go through my things while i’m gone, i noticed one of my pillow’s now has a hole in it.”
she wrings her fingers and avoids looking at you. “sorry. . . i was trying to make a dummy by tying it to the broom, but the stupid thing wouldn’t stay standing up.”
you smile at her. you remember how the smallest of things seemed so significant when you were her age. “that’s okay, the sooner you catch those cats, the sooner you’ll be running after men instead.”
her head snaps back to you, a mischievous glint in her giddy grey eyes.
“behave yourself!” you call back to her as you head for the door, elenei scampering at your heels.
“your makeup looks ridiculous!” she calls back to you.
when you arrive at the forge for what may be the last time, you rein in just outside, hopping down from mag to check your appearance in the reflection of a nearby window.
your painted lips have faded a little, your hair slightly askew from pulling your hood down. so you ruffle it and comb your fingers through the black ringlets, wincing when you rip through a knot.
“well, well,” clicks an unfamiliar voice. “what have we here?”
you turn to face them, swallowing when confronted with the sour twist of a gaunt man’s face. mag shuffles anxiously beside you and elenei’s lips peel back over her teeth.
“hair as black as night; skin as light as day; and eyes like lumps of coal. . . you must be a snow.” his mouth splits from ear to ear like a gash and your stomach drops.
“i don’t want any trouble.” you tell him, pulling your cloak to the side to reveal your wolf, her muzzle wrinkled as she snarls.
his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t appear fazed by the threat. “the hand’s bastard, are you?”
“i am,” you stand tall, but still much smaller than him. “so it’d be in your best interest to leave me alone.”
he chuckles, grim. “northern scum—”
“watch it.” warns a voice much more welcoming to your ears. “i only hammer anvils for a livin’ — ain’t got a problem with hammerin’ you, too.”
you smile to yourself when gendry wipes his hands on his apron and steps close to your side, glaring at the man. “you ever heard the noise steel makes when you hit it?” he motions a strike through the air with a swing of his arm.
the man shakes his head, taking a cautious step back.
“it sings,” gendry tells him through his teeth, taking a step forward. “i wonder what noise you’ll make when i hit you?”
you purse your lips, refraining the urge to laugh.
the man lingers for a second, weighing up his options, then thinks better of it and skulks into the hustle and bustle of the street, head low and footwork frantic.
you watch him scuttle away with a smirk, then glance at gendry who does the same.
“thanks.” you grin, clasping your hands at your front.
he eyes you, concerned. “you need to be careful out here, this is no place for a—”
“—lady?” you assume, taking a step toward him.
“exactly.” he doesn’t dare move a muscle.
“well, we’ve already established that i’m no lady.” you remind him, eyes prancing over the muck and grime that cake to his bronzed face. “my sister’s helm?”
he blinks slowly, then shakes himself from his daze. “uh, yeah. right this way—”
but you’ve already started making your own way toward his bench, elenei bounding ahead of you. he watches you with a mouth that hangs ajar, eyes unable to look anywhere other than you.
you perch yourself atop his station’s edge, legs swinging. “catching flies?” you call to him with a toothy grin.
“just my breath.” he mumbles, then hurries to join you.
the wait for him to retrieve his work seems like a long one and you drum your fingers against the wooden ledge, elenei circling at your feet.
then he’s in front of you, hands behind his back. you give him an inquisitive look to which he offers you a lopsided smile. “close your eyes.”
you huff out a giggle. “really? i already know what it is.”
“i don’t care,” he shakes his head, pinning you with a piercing stare. “close your eyes.”
it surprises you, but you manage to tear yourself from his gaze long enough to close your eyes. you hear something clink, and then the creaking of his leathers, before something weighted and cool sinks into your open palms.
“got it?” he asks, cupping your hands within his. for a moment his skin against yours is all you can focus on.
“it’s heavy.” you say through an impressed smile.
“it’s alright, i’ve got you,” his voice is soothing. soft like silks and sweet like nectar. you feel him lift your hands slightly with his, then adjust the helm within them. his fingertips hover at your wrists, steadying them. “open.”
and you do, eyes pealing apart to land on the helm. a gasp crawls from your lips, your breath fogging the fresh steel, paler than milkglass. you thought you knew what to expect, but this is far better than you could have imagined.
“gods,” you whisper, cranking the hinges of its jaw. “i’ve no words.”
“is that a good thing?” he implores, nervous, searching your face for any signs of disappointment or underwhelm.
“yes, gods yes!” you hug it to your chest. “arya will love it. . . or maybe i’ll just keep it for myself.”
he chuckles. “you fight?”
you shake your head and show the helm to elenei who tilts her head and flattens her ears. “father never permit me.”
“you don’t seem like the kind of girl who cares for permission.” gendry challenges with a smirk.
“i’m not, but nor is arya, the little scamp. father grew sick of her nagging — she’s very convincing.” you turn it in your hands and a piece of folded paper falls onto your lap. “oh, what’s this?”
you go to open it but he beats you to it, plucking the paper from your lap and dropping it back inside the helm. “that’s just a receipt, you can read it later.”
“a receipt.” you eyeball him, suspicious.
the tanned skin of his cheeks darken. “it’s custom. more for my master’s records, or if it got damaged or—”
“a fine idea,” you stand from the worktop, chest bumping his. he goes rigid. “arya’s not known for delicacy. . . i fear i might be back soon to ask that you sand down some scuffs or fill some dents.”
in truth, you know arya will protect this gift with her life and take as much care of it, if not more, as she does with needle.
“that’s fine,” gendry murmurs, voice low. “if there’s any problems, you know where i am.”
you smile. “i do.”
the narrow gap between you is thick, and even the newly sharpened blades that surround you couldn’t slice through it.
you clear your throat. “well, thank you again.” and reach into your cloak pocket for your small purse of silver.
his hand shoots out to grab yours. “i don’t want your money.”
“gendry—”
“your company has been plenty,” he tells you, eyes swelling with the sort of thing sansa sings about, the stuff you’ve read in your stories. “it’s been somethin’ you cannot. . . buy.”
his hand rests against yours, not quite closing around it, barely even touching. “are you sure?” you query, flexing a tentative knuckle against his palm.
“i’m not so sure of many things, m’lady, but this,” he seems to drift, gaze shifting fleetingly before it’s back on you. before, he couldn’t look at you but now, it’s like he can’t bear not to. “. . . i’m sure—never been more sure. please, keep your silver.”
it touches you, but you can’t help the sadness that seeps through you to the bone. all of this hard work, never a complaint, and all you can give him is your thanks and a hairpin.
“maybe i will become a fighter,” you quip, “so i can return to you with another vision; another dream for you to make a reality.”
he thumbs his belt loops, eyes alive with something you can’t quite decipher. “well then, m’lady, i hope you do. when the day comes that you need a weapon of your own, i’ll gladly be of service.”
“i suppose i’d be in need of a breastplate, as all great warriors alike.” you tease with a smirk that broadens when the tips of his ears stain red like the point of a blade that just claimed a life.
he finds it in himself to look away from you, throat bobbing when he takes a swallow. “uh, well yeah, we do make those—”
you take an experimental step forward, not that there’s much room between you. “would you have to take my measurements. . . ?”
he only stares at you, battling with himself to not give in to the temptation and allow his eyes to travel south of your neck.
you chortle and jab him lightly in the arm, his bicep tensing where your finger prodded. “i’m pulling your leg.”
he appears perplexed, as well he usually does around you.
“y’know, yanking your chain. . ?” you rephrase, though he doesn’t seem to know that one either.
“i’m horsing around, gendry!”
“oh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle, forced and rehearsed. “ha-ha, that’s funny. you’re funny.”
“well, i should get this to arya. she’s come down with a serious case of cabin-fever and has resorted to taking it out on my pillows.” you tell him and he snorts, his amusement crinkling at the outer corners of his eyes.
oh, those eyes.
“i hope she likes it.” he says, something similar to sadness present in his tone. it takes a bite out of your heart and you sigh, wishing to stay a little longer. hopefully you’ll be able to think up a reason to visit again soon.
so you do just that. “well, maybe i could swing by tomorrow and let you know?”
he perks up, nodding like it’s the greatest idea he’s ever heard. “yep, yeah. feedback is always appreciated.”
“okay, then,” you’re still loitering, hands absentmindedly stroking the polished surface of the wolf helm.
gendry hums, studying you like a muse. you wonder if he’s made any other sketches, and that childish fluttering within your chest returns. this must be how sansa feels about joffrey, and you understand now why she gushes the way she does.
“and. . . thanks again, for the help out there.” you tell him for the second time, or maybe it’s the third.
“oh, that was—”
“nothing?” you assume again. “is that the only word you know?”
his eyes flicker with something you’ve not yet seen. something one doesn’t read in books or hear from hymn. it’s what keeps you from sleep’s jaws at night, when your head swims with the kinds of thoughts a lady should not have.
“i know of a few others.” he utters, strangely confident. his self-assurance seems to come in waves, like you’re the tide that reels it in.
you’re lost in him for a moment, then elenei’s whines draw you out. “hungry, girl?”
“i always thought direwolves went extinct.” gendry tells you, wriggling his fingers at his side. she sniffs them, then gives his hand a curious lick.
“my father and brothers found them on a hunt,” you tell him, chuckling when your pup starts to chew at the corner of his apron. “their mother was dead.”
“oh, in birth?” he ponders, trying to tug his apron away.
“elenei, off.” you command softly, and she obeys, sitting on her haunches to look between the pair of you with floppy ears. “no, father reckons she was defending the litter from a stag. she had its antler in her throat.”
“stags go after wolves?” he asks, unbelieving, or fascinated.
you lift your head, a few bouncy, black coils falling over your face. “yes, apparently they do.”
he lifts a hand to tuck your hair from your eyes, only it springs back. he drops his arm. “elenei’s a pretty name.”
the pup in question squirms in recognition of the word.
“legend says that during the age of heroes, fair elenei gave her maidenhead to king durran godsgrief, a name given to him after he wed elenei despite her parents’ disapproval. her father was a sea god, her mother the goddess of the wind. they forbade their love since elenei would have to commit herself to a mortal life. the gods destroyed durran’s keep on their wedding night in retaliation, and for every keep he built after that, the gods lay siege to them with storm.”
gendry looks as though your voice is music to his ears whilst you tell him the story of fair elenei. you suspect he’s only half-listening, or can’t comprehend most of what you’re saying if he is listening, but his undivided attention is on you all the same.
“after durran refused to return elenei to the sea, many say it was the children of the forrest who helped him build storm’s end, where elenei protected him with her life during its construction.”
when you’re done, you glance down at the black-and-white-blotched wolf. “a strong name for a strong animal, wouldn’t you say?”
“i would.” gendry agrees without a doubt.
“and my horse,” you go on to explain. “i named her mag, which translates to great in the old tongue. magnar, the male variant, means lord. it’s still spoken by giants, and some think the free folk beyond the wall might still speak the old tongue, too.”
“you can speak the old tongue?” he queries, impressed but not shocked.
you shrug like it’s nothing, not used to your achievements being recognised. “i’m not fluent, but i could hold a conversation.”
“you’ve put a lot of thought into it, though.” he smiles, “if only our parents were as imaginative.”
you snort. “aye, well. . . i think gendry is a nice name. strong, like you.”
“i don’t think it translates to anythin’. don’t think it even means anythin’ in our language.” he pockets his hands, a habit of his, you’ve noticed.
“neither does mine, but it doesn’t matter.” you assure him, then remember that you have in fact stalled quite the bit longer. “well, i should probably get going, for real this time.”
“oh, yeah. don’t let me keep you.” he moves out of your way, allowing you to slip past him.
“alright, well. . .” you pull yourself together, standing tall. “until next time, then.”
he shifts his weight, expression conflicted, like he’s holding something back or deliberating internally. “actually, before you go.” he disappears to the back, rustles around, then reappears as quick as he came.
“i, uh, made you somethin’.”
you turn back to face him, heart swelling against your ribs. “you didn’t have to—”
“i wanted to.” he admits, not so sheepish as he was.
you smile, giddy and wide with flattery. “do i have to close my eyes again?”
he pauses, then crosses the space to stand in front of you. “not this time.” then he hesitates again, before unravelling a small rag to reveal a dainty necklace.
it snatches your breath from your lungs, winding you. despite having been surrounded by lannister gold for quite some time now, you’ve still never seen such beauty. not even cersei owns jewellery quite as fine as this.
the chain is silver, its links fragile beneath the eye. you fear that if you look too hard, it’ll break. little black stones connect at each one, white ripples splitting their dark surfaces like rays of silk. they gradually increase in size until they reach the biggest stone at the centre, mounted by a frame of pale, milky steel.
“gendry. . .” you’re afraid to touch it, like it’ll shatter in your hands. “this is the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen.”
“i’ve seen prettier.” he retorts, “may i?”
you flit your gaze up to his, then turn your back to him in silent consent. you go to twist your hair from his way, but his hands meet yours at your neck, gently pushing your mane over one shoulder.
his breath sends a soft gust over your skin, the steel kissing it coolly when he loops it around your neck, fastening it at the back.
“do you like it?” he then asks, hands hovering.
“like it?” you spin back to him. “i love it.”
a relieved smile slices his face in two, balling at his cheeks. it’s infectious, and if you weren’t grinning already, you’d steal it and wear it for your own.
“the stones, they’re—”
“obsidian.” you say at the same time.
he’s almost as captivated as you are by the necklace. “i thought you’d like it.”
“you thought correctly.” you hum, “how much time have you spent staring at me to know it would fit?” you jeer, placing a hand where the biggest stone sits proudly against your sternum.
“well, you’ve seen the sketches.” he answers, eyes lingering where your hand is.
it might be improper but you’re past noble conduct. it’s never applied to you before, not unless it suited the reputations of others. no place at the dinner table, no appearance in family portraits.
so you close the gap and wrap your arms around his neck, chin resting atop his shoulder. his musk is sweet from his labours, sending you on a new high.
it takes him a second, but he reciprocates your embrace with some gladness, arms encircling your waist. you know he’s holding back, his uncertainty obvious in the way he’s stiffened against you.
“it’s perfect, thank you.” your words are hushed, tickling their way from his cheek to his ear. “i’ve never received such a gift.”
“a crime.” he utters back. “you should wear it proudly.”
“oh, i will.” you pull away, but his hands stay poised at the slope of your back. “i’m never taking it off.”
he swallows, finding his voice. “i was going to have it delivered to you, but i was afraid it’d fall into the wrong hands.”
“i’d rather you gave it to me in person.” you tell him, fingers toying with the rags that peak from his apron. “i had no idea you melded. . . is there anything you can’t do?”
“i can’t talk to women.” he chuckles, embarrassed.
his smile isn’t the only thing you find contagious, and you laugh with him. “i don’t think you’re half as bad at that as you think you are.”
when you reach the stairs to the tower your family has been housed in, still smiling to yourself like a maiden struck by infatuation, you stumble upon your sister, one foot in the air whilst her arms stretch at her sides.
you stop, waving a hand in front of her face. “earth to arya?”
“i’m concentrating.” she grumbles, not blinking.
“i can see that.” you smirk, shooting an arm out to catch her when she wobbles. she bats your hand away, then stabilises herself. “what are you doing?”
“practicing.” she tells you, eyes staring straight ahead.
you look her up and down. “practicing what?”
“how to stand on one toe.” she says in a duh-ish tone like you were stupid for asking.
elenei leans up on her front paws to lick the foot your sister holds in the air and arya anchors herself to the wall. “elenei, no! bad wolf!”
you shoo your pup away with a jut of your chin and she slinks up the stairs like a shadow. “that so? which toe?”
arya glares at you. “any toe!”
you chuckle. “alright, twinkle toes, ready for your surprise?”
she returns to a two-legged stance, flashing you her gappy teeth through a cheeky grin you’ve missed seeing. “uh-huh!”
“sit.” you pat the step as you take a seat and she plops down beside you.
“here, be careful,” you pull the helm from behind your cloak. “it’s heavy.”
she rolls her eyes and makes grabby hands for it. you wince when she carelessly rips the cloth away, but you soon brandish a worthwhile smile when her face lights up. “seven heavens!”
she leaps up, placing the helmet over her head. the receipt falls from it when she does and you quickly tuck it within your sleeve. “what do you think?”
the helm’s jaws crank apart in her haste, a beaming grin shining through its growl. “now i’m a real warrior!”
she whips needle from her belt and resumes balancing on one leg. “do i look scary?”
you take a stand to cower from her, hands raised in mock surrender. “the scariest!”
then a thud that almost sends you both tumbling down the stairs crashes against your middle, her skinny arms enveloping you as she peers up through the helm. it’s a rather funny sight.
“thank you.”
“you’re welcome, munchkin.” you pat her helmed head. “look after it.”
“i will, i will!” and she starts bounding up the stairs. “i must show father!”
you watch her go, head shaking when you hear her fall at the last step, then lower yourself back down to take the folded paper from your sleeve.
your eyes skim over the ink that scrawls it, brow furrowing with each word you read. the font is scruffy, a few words misspelled, but you’re still able to interpret it well enough.
“an address.” you mumble, then your eyes widen. “his address.”
the wait for your father and sisters to take to their chambers was a long one. you sat at your window, fingertips drumming against the obsidian atop your chest whilst you gazed out over the city.
over the dimly lit avenues of flea bottom, if it was indeed flea bottom you were looking at. you weren’t sure.
“arya’s helm,” your father had begun from your door. “it’s brilliant, i’m jealous.”
you chuckled as he did. “it should keep her happy while we’re here.”
“aye, it will. that was very thoughtful of you, love. where’d you have it made?”
you knew that he’d have already gotten that information out of jory, but he just wanted it from the horse’s mouth. you sighed. “i went back to the forge.”
ned nodded, that stern fatherly look creasing his features. it wrinkled the deepest at his forehead and eyes where having to berate and scold his children had aged him the most.
“but i was careful, father. i had elenei with me and i kept my head down and my hood up, i didn’t talk to anyone, i’d go down there and come straight back—”
“that’s alright, love.” he waved off your fussing, giving elenei a scratch behind the ear before joining you at the window seat. “that’s a nice necklace.”
you looked down when he motioned to it, then looked back up with a shy smile. “oh, well i thought i might as well get something for myself whilst i was down there.” you started to fiddle with your gown, fingers finding a loose thread to play with.
“obsidian.” ned observed. “a fine gift for a fine girl.”
you’d gawked at him you’re pretty sure, which must’ve been amusing to witness. “oh, it wasn’t—”
“he’s a nice lad.” your father told you, standing to press a kiss to your temple. “i only ask you be careful, and don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”
“well that doesn’t leave me with much room to put a foot wrong, does it?” you smirked when he let out a hearty laugh, which he doesn’t do much anymore.
“aye, well, even so.” then he stopped just outside your door. “wherever you’re thinking about going tonight, don’t.” he turned to you with a firm, knowing look. “i grew up with a sister, i’ve seen all this before.”
you swallowed. “i’m just enjoying the view, father.”
“very well. night, love.”
and as soon as you heard his door close, you slipped down from the window. “elenei, stay.” you tussled the wolf’s fur, then darted for your cloak and shoes.
and now mag lopes beneath you, sniffing at the wind. her hooves trot gentle prints against the winding dirt paths and she responds to every tick of your teeth, every rap of your heel to her side. your filly was trained special, to respond to rein and voice and touch.
you look between the street ahead of you and the directions in your hand, wherever your eyes fall, mag follows.
“are we lost girl?” asks a voice from the shadows.
you ride on, shuddering. perhaps from the night’s chill, perhaps from flea bottom’s eeriness.
you start to recognise where you are, the low candlelight from several windows illuminating your way. then you see it, just as described to you on paper.
you scan your surroundings, hoping you’ve seen the last of the shadow lurkers, then slide from your saddle and guide mag toward a wooden fence with posts that look sturdy. she’s stubborn, wrenching her head back in protest.
“i know, girl.” you coo, cupping a hand to the side of her silver face. “come on.”
she lets you lead her to the side where you secure her reins, then give her braided mane a comforting stroke. “easy, now.”
you take one last look behind you where everything seems too quiet. you suppose flea bottom doesn’t have much of a night life, the groaning of poorly maintained buildings creak in the wind — the only noise that might keep a man from his madness.
then you look up at the small house where the whitewashed slabs of concrete stairs climb to a door on the one side, sealed off by merely a curtain. it’s not even a curtain, but a sheet that’s been nailed to the doorway.
you glance back, rethinking your decision. this can’t be the right place. then you spot his apron draped across the top step, a sprinkling of soot trailing a black streak down the side of the stairwell.
you pin your cloak at your sides, scrunching it in your fists when a sudden nervousness stirs in your gut. you feel pathetic, gulping down a breath to drown your nerves before you make your ascent.
you stop short at the door, the low light of a flickering flame plunging at your feet. you lift your arm the way you would to knock, then drop it at your side again. “knock, knock?”
there’s a beat of silence, then you hear some rustling on the other side followed by a series of footsteps that fumble. the curtain rips back, and those piercing blues find you in the dark. “you’re here.”
“i am,” you fidget on your feet, like standing still is foreign to you, or impossible even. “you. . . weren’t expecting me?”
he reaches for you, inviting you inside. “not this late, i wasn’t. it’s not safe down here at this time, or at any time, really. you came down here alone?”
“well, would you rather my father was with me?” you ask with an implicative undertone, then you realise he’s shirtless, dressed in nothing but his usual trousers — probably the only pair he owns. your eyes dart to his bare torso, thickly built but leanly shredded where his abs ripple.
gendry blinks. “does he know you’ve come here?”
“gods no.” you spin on the spot to take it all in. anything to divert your mind from his body.
the room is similar in size to your own chambers, maybe a little smaller. he has a bed in the corner, a shelf in front of it, and in the opposite corner sits a basin and a bucket. “you live in this one room?”
“it’s nothin’ special, i know,” he tells you, pulling the curtain back over. “but yeah, it’s home. i lived here with my mother.”
“it’s very cheek by jowl.” you say with sweet intent, crossing to the desk where papers have been strewn over it, a nearby candle crying its wax onto the oak. “is this where you sketch?”
you feel his warmth radiate beside you. “sketch, eat, work.”
you flick through the papers, all of them blank. “starved of inspiration?”
“i guess.” he responds after a minute.
you turn to face him, bumping into his front from the closeness. you don’t move away, though. neither of you do. “so,” you start. “that ‘receipt’ of yours.”
you expect him to look away like he normally does when he’s embarrassed, but he doesn’t. if anything, he’s calmer than you. “what about it?”
“why did you give it to me?” you ask, scarcely above a whisper.
“it’s good to have a friend in this place.” he answers, but you sniff out his excuse from a mile away.
you arch a brow. “good for me, or for you?”
he mirrors you, arching his own brow. “does it matter?”
your breath catches in your throat, demeanour crumbling. “no, i suppose not.”
“why did you come so late?” he softens his voice like he sensed the shift in the air.
you swallow, something you do a lot in his presence. “did i wake you?”
“couldn’t sleep.”
“me neither.”
you’ve never known words to be so hard to come by, like whenever they succeed a thought, they die on your tongue and never see the surface.
“gendry, i—”
“say my name again.”
you part your lips to pass it through them once more, and as soon as you do, his mouth is on yours, swallowing his name.
synopsis: you’re sick, caught with a bad fever. ramsay decides to take care of you<3
WARNINGS‼️: fluff but make it noncon, reader is miserable, kissing
race/appearance neutral reader!
song:
you feel absolutely horrible. your head hurts, your whole body aches, you can’t breathe through your nose.
the maester has been in and out of your room all day. making you drink different potions, wiping your forehead with a wet cloth, making sure you’re fed.
you like the maester, he tells you interesting stories and makes surprisingly great jokes. you’re happy to be talking to other people, usually it’s only ramsay. or roose and walda at breakfast and dinner. but other than that, it’s only ramsay. you despise him, so you’re relieved that he hasn’t visited you all day.
but that changes in the evening. it’s already dark outside when the door opens and ramsay steps in.
”my lord..” the maester says. ”i heard that my little girl is sick”, ramsay says, walking up to your bed. ”yes, my lord. she has a fever”, the maester says. ”could it kill her?” ramsay asks. ”no, my lord. i assure you that we’re taking good care of her”, he answers. ”good”, ramsay says, sitting beside you.
”poor thing, you’re so pale”, ramsay says, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. ”go away..” you mumble. ”what?” ramsay chuckles. ”i’m here to take care of you”, he says.
”leave us”, he orders the maester. ”yes, my lord..” he answers and steps out the door, closing it behind him. ”my poor little girl”, ramsay coos at you, stroking your cheek. he leans in and gives you a kiss on the cheek.
”i don’t need you here”, you say, looking at ramsay with detest. he just chuckles. ”my love, you definitely need someone to take care of you. and who’s better than me?” he says, stroking your cheek.
he leans in again, placing non-stop kisses on your cheeks. you sigh and roll over, hoping that he’d stop. but instead he climbs on the bed with you, taking you into his arms. ”someone’s a bit grumpy”, ramsay chuckles. he starts kissing you again.
you weakly try squirming off his grip, but ramsay isn’t letting you move.
”don’t resist, my love”, he says.
he takes a wet cloth and presses it on your forehead. ”you’re burning up”, he says.
the door opens. a servant girl, holding a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. ”m-m’lord, i have some food for her”, she says.
”bring it”, ramsay says. the girl sets the bowl on the bedside table. she stays still.
”what are you still standing there for? leave us before you start getting on my nerves”, ramsay says coldly.
”yes, sorry, m’lord”, the girl says, stepping out of the room.
ramsay takes a spoonful of soup, putting it in front of your mouth.
”say ahh”, he says.
”i’m not hungry”, you say.
ramsay smirks. ”you have to eat, i insist”, he says.
you hesitantly open your mouth, letting ramsay feed you.
”good girl”, ramsay says.
he keeps feeding you until the bowl is empty. ”you did so good”, ramsay says, petting your hair.
he climbs on the bed with you again, taking you into his arms.
he starts petting you. you sniff.
”poor baby”, ramsay coos.
he spends the whole night with you. helping you pee, changing the cloths, wiping the sweat off you.
His dark eyes settled on your graceful figure as you got off your horse. Jon knew he should look away, hide his gaze, that no one is his position deserve to lay their eyes on you. He doesn’t look away though - instead his eyes keep following your every move. As you make your way to greet his each family member who bears the name Stark. Until you lastly find your way in front of him. As you look up at him with a wide smile that only he received, he realises he doesn’t deserve you, but he’ll do everything to get to call you his.
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Do you think you could do another Ned x f!wife!reader? I really enjoyed the horny!ned fic you already have but I'd be happy with anything. Fluff, sunshine, rainbows, or babies. ❤️ have a nice day 😊
Ned Stark*Sweet Wife
Pairing: Ned x wife!pregnant!reader
Word count: 942
Warnings: pregnancy and pure fluff
Masterlist Here
“My lady I don’t think you quite understand,” Lord Karstark said as you bit your tongue and tried to pretend you hadn’t had better plans for your morning than been chased down by a disgruntled Lord who thought you’d give in easier than your husband, “If you allowed my family to use that land, we would maintain it for you. Free of charge,” he said as if offering you the best deal in the world.
You took a breath before speaking, trying to compose yourself, “And while I am grateful for the offer my Lord, those lands do not belong to you, and we are already in discussion for how we will divvy them up to- “
“Okay but,” he cut you off making you sigh this time though he did not notice, “If I am trusted with them- “
“Lord Karstark,” Ned’s voice came from behind you with an unusual iciness to it. “I do believe my wife,” he said, his arm gently going around your back, his hand resting on your hip, “and I have now both explained to you your assistance, no matter how generous, is not needed in this matter. However, if your family is desperate for farm lands I’m sure a trade deal can be arranged- “Karstark opened his mouth to speak but Ned didn’t stop, “Which you can take up to the owners of the lands once I have declared them. now if you don’t mind my wife and I are late to a very important meeting,”
Karstark grumbled something under his breath but nodded, “Of course my Lord, my lady. Goodbye,” he muttered before turning to leave with his nose in the air.
“Do you think he is sniffing out the new owners?” Ned leant down, to whisper in your ear making you laugh.
Ned took your arm and began to guide you through the busy corridors, “Who do we have to meet?” you asked, eyebrows scrunched, “I don’t remember setting up a meeting,”
“I arranged it,” Ned said, smiling politely at some passing Lords, “It is of the upmost importance that we attend,”
“And whys that?” you asked as you suddenly stopped outside a meeting room.
He opened the door, ignoring your question for now to lead you inside. Once the door was shut behind you, he stepped forward, closing the gap between you with his finger tilting your chin up to face his cheeky grin, “So I can do this,” he leant down to press a soft kiss to your lips.
You giggled a little into the kiss before pushing him away, “Someone could walk in,”
“So?” he asked, hand moving to rest gently on your hip, “We’re married now remember. It’s allowed,” he teased though his hand gently rose to rest on your stomach, “And soon everyone will know anyway what we get up to,”
“Shut up,” you laughed, pulling him back down for a brief gentle kiss. Your bump was barely noticeable under all the furs and wool you wore to keep the cold out but you both knew it was there, “I hope she doesn’t inherit your cheek,” you teased.
“She?” he asked, a hopeful grin on his face, “How’d you know?”
“I just do,” you smiled but it quickly faded, “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you- “
“Of course not,” he said, cupping your face in his hands, “Nothing you do, especially not this, could ever disappoint me,” his thumb gently stroked over your cheek bone. It was a tender moment, of course ended once again by his antics, “Besides I’ll take any excuse to try again,” he said with a cheeky grin.
“As if you ever needed one,”
Your laughter both stopped when there was a knock on the door. Ned held a finger up to his lip, “Maybe if we’re quiet, they’ll go away,” he whispered.
“Lord and Lady Stark may I have a moment?” said a voice behind the door. You could swear it was the diplomat Lord Bolton sent.
“I swear if this is about those lands, I may just burn them to the ground,” Ned muttered before you both stepped back to open the door.
-
You barely got to see Ned for the rest of the day. Every Lord or noble man seemed to need his attention today and you were running around Winterfell organising a banquet for Ned’s upcoming nameday. It wasn’t till you walked into the hall for dinner you saw him again.
“Hello husband,” you greeted with a small smile as you took his seat.
“You need to slow down,” he said, not even bothering to say hello making you roll your eyes, “you’ve been running around faster than the servants,”
“That’s because I need to finish organising the details for- “
“What you need is rest,” he said, cutting you off and placing a hand over yours.
You sighed, tempted to push it away but you knew his heart was good, “You cannot confine to my bed out of fear,”
“If I was to confine you to our bed it would not be for that,” he whispered making your cheeks burn.
“Ned!” you scolded, slapping his thigh making him laugh, “You are so lucky I love you. Otherwise, I’d kill you,”
He smiled softly at that, “lucky indeed. However, I’d be even luckier if you would let me announce our news,” he said, squeezing your hand gently.
You couldn’t help smiling a little despite his antics, “Perhaps it would be a nice announcement to make on your nameday,” you finally conceded, “I just wish we could keep it a secret a little longer,”
🌕Drogo would take you on night walks to watch the stars.
He'd take some furs to get you comfortable at a nearby lake. The sky appears above, and as a reflection right in front of you and Drogo, he mumbles low stories that he heard in his childhood. He'd hold you close, always aware of the surroundings. Once you get drowsy, he'd gently guide you to fully rest against his chest, and he'd let you sleep until the sun rises.
🌕Drogo would certainly need a long time to warm up to you, but the more he gets used to your presence, the more would he losen up to the point that he'd huff a short laughter at some silly joke from you.
You might just be ranting to yourself in slight annoyance about your own clumsiness and he'd find himself with a lopsided smile that if anyone looked could easily be concealed with a quick drop his eyebrows as serious expression. Alone with you, however, he'd let you see his amusement. ''You make me feel lighter on my feet'', he'd tell you, and if you were comfortable enough, you'd tease him by sarcastically telling him to hop around then. Now, he wouldn't comply and do that, but for a second he'd imagine it and that alone would make him feel weirdly shy as no one had the power to creep into his mind like that, but you.
🌕Drogo would fake better care of himself.
Surely, on one hand, he'd still take pride in the illusion of being undestructive. He likes to prove that. He likes to show off. On the other hand, he takes himself more seriously because you take him seriously, and that includes his weaknesses. He'd wash out his wounds sooner. He'd rest more intentionally. He'd think about himself with more kindness that accompanies his discipline. He wouldn't get softer, but he'd learn to be more considerate of life beyond his power.
🌕Drogo would hum you to sleep.
His voice becomes his tool for soothing you. It would not be in words. He wouldn't become more talkative and elaborate, but he would enrich your life with his presence. He'd huff in a musement, grumble in gentle disagreement, sigh audibly in comfortability, and yes, hum to calm you. It would often be paired with touch, your hand on his chest to feel the rumble when he hums, his palm on your arm when he disagrees, bodies tangled together when he's comfortable.
🌕Drogo would encourage you to dream.
He'd enjoy listening to you ranting about what you wish for, what current daydreams excite you. He'd ask questions, so you keep talking, and he'd remember it all. He'd ask when he didn't quite understand something, and he'd learn to say it out loud so that he could communicate the exact ideas you live with. Your contexts in life would matter a lot to him, and he'd make sure that he knows all references that matter to your perception of life.
