#stark reader

Maekar had made that clear. You knew before the wedding that he had not sought you out. You’d just been conveniently there when the topic of him taking a second wife came up. It was all rather flattering, the Queen herself suggested you to Maekar. She’d seen you knelt down in the gardens helping his children catch little red lady bugs and worms. His mother had convinced him of the value a maternal figure might bring to his household…that additional stability from another an adult could temper issues before they began.

You’d been so excited, foolishly so, but he was a prince it made sense that you were flattered and thrilled by it all. You’d even found yourself remarking on his serious but striking apperence, on the deep tome of his voice…you’d told your lady maids, with flushed cheeks, that you were looking forward to your wedding night.

You hadn’t been looking forward to the bedding ceremony…being grabbed at by random men and touched. Though when he deny the event at the end of the feast you had known something was off right away. He had not asked you of your feelings in the matter so it did not come across like he was doing you some great kindness by avoiding it.

He denied it for himself. You found that out the moment you entered his chambers and he handed you a cup of wine. He did not sit with you on the edge of the bed…did not even look up when you got down to your chemise and chewed your lip eagerly waiting for him to make some sort of advance. You knew what happened in a marriage bed but not enough of the specifics to initiate anything yourself. He stay in the chair by the fireplace that entire night. Not moving as he told you he had taken your hand for his children, so they could have another person looking after them, he told you he wanted no more children, did not need companionship and had no desire to bed you.

Maekar was many things but he was not a liar. All those things he had made painfully clear to you on the wedding night had remained true. You were not here for him, just them.

“Look mother! There’s a red feather!” Rhae exclaimed. She and Aegon had each slipped and called you that. It always made you feel quite important but you were truthfully worried about Maekar hearing it. What would he think? Had you been to involved with them? Should you correct them?

Slowly you let go of Aegon’s arm after giving him one more warning look and then you followed Rhae towards the tree that had a vibrant feather laid on one of the branches. You were mid lifting her up so she could try and grab it when you heard a piercing shriek.

It was so loud, in an otherwise quiet woods, that every bird suddenly flew up out of the trees just as started as you were.

Rhae looked around, gripping onto your shoulders. “What was that?” She whispered her legs winding around your midsection as you began to move in the direction of the sound.

“Daella?!” You called. It sounded like her shout.

When there was no answer to your call you began to run in the direction of the sound. Dropping Rhae down the moment you saw the pond.

Gods, oh gods. You were here to look after them.

Before your eyes Maekars oldest daughter was grasping at the edge of broken ice, her upper body was above the water but everything below her hips was submerged. The air infront of you was clouded white from how quickly you were breathing, your lungs burning a bit from brining in so much of the cold air.

“help!” She cried and you instantly started out onto the pond. It wasn’t nearly cold enough here for the ice to get so thick that it could safely support a person. You should have been watching them better.

“Rhae, go back to the hall, tell the first person you come across about this.” She urged the child and heard her little feet pad against the frozen ground back up to the keep.

You bent down, basically crawling out to her, knowing you needed to distribute your weight so the ice would give out under you as well.

“I’ve got you, just-“ you grabbed her wrists trying to pull her towards you. “Can you kick your legs?” Her skirts were waterlogged and that made them very heavy.

“Come on Daella!” You grunted as you got closer and grabbed her under the arms hoisting her up over the jagged edge of of the hole and she landed right over you. Both of you panting, Rhaella shaking and her teeth chattering loudly.

“Breathe, I’ve got you.” You were holding the back of her head, squeezing her against you as your adrenaline came down. “I’ve got you.” You kissed her head and started to try and sit you both up.

“Egg…” she whimpered. Her teeth were rattling so much it was hard for her to speak. “Egg fell in.” She eventually got out and you scurried out from under her quickly looking at the hole and freezing water.

“Go to the bank!” You directed her sternly and knelt over the edge gasping as you reached your arms down into the water feeling for him. The fact that there was no thrashing around made you uneasy. Had he sunk down to the bottom? Did he breathe in the water?

You took in the largest breath you possibly could and willed yourself right down into the water. The air was pushed out of your lungs almost Instantly from the shock but you attempted to keep moving as much as you could.

It would destroy this family…another loss. Especially rambunctious but loving egg!

Your long dark hair swirled around your face in the water making it hard to see but your foot bumped Into something and you grabbed at it. The only warmth, as mild as it was, in the blinding cold. The pond was not that deep, and so on your tip toes your hands could breach the surface. You shoved Aegon on and somehow dragged your own self up onto the ice.

“no…no wake up.” You started to shake at the little boy a bit and when you saw his hands and lips were purple you found the strength to lift him up into your arms. His feet dragged as you carried him through the woods but it was the most you could manage. Daella shaking, terrified and dazed from it all held to your stiff heavy skirts as you went. He had to get inside, needed to be warmed and see the maester. He was coughing into your chest now, water heaving from his lungs.

You were one of sorts yourself from being submerged and althought you heard shouting you did not actually see anybody coming your way. Not until suddenly Aegon was being lifted off of you and Daella was snatched up as well.

“get her inside!” Maekar, who had been informed after the first guard had been alerted to the issue at the pond, managed to barrel ahead of any other person heading down toward the forests edge. At the time all that was known was that Daella had been on the pond and the ice cream as broken. That was more than enough to put him in this state. The knight would get there, but not as quickly as he would.

The prince was sprinting up the pathway to the keep and you started right after him before any guard reached you to assist. Aegon looked limp in his father’s arms and you were so terrified that you just continued through the hall after the three of them despite maids urging you to stop.

“get off of me!” You warned pushing their hands away and successfully getting into the maesters work room. Aegon was already stripped and being covered in blankets and warmed stone and you saw Rhaella shaking in one of her septa’s arms as she was brought away to be changed and looked over. She seemed, scared and if that was all than she was quite lucky because her brother had still not opened his eyes.

“I told them to stay away from the pond-“ you began trying to squeeze your way closer to the bed the little prince was laid out it. “H-he was coughing when I pulled him out, there was water in-in his lungs.” You managed to shared with the maester, dark eyes wild and frantic as you spoke.

“Get her out of this bloody gown” Maekar directed the comment towards a young women stood near the door, clearly unsure what she should be doing in the mist of this chaos. “now!” He barked snapping his hand against the side table to jostle the maid from her stagnant position. He had pulled his hand off of its spot on his sons head, he’d been stroking the light silver hair back since getting him into this bed.

“I’m quite a-a-alright.” You told the maid quickly, teeth were clattering so much that it took you so long to get that sentence out that the use of ‘alright’ was quite unbelievable.

Maekar could feel the chill that was emanating off your body behind him and suddenly he turned at once, wide shoulders clearing his way as he grabbed the soaked fabric around your waist and backed you up towards the bathing chambers.

“m’lord-Aegon needs you.” You start but are quickly turned around. You supposed it made sense that he could move you and your heavy waterlogged dress so easily, his strength during the rebellion had resulted in songs after all!

“Fucks sake”

You gasp when his fingers sink between the little spaces in the lacing down your back and he pulls the fabric and strings apart. All the grommets would be torn, it was completly wrecked. it was also handing down at your feet now, some relief did come from no longer being squeezed in by such cold fabric.

“He needs you to still be breathing when he wakes…” Maekar muttered out grabbing your chemise and tearing that fabric as if it was nothing more than a single piece of parchment.

He wasn’t wrong, staying dressed like this would have you catching your death. Had you been less panicked you would have likely attempted to get some of the layers off of you down by the pond but the adrenaline had not allowed for proper thinking.

“Your grace,” the maester called from the other room. There was alot of coughing and voices of people telling Aegon to lay back down. You shivered in front of him, back still turned away and your arms had wrapped around yourself half for warmth and half for shielding. You’d never been undressed with him present.

Your eyes facing forward was a gift to the prince because it gave him a moment to take in the sounds of life that were obvious in the other room. His son was alive. He wasn’t losing somebody else, he had not failed again. His chest deflated a bit as his eyes closed and he took in the coughing. They opened again when the maester called once more and he pressed his hands down against your shoulders.

The touch warmed you so much you whimpered a bit, his palms did not retract at the noise right away but when he heard your teeth begin to clatter together again he gave you a squeeze before letting go.

“Get in the bath.” He demanded, there was not alternative option that could even be thought of in your mind when you heard his tone. Instantly the maid came towards with warmed buckets of water and began filling the soaking tub that you had obediently stepped into.

He closed the door on his way out and as the warmth engulfed you your eyes began to close, the feeling of being okay mixed with the combination of your adrenaline crashing left you utterly exhausted.

The next thing you felt was a rumbling against your cheek. Which made you groan and shift about some.

“Give me that,” Maekar sighed pulling the blanket from the maids hands, his forhead had not relaxed for one second since the knight had entered his study two hours prior and told him what his youngest had been shouting as she came up towards the stables.

You leaned towards the sound and your arms, which finally felt less stiff, wrapped around your husbands neck as he lifted you from the now room tempature bath. The towel was draped over you but he was holding you to his chest so you were getting him quite wet.

“Have broth be brought to my chambers.” He directed and carried you from the maesters quarters through the keep. You hadn’t fully smarted to the concept that your husband, you husband who had not even kissed you on the lips when you married was holding you…letting you nuzzled your face against his warm neck. He knew you were seeking more heat.

Gradually, when he set you down in his bed, tucking the towel around the front of you now, you realized Maekar had been the one taking you from the bath. He did not like how red your cheeks still were of that your fingers were still slightly blue.

He’d had a conversation with Daella, an interrogation was more correct of a name for it thought because Maekar demanded to know exactly what had happened. How this, possibly deadly, mess came to be. He’d waited until she was in her thickest dress, wrapped in a fur and being given her favorite tea before he started but he had not given her any time to rest, he needed to know it all as soon as possible. He did not like having to use his imagination to fill in the blanks.

You grabbed the ends of the towel and pulled the fabric around you tighter brining your feet up as well so your knees were tucked into your chest. You’d never been in his chambers. It felt odd…almost intimate.

“you jumped into the water?” He was laying a dark fur across a chair near the fireplace.

“is he alright?” You finally spoke, voice a bit horse from all the shouting earlier.

“Do Starks believe they cannot freeze?” He glanced over his shoulder at you.

“no more than Targaryen think they cannot burn.” You exhale and straighten your shoulders. “Is Aegon well?” You insist to know. Surely he would not be speaking to you if the boy was dead, right?

Maekar shoulders raised a bit, like he had chuckled at your attempt to demand something from him but the sound did not quite reach your ears.

“he is already telling stories of fish frozen in place in the water.” He informed you, finally looking back at you and seeing the relief flood through you.

You smiled, a bright real thing and you chuckled a bit. He was as such a clown of a little boy, it was charming to you even if it came with some wreckless behavior.

“I think he was the only frozen thing in that pond.” You remark shaking your head a bit.

“I think my son is alive because you went down in that water to save him.”

The comment stopped your giggling instantly. It was serious and honest and…this was more sensitive than you had ever known him be. The intensity of his eyes on you, the shock witnessing his forehead ease, it made your skin tingle and every hair on your rise.

“you could have died attempting to rescue them from something that I know they have been warned about.”

You swallowed looking down gripping a bit tighter to the damp towel and you took a moment to figure out what it was that you should say…what you wanted to say.

“I love them Maekar, I could not just watch it happen.” You looked back up to him finding that he had made his way from in front of the fire back to the bedside, that he had taken his cloak off and had as currently undoing the laces that kept his tunic on.

“Thank you.”

You blinked, he’d not thanked you for anything in the 7 moons that had come to pass since you wed. It was obvious that he was not the type to lean to flattery in conversation. That did not bother you, not as much it might some other lady, it wasn’t as if people in the north were exceptionally warm.

Actually when you thought about it they were quite kind, deeply loyal and unmistakably dedicated to people…if they deserved it. If they had good reason to value the person infront of them.

Maekar was not much different. He did. Or bother with unwarranted flattery. You could appreciate that.

“You can go see them later, once you’re warm enough.” He assured you when it seemed like your attention drifted to the door.

“I will dress, I’m warm enough.” You made to stand but his hand was back on your shoulder again, stopping you in your tracks.

“I will deem when you are warm enough wife.”

His jaw tightening gave away that your surpised reaction to the title made him feel bad. Had he truly never used the term once? Was denying you any affection for his first wife’s sake or was it just him being cruel. He’d always told himself he was distance out of respect for Dyanna’s memory. What would she thinking about the women caring for her children never being thanked? Never being welcomed as she should have been into their family?

You watched his light eyes water and stayed still and silent. She must have been very kind…very beautiful. You had heard from the staff of the hall how deeply he had loved her, how he laughed with her.

When he cleared his throat and looked back down at you there was some new found understand of himself in his eyes. He’d hated you, simply because he resented that the longer you were around the more he noticed how attractive you were and worse…that he felt genuinely drawn to your personality. But What favor was he doing Dyanna, or his family by becoming more cold and bitter simply because he wanted to deny anything that brought him joy while she was not beside him?

When your shoulders shook twice, the shiver impossible to suppress Maekar came back to the moment. Back to you.

He motioned for you to stand up and finally undid the last tie that kept his chest covered.

“Clothes and a blanket would do.” You assured him, but your eyes were looking at the expanse of his chest..the pink skin there that you knew would be so warm.

“Body heat is best, I thought you’d know that. What did they teach you in Winterfell woman?” He raised a brow while you got up on your feet. Once you were up he touched your side, grunting at the damp towel that was wrapped there and he pulled it away, quickly pulling you in front of the fire. He sat down first in the chair and then looked to his lap. When you hesitated he sighed. The exasperation that you were used to seeing from him flaring up.

“you are my wife, it is not indecent to sit down.” He rolled his eyes a bit and his hand touched your bare back urging you down to his lap. Pulling the fur that had been warming in front of the flame over you at once. He felt your freezing fingers nervously grabbing at the fur, brushing against his stomach in the process. Quickly Maekar gathered them in one hand and brought them up to his neck cupping them there in that hot region.

You kept your eyes on him, waiting for his feeling for change, for him to suddenly decide again being so close to you. Especially in this state of undress. When he lifted your fingers up to his mouth and cupped them against his lips so he could blow warm air onto the icy digits you realized belatedly that he was not likely to push you away. You relaxed some as that understanding sunk into your mind, and you allowed yourself to sink back against him. Back naturally bent instead of all rigid to keep your figure away from his.

“your warm.” You breath out eyes closing as your cheek rested against one side of hai chest.

“Aye” he grunted in agreement. He would not of been sat beneath you if he wasn’t, he of found something warmer.

He could feel your legs curl up a bit so that your knees pressed to his side. He quickly brought a hand under the fur and wrapped it across your back and around your waist. Hand rubbing over your side pushing the chill off of you.

You savored the heat he offered and eventually you pulled your hands from his palm and held his shoulders rubbing slightly as you gained feeling back. It let him have use of his other hand to rub down the length of your leg and give your feet a few squeezes to ensure blood was flowing there as well.

His hand settled at your hip rubbing the join firmly as he looked down at you. His breathing had gotten a bit deeper, his nostrils flared some when he exhaled and you found that despite your mind telling you to look away from him your eyes were trapped on his. Your hands slowly sliding down from his muscular shoulders to his chest under the blanket and you trailed your fingertips over his pectoral muscles. Straightening some of the hair there as you went.

“I thought of this, before today.” He gripped you hip a bit harder and you pushed yourself instinctually against him more, chest to chest. He could feel how hard and cold your nipples were as they dragged across his chest. He knew how to warm those. It made his mouth salivate a bit.

“of what m’lord?” You blinked once before he slumped his head and down sought out your lips with his. Somehow that part of you was pink and warm and now he craved more contact there. Quickly raising his hand to hold your jaw up towards him so he could devour you in a kiss.

Your lips were clumsy and deeply unsure of what they should be doing but when he felt your soft tongue suddenly slip against his he groaned. You wanted him. He’d been to blind on the wedding night by his own mourning and guilt to notice that that nerves you were showing were those of uncertainty…and excitement. Not anxiety and disinterest. He felt even more guilty for his coldness now knowing that you would of been open to advances over that past many moons.

He groaned when you sat up some more to try and reach his mouth better, you’d been putting quite a bit of weight right over his lap…right over the growing bulge he had and now that that contact was lifted he could suddenly feel that aching need!

You moaned at his calloused hands drifting to your back, warm and thick fingers trailing against either side of your spine and you straighten up a bit which let the fur slip off of your shoulders, letting him see you better. The way her looked you up and down made you feel warmer than the bloody bath did.

When Maekar’s eyes raised back, finally, to meet your own after cataloging every inch of you he smiled, small, but it was unmistakably affection.

You lurched forward and kissed at the corner of his mouth where his lips at tilted up and you grinned the moment his hands found your bottom, callouses from his hilt feeling rough against that delicate pale skin.

You let your head fall back between your shoulders when his beard tickled your neck and his lips pressed pecks until he reached your collar bone and began to lay wet hungry kisses there. Your hand dropped from his chest and shoulder and one hand kept you stead in this position by holding his firm stomach, the other found its way to his breeches. Looking briefly up at him for assurance.

He groaned, deep and throat rattling and it was so assuring to you that you sunk your hand right down into the cloth and felt for him. He was hard and pulsing and extraordinarily erect so your fingers simply needed to fan out to feel him.

“it’s so hard…” you breath out, the earnestness of your surprise had his head spinning and pratically all of his blood rushing down to his cock.

“I am old, but not so old that my prick remains soft.” He lectured and you giggled a bit at the feeling of his hand squeezing your bum as a warning. Acknowledging your innocence, that he had denied you the understanding of how husband and wives function was to much for him to address internally at the moment so he’d decided to pretend you had been taunting him. That was easier for him!

“harder-“ he grunted hand sliding up your side looking for the handhold he wanted while your small fist wrapped around his shaft. “You can grip me tighter than that.” He breathed out nodding as you instantly corrected. “Good, that’s a good girl.” His four fingers settled wrapping against your ribs and his thumb splayed out under your breast lifting it up slightly and he puffed his chest out some to feel your hard nipple slide over his scarred skin.

“like this?” You looked at him bitting your lip as you squeezed much harder at his pulsing length and brought your hand up and down. Your fingers glided easily, he was producing plenty of lubricant himself. when his eyes closed while trying to reign in a moan and you leaned forward kissing the tension away. He held it in lines at the top of his noses bridge.

“I don’t deserve you.” He lowered his head when you kissed his forhead and his mouth dragged against the tops of your chest. It seemed like he was finding the perfect spot before settling in but when he did you gasped at the feeling of his tongue streching out to graze over one of your nipples.

“no…” you breathed out nodding a bit as you stroked him faster. “You don’t.” Your voice was breathy from how nice his mouth felt on your skin. How his nose nuzzled into the soft meat of your tits and he consumed as much of you as he could fit between his lips.

“Easy.” He warned you while his hand let go of your arse and he slipped his hand under your thigh finding your spot instantly because that part of you was radiating heat. You were wet as well, enough that he could feel that the raven black hair on your cunny was slicked into a mess.

When your hand faltered in its motion and your breath hitched at the suddenly presence of his fingertip dipping between you, breaching into your body, Maekar felt the shiver. Unsure if it was genuine chill or nerves he kissed your jaw and lifted you up with him as he got off the chair and then was over you on the fur rug infront of the fire.

“it’ll hurt-won’t it?” He could feel you tensing, feel your core squeezing at just the first bit of his finger entering. It was the princes turn to kiss you worry away, to stroke your cheek and hush you.

“it will hardly be worse than a frozen pond.” It was the truth, he wouldn’t offer you lies, and for that you were glad.

You breathed slowly, to calm yourself and soaked in the feeling of his hand on your hip, his weight leaned strategically against you, how he panted into your neck while slowly working two fingers into your core.

“Ahh!” You gasped at how filling they felt, at how odd…and electrifying it was to be able to feel him moving within you.

“Seven save me-“ he grunted kissing your lips and rubbing soothing with his thumb against your pearl. You realized quickly when an inner warmth began to bloom in your belly, that you would benefit greatly from his experience. He knew how to please a women. You suppose a man did not end up with as many children as he had without his wife wanting him in her bed!

He recognized the expression right away, the parting of your lips…the scrunching of your brows and how the column of your neck hallowed out a bit from how you tensed.

Your climax rolled through you before he could even comment on it. One moment you were getting stiff and tense under him, your knees rising up to push against into his sides and then next you were panting and as soft as dough under him.

Maekar pulled his soaked fingers from you and nodded at your whinny breathing. For a moment when you had clearly reached your release he considered ending it there. Letting you simply enjoy what had just happened. Though that whimpered strained noise you man when his hand was removed from you had the last good sense in him dissolving. You wanted more of him, wanted to feel him there between your legs.

“while you’re still calmed,” he pushed your hair back and then planted his bent elbow beside your head “I’ll- fuck me” he groaned his hand pulling his straining cock free from his breeches and instantly it slapped down against your swollen lips.

“please…” you mewd hands splayed out over your stomach where you had felt the intensity just moments ago.

Between your soft begs and the fact that he her not felt a women, in this way, for years Maekar could not resist a moment more. His eyes closed as he fed himself into your fluttering core. Pratically growling at how the warm squishy sensation of you hugged his prick so deliciously. His hand was fisted at your side, helping to keep him hovered above you some so he would not be fully engulfed by your sweet pussy.

“Oh gods” your teeth were clenched and your fingers dug in a bit to your stomach as it felt like his length began to displace things within you. He seemed large, it felt quite giant to you. Maekar’s hand suddenly went back to your hair the moment he saw your eyes fly shut and felt a warmth flood within you.

“That’s?” He picked up on the unease in your tone and saw how a little tear squeezed its way out of your shut eye. His hips stopped pushing ahead instantly. Actually he pulled out of you an inch or so. Glancing down to see the ring of blood around his shaft.

“it’s just blood…same as a cut.” He assured you, fingers flowing through your raven hair trying to bring you comfort. He wasn’t an overly affectionate or gentle man, and from what he saw you northern women did not want coddling. It made it easier for him to give you some small comforting remarks, ease that worry because this had been the first time he ever sense anxiety within you.

You breathed a bit slowly as the hand he had at your side rubbed under your clenched fingers to ease the tension in your lower belly. You opened you eyes now looking up at him, he was sweating some…the end sod his hair glued to his temple and the stern line between his brows was back. That worry was there for you, his concern and attention was on you in this moment, not the papers in his study, or a mess bis children created.

“it doesn’t really hurt.” You finally told him, it hadn’t ever really hurt, it was just pressure and a feeling you hadn’t anticipated.

“such a strong women.” He murmured. The affectionate tilt to his voice was not covered up at all by some put on huffing and puffing that you imagine he had not actually meant to say it outloud.

You looked down to see half of his cock was out of you and his body was being held up away from you. You wanted all of him-not just half!

“you are meant to be keeping me warm m’prince” Shivering for good measure before wrapping your feet up over him trying to weigh his back down so he would sink down against you.

He grinned some, hand shifting from your stomach to the small of your back and lifting you up towards him a bit more.

“Very well, wife.”

Finally Maekar pushed into you completely, in the manner that had started to haunt his mind over the past few moons when you were near him. He’d begun to have distasteful daydreams of pinning you to the break of fast table in his solar, stoping you on your walk to to rookery and pressing himself to you u til your back was flush against the stone wall. All of these imaginary scenarios ended the same.

His cock pressed fully into you. Tip twitching against your cervix and his stones slapping against you as he rocked in and out of you.

His mind has let him conjure up details about these various situation and still not one had come close to capturing how wonderful you felt beneath him, how dizzying the feeling of his cock engulfed fully within you left him!

“mmmm fucking hells” you swore when he continually bottomed out within you. The cursing made him kiss your jaw. He liked that you had a mouth on you, that you weren’t some sensitive flustered lady. Perhaps this pairing had been made with more thought, on his parents part, than just political strengthening?

“I can finish in my hand-“ your eyes searched for his instantly when he said that. “If you wish me too” he added after seeing the wave of worry in your eyes.

“n-no, I need-please keep going Maekar.” If not for a babe than at least for the orgasm that was building up in you so heavily that the tops of your ears felt heated.

Maekar kissed you, for a moment on the lips and then he pressed one to your temple, hand brushing down your hair and keeping your body pressed down towards his pelvis so your body took each thrust he gave, instead of getting bumped back and forth against the rug.

He felt how your hands squeezed at his sides, they were trembling a bit so he knew you were quite close to another peak. Finally you felt him start to lose his restraint, his weight was heavier over you, his hips rutting more than fully thrusting in and out. But you enjoyed that motion because it provide lovely contact for your clit against his pelvis. It had you moaning quite loudly-your eyes closing because you needed to focus on the intense wave building within you.

“ugh-“ he came with a low grunt, so deep that it came out muddled by vibrations and you gasped. Feeling him come appart, feeling his warm seed squish within you, it made you see stars.

Both of you were breathing heavily though your youth allowed you to revived before him.

“I must admit…I do feel quite warm now.”

He glances at the steel door and nods. "Go right ahead."

The visitation room is cold and much too quiet. A wall of reinforced glass splits the room in half. On the other side sits Peter Parker, hands cuffed, posture perfect, expression calm in that infuriatingly elegant way he has. He looks like he is waiting for a reservation, not sitting in a concrete holding cell.

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm and smooth. “How’s my pretty girl?”

You glare at him. “Peter.” You hold a stoic expression, silently telling yourself not to cry. 

He grins, leaning back like he has all the time in the world. “Sweetheart, you look gorgeous. Tired, but more gorgeous than ever.” He smirks as he appraises you selfishly. “Did your breasts get even bigger?” 

Before you can react, Jack babbles at the sound of his voice, reaching toward the glass. Peter’s expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside him.

“Hey, my little man,” he murmurs, pressing his palm to the barrier.

Jack slaps his tiny hand against the same spot, giggling.

“Babe, I’m just so glad you’re here,” Peter murmured, smiling too naturally. “I just wish I could hold you two.”

"Pete-"

“He’s gotten so big, Y/n,” Peter breathed, eyes locked on Jack’s sweet little face. “I can’t believe we made the cutest kid on this planet. ”

"Peter," you tried again, beginning to lose your patience.

“Y/n…” Peter mocked softly, leaning back in the chair as far as the restraints allowed. His hands were bound together, but that didn’t stop him from stretching, rolling his shoulders like he wasn’t in a jail interview room. “I could really go for one of your famous back rubs right now. My muscles are killing me.” He arched again, those gorgeous back muscles flexing under the jumpsuit like he was showing off on purpose.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. “Peter, we really need to talk.”

He hums, eyes still on Jack. “About how much you missed me?”

“About why you’re in jail?”

He finally looked at you, smirking. “Oh. That.”

“Yes! That!” you whined.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, waving it off like it’s nothing. “I was just teaming up with Frank.”

You blink. “Frank?” you take a deep breath, “As in Frank Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“The Punisher?"

“Yeah.”

“The man who carries grenades in his coat pockets?”

Peter shrugs, smiling like he’s discussing a regular golf buddy. “He’s not that bad once you get to know him.”

“Peter, he got you arrested! ”

“No,” Peter corrects gently, “I got me arrested. Frank just… assisted.”

You stare at him. “So you think this is funny?”

“I think you’re cute when you’re mad, pretty girl.”

You want to scream. You want to kiss him. You want to throw a chair at the glass.

“Peter, you cannot keep doing this! You have a child! You have a pissed off wife! You can’t  just run around with murderers and get locked up like it’s some kind of  hobby!”

He leans forward, eyes warm and annoyingly sincere. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. I promise.”

“You’re in jail.”

“Temporarily!”

“You’re handcuffed!”

“Fashion statement, come on Y/n, you’re always prancing around in those little sundresses. Why don’t you cut me some slack? He hums thoughtfully, pressing his palm to the glass and tracing where your hair falls. “After all..” he wiggles the wedding ring on his left finger in front of the glass, “Last time I checked, you’re still bound to me, baby.” he smirked. 

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Then the words slip out before you can stop them.

“Peter… I feel like I should divorce you.”

The room goes silent.

Peter blinks once. Then he laughs.

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just amused. Like you told him the sky is green.

“Baby,” he says, shaking his head, “No way.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re adorable when you’re trying to rile me.”

“I’m not trying to rile you! Pete-” 

“Babe, babe, come on. Just a few more weeks and I'll be out of this place!”

Before you can respond, the door on his side bursts open. Two guards step in, tense and hurried.

“Parker. Let’s go.”

Peter sighs dramatically. “Gentlemen. I’m in the middle of a conversation with my wife.”

“Now,” one of them says.

Peter stands, slow and elegant, like he’s humoring them. He gives you one last lingering look. The smile just barely met his worn out eyes. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re stuck with me.” He wiggles the wedding band yet again. 

“Peter—”

He winks. “I’ll be home soon.”

The guards grab his arms and start pulling him toward the door. Jack starts crying, reaching for him, tiny hands shaking.

“Dada!” he wails.

Peter twists just enough to look back at you both.

“I love you,” he says.

Then he’s gone. Dragged out of the room. The door slams shut.

Jack sobs into your shoulder. Your heart feels like it’s splitting open.

And all you can think about is how the man wasn’t even scared, not for a damn second. 

Peter Parker is planning something.

And whatever it is…

he’s making sure you stay exactly where he wants you.

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Oh, and your wedding night also held a pleasant surprise. You were afraid he'd go straight to the point and treat this solely as his duty to produce his heir. You were also afraid he'd be too rough and hurt you. But Aerion took his time with you and made you feel things you never imagined you could feel.

Aerion had shown you how a man could please a woman with just his mouth. He had spent what felt like hours with his head between your thighs, savoring your flower until he was satisfied, then kissed you with your arousal still on his lips. You kissed again and again as he prepared you with his fingers until he thought you were ready to take his cock. He whispered compliments, like how beautiful you looked to him and how lucky he was to have you all to himself, promising to make you feel good as he entered you.

The next day, you didn't understand why the maids looked at you with concern when they came to help you get ready for your day. Yes, Aerion had left many love bites all over your body, but you didn't see anything wrong with it. He hadn't been rough with you.

You thought that with time, the people at court would stop staring at you so much. You believed it was because your northern dresses were different and more salvaged than those of the court. Also, your northern accent was too strong. You thought that perhaps that drew people's attention, but you had no idea that the real reason for their stares was that they couldn't believe how happy you looked with Prince Aerion.

For the noblewomen of the court and the servants, it felt surreal to see you strolling through the halls, your arm linked with Aerion's. To see the two of you laughing and kissing as if you were a normal couple. Perhaps people wouldn't be so shocked if it were another man, but everyone had seen how cruel the prince could be. That's why, during the first weeks of your marriage, your maids kept asking if you were alright while discreetly searching for any bruises, until they saw you were becoming irritated and stopped.

It didn't go unnoticed that since Aerion married you, he no longer seemed to cause nearly as much trouble as before. He didn't look for any excuse to punish or mock the servants or other nobles.

Some began to think that perhaps you were what Aerion had always needed. A loving wife to soothe the monster.

King Daeron also noticed the change in his troubled grandson, so in the middle of a family dinner, he innocently remarked that he was glad he had chosen you as Aerion's bride instead of Prince Valarr or Prince Daeron, as he had initially considered.

You were surprised. Perhaps you were too caught up in your own head because you didn't notice the discomfort and tension at the table.

"It's unfair. Why didn't you ask me? I would have liked to have such a beautiful wife," Daeron said, clearly joking, trying to lighten the mood.

You laughed, knowing it was just a simple joke.

But Aerion didn't find it funny.

After that scene, you saw the change in your husband. You noticed how Aerion now seemed more aggressive in the yard when training with Valarr, how he seemed to look for any excuse to make a tasteless comment or a "joke" to his cousin or brother, as if he wanted to prove to everyone, especially you, that they were inferior to him. You didn't like it. He had never shown you this side of himself before. You hated seeing this attitude in Aerion.

You reached your breaking point after seeing Daeron's sad expression when Aerion made a joke about him potentially choking on his own vomit from drinking so much at dinner. That's why, as soon as you two returned to your shared quarters, you confronted your husband directly.

“You have to stop. Right now,” you said firmly, your eyes never leaving his. Your gaze was icy, mimicking the look your father had whenever he judged someone.

For the first time, you weren't looking at him like a sweet girlfriend, but like a Stark ready to fight.

“Stop what?” the prince asked, still somewhat surprised by your attitude. He didn't recall ever seeing you look at someone like that during your entire stay.

“Ever since your grandfather mentioned he considered marrying me off to Valarr and Daeron, you've been acting like an idiot. You're mean to everyone for no reason,” you said, crossing your arms, your annoyance evident in your voice.

“I…”

“But nothing,” you interrupted, not wanting to hear excuses. “The way you've been acting lately, instead of making me think well of you, is only ruining the image I had of you.” Your words left him speechless.

Aerion didn't want to lose your affection. He had worked hard all these moons to show you his good and charming side to win you over. He didn't want to lose all the progress you had made together, and he let himself be carried away by his anger and jealousy.

“I’m sorry, my lady. You’re right, my actions were terrible,” he said, because he knew it was the right thing to say and what his wife expected him to say, as he approached you, wanting to close the distance between you.

“I can forgive you, but I won’t yet,” you said, though you allowed him to put his arm around your waist. “Your attitude offended me deeply. You don’t need to boast or try to improve yourself in my eyes by humiliating other men, your family. I’m your wife now, my eyes are only for you,” you said seriously, taking his chin in your hand. “Remember that next time you’re tempted to be an idiot, I’m yours now.”

Aerion can't help but smile when he hears you call yourself his. Even so, he starts thinking about getting you a necklace with his initial. He was glad to know you were clear that you belonged to him, but he needed men to understand that too.

"I'll remember it," he promises, and kisses you. You barely manage to resist before melting in his arms.

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Aerion was the kind of person who did not understand themselves, left unmoored and wandering because everyone else seemed to have their paths carved out for them and yet he didn’t. He was the reckless, dangerous child who was his mother’s darling, his one saving grace. 

            And then his mother died, taken by a baby with her hair and her eyes. And then his mother died and he was left with nothing yet again, no one there to see the potential in him, rather everyone looked at him and saw the Dragon Prince that he pretended to be. 

            So, he became what people saw. He became the cruel prince with the tongue of barbs. He became the cruel prince with fists of iron, pride and victory the only things that mattered to him. 

            Until you. 

            Until you arrived in a carriage, your hand looped around his cousin’s arm, bringing the bite of winter and ice and the scent of snow with you on the breeze, skirts the colour of House Stark upon you. 

            He saw you and saw someone new, someone who didn’t know him, only knew of him. He saw you and he wanted you because he saw the way you looked at his cousin, he saw the way you looked at Valarr—looking at him like your saviour, like he hung the sun and the stars and the moon in the sky just for you. 

            He wanted you to look at him like that. He wanted someone to look at him like that, like he was everything. He wanted what he could never have. 

            But that didn’t stop him from trying. 

***

            “Valarr,” you whisper, your hand resting between his shoulder blades, your voice soft, still carrying the sound of the ghost you used to be, the ghost that lingered in the halls of people who never saw you. “Valarr, it’s morning.”

            “Must we be so noble?” he murmurs, stirring and shifting, his hand grasping yours, pulling you down against him, his lips pressing kisses into your neck, feverish and warm and slightly crazed like a starving man. 

            “You have council meetings,” you remind him, your voice cracking in a giggle as his hands run up and down your body.

            “Let the kingdom burn to the ground,” he whispers against your skin, each press of his lips an exquisite kind of torture, “so long as I have you in my arms.” You sigh against him, wriggling from his grip, giggling as he reaches out, trying to pull you back against him, keep you in his arms for just a little bit longer. 

            “You may be willing,” you counter, your voice light and tinged with laughter, with mirth, “but I am not. Get up! Your father was against this marriage to begin with, let us not make him like it even less.” But Valarr did not listen, merely reaching you successfully, pulling you back against him, pressing kisses to every inch of you that he could reach, much to your delight, your giggles echoing from the room and down the hall.

            Down to the ears of one Dragon Prince, one prince whose finger curl around the stone walls so hard that his knuckles turn white and stone grit lines underneath his nails. 

            Because he wants to be the one you giggle for. 

            The one you smile for. 

            Why can’t he have someone who sees the good in him?

***

            Aerion watches you always, everywhere that you are whenever you are out. He watches and prowls outside where you are when he cannot be there with you and sometimes he fools himself into thinking that the two of you are man and wife, that you are there with him even when you ignore him. 

            When you don’t see him. 

            It’s that which changes him now. Because he could handle with you ignoring him or sneering at him, but pretending he does not exist, or not even realizing he exists at all is too much. Just too much. 

            He has spent weeks watching you, weeks learning your routines, what colours you favour, what rooms you like to get lost in. He has spent weeks learning you and you have spent weeks not even realizing he exists at all except for a vapid smile at dinners. 

            Well no more. 

            You may be something he cannot have but he will be damned if he does not try. 

            “Hello, Lady Stark,” he calls out now, his voice echoing off the stones of the library, the walls which form the archives of the Keep, the walls in which you nestle during the day, hiding from anyone and anything except Valarr. 

            Perfect, precious Valarr. 

            “It’s Princess, actually,” you reply, not even looking up from your book, simply flipping another page. “My titles are my lady, Princess or, for you Prince Aerion, cousin.” Your tone is dispassionate, not that of someone who actively despises him just someone who doesn’t care. 

            “Well then,” he replies, his tone dropping lower, growing seductive, dangerous but in the best way, “how are you, cousin?” He watches as you stand, your gown of black and deepest red flowing over every curve in a memorizing display, your face a mask of displeasure. 

            “I was wonderful until you began to pester me,” you answer, grabbing the book you were reading after snapping it closed and storming past him, radiating ire behind you as he follows like a helpless lapdog beholden to you in entire. 

            “Where do you run off to, cousin dearest?” he calls out, his hand snaking forwards and grabbing your wrist, halting your progress and you turn back to him, glaring at him with the force of a thousand fires, a thousand suns. A fire so hot it freezes. 

            “Unhand me, Prince Aerion,” you call out but he does not, simply tightening his grip. “I am not your dearest; I am not your friend. I am the wife of your cousin and the future queen so. I suggest. You. Unhand. Me. Now.” Every word is carefully enunciated but it matters not because you are not what causes Aerion to let go. 

            No, that would be Valarr. 

            Valarr who arrives, watching as his beloved, his beautiful, his wife and light and life and fire and flame is accosted by a prince who never learned what the hand of discipline feels like. But that is something easily remedied. 

            Valarr does not typically let you wander the castle alone, but this morning had been different. This morning had been one he had off from council duties and so he dismissed the guards he normally had following you, tracking your every move, preventing anyone from getting close enough to hurt you or talk with you or simply bother you—allowing you to not be a ghost while also ensuring your safety. He had dismissed the guards believing you would be safe, believing that while he fetched the pastries you had wished for—a romantic gesture, the kind he tended to do all of the time—you would be safe. 

            And yet, he arrives to this. To his cousin touching you, looking at you, speaking with you. Speaking to you as though you would be his when you were Valarr’s. 

            This would not stand. 

            “Let go of me, Aerion!” you snap as his fingers tighten more, the words and frantic edge striking straight to Valarr’s heart and he doesn’t even think, just dropping the silver tray of pastries and running to you, his hand straying to his dagger, fiddling with the hilt before he pries Aerion’s hand from your wrist, slowly and torturously bending each finger back until he hears the crack of the base of the finger, hears his cousin grunt in pain every time, the sound satisfying an animalistic part of Valarr, one he didn’t want you to see, one that first came to life when he stabbed a dagger into your father’s hand to ensure your hand in marriage.

            Your love for eternity that Aerion thought he could take. 

            It was then when Valarr had pried every finger loose from your wrist that he pushed his cousin up against the stone wall, his forearm braced against his throat, cutting into his windpipe. His other hand reaches for the hand which had touched you, gripping it and twisting it until that sinister snap echoes through the hall, Aerion whining in pain, face contorting and violet eyes lining with tears. 

            “She said,” Valarr whispers, voice low, gaze locked on his cousin yet hyper-aware of the way you stand behind him, arms crossed over your chest not in comfort but defiance. Strength. “To unhand her.”

            “And…you have to fucking—ah! —break my wrists and fingers…in response?!” Aerion cries, his eyes shut, screwed tight against the pain, against the sight of his cousin and the fury in his eyes, the danger in his face. 

            “This is the least I’m going to do. You attempted to take my wife from me. Wars have been fought over less, cousin. And Targaryen’s have hurt one another over far less.” Valarr’s voice is perfectly measured, perfectly calm and even while inside he is a storm of emotions, his one hand pulling his dagger free from his belt, dragging the tip of the Valaryian steel across his cousin’s face, tracing every inch of it, not enough to draw blood—yet—but enough that Aerion feels the pinch of the cold steel, the pressure and the impeding pain. 

            “What will…you…do?” Aerion breathes out as Valarr presses his forearm deeper into his cousin’s throat. Valarr is conscious of you watching him, of the way your breathing is hitching but he doesn’t know if it’s in fear or anger or desire. He just doesn’t know. 

            He hopes it’s not fear. 

            Anything but fear. 

            “I think,” Valarr muses, dragging his dagger back to his cousin’s eye, circling around the left one, digging in deeper, watching with a cool dispassion as his cousin flinches away from the bite of the blade, body quivering in fear, “that I shall do what our ancestors did. After all…” he digs the dagger into the skin underneath Aerion’s eye, his cousin crying out in pain as the steel bites in, digging between flesh and nerves and blood, “Luce did remove Aemond’s eye over a dragon. I think…that you trying to harm my wife is even worse than a dragon egg so, I shall do as Luce did and…take your eye.” And then Valarr digs the dagger in all the way, carefully cutting through the flesh, severing the eye from the socket, pulling it away, his fingers coming away covered in viscera, fingers holding one bloody violet eye. 

            And Aerion’s scream of pain is as pitiful as Valarr knew it would be. As pitiful as the coward that he is. 

            “I should take both your eyes for even looking at my wife but I will have mercy. Should you touch her again, I will not be this merciful. Should you do it again…” he leans forwards towards his cousin, the cousin currently sliding down the wall, blood trickling from between his clutched fingers, dripping from his eye, “I will not simply break the hand which touches her but remove both of them and I shall take your other eye. And if you still do not learn your lesson, I shall have your head.”

            “MONSTER!” Aerion cries, the rest of what he wanted to say disappearing into whines and mewls like a pitiful dying animal. One that does not know when it has been beaten but still clings hopelessly to the idea that it will survive, that it will win. 

            “He is no monster, Prince Aerion,” Valarr hears you whisper, voice timid and slightly frightened, yet still strong like the girl who claimed to be a ghost while being the most alive thing he had ever seen. “He is my savior.” Those words are said with more heat, more strength, more belief. Like they are truth, perhaps the only one you truly know. 

            “Go to the Maester, cousin,” Valarr tells Aerion as he wipes his dagger off on Aerion’s sleeve, tucking it back in its sheath before straightening and turning away from him, to you, his beloved, tossing one final remark over his shoulder, “and do not tell what occurred here because if you do…I will end you. That’s not a threat, that’s a promise, cousin. Just tell the Maester that you were being…a dragon, proving something.” 

            Valarr focuses upon you, upon the tears lining your eyes and the way you bite your bottom lip in nerves, hands fisting your gown as if afraid. Afraid of…him? He goes to you, his hands coming to rest upon your waist, thumbs tracing circles on your stomach, calming the way you like and he watches you as you bring your gaze up to him, those tear-lined precious eyes burning with the fire of a thousand suns focused entirely on him. 

            “I did not do anything to encourage it, my husband,” you whisper, voice thick with unshed tears and Valarr feels stricken, cut to the core, realizing that you do fear him in part. Fear that he thinks you encouraged this, wanted it. “I swear.”

            “I know, my darling,” he whispers, ducking his head to be level with yours, his eyes holding your gaze, keeping it focused on him, only him. “I know. I am not angry at you, never you. I just simply need to protect you and that’s what I did. I protect you, always. So that you need never be a ghost in these halls, my fire.” He watches as your face changes, brightens, the tears beaten back by his words, his devotion. 

            His love. 

            “You keep saving me, Valarr,” you whisper, your hand coming to rest on his cheek, the touch enough to drive him mad, that precious tender gesture of love, pure love made for him by the Seven. “And what have I done to deserve it?”

            At your question, Valarr sweeps you in his arms, turning and running, your arms twined around his neck, giggles echoing through the hall as the two of you burst into your room, his foot kicking the door closed as he sets you down, gently ever so gently on the floor, his hands anchored to your hips, body fused to yours. 

            “You need not do anything to deserve my love, my fire,” he whispers, pulling you tight against him, pressing his body to yours, lips finding your neck. “You were made for me by the Seven and by the Seven, I shall protect you. You are my life, my love, my…everything.”

            “And you are mine,” you whisper and Valarr feels something inside of him crack at your words, your admission that the two of you are the same. Not only made for each other, but formed of each other. 

            That one cannot exist without the other. 

            And while Aerion drags himself to the Maester, claiming that he did it to himself to test the limits of his dragon’s strength, his immortality, the threat hanging in his mind, Valarr takes you to bed. 

            While Aerion is stitched up, a ruby placed in his eye socket like that of his ancestor Aemond with his sapphire eye, Valarr presses into you, your bodies joining, limbs twining. 

            While Aerion takes the milk of the poppy, you confess to Valarr that seeing him protect you made you want him more. 

            While Aerion succumbs to the blackness, the darkness of the pain, of the loss of a piece of himself, Valarr is inside of you, a rhythm between the two of you acting as a reminder that each of you belongs to the other. 

            That one cannot exist without the other. 

            It is after, when the two of you are twined with one another that he holds you close, his hands on your back, your front pressed to his, that he whispers, “you are everything that ever was.”

            The words are a confession and a declaration. A threat and a promise and a truth of how deeply he loves you because to him it is truth. 

            There is nothing without you and there never will be. 

            You are his everything at the Seven’s decree and he will burn the world down to keep you in his arms. He will take the head of every man who dares to look at you, speak to you or heaven forbid, touch you. 

            He will destroy the world if it tries to take you from him. 

            Because there is no Valarr without you and no you without Valarr. 

            You are everything that ever was because there is no version of the two of you without each other. 

Perhaps your political skills weren't as exceptional and (when convenient, especially) as pernicious as Sansa's. Perhaps you didn't wield a sword as formidably and lethally as Arya or Jon. And perhaps you weren't like Bran, who was...well, whatever he was now.

But the truth was, you used what you had at your disposal to make things happen, to bring vengeance to those people who had made the mistake of taking your loved ones away.

And you made sure they knew who was bringing death to them. Death was your pain and your retribution. And death would come for you too, eventually. It was the only certainty everyone could count on in life, even if most couldn't say when or how it would happen.

One way or another, death was an old acquaintance.

And that's why you didn't understand why, suddenly, the prospect of not surviving what was coming was distressing you so much. Putting everything into perspective in an annoying and inconvenient way.

The dead were marching towards Winterfell, and the armies were prepared — the last men from the Wall had already arrived, as had the remaining wildlings guarding Eastwatch. The warriors already had their swords sharpened and ready, the battlements in position, the catapults at their posts, trenches dug and reinforced.

You felt ready for a battle — The Battle. A battle that could start at any moment. Perhaps, if you were lucky, there would be another day or two to prepare. But maybe it would happen before dawn, in the next few hours. The men from the Wall said it would be soon. The anticipation was making you as sick as the increasingly real prospect of death.

It couldn't be fear. You weren't afraid to die — at worst, it would be a rest in absolute nothingness for you. At best, you would reunite with your loved ones, wherever they were.

It couldn't be fear that was keeping you so tense and uncertain.

You find yourself wandering, your fingers tightly gripping the wine goblet, wide eyes restlessly watching the people scattered throughout the great hall.

Despite the downright ominous cloud hanging over their heads, the men laugh as they eat. They drink ale and wine and speak loudly, as if this were an absolutely normal night.

Although the cold and snow are harsher than anything you've ever seen, the inside of the castle is filled with light and warmth, windows glowing and chimneys smoking — and you can't remember the last time you saw it so full of life. Which is, to say the least, contradictory, since death had never been such a likely outcome for everyone in Winterfell as it was now.

You wonder if it had less to do with them not fearing death and more to do with them being prepared for it.

Your eyes blink at the broad smiles on their faces, at the fierce gleam in their gazes, at the voices echoing loudly off the castle's grey walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that even Jon and the Dragon Queen are smiling at each other.

And, as you poke at a splinter in the large wooden table where you sit with your siblings and the Dragon Queen, a thought cuts through the confused fog of assumptions in your head, like lightning buzzing across a dark sky.

Perhaps they truly didn't fear death, because they had lived until now. They didn't want to die, of course, and they would probably fight as long as there was any remaining spark of energy in their bodies to avoid joining the Night King's army. But, in the worst (and most realistic, unfortunately) case of their deaths, they would be ready for it — because their lives had had some meaning.

Your lips part, and your heart feels too big for your chest as you sink, agonizingly slow, into that realization. You weren't afraid of death. You were frustrated at the thought of dying without having even truly lived to begin with.

What had you accomplished to this day, besides loss and vengeance?

Since the fateful day Robert Baratheon came personally to Winterfell to fetch your father, Ned Stark, to serve as Hand of the King in King's Landing, you had experienced nothing but pain and anger.

And then, when you finally return to the North and retake Winterfell, your home, alongside your siblings, ready to finally rest and at least try to find some sense of peace and satisfaction in life, the threat of death from Beyond the Wall emerges to put an end to that too.

You would die without having found any joy in life. Without having felt peace. Without having loved. Without having been loved.

As if drawn by a pulsating source of the feeling, your head turns to where Jon and the Dragon Queen are seated to your right. You watch them with a narrowed gaze, your heart beating painfully hard in your chest.

It's quite true that, despite the massive army of Unsullied, Dothraki, and the dragons — you, like every Northerner worth their salt, didn't know if you trusted the silver-haired woman.

But one thing had been evident from the first moment.

She loved Jon. Just as he loved her. The feeling shone in the way they looked at each other, as evident as the flames of a bonfire on a dark, freezing night.

You blink at the couple, feeling almost...

...jealous?

Gods, not that you didn't want Jon to experience that feeling. You were genuinely happy that he had found something good in this cruel and bloody world. Happy that he had loved and been loved in return, at least once.

But what about you? Would your entire life have been just an exhausting journey of deaths, vengeance, and duties?

You startle when Jon calls your name, your gaze quickly snapping up to him.

"Hey, are you alright? You've been staring for a while." He asks, tilting his head, one hand gently grasping your shoulder, his dark eyes narrowed with concern. Behind him, the Dragon Queen drinks some of her wine, violet eyes blinking slowly at you over the rim of her goblet.

"W-what? Yes, it's fine! I mean, as fine as it can be given the situation." You squeak, blushing at being caught in your stupid reverie, grabbing a slice of bread to disguise the nervousness bubbling underneath. "I guess I'm just not feeling very well, that's all."

Jon's expression grows even more concerned, worry evident on his pale features.

"What are you feeling? Should I call the Maester to see you?"

"Oh no, there's no need to bother the old man; the gods know he's probably filled his chamber pot twice by this hour and is snoring in his bed." You're quick to deny, rising from your chair in a graceful movement while trying to laugh, despite your nerves, to ease his worry. "It's just a bit of discomfort, nothing more. I just need some rest. I'll be in my chambers if you need me."

Jon barely blinks in the seconds that follow, staring at you with those big, dark eyes, as if he could read your soul. You subtly shift your weight from one foot to the other, wringing your hands in front of your body, trying to keep your face as impassive as possible under that gaze.

"Alright." He sighs finally, relaxing his tense shoulders, giving you a small nod of his chin. "But don't hesitate to ask one of the maids to fetch me if you feel you need anything."

"I will, brother." You agree with a forced smile, looking past his shoulder to nod slightly at the silver-haired woman. You don't wait for any response from her before turning your back on them, walking out of the great hall.

People laugh and slam their mugs on the table as you pass, nodding at you with respect and fierce pride — but you barely notice, too busy trying to leave the hall before anyone notices your state.

You stumble when you finally reach the corridor, feeling almost suffocated, as if your mind had been completely thrown off balance. It's ridiculous, and you have no idea where this untimely epiphany came from, you only know it's there and it seems to have come to stay. Suddenly it's as if...as if you were trapped, chained to duties and conduct, or something like that, but that's ridiculous. It's ridiculous. And yet...

You're so absorbed in your own feelings that you startle when you bump into someone else. Your forehead ricochets ungracefully off someone's hard chest, making you stumble backward with a humiliating sound of shock. Before you trip and fall, however, large hands close around your arms, steadying you.

"Easy there, little wolf."

You look up, your fingers frozen halfway to smoothing your sore forehead, your heart stumbling a beat in your chest.

Tormund Giantsbane stands before you, immense, his red beard wild and untamed like the very land he came from. His blue eyes stare at you with that curious and unsettling gleam — a combination of fire and ice that shouldn't exist, but burns nonetheless.

His hands still hold your arms, and you feel the heat seeping through your dress sleeves, as if his skin knew where you were cold and decided, unceremoniously, to warm you.

"You're looking like a deer surrounded by wolves, ironic as that may be," he comments with a lopsided half-smile, his voice too low and rough for the oppressive silence of the corridor. "If I were a suspicious man, I'd say you're running from something."

You open your mouth, ready to retort with your usual sarcasm, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is, he's right. And, worse than that, he saw. He always sees — with eyes that never pretend, that never disguise. Tormund may be crude, unpredictable, and inconvenient, but he is, above all, honest. And there's a part of you that envies that...fiercely.

"I'm not running. I just needed some air."

He lets out a small noise in the back of his throat. A sound that isn't exactly skeptical, but isn't agreeing either. It's a sound that strips you bare, as if saying: Lies aren't necessary between those who might not see tomorrow, little wolf.

You take a step back, but he still holds your arms. Lightly, but firmly. And when you look at his face again, you realize he's watching you as if he's waiting for something. A word. A gesture. A truth.

"You're not like them," he says, and for a moment, your mind races trying to understand if he meant the nobles, the soldiers...or the living in general.

"Not like who?" your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"Like everyone who pretends not to be afraid." He releases your arms slowly, as if the touch had been inevitable, but the absence was too. "You feel too much. That scares you, doesn't it?"

You take a deep breath, as if the air were thin. Tormund is too close. Not just physically, but emotionally too close, and that's what really makes you tense. It's what kept you away from the inconvenient and persistent man all this time. He speaks as if he could see things you yourself avoid facing. As if he could feel what's poorly hidden behind your pose of control and your lineage of ice.

"You don't understand," you say, shaking your head, and this time your voice has steel, has bitterness. "It's not that easy. I can't simply..." You wave your hand, as if you weren't even free enough to formulate the thought out loud.

"Because you're a Stark?" He understands and counters anyway, nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

"Because I'm a lady." Your reply comes out sharper than you intended, and its echo feels like a judgment in itself, something that sounds too loud in the empty corridor. Lady. As if it were a curse. As if it were a prison.

Tormund doesn't laugh, nor does he mock you — which was perhaps the most surprising thing, maybe even worse. He just looks at you for another moment and then says, with a seriousness you didn't expect from that loud, chaotic man:

"When the darkness comes and the dead are breathing down our necks, little wolf...it won't matter what they expected of you. It will only matter what you wished for and never had the courage to take."

Your chest aches, your eyes widen, and your lips are parted with an offended retort that never truly escapes. As if his words had struck a point you didn't know existed, a hidden corner between duty and emptiness.

He had always been inconvenient and sarcastic, a huge, crude man who never hesitated to say exactly what he thought to anyone, no matter how noble the person was. You envied how free he was with his own feelings, however irritating it was sometimes — which was most of the time, to be honest.

But now? His sincerity hits the icy walls around your heart, shatters the defenses carefully built over the years, leaves you as exposed and raw as a nerve. It's humiliating. Like a weakness that was always there, hidden and silent, yes, but blessedly a shame only you knew of. Until that moment...

But no more.

Now the damned Tormund Giantsbane knows it too.

"This..." you begin, steps unsteady and trembling as you stagger back, away from him and his irritating ability to see right through you. "This conversation...this...this never happened, do you understand? Just go your way and I'll go mine, wildling."

You turn before he can answer, walking with quick steps to your bedchamber, your breath catching in your throat.

You feel nauseous. Feet tapping through empty corridors, pressing the cold stone floor hard so you wouldn't turn around and do something stupid and reckless like go back to him...but you don't.

It was a familiar feeling to you, the pain of wanting something deeply but knowing it could never be.

When you reach your bedchamber and turn your head to look at the door to close it...there stands Tormund. Because of course he's there.

"Have you ever in your life listened to and obeyed a single thing anyone ever told you?" you ask breathlessly, frowning, your shoulders tense with frustration and anger.

Tormund is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his broad body taking up more space than it should. He doesn't answer immediately. He just looks at you. His blue eyes are darker in the hearth fire and candlelight of the room, and the gleam in them...isn't mocking, as you'd expect from someone as undisciplined as him. It's quiet. Almost...careful.

And that irritates you more than any taunt.

"I do listen," he says finally, his voice deep and low, as if he didn't want to wake something that was already about to rise within you. "But I also see. And what I saw out there isn't something I can just ignore."

You shake your head, your fists clenched at your sides, as if that could contain the internal avalanche threatening to destroy you. "You saw nothing."

"I saw someone trying to hide a scream behind a pretty smile." He takes a step forward. Slow. Careful. As if you were a wounded wolf that might attack or flee at any moment. "I saw a woman who is tired of dying slowly just to seem strong and unshakable."

"You know nothing about me, Giantsbane."

"I don't know what you had for breakfast, if that's what you mean." He smiles, just one corner of his mouth. A stupid smile on his stupid bearded face. "But I know how to recognize when someone is about to shatter. I've seen it before. In men before battles. In women who lost everything. In myself."

You find yourself taking a step back. Not because you're afraid of him. You never were, to be honest, however chaotic and unpredictable the man was. But because you're afraid of yourself. Of what you feel. Of what you want. And of what you're about to admit, even if only in thought.

"What you're doing..." your voice is low, almost a whisper. "This is cruel."

He takes another step. Now he's inside the room. The shadows move around his broad shoulders as if the castle itself were breathing around his presence.

"No. Cruel is you continuing to pretend you don't want anything, little wolf. That you don't need anything." He stops a few steps from you, the air between you two thick, saturated with something that has no name. Something that is just body and heat. "But you do want. And I...I am here. And that won't change just because you said you can't."

You stare at him, feeling every beat of your heart like a drum inside your chest. You want to scream, punch something, run away.

But you also want to yield. You want to feel. You want...him. And that is unthinkable. Unforgivable.

"You don't understand...I-I am a Stark," you say, as if the name were a chain tied to your wrists, as if reminding yourself of that would bring back your sanity. "I cannot afford to want. To...feel, this way."

"Feel for me anyway." His voice is now a rough murmur. A grave, earthy thing that resonates right in your bones. "Let me show you, just once, what it's like to live. Before death comes knocking at our doors."

You are so close to him now. When did that happen? You don't know. Perhaps you were always destined for this moment. Or perhaps you're just…tired of denying the inevitable.

But then, as if something icy touched the center of your chest, reality returns, swift and cruel. You pull away, a sharp, almost trembling step, as if you had touched a live flame and been burned.

“No,” you whisper. And the word comes out like a blunt blade that cuts from within, tears irregularly and painfully. “It can't happen.”

Tormund raises a red eyebrow, the wild smile returning — slow and provocative.

“Can't?” He repeats, as if it were the funniest thing he's ever heard. “At this point in our lives, princess, do you really still care about what you can or cannot do?”

You turn your face away, your eyes burning wet, fists clenched as if holding a scream in your joints.

“You don't understand. I am a noble. And you…” your voice fails for a second, almost hesitant to utter the next words, knowing they weren't what you truly thought. But what did it matter what you thought, right? “You're just a damned wildling.”

He lets out a short, mocking laugh and scratches his thick, calloused fingers through his disheveled beard, as if he expected no less from you.

“Ah, there she is...there's the little wolf I know, biting with the right little teeth.”

“Tormund...”

“You want to know what I really am, pretty little thing?” He takes a step forward, his blue eyes sparking, crackling like the wood burning in your bedchamber's hearth fire. And, in that moment, you see how different you really are - there's something beyond mere numerical age in that gaze...there's the weight of experience, of burdens, of time. “I'm the guy who survived the cruel northern storm by eating rats and sleeping inside a dead bear. I'm the man who tore a wight's arm off with my bare hands while pissing in the snow.” He tilts his head, smiling with sharp, teasing teeth. “But if you think being a 'wildling' stops me from seeing the way you look at me...then you're blinder than a crow with no beak.”

You narrow your eyes, offended, confused about what, by the old gods and the new, he means, and...captivated? His controlled anger has a heat that invades, even without permission. And the way he speaks...so shameless, so raw. That's what drives you insane. That's what scares you.

“You are unbearable,” you murmur, your voice choked, the whole body trembling with the effort of not throwing yourself into the abyss he represents.

“And you are a liar,” he snarls back, low and rough, his large, tall body covered in leather and wild furs shadowing your much smaller, more delicate one. “Standing there with that voice of ice and that gaze of iron, but inside...inside you are burning, little wolf. I can feel it. Every time you pretend you don't want to kiss me. Every time you look at me as if you're ashamed of desiring what your people say is wrong.”

You look away, but he continues - he always continues.

“Let me tell you something, Princess of the North," he says the last part with a kind of amused disdain, as if it were a joke that never gets old you thinking you belong to the true North. "The world doesn't give a fuck about what's right. Nor about what's decent and proper. And it certainly doesn't wait. Not for nobles, nor for titles or permission. The world just takes. Tears away. Kills. And leaves you alone with the 'what ifs' echoing until your last breath, which, guess what? Might be much sooner than you thought.”

You stare at him, your chest heaving, your heart hammering against your ribs like a panicked prisoner. He is irritatingly articulate and coherent, far more than you would expect from any wildling, judging by the stories told.

“I can't.” Your voice is almost inaudible, a near-desperate whisper cast into the air. “Even if I wanted to...”

“You do want.” He says, firmly. Without hesitation. As if it were a truth as ancient as the winter that plagues the North itself.

You don't answer. You just stare at him with wide eyes and parted lips, your heart racing in your chest — and for the first time in a long time, you have no sharp reply, no excuse. Only silence.

He approaches once more, but doesn't touch you. Doesn't cross the final distance. He merely whispers:

“You know where to find me…if you want to know what it's like to be truly free before the battle against death begins.”

And then he turns and leaves, his footsteps echoing like muffled thunder down the stone corridor.

The door closes with a soft sound.

But inside you,nothing is quiet anymore.

---

You do not sleep.

How could you?

The war approaches like a creature with teeth of ice, growling in the distance, waiting for the right moment to devour everything. But, more than that, it's what had happened within the walls of Winterfell that keeps you awake — what he said, more precisely. What he made you feel.

You lie in bed, wrapped in soft, comfortable furs, but your whole body feels rigid, as if even the feather pillow had thorns. The chamber is almost dark, the embers in the hearth fire dying slowly, casting restless shadows on the stone walls. The hours pass, and your eyes remain stubbornly open, fixed on the ceiling. Fixed on him.

"Standing there with that voice of ice and that gaze of iron, but inside...inside you are burning, little wolf."

His words hammer in your head like a war drum. You turn over, pull the blanket up to your chin, turn over again. But there is no comfortable position when it is your soul that is restless.

Why did he have to say that? Why did he have to see something no one else saw...that no one else cared about? Why did he have to hit so true?

You hate that he's right. You hate even more that he knows he's right. He read you as if your skin were made of crystal, as if every crack were wide open.

And you are not used to being seen. Nor touched. Nor...examined in that way. Not at all, really.

You sit up in bed, your feet touching the icy floor. Your heart beats hard, frustrated and irritated. You think of everything you are about to lose: your siblings, your home, the peace you never had. You think of how you spent your whole life being everything they expected of you — noble, correct, cold, untouchable. How you mourned and fought tooth and nail for vengeance, even though you were too young for such things.

And you also think of how you never lived. Not really.

And now…now, because of a damned wildling who thinks he knows you better than anyone, it all feels like an even heavier burden than it already was.

You leap to your feet, your bare feet running across the stone floor. You grab the oil lamp with trembling hands, your thin, cold fingers slipping for a moment before managing to grip the iron handle. The flame rises, trembling too, as if it felt what was to come.

You throw a cloak over your nightgown, but not with the patience and delicacy of a lady. With anger. With haste. With fury. Your hair falls over your shoulders, loose and untamed after so much tossing and turning in bed. Your footsteps echo on the stone corridor as you cross the castle with a single purpose.

He is lodged in the east wing — where the less noble guests, the soldiers and foreigners who came to die together in this infernal battle, stay. The walls seem damper there, colder, if that was even possible. The air carries the smell of iron and smoke and doom.

You arrive before the door of rough, crude wood, coarser than those in the noble wing. And then you knock. One, two, three times. Bordering on impatience.

The door opens with a dry crack, revealing Tormund — hair disheveled, broad torso exposed, wearing only his wild leather pants, eyes slightly wide with surprise. The red beard looking even wilder in the lamplight.

"Look at that…" he says, blinking slowly, that damned mischievous smile forming. "The little wolf actually came."

You enter uninvited, pushing the door with your shoulder, your chin raised with indignant, petulant pride.

"You had no right to say the things you said," you blurt out, your chest heaving, the lamp shaking in your hand.

"Don't tell me you came here in the fucking middle of the night to tell me that?" He scratches the sparse hair on his defined stomach and gives you a slow once-over — from the cloak covering your body to the fire burning in your wide eyes. "Or did you come because you couldn't stop thinking about me?"

"You are unbearable, wildling."

"You've said that." He shrugs, walking to the corner table with a metal mug half-full of ale, or whatever horrible piss he drinks. "And yet, here you are."

"You messed with me, Tormund, and I want an apology!" Your voice rises, but it's hoarse with frustration, with emotion. "You...you made it seem stupid and wrong to be who I am. You scorned me for trying to do the right thing!"

He turns to you, finally serious, his intense blue eyes piercing yours like spears.

"I never said it was wrong to be who you are, little wolf. I just said you're pretending you're not something more."

"Gods, you are so dense! You just don't understand!" Your scream echoes off the cold walls. "I am a Stark! I was raised with rules, with expectations. I must serve my house, as is the duty of a noble lady. I have lived exclusively for that and for vengeance these past years. I...I never had the luxury of a choice!"

"You do now."

The silence after those two words is absolute. It cuts you deeply, leaves you breathless and stammering.

He takes a step toward you, and this time you don't retreat. Your body is tense, frozen, your eyes brimming with anger and frustration — not only at him, but at yourself. At everything.

"You think you can just show up and..." your voice fails. "...make me want something I can't have?"

"You can have it. You just don't have the courage."

He is before you now. The heat of his body is palpable. And yours is trembling.

"Are you going to kiss me?" he asks, his voice rough like the cutting northern wind. "Or are you going to keep pretending you came here just to yell at me?"

Your heart hammers so hard it feels ready to explode. The silence that follows is thick and sticky, like warm honey poured over an open, painful wound.

You stare at him, the lamp shaking in your hand, and only then do you realize — as if seeing for the first time, with eyes that seem to belong to someone elseb— how...bare he is.

The broad chest, covered in a layer of red hair, marked by scars that cut across his pale skin like trails of ancient battles. The shoulders are so wide they seem made to carry the world. The muscles in his arm contract slightly as he raises the mug to his lips, and even this simple gesture has a wild strength, a virility that frightens you.

You should look away. You should turn your back and run.

But you can't.

Your mouth goes dry. A blush explodes across your cheeks as if you'd swallowed fire.

You feel a strange pang in your stomach. Something alive. Something...dangerous.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

The smile that forms on his lips isn't as openly mocking this time. It's more restrained. As if he, too, is treading carefully on this cracked ground. As if he knows a single sudden movement would make everything collapse, would send you running out that door — the one you never should have crossed in the first place.

“Never seen a man without a shirt before, little wolf?” he asks, with that deep, rough voice that slides under your skin.

“Of course I have, idiot.” You answer automatically, but your own voice betrays you. Weak. Tense. Almost trembling.

He raises an eyebrow, taking a step closer. He still doesn't touch you, and that, for some reason you can't catalog, is worse than if he did.

“Men from your world don't have scars like mine. I bet they're all clean and polished, with hands as smooth as the soft sheets on your bed.”

“And you think that impresses me?” Your retort is more acidic than intended, said too quickly. A desperate defense against something that's already inside you, warm and pulsing, shamefully exposed.

“No. I know it doesn't.” He takes another step. Now you feel the heat of his body radiating against yours. The lamp trembles along with your hand. “But I think you're tired of living as if nothing could shake you. As if nothing could pierce those barriers you've built.”

Your eyes meet his.

You want to say something. Deny. Affirm. Cry. Spit. Scream. But all you can do is stand there, face raised, chin firm, and eyes brimming with frustration and desire. And he sees it all. Everything.

“You were raised to be perfect, weren't you?” he whispers. “To be some well-born lord's little doll, who will never know the scent of your desire, raw and true...nor the taste of your anger, alive and hot, the way it is right now.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, as if that could push away what you feel. As if it could silence the body trembling beneath your skin, begging for a mistake.

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough to know that your body, right now, is being far more honest than that head of yours, little wolf.”

The air between you becomes impossible to breathe. Your heart beats too loud. Your parted lips feel the heat of his breath so close.

But you take a step back.

Unsteady and confused.

He doesn't stop you, however. He doesn't immediately chase after you. He just watches, his eyes burning in silence, like a patient predator who knows it will reach its prey eventually...inevitably.

"I-I can't," you say, as if the phrase were an anchor chained to your ankles, holding onto your sanity. "It shouldn't be like this. I…I was raised to belong to someone. To be given. And only then touched. And only then...loved."

The words come out trembling. Almost rehearsed. Almost...childish. Empty words, embedded in your mind over the years by society and duty. Words you don't even believe yourself, a notion of duty you never truly wanted.

But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't mock. He doesn't contradict you. Tormund just moves closer again. So close you can smell his skin — smoke, leather, and a wild hint of forest.

“What if, for one single night, you belonged to yourself?” he asks. “Not to your house or your duties. Nor to the dead. Nor to the fucking world. Just to yourself."

You want to say “no”. You need to say “no”.

But all that comes out is a sigh. Low. Deep. Painful. He doesn't kiss you. He merely bends his tall frame to rest his forehead against yours, letting your breaths mingle intimately.

A gesture almost reverent. Almost...pure.

"And maybe...a little bit mine?"

He whispers, and, not for the first time that night, you wonder if the mistake isn't in letting yourself be reached, but in living and dying without ever having felt anything.

And then, shattering the meditative, profound, and still disturbingly intimate silence, Tormund breathes, inappropriate and horribly sincere, as always:

"Tell me, little wolf, have you ever had a man before? Ever felt a cock inside you? Or would I be your first—"

"S-shut up!" you protest, your cheeks on fire and eyes wide, giving Tormund's chest a hard shove — which does nothing but make him stagger back slightly, barking out an annoyingly, deeply satisfied laugh. The horrible man! You know he knows perfectly well you've never lain with a man. That's the whole damn point of this moral debate! He was just being provocative and inconvenient, as always.

"Sweet girl," Tormund continues, despite your obvious embarrassment and the sharp look you shoot him. "I could fuck you 'til you couldn't walk. Oh, hell. No one's had this sweet cunt before, no one's seen this body without all the fine furs and clothes covering you. What a gift you'd give me, little wolf. All my—"

You make a noise somewhere between a disapproving grunt and a humiliated choke — flushed and utterly horrified by the man's vulgarity, who simply started spewing indecencies like a river spring. And horrified especially with yourself, for the sudden heat that courses through your body in response to that verbal depravity. Your slender fingers rise to your face to hide the scalding blush exploding across your skin. As if that could protect you, as if there were still salvation against what he is. Against what he awakens in your body.

“You are unbearable,” you repeat, your voice muffled between your fingers. “You…you can't just say those things to a lady, Tormund!”

“'Course I can,” he retorts, his laughter reverberating like thunder between the walls. “I can, and I will. Why the hell would I hide what I feel, huh? Never understood you southerners' habit of pretending you don't want to cum just because you're wearing pretty clothes.”

You choke, your eyes widening behind the cage of your fingers, shocked by the audacity, the crudeness — and, damn it, by the heat that runs down your thighs at the mention of something so explicit and dirty. Your body is betraying you in every possible way, and it's unfair. So unfair.

“By the gods, Tormund,” you snarl, pressing your fingers tighter against your eyes and flaming cheeks. “You are a depraved brute!”

Tormund laughs again, a guttural sound echoing off the damp walls of the room, as if your indignation were the best blanket for the sepulchral cold of that night. He doesn't move back, nor does he pretend regret for the boldness of the words he just spat out. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing with a mixture of amusement and something sharper, hungrier.

"Depraved, huh? Maybe. But at least I'm honest about what I want. You there, trembling like a leaf in the wind, pretending you don't feel the same heat rising up your legs right now." He tilts his head back as he takes another swig of ale and, beneath the disheveled strands of his reddish beard, you can't help but notice how the movement makes the tendons in his pale neck stretch, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, a vein pulsing visibly under the skin marked by years of battles and merciless winters.

You lower your hands from your face slowly, your fingers still warm from the blush that spreads like wildfire across your chest, reaching the base of your neck where the dark cloak parts slightly. The air in the room seems thicker now, laden with the smell of smoke from the fireplace and his earthy odor – sweat, mixed with leather, fire, and something indefinably masculine that makes your stomach twist.

"Honest? That's not honesty, it's pure crudeness. You talk as if I were one of...one of your wildling women, ready to be taken in the snow without a second thought." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, laden with a frustration that goes beyond his words; it's the anger at yourself for feeling that treacherous throb between your thighs, a subtle pulsation you've never experienced with such intensity, as if your body were waking from a sleep forced upon it by years of duties and accumulated griefs.

He sets the mug down on the table with a dull thud, the sound echoing like a deliberate provocation, and crosses his arms over his bare chest, the red hairs bristling slightly with the movement.

"Crudeness, she says." He rolls the word lazily on his tongue, as if tasting it. "Ah, little wolf, if that's crudeness, then tell me what it is you're doing here, in the dark of night, with only a thin nightgown under your cloak, your hair messy as if you'd wrestled a wight in bed. You didn't come here to discuss salon etiquette with me." His eyes travel slowly down your body, not with immediate lust, but appraisingly, as if cataloging every involuntary tremor, every rushed breath that makes your chest rise and fall. You feel the weight of that gaze like a phantom touch, raising goosebumps on your skin under the light fabric, and for a moment, you hate how he seems to read every secret you keep – the untouched virginity, the repressed desire, the loneliness disguised as nobility.

"I came because you made me uneasy, you bearded idiot," you retort, taking a step forward without thinking, your chin raised in defiance, even as your heart beats like a war drum. The cold stone floor under your bare feet sends a shiver up your legs, contrasting with the heat radiating from him, now just an arm's length away. "You get in my head with this absurd talk about living before dying, as if it were that simple. As if I could just throw it all away – my house, my name, my...decency – just because a wildling with an inflated ego thinks he knows what I feel."

The words come out fast, punctuated by short breaths, and you realize, with growing panic, that you are closer to him than ever, close enough to feel the heat emanating from his exposed skin, to see the thin scars that cross his defined abdomen, marks from claws or blades that tell stories of survival you've only heard in tales around the hearth.

Tormund doesn't retreat; instead, he uncrosses his arms and slowly extends a hand, his thick, calloused fingers hovering in the air for a second before lightly brushing your arm, just above the elbow. The touch, even through the cloak's fabric, is surprisingly gentle for a man of his size, but electric, sending a spark that makes your muscles contract involuntarily.

"Decency is the word you use to hide, isn't it? To avoid admitting that you want to be touched, kissed, fucked until you forget the shackles that keep you chained to these...duties." His voice drops a tone, hoarse and laden with an intensity that is no longer just provocation; there's a vulnerability there, masked by the rough accent of the Free Folk, as if he were exposing not just desire, but the urgency to connect before the world ends. You feel his thumb trace a slow circle on your skin, and the simple gesture awakens a tingling that travels down your arm, reaching the center of your chest, where your heart seems to want to leap out.

You swallow dryly, your throat as dry as the Red Waste's sand, and try to pull your arm back, but your muscles don't obey immediately, betrayed by the spreading warmth.

"You think it's easy for me? I grew up watching my family be torn apart – a beheaded father, a murdered mother, a mutilated brother. I avenged what I could, killed those who deserved it, but it didn't set me free. It left me empty. And now you come, with your brutish ways, saying I should...what, exactly? Give myself to you as if it were a conquest? As if there were no consequences?" Your eyes fix on his, and for the first time, you see beyond the rough facade: there's a sadness there, an echo of the losses he himself suffered beyond the Wall, friends devoured by wights, clans destroyed by the eternal cold. It's this that disarms you a little, the realization that he's not just an inconvenient, ginger clown, but someone who understands the closeness of death in a way few nobles comprehend.

He lets out a long sigh, his chest rising and falling, and the touch on your arm firms, not possessive, but anchoring, as if wanting to keep you in the present.

"It's not a conquest, little wolf. It's a choice. Your choice. I'm not asking you to be mine forever – the gods know tomorrow we could be food for the dead. I'm asking you to be honest with yourself, just once. To set aside this armor of 'Lady Stark' and feel what your body is screaming for." His fingers move slowly up your cloaked arm, tracing a path to your shoulder, where the fabric naturally opens more, revealing the thin strap of your nightgown. The contact sends waves of heat that concentrate in your belly, an insistent throbbing that makes you instinctively squeeze your thighs together, mortified by the physical response you cannot control. He notices, of course – his blue eyes, irritatingly perceptive, darken, the pupils dilating in a way that frightens you as much as it excites you.

"Choice..." you repeat, your voice coming out as a hoarse whisper, your lips parted as your gaze involuntarily drops to his chest, tracing the lines of his scars with a curiosity bordering on fascination. One of them, thick and irregular, runs from his left shoulder to the center of his chest, as if something had literally tried to tear his heart out – and it probably had. "And if I choose wrong? What if this destroys me more than the battle coming our way?"

It's a perfectly sensible question, but even as you speak, you take a tiny step forward, your body betraying your mind, the cloak slipping a little more, exposing the curve of your neck where your skin contrasts with the blush rising there. The air between you vibrates, charged with tension, and you smell him more strongly now, invasive, mingling with the very scent of lavender and herbs from your bath.

Tormund leans his body down, his forehead almost touching yours again, but this time there's an urgency in the gesture, his warm breath grazing your cheek.

"Wrong would be dying without having tasted anything but pain. Let me show you, little wolf. Let me make you come so hard you forget the weight of your name for a while." The words are crude, explicit, but spoken with a sincerity that cuts like Valyrian steel – it's not just lust, it's an offer of escape, a moment of pure life amidst the chaos. His fingers slide from your shoulder to your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone with surprising delicacy, and you arch slightly, a low moan escaping before you can contain it, the sound echoing like a confession in the quiet room. His hand is large on your soft, immaculate skin, almost a profanation.

You close your eyes for an instant, the world reducing to his touch, to the heat building at your core, damp and insistent. When you open them, you see the desire mirrored in his eyes, but also a patience you didn't expect – he doesn't advance further, waiting for your consent, even as his body betrays the tension, his muscles rigid, the disturbingly visible bulge in his wildling leather pants. The sight makes your stomach churn with a mix of fear and excitement.

You bite your lower lip, lowering your hand to clench your fist against your chest, over the clasps of your cloak.

"I don't know how..." Your voice fails. The truth escaping through the crack in your armor. "I don't know how...how to do this."

Tormund stills, so close he breathes the same puff of air you exhale.

"Do what?" he asks, with a slight tilt of his head. His voice is lower now. "Want? Feel? Love?"

You hesitate. The air is so heavy it hurts to breathe.

"To be touched," you whisper, a confessional admission to the last person you ever imagined you would make it to. "To be touched. To let someone...see who I truly am. It was always a sin to me. Something to be avoided. Guarded. Used as a bargaining chip."

He moves even closer, raising his hand until his index finger and thumb fit under your chin, tilting your head upward. Slowly. As if facing a wounded, skittish wild animal – hurt, but wary.

"You're no bargaining chip, little wolf," he says, his rough voice carrying more tenderness than you expected to hear from a brute like him. "You're a woman. With flesh, blood, and will."

You look up. Your wide eyes meet his. And in that moment, you are trembling. But it's no longer fear.

It's something much, much deeper.

With his other hand, he captures yours, the one that was protectively curled against your chest, his long, thick fingers intertwining with your delicate, slender ones, squeezing with a gentle firmness, and guides it to his own chest, pressing it against the warm flesh where you feel his heart beating strong and rhythmic, like yours. He lowers his head slowly, his lips brushing your forehead in a surprisingly tender kiss, contrasting with the earlier crudeness, and you close your eyes, inhaling his scent, letting the moment stretch, your body relaxing involuntarily against his.

The kiss moves down to your temple, then to your cheek, each touch light, each moist, warm puff of his breath, each brush of his tall, broad body against yours, sending waves of heat that concentrate at your core, making the wetness increase, trickling down your thighs in a sticky, shameful sensation you try to ignore but can't.

He releases your hands and slides his own down your back, tracing the curve of your spine over the cloak, his firm fingers pressing into your tense muscles, relieving the rigidity accumulated from sleepless nights and repressed fears.

"Relax, little wolf. I won't bite...unless you ask." The tone is provocative, with a stupid humor that lightens the weight of the situation a little, making you huff a reluctant laugh, your shoulders relaxing an inch.

You feel his hands descend to the small of your back, lightly squeezing your buttocks through the fabric, a gesture that sends a shock straight to your clit, making it pulse with urgency.

"Tormund..." you whisper, his name a plea mixed with a warning, your hips moving involuntarily forward, grinding against the hard bulge in his pants, feeling the thick length through the leather, warm and pulsing.

He grunts low, the sound vibrating in his chest against yours, and immediately, he returns the motion, rolling his hips slowly, creating a friction that makes you gasp, the air escaping in short bursts as pleasure builds slowly, layer by layer. Shame burns in your cheeks, knowing you're rubbing against him like an animal in heat, but desire overpowers it, feverish and insistent, erasing internal dilemmas for an instant.

He captures your lips then, the kiss starting slow, exploratory, his beard scratching the sensitive skin around your mouth and chin as his tongue grazes yours, asking for entry with a patience that doesn't match the urgency in his eyes and the rough grunt in his throat. You open, hesitant at first, but soon reciprocating, tongues intertwining in a wet, hot dance, his taste invading – bitter ale mixed with something earthy, masculine – making you moan low, the sound muffled by the kiss.

His hands undo the cloak's tie with agile fingers, the fabric falling to the stone floor, exposing the thin nightgown, your breasts pressed against his chest, your hardened nipples rubbing against the red hair in a sensation bordering on torment. You feel the wetness between your legs increase, trickling slowly down your inner thigh, and guilt surges again – how can you be so aroused, so ready, with a man like him? – but the kiss deepens, his hands moving up to cup your breasts over the fabric, his thumbs circling your nipples slowly, sending sparks that make your hips move faster against his.

"That's it, feel," he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss for a second, his warm breath mingling with yours. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your stubborn little head insists on denying it."

You rise onto your toes and wrap your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling his head back down, kissing with more hunger now, your teeth lightly nibbling his lower lip, a bold, instinctive act that surprises even you, making him grunt in approval. The fingers of your other hand, remarkably trembling despite the surge of boldness, descend to his pants, hesitant, tentatively touching the bulge through the leather, feeling the heat and rigidity, the subtle pulse that responds to your touch.

"Gods, you're...oh," you whisper against his mouth, your voice breathless, choked with curiosity and a noticeable trace of fear, your fingers slowly tracing the outline, exploring the unknown shape pulsing under the pressure. He laughs low against your mouth, the sound vibrating on your lips, and guides your hand into his pants without any preamble, quickly undoing the laces with his other hand, freeing the thick, erect member, the skin warm and silky under your fingers, prominent veins pulsing to the rhythm of his heart.

You swallow dryly, the blush intensifying as you wrap your fingers around it, feeling the circumference your hand can barely contain, a viscous, pearly liquid trickling from the tip, lubricating the slow movement you initiate, pumping slowly, mortified by your own wantonness, but fascinated by his reaction – blue eyes half-closed, long, light eyelashes fluttering, the rough moan escaping his kiss-swollen lips.

"Careful, little wolf, or you'll make me come before it's time. That would be a bit disappointing, wouldn't it?" he warns, his voice tense, making you smile like an idiot against his neck, where you bury your face to hide the shame.

He returns the favor, his hands descending under your nightgown, lifting the hem slowly, exposing your thighs to the room's air, his fingers tracing the inner skin, climbing until they find the wetness between your legs, parting the folds with delicacy, his thumb finding your swollen clit and circling slowly. You gasp loudly, the sound echoing in the room, your legs buckling as pleasure explodes in waves, his middle finger sliding inside slowly, feeling the virginal resistance, the tight canal contracting around him.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice feverish now, his eyes fixed on yours as he adds another finger, stretching you carefully, the rhythmic movement creating wet sounds that embarrass but also excite you further. You cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh, moaning against his chest as pleasure builds, your body moving against his hand, seeking more depth, more pressure. Guilt throbs in the back of your mind – this is wrong, a Stark doesn't debase herself like this – but desire overpowers it, feverish and uncontrollable, erasing everything except the sensation of his fingers curling inside, touching a spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. Your other hand, still around his penis, freezes, unable to continue.

He slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, licking the taste with a satisfied moan, his eyes never leaving yours, an act that makes the blush burn like fire on your face, mixing colossal embarrassment with an excitement that makes your clit pulse emptily.

"Sweet, just as I imagined," he says, his voice hoarse, and you laugh, flushed and feeling completely insane for letting this happen. You push him onto the bed in a weak impulse he obeys without preamble, your bodies falling together onto the furs, laughing between kisses as hands explore, touch, squeeze, discovering every inch. He rolls on top of you, the kisses trailing down your neck, his beard scratching your skin, making you shiver all over.

The furs on the bed are warm from the hearth fire, but nothing compares to the heat exploding under your skin when he rises and kneels between your legs, still with his leather pants open, his penis frighteningly erect and wet, his chest heaving like an animal kept too long in a cage. His blue eyes don't leave yours for a single second.

"The whole world can freeze tomorrow," he snarls, his voice rough, laden with a promise both obscene and reverent at the same time. "But tonight...fuck...tonight you're all mine, little wolf."

You open your mouth to respond – to protest, perhaps – but he is upon you once more. The rough beard grazing your collarbone, the weight of his body pressing you into the furs in a firm, almost possessive, yet careful manner. As if testing your limits with every touch, every sigh, every low growl in your ear.

The difference in size between you is absurd. His shoulders cover you completely, his arms strong as tree trunks around your body, fragile compared to his. He is brute, warm, and heavy – the complete opposite of everything you were taught to desire.

And yet...it's all you want.

"You're so small," he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts, his lips sliding along your jawline. "So fucking delicate. A little southern flower...and yet, you came hunting me in the middle of the night, trembling with lust and rage. What a beautiful thing you are."

You moan, squeezing his shoulders, burying your fingers in his red hair, not knowing what to do with all the heat spreading through your belly, between your legs, all over your body. It's new. It's intense. And it's good. Frighteningly good.

His hands descend – too large for your body, fingers too rough to be gentle, and yet, and yet he is. He touches like a man who wants to learn your language. And you feel naked before you even are.

When he finally undresses you, it's painfully slow. It's nothing you'd expect from a wildling.

His fingers undo the ties of your nightgown, and a shiver runs up your spine as the fabric slides from your shoulders and reveals your skin to the flickering hearth light. He stops for a moment. His gaze fixed on you as if he'd just found a treasure.

"Look at this," he breathes, his voice failing for a moment, his eyes burning with pure fire. "No southern lord deserved to see you like this. No noble-born son with silken hands would know what to do with a body like this."

You close your eyes for a second, blushing to the roots of your hair. Shame envelops you like a wave, but you push through it as never before. Your hand, trembling, touches his chest again, explores the paths of his scars, and then slides down his belly. The muscles contract under the touch. He grunts low, his eyes fixed on you.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice low, warm. "Touch what's yours."

And then, he lowers himself.

His lips trace a wet path from your neck to your breasts, which he takes into his mouth like a thirsty man, his beard rubbing the sensitive skin, moans catching in your throat. He explores every part of you as if he wants to memorize it. As if he were saying goodbye to the world and this was the only piece of it worth remembering.

And when he finally touches you again between your legs – slowly, teasingly, knowing you – you let out a moan you've never heard come from your own mouth. A guttural, primal sound that seems to come from the depths of your soul.

"You're so wet for me," he says, his voice ragged, almost lost in the sheer pleasure of touching you like this. "So ready…so tight…"

He speaks without stopping against your breasts, sucking your nipples hungrily, his tongue swirling while one hand keeps your thighs open, his fingers focused on preparing you, stretching you with the two fingers he'd used before, adding a third with patience, his thumb lazily circling your clit, growling as he hears a mewl of pain from you. The wet sounds fill the air along with your moans, the pleasure building to the breaking point without rupturing, leaving you panting, sweaty, begging in incoherent whispers. You felt as if you were on the edge of a cliff, about to jump. But Tormund doesn't let you. All he does is let you dance on the edge.

The whole world seems to have stopped as you writhe on the furs, sweaty and panting, trembling and flushed, begging for things whose meaning you didn't even know. There is no more castle. No more war. No more dead marching beyond the Wall.

There is only heat. There are only two bodies – one wanting to learn, the other wanting to teach. And a desire that finally, finally, doesn't ask for permission to exist.

It feels like a lifetime of sweet, painful torture has passed before he deems you "ready" enough and rises from between your legs.

Tormund positions his body over yours with deliberate slowness, his knees sinking into the straw mattress covered with soft furs, his weight distributed so as not to crush you, yet still imposing, like a living mountain moving with an unexpected precision for a man of his stature. His blue eyes fix on yours, intense and laden with a mix of raw desire and a patience forged in battles beyond the Wall, where every thoughtless move could cost a life. The orange glow of the hearth makes his hair and beard seem on fire, highlights the darkness of desire in the clear blue of his eyes, casts shadows on his pale skin. He is beautiful in a way that steals the air from your lungs – a vision of beauty in its rawest form, forged by hard labor and the harsh winter that rules the wildlings' lives.

The tip of him, warm and pulsing, presses against your wet entrance, grazing the sensitive folds still throbbing from his previous touches, sending a shiver that makes your inner muscles contract involuntarily in anticipation. You feel his width there, thick and intimidating, the silky skin stretched over prominent veins pulsing to the rapid rhythm of his heart, and a subtle panic mixes with the excitement, making your stomach churn – will it fit? Will it hurt like the stories whispered by the maids in Winterfell suggested? He notices the hesitation in your gaze, the way your pupils dilate, and gives a lopsided smile, one corner of his mouth lifting beneath his disheveled red beard.

"Breathe deep, little wolf. It'll be a tight fit at first, but I promise you'll be begging for more after," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, tempered with that typical mischief, as if he were telling a sarcastic anecdote about boar hunting and not about to take your virtue, but his eyes betray genuine care, a vigilance that allows no rush.

He advances slowly, the broad head pushing against the initial resistance of your entrance, stretching your inner walls with a pressure that burns like a slow fire, a sharp pain radiating from your core to your thighs, making you gasp loudly, your lips parting in a sound resembling a night cat's mewl, half moan, half protest. His thickness is overwhelming, filling you inch by inch, the veins rubbing against your sensitive folds in a way that amplifies the sensation of invasion, as if your body is being molded around him, forced to adapt to a circumference that seems impossible to accommodate.

Tears well in the corners of your eyes, trickling slowly down your temples, warm and salty, mixing shame for the exposed vulnerability with the confused pleasure beginning to intertwine with the pain, a deep tingling that promises more if you can endure it. Your nails sink into his broad shoulders, digging into the flesh marked by old scars, leaving red half-moons on the pale skin, something he doesn't even seem to notice if not for the muscles contracting under the touch, as if absorbing your pain.

"Shh, easy now, my stubborn Stark," he whispers, halting his advance for a moment, his whole body tense with the effort of restraint, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he lowers his face to kiss the tears streaming down, his tongue grazing the salty skin with a tenderness that contrasts with the pulsing rigidity inside you. "Breathe with me, it'll pass, and then it'll be like riding a purebred for the first time – scary at first, but then you don't want to stop."

You inhale deeply, your chest rising and falling against his, your breasts pressed against his warm skin covered in red hair that itches lightly, relieving some of the tension as your body slowly adjusts to the intrusion. He resumes his movement with patience, pushing in a little more, his thickness making its way through the wetness that facilitates but doesn't eliminate the initial burning, a stretching that makes your inner muscles contract in involuntary spasms, sending waves of pain mixed with pleasure radiating to your still-sensitive clit. A low moan escapes your throat, hoarse and ragged, as the tears continue to flow, blurring your vision of his face above, his blue eyes now half-closed in concentration, his beard rubbing against the flushed skin of your cheeks and chin with each heavy breath he releases. Your nails dig deeper, tracing red lines on his shoulders, and he finally reacts, grunting low, a guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and echoes in yours, but instead of recoiling or showing any discomfort, he kisses your exposed neck, lightly nibbling the skin to distract you, his voice coming out in a mischievous whisper:

"That's it, mark your wildling, little wolf. If it hurts too much, tell me, but I bet you're feeling that good tingling now, aren't you? Your body knows what it wants, just relax and give it what it wants." The humor in his voice is light, like a taunt between friends in a tavern, but laden with an intimacy that soothes, making you laugh weakly through the tears, the tremulous sound easing the tension as your body relaxes a little more, allowing him to advance another inch.

Finally, with a controlled thrust, he buries himself completely, his base pressing against your outer folds, his thickness filling you to the limit, a sensation of fullness that transforms the pain into a bearable, almost pleasurable throb, your inner muscles contracting around him in waves that make you both moan simultaneously – yours high and surprised, his deep and satisfied, like a rumble of approval. He remains still for a moment, allowing you to grow accustomed, sweat running down his back as his large hands envelop your hips, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on your skin to distract from the residual burning.

"Fuck, you're killing me," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "The tightest, the hottest...fuck, no one's ever had you before," he murmurs, his voice hoarse now, laced with that explicit malice that deepens your blush, but also with a clear care in the way he tilts his head to inspect your face, wiping the tears with his calloused thumb. "There, little wolf, the worst is over. Now it's just the good part, I promise. Tell me when you're ready. Or don't. I don't mind staying here the rest of the night, just feeling you pulse around me. Warming my cock with that tight cunt." The words are dirty and explicit enough to make you look away and pout in feigned offense, but they're spoken with a light, sarcastic tone, as if he's mocking his own impatience, easing your embarrassment with humor, making you nod slowly after a moment, your eyes meeting his in a silent connection that goes beyond the physical.

You signal with a subtle shift of your hips, testing the sensation, and he begins the initial rhythm slowly, pulling back just a little before pushing back in, a gentle back-and-forth that allows your body to adapt, his thickness brushing against sensitive inner spots that send sparks of pleasure up your legs, transforming the aching throb into rising waves of ecstasy. The sounds start low – yours a hitched sigh, mixed with soft moans that escape with each thrust, his rough grunts echoing in the room, accompanied by the wet sound of friction, a subtle schlick that is both embarrassing and arousing.

Your nails relax a little on his shoulders but remain dug in enough to anchor you, while the tears slowly dry, replaced by a flush of pleasure spreading across your chest. He gradually accelerates, the rhythm gaining strength, his hips meeting yours with more insistence, making the bedwood creak against the stone floor, a rhythmic sound punctuating each thrust.

"That's it, feel how you swallow me whole?" he growls low, his voice feverish now, his eyes fixed on yours as one of his hands moves down to circle your clit with his thumb, amplifying the pleasure, making you arch your back with a loud moan that echoes off the grey walls. The malice returns full force in his words, whispered between heavy breaths: "You're moaning like a wolf in heat, Stark. I bet the guards outside are wondering if I'm killing someone in here."

You open your mouth to reprimand him for such humiliating vulgarity, but all that comes out is a louder moan when he pushes particularly deep. The rhythm intensifies, the thrusts deeper and faster, his thickness filling and retreating in a cycle that builds unbearable pressure, the wet sounds louder now, mixed with your moans growing in volume, hoarse and desperate, and his grunts becoming more primitive, like the snarls of a wild animal. The bed begins to thump against the wall more forcefully now, a dull, repetitive bang echoing like a war drum, the wood groaning in protest as bodies collide with increasing force, sweat running down glued torsos, mingling your scents. He doesn't speak anymore, and that must mean something - he only makes sounds you thought, until that moment, only an animal would make.

Your nails dig deep again, tracing red grooves on his back as the pleasure peaks, your inner muscles clenching around him in spasms, milking him, making him groan loudly, the sound echoing like a triumphant roar as he speeds up even more, the thrusts irregular now, strong and deep, the bed banging hard against the wall in a crescendo that culminates in his climax, warm, thick, and pulsing inside you, filling you with a sensation of completeness that leaves you gasping.

The silence that follows is heavy. Not with guilt, but with intensity. As if nothing else mattered. As if, for a moment, the whole world had stopped spinning. Tormund collapses partially on top of you, supporting his weight on his forearms, panting, his face buried in your neck. His beard prickles, his chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm against yours, which is in no better state. His breath hits your skin warm, his fingers still gripping you as if fearing you might disappear.

And you...

You feel more alive than ever before.

He finally collapses beside you, pulling you to his chest, heavy breathing mingling with yours in the post-climax silence, the room filled only by the distant echo of the old bed settling. Bodies still glued, damp with sweat, intoxicated by pleasure, muscles soft and trembling. The hearth fire crackles beside you, casting golden shadows on the stone walls.

You curl into him. There are no words or sarcastic, inappropriate comments from him now, and strangely, it feels right, the silence. Just skin, heat, and ragged breath.

Sleep comes without warning.

You fall asleep right there, wrapped in the furs of the bed and the scent of Tormund — wood, sweat, leather, and a hint of wild fire that is his alone. The last thing you feel is the weight of his large hand stroking your hair, surprisingly gentle for such a brute man.

---

The next morning, the cold seeps through the window cracks like a cruel warning. You wake with a slight shiver, your eyes opening slowly, adjusting to the grey light of dawn. For a confused, sleepy moment, you don't know where you are.

The first thing that helps you regain clarity is the heat. Not from the furs. Not from the hearth fire still burning weakly in the corner of the room. But the heat of his body, of the muscular leg entwined with yours, of the large hand resting unceremoniously on your bare waist. Of the warm breath hitting the nape of your neck, soft, rhythmic.

Tormund Giantsbane is sleeping deeply. And you should thank the gods for that. Because if he were awake...he would certainly comment. It's what he does. Talk, talk nonstop.

You turn your head slowly and carefully to look at him, avoiding sudden movements so as not to wake him. His chest rises and falls slowly, the red hair clashing blatantly with the light color of the pillow. There's something peaceful about him now. Almost beautiful, if you didn't know the kind of chaos that lived under that skin.

You sit up even more slowly, your muscles sore and sensitive betraying the intense night, a burning between your legs that makes you blush in response. You pull the blanket up to your chin and look around with the eyes of a frightened deer, as if someone might be spying — which is absurd. No one would dare enter there. But the weight of reality arrives like a muffled, yet dangerous, thunder.

You spent the night in the arms of a wildling. The natural enemy of your people. A man most would consider unfit even for a maid. And you are a Lady Stark. Daughter of the North. Sister to a king. Oh, you needed moon tea, urgently.

You move slowly, as lightly as possible, gathering every shred of your dignity as you slip out of bed. Your legs still annoyingly shaky. Your body marked where he held, kissed, possessed.

You hold your breath as you pick up the crumpled nightgown from the floor, eyes frantically searching the space for the cloak, stumbling silently as you dress. Every rustle of fabric seems deafening.

You don't dare look at him during the entire process — but you feel him waking before you even hear him.

"The day has barely broken and you're already trying to run away, little wolf?"

His voice shatters the silence like the grunt of a beast. Low. Dragged by sleepiness and laden with something dangerously satisfied.

You freeze.

"Never took you for a fool, princess," he grumbles, turning over in bed, the sheets slipping enough to reveal his bare chest covered in red hair. "After last night, you really thought I'd let you leave without even a good morning kiss?"

"It's not as if this...meant anything," you murmur, hurrying to dress now that subtlety is gone. "It was a mistake. A moment of weakness. The world is ending and I...I lost my head."

He laughs. A deep, hoarse, lazy, even disdainful sound. Utterly insolent.

"If that was losing your head, I want to see you completely insane next time."

His laugh drags to the end of the words."Fuck, what a night. My little wolf Stark moans loud. Trembles. Digs her nails in. You were born for this, you know? For me."

"Gods, shut up," you snarl, turning to him, eyes narrowed, heart racing for a thousand reasons, cheeks stained crimson. "You can't...you can't just say these things, as if everything were fine! I am a Stark. A noble. And you...you are Free Folk!"

"Precisely," he replies, sitting up, the sheets falling dangerously around his hips. The muscles of his abdomen contract as he rests his forearms on his knees, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "You spent your whole life being what others told you to be. Last night, for the first time, you were who you wanted to be. Honestly, I thought a bit of kisses and a good fuck would make you less...rigid, little wolf. Clearly, I underestimated your Stark stubbornness. My bad."

You try to look away, blushing even more. But the way he speaks, as if he sees you, truly sees you, is unbearable.

"You don't understand," you whisper, your voice choked. "If they find out…if they see…I could lose everything. My name. My honor. My place among my people."

"And what do you gain, then? A cold title? An empty bed? A husband chosen by some political dance and formal dinners?"

He stands up slowly, his feet touching the icy stone floor, his eyes fixed on yours. Naked. Shameless. A pagan god forged in snow and battle.

You swallow dryly, your face now blushing violently, averting your gaze — but he is there, coming towards you. One step. Another. You retreat until your back touches the cold wall.

"You don't have to love me," he says, his wild eyes burning. "You don't have to promise me anything. But don't tell me you didn't like it. That you didn't want it. Because I felt it. Every fucking inch of your body screamed for me last night."

"I..."

You want to deny it. You want to run. You want to forget. But all you can do is stand there — with your back against the stone, your body half-dressed, your eyes locked on his, and your heart racing like a warhorse in battle.

He stops a few inches away.

"What scares you more, little wolf?" he whispers, his hand rising to touch your face with a gentleness that shouldn't belong to that man. "The dead outside...or what you feel in here?" His palm slides down and touches the space over your chest, your heart.

You close your eyes. A stubborn tear escapes, but he catches it with his thumb.

Silence.

And then, instead of fleeing, as you probably should, you lean upward. Your lips meet. Softer this time. Slower. As if sealing something silent between them, a pact made between the beast and the wolf. There is no hurry in this kiss. Only heat. Only discovery.

Tormund kisses you with restrained hunger, as if savoring you. And when his hands slide down your waist again, you not pull away.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, just enough to look into your eyes, his breath warm and moist on your lips. He holds your face more firmly, looking deep into your tear-filled eyes before growling:

"Survive this. Stay alive," his voice turns into a hoarse murmur as he says your name, "and then you'll be mine again. One night, one month, or forever. Just survive this and we'll see about the rest. Promise me."

Your heart clenches in your chest, a tightness that isn't just fear of the impending battle, but something deeper, more treacherous – the recognition that he sees beyond the facade of the untouchable noble you built over years of loss and vengeance. You swallows dryly, your throat parched, and looks away at the uneven stone floor, where the scattered furs bore witness to the night's chaos.

How to answer that? How to promise anything when the whole world seems about to collapse under the weight of the marching dead? Your mind spins in circles, remembering Septa Mordane's lessons on honor and duty, the countless cold nights in Winterfell listening to stories of Northern heroes who, in none of those stories, not once, yielded to wild impulses. But here you are, you body still marked by his hands, his scent imprinted on your skin, and a treacherous part of yourself wants to grab that promise like a shield against the emptiness that has always accompanied you.

Your eyes return to his, meeting that intense blue gleam, now softened by a vulnerability you didn't expect – as if he, the giant who often laughs at death, was genuinely afraid of losing you.

You knows you shouldn't promise anything. Not that you would survive, and certainly not that you would think of an "after" the battle that included...him. In the remote chance you were both alive after the Night King, what kind of future could there be for a Lady Stark and a wildling? The prospect was laughable.

And yet...

You scoffs, pushing his hand away from your face lightly, but without any real force, your fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary.

"Don't get your hopes up, wildling." You murmur, half-sulking, half-moved. "But...but I will try. To survive, of course. Both of us. And after...yes, after we'll see."

The words come out as a reluctant concession, not exactly a promise, but enough to make his eyes shine with disguised triumph. He nods, pulling you into a bear hug, making you struggle and gasp for air while cursing him, his warm, solid body against yours, the smell of fire and leather invading your senses once more, before releasing you with a kiss on the forehead. You roll your eyes, relaxing your body against his, returning the hug, a blush rising again, mixed with a frustration bordering on laughter.

You deny yourself any blossoming feelings, labeling them as mere physical attraction, a distraction, a taste of true freedom before the end. Yet, the longer he holds you there, caged in his strong arms, the more it sounds like a lie, your heart tightening with a concern that goes beyond duty or attraction.

Yes, you both would survive.

And after that? Well, after that you think you might come to like the inconvenience of thinking of a version of your life that included Tormund Giantsbane in it, if fate allowed.

Oh, may the gods help you.