indigo

However you knew it was necessary, and you would bear it for Jaehaera’s safety, and your own as well. As long as the union was not consummated, the marriage could easily be annulled, and you would be back in the clutches of men who considered you a pawn in their own games of ambition. Among them, surely laid the man that had murdered your brother, and that thought was unbearable. 

While you still feared he would prove to be different in private, Cregan Stark had seemingly acted without personal gain beyond acquiring a mother and a sister for his child, and you admired it.

As you were brought to him, the heavy doors closing behind you, he seemed dismayed, his brow pinched into a frown you had more often seen him with than without. “It will not be necessary, you may return to your chambers,” he offered, but you refused.

“They will know if you don’t, the walls have eyes and ears,” you replied, suddenly worried. The men who had petitioned for your niece to be married to Aegon were still waiting for an opportunity, and you would rather surrender your dignity for a minute than suffer their plans. While you had never lain with a man, you knew enough of the act from your mother and sister to fear the pain and the indignity of it.

Cregan sighed. “No matter your allegiances, you are a product of royal blood, I will not take you without your consent,” he said bluntly.

“You must stake your claim,” you replied then, with the same fire you had displayed when making your offer, pleading for your niece’s safety. “There are vipers in this castle and they would use me for their own ends. As long as we are not properly married, our union is invalid. We will not be safe.”

He visibly hesitated then, dropping his chin for a second, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, yet he remained where he stood on the carpet in the middle of the room, and allowed you to come to him.

Even though you would not come to his bed by choice, you were his wife of your own volition, and for the first time in months, if not in years, you felt as though you were the mistress of your own fate. He did not move as you stepped up to him, instead waited patiently for your touch, and your heart ached when you realized he was giving you agency. 

For a moment you did little else but look into his eyes, and he gazed back, honest and intent as he had always been, and you almost wanted to tell him you were glad that it was him out of all the men you had ever met, but you could not. You suspected it would be long, perhaps years, before you could bare your mind to him, but in the meantime you conveyed your thoughts the only way you could.

Hands coming up on his chest for balance, you pressed a grateful kiss to his lips, hoping you could express your relief without words, tears pearling at the corner of your eyes as he pressed back. He made a small noise of want against you, gently prying your lips open, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself be guided once more.

Cregan felt you melt into him, leaning back into his hands when he wrapped his arms around your waist, your own hands tightening at the front of his linen undershirt. His blood roared to life with dizzying force, his skin calling for the touch of a woman, but he forced himself to swallow down his hunger. He loathed the moment you pulled away, every instinct in him yearning for your touch, but tonight was not to be indulged. Its purpose was not his selfish pleasure but your safety.

“I will try to make it quick,” he murmured, guiding you with a firm but gentle hand at your lower back.

As careful as a man of his size could be, he tipped you atop the sheets. You looked aside as he nestled himself between your parted thighs, but he did not let you—instead he guided your face towards him again. “Eyes on me,” he said gently, with the same careful strength he had always addressed you, and despite it all, your instinct was to trust him.

No matter the circumstances, he would not have his wife fear him or his touch, and so for a while he did nothing but smooth his hands up and down your thighs. The weight of his body atop yours was not as uncomfortable as you had feared, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, your hands clinging to his back, your knees bracketing his waist. There were no tears in your eyes, even though you were trembling with apprehension.

To Cregan’s dismay, but also his relief, his breathing deepened and desire simmered in his core, his length swelling as he guided it to your core. It had been far too long since he had felt the touch of a woman, and he regretted that it had to occur under those circumstances. “Breathe, princess,” he murmured, his dark eyes on yours, and pushed inside slowly.

Despite his best efforts, you cried out as a sharp pinch was followed by a burning stretch. Cregan knew then that you had not lied—you indeed were a maid. You clung to him as he took you in careful thrusts, the firm kisses he pressed to your mouth carrying words he did not say, words of apology and the promise that it would indeed be over soon. 

“Am I hurting you?” he asked in a rough whisper.

Despite the stretch of his body into yours and the weight of his hips holding yours down, you could not honestly say he was—pain was loss and fear and grief, but this was something completely else, honest and raw. 

“No,” you replied, welcoming the way he curled into you, burying his face into the softness of your neck.

For a while the world outside of this room faded ; gone were the red walls, the prying eyes and their schemes, instead all that existed were Cregan’s harsh breaths in your ear and the smell of his sweat, lulling you into a dream-like state. Gradually, the pain settled and a strange, breathless feeling took hold of you, a gentle heat that bloomed at the base of your spine and made you cling to him harder, however it was over before you could name it. 

Cregan stilled in the cradle of your body and you were glad to hold him as he shook, an unfamiliar pride burning behind your breastbone. “It is done,” he murmured against your cheek, almost tender. “We are now husband and wife.”

The voyage north was long and uncomfortable, the wind growing significantly colder and sharper once you had crossed the Twins. Leaving the Red Keep behind was done without any regret, with the bitter knowledge that the castle that had been your cradle and the grave of so many of the people you had loved would likely never see you again. It had become a graveyard you were now walking away from, the halls and walls haunted by words that echoed and whispers you heard in the night ; the absolute certainty that your blood itself was a danger to your person.

In the North you would be a stranger, an outsider, and it was a comfort rather. Northerners would not hold your parentage against you, merely judge your actions, Cregan had assured you, and even though you feared they would be harsh, you at least knew they would be just.

Thus you endured the weeks of travelling, discomfort that edged on pain as the road grew colder and time took its toll on your nerves. Arriving at Winterfell after near a month on the road ought to have been a relief, and yet you felt oddly numb upon crossing its gates. Cregan had sent word ahead that he was not only bringing victory but also a new Lady of Winterfell. His sister and Warden in his absence had replied dutifully, and acted as such.

Sara Stark was a woman of strong disposition and dark hair, much as her brother. “Lady Stark,” she greeted as was appropriate when you stepped out of the carriage and into the courtyard, carrying your niece at your hip. 

It took you a long moment to realize she was addressing you, and you were tempted to reject such a name, even though you knew it was now yours. For some reason you could not bring yourself to acknowledge the title, caught between the one you had just left behind, and this new name you had not earned. It was a stranger’s cloak wrapped around your shoulders, an unfamiliar bed you now had to rest in, the crown and scepter of a kingdom you had never set foot in.

Cregan, who had dismounted his horse and knelt in the frost, rose and turned, carrying a boy with raven black hair in his arms—the child carried the same stern brow as his father, but the slope of his nose and the dimple in his chin spoke of another, no doubt his mother. 

“This is my son, Rickon,” Cregan said, and you thought, staring into a stranger’s eyes, that you had never considered the name you would now bear was that of a woman long dead, a woman loved by all that had gathered into this courtyard to welcome their lord back. 

In that instant you felt as a bird lost in the snow, an owl far away from her berth, fully knowing her nest had burned and it could never welcome her back. “This is Jaehaera,” you said to the boy.

Cregan and you were now standing a few feet apart, each holding your child, each in this position because their mother had perished. You looked at each other, and for the first time an understanding seemed to pass between the two of you, a silent promise, an agreement that whatever might come, the essence of your common duties would be these two babes.

Cregan turned to his sister then, addressing her with the sort of gentleness you had only gotten glimpses of. “Sara, would you show the princess to her chambers and to the nursery? I am sure the travel has exhausted them both.”

The rooms were smaller than the ones you were used to, the ceilings lower, but strangely enough, they did not make you feel enclosed. They bore centuries of history carved into the stones, rendered smooth by the passage of time and people, and upon entering your chambers, you felt as though whole lives had been lived within these walls.

Days went by as you settled into the castle, and while Cregan wanted to respect your grief, it dismayed him to see you still dressed in black. It felt as though he had brought back a ghost to haunt grounds, and some people of the castle were not grateful to see an outsider among them. A severe glance from him and a clear instruction to treat the princesses with the utmost respect had been enough to silence their protests.

As the first week came to a close, Cregan took an evening to sit in the Great Hall with Cley, side by side with him in front of the hearth. Their knees knocking into each other, brothers as always, brought comfort to Cregan. He had always known he was not made to live alone, but to be in a pack, amongst friends and kin alike, and now there would be two dragons among them, no matter how eclectic it seemed.

Cley sighed, setting his cup of ale down. “Speak your mind,” Cregan grunted, and he seemed glad of the permission. 

“I supported you because you are my brother and I love you,” he started by saying, and while such a reminder was unnecessary, Cregan appreciated it. “But are you certain the choice you’ve made was wise?”

Cregan did not need to ask what choice he was referring to. “Yes, I am certain,” he replied, the words coming naturally to him. “I could not leave them to these vipers, to be sacrificed in the name of peace. A victory is not one if it is achieved upon the suffering of women and babes.”

“A dragon in the North is quite an unusual affair, is all,” Cley argued, leaning back into his chair and kicking up his feet on the edge of the hearth. “Even less so as the Lady of Winterfell.”

“She will find her place,” Cregan said, and he was not sure where this instinct came from. Was it experience or instinct? Was there something inside of her that called to him, something that could not be perceived by others? Or was it the other way around, something inside of him that called to her?

“I am not quite certain,” he replied gravely. “She seems caught in her own grief and—”

Cley was interrupted then, not by the sharp look Cregan gave him, but by the sudden arrival of a kitchen maid, carrying a bucket under her arm and looking rather perturbed. “Pardon me, m’lord,” she said with a quick curtsy, a worried frown upon her brow. “Lady Stark is outside.”

“Outside?” Cregan asked, taken aback.

“In her sleeping gown,” the woman added.

Without further ado, Cregan rushed the way she had come, down the corridor and out in the courtyard, where a thin night snow was falling, the sort that preceded heavy morning falls. The air was crisp, nearly painful to him without his leathers and furs who had been forgotten over the back of his chair, and there you stood with your feet bare and nothing on your skin more than a linen nightgown. 

“Princess?” he asked, but no answer came. The ground was frozen, the soles of your feet leaving smudges in the frost, but you didn’t seem to feel any of it. “Let me bring you inside.”

When he came to you, ready to lead you back to warmth, he was struck by how your eyes were open, however without any shine to them, nearly glossed over. He called your name then, the first time he had ever said it aloud, but you looked right through him. 

He then turned to Cley who had followed him. “Get the Maester! Bring a coat!” he shouted, and the young man bolted. 

“My niece,” you whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the wind.

“She is abed,” Cregan said, momentarily relieved that you had regained consciousness, but your attitude brought his worries back in an instant.

“I need to find my niece,” you said again, turning and walking towards the Godswoods as though you had not heard his answer. In the dark, your graceful face illuminated by a nearby sconce, you seemed like a ghost, a dragon with clipped wings, trudging across the snow to find its kin.

“Lord Stark?” the Maester called, hurrying down with an oil lamp in hand. Cley followed closely, carrying a pelt. 

“It is as though she cannot hear me,” Cregan explained as the old man stepped in front of you, taking in the odd look in your eyes. 

“She is in slumber, still,” he said after a moment of observation. “It appears she suffers from sleepwalking. Do not wake her, it would only disrupt her mind further.”

Cregan carefully draped the coat over your shoulders—you had started to shiver, and he feared your feet were being bitten by the frost. “Jaehaera,” you moaned, your eyes filled with tears, and Cregan caved.

Dismissing the Maester’s recommendation, he cradled your face into his hands, his hands much warmer than your skin, but it did not seem to wake you. “She is safe,” he assured you. “Come out of this cold, I beseech you.”

“My darling girl,” you whined, and Cregan stood his ground, gently nudging you back inside, until you relented, still muttering about Jaehaera. Both men escorted you back to your chambers while Cley went to the kitchen for hot bricks to put in your bed, the same frown of worry upon their brows.

“She will likely have lost all memory of this event,” the Maester warned as he took his leave once you had been tucked back under your sheets and furs.

All through the darkness he sat at the foot of the bed, watching you sleep, although fitfully. More words were spoken from time to time, some he could not understand and believed to be High Valyrian, and he thought he would ask the Maester for a tea to calm your dreams in the future. Hour after hour until dawn creeped over the edge of the window, Cregan sat and waited, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

As he had promised, Cregan made sure little Jaehaera was treated as any ward under his responsibility ought to be. He had been raised and trained alongside several boys his father had taken in, Cley among them, and it was the pride of his kin to uphold strong family ties and values. While Jaehaera did not have any blood from the North, she was still as any child was, carrying a natural innocence that Cregan longed to protect. 

War had taken from this girl more than it had taken from most, and it was now his duty to ensure she was shielded from any more horrors. He was bound in marriage to you, her aunt, by the laws of men and Gods alike, and while the little girl might never come to attach herself to him, he would not deprive a child of fatherly guidance if he was able to give it.

“She is the child of your enemy, and yet you’ve instructed all to treat her as your own,” Sara said one gray afternoon as he was watching the children in the yard.

“Her father was my enemy, and the cause of much suffering in the kingdom, that is true,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But she is an innocent, and young enough to be taught well.”

“Do you not fear she will grow to resent you?” Sara asked, genuine even in her bluntness. 

Watching as Rickon took Jaehaera by the hand, the girl still skittish, and attempted to lead her, Cregan’s chest ached. “She will grow up learning the truth, and do with it what she will. It is a heavy burden, one I hope to give her the strength to carry.” he replied, walking to them and delivering the girl from his son’s spiritedness.

“Come, Rickon,” Sara said, nudging the boy along towards the swordsmaster, and Jaehaera seemed glad to be left to her own devices. She was a small child for her age, a sweet girl with a curious disposition, she had taken to pointing at everything in the castle, silent questions for Cregan to answer. 

This time, she pointed towards heavy wooden doors in a corner of the yard. “Those are the kennels where the direwolves are kept,” he explained.

“Wolves?” she asked, and Cregan found the curious lilt to her question endearing.

“Would you like to see them?” he asked, holding out his hand, and Jaehaera took it. 

The feeling of her small fingers closing around his, and the weight of her hands in his, so light and fragile, reminded him of a longing for more children he had buried years ago. Rickon was still young, but Cregan missed the days he was a babe curling into his chest, and the precious moments he had spent at night soothing him while the castle slept around them.

He took Jaehaera inside the kennel, where the wolves had their own den, safe from the cold and the wind even though most of them had no trouble sleeping in piles of snow. “We will not go further. This is Nymeria, my sister Sara’s wolf, and she is near her deliverance,” he said, stopping in front of one of the dens, which was closed and housed a sleeping beast. “There will be pups soon.”

“Jaehaera?” came a call from outside, and Cregan pulled the girl along. 

“Come, your aunt is calling for you,” he said, and indeed you were pacing the courtyard when they found you, anxious to set eyes on your niece again. Relief spread across your face as you saw them, rushing to meet them on the other side of the yard.

“Where were you?” you inquired.

“In the kennels,” Cregan replied calmly, letting go of the girl. “The little one wanted to see the wolves.”

With a gasp, you reached for Jaehaera and she hid her face in your skirts. “I would rather not,” you said.

“They are caged at the moment, and trained nonetheless,” Cregan placated. “They are as hounds. Far less lethal than dragons, if I may,” he added, but seeing your reaction, instantly knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

Still, you held your tongue for the sake of the child. “Be it as it may, I would rather not.”

“As you wish,” he said sternly, but before he could take his leave, you spoke again.

“I apologize, my lord, I know they are the sigil of your house, and a source of pride, I am sure,” you said in the way a woman said those words to a man when she had learned it would save her from his wrath, and Cregan loathed to hear them.

“Do not call me that,” he said with a sigh, perhaps the first command he had even given you, but it sounded soft and sad instead of assertive. “Even if the duties of a wife are not expected of you, I am still your husband, and you do not need to defer to me.”

When your only answer was an unconvinced, silent nod, he walked away, the line of shoulders high and tense. Since you had arrived several weeks prior, he had made no demand nor given you any order, leaving you much to your own company, and you wondered when he would finally grow tired of it and impose his will upon you. 

While he had been nothing but benevolent and generous since the first day you had met him, a victor standing in front of his prisoner, you wondered what the price to pay for it would be, in the end, and what you would have to sacrifice for your peace. If there was one thing you had learned in this cruel life, it was that no good deed came without a cost.

Time went on as winter deepened, and more often than Cregan found it comfortable, you rose in the night to wander the grounds. As the Maester had instructed, he never attempted to rouse you from your walking dreams, and during the day, you did not show any inclination that you knew where your feet were taking you as you slept, or what words you were speaking. 

Most of your nightmares spoke of your niece, and more rarely of your nephew, and Cregan wished there was something he could do, but no words or deeds could even soothe the atrocious death of a child.

One night your demeanor changed however, your usual aimless wandering was instead an agitated one, as though you were waiting for someone. Meandering near the back of the courtyard, you suddenly gasped and turned towards the Godswoods, no doubt hearing a call that came from your own mind.

“Helaena?” you cried out, and there were only the howling winds to answer you. “Helaena!”

Cregan followed you as you bolted towards the woods, plunged in darkness and heavy with snow. As you made your way through the thick trees, he wondered how you could see where you were setting foot, and feared it would finally be the night you injured yourself. Coming upon a clearing, he watched helplessly as you spinned on yourself as a cornered animal searching for an escape.

“She’s lost,” you lamented. 

Since that first night, he had refused to form the habit of speaking to you, but this time he could not restrain him. “She is with the Gods,” Cregan said, frustration bursting in him at his own helplessness. “She is with her son.”

“The butterflies—” you gasped, as though you were suddenly remembering an old truth you used to know, and Cregan wished he could make sense of it. 

Unexpectedly, that dream was the turning point in your walking dreams. After that, you came back to the Godswoods night after night, threading through the snow, frantically searching for butterflies as though they held the answers to the questions that plagued you, and Cregan desperately wanted to follow you on this path of the mind, but only you could reach this place. 

Night after night when you rose to pursue invisible endeavors, Cregan followed you as sentinel, a silent guard that protected your nightmares and guarded your torments, holding onto the hope that your grief would relent and allow you rest.

The Godswoods were quiet most of the time, but dawn brought a special kind of silence—the morning breeze had barely picked up, and the cold of the night was still lingering in the air, over the frozen ground, leaves trapped in frost and ice. There was a sense of peace to it that Cregan hardly found anywhere else in the world. He often came to tend to his sword in contemplation, to ground himself to the earth and seek solutions to problems he could not find a way out of without the counsel of the Gods.

He was not used to being so full of thoughts and questions. He usually knew his course of action, as most of his decisions were guided by the values his father had raised him in. Honor. Duty. Fairness. Justice. 

However none of these would help with his predicament when it came to you. Honor and justice had compelled him to rescue you and your niece. He now wondered if Cley was not right, if he had not acted out of loneliness instead of a true sense of honor. 

Therefore he prayed under his breath for only the Gods and the trees to hear him, until the sound of soft, careful footsteps broke the morning cold. Branches cracked and snapped, and you appeared on the small path leading to the Weirwood tree, burrowed in the furs he had his sister prepare for you.

“Princess,” he said as he rose, setting his sword aside, propping it against the root he had been sitting on.

“The Northerners pray to the Old Gods, don’t they?” you asked in lieu of greeting as you came up to him, and he was surprised by the softness of your voice. Sleep was still clinging to the lines around your eyes.

“Yes,” he replied.

“What do you pray for?” you inquired, taking a seat further down on the root, and he mirrored you, sitting back where he had been. He rested the sword against his own knee, following your gaze to the handle.

“Guidance,” he said after a while, his hand coming to loosely curl around the thick wood of the hilt. It made his palm look small when you knew it to be broad and rough, and you could not reconcile the knowledge that he had wielded it, taken lives with it, and the private kindness you had seen from him.

Looking up at his profile, you observed him for a moment, stricken with how very young he looked in the white light of the dawn. He had lowered his eyes as you had approached and was keeping them down, a firm gesture that sat heavy in your chest—it was not mindless reverence towards your royal lineage, but deep-seated respect, and you hardly knew how to respond to it.

“Do you think they will guide you, to do the right thing?” you asked, and he did not seem to mind your intimate prodding. 

He nodded slowly, awfully serious, then asked, “What do you pray for?”

“Peace and purpose,” came the instant answer. “Relief for my niece and for myself.”

Cregan nodded again, then finally his dark eyes rose to yours. They were not merely brown as you had thought at first, but a warm gray where darker swirls swam. They could be hard and serious as he often was, but underneath it there was a softness to them, and a sense of sorrow you could not understand.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry for the bloodshed that has destroyed your family,” he said without an ounce of pity. “I wish it could have been otherwise.”

Tears clouded your eyes then, blurring your vision until all you could see were the shadows of the leaves dancing in the breeze. He averted his eyes again, and you appreciated the gesture, as much as you did the fact that he never took back his words nor apologized for them—what he said, he meant and stood by, and you leaned into this utter certainty for a moment.

“It was inevitable,” you said after a long moment of heavy silence. “I grew up knowing that in order to claim her throne, Rhaenyra would have to put my brothers to the sword, and my father never changed his mind that she was to come after him.”

“It sounds like a heavy burden to grow up with,” Cregan said, which was gracious, but not as much as his next words. “You stood with your blood to the very end, and honored them even in death, I can admire that.”

This place was haunted with the same ghosts you had seen in King’s Landing, and you were plagued with the same thoughts and regrets, day and night. They would not let you sleep, nor find peace—you had come to understand these last few weeks that the ghosts hadn’t inhabited the castle but rather lived within your own spirit, clinging to your soul to remain alive, and your grief was feeding them despite yourself. 

Some days you were afraid they would drag you under, and you suddenly felt desperate for your husband to reach out and pull you back to the land of the living. “Why did you bring me here?” you whispered.

“I thought I could save you from this place,” he replied, as close to an admission of failure he could possibly say. “Why did you agree?”

“I thought I could flee from my grief,” you said, and his eyes were awfully kind when you looked at him again, the frown gone from his brow and replaced with a softness that made you breathless.

“Let us get you out of the cold, princess,” he said, rising and sheathing his sword, hoisting the strap over his shoulder before holding out his hand for you to take. 

“Why do you still call me that?” you inquired, curling your hand around his forearm, his own fingers closing around your wrist delicately. It was far too cold to be without gloves and yet, his touch felt warm even through the leather.

“Because you are a princess of the blood,” he explained, then looked down at the satchel he had brought with him to the woods, sitting at his feet. He thought it seemed the right moment, from the contemplative air around you to the way you leaned into his arm. “There is something I had made for you.”

He let go of you only to retrieve the satchel and pull its lapel open, taking a piece of fabric out and handing it to you. It unfolded under its own weight, revealing the embroideries on one of its sides—in threads of forest green and indigo, countless butterflies were flying over a canvas of midnight blue. Sown and threaded into what seemed to be fleece, the creatures you spent your tortured nights looking for stood out, and the sight iced you down to your very veins, the sort of cold that burned with its intensity. 

“How did you—” you choked, but no other words would come.

“Have I made a mistake?” Cregan asked, the very first time you had seen doubt from him.

To his utter relief, you shook your head, instead burying your face into the fabric, your hands trembling where they clutched the shawl. Soon a muffled wail rose in the air, the like of a wounded animal, and it struck Cregan down to his very core. 

Knowing no word from him could ever soothe your sorrow, he instead stepped as close as he could without touching you, guarding you from the growing winds that danced in the trees, shielding you from the world as you howled, the sort of rage that only despair could bring.

“I know of grief as well,” he finally said, the words tearing the soft insides of his chest as they came out. “For months after Arra died I looked for her, only ever finding cold sheets and empty rooms.”

When you lowered the shawl, looking up at him again, your eyes were rimmed with red but clearer than they had previously been. “Where did you find solace?” you asked—this was the first time he had openly talked of the woman that had come before you and whose steps you were now walking.

“In my son,” he replied. “In my duty to my people.”

Before you could answer, a sort of gasp rocked your body and you fell forward into his chest. Deep within your core, a sensation unlike any you had ever felt rose, a bursting that caused no pain, the fluttering of wings against your womb. Cregan cradled the back of your head softly, his palm barely grazing your hair, and held you through what he thought might be another fit of grief.

Absolute certainty fell over you in gentle waves, settling into you as sure as the tide came. Cradled in the gentle song of the wind and the smell of Cregan’s leathers, life itself became known to you, and for the first time in months, you finally felt your chest ease. 

Without a word you stepped away from Cregan’s arms, your hand coming to rest low on your belly, and you prayed that your instincts were right, but your body could not lie the way your mind could.

“We were wed three moons ago, and I have not bled since,” you murmured, and in that moment you thought that perhaps, this was why fate had brought you North.

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Thank you so much for your patience while I worked on this chapter. Feedback is always deeply appreciated ♡

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