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Baela never did tell him where that nightgown went, lips pulled into a smirk from where she curled up beneath his blankets, and eventually he gave up on wondering.
The teasing continued, though it lacked that sharp, desperate edge from before. Needy, he’d called her once. She’d bristled like a little kitten, pushing out that bottom lip to pout, but she still came back. Still wormed her needy way into his solar, his bed, his heart. Wiggling her way across the great divide in his bed and shoving her cold toes up into his pant legs unless he caught her before she could get under the blankets. It rarely happened, she was sneaky like that, though some nights he did succeed and could shove thick woolen socks over her feet and save himself from the icy chill.
“You have a perfectly fine bed,” He said more than once, only for her to be unrepentant.
“It’s winter, my Lord.” A flash of teeth, not nearly as cruel as it used to be, more soft, less bloody.
He would scoff, every time, and she would grin, burying her face in his ribs and breathing him in.
One night, when the world was too sharp around the edges and he was reminded of how they had grown up too quickly, they drank a bottle of good wine. He drank more than he had in years, drank till his cheeks turned red with it, till he slumped lax and contented in his chair as she giggled into her own goblet. It felt like boyhood, especially when she draped herself across his lap and his mouth was on her neck, drifting down, down, down to the dip between her breasts. It was almost like she was Arra.
Except she wasn’t.
And he wasn’t Jacaerys.
He pushed her away when she moaned her dead prince’s name into his ear, catching flailing fists in one broad hand as she thrashed and cursed his name and threatened to go out into the snow and sleep beneath the stars.
“Oh, but you can’t,” He said, almost mockingly, the ugly edge of his inebriation lingering in his jaw, on his tongue, on the shine of spit at the tops of her breasts where her nightgown gaped, “You made me an oath. Made it in blood, sweet girl, on dear Jacaerys’ good name. On his memory.”
“I hate you,” She said, again and again, spitting it at him, fighting his grip, “Don’t say his name.”
“You said it first.”
It was petulant. She tried to kick him in the shins for it only for him to catch her bare foot between his calves and not let her try again. It felt like the alleyway near the brothel again, set a burn to his blood that the wine only amplified. She’d licked a bit of spilled wine off the side of her hand earlier, he couldn’t help but think about scraping his teeth against the skin and tasting it with his own tongue, just to see what he could find in the taste of her there.
“I’m cold,” Baela whined, tears shiny on her cheeks, and he tugged her towards him, “I’m so cold-“
She finally went willingly, falling against his chest as her foot was freed and her knees climbed up in the chair on either side of his thighs and she wailed. Screamed her muffled rage into the solid bulk of her shoulder until there was nothing left to give.
He stuck to ale, after that.
Baela simply pretended it didn’t happen.
She snuck into his bed before he got to his chambers, knowing he’d be less likely to send her back to her own that way, rested her head on his pillow, soaked the smell of her into it so he could never quite escape her. Cregan let her, feeling a bit like Torrhen Stark in the face of a Targaryen invasion. Sometimes she’d push too far, that dragon heat in her hands and head and between her thighs, swinging a leg over his hips as though she can so easily bend him to her will.
Wrong, he thought, even as the heat of her was something his body has long craved. He rolled her off of him, a hand broad over her waist, till she lay on her belly at his side. A heavy arm rests across the small of her back.
“Pest,” He murmured fondly, letting his eyes fall shut, “Brat.”
“I’m going back to my whore,” She taunted as she lifted up onto her elbows, he could feel the dip of them in the bed next to him.
“Good. Maybe then I’ll get some peace and quiet.”
Baela tried to kick him. He slipped his broad forearm down over her bottom, down to the backs of her thighs where her nightgown had ridden up with her wriggling and resting heavy there. Recited the Night’s Watch oath in his head a half-dozen times in an attempt to ignore the effects of the whimper she let out in response to his movement
“Cregan.”
“Sleep,” He hushed her, “Gods, you’re such a brat.”
“I’m not a brat.”
She was, in fact, a brat, and proved it once again within a couple of days.
He’d gone up to the Wall, gritting his teeth against a miserable cold that he wouldn’t wish on any man, and rode home in the sharp winds off the mountains that made it feel like your coat was made of parchment instead of leather and fur. It’d been cold enough that the puddles of slush in Winterfell’s courtyard had frozen solid, the stableboys taking axes to the thick sheets of ice in the water troughs as they brought the horses in. Cregan had sent for a bath in his chambers, only to make the mistake of stopping by the nursery on his way. He should have known that even a moment’s hesitation would doom him, but the cold had muddled his mind and the warmth of his son in his arms had distracted him further.
Her hair shone like snow on the plain against the fire, pinned up on the top of her head like a crown, all of her glowing in the light of the flame. She’d never looked more like a dragon, really, the copper tub shimmering like a clutch of eggs, like a hoard of gold.
“Welcome back,” She said, as if she hadn’t stolen his bath, “How was it?”
Cregan should have been angry, really. He knew he should. Entitled little dragon; drinking his wine, spilling his blood for oaths, treating his bed like her dragon lair, hoarding all he owned and all he was for herself. Pushing his boundaries like an unruly toddler, pushing and pushing just waiting for the snap to tell her she’d gone too far.
He couldn’t be angry, though. There was something about the fire in her eyes when he denied her that was addicting, the arrogant brattiness of her awash with indignation at being ignored even when she could tell he wanted. The fire that screamed that she still lived, sharp and bold and brilliant in a body that became less gaunt by the day. The fire that begged him to chase her, only to lead to her chasing him instead, greedy and sweet.
Baela grinned in the steaming bathwater. I win, her eyes said.
Do you? He wanted to ask.
Instead, he walked forward, standing by the bench at the end of the bed just a few feet from her in his copper tub and beginning to undo the ties of his doublet. His outerwear had already been taken the laundress from when he was in Rickon’s room and there was not much left to undo. The doublet found its place on the bench and he sat next to it to untie his boots, groaning as he finally freed his feet from them. From the tub, she watched his every move. He couldn’t help but smile in amusement as her eyes tracked his hands, the hem of his undershirt, how they lingered on his exposed belly and chest. She thought she’d won.
And ruin the fun? Cregan stood, abandoing his boots to move around to the side of the tub.
He made a pointed effort to not let his eyes linger on her, there was only so much he could take. He was still human, even if he enjoyed these games that he refused to let her win a little too much.
“How’s the water?”
She grinned, all sharp teeth and flash of tongue, “Wonderful.”
“Still hot?”
Steam rose up around her. She smiled, “It is.”
“Good.”
He bent at the waist, grabbing the handle of one of the buckets they used to fill the tub and lifting it up into view. Her brow creased in confusion and then in indignation as he scooped it through the top of the water, filling it and hauling it closer to the fire. Cregan hooked his foot around a nearby stool, dragging it over and taking a seat by the bucket, the heat of the fire against his side almost too hot. He’d be thankful for it shortly.
As much as he liked a tub full of steaming water, victory had a sweeter taste, bursting like honeysuckle on his tongue as he drenched a rag in the hot, soapy water and brought it up to wipe the sweat from his chest.
He wanted to laugh as he looked to her, her face caught between a scowl and appreciation for his form that he normally did not allow her to see so much of. Her eyes still burned.
Water dripped down his chest and he watched her angry eyes track it.
“Anything to say?”
Sorry for stealing your bath would be a good start, he almost said, but he knew it would be pointless. She’d never apologize for that, craving warmth as much as she did. He was a secondary prize in the presence of hot water, a prize denied to her.
She puffed up like an angry kitten again, proud and stubborn, and he grinned.