#Ice Dragon!Reader

[justcallmecj]

Seeing Your Dragon Form: Dormleaders

Heyyyy~ Back with another chapter! Here, this is when they saw your full dragon form for the first time. Now, this chapter is a bit special. It'll be separated into 3 or 4 parts. One for the Dormleaders, one for the vice's + Ruggie and Floyd, another for the first years and a last one for anyone left. I'm also thinking about one for the teachers + Crowley. This one is the Dormleaders. You can take this as romantic or platonic, your choice.

Also, I'm gonna describe what you look like in Riddle's section so I don't have to in others. Just refer back to his section for imagery.

Riddle

He was certainly shocked, that's for sure.

He's only seen dragons in drawings or in the media, and even then they were mostly the mainstream kind of dragons. Ice isn't the first thing people think of when they think of dragons,

You had taken him to a small clearing of trees in the forest behind NRC since there was plenty of space where you didn't need to worry about hurting someone.

You towered over him, and he himself is pretty short so it made the difference even greater.

The usual cold air that followed you had increased in temperature, making it harder for him to be close to you.

Your horns became larger and sharper, like huge icicles. Spikes ran down your back just as sharp as your horns. Your tail swayed behind you and your eyes gleamed a dangerous e/c color.

Despite all this, you showed no signs of being hostile towards him. When he looked into your eyes, he saw a playful glint in them. Like you were studying his reactions and getting a kick out of it all.

He quickly put himself together after the initial shock.

You brought yourself down to his height and placed your head peacefully on the grass in front of him. He slowly made his way closer to you.

Gently, he placed a hand on your head. Despite the cold feeling, it didn't hurt. He sat next to your head and found himself quickly easing into a sense of safety and security. You laid your wings around him, enclosing the space and basically trapping him, but he didn't mind.

You made gentle, humming noises and he found the shaking feeling began to make him sleepy. He no longer was shocked about how you look like this and the drowsiness of his daily activities caught up to him. He curled up in the crook of your long neck.

"Thank you, for trusting me with this sight. I know how you feel, but you don't need to worry around me. Have a good nap, Y/N. I'm not to far behind you anyways."

Leona

You truly are an oversized lizard, huh?

He did whatever he could to keep the shock off his face, and it worked. You would've believed him, if you hadn't known him so well.

He didn't realize, but his tail stayed close to the grass, his ears twitch in your direction. More than a few of his muscles tensed.

He wasn't scared, just weary. He's always wondered what would happen if Malleus got pissed off at him enough to turn dragon mode. Now he just associates the thought with a sense of danger.

You could pick up on this though. You've always had a strange ability to do that when it comes to Leona. Your next goal? Be as non-threatening as possible.

Your tail gently curled around your hind leg, you sprawled your wings out in the grass around you and you brought your body close to the ground.

When he looked at you, he could clearly see the message you were trying to tell him. He understands you can't talk in this form.

He approached you. His muscles loosened when he touch your snout and your eyes closed, showing contentment.

Gently, he ran his hand up and down your scales. The skin on his hands pricked from the cold, a feeling he still wasn't used to.

His ears picked up on the faint hum you made. A smirk found its way on his face, and he didn't try to hide it.

He spent a bit of time petting you. He saw it as revenge for all the times you pet him with no warning. But, much to his demise, you didn't see it as anything spiteful. You quite enjoyed the attention.

"Hm. Fine. I'll stay with you for a while. But that's only because Ruggie won't come get me if I'm with you while you're like this."

Azul

He was...hesitant..to say the least.

He was nervous to see what you'd turn into. That's not meant to sound mean or judgemental, he wouldn't judge you. You don't judge him, why would he in turn?

More so, it's just that he doesn't know how he himself will react and doesn't want to hurt you with a negative reaction.

He knew you were nervous about yourself for a long time. But, you decided that if he saw you comfortable with yourself, he'd become a bit more confident as well.

It took a lot of convincing from you to lead him into the forest clearing. Even more for the Twins not to follow.

Once you two were there and he backed up to give you space, seeing you transform was the most stunning things he's ever seen.

A white mist covered you and a dark shadow on the inside(you) grew and changed shape. Into the shape of a dragon. When the mist cleared, he saw you.

Your e/c colors stared him down. You did what you could not to freak him out, but you didn't have full control of every habit of yours.

He could feel a few flight reflexes kick in. He stayed in place though. (You praised him for that later)

You sat. You kinda reminded him of a dog with the way you sat and waited patiently. Your tail rested motionless, wings calmly at your sides. Your head tilted to the side. To Azul, it was kinda cute. Like looking at a sea guppy.

He stepped closer, but kept a slight distance. You weren't offended, you knew you needed to take things slow. And you knew he was more worried about you than himself.

In an attempt to show him that there was nothing to worry about, you stretched out one of your arms, careful to watch your claws, and held it in front of him. Like how a human reaches out a hand to a scared animal. (Ironic since he was more human than you rn)

He got the message. He approached you and placed a gentle hand on your arm. The cold was somehow a comfort. It sorta reminded him of the cold waters in the Coral Sea. Slowly, he leaned into your touch and found himself calm. All worry faded away and you came close to him and gave whatever your equivalent of a smile is. It warmed his heart.

"I see. I hope none of my actions hurt you. You were very brave to show me all this. I hope one day, I can be like you with myself."

Kalim

He was certainly the most excited to see your dragon form.

He's never seen a dragon before, and The Land Of Scalding Sands doesn't have any legends or stories regarding dragons, so it's been an obscure concept to him.

He, without hesitance, followed you to the clearing in the forest and patiently waited for you to feel you were ready.

He held his breath as you transformed and only released it when he saw you were okay.

The dragon he saw standing in front of him. Blew. His. Mind!

Even before you could entirely orientate yourself he quickly threw himself onto you and wrapped his arms around your long neck, which was barely close enough to the ground for him to reach. (Especially since he's short)

He talked to you about everything and anything for 2 hours straight. He didn't mind that you couldn't verbally respond, it actually gave him enough time to learn what different ques you made meant. You nodded and shook your head for yes or no questions, you flopped your tail when you meant 'maybe', and your wings flutter lightly when you don't know how to respond.

He even learned what the meaning behind certain sounds meant.

"Sorta wish I had seen your dragon form earlier, but better later than never! Right?...I wonder what Jamil's doing right now?" Cue to Jamil who's freaking out because Kalim didn't tell him he was leaving the dorm.

Vil

He had come to know you pretty well. Despite that, he realized that he never actually asked you anything about your dragon form.

He's definitely thought about it, but never wanted to ask you for fear of making you uncomfortable.

When you told him you really wanted to, he worried that you may have been forcing yourself for him. You quickly reassured him that that wasn't the case. He then agreed to come with.

Seeing you morph was beautiful to him.

You were beautiful.

Your beautiful white scales tinted blue when the sun hit them at a certain angle. Your horns glistened with an icy nature, your eyes shone with a slight glaze of white over them. (Rook explained to him how this protects your eyes from the sun)

All he saw was pure, icy beauty. In a way, he couldn't comprehend why you've been self-conscious about how this form looked. Then he remembered how he gets when people comment negatively about how he looks, and how it can take a toll after so long.

He came to a resolve. To make sure you never again see anything negative about your dragon form!

With quick, confident strides, he approached you. Looking up to meet your eyes, he gave you a sweet, caring face.

He then began to fawn over you. His usual uptight behavior fell to allow his more caring side to take hold so that he could make sure you knew just how beautiful you looked. He commented on how well you seem to take care of yourself, your huge size meaning there was more to admire. Your horns looked like you took gentle care of them. Your snout looked adorable to him. The spikes running down your back, were sharp to the touch.

Those are all examples of how he expressed that he saw and took notice of all your beauty.

He sat on the grass in front of you and allowed you to place you snout in his lap as he gently rubbed your head while whispering sweet compliments to you.

"I hope that, never again, do you see anything wrong with your own beauty. And if anyone tells you other wise, just send them my way."

Idia

You want him to leave his room??? Whyyyyy?

He always thought seeing you in your dragon form would be the coolest thing ever. But he didn't think he'd be dragged out of his room by you and forced into the forest.

We couldn't have just done this somewhere at Ignihyde?

Then you transformed, and he no longer remembered why he was upset.

The fantasy loving weeb in him came out and he started to freak out.

He had a split second of hesitation, ice and fire don't mix and he could feel the ice on you, but his weeb took over and he rushed over. He was no longer shy with you.

His mind was going a million miles and hour and he asked you question after question. Until he realized that you couldn't talk. Which honestly bummed him out a bit but he quickly recovered.

Soon, he took to simply admiring you while you soaked up the attention he was giving you.

His warm fingers lightly slid across your cold scales, sending a shiver up his spine every time, but he didn't mind.

It shocked him when you reached out an arm and pulled him close to you. You held him against your side while you curled up like a puppy.

"Um, okay then. I guess we can stay like this for a bit. But, I do still have some games I need to play later, so not all day, okay?"

Malleus

You had zero problems with him. It actually went the smoothest with him.

When you two were having a conversation a while back, he had questioned if you had a dragon form like he did. You had explained to him that you did but you were to shy to show anyone. He had asked why and you told him that after so long of people bad mouthing you about how you look in fae form, you became hesitant for anyone to see you as a dragon.

He talked about his form in an attempt to help you feel comfortable. He also told you that you'd never need to be scared with him because he's just like you. That made it easier for you to get where you are now. Finally ready to show.

You took him to the clearing and asked him to back away so you wouldn't hit him.

The way you transformed was different from his. He created a puff of smoke around him, you made a mist of ice.

Once the mist faded, he quickly took in every detail about you. How sharper your horns are compared to his, your serrated claws. The white and blue tint of your scales while his a black with purple tints. (Well, that's what Lilia has told him.)

He immediately took to feeling your scales and tough skin, wings and tail. You didn't mind, not like you had a lot of feeling in those areas. He's a dragon to, so he knew exactly where he needed to avoid.

You were a lot more different from him than he was expecting. His scales were rough while yours were smooth. Your horns sharp, his rounded. Your wings were more angular and his were longer.

He didn't mean to get as analytical as he did, he was just really curious. After realizing how he was acting he took to talking to you. Unlike others, he could understand majority of your draconic growls and rumbling. You could actually hold a proper conversation with him.

Eventually, you began to get tired. Your eye lids drooped and you struggled to keep your head up. He saw this and told you it was fine to fall asleep.

He actually turned into his own dragon form and curled up next to you, intertwining your tails. Together, you both fell asleep there on the grass.

"I never thought that I would meet someone so like me, even if we are different. Thank you, Child of Dragons, for coming into my life."

[wyvernest]

tf you mean "cregan was supposed to appear in the season finale and his scene was cut" give me my husband now

[update]

[wholoveseggs]

Homecoming

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Reader} You haven't seen your husband since your passionate wedding night, leaving you to doubt his love. Now, three months later, you're round with child and missing him more than ever—until he suddenly returns.

♡♡ This is purely just to get all my daddy Daemon feelings out, I 100% believe he has a breeding kink. ♡♡

3.2k words - Warnings: smut, major breeding kink, slow sex, so so so much fluff, a little bit of angst and Daemon apologizing in bed...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

It was another quiet night, in a bed far too large for one. The wind was gently blowing through the curtains, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the sea. It was late, and everyone was asleep, yet you laid awake, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

You rolled over onto your side, the silk of the sheets sliding against your bare skin. These days, sleep evaded you, no matter how much you tried. If it wasn't your thoughts keeping you up, it was your changing body and the ever growing life inside of you.

Three months ago you had gotten married to the prince Daemon, a dream of many girls across the kingdom. But your marriage was hardly that. The day after the ceremony you woke up in an empty bed, and hadn't seen your husband since, leaving you to wonder if you had done something wrong.

He had left you no letter, no message. Nothing. Only the memory of your wedding night, the way he touched and kissed you, his sweet whispers of adoration as he made you his. On the loneliest days you would close your eyes and remember it all, his lips on yours, the way his fingers caressed you, the feel of him inside you.

You place your hand on the small bump of your stomach, a smile spreading across your lips. Although it had only been one night, he did his duty and you were pregnant. A piece of him was always with you.

But it wasn't enough.

You longed to see him again, to touch him and be held by him, to tell him of the life growing within you. You wanted so desperately to be with him, but instead you were left with the ghost of his love, a memory that wasn't enough to fill the hole in your heart.

You sighed, trying to push away those thoughts, and attempted to fall asleep, but every time you closed your eyes all you could see was his handsome face. You opened them again and sat up, staring into the darkness.

You could see the light of a torch through the cracks of the door, and the sound of footsteps. You knew exactly who it was, the guard outside your door. His shift was almost over, and soon a new one would be out there, watching over you. There was a muffled conversation, and the sound of someone walking away.

A few moments later the door cracked open, and the torch light poured into the room. Your eyes squinted at the sudden brightness, and as the person entered the room they shut the door.

You were about to give your guard a kindly lecture on waking you up when you noticed that it wasn't the guard who had walked in, but a hooded man. You opened your mouth to call for help, but before you could get a sound out he was at your bedside, his hand covering your mouth.

"Don't scream, my love, it's me." He whispered.

You blinked at the voice, your mind taking a second to process what was happening. Your eyes widened, and you reached for his hand. He took it away from your mouth and intertwined your fingers together, his other hand pulling down his hood.

"Daemon." You breathed, looking up at his face.

The torchlight casted a warm glow on his handsome features, highlighting his strong cheekbones and sharp jawline. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, hanging past his shoulders, his eyes were dark and clever, looking you over with admiration.

You pulled him towards you, your lips crashing into his. He let out a sigh, a sound that sounded almost pained, and returned your kiss. Then you harshly pushed him away, hitting his chest.

"Where have you been?" You demanded.

"I had matters to attend to." He told you.

"Three months!" You cried. "Three months I waited for you, and you were doing what?"

He smiled and pulled off his cloak, his eyes raking over your form. He reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

You wanted to be angry with him, you really did, but the look he was giving you, like he was starved, melted away your resolve. You leaned into his touch and looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Asshole," You whispered.

"My love." He whispered back, leaning down and placing a kiss to your forehead.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for another heated kiss. You were angry, yes, but seeing him now made all of that fade away. Your ire could wait until the morning.

His lips were gentle and loving, and you were so happy that you had almost forgotten that he had been gone. He kneeled on the bed and pulled you close, his hands cupping your cheeks.

When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, smiling and breathing hard.

"I thought you left me," You admitted, your hands gripping his wrists, as though you could keep him there forever by holding on to him.

He hummed, his nose nuzzling against yours and you pressed yourself closer to him, trying to get as much contact as possible.

His large, warm hands moved down to the swell of your stomach. He placed his palms flat against the bump and leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Did the maesters tell you?" You asked, placing your hands over his.

He nodded, his eyes lifting up to meet yours. "How are you feeling?" He asked, with such gentle kindness that it made your heart melt.

"Big." You answered, laughing slightly. "I can't wear any of my old clothes, and I have to have new ones made all the time. And the way the ladies look at me when I go out..."

He shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him, his thumbs caressing your skin. It was true that you had changed since the wedding, your body swelling with his child. You were nervous about how he would react, but the softness in his eyes and the way he touched you told you otherwise.

"I wish I could have told you the news myself, it's a shame you had to hear it from some crusty old maester," you said.

"It is a wonderful thing to return home too," he smiled, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

He kissed you deeply, his arms wrapping around your waist. You smiled into the kiss, your fingers weaving through his long, silver hair. You could feel his lips turn up against yours, and you both pulled away.

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes raking over your features, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands trailed down your sides, sending a wave of heat through you.

"My prince," you said softly, your fingers brushing along his cheekbone. "We've already made a baby. You don't have to do this."

He laughed, and shook his head, a look in his eyes you couldn't decipher. "I forget just how innocent you are," he said, his hands trailing down to your thighs.

“Well, whose fault is that?” You teased, smiling up at your handsome husband.

You sucked in a breath as he leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin.

"It's true, I've been away for too long, my lady wife has forgotten what it is I crave," he breathed against your skin, his lips finding yours once more.

Your hands slid down his shoulders and arms, feeling his muscles. He pulled back slightly and tugged off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

"You have gotten bigger as well," you said, running your hands across his chest, feeling the hard muscles.

He smirked, a cocky gleam in his eyes. "Oh?"

"It suits you," you said, a playful smile on your lips.

His hand came to rest on the side of your neck, his fingers caressing your jaw. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip and he leaned in, capturing your mouth with his.

"And you are more beautiful than the day we wed," he said, his voice husky.

"My prince flatters me." You breathed, a blush rising on your cheeks.

His eyes went to the ties on your nightdress, a row of pretty little bows that went down to the valley of your breasts. He tugged at one of the ribbons, the fabric becoming loose.

He pushed it aside and his hand moved up to caress your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple, causing you to gasp.

"Still as sensitive." He said, a smirk on his lips.

He leaned down and took your other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, before gently biting down. You tugged hard on his hair, your legs kicking and squirming as he continued to play with you.

"Daemon," you moaned.

He hummed, the vibration causing a wave of pleasure to wash over you. He let go of your nipple, and his mouth moved lower, placing hot kisses along your skin, his hand pushing up your night dress.

"Perhaps a bit more sensitive." He commented, his hand brushing along your thigh.

He hooked a finger into the waistband of your small clothes and pulled them off. You were now naked, your body on full display for him, and he leaned back and admired his work. His hand on the swell of your belly, his thumb tracing over a stretch mark.

"Beautiful." He said, a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

You looked away, suddenly shy. You had only spent one night with him, and now he was here again. His touch, his words, they all still had an affect on you, making your stomach flutter and heart race.

He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your bump, his hand resting on the side of it, his lips trailing lower. You smiled softly, and ran your fingers through his hair, the silver strands smooth between your fingers.

His hand came to rest on your thighs, gently coaxing your legs open. You watched as he positioned himself between them, his head almost disappearing behind your bump.

His eyes flickered up to yours, and his smirk was all too knowing, causing you to blush and turn away. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking up your slit.

You gasped, your grip on his hair tightening. He did it again, this time focusing his attention on that sensitive little spot he introduced to you on your wedding night. He placed a soft kiss on it, his tongue circling it.

"Dae-ah," you moaned, trying to muffle the sound by pressing a hand over your mouth.

You didn't know if it was the fact that you were pregnant, or maybe that you missed him more than anything, but everything felt different, his touch more intense.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, holding you down as his tongue licked and circled you. His mouth moved down and his tongue slid into you, making you arch and cry out. He lapped at your arousal, his tongue going in and out, the sounds he made, the hums and sighs, driving you wild.

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through your entire body, and his tongue went up, swirling around that little spot again, his mouth closing over it.

You moaned his name, your thighs squeezing him, your whole body trembling as your release washed over you.

He placed a few more kisses to the inside of your thighs before rising up, his hair messy and face glistening with you. He wiped his face with his arm and leaned down, his lips capturing yours.

You could taste yourself on him, and you kissed him hard, your hand tangling into his hair, the other reaching down to the ties of his trousers. He helped you undo them, and kicked off his pants.

His hard length sprung free, and you wrapped a hand around it, causing him to let out a shaky moan. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand cupping your cheek, and his eyes locking onto yours.

You slowly started to stroke him, and he let out another moan, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath hot against your skin.

"My love," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your hand.

You loved the effect you had on him, the control you had. To have the prince of dragonstone, the most dangerous man in the realm, at the palm of your hand, made your heart flutter.

His hand found yours, and he guided it away from his length, a whine leaving your throat. He chuckled and gave you a quick kiss before positioning himself between your legs.

He slowly pushed himself in, causing you both to moan. It hurt a little, just like the first time, but his hands were on your thighs, his thumb caressing your skin, and he slowly pulled out and pushed back in, letting you adjust.

"My love, I'm not going to break," you said.

He smirked and gave a shallow thrust, a gasp leaving you.

"I can't be too careful with what is mine." He said, leaning down and giving you a heated kiss.

He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, his hand sliding up the length of your leg, coming to rest on your bump, his other hand planted next to your head, holding himself up.

He started to move, his length slowly sliding in and out, the pace slow and gentle. You could feel every inch of him, rubbing against that perfect spot. A soft moan left you, and you reached out, your hands on his chest, feeling the hand planes of muscle underneath his skin.

His thumb caressed your belly, his eyes never leaving your face, studying every detail, memorizing each feature. You felt so exposed under his gaze and turned away, your cheeks flushed.

He smiled, a soft, loving smile, and kissed you.

"How I've missed you, my beautiful wife," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

You looked up at him, seeing nothing but love in his eyes. It was the way he had looked at you at your wedding, the two of you standing there in the sept, whispering promises to each other. The world had disappeared around you, and in that moment you were the only people that existed.

He kissed you again, and began moving a little faster, the sound of his hips meeting yours filling the room. He groaned, his hand still gently stroking your bump.

"I can't believe such a perfect creature could bear my child," he said, his eyes trailing down to where his hand rested.

"Our child," you corrected, giving him a teasing smile.

He hummed, leaning back and wrapping his arms around your waist and helping you into a sitting position. He pulled you onto his lap, and you moaned at the way he was buried deeper inside you.

His lips left open mouth kisses on your shoulders, and his hands rested on your hips, guiding you. You braced yourself on his shoulders, his hands back on your bump as you moved. You knew he liked the feel of it, and he couldn't get enough.

Your name left his lips as you bounced in his lap, his hands cupping your ass, squeezing you. You moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging at the silver locks. You were growing louder, your body humming, that feeling building within you.

"Not too loud, my love," he whispered. "I do not wish for the guards to hear,"

A moan, that was halfway to a laugh escaped you, and he cut it off with a deep kiss. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, as you kept moving, the feeling of your release building.

"For your lovely sounds are only for me," he continued, his voice in your ear.

You let out another shaky moan, his hands squeezing you. He was moving his hips to meet yours, and you could feel him shaking beneath you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, and pulled you harder, his voice soft yet commanding as he talked you closer to your peak.

Your hands gripped his arms and back, and when he said your name, a deep, low groan that sounded almost pained, you toppled over the edge, falling in a pool of ecstasy. All the pent up emotions and frustration that you had been holding in were released, and you let go of a final moan that you muffle in the crook of his neck.

He followed soon after, capturing your lips in a heated kiss and letting out a deep, satisfied moan. You clung to him, afraid that he might disappear if you didn't. His arms were wrapped around your middle, cradling you close to him, his lips pressed to your temple.

The two of you breathed in each other's air, a simple shared breath, your foreheads pressed together, your eyes closed. You could feel his lips on your sweat slicked skin, his fingertips still caressing your bump.

When you both had returned to your senses, he gently laid you back on the bed. He leaned down, the tip of his nose nuzzling against yours, and peppered your face with little kisses. You smiled and let your eyes flutter open, finding him staring at you, a sweet, lovestruck look in his eye.

He grabbed the blanket, and covered your naked form with it, tucking it around you, almost protectively. He crawled under with you,his head resting against your chest, his hand still protectively cradling the swell of your stomach.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. He looked up at you, his eyes sleepy, and he pressed a kiss to your bump.

"I hope it's a boy," you said, continuing to stroke his hair. "With the most handsome features, and a true warrior, like his father."

"Mm," he hummed, his eyes closing, and his arms wrapping around your waist. "I hope it is a girl, a daughter that looks just like her mother."

He was silent for a moment, and you wondered if he had fallen asleep, when his eyes suddenly opened.

"Or perhaps both," he said, his voice serious, a glimmer of something in his eyes.

"Twins?" You laughed. "I don't think I could handle two little dragons running about."

He chuckled, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin. "I will be here to help you," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I am not going anywhere."

"You better not," you warned, poking his chest. "You've kept me waiting long enough."

He laughed again and caught your wrist, bringing your finger to his lips and placing a gentle kiss there. He slid his arms back around you, and pulled you close, your foreheads touching, your noses brushing.

You were content, your heart filled with so much love for him, and as his breathing evened out and his eyelids drooped, you knew he felt the same. You drifted off to sleep, dreaming of what was to come. Of a big family, a happy life, and many more nights just like this one. 

[thesongoficeandfir3]

Mine to take care of

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

Warnings: brief talk of gore, talks of menstrual cycle, slight description of menstrual blood, smut alluded

Genre: Fluff

Prompt: Jace taking care of his wife who’s on her moon blood

A/n: You’re next Cregan Stark

You changed your position on the four-poster bed for what felt like the hundredth time as your mind bops in between sleep and wakefulness. You had a long and irritable day just wanting to sleep but your body had other ideas as it writhed in some unknown pain that worsened throughout the night.  Finally accepting the fact you weren’t getting any sleep you allow your body to fully wake up and once your mind comes back to the waking world, your eyes burst open when you realized what was keeping you from sleep. 

You jolted to a sitting position ripping the furs from your body. Your eyes snapping down and a string of curses leaving your lips and you leap out of bed. The room was  somewhat dark, all the once tall and bright  candlesticks now mere stubs hardly sputtering flames and the fireplace reduced to embers. Yet you could still make out the dark bloodstain, a stark contrast to the white sheets. You are pulled from your panic when you hear soft mumbling and Jace shifting awake. You move quickly and hide the stain covering it with the furs.

“What is it?” He mummers out still half asleep and his voice raspy with sleep.

“It is nothing my love,” you stutter out, failing horribly to conceal the distraught in your tone. “Please just go back to bed.” Though you had succeeded in covering the truth on the bedsheets with the furs, you failed to remember it also seeped through your rather thin and white nightgown.

“If it were nothing then why does your voice-” he pauses mid sentence once his eyes land on you, his mind still not quite in the waking world “what is that on your-”  his eyes then widen in realization and you prayed to all the gods above to end you right there.

Despite being betrothed for two years, it was not until a fortnight ago that you two were married and started to share a marriage bed. Thus there were still a few more intimate and more private things yet to be revealed in your relationship, your moon blood being one of them. While from the very first day you had met Jacaerys he had been nothing but kind and gentle with you, at this moment your insecurities got the better of you making you feel ashamed and embarrassed about your own moon blood. 

Jacaerys was not as savage nor dumb like many of the other men of Westeros when it comes to a woman’s anatomy (something you found out rather quickly on your wedding night). Due to reading and having female family members he was more than aware of what a moon blood was. This however was not enough to prepare him for how it truly looked and he can not help be slightly taken aback. He had been to war, he has  seen men’s heads crushed, animal’s stomachs ripped open, people skins bubble and burn from dragon fire, but seven hells was that a lot of blood for a person who was not injured or cut.

“Oh is that your… you know” He desperately tries to act casual.

His words go through one ear and out the next, not only was the lower part of your nightgown stained with blood but as you sleeped with nothing more than a nightgown the blood also dripped and stained down your legs.

Mayhaps it was the lack of sleep or the raging and unpredictable emotions that always came with your moon blood but your eyes immediately became watery with tears. 

 “Sorry” your voice breaks and you prepare for him to make any signs of disgust or try to pretend he doesn't see anything and go back to bed as you told him early. 

This is more than enough to snap him out of his surprised state, he mentally slaps himself for his initial dumbfounded reaction. He quickly shifts right back to the loving and caring man you know so well and needed more than ever at this moment.

“Hush now my love, there is nothing to apologize for,” he is at your side in an instant “this is a natural part of a woman’s body and you should never apologize for it.” His voice is soft and gentle. Despite his encouraging words he can still see your heart aching and it doesn't help when your arm quickly wraps around your abdomen when a painful cramp surges through. “Come now, let's get you out of that and cleaned up” he says as he reaches for the laces of your nightgown.

You recoil, not because of him but because of yourself. “I am repulsive, I should do it myself”

His face twists in disappointment, his disappointment pointed toward your words not at you. His hands grab your biceps slightly squeezing them in an attempt to stop you from walking away from him and for you to listen to what he had to say.

“Stop that you are anything but, what you are is my queen, my woman and you are mine and i intend to take care of what belongs to me” he ends the sentence with a soft kiss on the forehead before undoing the laces. Once undone he slips it over your head leaving you completely bare, you both instantly noticing how even bloodier in between your thighs were.

“This is a womanly thing, many men would be off-put by this so I will not shame you if you are.” you know he said just a few moments ago it was fine, but seeing blood stains was one thing and seeing its source was a whole other.

“Don’t you dare compare me to those dimwitted fools,” he takes your hand and leads you to the wash basin “a real man will not be fazed by his wife's body functioning  the way it's supposed to.”

Once at the wash basin, he picks up a clean cloth and soap. He kneels in front of you getting to work at cleaning off all the blood, you can feel the tender love and care through his touch. It was quiet the entire time he washed you, but a it was a comfortable silence as you two reached a new level of intimacy.

Jace felt honored that you allowed him to see this side of you. So raw and vulnerable yet you still trusted him and for that , he did not think it was possible, but he fell in love with you more. After the cleaning is done he leans forward pressing a long and gentle kiss where your womb would be.

“Guess what,” he murmurs, his breath felt warm against your skin “Your womb has not been seeded yet.” he stands once more “so that means I can try again and again until my seed starts to bloom in your beautiful garden.” 

He pulls you flush against him and you laugh at his words, his heart swells being able to hear the sound again.

“And once you give birth to our beautiful king or queen  I will plant hundreds more.

You bite on your bottom lip, the insecurity from earlier passing and you feel more bold now.

“Well then what is stopping you from starting now?”

“Nothing my heart” his eyes darkened with love and desire, he lifts you up taking you two to the bed.

[fourthcrow]

── CREGAN STARK x PREGNANT!READER HCS

pairing: cregan stark x pregnant!wife!reader

notes: sooo i finally had a moment where i am not in excruciating pain and this is where my brain went to. (as i said in a previous post, i will finish my requests once i feel well enough) i just love the idea of cregan showing off his pregnant wife :( this is kind of short but i wanted to get a little something out.

warnings: pregnancy (duh), childbirth, tiny mention of labor difficulties, i think that's it? lmk if i missed anything

it could be your first pregnancy or even your fourth, but Cregan is always there. you could be chatting with and gossiping with your ladies-in-waiting, visiting the maester for another check-up on how you're progressing, anything at all and he's there. he constantly needs to have you in his line of sight whilst you're carrying his babe ─ and not in a possessive or stalker-ish way, he simply needs to make sure you and the growing child are safe at all times. at least, that's what he tells you. a bigger reason would be the fact that he is near obsessed with seeing you round and heavy with his babe. it does bring a smile to his face, especially later on in your pregnancy when it really becomes noticeable, as he watches you waddle around with a hand resting over the swell of your stomach. we all know Cregan loves his wife, and the sight of her carrying the life they made together only makes that love soar.

Cregan loves to show you off. he won't flaunt you in some flashy way, or declare to the whole of Westeros that you're with child, he is more subtle. in court meetings or when bannermen and lords come to visit Winterfell, he has to make sure you're right there by his side. he'll have a strong arm wrapped around the small of your back, hand reaching to rest on your hip, and fingers softly brushing over your belly. he won't mention the fact that you're with child (mostly because it is quite clear depending on how far along you are) but he loves to have you by his side, silently showing his vassal houses exactly how much he loves you. he isn't ashamed of his wife's pregnancy and certainly doesn't shy away from anything that comes with it, as other highborn lords tend to do.

speaking of not shying away from anything, Cregan is probably one of the most supportive husbands you could have during pregnancy. early on, he's right by your side whenever you experience morning sickness. Cregan will hold your hair out of your face if it's long enough while rubbing a hand up and down your back until the nausea subsides. he will take you into his arms without hesitation and wipe away your tears, and make sure you drink enough water to rehydrate. if you suddenly start hating a certain smell, like any of the soaps or oils used in your baths, he'll make sure it's gone by the end of the day and help you pick out new ones ─ that both you and the babe seem to agree on. food. food might be another issue, as I feel like most of the Northern diet consists of meat and meat doesn't always go well with pregnancy. if there is anything your are particularly experiencing an aversion to, he'll make sure the kitchen staff knows. if it's the smell of cooking that bothers you, even though the keep is vast, he might take you out for a little walk if the weather allows it, just to make sure it won't bother you.

Cregan is there for all of your children's births. no matter what day or what time your labors start, he is there from the very beginning. it could be the middle of the night, during a council meeting, any time at all, and he will drop everything. it does go against tradition, but the maester and midwives alike knew better than to bring it up. (during your first birth, he gave a very stern look to the maester when he advised against his presence. Cregan didn't need to say anything before he scurried out of the way and let him in) he knows it's a very trying and vulnerable time for you, so he'll speak up without hesitation. something really doesn't feel right? he's telling the maester. you want to try a different position? he's telling the maester. some of the help is making you uncomfortable? he's ordering them to leave himself.

Cregan would hold your hand through it all. claw at his skin, curse him out, he will let his wife do whatever she needs during childbirth. if it comes down to it, which he had been praying to the old gods and the new for it to never be so dire, he would always choose the life of his wife over the child. it's a horrible decision, one he never wants to be faced with, but he only has one wife. he wouldn't ever put you in the face of danger.

he always likes to be the one to catch the babe when it comes out. he's seen enough blood, so it hardly bothers him. he'll quickly, but carefully, hold the babe to your chest as the maester and midwives continue to tend to both you and the child. all through the end, he'll whisper words of how proud he is, how strong you were, how healthy the babe is, as he brushes sweat-slick hair off your forehead and kiss your temple.

[valyriandreamer]

Perculiar Lady

summary: Jacaerys Velaryon is a devoted husband to his wife, no matter how peculiar she can get.

paring: jacaerys velaryon x reader

The late afternoon air held the hint of salt from the sea, mingling with the fragrance of wildflowers that grew stubbornly between the cracks in the ancient stone pathways. You were crouched near the edge of a patch of lilies, your hands delicately prying a small beetle from the wet earth.

Jacaerys stood behind you, watching with a soft smile as you turned the tiny creature over in your hands, your purple eyes reflecting the fading sunlight as you examined the beetle’s wings. The mud clung to the tiny insect's body, but you didn't mind the dirt; your focus was entirely on the small, helpless thing in your palm.

“Look,” you said quietly, turning to Jace with wonder in your voice, “its wings are stuck.”

Jace knelt beside you, resting on the balls of his feet as he extended a hand. You placed the beetle in his palm, trusting that he would be as gentle as you always were with the world’s smallest creatures. He turned the insect carefully, his thumb brushing away the mud that had ensnared it. You watched him with a mixture of fascination and love. Jace was patient, where others would have dismissed your concern as childish or odd. He never once called you mad, not like your mother had whispered behind closed doors when she thought you weren't listening.

“Are we taking it to our room?” Jacaerys asked with a soft smile, his eyes meeting yours. His brown eyes, warm like honey, always made you feel seen, truly seen, in a way that no one else did. Not your mother, not the maesters, not even your father, who tried to love you but could never understand you.

You gave a small laugh, one that sounded more like a breeze whispering through the trees. "I don’t think it would like the room," you replied, brushing a stray silver-gold strand of hair from your face. "It belongs out here, I think."

Jacaerys nodded. He understood. He always understood, even when you struggled to explain yourself. He placed the beetle back on the ground gently, and you watched as it scurried off into the grass. The small moment passed, but it left a warmth in your heart. These moments with Jace were everything to you.

The wind shifted, and you froze. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You could feel them again—the ghosts. The invisible presences that followed you everywhere, the ones no one else could see. Your chest tightened, your breath quickened, and the world around you blurred at the edges.

Jace was by your side in an instant, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. He didn’t ask what was wrong; he didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew. The panic that clawed at your insides like a ravenous beast began to subside under the familiar pressure of his embrace. You focused on the steady beat of his heart, grounding yourself in the rhythm of his breathing.

“They’re here again, aren’t they?” Jacaerys whispered into your hair, his voice low and comforting.

You nodded, burying your face in his chest, the rich scent of his skin calming you further. “I can feel them,” you whispered back, your voice trembling. “Watching… waiting…”

Jacaerys held you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “They can’t hurt you. I won’t let them.”

You wanted to believe him, wanted so desperately to believe that the things you saw, the shadows that loomed just beyond the edge of sight, were only in your mind. But how could you, when you could feel them so keenly? When they whispered to you in the dead of night, filling your dreams with images of things long dead and forgotten?

Your mother, Alicent, had always looked at you with a mixture of pity and fear. From the time you were a child, she had treated you as if you were fragile, almost breakable. The day she had agreed to your marriage with Jacaerys had been one of the rare moments when you had seen relief in her eyes—as if you were finally someone else’s responsibility, no longer her burden to bear.

But Jacaerys never made you feel like a burden. He had taken you as his wife not out of duty or convenience, but because he had truly wanted you. He had seen your strangeness, your peculiarities, and had loved you for them. Even now, as you stood in the fading light, haunted by the unseen, he held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I’ll chase them away if you want,” Jacaerys said, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His hand brushed against your cheek, his touch feather-light.

You managed a small, shaky smile. “You’d do that?”

He smiled back, that lopsided grin that made your heart ache with affection. “Of course. I’ll chase them all away, every last one of them.”

You knew he would. You knew he would humour you, would run through the garden or the halls of Dragonstone, waving his arms and calling out to the ghosts to leave his wife in peace. It was absurd, but Jacaerys never cared about appearing foolish, not when it came to you. He had done it before, on more nights than you could count—banishing your invisible tormentors with all the seriousness of a knight battling real foes.

But tonight, you didn’t want him to chase them away. Tonight, you only wanted him to hold you, to remind you that no matter how strange or broken the world seemed, there was still something real and solid in it—his love.

“I just want you to stay with me,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his chest.

Jacaerys nodded, his arms never loosening. “Always.”

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, standing in the middle of the garden as the sky darkened, the first stars appearing overhead. The wind whistled through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, the waves crashed against the cliffs, but here, in Jace’s arms, the world was quiet.

The ghosts were still there. They always would be. But with Jace, you could bear them. He was your anchor, the one thing that kept you tethered when everything else seemed to slip away. You knew that the whispers would return, that the panic would strike again, and the shadows would come creeping back into your mind. But as long as Jacaerys was there, with his steady heart and his unwavering love, you could face them.

He was the husband you never thought you would have. The kind of man you had been told you didn’t deserve, that you would never find. But Jace had chosen you, strange as you were. And he had stayed through all the dark nights and haunted days.

You tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes meeting his. “I love you,” you whispered, the words so quiet they were almost lost to the wind.

Jacaerys smiled, his hand cupping your face as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “I love you too.”

And in that moment, you believed him. You believed that no matter how haunted your mind was, no matter how broken you sometimes felt, there was still something whole and good in the world.

It was him.

It was Jace.

And for now, that was enough.

part 2: Gossiping Corridors

[novaursa]

The War She Couldn’t Stop

- Summary: Aemond loses control over Vhagar and you pay the price for it.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood and gore)

- Note: The reader is Daemon's daughter.

- Tag(s): @oxymakestheworldgoround @sachaa-ff @idenyimimdenial

The storm was alive. It howled like a wounded beast and clawed at your face with sleet and rain, the sky above Storm's End a black and heaving sea of thunderclouds. You could barely see beyond Grey Ghost’s pale, ghostlike wings, each beat of them a challenge to the fury of the wind. The storm swallowed the sound of your shouts, your warnings, your pleas—but your dragon heard you. Felt you. Understood you. You clung to the saddle’s high cantle, soaked to the bone, your braids plastered to your scalp as Grey Ghost twisted between the clouds with ghostly grace, far more agile than the ancient monstrosity ahead.

Vhagar.

The silhouette of her wings was vast and terrible, a leviathan slithering through the stormclouds with a roar that cracked the heavens open. Lightning flashed—an instant of blinding silver—and you saw them. Vhagar. Aemond. And just ahead of them, smaller, panicked, Luke on Arrax. You could barely see the boy—just the glint of crimson from his cloak, fluttering like a desperate signal as the storm tried to rip him off his saddle.

Then you saw Aemond.

He looked like a specter, his pale hair soaked and streaming behind him, sapphire eye gleaming with something far more dangerous than rage. There was obsession in his mouth, twisted into a snarl, in the way he leaned forward over Vhagar’s reins like he meant to devour Lucerys, not just scare him. His lips were moving, but you couldn’t hear the words—whether they were curses or commands, you couldn’t tell. But one thing was certain: he had lost control.

And Vhagar—gods, Vhagar had smelled blood.

You didn’t think. You didn’t have time to. You slammed your heels against Grey Ghost’s flanks and he dove, shrieking, a pale arrow through the writhing dark. You angled your body low to his neck and screamed over the wind, “Now!”

Grey Ghost answered in fury.

He lunged, his white body colliding with the larger, ancient form of Vhagar just as the she-dragon twisted in midair to close the distance between her and Arrax. The impact was a deafening explosion of scale and sinew. You felt the shock of it rattle your spine, and for one heart-stopping moment, the world spun wildly as Grey Ghost bucked beneath you, his talons digging into Vhagar’s shoulder, jaws snapping.

“No!” Aemond’s voice finally cut through the gale, sharp and frantic. “Vhagar, stand down!”

You clung to the reins, teeth gritted against the sting of cold and pain, your voice hoarse as you screamed, “Luke get out of here! Fly!”

Lucerys didn’t need to be told twice. Arrax was already fleeing, wings beating in desperate rhythm as the younger dragon shrieked and vanished into the clouds, trailing sparks and fear. Vhagar roared, the ancient beast turning her fury now upon the challenger who dared to interfere. You felt it the moment her attention snapped to you—like staring down a mountain before it collapses.

“Aemond!” you cried, twisting in your saddle, trying to find him across the chaos. “Call her off!”

“I’m trying—” His voice broke. It wasn’t arrogance now. It was fear. Terror, even. “She won’t listen!”

Grey Ghost screamed, a high and eerie sound that pierced the storm like a blade. His wings snapped back just in time as Vhagar surged toward you, jaws wide. You pulled hard on the reins, urging him to dive, to spiral away, but the old she-dragon was already upon you.

The sky turned to flame.

Vhagar’s fire missed by a hair’s breadth, lighting the clouds with hellish orange as Grey Ghost veered hard right, narrowly avoiding a full engulfment. The heat seared your face, and you screamed—not in pain, but in desperation. This wasn’t a battle. It was a slaughter waiting to happen.

Aemond appeared again, hovering at a distance, pale with horror, his hands white-knuckled on the reins. “Y/N!” he shouted. “Get away! Get away!”

“She’ll kill him next!” you yelled back. “You let her kill him, and you’ll never forgive yourself!”

“I didn’t mean to—!” he shouted, shaking his head, his drenched hair clinging to his cheeks. “I never wanted this! I only meant to scare him—gods, she won’t stop!”

You understood. In that moment, you saw him—not the boy who always smirked behind his silver fringe, not the man who watched you in silence at court, never daring to touch, never daring to ask. But Aemond, stripped of pride and control, watching the dragon he once commanded become a wrathful god. And now it was your life in her jaws.

Grey Ghost cried again, defiant even as Vhagar loomed above. The pale dragon twisted, claws slashing, wings folding as he dove. The old queen followed.

The chase was on.

You didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Each movement was raw instinct. Vhagar was stronger, but Grey Ghost was faster—barely. You banked hard, leading her away from where Arrax had fled, dragging Vhagar through narrow canyon-like clouds. Each gust of wind threatened to toss you into the void. You could feel your dragon’s muscles trembling beneath you, struggling against the downdrafts. The cold bit through your leathers, your fingers numb on the reins.

And behind you, Aemond screamed again—no longer in command, but in mourning. “Vhagar, no! STOP!”

Your gaze met his just once through the storm.

You saw the moment he realized what he’d done. What he couldn’t undo. And the look on his face wasn’t that of a prince or a warrior.

It was of a boy who just watched the only person he ever loved fly straight into the jaws of the beast he’d unchained.

Grey Ghost’s wings beat weakly, each movement slower than the last, his once-immense strength draining with every passing second. The pale dragon’s cries were a mournful symphony that mixed with the thunder, their sound nearly drowned out by the roar of Vhagar above.

The older dragon, unrelenting in her pursuit, closed in once more, this time with purpose. Her fire surged toward Grey Ghost’s side, and you felt the heat burn through your leathers, the fire scorching the dragon’s flank. His body jerked in pain, his wings faltering as a scream ripped from his throat, echoing across the storm, a sound that would haunt you forever. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat, eyes wide with horror. His body shuddered beneath you, and you clung to the saddle, desperately trying to steer him, to fight against the weight of the winds, the storm, and Vhagar’s fury.

But it was too late. Grey Ghost’s flight grew erratic, every beat of his wings weaker than the last. He roared in agony as the wound from Vhagar’s flame tore through his scales, leaving a deep, searing gash along his side. You felt him struggle to maintain altitude, his breath ragged, his strength fading. And in that moment, you knew: the ground was coming, and there was no escaping it.

Aemond's voice pierced through the chaos, his cry filled with desperation. "Y/N!" he screamed, his voice hoarse, panicked. "Y/N, get away!"

But the words came too late.

Grey Ghost’s wings fluttered one last time before they gave way to the storm’s violent pull. With a lurch, he began his descent, plummeting toward the earth. The wind screamed around you as the world spun, your stomach turning with the dizzying fall, your heart pounding in your chest. The ground was coming too fast, the distance too short.

And then, with a sickening thud, the earth slammed into Grey Ghost’s back, and you were thrown from your saddle, your body colliding with the hard, wet ground.

Everything went black.

When you opened your eyes, the storm still howled above, but everything else was silent. The world was a blur of pain and confusion. You could taste blood on your tongue, feel the wetness of the rain on your skin. You tried to move, but your body wouldn’t respond. You could hear the crackling of fire in the distance and the weak, strained breath of a dragon.

Grey Ghost.

You managed to lift your head, but your vision swam, and you saw him—his white body crumpled on the wet earth beside you. His wings were bent, broken at unnatural angles, his once-glorious scales now dull and bloodied. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, but you knew it wasn’t long now.

His eyes, pale like the moon, flickered open. He looked at you with a softness that, in this moment, seemed almost human—tired, defeated, and sorrowful. His head lowered toward you, his cold breath ghosting over your face. You tried to reach for him, but your arms were heavy, and your body wouldn’t obey.

Aemond appeared, his figure emerging through the rain, stumbling toward you, his breath labored and frantic. His one eye—violet and wild—sought you out, desperate, searching. His voice cracked as he shouted your name, a broken plea for a response. "Y/N! Y/N, please... stay with me. Please."

But you couldn’t answer.

Aemond fell to his knees beside you, trembling as his hand reached for your cheek, brushing wet strands of hair from your face. He barely seemed to register the storm around him, his focus entirely on you. He looked at Grey Ghost—still alive, but barely—and then back at you, his mouth moving without sound, as if he were trying to speak, but the words couldn’t come. His eye was wide, filled with something raw, something unspeakable.

"You’re going to be alright," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re going to be fine. Just hold on. Please... please."

His voice cracked, the last word coming out as a desperate sob. His fingers trembled as they clutched at your wrist, his entire body shaking from more than just the cold.

But it was too late.

Grey Ghost’s breath hitched with one last, strained sigh, and his head slumped to the ground beside you, his body stilling. You could feel his warmth leave him, his life slipping away like water through your fingers. His wings fluttered once, the movement faint and unsteady, before they stilled.

And in that moment, you knew—he was gone.

Aemond screamed, a guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore through the air and echoed off the cliffs. His grip on your hand tightened, but you felt your own pulse growing faint. You tried to speak, but no words came, only a strangled breath. The edges of your vision blurred again, and you felt the cold seep into your bones, as if the world itself was closing around you.

Aemond pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ragged and desperate. "I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice broken. "I never wanted this. Please, please don’t leave me. Not like this."

His lips brushed against your brow, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine, but the warmth of it was fading. You could feel him, but the distance between you was growing. The world was spinning, slipping through your fingers, like the last remnants of hope.

"Please," he begged again, his voice cracking as he looked down at you, helpless. "I love you. I’ve always loved you... Please, stay with me."

But you couldn’t. Not anymore.

Your eyes fluttered closed for the final time, and as the storm raged above, you felt the last threads of life slip away. Aemond’s voice echoed in your ears, but it grew distant, muffled by the cold, the wind, and the inevitable silence.

And when the world went dark, you felt the weight of it—the weight of everything that could have been, but never would.

The doors of the small council chamber groaned open, heavy hinges screaming into the air like a warning bell. Rain still clung to Aemond’s cloak, dripping in dark rivulets onto the stone floor, his boots tracking mud and blood in their wake. The storm had not left him at Storm’s End—it followed him, soaked into his bones, his skin, the hollow carved behind his ribs. He didn’t glance at the guards who pushed the doors open. He didn’t look at his mother seated beside the Hand. His eye, shadowed and sunken, remained fixed on nothing, as though he were walking through smoke, a specter of a prince, no longer a man at all.

Alicent stood as soon as she saw him, hands clenched in front of her skirts, her brow tight with anxiety. Otto Hightower rose more slowly, cold calculation already visible in his gaze. He measured the mood of the room like a butcher sizing up a carcass—he saw the stiffness in Aemond’s gait, the filth on his leathers, the scorch marks across his armor. He saw the silence in his face and the blood along the edge of his gloves.

“Aemond,” Alicent said softly, “you’ve returned. What news from Storm’s End? Did Lord Borros agree to our terms? Have you chosen one of his daughters?”

Aemond didn’t answer at first. He walked the full length of the room, boots thudding, silent but for the faint metallic clink of his sword still sheathed at his side. He stopped at the end of the long table where Aegon sat half-slouched in his chair, sipping wine, already smirking at the sight of his younger brother so bedraggled.

“Gods, look at you,” Aegon chuckled dryly, tipping his cup toward Aemond. “Did you fall off Vhagar into a privy or simply forget how to bathe in the storm? You look like the drowned god’s bastard son.”

The silence that followed was heavy—too heavy.

Aemond slowly raised his gaze. The sapphire in his ruined eye gleamed wet with the low torchlight. He looked at no one in particular, but when he spoke, his voice was sanded raw and hollow.

“She’s dead.”

Alicent flinched, confusion contorting her face. “Who…?”

Otto frowned. “What are you saying?”

Aemond blinked once, slowly. Then again. The shadows beneath his eye made him look decades older, and when he spoke again, it came out like stone grinding over stone.

“Y/N.”

Aegon froze, the humor bleeding out of his face like wine from a shattered cup. The goblet slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor, rolling beneath the table as the king stared at his brother. Alicent’s hands flew to her mouth.

“What?” she whispered. “No. No, gods—how? Why was she there? Why—”

“She came on Grey Ghost,” Aemond said, voice flat. “She tried to stop me. Stop Vhagar. Lucerys was fleeing. She turned her dragon into the fire.”

The room held its breath.

“I lost control,” Aemond said, louder now, but no more alive. “I tried to stop her. I tried. Vhagar… she wouldn’t listen. Grey Ghost fought. She burned him. He fell. And Y/N—she…”

He trailed off, his throat tightening as his eye fluttered shut, as though trying to erase the image imprinted there. The twisted body of the pale dragon. Her broken form beneath his wing. Her blood, the same color as his, soaking into the mud.

“She died beneath him. He tried to shield her from the storm.”

Otto’s face turned to granite, and his voice trembled just beneath the surface of composure. “You fool. You arrogant, bloody fool. You’ve doomed us.”

Alicent turned on him. “Father—”

“No,” Otto snapped. “You don’t understand, child. He killed Daemon’s blood. His daughter. There will be no negotiating after this. There will be no truce. Only fire. Only war.”

Aegon rose, slowly. He said nothing. His eyes were locked on Aemond, and in that moment, there was no jest, no sneer. Only realization. There, standing before him, was not the prince he’d once mocked. It was something broken. Something hollowed out. And that frightened him more than Daemon Targaryen ever had.

Alicent stepped forward, voice trembling. “Aemond… was it an accident?”

He looked at her, and for the first time, his voice cracked. “I loved her.”

The words brought a stillness so complete, even the fire seemed to stop crackling.

Otto said nothing. Aegon turned his gaze away.

Aemond’s hands hung limp at his sides, one of them still bloodied. “I loved her since we were children,” he said, softer now. “I never said it. Never dared. And now she’s gone.”

He turned without another word and left the room.

Behind him, no one moved. The silence that followed was not just shock—it was the death knell of peace. The moment everything changed. The moment blood began to rule.

In the flickering shadows of the council chamber, Otto sat back slowly, staring ahead as if watching the future already burn.

“We must prepare,” he said at last. “Daemon will come.”

And this time, no one doubted it.

[oldtowrs]

𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒' 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 cregan stark / afab!reader

summary—the hour of the wolf has ended, and cregan stark marches north again. upon his return to winterfell, he wants nothing more than to see you, his wife. when he finds you in the godswood, he could not be more pleased to see you and how you've changed in his absence. he's so pleased in fact, that he decides he must thank the gods for blessing him so.

word count—8.8k (i will not apologize)

tags & warnings—canon divergence (meaning i fuck with the details and timelines. read the author's note for exactly what i mean), pregnant!reader, afab!reader, reader prays to the old gods, SMUT (mdni), oral sex (f receiving), heavy pregnancy kink on cregan's part, breeding/pregnancy kink (its baked into those stark genes, i don't make the rules), flashback containing smut (missionary, vanilla-y type sex with cregan and his wife, p-in-v, unprotected sex, breeding), mentions of death and canon-typical violence, porn with minimal plot, porn with feelings, cregan loves his lady wife more than life itself, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns used for reader, no detailed description of reader other than afab!/fem!, private public sex (they have sex in the godswood, but no one catches them). let me know if i missed something.

author's note—this was barely proof read towards the end. let me know if i missed something. anyway, so detail-wise, it technically takes 5.5 months to travel from winterfell to king's landing, and technically, cregan is gone for closer to a year than 9 months, but for the sake of the plot and for cregan smut, pretend that his march to king's landing, the hour of the wolf and his return all takes place in a little less than 9 months. besides, the show condenses the dance by ~10 years anyway, so just pretend. please. for cregan's sake, your sake, my sake, etc.

special thanks to @dipperscavern @eldrith @aesteries @cassieopeiia and @swordgrace. this fic would not have made it out of my drafts if it weren't for you all and the kind words you offer and your encouragement and the inspiration of your beautiful works. this one is for you <3.

also if you like to listen to mood playlists while your read, may I suggest the one that I used to write this: listen to me here !

FEEDBACK & COMMENTS & REBLOGS ARE EXTREMELY WELCOMED, PLEASE SUPPORT YOUR CONTENT CREATORS ! 18+ CONTENT AHEAD, MDNI ! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME !

a storm was brewing over winterfell, if the ever-darkening clouds that seemed to amass in the sky above the keep were any herald. there was a metallic chill in the air that cloyed at one’s skin, chilling any and all to the very bone — even the most hardy of northern warriors succumbing to it. cregan stark took it as both welcome and warning. 

the hour of the wolf, though named after his short control over king’s landing, had felt longer than cregan wanted to, filling his senses with enough southern pleasantry to last a lifetime. the roads were rough, and the days of marching along the kingsroads were long — the groaning of his men growing louder with every day, and every mile that brought them closer to winterfell, to home. the dust from the road covered every inch of him, clinging to his furs and the sweat along his brow, collecting in the strands of his hair and in the beard he had grown while on the road. 

but mostly, cregan stark, lord of winterfell and warden of the north, held a deep longing in his heart — an ache that only seemed to grow in his absence from winterfell, from you. the roads were rough and the days were long, but nothing compared to the ache that had torn his heart asunder in the days that he had parted from you, his ladywife. 

you had only just been married when duty had summoned cregan south, only three turns of the moon before he was called from the marital bed to the battlefield. and while cregan was an honorable man, a man bound by obligation and noble responsibility, and so he went willingly. but he could not deny the image of you in his mind’s eye the night before the whole of the north marched south in the name of the rightful queen — queen rhaenyra targaryen.  

⋆.*･⋅𖥔⋅

“by the gods, cregan!” 

your moans echoed against the stones of your marital chambers, high and sweet and filled with the evidence of your husband’s amorous devotion. sonorous whines and lewd sighs fell from your reddened, swollen lips with every deep roll of cregan’s hips into your dripping heat. the sweet sounds mingled in the late summer’s air like a song, a murmur of cregan’s deep snarls and heaving grunts and the soft smack of his heavy stones against the softness of your core as a result of his relentless pursuit adding to it, a swelling symphony rising from the coupling of your pleasure to his own, from his sinful devotion and your heavenly desire.

your hands, which were so dainty compared to his own, maneuvered their way to his chest, your fingertips running over the thatches of brown curls that covered the warmth of his skin and swirled over the hardness of the thickly-corded muscles that lay beneath, grounding him to you. 

“oh, my love!” you cried, a testament to the depths to which cregan had buried his cock, the tip — which was undoubtedly weeping and swollen with arousal — kissing the inner most wall of your core with each impassioned thrust. 

cregan groaned roughly, allowing his hand — which was wide-of-palm and calloused by years of northern frigidity and the trials of the sword — to trail its way up your torso, from the plush curve of your hip, past your navel, between your tits that bounced with every thrust of his hips, to engulf the curve of your cheek as he cupped it with his palm. his weight shifted to the arm which had found purchase in the furs beside your head, forcing more of the weight and bulk of himself to bear down upon you, opening you wider to make room for him, your warden of the north, your lord husband…your love. 

“c’mon, take it for me, love. just a little longer,” cregan rambled, allowing the tenderness that filled every last frontier of his soul to seep into his voice as he praised you.“i know you can, my sweet wife.”

“oh, cregan, i can’t! i’m going to—” 

and with that, cregan felt you spill over the edge — your heat becoming impossibly tighter as you met your peak, walls fluttering around his length with every wave of pleasure that tore you beneath its tide and consumed you wholly. cregan’s every thrust grew easier with the slick of your peak and he groaned, his hips stuttering as you sighed and arched your back, forcing him even deeper into your sweet heat. 

your legs, which had settled about his hips ages ago, tightened around his torso in your pleasure and fought against the wide expanse of his torso to no avail — the thickness of him kept you entirely spread for him. cregan felt his release building in the base of his spine, a winding coil of fire that begged for absolution. and you would be the one to give it to him. his sweet girl. his lovely wife. the heavenly lady stark. 

some part of him, deep within the confines of his mind, imagined his seed taking root within you, imagined the sight of you swollen and glowing with his child. gods, it drove him mad. his mind wandered the imagined view you would make — tits heavy and amassing against your neckline and the corset beneath, the swell of your stomach protruding from your dresses, the glow that would overtake you like the warmth of a thousand summers after the long winer. and ti would be because of him. you would be pregnant — with his child. 

and that’s when the coil within him finally snapped and a blinding wave of pleasure had his hips stuttering, and his head drooping, forehead coming to rest upon the your sternum — just above your thundering heart.. cregan’s incessant attention, which he paid in bruising kisses and laving tongue, was broken as a moan ripped through him — the sound a near growl that originated somewhere deep within that he had not known existed until you pulled it from him. 

“my wolf, my king of the north,” your voice echoed from somewhere deep in is memory, the titles given to him so freely behind closed doors, would the world was quiet and the snow fell, and it was no one but him and you. 

softly, cregan’s lips found your skin, as a weary wanderer finds himself at the mercy of the gods. 

but the pulsing of your heartbeat against his swollen lips was addicting, and so kiss after kiss was laid to your skin, as cregan filled you with rope after rope of his thick cum, until he swore that you had drained him entirely.  he wasn’t sure when it had happened, but the fingers of his right hand had tangled with your own haphazardly against the plush down of the pillow beside your head, and he took the hazy moment in the aftermath of his release, when every inch of him was warm with the tingling of his frayed nerves to ground himself to you and squeeze your hand lightly — a silent testament to how wholly he relied on you, how wholly he loved you. the heady scent of arousal cloyed sweetly at his nose, something so distinctly you hidden beneath it that it drove cregan wild — even as he dropped his head to your sternum in exhaustion. 

and when he finally raised his head, he was delighted to see your glossy gaze brighten and a hint of your radiant smile shining through the haze of your own pleasure — pleasure he gave you. and by the gods, were you a sight. 

“gods, woman,” cregan teased as a hint of his own smile broke through his normally roughened exterior, his timbre thick and the harsh syllables of his hardy, northern accent honeyed with his love. “you’ll be the death of me.”

your laughter echoed through your marital chambers. and cregan swore there was not a more beautiful song in all of westeros. 

.*･⋅𖥔⋅

the remembrance of you, angelic and soft in his arms, glowing with the warmth of a thousand suns and flushed in the most heavenly manner from your peak, had cregan blushing even now — months later — as he lead his men through the gates of winterfell and into the keep. grey, stormy eyes scanned the parapets and walkways that lined the courtyard and found only servants rushing about the keep, preparing for a welcome feast or returning the horses to their stables, carrying luggage from the tired, dispersing men back to their chambers. 

you were nowhere to be seen. in fact, it was only until maester kennet found his way to his side, did cregan learn of your whereabouts. 

“she has taken to godswood, my lord,” the maester whispered in hushed tones, intonation speaking volumes of information left unsaid. it sent something akin to a deep-seated worry wriggling through his veins, as he slung the straps of his longsword and scabbard over his shoulder and unloaded his luggage from his sturdy black stallion. 

“thank you, maester,” cregan said, voice rougher than he meant for it to sound, as he passed the reigns to a nearby stable boy, who lead his horse away dutifully. 

“she insisted, sir,” the maester continued. “i tried to warn her about the storm, that she need take precaution, especially in her state — but she would not heed my council.”

her state? i leave her in your care for nine cycles of the moon, what is amiss with her state? cregan thought, a hint of annoyance seeping into the edges of his fatigued mind.

with a heavy sigh, he pushed the thought away and reminded himself that the journey had likely unraveled his last nerve, and his faithful maester was not deserving of such treatment. cregan clapped a hand over the maester’s shoulder then, a show of good faith, as he passed the older man his belongings.“i shall see to it she makes her way back to the keep safely. take this to my chambers will you?” 

“of course, my lord.” 

and with that and a heaving of his sword, and the stark legacy, more securely over his shoulder, cregan stark departed for the godswood with a determination only love could place in his step and in his devoted heart. 

*･⋅𖥔⋅ 

may the frost be kind to the remainder of the summer’s harvests. may every man, woman, and child have the facilities to feed themselves heartily so that they may last the winter. may the winter be kind, even if it is long, you prayed quietly, as your gaze flitted between the blood red leaves that hung in a canopy above you and the snowflakes that softly perfused through. 

the godswood was your refuge, when your husband couldn’t be. it was quiet and it had a constancy, a calm steadiness similar to that of your husband — enough so to turn the ache and yearning to a moment of lovesick reprieve. even if it was only a moment and especially in times like this, when the impending storm sent the birds to their nests, and the snow blanketed all sound in its cold grasp, turning the small forest into the most peaceful sanctuary you had ever known. these were wartimes, and in wartimes, only the gods truly knew the path that lay ahead. 

may the north’s soldiers return home safely and with little fuss.  

the past nine months had been strenuous, what with your husband’s campaign south as had been demanded by the late queen rhaenyra targaryen. it had left the people of the north tense, the absence of those who had marched south and those who would never return north again felt in every absence from small council and feast alike. one of those absences that weighed heavily on your heart was that of your husband, cregan stark.

but the troops were set to return any day now, what with word of their journey up the kingsroad having arrived to winterfell and to you on the dark wings of cregan’s raven nearly a fortnight ago.

may my husband return with haste. i pray that you all have taken care of him in his absence from me, and may you return him to me healthy and happy and warm. may the burdens of war not wear too heavily on him. he’s been through enough, after all. 

you missed the steadiness of his presence, the way he knew exactly when to pull you close and where to place his kisses to placate even your most tiresome worries. you missed his warmth, especially now that the nights grew colder and darker and his absence from your bed was more thoroughly felt. you missed his hugs, when he would bury you in his wide, burly chest, surrounding you with his arms and all of their thick corded muscle. there was nowhere you would rather be, nor anywhere you felt safer than in the arms of your husband. 

you had found peace beneath the blood red leaves, cried with the gods as the sap from the tree soaked its many faces. when he couldn’t soothe your fears, the gods did. and now, as the little flakes of ice settled in your hair and in the furs that were bunched about your neck and which kept you warm, the silence was more of a comfort than anything else could be in your husband's absence.

and yet, the reminder of the peace which had failed to meet you every night for the past nine months crept into your thoughts, sending them spiraling. gods, you missed your husband — terribly so. and while the gods and the silence could offer you comfort in your most trying times, it was only cregan who could offer you what you truly yearned for — companionship, his sweet tenderness, the gentleness with which he loved you. 

you missed cregan’s tender devotion and steady heart which you knew only beat for you, and for his people. you missed the gentleness with which he held your face between his thumb and forefingers and tilted your head back to place a tender kiss upon your lips. you missed the careful way with which he tucked your arm into the crook of his elbow as you walked about the keep, and held a steady hand upon the small of your back as he talked extensively with visiting lords or members of his council — a way in which to remind you where his attentions truly lied. all were wordless reminders of the love that burned hotter than the greatest hearths in his heart and in his soul — for you. 

you missed his nobility — how he tended to winterfell with a sense of duty that ran deeper than that of flesh and blood. you missed how he cared for all of his people, whether they be from as far away as the wall or widow’s watch, or as close as castle cerwyn. you missed his stiff upper lip and his forceful hand, his intelligence, his compassion, his loving heart. 

some selfish part of you missed how he would fuck you with a heady, passionate fervor, and how gently he would hold you in the aftermath, as if you were the most precious of treasures that the gods had given him to protect. you missed his kisses in the quiet of the mornings, where only the fire crackled steadily in the hearth and the gruffness of his northern accent turned soft and honeyed as he murmured praise after affectionate praise in your ear until you were burying your face in his large chest and he was rearranging the furs to swaddle you in to hide the flush that covered you from head to toe from any gaze but his own.

a similar flush covered you now at the thought, a slight guilt nagging at your heart. this was a holy place and here you were kneeling at the foot of the gods and reminiscing about your husband’s… physique. 

you shook your head, and placed a hand over the swell of your stomach, remembering your task at hand. yes, the burden of your yearning weighed heavy upon your heart, as you sat beneath the weirwood tree, but you would ask this last favor of the gods. you had to.  

may you return my husband to me before our child makes their way into the world, for i do not know if i can go through the birth alone. i cannot do it without him.

a tiny pulse against your hand was felt through your heavy furs and woolen dress, as if the child that you carried — his child, consummated the night before his southern departure — wished for their father almost as much as you missed your husband, your cregan.  

“i know, little one,” you whispered, wishing not to disrupt the peaceful quiet that had settled over the godswood as the storm rolled in and the sky grew dark. “i miss him too. but he’ll back soon, i’m sure.”

another glance upwards at the tree struck a chord of hope in your heart —  sap, viscous and red as freshly spilled blood slowly pooled in the eye of one of the tree’s many faces and began to drip slowly downward over the pale bark. 

perhaps the gods had listened. 

.*･⋅𖥔⋅

cregan’s footfalls were heavy upon the icy ground, the soft crunch of his boots in the frosted grass and icy patches of snow left by storms past broke the silence that had fallen over the wood. it was a quiet kind of moment, one that echoed reminiscent of a fragile peace the lingered before the storm, daunting and heavy, in the static air. 

the small trek was a familiar one, as the gods were almost as close to cregan’s heart as you, his lovely lady wife. he felt blasphemous at times for the thought, but you were dearer to his heart than anything or anyone else could be — old god or not — despite bringing you beneath his family crest in marriage only a short while before his departure south. you were soft and sweet, and a kinder sight than any other cregan had known — and he loved you dearly, and deeply, and more than words could ever truly say. 

and so, when cregan finally approached the weirwood and saw you sitting on the small wooden bench beneath its blood red leaves and stark white branches, it felt as if his heart had finally found its way back to him, thundering to life in his chest after the gruelling nine months he had been apart from you. you were a breath of fresh air in his tired lungs, and he found his pace slowing to a halt as he admired you, with your face upturned ever so slightly, with your eyelashes kissing the curve of your cheek, your hair and cloak alike catching the small flurries that had begun to fall through the trees above you. you were beautiful — angelic, in every sense of the word. you were peace — his peace.  

he caught sight of your guards a few yards away. a soft nod had them approaching their lord, and with a wave of his gloved hand he dismissed them. 

“i shall see to it that my lady returns to the castle safely,” he murmured gruffly, laying his hand on the shoulder of one of them — a show of his good graces. “thank you.”

it was only when the sound of the snow and the ice and the frost beneath his boot sounded did you resurface from your thoughts, your attention drawing to him with a gentle turn of your head and a straightening of your back. a small smile found its way to his lips as he basked in the tenderness of your gaze. he always had liked being the center of your affections. 

“cregan?” his name was somewhere between a murmur of hesitant disbelief and almost child-like excitement on your tongue as you realized who it was that had come to disturb your peace. tears had begun to sting at the corner of your eyes, burning in the frigid air.  

but the sting was short lived: a few quick strides and cregan was before you in an instant, large hands casting both sword and leather riding gloves into the dark earth in favor of holding your face within their warmth. the towering figure of your husband soon became a kneeling mass before you — in all of his wool and leather-bound, fur-wrapped glory. 

it was then that cregan’s thundering heart truly allowed him to observe you. your face had grown slightly more full in the past months, cregan realized with calculating grey eyes that seemed to soften to something more akin to molten silver as they beheld you. indeed, the curves, which had become heated and flushed from the chill, had grown ever plump, bunching at their heights as you smiled ever sweetly at your lord husband. an angel indeed. 

“cregan,” you repeated, voice somewhere between a sob and a burst of long-awaited laughter, delicate hands leaving their place in your lap to cover his own, as his thick thumbs pet at the curve of your well-rounded cheeks, exploring just how soft they had become with a heart which had undoubtedly melted like a freshly fallen dusting of snow in the springtime. 

cregan allowed his eyes to drift ever downward, deliberate in the way his eyes dragged longingly about your features, committing every detail to memory, with the aim of taking in the whole of you — a sight he had so dearly missed and so desperately clung to in his absence. your cleavage was on full display, even through the modest neckline of your dress and the heavy fur cloak that hung about your shoulders and tickled at the bare skin of your neck in the shifting air of the godswood. 

had her tits always been that full? cregan thought bashfully, a lick of shame running up his spine — you hadn’t seen your husband, the lord of winterfell and all of the north in months, and here he was looking at you like a green lad who had never laid a hand upon a woman. a hot flush rose to his cheeks, even through the cold of the impending storm. 

it wasn’t until the lord of winterfell allowed his yearning for you to pool in his gaze, allowing it to wander ever downward that cregan realized the heavy protrusion of your stomach. the curve of it was great enough to show through the heavy cotton and wool of your dress— and finally, the realization fell into place.

your state. 

“you’re—”

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” you murmured as a delicate frown gathered upon your lips. your voice quickly became an uneasy, fleeting thing that interrupted both him and the quiet of the wood in no more than a mere moment. yet, it was enough for cregan’s breath to catch in his throat, the word slamming to a halt on his tongue. 

you were pregnant. 

“i didn’t wish to worry you,” you went on. cregan’s heart clenched in his chest, a blade — born of love and fidelity — driving itself into his very core. cloudy grey eyes flitted back up to your own and caught sight of the tears that gathered there, in the corners of your beautiful, downcast eyes. unsurety and anxiety radiated off of you, as if you were unsure of cregan in that moment, of how he would respond. and with the crease of your brow, and the sweet way that you looked at him, as if pleading for the understanding that was already unequivocally your own, he knew without a doubt that you had spent the entirety of the past nine months missing your husband desperately, just as he had you. and yet, cregan stark, lord and warden of the north, couldn’t imagine how much weight this must’ve added. and you — you sweet, sweet thing —  you didn’t wish to worry him?

“you already had so much to worry about,” you tried to explain, tears overflowing in two heavy droplets that caressed the curve of your cheeks as it careened down them. eventually, the two droplets wet the careworn palms of his hands as he gently swiped his thumbs beneath your tired eyes and the plump curve of your cheek, tuning your every nerve to his touch. 

“i didn’t wish to burden you.”

guilt, a heavier burden than even that of the sword on his back or the weight of his title and honorable duties, weighed on his heart as he beheld you then. in that moment —  in the quiet of the godswood, beneath the bloody leaves and the gaze of the old gods, as he knelt before you — cregan stark swore a vow. he would never part from your side. never again. not when you had given him more than he could’ve ever thought possible, and not when the gods had cursed him with a distance that had rendered him unable to show his utter gratitude. 

“what with the wa—”

cregan’s lips were warm and slightly chapped as they covered yours completely, swallowing your protests as he did so. the wide bridge of his nose was sturdy against your own, the tip of it kind as it graced your skin, his teeth and tongue clashing and roving against your own in a storm of tender frivolity as if he was reclaiming your mouth from the months apart. smoked pine and musk mixed together into a heady scent that was so undeniably cregan that it had your heart aching as his lips worked to consume your own, and so too your fears with it. the shape was familiar, a kind reprieve, as they molded to yours so perfectly — oh, how had you forgotten how well the gods had made him for you, and you for him. 

the kiss was only broken when his lungs burned for air, his forehead finding yours as a hand dropped to the swell of your stomach — to where you harbored his child. 

“i swear to you. with the eyes of these gods, both old and new, as my witness, that i will never, ever leave your side again. from this day, until my last day,” cregan murmured, northern accent thickening in his vigor and sure with steely resolve. your name was a soft sigh that left his lips only moments later. 

“i should have never left in the first place.”

tears continued to fall from your eyes, which had fluttered shut in total contentment the moment the frosted cloud of cregan’s breath had fanned across your face and his lips had found yours. a soft, mirthful chime of your laughter fell from your lips. . 

“it was your duty, my love. the realm needed you.”

“damn, the fucking realm,” cregan was quick to huff, reinvigorated conviction swallowing his composure whole, the hint of a smile dissolving into that firm northern resolve you so admired, basked in honor and commanded with steady strength. “no duty means more to me than you…and our child.” 

he should’ve been here, with you, ensuring that you were taken care of as you grew so round and swollen and beautiful with his pup. a need came over cregan then, his hands itching to hold you, to press himself so close that his soul might merge with yours forever — a need to feel your warmth and the promise of life that lingered within you. the need to show you how grateful he was of your effortless sacrifice and selfless devotion overcame him then, as if it were a searing flame that lingered just beneath the surface of his skin and you were the only cure for his every ailment. 

wandering hands brushed a stray lock of heavy brown tresses from his face before your fingertips buried themselves in the short beard cregan had taken to styling himself with in the months spent apart from you. a soft smile broke out across your pretty lips, a sign of your approval. 

“you did not sport this when last i saw you,” you hummed, pulling cregan from his thoughts. you smiled with the light of a thousand suns, ever the light of his life, as your gaze roved every detail of his face, a far-off look gleaming in them. what cregan wouldn’t give to see it grace your pretty lips for the rest of his days — for all the time the gods would allow him to remain by your side to witness it. and gods, had they grown fuller since he had left? pregnancy truly had treated you well. 

“you always pestered me to grow it out, did you not?” cregan laughed quietly in a moment of recollection, his hand covering yours as it cupped his bearded jaw. a twinkle of your laughter filled the cold air, soaking into the trees like sunshine after a long winter’s night. it was the most beautiful sound cregan had ever heard. 

“i will admit, it was a way to feel closer to you on the road,” he hummed softly, voice turning softer with the weight of his confession — as if, should he speak too loudly or too forthright, the sound of his voice may dampen the shimmer that seemed to remain in the air in the wake of your laughter. and cregan simply did not have the heart to overshadow such beauty. 

“it reminded me of you, you know,” cregan murmured, a soft fluttering thing as he gently gathered your hands into the warmth of his grasp. 

“it’s a welcomed change,” you sighed wistfully, a girlish admiration twinkling in your eyes, the radiance of your smile soaking into the soft lines of your face, burying the evidence of your joy such that it would never evade you again. 

“you’re even more beautiful than the day i left you,” cregan sighed in awe, a smile of his own working its way onto his face for the first time in months. he stroked a thumb over the back of your hands, over the little band of wrought silver that encircled your finger — a promise, a testament, a reminder. 

confusion was quick to set in however, as the compliment caused you to quickly avert your gaze as your allowed your hands to slips from with swath of his beard and the clutch of his large hands, and fall to your lap. there had been a time before the war that such a compliment would’ve had you beaming up at your lord husband with a smile brighter than the long summer’s sun. but now, it was received with what seemed to be shame. 

“oh, please, cregan,” you huffed gently. it was a quick dismissal, a thing that came too easily for cregan’s liking, if the drawing of his dark brows downward into a contemplative frown was any judgeable evidence. “i’m not the same as when you left. i’ve become—”

a wide thumb tugging at your bottom lip was your interruption, a fleeting press of rough calluses and warm skin halting whatever blasphemy cregan knew would come pouring out in your moment of insecurity. and as his other hand buried its finger tips in the roots of your hair and cradled the back of your head, you could feel the devout tenderness that lingered within him still. it was a small comfort to be sure, but you couldn’t ignore the sinking of your heart as the weight of the months apart began to feel apparent.

you had changed. some little inkling of doubt wriggled its evil way deep into your heart, even though you knew it was your duty as his wife to give him children, to give yourself up to continue the stark bloodline, to ensure that the north would be guarded by the family who had acted as its warden since before the conquering of the this land by the old targaryen kings from old valyria — likely as early as the days of the first men. your marriage was still young after all, and the few months you had had with cregan before the war had been overshadowed by the very thing that tore him away from you. for when dragons fight dragons and the realm cleaves itself in two and armies march to an ensured doom, there is little time to discuss future wants and familial aspirations — especially, given cregan’s position, his duty to his people, to the rightful queen, to the realm. 

and despite your best efforts, cregan could almost see the manifestation of your doubts — in the way you hung your head and allowed your hair, which was beautifully unburdened by plaits or decoration, to obstruct your features. in the way your hands wandered up your skirts to cover your swollen stomach — a poor attempt to hide your newly changed form from his observations, as if it would halt the criticisms that would never come to fruition from forming upon his tongue. cregan could see how deeply his absence had affected you, how going through pregnancy alone had instilled a hesitancy in love that you had once given so freely. 

 “oh, sweet girl,” cregan sighed, when his lips finally did part from yours and the guilt had wormed into some deep darkened pit of his very soul as he watched you whither before him. his voice was heavy with a longing that filled the space where your silence sat. the thought that you were anything less than beautiful was abhorrent to cregan’s heart, even if it remained unspoken. “i regret that i have given leave for this thought to flourish in my absence.”

“but it is true, cregan, i —”

“hush, my love,” cregan interrupted once more, a gentle swipe of his thumb along your lower lip silencing you in a moment. with the other, he covered your hand that still laid over the swell of your stomach and leaned closer to press a wary kiss to the plump curve of your cheek.

“you, my darling, have brought a light back to winterfell — one that i had thought was long extinguished. you breathe the promise of life back into her very walls. you are my light. you were when the war tore me from you,” cregan murmured, his voice growing huskier with each word, “and even now you shine ever brighter in my eyes.” 

cregan’s blood ran hot through his veins as he pressed another kiss to your flushed skin — his time to your temple, your hair soft against his cheek as it fluttered about you in the wind. your eyes caught his as he pulled away, hand still lingering to where it had drifted —  at the base of your neck — and it was then that cregan caught the glossiness that lingered in your eyes, tears inevitably building up within them at his words. a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lip, a soft huff settling into the quiet of the moment, weighing it down even more than his words already had. you always had been such a sweet-hearted thing — soft and loving, and always his to honor, to defend, to protect, to guard, to love. oh, how could you not see?

“how could i shame the most divine beauty when she stares back at me so sweetly, hmm?” he murmured. his touch was gentle as it trailed from where he held your chin, fingers spanning the expanse of your face, thumb tugging lovingly at your lip, downward along the line of your neck, skimming your sensitive skin and pulse point alike, and up again, until finally his hand settled at the base of your pretty skull, fingers tangling in the loose roots. a delicate pressure built there as he gently tugged, pulling your head back and exposing your most sensual points to lips that immediately graced their surface. his breath was a delicious repose from the chill that had begun to work its way down your spine, replacing it with warmth as it fanned your neck. 

“must i show you how beautiful you’ve become in my absence?” cregan murmured, a certain mirthful insolence snuck its way into his tone in between the kisses he placed to your skin. “must i show you what lengths your beauty drives me too, my darling? especially now?” 

“cregan stark!” you gasped quietly. it was then that cregan realized you had abandoned your tears and instead fixed him with an incredulous gaze as you laid your hand to the sigil inlaid into the leather of his doublet, just above his heart, and gave a soft shove to his chest. “this is a holy place — you of all should know!”

“all the better,” cregan murmured, voice fully lowered an octave, the salacious syllables rolling like warm honey off his tongue — easy and saccharine. “perhaps then the gods will take those sweet little moans of yours as my sacrifice.”

a whimper nearly tore itself from your throat as cregan dragged his teeth along the skin of your neck playfully before suckling at the same spot, nursing the reddish hue to a deep purple as it bloomed on your skin.  

“come now, my love, let’s give them a show of thanks for their mercy. for the gift of my dear lady wife.” 

“cregan.” 

his name was a whisper of a moan, a song so high and breathy, a sweet manipulation of your normally steady voice. it was a sweet thing that almost left cregan dizzy with the amount of blood that eddied out of his head the moment it left your lips, the distance from you leaving him so depraved that his heart had no choice but to redirect his blood flow… lower.

“they can’t hear you, my love,” cregan smirked as he withdrew from your neck, normally ice grey eyes turned dark like the brewing storm above — heavy and alight with a terrifying energy that set your heart beating furiously in your chest. 

there had always been stories of the stark’s icy stoicism, of their stubbornness, their steady-handed rule and the silent ways in which they commanded respect — stories of their… fury. here, beneath the blood red leaves and the gods’ ever-watchful eyes, under the command of your lord husband and the way in which he seemed to hold you in the palm of his thick, warm, calloused hand, you thought that, perhaps, the stories rang true. 

“you’ll have to be louder if you wish for their ear, darling,” cregan hummed as he leaned back on his haunches, allowing him room to find the hem of your heavy skirts. the simple caress of his fingertips was a welcomed sensation as they sent warmth radiating through your wool stockings as they roved your thighs, the back of your knee where your leg bent so prettily, anywhere his fingers could reach. 

a glint of surprise flickered in his darkening gaze as he realized how much softer your legs had grown, how he could feel how wide they had become as they overwhelmed his grasp — even as large as his hands were. cregan felt the familiar ache of his heart clenching in his chest, the thought of your body unknowingly changing to better accommodate the life you fostered within it settling in, and the realization of just how strong you had grown under the added weight of your child… well, the thought drove cregan to madness. 

cregan’s fingertips, as calloused and rough as they were, found the sumptuous splendor of your thighs, and the softness of them which pooled over the rippling cuff of your heavy stocking and the silken grey ribbon that struggled to hold them up. it was then, as cregan’s wartorn hands found the plush undersides of them and tugged until you rested on the edge of the wooden bench upon which you sat, that cregan made a note to fully explore the extent to which your heavenly body had changed later, away from prying eyes and without the furs and the wool and the loosened corsets and the heavy cotton hiding you from his hungry view. yes, he would ravage you later, of that he was sure. he had, after all, been taken from you for longer than he would’ve liked. but for the moment at hand, you were his to thank, to praise, to show how utterly sorry he was, to make up for time stolen by forces greater than himself. 

“oh, gods, cregan!” 

the warden of the north’s thumb was warm as it found your pearl, the rough callous providing a delicious friction which you had so dearly missed. your hands flew to grasp at his forearms for some semblance of stability, only to find the solid mass of bulging, corded muscle that was only softened by the weather worn leather and the heavy pelts that kept the pale, sculpted planes of cregan’s physique from your gaze. 

perhaps, you were not the only one who had changed as a result of the months passed apart, you thought then, a blush collecting against the bridge of your nose and the tips of your ears. perhaps, the trials of sword and cold, the months of grueling battle and tedious marches, the dirt and the blood, had roughened your husband around the edges. perhaps, the months apart had not only softened you, but also hardened him into what now stood before you: your husband, an insatiable wolf whose grey eyes had gone soft as the dense fog that so often rolled over the mountains surrounding winterfell, as they beheld you at long last, whose warmth set your nerves ablaze, who’s love was so great it threatened to consume you whole as he hiked up your skirts and buried his head between your thighs. 

the first swipe of his tongue was fire as it licked its way up between your swollen folds. the sensation was in direct opposition with the frigid chill of the air and the snow that began to gather in the soft strands of your hair like the southron crowns cregan had fought to place upon the brows of those who now seemed so utterly undeserving of them given the sight you now made.

“cregan!” you gasped again, utterly taken aback that he would choose to do this — this heinous act of lovely sin — here beneath the eyes of his gods, but too overwhelmed with the feel of his tongue and the heat of his mouth to form proper protest. 

“i am right here,” cregan hummed deeply, his mouth leaving your core for a merely a moment, his words muffled by the heavy velvet, wool and cotton of your skirts. the reprieve was only momentary however, before your husband continued the waltz of his tongue through your folds and the assault of his kisses that had your core pulsing in protest to its emptiness, driving you mad with each beat of your heart. 

and alas, there he was: between your thighs which he caressed with hands so diligent and kind. it was there that he knelt, with his knees in the blackened dirt and lips dripping with a nectar more sweet than any the gods could think to procure, with his shoulders bearing the weight of your calves, with his hands bared along the swell of your hip, that his tongue worked a song more beautiful than any lyre could hum from the beautiful column on your throat. it was there that he turned your body — in all its heavenly-wrought splendor and indulgent softness, with its every swell and curve and valley — into an altar of his own worship. there, beneath the crimson leaves, and the maroon sap which leaked slowly from its ivory bark, beneath icy flurry and darkening storm, beneath the eyes of the god’s which had brought you into his arms and beneath the cloak of the dire wolf and the fields of white and sage that cregan stark prayed. 

cregan stark could live the rest of his life and be known by none other than the softness of your gaze, the heat of your lips and the honey of your mouth on his tongue, and the familiarity of your heart and still die a happy man. there was no better future than the one in which he was your husband, when he got to kneel before you, his lovely wife, and worship at the cradle of your thighs and the altar of your hips.

yes, cregan would die the happiest man in westeros. and he showed you just that. with every tug of restraint at your skirts, every swipe of his loving tongue, every reverent turn in the never-ending circles his thumbs to reverently traced into the softness of your flesh. and as he knelt and as his tongue set every fiber of your being alight with the pleasure he worked so diligently to pull from you, cregan pulled forth a sensation that had every ounce of sense eddying from your mind and a high, keening whine working its way from your throat. 

frustration soon began to bleed into the pleasure as your hands searched for purchase in cregan’s tawny hair, only for the swell of your stomach to impede your desperate attempt to ground you to this — to him.

as if sensing the frustration that worked your fingers into a fist buried around the fabric of your skirts, cregan’s strong hand fully enveloped yours, guiding it to his shoulder, allowing you to feel the hulking mass of him, even through the thick furs donned in spite of the oncoming winter. 

“i’m right here, my darling.” 

it was such a minute gesture, to be sure — yet it was a gesture made all the more sincere as his tongue fixated its pursuit upon your hooded pearl and began to circle it in wet, tantalizing circles as the pads of his calloused fingers found your entrance. 

“so wet for me, my girl.” 

the mumbled hum of prideful admiration, though mostly lost in time with the electrifying pursuit he waged against your core, ensured that all remnants of the winter chill be driven from your mind and memory, grounding you to him. to him. only him. 

“i’m right here, my darling.” 

it was with those last final words, the heat of his mouth, the diligence of his tongue, and the deft precision of his fingers that you found your peak, pleasure a pleasant burn that engulfed you entirely and left your heavy bosom heaving for ragged gasps of cold winter air. 

“oh good gods in heaven above! cregan!”

a warm chuckle was barely audible beneath your skirts and through the blur of your high, but its reverberations against your core were enough to have you lurching forward, fingers delving into the worn leather , thick wool and cotton, and the corded muscle of his shoulders alike. 

soothing kisses were the next sensation that registered through the pulsing bliss that had yet to subside and which sent you reeling, grasping for any ounce of your husband to ground you to the present, to this albeit lovely moment with him beneath the weirwood tree. each one was a delicate bloom of warmth against your plush thighs. when had he pulled your stockings down? truthfully, you believed in that moment that you would never know. 

“that’s my girl,” cregan murmured, voice low and husky. he had somehow resurfaced from the depths of your skirts, large calloused hands coming up to brush your wetness that still lingered in his beard, pink tongue peaking out to lap up whatever remained of his now shiny lips as he eyed you — with some lovesick reverence lingering in his gaze that fought with the greedy mischief that had dominated their icy gray depths only a moment ago.

through the ebbing haze of your pleasure and fluttering eyelashes alike you gazed back at him, nearly melted into his hand as he reached up to cup your cheek, its warmth all encompassing against the flushed surface of them — winter chill and burning pleasure making themselves both known. 

“there she is. there’s my girl,” cregan hummed, his other hand beginning to draw circles along your backside where his hand still lingered, his thick arms still supporting the majority of your weight in tandem with the little wooden bench. he lowered his head as though he were making a vow to the king of westeros himself, neck craning to allow him to place a gentle kiss upon the swell of your stomach. “hello, love.”

“hello,” you swooned sweetly, voice pitched and breathless under his affections. a wide smile spread across your lips, open mouthed and pliant. it was a smile which cregan returned, in his own subtle and lopsided way. 

“you know,” cregan mused, the mischief returning to his smile tenfold, snapping you out of your trance, your laughter ringing clear in the crisp air. “i believe they finally heard you, darling.”

“cregan stark!” you yelped, your hands gently pushing away from his shoulders in disbelief. though it did nothing to move the brawny, war-honed mass of thick, corded muscle that was your husband. “you are a scornful, greedy bastard!”

his laughter, a rare noise that seemed to rattle the very branches of the quiet forest with its deep radiant joy, echoed alongside yours. and when it quieted, his eyes found yours once more, his large hand cradling your own as he brought it from his shoulder to his lips. 

a million or more men resided in westeros, but none loved more fully than cregan stark. he was the stuff of legend, the type of lord little girls read about with their septas in their fairytales and folklore and dreamed of for the rest of their days. perhaps, there was something to thank the gods for — the devotion, the nobility, the honor of your lord husband and the love that he harbored in his heart for all things, but especially you. 

his hands were gentle as reached back beneath your skirts to pull your stockings back up over the swell of your thighs, tying the silken gray ribbons into bows with leisurely precision. and then he shifted his weight to place your feet fully on the ground once more, and grasped your hands to help you upwards with him as he stood.

“now, let’s get you inside, my love,” cregan hummed, now-gloved hands finding the collar of your cloak, hoisting it gently upwards to secure it about your shoulders, the long furs coating the collar tickling your jawline as he did so. “the storm is rolling in.” 

“if that mattered to you, husband, you would not have taken me in the godswood,” you teased sweetly, with a purse of your lips and a setting of your jaw in faux protest to his obvious excuse to overwhelm you with his love, to herd you inside to the warmth of the fire and the comfort of a good meal. you would let him utterly consume you, you were sure, if only to feel the press of his warm lips against your skin, to watch his eyes catch ablaze when he beheld you, to feel the evidence of his love move within you, to know he loved you as clearly as you beheld him now — a stoic mass of warmth wholly attuned to you as the snow gathered in his hair and the blood red leaves rustled in the wind above. 

“i believe the gods will be pleased with my tribute,” cregan teased, his hand trailing down, over your widened hips to settle upon the curve of your lower back, the light pressure he laid there enough to gather you against the thick wall of his leather-covered chest. “if i remember properly, sweet wife, you too were quite pleased with it as well.”

a warm chuckle sounded somewhere deep in his chest, as he watched you rest your forehead against the cool leather of his doublet sheepishly. cregan knew full well a wide, toothy grin bloomed on your face as well as his, despite your best efforts to hide it in leather and wolf’s fur and the wall of muscle that was your husband, knew it pulled at features he so dearly admired — the ever-so-faint lines that had begun to form in the corners of your eyes when you smiled, your eyes that no doubt shown with mirth, the sweet pull of your lips. 

“you shouldn’t speak like that, my love,” you murmured, though any ounce of scolding tone that lingered in your voice was swallow by him as he encompassed you whole. 

“aye, i shouldn’t,” cregan smiled warmly, voice even and subtle joy unshakeable. “but if done in pursuit of your heavenly smile, perhaps the gods can find it in their hearts to forgive a humble lord like me.” 

the warmth of the cregan’s gloves was warm and soft against your skin as cregan placed itself beneath your chin and lifted until he could behold your smile in its truest form — the one that you reserved for him and him alone. foggy grey eyes darkened to a hazy storm of lust then as his true motives shone through, despite his best efforts.

“now, will you continue to be stubborn, my darling, or will you, at long last, allow me to take you to our chambers to show you the true extent of my utter gratitude?”

©𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐑𝐒 2025— do not steal, copy, repost or expand upon my works without my explicit permission. i do not give permission for any of my works to be fed to any sort of ai generator or otherwise.

[justmymindandstuff]

lets start with trust - (Cregan Stark x TargaryenReader)

part 3 to jump scare part 1/ part 2/ moodboard/masterlist (but you can read it as a stand alone)

summary: You and Cregan marry to seal the pact between Targaryen and Stark. Cregan gets a headstrong, wild princess as his wife. When it's time to retire to your marital chambers, you reveal your insecure side before melting in his arms.

words: 5.706

relationships: Cregan Stark x Reader // Cregan Stark x Arra Norrey (mentioned/briefly)

warnings: arranged marriage, mention of incest, insecurity,kissing, smut/ 18+, MDNI, wedding night, loss of virginity, virginReader, oral sex, softCregan, Cregan has a crush (this time he knows it), Cregan has a few dirty thoughts.

a/n: I had soo much fun writing this, I just love my two pookies soo much. Reader is Rhaenyras daughter and described with dark hair// no use of Y/N// English is not my first language// not proofread// A03 Have fun and be kind 🧡 requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist

The door lock clicks softly as it closes. Cregan lets his hand rest on the handle for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Your wedding had been a quiet affair. You spoke the words in Winterfells Goodswood in front of only a few Lords and your twin, Jacaerys. Cregan placed the cloak around your shoulders and took you under his protection. Cregan was worried that the small feast would be disappointing for a princess. You assured him that you didn't need much fuss and that a small ceremony was perfect.

Now, however it's time to retire with his new wife. Cregan straightens his shoulders slightly and turns to you. His chambers are bathed in soft candlelight, the fire crackles gently spreading a pleasant warmth.

You stand at the window and look out into the night. Cregan is sure you can only see your reflection in the glass. He pushes himself away from the door and takes a few steps through the chambers. As he does so he takes off his cloak and hangs it over the back of his armchair. The Lord of Winterfell can't take his eyes off you. You're still wearing your cloak, the large direwolf on your back making it clear to Cregan once again that you're a Stark now, his wife.

He doesn't know what you're thinking, can't judge how you feel. He doesn't know you well enough for that. By the gods, this is the first moment you're truly alone. His mouth goes dry and Cregan has to swallow. A strange mixture of joy, nervousness and excitement spreads through him. The young Lord can't stand the restlessness inside him and tries to break the silence with a joke.

"Should I be worried that you are going to jump out of this window?" he asks.

Relief floods through him when he hears your gentle laugh and you turn to him.

"No, don't worry," you say quickly. "Jace isn't here to be annoyed by that."

"You scared him to death. And me too, for that matter."

"You were worried about me?" you grin at him, your tone playful but a hint of something else sparkling in your eyes. Cregan isn't quite sure what you want to hear from him right now, so he speaks his mind freely.

"Of course I was worried. Your mother would surely have shown no mercy and bring fire and blood over the North if her daughter had died under my protection."

You blink briefly, considering his words before you shake your head slightly. "Don't worry, my Lord Stark, you only had to tell my mother that I jumped. She would have believed you immediately."

"Cregan," he corrects you quickly. "We're married now."

"Cregan," you say his name in a gentle voice, his heart leaping. You smile, seemingly pleased with the sound of his name on your tongue.

"So you often jump off somewhere and let your dragon catch you?" Cregan asks. He goes to the table and pours two goblets of wine. He needs something to keep his hands busy, and the wine might calm his nerves a bit.

You take the cup before answering. "Every now and then. But mostly, I like to annoy my little brother." Cregan pauses for a second at your words. He always thought Jacaerys is the older twin. He is after all the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir. He also knows that this isn't a topic for tonight.

"You're risking your life to annoy your brother." Cregan shakes his head slightly and takes a sip of wine. He still doesn't really know what kind of woman he has as his wife, but he's determined to find out.

"I knew Veraxes would come to catch me. She just needed more motivation."

"You have great faith in your dragon."

"Unwavering faith." your voice is suddenly serious, but your eyes sparkle with so much love for your dragon that Cregan doesn't know what to say. This time it's you who breaks the growing silence. "And with that, you know everything there is to know about me," you say with a slight shrug and take a sip of wine. Cregan pretends not to notice the slight trembling in your hand.

He laughs briefly. "I know absolutely nothing about you, my princess."

You snort slightly. "I'm not a little princess."

"Would you prefer a little minx?" he jokes.

You slap him gently on the upper arm, but laugh. "Then I would prefer Princess."

"As my wife commands."

If Cregan had stood just half a step further away he wouldn't have noticed the slight shivering in your body. "I like how that sounds," you say quietly, suddenly focused on your wine again. A blush spreads across your neck as you step back a little. Cregan suppresses the urge to pull you closer by your hips.

"My wife it is." he smiles, and a warm feeling spreads inside him. Still, he notices that you're embarrassed. "So which things do I supposedly know about you?"

You smile gratefully before answering. "First, I love my dragon more than anything. Second, I might be a little impulsive."

Cregan can't suppress a laugh. "The kiss was impulsive, jumping off the wall was insane." He bites his lip, he shouldn't have said that. He's worried he  offended you. However you start to laugh, your eyes sparkling as you look back at him.

"Then I fit perfectly into a long line of my insane ancestors. You probably know the saying about the Targaryens."

Cregan nods. "I didn't mean to say that I think you're crazy," he tries to backtrack.

"I now." you study him closely, square your shoulders before continuing. "I'm sorry about the kiss."

"Why are you sorry?" Cregan asks. Replaying this moment over and over in his head had become  his favourite way of passing time.

You look back at the window. "I caught you off guard, I didn't mean to."

This time Cregan manages to suppress his laughter. "Your jump caught me off guard. When you came shooting out of the sky to kill a bear, I was caught off guard. Your kiss was a pleasant surprise." he watches through the glass of the window as your lips curl into a smile again.

You turn back to him fully and take a deep breath. "We're married, and I want to be completely honest," you begin. Cregan is curious to hear what you'll say next, even though he can already guess. "That wasn't my first kiss."

"Jacaerys?" Cregan guesses. He knows the Targaryen family traditions and their reputation. People whisper things about the royal family that Cregan would never repeat in front of a Lady like you.

Still, he's a little relieved when you grimace in disgust. "Ugh, no. I know and respect our family traditions. And I also know what people say about Targaryens and my siblings. Still, I'm glad I didn't have to marry my brother, but got a handsome husband instead," you say. It takes Cregan a moment to wrap his head around the fact that you find him handsome. "It was one of my guards. I was fourteen and obsessed with silly stories and knights rescuing princesses out of towers.” you laugh at your own past self as you take off your cloak and lay it over a chair. Gently, your fingers trace the embroidered wolf. You're certainly not a woman who needs to be rescued from a tower. "Ser Massey was barely a man, just knighted. By Daemon himself. He even made him my personal guard. I had a very huge crush on him." you bite your lip. Immediately, Cregan's gaze is drawn to your lips, and he has to restrain himself from leaning in to kiss you. "I'm rambling. I'm so sorry."

Cregan's heart beats faster. "No. Please don't apologize. Now I know a third thing about you." He smiles. You open up to him and he could listen to you for hours. The gentle sound of your voice lull him in.

"You're not angry?" you ask, looking at him sceptically from the side. Cregan has to suppress a sigh. You don't fully trust him yet.

He doesn't care what came before. The only thing that matters is the future.

"No, my wife. Of course not. I was already married myself. I loved Arra. But that doesn't mean I won't open my heart to you." Cregan remains cautious. He's afraid of scaring you away, even though he knows his heart is only a few steps away from being yours. “Your past did not matter to me.”

You fascinate him in a way he's never experienced before, and that wild sparkle that sometimes appears in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat. And if he's honest, it also scares him a little bit.

Cregan has to pull himself together to bring his thoughts back to the moment. He watches you ponder before you straighten your shoulders and meet his gaze.

"It was never more than a few kisses between me and Arwin. So what I'm saying is, I'm still a maiden."

Cregan has to suppress the wave of lust that rises within him when you remind him of this. Now isn't the time.

"I thought so," he says honestly. The queen wouldn't let her only daughter grow up unprotected. Cregan only realizes he's said the wrong thing when you drain your cup of wine in long gulps.

The young Lord doesn't know what to say now. He's a widower, yet this situation is new to him.

Cregan knows secret kisses, secret meetings, he knows desire and a passion and longing for another that none can resist. Arra had been his long before their wedding night.

This is new. You're a princess, his wife, a maiden. Cregan has to pull himself together to stop himself to pull you closer and entwine your lips in a passionate kiss. He's wanted you since the moment Jacaerys proposed this marriage. Probably even earlier.  But of course, he can't tell you that. One step at a time. He wants to take away your insecurity as best he can.

In a gentle voice, he calls your name and you look back at him. "If you're not ready to share a bed tonight, that's perfectly fine. I will never ask for anything you're not willing to give."

Your gaze pierces him, but then something flashes across your face, and a heartbeat later, your gaze softens. Cregan realizes that you have made a decision.

"I'm ready," you say, taking a step forward and setting your empty cup on the table. Cregan is relieved to see that you don't back down again. His hand twitches. He'd like to take your hand, but he refrains from doing so as a precaution. A gentle blush rises again up your cleavage and neck. Cregan forces his gaze not to linger on the curves of your breasts. You meet his gaze before continuing. "I knew I was traveling north to get married, so I had a few extra days to think about what marriage meant. And when we were introduced and you agreed to the marriage, I… " your eyes flicker downward for only a split second before meeting his gaze again. "I've been thinking about what our wedding night will be like, what it will feel like. I've read about it, so in theory I know what's about to happen, and I know where to touch myself so it feels good."

Cregan has to swallow and concentrate on keeping his thoughts from wandering inappropriately. He fails. Would you let him watch you pleasure yourself? It takes all of Cregan's strength to stop his thoughts. One step at a time.

Your neck and cheeks have now turned a deep red. "But I don't know what it really feels like. I don't know what I have to do. I can't imagine it. It makes me nervous."

Your absolute honesty surprises Cregan, but he's glad for it. Cregan takes a deep breath before putting his cup down as well. He reaches out his hand to you.

You hesitate for a heartbeat before taking it and he gently pulls you against his chest. He places his other hand on your hip. Now that you're so close, he has to look down at you a little. His eyes linger a little too long on your breasts. Your pleasant scent envelops Cregan, but he can't let himself get carried away. Not yet.

"Do you trust me?"

You nod. "Yes."

Cregan is relieved by this, strokes your hand with his thumb before bringing it to his lips and blowing a kiss on your knuckles. You watch him with wide eyes, the purple tones in your eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

"I can show you what it feels like." his voice sounds a little rough. You shudder slightly, nervousness but also joyful anticipation radiating from you as you take a step closer. He breathes your breath now, inhaling your intoxicating scent deeply. "And you're sure you want it?" he asks one last time.

"Yes, I'm sure," you answer firmly. "I want to be your wife, I want to be yours in every way."

Cregan can no longer hold back after your words. His lips crash onto yours. You gasp in shock, but the next moment you wrap your arms around his neck and lean in. Cregan places his hand on your cheek, gently caress the soft skin while simultaneously pulling you closer to him by your hip. You melt beneath his touch, his tongue gliding into your mouth, gently stroking yours. Breathless, you separate. Your purple eyes sparkle, your lips are slightly swollen. Cregan thinks you've never looked more beautiful.

His skin tingles as you slowly slide your hand down his chest and stand upright again, your hand resting on his chest.

"That felt good," you say. Cregan's lips curl into a smile.

"Aye." he agrees. His heart stumbles in his chest as hot desire races through his veins. You look at him, and for a moment Cregan forgets everything around him. If you knew how hard he has to pull himself together not to take you immediately and make you his, you would probably run away screaming. Instead, you turn around in his arms turning your back to him.

"Will you help me with my dress?" you ask, smoothing your black curls out of the way.

Cregan begins untying your dress. His breath hits the skin of your neck and when he notices your slight shiver he can't help but place a gentle kiss on your neck. You immediately lean into his touch.

"How does that feel?" he whispers in your ear.

"Good." Your voice trembles. Cregan opens your dress further, pulling it down slightly and placing kisses on every exposed bit of skin. You slip out of the sleeves and finally Cregan can pull the dress down completely. He gives in to the urge to put his arm around you and gently press you against him while he kisses your neck. Your warm body presses against him, and you lean your head slightly to the side to give him more space. His hands stroke your side, he feels the warmth of your skin through the thin undergarment. A pleasant shiver runs through his body.

A soft moan escapes your lips. The sound spreads through Cregan's entire body, causing all his blood to rush to his middle. He's already addicted to the sound of your moans.

You gasp in shock when you feel his hardness against you. But when Cregan gently runs his tongue over your neck, you lean back against him. He manages to pull himself away and turns you around. He bends slightly on his knees, lets his arm slide into the back of your knees, and lifts you up in one swift movement.

"Cregan," you call, laughing as you wrap your arms around his neck to hold on tight. Cregan turns you around and carries you the few steps to the bed. When he's set you back on your feet, he lets his gaze wander over you.

His wife stands before him in a nightgown of fine, almost transparent silk, and Cregan is glad he forbid the bedding ceremony. This sight, you are only for him. Cregan wonders for a moment where this strong possessiveness comes from, but your gentle voice completely captures his attention.

"Do I please you husband?" you ask, the way the corner of your mouth twitches tells Cregan that you know you're beautiful.

Nevertheless, he takes the opportunity to compliment you. "You're breathtaking," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You smile gently at him before taking a deep breath. For a moment, uncertainty flits through your eyes, then you slip the straps of your nightgown over your shoulders. The fabric slides to the floor. You try not to let it show, but your hands tremble slightly betraying your nervousness.

Cregan lets his gaze wander hungrily over your perfect body. He's certain of one thing: If you allow him, he'll spend the next few weeks worshipping every inch of you.

"A bit unfair. I'm standing here naked, and you husband are still fully clothed." a smile plays on your lips. Cregan doesn't need to be told twice. He immediately begins to slip out of his clothes. You watch him. Warmth rises within him as he notices your gaze wandering over his bare torso, and you're probably unconsciously chewing your lower lip. Fuck Cregan wishes he could read your thoughts. He continues to undress, carelessly throws the clothes on the floor.

Your gaze is still on his body, as if you want to memorize every little scar, every inch of his skin. When your gaze reaches his midsection, your eyes widen and you swallow slightly. Cregan enjoys the ego boost. Your gaze flicks back up to his eyes.

"You can change your mind at any time. One word is enough. Anytime."

"I'm not changing my mind." despite the blush on your neck and cheeks, your voice is firm. You take a step toward him, place a hand on his chest, right on his thundering heart. "Is that okay?" you ask.

"Yes. Always. Touch me whenever you wish." he encourages you. Your hand gently caress his chest. You raise your other hand, stroking his arm with your knuckles. Your eyes follow the movement. Cregan's skin tingles under your touch. You stop at his shoulder, this time stroking his arm down. Your fingertips are warm. When you stroke his pulse at his wrist, a hot shiver runs through his entire body. Cregan intertwines your fingers.

Your gaze flickers from your hands to his eyes. A grin creeps onto your lips. "Anytime? Even if we argue?"

Immediately, his thoughts race and he imagines your eyes flashing with angry sparks, only topull Cregan into a passionate kiss in the next moment, that ends with him taking you on his desk while your nails leave bloody scratches on his chest.

At this thought his cock twitches and his heart begins to beat so fast in his chest that he's sure you can feel it.

He forces his attention back to the moment. Back to you. He has to pull himself together. You're still looking at him, now curious about his answer.

"Yes, even when we argue. Especially when we argue." he winks at you. Then he reminds himself that you're still a maiden. He's sure he'll get to know your temperament soon enough. Now isn't the time for that.

You nod. Cregan is glad you can't read his thoughts. "Okay, I'll remember that." you stretch slightly and gently place your lips on his.

Cregan resists for a heartbeat, then he places one hand on your cheek, grabs your hip with his other hand, and pulls you against him. His tongue slides into your mouth, claiming your mouth as his. You gasp softly as he deepens the kiss, your hands glide over his chest you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him. Cregan takes a step forward, pushing you slightly toward the bed. Without breaking the kiss you let yourself fall, pulling him with you.

The young Lord supports his weight with one upper arm so he doesn't crush you as he carefully places his body between your legs. He's painfully aware that if he pushed his hips just a little higher, his hard cock would brush against your core.

Your body radiates a pleasant warmth. Carefully, Cregan pulls his lips away from yours. He looks at you, your eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

"I want you to tell me what feels good." his voice heavy with his northern accent. You shiver in his arms. Cregan can't suppress a small grin, he'll remember that.

Your gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips and back to his eyes. Your eyes begin to sparkle in a way that simultaneously sends waves of hot desire through his body and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as if there were danger.

You don't even try to hide your grin. "Yes, my Lord." you almost purr as you gently press your body against his, his cock twitching, and it takes all his strength to hold back from pressing against your soft middle. Cregan is sure you know exactly what you're doing. He curses under his breath, and you begin to giggle before capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. "I told you, I have read about it." you stroke down his neck to his shoulders. Your touch is gentle, slightly uncertain. It grounds Cregan. He lets his lips gently wander over the skin on your neck, and you lean your head to the side. When he begins to place gentle kisses, you inhale sharply. You place your hand on his neck and begin to scratch his curls.

Cregan can't resist and sucks lightly on the soft skin of your neck. You gasp, probably unconsciously pressing your hips against him. The slight friction sends desire down his spine. As Cregan turns away from your neck, his mark decorates your skin. The sight makes his cock twitch slightly. You recoil, of course you feel his hardness pressing against your thigh. You pull him into a kiss again. This times its you who deepened the kiss, let him feel your desire for him.

Cregan begins to gently caress your body. He remembers every spot that makes you gasp, remembers where you're ticklish. He runs his hand over the soft skin of your neck, his knuckles caressing the curves of your breast, and you tremble beneath him. His lips travel down your body. He takes his time. He caresses you gently, kisses your soft skin, runs his tongue over your nipples, and moves lower. He takes his time. His hands and lips explore your body while he carefully observes your reaction. Your breathing quickens, you wiggle slightly beneath him, leaning into his touch. Cregan pushes your legs carefully apart  to make himself comfortable between them. His fingers caress the skin of your thigh.

"What are you doing?" you ask, slightly startled, as his lips move further towards your core.

"I thought you had read about this," he teases you slightly, kissing your hipbone. He notice the goosebumps over your skin.

"I did. But I thought that was only done with whores and mistresses," you say.

The corners of Cregan's mouth twitch slightly, but he continues to concentrate on kissing down your body. His hands stroke lower and lower down your thighs. Cregan isn't sure if you notice that you're leaning towards him, open yourself for him a little more.

"Why would I deny my wife this pleasure and give it to a whore?"

Suddenly, you flinch and look at him. Cregan stops in his tracks, straightens up slightly. You close your legs. Immediately Cregan slides back a bit. Even though everything inside him is screaming to push your legs apart and bury his tongue in your wet center. You set the pace here.

"Are you going to take whores into your bed?" you ask, and Cregan almost laughs at the thought. Your serious look stops him. Only a wildling would take a whore when he has a woman like you in his bed.

"No. Never," he says seriously.

Your gaze pierces him for a moment. He can see you thinking. "Good," you say after a moment, letting your head fall back against the pillows. "If I ever find out you did, I'll burn you with Veraxes." with those words, you open your legs for him again, a little wider this time. The threat should scare him but instead the sight of your pussy right in front of him sends hot desire racing down his spine.

Cregan can't stop a warm laugh from rising in his chest. " I have no doubt that you will," he says and then begins trailing kisses down your knee as he settles back between your legs again. "Relax," he says, noticing how his northern accent is thicker but that's no surprise given the sight before him. You spread your legs a little wider for him, your folds glistening with your wetness. Cregan has to restrain himself from pouncing on you and eating you out as if you were his last meal.

He slowly lowers his lips to your core. He carefully lets his tongue glide through your wetness. You flinch slightly, but Cregan gently pushes you down. He begins to place gentle kisses. Your intoxicating taste fills him. He has to moans softly. His tongue slowly runs through your folds, noticing how you relax beneath him. As he gently strokes your opening, you moan.

Your moan resonates through his entire body. Your moan is his new favourite sound, and if you allow it he'll do anything to hear it every day. He repeats the movement, then runs his tongue up. You squirm slightly in his arms. Your breathing quickens.

He lets his tongue flicker against your clit. You flinch. "That didn't feel good," you say.

"Okay," he says, moving back between your folds. He lets his tongue gently stroke your entrance again. You gasp again. He repeats the movement, feeling your body relax. You push yourself against him. After the third time is tongue circles you entrance you moan again as your fingers dig into the sheets.

Hot desire races down Cregan's back. Gods you make it very hard for him to hold back, still he needs to know what you like and what not. He will not let his wife left unsatisfied. Never. So he takes his time, lets his tongue exploring your core. Licking up every drop of your delicious wetness. Cregan watches every reaction you give him as he figures out what you like.

When he wraps his lips around your clit and gently sucks, you whimper again, arching toward him as your fingers bury themselves in his hair. This time his tongue flicker only soft over your clit, you didn´t flinch, instead you gasp.

Cregan groans. Fuck, he feels like he could eat you out the whole night. Nevertheless he removes his lips reluctantly from your core and sits up slightly. You let out a protesting gasp and look down at him.

"Patience, wife," he says, winking at you before his hand moves down your thigh, lets his knuckles glide over your bare skin. His cock is almost painful hard. Still he takes his time and caress your legs until he gets to your middle. Gently his fingers run over your entrance, gathering your wetness. You lean back against the pillows. Cregan listens to your breathing as he lets his finger sink inside you.

"How does that feel?" he asks, not moving his finger but slowly letting his lips sink back to your clit.

"Good," you reply, slowly pushing your hips forward so that a finger slides deeper inside you. Your hand grips the sheets. Cregan lets go of your clit as he pushes his finger further inside you, carefully moving inside you. After a moment, he adds a second one. He waits until you relax before he gently moves his fingers and begins sucking on your clit again.

You moan, your fingernails scratching his scalp. A shudder runs through his entire body. He moves his fingers inside you, curling them slightly and you moan again. He sucks on your clit as his fingers work inside you.

"Cregan… I…" your sentence ends in a moan. You flutter around his fingers as pleasure washes through you. Cregan slows his fingers, carrying you through your orgasm before slowly pulling them out. He sits up slightly, examining you closely. The skin on your neck and cheeks is slightly flushed, your purple eyes sparkle as you slowly catch your breath.

"We can stop." he begins but you don´t let him speak.

"No," you pull him up to you. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss. Cregan lets his cock stroke through your folds, gathering your wetness around his cock. You gasp softly, your hips thrusting toward him. Cregan places a hand on your hipbone to pushe you back into the soft fur. If you continue like this, he'll lose control. Cregan looks deep into your eyes as he slowly sinks into you. Your warm, wet walls surrounds his tip. Cregan needs all his self-control not to thrust into you. He keeps his gaze fixed on your face, watching your every move. You grimace slightly in pain. Cregan stops.

"I'm fine," you say, pushing your hips up to take him inside you. Cregan's grip on your hips tightens slightly again. His cock throbs. He needs a deep breath to stop the feeling that he's going to spend inside you in the next second. Fuck. You are incredible, feeling incredible. You make his blood run hot and clouds his brain with lust.

You gasp for air, but don't strain, so Cregan pushes a little further. He carefully slides into you again until he's completely seated. He closes his eyes, breathes in your scent, and tries not to lose himself into you.

"Are you good, wife?" he whispers, his rough voice in your ear makes  you shiver again. You blink away the tears in your eyes and nod. But that's not enough for him. "Words. Always words."

"Yes, I'm fine. Please move."

He pushes back slightly, then forward again. His rhythm slow, careful not to hurt you. You relax more with each thrust. Your hands begin to stroke his shoulders again, your lips find his neck. Goosebumps spread with your tender kisses. Cregan places a hand on your cheek, pushing your head back slightly so he can place his lips on yours. His tongue slides into your mouth, gently caressing. Your hand rests on his neck, leaning into his touch. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer. Cregan moans against your lips. Hot desire races down his spine.

"Fuck," he curses, letting go of your lips.

"Are you good, husband?" you ask, capturing his lips in a quick kiss. The gesture is so tender that Cregan has to smile. His heart floods with warmth.

"Yes. I'm very good, wife." he begins trailing kisses up your neck, lightly biting your earlobe. "You´re feeling like heaven." he can feel you pulsing around his cock. Cregan's body reacts automatically, and he sinks into you in one swift thrust. You moan again, moving your hips toward his. A yalyrian curse escapes your lips, the sound of your native tongue is like music to Cregan. He quickens his thrusts, and you push your legs a little further, allowing him to penetrate deeper. This time you both moan. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss, your tongues dancing around each other, your fingernails scratching the skin on his shoulder. Cregan strokes up your hip, his finger gliding over the edge of your breast. Sweat forms on his forehead. Thrust after thrust, he sinks into you. Intoxicated by your warm tightness, your gaps, your kisses. Cregan can no longer notice anything but you.

You begin to flutter around his cock again. He sinks deeper into you. Pleasure burns down his lower back, and he has to take a deep breath to keep himself from coming.

"Cregan," you moan his name into his ear as you come around him, and Cregan loses the fight with himself. A groan escapes his lips as he comes inside you. You gently stroke his neck, holding him tight while he thrusts into you a few more times until he spend himself complete. He kiss you forehead, your cheeks, your lips as you both slowly catch your breath.

He carefully pulls out of you, cum and blood seeping into the sheets beneath you but that's a problem for tomorrow morning.

Cergan lies himself next to you, pulls you into his arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. You snuggle into his arms, wrap your legs around his, and rest your head on his chest. Cregan is sure you can hear his rapid heartbeat. He gently strokes your arm. Calm spreads through the young lord.

"That felt good," you say into the comfortable silence, looking up at him.

“Incredible,” he agrees pulls you closer to him. He can´t get enough of the warm feeling of your skin against his. Suddenly, a shadow passes over your face. Cregan's heart sinks into his stomach.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he asks after a moment.

"Do you want me to leave for my own chambers?" you ask, he hears in your tone that you don't want to leave. This makes his heart skip a beat before it starts racing again.

Cregan's grip on you tightens slightly. The very thought seems absurd to him, as if he were going to let you go now. He knows it's not customary in your position to share a bed outside of marital duties, but he still wishes that you sleep beside him at night.

"You may try to leave this bed and these chambers. However you won't get far."

You laugh, genuine and warm. And Cregan has to correct his thoughts. Your laughter is his favourite sound, and he'll do anything to hear it every day.

[therogueflame]

Raised to Obey

omg hi guys!!

happy easter! this piece is based off this request from my dear friend, @uncoveredsun. she's an aemond girly through and through so ofc i had to make this one extra nasty. love you bye.

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Summary: You return to the court that shaped you, only to find the boy you once commanded grown into something dangerous. He follows you still, but not like he used to.

WC: 7.9k

Warnings: 18+, targcest, power imbalance, dubcon, (light) violcence, degradation, smut, oral (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, a little bit of brat!Aemond

Aemond Targaryen x OlderSister!Reader

They say nothing in the letter, but you know what it means.

The seal is plain. The wording neutral. Your presence is requested at the Red Keep, and your escort will arrive within the fortnight. There is no mention of the annulment. No word of House Tyrell or Ser Lyonel’s failure to bed his bride after seven long, silent years of marriage. No accusations. No apologies. Only a summons. Clean and simple and final.

The carriage ride feels longer than the voyage that first took you to Highgarden, but this time there is no veil, no lavender perfume, no bridal nerves tucked into your gloves. You wear your riding leathers beneath a heavy velvet cloak, the color too rich for a woman with no husband and no name. Your hands are bare. Your hair unadorned. Your mouth still set in that same quiet line, the one you learned to hold when the Reach looked at you like a storm they couldn’t contain.

The Red Keep has not changed since you left it. It rises above the city like a red god, towering and unyielding, its shadow spreading from the spiked towers to the streets below. The stones still glisten like blood when the sun hits them, casting an amber glow before dusk. The air still smells of oil and fire, a familiar tang of smoke and iron and promises burnt to ash. The guards still stiffen when you pass, their eyes bright with curiosity, unsure whether they should bow or look away and pretend they’ve not seen you. You catch your reflection in a shield as you walk through the gate, beneath the portcullis where you last saw the glint of sunlight on Aemond’s hair. You look like someone they thought was gone. A hush spreads in your wake, rippling through the corridors, a sweet echo of scandal that follows you like a shadow. Maids pause with linens half-folded. Courtiers shift and whisper as you pass, their conversations frozen. Your mother’s ladies offer faint, artificial smiles, the tilt of their heads betraying their impatience to be the first to tell her. You can hear the murmur before it reaches your ears. She’s back. She’s failed. She’s still childless. She was too proud, they say. Too cold. They say it in whispers, in glances, in silence that is more damning than words. They say the same things in King’s Landing that they said in Highgarden. Like a song passed from one musician to the next, they keep playing the same refrain. You recognize it all.

They know the match was political, a symbol more than a promise, a show of good faith as useless as a gilded parchment. That your wedding was a masterpiece of civility and nothing more. That Ser Lyonel Tyrell—gentle, golden, delicate—never once reached for you in the dark. That the garden never bloomed. That the Tyrells petitioned for annulment with grace and urgency, their letters riddled with concern for your soul. No heir. No bedding. No shame, only regret, tendered with the precision of an accountant’s ledger or a merchant’s bill of sale. And underneath it all, the unspoken truth: you were never meant to be someone’s wife. You were meant to be their burden. Their lesson. Their problem to solve.

When you left King’s Landing, you were Alicent’s daughter. Now you are something less and something more. The one who failed. The one who came back. The one who belongs nowhere except where others don’t want her.

You enter the throne room alone. No handmaid, no brother at your side, no welcoming line of lords eager to claim your favor. You walk with your spine straight, your chin lifted, each step purposeful. You expect to be ignored. Perhaps tolerated. Perhaps pitied.

You are not prepared for Aemond. Not for the way he commands the room like a lord, like a dragon, like something both regal and dangerous. The years have sculpted him into a stranger, one who stands just below the dais and a little apart from the others, his body angled toward the Iron Throne as if it belongs to him. His eye catches yours the moment you appear. You feel it—a burning and intrusive stare, hot and direct and deeply unfamiliar, as if he’s picking you apart, inspecting each piece polished or flawed. He is taller, much taller, than you remember. His shoulders broader, his stance lethal and still. The sapphire gleams cold and pitiless where his eye once was, a bright gem that seems to see everything, to miss nothing. His jaw is sharp now. His mouth cruel and knowing.

He wears the black of the court like armor, as if the velvet and silk could shield him from insurgents and assassins, and the longsword at his hip is heavy, solid, not for show. He watches you like a man appraising a threat, ready to draw blood, and when his lips curl, it is not in welcome.

You pause at the edge of the hall, and the years pause with you. Your gloves remain on. Your expression does not falter. But something inside you stills, freezes, like a river in winter.

Aemond doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge you before others can see. He lets the others gather near, shields himself with their presence. Lord Beesbury greets you with a thin, perfunctory smile, obscured by his drooping white mustache. Ser Harrold offers a nod, polite and stiff as his back. The queen smiles and, with effort, makes it convincing. No one mentions the annulment. Not yet. Not in front of Aemond, who watches it all with quiet, simmering amusement.

Then, slowly, with intention and certainty, Aemond steps forward.

He does not bow. He does not smile. “Lady Maidenflower,” he says, just soft enough that only you hear it, enough that it stings.

You turn your head just slightly, exactly enough to make him feel the weight of your reply. “Still clever, I see.”

His eye sweeps over you like a blade. He is not hiding the weight of it, the roughness of the cut. “You returned untouched, then. I’d wondered.”

“Lyonel Tyrell was a poet,” you reply, because you have sharpened your own edges. “Not a fool.”

“Poets rarely have the stomach for conquest.”

You meet his gaze without blinking, without flinching, though your heart still remembers how to race. “And you’ve always had too much of it.”

“I was twelve when you left.”

You tilt your head, and the movement is easy, graceful, scornful. “You still are, most days.”

That earns you a smirk, slow and deliberate, a lord’s smirk. A dragon’s. “Not anymore.”

He takes a single step closer. You don’t move. You let him come.

The pause between you stretches, heavy and hot and alive with unspoken challenges and renegotiated terms. His eye dips to your mouth, and it is not quickly, not politely, not as a brother should. When it rises again, it lingers.

You turn before he can speak again, before he can make you doubt or remember. You offer him no parting glance, no farewell. But you feel it as you walk away—his stare on your back, weighty and hungry. Not a boy’s gaze. Not a brother’s.

Let him look. Let them all.

You did not come back for their sympathy or to stand around, shrinking, while they trample your pride. The thought of wilted and drooping pity is almost amusing, withered and limp like Highgarden’s banner when the wind dies, and you refuse to let it gather at your feet like a folder of discarded marriage contracts. You returned because the summons meant something. Because they wanted you here. Because the annulment meant nothing. Because they are beginning to remember who you are and what you are worth. The realm has no place for a woman like you—a woman with no husband and no duty and no shame to parade—except when it needs one. You are still a dragon’s daughter, flames running molten where other women leave room for fear, and it seems they’re starting to recall the heat of their own blood. They thought a marriage would change you. That the Reach would wear you smooth and pliable. That seven years of silence would make you weak, complacent, eager to return with their leash around your neck. They were fools. You have not softened. You have stripped away everything unnecessary. You have become what you always should have been: scaled, certain, and dangerous. Aemond would be a fool, too, if he still believes he knows the girl who left. If he thinks the same breathless, reckless fool of a girl stands before him, he is welcome to try and find her, to search and search and find nothing at all. He will not.

It’s a few days before you see him again. Long enough that the ache dulls, the whispers shift, the court forgets to look twice. You don’t. You feel him in every corridor. His stare in the back of your skull. The words he didn’t say sitting heavier than the ones he did. You don’t seek him out. Not really. But when the sound of clashing steel drifts through the windows one morning, sharp and furious, your feet carry you there before you can stop them.

The yard is already thick with the sound of clashing steel and barked commands by the time you arrive, drawn not by curiosity but by the unmistakable pitch of Aemond’s voice, rising above the rest. You round the corner and find him standing over a boy barely older than twelve, sword in hand, patience worn thin. The boy is sweating and panting, bleeding lightly from the lip. Aemond says something low enough you can’t catch, but the tone carries and your stomach knots.

"Enough."

Aemond doesn't turn right away. The boy does, blinking at you like he's been thrown a lifeline, desperate and unsure. You step down into the yard without pausing, hands still gloved, shoulders squared, a defiance in each step. You know Aemond sees you, but he remains fixed over the boy, as if your presence is a small interruption. As if you are the one who should wait. As if waiting for the exact moment when his controlled apathy strikes deepest. He finally shifts, looking over his shoulder with slow, deliberate disinterest.

"You are not his commander," you say, your voice sharp and unyielding.

"I am his prince."

You take another step. "And you're still picking fights with boys too small to fight back."

That gets his attention. His eye catches yours and holds. The cut is deep, unrelenting, meant to wound. A quiet breath passes through the onlookers. No one moves. The boy backs away quickly, too smart to stay where the lightning is about to strike. Aemond sheathes his sword, but only halfway. His smirk is faint but not amused, a taunt that is both familiar and new.

"Would you like to teach him, then?"

You tilt your head. "I'd rather teach you."

His smile sharpens. "Then show me."

The court knows you well enough not to question it when you shrug off your cloak and take the spare sword from the rack. Your tunic is laced tight, boots steady, sleeves rolled. You are ready before they realize it, before you realize it yourself. You know the forms, the weight of the steel, the cadence of Aemond's skill. But you don't know the way the court watches now, not with surprise but with certainty, as if expecting exactly this. As if you haven't been gone seven years. Aemond stretches his neck as you step to the center. He doesn't offer the usual salutation. You don't bow.

When you strike, it's without warning. It feels right. Quick. Merciless. He parries fast, steel hissing, and the first clash draws a ripple from the men watching. You dance around him, light on your feet, quicker than he expects. It is a dance you thought you'd forgotten. The rhythm is familiar but off. He's faster now. Stronger. You are sharper. Angry. His blade grazes your shoulder. Yours slices along his side. He doesn't flinch. You don't, either. The heat builds quickly, sweat blooming beneath your collar. He presses harder, with more force, more insistence, more precision than the boy you thought you remembered. You give ground only to take it again. You used to beat him with speed, with patience, with quick, calculated precision. Now he meets you at every turn, matching blow for blow, circling like a predator who knows exactly where to bite.

How much he’s changed. How much he hasn’t.

How much you have.

When he finally gets you on your back, it's not clean. You stumble on loose gravel. He takes advantage, a fierce flicker of triumph in his eye. Your sword hits the dirt. Everything that’s happened since you left King’s Landing—the whispers, the annulment, the letters filled with false concern, the look on his face when you returned—everything that should have made this easy pinches sharp inside your lungs, more painful than his grip. His boot lands between your legs, arm braced against your throat. Not choking. Just holding.

Too close. An echo you can’t outrun.

You expect him to move. He doesn't.

His breathing is rough. So is yours. You can feel the sweat on his wrist, the heat of his body over yours. You look up. His hair is wild. His eye is burning.

"Still think I'm just a boy?"

You don't answer. His grip tightens just slightly. His fingers brush your jaw. He leans in, slow and sure, gaze locked to your mouth like it means something.

You shove him. Hard. He stumbles back, laughter spilling from his chest, not loud but knowing, as if you just gave him the answer he wanted. You roll to your feet before anyone can help you. Your chest is heaving, cheeks flushed, skin hot. You don't look at anyone else as you retrieve your sword and your pride.

"Lesson over?" he calls.

The pause stretches between you. You don’t let it hold. You shrug on your cloak with deliberate ease, the same ease you’ve cultivated since you returned. The hush follows you back into the keep. You feel his eyes like fingers pressing into your skin, a touch that lingers and burns and doesn’t fade when you reach the corridor.

It’s still there at supper. Fresh, insistent. No one else notices the bread you don’t eat, the soup that cools in your bowl, the wine you drink without tasting. You’re the only one who hears the hollow ring of his boot against your sword, echoing through the hall with every half-heard whisper. It doesn’t soften when your mother asks if you’re well, when the maids bring the third course, when the candles burn low. When your mother tells you it was wise to come home, you nod, polite and unconvincing. You take your leave, and the walls feel closer, the halls longer, the air colder.

You don’t think of him. You don’t think of the weight of his body, the feel of his fingers on your jaw. You’re only thinking of the cold when you tighten your laces, only thinking of the chill when you pace the length of your room. The scratch of the quill in the chamber next to yours is louder than you’d like, and the letters on your desk are too frantic and familiar to answer. You are not restless. You are thoughtful.

You think so hard you don’t realize you’ve left your chambers until you find yourself walking without thinking, past the solar, up the stairs, down the hall to the wing where he sleeps. You don't plan it. You don't knock.

You push the door open without a plan, breath quick and shallow from the unguarded walk. He’s there, not surprised, not even questioning your intrusion. Shirtless, lounging in a chair by the hearth, legs spread, as comfortable and confident as if he owned the place. He might as well. The heat of the fire licks the dampness from his hair. A goblet of wine sits comfortably in his hand; his sword rests close by, in easy reach. He looks up at you with an expression that feels both new and old, the same practiced disregard you once swore would never cut you again. Like he expected this. Like he’s been waiting. 

"Come to finish what we started?" 

Your throat tightens. Something in your chest does, too. The echo of it ricochets in your bones, and you shut the door with more force than you mean to. The sound is too loud, too final, but not enough to break the smile on his face. 

"You embarrassed me in the yard," you say. There's a catch in your voice you hope he doesn't hear. You step closer. He hums, not quite a laugh. Almost. 

"You embarrassed yourself." 

You bite back a retort. He watches you try, waiting for the hollow bite of it, waiting for something deeper. 

"You put your hand on me." The words taste more bitter than you expect, and he hears it. You know he does. He shrugs, the carelessness deliberate, and finishes the rest of the wine in a single, slow swallow. 

"You didn't tell me to stop."

Anger and something else lances through you, sharp and unmistakable. A flower blooming violent beneath your skin. "You're not a child anymore," you say. "Fine. But you are still beneath me." There's satisfaction in that. A small thrill. He sets the goblet down with a thin click, the faint trace of red staining the rim. His smile returns, slow and sharp, more a weapon than a jest. 

"Not where it counts."

You don't think, just move, a breathless reckless fool, too sure and too hurt to stop yourself. Your palm cracks across his face and his head turns with the force of it. The wine sloshes in his goblet when you strike him, but he does not drop it. He sets it down on the table carefully, eyes glittering with something you don’t recognize. He looks back at you with a hunger you've never seen before. A hunger that burns like dragon’s blood, searing and inscrutable. Not in him. Not from anyone. 

"Again," he says.

Your breath catches. There's no air in this room, this keep, this entire place. You stare at him. His smile flickers wider when you don't answer. You don’t have to. He knows. He knows. You step closer, and he rises from the chair as you do, caught on the same pull. The distance vanishes faster than you mean it to. Faster than you can stop. Fury frays and threads you together. The space between you disappears quick and final and damning.

"You think you've won something?"

He shrugs, every inch of his body unwound and lithe. "You came here."

"To remind you of your place."

"Remind me, then."

He moves too quickly. Or maybe you move too slow. His hands catch your waist and your spine hits the door hard enough to steal your breath. The night explodes in stars behind your eyes. He doesn't press. Doesn't hurt. Just holds you there with his body, chest against yours, breath hot on your cheek, the heat of him impossible to escape. You grab his wrist, digging in, nails biting soft skin. He holds the wince behind his teeth, gaze fixed on you like he'd die before looking away. 

"Let go of me."

The words are hard. 

"Lyonel never touched you, did he?"

Your hand tightens on his wrist, so hard it shakes. You slap him again, harder this time, and the crack of it splits in the air between you, a current setting stone to fracture. 

He laughs.

"Again," he says. 

You don't. But gods, you want to. You want to and you hate it and you hate him and you turn and leave before you remember how to breathe.

You leave him there with the taste of your own fury still on your tongue. Your hand aches. So does your chest. You don’t look back. You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie awake and stare at the ceiling, the canopy of your bed a cage you can’t escape, can’t untangle. His voice plays over and over in your mind. Lyonel never touched you, did he. The worst part is how softly he said it. Like a secret. Like a truth. Like he knew exactly where to cut, exactly where to let the worst of it bleed.

The candles burn low in your chambers. The chill nips at your windowpanes. You don’t feel it. You feel the ghost of Aemond’s fingers on your hips, his breath on your cheek, the tremor beneath his skin. Everything you thought you buried comes rushing back, rushing through you, rushing until it cleaves the air from your lungs. Why did you return? Why did you think you could stay away? You are not restless. You are not impatient. You are thoughtful, but that thought is wrapped around him like a noose. Like a bruise. Like a bright, sharp hope.

You came to win. You’ve already lost.

By morning, the bruises are already forming beneath the surface of your skin. The memory of Aemond's touch blooms purple and dark, echoes of his fingertips wrought in flesh. You wish the sensation of him would fade as fast. It doesn't. The court is louder now. You feel it in every corridor, every room, every shift in posture when you enter. It clings to you, an invisible murmur that grows teeth. No one says your name, but they don’t need to. You returned without a husband. Without a child. Without a claim worth anything except shame. You were sent to the Reach to secure the realm and came back with nothing but silence. So now they whisper.

She must have refused him.

She must have failed.

She must have been too difficult to want.

The echoes are just as loud as the words. Each clever jab works its way beneath your skin, seeds of doubt taking root and sprouting vines you can't cut through. Even your mother looks at you differently. Her voice is soft, but her eyes are measuring. The warmth she once kept for you has cooled into caution, as if your return might stain her skirts if you stand too close. Her questions come dressed as concern, but you know the shape of judgment. And the ladies at court, the ones who used to play cyvasse and braid your hair, now look through you like you’re made of smoke. They weave tales you can’t quite hear, tales that bleed from one mouth to another, tales whose edges are sharp and cutting.

They don’t ask, but their silence does. What did she do wrong? Was he kind? Did she cry? Did he ever touch her at all? Or did she come back just as she left, proud and unspoiled and completely alone?

You do not answer them. You do not give them the truth they seek, the truth that tugs too close to the center of you. You walk through the halls like nothing has changed, like you are still the same creature you were before. You are not. Aemond says nothing to you in court. He does not look your way unless others are watching, and even then, it is brief. Quick enough to pass as something else. But you can feel it. He lets the rumors curl around you like smoke, never once bothering to stop them. He could silence it. One word from him and the court would fall quiet. But he doesn't. He listens. He watches. He waits.

You find him in the yard again, a few days after the incident in his chambers. He's alone this time. No one dares train with him lately, not since the last sparring match left a knight concussed. He moves with that same quiet precision, that same lethal grace. The sun catches the sweat at his temple, his shirt already discarded and thrown to the side. Your skin prickles at the sight, at the memory of him even more unguarded, even more certain. You should leave. You don't.

You don’t know what you mean to say when you see him there, when you watch him move and remember the way he looked at you, the way he still looks at you. You don’t know what you mean to do when you feel the full weight of his indifference, of the stories he lets the court tell. But you are moving before you can talk yourself out of it. Before the bruises fade, before this second return becomes as hollow as the first. You are moving and it feels like a mistake, but you’ve already made that mistake before, already seen what comes of it. There's no going back. This time, you mean to win.

He sees you before you speak. Of course he does. He always does.

“You following me now?” he says without looking up.

“I could say the same.”

His blade drops slightly. “You never used to lurk.”

“You never used to be worth watching.”

He turns at that, slow and smooth. “Didn’t stop you before.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck. “I gave the orders. You followed them.”

“You think that’s still true?”

“You think it’s not?”

“You dragged me through the mud. Screamed at me in front of knights twice my size.”

“And you listened.”

He steps in close. “Try it now. See if I still do.”

Your breath catches. His voice drops, soft and deliberate.

“They say no man ever wanted you. That Tyrell barely looked at you. That you came back untouched because no one could stand the thought.”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

He tilts his head, close enough to touch. “Is that why you hate me looking?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He smiles, slow and awful. “I can’t stop.”

He steps closer, closing the gap with a slow, sure determination. You don’t move. You don’t even flinch. His face is inches from yours now, and everything about him pulls you in and splits you apart. You can smell the leather of his gloves, the salt on his skin, the faint scent of iron and heat. His hand lifts slowly. You feel the brush of his fingers at your jaw, soft, testing, like he’s taking measure of the space between breath and need and wanting. You could slap him again. You could turn and walk away. You don’t. Your breath is shallow. He watches your mouth. 

You step back. You leave. You don’t speak. You don’t run. You walk away with your back straight and your heart hammering in your ribs like it’s trying to claw out. 

That night, you dream of him. Of course you do. You dream of his mouth, the cut of his lips, the press of his body hot and unrelenting against yours. You dream of his hands, the rough drag of his fingers on your cheek, your skin, your throat. The way his voice dropped low, soft and deliberate. The way his voice dragged low when he said your name. You wake tangled in your sheets, flushed and furious and aching, and you cannot tell whether you want to kill him or keep him. 

It starts with silence. It starts with rooms you pretend not to linger in, corridors you just happen to walk through, doors you pass more slowly than you should. It starts with you lying to yourself—small, careful lies you don’t quite believe. You don’t mean to look for him. That’s what you tell yourself. You don’t mean to, not at first. Not at first, but you find him anyway. 

He’s in the yard. He’s in the hall. He’s at the table, two seats down, eating grapes one by one like they mean something. Every time you look up, he’s already watching. 

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That you are only keeping an eye on him. That someone has to. That it might as well be you. But the lie doesn’t last. Not when the heat flares again behind your ribs every time he speaks. Not when you walk past the training yard and stop to watch. Not when your name comes from his mouth and you have to swallow hard before answering.

You avoid him. Until you don’t.

You find him at the edge of the godswood, on a day when the sun beats down like a curse and the wind is too warm, your thoughts too loud and insistent. He’s leaning against the old heart tree like it belongs to him, as if it's only there to hold him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His head is tilted up to the canopy, eyes closed, jaw sharp. He hears you long before you mean to speak. Even from a distance, you feel the weight of his awareness. As you move closer, he turns slowly, the light catching on the scar beneath his eye, the gleam of the sapphire where it settles. He watches you like he’s been waiting.

"You’ve been restless," he says. "I can tell."

"You don’t know anything about me."

He pushes off the tree and takes a step forward. "I know you come looking for me and pretend you don’t."

You set your jaw. "You think too highly of yourself."

"No," he says, a crooked grin on his lips, closer now. "I think exactly enough."

You take a step back. He follows.

"What do you want?" he asks, voice low.

You hate the question. You hate that he asks it like he knows you don’t have the answer.

"Nothing from you."

He circles you now, slow and deliberate. "You used to look at me like I was a boy. Now you look at me like I might bite."

"Maybe I think you should be put down."

He laughs, a soft huff that barely leaves his throat.

"Do you know what it did to me?" he says. "You left. Married some wilted flower. Let him look at you like a prize he’d never unwrap."

You flinch. He sees it.

"He didn’t even try, did he?"

You snap before you can stop yourself. "No. He didn’t. He was afraid. They all are."

The words hang between you like smoke, pulled from the center of you, unplanned and brutal. You breathe them in and try not to choke. Aemond steps closer. His voice goes quiet.

"I’m not."

You shake your head. You want to run. You don’t. He lifts his hand, not touching you yet, just hovering near your cheek.

"Say the word," he says, "and I’ll make you forget every man who ever disappointed you."

You slap him. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t recoil. He lets out a sound that freezes you in place. A moan. A real one. Low and ragged like it was dragged from his chest. When he turns back to you, there’s a flush high on his cheekbone. His lips are parted. His eye burns.

"I knew you liked it rough," he murmurs. "I remember how you used to throw me down."

You stare at him, breath caught halfway between a curse and a gasp. He leans in closer, slow, measured. You don’t move.

"You used to knock the wind out of me. You’d say I was too soft. That I’d never survive the yard unless I learned to take a hit."

"You never did learn."

"That’s not true," he says. "I learned to like it."

You shake your head again, but your fists stay at your sides. Your feet don’t move.

"You think this is a game."

"No," he says. "I think this is exactly what we’ve both been waiting for."

Your pulse roars in your ears. The godswood is quiet, but everything feels too loud. Too close. His breath brushes your cheek.

"Tell me to stop."

You leave him standing in the godswood, breath shallow, palms hot, the trees watching like they know what you almost said. You don’t speak. You don’t run. But you can’t quite breathe either. You walk back through the Keep like you’re sleepwalking, like you might burn through the floor if you stay still.

Night sinks in around you. The walls feel tighter. The fire in your chamber roars too hot. You pace. You pour wine you don’t drink. You open the window and shut it again. You think about sleeping. You think about forgetting. You think about how he looked at you when he said I’m not.

You tell yourself not to go. And then you do.

The hall outside his door is empty. The candlelight flickers low. The door isn’t fully shut. As if he left it waiting.

You don’t knock. You don’t speak. You step inside, and he’s already there. Shirtless, again. Hair damp. Leaning against the table like he hadn’t moved since the godswood. His eye finds yours and doesn’t flinch. You close the door behind you. You don’t lock it. He watches you cross the room without saying a word. He doesn’t ask why you’re here. He knows.

“I didn’t come for this,” you say.

He nods, slow. “Then say no.”

You don’t. He pushes off the table and walks toward you like he already knows how this ends. Like he’s dreamed it a hundred times and every version ends the same. He doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. He waits.

You’re the one who moves. Your hand fists in the collar of his shirt and drags him closer. Your mouth hovers near his, your breath unsteady, your body already too warm. You don’t kiss him. Not yet.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then you break. You kiss him like you’re furious. Like he’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel anything and you’d rather drown in it than say it out loud. His hands are everywhere. Yours are worse. There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing sweet. You don’t want sweet. You want to be ruined.

You want to ruin him back. The table knocks over. His back hits the wall. Your boots scatter across the floor. You don’t stop. You don’t think. You don’t ask. When he lifts you up and carries you to the bed, you let him. When he lays you down and looks at you like you’re the first real thing he’s ever wanted, you don’t speak.

He peels back your clothes with a precision that makes you ache, each layer a secret he's uncovering. Your shift falls away, and he stares at you like you're sacred. Like you're something he shouldn't touch but will anyway. His hands are rough, calloused from years of swordplay, but they move across your skin with a reverence that makes your breath catch. You don't want reverence. You want him to hurt. You want to hurt him back.

You flip him beneath you, straddling his hips, hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eye widens, pupils blown, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. You lean down, hair falling around your face like a curtain, and bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of copper fills your mouth. He moans, hips bucking up against yours.

"Is this what you wanted?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper. "To ruin me?"

His fingers dig into your hips, bruising and possessive. "I wanted to be the one who touched you first."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Not everything is yours to claim."

"No," he says, flipping you beneath him with a strength that makes your breath catch. His weight settles between your thighs, delicious and heavy. "But you are."

You should fight. You should push him away. But your body arches into his touch, craving the heat of him, the burn of his skin against yours. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse, and you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He hisses against your skin, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Tell me to stop," he says again, but this time it's different. It's not a challenge. It's a plea. You can hear the need beneath it, raw and desperate. It would be so easy to tell him no. To walk away. To leave him as broken as you've been. Instead, you pull him closer.

"Don't stop," you whisper against his mouth. "Don't you dare stop."

He trails kisses of fire down your body, spreading your thighs open and bringing his face close to your core. His breath is hot, his mouth everything you expected and nothing like you imagined. You choke on a sound that might be a sob, that might be his name, that might be something you’ve never said to anyone. There is a feeling of novelty between your legs. You don’t know what to do with it, what to call it. You don’t know how to stop it. His tongue traces a path that makes you gasp, your body shuddering beneath him, and every scrape of his teeth sends a shock to places you forgot you had. He pins your hips with his hands. Holds you there until you think you might scream, might call him something you’ll regret. You writhe, helpless and hungry, his mouth pushing you toward something you can't recognize but can't resist. It's new and wild and terrifying. It's more than you were ready for. You feel it building beyond your control, burning through you, breaking you down, and he's relentless. You’ve never been this close to shattering. You’ve never wanted to.

When it crests, it's like wildfire—unstoppable, consuming, spreading through your limbs until you're arching off the bed, his name torn from your throat. He holds you through it, mouth still working, drinking in every tremor until you push him away, too sensitive to bear it.

He moves up your body like he's been waiting his entire life for this moment. He's like a predator, but one who is starving, respectful, already intoxicated by your essence. His mouth is slick, his eyes are wild, and his hair is tousled from your touch. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a wave of heat through you. It makes you want to hide. It makes you want to be consumed.

He pulls back just enough to truly see you, and something raw and broken flickers across his face. You watch it shatter within him. You feel it cracking beneath your ribs.

His hands tremble as they explore your body. They're not hurried now, not greedy. Just desperately seeking. He wants to discover what makes you gasp, what makes you tremble, what makes you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his shoulders, calling his name like a curse.

Both of you are frantic, lost in something that has been building since the moment you returned. Since before that. Since before you left. Since forever.

When he finally sinks into you, the sound that tears from your throat is something between a sob and a moan. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But it's the kind of pain that feels like salvation, like something breaking open inside you that's been locked too long. He watches your face as he moves, drinking in every reaction, every gasp, every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His pace is relentless, punishing, exactly what you need and nothing like you imagined.

"Look at me," he growls, and you do. You meet his gaze and don't look away, even when it feels too intimate, too raw. His eye burns into yours, the sapphire gleaming in the firelight like a second witness to your surrender. "Say my name."

You bite your lip, refusing at first. His hand slides between your bodies, finding the place where you're most sensitive, and your resolve crumbles.

"Aemond," you gasp, the syllables breaking on your tongue like a prayer. "Aemond," you breathe again, and again, like a confession you can't keep hidden anymore.

His rhythm stutters at the sound of it, his name on your lips like a spell he never thought you’d cast. It tears through him, wild and fierce and reckless, like it can’t be contained. His pulse surges with the rush of possession, with a pride that borders on madness. The moment is electric, charged, impossibly taut. He crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, as if your voice alone could undo him, as if all your protests only fuel him further. The pace is dizzying, the edge razor-sharp, and you’re close, so close to something you've never let yourself feel before. Not like this. Not this blinding. Your body arches into him, desperate and unguarded, and you cry out, nails scoring down his back, leaving trails that scream of violence, of passion, of the pain you both need and the pleasure you can’t tell apart. He hisses at the sting, but the sound is nothing like surrender.

"You're mine," he growls, branding you with his words, his teeth grazing your throat, the promise lethal and soft and everything you’ve ever wanted to deny. "Say it."

You choke out the word, shaking your head as you do, still defiant even as your body says otherwise. Even as it betrays you, traitorous and unrelenting, your resistance splintering like ash before a torch. "No." It's barely a whisper, a last stand against the fire, but even you don’t believe it. You clench around him, pulling him deeper, binding him to you with every shuddering breath. He tightens his grip in your hair, and the pull arches your back, exposing your neck, your pulse, the truth you're trying to hide.

"Lie to me again," he says, his voice fractured with desire, the edges rough, unsteady. "And see what happens."

His eye is locked on yours, shining full of hunger and something else. Something that makes you want to give in just to see what it would do to him. You meet his gaze with a challenge, despite the tremor in your voice, despite the pleasure that is slowly unraveling you. "I am not yours."

His lips curl into a smile that is nothing but teeth and intent. He slows his movements with devastating precision, pulling out so slowly it feels like a loss, thrusting back in to make you pay for every lie, for every second you didn’t admit you were his. The impact shatters your defenses, touching something deep inside that makes you want to come apart. Makes you want to break just so he can put you back together.

"Liar," he breathes, but the word is tangled with awe, with worship, with disbelief that he ever let you go. His hands are brands on your skin, holding you in place as he moves, marking you with fingers as determined as his heart, as his claim, as his promise.

You’re losing. You’re lost. Your resolve crumbles, rushing out of you so quickly you feel dizzy with it. The pleasure winds tight, impossibly tight, spreading through your body faster than you can stop it, faster than you can pretend you don’t want it. You’re on the brink, teetering at the edge, and you can’t pull back. Can’t stop it. Can’t stop any of it.

"Say it," he demands, pushing you to the point of no return, his rhythm pushed to the breaking point as his control slips. As he starts to fall apart with you. "Tell me who you belong to."

You want to fight him. You want him to bleed the way you did. You want to be empty of him. You want him to lose the same way you did. You want to give him nothing. You want to watch him break. You want him to hurt the way you did. You want to give him everything. You want him to know it. You want to ruin him as he's ruined you. And suddenly, you are. The word leaves your throat like it’s tearing you apart, like it’s putting you back together. The admission is pain and salvation. The confession is agony and release. "You." The silence shatters. Your resolve shatters. Something wild and desperate between you shatters. You come undone with it, unable to hold anything back. Your voice, your control, the last of your resistance. "You," you whisper, the sound already gone. "You, Aemond."

It breaks something in both of you. He kisses you then, deep and consuming, and you fall apart beneath him, waves of pleasure wracking through you, your release a storm breaking against the shore. He follows you over the edge, his own release a fierce, primal claim, his body tensing above you, inside you, around you. The sound he makes is raw, unguarded, nothing like the prince who holds his emotions in check. His forehead presses against yours as he shudders, as he spills himself inside you, marking you in the most primitive way. You think he might have forgotten how to breathe, how to hold back, how to be a dragon and not a man. You think you might have forgotten the same.

It leaves you both unmoored, wild and vulnerable, unable to hold anything back. Every moment is a fracture, a split-second proof of his soul laid bare. Every tremor a piece of you given in ways you never thought you could. Never thought you would. The heat of him, the weight of him, it should feel like too much. It should feel like surrender. You should feel conquered, defeated. But for the first time, it feels like exactly what you’ve been wanting. Exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

It takes an eternity for the storm to pass, for the world to settle around you, but you hold fast through it, to him, to each other. You feel it long after the shakes subside, after your bodies run out of breath and fury and will. The truth of it so potent you can’t suppress it. Can’t deny it. Not even to save yourself. For a moment, neither of you move. His breath mingles with yours, ragged and spent. His weight is heavy, but you don't push him away. You can't. Your fingers trace the scars on his back, mapping the history of a boy who became a man you didn't recognize. Who became a man you couldn't resist.

When he finally rolls to the side, you feel the chill of the room rush back, reminding you of where you are. Who you are. What you've done. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your body humming with remnants of pleasure and something heavier. You should leave. You should get up, gather your clothes, and slip away before the castle wakes. Before reality returns. Before the weight of this settles fully on your shoulders. Instead, you stay.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, following the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, like he's memorizing the map of you. Neither of you speak. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it's heavy with things unsaid. With questions neither of you are ready to answer.

"They’ll know," you whisper, voice ragged from crying out his name.

He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at you—calm, unreadable—as if the words mean nothing at all.

"And?"

You swallow. "You don’t understand what they’ll say."

"I do." His voice is flat, unbothered. "They’ll say what they always do. It changes nothing."

You push his hand away, sitting up fast. "I’m not yours to claim."

His eye flicks to you, sharp and steady. "I never said you were."

That catches you off guard—but before you can speak, he adds, quieter this time:

"You chose this. Just like I did."

[dedicatednotobsessed]

Winter's Solstice [Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader]

Other HOTD stories

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Summary: Being the heir’s eldest daughter, Rhaenyra had decided it was time to wed you off to strengthen her claim to the throne- a Lord at that. She settled on Lord Cregan of Winterfell, seeing you were similar in age and the Starks were to be one of her better allies. Although it is clear you do not want to be forced into this marriage, Cregan proves he will be a good husband to you…

Warnings in this one shot: None.

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You chewed on your bottom lip, standing in your chambers as you stared at the dress before you. It was a gorgeous pale blue with white fur lining the sleeve cuffs and neckline. It was a gift from your soon-to-be husband and the Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark. The marriage was to ensure an alliance with the North, which your mother, Rhaenyra, told you before she shipped you off.

Being the eldest, it was your responsibility to set an example for your brothers, no matter how much you didn’t want to marry a Stark. A part of you wanted to get on your dragon, Nekaris, and fly across the Narrow Sea and never return, but your mother reminded you it was the duty of your House. 

You sighed deeply before a familiar voice rang out, “I believe you’re supposed to put the dress on instead of staring at it.”

You gasped and turned, running to your brother and giving him a crushing hug. “Jace!”

Jacaerys chuckled, wrapping his arms around you and returning your tight embrace. “I’ve missed you too.”

“I didn’t know if you were going to show up,” you whispered, nuzzling into his neck. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss my sister’s wedding,” Jace replied, pulling away from the hug, his matching dark curls falling into his face.

You giggled lightly. “Did you happen to bring Nekaris with you?”

He sighed at the question. “No, and she has been grumpy without you on Dragonstone.”

Your smile faltered. “Perhaps she can sense my emotions here from Winterfell,” you tried to jest. “I do get rather lonely.”

“Has Lord Cregan not made you feel welcome?” Jace’s tone was anything but playful. Although he was younger by a couple of years, he was still protective of you. He would say it was his duty as the eldest brother to protect you.

You scrunched your brows together, looking down as you fiddled with your fingers. “He has,” you replied. “He made sure I felt welcomed by buying me a new wardrobe that was more fitted for the weather and even jewelry that matched. It’s just…” You blew out a deep breath. “It doesn’t feel like home, and I’m afraid it never will be.”

Jace frowned at that. “I know Dragonstone will always be your home, but Y/N,” he began, reaching out and taking your hand. “You need to keep an open mind, at least. Be thankful Alicent Hightower did not get her way, or you would be wed off to the likes of Aegon by now.”

You made a face at the mention of your Uncle. When you were younger and living in the capital, the queen had proposed to your mother to betroth her to her eldest son. However, your mother was quick to shut down the match. 

A light chuckle passed Jace’s lips at your expression, and he moved his hand from yours to the small part of your back. “Come, let me help you dress.”

As Jacaerys began brushing through your curls, the door opened again. Before you could ask who it was, Jace said, “I thought Mother told you to wait.”

“I was only wondering what was taking so long,” Lucerys replied, standing in the doorway. “And I’ve missed my sister. I thought I could escort her to the party.”

You turned, offering Luke a warm smile. “I would love that.”

Luke’s smile widened slightly as he walked further into the room. “Dragonstone hasn’t been the same without you.”

“I bet it’s boring being stuck with Jace,” you teased, shooting your brother a playful smirk.

Jace chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed a pale blue ribbon to match the dress. “Certainly don’t miss your teasing.”

You scrunched up your nose, watching Jace pull a few strands of your hair together, tying the ribbon into a neat bow. You sighed deeply, staring at your reflection, your brothers standing behind you. You couldn’t recognize the girl looking back at you; the dress was different from the ones on Dragonstone in style and color.

“Let us escort you to the feast,” Jace began, holding his arm out for you to take while Luke came up on your other side. “We can’t have the guest of honor be late to her own party.”

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Your hands became clammy as you approached the feasting hall, and your stomach fluttered with nerves. Cregan had tried everything to ensure your comfort in the North, but some of you didn’t feel welcome.

“Everyone is staring,” you grumbled to your brothers. The handmaidens and servants paused to bow respectfully.

“They’re staring at how beautiful you are,” Jace replied, his eyes staying ahead with his head held high. 

You glanced at him, swallowing a lump in your throat. Growing up, Jacaerys always had an aura of confidence while every royal in the court whispered about your parentage behind your back. You weren’t blind; you knew who your father was from the curly hair and deep blue eyes. You wished to play a fool for your brothers’ sake, although it seemed Jace and Luke were becoming wiser.

You smiled when you saw your mother waiting for you outside the feasting hall, dressed in her House colors. Rhaenyra, with a wide smile on her face, walked closer to her three eldest children. “My girl,” she whispered, touching your cheek. She pulled you into a hug, closing her eyes. 

You returned her hug, closing your eyes at the familiar warmth. “I’ve missed you, mother.”

Rhaenyra smiled, pulling away, tucking back a curl behind your ear. “We’ve all missed you as well.” She scrunched up her nose, looking over your attire. “And it seems you’ve already become a Northerner.”

“I still prefer my red silks.”

“I know, my sweet.” She let out a sigh, stepping away. “But come, you shouldn’t keep everyone waiting.”

“I’d rather have a grand entrance.”

Rhaenyra laughed, stepping aside as the doors to the feasting hall opened. She fell in step behind you and your brothers, your eyes turning to the head table where the Lord awaited you. Your handmaiden, Emmelyne, teased you that even though you’re trapped in this cold hellscape, you would have a nice view greeting you every sunrise.

Cregan headed down the steps to meet you, his blue eyes taking in your appearance. “Princess,” he greeted, taking your hand in his.

You felt your cheeks heat up as he leaned down, kissing your knuckles lightly. Cregan straightened his back, nodding at your family, your mother guiding your brothers to their spots. You thanked him quietly when he pulled out your chair for you, sliding in and offering him a small smile when he took the place on your left.

“You look rather beautiful tonight, Princess,” Cregan complimented, leaning over to fill your cup of wine. 

“Thank you, mi’lord.” You met his blue eyes, smiling more at him. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Cregan chuckled. “Thank you, but I could never match the beauty of a Princess.”

The heat rose back to your cheeks causing Cregan to laugh lightly. “I noticed your mother did not bring your dragon along,” he said after a moment. 

You nodded, picking up your cup of wine. “Dragons don’t like the cold,” you explained before taking a small delicate sip. You heard tales of how the alcohol tasted bitter in the North, especially the wine. However, the taste was a pleasant sweetness on your tongue.

“Does that include yourself?”

You kept your eyes on your cup of wine, lightly tracing its rim while you licked your lips lightly. “I don’t like the cold when I’m forced to live in it.”

Cregan’s smile faltered, letting out a deep sigh. His chair creaked as he relaxed in his seat, sipping his wine. You looked over at him, noticing his eyes on the lively crowd. He hummed, furrowing his brows. “Come with me, Y/N,” he said, setting his cup down after a moment.

“M-Mi’lord?”

“No one will know we’re gone for long,” The brunette began as he stood up, offering his hand to you. He added, “And if they question my whereabouts, I will simply tell them not to question their lord.”

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You felt a shiver run through your spine as you were met with a kiss of Winterfell’s cold to your face. Your fur-lined dress helped battle the cold, if only it were a little. You hugged onto Cregan’s arm, blowing out a breath and being able to see it in front of you. 

“Where are you taking me, Mi’Lord?” You asked, looking up at him. 

“Cregan.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t have to call me Lord if we are to be husband and wife.”

You stumbled for an answer but nothing came out when he looked at you with his icy blue eyes. Cregan chuckled at the bashfulness and rubbed your knuckles lightly, looking ahead while he began leading you through the Godswood of Winterfell.

“Tell me about your dragon.”

“Nekaris.” You smiled saying her name. “She’s a beautiful white dragon that is very protective of me. She does not have the kindest personality,” you explained with a content sigh, the shyness slowly leaving you. “Her name means Lady of the Snow.”

Cregan snorted. “That is an amusing coincidence.”

You nodded in agreement, falling back into silence with him once more. Soon enough, you arrived at a heart tree, your brows scrunching in confusion. “Why did you bring me here, Mi’L- C-Cregan?” You corrected yourself when he turned to face you, taking both of your hands in his.

You were thankful for the cold giving you rosy cheeks, concealing the blush that Cregan never seemed to fail to give you. His bigger hands were warm against your small warm ones, looking up to meet his gaze. It was a gentle stare as he took in your features before reaching up to tuck a loose curl behind your ear. 

“By the next moon turn we will be husband and wife,” Cregan stated the obvious, moving his hand to grip your chin lightly. “I know you are uncomfortable here and will never see this place as your first home, but I will continue to be a kind husband. I will make sure you will want for nothing being my wife. You will rule by my side and we will raise our many children together.”

You giggled at the last part, closing your eyes as he leaned down to kiss the crown of your head, his long hair lightly tickling your face. “I do have one request.”

“Yes, Y/N?” Cregan asked, pulling away slightly while smiling down at you, squeezing your hands lightly. 

“Although Nekaris doesn’t like the cold, I would like a dragonpit built so I can bring her here and fly her as I please.”

Cregan chuckled, tugging you close to his body, wrapping his arms around your waist and giving you another gentle kiss on your head. “Consider it your wedding gift.”

[justcallmecj]

Seeing Your Dragon Form: Vice's+Ruggie and Floyd

Trey

Trey was a lot more chill about this than you were expecting him to be.

He agreed to come with you with no problem, and when you came out of the mist and he saw you, he looked like this was all normal.

He quickly approached you and stretched his arms towards you. You brought yourself closer to the ground to make it easier for him to reach your head.

Gently, Trey pet your head. Running his hands across you snout and up to your horns.

He always made sure to keep eye contact with you if you were looking at him. Your e/c eyes and his golden colored eyes locked together.

He constantly made small talk with you, asking simple yes or no questions or simply telling you about something random.

Unbeknownst to you, on the inside, Trey was freaking out!

You reminded him a puppy! (Quite a deal larger than an actual puppy, but his view is still valid.)

He's used to keeping some form of a rational, adult face all the time. You, Riddle and Chenya are really the only ones who have seen the childish side that he has.

Because of this, he didn't want to just full on fawn and freak out on you. He also didn't want to risk overwhelming you.

He opted to waiting for you to be human again, where you could speak, to ask any questions he had.

Later that day, when you had turned back into your fae form, he asked. Surprisingly, he had a lot of questions.

"I'm proud of you, Y/N. I'll let you do what you want for right now, but when we get back to the dorm, prepare for questions, alright?"

Ruggie

He was very skeptical when you asked if he wanted to see your dragon form.

He immediately thought that you wanted something out of this (like to eat him).

With plenty of skepticism, he followed you out to your spot in the woods and waited patiently for you to come out of the mist.

Seeing you had him stunned for a solid 2 minutes.

Now, you and Ruggie have been friends for a long time now, and he knows that it's you, but he had a rough childhood.

You were about 4x his size, serrated claws, razor sharp teeth and covered in spikes. Everything about you screamed DANGEROUS.

It was like staring down everything that he taught himself to stay away from.

Then you did something he wasn't expecting.

You sat quietly and gently tilted your head to the side. Your e/c eyes gazed into his with a look he feels is familiar to him.

Then he remembered. Once, when one of his younger brothers had gotten into a fight, he came home looking roughed up and dangerous. But the moment Ruggie came to patch him up and they met eyes, his brother gave him a look that extremely contrasted that roughed up state he was in. His brother was soft and on the verge of crying.

Looking at you, it was the same thing. Ruggie got the same feeling he did back then. You looked scary and dangerous, but he knew that you were still the same softy that he sees everyday.

Finally, he got over his initial feelings and strutted towards you. He ended up right under your head, forcing you to look down at a weird angle to see him. You adjusted yourself and brought your head to his level.

Just as Ruggie had done with his brother, he patted you on the head. It instilled a feeling of contentment in you and your eyes slowly fluttered shut. Soon, a gently hum ran through your throat and hit Ruggie with the vibrations since he was still patting you.

"Wow, that worked a lot better than I thought it would. Y'know, all this nice treatment from me will cost ya, Y/N~"

Jade

You had his curiosity extremely peaked.

He must admit, upon meeting you and learning you were a fae, he thought about what you may look like as a dragon whenever he was with you.

He never said anything, out of courtesy and politeness. But now that you were offering him the chance, he took it with no hesitation and never held his tongue about anything.

You had asked him during on of the very few times Floyd wasn't with him, meaning at was just you two. (You still can't tell if that made things better or worse)

Jade was unaffected by the mist, and the extra amount of cold you radiated.

The first thing he did? Go to your tail. Him being an eel, he has one himself. For some reason, he wanted to find out how different yours was from his. He's never been able to get good looks at the tails of the beastmen at school, so you were his best example.

He poked and prodded at the spike that ran down it. Not that you minded, there was no feeling there and if they were to break, they'd grow back quickly. There was only feeling in your spikes when in fae form.

Soon, he had gathered all the information he needed for the time being. He then sat by your snout, which had been on the ground as you had laid down.

He held a pleasant conversation with you. You couldn't respond, but he didn't care. He spoke of things that really didn't need you input but still kept you entertained, which was his goal.

At times, he unconsciously start petting and stroking you. Running a hand across your hand(?) and claw, soft head pats, gentle rubs behind your ears, things like that. You decided to take a nap due the peaceful sounds of the woods and Jade's calming voice.

"You never cease to stretch my thoughts of you. When I think I have you figured out, you surprise me." He can only hope you can't hear him right now.

Floyd

Unlike with the others, it wasn't you who suggested him seeing your dragon form, it was Floyd.

He had been insistently pestering you about it for weeks now. Both Azul and Jade have tried to get him off your back but he just pops back up and asks again.

Eventually, you gave in.

Upon the disappearance of the mist, he was already on top of you.

Without notice, he poked at your sides, claws and wings. You barely even had enough time to figure out what he was doing before he moved on to investigate somewhere else. He stayed away from your tail though.

You even allowed him to climb onto your back for a while. He didn't stay long though, he found the scales to be too uncomfortable to stay there much longer.

Eventually, he opted to spend some time near your head, so he could spend the rest of the time with you.

For a while, he was surprisingly chill with you, but then mood swings decided to pay a visit.

He got frustrated that you couldn't talk back, or more so at the fact he couldn't understand you. He just really wanted to know what you were saying to him.

You thought of just not saying anything to not further escalate things, but then realized he be even more upset if he felt you were ignoring him.

You've been friends with Floyd for a long time now, and you've gotten pretty good at handling his mood swings. The moment you felt he was getting too frustrated, you took action.

You brought your tail towards him and pushed him over. He fixed himself and caught sight of your face. You may be a dragon right now, but he could tell that you were smiling at him and laughing in your head. He saw what game you were trying to play easily.

You two playfully wrestled with each other for a long time. He would climb around and you'd gently knock him over. Things like that.

"Umitsubame-kun! I knew it be a good idea to do this. We could've been having this much fun sooner if you had just listened to me when I first asked~"

Jamil

Jamil was a lot calmer than his Scarabian counterpart.

He will admit though, he's been curious about what you may look like. Just like Kalim, he doesn't have much experience with dragons, real or fake.

The mist was freezing to him, though, considering where he grew up, that's no surprise.

He didn't quite know how to respond.

You looked awesome! But he didn't know what to do from there. You two just kinda stared at each other for a while, neither moving.

Then you took the lead.

You walked up to him (it only took you like three steps) and raised your hand(?) into the air.

He flinched, thinking you were gonna crush him, but then froze when he felt himself rise into the air.

When he opened his eyes he saw that you had picked him up and held him in your palm.

Luckily he's spent enough time on the flying carpet to not be afraid of heights.

You brought him close to your snout and in a moment of no better ideas, he gently placed a hand on the tip of your nose.

Your scales were freezing cold, and while he expected the air you exhaled to be warm, it was just as cold as your scales, if not colder.

Now he was a lot more comfortable with the situation, meaning he started doing more.

He asked questions, then realized that you couldn't speak. He then decided to change his method and asked yes or no questions. They started as one about your dragon form, then the conversation drifted off into other subjects. School. Food. Dorm life. Other students at school.

He asked if changing forms was tiring to you, in which you gave him a side ways nod. 'Sorta' is what you were telling him.

"How about when we're done here, we go back to Scarabia and I'll make you something to eat and get your energy back up? Take is as a 'thank you' for this experience."

Rook

Actually, this isn't his first time seeing your dragon form.

Since the first day he saw you, you've captured his attention, and triggered his hunting habits.

One day when you were taking a break from NRC life, you snuck away and spent some time as a dragon. Unbeknownst to you, he had been watching you the whole time.

But then you actually asked him if he wanted to see. He told you 'yes' with a strange and knowing excitement.

He was on top of you even before the mist cleared since his sight was enough for him.

This is the first time he's been this close to a creature so much bigger than him.

Throughout the entire experience he was showering you in compliment after compliment. Words of encouragement filled with passion, charisma and said quite fervently.

You wholeheartedly believed that even if he wanted to, Rook would not have been able to take his hands off you. His hands touched where ever they could, your spikes, wings, horns, snout, claws, tail, you name it.

You understood though. You've always known how curious Rook is. How, while it seemed strange and creepy to others, his habits and mannerisms never really bothered you.

Out of no where, he confessed to following you all that time ago.

He could see as emotions flicked across your draconic face for a few seconds. Confusion. Realization. Upset. Thoughtfulness. Then it stilled into one. Amusement.

Your chest rose and fell fast. You were laughing. Rook couldn't help but laugh himself, lowkey glad you weren't upset with him.

"Oh dear Dragon de Glace, your beauty is truly magnifique! I hope you and I will continue to have many moments like these in the future!"

Lilia

He happily took you on you offer.

He's known the Draconia family for years, so you having a dragon form is nothing new to him. Heck, he was there the first time Malleus used his.

Out of everyone, who saw you as intimidating or astounding, he saw you as cute.

Lilia will admit with no remorse, he has a soft spot for dragons. With his experience in helping to raise Malleus, he can't help it.

When you opened your eyes after transforming, you were met with Lilia's large, red, slit-pupil eyes in you face, upside down.

He flipped out and rested his arms in your snout, using them to support his chin.

He then struck up a conversation. He could understand every word you said to him. (Learned with Malleus.)

It was an extremely lovely conversation. But, you did get embarrassed when he would speak to you as if you were a child.

You'll have to excuse him. It's an old and sometimes an unconscious habit he picked up due to Malleus and mostly Silver.

For some reason, he really likes booping your nose. Mid conversation he'll just boop you for no apparent reason. He then proceeds to giggle to himself at your reactions.

Eventually, you got a bit tired. Your body relaxed while listening to Lilia and your eyes fluttered close.

Seeing that you had drifted off to sleep, Lilia got closer and gently moved your head into his lap. It was ridiculous with how much bigger your head was compared to him, but cute non the less.

He gently stoked your snout, making sure you stayed asleep. As you snored away, he remembered when he would do this with Malleus and even Silver when they were babies. It made him smile, a smile you unfortunately couldn't see.

"Just stay asleep Little One. I'll be here when you wake up, and we can continue to have some fun."

[silverspotted]

serving 70s realness

[wholoveseggs]

Small Victories

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen X Reader} After a tourney in which Daemon places second, he seeks solace from his loss and finds it in his little northern maid.

♡♡ Hello darlings! I'm branching out slightly and writing about a new character {Don't worry, I'm still writing Elijah} xoxo ♡♡

5.3k words - Warnings: smutt, size!kink, rough sex, dom!daemon, slight choking, virgin!reader, northern!reader, servant!reader, pre-dance Daemon, huge power imbalance...

♡♡ Hey! I didn't tag anyone because I'm unsure if you want to read Daemon content. If you wish to be tagged in future Daemon let me know ♡♡

You didn't like the Red Keep, it was too grand for your liking. Even with all of the people in it you still felt alone. At night, you could hear voices echoing throughout the halls, sometimes they were singing or laughing and other times they were screaming or moaning.

You could never tell where the sounds were coming from, it gave the place an odd feeling of being haunted. Ghosts weren't something you put your faith in, but that didn't stop the hair from standing up on the back of your neck whenever you heard a strange sound.

If it was up to you, you wouldn't live here. You would be back in the little cottage you grew up in, far into the north and as far away from King's landing as you could possibly be. It was a funny contradiction, that such a grand place in a warm environment could feel so cold, while a small house in the cold north could feel so full of warmth.

The last thing your mother said to you, was that you should be grateful. That your place in the Red Keep was the highest honor your family could ever hope to receive, and that you should do anything to stay here. To be a lady's maid to the queen, was the highest achievement a low born could achieve.

You tried to be, even though your heart yearned for the snowy landscape of your childhood. You wanted to be happy, you were thankful, but you couldn't help the way you missed the north.

So to try and capture just a bit of personal freedom, you would walk the halls at night. It was the only time you could pretend to be somewhere else, even if it was only for a moment. You would close your eyes and imagine yourself somewhere new and exciting, and when you opened them you would be reminded of where you really were.

Tonight you were in a particularly adventurous mood, there was a tourney the next day for Prince Viserys and his wife Aemma to celebrate their wedding. The Red Keep would be full of guests and it would be loud and full of life, you were sure to be very busy, and so you decided to stay up late and postpone sleep for a few more hours.

There was a room in the library that had a view of the city, one you liked to frequent often. It had a large window and a balcony that was rarely used. It was a nice place to go to clear your mind and think about home.

When you entered, nobody was around except for a cat that was perched on the windowsill. She was a lovely thing with black fur and bright green eyes, the perfect color of a dark forest at night.

"Hello, beautiful." You greeted her with a smile and a light stroke along her back. You looked out the window with her at your side, watching the moon reflect off the ocean and the waves crashing against the shore.

The sound of footsteps behind you made you look over your shoulder, your eyes landing on a man with a face that made you stand up straight and bow your head.

"Prince Daemon." You greeted him, not looking up from the floor.

"Young maidens like yourself shouldn't be out so late." He said, stepping closer to you. You didn't dare move or even breathe, his presence made you feel like you were caught doing something wrong.

"I couldn't sleep, my lord," You answered, not meeting his eyes. This was your first real meeting with the prince, but you knew the rumors that surrounded him.

He didn't respond to your answer, instead, he turned his attention towards the view. Leaning against the window, his posture was dismissive, as though you weren't there. He gave you a side glance that read, 'leave,' and so you did, not wanting to get in his way.

"I apologize, I didn't mean to intrude." You said, walking past him, heading towards the doorway.

"You are from the north," he spoke, still looking out into the water.

"Yes, my lord," You answered, stopping when he started speaking.

"How did you find yourself as a maid in the south?" He asked, looking at you, his eyes piercing through you.

The truth of the matter made you feel shameful, even though it was beyond your control. So you decided to tell him what you've been telling everyone.

"I was given as a gift for our new queen," You said, looking down at the floor.

"Is that what they call it?" Daemon laughed, his laugh was as harsh as his voice, the kind of laugh that could cut you open if you let it. "I heard you were given away as payment for a debt."

Your cheeks reddened and you looked at the ground, your throat closing up at the mention of your family's failure. Pride wasn't something you could afford anymore, but you couldn't stop the words that came out of your mouth.

"I didn't realize that princes were so fond of gossip." You said, meeting his eyes, your words were meant to cut, and they did.

He stood up straight, his expression unreadable as he closed the distance between the two of you, towering over you.

"Ahh, so they did sell you." He smirked, looking down at you. "Whoring can make you better coin… recover a debt quicker."

Your hands balled up into fists and you took a step closer, a defiant glare on your face.

He chuckled and tilted his head, he reached out and touched your chin, his hand was soft but firm as he turned your face to look at him.

"With a pretty face like yours, I'm sure you would make quite a bit of coin," His voice was a purr, a seductive growl that made your insides feel tight. "I could show you a better use for those lips."

His words were shockingly vulgar, his voice was rough and commanding and his eyes were hungry, but you didn't move away, you stayed still. You knew the dragon prince was a scandalous man, but you didn't think he would ever be so bold.

"There is no honor in a whore's coin." You answered, pushing his hand away from your face.

"Is there honor in emptying the queen's chamber pot?" He retorted, grinning slightly at how red your cheeks had become.

"Not all of us have the opportunity to choose what sort of honor we can acquire,” You said, standing your ground as best as you could.

He towered over you, his tall frame casting a shadow that almost completely covered you. He wasn't like the king or queen, who were kind and generous. There was something dark and malicious about him, as though the great beasts of his house lurked just below his skin, waiting to come out.

"You have a smart mouth, little northerner." He mused, his eyes drifting down to your lips. "It's a wonder that the queen has not put a gag in it."

"It's a poor quality I have yet to overcome." You responded, pulling away from him and putting some distance between the two of you.

He watched you move away, his eyes following your movements and the shape of your body, making you feel hot.

"I will think of you when I win the tourney tomorrow." He said, his tone smug and confident. "A sweet northern flower to bring back with me."

"You will be bringing back nothing, prince Daemon." You said, your voice a warning.

He laughed and looked at you, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"We'll see about that."

And with those final words, he left the room. You felt flustered and annoyed, a strange mixture of feelings that confused and angered you. You didn't like the prince, but he made your heart race, his voice and his eyes made you feel a strange sense of heat.

You wanted to be disgusted, and yet all you could think about was seeing him again.

It was a hectic morning, with all the knights and guests arriving, and you were late. Your tardiness had earned you a sharp reprimand from your head maid, but you were too distracted by the upcoming event to care.

The prospect of seeing the prince again was something you weren't sure you wanted, but couldn't stop thinking about.

You didn't like the way his eyes lingered on you, or how he made you feel things that shouldn't be felt. The rogue prince was indeed a fitting title, he was a scoundrel and a liar, a man of dishonor.

You thought that maybe he was the sort of person that the south created, perhaps they took people like you and turned them into someone like him. But then again, he wasn't really a southerner, no, he was a dragon.

The sound of cheers and laughter outside made your ears perk up. The queen was already seated with the other royals in their viewing box, and you were in a nearby tent, preparing more wine and food.

The tourney had just begun, and so far the knights had all performed well. You had only been paying a bit of attention, trying to do your job and keep out of the way.

The head maid was a cruel, vindictive woman, and she had been taking out her frustration on you all day. Her temper was short and her hands were rough, she was the kind of woman that would slap your hands or pull your hair if she was upset. But today she decided to simply make your life miserable with her words.

She gave you the worst jobs and the heaviest items to carry, and when she did allow you to stand and rest, she would hit your feet with her broom and tell you to get back to work.

"Once you are finished pouring wine, I want you to go to the prince's tent and serve him." She ordered, her eyes were sharp and her words were harsh.

"The prince has a squire to serve him." You protested, the idea of facing Daemon again made your cheeks turn red.

"The prince requested a woman's company,” She smiled, her eyes looking at you with an almost wicked satisfaction.

"I believe what the prince is looking for can be found on the street of silk, not among the ladies maids." You countered, hoping to change her mind.

"It's an honor to serve the prince, and he has specifically asked for a northern girl." The head maid was adamant, not willing to let this go.

You clenched your jaw and took a deep breath, biting your tongue as you looked at the floor.

"Very well, madam."

You held back tears as you climbed the stairs to the viewing box, pouring wine into the cups. Keeping your eyes low and only lifting them when absolutely necessary as you made your way down the line of royals.

Everyone began to stir and chat as the final round was announced. You turned to face the arena, watching as the prince mounted his horse, the sight of him made your heart flutter.

He was a handsome man, there was no denying that, his long blonde hair was braided and tied back, and his purple eyes were focused and determined.

His horse was a massive stallion, black as night, and he rode him as though they were one. He moved with a grace and confidence that was captivating.

The final round began, the two men charging at each other. You were nervous and excited, not knowing what to expect.

The clash of steel was the only sound in the air, it echoed throughout the entire arena. The crowd was silent, their eyes locked on the scene before them.

The two men passed each other, once, twice, three times. The tension building with each near miss, until finally the two knights clashed again.

Daemon's opponent had a slight edge over him, being bigger and stronger, but Daemon was quicker. But on the fourth pass, his opponent managed to catch him off guard, sending him flying into the dirt.

The crowd gasped, their hands covering their mouths as the prince's horse bucked and ran, leaving him in the dust.

You winced at the sight, it wasn't a good fall. He landed on his back, hard, and he lay still for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut as he caught his breath.

Only when the head maid cleared her throat did you realize you had been holding your breath.

"You are needed in the prince's tent, girl." she commanded, grabbing the jug from your hands and giving you a stern look.

You nodded, taking the tray of food and wine from the table and heading out of the box. Your heart was racing and your palms were sweaty, the thought of seeing Daemon after such a public humiliation was not something you were looking forward to.

The air was alive with the roar of the people, and the thumping of their feet sounded like thunder. They were chanting for the champion, something that would surely upset Daemon even more.

When you got to his tent, you hesitated, taking a moment to calm your nerves. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, letting the noise of the crowd fade away.

You stepped inside, finding him sitting in a chair, his shirt was off and his squire was cleaning a nasty gash on his arm.

"I'm sorry for intruding, Prince Daemon." You said, placing the tray of food on the table and pouring a cup of wine.

"Leave," he barked at his squire, his voice was gruff and his jaw was clenched.

"But my prince-" his squire protested, looking up from the wound he was treating.

"Now."

The boy left quickly, leaving you alone with the brooding prince.

"Would you like some wine, my lord?" You asked, your voice soft and timid, the last thing you wanted was to make him even more upset.

"No," he hissed, his voice sharp as a knife. "Bring me a new shirt."

You did as he asked, walking over to the large chest in the corner. It was full of clothes, the colors and fabrics were fine and beautiful. You selected a clean white shirt and brought it over to him, your eyes focused on the ground.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice was quiet, but it was a demand, not a request.

You lifted your eyes, meeting his gaze. His eyes were cold, the same shade of violet that had captivated you was now a glare.

You did very well, my lord," You tried to reassure him, your voice soft and comforting.

"Is that meant to be comforting?" He asked, his tone was harsh and his expression was a scowl.

"Fine. I have never seen a worse display than the one you put on today," you said, the words slipping from your mouth before you could stop them.

He smiled, then laughed, his shoulders shaking as his amusement grew. Only his brother the king would ever talk to him this way, and here you were, a young low born northerner, mocking him. He didn't know why he enjoyed it coming from you, perhaps it was because your words meant nothing. You were no one, and he was the prince, and yet he found himself intrigued.

"That was quite a show, wasn't it?" He chuckled, the sound was hollow, not at all humorous.

"It was humiliating," you answered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

"Careful," he warned, his eyes narrowing. "You're lucky I find your insolence amusing."

"I thought it was why you had asked for me," you retorted, setting the shirt on the table and taking a step back.

He stood up from the chair, closing the space between the two of you. The air was thick with tension, his eyes boring into yours, his face was inches from yours.

"I didn't lose the tourney," he stated, his voice a low growl.

"You didn't win either," you countered, your cheeks flushed red, your heart racing in your chest.

He smiled, the gesture was almost predatory, he reached out and grabbed your face, his hands were rough and his grip was tight.

"You are quite the mouthy little wench," his words were a harsh whisper, his breath hot against your skin.

You didn't answer, afraid of what he would do if you spoke. He seemed to be enjoying himself, his eyes dancing with amusement as he stared at you.

"On your knees," he ordered, his tone demanding.

"My lord, I-" you protested, trying to pull away.

"Kneel," his voice was louder this time, and you knew that he was not going to repeat himself.

You hesitated for a moment, but he was the prince, and you couldn't disobey him. So you lowered yourself onto your knees, looking up at him, waiting for him to tell you what to do next.

"Is it true that northern girls can take a cock better than southern ones?" He asked, his hand still holding onto your chin.

You didn't know how to respond, his words making your cheeks burn. You could only stare at him, your mind reeling as you tried to figure out what he wanted.

He smiled, and the look in his eyes made your heart race. "Open your mouth, little northerner."

You did as he commanded, your eyes never leaving his. He pushed his thumb past your lips and slowly pressed down onto your tongue, rubbing it in circles before slowly dragging it out.

Your lips parted and your breathing became heavier as he traced his wet thumb across your bottom lip, his eyes fixated on the movement.

"Beautiful." He whispered before sliding his thumb back into your mouth, pushing it all the way into your throat, causing you to gag.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth and wiped the spit off on your cheek before grabbing you by the arms and lifting you up, turning you around and pushing you face first into the table.

"My lord," you gasped, struggling against his strong grip.

Daemon laughed at the look of shock on your face, his cock growing harder at the sight. "See? I knew you would make a great whore," he smirked, his words bringing a flush to your face.

He pulled your dress up, exposing your ass and legs. His hands were rough as he groped you, squeezing your thighs and your cheeks.

You pushed against him, trying to free yourself, but his grip was too strong. He pushed your thighs apart, his hand trailing up to your cunt, his fingers stroking your entrance, teasing you.

He softened at your defiance, a smirk crossing his lips. "I enjoy you, little northerner. Perhaps I should keep you," he mused.

He slid his finger into your cunt, his touch gentle and slow. You whimpered, pushing against him again.

"You would be my little northern flower," he murmured, his finger moving in and out of your cunt, the pace becoming quicker. "A blue rose in my garden."

You were ashamed of how aroused you were, the prince's touch was intoxicating, and you couldn't stop yourself from grinding your hips against his hand. You had never been with a man before and the pleasure he was giving you was beyond anything you had ever felt.

He slid another finger inside of you, his movements quick and rough. You moaned, biting your lip as you felt yourself getting closer to release.

He suddenly pulled away, the sudden absence of his touch made you whimper. He spun you around, knocking objects off the table and pinning you against it. Your hands went to his chest, pushing him back, but his grip was too strong, his eyes filled with lust.

"You're a feisty one," he whispered, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands gripping your ass, lifting you up and pressing you against his hips. "I guess it's true that the fires always burn hotter in the north,"

You shivered as he sucked and bit at the skin on your neck, his teeth scraping across your sensitive flesh, leaving red marks behind. You couldn't help but moan, the feeling was so intense, and the sounds were so sinful.

"My prince... I..." You stuttered, trying to find the words, but he cut you off with a kiss.

The feel of his hands on your body, his lips on yours, his cock hard against you, was intoxicating. You had never felt this way before, this desire, this want. He made you feel like you were drowning in the fire of his touch. He was a dragon, and he would take what he wanted.

You couldn't resist, you gave in, kissing him back, letting his tongue explore your mouth. He smelled of blood, dirt and sweat, a combination that shouldn't have been appealing, but was.

You could taste his lust on your lips, and it made you hungry for more. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pressing yourself closer to him, and he moaned, the sound rumbling in his chest. He was so much larger than you, so much stronger, and you felt so small in his arms.

His hand trailed down your chest, slowly untying the strings that held up your dress, his fingers tracing over the fabric, teasing you.

"Sweet little northern girl," he teased, his voice a low growl. "Are you going to give yourself to me?"

"Yes," you whispered, your cheeks flushed pink.

He kissed you again, his lips rough and demanding, his hand pushing your dress down, exposing your breasts. "You've never touched yourself before, have you?”

"No, my Prince," you whispered, your little hands curled into his chest, your nails digging into his skin.

"That's alright, I'll show you how it's done."

His hands slid down to your thighs, his fingers trailing up, his touch light and teasing. You let out a gasp as his fingers brushed over your cunt, touching a spot that made your body tremble.

"This little spot right here," he said, rubbing his thumb against it, "is the most sensitive part of your body. The more pressure, the better."

You nodded, gasping and moaning as he pressed his thumb against it, circling it. You could feel the heat rising within you, the pleasure building.

"Feels good doesn't it?" He whispered, his voice husky, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Y-yes," you stuttered, your hips moving, grinding against his hand.

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

"Do you like being my little whore, hmm?" He asked, his lips trailing down your neck, his kisses hot and wet.

"N-no," you moaned, pushing him back, trying to fight against him.

He laughed, his teeth nipping at your collarbone. "Liar," he whispered, his tongue licking over the marks he'd made.

His hands reaching down to his waist, undoing his breeches and pulling them off, his cock springing free. You gasped, your eyes wide as you took in the size of him.

He took your hand and placed it on his cock, his eyes burning into yours. "Go on, feel it," he whispered.

Your fingers curled around his cock, your small hand barely able to fit around him. You moved your hand, sliding it down the length of his shaft, his cock thick and pulsing in your hand. His skin was so warm and smooth, his breathing deepening as you began to move your hand up and down, stroking him slowly.

You could see the scars from battle stretched across his chest and torso. Small claw-like marks around his pectoral and a deep line that stretched down the left side of his rib cage. He was a hardened warrior, and you could tell by his scars, he had been through much to get where he was now.

You squeezed his cock, moving your hand up and down, his breathing deepening and his eyes growing hazy. He watched you, his gaze following every movement you made. You were starting to get more comfortable, taking pleasure in watching him, in making him feel good. You found the nerve to press the pad of your thumb against the tip, feeling the moisture leaking from him.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice low and husky.

You felt a wave of pride, knowing that you were pleasing him, that he liked the way you were touching him. You continued to stroke him, squeezing and pulling at his cock, watching his face, seeing the pleasure on his features.

He groaned, his eyes closing and his head tilting back, his breath catching. You could feel his cock throbbing in your hand, and you knew that he was getting close.

He let out a low growl and grabbed your wrist, halting your movements. "If you keep that up, I'm going to spill my seed all over this pretty little dress of yours," he said, his eyes full of heat.

"Is that so, my lord?" You asked, unable to hide the hint of amusement in your voice.

He grabbed your hips and pulled you under him, his body caging you, trapping you beneath him. He was breathing hard, his face flushed, his cock hard and resting on your stomach. His eyes burned into yours, his gaze intense, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady.

You weren't talking back anymore, he could see the fear in your eyes, the hesitance, and that only made him want you more. His hand went to your throat, applying gentle pressure, a silent warning.

He could feel you trembling beneath him, and he tightened his grip, a primal, possessive urge rising within him. Your small hands pushing into his chest, clutching at his heated flesh.

"Open for me," he growled, his eyes fixed on yours.

You parted your thighs, allowing him to press closer to you. He growled, lifting your legs and wrapping them around his waist, his cock brushing against your cunt. He felt you tighten, your eyes widening with trepidation.

He chuckled, loving how terrified and eager you were at the same time. He gave you a moment, and then he slowly pushed into you. You whimpered, your nails digging into his back, your eyes closed, your face twisted in pain.

"Breathe," he said, rubbing his thumb against your cheek, "it will hurt for a just moment and then I will make you feel good,"

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you felt his cock hit your maidenhead.

"Are you ready, little northerner?" He whispered.

You gripped his forearms and nodded.

He pushed in slowly, breaking through your barrier. You cried out, the pain was intense and immediate. He groaned, the feel of your tight cunt was intoxicating.

He stayed still, giving you time to adjust. Your nails dug into his arms, leaving deep scratches in his flesh.

"Such a pretty, tight little cunt," he growled, nipping at your neck.

You kept your eyes closed, trying to focus on his words and not the pain. He began to move with slow, deep strokes, his cock stretching you, filling you. He was bigger than he felt in your hands, and you swore you could feel him everywhere.

He moaned, his hips rocking into you, his hand still on your throat, making you feel lightheaded. You looked up at him with wide eyes, your lips parted, your cheeks flushed. You felt so full of him, stretched open, the pain and pleasure mixing into one.

He watched your reaction with a smirk, amused by your shocked, satisfied expression. He was moving slowly, enjoying your warmth and the feel of your cunt clenching around him. He knew you were enjoying it, too, your eyes half-closed, a soft moan escaping your lip. Your small frame was arched to his body, your hands holding on to his neck.

You were surprised at his gentleness. You'd heard that the dragon prince liked to rough up women, but he was being as careful as if you were made of spun sugar. You felt so small and helpless underneath him, his large body nearly engulfing yours, and yet he wasn't hurting you. His touch was delicate, reverent. The way he spoke to you, calling you pet names, made your heart skip a beat.

You arched against him, a soft cry leaving your lips as his strokes got faster, deeper, hitting a place inside you that sent a sharp, hot pleasure through you.

"Does my little northerner like her prince's cock?" He said, a laugh in his voice, he began to pick up the pace, pounding into you.

You squeaked and pushed on his chest, the sensations becoming too much. He grabbed your hips and held you still, fucking you hard and fast, his eyes full of fire.

You felt your release rising up inside you, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. You could feel yourself clamping down on his cock, the pleasure almost too much, the sweet pain sending you over the edge.

He groaned at the sight of you coming undone, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you shattered around him. He could feel the tension in your muscles as your climax tore through you. He slowed his movements, easing out the last waves of pleasure, drawing it out until you were a shuddering, moaning mess.

He was close behind, his thrusts erratic, his breathing harsh. He pulled out and spilled his seed across your stomach, his hips bucking. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented sigh leaving his lips. At least he had one victory today.

Your face was hot with shame, your mind unable to comprehend what just happened. The prince's seed was cooling on your stomach and chest, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. Your hands went to your face, covering it as tears came to your eyes, you had never felt so good and so embarrassed at once.

He moved off of you, his eyes locked on yours, a smirk crossing his lips. He looked satisfied, his gaze wandering over your body, lingering on the wetness between your legs, the mess he'd made of you. He tossed you a cloth to clean yourself with. You wiped his seed off your skin, watching him dress, his blonde hair still braided back, his purple eyes full of lust and desire. He was a warrior, a dragon, he was beauty and strength, power and masculinity. He was everything you wanted and feared, a beast who could destroy you.

He gave you a side glance, his eyes full of amusement. "You may go," he said, shooing you away with a hand.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, as you took a shaky breath. You stood up, gathering the pieces of your dress and your underclothes. Your legs were wobbly, and you felt weak, sore, and full of shame.

"Yes, my prince," you said quietly, looking at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

He chuckled, the sound of his voice making you shiver. "Don't be so timid, little northerner. This is the beginning, not the end," he said, his words sending a jolt of fear and excitement through you.

He was right, this was only the beginning. You were his servant, and he could do with you as he pleased. He would have you come to him whenever he chose, on the warmest summer nights and the coldest winter days. He would take what he wanted, when he wanted.

He was a dragon, and his will was as strong as his blood.

And deep down, you knew you would enjoy it. He was the perfect thing to distract you from the mundanity of your life, the endless monotony of serving others.

Perhaps the Red Keep wouldn't be so terrible, not if it meant serving him.

[thesongoficeandfir3]

Prince!Maegor x Wife!reader

You’ve heard of Dark!Maegor, Yandere!Maegor, Toxic!Maegor but feast your eyes on 🥁🥁🥁 normal-ish Maegor!

This is just basically Mae before he went cray cray because while I am NOT a Maegor defender I do think that he is definitely mischaracterized ( intentionally ) in Targaryen history

This isn’t exactly supposed to be ‘soft’ Maegor but just him when his father/brother was still alive and him especially before the trial by the Seven ifykyk

Warnings: Maegor is still a bit of an ass and a dash of NSFW

Prince!Maegor before he earns his title as the cruel and is still a cunt, but a cunt who is still sound of mind

Prince!Maegorwho is the definition of the victor writes the narrative because he was not as bad as they tried to paint him to be

Prince!Maegorwho is not good with intimacy and affection at all but that is not to say he doesn’t know what love is, his mother taught him what love was (PLATONICALLY) and showed him what it means to be loved, so he knows what it is but does not know how to express it in the conventional way

Prince!Maegor who has a brute and fierce personality which then seeps into the way he loves

Prince!Maegorwho does not know how to express his love in a soft, calm or gentle way and only really knows how to express his love for you through extreme, passionate and occasionally violent ways

Prince!Maegor who is more than ready to set a city ablaze or remove heads from hundreds of bodies with blackfyre if it means keeping you safe but when it comes to more romantic ( and normal) things like saying a simple “I love you” or even just hugging you, he won’t or rather can’t do it

Prince!Maegor who’s personality will not exactly do a 180° for you, he will still be his rough, asshole, and brute of person but there will be an undertone of softness only reserved for you

Prince!Maegorwho showed an example of this when before a battle you gave him your scarf for luck and he scoffed and mocked you asking if you really thought a piece of cloth would keep him safe, but at the same time he also never took it off and carried it with him every battle from that day forward even when it became bloodied and ripped

Prince!Maegor who when it comes to displaying physical acts of affection it can be small and subtle or passionate and intense never in between

Prince!Maegor who gently forces you to look up at him holding you there with his two fingers on your chin, scanning your features and speaking in High Valyrian so you won’t understand the compliments he tells you, you do not know what he is saying, but his deep and smooth voice along with the unwavering contact with his deep violet eyes is enough

Prince!Maegor who towers nearly everyone so he also towers over you, he uses this advantage to give you a quick kiss atop your head

Prince!Maegorwho is a lot more intense with his physical affection when he is deprived of you for a long time or is going to be

Prince!Maegor who as you send him off to quell another riot before he mounts Balerion he pulls you against his broad chest, with a firm hand at the back of your head and the other squeezing your ass, as he gives you a deep and passionate kiss before pulling away and resting his forehead on yours telling you he will return to you

Prince!Maegor who while he himself is scarce with affection he will not shove you off if you show it , wether it be you laying on top of his large and warm body on a cold night or wrapping your hands around his strong bicep as you two enter an event at the castle

Prince!Maegor who will still be a bit of an asshole to you and will occasionally give you snide and crude remarks and still carry a bit of roughness to his tone but most of the time his words carry no kick to them

Prince!Maegor who is loyal, if you are able to provide him plenty of healthy heirs he sees no reason to take another wife and he sees whores as a waste of time and coin

Prince!Maegor who while he does not entertain the idea of whores that does not mean he is not a lustful man he just prefers it to be you, his perfect wife

Prince!Maegor who even with you tends to be still quick to anger and will still explode at you in an argument either by yelling, breaking things or grabbing you harshly by the forearm

Prince!Maegor who you are the only one where he feels slightly guilty after exploding on you but would rather die than actually apologize

Prince!Maegor who avoids you for days ridden with a mixture of guilt and anger with the whole situation but is not emotionally intelligent enough to just go to you and talk it out thus his apologies come in forms of lavish gifts being sent to your chambers and hopes you’d be the one to come to him

NSFW MDNI

Prince!Maegor who when taking you is rough and fast but never to the point where it’s far more pain than pleasure

Prince!Maegor who at the beginning of your marriage was very selfish when it came to pleasure but the more you grew on each other things change

Prince!Maegor who still very much is a receiver but always ensures you are also well satisfied at the end of it, one thing being him groping your breast and playing with your nipples in between his fingers as you ride on top of him

Prince!Maegor who is most vulnerable after a session, he will either collapse on you burying his face in the crook of your neck, him feeling like a weighted blanket as you comb a hand through his damp white hair or as your back rest against his chest his hands gently rubbing your bare stomach, very rare moments where he is not rough and just soft

A/n: feel free to send in your own prince Maegor asks or hcs if you wish

[wyvernest]

cregan stark x f!targaryen!reader

previous(first) part - next part | all chapters list

>Queen Rhaenyra has sent you away from the brewing war to safety since your brother, Jacaerys, has secured the Pact of Ice and Fire. You have to honor it by marrying Lord Cregan Stark.

cw: slow burn, fluff, eventual smut, angst, follows book events with slight deviations, im planning to let jacaerys live! every chapter is around 2k wc

chapter cw: tension, fluff, a little angst, they are starting to fall for eachother

“The ceremony will be held tomorrow.” Cregan’s deep and steely voice rings with an imposing echo onto the stone walls of the great hall of Winterfell. “My lady is worn from the journey.”

Although the order seemingly held some benevolence to your sore legs and southern blood barely adjusting to the newfound cold, his voice feels so detached that you find yourself wondering whether he truly did care for your spirits, or if he only wished it as a polite formality.

“I will take my leave before sundown, sister.” Jacaerys places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I must be back at Dragonstone before the new moon.”

“Ill news?” you ask, already troubled and feeling incapacitated from protecting and helping your family.

“Ser Criston Cole marches on Duskendale lands. I must be present at the council to take action.”

“What about me?” You worry, and only after speaking do you realize how stupid the question was.

Jacaerys takes a moment to reply, evidently not wanting to make you feel more secluded than you were.

“I will not make any decision that you wouldn't have in my stead.” He decides, “I will send you ravens to inform you, and represent you.” a pause, “unofficially.”

There is nothing more to be said. Any words he could sweeten end with the same inevitable finale. No raven could fly fast enough to deliver your ideas soon enough for the Greens not to gain an advantage over the reluctance of your team.

You are a pawn. Your dragon is a pawn. And you will only read about the war as if it were history before you could contribute.

“I understand.” You manage to let out without showing how disturbed you are and possibly making the northern lords think that you were terrified to marry their leader.

With a hug too frail to even begin to express how much you will miss him, your brother mounts his dragon after the welcoming festivities in the great hall and takes off with a blow of wings that normally would have had you taking a few steps back from Vermax.

But now it didn't matter anymore. You watch as your only friend dissolves into the skies thick with white clouds, becoming nothing but a raven in the distance.

Suvion cries out, a sharp, strained screech that only pain as great as yours could have caused, and the clouds answer, though you cannot see him anymore.

You are taken aback at the feeling of heavy pelts placed upon your shoulders, and only then you realize how cold you are. Your frigid fingers reach around your own neck to grasp at it and keep it from falling.

“The cold is treacherous. One moment you may think you're warm, and the following, your heart stops.” Cregan comes to stand next to you, looking away to where Vermax had disappeared.

“Thank you, my lord.” You speak coyly, quietly, so he wouldn't catch the crack in your voice and think you weak and soft. Perhaps in a different situation, you would have blushed at his kindness, but the ice wall you felt between you and him was now more palpable than ever. Alone, with a stranger.

“You should come inside.” He insists, but it is not advice, it's a courteous command.

Without a word, you turn and listen. You are escorted to your chamber in the castle, and as you pass through the halls, you look around like a lowborn in a dragonpit. At least that's what it must look like, but in your heart it was storming; how different the place was from what you have known your whole life, the people, the sounds in the yard, the very air of the keep.

He stops in front of your door, beckoning you inside.

“Send for me should you need anything your handmaiden cannot provide.”

His voice is softer, as if trying to indulge you and your loss. As if he understands.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Cregan.”

You do not know for certain if there truly is a gleam of affection in his eyes as he says it, but you do know that you held yourself back from leaning forward in his arms.

Oh, how you wanted to just let it out, and how you wanted him to hold you through it. To offer some comfort that, at least, he cared for you. That he wasn't a cold hearted man with nothing warmer than diplomatic skills. Whom you would have to learn how to love the hard way. Only you know how your heart briefly yearned for him to offer you strength.

But alas, it was not proper. Too soon.

“Cregan.” You accept, and he barely hears it. Your heart sinks when he nods politely and slowly shuts the door, and it sinks further at the sound of his boots on the cold stone outside your chamber, walking away.

A terribly tragic thought slips into your tired mind; that he is betrothed to you, yet his heart belongs to another. Northerners love northerners, and the Stark men have mostly married into vassal houses of the north in the past.

No matter how loyal he is to be from now, his thoughts will always be about her, the people will always know about her.

Suvion's head appears at your window, blocking out the moonlight.

“Oh, you,” You whine, opening the windows and laying your upper body on his snout.

You hear someone gasp and scream in the courtyard, no doubt because of the dragon clawing at the walls of the castle.

“We should find some place good for you. Somewhere safe and warm.” He growls sorrowfully, as if aware.

But it doesn't last long. As quickly as he came at the window, Suvion rips away from your touch and carefully leaps out of the castle yard and up into the night sky. His otherwise white scales now partly reflect the dark of night in their shine, making it impossible for you to even tell how high up he was.

Alone again. You knew he wouldn't go far, that he only needed to hunt and come back, but you wished for leverage that was now gone.

Restless and troubled, you decide to take a stroll around the keep that is to be yours in less than a day.

You follow your curiosity back to the great hall, from where you hear whispered voices and see glimmers of lit torches.

“...of the beast. Food is scarce.”

“It will set eyes upon us.”

“Lord Glover, this is necessary. I do not wish-”

The lords at the table turn abruptly at the sight of the shadow you cast into the obscured hall.

“My lady. Is everything alright?” You hear Cregan's voice, his face away from light.

You feel embarrassed and stupid, interrupting a clearly important talk of resources that did not yet concern you and making the impression of a spoiled, uneducated woman.

“No- I didn't mean to intrude.”

“You could never be intruding on talks of our domain.” He attempts to soothe your nerves, although the implication of responsibilities is indomitable in his tone.

You approach them, carefully eyeing the other lords, feeling quite literally akin to a lizard slithering into a den of wolves. You cannot read anything on their stern faces, and it doesn't fail to make you uneasy and put your guard up.

“The dragon, my lady,” one of them starts, a man well past his youth, “he is a welcomed weapon in the North, although -”

“Although it is true that war has brought us both here, my lord, a dragon is not a weapon.” You warn with a poised expression, as respectfully as you could, yet fire dripped from your words.

The other men frowned in surprise and disapproval, but said nothing. You glance at Cregan, by your side, hoping to be faced with kindness, but instead your heart skips a beat at the sight of a cutthroat look he was throwing at the men, protective of your contribution.

“-apologies. The dragon is a welcomed ally. But livestock is barely enough to get us through what's to come. What are we to offer? Sheep?”

“We have endured harsher winters with lesser than we have today.” Your betrothed reassures, despite the evident growing concern.

“Suvion is big enough to hunt for himself, I dare say. The cold doesn't seem to burden him. There is absolutely no need to thin out the herd for him, my lords.”

You struggle to conceal a sharp gasp when his hand runs up your lower back. A way to show approval of your input, no doubt, yet you find that every crumble of affection he grants you is more than enough to spark fire in your body. Is that what you have come to?

You were worried enough that the rough stoicism of the north man wouldn't provide half the love you dreamed of, yet now you falter on that thought. If such a touch is already setting you alight, what would more do?

“A good omen. Prince Velaryon’s first visit wasn't as uneventful.”

“It is settled then. We will discuss other matters after the wedding.” He commanded, and your stomach flipped at the mention of your union.

With the lords out of the room, Cregan turns to you.

“I thought you would be resting. It's near the hour of the ghosts.” He speaks gently with a warm vibration in his voice, as if you have been wedded for years and he knows all about your practices and nature.

“I couldn't. The more I lay there waiting, the more it felt like I would never find sleep again.”

A faint smile lights up your tense visage, an instinctual way of wanting to see him soften as well.

He looks intently, clearly understanding of your friendliness, but it does nothing to soothe his brow further.

“Come. I wish to speak with you, since neither of us cannot find slumber.”

Neither of us? What is that supposed to mean?

You once again hook your arm around his, his body heat immediately warming you up and putting you at ease. He leads you into his chambers, a strong fire already lit in the hearth.

“Is this proper?”

“Whoever shall dare speak ill of my wife will never speak again.”

A shiver runs up your spine. Whether it's a pleasant or a distressed one, you cannot tell anymore.

“I know how you must feel, although it may not seem like it.” He begins, beckoning you to sit on the edge of the bed. “It's the duty that comes with the name.”

“Yes.” You agree, wanting to hear more of what he wishes to tell you. “Although my biggest concern lies with my position. I feel…” You cease before you could say something like “trapped” or “exiled”. He has been nothing but good to you since you arrived and you do not want to seem ungrateful or hostile. You do like him.

But before you could find the right words, he kneels in front of you on the floor and takes your hands in his. Your heart stops. Your brain shuts down. Gods.

“-powerless.” He untangles your mind and finishes your thought. “But you aren't. We will offer help, I do not intend to trample the oath I swore to your brother. The oath I am to swear to you.” He adds, his tone is soft and tender yet his words so meaningful and heavy, you hear them as though their echo reverberated in the entire room around you.

His thumb delicately rubs over your knuckles, his expression as stoic as ever, only his actions speak differently. He leans forward and places a kiss on the back of your hand, assuring and loving.

You draw in a sharp breath, as if you haven't felt affection before in your life.

“Cregan.” is all you manage.

“It is true that this union was made with interest. But you are not unwanted, my lady. I believe we will find more than allies in each other.”

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