#house mormont | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 12 days ago

Note

Hi Nova!!

Could I have a Ned Stark x reader, either mature 16+ or (if you don’t mind) 18+ where the reader is Ned’s second wife after Catelyn and is young and pretty and sweet, and he just can’t stop thinking about how good she would look pregnant with his son? Breeding kink to the max, if it doesn’t bother you! Thank you! 🙇🙇 (if this kink isn’t smth you’re interested in/comfortable with, no worries at all, please delete!!)

Beneath the Wolf's Cloak

- Summary: A story where a wolf takes a she-bear for a wife.

- Pairing: mormont!reader/Eddard Stark

- Rating: Explicit 18+

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

- A/N: I hope you like it. 😉

The warmth of the fire did little to ease the strange chill that clung to you despite the thickness of your cloak. Great hearths burned at each end of the Great Hall of Winterfell, casting flickering orange light across the rough-hewn stone walls and high wooden beams above. Snow still dusted the floors near the entrance, melting into dampness beneath the boots of guests just arrived. Outside, cold had not yet sunk its claws fully into the North, but the winds were sharp, and the grey skies seemed to whisper of what was coming. Inside, however, all was wine and song and firelight. A feast of celebration. Your wedding night. Your name now bore the weight of his: Stark.

You sat at the high table beside Eddard Stark, your new lord and husband, surrounded by bannermen and lords of the North. There were toasts and laughter, the clatter of trenchers, and the occasional burst of music from the minstrels near the hearth. But your eyes kept drifting sideways to him—Ned—his profile cast in soft gold by the firelight, his expression as ever unreadable, thoughtful beneath the furrow of his brow and the shadow of his beard. Yet beneath that solemn mask was a warmth he tried, and failed, to suppress whenever he looked at you. You could feel the heat of his gaze before you met it, that quiet kindling that burned brighter each time your shoulders brushed or your fingers neared on the table. He had not spoken much, but neither had he looked away from you for long.

His voice came low beside your ear, rough with wine and desire yet laced with an almost boyish shyness. “You are cold,” he said, his hand gently brushing over yours, callused and warm. “Here, take my cloak.”

You blinked, startled at the intimacy of the gesture in front of so many, and shook your head with a soft smile. “No, my lord, I am warm enough.”

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. “You mustn’t call me that tonight,” he murmured, voice just for you. “Not when I would rather hear my name on your lips.”

You turned your face slightly to his, cheeks flushed with more than the wine. “Ned,” you whispered, and he gave the smallest nod, as if the sound of it settled something within him.

Around you, the hall roared with life. Lyanna Mormont, your young cousin, raised her goblet high and shouted your name boldly, fierce and proud. “To my cousin, Lady Stark now, and twice the beauty of the Southron queens!”

The men laughed, many agreeing heartily. “The Lady Mormont may be small, but her tongue is sharp,” Benjen Stark quipped with a grin from further down the table.

“I should say the same of her sword,” you replied lightly, drawing more laughter. “But I thank you, Lyanna. I hope I can live up to the name I’ve taken.”

“You already have,” Ned said beside you, low but certain.

His hand found yours beneath the table, not clumsy, not bold, but firm in his touch. Protective. Possessive, perhaps. You could feel the thrum of something deeper in him, something that stirred not just at your beauty but at the idea of you belonging to him now. He drank you in, from the gentle curve of your throat to the slight shyness in your gaze. And when you turned to look at him again, your lashes catching the firelight, the flush in your cheeks from wine and warmth and perhaps the anticipation of the night to come—he saw it, clearly: you would be radiant, glowing with life, with his child growing within you.

Gods help him, the image rooted itself in his mind. You in this same chair, months from now, with a rounded belly beneath your silks, one hand resting there idly as you smiled at him with that same sweet gentleness. He would give you everything, if he could. He would fight a hundred wars to see that image come to life.

“I wonder,” he said softly, his fingers curling around yours beneath the table, “what color will the eyes of the babe be, if you were to carry my son.”

Your breath caught. You turned to look at him fully, your voice a hush, “Do you think of that already?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking of it,” he confessed. “From the moment I saw you walking down the hall to me this morning. I thought—the gods would be kind to give her a son, and kinder still to let me live to see him born.”

There was no jest in his tone. Just truth. Stark truth. And beneath it, a yearning that mirrored your own.

“I should like a daughter too,” you murmured, heart fluttering. “With your quiet eyes and my wild tongue. She would rule Bear Island with a smile and burn every ship that came too close.”

He chuckled, deep and soft. “Gods help me, I hope she does. But not tonight. Tonight, I want only you.”

The hall spun around you then—not with wine, but with want. The music swelled again, another toast was shouted, but all of it faded into a blur behind the heat in your cheeks and the weight of his hand still grasping yours beneath the table.

And when the bedding was called for and the men rose cheering, voices drunken and jests lewd, Ned stood slowly. He did not let them come to you. His hand stayed clasped in yours, and he looked down over the gathered men with a quiet steel in his voice.

“No one will touch her,” he said. “She is my bride. I will carry her to our bed myself.”

Silence settled over the table. Then, as if understanding something unspoken, they let him pass.

And he did just that. Lifted you into his arms with surprising ease, his breath warm against your neck as he whispered your name again. The Great Hall of Winterfell echoed with cheers and laughter behind you, but you heard none of it. Only the beat of his heart, steady and sure beneath your cheek, and the soft promise he made in your ear.

“Tonight, I will love you slowly. And before the year ends, we will speak of names for the child.”

The chamber was warm, lit by the soft flicker of dozens of candles and the roaring hearth at its heart. The fur rugs muffled the sound of your steps as he carried you across the threshold, cradled close to his chest like you weighed nothing at all. Outside the wind howled, Winterfell groaning against the rising frost, but inside the world was still and golden, wrapped in shadows and firelight. Ned said nothing as he set you down on the edge of the great bed, his hands lingering at your waist as he looked down at you. His gray eyes, so often solemn and heavy with duty, were softer now, tinged with something deeper—reverence, awe, and something that looked almost like longing etched with restraint.

You reached up slowly, letting your fingers brush the front of his doublet, feeling the slow thrum of his heartbeat underneath. “Will you undress me, husband?” you asked, your voice low, a hint of a teasing smile playing on your lips.

His mouth twitched, and he nodded, hands raising to the clasps of your gown with a careful grace that belied the need simmering under his skin. One by one, he unfastened them, his fingers rough and warm against the cool of your skin as the fabric loosened and slid away. He worked slowly, as if memorizing each detail—the slope of your shoulder, the softness of your belly, the faintest curve of your hips. When the gown pooled at your feet, you stood bare before him, lit only by candlelight, your breath soft and even, but your heart pounding like the drums that had played at your feast.

“You are… gods, you are beautiful,” he murmured, his voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief. His knuckles traced the line of your jaw, then down your throat. “If I were a younger man, I would fall to my knees.”

“You’re young enough to make me feel like I’m burning,” you whispered, stepping forward, placing his hand fully on your waist.

He kissed you then—slowly, deeply, the way a man kisses when he knows he has you, truly has you, and he means never to let go. His lips moved with aching tenderness, but his arms were firm, pulling you close, holding you tight. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath was warm across your lips. “I swear to you, little bear, I will love you as fiercely as any man who ever carried a sword. I will protect you. And if the gods are kind, I will see you swollen with my child, glowing, radiant, as you are now.”

You reached between you, working at the fastenings of his belt, the ties of his tunic, stripping him piece by piece as he had done for you. “You make promises easily tonight, Lord Stark,” you said, voice low and warm. “But you’ll find the women of Bear Island are not so easily tamed.”

His brow lifted slightly, the ghost of a grin returning. “I do not want to tame you.”

And it was true. You could see it in the way his eyes followed your hands, in the way he trembled slightly when you pushed his tunic off his shoulders and leaned in to kiss the hollow of his throat. You drew him down with you onto the bed, and he followed, bracing himself above you. His body was strong, broad-shouldered and scarred with battles long past, and yet he moved with the gentleness of a man who feared breaking something precious. He pressed kisses to your throat, your collarbone, the rise of your breasts, reverent and slow, as if each inch of you deserved worship.

When he sank into you at last, the world shifted. His breath caught against your skin, and you gasped softly, hands clutching at his shoulders. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt him shudder, felt the weight of everything he could not say in that moment. His pace was unhurried at first, deep and steady, as if he needed to feel every heartbeat, every breath between you.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, voice breaking with quiet intensity. “Like something I thought I’d never find again.”

You cupped his face, brushing his sweat-damp hair back from his brow. “Then let me give you more than a home,” you whispered. “Let me give you fire.”

You flipped him then, surprising him with your strength—Mormont strength, wild and unyielding. You straddled him, hair tumbling down over your shoulders, your palms firm against his chest. He stared up at you, eyes wide with something like reverence, something like surrender. You rolled your hips slowly, watching him unravel beneath you, the tension leaving his shoulders, his lips parting in a soft groan.

“You’re not the only one with vows to make, Stark,” you whispered, leaning close to him. “I will not be quiet, nor meek. I will fight beside you, bleed for you. I will bear your children, yes, but I will raise them to be wolves and bears, not caged birds.”

He reached up, cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as if you were something sacred. “Then let them be wild,” he breathed. “Let them be like you.”

You rode him harder now, your rhythm fierce and unrelenting, and he held onto your hips, grounding himself in the feel of your body, your skin, your voice moaning his name. You were fire, and he was snow, and yet in this bed you melted into something molten. He surged up to meet you, his hands trailing to your thighs, your waist, your spine—everywhere he could touch, he did, as though trying to brand you into memory.

“I love you,” he gasped against your shoulder as he reached his peak, his voice breaking entirely. “I love you, gods forgive me, I never thought I’d feel this again.”

You kissed him then, fiercely, your body trembling atop his as your own release crashed through you. And when you finally collapsed beside him, wrapped in furs and each other, your skin damp and hearts pounding in tandem, he held you as if the whole world could fall away and it would not matter. His hand drifted to your belly, bare and flat now, but he kissed it gently, the promise of tomorrow on his lips.

“Sleep, little bear,” he whispered. “And when you wake, you’ll still be mine. And I—gods help me—I’ll be yours.”

177 notes · View notes

valaenatargaryensdragon · 2 years ago

Note

Hiii can u write part 2 about Maegor when the stepson is older and again like Aemond he became a amazing warrior. His father family can to petition Maegor about something and reader ia there with her new kids ans her son. Her ex husband family is panicking when the son calm Maegor father and because he doesn’t use an eye patch. There’s a ruby in the place of the eye he lost. He’s basically a mini Maegor without write hair. His mother and stepfather’s are proud.

A/N: I hope you like this!

pairing: Fanon!Maegor Targaryen x Reader

summary: Maegor when the stepson is older and again like Aemond he became an amazing warrior. His father's family came to petition in front of Maegor about something and reader is there with her new kids and her son. Her ex husband's family is panicking when the son calls Maegor father and because he doesn’t use an eye patch. There’s a ruby in the place of the eye he lost. He’s basically a mini Maegor without white hair. His mother and stepfather are proud.

Word count: 1,5K

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Garvey hissed moving out of the way before the sword could hurt him and deflected it easily with his dagger. His right hand adorned with a sword and his left with a dagger. As usual a crowd had formed around him and his personal guard to watch them spar, a friendly daily occurrence, sometimes you came to watch him along with his siblings and sometimes you his stepfather decided to join. This day however you both were busy preparing for a petition, his old family the Grey family was coming soon. Garvey was twenty and six now, at the hight of his strength.

His older brothers who were twins were fighting over lands and the title of Lord, again. Garvey raised his foot and kicked his guard in the chest sending him on his back powerless and moved to place his sword at the guard's neck and his dagger over his stomach.

"I yield" The guard called, two words Garvey had heard from the same man every single day for the passed three or so years. Garvey smirked and moved to stand up straight and helped the guard up.

The crowd around them exploded into applause for him. The Grey that was raised among dragons. His hair was long enough to reach his shoulder but he tied the front of it back to show his face, to show his scar like his stepfather told him to do, show it proudly. Maegor had gifted him a ruby to place in place of his eye and now he had one grey eye and one red eye.

His remaining eye paused when the gates opened and two wagon houses rolled in with the flags of house Grey waving in the wind. Garvey turned to his sister Maena who was ten and six, the only one of his siblings to have showed up that day to watch him, not surprising considering the fact that they were in love and in the process of convincing his mother and her father to let them marry instead of marrying her to her younger brother Aegon. She gave him a small smile and moved to wrap her arm around his.

"Come brother, you must wash before the petition" She scolded. he obeyed and let her pull him away from the crowd and into the Red Keep again.

Garvey bathed quickly and changed to wear the clothes you probably sent for him, black trousers with a red tunic to top it, the colours of house Targaryen. When he stepped into the throne he was announced by one of the guards.

"Lord Garvey of house Targaryen and Mormont" The entire Grey family whipped around to look at him, he was announced by the last name of his stepfather and his mother, your last name, Mormont, it was unheard of to be announced by the house name of the mother.

Maegor smirked watching their reactions atop his throne of swords and turned to look at you. You were glaring at your old stepdaughter whose son was the one to maim your son but when Garvey stepped in your face morphed into a proud smile watching him strut closer to the throne. The Grey family moved to the sides forming a walkway for him leading to the throne, some of the women gasped in horror at the sight of the scar and missis eye uncovered and instead a ruby in its place. Garvey bowed to Maegor before moving to stand by your side.

Maena snicked by Maegor's other side at their reactions. Maegor face softened when he looked at her admiring Garvey and him smiling back at her from the other side. Aegon who was only ten and two, the age where he despised his older sister and thought all girls disgusting. Beside Aegon stood your third child from Maegor and the last, a little son of five namedays who was called Viserys.

"You're late, Garvey" Maegor scolded, however his tone was light and made Garvey raise a teasing eyebrow.

"Apologies, father" Garvey's heart fluttered with joy at the horrified gasps.

"What is the meaning of this?" Dannis, the oldest of the twins hissed glaring up at the king.

"Why is our brother calling your grace father? Disrespectful shit needs to be punished, your grace, we apologise for our uneducated brother" Laina, his sister scrambled to say, trying to get on the good graces of Maegor. The sister who taught her son that what he did ti Garvey was okey because he was weak. Maegor burst out laughing much to their shock. You giggled behind your hand.

"No one will touch my son, Lady Laina, Garvey is the son I did not father but raised and soon he will be the husband of my eldest and heir, Maena" Maegor gestured to Maena. She gasped turning to look at her father as if awaiting him to say that it was a joke but he did not. You winced a little finding this queer but did not spoke up, your children loved each other and the King himself betrothed them, you had no say in the matter so you chose to ignore the fact that they were siblings and was happy for them.

"An honour, your grace" Laina stumbled a little. Her son's eyes were wide looking around before settling on Maena, that fucker. Garvey's fists clenched when he noticed who that little shit was looking.

"But wouldn't my son, Randar, be a better match? he is whole after all" Laina pushed her son closer to the throne. Your hand snapped to Maegor's shoulder squeezing it tightly, furry build into your form when she dared to look at you and smirk.

"Lady Laina, it would do you well to learn your place. Slandering my wife's first born will end with your head on a spike!" Maegor yelled, slamming his hand down on the metal handle of the throne, one of the rings on his fingers hitting the metal harder than the rest letting the sound of metal echo around the room. "His lost eye does not make him any less of a man"

"Garvey" Your calm voice followed Maegor's loud and booming voice. You took a step forward letting your hand slide down Maegor's arm and let him hold your hand instead. Garvey turned to look at you instead of glaring at his sister.

"Do tell me son, when was the last time you lost a fight either in the training yard or at a tourney?" You asked, calm on the outside but fuming on the inside and Maegor knew from the deathly grip you had on his hand but he did not mention it, he never complained and instead always said he was too strong to fell pain from it.

"Three years ago mother" Garvey answered, a smirk returned to his face. You smiled proudly and turned to look at Randar.

"When was the last time you won a tourney?" You asked. Maegor smirked noticing the change in the question.

"Never" Randar mumbled ashamed. Laina wanted to jump at you and kill you in your spot but you were queen now, she could not do that.

"In that case who is the better match husband? One who never looses a fight and can protect our daughter or one that never one a fight and probably would push our daughter in face of danger to save himself?" You asked turning to Maegor. He raised your intertwined hands and placed a kiss on one of the rings he had gifted you, it was a ruby in the middle of a gold band, a ruby of the same colour of Garvey's eye.

"I think there is no comparison, sweet wife" Maegor answered. Garvey looked down at Randar who huffed annoyed, rolling his eyes. That broke Garvey's control and made him pull out his dagger stalking over to his nephew and pulled him closer by the collar with the dagger to his throat.

"You dare roll your eyes at your king?" Randar's eyes widened in shock. Laina tried prying Garvey off her son but her strength was nowhere near his.

"Garvey, let the fool go, he is not worth your energy" Maena called from beside her father. Garvey sighed feeling weakened by her voice alone. He closed his remaining eyes to compose himself before pushing his nephew off making hims tumble and fall on his behind. Randar was horrified to find that Garvey's maimed eye did not close and remained open.

"Now back to your petition, Lords Dannis, Laroy" Maegor ended the argument turning to the order brothers who were silent the entire time. Probably the smartest decision they have ever made in their lives.

"Your grace" Laroy shakily stepped to the middle so he could petition for himself. Garvey put away his dagger before moving to stand by Maena instead of his mother this time. Maena reached between them to grab his hand in her own, he maybe older than her by ten namedays but she was the one with the more patience and the one to anchor him.

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon imagine #hotd imagine #house mormont #house grey #maegor the cruel #maegor targaryen #maegor imagine #maegor #maegor targaryen x reader #maegor x reader #garvey targaryen #garvey mormont #garvey grey #maena targaryen

508 notes · View notes