#oc x jon snow

[cherryheairt]

Cherryheairt's 2024 Masterlist

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HOTD

Cregan stark-

Series-

Dragon Dreamer-

Summary: Daenys, Rhaenyra's eldest daughter, has been labeled as a mad woman by the realm and Queen Alicent. Upon her mother's crown being stolen by Aegon ii, Daenys finds herself being sent to the North to treat with Lord Stark. She finds a lot more than she bargained for with Cregan Stark.

Side story

Drabble

Chapter one-

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Oneshots-

In His Arms - Comfort/fluff

Pearls - Smut

Not Yet Blossomed pt 1- Angst/hurt comfort

Hidden Truths - Angst

Hidden Truths pt. 2 - Angst/open end

If I must -Angst

Jacaerys Velaryon-

WIP

Benjicot Blackwood-

Oneshots-

Dramatic

Gwayne Hightower

Oneshots-

Dance of Black and Green

Lord of the Rings

Legolas-

WIP

Thranduil

Oneshots-

Love and War

Marvel (MCU)

Bucky Barnes

Oneshots-

TLB

GOT

Ned Stark -

Arcane -

Viktor -

The Weight of Us

Vi -

Genshin Impact

You get into a barfight

[feyhunter78]

Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival. A thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

Ch 2

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

[eccentricallygothic]

Depraved Night's Watch Lord Commander!Jon Snow and Arrogant Noble Woman!You…

Warning(s): Noncon/Dubcon, dark!Jon Snow, kidnapping, kissing, groping, forced stripping, manipulation, breeding kink, bastard shaming, humiliation. MDNI. 

Note: Can/Does this qualify for Kinktober/Halloween?

. . . 

His bushy lips that are akin in their roughness to his fingers that ‘gently’ move your hair away from your back that he further exposes by pulling on the harness that had been holding your blouse together feel harsh against your soft skin. He pushes the mass of your soft strands over one of your shoulders from behind and a beastly arm is wrapped around your waist to pull your body closer to that of your captive so he can press his deranged and lewd kisses along the length of your spine, the sickening sensation causing for your body to curl in disgust.

Jon Snow is a bastard in every sense of the word. 

Having meticulously crafted the persona of the gentle warrior full of valiance, endurance and better sense, you now understand with a frightening realization that he tirelessly worked for the construction of his present circumstances for years so he could perform a flawless execution of his plan that you are living now.

Although for reasons not particularly aimed at the shallowness in his facade that you can see through now, it is now that you know that you had always been right in your unyielding contempt of him. That your intuition that there festered something dark and twisted behind those ‘innocent’ eyes of his that were black as night and thus your accordingly treatment of him was justified. 

Jon had taken your unrelenting shaming and insulting of his origin, your humiliating rejection of his proposal to you and your vehement refusals of any and all attempts at any kind of an alliance between the two of you with a smile for years so as to portray you an unruly beast-like daughter of an influential man only so he could do this. 

Your chapped lips curl in fury and disdain that you feel for the thought as well as yourself. You had always considered your skills in self defense and swordsmanship to be on par with any other lad your age. 

Only for your mind to not even process your abduction when it was underway let alone your combative learnings to come into play. 

Your body stiffens when one of his hairy paws reach for your bare breasts and you almost smack it away but your stomach lets out a painful growl and the lining of your stomach painfully retracts into your organs at that very moment almost as a signal to make you stop and reconsider your urges. Your body freezes and you let your eyes wander to the object of your humiliation and assured desecration. The sight causes for your dry mouth to salivate in a way you had been a stranger to before this.

A steaming bowl of stew with a jug of water. 

That is the deal. Jon says he will not force himself on you. No. Rather, you will willingly surrender yourself to his touch and mercy. You are to welcome his acquaintance with your intimates, thank him for it, moan for him, let yourself loose to his touch and enjoy everything he plans to do to you. 

Water for every pinch and grope.

Fire and warmth for every move and sway of your body like the whores you've shamed your whole life.

Food for every adulterous act. 

A treat for every ‘experimental’ position in the bed that is currently a heap of carelessly woven straws.

A possible improvement of living conditions for every bastard you bear him.

He can easily bring the appropriate means down in this dungeon that he has built specifically for you in the undergrounds of Castle Black to marry you and legalize as well as religiously sanction this depraved dynamic he has devised for the two of you. 

But just why would he do that when he can easily get what he wants from you whilst torturing you to live through exactly what you have shamed him for all your lives? 

. . .

MASTERLIST

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

a forceful and sloppy wet kiss with cregan after giving him the best 🧠 of his life 🙏🙏🥰🥰

him grabbing you by your hair and pulling you up to kiss him..…and essentially he is tasting himself on your tongue 😩😭😍 ugh plzzz its so dominant yet loving and affectionate 🤰🤰

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Warm Snow (Jon Snow)

Summary: Jon has always cared for you and isnt afraid to admit it any longer.

WC: 518

Warnings: fluff, confessions

A/N: I've been desperate to expand my fandoms lately and as we arrive into 2025, i plan on doing just that! I'm willing to write for a few more GOT/HOTD characters as well. There are a few ships i want to write for soon so let me know your opinion? Just dont know who for as of yet! Please let me know!

Read on Ao3!

--

The cold wind nipped at your cheeks as you trudged through the snow-laden grounds of Castle Black. You tugged the furs closer to your frame, ignoring the frost that seemed to settle in your very bones. Winter had come, but so had something else—a strange warmth that burned beneath your layers whenever Jon Snow was near.

“Y/N,” Jon called, his deep voice cutting through the evening quiet.

You turned to find him standing a few feet away, Ghost at his side. The direwolf’s red eyes glowed like embers, but the sight of Jon smiling—however faintly—was enough to melt the cold away for just a moment.

“I thought you’d still be on watch,” you said, your voice catching in the frigid air.

Jon took a step closer, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I just didn’t know when the time would be right.”

The way his gaze flitted downward, how his fingers fidgeted with the hilt of Longclaw, sent your heart fluttering. “What about?”

He hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice. “I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You’ve been a loyal friend. More than I deserved.”

You furrowed your brow. “You always speak like you owe everyone something, Jon. You don’t. Least of all, to me.”

“But I do,” he said firmly, stepping even closer. He towered over you now, the smell of pine and leather unmistakable. “You’ve been here, always… even when I felt I couldn’t bear this life anymore.”

Your cheeks burned, but you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or his sudden candor. “And you’d do the same for me.”

“I would.” Jon nodded slowly, then met your eyes with an intensity that made you feel as if the whole world had fallen away. “And that’s why I need you to know. You’re the reason I get through each day. You’re more than a friend to me.”

The weight of his words settled between you like freshly fallen snow—light, but impossible to ignore. You let the silence stretch, unsure if you were dreaming or if Jon Snow, the brooding Commander, had just confessed something that sounded suspiciously like love.

“Jon,” you said softly, your breath puffing in the space between you. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he cut you off, his tone earnest. “Because if I didn’t say it now, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.” He reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours. The touch was enough to send shivers racing through your skin.

You looked up at him, the unyielding man of the Night’s Watch who now stood before you, vulnerable and waiting. Slowly, you slid your hand into his.

“I’ve cared for you, too,” you admitted, your voice almost lost to the wind. “I just… never thought you’d feel the same.”

Jon exhaled sharply, relief washing over his face. He squeezed your hand gently and leaned in just enough that you could feel his breath.

“We have little to give in this world,” he murmured. “But if I can, I’d give you all of me.”

--

kind reminder that reblogs & comments mean the absolute world to me.

[blxkstar]

POV: You're in Game of Thrones

I made this playlist by mixing all of my game of thrones playlists into one (with some edits). Please check it out!

If you like this one, please check out my other playlists for specific houses and house of the dragon.

"I'm not going to stop the wheel, I'm going to break the wheel"

Winter is coming. We know what’s coming with it

[gerlionrise]

Jon Snow X Reader

Jon Snow being Jealous

The campfire crackled softly, sending tendrils of smoke spiraling into the star-strewn sky. You sat cross-legged on the cold ground, enjoying the warmth of the flames against the chill of the North. Jon Snow sat on your left, silent as always, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight. Across from you, Taron, a ranger from the Night’s Watch, leaned back on his elbows, grinning as he regaled the group with yet another tale of his supposed heroics.

The food was simple—a stew of dried meat and roots—but after a long day of travel, it felt like a feast. You laughed at one of Taron's jokes, the sound clear and bright against the night.

"You've got a lovely laugh, you know that?" Taron said, his gaze lingering on you.

Jon stiffened beside you, his spoon pausing mid-air. He said nothing, but you could feel the tension radiating from him like heat from the fire.

"Thank you," you replied, a polite smile on your lips.

"Bet you've got all the men falling over themselves for you," Taron continued, his tone playful but his eyes far too intense.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Jon cut in, his voice low and clipped. "We're not here to flirt, Taron. We’re on a mission."

The other men around the fire fell silent, their eyes darting between Jon and Taron. You glanced at Jon, his jaw clenched so tight it looked as though it might crack.

Taron chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Easy, Snow. Just making conversation. No harm in that, is there?"

Jon didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved his bowl of stew into your hands and stood abruptly, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked away from the fire and into the darkness.

You sighed, setting the bowl aside. The others pretended not to notice as you rose and followed Jon, the crunch of your boots on the frosty ground the only sound.

You found him leaning against a tree a short distance from the camp, his back to you.

"Jon," you called softly, approaching him.

He didn’t turn around. "You should go back to the fire. It's cold out here."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's wrong," you said, stepping closer.

He let out a frustrated breath, his shoulders rising and falling. "Nothing's wrong."

"Jon." You touched his arm gently, and he finally turned to face you. His dark eyes searched yours, and you saw something there you hadn't expected: vulnerability.

"You let him talk to you like that," Jon said, his voice low and rough.

"Like what?"

"Like... like you're his to claim."

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. "Jon, it was harmless. He’s just being—"

"Harmless?" Jon’s voice rose slightly, uncharacteristically sharp. "He doesn’t see you the way I do. To him, you’re... a prize to chase, a conquest to brag about."

You frowned, the weight of his words settling over you. "And how do you see me, Jon?"

He hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I see you as someone I’d fight for. Someone I’d protect with everything I have. You’re not just... someone to flirt with by a campfire."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. You stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat of his body in the cold night air.

"Jon," you said softly, "you don’t have to be jealous. There’s no one else. There never could be."

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the truth in your words. Slowly, he raised a hand and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin.

"You mean that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Every word," you replied.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, Jon leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was tentative at first, as though he feared you might pull away, but when you didn’t, he deepened it, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, your breaths mingling in the cold air.

"You’re all I want," Jon whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"And you’re all I need," you replied, a smile tugging at your lips.

The sound of someone clearing their throat shattered the moment, and you turned to see Taron standing a few feet away, looking sheepish.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Just... thought you should know, the stew’s getting cold."

Jon shot him a glare that could have melted ice, and Taron quickly retreated back to the campfire.

You laughed, resting your head against Jon’s chest as his arms wrapped around you.

"Let’s go back," you said, looking up at him.

"Not yet," Jon replied, his voice soft. "I’m not ready to share you with them again."

And so you stayed there in the darkness, wrapped in his arms, the rest of the world fading away.

[salma062022]

Pliss, I need more fanfic about GOT/HOTD where the reader isn't Targaryen or from any big houses. I know it's easier to write Targaryen reader, but almost all of them have the same plot and y/n. 😔

Please tell me I'm not the only one who hates it.🙏

[thebastardofwinterfelljonsnow]

They were the shields that guarded the realms of men.

[shrimpybbq]

jon

jon snow who spends his entire existence in winterfell so desperately obsessed with his stark half-sister, feeling so much shame and guilt for his incestuous feelings towards the girl. only for it to all fall into place once he learns of his heritage; he wasn’t a disgusting creature, instead he was only following his ancestors. he was a targaryen and he shouldn’t be denied that of his culture now, should he? jon who returns to his stark girl with the full intention of claiming what he believes to be rightfully his, no matter the oppositions.

[samieree]

"Dawn of the North || Robb Stark" Masterlist

(fanfiction)(Robb Stark x OC)

[General Masterlist with list of boys I can write one-shots with here] [Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon Masterlist]

[my works are also avaiable on Ao3: Samiere and on wattpad: _Saelin]

Prologue + description

Chapter I ''Beginning''

Chapter II ''Two worlds''

Chapter III ''Walder Frey''

Collages: "two years"

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Three - Your father has taken notice of your blossoming interest in a certain dark-haired northerner.

Ch 4

“The boy is looking at you again.” Your father drawls, moving his elephant across the cyvasse board with disinterest.

You take a sip of your wine and hum in response, moving one of your trebuchets forward.

He clicks his tongue. “Bad move, little lion, that leaves me free to attack your king.”

You glance at the board and curse internally; you have been far too distracted by Jon’s barely subtle stares to properly play the game. “Perhaps I am simply letting you win, you are getting older, Father, it is only the kind thing to do.”

Your father raises an eyebrow and delivers his final move. “Ah yes, it is kindness that distracts you, not the strapping lad who seems he will burst into flames if he does not look at you every three seconds.”

You glance over at Jon, who swiftly turns his attention back to Arya, correcting her stance out in the training yard, the ground freshly cleared of snow.

You and your father have taken a seat on one of the benches within one of the entrances to the guest chambers that spills out into the yard. It’s the perfect mixture between the warmth inside and the crisp morning air outside.

“I have not the faintest idea what you speak of.” You say, popping a grape into your mouth and chewing slowly, trying to hide your smile from your father.

He sighs and shakes his head. “All those years spent teaching you to mask your emotions, to have the perfect expression that never reveals anything, gone with the simple presence of a dark-haired northern boy who does naught by train and brood.”

“He reads as well.” You say, unable to stop yourself from defending Jon.

“Oh, does he now? Someone send word to the Grand Maester, we have found his newest acolyte.” He snorts, taking a drink from his glass.

You wrinkle your nose in response. “You are quite humorous, Father, truly you could put the court fool out of a job.”

He sets his wine down and heaves a heavy sigh. “You know I only ever wish for your happiness.”

“Yes, it is why you are my favorite father in the whole continent.” You smile teasingly, pulling your cloak closer around you as the wind picks up.

“But he is a bastard—”

“You said all dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes, and yet you are still a man worth respect and titles.” You cut in, surprising even yourself with your outburst.

“Y/N.” Your father says sternly, laying his hands flat on the table.

You duck your head. “Sorry, Father.”

“He is a bastard, he cannot be your husband. A lover, or a guard, yes, but not a husband. If we were not Lannisters, if our house was not as it was, then perhaps it would be allowed. Gods know I do not wish to force you into a marriage you despise, but you are still a lady, still have the potential to win over great victories for our family.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, turning his words over in your mind. “Are you suggesting I proposition him, like Queen Rhaenyra did Ser Criston Cole?”

“I am not suggesting anything, I do not wish to think of my only daughter as a lady grown, but if you must follow Queen Rhaenyra’s footsteps…perhaps it is a Lord Harwin Strong you should seek instead.” His tone is careful, teetering the line between fatherly advice and the words of a Lannister.

You toy with the edges of your cloak. “Jon cares much for his honor, it would be shameful to even ask him such a thing.”

Your father’s hand covers your own. “That bleeding heart of yours, it comes straight from your mother.”

You smile. “And you, as well, do not downplay your kindness. An unkind father would have shipped me off to the richest man who asked for my hand the moment I first bled.”

He shivers in disgust at the thought.

Your eyes drift over to Jon and Arya, the latter who has been distracted by the appearance of Sansa and Joffrey.

“Perhaps a guard then, you could do worse than a guard you have grown alongside, it breeds loyalty.” Your father muses, watching how Jon shifts to put himself between Arya and Joffrey.

You cringe when Joffrey challenges Jon to a playful duel, ignoring your father’s words. “This will not go well.”

“Perhaps it will be good for your cousin’s ego to be beaten into the ground by someone he deems below him.”

You meet your father’s eyes and you both burst into laughter.

“Y/N, Uncle, stop laughing and come, all must witness this display of skill.” Joffrey calls, beckoning you both over.

“I cannot, Nephew, I must meet with your Uncle Jaime.” Your father calls back, hopping down from the bench.

“Father.” You hiss, silently begging him not to leave you with Joffrey.

He pats your hand. “You will be fine, stiff upper lip, little lion, remember?”

You groan and pout at him, but he shoos you forward.

Sansa crushes your hand as you watch Jon and Jeffrey spar, it’s clear Jon is holding back, you’ve seen him training, he puts more effort into hitting the dummies than he does attempt to hit Joffrey.

“Should you not cheer for your cousin?” Sansa asks.

The thought has never crossed your mind, and now it makes your stomach turn. “I would not want to break his concentration.” You say gracefully, trying to keep your eyes on the clashing swords and not Jon.

“Who cares?” Arya cheers, “Go Jon, knock him flat.”

Jon flashes her a smile, one born of confidence and the rush of near victory, and your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you can imagine him competing in a tourney. His polished armor flashing in the sun, ripping his helmet off and letting it fall to the ground, his curls set free as he directs that smile towards you, the crown of roses in his hand naming you his Queen of Love and Beauty.

“Good work, My Prince, hit him hard.” Sansa cheers in direct opposition of her sister.

Joffrey turns towards Sansa, basking in her praise. A fatal mistake, his distraction allows Jon to knock him to the ground.

The action rips a gasp from you, not many aside from your Uncle Jaime would dare to knock Joffrey off his feet.

Your cousin lies there stunned, then he darts up, sputtering, his face turning red as he hurls insults at Jon, before storming off, Sansa jumping up to follow after him.

You catch her arm. “Lady Sansa, I would leave him to his solitude, my cousin is not fond of sharing in his embarrassment.”

Sansa looks as if she wishes to argue, but relents and turns to scold Arya for her cheering.

Jon’s gaze falls upon you, he hasn’t even broken a sweat, his eyes the color of a winter storm in the sunlight.

Perhaps a guard then. Your father’s words echo in your mind. You didn’t need to follow in Queen Rhaenyra’s footsteps, you could follow in Queen Alicent’s. Your maester had spoken of the pure and courtly bond between her and Ser Criston Cole when you were young, and you had been enraptured by the devotion Ser Cole had to his queen.

“Well done, Lord Jon.” You say, giving him a smile and a slight nod of your head as you take a step forward, then another until you are standing before him. Then you lean in, “though I would not have protested if you bruised his jaw when you knocked him flat.”

A slight smile tugs at Jon’s lips, and your eyes dart down to them.

He sucks in a breath, then takes a step back, putting more space between you, an overly appropriate amount of space. “Thank you, Lady Lannister.”

“Y/N, or if we must use titles, Lady y/n.”

Jon swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat. He has a nice throat, well-formed, pale with a smattering of dark stubble where it meets his chin. He must be freshly shaved, there’s a slight nick near his right ear.

You must get a hold of yourself, a nice throat? Y/N, you are shameful. You chastise yourself internally, tearing your eyes from him.

“As you wish, Lady y/n.” He whispers, his voice nearly stolen by the wind.

Jon TL: @mostclevermiss

[izzy140105]

𐂂 𝖆 𝖉𝖔𝖊 𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 𐂂

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇

"...𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉..."

tags⋆⁺₊⋆ character/reader by @rise-my-angel from 'Heart of the Great Wolf' and taylor lyric pics by @theinkbleeds

face claim⋆⁺₊⋆ lily-rose depp in the 2024 horror film 'Nosferatu'

song lyrics⋆⁺₊⋆ 'The Prophecy' and 'Cassandra' by taylor swift from 'The Tortured Poets Department'

⋆⁺₊⋆

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

being manhandled by a stark man tho 😋 thrown around and used like a toy in winterfell 🔥

…. to be bent over by cregan and pounded so hard that your cervix bruises 💞💞🤭🤭 it hurts but so good!! he knows just what to whisper in your ear to make you squirt 💦💦

[siravalondulac]

sapphire steel | chapter two - hatred

j. snow x fem!oc

summary: cerelle continues to visit jon, and he is furious about it

tags: smut (f/m, hate sex, p in v, oral (m!recieving), anal, doggy), extremely dubious consent, canon divergence - rhaegar won the trident

word count: 1634

author's note: merry christmas btw

masterlist | additional works masterlist

previous | next

Despite any sense of logic, Cerelle returned the next night. And the next. And the next. And every night afterwards.

Jon tried to get her to leave permanently. He used every bit of knowledge he had acquired over the years, every dirty tactic that had made even the most dedicated ladies flee him.

But none of them worked on Cerelle.

The first week he ordered her to undress herself, climb on the bed, and let herself be fucked by him. Each of those nights he got rougher and rougher with her, spanked her until she certainly could not sit the following day, strangled her throat until her arms finally buckled underneath her weight, and slammed his dick so far into her it hurt even him. He twisted her nipples, pressed her face into the pillow, trapped her arms behind her back.

But no matter what he did to her in any position, she returned the coming night.

Once he fucked her so long the sun rose when he finally collapsed onto the bed. She looked disgusting, could barely move, yet still curtsied and appeared again in the evening.

Then he started ignoring the bed.

He pushed her onto the ground as soon as she entered, hicked up her dress, and fucked her until his knees bled and his cock had emptied himself into her three times.

Four nights he tried this approach, yet nothing changed.

Several times he awaited her when she entered, grabbed her arm, threw her to the ground, and slammed his dick into her throat. Over and over again.

The first time in that position he finished in her mouth - it had only been the second time with her lips around his cock, after all - and forced her to swallow his load. The sight of this picture-perfect maiden doing something so obscene made him hard as a rock and so he repeated the action right then and there.

She did not even bat an eye.

(The most fear she ever showed was when he forced her to drink alcohol, and even then it was only a fleeting glimpse across her face.)

He started getting creative with where he would unload his spent. First directly onto her face, of course, the white substance sticking to her cheeks and eyelashes and lips, and he only barely suppressed a laugh when he sent her back to her room immediately. With direct orders not to clean herself until then.

His semen painted her tits, her dress, her hair, her hands, but every time she left his rooms with her head raised high.

The first time he took her on the bed again he laid her on her back with her head hanging off the edge and fucked her mouth like this. The constant usage of her throat had made it open up, so that night she took him deeper than ever before. His hands pawed at her small tits as his hips snapped against her face, her gurgles and gagging like music to his ears.

Three bottles of the strongest Northern ale he could find in his blood, he dragged her to the bed and fucked her like that first night. Except that his hand had started wandering, and after a lot of moans on his side - and a lot of nothing on hers - his thumb pressed against her asshole.

No gasp, no sound. He spat on the puckered hole, and with a lot of insistence and patience managed to pass the first ring of muscle with one finger.

Sometimes he wished to see her face when he fucked her. A mouth could be easily closed but muscle movements were less readily controlled.

But then he would have to look in her blue eyes again - deep, haunting, full of dark promises - and he would rather hug his father than do that.

Her walls clamped down heavily on him when he tried to pull his cock free of her wet heat, and he knew she likely tried to keep him from going through with his plan, in any way except for begging out loud.

He inserted two of his fingers into her cunt to collect her wetness, and then pressed one of them to her asshole.

“Do you want this, Cerelle?” They had not shared a word in four days, and the sound of his voice sounded foreign to himself. “Do you want me to fuck your ass?”

One finger penetrated the hole, slowly moving into her tight channel until it could not go any further. He pulled it back out before jamming it in again. When he was able to move without problem, he added the second.

“I am for my prince to do as he pleases.” The first time in nine days he heard her deep voice. “I stand in his service. Whatever he deems fit to do with my body he shall.”

Instructions given by his father, no doubt. The thought made him angry.

He curled his fingers inside her, opened and closed them, jammed them in and out, until he ripped them out and placed his cockhead at her entrance.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps wishful thinking, but he could have sworn he heard her take in a deep breath.

He wanted to slam inside of her, bury himself to the hilt in one thrust, but her ass was tighter than her cunt the day he had deflowered it. So he was forced to advance slowly in the beginning.

Despite what his reputation or the odd gossip might indicate, he did not like fucking a woman's ass. A cunt was made to have his cock inserted - the squelch, the quivering of the walls, the perfect fit. Sure, he enjoyed the other holes women - and men, on the odd occasion - had to offer, but he mainly took those as an exertion of power. A claim he could stake.

That night, he finished deep in her guts, and had to grin as he watched her walk away with a slight stumble.

Cerelle’s body seemed to slowly get used to his - and his to hers, as terrifying as that notion might be - so it should not have surprised him when she peaked on his cock multiple times herself. It usually happened on nights he did not stop at one turn, or when his hands wandered a bit too much.

The first time the sudden squeezing of her walls had taken him by such surprise he had finished early like an inexperienced maiden. Thinking she could get actual pleasure out of their interactions, despite her seeming indifference, left him reeling.

He was curious to try again, see what exactly caused her seemingly random peaks of pleasure, but then he drowned himself in more alcohol, and the thought faded.

One night, when he had her pressed against the wall, cock in her cunt and hand around her throat, he realised he hated her.

Hated her impassive face, hated the way she never made a sound besides slight gasps here and there, hated how she never spoke unless asked- no, commanded to, hated how she simply took everything he did to her, and more than anything, he hated how she returned every night.

What did she want from him? What could she possibly have to gain from this?

He watched her dress from the security of his blankets.

He hated her golden hair and how she never made the effort to style it, hated her perfect skin that never seemed to keep a mark for longer than three days, hated the red dress she always wore, and oh, how he hated her blue eyes.

Why did she never show any emotion towards him? Why could she not fight back?

He pounded her cunt from behind, his mind filled with all the unanswered questions that had arisen over these last weeks. Moons?

Everyone despised him, that was simply part of who he was. The Black Dragon, more Stark than Targaryen, a bastard who had caused the deaths of thousands of innocents, who had killed his mother in an effort to simply exist. Their hatred was what kept him alive.

The candle on the bedside wavered with their movements, every punch of him met with a flicker of it. His pillows were thrown wildly over the bed and the ground, his blankets bunched around his knees. The bed hit the wall with every thrust.

How could his furniture show more reaction to him?

She was slick, and warm, and a hole that did not object. He should be happy. He did not have to pay for her. Whatever he wanted, he got. For the first time in his life.

He grabbed her hips, burying his nails in her skin, and threw her onto her back. Slamming his dick back into her, his hands circled around her wrists and pressed them into the mattress. Their faces were so, so close, yet there was no fear in hers. Only confusion.

“Why won't you hate me?” he sobbed.

“If my prince wants me to.”

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and came.

They laid there, bodies pressed together, her skin cold despite his furious fucking. He should move, but he was too tired.

Cock still buried in her, he fell asleep.

She was gone in the morning, any trace of her vanished as if she never existed. Someone had laid his head on a pillow and pulled up the blankets to cover his nude body.

When the servant came to bring him a new flagon of some wine, Jon gruffed out the order to find Cerelle and tell her to not come again unless he called for her. Then he vomited up a liquid reeking eerily similar to the ale of last night, and fell unconscious right after.

previous | next

author's note: i have no idea when i'll be able to update again as exam week is coming up, but i'll try at least one chapter a month

[lovebaela]

THE DRAGON OF THE NORTH - MASTERLIST

(Bran Stark x Fem!Targaryen OC)

A/N - Not gonna lie yall, I’m more productive with this story on Wattpad 😭😭 I think I might stick with posting on there instead. The chapters I’ve posted here have been slightly changed there too. I’ll put the link of it below.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/367425499?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=lovebaela

“ 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏 , 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑶𝒍𝒅 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 , 𝒊 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 .”

⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 𝑹𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵 ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Rhaella is the daughter of Mad King Aerys’ younger brother. Before the rebellion of Robert Baratheon, he fled to the Summer Isles, where he fell in love with a woman. He married her and they both consummated their marriage. Rhaella doesn’t know much about her parents, and always struggled with having a true home. One fateful day, her cousin Viserys sent her away to the Starks. Little did he know, that was the start of her journey of self-discovery.

“ 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒂 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒌 , 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 , 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒅 . 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 .”

⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑲 ⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bran is the fourth child of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. All he ever wanted was to become a knight. He always thought one day he would join the kingsguard. That was until the day he found out he was betrothed to Rhaella. He didn’t think much of it, still able to be a warrior…until the day he became broken. All he wants is to find a purpose now in his life.

✮ ₊ Chapters ✧ ᵔ₊ 𓆪

1, 2, 3, 4

Disclaimer: I don’t own asoiaf, any pictures, or gifs that I use in the series🤍

Art by eleneyaart, fredrickruntu

Dividers by @saradika-graphics @saradika

Taglist: @lover-of-books-and-tea