#psa: don't steal bones from Aemond Targaryen's gravesite

[starsofjewels]

hello idk if you're requests are currently open right now, but could you possibly do another gregor c fic or one shot???(maybe one were he and reader have children or something idk i just need more gregor, especially from you!!!)

Haunted Keeps and Squirrel Bones

Gregor Clegane x Lady Clegane! Reader (feat. the Clegane boys)

CONTENT: Language, possible HOTD spoliers (regarding Aemond), mentions of hunting animals + animal bones, ghosts, a medieval man's interpretation of the menstrual cycle, Greggie C is his own warning.

Word count: 3.1k

(If you want to consider this a Part 2/ Epilogue to Yellow Wedding, by all means do. But if you're good I'll write a delicious size kink fic for Smuttober. Only if you're good.)_

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I actually had this written and ready about a week ago, but we can pretend it's fresh for you...

Hello beautiful, gorgeous, god-given anon,

yes, my requests are 100% open, request as much as you like! (but check my request condition page first please :))

Thank you so much for giving me an anon post to attach this fic to, so I look like a very good, very proper writer with many, many followers. Here's to more Greggie C requests.

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CONTEXT- In my little fantasy land, Lady Clegane and Gregor have three sons together- Ronan (approx 6/7), Finnegan 'Finny' (approx 5/6) and Baby (a baby, go figure). Ronan likes making the kitchen cats race each other, and Finny likes stories about old battles. Yes, they are both shockingly normal for having Greggie C as a father. Someone let me know if they want more about Ronan and Finny. :)

Your life is sweet, and comfortable. The world of a lady with no particular noble standing, and an infamous husband. You have no expectations in the court, to the Lannisters, or to anyone but yourself and the town you control whilst Gregor is away. 

Clegane Keep is merely a small patch of land in the Westerlands, or in Westeros at all. In the grand, vast world of your Kingdom and your country, it is nothing. And yet it thrives like no other. The food is plentiful, the children run wild in the streets, and your little town’s only downfall is that it is constantly steeped in the hushed stories of Gregor’s violence. Everyone knows someone who their ruling lord has murdered in cold blood, and yet none of them say anything. The Mountain is a fearsome guard dog, enough to ward off any potential threat from the surrounding areas. 

You are watching your boys play when he tells you, splashing each other with water from the troughs. It is hardly clean, you think, but they are having fun, and so you shan’t complain. You are sitting on the other side of the field with their lunch, and their baby brother in your arms, most comfortable with the arrangement. 

Gregor sits beside you, helping himself to the picnic, no matter how much you slap his hands away. If it weren’t for his enormous size, and the jewels around your neck and fingers, you could pass for any common family, enjoying a sunny day. 

“I’ve been called up again.”

Something inside of you sighs, knowing precisely what this means. Another fortnight, more months of waiting up each night for a man you know may not return. Not that you suspect he wouldn’t, Gregor has often joked that he would beat the Stranger when He came for him. And you do not doubt his words. So, you school your face, and respond as neutrally as you can,

“Where to?”

“Harrenhal.”

That makes you turn your head, unable to hide your displeasure at the mention of the place. Every child in Westeros has heard of Harrenhal, and its spirits. It is the place where riches turn to ruin, jewels to mud, and princes to skeletons. Daemon, Aemond, Rhaegar, a Martell, the list of princes who call the area around that haunted keep their gravesite is almost insurmountable. Their ghosts haunt it alongside those of the vengeant Children of the Forest since an ironborn king had made it his pleasure to cut sacred forest. The largest castle in Westeros, and the one place you think even your Mountain may be powerless. After all, there is nothing that can withstand death, or the dead. Not even the mountains.

“Absolutely not.”

Gregor lets out a huff, probably expecting your initial refusal. He lifts up the jewels from your neck, inspecting them in the sunlight,

“He’s offering double the last time, and there’s enough space you can come with the littluns, if you wanted to…”

One of your sons topples over the other one, causing both to fall to the ground. You can hear their laughter from across the field.

“Why in Seven Hells would I want to bring the children to a pile of haunted stones?”

His big hands find their way to your hips, pulling you closer to him, the baby in your arms squalls slightly at the movement,

“It’ll toughen them up, seeing a ghost or two. Besides, can’t live without my sweet wife’s cunny, can I?”

The noise that comes from you is halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

“What, you mean showing me off to all of your men, and the ghosts?”

“Aye, and the ghosts.”

You sigh, and lean back, staring up at the bright sky. It seems more and more likely that you will be attending the haunted keep. Gregor usually manages to get his way somehow.

“Fine.” 

Your husband looks mildly surprised that you’ve agreed so quickly.

“Fine, but the moment anything slightly ghostly happens I am taking the boys up to my father’s halls.”

He had forgotten you were from the Riverlands originally, that the keep you grew up in sat upon the Blue Fork. You were right, of course, your father’s castle was no more than a day or two away from Harrenhal, by boat and horse.

“Whatever.” He was never going to give you a proper response. He reaches for more of the sliced gammon, and you smack his hand, nothing more than a tap on your husband’s great stature.

“You should take them up to see your mam when we get there.” Gregor leans down to face his infant son, patting the boy’s head, “hasn’t seen the baby yet, has she?”

“Or she could come down to us, if she wanted.”

“Aye, that too.”

The keep is colder and wetter and darker than any book or song could describe it as. The place feels haunted, even without any of the gossip. Things move themselves in the night, shifting just noticeably, the wind howls through gaps in its ruined stones. There is no warmth or comfort in this cold, black place, even despite the fires lit in nearly every corner. You are shoved, unceremoniously, into one area of the keep. The boys are given toys and books to keep themselves entertained, but they are not much in the mood for playing, too used to the bright days down in the Westerlands. Even the baby, with no responsibilities other than to exist, is unsettled, he refuses to sleep, or play, or laugh. You have only the amount of milk he guzzles down, and the fat tears which roll down his face, to convince you that he is still your son. But the money is already coming through, and already it is more than you have ever seen. So you must find ways to entertain yourself, and your sons.

The town is as depressing as the keep. Harrentown has never been known for much excitement, even the whores look grey-faced, not even pretending to appear young and vibrant like their southern counterparts. 

Ronan is jumping in the lake, trying to scare the little fish that stay by the shallow end. You doubt he will freeze, with how hot his blood runs, a gift from his father’s line.

“Mummy- Mummy, you’re not listening!” Finny sits beside you, flicking through a book on the area’s history. He does not understand most of the words, but he knows enough to make his way through it. 

“Mummy- They pulled the sword out of his face, and they got the dragon out too- But they threw him back!”

You nod, slightly, the story of Aemond One-Eye has been an obsession of both your boys since you gave him that book. Ronan has heard the discussion from the sea line, you know this as he sneaks up to you, with a look upon his face that you can tell means he is going to ask for some wild favour.

“Mummy? Can we go and look for Aemond One-Eye’s bones?”

Your brow furrows, and you stare in mild confusion. They have looked for squirrels and rabbits in traps, and spent days stalking out small birds around their home, but a full, human, skeleton has never much been on their register.

“Ronan, why would you want to look for bones?”

“Sell them.”

You glance from boy to boy. Finny, who you consider your more sensible child, has jumped up, leaving his book at an illustration of Daemon Targaryen striking his nephew from the sky, and you know you have been defeated.

“Aye, alright. But no going in the water, and stay where I can see you.”

Ronan grabs his brother’s hands, pulling him away from you, you watch them start to leave,

“And I get a cut of any money you make, seeing as I’m letting you search.”

“... That’s fair.”

Once again, you are left alone with the baby, on the shores of the Gods Eye. You can see them jump over the hills and dig through the sand, and you are certain at one point you watch Finny put a fistful of sandy dirt into his mouth. You don’t think you will mention that. 

They come back to you, squeaking and screaming, Ronan grasping something you hope is not a human bone, Targaryen or not.

It is covered in dirt and sand, and presented to you like a fine prize by two, beaming boys.

“Erm- It’s certainly… Interesting.”

The bone probably comes from a squirrel, or some other small, furry creature. It is definitely not human, and for that you are semi-thankful. But the boys are convinced. 

You let them take it home, as well as a handful of interesting pebbles. If it will keep them occupied for long enough to stop complaining about the cold, you are willing to indulge it.

The boys keep it by their beds, and you are near certain that they talk to it occasionally. 

But that does not disturb you. What makes you slightly wary of the keep, is that the boys claim it is talking back. Not the bone itself, no, bones cannot speak, of course. They appear in your bedroom at night, complaining of the whispers through the corridors, and they can hardly sleep because of it. They like scary stories, ghost stories, they assure you, but the tales they pick out from these night-time phantoms are beyond what they consider disturbing. Gregor brings them back to bed for you. 

It is late, late enough that you should be abed already, but there is nothing that can convince you to sleep. Your husband is out, for whatever reason, and the boys have been put to bed particularly reluctantly. 

Something feels wrong, perhaps the temperature has dropped again, or a storm is coming. That, or the ghosts have gotten to you.

You sigh, and go back to your sewing, ignoring how concerningly similar the wind sounds to human voice. 

There is someone in the doorway. You cannot tell who, given the dim light, but you see the break in light between their legs, and the definitive shape of a head above it, but they come from nowhere. You think it to be a man, given the build, but you cannot particularly tell. All you see is its shadow, and a sapphire light in place of one eye. It tilts what you think is its head, not daring to venture closer toward you. Instead, it turns back on itself, marching down the hall. It takes barely a minute for your boys to run, screaming, from their bedchamber, you are surprised the babe is not awoken.

“There was a real ghost, Mummy!” 

Finny is beyond words, huddled and shivering to one side of you. It is Revan who takes responsibility for recounting their ghostly experience.

You want to dismiss their fears as something else. A bad dream, the excitement of battles long finished. But, you do not.

“I saw him, loves. I believe it.”

Two children stay huddled to your side long into the night. One who refuses to pick up the book he had so dearly loved nights before, and the other trying desperately to be seen as strong, but who yelps at each click of the floorboard, or scuttle from a creature travelling through the walls. They do not need nor want stories, or song, or toys to entertain themselves with. All they need is their mother.

Gregor comes in close to sunrise. Finny is long asleep, Ronan is uncomfortably awake, you don’t even think that he notices your husband coming in, despite the large shadow he casts. He is filthy, and exhausted, a day of acts you don’t ask nor even think about. Still, he gives you your kiss, and leans down to your older boy,

“Why aren’t they in bed?”

You look up slightly,

“Ghosts.”

He slumps himself into the chair beside you, which you are mildly surprised holds the weight, and groans.

“Ghosts, that’s all I hear about. The men see ghosts, the prisoners see ghosts, the fucking dogs see ghosts. And now my boys see them too.”

“I saw one.”

The noise he makes is somewhere between another tired sigh, and a scoff.

“How do you know it’s not your woman’s business?”

You throw a cushion at him for that, which he catches with ease. You realise quickly he’s semi-serious, he’s never known much about women.

“My monthly does not cause ghost sightings, you absolute fool.”

Eventually, he stands up, cracking his bones as he does,

“Gods, I need a fucking sleep. Come on, I want something warm to hold.”

Gregor picks up Finny, the boy’s limp, sleepy body bouncing like a little fish in his father’s enormous grasp. You watch him pile Ronan on top, fitting both children comfortably into his arms. The man turns around, leans down slightly, and you wrap your arms around his neck, lifted up into the air in an uncomfortable piggyback. If the boys were awake, and suitably not terrified, they would squeal and squeak with delight at this show of strength. 

Your sons are plopped, with an incredible lack of ceremony, into your bed. As you move to tuck them in, Gregor stops you, turning back and thumping down the hall. The scrape of wood makes your brow furrow, until your husband appears again with one of the boy’s beds, carrying the thing as though it weighs nothing. It is out beside the windows on the other end of the room, and your boys are put into the one bed, too exhausted to care, and happy to be in Mummy’s bedroom. The babe is still asleep, neither knowing nor caring about his brothers’ stay in the room. 

Finally, the man gets into bed, and is permitted rest.

“Fucking hells, the things I do for them kids.”

Your hands find his chest, and he kisses your hair. 

“You’re lucky they have your looks. Wouldn’t be dragging in a bed if they were big brutes.”

You give something of a smile, by now too tired to care. But there is no need for words, not now. 

“Did you actually see a ghost or did you just want the littluns in here tonight?”

“Oh, feck off.”

In the morning, you wake to find Ronan and Finny in place of Gregor, as you would most mornings, the bed dragged back to their own room. You dress Finny, and the babe, and bring them down for their breakfast. Nothing is said about the previous night. 

“Mummy?”

“Aye, Ronan?”

The boy looks up from his porridge, rubbing his eyes slightly,

“Can we put the bone back? I thought maybe it was the ghost’s favourite toy and he wants it back. Like when Finny took my favourite knight.”

You are oddly surprised by his little boy logic. It seems such an intelligent observation for such a little child.

“Do you know something, Ronan? That’s an excellent idea. I thought we could leave some offerings around the keep as well, like we do for the gods.”

“So they know we want to be friends?”

You look at him, slightly strangely.

“Of course, Ronan, so they know we want to be friends.”

The trek back down to the Gods Eye is a solemn procedure. The babe is on your back, Finny is trailing behind, and Ronan has wrapped the bone in one of your handkerchiefs, carrying his spade in the other hand. 

He insists on burying it himself. Back into the wet, marshy sand of the shores. When the wind turns just right, you catch glimpses of him speaking to it. An apology, it sounds like. When he is finished, the two of them spend a little while splashing in the water, and throwing rocks at fish, thankfully missing. You are already haunted by human ghosts, the thought of fish ghosts is slightly too much to handle.

Flowers which grow in the fields of Harrenhal are oddly similar to the place itself. Sad, and wet, and mildly depressing. Still, you pick out the best ones, with no help from your sons, who instead tear out patches of wildgrass and push each other down the hills, returning somewhat to their normal, pre-Harrenhal states.

They do help you tie the posies, with blue and yellow ribbons. Finny is particularly excited to attach little stones to each of them, which you find quite an odd thing to be excited about, but you shan’t question it. 

The men look at your boys strangely as they run around the yard, putting little bunches of flowers and unlit candles in door and window frames. Of course, one look from Gregor shuts them up. 

They have never asked to pray before, but they pray that night. Not to gods, but to the ghosts of Harrenhal, asking them to be nice, and not haunt them, and all of the other things which concern little children.

Finny goes to bed with no complaint, tucked up with a song and a story of the Battle of the Trident. It takes his brother slightly longer, needing more convincing. You light him a candle and put it above the fireplace, light scares off the ghosts, you tell him, and he believes it. 

The morning comes with no ghosts, no small children in your bed, and a Mountain stealing your side of the blankets. You sigh, sitting up and kissing his face; he groans in response, wrapping his arms tighter around you. When you finally escape his clutches, you find the babe with a silver rattle, which he is particularly happy about, a sapphire ring beside him. Large, and ornate, and certainly real. 

“Who bought the ring?”

Gregor is still partially asleep, he moans,

“How should I know? The ghosts did.”

Something in you tells you he might be right. 

There are gifts for the boys as well. A book of Targaryen heroes for Finny, with his name already written in the front cover, and a whistle formed from bone for the older one. Gregor gets nothing, but the affection from your boys, as you pretend that he is the one who has found such pretty presents. He, naturally, sucks up the attention. 

When you finally leave Harrenhal, there is a sense of normalcy. The boys say they will miss the place, miss the ghosts. They love the Riverlands now, apparently, and they do not want to leave. 

This ends the moment you get back to Clegane Keep, when they leave their ghostly presents, rush to the kitchens, and return carrying a cat each, which they then insist on racing. Harrenhal becomes a distant memory, which no one speaks of, and a beautiful, sapphire, ring lives in your jewellery box. One day, if Gregor gives you a daughter, you decide you shall give it to her, and hope her brothers do not scare her with stories of a haunted keep, and the ghost they befriended.