#a song of ice and fire smut

[valyrianvibranium]

WORSHIP ME INSTEAD.

Maegor Targaryen x Niece!Septa!Reader

The Gods have been unhappy with your uncle for some time now, but perhaps he's just needed to give them an offering… a sacrifice in return for a healthy heir all along. And what makes a better sacrifice than a septa?

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT - MDNI; very dubious consent, canon typical incest/targcest (uncle/niece), blasphemy, corruption, corruption kink, size difference, semi public sex, female reader (mentions long, silver hair as appearance)

WORDS: 3K

NOTES: you're all getting some big tiddy daddy as a special treat and to officially end my 3k celebration! thanks to everyone that has participated by asking questions, by writing their own fics, and by just supporting me. also a special thanks to @zaldritzosrose and @arcielee for betaing this. <3

The atmosphere in the newly completed Red Keep is strange. It never was comfortable or calm, not even when your father sat the throne, but it feels as though a dark veil is hanging low over the castle and its staff, not even sparing the king and your uncle, Maegor Targaryen. 

You’ve been gone from court for quite a while, being sent to Oldtown to become a septa by the very hands of the man you’re serving now, which has made the change in atmosphere even more apparent to you. 

Several deaths haunt the castle — Ceryse Hightower’s being the most recent one — and you can only fathom the pressure your uncle holds on his shoulders at this very moment. He does not have an heir, one wife after the other perishes, and the boy that poses the biggest threat to his claim to the throne, your brother Jaehaerys, has fled the castle of Dragonstone with your mother after the passing of the Dowager Queen Visenya. 

You were not mad at being sent to the Starry Sept, for it allowed you to leave the insanity of your own House for an unknown amount of time. It was when you’d been called back to King’s Landing that you could feel your mood sour. You were brought there with no real task for you at hand which forced you to take over some duties Grand Maester Benifer assigned you with. 

Your whole day has been spent in the Keep’s library, making you forgo your hood at one point and therefore allowing your silver tresses to cascade down your back freely. Wearing the hood is no necessity, hence your lack of concern should someone walk into the library and catch you without it. 

With several books in hand, you sort some of the scrolls and books that had been brought to the royal chambers before, putting them back to where they belong. 

You are too engrossed in your task to notice that you’ve been alone for the longest of time, only aware of that other presence the moment the raspy voice fills the room. “Septa,” he almost says it in a mocking manner, and you immediately know who it is that has joined you. 

Turning on your heels, you crane your neck to meet your uncle’s eyes for a moment. “Y-Your Grace.” You dip into a slight curtsy, placing the books in an empty place on the shelf.

Heat warms your cheeks in his presence. Even during your childhood, you have always found a liking for your uncle and enjoyed the way he allowed you to leave the boredom of your princessly duties to take you flying on Balerion or let you watch him train with the sword. 

“At ease, Septa,” he replies, flicking his hand as if he means to dismiss your stiff posture. The library is not well lit, a few candles sparsely placed here and there granting for most of the light, and yet you still notice the way his eyes rove over your form slowly and deliberately. “I trust that all is well in the Keep?”

Your heart races in your chest underneath his gaze, as if he contemplates eating you, and it makes you swallow thickly. “Oh, yes, of course. Everything is well, Your Grace,” you say, trying to keep your voice as calm and polite as possible, though you can not help but feel your pulse quickening at the hunger in his eyes. 

His lips curve into a smile, clearly taking pleasure in the way you’re squirming beneath his gaze. “And your duties? All going smoothly?” He takes a step towards you, looming over your small frame. 

You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to keep your composure, more so as his pleasant scent fills your nostrils in a way you can’t describe. Taking in a shaky breath, a shiver runs down your spine. It’s been easier being close to him when you were all but a child he’s bounced on his knee, not a woman grown.  

“Well enough,” you reply a beat later. “The new midwives are coming along wonderfully. The Queen can know herself in good hands should she be with child soon.”

Maegor just hums in response, reaching out a hand to drag his knuckles over your cheek, his calloused fingers rough against your soft skin. Even from this little contact he can feel how warm your flesh is, and a heat grows in his loins at the thought of how warm and sensitive your skin would be if it was no longer covered by your septa robes. 

“That is good then… Septa ,” he says, hesitating to use your title. His voice has dropped lower as his hand travels to your jaw, his thumb caressing your chin. 

Your eyes widen, but you don’t dare to step away from him for fear of the consequences. “... Your Grace?” You eventually find the courage to whisper. 

His fingers graze your jaw, gently tracing your features. A low hum rumbles in the depth of his chest. You don’t know that he’s always found you beautiful, much more than your younger sister Rhaena, and even more now that you’ve become a woman grown. You’re so unlike the women he usually entertains himself with. “Yes, Septa?” With these words leaving his lips, his hand travels down to your neck, gently wrapping around your throat, grasp firmly but not enough to hurt you. 

Drawing in a deep breath, that is the moment you decide to bring some space between you again, taking a step back. But much to your surprise, his grip does not falter, hand still around your throat with his arm just outstretched. “I–” you swallow thickly, not able to keep your gazes locked. “This… This is highly inappropriate, Your Grace.”

Maegor merely scoffs, and although his hand follows your movements, it’s clear it’s meant to stop you from getting away from him. His thumb gently runs along the sensitive skin of your throat, feeling your pulse quicken beneath the pad of it. “Inappropriate?” he murmurs, his dark blown eyes drinking in the sight of your slightly parted lips. “When have I ever cared for what was appropriate, Septa?”

It feels as though the gentle brush of his thumb coaxes another shiver to run down your spine, and you catch your mind straying to the thoughts of what it would feel like if his fingers were anywhere else but your neck. 

“Must… Must I remind His Grace that it was him sending me to Oldtown to become a septa? I–I have vowed–” you trail off, your voice shaking slightly. “It is not very proper for a septa to be touched in… this way.”

Moving forward again and closing the gap that has formed, his hand around your throat stops you from backing away. “It’s not proper, no…” he murmurs, leaning forwards to bring his lips on level with your ear. “But then again, I’ve never been a proper man.”

You suppress an involuntary gasp as you feel his hot breath fanning over your skin, enough to nearly melt you here and now. Perhaps his grip leaves you more as a willing prisoner to his mercy rather than his prey. A part of you wants to pull away, yet the other part is afraid of angering him by doing so. 

“Y–Your Grace…” you whisper, the sound of your voice almost breathless as his domineering presence makes it difficult to think straight, “... please.”

The wicked smirk on his lips grows wider at your pleading. He can feel himself getting lost in your voice, so soft yet sounding so helpless in his presence. If it hasn’t been obvious before, he takes immense pleasure in the way he towers over your frame, making you appear so small and fragile clad in your septa robes. 

“Please what, niece ?” he says, leaning in even more to brush his lips against the shell of your ear. 

You try to tilt your head to get away from him, squirming in his grasp, but to no avail. “Īlon kessa daor,” you try to reason with him in the tongue of your ancestors, a small flicker of hope that this brings some sort of clarity back to him. We should not. 

But Maegor just chuckles lowly, the grip around your throat tightening slightly. Your breathing is uneven, shaky even, with your body pressed against his, and he relishes in the feeling of your vulnerability. “Kostilus īlon kessa daor,” he replies, a dangerous lilt in his tone. “Yn gaoman sīr jorrāelagon raqagon ra nyke kessa daor.” Perhaps we should not. But I do so love to indulge in things I shouldn’t.

Before you can answer, you’re spun around by him, the movement unusually fluid and graceful, as if he’s done it plenty of times before. Your back presses against his sturdy chest, pinning you between him and the bookshelf with no way to escape. The hand from your throat rests on your waist instead, the fabric of your robe pinched between his fingers.

“That’s much better, is it not?” he teases in a murmur. 

The vow of chastity you’ve sworn plays over and over again in your mind, but does little to stop your knees from growing weak at the proximity. 

“This is not a good idea… uncle ,” you protest quietly. It’s completely out of place for you to address him as such, he is the king and you’re a mere septa that has set aside her last name, but neither the Mother Above nor the Maiden can stop him from getting under your skin. 

“Perhaps, but where is the fun in a good idea, huh?”

You’re a septa, and you’re supposed to be a pious and celibate woman, but at this moment all you can think of is how good it feels to have him this close to you, so very close to giving you more – something you’ve craved for a long time. 

Both your hands are captured by his paw, pinning them behind your back and making you unable to move. While his lips explore the side of your neck, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses, his other hand rucks up the skirt of your robe, bunching it around your waist. It’s pinched by the fingers of his other hand, held high and allowing him to pay more attention to your undergarments. 

If you weren’t so distracted by the coarse hairs of his beard scratching the sensitive skin of your neck with each kiss he pressed to it, you would have attempted to squeeze your thighs together, making it more difficult for him to tug down your smallclothes. But alas, your mind and body are too far gone from all the summers you have spent untouched and unsatisfied, addicted to the rush his touch sends through your body. 

He is hard and heavy behind you, the outline of his thick cock pressing against the curve of your arse. You're too desperate for something you have only imagined at night, making you arch your back as though you mean to make him hurry up. You can feel him fumble with the laces of his breeches, undoing them one by one. 

“We’ll just have to be good at not getting caught,” he rasps against your neck. The robe you wear offers almost no liberty to push it down to reveal more of your soft skin and the curve where your neck meets your shoulder to him, and so he has to make do with your neck alone. 

Your uncle is met with little resistance as he sheaths his hard cock inside of your warm cunt, filling you up at once. Not even the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into the skin at the curve of your neck grants you enough distraction from the stinging that comes with accommodating his size, your cunt struggling to take him completely. 

“By the Seven,” you whimper, your hands clenching to fists in his grasp while your walls flutter around him.  

Your soft whimpers are enough to drive him further into his need for you already, and the gentle rolls of his hips make your knees slacken, caught by him bringing his free hand to your chin to pull your body against his. “There is no need for the Gods here, my sweet Septa,” Maegor rasps into your ear, emphasizing his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips that makes you choke on a whine. “You may worship me instead.”

His grip on your chin forces you to tilt your head back and arch your back against him to hold up with the slowly increasing pace of his thrusts, and your teeth digging into your bottom lip is a fruitless attempt of yours to stifle a moan coaxed past them by that. 

The sound of your moans and whimpers sparks something in him, prompting him to growl against your skin. It tightens the grip he has on your chin to the point it becomes borderline painful with how much he has tilted it back. 

“Don’t hold back,” he grunts, resting his forehead against the crown of your head. “Let me hear you, sweetling.”

Although your mouth is agape, no more sounds than breathy whimpers and whines leave your lips, despite the reckless pounding of him. But when another moan manages to escape your chest, it strains your throat to the point you have to cough once. 

Sensing your discomfort, he eases the grip just slightly, shifting it to your throat and allowing your head to tip forward again. You’re desperate to fill your lungs with air, yet each breath is knocked out of them by the merciless snaps of his hips. 

“That’s it,” he groans, nudging your legs further apart with his foot. “The Gods have been unhappy with me for some time now, but perhaps I’ve just needed to give them an offering… a sacrifice.” He’s just rambling into your hair at this point, and your mind is too hazy to really process anything he says.

You’ve been so inexperienced and have spent so much time completely untouched that even the slapping of his heavy sac of stones against your pearl brings you a pleasure beyond imagination. 

He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his significantly taller one. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again. 

Your peak washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. But his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize. 

“Perhaps the Gods haven’t been giving me a healthy heir because they need me to fill you up,” he growls as if he’s been waiting for this since the moment he’d sent you to Oldtown, his voice raspy and thick with need. “Perhaps the Seven will bless me with a son if my seed quickens within you.”

His words nearly send you to your knees if it wasn’t for his muscular arm wrapped around your frame. A renewed wave of your arousal oozes out of your cunt at the thoughts of you carrying his child, yet it also makes you shudder, a feeling of guilt lingering in the pit of your belly. “By… By the Gods… T-The Seven would not–” you protest weakly, your voice a little more than a gasp. But even to your own ears your protest sounds more like a pleading than denial. 

Pulling you even closer against him, Maegor nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing the exposed flesh of your shoulder gently. “My little Septa,” he murmurs, the nickname almost sounding like an insult and a taunt. “You say we can not, yet you press yourself against me… are you so desperate for my cock?”

That is the moment you lose any resemblance of restraint you’ve held before, your mind becoming blank, his merciless pounding, and words forcing every thought right out of your brain. You whine a string of incoherent words, rambling one ‘yes’ after the other. 

It’s as if he’s just as desperate, because you can feel his thrusts becoming more and more erratic, a sign that lets you know he is about to topple over the edge. With a few more thrusts, he forces his thick cock into you, until a strained groan heralds his peak. His twitching cock spills his seed deep inside of your quivering cunt, and you squeeze him ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop. 

He squeezes your flesh and trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the curves hiding beneath the robe. His thrusts grow leisurely, the feeling of pure bliss subsiding rather quickly for him. 

Shame and guilt for what just has happened overcomes you, growing stronger the moment he pulls out and you feel the remnants of his spend idly trickle down your thighs.

You don’t dare pull around. You don’t want to meet his gaze, to see the smugness and satisfaction written over his features at having convinced you to give in to him. 

“I suppose I have kept you away from your duties for long enough,” he says, his voice dripping with irony. “You’re a septa, and I believe you have some more duties to tend to.”

Nodding weakly in agreement, you can’t shake off the feelings of being exposed and vulnerable under his piercing gaze. It takes a moment for your brain to function again, the fog of need and pleasure only slowly clearing from your mind. 

“You’re right, Your Grace,” you say, voice weak and shaky. “I should… I should get going…” Dipping your head in a nod, you’re quick to scurry off, hastily looking around on your way out of the library in hope of no one having seen you in your moment of indiscretion.

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby @k4marina @foxyanon @peachysunrize @nats-whore

@palmer-hjp @sinarainbows @luvdella

General Taglist: @arcielee @userhotd @multyfangirl @zaldritzosrose @black-dread

@wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @thought--bubble @dixie-elocin @beautbuck

[blakeswritingimagines]

KINK LIST With Maegor Targaryen

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Maegor is very strict and harsh but he does show rare signs of compassion and affection if he is with someone who he feels can match his power and authority with him - he wants things to be fair and balanced which is very rare for him. But if he is with a person who is weaker than him he will be very strict and stern once the act is finished and make sure they know their place and who controls the relationship.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Maegor's favorite body part would definitely be his own hands, having them being used to control and manipulate people around him. He takes pride in his strength and how he uses it to get what he wants. His partner's favorite body part might be their mouth, as he loves using it to dominate and silence anyone who challenges his authority.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Maegor has no qualms about cumming on you, often marking you as his property with thick ropes of seed. He delights in watching the sticky mess drip down your body, serving as a visible reminder of his dominance over you. When it comes to ingesting his own or others' semen, Maegor views it as a sign of submission and loyalty, eagerly swallowing every drop to strengthen his bonds with those beneath him.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Maegor harbors a deep-seated desire for absolute power and control, but hides this behind an intimidating facade. Despite his aggressive demeanor, he secretly yearns for a partner who could challenge him mentally and physically – someone who could stand up to him and not back down easily. This hidden craving contradicts his outwardly ruthless nature and makes him even more unpredictable.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Maegor is incredibly experienced both with men and women. He’s had many bed partners during his life. He would know what he wants in a bed partner and in terms of how experienced the bed partner is, he would prefer someone who had a decent amount of experience but who wouldn’t be as experienced or more experienced than himself to boost his own ego.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Maegor's favorite position is to have his partner bent over a table or desk, completely at his mercy. He loves the visual of you submitting to him, your face pressed against the surface while he takes you from behind.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Although a cruel, harsh, and cold man, Maegor has a hidden sense of humor that he shows very little. Mostly only in private around people he actually trusts and who are close to him. But, he is someone who is always serious and will be completely unable to show any signs of humor or playfulness when it comes to a person that he can’t trust.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Maegor is always in perfect physical condition. He has the perfect body from a lifetime of training in combat and maintaining his appearance. He takes a lot of pride in his looks and his appearance so would be completely groomed and not a hair out of place.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

While he may seem like a cruel and harsh man, he is in fact an extremely passionate lover as long as he can feel that he’s in control during the situation. He is a dominant man through and through. Outside of his private life, he never really shows a romantic side to him, so people seeing his intimate and romantic side would be a complete surprise.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Maegor's masturbation sessions are intense and solitary affairs. He takes great pleasure in using his strong hands to stroke his thick, hard cock, imagining various scenarios where he's dominating and controlling his you. His fantasies often involve marking you with his hot, sticky cum, symbolizing your submission to him.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Maegor's primary kink revolves around domination and control. He enjoys exerting his power over his partners, both physically and mentally, pushing you to your limits until you fully submit to his will. Bondage: Maegor is a master of restraint, taking great pleasure in binding his partners securely so you're utterly helpless and dependent on him. He likes to see the fear and vulnerability in your eyes before claiming you thoroughly. Non-Consent: While not entirely sadistic, Maegor enjoys pushing boundaries and testing limits, sometimes going beyond what his partners are comfortable with. He sees it as a way to prove his superiority and break down your resistance.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Maegor is not shy at all when it comes to where he has his fun. In his mind, he’s the King and can do whatever he wants whenever and wherever he wants. Sometimes having that element of the risk of getting caught or other people finding him while he’s having his fun makes it even more thrilling for him. He would have no problem getting himself a room at any inn or somewhere private where he can dominate and have his way with you completely.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Maegor's primary motivation is the pursuit of power and control. He becomes intensely aroused when he sees fear, submission, and vulnerability in his partners, knowing that he holds the keys to your pleasure and pain. The thrill of dominating and breaking down your resistance ignites a fire within him, driving him to claim you thoroughly and mark you as his own.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

As mentioned earlier, he craves control, so the only thing which would turn him off is someone getting in control of the situation. This would make him very quick to get annoyed and possibly angry, depending on how things are handled.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He loves receiving as it’s a sign of submission, but he’ll happily give to you who has completely submitted yourself to his will and power. Since his own experience and skill are very high, he’d know exactly how to give his partner the maximum amount of pleasure.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Since he prefers to be the one in control and having authority, he’ll always take the pace and speed of his acts to his own liking, it’s about his pleasure and enjoyment as first priority so he’ll change the speed to his liking. But if he’s with a partner who he can truly trust and who is fully willing to let him do whatever he wants, he’ll take things slower and get more passionate.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Maegor’s opinion of both quickies and proper sex depends on the situation and his mood. If he just wants to get a quick release he’ll just have a quickie and move on. But if he’s in the mood to enjoy himself he’ll draw out the process and take his time, especially if he has a partner that he trusts. There really is no set preference for him, it all depends on his mood and the situation.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Maegor is more than happy to experiment if you are willing to do the same. He’s not scared to go out of his comfort zone and experience something new if you are interested in doing the same. If he’s interested in something and you’re not willing to do something he’s interested in, he’ll either be very persuasive or just force you to do it anyway.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

As a strong and young man, Maegor is able to keep going for a decent amount of rounds. With plenty of breaks, he would be able to last all night. Although if he’s in the mood and you can keep up with him, it can be a marathon and he’ll spend the entire night taking what he wants, not stopping until he is satisfied.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Maegor is not one who uses toys. He’s very dominant and loves to be in control, which using toys would completely destroy. If you wanted to use toys, he’d see it as a challenge for him to just have even more control over the situation. The only “toy” he uses is a set of leather handcuffs.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Maegor delights in teasing you, using your arousal against you to increase your desperation and submission. He takes pleasure in withholding pleasure, prolonging your torment until you're begging for relief. His unfair tactics serve to reinforce his dominance and remind you of your place beneath him.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He isn’t loud, but he isn’t quiet, and his heavy breathing would be the most common sound.

Maegor is known for his grunts and growls during sexual encounters, expressing his primal desire and dominance through sound. His deep, guttural noises echo off the walls, adding to the intensity of the moment and intimidating you further. He isn’t loud, but he isn’t quiet, and his heavy breathing would be the most common sound.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Maegor has a secret fascination with water sports, particularly urination play. In private moments, he enjoys seeing warm liquid trickling down his partner's skin, finding it a unique form of degradation and control. This quirk adds a layer of complexity to his dominant persona, hinting at hidden depths beneath his rough exterior.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His cock is 8 inches long, uncut, thick, and always hard. The head is a bit more sensitive than the rest of it, but still very pleasurable. It has a slight curve to it that makes it perfect for deepthroating.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Maegor's sex drive is insatiable. He yearns for sexual encounters constantly, craving the opportunity to dominate and subdue another being. This relentless hunger drives him to seek out partners who can withstand his intensity and satisfy his desires.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After a session of intense dominance and submission, Maegor typically falls into a deep, restful sleep, his exhaustion stemming from the physical and emotional energy expended during his conquests. Maegor will not have any problem going straight to sleep after a physical encounter, having completely worn himself out and spent all of his energy. He wouldn’t want to talk or cuddle, he’d probably just pass out immediately afterwards.

[ashblooddragons]

Greedy

This is a present for my Bestie @sugutoad birthday! I hope you like it girly!

Summary: The day of the Driftmark succession Aegon decides him and his sister wife have much more important matters to pursue.

Word Count: 1332

Warnings: oral female receiving, fingerings, p in v sex, fluff, Targcest

I stare up at the canopy as Aegon sleeps with his head on my chest. I stroke his hair taking in the softness many would believe isn't there. 

This is often how I wake up, him cuddled up beside me clinging to me as if his life depended upon it. It never bothered me in fact it makes me feel loved for even in sleep he searches for me. 

I sniffle a giggle when a loud snore escapes him. He never was an elegant sleeper though I'm not sure anyone is. 

I still remember the day Mother betrothed us, I was overjoyed but of course Aegon being Aegon he had to deny his feelings. In the weeks leading up to the wedding he would grumble each time he saw me, but as soon as we were wed he was completely different. Acting as if our marriage was the best thing to happen to him. It was then I realized I never will fully know what is going through his mind. 

I'm brought back to the present when Aegon grumbles before lifting his head to look up at me. 

I can't help but take in his gorgeous periwinkle eyes, so unlike any in our family. And then there is his hair, if someone only looked at the coloring they would think it the normal Targaryen locks. But I know that if it is humid they become tight ringlets like our mother's. 

He looks so much like Mother in certain lights. I think brushing his hair out of his face so I can look at her properly.

“Your dressed?” He days through a yawn looking down at my emerald green dress with bronze dragons embroidered along the sleeves. They glimmer just like my darling mount Vermithor. 

“Hmm, well someone had to make sure the children were dressed for the day. They are with Mother now and I believe possibly Helaena and Vissera.” I respond with a smile. 

I know he isn't a morning person so many mornings I must pry myself from his arms and dress quickly to make sure our children aren't running a muck. Though many times I never get the chance as Aegon only tightens his death grip on me.

“How many children does that make? At least seven with three women?” He asks with a chuckles as he kisses my neck.

“Well Vissera had her eldest two in there and left her youngests with our Uncle. Helaena has brought her eldest two as well and left baby Maelor with Jace. And I brought our eldest three.” I respond with a sigh as he grips my hips rolling my core against his bare thigh. 

“So like I said, seven children with three women.” He responds with a cheeky grin before capturing my lips in a searing kiss.

“We can't we will be needed in the throne room for the succession of Driftmark.” I say between heated kisses.

“That isn't until mid day, we have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves.” He says kisses me one final time before moving down my body until my legs rest over his shoulders and he is faced with my clothed core. 

He tuts at the sight a frown forming on his lips in an instant. “Small clothes? This won't work with my plans.” 

I can't help the laugh that bubbles up from my throat. “Well I am sorry for the inconvenience, but I didn't think we would be having a morning lay.” I respond with a raise of my brow.

He chuckles as he starts pulling them down my hips, slowly but surely I feel the soft fabric graze my thighs as he continues to pull them down. “And what do you call what I woke up to? You were laying, were you jot?” He responds and I playfully slap his head with a scowl. 

“You know what I meant!” I demand but I know it is falling on deaf ears when I see his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. 

“Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't, but what I do know is I'm starved.” He responds with a look of a wild animal staring at its fresh kill. I know he is taking in the gleam of my wetness, the way my breath catches with each agonizing inch his fingers graze my skin until they grip my hips in a bone crushing grip. 

I'm his feast and he'd be damned if I tried to take it from his grasps. 

I go to respond only to gasp and grip his hair as he delves forward using the flat of his tongue against my pearl. I can feel my hips moving on their own accord to meet him with each swipe and suck. 

“Aegon.” I gasp out before biting my lip to stifle my moans when I hear the clank of armor walk past our chamber door. 

“What Shiera, I am quite busy.” He responds looking up at me. I can tell he is grinning ear to ear at how quickly I gave into his little game. 

Cocky asshole. I think before gripping his hair tighter and pushing him towards my core once more. 

“Don't you dare stop.” 

He only smirks, mumbling a quick ‘as you wish, my love’ before he is sucking on my pearl once more. Though this time I feel his long digits graze my core. I know he is playing with me like a lion plays with a gazelle but I can't find any reason to care when he is already making me see stars. 

“Have I ever mentioned how delicious you are?” He groans out as two of his digits slowly but surely breach my core.

“On occasion.” I answer before a moan breaks through me when he curls his fingers hitting the spot he knows makes me putty in his hands. 

“Good, because I think there is no better taste than my darling wife.” Is all he says before he removes his fingers from my core and climbs his way up my body until I feel the weight of his length against my thigh.

“What are your thoughts on another babe?” He asks with a tilt of his head.

I smile up at him as I reach down to guide his hardness to my weeping core. “I think it's a magnificent idea.” 

He only smirks before rolling his hips forward stretching me in the most wonderful of ways. 

“Fuck, four pregnancies and still so fucking tight.” He hisses, gripping my thighs before thrusting into me, hitting the spot that makes my head spin with pleasure. 

My head reels with each thrust, I can hardly form words with the searing pleasure that flows through my veins. I already know his back will be covered in bloody red claw marks by the end of this morning lay. 

“Look at me, I want to see you come apart on my cock.” He demands gripping my hair so I have nowhere to look besides him. 

I stare into his eyes as my pleasure finally over takes me and wave after wave rolls through me.

“Gods Shiera.” I hear him groan before he gives one final thrust and I feel his seed fill me.

We both lay there catching our breath when suddenly Aegon let's out a sharp laugh. 

“I didn't even get your dress off.” He says staring down at my emerald dress with wonder. “I must have really need a fuck.” 

I can't help but laugh with him as he runs his hands up and down the velvet of my dress only stopping to grope my buttocks or breasts.

“You must have.” I respond, wrapping my arms around his neck before kissing his lips.

Perhaps there really are more important things to do than worry about a succession to an island. Like enjoying my husband's company. I think watching aegon grab a linen shirt before pulling out of me and holding it against my core making sure nothing ruins my dress…well at least more.

TAGLIST: @sugutoad @ilikefelines @classicsimpforaaronwarner @sachaa-ff @mmogurl @thelastemzy @themoonlitquill @athzhowakar

[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. 

[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.

[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

[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."

[cdragons]

No Hope - Robb Stark x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader

Summary: You ended it. It killed you to do so, but you had to do it. Soon, it won't matter anyway - you were set to travel with Lord Stark and Lady Sansa as her lady-in-waiting to King's Landing. It's not as if you two will ever meet again. How wrong you were...

Warning(s): Hard Dom Robb, OC is cold, Robb is dark AND delulu, Canon divergence, hard smut, slight BDSM, KIng's Landing criminal justice system, etc.

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIPPY!!! I know I'm three days late, and I swear I meant to finish this on your actual birthday, but I ended up overwriting, and then I had to be at the DMV for about 7 hours and then had to pack up my house yesterday 🫠. ANYWAY, thank you so much for being such an amazing friend! It really has been such an honor to see how much you, your writing, and your blog have grown! Here's to another year of friendship and great writing!

The siege against King’s Landing was a success, resulting in an overwhelming victory for Stannis’ campaign as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms.

House Lannister, despite the arrival of reinforcements from House Tyrell, led by Ser Loras, was no more. While it was a clever ruse on House Tyrell’s part, neither house would have expected men from the Riverlands to join Stannis in his fight, resulting in an overwhelming victory. As a result, the futures of two of the ancient Seven Great Houses of Westeros now rest in the hands of a new ruler—King Stannis of House Baratheon, a figure whose emergence will undoubtedly shape the course of Westeros.

Despite being a wheelhouse dozens of miles away from King’s Landing at this point, the shouts and cheers of Stannis’ men rang clear in your ears. Inside were three young women transported to the Westerlands—to Robb Stark, the Young Wolf and King of the newly independent North.

The thought of seeing him again after the way the two of you left things off made the ride all the more unpleasant.

You remained silent and softly stroked your lady’s head as she rested her head on your lap. Tried as she could to stay lucid and awake, but it seemed that the stress and terror from being trapped as King Joffery’s former betrothed before being sold to his dwarf of an uncle had taken its toll. As she slept, you took in her features and noted the changes from the child you knew in Winterfell to the young woman trapped in King’s Landing. Her gorgeous red Tully hair lost some of its splendorous luster, appearing more matted and unkempt than you had ever seen it after years of being in Lady Sansa’s lady-in-waiting. Despite being in the South for over a year, her ivory skin seemed to pale until it was translucent. While the court believed her pale fairness to result from her Northern birth, only you and Shay knew that it was from Sansa’s inability to stomach more than a few meager bites off her plate during her mealtimes.

“The circles under her eyes have darkened further,” you thought as Sansa gripped your skirt – tightly clenching her fist as if she were a small child still terrified of the dark. “She’s grown too thin – she’s barely improved since I’ve returned by her side.”

It terrified you when Shae, who took your place as her handmaiden, informed you that her mood had improved tremendously since Lord Tyrion’s success in releasing you as a wedding gift to his new wife. Knowing that Sansa, to which your previous liege lord entrusted her care to you, was in such a state for months broke your heart. The bright and cheerful smiles you adored had become so rare since you returned to her side. But you hoped that due to recent events, your red-haired wolf would soon smile as brightly with all the more radiance as she did as a child.

“Do you think Lord Tyrion will be alright?”

You looked up to see Shae sitting across from you on the other side of the carriage. Her expression, while usually impassive and unreadable, was fraught with unease about the uncertainty of the future—hers and her lover’s.

“Stannis Baratheon is not one who shows mercy,” you answered truthfully. “It is likely that he will face the same fate as his nephew, as well as his sister and father.”

Perhaps your tone was too blunt, judging by the slight flinch Shay gave when you referred to Joffery Lannister. But, it would not help anyone, much less her, if you spoke anything less than the truth – that was what Ned Stark taught you since you were a child, and it was by that faith you would remain steadfast no matter what. She deserved nothing less than the truth; it was what you owed her. After all, from what Sansa spoke to you, she helped protect her however she could when you were not by her side.

And for that, you were most grateful.

“However,” you continued, “perhaps Lord Varys will vouch for him. The Master of Whispers holds Lord Tyrion in high regard, and out of all his family, your lover is admittedly the best of them. If nothing else, maybe he’ll pledge loyalty to Stannis and convince Tommen to do the same.”

 She grew flustered, “He is not…we are not–”

“You will not find judgment from me,” you assured her with a bitter chuckle. You looked down at Sansa, her sleeping figure sparking a twinge of guilt in your heart. “Believe me, I am the last one to preach about the sins of an affair between a lord and his servant.”

It was a joyful reunion between mother and child. Before the wheelhouse fully stopped, Sansa flung open the doors and leaped out, racing into her mother's arms. Lady Stark was just as eager to hold her daughter – forgetting all forms of propriety and etiquette when she picked up her skirts to run. Both were a mess of wide smiles and joyful tears, and you don’t believe you’ve ever seen Lady Stark act so young. Seeing the two embrace – one who lost a husband and two sons and the other who lost a father and two brothers –made for such a beautiful scene that it made you weep in relief.

“I did it, my lord,” you silently prayed out, “I’ve kept my promise.”

You swore you felt your liege's gratitude by the gentle breeze that blew through the field. But unfortunately, the joy you felt would only further load the weight of the shackles of your guilt and self-loathing that refused to release you. Even if someone as good and honorable as Ned Stark could find it in his heart to forgive you – you couldn’t help but feel you don’t deserve his forgiveness.

…No…you knew you didn’t deserve it, and knowing that made the shackles heavier than you’ve ever felt.

Sansa was absent since Lady Catelyn insisted that her daughter remain by her side for the night. Shae accompanied her, and you remained alone as you lay on the cot set for you. A squire announced himself before entering the tent the men had set up for you and Shae. He called out your name and informed you that you were expected to wait in His Grace’s tent.

“His Grace requested a moment with you,” he explained, “he wishes to thank you for your service and loyalty to Princess Sansa.”

“Well, you can tell ‘His Grace’ that he can thank me here,” you scoffed. “Because I’m not fucking moving.”

You dismissed the young man without a second thought. Seriously? Did he genuinely expect you to come so quickly to him? Honestly, the nerve of that man.

It was not long before the squire returned.

“H-his Grace insists that you meet him,” he stammered.

The poor boy looked terrified, like a little puppy caught by its master for doing something it wasn’t supposed to. Seeing his discomfort was almost adorable – it nearly made you smile.

“And I insist that he let me rest,” you raised your brow and cocked your head to the side. “Or is he, in fact, ordering me to meet him? Ahh, and after such a long journey – honestly, he acts so spoiled sometimes, such a typical highborn born with everything.”

“Please, my lady,” he pleaded.

You impassively stared at the poor fellow briefly. His cheeks were flushed bright red underneath the dirt and grime, and his eyes looked close to crying. Gods, Robb – what in the Seven Hells kind of tongue lashing did you give the poor boy? Surely, he wasn’t so desperate to see you, especially considering how the two of you left things off.

“Fine,” you sighed, “I suppose I could spare him a moment. But it won’t be before I’ve had a bath – I’ve already called for hot water; it won’t be long.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady,” he sighed in relief. “His Grace will be most grateful to see you once he is finished speaking with his council in the war tent.”

Fuckin’ son of a–

You swore you felt a vein on your forehead pop. Did that idiot really summon you to his tent while he was in a council meeting?

The walk from your tent to Robb’s was a battle in itself - your mind dreaded what your heart longed for.

You had just finished your bath and changed into a simple linen dress (plain but clean) when you decided you kept His Majesty waiting long enough (two hours, give or take). You were just about to enter when a particularly irritatingly slow clap stopped you in your tracks. There was only one person who could bring out your ire in such a short amount of time. You turned around to see Theon Greyjoy – standing and smirking like the arrogant bitch you fought and played with since you were just a girl.

“Well, aren’t you a vision?” he smirked. “Makes you wonder how the men of King’s Landing kept their hands to themselves when they saw you.”

“Wouldn’t know,” you wryly replied, “after all, I spent most of my time there in a dark, damp cell. I barely had enough food and water to survive, let alone to be a vision.”

Although Theon still joked and teased like he always had, you could see the war had taken its toll on him. He grew thinner. His body had lost weight, and his muscles appeared leaner and more taut. His shaggy curls were more closely trimmed and no longer tickled his shoulders. But his eyes—how they looked so haunted and tired—made your heartbreak.

“He’s missed you,” he whispered. There was no need to state a name – you both knew who he was referring to.

“He got married,” you replied while looking away. To a Frey, no less.

“She's dead, and he never loved her.”

“That makes it better?”

“It does when you were the one who broke his heart,” he retorted.

You sharply turned back, “That is not–”

Light poured out of the tent behind you as the front flap opened. You heard your name being called out in that tone that always made your knees buckle—revering and filled with longing with an undertone of authority. It beckoned you to look at him, and when you did, you swore you felt your heart leap into your throat by him.

“You’re late,” he grunted.

Robb Stark, with his crystalline blue eyes not once looking away from you, shifted to the side and let you in. His gaze moved to Theon and narrowed when he noticed the lack of distance between the two of you. Saying nothing, you silently bowed your head before heading inside the warm tent. However, you remained close enough to hear the brief exchange between the Greyjoy and Stark. But after being away from Robb for so long, you couldn’t focus on any words between the two men.

Taking a deep breath, your body tingled as you took the familiar notes of fine leather and freshly burned smoke. You glanced at his bed and longed to lie in its furs without the hindrance of clothes. Your mouth watered at the idea of wrapping yourself in them. The idea of pressing your nose against the furs made your center throb and grow wet, as the idea of the scent of his hot sweat mixed with his musk trapped in those hides was almost too much to bear.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you nearly missed Robb calling out your name. You responded by regaining your composure as quickly as possible so as not to betray any lustful thoughts swimming in your mind.

“What did you and Theon talk about?” he bluntly asked, standing impassively as you remained silent.

“Was the journey smooth?” he tried again. Nothing.

“I hope my men–”

“Idle prattle doesn’t suit you,” you tiredly sighed. “Just tell me whatever you waited so long for, and then I can return to my tent and finally rest.”

Robb clenched his fists and stared at the ground. How cruel, how unfair – one word from you, just hearing your voice, struck every word on his tongue dead. War made him lax. He, of all people, should know how you could drive good men to insanity.

Yes – it felt like he was going mad.

He looked up from the ground and wanted to weep. There you stood – looking as beautiful as a fresh layer of snow and just as cold. It took everything in him not to reach out and pull you close. He wanted to feel your body close to his, to revel in the softness of your hidden warmth. He wanted to go back to Winterfell – to simpler times with his father and brothers alive and laughing, to when Jon was by his side and his brother and best friend, and to when you would look at him like he was your world.

How you used to look at him – how he still looked at you.

Robb tried to start a conversation to loosen the tense atmosphere, but it was clear you weren’t having it. You even cut him off on his third attempt. Your voice was so cold that it burned him like ice. He wasn’t even sure if you were looking at him or just at a corner of the tent so you could maintain that cold, domineering façade you had perfected since childhood. It was obvious to him that you were trying to goad him into losing his temper – giving you the perfect excuse to leave and ignore him again.

Why else had you sent his squire back to him after he requested your presence to wait for him at his tent? Furthermore, why else did you make him wait two hours for your bath?

“I wish to thank you for your loyalty towards my sister during her time as the Lannisters’ hostage,” Robb calmly said, keeping his voice steady but firm. “You acted bravely.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I acted as anyone else would have in my position. My loyalty to your sister and family is not something to be admired or coveted.”

“That’s not true,” Robb argued. “Your loyalty to my family is nothing short of admirable. It’s only right that–”

“Robb.”

It was infuriating how regal you looked, carrying the air of a queen.

“My loyalty will always belong to House Stark, that’s true – but,” you stared deep into his gaze, “all I cared about in that damp, rotting cell, where I was given barely enough water and food to survive, was whether my lady was well.”

Please stop it.

“I didn’t endure because my lady was a Stark,” you continued, “I endured because it was Sansa.”

He couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Is it only for Sansa that you’ve suffered?” he rasped in anger.

This wasn’t good; he just got you back. If he doesn’t properly utilize this chance, you’ll be gone from him forever. He knew you’d never leave Sansa’s side. Your loyalty to her, even when she still acted like the spoiled little princess of the North, drew him to you. As the eldest daughter, Sansa was the one closest to their mother. However, as the second eldest child, it also meant that she had to understand she could not always have their parents’ attention. Before Jeyne Poole, before Septa Mordane – you were Sansa’s first and constant companion. You were someone whose loyalty ran deep and remained unwavering in the worst times.

He collected himself enough to apologize for his outburst when your voice returned – regal and imposing, cold and distant.

“Not just Sansa,” you stated. “…I also made a promise to Lord Stark.”

Something in him snapped. Robb considered himself a good man, an honorable man. One whose father instilled lessons of honor and duty in him since he was old enough to walk. A father who he missed, whose absence was painful. But hearing you speak of him, of his father, it was like a bucket of ice water was poured over him, and it awoke a bitter memory he had long forgotten.

“Is it true?” Robb demanded unannounced after storming into his father’s private study. His father sat at his desk, appearing as tired and weary as the day of his departure from home to the vicious South treads closer with each passing day. Ned set down his quill and sighed deeply. He knew it would not be long before Robb would come in to demand an explanation. He supposed that, as his boy’s father, he owed his eldest son that much… if for not his own sake, then for the sake of closure. “…What may you be referring to, Robb?” he asked, despite already knowing what this was about. Robb furiously shook his head, “Do not pretend with me, Father. Did you or did you not plant the idea of a future engagement between her and me as treason against you?” “…Before I answer that,” Ned began carefully, not wanting to upset his son further, “am I to understand that when you mean ‘her,’ you are referring to a particular lady-in-waiting favored by your sister?” It frightened Ned how quickly Robb’s anger was snuffed out. He whispered your name with reverence and veneration fit for the Maiden. But just as soon as his heir’s fury went away, it came back at a speed and quantity tenfold. Ned could see it in his eyes. Robb may have inherited his Tully mother’s eyes, but the cold storm raging in them could only belong to one whose blood belongs to the Old Gods of the North. “Sansa requested her to accompany us while she learns to be Prince Joffrey's future queen,” Ned explained. “Robb… your sisters need people they can trust – now more than ever with Bran’s accident.” “And she’s agreed to this?” Robb interrogated. “You expect me to believe that?” “Yes,” Ned solemnly nodded, “because it was brought up to me by her…”

Robb didn’t believe it then, and he still didn’t believe it now. He refused to entertain the idea of you, of all people, who would propose to his father that you leave him. You, who Robb loved with a love more fervent and true than any fanciful tale sung by the bards in Southern courts. You, who listened to all of Robb’s deepest fears and worries since you and him were still small children. You, who whispered promises of love and devotion to Robb night after night since he first warmed your bed.

You, who cried tears of joy when he secretly proposed to you underneath the blood-red leaves and snow-painted branches of the weirwood tree, swearing his love to you before the Old Gods and New.

…No…no, no, no—it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be…but what other explanation was left?

“Robb…?” your voice gently called out to him. “If that’s all you wish to say to me… then I must be heading back to my–”

He walked forward and tightly grasped your arms, making you unable to escape. Robb felt your feeble attempts to pry his fingers off with your delicate hands. But it was to no avail.

“Why…?” Robb rasped, letting out all the pain and longing he had been keeping locked inside since you dissolved you and his affair. “Why did you leave? …Why did you leave me?”

“Damn you,” you thought. “Damn you, Robb Stark.”

It was pathetic… how easily this man broke down your walls. One word… one word from him was enough to make you want to surrender everything.  

“I…I-I… only did what I thought was best,” you stammered. “For us…and for you…”

Robb scoffed because why wouldn’t he?

“For me…?” he rhetorically repeated. “Leaving me – no, abandoning me… that was for my benefit? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

You shook your head, “Belief is secondary to truth,” you explained. “And I am telling you the truth. I’ve never lied to you.”

“Right, of course – that’s why you ran off to King’s Landing with my sister,” Robb raged. “Yes, certainly that for my well-being. You, being paraded and courted by knights and nobles with their pretty words and fine silks – what a relief to know that you endured all that for me…”

Oh, this son of a – gods, how could one man be so beautiful, yet so infuriating?!

“Did you ever love me?” he asked, his voice a little rough from choking back tears. “Was it ever real? Any of it? Or was it all a lie?”

“I believe I told you I was expected to wake your sister for her early celebration…” you looked out the window, “…right now…? It would seem…?” It was the morning of Sansa’s eleventh birthday. Lady Stark planned to surprise her daughter with a splendid spread of leek pottage, freshly baked bread, slices of smoked meat, and a cup of sweet Dornish wine. She entrusted the duty of waking the little princess of the day to you, Sansa’s most entrusted companion. It was expected that you would take the role. After all, everyone in the castle knew what an absolute nightmare Lord Stark’s eldest daughter was in the early mornings. …But…it would seem that Lord Stark’s eldest son and heir did not understand the gravity of your role today…considering he remained insistent that you spend your morning with him… in his bed… without any clothes on your person. While usually, you’d be much more cross at his insistence… you couldn’t deny how delicious it felt waking up in his arms after a night of gloriously intense lovemaking. And the way he further convinced you by tracing feather-light kisses down your neck and collarbone was downright sinful. “I believe…” he momentarily nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, causing you to softly shriek and giggle. “…I told you never to speak of my sister or any member of my family while in bed with me.” His lips trailed further down to the valley of your breasts. “Stay here…with me…and let’s forget the world this morning.” Gods, it’d be so easy to give in …to remain hidden from the world within the arms of your beloved…but life was hardly so easy. “You know I – can’t…!” you sharply gasped at the feel of his lips around your teat. You pitifully whined his name. “Robb, please…” “Shhh—careful, my love,” he huskily whispered, “unless you want all of Winterfell to know how even one of its coldest women is powerless against her wolf…” You held his chin to press a soft kiss against his lips. Gazing into his deep pools of sapphire, you knew this was the only man you could ever give your heart to. “My wolf…” you corrected, “and only mine…” “Yours…” Robb agreed as the two of you got lost in each other all over again.

Instinct and fury blinded rationality and composure as a sharp crack rang within the tent as your palm made contact with Robb’s cheek. Hot tears spilled from your eyes as the wet trails streamed down your cheeks.

“Fuck you, Robb…” you grit out.

Did he not think you haven’t craved him and his love as much, if not more, since your separation? Was he so obtusely… thick in the skull to think that you hadn’t cursed yourself for plunging you both into the cruel depths of a life without the other? Had he not realized that what saved you from falling into despair… from the moment you were thrown into the Red Keep’s dungeons… was your sweet memories of him?

You angrily swiped away your tears on the back of your hand before shoving him aside so you could make your way out of the tent. You couldn’t stand to be so close to him, not anymore, not when it cut you so deeply.

What was the point? Of being so close to one when they cannot have the other?

But it seemed your king did not agree with your sentiments as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back toward him. Your chest collided against his, and you felt the hard planes of his muscles and wanted to sink to your knees while stripping him of all barriers that blocked his glorious body.

Robb growled as he felt the tremulous rhythm of your beating heart, effectively giving away all your true feelings and desires toward him – the same he felt to you.

“You’re a cruel woman…” he growled as he forced you to look into his deep, blue eyes by holding your chin, “but you’re my woman.”

Without another word, he seized you by the arm and threw you onto his bed. He tore off his tunic before gripping your ankles with both hands and forcing them wide open before he forcefully pulled your body to the end of the bed. Not wasting another moment, he clutched the neckline of your nightdress and tore it open, leaving you exposed and defenseless against him. You felt the peaks of your breasts harden against the cold air and tried to cover them with your arms, but Robb slapped your hands away and pinned your hands above your head.

“And I’ll make sure you learn your place by the time I’m done with you…”

Time meant nothing inside that tent. The only things that mattered were Robb Stark, young King of the North and recently widowed, and you, his precious whore he loved so dearly. It could have been an hour, it could have been five –you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that your former lover was currently cementing his claim on you as his bitch-in-heat by making you cum twice with his fingers and thrice more from his cock.

“You *huff* …really…expe- fuck…!” The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, interrupted by the squelch of your juices mixed with his as he moved in and out of you. He loudly groaned when he felt your walls clamp down on his still-hard shaft. “Fuck – how are you still so fucking tight…?”

You didn’t answer him; you couldn’t – at least not with words. Each of Robb’s thrusts hit that spot inside you that made you lose all sense of logic and rational thought. All you could offer was broken garbles and moans of your ecstasy as your insatiable wolf continued to feast on your pleasure. And this only seemed to further incense Robb into driving himself deeper inside you, as if he had not already caused you to peak three times since he first pushed into you. Your vision became blurry as your eyes crossed, but he brought you back by delivering a hard slap against your bottom, the stinging pain quickly shifting to ebbing pleasure.

“Well?” he tauntingly jeered, thoroughly enjoying your sharp tongue could only be quieted by him fucking you dumb. “I expect an answer…!”

“Ah-ah-ah – FUCK…!” you cried out after he delivered another harsh slap on your bottom’s other cheek, making you sharply gasp and continue to slather your drool and tears into his bed’s furs. “I don’t know…!”

Robb cruelly smirked, “Don’t know…?” He grabbed the front of your neck and pulled you until your sensitive back was pressed flush against his hard chest. “Don’t lie to me… you know… don’t pretend that you don’t – but do you want me to tell anyway?”

Fervently nodding, you felt him grin as his hot breath panted against your neck, causing goosebumps to prick across your skin covered in bite marks.

“It’s because…” Robb quickened his pace from rough to erratic as your mind nearly blanks from feeling more and more of him hitting the entrance to your womb, “we both know that cunt belonging to such a cold whore like yourself…could only be thawed with cock like mine and only mine.”

The war changed him. The Robb you knew and loved would never dream of speaking to you in such a filthy and vulgar manner. Before, your Robb always made love to you sweetly with the gentlest touches, and as far as you could tell and feel, he was gone. In his place was a wolf with a voracious appetite who could only seem satisfied with your humiliation from his rough squeezes and unforgiving pace. The evidence was plain to see by how he littered your body with purple love bites down your neck, red bite marks over your breasts and inner thighs, and deep indents of his nails from gripping your hips too hard and too long.

And the worst part of it? You loved it. Every bit of his ministrations was a piece of heaven. If this were torture, then you would only crave pain for the rest of your existence. Everything hurts so good, from the way his thick, throbbing cock stretches your walls to the way his rough, calloused hands manhandle your body with his bruising grip. You weren’t sure if there was anything left of you that Robb didn’t already possess. Your eyes glazed over the veins in his arms bulge as you barely register the rasped grunts and growls leaving his lips. If you looked down, you were sure to see the outline of his cock bulging from inside you as he continued to split you open.

He stilled for a moment and whispered in your ear as you cried out your frustration and begged him not to stop.

“I’m going to cum in you,” he rasped with perverse glee, “and afterward, I’m going to make sure my seed takes root in your womb.” He pushed your face down to the furs and forced your hips to meet his thrusts without mercy. “You tried to… escape your fate by leaving. Well, *huff* let me tell you right now… that’s never going to happen – I’ll lock you… in the tallest tower in Winterfell and chain you to the bed if I have to…”

One of his hands left your hips and went below you as his fingers deftly sought out the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs that was your clit. You tried to protest, not sure if your body could take even more pleasure, but all that came out was a warbled cry as he pressed down and circled your bud. The overstimulation was proving to be too much as your body started shaking. You felt a cord tightening more and more until it just *snapped*, and you screamed out your release as your entire body trembled.

Robb refused to let up his pace, and he continued to thrust in and out of you as you felt him stiffen and – gods, how did he get even bigger? Before he released his seed inside you, he bottomed out – making sure that there was nothing of him that was not inside your sopping cunt. Your vision went white as he let out a loud and powerful groan from his release, and you could feel his hot seed painting your inner walls with his essence.

His peak seemed to drain him of all his energy as he gathered you in his arms without pulling out and resolved himself to finally rest. His sweaty forehead rested against your shoulder as he panted. Between each labored breath, he planted a kiss across your shoulders – your body still twitching from the intensity it endured as you, too, tried to catch your breath.

All was silent until you found yourself speaking, “…There was no hope, was there…?”

Robb lifted his upper body on one arm to hover over you. You repeated your question, to which he gave you a relaxed smile and tucked a stray piece of hair stuck to your temple behind your ear.

“No, love…” he confirmed. “But you must have known that from the beginning…I would have never let you go.”

…How does one respond to that?

You tried to search for the answer in his eyes, but all you saw was love… love, and madness. It was always there inside him; you’ve known that from the beginning… only you were blinded by his beauty and your love for him. But your lord knew the truth; he saw that obsessive love from the start; after all, Robb was his son. He warned you, but you didn’t listen. It wasn’t until you saw him beat a poor knight bloody and broken on the ice-covered ground – all because you made the mistake of smiling at him.

That’s why you ended your secret engagement. You had hoped that time and distance would ebb away the insanity flowing in his blood, or perhaps he would find someone else and eventually forget you – whichever came first.

But that was a fool’s dream; you knew that now.

Wordlessly, you nodded, to which Robb gently pressed his lips to yours, just as he had back in Winterfell. With each second, you began to respond more and more to the kiss. You wrapped your arms over his neck as his lips trailed down your next again, and you felt your sore body humming for more despite its sensitivity. Your fingers gripped his unruly, dark auburn curls as a tear trailed your cheek.

Forgive me, my lord…I’ve failed.

But you know you were secretly glad of it. After all, how could you not be? Life was growing inside you at that very moment.

Tagging: @dipperscavern, @ethereal-athalia, @axelsagewrites, @rise-my-angel, @anewpersonthatexists, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog, @lenasdmns, @justmymindandstuff, @aoi-targaryen, @vyctorya, @metalblindbitch, @h34rts-4uu, @aphroditesmoon, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @sylasthegrim

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 & 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: as jon prepares to retake winterfell, you are dutifully by his side — and he is quick to remind you of his love.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jon snow x fem!northern!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, smut with fluff, established relationship, lots of yearning & love declarations, making out, hair pulling, thigh riding/thigh grinding, switch!jon, fingering, mild dry humping, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum/creampie, cowgirl position, obligatory stark breeding kink.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was based on a request that I received (and boy it was a good one!) I love writing for jon (esp later seasons he was HOT) and this was super fun! I hope you all enjoy, as always! 🫶

Raven brows creased before splayed parchment, shoulders coiled with a thinly-veiled frustration, jaw terse and beset by the sting of exhaustion.

Nights spent toiling over Ramsay Bolton’s occupation of Winterfell had frayed his nerves until they were threadbare, pulled taut like a bowstring.

A silvery sigh plumed over Castle Black, glow of the moon sneaking through shuddered windows, candlelight creeping along dark walls like that of ivy.

Nestled within the humble trappings of his chambers, Jon’s plight seemed endless. Wildlings, Mormonts, and remnants of Northern bannerman were still too few to retake Winterfell, and time was growing dangerously thin.

Rest eluded him, slipping between his fingers like smoke, dissipating into the inky-black skies, the dusk blanketed by wisps of cloud. He’d developed some innate trepidation of turning his back, oft keeping one eye open, even if it meant sacrificing slumber.

Knives of his brothers still felt so visceral, raw; dozens of wounds, blistering with a betrayal that still resonated throughout his bones. His scars ached, throbbing with a dull agony that served as a constant reminder of what he was, of oaths tarnished.

Grayish circles hung heavy beneath earthen-hued eyes, a weathered countenance grizzled by the shadow of a dark beard, brows pinched together. Concentration seemed fleeting, his thoughts ripped apart by a great many things, and he knew that it was worthwhile to cease his nightly ruminations.

Still, the map toyed with him, Flayed Men perched atop Winterfell, jeering at him through parchment — Jon nearly swatted at the carved obelisk until a knock rattled at the door.

“Jon?”

There was an immediate wash of relief that rippled through him, your voice a touch of gracious sunlight coming to warm his features. The chill that permeated the air had grown temperate, glacial gales having quieted to passing breezes, skies without a drop of snow.

“Come,” His roughened timbre seemed to soften a touch, hinges groaning in protest as you slipped through the gap, swaddled in a massive cloak. “What are you still doing up?” Jon’s inquiry lacked malice, wrought with an obvious concern.

Whatever mystical presence you possessed, it eased his surging anguish without question, bringing him down from his pinnacle of frustration. Brown hues fluttered to your visage, stung by the gnaw of frost, though nothing short of an unparalleled beauty.

Jon’s heart lurched within his chest, as if you had brought an instantaneous warmth with you, as hot as the hearth that flickered beside him. His ardent love for you was made painfully obvious, as clear as a midsummer’s sky, laid bare for you to see.

Latching the door behind you with a fumble of an archaic lock, you turned, bones settling as the heat of his chambers welcomed you in. Relief crept over your flesh, bitten by the Northern chill, one that you were well-acquainted with already.

“I should ask you the very same.” Hushed, your footfalls fell over old wood, creaking beneath each step. Jon was both persistent and determined, and you knew he was stretched thin with the duties of a born leader, poised to reclaim your home.

Beneath the wolf’s pelt adorning your shoulders, your dress was lined with wool, a prettier garment that Sansa had hand-sewn for you. Tresses spilled over thick furs, unbound and unbraided, eclipsed by the fire’s amber glow.

An oppressive weight clung to his countenance, brows furrowed with a twinge of discontent. In a valiant attempt to remain optimistic for your sake, it all seemed to waver when your gaze held firm, failing to avert.

“I can’t,” Jon husked, rubbing a palm over his jaw before planting it atop the rickety desk. Roughened wood felt uneven beneath his hand, careworn by the passage of time. “I know what you’ll say — without rest, this won’t be any easier.”

He knew you exceedingly well, you thought, inching closer until you stood at his side, hand gingerly tracing along his arm, shrouded by a padded tunic. “I suppose I do not need to say anything at all — you’ve spoken for me.” The softness of your jest was unmistakable.

A low huff reverberated through his chest, a warmer sound that carried a hint of ease to it. “Prefer it if you’d speak — it’s the only thing worth listening to. I’m growing tired of hearing my own thoughts.” Jon countered, peering at you with a worn smile.

Exhaustion screamed from every fiber of his being, disquiet echoing amidst his tired gaze, and yet he remained present for you, even still. Tension remained furled within his body, coiled and tightly wound, traces of it taut within his muscles.

With a tender smile, Jon felt his flesh burn, as if stricken by fever, marrow singing your name with such ardent fervor. Effortlessly, you brought some semblance of peace to him, as if his toiling could finally meet some resolution, albeit temporarily.

Pressing a kiss to his scarred brow, you ensured that he had proper reassurance, knowing what great stress rests upon his shoulders. If it weren’t for what support he had, he might’ve been crushed beneath the weight of it all.

“The odds seem slim now, but you’ve not yet mustered all of your potential allies — there is still time,” In the serenity of your cadence, Jon found a shred of hope, however fleeting it might’ve been. “They will not appear if you stare at this table.”

Jon huffed, lips tugging into the ghost of a smile, knowing that your intentions were pious, pure of heart. “I want to believe you,” He uttered, gaze drifting toward the Bolton sigil, the Flayed Man leering at him, as if it were an unspoken taunt. “I hope it’s enough.”

Despite having proven himself many times over, coming back from the dead, slain White Walkers, bore the former mantle of Lord Commander — he never felt enough. Doubt clawed at the recesses of his mind, a conniving voice that filled him with a pang of dread.

Everyone else believed in him — he knew that it was an inner strength he possessed, but still felt lacking in, no matter how hard he tried.

Quietly, Jon reached for your hand, calloused digits folding over your own, feeling the icy sting of your flesh. With his attention now torn from the desk, he brought your palm to his mouth, roughened lips planting a kiss to satiny skin.

“It will be enough.” A gentle whisper ushered from your lips, instilled with an unwavering confidence in Jon, an unbreakable devotion. Still, he wanted to believe you, letting his vulnerability show, heart bared to you through the silence.

Briefly, foreheads brushed together, and he bent to reach you, eyelids fluttering shut as he absolved himself of any inner turmoil. A smile had graced your features, as if a permanent fixture, beguiled by your Northern paramour.

It was blissful, the wordless nature of the moment, allowing the both of you to bask in what comfort you found in another. Jon exhaled, breath tinged with hints of honeyed mead, flesh scented with hints of rugged leather and firewood.

“I love you.”

Resolute and with such certainty, Jon spoke it first, listening to the brief hitch that formed within your throat, an exhilarating sound. Tension began to unfurl from his form, whisked away with a steady exhale.

Between the journey to seek allies in the battle to come and mounting duties, he had not had a proper moment to be with you in the way that he desired.

No longer bearing the mantle of Lord Commander, what vows he swore to the Night’s Watch were nonexistent, instead replaced by a vow to you, a vow of love. A shiver iced your spine with such familiar words, never failing to make you yearn so intensely.

“As I love you,” With a beguiling sigh, as saccharine as blooming meadows, your presence consumed him with an overwhelming sweetness. Inklings of an ardent desire took root, coupled with longing, the wanton need to hold your heart. “Rest from this.”

He was of little use to anyone, deprived of rest, buried beneath the weight of oaths sworn to others, duty tethering him to other responsibilities. A night of proper respite away from that damned table would do him some good.

Jon nodded, pressing a kiss to your jaw, another beneath your eye, lips warm and touched by fire. A calloused palm cradled the nape of your neck, fingertips finding the silken tresses there, eliciting a hum of contentment from you.

As he allowed himself a moment’s peace, those umber hues of his softened, languidly tracing your form, swathed in thick furs and layers of wool, warding off the Northern chill. Beauty seemed so effortless for you, bewitching him with such ease, as if you were some enchantress.

Hushed, Jon moved to sit atop the impressive footlocker at the foot of his bed, draped in pelts of elk and bear, formerly belonging to Lord Mormont. “Your dress — did Sansa make that for you?” He inquired, recognizing the direwolf embroidery sewn onto your collar.

“She did,” With an amiable smile, you lowered yourself to his side, comfortable as you unclasped the buckles of your cloak. It was beginning to grow rather tepid within his chambers, a welcoming heat that melted away any semblance of cold. “She’s quite talented.”

A low huff inhabited his throat, lips maintaining a threadbare smile, exhaustion still tugging at the fringes of his visage. Reaching toward your collarbone, his digits gently traced the direwolf sigil, emblazoned upon the garment.

“You’re beautiful,” Jon uttered, catching the hitch that formed within your throat. Raven-hued brows drew apart, countenance warmed with a peculiar tenderness, one that he reserved for you. “It suits you.” His sigil suited you, his house — the words carried such ardent affections.

Heat licked across your spine, belly beginning to stir with a familiar warmth, butterflies erupting within as you treated him to a delighted simper. “It does,” In agreement, your hand lifted to join his, fingers interlocking as you brought it to your lap. “You should rest, Jon.”

Despite your well-mannered suggestion, his thoughts were less concerned with slumber, and more concerned with you. The hand that had fallen into your lap became contorted with a blossoming desire, heart stammering as his digits flexed against your thigh.

“Should I?”

An unmistakable huskiness permeated his tone, cadence laced with a thinly-veiled neediness. He hadn’t touched you in days, duty keeping him at-bay, and he could bear it no longer. As his inquiry lingered between bodies, your lips parted.

“You should,” Your insistence became somewhat weak, wavering in the wake of his desirous question, as sharp as steel. “Unless you’ve something else on your mind.” With a feigned naivety, your mouth twitched into a subtle leer.

Ardor resonated from his chuckle, hand idly caressing over your clothed thigh, as if walking the thin line of restraint. “Nothing proper,” Jon exhaled, absentmindedly tilting forward. “I want you.” His confession made your bones lurch.

Once the fire was stoked, it was difficult to smother it.

Without a shred of hesitation, you bridged the distance, hand ensnaring itself against the front of his leather jerkin. Lips collided in a heated exchange of fiery affection, your stomach flooding with molten heat.

“I need you terribly,” Sighed into the depths of his mouth, a wanton utterance tangled between kisses, Jon felt his muscles contort with excitement. He let your words sink into him, like talons, clawing for his heart; his heart belonged to you. “Jon.”

Between deepened kisses, he coaxed you closer, strong hands drifting to the swell of your hips as he urged you into his lap. Skirts shuffled, fabric hastily adjusted as he slotted you atop one thigh, muscle firm and tense between your legs.

There was a sense of relief he felt, lost within the labyrinth of your lips, passion burning with a searing intensity. Whatever stress that he’d felt before began to unfurl from his shoulders, abandoned to the sanctity of your presence.

As you found your place atop his thigh, your hands clutched at his tunic, over padded cloth and leather, feeling his palms smooth across your hips. Caging you in, his beard scratched ragged against silken flesh, mouths continuing to collide in an endless clash.

Lungs burned, wilted in the flame of his kiss, evoking a breathy moan that ripped through your diaphragm. Hips lurched forward, a sluggish roll as friction grew between his thigh and your clothed nethers, nearly making you writhe.

Days of repressed passion had blazed to the surface with a vengeance; a violent loving, a volatile ardor that seemed to consume the both of you. Digits eagerly sank into your haunches, roving over concealed flesh until he found the leather ties of your bodice.

In a clamor of bodies, your knee happened to brush over the growing tent in his trousers, eliciting a low groan from his lips. Still, you rocked yourself atop his thigh, unable to smother a whimper as kisses began to cease, foreheads pressed flush together.

With each carnal tryst, it all felt so invigorated, as if he were touching you for the first time all over again. Whatever glacial sting had permeated the air, it began to dissipate, the cold dying where heat prevailed. As lips brushed over one another, Jon stirred with a grunt, pupils black with desire.

A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. It left him burning, shrouded by your ardent flame, strong enough to extinguish the infinite chill.

“I want to see you.” Jon rasped, low and wanton, failing to conceal the blistering need he had for you. Digits pressed incessantly against the leather ties of your coarse gown, begging for a glimpse of bare flesh, and you obliged with a mere nod.

As he gently tugged upon the thicker threads, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to writhe from it, pooling around your abdomen. The velveteen plane of your skin glistened beneath dancing firelight, bathing you in the shades of waning embers, a sunset made flesh.

He had seen you naked several times already — and yet it never failed to make his breath hitch, nerves ablaze with boyish glee. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” With a tremulous exhale, his warm breath plumed at your visage.

As wool and hide peeled away from your body, Jon’s rugged mouth moved to your jaw, kisses slow and passionate, climbing over your throat. The grizzled scratch of his beard prickled against your neck, a grounding reminder of this blissful moment.

A sharp gasp penetrated your lungs, laced with exhilaration and an excitable zeal, hands draped over his shoulders. Insistent, your hips urged in a rhythmic dance, grinding yourself still against the taut muscle of his thigh.

Silken digits raked toward the nape of his neck, burying themselves like talons within his mane of dusky curls, evoking a grunt from him. “Jon.” A wanton sigh tumbled from your lips, his name akin to some sacred incantation.

A gale of fire churned ceaselessly within the pit of your stomach, a sensation not often quelled. You had let it burn, let it lick across your flesh like some blistering plague, friction still burning between the both of you.

Bridging the gap between you once more, lips sealed themselves together, his palm moving to cup your jaw. It was inherently tender, the purpose of it ensuring that you knew the depths of his devotion. Hearts beat with a swift intensity, akin to that of a bird’s wings.

As mouths clawed for one another, a gnawing ache began to fester within your stomach, manifesting as arousal that coalesced between your legs. Ceaselessly, you continued to grind your nethers against his thigh, a soft moan ensnared within your throat, bubbling to the surface.

There is little space between you, replaced with a heated friction that seeps into your bones. No longer tormented by the plague of the Northern chill, Jon is eager to rid you of this cold, one hand steadying you atop his thigh.

The rough pad of his thumb caresses circles over your jaw, lips connecting again, and then another, swollen from countless kisses. He withdraws, only to kiss over your collarbone, hand dropping with it as he cups your breast.

Unexpectedly, your satiny lips found the column of his throat, pressing a string of appreciative kisses there as he kneaded your chest. A sweet, keening groan escaped him, abashed at your embrace.

An unfettered bliss contorts your countenance, a thing of beauty, untainted still by the cruelty of the world. Jon cannot help but be wholly mesmerized, earthen hues occasionally flickering to find your face, his own features warming with a scarlet flush.

Committing this moment to memory, his lips continue to lavish passionate kisses against your throat, seeking the hollow between neck and shoulder. Your fingers grip and tug at his curls, mouth parted, erupting with a cacophony of gentle moans.

It is only when your hand ghosts over his chest that his concentration shatters, resolve turning to a pleasant startlement as your palm finds the tent in his breeches. A low groan paints your flesh in wisps of heat as his hold upon your hip tightens.

A coil pulls taut within his abdomen, an intensity that he had become acquainted with, lips parting as he continues to let you ride his thigh. The friction is nearly blinding, an exhilarating thing that leaves his chest burning, his need for you marrow-deep.

“I love you.” It escapes from your maw, desperate and ardent, more of a declaration than a statement. Jon has never grown tired of hearing you say it, especially now, countenance a picture of bliss, peering at him through a hooded stare.

Jon feels his flesh begin to warm, pale flesh flourishing with a light shade of vermilion, his heart slamming beneath his chest like a hammer against an anvil. Kneading at your breast, his head descends, enough to momentarily pepper your chest with kisses.

An urgent ache throbs within his cock, which continues to strain with obvious need against his trousers. Undeterred, your silken hand grinded over the swell once more, as if tempting him, goading him into taking you then and there.

A hoarse ‘fuck’ hisses beneath his breath, a subtle noise that you nearly miss, if it weren’t for his sigh pluming over your sternum. The sound makes you crave him, a yearning that is all-devouring, like that of fire, blanketing your bones in desire.

His gaze shifts to yours, doe-eyed and sparkling through waning firelight, searching for unspoken answers. “You’re perfect.” Jon utters; low, tinged with adoration as your fingers comb through his curls, planting a kiss to his grizzled jaw.

“As are you — completely perfect.” Your words send a shiver through his spine, pretty remarks that evoke a surge of molten heat from his bones. Caging you atop his thigh, Jon looks to you for consent, hands shifting toward your skirts.

With a deliberate nod, you shift enough for his hands to ruck your skirts up, hands threading into rough-hewn fabric, revealing pliant thighs. More often than not, he would take his time with you, savor it all, but neediness seemed to get in the way.

Admittedly, you were just as pent-up, desperate to feel him inside of you. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, an incessant ache that spread throughout your belly, a fire that demanded to be extinguished.

As the hem of your gown settled in a heap around your hips, your position adjusted, fully straddling Jon’s lap, hands finding the coarse threads of his trousers. His hands kneaded against your hips, digits caressing pliant flesh.

Foreheads ghosted over one another, lips connecting in brief, wanton entanglements as you went about freeing his cock. A pleading moan tumbled from your mouth, lost within the heat of your kiss.

The prodding of his cock against your slick petals made your head spin with a delirious desire, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders. “Jon,” His name was steeped in reverence, mouths brushing over the other, bodies poised. “I missed you terribly.” You sighed.

Jon swallowed the growing lump within his throat, having to claw for composure, countenance blossoming with desire. “I need you,” He huffed; raw, vulnerable — his gaze glistened with devotion, cadence hoarse with want. “More than anything.”

Pressing a brief kiss to his jaw, you hovered over his cock, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. Jon inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled a semblance of relief.

Relinquished to your mercy, his digits flexed against your hips, brazenly caressing your curvaceous physique over your gowns. Sluggishly, you began to sink lower, inch by agonizing inch, breathing punctuated and heavy, twined with his own cacophony of grunts.

Shuddering at the sensation of your cunt, tight around his cock like some vice, Jon fought against the urge to thrust into you. With each deliberate roll of your body, his length sheathed itself within you, the warm familiarity of it enough to make your body tremble in ecstasy.

Hands found themselves twined within his dusky curls, grip ironclad against the nape of his neck as bodies pressed flush together. Even through the annoyance of clothing, heat flourished, mouths briefly sealing together in a kiss.

Jon exhaled, warm breath pluming across your visage, kisses lavished to your jaw as his hands steadied themselves atop your hips. Slowly, he began to move you, akin to a guide as you fell into a blissful pattern.

The very picture of beauty, tarnished with lust; a maiden worth worshiping. Jon huffed, chest erupting with a string of pants and soft groans, lips agape as you adopted a steady rhythm.

His hands caressed circles into your hips, dark hues wide and mesmerized, doelike in their silent appraisal of you. The moon’s silver glow pierced through the ember-lit darkness of his chambers, pooling over your joined bodies.

A ceaseless throbbing pulsed through his cock, length buried within you before you drew up, and then descended once more. The pleasurable pace kept him hot, blood surging with ecstasy, heart pounding within his ears.

“Jon,” His name emerged as a needful moan from your plush lips, fisting at his tresses as he carefully steered you within his lap. Arousal fell slick between your thighs, heady and ambrosial, evoking some gnawing hunger from within.

Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your derrière as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you, the lovestruck glimmer within your eyes, exuberance glittering beneath. He kneaded along your thighs, squeezing firmly when the pleasure mounted.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers. The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight.

Nestled within his mind’s eye, Jon envisioned you swollen with his babe — it wasn’t something he knew he truly desired until recently. Family was always something precious to him, one that he could begin with you, once all of this ended.

The fantasy was a tempting one, warped with his own desire and distant dreams, beginning to take root, an echo within his marrow. Chests brushed together, leather to the bare peaks of your bosom, causing a shudder to grip your spine.

In rhythmic urges of your hips, his cock continues to kiss your womb, again and again, cunt clenching pathetically around him. Tangled grunts and moans ripple within the space between your bodies, sending shockwaves of bliss through your belly.

Lost within the labyrinth of such ecstasy, you rode him as you would a broken gelding, ministrations turning to a heightened passion. Jon nearly fell into oblivion with your erratic movements, born of desperation and passion.

“Easy,” Jon soothed, voice a husked rasp as he clawed for any shred of composure. “Slowly — want to feel you.” With little more than a sonorous grunt, you nodded, lips briefly molding together in a soft kiss as your pace came to a crawl.

There wasn’t a reason to rush, nor a reason for haste — he was hellbent on savoring every drag of your hips, every wanton sigh. It all instilled a fire within you, raging as it seared your nerves, set all of you ablaze as his cock kissed your walls with a gentle fervor.

Jon guided your movements with a stirring tenderness, lifting you up before slowly sinking you back down upon his length. A groan ripped through his chest, brows creased in concentration, pupils as dark as pitch, wrought with ecstasy.

The way in which you began to draw out each roll of your hips was nothing short of mesmerizing, your cunt clenching around his cock. Lips occasionally found one another in between each urge of your body, sinking down and up again in a gentle rhythm.

Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need. Jon held you close, sharing in your warmth, hearts bleeding together.

A shudder wracked him, as sharp as steel as your nethers clenched around him, taking him perfectly, as if you were molded entirely for him. With one hand holding fast to your hip, the other wove between your thighs, thumb lightly grazing over the pearl of your cunt.

A sharp inhale inhabits your lungs, one of a dizzying surprise as Jon began to caress circles over the sensitive clutch of nerves. Thighs twitched, the action alone bringing you closer to the precipice of your release.

If it weren’t for such measured restraint, Jon would’ve collapsed beneath you long before, cock aching to spill his seed inside of you. Earthen hues carefully watched your countenance as it blossomed with bliss, lips parted to make room for a breathy moan.

With a brief jolt of his hips, he bucked up into you, nearly apologizing for it, toying with your pearl as you squirmed within his lap. Gooseflesh iced your spine, mind clouded with a lustful haze, bringing you closer to an ecstatic oblivion.

“Jon,” A throaty whine escaped you, teeth gnashing at your lower lip, hips urging forward with a sluggish rhythm. Sheathed fully within you, Jon gripped you hard, his hold bruising as he felt the tenuous heat snap, a thread being torn apart. “Gods, I’m close.”

Even as he crescendoed into his own release, he continued to circle your clit, lips peppering themselves along your exposed collar. Nails dug into the nape of his neck, a choked sob wracking through you as you clung to every shred of friction.

As his seed took root within you, painting your insides with such virility, you finally met your peak, the pleasure colliding into you with a disastrous force. Intermingled moans and grunts filled the space between, foreheads nestled together as you rode out your release.

The warmth that blanketed you made you forget about the bitter chill beyond the walls of his chambers, of the looming conflict that haunted your steps. It was just Jon that you thought of — chest to chest, heart bared to your own.

A soft chuckle eased your heart, the sound of Jon’s gentle laughter, accompanied with a thin smile, a flash of pearlescent teeth. It seemed to wane after a moment, but the light did not leave his gaze, transfixed upon you.

“You’re perfect,” Jon murmured, planting a kiss against your jaw as he eased you off of his length, a scarlet flush still clinging to his visage. “Are you alright?” He asked, low and husky as he regained his composure, lacing his trousers up as you crawled into his bed.

“I am,” Unable to rid yourself of a contented smile, Jon joined you, sitting at your side, palm finding your cheek as he caressed below your eye. “I love you — more than anything.” With a gentle sigh, you kissed his careworn palm.

He never envisioned himself hearing those words and having them last, steeped in such tenderness and ardor. Jon’s brows furrowed momentarily, his stress relinquished, even if it was slight. “Until my last day.” A low utterance slipped from his lips, a smile gracing the corner of his mouth.

“Come to bed.” It did not take much coaxing for Jon to oblige you, knowing well that he needed the rest. As he shed his leather jerkin and boots, you had slithered from your dress, the woolen garment pooled over stone floors.

Laying by your side, Jon exhaled with a semblance of relief, feeling you clamor into his arms, cheek nestled atop his chest. “Didn’t have to take your clothes off for me to join you.” He mused, feeling your body jostling with laughter beneath his hold.

“I did not, but it certainly helped get you here faster,” You teased, nose wrinkling with amusement as you kissed his grizzled jaw, basking within his warmth. He drew the furs around you both, lips gracing your crown. “Sleep — for my sake.”

Soothed by the gentle cadence of your voice, he heeded your words, getting comfortable before closing his eyes. It became easier to forget what weighed upon his shoulders with you at his side — and the chill had died altogether.

[astrids-blog333]

To Have and To Hold

Jon Snow x Reader

Fandom: Game of Thrones

Summary: Jon returns from battle, bloodied and victorious. But all you care about is the fact that he came home to you.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (at the end) ref to canon-typical violence, blood/injuries, mild gore, strong language, ref to war.

A/N: I will forever love Game of Thrones, and I just rewatched it for the millionth time to distract myself from exams 🤭 this doesn't follow the plot specifically, but I imagined season 6 Jon :)

dividers by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 2.6k

The wind cuts through the open expanse of the North, sharp and cold against your face as you stand above the large gates of Winterfell.

The men of the North have returned.

You can hear the rumble of horses' hooves long before they appear over the ridge, the sound growing louder and louder. The warriors ride in, exhausted but victorious, with cheers from the village ringing out behind them.

The familiar scent of the north fills your lungs, the fresh pine, the earth after rain, and a lingering trace of smoke from the fires burning in every hearth. You look at the soldiers, some of them grinning, others barely able to keep themselves upright.

But all eyes are on Jon. He’s at the front of the group, shoulders broad, head held high. His dark hair is matted with dirt and blood, and his clothes are stained with the gory aftermath of battle.

But to you, he’s perfect. He's your king.

Your husband.

You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, the worry that’s been gnawing at you since he left now turning into relief that he's come home to you unscathed.

You can’t wait another second.

Without thinking, you break into a run, your feet pounding against the stone as you sprint toward him. The villagers part to let you through, some giving you nods of respect.

Jon’s eyes lock with yours in the crowd, his gaze intense, even from a distance. His lips curl into a half-smile as he urges his horse forward. You’re almost there, and in a moment that feels as though it’s been months in the making, he’s dismounting before the horse even comes to a full stop.

He’s there, in front of you, a storm of emotions swirling behind his dark, brooding eyes. You reach him in a heartbeat. Your arms are around his neck, and before he can protest, you feel the heat of his body engulf you. He tries to pull back from you.

“No, love, I’m covered in blood-”

But you don’t listen. You’re already in his arms, his chest hard and solid as he pulls you against him, lifting you off your feet in a tight embrace.

The cheers from the soldiers and villagers fade into nothing as his lips find yours. It’s hungry and desperate, as if the entire world has melted away, leaving only the two of you. His mouth tastes like salt, iron, and something raw. His arms tighten impossibly around you, pulling you closer, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away from his desperate grasp.

You feel his chest heaving beneath your fingers, his body trembling every so slightly, but there’s no hesitation in his touch. He holds you like he’s never going to let you go.

His lips break away from yours, just for a moment, but you’re still tangled in his embrace, your breath shaky. His forehead presses against yours, and you can hear the weight of his voice as he mutters, “I was worried, you know. I couldn’t stand the thought of you here all alone, and no one being here to protect-”

“I’m fine,” you say, cutting him off, your hands sliding up to cup his face. You smile up at him, feeling the rush of love flood your chest. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”

Jon holds you even tighter, his hand cupping the back of your head as he buries his face in your hair. The world around you is still roaring with celebration, but in this moment, all you hear is his heartbeat and the sound of your own breath.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse. His words send a shiver through you, and you can feel the weight of everything that has happened settle.

All the brutal battles, all the bloodshed, the distance.

But now he’s home.

You hold him tighter, not caring about the blood or dirt staining your dress. You’ve missed him in ways words can’t express, and all that’s left is the overwhelming need to be close to him, to hold him, to remind each other that the war is over for now.

You don’t pull away from him, your arms still tightly wrapped around his neck, but you can feel the weight of his blood and dirt pressing against you, the remnants of the battle that still cling to him. You can’t wait to get him inside, where you can finally help him relax and tend to his wounds.

Jon pulls back just slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he looks down at you with a soft smile. His thumb brushes across your cheek, as if checking to see if you’re truly real, as if this moment is just as overwhelming for him as it is for you.

He seems to notice the way your eyes scan him, analysing the cuts littering his body.

“I’m fine,” whispers, his tone soft but still with that familiar stubborn edge. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

You give him a look, a silent challenge to let you help, and Jon simply chuckles, his shoulders sagging slightly as he lets out a long breath.

Inside the warmth of your chambers, the two of you are finally together, alone.

You move toward the bathing area, prepared to clean him, tend to him. Jon doesn’t protest. He stands, his broad frame slightly slumped, and begins to undress slowly. His movements are tired, but there’s a quiet strength in them. You can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the lingering pain from the battle.

This is the moment where you can care for him, take away the stress, even if just for a little while.

He steps into the water, sighing as the warmth envelops him. You kneel beside the tub, reaching for the cloth. The water swirls around him, dark with the blood and dirt he’s carried back from the battlefield.

You step closer, a cloth in your hand, your presence drawing his gaze. His eyes soften as you approach, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Didn’t think I’d get a personal healer today,” he murmurs, his voice low but teasing. “I’m used to the battlefields, not the bath.”

You smile back, dipping the cloth into the warm water. “Well, today’s your lucky day.” Your fingers brush against his shoulder as you gently begin cleaning the blood and grime from his skin, the warmth of the water combined with your touch allowing Jon to finally relax.

Jon’s gaze never leaves you as you tend to him. His chest rises and falls with each breath, and you can see the exhaustion in his eyes, but also the trust. His hand reaches up to run through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. The tension in his body slowly melting away.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” he says quietly, his voice soft, adoring.

You chuckle lightly, dipping the cloth into the water again and pressing it gently against his side, where a fresh wound is healing. “That’s what I’m here for.”

But there’s something in the way his eyes watch you that makes this moment feel different, more intimate than usual. His fingers brush over your arm, light, like he’s just feeling the softness of your skin, but it’s enough to send a small spark through you.

“Do you need to be so gentle?” he asks, his voice teasing but with a hint of something else in it, like he’s testing the boundaries. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

You glance up at him, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not worried about you,” you reply, rising to his bait. “I just like taking care of you.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he leans back, clearly at ease, letting you work. “I’m starting to think you like it a little too much.”

You raise an eyebrow, not missing the playful tone in his voice. “Maybe I do,” you smirk, the smile on your lips matching his. “But you deserve it.”

You move down his body slowly, checking over his wounds, making sure each one is clean and free of dirt. As your fingers graze over his skin, you notice his attention shifting. He’s watching you more closely now, the mood subtly shifting as his gaze moves from your hands to your face.

There’s a quiet pause before he speaks again. “You’re always so focused when you care for me. It’s... comforting.” His voice drops.

You meet his gaze, not backing down, but instead letting your hand trail along his arm as you finish cleaning the last of the blood from his side. "Like I said, I want to make sure you're alright."

Jon leans in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m more than alright with you here.”

The room falls into silence, the only sound being the gentle splash of water as you shift and move around him. You finish cleaning his wounds, your hands lingering just a little longer than necessary on his skin. He’s close now, his body warm against yours.

With a final look over his chest, you step back, letting him relax into the water.

“All done.”

Jon leans back again against the stone side of the tub, his eyes still focused on you. There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, just enjoying the quiet. Jon’s hand reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary.

Finally, Jon stands from the bath, his muscles glistening with water. He reaches for a towel, but before he wraps it around himself, he turns toward you.

“You’re right, you know,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both affection and something deeper. “I’ve fought battles, but this... this is different. You make everything easier.”

You don’t say anything at first; you just watch him, and your heart is swelling for the man standing in front of you. You move to help him dry off, your hands slow.

But Jon isn’t finished yet. He steps closer to you, his body warm and solid against yours as he cups your face gently in his hands, bringing you in for a soft kiss.

His lips are so soft, and you feel his hands move from your face to your waist, pulling you toward him until your bodies are flush against each other.

For a moment, you both simply stand there, caught in the kiss. His lips are a little desperate now, pressing against yours harder, deeper, he can’t get enough. His hands slip lower, sliding around your waist, and before you can even react, he lifts you off your feet. You gasp into the kiss, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room.

You cling to him, your heart racing, as he walks toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. His hands feel like fire on your skin, his body solid and strong against you.

You’re completely at his mercy, and you can feel the desire pumping through you. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he gently sets you down, taking a moment to look at you.

“You’ve no idea how much I’ve waited for this,” he mutters, voice thick and rough.

You reach for him, pulling him closer, unable to wait any longer. "Show me," you whisper back, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling every inch of him.

And without another word, Jon closes the space between you.

As you lie back on the bed, Jon hovers over you, his dark eyes heavy with desire, his fingertips grazing your skin. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling with the anticipation.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he growls, his lips trailing down your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers across your skin. He finds the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and you can't help but let out a soft moan, the sound barely escaping you.

Jon pauses, lifting his head to look at you, his gaze heated, focused entirely on you. His hand moves slowly, possessively, from your waist up to your breast, brushing against the fabric of your dress before pushing it aside. He groans softly at the sight of your skin, his mouth trailing down to your chest, kissing the exposed area before his hands start to move lower.

“Jon,” you whisper. You reach for him, but he stops you with a gentle hand, pressing your palm against the bed.

“Patience, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I’ve waited far too long to rush this.”

Your heart races as his lips return to yours, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling your body even closer to his. The heat between you both is unbearable, every inch of your skin aching for him.

Jon’s lips trail lower, his hands finding the lower hem of your dress. He pauses, looking up at you one more time, his gaze soft but filled with hunger.

“Are you sure?”

You nod, pulling him closer, not able to wait any longer. “Of course I’m sure.”

Without another word, Jon pulls the rest of your dress off, his eyes drinking you in as he undresses you. The moment he’s fully exposed you, his lips find yours again, hungry and wild. He presses his body against yours, his warmth enveloping you as he pushes you further up the bed.

As he first thrusts into you, you feel your body shudder in response. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you, filling you completely.

The initial ache melts into something deeper, something that sends heat curling low in your stomach. Each of his movements is deliberate, slow, drawing out the sensation, the heat building between you both until it feels like there’s no distance left between you.

Jon’s face is pressed against the crook of your neck, his breathing laboured as he continues to move against you. His hands grip the sheets beside you, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back, controlling the pace.

But as your moans get louder, his control slowly slips away.

He picks up the pace, his thrusts growing faster, harder, until everything blurs into a haze of sensation. You meet him with equal fervor, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing more.

When the climax hits, it’s like a wave crashing over you both.

It's sudden, powerful, and all-consuming. Your body trembles beneath him, your nails digging into his back as he moves against you, his name escaping your lips in a breathless gasp. Jon follows soon after, his grip on you tightening as he buries his face in your neck.

For a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms, recovering from the intensity of what just happened. Jon presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his breath still shaky as he pulls you closer.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You smile, kissing him softly. “I love you too, Jon.”

[myladysapphire]

Duty

Robb Stark had kept his oath to house Frey and married you as a result allowing him to win the north’s independence however he now has to live with the sacrifices of duty and must find out if duty is truly the death of love.

word count: 3,992

CW: MDI 18+, slight smut, p in v, angst, arranged marriage, infidelity, childbirth, unhealthy dynamic, toxic relationship? open ending, pregancy, not proofread!

Robb Stark x Frey!Reader

Masterlist | part two

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Duty.

The word rang in your head as you stared at your husband.

He was yours; you were his but as his eyes wandered across the hall you knew he was not entirely yours.

A mere hour into your marriage and you already felt the strain of an unfaithful husband.

The longing looks he gave her form across the room were the looks you had wished to feel.

You were the youngest daughter of Walder Frey and his sixth wife, Bethany Rosby, and though your older sister Roslin was often called beautiful, you were considered beautiful. It was the one-word Robb stark had said when he saw you, the only word he had said to you beside your wedding vows.

He hadn’t even spared you a glance since the ceremony, most of your conversations had been with his mother, Catelyn. She had been kind, having been the one that choose you as his bride. But you knew it was not your beauty that she chose you for, it helped of course, pleasing Robb if only by a little. You were neither smart, cunning or wise. You were simple normal, with no special skills to sway the eyes of suitors or to persuade your husband. She choose you, the often forgotten daughter, with no influence or means to gain any, for that reason alone.

It was clear to anyone the marriage and alliance was an unwanted one. Especially to your husband and the woman he loved.

He did not dance with you once, offering no words beside the necessary pleasantries, the kindest act he seemed to do was forbade the bedding ceremony. Though there was little bedding done that night, though the act was done, he neither spoke a word to her or stayed the night. And from the whispers she heard the next day it seemed he had gone to her swiftly after.

He had left after that, though he did not say goodbye, or offer to write to you. You were simply left with his mother, set to journey to the Winterfell.

The journey as not long, taking less than two weeks before you saw the peak of Winterfell’s towers. It was a wonderful sight, having never left the twins, and rarely being allowed outside. Seeing the castle of Winterfell was a freeing experience. There seemed to be endless halls, some bare and empty allowing the privacy you had never once had in the twins. The god’s woods was even more magnificent than you had expected, it expanded for acres, with endless trees and countless springs waring both the gods woods and the castle. You felt some peace here, but you had also never felt more alone.

You were looked at as an outsider, talked to as one, and it was clear you were unwanted.

As the moons passed, you felt even more alone, you only heard about Robbs victory through his mother, the one person who didn’t talk to you with resentment.

Then you realised you had yet to bleed since your wedding.

And the word duty once again rang in your head.

You were pregnant, a fact that made you seemed more welcome, people were kinder to you. And yet you felt more alone, suddenly surrounded by people who only cared for you know you cared the heir.

The heir to a man you did not know, the heir to a man who scorned you on the day of your wedding for another woman. He didn’t even have the respect to at least act like a loyal husband.

You had done your duty, but he had not.

For it seemed she was also pregnant.

You were far along in your pregnancy, near eight moons when you heard the news. The news that was accompanied by your husband’s victory. And the norths independence. Yet you felt little joy only envy at the news of her pregnancy. Envy that she gets to know him and he never once tried to let you know him, even in the fleeting hours they did have together.

The next month was lively, the keep full of servants and lords from all over the north preparing for their kings arrival. The planning of feasts and several other northern events to be held. And you did not know what to think, you had long craved to know your husband, but he seemed to want to forget you even existed, and even more so when he arrived, with her on his arm and a babe in hers.

You bowed your head, clutching your belly protectively as if their presence would harm the babe somehow, and greeted him “husband.” You spoke plainly, not in joy, nor as a move of possessiveness towards her.

He nodded his head, going to greet you in the same fashion but stopping himself at the sight of your belly. “wife” he said in shock, as if the very idea of you being pregnant or here for that matter was shocking.

You smiled, a forced smile and spoke softly, “come, husband we have much to discuss”

She had stayed put, looking lost among the faces of Winterfell.

Though you had started out a stranger those first few months, after your pregnancy was announced, though you had at first received false pleasantries to win your favour, a time that made you feel even more alone. Now you felt rather comforted by the halls and the people with in it.

You took your time to win over the people inside the walls, though you never felt that you could truly be yourself ,as you did not know entirely who you were anymore, but none the less, you no longer felt like a stranger, even Catelin had even started to heavily involve you into the running of Winterfell, and her kindness became truer to you, even more so when news of your husbands bastard spread.

Your basic and natural kind behaviour had one the loyalty of many of the people of the north as they sneered at her, shunning her away as they welcomed the victors back from war.

And from the kind smiles you received as you walked the halls to your chambers, chambers the lord and lady of Winterfell had traditionally shared. It had not crossed your mind about were you would know sleep. Never having shared the bed with another, not knowing what it is to share a bed, let alone with a man. It was also your belongings that filled the room, your tapestries and art, your nicknacks and clothes. His had either gone with him or remained in his old chambers, but know she supposed he was fully with in his rights to move in and perhaps even throw her out.

She did not know if he weas cruel enough to do so, or kind enough to let her stay. You only knew of him through the view of others, mainly his mother. An opinion you held   with restraint, seeing as what mother would not love her son.

He stared at you awkwardly once you entered the room, the realisation of never once talking alone coming to light for you both.

“your with child?” he asked after a moment.

You snorted “of course” you said “though I doubt you care much, seeing as you already have a babe”

“i…” he looked down ashamed, “I do care, though….though we barley know one another… I am your husband”

You snorted again, “really? And where exactly has my husband been? Not once have you acted like one, the only husbandly act you had done was to take my maidenhead!” you were mad, for so long you had been nice and kind, acting as if you cared not for his actions and now months of anger was finally spilling out of you.

He coughed awkwardly, clearly not expecting you to say something like that, especially as one of the first things you had said to him.

“i…I you are right?” he said, clearly unsure of what exactly to say, “I should have said something to you, told you of Talisa”

Talisa.

So that was her name.

“or at least have waited until after we were- “

“until it wasn’t our wedding day?

“yes” he looked down, “though I… I will admit I do not regret loving her”

Loving her.

Hearing it hurt, though you supposed you had to right to feel hurt.

You huffed, your eyes downcast, “must you admit it so freely? I understand we do not know each other, that you did not want this marriage, but it is our duty, and I…” you took a deep breath, looking up at him “I want respect, I want to be treated like a wife, and not” you couldn’t bring her self to say it, you were a woman scorned, scorned by your husband and yet he was a stranger, and in his eyes you hadn’t earns the respect you deserved. “…not like-“ you didn’t say it, he did.

“Like a duty?” He looked at you, “because that’s all that you are, a duty” he seemed to sneer “I once desired a marriage of love and then I was told I would have to marry a Frey” he hissed the name, ‘at first I hoped to find love with my wife, a wife I would not little say in, then I met her” you knew he didn’t mean you, how could he? “Talisa” he whispered “I love her more than I thought possible, and then I met you.” He shook his head “ you are beautiful, more so than she I will admit that, but I do not love you, and I very much doubt I ever will.”

“Why?” You asked, stopping him before he could saying anything more.

He swallowed “how can i? I do not know you-“

“Then get to know me!” You interrupted, moving closer to him, “we are to have a child of our own soon, do you not want to know its mother?”

He shook his head, “let me finish.” He spoke sternly, causing you to step back again.”I do not know if I want to know you, I have her and she for months was all I needed…” he stopped talking then, looking at you, as if hoping you would interrupt despite his words.

“And now i… she had a babe, our babe, a girl. And perhaps some part of me feels And perhaps some part of me the guilt of loving her, despite my duty to you.”

You shook your head, “I am your wife, you should feel more-“ you clutched your belly in pain, as a contraction hit.

 “are you alright?” He asked moving to you.

“I have been having them all day, it is nothing to worry about” you said as you shook it off only to be hit with another contraction.

“Are they meant to come that close together?” He asked worry clear in his voice.

You sneered “I don’t know you’re the one with a bastard, weren’t you there went she gave birth?”

“I… no we haven’t been together since the wedding”

You laughed “oh Im so sorry our marriage was such a inconvenience for your mistress”

He said nothing at that, leading you to believe that perhaps he wanted to continue his relationship with her and she was the one to stop it.

“I’ll fetch the midwives” he spoke suddenly, leaving before you could say anything.

Soon you were on your bed, a midwife between your legs telling you to push.

It was just you and them, woman you had never met, wishing you had met your mother so that she could be here for you and not strangers.

And it seemed the gods were cruel as they sent her in, she walked in saying she was a healer and was simply there to help, and by the worried looks the midwives gave her it seemed you needed it.

She went to touch you, and you flinched back.

“No” you whispered.

“The babe is breached” she said hoping to sway you, but the constant shaking of your head caused her to bite her lip a concerned look filling her face “I have experienced with breached briths, I can help you” she insisted.

“No” you simply said again, but this time she ignored your pleas, moving to sit on the bed and take your hand in hers.

You tried to pull your hand back but she only held on tighter, and leaned in.

“Please let me help you” she begged “neither of us want to be in this situation and I am only trying to help you”

“What so the gods aren’t cruel on you as they have been on me?”

She laughed “sort of I suppose, but also because I have caused you enough pain and wish to mend it.”

You looked at her, she was sincere, it seemed she too hated the situation they were both in, trapped feeling like the other woman, “fine” you gritted out.

She nodded “I need to move the babe” she said placing her hand on your belly and started to turn the babe.

The pain was terrible, the want to push and being unable to and the feeling of you babe moving inside of you, and then finally she said you could push, after that is was swift, and before you knew it cries filled the room, and your baby was placed in your arms, a boy, an heir.

“Congratulations” Talisa breathed, “he looks just like you” she said softly, you smiled nodding you head. He did, he lacked all the Tully features Robb ware, though it was clear the stark genes that skipped him wen to the babe, as he had a tuft of Black hair, and a part of you hoped for the grey eyes most Starks bore. But other than that he was every bit yours, your eyes and nose, he was all you.

“Should we fetch the king?” A midwife asked, and you shook you head,

“no, he knows I am here, let him come to me.” You said, as Talisa went to stand, “thank you,” you whispered.

She smiled “just because we are tied in the same way does not mean we must hate one another” she said, looking at you kindly, and you hoped she was right, because you hated the envy you felt towards her.

“We shall speak on this soon, but for now I shall rest” you said, focusing your attention back on your son.

“Of course,” she nodded. Leaving the room.

Robb did not visit you for ten days. No one did really.

It was just you and your son, Cregan. A stark name, though not a common one, you may know little history but the little you did know was about the dance of the dragons, and about Cregan stark. He was your honourable and loyal, traits you would raise your son with.

“Hello” you heard suddenly, as you Cregan was placed in your arms.

It was robb.

“Finally come to meet your child?” You sneered.

“I apologise” he whispered, coming towards you and looking down at your child. “I had matters to deal with”

“of course” you nodded not that you could see how he had not once found the time to visit you and your child.

“I here you named him Cregan” he spoke, softly smiling down at your son.

“yes, I thought it to be a good stark name.”

He nodded, caressing the babes head. “I had hoped to name him Eddard, or Ned…. After my father” he said softly.

“Was that what you were going to name your daughter had she been a boy?” You asked, though your tone was neither dripped with envy or anger, you had said it so nonchalantly, as if you cared not for the answer.

Both the question and your behaviour confused him, he did not know what to make of you, your personality, or how to even start a marriage with you. Or even if he wanted to have one with you. “Yes” he mumbled, “though we ended up naming her Minisa, after my mothers mother” he spoke with such a tenderness, and you realised you could never compete with her, no matter how kind she was, you hated her.

Hated that she was the only reason you could never know your husband, who he was and what he liked. How he looked when you woke up beside him or how it felt for him to hold you lovingly. Your heart broke at the future you would never have.

“Leave” you demanded, pulling Cregan away from Robb. As if Robb being close to him would hurt him the same way Robb being apart from you, had hurt you.

“What?” He asked in alarm.

“I can’t do this” you said, “I can’t, every moment of our marriage has been shadowed by here, I am your wife, not her”

“gods, I know that, and I hate it” he angry spoke back, “we both know neither of us had a choice in who we marry!”

“but you have a choice in who you love, why not try and love me!”

“Because you’ll never be her” He pulled back completely, “I do not want to know you, I only ever wanted her and I will only ever choose her.”

“then leave!” you spoke as tears fell down your face, “I will move out and into one of your over holdings as soon as I am able, and we will not have to put up with this farce any longer”

“good.”

And just like that any hope for a marriage was lost, your son would only know your face and not his fathers for years to come.

As the years passed your rarely saw your husband. With Cregan now five, all hopes of giving him another sibling had disappeared, as you and Robb could scarcely spend longer than a few minutes in a room together.

And though Cregan got along well enough with his siter, Minisa, a part of you resented her. Resented how she was Robbs whole world and Cregan wasn’t.

perhaps it was because you had pushed him away so thoroughly.

That your relation to his heir caused him to resent your son in turn.

And perhaps he hated you more now that Talisa had passed.

The birth of their second child had killed both mother and babe.

Robb had raged.

For months he seemed to only act in anger.

And then it all stopped.

He seemed to return to normal, expect he know insisted he do his duty to you.

Duty.

You hated the word.

Especially as you lay now on the bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you and your moans filling the room.

There was no emotion but hate in the way he fucked you. As if you were the very reason for her death.

As if you were the guilty one in the marriage, when all you had ever done was your duty. As if you existing had caused her death, as if you had killed her and not the winter sickness.

He seemed to fuck you as if you had killed her, pounding into you at a relentless pace.

There was no part about it that could make it seem like he was making love to you.

Not as he bent you over a desk, or pushed you to the floor and hicked up your dress.

Or as he barged into your room as your maids were preparing you for bed, dismissed them and instantly started fucking you.

You hated it. But you also loved it.

Hated how gave you every opportunity to top him, and not once had you.

You happily let him fuck you.

Enjoying the touch of your husband.

The pleasure of sex.                     

“fuck” he groaned as he came, releasing you from his vice like grip.

He rested his head against yours, catching his breath.

It was rare he fucked you on your back, often choosing you to face away from him as he fucked you.

You pulled back from him awkwardly, waiting for what always happened next.

Him leaving.

But this time he didn’t leave.

Perhaps it was because it had been over a year since her death, over a year since her name was mentioned.

Perhaps he had somehow forgiven you for whatever crime you had committed against him in his head.

He had been more…pleasant?

He had been able to spend time in your company without shouting or yelling at you for no reason.

He had had spent more time with his son, though perhaps that had been because you had taken his daughter under your care.

It hurt almost to care for her but apart of you loved her. Having always wanted a daughter for yourself, and for so long believing you would only ever have your son, Cregan. She was the image of her father, with little trace or her mother on her features. She was quite and shy though she liked you. Perhaps it was because Talisa had always been kind to you, at least to your face.

“the maester tells me you are pregnant” he spoke, as he moved to lie beside you.

“what?” you asked in shock. You had only just found out for yourself this morning.

He sighed, turning to look at you, “he said you were pregnant, about three moons” he said as he moved to make himself comfortable in your bed. “i..yes I am…I only just found out this morning”

“as did I”

It was awkward, neither of you knew how to talk to the other. Neither of you had cared to try until now.

you too moved to make yourself comfortable, tucking your self into bed, and turning your back to him. He sighed before moving towards you, blowing out the candle and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“what are you doing?” you asked.

“sleeping with my wife” he said as if it was obvious. You had never shared a bed with a man, and feeling him pressed against you felt strange. It wasn’t comforting, nor was it uncomfortable.

“oh”

“oh?” he mimicked.

“why?”

“well…we are husband and wife it is time we started acting as such”

You huffed, “ we have been husband and wife for nearly six years now and not once have you slept in my bed.

“well that’s going to change” he said, and before you knew it you were both fast asleep.

The next few months had been so different from the previous years.

Though you had not stopped your previous duties as lady of Winterfell. It seemed now with Robb instant on being a dotting husband you had more duties.

He had moved into your chambers, though you supposed they were rightfully his.

He insisted on taking all your meals together, walking in the gods woods every day together.

He had become kind, and for those few moons you thought perhaps you could grow to tolerate his misgivings and be husband and wife.

Then he called you, “Talisa”

He had said it in passing, not even noticing it at first. And then he saw how your froze and realised his mistake.

He had sighed your name in apology.

But you had ignored him. And realised that perhaps it would be better, not to have hope that you were more than a duty to Robb.

That to him you would never be her. Never be the wife he wanted, only his duty.

It didn’t matter how much he liked to play pretend. Giving you flowers and sweet kisses on your cheek. Deep down you knew you could never forgive him, never find the love and happiness you had long craved, that you deserved.

That you would be a wife of duty, and love was always the death of duty, and duty is the death of love.

And he would never stop loving her.

authors note: this took me 3 weeks to write because i couldn’t figure out to make it have a happy ending. it was far to angsty and i couldn’t justify her forgiving him.

taglist

@now-i-have-a-new-obsession @apollonshootafar @flrboyd @theanxietyqueen17 @dark-night-sky-99 @zillahvathek @leavesmealobe @winter-soldier-101 @bunbunbl0gs @ka1afbr @tesha-i-guess @aemondwhoresworld RAYNETARGARYEN2 @littlebirdgot @eddieslut69 @beebeechaos

to be added to taglist

[valyrianvibranium]

BETWEEN THE LINES.

Maegor Targaryen x female Harroway!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, doggy sex, power imbalance, size kink, degrading, idk.

WORDS: 2.4 K

NOTES: This has been rotting in my docs for so long, I had to finish and post it. It's missing big tiddy daddy hours, and I want you all to suffer with me. Thank you @thought--bubble for proofreading this! <3

The Red Keep is much more homely and friendly than your Houses’ seat, Harrenhal, that much is true. Yet you have never longed more to be back at that gloomy castle than you’ve done since your sister has taken you to court with her. 

Not that you’ll ever have the choice to stay or to leave. Not unless your sister, or rather the queen, says so. 

For one summer you’ve lived in the keep by now, summoned the moment your sister came back from Pentos to aid her husband after the demise of King Aenys Targaryen. The talks of Maegor taking Tyanna of the Tower as his third wife had arisen not long after, and did little to quell your jealousy. 

He's seen you before. You were at your sister’s side during their short courtship, their wedding, and had visited them regularly until she chose to accompany Maegor in his exile in Pentos. 

And yet he’s never paid any attention to you, has never even considered taking you to wife instead – rather opting to go for your dull sister and a sorceress from Pentos. 

Sitting on the chaise lounge in your chambers, flames crackling in the fireplace, you read over a book you’ve procured from the library on your stroll through the castle. It very much borders the Hour of the Owl, and you’ve yet to take the bath the maids have prepared for you quite some time ago. 

A knock on the door pulls you out of your reverie, and you’re quick to rise to your feet, covering the loose nightdress that clings to your curves with a plain robe. Caught off guard, you waste no thought on the fact that you don’t expect any visitors this late. 

“Yes?” you ask loudly. 

A gruff voice comes from behind the door, and, despite the impatience laced within, you know very well who it belongs to. “Open the door. I would like to have a word with you.”

His words make you frown, but you follow his orders, unlocking the door and opening it for him. Immediately craning your neck to meet his stern gaze, the eye contact ignites a fire within you. “Your Grace, I– what is the matter?” 

He shoulders his way past you into your chambers, briefly taking in your attire and loose hair. A small smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Reading, at this hour?” he asks, nodding towards the book still clutched in your hand. 

Warmth spreads to your cheeks at his question, intensified by his low and dangerous tone. You can feel his gaze despite your back still facing him, like a weight that has settled on your shoulders. “I could not sleep,” you answer simply, closing the door and turning around. “So I thought I’d read for a bit before I bathe and retire. But is that truly the matter you wish to talk to me about, Your Grace?”

He prowls closer to you, his steps slow and deliberate; a hunter closing in on its prey. “No, that’s not why I came here,” he says, his gaze never leaving yours. As he comes to a stop in front of you, his bulky frame towers over yours. Reaching a hand out, he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear – a gesture that makes you shiver. “It’s your behavior towards your sister… I shall not tolerate it any longer.”

A frisson of heat races down your spine at the touch, and you do not dare pull away from him. She must have obviously talked to him about you slowly removing yourself out of her life, getting out of her way and clearly avoiding her at times. “I… I do not know what you mean, Your Grace,” you stutter. “Alys… my sister… I have no quarrel with her.” Your eyes flicker to the ground, just briefly, but long enough for him to know that you’re not saying the truth. 

Taking another step closer, Maegor captures you between his body and the door, a sneer evident on his features. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” he growls. “I know of your jealousy. Your envy. You long for what she has, to be a queen at the side of a man of my power and strength, but that day shall never come.”

Your heart lurches at his words, hitting you like arrows, and striking a wound that you have refused to acknowledge. Your breath escapes in a sharp gasp. “That is not…” you deny weakly, but even to your own ears your voice lacks conviction. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, but his mere proximity makes you feel hot all over. “You… You are misunderstanding my feelings, Your Grace.”

“Am I?” he asks, his voice a mocking drawl. He pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting your head back up and forcing you to look at him. “Then look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want what your sister has. Admit it.”

Gooseflesh ripples over your skin as his warm breath fans over it, your eyes fluttering. “I…” you begin, but your voice fails you as something dark and sinful stirs deep within you, dampening the linen of your smallclothes. You try to look away, but can’t. Instead, you find yourself reciprocating his intense stare, the words spilling out before you can stop them: “I loathe her.”

A cold triumph fills his features as you speak, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear. He lets out a low rumble of laughter, a mocking sound without any trace of humor that sends a shiver through your body. 

His other hand grips your hip, squeezing tightly. “Good,” he hums, leaning in close enough for his breath to fan over your face. “There is no need to hide your true feelings from me, sweetling. I see right through you. Your hate, your desire for power… your desire for me.”

Gasping softly at his words, your heart races in your chest. You’re trapped between his sturdy frame and the door, and his nearness causes heat to pool in your stomach. “That is… not true,” you deny weakly, although your voice lacks conviction. You can feel the heat emanating from him, the strength of his hands on your body – and yet, you do not pull away. “I… I don’t…”

The conflict that wars in your eyes is obvious, and he all but devours the fight your body puts up against the desire that’s slowly burning through your body. “You don’t?” he challenges, and your breath hitches in your throat the moment his lips find your exposed throat. The tip of his nose brushes your jaw as he pulls back, lips all but a whisper apart. “Lie to me again. The sight of these beautiful lips of yours speaking falsehoods is almost as arousing as the truth.”

His words send a jolt of heat to your core, your body and skin growing hot while your pulse quickens. Fighting stubbornly against the urge to surrender to his touch, you take a shaky breath. “You… You’re wrong,” you whisper, your voice choked by your own traitorous arousal. 

“Then prove me wrong,” he laughs, low and dark, “push me away. Fight me.” Shame and excitement alike flood your veins at his words. Your hands come up to grip the front of his loose tunic as if you mean to push him away, but instead you pull him tightly against you. 

With a swift flick of his wrist, Maegor’s nimble fingers undo the tie in the front of your robe. 

You bite your lip, staring up at him with wide eyes. The robe comes loose against your body and falls partially open, exposing the skin of your chest and shoulders. Your body is responding to him in ways it shouldn’t, and you’re helpless to stop it. 

“I…” you pant, voice ragged, “I can’t…”

With his fingers tracing patterns on your body like a burning brand, you can’t bring yourself to push him away, and instead charge at him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck and connecting your lips in a passionate embrace.

Maegor grunts at the impact, but returns the kiss with equal fervor. His grip on you tightens even more, using it to push you back against the door. Breaking the kiss, he peels your arms off of him, which allows your robe to slide off your shoulders and fall to the ground, and flips you around, pressing your chest flush against the wood. 

Although you try to catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder, you miss the dark, possessive look that’s etched onto his features, far too distracted by him easily ripping apart your nightdress from the collar to the hem. 

You can all but feel his dark blown eyes roam over your exposed skin, practically devouring the sight of you standing completely bare and pliant right in front of him. His fingers trail over your curves, gripping a fistful of your arse. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he mutters, voice guttural and possessive. He leans in to bury his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin. 

The sensations have you arch your back against his sturdy frame while soft gasps and moans spill past your lips. You feel him shuffle slightly behind you, yet your mind is far too occupied by the weight of his body against yours, the heat from his lips on your neck, and the harshness of his one hand on your hip to notice what he’s doing. 

But then you feel something dragging through your soaked and swollen folds, and while you’re certain it’s two of his fingers, you’re quickly proved wrong as something even thicker breeches your tight cunt. The groan he releases is strained but loud, fanning right over your damp skin, and drowns out the moan that slips past your lips.

It’s not the first time you lay with a man, yet the last encounter took place quite some time ago, hence your need to adjust to the size of his cock. But Maegor is not in a generous mood this night, and hardly allows your body to accommodate him before he sets up a reckless pace that has you whining and whimpering. 

Maegor towers over your small frame, pushing you up against the door with every snap of his hips. One of his paw-like hands is still holding onto your hip, while the other has disappeared into your hair, tugging on it and forcing your head back against his shoulder to make sure you keep your back arched for him. 

He continues to lavish attention on your body with his lips and tongue, just barely pulling away to take a breath. “You shall never be queen like your dear sister is,” he groans in between some kisses, his voice ragged. Under different circumstances, his words would have made your stomach drop – but not when he’s fucking you so good, and speaking again after a short breather. “But she could never give me what you do. She could never make me feel the way you make me feel. You drive me mad with desire.”

You tremble under his frame, and pressure builds within you as he brings his hand between your legs. It seems as though he’s suddenly taken on an urgency he hasn’t displayed before, adamant to finish it quickly so that his disappearance does not attract any attention. 

“The… Then take what you want… Your Grace,” you stutter, words hiccuped by his harsh thrusts. He’s sent you into a frenzy by now. “Take me.”

The coil in your stomach is ready to snap at any given moment with how precisely his deft fingers rub your pearl, and your peak washes over you even before you can tell him. Your lips fall apart in a breathy whimper while you relish in the overwhelming pleasure of your peak coursing through your veins as Maegor chases his own.

Regardless of how badly you want to reach behind you to touch whatever part of him is within your reach, your hands have to be propped against the door to support your small frame, keeping you upright. 

His thrusts already have become more and more erratic at this point, and the tight clenching of your walls around his cock is the last bit that eventually triggers his own release. 

Shuddered breaths and strained groans topple over his parted lips, mixing with your whimpers and moans. His twitching cock spills his seed deep inside of your cunt, and you squeeze him ever so tightly in response, milking him for every drop. 

He doesn’t give himself much time to revel in the pure bliss before he lifts his head off of your shoulder and untangles himself from you. His breathing is ragged and his gaze still darkened with desire as he gazes down at your disheveled form, taking in the marks he’s left. He silently buckles his belt and adjusts his clothing, appearing as though nothing has happened while your mind and body are basically in shambles. 

There’s little time for you to come back to your senses after he’s pulled out, and even less time until he’s inconsiderately nudging you away from the door, taking the handle into one hand. 

“And sweetling,” he says, his brusque demeanor coming right back with a dangerous tone to his voice, “I will not tolerate any further interference from you in my affairs, and I will not tolerate any envy towards your sister. You ought best to remember your place. You are nothing but a toy for me, and I will not hesitate to put you in your place if you get in my way.”

The sharpness in his tone makes you shiver. You watch him silently, body still trembling with the aftershocks of your encounter. His words ring in your ears, and you swallow hard, the reality of your situation only now sinking in. 

As he turns away and opens the door, he throws one final look at you from over his shoulder. 

“Yes… Your Grace,” you mumble with a nod of your head, and only then does he take his leave, albeit it does not last for too long, because as the following day passes and the Hour of the Owl strikes, it’s him who’s knocking on your door again, coming to take what he’s successfully claimed.  

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby @k4marina @foxyanon @nats-whore

@palmer-hjp @sinarainbows @luvdella

General Taglist: @watercolorskyy @darylandbethfanforever9 @croatianprincess @snowystark @moonlightfoxx

@melsunshine @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fan-goddess @at-a-rax-ia @tsujifreya

@bbgmonsay @doublesparrows @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101

@multyfangirl @dixie-elocin @zaldritzosrose @userhotd @delulumhaggy @urfavnoirette

@iloveallmyboys @beautbuck @rose-brulante @aerangi @aoi-targaryen

[blakeswritingimagines]

Wild As Her (Kinktober)

Word Count: 2.8k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

In the vast realm of Westeros, where ancient dynasties clashed and legends were born, rose a woman of unparalleled elegance and enigmatic allure - Shiera Seastar. Her name whispered like a spell, invoking fascination and admiration in equal measure. With flowing, silvery tresses that cascaded past her shoulders, she was a vision of ethereal beauty—her piercing, bewitching blue and green eyes, like gems touched by the moon's glow. Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes met Shiera's. Ensnaring you. A heady mix of awe and attraction coursed through your veins, stirring a feeling that blossomed with each passing second in the presence of this ethereal being. Shiera observed you with a small, knowing smirk, her gaze holding a hint of playful mockery. She took a step closer, her gait catlike and deliberate. The air seemed to hum around her, charged with her presence. As she stopped before you, she lifted a thin, pale eyebrow, her voice a velvety melody that seemed to caress the air. "You seem… captivated," she murmured, her lips curving into a coy smile. A mix of embarrassment and intrigue churning within you. You tried to maintain composure, lifting your chin ever so slightly, meeting her gaze. "Captivated is one way to put it," you replied, your voice miraculously steady. Her proximity was intoxicating, her every move a mesmerizing dance that you couldn't help but be drawn to.

Her smirk widened, her eyes dancing with amused understanding of the effect she had on you. She took another step closer, and now her proximity was almost overwhelming, her warmth radiating off her body in waves. Her voice grew lower, almost sultry. "And what other way would you describe it?" she asked, tilting her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder like a silken waterfall. The heat that radiated from her body set your senses ablaze, your heart thudding against your ribcage like a wild beast desperate to escape. You inhaled shakily, the scent of her filling your nostrils, an intoxicating blend of exotic flowers and something uniquely her. "Overwhelming," you managed to reply, your voice a breathless whisper. "Enchanting. Dangerous." A soft chuckle escaped her lips, the sound like music to your ears. She reached out, her hand brushing lightly against your chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath her fingertips. "Dangerous? I like the sound of that," she murmured, stepping even closer until there wasn't a speck of space between you. "Do you think you can handle me?" A tremor ran through your body at her touch, each nerve ending alive with sensation. Your gaze dropped to her lips, so close you could almost taste them. "I-I don't know," you admitted honestly, though your eyes betrayed the truth – you craved this, wanted to explore every inch of her tantalizing curves. "B-But I'm willing to find out."

Her laughter filled the air, rich and full-bodied, echoing around the room. She leaned into you further, her breasts pressing against your chest, her hips grinding against yours. "Good," she purred, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Because I am not the type of woman who takes no for an answer." Her lips curled into a grin, seeing the desire in your eyes. With a fluid motion, she leaned in, her lips hovering just inches away from yours. "Then let's not waste any more time talking," she whispered before capturing your lips in a kiss that was both fiery and demanding. The moment her lips touched yours, a jolt of electricity surged through your body, making your limbs feel heavy and weak. You returned the kiss eagerly, your hands shakily finding their way to her waist, pulling her even tighter against you. Every brush of her tongue against yours sent sparks flying up your spine, igniting a fire within you that seemed impossible to extinguish. She pressed herself harder against you, her hands roaming over your back, her nails digging into your skin through the fabric of your clothes. She nipped at your bottom lip, tugging it gently between her teeth before soothing the sting with her tongue. Her knee slid between your legs, applying delicious pressure against your growing arousal. She pulled back slightly, her eyes dark with lust. "Bed. Now," she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. Without waiting for a response, she grabbed your hand and led you towards the bedroom, her hips swaying seductively with each step.

As if hypnotized by her movements, you followed her lead, your feet moving mechanically towards the bedroom. Once inside, she turned to face you, her expression predatory and eager. You stood frozen, unsure how to proceed, but your body betrayed you, responding to her presence with a throbbing need. "Sh-Shiera," you stuttered out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I… I've never done this before," you confessed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. For a moment, Shiera's expression faltered, surprise flickering across her features. Then, a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "Never?" she repeated, taking a step closer to you. "Well, then we have all night to rectify that, don't we?" She reached out, trailing a finger down your chest, her touch sending shivers through you. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of you," she promised, her voice low and reassuring. "Just relax and let me show you the joys of pleasure." With that, she leaned in, capturing your lips once more in a deep, passionate kiss, her hands beginning to roam your body with increasing boldness, slowly undressing you both as she went. Your nervousness melted away under the onslaught of her sensual touches, replaced by a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. You kissed her back fervently, your hands exploring the curves of her body nervously as she stripped you bare. When she broke the kiss to look at you, her eyes roamed over your exposed form, a hungry gleam in their depths that made your pulse race. "Beautiful," she breathed, reaching out to trace a finger along your collarbone, down your sternum, and across your abdomen. "Every inch of you is perfect." Her hands continued their exploration.

She watched you with rapt attention, her eyes drinking in the sight of your naked form. "Perfect indeed," she agreed, her voice thick with desire. She stepped closer still, her breasts mere inches from your chest, her nipples hardening in the cool air of the room. Her hands moved to cup your buttocks, squeezing firmly, drawing a sharp intake of breath from you. She leaned in, her lips grazing your neck, kissing and nibbling her way down to your collarbone. "Let's see if I can make you moan my name," she whispered, her hot breath tickling your skin. The sensation of her lips on your skin sent a wave of pleasure coursing through you, making your knees buckle slightly. You instinctively wrapped your arms around her, holding onto her for support as she continued her torturous kisses. "Oh god," you groaned, unable to contain yourself any longer. "Sh-Shiera…" Your voice trailed off into a whimper as she teased you mercilessly, her hands and mouth working in tandem to drive you to the brink of madness. Encouraged by your reaction, she intensified her ministrations, her fingers digging into your flesh as she pulled you even closer. She licked and sucked at your collarbone, marking you as hers. "That's it," she coaxed, her voice a sinful purr. "Give in to me." She looked up at you, her eyes locked onto yours, challenging you to hold back. She then shifted her weight, positioning herself between your legs, her own arousal evident as she ground herself against you, seeking friction.

The sensation of her wetness against your throbbing member was almost too much to bear. You moaned loudly, your control slipping as she worked her magic. "Fuck," you cursed softly, your hands gripping her hips tightly. "Please," you begged, not sure exactly what you were asking for, only knowing that you needed more. She smirked at your plea, a triumphant glint in her eye. "What do you need, baby?" she asked, her voice dripping with lust. She leaned in, her lips hovering just above yours. "Tell me," she urged, her breath hot against your lips. She began to move her hips in slow, deliberate circles, teasing you mercilessly. "You," you gasped out, the word barely coherent. "I need you. Please, Shiera…" Your hands slid down to grip her thighs, urging her closer, silently begging her to end this sweet torment. "Inside," you gasped out, your voice strained with desperation. "I need your fingers inside me." The words felt foreign on your tongue, but the craving they represented was undeniable. "Now," you demanded, your patience worn thin. "As you wish," she purred, her eyes darkening with desire. She quickly shed her remaining garments, baring herself completely to you. She positioned herself between your thighs, her fingers tracing teasing patterns on your inner thighs. "Look at me," she commanded, waiting until your gaze met hers before sliding one long digit inside you. "You're so tight," she marveled, beginning to pump her finger in and out, setting a steady rhythm. A sharp cry escaped your lips as she entered you, the sudden intrusion sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your walls clenched reflexively around her finger, trying to draw her deeper. "Yes, oh god yes," you moaned, your head falling back as she worked you open. The sensation of her finger moving inside you was intense, bordering on overwhelming. You gripped her shoulders, your nails digging into her skin as you struggled to maintain some semblance of control.

She watched you closely, enjoying the sight of your pleasure contorting your features. "You like that, don't you?" she taunted, adding another finger, stretching you wider. She increased the pace, curling her fingers to hit that sweet spot inside you. "Moan louder for me," she instructed, leaning down to capture a nipple between her lips, sucking hard enough to elicit a yelp from you. The dual assault on your senses had you teetering on the edge of bliss. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as she relentlessly pleasured you. "More," you pleaded, your hips bucking up to meet her thrusts. "Please, Shiera, I need more." Your body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for release. Encouraged by your pleas, she added another finger, filling you to the brim. She curled her fingers once again, determined to push you over the edge. "Like that?" she asked, her voice laced with satisfaction. She picked up the pace, her thumb circling your clit in time with her fingers plunging in and out of you. The combination of her fingers and thumb was too much. Your climax washed over you like a tidal wave, ripping through you with an intensity that left you gasping for air. "Shiera!" you screamed her name, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed through you. You clung to her, your grip tightening as you rode out the orgasm, feeling it drain every ounce of strength from your limbs. She rode out your orgasm with you, her fingers still moving within you, coaxing every last tremor of pleasure from your quivering body. She watched you come undone beneath her, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "There's my girl," she murmured, finally slowing her movements as you started to come down from your high. She withdrew her fingers slowly, allowing you to savor the lingering sensations.

Your breathing was ragged, your heart pounding in your chest as you lay there, spent and utterly fulfilled. "God, that was…incredible," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. You looked up at her, your eyes filled with adoration and something akin to awe. "Thank you," you said, meaning it from the bottom of your soul. She pulled back from the kiss, her expression soft yet still carrying a hint of her dominant nature. "But we're not done yet," she warned playfully, her hand trailing down to rest on your stomach. "It's my turn now." With a swift motion, she rolled you onto your side, facing her. She straddled your waist, her slick folds pressing against your thigh. "Ready for round two?" The thought of more made your heart race and your body tingle with anticipation. "I'm always ready for you," you answered, reaching up to caress her cheek lovingly. You couldn't help but marvel at how different she could be, how she could switch from demanding dominator to tender lover in the blink of an eye. It was intoxicating and thrilling, and you found yourself falling harder for her with each passing second. She captured your hand, bringing it to her lips for a quick, sensual kiss. "Good answer," she praised, her eyes gleaming with mischief. She guided your hand lower, to the junction of her thighs. "Feel how wet you've made me," she breathed, rubbing your palm against her heat. "I need you inside me. Now." Your touch confirmed what she'd already told you – she was incredibly aroused, and all because of you. You moved your hand, spreading her lips apart to reveal her glistening center. The sight alone was enough to make your pulse quicken, but when she pressed your hand tighter against her, urging you to explore further, you complied eagerly. "I can't believe how much I want you," you confessed, your voice husky with desire.

She let out a low chuckle, a sound rich with carnal promise. "Believe it," she whispered, guiding your hand to position your fingers at her entrance. "Show me how much you want me." She rocked her hips against your hand, seeking friction. Her other hand moved to your breasts, squeezing them firmly, pinching your nipples between her fingers. The double stimulation was almost too much to handle. With her guidance, you slid a finger into her welcoming warmth, relishing the feel of her velvety walls enveloping you. You curled your finger slightly, searching for that special spot that would make her moan. Feeling her clench around you in welcome. You matched her rhythm, pumping your fingers in and out of her while your other hand explored her body, tracing lines across her skin, kneading her muscles, and reveling in the way she responded to your touch. Her moans filled the room, spurring you on as you continued your ministrations. "Just like that," she panted, her hips rolling fluidly against your hand. She shifted positions, bracing one knee on the bed beside your hip, opening herself up to you fully. "Don't stop," she urged, her voice thick with need. A low moan spilled from her lips as you found her sweet spot, her hips grinding down against your hand. "Just like that," she praised, her head falling back in ecstasy. Her own hand continued its exploration of your body, leaving trails of goosebumps in its wake. She leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with yours.

The kiss only served to heighten the pleasure coursing through your veins. You kissed her back fiercely, matching her intensity stroke for stroke. Your fingers kept their relentless pace, driving deeper, faster, chasing after that peak of bliss you'd tasted earlier. Your legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, if possible. She broke the kiss, panting heavily, her chest heaving against yours. "I'm close," she warned, her voice strained with pleasure. She rode your fingers harder, her inner walls fluttering around the invading digits. "Don't stop," she begged, her eyes locked onto yours, "Make me come." Determined to grant her request, you doubled your efforts, adding a second finger and increasing the speed. Your thumb found her clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub. "Come for me, Shiera," you urged, your voice thick with arousal. "Let go." You sealed your words with another deep, passionate kiss, swallowing her cries of pleasure as she neared her climax. The combined onslaught of your fingers and thumb pushed her over the edge. With a loud, guttural moan muffled against your lips, she came undone. Her body tensed, her walls clamping down on your fingers as waves of orgasmic bliss pulsed through her. She rode out her climax, riding your hand until the very last tremor faded away. Finally, she collapsed onto you, breathless and satisfied. Feeling her collapse onto you was like a balm to your soul. You held her tightly, your arms wrapping around her as she caught her breath. "That was incredible," you whispered, kissing her forehead softly. You could see the love shining in her eyes, and it made your heart swell with joy.

She lifted her head to look at you. "Are you sure you're a virgin?" she teased lightly, planting a gentle kiss on your lips. She lifted her head to look at you, her gaze sultry and teasing. "And it's just getting started," she promised, her voice a mere whisper. She shifted, positioning herself so that her entrance aligned with your throbbing core. "Time for you to take control," she said, a playful glint returning to her eyes. You felt a rush of excitement at her words, your body trembling with anticipation. Slowly, you guided her down, watching in awe as your bodies rubbed together unlike anything you had ever experienced before. "Oh, Shiera," you gasped, your hands gripping her hips tightly.

[ashblooddragons]

Poll For My Next Oneshot

So this Sunday Bad Idea Right? A Alicole one-shot will be out.

And the Sunday after that will be All That Matters Is You the second and last part to Better Me For You.

So now so I can plan better please choose between these two one-shots that have been requested to me for a while now.

[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.

[ophelieverse]

if you are still taking requests I have one:Jace returning to Winterfell to reader,who is Cregan younger sister,to make the “song of ice and fire” become true after his mother told him😌please and thank you❤️

✩ ‧₊˚ and his will be the song of ice and fire

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

-Summary:during his first stay at Winterfell,Jace and Y/n got much closer than they should.Now,after knowing the prophecy about the song of ice and fire from his mother,Jace is determined to make it true with the most beautiful lady he had ever seen.

-Warnings:spoilers of the last episode,reader is a Stark,Jace cheats of Baela(him and reader pull a Rhaegar and Lyanna)smutty time,asoiaf classic warnings.

•-thank you so much for requesting and let me know what you guys think,sending you lots of love

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On that night in early Winter,as a milky moon shines white above the hills,the snow falls soft to whitewash the gentle slopes and the houses in the valley of Winterfell.The air smells of the last breath of smoke blown out of a fireplace,ice,earth and wood.

It's late,and many lights are already off,but the fire of torches along the streets still shine.The tavern lanterns are also still lit,as are some fireplaces or oil lamps in homes.The world is immersed in the peaceful quiet of that cold night,which already brings with it the algid squeeze of winter now closer and closer.

In the secluded area of the cold godswood,in the gardens of the castle of Winterfell,silence envelopes the floral landscape like a lover embrace and Jacaerys worries that the unrequited sound of his beating heart could be heard throughout the whole realm.

The blood-red leaves in the branches of the weirdwood tree danced calmly in the breezy wind,the snow had stopped falling from the black sky leaving only the white stars to shine.The torches lights were too close and too bright,Jace eyes were hurting and his cold hands were trying to warm up in the ones of his future bride.

The young prince is really trying to focus on the soft words,the promises of eternal love and loyalty,of the Septon that works for House Stark.But they sounded so foreign to him,almost as if they were another language.It’s impossible for him to focus on anything else outside the fact that he’s really getting married.

During his life,Jacaerys has never knew well how weddings ceremonies actually worked,but he was pretty sure that this one,his,wasn’t what people would call a normal one.He has a vague memory of his mother second wedding,just the day after the worst night of his life,but he still could remember a loving couple becoming one in the heart and soul.Promising each other,in the house culture,love and devotion,eternal loyalty.

He also remembered the wedding of his uncle and aunt,Aegon and Helaena,in the big and bright Temple in King’s Landing.How two children spouted oaths that they didn’t believed in,framed by perfect swaths of red,green and yellow.Smiling faces of their families,proud to be reunited for such a joyful moment.Then the celebration after in the castle,the people dancing and laughing,the melodious music and singing,the delights of the night.

Meanwhile this wedding,his,was quiet and rushed.Reserved and in the dark shade of the forest.There are no wonderful colors for decorations,no smiling families members or friends,aside from Cregan who was chosen as a witness to the union,and Jacaerys is in the middle of an icy tundra of suffocating silence.

Y/n is standing in front of him,adorned in pure pearly white just like the snow at her feet.She wasn’t just beautiful,she was otherworldly and vaguely threatening.Bright eyes,rosy cheeks and red lips,hair falling in the wind,the smile of and enchanting enchantress and the nature of a young she wolf.Blue winter roses crowned on her head,she looked like a religious icon,someone people sacrificed themselves for.

Jacaerys had spent weeks with her during his stay in the North and he couldn’t forget her for days.He had engraved her name in the palm of his hands,the way she would laugh with him,the way she carried herself and looked at him,forever in his heart.It was impossible to not grow to love her,the beautiful lady was made of magic and stardust.

The logics and sermons,the words and phrases of the Septon weren’t the one to convince him to swear his allegiance and love,the way she held his hands and softly smiled at him driven deeper into his soul.Y/n had wrapped herself into his ribs,crawling right inside his heart,to keep him warm.

He was born for her and she was born for him.The ice and the fire,it was written in the destiny.

His mother words still echoed in his mind as he looked at Y/n.The song of ice and fire would be the product of their love,a son or a daughter that would have ruled and kept the realm together and safe.Someone who would inherit the blood of the old Valyria,the blood of the dragons and gods,fire and warmth from their father.And the blood of the first men,the old gods,the ice of the true north from their mother.

Y/n was his truth,Jacaerys was the dream,she was the ice and he was the fire.

She made him sick with desire,she always did since the moment he was first introduced to her.With the desire to have her,to possess her,to have her around him forever.And now he had the perfect opportunity,the perfect excuse for his betrayal to Baela and his mother who had betrothed them months ago.

Now he could still believe that he was a good person with a purpose,not only because of his own selfish dream to be with Y/n and to marry her just because her figure hunted his memory and his carnal needs.Because he was growing to love her and wanted to grow old with her.It was for the realm,he was repeating to himself over and over to shut down the guilt,and it would be what he would tell his mother and cousin when he and his new wife would go to Dragonstone after their wedding.For the realm,for the world and the Targaryen dynasty.

Jacaerys is dressed in pure black,trembling in his furry cloak,he’s trying to calm down his breathing that relies heavily through his nose in forms of little white clouds.Idly he wonders if this was a funeral ceremony instead of a wedding,but this was the best they could manage in such short time.

The young prince had came to Winterfell,flying on dragon back,with the last lights of the sun and everything was orchestrated in secrecy as fast as they could.The child that would be born from him and Y/n needed to be fully legitimate,he didn’t wanted to risk a bastard just like he was,not when the child wouldn’t have become the protector of the realm,the one from Aegon the Conqueror dream.

Y/n was promised to Lord Jason Lannister eldest son and Jacaerys was promised to his cousin Baela.Everything of this was the highest of treason but the war was already there and they couldn’t go back now.His mind couldn’t help but circling around and back to the empty and oddly depressing atmosphere around them.

Before them a old and solemn man was going through some chants about the gods witnessing the union and behind them a grand total of just two whole guest.Cregan stood there,wrapped around his cloak,still and silent like a statue,Vermax was a few feet away looking at the scene like he could understand what was going on.

«In the sight of the Seven,I hereby see you these two souls,binding them as one for eternity.Look upon one another and say the words.»the Septon words were spoken with decision under the torches fire.

Jacaerys swallows thickly and feels like he’s been choked by the cloak that now is heavier on his shoulders.A beads of sweats drips down on his forehead and make his hair stuck on his neck even in the cold air.He wants nothing more than loose his collar and breathe deeply.All that clothing is far too stiff and uncomfortable and he feels like a stranger in his own body.He has to tell himself,as he close his eyes,that this would be over sooner that he’ll realize.

His mouth feels dry as he wet his lips before speaking his vows«Father.Smith.Warrior.Mother.Maiden. Crone.Stranger.I am hers,and she is mine,from this day,till the end of my days.»his voice was firm as he held her hand tightly.

Y/n smiled at him,she tried to be brave just like he was.Her hands were shaking in his,her nerves had eaten her alive the whole night,from the moment she had put on her mother old dress,to this very moment.Now she couldn’t go back.

She really started to love Jacaerys,how could she not?He was so gentle with his words,so kind with the way he touched and looked at her,perfect in everything that he did.And the fact that him,such a beautiful and loving man,had chosen her as his wife and future mother of his children,was dream coming true.As a child,she often dreamed of becoming a princess and to marry a prince,just like the ones in her fairytales.

But now she would’ve had to be the future Queen in a kingdom divided in two,with a war that was screaming outside their door.Jacaerys seemed to read her mind,squeezing her hands lovingly and nodding his head to reassure her,in a way to tell her that she wasn’t alone and that they would be together in the bad and the good.

«Father.Smith.Warrior.Mother.Maiden.Crone.Stranger.I am his and he is mine,from this day,till the end of my days.»Y/n pronounced every single word softly without taking her eyes off her husband.

Maybe this was really a funeral because,as she spoke,Y/n realized that there was no turning back now,they would not be just a prince and lady anymore.When did everything became so complicated?She started to get melancholic as she started to register how much her life had changed in few seconds,that the best part of her new life was also the hardest.

Just a few weeks ago she was running around the godswood with Jacaerys as she was teaching him about the old gods and the legends in the north and now all of her dreams and ambitions were threatened by her husband family.A family that she was part of now.

They were supposed to change the world by bringing their child into it,but the world was about to change them and it certainly wasn’t a change for the better.The greens usurping the throne,prince Aemond killing prince Lucerys proves that.

Y/n head was hurting as she thought about that.And she couldn’t forget about the part where both her and Jacaerys were promised to other people.They would be viewed as traitors among his family,his uncle Daemon wouldn’t take the news kindly and he certainly wouldn’t congratulate them.Y/n father also didn’t knew about any of this and she still feared his reaction.

Regardless all of that,of having the world against them.Both Jacaerys and Y/n didn’t cared about all the venomous things people will say about them or the things that they would have to go through,because if they were given a second chance they would do it all over again.They were loving each other too much to let the other go.

«With this kiss I pledge my love.»Jacaerys said to her,moving his hand to caress carefully her freezing cheek.

His lips felt soft and surprisingly warm against her cold ones.And just like that they were officially married in the sight of the Seven and law.

There is no time for celebrations,no music and tables filled with joy,decorations and all sort of foods.Instead they found themselves in Y/n chambers,the one she grew up in,the one that saw her going from a little girl that played with her dolls to a married woman.

The sheets were changed clean,some fresh flowers were put to adorn the headboard and right on the small table at the center of the table there was wine and some fruits.Cregan had to be the one organizing the whole thing as a small gift.

Y/n takes off her cloak and picks up a small red berry.Jacaerys does the same,moving around the room quietly,he raised his eyes and caught her attention with a sweet smile,so tender and yet so seductive,his lips shiny and wet with a clear juice that slowly dripped down his chin.

«Let me help my wife.»his voice sounded more confident now that it was just the two of them and no one else.

The word,wife,made Y/n feel hot against her chest and down her legs.Standing behind her,Jacaerys wrapped her in his arms.She shuddered when she felt his lips on her neck and along her shoulder:she closed her eyes and abandoned herself against his chest,sighing.

«Jace,husband.»whispered the beautiful lady,her eyes closed and her head slightly tilted back.

«From our love will come the child that this world needs.»Jacaerys had said between the kisses«And I will take care of both of you.»he continued.

«You promise?»Y/n voice was just breathless whisper.

«Nothing will happen to you,»his hand crawled down her stomach leaving shivers on her clothed skin,only to stop at her lower belly.

«But…your family…your mother and uncle-»she tried,biting her lip when he started to suck gently behind her ear.

«Our family will understand.»he corrected her«My mother knows the truth and she will grow to love you just like I do,especially after we will make her a grandmother.»he reassured her sweetly.

A shiver flashed down her back and inflamed her loins.The young prince lowered her shoulder strap to discover her breasts and squeezed it slowly between his fingers,flaring in turn as he felt the nipple turged against his palm.

Y/n staggered,her heart throbbing,her breath shortness and her legs were already trembling but Jacaerys was quick to support her:he lifted her in his arms and took her to the thalamus,on which he gently laid her,a splendid candid flower that seemed to fill that place of shadow with light and of which it was impossible for him to do without.

«My beautiful princess,my beautiful wife.»he murmured against her lips kneeling above her,her eyes shiny,her face turned on despite the pallor.

Y/n took his head in her hands,dipped her fingers between his long curly black hair like a crow's wing;she felt his whole body quiver himing,his heart beating fiercely,and like every time he made her understand that he wanted her,a glance was enough for her to make sure of his devotion:she beat her eyelashes darkening the beautiful irises for a moment,licking her lips;she barely curved them,aware that that gesture drove him crazy,she slowly pulled a flap of the dress to herself by uncovering one leg and flexed it,letting the toe of her foot slide down his thigh,continuing to look at him intensely.

Below the fabric of his pants,Jacaerys felt the delicacy and sensuality of her touch.The tremor of excitement that attacked him was violent, lightning-fast:he stared at her for a moment and couldn't resist any longer.He impatiently freed her from the gown leaving her naked and just as quickly he undressed himself,the look that ran longingly on every corner of her body,unable to give up admiring her as the first time and like every time.

«I’m yours.»Jacaerys promised her,whispering against her lips«Nothing will ever take me away from you.»he kissed her sweetly.

She whimpered and her heart started to beat faster«I’m yours.»she repeated.

He sank with his nose and mouth between the curves of her chest,grabbed her soft hips,stroked her thighs and bottom.Y/n flared all up as she felt his lips pop greedily on her breasts,squeezing volupously around one of his nipples as he brushed it with his tongue and teased the other with his thumb.Pervaded with chills,she widened her legs and clawed her fingers on the sheets;she lifted her pelvis sighing,longing for it anxiously.

The pleasure exploded when he began to draw with the arabesque index finger in the center of her body:she moaned,her breasts shaken by palpitations,her nipples turgid and sore from the pleasure of kisses and caresses,the groin and lower abdomen on fire.

Jacaerys stretched out on her,wrapped her every horizon in darkness:all her muscles were pulsing, the heartbeat that became gradually more frenetic from the burning need to love her,to get drunk on her.He looked at her again he could never have satiated himself to admire her beautiful face - and as soon as she returned his gaze,sweet and sensual every time more,the voluptuousness clouded his mind.

He sank between her thighs,tearing a lament from her that he suffocated with his lips;he clinged her tightly in his arms and kissed her with trepidation,proud and passionate as he pushed himself into her.Y/n clung to his shoulders pressing against his chest with her breasts and belly,her thighs squeezed to his hips:she felt like screaming again, but her tongue danced unbridled in her mouth,the movement of the hips energetic against her,providing her with each push a pang of intense,deep,absolute enjoyment.

The prince hands ran over her body with ardor,she felt his fingers demanding and sweet at the same time on the flesh,in the throes of estasy,she could do nothing but indulge in passion,following the fast pace with which he was moving inside,shadow inside the light,light wrapped in shadow.

«Jace,oh my gods!»Y/n had breathed closing her eyes and pulling the hair at the nape of his neck.

Going crazy with pleasure to hear his bride enjoy,Jacaerys pushed with greater vigor,eager to increase her enjoyment to a great demour,excited by her moans and delighted by the fervor with which she clenched herself by scratching his back with her nails.

«Y/n,oh my sweet little wife.»he groaned against her her,sweat covering his forehead.

He loved her,impetuously and madly,letting himself be stunned by her sighs,her heartbeats,her scent,similar to a flower that spreads his fragrance moved by the north wind caress.

Y/n quivered below him,the breast prey to his incessant caresses,the mouth half of his insatiable kisses;she felt his love to pierce her with tenacity,the pleasure to become more and more powerful and intoxicating and when she reached her peak she screamed,overwhelmed by the intensity of that embrace:this time Jacaerys did not hold back her scream and in turn could not hold back a moan as he made sure to release inside of her.

Appealing to the last forces Jacaerys had left,he bent down to kiss her and finally overturned at her side,panting.Exhausted,Y/n abandoned herself against the bed,her long hair spread in waves on her pillows.

Jace hurried to cover her with the sheet so that she wouldn't get cold and smiled at her,as soon as he felt her fingers touch his cheek.For a moment he stood to contemplate her eyes,her lips,her smile...she was even more beautiful,after love.

«Y/n,»he whispered as he came back to hold her tenderly to himself«I love you.»

She sought shelter in his arms,fulfilled and satiated with strong emotions but still eager for him.She placed her head on his chest and let his caress her hair«I love you too Jace.»she answered.

He smiled,placing a hand on her warm and sweaty skin of her lower belly where he hope a new life would start to grow soon«I promise you,our child will change the world.»he whispered.

They fell asleep together,ice and fire united.And the next day they would still be like this,in each other's arms,bound by passion,seduced by love.Creating a new life together that would have changed everything.