#brand strak x reader

[lchufflepuffcorn]

A crown of roots and ice pt.5 A Bran Stark x Reader imagine

Warning: This gif is not mine, it belongs to its owner/creator. Possible triggers: Pregnancy, loss of a child, depression (light mention) angst, motherhood, dark-haired/dark-eyed reader (otherwise not discussed) Female oriented reader (heavily), mention of medieval rape (prior chapters). Birth (not graphic but heavily discussed).

Word count: 1109

Author's note: This fanfiction about Bran the Builder started from an obscure theory that he was also a green seer or linked with whatever Bran Stark we know is...

Masterlist OG Writing Masterlist

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue.

What is dead may never die

Bran was gone, once more to oversee the finishing of the farther North Wall, leaving (Y\N) with his heir, Brandon -or Brin, as his mother preferred it- and another fast-growing in her belly. Much to the lady’s disappointment. But the wall, Bran had said, ‘the wall needed to be finished so peace would reign and winter perish.’ 

Whatever that meant. 

Lady (Y\N) was sitting outside in the gardens, near the Godswood, with heavy furs on her shoulders and a worried smirk on her face. She was currently mildly listening to Lady Webber while watching her two years old wobble his way toward the whitebarked tree.  At nearly seven and ten years of age and still, the faces carved into the trees were still making her nervous. She knew that her friends would never hurt her child, but she didn’t trust her lord husband's gods to be as protecting. She knew full well that her own God was not the paternal type. 

Swaying gently under the winds, eyes carefully following Brin as he wandered around and ears somewhat listening to her lady friend and her troubles of the week, (Y/N) rests a hand on her forever-growing belly, where a healthy babe is making trouble. Fighting whatever internal adversary it imagines it has. The woman hopes for a girl this time, even if she knows Bran demands another son. 

So to secure his legacy. 

So the Stark family name doesn’t perish if Brin dies too young. The North is not merciful to anyone, her husband once told her. It had been a terrible night when he’d told her, she’d just lost her second babe, it was too early to tell if it had been a little boy or if it’d been a girl, the maester had said. And even if (Y/N) had cried her loss, she was glad -she’d confess to it later, in the cover of her tower’s shadow- Brin was only six months old, and she wasn’t ready for another one yet. Brandon had promised her they’d try to have another one as soon as she felt better. Even now she didn’t know if she felt better. After all, she’d lost a part of herself to that day. 

Her husband had grown even more tender than he’d already been after this event, as if she was made of glass, of something other, precious and breakable. (Y/N) wasn't all too sure she liked it. She was a Saltcliffe’s daughter, far from being easily breakable and fragile. It was still nicer to feel soft touches over rough caress in the nights that followed the incident and survived even after the joyous moment her pregnancy gave. 

“Sit, Nagga!” 

Watching Brin trying to teach the puppy his father had gifted him ‘to protect the castle and your mother’, he’d told him, was a refreshing sight, while in front of the blood-coloured leaves of God’s wood. The boy, to his father's distress, had named his direwolf like the sea monster from (Y/N)’s stories. 

“What will you name it, My Lady?” Asked Lady Webber suddenly, pulling (Y/N) from her thoughts. She rubbed her belly through her heavy dress, thoughtful for a moment before responding. 

“I like Aeron or Walton, for a little boy, and Mirria, for a girl.” She said finally. If Bran allowed it, that thought she didn’t say to lady Webber. 

(Y/N) still hadn’t talked names to her husband, the last time she had, her baby -not much bigger than a shrimp- had died. She couldn’t bare to give her future infant the name of a dead babe, and so, the name of her mother’s father, Mors, she would not use. The lady felt that if she named them, they’d die. And if this was their fate, it was better for Bran to name them. 

She was nearly ready to give birth when Bran came back from the Wall. Since Brin, he didn’t miss any birth, especially not the second one, when it wasn’t even a babe yet. He’d said that a child old of a month without a name was a disgrace on his part. An unnamed child buried would bring infinite bad luck to his family name. Thus, they’d named the shrimp before tossing it into the cave. 

(Y/N)’s Lord Husband would mostly care for her like he would a glass sculpture, making sure no stairs were laborious, of treacherously tripping her (??) or that she had more than enough furs to cover her at any time during any hour of the day. Soft hands graze her figure as Bran walks passed her in the cold halls, sweet kisses on the crown of her head and more food appearing on her plate. All things (Y/N) had to learn to appreciate since she’d given birth. Marriage was so bad after all. 

It was a hot night when Bran when himself in search of the maester. And against every recommendation, Bran was in the room during the birth of his second child. He was the one to place the wet rag over his wife’s forehead and held her hand as she pushed. Kissed her and mumbled encouraging words in her hair when she cried her exhaustion and pleaded for everything to stop. 

It lasted hours. Longer even than it did for Brin. And Bran even probed his wife against his chest, to provide as much help as he could. Murmurs of praise and kind words, comforting hands rubbing her arms at best he could lure her into continuing. 

(Y/N)’s head was hidden in her husband’s neck, whining, empty of any energy she’d had when finally a cry echoed in the room, and she too started crying again. She didn’t even have the strength to raise her arms to take her babe when the maester offered. 

“It’s a boy, my lord,” He said, giving the child to Bran, who took the bundle of furs and soft linen in his free arm, to bring him closer to his wife’s chest. A servant had taken it upon herself to disrobe her, helping to put the child on her chest so he could latch on her breast at last. 

“Jeor” Was all Bran said in her ear. 

“Aeron” counter-offered (Y/N) in a breathless whisper, nuzzling against his cheek while watching her son with tired eyes.  

A sigh left her husband, but the soft touch of his hand removing her hair from her sweat-drenched neck showed he wasn’t annoyed with her stubbornness. “You will call him what you like, but I, and all of this kingdom, will know him as Jeor Stark.” 

‘Very well, my lord.” Was the lady’s answer. 

“Very well, my love.” called the lord back. 

Taglist: @aegonslover