Spoiled, pampered wife!reader shows up dressed like this to a court meeting, and Cregan has to sit there trying not to gauge out the eyes of every lord in the room because they keep staring at his wife's tits.
They're like dogs salivating after a hunk of meat, and he had already been through every single method of torture in his mind for each of them, one by one. Cregan knows his wife did it on purpose. You love unnerving him and pushing his buttons until he breaks and acts unseemingly of a Stark.
He deludes himself into thinking his composure will keep him leashed as the lords exit the courtroom, leaving you two behind. Cregan will not give you what you want. Will not act like a hound and lash out just because you're sitting there, head tilting as you look at him, arms crossed under your chest.
But the action makes your tits press together most sinfully, on the precipice of spilling out of your dress, moving with every breath you take, and he's doomed by the Old Gods and the New. A depraved man, no better than those court dogs who had their eyeful of you moments prior.
Cregan is out of his chair no less than mere moments after, and it doesn't take long to have you splayed out on the long table, neckline tugged down by rough fingers. Your bare breasts jiggle in his face as he dips down to mouth and lick at them at his leisure, growling like a wild beast, threats about your insolence muffled into the plush flesh.
Hours later, teeth marks and blooming bruises mar your skin as if a wolf ravaged it, and your nipples ache and feel raw, along with other parts of your body.
You couldn't have been more pleased that your plan had turned out more fruitful than you had expected. Maybe you might consider a more plunging neckline next time. Perhaps at a feast?
hcs of cregan being the best husband ever! wc ~ 1.3k (part two with targaryen!reader here)
𖤝 cregan, as your husband, would be so adorable! you weren't used to the weather of the north just yet, so he had the seamstresses make you a ton of dresses lined with hare fur. they were made of the finest silks imported from lys, gemstones harvested from crownlands. of course, you denied the abundant gifts, but cregan rarely took no for an answer.
𖤝 every night you would return to bed around the hour of the bat, taking a bath your maids prepared. you requested the oils and soaps he favored, as he would compliment you every single night. your perfumes were, of course, imported from across westeros. every time you finished one, another would come right in. "creg, did you get this refilled?" you would ask. your lord husband would chuckle, "they came in this noon, from dorne. do you prefer the previous scent?" "no, my love, i love both."
𖤝 cregan would ensure the fire was lit in your shared chambers every single night. he would poke at it, watching the embers crackle. you would turn over, begging him to come to bed. "i'm warm enough, darling. come here." you wouldn't have to tell him twice!
𖤝 even though he exerts all of them, cregan's top love languages are definitely physical touch and quality time. he would cherish your touch, no matter what you were doing. simply holding his arm while you walked around winterfell would rile him up. combing his hair before going to break your fast. scratching his back at the end of a long day of hearing lesser lords bicker. he loved it all.
𖤝 just like his father, cregan was quite present and spent quality time with you as if you would disappear from his arms. whenever he could, he would just sit by you. you could just be embroidering the stark sigil into a slate frame, and he insisted on being shoulder to shoulder with you.
𖤝 if you ever get a cold from the harsh north's chills, he would actually faint. he would have multiple furs atop of you as you rested, maids and maesters by your side, body full of ointments. he would sit by your side, worried out of his mind. "cregan, i can assure you i am well. i just need more rest." "i am well aware, my love, but i need to stay by your side." you were far too drowsy from the milk of the poppy to refuse him.
𖤝 cregan would bring you up in every conversation he is in. of course, everyone knows you are the lady of winterfell, but how could they ever forget with cregan's constant reminders? "yes, my lady wife craves the lemon cakes the chefs make for conqueror's day almost monthly. we must find a more efficient way to make them." "my darling wife says we should ease on this particular wine. she did a tasting in king's landing and said she was quite crazed afterwards!" "the riverlands have choices of fashion that my sweet wife would die for. the textiles and dyes range quite differently from ours, don't you believe?"
𖤝 cregan would go hunting with his men, but sometimes he would ask you to go. reluctantly, you'd go anyway. he had an efficient gown and boots made for you, so there was no excuse to decline. you would ride on your horse beside him, gazing at the birds flying across the grey sky. you asked cregan if it would be okay if you didn't hunt, and he respected your wishes. it also made him change his mind, because now your hunt was turned into a bird-watching stroll.
𖤝 on cregan's name day, you would go all out. you and your ladies in waiting would prelare for weeks, hiding and cutting all kinds of corners to avoid him deciphering his presents. when you woke up next to him, you pressed a fat kiss to his lips, wishing him a great name day. you made sure that when you broke your fasts, all his favorite meals and dishes were present. soon after, you'd stroll along the corridors, talking about nothing and everything. "i know, i know! i told her that house beesbury was not a wise choice to marry into!" "nonsense, their honey supplies half the north." "i'm sure lord beesbury doesn't supply any honey to her in their chambers-"
𖤝 cregan, who would absolutely be enamored with you when the two of you lie together, but especially afterwards. his strong, muscular back would rest over your frame, full of red crescents from your nails. his sculpted arms would cage you, and his head would rest on your chest, hair tussled. you would stroke it, occasionally pressing a kiss to his forehead as you both drifted off into the night.
𖤝 your lord husband always desired a large family. his was small, just a brother and a bastard sister by his side, both of whom were lost in time. he never begged, never, but he would sometimes drop little hints into conversation. he didn't even intend to; the majority of the time, it just happened! one night, he was twirling your locks between his fingers as you rested on top of him. "do you think our children will have your hair, or mine? or will some have yours, some have mine?" "maybe our daughter would like that," he mentioned, as he looked at a doll that a young girl was holding. "our son would be a great swordsman. perhaps even better than i or my father," he would say to himself as he sharpened his blade.
𖤝 cregan, who would ultimately pump you full of children. he assured you at the beginning of your betrothal that he would wait as long as you wished to start your family, as you were both still fairly young for a wedded couple. however, the bond between you and your husband was stronger than the wall itself. you never set a limit on how many children, because you didn't realize it would get this far. you were already at four, with a fifth on the way. he was present at every birth, holding your hand as you howled.
𖤝 the two of you would decide on names the moment you found out you were with child. he named your first son after his father, the second after your brother. your two daughters were named after your sister and a previous stark wife. you have yet to find out the gender of your fifth, but he was ecstatic nonetheless. he would rub your swollen feet, massage your tight shoulders, and tend to your cravings. he would immediately have the chefs put together your insane meal requests, never questioning them.
𖤝 at a feast to celebrate the arrival of your child, he would proudly parade through the halls with you, hand on your belly. oh, and don't even let a lord be near you during your pregnancy or not! he would be glued to your side, making sure that the stark sigil on the gown was shown. he corrected anyone who referred to you with your birth house name instead of stark. it was more subtle, though. you told him many people either were used to calling you your previous name or simply didn't know which you preferred.
𖤝 a lesser lord would say, "lady ___'s father said she was particularly fond of the paintings in the vale." cregan would be slightly annoyed but would remember your little reminder. "lady stark enjoys them quite much. i was planning on requesting access to them, or somehow bringing them to winterfell for her to see."
𖤝 cregan, who sneaks around the corridors with you, giggling in the dead of the night. you kiss passionately in the halls, shushing each other when you hear faint footsteps. as if you were both a lad and a maiden still, you never dared to engage in anything outside your chambers. he preferred the privacy and quiet of your shared chambers, surrounded by the crackling fire and, in a distant room, the faint slumber of your newborn.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
a/n : hi i love asoiaf sm i also miss seeing tom taylors beautiful face
cregan stark likes to watch his spoiled, pampered wife bathe
"You are in no need of more oils, wife," Cregan mutters, grey eyes watching bedrugingly as you pour yet another vial of scented concoctions into the milky bath water you are lounging in.
He swears it must be the tenth one you added. How a woman can even breathe with so many cloying, flowery smells stinking up the bath chambers is beyond his comprehension. Cleaning oneself needs to be a simple, efficient affair, not a godforsaken parade of every single lotion and oil you own.
"If you are so slighted by it, husband," you lilt, leaning back into the water with a soft, pleased sigh, closing your eyes as you let yourself relax fully, body submerged up to your shoulders. "You may leave and allow me a moment of peace without your brooding."
"I am not—"
"But you are," you interrupt, humming, lifting a hand to thread your fingers along the surface of the water as you speak. "Every time you join me, you do nothing but stand there and brood," the sound of your tongue clicking follows, as if expressing your distaste for this odd tradition your lord husband has instilled in the moons you have been wed. "It disturbs my repose."
Cregan scoffs, having half a mind to not roll his eyes at your audacity. He should be used to it by now, seeing as you have never shied away from making it abundantly clear how much you love being indulged and enjoying your reprise without a single interruption.
And yet, he was not going to allow you to discard him with a flick of your hand and a defiant tilt of your chin whenever you wished to be undisturbed. He was your husband, and if he wanted to be in attendance at whatever ridiculous southern pompous customs you had, he would.
That's why he had asked the servants to put an armchair in your bathing chambers, close by the tub, where he shall sit every time he has the luxury of disregarding or postponing his duties for a while, just so he can watch you bathe and pamper yourself. Cregan did not care if word filtered through the walls that The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North spent part of his pastime sitting splayed out in a chair in his wife's bath chambers, feasting on one of the most exquisite viewings in the Seven Kingdoms. Let them talk and whisper. He did not need to explain himself to anyone, least of all to gossiping servants and sycophants alike.
His wolfish gaze was shameless as it traced the damp, dewy skin of your neck and shoulders, fingers drumming onto the wooden arm of the chair, faltering in rhythm just a tad whenever you shifted, the water lapping at your curves. He swore sometimes you were moving with the intent to drive him to madness, even if it was the most minute gesture.
"Disturbs your repose," he parroted, lips twitching with amusement at your feigned disdain for his presence. "My apologies for being such a pest to my own wife," Cregan continued, "I was not aware bathing oneself required such solitude."
Your expression shifted, a scowl marring your pretty features as your chin tipped upwards, as if his words had no place even reaching you. "It always requires solitude. You are just adamant to perturb it," you complained, sighing, as if the mere thought exasperated you, which made Cregan's mouth curl further, dripping with mounting enjoyment. "You stand there watching me like some kind of lecher," you accused, scowl deepening, a scoff leaving your plush mouth. "It is unbecoming of a husband to ogle his wife so shamelessly. You northerners have no decorum."
And oh, the way your lips curled every time you mentioned his culture, tone haughty and dipped with venom at the edges, as if spitting out the very word, made his blood sing.
"Just brutes with no finesse," you finished, chin raising just a bit higher, showing him you were above such things, above him, above his culture.
Gods, he wanted to haul you out of that bath and spank you until you cried those fat, pretty tears again, cheeks flushed and voice wet from babbling at him to stop. Cregan was not a man given to punishment easily, especially with the woman he was bound to by law and vow, but he came to understand that there were few ways he could make his wife see reason, and even then, only if you wanted to give in to his whims and relent.
"If you wanted a soft southerner lord with nough but a flaccid cock and no mind of his own, wife," he spoke, lips curling into that slow, wolfish grin, the one where his canines peeked through. A wolf showing his teeth without biting, but making it clear he could if provoked further. "You wouldn't have accepted my proposal so readily, riding for Winterfell not even a fortnight after our sigils were put on parchment."
You scoffed, rolling your eyes in that infuriating way Cregan loved and hated in equal measure, as if his words were nothing but white noise you were forced to listen to. "It was in my best interest to accept," you protested, inclining a little higher, leaning back against the tub, the water lapping at the tops of your damp breasts. A muscle in Cregan's jaw twitched as his eyes followed the movement. "Why would I be the lady of some lesser lord when I can be Lady of Winterfell?" The words were accompanied by a hum, evidently pleased with the title you possessed. "I am nothing but a woman of great ambitions, as you're well aware, husband."
Cregan huffed, more amused than anything, head tilting, not taking his eyes off the way he could make out the pebbled shape of your nipples just shy of peeking above the milky, fragrant water. He knew what you were doing. This little game of yours was as old as time.
You were losing ground, not pleased with the way he was biting back at your attempts to unnerve him, and had no other alternative but to call to his most primal, animal instincts that reside as deep as the marrow of his bones. He was a man, after all, and no stranger to the cravings of the flesh, more so when it came to his infuriatingly enticing wife, bare and glistening, lounging in the tub, indulging his eyes with glimpses and flashes of your body, willing to make him falter in his resolve.
"You never cease to remind me of the fact, wife," he said, feeling his chest puff up a tad at the way you huffed at his words, clearly displeased that he was not indulging your whims still. Not yet. Cregan was enjoying this more than he wanted to admit. "No woman in the Seven Kingdoms can rival you in that regard."
"What about other regards?"
Cregan's mouth twitched again, but he reigned in his expression for now. "Other regards?" He feigned confusion, tilting his head to the side, dragging his eyes from where they traced the shape of your damp breasts, up to your narrowed, inquisitive gaze. "I fear I do not follow. Must you be so kind as to specify, wife?"
Your brows furrowed, body shifting slightly into the tub, the water lapping at your skin, wetting it anew, drawing Cregan's eyes towards every patch for a few moments, rough fingers twitching onto his armchair, but he won't be baited this time. Raising one eyebrow, he waited, grey eyes now solely focused on yours, keeping you ensnared until you gathered the words to throw back at him.
"Am I rivaled in other regards by the women of the Seven Kingdoms?" You asked, chin held high, trying to absolve yourself of the vulnerable undertone woven into the question, gaze sharp, narrowed. But the way one of your hands lifted to grip the edge of the tub, curling around it, gave you away. You needed to ground yourself for this sort of fragility, and it made Cregan's heart soften just a tad every time, melting the frost of the North around it and giving way to the ceaseless warmth you brought with you from the South.
He huffed, letting his mouth form that tender, soft curl reserved only for you, grey eyes crinkling at the edges with barely concealed fondness. "No, wife," Cregan said, tone glazed with honeyed affection, letting his eyes feast on the way your chest heaved with a soft breath, as if his words had eased an unknown burden curled beneath your breastbone. "There is no woman in all the Seven Kingdoms who could dream of besting you."
And still, you scoffed, protest ready on your tongue, bristling in the milky water, never one to cease when you wanted certainty. "If your words are baseless, you may keep them, for I have no use for-"
"Not in my eyes," Cregan interrupted you, tone lowered but firm, halting your tongue before you could descend into yet another one of your haughty deflections.
It was ever pleasing, the way you faltered in the face of his sincerity. Blinking akin to a startled doe, your expression passing from one emotion to another, offense to confusion to reluctant preening. He could see it. Your chest heaving with soft breaths, plush mouth parting, pupils dilating wide enough to encompass the color of your eyes, leaving behind pools of black. And then, the flush. That warmth spreading from the tops of your breasts and climbing up, up, up your throat, splotching over your cheekbones and reaching the tips of your ears.
Mhm, he got you good this time. Cregan might have to ride the high of such an accomplishment for the fortnight to come, if he was lucky. The Gods were ever so merciful to grant him such a gift and let him savor it, too.
"The smell of the bathing oils must've affected you a great deal, husband, to say such theatrical musings," you mumbled, not meeting his eyes for a heartbeat, two, before looking into that northern gray you preached you found so insufferable. "It makes you sound like one of those flaccid men you mentioned earlier."
Cregan could only huff, amused, watching as you tried in vain to deflect and throw whatever attempt at diffusing the meaning of his words back at him. "Sound, maybe," he said, offering you a slow, wolfish curl of his mouth, baring just enough hint of teeth to allude to a threat, but not bestow it. "But I am anything but flaccid, wife. You, of all people, should be familiar with the hardness of—"
"Silence!" You shrieked, one hand dipping beneath the water's surface and swatting upwards, sending droplets of water towards him, attempting to will him into silence. "Have you no shame, you brute? To speak of such things in the company of your wife?"
But he was not perturbed; on the contrary, his lips pulled into a smirk, pleased and smug. Making you bristle truly was the thing he favored most, aside from the feel of your body and the sound of your voice. "Should I speak of such things in the company of someone else, then?"
"Don't you dare! Gods, you're giving me a headache," you fussed, swatting water at him again, eyes narrowed as you demanded. "Help me bathe, so you may amend for your wrongs."
And who was Cregan to refuse such a decree from his wife?
PRINCESS READER AND CREGAN INFIDELITY PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Like what would Ormund think or how would he react when his innocent little wife is getting dicked down 24/7 and she’s a willing participant. Let alone she got fucked by a northener lol
The Letter
Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader
The war had been grinding on for eight months, but Ormund Hightower had not slept in four.
Not since the night she disappeared. She had taken Aethan—his son, his blood—and vanished into the darkness like a ghost, like a traitor, like the ungrateful little whore he had always known she could become if he did not keep her close enough.
He had torn the reach apart searching for her. He had sent riders in every direction, had questioned every guard and servant and spy who might have seen something. Nothing. She had simply… gone. As if she had never existed at all. As if the months of marriage, the nights in his bed, the child she had borne him meant nothing. As if he had not shaped her, taught her, owned her.
He had not been the same since. His men whispered about it behind his back. Lord Hightower had grown erratic. Lord Hightower had stopped eating. Lord Hightower's eyes had taken on a wild, feverish light that made even his most seasoned commanders uneasy. He still led them into battle—he was too good a soldier to abandon the war entirely—but his mind was somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Always chasing the ghost of a silver-haired girl who had slipped through his fingers like smoke, taking his son with her.
And now this. The letter had arrived an hour ago, delivered by a rider who had nearly killed his horse getting there. The man had stumbled into camp, half-frozen and wild-eyed, clutching a scroll sealed with the mark of Ormund's own spy network—the network he had deployed across half of Westeros with one purpose and one purpose only: find her.
The tent was crowded with commanders when the rider was ushered in. Ser Brynden stood at Ormund's right hand, as he always did, Ser Gwayne, and half a dozen other knights and lords who had pledged their swords to the Green cause. They had been in the middle of a strategy session, poring over maps and troop movements, planning the next offensive.
Ormund took the scroll without a word. He broke the seal. He read.
His face went pale first. Bone-white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body in a single instant. Then the color rushed back, flooding his cheeks with a dark, dangerous red that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic. His hands began to tremble, just slightly at first, then violently, the parchment shaking in his grip like a leaf in a storm.
"My lord?" Brynden stepped forward, concern etched into his weathered features. "What news?"
Ormund did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the letter, reading and re-reading the words as if repetition might change them. His lips moved silently, forming syllables that no one else could hear. The trembling in his hands spread to his arms, his shoulders, his entire body.
And then he began to scream.
"CREGAN STARK!"
The sound was not human. It was the roar of a wounded animal, a beast caught in a trap, a man whose last thread of sanity had just snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight. The commanders scrambled backward, knocking over chairs and sending maps flying, but Ormund did not seem to see them. He was already moving, already reaching for the sword that rested against the campaign chest in the corner.
"CREGAN FUCKING STARK! I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL TEAR HIS HEART OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS!"
The first blow took the map table in half. Wood splintered and cracked, and the maps that had been spread across it fluttered to the ground like dying birds. Ormund ripped his sword free and swung again, and this time the blade carved a great, jagged slash through the canvas wall of the tent, letting in a shaft of cold grey daylight.
"MY LORD, PLEASE—" Ser Gwayne started forward, but a wild swing of the sword sent him reeling backward, his hands raised in surrender.
"SHE IS MINE!" Ormund brought the sword down on a chair, and the chair exploded. "SHE HAS ALWAYS BEEN MINE! AND HE—THAT NORTHERN SAVAGE—HE HAS TOUCHED HER! HE HAS PUT HIS HANDS ON WHAT BELONGS TO ME!"
She was there. She had been there for weeks. Living openly in Cregan Stark's tent, sleeping in his bed, wearing his colors, warming his furs like some Northern whore. Everyone in the camp knew. Everyone could hear them—the sounds she made, the way she cried out his name, the way she begged for more. His wife. His Aethan's mother. Screaming for another man like a common camp follower. A public affair, the letter said. A very public affair. As if she wanted everyone to know. As if she wanted him to know.
And the child. His son. Living under Stark's protection, being held by Stark's hands, perhaps already learning to call another man father. The thought made something behind his eyes go red and hot and blinding.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING RIGHT NOW?" He rounded on his commanders, and they shrank back from the madness in his eyes. "RIGHT NOW, WHILE WE STAND HERE DISCUSSING STRATEGY AND SUPPLY LINES? HE IS TOUCHING HER! HE IS INSIDE HER! HE IS MAKING HER MOAN—THOSE MOANS BELONG TO ME!"
He threw the letter aside and grabbed another chair, hurling it against the central support pole with enough force to shatter it into kindling.
"I taught her everything," he snarled, his voice cracking. "Everything she knows about pleasure, everything she knows about her own body—I taught her that. I was the first. I was the only. And now she—she is using what I taught her with HIM—"
He could see it. That was the worst part. He could see it so clearly in his mind, as if he were standing in the corner of Stark's tent watching. Her silver hair spread across Stark's furs. Her body arching beneath another man's hands. Her lips parting on another man's name. The sounds she made, the expressions that crossed her face, the way she clung and gasped and pleaded—all of it, all of it, was his. He had discovered it. He had cultivated it. He had spent months learning every secret her body held, every spot that made her gasp, every rhythm that made her shatter.
And now Stark was reaping the harvest. Stark was enjoying the fruits of Ormund's labor. Stark was touching what Ormund had claimed, had trained, had owned.
The thought made him want to kill someone. Everyone.
"GET ME A MAP!" he bellowed, driving his sword into the floorboards. "A MAP OF THE NORTH! I WANT TO SEE THE FASTEST ROUTE TO WINTERFELL!"
Ser Brynden stepped forward, his old bones creaking, his weathered face set in lines of grim determination. "My lord, you cannot—"
"I CAN AND I WILL!" Ormund rounded on him, and for a terrible moment, the sword came up. But Brynden did not flinch. He stood his ground, steady as an oak, and met his lord's wild gaze without blinking.
"Strike me if you must," Brynden said quietly. "I have served your house for forty years. I served your father, and his father before him. And I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself."
"Destroy myself? DESTROY MYSELF?" Ormund laughed, and the sound was utterly unhinged. "I am already destroyed! Do you not see that? She destroyed me the moment she spread her legs for another man!"
"Then let her destruction mean something." Brynden's voice was steady, measured, the voice of a man talking a jumper down from a ledge. "Win the war, my lord. Win the war, and you can have everything. Everything."
Ormund's grip on the sword tightened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you ride north now, you die. You take men into the snow, into Stark territory, and you die. Cregan Stark will put your head on a spike, and your wife will watch, and she will not shed a single tear. Is that what you want? To give him the satisfaction? To give her the satisfaction?"
The words hit Ormund like a physical blow. He staggered, his free hand coming up to press against his temple.
"No," he said, his voice raw. "No. She is mine. She belongs to me."
"Then win the war first." Brynden stepped closer, close enough to lay a hand on Ormund's arm. The touch was gentle, almost paternal. "Win the war, and you win everything. The Iron Throne will owe you a debt that can never be repaid. You can demand Stark's head. You can demand your wife's return. You can have her back in your bed, back where she belongs, and you can make Stark watch while you remind her exactly who she answers to. But only if you win."
The tent was silent. The other commanders held their breath. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied, and the wind snapped against the torn canvas walls.
Ormund stood perfectly still, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, his sword still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. The letter lay crumpled on the floor at his feet, the words still burning in his mind—words about her, about him, about the sounds she made and the way she cried his name. Stark's name. Not his. Never his, not anymore.
"Stark's head," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "On a spike. Outside my gates."
"Yes," Brynden agreed. "Stark's head on a spike."
"And my wife. Back in my bed. Back where she belongs. In chains if necessary."
Brynden hesitated. "Yes."
"And my son. Back in my house."
"Yes."
Ormund closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the wild, feverish light had not disappeared, but it had banked. Transforming from an inferno into something colder, something infinitely more dangerous.
"Then we win this war," he said. He pulled his sword from the floorboards and slid it back into its sheath with a soft, deadly hiss. "We win this war, and we take King's Landing, and we put Daeron on the throne. And when it is done—when the dragons are dead and the pretender queen is ash and there is no one left to stand against us—I will march north with a full army at my back. And I will tear Winterfell apart stone by stone until I find her."
He turned to face his commanders, and the smile that spread across his face made every man in the tent take an involuntary step backward.
"And when I do," he said, "I am going to make her watch while I kill him. I am going to make her watch every single moment of it. I am going to make her see what happens to men who touch what belongs to me. And then—" He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting them all imagine it. "Then she is coming home. And she is never leaving again.
Cregan Stark was a dead man. He just did not know it yet. Every battle Ormund fought, every victory he won, every strategic decision he made, all of it was in service of that single, burning goal. Win the war. Claim the throne. Take back what was his.
The war would end, and Cregan Stark would die, and Ormund Hightower would have his family back—by any means necessary. By fire and blood, if that was what it took.
He had been patient once before, he could be patient again. He could wait. He could plan. He could let the rage simmer and build and concentrate into something lethal.
--
Every night, the same ritual. Ormund Hightower would sit alone in his tent, a flagon of wine at his elbow, the crumpled spy's letter spread before him on the table, and he would lose his mind all over again.
He tried not to. He tried to focus on strategy, on supply lines, on the thousand logistical details that came with commanding an army. But the moment the silence descended, the moment he was alone with his thoughts, the images would come creeping back. Vivid. Detailed. Unbearable.
Her. With him. Cregan Stark was younger than Ormund. That was the first thing that ate at him, gnawing at his pride like a rat at a corpse. Stark was her age—only a few years older than her, if that. A young man in his prime, not a grizzled lord of forty with grey threading his temples and lines deepening around his eyes. Stark was tall and broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from a lifetime of swinging a greatsword in the Northern wilderness. Stark had a full head of dark hair and a strong jaw and the kind of rugged, wolfish handsomeness that maidens swooned over in the songs.
Ormund had seen him once, years ago, at some tourney or council. He remembered thinking the boy was arrogant. Northern savages, all of them. But now—now he could not stop picturing that arrogance in his bed. In his wife.
He would pour another cup of wine and drink it down in one burning swallow, but the images only grew sharper.
Stark's hands on her hips. Stark's mouth on her throat. Stark's body—younger, harder, stronger—pressing her into the furs. The furs. Northern furs, rough and barbaric, not the fine silk sheets of the Hightower. And she was moaning for him. Making those sounds—those sounds that Ormund had discovered, had cultivated, had taught her to make—for another man.
A younger man.
A man her own age.
"FUCK!"
The goblet flew across the tent and clanged against the central pole, spraying wine across the canvas. Ormund was on his feet, pacing, his hands tearing through his hair.
He was not just any man. That was the second thing. That was what made it so much worse. Cregan Stark was the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North. A Great Lord in his own right, who ruled a territory larger than all the other Kingdoms combined. His titles were ancient and unimpeachable. His bloodline stretched back eight thousand years to the First Men, to the Kings of Winter. The Starks had been royalty when the Hightowers were still lighting signal fires and calling it civilization.
Ormund was a powerful man. He knew that. He was the Lord of Oldtown, the Beacon of the South, the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in the Reach. But he was not a Great House. He was not a Warden. He was a vassal to the Tyrells, technically, however much he might disdain them. He did not have a crown in his history. He did not have the blood of kings.
But Stark did.
She was a princess of the blood. A Targaryen. A dragonrider. And now she was spreading her legs for a man who could call himself her equal—or near enough. A man whose titles could almost match her own. A man who could give her a castle that had stood for thousands of years, a kingdom that bowed to no one, a name that commanded respect across the entire continent.
What could Ormund give her that Stark could not match or exceed?
The thought made him want to kill someone. "HE IS NO BETTER THAN ME!" he roared at the empty tent. "HE IS A SAVAGE IN FURS! HE KNOWS NOTHING OF HER! HE DOES NOT KNOW HER THE WAY I DO!"
But the cruel voice in the back of his mind whispered: He knows her now. He's learning her. Every night, he's learning her.
He hurled the wine flagon against the tent pole, and it shattered, spraying dark red liquid across the maps and the bedroll and the crumpled letter. He picked up a chair and smashed it against the ground. He drove his fist into the tent pole, once, twice, three times, until his knuckles were bloody and the pain cut through the red haze for a few blessed seconds.
"She was MINE!" he screamed at no one. "She was MINE before she was his! She will be MINE after he is dead!"
But the voice whispered: She chose him. She ran from you and chose him.
He staggered to his cot and collapsed onto it, his bloody hand pressed to his face, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The images would not stop. They never stopped. Every night, the same torture.
Her on her back, her hair fanned out across Stark's furs, her eyes hazy with pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist—his young, hard waist, not the softening middle of a man twenty years her senior. Her nails raking down his back. Her lips forming his name. Stark. Cregan. Not Ormund. Never Ormund.
Did she think of him at all? When Stark was inside her, when she was crying out for him, when she was shattering around him—did she remember the man who had taught her what pleasure was? Did she remember her husband?
Or had she forgotten him entirely?
"Ungrateful little WHORE," he snarled, but the word felt hollow. Because she was not a whore, was she? A whore took coin. A whore spread her legs for anyone. She had spread her legs for one man—one other man—and that made it so much worse. That made it a choice. She had chosen Stark. She wanted Stark. She was with Stark not out of duty or desperation but because she preferred him.
Because he was younger. Because he was her age. Because he was a Great Lord, a Warden, a man whose power matched her own.
Because he was not Ormund.
"I GAVE HER EVERYTHING!" The cry was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I gave her a home, a name, a son! I protected her! I loved her! And she—she threw it all away for—for a Northern savage who—"
Who could give her a kingdom. Who could give her a castle that made the Hightower look like a merchant's counting house. Who could give her the blood of the First Men, the loyalty of the North, a place at the side of a man who answered to no one but himself.
Ormund had spent his entire life climbing. Clawing his way up the ladder of power, building alliances, accumulating influence. He had married a Targaryen princess—a feat that should have been the crowning achievement of his house. And now she was in another man's bed, and that man outranked him, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it except win this damned war and take her back by force.
"I will kill him," he whispered into the darkness. "I will kill him slowly. I will make it last for days. I will make her watch every moment of it. And when he is dead—when she has seen what happens to men who touch what is MINE—she will beg for my forgiveness. She will crawl back to me on her knees. And I will decide whether to give it to her."
He lay back on the cot, staring at the canvas ceiling, his bloody hand cradled against his chest. Outside, the camp was quiet. The sentries walked their posts. The horses stamped in the picket lines. The army slept.
But Ormund Hightower did not sleep. He never slept anymore. He just lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing, and pictured his wife in another man's arms.
Younger. Stronger. Higher-born.
It did not matter. None of it mattered. Because when this war was over, Cregan Stark would be dead, and YN would be back in his bed where she belonged, and he would spend the rest of his life reminding her exactly who owned her.
That was the thought he clung to. That was the thought that got him through the night.
That, and the image of Stark's head on a spike outside the gates of Oldtown, his sightless eyes staring at nothing, his blood dripping down the stone walls.
Imagine ur Baela ur dad doesn’t really gaf about you and your mom died giving birth and your dad married his niece like five seconds after the funeral and everyone’s kind of just ignored you except your grandma who’s also dead now and then u get engaged to your cousin who’s actually pretty normal and then ur twin sister who’s kind of a flop bc she doesn’t have a dragon finds a dragon and then inadvertently kills your cousin fiancé and then u gotta bring his body back to your step mother-cousin-niece and she hasn’t taken her meds in a few days and her situationship just ghosted her hard. Also you’re sixteen
warning: hurt/comfort, kissing, mention of the blackfyre rebellion, no use of Y/n, written before the series came out
Summary: With the Blackfyre rebellion defeated and his triumphant return with his elder brother, Baelor was celebrated more than Maekar. The prince leaves the celebrations early, representing another affront to his pride; only his wife gives him the recognition he deserves.
Word count: 1888
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun had not yet risen above the horizon when the king's troops gathered in the courtyard of the Red Keep, their banners bearing the red dragon fluttering in the morning breeze.
Following the orders of the rightful King Daeron and the failed capture of his half-brother, the Blackfyre pretender Daemon, the rising rebellion had to be crushed in order to restore order to the royal court.
Everything could have turned out differently, perhaps in another story, in another song full of solidarity and family – but that was not the case.
The archers under Brynden had already set out during the night, which is why the troops led by the firstborn prince Baelor and his youngest brother Maekar were now to advance.
The small council had spent hours planning how best to crush the rebels, hours during which the children, women and vassals waited patiently for the next step.
But the decision had been made, and so the newlyweds Maekar and his wife had to say goodbye to each other.
Since the princes had received the king's blessing, everyone had left the throne room, and even though she wanted to pray in the gods' grove, imploring the old gods to protect the troops, she had to see her husband one last time.
She walked slowly down the stone corridor as she knocked on the wooden door to his chamber, heard the muffled permission to enter, and came into the room, a familiar sight.
At least as far as his weapons were concerned, he had not changed since she had known him. When she had first met him, she had seen his talent with weapons.
Now, with the additional hard, dark armour bearing the symbol of the dragon, he seemed even more robust. “Has something happened?” Maekar asked, looking up from the sword he was sharpening.
The prince seemed calm, with no worry or sadness in his hard expression as he concentrated on the steel of his blade.
His questioning gaze met her emotional one as she walked over to her white-haired prince.
“I wanted to see you one last time, Maekar” she said, sitting down opposite him at the table, her hand seeking his. He paused in his sharpening, looking at her just as she was looking at him.
A sigh escaped his lips, tinged with a certain sadness, “Don’t worry, Brynden and Baelor are as good fighters as I am. The rebellion will be crushed” he tried to reassure her.
The Lady couldn’t help but smile. Her prince had always been more a man of action and weapons than a man of revealing feelings.
He loved his family, he loved her, but this love often remained hidden.
A smile that led him to place his hand on hers, the cold armour contrasting with her warmth, the violet of his eyes looking into hers.
“I will return to you, I promise, my lady” he said, offering her these heartfelt words before rising, his fingers gently stroking her cheek as he passed her.
It was a gesture meant to reassure her, a gesture for which she was grateful, but in light of the rebellion, the battles that had to be fought and death, it seemed like little consolation.
Maekar was about to walk straight out the door when she rushed from her chair and pulled him into one last passionate embrace, the armour separating them as she kissed him before she had to let her dragon go.
She had no choice but to join the other wives inside the courtyard to wave goodbye to the prince and soldiers, their handkerchiefs fluttering in the wind as the red keep was filled with a sense of unease and uncertainty.
Now it seemed that only the gods themselves knew who would be victorious.
~~~~~~~~~~
While blood, screams and the clanging of swords clashing filled the battlefield, it was the prayers and reports of the ravens that arrived almost hourly every day from the various houses and generals of the army.
The prayers from the Great Sept, which were indispensable for the king's side, implored the Seven, and those who did not follow the new Gods lost themselves in the ancient Valyrian gods to whom their ancestors had prayed centuries ago.
Every morning when she woke up alone in his bed, unable to bear being in her own chamber, she reached out beside her into the cold bed. You're still gone she thought to herself, wishing that Maekar was back as she began her day.
In addition to praying to the Valyrian gods, she found a task in the maintenance of his weapons, a distraction she shared with her sister-in-law Jenna Dondarin, the wife of the crown prince, who hoped for her husband's return just as much as everyone else in the royal family.
Whether the two women found themselves in Maekar's or Baelor's chambers, they tried to maintain normality with wine, tea and pastries, which were different every day.
She saw the grief in the other lady's eyes as well.
“We can do nothing but hope’’ she tried to cheer Jenna up, words that elicited at least a nod from her and a heavy sigh as she continued to clean her husband's dagger.
I would have died of worry for my child she thought to herself as she heard the children playing outside. Valarr and his little brother Matarys, still too young to fight, were in danger of losing their father.
For a moment, she was relieved that she had not yet had a child with Maekar...but even this was to be expected.
What would become of her - no, what would become of Maekar's claim if he died?
Horrific questions she tried to push out of her mind as she concentrated on the sword, glad that her white-haired husband had shown her gently and lovingly how to care for the forged blade.
He had guided her hand gently, kissing her temple in praise when she was done, a memory that warmed her heart.
Neither of the two women had any idea that on this afternoon, as the sun cast its golden glow over the land, the Targaryen troops would return victorious.
A victory that would change everything to come, a victory that immediately turned into a great celebration that began just a few hours after their return.
If she had not been a princess, a noblewoman, she would have thrown herself into his arms when Maekar dismounted from his horse.
“Maekar” came fragilely from her lips as tears threatened to blur her vision when he pulled her into his arms.
They had each other again, and her brother had also returned – their prayers had been answered.
A victory that was celebrated in the throne room after the soldiers and princes had cleaned themselves up, sitting next to her husband, holding his hand as the king gave his speech and the food was served.
His rough fingers stroked hers from time to time, a small smile on his lips. He was rarely so calm, so content, and she was already looking forward to cuddling up to him that night... Had it not been for something else.
After the main course, Singer and Dichter were summoned, who had composed a new song for the victory.
The guests were already ready to dance, to go out into the open space and celebrate together.
“In honour of the victory of Baelor and his brother, we have composed a song entitled The Hammer and the Anvil!” he announced, and drums and trumpets began to accompany his singing.
It was a rousing song, something with which the company quickly agreed, and everyone seemed to enjoy it... everyone except her husband.
It took only a moment before he rose harshly from his chair and disappeared from the hall, regardless of the shadows cast by the torches.
He ignored her questioning look, and she saw the equally confused look on Jena's face, who hinted that she should follow. That was what she had intended to do anyway; it was rare for him to violate official etiquette.
Hurrying after him, she heard his footsteps in the corridor, not outside, not to the stables or the garden, he was going back to his chamber.
Following the sounds, she just saw the door close before she opened it again, ‘’Maekar? Are you not feeling well, my dear?’’ she asked cautiously when she saw him standing in front of the fireplace.
He would never shout at her, preferring to remain silent as he stared into the flames. Slowly approaching him, she stood beside him, her hand searching for his after a few moments.
“Are you worried about the rebellion?” she asked, but his slight shake of the head told her the answer as she saw a bitter smile on his face.
His violet eyes seemed to see something in the fire or remember something.
“He is my brother...and yet – haven’t I killed enough? Don’t I deserve recognition too? Just because of his position” he gradually revealed what was tormenting him, full of jealousy and bitterness.
His voice grew louder as his knuckles turned white as he gripped the stone of the fireplace, searching for something to vent his feelings on.
It suddenly dawned on her that he was the youngest and yet, not only in appearance but in many other areas, more competent than all his brothers, equal to Baelor and yet not the firstborn.
She knew that Maekar loved and cherished his brother, yet decades of comparisons and favouritism had left behind pain that was not visible from the outside.
“What is a song? It is unimportant. You fought, and without you they would have lost” she began, pulling him gently towards her and clasping his hands in hers.
A harsh difference, his numerous battles had left their mark.
“Baelor had so much more to lose, so much more to bear. Isn’t this enough for you?” she asked. His violet eyes moved from the fireplace to her as his anger subsided, seeing how much he meant to her, how much she felt for him.
His hand moved to her cheek, gently stroking it, and she heard him sigh, “Feelings can be ugly, this jealousy...but not your love, full of affection and warmth” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers as he kissed her.
Returning the kiss, feeling his other hand move to her hip, Maekar pulled her closer to him. He had missed her as much as she had missed him, even if he would only show it to her in private.
His kiss, the affection he gave her, he was the anvil, but she was the warming fire in his heart, only when they parted did she run her fingers through his white hair.
“Let them celebrate, we can have something much more intimate together” she murmured and saw his slightly puzzled expression as a look of agreement appeared on his face and she felt his hand wander down her back.
“Let’s celebrate my victory properly” he replied, and Maekar kissed her again as the prince and princess couple did not return to the celebration that night, instead giving each other the love and recognition they both needed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
masterlist
info: I hope the ending wasn't too ooc. Since we won't see Maekar until the second episode, I'm curious to see how he will be portrayed.
Hi Julia! ! How do you think the AKOTSK men (Mainly Maekar and Baelor) would react to their wife being belittled by her family during a visit to them?
Thank you! ❤❤
watch your words with my wife—Baelor & Maekar Targaryen
Baelor x wife!reader, Maekar x wife!reader
content: Maekar and Baelor will not stand for any disrespect toward their wife, even if it is family.
words: 1k
cw: family being disrespectful, protective Baelor & Maekar, none really that I can think of, but these men do not play when it comes to their wives.
Baelor
Your foot tapped anxiously beside your husband, your eyes set on the table as if you were trying to imagine you were anywhere else. It had been his suggestion to stop in and visit your homelands on your back to King's Landing after a tourney, but now he was wondering if that was the right choice.
Your father seemed, fine. Nice enough shoveling the food into his mouth as if it was his last meal. Your mother sat next to him, her nose turned up in disapproval, rolling her eyes every few minutes. He imagined she too wished she was somewhere else.
Your elder sister. Who still remained unmarried, sat next to her. She seemed to be the real issue. Her burning gaze has been boring into you all night. Assessing your every move as if she was waiting for you to slip up so she could point it out.
Your hands, which had been shaking all dinner, had finally given her what she wanted. The silverware fell form your hands with a loud clutter. Your eyes, to which were always filled with happiness broke his heart.
They were wide, scared and you looked more like a timid animal then his wife. Your mouth hung half opened as if you were about to let out a giant sob, "I am sorry. I am so sorry," you began immediately, your entire body shaking like a leaf.
He stared at you a moment going to reach out in an attempt to comfort you, but before he could a shrill voice met the air. Your sister had decided now was time to make her attack, "How are you suppose to be a Queen if you can not handle making it through a dinner without looking pathetic."
Baelor's mismatched eyes widen as he stared at you for a moment, "Excuse me?" he questioned, his eyebrows drawn together as he turned toward her. She went to open her mouth to reply, but stopped as she noticed his face.
The perfect prince was gone and instead in his place was the reminder of just what he is. A dragon. A knight with prowess who had gained his own reputation. His jaw was locked as he looked to her daring her to continue, but she did not.
He nodded seeming pleased, "I suggest you watch the way you talk to my wife. Your future Queen next time," he said, before turning to the head of the table toward your father, "I expect that behavior will be corrected. It will not be tolerated again," he told her.
"As you wish, Your Grace," he said, with a bow of his head. "Apologize to your sister," he then hissed to the elder.
She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before your mother's stern expression met hers causing her to let out a small whine of defeat, "I am sorry—"
"Princess. Call her what she is," Baelor added.
Your sister stared at him for a moment blinking, as you watched the whole scene in bewilderment wondering if you were living in a dream for a moment. He nodded in prompting waiting for her to continue.
She swallowed harshly, "I am sorry for offending you, Princess. It will not happen again."
You said nothing only staring at her slightly before turning to Baelor, clearly not knowing what to do. He said nothing, but shrugged. He would rather you not accept her apology and make her squirm a little longer.
He picked up your silverware handing it to you, "There you are, darling," he said, with a small smile, "Better finish your plate. We have a long trip back home to King's Landing on the morrow."
Maekar
Maekar had not wanted your family to visit in the first place, but you had assured them they would not be staying long.
But as dinner waged on he could tell that you did not seem to want to be here anymore than he did. Your eyes, usually bright a full of life were cast down on your plate as you glanced to your mother every thirty seconds.
Your shoulders were tense as if you were awaiting a striking blow that he could only himself prepare it. His hands moved under the table resting against your covered thigh giving it a firm squeeze.
He watched the tension from your shoulders melt away and you turned toward him giving him a tight lipped smile. Your eyes moved down toward his plate then, without word he slid it over to you knowing that you wanted the potatoes that you had not been granted on your own.
Your name was then called out and you froze, "Mayhaps you should skip the potatoes tongiht. You are looking a bit pudgy as of late," your mother said, off handed, completely normal as if it had been said hundreds of times.
You opened your mouth to reply, but it was not your booming voice that filled the hall first, "What the fuck did you just say?"
"Maekar," you whispered, tired, defeated as if you expected him to sit there and allow them to degrade you like that.
His burning violent gaze turned from you to your parents at the head of the table, both looking to each other mouths open trying to form a coherent thought, "I did not mean to offend," your mother tried, but it did nothing to dim the fire burning through him.
"And yet you did. Your daughter is my wife. A member of House Targaryen and I expect you to talk to her with respect now. Anything less will be seen as treason," he barked, before sliding the plate over to you, "Now get her more fucking potatoes."
Maekar shook his head, as you said nothing picking away at the potatoes. Your mother and father sat still at the head of the table eyeing him. Your father opened his mouth, and your husband caught it from the corner of his eyes.
His head snapped toward him, his scowl deepening, his eyes squinted as if he was trying to burn the man, "Unless you have learned manners within the last few moments I do not wish to hear a word from either of you," he said, his voice low, the edges catching just the way he wanted it too.
The rest of dinner was silent and you left the next morning.
That awkard moment when you realize your half-sister/ sister-in-law/ aunt/ almost mother-in-law/ second degree cousin/ father's sister-in-law/ grandfather's murderer may also be your new step-mom
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