cregan stark who bites! biter cregan, with sharp, wolflike canines that he sinks into your skin for his own stimulation.
it’s not hard enough to hurt, never all of his teeth — just little nips to bare skin when he gets the chance. he does it the first time that you sleep in his bed, canine and incisor finding a spot that your chemises slipped down your shoulder to expose. it’s followed by a kiss, and a whisper goodnight.
he bites during sex too btw. again, not hard, never with the intention to hurt you. he digs his teeth into your neck between professions of his adoration; your stomach when he kisses across your body, your thighs when he’s going down on you.
cregan who knows what you smell like. cregan who sniffs you like a freak, actually! he doesn’t mean to — blame it on phenomenons, but he likes the way you smell. not your scented bath oils, or the perfume that you send for from the reach, he likes you. your skin.
he kisses your head as an excuse to smell your hair, your neck as an excuse to smell your skin. lends you his cloaks so that they come back with your scent.
cregan who likes to chase you through the woods for fun! cregan who grabs your shoulders, presses his knee into the back of yours, and controls your fall into the snow. he never does anything except laugh in your face, breathless and flushed.
cregan who curls his body around yours in bed.
devoted to a fault cregan. cregan who would tear someone apart with his teeth if they posed a threat to you; cregan who would do anything you asked, heel and sit at your command.
cregan who might fetch if you threw a stick tbh 🤷♀️ canine coded.
Summary: Cregan's obsessive love is too much. When he denies your wish to go to Jace's coronation, you take matters into your own hands-- no matter what your husband says.
Warnings: alludes to much smut, unhealthy obsessiveness, manhandling, etc
Winterfell felt dangerous. Hostile. Biting and unruly.
You had tried to please your mother's wishes of staying with Cregan.
And he had provided for you.
You couldn't really hate him. Not truly.
But it wasn't right.
You had asked him if you could attend your brother's coronation at King's Landing.
And he'd told you no.
And when you'd asked why not, he spoke of the dangers that lied outside the walls, waiting for you.
As if you weren't married to danger as well.
He could protect you from anything. He was a force to be reckoned with. One brush of the northerner's calloused hands told you that he had the blood of many staining them.
You felt a hand push the hair away from your shoulder, and cold lips brushing your neck.
"What's on your mind, my love?" His low voice whispers.
You stare at the fire in your shared chambers. The flames dance, warming the front of your body. The rest of you remains cold.
His hand gently pushes the sleeve of your dress over your shoulder. His lips slowly follow.
"Are you still upset with me?" He asks in an almost teasing manner.
When you don't answer, he stands straight again. You can feel the tension build in his shoulders at the thought of your unhappiness. "'S dangerous out there, my girl. I promised your mother I'd protect you."
"And what of my brother? Am I not safe around him?"
He sighs. "The outside world is always dangerous. If something were to happen to you-"
"Please, Cregan."
His eyes harden, boring into your back. "Be good," he reprimands.
He isn't used to being ignored or disobeyed. He doesn't like it.
"Forgive me."
He sighs, and you can feel his breath against your neck. "'S alright. I've been a bit rude. Haven't I?" Lips brush against the skin again. "Not even listening. My sweet girl. Let's forget this, huh?"
You turn in his grip to see him. Your hands brush over his heavy biceps. The muscles tense under your fingertips. His own hands find your waist.
"My brother…" you try one more time in a soft whisper.
His grip tightens.
He leans down, nuzzling his nose against your temple. "Let it go," he warns lowly.
As he kisses your forehead, you decide: You won't let it go.
…
Three days later, you decide you will go to Jace's coronation.
Cregan is leaving himself for King's Landing today. You've decided that you'd show, albeit late, without your husband's knowledge.
He straps his last bag to his horse, brushing its mane with his rough hands.
You stand not far off, arms around yourself to withstand the cold air.
He turns to you and sighs softly. Eyes roam from head to foot.
Guilt eats at you, and you find yourself crossing to close the gap.
He catches you with far too much ease, as if his arms were created to be around you.
You kiss him softly. The scruff almost burns. His love almost burns. But you can't pull away from him.
One hand stays firm on your hip, the other comes to the back of your head, keeping you close.
Cregan's kisses are heavy. Everything about him is calculated and weighs down on his shoulders.
So, to say he doesn't love you would be a complete lie about his very soul.
To kiss the way that he does?
He loves you as much as his mind allows him to.
He pulls away just enough to see you. And a soft breath escapes as he gently smiles. His hand comes to your cheek, thumb brushing the skin. "You'll be good while I am away?"
You nod, pushing down the guilt.
He hesitates, hands pausing. "Yeah?"
Your gut twists. You're sure he can see right through you. But you can't afford to let him. You nod again, more desperately.
He sighs and you're sure something in you died.
His eyes roam your face then soften. "Good girl." He kisses you again, more desperate, more gentle, more soul bearing.
And when he pulls away again, he speaks. "I am an unfair husband. I know how much you wished to go with me. When I return… I will owe you my time. We will do the things you wish to." His hand plays with your hair as he continues, "Horseback rides, picnics, perhaps the market." He says each one slowly like he's trying to grab your attention. Trying to catch a happy glint in your eye. "I may even have tea with your ladies. Think of what you wish. You have much time until I return."
He notices how quiet you've been. He lowers his head to catch your eye sight. "What, my love? Do you wish me to bring something back for you? I know you miss the soft fabrics of the South. Enough for a dress, perhaps? Would that bring you joy?"
You shake your head. "I only want safe travels for my husband."
"None of that," he dismisses. "Tell me what you want, my dear, pretty wife. I will hand you the world if you ask me."
There are days you question his love— how he keeps you cooped in that castle. But then he says such loving things like this. You see how he protects, but also how he obsesses to do so in unhealthy manners.
"I don't need the world," you try again. "But… perhaps those shells from the shore? My brothers and I used to collect them so gently-"
"Shells," he whispers to memory. "I will hunt for the prettiest shells the shores can make."
Even when he is trying his hardest, he still speaks in manners of 'hunting,' as if stealing these shells from the waters to provide for his wife.
You remember when you taught your younger brother Luke to find shells. The different animals that lived in them. There was one he loved so desperately, but he had to let go because of the small hermit crab living in it. It was a hard lesson you had to teach him.
How your small collection you took to Winterfell makes your heart hurt. The shells remind you of your life before the war. Oh, how peaceful your life had been when you were oblivious to the hatred brewing beneath the hearts of Targaryens.
"Thank you, Cregan."
He nuzzles against your temple. "Speak nothing of it. It is a joy to provide the thing your heart longs for."
As you watch him ride away, you see the way he pauses to look back at you one last time.
…
The next day, you'd finished packing. Your guards had been so hesitant to let you do this. But their Lord was nowhere to be found, and their Lady was demanding that she go. They had no choice but to start a small trusted caravan to King's Landing.
You hated riding in the cold. Targaryen blood ran so hot, you felt like the warmth ran off in waves.
You wished your husband had let you go with his own caravan. His cloaks warmed you so well. And the heat from his body always soothed something in you.
He was going to be so angry at you.
The thought hurt.
In time, the familiar air of King's Landing brought tears to your eyes.
You had missed it more than you originally thought.
How the air, the sun, the sky, it all accommodated the dragon blood in the silver haired family that controlled it.
"Lady Stark," your guard called, "Shall I ride ahead to tell the King of your arrival?"
You nod, "but… be subtle. Do not let my husband know. Not… not yet."
You didn't miss the way his eyes flashed with worry.
…
The moment you got to the castle, every guard's eyes caught the familiar silver hair.
Their princess had returned.
Much like your mother, you were this generation's Realm's Delight. The townspeople once gossiped of how the ugly North never deserved you.
"My princess," one of them greeted as they helped you off your horse. "Forgive us. We were not made aware of your arrival."
"And please do not do more on my account," you assure.
"Lord Stark arrived two days ago. Shall I-"
"No! No," you panic. "That's alright. Thank you. Perhaps just take me to one of the spare rooms."
"Yes, Princess."
…
After getting your bags in your room, you finally refreshened and got to relax. Well, as much as your mind would let you.
The soft knock at your door made the panic come right back.
But when it opened, black curly hair was the first thing you saw.
Like when you were children, he barely poked his head in, as if he wasn't the reigning King over all of the Realm. He's just your brother when you're together. His lips pull up in that knowing grin. "Thought I heard of my beloved sister showing her pretty face here."
Relief floods through, and you're racing across the room into his arms.
He catches you and spins you happily.
He's stronger than you remember.
More manly.
The baby fat in his cheeks are gone, replaced by carefully melded cheek bones.
He sets you down. "Why have you not come with Stark?"
He notices everything. That was something you always cursed him for.
He also noticed the twitch in your brow at his question, and it set him on edge. "What has he done?"
"Nothing, brother. Truly."
He huffs. "But something is amiss. A man that will not travel with his wife is not a man at all."
"Jace-"
"No. I will not have you mistreated. Not while I still have breath in my body. And to think, he told-"
"Jace, nothing happened."
He cups both sides of your face as if checking for injuries.
You have to tug his hands down. "I came without his knowledge."
His face falls. "What?"
"He did not want me to come. So… I came by myself. He does not know."
Jace's face contorts to a new emotion entirely. "W- Why would you do that?"
"He was… worried for my safety."
"Perhaps he should be!" He steps back. "Here you are, lying and hiding away from your own husband. He only wished to protect you, and yet-"
"You do not understand it, Jace!" You yell back. "I feel suffocated by him some days. The snow, it packs down and feels so heavy."
He grabs you by your biceps firmly. "Listen to me." He makes sure he has your attention. "Cregan Stark loves you. Fiercely. You have disobeyed your husband. And… while I love you, I must side with him this time."
"W-" The words catch in your throat. "You side with him?"
"Sister," he sighs. "I know he can come across as… brash. Trust me. Please. You should not have come. The war has only just ended a few months ago. And Cregan Stark," his voice lowers. "Cregan Stark won us the war."
"I know that." You began to question yourself. Perhaps it was a mistake.
"Regardless," he sighs. "Come to the feast tonight. Leave in the morning. Please."
…
A few hours pass. Cregan was right in saying that you deeply missed the light fabric of the South.
Jace had found a few of your old dresses and had them brought to you.
The red fabric of this one… you had forgotten how it looked poured on.
You'd missed it so badly.
You imagined how your Lord husband would react. He'd only seen you in heavy materials in the cold air. But now, he was in your territory.
You felt the need to remind him that he married the daughter of the Realm's Delight.
He might be happy. He might be angry. Gods, he might take you to the next room and ravish you.
With your hair braided a traditional Targaryen way, you almost didn't feel like yourself.
It had been so long since you'd looked like this. And you'd grown into much more of a woman since then.
…
You had it all planned out. You would come later in the night. Sneak in. Whatever happens, do not make it a big deal. If Cregan were to notice you, he'd have no choice but not make a scene in front of the others.
But, as always, fate works against you.
It's two hours into the night. Just enough that people are comfortable. Perhaps they'll be drunk.
When the doors open, it's so fast that you can't tell the servant not to announce your presence.
So the door opens, you're announced, and everyone goes silent.
You stand in the doorway, slight panic in your eyes. But you push it down and set your eyes on your brother.
He's seated at the high table, goblet in hand. He grins and takes a long sip.
And, of course, Cregan sits next to him.
You should have known. He's technically part of the royal family now due to the marriage. And the two are such strong friends. Out of everyone in the room (his own wife, Baela, aside), Jace would choose to sit next to your husband.
You take a deep breath and walk calmly into the crowd. They bow their heads as you pass. But your eyes are still set on the high table.
When you near, you pause, waiting for Jace to allow you forward.
He leans forward with that grin you know far too well.
He's tormenting you.
Making you wait.
Making the room sit and wait in silence.
Letting your husband stare at you.
You finally look at Cregan. His hands grip his seat with white knuckles. His eyes don't stray. Don't move. Never waver from you. And though you try, you can't figure out what emotion is more present on his face.
Your brother waves you up, and you take it with hurried steps.
You have two choices: Sit next to your husband with no one on your other side to save you from his wrath. Or move past both him and Jace to sit with Baela and Rhaena.
There was a clear answer.
So you step around the table with the intention of moving past Cregan. But as you even begin to near, he stood and moved behind his own chair.
You don't look at him, but he catches your arm firmly.
"Sit."
He pulls out his own chair for you, setting you next to Jace. He sits next to you. He refills his (now your) wine glass, and puts food on your plate as if he hadn't been using it only moment ago.
"Eat, wife."
Jace tries his hardest not to look at the two of you. But as a curious brother, he struggled. How he loved drama.
You thank your husband quietly and begin to eat, avoiding looking at anything.
The feast continues as before. Lively voices and music.
His hand finds your thigh. His pinkie brushes the inside of your thigh and you have to keep your thoughts to yourself.
And still, you can't decide what emotion is more prominent in his face.
Jace only speaks with Baela, avoiding you completely. Perhaps he didn't wish to get in trouble with the northerner either.
You couldn't say that you blame him.
…
The night progresses, albeit awkward between you and your husband. He's been quiet. It's a bit unnerving.
Sometimes his hand tightens on your thigh, reminding you of the tension you shared. A silent reminder not to run.
Finally, he leans in towards your chair. He brushes the braid away from your neck so he can admire the skin there. His nose brushes your jaw as he tilts his head up so speak directly in your ear.
"Do not tell me you won't dance with me?"
He hates dancing.
There's something up his sleeve.
He doesn't lean away, but his hand extend out in front of yours.
His large hand.
You accept it with your own nimble one.
He stares down, thumb running over your wedding ring.
And with that, he stands and leads you to the floor.
With him in front of you, you can truly admire him.
He's handsome in the North. You know that. But heavy cloaks hide just how muscular he is.
Seeing him like this reminds you of the way your hand brushes down his arms when you're making love.
And he knows it. The fucking smirk he has on his face right now.
Each brush of your hands feel like the biting chill of his home. Like stepping into a cold bath.
And for being so large and formidable, he's surprisingly graceful in a dance.
You knew his mother had taught him when he was young. Before she'd passed.
So each step comes to him so naturally it's almost sickening.
He grabs your hand roughly now and spins you into him. Your back collides with his chest harder than the other moves before. And when you try to move on, a hand anchors to your waist.
The others continue, but the two of you remain this way for a moment. You can feel the heavy breaths against your back.
"My girl," he whispers. "What are you doing here?"
His free hand starts at your shoulder then unapologetically runs down the exposed skin of your chest, between your clothed breasts and down your stomach, stopping just at the line of inappropriate.
He hears the small whimper escape your throat and he knows he's won.
So his hand slithers to your arm, spinning you back out and catching up with the other dancers as if nothing happened.
There's a flush to your cheeks. A heat that's buried deep in your stomach that you didn't plan on having tonight.
All you can think about is the way his hips roll so perfectly when the two of you are alone-
"Do you need some fresh air, my princess?" He grins. "You look unwell."
Without an answer, he guides you away from the feast. It's almost daunting the way the large doors close behind the two of you.
He takes you out to the gardens. The moon has come up by now, lighting the path through the flowers.
It's not far before he grabs you.
"Do I have to fuck some sense into you?" He questions, far too serious to be a tease anymore. "Is that what it will take?"
As much as you'd like to accept, he's at his wits end and you're beginning to grow upset yourself. So, you push down the growing heat and try to replace it with anger. "I would happily take a fucking if it got you to, for once, pay attention to my needs!"
"Your needs?" He questions. He scoffs, letting you go dramatically. "I have met them all enthusiastically! You think I simply do not care?"
"Then why could I not come here?" You throw off your anger as a laugh. "What needs of your own were so important that I could not come along to see my own family? If you wanted to fuck a whore in King's Landing like the other husbands, do not hide that."
He's quiet, eyes trained on you like you just said something worth executing for. He doesn't even breathe. Only stares. "You think," he words slowly, taking a step forward, "that I barred you from coming here because I want to be unfaithful?"
"W-" you find yourself pausing for a second but decide the words aren't worth thinking anymore on. "What else could the reason be?"
"I do not tolerate keeping secrets," he whispers. "In any regard. I do not lie to you. And I hope that you do not lie to me. Perhaps I was wrong."
You scoff. "You do not lie? Then perhaps you do not say the entire truth because I not only live in a castle that does not see the sun, but you keep me in the dark!" You step back, noting the water now in your lash line. "You do not tell me anything! Am I too slow? Perhaps my pretty little head cannot keep up with your manly plans o-"
"Quiet," he growls, gripping your jaw.
Then you two stare.
He's quite handsome in the moonlight.
It shines off his cheekbones in such a pretty manner.
"You are an intelligent woman. Pretty. And with far too much spirit in you. You are determined," he says, "and I admire it of you." He takes a breath. "But it is something I worry of as well."
For all the words you had before, your mind is empty now.
"I will never tame your dragon blood. It can be breathtaking in its fullness. But there are things you still do not understand. And you must listen to me."
"I want to understand."
"I know you do." He takes your hands, cupping them against his heart. "And I am beginning to see that not telling you may have been a mistake. But worrying you with matters out of your own hands felt cruel."
You lean into him, fluttering your lashes in hopes of softening him. "Why have you hid me away, Lord Stark?"
He exhales lowly at the use of his title. Your plan works.
He frees one of his hands, tipping your chin up and kissing you softer than he ever has before.
Without embarrassment, you give in, moaning at the genuine kindness and passion in his gesture.
He continues, peppering soft kisses down the side of your chin and across your jaw to your ear. He takes his time to get there, enjoying the way you react to his stubble scraping your skin.
Once at your ear, he tips your head to the side to give him full access. Which you happily oblige.
"Can you imagine," he whispers, "having your one weakness exposed so openly?"
He bites at your earlobe, his hand now moving down your neck. Your heart races.
"I just won your brother a war, pretty girl. Do you know how many enemies I have?"
His palm rests over the pulse in your neck. You feel like prey to a fierce predator.
The Wolf of the North.
"Imagine a body. A perfect body. It can hunt. It can move. It wields a sword. It rides horses. It leads armies and it rules with an iron hand."
His hand moves lower, resting over your heart. The fingers twitch. You've now realized his other hand has found a firm place around your waist.
"Now imagine that same body. But its ribs have been plucked out and its vital organs remain exposed for even the dullest of swords to penetrate."
The hand wanders back up to your jaw. He tilts your head to nuzzle against your pulse with his nose. "I would almost call you vile for the way you expose my heart."
The sharp hairs on his face scrape, then a kiss is left behind. It's a sickening cycle down your neck to its connection of your shoulder.
"I worship you, my girl," he pants against your skin. "How have you not realized that?"
You whimper at his words.
He nips at a sensitive spot, but the grip on your waist and jaw keeps you from pulling away.
"Be good," he whispers.
…
You return to the feast a little while later, looking far too disheveled to pass as acceptable.
But there's a light in your eyes that can't be mistaken for anything but pride.
Even if there's a slight limp in your step.
Cregan, the ever protective dog stands behind you, hands brushing your waist just enough to relight the flame deep within you.
You both try to ignore the shit eating grin on Jace's face.
…
When the two of you return to Winterfell, you find seashells that he has somehow had time to place for you before you noticed.
The four prettiest shells you've ever seen, followed by a note in his sloppy handwriting:
I would have a fifth for you, but there was a particular crab that would not let it go. Cannot say I blame him. I am rather hesitant to expose the weak parts of myself as well.
All is not fair in love and war. But perhaps I should be more fair in love.
You are my beloved wife. And my heart burns for no other.
Your Cregan
A/n: my boy deserves the world. The new episode made me so emotional about him
masterlist | wc: 2.8k
WHEN YOU first met Daeron, you did not recognize him. How could you have? Though his name was among the most illustrious in the Seven Kingdoms, no one had ever told you that not all Targaryens were the same. In your mind, they all had long silver hair, violet eyes so intense they seemed unnatural, and that distant air belonging only to those born too high to lower their gaze toward common folk. The young man who had stopped in front of your father's shop did not match that image. He wore thick mahogany-colored hair that the sun turned copper, loosely tied at the nape of his neck but long enough to brush against it, and he was dressed in a simple emerald-green robe, devoid of any ostentation. If not for that faint violet tint coloring his irises, almost imperceptible when the light did not strike them directly, and for the young dragon with cobalt-blue scales that sometimes soared over the rooftops of Oldtown without ever straying too far from him, you would never have imagined you were standing before a prince of the blood.
But truth be told, you had not even noticed. What had struck you was not the color of his eyes or the blood running through his veins. It was his kindness. The way he spoke was different from that of the wealthy men who entered your family's shop every day, convinced that a handful of coins entitled them to bows and smiles. His voice was calm, soft, and every word seemed carefully chosen. He had large, delicately shaped eyes, like those of a fawn, so sincere they seemed incapable of lying. When he smiled, he did so faintly, without display, as though that smile belonged only to those fortunate enough to deserve it. And you, who until then had known only hurried customers, profit-driven merchants, and nobles too proud to truly look at you, had been almost dazzled by that simplicity. He had called you my lady with such natural ease that you had turned around to see who stood behind you. You had even laughed, convinced he had made a mistake.
Because you were no lady. You were only the daughter of a merchant wealthy enough to grant his family a decent life within the walls of Oldtown. You had a comfortable home above the shop, well-crafted furniture, and clothes made from better fabrics than most people in the city could afford, but nothing that could even begin to approach the luxury of nobility. Your mother sewed your dresses herself, patiently embroidering small floral patterns along the hems because she wanted to see you elegant even without fine silks, while your father often said that the greatest wealth was the honesty with which one earned coin. And you had always believed him. You had never longed for castles or crowns; it was enough for you to wander the streets of Oldtown, lose yourself among the market stalls, or leaf through the books you managed to obtain thanks to the maesters of the Citadel. Your life was simple, and until that day, you had thought it would remain so.
You met him on an afternoon that, until moments before, had seemed identical to all the others. Sunlight filtered through the shop's open windows, illuminating the shelves displaying decorated vases, hand-painted tableware, and small objects from every corner of the Westerlands. The air smelled of polished wood, beeswax, and spices brought from the harbor by merchant ships. You were carefully arranging newly arrived goods when two men, already visibly drunk, entered arguing loudly. At first, it seemed like one of the many quarrels destined to fade into a few insults. Then the shouting grew louder, one seized the other by the collar, and in an instant the shop became the stage for their anger.
A shelf was struck violently. A vase fell, shattering into dozens of gleaming fragments on the floor. Then another, and another. Plates, bowls, and ceramics broke one after the other, while your father tried in vain to make them stop. You, barely thirteen at the time, rushed between them with the sole intent of separating them. You believed raising your voice would be enough to bring two grown men to their senses. One of them, without even noticing you, shoved you aside with his arm. You fell backward, your side striking the floor. The pain came a moment later, along with the deafening sound of yet another vase breaking.
That was when the shop door burst open and a young man with mahogany-colored hair stepped inside, accompanied by an armed guard. He did not raise his voice, nor did he draw a sword. He simply observed the scene with a steady gaze so authoritative that even the two drunkards stopped fighting. He spoke only a few words, uttered with that calm that seemed natural to him, and the guard intervened without hesitation. The men were restrained and dragged outside amid increasingly weak protests, destined to receive a punishment you did not yet know but would later learn was more than deserved.
Only when all noise had ceased did the young man turn toward you. He found you still sitting on the floor, surrounded by shards of broken ceramics. A faint grimace of pain had appeared on your face, one you stubbornly tried to hide. He crouched in front of you without the slightest hesitation, unconcerned by the dust or fragments scattered everywhere. His gaze settled carefully on your face, as if searching for the smallest scratch. He seemed genuinely worried, and that confused you more than anything else.
"Have you been hurt, my lady?"
Ah, such sweet words those were, especially for a young girl whose mind was filled with the romantic stories she devoured in her beloved books.
Only after making sure you were unharmed did he extend his hand. When he helped you to your feet, he used no excessive force, as though afraid of hurting you. You lowered your gaze to your joined hands, unable to understand why a stranger was treating you with such care.
In the days that followed, he returned. At first, you thought it was only to make amends for the damage caused by those two men. He provided the money needed to replace every broken item, personally ensured that those responsible would never set foot in the shop again, and spoke several times with your father, who kept thanking him without knowing how to repay such generosity. But when every debt had been settled and no practical reason remained for him to come, Daeron continued to visit anyway. Sometimes he bought a book, other times a simple cup he likely did not need at all. Often, however, he simply stayed a few minutes to talk with you. And slowly, those minutes turned into hours.
The years passed almost without you noticing. The friendship born in such an unlikely way grew along with you. Daeron listened to every story you told with an attentiveness that made you feel important, even when you spoke only of a new manuscript found at the public library or some particularly demanding elderly customer. He asked which books were your favorites, remembered the names of the flowers you loved, and laughed at your jokes with genuine ease.
The sound of footsteps pulled you from the thread of thoughts that had surfaced in your mind. The image of the thirteen-year-old girl sitting on the shop floor slowly faded, giving way to the present. Now you were fifteen and seated in the shade of a great tree just outside the walls of Oldtown, in the place where you now met whenever Daeron managed to slip away from his duties. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, scattering small sparks of light across the grass, while the summer breeze gently swayed the tall blades and carried the scent of wildflowers blooming nearby. The book you had with you lay forgotten on your lap, open halfway, while your pale pink dress, embroidered with fine golden threads along the bodice and sleeves, moved softly with the wind.
You lifted your gaze, and your face lit up the moment you saw him. Daeron was standing before you. He wore his usual emerald-green tunic, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt, and his hair, only half gathered at the nape, framed his face with a gentle softness. For an instant, he looked like the boy he had always been, and a spontaneous smile appeared on your lips. "Daeron! I thought you would be flying with Tessarion at this hour."
He lowered his gaze slightly before walking toward you. He sat beside you, resting his back against the tree trunk, but did not answer right away. His hands remained clasped on his knees, his shoulders slightly slumped, and the expression shadowing his face was one you had learned to recognize over the years, the one that appeared whenever something within the walls of the Hightower, or among the tangled affairs of his family, deeply troubled him. You frowned faintly, watching him in silence. The joy with which you had greeted him gave way to a subtle concern, for you knew Daeron well enough to understand that if he had given up a flight with Tessarion, then something truly important must have happened.
You reached for his hand gently, slowly intertwining your fingers with his as though you feared he might vanish at any moment. His skin was warm, rough in places where calluses, born from endless hours with a sword in hand, had replaced the softness of childhood. With your thumb, you absently traced the back of his hand, watching how the sunlight filtered through the branches above, weaving golden shadows across his features. There was something different in his eyes that day. You looked at him with quiet tenderness, tilting your head slightly as a soft smile tried to reassure him even before your words did. "What is it? You look worried."
The prince, your prince, slowly raised his gaze to meet yours. For a few moments, he remained silent, as if searching for the right words, or perhaps the courage to speak them. Daeron had never been good at hiding what he felt; his face was far too honest a mirror of his heart. He drew a slow breath, lowering his eyes to your joined hands before speaking in a quiet voice. "Lord Ormund has forbidden me from flying with Tessarion. He says I must train more with the sword." He paused, biting lightly at the inside of his cheek. "He claims it is a skill no prince should lack."
Your brows curved into a faint expression of displeasure as the name of Lord Ormund Hightower crossed your thoughts like a storm-laden cloud. You wanted to tell him exactly what you thought of that man. You wanted to call him narrow-minded, arrogant, someone who committed unspeakable acts in the name of the gods. But every insult remained trapped behind your closed lips. The urge to curse that man was strong, yes, but your patience, and your love for the boy before you, were stronger. That was not what Daeron needed. You took a slow breath, letting the breeze stir a loose strand of your hair. "Lord Hightower is... a mystery." The words came out slowly, measured, as if chosen one by one. If such a term could even define him. "I admit it is difficult to understand his intentions. He is not a man who easily reveals what he truly thinks, and when he makes a decision, it is rarely out of simple whim." You paused for a moment, watching the shadow that still lingered on his face. "I am sure everything will be alright."
The moment the words left your lips, you realized they had done nothing to ease the weight pressing on his heart. His eyes remained clouded with the same melancholy, and his shoulders still bore the invisible burden of an entire kingdom. You silently reproached yourself. You had tried to be rational when all he truly needed was comfort. So, without thinking further, you took his other hand as well, enclosing both of them within yours as if you could shield him from the entire world with that simple gesture. The warmth of your intertwined fingers spread through your chest. At last, Daeron looked back at you, and in his eyes you found that unwavering trust he had always reserved only for you.
You drew a slow breath, searching for better words. "Daeron, you are the kindest, gentlest boy I know." Your smile grew just a little as you spoke. "You are intelligent. You think before you act, you listen to others when no one else would, and you have such a great heart that you even worry for those who do not return your kindness." You squeezed his hands lightly. "And do not believe, not even for a moment, that you lack strength. You have it, truly. You are the strongest boy I know." You shook your head slightly, a playful smile touching your lips. "Lord Ormund is a fool if he cannot see all of this."
The sound of his name on your lips tasted like wine, salt, and longing. A shiver ran down his spine, and before he could stop himself, a shy smile appeared on his lips. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to melt the tension that had stiffened every muscle in his body just moments before.
Then one of the hands you held slipped gently free. You watched as it rose to your face, his fingers brushing a stray lock that had escaped the careful arrangement you had made that morning. He tucked it behind your ear with such tenderness that it made you hold your breath. Then his palm found your cheek, warm against your skin, while his thumb absentmindedly traced the small beauty mark that adorned your cheekbone like a tiny constellation. His touch was both hesitant and certain, as though he feared to offend you, yet could no longer resist reaching for you.
Daeron remained still, utterly captivated by you. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, casting golden light upon your hair and rendering your face almost unreal. Everything else seemed to fade away. He no longer heard the birdsong nor the whisper of the wind through the leaves. There was only you. So ethereal, so radiant, that for a fleeting moment he thought he was gazing upon the Maiden herself, descended from the heavens to grant him a single, precious blessing. He wondered absently whether the gods were jealous of your beauty. Perhaps they were. For no mortal should possess such pure light.
It was his heart that decided for him before his mind ever could. His body moved almost on its own, guided by an impulse he had tried to suppress for months, perhaps years. He leaned toward you, slowly enough to give you time to stop him, but you did not. Your foreheads nearly brushed, his breath mingling with yours. And then, in an instant, his lips finally met yours. It was a gentle, shy, clumsy kiss, the first of two young souls who had loved each other long before finding the courage to confess it. The world could have crumbled around them in that moment; dragons might have torn across the sky in war, castles might have fallen, kingdoms might have shattered. As long as your lips continued to seek his, nothing else mattered to him.
When the kiss broke, Daeron remained only inches from your face, unable to pull away. His heart seemed to have forgotten how to beat, only to make up for lost time with such force that he feared you might hear it. His cheeks had flushed a deep red, like the ripe cherries that grew in your garden during summer, and even his ears had taken on such a vivid hue that it drew an amused smile from you. He was adorable in his awkwardness, so unlike the proud, arrogant princes sung of by minstrels. Your Daeron was simply a lovable boy.
"I swear by the Old Gods and the New..." he whispered, his voice trembling, never once looking away from your eyes, as though he feared that even the slightest glance aside might cause everything to vanish like a dream. "One day, I will make you my wife." The words came softly, almost like a prayer offered to the gods themselves, and yet he spoke them to you.
His words filled your stomach with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A gentle warmth spread across your face, coloring your cheeks, while your heart beat with a lightness you had never known before. You lifted a hand to touch his, still resting against your cheek, intertwining your fingers with his once more with infinite tenderness. You looked at him, smiling, your eyes bright with happiness. "Then I shall await that moment with great impatience, my prince."
morning breakfast with husband! gwayne and your son! daeron. inspired by daeron asking for gwayne in the latest episode .
daeron knows that love exists because you and gwayne exist.
its fluid, golden liquid, dancing in the way gwayne spoons the honey in your sweetened tea before you've even made it to the breakfast hall. he hasn't eaten yet, he waiting for your entrance and the moment his eyes set foot on your frame through the door he's up in an instance. daeron doesn't even hear the scrape of his chair or the clunk of his shoes on cold ground, nor does he hear the small breaths from his uncle's quickened pace. no, this happens at light speed, like a natural born reaction that gwayne is drawn to you.
daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.
daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.
he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.
"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.
gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.
"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.
"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.
"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.
"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.
"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.
daeron eats the rest of his breakfast with quiet contempt and as he stares out to the resting sun with all its beautiful blue and white, he wishes that in his lifetime he hopes to get as lucky as you and gwayne have. to find a love seems an easy feat, but to find a love and yourself in another and to find reasons to fight for that love each and every day, that is rare.
ormund hightower x wife!reader, mom figure!reader & daeron targaryen
cw: spoilers for ep 4!!, found family trope, reader thinks of daeron as her own, tension, religious themes, slight manipulation, fluff fluff, motherly reader!!, hurt/comfort, reader is very protective of daeron, emotional distress, quarelling, ormund does love his wife, petnames (my love, sweetheart, sweetling), (2.7kw).
synopsis: A child doesn't need to come from the womb to weave his way into your heart. Your husband knows as much.
a/n: this was a wip since the second episode sitting in my drafts, and now with episode four out, it sparked me to continue it! i love daeron so much, and so does reader. they're a dysfunctional family, but they make it work! guys this piece is very dear to me okay it's my baby i love it so much.
"From King Aemond."
"King?" You frown, looking at the young squire for confirmation, which he gives with a slow nod of his head.
"Yes, my lady," Daeron says, brows pinching, mimicking your bewilderment. "The messenger said so himself when he delivered the letter to Lord Ormund."
You huff, the news rattling you a bit, sighing as if the weight of what must've transpired back in King's Landing is already heavy to carry. "Gods helps us all."
Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."
"As always."
Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."
You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."
"He is my squire."
"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.
"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."
"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"
The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.
"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.
"My lord, my lady."
You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.
The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."
Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.
"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."
"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."
And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.
"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”
“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”
Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”
Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.
“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”
Sit the Iron Throne.
You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”
Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?
“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”
Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”
“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”
“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.
“Do not patronise me so!”
Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”
Our son.
But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.
The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.
“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”
You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.
What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”
And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.
“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”
You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.
“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.
“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”
“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”
Our boy.
You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.
“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”
And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.
One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”
You do.
Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.
“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”
Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”
Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”
“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”
It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.
“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.
“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”
summary: Salvation comes only to those who listen. Lord Ormund will remind you of that. 4.4k.
content: takes place directly after 3x4 following show canon (as of now) so spoilers for the episode. reader is daeron's twin sister, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n or a first name, toxic!ormund, grooming, possessive!ormund, religious!reader, themes of religious indoctrination and religious doubts, angsty, instances of uncomfortable contact (a kiss), age gap, ormund is a creep here i'm not exaggerating, possible inaccuracies about of the faith of the seven, my bad. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.
hotd masterlist.
The smell of burnt flesh still lingers in the sept despite the removal of the previous destruction mere hours ago, a permanent reminder of the sin that war breeds.
Your knees scrape against the rough stones through the heavy folds of your dark green dress as you kneel before the Seven. The pain comes slowly at first, a mere ache beneath the bone. A reminder that the body is temporary, that flesh is delicate, that pride must be humbled before the gods.
You welcome the pain. There is comfort in suffering when it has purpose. When you can control it.
Your fingers curl tightly around each other, clutched around the silver seven-pointed star that hangs from your neck. It was a passing gift from your mother, the only fading reminder you have of her before she shipped you and Daeron off to Oldtown. The sharp edges press into your palm, your firm grip baiting it to pierce the skin and let you bleed. You hold it as if it will provide you with sanctity, with answers, as if it carries enough weight to anchor you against the storm inside your own mind.
Prayers leave your lips in whispers, so soft that they may blow away with a gentle breeze, only heard for the Gods above.
The words are so familiar to you that no thought is needed when speaking. The prayers have been woven into you since you were a mere child, your first memories in Oldtown coming from the countless mornings within the grand septs as the watchful eyes and ears of septas linger on your every word.
You recall the nights when sleep refused to come, so alone in your thoughts that your only salvation was the comfort of the Seven who would watch over you. Who would listen to you like no one else would.
"Father above, judge me fairly."
Your voice trembles only slightly, memories of the day’s happenings washing over you like a typhoon that seeks to destroy everything in its path.
"Mother, grant me mercy."
Your eyes remain shut. You do not wish to see yourself reflected in the polished marble before you. The face of a Targaryen, a face that belongs to a family infested with sin and poison.
"Warrior, grant my brother strength."
Your lips curl up as your twin Daeron’s face comes unbidden. Your other half.
The two of you had entered the world together amid an established legacy and fierce politics that were only more ignited with the birth of Rhaenyra’s first bastard mere moons before you.
Daeron was the perfect image of what a prince should be, just and kind and gentle. Raised in Oldtown with the Faith illuminating his path forward.
You found your purpose to be more muddled. Women of your age have already been married off, given away to men for favors, for alliances, for power. Yet when you bring up your future to your Lord Ormund, he dismisses you with a delicate caress of your face and more questions left in the air than answers to fill your mind.
The abrasive huff of Daeron’s dragon interrupts your prayers as your hands tighten around each other. You resist the urge to open your eyes and glare. Perhaps your brother’s only fault was the affection he held too tightly onto for his beast, the unmistakable connection that revealed his roots.
Two dragon eggs had been sent to Oldtown amongst the blankets and cradles of yourself and your brother, a chain that bound you to the impure blood of House Targaryen. Daeron’s egg hatched as he grew, a beast he called Tessarion.
Yours never hatched.
When it was clear your egg was never going to transform into a beast, bearing scales upon the hard shell that remained ice cold despite constant heat from hearths, Lord Ormund had pulled you onto his lap and held you with open affection that you had never witnessed before.
“It is a sign of your purity,” he said to you amidst your tears and confusion, naivety leading you to think something was wrong. You remember the warmth of his hand as it stroked your cheek. “Proof that we can cleanse the wretched blood right out of you.”
His satisfaction was perhaps your only saving grace.
"The Maiden, preserve my innocence."
Your throat tightens and you almost laugh at the irony.
There had never been innocence for those born into House Targaryen with madness flowing through your veins. There was the constant knowledge that one day, your blood would be judged by what your ancestors had done.
And the bloodshed that lies beyond the very doors you have barricaded yourself in is just more proof of it, of the destruction that lies within the bones of those who are cursed to carry their name.
"...the Crone, grant me wisdom."
You lower your head more, blocking out any slivers of light that may pass into your vision.
Wisdom enough to understand, to forgive. Wisdom enough to know whether you are truly different from the monsters history claims your family to be.
Your final prayer catches in your throat. It is a name rarely invoked, but one you have found yourself needing to utter recently.
"The Stranger..."
The words feel heavier than usual. They feel more imminent with every passing second that war rages on around you.
"...when my hour comes, receive me kindly."
You quietly bask in your solitude, save for the beast that has calmed since its earlier destruction, granting you a moment of privacy when none can typically be afforded. No footsteps surrounding you, no whispers full of venom in your ears, no judgement to be cast upon your pious display.
There is only peace.
But peace always yearns to be broken.
The heavy wooden doors of the sept groan beneath the force of an impatient hand.
Your eyes remain closed.
For a moment, you allow yourself to be lulled by the illusion that you did not hear it. That the Gods have granted you one final breath of silence before the world demands you return to it.
But the footsteps that follow are too familiar, ones you’ve heard all your life that ring with careful measure and heavy authority. You do not need to turn around to know who has entered.
“My dear girl.”
Lord Ormund Hightower’s voice echoes through the sept, carrying with it the same weight of control that is flaunted by the banners of Oldtown that now hang over the conquered land of Tumbleton.
His.
You scold yourself for the way that your heart still recognizes the sound of his voice, stuttering at the familiar smooth tone that brings you familiarity in a strange, war-torn place. You hate that some small, foolish part of you still searches for comfort in it when your mind knows that none can be afforded to you.
You lower your head further, bowing before the Seven that have guided you with structure and discipline instead of the man whose unpredictability has uneased you so.
“Lord Ormund.” You respond barely above a whisper.
You do not call him father, but the word has always lingered at the base of your tongue.
He is the man who raised you, who held you in his arms as an infant and held your hand when delivering you to the sept for your lessons. The man who took you and your brother in when your mother pleaded, desiring children who were raised to be Hightower and not Targaryen despite the curse that she herself had granted upon you.
Yet he is not your father. He is not a man who loves you unconditionally, and what you feel for him is not the love of a child to their father, but what a devotee feels about their object of admiration.
You were raised to be a perfect Hightower daughter, proof that a Targaryen could be cleansed—proof that he could be the one to strip a Targaryen of the poison that flows through their every fiber of being.
And you silently thank the Gods for it.
But still. Every day is a test, every look sent your way with pointed eyes is another way to see if you will fail him, fail his teachings, fail the undeniable proof of his power and influence.
You find the violence of war pushing on the very foundation of what he has enlightened you to, of the Faith that you have had anchored into your soul, into your very way of life. The blood that spills from every death leaves stains behind that taint the very meaning of the Father’s justice, and taints your understanding of Lord Ormund’s piety.
His boots scrape against the stones below him as he approaches, each step slow and deliberate, but with purpose.
“You should not be here.”
Your eyes open, staring straight ahead as you halt your prayers. The dim light from the candle flames around you fill your vision, the scaly snout of Daeron’s beast glowing faintly in the corner of the room. The sept envelopes itself in darkness as the doors close behind your guardian, leaving you at his mercy.
A bitter laugh almost escapes you, and you respond without turning to look at him, perhaps out of the cowardice that would manifest the moment you lay your eyes upon his face. “I should not be in the sept? Where else do I belong while your men plunder the streets like barbarous creatures?”
He sighs, stepping closer until a gentle but firm hand lays itself upon your shoulder. You resist the urge to flinch at the touch. “Do not be smart with me. You know what I mean.”
Your fingers tighten around the seven-pointed star, as if squeezing it tight enough will provide you with an answer you need.
You know exactly what he means.
You should not be near the place where blood was spilled. You should not have seen what happened. You should not question what you witnessed.
You should simply bow your head, find a more acceptable place to pray, and accept that the men with swords and shields donning the symbols of Oldtown know more of righteousness than those forced to kneel before them.
“The Gods hear all prayers,” you whisper.
“They also hear the commands of their chosen servants.” His thumb rubs against the small sliver of skin uncovered from your gown.
You finally crane your neck to look up at him.
The candlelight flickers against his face, illuminating the familiar features that once brought you safety as a child.
You remember climbing into his lap after nightmares, the way his hand rested on your hair as he told you the Seven watched over you, how he watched over you with the same reverence, to look for their guidance and his to light your way forward.
Agitation simmers deep within you.
“You burned him.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
Lord Ormund does not react with words immediately. Instead, his hand stills and he looks at you with the same expression he wore when you were a child confessing some minor mistake.
Disappointment.
“He was a rebel.” His voice hardens as if sensing that defiance that stirs within you.
“He was protecting his wife,” you bite back.
“He committed violence against a Hightower soldier.”
“He was afraid!” Your voice cracks slightly as it raises for the first time. You stand hastily and whip towards Lord Ormund, and he lets you, the hand on your shoulder almost instructing you to move closer to him. “He saw a man who was to harm his wife and he was afraid.”
His jaw tightens. The hand on you tightens, as if telling you to stand down without words.
“Fear does not excuse an act of treason.”
“And does faith excuse your cruelty?”
The question lingers in the air, imposing on propriety and inviting danger to mingle in the tension that has built between the two of you.
It was a question you knew better to ask. One that causes the brief inception of rage to flicker in his eyes, rage of what rebellion you have let inside of your head and make a home out of your purity he has worked so hard to protect.
You know what he sees in you now. A girl who questions. A girl with too much of her father’s blood still flowing through her veins, with too much of her mother’s weak conscience.
A girl who he has not yet finished training.
“You have spent too much time with your brother,” is what he deigns himself to say.
Your stomach twists with the thought of Daeron. Poor Daeron, too just and kind to be thrown into the boughs of merciless war.
“Daeron is good.”
His smile is tight as his thumb resumes brushing against your smooth skin.
“Indeed he is,” he murmurs. “But he is still a Targaryen. And I’m afraid you still are, too.”
The words strike harder than you expect. Even after all these years, all your lessons and prayers, you are still burdened by the name that you carry.
You were still the daughter of a Targaryen, a daughter of dragons, and Lord Ormund never let you forget it.
“I have spent my entire life trying to prove that I am not.” You know you sound pathetic, desperation dripping from your words for some semblance of acknowledgement, of belonging. Of acceptance you have never received since the moment you left the womb a cursed child.
His expression dampens, but only slightly. In his features there lies a dangerous kind of softness that has always confused you.
“You should not have to prove anything.” His hand moves again, this time caressing your chin with his thumb and index finger. “Yet time and time again you show me that there is still some of that fire in you that I have worked so hard to snuff out. You still kindle the sparks with these impulses. I only mean to save you from it, my dear.”
You almost believe him. Warmth spreads across you, a feeling you have been longing for since the day a raven delivered the news of his death and Aegon’s ascension.
But that warmth is snuffed out almost as quickly as it had spread, dying out as both of his hands gently lift to your face.
It is a gesture you know all too well.
They are the same hands that have comforted you.
The same hands that wiped your tears when you were young.
(The same hand that caressed your brother’s cheek mere hours earlier and called him a good boy before subjecting him to a savagery that makes a mockery out of the justice and mercy that the Father and the Mother promise to uphold.)
His hands move your head to look at him, his eyes searching yours for something that you cannot name. Repentance? Acceptance?
“You were given a blessing most Targaryens never receive.”
Your body stiffens under his touch.
“Guidance.”
The word is gentle, but you know the meaning behind it is not.
“You were raised among the faithful. You were taught humility. I have protected you from the corruption that has plagued your family for generations.”
His thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “You were spared.”
Your breath catches with his words, because that is the cruelest part.
Somewhere deep inside, you have always wondered if he was right. If the Gods truly had spared you.
If your dragon egg remaining cold was a sign that you were good, that you could be saved. That your inability to claim a beast meant you were never supposed to be like them.
And yet you think of Daeron, of his compassion and kindness. Of the way he feels a kinship with his beast, of the way you knew he felt sympathy for the people Oldtown had conquered when others only saw their usefulness.
You think of your mother.
Of the small glimpses you remember from the last time you saw her, before even reaching ten. Of the deep red hair that Daeron had inherited, the plushness of her lips as she kissed your forehead in a fleeting goodbye, the way her trembling hands moved to clutch the seven-pointed star around your neck as she whispered, my girl.
Of the woman who you know deep in your heart loved you enough to send you away despite delivering sin into this world.
And you wonder what your duty is, what the Gods truly have planned for you if not to follow their ways.
“Was it righteous?” you ask quietly.
Lord Ormund’s hands still.
“What do you speak of now, darling?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours as a faint crinkle forms in his brow, perhaps out of concern.
“With what happened today.” The topic feels like stepping onto thin ice, crackling beneath the weight of undiscovered consequence.
“Was it righteous?” you repeat.
His expression falters for a brief moment. But you catch it, and you see it—the realization that you are not truly asking about the man who was put to death, but of Daeron. Of him.
You are questioning him. His decisions. His teachings. His devotion.
You are questioning the man who raised you to fear the monster within your own veins while slowly showing you that monsters could wear the colors of the Faith.
“You question your brother?” His voice is steady and flat, answering you more with a firm response rather than a question. It feels too harsh coming from the man before you, the root of a warning that threatens to grow into a ferocious weed.
“No.” Your answer comes quickly and you raise your hand to cover his own that still rests upon your cheek, still seeking his tenderness despite it all. Tears sting your eyes and you inhale with a shuddering breath as Lord Ormund pulls you close to his chest at the sight.
“I question myself.”
And that, more than anything, is what seems to wound him. Because Ormund can tolerate hatred and rebellion. He can fix that, mold you back into the good girl he knows you can be. But he cannot tolerate the possibility that you do not see him as your salvation.
He leans forward slightly, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.
“You are tired, my dear girl.” His voice lowers as he brings his lips to your ear, stroking your face in a dull pattern that seeks to lull you. “You have seen too much today.”
Perhaps you have, and perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps you have seen enough to know that the world is not divided as cleanly as the sermons claimed.
Good and evil, faith and sin, purity and impurity, all tangled in the same wretched roots that have been made to sow war and deceit and violence. All trampled among the feet of soldiers fighting battles they do not have answers to.
Perhaps the Gods are not asking you to choose between the blood in your veins and the prayers in your heart. Perhaps they are asking you to understand why both exist.
And yet no answers come. You do not know what they are looking for. Just as you have not known the answer to anything, only knowing the way your knees scrape the stones when you pray for long hours, and the way that the Seven provide comfort when no one else can.
Somehow the uncertainty frightens you more than the war ever could.
“I need to confess to you, my Lord.”
My Lord. The words sound like pure honey and lavender to his ears, the sweet unease of your voice a gift for him from the Gods themselves. It is what you called him when you were a young little thing, tiny hands clutching onto his doublets, unsure and untaught about the proper rules that a young girl must follow.
It reminds him of when you were good, when you listened to his every word like he was whose name was on your lips every time you knelt and prayed before succumbing to the vulnerabilty of sleep.
“Speak.”
His voice is commanding, shepherding you to a guiding light. To his guiding light.
A shuddering breath leaves your lips, and a tear glides down your cheek from the corner of your eye. Ormund wipes it with his thumb, his touch lingering on the proof of your possible atonement that he may grant you.
“I do not know what I am supposed to be. What you wish me to be.”
The confession is barely audible, so low that if his breath were not mingling with yours, he may have missed it entirely.
In that moment, Ormund does not see you as a symbol, or as a Targaryen. He sees you as a frightened girl pleading before the Seven. Before him. A girl in desperate need of his guidance.
“Dear girl, you are mine.”
The words bring only a small semblance of comfort to you, despite understanding what they mean. You are his possession, his responsibility, his girl.
You are someone that he loves to keep, loves the idea of, and naively, you think that this means he has come to love you.
They are words you have heard before, words that have been uttered when no one else can impede. Words only meant for the two of you to hear. It feels special, somehow, an important secret he has placed his trust in you to keep.
And yet your gaze drops back to the seven-pointed star in your hand, resting upon your chest, of the confliction that still refuses to settle itself inside of you.
"But I belong to the Seven."
Ormund watches you carefully, searching your features for any touch of disobedience.
"And the Seven gave you to me."
You don’t know how to respond. The silence that follows is colder than any winter the North may suffer.
Behind you, Tessarion lets out a faint grunt, a potent reminder of the vileness that Ormund has worked so hard to erase from your very being. The connection of your twin, your other half, that cannot deny the dragon blood that flows through him. The piece of you that Ormund has taught you to deny, to distance yourself from.
His eyes flicker toward the beast with open disdain before returning to you. There is something unsettling in the calm with which he studies your face, as though weighing whether the girl he raised still exists beneath the blood he has spent a lifetime trying to purge.
"Look at me," he says.
You do, without hesitation.
His fingers tighten beneath your chin, leaving no room for you to turn away. The gesture is practiced, almost gentle, but you recognize it for what it is. It is not affection, but direction, a means to instruct your way of being.
Before you can make sense of the look in his eyes, he leans forward.
His lips brush against yours.
The contact is brief. Colder than you could have imagined. It steals the breath from your lungs not because of its tenderness, but because every instinct in your body rebels against the unknown feeling, rebels against your Lord Ormund indulging in weakness, into a dangerous spiral of depravity. You freeze completely, a closed fist against his strong chest, your mind emptying as though the Stranger himself passed a hand over your thoughts.
When he draws back, lips glistening with saliva and new breath filling his lungs, you cannot meet his gaze.
Shame blooms hot beneath your skin, and you feel more stained than the stones covered in the faint red of spilled blood beneath your feet.
Your fingers fly to the seven-pointed star hanging at your throat. The pointed silver bites into your palm as you clutch it desperately, as if the familiar edges might anchor you to something holy.
You silently think of the Mother—of your mother, fleetingly,—and pray for an answer, a means to understand.
Nothing comes, and your mind remains silent, the previous storm settled into an eerie calm.
“My Lord…” you start, but the words you wished to say escape you and shatter into miniscule pieces of uselessness.
Ormund's expression remains composed, almost paternal, almost affectionate, as though nothing improper has occurred. As if he has not made you question your entire livelihood, the true intentions he hid from you in your upbringing.
“Do not look so frightened, my girl,” he says quietly, too intimate for your liking. “You have always sought my guidance. Let us not stray from that now.”
The instinctual feeling of reassurance in your stomach fills you with quiet horror.
His eyes search yours as he lifts your head back to him. He’s looking for your agreement, your submission. A nod.
You nod.
A smirk pulls at his lips as he caresses your face once more.
“Come.” He pulls away, and you curse yourself for chasing after his warmth, the familiarity of his touch. You link your arm into his as he begins walking away.
“Where to?”
His eyes find yours again. “Back to our lodging.” He squeezes your hand that rests on his arm, as if silently anchoring your hold to him. “Your brother needs you.”
You almost ask if it is Daeron that needs you or you that needs Daeron at this moment, but you smartly hold your tongue this time.
Instead you decide to give into your weaknesses, sinking back into the contention that Lord Ormund’s touch brings you, a feeling that you can predict and that you can rely on even if deep down you know you shouldn’t.
Next to you, Ormund smiles as he feels you return back to him, your head resting against his shoulder as he leads you out of the sept, you letting him control your path forward.
His darling girl knows that he will save her from her innate faults. That he will save you from falling into the wickedness that rules over your namesake.
He will continue to show you what you can become. What he can make you.
A girl that he can mold to prove that blood can be overcome from devotion.
A girl that will worship him as one would a God, who would bring her to her knees and cry out for him, for him to grant her salvation.
Just got back from supergirl and just one of the many things I loved about it was the way Kara said this man needs to die so he can’t hurt anyone else but I can’t let you do it out of revenge. I can’t let that weigh on your heart for the rest of your life when it’s already so heavy. Idk I’m just insane for the idea of that being how she’s a hero—telling someone you don’t have to carry this weight on your shoulders you don’t have to have this blood on your hands I will do it for you. I will live with knowing I’ve done something terrible as long as it means you don’t have to.
kara zor-el lazy thought | mdni, suggestive, fem!reader
thinking about kara seeing you in lingerie for the first time
the immediate toothy grin that tells you she’s going to eat you alive. her fingers immediately tracing along the lace, her tongue wetting her lips as she absorbs the texture and your warmth. “you look beautiful,” she whispers, eyes flickering to yours with a shining hunger. “edible, even.” mhm
her hands moving slow as hell make their way to your thighs, scooping you up and walking you to your bed. you laugh as she nips at your neck, then your body bounces on the bed when she drops you down. she just stands at the end of the bed for a moment, admiring how you look in the lingerie. you’re moving your body up the bed, positioning yourself for what’s to come. kara’s pulling her hair back into a low ponytail, one less obstacle.
her teeth flash in a smile, shaking her head. “no, no, get back here.” she teases, fingers grasping onto your ankle and tugging you back to her. she’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangle over the edge of the bed. you quietly gasp, and kara’s hands immediately move to your knees to spread you open for her. “let’s just start here, keep that pretty top on for now.”
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
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kianamaiart
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areudirty
blakekathryn
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