Summary: You are a Targaryen princess raised in the care of your uncle, Lord Ormund Hightower, a man determined to use you as a piece on his board. You confide in your other uncle, Ser Gwayne Hightower—the one person who has always made you feel heard.
Fear of dying unloved leads you to Gwayne’s chambers in the night. What begins as a need for someone to speak to becomes a confession neither of you is prepared for.
Warnings: incest, age-gap. The reader replaces Daeron Targaryen in this and is an adult.
Author’s note: I am aware that the ending feels a little abrupt, but I was struggling with how to continue and decided to leave it here rather than force an ending I wasn’t content with. If this gets enough attention, I would be willing to write a continuation.
You stand behind your uncle, hands neatly clasped before you.
Ser Gwayne rides up, his horse damp with sweat, its nostrils flaring as it comes to a halt before Lord Ormund. Gwayne swings one leg over the horse's neck and drops to the ground, the leather on his boots creaking beneath his weight.
You despise yourself for noticing how effortless he makes it look.
You blame the Targaryen blood in your veins for that weakness. It must be an inherited curse—to desire your own blood.
“They’ve crossed the Blackwater Rush,” Gwayne says, his breath coming in ragged pants as he approaches Ormund.
“How many?” Ormund asks, though his voice lacks the urgency such reports demand. If anything, he sounds amused.
“Twenty thousand. A day’s march away. Two at most.”
“So,” Ormund says, suppressing a cruel grin that makes your blood boil, “your dim but ambitious Dornish friend died in the mud for nothing.”
You cannot believe he says it so lightly.
The words land like a slap. You watch Gwayne’s expression tighten. His jaw flexes. His shoulders stiffen.
“That is no matter. I have a piece on the board now that will bring the bitch to her knees.”
Your stomach twists.
You hate him.
You hate the way he delights in prodding Gwayne’s grief simply because he can.
Without another word, Ormund turns his back on you both.
“And what is that?” Gwayne calls after him, his voice strained.
No answer comes, only mocking silence.
You watch Gwayne’s head lower. You unclasp your hands and take a cautious step toward him.
“Come, uncle,” you say softly, reaching out as if to steady him. “You must be fatigued from the ride.”
For a moment, you could swear he is on the verge of breaking.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate. “For what he said. For your loss.”
“Aye,” he manages.
-
“The fool truly believes that with Lord Corlys as his hostage—” You cut yourself off with a groan, pacing before Gwayne’s chair.
With him, words come easily. They always have.
“Is this his ‘piece on the board’?” Gwayne asks, disbelief plain upon his face.
You stop long enough to shoot him a look.
“He made me sit beside him. Forced me to endure his endless prattle while he tried to twist Lord Corlys into betraying his Queen.”
“He made me watch as they…”
You rub your palms over your eyes as though you could erase the memory.
“As they cut off his finger.”
The image refuses to leave your mind.
The scream.
The blood.
“He speaks of making me queen.” You lower your hands. “Yet he treats me no differently than another piece upon his board.”
His hand rises, gesturing for you to lower your voice.
You obey, sinking heavily into the chair opposite him.
“I hate who I become around him.”
The confession slips past your lips before you can stop it.
You reach for the cup before him without asking permission. The alcohol burns a trail down your throat, sending you into a coughing fit that leaves your eyes watering. Gwayne’s lips twitch just enough to betray his amusement.
“Oh, do not mock me,” you mutter hoarsely, wiping at your eyes. “I am pouring my heart out.”
“I am not mocking you.” His voice is gentle enough that you almost believe him.
You roll your eyes before shoving the cup back into his hands.
“You cannot leave me with him.” You point an accusing finger at him, your braid slipping over your shoulder as you lean forward. “Not again. I will not allow it.”
His smile fades.
“You know how he is.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “He finds the cracks inside my mind and pries them wider.” You fold your hands tightly in your lap, knuckles white. “He makes me question myself until I scarcely know which thoughts are mine. He makes me do things I despise.” You swallow hard against the lump in your throat. “What sort of queen would that make me?”
Gwayne stares into his cup as though the answer might be waiting at its bottom, his brow furrowed. After a long silence, he sets the cup down with a thud.
“You could fly away,” he suggests, though he knows better.
You let out a humourless laugh.
“I have thought of it.”
Many times.
“And then what?” you ask. “Watch you all march to the gallows?”
The question hangs between you.
“Where would I even go?”
There is nowhere worth going if it means leaving him behind.
“I am but a woman,” you say, pitching your voice into a poor imitation of Ormund’s. “‘Squeamish.’”
He turns his face away to hide the smile tugging at his lips.
Despite yourself, you smile too.
It fades as quickly as it came.
“Rhaenyra may keep her crown, for all I care. I never wanted any of this.”
That is precisely what he admires about you.
In a world where men would kill for such power, your reluctance is the very thing that makes him believe you might deserve it.
“Forgive me,” you murmur, realizing that you have been rattling on.
You offer him a sheepish smile. “I have been going on about myself.”
“A little,” he says with a grin.
You huff.
“I care for you deeply. You have a way of making me feel heard.” You nudge his boot with your foot.
His hand moves before you can pull away.
He catches your ankle, his fingers curling gently around it.
His gaze drops to where his thumb caresses your bare skin. He seems reluctant to look at you now, as though meeting your eyes might betray something he is not yet ready to confess.
“I care for you, too,” he says at last.
You stare at him, your lips parting as you search for words.
“I—I should see if Lord Ormund needs tending to.”
His hand falls away from your ankle.
You rise from the chair, smoothing your skirts.
“I have kept you long enough.”
You hesitate a moment before turning toward the door.
-
That night, sleep refuses to come to you.
You lie awake, staring at the canopy overhead, plagued by a thought you have had one too many times.
Why has no lord offered for your hand?
The thought is foolish. Such matters should be the least of your concerns at this moment. And yet, you cannot seem to shake it.
You will likely die without knowing what it is like to be loved.
Your gaze drifts to the robe draped over the chair beside your bed. You stare at it for a moment before sitting up. Your fingers graze the fabric.
What would you even say to him?
You let your hand fall into your lap.
It is late. Gwayne should be asleep by now, and waking him simply because you cannot quiet your thoughts would be selfish.
You lie back down, close your eyes, and turn onto your side.
Perhaps you only need someone to speak to.
And if anyone can convince you that you are being foolish, it is your uncle.
You sit up with a quiet sigh.
You reach for the robe, and this time, you do not stop yourself, slipping it over your nightgown.
Every step toward Gwayne’s quarters is a battle between propriety and desperation. You nearly retreat to your chambers twice before finally reaching his door.
Your knock echoes down the quiet hallway.
Silence.
You nearly turn away.
Then, from within, comes his raspy voice.
“Come in.”
You open the door to find Gwayne propped up against the headboard, his hair ruffled from sleep. The linen of his nightshirt falls open at the chest, exposing the pale flesh beneath.
He looks up, his eyes meeting yours with immediate concern.
You lower your eyes, fidgeting with the sleeve of your robe.
“To what do I owe your presence at this hour?” he asks, his voice still thick with sleep.
There is no irritation in his voice. Only confusion.
“I could not sleep.”
Something in his expression changes.
“You could not sleep,” he repeats.
You shake your head.
You approach the bed cautiously, lowering yourself onto the very edge of the mattress.
The bed dips beneath your weight.
You immediately rise.
He watches you, one brow lifting, but says nothing.
You make your way toward the table where the pitcher and cups sit.
“Do you have more of that…” You glance back at him. “The drink from earlier?”
You take the pitcher, surprised to find it refilled, and pour yourself a cup.
“Could you not sleep?” Gwayne asks.
You glance over your shoulder.
“Or have you come here simply to empty my pitcher?”
There is a grin on his face.
You huff, taking a sip.
Gwayne watches you expectantly, as though waiting for you to choke on it again.
“I told you. I could not sleep.”
“Aye. And yet you have said nothing about what troubles you.”
You lower the cup.
“I…”
Gwayne’s grin fades.
His eyes search your face.
“I am afraid,” you admit.
Gwayne shifts against the headboard, sitting straighter.
“Of what?”
You bite your lip, worrying at it between your teeth as you search for the words.
The small gesture is more distracting to him than it ought to be.
He shifts, clearing his throat.
“Come here.”
He pats the space beside him on the bed.
You make your way to him, stopping beside the bed.
Gwayne reaches for you.
He takes the cup from your grasp and sets it upon the nightstand beside him. Then, still holding your hand, he gives a gentle tug, guiding you down onto the bed beside him.
Only then does he seem to take in how you have come to him.
The robe sits loosely over your nightgown. Your bare feet disappear beneath the hem as you lower yourself beside him.
He has admired you dressed in gowns, adorned with jewels, your hair carefully arranged. But this is different.
For one selfish moment, he wishes you had come to him for another reason.
He forces his gaze back to your face, only to find you staring at your joined hands.
“I am afraid this war will take my life.”
His fingers tighten around yours.
“I know it is foolish,” you say. “There are men dying in my name every day.”
“It is not foolish.”
His answer comes without a moment’s thought.
“You have every right to be frightened.”
Gwayne’s thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles.
“I keep thinking…” You pause. “What if I die before I ever know?”
His brow furrows.
“Know what?”
“What it is like to be loved.”
For a moment, Gwayne can only stare at you.
He curses himself.
There had been suitors. More than a few, over the years. Men who had offered for your hand. Ormund had rejected them, and Gwayne had never opposed him. Quite the opposite. He had always found some reason to agree.
He had done so selfishly.
But he had never wanted this.
He did not want you lying awake at night wondering whether anyone could love you.
His thumb stills against your knuckles.
“You are not so difficult to love,” he says hoarsely.
You reluctantly withdraw your hand from his.
You have spent years withholding yourself. Surely you can muster the strength to do so now.
“I should not have come,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.
“Look at me.”
You shake your head, but he says it again, coaxing gently. “Look at me.”
His fingers find your chin, gently lifting it until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. You cannot bring yourself to pretend you do not feel it any longer. You should leave. You know you should.
Instead, you find yourself leaning toward him.
Your lips meet his in an uncertain kiss. You have never kissed anyone before. Never imagined kissing anyone but him.
A quiet hum of appreciation escapes him against your lips, and the sound leaves you lightheaded.
You pull away, startled by your own boldness.
“Oh, gods. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” His voice is rough with restraint.
Duncan the Tall x Baratheon Reader x third wheel Lyonel Baratheon.
Summary: You and Ser Duncan the Tall fall in love despite your class difference. Duty and honour eventually force him to leave, believing it is for your sake. You let him go because you know and love the man he is.
Warnings: Forbidden love, class difference, heartbreak.
Author’s note: I wrote this inspired by parts of the lyrics from the new release of one of my favourite bands, “Saw You Stand” by Greta Van Fleet.
“I had hoped we would have more time together,” Lyonel Baratheon says, his hand drifting to his beard.
Duncan the Tall gives the girth another pull. Thunder snorts as if in protest.
“I know,” Duncan mutters, patting the big stallion’s neck. “I do not wish to leave either.”
“Then do not,” the heir to Storm’s End says.
The words come quickly, desperately, and Duncan cannot help but smile at the effort.
“I could have a word with my father. He may yet be persuaded.”
“It is best I leave.”
Duncan walks toward Lyonel. Farewells have never come easily to him. That is why he chooses to ride tonight. For he knows that if he had stood before you, if he had looked upon your face, he would never have found the strength to go.
Lyonel looks torn. Never in all his days has he seen you, his sister, so distraught as when you learned Duncan planned to leave Storm’s End.
Leaving you.
“She asked me to hand you this.” Lyonel holds out a scroll sealed with wax.
For a moment, Duncan stares at it. His hand twitches at his side before he takes the scroll from Lyonel. He turns it over once, then slips it into his bag, taking care not to damage it.
Lyonel watches him do so, disappointment flickering across his face. He had hoped Duncan would break the seal then and there. He had hoped that whatever words were written upon the parchment might give him reason to stay.
“I suppose this is the part where I hate you like a brother,” Lyonel says, though there is little hatred in his voice. “We could have been a force, you and I.”
“We will meet again,” Duncan says, though he cannot bring himself to meet Lyonel’s eyes.
He places his boot in the stirrup and swings himself into Thunder’s saddle. The stallion shifts beneath him, leather creaking softly as Duncan takes up the reins.
It is not until Storm’s End has vanished into the darkness that Duncan reins Thunder to a halt. The wind off Shipbreaker Bay tugs at his cloak as he reaches inside his bag and takes out the scroll.
His fingers hover over the seal for a moment before he breaks it. He holds the parchment close, squinting in the pale moonlight as the wind pulls at the edges.
Anyone who ever loved could look at me
And know that I loved you.
-
The Baratheon pavilion smells of wine, ale, and the sweat of too many bodies packed beneath its silk. Minstrels play lively tunes. Men shout over one another. The pavilion is Lyonel Baratheon made flesh: boisterous and impossible to ignore.
Lyonel notices you beside him, though the alcohol has blurred the world around him.
You sit with your spine straight, composed amid the chaos of your brother’s making. Watching. Listening.
At first glance, there is no mistaking you are a Baratheon. Yet despite looking like your brother, you are his opposite.
Lyonel is the storm.
You are the calm before it.
“By the Mother, you sip your wine as if it is tea!” Lyonel's voice booms He lets out one of those loud laughs that earned him his nickname.
He reaches out, his large, calloused hand clapping roughly but affectionately on your shoulder. “What's the matter? I will not have you sit here looking as if you’re awaiting execution.”
You flinch, tightening your grip on your goblet. “It is not the wine, Lyonel. I simply find myself feeling …” You hesitate, searching for a word that will not sound like weakness. Then you offer him an apologetic smile. “I fear I have reached my limit for toni—”
You fall silent.
A man stands before you, so tall that even Lyonel must look up. Which seems impossible.
He stands there with a half-eaten pastry in hand, still chewing as he looks between you and Lyonel.
Lyonel stares at him before letting out a sigh.
“You ever been punched in the face before?” he asks.
You close your eyes.
The man leans forward, as if he is uncertain he has heard correctly.
“I beg… I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
You nudge your brother beneath the table, a quiet plea for mercy. You feel a pang of sympathy for the stranger standing before you.
Lyonel ignores your nudge.
“Big men get punched more often than little men. Did you know that?”
The tall man blinks, still holding his pastry. “No, but… but I believe it.”
“And is that why you slouch?” Lyonel asks. “So you do not get punched?” He points his dagger toward the man.
You reach out and take hold of his wrist, gently lowering the dagger. “Lyonel.”
The warning earns you a grin.
“I… I do not slouch,” the man says.
“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel chuckles, pleased with himself.
You offer the man a sympathetic smile.
“I… I meant no disrespect, ser. Honest. Where I grew up, you… you learn to go unnoticed, is all,” the man explains.
“The Seven above gave you tallness,” Lyonel says. “So be tall.”
Relief washes over you; for now, you understand your brother’s intentions.
Lyonel has always respected those who possess strength. Those who stand their ground. Those who push back.
And the man has done exactly that.
“Or I will name you a heretic and burn you. Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl—” Lyonel pauses. “I do not know. W-What do they do to heretics?”
“Burn them, my lord.”
One of the men at the table answers.
You give him a disapproving glance, and he wisely lowers his eyes.
“Fine.” Lyonel turns back to the tall man. “What have you brought me?”
The storm seems to pass.
“Um… uh, ser, I…” The man clears his throat. “Beggin’ your pardons. I… I did not realize.”
“You wish to curry my favor some.” Lyonel says. “Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red. He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shined up this… bauble from his family’s cellars, for he understands that” Lyonel leans forward. “All men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head.”
The words hang between them.
“You have come for my head, then.”
“W-what? No!” The tall man stammers. “No.”
You sink back into your chair.
Lyonel is not truly accusing him.
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?”
“S-Supper.”
For a moment, there is silence.
Then Lyonel laughs. “Alright,” he says. “Actually makes sense.”
You cannot help it. A laugh escapes you as well. “Supper,” you echo, shaking your head.
Lyonel turns back to the tall man. “What is your name, man?”
You lean forward, curious. The stranger notices and looks toward you before answering.
“Dunk… Ser Dunk.”
Lyonel stares at him. “That is ridiculous.”
The man blinks.
Then Lyonel grins. “Do you like dancing?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Ser Dunk replies.
A slow smile spreads across Lyonel’s face. He turns toward you.
You know that look.
There goes any hope of retiring for the night.
Your brother has found you a dance partner.
For someone who claimed to like dancing, Ser Dunk is hesitant to take your hand. So, you do not wait for him to lead, tugging him with you.
He is enormous, all broad shoulders and strength, built like a knight from the songs. Yet there is nothing harsh about him in this moment. His hands hold yours with surprising gentleness.
Slowly, he begins to loosen. The tension leaves his shoulders, and he starts to enjoy himself rather than agonize over every step.
Then, as if the Seven themselves have decided to humble him, his boot lands squarely on your toe.
You burst into laughter, grasping his forearms to steady yourself.
Ser Dunk freezes, mortified.
“Forgive me,” he blurts.
You only laugh harder.
I saw you standing
When you took my hand
-
You run your fingers over the fabrics spread across the merchant’s stall, feeling the different textures beneath your fingertips.
“This one,” you say, touching the fabric. “And the blue beside it.”
Your sworn shield steps closer, following your gaze. “This one, my lady?”
You nod. “Yes, please.”
Your sworn shield inclines his head, already turning toward the merchant to manage the transaction.
You hear a goose honk.
A merchant raises his cleaver to the goose’s neck.
And there he is.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Ser Dunk interrupts him.
“Um, uh, goose eggs. Just… just the eggs. No, no, no, uh… Shit, um,” he flaps his arms, “goose eggs, like…”
He points toward his own backside.
“Just the…”
You press your lips together, suppressing a smile.
The merchant finally understands and hands Ser Dunk two eggs.
“Thank you,” he says.
You glance toward your sworn shield, who is still occupied with the merchant, and make your way toward him.
The moment he notices you, his face flushes.
Little do you know, he has thought of you ever since that night.
“Do you…” He clears his throat. “Do you like goose eggs?”
Your gaze drops to the eggs in his hands.
Then back to him.
“Is this your way of asking me to join you for breakfast, Ser Dunk?”
You and your sworn shield follow Ser Dunk back toward his camp.
The further you walk, the more the reality settles in.
Ser Dunk is a hedge knight.
Your gaze falls upon the small camp and then upon the boy waiting there.
For a heartbeat, you wonder if he is his son.
“My lady,” the boy says, offering a bow.
You blink.
The greeting is not what you expected.
Before you can question it, Ser Dunk clears his throat.
“This is my squire,” he says. “Egg.”
You look between them.
Little do you know, you are standing before Prince Aegon Targaryen.
“Right then,” you say, looking around the small camp. “Tell me where I can help.”
You turn toward your sworn shield and remove your cloak, handing it to him.
You insist on taking the smallest portion.
Seeing the way Egg watches the food, hunger plain in his eyes, you cannot bring yourself to take more. Yet Ser Dunk does not hesitate to share what little he has with you.
Sitting in the grass with them, enjoying the view, you find yourself surprised by how much you enjoy the simplicity of it.
“Tell me,” you say, turning toward Ser Dunk. “Dunk has to be short for—”
“Duncan.”
“Aye, thought so.” You smile. “Ser Duncan the Tall, then. Sounds more proper.”
I hope that you'll always know
Life with you made me whole
-
“I cannot thank you enough,” Duncan says as he approaches you and Lyonel before the trial of seven. “Nor Ser Steffon for bringing you.”
“Who the fuck is Ser Stevron?” Lyonel asks.
You glance toward Egg, who is swinging an axe in the distance.
“Your… boy found me.”
Egg grunts in acknowledgement, not bothering to look up.
“Hasn’t been a trial of seven for a hundred years,” Lyonel says. A grin spreads across his face. “I wasn’t about to miss a chance to bloody up the Kingsguard in their pretty white gowns.”
You cannot help but smile at your brother’s enthusiasm.
But your smile fades as your hand slips from his. Lyonel is holding it, attempting to ease your mind.
Because not only will he be fighting.
So will Duncan.
And you have grown rather... close.
“A moment, brother,” you say.
Lyonel looks between you and Duncan, understanding immediately. A knowing smile touches his face before he steps away, granting you the privacy you ask for.
“I have brought you something,” you say. Your usual confidence falters as you hold out an embroidered handkerchief, carefully stitched by your own hand.
“Thank you,” he says, his fingers running over the embroidery. “I will carry it close to my heart.”
You look away, uncertain what to do with yourself.
“You look pale,” he says, looking you over.
You let out a soft huff. “I have been rather sick all morning.”
His brows lift. “Have you?”
You nod.
Duncan hesitates before admitting, “So have I.”
-
The trial is over.
The cheers have faded, replaced by the groans of the wounded.
You sit beside Lyonel as they tend to him, your hands restless in your lap. Your voice is rough from shouting yourself hoarse in the stands.
You should be relieved. Your brother is alive. Yet your eyes keep drifting beyond him.
Looking.
Searching.
Lyonel notices. Of course he does.
“You know,” he says, wincing as the healer works, “I can see right through you.”
You look back at him.
“Lyonel—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Go.”
You hesitate. “I should stay.”
“You should not.” He shifts. “I am fine.”
“You do not look it,” you argue, but he gives you a look that reminds you he is still your older brother.
“Go find him.”
Your expression softens.
Lyonel sighs. “You have been looking for him since the moment they blew the horn.” Then, more gently, Lyonel adds, “And I am fine.”
Slowly, you rise. “Thank you.”
Lyonel waves you away. “Go before I change my mind.”
All you can hear is the clash of steel echoing in your memory.
The thunder of hooves.
Only now that it is over do your hands begin to shake. Tears sting your eyes.
“Has anyone died?”
You round the corner.
Duncan sits upon a bench, supported on either side by Raymun Fossoway and Steely Pate. His face is streaked with blood, one eye beginning to swell shut.
“Beesbury and Hardyng,” Raymun answers. “In the first charge.”
Duncan lowers his gaze.
“One moment, I felt drunk,” he murmurs. “The next... like I was dying.”
Then he looks up and sees you.
A sob escapes you before you can stop it.
You cross the distance between you in hurried steps, dropping to your knees beside him.
Your hands hover helplessly over him.
You ache to touch him, but you fear causing him more pain. So instead, you press a gentle kiss to his bloodied jaw.
Duncan's hand finds yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You could not care less about the blood smeared across your skin.
“You're crying,” he murmurs. As though he cannot fathom why.
“The lance point drove the rings deep into his flesh,” you hear Pate say to Raymun. You stare at him in horror.
“We’ll get drunk,” he adds, “then we’ll pour, uh, boiling oil on it. That’s how the maesters do it.”
“Wine. Not oil. Oil will kill him.”
You look up.
Baelor Targaryen approaches. “I’ll send Maester Yormwell to have a look at him once he’s done tending to my brother.”
What a heart and what a beat
Remembering how much I loved you
-
The round hall feels colder than it should.
Your father stands before you, his disappointment clear.
It was Lyonel who convinced Duncan to return with you to Storm’s End.
For weeks, you had grown closer. Days spent together turned into stolen moments, and stolen moments into something neither of you could deny.
Until a maid walked in on you and Duncan.
And now the truth you had tried so carefully to keep hidden stands exposed.
“You are a Baratheon,” your father says. “Do you understand what that means?”
You lower your gaze. “I do.”
“Do you?” His expression hardens. “Because it seems you have forgotten.”
Before you can answer, Lyonel steps forward. “She has forgotten nothing.”
Your eyes lift.
Your brother stands between you and your father, as he has done countless times before.
“Lyonel,” your father warns.
“No.” Lyonel shakes his head.
Your father’s jaw tightens. “She has risked her name.”
“For the sake of love.”
The words hang in the hall.
“Love?”
Lyonel does not retreat. “Aye.”
You glance toward your brother, surprised by the certainty in his voice.
“He is a good man,” Lyonel continues. “A better one than many born to titles.”
Your father looks away. “A hedge knight.”
The words are spoken as an insult.
You swallow. “I did not choose his birth.” Your voice falters.
“No,” your father says. “But you were born into yours.”
Your heart aches at the truth of it.
In the end I hope you know that I chose you
Because I loved you
-
You watch from the narrow window of your chamber as Duncan rides into the darkness.
You have no tears left to cry. Because somewhere deep down, you had always known this moment would come. Perhaps that is the cruellest part.
Duncan believed leaving was what was best. To break his own heart if he believed it would protect yours.
You could have begged him to stay. But what good would it have done?
Summary: Though you are bound to Ormund Hightower by marriage, your heart has never belonged to him.
Warnings: Forbidden love, infidelity, religious guilt, yearning.
Author’s note: Guess who has emerged from hibernation? Me! A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and the latest season of House of the Dragon have rekindled my imagination. As usual, I am feeling a little anxious sharing this, but I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading!
And… should I write for Duncan the Tall next?
Your quill scratches against the parchment as you attempt to compose words that would sound both dutiful and affectionate for Ormund, though your mind wanders far from the duties of a wife. A knock against the heavy oak door interrupts your concentration, startling you enough to leave a small blot of ink near your signature.
“Enter,” you call out, smoothing your green skirts as the door creaks open to reveal your sworn shield.
“My lady, Ser Gwayne Hightower has returned.”
Your heart gives a treacherous flutter against your ribs.
No raven has taken flight from Tumbleton, nor has any messenger arrived to announce Gwayne’s return. For all you know, Ormund remains at Tumbleton, and Gwayne rides on campaign with Ser Criston Cole. You have spent countless nights whispering prayers to the Seven for Gwayne’s safety, while your pleas for Ormund have grown rare.
The quill slips from your fingers as you rise so abruptly that the chair screeches against the stone floor. “Take me to him,” you demand.
“At once, my lady.”
The silk of your skirts rustles against the stone as you cross your chamber, each step stirring memories you have buried for months.
Stolen moments when the world turned its back, the kisses that tasted of treason, and the sins committed behind closed doors – they all resurface now.
Though you are bound to Ormund Hightower by marriage, your heart has never belonged to him.
Your sworn shield slows his pace as you approach the great hall. “By your leave, my lady.”
“Granted, you may leave us,” you reply. He bows low, the scrape of his boots echoing against the stone before he disappears down the corridor, leaving you alone before the towering doors.
You draw a deep breath, willing your face into the composure expected of Lady Hightower. Beyond these doors waits the man you have prayed for since he rode from Oldtown.
The door groans as you push it open, revealing a quiet great hall. Only one man stands within.
“Gwayne,” you breathe, his name slipping past your lips before you can catch it.
Gwayne turns at the sound of the door, and for a heartbeat, something unguarded flickers across his features that vanishes before it can take root. Then, his composure returns, replacing vulnerability with the practised courtesy of a knight acknowledging his lord's wife.
“My lady,” he murmurs with a dip of the head. The formality feels like a blade between your ribs.
“Ser,” you retort before approaching him. “You did not write,” you say. “I would have awaited you in the courtyard, had you seen fit to send word of your return.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Forgive me.”
Only then do you truly look at him. The campaign has left its mark. Shadows lie beneath his eyes. His face is leaner than when he rode from Oldtown. He has shed his armour, yet he carries the phantom weight of it in the way he holds his shoulders.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to touch him.
“What of my husband?” you ask with a tilt of your head, feigning the concern expected of Lady Hightower. It does not quite reach your eyes.
“Lord Ormund remains at Tumbleton,” he says cautiously, as if it should disappoint you. A muscle in his jaw jumps, betraying the unease that his cousin’s name stirs within him.
“For a noble cause,” you say after some thought. “I shall have to remain patient.” The lie comes with the practised ease of a woman who has spent years concealing her heart.
Your hand rises to settle against his forearm. His muscles tense beneath the sleeve of his gambeson. Your thumb brushes over a dried stain worked into the weave, blood, perhaps. You find yourself smoothing the fabric, as though you can undo the violence he has endured.
Leaning closer until the heat of him radiates against your skin, you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do not be a stranger, Gwayne. Not after all this time.”
You search his face, desperate to find the man you have longed for.
For a moment, you think he means to meet you halfway.
He inhales sharply. Then, with visible reluctance, he turns his head.
Your lips brush the edge of his jaw before you can stop yourself.
Gwayne’s eyes close, as though denying himself pains him. A shuddering breath escapes him before he opens them again, fixing his gaze somewhere over your shoulder rather than upon your face.
“We cannot,” he whispers.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
His hand rises slowly to cover yours where it still rests against his forearm. His calloused fingers curl gently around yours. He lifts your hand between you. His lips find your knuckles in a gentle kiss.
“I have fought alongside men who lost their lives for House Hightower. I cannot be the one who brings dishonour upon it.”
Only then does he release your hand.
You look away first, refusing to let him see how your eyes glaze over.
“You must be weary, Ser.”
The title is deliberate this time.
“Rest and refresh yourself.” Your voice remains composed, though your heart feels anything but. You take a step back, creating the distance he insisted upon. “I shall join you for supper.”
You offer him a small bow before turning away.
Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last.
You have imagined his return a hundred different ways. You have imagined, foolishly, that months apart would leave duty powerless against longing.
Instead, he has chosen duty.
And you cannot decide whether you admire him for it or resent him for it.
-
The balcony has always been your sanctuary.
Whenever the walls of the Hightower threaten to close around you and duty grows too heavy upon your shoulders, you find yourself here, high above Oldtown. The sea stretches endlessly before you.
Out here, there are no expectations.
No Ormund.
You rest your forearms upon the cold stone balustrade and lean forward, letting the wind lift loose strands of your hair. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.
This is where you are happiest.
The emerald gown you wear billows gently around your ankles, its skirts rustling in the sea breeze.
You wear it because Ormund always praises you in green.
Or perhaps...
Your fingers tighten against the stone.
Perhaps you wear it because you know another pair of eyes lingers longer whenever you do.
You smile despite yourself.
You do not hear your chamber door open. You only feel the warmth of him behind you.
Familiar.
Your breath catches.
Before you can turn, gentle fingers brush a lock of hair from your shoulder. Soft lips follow, pressing a kiss against the curve of your neck.
Your eyes fly open.
“Gwayne.”
You twist just enough to look over your shoulder, astonishment plain upon your face.
“My sworn shield—"
“I dismissed him.”
You stare at him. “You dismissed him?”
A mischievous smile touches his lips. “I told him I wished to speak with my lady in private.”
You blink.
There is something in the way he says it that has you suppressing a smile.
“You are wearing green.”
You glance down at the flowing silk. “I am.”
“The colour becomes you.”
You look away, unable to hide your smile.
A soft laugh escapes him, his fingers brushing lightly over the embroidered sleeve.
Gods, how you have missed that sound.
“I cannot decide,” he murmurs, “whether your husband has excellent taste...”
His thumb traces the golden thread.
“Or whether you delight in tormenting me.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the distant crash of waves below.
“You should not be here,” you whisper, though the words lack conviction.
“No?”
“No.”
“And yet... so long as I remain here, you have not asked me to leave.”
You ought to.
You know you ought to.
Instead, your hand finds the front of his doublet, smoothing a wrinkle that does not exist.
“You dismissed my sworn shield. He may grow suspicious.”
“I could not pass another day without seeing you.”
The confession settles between you like a prayer.
Sunlight catches the copper strands of his hair. You cannot believe only days have passed since you last saw him.
“I missed you,” you admit.
His eyes close.
“I thought of you every day,” you add, resting your forehead against his.
His lips meet yours with a tenderness that aches.
The kiss is brief.
Careful.
The sort of kiss shared by two people who know that every stolen moment may be their last.
-
You force the memory aside.
With a soft sigh, you reach for the small glass bottle on the dressing table. Lavender and vanilla. You dab the fragrance onto your wrist and neck. Ormund has always found the scent cloying.
You indulge in it in his absence.
You do not hear him knock.
Your eyes meet in the mirror, and your hand stills as you recap the bottle. Gwayne stands in the doorway, one hand on the handle.
“I have come to escort you to supper.”
You watch his brows draw together as he catches the scent of your perfume.
“Gods,” he murmurs.
“What?”
He steps inside, closing the door behind him.
“You know exactly what.”
He shakes his head, as though trying to clear it.
“I owe you an apology.”
“No.”
The word leaves you before he can say more.
“I know what I am, Gwayne.”
He opens his mouth, but no words come.
“I am another man's wife.”
You swallow against the ache in your throat.
“I wake beside Ormund and wish it were you.”
You look away.
“I know what awaits women like me.”
Gwayne kneels before you, his hands twitching at his sides.
“When I die, I shall burn for this.”
Your voice breaks.
“I shall burn for loving you.”
Gwayne reaches for your hands, his fingers closing around yours.
“Do not say that.”
You shake your head.
“You will not burn,” he insists.
“I have broken my vows.”
“Enough.”
His hand rises to your jaw, stopping the words before they can wound you further.
Before you can argue, his lips find yours.
“If the Seven truly mean to punish you for this,” he whispers against your lips, “then they will have to punish me too.”
Hello love! I'd like to request a Cregan Stark x Reader piece where she sees him being touched on by some prostitutes at a feast, and she gets jealous. Smut or not, I'll leave it up to you.
Dear Anonymous,
Your request has been posted. I hope it meets your expectations!
Summary: After a serving girl attempts to seduce Cregan during your son’s name day feast, your jealousy leads to a passionate reminder that he has always been yours—and only yours.
Based on request: Hello love! I’d like to request a Cregan Stark x Reader piece where she sees him being touched on by some prostitutes at a feast, and she gets jealous. Smut or not, I’ll leave it up to you.
Warnings: SMUT (mdni), unprotected p in v, jealousy.
Author’s note: This was the last request in my inbox, so please feel free to send a request. 🖤
After tucking your son beneath his furs and leaving him in the capable hands of a trusted servant, you slip back into the warmth of the Great Hall. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, while boisterous laughter echoes off the stone walls.
From across the hall, you feel the weight of a gaze. Cregan sits at the head of the table, the flickering candlelight reflected in his grey eyes as he watches you weave through the throng of guests.
Warmth spreads through your chest. He looks at you as though you are the only woman in the hall.
“My lord, would you like me to refill your goblet?” a serving girl asks as she approaches Cregan.
His eyes flick up to the girl in brief acknowledgement before returning to you. He catches the moment you shift uncomfortably beneath the unwanted attention of the lord beside you. A subtle, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Without breaking eye contact with you, he sets his goblet upon the table and slides it toward the serving girl.
Sensing an opportunity, she leans farther over the table than necessary, her bodice straining as she tries to draw his attention. There is nothing graceful about the gesture; her intentions are obvious.
The smile fades from Cregan’s face as he notices her exaggerated display. He pays her no mind. She is not even a shadow of the woman standing across the hall.
“Congratulations on your son’s second name day, my lord,” the serving girl persists. She dares to reach out, her fingers brushing the fur of his cloak before settling upon his shoulder—a gesture far too intimate for a servant.
“Thank you,” Cregan replies, his voice a low, gruff rumble. His gaze drops to the hand resting on his shoulder, as though it were a stray insect that had landed there. Without the slightest hint of discomfort, he reaches for his refilled goblet and takes a slow, measured sip of ale.
“You may remove your hand from my shoulder, girl.”
A flicker of jealousy stirs within you as you watch the girl’s hand linger on Cregan’s shoulder.
Across the hall, he notices the change in your expression. He sees your gaze harden, the slight tightening of your jaw. One dark eyebrow arches in silent challenge, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Very well, then.
Excusing yourself from the tedious lord at your side, you make your way toward Cregan.
“Excuse me,” you say, your voice perfectly composed despite the irritation simmering beneath it. “You’re blocking my chair.”
The serving girl’s confidence falters. She recoils, her hand slipping from Cregan’s shoulder.
“Of course, my lady,” she stammers, stepping aside with a hasty bow of her head.
But you have no intention of sitting in your chair. Ignoring the curious stares of the gathered lords, you step into the space between Cregan’s knees and settle onto his lap, your skirts rustling against his leathers as you silently reclaim what is yours.
Cregan’s lips twitch into an amused grin. His hand immediately finds your hip, his fingers settling there with effortless familiarity as he leans back in his chair.
“Feeling possessive, are we, Lady Stark?”
“I am merely claiming what is mine,” you murmur, watching the serving girl scurry away.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, nearly swallowed by the noise of the feast. His hand tightens ever so slightly on your hip.
“Yours, indeed,” he agrees quietly, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement.
-
The wait for your guests to depart had been tedious, but at last the feast was over. The moment the hall emptied, you took Cregan by the hand and led him through the dimly lit hallways toward your chamber.
He follows without protest, already knowing exactly where you are taking him. Every step heightens his anticipation. He wants you. He yearns for you.
“Out, all of you. You are dismissed for the night,” you order as you lead him into your chamber.
The servants, who had been preparing the room for the night, immediately abandon their work and hurry out, quietly closing the door behind them. Silence settles over the chamber, leaving the two of you alone.
You close the distance, shoving him back against the door with more force than either of you expects. Your fingers fumble with the clasps of his cloak, frustration making them clumsy. It lands on the floor with a heavy thud. The leather bracers follow, carelessly discarded beside it.
Desire flickers in Cregans grey eyes. Before he can utter a word, your hands fly to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a desperate kiss.
His hands find your hips, drawing you firmly against him as though he, too, has spent the entire evening waiting for this moment.
“Stupid girl,” you mutter against his lips, now working at the fastenings of his gambeson. “Thinking she could seduce you.”
“She never stood a chance,” he says. His hands find the laces of your dress, loosening them with practised fingers.
“You know I have no interest in other women,” he adds as he eases the fabric from your shoulders. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, devotion softening his features.
A satisfied hum escapes your lips as you push his gambeson from his shoulders before catching his hand and drawing him backward toward the bed.
“Off,” you command, gesturing to his breeches as you crawl onto the bed.
Cregan’s eyes darken at your command. He obeys without hesitation, unfastening the laces of his breeches before pushing them down along with his smallclothes. He joins you on the bed, settling himself between your legs. His hands roam over your thighs, gathering the fabric of your shift.
Determined to take control, you brace your hands against his chest and, with a firm shove, manage to push him onto his back. Swinging a leg over his hips, you settle astride him before pulling your shift over your head and tossing it aside.
Cregan lets out an unsteady breath. His hands instinctively find your hips, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Gods,” he groans, his voice strained with desire.
You lean down until only a breath separates your lips, your gaze never leaving his. “You are mine,” you murmur as your bare chest brushes against his.
“I am yours,” he answers without hesitation, his voice rough.
You sit back up and raise your hips, guiding Cregan’s hardened length towards your entrance. A soft gasp escapes your lips as you sink down, your eyes fluttering shut at the familiar stretch.
Cregan’s head falls back against the furs, a guttural, involuntary sound escaping him. Your hands come to rest against his broad chest, steadying yourself as you begin to move with a torturously slow rhythm.
His heartbeat pounds beneath your palms. He watches you with admiration, his grey eyes never leaving your face as his hands guide your movements.
As your pace quickens, your measured thrusting gives way to desperate grinding, your face scrunching up with pleasure. His grip tightens, taking in every expression you make. He plants his feet on the bed, thrusting up into you.
A whimper slips from your lips as you slump forward, your forehead coming to rest against the crook of his neck. Cregan’s arms encircle you, holding you close to his chest. He can feel your unsteady breaths against his skin, your body trembling in his embrace.
“Oh, Cregan.” Your breath catches as a wave of pleasure overtakes you, your fingers curling against his shoulders.
Cregan buries his face against your shoulder, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he clings to you, his entire body shuddering as he spills his seed inside of you.
A breathless laugh escapes you, too weary to move. Cregan tightens his embrace. His fingers move lazily along your back, tracing patterns as the silence settles comfortably around you.
“I am yours,” he whispers at last.
You smile against his skin. “You are mine.”
Cregan tilts his head to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
Summary: With Cregan at your side, you face your fear and give birth to your silver-haired daughter.
Based on request: Cregan stark x targaryen!femreader having a daughter together for a request please lovely xx
Warnings: Pregnancy, (fear of) childbirth.
You sit before the crackling fireplace, your fingers tracing patterns over your rounded belly. You have been with child for eight moons. Your back has ached for days, and a decent night’s sleep has become a rare occurrence. But what troubles you most is your fear of childbirth.
Cregan has been beyond excited. He has longed to become a father, and you could never bring yourself to deny him that. After all, it is your duty as his wife to provide him with heirs.
“My dear wife,” Cregan says as he walks into the chamber.
You lift your gaze from the swell of your belly, your fingers stilling as a soft smile touches your lips. “Good evening, my love.”
As Cregan reaches your side, he leans down, his large, calloused hand slipping into your silver hair. He runs his fingers through your locks before pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head.
“How does our little one fare this evening?” he asks, his hand moving from your hair to settle gently against your belly.
“I believe our little one is content.” You wince as you shift, trying to find some relief from the constant ache in your back.
Cregan’s brow furrows instantly, his grey eyes searching for the cause of your discomfort. His hand slides from the curve of your belly to the small of your back, his touch firm yet mindful as he helps you adjust in your chair. “Your back is paining you again?”
You nod reluctantly, hesitant to burden your caring husband with the discomforts of pregnancy. The last thing you want is to dampen his excitement.
Rather than taking the chair provided for him, Cregan sinks onto the ground beside you. Kneeling at your side, he looks up at you, his concern only deepening.
“Sweetling,” he murmurs. “Why did you not tell me sooner? I would have ordered the servants to draw you a bath.”
A soft chuckle escapes your lips. “The maester has restricted me to taking lukewarm baths. He claims the hot baths are harmful to the babe.”
Cregan raises an eyebrow, as though challenging the maester’s wisdom. A chuckle escapes him. “Then I suppose the maester is not aware that dragons prefer heat,” he says, his tone playful and teasing.
“Aye, I suppose not.” You grin. “But I have no desire to take any risks. I will follow the old man’s advice.”
“You are already a formidable mother,” he says quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as his grey eyes soften with admiration. “The gods have truly blessed me with a wonderful wife.”
Your thoughts drift to your grandmother, Aemma, who died giving birth to Baelon, and to your mother, who miscarried Visenya.
Noticing the change in your expression, Cregan’s gaze softens. He knows the fears that plague you—the history of Targaryen women, the tragedies that have befallen them during childbirth.
“My dear wife,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand. “I know the thoughts that trouble you, but I will not let anything happen to you. We will have a healthy babe. I am certain of it.”
-
The day you have long feared has arrived.
You sway from side to side in your chamber, the stone walls feeling as though they are closing in on you. You keep the maester and the servants at a distance, your hands trembling as you warn them not to touch you. A low, guttural moan escapes your lips as another contraction tears through you.
“My lady, please let us help you,” a servant pleads, her voice filled with concern as she reaches out to steady you. You flinch away from her touch. You can almost feel the phantom sting of steel against your flesh. A gruesome vision of being cut open flashes before your eyes.
You need the man who would stand between you and the gods themselves.
“Just fetch my husband,” you plead through clenched teeth.
The servants exchange worried glances. At last, one of them nods and hurries off in search of Cregan. The minutes that follow feel like an eternity. Another contraction wracks your body, drawing a pained cry from your throat. Relief washes over you as Cregan’s voice echoes down the hallway.
“You should have come to me sooner.”
The chamber door swings open and Cregan strides inside, his dark cloak billowing behind him. His eyes immediately find you, and whatever irritation he feels toward the servants vanishes at once, replaced by concern. He crosses the chamber in a few strides, reaching your side just as your knees threaten to buckle. Your fingers dig into his forearm as you cling to him.
“Why was I not informed?” he demands, his voice a low growl as his gaze sweeps over the maester and the servants.
“It is uncommon for a lord to be present during childbirth, my lord,” the maester stammers, clutching his chain.
Cregan snorts. “Then I am no common lord.”
Turning back to you, he brushes a strand of silver hair from your brow.
“I told you I would not let anything happen to you, sweetling,” he murmurs, leaning down so his forehead rests against yours. “I am here now. I am not going anywhere.”
-
The gruelling hours of labour finally come to an end, leaving you spent and trembling with adrenaline. Cregan remained by your side throughout the birth, ensuring you were comfortable with every intervention from the maester and the servants.
As the maester settles the tiny, wailing bundle against your chest, a sob catches in your throat. Your body feels heavy and sore, but the overwhelming love you feel for your daughter overshadows every ache.
You lift your gaze, your vision blurred by tears, to find Cregan hovering over you. His eyes glisten, and his breath comes in shaky hitches as he stares at the miracle in your arms.
“You did so well,” he whispers as he strokes the silver fuzz atop your daughter’s head. “She is perfect.” A contented sigh leaves him. “She looks like a wolf.”
You lean back against the pillows, a triumphant smile tugging at your lips as you watch him. “She looks like a dragon,” you counter, pressing a kiss to the babe’s brow.
He chuckles softly. “Aye, she has your hair,” he agrees, his finger tracing the delicate bridge of her nose. “But this is all Northern.”
“You look radiant, sweetling,” he murmurs, his eyes sweeping over your face. “You were destined to become a mother.”
“Do not get used to it,” you huff as you settle deeper into the furs.
If only you knew of the babes who would follow in the years to come.
“Have you thought of a name?” you ask.
His expression softens at the question. He has spent many sleepless nights considering names. A few Northern names come to mind, but none of them feel quite right. After a moment of contemplation, he speaks. “I believe Visenya is a fitting name for our silver-haired daughter.”
Cregan stark x reader but she comes with an army after marriage and winterfell have 2000 more residences and Cregan is worried about how they will make ends met for people but she comes up with a clever way to give new jobs for her soldiers so they can start a life (making weppens for trade like arrows swords whatever) and winterfell gets even more known,
Dear Anonymous,
I’ve been thinking about your request for days, trying to figure out how to write it, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s too unrealistic (in my opinion). As a result, I regret to inform you that I will be unable to fulfill your request as it currently stands. To avoid posting something that does not meet your expectations, I suggest that you either modify your current request or send me a different request on something that you’d like me to write about. I will cancel your current request while I await your response.
Summary: Cregan had been plagued by a torturous vision for over a sennight. A torturous vision of you beneath the red leaves, the summer snow melting against your skin as he has you beneath the heart tree. He yearns for the gods to witness the love between you.
Warnings: SMUT (mdni), unprotected p in v.
The first rays of sunlight filter through the canopy, melting the thin layer of summer snow. Slush crunches beneath your boots as you follow the trail of footprints that lead further into the godswood.
You approach the heart tree, its weeping eyes staring back at you. Cregan kneels before it, engrossed in prayer, his broad shoulders dusted with snowflakes that melt slowly on his cloak’s dark fur.
“Good morrow, my love.” You cautiously approach him. “Forgive me if I disturb you.”
The sound of your voice does not startle him. Cregan turns his head and meets your gaze with a softness he reserves for you alone. “Disturbance is the last thing you are to me,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. “What brings you here at this early hour?”
“I thought I would join you.”
Cregan’s brow furrows in concern as you move to kneel beside him. He reaches out with his gloved hand and wipes away the slush. A contented hum escapes your lips as you settle onto the patch of earth he cleared for you.
“What shall we pray for?” he asks.
Devoted to the gods, you close your eyes. “I pray for the gods to watch over me, my family, and my people. May they grant me the wisdom and courage befitting the Lady of Winterfell.”
Cregan watches you pray in silence. He does not close his eyes. His throat goes dry as his imagination betrays him with a torturous vision of you beneath the red leaves, the summer snow melting against your skin as he has you beneath the heart tree.
Upon finishing your prayer, you turn to face him. “And you, husband? May I ask what you pray for this morrow?”
He too should be praying for his people, for wisdom and strength. Instead, his every thought is consumed by you and how he yearns for the gods to witness the love between you. The gods see all. They know all, even his innermost thoughts. He is certain the gods have heard his improper prayers.
Can she see it in my eyes? he wonders.
-
Cregan hesitates, torn between honesty and propriety. But there is no point in lying, not to you.
“For you,” he admits at last, his voice roughened. He reaches out, his large hand enveloping yours, and brings your gloved fingers to his lips. “I pray for you often these days.”
His grey eyes are like storm clouds, full of turmoil. They trail unabashedly down your body.
“I have been consumed by a torturous vision for over a sennight,” he confesses. “It is improper, and yet I cannot bring myself to yearn for it any less. Every time I come to the heart tree, I…” His mouth goes dry.
“You would think me a fool if I were to speak of it.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
Your gaze softens as you shift closer to him. What could possibly trouble your otherwise confident husband so deeply that he hesitates to speak of it? you wonder.
“Tell me, my love,” you murmur, reaching out to brush a snowflake from his cheek. “I am your wife. You may speak freely to me.”
Cregan exhales slowly, as though surrendering himself to the truth of it. “It is a vision of you and me beneath this very tree,” he admits, silently praying you do not notice the tension straining against his breeches.
“Go on,” you coax, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
“Gods,” Cregan huffs. “I imagine us defiling this sacred place. I yearn for the gods to witness the love between us.”
A soft, breathless laugh escapes your lips. With the deliberate grace of a woman who knows the power she holds over her husband, you move closer and settle yourself onto his lap.
Cregan lets out a quiet, unsteady breath, his large hands tightening instinctively on your hips to steady you. “You are not helping,” he murmurs.
“I am not trying to.” A knowing smile touching your lips. “If it tortures you so, why not surrender to it?”
Cregan lets out a desperate growl, his lips hovering just above yours. “I do not wish to dishonour you,” he says, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Anyone could stumble upon us.”
“No one will come,” you whisper. “They all know better than to disturb their lord and lady at prayer.”
A low, rumbling sound escapes him before he closes the distance. Whatever restraint Cregan has left gives way. The kiss deepens, needy and unrestrained, as though he can no longer deny himself you.
He frantically unfastens his cloak. his lips reluctantly part from yours to guide you down onto the pelt. Settling over you, his broad body sheltering yours from the cold as his lips trail along your jaw and down the curve of your neck.
A frustrated breath leaves him at the layers separating him from your bare skin. “So many layers,” he murmurs as he gathers the fabric, bunching it upward around your waist.
“Gods, woman,” he groans, his gaze traveling slowly up the length of your legs. “You are the gods’ most divine creation.” He brushes his thumb over the damp patch in your smallclothes before tugging the fabric down your legs.
“You are overdressed,” you murmur playfully.
A rough, breathless sound escapes him as you fumble with the fastenings of his breeches. His hands quickly join yours, guiding your movements until the laces finally give way.
Your hands tremble, your palms slick with his precum as you guide his throbbing length toward your entrance.
“Oh, gods,” you gasp as he eases himself inside you. A fitting choice of words.
Cregan buries his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder as your tight heat envelops him. “You feel so good,” he breathes against your skin after sinking fully inside you.
He moves with restraint, as though afraid that picking up the pace might undo him too quickly.
It takes only a few thrusts for you to feel the telltale sign of his hips stuttering. “It is all right, my love,” you whisper into the shell of his ear, your fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. “Do not fight it.”
Something in your voice breaks through whatever remains of his restraint. His thrusts become shallower, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Gods—” The groan tears from him, low and animalistic. His forehead falls against yours as he drives himself deep one final time, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release. “Forgive me,” he chokes out as he spills himself inside you.
-
You clear your throat, a hint of confusion in your eyes as you wait for Cregan to respond to your question.
He had been so consumed by his vision that he failed to answer you.
Cregan tears his gaze from the heart tree. “The same as always, my dear wife,” he says, offering you only half the truth.
The longing wife of Cregan Stark seeks out her husband after nights of not being summoned to his chamber.
For the gods to witness SMUT (mdni)
Cregan had been plagued by a torturous vision for over a sennight. A torturous vision of you beneath the red leaves, the summer snow melting against your skin as he has you beneath the heart tree. He yearns for the gods to witness the love between you.
Our silver-haired daughter
With Cregan at your side, you face your fear and give birth to your silver-haired daughter.
I am yours SMUT (mndi)
After a serving girl attempts to seduce Cregan during your son's name day feast, your jealousy leads to a passionate reminder that he has always been yours—and only yours.
➵ Gwayne Hightower:
Burn for loving you
Though you are bound to Ormund Hightower by marriage, your heart has never belonged to him.
A piece on the board
You are a Targaryen princess raised in the care of your uncle, Lord Ormund Hightower, a man determined to use you as a piece on his board. You confide in your other uncle, Ser Gwayne Hightower—the one person who has always made you feel heard.
Fear of dying unloved leads you to Gwayne’s chambers in the night. What begins as a need for someone to speak to becomes a confession neither of you is prepared for.
➵ Duncan the Tall:
Saw you stand
You and Ser Duncan the Tall fall in love despite the divide between your worlds. Duty and honour eventually force him to leave, believing it is for your sake. You let him go because you know and love the man he is.
➵ Lyonel Baratheon:
Saw you stand Third wheel
You and Ser Duncan the Tall fall in love despite the divide between your worlds. Duty and honour eventually force him to leave, believing it is for your sake. You let him go because you know and love the man he is.
Summary: The longing wife of Cregan Stark seeks out her husband after nights of not being summoned to his chamber.
Warnings: SMUT (mdni), unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering.
Author’s note: I must admit I am terrified posting this. It has been years since I have written, but this gorgeous man has sparked my imagination. I hope you all enjoy! 🖤
The pale blue of day had faded into darkness, the sky above Winterfell strewn with stars that glitter like frost upon stone.
Bare feet pace the length of your chamber. The hem of your nightgown rustles as it drags across the cold stone floor. You are restless, despite the late hour.
It has been nights since Cregan summoned you to his chamber. He has been consumed with his duties as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Duty has always come first for him. You have long accepted that.
Acceptance, however, does not lessen your longing for him.
At last, you yield to your longing. Drawing a robe over your nightgown, you slip from your chamber into the dim hallway, where torches burn low in their iron brackets.
You lift your hand to the door of Cregan’s chamber. Your knock is soft, swallowed by the quiet of the keep.
“Who is it?” Cregan’s voice rumbles from within, roughened by disuse.
“It is I,” you answer. “Your wife.”
Within, Cregan raises an eyebrow. “Enter,” he says, shifting in the bathwater.
You ease the door open and step inside. Candlelight flickers across the stone walls, casting a golden glow over Cregan, where he sits in the bath, his broad shoulders glistening with water. Steam curls upward, carrying the scent of pine, like a walk through the godswood.
Your breath catches at the sight.
“To what do I owe your presence at this hour?” he asks as you approach.
Kneeling beside the bath, your bare knees meeting the cold stone, you gently take the cloth from his hand. “You have been consumed of late,” you say cautiously, dragging the cloth across his shoulder.
“Consumed,” he repeats. “Aye, that is one way to put it.”
“Duty is sacrifice.” He looks at you then with a softness few others ever see, the sternness of the Lord of Winterfell melting into something meant only for you. “But gods, I have no wish to be a stranger to you.”
You dip the cloth into the bath, warm water running over your fingers as you press it to the back of his neck.
“I have missed you,” you murmur.
A faint grin tugs at his lips. “Missed me? Woman, I am sat before you.”
You huff out a laugh.
His hand closes around your wrist, far gentler than his rough hands should allow. “Come here.”
Cregan pulls you closer, one hand settling at your waist while the other eases the robe from your shoulders.
He guides you into the bath, his hands settling on your hips as he lowers you onto his lap. Your nightgown turns translucent in the water.
Cregan gazes at you unabashedly. His thumb strokes slowly over your hip. “Then tell me, how exactly does my wife miss me?”
Your face flushes, your hands resting uncertainly against his chest.
“You have not summoned me to your chamber in nights,” you confess, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“You have missed the warmth of my bed,” Cregan murmurs, a teasing grin tugging at his lips. “I have missed you too,” he admits, “more than you know.”
Your gaze drifts from his grey eyes to his lips as his hands slowly move up your back. Your fingers curl against his chest as you lean in to kiss him, the faint scent of ale lingering on his breath. One of his hands finds its way to the back of your head, deepening the kiss.
You gasp against Cregan’s lips as he rises, lifting you from the bath. Water streams from both of you, spilling onto the stone as he carries you through the chamber, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake as he moves to the bed.
Cregan lowers you onto the furs. “You will take a chill,” he murmurs. “I have no mind to see you shiver.” His large, calloused hands push the soaked linen of your nightgown upward until the heavy, wet fabric is cast aside, leaving you bare in the flickering candlelight.
“I have neglected you,” he breathes against your skin as he shifts down between your legs, pressing kisses along the curve of your calves and the sensitive flesh of your thighs.
When his tongue first makes contact with your folds, it is a slow, deliberate stroke from bottom to top, tasting the salty sweetness with a hunger that feels almost predatory. Your hips lift instinctively, arching off the furs as you chase the sensation.
“Forgive me,” he muffles against your skin.
You feel the intrusion of his fingers, thick as they slide deep inside you, stretching your walls until your toes curl into the thick furs and your breath hitches in a desperate plea. “Do not stop.”
As Cregan shifts his weight, you find your eyes wandering downward. You watch the way his lats ripple as he braces himself on his forearms. The deep groove of his spine draws your gaze lower to the swell of his glutes as he grinds himself into the furs.
A soft, helpless sound escapes your throat. “Please,” you beg.
The desperation in your voice seems to fuel him. Cregan buries his face deeper between your thighs. You feel the heat of his breath as his nose presses against you.
You find yourself holding your breath, your entire body tensing as the first wave of pleasure crashes over you. A triumphant sound rumbles from deep within Cregan’s chest as he feels the spasming of your walls around his fingers.
“Aye, there you go, love,” he talks you through the waves of pleasure. You can feel him smile against your skin, his rough stubble grazing your thighs. "So beautiful when you come undone for me."
Reluctantly, he rises from between your thighs, and you reach for him, your fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him in for a kiss. You taste your own arousal on his tongue. He lets out a low, approving hum. “Do you still miss me, wife?”
