cw: sexual content, chubby reader, pregnancy, breast feeding, public showcase of affection, etc
Baelor had survived the blackfyre revolt, had survived daemon blackfyre with his Valyrian steel blade, had survived his brother almost dying alongside him during the revolt; what he could not survive was you. You were watching him from the balcony overseeing the training ground where he was helping his sons hone their sword skills. A knight had pointed you out making his whip around to see you and your breasts that fell heavily out of your dress. The neckline was too low showing off a large amount of cleavage even while standing straight, but with you leaning down it became even more evident how well endowed you were.
Baelor felt his face turn red as he looked up at you. You caught his eye, throwing him a wink which seemed to make the issue worse. He coughed into his fist before turning away back towards his sons. It seems Matarys saw his father’s distracted state and decided to remind him to not turn his back to his enemy, with Matarys hitting his father with his wooden sword. The wood met the side of his head making him fall onto his knee grasping the spot, everyone in the field watched the prince to see how to react to his son’s attack. Baelor rubbed the spot on his head before laughing loudly, mussing up his youngest son’s red hair. He gave his boys over to the guards to train while he went up to you waiting for him above, he took the stairs two at a time running to get to you as fast as he could.
You smiled at him as he surfaced wrapping his arms around your waist, he whispered into your ear for only you to hear, “my dear, are you attempting to entice me? I will gladly ravish you.” You laughed loudly as he began pulling you to the bed chamber to make good on his promise.
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Maekar watched as you readied yourself for bed, the dress practically see through in the candle light of the night. You were sitting in your vanity, brushing your hair out. Maekar watched from behind as each move of your arm made the pudge of your body move and jiggle. You looked even more like a full woman tonight, having had five children already with a sixth growing in you. If you weren’t already pregnant the look he was giving you would get you there.
You turn to look at your husband who stood in the entrance foyer to your room. You stood, keeping a hand on your stomach as you came closer to him, his hand joining yours once you were close enough. He smiled softly at you before leaning down to kiss you, softer than his eyes would have suggested he would have been. You pulled away with a whine, not at your husband but at your body. Your breasts had started leaking, the milk making your dress even more see through than it was before. Maekar was already moving the straps off your shoulders letting the dress fall to the floor. His hands coming to your breasts, worshipping them before taking one into his mouth. He intended to show you how much he loved your body.
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Lyonel is a party man, any and everywhere he went was a good excuse to dance and drink. Today was no different. Some trade negotiations with the free cities had gone well, and as celebration he was hosting a feast. The night was young with dancing, drinking, and eating being showcased all throughout the room. A few lords and ladies were milling around, drunkenly singing or dancing or stumbling around. Lyonel was at the front of the hall watching everyone, his head resting on the back of the chair having moved you to sit in his lap. You were sitting sideways on his lap, your head curled into his neck. His arm was wrapped around your waist with the other holding the arm of his chair.
Lyonel mumbled something, taking the horned helmet off his head to put it on you instead. You kept your head straight watching the party as it raged on. Some small lord came up to the table to give your husband something but Lyonel’s attention was focused on you more specifically your chest that bounced with each laugh you let out. You turn to your husband about to ask him to acknowledge the poor man in front of you two but Lyonel already decided his next move. He buried his face in your chest feeling the fat absorb some of him. You gasped and tried to pull him but he was determined to stay, burring his face deeper in. The lord looked mortified while the others around him cheered at the two of you. Lyonel had no shame about about showing the love he had for his favorite part of his wife.
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Daeron is a drunk, everyone knows it. But they thought he had enough manners to not ogle his wife while at dinner with his family and the king. He was already five cups in when he lost the decorum to pretend, his head being held up by his hand propped up on the table, as he looked down your dress eyes locked on your chest. Maekar has kicked him under the table but he had ignored it, content to admire you. At one point you had reached over and held his jaw in your hands, him melting into you like putty. You made him look at your face for a moment before his eyes shot straight down again. You chuckled, used to his behavior but asked to be excused as to not give Maekar an aneurysm, something the family was more than happy to provide you.
On the walk back to your chambers Daeron was touching every part of you he could while setting kisses on any skin he could find. The two of you were laughing at him and his actions. Daeron brought his hands from where he stood behind you to grip your chest hard. You gasped but let him do as he pleases as he massaged the fat house there, his eyes half lidded as he soaked in the image. He was biting into your neck, mumbling sweet nothings as he got his fill. most people knew Daeron was a drunk, but most didn’t know how touchy he was when drunk or how the only one who could sooth that was his wife and her ample bosom.
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Valarr didn’t distract easily, especially when he’s on the field. Unfortunately for him, you loved to distract him. You would do anything just to get him flustered and turn red. Today was no different than any other, except that today was a tourney day celebrating one of Maekar’s kids birthday, meaning Valarr would be riding. He rode out into the field followed by other knights of the realm. He found you easily in the stands, the color of your dress standing out to him. He made a promise to name you the queen of love and beauty and he was determined to see it happen.
The tourney continued like any other, lords and knights falling or standing tall, all of it was rather dull. Valarr sat outside of his tent taking in the field before his next bout, it was against some small lord who would most likely dive in the dirt before daring to scratch Valarr’s shield. Valarr readied himself and his horse, looking towards the stands to send you a wink but was met with your standing figure at the edge of the stands. The dress you wore hugged your upper half, your breasts practically spilling out as you waved to him, each movement making them shake and move. Valarr couldn’t drag his eyes away from them, too amazed by his wife’s body when the sound of the beginning of the bout rang through the field, shocking Valarr back into his body. He quickly finished the fight, it being over in a second before he went back to his tent. He was beginning to take his armor off when you entered the tent smirking at your husband.
“Were you distracted, my love?” Valarr chuckled, shaking his head before moving towards you, planting a kiss heavily on your lips. “I will always be distracted by you, my love.”
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Aerion had dragged you along with him for exile. The two of you were resting in the Lys sun, drinking sweet wine and eating fruit. The two of you were laid out on cushions in front of a private pool with crystal clear water. The heat was starting to get to you, the sun bearing down on you harshly. Aerion had umbrellas set up above you two but it wasn’t much help to beat the heat of the day. You slipped from the cushions, stretching slightly, before making your way to the pool, tentatively stepping into it.
You sunk into the pool letting it fully cover your body head to toe before stepping out again. The silk dress you wore was very sultry before you got it wet, now that it was the dress was see through and sticking to your skin. You were dripping from all parts of your body bringing even more attention to your figure. Aerion watched you like a hawk, smirking as you came closer to him. His eyes were focused on your chest and how it moved under the cloth, your hips also being proudly displayed. Aerion pushed himself up before reaching forward to you, pulling you down on top of him. He had you sit on top of his hips as he traced your body through the soaked fabric. He was more than ready to rip the fabric off you and feel your wet skin on his.
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Dunk considered himself to be a good man, but you loved to test him. Your babe was still being breast fed and for some reason Dunk felt a bout of jealousy at the child being on your chest and not him. You were currently sitting in an inn, your child on your breast while you attempted to eat yourself. The babe would bite at your breast every once and awhile making you wince, Dunk was upset he couldn’t do anything to protect you from the pain, upset that his son was hurting you. “Stop hurting your mother or I’ll take your dinner from you, boy” you laughed at your husband, who watched as the fat of your breast bulged around your son’s head, almost entirely enveloping the small thing. You watch your husband as he pouts at your son, making you laugh “don’t tell me you're jealous of the baby, my love.”
Dunk was still pouting when his eyes met yours. You sighed at him before saying, “he needs to eat my love, you can taste after he’s done.” That seemed to reinvigorate your husband as he smiled at you, happy to be allowed to love his wife and her perfect body.
A compliment gone too far, attention too sharp and Ormund Hightower does not hesitate to show you exactly who you belong to.
WARNINGS; sexual content, explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, oral (female receiving), jealous!ormund, explicit language, minors dni, because I am not responsible for your media consumption.
The Ormund Hightower no soul asked for. I blame the deliciousness that is James Norton.
The air in the quiet chambers was thick with the lingering tension of the evening. Prince Aemond’s words still echoed in your mind, the way his pale eye had lingered on you, the low, appreciative rumble of his voice when he praised your wit and the sharpness of your mind. It had been a daring compliment, one that bordered on flirtation, and you had felt the heat rise in your cheeks under the Prince's intense gaze.
But the moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted from courtly elegance to raw, possessive hunger.
Ormund didn't say a word at first, he didn't need to. He gripped your arm with a firmness that bordered on bruising, spinning you around and shoving you back against the cold stone wall.
His eyes, usually so composed, were dark with a jealous fire. He had seen the way Aemond looked at you; he had heard the Prince's admiration, and it had ignited a need in him to reclaim what was his.
“The Prince finds you sharp, does he?” Ormund hissed, his voice a low growl against your ear. He pressed his body flush against yours, his hardness straining against his trousers, pinning you firmly. “He admires your mind. But he forgets that every inch of you, your thoughts, your breath, your fucking body, belongs to me.”
He didn't give you time to answer. His hand dove downward, ripping your skirts upward and shoving your undergarments aside with a rough, impatient tug. He forced your legs apart, hoisting one of your thighs up over his hip to expose you completely to the dim light of the room.
Ormund dropped to his knees with a suddenness that made you gasp, he didn't tease, he dove straight in. His tongue lashed out, hitting your clit with a forceful, wet stroke that made your back arch off the wall. You let out a sharp cry, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to eat you out with a feral intensity.
He sucked your clit deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub while his fingers shoved themselves inside you, stretching your walls.
He was eating you like a starving man, his face smeared with your juices, making loud, wet slurping sounds that filled the silence of the chamber.
He wanted you to feel the desperation of his claim, to know that while Aemond might admire your mind, Ormund owned the heat between your legs.
You were shaking, your breath coming in ragged sobs as he drove you toward the edge and just as you felt the first wave of orgasm crashing over you, Ormund pulled away, leaving you dripping and desperate.
“Look at me,” he commanded, standing up and quickly shedding his breeches.
His cock was thick and pulsing, fully erect and leaking pre-cum. He didn't use any lubricant other than the mess he had just made of you. He grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly and driving his cock deep into your pussy in one singular, violent thrust.
You screamed into the quiet of the room, the sudden fullness stretching you to my limit. He didn't slow down. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing force, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound. Each thrust was a statement of ownership, driving deep enough to hit your cervix, claiming every hidden part of you.
“Who do you belong to?” he groaned, his voice strained as he hammered into you.
“You... Ormund!” You gasped, your head tossing back against the wall.
“Say it again!” He gripped your throat lightly, not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel his dominance. He accelerated his pace, his cock sliding in and out of your soaking wet pussy with friction that set you on fire.
“I am yours! I belong to you!” The admission seemed to break the last of his restraint. Ormund let out a guttural roar, his movements becoming frantic and wild. He buried himself deep inside you one last time, his body shuddering violently as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep into your womb.
He stayed there for a long moment, panting heavily, his forehead pressed against yours, ensuring you felt every drop of his seed filling you up, marking you from the inside out. The Prince's compliments were forgotten; there was only the scent of sex and the crushing weight of Ormund's possession.
“Fucking righteous cunt thought he could compliment my wife,” he murmured against your throat, jaw clenching, “I will make this entire fucking keep learn just who the fuck you belong to,” Ormund's teeth sank into your shoulder with a sharp, possessive bite, his growl vibrating against your skin as he then hauled you against his chest, pushing you towards the bed, “Prince or fucking not, I'll have him eat is fucking words, rider of the largest fucking dragon or not, his fire will not touch you.”
Ormund pushed you unto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and he yanked your hips up, forcing your ass high while your face pressed into the sheets. His cock, still slick from the load he'd just pumped into you, slammed back inside your pussy in one brutal thrust.
“Let them hear you, let him hear how I am the one making you come undone,” he gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pounding into you from behind with savage force, each slam drove his length to the hilt, his balls slapping against your clit as he used your body like it was made for nothing else.
Hot cum from his first release leaked out around his shaft with every thrust, coating your thighs in thick, sticky trails.
“Mine,” he snarled against your ear, his hips snapping forward without mercy. “Say it again. Tell me who this cunt belongs to.” His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked you deeper, harder, claiming every inch of your soaked hole.
“I am yours, Ormund, fuck,” your fingers fisted into the sheets as your mouth parted, breathless and heart pounding with each insistent thrust that made the bed shake, “it was only a compliment, nothing more.”
He shook his head, hammering into you as his free hand reached under you to pinch and twist your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers while he drove you toward another shattering peak, “You are so oblivious, so fucking blind to the way men stare at you. I should not have let you come with me,” he murmured, hands now gripping unto your hips as he continued to unravel you.
“You commanded me to come,” you muffled the scream that tumbled from your mouth, head tilting to the side as you now watched your husband pound into you over your shoulder, “you commanded that I come with you, husband.”
“Then I'll spend every godsdamned moment between your legs, if only so to remind those that I am not a man who shares what is his in any manner.”
The wet sounds of his cock stretching you filled the room, mixed with the slap of skin on skin and his ragged breathing. He didn't slow down, didn't ease up, he kept railing you from behind, determined to flood you again before the night was over.
His hair, now damp and clinging against his forehead, made your cunt clench tighter around his cock and a smug smirk fluttered across your face, “Green is a colour that suits you most sinfully, Ormund.”
Ormund’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of raw, possessive hunger. The mention of the color; the color of the Hightowers, the color of the ambition that fueled the court, seemed to snap something inside him. He didn't just thrust, he snapped his hips forward with a brutal, jarring force, his cock slamming deep into your cervix with a wet, heavy thud.
“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left bruises, anchoring you in place as he began to rail you with a savage intensity. Each strike was a claim, a violent assertion of ownership that left you breathless and shaking.
The fury in him was palpable, a storm brewed from the lingering image of Prince Aemond’s lingering glances and the way the Prince had looked at you as if you were a prize to be stolen.
Ormund had always been a man of controlled passion, but the threat of competition had awakened a primal, territorial beast he had long since buried. He didn't want to just satisfy you; he wanted to mark you, to fill you so completely that there was no room left for any other man's thoughts or desires.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he yanked you backward, pulling your spine flush against his chest. He didn't stop the friction, keeping his cock buried deep while he twisted his body to capture your lips.
His mouth crashed against yours, his tongue invading your mouth in a mirroring of the assault below, aggressive, demanding, and absolute. He tasted of salt and desperation, his breath hitching as he felt your cunt pulsing and clamping tight around him. “Mine,” he groaned into the kiss, the word vibrating through your entire frame. “Every inch of you... fucking mine.”
He gave one final, devastatingly deep thrust, his entire body locking up as he hit his limit. A guttural shout tore from his throat as he came, a hot, thick torrent of cum flooding your womb, filling you to the brim. He shuddered violently, his heart hammering against your back, his cock pulsing inside you as he emptied himself completely, claiming you with every drop of his seed.
But as the peak of the orgasm subsided, the brutality evaporated, replaced by a sudden, aching tenderness. Ormund didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, his movements becoming agonizingly slow. He began to grind his hips into you with a rhythmic, devoted slowness, his cock sliding through the slurry of his own cum and your juices.
He began to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips soft and lingering, his breath warm against your skin. The contrast was dizzying, the man who had just been railing you like an animal was now cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the Seven Kingdoms.
He whispered fragmented vows of devotion, his voice thick with emotion, grinding into you with a steady, loving pressure that targeted every sensitive nerve.
The slow, deliberate friction began to build a different kind of heat, a swirling vortex of pleasure that felt deeper and more intimate than the violence of before. Your walls clamped around him in rhythmic waves, and as he continued to grind into you with that unwavering devotion, you felt yourself shatter. You came undone, your body arching and sobbing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you limp and trembling in his possessive, loving embrace.
Ormund's lips brushed yours again, softer this time, the kiss lingering with a quiet apology woven into every press. His breath came warm against your mouth as he murmured, “Forgive me. I was too rough with you.”
His hands eased their grip on your hips, fingers stroking the marks he'd left behind in soothing circles. He stayed buried inside you, his cock still half-hard and slick with the mess he'd pumped deep, but his thrusts had slowed to nothing. Instead he held you close, chest pressed to your back, and began to rock his hips in the gentlest of motions, just enough to keep you connected while the tenderness took over.
“I saw the way he looked at you,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough with leftover heat. “Aemond's eye on you... it woke something I thought I'd buried. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that.”
Another slow kiss landed at the corner of your jaw, then lower, along the curve of your neck. His tongue traced the skin he had earlier bitten, now soothing it with careful laps.
He pulled back just enough to turn your face toward him, claiming your mouth once more in a deep, unhurried kiss that tasted of salt and regret. His tongue moved slower now, exploring rather than invading, while below he ground his hips forward in tiny, devoted circles that dragged his cock against your swollen walls. The wet sounds of his cum shifting inside you filled the quiet between kisses.
“You're mine,” he breathed into the kiss, the words gentler than before, “but I never want to hurt what belongs to me.” His hand slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with feather-light strokes as he continued the slow grind, letting you feel every inch of him without the earlier brutality.
The tenderness built its own heat, each careful movement drawing soft gasps from you as he kissed away the sting of his earlier roughness.
“Forgive me, my love.” He murmured into your ear, “I forget myself sometimes when it comes to you.”
You huffed a breathless laugh, “You need not apologise, husband. I quite enjoyed it.”
He placed a tender, fierce kiss against your forehead and smiled, “I feared you might say that.” and with a quiet chuckle, Ormund gathered you against his broad chest, his arms wrapping securely around you as though the whole world could wait.
He rested his cheek atop your head, content simply to hold you there, listening to your steady heartbeat until the silence between you became as warm and cherished as any whispered vow.
cw: (mdni+18), monsterfucking!!, dubious content, oral(f!receiving), primal play, biting, feral werewolf!cregan, scenting, predator/prey dynamics, kissing, choking, humping, scruffing, mounting, fluff, pregnancy mention, nipple play, lactation kink, pregnant sex, knotting, p in v, breeding breeding breeding, period sex, blood kink, squirting, public sex (godswood, cave), praise, body horror, marking, rough sex, aftercare, overstimulation, (3.3kw).
a/n: in my au, werewolf!cregan has two forms! one closer to man and one closer to direwolf. the first one looks something like this, but with more fur! the second one looks closer to this! hope that's not too confusing. wrote this in between errands so i'm sorry if there's any errors! will proofread again tomorrow. thank you underworld franchise for making me what i am today, a shameless pervert. this is PURE FILTH, so read at your own discretion!
werewolf!cregan stark who was reluctant to let you witness him in such a way, furred and massive and dangerous, thinking you would resent him, banish this ancient, feral form he can take at will. but you did not. to his utter surprise, you embraced it fully, saying that loving your husband before gods and men means accepting him as is. cregan believed your words not to be true, until one night when you demanded he take the form of the beast and settle in bed next to you for warmth. he was powerless to deny you, wanting more than anything to be accepted and welcomed by you, despite his reluctance, which dissipated into ash when you burrowed into his furred chest, nuzzling along his neck and wrapping yourself around him as if he were a plush to sleep with. you were not afraid of him, and it rattled cregan to his very core. even more when you demanded he turn fully, more direwolf than man, and lay next to you as if he were one of the beasts prowling around winterfell than your husband. you argued he was warmest that way, and you liked how his paws kneaded at the fat of your hip and patted at your thighs even in sleep, as if in search of more of you.
werewolf!cregan stark who loves chasing his pretty wife through the woods, snapping his jaws at the hem of your skirts just to make you gasp and run faster. you just look so good like that: skin warmed from exertion, chest heaving, mouth parting to breathe properly. he could catch you at any moment, but the view of your body swaying and jiggling as you quicken your pace, of the way you yelp and whine when your delicate bare feet scrape against the dirt and pebbles on the ground... gods, it makes his maw water, fangs aching to sink into any part of you.
werewolf!cregan stark who plunders your mouth, clawed paw willing your jaw open as far as it will go so he can lap inside, slow and filthy. he is uncaring of the way it must look, towering over you, maw pressed close, his textured tongue licking the inside of your mouth, tasting you fully. spit and drool running down your chin, and lower, glistening against your neck and dirtying your clothes, but you do not mind. not when your husband’s thick, long tongue is reaching the back of your throat, thrusting it as deep as it would go, fucking your mouth and making you choke around whines of pleasure. the feeling is debauched and sinful, but the growl of approval you get from the beast every time you struggle around the insistence of his kiss makes you preen.
werewolf!cregan stark who calls you pup in private, when it’s just the two of you, and he still has the sense of speech with him, more man than beast, crooning it into your ear, rumbled from deep in his chest. at first, you thought it was a means to make jest of you, but cregan wouldn’t dream of using such a special endearment with anything but aching devotion. “so pretty for me, pup,” he’ll mouth against your cheek, nuzzling into the warm flesh as he holds you close after another night of giving your bodies to one another. “does my pup want more?” your husband would ask seeing you eye the now empty plate of lemon cakes onto the table at supper, a pout onto your lips. “no, pup. we can’t afford such luxuries today,” he regretfully murmurs before pressing an apologetic kiss to your cheek. “be good for me, pup. don’t fuss.” cregan would growl against your nape as he held you down beneath him, ceasing your squirming.
werewolf!cregan stark who lets himself be the ancient, feared beast in the sanctity of your chambers. massive, furred, and dangerous, but never one to hurt even a hair on your pretty head unless you wished it. at times, you ask for the animal yourself, needing to prove to your husband that you love every inch of him. that, and having a hulking, panting mountain of a man-wolf wanting nothing but to lose himself in you makes your cunt shamefully wet. you know most people would find you mad, to feel and desire such a thing from a beast who could tear your throat out in one swift movement, but you cannot help yourself. for that is still your husband, and knowing that even like this, changed and wearing the skin of a wolf, he still wants for you in the most primal of ways, wills your thighs to spread open and present yourself to him in a heartbeat.
werewolf!cregan stark who takes you to the godswood late into the night and tells you to run as fast as you can, for he will give you a wide berth before catching you. the night air is so cold, and you’re wearing nothing but his cloak around you, since your husband wanted you bare and ready for him when he’ll get his claws on you. clothes are bothersome, and the beast is hungry, but he, of course, allows his wife the decency of a warm furred cloak, not wishing for you to freeze before the hunt even began. watching you move through the trees, giggles falling from your mouth as you make sure to sway your hips from side to side as you move further and further away, cloak billowing behind you, offering cregan flashes of soft skin and lush flesh he wishes to sink his fangs into. he had never transformed faster, bones creaking, flesh tearing to make room for fur and muscle and brawn, growling as he leaped into motion on all fours to follow your trail. his prey was waiting for him, and he could already sniff the slick of arousal between your thighs calling out to him like a spell.
werewolf!cregan stark who finds you no long after, but doesn’t pounce yet. instead, he circles. prowls through the trees, allowing you to see flashes of him, hear the rumbles of his need, and the snapping of his maw. your breath hitches, and your chest heaves with heavy breaths of exertion from running, but it does not compare to the delicious ache you feel between your thighs, pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing, the thrill of the chase spiking your adrenaline, steadily weening it into lust. and cregan smells it, willing him into getting closer, making himself seen, paws digging into the damp earth as he approaches enough to snag at the cloak with his claws and nip at a flash of bare calf that got too close to his maw.
werewolf!cregan stark who tackles you into the ground, tearing away the cloak from your body, impatience eating away at the little restraint he has, words ceasing to exist now, all that remained being the low sounds of need from a beast whose cock hangs heavy between his legs, needing to be sheathed inside your cunt as soon as possible. he covers you fully, pinning you belly first into a pile of leaves and dirt, jaws parting to close around your nape, scruffing you, as a wolf would a misbehaving pup, keeping you beneath him as he molds his furred body against the length of your back. the bite doesn’t draw blood, but wills you into obedience, limbs melting, surrendering yourself fully to the beast above you, which draws a growl from deep within his chest, a sound of satisfaction at your subservience. you’re already so, so wet, dripping down your thighs, and cregan cannot help but hump against your ass like a dog in heat, claws scraping against the earth on either side of your head from the feeling. he’s a bow drawn tight, and the way his big, girthy cock rubs between the fat cheeks of your bottom makes his fangs ache.
werewolf!cregan stark who feeds the head of his cock into your hole with a snarl muffled against your nape, holding back from howling from how snug your pussy is around his weeping length. he should be ashamed that he is knotting the air, gorged flesh already pulsing at the base of his cock, but can’t bring himself to when you squeeze so deliciously around him, pulling him deeper and deeper inside. cregan takes you like what he is: a beast. growling and panting against your skin, scruffing you firmly as he pounds into you with fervor, drooling against your nape from how good it feels, blanketing you with his massive, furred form, rutting into your pussy hard enough to jostle you back and forth against the ground.
werewolf!cregan stark who wishes words were still given to him in this beastly form, only able to enunciate the delectable pleasure you’re giving him with nothing but growls and croons and rumbles, hoping those are enough for you to know that your cunt is the best gift you could bestow upon him, next to your heart. your moans and wanton cries delight him, only coaxing him to fuck you harder, faster, deeper, nudging his knot past the opening of your hole and stuffing you so full of him you swear your soul ascends to the gods for a mere moment. the beast rumbles when you squeeze him tight, only able to give sharp grinds into your pussy now, the knot binding you both together. cregan unlatches his maw from your neck, rough tongue lapping at the indents his fangs have left behind in silent apology, but preening with pride at having left his mark upon your skin. you babble incoherently, so lost in pleasure you barely can form a word, tears running down your cheeks from the sheer mounting pleasure you’re given, which cregan licks sloppily, tasting salt and wife on his palate.
werewolf!cregan stark who pins you down and makes you take it, knowing you can, knowing you want it, even in the dirt, and breeds you so full it leaks out of you, dripping between your thighs and onto the ground, even staining his fur. it irritates and delights him in equal measure that your body is smaller than his, not being able to take all his cum into your womb, but loving to know that he is giving you so much of his seed, his potency and virility so strong that your hole cannot keep all of it. a shame, really, to waste it away, but that is alright. cregan will only have to breed you again to make up for it, like he always does. your womb is made to take his litter, to have his pups, and he will make sure he prepares your body for it accordingly, giving it what it needs for the seed to catch.
werewolf!cregan stark who loves to press a heavy paw against the pudgy flesh of your belly, right above your crotch, to feel the head of his cock kissing your womb. to feel the slight roundness of your stomach after he has pumped you full of his cum, the flesh protruding a little from the sheer amount of it. or, to apply pressure in time with his thrusts, making you feel every inch of him as he ruts into you like an animal.
werewolf!cregan stark who gives in to his most primal desires, feral from the full moon, and fucks you into a cave at the outskirts of winterfell, at the foot of a mountain. it’s cold and damp and primitive, but your husband is too far gone to care, driving his cock into your sopping wet cunt, pressing you into the floor of the cave, only cushioned by his cloak. he claws at the rocky, rough surface, leaving indents behind on the ground on either side of your head as he mounts you like a beast, one paw lifting your hips up and backwards to meet his thrusts, presenting you to him, arching your body as far as it would go, like a cat in heat, ready to give him what he needs. your ass jiggles with every snap of his furred hips, and he howls in delight as his knot nudges deep into your hole and rubs against your gummy walls. your mouth is open and drooling onto his cloak as you leave yourself in his clawed paws to do with as he wishes, moving you as he wants you, pulling you onto his cock again and again while you moan and take it, warm cheek flush against the hard ground of the cave. cregan is mad with need, filling you with his seed until your belly swells with it, crooning against your throat as he nips at it enough to sting, then laps the pain away, only to do it again. his precious, gorgeous mate, spent under him, mewling and hiccuping wanton whines of pleasure as you let him use your pretty hole, even squirting around his cock, dampening his fur, marking him back. it satisfies a sick feeling in his chest, willing you to do it again and again, delirious with overstimulation until his fur is drenched in your juices and you are so spent you cannot string more than two words together.
werewolf!cregan stark who croons so sweetly as he cradles you under him, gentle as he turns you around to see your pretty face, your dazed, drowsy gaze, your drooly lips. and he swears there is no better sight in all the seven kingdoms and beyond. your husband is so careful as he curls beside you, using his massive, furred body to offer you warmth, paws maneuvering you slowly until you are pressed to his chest. his maw nuzzles against the top of your head, the length of your throat, the valley between your breasts, rough tongue lapping lazily at the sweat-slicked skin, offering comfort. cregan always handles you as gingerly as he can after he’s wrung every ounce of pleasure from your body, thanking you in his own brutish way for allowing him to have you, even like this, more beast than man. he grooms you, as a wolf would a pup, nuzzling and licking at every patch of skin he can, sweeping dirt and tears from your cheeks, crooning as he lulls you into drowsiness, your body lax and pliant against his hulking frame.
werewolf!cregan stark who begrudgingly allows his body to will itself into the form closer to a direwolf at times, at your request, growling as he listens to you argue that it is better for keeping you warm on the colder days and allows you to curl around him better than his other, more ferocious, towering form. you will never admit how fond you are of your husband like this, all furred and fluffy, a perfect candidate to hold and snuggle to bed, to his utter dismay. he gets more playful like this, nipping at your skirts and nosing underneath them, receiving countless scoldings from you, which the beast only responds to with a flicker of his ears and a swish of his tail. cregan can be a bastard at times, and he enjoys toying with you, lifting one of his forelegs to paw and knead at your ass or thigh when you least expect it. or smack it. whatever fancies him in that moment.
werewolf!cregan stark who has a hard time allowing you to be at your desk, foreseeing scrolls and letters for more than half an hour before he noses his way under your skirts to lap at the soft skin of your thighs and nip at your small clothes, tearing them away so he can get to your cunt. there is not much you can do when a beast is pushing his maw against your pussy, snout pressing against your slit, panting and drooling as he sniffs at the curls that hide his favourite meal. your husband’s rough tongue has no shame as it laps at you, parting your folds to taste you fully, furred ears twitching in delight as your slick floods his mouth and makes his fangs ache. his tail wags incessantly as he licks at your pussy, growling into the heat of you, uncaring of the work that needs your attention. your skirts are pooled over your waist, your wolf is between your legs, and you’re powerless to push him away, fingers coming to weave through the fur between his ears, petting fondly, eliciting a pleasant rumble from him.
werewolf!cregan stark who has no qualms in pressing his snout right against your crotch when he can sniff your moon blood has befallen you, whining needily, akin to a pup, until he can get his big, furry head under your skirts so he can lick away the blood between your thighs, lapping at it greedily, tail wagging in delight as the beast feasts. you are absolutely horrified the first time it happens, pushing at him and yelping as you try to scramble away, but big, clawed paws hold you still, pitiful whines and growls rumbling from his maw as he pleads, in his own way, for you to let him ease the pain and ache between your thighs, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, cramps becoming merely dull afterthoughts under the care of your husband. looking at him afterwards always makes you ashamed, the fur around his jaws stained red with your blood, dripping down his neck, marking him. he licks at his chops, preening under your gaze, ears twitching. the bastard.
werewolf!cregan stark who is the first to know when his seed has taken root inside of your womb, circling you as he sniffs at every inch of skin he can press his snout against, crooning so deep you swear you feel it in the marrow of your bones. you’re going to have his pups. his litter. and he is utterly obsessed with keeping you close as much as possible, foregoing his duties when the north allows it so he can spend his time curled up next to you, nosing at your belly and lapping at the growing pudge, nuzzling it as he croons and purrs. your husband sleeps with his head onto your belly, or one heavy paw kneading ever gently at the skin there, needing to know every sound, every shift.
werewolf!cregan stark who fucks you slow and deep, even while you’re heavy with his pups, rutting into you as he’s pressing his hulking, furred body against your back, both of you lying onto your sides where you’re most comfortable, to not put strain onto your pregnant belly. one paw is splayed against it, holding it from the underside to ease the heaviness of it for you as he makes sure to drive his cock right where you need it, careful to keep his knot away, mindful of the way your body is too sensitive for such things now. instead, he knots the air, not nudging it inside your hole like he would’ve done before, restrain made of iron, the safety and contentment of his mate paramount. cregan offers his cock to you whenever you wish it while you’re pregnant, knowing that pheromones can make you crave pleasure more than before, and he is more than delighted to provide his length, mouth, everything at your service.
werewolf!cregan stark who cannot help but nuzzle against your chest, nipping at the neckline of your nightgown, sniffing greedily when he catches whiffs of sweet, warm milk leaking from your nipples and staining the fabric of your chemise. his rough tongue is lapping at the pebbled peaks through the soft material, hungry and greedy for a taste, whining and snarling softly, having half a mind to rip the garment to pieces with his fangs. he can’t help the rumble of satisfaction when you tug your neckline down with a huff, presenting your tits to him, heavy with milk and dripping what he can only assume is the nectar of the gods, for it tastes like so when he lets his tongue lap at your nipples like a frenzied dog, tail wagging incessantly behind him, looking more a pup tasting milk than an ancient beast thrice the size of his wife.
werewolf!cregan stark who fucks his pregnant wife with his tongue when he is too fearful to use his cock anymore, allowing you to rock against the textured surface of his palate to your delight, squeezing around it as if to milk him dry. he ruts his tongue into you steadily, giving you the pleasure you seek as you hold onto his fur and moan prettily. your husband is so good to you.
werewolf!cregan stark who will never admit how weak he gets when you let mewls of “good boy” slip past your lips whenever he is between your legs, his tail having a mind of its own as it wags uncontrollably, whining into your pussy from the praise, driving him to satisfy you with more vigour, leaning into the pets you offer him so sweetly.
werewolf!cregan stark who is like a sentinel when your pups are born, grooming them so carefully, licking at their downy heads and nuzzling their soft cheeks, cradling them against his furred body, cocooning them in his warmth. he scents them as often as possible, nosing at their chubby bellies and soft throats to make sure they smell just like him. so everyone knows that these precious pups are his and yours. a labour of your love.
werewolf!cregan stark who needs to leave his mark on you and his pups, scenting all of you heavily every morning before he leaves for court and duties, needing to groom and tend to his little family, crooning and purring happily when all of you nuzzle back into him. cregan’s heart couldn’t be more full.
Content tags are no physical description of reader, smut, fluff, discussion of food, praise, pet names, cannibalism as a heavy-handed metaphor for love, gore imagery, predator/prey dynamics, finger sucking, he forces reader to eat once, cum eating, pregnancy sex, brief mention of body insecurity, overstimulation if you squint, cannon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns thank you for reading <3
"Hungry" was an inaccurate word to describe your husband. Hunger did not fully depict the depth of his craving for you. When it came to his wife, Cregan Stark was insatiable. Ravenous. Carnivorous.
Blood, fat, bones, hair - everything soaked in the essence of you was enough to make his stomach grumble. What else should you have expected - marrying into the house of direwolves?
Naturally, you were skittish when you first arrived to Winterfell, only tolerating soft, gentle affections. Your comfort zone was narrow, having not yet built the trust that your husband would never harm a hair on your head. Cregan was patient with you, allowing you to develop your appetite for him over time. He knew you possessed a prey-animal nature with your wide eyes and blunt teeth. He protected you from any perceived danger, spoke so sweetly to you, listened to your opinions and ambitions. He liked your demure nature: picking at fruits and vegetables on your plate, nibbling bread and butter, and always preferring sweet to savory. He couldn't help but laugh when you had powdered sugar all over your lips, having snuck a small piece of cake before bed. "Wha-?" you mumbled, cheeks dusted white and full of dessert.
Cregan allowed you to love him the way you preferred, and chose to introduce you to his methods in small doses. The first time it happened, he had simply kissed you on the cheek. It was something you knew, and liked. It filled your chest cavity with heat every time he nuzzled into the side of your face. But afterwards, he did something unfamiliar; he grazed his teeth across the area he just kissed, and nipped at the curve of your cheek. Your body froze, like a startled deer caught in a trap.
You were unsure of how to react to this new feeling. “What are you doing?” Your eyes, impossibly round, flashed up to meet his.
“Jus’ wanted to taste you.” His knuckles grazed your chin as he studied you, assessing the slight indents his incisors left in your skin “You did not like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Heat bloomed underneath your skin, the slight sting was already fading from the bite area. "You could... do it again."
And taste you, he does. Cregan sinks his teeth into your tender flesh, all the places that you jab and curse the supple tissue. "You taste so sweet" he mummers, trailing his tongue across your stomach. His fingers digging into you to hold you in place, as if someone was going to take the meal away from him. "This tender piece right here" his sharp canines bite into your breast. He rolls the fat in his hands, manipulating the meat of your body. The soft tissue yields under his touch, and your thumping heartbeat sounds like music in his ears. When he presses his nose into your skin, he can practically smell the blood just underneath and wistfully thinks of when you'll let him taste it.
Exuding immense self control, he very rarely bites hard enough to draw blood. If it happens, it is an accident, he says. "Ah sorry pup" he pouts, watching red bloom across the tiny cuts in your skin. At the sight, his stomach growls, and cock twitches where it nestled deep inside you. He does not let the wound bleed freely. He mouths the sensitive cut, swiping his tongue across, earning a small hiss out of you.
"Hush, it's not that bad" he mumbles, with his mouth still latched onto you. "You can bite me back. Then, we will be even."
It pleases Cregan when you tear at him, claiming him as yours. You might not have been born a wolf, but living in the North has made you bear your teeth, not simply fleeing like a scared fawn like you did in your old life. You are assimilating and growing braver each day.
You have developed a peculiar appetite for your husband. You gnaw at his neck, but only where it can be hidden by clothes. It would be shameful if others knew how freely you feasted on your husband, and saw evidence of your carnivorous transgressions. His bicep is particularly delicious; in mornings lying in bed, it looks like an inviting feast. Who could blame you? Your stomach growls having not broken your fast yet.
But most often you chew his hands. Sitting on Cregan's lap, it soothes you to take his large index finger into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around his finger, coating it in saliva and your scent- marking him as your husband. Cregan studies you sitting on his lap, his gaze never wavers from your consumption of him. He slides a second finger past your lips, filling your mouth and flooding it with saliva. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, like a dog gnawing a bone. “Teeth” he mutters, a simple instruction, but you know exactly what Cregan wants. You shift his fingers to your back molars, just enough to fill your mouth but not enough to gag you, and graze his digits against the ivory again and again. If he'd let you, you wonder if you could be so lucky to suck the marrow right out of his bones. He slides his fingers out with a pop, paying no mind to the wetness of your lower face. Hooking a finger under your lip, he pulls the flesh up to reveal the line of teeth in your mouth. Prodding at the points of your canines, inspecting you, assessing you, he nods, satisfied of the sharpness that pokes the pads of his fingers.
Cregan loves when you are dressed in Northern attire: luxurious furs and pelts, feathers woven into your braid. "So pretty, pup. My best girl." He holds the base of your skull, tilting up your face to look at him, and scratches behind your ear. You preen under his praise; if you had a tail, it would be wagging now. He holds you away from him so he can scan over your form, covered head to toe in what the lady of Winterfell should wear, not some frail Southerner. Giddiness courses through you, making your bones lighter, muscles singing. You twirl on the toes of your leather boots, letting your skirts flare at the movement.
When you are with child, your cravings wax and wane like the moon. One day you only want dry crackers, another you only want rare cuts of beef that pool blood onto the plate. Some days, your appetite leaves you completely and you can only stomach small sips of tea. Cregan kneels before you, practically begging for you to eat some sustenance. "You need to eat, my love, you need to be nice and strong for me. The iron in the meat is good for you and the babe." You shake your head stubbornly. Turning your nose up at your plate is the final straw for your husband. He tires of your resistance. "You will eat this." He grabs your jaw, forcing it to hinge open and accept a piece of meat. Hot, angry tears are collecting in your eyes as you chew, shooting daggers through your eyes at him.
As your body changes with pregnancy, your husband simply cannot remove his hands from you. You smell different, more of the earth, like something that he caught in his jaws and cannot wait to tear into. It makes his mouth water knowing that you are slower and clinging to him more often in your current condition. He lays you down on the fur covered bed so he may press his nose into your mound. It drives you to the point of insanity. One forearm lays heavy across your stomach, to keep you still. He inhales deeply, the unique scent of you, then quick exhales out his nose send shudders up your entire spine. “Husband” you wheeze “What are you doing?” He just presses his face into your sensitive cunt, using all his restraint not to fuck you the way he usually does. He still fucks you - he's not that self-controlled - but he keeps you on top, rolling his hips up to meet yours and paying the utmost care not to press on your stomach. Afterwards, he helps you stand up, carefully holding on to you so you can regain your balance. But your face contorts into discomfort? Disgust?
He finds that your moods shift like the winds with pregnancy and whatever your bothers you, he feels the need to correct immediately. "What is it, my love?" he breathes "Are you hurt?"
Your nose wrinkles, voice wobbles "I'm all sticky" you blubber "A right mess."
He follows your gaze down to your thighs smeared with shiny spend.
You whine pitifully "I must bathe. And I still feel my heartbeat, here." Your hand brushes the split of your cunt, and you stare at the sticky substance, so annoying to you in this moment. It drips out uncontrollably, pointless, and way too much to be comfortable.
Your husband is apologetic, falling to his knees at your feet. He hushes you, desperately trying to cease your whimpers of discomfort. His tongue starts on your thighs, swiping, speaking reassuring words that settle you into a quiet state. Without question, he cleans you. It quells what was bothering you - and then turns into something to ease the lingering pulse between your legs. Cregan laps into your cunt, with such vigor that it seems he is trying to eat right into you. His tongue bullies into your folds, finding the heady mixture of your arousal intoxicating. With each passing minute he finds himself more drunk off your cunt. Even as a peak rolls through your body, further wetting your thighs and his face with fluid, he continues with his feast, gorging on his wife, trying in vain to satisfy his bottomless hunger.
summary: when the prince of dragonstone visits the north on a diplomatic mission, you begin to notice just how close he and your husband are. the last thing you expect is for him to set his sights on you, and for your husband to be content to let him see.
warnings (mostly in order of appearance): afab!reader, Mallister!reader, canon divergence (no dance, but it comes kind of close), discrimination? (reader is looked down on for not being northern), consumption of alcohol, canon typical views of gender and sexuality, sexual tension, piv sex, fingering, descriptions of m/m, implied emotional affair/leftover feelings between cregan and jace (reader isn’t super jealous and is MOSTLY into it), wet dreams, exhibitionism/voyeurism, threesomes, hot springs sex, dry humping, minor angst as a result of miscommunications (cregan is VERY emotionally repressed and has a hard time vocalizing his feelings as a result), oral sex, cucking, cunnilingus, implied gender envy (jace and reader), three way kissing (challengers style!!), m/m/f, blowjobs, sloppy seconds, perfume oil as lube, anal fingering, anal sex, cum eating, dom!cregan, switch!reader, switch!jace, top!cregan, bottom!jace
word count: 29.6k. don't ask me how.
a/n: alexa, play i want my boyfriends to kiss by ashnikko.
Matters of business and pleasure, Cregan had told you. Diplomacy.
Diplomacy was why Queen Rhaenyra was sending her eldest son to the North for a diplomatic tour on behalf of the crown. Her son, beloved in the North, by virtue of his friendship with your husband.
You had always known of the pair’s close bond. Years ago, when the continent was on the brink of war, Jacaerys had flown to Winterfell in hopes of reinforcing Cregan’s oath to his mother. He had hunted with Cregan and they had exchanged tales of boyhood. They had bonded so fiercely that they had made a blood oath. When Jace left, and the world remained right side up, so did their bond.
You had wed Cregan a year after, and came to know only of his dear Jace in the form of their correspondences and a scar across Cregan’s left palm. It was endearing, to hear your husband speak so gently of his friend.
Cregan had been made a man far too soon, in your mind. His tumultuous rise to lordship had yanked him out of being a boy straight into the world of harsh, emotionless Northern men, and had hardened him similarly. You hadn’t seen him smile–truly smile–until 3 months into your marriage.
But as Jacaerys dismounted Vermax, and strode towards the small crowd of bannermen and servants gathered to greet him, you watched your husband light up. Cregan—who usually demonstrated as much emotion as a wet woolen sock left to freeze solid in the snow—had grinned like a boy, embraced his old friend in a tight bear hug.
And then the prince turned to you.
His eyes passed you up and down, in a moment that felt both too slow for comfort and too fast to savor. His brow twitched, and then he glanced briefly at Cregan. The expression wasn’t doubt, nor critique. You wouldn’t come to understand the emotion in his gaze until later in his visit.
“Lady Stark,” He said gently, “How lovely it is to at last meet the woman who has warmed my dear friend’s frozen heart.”
He took your gloved hand in his. His gaze didn’t break from yours as he pressed a dedicated kiss to the leather.
“Prince Jacaerys,” You answered, curtsying, “I could say the same to you. You were there first, after all.”
Genuinely, there had been no jealousy in your reply. How could there be? You loved Cregan as he was, but knew few loved Cregan instead of Lord Stark of Winterfell. Anyone else who saw into the window of Cregan’s soul was a dear friend of yours, no questions asked.
“Please, my lady,” He insisted, “Call me Jace. All of my friends do.”
WEEK ONE.
You noticed the intricacies of their dynamic almost immediately. It was not necessarily hard to miss, not even for the feeblest of minds. Anyone who had spent an hour in the presence of Cregan Stark knew he was a man of few words, with a disposition as icy as his homeland. There were very few things that brought him joy, and even fewer that brought him visible joy.
Jacaerys was one of those things. At his welcome feast, your husband had sat at the front of the room, you at his left, your guest of honor on his right. Feasts were only your strong suit in the planning stage. You ran the household in a highly organized manner and had mobilized the entire castle in preparing for Jacaerys’ welcome. Once the event came, however, you were happy to fade into the background. You were sure others would be happy too.
Tonight, all eyes would be on your visitor. To honor the occasion, you had worn one of your finer gowns for the affair—a warm, heavy silver gown with deep purple embroidery, displaying the joined colors of yours and your husband’s houses.
It was no surprise to you that the prince was happy to lap this attention up. He was heir to the Iron Throne, of course. He had been primed for all eyes pinned on him since birth. He radiated light—a light so bright it was contagious, transmittable only to your husband.
In the two years of your marriage, you had learned one thing: smiling was rare. It was rare between the two of you, but the absence of a smile did not mean he was displeased with you–a trait you had struggled to cope with in the early days of your union. Cregan was naturally stoic and spent most of his time preoccupied with matters of state and the Wall. His brow and lip were always turned downwards. The weight of responsibility made it hard to do otherwise.
When he smiled, it was small, or it was the consequence of a gentle laugh. It happened most often when he was tired, when he had just woken up, when he was sated, or when he was full of love. They rarely lasted. He would fall asleep or get up, and you would be left trying hopelessly to render the moment immobile.
Smiling from Cregan was rarest in front of everyone. He was a master of composure, born from years of projecting security and worthiness of his claim to be Lord of Winterfell. Jokes did nothing. He did not sing songs with the rest of his men. Cups loosened his shoulders, but not his lips. Not until after he was back in your bedchamber.
And yet, when he stood to make a toast, he smiled graciously. A hush fell over the room as he loomed over the guests of the hall. An unexpected sight indeed.
Some would suspect flattery—but this was Winterfell, not Highgarden. Northerners were hardly men of lip service. Others would suspect graciousness—no, Cregan Stark did not need to flatter his guest, but he did need to show the Prince of Dragonstone that he was welcome in the North.
That would leave only honest, unabashed happiness. From Cregan Stark. Warden of the North. Something few expected. And while you knew the prince was one of your husband’s favorite people, you couldn’t have expected that he would be smiling at his welcome feast during his toast.
“To all gathered here tonight,” Cregan’s voice boomed across the hall, “Let us all raise a toast to our prince, and to his mother. Treat him as you would your fellow Northerner in these coming weeks. Drink, eat, rejoice. Long live the queen!”
“Long live the queen!”
Cups were raised to the future king and his mother. Ensuing cups were filled, and refilled. Once he sat down, Cregan seemed content to sit between his wife and his prince and let them lead the conversation. Jacaerys was incredibly easy to speak to. He regaled you with tales of his correspondence with Cregan, life on Dragonstone, his childhood in the Red Keep. Every now and then, Cregan would interject, with a comment, a rebuttal, or an inside joke, which would send Jace into fits of laughter, especially as the prince sank deeper and deeper into his cups.
Cregan and you continued drinking too, albeit Cregan handled his wine far better than you and Jace. Not that he was impossible to sink. You could see his eyelids growing heavy, his shoulders dropping the tension, his body settling into his chair as the night progressed. Your laughter grew higher in pitch and frequency. The hall was warm and welcoming, something rarely felt this intensely in your home. While you had grown to love Winterfell over the past few years, you knew that its doors opened this widely for a very precious few. This was a welcome that had to be earned.
The party remained lively. The singers took up a spot in a far corner of the room, and the men took women into their arms to prance about the open space.
“Do you indulge Lady Y/N in dance at these feasts often, Cregan?” Jacaerys asked, and you stifled a laugh.
“He would sooner take the black,” You joked, “And besides, Cregan is a fine warrior, but a terrible dancer.”
Cregan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “I’m glad you find this insufficiency of mine humorous, wife,” He conceded, before looking at Jacaerys, “I seem to recall you are fond of dancing.”
You smiled, looking at the prince gleefully. “You dance?”
He bobbed his head up and down, noncommittal in his answer. “I wouldn’t call myself a dancer, necessarily. I’ve learned the dances at court.” His expression turned smug. “I am certainly more capable than he is.”
Cregan scoffed, shaking his head. “I should have pledged for Aegon. Look at how you repay me.”
You stiffened at Cregan’s remark, only to relax when Jace burst out laughing. Cregan’s eyes were warm. Swallowing down your nervousness, your gaze flickered between them both. The Year of Tension—the final year of the late King Viserys’s life, and the two moons following his death where the realm teetered between peace and war—had been three years past now. Many still grew awkward when discussing the crisis of succession. Evidently, not Jace, who scoffed right back at your husband.
“And then what?” Jace quipped, “Vermax was right there. We would have made you the warmest Northerner in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”
The prince moved his eyes back to you. “Come, my lady,” He said, standing and extending a hand, “If my friend will not indulge you in a dance before the night is over, then the pleasure shall be mine.”
You looked at his hand, and recognized a scar matching your husband’s. He led you to the dance floor, with no protests from Cregan. He seemed to watch you both with a deep interest. Jace faced you, and allowed you to come to him. One hand placed itself on his shoulder, and when you lifted your palm, he brought his to yours. A moment later, his hand landed on your waist, a gracious and polite distance between you both. A moment later, the music began.
“Are you happy to be back in the North?” You asked, beginning to move in tandem with him. Jace smiled.
“I am. It is an honor to be received in such a way, especially as an outsider.”
He said outsider the way most Northerners said it. Like an insult.
“You understand, yes?”
Shrugging as best as you could amidst the dance, you had to agree. “Many had their doubts when I wed Cregan. That the only woman suitable for Cregan Stark could be one bred by the North. Some were particularly vocal. To some, I’m a Northerner now. I’ve slowly started to think of myself as a Northerner. My children will be Northerners someday, and I will die in the North, most like.”
You paused, thinking about the friction you still came face to face with. “But some will always consider me to be an outsider. It can be admirable, I suppose. How united they are. Gods know they could use the unity down in the Riverlands.”
“Do you miss it?” He asked, breaking eye contact briefly to eye his feet. “Cregan told me you kept the Seven after your marriage. I imagine it must get lonely.”
“It can be.” You did the same, looking down at where your feet fit in between his as the dance continued. “But I am grateful. Many a husband would have demanded I take their gods instead. Not only did he welcome me to keep mine, but he has repurposed use a room in the southern wing of the castle as a room of worship. My own personal sept, if you will.”
“Do you keep a septon?”
“No,” You replied, almost sad, “There are few willing to make the long journey, only fewer wishing to preach to only one. Some visit, and stay for some moons. Not many.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Jace nodded affirmingly. “I can see to it personally that one be stationed here at Winterfell, if you would like.”
Immediately, you shook your head. “This is the North,” You said resolutely, “Ultimately, I must respect their customs. The servants in the castle are wary of the septons when they visit—they are wont to preach. I’m sure you know.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I do. My brother Lucerys and I were often on the receiving end of the preaching, when we were boys in the Red Keep.”
You smiled at the newfound warmth on his face, different from the happiness at being in Winterfell. A vicarious pride, happy to gush about his family. “How is your brother?”
Jace beamed, ever the proud eldest son. “Luke is well, thank you for asking. He’s soon to be seven and ten, and is likely a constant in the hearts of the young ladies at court. He spends most of his days out on the Velaryon fleet with our grandsire and has become adept at sailing.”
“A true Velaryon, indeed. You must be proud of the man he’s become.” You smiled, “I’m sure he will one day make a grand Lord of the Tides.”
“I agree, and I am proud, as any eldest brother can be. Extremely so,” Jace said wholeheartedly.
The music swelled. He knew the steps of this dance well, it seemed, and suddenly you seemed inclined to believe he had downplayed his proficiency. He spun you with one hand and grabbed your other hand mid-spin. The two of you were now facing the same direction, Jace guiding you with his hands on yours.
You looked up, focusing back on Cregan. He was watching you both lazily, one hand around the goblet. Gray eyes shifted ever so slightly, and you knew he was locking eyes with you. He clenched his jaw. Your breath hitched, fighting to maintain your composure and remember the steps to the dance.
I adore you, you wanted to call from across the room, keep looking at me like that and it will kill me from want, and I will die the happiest woman in the world.
Jace let go of your hand, finishing the spin, returning to the beginning of the sequence of steps. He had yet to stumble or hesitate. When he pulled you back in, it was closer now. He exhaled, and you felt it on your cheeks.
“You are exceedingly humble, my prince,” You sighed, looking up at him, “You are extremely graceful.”
He hummed, hand landing back on your waist. “You are too kind, Lady Y/N. Besides, someone has to dance with you, yes?”
A giggle fell from your lips. “You say that as if it is the ultimate tell of a marriage—whether a husband will dance with his wife.”
“Not necessarily.” Jace shook his head. He spun you around again, and when you saw his face next, he too was looking at Cregan. “As long as you are suited to each other’s company. As long as his character fits yours—which by the sound of his letters, they do.”
You blinked, watching him watch your husband. He seemed oddly transfixed. “We are quite happy. A-after two years…”
You craned your neck, searching for your husband. Cregan was still watching. This time, however, his gray eyes held just above you, over you.
He was watching Jace. And when you looked back at Jace, he was holding his gaze firm. Subtly, his hand tightened against your waist. You hardly noticed, until you began to slow as the music calmed.
“...I believe we understand each other quite well.”
The music ended moments later. The couples around you came to a stop, and when the applause began, Jace finally looked back at you. He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable.
“It brings me much joy, that you and my friend have a happy marriage. You are very lucky.”
“Thank you, my prince.”
He led you back to the table, and the three of you retook your previous conversation. Cregan had drained another cup by then, a servant stopping by to refill it as you and Jace sat back down. When you sat, his neck craned to stare deeply at you. His gray eyes shone in the candlelight, pupils wide and dilated. You could feel your heart skip a beat, waiting for him to say something.
“Yes?” You asked. He shook his head, raking up and down your figure.
“Nothing, pet.”
He did this often. Staring just to stare. The closest thing to adoration he would allow himself in front of others. Any man could look at his wife. None of them could look at you the way Cregan did. A profound longing, soliloquizing with a silvery stare all the things he could never bring himself to say out loud.
The conversation picked back up, at Jace’s insistence. You tried your best to continue, to remain active in the conversation, but it was the point of the night where Cregan’s intentions were beginning to bleed through, thanks to the drink.
The most telling of all was when Cregan’s hand moved past his plate, past his cup, beginning to inch towards yours, and by the gods—this tactic of his never failed to hit you like a young maiden.
How ridiculous it seemed, that he could exert such power over you. His hands rarely ever touched yours on nights like these. He would make a game of drawing his hand near and pulling away before he could ever actually touch you. Coming close and inching away, like waves lapping at the side of a ship.
You’d never have taken Cregan for a tease, when you first married. And you supposed, in a way, he wasn’t truly. Not in the original sense of the word. You rarely had to tell him off, rarely had to shove sneaky hands away. He didn’t grab at you in front of his advisors, for which you were grateful. But small things like these, in a hallway or at supper…
The unfairly tantalizing push and pull of something as miniscule as whether or not he would touch your hand. A side glance without actually turning his head, one with hooded eyes from either the drink or the suggestion of something more, once he had you all to himself. Anything more than touching was always relegated to the bedchamber.
No, Cregan’s teasing lied mostly in the negative, the promise of more without ever even giving anything in the first place. Not until the only eyes placed upon you were his own. He loved these things, how he could see your pupils dilate or your breath catch. And when the time finally came, when his hands found their way between your legs, he loved the evidence of just how much he affected you.
Where they found themselves inevitably, at the end of the night. Once the lords and ladies had sung their goodnights to the three of you and welcomed Jacaerys back to the North. Cregan had led you up the stairs with a hand at the small of your back and had pressed you up against the door of the bedchamber the second it closed behind you.
Nights with your husband tended to reveal his more brutish nature and true strength, hidden beneath layers of furs. He could be loving and tender every now and again. But often, Cregan seemed to need to prove himself worthy of the Stark name. A wolfish nature would emerge on nights like tonight. Bite marks on your shoulders, breasts, hips.
Even then, he was rougher than usual tonight. You never complained. Not when he drove himself into you with a force that pushed the air from your lungs, using rough hands to push your thighs up to your chest, and slot himself between them. Not when he took a thumb to your pearl and swirled it in circles until you sang so beautifully for him. Not when he bent down to press a bruising kiss to your mouth, giving you a moment to recover before he parted and asked for “just one more, my girl. Let your husband show you how much he loves you.”
When he spilled in you finally, and lay his head on your chest, you racked what was left of your mind to wonder what may have triggered an appearance from the wolf. Whenever he was challenged, he liked to take it out on you. Whether the challenge had been issued by one of his advisors during council gatherings, a lesser lord at an audience, or by you during an argument, Cregan seemed to revel in using your body as an outlet to release his frustrations.
But who had challenged him that night? Everyone had smiled at him all night long, especially with his guest of honor at his side. There were no attempts to provoke him, not in front of Jacaerys.
Which left Jacaerys himself. Jacaerys, who landed just outside of Winterfell atop a hulking bright green dragon, who had temporarily displaced your husband from his pedestal of most important man of the room. You furrowed your eyebrows as you stroked Cregan’s sweaty hair.
“I had not realized the prince triggered such envy in you,” You murmured, looking up at the canopy of your bed.
“Jealousy?” Cregan spoke against the skin of your breast. It briefly sounded as though he was a child caught doing something he should not have been doing.
“Aye,” You said gently, “You don’t get like this often. Only when you get angry, or jealous. Or if I work you up, which I cannot imagine I did tonight.”
“No, you didn’t,” He hummed, “Very well behaved. And the feast was beautifully planned.”
“Do not coo at me like I were a pup,” You grumbled, pushing gently at his shoulder. “Besides, I was not about to provoke you in front of your friend and our future king. Or do you think so poorly of me?”
Cregan rolled off of you gently, and you puffed out a sigh when you felt him leave you. He propped his head up on his hand, the other tracing the curve of your breast.
“No, and I know you wouldn’t. You didn’t work me up, love.”
“Did it anger you when I danced with him?”
“Anger?” Cregan shook his head, frowning as if you had just spoken in tongues. “I was not angry at all. Nor was I jealous.”
You scoffed. “You were looking at each other like two horned deer about to spar. What a fight that would have been.”
Your husband tilted his head. It looked like he was holding back a smile. “Is that what you think it was?”
“Don’t deny it,” You huffed. Cregan smiled now, waving his hand.
“There is nothing to deny, because it is not true. You misunderstand, love. You’ll see.”
And see, you did. But it was not unsettling.
By the end of the first week, none of it seemed strange to you. You didn’t think it strange when Jace accompanied you both on a tour of the armory, and Cregan’s fingers brushed Jace’s when Cregan was showing him how to use a crossbow thought to have belonged to Torrhen Stark’s daughter. Nor when Jace passed by your husband in a small hallway, and instead of waiting for precedent, for Cregan to step to the side for a Prince of the Realm, Jace took it upon himself to brush past, gently nudging Cregan to the side by brushing his hands along Cregan’s waist.
What befuddled you was that even through all of this, you never felt a drop of jealousy. Even when you noticed the nature of Cregan and Jace’s relationship: the long bouts of eye contact, the unspoken conversations, the laughter, the way they seemed to orbit too close to each other. If anything, it only spurred curiosity. Every movement was now artwork for you to repaint in your mind. Every conversation became a dead man to dissect, and you the maester.
You waited, admittedly, for the twist in your chest, the urge to cling to Cregan, the ugly bloom of green in your heart that would turn your impression of the Prince of Dragonstone ugly and unpleasant. It never came. Instead, you were left with the strangest desire to push them closer. Like when you played with your dolls as a girl, and made your princess kiss her knight. You almost wondered if there was something wrong with you.
Because there was no knight or princess to be seen here. In their place stood your husband and a prince of the realm.
You sat with the doubt, but not for very long. Mostly because you had a spectre of a thought, one that could never be put into writing or spoken into words. A hunch. An inkling.
That if you truly were to push them closer, they would not protest.
Your husband was, for all intents and purposes, an emotionless wall of a man. Until it came to you. You could read him like a sailor could the stars. You had lived and learned his tells over the course of your alliance. The twitch of his lips, the flexing of the joints in his fingers. Whenever Jace was in the room, you could feel it. Taste it.
Jace would crack a joke, smug and wry. Bring up an old memory, or something they had discussed in a letter. His head would tilt back with an air of pride expected from the heir to the Iron Throne, and in a moment anyone else would miss, a fraction of a second, Cregan’s eyes would glance down at the span of his neck.
Every now and then, if Jace veered too close, you could make out the smallest dimpling of Cregan’s right cheek. Immediately you knew what from: gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Because he couldn’t bite down on what he really wanted to. You knew this look—you had been on the receiving end of it at feasts that dragged on for too long, or council meetings that grew too boring.
What you hadn’t anticipated was the prince turning his attention to you.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
The end of the first week came to a close in Cregan’s private study. Cregan had sent you off to bed without him, and together with Jace, they had opened an old cask distilled in Karhold many years ago. The final day of the first week had been slower, and had left time for the old pair to finally have some time on their own.
The conversation began as normal as ever. Debriefing the first few days here at Winterfell, rehashing memories, discussing politics and logistics. Until Jace decided to change the subject.
“Your wife is a wonderful woman,” He said genuinely, “Your match was well suited.”
Cregan smiled at his mentioning you. “It did not always feel that way.”
Jace swirled the liquor in his goblet. “Oh? No?”
Cregan sighed. “The arrangement was made before we ever met. We had no time to become familiar before—”
“Before you became familiar.”
“Not—Jacaerys.” Cregan flashed him a look, but it was not threatening in the slightest. Jace snickered, and Cregan felt his chest grow warm.
How he had missed this. There were few in Winterfell with whom he could simply joke with, like this. He was always the most needed man in the room, here. Everyone wanted something from him, always. Not Jace.
Not in a way Cregan would have complained about, anyway.
No, here in this room, he could simply be Cregan. No one to lord over or wrench power away from. He supposed all of that fell on his prince’s shoulders. He returned to the question he’d asked himself for years: who took all of that from Jacaerys?
“Lord Tully took it upon himself to arrange the match,” He continued, “I think Y/N’s father was positioning things to have her wed Lord Oscar.”
Jace raised his eyebrows. “He’s around Luke’s age, I’d wager. He was so young back then.”
“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “And not keen on taking a wife at that time, certainly not one several years older than he. No, Oscar Tully wrote to me instead, and one of my men who’d ridden to Riverrun once and held court with them all around that time told me she was beautiful, and I thought it time.”
“I take it Lord Mallister didn’t care which great lord got his eldest daughter, just that a great lord had her,” Jace quipped. Cregan shrugged, somewhat indifferent at the mention of his father in law.
“He seemed overjoyed at her match with the Warden of the North.” Cregan sat down opposite him, lost in thought. When he spoke again, his tone was downturned. Regretful.
“We had a misunderstanding, the night of the wedding. I believe I’ve told you.”
“You thought you’d frightened her.” Jace crossed his arms, trying to recall the story. “And she thought you resented her.”
Cregan sighed, mournful of the entire affair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the distance he found in you back then. “Everything went… well enough that night. It was wonderful. Then in the morning I opened my big idiot mouth and said something I should not have. We did not lay together for another three moons after. She looked at me as if I had threatened to bite her head off.”
“You always were such a poet, Lord Stark.”
“And you have always loved to make fun,” Cregan bit back, straightening his posture. Jace finished his drink, and Cregan poured himself another one.
“She seems transfixed with you now,” Jace observed, “Always watching you. She is exceedingly… warm towards you. Though neither of you say it much.”
“Sometimes she is of fewer words than I,” Cregan conceded, “But there can be such joy in a shared silence when there is no pressure to fill it. We speak freely when we want.”
Jace was silent as he mulled over Cregan’s words. The prince looked over to where his friend was sitting, taking note of the fond expression on his face. He opened his mouth. Hesitated. But pressed on nonetheless.
“I’ll admit, it’s not what I would have expected from you.”
Cregan tilted his head towards Jace, gaze turning firm. “This came because it was expected of me.”
Jace pursed his lips. “I would have expected someone more talkative than you. A bit more willing to push.”
They held each other’s eye, and the air turned tense. The topic was a seal that should have remained unbroken. Cregan took a deep breath.
“Someone like you?” He asked, in that low gentle tone he took when he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. The seal gave way, peeling Cregan’s walls back until what was left was a man Jace had known much closer, once. Someone he remembered quite frequently, late at night. He lifted the goblet and drank, but did not look away. Cregan squared his shoulders.
“Have you considered that it may have been good for that moment in time,” He said, “But would not have suited me long term?”
“It was never suitable for either of us,” Jace countered, setting down the goblet, “And we did it anyway, Lord Stark.”
“Jacaerys,” Cregan mumbled, “You are being unfair.”
He had misstepped, he realized. “Do you take me for a spurned lover, Cregan?”
Cregan stared back at him, wordless. Cold gray eyes that had been warm not five minutes ago caused Jace to reevaluate his words. At the realization, Jace shook his head. He held up his hands in truce, offering a small gentle smile to boot. “I do not mean to turn this into a grudge or an argument. Truly. I just wondered…”
He watched Cregan’s jaw clench when he trailed off, feeling something warm and familiar bloom in his chest.
“Wondered what, my prince?” His tone was gruffer, words clipped. This was dangerous territory. In another life, his teasing likely would have burst into something that would have had Jace’s toes curling, legs raised towards the sky.
His smile turned sly. “Your wife is beautiful,” He said, tracing his fingers up and down the intricate details of the goblet, “Any man can see that.”
“Jace.”
The prince licked his lips, watching Cregan’s nostrils flare. Already, he seemed to know what Jace would end up saying. How delightful, he thought. Another opportunity to tantalize him.
“Would you be willing,” He said slowly, “Would she be willing…?”
Cregan’s voice dropped a dangerous octave. “Jacaerys.”
He blinked once, twice. The subtlest fluttering of his lashes. “Yes, my lord?”
Cregan’s knuckles were white against the tip of the armchair. Jace had known those knuckles very well, once. He had committed the ridges of them to memory. He would commission sculptures of them for his own personal collection, if Cregan had allowed it.
A pity. If this was how Cregan reacted to Jace asking him to fuck his wife, he doubted he’d say yes to that.
Cregan drained his cup, standing. “I ask you to leave my lady wife out of this conversation. I would not leave her to the devices of other men in our own bedchamber. She would not allow it.”
Before he could move to leave, Jace stood, making quick work to block Cregan’s path to the door with his own body. Cregan froze, hovering dangerously close.
“Who said anything about our being alone?” Jace shook his head, grinning. “How unimaginative, Cregan. That I want simply to ravish your wife and make a cuckold of you in your own home.”
“Is that not what you’re asking of me?” Cregan said, voice dangerously close to a growl.
At this, Jace shook his head again. His smile widened, showing teeth that would strike if he had the chance, the permission. The permission could not be granted by either person in this room. They both seemed to understand this. It did not mean they wanted it any less.
“I was of the understanding that cuckolds do not participate. I would not want her without you there. I want both of you.”
If Cregan asked him to leave, he would leave. Leave the room, leave Winterfell. He would walk into the snow, climb atop Vermax, and return to Dragonstone at this very moment. If Cregan punched him, he would perhaps also welcome it. He was well aware of how out of turn it sounded, noble hierarchy be damned.
It seemed Cregan had not considered this a possibility. His mouth opened, then closed. He studied Jace’s gaze, seeming to look for any inclination that he may be joking. The entire time, Jace held firm.
When Cregan found none, his eyes travelled down to Jace’s heart-shaped lips. Jace’s heart hammered in his chest.
“One night,” Jace suggested, “The three of us. You and her, as the gods intended it. Her and I, you and me, as we intend it.”
Cregan took a deep breath, brows furrowing. His tone seemed to waver, simmering with apprehension. “Jace…”
“One night, and I will never ask you anything of the sort again. I know you love your wife,” He insisted, “And ours is long past. But do you not also think back on how we once were? How good we could make each other feel, and wonder whether or not we could ever do it again?”
“My duty is to my wife.” He looked away, but from here, Jace saw no denial. He craned his neck downwards.
“I would wager gold,” Jace murmured raspily, “That if I were to grab you right now, your cock would be hard.”
Jace didn’t move, but Cregan’s hand shot out to stop him before he could, wrapping against Jace’s slender wrist. Cregan was facing him again, and Jace lifted his head. How close they had drifted in the past few minutes. He could feel Cregan’s body heat radiating off of him.
Cregan’s hand felt like a brand, heat starting at his skin and melting through his flesh until it burned at his bones.
“Where has this greed come from, my prince?”
“Search your memories,” Jace answered, “I have always been like this. Only the last time, you bent me over in the middle of the Wolfswood to satisfy me.”
Cregan licked his lips. Jace watched the glide of his pink tongue with the rapt attention of a rabbit suddenly aware of a wolf.
“Your… idea,” Cregan began, “It interests me. I must admit it.”
Jace smirked, but it was premature. Cregan let go of his wrist, and straightened his posture. He jutted his chin out, probably trying to feel even taller than he already was.
“I have never known my wife to look at another man, however,” He said, sounding rather proud at this. “Her eyes have never wandered, nor have mine. Our vows are resolute.”
Jace swallowed, starting to prepare to apologize, to patch his ego. He wondered how cold it was in the skies at this hour of night.
“But we have never been issued a challenge of this sort,” Cregan finished, and Jace’s brows began to raise.
“Challenge?”
Finally, Cregan smiled. It was small, lopsided. Jace felt his heart stutter, wondering how many times Cregan had given you this smile. What a privilege, to be on the receiving end of it for the rest of your days.
“If you can entice my wife,” Cregan murmured, “I will broach the subject with her.”
“I’ll charm her. Just as I charmed you.”
Cregan shook his head. “You don’t know Y/N like I do. She has a will made of steel.”
“So did you, I recall.” Jace had done this once. He could do it again. He raised a hand slowly, placing it in the center of Cregan’s leather doublet. Jace pressed down, searching eagerly for a restless ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. He found it, feeling the beating of Cregan’s heart against a three-year old scar that spanned the middle of his palm.
“All it took was some pouting and some wine. And you folded the moment I pressed my lips to yours.”
There it was, Jace realized a moment later. Looking at Cregan, however, he would not have guessed such an uneven pace.
“I will say again,” Cregan said, slowing down his cadence, “You—do—not—know—her.”
Gods, how familiar this felt. Jace loved to push. Years past, Jace would poke and prod at the sleeping wolf, hoping desperately to wake. His antagonizing would lead to a pay off in teeth-clacking kisses, a pleasing soreness in his lower abdomen, and bite marks on his nipples (and once, his left ass cheek).
“No, but I know you.” Jace leaned forward. Cregan smelled of pine and bittersweet liquor. “I know your methods. All I have to do is inspire. Create a fantasy worthy of making her thoughts stray.”
Cregan remained silent. This proximity was dangerous. Jace knew that Cregan could also feel the way the air moved differently at such a short distance. When he tried to meet his brown eyes with Cregan’s gray, he found them turned just below his nose. Jace swallowed.
The Lord of Winterfell watched as Jace’s lips pressed together to hum, then turned upward.
“Besides,” Jace murmured, wanting so terribly to just lean forward and reunite. “I have already made your eyes wander. And it has not yet been a week since I’ve returned.”
Cregan bit his lower lip, and paused for a beat before stepping away. The sweet moment was gone, torn away, but deep down Jace knew that he had reached the end of this path. They could not pass this wall without crossing into the realm of dishonor. He wondered if Cregan’s heart was beating as hard as his own.
And still, he grinned hungrily. Bracing. Willing.
“What more can it be to make hers?”
WEEK TWO.
Whatever initial anxiety you’d had prior to the prince and his dragon touching down in Winterfell seemed to melt away as you became better acquainted with him. The first week had been largely focused on the North as a whole: Jace had met with representatives from the likes of the Dreadfort, White Harbor, and Bear Island. A small envoy had been sent from the Wall to discuss the needs of the Night’s Watch with the prince. One more grand banquet was held that week, the planning leaving you too preoccupied to join your husband and his guests.
This second week, however, felt more focused on Winterfell. Thus, as the Lady of the household, Jace’s attention turned to you. You walked the grounds with him speaking of the logistics of granaries, food distribution, expectations for your servants.
Many men would scoff or roll their eyes at the womanly duties of running a household. Not Jace. He remained attentive, clearly listening, asking genuine questions. Others, when they made it this far, would take it upon themselves to saddle you with recommendations you did not need. You do not need this many servants to do the washing, they might say.
And they would turn their lips if you answered genuinely: perhaps not, but I would rather have a few more servants than needed than to deprive these people of coin to feed their families. Winter is hard enough.
Instead, Jace would listen to you speak. He would mull it over, then ask. When you offered your rationale, he would consider it—actually consider it, not pretend that he valued your insight.
“You are incredibly receptive, Your Grace,” You said, “Some men have very strong opinions on how I run my household.”
“What know I of running households?” He answered, tone tinged with offense on your behalf. “Much less Northern ones at the height of winter.”
“You would be surprised.” Your smile held no joy. “You’d think I was Dornish, the way they think I know nothing about a long winter.”
He tilted his head. “Have you ever challenged their notions?”
You sighed, tracing a piece of embroidery over your skirt. “The septons say grace is of utmost importance. I would rather turn the other cheek than argue.”
Jace frowned. “How heavy it must be, to carry all of it in silence.”
With resignation, you looked at him. The freckles across his cheeks, just below eyes tinged with empathy.
“It can be.”
Jace crossed his arms, rubbing them up and down slowly. Despite the furs draped across his shoulders, he still seemed cold. Or perhaps it was more for comfort. You couldn’t be sure.
“I held back like you, once,” He said after a moment of silent rumination. Brown eyes met yours. His dark, curly, rather un-Valyrian hair fluttered in the wind.
“When the knife comes for you, holding it by the blade will only you more. There must come a time when you turn it on whoever you’re duelling with.”
You didn’t ask him what he meant by that. You didn’t think you needed to.
There was a refreshing frankness about him, one that was exceptionally rare around these parts. Many Northerners seemed to use honesty as an opportunity for jaggedness. Honest to a fault, particularly brutal at your lowest. Jace’s honesty was nestled in kindness. The intention behind it was entirely different. It was comforting and not reproachful. He did not seek to pick apart your every action and your sex was not immediately discrediting to him.
It was pleasing and surprising. He seemed to be molded by gentleness that you would not expect of a dragon prince, and seemed to genuinely like you as a friend. Not just as the wife of his friend and political ally.
They had to have spoken about you, you assumed. What man did not speak of his wife to his closest friend? What friend did not offer advice or insight in return?
Honesty was never lacking in your husband. He was not normally one to hide things from you, not unless he knew you’d delight in the surprise. That being said, there was a difference between honesty and openness. While Cregan was not lacking in the former, he certainly did the latter. Pulling truth from him was easy. Pulling the whole truth, however, and asking him to lay his emotions bare, was worse than removing an arrow from a wounded man.
So, whenever you wanted his truths laid bare, his heart on his sleeve, you waited until you both returned to the shared intimacy of the bedchamber. Right before it became too late, and Cregan blew out the candles so that you may both rest your heads together.
And so it came when he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sitting behind him on your knees, brushing out his long, dark hair. His shoulders were slumped and his breathing was slow.
Lax, your man. At rest from a world that demanded so much of him, with someone who demanded only his full self. Tonight, the latter was not the scarier option.
“Does he like me?” The peace in the room was so resounding that your murmur felt like yelling into the void. “Do you know what he thinks of me?”
Cregan didn’t turn, seemingly content to let you brush through his hair. His low tone seemed weighed down with sleep. “Who? Jace?”
“Hmm,” You confirmed, “He has been incredibly kind.”
“Has he, now?” He rumbled mirthfully. You frowned. He knew you had worried over the crown prince’s approval. Why did he seem to be teasing you all of a sudden?
“I… yes.” You worried at your lower lip, lowering the brush. The loss of sensation was what finally made him turn back to you. He had a smile to match his previous tone, but when he saw the unsteadiness in your brow, the nibbling at your mouth, his face changed. His eyes filled with warmth, and a hand came up to caress your cheek.
“Why would he not like you then, love? If he has been so kind, as you are telling me.”
You looked downward, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know. I just… I want him to like me. I need him to like me, Cregan. He had a spot in your heart before I did. I cannot have us at odds.”
He shifted his position to fully face you now, pulling his legs onto the bed before pulling you into his lap.
“My anxious little wife,” He whispered, “So desperate for the approval she has already been given. One she never would have had to earn.”
“He likes me then?”
He shook his head, but not in denial. “He does. But I wish the opinions of others would not worry you so.”
“I care not for the opinions of others,” You huffed, “I care for the approval of our future king and your dear friend.”
Large hands caressed your sides, warming your skin through the fabric of your nightgown. You wrapped your arms around his neck, analyzing the details of his face. Ones you already knew but would be happy to stare at again and again. A small scar at the top of his cheekbone from sparring in his youth. The soft stubble on his chin. A mole near his jaw.
“He’s quite taken with you, love,” Cregan whispered, tension in your chest releasing at his admission, “He says you are quite capable at running our home. He considers you gentle. Graceful.”
Your cheeks went warm. “Does he really?”
He nodded. “Beautiful, too.”
“Oh.”
He stifled a laugh. “Are you blushing?”
“I—no.”
“You’re blushing,” Cregan said, boyish and teasing, “I just told you Jacaerys Velaryon thinks you’re beautiful, and you’re blushing.”
You straightened your posture, trying to push yourself off of him. “Well, it is quite late. Let us sleep, husband—”
He finally laughed, and you wanted to smack him. He pulled you in closer, despite your squirming, and gave you a chaste kiss. “Worry not, Y/N. It does not offend me.”
“Enough of this foolishness, Cregan. It is time for bed.”
He laughed, reveling in your bashfulness. “You asked me—”
“Hush. Bed.”
Throughout the week, Jace’s attention remained fixated on you. Walking the grounds with you, engrossing you in conversation on a variety of topics, from history, to your taste in wines, to snickering about your husband’s habits. He seemed to slowly come closer as your bond grew. Standing at a respectful distance at the beginning of his visit. Closing the distance with every passing day.
It did not dawn on you until the end of your third banquet, halfway through the second week. The night grew rather late, again full of dancing, singing and well roasted meat. Drinking games accelerated the chaos of the night. Jace had even convinced Cregan to partake in one—a game of tongue twisters and limericks, which he had inevitably lost.
By the end of the night, you were swaying on your feet. While Cregan was not, he was clearly not in possession of all his wits. You retired while there were still a few lords and ladies insistent on seeing the rest of the game through, Jace lingering with them.
His touch was innocent enough to the onlookers. Lingering on your hip, steering you up the stairs. A lord gently taking his lady wife to bed. How noble, how chivalrous. As you went up the stairs, yours and his steps seemed to echo a little louder than they usually did.
And then, once the lull of the party was far away enough, you rounded a corner, and he pinned you up against an alcove in the wall. You froze, unsure what to do. You weren’t going to turn him down, but gods, you couldn’t think of the last time he tried to ravish you in an empty hallway where anyone could walk past.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” He growled against your neck, “and I am the luckiest man in the world.”
“Cregan—what are you—”
“What do you think, pet?” A hand slid down your side, finding your hip under your dress and hiking it around his waist. With a finesse you did not usually expect from him, he slipped past the hem of your dress. His touch trailed up your ankle, past your stockings and thigh, searching, searching, and oh, finding…
“Cregan,” You whimpered, trying to stay quiet as his fingers came to glide through your folds. Your hands clung to his back.
“Let me,” He pleaded, restrained and throaty that made you clench around nothing, “I could take you right now, if you let me.”
“They will hear—” He chose your protest to plunge a finger in, thick and teasing.
He brought his mouth up to your ear. “Let them.”
Your head tipped forward, back pressing into the cold stone of the wall. Your lips yearned for the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, but he was still fully dressed. You chose instead to press your mouth against the fabric of his doublet, trying hard to stifle your keening as he explored your walls.
His fingers began to speed their pace, pleasure rolling up your body, starting at your core and travelling up your torso, down your legs. You let yourself imagine it, a deep shiver taking over your person
His lips took your earlobe into his mouth, suckling gently. You could feel him pressing against your thigh, and you furrowed your brow. Whatever madness had possessed your husband, it had spread to his fingers, and you gasped against the thick gray wool at his shoulder when he pushed another in.
“Do you want me to?” He pulled you closer with his free hand, and you couldn’t hold back the cry that came with being impaled further on his digits. “To fuck you up against this wall, and let Lord Glover hear how good I make you feel?”
You couldn’t find your words, eyes screwing shut as you imagined what he was suggesting.
And when you opened your eyes, you found you didn’t need to. Peeking from around the corner, in the dark, you saw him: dark curly hair, slightly dishevelled from a night of drinking. Dark eyes trained on your face. You could feel it, at the base of your spine, and it spiked when you realized who you were looking at.
“Fuck—”
“Tell them, Y/N,” He demanded, free hand digging into your side, as if he wanted to break past the dress and melt his skin into yours, “Tell them who’s going to make you cum like this.”
Jace stepped out from behind the corner, and when your eyes trailed downward, you could see how hard he was. He wanted you. You wanted him.
“I—”
Cregan bit down on your neck, and a cry wrenched from the back of your throat.
“Jace!”
You shot up in your bed, heart threatening to break out of your chest. Cregan stirred by your side, but did not wake. You clutched the blanket to your bare chest, remembering how the night had ended. The three of you had retired together after a third round of drinking games. You and Cregan had walked Jace back to the chamber he was staying in, and then when you returned to your own, Cregan had pinned you to the ground, hiked your skirts up and fucked you until the embers in the hearth burned low.
Your eyes drifted back to your husband, who looked so unbelievably peaceful at your side. He was naked under the covers, and you willed your breath to steady. A hand brushed your hair out of your face. Your voice was trembling as you whispered into the cold air of the bedchamber.
“Father, give me strength.”
You tried to ignore the dream. A figment of your imagination. All the time around your guest and his proximity to your husband had clearly caused a lapse in your subconscious. Yes. Yes, this is what you told yourself.
This was all happening in your mind. Jace was not really closing the distance. It could not be.
At the end of the week, he took you to meet his dragon. Cregan had ridden to Wintertown that morning to settle a land dispute, and had left you alone in Jace’s company. The pair had joked with each other before your husband’s departure in such a manner that had you peeling your eyes to watch the twitch of gloved fingers against reins, the furling and unfurling of lips.
Gods, how they had crafted a work of art together. A mosaic of seemingly innocuous looks and turns of phrase. How you wondered what the grout that held it all together was made up of. The promises whispered into the tiles as they had dried. And whether there was still room in the center of it all, where you could carve perfectly sized shapes of your flesh and shove them in between.
“Mind your manners, my prince.” Sarcasm from Cregan was seldom heard, but Jace had unfolded corners of your husband you scarcely knew existed. His lips threatened to curl up as his men began to ride off ahead of him.
“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jace had answered, “I know how to share. Do you?”
Cregan had said nothing. His fingers seemed to tighten their grip on the reins. A breath later, his eyes landed on you. You felt a ball of nerves grow in your chest.
“Take good care of our guest, wife. I’ll be back before dark.”
And then he left.
The guards had shown you where Vermax was resting—a large, empty barn meant to stack provisions tens of feet high into the air, emptied ahead of the prince’s visit to accommodate the large creature. Most days, the beast spent his time flying, stretching his wings, always returning to his rider and the attendants who had ridden up prior to Jace. A devotion you would never know. A blood oath Jace would rather die than live without.
“Cold then, are you, old friend?” Jace asked Vermax, stroking his snout affectionately. The dragon leaned its head into Jace’s touch, letting loose a sound that sounded like a complaint.
“Ever spoiled, my Vermax. I know, I know,” Jace cooed, speaking to him as if he were a pet cat and not one of the most powerful creatures in the world, “Only two more weeks, and then we can return to Dragonstone.”
He spoke to the dragon as if they drank together, or were hunting friends. Mouth tipped open in awe, you realized that that was what they were. Brothers spanning species. Metals forged together in the fire, into the ultimate weapon. Jace turned back to look at you, a smile spreading across his face as he took note of your expression.
“Come say hello, Lady Y/N,” Jace suggested, and you eyed the dragon warily.
Women of the Riverlands knew how to hunt and how to respect the wild animals they hunted. You knew the likes of bears, deer, wolves. Quite literally, this was an entirely different beast. A being bred from blood magic and scales that glittered like emeralds. You had only seen dragons twice before this, and only ever from overhead. This was the closest you had ever come to one.
You took half a step before your body became too tense to move forth. “Y-your grace. Are you sure he’ll let me…”
“He can feel my trust in you,” Jace explained, nodding encouragingly, “We share an emotional bond. I trust anyone he trusts, and he the same.”
Vermax let loose an excited growl, and were your feet not glued to the ground, your bones would have jumped from your skin. Jace tipped his head back, laughing as if Vermax had told the greatest joke Jace had ever had the pleasure of hearing.
“He can feel your apprehension, which he appreciates.”
Your brows furrowed, looking up at Vermax. His glowing, orange eyes peered back down of you, and you forced yourself to keep his gaze.
“He… appreciates it,” You said flatly, trying hard not to jump back “Well, I’d scarcely take joy in offending him.”
“Dragons consider gentle hesitation as a sign of respect,” Jace continued, still petting Vermax’s side, “Oftentimes those who have never so much as seen a dragon think they can tame them with their touch. It never ends well, I have seen it myself. They are not lap dogs, my lady.”
You wanted to laugh, looking back at Jace. “Are they not? I hadn’t realized.”
The Prince of Dragonstone seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for your comfort. He stepped away from the dragon, in your direction. “There is a fine line, funnily enough. Hubris aggravates them. Excessive displays of fear make them impatient.”
His smile faded, but his expression remained warm. Beckoning you closer. “Come. He won’t harm you while I’m here.”
Moving too suddenly around the dragon, in your opinion, Jace swept forward and closed the gap between you both. He stepped behind you, a hand coming up to the small of your back to guide you. The other traced your arm gently, starting from your elbow and ghosting down until his fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.
His touch was light. His palms were cold, calloused from years of dragonriding. He lowered his voice to a murmur, speaking from over your shoulder.
“Here,” He offered, using his grip to raise your hand, “Let me help you.”
With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.
“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”
“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.
The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.
Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper.
“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”
Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.
“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.
Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”
“Does that scare you?”
This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.
“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”
Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, adoration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.
With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace.
They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.
This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”
“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”
He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”
Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”
Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.
“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”
Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”
Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”
“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”
“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”
If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle.
You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. His other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?
You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.
“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”
The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. The hand on his hip began to rise.
“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.
“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone.
His nose pressed harder into yours. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.
“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?”
He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.
An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.
He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.
But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the pair of you turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards, who looked incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal.
“Y-your grace, Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”
You cleared your throat, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
The whole ordeal left you with an ever growing sense of anticipation and dread. At dinner—tonight a smaller affair between some of the higher ranking lords and ladies who had come to visit—you sat at Cregan’s side. He sat at one head of the table, Jace at the other.
The table was long enough to where you could easily avoid conversation with him. You hardly spoke a word to him the entire evening. You could hardly speak a word to anyone. Somewhat naively, you hoped to make it through the evening without anyone noticing.
And then Lady Umber opened her mouth.
“You are rather quiet tonight, Lady Stark,” She pointed out, the table quieting to listen to her speak, “I hope you are not fatigued by the large number of guests.”
“Not in the slightest, Lady Umber,” You answered, painting on a smile, “The conversation flows so well amongst you all tonight I am happy to simply listen.”
“How glad I am that we are such a source of entertainment.” Her tone was dripping with knives disguised as niceties. “I take it after all these years we are still novel to you.”
You set your knife down, taking a deep breath. You glanced over at Cregan, who was eyeing Lord Umber with a silent urge to wrangle his lady wife. Lord Umber looked as though he was about to break into a sweat. You felt something take hold of you, starting in your chest and spreading through your shoulders.
Lord Umber stammered, “Wife—”
“Two years is a long time, Lady Miranda,” You said, trying hard not to stumble over your words, “Though I’m sure after all of yours, it feels quite short.”
Silence. Lady Umber’s eyes widened, and for half a moment, she looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing with no sound to accompany the movement. The rest of the table grew deathly still. The sound of silverware scraping against plates all but disappeared.
Your eyes found Cregan’s again. Even he seemed surprised, but not angry. His stare held a subdued wonder, one brow raised in bewilderment. He looked across the table, and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at. You swallowed, unsure of what to say or do. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you as the person who had taken control of the moment. And here you were, unsure of where to take it next.
Thankfully, you weren’t the one to decide.
Jace snorted so hard into his goblet of wine that it broke the tension entirely. He was bright red, having held back so hard from laughing. But now, he could no longer handle it, hastily setting the cup down and covering his spluttering with his other hand.
Your mouth fell open, face burning profusely. Then, at your side, the impossible happened. Cregan coughed, looking down at his plate.
Everyone’s heads turned to look at him.
He nodded once, clenching his jaw. When he looked back up, eyes trained in the prince’s direction, his mouth twitched.
And then he laughed. Once, twice, and before you knew it, his shoulders were heaving.
Awkward laughter erupted at the table. Some unsure, some genuine. Most in disbelief. The chain reaction of your challenge, Jace’s choking, and finally Cregan Stark laughing. Actually laughing.
When you looked back at Lady Umber, she was clearly fuming. But she had lost.
And perhaps, for the first time, you had pushed back. Refused to turn the other cheek.
You sat an inch higher for the rest of dinner. And when you finally looked in Jace’s direction, you stared at him until he was the one to break eye contact.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
“I cannot believe you said that.” Cregan lifted his elbows out of the hot water, resting back on the dry stone not submerged in the hot spring. You shook your head, thinking back on your behavior.
He didn’t sound upset at all. Rather, he still sounded surprised. In awe. His head craned, the candlelight bathing him in a soft light that stole your breath.
“I’m proud of you, Y/N. It was about time you bit back. You’re a wolf now, after all.”
You leaned into his side, giving him a gentle peck on his upper bicep, just below his shoulder.
“Thank you,” You mumbled against his skin.
You kept your face there, feeling the warmth of the muscle against your cheek and forehead. When your eyes closed, all you could see were a pair of brown eyes and freckles you wanted to map out like the stars. You cleared your throat nervously.
“There is… something I must ask you. About the prince,” You said softly, not meeting his eyes. Rather, you remained buried against his arm. Cregan made a face, brow quizzical.
“Has something happened?” He asked. You didn’t know whether or not to answer his question. When you remained silent, his mouth turned upwards. He considered the possibilities, before making a curious observation.
“You could hardly look at him during dinner. He couldn’t stop looking at you.”
Sometimes you wished he’d remain incurious. A fundamental impossibility, a pipe dream never to come true, considering your husband’s disposition. Much like the wall, nothing got past Cregan. He may well be the end of you one day.
His lips found the crown of your head. You continued looking at the steam rising up above the water. When he spoke, his voice was low, raspy.
“Ever the seducer, our crown prince.”
Your head snapped in his direction, surprised eyes meeting his knowing ones. He gave a small half-smile. No anger, no joy. If anything, he looked sympathetic. As if Jace had also once pinned Cregan between himself and Vermax and delighted in blurring lines. Chest hollow, you were slowly realizing that it was more likely than not. You swallowed.
Pity. From Cregan Stark. A rare sight, indeed. Though tonight certainly seemed the occasion.
“Has he made you uncomfortable at all?” Cregan asked, searching your face for fear or discomfort. Half of you wanted to kiss him breathless. The other half was moments away from bursting into tears. Any other husband may well have accused you of temptation. Brazenness. Whorishness. Cregan’s first concern was your own wellbeing.
“No, not at all,” You said immediately. “He’s very… persuasive.”
At this, his expression morphed from a somewhat-smile to a genuine one. “May I ask what happened between you both today?”
A peace banner. There was no threat of anger from him, you realized, and you relaxed. Your shoulders sagged, guardrails you hadn’t knowingly put in place. He just wanted to know.
“I… We almost kissed,” You admitted, “He was trying to get me to pet Vermax, and he grabbed my hand, and then…”
“Almost?” If you hadn’t known better, you might even think he sounded disappointed. “What stopped you?”
You bit your lip. “Ser Justin came in to announce your return.”
Cregan reached for your hand under the water. The air was not tense. Awkward, more like. Cregan was never one to talk. You were always the one to coax it out of him. When it was your time to be silent, it rarely proved productive.
“Are you angry?” You asked, placing your free hand on top of his. When you looked up at him, his gaze was warm, and he shook his head.
“Not at all,” He answered, “Were it any other man, maybe. But our prince has always been very… what did you call it? Persuasive. So long as you did not feel coerced, I won’t fault you. He may be our prince, he may be my friend, but you are my wife.”
His reaction was as jarring as it was relieving. You needed to know. You could hold back no longer. “Did you ever…?”
Cregan licked his lips, and hesitated for a beat. Eventually, he replied. “Him and I? …Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Seven. At least.”
Your eyebrows shot up. Cregan looked like he wanted to laugh.
“Have you ever known me to be sated easily?”
You couldn’t argue with that, even if you wanted to slap that smug look off of his face.
“I suppose I’m just… curious.” You swiped a damp strand of hair off of your neck. “Clearly, you care a great deal for each other. I didn’t realize just how much.”
“He is our future king,” Cregan remarked, “I am Warden of the North.”
He said it as if this was meant to explain all of it. You didn’t want to tell him that you doubted Jace behaved this way with Jason Lannister, Warden of the West. When your face didn’t change, he sighed.
“When we first met,” Cregan began, “We were on the brink of civil war. You remember.”
You nodded. “I remember when my father received the raven notifying him of Vermax being spotted flying over the Twins.”
“I had become so preoccupied with matters of running everything. All that… all the loss, all the anger, all the fighting. It made me numb. I truly hadn’t realized how it had… hardened me. When he came to Winterfell, I accepted him as my guest, and I renewed my vow to his mother. My men and I invited him to hunt for three nights—it was summer still. How could we not? He was the prince. Impending war be damned.”
You said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “None of us expected any fun. The mood was bleak. We hardly knew him. But he put on his best spirits, and he charmed us all. He was smart, gracious. Humble, which none of us expected from a southern prince.”
Cregan’s mind was seemingly far away, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “And one night, we’d all had too much to drink. Everyone else had gone to bed. The fire was burning low, and he was sat right next to me. He looked so… pretty.”
At this, your eyes softened. “It just happened.”
“It was so easy to speak to him. That never happens—you know my character, love. It didn’t even occur to me that I wanted him until he kissed me. Like I hadn’t even considered it to be an option.”
You thought of Cregan when you’d first met him. He was gruff, closed off, easily the coldest man you’d ever met. You’d been convinced he didn’t even like you until a few months into your marriage, when he stumbled into your bedchamber drunk mumbling, “I missed you today. And I wish I could tell you that without the drink.”
You thought of your husband as a little boy, small and unsure and stifled by an uncle who would rather be rid of him entirely, all for the sake of control of the North. What that did to him, what retaking his birthright would have entailed for a young boy forced to become a man far too early. What all of that and the death of a little brother could do. You pressed a kiss to his hand, and he hummed at the gesture.
“Do you love him?” The question left you before you could think twice. When it was out in the open, you decided to press. There was no taking it back now. “If he had been the princess of Dragonstone, would you have asked for his hand?”
Cregan looked down at the water, where your hands were joined. He squeezed, gentle but insistent. Affirming. “I suppose… I suppose there may have been a time where I thought myself to be in love with him. I care for him still. Deeply, in ways that I cannot say I’ve ever cared for any other man. But I would not have married him, even if it had been an option.”
You tilted your head, and Cregan acquiesced without you even needing to ask. “I married you out of duty, yes? We’d never met until you arrived at Winterfell.”
“Yes,” You said, “And I thought you hated me.”
He sighed regretfully. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you. But Jacaerys and I had different duties at the end of it all. I am Warden of the North. He is our future king. Those two titles cannot merge, not without one of us giving something up—which neither of us would do. Regardless of the circumstances, it would not have worked.”
You swallowed, a lump beginning to grow in your throat. Under the water, his hand with the scarred palm began to burn. “So you married me out of duty. But you love Jacaerys.”
“What? No.” The rebuff was immediate, bitten out. He frowned, and you bit down on your tongue. This had taken a turn you hadn’t wanted it to.
Here it was, you realized. That awful shade of green in your chest you’d wondered so much about, turning your heart from deep red to brown to a bright, flaming green. Suddenly, the image of Cregan and Jace seemed much less enticing. You wished you hadn’t thought about the green so, wished so badly to yank it from the root and toss it into the fire.
“Gods, I wish I were better at this,” Cregan muttered to himself, before opening his eyes to look at you again. “No, love. You are not a placeholder. You’re my wife, and I love you so differently than how I loved him.”
He moved to be in front of you now, grabbing you by the shoulders. Forcing you to look at him, though the determination in his eyes did little to assuage your confusion.
“I would never have asked Jacaerys to marry me, not if he weren’t heir to the throne, not if he were a woman,” He told you, “Fundamentally, it would not have worked. The only way it would have worked would have been if Jacaerys were a Northern woman born to a noble house, bound to no one but his father. And then he would not have been Jacaerys, would he?”
You blinked. “What?”
“What?”
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Officially declaring surrender, completely lost. You wondered if Cregan was more lost than you were—he seemed on the verge of distress.
“So…” You shook your head, chest clenching. You took a shaky breath, hating the way your voice sounded on the verge of cracking. You started to pull away. “So then would you or would you not have—I… C-Cregan, do you not–?”
His grip tightened on your shoulders, head shaking furiously. “No,” He said with gritted teeth, “No. I love you, Y/N. My soul is yours.”
“But–”
He groaned, the top of his head leaning into your chest. “This isn’t… I don’t mean—fuck, I’m sorry.”
He pulled you into his lap, large hands cradling you gently. A position the two of you had taken a hundred times in this exact same spot. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, ignoring the low heat in your stomach that always pooled there. Your muscles knew what usually came next: joined bodies moving in such a way that caused water to spill onto the floor. Not now. It could wait.
When Cregan met your eyes, he looked pained. Like he wished he’d never spoken. Your husband, who never spoke much to begin with, who guarded his emotions the way a starved wolf guarded a kill.
He grabbed your arm, then interlaced your fingers. His wedding band glittered in the light. The scar brushed against your palm. You didn’t want to think about how the ring could be taken off.
“I loved Jacaerys differently then, before I loved you. It’s different from the way I love him now,” He explained slowly, clearly searching and painstakingly choosing each word. “A-and both of those forms of love are vastly different from the way I love you, the way I’ve loved you since we married. I can’t quite put it into words. I don’t know that there are enough words in the Common Tongue for me to fully describe it, and I don’t know I’d be able to if there actually were.”
His face scrunched up, trying to articulate his thoughts clearest. Your heart was in your throat the entire time, but you dared not interrupt him.
Finally, his eyes opened, clarity interlaced with fear. He took a deep breath before he placed his final verdict.
“My vow to him is my sword. My vow to you is my heart. And my heart will always come before my sword.”
Your lips parted, eyes brimming with tears. No longer from jealousy, or the fear that you were nothing to Cregan but a second choice. You brought a hand to his cheek and he pressed into it desperately, longingly.
“Cregan,” You whispered, smiling, “I love you.”
His eyes closed at your touch, sighing when your forehead touched his. “I love you, and I’m sorry if candor escapes me. I do not mean to dishonor you, wife. It has never been my intention.”
“No,” You cooed, “No, thank you for telling me.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Sighing, you gave him a gentle, chaste kiss. When you pulled away, you studied him. His gray eyes were darting frantically across your expression, searching for any leftover doubt or anger. A hand slid down his shoulder and landed just above his sternum, pressing into the skin, caressed by the hair on his chest. Underneath, where his heart lay, you could feel it hammering quickly. You almost wanted to laugh.
“Honesty is the only thing that scares you so,” You mumbled, “A wildling horde south of the wall would not cause your heart to falter this way.”
“I can slay a wildling horde,” He whispered, “Matters of my heart, decidedly not.”
Your hand lingered on his chest, the other beginning to scratch at the baby hairs at his nape. He hummed contentedly—this was one of his favorite forms of contact. Deeply soothing, comforting, one he had never known until you taught it to him.
“You needn’t answer if you wish not to tell me,” You began, “But can I ask how it’s different? Not the emotion. Rather…”
You cleared your throat, feeling an awkward heat crawl up your neck, reaching your cheeks and temples rather rapidly. You reached for his hand out of comfort, but grew even warmer when you saw the scar. “I know… how it works, between two men. Did he… did you…?”
It was his turn to watch you struggle for words now, and for all of his struggling earlier, he seemed quite amused to let you writhe like a fish.
He bit back a grin. “Did I what?”
You scrunched your lips together, unsure of what to say. With every word, his smile grew and grew until he was holding back laughter. “Who… well. Cregan, I’ve no better way of putting it. Who was the scabbard, and who was the swo—?“
At last, he could no longer resist, and a laugh escaped him. He laughed and all the previously tense air evaporated from the room, and then he laughed some more.
“You’re wondering who stuck their cock in who,” He said once he’d settled, “Is that it?”
You gasped, swatting at his chest. He seized your hand, pressing it back into his chest, rubbing over your knuckles. “Vulgar man,” You chided affectionately, but then quickly added, “…Yes.”
“I had no preference. I think I would have enjoyed it.” He answered candidly, “But he seemed rather keen on being bent over. Not quite something you’d expect from a prince.”
“Oh,” You sighed, cheeks burning brightly, “Oh, I see.”
“He tried to kiss you.” Bringing the conversation full circle, his hands slid down to your hips. “And you liked it.”
Wordlessly, you nodded. Cregan huffed, looking as if suddenly everything made sense.
“What if I told you…” He eyed your lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, “The prince… propositioned me, shortly after his arrival?”
Your eyebrows shot up. “He attempted to seduce you?”
“Not exactly. I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. No, he suggested the three of us share. That for one night, the three of us indulge in each other. You and I. Him and me. You and him.”
Oh. “A-and what did you say?”
“I wasn’t sure what to say. Ultimately, I told him I would make no attempt to force the idea on my wife unless you seemed interested. It would seem his grace has taken upon itself to lay his plan into motion, with or without me.”
“What a scheme,” You murmured. The heat in your lower stomach had returned now, spurred by the mental images Cregan had built you. Him sprawling Jace across the forest floor. The three of you, together, tangled in bedsheets. And Jacaerys Velaryon, beautiful Jacaerys Velaryon, lips swollen from kissing and covered in sweat.
“How unfairly he plays, and how he underestimates us, love. Do wolves not wander in a pack?”
You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking back to everything that had transpired over the past few weeks, now with the knowledge you’d just acquired. Jace’s history with your husband. His propositioning you and Cregan.
If his attempt with Cregan had been anything like what he had done with you, you had to agree with Cregan’s choice of words. Unfair. But not necessarily cruel, or manipulative. No, this was a game to Jace, and he was eager for the two of you to play along.
“What say you now, husband?” You searched his face. “Now that his intentions are laid bare.”
He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and looked at you for a good long while. Then, his hands, still on your hips, pressed down, water moving around you.
Your breath hitched, feeling the hardness of his cock catch against your core.
“I believe it speaks for itself,” He replied. “But only if you wish for it, too. You are my wife, and you come first.”
“You like the idea of the three of us together,” You remarked, almost astonished.
“I cannot lie.” His hips shifted upwards, and you gasped at the pressure, of the sensation of him catching against your entrance. “How pretty the two of you would look on your knees, with both of your lips around my cock.”
Your hips responded in kind, hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulders. “Cregan.”
“Don’t lie to me, Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it, whether I made him beg while pinning him to the bed, same as I have with you. Which I did. Grabbed him by his hair and made him plead to let him cum.”
Your breath weighed heavily in your lungs. Out of nowhere, the air seemed to weigh a thousand stones. The heat radiating off of the water was certainly not helping.
“Answer me,” He said softly, firmly. Looking for your voice, you nodded.
“Can you blame me?” Gritted teeth, fluttering eyes—two more things you could pin on Cregan. “You look at each other so lecherously.”
He huffed, eyes locked on your breasts as your hips began grinding down onto him in earnest. “We do not.”
“Oh, you do. I’ve been watching.”
“That’s all you ever do,” He grunted, “Maybe you should do more than just watch.”
“Something—ah—something would need to happen in order for me to do that.”
He grinned, yanking you closer. Before his tongue forced itself into your mouth, he said against your lips, “That can be arranged.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
WEEK THREE.
This week was a tour of Wintertown and some other villages nearby, and decidedly more laid back. There were no tourneys to be had, hunts to embark on, or great festivals to curate. Winter was here, and threatened to come for you all if you decided to spend more time outside than remotely necessary.
Jace and Cregan heard petitions coming from the smallfolk that had travelled in advance to see them both. To speak with the Warden of the North was one thing, to do it while the Prince of Dragonstone was sitting at his side was another thing. They heard petitions for hours, and even insisted on staying an additional two after seeing the amount of people who had yet to be heard.
The week was strangely absent of them, then. You were preoccupied with your daily work and overseeing the planning of Jace’s farewell banquet, the grandest of them all. You saw them in small glimpses. Cregan in the morning or Jace at meals. Glimpses of both of them in the courtyard.
You weren’t sure if Cregan had spoken to Jace. How unfairly he plays, he had said, how he underestimates us. Jace had expected to be playing two different one-on-one games. He didn’t know that he was actually only playing one, and was outnumbered on the turf.
So when Jace passed you by, you allowed yourself to look. Really look at him, and to let him see that you were looking. And when he noticed you one morning in the middle of an empty hallway, he stopped, stepped forward and took your hand in his.
“Lady Stark,” he said. He raised your hand to his lips, staring intensely as he pressed a kiss to your glove. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you, my prince,” You answered, “You look well.”
“I’m beginning to grow accustomed to the cold.” He rolled his shoulders back, seemingly at ease.
“It can be jarring at first.” You thought back to your first few weeks at Winterfell after the wedding. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be warm again, and that was at the end of summer. “We’ll make a Northerner of you yet.”
He laughed, and looked like he wanted to reply. His opportunity was stolen by a maid of yours, who rounded the corner and smiled when she saw you.
“Milady! Giselle has found the linen napkins you were asking for,” She called, “Shall we have them pressed?”
You gave Jace a regretful nod of your head, before replying, “Thank you, Greta! I’ll be right over to have a look at them.”
It was then that she seemed to realize who she was in the presence of. She noticed Jace, and immediately turned bright red before stumbling into a curtsy.
“My deepest apologies, your grace,” She stammered, “I-I didn’t see—”
“Worry not, my lady,” He said genuinely, “The work of a maid is a never-ending list. Carry on.”
Her eyes flickered nervously between you and Jace. You nodded in agreement. “All is well, Greta. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
She left, clearly still feeling awkward. When she was gone, the air felt lighter. “Thank you for not frightening my staff, Jace.”
“I could never. I’d rather they blush than tear up, and I’ve done the former twice already.” He studied your figure.
“Twice…” You took a steady breath. “Do you plan on teasing my staff any further?”
“Not necessarily. But if we drop the pretense, I might do more than tease you.”
“What pretense?” You gave him a coy smile, tracing the threadwork on your gloves. “Is there a game afoot?”
He stepped forward. You stepped back, eyes never breaking away from his. At this, Jace tilted his head.
“You are so brave, suddenly.”
“And you are so bold, Prince Jacaerys. You are a fountain of temptation.”
He licked his lips. “How pretty it sounds, my name falling from your lips.”
“I’d argue my husband’s name sounds even prettier.” Jace raised his eyebrows, taken aback at your sudden bite. You laced your fingers together, before gracing Jace with a curtsy of your own.
“I must go now, your grace.” You stepped past him, aiming to follow Greta’s direction. You landed a foot away from him, and stopped to lean in close.
“But perhaps one night you might listen for it before you leave us.”
You did not look back when you walked away. But you could feel him watching.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
He took you up on it that night. You shouldn’t have been surprised. You had issued a challenge, and Jace had simply taken you up on it.
You were in Cregan’s study, going over some documents regarding the household budget. The fire burning behind you, he had brought you onto his lap to look them over.
A knock at the door, following the heavy wood swinging open. You scrambled to stand, but widened your eyes when one of Cregan’s hands tightened on your hip, holding you in place. Jace stepped into the room, and for half a moment you wondered if you had been double crossed.
Then you craned your neck to meet Cregan’s eyes, and he nodded. Then, he looked at Jace. You watched his brow twitch subtly as he raked his gaze over the prince, and the grip he had on your side did not loosen. You stiffened, anticipation tinging your senses.
“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “The hour grows late.”
“I can see that.” Jace jutted his chin in the direction of where you were sitting, zeroing in on Cregan’s hand on your hip. “If you are preoccupied, we can reconvene on the m—”
“Not at all,” Cregan interrupted, shifting you in his lap until you were perched entirely on his right thigh. “We were just finishing our own conversation. Was there something troubling you?”
“Safety, along the Kingsroad.” Jace shook his head and shifted his posture back and forth. “Though it seems you have something different on your mind.”
“Speak freely, my prince,” You murmured, setting the ledger down on the desk in front of you. Jace moved forward, his gait cautious. Still, there appeared to be a silent excitement about him. You looked down at your fingers. Were you trembling or were you just cold?
Cregan studied Jace’s trajectory, and when the prince’s path began to trace around the desk, he shook his head.
“Sit, Jacaerys.” Cregan took an authoritative tone. He refused to look away as he grabbed your hand and placed it upon his chest. The hand over yours squeezed gently, and you forced your shoulders to loosen. “What can be done about the Kingsroad?”
You attempted to pay attention to what Jace was saying—something about harsher sentences for those caught thieving. You tried to think of what would come next. Something was building, surely. What, you could not be sure.
This was entirely uncharted territory for you. Cregan had mostly kept everything contained to your bedchamber, as you tended to prefer. You’d had sex in this room once, because Cregan had been very convincing. Up until two weeks ago, you had never considered any man other than your husband. Here the challenger stood in front of you, a dragon prince with a gaze that might as well set you on fire just as much as the beast that had carried him here.
You knew that if you wanted to, if you were to stand up right now, or to push Cregan away, he would understand. He would lay the game to rest and promise to never pick it back up again. There was no threat of coercion or pressure from him. And because you trusted your husband’s judgment so well, you knew that it had to have been the same for Jace. There was not a single hair on your body that doubted the notion.
You could say no. You had every freedom to do so. But did you want to?
You’re a wolf now, Cregan had told you a few nights ago. And that same night, he’d also said, do wolves not wander in a pack?
You were a wolf. You were his Lady Stark, a woman belonging to the North now. Not because you were given to the North or because it had taken you. You had welcomed the becoming of your own volition.
Before that you had been Y/N Mallister, and while eagles were just as fierce as wolves. But they were solitary birds.
And you and Cregan were one pack.
Your body relaxed. You leaned into Cregan, who understood immediately. The game moves forward.
Jace continued speaking, but Cregan leaned into you. His eyes closed, and he took a deep inhale against your jugular, taking in the smell of your skin and perfume oils. On instinct, you leaned your head back, letting him take it in. Jace’s voice faltered, trailing off in the middle of talking about a scourge of muggings near the Dreadfort. Cregan opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.
“We’re listening.”
Jace interlaced his fingers, fixated on Cregan nosing along the expanse of your neck. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Cregan insisted, closing his eyes again, “There seems to be a network of bandits along the stretch of Kingsroad nearest to the Dreadfort. Go on.”
Jace licked his lips, before lifting his gaze, meeting yours. You wondered whether the look in his eyes was jealousy or impatience. Sliding your hand from Cregan’s chest to the shoulder closest to you, you held firm. Surprisingly, that sensation of jealousy you had felt the night in the hot springs had returned. But you did not shy away from it, did not let it stop you from having your fun.
You were putting your hands on your husband, you were hoping to convey, and Jace would lay hands on him and on you because you allowed it.
He certainly didn’t seem offended by it. He shifted in the chair, legs parting slightly. Then, he cleared his throat and began speaking again.
“Yes. Lord Bolton had told me when he spoke to me last week…”
Cregan’s lips met the base of your throat, and you inhaled sharply. Another hand gripped his shoulder, and your eyes fell shut. You could hear the crackling of the fire behind you and the depth of Jace’s voice, but the only sensation at the forefront of your mind was Cregan’s gently chapped lips just above your collarbone. He pressed a few kisses around the area before deciding on which spot he preferred best and anchoring there by opening his mouth and biting down. You let out a hmph at this, loud enough to cause Jace to falter once more.
“Lord Cregan,” He glowered, breath growing heavier, “You are forgetting yourself.”
There was no threat in the statement. Bait, more like.
“I remember myself plenty.” Cregan spoke against your skin before biting even harder. You gasped, reaching for the back of his head to push him closer. “I’m sure you remember me too, my prince.”
You heard Jace shift again in the chair, but did not open your eyes. He asked, “What good is memory when the experience is right in front of me, here in the present?”
Your eyes opened when you heard him get up in the chair. He took one step forward before Cregan sat up straight to look at him dead on.
“No.” You knew this tone. This was Cregan at his most domineering, typically reserved for nights he wished to prolong the most agonizing pleasure you’d ever felt in your life. “No, you watch tonight. You will sit there while I fuck my wife, and you will thank me for it. You will thank her for it.”
You never knew you could feel your cunt jump, but then, you also didn’t know forcing the future king of Westeros to watch you fuck your husband had been an available option to you until about five minutes prior.
Jace’s mouth fell open. He blinked stupidly. And then he laughed, sitting down. It was just as Cregan said, the near immediacy of his submission to your husband. Not quite something you’d expect from the Prince of Dragonstone.
He let loose a heavy breath, eyes growing darker. “Yes, Cregan.”
Cregan maneuvered you, forcing you to stand, nudging you towards the desk. You placed both hands on the wood, a slight bend to your back. Less than five feet away, Jace sat in the chair, fingers laced back together. His mouth was slightly ajar, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lips. They were so pink, you wanted to finally kiss him.
But right now, that was not a call you were allowed to make. Cregan had made the command, and it would hold in stone until he changed his mind. If he changed his mind.
Cregan pressed his chest to your back, draping his broad shoulders over your frame. A hand snaked up your front, landing in a place where calloused fingers spanned your neck and your chin. He placed a wet, worshipping kiss just below your ear, and his hips rocked against your backside.
He was halfway to being hard already. His hand slid down your neck, other hand meeting at your chest to fondle your breasts over your dress. His body heat was radiating off of him so intensely you thought the fire would probably be cooler.
“Did you know I used to bend him over like this, love?” He asked in your ear, loud enough for Jace to hear. “One of the last times I had him, I took him just like this in the Wolfswood.”
Gods, that mental image should not have ignited what it did in you, but it did, and you keened at the thought. Jace chuckled.
“That’s exactly how I felt,” He said, lingering his gaze on Cregan’s hands.
“What a memory,” You panted, pushing your chest into your husband’s hand, “Describe it to me.”
“Why tell you when I could just show you?” Cregan pulled up the back of your skirt, holding it in place with one hand. Your entire body felt like a furnace, dragging your eyes up and down Jace’s person, listening for Cregan’s movements. You tried to conjure up the idea.
The end of summer. Cregan’s hair had been shorter when you met him. Had his hair been shorter then, when he took Jace up against a tree? Was he just as muscular then? What about Jace?
You could vaguely imagine two young men exploring each other in the Wolfswood, after weeks of learning and mapping out each others’ bodies. Two young men who had grown into the lords of the realm. The crown prince submitting to the Warden of the North. And if Cregan was truly showing you what had happened between the two of them, you could hear Cregan shuffling onto his knees…
He parted your legs, and your eyes widened when you felt his tongue lick at your slit from behind. He tugged on your dress, and you understood what he wanted. You grabbed the hem of your skirts, clutching the fabric for purchase. His giant hands grabbed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart for better access. You gasped, other hand sliding papers around the desk in search of something to hold you to the earth. You would float out the window otherwise.
“For someone so terrible with words, he certainly knows how to use his tongue, doesn’t he, Lady Stark?” Jace flashed a smug grin at you as your head fell. He spread his legs again, and you saw it then—the bulge in his pants, and the twitching of his hands on his thighs.
You just watch. You groaned, fully realizing the extent of Cregan’s dominion over Jace, his actions, his body. How quickly he had retaken it.
“Lady Stark?” Jace’s voice rose slightly. “Do you agree? Now that he’s showing you how he prepared me for his cock?”
You nodded, biting back a whimper as Cregan changed the movement of his tongue, delving into you. “S-so good,” You said.
“He licked me just like that. He had some stubble that time. A most pleasant ache.”
“Oh gods.” The room filled with the sound of your frenzied panting and the wet, insistent sound of Cregan’s mouth against your mound. This was perhaps the most aroused you’d ever felt in your life.
Jace laid back in the chair, eyes hooded. From under your skirts and behind the desk, he probably couldn’t see what Cregan was doing. But your sounds and his own experience had to have been indication enough.
“I bet I’ll be able to hear when he puts a finger in.”
“I wonder if—” You bit back a keen, “–if it feels the same for me as it does for you.”
“Probably not,” Jace mused, “Gods, that I could get wet like you. Poor Cregan’s face was drenched in spit by the time he was done with me. He looked lovely like that. So messy.”
Cregan hummed from behind you at the same time he decided to brush his fingers against your clit. Your voice jumped in pitch, and Jace nodded.
“I was right.” He sounded so excited about his theory being proven true. He licked his lips. “I always loved how thick his fingers were. Perfectly r–”
“Rough,” You finished for him, nodding in agreement. You pushed your hips back against Cregan’s face, teeth catching your lower lip in hopes of staying quiet. “Gods, Cregan…”
“And when he finally puts his cock in, it’s such a relief, isn’t it? Like an itch you can’t scratch on your own. I swore I could always feel him in my stomach—”
“Fuck!” Your head tossed itself back, feeling a few strands of hair beginning to stick to your forehead.
“What do you want?” Cregan asked, voice muffled from between your legs. He pressed down on your clit even more insistently. The paper under your hands crumpled as your fingers curled. You weren’t quite sure how you were still standing.
“Tell him,” Jace jeered, almost singing, “Tell your husband what you want him to do to you.”
You opened your eyes again to look at Jace once more, and your lower lip trembled from the pleasure. Your hips began to rock against Cregan’s face. His other hand squeezed your ass in a manner you knew would leave bruises. You would never shy away from this.
He shook his head back and forth between your legs, trying his hardest to get in closer. Your knees buckled, crying out his name.
“Tell him.” Jace’s voice was dripping with desire. “Beg him for his cock. Just like I did.”
“Cregan… Cregan, please fuck me.”
He pulled away, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You yelped when he smacked your ass.
“Soon, pet,” He said, too gentle for someone who had just been fucking you with his tongue, “Come for me first.”
And then he stuck his face back into your pussy, beginning to flick your clit in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. You jolted, unsure if you were moving away one movement from the sheer overwhelm or into the other from the pleasure. You could feel your lower stomach growing taut, a building pressure underneath the tight, tight heat.
Now, you were fully fucking back onto Cregan’s tongue, whines spilling from your lips. You could feel his hot breath on you.
Your eyes cracked open and you landed back on Jace. You couldn’t count how many times you had done it already, but every time felt like the first. You would revel in him looking you up and down every single time. How ready he looked to strike had he not been shackled by Cregan’s words alone.
You swallowed a lump in your throat, eyes fluttering from the pleasure of Cregan lapping at you like a parched hound. Trying your damnedest to hold eye contact and keep them from rolling up into your skull. Your jaw hung slack, searching helplessly for words to string together.
Jace didn’t need to hear them. He seemed to recognize what you wanted to ask for. Perhaps he had struggled to ask for it himself, then, and was taking it upon himself now to be merciful.
“Cum.”
The ecstasy started at the crest of your head and dripped its way down your spine in such a way that it caused your back to curl in on itself. You held back a sob, body trembling at the sensation.
Cregan stroked you through all of it, prolonging your agony. He hummed too, clearly enjoying the tightening of your thighs against his head and your moaning into the hot, heavy air of his study. He kept at it until you were actively trying to run from him, too much to handle.
He squeezed your thighs in reassurance before he stood. When he reappeared behind you, he grabbed you by the chin, smearing your face with your own release. His lips found yours in a sticky sweet kiss, tasting your own musk on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, pushing back in a redundant effort to bring him closer.
When Cregan parted from your mouth, he smiled triumphantly. His chin was still gleaming.
He nudged your cheek with his nose. “And to think that was only the beginning.”
You almost keeled over. Cregan gripped your chin again, repositioning your head in Jace’s direction.
“You really haven’t moved,” Cregan murmured, almost surprised, “You’ve settled down since then.”
“I had my reasons for restlessness back then,” Jace offered, very much an understatement. He shrugged. “Times have changed.”
The next moment, he tilted his head. “Are you really not going to let me touch her? Or you?”
“If you keep up the act, maybe,” Cregan answered, wrapping his arms around your middle. Palming again at your chest. “If I could get her out of this dress faster, I’d let you suck on her tits. They’re divine.”
Jace hummed imaginatively, and you had to hold yourself back from ripping at your bodice. You rather liked this dress.
“I told you, she’s beautiful,” Jace eyed your cleavage. He ogled your chest, which was still heaving from Cregan’s mouth, and now his hands.
“Yes, well,” You huffed, growing impatient, “She is right here. Ready and waiting.”
Cregan chuckled against your cheek, kissing the flushed skin before pulling away. “‘M here, pet. I’ve got you.”
His palm met the small of your back to bend you back over the table. Trousers were unlaced, your skirts pulled back up. Your breath hitched. You realized, once more, that this was actually happening.
His weight returned to your back, slotting himself where he had so many times before. He moved against you like it was a birthright, like he knew this was where he belonged. The main difference was sitting right in front of you, painfully hard. Jace groaned quietly, his hands tightening into fists on his thighs.
Cregan reached a hand back, and then you felt him at your entrance. Teasing you by sliding his cock up and down your slit. You clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him fill you.
“Don’t tease,” Jace grunted, taking a deep inhale through his nose.
And for once, Cregan was the one inclined to obey. His head squeezed through your entrance, and the two of you groaned at the pressure, at your togetherness. Cregan gripped your hips, and your head rolled back onto his shoulder. His eyes found yours, noses bumping gently against each other.
The solace he allowed for this brief moment as he slid into you was an eternity in itself. One hand remained on your hip, the other slid between your stomach and your sternum. Whether it was to hold you up or if it was a subtle show of dominion, possession, you couldn’t be sure. Both. Could it not be both? Darkened gray eyes the same color of a turbulent storm raked over your face, flushed and burning. You mewled softly when he bottomed out, jutting your chin out in search of his lips.
Here, in this small bubble, it was just him and you. It would always be him and you.
“Cregan,” You sighed, barely above a whisper. He groaned your name softly, seemingly in agreement.
He jerked his head at the third in the room, and you were reminded of Jace. When he reentered your sight, he did not seem offended at the sudden exclusion. His eyes were full of admiration and reverence, breathing heavily at the erotic intimacy on full display in front of him.
“You’re beautiful,” He whispered. He was talking about you both.
“Cregan.” Your voice was reedier, insistence dripping off of it.
Cregan grunted again. He placed his mouth by your ear. The warmth of his body was rolling off of him, even despite the fact that you were both still clothed. “You wanted to know how I fucked him, Y/N?”
“Yes.” Your brows scrunched together, nodding frantically. “Please move.”
Cregan drew his hips back, sliding out until only his tip was inside of you. Jace’s tongue slotted itself on the inside of his cheek, the skin stretching as it rested there.
“I let him feel every vein on my cock when I put it in him,” He explained, sliding in at an agonizingly slow pace. “I teased him until he was begging for it. I let him squirm. Almost like you were, just now. He sounded a bit more desperate. ”
He bottomed out again, punching the air out of you. He practically spit the next word out, aimed directly at Jace, who grinned at the sound.
“Whorish.” The hand on your sternum slid down, just above your womb. Then, he pressed down, and you gasped, feeling him at both sides. “I let him feel me so deep in him, I wanted him to feel me in his throat. I wanted to eat him from the inside out. Tried to fuck back on me, I didn’t let him.”
He held still for a beat. Two. All the air felt sucked out of your lungs, and Cregan’s tongue snaked out to ghost along your earlobe, and then he lowered his voice to the quietest, lowest whisper he’d had all night.
“Not you, Y/N. You do everything I say. You’re so sweet, my love.”
He slid out again. And when he fucked back into you, the slow, measured, torturous pace was gone, replaced with a forceful, quick one that filled the room with a wet, obscene plap plap plap as his fat balls slapped against your pussy.
Your body seized in his clutch. “C-Cregan!”
“I know, pet,” He growled, low tone dripping with faux sympathy, “I’ve got you, little thing.”
You shifted onto your tiptoes, fighting for a better angle. You were fully sweating now, overheating in the warm, thick fabric of your dress. His force continued to wreak havoc on your lungs, and combined with his body lumbering over your back, it almost felt like you were suffocating, choking on your husband’s essence.
His hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look back at Jace in the chair, who was clenching his jaw now, nostrils flaring with every deep heave of his breath. You wanted to say something, either to him or to Cregan, it didn’t matter. The pleasure was fogging your brain so beautifully that someone, anyone needed to hear it, but your words were gone.
“Think about him,” Cregan commanded, “Look upon our prince and imagine him taking my place.”
Jace’s eyebrows shot up, arousal so clearly painting his features. He was flushed, hair dishevelled, trousers wrinkling from where he had gripped them so clearly. And he was still so hard, tenting the dark, rich fabric. You wanted it in your mouth. You wanted to tear the fabric from his body and take him into your throat, to let him wrap his fingers in your hair and take and take and take and take—
“Say his name.”
You clenched down so hard on Cregan, his exhale turned into a moan, throaty and hungered. Your hips tried to push back, movement involuntary and animal, but he held you in place.
“No,” He scolded, “No. I held him in place, so I’m holding you in place now too. Now do as you’re told.”
“J—” You choked out, breath coming out short and shallow, “Jace.”
Jace’s head tipped back, groaning quietly into the air. His hips shifted upwards, humping like a dog at something that wasn’t there. A reprieve he was not allowed to receive.
“Y/N,” He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.
“You want her,” Cregan said, “You want me.”
Jace’s words emerged, pulled from behind gritted teeth. “I do.”
“What do you want?”
“Anything—” You’d never heard him sound so desperate. How quickly he’d gone from pretending to be in control to showing that he’d never really had it in him at all. “Everything. Her cunt on my mouth and your cock in my ass and her tongue in my throat and—and—”
“My fingers against that little spot in your hole, yeah? The one that makes you cry like a girl?”
Jace’s hips jerked, and he nodded. “Yes. Gods, yes. I miss you inside me.”
“You’ll get it. Soon. Be patient.”
You moaned, the conversation in you bringing back that sweet shade of green that you’d felt in the hot springs. Except the jealousy wasn’t aimed at Jace, and it didn’t have the bitter aftertaste. The jealousy enveloped them both, a jealousy that you hadn’t been there, that you hadn’t seen them rut against each other in the woods or to watch Cregan fuck Jace with his fingers until tears spilled from his pretty brown eyes. When you spoke, you almost weren’t aware of it.
“Y-you too, Cregan.”
He twitched inside of you. He seemed to know what you wanted, but needed the confirmation.
“Me?”
“Say his name too, Cregan. Pretend I’m him.”
At that, they both moaned. Desire. Adoration. Surprise. The melody filled the room and travelled down your diaphragm into your stomach, compounded by the shift in Cregan’s movements.
Animal instinct seemed to recognize your request first. His thrusting turned brutal and mean, befitting of a spoiled, antagonizing prince that needed to be ground into submission. When his brain caught up to his body, he groaned again, and fisted a hand in your hair. You yelped.
“I—Fuck,” Cregan slurred, “You feel so good, my sweet boy—”
Your cunt clenched unexpectedly. My sweet boy. You could be his sweet boy.
“Jace,” You whined.
“Jacaerys.” Cregan drew out every syllable, savoring this flavor of his prince’s name, one he had not tasted in a very long time.
The both of you dissolved into each other quickly. Cregan continued to pound into you, and you managed to fuck back onto him, despite his best efforts to hold you back. You reached for your skirts, the movements clumsy and jerking. You searched for the hem, trying madly to reach past it. When you did, you immediately found your clit and swirled your fingers, rutting into the movement like a rabbit.
Jace’s name filled the room until it no longer held meaning, until it sounded abstract, until it rose in pitch, grew throatier, and was cried out by the both of you. All the while, the man whose name it was stood watching, jaw gaping, cock aching, as the two people he’d been yearning for peaked in their shared pleasure. And in that shared pleasure, they shared a single word, a single idea, a single thought: him. Jace, Jace, Jace, Jacaerys, Jace.
He watched your back tilt upwards, pushing against Cregan until you bared your neck and your head fell onto Cregan’s shoulder. Your breasts strained against the neckline of your dress and your skin seemed to glow when the firelight hit the sheen of your sweat just right. He watched Cregan’s lip curl, looking more beast than man, before burrowing into your neck and calling Jace’s name against your carotid artery.
His eyes sank down, to where you had lifted your skirts to rub at your clit, and where Cregan fucked into you once, twice, before burying himself as deep as he could in you, likely hoping that he would spill right up against your fertile little womb. He remained fixated on the sight, like if he stared hard enough he would be able to see through your skin and watch it happen.
When you came down, you were trembling in Cregan’s arms, his broad chest searing into your back. Your breathing was labored, loud, groans marking your every exhale. You could feel just how much Cregan had filled you, and braced yourself for the walk back to your quarters with his spend dripping down your thighs and stockings. He stayed in you, enjoying your warmth for a little longer.
You cracked your bleary eyes open. Jace shifted in the chair and considered his next action. A few seconds later, he stood, and walked slowly towards the desk. Cregan hadn’t told him he could move. But Cregan seemed almost as ruined as you, hair mussed and fingers curled into the fat of your hips. He lifted his head from your neck ever so slightly to watch the prince approach, and said nothing. Jace seemed willing to take his chances.
He leaned over the desk, finally seeing how Cregan had ruined you up close. The corners of his lips, which were pink and swollen from biting them, turned upwards. One hand came up to trace your face, thumb swiping across the apple of your cheek. His touch felt akin to someone stoking a dying fire. He flashed a glance at Cregan before looking back at your own mouth.
And then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle but deep, like he was trying to drink up any remaining pleasure that might have been left in your body. Your neck craned, chasing after the taste of Jace’s mouth as he swiped his tongue against your lower lip. You folded immediately, mouth falling open and a hand coming up to his chest. Finally, you wanted to say. You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.
You heard a sound leave Cregan’s throat, needy and absolutely involuntary. You had never heard him make a sound like this. How new everything felt suddenly. A spot you had never seen before, on a map you had studied a thousand times.
So quickly Jace came and so quickly he was gone, parting from your lips with a fond phantom of a smile. You blinked slowly, finally able to trace his features without fear or apprehension. You watched as his eyes, nearly blown black from how wide his pupils had become, shifted from your face to another just below yours.
Wordlessly, his neck shifted downwards, brown eyes meeting gray at a closeness now unmarred with risk or potential betrayal. Jace raked his gaze over Cregan’s face, spent, sweaty and flushed with release. A sight he had seen in person years ago, and seen most recently in his dreams when he was at his loneliest.
Cregan leaned in first. Jace simply met him halfway.
Your breath caught at the back of your throat as you watched your husband kiss his best friend, chiseled jawlines moving in tandem, tongues lapping at each other. You felt your core pulse, and Cregan groaned into the kiss, brows creasing. Jace’s second hand rose to Cregan’s face, mirroring the position it had taken along your own skin.
They savored each other for longer than Jace had kissed you, and you let it happen. Your chest was full of all of the moments over the past few weeks, every question, every what if. Moments where you had watched them brush against each other or meet each other’s gaze, in such a manner that had you trying to string together a narrative, evidence, a theory, anything, that indicated something like this.
The proof was right in front of you. And you were happy to catalog every second.
When Jace pulled away, he flickered his eyes between both of your faces, both so close to his. You watched his brown eyes simmer with something you could not name. Then his gaze turned calculating, and then it turned sly. He applied a gentle pressure to your cheek, at the same time he did to Cregan. Pushing the three of you even closer, which seemed almost impossible.
Cregan made a face. “What—”
“Shh,” Jace whispered, “Let me.”
He pushed again. You would run out of room. Your mind pulsed as it tried to identify what he was trying to do. When the side of your face not held by Jace met Cregan’s, you seemed to understand.
This won’t work, you thought, desperately hoping you were wrong, surely, he can’t mean to—
The corner of your lip met Cregan’s, and then Jace’s mouth descended on you both.
The sensation was strange. A rhythm you hadn’t quite danced to before. You tried to mimic Jace’s movements, but Cregan was motionless at your side, and you wondered how this was meant to work.
Jace’s skin was softer. You could feel some stubble off of your husband, the slight dryness from prolonged exposure to the cold.
You would have pulled away. You almost did, worried the moment would turn awkward.
Until Cregan reached over to grab at the back of Jace’s head, and his other hand reached over to the one the prince had on your face. He pressed the three of you even closer—a difficult feat—and opened his mouth. His tongue darted from your lips to Jace’s. You jolted, realizing that you could feel Cregan’s tongue against Jace’s mouth, because you were there too.
Something clicked into place. Something frantic, primal, ancient. Jace opened his mouth. You opened yours. And when their tongues touched yours, you understood then why many said good things came in threes.
Three noses bumping into each other. Three pairs of lips navigating a familiar sequence, this time with an entirely new component to it. Best of all, three tongues flicking against each other, two of them licking into the third, then switching places. You and Cregan pushed into Jace, you and Jace pushed into Cregan, they pushed into you. The three of you tangled together in a delicious, frenzied cycle, needing still to be impossibly closer.
You whined against their mouths when you felt Cregan’s cock twitch inside you. You knew what would happen if you kept at it. He would get hard again, and this time, no matter what he said, you would not be able to hold back and demand Jace join, despite how spent you were. They would press you between them, bodies so hot that you would inevitably melt into the two of them, drip down their chins and their throats, and cease to exist as a person.
This had to end. You did not want it to. While your spirit was willing, you felt your body utterly ruined. You relished it for a few moments longer, before pulling away, lips wet and panting. Your eyes fluttered open, watching them pull away too.
Cregan was breathing heavily, face bewildered, but not unsettled.
“I–” He licked his lips, trying to commit your combined tastes to memory. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”
Jace had the audacity to look sheepish in his reply. “Some Lyseni courtesans were guests at court last year. They can be very, well, creative in their pursuits of pleasure.”
You laughed once, breathless and still trying to process what had just transpired.
“You’ll kill me,” You muttered, “Both of you are going to kill me.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
The next few days were a blurred build up to the night of Jace’s farewell feast. You were filled with a seemingly perpetual arousal, kept on the precipice of the best kind of waiting. You returned to your host of administrative tasks, but found the occasional sweet reprieve at being cornered by either of them in an empty hallway or disoccupied study.
“My lady, the napkins have been pressed as you asked.”
At night, the kissing, gods, the kissing. The three of you, late at night after the work was done, would return to Cregan’s study with an excess of Dornish wine. When the three of you were drunk enough, you would sit in one of their laps and do nothing but alternate kissing each other. You would sit in Jace’s lap, brace your hands on his firm chest, and grind yourself down onto him, feeling his hard cock through your smallclothes and his trousers. Or, you would sit in Cregan’s lap and let him drag his teeth against your neck while Jace claimed your mouth with his own. Regardless, you would be reduced into a whiny stupor from the visual and physical stimuli descending on you.
“Lady Stark, will you still be wearing the violet gown tonight?”
If the hour stretched late enough, one of you would eventually crack, and ask Jace to show you that Lyseni kissing again. You came twice during this, mind hazy from the hours of grinding against them and the drawn out state of arousal they had placed you in. This strange new union was always a forceful push enough that would have you falling apart in someone’s lap.
“Lady Stark?"
And other times, you would watch, transfixed, as he and Cregan swapped spit lazily for minutes at a time. You had gripped your goblet with such a force that you were positive you would bend the fine metal, unable to look away as your husband and the prince moved mouths and bodies languidly against each other. As if you were analyzing, studying, preparing yourself to reach out and slot yourself between them both—
“Milady?”
You snapped back to where you were standing, in the middle of the banquet hall where preparations were well underway for the farewell feast. You blinked, meeting eyes with the woman who had just been trying to get your attention.
“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you, Rose.”
She nodded sheepishly, and walked away. You pursed your lips, trying to forget about it. A fruitless endeavor. You were on the verge of becoming rabid. You had begged and pleaded for more. It never came.
“Please,” You murmured achingly, “Touch me. Both of you.”
Cregan shook his head.
“He asked for one night. That’s all I’m willing to share you for. You’ll get it when the time is right, pet.”
If not tonight, when? It had to be tonight. Jace was set to leave on the morrow, good weather permitting. They had taken such a hold on your brain that you found yourself retracing parts of your body that they had traced. A hand on your ribcage where Jace had placed his in the barn with Vermax. Tracing your collarbone with your fingers, where Cregan had placed a bruising kiss while you had been sitting in Jace’s lap a few nights ago. Running your tongue across your teeth, where you had felt both of their own tongues tracing the night it had all started.
Gods bless Lyseni courtesans, you thought distractedly.
The rest of the evening was spent in a similar daze. You made your rounds in the kitchen, taste testing sauces, soups, and the sweet creams that would be drizzled on the desserts. You headed up to bathe, attended by your maids as you stared into the distance.
You were dressed in the deep violet gown you had asked them to press for you, with a neckline low enough to garner attention but not too low as to be immodest. They placed silver pins in your hair, and dressed you in your favorite set of jewelry: a silver pendant with amethyst stones inlaid delicately against the metal, with earrings to match. A gift from Cregan for your wedding.
You met Cregan at the bottom of the stairs. He walked you down the hallway, a hand on the small on your back.
“Thank you for planning everything,” He said, “Everything has been delightful.”
“It’s been busy, but I was happy to do so.”
“Tonight will be exciting.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Will it?”
A voice from behind you replied, “I certainly hope so.”
The pair of you turned to see Jace. He was a vision in crimson velvet, a dark sash draped over his shoulder, pinned in place with a silver dragon pin. His hair was perfectly curled, sword at his hip. The only word that came to mind was regal. When he smiled, his chin turned upward, carrying himself with all the grace and pride befitting the heir to the Iron Throne.
“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “Are you ready?”
“I am.” Jace’s eyes landed on you. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
He didn’t need to specify what for. For a second, you glanced at Cregan, who was just as smug. Something you didn’t really see from him.
You took a deep breath. “I… Yes.”
To say the next few hours were excruciating would have been an understatement. And yet, it made total sense.
The entire night was wrought with an evolution of that initial dynamic you had been so keen to observe when Jace had first arrived. If Jace brushed past you, without fail, he would gently readjust you with delicate fingers on your waist. “Pardon me, Lady Stark,” he whispered every time, loud enough for only you to hear. Your little secret.
There was no shortage of drinks, of this you had made sure. You had also brought out a gift Jace had sent ahead of time before his visit—several cases of wine from The Reach and The Arbor as a thanks to the lords and ladies of the North for receiving him. At dinner, he raised his cup to the North, its people, and his gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Stark. When Jace mentioned you, Cregan squeezed your thigh under the table, and you grew rigid as a brittle wooden board, ready to snap at any moment.
As the drinks flowed, they were the final ingredient to a potent and dangerous concoction. The first ingredient had been the heat of the room, the hustle and bustle of the conversation and the music blending together as you took it all in. Next, the pace you had taken all day long, running here and there to make sure everything was perfect and ready to go. Worst of all—strongest, too—had been the mounting expectation of whatever was going to happen once this was over.
You searched the ballroom for a tall frame draped in dark furs. Dark hair partially tied up. There, speaking with two of Lord Bolton’s sons, he stood tall, poised and elegant like a wolf before a hunt. You held back a sigh. Your husband, your Cregan, your man. He looked beautiful, though he would reject the word outright. Men were not beautiful, he might say.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Not anymore, you hoped. There was no need to shy away from it now that the truth was out in the open. He was Cregan and he was human and he had been in love with Jace once and he still loved him, but he also loved you. He was capable of holding both of those loves and they were not at odds with each other. Quite the opposite.
Cregan Stark. Your husband. Lord of Winterfell. Lover of princes and ladies alike. Your heart felt full.
“I told you. You are very lucky.”
Around you, your guests started to pair up. The singers were preparing for another number. Jace looked at you knowingly, and held out a hand.
He raised an eyebrow. “Will you indulge me one last time, Lady Y/N?”
You placed your hand in his. “How could I refuse?”
When he positioned himself, he pulled you closer than he had the first time. Your chests were nearly touching. The music began, and he immediately took the lead. You grinned.
“You know this one.”
Jace nodded. “It is one of my favorites.”
He moved with you around the hall, not even needing to watch where he was going. Instead, he remained trained on your face. You felt your face grow warm from the attention.
“Have you enjoyed your time in The North, Jace?” You asked, blinking up at him.
“I have,” he conceded. “I have learned so much more than I did my first time here. And I leave with a new friend. You have been so welcoming to me, my lady.”
He paused, considering his next words. The next time he spoke, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Especially considering the… behavior I exhibited initially. I imagine that were I a woman, you would have assumed the worst.”
“Your being a man did not matter,” You confessed, “I assumed it within the first few days of your being here.”
This surprised him. “I… You did?”
You laughed. For once, you seemed to have the upper hand with him. “I know my husband. I saw the way he looked at you, and how you looked back. I’m not quiet because I don’t like speaking. But because when you’re silent, you hear every whisper, my prince. Even those that might not be spoken aloud.”
Jace blinked. He seemed stunned, unable to find something to say. The Prince of Dragonstone, words stolen away by Cregan Stark’s meek southern wife. You beamed, triumphant. A moment later, you tilted your head, success giving way to something more genuine.
“Will you miss him?”
Jace lifted his gaze, fixing on one point in the room. You watched his eyes and neck move, coordinating with his feet to keep his eyes on him. You didn’t even need to look to know. Jace watched Cregan with the serenity of someone who had held something once, and come to terms with not being able to hold onto it forever. That was what you saw when they stared at each other, you realized.
Finally, there was a name for it. Peace. A bond forged from mutual respect and absolution. Whatever had once taken root was no longer there. They would never resent each other for it. If anything, they would care for each other even more. When he looked back at you, you saw yourself reflected in that peace.
“Yes and no,” He answered clearly. “I will miss my friend. But I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders having been here after so long. It was a confirmation I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for. I have you to thank for that, also.”
He spun you around, but you didn’t look away from him as you made a face. “Me?”
Jace nodded, smiling. “I knew coming here how much Cregan loved you. He’s never been good with emotions, but his tone when writing about you was so warm, and… meeting you, spending time with you and him, I see why. I see how he cares for you, and you him. I leave here knowing his heart is safe with you. Just like I know how yours is safe with him.”
You smiled back at this, heart swelling even more. “Thank you, my prince. It has been an honor and a pleasure to be your host, and an even greater pleasure to gain your friendship.”
The dance slowed to an end. The room burst into applause, and when you looked up, Cregan was watching you both, seemingly ignoring one of the Bolton boys as he attempted to keep Cregan’s attention. The emotion on his face could only be labeled as affection.
The two of you watched Cregan apologize to the Boltons, brush past them, and cross the room. He seemed to part the onslaught of guests as he walked through them. People would see him, bow their heads, and step to the side. When he landed in front of you both, he held out his arm. You let go of Jace’s hand.
“The night grows long,” Cregan mused, “And the prince has a long journey ahead of him on the morrow. Shall we say our goodbyes and escort him back to his quarters, wife?”
You felt your mouth tip open. It was here. You paused for a beat, then nodded. Jace clenched his jaw, then smirked.
The three of you made a quick round to bid your guests a restful evening. Everyone seemed quite understanding that Jace was feeling tired. The entire time, when you were not speaking, you bit down on your tongue. Lest your teeth rattle with anticipation.
Cregan led you and Jace up the stairs. The ascent was slow, quiet. The symphony of your steps bounced off the stones, echoing throughout the stairwell.
“The music was lovely,” You murmured innocently.
“The food was marvelous.” Jace echoed your tone.
Your trio rounded a corner and you found everyone’s slow walk speeding up. Compliments were paid to your organizational choices. Another flight of stairs. Your thighs tensed with exertion and excitement. By the time you hit the top of the staircase, Jace grinned.
He grabbed your hand, then he grabbed Cregan’s. Cregan chuckled quietly, and you found yourself breaking into giggles as well.
“I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” Jace admitted. Then, he broke into a light jog, taking you and your husband along with him. The drinks, the arousal, the warmth in your chest. All three of these had your head tipping back in joyful, girlish laughter. This was everything you had been wanting, and all of your clothes were still on.
Jace’s door appeared at the end of the hall. He let go of your hands only to open it, and once you were all inside, they pounced on you. How they seemed to move so in sync, you could not say. You had been wound up so tightly you could no longer tell which way was right and which way was left.
Cregan’s mouth landed on yours, and you immediately opened yourself for him. Pure instinct, letting him lick into your mouth with hot breaths against your mouth. Rough and demanding. He grabbed at your sides, squeezing your hips. Jace stepped behind you, tracing open mouthed kisses along the side of your throat, moving up under your ear. His hands slotted themselves over Cregan’s hands, calloused hands brushing even larger calloused hands.
You reached behind you to fist Jace’s curls between your fingers, and rubbed Cregan’s chest in front of you. Already, your heart was pounding. Cregan pulled away to nip at your collarbone, and as if reading Jace’s mind, you craned your neck in pursuit of his heart-shaped lips.
Jace’s kisses were not as aggressive as Cregan’s but they were just as deep. He did not immediately demand you open his mouth to slide his tongue against yours, but rather he spent time courting your lips, then teasing with a quick slide of his tongue against your lower lip. When you bit down on his lower lip, he took that as permission. Only then did his kisses grow faster, humming against your lips when you sucked on his tongue, desperate to get it deeper in your throat.
His front pressed up against your back, and there, nestled between your buttocks, you could feel something poking you, growing more and more insistent with each passing moment. His hands moved away from Cregan’s at your side and slid up your back, trying to find the laces of your bodice. He parted from your lips to fully concentrate on undoing the problematic knots, and you wrapped both of your arms around your husband’s neck.
Cregan immediately straightened, moving his hands down to squeeze at your ass. You gasped, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck.
“Who goes first?” You asked breathlessly.
“Me,” Cregan responded immediately, “I fuck you first, then Jace fucks you.”
You sighed, bodice becoming looser as Jace successfully undid the laces. “When do you fuck Jace?”
They froze. Cregan gaped at you, then looked at Jace.
Jace cleared his throat. “I–”
Cregan raised an eyebrow. “You–”
“What,” You asked, taken aback at their surprise, “I ask to watch you stick your tongues down each other’s throats, can I not watch my husband stick his c—”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see the… well. The whole of it,” Jace answered.
Cregan snickered, a hand gripping your chin. “Oh, she wants to see the hole of it, Jace, I promise you.”
“She continues to surprise me.”
“I’m not surprised at all,” Cregan sighed after a moment, rubbing his forehead against yours, “Gods, you greedy little thing.”
You leaned forward, needing someone desperately. He kissed you again, groaning as you began to unbutton his black jerkin. The vest fell to the floor quickly, leaving him in his thick, gray, cotton doublet. Cregan helped you with the buttons on this one when you pulled away to watch your fingers, which had started to tremble with excitement.
“Easy, pet,” He murmured fondly as his chest was revealed, “We’ve not even touched you yet.
That could not remain true for much longer, you thought, as your bodice and skirts finally gave way thanks to Jace’s ministrations. They pooled at your feet, leaving you in your slip, stockings, and boots. Jace took you by the hand and pushed you back to sit gently on the bed.
Your boots were unlaced. Two pairs of foreign hands pulled down each stocking, and then they parted your legs. You were left to lift your cotton slip and pull it over your head. It left you the first to be naked, you realized as you laid flat on the bed. Cregan was right behind you, and Jace’s clothes remained in place.
The pair of them hovered above where you needed. You propped yourself up on your elbows and found yourself with Jace’s eyes dragging slowly up your body, twinkling in the firelight all the meanwhile.
“You’re unreal,” Jace mumbled, “Sculpted in the image of Mother and Maiden alike.”
“O-oh,” You sighed, a shudder traveling down your spine. You had never been told that before.
Cregan nipped at your bare thigh, before touching Jace’s cheek. “So this is how you southerners seduce women.”
“Only the exceptionally beautiful ones,” Jace argued, flicking his eyes between you and Cregan, “You use it too much and it becomes blasphemy.”
You licked your lips seeing them both slotted between your legs. “This is already blasphemy enough.”
“Quite true,” Cregan said, moving his hand to the back of Jace’s head, “And it’s about to be even more so.”
Cregan’s lips wrapped around your pearl. Jace’s mouth landed at your hole, immediately beginning to lap at your wetness as if he hadn’t seen water in days.
The simultaneous pleasure, courtesy of two of the most powerful men in Westeros kneeling at your feet to worship at your altar. Such a devotional was unlike any other.
The difference in their kisses translated almost perfectly to this. Cregan enjoyed a bit of force when pinning you down like this. “I know she can take it, she’s taken worse,” was his rationale. Jace, for all of his teasing and mastery of making you want, was as gentle as he was needy. He seemed to understand that this was new to you too, but that this would be his only chance to lap at you.
They switched places, tongues touching as they moved around your pussy. Jace moaned when it happened, and between watching it happen and feeling the vibration against your core, you cried out, head falling back. Now, it was Jace’s turn to suck softly on your clit, while Cregan decided to stick his tongue inside of you and fuck you with it. You couldn’t make up your mind on where to focus—at this rate your mind was gone, turned to mush, leaking out of your cunt and being soaked up by their mouths.
Cregan’s hands squeezed at your thighs and Jace had one hand on your hip. You were so focused on your own pleasure you didn’t see Jace’s free hand land at the front of Cregan’s trousers, cupping your husband’s hardness with a restrained vigor. Cregan’s hips pushed into Jace’s touch, and he grunted into your pussy as Jace began to squeeze his bulge.
Jace slid his tongue down to where Cregan’s was. He stuck his tongue into your walls as well, holding back a humbling moan when he felt the tightness of your cunt forcing Cregan’s tongue up against his own. He could take it no longer, delving his hands under the dark wool of Cregan’s trousers.
Jace wrapped his hand around Cregan’s hard cock, remembering the weight of his thick, veiny member, before cupping his fat, heavy balls. Jace’s touch had Cregan groaning into your hole, causing you to gasp out, reaching for both of their heads. Your orgasm was approaching embarrassingly fast, and they got the message when your fists landed in their hair. You hung one leg on their respective outside shoulders, heels digging into their shoulder blades.
Closeness. What a funny word. How could it be that something was too much but never enough?
Cregan’s hand rose up to meet yours in his hair. His index finger tapped your wedding band. Your head rose, face screwed up in pleasure, and saw them both joined together inside of you. A different form of Jace’s Lyseni kiss. The sight was more than enough. You descended into your pleasure, hips bucking against their faces as you demanded for more, for them to stop, for them to keep going, for someone to fuck you, for this night to never end.
Jace was painfully hard. Between Cregan’s cock in his hand, and now you reaching your peak all over him and your husband’s tongues, he could no longer bear it. As you came down, he realized that he’d be relegated to the side yet again before being allowed to participate. He would not be able to just sit idle while watching the two of you again.
You lay limp on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as you tried to regain your bearings. They pulled their mouths away, and you let them go. Your eyes fluttered shut for barely half a second, before you heard more kissing, Cregan grunting, Jace gasping.
You lifted your head with a speed you didn’t think you still had, only to find Jace’s hand in Cregan’s pants while Cregan gripped Jace by the scruff of his neck. Like he was a pup who had just been caught misbehaving. If the hand pumping his cock was the misbehavior, Cregan didn’t seem eager to correct it. You whined at the sight, so ready to watch the prince fall apart on Cregan’s cock.
Your sound roused them both. Cregan’s movements slowed, and his eyes cracked open. He found you staring at the both of them, chest rising and falling with need. He jerked his hips into Jace’s hand, and for a moment, you almost understood what it was like to be Jace the very first night it had all happened.
Jace opened his eyes to look back at you, and he bit his lip. He looked at Cregan, who was watching you as well. Jace spit into his other hand, moving to wrap it around Cregan’s member, before leaning over to suck on Cregan’s jugular. Cregan inhaled sharply, hips thrusting into the prince’s hands.
“Go to her,” Jace murmured against his skin, “Fuck her and I’ll ready myself for you.”
They stood, shedding their remaining clothes as you moved further back on the bed to make room for them both. Soon, the pair were just as naked as you were, moving to the edge of the bed closest to where you were. Standing next to each other, you could not help but compare.
Jace’s muscles were different from your husband’s. Where Cregan was stocky and strong, the muscle was hidden beneath a small layer of plush skin, which was very common in Northern men. Foolish southerners would call it “pudgy”. You called it very, very attractive. His long, thick cock stood at attention, red and willing, hefty balls sagging beneath.
Objectively, Jace was prettier. He was leaner, lighter. Better for riding. His slimness did not necessarily mean fragility—his arms and thighs were well sculpted from years of training, and his shoulders and chest were dotted with freckles too. While his cock was slightly smaller than Cregan’s, it was, like the rest of him, a bit prettier than your husband’s. Pink at the tip, with a generous upward curve that left your mouth watering.
Cregan tilted his head. “Have you had enough of your ogling?” He asked, nodding once. “Lie back.”
As Cregan crawled onto the bed, Jace walked to the vanity on the far side of the room. He heard you and Cregan kiss as he inspected the vials spread across the grain of the wood, before landing on a vial of perfume oil. He grabbed it before returning to the bed, setting it on a table right next to the mattress.
When Jace’s head hit the pillow next to yours, Cregan took it as permission to hike your legs around his waist, one hand propping himself up against the headboard. He took himself into his hand, pumped his cock a few times before sliding it up and down your slit, gathering your wetness along his tip.
“Cregan,” Jace said softly, “How many times have I told you not to tease?”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Cregan clenched his jaw, and you could finally tell what was being said. So did Jace, who immediately lowered his eyes.
“Prepare yourself for me,” Cregan said finally, nodding at the vial Jace had grabbed, “Give her something pretty to look at.”
A moment later, Cregan entered you, and did not give you a moment’s reprieve. His pace was immediately fast and rough, and you reached for his arms to find purchase on something. Cregan’s hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to turn your head to where Jace was lying, currently opening the vial.
“Watch him,” He ordered, “You love watching, don’t you, love?”
You nodded as best you could with your head in his grip, eyes pinned to Jace’s form as he came onto his knees, pressing his face against the pillow. His fingers glistened with oil, and a faint smell of jasmine hit your nose. Your mouth fell open as he lifted his fingers up and behind him. From where you were, you couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but the face he made and accompanying sound that escaped him seconds after left nothing to the imagination.
“Good boy,” Cregan praised, before looking back down at you. You felt yourself clench at his words. Cregan’s pace continued, your hands tracing whatever part of your body you could land your hands on. His broad back and shoulders, hairy chest, or strong plush biceps, you needed something to hold onto as you watched the Prince of Dragonstone finger himself open in preparation for the cock you were currently speared on.
“See normally,” Cregan mumbled into your ear, “I’d have him just like that, but I would be the one to put my fingers in his pink little hole.”
Jace nodded, lip curling up in pleasure. “His f-fingers are quite long,” Jace answered, “Not sure if you’ve noticed.”
You keened. “Yes,” You agreed, “Quite—ah!—quite talented too.”
Jace groaned. You watched his arm begin to speed up. From atop you, Cregan watched slack-jawed as you both compared notes in front of him. He thrust even harder a few times, desperate to drive the breath from your lungs. The movement pushed you into the pillows, back arching into him.
“C-Cregan,” You cried, whining as the harsh thrusting slowed into deep grinding, “Gods, s-so good.”
His lips crashed into yours, so bruising and demanding and so very much Cregan, you tightened your legs around his waist. His weight on top of you was almost crushing, but the way he draped himself over you as he moved languidly in and out of you had you enveloped in a blanket of pleasure and veneration radiating off of his being into yours.
Across from you, Jace was already pressing a second finger into his ass, his other hand wrapping around his cock as he watched Cregan fold you in half. The sound of your cries was soft and needy, but you didn’t complain or try to run from Cregan’s force. You soaked it all up, thirsty and wanting.
When Cregan pulled away, he groaned against your open mouth. “Soon,” He told you, “And after I fill you up, he’ll fuck you too.”
You snaked a hand between you both, rubbing at your nub with a mounting need. You looked back at Jace, moan wrenching from your throat as you watched him, moaning into the pillow, flush covering his delicate freckles. There was a sheen across his forehead and cheekbones, lips forming a delicate little o-shape. Jace’s eyes locked with yours, and you wanted so badly to reach out and touch him. You were rendered immobile beneath your husband’s weight.
You looked down at Jace’s pink cock. He seemed to have found a good rhythm, fucking his cock into his hand and then fucking back onto his fingers. When you realized that he was matching the thrust of his cock into his hand up to the rhythm of Cregan’s hips, your eyes screwed shut, pleasure building impossibly high.
“Cregan,” You called, bucking your hips up into his, “Please.”
“It’s alright, love.” He nodded against your neck, hips beginning to stutter. “Me too. I’ve got you.”
He thrusted a few more times, movements out of rhythm but still so deep inside of you, until his grunts turned into long, drawn out calls of your name. When you felt him spill his hot seed, cock pulsing inside of you, it tipped you over the edge as well, clit pulsating as you pushed your fingers into the sensation. There was always so much, and this time was no different. You looked up at him, vision blurred, to see his hair mussed and a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. It landed on your cheek, and he wiped it away.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Jace shift. He whimpered when his fingers left his hole. He moved closer, eyes trained on where you and Cregan were still connected.
When Cregan pulled out of you, the three of you twisted your necks to watch Cregan’s creamy, white seed spill out of you. You sighed, lower belly warm as he dragged a finger through his release, smearing it across your cunt. He pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Keep them open,” He murmured in your ear, rubbing your thighs. “You’ve been such a good little hostess, wife. How kind of you to gift our prince your tight little cunt.”
His words caused you to clench down on nothing, and Jace groaned when more cum spilled out. Cregan rolled to your side, letting Jace take his place. Jace’s lips landed on yours, deep but not demanding. His eyes studied your face, the flush of your skin as it travelled down your shoulders and tits.
“My lady,” He whispered, cock poking at your entrance, “Can I? Let me—”
“Yes, fuck.” Your voice was breathy, shifting your hips to catch the head of his cock. The two of you gasped at the sensation. Cregan sighed next to you and both of you shifted to look at him. Your eyes were wide, Jace’s were hooded. Waiting. He had held the reins for most of the operation. Was it any wonder the two of you deferred to him?
Cregan looked between you both, before his lips turned upwards. “Well, go on,” He goaded, “Or does our prince need to tell me where to put his cock?”
Jace swallowed, shaking his head. He grabbed one leg, slinging it over his shoulder. Your chest lurched at the angle, and Jace slid into your pussy. An involuntary sound spilled from his lips, a similar whine coming from yours. You were so—
“So wet, Y/N,” Jace growled, licking up your jawline, “Is that you, or is that his cum?”
“Both,” You said, “It’s both of us.”
Jace’s thrusts were slow and controlled, but still had a way of wrenching soft whimpers from your lips. His lips descended on one of your nipples, and you buried your hands in his hair. You opened your chest to give him better access, nodding desperately as he grazed his teeth delicately across the hard nub.
His hips tried different angles, each one hitting better than the last, until he shifted his movement to the left ever so slightly and let out a breathy laugh when you clenched around him and moaned his name.
“Jace,” You said, “Oh, right there, my prince, please, please, please.”
Jace hit the spot again, experimentally, and he pinned your wrists to the bed to stop you from curling in on yourself. He grinned, groaning softly.
“No, you’re not going anywhere.” His pace became faster, your head beginning to writhe back and forth on the pillow. You were so sensitive, but Jace was just beginning to let his more merciless nature show.
“You’ll sit there and take it and show your husband how obedient you are, hmm?”
Your hands balled into fists, unable to touch Jace where you wanted. You wanted your fingers in his mouth. You were sure he would accept them willingly. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked more black than brown, and his brows were furrowed in concentration, nose scrunched up ever so slightly as he chased after his own pleasure. He tilted his head, eyes widening.
“Yes? Answer.”
“Yes!” You nodded, unable to deny it. “Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“She always gets desperate when she’s sensitive,” Cregan told Jace. Your head turned, spotting him lying on his side. His cock was half hard, and beginning to swell again. A man starved, his eyes did not settle in one place for very long. Between your face and Jace’s, your tits, where Jace was fucking into you, there was simply too much to take in. “She doesn’t know whether to run from it or let it happen. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”
You chewed on your lip but nodded. The observation was true, but to be teased like this made the faintest shame brew in your chest, and even worse, the shame made your pussy clench. Jace gasped at this, gripping the headboard with one hand and your clit with the other. Your body tensed up as Jace used the headboard for leverage, swiping his fingers across your nub, doubling the sweet anguish traveling through your veins.
Cregan began to stroke himself again, spurred on by the sudden mania overtaking Jace and being taken out on you. His two favorite people, making each other feel so good right in front of him. The two of you looked so beautiful, your eyes rolling back up into your head as Jace’s head tipped back, revealing the creamy expanse of his neck. He almost wanted to cum again, but knew to save it for what was to come.
Jace groaning your name, you moaning Jace’s. Gods, what a sight, what a sound. He didn’t think he would ever forget tonight.
His hand left your clit to grip the leg not propped over Jace’s shoulder, and then he hauled it up to match. The angle allowed him to reach even deeper, and the curve of his cock proved sweet in ramming up against that warm, spongy spot inside of you that had your legs beginning to tremble. This much pleasure could not be good for your body. Surely, you would combust.
“Oh, fuck,” Jace grunted, returning his fingers to between your legs. A fire licked up your mound and shot straight up your spine, fingernails digging into your palms. You bucked against Jace’s movements. He pressed a kiss to one of your ankles before his pace turned harder, rhythm slowing just enough to maintain precision—an effort in vain.
“Jace, I’m going to—”
“Yes,” He nodded, “Can I—please, inside—”
“Yes,” Your legs slid off his shoulders, immediately wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass cheeks, “Yes, Jacaerys, cum in me too.”
Your words pushed him over, paired with the insistence of your legs. Jace could not have escaped even if he wanted to, he realized as his balls tensed up. His arms wrapped around you and yours wrapped around him. His ache crashed into yours, and the two of you hurtled into release, writhing against each other in the aftershocks.
He buried his face between your breasts, hips bucking wildly as his seed mixed with Cregan’s. The thought had him thrusting weakly as his orgasm died down, trying to extend the sensation in his lower stomach for as long as possible.
He pulled out of you, cock beginning to soften, and remained draped over you, panting against one of your breasts. He flicked his tongue against your nipple, and you almost shoved him off. You were too weak to actually see it through, twitching against Jace’s lean frame as he pressed kisses into your hairline, damp with sweat.
“Gorgeous,” He whispered into your skin, “Doing so well for us, pretty girl.”
Jace lowered his mouth to yours, lazily tangling his tongue with your tongue in the brief interlude before the final act. You felt Cregan stand from the bed, too engrossed in the taste of Jace’s lips to actually focus on what your husband was doing.
The prince pulled away, and you cracked your eyes open to see Cregan at the foot of the bed, gaze dark, shoulders squared. Jace twisted his head. They exchanged a glance, and then Jace looked back at you. He gave you one final kiss, before crawling backwards until his buttocks met the tops of Cregan’s thighs. You moved to sit up, but Cregan shook his head.
“Come here.”
You raised your eyebrows, eyes darting from side to side. “Me? What are you—”
“Look at the mess his grace made,” Cregan murmured, hand sliding up Jace’s spine. The prince shuddered, eyes falling between your thighs. Your cunt was ruined, he realized, swallowing thickly. Cum was oozing out from your hole, your clit was swollen, and Cregan’s cum, previously dislodged by Jace’s fucking you had smeared across your folds.
“Should he not be made to clean it up?”
Your thighs twitched, mouth gaping. You looked at Jace, who seemed near close to drooling like a hound. When your eyes returned to Cregan’s face, there was no room for argument. Still, you tried.
“I can’t—”
“But you will.” Cregan’s hand nestled into Jace’s hair, giving it a light tug. “And he will be good and clean you up. You can take one more, pet. I know you have it in you. You always do.”
You almost hesitated, before spotting where Cregan’s fingers were tangling themselves in Jace’s hair. Your lower lip found itself pinned down by your teeth, but not out of apprehension.
A few moments later, you slid down the bed, at the same time as Cregan walked to the nightstand. He took the oil and smeared it over himself. When he stood behind Jace again, he rubbed the remainder all over the prince’s hole. Jace jumped, before craning his hips back.
Cregan smiled crookedly before applying a gentle pressure against Jace’s hole with his thumb. It gave almost immediately, welcoming Cregan back in greedily. He dipped his thumb in and out too slow for comfort, and Jace’s forehead made contact with one of your parted thighs.
He toyed with Jace’s hole a little longer, gauging whether or not he was ready for Cregan’s cock, now fully hard again. He wasn’t sure how long he would last, having came once already, on top of watching Jace fuck you. When he pulled his thumb out, he also pulled the softest whimper from the back of Jace’s throat.
“Please,” Jace said, one hand reaching back to spread himself open for Cregan, “Please, I need you.”
Cregan bent down, slotting a wet, open mouthed kiss between Jace’s shoulder blades. He gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock right up against Jace’s asshole. All of the air still in Jace’s body left him, leaving only anticipation that bled from every pore on his skin.
“Put your mouth on her.” The command was said quietly against Jace’s skin. “Then I’ll fuck you, my sweet boy.”
Jace exhaled shakily at the name. He had not been called that in years. He licked his lips, looking back at your cunt. Your tired eyes were watching him fondly, a hand reaching for his cheek. You took a trembling breath, before falling in line with what Cregan wanted.
“Eat,” You whispered sweetly, beaming when he pressed his face into your palm, “Be good for us.”
The silver of your wedding band was cold against his cheek. A miniscule oasis from the layer of heat that had blanketed the room. He shut his eyes and allowed himself one more moment to enjoy the cool metal on his skin. Then, he turned, and placed a dedicated kiss on your palm. When he drew away, he lowered his neck, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth to trace a long stripe from your hole to your clit.
The sensitivity was too much. You jumped at the wet warmth of his tongue, and Jace splayed a hand over your lower stomach, pinning you in place. You shivered, scar touching your skin. He licked you again, and then began to dip his tongue into your folds.
“Fuck!”
Jace hummed against your folds, half-hard member twitching at your expletive and the mixed flavor of his own cum and Cregan’s. He canted his hips back, unable to form words anymore.
Cregan chose mercy. He pushed in, forcing Jace to gasp against your cunt. His eyes burned as he stared unblinking at how he slid into Jace’s tight hole, jaw clenching as he gave Jace a moment to adjust. The prince was still as tight as he remembered him. Jace seemed to disagree with the decision.
“Ngh, move.” This was the most princely he’d sounded since coming into the room, his demand bitten out and gruff. Jace brushed his nose against your clit, and you tangled both hands in his hair. Cregan lifted his eyes, landing on your debauched, sweaty face, and you nodded.
Cregan bottomed out, reaching for Jace’s slender waist. He was going to need the leverage. He held Jace in place as he slid out, and then began to fuck the prince with an abandon Cregan hadn’t expected of himself.
The three of you were falling apart. This drawn out session had stripped the three of you to your most animal senses. Humping, grabbing, moaning, licking. Titles were seemingly gone, and what was left were three sweaty lovers in search of a reverie so prolonged it verged on painful, still delicious enough to keep at the pursuit.
Cregan’s hands tightened around Jace’s waist. Jace groaned, hoping desperately he’d have bruises to further commit the night to memory. He angled his hips upward, knowing how close Cregan he was to his prostate. He knew Cregan was looking for it too. All Jace had to do was guide the way.
When he found it, Jace’s voice cracked. The timbre of his voice gave way, leaving a whiny mess still dipping his tongue into your hole. His whimpering and the accompanying vibration had you crying out too. The praise spilled out of you, a woman possessed.
“That’s it,” You said, “Take it, Jace. I know you can do it, darling. Take it like I did.”
Cregan, yearning for that mythical closeness, rested his knees against the mattress, stomach pressing against Jace’s lower back. He began mouthing at Jace’s shoulders, showering him with affirmations every time his lips were detached from his skin long enough. Cregan’s hips never let up.
“Just as tight as I remember, sweet boy,” He growled, “‘M going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Never stop,” Jace pleaded, lapping at your clit, “Don’t want you to.”
“No?” Cregan’s hands slid to his front, tweaking at Jace’s nipples, before sliding a hand down to grip Jace’s twitching, ruddy member. “Even like this?”
Jace cried out again, wrapping his lips around your clit. Your back arched off the bed, tugging so intensely at Jace’s pretty locks that his scalp ached sweetly. Your entire body was trembling now. Jace was wrecked, pinned between you and your husband as Cregan took and you were made to give.
The three of you, connected. You and Cregan, slowly suffocating Jace with your love. And Jace, in the middle of it all, unable to do anything but accept it all. Even as his a knot began to form in his lower stomach, ass tightening with Cregan still inside. When he clenched down on Cregan, Cregan’s hips bucked, before retaking the rhythm he was still trying to hold onto.
“Feel too good, Jace,” He groaned, “‘M not gonna last.”
“Cum in me,” Jace demanded, lifting his mouth off of you, “Let me feel you in me when I leave.”
Cregan drove himself into Jace even harder, final orgasm now in view. He cupped Jace’s balls, squeezing, as if attempting to coax Jace’s cum out of them. Jace reattached his tongue to your clit, two fingers sliding into your painfully sensitive hole, trying to find more of the sticky, creamy cum they had both placed so lovingly in you. Your body was no longer your own, you realized with a pleased satisfaction. They had taken control of it and decided how to position it, how to fill it, when you’d had enough.
“And you,” Jace murmured breathlessly into your skin, “I want to feel your pussy squeeze around my fingers one more time.”
His words triggered an avalanche, starting with you and ending with Cregan. Your vision turned white, body stiffening for a beat. Then, your body jolted, cunt clenching helplessly around Jace’s digits. He suckled on your clit through every single wave of painful pleasure, until you were sobbing, trying weakly to push his head away.
Jace let his head fall back on your soft thigh. He couldn’t tell if you were the one trembling or he was. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling the familiar tug in his balls. He bit down on your thigh when he came again, cum spilling over Cregan’s fist, his own walls fluttering against Cregan’s incessant pounding.
Finally, Cregan wrapped himself on Jace, burying himself the deepest he’d been in the prince all night, shuddering on top of him as he spilled more of his warm, sticky cum into the heir to the Iron Throne.
The three of you rode out the final waves until it hurt, room smelling of sweat, sex, and funnily enough, jasmine. The only sounds were those of the crackling wood of the hearth and three different staccatos of breath.
Carefully, Cregan pulled himself out of Jace. Jace, boneless, fell forward, nuzzling into your thigh. You carded a hand through his sweaty curls, attempting to soothe after all of your yanking. You felt the mattress dip behind you. Cregan had slid onto your side of the bed, lying behind you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. He looked utterly spent, heart still hammering just under his sweaty chest.
When Jace had regained his bearings, he crawled up to be level with you and Cregan. He wrapped his hands around your waist, and looked at you both. Cregan had one hand splayed across your lower back, and used the other to slide up Jace’s arm. All your touches had turned tender, now. Any tension or desire had bled into each other late into the night, leaving only fondness and a feeling of completion. A circle being closed.
“If Aegon the Conqueror had done this instead,” Jace decided, “I believe the North would have fallen much faster.”
Cregan swatted his arm. Jace caught his hand, scars brushing. You giggled, sleep beginning to settle over your body.
“I mean it. If he’d just bent over for Torrhen Stark–”
“Jacaerys.”
As your eyes fluttered shut, you smiled between their bodies. It was cold outside, but you had your husband at your back, and a prince of dragon blood at your front.
For the rest of the night, there would be no cold to be spoken of.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
minors dni. if i didn't tag you, it was because i couldn't see an age anywhere on your blog <3
Summary: cregan’s wife feels he is a cold and distant husband, but tensions rise, so he finds a way to show her just how much he loves her. he doesn’t mean to be cold it’s just his northern attitude 😏
cw: smutttttyyyyyyy it was almost fluff but i just can’t help myself lol. reader slaps cregan a few times, (not abusively im just a freak😔), size diff, oral (f & m receiving), spanking, porn with little plot
masterlist
Cregan Stark loved and adored his wife. Perhaps, he may have even loved her almost too much, as he avoided doing anything that might tarnish her virtue as a lady.
He did not share his chambers with her— even though that was the custom in the North— rarely touched her, aside from their rather delicate bedding ceremony, and he rarely spoke to her, as he was too afraid of saying anything that may disrespect her.
His wife found this agonizing.
Their union had, of course, been one out of duty, but it didn’t change the fact Cregan had been more interested in her than any other maiden in the North. Her father, Lord Mooton, had offered her hand years ago when Cregan’s father, Rickon, still ruled the North, but his father felt Cregan should one day make that decision on his own when he became Warden of the North.
Cregan had met her when they were both ten and three. When shortly before his father’s death, Rickon Stark hosted a feast for all of the Northern lords to come and celebrate the end of a particularly harsh winter.
She was timid and quiet, but they shared a dance and then she had never left Cregan’s mind since.
Now, some odd years later, she was his wife, and he was delighted. However, his wife had grown to think their union was a misery for him.
Their first bedding was ever so gentle, with Cregan lightly caressing her hair and cheeks. Yet, he held his head low into her neck to contain his moans. Her sweet whines and whimpers made him want to go feral, but he dared not defile his wife.
She was still the quiet girl he fell in love with all those years ago. She sat next to him silently during feasts and trips to other houses, almost like a pet that only acts when called upon. When she did attempt to make conversation with her husband, his words were short and dry. She knew Northern men were often of few words, but she did not expect her union to be that way. If he was so cold, why had he chosen her specifically? The thought frustrated her greatly.
It was not his intention to be this way, it was just how his father was, and he couldn’t help but mimic that behavior, for it was all Cregan knew.
But, when Cregan learned he would have to make a moon long trip to the Wall, he wanted to make sure his wife would be in well hands before leaving.
knock knock knock
“You may enter.” She said, softly.
She turned as her husband entered her chambers, dressed in his furs and armor. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his appearance, noticing he was clearly ready to go somewhere. He closed the door behind him, then stepped a few paces closer inside her chambers.
“Are you leaving?” She asked, trying to hide the frustration in her voice.
“I must go to the Wall; the men there are in great need of supplies and support. I plan to bring any prisoners of Winterfell to clear up our cells so that they may take the black.” He says, walking to sit across from her in front of the hearth. He admires her soft gray gown, noticing her hair was in traditional Northern braids, out of her face so that it was revealing her delicate features. Her eyebrows knitted again, a cute quirk he noticed she did when she was upset.
“Will you be alright to rule in my stead while I am gone?” He asks.
“You want me to be regent while you’re away?” She asks, surprised he came to her first instead of a maester or one of his men.
He nods with a small shrug, like it was the obvious choice. “Well, yes, you’re the Lady of Winterfell.”
“I will be fine, husband.” She responds, curtly.
“If you feel unsure, I can-“ He asks, wanting to make sure she feels comfortable enough, but she cannot hide her anger anymore.
“I said I will be fine! Just go, and leave me alone as you always do!” She yells, standing and walking away from their seats at the fire place.
“Have I given offense?” He asks, following behind her. He rests a hand on her shoulder, but she turns to face him, and pushes it away.
“No. You’ve made your point to not offend at all, in fact. We’ve been wed for three moons and you’ve only taken me to your bed once; it’s as if you refuse to even acknowledge that I’m here. You avoid me like the plague, Cregan. Have I been the one that has done something to offend?” She asks, her voice thick with anger.
He can’t help but let out a dry laugh, “Apologies, my wife,”
“I’m glad you find it funny, Stark.” She says, avoiding his gaze and sitting on the bed, playing with a loose piece of cotton in the linen.
He takes her hands in his, pulling her back to her feet. She nearly gasps in shock at his touch. “You must forgive my northern attitude, I was raised on little light.”
“You seem to forget that I’m Northern as well, my lord husband.” She says, finally catching his eyes for the first time in their marriage. A small smirk plays on his lips.
“My wife, you are such a breathtaking woman, and if I am a distant husband, then I apologize for that. It is no fault of your own. I simply do not wish to… treat you any less than a lady deserves, but it seems I have gotten too lost on the way. I apologize for my errors, Lady Stark.” He rubs his fingers gently over her hands. She doesn’t know how to respond, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. All this time, all she wanted was some hint that Cregan Stark had any sort of emotions or feelings, and here was her confirmation. He did, and by the old gods and the new did he have many for her.
“When I return, my dear wife,” His finger traces her jawline. “I promise you that I will treat you with the respect you want and deserve. In the meantime, I do beg for your forgiveness. This is my first union.”
She lets out another dry chuckle. “It’s mine as well.”
He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I will send a raven the moment I reach Castle Black.”
With that he turns to leave…
But, she isn’t done with him.
*clang*
Cregan is almost sure it didn’t happen. He hardly even felt a breeze through his furs, but when he hears the sound of metal hitting the floor he knows she threw something at him.
He turns to look at the mug on the floor, then to his wife, bewildered. “Did you just throw a mug at me?”
“Your lady has not given you permission to leave.” She says, voice laced with a challenge. “I want the wolf I was promised.”
“What?” He asks, confused. She throws a book at him, but he deflects it this time, arm shielding it from hitting his face. “Stop, what- What are you doing?!”
He holds his arms up to shield himself as his wife throws more and more objects at him; candelabras, books, pillows, nearly anything she can get her hands on.
“Come on! Your boots, really?!”
He walks towards her, angry, ready to… he doesn’t even know; perhaps frighten her into stopping? Take the last projectile out of her hand?
She places her hand on his chest when he’s finally in her reach, stopping him just in front of her. She takes his hand, pressing it to her chest to tear off her gown. He lets his hand go limp, but she makes him do the work anyway. He’s too confused to understand, because she was just so angry with him. When he still makes no motion to move it himself she lets his hand fall, instead slipping off the dress herself, letting it fall to the floor as she stands bare before him.
“My lady-“ She cuts him off with a meek slap across his face. He stares back at her, his jaw slack.
She does it again, his head barely even moving at her hand. It wasn’t the pain (there was none), but the act that was pissing him off.
She goes for a third, but he grabs her by the wrist before she can reach him.
“This is your only warning, my dear wife.” He says, holding her small wrist in his hand.
“Or what?” She whispers. It was that response; that sultry, lustful, desperate response that makes him realize she was teasing him. She was aching for him, eager for her husband before he left her.
“Why don’t you find out?” He whispers.
He doesn’t move, staring her down with a fire burning in his gray eyes. Her other hand finds his cheek with a rougher slap this time, and his length grows stiff in his leathers.
He lets go of her wrist, grabbing her by the waist and giving her a gentle but firm shove onto the mattress. She gasps and laughs in the same breath, backing away to give him room.
He climbs over her, resting his weight on his hands and leaning in to give her a deep and tender kiss. She moans, immediately pulling his head closer and weaving her fingers in his smooth brown locks. He moans in response, his hand finding its way to her breast.
“I’ll make it up to you, wife.” Cregan says, pressing kisses on her cheek before moving down her body. He kisses every part, before resting between her legs. His hands wrap around her thighs, kissing and licking softly just outside her wetness.
She whines, wiggling around in impatient need, only for him to press a hand on her stomach to keep her still. He pulls her down onto his lips, and she lets out a sigh of ecstasy. He’s harsh and unrelenting on her cunt, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Her pleads for him fall upon deaf ears, as he realizes just how hungry he was for her.
He wanted to say fuck the journey, fuck the Wall, fuck the North, fuck everything. He wanted to die here, in this sweet, sweet cunt of his wife’s. Her fingers lace into his hair, pulling on the strands tightly, and he whimpers at the sweet pain.
Her eyes water as she draws closer to her release, the feeling so foreign and unique that her body can’t help but twitch and shake against his face, eliciting moans from Cregan as she unintentionally bumps her cunt against his nose.
“Cregan, oh gods.” She cries, grinding her hips onto his face as she climaxes, and he lets her lead, wanting her to enjoy the feeling in the best way she could. He locks his eyes onto hers, but that fiery look in them makes her break first, and she throws her head back as she releases onto his lips.
He kisses her thighs as she comes down, a trembling mess in his strong arms; then kisses his way up her bare body, until he’s face to face with her. Her eyes are closed tight as she attempts to catch her breath, her shaky hands holding his muscles for support.
“Will you stop throwing things at me now until I return, my dear?” He asks, gently.
She opens her eyes to look at him, “Where has my wolf been hiding this whole time?”
“In his den.” He teases as he gets off the bed and stands, prepared to take his leave when she grabs his wrist.
“You wish to go before I can return the favor?” She asks.
“You needn’t do such a thing.” He says, fingers brushing small strands of messy hair out of her face, not wanting to cross too many of her boundaries.
“You’re too modest.” She says, pulling him back towards her by the band of his leathers. He wants to push her off, but can’t find the strength. She unlaces his breeches, then stands from the bed to remove his cloak and furs.
“My men are waiting for me, wife.”
“What’s a few more minutes to the Warden of the North?” She says, lowly. She undresses him, from his armor down to his small clothes, and he makes no motions to stop her.
She kisses down his chest, as he just did to her moments prior. She slowly takes him into her mouth, licking and sucking on his length.
Cregan groans, his hand instinctively finding its grip in her hair. She whimpers at the sudden pull, and he immediately loosens it.
“Don’t stop, I like it.” She whispers against him. He obliges, pushing her head deeper onto him.
“Fuck.” Cregan moans in the air, his voice rising an octave. He’s almost embarrassed at how desperate he sounds. “Please, my love, just like that.”
His hands gently rest on the sides of her head, his fingers woven into her hair as she slobbers onto him.
“My husband is more needy than me.” She whispers, and gods was she right. Cregan had grown to regret being so coy with his wife the past few months.
“The gods have blessed me with you, my wife.” He moans, and she smirks onto him. She finally had him right where she wanted him.
“Then bless me in return.” She says, pulling away and leaning back on the bed, spreading her legs to bare her sweet cunt to him. He moans at the sight alone. He crawls over her, positioning his length along her entrance. She eagerly wiggles her hips, only for him to push them down.
“Patience, dear wife.” He says.
“I’ve been patient for three months. I fucking want you, Cregan.” She pushes him onto his back beside her, crawling over and sliding herself down onto him. Cregan moans loudly, and she smirks.
She ignores the aching stretch, immediately grinding her hips against him. His hands grasp her waist, holding them so tightly they’ll bruise by the time he leaves.
She throws her head back in ecstasy, as Cregan keeps his attention on her face. She is so beautiful, even when she is a whining and sweating mess. One of his hands cups her cheek, weaving his fingers into her locks. She stares down at him, her mouth agape as she moans.
“You are so beautiful, wife.” He says, rocking his hips below her to meet her thrusts. “But, your little tantrum isn’t going to go unpunished.”
He locks her in place with his hands, refusing to let her grind against him any longer.
“Wait, Cre-“
He pushes her off, rising from the bed so that he can push her onto her stomach. He pins her wrists behind her back, her fingers twirling to try to find any support to hold onto.
“Now, how many items did you throw at me, my lovely wife?” Cregan asks, lost in the lust that he had tried to bury when he married his wife. Now, he had no shame to degrade her.
“I… I can’t remember.” She says, muffled into the furs of the sheets.
“I believe it was six. Let’s make it fair.” He says, landing a harsh smack to her bottom. She lets out a whine, and he pushes himself back inside her. Her breath hitches in her throat, and he lands another smack, intending to leave marks.
“Good luck sitting on that throne while I’m gone, wife.” He says, landing way more than six smacks to her red bottom. She moans at the pain and pleasure of the smacks and Cregan’s thrusts. The feelings were overwhelming, yet pure ecstasy. Tears brim her eyes as she screams in pleasure, sure enough so loud that all of Winterfell will hear.
“I can’t stand you.” She moans.
“On the contrary, beautiful girl. I think you love me.” He says, pressing his chest to her back and wrapping his hand around her throat, continuing to be relentless with his thrusts. He drowns in her lascivious moans, feeling her cunt leak all over him and her bed. He reaches his other down to her cunt, gasping at all of the wetness that pools in his hand.
“Gods, wife, I didn’t realize how bad we needed each other. You should have told me sooner, I would have defiled you a long time ago.” He groans into her hair. She whimpers pleads of her need for release, and he grants it to her.
She cries in such pleasure, her hands finally finding a comforting grip against Cregan’s as he releases her wrists.
She rakes her nails into his hand, and he moans, finally spilling himself into her after three long, aching moons.
Breathless pants fill the silence in the air as they both recover. He presses a gentle kiss to her temple, then pulls out to lay beside her.
“Are you alright, my wife? I didn’t go too far, did I?” He asks, caressing her bottom and her waist, tinted red from his harsh grasp.
“No, not at all.” She breathes.
“No, I didn’t hurt you? Or no, you’re not alright?”
She laughs, turning to face him to hold his cheek. “Husband, I am better than ever.”
He kisses the tip of her nose, gently caressing her cheek, not wanting to leave her.
“Must you still go, my love?” She asks, sadness in her voice, “Just when I’ve finally got you?”
“Unfortunately, I must… But, like you said, they can wait another day for the Warden of the North. I want to be with my wife.”
She smirks, propping herself up to look over at him. “Northern attitude indeed, my lord husband.”
Beta read by my wife @moonstruksandco ( ˘ ³˘)˘ᵋ ˘ )♥
Synopsis: Cregan Stark, the formidable Lord of Winterfell, eagerly awaits the arrival of his new betrothed, y/n, who has bewitched him since childhood. As winter sets in, he hopes to transform their arranged marriage into a union of love. However, y/n arrives with her own doubts, unsure if she can return his deep affection. Will their marriage blossom into love, or remain a cold duty? Cregan is determined to show her that their bond can be more than just an obligation on their wedding night.
Warnings: 18+ slow burn, smut, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, p in v sex (unprotected), breeding kink, rough sex, oral sex(both f/m receiving) missionary, mating press, doggy style lots of cum (I think all stark men cum bucket loads)
8k+ words likes and reblogs are highly appreciated ෆ/⟳ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶
(Authors note: omg hayy I don’t know that much about Yorkshire accents aside from ackley bridge so I’m sorry in advanced if it’s not right :>)
The wind howled through the ancient halls of Winterfell, carrying with it the biting chill of the northern winter. Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North, stood by the great hearth in the main hall, his keen grey eyes fixed on the entrance. The time had come for the arrival of his new betrothed, y/n, the most beautiful amongst house Tyrell.
From the moment he first saw her, Cregan had been captivated. Even as a young lad, her grace and elegance had set her apart. Now, as a grown woman, she was even more bewitching, and Cregan's heart swelled with a mix of anticipation and determination. He was resolved to turn their arranged marriage into a union of love.
As Cregan stood by the hearth, he watched the window, the snowflakes drifting lazily to the ground, a distant memory surfaced, warm and vivid against the icy present. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be transported back to a time when he was just a young lad of twelve, visiting Highgarden with his family.
He remembered the journey vividly, how different the South had seemed compared to the North. The air was warmer, the colors more vibrant. He had wandered through the lush gardens, marveling at the flowers and plants that couldn’t survive the harsh winters of Winterfell. It was in those gardens that he first saw her.
Y/n had been around his age, a vision of beauty even then. She sat on a stone bench, engrossed in a book, her expression serene and detached. Her hair, shining in the sunlight, cascaded down her shoulders, and her delicate features were framed by the backdrop of blooming flowers. She seemed almost like a fairytale princess, so enchanting that he could scarcely believe she was real.
Without even realizing it his feet began to move on their own, he was like a moth being drawn to the flame that was her. As he approached her, His heart pounded in his chest, an unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling. She glanced up briefly from her book as he neared, her eyes meeting his for just a moment before returning to her reading.
“H-Hello” he said, trying to muster as much confidence as he could. “What are yeh reading?”
She responded without looking up this time, her voice calm and distant. “Hmm a collection of poems” she replied. “Do you like poetry?”
Cregan, caught off guard, nodded. “Aye. Though I don’t read much of it.”
She patted the space beside her, still not lifting her gaze from the pages. “You can sit if you want.”
He sat down slowly, feeling a strange sense of destiny in that moment. She continued to read aloud, her voice weaving the words into a tapestry of emotion and beauty. He listened, captivated not by the poetry but by her otherworldliness her grace, and the way she brought the words to life. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, completely in star struck, while she remained indifferent, too engrossed in her book to notice his adoration.
That was the last time they spoke just a few exchange of words. The rest of his visit to Highgarden was spent with his father and training with Y/N’s brothers and learning the ways of a lord, much to his chagrin. But whenever he could, he would steal glances at her from a window while she read in the garden, and across from her at dinner, for which his mother often scolded him.
"Cregan, it's impolite to stare" his mother whispered sharply during dinner one evening, nudging his foot under the table.
He tore his eyes away from y/n, his cheeks burning and crimson red. "I weren’t starin’, Mother.”
“Yeh most certainly were” she replied, her tone firm. “It’s not appropriate. Focus on yer meal.”
“But she’s… she’s so…”
“Enchantin’?” his mother finished for him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Aye, she is. But yeh must remember yer manners, lad. Staring is unbecoming of a young lord.”
Cregan sighed, casting one last, fleeting glance at y/n, who was still in her own little world not casting a single glance his way. “Aye, mother….”
Despite his mother’s admonitions, his fascination with Y/N only grew, even as she remained blissfully unaware of his admiration.
Cregan opened his eyes, the memory fading as the cold reality of Winterfell settled back in. He sighed, turning away from the window. Some things, he mused, never truly changed.
In the dimly lit carriage, y/n huddled under the blankets, trying to stave off the biting cold that seemed to seep through the very fabric of her clothes. Her mother sat beside her, wrapped in her own covers and trying to offer some semblance of warmth and comfort. The carriage jolted over the rough, snow covered road, and every bump made her shiver more.
Her brothers, true to their duty, were outside braving the harsh northern winter with their horses, though y/n could scarcely imagine how they managed. She, however, had the luxury of being confined to the carriage, a prisoner of her own anxieties and fears.
The stories she’d heard about Cregan Stark haunted her thoughts. The gruff warden of the north with a claymore sword so heavy it was said to be the size of a small man. To her, the very idea of marrying such a man was nightmarish. She couldn't remember much about him from his family’s previous visit to Highgarden all those years ago, but the tales of his fierceness and the imposing aura of the North made her dread the moment she would finally meet him.
The carriage seemed to creak with the weight of her mother's discontent. Her mother’s complaints, murmured under her breath but audible enough for y/n to hear, were laced with disdain. “I cannot believe we’ve had to send our only daughter off to marry a Stark”
“Their way of life, covered in stinking animal pelts, living amongst brutes who value strength over grace. It’s hardly the life for a Tyrell.” She said with disgust.
Her father’s stern gaze flicked towards her mother, his patience evidently wearing thin. "We’ve discussed this, Eliza. The match is made, and it’s for the good of House Tyrell. Stop lamenting what cannot be undone."
To him, this marriage was merely a strategic move, a means to secure more power for Highgarden. His daughter's feelings were of no consequence, his focus was solely on the political gain.
“Do you have to be so callous?” her mother’s voice broke through the gloom. “She is our daughter.”
Her father’s gaze remained unyielding. “The alliance with the Starks is necessary for the gain of our house. Y/n is to be a dutiful wife to a powerful lord it’s what she was raised for, if she does her duty right she’ll bear him many children further securing our power”
As her father’s harsh words continued to echo in her ears, y/n’s anger flared. She straightened up, glaring at him . “If you wanted to gift Cregan a broodmare, you should’ve gotten him one of the whores you visit in the brothels” she spat out, her voice trembling with defiance.
mother’s gasp of shock was barely audible over the creaking of the carriage. Her father’s eyes were wild, a hot fury flashing in them. Before y/n could react, his hand shot out, delivering a hard, stinging slap across her face. The sharp force of it made her head snap to the side, and she recoiled, stunned by the sudden violence.
“How dare you!” her father’s voice roared with anger.
y/n’s mother was frozen, her hand going to her mouth in shock. She looked at her husband with a mixture of horror and helplessness. “Henry, please—”
“Be silent!” he snapped, cutting her off. “I will not tolerate such insolence!“
He turned his icy gaze back to y/n, his face a mask of unrelenting severity. “You are about to become the wife of a powerful man. you are fortunate that I secured this arrangement, otherwise you would just end up being Cregans whore in some brothel anyway.”
Y/n’s heart sank as she heard the finality in his cruel words. She knew better than to argue with him—his decisions were made with an iron will that left no room for dissent.
as the carriage continued its slow journey through the snow, y/n's thoughts were plagued with anxiety and uncertainty. The grandeur of Winterfell loomed ahead, and with it, the reality of her new life as Cregan Stark’s bride. She could only hope that, amidst the cold and the gruffness of her new home, she might find a way to endure this new chapter of her life.
As Cregan stood by the hearth, still lost in his own thoughts, the door swung open with a crash and his friends burst in, laughter and shouts echoing through the great hall.
“Cregan, ye dog! Heard the news, did we!” Jorah boomed, striding up to him and clapping him on the back with such force it nearly sent him stumbling forward.
“Aye, lad, congratulations!” Gendry called out, raising his tankard high. “A Tyrell, no less! Must’ve done somethin’ right to be landin’ a lass like that.”
Cregan, smiling, shook his head as he tried to make sense of the sudden uproar. “Cheers, lads. Bit early for a celebratory drink, ain’t it?”
Bram, always one for a jest, stepped forward with a grin. “Well, Cregan, we heard she’s real beauty, fairest in all the Seven Kingdoms. Quite the catch for a dog like you. Ain’t right, really, a face like hers and a face like yours.”
Cregan raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, is that so? And what about ye lot, then? All of ye been lookin’ in the mirror lately?”
The room erupted in laughter, and Bram waved a dismissive hand. “Aye, we might be a rough lot, but at least we ain’t got to worry ‘bout our faces bein’ compared to a rose.”
Robb, always quick with a quip, leaned in with a wink. “Might be true she’ll forget all ‘bout yer ugly mug once she gets a look at what’s really under yer tunic. you’ve got more to offer than just yer sorry looks.”
Cregan’s cheeks flushed slightly, but he laughed along, trying to maintain his composure. “Ah, so ye’re sayin’ it’s all in the size of me… character, is it?”
“Aye, that’s right!” Robb said with a grin. “Best thing about ye, Cregan, is that even if your face don’t make the cut, yer other qualities surely will.”
Cregan shook his head, laughing despite himself. “Well, if it’s me ‘other qualities’ that’ll win her over, then I reckon I’d best be makin’ sure she gets a good look at all of ‘em.”
Jorah slapped him on the back again, nearly sending him reeling. “Look at ye, all flustered! Never thought I’d see the day. Don’t worry, lad. What lass wouldn’t want a strong Northman?”
“Aye, just keep it down a bit, or you’ll have me blushing so hard I’ll be usin’ me face as a lantern” Cregan said, his grin widening.
The friends continued their banter, the atmosphere warm with camaraderie and laughter. As they raised their mugs in a final toast, Cregan felt a renewed sense of anticipation and affection for the future, no matter the teasing jabs from his mates.
The room was alive with laughter and chatter as Cregan and his friends carried on with their banter. Jorah was in the middle of a lively tale from a recent hunt, while Robb and Gendry argued over the best way to handle a particularly stubborn horse.
The door creaked open, and in walked Lady Gilliane Glover and Lord Rickon Stark, their presence immediately silencing the room. Lady Gilliane, a woman of dignified grace, and Lord Rickon, tall and commanding, made their way over to their son.
“Cregan, me lad!” Lady Gilliane called out, her voice warm but authoritative. “Got a bit o’ news for ye.”
Cregan turned, a smile fading as he saw his parents. He stood, brushing his hands on his tunic. “Mother, Father, what brings ye here?”
Lord Rickon gave a nod, his face a mix of seriousness and pride. “Your brother spotted Y/N’s carriage on the road. They’ll be arrivin’ soon.”
The room quieted, the friends sensing the shift in the mood. Jorah nudged Cregan with a grin. “Looks like the real fun’s about to start, eh?”
Lady Gilliane gave a small, amused smile. “Aye, that’s right. Thought ye’d want to know. They’ll be here within the hour, so best be ready.”
Cregan’s heart raced, and he glanced at his friends, trying to mask his nerves. “Well, no time like the present, I suppose. Best get meself sorted.”
Lord Rickon placed a reassuring hand on Cregan’s shoulder. “Remember, lad, first impressions count. Show her what a proper Stark man ye are.”
“Aye, Father,” Cregan said, nodding. He turned to his friends with a determined look. “Ye lot best behave yerselves when she arrives. Don’t be givin’ her any more trouble than need be.”
The friends raised their mugs, grinning. “Aye, aye, Cregan! We’ll be on our best behavior,” Robb said, winking.
Lady Gilliane’s gaze softened as she looked at her son. “We’ll leave ye to it, then. Just remember, Cregan, she’ll be as nervous as ye, if not more. Show her the warmth of the North.”
As Lady Gilliane and Lord Rickon exited the hall, Cregan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The anticipation of meeting Y/N was building with every tick of the clock, and he knew the coming hours would be crucial.
Y/n sat in the carriage, the stark contrast between the verdant landscapes of Highgarden and the harsh, icy expanse of Winterfell weighing heavily on her. The snow-clad scenery outside felt alien and unwelcoming compared to the lush greenery she had left behind. Each jolt of the carriage seemed to deepen her sense of displacement.
Her mother’s hand, warm and steady, was a source of comfort amid her growing anxiety. Y/N clung to it, drawing solace from its presence as she tried to quell her rising fears.
“We’re almost there, dear” her mother said softly, her voice a gentle balm against the cold atmosphere of the carriage. “Remember, we’re in this together.”
Y/n managed a small, appreciative smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you, Mother. It’s just… it’s so different from home.”
Her father, ever the pillar of stoicism, was peering out the window, his gaze fixed on the approaching Winterfell.
The carriage began to slow, the crunch of snow under the wheels signaling their arrival. As they came to a stop, y/n could see her father alighting first, his figure steady and authoritative as he approached Lord Rickon Stark.
“Lord Rickon” her father said, stepping forward with a formal nod. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
Y/n and her mother remained in the carriage, the cold air seeping through the cracks in the doors. Her mother's hand squeezed hers gently, offering a fleeting moment of comfort in the face of her overwhelming anxiety.
"Mother" y/n whispered, her voice trembling. "What if I can't do this? I-I’m scared"
Her mother turned to her, eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. "Oh, my dear, I know it seems daunting. But you have a strength within you that you may not yet realize. You have always been resilient."
Tears welled up in y/n's eyes. "I feel so far from home. Everything here is so cold, so harsh."
Her mother reached up, brushing a tear from
y/n's cheek. "I know, darling. Highgarden's warmth and beauty are hard to leave behind. But you must remember, you have the ability to adapt and thrive. This place will feel like home in time."
Y/n nodded, trying to take comfort in her mother's words, but the knot in her stomach remained tight. "And what of Father? He seems so determined, but... he never cares for how I feel."
Her mother's expression darkened momentarily before she masked it with a gentle smile. "don't let him weigh you down. Focus on yourself and your own strength. You are here to build a new life, and I believe in you."
The carriage door opened, and the cold air rushed in, a stark reminder of the world awaiting her. Her father was already engaged in conversation with Lord Rickon Stark, their voices carrying a tone of formality and mutual respect.
"It's time" her mother said softly, giving y/n's hand one last reassuring squeeze. "Show them the grace and strength you possess. You are more than capable y/n."
With a deep breath, y/n steeled herself and stepped out of the carriage. The cold air bit at her skin, but she walked forward, her mother following closely behind.
Y/n's mother nudged her gently, drawing her attention away from the imposing figure of Lord Rickon. "Y/n, dear" she whispered, "Lord Cregan is approaching you."
Y/n's heart skipped a beat as she turned to see Cregan making his way towards her. He was even taller and more formidable than she remembered, his broad shoulders and strong build making him appear larger than life. She stiffened, her body tensing with apprehension.
Cregan's eyes, a deep and thoughtful blue, met hers as he stopped before her. He could see the trepidation in her gaze, the way her hands clutched the folds of her cloak. Despite the fear evident in her demeanor, she managed to muster a polite greeting.
"Lord Cregan" she said, her voice steady but tinged with a slight tremor. "It is an honor to be here."
Cregan offered a warm smile, though he felt a pang of hurt and self-consciousness at the sight of her fear. He noticed the redness around her eyes, the telltale signs that she had been crying. The realization made his heart ache—she was far from home, surrounded by strangers, and faced with the daunting prospect of marrying him, a man she barely remembered.
"Lady y/n" he responded, his voice gentle. "The honor is mine. Welcome to Winterfell."
Y/n nodded, her posture rigid. "Thank you, my lord."
He could see her struggling to maintain her composure, her attempts to be polite masking the underlying fear and uncertainty. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that she was safe here with him, but he knew his words might not carry much weight given the circumstances.
"Ye must be tired from yer journey" Cregan said, trying to ease the tension. "I hope the accommodations we’ve prepared for ye are to yer liking."
She glanced around, her eyes briefly meeting his before darting away. "I'm sure they will be, my lord. Thank you."
Cregan's heart softened at her evident discomfort. He could only imagine how overwhelming this experience must be for her—leaving the warmth and familiarity of Highgarden for the cold and formidable North, betrothed to an intimidating stranger.
"Please, if there is anything ye need, do not hesitate to ask," he added, his tone earnest. "I want ye to feel at home here."
Y/N nodded again, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Lord Cregan."
As the formalities continued, Cregan remained by her side, acutely aware of her apprehension. He could see the way she shivered slightly in the cold, her delicate frame dwarfed by the heavy cloak she wore. The vulnerability in her eyes struck a chord within him, igniting a protective instinct he hadn’t anticipated.
He knew it would take time for her to adjust, to feel comfortable in this new and unfamiliar place. And while her fear and anxiety might hurt him, he understood the reasons behind them. She was far from home, thrust into a situation beyond her control, and he was determined to show her that she had nothing to fear.
As the crowd began to disperse, Cregan leaned in slightly, his voice low and sincere. "I hope ye will come to find Winterfell as welcoming as Highgarden, Lady y/n. We Northerners may seem cold, but we are loyal and true. Ye have my word on that."
Y/n looked up at him, her eyes searching his for a moment before she nodded, a hint of hope mingling with her fear. "…I will do my best."
He smiled softly, hoping to convey his sincerity. "And I will do my best to make this place a home for ye."
With that, they parted, y/n retreating to her quarters with her mother while Cregan watched her go, a mix of emotions churning within him. He was determined to prove himself to her, to show her that beneath his intimidating exterior lay a heart of gold capable of warmth and compassion.
The day of the wedding arrived, casting a serene hush over Winterfell. The godswood was adorned for the occasion, the ancient weirwood standing sentinel over the ceremony, its pale bark and blood-red leaves seeming to echo the gravity of the moment.
In her chambers, y/n adjusted her maiden’s cloak for the final time. The rich green of House Tyrell’s sigil contrasted sharply with the snowy landscape visible through the window. Her father, though distant and stern, was prepared to escort her. As they approached the godswood, y/n’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on her.
Her father’s expression was somber, but he offered her a curt nod, signaling it was time. Together, they walked through the snow, the crunching of their footsteps the only sound breaking the silence. The guests had gathered, their breaths visible in the chill air, and they fell into a hushed reverence as y/n and her father approached the heart tree.
Cregan waited beneath the weirwood, his eyes fixed on the approaching bride. As she neared, his breath caught slightly, a mixture of awe and anticipation in his gaze. The grandeur of y/n’s beauty was amplified by the solemnity of the godswood, her presence seeming almost ethereal in the fading light.
When they reached the base of the tree, Cregan’s voice rang out clearly, cutting through the stillness. “Who comes? Who comes before the gods?”
Y/n’s father’s voice was steady as he replied,
“Y/n of House Tyrell comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”
Cregan’s response was filled with a fervent resolve. “Me, Cregan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. I claim her. Who gives her?”
Y/n’s father turned to her, his voice formal but lacking warmth. “I, Henry of House Tyrell, her father, gives her.”
He then addressed y/n, his tone clipped. “Lady y/n, will you take this man?”
Y/n’s voice trembled slightly but was resolute. “I take this man.”
With the formalities completed, Cregan and y/n joined hands and knelt before the weirwood. They bowed their heads, submitting to the gods in silent prayer. The moment was charged with a profound intimacy, the ancient tree bearing witness to their vows.
After a few moments, Cregan gently removed
y/n’s maiden’s cloak, revealing the intricate embroidery of House Tyrell on her dress. With great care, he draped over her shoulders a new cloak—the sigil of House Stark now displayed proudly.
The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers ringing out as Cregan and y/n stood together. The ceremony was complete, the ancient bond of the godswood now symbolizing the beginning of their shared life.
As they walked back towards the castle, Cregan stole glances at y/n, his admiration and anticipation palpable. Despite the harshness of Winterfell’s climate and the gravity of their new life, the day had marked a hopeful new chapter for both of them.
Y/n's heart pounded as Cregan guided her through the cold, imposing corridors of Winterfell. The castle's heavy stone walls seemed to close in on her, amplifying her sense of isolation. Cregan's presence beside her was both comforting and intimidating, she couldn’t shake the fear that gripped her heart.
They arrived at Cregan's chambers, where a warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft, inviting glow. He gestured for her to enter first, and after a brief hesitation, she stepped inside.
"Please, make yerself comfortable," Cregan said, closing the door behind them. His northern accent was thick, adding a rugged charm to his words. "Would ye like somethin' to drink? A bit o' wine, mayhaps, to help ye warm up?"
Y/n nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, thank you."
Cregan poured a glass of wine and handed it to her, his gaze lingering on her as she took a small sip. He could see the tension in her posture and wanted to ease her fears, to show her that he was not the monster she imagined.
"Y/n," he began, his voice low and earnest, the thick accent wrapping each word in a soft embrace, "I know this must be overwhelmin'. I want ye to know that I understand yer fears, and I swear I’ll do everythin' in me power to make ye feel safe and cherished here."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. "Thank you, my lord," she said, her voice quivering. "I… I don't know what to expect."
Cregan took a step closer, his gaze filled with a yearning that spoke of deep emotion. "Ye can call me Cregan" he said, the warmth in his northern accent making his words even more poignant. "And I need ye to hear me now, for it’s somethin’ I’ve carried with me for years. From the moment I first beheld ye, me heart was forever altered."
Y/n's breath hitched, her eyes searching his face for the truth behind his words. Cregan's expression was tender, his gaze reflecting a vulnerability she hadn’t expected. He took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to bare his soul.
"I remember the first time I saw ye in the gardens of Highgarden," he said softly, his voice weaving a tapestry of emotion. "I was just a lad, new to the beauty of the south. Everythin’ around me was lush and vibrant, but when I saw ye, it was as if my world fell apart. Ye were like a vision of ethereal grace amidst the greenery. The flowers and the trees—they seemed mere shadows compared to ye. In that moment, it was clear that ye were the true beauty of the garden."
Y/n's eyes widened, and a flush of color spread across her cheeks. She could hardly breathe as she processed his confession. "Since then?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Cregan nodded, his gaze steady and full of longing. "Aye, since then. Ye were a beacon of light in me life, and that memory has lingered, burnin’ bright in me heart. I’ve longed to be near ye, not merely for the sake of duty, but because ye’ve ensnared my heart in a way no one else ever could."
Her heart fluttered wildly at his words, the warmth of the fire mingling with the warmth of his confession. She had always felt like a pawn in her father’s game, never imagining that someone like Cregan could see her so profoundly.
"I didn’t know" she said softly, her voice catching in her throat. "I thought... I thought you would be distant and cold."
Cregan's smile widened, his eyes soft with pure affection. "Aye the North may be cold, but my heart is only filled with warmth for ye. I want ye to see the real me, to know that I am here for ye with all that I am."
She looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of sincerity and yearning that shifted her perception. Perhaps this marriage could be more than a mere alliance. Maybe it could be the beginning of something profoundly beautiful.
"Thank you, Cregan…." she whispered, feeling a newfound sense of calm and hope. "I... I want to try."
Cregan’s smile was full of warmth and relief. "Tha’s all I ask, Y/n. We’ll take this one step at a time, together."
As they stood there, hand in hand, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, Y/n felt a spark of hope ignite in her heart, seeing Cregan in a new light.
Cregan's eyes never left Y/n's as he took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted this moment to be perfect, to reassure her of his intentions.
"Y/n" he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "may I kiss ye?"
Y/n's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing scarlet. She hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, Cregan. You may."
Cregan moved closer, his hand gently cupping her cheeks as he leaned in. He pressed his lips to hers in a soft tender, almost hesitant kiss, his touch gentle and reassuring. Y/n responded, her initial nervousness melting away as she felt the warmth and sincerity in his kiss.
When he pulled back, he looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort. Seeing none, he smiled softly. "Ye're so beautiful, Y/n."
She blushed again, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Cregan."
He took her hand, leading her to the bed. As they stood beside it, he gently picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Y/n gasped softly, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carried her. He laid her down on the bed with the utmost care, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Cregan's gaze remained locked on Y/n’s face, his eyes filled with a deep, reverent admiration. He lowered himself beside her on the bed, his hand still cupping her cheek. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “I can’t believe yer finally mine. My wife.”
Y/n’s heart fluttered at the sincerity in his voice. The way he looked at her made her feel cherished, his admiration lighting a fire within her. Her apprehension melted away as she reached up, cupping his face in return. “And I’m grateful to be yours, Cregan.”
Their lips met again, this time with more fervor. The kiss deepened as Cregan’s hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. Y/n’s hands roamed over his shoulders, pulling him into the kiss with equal intensity. The warmth of his touch, combined with the gentle urgency of their embrace, made her feel as if she was floating.
Cregan’s breath mingled with hers as he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve wanted this so much” he whispered. “I’ve wanted ye.”
Y/n’s eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze and the sincerity of his words. She felt a new, desperate longing surge within her, her body responding to his touch with an eagerness she hadn’t expected. “Please, Cregan” she breathed out, her voice trembling with emotion.
Their lips met again, each kiss more passionate than the last. The world outside seemed to fade away as they lost themselves in the moment, their breaths coming in sync as their yearning for each other deepened with every touch.
Cregan's kisses grew more intense, his touch transforming from gentle caresses to an urgent, burning desire. He pulled back just enough to look into Y/n's eyes, his own dark with passion. "I want to see all of ye, to feel ye" he said softly, his voice rough with need.
With deliberate care, he started to undress, his movements slow and deliberate. He tossed his cloak aside, revealing his strong muscular frame. Y/n's breath caught in her throat as she watched him, his hardened form visible through his small clothes, making her heart race with a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement.
Cregan's hands moved to his shirt, sliding it off with a practiced ease. His gaze remained locked on Y/n as he undressed, his eyes filled with a burning intensity. His hands lingered on the waistband of his smallclothes, his hardness evident and stirring a deep, aching longing within Y/n.
When he was finally freed his cock, Cregan approached Y/n with a tender but determined expression. He reached for her cloak, slipping it off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His fingers moved deftly to her dress, his touch gentle but purposeful as he began to unlace it.
The fabric fell away, revealing her bare chest to his gaze. Cregan's breath caught at the sight, his eyes roaming over her exposed skin with a mixture of reverence and desire.
"Ye're stunning," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "I want to cherish every part of ye."
Yn's skin tingled under his gaze, her heart pounding as she felt both exposed and cherished.
Cregan's hands continued their exploration, his touch both reverent and possessive. He leaned in to kiss her again, his lips trailing hot, desperate kisses across her neck and shoulders.
His hands roamed over her bare skin, his touch igniting a fierce desire within her. She gasped, her body arching into his touch, as he pressed her into the bed with a controlled but eager force. His kisses became more fervent, his hands gripping her waist as he explored her body with a possessive urgency.
"I've longed for this moment" Cregan said between kisses, his voice rough with need.
Yn responded with equal fervor, her hands gripping his shoulders as she kissed him back with a desperate passion. "Show me, Cregan" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Show me how much you want me."
The room was filled with the sounds of their mingled breaths and wet sloppy kisses as they lost themselves in the moment. Cregan's touch was a blend of tenderness and raw desire, each movement and kiss building a profound connection that left them both breathless and yearning for more.
As the kiss deepened, Cregan's touch grew more urgent, his hands roaming over Y/n's body with increasing desperation. His kisses, once tender and exploratory, became more demanding, his breaths ragged as he tried to control his growing desire. Yet, despite the intensity of their embrace, Cregan seemed to hold back, his movements tinged with an inner struggle to remain gentle.
Y/n could sense his restraint and the tension in his body. She was overwhelmed by the fire burning within her, her own desire driving her to push past his tentative touches.
"Cregan" she gasped between kisses, her voice trembling with need. "I want you. I want you to claim me fully."
Cregan's breath hitched, his eyes dark with a mix of surprise and longing. "Y/n... I-I don't want to hurt ye" he murmured, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure, he promised himself that he would be gentle, only touching her as if she were made of the most delicate glass and now he’d already been more rough than he intended.
But Y/n's voice was resolute, her gaze fixed on him with a desperate intensity. "No, Cregan. I want you to make me yours completely.” She whined, but she saw the look on his eyes he wouldn’t relent unless she pushed him towards his breaking point. “I want you to fuck a baby into me. I need you ple—“
Cregan didn't let you finish. His lips crashed against yours in a kiss that ignited a wildfire within. He held your face tenderly yet firmly, his touch a lifeline as you clung to him, desperate for more. His tongue explored the depths of your mouth, tasting every inch with a hunger that bordered on feral.
The clash of your teeth, the fervor of your kiss, it was a battle, a dance of dominance that you were willing to lose.
Cregan's tongue delved deeper, drawing a breathless moan from you. His scent enveloped you, intoxicating and heady, making your knees buckle with longing. It was as if the tether to your senses was fraying, leaving you to melt into a molten pool beneath his commanding presence.
The heat coursing through your body was a familiar sensation, yet it had never burned this intensely. It surged through you, tightening your nipples and pooling between your thighs, setting every nerve aflame.
Lost in the haze of his searing kisses, you scarcely noticed when he eased your back farther onto the bed, his body a solid, protective weight above you. Your eyes met, a silent conflagration passing between you, before he claimed your lips again with a gentler fervor, the same intensity simmering beneath the surface.
"Do you truly want this? With me?" Cregan's voice was a hushed murmur against your lips, a plea and a promise intertwined.
"Yes, husband" you breathed, the words a vow of your own.
His lips brushed your ear, his breath a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers cascading down your spine. "I am going to make love to ye now."
Your nipples hardened at his words, a raw moan of anticipation escaping your lips as he took in your form, the vulnerable softness of your skin a feast for his hungry gaze.
Cregan lowered his head, his lips tracing a path of fire down your neck, over your collarbone, each kiss a desperate silent vow. His hands followed, exploring, caressing, leaving no inch of you untouched.
"Yer exquisite" he murmured, his voice a reverent whisper against your skin. His touch was a balance of possession and adoration, a worship that left you breathless.
The cool air kissed your overheated skin as he continued to explore you, Every touch, every kiss, was a symphony of sensations, a crescendo of passion that left you aching for more.
his eyes drinking in the sight of you, slowly consumed with lust for him, with a reverence that made your heart stutter. "My wife" he whispered, the words a sacred incantation.
Cregan leaned in, capturing your lips once more in a kiss that was both fierce and possessive. His hands roamed your body with a fervent curiosity, memorizing every curve, every dip, leaving a trail of molten fire in their wake.
Your body responded to him, arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.
His kisses grew more insistent, his touch more demanding, as he made his way down your body. He worshipped you with every kiss, every caress, until you were trembling with need beneath him.
"Cregan," you breathed, your voice a soft plea.
His eyes met yours, dark and intense. "I'm here, Y/n" he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "I'm here."
Cregan's gaze was fixed on your taut, aching nipples. He wasted no time, his heated mouth enveloping one of your tight, sensitive peaks. You gasped as your back arched in response, the initial shock of his touch quickly melting into a rhythm of pleasure.
Each time his cheeks hollowed as he suckled, your gasps turned to desperate pants, while his fingers teased the other abandoned nipple, pulling and twisting it gently.
Cregan's mouth pulling harder on your nipple, his tongue lavishing attention on the delicate bud. Every flick of his tongue sent waves of sensation through you, stirring a throbbing need between your legs.
The pulsing ache demanded more, and your hand, almost involuntarily, slipped between your thighs. The damp evidence of your desire left you breathless and mortified.
"Show me yer hand" Cregan's voice rumbled, his tone firm.
"It's... it's embarrassing-"
Without hesitation, Cregan parted your thighs and deftly removed your small clothes, leaving you exposed before him. His gaze settled on your glistening core, and a satisfied smile tugged at his lips.
"C-cregan!"
"Y/n" he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a mix of adoration and hunger.
"Ye've got the prettiest little cunt."
his words made your entire face burn and turn a dark crimson. The raw honesty in his voice left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.
“D-don’t look so closely!”
Without wasting another moment, he lowered his head between your thighs, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh.
your body trembling with need. When his tongue finally made contact, a moan escaped your lips, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you.
Cregan's tongue moved with practiced skill, each stroke and flick sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. His lips latched onto your clit, sucking gently before releasing it with a soft pop, only to dive back in with renewed fervor.
The lewd slurping sounds filled the room, mixing with your breathless moans and the crackling of the fire.
Your thighs quivered, the sensation of his mouth on you pushing you closer to the edge. "Cregan" you gasped loudly, your voice shaking. "Please, don't stop."
He didn't need to be told twice. His tongue delved deeper, exploring every inch of your soaking wet cunt, his fingers joining in to tease and caress. The combined sensations were overwhelming, your body arching off the bed as you rode the waves of pleasure.
When you finally came, it was with a cry of his name, your body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you. Cregan didn't relent though, his tongue continuing its relentless assault, lapping up your juices with a moan, prolonging your climax until you were a trembling, breathless mess.
Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark with desire.
He moved up your body, his hands bracing on either side of your head as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.
You could taste yourself on his lips, the intimate act deepening the connection between you.
But it still wasn’t enough for you, gathering your courage, you whispered, "Cregan?"
His eyes opened, soft and warm as they met yours. "Aye, love?"
You bit your lip, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks. "Can I... can I touch you?"
A spark of interest flared in his eyes, and he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. "Touch me? Where?" He said teasingly.
You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to where his cock lay, painfully hard and twitching. "There" you whined softly, reaching out tentatively.
Cregan's lips curved upwards. "Aye, love. Ye can touch me."
Your hand wrapped around his shaft, the heat of him searing your palm. You marveled at the feel of his skin, so smooth and yet so firm beneath your touch. Cregan's breath hitched, his muscles tensing as you explored him.
"Like this?" you asked, looking up at him for guidance.
He nodded, his voice rough with restraint.
"Aye, just like that. A bit firmer, love."
You tightened your grip slightly, your hand moving up and down his length in slow, deliberate strokes. The sight of him, so vulnerable and exposed, filled you with a heady sense of power and intimacy.
Cregan's hand covered yours, guiding your movements. "Tha's it, love. Yer doin' so well" he moaned, his voice laced with praise and pleasure.
As you continued to stroke him, you noticed a bead of precum forming at the tip. The sight of it, glistening and inviting, sparked a boldness within you. You couldn’t help yourself, you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick it away. Cregan groaned loudly, his hips bucking
involuntarily at the sensation.
"Fuck! Y/n" he gasped, his hand tightening around yours.
"Do that again."
You obliged, your tongue swirling around the thick head of his cock, tasting the salty essence of him. The act felt both daring and incredibly arousing, each lick eliciting a new sound of pleasure from Cregan.
Encouraged by his response, you took him deeper into your mouth, your lips closing around his shaft as you began to bob your head.
You were still unaccustomed to his size though, what you couldn’t fit in your mouth you stroked with your hand.
Cregan's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you pleasured him.
"Ye're so fuckin’ good to me, love" he groaned, his voice thick with need. "So perfect."
The praise spurred you on, your pace quickening as you took him deeper, your hand stroking the base of his cock in time with your movements. Cregan's breaths grew ragged, his body tense with the effort to hold back.
When he finally came, it was with a guttural moan, his release bursting in your mouth.
You swallowed eagerly, wanting to take all of him, to show him the same pleasure he had given you.
As you pulled back, you looked up at him, your eyes wide and full of adoration.
Cregan's chest heaved, his eyes glazed with satisfaction as he pulled you into his arms, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss.
But the night was far from over and the hunger in his eyes told you he was far from satisfied. You felt a renewed wave of desire wash over you, your body eager for more of him.
"Are ye ready for more, love?" he asked, his voice husky with desire. His hand trailed down your body, caressing your breasts and waist, finally coming to rest between your legs.
His fingers teased your wetness, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Yer so wet for me."
You nodded, your breath hitching as he continued to stroke you. "Yes, Cregan. I want you. I want you to take me."
His eyes darkened with a primal need, and he positioned himself between your legs, spreading them wide. "I'll be gentle at first, love," he promised, guiding his cock to your entrance.
"But I won't be able to hold back for long."
You felt the tip of his cock pressing against you, and your heart raced with anticipation.
He pushed forward slowly, entering you with a smooth, deliberate motion. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and painful sting as he stretched you to accommodate his large size.
Cregan's eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with love and desire. "Yer so tight, love. So perfect" he groaned, pushing deeper until he was fully seated inside you.
The feeling of being completely filled by him was indescribable, a blend of fullness and heat that made you gasp. "Cregan," you moaned, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
He began to move, his thrusts slow and gentle at first, allowing you to adjust to the sensation. But as your moans grew louder and your hips began to move in time with his, his restraint faltered. His pace quickened, each thrust deeper and harder than the last.
"You feel so good, Y/n," he growled, his voice rough with need. "I can't hold back any longer."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he pounded into you.
The force of his thrusts drove you higher, making the bed hit the walls roughly, a testament to how greedily he was fucking into you.
Cregan shifted his position, lifting your legs higher and pressing them against your chest. The new angle allowed him to penetrate you even deeper, and you screamed his name as he took you harder.
"That's it, love. Take all of my cock," he urged, his eyes locked on your face, watching your every reaction.
The pressure built within you, the pleasure mounting to an unbearable peak. With a final, powerful thrust, you shattered, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your body convulsed around him, gripping his cock as he continued to drive into you.
Cregan was relentless, his own release building. He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling you onto your hands and knees. He entered you from behind, his hands gripping your hips as he pounded into you with abandon.
"Fuck, Y/n" he groaned, his voice a rough whisper. "I'm gonna fill ye up. Every last drop."
Cregan's movements became more erratic as he neared his release, his breathing heavy and labored. You could feel the tension building within him, every muscle in his body coiling tighter and tighter. His thrusts grew deeper, more powerful, and you knew he was close.
With a final, powerful thrust, Cregan's hips stilled, pressing deep inside you. His entire body tensed, and he let out a loud, guttural groan, his face contorted in pleasure. You could feel the hot rush of his cum filling you, pulse after pulse, more than you had ever imagined. The sheer volume of it overwhelmed you, a torrent of heat flooding your insides.
"Fuck, Y/n," he groaned, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Take all of it. Every last drop."
He held himself inside you for a moment longer, his cock throbbing with each spurt of cum. Then, slowly, he began to pull out, the sensation almost too much to bear. As he withdrew, you felt a gush of his cum ooze out of you, warm and thick.
Cregan watched, mesmerized, as his release leaked from your entrance. The sight seemed to ignite something primal in him, and he quickly brought his fingers to your dripping core. He gently pushed two fingers inside you, making sure to plug the flow.
"Can't let it go to waste" he murmured, his voice a mix of possessiveness and tenderness. "Want every drop to stay inside ye."
His fingers moved within you, ensuring his cum was thoroughly spread.
You felt another wave of pleasure as he gently massaged your sensitive walls, the sensation of being so full and claimed by him overwhelming you. Cregan leaned down, kissing the small of your back, his breath warm against your skin. "Yer mine, Y/n. All mine," he whispered, his fingers still inside you, holding his seed in place.
You lay there, breathless and trembling, feeling utterly claimed and cherished by him.
Cregan slowly withdrew his fingers, ensuring that every drop of his cum remained inside you. He gently flipped you onto your back, his eyes filled with an intensity that made your heart race.
As he settled beside you, his strong arms wrapped around your body, pulling you close. His warmth enveloped you, a comforting contrast to the cool air of the room.
He pressed his lips to your forehead, a tender kiss that lingered. Then, he moved to your cheeks, planting soft, loving kisses on each one. His lips brushed your nose, and then he found your lips, kissing you with a gentleness that was almost reverent.
"Y/n" he murmured between kisses, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm so glad ye're mine."
You felt a swell of affection in your chest, the sweetness of his words and the tenderness of his touch filling you with a profound sense of belonging. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as he continued to kiss you.
Cregan's kisses were endless, each one a declaration of his love and devotion. He kissed your eyelids, your temples, your jawline, and your chin, his lips exploring every inch of your face with a loving intensity that made you feel cherished beyond measure.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "So perfect. I want to spend every moment of our lives together, showing ye how much I adore ye."
He held you tighter, his hands stroking your hair, your back, your sides. His touch was soothing, a balm to your still-racing heart.
The rough, demanding lover from moments ago was now a gentle giant, cradling you in his arms with infinite care.
Cregan pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Are ye alright, love?" he asked, his voice soft with concern. "Did I hurt ye?"
You shook your head, smiling up at him. "No, Cregan. You were perfect. I'm more than alright."
His expression softened even further, a look of relief washing over his face. "Good," he whispered, pressing another kiss to your lips. "I'll always take care of ye, Y/n. Always."
You nestled closer to him, resting your head on his broad chest. The rhythmic beat of his heart was a comforting lullaby, and you felt a deep sense of contentment wash over you.
A red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground with no one around to see it. The thought lingered in your mind, a symbol of the unexpected beauty and love that had blossomed between you.
Cregan continued to kiss you, his lips never straying far from your skin, as he held you in a protective, loving embrace.
In that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. Cregan's sweet, endless kisses and his tender words were a promise of a future filled with love, passion, and unwavering devotion.
Summary - When he's between your thighs, Harwin doesn't need to die in order to reach the seven heavens.
Warnings - Established relationship, Cunnilingus, Fingering, PnV, Unprotected Sex, Harwin is down bad
Word Count - 390
There's nothing that makes Harwin happier than when he's got his head buried between your thighs. To him this is what the septa he had while growing up was talking about. To him this is one of, if not all, seven heavens.
He loves everything about it. The way your fingers thread into his hair and tug and pull as he descends on you. The way your moans start out as breathy, but quickly build in volume as your thighs squeeze the sides of his head and you writhe beneath him, hips moving as you grind yourself against his face, begging him for more. There's also something about the way that you taste and smell. It drives him almost mad, his cock getting harder faster than he ever thought possible.
It only gets better when he starts pushing his fingers inside of you. Your needy, greedy cunt immediately squeezing around them, trying to keep them from leaving you as he presses his calloused fingertips against that sweet spot that has you seeing the seven heavens and starts to move them.
Harwin doesn't stop at one orgasm either. There's no time to recover as he keeps up his worship of your body. Tongue continuously lapping at your sensitive and engorged clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you, slow at first then picking up their pace before slowing back down. You can't help, but sing him praises, to the point that he's almost sure it's echoing well beyond your bedchambers and throughout the Red Keep. He makes no attempt to stop you. Let them all hear you, let them all know he's the one that gets to have you like this.
By the time he does finally pull away, his beard is soaked and dripping with your slick, his pupils blown wide as his cock aches with the need of being buried deep inside of your cunt. And you welcome him, gladly, sitting up and kissing him. Harwin's moan is borderline needy when he finally enters you, sliding in easily and bottoming out, while you gasp his name, your nails digging into his back.
And when you come again? When your body squeezes and milks him for everything he has to offer you? In that moment Harwin figures that none of the seven heavens could ever come close to this.
Cregan Stark is a man that eats his wife out like it’s his last meal. He wishes to die smothered inside his wife’s sweet cunt and lap at her folds until his last breath. A stern Lord who simply wishes to bring pleasure to his wife at all times, whenever and wherever possible. He didn’t think he’d like it at first, and then he witnessed just how sweetly his girl reacted to his tongue. Her hips rolling against his face, her thighs clenching around his head and she squeezes the life out of him. He’d especially love when he feels the sharp stinging sensation of his hair being pulled. Each tug on the strands pushes him further into her cunt, laving away uncontrollably. For Cregan literally the sloppier and messier the better. Cregan probably gets so lost in the act that even once his wife cums on his tongue he’s still going, only stopping as he feels hands pushing harshly at his skull. He’s made his precious girl so oversensitive that with every exhale of his hot breath, she’s flinching away from his mouth. Cregan just smiles, pleased at his efforts. His wife never complains either, instead, quite the opposite.
I feel like raymun will say you guys shouldn't do anything before marriage but he CANNOT stick to it. Like he'll be all "yes baby we shouldn't do anything yet it's a bad idea" then two hours later he's asking if he can just eat you out reaaaally quick and then after that no more sex he promises!
I also think if you really didn't want to have sex he'd be quite happy if you just pulled down your top and let him work himself off- WHO SAID THAT OMG
oh literally, he tries to be so suave and gentlemanly
“I won’t dishonour your purity before I take you to wife.”
and all that bollocks.
but then that very same night he’s four or five ciders deep and stumbling around the castle trying to find you with a drunken smile on his face.
you’re just minding your own business reading before bed when the knocking starts.
“are you awake, love?”
you can hear from his voice that raymun’s drunk, the way he’s slurring his speech ever so slightly and the way his words hold just a little tinge of mischief to them.
when you open the door and he finally see’s you standing before him, he’s just humming so happily and taking you into his arms as he shuts the door behind him.
“raymun.. you shouldn’t be in here..” you’d say, trying to pat his head of curls while he tucks his face into the crook of your neck.
“mm, missed you..” is all he mutters, just as his hands rest on your hips and slide down to give your arse a firm squeeze.
he’s already laying soft kisses over your neck and you’re just sighing softly and shutting your eyes before logic hits you and you push at his chest softly and turn around to take a few steps away towards the small table in your chambers.
“we can’t…”
and he’s just groaning and complaining like a grumpy toddler.
“please love..” he groans, wrapping his arms around you from behind and grinding his length against your ass.
“can’t you feel how hard my cock is for you..?”
and gods above, you can.
he’s gripping the thin fabric of your nightgown, pulling it up to your hips and letting his hand run down your stomach before disappearing between your legs.
he runs his fingers through your folds, feeling how slick you are already and he just sighs into your neck.
“just let me taste you at least, love…”
you’re already moaning softly while he rubs small circles over your clit, feeling your back arch as your ass pressed harder against his clothed cock.
turning around in his arms, he smiles so sweetly at you, it’s practically impossible to say no.
without a word, you lift yourself onto the table and he grins as he realises what you’re doing, lowering down to his knees and gripping your thighs.
pulling your dress back to reveal your glistening cunt, raymun lets out a groan from the back of his throat, only sparing a few quick kisses along your inner thighs before he’s burying his head between your thighs.
he’s impatient, you can tell by the way his tongue licks a long stripe of your slit, the way he’s flicking his tongue over your clit while he starts to push his fingers inside of you.
this isn’t the first time by any means, not the first time raymun’s begged to taste you, the only thing he hasn’t done yet is actually fuck you, and yet everything else seems to be well and truly on the table.
each time it happens, he says it’s going to be the last before you’re finally married, but it never is.
whether it’s letting your hand slip down his pants as he moans against your shoulder or taking his cock in your mouth and swallowing every drop of cum he gives you, it’s never the last time.
his cheeks are flushed and he’s moaning, the sloppy noises emitting from between your legs more than a testament to how desperate he was for your cunt.
“i’m not going to last long, love..” he groans.
you nod in understanding, though you can’t form any words as he continues to lap at your pussy.
he’s taken his cock out his pants, fucking his fist quickly and desperately as he eats your pussy, just the taste of you alone paired with your soft moans of his name, it’s enough to have him nearing his peak quickly.
when he stops, you look across as him with a disappointed whine, but you watch him stand up quickly, continuing to pump his cock fiercely, resting one of his hands on the underside of your thigh as he pants.
within seconds, he’s stilling his hips and letting out a deep moan, his cock twitching before it lets out multiple spurts of cum, letting them fall onto your pussy and inner thighs.
he rides out his orgasm, his head tipping back as he shuts his eyes and his mouth falls open, his adam’s apple bobbing as he chokes out strained moans of your name.
Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep.
a/n: Reader is Daemon's daughter but it's not indicated from which marriage, take your pick.
The sea was grey that morning, mirroring the stone of Dragonstone itself. You stood at the window of your chamber, a heavy tome resting against your chest, its pages filled with script so old the ink had begun to flake away like dried blood. Below, the waves crashed against the volcanic rock, and high above, the clouds swirled in a slow, mournful dance. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for a death that had not yet come.
Jacaerys had been lying in the maester's chamber for eight days.
You had counted each one. Eight days since Baela had landed Moondancer on the cliffs, screaming for help, her face streaked with salt and soot and grief. Eight days since they had carried his body, his body, not him, you had refused to think of it as him, from the dragon's back, wrapped in a cloak soaked through with seawater and blood. The Battle of the Gullet had been a victory, they said, but it did not feel like one. It felt like the world had been cracked open, and all the light was spilling out.
You remembered the sight of him when they brought him in. His face had been so pale it was nearly grey, his lips bloodless, his dark hair matted with salt and gore. Three arrows had struck him. One in the shoulder, one in the side, and the third, the one that made the maesters exchange those terrible, silent looks, lodged in his neck, just above the collarbone, so close to the great vessels that carried life through the body that even the most experienced of them had hesitated before touching it.
He had not drowned, they said, because he had been found clinging to a piece of driftwood, his fingers locked around it so tightly they had to pry them loose. Vermax had not been so fortunate. The young dragon had crashed into the waves, pierced by bolts and arrows, and the sea had taken him. Jace would have felt that, you knew. Even bleeding out into the water, he would have felt his dragon die.
You had not wept when they told you. You had stood very still, your hands clasped in front of you, and you had listened, and then you had gone to your chamber and opened the oldest book you possessed and begun to read.
Now, eight days later, you had read everything. Every scrap of text, every fragment of lore, every whispered rumor that had ever been committed to parchment about the old Valyrian ways. You had read until your eyes burned and your head ached and the words blurred together like blood in water. And you had found something.
The accounts of King Maegor the Cruel were not pleasant reading. His reign was a litany of atrocities, his name a curse upon the lips of even the most loyal Targaryen historians. But buried within the chronicles of his brutality was a single, strange thread: the story of his survival after the Trial of Seven. Maegor had fallen in combat, struck down by blows that should have killed him. He had lain insensible for nearly a moon's turn, his wounds festering, his body failing. The maesters had given him up for dead. And then, somehow, he had risen. He had opened his eyes, and he had stood, and he had walked out of that sickroom with a fury that would consume the realm.
The official histories attributed this to the will of the gods or the strength of his dragon blood, but you had found other writings. Theories scrawled in the margins of old texts, penned by maesters too afraid to speak openly. They pointed to Tyanna of Pentos, Maegor's wife. She had been rumored to practice dark arts, blood magic, the forbidden sorceries of the East. And there were those who believed that when Maegor lay dying, Tyanna had not healed him. She had remade him. She had poured life into him through sacrifice, through the transfer of vital essence, through a ritual that bound flesh to will and pulled a soul back from the abyss. Some texts even dared to name what he had become: a fire wight, a creature of flame, animated not by the natural processes of the body but by the burning power of blood and magic.
It was, the most cautious of the writers had noted, remarkably similar to the tales told by the red priests of R'hllor in far-off Asshai and Volantis. Their god could raise the dead, they claimed, could breathe fire back into cold lungs and set hearts beating again. But the price was always blood. Always life. Always a piece of the one who performed the working.
You had closed that book with trembling hands and gone to find your father.
Daemon Targaryen had returned to Dragonstone three days prior, summoned by a raven from your stepmother. Rhaenyra had called him back from Harrenhal not to mourn, but to act. The war had paused for no grief, and the Queen needed her husband's fire and his ruthlessness and his terrible, unwavering certainty. You had watched him arrive on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm's crimson scales a slash of violent color against the grey sky, and you had seen the way his face had tightened when they told him about Jace.
Now, he stood in your chamber, the door closed behind him, turning the pages of your book with the same hands that had wielded Dark Sister for decades. His expression was unreadable.
"This is dangerous knowledge," he said at last. "Where did you find it?"
"Here," you said. "In the library. In the vaults below. Dragonstone is old, father." You swallowed hard. "Tyanna was not the only one who knew these rites. The Valyrians practiced blood magic for thousands of years. They used it to bind their dragons, to shape the very stone of their towers. This is just…another application."
Daemon looked at you, and for a moment you saw something flicker in his gaze. Pride, perhaps, or recognition. You were his daughter, after all, no matter which marriage had produced you. You had his blood in your veins, his fire, his refusal to accept the world as it was when you could bend it to your will instead.
"You want to do this for the boy," he said.
"He is my betrothed," you said, and your voice cracked on the word despite your best efforts. "He has been my betrothed since I was old enough to understand what the word meant. I was meant to marry him, father. I was meant to stand beside him when he took the throne. I was meant to…" You stopped, pressing your lips together, forcing the tears back. You would not weep. Not yet. Not while there was still something you could do.
Daemon was silent for a long moment. Then he closed the book and set it aside.
"The maesters believe he will die," he said. "They will not say it to Rhaenyra's face, they value their heads too much for that, but they have stopped trying to remove the arrow from his neck. They say it is too close to the artery. They say he has lost too much blood. They say even if he wakes, the wound will fester and poison him from within." His jaw tightened. "He is dying, daughter. Slowly but surely. If you do nothing, he will be dead anyway."
"Then I have to try," you said.
"Yes," Daemon agreed, and there was something almost gentle in his voice, something you had not heard from him in a very long time. "You do. And I will help you."
"Rhaenyra..."
"Rhaenyra must not know." Daemon's voice hardened. "She is already half-mad with grief. If she knew what we were attempting, she would forbid it. Or she would hope too much, and the disappointment would destroy her if you failed. No. This stays between us. I will stand guard outside the door. I will make certain no one disturbs you. Whatever you need, candles, herbs, a blade, I shall provide it. The rest is up to you."
You nodded, your heart beating so fast you could feel it in your throat. "Tonight," you said. "It has to be tonight. The maesters say the hour just before dawn is the most dangerous. If he survives until morning, it will be a miracle. I need to act before then."
Daemon reached out and put his firm hand on your shoulder. "You are my daughter," he said. "You have my blood. Whatever you need to do, do it without hesitation. Do it without doubt. The magic will know if your will wavers."
"I won't waver," you said.
He looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "I know you won't."
The hour was late when you made your way to the chamber where Jacaerys lay. The castle was quiet, the servants and guards moving through the corridors like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by the weight of impending tragedy. Everyone knew. Everyone was waiting. The heir to the heir, the bright young prince who had flown to the Gullet with fire in his heart, was slipping away, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Except you. You could do something. You would do something.
Daemon walked beside you, a silent shadow in black and red. When you reached the door to Jace's chamber, he stopped and turned to face you.
"I will be here," he said quietly. "No one will enter until you open this door from the inside. Take as long as you need."
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The room was dim, lit only by a single candle on the bedside table and the faint glow of the hearth fire. The windows were shuttered against the night air, and the scent of medicinal herbs hung thick in the air: poultices and tinctures and the smell of boiling wine used to cleanse wounds. But underneath it all was the smell of blood, old and new, and the sickly-sweet undertone of a body fighting a losing battle against death.
Jacaerys lay on the bed, and the sight of him made your heart clench like a fist.
He was so still. Jacaerys, who had always been in motion, always talking, always planning, always reaching for the next thing, lay utterly motionless beneath the furs. His face was ashen, his cheeks sunken, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His lips were cracked and dry, parted slightly, and his breathing was so shallow you had to watch his chest for a long moment to be sure it was still moving. The arrow had been removed from his shoulder and the one from his side had been cut out, the wounds stitched and bandaged. But the third arrow, the one in his neck, was still there. The maesters had cut the shaft short, leaving only a few inches protruding from the swollen, angry flesh, but they had not dared to remove the head. It was lodged against something vital, and any attempt to pull it free would tear the vessel and kill him in moments.
You stood beside the bed for a long time, just looking at him. Remembering.
You remembered the first time you had met him, when you were both children, before you understood what betrothal meant. He had been solemn and serious even then, trying so hard to be worthy of the inheritance that had fallen to him. You had thought him stuffy at first, too concerned with duty and honor to be any fun. But then he had smiled at you, a quick, surprised smile, and you had seen the boy beneath the prince, and something had shifted in your heart.
You remembered the day your dragon died. The Battle of Rook's Rest. The sky had been full of fire and screaming, and you had been on your dragon's back, trying to stay alive, trying to fight, trying to do something, anything, to help. And then Rhaenys had fallen. Meleys had plunged from the sky in a tangle of scarlet wings, and Vhagar had turned. The ancient she-dragon had fixed her terrible eyes on you, and Aemond's voice had echoed across the battlefield, shouting something you could not hear over the roar of wind and flame. He had wanted to take you, you learned later. A prize. A hostage. A trophy to hang on his wall. But your dragon had fled, faster than Vhagar could follow, and had carried you all the way back to Dragonstone before succumbing to her wounds. She had died on the beach, her great head resting on sand, her eyes fixed on you with an apology you could not bear to receive. You had held her until the light went out of her, and then you had stood and walked up to the castle and begun to plan how you would make the Greens pay.
Jace had held you that night. He had not said anything, there was nothing to say, but he had held you, and let you weep into his shoulder, and when you were finished he had kissed your forehead and told you that you were the bravest person he had ever met.
Now he was dying, and you were going to save him, no matter what it cost.
You set down the small bag you had brought with you and began to prepare. From the bag you drew a candle of black wax, a small silver knife, a bowl of beaten copper, and a roll of parchment covered in the symbols and words you had copied from the old texts. You arranged them on the floor beside the bed, your hands steady despite the trembling in your heart. Then you drew back the furs and looked at Jace's wounds.
The bandages on his shoulder and side were fresh, changed that evening by the maesters. But the wound in his neck was the one that mattered. You leaned close, examining it in the dim light. The flesh around the arrow shaft was red and swollen, hot to the touch even from inches away. The skin had begun to take on a greyish tinge at the edges, and when you inhaled carefully, you caught the faint, foul scent of corruption beginning to take hold. The maesters were right. If the arrow was not removed, the infection would spread. It would poison his blood, and he would die in fever and delirium. But if they tried to remove it, the arrowhead would tear the great vessel in his neck, and he would drown in his own blood in moments.
Unless you changed the rules.
You had studied the accounts of the Valyrian blood mages for years. You had devoured every scrap of knowledge you could find about the old sorceries, the fire magic that had raised the Freehold to its terrible glory. And you had learned that blood was the key. Blood was always the key. Blood was life, and life was power, and power, properly channeled, could reshape the world.
The ritual Tyanna of Pentos had used, or something very like it, was described in fragments throughout the texts you had found. It was not healing in the traditional sense. It was something older, darker and more profound. It was the transference of life force, the binding of spirit to flesh, the rekindling of the inner fire that kept the soul tethered to the body. The subject would not simply recover. They would be remade, their body repaired not by natural processes but by the direct application of magical will. And the cost would be paid in blood. Not Jace's blood. Yours.
You knelt beside the bed and lit the black candle. The flame burned with a strange, bluish light, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, growing heavy and still. You picked up the silver knife and positioned the copper bowl on the floor before you.
"I don't know if you can hear me," you said quietly, looking at Jace's still face. "But if you can…hold on. Just a little longer. I'm going to bring you back."
Then you set the blade against the inside of your left forearm and cut.
The pain was immediate. Blood welled up from the wound, you held your arm over the copper bowl, letting it drip down into the metal basin. The candle flame flickered, then steadied, burning brighter than before. You closed your eyes and began to speak.
The words were High Valyrian. They were harsh, full of consonants that scraped against your throat and vowels that burned on your tongue. You had practiced them for hours, mouthing them silently in your chamber, but speaking them aloud was different. They had weight. They had presence. Each syllable seemed to hang in the air, resonating with something deep beneath the world.
We ask the Lord to shine his light, and the debt of blood to be paid.
With fire and blood, the debt shall be paid.
Your blood continued to flow, more than you had expected, more than seemed safe. The copper bowl was filling, the dark liquid swirling in the candlelight, and you felt a strange pulling sensation in your chest, as if something vital was being drawn out of you along with the blood. The candle flame rose higher, no longer blue but a deep, angry red, and the shadows in the room began to move.
You reached out with your bleeding arm and pressed your hand against the wound in Jace's neck, your fingers circling the broken arrow shaft. The moment your blood touched his skin, you felt it: a connection, a bridge, a channel opening between your life and his. You could feel his weak heartbeat, fluttering against your palm like a trapped bird. You could feel the poison spreading through his veins, the infection that was eating away at his flesh. And you could feel the arrowhead, a cold sliver of metal lodged against the pulsing wall of his artery, a hairsbreadth from the arms of the Stranger.
No, you thought, and poured yourself into him.
It was like falling. Like drowning. Like being unmade and remade in the space of a single heartbeat. Your vision went white, then red, then black, and you were somewhere else, somewhere vast and dark and full of fire. You could feel Jace there, a flickering ember in the darkness, barely holding on. And you could feel something else, something vast and hungry, watching you from the shadows. The magic. The old power. It wanted what you were offering. It wanted the blood, the life, the sacrifice. It wanted you.
Take it, you said, or thought, or screamed into the void. Take whatever you need. Just give him back to me.
The darkness surged forward, and you knew nothing more.
You woke in your own bed, with sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of shouting echoing through the corridors.
For a long, disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten there. Your body felt strange, heavy and hollow at the same time, as if someone had scooped out your insides and replaced them with lead. Your left arm throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and when you lifted it to look, you saw that someone had bandaged it. The white linen was spotted with red, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
The shouting grew louder. Footsteps pounded past your door. Someone was calling for the maester, and someone else was weeping, and beneath it all was a rising tide of voices, excited and frightened and disbelieving.
And then you remembered.
You sat up so fast the room spun around you. You grabbed the bedpost, steadying yourself, and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your head pounded, your vision blurring, but you forced yourself to stand, to walk, to open the door and step out into the corridor.
A serving girl was running past, her eyes wide and her face flushed. You caught her arm.
"What's happening?" you demanded, and your voice came out rough and strange, barely recognizable as your own.
"My lady!" The girl's words tumbled over each other in her haste. "It's the prince! Prince Jacaerys! He's awake! He's awake, and the maester says his wounds are healing, and the Queen is with him now..."
You let go of her arm. She kept talking, but you were already moving, pushing past her, walking as fast as your unsteady legs would carry you toward Jace's chamber.
The corridor outside his room was crowded with people, servants and guards and minor lords, all craning their necks and whispering among themselves. They parted when they saw you, their eyes wide with surprise or curiosity or something else you didn't have the presence of mind to identify. You didn't care. You didn't care about any of it. You only cared about the door at the end of the corridor and what lay beyond it.
Daemon was leaning by the door. He saw you coming, and his expression flickered, relief and what might have been pride or might have been concern. He stepped forward to meet you.
"It worked," his voice was pitched low so only you could hear. "The maester examined him this morning. The swelling in his neck has gone down. The corruption is receding. They were able to remove the arrowhead safely an hour ago. He is weak, but he is alive, and he is awake."
You closed your eyes for a moment, swaying on your feet. The relief that flooded through you was so intense it was almost painful. "I need to see him."
"Rhaenyra is with him now. She has been there since they told her. She is…" Daemon paused, searching for the right word. "Overjoyed. She thinks it's a miracle."
"It is a miracle," you said.
Daemon's eyes met yours. "Yes," he agreed. "It is. But not the kind she thinks." He put his hand on your shoulder, steadying you. "You did well, daughter. Better than I dared to hope. But be careful with him, he hasn't quite come back to himself yet."
He opened the door, and you stepped inside.
The first thing you saw was Rhaenyra. The Queen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her silver-gold hair unbound and disheveled, her face wet with tears. She was holding Jace's hand in both of hers, and she was speaking to him in a low, urgent voice, her words tumbling out too fast to follow. She looked exhausted, wrung out, the way a person looks when they have been holding themselves together for so long that the relief of letting go is almost as painful as the fear.
And then you saw Jace.
He was sitting up against the pillows, his dark hair brushed back from his face, his eyes open and alert. The bandage on his neck was fresh and white, and his color was better than it had been in days, still pale, but no longer grey, no longer the ashen hue of a corpse waiting to happen. He was thinner than before, the bones of his face more prominent, but he was alive. He was alive.
He looked up when you entered, your eyes met, and you felt as though your heart would burst.
"Jace," you breathed.
His expression shifted. For a moment, he looked almost confused, as if he didn't quite recognize you. Then his face cleared, and he smiled, a small, tired smile, but a real one, and held out his free hand to you.
"There you are," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, but it was his voice. "I was wondering when you would come."
You crossed the room without thinking, barely aware of Rhaenyra moving aside to make space for you. You took his hand, his fingers closed around yours, and he was warm. He was warm. You had been so afraid that he would be cold, that the ritual would have taken something essential from him, that he would be a shell wearing Jace's face. But his hand was warm, and his pulse beat steady in his wrist.
Except.
Except there was something different in his eyes. A gleam. A light that hadn't been there before. When he looked at you, you felt the weight of his attention, focused and intense. There was none of the softness you remembered, none of the gentle uncertainty that had always lurked beneath his princely composure. This was a Jacaerys who had looked into the darkness and come back with something of it still burning behind his eyes.
"Your Grace," you said to Rhaenyra, remembering your courtesies even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I came as soon as I heard."
"He's going to be all right," Rhaenyra said, and her voice broke on the words. "The maester says he's going to be all right. I don't understand it. None of them understand it. But I don't care. My son is alive." She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks again. "I'm so relieved. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost both of you."
She meant Luke, you realized. Lucerys, who had died at Storm's End, whose death had started the cascade of violence that had led here. Rhaenyra had lost one son already. She could not bear to lose another.
Jace's expression softened. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. But if I could speak with my betrothed now. Alone, if you don't mind."
Rhaenyra hesitated, looking between the two of you. Then she nodded, pressing a kiss to Jace's forehead before rising from the bed. "I'll be just outside," she said. "I'll send for some broth. You need to eat. You need to regain your strength."
She left the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click. You and Jace were alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still holding his hand, and he was still looking at you with that strange, intense gaze, and you didn't know what to say. What did you say to someone you had pulled back from the edge of death? What did you say to someone who might owe their life to a ritual you barely understood and a power you had no right to wield?
"You did something," Jace said at last.
You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. His eyes were too sharp, too knowing. He could see right through you.
"Yes," you said quietly. "I did."
"What did you do?"
You told him everything. You were too tired to lie and too frightened to hold it in, and because he deserved to know what had been done to him.
When you finished, he was silent for a long moment. Then he reached up with his free hand and touched the bandage on his neck, his fingers tracing the edge of it with a strange, detached curiosity.
"I died," he said. "Didn't I?"
"No," you denied quickly. "No, you were still alive. The maesters said..."
"The maesters said I was going to die. They said there was nothing they could do." His eyes met yours again. "I remember the water. The cold. I remember Vermax screaming. And then…nothing. Darkness. Just darkness, for a long time. And then something else. Something pulling me back. It felt like fire. Like dragonfire, but inside me. In my blood. In my bones." He paused. "Was that you?"
You swallowed hard. "I don't know. I don't know what I did. The texts said the ritual could transfer life force, could bind spirit to flesh, could rekindle the inner fire. But they didn't say how. They didn't say what the cost would be. I just…I couldn't let you die. I couldn't. Not when there was something I could try."
Jace looked at you for a long moment. Then he pulled you toward him, and before you knew what was happening, his arms were around you and your face was pressed against his shoulder and he was holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.
"You foolish, brave, tricky woman," he murmured into your hair. "You could have died. You could have killed yourself. For me."
"There was no choice," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "There was never a choice. Don't you understand? Without you, there's no point. There's no point to any of it."
You felt him exhale a shaky breath. His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the new strength you could feel in his grip. "I understand," he said. "I understand better than you know."
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him. Your eyes were wet, you realized. You had been crying without noticing it. He reached up and wiped the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, his touch warm and achingly familiar.
"When I was pulled from the darkness," he whispered, "I dreamed. I dreamed of fire and blood and a throne made of swords. I dreamed of our enemies burning. I dreamed of Aemond Targaryen dying in the mud, with my hands around his throat. I dreamed of victory, absolute and total, with no mercy and no quarter and no hesitation. I dreamed of everything I was too weak to do before." His voice hardened, and that gleam in his eyes grew brighter, more dangerous. "I'm not weak anymore."
You stared at him. There was something new and terrible and fierce in his voice. The boy you had known was still there, but there was something else now, something that had been forged in the darkness and brought back with him into the light.
"The Greens took my brother," Jace said. "They took my dragon. They took my birthright. They tried to take my life. They tried to take you." His hands tightened on your arms. "They will fail. They will all fail. I am going to recover from this. I am going to get out of this bed, and I am going to be there when my mother takes King's Landing. And then I am going to find Aemond Targaryen, and I am going to make him pay for every drop of blood he has spilled."
"Jace," you said, and you didn't know if it was a warning or a plea or a prayer.
"When I woke up," he continued, as if you hadn't spoken, "I felt different. I feel…more. More alive, more aware. Better, altogether." He laughed without humour. "I feel like someone lit a fire inside me and it's never going to go out. Is that what you did to me? Is that what the magic made me?"
"I don't know," you whispered. "I didn't know what it would do. The texts said…"
"The texts said Maegor came back changed. Crueler. Stronger. Unstoppable." Jace's eyes met yours. "Maybe that's what I am now. Maybe that's what you made me."
"No. You're not Maegor. You're not cruel. You're not..."
"I'm not what I was before." He said it calmly, as if stating a simple fact. "I can feel it. The part of me that hesitated, that second-guessed, that worried about being good enough, worthy enough, it's gone. Burned away. All that's left is the fire." He cupped your face in his hands, his palms were warm against your cheeks. "But I'm still me. I'm still yours. That hasn't changed. That will never change."
He kissed you. It was not like the gentle, tentative kisses you had shared before. It was fierce, demanding, full of that new fire, and you found yourself responding to it despite your fear, despite your uncertainty. His lips were warm, his hands were strong, and he was alive. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.
When he pulled back, his eyes were still burning with that strange, fierce light. "You brought me back," he said. "You gave me a second chance. I'm not going to waste it. I'm going to win this war. I'm going to put my mother on the Iron Throne. I'm going to marry you, and we are going to build a dynasty that will last a thousand years." He smiled, and it was a crazed and beautiful thing. "I swear to you."
You looked at him. Your betrothed, your prince, the boy you had loved since before you understood what love was, and saw the man he had become. The fire in his eyes. The steel in his voice. The fury and the purpose and the unshakeable certainty. The old texts had warned that those brought back by blood magic were never quite the same. They came back changed. They came back wrong. But looking at him now, you couldn't bring yourself to believe it.
He wasn't wrong. He was more.
"Rest now," you said, pressing him back against the pillows. "Regain your strength. The war will still be there when you're healed."
He caught your wrist, his strong grip still surprised you. "Stay," he said. "Stay with me."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.
You stayed by his side as the days passed, watching as his strength returned with unnatural speed. The maesters marveled at his recovery, calling it a miracle, a blessing from the Seven, the indomitable will of the dragon blood. They didn't know. They couldn't know. Only you and Daemon knew the truth, and you kept it locked away in your hearts, a secret that bound you together in shared complicity.
Part 2: see here
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Series Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep. See part 1 here. Warnings: smut, came back wrong Jace, blood, Valyrian wedding, talks of death, killing.
The war council had convened in the Chamber with the Painted Table, that great slab of carved stone that mapped the whole of Westeros in intricate detail. You stood near the far end of the table, your hand loosely clasped in Jacaerys', watching as your stepmother traced her fingers over the carved representation of the capital.
"The Velaryon fleet is scattered," Corlys Velaryon said, voice heavy with the admission. The Sea Snake had aged a decade in the weeks since the Gullet, the loss of his ships and the near-loss of his heir apparent in the lines around his mouth. "We cannot launch a naval assault on the Blackwater. Not yet. The fleet must regroup, resupply, and repair. It will take moons."
"Moons we do not have," Daemon said. He stood at Rhaenyra's right hand, Dark Sister at his hip. "Every day Aegon sits the throne, our position weakens. The lords of the realm watch and wait. They will flock to whichever side seems strongest. We cannot afford to appear weak."
"A direct assault on the gates, then," suggested Ser Alfred. "The City Watch..."
"The City Watch will not be enough," Rhaenyra interrupted. "I have received word from a source within the Red Keep itself. The Dowager Queen Alicent has promised to open the gates to us. She has promised to order a surrender."
A murmur rippled through the gathered lords. You exchanged a glance with Baela, who stood across the table from you, her arms crossed over her chest. Baela's face was unreadable, but you knew her well enough to see the skepticism in the set of her jaw. Alicent Hightower, surrendering? After everything? It seemed too convenient by half.
"You trust this source?" Corlys asked.
"I trust that Alicent Hightower is a mother before she is a queen," Rhaenyra said. "Her sons have brought ruin upon our house and upon the realm. She knows the war is lost. She wishes to end it before more blood is spilled."
Daemon's expression flickered with what might have been contempt or might have been agreement, it was always difficult to tell with your father. "Then we fly," he said. "We take the dragons and we take the city before Aemond and Vhagar can return from the Riverlands. The dragonseeds are ready. Hugh Hammer and Ulf White have Vermithor and Silverwing. Addam of Hull has Seasmoke. With Syrax and Caraxes, we have five dragons. More than enough to seize the Red Keep and hold it."
"What of the smallfolk?" someone asked. "If we burn the city..."
"We are not burning the city," Rhaenyra said sharply. "We are taking it. There is a difference. The gates will be opened. The garrison will stand down. There will be no need for fire."
Daemon's silence spoke volumes. You knew your father well enough to know that he did not share Rhaenyra's optimism about a bloodless conquest. But he held his tongue, and the planning continued.
A murmur ran through the room. You felt Jace's hand tighten around yours, and when you glanced at him, you saw that his jaw was clenched, his dark eyes fixed on his stepfather. This was the first war council he had attended since his recovery, and he had been silent throughout, but his silence was not passive.
Rhaenyra raised her hand, and the murmuring ceased. Her gaze swept the room. "But we are not stripping Dragonstone of its defenders. Baela will remain here with Moondancer. And Jacaerys..."
Jace straightened, his hand releasing yours as he stepped forward. "Your Grace?"
Rhaenyra's expression softened, the hard mask of the Queen cracking to reveal the mother beneath. "You will remain here as well. You and your betrothed. Dragonstone must be held, and you are my heir. I will not risk you in battle again so soon after..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words. You watched Jace carefully, waiting for the argument. The Jace of before, the serious, earnest young man who had always been so desperate to prove himself, would have protested. He would have insisted on flying with his mother, on being at the vanguard, on showing the world that he was worthy of the crown he would one day wear. But this Jace, the one who had come back from the darkness with fire in his eyes, only nodded once.
"I understand, Your Grace," he said.
Rhaenyra blinked, clearly surprised. Even Daemon raised an eyebrow. Daemon saw everything, catalogued everything. He had noticed the changes in Jace just as you had.
"Good," Rhaenyra said, recovering quickly. "Then it is settled. We fly in three days. The usurper's reign ends at dawn."
The council began to disperse, lords and dragonseeds filing out of the chamber with murmured words and shuffling footsteps. You made to follow, but Jace's hand caught your wrist, holding you in place.
"Wait," he declared. "There is something I need to ask."
Rhaenyra turned back, her expression questioning. Daemon paused as well, his hand still resting on Dark Sister.
"What is it, my son?" Rhaenyra asked.
Jace took a breath. You could feel the tension in his grip, the way his fingers pressed into your skin just a little too hard before he consciously relaxed them. "I wish to be wed," he said. "As soon as possible. Before you leave for King's Landing."
The words hung in the air. You felt your heartbeat stutter in your chest. You had known, of course, that you would marry him eventually. You had been betrothed since childhood, promised to each other before you even understood what that promise meant. But you had assumed the wedding would come after the war, after Rhaenyra sat the Iron Throne, after the realm was secured and there was time for celebrations and pageantry.
Rhaenyra seemed to have been thinking along the same lines. "Jace," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "I had hoped to see you wed in the Great Sept. After I take the throne. The realm should celebrate the marriage of its future king. It should be a symbol of our victory, a declaration that our house endures and prospers."
"The realm is at war, Mother." Jace's voice was calm, measured, but there was an undercurrent of steel in it that had not been there before his brush with death. "And it will not stop being at war the moment you take King's Landing. Aegon will flee, or he will be captured, but his supporters will not simply lay down their arms. Aemond is still out there with Vhagar. Daeron is in Oldtown with Tessarion. The Hightowers will not surrender while they still have dragons and armies. This war could drag on for months. Years."
He stepped forward, still holding your wrist, pulling you gently with him. "I am your heir. My claim to the Iron Throne must be unassailable. There are already those who whisper about my...parentage." He said the word carefully, without flinching, but you saw the flicker of old pain in his eyes. "Marrying a trueborn Targaryen princess strengthens my position. It silences the whispers. It shows the realm that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in our line."
"He has a point," Daemon said, and there was a note of amusement in his voice. "A strong match, publicly acknowledged, secures the succession and quiets the rumors. The boy is thinking like a king."
Jace shot Daemon a look that was equal parts gratitude and wariness. He knew, as you did, that Daemon's support was never given without calculation. But he pressed on.
"We have been betrothed for years," he continued, turning back to his mother. "Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows we are promised. There is no political advantage to waiting. And if something were to happen to me..."
"Nothing is going to happen to you," Rhaenyra cut in, her voice sharp with maternal ferocity. "You will be safe on Dragonstone."
"Wars are unpredictable," Jace said, and his tone was gentle now, gentler than it had been. "You know that better than anyone. I am not asking for a grand ceremony. I am not asking for tourneys and feasts and a kingdom's worth of guests. I am asking to be wed here, on Dragonstone, in the tradition of our ancestors. A Valyrian ceremony."
Rhaenyra hesitated. You could see her wavering, the queen and the mother warring within her. She looked at you then, her violet eyes searching your face. "What do you say to this?"
You opened your mouth to answer, but Jace's hand tightened on your wrist again, and you felt the heat of his skin against yours, the faint tremor of urgency that ran through him. He wanted this. He wanted this desperately, and you understood, with a sudden, crystalline clarity, that this was not just about politics. This was about him. About the darkness he had been through. About the fire that now burned behind his eyes and the need that drove him to hold you closer, kiss you harder, keep you near him every possible moment. He had come back changed, and part of that change was a hunger that had not existed before. A hunger for you.
"I want to marry him," you said, and your voice was steady despite the pounding of your heart. "I do not need a sept or a crowd or the approval of the realm. I only need him."
Rhaenyra's expression softened. She looked at you for a long moment, and then at Jace, and something in her face shifted. Resignation, perhaps. Or acceptance. Or simply the recognition that her son, the boy she had raised and protected and nearly lost, was no longer a boy at all.
"Very well," she said. "We will hold the ceremony tomorrow evening. It will be small, but it will be done properly. You deserve that much."
Jace exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to release some of the tension from his shoulders. "Thank you, Mother."
Daemon, who had been watching the exchange with the detached interest of a man observing a particularly entertaining game of cyvasse, chose that moment to inquire mockingly:
"You're very eager to get this done quickly, Jacaerys. One might almost think you were in a hurry." He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. "Is there a reason for this urgency? Have you gotten my daughter with child?"
Leave it to Daemon Targaryen to pour oil onto a fire dwindling away. You felt heat flood your cheeks from embarrassment and indignation. "Father!"
Jace's composure cracked for just a moment, a flush rising to his own cheeks. "No," he said firmly. "We have not...I have not dishonored her. I would never..."
"Jace has been the soul of propriety," you interrupted, your voice rising. "Nothing more. We have not lain together. I am not with child."
Daemon held up his hands, a gesture of mock surrender, but his eyes were still calculating. "I meant no offense, daughter. A father is entitled to ask such questions, especially when his daughter's betrothed is so... insistent."
"I am insistent," Jace said, and his voice had steadied again, cooled to a hard and controlled tone, "because I have already lost too much time. I was dead, or near enough. I lay in that bed while the maesters whispered about how they could not save me. And all I could think about, all I could dream about in the darkness, was her. What I would never have. What I would never be able to give her." He looked at Daemon directly, meeting those violet eyes without flinching. "I am not going to wait any longer. Not for politics. Not for propriety. Not for anything. I am going to marry her, and I am going to do it now, while I still can. Is that a sufficient answer for the King Consort?"
Silence swallowed the hall. Daemon looked at Jace for a long moment, then the mockery faded, replaced by respect, or recognition, or simply the acknowledgment of a fellow predator.
"Very well," he said, and turned back to Rhaenyra. "Let them marry. The boy makes a fair point. And it will give the people on Dragonstone something to celebrate before we fly to war."
The ceremony took place three days later, on the cliffs of Dragonstone as the sun sank toward the sea.
It was a small affair by royal standards. There was no time for feasts or tournaments, no time to summon lords from across the realm. But somehow, the intimacy of it made it more powerful. The witnesses were few: Rhaenyra, Daemon, Baela, Corlys Velaryon, and a handful of household knights and servants who had served Dragonstone for generations. The dragons stirred restlessly in the distance, their cries echoing off the volcanic cliffs, as if even they knew something momentous was happening.
Your hair had been braided in the traditional Valyrian style, interwoven with ribbons of gold and black. Baela had helped you dress into the traditional Valyrian attire.
Jace was waiting for you there. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. Like the fire that burned behind his eyes had found its focus. He looked at you like you were his salvation.
Daemon performed the ceremony. It was an old Valyrian rite, the words spoken in the liquid syllables of a language that had been ancient when Aegon the Conqueror was born. The binding of blood. The joining of fire. The creation of a union that could not be broken by anything less than death.
When the time came, Daemon drew a small dragonglass blade and made a shallow cut on your palm, then on Jace's. You pressed your hands together, blood mingling, and the contact sent a jolt through you like lightning striking stone. Jace's eyes met yours, and you saw the recognition in them. He felt it too. Something more than ritual. Something more than words.
We ask the Lord to shine his light. you thought, remembering the words you had spoken over his dying body.
But you had not needed a lord. You had needed only your own will, and your own blood, and your own desperate love.
"With fire and blood, it is done," Daemon intoned in the Common Tongue. "You are one. Let no man tear asunder what the flames have joined."
Jace leaned forward and kissed you, and despite the witnesses, despite the solemnity of the moment, it was not a chaste kiss. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hand tightening on yours, and when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.
"You are mine now," he said, so quietly that only you could hear. "No one can take you from me. Not the Greens. Not the gods. Not death itself."
There was no bedding ceremony. Rhaenyra had made that clear from the start: there would be no bawdy crowd, no drunken lords carrying you to the marriage bed, no crude jests and leering looks. This was not a political match made for the entertainment of the court. This was a union of dragon's blood, and it would be consummated with dignity.
Instead, there was a feast in the great hall, with roasted boar and fresh bread and wine from the cellars that had been laid down during the reign of the old King. Jace ate little but drank several cups of wine, his hand never leaving yours. He spoke to the others who had gathered to celebrate, answered Rhaenyra's toasts and Daemon's pointed observations with perfect courtesy, but his attention was always on you. His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table. Whenever you caught his eye, he smiled, and that smile was full of promises that made your stomach tighten and your skin flush with heat.
When the feast was over and the toasts were finished and the last of the wine had been drunk, Jace rose from his seat and offered you his hand.
"Come," he said simply.
You took his hand and let him lead you from the hall, up the winding stairs, to the chambers that had been prepared for you.
The room was warm, a fire already burning in the hearth, candles flickering. The bed was large and draped in crimson silk, the pillows plump and inviting. Someone had scattered dried flower petals across the coverlet, rose and lavender, their scent sweet and heady in the warm air.
Jace closed the door behind you and slid the bolt into place. The sound of it was loud in the quiet room, final and irrevocable.
"I have wanted this," he said, his voice low and rough, "for longer than I can remember. I have dreamed of this. In the darkness, when I was...gone...I dreamed of you. Of this. Of finally having you in my arms with nothing between us."
You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. There was hunger there, raw and undisguised, a fire that burned so hot it was almost frightening. But it was more than hunger. It was need. A desperate, consuming need that went beyond desire and closer to worship.
"I am yours," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have always been yours."
He took your face in his hands. His palms were warm, his fingers threading through your hair, and when he kissed you it was not gentle. It was fierce, demanding, his mouth slanting over yours with an urgency. His tongue swept against your lower lip, seeking entrance, and you opened for him willingly, letting him taste you, letting him take what he needed.
His hands moved from your face to your shoulders, to the lacings of your gown. He was surprisingly deft, his fingers making quick work of the knots and ties that Baela had so carefully arranged. The fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you in your shift. The firelight shone through the thin fabric, outlining your body in shades of gold and amber.
Jace stepped back, his eyes traveling over you with an intensity that made you shiver. "Beautiful," he murmured. "You are so beautiful. I do not deserve you."
"You do," you said. "You deserve everything."
He shook his head slowly. "I should have died. I should have drowned or bled out or been eaten by the creatures of the deep. But you would not let me go. You brought me back. You gave me this second chance." He stepped forward again, his hands settling on your hips, his thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones through the thin fabric. "Everything I am now, everything I do from this moment forward, is because of you. Do you understand that? I am yours more than you are mine. You own me. Body and soul. Whatever is left of my soul."
"There is nothing wrong with your soul," you protested, but even as you said it, you remembered the old texts, the warnings, the whispers about those who came back changed. Fire wights, the red priests called them. Creatures of flame, animated by something older and darker than mere life.
Jace smiled, and in the firelight, his eyes seemed to flicker with an inner flame. "I hope you are right," he said. "But it does not matter. Wrong or right, I am yours. And tonight, I am going to show you how much that means to me."
He kissed you again, his hands slid the shift from your shoulders. It joined the gown on the floor, and then you were bare before him, your skin glowing in the candlelight.
"Lie down," he said, and his voice was thick with desire. "Lie down and let me worship you."
You obeyed, climbing onto the bed and settling against the pillows. The silk was cool against your heated skin, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the fire and the heat of his gaze. He undressed with the same grace he had shown in unlacing your gown, his tunic and breeches falling away to reveal the body you had glimpsed during his recovery, when the maesters had changed his bandages and you had looked away out of modesty. Now you let yourself look.
He was leaner than he had been before, the weeks of bedrest having stripped away some of the muscle he had built in the training yard. But he was still beautiful, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his skin marked here and there with scars: the new ones from the arrows, still pink and healing at an unnatural speed, and older ones from years of swordsmanship and dragon-riding. The scar on his neck was the most prominent, a silver-pink line that traced the path the arrowhead had taken when the maesters finally cut it free.
He climbed onto the bed beside you. His hands found you again, stroking down your sides, over your hips, along your thighs. His touch was gentle at first, exploratory, learning the shape of you. But there was an undercurrent of urgency in it, a barely leashed desire that made his fingers tremble against your skin.
"I have received," he said wryly, "a great deal of unsolicited advice on how to proceed tonight."
You could not help the laugh that escaped you. "From whom?"
"Daemon, primarily." Jace's expression was somewhere between amused and pained. "He was very...thorough. I suspect he enjoyed it far more than I did. He kept saying that I should prepare you first, that I should take my time, that I should not simply impale you like a boar on a spit."
You covered your face with your hands, mortified and amused in equal measure. "I am going to kill him."
Jace laughed, a genuine, warm sound that reminded you of the boy he had been before the war. "Please do not. I think he meant well, in his own peculiar way." He leaned down and kissed your collarbone, his lips trailing a path of fire along your skin. "And he was not wrong. I do not want to hurt you. I want this to be good for you."
His mouth mapped every inch of your body, his lips and tongue and teeth finding all the places that made you gasp and arch and moan. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breasts, the soft skin of your inner wrists. He spent long, torturous minutes learning the shape of you, the sounds you made when he found a particularly sensitive spot, the way your breath hitched when his hand slid between your thighs.
He was patient, far more patient than you had expected given the hunger in his eyes. His fingers explored you with careful precision, stroking and circling and pressing until you were trembling beneath him, your hands fisted in the silk sheets, your body arching toward his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
"Please," you gasped, and you did not even know what you were asking for. "Please, Jace, I need..."
"I know what you need," he murmured against your skin. "I know. Let me take care of you."
His fingers continued their gentle assault, coaxing you higher and higher until you shattered beneath him, your cry swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through your release. When you finally stilled, trembling and breathless, he pulled back to look at your face.
"There," he said, and his voice was rough with restrained desire. "Now you are ready."
He positioned himself above you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel him, hard and insistent against your thigh, felt the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.
"This may hurt," he said, and his voice was tight with the effort of holding himself back. "Only for a moment. I will try to be gentle."
You reached up and cupped his face in your hands. "I trust you."
He pushed forward, slowly, carefully, and you felt the pressure build and build until there was a sharp, bright flash of pain. You gasped, your fingers tightening on his jaw, and he froze immediately, his eyes searching your face.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, I'm...it's fine. Don't stop."
He moved again, sinking deeper, and the pain began to fade, replaced by a strange, stretching fullness that was not unpleasant. He was trembling above you, his muscles rigid with the effort of holding back, and you realized how much he wanted this, how much he was restraining himself for your sake.
When he was fully seated inside you, he paused, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and his eyes were closed, his expression one of almost religious intensity.
"I can feel your heartbeat," he whispered. "I can feel it. Here. Inside you. The blood you gave me. The life you gave me. It's like...it's like coming home."
He began to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as your body adjusted to him. The pain faded entirely, replaced by a growing pleasure that built and coiled in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. His name fell from your lips again and again, a litany, a prayer, and he answered each one with a kiss, a touch, a murmured endearment.
And then he pulled back, and he looked down at the place where your bodies were joined, and he stopped moving.
"Jace?" Your voice was hazy with pleasure, confused by the sudden stillness. "What is it?"
He did not answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the small smear of blood on his length when he withdrew slightly, the evidence of your maidenhead, bright red against his skin. You felt your face flush with embarrassment, you had known there might be blood, the septas had warned you, but the expression on Jace's face was not one of concern or distaste.
It was fascination. Deep, reverent, hungry fascination.
"Your blood," he said, and his voice was strange, distant, as if he were speaking from very far away. "It was your blood that brought me back. Your blood that you spilled. Your blood that pulled me out of the darkness."
His hand moved down, his fingers brushing against your inner thigh, and when he lifted them, they were stained with a faint smear of red. He looked at it for a long moment, and then he lifted his fingers to his lips and tasted it.
You should have been disturbed. You should have been frightened. But all you felt was a strange, dark thrill, a shiver of something that was equal parts desire and recognition.
"My sorceress," Jace breathed. "My beautiful, brave, miraculous sorceress. You marked yourself for me. You bled for me. And now I will spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of that sacrifice."
He bent his head and kissed your mound, right at the top of your slit, where the blood had dripped. His tongue darted out, tasting, and you gasped at the unexpected sensation. Then he was sliding back inside you, filling you again, and this time there was no restraint, no careful gentleness. This time there was only fire.
He moved with a ferocity that stole your breath, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, his body driving into yours obsessively. He found a spot inside you that made white-hot pleasure spark behind your eyes, and he angled his hips to hit it again and again, his cock bullying that same sweet spot until your moans broke into sobs and your fingers clawed at his back.
"Yes," he crooned against your ear. "Yes, let go. Let me hear you. Let me feel you. You are mine, my love, my wife, my sorceress. You brought me back from the darkness, and now I am going to fill you with life."
Tears were streaming down your face, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity of it all: the pleasure, the love, the strange, dark magic that hummed between you like a living thing. You clung to him, your body meeting his thrust for thrust, your moans dissolving into wordless cries.
"Please," you sobbed, and you did not know if you were begging for mercy or for more. "Please, Jace, please..."
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come for me, and I will give you what you want. I will give you everything. Come for me now."
His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding that sensitive nub at the apex of your sex, and the combination of his touch and his thrusts and his voice was too much...You shattered. Your vision went dark, pleasure crashing through you in waves so intense they were almost painful. You cried out, his name or a prayer or both, and he followed you over the edge a moment later, his body going rigid above you as he spent himself inside you with a groan that sounded like a sob.
You lay tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His face was buried in your neck, his lips pressed against the pulse point beneath your jaw, and you could feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft again, the blazing fire banked to a warm glow. He brushed the tears from your cheeks with gentle fingers, his touch a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before.
"I love you," he said simply. "More than the crown. More than the throne. More than anything in this world or the next."
"I love you too," you whispered. "Always. Whatever happens."
He smiled that slightly odd smile of his, slightly off, but still so warm and loving. "Then we will have an heir," he said, his hand sliding down to rest on your belly. "If the gods are willing. A child of fire and blood, born of our union. A child who will carry our legacy into the future."
Part 3: see here
Sneak peak/Chapter 3 summary: There is a search for Rhaena and Sheepstealer. Even having experienced firsthand how deadly a wild dragon can be, having witnessed they can be claimed, Jace gets a mad idea to try to bond with other wild dragons residing near Dragonmont on Dragonstone. While Rhaenyra, Daemon and the dragonseeds fly to take King's Landing, the couple left behind on Dragonstone cut their honeymoon short, sneak off, and encounter Cannibal and Greyghost.
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Series Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep. See part 1 here. Part 2 here. Warnings: smut, came back wrong Jace, blood, talks of death, killing.
Chapter summary: Even having experienced firsthand how deadly a wild dragon can be, having witnessed they can be claimed, Jace gets a mad idea to try to bond with other wild dragons residing near Dragonmont on Dragonstone. While Rhaenyra, Daemon and the dragonseeds fly to take King's Landing, the couple left behind on Dragonstone cut their honeymoon short, sneak off, and encounter Cannibal and Greyghost.
Jace was insatiable. There was no other word for it. The boy who had been so careful, so restrained, so achingly proper in all the years of your betrothal had vanished, replaced by a man who seemed to need you near constantly. He only left your bed for council meetings, and even then, he went reluctantly, his eyes lingering on you as he dressed, his hands reaching for you one last time before he forced himself out the door.
When he returned, he came straight to you, shedding his tunic and boots before climbing back into bed, his arms wrapping around you. He would not let you go, even in sleep. You would drift off with your head on his chest, and wake hours later to find yourself sprawled across him, his arms locked around your waist, his face buried in your hair. More than once, you had been pulled from dreams by the sensation of his fingers moving inside you, his thumb circling that sensitive peak while his lips brushed against your neck, his voice a low, sleepy murmur of Valyrian endearments. He would bring you to completion like that, his fingers coaxing your release from you before he even fully woke, and then he would roll you beneath him and take you again, slow and deep, his eyes never leaving your face.
"You are mine," he would whisper against your skin. "Mine. Say it."
"I am yours," you would gasp, and he would reward you with a kiss that stole your breath and a thrust that made you see stars.
It should have exhausted you. It should have left you sore, weary and desperate for rest. But instead, you found yourself matching his hunger with your own, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that surprised you. Perhaps it was simply the relief of finally being together after years of waiting. Whatever the reason, you could not get enough of him, he could not get enough of you, and the world outside your chamber door seemed very far away.
But the world had a way of intruding.
The raven arrived five days after the wedding. You were in bed, tangled in the sheets, Jace's head resting on your stomach while you carded your fingers through his dark curls. He was dozing, his breathing slow and even, his body finally still after hours of passionate activity. When the knock came at the door, he stirred, his arms tightening around your waist.
"Go away," he called, his voice muffled against your skin.
"Your Grace," came the voice of one of Rhaenyra's stewards, high and thin with anxiety. "A raven from King's Landing. The Queen has taken the city."
Jace was out of bed before you could blink, crossing the room and pulling open the door with no regard for his nakedness. The steward's eyes widened, his face flushing crimson as he thrust a scroll into Jace's hands and retreated with a stammered apology. Jace didn't notice. He was already reading, his dark eyes flying across the parchment, his expression shifting from anticipation to joy.
"The city is ours," his voice was thick with emotion. "The gates were opened as Alicent promised. The gold cloaks rose for Daemon. Aegon has fled, no one knows where. The Iron Throne is my mother's."
You sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around your waist. "Then it's over?"
Jace's jaw tightened. "Not yet. The coronation is being delayed. My mother has no council, no Queensguard. Half the lords who should be bending the knee are still in their castles, waiting to see which way the wind blows. And Aemond…" He crumpled the scroll in his fist. "Aemond and Vhagar burned Daemon's garrison near Harrenhal. They've taken the castle. Ormund Hightower is marching with an army from Oldtown, and he has Daeron and Tessarion with him. The war is not over. It's not even close to over."
He began to pace, his naked body taut with frustration. "She wants us to remain on Dragonstone. She says it's not safe yet. She says she needs to consolidate her hold on the city before she can send for us. We are to wait. To sit here and do nothing while the realm tears itself apart."
You rose from the bed and went to him. You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against the warm skin of his back. "She is trying to protect you. You nearly died, Jace. Everyone saw it. Everyone knows it."
"I know." His voice was tight. "I know, and I understand, but that does not make it easier. I am her heir. I should be at her side. I should be helping her rule, helping her plan, helping her win this war. Instead, I am stuck here, with no dragon, no army, no way to..."
He stopped. You felt the tension in his muscles shift, his body going still.
"Jace?"
"I need a dragon," he muttered. "Without Vermax, I am…diminished. Less than I was. Less than I need to be. My mother has six dragons at her command now, but none of them are mine. I cannot lead armies on horseback. I cannot inspire fear in our enemies or loyalty in our allies. I am a dragonrider without a dragon, and it is driving me mad."
You tightened your arms around him. "I know. I know what it is to lose a dragon. I feel it every day. I miss the sky. I miss the wind. I miss the weight of her beneath me, the sound of her heartbeat, the way she would turn her head to look at me with those great golden eyes." Your voice caught. "She died for me. She carried me all the way from Rook's Rest with Vhagar's flesh still in her claws, and she died on the beach because she would not stop until she got me to safety."
Jace turned in your arms, his hands coming up to cup your face. "I know," he said softly. "I know, my love. And I swear to you, when this war is over, we will avenge her. We will avenge Vermax. We will make Aemond Targaryen pay for every dragon he has killed, every life he has taken, every tear you have shed."
He kissed you fiercely, tenderly, and when he pulled back, there was a new light in his eyes. A familiar light. The same fire that had burned there since the night you brought him back.
"Do you remember what I told you about the Gullet?" he asked. "After I woke? I told my mother about Rhaena. About how she claimed Sheepstealer."
You nodded slowly. Rhaenyra had been furious when she heard, she had proclaimed it a disastrous mistake and sent a search party after her stepdaughter. But Jace had been different. Jace had been impressed.
"She claimed a wild dragon," Jace said. "A dragon that had never been ridden, never been tamed, never bent to human will. And she did it alone. If Rhaena can do it, why can't I?"
Your heart began to beat faster. "What are you saying?"
Jace's hands dropped from your face to your shoulders, gripping you. "There are wild dragons on Dragonstone. Unclaimed dragons, living right here on this island, while we sit in this castle and lament our wingless state. Cannibal. Greyghost. They've been here for decades, centuries in Cannibal's case. And no one has ever claimed them."
"Because they're wild," your voice rose. "Because Cannibal eats other dragons. Because Greyghost is so elusive that most people have never even seen him. Because every fool who has ever tried to tame them has ended up dead, their bones littering the Dragonmont."
"Then they were the wrong kind of fool." Jace's eyes were blazing now, the fire in them so bright it was almost blinding. "I am a Targaryen. I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I have died and come back, and I am not afraid of a dragon, no matter how wild or ancient or deadly. I will claim one of them. I will have a dragon again, or I will die trying."
"Jace..."
"I cannot sit here and do nothing," he cut in frustrated. "I cannot spend the rest of this war waiting and hoping and praying that my mother will summon me. I need to act. I need to fly. I need to be able to fight for what is mine. Do you understand? Do you understand what it feels like to be grounded while your enemies soar?"
You understood. You understood better than anyone. Every day since your dragon had died, you had felt the absence like a missing limb. The sky called to you, and you could not answer. The wind sang, and you could not join the chorus. You were a Targaryen without a dragon, and it was a half-life, a shadow-existence, a constant, gnawing ache that nothing could ease.
But that did not mean you were willing to watch your husband get himself killed.
"Even if you could claim one of them," you said, trying to keep your voice calm, "how would you do it? Cannibal's lair is halfway up the Dragonmont. Greyghost is never seen in the same place twice. The terrain is treacherous, the dragons are dangerous, and if anyone finds out what you're planning, they'll lock you in your chambers and throw away the key."
Jace smiled, and it was a sharp, reckless, beautiful thing. "Then we won't tell anyone."
"We?"
"I'm not leaving you behind." His hands slid down your arms, his fingers intertwining with yours. "You want to fly again as much as I do. You want to feel the wind beneath you and the fire above you. And if I'm going to be fool enough to try to claim a wild dragon, I want you with me. I need you with me. You're my luck. My magic. My heart."
You stared at him, torn between terror and exhilaration. "This is madness."
"Probably," he agreed. "Will you come with me anyway?"
You should have said no. You should have argued, pleaded, threatened. You should have written to Daemon, though Daemon, you suspected, would only be amused by the whole endeavor. But looking into Jace's eyes, seeing the fire there, the desperate, burning need, you found that you could not deny him. You could never deny him. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when he needed you.
"Yes," you said. "I'll come with you."
The preparations took two days. Two days of secret planning, stolen supplies, whispered conversations in the dead of night. Jace threw himself into the task, researching the wild dragons thoroughly.
Greyghost, according to the old records, was a pale grey-white dragon, the color of morning mist over the sea. He was shy and elusive, rarely seen by the inhabitants of Dragonstone, and he had never been known to attack humans unless provoked. He fed primarily on fish, hunting in the waters around the island, and he avoided the other dragons whenever possible. He was, by all accounts, the safer of the two wild dragons, if any dragon could be called safe.
Cannibal was another matter entirely. He was coal-black, with scales so dark they seemed to swallow light, and his eyes were a menacing green that glowed in the darkness of his lair. He was the largest and oldest of the wild dragons, so ancient that some legends claimed he had lived on Dragonstone even before the Targaryens arrived. He had earned his name because he fed on dead dragons, hatchlings, and eggs. His lair was littered with the bones of the fools who had tried to tame him. He had never been ridden. He had never been claimed. He was, by all accounts, untameable.
"We'll start with Greyghost," Jace decided, spreading a map of the Dragonmont across your bed. "He's less likely to kill us on sight. We'll bring fish, fresh fish, still flopping if we can manage it. The records say he's more likely to approach if he's offered food."
"What of Cannibal?"
Jace's expression flickered. "Cannibal will be more difficult. He eats dragons, not fish. But I have an idea." He looked at you. "Your dragon. Her body is still on the beach, isn't it?"
You nodded slowly. "No one has had time to move her. She's too large for a crypt, and a funeral pyre for a dragon…" You trailed off, understanding dawning. "You want to use her flesh."
"Not her flesh," Jace said quickly, seeing the distress in your eyes. "The flesh she took from Vhagar. You said she clawed Vhagar during the battle. You said she carried a strip of Vhagar's flesh back to Dragonstone on her claws. If we can extract it, if we can preserve it somehow… Cannibal eats dragons. He's never tasted Vhagar before. It might be enough to get his attention."
You thought about it. The idea of approaching your dragon's corpse, of cutting into her claws to retrieve the flesh of the beast that had killed her, was deeply unsettling. But it was also fitting, in a way. Your dragon had died fighting Vhagar. Perhaps her last act could help you and Jace claim new dragons and continue the fight she had given her life for.
"There's more," Jace said. "Cannibal might not go for Vhagar's flesh right away. He's ancient and cunning, and he'll be suspicious. So I'm bringing other food too. Chicken. Crabs. The old texts say that's the closest taste to dragon meat that isn't actually dragon. If he won't take Vhagar's flesh, maybe he'll take that."
"You've thought of everything," you said with a note of reluctant admiration in your voice.
"I've had nothing but time to think," Jace replied. "Time, and a burning need to be in the sky again."
The following day, you dressed in riding leathers: practical, warm, easy to move in, and met Jace in the stables, where he had already hitched a pair of horses to a covered wagon. The wagon was laden with supplies: buckets of fresh fish, their scales still gleaming; a covered basket of raw chicken and crabs; and a separate, carefully wrapped package that you knew contained Vhagar's flesh, extracted from your dragon's claws the night before under cover of darkness.
"You're sure about this?" you asked, mounting your horse.
Jace swung into the saddle beside you, his expression set with determination. "I've never been more sure of anything."
The ride to the Dragonmont was long and treacherous. The volcano loomed in the distance, its peak wreathed in smoke and ash, and the road grew steeper and rockier the closer you got. The horses began to grow uneasy as you approached the mountain's base, their ears flattening, their eyes rolling. By the time you reached the lower slopes, they were trembling and snorting, refusing to take another step.
"Damn," Jace muttered, dismounting. "We'll have to go on foot from here."
You tied the horses to a sturdy tree, well away from the mountain, and began to unload the supplies. The fish went into a large sack that Jace slung over his shoulder. The chicken and crabs went into another. The package of Vhagar's flesh, still cold from the ice you'd packed it in, went into a leather satchel that Jace kept close to his body. Then you began to climb.
The Dragonmont was a harsh, unforgiving place. The ground was loose and rocky, treacherous underfoot, and the air grew hotter and thicker the higher you climbed. Steam vented from cracks in the earth, carrying the sulfurous stench of the volcano's heart. You could feel the mountain's presence, ancient and watchful, as if the stone itself was aware of your intrusion.
"We're looking for Greyghost first," Jace said, his voice low. "The records say he favors the eastern slopes, near the sea cliffs. He likes to hunt fish in the waters below."
You climbed for another hour, picking your way carefully across the jagged terrain. The sun rose higher, burning off the morning mist, and the day grew warm despite the overcast sky. Your legs ached. So did your spine. You were beginning to think you would never find the dragon when Jace suddenly stopped, his hand shooting out to grip your arm.
"There," he breathed.
You followed his gaze. Ahead, perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea, was a dragon. He was beautiful, pale grey-white, exactly as the records had described, his scales shimmering like mother-of-pearl in the filtered sunlight. He was smaller than the Targaryen dragons you had known, lean and graceful, with a long neck and a delicate head that was currently turned toward the sea, watching the waves below.
Greyghost.
"Stay behind me," Jace murmured, but you shook your head.
"No. Let me approach him first."
Jace frowned. "Why you?"
"He's shy. The records say he avoids humans. But he might be more willing to approach a woman. And I…" You hesitated, then pressed on. "I've been without a dragon for so long. Let me try."
Jace looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Be careful."
You took the sack of fish from him and began to walk slowly toward the dragon. Greyghost's head turned at the sound of your footsteps, his pale eyes fixing on you with wary curiosity. He did not flee, but he did not approach either. He simply watched, his body tense, ready to take flight at any moment.
"Rytsas, gevie," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Hello, beautiful one. I'm not going to hurt you. I've brought you something."
You reached into the sack and pulled out a fish, still fresh and gleaming. You held it out toward the dragon, your arm extended, your body language as non-threatening as you could make it. Greyghost's nostrils flared, scenting the fish, and his head tilted slightly. But he did not move.
"Lykirī," you crooned, taking a step closer. "It's all right. I know you're frightened. I know you've been alone for a long time. So have I. I lost my dragon. She died saving my life. And I've been empty ever since. I think you might understand that."
Greyghost made a soft sound, a low, throaty warble that was not quite a growl and not quite a purr. He took a tentative step toward you, his claws scraping against the rock.
"That's it," you said. "Naejot māzīs. Come on. It's just fish. You like fish, don't you?"
Another step. Then another. Greyghost was close enough now that you could see the individual scales on his snout, the faint steam that curled from his nostrils. He was beautiful.
You tossed the fish toward him. He caught it in mid-air, his jaws snapping shut with a crunch, and swallowed it in a single gulp. His eyes fixed on you again, and this time there was less wariness in them. More curiosity.
"Good boy," you said, and threw another fish.
You spent the next hour feeding Greyghost, tossing fish after fish toward the pale dragon and murmuring soft words of encouragement. He never came close enough to touch, but he stopped flinching when you moved, stopped tensing when you spoke. He even allowed Jace to come closer, though he eyed the prince with obvious suspicion, a low rumble building in his chest whenever Jace moved too quickly.
"He doesn't like me," Jace observed, his voice carefully neutral.
"Give him time." you replied.
But time was something you did not have in abundance. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, and you had not yet attempted to find Cannibal. Jace's frustration was palpable, a tension in his shoulders that grew more pronounced with every passing hour.
"He's not going to come down the mountain," Jace sighed finally. "He's too afraid. Of me, maybe. Or of Cannibal. Greyghost has survived this long by being cautious. He's not going to risk getting close to a human when Cannibal might be lurking nearby."
"So what do we do?"
Jace's jaw tightened. "We split up. You stay here with Greyghost. Keep feeding him. Keep building his trust. I'll go find Cannibal."
Your heart lurched. "No. Absolutely not. Cannibal is too dangerous. You said it yourself, his lair is littered with the bones of the men who tried to tame him. I won't let you go alone."
"You can't stop me." Jace's voice was gentle but firm. "This is something I have to do. I have to try. If I don't, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been. I won't live with that regret. Not when I've already been given a second chance at life."
"Jace..."
"I'll be careful," he promised, taking your face in his hands. "I'll be careful, and I'll come back. I swear it. I didn't survive the Gullet and your blood magic just to get eaten by a wild dragon on Dragonstone. That would be a very stupid way to die, and I refuse to be that stupid."
He kissed you, hard and quick, and before you could argue further, he was gone, descending the rocky slope with the satchel of Vhagar's flesh and the basket of chicken and crabs slung over his shoulder.
You watched him go, your heart in your throat. Then you turned back to Greyghost and threw another fish.
The hours that followed were among the longest of your life. You stayed with Greyghost, feeding him the last of the fish and speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, but your mind was elsewhere. Every gust of wind, every rumble of the volcano, every distant cry of a seabird made you flinch, your eyes scanning the slopes for any sign of Jace.
Greyghost seemed to sense your unease. He grew restless, his pale eyes darting toward the mountain's interior, his wings twitching as if he wanted to flee. You realized, with a sinking heart, that he was afraid of Cannibal. Even here, on the far side of the Dragonmont, he could sense the older dragon's presence.
"Lykirī," you told him, though your voice shook. "It's all right. He won't hurt you. I won't let him."
But you didn't know if that was a promise you could keep.
The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. The shadows lengthened, and the temperature began to drop, and still Jace did not return. You were beginning to panic, your mind conjuring images of Jace lying broken on the rocks, Jace consumed by black fire, Jace's bones joining the others in Cannibal's lair...
A roar split the air.
It was unlike anything you had ever heard. Deep, ancient, terrible, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. Greyghost shrieked in response, his wings spreading, his body tensing to flee. You threw yourself at him, grabbing on, holding on with all your strength.
"Daor!" you shouted. "Lykirī! No, don't go! Please, don't go!"
Greyghost thrashed, his head swinging toward you, his jaws open. For one heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to incinerate you. But then his eyes met yours, and something shifted in them. Recognition. Understanding. He did not burn you. He did not flee. But he trembled beneath your touch, his whole body quivering with fear.
The roar faded, echoing across the mountain. And then, silence.
You waited, your heart pounding, your hands still gripping Greyghost's spine. The silence stretched on for what felt like hours. The sun sank below the horizon, and the stars began to emerge, cold and distant overhead. And then, finally, you heard footsteps on the rocks below.
Jace emerged from the darkness, and the sight of him made your breath catch. His hair was matted with sweat and ash, his skin was covered in soot, and his eyes were wild, blazing with a fire that seemed almost supernatural. But he was unharmed. No burns, no bites, no broken bones. He was whole, and he was alive, and he was walking toward you with a strange, fierce smile on his face.
"I found him," he said, his voice rough and raw. "I found Cannibal."
You released Greyghost and ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you, his soot-stained hands gripping your waist, and buried his face in your hair.
"Don't ever do that to me again," you gasped. "Don't ever leave me like that again. I thought you were dead. I thought..."
"I'm not dead." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I'm not dead. I found him. His lair is deep in the mountain, a cavern full of bones and ash. He's massive, larger than any dragon I've ever seen except Vhagar. And he was hungry."
"What happened?"
Jace's smile widened into a feral one. "I gave him Vhagar's flesh first. He ate it in a single bite. Then I offered him the chicken and the crabs, but he refused them. He just…watched me. For hours. Waiting. I thought he was going to kill me. But I stayed. I didn't run. I didn't flinch. And eventually, he got hungry enough to eat what I offered. He hasn't had much to feed on."
"He let you near him?"
"No." Jace shook his head. "Not yet. He took the food, but he wouldn't let me get close. He's not like Greyghost. He's not shy or curious or gentle. He's a predator. He's death with wings. But he knows me now. He knows my scent. And I will go back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, until he lets me ride him."
Greyghost shrieked again, a high, piercing sound. Jace turned toward the pale dragon, and Greyghost backed away, his wings spreading, his eyes fixed on Jace with obvious fear.
"He smells Cannibal on me," Jace said. "He wants to be away from me."
"Then let him be away." You stepped toward Greyghost, your hand extended. "kostilus, gevie. I'll take you somewhere safe. Away from the big, scary man who smells like death."
Greyghost's pale eyes fixed on you. He was still trembling, still poised to flee, but his gaze that gave you hope. Trust. He trusted you.
You walked toward him slowly, your hand still extended, and this time, he did not back away. He let you touch his snout, his scales warm and smooth beneath your palm. He let you run your hand along his neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the pale hide. And when you swung yourself onto his back, he did not throw you off.
"Sōves," you whispered to him. "Kostilus. Just for a little while. I've been grounded for so long."
Greyghost's wings spread. He launched himself from the cliff with a single powerful leap, and then you were flying, the wind screaming past your ears, the sea glittering far below, the stars wheeling overhead. You laughed, a wild, exultant sound, and tears streamed from your eyes, torn away by the wind.
It was not the same as flying your own dragon. It would never be the same. But it was flight. It was the sky. It was freedom. For the first time since Rook's Rest, you felt whole.
Greyghost carried you over the sea, over the black sand beaches, over the smoking peak of the Dragonmont. He flew until his fear of Cannibal's scent faded, until the joy of the flight overtook his caution. But eventually, he descended, landing on sand on the far side of the island. You slid from his back, and he looked at you for a long moment. Then he spread his wings and flew away, vanishing into the night.
"He'll come back," Jace said when you told him, his voice certain. "You've bonded with him. He knows you now. He'll come back."
He was right.
Each morning, before the sun rose, you and Jace would slip out of the castle and make your way to the Dragonmont. You would find Greyghost on the eastern slopes, waiting for you with his pale eyes and his gentle warble, and you would feed him fish, stroke his snout and whisper to him in High Valyrian. And each day, he let you mount him, let you fly with him, let you become more and more a part of his world.
Jace went to Cannibal. Every day, he climbed into the heart of the mountain, carrying offerings of meat. Every day, he sat in the darkness of Cannibal's lair, surrounded by bones, and waited. The coal-black dragon did not trust him, did not let him approach, but he stopped growling when Jace entered. He stopped baring his teeth. He began to watch Jace with something that was not quite curiosity and not quite recognition, but was closer to both than it had been before.
"He's testing me," Jace said one night, his body still streaked with soot, his eyes still blazing with that wild light. "He wants to see if I'm worthy. If I'm strong enough. If I'll break."
"Will you?"
"No." Jace's voice was iron. "I won't break. I can't break. I've already died once. What does a dragon's temper matter after that?"
The days became a week. The week became two. You and Jace grew stronger, your bodies hardened by the daily climbs up the Dragonmont, your bond with each other deepened by the shared secret. You learned Greyghost's moods, his preferences. You learned the sound of his approach, the rhythm of his wingbeats, the meaning of his various warbles and growls.
You learned about Cannibal, too. Jace told you everything, the size of him, the color of his scales, the way his green eyes glowed in the darkness of his lair. He told you about the bones that littered the cavern floor, the skulls of men and dragons alike, the evidence of centuries of predation. He told you about the way Cannibal would sometimes stretch his massive jaws in a yawn that revealed rows of teeth as long as swords. He told you about the heat of the dragon's breath, the sulfurous stench of his lair, the way the ground trembled when he shifted his weight.
"He's magnificent," Jace said with genuine awe in his voice. "He's terrible and beautiful and utterly, completely wild. He has never bent to anyone. Never. In all the centuries he's lived, no one has ever ridden him. No one has ever even tried and lived to tell about it."
"Except you."
"Except me." Jace smiled, and it was that same unsettling smile that you had come to love and fear in equal measure. "I think he's starting to respect me. Just a little but enough."
He brought a whip, at first, as was tradition for those who sought to tame a dragon. But Cannibal was so large, his scales so thick and tough, that you doubted the whip registered as anything more than a firm pat. The dragon barely seemed to notice when Jace cracked it against his hide. He only turned his great head and fixed Jace with those terrible green eyes, as if to say, Is that all you have, little man?
But Jace did not give up. He brought meat every day. He spoke to Cannibal in High Valyrian, tried to teach him, using the same commands that the dragonlords of old had used to bind their mounts. Dohaerās. Serve. Māzīs. Come. Lykirī. Calm.
At first, Cannibal ignored him. Then he began to tolerate him. He would eat the food Jace brought, snapping it out of the air with his massive jaws, but he would not let Jace touch him. He would not let him approach.
Jace was different with Cannibal than he was with you. You watched him during those long days on the mountain, and you saw a side of him you had never seen before. He was firm. Assertive. Unyielding. He did not plead with the dragon or cajole him or try to win him over with gentleness. He commanded. He demanded. He stood his ground even when Cannibal roared and snapped and breathed plumes of smoke that could have cooked him alive.
"I am your rider," Jacaerys would tell the dragon, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.
The difficulty, you soon discovered, was not in bonding with your respective dragons. It was in getting them to tolerate each other.
Greyghost was terrified of Cannibal. Every time Jace returned from the inner mountain carrying the older dragon's scent, Greyghost would shriek and flee, and it would take you hours to coax him back. And Cannibal, for his part, viewed Greyghost as prey. More than once, Jace reported that Cannibal had stirred and growled when Greyghost's scent drifted into his lair, his green eyes fixing on the distant presence of the smaller dragon with predatory interest.
"This isn't going to work," you said one evening, frustrated and exhausted. "If they can't be near each other, we can't fly together. We can't fight together. We'll be two dragonriders who can never be in the same place at the same time."
Jace was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "We need to introduce them slowly. Carefully. In a way that makes Cannibal understand that Greyghost is not prey."
"And how do we do that?"
"I don't know yet." Jace's brow furrowed. "But I'll think of something."
The breakthrough came from an unexpected direction.
Jace had always been affectionate with you, that was nothing new. But as the days on the Dragonmont wore on, his affection became more demonstrative. He would find a sheltered spot on the mountainside, a nook of warm rock protected from the wind, and he would make a nest for you there. He would gather soft moss and dry grass, arrange it carefully, and then guide you to sit, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders and pressing food into your hands. He would feed you with his own fingers, brushing crumbs from your lips, his eyes soft and warm. He would pull you into his lap and hold you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your waist.
It was during one of these moments that you noticed Cannibal watching.
The coal-black dragon had crept closer to the edge of his territory, drawn perhaps by the scent of the food or the sound of Jace's voice. His green eyes were fixed on the two of you, unblinking. But he was not growling. He was not baring his teeth. He was simply watching.
"Cannibal sees how I treat you," Jace murmured in your ear, his voice low and thoughtful. "He sees that you are important to me. He sees that I protect you, feed you, care for you. He's never seen that before. He's only ever seen humans as threats or prey."
You looked up at the black dragon, your heart pounding. "Do you think he understands?"
"I think he's starting to." Jace pressed a kiss to your temple. "And if he understands that you are an extension of me, that you are part of my...territory, my pack, whatever he thinks we are…then maybe he can understand that Greyghost is an extension of you."
It was a wild theory, a desperate hope. But it was the only one you had.
The next day, you brought Greyghost closer to Cannibal's territory. Not all the way in because that would have been suicide, but close enough that the pale dragon's scent would carry. Greyghost was nervous, his wings twitching, his eyes darting toward the mountain's interior, but you soothed him with fish and soft words and gentle touches.
Jace went to Cannibal as usual, carrying his offerings of meat. But this time, instead of simply feeding the black dragon, he made a point of being affectionate with you in Cannibal's line of sight. He brought you into the outer edges of Cannibal's territory, sat you down on a warm rock, and proceeded to feed you dried fruit and bread from his satchel. He wrapped his arms around you, kissed your hair, murmured endearments in High Valyrian. And all the while, Cannibal watched.
The black dragon's green eyes moved from Jace to you to the distant, pale shape of Greyghost on the ridge above. He did not growl. He did not attack. He simply observed.
"It's working," Jace breathed. "Look at him. He's trying to understand. He's never had to think about these things before. He's never had to consider that another creature might be important to someone he's starting to…tolerate."
"Tolerate?" You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Is that what you call it?"
"It's progress." Jace grinned. "A week ago, he was trying to eat me. Now he just glares. That's practically an invitation."
The days passed, and the progress continued. Cannibal stopped growling when Greyghost's scent reached him. Greyghost stopped fleeing whenever Jace approached. The two dragons never came face to face, that would have been too much, too fast, but they learned to exist in proximity to each other, separated by ridges and cliffs and the careful management of their riders.
You were sitting in Jace's nest, your back against his chest, Greyghost dozing on a ledge above you. Jace had just fed Cannibal his daily offering, and the black dragon was lying at the entrance to his lair, his massive head resting on his foreclaws, his green eyes half-lidded. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of fire and blood.
"Cannibal has accepted me," Jace said quietly. "I think he accepted me days ago, and I just didn't realize it. He lets me touch him now. Just barely. Just a hand on his snout, for a moment. But he lets me."
"Are you ready to ride him?"
Jace was silent for a long moment. "Almost. He's still wild. He still doesn't fully trust me. But he will. I know he will."
"And then what?"
"Then we fly." Jace's arms tightened around you. "We fly, and we fight, and we win. All four of us together."
Part 4: coming soon... Sneak peak/Chapter 4 summary: Rhaenyra and Daemon are beside themselves once they learn what Jace and his wife have done. Since Greyghost is smaller and can blend into clouds and cliffs like a chameleon, he and his rider are sent to scout the Riverlands, check on Daemon's remaining forces and scour for Aemond and Vhagar, since no one had seen them in days. Aemond, recovered from the stab wound thanks to Alys, now under her influence, mounts Vhagar and burns Riverlands, trying to draw out Daemon. He encounters Greyghost instead, the rider being the girl he had loved as a boy and fought as a man. Having intended to take her as a trophy and make her his wife at Rook's Rest, he is not too pleased to find her riding a new dragon. Or to learn that she brought her betrothed back to life and married him.
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summary | When rumors questioning his wife's fidelity reach the king's ears, Aemond seeks out answers in his own ways.
pairing | king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader
tags | 18+, MINORS DNI!, oral (f), rumored infidelity, exhibitionism, forced voyeurism, jealous and possessive king aemond 🫦, porn w little plot
wordcount | 2.1k
note | this is in the same realm as The Way to a Man's Heart but can still be read as a standalone :) next part will be a backstory for context.... maybe
likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!
“...and some sprouting qualms over the Reach over farmland disputes, but I have good faith in the Tyrells to see the problem squandered before the need for the crown’s intervention…”
The late afternoon sun beamed warmly in soft rays into the small council chamber. The young king leaned against his spacious chair, rolling the green marble around in its plate as his men droned about the most minute details unworthy of his attention. Being king meant putting out small fires before extinguishing larger ones, done with a simple word or a nod, often by a wave of his hand.
“Whatever you deem a suitable course of action has my approval, Lord Hand. Just see it done, yes?” Aemond ordered, satisfied when his trusted advisor nodded at his words. The assembly soon adjourned, and the council filtered out of the chamber, leaving the king be. Though he was not alone for long, for his wife soon walked through the same doors, sworn guard in tow. Aemond beckoned you forward with a nod, good eye running down the length of your embroidered gown. He noted his gifts adorning parts of you— the rings on your fingers, the gleaming sapphire around your neck, even the Myrish lace that adorned your overskirt.
“You called for me, my king?” you asked softly. Always so prim and proper, with your hands clasped on your front and your spine erect like a doll on strings while stood a respectful distance from your husband.
“I did, wife. Some whispers have reached my ears, regarding an occurrence between you and one of your ladies. The Lady Wylde, I heard,” he spoke, observing as you started to fidget, bright eyes trailing away from his sight. “Do these whispers bear any truth?”
It was silent as Aemond waited for you to speak, as calmly as his meager patience would allow him. “They do, my king. She… The lady said some things that threatened to taint my good name,” you said, head slightly bowed in shame. His face remained stoic, not betraying the sliver of surprise at your easy admittance. Perhaps he would get his answers quicker than he intended.
“I am curious to know what brought this on… if you would indulge me,” he urged, shifting to sit taller while his elbows leaned onto the table’s edge. Aemond noted the slightest flicker of your eyes towards him, before returning to your feet once more.
“I-I do not wish to trouble my king with trivial nonsense whispered between women.”
“They are serious enough if it moved you to strike her across the cheek,” Aemond pressed before you could wave him off. In the corner of his lone eye, he observed your sworn shield. A knight from your region, sworn into the Kingsguard as part of your lord father’s negotiations for your hand. He didn’t think much of it then, but the growing whispers around court about the kinship between his queen and her knight were starting to unnerve him, like an incessant ticking in his ear.
He won’t pry for now. Not directly at least, not while your knight stood tall by the chamber’s doors, eyes cast somewhere in the distance and avoiding his sharp stare. Still, the king would get his answers in some shape or form.
“It is no matter now, but I fear my emotions got out of hand and I acted out of turn by striking her. ‘Twas a shameful act for a queen, I am sorry,” you expressed, slightly pouting. Your honesty seemed to be sincere enough, eyes bright as you raised your head to look directly at him.
“What do you apologize for? The lady displeased you, did she not?” he questioned, brow raised in perplexed interest. Aemond would admit though the rumors seemed rather farfetched in his imagination, though the probability of its actuality not so much. It was not as though you were in his bed every night, nor him in yours. Despite the barriers that had been toppled in the course of your marriage, Aemond had never been one to adept in proximity. His expertise lay in keeping people within an arm’s reach, even in his marriage. Yet you never complained, and he presumed you were happy enough. Perhaps that happiness had been earned elsewhere, and the thought of it made his chest thump with an ugly heat.
“W-well, yes, but House Wylde is a trusted ally of the crown. I understand our need for their support and their lord’s wisdom on your council. I fear that I may have tainted that pact with my actions–”
Your words were cut short by a raise of his hand, flush lips clamping shut. The king could smirk at how obedient his sweet wife was, a dutiful little thing that never wished to displease him. It was a funny thought to imagine you capable of seeking a lover, in all your sheltered upbringing and devout faith, though it was too soon to dismiss such a thought. “No lord on my council comes before their queen. You have no need to fret over this, wife. In truth, I am pleased,” he said, smiling crookedly as confusion painted your handsome features.
“You are?”
“Yes. I have hoped for you to find your voice— as sovereign, as my queen, and it seems you are growing the courage.”
Hearing his words made your face brighten in surprise, before warming to a timid flush at his praise. He raised his hand to reach for you, beckoning you closer. Taking short steps forward, your ringed hand fit smaller in his broader palm when you placed it in his hold. His grip was firm, though not overbearing, as was his other hand that gripped your waist to pull you closer.
“You would tell me if there are any secrets you hold that could harm the crown and its reputation, yes?” he asked, soft tone bearing a sharp edge that noted his warning. The implications of his words were evident in the way you obediently nodded, visibly gulping in his tight hold. He knew his wife was smart enough to not consider him a fool.
“Of course, husband. There is naught I wish to do that would be an insult to my king, I promise you this,” you uttered, sealing your vow with a kiss on his ring. Aemond leaned back with a pleased sigh, sneaking a glance toward the door where your knight still stood. He bit back the mischievous smirk that threatened to lift his slim cheeks, fingers thrumming on his thigh.
“Good. Sit.” Your husband nodded towards the table’s edge. Your mouth opened to voice your confusion his intent, but the stern look in his eye left no room for question. You slid through the space between his legs and the wood, tucking your skirts beneath your bottom as you perched on the grand oak. Aemond hummed in satisfaction at your pliancy. Very obedient indeed.
“What are you…” you started, interrupted by the king finding the hem of your skirt and lifting it to your hips. Panicked, you clamped a hand down to save yourself some decency. A moot attempt, for his grip was stronger than yours, and he had already exposed your smallclothes to his eye. “Aemond!”
“I wish to please my queen as she has pleased me. Think of it as a present of sorts,” he said, smiling casually as though his calloused palms weren’t caressing the exposed flesh above your stockings. His amusement only heightened at the flush starting to color his queen’s cheeks as you stammered.
“You are most gracious, my king, b-but here?” you questioned, head quickly turning to look at the two knights standing by the doors. Both your sworn shields were adept in playing invisible, expert in finding something else to cast their eyes upon unless they were needed. They would not react to whatever the king did with his wife in their privacy, even if he took her right before them.
“I do not see a problem why not,” Aemond shrugged. You started to voice another attempt of reason, but he had already made quick work of loosening the ribbons holding your smallclothes together. The king was efficient in all things, wasting no time to dive head first into your lovely cunt.
With every sigh he coaxed from your lips, the more your resolve started to crumble, and the more it spurred him on. Mewling, your dainty hand grabbed his silver tresses, pulling on his roots to urge him away. Your husband lifted his head to look at you, with your breasts pushed flush against your neckline as you heaved, and eyes starting to grow glazed with desire. “What is it? Do you want me to stop?” he asked, tilting his head in teasing.
Your teeth caught your plump lower lip as you bit them in thought. Your hold was tight on his mane, a grounding pressure that kept him from devouring you the way he wanted. Wordlessly, you pushed him back between your thighs, giving him full reign to do with you as he wished.
Saccharine essence started to coat his tastebuds, your flower nice and warm against his tongue. The extent of your experiences in the ways of the flesh as man and wife was limited, he’ll admit, seldom venturing past the goal of planting his seed in your womb by the end of it. The king’s wife was virtuous and proper, unfamiliar with seeking her own pleasure when she was so deserving of it. Aemond had started to give you a taste for it, on the nights when his blood ran hotter for you and he let himself indulge in all that you would give him. Those evenings would end with them slick in sweat and rightfully flushed, and you would always turn so timid as he cleaned you up, right before he returned to his chambers for the night. You would never say it out loud, but he saw it in your eyes— an insatiable fire starting to be stoked.
Your voice started to grow in volume the deeper his tongue prodded into your slit, a sweet song floating through his ears and rushing straight to his cock. His thumb soon found your pearl, rubbing tight circles on your nubbin. This only served to heighten your arousal, moans now properly echoing through the vast chamber. The sound of it made him smirk triumphantly against your folds, feeding the fire that had him eating you like a man starved. Your fingers never left his hair, using it as leverage as you started to ground your hips against his face. His eye flickered to catch a peek, and he found you with your head thrown back and mouth fallen agape.
It didn’t take long for you to start gushing out your release, nearing the point of screaming as you did so. Your voice all but shook the stone walls, reverberating through the vast chambers while you trembled underneath his hold. It was the loudest Aemond had ever heard you, even more than the night he had let you ride him in the bath. A sick pride swelled in his chest while he lapped up your sweet honey, hardened length jumping in his breeches as it demanded reprieve.
Aemond opened his mouth as he pulled away to voice a teasing remark when you grabbed the leather of his doublet and pulled him up, smashing your lips against his in a hungered frenzy. You palmed at his bulge, rubbing him through his breeches. A knock on the council doors echoed through the room before you could start unlacing him, your sworn shield swiftly moving to open the entrance before the king could bark out in anger.
Fucker.
Your handmaiden moved to enter, but quickly bowed her head upon seeing the compromising position she found you in. “M-my deepest apologies, Y-your Graces,” she stuttered. Aemond had opened his mouth to scold, but your hand on his chest stopped him before he could spit out his wrath for the disturbance.
“It’s alright, Ada. Was something the matter?” you said softly. Ada remained with her head bowed, shoulders slightly quivering in fear under the king’s deathly stare.
“Her Grace wished to be notified when princess Jaehaera’s lessons finish for the day. Afternoon tea has been prepared in the gardens, as her grace requested,” she squeaked. The reminder seemed to make you remember yourself, returning to your feet and letting your skirts fall back to the floor.
“Right. Thank you,” you sighed. The young handmaiden curtsied in haste, before scurrying off when you dismissed her. Your gaze turned back to your husband, who still had his eye narrowed somewhere by the chamber’s entrance. His attention returned as you softly caressed his clothed chest, smiling up at him sweetly. “Come join us?”
It was then that Aemond made his decision. He would let the rumors be. He had no wish to prod nor question his dear wife, but let it be known that he was never one to share, in spite of his reservedness and outwardly cold nature. His answer would come on the nights you begin to seek him out, singing your sweet song of pleasure beneath him as he spurred release after release from your sweet cunt. For now, he was pleased, smirking devilishly at the sight of your knight’s clenched jaw as he left the small council chamber with his queen’s hand nestled in his elbow.
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader (She/her)
Summary: As Daemon Targaryen’s only daughter without a dragon, you have never lacked for love, not when your father has spent your entire life ensuring you want for nothing, and certainly not when Caraxes has always treated you as though you belong to him, too. When you are betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Daemon is determined to despise the match. Unfortunately, Gwayne proves difficult to frighten away, especially when he begins loving you with the same gentle devotion you have always deserved.
Warnings: Protective father Daemon, excessive fluff, family teasing, arranged betrothal, brief insecurity about not having a dragon, one deeply inconvenienced Gwayne Hightower, and a very spoiled princess. caraxes being a spoiled brat
note: just a super long and fun one shot. mostly daemon pov, we die on the hill that he was born to be a girl dad.
masterlist
One shot
The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.
It was a Valyrian steel dagger.
“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.
Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.
“She will grow into it.”
“She cannot even hold up her own head.”
“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”
The dagger was confiscated.
The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.
The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.
The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.
By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.
By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.
By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.
“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.
Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.
“She is a princess.”
“She does not need a ship.”
“She liked it.”
“She liked the carving.”
“And now she has both.”
Rhaenyra sighed.
Daemon smiled.
There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.
You had always been one of them.
You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.
You apologized when servants bumped into you.
You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.
You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.
Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.
He protected it viciously.
The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.
An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.
It had never hatched.
A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.
It remained cold.
When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.
None did.
You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.
You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.
Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.
He lowered himself beside you without speaking.
For a while, you both watched the flames.
“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.
Daemon’s expression darkened.
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.”
The words were barely audible.
They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.
Daemon turned toward you.
“You have never disappointed me.”
“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”
“You are my daughter.”
You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.
“That should make it worse.”
“It makes it irrelevant.”
“But everyone else—”
“Everyone else is not you.”
Your lower lip trembled.
Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”
Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.
“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”
It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.
The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.
Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.
The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.
You stopped.
Daemon did not.
Caraxes had always known you.
When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.
Your first word had not been father.
To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.
You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.
Caraxes had never been yours.
Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.
That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.
You placed a trembling hand against his scales.
Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.
“He knows,” Daemon said.
“Knows what?”
“That you are upset.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I wish he had chosen me.”
Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.
“He did.”
You looked back at him.
“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”
Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.
Daemon’s mouth curved.
“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”
You laughed and obeyed.
The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.
“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.
You hesitated.
“Now?”
“The sky does not close at night.”
You looked from him to Caraxes.
“But I am not his rider.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”
He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.
Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.
The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.
Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.
The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.
Caraxes climbed higher.
You laughed.
The sound carried into the night.
Daemon lowered his head beside yours.
“Still believe you have no dragon?”
You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.
“No.”
After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.
Which was often.
He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.
You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.
Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.
He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.
The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.
He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.
Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.
Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.
“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.
“I did nothing.”
“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”
“He showed restraint.”
“The boy wet himself.”
“I said restraint, not mercy.”
The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.
You never understood why.
You had Caraxes.
You had your father.
And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.
Then came Gwayne Hightower.
The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.
Daemon nearly overturned the table.
“A Hightower?”
King Viserys closed his eyes.
“It is a politically advantageous match.”
“It is an insult.”
“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”
“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”
“Daemon.”
“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”
Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.
“This is not about my ambitions.”
“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”
“Father,” you said softly.
Daemon turned.
You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.
Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.
You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.
Daemon’s face softened by a degree.
“You do not have to marry him,” he said.
Viserys sighed.
“She has not even met him properly.”
“Then she is already better off.”
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.
“What?”
“You are behaving like a child.”
“I am behaving like a father.”
“A deeply irrational father.”
“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”
Otto lifted his chin.
“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”
“He wears green.”
“Green is our house color.”
“Exactly.”
You pressed your lips together.
Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Your shoulders shook.
The sight did nothing to improve his mood.
The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.
Entirely on purpose.
“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.
Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.
“Has he?”
“You know he has.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Father.”
“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”
“Being married to me?”
“Being married beneath my supervision.”
When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.
He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.
“My princess.”
“Ser Gwayne.”
His eyes met yours.
For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.
Gwayne smiled.
It was not the polished smile of a courtier.
It was warm and slightly nervous.
You smiled back.
Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.
“So,” he said.
Gwayne looked at him.
“So?”
“You wish to marry my daughter.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Gwayne glanced at you again.
Daemon noticed.
His scowl deepened.
“I have admired the princess for some time.”
“Admired what?”
“Her kindness.”
Daemon blinked.
It was not the answer he had expected.
Gwayne continued carefully.
“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”
You stared at him.
You had not known he had noticed any of those things.
“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I believe loving her might.”
The room fell silent.
Daemon leaned back.
“You have met her twice.”
“Four times.”
“You were counting?”
“Yes.”
“That is unsettling.”
“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.
“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.
Daemon glared at both of you.
“No one asked.”
The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.
Daemon tried.
He tried with admirable dedication.
He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.
Gwayne returned the next morning.
Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.
Gwayne listened patiently.
When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.
You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.
Daemon did not find it amusing.
Gwayne remembered the names of servants.
He thanked cooks.
He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.
He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.
He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.
When you spoke, he listened.
When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.
He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.
He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.
He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.
Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.
“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you liked it.”
The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.
Gwayne’s brows rose.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.
Rhaenyra followed his gaze.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I tolerate his continued existence.”
“He reminds you of yourself.”
Daemon looked offended.
“He does not.”
“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”
“The lord deserved it.”
“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”
Daemon turned back toward you.
Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.
He looked perfectly content.
Daemon frowned.
“He is holding it incorrectly.”
“Of course.”
Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.
Gwayne was less enthusiastic.
It was not that he was a coward.
He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.
Daemon took great pleasure in this.
The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.
Gwayne stopped walking.
Daemon smiled.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“You have gone pale.”
“It is warm.”
“It is never warm in here.”
You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.
“He will not hurt you.”
Caraxes released a rumbling growl.
Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.
“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”
“He is only curious.”
“He appears hungry.”
“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.
Gwayne glanced at him.
Daemon smiled wider.
“Mostly.”
“Father,” you chided.
Caraxes lowered his head toward you.
You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.
Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.
You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.
Caraxes was careful with you.
Almost impossibly so.
“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.
Daemon’s smugness faded.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever try to bond with her?”
“No. His bond is mine.”
Gwayne nodded.
“But she is part of you.”
Daemon looked at him.
Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.
“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.
Daemon studied the knight for a moment.
“You understand dragons better than I expected.”
“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”
“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”
You turned.
“Gwayne, come closer.”
He hesitated.
Caraxes stared.
You held out your hand.
Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.
Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.
Still, he moved toward you.
Slowly.
Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.
Gwayne stopped.
You reached back and took his hand.
“He is protective.”
“So I have gathered.”
“He needs to know I trust you.”
“And how do we convince him of that?”
You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.
“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.
Gwayne shot him a look.
“That is tremendously helpful.”
Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.
Caraxes’s growl faded.
Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.
The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.
Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.
He remained standing.
After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.
You beamed.
“He likes you.”
“He tolerated me.”
“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”
Daemon crossed his arms.
“He has poor judgment.”
Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.
Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.
You did not bother disguising yours.
A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.
Daemon had invited him to observe.
Invite was perhaps the wrong word.
Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.
The implication was clear.
You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.
Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.
Daemon looked over his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.
Gwayne’s heart stopped.
The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.
Your laughter reached the cliffs.
Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.
You looked small against him.
Small, but not afraid.
Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.
As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.
You looked radiant.
Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.
Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.
When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.
Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.
Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.
“Well?” you asked Gwayne.
He stared at you.
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
“I think I understand why poets struggle.”
You blinked.
Daemon groaned.
Gwayne stepped closer.
“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”
Your cheeks turned warmer.
Daemon moved between you.
“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”
“Father.”
“What?”
“You invited him.”
“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”
The days passed more quickly after that.
Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.
It felt like walks through the gardens.
It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.
It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.
It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.
It felt like laughter.
It felt, increasingly, like love.
One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.
You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.
“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.
You knew immediately whom he meant.
“Caraxes?”
“Yes.”
You considered the question.
“When I was younger.”
“And now?”
You smiled.
“No.”
Gwayne leaned beside you.
“Why not?”
“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”
His gaze settled on your face.
You continued watching the sky.
“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”
“But you love him.”
“Very much.”
“And he loves you.”
“In his own terribly loud way.”
Gwayne smiled.
You turned toward him.
“Does it concern you?”
“What?”
“That I have no dragon.”
“No.”
“Your family may prefer—”
“My family is not marrying you.”
His answer came without hesitation.
Gwayne reached for your hand.
“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”
Your eyes stung.
“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”
You lowered your gaze.
Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”
He kissed your hand again.
“I would choose you if you had none.”
Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.
He looked up.
Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.
And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.
The wedding was held on Dragonstone.
Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.
“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”
Otto objected.
Daemon was delighted.
The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.
Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.
Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.
“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.
Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.
“It is.”
“There are six hundred guests.”
“I excluded several houses.”
You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.
Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.
Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.
A gift from your father.
When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.
You smiled nervously.
“Is something wrong?”
He said nothing.
His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.
For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.
“Father?”
“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.
Your expression softened.
Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.
“I can still end this.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“I could.”
“I know.”
“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”
“Because you will send him away?”
Daemon looked toward the window.
“Something like that.”
You took his hand.
“I love him.”
His jaw tightened.
It was not anger.
Not truly.
Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.
Now you had found something beyond his keeping.
A life that would carry you away from him.
“I know,” he said.
“And he loves me.”
“I know that, too.”
“You admit it?”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
You kissed his cheek.
Daemon closed his eyes.
For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.
“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“If he displeases you, come back.”
“Father.”
“If his family displeases you, come back.”
“I will.”
“If Oldtown is too cold—”
“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”
“Then if it is too warm.”
You laughed against him.
Daemon sighed.
“Visit often.”
“I promise.”
When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
Rhaenyra stood nearby.
“What?”
“He looks frightened.”
“He looks in love.”
“Similar conditions.”
Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.
He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.
As though the music had faded.
As though you were the only thing left in the world.
Daemon placed your hand in his.
He did not release it immediately.
Gwayne waited.
Daemon tightened his grip.
“Father,” you whispered.
“I am considering my options.”
Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.
Finally, Daemon released your hand.
“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”
Gwayne nodded solemnly.
“I assumed as much.”
“If she is unhappy—”
“Father.”
“—Caraxes will find you.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
The vows were spoken.
The cloak was placed around your shoulders.
When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.
Daemon did not clap.
He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.
At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.
He brought you wine, though you had not asked.
He moved your chair away from the draft.
He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.
Daemon watched all of it.
Rhaenyra leaned toward him.
“You approve.”
“I do not.”
“You cried during the vows.”
“There was smoke from the torches.”
“You were standing outside.”
“It traveled.”
“Of course.”
Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.
The sea spread dark beneath them.
Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.
Gwayne approached cautiously.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Daemon did not turn.
“For threatening you?”
“For trusting me with her.”
“I do not trust you.”
“You allowed the marriage.”
“Viserys allowed the marriage.”
“You could have stopped it.”
Daemon glanced at him.
They both knew this was true.
Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.
Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.
“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”
“No one is.”
“I agree.”
That earned Gwayne his full attention.
“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”
Daemon remained silent.
“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”
“Home?”
“Here.”
Daemon’s expression shifted.
“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”
The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.
Gwayne swallowed.
Daemon stepped closer.
“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”
“There is nothing missing from her.”
Daemon studied his face.
“No?”
Gwayne looked through the open doors.
You had noticed them now.
Your eyes found his across the distance.
You smiled.
Gwayne smiled back.
“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”
Daemon followed his gaze.
His daughter.
His little girl.
Still smiling.
Still safe.
Still loved.
“Take care of her,” Daemon said.
“With my life.”
“If she misses Dragonstone—”
“I will bring her.”
“If she wishes to stay for months—”
“I will wait.”
“If she asks for a dragon—”
“I will remind her that she already has one.”
Caraxes released a low rumble.
Gwayne glanced toward him.
“Two, perhaps.”
Daemon almost smiled.
Almost.
“Welcome to the family.”
Gwayne’s expression softened.
“Thank you.”
“I was speaking to Caraxes.”
The dragon huffed.
Gwayne laughed.
Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.
Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.
“Gwayne!”
He turned immediately.
You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.
“Come dance with me.”
Gwayne bowed to Daemon.
“Prince Daemon.”
“Hightower.”
Gwayne returned to you.
You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.
Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.
You whispered something that made your husband laugh.
Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.
“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”
the end.
-----------------
Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor
Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.
It was not Oldtown—not yet.
Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.
He pretended the decision had been practical.
You knew better.
The estate was beautiful.
The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.
He had filled one room with books.
He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.
He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.
You loved your new home.
Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.
On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.
“You miss them,” he said one evening.
You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.
“A little.”
“Your father or the dragon?”
“Yes.”
Gwayne laughed.
“You know we can return whenever you wish.”
“We visited last week.”
“Then we will visit again.”
“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”
“Your father already thinks that.”
You smiled.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head.
A deep roar shook the sky.
Every bird in the trees scattered at once.
You sat upright.
Gwayne went still.
Another roar followed.
It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.
Your face brightened.
“No.”
Gwayne stared toward the horizon.
A red shape moved through the clouds.
“No,” he repeated.
You were already on your feet.
“Caraxes!”
The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.
Servants screamed.
Guards scattered.
Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.
Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.
Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.
“This cannot be happening.”
You ran toward the courtyard.
Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.
He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.
You laughed.
“Caraxes!”
The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.
You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.
Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.
“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.
His golden eyes drifted closed.
Gwayne approached with extreme caution.
Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.
“Lower those,” he ordered.
One of the men stared at him.
“My lord, the dragon—”
“Belongs to my wife’s father.”
Caraxes opened one eye.
Gwayne corrected himself.
“And apparently also to my wife.”
The guards lowered their weapons.
Gwayne stopped beside you.
“Did your father send him?”
“I do not think so.”
“You think he escaped?”
Caraxes huffed.
The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.
You looked up at the dragon.
“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”
Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.
Gwayne stared.
“Is he answering you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“That he has no regrets.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.
Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.
“Never mind.”
A rider arrived less than an hour later.
He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.
“My princess!”
You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.
The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.
The messenger stumbled toward you.
“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”
Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.
“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”
“The prince is on his way.”
Your eyes widened.
“My father is coming here?”
The messenger nodded breathlessly.
“He said—”
The pounding of another horse interrupted him.
Daemon entered the gates at speed.
He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.
His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.
Daemon placed his hands on his hips.
“Caraxes.”
The dragon did not move.
“You disobedient beast.”
Caraxes closed his eyes.
“Do not pretend to be asleep.”
You covered your smile with your hand.
Daemon pointed toward the sky.
“Dragonstone. Now.”
Caraxes remained exactly where he was.
Gwayne looked between them.
“Does this happen often?”
“No,” Daemon snapped.
You raised a brow.
“Father.”
“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”
“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”
“An oversight.”
“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”
“Poorly secured chains.”
Gwayne stared at the dragon.
“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”
Daemon looked offended.
“Obviously.”
Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.
You laughed, placing both hands against his face.
“I missed you, too.”
The dragon purred.
Daemon sighed.
“You have spoiled him.”
“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”
“They deserved it.”
Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.
“How do we convince him to leave?”
Daemon studied Caraxes.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to tell him.”
You looked at the dragon.
Caraxes looked at you.
“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”
Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.
“Of course.”
“He can remain for supper.”
Gwayne stared at you.
“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”
“He was excited.”
“He also crushed the roses.”
“They will grow back.”
Caraxes released a pleased trill.
Gwayne looked toward Daemon.
Daemon shrugged.
“She wants him to stay.”
“You are her father.”
“Yes.”
“Tell her this is unreasonable.”
Daemon’s expression became confused.
“Why would I do that?”
Gwayne closed his eyes.
By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.
Daemon remained for supper.
He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.
“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.
“You married my daughter.”
“I married a woman without a dragon.”
Daemon took a drink of wine.
“And yet.”
Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.
Gwayne watched through the window.
“I will have a platform constructed.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.
The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.
“I am happy here,” you assured him.
Caraxes rumbled.
“Gwayne takes good care of me.”
The dragon glanced toward your husband.
Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.
Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.
“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”
“Caraxes is thorough.”
Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.
“Come.”
You turned.
“Where?”
“Caraxes will not leave without you.”
Gwayne’s brows rose.
Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.
“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”
Gwayne stepped forward.
“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”
Daemon stared at him.
Gwayne stared back.
You looked between them.
Caraxes growled softly.
“No one is fighting,” you said.
Neither man moved.
You sighed.
“Gwayne may come with us.”
His face went pale.
Daemon smiled.
“Excellent idea.”
The three of you mounted Caraxes.
You sat before Daemon.
Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.
“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.
“I am holding on.”
“To something secure.”
“I am.”
Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.
“That strap is decorative.”
Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.
You burst into laughter.
Daemon looked deeply offended.
“Remove your hands.”
“You told me to hold something secure.”
“Not me.”
Caraxes launched into the air.
Gwayne shouted.
You laughed harder.
The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.
You looked back at Gwayne.
His eyes were tightly closed.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Is it not beautiful?”
“I have not looked.”
Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.
Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.
“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”
“Fly straighter!”
“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”
Caraxes roared in agreement.
You laughed until tears filled your eyes.
Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.
Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.
Your father’s arm was secure around you.
Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.
Caraxes flew happily beneath you.
Perhaps the court had been right.
You had never claimed a dragon of your own.
But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.
summary: you can't stop your mind from spiraling about why your husband doesn't seem to agree with you giving him pleasure, does he not want you?
c/w: 18+ mdni, palming that hightower dick, oral sex (m and f receiving), p in v, gwayne with teary eyes and wrecked face and reluctant whimpers (yes this man whimpers)
It was some of the many moments you feel that whole happiness in your own heart, the warm and complete feeling in your chest when your father called you to his solar and tell the news that he asked for your hand in marriage.
Gwayne Hightower.
You were overjoyed. You've been paying more attention to him than other men from great houses, the way he speaks with that firm mannerisms and the honorable story people whisper about. You dream about the way he looks at you with sweet tenderness and the way he puts the strands of your hair behind your ear.
And most scandalous, you dream about the way he touches you. It's the least expected for such a lady to have that thought cross her mind, but you can't help yourself. You saw the veiny path in his arms by no intention and you cannot escape from the desire it sparks.
To be courted and taken a wife by such a chivalrous knight from a great house is such a blessing itself, but what you repressed most from becoming is the very shreds of anticipation you feel toward your wedding night. The way he'd whisper soothing words in your ears while his fingers caress you tenderly in places no man ever reaches, and the way he'd murmurs praises in your ear about how you're taking him so well. The mere thoughts make your cheeks warm.
The wedding night came and most of it was what you expected. You heard some wicked stories about husbands who force themselves on their wives. Luckily, Gwayne is not like that. No, never that.
Quite the contrary, he prepares you so well before he takes you. He whispers gentle and sweet words while taking his time making you tremble in his arms. All goes well except his hand stops your wrist when your palm reaching for his trousers. Your shocked, worried eyes fearing for rejection soothed by a tender kiss to your wrist.
"Let us be one, my lady. Let your husband give you what you're most deserving of." He says with a gentle smile before palming himself and pushing in slowly to your soaked heat. He did kiss your discomfort away, relying on interlacing his fingers with yours as he praises you.
"You're taking me so well, my dear. Look how fitting you are of me." He rasps as his wide palm caressing the tender spot under your breasts where he's placed his marks before.
From then on, your nights with Gwayne are glorious, filled with tangled sheets and warm puffs of breaths against each other's mouth. You discover a lot of things about you and himself, like how you favor his praises while he's pushing into you and how he prefers you underneath him so he can watch the way you shatter so beautifully because of his doing, that one time he tells you himself.
The only problem, well not quite a problem if you're talking about the whole thing, is that Gwayne dismisses your wish to touch him after he does you. He usually would kiss your confusion away as he distracted you with his hands and mouth and before you knew it, you're already in his arms panting and moaning his name.
Gwayne relishes when you do that. He even encourages you by touching all your sensitive spots that he learns fast and making you feel overwhelmed with pleasure that you have no choice but to cling to his shoulder and calling his name.
"Husband, please..." Your face is flushed with sweats as your body clings to him desperately, the way a wife seeks comfort and indulgences to her husband, as he would fondle your breasts and press his thumb to your swollen bud.
"What do you need, my love?" He asks in that low voice that exists only when one of you is on the edge, while managing to wear the loving expression on his eyes.
"Please, I need to—" Your words are cut as his warm mouth envelopes the peaks of your nipples that have been staring at him and begging for his attention. With just a few minutes, your thighs clench around him and the world becomes mute to your hearing, the only thing you can feel is the way he thrust deeper before he joins you in ecstasy and you feel warm spurts inside you.
You are satisfied with being held closely to the safety of your husband like that, sated and your body warm from the afterglow. Gwayne would caress your body lovingly, giving generous kisses on the crown of your head as you drift off to dreamland. But tonight, you can't.
You're determined to find out the reason why your husband won't let you touch him and you'd make sure the next time you can convince him to allow you. You arrange the secret plan you're about to navigate while Gwayne gently runs his fingers through your hair, his breathing slow and steady. He's just happy and sated having his wife laying on his chest while peppering her with his affection.
That night, you wear the usual gown you do before your sleep. Gwayne just comes to your chambers, his presence familiar and pleasant to you now. He greets you with his ordinary tired smile and a loving kiss to your head.
The atmosphere takes turns faster than most, with you now panting for air after he brings you to your first release of the night. You watch him take off his trousers with heavy breathing, his hand faking composed but you can see the urgent desire in each finger.
Before he leans down to push it in, you catch his wrist.
"Let me pleasure you, husband." You say carefully, watching reactions from his eyes.
"There's no need, my love." He tries to dodge your wish and divide your focus to the tender kiss to your lips.
"Why wouldn't you let me?"
The air is thick with silence as he can sense the weight of your question.
"Do you not wish me to touch you?"
He lets out a sigh, then you feel his knuckles brush your cheek, a gesture so tenderly it makes your heart melt.
"It's not like that, my dear."
You look him in the eye and you can see the moment his wall breaks as you learn very well your husband cannot resist with that particular eyes of yours. He closes his eyes before speaking his truth.
"I merely didn't want to startle you."
"Startle me—Do you think of me as fragile, husband?"
"No, my heart, never that." He quickly reassured you with gentle kisses on your cheek. He closes his eyes before the decision settling in. He brings your palm to his standing, hard cock.
The first contact of your more soft, small hand brings jerk to his hips. You can see the breath hitched from his chest as you stroke him up and down. Heavy, restrained sound of rumbling that he holds in thin control.
Grasping the effect you hold over him, you manage to try something a little bolder. You lean down to bring its tip to your mouth, and that's when you hear it.
Not a grunt that he usually lets out in moments like this, no. Under that heavy sighs is a shred of whimper, a reluctant and accidental sound of whimper, but it is definitely one.
You look up at him as you try to take him deeper, and his face crumpled in the way you've never seen before. The composed expressions he wears with ease now completely disappear. What's left is a weak, painful frown on the line on his eyebrows as he can't bear the pleasure you give him just with the slick of your mouth.
"This is what you deny me, husband? The beautiful sounds coming out of your lips?"
Gwayne's cock twitch hearing the filth of teasing words from his wife's sweet lips. You were never like this, bold and teasing. But now that you've got your hold on him, apparently he's not immune to your little tricks and cruel teasing.
His breathing is ragged as he's getting close to his release. The veins in his neck grow obvious and his unintended moans saying your name like a prayer for he never experienced a thing like this.
You look so divine underneath him, taking your husband's long cock in your mouth devotedly, and he mutters how grateful and lucky he is as his broken voice murmurs compliment to your sweet and dedicated nature.
That's the last thing you hear before Gwayne's whimper goes off and his hips are still in place. Then you can feel the new warmth rushing to your mouth and you eagerly swallow it. Your lips swirl around his redden tip before he leans down to support his body on his forearms.
You pull out your mouth and watch him find the rhythm of his breath beside you. His eyes closed and his painful expression still proceeded on his face.
"Are you alright, husband?"
At your sweet, teasing voice he brings his weakened state to glance at you and fails to hide the amusement on his lips.
"You are dangerous, my dear." He says as he gathers you to the sanctuary in his arms. He lays down to calm his breathing and his eager cock that's greedy for more.
"I shall give you that often in later times." You say as you give a tender kiss on his sweaty chest that you lay on.
You can feel him exhale his anticipation of this before he caves and gives long, gentle press of his lips to your hair.
"I'm veritably ruined by you, my love."
a/n: hii do people yearn for more, if yes say it in the comments!!
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