Sons of the Wolf
Pairing • Cregan Stark x Targaryen reader
Tags • semi-graphic depiction of childbirth, protective Cregan, hurt and comfort, fluffy ending
Wordcount • 2,290
On your way to Dragonstone to visit your sister Rhaenyra, you find yourself in labor during your stop in King’s Landing. Cregan protects you from Alicent’s intrusiveness.
Cregan Masterlist
Laboring in the dreary atmosphere of the Red Keep had not been part of your plans. You had wished to give birth on Dragonstone, where your older sister Rhaenyra now resided, and had made your way south in good time, or so you had believed.
Your first child Rickon was his father’s pride and joy, a dark-haired beauty with a strong disposition and all the classic Stark features. Cregan loved his little son and had been eager to see you round with a second child.
Your second pregnancy had been slightly unpleasant but until then, you had yet to feel any pains or fatigue that would signal the nearness of your term. However on the eve of your departure from King’s Landing, your labor pains had suddenly started in the afternoon.
Forced to remain in the Red Keep, you had been given your elder sister’s old rooms for your longer stay, the ones you had spent many evenings of your childhood, making plans for the future with Rhaenyra.
Now the afternoon had turned into night, darkness falling over the Keep, and your labors had not progressed. Several midwives were fussing over you and the Maester hovered over your shaking form, trying to keep your lord husband away.
“It is not custom, Lord Stark, that the father be present during the birth. You are welcome to wait in the corridor and we shall call upon you when the child is in hand,” the Maester informed him carefully, but still the solemn northern lord squared his shoulders.
“Customs be damned, I shall not abandon my wife while she suffers to bring my child into this world,” he replied, and the raised voices and tense tones only added to your distress.
“Air, air,” you cried out, pushing one of the midwives away from you. She looked upon you with pity, turning to your husband with a sad look on her face. “I need air!” you wailed, frantically pacing.
“What is happening?” Cregan hissed to her, struggling to keep his composure. Your labors with Rickon had been painful but hadn’t carried any of this urgency and he dreaded to think what this unexpected panic meant for you and the child.
“She is unsettled, unable to find her breath,” she replied, shaking her head in worry. “Perhaps some air would indeed help.”
“All the windows are open already,” the Maester placated.
“Can you walk?” Cregan inquired, offering you his arm which you took eagerly.
“Please,” you begged, clinging to his shirt, the linen bunching under your hands. He had discarded his thick doublet a while ago, his worry making his blood run hotter than usual.
He welcomed you into his arms and you grunted through your next contraction, furiously breathing in his familiar scent. “I want to go outside, to the Godswoods,” you whined into his neck.
“Let us walk, then,” Cregan replied, and the midwife came to take your other arm, supporting you. Another kneeled in front of you, slipping your bare feet into slippers.
“My Lord, she should be abed,” the Maester continued and this time Cregan couldn’t reign in his temper.
“Silence! If my wife needs to walk then she shall,” he admonished, and the old man could only obey.
Holding your swollen belly with one hand, the other clutching Cregan’s arm, you painstakingly walked to the Weirwood tree. Your pained panting resonated in the empty corridors, but you finally breathed in relief as the cold night air hit your face.
Cregan prayed to your Gods in the secrecy of his mind, unsure if they would be listening—please bring her peace and ease, he pleaded as you leaned your forehead against the white bark.
Your groans and whines broke your whispered prayers, and for a long while Cregan held you throughout each of the waves that stole your breath and seized your body. Pressing his lips to your hair and murmuring praises, he supported you with hands to your elbows, until you cried out suddenly, bending forward.
The midwife rushed to you, kneeling at your feet and pulling the lapels of your robe open; your shift was wet, tainted with pinkish fluids. “Her waters have burst,” she said with joy, and you breathed a sigh of relief.
“The babe is coming, I can feel it,” you laughed through the pain. An intense pressure came to your core, familiar and permeating. You had done this once before, delivering a son quickly after your waters had come and now you were confident you could do it again.
You slowly walked back to your rooms, feeling the babe make their descent into your hips with each step. Once again you refused to lay down and this time the Maester held his tongue, stepping out to leave you alone with the midwives and your lord husband.
Standing at the foot of the bed, you held onto the bedpost with all your might as the pressure grew until you heaved. You could vaguely feel your husband’s large hands rub soothing circles on your lower back, praising you softly as you panted and cried, and soon an urgent feeling overwhelmed you until you almost choked.
“Cregan!” you called, pulling urgently at your shift, your skin erupting with an unbearable heat.
He knelt in front of you, holding the fabric away as you groaned and pushed, your body yielding to the pain. Your core felt as though it was being cleaved in two, but the midwives’ joyous cries kept you going.
“Our babe is coming, my love, the head is out,” you heard Cregan gasp.
He watched, mesmerized, as a midwife caught the babe’s shoulders, and another took the fabric from his hands—together they encouraged him to reach between your legs. With a great cry you delivered a final push, and soon he was catching his child with his own calloused hands.
Those were the hands of a warrior, rough and dry, and now they were holding the first breath of his second child. Tears came to his eyes as you collapsed against the bed, aided by your lady, grateful sobs wracking your frame at the sight of your lord husband holding your crying babe.
His usually solemn face was trembling with emotion, utter joy and love painted over his noble features. “You have a son, my lady, my lord,” the older midwife said. “Healthy as can be.”
Cregan sat at your side as you laid down on the sheets, and he put the babe against your breast as the afterbirth came and the cord was cut. “You did admirably, my love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair.
You closed your eyes for a moment, surely exhausted, but to your husband’s dismay a maidservant entered your rooms.
Head lowered, she spoke in a meek voice. “It is custom, my Lord, that the babe is brought to the queen.”
Silence fell over you and your midwife sighed in regret. Surely the Maester had reported the impeding birth to Queen Alicent, robbing you of your peace. Without a word you pushed yourself from the bed, finding your feet with as much confidence as a newborn foal.
“Wife, you should remain abed,” Cregan admonished.
“Yes I should, but I would not stay in bed while my child is carried away,” you replied, clutching your son to your chest.
“Allow me to carry him, at the least,” he pleaded, and you allowed him to take him into his arms, cradling his small body to his chest. The baby fussed for a moment, but settled with a soothing hum from his father.
Your wobbled out of the room, pushing past the servant. Your sworn shield, Ser Erryk, called your name in surprise as you left the room, determined to match to the queen’s chambers with all your spite.
“Ser Erryk, please escort the princess,” came the order from Cregan, and the knight rushed to obey.
“This quarrel shall never end,” you complained to your husband as you were lead up the stairs, grateful that the late hour allowed you privacy from the prying eyes of the courtiers. “Her dislike for my sister does permeate everything.”
You remained silent save for uncomfortable grunts as you walked up the stairs, steadied by Ser Erryk’s strength. At your side, Cregan was carrying the drowsy babe, at which you smiled every time you paused for breath.
The Queen’s chambers were dimly lit as you entered, closely followed by your lord husband. He did not greet her, only nodded solemnly, which she did not comment on.
“Princess,” she said quietly, putting on a false smile. “Lord Stark. What a wonderful news in this cold evening.”
“Queen Alicent,” your husband replied coldly.
She approached, peering up at the bundle of linens. “A son,” he murmured, hiding his joy—he was a man of reserve, and did not wish to share his happiness with the queen.
“Little Rickon is surely elated to have a brother,” she replied.
“He will be when he learns of the news, we haven’t had the time to introduce him yet,” you said.
“Shouldn’t you be abed, Princess?” she suddenly gasped, as though she was only now realizing you were standing.
“Yes I should, your grace,” you replied curtly.
Cregan took in a sharp breath as Alicent pulled a lapel of the linens aside, and her face faltered slightly as she noticed the babe’s stark white hair. She had started her custom of seeing every babe born to noble ladies in the Keep after the birth of Prince Lucerys, curls as dark as his eyes.
Nature was strange indeed, and now that you had had a raven-haired child as well as one pale as snow, it did cast the shadow of doubt upon the queen's mind. “What is your son to be called, Lord Stark?” she asked, stepping away.
“We have not—” you started, but your husband’s answer stunned you into silence.
“Baelon.”
Tears rose to your eyes and you gasped audibly, reaching for your husband’s arm. You had often spoken of your departed brother, lamenting that you would only ever speak in this name with grief—you hadn’t dared suggesting it for your own children, as you thought a northern name would be preferred.
“Unusual name for a Stark,” the queen commented, and Cregan raised his chin in pride.
“A perfectly appropriate name for a child with dragon blood,” he replied. “Furthermore I thought it appropriate to pay homage to Queen Aemma, and to her departed son.”
Understanding dawned on Alicent’s face, but her gaze was looking over your husband’s shoulder. “A most kind gesture, Lord Stark,” said the king’s voice, and as your turned, you noticed your father standing in the doorway.
“Father,” you beamed, and Cregan was eager to hold the babe against the king’s chest as the frail man pressed a kiss to his pink brow.
“I am glad the name pleases you, your grace,” he said with warmth. “We shall take our leave. My wife needs to rest, and our son needs to nurse at her breast as soon as possible.”
“You shall nurse him?” Alicent gasped.
“It is custom in the north. Our children grow stronger for it,” Cregan answered and you leaned against his arm for support, looking at the queen.
Side by side, dragon princess and wolf lord, the two of you stood in silence and pride for a moment under the kind gaze of the king, and the colder one of the queen.
You used your husband as a crutch as you both walked out into the corridor, but you stopped at the stairs, pain making your head spin. “Thank you, husband,” you murmured gratefully, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“I meant it. Your ancestry is to be celebrated. Now allow me to carry you, wife, you have toiled enough,” your lord husband offered.
“I would not get blood all over you,” you replied, looking down at the stones where blood was pooling under your foot, having run down your leg.
“I carried my wounded brothers on the battlefield, I can carry my bleeding wife after she gave me a son,” Cregan replied, and you knew there was no use discussing the matter further.
He then gestured for your midwife to come forward, and she rushed to him. She took the babe from his arms carefully, and proceeded to walk down the steps, herself escorted by your sworn shield.
“My mother used to say the childbed was the battlefield of women,” you remembered as your husband pulled you up into his arms, the back of your knees resting in the crook of his elbow.
If you weren’t so exhausted you would have blushed at his strength and the effortless way with which he carried you. “She was a wise woman,” he commented as he brought you down, step step, with a care that made tears come to your eyes.
“I wish you had known her,” you sighed into his neck as he cradled you closer.
“Perhaps you shall speak her name in joy again…” he hinted, and you smiled.
“I am barely done with delivering a babe, that you would give me another?” you asked, and another grateful kiss was pressed to your brow.
“I am merely assuring you of my eagerness to fulfill my duties as your husband. If you ever desire a little daughter to call by your mother’s name, then I shall provide,” he vowed, and ahead of you in the bleak hallway of the Keep, your baby soon cooed in the arms of your trusted midwife.
Dividers by @arcielee
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