i’ve been manic for some wildling!reader based stories, especially thenn warg readers (male reader preferably😊) maybe with daenerys or cersei even lol.
the character insert will basically enlist (or tries to at least) the reader as an ally/confidant, with vague romance blossoming)
The Savage She Freed
- Summary: It was the will of the gods that you are to be set free by the Mother of Dragons.
- Pairing: male!reader/Daenerys Targaryen
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @literaturedog
The heat clung to your skin like a second layer, sweat and dust mixing into something foul beneath the cracked leather that clung to your broad shoulders. Chains bit at your wrists, iron rubbed raw against the bone, but you barely noticed anymore. The low murmur of slave markets had dulled to a monotone hum, a backdrop of misery you’d long since accepted as constant. You kept your eyes forward, unblinking. The other men in the pen shifted, muttered prayers or curses, but you remained still, a silent figure standing taller than most—your skin pale and scarred from the cold of the far North, a strange contrast to the golden sun and terracotta walls of Meereen.
You did not belong here. That much was obvious.
“You see that one?” you heard the slaver bark in thick Astapori Valyrian, gesturing toward you with a gaudy, ring-laden hand. “Northman. Tall as a Hyrkoon bull. Says he can speak to beasts—claims he’s a warg. Witchcraft, if you ask me. But some buyers like freaks.”
You said nothing. You hadn’t spoken since they caught you—poachers from the southern edge of the Frostfangs. They’d set traps meant for wolves, but caught you instead. The people of the Thenns were proud, brutal, and rare; most had died beyond the Wall. You were one of the last. And you had no desire to speak the tongue of your captors.
The murmurs shifted. People parted. The slaver’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper, and instinct made you glance toward the commotion.
She walked like flame on silk.
White hair spilled over her shoulders like snow over ash, her skin smooth and pale, her violet eyes bright and inquisitive. Her posture bore command, and yet there was kindness—real, not rehearsed—in the way she tilted her head when the slaver addressed her. Beside her was the old bear, the knight who glared at every man who looked at her too long. You recognized him from stories whispered by Unsullied: Ser Jorah.
But the woman—Daenerys Stormborn, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons—her gaze fell on you.
And held.
She came closer, boots crunching sand underfoot, not with hesitation but purpose. You met her eyes because you had no master and did not lower your gaze for anyone.
“What is he?” she asked softly. The language was Westerosi. You understood it well.
“From the lands beyond the Wall,” the slaver said, puffing up with importance. “Savage. Some kind of skinchanger, he says. Dangerous. I’d keep him muzzled.”
Her eyes didn’t move from yours. “He has a name?”
“He won’t speak it.”
She stepped even closer, close enough for the scent of her—salt, smoke, and something floral—filled your nose. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read your thoughts. “Do you understand me?”
You nodded once.
“Then tell me your name.”
You hesitated. You hadn't spoken your true name aloud in moons. But her voice was not cruel. It was soft like snowfall, curious without mockery. You met her eyes and said, voice hoarse with disuse, “Y/N.”
A breath caught in her throat. Something flickered in her gaze—surprise, interest, maybe even desire.
Jorah stepped forward sharply. “Your Grace, I strongly advise against—”
“Enough, Jorah,” she said, not taking her eyes off you. “I’ll take him.”
The slaver grinned and rubbed his hands. “Fifty gold honors, my queen. For you—”
“Twenty,” she said. “He’s bruised and half-starved.”
“Thirty—”
“Twenty,” she repeated, and the edge in her tone silenced all further negotiation.
And just like that, your chains were undone.
You staggered a little as the weight fell away, but remained upright, towering above her. She looked up at you without fear. “You’ll ride with me,” she said. “Eat. Bathe. Rest.”
You didn’t thank her. You didn’t know how.
That evening, she summoned you to her tent.
You’d been given clean clothes—loose linen dyed in the colors of House Targaryen—and a meal unlike anything you’d tasted in months. Meat, spiced rice, honeyed dates. You’d eaten it all while suspicious eyes from the Unsullied followed your every move. But no one stopped you. You had been bought by their queen.
The guards parted when you approached her tent. Inside, the air was heavy with incense and firelight. She stood by a brazier, hair unbound, wearing a robe that shimmered like molten silver. She turned slowly, studying you.
“You don’t speak much,” she said, offering wine. You took it but did not drink. “That’s all right. I imagine they took much from you.”
“They took nothing,” you replied, voice low. “I am still me.”
She smiled then. Not politely. Genuinely. “Good.”
You sat where she motioned. She did not sit on her throne, only on a cushion across from you, legs folded beneath her.
“You’re not like any man I’ve ever seen,” she admitted, running a finger along the rim of her goblet. “Not even the Dothraki, and they’re fierce beyond reason. But you… there’s something older about you. Something wild.”
You shrugged. “I am of the Thenns. We are old blood. And I see through the eyes of beasts.”
“I know what a warg is,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “North of the Wall, the songs say. Skinchangers. Some say you’re cursed.”
You raised your eyes to meet hers. “And what do you say?”
“I say a curse is only a blessing someone feared.”
You allowed yourself the faintest smile.
“Jorah warned me not to bring you into my camp. He says you’ll slit my throat the moment I turn away.”
“Then he’s a fool.” You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “If I meant to kill you, I wouldn’t wait.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And here you are,” you said quietly. “Sitting before a man you barely know, who was chained like a dog not a day ago.”
She laughed softly. “Perhaps I am a fool, too.”
“No,” you said. “You’re something else.”
The brazier crackled between you, shadows dancing over her face. She looked away briefly, fingers toying with her hair. You could see the pulse at her throat, could smell the way her scent shifted—curious, hesitant, intrigued.
When she looked back, her voice was softer. “I think we will understand each other, you and I.”
Perhaps you already did.
