A Treasure Stolen
Maegor The Cruel X Reach Lady Reader
Note: This is my first venture into Maegor and is part of the "We can make them worse" project! A little rebellion, a little smut, and a whole lot of not listening to the morality police!
Warnings: !!Dead Dove Do Not Eat!! Very very dubious consent. This warning is not a suggestion, not a joke. If this material will be harmful to you DO NOT READ THIS. Please remember that we are all responsible for our own content consumption. My Masterlist
“He was a traitor. Likely. Mayhaps. Either way, he is dead.” Maegor’s voice is flat, almost bored. “And you are very much free to marry.”
You stare up at the hulking beast before you. Your husband’s blood drips steadily from Blackfyre’s edge, pooling at your feet.
Maegor Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and now, it seemed, your new husband by right of conquest.
“Are you not pleased?” His voice is a low rumble as he circles you. Each heavy thud of his boots lands like the steps of the stranger in your ears. “It would wound me grievously if you were not brimming with pleasure at the prospect of becoming my wife before gods and men.” Maegor continues his appraisal as if you were a prized mare he just won at market.
“Hmmm… hips are serviceable. Breasts are adequate.” He circles once more, eyes raking over you like inventory. “They say you gave that lordling three sons. Strong? Healthy?”
Your head swims. Shock? Fear? The edges blur.
“I will have you answer your King when he speaks to you!” He grips your chin harshly. His gauntlets dig into your skin and break you from your trance. You open your mouth to respond and he drags you an inch from his face. His eyes glare into yours. Beautiful violet eyes, so jarring sitting in the sockets of a monster so cruel.
“Is it true that you are the perfect broodmare or is it a fantasy tale?! You will answer me now woman or I will scour all of this keep and count children by collecting their heads!” His spittle lands on your cheeks and you rear back. “Oh. Do I disgust you little broodmare?” He scoffs and shoves you by your face so hard that you stumble for a moment before catching yourself.
“I have three sons,” you finally manage to force out. “Ormund, Davis and Edmund.” You nervously wring your hands. Would giving him names humanize them? Give them a chance?
Maegor smirks, his lip curling on one side. “Perfect names for cup bearers, squires… decorations.” He stalks back to you, grabbing tightly at the back of your neck and hauling you against his blood-soaked breastplate. “What role they play depends on you.” His grip tightens like an iron cuff around your neck.
“You have whelped three boys and now you will whelp more. A dozen if I see fit.” He growls lightly in your ear before speaking past your shoulder.
“Set it up. I wish to be wed within the hour. Find those boys. They will join their mother.” The armored man behind him nods and scurries off, leaving them entirely alone.
“The ceremony will be quick,” he says as he finally lets go of you. He smirks, leaning back to get a good look at you. “Then you will come and live with your sister wives, in my castle, in my court, in my bed, and in my nursery. The two of them will make you feel right at home.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I thought there were three?” The question escapes your lips before you can think better of it.
He clenches his jaw so tightly his mandible twitches. “Jeyne failed me. She suffered from weakness.” He spits as he begins to pace. “You will not be weak though, will you? No, you are the prized mare that spits out boys as your lord demands!” He smirks before stomping back toward you with predatory fire in his eyes. “You birthed three brats for a lesser man. You should be able to produce an army for your King. Fail me, and learn as they all have what that means.”
You're left there for only a quick moment before you are ushered before a small gathering, a quick glance around and you see bloody soldiers, your three terrified children, and a septon who trembles as he reads the marriage rites he no doubt knows are barely valid.
The sounds of the small ceremony are muffled to your ears. Instead, your racing heart and the whimpers of your youngest haunt you. The wedding is over in minutes. Right there in the courtyard of the castle your previous husband had ruled. Where your children had played tag among the roses, where you had once ordered the staff with gentle authority, where life had been pleasant, predictable, safe.
Now those same stones are slick with blood and gore, your husbands blood mixed in with that of your favorite maid, your septa, your sons friend the stable boy. All splattered amongst the stones so he could have you, use you, breed you like livestock.
You now stand bound to a man who could only be described as a living nightmare, his cloak heavy and damp on your shoulders.
“We rest here. Leave for the capital in the morning. Where are your quarters?”
He turns toward the keep without waiting for an answer. You remain frozen, rooted to the bloodied stone. Without turning, his shoulders hunch. A tremble runs through his frame. “Come now wife, I have had a long day of slaughter. I do not wish to drag you. But I shall if you do not move.”
You force your trembling legs forward. Each step is heavy on the blood-slick stones.
“I should put my children to bed,” you whisper, barely audible.
His hand snaps up, palm flat, silencing. “My men will see to that.” His voice is cold iron. “You and I have a consummation to attend to. Now lead me to the master’s chambers. Stay silent, otherwise.”
You nod harshly. “Yes your grace.”
Maegor chuckles, annoyed. “Silent. It is a word you have no doubt heard before today?”
You cringe, stomach twisting, and lead him through the familiar corridors. The chambers you shared with your husband await at the end of the hall. The same heavy oak door, the same rush-strewn floor.
He had been no grand passion, but he had been kind with soft words after long days, a gentle hand on your back, care for the children. Qualities you already know this man will never possess.
You reach for the heavy oak door, fingers brushing the iron handle.
Maegor strides past you, barreling through like a battering ram. The door crashes inward.
“IN. NOW.”
No patience. No kindness. Only harsh, strict commands.
You flutter in like a frightened rabbit and he slams the doors closed again.
“This is noble living?” Maegor’s lip curls as he scans the chamber.
The familiar scent of lavender and cold beeswax hangs in the air, clashing with the iron tang of blood still on his armor. Your husband had been no great Lord Paramount, only a loyal vassal of Lord Tyrell. A modest keep, a modest life. Warm hearth, soft linens, children’s laughter in the halls. All of it now reduced to a backdrop for King Maegor and his wants. His unparalleled violence now haunted this keep and the few left alive within it.
You wring your hands before you, unsure of what to do now.
“All of it off.” He waves a dismissive hand as he starts to unbuckle his gauntlets, metal clinking softly. “I would like to see the spoils of today’s victory.”
Your hands rise almost on their own, fingers seeking the laces. They shake, numb, as if belonging to someone else. The gown begins to loosen, slow and inevitable.
He watches, motionless except for the slow unbuckling of his armor. Piece by piece he sheds the steel shell, revealing the scarred, powerful body beneath. His eyes judge and claim.
Once you are bare before him he does not grab at you like you assumed he would.
“Onto the bed.” He sharply kicks the frame. The wood creaks like a warning. “This flimsy thing you call a bed. Let us see if it survives the night.”
You crawl forward on shaking limbs, breath locked tight in your chest. The mattress gives under you, soft feathers, still carrying the faint scent of lavender and the man who once shared it.
Your old septa’s voice echoes in your skull, calm and distant. Her instructions still clear. Lie on your back, child. Thighs apart. Hands folded on your stomach. Let your lord husband do as he will.
You obey the memory, not the man looming above.
“You will not lay beneath me as a corpse understood?” He climbs on behind you, movements strangely measured. The mattress sinks deeply. His heat envelops you before he even touches.
He fits himself between your thighs, then slips one large hand under your neck. Fingers curl around the sides, firm, unyielding, tilting your head just enough to trap your gaze.
“Look at me,” he repeats, voice low and absolute. “I want you to watch when I take you.”
His other hand slides up the skin of your outer thigh, leaving gooseflesh in the wake of hard, calloused fingers.
You tremble. He growls against your chin, sliding his nose along the outline of your jaw. “I enjoy that.”
You feel the tip of his thick weeping head pressing insistently against your opening.
“He was softer, I suppose?” He taunts just before he drives forward in one fast, merciless push. The burn is immediate, sharp. Your breath catches on a stifled cry. He chuckles, dark and satisfied. “Seems your gentle lord never stretched this tight little wife properly. I will not make the same mistake.”
He pushes until your hips meet his.
“This is where-” he grunts, hips snapping in quick, punishing thrusts “-my legacy will grow.”
He grips your chin, hard enough to bruise, and kisses into your mouth. His tongue shoves past your lips, claiming that space too, wet and demanding.
You taste blood, you know it's not yours or his, is it your husband's? Does he kiss you with your husband's blood upon his tongue? While he fucks you in your husbands bed?
His kiss is not affection, it is conquest, ownership. He devours, teeth clashing, forcing your jaw wider until your mouth aches. When he finally pulls back, a thin string of saliva connects your lips for a heartbeat before it falls. He licks it away with a slow roll of his tongue, eyes never leaving yours.
“My stolen treasure,” he murmurs against your swollen mouth, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “Ripped from a lesser man’s arms. The next mother of Kings and Queens alike.”
“Fight if you want,” he adds, lips brushing yours again. “I do so enjoy a battle.”
His hips roll again, deeper this time, deliberate. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs in short, broken gasps. The burn has dulled to a heavy ache, but the stretch remains merciless. Your body betrays you with slickness born of fear and shame, easing his way even as tears prick your eyes.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Good broodmare,” he growls, approval rough in his throat. “Your cunt weeps for its king already. See? We all have a purpose.” He grunts as his thrusts grow erratic. “This is yours.”
One massive hand leaves your chin to slide down your side, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. He uses the grip to yank you harder onto him, forcing every inch deeper until you feel him seated to the hilt in what feels like perpetuity. The bedframe protests with sharp creaks, wood groaning under the force.
You turn your head away, staring at the familiar hangings of your old bed, embroidered with roses your children once traced with tiny fingers. Anything but his face.
“No.” His voice booms like the warrior made flesh. He catches your chin again, wrenching your gaze back. “Eyes on me. I told you to watch.”
His thrusts grow punishing, faster, the wet sounds of skin echoing in the chamber. Your thighs tremble around his waist, your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white. Pain flares with every snap of his hips, but beneath it coils something darker, unwanted heat building low in your belly despite yourself.
He feels it. His smirk widens, a ferocity that can't belong to a man alone.
“There it is.” He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “Your body knows its place even if your mind fights. You will take my seed. You will swell with my son. And when he comes screaming into the world, you will thank me for the honor. ”
His free hand snakes between you, rough fingers finding the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs. He circles it once, twice, cruel pressure that makes your back arch involuntarily. A choked sound escapes you, half sob, half moan.
“Say it,” he demands, grinding against that spot until sparks burst behind your eyes. “Say thank you”
You shake your head, tears slipping free now.
His fingers pinch, sharp enough to make you cry out.
“Say. It.”
“T- thank you” you whisper, broken. The words taste like ash.
“Louder.”
“Thank you! I am honored to carry your heir!”
He laughs, low and triumphant, and rewards you with a brutal thrust that hits something deep inside, sending unwanted pleasure crashing through you. Your walls flutter around him, clenching despite your horror.
“That’s it.” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “Take me like the broodmare you are.”
His pace turns erratic, hips slamming forward with bruising force. The hand between your legs works faster, relentlessly, pushing you toward an edge you do not want to cross. Your body tenses, betraying you fully, heat coiling tight.
When it breaks, it feels violent. You come apart around him with a strangled cry, nails digging into his shoulders as waves of unwanted release rip through you. He groans against your throat, pleased, victorious.
He follows moments later, burying himself to the root and spilling deep inside you with a guttural sound. He holds there, hips pressed flush, making sure nothing escapes.
For long moments he stays buried, breathing hard against your skin. Then he shifts, pulling out slowly, deliberately, so you feel every inch withdraw. You feel the warm trickle follow, evidence of what he has taken.
He rolls to the side, one arm slung possessively across your waist. His hand rests low on your belly, fingers splayed.
“Rest now, wife,” he says, voice almost gentle in its mockery.
“Tomorrow we will ride to the capital. And every night after, you will open for me until my seed takes. No more gentle lords. No more lavender. Just a duty, an honor.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, almost tender.
“You belong to me now. Body, womb, breath. All of it.”
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, body aching, mind numb. The lavender scent lingers, faint under the musk of sex and blood.
Somewhere in the keep, your children sleep under guard. Their little lives changed irreparably, and only one thing stood between them and the Stranger.
Your empty womb.
The nightmare has only begun.
