Hi Nova!!
Could I have a Ned Stark x reader, either mature 16+ or (if you don’t mind) 18+ where the reader is Ned’s second wife after Catelyn and is young and pretty and sweet, and he just can’t stop thinking about how good she would look pregnant with his son? Breeding kink to the max, if it doesn’t bother you! Thank you! 🙇🙇 (if this kink isn’t smth you’re interested in/comfortable with, no worries at all, please delete!!)
Beneath the Wolf's Cloak
- Summary: A story where a wolf takes a she-bear for a wife.
- Pairing: mormont!reader/Eddard Stark
- Rating: Explicit 18+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial
- A/N: I hope you like it. 😉
The warmth of the fire did little to ease the strange chill that clung to you despite the thickness of your cloak. Great hearths burned at each end of the Great Hall of Winterfell, casting flickering orange light across the rough-hewn stone walls and high wooden beams above. Snow still dusted the floors near the entrance, melting into dampness beneath the boots of guests just arrived. Outside, cold had not yet sunk its claws fully into the North, but the winds were sharp, and the grey skies seemed to whisper of what was coming. Inside, however, all was wine and song and firelight. A feast of celebration. Your wedding night. Your name now bore the weight of his: Stark.
You sat at the high table beside Eddard Stark, your new lord and husband, surrounded by bannermen and lords of the North. There were toasts and laughter, the clatter of trenchers, and the occasional burst of music from the minstrels near the hearth. But your eyes kept drifting sideways to him—Ned—his profile cast in soft gold by the firelight, his expression as ever unreadable, thoughtful beneath the furrow of his brow and the shadow of his beard. Yet beneath that solemn mask was a warmth he tried, and failed, to suppress whenever he looked at you. You could feel the heat of his gaze before you met it, that quiet kindling that burned brighter each time your shoulders brushed or your fingers neared on the table. He had not spoken much, but neither had he looked away from you for long.
His voice came low beside your ear, rough with wine and desire yet laced with an almost boyish shyness. “You are cold,” he said, his hand gently brushing over yours, callused and warm. “Here, take my cloak.”
You blinked, startled at the intimacy of the gesture in front of so many, and shook your head with a soft smile. “No, my lord, I am warm enough.”
He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. “You mustn’t call me that tonight,” he murmured, voice just for you. “Not when I would rather hear my name on your lips.”
You turned your face slightly to his, cheeks flushed with more than the wine. “Ned,” you whispered, and he gave the smallest nod, as if the sound of it settled something within him.
Around you, the hall roared with life. Lyanna Mormont, your young cousin, raised her goblet high and shouted your name boldly, fierce and proud. “To my cousin, Lady Stark now, and twice the beauty of the Southron queens!”
The men laughed, many agreeing heartily. “The Lady Mormont may be small, but her tongue is sharp,” Benjen Stark quipped with a grin from further down the table.
“I should say the same of her sword,” you replied lightly, drawing more laughter. “But I thank you, Lyanna. I hope I can live up to the name I’ve taken.”
“You already have,” Ned said beside you, low but certain.
His hand found yours beneath the table, not clumsy, not bold, but firm in his touch. Protective. Possessive, perhaps. You could feel the thrum of something deeper in him, something that stirred not just at your beauty but at the idea of you belonging to him now. He drank you in, from the gentle curve of your throat to the slight shyness in your gaze. And when you turned to look at him again, your lashes catching the firelight, the flush in your cheeks from wine and warmth and perhaps the anticipation of the night to come—he saw it, clearly: you would be radiant, glowing with life, with his child growing within you.
Gods help him, the image rooted itself in his mind. You in this same chair, months from now, with a rounded belly beneath your silks, one hand resting there idly as you smiled at him with that same sweet gentleness. He would give you everything, if he could. He would fight a hundred wars to see that image come to life.
“I wonder,” he said softly, his fingers curling around yours beneath the table, “what color will the eyes of the babe be, if you were to carry my son.”
Your breath caught. You turned to look at him fully, your voice a hush, “Do you think of that already?”
“I haven’t stopped thinking of it,” he confessed. “From the moment I saw you walking down the hall to me this morning. I thought—the gods would be kind to give her a son, and kinder still to let me live to see him born.”
There was no jest in his tone. Just truth. Stark truth. And beneath it, a yearning that mirrored your own.
“I should like a daughter too,” you murmured, heart fluttering. “With your quiet eyes and my wild tongue. She would rule Bear Island with a smile and burn every ship that came too close.”
He chuckled, deep and soft. “Gods help me, I hope she does. But not tonight. Tonight, I want only you.”
The hall spun around you then—not with wine, but with want. The music swelled again, another toast was shouted, but all of it faded into a blur behind the heat in your cheeks and the weight of his hand still grasping yours beneath the table.
And when the bedding was called for and the men rose cheering, voices drunken and jests lewd, Ned stood slowly. He did not let them come to you. His hand stayed clasped in yours, and he looked down over the gathered men with a quiet steel in his voice.
“No one will touch her,” he said. “She is my bride. I will carry her to our bed myself.”
Silence settled over the table. Then, as if understanding something unspoken, they let him pass.
And he did just that. Lifted you into his arms with surprising ease, his breath warm against your neck as he whispered your name again. The Great Hall of Winterfell echoed with cheers and laughter behind you, but you heard none of it. Only the beat of his heart, steady and sure beneath your cheek, and the soft promise he made in your ear.
“Tonight, I will love you slowly. And before the year ends, we will speak of names for the child.”
The chamber was warm, lit by the soft flicker of dozens of candles and the roaring hearth at its heart. The fur rugs muffled the sound of your steps as he carried you across the threshold, cradled close to his chest like you weighed nothing at all. Outside the wind howled, Winterfell groaning against the rising frost, but inside the world was still and golden, wrapped in shadows and firelight. Ned said nothing as he set you down on the edge of the great bed, his hands lingering at your waist as he looked down at you. His gray eyes, so often solemn and heavy with duty, were softer now, tinged with something deeper—reverence, awe, and something that looked almost like longing etched with restraint.
You reached up slowly, letting your fingers brush the front of his doublet, feeling the slow thrum of his heartbeat underneath. “Will you undress me, husband?” you asked, your voice low, a hint of a teasing smile playing on your lips.
His mouth twitched, and he nodded, hands raising to the clasps of your gown with a careful grace that belied the need simmering under his skin. One by one, he unfastened them, his fingers rough and warm against the cool of your skin as the fabric loosened and slid away. He worked slowly, as if memorizing each detail—the slope of your shoulder, the softness of your belly, the faintest curve of your hips. When the gown pooled at your feet, you stood bare before him, lit only by candlelight, your breath soft and even, but your heart pounding like the drums that had played at your feast.
“You are… gods, you are beautiful,” he murmured, his voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief. His knuckles traced the line of your jaw, then down your throat. “If I were a younger man, I would fall to my knees.”
“You’re young enough to make me feel like I’m burning,” you whispered, stepping forward, placing his hand fully on your waist.
He kissed you then—slowly, deeply, the way a man kisses when he knows he has you, truly has you, and he means never to let go. His lips moved with aching tenderness, but his arms were firm, pulling you close, holding you tight. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath was warm across your lips. “I swear to you, little bear, I will love you as fiercely as any man who ever carried a sword. I will protect you. And if the gods are kind, I will see you swollen with my child, glowing, radiant, as you are now.”
You reached between you, working at the fastenings of his belt, the ties of his tunic, stripping him piece by piece as he had done for you. “You make promises easily tonight, Lord Stark,” you said, voice low and warm. “But you’ll find the women of Bear Island are not so easily tamed.”
His brow lifted slightly, the ghost of a grin returning. “I do not want to tame you.”
And it was true. You could see it in the way his eyes followed your hands, in the way he trembled slightly when you pushed his tunic off his shoulders and leaned in to kiss the hollow of his throat. You drew him down with you onto the bed, and he followed, bracing himself above you. His body was strong, broad-shouldered and scarred with battles long past, and yet he moved with the gentleness of a man who feared breaking something precious. He pressed kisses to your throat, your collarbone, the rise of your breasts, reverent and slow, as if each inch of you deserved worship.
When he sank into you at last, the world shifted. His breath caught against your skin, and you gasped softly, hands clutching at his shoulders. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt him shudder, felt the weight of everything he could not say in that moment. His pace was unhurried at first, deep and steady, as if he needed to feel every heartbeat, every breath between you.
“You feel like home,” he murmured, voice breaking with quiet intensity. “Like something I thought I’d never find again.”
You cupped his face, brushing his sweat-damp hair back from his brow. “Then let me give you more than a home,” you whispered. “Let me give you fire.”
You flipped him then, surprising him with your strength—Mormont strength, wild and unyielding. You straddled him, hair tumbling down over your shoulders, your palms firm against his chest. He stared up at you, eyes wide with something like reverence, something like surrender. You rolled your hips slowly, watching him unravel beneath you, the tension leaving his shoulders, his lips parting in a soft groan.
“You’re not the only one with vows to make, Stark,” you whispered, leaning close to him. “I will not be quiet, nor meek. I will fight beside you, bleed for you. I will bear your children, yes, but I will raise them to be wolves and bears, not caged birds.”
He reached up, cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as if you were something sacred. “Then let them be wild,” he breathed. “Let them be like you.”
You rode him harder now, your rhythm fierce and unrelenting, and he held onto your hips, grounding himself in the feel of your body, your skin, your voice moaning his name. You were fire, and he was snow, and yet in this bed you melted into something molten. He surged up to meet you, his hands trailing to your thighs, your waist, your spine—everywhere he could touch, he did, as though trying to brand you into memory.
“I love you,” he gasped against your shoulder as he reached his peak, his voice breaking entirely. “I love you, gods forgive me, I never thought I’d feel this again.”
You kissed him then, fiercely, your body trembling atop his as your own release crashed through you. And when you finally collapsed beside him, wrapped in furs and each other, your skin damp and hearts pounding in tandem, he held you as if the whole world could fall away and it would not matter. His hand drifted to your belly, bare and flat now, but he kissed it gently, the promise of tomorrow on his lips.
“Sleep, little bear,” he whispered. “And when you wake, you’ll still be mine. And I—gods help me—I’ll be yours.”
