The list received a makeover. There is no longer a second one. All is here, in one place.
I do not give permission for my original ideas to be used in any form of derivative work, including art. I do not allow my work to be copied, reposted, or translated and uploaded elsewhere. This also applies to any use involving AI. Consider this your warning.
Requests are CLOSED FOREVER! Please stop sending them to me!
Aegon II Targaryen
Helaena Targaryen
Aemond Targaryen
Daeron Targaryen
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Jacaerys Velaryon
Daemon Targaryen
Baela Targaryen
Ormund Hightower
Otto Hightower
Gwayne Hightower
Alicent Hightower
Cregan Stark
Harwin Strong
Criston Cole
Jason Lannister
Tyland Lannister
Jason and Tyland Lannister - The Golden Court
Davos Blackwood
The List Of My ASOIAF Reader Inserts Works:
Oberyn Martell
Aerys II Targaryen
Rhaegar Targaryen
Daenerys Targaryen
Grey Worm
Arthur Dayne
Robb Stark
Sansa Stark
Arya Stark
Jon Snow
Edmure Tully
Euron Greyjoy
Theon Greyjoy
Margaery Tyrell
Tywin Lannister
Cersei Lannister
Jaime Lannister
Tyrion Lannister
Robert Baratheon
Eddard Stark
Brandon Stark (The Wild Wolf)
Lyanna Stark
Roose Bolton
Ramsay Bolton
Jojen Reed
Petyr Baelish
Jaqen H'ghar
Sandor Clegane
Khal Drogo
Ser Bronn of the Blackwater
Beric Dondarrion
Styr the Thenn
Oswell Whent
Ser Duncan the Tall - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
could you please do torrhen stark x aegon the conquerers youngest sister (not rhaenys), getting married and having kids in winterfell
Queen of Winter
- Summary: Your life with Torrhen flourishes in spite of your brother’s ire.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Torrhen Stark
- Note: This is another part of The Broken Crown series, where the reader chooses Torrhen ending called The Queen's Choice. These events follow after the ending.
The North had never seen such a wedding. The cold winds blew through the godswood as you and Torrhen Stark were wed beneath the heart tree, its ancient branches reaching out as silent witnesses. The Old Gods looked on as you made your vows, their presence felt in every gust of icy wind. Winterfell’s great hall had roared with celebration that night, the fires blazing high in the hearth, the Starks and their bannermen toasting to the union of ice and fire.
Years had passed since that fateful day, and Winterfell was no longer just a place of cold stone and ancient oaths. It was filled with the laughter of children, your children. Nine in total, each one a reflection of the bond between you and Torrhen, the fierce love that had grown despite the odds, despite the war, and despite the looming shadow of Aegon and his sisters.
Your sons were the embodiment of the North’s strength, towering figures with the bulk and muscle of their father’s kin, but with the unmistakable Valyrian features that marked their heritage. Their hair, silver as moonlight, was often tousled by the wind, and their violet eyes burned with the same fierce intensity as your dragon. They moved through Winterfell with the quiet power of wolves, though the fire of dragons coursed through their veins.
Your daughters, on the other hand, were your mirror. Each one carried a trace of your fire, both in spirit and in appearance. They had inherited your beauty, your poise, and the regal way you held yourself, but beneath it all was the cold steel of the North, a quiet fierceness that only you could understand. When they stood with their brothers, they were a fearsome sight, children of two worlds, bonded by blood and the strength of the North.
It was a day of clear skies and crisp air when Torrhen found you in the godswood, watching your children. Your youngest son, Rhaenar, was perched on a low branch of the weirwood tree, his silver hair glowing in the midday light, his eyes fixed on the sky where one of his older brothers circled on dragonback. You smiled, a small, contented sigh escaping your lips.
Torrhen approached quietly, wrapping his arm around your waist, his warmth seeping through the heavy fur cloak you wore. “Rhaenar is restless again,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“He wants a dragon of his own,” you replied, leaning into him. “He watches the skies more than the other children. He has his eyes on one of Tesaerix’s hatchlings.”
Torrhen chuckled softly, his breath misting in the cold air. “The boy has ambition. Like his mother.”
You smiled at that, looking up at your husband. His face, weathered by the years and the responsibilities of ruling, was still as handsome and strong as the day you first met. “And like his father,” you teased. “The Starks may be wolves, but there’s dragon blood in his veins.”
Torrhen’s gaze softened, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Our children are as much Stark as they are Targaryen. They carry both fire and ice in them. They will grow into great leaders.”
Your eyes turned back to the godswood, watching as your eldest son, Vaeron, landed his dragon in the clearing. The beast, a large creature with scales the color of dark smoke and ember, lowered its head, allowing Vaeron to dismount. He was the spitting image of you in his features, but Torrhen’s strength and Northern stature shaped his form. Vaeron had bonded with the first of Tesaerix’s clutch, a proud dragon who had hatched in the dead of winter.
As Vaeron approached, Rhaenar rushed over to his older brother, eyes wide with excitement. “Did she fly higher today? Did you see beyond the Wall from afar?”
Vaeron smiled, ruffling his little brother’s hair. “Not today, little wolf. But one day, when you have your own dragon, we’ll fly together.”
Rhaenar’s face lit up, and he looked to you with a pleading expression. “Mother, when will one of the hatchlings choose me?”
You knelt down, brushing a lock of silver hair from his forehead. “Patience, my love. The dragons choose when the time is right. They are not just beasts to command—they are kin, bound by blood and fire.”
Rhaenar nodded solemnly, though his excitement was barely contained. The bond between dragon and rider was something every child of yours yearned for, and you knew it would come in time.
That evening, as the fires in Winterfell’s great hall roared and the scent of roasted meat filled the air, your children gathered around the table, laughter and conversation filling the space. Vaeron sat at the head of the table beside Torrhen, discussing strategy and plans with his father, while your daughters entertained their younger brothers, teasing them mercilessly.
Torrhen watched them with pride in his eyes, the legacy you had built together here in the North. “The bannermen will be expecting more of our children to take up their positions soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Vaeron will need to command, and the others will follow.”
“They are ready,” you replied, glancing at your sons and daughters. “The dragons have chosen some of them already, and the Old Gods watch over the rest.”
Torrhen took your hand under the table, his grip firm but warm. “I never thought our lives would become this, Y/N. Not after all that’s happened. But now, I can’t imagine it any other way.”
You smiled at him, your heart swelling with the same love you had carried since the day you’d flown north to be with him. “This is where we were always meant to be, Torrhen. Here, with our children, our dragons, our home.”
The years had not been without their trials, but in that moment, surrounded by your family, the future seemed as vast and as endless as the northern sky.
In the distance, a dragon roared, its call echoing through the halls of Winterfell, a reminder of the power that lay within your bloodline, and the strength of the bond between fire and ice.
The cold wind of the Narrow Sea bites against your cheeks, a stinging reminder of the decision you've made. Beneath you, Tesaerix beats her great wings, slicing through the air with a ferocity that matches the turmoil in your heart. The horizon blurs into the pale sky, Essos beckoning you with the promise of escape, of freedom from the entanglements of your brother’s desires.
Yet, the further you fly, the more the fire within you flickers and wanes. Aegon had no right to make such decisions for you. To demand you be his. Your heart clenches with the memory of Torrhen Stark's solemn eyes, the gentle strength in his voice when he spoke of the future you were to share. The love that had grown between you, warm and sure like the spring thaw breaking Winterfell’s long-held snow.
You inhale sharply, the freezing air burning your lungs as a sudden realization strikes you. You don't want to run away. To Essos, to anywhere. It is the North you crave, the embrace of a man who would not seek to conquer you but cherish you as an equal. Your hands tighten on the reins as you make your decision.
“Tesaerix, turn north,” you command, your voice firm. The dragon responds with a deep rumble, shifting her course abruptly. The sea below shifts from the steel-blue of the Narrow Sea to the darker shades of the Shivering Sea, the air around you becoming sharper, colder.
Your heart thunders louder with each beat of Tesaerix’s wings. You imagine Torrhen, standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, his dark hair swept back, his gaze fierce and unyielding. Would he welcome you after all that has transpired? After Aegon's insult, his claim on you?
No, you tell yourself. Torrhen Stark is no meek southern lord to bow and scrape. He will understand why you have come. He must.
When the first glimpse of the North appears beneath you—the stark, snow-capped peaks of the mountains—the ache in your chest lessens. Soon, the sprawling gray walls of Winterfell come into view, smoke curling from the chimneys like a warm, beckoning hand. You draw a deep breath as Tesaerix lets out a piercing roar, announcing your arrival.
Below, you see movement, a flurry of figures rushing about in alarm. Tesaerix descends in a wide spiral, her wings stretching out like great sails, catching the icy wind. You spot him then, Torrhen, rushing out from the gates, his head tipped back, eyes wide with disbelief.
He’s clad in dark furs, his shoulders squared, his face a study in shock and something else—something that makes your heart squeeze painfully. He shouts something, though the wind snatches his words away before they can reach you. The men around him are bristling with weapons, though none dare raise them as you land.
Tesaerix’s talons scrape the frozen earth as she settles, her breath fogging the air as she lowers her head, allowing you to slide down. Your legs are unsteady as they hit the ground, but you keep your gaze locked on Torrhen, your heart pounding in your throat.
He is already striding towards you, his eyes blazing. “Y/N,” he breathes, stopping just short of reaching for you, as if he can hardly believe you’re real.
“Torrhen,” you say, his name a whisper on your lips. You search his face, looking for any trace of anger, rejection. “I…I couldn’t go. I couldn’t leave you.”
He lets out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders sagging with relief. “You came back,” he murmurs, and then, in a surge of movement, he pulls you into his arms, crushing you against him. The furs of his cloak are soft against your cheek, his body solid and warm as you melt into him.
“I love you,” you confess, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I want to be with you, not as a queen forced into another’s bed, but as your wife. Truly.”
Torrhen pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours. “Aegon won’t allow it. He—”
“I don’t care,” you interrupt, your voice fierce. “Let him rage. I will not be his plaything. I am no prize to be won or lost in his war.”
His expression softens, a look of such tenderness crossing his features that your breath catches. “You would stay here, in the North? With me?”
You nod, your throat tight. “If you’ll have me.”
He smiles then, a slow, warm smile that banishes the last of your doubts. “I would be a fool not to.” He presses his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. “Welcome home, my love.”
You close your eyes, letting the words wash over you. Home. Yes, this is where you belong, here in Torrhen Stark’s arms, beneath the great walls of Winterfell. No longer a pawn in Aegon’s game, but a woman with a future she has chosen for herself.
And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel truly free.
The great hall of Winterfell is filled with the low murmur of voices as Torrhen’s bannermen gather around the long table, their expressions a mix of apprehension and resolve. The flames in the hearth crackle and dance, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, but the warmth does little to dispel the chill that hangs in the air.
Torrhen stands at the head of the table, his hands braced on the worn wood, his gaze sweeping over the men who have served his family for generations. His decision to take you in as his own has stirred more than just concern among them; it’s sparked a fear of what may come.
“She is Aegon’s queen,” Lord Cerwyn says, breaking the silence. His voice is steady but edged with worry. “By taking her into your home, you risk the wrath of the Dragon himself. What will happen when Aegon and his sisters come to reclaim what he sees as his?”
The murmurs grow louder, the men shifting uneasily. Torrhen straightens, his gaze hardening. “Aegon made a promise to me,” he says, his voice carrying through the hall. “He pledged Y/N to me in marriage, to bind the North to his cause, to ensure peace between our people. He broke that promise when he took her for himself.”
“But you swore fealty to him,” Lord Manderly interjects, his thick brows drawn together in a frown. “You bent the knee, denounced your crown. To go against him now would make you an oathbreaker.”
“Aye, I swore an oath,” Torrhen replies, his tone unwavering. “But it was Aegon who broke faith first. He swore to honor our alliance, to make Y/N my wife, not another conquest for his own ambitions. It was not I who severed our agreement but him.”
A heavy silence falls over the hall as his words sink in. The truth of it is undeniable, but it does little to ease the tension. The men exchange uncertain glances, each weighing the cost of defiance against the honor of their lord.
“And what will you do when Aegon comes north with his dragons?” Lord Glover asks, his voice low. “Will you fight them? We’ve seen what those beasts can do. Harrenhal, Storm’s End… there’s no fortress that can withstand their fire.”
Torrhen’s jaw tightens, but his eyes burn with determination. “We will do what we must to protect our home and our honor. If Aegon thinks he can take her from me, he will find that the North is not so easily subdued.”
Lord Umber lets out a bark of laughter, though there’s little humor in it. “And do you think we can stand against them like Dorne? Hide in the mountains and strike from the shadows? We are not made for such warfare.”
“No, we are not,” Torrhen agrees, his gaze steady. “But we are not without our own strength. Unlike Dorne, we have a dragon of our own.”
The mention of Tesaerix brings a murmur of surprise, heads turning towards the open courtyard where the great beast rests. Her presence, a golden and cream colossus with blood-red eyes, is a stark reminder of the power she wields.
Lord Cerwyn’s brow furrows. “And you think one dragon is enough to face three?”
Torrhen’s mouth sets into a grim line. “It may not be enough to defeat them, but it is enough to make them think twice before they bring war to our lands. Aegon may have his sisters, but Y/N is no less fierce, and Tesaerix will fight for her as fiercely as any of their dragons would.”
Lord Bolton, who has remained silent until now, leans forward, his pale eyes glinting. “And if they come not for war, but to treat? To offer terms?”
Torrhen’s gaze does not waver. “Then we will hear them. But I will not send Y/N back to him like a piece of cattle. If Aegon wishes to negotiate, he will find that the North does not forget broken promises.”
The men exchange looks, and though there is still doubt in some eyes, there is also a flicker of resolve. Torrhen’s words, his determination, have stirred something within them.
“And if he brings his fire and blood?” Lord Manderly asks, his voice grim.
Torrhen’s eyes harden, his stance unyielding. “Then we will give him the North’s cold fury in return. He may be a dragon, but we are wolves. And wolves do not bow so easily.”
There is a long silence, the weight of his words settling over them. Slowly, one by one, the bannermen nod, their faces set in expressions of grim determination. They know the cost of defiance, the danger that looms on the horizon, but they will stand with their lord, as they have always done.
Torrhen straightens, his gaze sweeping over them, a fierce pride in his eyes. “Prepare the defenses. Send word to every holdfast, every village. If Aegon means to bring war to the North, he will find we are not so easily conquered.”
And with that, the meeting is adjourned, the men dispersing to carry out his orders. Torrhen watches them go, his heart heavy but resolute. He knows what is coming, the storm that will soon break over them all. But for now, he has you, and he will not let any force in the world tear you from his side.
No matter the cost.
The sky above Winterfell is a tumultuous gray, clouds churning like the restless sea. Torrhen stands at the head of his gathered bannermen, his face a mask of calm resolve, though you can feel the barely contained fury radiating from him. You stand by his side, your chin lifted, hands clenched at your sides. The wind tugs at your cloak, whipping the fabric around you like a banner.
Across the courtyard, Aegon sits astride Balerion, his face etched with fury. On either side of him are Rhaenys and Visenya, their dragons coiled like serpents, eyes glowing with predatory intent. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and the palpable threat of fire.
“You dare,” Aegon’s voice booms across the courtyard, cutting through the frigid air like a blade. “You dare defy me, Torrhen Stark? You shelter my wife in your halls, defying your oath of fealty?”
Torrhen does not flinch, his gaze locked on Aegon’s. “You broke your oath first, Aegon,” he says, his voice steady. “You promised Y/N to me as my wife, to seal the alliance between our houses. You shattered that promise when you took her for yourself.”
“I am the King of Westeros,” Aegon snarls, Balerion’s wings flaring slightly as if in response to his rider’s rage. “She is my queen by right!”
“Not in the eyes of the Old Gods!” Lord Cerwyn shouts, his voice ringing out clear and strong. “Under their gaze, your union is nothing but a mockery!”
The roar that tears from Aegon’s throat is almost inhuman, echoing off the walls of Winterfell. Visenya and Rhaenys exchange a glance, their faces unreadable, but there’s a tautness to their expressions, a wariness that hints at their uncertainty.
“I will not be questioned by a pack of northern curs!” Aegon roars, his eyes blazing as they settle on you. “Y/N, you are my wife, bound to me by fire and blood. I command you to come to me now.”
A shiver of fear runs through you, but you stand your ground, your heart pounding in your chest. You take a step forward, your voice ringing out clear and strong. “I will not go with you, Aegon. If you try to take me back to Aegonfort, I swear I will hurl myself from the highest tower. You will not have me as your queen, not ever again.”
A stunned silence falls over the courtyard. Even the dragons seem to pause, their massive forms shifting restlessly as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Aegon’s face pales, his fury momentarily giving way to something almost like desperation.
“Y/N, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he begins, his voice lowering, almost pleading. “You are mine. We can—”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice as cold as the northern wind. “I was never yours. I was a pawn in your game, a prize to be claimed. But I am done with being used. If you think to force me back, you will find only my lifeless body when you return to Aegonfort.”
Aegon’s expression shatters, rage giving way to something raw and broken. He glances towards Visenya, as if seeking support, but her face remains impassive, her hand resting lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt.
Rhaenys shifts uneasily on Meraxes, her eyes darting between you and Aegon. “Brother, this is madness,” she murmurs. “There is no victory to be won here.”
“You would make yourself a martyr?” Aegon spits, his voice shaking. “For what? For him?” His gaze flickers to Torrhen, filled with contempt and something else—something that twists in your gut, a pain you wish you didn’t recognize.
“For myself,” you say quietly, your voice steady. “For the right to choose my own fate.”
The silence stretches, a taut, fragile thread that seems ready to snap at any moment. Aegon’s hands are clenched so tightly around Balerion’s reins that his knuckles are white, his chest heaving as he struggles to regain his composure.
“Aegon,” Torrhen speaks, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “You can’t force her to love you. This is over.”
Aegon’s eyes blaze with fury, but the fight seems to drain out of him, his shoulders slumping. He looks at you, truly looks at you, and you see the understanding dawn in his eyes, the realization that this is a battle he cannot win.
“You would leave me,” he says, his voice hollow, empty. “For him.”
You meet his gaze steadily. “I already have.”
For a moment, he seems about to argue, to rage, but then his shoulders sag, and he looks away, defeated. Visenya murmurs something too low for you to hear. Rhaenys’ expression is soft, almost pitying, as she watches her brother crumble.
“I won’t forget this,” Aegon says finally, his voice tight with barely suppressed emotion. “The North will answer for this betrayal.”
Torrhen steps forward, his face set in an expression of unyielding resolve. “The North is ready, Aegon. We will defend our own.”
There’s a long pause, and then, without another word, Aegon turns Balerion away, his sisters following suit. The dragons take to the sky, their massive wings beating the air as they rise into the gray sky, the sound of their departure a dull roar that echoes long after they’ve disappeared from view.
Torrhen’s hand finds yours, his grip warm and reassuring. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body trembling with the aftermath of the confrontation.
“He’s gone,” Torrhen murmurs, his voice low. “You’re safe now.”
You nod, though the weight of what has just happened still hangs heavy in the air. Safe, yes. For now. But you know this is not the end. Aegon may be gone, but the shadow of his anger, his betrayal, lingers still.
But as you look up at Torrhen, at the fierce determination in his eyes, you feel a spark of hope.
I am so happy that your requests are open. Could you please write one story of Thorren Stark and Targaryen reader. They could be married, but the northern people don't like her too much because they regard her as a foreigner. Once she helps them fight off white walkers both on the ground and with dragon, they start to respect her and tell stories how a fierce warrior she is.
Blood of Fire
Requests are closed!
- Summary: The North was reluctant to warm the dragon with its snows, but then you earned your place as a warrior and as the Lady of the Winterfell.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Torrhen Stark
- Note: I had to leave out the dragon-thing, since by lore they can't/refuse (to) go beyond the Wall.
The chill of the North seeps into your bones as you step into the courtyard of Winterfell, where the stares of the Northmen burn hotter than any fire. They watch you like a hawk watches a snake, wary, untrusting. Targaryen. They do not say it to your face, but the word lingers in the air, an unspoken reminder that you are not one of them. You are a dragon, and dragons do not belong in the North.
Your husband, Torrhen Stark, has done his part to protect you, declaring you Lady of Winterfell, but even his word does little to thaw the cold glances. To them, you are still an outsider, a conqueror's sister, someone who could burn their land to ashes with a single command. They see your silver hair, the warmth of fire in your eyes, and they remember what your kind can do.
Even your dragon, a magnificent beast you’ve ridden since your youth, refuses the North's harsh clime. He is restless in Winterfell, his roars echoing across the castle walls, but he will not venture beyond the Wall. The great frozen barrier repels him, as if some ancient magic keeps him from passing. And so, when Torrhen announces an expedition beyond the Wall, you make the choice that stirs whispers amongst his bannermen: you will go, but without your dragon.
They expect you to fail. To be cold, weak, lost. But you will prove them wrong.
The wind howls like a wounded beast as you cross the Wall. The cold is sharper here, biting into your skin despite the furs wrapped around your body. Torrhen rides beside you, his grey eyes glancing at you with the quiet understanding that comes from being your husband and your shield. His bannermen are less subtle in their distrust. They keep their distance, speaking in low voices, their eyes lingering on your Valyrian steel sword, Darksong, its black blade glistening in the weak northern sunlight.
The journey is treacherous, but it is not the wildlings that concern you. You sense something else in the air, something ancient and malevolent. The Night’s Watch rangers, seasoned men who’ve spent their lives guarding the realms of men, speak of whispers in the wind, of shadows moving in the far distance. You know better than to dismiss such tales.
One evening, as the sun sinks behind the horizon, casting long shadows over the frozen wasteland, you hear it—the cracking of ice, followed by an eerie silence. Torrhen’s bannermen fall still, their hands going to their swords. You step forward, your breath visible in the frigid air, and that’s when they appear.
The Others.
They emerge from the darkness like ghosts, their bodies as pale as the ice beneath your feet, their eyes glowing with an unnatural blue. Fear ripples through the men, but not you. You draw Darksong, its black steel seeming to absorb the light around it, and the cold no longer feels so bitter.
They move swiftly, faster than any man, but you are faster still. One of the Others lunges at you, its icy sword raised, but you parry it with Darksong, the clash of steel against ice ringing out in the frozen air. The men of the North watch as you fight—not as a queen or a lady—but as a warrior. Each strike of your blade is precise, lethal, and when you drive Darksong into the chest of one of the creatures, it shatters like fragile glass, breaking into shards of ice that melt away in the snow.
For a moment, the world is still. The remaining Others hesitate, their blue eyes flickering as if they can sense the power of your blade. One by one, you cut them down, their bodies collapsing into nothingness, the air growing warmer with each one that falls.
The men who once doubted you now stand silent, their swords lowered, their eyes wide with disbelief. Torrhen steps forward, his hand resting on your shoulder, his touch warm despite the cold.
“You saved us,” one of his bannermen mutters, his voice filled with awe.
“She killed them,” another whispers, as if he cannot believe what he has seen.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, the weight of your sword heavy in your hand, but you do not falter. You meet their gazes, one by one, the mistrust in their eyes replaced with something new—respect.
Perhaps the North will never fully accept you. Perhaps they will always see the dragon in your blood, the fire in your veins. But on this day, beyond the Wall, you are not just the sister of Aegon the Conqueror. You are the Lady of Winterfell, a Stark in every way that matters.
Torrhen smiles at you, his grip firm on your arm as the wind howls once more.
“You have shown them who you are,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cold skin.
You sheathe Darksong and look out into the frozen wasteland, where the corpses of the Others melt into the snow. You have faced the darkness beyond the Wall and emerged victorious. And in the eyes of the Northmen, you are no longer just a Targaryen.
You are their Lady.
The dragon may have stayed behind, but in the North, you have forged a new legend. One of ice, fire, and steel.
- Blood of Fire - The North was reluctant to warm the dragon with its snows, but then you earned your place as a warrior and as the Lady of the Winterfell. - mature 16+
Works form The Broken Crown series (targ!reader/Torrhen Stark) below are listed in chronological order:
- The Queen's Choice - On your way to Essos, your love for Torrhen wins. You turn your dragon North. - mature 16+
- Queen of Winter - Your life with Torrhen flourishes in spite of your brother’s ire. - mild 13+
continue of the broken crown: targ! reader x torrhen stark. their children! we need to see their children, bc i know they got down an dirty after that confrontation with aegon. she gave him a whole football team. their sons have valyrian features but every bit of a stark, big burly and her daughters will look like their mother. how life is in winterfell and they have dragons. please!! thank you!
I've just posted a response for this to a similar request:
could you please do torrhen stark x aegon the conquerers youngest sister (not rhaenys), getting married and having kids in winterfell
- Sum
