Cregan Stark loves his spoiled, pampered, heavily pregnant wife
cregan stark x wife!reader
cw: (mdni+18), fluff fluff fluff, pregnancy, lactation, banter, crack, cregan is obsessed with his wife, fondling, breast play, slight dirty talk, (2.5kw).
“I curse you.”
Cregan didn’t even lift his head at the words, the only tell that he had heard his wife being the slight twitch at the corner of his lips as he continued to glide ink on paper.
He could hear you waddling, huffing, and puffing up a storm as you closed the door to his solar, making as much noise as possible to draw him to pay attention to you, no matter how much work he had to do.
And who was Cregan Stark if not a mere supplicant to all and any of his wife’s whims?
“Curse me?” He spoke, lifting his eyes towards you, the curl of his lips deepening into amusement as he observed how endearing you looked, heavily pregnant and shooting daggers his way. “To what possible end, my love? You had but seen me for the first time today.” Cregan said, arching one bushy brow, leaning back in his mahogany chair to get a better view of his beloved treasure of the North. “What have I done to earn such a harsh punishment?”
You scowled, stepping closer, your gait more akin to a mother duck than anything else, making warmth bloom in Cregan’s chest, letting his eyes sweep over you from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, taking you in, gorging on the sight of his pretty wife, all plump and heavy with his babe. He will never cease to pray to all the Northern Gods for this blessing, dropping to his knees in front of the weirwood tree, forehead pressed to the cold ground as he thanked them profusely for letting him cast his gaze upon such divinity.
“You have done plenty,” you scoffed, scrunching your nose in his direction. The closer you got to his desk, the more the resemblance between you and a disgruntled kitten became more and more apparent, making him hum. “My feet ache, my belly is too big, I’ve eaten a dozen lemon cakes in one sitting, and I can barely walk.”
Cregan pressed his lips together to suppress a splitting grin, way too amused and enamored with his crimes that he had apparently had a hand in, unbeknownst to him. How can a man like him even dare to stand there and not be swiftly punished for such wrongdoings? Other men were beheaded for less.
“Are all those ailments my doing?” He asked, feigning innocence as he waited for you to approach, letting you decide whether you wanted him near or not right now. “How could I have been such a cruel husband, hm?” Cregan continued, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to pull, to hold, but he relented, knowing the wrong move could earn him an even grumpier wife, and that is not what he wished for at the moment.
“Utterly cruel,” you affirmed, lip curling, baring your teeth at him as you stopped next to his chair, your pregnant belly brushing his arm, making his breath hitch, the wonder of such a miracle never quite ceasing. “You brought this upon me.” Your lips pursed into a pout, indignant and fussy as you continued. “If you weren’t so relentless in giving me your seed, I would’ve never resembled a thousand-pound duckling right now.”
Thousand-pound duckling.
Cregan couldn’t stop the huff of amusement that slipped past his lips even if he tried.
Smack.
“You dare laugh?” You gasped, affronted and utterly offended that your husband was finding your grievances even remotely entertaining, hand making contact with his broad shoulder again and again.
It truly only served to heighten his grin even more, eyes crinkling at the edges for a few moments as he let you hit him to your heart’s content, the slaps no more than a kitten batting its paws at a great wolf, Cregan cataloguing them more as pets than anything that could bring any harm.
“I laugh,” he started, tone woven with amusement, but achingly fond now as he watched you, lifting one hand to clasp yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss onto the back of it, halting your fussing. “Because my wife is being ridiculous,” and he could already sense the protest on your tongue at his words, so he was quick to preempt that by continuing, turning your palm to press his lips to the inside of it now. “And she does not look like a thousand-pound duckling, but the most beautiful woman I, and the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.”
You huffed, your scowl lessening.
Watching you melt gradually from his words was always one of Cregan’s joys in life, chest puffing with pride in being able to will his irritable wife into mellowness, that pretty face of yours warming whenever he “had the nerve,” as you often say, to be tender to you.
“You’re only saying that to appease me,” you protested, but moved closer, nudging him with your knee, indicating that you wished to be closer, to be tended to. A silent demand that your husband knew as well as breathing.
Cregan’s chair screeched quietly onto the hard floor as he made space for you in front of him, broad thighs parting to coax you near. He patted one meaty leg with his palm, head tilting as he watched you, lips softening at the corners, amusement bleeding into fondness. “Come here, to your husband, sweetling.”
“Are you certain you can hold the weight of me, husband?” You challenged, even as you stepped into his space. “Perhaps I am too hefty, even for you.”
Utter nonsense, Cregan thought. He knew you knew how strong he was. How easy it would be for him to hold you and not break a sweat while doing so. As if he doesn’t train and work himself to the bone whenever he is allowed a moment from the droning of courtiers to hone the muscles you secretly favour. Cregan could carry you in his arms through Winterfell’s walls for a handful of hours, he wagers, before the need to stop and take a breather would catch up to him.
“Hm, you reckon?” He rumbled, his hands finding purchase on your hips, smoothing over the flowy material of your dress. Gods, he loved the garments you’ve been adorning as of late—warm colors, soft fabrics, all cascading in rivulets down your soft, lush body. He had given word for more of such dresses to the seamstresses, without your knowledge. You didn’t have to know of his plans yet. Nor were you aware of how he made sure the hearths were lit periodically in every room you frequented, so the need for more than a cloak over your soft silks, satins, and linens was not necessary. It would’ve obstructed his view of you.
You squirmed just a bit, just enough to show resistance, even when he could feel you melting like honey in his grasp as he slowly turned you around, your back to his chest, seating you right onto his lap with a pleased, content groan. The solid weight of you, of the babe you were carrying, leaning back against him, trusting him to hold it all, made something pleased and animal bloom into his chest. If he were any more wolf in anything but sigil and tradition, he was sure he would’ve purred like a content beast right now.
“There you go,” Cregan said, broad palms using their grip onto your soft hips to hike you up higher until you were flush against him from hips to shoulders. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, leaning in to nose at your throat with a satisfied sigh, inhaling the scent of your bath oils, milk and you. “Smelling like a treat here on my lap.”
Cregan knows you would taste even better, but the time for that is not now. He loves to savour you most later in the night, when he has you all pliant and drowsy next to him, bundled up in the furs and pelts from his latest hunts, huffing and whining about all the pains and aches that plague you. And it is your husband’s duty to mend them with his tongue, hands and cock, in any way his lovely wife sees fit.
“I do not feel like a treat,” comes your response, leaning your head back against his shoulder as you grumble. “And it is your doing.”
Ah, of course. Anything that ails you is always Cregan’s demerit, be it truth or fib.
“Apologies, sweet wife,” he whispers against the warm skin of your neck, nuzzling there as a hound would its owner for clemency after being scolded. “How shall I repent for my wrongs at present, pray tell? I am yours to command, as always.”
Truth be told, Cregan could provoke you, could throw your whining and complaining back at you, as he often did, but he had found himself powerless to do such a thing in the moons since you have been with child. How could he muster even a modicum of bravado against the woman who now carried their babe? His heir. His little pup, as Cregan often called them, to your dismay, even tho he knew you did not mind the moniker in the slightest, especially when he was kissing all over the taut skin of your belly in the soft light of mornings, whispering sweet nothings to your stomach, as if the babe could hear him.
"Let me, my love." His broad palms smooth up from your hips, just enough to cradle the bottom of your pregnant, heavy belly and lift, supporting some of the weight himself, holding steady and firm. “There you go.”
The relief is instant.
You melt back into him with a soft sigh, as if a great burden has been taken from you, being gifted a moment of relaxation, where your husband was bearing the heavy load of your unborn babe. He had done this countless times since the nearing of your term, only more than a moon away until you were to be surrounded by midwives and maesters.
“It is a boulder,” you fuss, but your eyes flutter in delight, the ache in your back easing the more Cregan bears the brunt of your belly. “One I shall never have to haul around again, Gods be good.”
He hums at your words, knowing them not to be entirely founded, for he knows you are quite fond of the idea of having more than one set of little legs running around Winterfell in the years to come, but he keeps the quip to himself, mindful of your repose.
“I cannot abide by having to change my garments every few hours because I’m dripping milk like cattle.”
Dripping milk.
Cregan freezes for a moment before tipping his chin onto your shoulder to peer down your chest, and truth be told, there they were, your words sounding truthful.
Pebbled nipples peeking through damp material, where milk had stained the fabric, your heavy breasts full of milk, ready to nurture the future babe.
Your husband’s breath caught at the sight, tongue unconsciously poking out to wet his lips, as if wanting to taste the patches of wet silk and suck them into his mouth so he could relish the flavour of your nourishment.
“My poor, sweet wife,” Cregan crooned, one palm still supporting your pregnant belly, while the other slowly travelled upwards, caressing the soft fabric of your dress, until he could cup one full breast, making you huff. “So full of milk already,” he continued, thumb brushing over the damp peak of your nipple through the silk, eliciting a breathier sound this time, which made him hum. “Ready to feed our babe.”
He expected you to squirm, to fuss again at him, but you arched into his touch, limbs melting onto his lap, as if his touches were the flame to melt wax onto paper, willing you pliant and malleable.
“They ache,” you complained, pushing your chest into his palm, urging him to aid you in your grievance, as any husband should. “They’re too full.”
“Too full?” came your husband’s voice, lower, more gruff, as if your words had affected him more than he wished to admit. “And no one to suckle on these pretty tits yet, isn’t it?” He said, palm shifting, covering your breast fully, fingers dimpling the clothes’ softness as he squeezed gently, fondling the lushness slowly.
Again and again and again.
You didn’t mind the rhythmic press of his palm; on the contrary, you relished it, each one accompanied by one of those sweet sighs of content that Cregan drank in like the finest Arbour gold.
With each squeeze, the material of your dress dampened, your husband drawing out more and more milk, wetting both your dress and his palm. He groaned at the feeling, fingers dimpling the flesh harder, but never enough to hurt. “Gods, sweetling, you’re leaking everywhere,” he rumbled, pupils blown wide as he watched the way the silk darkened as more and more sweetness dripped from your pebbled nipples. “Makin’ me want to suckle at it like a babe.”
You gasped, one of your hands lifting to swat at the one he had around your breast, which only made him squeeze more. “Don’t be dissolute!” You reprimanded, but did nothing else to stop his fondling, weaving your fingers through his against your heaving tit, aiding him as you continued. “Just keep going.”
Cregan groaned, tilting his head to the side to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, the scent of sweet, warm milk already permeating the air around you, making him dizzy with the need to dip his head low and mouth at you until you couldn’t resist any more. “You’re a cruel woman,” he rasped, mouth parting, tongue poking out, as if tasting the air would suffice, as if that would even come close to having your milk on his palate. “All lush and ripe like a summer peach, sitting on my lap, dripping all over me,” he growled, feeling his palm dampen more with each squeeze. “And not letting me put my mouth on you.”
It was torture to sit there and not take what he wanted, but he knew that you’d give in soon. Only a matter of time until Cregan would crawl over you, tugging down at your neckline to slobber and mouth at your milk-heavy tits until he was drunk on the taste and you were pliant and lax under him, mewling and squirming.
And probably offering him your other breast to suckle at as well, if you were in good spirits, and he prayed dutifully to the Gods that day.
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Tags ✢ post-Dance, war time angst, grief/mourning, political marriage, marriage of convenience, eventual falling in love, eventual happy ending
Wordcount ✢ 5,000
Summary ✢ As Cregan Stark takes over King's Landing during the Hour of the Wolf, you see in him the opportunity to protect your niece Jaehaera and escape the men who turned against your family.
Series Masterlist ✢ Cregan Masterlist
CHAPTER ONE ✢ The Hour of the Wolf
Cregan was weary, even more so under the looming presence of the Iron Throne. On the morrow they would bury a king that had been slain by his own men, and it did not matter that he had been his enemy, the ordeal left a bitter taste in Cregan’s mouth.
The honorable way would have been to meet him on the battlefield, and instead the first and only time he had set eyes on Aegon II, he had been in his bed, cold and grey, a pitiful sight.
There was no honor to it, only decimation and betrayal.
With a great sigh, Cregan sat at the bottom of the steps to the cursed throne, looking down at the large hall. Some of his men had suggested that he could take it for himself, and he supposed he would have been able to gather some support easily. The Targaryens were nearly devastated, but there remained a lawful king, and he would not take a boy’s birthright from him.
In truth he did not wish to remain as Hand—he longed for the comfort of his home.
His son would have grown and perhaps would not recognize him. Months were years to children that age, and their memories were fickle. He felt older than his years, a weariness in his bones, sitting heavily on his shoulders, dragging his spine down until he felt he might collapse to the floor.
Such were the duties of men, to shoulder the burden of bloodshed so that women and children could be safe, and older men could take a rest. Still, it burned deep in his chest, this aching loneliness. It was in those moments that he thought of Arra the most. While the pain of her passing would likely never fade, he had to admit he felt the call to marry again, and find comfort in the companionship of a woman.
Cregan was pulled from his low musings by the sounds of footsteps coming from behind him—his closest friend, Cley Cerwyn, came to sit at his side with a groan. He leaned into his shoulder for a second, which Cregan responded to and the two men waited in silence until Cley found it appropriate to speak.
He cleared his throat, looking up at the high ceiling. “How long do you think we shall stay?”
“Are you in such a hurry to ride home?” Cregan answered, knowing of the harsh winter that awaited them, and that several of the wounded would need to remain in the capital for a while longer.
“Are you not?” Cley asked.
It was Cregan’s turn to clear his throat, slightly irritated at his friend’s attitude, fully knowing he had an argument to make. “Say your piece,” he ordered, meaning it to be biting, but instead it came as a sigh.
Cley rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, looking at him with a tired expression on his youthful face—he had started to grow a beard, much like Cregan, and it was rather an odd sight.
“You have done your duty. You have done right by your friend, and that is more than most men can say in their life,” Cley said gently, perhaps gentler than he had ever addressed him.
“I made a vow,” Cregan replied, looking away at the large doors of the throne room, almost expecting Queen Rhaenyra or Prince Jacaerys to cross them.
“Now you may leave the throne to those it belongs to,” Cley continued.
“The king is a child,” Cregan said regretfully—it seemed a tragedy to leave such a fractured realm in the hands of a fractured person such as Prince Aegon, but the laws of Gods and of men agreed that he was the rightful ruler, for better or worse, and there would be dire consequences to go against it.
“And he shall have regents,” Cley replied.
Cregan sighed out loud, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the same ceiling Cley had been gazing at. “A hundred and thirty years of reign and now…” he murmured, unsure of what he really meant to say.
The size of the hall and of the throne at their back was almost dizzying, and yet its emptiness and coldness had robbed it of all its glory. It seemed a ruin now, even if it had not been destroyed during the battle.
“If you wished to take it, I would bend the knee,” Cley said with humor, but there was a dark edge to it.
The fate of the whole world could topple so easily, it seemed to Cregan. It should all have felt like victory, and instead it all felt like ruin. He shook his head. “I have no wish for it.”
“What do you wish for, then?” his friend asked, almost too quiet.
“Respite.”
The moon was high in the sky that night, and you could almost swear the howling of wolves could be heard from the kingswoods. From the window of your chambers, turned holding cell, you watched the dark mass of the forest far on the horizon. The black of the bay did not bring you any more comfort, nor did the numerous lights from the city below.
Restlessness and grief were your only companions these days, since the passing of your sister and your mother, you were utterly alone at court, and in the world. The war had decimated your family, and you were now the last of your siblings.
Once, you would have thought you would have been furious, vengeful, but instead you found yourself utterly devastated, longing for quiet and reprieve from your grief. You found herself entertaining the thought of taking Jaehaera away, far from the capital and the court, far from the throne which had caused your family’s downfall, far from the young king who sat where your brother once had.
Lord Cregan Stark was holding court from the bottom step of the Iron Throne. You were surprised he had not seized the throne for himself, as he very well could have. His army held the city with an iron fist and all seemed to fear him, even the Rivermen—it could have been the start of a Stark dynasty, and some seemed to think it was, in all but name.
You had been confined to your chambers on his orders, and you felt as though you were standing in ruins, waiting for your own end. You could hardly stand the sight of the red bricks anymore; this place was forever soiled. So you clung to your niece, the poor girl in dire need of motherly love, and in loving her you endeavored to keep your sister alive in memory. Keeping the girl safe was your utmost priority, and you feared she would not be until she was freed of this red-walled prison.
Morning came and brought no relief from your nightly torments. Instead a maid came to bring you tea and collect your linens, but you stopped her before she could leave you alone again. “I was wondering if I would be allowed to pay my farewells to my brother,” you inquired.
The maid hesitated, looking at you with obvious pity. “You are to remain confined to your rooms.”
“A sister cannot say goodbye to her own brother? My niece, who now finds herself an orphan, could not say goodbye to her father? Surely the lord that now rules this place isn’t so cruel,” you pleaded.
“I shall ask,” was all the maid replied before she left, still giving you a quick curtsy.
In the end, and to your great surprise, your wish was granted. In the later hours of the afternoon, a pair of guards came to fetch you and Jaehaera, and the two of you were escorted to see your brother in the crypts, where the Silent Sisters were keeping watch over him.
In the privacy of your own mind, and for only the Gods to hear, you vowed to his still and cold form that you would take his daughter away from this dreadful place which had eventually been his downfall.
Cregan had been surprised to hear your request to see your brother, but had seen no reason to refuse you. No matter the fact that he had been his enemy, he resented that the man had been murdered with such cowardice. He could give him back some honor in death, and in allowing you and the young princess a farewell, restore some dignity to the whole tragedy.
As was your right, you had refused to see him upon his arrival in King’s Landing, remaining confined to your rooms in prayer. Cregan had honored your wish until now, and it was by chance that he came upon you in the Red Keep—if he had not known you resided here, he would have thought he’d come across a wraith, or any creature of the shadows.
You were dressed in a black gown void of any embroidery, with a veil upon your face, which made it impossible to see your eyes or the lines of your face in the darkness of the corridor. The only thing he could notice was that your grip on Princess Jaehaera’s shoulder tightened as he approached. As he came upon you, you bent to pick her up, carrying her on your hip, clutching the girl like a lifeline.
“Princess,” he greeted with a small dip of his head. “Princess,” he said with a tilt of his head and the ghost of a smile for Jaehaera. The girl buried her face in your neck without a word.
“Lord Stark,” you said, sounding wary behind your veil.
“Might we have a word?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” you refused in a quiet tone, and when he frowned, explained. “I need to tend to my niece.”
“She will be safe with her nurse the time of a conversation,” Cregan assured you, but you refused him yet again.
“There is nothing for me to say, and nothing for you to say that would appease my torments,” you said, your arms tightening around the little girl.
“It does not please me to have you a prisoner in your own home,” Cregan tried.
Tears welled in your eyes at his statement, and you watched him for a moment before you answered. “At night, when she sleeps, then. I would not part from her.”
As agreed he came at the hour of the bat, finding the girl was curled up in your bed, under the covers, her white hair splayed on the pillow. It made Cregan long for his own son, wondered if he still refused to have his hair cut, intent on growing it long. He would write to his sister later, and promise a quick return.
You were the perfect picture of a Targaryen princess, and for a moment Cregan wondered how such a feat could have been accomplished when your mother was a Hightower. The blood of the dragon ran thick, he supposed, in most of its heirs.
Without your veil to hide your face, the way you were looking at him unsettled him—it wasn’t quite fear, and certainly not reverence. You seemed exhausted and he felt sorry for the state this whole war had put you in. You were a royal princess and it desolated him to see you so diminished. He regretted the downfall of this dynasty—now a child would rule and the women and children would suffer.
“She wakes in the night, crying,” you said, glancing at your niece.
“I am sorry.”
“You bring war to my doorstep, do not offer me apologies.”
“I only ever upheld the vows my father made. He bent the knee to his king and swore allegiance to the heir he had named. Words might be wind to you, but to me they mean life,” he explained.
At that you turned away, crossing your arms over your chest, and he thought he heard a shaky intake of breath that betrayed the presence of tears. “I shall see that you are settled, before I return to Winterfell,” he told you carefully, gently as he could, but it seemed you did not care for his consideration.
“Why do you care, my lord?” you asked over your shoulder, your eyes wide and glossy with unshed sadness.
There was a softness to you, even in anger, and his heart throbbed to witness such a sight. “Because you are my responsibility until I leave,” he replied as honestly as he could. “When I am gone, rest assured that the king will take care of you.”
Turning to face him again, you looked at him with a broken expression, anger hiding the deepest, most primal heartbreak he had ever seen. “The king is no king at all. There will be no caring for us here,” you hissed, and deep inside he feared you might be correct.
With one last bow he took his leave, afraid this conversation had not served any purpose but to upset you and unsettle him.
When Cregan visited Aegon in his chambers the following day, it was only to contemplate the same ruin he had found when conversing with you. You had been right in a way—the king was no king at all, but a child with a crown and the weight of an entire dynasty on the verge of collapse.
“I wish them no harm but I do not wish to see them, either of them. I should have them sent away,” the child-king told Cregan when asked about the fate of those who were now his wards.
“It would be unwise to send them to the Hightowers. It would cultivate ill will and it might awaken the spirit of revenge,” Cregan offered.
“Dragonstone, then, away from my sight!” came the broken cry, and Cregan realized that you had been correct in your fear that you would not find any care in the capital. War had ended but you were still prisoners.
“The council shall soon discuss the matter of your succession,” Cregan said, disgusted at the prospect of such talks when children barely older than his own son were concerned. “It might be well to consider the option closest to home.”
Aegon’s face fell, contorted in what wanted to be fury but could only ever be devastation, and Cregan left without another word, once again faced with the fact that this conversation had only served to upset all parties involved. Words would not resolve any of this, he feared.
In the hallway, a knight carrying a message was waiting for him. You had behaved in a barely disguised hostile manner when he had come to your chambers the night prior, so it was with the greatest surprise that he received your request for an audience, and after thinking on it for the better part of the afternoon, he relented to seeing you again in the evening.
This time it was you who came to him, upon your suggestion, and he wondered why. As you stepped into his temporary quarters, which he had set in the Hand’s tower, he was struck with the image you made.
While he had only ever seen you dressed in black, you had changed into a dark blue gown and forgone your mourning veil. Instead, your hair was falling in heavy weight about your shoulders, some of it tied at the back of your head. Your eyes stood out, darker than they ought to be for such a fair face, and rimmed with red.
“Lord Stark,” you said, curtsying to the northern lord respectfully, and his nerves only grew at your sudden change of demeanor.
“You wanted to speak to me, princess,” he replied while pouring two cups of wine. The dark liquid looked almost black, but it was much sweeter than what he was used to in the North.
“I realize I am in no position to negotiate. However, I have seen you carry yourself with honor, I have come to the conclusion that you are just and fair and therefore I would respectfully make a request,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him, keeping her eyes low.
Cregan frowned, slightly displeased at your bold approach and obviously rehearsed words, when you had been so hostile towards him, all the way to the day prior. “I have heard that there are plans to betroth Jaehaera to Aegon. I have come to beg for her to be spared from that fate,” you said, her voice breaking. “She is but a child, a girl who has seen so much horror already. This will crush her.”
Cregan turned fully to face you, putting down the cup he was holding for you, sudden understanding dawning on him. “She has had to endure the massacre of her brother, then the loss of her younger sibling, then saw her mother succumb to grief,” you continued.
“The match is a logical and advantageous one. It would bridge the gap between Greens and Blacks once and for all,” Cregan replied.
“I am sure there are others that would do,” you retorted with a quiet strength that picked Cregan’s curiosity. “Please do not subject this girl to such an ordeal. I beseech you. You have a good heart.”
“You do not know me, princess,” he replied, solemn, and yet you did not falter.
Your eyes rose to him and held his gaze, and he was struck with the strength of your resolve, and how much you were sacrificing by coming to him, begging for your niece’s sake. “No I don’t, but I have seen how you treat your enemies,” you replied. “You gave my brother a proper burial. You told me my niece and I were your responsibility.”
Cregan sighed, appreciating the way you were ready to set some of your pride and resentment aside for the love of a child. “What do you have to offer me, in return?” he still asked. “In negotiations, one cannot make a request without a reward. What do you have to offer that I do not already possess?”
It seemed you had come here with determination, and had already prepared an offer, as your reply came without any hesitation. “While I am not exactly innocent, as some men aren’t as considerate, I remain a maid.”
Cregan was disturbed that your mind would take such a path, and his heart seized with sudden cold. “You would offer me your maidenhead, in exchange for your niece’s safety,” he clarified.
“Yes, my lord.”
Cregan could admit feeling unsettled, faced with the desperation of a woman who had nothing to negotiate with but herself, and her own dignity. “What if I turned out to be cruel and decided to give you to my men? To be passed among them,” he challenged your proposal, his wariness making him crueler than he needed to be.
“Then I would happily submit myself as a spoil of war, my lord. I would please you now, if you wished," you offered, taking a few careful steps forward. “You could claim your spoils right this instant.”
Before he could add or ask anything else, you had gone to her knees in front of him, your trembling hands reaching for him. To his absolute horror, his loins stirred at the prospect of a woman tending to him—the nearly two years of war had been long and lonely, and he had hardly tended to his needs since the passing of his wife, upon the birth of his son. Little Rickon would soon be six of age.
However, to see royal blood so diminished made his own blood boil. “No,” he replied, harsher than he needed to be, which made you flinch. “This is beneath you, princess.”
“I thought—” you hesitated.
“It was but a moment of weakness.”
He reached for you, bringing you to your feet by the arm. The woman he was faced with in this instant, as you rose again with nothing gained for your niece and nothing else to offer, softened his resolve. He was tired of the schemings of war, of the plots and alliances that led only to ruin. He could not see a path where such choices ended peacefully and there you were, with an honest request and a brave offer, and he had to admit, he respected you all the more for it.
“I will think on the matter,” he promised.
“Thank you, my lord,” you replied.
Cregan’s foul mood was still with him when he rose the next morning and presided over the day’s council meeting. He watched the proceedings with much on his mind, as each question was brought up and resolved, and he could not make himself take part in it.
It was only when the Maester brought up your name that he finally decided to end his neutrality. “There is the matter of the princess. She might share blood with the traitorous king, but she is of royal descent, the last living child of King Viserys, and she is of marrying age,” the Maester said.
“She could perhaps be a good way to appease Dalton Greyjoy?” Tyland suggested. “Or to bring House Velaryon back into the fold. Lord Alyn is still unmarried as well.”
Without thinking on it further, his instinct taking the reins, Cregan stood up. “I shall take her.”
Lord Peake laughed as though the statement was ludicrous. “Surely if you’re in need of a woman to warm your bed, Lord Stark, any other would do,” he replied with humor. “A choice closer to home might be appropriate. Alysanne Blackwood is still unwed.”
Cregan closed his fists on the tabletop, looming over the Council, and did not back down. There was an instinct in him that he could not quiet, much like the one that led him through battle, that he could not in good conscience leave you.
You might have been too bold for what you could afford, but once the shock had passed he had admired your determination, and your lack of fear. If he called himself honorable, then he could not watch idly as you were being sold to the highest bidder, and your niece used as an instrument for peace.
Perhaps it was arrogance, to think himself the lesser evil, but he knew himself enough to know.
“I have sacrificed enough for this realm. Prince Jacaerys was a trusted friend of mine. We made a blood pact that his first-born daughter would be joined in marriage to my house. His death doesn’t annul such a vow. House Targaryen owes me a daughter, and I shall take the princess.”
Unwin Peake looked unconvinced, but Thaddeus Rowan nodded his acknowledgement, and Cregan continued his argument. “If you are so worried about the Velaryons and their loyalty, there is an easy way to remedy this,” he explained. “I have looked at the prospects. Daeron Velaryon has already proposed the hand of his own daughter as wife to young King Aegon. Surely allying the two bloodlines on the throne would strengthen the realm.”
Peake scoffed, crossing his hands on the tabletop. “Lord Stark, I wonder about the justifications of this sudden campaign of yours—”
Cregan did not let him speak, uncaring that his change of mind was so sudden, and that such a demand he was making was perhaps not the most logical one. “It would do this Council well to remember that without my men, victory was impossible. The Crown owes a debt to the North, and I shall take that debt in flesh.”
His statement quieted them for a minute, and even the insufferable Peake looked uncomfortable. After a while, Tyland, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat.
“How about we ask the king? Surely he will be glad to have the last child of Alicent Hightower out of his sight,” he remarked, and while it served his cause, Cregan loathed how easily he was swayed, and how he never stood his ground, only taking the side of the argument he perceived as favorable.
“He is a child,” Lord Peake protested.
“Nearly the same age I was when mine own father passed. My uncle was appointed regent, but I was still well capable of having a mind of my own,” Cregan countered.
“Let us not bother the young king with such matters,” the Maester reasoned.
Thaddeus Rowan cleared his throat to silence the protest Peake was about to voice. “Your proposal is a sound one, Lord Stark. Perhaps it would be beneficial to take the remaining Hightower princesses away from the capital.”
“Princesses, plural?” Peake scoffed, and Cregan closed his hands into fists in annoyance at the man’s obvious self-interest. It was known to all that he had hopes for himself and his house that extended beyond the reach of a man of his position, and Cregan found a wicked sort of pride in taking the prize he coveted.
“Yes. I assume your marriage to the princess would include taking her niece as your ward?” Thaddeus asked, and Cregan was relieved that he would not need to elaborate on the matter.
“Indeed,” Cregan confirmed.
“Very well,” he said, rising in turn and putting an end to the negotiations. “It is decided then.”
All that remained to be done was to inform you, and Cregan knew that despite his insistence at council, he would not impose his will upon you. It was his intention to free you from the prison you were currently captive in, and he would not be able to live with himself if he was to imprison you in another, one of his own making.
It was true, his motive was partially selfish as Unwin Peake had suggested—he longed for the presence of a woman at his side again, the softness of married life, and he thought he could find it in you, just as you could find solace in him.
The way you had surrendered all for the sake of your niece had shown a quiet strength he admired, one that would surely benefit you as his lady wife in Winterfell, if you were to accept. Perhaps such was the path to the respite he longed for.
He came in the early afternoon, when he knew the young princess Jaehaera was asleep, and as predicted, found you in the nursery, watching over her as a mother would. “Princess,” he greeted from the threshold, suddenly hesitant.
Setting your embroidery aside, you rose, glancing nervously between him and the sleeping child. “You swore you would think on it,” you said, mistaking his hesitance for an omen of bad news.
“Fear not, your niece is safe,” he said, approaching carefully. “Daeron Velaryon’s daughter is currently on her way to the capital to wed the king. I would ensure your niece is kept away from the scheming of the court, until she is of age at least.”
Your shoulders dropped in relief, a heavy breath pushing past your lips, but your weariness had not abated. “Would?” you asked with a slight frown.
Cregan swallowed his sudden nerve and planted his feet firmly into the floor—while he was skilled and fearless on bloody battlefields, the quiet of a nursery and the expectations of a woman were somewhat more complex to face. “My offer is a proposal of marriage,” he said rather bluntly. “I would take you to wife, and Princess Jaehaera would come with us, as a ward in Winterfell.”
Cregan could not decipher the next exhale that came from you—it could have been relief, or horror, he did not know, as there was only surprise on your face.
“I will not take you to wife against your wishes. If another prospect is more agreeable to you, then you may let it be known and I shall ensure it,” he promised.
For a moment too long you could not find your words, nor your breath. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest at the most unexpected offer, but you felt the Gods had answered your prayers. It was true, you knew little of the North, but you knew that this man, your enemy, had done more for you and your niece in mere days than your allies in months of war.
“Surely your offer comes with conditions,” you said hesitantly, searching his stormy eyes.
Cregan shook his head, his frown softening. “I already have a son and heir so it will not be required of you, but Rickon needs a mother,” he explained, his voice softer than it had ever been while addressing you, and it seemed for the first time that you were faced with the man rather than the warrior.
At that you nodded, looking at the crib once more, your heart aching. “Just as Jaehaera needs a brother, or a companion, at the least,” you admitted, wondering if you would ever see her smile again, hear her laugh, or if she was doomed to an existence of sadness and grieving without end. “I would still be expected to be a true wife, to perform my duties, wouldn’t I?”
Cregan took a step closer to you, but somehow you did not feel threatened—his shoulders were hunched forward, and he looked younger in the soft light of the nursery than he had ever. It was only now that you realized he was not wearing his usual attire. While his furs and leathers were still strapped across his chest, his sword was nowhere to be seen, and his hands were bare, the gloves tied to his belt.
“You would be the Lady of Winterfell, but as I said, I would not take you against your wishes,” he replied.
Grateful tears came to your eyes, and you wanted to fall to your knees again. The Gods were cruel in a way, making it so that you would owe such a debt to your enemy, but he had shown in these last few days that perhaps, the warrior had been your foe, and the man would be your salvation.
In three words, you sealed your fate, and that of Jaehaera.
“Then I accept.”
Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Please ask in the comments if you want to be tagged in this series! Next chapter will be posted in two weeks, on July 10th.
when princess gets with cregan, does she misses ormund or she starts understanding how toxic he was to her? how history books will describe them?
From Archmaester Gyldayn's Fire and Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings
Ormund X Targ!Reader X Cregan
WC:2k
The marriage of the Princess to Lord Ormund Hightower was celebrated with all the pomp befitting the union of two great houses, though those with ears to hear noted that the bride smiled less than a maiden ought on her wedding day. Lord Ormund, for his part, comported himself with the dignity and restraint one would expect of a lord of his years and station, and it was widely remarked that he showed remarkable patience with a bride who had clearly been ill-prepared for the duties of wifehood by her mother's notoriously disordered household.
That the Lord of Oldtown was more than twice his bride's age occasioned little comment; such matches were common enough, and the princess was said to be of a meek and biddable disposition, Eustace notes with barely concealed satisfaction that Lord Ormund undertook the correction of these deficiencies with "patience and firmness befitting a father as much as a husband," and that within a moon of their wedding, the princess had shed the immodest Lyseni fashions of her maidenhood in favor of the woolens and silks proper to a Hightower lady. That she wept at the exchange is mentioned only in Mushroom's account, and Mushroom is not to be trusted in matters of women's tears.
What passed between them in the privacy of the Hightower is not recorded, though Eustace assures us that Lord Ormund was a man of "vigorous piety" who attended services at the Starry Sept each morning and kept a septon in his household for the spiritual edification of his young wife. Mushroom, predictably, takes the opposite view, devoting several lurid pages to the claim that the princess was so thoroughly subjected to her husband's "attentions" that she could scarcely walk on the mornings. The fool further alleges that Lord Ormund kept a collection of certain items—hair, ribbons, "tokens of affection"—which he would produce in the bedchamber to the princess's mingled shame and, Mushroom insinuates, secret pleasure. That Mushroom had never set foot in the Hightower seems not to have constrained his imagination in the slightest.
On the matter of the princess's behavior, the two sources are in rare agreement, though they differ in interpretation. Both record that she was seldom seen in public during the early year of her marriage, a circumstance Eustace attributes to her natural modesty and devotion to her household duties, while Mushroom—with a leer that is almost audible on the page—suggests she was kept close because Lord Ormund could not bear for other men to look upon what belonged to him. "He dressed her like a septa and locked her away like a jewel," Mushroom writes, "and she, poor simple creature, mistook his jealousy for love."
What is known is that the princess's famed dragon was seldom seen above Oldtown, and when it did appear, its cries were said to be so mournful that smallfolk made the sign of the Seven. Septon Eustace takes this as evidence that even the beast sensed the wickedness of its mistress, for dragons, as all men know, are creatures of sin and sorcery, bound to their riders by pacts that no godly man should contemplate. That Lord Ormund tolerated the creature's presence at all was counted as further proof of his extraordinary forbearance.
The servants' gossip, dutifully recorded by Mushroom with his customary indifference to decency, painted a picture of a household in which the lord was forever correcting his wife's deficiencies. She spoke too freely, it was said. She asked impertinent questions. She had been raised in the Targaryen fashion, which is to say without discipline, without modesty, and without any proper understanding of a wife's subordination to her husband. Lord Ormund, who had been blessed in his first marriage with a lady of impeccable breeding, was said to find his new bride's temperament trying in the extreme. Yet he never raised his hand to her in public, nor spoke a harsh word where others might hear—a restraint that Septon Eustace lauds as evidence of his sanctity, though Mushroom, with characteristic coarseness, suggests that whatever correction occurred happened behind closed doors and left no marks that could be seen when the lady was clothed.
That she bore him a child is indisputable, and Eustace takes care to note that she performed this duty without complaint, as befits a godly wife. Mushroom, ever eager to soil the cleanest linen, claims that Lord Ormund was so determined to see her with child that he kept her "occupied in the matter nightly" from the first week of their marriage, and that the princess, "young and tender as she was," learned to endure it and eventually to welcome it, for she knew no other existence.
When the war began in earnest, Lord Ormund—whether out of husbandly concern or a darker desire to keep his wife ignorant of her family's fortunes—took great pains to ensure that tidings from the east did not reach the princess's ears. Septon Eustace praises this as the act of a devoted husband protecting his delicate wife from matters too weighty for the female mind to bear, though even he admits that Lord Ormund's efforts went beyond ordinary solicitude. Letters from Dragonstone were said to have gone astray. Riders bearing news from King's Landing were turned away at the gates. The princess, by all accounts, knew nothing of her mother's mounting peril, of her brother Lucerys's death above Shipbreaker Bay, or of the gathering storm that would soon consume the realm.
Mushroom, inevitably, offers a third interpretation. The Lord of Oldtown, he claims, knew that if his wife learned of the war, she would fly at once to her mother's side on that wretched beast of hers, and he could not bear the thought of losing her—not to Rhaenyra, not to the blacks, not to anyone. "He kept her ignorant as a septa," the fool writes, "and just as cloistered, for he feared her dragon more than he feared the gods, and her mother's influence most of all." That Lord Ormund's motives were possessive rather than protective is a charge the greens have always denied, though it must be said that the princess's ignorance of such momentous events—occurring to her own blood, in her own name—required a degree of isolation that even the most devoted husband would find difficult to justify.
The revelation, when it came, was devastating, through a servant's careless remark, Mushroom claims, though Septon Eustace insists it was delivered gently by Lord Ormund himself, the princess, upon learning of her brother's fate, collapsed with a shriek that witnesses later described as inhuman. Septon Eustace, with his customary sympathy for the female condition, attributes her collapse to "the weakness of her sex, which cannot bear shocks that men must endure with fortitude." Mushroom attributes it to the fact that she had been deceived for weeks by the husband who had sworn to cherish her, and that her grief was as much for the lie as for the brother.
When Lord Ormund departed for the war, the princess remained at the Hightower for some months—long enough for Septon Eustace to praise her dutiful attention to the household in her husband's absence, and long enough for Mushroom to invent half a dozen scandals that supposedly occurred the moment the lord's back was turned. That she eventually flew to King's Landing with her child is not disputed. The meaning of that flight, however, has been contested by every chronicler who set pen to the Dance. Septon Eustace declares it an act of wifely desertion, a betrayal made all the more damning by the fact that she left Lord Ormund's children from his first marriage behind, "abandoning her stepchildren as carelessly as she abandoned her vows." Mushroom, by contrast, claims she fled because she had received word that her husband had fallen—a false report, as it transpired, but one she was eager to believe, for it freed her from a marriage she had come to loathe.
The fool further alleges that the princess miscarried a child upon learning of Prince Jacaerys's death, and that Lord Ormund was responsible not only for concealing the news but for the babe's loss itself, for "her womb had been so battered by his ceaseless demands that it could no longer hold what was planted there." This is Mushroom at his most indefensible, fashioning tragedy into titillation, yet the rumor took hold in certain circles and has proven difficult to dislodge from the popular imagination.
What followed in the North has been the subject of more ink than any other chapter of the princess's life. That she entered into an irregular union with Lord Cregan Stark while her lawful husband yet lived is a fact that even her most ardent defenders cannot deny. Septon Eustace pronounces it bigamy and whoredom, declaring that the princess had "inherited her mother's talent for spreading her legs wherever advantage might be gained." That she bore Stark a son within the year is cited as proof that the union was consummated with an enthusiasm unbecoming a woman who still had a husband living, whatever reports she claimed to have received.
Mushroom, predictably, provides details. The princess and Lord Stark, he writes, were inseparable from the moment of her arrival, the Northman being "everything the Hightower was not: young, hale, and possessed of an appetite that matched her own newly awakened desires." The fool devotes an improbable number of pages to the coupling itself—pages that remain popular in certain disreputable establishments to this day—claiming that the princess, after years of what he terms "Oldtown discipline," discovered in Winterfell that the marital act could be something other than duty and penance. That she took to it with a fervor that shocked even the Northmen, a people not known for prudishness, is presented by Mushroom as a redemption of sorts, though Septon Eustace sees only confirmation of her inherent depravity.
It was the young king, Aegon the Third, who prevented this catastrophe, though he was but a boy of ten and crushed by the griefs that would define his reign. His elder sister, the princess, had refused the throne in his favor—a decision Eustace calls humble and Mushroom calls foolish—and now she found herself in the impossible position of having two husbands, each of whom could claim her by law, and each of whom commanded armies that the crown could ill afford to oppose. That she loved one of these men and had borne him a son is indisputable; that she had also borne a son to the other, and had once loved him too, complicated matters beyond the solving of any maester's counsel.
What followed the war was a matter that threatened to plunge the ravaged realm into fresh conflict, for Lord Ormund Hightower, upon learning the full extent of his wife's second marriage, did not accept his cuckolding, he gathered his surviving forces—still some four thousand strong, hardened by the campaigns in the Reach—and began a march north with the stated intention of reclaiming his wife and child from the "savage seducer" who had stolen them. That Cregan Stark, for his part, began marshaling the northern levies in response is well documented, and for several tense months the realm stood on the brink of a private war that would have bled what little peace the Dance had left.
The compromise that was eventually brokered—by the princess herself, if Mushroom is to be believed, though Eustace insists it was the work of the King's Hand—was as unorthodox as it was pragmatic. The princess would remain the wife of Cregan Stark in the North, where the old gods held sway and the Faith's proclamations carried little weight. But she would also return to Oldtown for a portion of each year, bringing with her the son she had borne Lord Ormund, the child Aethan, so that the boy might know his father and his Hightower kin. That she would, during these visits, resume her duties as Lady of Oldtown—all of her duties, as Mushroom takes pains to specify—was an unspoken term of the arrangement, one that the princess accepted with what Eustace calls "penitent grace" and "She had been broken to the saddle young," Mushroom writes with characteristic crudeness, "and learned to ride whichever mount was beneath her."
Mushroom, who claims to have witnessed the first reunion of Lord Ormund and the Stark at a royal wedding some years later, describes the encounter with relish: "The Wolf and the Beacon stood at opposite ends of the hall, each with the princess between them like a bone between two hounds, and the looks they exchanged could have curdled milk. Yet she went to each in turn—to Ormund first, as courtesy demanded, for he was the elder husband and the one most grievously wronged—and spoke to him softly, and touched his face, and he unbent enough to press his lips to her lips. Then she crossed to Stark, who had watched the exchange with the patience of a man who knew she would come to him eventually, and he put his arm around her with a possessiveness that made the Hightower man reach for his sword. It was, all agreed, the most uncomfortable wedding feast since King Viserys had made his family dine together during the last year of his reign."
Lord Ormund, for his part, accepted the arrangement with the grim dignity of a man who had won the war but lost the peace. When she returned to Oldtown each spring with young Aethan, the servants noted that Lord Ormund seemed to shed ten years in a single day—and that on the mornings after her arrival, she was often seen walking with some difficulty, a detail that Mushroom, predictably, does not allow to pass without comment.
Thus the princess lived out her days, a wife to two men and mistress of two keeps, a dragonrider who spent half her year in the frozen North and half in the green Reach. That she bore children to both husbands is a matter of record; that Lord Ormund's fourth son, Aelias, was the child of his second marriage and the only one of her Hightower children to survive infancy, while her Stark sons grew tall and strong in the Northern fashion, occasioned much comment from Eustace, who saw in the disparity the judgment of the Seven. Yet Aethan, a spirited boy, devoted to his mother and to the half-brothers who visited Oldtown when the seasons permitted, he grew to manhood in the shadow of his parents' strange arrangement, spending summers in Oldtown and winters in the North. In time, he would earn his own place in the histories, though that is a tale for another chapter.
a/n: post-war, it is up to ur own interpretation but is written with the intent on reader being aemma’s younger daughter, cregan is the bday boy and his wife takes care of him!!
Hisses of snow clawed at the tall window panes of Lord Cregan Stark’s solar. Charcoal-hued eyes lingered over the recent trade made between House Cerwyn and House Hornwood, who now have brought their dispute before their Warden.
Maester Kennet stood cross-armed to the side, the glint of his chains bouncing off with the firelight. “The sale was struck before the deep frost,” He explained, “But both report thinning stores now.”
“These men marched with me,” Cregan grunted, as he did so frequently, rubbing his temples, “They’ll achieve nothing divided. Let them speak their grievances before me— send word at first light.”
The maester bows and slowly rises, “Yes, my lord. Riders shall be sent early on in the morrow.” A soft sigh left Cregan’s mouth, and the maester left shortly after.
Kennet would attempt to turn the corner as he passed the halls but, he was interrupted in doing so--he was met with you, who appeared before him, wearing a knowing smile.
“My Lady,” Stiffly, he bowed to the Targaryen princess, now Lady of Winterfell, who stood, assertively, with her dark furs and silver curls.
"Maester Kennet,” You began, a sly smile forming—and one would almost mistake you for a fox, not a dragon— “I presume you already know I heard all which was discussed. You are aware it is your lord’s nameday on the morrow?”
The maester raised a brow, puzzled, then nodded, “…Yes, my Lady, but duty calls—“
“And you know I am relentless, so be no fool— you will send word immediately, yes?”
You cocked your head to the side, continuing, “I want full accounting of grain stores from both Castle Cerwyn and Hornwood. Barley, oats, root vegetables, livestock numbers, fodder remaining. I want it tallied and sworn,” Your eyes narrowed, “And it will be ready by the first light, before my husband wakes.”
To argue against a Targaryen princess, and this one especially, would be a foolish thing to do. To reason, perhaps, would be smarter, “My lord has given instruction.”
“And I amend it. This dispute will not reach Winterfell. It will be resolved before it does."
“…And this is for Lord Stark’s judgement?”
You observed your nails, feigning disinterest, “Call it what you will, I do this in his good name. I will arrive on dragonback with our steward. It will be quick,” You sighed, “My husband’s nameday will not be tainted by petty lords. By the time he wakes, he’ll find this matter resolved.”
Kennet could only incline his head and comply, "...It will be as you wish it, my lady.” For if the wolf could be matched in wit and bite, it would be by none other than his own wife.
Blankets of pure, white snow stretched over the northern lands. Wagons stood on each side. Northern men would carve one another into oak if they could, but community meant everything in the North, and it could not afford a moment of fragility.
Even in conflict, they had one thing in common. Southerners repulsed them, and moreover, they shied away from southern politics. So to be summoned by a southern woman in their own lands, much less a Targaryen dragonrider who was now their overseer, needless to say— they were not happy, not at all.
A shriek echoed throughout the vast void that was this blizzard of a field, and a large shadow was cast above the men. You descended beyond the skies, with your dragon landing safely.
Groups of men bow to the Lady of the North. Without much flourish, you dismount your companion, and waste no time:
“Which party withheld grain first?” Stern. Stable, in control. Your past shaped you into what you were now; if not adored, you were at least respected to a degree here.
Lord Cerwyn shivered. Was it from the brutal chill of winter, or the possibility of getting smoked like a little lamb?
“Payment was delayed.” He'd finally manage.
Lord Hornwood’s eyes widened, “Our granary roof fell! We asked f'time, not mercy!”
You raised your hand. Your steward opened up the pamphlet of the tallies gathered at dawn, and handed it over elegantly, “…The contract stands." You began, "The purchase was made under law, and payment shall be honored,”
Hornwood protested, “My Lady—“
“The laws of trade cannot be disrupted. However,” You continued, “Lord Cerwyn shall release the withheld grain immediately. Half of the original amount will be paid now. The rest repaid in spring with added barley from the first harvest.”
You fixed a shocked Cerwyn with a level look, as he returned it with one of oblivion, “If Lord Hornwood’s stores fail, your east flank weakens. May I remind you, that the North must always stand united as one. A slip of one house, and you will not fear wheats my lords, already raiders.”
The lords shared a look.
You continued your judgement, “No grain wagons move without the seal of Winterfell. I will see to it. This, it is shared survival.”
The men bow. They dare not protest, only follow your word, “It will be done, my Lady."
The two houses do not hold hands and sing off into the flakes of the cold. They don’t hold each other in affection.
But they are all bound in necessity and in survival. You understood. They understood.
And perhaps, that is enough.
Frantic and heavy footsteps left marks in the deep snow. Cregan Stark, in all his disarray, headed over to the dragonpit he had built for his princess all those years ago. Humble in comparison to the original, now ruined one in King’s Landing, but a sweet gift.
What his dear wife did, was not so sweet. Once Cregan rose in the morn, he had grasped the empty sheets next to him, which had already grown cold. Only to hear from his maester that his lady rode off into the skies little after dawn, to solve a conflict you had overheard (you sneaky minx).
You hadn't been back for hours.
Thankfully, your dragon was a little less discreet than you were. He stormed into the pit, the slam of the doors echoing throughout it as they hit the walls. He rolled his eyes once he spotted you getting off your dragon, as if he were the princess and not you.
You turned to find your slightly agitated husband standing still. You rushed toward him, but he had already begun his monologue.
“What have you done? Did I have to pray to the Old Gods and new that some raider did not shoot you down—“ Clasping your arms around his neck, you pulled him down till your foreheads met, and you whispered against his lips,
“Happy nameday, love,” You giggled at his little frown, and crashed your lips against his before he could retaliate. There was nothing for Cregan to do, other than return it, before you pulled away and he grumbled at the loss of contact. “May your winters be many.”
"My winters will be scarce if you do not quit." He snaked his arms around you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t adore the way he hovered over you completely, “Is that your gift to me? A heart attack?”
You could but laugh at that.
“A haart-uh-tack.”
Cregan scoffed, and a truly devout smile made its way to his lips, as he lifted you off the ground and spun you around. You laughed, and once he set you down, he went in for more.
He smelled of firewood smoke. Even amidst all this cold, you could smell him— take him in, all of him. The way pieces of his hair tickled your forehead, how the black furs of his attire loomed over, prickling at your chin and neck, how he could unapologetically swing you around if he wanted…
And despite all the fieriness you held, Cregan found patience in his heart for you. He learned to be gentle with you; not in the patronizing way, but out of true admiration. A soft sound left you once you felt him pull away. When he looked at you again, he was serious,
“I trust you to do just about anything. But,” His gloved hand stroked your cheek, “Just tell me you’re flying off next time.”
“I thought I would be back by noon,” You leaned into his hand, and intertwined your two arms around his singular one, “I helped some men carry over logs on dragonback, their barrow broke in the heaps of snow."
“Still—“
“It saves you the hassle and the headache,” With your hands on his chest, you gave a kiss to his jaw, “You deserve peace on this day. Your day. And I am sorry for worrying you."
He searched your eyes, and a certain spark overtook his. “You are good.” He rested his chin on your head, hugging you wholly, “So good to me. Only sometimes, you like to tip me over the edge, wife.”
You murmured an unusually unapologetic sorry in the ruffles and layers of his clothes, giggling when he’d respond, “No, you’re not.”
You’d take him riding afterwards on your dragon, which he was (more than he’d like to admit) always quite scared of, but he and the big thing grew friendlier each day. He loved looking down on Winterfell, its tall walls of granite and castles circling the Godswood.
The Great Hall of Winterfell bristled with crowds of nobles. In it, lords and ladies alike toasted and indulged in the banquet, a lively image.
The Lady of the North took it upon herself to curate this feast. Walked the markets, made spares as not to endanger the winter reserves, and commissioned fishermen and hunters expensively to gather food.
Your long curls hung over the chair, and you observed every move. You’d fix a smile at every lord that would bow in passing, and have already indulged in the crude gossips of the ladies. Your lord husband sat beside you, having drunk a cup or three of black beer.
You felt the scent linger as he leaned in to whisper, “You’ll scare ‘em off,” A wolfish smirk graced his features, “You’re scary, got more fangs than a direwolf."
“I am simply making sure all is well,” You placed your hand over his, and though yours paled in size compared to his, it still weakened him in the knees. You traced your fingers over his knuckles, smiling, “You’re quite pretty today, nameday boy.”
“Boy.” Cregan huffed, planting a soft kiss to your head. “Pretty, aye. You’re the only one who thinks so.”
A gasp feigning shock left your lips, and you gently rubbed along his jaw with your thumb, “Non-sense. You’re quite the beauty. Had I been born a man, I would joust and crown you king of love and beauty.”
He laughed, a deep and rough sound it was— but managed to still be kind on your ears. “You’d joust, even as a lady, I fear.”
“You fear?”
“I fear for the men you’d cripple.” Without a beat, he said, as if it were not even a question in his mind.
“I would not cripple them,” You waved him off, “But it would hurt them...” Your finger trailed over the interlaces of his braid. It made you smile, the sight of it.
You scooted over, closer to your husband, “You let me braid your hair, Cregan.” You murmured softly, “You are adorable.”
To see a man so big, both in reputation and size, be reduced to almost a pup of sorts— He blushed at your words, but retained a tight hold of your hand. “Yes. That I did. It made you happy… obviously.”
He turned to you fully, and scattered small pecks atop your head. Men and women could simply watch off to the side, the two of you being continuously enveloped around each other. Whether it was inappropriate or not, mattered nada amount to either of you.
“Thank you,” He cooed against you, “You did not have to do this.”
“No, I had to. Gods, your eyebags have been getting horrendous lately.” You smirked, and he pinched the skin on your hand.
“...Well, if I was born a man, would you love me the same?”
Cregan tilted his head, “You are still on the talk of that jousting bit,” He rolled his eyes, those beautiful greys of his,
“I would love you the same, were you a cedar-tree, moonbloom or dragonfly.”
“That is quite more complicated than the proposition of me having a cock.” Which elicited a harsher pinch now, and it made you squeal and lightly slap his hand away, but he grinned so hard, you could only smile back.
A dramatic sigh departed from you, “I love you too,” You said finally, and grasped around your cup of wine. It was not long after, that the two of you abandoned that feast, in search of a different dragonride.
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Winterfell was vast and chilly, but it was never lonely.
Not when you were married to Cregan Stark.
You had been married for three years now, having faced both tragedies and triumphs. There was an unspoken routine between the two of you, how you started your mornings and how you ended the nights. You conquered any bump that fell in your path, leaning one another for support whenever needed.
You walked the grounds of Winterfell together almost every day, bundled up in furs and sides pressed together for extra warmth as the cold bit at your flushed cheeks. His hands constantly sought yours no matter the occasion, his thumb stroking your hand as a comfort to both you and himself. He listened intently when you spoke, no matter what it was about. He took in each word, offering advice or comfort when needed, or simply listened when all you wanted to do was vent. You could ice over his anger when it grows too strong like a blizzard, simmering him down so he could think more rationally and without haste.
You understood each other in a way no one else did, sometimes anticipating what the other was going to say or do before they even did it. It was a unique marriage, a kind that many could only hope that they would one day have.
You were two souls but one heart⎯a bond forged by fate itself.
“Cregan, can you please move?”
“Patience, my love.”
You groaned, leaning your back against his chest. He let out a breathy laugh, turning his head away from his papers to look at you. You tilted your head, pouting your lip out. “I have been patient,” you said. “All day. I need you.”
Cregan laughed again, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “I know. You have been patient, and I know you can wait a little longer while I finish these papers,” he softly said against your flesh.
You shifted your hips, feeling his cock brush against your inner walls. He grunted, scrunching his nose as he felt your cunt squeeze him. “Cregan,” you whined, brushing your nose against his. You kissed his jawline line, creeping towards his ear where you lightly nipped at his earlobe. “Please, husband…”
He let out a ragged breath and then cleared his throat. He picked up his papers, continuing to read through them as if you weren’t sitting on his lap, his cock stuffed inside of you all nice and warm.
It had been his idea, for you to sit on him while he read through some of his papers before he finished up for the night. You didn’t actually think he would do his work, instead would fuck you in his lap or even bend you over his desk and fuck you from behind. Either option made your heart race and your cunt start to become wet. You had patiently waited as he sifted through the first set, your heart still racing with anticipation of what was to come.
But it never did.
Now, you were still hot and bothered and now your husband was taking too long to fuck you.
“I’m almost finished,” Cregan murmured. “You are being so good, so patient.”
A grumble left your lips, your hands fidgeting with the skirts of your dress that you had pulled up to your waist. Cregan let one of his hands drop from the papers, moved to your thigh. His thumb moved back and forth, slowly inching closer to where you were desperate for him. You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes.
It did feel nice to have him simply inside of you, neither of you moving. It felt comfortable⎯like home.
You weren’t sure how much longer you waited, listening to the sound of papers shuffling. You could feel each of Cregan’s breaths against your back as he breathed, the steady rhythm the balm to the ache between your legs.
“Ohh!” you loudly moaned suddenly, feeling a firm thrust. You lifted your head as your eyes snapped open, immediately turning to look at Cregan.
There was a smirk upon his lips, his arm snaking around your waist to keep you pressed up against him. “Did I startle you, wife?” he grinned. “I can wait⎯”
“No, gods, no,” you quickly denied. “Do it again.”
His smirk widened. He did not need to be told twice.
He thrusted up into you, his eyes locked on you. You moaned again, hands grasping at his thighs as he fucked up into you with a rough pace that you were thankful for. You could already feel your climax fast approaching, all the time spent sitting on his cock making his thrusts more pleasurable.
He buried his face in your neck, his breath against your ear as he panted. “You are squeezing the life out of me, my love. I can feel every inch of you⎯”
“Ohh, Cregan! I’m⎯”
“You’re already close, aren’t you?” he whispered into your ear, nipping at your earlobe. “You’ve been so good, come for me. Come, wife, and I will bend you over this desk and fuck you like I know you want.”
With just a few more thrusts you came. You squeezed Cregan’s cock, pressing into him as the pleasure took hold of you. He kept his arm around your waist, keeping you from moving away. He came soon after, your slicks mixing together as it dripped out of your cunt and onto his lap.
You were heavily breathing, but the fire was still coursing in you as you looked at him with a dazed smirk. He grinned, firmly kissing you.
You could already feel yourself becoming more wet as he slid his tongue into your awaiting mouth. You pressed against him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Table,” you said, pulling back from the kiss. “Now.”
walk with me here….Targaryen!reader who is rhaenyra’s only daughter and you are married to cregan as part of the agreement with the northern support of rhaenyra’s cause…stay with me stay with me
and it’s more of a political marriage than anything, but the gentleman that cregan is, nothing is forced upon you and even the bedding ceremony is immediately forgoed. and you are confused and you ask why and he tells you he will not force anything upon a unwilling participant. even though he needed heirs he did not need them so terribly that he would force you.
though the cold was biting and the northerners were hard to warm up to southerners, everyday it got easier. because cregan trusted you and respected you (which was uncommon for ladies in the kingdom) others started too also, albeit slowly. commonfolk started to instead treat you as their lady, instead of treating you with cold indifference you were used to.
and if anyone spoke about the lack of heirs, or anything negative pertaining to you he’d shut it down by a “do not speak about my wife.” in that stern, no nonsense tone and they would back off REAL quick. he doesn’t play about you 🙂↔️🙂↔️
of course, being married with the proximity you and him always had made you become friends eventually, you trusted him and he trusted you. especially after him always so fiercely defending you and giving you a chance to speak your mind.
so, one morning, you decide it’s time for him to meet your dragon. he was not afraid of much in this realm, but dragons? he didn’t not like dragons. he found them beautiful, sure, but being in the vicinity of one was…not his favorite thing. but he did it. for you. and though your dragon was a bit suspicious, she allows him to pat her, and then he is done and quickly backs away. you tease that she could sense fear, which made it worse.
and as you are walking back towards the keep, talking about nothing in particular, and you stop him once you are at the godswood, he thinks perhaps he said something or did not like how he reacted to your dragon;
but instead, you kiss him. he stands there, shocked. before holding your face in his gloved hands, holding you to him, one of his hand moving down your body gently…
