on my hands and knees for any snowforged crumbs, queen đđ»ââïž
time to bring back the ogs since they haven't had the new format treatment yet.
... baelor targaryen x f!stark!reader x maekar targaryen
The marriage is legal, sanctified, and Old Valyrian by its very definition. One woman, two husbands, both princes of the blood.
The Seven gnash their teeth quietly through the ceremony at the Great Sept, and then the second rite happens privately, before the heart tree at Winterfell when you ride north. Wolves don't kneel at southern altars, and your fathers both know it.
Daeron the Good never says it was Bloodraven who suggested the second husband as restitution for the realm's blunder, but Bloodraven smiles like a man who's solved a long problem, and Maekar (who was meant to have you and lost you in the span of a single feast) gets to keep you anyway.
The order matters and they all know it: Baelor is your husband. Maekar is your husband too. Baelor is the heir, the future king, the man whose ring sits on your fourth finger.
Maekar is your sworn lord, your sword-arm, the one whose name comes second on the marriage contract because someone had to be second and he refuses to be insulted by a thing he chose.
Mornings are Baelor's. He wakes before either of you, reaches across to find your hair on the pillow, and presses his mouth into it like a prayer. Maekar sleeps with his back to the door, sword within arm's reach even now, and Baelor learned within the first week not to wake him by touch. Only by name, low and even, even now.
Breakfasts are loud or silent depending on who's been where. If Baelor has council, he eats standing, kissing your temple twice. If Maekar's been training the boys (his pages, your half-grown cousins when they visit, the household guard), he comes in with frost still on his cloak and eats more than both of you combined and never apologises for it.
You run the household. This's non-negotiable and both your husbands learned it before the marriage was a fortnight old.
Baelor was raised by Myriah; he understands a wife who governs, and those with frightening efficiency. Maekar was raised by his elder brothers and by the yard, and he is, frankly, relieved not to have to think about table linens or the dowry chests or whether the eastern bannermen's wives need separate solars when they visit. He defers to you on everything domestic with a gruff whatever you think, which is one of the most romantic things he is structurally capable of saying.
Baelor calls you wife in public. Maekar calls you my lady. In private, Baelor still calls you wife, sometimes love, sometimes nothing at all because he just looks at you and you know. Maekar calls you by your name when no one else can hear it, and goes quiet after. Like he has ration it down to once or twice an evening because he doesn't quite trust himself with the word.
They were brothers before they were your husbands and that doesn't stop mattering.
Baelor still rolls his eyes at Maekar's grumbling. Maekar still calls Baelor the soft one and means it as both insult and praise. They train together in the yard most mornings, and Baelor lets Maekar win more than he should, because Maekar fights better when he's a little angry and Baelor learned a long time ago that letting his brother bleed off the worst of his temper on a sword keeps him gentler with everything else.
Maekar would die for Baelor and Baelor knows it. Baelor would step in front of an arrow for Maekar without thinking, and Maekar would never forgive him for it. They have an understanding about who's allowed to bleed for whom, and it's older than you. You're smart enough not to challenge it directly.
They share you the way Targaryen brothers have always shared what mattered most. Not entirely without friction, but without poison. Baelor gives easily. Maekar takes what's allotted to him and doesn't ask for more.
You're the one who has to show to him, slowly, that you can give Maekar more than has been allotted, and the world will not crack open.
The first time you crawl into his lap unprompted in the privacy of your shared solar, in front of Baelor (who looks up from his ledgers and smiles) Maekar goes so still you think you've broken him. Then his hand settles at your hip like he's holding a wild bird. He doesn't speak for half an hour, but his thumb moves in slow, helpless circles against your gown the whole time.
Baelor courts you constantly. Even years in. He brings you small things: a particular northern apple he had ridden out to find at market, a copy of a book on weirwood lore he had a maester transcribe, a dried sprig of heather pressed between two pieces of parchment because he saw it on a ride and thought of you.
He kisses your knuckles when he greets you and the inside of your wrist when he's been gone more than a day. He likes to touch you in passing, palm at the small of your back, fingers grazing your nape, hand tucking a strand of hair back when no one is looking and sometimes when they are.
Maekar courts you in the only language he has. He polishes your knife. He takes the worst horse out for you because he's not letting you ride it until he's certain. He stands at your shoulder in any hall you enter where he doesn't trust the company, a half-step behind, bristling without seeming to.
He learned the basic courtesies of the Old Tongue because your father uses them and he wanted to be able to greet Barthogan Stark properly. He has never once told you he loves you outright. But he's also never once let you walk down a flight of stairs without offering his hand to you.
Maekar will not flinch from your moods. Baelor soothes; Maekar simply waits. If you're angry, he will let you be angry at him, even when it isn't really his fault, even when you both know it isn't his fault.
You weep against his chest the night news comes that one of your father's oldest friends and bannermen has died, and he doesn't say a single word. Buthis hand on the back of your head is the steadiest thing in the world.
You sit between them at every feast. Baelor's hand finds your knee under the table; Maekar's elbow brushes yours when he reaches for the wine.
The court has long since stopped whispering (you've given them no scandals, only the quiet, unflinching fact of a marriage that works) but they still watch, and you've learned to make the watching cost them. You laugh at something Baelor murmurs in your ear and feel Maekar's leg press, very deliberately, against yours under the table. Coordinated possession of dragons, framed as nothing.
They argue about you sometimes. Never bitterly, never cruelly, but the way brothers argue about things. Maekar thinks Baelor lets you ride too far ahead on hunts. Baelor thinks Maekar drills you too hard with the dagger and doesn't understand that your shoulder still aches in winter from the Kingswood.
You have walked into the solar to find them mid-disagreement about your wellbeing more than once, and the look they give you when they realise you've heard (Baelor sheepish, Maekar flat-mouthed and faintly red around the ears) is one of the funniest things in your marriage.
They've a system you didn't ask for and wouldn't change.
When you're ill, Baelor sits with you and reads aloud; Maekar guards the door and threatens the maesters. When you're sad, Baelor talks; Maekar walks with you in the godswood until you don't need to talk anymore. When you're furious, Baelor diplomatically removes whoever has angered you from your sight and Maekar quietly arranges for that person's career to suffer.
You have, on occasion, felt slightly afraid of how well they've learned to love you.
You have not, on any occasion, asked them to stop.
The first night, the wedding night, was always going to be Baelor's.
There was never a question to be asked. Maekar refused even to be in the same wing of the keep, took himself to the training yard at midnight and beat a pell to splinters and slept in the barracks like a green squire, because he's not a man who takes turns with his brother on a wedding night, and he wouldn't insult you by pretending he could.
Baelor undressed you with the patience of a man who'd been imagining this for longer than he ought.
He said your name once, low, against the hollow of your throat, and you felt it in your spine. He kissed every place his hands had touched you in public and not been allowed to linger. The small of your back, the flare of your hip, the inside of your wrist, the place behind your ear where his breath used to stir your hair when he leaned to whisper. He talked to you in High Valyrian, soft and rolling, and when you asked him what he was saying, he shook his head against your stomach and whispered, Later. I'll tell you later.
He still hasn't.
He took his time. He took all night, in fact, and at some point near dawn you laughed against his shoulder because you had not understood, until then, that pleasure could be a thing a man gave you the way one gives a cup of clean water to someone who's been thirsty without knowing it.
He kissed the laugh off your mouth and looked, just for a heartbeat, like he might cry from sheer relief and happiness. You held his face between both your hands and told him not to. He didn't.
First night with Maekar came nine days later. He didn't ask (Maekar doesn't ask). You did.
You went to his chambers in your nightdress with your hair loose and your hands shaking, because you had decided this was not going to be a thing he had to carry the weight of asking for. He opened the door and the look on his face (stripped, winded, like a man who'd been holding his breath since the wedding) broke something in you.
He didn't speak for the first quarter-hour. He just held your face like he was checking that you were real. Then he kissed you, and it was nothing like Baelor. None of the patience, none of the practised softness, all hunger and held-back force, his mouth opening against yours like a man who'd been starving and was being very careful not to show just how much.
He laid you down on his bed like you might break, and that was the part you couldn't bear. You took his hand and put it where you wanted it, and the sound he made (a strangled, half-bitten thing in the back of his throat) you've never forgotten. He shook the entire time he was inside you that first night. You held his face against your throat and told him it's all right, I'm yours, I'm here, until the shaking stopped.
He's never been gentle with you the way Baelor is. He has been gentle in his own way (which isn't the same thing) every single time since.
Baelor in bed is patient and devastating you learn.
He's read books (actual books đ€) on the matter, because of course he has. He's humble enough to ask you what you like and arrogant enough to be very good at remembering. He likes to take his time undressing you, one ribbon at a time, his mouth following each new inch of skin as it appears, until you're shivering with it long before he's done.
He likes to talk to you, low and warm, in High Valyrian when he wants to feel like he's confessing something only the gods can hear, in Common when he wants you to understand exactly what he's saying.
He's attentive in a way that occasionally edges into reverent. Your pleasure is, to him, a thing he's honoured to attend to, and he attends to it thoroughly.
He goes down on you like you're his new altar. The first time he did it you were so startled you tried to pull him up by the hair. Husbands don't, you started to say, and he caught your wrist gently and pinned it to the bed and said, this husband does, wife, and then he ruined you with his mouth for what felt like an hour.
He likes to make you finish before he ever gets inside you. Sometimes twice. He says, the second time, with his beard rough against the inside of your thigh and his eyes burning up at you, I have spent a lifetime learning patience, my wolf. Allow me to use it.
He likes you on top sometimes. Likes to lie back and watch you, hands at your hips not guiding, just holding, mismatched eyes drinking you in like he's afraid you'll vanish if he blinks.
He likes you face-to-face, slow and deep, his forehead against yours, breathing the same air. He likes you on your side with him curled around your back, his hand at your throat without pressure, just there, while he moves into you with the kind of unhurried steadiness that makes you fall apart by inches.
He kisses you the entire time. He kisses you when he finishes. He kisses you afterwards, when you're sleep-warm and dazed, and tells you in three different languages how much he loves you. At least one of them is not a language you know.
Maekar in bed is none of those things and all of them.
He's quiet. Maekar is often quiet, but in bed he's silent in a way that becomes its own kind of intensity. All hot breath and bitten-off sounds and the rough catch of his hand at your hip. He doesn't narrate. Or flatter. He watches you like he's reading a battle map, and when he finds the thing that makes you arch, he does it again, and again, and again, with the same grim, dedicated focus he brings to a sword drill.
He's not (and you didn't expect this, and neither did he, you'd imagine) strong in a way Baelor is not.
Where Baelor savours, Maekar consumes. Where Baelor will draw it out for an hour, Maekar fucks you fast and thorough the first round, hands braced either side of your head or in your hair, jaw locked, eyes squeezed shut like he's afraid of what he might do if he looks at you.
He bruises sometimes (on your hips, on the inside of your thigh, the tender flesh just above your knee) and is appalled the next morning when he finds them, traces them with a fingertip and looks at you like he wants to apologise and doesn't know how.
You wear them like jewellery and he goes quietly mad over it.
The second round is when he kisses you properly. The second round is when his forehead rests against yours and he breathes your name once, like a confession, like a sin he's very glad of. The second round is slower, deeper, a man who's emptied the worst of himself into you and can finally be here. In you. Calloused palms learning the shape of your ribs, mouth moving against yours like he's trying to memorise the shape of it.
He likes you beneath him. He likes the weight of you under his hands, the proof of your body, the fact that he can cover you completely.
He likes you on your front with his chest to your back and his mouth at your shoulder, one of his arms banded across your waist holding you steady, and that's the position in which, twice now, he's said something into your hair he would never say to your face.
He's only ever finished inside you. Not a drop is wasted on anything else. His seed is for his wife only.
Both together at the same time is rarer, but still happens.
They're usually too busy to do it often (a few times a moonturn, sometimes less) and when they do, it's never planned.
It happens when the three of you've been in the same room too long with the firelight low. When Baelor's hand has been at your waist and Maekar has been watching from his chair with that look. The one where he hasn't moved in twenty minutes and his glass has gone untouched and his eyes have not left the line of your throat. When you turn your face up to be kissed and find both of them within reach.
Baelor leads, because Baelor always leads, and Maekar follows because following his older brother is a thing he was born knowing how to do.
You end up between them. Baelor at your front with his mouth on yours, slow and thorough, all those careful skills he's spent a year perfecting on you turned loose at once. Maekar at your back, beard rough against your shoulder, one of his hands flat and broad and hot at your stomach, holding you steady. Holding himself steady, you realise, the way a man holds a lit candle in a wind.
They don't crowd, they don't compete. There's a wordless choreography between them that you suspect was negotiated long before you noticed it: who kisses your mouth, who kisses your throat; whose hand is at your breast, whose is between your legs; who's inside you and who's just there, pressed close, breathing in the smell of your hair and waiting his turn with a patience that makes you squirm.
Baelor murmurs to you in three languages. Maekar doesn't say a single word. Both of them watch your face (both of them) like the only thing in the world that matters is whether you're still with them, still here, still theirs. When you finish, you finish with one of them inside you and the other holding you up, and you don't always know whose name leaves your mouth. They don't seem to mind.
Afterwards, Baelor talks. Are you all right, my wolf. Was that â did we â tell me, wife, tell me. Maekar doesn't. Maekar just keeps his palm flat against your stomach, where you can feel the steady, slow hammer of his pulse against your spine, and breathes.
The great bed at Kings Landing is a Targaryen heirloom and was not built for three (somehow). You had a new one made within the first month. You didn't consult either of them. They have not commented and you suspect they never will.
Maekar sleeps on the outside, sword still propped within reach, because someone has to guard the door and he's decided it's him. Baelor curls at your front, one arm slung across your waist, mouth half-pressed into your hair. You with one hand on Baelor's chest and your back warm against Maekar's, listening to the two of them breathe at slightly different rhythms.
Baelor's breath is light and even and a little quick when he dreams. Maekar's is slower, deeper, more silent. Until something startles him in his sleep, and then he goes from dead to waking in a single heartbeat, hand on the sword before his eyes are open. You learned, very early, to put your palm on his chest the moment he stirred. He settles for you. He doesn't settle for anyone else.
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â± baelor targaryen x f!stark!reader x maekar targaryen (poly)
Daybreak comes softly here, which feels deceitful to you, no matter how many moons you spend here.
In Winterfell, at least, each morning arrives freezing cold, your breath fogging the air and biting your lungs before your eyes so much as crack open. Here, the light slides in like molten honey through the lattice, painting the bed curtains gold, ribbons of hazy light cutting across the messy bed. The room smells of last night: sex soaked linen, a faint tang of sweat and steel, the ghost of sweet wine on someoneâs breath.Â
You lie still for a beat longer than you should, eyes half-open, listening.
Baelor is awake. You can always tell with him, even when heâs being careful. His breathing shifts firstâslower, deeper, forcing himself back into the world and his many duties. His hand is on you, though, broad palm spread over your waist beneath the blanket, warm enough to make your feel every inch of his hold. He doesnât clutch at you, youâve come to find, he instead holds you like heâs anchoring you both to something solid, like he knows the day ahead will try to pry you away and is already refusing to give you up.
On your other side, Maekar is a different kind of awake. Not quiet so much as contained. Thereâs tension in the way his shoulder holds itself, in the way his jaw works once, the ghost of the motion settling between your shoulderblades like heâs chewing on a thought he doesnât want to speak aloud. His arm is thrown over you as well, heavy, possessive in a blunt, uncomplicated way. His hand rests on your ribs, fingers splayed, having decided that if youâre between them, snug and unmovable, you canât be taken.
It would be comforting if it didnât also feel like a trap you keep stepping into willingly.
âAre you awake?â Baelor murmurs, voice rough with sleep, low enough that it lands more in your chest than your ears.
You donât answer immediately. You let the moment stretch, because thereâs a kind of peace in not speaking. In existing between two men who have learned, somehow, how to share a silence without it becoming a battle.
Maekar huffs a quiet, impatient sound into your hair. âSheâs awake,â he mutters. âSheâs always awake before she admits it.â
You breathe out through your nose, the corner of your mouth tugging despite yourself. âIâm not alwaysââ
âAlways,â Maekar repeats, stubborn as a mule, his voice leaving no room for arguments. His fingers flex once against your side, a small pressure that is more insistence than touch. âNorth makes you suspicious. You would wake if a mouse sneezed.â
Baelorâs thumb strokes slowly across your hip. You feel the movement like someone put a hot pocker under your skin. âHeâs not wrong,â Baelor muses, and thereâs faint amusement in it, a gentle thing that would sound wrong from anyone else. âYou listen like youâre expecting to be attacked.â
âI do not,â you argue, your eyes cracking open fully, âIt keeps you alive down here.â
A pause.
Maekar shifts then, propping himself up on one elbow. The sheet slides down his chest a fraction, revealing old scars and new bruises like a map of every hard lesson heâs ever learned in his life. His hair is a pale, disordered crown. In this light, he looks younger than he does in armour, and more dangerous for it, because thereâs nothing courtly to soften the lines of him.
He stares down at you, expression set into its usual severity, and you can see the effort it takes him not to scowl at the softness of morning.
âYouâll ruin her,â he says to Baelor, his words flat.
Baelor exhales a quiet laugh. You feel it vibrate through his chest behind you. âThat would suggest she isnât already ruined.â
Maekarâs mouth twitches, a near-smile as youâve ever seen from him, and for good reason too. Youâre hardly presentable right now, not after last nightâs handling. âBy you, I mean.â
Baelorâs hand tightens, almost imperceptibly, on your waist. âIâm trying,â Baelor says softly, âto keep her.â
Maekarâs gaze doesnât leave your face. His fingers slide up, brushing your cheek with a roughness that isnât unkind. âSo am I,â he answers.
Itâs difficult for him to admit this, you think. It always feels like he has to pay for vulnerability. Maekar doesnât give words away the way Baelor does; he holds them in his mouth until theyâve been sharpened into something he can trust.
You swallow, throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with tears. âNeither of you owns me,â you say, because you have to say it.
Baelorâs breath warms the back of your neck. âNo,â he agrees quietly. âWe know.â
Maekarâs hand remains on your cheek. His thumb presses once at the corner of your mouth, a touch both gentle and infuriatingly sure, like heâs reminding himself youâre here, with them, in their bed and not somewhere else.
âDoesnât stop me wanting to,â Maekar mutters.
Baelor hums, low and thoughtful. âIt doesnât stop me wanting to, either.â
You close your eyes for a beat. In the dark behind your lids, you see three versions of the day ahead: council chambers and banners and polite, bland smiles; training yards and sweating men and Maekarâs temper, sitting close to his skin; corridors full of whispers, the story everyone will tell themselves about you no matter what you do.
And then you feel Baelorâs mouth press, not to your lips, but to your templeâa brief, reverent touch, more vow than kiss. Maekar, as if he canât be outdone even by tenderness, leans in and bites lightly at your shoulder through the thin linen of your shift, a blunt little claim of teeth that makes you inhale sharply.
âMaekar,â you warn, half groan, half reproach.
His mouth curves against you, feral with satisfaction. âItâs daybreak,â he says, as if that explains everything.Â
Baelorâs hand slides up, fingers splaying over your ribs, steadying you. âBehave,â he whispers gently, but thereâs quiet amusement in it too. He is indulgent with Maekar in a way heâs with almost no one else.
Baelorâs laugh fills the air, low and warm, and it loosens something under your ribs you didnât realise was clenched. âGods,â he murmurs, still amused. âI never thought Iâd see the day my brother argued his virtue while using his teeth.â
Maekarâs jaw works but he looks, for one moment, almost pleased with himself.
You stare at the canopy above youâcarved dragons chasing one another through stylised cloudsâand let the warmth of them both pin you where you are. You feel their bodies on either side, two different kinds of strength, two different storms.Â
Baelorâs palm presses once firmly at your waist. Maekarâs fingers curl into your hair, careful despite himself, learning the shape of gentleness by force.
âStay,â Baelor says softly, not command, not plea, just want.
âFor one more breath,â Maekar adds, like he canât help himself.
You breathe in, and press back into their warmth.Â
Absolutely love the way you write my favourite trio (Baelor/LS/Meakar - aka snowforged)
I've had this AU in my head ever since reading HW of Aegons conquest, but instead of Agon and his sisters, it's Bealor and Meaker conquering the North, and meeting LS Queen in the North for the first time and the making an "alliance " đđđ
So glad I was just scrolling through my inbox trying to hunt down some of those drabble requests and came across this gem because FUCK what a concept.
Like, the moment I read this I could already see it: the North is the last kingdom to bend. Too large, too proud, too frozen, and not remotely impressed by dragons just because they cast a big shadow. Baelor and Maekar arrive expecting resistance, maybe even outright war, and instead they find you on a high stone dais in furs and iron, Queen in the North, with the banners behind you and a giant black wolf size of a horse sitting like a sentinel beside you.
And the brothers are just like. Ah. Well. This is now unfortunately the most important woman in the world.
Baelor would fall first, obviously, because Baelor always gets taken out by dignity and competence. One look at you standing there all calm and unsmiling while Black Dread lands outside your walls, and he's internally done for. Heâll try so hard to be statesmanlike too. We have come to discuss terms, Your Grace.
Maekar is worse in a different way because he came in expecting either grovelling or a fight, and you give him neither. You give him that cool northern stare like you're already weighed him, found him dangerous, useful, stubborn, and not half so frightening as he wants to be to you. Which of course means he's equal parts pissed off at you and equal parts fuck, maybe I do want a wife.
You're too wary to really pick up on any attraction initially, too focused on not getting your people burned alive, but also what's more fun than two dragon princes showing up to âconquerâ you and then realising the North is not something you can simply take, only bargain with if they want loyalty from you? You make them work for every inch. No kneeling scene right away, no surrender. Just: You may have dragonfire, my princes, but I have winter, distance, and men who know how to die before they bend.
Also the chemistry??? Fucking insane.
I can so clearly see the progression too: first the war council tension, then the grudging respect, then the temporary alliance, then the prolonged stay because obviouslyyy the North is vast and logistics matter and no one is leaving before winter routes are settled, and suddenly itâs one hall, one hearth, one impossible triad of political tension and sexual tension aha
How would pregnancies and kids works with a poly Maekar/ls/baelor
Theyâre smart enough to try and make sure the first one is Baelorâs just so itâs clear thereâs a heir. Anything after that is free game though. I donât think theyâre breaking Jaehaerys and Alysanneâs records in terms of kids (13 btw) but I do think the number would be higher than their individual marriages.
Also depends if you imagine them having canon kids (Valarr, Daeron, Aerion etc) or original kiddies of their own making. Likely would have more sons than daughters but any girls they have are dotted on like crazy.
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