Fire And Blood X Reader - Tumblr Posts

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Thank you for your answer. I would like to send a request for Maegor. I hope he has no problem. Dark Maegor Targaryen and second wife reader. (Reader can be Tyrell or Dayne. Or nobel lady from another house.) When Maegor starts looking for a woman to have an heir (37 Ac/earlier than the year he started in the original story) he meets the reader. When he gets , he is determined to make the reader his wife. He gets rid of Ceryse (maybe by poison or by accident) and marries the reader. The reader immediately becomes pregnant and gives birth to three babies. This causes Maegor's obsession to increase. Because the reader gave him three babies like the three-headed dragon in the symbol of his house. The reader is fertile enough to get pregnant every year.

Crimson Fate

- Summary: Maegor takes you as his bride after Ceryse fails to give him an heir.

- Paring: dayne!reader/dark!Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Maegor’s eyes settle on you the moment he arrives at Starfall, and from that moment, there is no mistaking his intentions. You hear the whispers from the courtiers, the rumors of Maegor’s insatiable ambition to secure an heir, to further his line and strength. His first wife, Ceryse, has yet to bear him a child, and many speculate he has come south seeking a new wife—one capable of giving him what the Hightower woman could not.

The first time Maegor speaks to you, his presence is overwhelming. His tall, imposing figure clad in black and crimson, his eyes burning with something far more dangerous than mere desire. It is as if he has already decided your fate without consulting you, as though the idea of refusal is inconceivable.

“You are Dayne,” he says, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around you like chains. “From the blood of the stars.”

Your throat tightens, a shiver of unease sliding down your spine. You manage a nod, keeping your gaze lowered, though you feel the weight of his stare, lingering on you like a predator studying its prey.

“Tell me,” Maegor continues, stepping closer, “how many sons does your house expect from you?”

There is no answer you can give that will change your fate. In that moment, Maegor has already chosen you to bear his heirs, to fulfill the destiny of House Targaryen. You are no longer a daughter of the stars, but a piece in his game.

Weeks later, news comes from Oldtown—Ceryse has died. There are whispers, dark ones, that she and Maegor had quarreled, that the fight escalated, and her death, though unexplained, was no accident. The dread among the court is palpable, as many know Maegor is quick to wrath, but none dare speak it aloud in his presence. The timing is too convenient to be coincidental. Ceryse's death clears the way for what Maegor desires.

You know what is coming, yet you are powerless to stop it. When Maegor asks for your hand in marriage, there is no question of refusal. He does not ask out of love, nor does he seek your opinion. It is a demand cloaked in formality. And so, you are wed to the King’s half-brother, the man who would soon rule with fire and blood.

Your wedding is a display of power, of domination. Maegor does not look at you as a man looks at his bride, but as a conqueror looks at new territory. That night, you feel the true weight of what it means to be his wife. His touch is possessive, harsh, as if he is claiming you in both body and spirit. You are not just a woman to him—you are a vessel, the key to his legacy, the bearer of his children.

And soon, that is exactly what you become.

Your belly swells with the evidence of Maegor’s claim, and the court watches in awe as the rumors begin to swirl. You are carrying not one, but three babes. It is as if the gods themselves have blessed your union, gifting Maegor with a legacy befitting his house—the three-headed dragon of Targaryen. His obsession grows with each passing day as your pregnancy progresses. He watches you constantly, his hands never far from your stomach, his gaze intense, possessive, and burning with an unspoken madness.

When you finally give birth, it is as if the entire realm holds its breath. Three babes—two boys and a girl, each as perfect as the dragons their blood rides—are born to you. The court hails it as a miracle, and Maegor’s obsession deepens, solidifying into something far darker. He sees you not just as his wife but as the mother of his dynasty, the woman who gave him three heirs, who brought the Targaryen sigil to life in flesh and blood.

“You have given me what no other could,” he says to you, his hand resting possessively over your belly, even as you cradle your newborns in your arms. His voice is thick with pride, but there is something else there—something darker. “Three-headed, like the dragon. You are my wife, my queen. You will give me more.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air like a threat, and though your body is still weak from the birthing, you know Maegor will not wait long. He is not a patient man, and now that you have proven yourself capable of giving him heirs, he will want more. His hunger is insatiable, and his obsession with you—his vessel, his wife—has grown into something that feels like madness.

It is not long before you are with child again, your belly growing heavy with Maegor’s next heir. The court watches with a mixture of awe and fear, for they know that you are the key to Maegor’s power, the woman who can provide him the legacy he so desperately craves. He watches over you like a dragon guards its hoard, his eyes always on you, his hand always tracing the swell of your belly as if ensuring that his claim remains intact.

But there is no love in Maegor’s gaze—only possession. You are his, body and soul, and you know that you will never escape him. He is the dragon, and you are his queen, bound to him by fire and blood.

hello, may i please request some maegor the cruel x fem!martell reader? you know when aegon i receives that note from dorne? maybe it could be to arrange a marriage between maegor and martell!reader to end the war? and she's a badass who gets maegor wrapped adorns her finger in less than ten minutes?

No Meek Bride

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Maegor meets the princess that his father promised to him, and you are not what he expected.

- Paring: martell!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The sun beat down mercilessly on Sunspear. Maegor Targaryen, mounted on his warhorse, eyed the golden sprawl of the Martell stronghold with the same cold scrutiny he gave every potential battlefield. He had not come here for war, though that was his preference. No, Aegon, his suddenly diplomatic father, had come to the conclusion that peace with Dorne would best be achieved through a marriage contract. And so, Maegor found himself betrothed to a Dornish princess.

You.

As his entourage approached the palace gates, Maegor's expression hardened. He knew little of you, save that you were Dornish, a princess, and supposedly beautiful in the way Dornish women often were—dark of hair and skin kissed by the sun. Maegor had his own opinions about beauty, none of which involved submission or docility, but he expected you to be meek, much like the Hightower girl his mother had once insisted he wed.

But then you stepped into the sunlight, and everything he had assumed about you scattered like the sands of Dorne.

You stood there, hands on your hips, chin lifted, your expression neither demure nor shy. No veil covered your face; no hesitation clouded your eyes. You stared up at him, not as a man to be feared, but as a man who would do well to remember whose lands he stood upon. Maegor raised an eyebrow.

You raised one back.

The Dornish retinue welcomed him in the Martell fashion, with wine and citrus-scented air. You walked beside him as he was led into the inner court, rattling off a list of what he assumed were idle pleasantries about Dorne’s beauty and history. Your voice was light, teasing. But there was something in your tone that held an edge—a sharpness that Maegor wasn’t sure if he wanted to parry or let pierce through his defenses.

"Your father must think very highly of me," you said as you entered a chamber filled with vibrant tapestries and low couches. "To offer up his most fearsome dragon in marriage. Or perhaps he just wanted to get rid of you?"

The jab was subtle, playful, but Maegor narrowed his eyes, half-expecting you to falter under the weight of his gaze. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled—a slow, confident curve of your lips that seemed to suggest you had no fear of him.

Odd. He had never encountered a woman so… infuriatingly self-assured. Where was the meekness? The quiet obedience he had been told to expect? You were no Hightower maiden.

And yet, as you continued talking, pointing out some tapestry or another that Maegor couldn’t care less about, he found himself… listening. More than that, he found himself watching the way your lips moved when you spoke, the way your eyes sparked with amusement every time you threw out another veiled barb. He could not recall the last time someone had dared to speak to him so freely, much less a woman he was meant to marry.

By the time the evening feast began, Maegor was seated at the head of the table with you beside him, laughing—laughing—at something one of your cousins had said. The sound caught him off guard, warm and inviting in a way that made his blood stir. He tried to ignore it.

But then you leaned in, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your skin.

"I expected you to be taller," you whispered, eyes glinting with amusement.

Maegor blinked, caught completely off guard. "I expected you to be more respectful."

"And I expected a dragon, not a man made of stone," you shot back, sipping your wine with an infuriatingly pleased look on your face.

He could not believe this. Was this to be his life now? To be challenged at every turn by a woman who clearly found great delight in besting him in conversation? The idea of returning to King’s Landing with you as his wife seemed more exhausting than fighting a hundred battles. Yet, there was something… thrilling about it, too.

The next few days passed in a blur of negotiations and formalities, but you were always there, always a step ahead of him in both words and actions. You challenged him, taunted him, and somehow, in the span of a week, Maegor found himself more drawn to you than he had ever been to any woman. He would never admit it, of course, but there were moments when he caught himself thinking about you when you were not in the room, wondering what clever remark you would make next.

The final straw came when, after another particularly heated exchange—this time about where you would live after the marriage—you sauntered away with a knowing smile, leaving Maegor standing in the middle of the courtyard with the distinct feeling that you had won.

He watched you go, the sway of your hips as you moved, the confidence in every step. His jaw clenched.

"She’s got you wrapped around her little finger," one of his men muttered under his breath, thinking Maegor couldn’t hear.

The man was wrong, of course. Maegor Targaryen bowed to no one, least of all a Dornish princess with a sharp tongue.

And yet, as you glanced back over your shoulder, catching his eye with that maddening smile, Maegor realized with a start that you had, indeed, wrapped him around your little finger.

And worse still… he didn’t entirely mind it.

Though gods help anyone who tried to make him admit it.