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Chapter Text

The morning sun beat down on the Red Keep's training yard, harsh and honest. Jon moved through his sword forms alone, each strike skilled and brutal. The kind of drills that carved muscle memory into bone. Longsword cutting air where flesh should be, footwork automatic, shoulders burning in that good way that meant progress.

Overhead, the dragons wheeled and cried.

Five of them now. Changed everything since they returned.

Jon paused mid-form, blade lowering as he watched them spiral against the cloudless sky. Norvaxis dominated the formation, black scales drinking light like a wound in the heavens. Twice the size of any other. The Midnight Terror, they called him. Everyone knew whose dragon that was.

He remembered how the world shifted when dragons flew again.

Trade agreements flooding in from every corner of the known world. The Free Cities sending envoys laden with gifts and desperate smiles. Braavos and Pentos competing for Targaryen favor like dogs begging scraps. Volantis swearing eternal friendship through their Red Priestesses. Even the Iron Bank adjusting their rates for the crown, suddenly flexible where they'd been iron for centuries.

Nobles arrived weekly to pay homage. Great Houses sending daughters and sons to court, everyone wanting proximity to dragonfire. The Reach sent grain and gold. The Westerlands sent Lannister cousins with golden hair and ambitious eyes. Dorne sent wine and warriors. The North sent... well, the North sent him summers with his Stark cousins, and that was enough.

The realm prospered under Rhaegar's rule. Roads safer than they'd been in generations. Harvests better. Smallfolk actually fed, actually protected, actually giving a damn about who sat the Iron Throne because for once it mattered in a good way.

Dragons changed everything. His father's vision made manifest in fire and scale.

Jon returned to his forms. Worked up a proper sweat, tunic clinging to his back, hair damp at his temples. Comfortable in the silence, in the rhythm of blade through air, until boots crunched gravel behind him.

He didn't turn. Didn't need to.

Aegon approached flanked by three lordlings. Tyrell cousins and a Redwyne, the usual sycophants who laughed at Aegon's jokes and agreed with Aegon's opinions and probably wiped Aegon's ass if he asked nicely enough. Their footsteps had that particular cadence of men trying to look casual while following their leader.

Jon kept drilling.

Aegon was in training leathers too, black and red with golden thread at the collar. Far above, Sunfyre's golden scales caught the light as the dragon circled. Beautiful, that one. The most gorgeous of the clutch, poets said.

Notably smaller than Norvaxis.

Wasn't that always the fucking problem.

"Brother." Aegon's voice carried that particular edge it always did. Pleasant on the surface, something harder underneath. "Training alone again, I see."

Jon didn't pause his form. "Aegon."

"Interesting technique." One of the Tyrells. Loras? Leo? They all blurred together, pretty and useless. "Very... Northern."

The Redwyne snickered. "Learned from wildlings, perhaps?"

Jon's blade cut air. He said nothing.

"A true Targaryen prince would train with proper partners," Aegon said, circling to Jon's left. Staying just outside striking range, whether he knew it or not. "Not alone like some hedge knight working for his next meal."

The forms continued. Steady. Controlled.

"Though I suppose you've been busy." The other Tyrell, the one with the weak chin. "Hard to find time for proper swordwork between all that bastard-making."

Laughter. Sycophantic and sharp.

Jon's jaw tightened. He kept drilling.

Aegon moved closer. "The Dark Prince, they call you. So mysterious. So brooding. Too good for company." His voice dropped. "Too good for your own brother. For the heir to the Iron Throne."

Jon lowered his sword. Turned, finally, to face Aegon directly.

His brother looked good. Always did. Silver-gold hair perfectly styled even in training leathers. Violet eyes bright with something that wanted to be anger but looked too much like hurt underneath. The image of a Targaryen king from the songs.

Jon was taller. Broader. Darker.

He wondered, not for the first time, why that mattered so much to Aegon when Aegon was the one who'd wear the crown.

"I'm training," Jon said. Flat. Simple. "You're welcome to join. Or you can keep talking."

Aegon's nostrils flared. "Is that what you think of me? That I just talk?"

"I think you brought an audience." Jon's gaze flicked to the three lordlings, then back. "I think you didn't come here to spar."

"Maybe I came to remind you of your place."

"My place." Jon's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "And where's that, brother?"

Aegon stepped closer. Close enough that Jon could see the vein pulsing at his temple. Close enough to smell the expensive oils in his hair.

"Behind me," Aegon said. "Where second sons belong."

Jon held his gaze. Said nothing.

The silence stretched.

"Do you think you're better than me?" Aegon's voice went sharp. A blade unsheathed. "Is that it? You think because your dragon is bigger, because women spread their legs for you, because the smallfolk whisper your name like you're some fucking hero, that you're better than the Crown Prince?"

The challenge hung in the morning air.

Above them, Norvaxis screamed.

Jon said nothing.

His eyes answered clearly enough.

Aegon's jaw clenched. He stalked to the weapons rack, snatched a training sword, tested its weight with a sharp cut through air. Then grabbed a second and hurled it at Jon.

Jon caught it without looking. The weight settled into his palm like it belonged there.

The sycophants backed up, spreading along the yard's edge with grins splitting their pretty faces. Entertainment. That's what they thought this was. A show for court gossip, something to whisper about over wine.

It wasn't.

Aegon came in fast. Technical. Proper form drilled by the best masters gold could buy, footwork textbook perfect, blade angled exactly as the treatises prescribed. He was genuinely skilled. Quick feet, good instincts, the kind of swordsman who would beat most knights in the realm on any given day.

Jon gave ground.

The first exchange, he retreated. Testing. The second, he let Aegon's blade slide past his guard by inches, remembered how his brother moved. The weight distribution, the tells, the patterns. Aegon always favored his right. Always overcommitted on the riposte.

Third exchange. Fourth.

Then Jon stopped retreating.

The shift was immediate. Brutal.

His counterattack drove Aegon back three steps. A beat, a bind, a strike that rang off Aegon's hastily raised guard hard enough to numb fingers. Five steps now, Aegon scrambling, footwork failing him as Jon pressed forward with the inevitability of tide against sand.

Every strike Aegon attempted got turned aside. Not blocked. Turned. Redirected like Jon knew where the blade would be before Aegon decided to put it there. Like this was nothing. Like Jon was bored.

That's what made Aegon's face twist with real hatred.

He wasn't losing to some foreign technique. Not some Northern trick or wildling savagery the lordlings could mock later. He was losing because Jon was simply better. Faster. Stronger. More natural with a blade than Aegon would ever be, no matter how many hours he trained, no matter how many masters he hired, no matter how perfectly he performed the forms.

Some things couldn't be taught.

Aegon knew it. The knowledge burned in his violet eyes, humiliation and fury and something that looked almost like grief.

He overextended. Lunged when he should have recovered, desperation making him sloppy.

Jon could have ended it there. Could have taken his legs, put him on his back in the dirt, pressed the training blade to his throat while the sycophants watched their golden prince grovel. Complete humiliation. The kind Aegon would never forget, never forgive.

Instead, Jon twisted.

A simple motion. Blade against blade, leverage and angle, and Aegon's sword went spinning from his grip. It clattered across the stone, loud in the sudden silence.

Aegon stood there breathing hard. Flushed with shame and fury, chest heaving, hands empty. The sycophants had gone quiet. Nobody was laughing now. Nobody was grinning. They stared at their feet or the sky or anywhere but at the Crown Prince who'd just been dismantled like a training dummy.

"Aegon." Jon lowered his blade. "It's done."

Aegon lunged.

Bare-handed, graceless, nothing princely about it. He came at Jon like he meant to throttle him, fingers clawing for his throat, all that courtly control shattered into something raw and ugly.

White cloaks.

Ser Arthur Dayne materialized from fucking nowhere, hand clamping on Jon's shoulder with iron strength, pulling him back. Ser Barristan Selmy had Aegon, arms locked around the Crown Prince's chest, restraining him even as Aegon thrashed and spat fury.

"Disrespect," Aegon snarled, fighting Barristan's grip. "You arrogant bastard, you think you can humiliate me, think you can just…."

"Enough." Arthur's voice cut through the yard like a blade. The Sword of the Morning didn't raise his volume. Didn't need to. "Both of you. Enough."

Jon let himself be held. Didn't fight it. His sword arm hung loose at his side, training blade still in his grip, and he watched his brother struggle against Barristan's restraint with something that felt too tired to be anger.

This. Always this. Every fucking time.

"The king will hear of this," Barristan announced. His voice carried the weight of decades serving the crown, disappointment and steel in equal measure. "Both princes. His Grace's solar. Now."

Aegon's fury flickered.

Something calculating slid behind his eyes. The wheels turning, already planning how to spin this. How to make Jon the villain. The aggressor. The second son who forgot his place and needed to be reminded.

Jon just felt tired.

The summons came within the hour.

Not the throne room. Not public. Rhaegar's private solar, where family matters stayed family matters and the court couldn't feast on Targaryen blood.

Jon walked through the corridors alone. The Kingsguard had released him and Aegon separately, kept them apart, probably smart given how Aegon's hands had been shaking with rage. Now Jon climbed the Tower of the Hand's stairs with that particular heaviness in his chest that always came before these conversations.

Always the same. Always exhausting.

The solar doors stood open when he arrived. He was the last.

Rhaegar sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The king looked tired in the way he always looked tired when his sons fought. Silver hair pushed back from his face, violet eyes distant with that particular disappointment Jon had memorized years ago. Prophecy and dragons and the fate of the realm occupied his father's thoughts. His sons' petty rivalry was beneath him, a distraction from greater concerns, and that weariness said it all.

Elia sat beside the king, her face carefully neutral. But her dark eyes moved between her children with the sharp attention of a woman who'd survived decades of court. Calculating. Waiting to see how the pieces fell before she spoke.

Lyanna didn't sit at all.

His mother stood near the window with her arms crossed, grey eyes blazing with Northern fury barely contained. Her jaw was set. Her foot tapped the stone floor. Jon knew that look. She'd already decided who was at fault and was simply waiting for someone to challenge her so she could rip them apart.

Rhaenys lounged against the opposite window, one long leg crossed over the other. Her gown was dark purple, cut low enough to draw eyes, and she was watching Jon with those violet eyes that held too much heat. Her lips curved in something between sympathy and hunger. Like she wanted to comfort him and devour him in equal measure.

He looked away.

Daenerys perched on a chair's edge near the corner, small and silver and luminous. Her hands were folded in her lap, posture perfect, but her gaze kept sliding toward Jon when she thought no one noticed. Quick glances. Longing and worry tangled together.

Missandei noticed.

Dany's lady in waiting stood by the door, still and unobtrusive in her servant's attire. Her dark eyes catalogued Daenerys's stolen looks, filed them away, moved to Jon's face and lingered there with something softer than professional attention.

And Rhaella.

The Dowager Queen sat apart from everyone, dignified and quiet in silver silk. Her soft violet gaze rested on Jon with concern that felt almost maternal. Fingers laced tight in her lap, knuckles white, and when their eyes met she offered him the smallest nod. I'm here. I see you.

Jon inclined his head slightly. Grateful.

"Now that we're all present." Rhaegar's voice carried the weight of the crown even in private. "Aegon. Tell me what happened."

Of course he let Aegon speak first.

Jon kept his face neutral as his brother stepped forward. Aegon had cleaned up since the yard. Fresh clothes, hair rebraided, every inch the Crown Prince despite the red still staining his cheeks. His voice came out smooth, the performance of a man who'd rehearsed his lines during the walk here.

"I approached my brother in the training yard," Aegon said. "To offer him partnership. Brotherhood. I've tried for years to bridge the gap between us, Father, and today I thought perhaps we could train together. Instead, Jon..." He paused. Swallowed. Let his voice catch with perfectly calibrated hurt. "He attacked me. In front of witnesses. Humiliated me deliberately, methodically, as if my position meant nothing. As if I meant nothing."

Lyanna's jaw tightened.

"I defended myself as best I could," Aegon continued. "But Jon's aggression was... I've never seen him like that. The hatred in his eyes." Another pause. A shake of his silver-gold head. "I fear for what he might do if this behavior continues unchecked."

The silence stretched.

Jon watched his father's face. Watched Elia's careful neutrality. Watched Aegon standing there with his wounded prince expression, so perfectly crafted, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness.

"That," Lyanna said flatly, "is horseshit."

Elia winced. Rhaegar closed his eyes. Rhaenys laughed behind her hand, a bright sound that cut through the tension.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar said.

"No." His mother uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. "I'm not listening to this. Aegon brought three lordlings to mock Jon while he trained alone. Three witnesses who'll say whatever Aegon tells them to say. And you're going to sit there and pretend this is about Jon's aggression?"

"The queen speaks out of maternal bias," Aegon said. "Understandable, but hardly….."

"Don't." Lyanna's voice went cold as Northern winter. "Don't you dare dismiss me, boy. I've known you since you were mewling in your cradle, and I've watched you pick at your brother for twenty years. This isn't new. This is just the first time you got embarrassed badly enough to cry about it."

Aegon's face flushed. "I am the Crown Prince…."

"And Jon is a prince of the realm, and I am your father's queen, and if you interrupt me again I'll show you exactly how Northern women handle disrespect."

"Enough." Rhaegar's palm rose. The room fell silent.

The king's violet eyes moved from Lyanna to Aegon to Jon. Settled there. Weighed.

"Jon," Rhaegar said. "Your account."

Jon stepped forward. Kept it simple. Kept it short.

"Aegon came to the yard with three companions. They mocked my training, my mother's house, my children. Aegon challenged me. I accepted. I won." He paused. "When I disarmed him, he attacked bare-handed. The Kingsguard separated us."

No embellishment. No defense. Just facts.

Rhaegar pinched the bridge of his nose.

The silence stretched again. Jon could feel everyone's eyes on him. Rhaenys's heat, Daenerys's worry, Missandei's quiet devotion, Rhaella's soft concern. His mother's fierce protectiveness. Elia's careful calculation.

And Aegon's hatred. Burning like dragonfire behind that violet gaze.

"Jon." Rhaegar lowered his hand. "You will travel north in two days. Lady Catelyn Stark requires the crown's attention regarding matters of her household and the succession of Winterfell. You will represent my interests there. Stay as long as needed."

Exile.

The word hung unspoken in the solar's air. Everyone knew what this was. Diplomacy dressed in silks, punishment dressed in purpose. Jon was being sent away because his presence inflamed his brother's jealousy, and removing the irritant was easier than addressing the wound.

Aegon's lips twitched. Satisfaction, quickly hidden.

"I understand, Father." Jon bowed. "I'll make preparations."

"Good." Rhaegar's voice softened slightly. Almost apologetic. "Dismissed. All of you." His gaze shifted to Aegon. Hardened. "Except you."

Jon straightened. Turned toward the door.

He didn't miss Aegon's smirk as he passed. The satisfied curl of lips that said I won, I won, I won. Crown Prince victorious. Second son sent away in disgrace.

But Jon also didn't miss his father's expression.

The cold that settled over Rhaegar's features as the door closed. The steel in violet eyes that promised nothing good. Aegon thought he'd won. Aegon thought his version of events had been believed, accepted, rewarded.

Aegon was about to learn otherwise.

Jon walked down the corridor alone. His boots echoed on stone. Behind him, his brother's victory was already turning to ash in Rhaegar's solar, and some small part of Jon felt satisfaction at that.

But it didn't make the banishment sting less.

Winterfell. Catelyn. His sons.

Two days.

He kept walking.

Evening shadows crept through Jon's chambers like unwanted guests.

He folded a tunic. Shoved it into the chest. Grabbed another. Folded it wrong, swore under his breath, did it again. The fabric protested his grip but he didn't care. Two days. Two fucking days and he'd be flying north on Norvaxis, away from King's Landing, away from everything that mattered, because his brother couldn't handle losing a sparring match.

Gold coins clinked as he dropped a pouch into the chest. Letters followed. A dagger with a wolf's head pommel that Arya had given him years ago.

The room felt hollow. Too quiet. His things looked wrong packed away like this, like they belonged to someone leaving permanently instead of a prince on diplomatic errand. But that's what this was, wasn't it? Diplomatic language wrapped around exile. Pretty words hiding ugly truth.

Aegon got to stay. Aegon got to preen and gloat and play the wounded prince while Jon flew north to deal with succession matters that any competent steward could handle.

He grabbed a shirt and twisted it between his hands. The seams strained.

A knock. Soft. Familiar.

Jon's hands stilled. He knew that rhythm.

"Enter."

Missandei slipped through the door carrying a wine flagon and two cups. The candlelight caught her immediately, and Jon's breath shortened.

She wore a sleeping gown of gossamer silk. Sheer as morning mist, hiding nothing. The dark curves of her body showed through the fabric like shadows given flesh. Heavy breasts swaying with each step, nipples visible as darker points against the pale material. The swell of her hips. The shadow between her thighs, a promise wrapped in whispers of cloth.

Daenerys had sent her. Jon knew it without asking. His aunt used Missandei to keep him satisfied, to drain him of the appetites that might otherwise chase Rhaenys or other women Dany considered threats. A tool. A distraction.

But Missandei's dark eyes held warmth that went beyond duty. Something genuine lived in the way she looked at him, in the soft curve of her lips, in how her fingers trembled slightly as she set the flagon on his table.

"My prince." Her voice was honey and warmth, that Naathi accent making music of simple words. "I thought you might want company."

Jon watched her pour. The wine was Arbor gold, expensive, catching candlelight like liquid sunset. She brought him a cup, settled beside him on the bed with that fluid grace she couldn't seem to help, her thigh pressing warm against his through the thin barrier of her gown.

"The confrontation with Prince Aegon." She kept her voice carefully neutral. "Would you like to speak of it?"

He drank deep. Let the vintage burn down his throat, warm his chest, loosen something tight behind his ribs.

"Nothing to speak of." The words came out harsher than intended. He softened. "He came to the yard with his little pack of lordlings. They said things. He challenged me. I won." Another drink. "Now I'm being sent north because apparently winning is a crime when you're the second son."

Missandei's hand found his thigh. Warm through his breeches, fingers gentle.

"It all seems... unfair."

"It is unfair." The admission surprised him. He didn't usually talk this much, didn't usually let frustration spill out where others could see it. But the wine was good and Missandei's presence was better, and the words kept coming. "I didn't even want the fight. I was training alone. Alone. He came to me. Brought witnesses. Set the whole thing up so he could play victim when it went wrong."

Her thumb traced circles on his leg. Soothing. Patient.

"I saw but…..why does the king continue to side with him?"

"My father knows the truth." Jon stared into his cup. "That's the worst part. He knows exactly what happened, knows Aegon started it, knows I held back. And he's still sending me away because it's easier than dealing with his heir's jealousy."

The silence stretched. Comfortable. Missandei didn't try to fill it with empty reassurances or pretty lies. She just stayed close, warm and present, her hand steady on his thigh.

Jon finished his wine. Poured more.

"How's Valya?"

Missandei's whole face transformed.

The careful neutrality melted away, replaced by something radiant. Love, pure and uncomplicated, the kind that made her dark eyes shine like stars reflected in still water. Her smile grew until it couldn't grow anymore, and Jon felt something ease in his chest just watching it.

"She's wonderful." The words tumbled out, accent thickening with emotion. "Three years old now, and so bright, my prince. She asks questions constantly. Why is the sky blue? Why do birds fly? Where does the sun go at night?" Missandei laughed, soft and sweet. "The servants at the manse say she exhausts them, but they adore her. Everyone adores her."

Jon found himself smiling. "Does she look like you?"

"Her hair, yes. Her skin. But her eyes..." Missandei's voice caught. "She has your eyes, my prince. Grey with hints of violet. Beautiful eyes. Eyes that see everything."

"And she's comfortable? The manse is adequate?"

"More than adequate. You've been generous beyond measure." Her hand squeezed his thigh. "She wants for nothing. Tutors, toys, playmates. A garden where she grows flowers and picks them all before they bloom." Another laugh. "She asks about you constantly. When will Papa visit? Why doesn't Papa live with us? She draws pictures of dragons and insists I send them to you."

Jon thought of the small collection in his desk drawer. Childish scrawlings of black shapes that might be dragons, stick figures that might be princes. He kept every one.

"I'll visit her before I leave." The promise came easily, meant completely. "Spend some time. Let her show me her garden."

Missandei's eyes glistened. Not tears, not quite, but something close. Something that looked like love, or gratitude, or both tangled together until they couldn't be separated.

"She would like that very much." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I would like that very much."

The moment stretched between them. Charged. Shifting.

Missandei's hand slid higher on his thigh.

Jon's gaze dropped without conscious thought. Found where her nipples pressed against sheer fabric, dark points straining against gossamer, impossible to ignore. The wine warmed his blood. Her proximity warmed everything else.

She stood.

Slow. Deliberate. Holding his eyes with that dark, liquid gaze that promised everything.

Her fingers found the tie at her throat. Pulled.

The sleeping gown pooled at her feet like surrendered moonlight.

Jon's cock hardened immediately. Painfully. Straining against his breeches as he took in the sight of her.

Lush brown curves, soft and generous. Heavy breasts with dark nipples already stiff, swaying slightly as she breathed. The swell of her hips, wider than any highborn lady would allow. The magnificent roundness of her ass. And between her thighs, neat dark curls already glistening with want.

She was beautiful. Devastating. His.

Missandei sank to her knees between his legs.

Jon stopped thinking about Aegon entirely.

Her lips brushed his cockhead first. Soft as silk, warm as summer, parting around him with a reverence that pulled a groan from somewhere deep in Jon's chest. She took him slow, soothing, her tongue swirling the sensitive crown while those dark eyes stayed fixed on his face. Watching. Learning. Cataloguing every flicker of tension that bled from his shoulders.

"You work so hard, my prince." The words ghosted against his flesh between kisses. Her hands worked what her mouth couldn't reach, stroking the thick shaft with lustful devotion, cupping his heavy balls like something precious. "Let me take care of you. You deserve this."

Jon's head fell back. His eyes closed.

She swallowed him deeper.

The wet heat of her mouth engulfed him inch by inch. Cheeks hollowing, throat fluttering around his length, and Jon felt the last of his anger at Aegon dissolve into pure sensation. Her tongue traced the vein along his underside. Her fingers squeezed his base in rhythm with her bobbing head. She gagged slightly when he hit the back of her throat but didn't stop, determined, devoted, taking more of him than should be possible.

Wet sounds filled the chamber. Obscene and perfect.

"Fuck." The word escaped him. His hand found her hair, not guiding, just holding. Grounding himself in the moment.

Missandei hummed around his cock. The vibration made his hips jerk.

She pulled off to breathe. Strings of spit connected her swollen lips to his shaft, glistening in the candlelight. Her eyes were hazy, pupils blown wide, and her tongue darted out to catch the strand before it broke.

Jon hauled her up onto the bed.

She gasped as he flipped her onto her back, hands firm on her hips, and then gasped again when he shouldered between her thick thighs. He spread them wide. Looked his fill at the glistening cunt waiting for him, dark curls soaked with arousal, folds swollen and ready.

He buried his face in her.

"Āeksio!" The Valyrian burst from her. Then Naathi words he didn't recognize. Then just sounds, wordless and desperate, as his tongue worked her slit from entrance to clit and back again.

She was already soaking. Arousal coated his chin, his lips, flooded his senses with her taste. Salt and sweetness and something distinctly her. He licked and sucked, found the swollen pearl of her clit and focused there, flicking and circling until her thighs clamped around his head hard enough to muffle the world.

Her hands fisted in his dark hair. Her hips rolled against his mouth, grinding, seeking.

"Please." Broken Common now. "My prince. Yes. There. Don't stop. Please don't stop. I need... I..."

Jon didn't stop.

He added two fingers, curling inside her, finding the spot that made her voice crack. His tongue kept working her clit while his fingers fucked her slow and deep, and Missandei's whole body went rigid beneath him.

She shook apart with a wail.

Gushing against his palm, clenching around his fingers, trembling through her peak while he worked her through it. Her thighs squeezed his head. Her hands yanked his hair. Her cries rang off the stone walls in a language that might have been prayer.

Before she could recover, Jon flipped her onto her stomach.

"My prince..." Breathless. Still shaking.

He dragged her hips up until she was on her knees. Ass high, face pressed into sheets, that magnificent brown backside presented to him like an offering. He lined himself up. Felt her entrance flutter against his cockhead.

Drove into her in one brutal thrust.

Missandei screamed.

Jon started fucking her hard enough to make the bed slam against the wall.

Each thrust punched another cry from her throat. High and desperate, pleasure and overwhelm tangled together, her fingers clawing at the sheets while he pounded into her from behind. Her ass rippled with every impact. The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the chamber, rhythmic and relentless.

"Kirimvose," she sobbed into the mattress. "Kirimvose, kirimvose..." Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Jon gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. Pulled her back onto his cock with every forward thrust, burying himself to the hilt, feeling her clench and flutter around his length. She was so wet, so tight, and her cries were getting louder with every stroke.

The bed frame cracked against stone. Again. Again.

Her screams echoed through the chamber. Loud enough that the guards outside definitely heard. Loud enough that half the hallway probably heard.

Jon didn't care at all.

Jon pulled out.

Missandei whimpered at the loss, cunt clenching around nothing, but before she could protest he was flipping her onto her back. His hands hooked under her knees. Lifted.

She folded like paper.

Her legs pressed toward her shoulders, body bent nearly in half, completely open and utterly helpless as Jon drove back into her soaking cunt. The angle changed everything. He sank deeper than before, impossibly deep, hitting places that made white sparks burst behind her eyes.

Missandei's eyes rolled back in her skull.

"Kostilus!" The Valyrian tore from her throat. Then words in Naathi, rapid and desperate, a flood of sounds Jon couldn't begin to understand but their meaning was clear in every syllable. Praise. Worship. Begging. "Ñuha dārys, sȳz, sȳz, sȳz..."

Jon pounded into her folded body without mercy.

Each thrust drove the air from her lungs. Each withdrawal made her whine. Her heavy breasts bounced wildly with the force of his fucking, dark nipples tracing circles in the air, the full weight of them jiggling and swaying hypnotically. Her face twisted in desperate pleasure, mouth slack, drool escaping the corner of her lips to trail down her cheek.

She was babbling now. Common and Valyrian and Naathi all tangled together, a mess of languages and need.

"My prince yes... kirimvose... fuck me harder... please... give me another baby... want your seed... breed me again... want your child in me... please please please..."

Jon growled against her throat. His teeth found her pulse point, bit down hard enough to leave a mark, and Missandei's whole body seized around him.

She squirted.

Hot fluid gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs, flooding the sheets beneath them. Her cunt clamped down so tight he could barely move, and still he fucked her through it, driving through her orgasm into the next. Her third crashed into her fourth with no space between, one endless peak that had her screaming herself hoarse.

The sheets were ruined. Soaked through. Neither of them cared.

Jon's arms burned. The position demanded everything from him, holding her folded and open while he used her, and finally he let her down. Her legs fell to the mattress like cut strings. Her chest heaved. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, lost in pleasure.

But Missandei wasn't done.

She pushed him.

Jon let himself fall onto his back, surprised by her sudden strength, and then Missandei was straddling him. Her thighs bracketed his hips. Her hand found his cock, still iron-hard, and guided him to her entrance.

She sank down with a moan of pure satisfaction.

"Yes." The word stretched into a sigh. She settled fully onto him, took every inch, and her eyes fluttered closed in bliss. "So full. You fill me so well, my prince."

Then she started to ride.

Her hips rolled in deep circles, grinding her clit against his pelvis, hands braced on his chest for leverage. Those beautiful brown curves moved like waves, undulating, hypnotic. Her heavy breasts swayed with her rhythm. And her ass, that magnificent fat ass, slapped wetly against his thighs every time she dropped back down.

Jon gripped her wide hips hard enough to bruise.

His eyes tracked the bounce of her backside in his peripheral vision. Watched how her whole body moved, how pleasure transformed her face, how she bit her lip and whimpered and rode him like her life depended on it.

He pulled her down.

Kissed her deep and filthy, tongue claiming her mouth the way his cock claimed her cunt. She gasped against his lips, moaned into him, and her hips never stopped moving.

"Seed me," she begged between kisses. "Please. Give me another babe. A sibling for Valya. Want to be heavy with your child again. Want everyone to know I'm yours."

The image broke something in Jon.

Missandei round with his child. Belly swelling, breasts growing heavier with milk, that gorgeous body ripening with new life. Another daughter. A son. His blood growing in her womb while the whole realm watched and knew exactly whose she was.

He couldn't hold back anymore.

Jon slammed her hips down and thrust up, burying himself to the hilt, and came harder than he had in months. His cock pulsed and pulsed, flooding her with thick ropes of seed, pumping his release directly into her womb. So much. Too much. It leaked around him immediately, white streaks escaping their joining to trail down his balls.

Missandei shattered.

She came screaming his name, cunt clenching and milking every drop, working his cock with desperate contractions like her body was determined to wring him dry. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Tears of pleasure, of overwhelming sensation, of something that looked dangerously close to love.

She kissed him through it. Wet and messy, tasting of salt and wine and gratitude.

Jon stayed buried in her.

Still hard. Still pulsing with aftershocks. His seed settling deep inside her where it belonged.

Missandei collapsed against his chest, trembling, and whimpered against his throat.

"I can feel it," she breathed. "Feel how much you gave me. So much, my prince. So warm. So full."

They stayed tangled together in the aftermath.

Jon's cock softened slowly inside her, and Missandei made no move to separate. She lay draped across his chest, breath evening out, her heartbeat gradually slowing against his ribs. The sheets beneath them were ruined beyond saving. Soaked through with sweat and her release and the seed that leaked steadily from her stretched cunt, pooling in cooling puddles on silk and fur alike.

Neither of them cared.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time lost meaning in the warm haze of satisfaction.

Eventually Missandei stirred. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, his throat, the hollow beneath his collarbone. Then she slid down his body slowly, her soft curves dragging against him, her intent unmistakable.

Her mouth found his spent cock.

"Missandei..." Jon's voice came out rough. Wrecked. "You don't have to..."

She ignored him entirely.

Her tongue traced the length of his softening shaft, gentle and thorough, licking away the mess of their combined release. She hummed against his flesh, a sound of pure contentment, like she was savoring something precious rather than performing a duty.

Jon groaned. His cock twitched against her lips, oversensitive, almost painful.

"Stop." The word had no conviction behind it. He couldn't make himself mean it.

Missandei's dark eyes lifted to meet his. She held his gaze and took him into her mouth, soft suction pulling another groan from deep in his chest. Her curls spilled across his thighs as her head bobbed slowly, worshipping his softening flesh with lips and tongue.

She was thorough.

Every inch cleaned. Every trace of their coupling licked away. She worked the base with gentle fingers, cradled his balls in her palm, pressed soft kisses to the crown that made his toes curl against the mattress.

Impossibly, he began to harden again.

Not fully. Not the iron length he'd fucked her with earlier. But enough. Enough for Missandei to moan around him, pleased and hungry, and take him deeper.

Her throat fluttered against his cockhead. Her tongue worked the sensitive underside. She swallowed around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him with her mouth the way her cunt had milked him before.

Jon's hands found her hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Grounding himself as pleasure built again, slower this time, a gentle tide rather than a crashing wave.

"Fuck." His head pressed back into the pillows. His eyes squeezed shut. "Missandei. I'm going to..."

She took him to the root and swallowed.

Jon spilled down her throat with a broken sound. Less than before, but she worked him through it anyway, milking every last drop with soft suction and patient tongue. She didn't waste a single bit. Swallowed everything he gave her, then licked him clean one more time for good measure.

When she finally released him, her lips were swollen and slick. Her smile was pure satisfaction.

She crawled back up his body.

Jon was boneless. Emptied of everything. The tension that had coiled in his shoulders since the training yard, the frustration that had burned in his chest since his father's solar, the fury at Aegon that had poisoned his blood for years. All of it drained away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and warmth and the soft weight of Missandei settling against him.

She arranged them with careful hands.

His head came to rest on her breasts, cheek pillowed against warm brown skin. His arm draped across her soft stomach. His spent cock, still sensitive, nestled between her plush thighs where it was warm and safe and surrounded by her.

Missandei stroked his dark hair.

Fingers gentle through the sweat-damp strands, tracing patterns on his scalp that made his eyes flutter closed. She pressed kisses to his forehead. His temple. The silver streak at his left that marked him Targaryen no matter how Northern the rest of him looked.

She began to speak in Naathi.

Soft sounds Jon didn't understand. Words that rose and fell like music, lilting and sweet, settling into his bones like warmth from a fire. He couldn't translate them, didn't try. Just let the rhythm wash over him, let her voice fill the spaces where anger used to live.

Her hand kept stroking his hair.

"I love you." Common tongue now, whispered against his forehead. "Our daughter loves you. You're a good man, Jon. A good father." Her lips brushed his temple. "Aegon doesn't deserve to breathe your air."

Jon made a sound. Agreement or gratitude or something in between.

"You work so hard." Her fingers traced the shell of his ear. "You try so hard to keep the peace. To be what everyone needs you to be. And they punish you for it." Her voice hardened slightly, then softened again. "But you have me. You have Valya. You have people who see you truly."

He turned his face into her breast. Breathed her in. Coconut oil and flowers and something warm underneath that was just her.

"Thank you." The words came out muffled against her skin. "For this. For everything."

Missandei's arms tightened around him.

She began to hum. A melody he didn't recognize, something from Naath perhaps, rising and falling in patterns that suggested waves against sand. Lullaby rhythm. Safe sounds. The kind of music mothers sang to children to chase away nightmares.

Jon drifted.

Her heartbeat steady under his ear. Her soft thighs cradling his cock. Her voice wrapped around him like a blanket, warm and secure and utterly devoted.

The exile waited. Winterfell waited. Catelyn and his sons and whatever political complications his father had dressed in diplomatic language. All of it waited, two days away, inevitable and exhausting.

But not tonight.

Tonight there was only this. Missandei's warmth. Missandei's love. The steady rhythm of her lullaby carrying him down into darkness.

Jon fell asleep surrounded by her, and for tonight at least, none of it mattered at all.

Chapter Text

The manse sat on a quiet street in the merchant quarter, far enough from the Red Keep that no one of consequence would notice a prince's comings and goings, close enough that Jon could reach it within the hour. He'd bought it two years past with gold from a tourney purse, furnished it simply but well, hired servants who knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Missandei met him at the door.

She'd barely gotten the latch closed before he had her pressed against the wood, mouth hungry on hers, hands already working at the ties of her dress. She gasped something in Valyrian, fingers scrabbling at his doublet, and then they were stumbling toward the bedchamber, leaving a trail of discarded clothing.

He took her against the wall first, her legs wrapped around his waist, her magnificent ass filling his palms as he drove into her. She was already soaking, had been since he'd sent word he was coming, and she cried out with every thrust.

"Ohhhh..... Jon..... please....."

"Please what?" He rolled his hips, grinding deep, watching her face contort with pleasure. "Tell me."

"Harder..... fuck me harder....."

He obliged. Pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, used the other to grip her hip hard enough to bruise, and pounded into her until she screamed his name in three different languages.

They made it to the bed eventually. He bent her over the edge and took her from behind, fisting that glorious hair, watching her ass bounce with every stroke. She came twice before he finished, flooding her with the first load of many.

"Again," she breathed, still trembling. "Please..... I need....."

He gave her what she needed.

By evening, the sheets were ruined. Missandei lay sprawled across the mattress, dark skin gleaming with sweat, thighs slick with the seed that leaked from her despite how much he'd pumped inside. She looked wrecked. Beautiful. His.

He fucked her twice more before dawn.

The second day belonged to Valya.

His daughter met him at the manse's door with a shriek of "Papa!" that could probably be heard three streets over. She launched herself at his legs with enough force to stagger him, small arms wrapping tight, face pressed against his thigh.

"You came back!"

"I said I would." He scooped her up, settling her on his hip. She was heavier than he remembered. Growing too fast. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

Valya considered this with the gravity only a three-year-old could muster. "Mama said you were busy with important prince things."

"Nothing's more important than seeing you."

Her smile was sunrise. Missandei's smile, but those eyes... violet as his own, unmistakable Targaryen despite her brown skin and her mother's tight black curls. She was going to be devastating when she grew. Jon was already mentally cataloging which noble sons he'd need to threaten.

"Come see my garden!"

She squirmed until he set her down, then grabbed his hand and dragged him through the manse with surprising strength. The back garden was small but well-tended, a riot of herbs and flowers that Missandei cultivated for cooking and medicine. Valya had claimed one corner as her own, marked by a crooked wooden sign she'd clearly painted herself.

"These are mine." She pointed at a row of seedlings, barely sprouted. "Mama helped me plant them. They're going to be roses."

Jon crouched beside her, examining the tiny green shoots. "They look healthy."

"But they won't bloom." Valya's face crumpled with frustration. "I watered them every day and they still won't make flowers. Why won't they bloom before they're ready?"

"Because that's not how growing works." He brushed dirt from her cheek. "Everything needs time. Even roses. Even princesses."

"I'm not a princess."

"You're my princess."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's different."

They spent an hour in the garden, Valya explaining the purpose of each plant with the confidence of a maester while Jon listened and asked questions and pretended he didn't know half the answers already. She showed him the worm she'd named Gerald. She made him smell every herb and guess what it was. She demanded to know why the sky was blue.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"You're a prince. You should know everything."

"Princes don't know everything. No one does."

Valya frowned, processing this disappointing information. Then her eyes dropped to his feet and her frown deepened.

"There's a hole in your boot."

Jon looked down. She was right. The leather had worn through near the sole, barely visible. "How did you notice that?"

"I notice things." She said it matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. "Mama says I'm ob-ser-vant."

"Your mama's right."

From the doorway, Missandei watched them. Jon caught her eye over Valya's head, saw the softness there, the love and the longing and something else... her hand resting on her belly, low and protective. The way women touched themselves when they knew.

His seed. Already taking root.

He looked away before Valya could notice, but something warm and complicated settled in his chest.

That night, after Valya was asleep, Missandei curled against him in the darkness. Her head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin, her body still warm and pliant from the slow, gentle lovemaking they'd shared. Different from yesterday's desperate hunger. Softer. More like goodbye.

"Will you ever stay?"

The question came quiet, without accusation. She asked it every time. He never had an answer.

"I don't know."

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either."

Silence stretched between them, filled with all the things they couldn't say. She was Daenerys's woman, given to him as a tool, and somehow she'd become... this. Whatever this was. More than a bedwarmer. Less than a wife. Something in between that had no name but felt like home.

"I'm carrying again," she said softly. "I can feel it."

"I know."

"You could tell?"

"I could hope."

She lifted her head, dark eyes searching his face in the moonlight. Whatever she found there made her smile, sad and sweet and accepting.

"I love you," she said. "In all nineteen languages I know. I love you in every one."

"Missandei..."

"You don't have to say it back." She kissed him, soft and lingering. "That's enough."

They both knew it wasn't.

Morning came too soon.

Jon sat at the kitchen table, charcoal in hand, while Valya ate her breakfast and watched him work. She'd demanded a picture. She always demanded a picture. His travel bag was full of them, accumulated over three years of visits. Stick figures with wild hair. Dragons that looked more like angry chickens. Her name in shaky letters, getting steadier each time.

This one, he made special.

"That's me!" Valya bounced in her chair, porridge forgotten. "On a dragon! Is that Norvaxis?"

"It's your dragon. The one you'll have someday."

"Really? I get a dragon?"

"You're a Targaryen. Of course you get a dragon."

The drawing showed her older, hair streaming in the wind, one hand reaching up to touch the clouds while a great beast soared beneath her. He'd given her her mother's smile and his own jaw, tried to capture the fierce joy he saw in her eyes whenever she looked at the sky.

"I love it." She clutched the paper to her chest. "I'm going to keep it forever."

"You do that."

"Promise you'll come back."

He set down the charcoal. Opened his arms. She flew into them, small body hitting his chest hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Her arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing with surprising strength, holding on like she could keep him there through sheer force of will.

"Promise," she demanded against his neck.

"I promise."

"Swear on your dragon."

"I swear on Norvaxis."

"Swear on Mama."

"I swear on your mother."

"Swear on..." She pulled back, thinking hard. "Swear on me."

"I swear on you." He kissed her forehead. "I'll always come back to you."

The Dragonpit stank of sulfur and charred meat.

Jon descended the ancient steps into the cavernous dome, the smell thickening with each level. Bones littered the sand below, picked clean by the beast that waited at the center. A sheep's skull crunched under his boot. Another followed. The keepers had been feeding Norvaxis well in preparation for the long flight north.

The dragon raised his head at Jon's approach.

Norvaxis was black as midnight, scales drinking the torchlight rather than reflecting it, swallowing illumination the way he swallowed everything else. Crimson eyes burned in that massive skull, intelligent and ancient and hungry. He was the largest of the reborn dragons by a significant margin, bigger even than Drogon, and he knew it. Pride radiated from every line of that serpentine body.

Brother. The word wasn't spoken, exactly. More felt. A rumble in Jon's chest, a pressure behind his eyes. We hunt?

"We fly. North."

Cold. Displeasure colored the thought. Prey there is small. Stringy.

"You'll survive."

The dragon huffed, smoke curling from nostrils the size of carriage wheels. But he lowered his head, allowing Jon to check the saddle straps, to run his hands over the scales where leather met hide. Everything secure. Everything ready.

Footsteps echoed from the entrance above.

Jon turned to find them descending in a cluster of silk and silver. His mother led the way, her face set in the cold fury she'd worn since yesterday's sentencing. Behind her came Rhaenys and Daenerys, moving with the careful distance of women who tolerated each other's presence but little more. Rhaella followed at the rear, quiet and watchful, her silver-gold hair catching what little light the torches threw.

And behind them all, barely visible in the shadows, Missandei. Servant's posture. Hands clasped. Eyes fixed on Jon with an intensity that had nothing to do with duty.

Lyanna reached him first. She gripped his arms, grey eyes searching his face like she could find some argument there, some weapon she could use against Rhaegar's decree.

"This is ridiculous," she said. Her Northern accent always thickened when she was angry. "Diplomatic mission. As if anyone believes that. Aegon starts a fight, you win it, and somehow you're the one being sent away?"

"Mother..."

"I'll speak to your father. Again. He listens to me, sometimes, when he's not being a complete…"

"Don't." Jon covered her hands with his own. "Don't fight this battle for me."

"Someone has to."

"It's not exile. It's... distance. Time for tempers to cool. Aegon's pride is wounded, and Father needs to manage that. Sending me north lets everyone save face."

"Your face doesn't need saving. You did nothing wrong."

"I know. But I also don't need you going to war with Father over it. Not for this." He squeezed her hands. "Let it go. I'll be back before the moon turns."

Lyanna's jaw worked. She wanted to argue. He could see it in every line of her body, the wolf-blood rising, ready to fight. But something in his face must have reached her, because after a long moment she exhaled and nodded.

"Fine. But if you're not back in a fortnight, I'm flying north myself to fetch you."

"I'd expect nothing less."

She pulled him into a fierce embrace, strong arms crushing him against her. He breathed in pine and leather, the scent of home, and let himself be held like he was still a boy who needed his mother's protection.

Maybe he was. Maybe he always would be.

When she released him, Rhaenys was already moving forward.

She didn't hurry. That wasn't her way. She crossed the distance between them with the same rolling grace she brought to everything, hips swaying, dark hair catching the torchlight, violet eyes never leaving his face. Her gown was cut low enough to make septas weep, displaying the generous swell of her breasts, and she moved like she knew exactly what it did to him.

She probably did.

"Brother." Her arms slid around his neck, her body pressing close. Too close. He could feel every curve through the thin silk, the heat of her skin, the softness of her breasts crushed against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"I'll only be gone a few weeks."

"A few weeks too long." Her lips brushed his ear, breath warm and intimate. "Come back soon. I'm tired of waiting."

Before he could respond, she was gone. Stepping back with a smile that promised everything, leaving him off-balance, the ghost of her body still imprinted on his.

Daenerys practically ran to fill the space her rival had vacated.

"Jon." She threw her arms around him with none of Rhaenys's calculated grace, all desperate need and trembling urgency. Her face pressed into his chest, silver-gold hair spilling over his arms, and she clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a shifting world. "Promise you'll come back."

"I promise."

"Swear it."

"I swear it, Dany. On Norvaxis. On my honor. I'll come back."

She looked up at him, violet eyes swimming with something too intense to name. Her arms tightened. She held on longer than she should, longer than was proper, long enough that Lyanna's brows rose and Rhaenys's smile went sharp.

"I'll count the days," she whispered. "Every single one."

Then she forced herself to release him, stepping back with visible effort, hands pressed to her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place.

Rhaella approached last, her touch gentler. She cupped his face in cool, soft hands, violet eyes warm with the quiet concern she carried for all her grandchildren.

"Safe travels," she said simply. "The North is cold, but it breeds strong hearts. You'll do well there."

"Thank you, grandmother."

She kissed his cheek, the press of her lips lingering perhaps a breath longer than necessary, then withdrew to stand with the others.

Missandei hadn't moved from the shadows.

Jon crossed to her, aware of every eye following him. She stood perfectly still as he approached, hands clasped, head slightly bowed. The perfect servant. The invisible woman. No one watching would see anything improper.

He kissed her forehead. Chaste. Proper. The kind of farewell a prince might give any loyal attendant.

But his hand found her ass beneath the fall of her skirt, hidden from view by the angle of their bodies. He squeezed, feeling that magnificent flesh yield under his palm, and watched her composure crack. The smile that bloomed across her face was sunrise after storm, bright and warm and full of promise.

"When I return," he murmured against her hair, "I'm keeping you in bed for a week straight."

"I'll hold you to that, my prince."

He released her and turned toward Norvaxis. The dragon lowered his massive head, one crimson eye fixing on Jon with eager anticipation. Now we fly?

"Now we fly."

Jon climbed the familiar path up the dragon's shoulder, settling into the saddle, checking the straps one final time. The leather creaked as Norvaxis shifted beneath him, muscles bunching, wings beginning to unfurl. Each wing stretched wider than a ship's sail, membrane thin enough to glow red where the torchlight struck it.

"Sōvegon," Jon commanded.

Norvaxis roared.

The sound shook dust from the Dragonpit's ancient stones, sent the watching women stumbling back, made the torches gutter and nearly die. Then the dragon launched himself skyward with a single powerful beat of those massive wings, spiraling up through the dome's open center, climbing toward the pale morning sky.

Jon looked down once. Saw them standing in the pit's center, faces upturned, growing smaller with every heartbeat. His mother's grey eyes. Rhaenys's knowing smile. Daenerys's desperate longing. Rhaella's quiet concern. Missandei's secret joy.

Each of them hoping he'd return soon.

Each for their own reasons.

The wind took him north, and the women below became specks, then memories, then nothing at all but the promise of homecoming.

Two days of wind and sky and freedom.

Jon didn't stop at any lord's castle, though he saw the scrambling below whenever Norvaxis's shadow passed over keeps. Banners hastily raised, riders dispatched, servants rushing to prepare for a prince who never descended. Let them scramble. Let them offer hospitality to empty air. He had no interest in awkward feasts and careful conversations, in lords who would probe for information about the exile that wasn't an exile, in ladies who would simper and scheme.

The first night he landed in an empty Riverlands field as the sun bled red across the horizon. Norvaxis curled around him like a wall of midnight scales, massive body forming a windbreak, tail tucked close. The dragon's furnace-heat radiated through the leather saddle, through Jon's cloak, better than any hearth in any castle.

Sleep, Norvaxis rumbled in his mind. I watch.

Jon settled against the warm scales, hand pressed flat to that impossible hide, feeling the slow pulse of dragon-blood beneath. Stars wheeled overhead, more than he ever saw in King's Landing, the sky unpolluted by torchlight and cooking fires. He named constellations until his eyes grew heavy. The Ice Dragon pointing north. The Crone's Lantern. The Stallion.

He dreamed of wolves running through snow, of fire and shadow, of violet eyes that might have been Daenerys's or Rhaenys's or his own reflected in dark water.

Morning came with frost on his cloak and a crimson eye watching him, patient and eternal.

More flying?

"More flying."

They rose with the dawn, climbing until the Riverlands became a patchwork of brown and green far below, until the Trident was a silver ribbon winding through autumn-touched forest. The air thinned and sharpened, cold enough to burn his lungs, and Jon pulled his cloak tighter and urged Norvaxis higher still.

They crossed into the North by midday.

He felt it before he saw it. Something in the land itself changed, the colors deepening, the forests growing darker and wilder, the scattered keeps becoming fewer and farther between. This was old country. Ancient country. The blood of the First Men ran through these hills, and something in Jon's own blood answered.

Cold, Norvaxis complained. Prey small. Stringy. Told you.

"Hunt if you want. I can wait."

Later. Want to see the wolf-den.

Winterfell appeared in late afternoon.

Ancient grey stones rose from the frozen landscape, a fortress that had stood eight thousand years and would stand eight thousand more. Hot spring steam rose from the godswood, wreathing the castle in mist that caught the dying light. The wolfswood spread dark and endless beyond, primeval forest that had never known an axe. Towers and walls and the great granite bulk of the First Keep, oldest structure in the Seven Kingdoms still in use.

Home. Or something like it. The home he'd never had, the home his mother spoke of with such longing, the home that called to the wolf-blood in his veins.

Norvaxis circled twice, banking on thermal currents, surveying the castle and its surroundings with predatory interest. Then he roared.

The sound rolled across the North like thunder, rattling shutters in Winter Town, sending sheep scattering in distant fields, making horses rear and dogs howl. Every head for miles turned skyward. Every eye found the black shape descending from the clouds, death made flesh, the largest dragon the world had seen since Balerion.

They know we come now.

"That was the point."

The dragon descended to the field outside the castle gates, where a welcoming party waited at careful distance. Smart. Norvaxis was known for his temper, and only a fool stood too close to an unfamiliar dragon. Jon saw banners snapping in the wind, grey and white, the direwolf of House Stark.

He slid from Norvaxis's back, boots crunching on frozen grass. The cold hit him immediately, sharper than any Southern winter, and he breathed deep and felt something loosen in his chest.

The welcoming party resolved into individuals as he approached. Three Stark women stood in formal arrangement, wrapped in furs against the chill. Two dark-haired boys flanked them, trying very hard to maintain the dignity expected of young lords.

They failed almost immediately.

"PAPA!"

Two small bodies launched themselves from the formal arrangement, ceremony forgotten, dignity abandoned. Brandon reached him first, seven years old and fast as a winter hare, slamming into Jon's legs hard enough to stagger him. Rickon followed half a heartbeat later, five and fearless, grabbing whatever part of Jon he could reach.

"You came! You came on the dragon!"

Jon caught them both, swinging Brandon onto his hip and Rickon onto his shoulders in a motion he'd practiced more times than he could count. They shrieked with laughter, small hands grabbing at his hair, his cloak, his face.

"Dragon ride!" Rickon demanded from his perch. "Now! Right now!"

"I want to go first!" Brandon squirmed in his grip. "I'm older!"

"You went first last time!"

"That was forever ago!"

They had Stark coloring, both of them. Dark hair that curled at their temples, handsome faces that would break hearts when they grew, the long Northern features of their mother's blood. But their eyes... their eyes were violet. Purple as a bruise, as amethyst, as the sky at twilight. Unmistakable. Undeniable.

Everyone in the North knew whose blood ran in those veins. Nobody dared say it aloud.

"Can you teach me the sword grip you showed me last time?" Brandon tugged at Jon's doublet. "The one that makes the blade go whoosh?"

"Dragons first!" Rickon countered. "Sword grips are boring!"

"They're not boring, you're just too little to understand!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Enough." Jon's voice cut through the squabbling, gentle but firm. Both boys went quiet, looking at him with identical expressions of hope and impatience. "You'll both get dragon rides. Brandon, I'll show you the grip. Rickon, you can help me feed Norvaxis. But first, I need to greet your mother properly. Can you wait that long?"

They considered this, a negotiation conducted entirely in exchanged glances.

"Fine," Brandon said grudgingly. "But you promised."

"I swore on Norvaxis last time," Rickon added. "You can't break that."

"I won't break it." Jon set them down, ruffling both dark heads. "Go stand with your mother. I'll come find you before sunset."

They scampered back toward the waiting women, shoving each other as they went, already arguing about who would get the longer ride. Jon watched them go, warmth spreading through his chest despite the cold.

Then he looked up, and his breath caught.

Catelyn stood at the front of the formal party, wrapped in Tully blue and red beneath a grey cloak clasped with silver. The dress was cut to display, and it succeeded admirably. Her breasts strained against the bodice, full and heavy, the fabric clinging to curves that haunted his dreams. The silk draped over her hips, hugged the swell of her ass, outlined every line of the body he'd been imagining for eighteen months.

She'd dressed for him. The knowledge settled in his gut like hot coals.

Behind her stood Sansa, grey Stark wool doing nothing to hide her figure. The neckline dipped low enough to shadow the cleavage between her generous breasts, auburn hair catching the winter light like burnished copper. She was taller than he remembered, fuller, her body ripened from girl to woman in the years since he'd seen her last.

And Arya.

Gods, Arya.

She wore riding leathers she'd clearly chosen herself, practical and fitted and completely inappropriate for a formal greeting. The top was unlaced at the throat, showing the swell of breasts that hadn't existed two years ago. Large, firm, straining against leather that was never designed to contain them. Her breeches might as well have been painted on, molded to thighs and hips and an ass that made Jon's eyes linger too long.

She caught him looking. Her smile was pure challenge.

All three of them. Dressed for him. Waiting for him. Wanting things they couldn't say aloud in front of servants and guards and two small boys who didn't understand.

Jon kept his face neutral, schooled his expression into pleasant formality, and strode toward Catelyn first.

"My lady." He opened his arms.

"My prince." She stepped into his embrace.

From a distance, it looked proper. A prince greeting his host, the Lady of Winterfell welcoming an honored guest. Nothing scandalous. Nothing worth noting.

Up close, his hands found her ass and squeezed through the silk, fingers digging into that generous flesh, palming her like he owned her. His other hand rose to her breast, cupping that heavy weight, thumb brushing across her nipple through the fabric. He felt it harden under his touch, felt her whole body shudder.

"Ohhhh....." She gasped against his neck, soft enough that only he could hear. Her hips pressed forward, grinding against his thigh. "Jon..... gods, I've missed....."

"Later." He squeezed harder, one last claiming touch, then released her and stepped back. "We'll talk later."

Her face was flushed, her breath unsteady, her nipples visible through the fine fabric. She nodded, trying to compose herself, failing magnificently.

Behind her, Arya and Sansa watched with carefully neutral expressions. But Jon saw the jealousy flickering in their eyes, the hunger they couldn't quite hide. Arya's jaw was tight. Sansa's hands were clasped too hard.

They'd seen. They were pretending not to notice.

They were burning with it.

The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with hearth-fire and candlelight, long tables set with Northern fare, the ancient stone walls hung with Stark banners. Jon sat in the place of honor beside Catelyn, Brandon and Rickon bracketing him like small guards, the entire household arrayed before them in welcome.

But before the feast could begin in earnest, there were gifts to distribute.

"For the Lady of Winterfell." Jon gestured, and a servant brought forward a carved chest of dark wood. He opened it to reveal the contents: jewels that caught the firelight and scattered it in a thousand directions, sapphires and rubies and diamonds set in delicate gold. Beneath them, folded silks in deep colors, gowns cut in the Southern fashion. Revealing. Clinging. The kind of dresses that would display Catelyn's body like the treasure it was.

Her breath caught as she lifted a ruby pendant, large as a robin's egg. "Jon, this is too much..."

"Nothing is too much." He leaned close, voice dropping to a murmur only she could hear. "I want to see you in the blue one. Only the blue one. Tonight."

The flush that spread across her cheeks was answer enough.

For Sansa, a smaller chest. Necklaces of worked silver and gold, gems in every color, pretty things that would hang in the hollow of her throat and draw eyes to the swell beneath. She exclaimed over each piece with genuine delight, holding an emerald to the light, draping a pearl strand across her fingers.

"They're beautiful," she breathed. "Truly, my prince, I don't know how to thank you..."

"Wear them." Jon's smile was warm, his meaning layered. "That's thanks enough."

Arya received a long bundle wrapped in oiled cloth, and her eyes lit with recognition before she even opened it. The sword within was castle-forged steel, slim and elegant, balanced for a woman's hand. She drew it in one smooth motion, testing the weight, watching light ripple down the blade.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, this is perfect."

The jewelry that came with it, she barely glanced at. Gems and gold meant nothing to her. But the sword... the sword she held like a lover.

"I had it made by the best smith in King's Landing," Jon told her. "Custom weighted. I remembered you always said Needle was getting too small."

"It was." She looked at him, something fierce and wanting in her grey eyes. "Thank you. I'll put it to good use."

"I know you will."

For the boys, there were expensive toys. Carved dragons that moved their wings when you pulled a string. Wooden swords with padded edges for sparring. A set of painted soldiers representing every Great House, perfect for endless games of war. Brandon and Rickon fell upon the gifts with shrieking delight, immediately arguing over who got to be the Targaryens.

"Can we go see Norvaxis now?" Brandon tugged at Jon's sleeve. "You promised before sunset!"

"Please?" Rickon added, violet eyes wide and pleading. "I want to feed him. You said I could help."

Jon looked to Catelyn, who nodded with the weary acceptance of a mother who knew she was outnumbered.

"Go." She smiled, soft and genuine. "We'll be here when you return."

The boys grabbed his hands, one on each side, and dragged him toward the great doors with all the urgency of small children denied a treat too long. Jon let himself be pulled, laughing, promising that yes, they could touch the scales, and yes, Norvaxis wouldn't eat them, probably.

At the doorway, he glanced back.

Three Stark women watched him go. Catelyn with her flushed cheeks and straining bodice, fingers still touching the ruby at her throat. Sansa with her pearls draped across her fingers, blue eyes following his every movement. Arya with her sword balanced across her knees, breeches tight, leather unlaced, looking at him like she wanted to fight him and fuck him in equal measure.

Three different women. Three different hungers.

All of them waiting for him.

Jon smiled and let his sons drag him out into the cold, toward the shadow of the dragon that waited in the gathering dark.

Jon had controlled himself the first night.

It hadn't been easy. The unpacking, the settling in, the boys demanding attention until their eyes drooped and their nursemaid carried them off to bed. The feast that stretched into evening, course after course, Catelyn seated close enough that he could smell her perfume and feel the heat of her body through the silk of her gown. Every time she reached for her wine, her breast brushed his arm. Every time she laughed, her hand found his thigh beneath the table.

But there were servants everywhere. Guards at every door. Too many eyes, too many ears, and he'd learned long ago that discretion was the price of pleasure in a world that loved to whisper.

So he waited.

After supper, when the hall had emptied and the torches burned low, he found her in the corridor outside her chambers. She was walking alone, dismissed her handmaids early, and the look she gave him when he stepped from the shadows said she'd been hoping he would follow.

He didn't speak. Just caught her arm, spun her into the darkness of an empty hallway, and pressed her against the cold stone wall.

"Jon..." she breathed, but his mouth swallowed the word.

He kissed her deep and hungry, months of wanting pouring out, tongue sliding against hers while his hands found what they'd been craving. Her ass filled his palms, generous and soft through the silk, and he squeezed hard enough to make her gasp into his mouth. His other hand rose to her breast, cupping that heavy weight, thumb circling her nipple until it peaked against the fabric.

"Ohhhh..... gods....." She arched into his touch, hips rolling against his thigh, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. "We shouldn't..... someone might....."

"Let them." He bit her lower lip, tugged gently, released it with a wet sound. "I've been thinking about this for eighteen months."

"Mmmm..... Jon....." Her head fell back against the stone, baring her throat. He kissed down the column of it, tasting salt and perfume, feeling her pulse hammer against his lips. "The boys..... the servants....."

"Are all asleep or occupied." He squeezed her ass again, both hands now, lifting her slightly, grinding her against the hard length pressing through his breeches. "But if you want me to stop..."

"No." The word came fast, desperate. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He didn't. He kissed her until her lips were swollen, groped her until her dress was hopelessly wrinkled, worked her against his thigh until she was panting and trembling and making small sounds that echoed in the empty corridor. When he finally pulled back, her face was flushed, her hair escaping its pins, her nipples visible through the silk.

"Tomorrow night," he said. "I'll come to your bed."

"Yes." She grabbed his doublet, pulled him back for one more kiss, fierce and promising. "Tomorrow. I'll be waiting."

He left her there, disheveled and wanting, and somehow found the strength to return to his own chambers.

Sleep was a long time coming.

The next morning brought the trouble he'd expected.

Jon had known they were here before he'd descended to the great hall. The banners outside told the story. A flayed man, pink and red, for Bolton. A sunburst, white on black, for Karstark. Two of the North's most powerful houses, and both of them circling the Stark daughters like wolves around a wounded deer.

This was why Catelyn had written to Rhaegar. Why Jon was really here, despite the diplomatic fiction. The lords had been pressing marriage suits for months, growing bolder with each refusal, sensing that a widow without a husband's protection was vulnerable no matter how ancient her House.

They'd miscalculated.

Lord Roose Bolton rose when Jon entered, offering a bow precisely calibrated to show respect without submission. He was a pale man, thin and cold, his voice soft as snowfall and twice as chilling. Something about him made Jon's skin crawl, an instinct that whispered of wrong things done in dark places.

"Prince Jaehaerys." Bolton's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "An honor. We had not expected royal attention to our small Northern matters."

"The Crown takes interest in all its subjects' wellbeing." Jon took his seat at the high table, gesturing for the lords to do the same. "Particularly the wellbeing of House Stark."

Lord Rickard Karstark was Bolton's opposite in every visible way. Large, loud, his voice booming through the hall with forced joviality. He spoke of warrior women and strong sons, of the honor of joining Stark blood to Karstark, of how the girl Arya needed a firm hand to guide her wildness.

Jon listened to it all with his face carved from stone.

Bolton made his case for Sansa with careful words and softer ones, speaking of alliance and protection, of the uncertain times ahead, of how a young widow and her daughters needed a lord's strength behind them. His pale eyes never warmed, never revealed anything beyond calculation and patience.

"The Lady Sansa is of an age to wed," Bolton observed. "And the Dreadfort has never failed to honor its alliances. She would want for nothing."

"Except freedom," Jon said quietly.

Bolton's expression didn't change. "Freedom is a luxury few can afford, my prince. Surely you understand that."

"I understand many things." Jon rose from his seat. "Perhaps you lords would care to walk with me. There's something I'd like to show you."

They exchanged glances but followed. What choice did they have? Refusing a prince's invitation would be an insult far greater than any they might receive.

Jon led them out of the keep, through the yard where servants paused in their work to stare, past the gates and into the field beyond. The wind cut sharp and cold, carrying the smell of smoke and something else. Something vast and ancient and hungry.

Norvaxis raised his massive head at their approach.

The dragon had been basking in weak winter sunlight, black scales drinking the light, tail curled around his body like a cat's. But his crimson eyes opened at the sound of footsteps, fixing on the Northern lords with predatory interest. Steam curled from his nostrils, melting the snow in a perfect circle around his bulk.

Bolton and Karstark stopped walking.

"Beautiful, isn't he?" Jon continued forward, crossing the distance to Norvaxis's side, laying one hand on those midnight scales. The dragon's head swung toward him, a rumble building in that cavernous chest. "The largest of his kind since Balerion. And considerably less patient."

"My prince..." Karstark's bluster had faded. His voice came smaller now, eyes fixed on the beast before him. "We meant no disrespect..."

"Didn't you?" Jon's voice went quiet. Cold. "You've been pressing your suits for months. Lady Catelyn has refused you, repeatedly, and yet here you are. Still pressing. Still presuming."

"A lord has the right to seek advantageous marriages..." Bolton began.

"A lord has the rights his prince allows him." Jon cut him off, still stroking Norvaxis's scales. "And I'm telling you now, clearly, so there can be no misunderstanding: the Stark girls are under the Crown's protection. Mine specifically. Any unwanted advances, any continued pressure, any attempt to force what has been freely refused... will be taken as an insult to the Iron Throne."

Silence stretched across the frozen field.

"And insults to the Iron Throne," Jon continued softly, "tend to burn."

He gave the signal. One word, spoken without raising his voice.

"Dracarys."

Norvaxis screamed.

The roar shook the ground beneath their feet, sent birds scattering from trees half a mile distant, rattled shutters in Winterfell itself. Those massive jaws split open, revealing teeth longer than swords, and then came the fire.

Red and black, twisting together like lovers in the air, a torrent of flame that turned snow to steam and frozen ground to smoking mud. The heat washed over them, close enough to singe eyebrows, close enough to feel like standing at the mouth of a forge. Jon didn't flinch. He'd felt dragonfire before, knew its limits, knew exactly how close Norvaxis could come without actual harm.

The Northern lords didn't know that.

Bolton went pale as milk, his careful composure cracking at last, something like fear flickering in those cold eyes. Karstark stumbled backward, nearly falling, one hand raised as if he could ward off the inferno by will alone.

The fire cut off.

Smoke curled from Norvaxis's nostrils, drifting across the field like morning mist. The dragon settled back, satisfied, crimson eyes still fixed on the lords with unmistakable hunger.

"Do we understand each other?" Jon asked.

They understood.

They bowed, deep and sincere this time, no careful calculation in the angle. They murmured apologies, protestations of loyalty, promises to trouble the Stark household no further. They backed away, neither willing to turn their backs on the dragon, and practically fled toward the castle.

Within the hour, both retinues were gone. Jon watched them ride through the gates, Karstark's men at a near gallop, Bolton's more controlled but no less eager to put distance between themselves and Winterfell.

Norvaxis rumbled, a sound of contentment, and lowered his massive head to rest on crossed foreclaws.

Good hunting, the dragon offered. Did not even need to eat them.

"Maybe next time."

Promise?

Jon laughed, the sound carried away by the winter wind. He turned back toward the castle, toward warmth and duty and the three women waiting within.

His father had sent him somewhere useful after all.

Dinner that night was celebration.

The great hall blazed with hearth-fire, torches throwing warm light across ancient stones, the household gathered in numbers Jon hadn't seen since his last visit. Servants moved between tables with platters of roasted venison and winter vegetables, flagons of ale and Arbor gold. The relief was palpable. Two powerful lords had ridden in with marriage demands and ridden out with scorched pride, and everyone from the steward to the kitchen girls knew who to thank.

Brandon and Rickon had been allowed to stay up past their usual bedtime, bouncing in their seats with barely contained energy, still talking over each other about the dragon demonstration they'd watched from the walls.

"The fire went whoosh!" Rickon demonstrated with both hands, nearly knocking over his cup. "And Lord Karstark's face went all white like snow!"

"Bolton's too," Brandon added with grim satisfaction. "He looked like he was going to be sick. Serves him right. He always looks at Mother funny."

"Brandon." Catelyn's voice carried gentle warning. "That's enough."

"But it's true!"

Jon hid his smile behind his wine cup. The boys had Stark coloring, dark hair and long faces, but those violet eyes sparkled with pure Targaryen mischief. They'd grow into formidable men someday, if they survived their own recklessness first.

He sat in the place of honor at the high table, Lord Stark's chair, the seat that had been empty since Ned's death. Nobody commented on the presumption. Nobody needed to. The household understood exactly what Jon's presence meant, what his protection bought, what his claim on their lady implied.

Catelyn sat beside him, close enough that their arms brushed with every movement.

She was wearing one of the dresses he'd brought.

Deep blue velvet that clung to her like water, flowing over every curve, pooling at her feet in a way that made her seem to glide rather than walk. The neckline plunged nearly to her navel, a daring Southern cut that no Northern lady would have chosen, showing the full swell of her breasts in a display that bordered on obscene. The fabric gathered beneath them, lifting and presenting, and every time she breathed, the heavy flesh shifted.

Her waist was cinched tight, emphasizing curves that two pregnancies had only improved. The velvet draped over her hips, outlined the generous swell of her ass when she'd walked to her seat, clung to thighs that Jon knew from experience could grip with surprising strength.

He traced her openly with his eyes. Let his gaze linger on the shadow between her breasts, the pale skin flushed pink from the hall's warmth, the way her nipples peaked against the velvet despite the fire's heat.

Catelyn felt his attention. A flush climbed her cheeks, spreading down her throat to disappear beneath that plunging neckline. Under the table, her thighs pressed together, a small movement she probably thought he couldn't see.

He saw.

Movement caught his eye further down the table.

Sansa sat three seats away, positioned to be visible whenever he glanced in that direction. Coincidence, perhaps. Or perhaps not. She wore silver-grey silk, thin as gossamer, catching the firelight and throwing it back in subtle gleams. The fabric was too thin for a Northern hall in winter, and the chill had done its work. Her nipples stood proud against the silk, dark shadows visible through the delicate weave, drawing the eye like lodestones.

Her auburn hair fell loose around her shoulders, a waterfall of burnished copper that shifted with every breath. No elaborate Southern braids tonight. No pins or ribbons. Just that glorious hair framing a face that had lost its childish softness, revealing the woman beneath.

She caught him looking.

Her breath hitched visibly, chest rising, those thin-silk nipples pressing harder against the fabric. Blue eyes went wide, then dropped to her plate, but not before he saw the satisfaction curving her lips. A small, secret smile. The smile of a woman who'd dressed to be noticed and succeeded.

Further still, at the far end of the high table, Arya.

She wore a dress.

Jon almost didn't recognize her. He'd never seen her in anything but riding leathers or practical wool, clothing chosen for movement and comfort rather than display. But tonight she'd been forced into silk and velvet, a deep grey gown that someone had clearly talked her into wearing.

The cut showed her athletic figure to advantage. Shoulders bared, arms defined by years of sword work, the swell of breasts she usually bound or hid now lifted and presented. The bodice was tight enough to push them up, creating cleavage she probably hadn't known she possessed, and the fabric draped over hips that were wider than her narrow waist suggested.

She looked miserable. She looked stunning.

She caught his gaze and held it.

No blushing retreat like Sansa. No demure glance away. Arya stared back with something fierce and challenging in her grey eyes, chin lifted, jaw set. A flush spread across her cheeks despite her defiance, down her throat, across the exposed skin of her shoulders.

Then she looked away with a small, triumphant smile. As if she'd won something. As if holding his attention for those few seconds was a victory.

Jon returned his attention to Catelyn.

Found her watching him.

Something cold had crept into her blue eyes, frost forming over the warmth that had been there moments before. Her jaw was tight. Her fingers had gone white around the stem of her wine cup.

She'd seen.

She'd seen him look at Sansa's silk-thin dress and peaked nipples. She'd seen him notice Arya's unexpected curves, the challenge in her daughter's eyes, the flush that spread across that athletic body. She'd watched his attention drift to her daughters and return, and she knew exactly what he'd been thinking.

"The household accounts need attention." Her voice was perfectly pleasant, carrying no hint of the ice in her gaze. "The steward has concerns about the winter stores."

"Does he?" Jon kept his own tone neutral. Surface conversation. The words meant nothing. The real exchange happened beneath them.

"Several matters require a lord's oversight." Her hand found his thigh under the table, hidden by heavy cloth, and her nails dug in through the fabric of his breeches. Hard enough to feel. Hard enough to leave marks. "Perhaps we might discuss them privately."

Possessive. Angry.

You looked at my daughters. I saw you look at my daughters. What game do you think you're playing?

"Of course." Jon covered her hand with his own, pressing down, trapping those digging nails against his thigh. Then he squeezed. Once. Hard.

A promise in that grip. A reminder.

Catelyn shivered despite the jealousy burning in her eyes. Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together again under the table, and this time Jon was close enough to feel her shift.

Whatever cold fury was building in her, whatever questions she wanted to ask about her daughters and his wandering attention, it couldn't quite overcome the heat that single squeeze ignited.

They finished dinner in careful silence, surface pleasantries exchanged, real conversation postponed.

The night was young. They had time.

The Lord's chambers hadn't changed since Ned died.

Same heavy furniture, dark oak and iron, built to last through centuries of Northern winters. Same furs piled thick on the great bed, wolf pelts and bear skins layered against the cold. Same fire crackling in the massive hearth, throwing dancing shadows across stone walls that had stood for eight thousand years.

Even the smell was the same. Smoke and pine and something cold underneath, something that never quite warmed no matter how high the flames burned. The scent of Winterfell itself, ancient and enduring.

Jon entered without knocking.

Catelyn sat at the vanity, her back to the door, brushing her auburn hair with sharp, angry strokes. The bristles dragged through those thick waves with more force than necessary, each pull a small violence. She wore a silk shift so thin the firelight turned it transparent, outlining every curve of the body beneath. The heavy swell of her breasts. The dip of her waist. The generous flare of her hips.

She didn't turn when the door closed.

Cold radiated off her like winter wind, filling the space between them with frost that had nothing to do with temperature. Her shoulders were rigid. Her jaw tight. The brush moved through her hair in relentless rhythm, stroke after stroke, as if she could untangle her fury along with the day's knots.

Jon didn't wait.

Three strides carried him across the room. His hands found her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh through silk, and he hauled her up from the vanity seat. She gasped, the brush clattering to the floor, but before she could speak his palm cracked across her ass.

The sound echoed off stone walls.

He groped the stinging flesh through thin fabric, feeling heat bloom beneath his palm, the generous curve filling his hand perfectly. His other hand found her breast, cupping that heavy weight, thumb finding her nipple and pinching hard through silk.

Catelyn hissed. Her body went rigid, trying to pull away, but his grip on her ass held her in place.

"You looked at them." The words came sharp as broken glass, cold fury beneath the breathless tone. "My daughters. I saw you looking at my daughters like... like..."

"Like what?" Jon spun her, one hand leaving her ass to catch her shoulder, slamming her back against the vanity hard enough to rattle the mirror. Bottles toppled. A comb clattered to the stone floor. "Like a man looks at beautiful women?"

"They're my daughters."

"They're grown women who dressed to catch my eye." He shoved his hand between her thighs, pushing past the thin barrier of silk. "And apparently it worked."

She was soaking.

The fabric was ruined already, drenched with arousal that coated his fingers the moment they found her. Her cunt was hot and swollen, slick with wanting, and she made a choked sound when he pressed against her.

Jon laughed.

The sound came low and dark against her throat, his lips brushing the hammering pulse beneath her jaw. "Listen to you. So angry. So furious with me for noticing what your daughters put on display." His fingers pushed inside through the ruined silk, fabric tearing, and she gasped. "But you're dripping, Cat. Absolutely fucking dripping."

"I hate you." Her voice cracked.

"Do you?" He curled his fingers, found that spot inside her that made her knees buckle, and pressed. "Did you get this wet watching me look at Sansa's tits through that silk she wore? I could see her nipples, you know. Hard little points, begging to be touched."

"Stop..."

"Or was it Arya?" He added another finger, stretching her, his palm grinding against her clit with every movement. "That dress she wore, showing off an ass I didn't know she had. Round and firm and perfect. I couldn't stop looking."

Catelyn's hand flew up, catching his jaw, nails raking across his cheek. "Arrogant bastard." She kissed him.

Her teeth caught his lip, biting hard enough to taste blood. Copper flooded his tongue, mixing with the heat of her mouth, and she kissed him like she wanted to devour him. Like she wanted to punish him. Like she couldn't decide between murder and fucking.

Jon didn't stop kissing her.

His fingers worked her cunt, two deep inside her now, curling and pressing while his palm ground relentless circles against her clit. Her protests dissolved into sounds she couldn't control. Moans that broke against his mouth. Whimpers that contradicted every angry word. Her hips rolled into his hand despite herself, chasing pleasure even as she bit him again.

"Hnnnghhh..... damn you..... damn you to all seven hells....."

"You love it." He thrust his fingers harder, faster, feeling her clench around them. "You love that I looked. You love being angry about it. Makes you feel wanted."

"Fuuuck..... I..... nnnhhh....."

Her head fell back against the mirror, auburn hair spreading across the glass, and she stopped fighting. Her thighs fell open wider. Her hips moved in desperate rhythm with his hand. Her breast heaved against his palm, nipple hard as a pebble beneath his thumb.

"That's it." He bit her throat, sucking hard enough to mark. "Stop pretending."

He grabbed the neckline of her shift with his free hand and pulled.

Silk tore like paper, ripping down the center, falling away from her body in ruined shreds. She stood bare before him now, skin flushed pink from anger and arousal both, breasts heaving, thighs spread around his working hand.

Catelyn stopped pretending she didn't want this.

The memory found her even as Jon's hands mapped her body.

Five days after Ned Stark's funeral. Five days after they'd laid her husband in the crypts beneath Winterfell, his stone likeness already begun, his bones interred beside generations of Stark dead.

She had lost Robb just three months prior. Her first son, her little baby, taken by the same fever that would claim his father. The sickness had swept through Winterfell like wildfire, burning through the household, leaving graves in its wake. Pain after pain, loss after loss, until she'd stood hollow and empty at Ned's funeral pyre, wondering if she'd ever feel anything again.

When she'd had the maester send the ravens, she'd expected Lyanna to come. Her goodsister, the Queen, the wild wolf who had run off with Rhaegar and somehow emerged a queen. But Lyanna had been sick herself, recovering slowly in King's Landing. Benjen ranged beyond the Wall, unreachable.

So the Crown sent Jon.

She'd felt his eyes on her during the ceremony. During the feast. Every moment he was in Winterfell, that prince's attention hot and unsubtle, following her across rooms, finding her in crowds, lingering on her body in ways that made her flush beneath her widow's blacks. Confusing and flattering and guilt-inducing all at once.

She told herself it was nothing. Told herself he was young, barely eighteen, that princes looked at everything, that it meant nothing.

She'd been removing her widow's veil before proper time. Letting her hair down from the widow's knot, that severe style that marked her mourning. Changing from black wool to grey silk that clung to her figure in ways she pretended not to notice.

Then he came to her chambers.

"You shouldn't be here." She stood at her vanity, brush in hand, wearing only a thin shift. The impropriety of it burned. "I'm in mourning. You're practically family."

"I'm not your family." He closed the door behind him. "I'm not your blood. Not your kin."

"Jon, please. This isn't... we can't..."

He kissed her mid-protest.

His mouth covered hers, swallowing the words, and gods help her, she kissed back. Hated herself for it. Her hands pushed at his chest even as her mouth opened for his tongue, fighting and yielding in the same breath.

"Arrogant," she gasped when he let her breathe. "Arrogant boy. Playing at being a man."

He laughed. Put his hand between her legs. Found her wet.

"You were saying?"

The insults kept coming even as her thighs spread wider. Even as she begged for more. Even as he pushed inside her and she screamed loud enough to wake the castle, months of grief and loneliness shattering into something raw and desperate.

He fucked her until two hours from midnight.

Their bodies moved together under the furs, slick with sweat, her legs wrapped around him, their lips barely parting. The taunts he gave her between kisses only made her wetter, sharp words that should have shamed her, that did shame her, that she craved anyway.

"Widow's bed not even cold yet..."

"I hate you... gods, don't stop..."

"That's it, Cat. Show me how much you hate it..."

Then his mouth found her breasts.

She'd been nursing when Robb died. The milk had kept coming, painfully, uselessly, her body not understanding that the babe who needed it was gone. The maester had given her herbs to dry it up, but grief had made her forget the doses, and she'd been swollen and aching for weeks.

Jon latched on and sucked.

The sound she made wasn't human. A mewling cry of shock and relief and something darker, pleasure flooding through her as the pressure finally, finally released. He drank from her like he was starving, like her milk was the finest Arbor gold, and she held him close and let him feast.

"That's it... ohhhh... good boy... take it all..."

His cock hardened inside her as he fed. She felt it swell, filling her again, and she rocked her hips against him while he suckled. Her hands cradled his head, fingers tangled in dark curls, and she cooed encouragement against his hair.

"So good... you're so good... drink, sweetheart, drink your fill..."

He fell asleep with her breast in his mouth.

She moved him to the other side when the first ran dry, guiding his lips to her swollen nipple, and he latched on without waking. Suckling in his sleep like a babe, fierce and hungry, taking what should have been her son's.

She held him and stroked his hair and felt something crack open in her chest.

He left her at dawn. A trembling, cum-filled mess, her thighs sticky, her breasts finally soft for the first time in months.

He came back the next night.

And the next.

Two weeks. Every night. Using her body in ways Ned never had, making her scream and beg and sob, drinking her milk as his right. Teaching her pleasures she'd never known existed, positions that made her blush to remember, words that made her burn with shame and arousal both.

The night before he left, she knelt between his legs.

Took his cock in her mouth. Worshipped him with lips and tongue until her jaw ached, until tears streamed down her face, until he gripped her hair and spilled across her tongue.

She swallowed every drop. Looked up at him with his seed on her lips.

"I'm yours," she whispered. "Gods help me, I'm yours."

Months later, she birthed a son with dark hair and violet eyes.

Brandon, she named him. After Ned's brother who died in the rebellion. A Stark name, as Northern as winter, as if that could hide the Targaryen blood that showed in his eyes.

She loved him fiercely despite everything. Because of everything.

Then Jon visited again.

Another two weeks. Another son planted in her belly, growing beneath her heart while his father rode south with promises to return. Rickon came screaming into the world nine months later, dark-haired and violet-eyed like his brother, and Catelyn held him and wept and knew.

She would never be free of Jon Targaryen.

She didn't want to be.

And that was the worst part.

Jon tore the ruined shift away completely, leaving Catelyn naked and flushed against the vanity. She stood trembling, auburn hair wild around her shoulders, breasts heaving, thighs slick with her own arousal. The firelight painted her skin in shades of gold and shadow, catching every curve, every soft place that belonged to him now.

He stripped his own clothes with brutal efficiency.

Doublet first, fingers working the clasps without looking, eyes never leaving her body. The heavy fabric hit the floor. Tunic next, pulled over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the lean muscle beneath. Battle scars marked his torso, white lines across his ribs, a starburst of healed tissue near his shoulder. His body was a weapon honed through years of training, hard where Ned had been merely solid, powerful where her husband had been simply present.

Boots kicked aside. Breeches unlaced and shoved down.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard, jutting toward her like an accusation. Long enough to make her breath catch, thick enough to stretch her in ways she craved, the head flushed dark and already leaking.

Ned was not built like this.

Nowhere close.

The comparison hit her like a physical blow, made her cunt clench around nothing, made shame and want twist together in her belly. She'd loved Ned. She had. But Ned had been dutiful, careful, gentle in ways that left her aching for something rougher. Something more.

Jon was more.

He didn't give her time to prepare.

His hands caught her hips, lifted her onto the vanity's edge with effortless strength. Her ass hit cold wood and she gasped, thighs spreading instinctively, and then he was there. Notched against her entrance, the blunt head pressing, stretching.

One brutal thrust.

The mirror rattled against the wall. Combs scattered to the stone floor, clattering, forgotten. Catelyn screamed.

He filled her completely, impossibly, that thick cock splitting her open and driving deep. Tight despite two children, her cunt gripped him like a fist, stretched around thickness Ned never gave her. The burn of it made her eyes water. The fullness made her see stars.

"Gods... fuck... Jon..."

He set a punishing pace immediately.

No slow build. No gentle preparation. Just hard, brutal thrusts that rocked her back against the mirror, that made the heavy vanity scrape against stone with every stroke. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, trying to pull him deeper even as her body screamed at the invasion.

His hands bruised her hips. Fingerprints that would purple by morning, marks she'd have to hide, evidence she'd wear like jewelry.

"Bastard." The word tore from her throat between moans, anger flaring bright again. "Arrogant... nnnghhh... bastard..."

Jon laughed. Drove harder.

"Still fighting?" His voice came rough, strained, but amused beneath the effort. "Still angry?"

"You looked at them." Her nails raked down his back, drawing blood, and she felt savage satisfaction at his hiss. "My daughters... like they were... hahhhh... like they were meat..."

"They dressed like they wanted to be looked at." He punctuated each word with a thrust that rattled her teeth. "Sansa's tits on display. Arya's ass in that dress. What was I supposed to do, Cat? Close my eyes?"

"I hate you..."

"Liar." He shifted his angle, found that spot inside her that made her vision blur. "You're clenching around me so tight I can barely move. You love it."

"Brute... animal... you're a... ohhhhh..."

"That's it." His thumb found her clit, circling, pressing. "Call me names while you come on my cock. See if I care."

She wanted to keep fighting. Wanted to maintain the fury that burned so bright and hot in her chest. But his cock stretched her perfectly, filled her completely, and every thrust pushed her closer to something she couldn't resist.

The insults broke into whimpers.

"Please..."

The resistance crumbled.

"Harder... please... more..."

Soon she was begging instead of cursing.

"Don't stop... gods, don't stop... fuck me... breed me... make me yours..."

Jon groaned against her throat. "There she is."

He flipped her without warning.

One moment she was wrapped around him, the next she was bent over the vanity, cheek pressed against cold wood, ass in the air. He entered from behind in one smooth stroke, driving deep, and she wailed at the angle.

In the mirror, she watched herself.

Face flushed. Hair wild. Breasts swaying with every thrust, heavy and full, nipples hard as pebbles dragging against the vanity's surface. Behind her, Jon was a shadow of lean muscle and dark hair, his hands gripping her hips, his cock disappearing into her body over and over.

Her ass rippled with every impact.

That generous flesh, soft and pliant, bouncing as he pounded into her. She could see it in the mirror, see how obscene they looked together, see the way her body took him so eagerly despite her earlier protests.

Her hands gripped the mirror's edge, white-knuckled, holding on as he fucked her into oblivion.

"Jon... Jon... FUCK... YES..."

She screamed his name and didn't care who heard.

The anger was gone from her voice now. Replaced by desperate need, by hunger so vast it terrified her, by the bone-deep knowledge that she would let this man do anything to her. Anything at all.

"Please... I need... oh gods, I'm going to..."

"That's it." His voice came ragged now, control fraying. "Come for me, Cat. Come on my cock like a good girl."

"Yesyesyes... yes... NNNNGHHHH..."

He buried to the hilt.

She felt it. The pulse of him, the throb, the flood of thick hot seed pouring into her womb. Filling her. Claiming her. And the sensation triggered her own release, pleasure crashing through her like a wave, like a storm, like dragonfire burning everything away.

Catelyn shattered around him, wailing, cunt clenching rhythmically as she milked every drop from his cock.

Jon pulled out slowly.

She whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness, and then she felt it. His seed, thick and copious, pouring from her stretched cunt. Flooding her thighs. Dripping to pool on the stone floor beneath the vanity.

In the mirror, she watched it happen. Watched her own body leak his spend, marked and claimed and used.

She looked back over her shoulder.

Jon stood behind her, breathing hard, sweat gleaming on his chest.

Still hard.

His cock jutted from his body, slick with their combined fluids, as thick and ready as if he hadn't just filled her womb to overflowing.

"We're not done," he said.

It wasn't a question.

She whimpered something. Might have been protest. Might have been prayer.

It didn't matter.

Jon was already lifting her, hands under her thighs, carrying her like she weighed nothing. The bed rose up to meet her, furs soft against her back, smelling like winter and want and something older. He followed her down before she could catch her breath, caught her knees and pushed them up, up, folding her nearly in half.

Mating press. Nowhere to escape.

His full weight pinned her to the mattress, her knees hooked over his shoulders, her body bent beneath him like a bow. She felt exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. And then he drove back into her flooded cunt.

Her eyes rolled back.

Her mouth opened, silent at first, shock stealing her voice. Then she found it again, high and desperate and loud enough that surely the guards in the corridor heard.

"OHHHH... GODS... JON..."

He fucked her mercilessly.

Wet, obscene sounds filled the chamber. His cock churning through his own cum, thick and sloppy, squelching with every brutal thrust. The bed slammed against the stone wall in relentless rhythm, ancient oak protesting, furs sliding beneath her sweat-slicked back.

"Please..." The word tore from her throat. "Please, please, please..."

"Please what?" His voice came rough against her ear, strained but amused. "Use your words, Cat."

"More... harder... don't stop... Jon..."

She couldn't form coherent sentences anymore. Everything dissolved into fragments, into desperate sounds that barely qualified as language. His name. The old gods' names. Please and yes and more and too much and don't stop, all tangled together, spilling from her lips in an endless stream of need.

"Listen to you." He drove deeper, grinding against that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. "The whole castle's going to know their lady is getting bred tonight."

"I don't... nnnghhh... don't care..."

"That's right, you don't." Another brutal thrust, another slam of the headboard against stone. "Let them hear. Let them know exactly what you sound like when you're being fucked full of dragon seed."

"YES... fuck... yes..."

Her nails raked down his back. Hard. Hard enough to draw blood, to leave furrows in his skin that would scar. She felt his hiss of pain against her throat, felt his cock twitch inside her, and savage satisfaction flooded through her.

He liked it. The pain only made him harder.

Her cunt clenched around him in rolling waves, pleasure crashing through her again and again. One orgasm bled into the next until she couldn't tell where one ended and another began. She was sobbing now, tears streaming down her temples, overstimulation making every nerve sing.

"Too much... can't... please..."

"Please stop?" His thumb found her clit, circling relentlessly. "Or please more?"

"I don't... I don't know... hahhhh... more... gods help me, more..."

He gave her more.

Changed the angle, drove impossibly deeper, his cock hitting places inside her that Ned never reached, never even knew existed. She screamed, the sound raw and broken, and distantly she knew the guards could hear. The servants. Everyone in the household would know by morning.

She couldn't bring herself to care.

"Say it." Jon's voice came dark against her ear, commanding, brooking no argument. "Say you're mine."

"I... nnnghh..."

"Say it, Cat." He punctuated each word with a thrust that rattled her teeth. "You've been mine since the first time I put a child in your belly. Admit it."

"No..." The protest came weak, automatic, meaning nothing. "I'm not... I'm Ned's..."

"Ned's dead." Brutal. True. Devastating. "And you're full of my seed. My children sleep down the hall. Your body knows who owns it even if your mouth won't admit it."

"Please... don't make me..."

"I'm not making you do anything." His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to meet his eyes. Violet locked with blue, and she saw the dragon there, the fire, the absolute certainty. "I'm just fucking you until you stop lying to yourself."

He drove harder. Deeper. Relentless.

The pleasure built again, impossible, too much, her body wrung out and still responding to him like it was made for this. For him. Only him. Always him.

"Say it."

"I... I..."

"Say it."

The orgasm crashed through her like dragonfire, burning away everything, every lie, every pretense, every shred of resistance she'd been clinging to.

"YOURS!" The word tore from her throat, raw and desperate and finally, finally true. "I'm yours! Always been yours! Only yours! JON!"

He came with a growl against her throat.

She felt it, the pulse of him, the flood of thick hot seed pouring into her already overflowing womb. So much. Too much. It had nowhere to go, trapped inside her by his weight, his cock, his absolute claim on her body.

Catelyn screamed loud enough to echo off the ancient stones.

The night continued.

She lost track of how many times he filled her. How many positions. On her back, her hands and knees, her side with one leg lifted, riding him with her breasts bouncing while he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. He took her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, stone cold against her back while his cock burned hot inside her.

She lost count of the orgasms.

Five. Ten. More. Each one smaller than the last as her body exhausted itself, but they kept coming, wrung out of her by his relentless attention. His cock, his fingers, his mouth on her cunt lapping up his own seed before replacing it with more.

She begged.

She screamed.

She surrendered completely, gave him everything, and still he took more.

Three hours later.

The fire had burned low, embers glowing red in the darkness, casting just enough light to see by. The chambers stank of sex, of sweat and seed and something darker, musk and desperation mixed together.

Catelyn lay in ruined sheets.

Her body was wrecked. Thighs trembling, cunt swollen and aching, cum still leaking from between her legs despite how much he'd pumped into her. She could feel it cooling on the furs beneath her, feel more trickling out with every small movement.

Jon slept beside her.

Finally. Finally still, finally quiet, his breathing deep and even, dark curls spread across the pillow. In sleep he looked younger, softer, almost innocent despite everything he'd done to her tonight.

His cock lay against his thigh, softening at last.

Catelyn watched it in the dim light. Watched it twitch slightly as he dreamed. And something tender and terrible rose in her chest, something she couldn't name but couldn't deny.

She slid under the furs.

Carefully, quietly, moving slowly, until her face was level with his hips. The smell of him hit her, sex and musk and him, and her mouth watered despite everything.

Her lips found his cock.

Soft now, almost gentle, she took him into her mouth. Worshipped him with lips and tongue, tasting herself on his skin, tasting his seed, cleaning him with careful devotion.

"Stupid wonderful dragon cock," she murmured against his flesh, words blurring together, barely coherent. "Hate you... love this... ruined me..."

She kissed the length of him, felt it twitch against her lips.

"Mine," she whispered. "You're mine too. Even if you don't know it. Even if you never admit it."

Her tongue traced the ridge of his head, slow and reverent.

"Should have sent you away that first night. Should have remembered my vows, my honor, my husband barely cold in his grave..."

She took him deeper, felt him start to harden again even in sleep.

"But I couldn't. Can't. Won't ever be able to, now. You've ruined me for anyone else. For anything else. I'll spend the rest of my life with your seed in my belly and your taste on my tongue, and I'll hate you for it, and I'll love you for it, and I'll never, ever be free of you..."

Jon shifted in his sleep, a small sound escaping him, but he didn't wake.

Catelyn kept worshipping.

Kept murmuring against his flesh, confessions she'd never speak aloud when he could hear them, truths she'd never admit in daylight.

"Yours," she whispered finally, kissing his cock like a benediction. "Always yours. Only yours."

She curled against his hip, his softening flesh against her cheek, and let exhaustion finally claim her.

Neither of them knew Sansa was outside the door.

She'd been there for hours.

Pressed against the cold stone of the corridor, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sounds she couldn't stop making. Her other hand was between her thighs, fingers soaked, smallclothes ruined, having cum more times than she could count.

Listening to her mother break.

Listening to the bed slam against the wall. To the screams and the begging and the wet, obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh. To her mother admitting she was his, had always been his, would always be his.

Sansa's fingers moved again.

She bit down on her palm to silence herself as another orgasm shuddered through her, weaker than the ones before, her body as wrung out as her mother's must be.

In the morning, she would pretend she'd heard nothing.

She would sit at breakfast with her composure intact, with her courtesies in place, with no sign of what she'd done in the dark corridor outside her mother's chambers.

But she would know.

And she would want.

And gods help her, she would find a way to have what her mother had.

Whatever it took.

Chapter Text

The days in Winterfell settled into a rhythm.

Mornings belonged to training. Jon rose before dawn, dressed in simple leathers, and made his way to the yard while the castle still slept. The cold Northern air bit at his lungs, sharp and clean, and his breath fogged white in the grey light. He worked through his forms alone, sword cutting patterns in the air, footwork automatic, muscles warming despite the chill.

He was not alone for long.

Arya appeared on the third morning.

She emerged from the covered walkway that connected the great keep to the armory, her boots crunching on frozen ground. Jon's sword paused mid-stroke as he watched her approach, his eyes tracking her without permission.

The leathers she wore were not the same ones from two years ago.

These were new. Fitted. Tight enough that they seemed painted onto her body rather than worn, the dark material clinging to every curve she'd developed since he'd last seen her. The top was unlaced at the throat, the ties dangling loose, the gap revealing the swell of breasts that definitely hadn't been there before. Full and round, pressing against the leather, shifting with each step she took toward him.

Jon looked away.

Looked back.

Looked away again.

"You're up early," he said.

"So are you." Arya stopped a few feet from him, her breath fogging between them. Her grey eyes were bright despite the hour, sharp and watchful, fixed on his face with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Training?"

"Obviously."

"Alone?"

"Usually."

She tilted her head, studying him. The motion made her braid swing across her back, dark hair gleaming in the pale morning light. "That seems boring."

"It's peaceful."

"Peaceful is just another word for boring." She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them up, the leather straining across the swell of flesh. "The master-at-arms is useless. He treats me like I'm made of glass. Won't actually fight me, just lets me hit him and tells me I'm doing wonderfully."

"You are doing wonderfully."

"I'm doing adequately, and I'll never get better if no one actually tries to beat me." Her chin lifted, defiant. "Spar with me."

Jon's grip tightened on his sword. "Arya..."

"Please?" The word came out softer than he expected. Almost sweet. "I've been waiting two years for someone who'd actually challenge me. You're the best swordsman I've ever seen. Teach me something."

She was looking at him with those grey eyes, Stark eyes, eyes that matched his own. Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. The unlaced leather gaped at her throat, showing the shadowed valley between her breasts.

Refusing would look suspicious.

That's what Jon told himself.

"Fine." He stepped back, creating distance, gesturing toward the weapons rack. "Get a practice sword."

Arya's face lit up.

She bounded toward the rack with the enthusiasm of a child given a sweet, and Jon absolutely did not watch the way her ass moved in those breeches. Did not notice how the leather pulled tight across generous curves that had no business on a girl who'd been skinny as a stick the last time he'd visited. Did not track the bounce and sway of flesh that seemed designed to draw his eye.

He looked at the sky instead.

The clouds were grey. Very grey. Interesting clouds.

"Ready."

He looked back down.

Arya had selected a sword and taken her stance. Proper form, feet shoulder-width apart, blade angled correctly. Her face was set with concentration, her body balanced and ready.

Her tits were right there.

The unlaced leather had gaped further when she raised her arms, revealing more of the pale flesh beneath. Jon could see the shadow of her nipples through the material, hard points pressing against the leather. From the cold. Obviously from the cold.

"Your stance is good," he said.

"I know." She grinned, wolfish. "Now show me something I don't know."

Jon attacked.

The first exchange was a test. He came in slow, controlled, watching how she responded. Her parry was clean, her footwork quick, her counter-attack competent. She'd improved since he'd last seen her practice. Whoever had been training her had done well, even if they'd been too gentle.

The second exchange, he pushed harder.

Arya retreated three steps, caught off balance by his speed, but recovered quickly. Her blade caught his on the bind, redirecting rather than blocking, using his momentum against him. Water dancing. Someone had taught her well.

"Good," Jon said.

"Don't patronize me."

She came at him with real intent then, her blade flashing in the grey light, her body moving with fluid grace. Jon parried, countered, advanced. She gave ground but didn't break, her eyes fixed on his face, watching for tells, learning his patterns.

Her sword clattered to the frozen ground.

Jon had caught her blade with a twist that numbed her fingers, a move designed to disarm rather than harm. She cursed, shaking out her hand, and bent to retrieve her weapon.

Her back was to him.

Her ass was right there.

Round and full, the leather stretched so tight across it that he could see the individual curves of each cheek. She bent at the waist rather than the knees, reaching for her sword, and the position pushed her backside toward him like an offering. The breeches pulled into the cleft between her cheeks, outlining everything, hiding nothing.

Jon's cock stirred.

He looked at the sky again.

"Again," Arya said, straightening.

They sparred.

She dropped her sword four more times in the next hour. Each time, she bent to retrieve it with her back to him. Each time, that fat round ass presented itself for his inspection. Each time, Jon looked at the sky, at the walls, at anything else, and each time his eyes found their way back to her before he could stop them.

"Your grip is wrong." Arya appeared at his side during a water break, her hand closing around his forearm. Her fingers were warm even through his sleeve, her touch lingering longer than necessary. "When you parry high, you're letting your wrist rotate too far. Here."

She adjusted his grip, her body pressing close, her breath warm against his neck. Her breast brushed his arm. Soft. Full. He could feel the weight of it through layers of leather and cloth.

"Like this?" Jon asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Exactly." She didn't step back. Her fingers traced up his forearm, following the muscle, coming to rest at his elbow. "You have such strong arms. Do you train every day in King's Landing?"

"Most days."

"With partners?"

"Sometimes."

"Other women?" The question came out light, teasing. Her fingers squeezed his arm gently. "I imagine there's no shortage of ladies who'd love to... spar with you."

"Arya."

"What?" Innocent. Wide-eyed. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, adjusting nothing, just touching. "I'm just curious. You're gone for years and years, and I never hear anything except rumors. Which ladies are after the Dark Prince this season. Which ones have caught his eye."

"Those are just rumors."

"Are they?" Her fingers found the back of his neck, brushing against his hairline. "I've heard you've got bastards scattered across the realm. More than you can count."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Is it?" She was so close now that he could smell her. Clean sweat and leather and something underneath, something warm and female that made his cock twitch despite his best efforts. "How many, then? Ten? Twenty?"

"Arya."

"I'm just asking." Her hand dropped from his neck, trailing down his chest as it went. Casual. Accidental. Her palm pressed against his heart for just a moment before falling away. "We should get back to training."

They trained.

Arya's touches multiplied as the morning wore on. Her hand on his arm to demonstrate a technique. Her body against his back as she corrected his stance, her breasts pressing into him through leather. Her fingers brushing his when she passed him a waterskin, lingering just a moment too long.

Everything she said was innocent.

"Your footwork is excellent."

"Can you show me that parry again?"

"I think I'm getting tired. My arms are so sore."

Everything she meant was something else entirely.

Jon saw it clearly. Saw the way her pupils dilated when their bodies touched. Saw the flush that spread across her cheeks, down her throat, disappearing beneath that unlaced collar. Saw her nipples harden through the leather when his hand accidentally brushed her hip, visible peaks that hadn't been there a moment before.

She wanted him to break first.

Wanted him to grab her, pin her against the wall, tear those too-tight leathers from her body and take what she was offering. She was pushing him, testing him, waiting for the moment his control snapped.

Jon's cock was hard.

Had been hard for the past half hour, straining against his breeches, impossible to hide if she looked down. He kept his body angled away from her, kept his cloak positioned to provide some cover, kept his face carefully neutral despite the blood pounding in his ears.

He would not break.

Not here. Not like this.

Not with his half-sister who looked at him with grey eyes that matched his own, who moved like water and fought like fire, who had grown into something devastating in the two years since he'd seen her last.

"I think that's enough for today," Jon said.

Arya's face fell, just for a moment. Disappointment flickered across her features before she schooled them back to neutral. "Already? We've barely started."

"We've been at it for two hours."

"Has it been that long?" She stretched, her arms rising above her head, her back arching. The motion pushed her breasts forward, straining against the leather, the unlaced gap widening to show more pale skin. "I hadn't noticed."

Jon had noticed.

Had noticed every minute, every second, every time she bent or stretched or pressed against him. His balls ached. His cock throbbed. He needed to get away from her before he did something they'd both regret.

"I have business to attend to," he said. "Letters. Reports."

"Can I walk with you?"

"Arya..."

"Just to the keep." She fell into step beside him without waiting for permission, her shoulder bumping his as they walked. "I want to hear about King's Landing. About the dragons. About everything."

They walked.

Arya pressed close as they crossed the yard, her arm threading through his like it belonged there. Her hip bumped against his with every step, a constant reminder of her presence. She asked questions about the capital, about Norvaxis, about the court and its intrigues, and Jon answered as best he could while trying to ignore the warmth of her body against his side.

"Do you miss it?" she asked. "When you're here, do you miss King's Landing?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you miss most?"

Her hand had found his, their fingers intertwined. He couldn't remember when that had happened. Her palm was warm and calloused, a fighter's hand, and her thumb traced small circles against his skin.

"The weather," Jon said. "It's warmer there."

Arya laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "You're half Stark. You should love the cold."

"I tolerate the cold. There's a difference."

They'd reached the covered walkway that led to the great keep. Arya stopped walking, turning to face him, her hand still clasped in his. Her grey eyes were dark, her pupils blown wide, her lips slightly parted.

"Jon," she said softly.

"Arya."

"I missed you." The words came out simple, honest. "When you were gone. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too."

"Did you?" She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body despite the cold air. Her free hand came up to rest on his chest, palm flat against his heart. "Did you think about me? When you were in King's Landing with all those other women?"

"Arya..."

"Because I thought about you." Her fingers curled into his doublet, gripping the fabric. "Every day. Every night. I'd lie in bed and wonder what you were doing. Who you were with." Her voice dropped lower, husky. "What you were doing with them."

Jon's hand moved without his permission.

Found her hip.

Settled there, feeling the curve of her through the leather, the warmth of her body seeping into his palm. Her breath caught audibly, her eyes fluttering half-closed, her lips parting further.

"We shouldn't," he said.

"Shouldn't what?" Innocent again. Wide-eyed. But her body pressed closer, her breast brushing his chest, her hips tilting toward his hand. "I'm just glad you're home. That's all."

His thumb traced a circle on her hip.

Her nipples hardened visibly through the leather, peaks pressing against the material. Her breath came faster, shorter. Her hand on his chest slid up toward his shoulder, her fingers finding the bare skin at his collar.

"I should go," Jon said.

"Should you?"

"I have business."

"Do you?"

He pulled away.

It took more effort than he wanted to admit. His hand releasing her hip, his fingers untangling from hers, his body stepping back to put distance between them. Arya's face flickered with frustration, quickly hidden, and she crossed her arms beneath her breasts in a pose that might have been defensive or might have been calculated to push them up for his inspection.

"Tomorrow?" she asked. "Same time?"

"Arya..."

"Please." That word again, soft and almost sweet. "I need a proper sparring partner. The master-at-arms really is useless."

Jon should say no.

Should tell her that training together was inappropriate, that her touches were too familiar, that he could see exactly what she was doing and it needed to stop. Should be the responsible one, the honorable one, the prince who didn't fuck his half-sisters no matter how tight their leathers were or how round their asses had become.

"Same time," he heard himself say.

Arya's smile was brilliant.

She rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just a moment too long, her breath warm against his skin. Then she was gone, walking toward the great hall with a sway in her hips that might have been natural or might have been entirely for his benefit.

Jon watched her go.

Watched her ass move in those breeches, the leather pulling tight with each step, the curves bouncing slightly with her gait. Watched until she disappeared through the door, and then stood there for a long moment, his cock hard and aching, his blood running hot despite the Northern cold.

He would not break.

But gods, she was making it difficult.

Sansa's approach was different.

Where Arya was bold, Sansa was subtle. Where Arya pressed and pushed and made her intentions obvious, Sansa moved like water finding cracks in stone. Patient. Persistent. Wearing away at resistance through a thousand small touches rather than one overwhelming assault.

It started with corridors.

Jon would be walking from his chambers to the great hall, or from the hall to the yard, and Sansa would appear. Emerging from doorways at precisely the right moment, rounding corners just as he approached, falling into step beside him with a smile that seemed surprised to find him there.

"My prince." Her voice was honey and courtesy, proper as a septa's prayer. "What fortunate timing. I was just heading this way myself."

"Lady Sansa."

She walked close beside him, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her skirts whispering against his boots. Her hand found his arm as they navigated a turn, her fingers light and warm through his sleeve.

"These stones can be treacherous," she said. "I nearly twisted my ankle here just last week."

Jon looked at the floor. Smooth, even flagstones she'd walked since childhood. Not a loose one in sight.

"Dangerous," he agreed.

Her hand stayed on his arm longer than necessary. Her fingers squeezed gently before releasing, and when she looked up at him, her blue eyes were wide and guileless.

"Thank you for steadying me, my prince."

"Of course."

At meals, she sat too close.

The high table in Winterfell's great hall had ample room, but Sansa positioned herself beside Jon with inches to spare between them. Her thigh pressed against his beneath the boards, warm through layers of fabric. Her shoulder brushed his when she reached for wine, when she gestured while speaking, when she leaned close to murmur something meant only for his ears.

"The cook has outdone herself with the venison," she might say, her breath warm against his neck. "Do you find it to your liking?"

"It's excellent."

"I'm so pleased." Her hand would find his arm again, squeezing briefly. "I gave her specific instructions. I wanted everything to be perfect for your visit."

Her necklines lowered by degrees.

The first day, a modest cut that showed nothing but her collarbones. The second, lower, revealing the shadow between her breasts when she leaned forward. The third, lower still, actual cleavage visible, the pale swell of flesh pressing against fabric that seemed designed to contain but not conceal.

Jon noticed.

Sansa saw him notice.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

"My prince." She caught him in the corridor on the fourth morning, wearing a gown of pale blue that made her eyes seem brighter. The neckline plunged nearly to her navel, barely covering her nipples, the inner curves of her breasts fully visible. "I wondered if you might escort me to the godswood. I wish to pray, but the paths are icy, and I'd feel safer with company."

"Where's your handmaiden?"

"Ill, I'm afraid. Some stomach ailment." Sansa's lower lip pushed out slightly, a pretty pout. "I could wait until she recovers, but I've been feeling such a need for contemplation lately. The old gods bring me peace."

Jon should refuse.

Should tell her to find a guard, a servant, anyone else. Should recognize the trap being laid and step carefully around it. Should be the responsible one, the honorable one, the prince who didn't escort his half-cousin to secluded places while she wore gowns that showed everything but her nipples.

"Of course," he said.

The godswood was ancient and quiet.

Snow lay thick on the ground, muffling their footsteps, and the heart tree loomed red and white against the grey winter sky. Sansa walked close beside him, her arm threaded through his, her body pressed to his side for warmth.

"It's so cold," she murmured. "I should have worn something heavier."

She was shivering. Genuine shivers, her teeth chattering slightly, her skin pebbling with gooseflesh where it showed above her neckline.

Jon unclasped his cloak.

Draped it around her shoulders.

Sansa turned into him as he did, stepping close, her hands coming up to grip the cloak's edges. For a moment, they stood face to face, his arms around her as he settled the heavy fabric, her body nearly pressed against his chest.

"Thank you." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her blue eyes looked up at him through auburn lashes, wide and grateful. "You're so kind to me."

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing." Her hands found his chest, palms flat against the wool of his doublet. "No one else is kind to me the way you are. No one else looks at me the way you do."

"Sansa..."

"I see you watching me." Her voice dropped lower, breathier. "At meals. In the corridors. When you think I don't notice." Her fingers curled into his doublet, gripping the fabric. "I notice."

Jon's hands were still on her shoulders, holding the cloak in place. He should remove them. Should step back. Should put distance between them before this went somewhere neither of them could return from.

Her lip caught between her teeth.

Pink and full, that lower lip. She bit down gently, her eyes never leaving his face, watching for his reaction. Jon's gaze dropped to her mouth without his permission, tracked the press of white teeth against soft flesh, lingered there a moment too long.

Sansa saw.

Her breath caught audibly.

"We should pray," Jon said.

He stepped back.

Sansa's face flickered with something that might have been frustration, might have been disappointment, before smoothing into pleasant agreement. "Of course. That's why we're here."

They prayed.

Sansa knelt before the heart tree, her head bowed, Jon's cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Jon stood behind her, watching the curve of her spine, the fall of auburn hair, the way the cloak gaped to show the swell of her breasts when she leaned forward.

He prayed too.

Prayed for strength. For restraint. For the will to resist what was being offered so sweetly, so persistently, by a girl who should have been nothing more than family.

The old gods didn't answer.

Over the following days, the requests multiplied.

"Would you escort me to the glass gardens, my prince? The paths are so treacherous."

The glass gardens were warm and humid, tropical plants flourishing despite the Northern winter. Sansa shed Jon's cloak as they entered, her gown clinging to her body in the moist air, the fabric becoming nearly translucent where sweat dampened it. She showed him exotic flowers, leaning close to point out details, her breast pressing against his arm as she guided his attention.

"This one blooms only at night," she said. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Beautiful," Jon agreed.

He wasn't looking at the flower.

"Would you help me find a book in the library, my prince? The maester has organized things so strangely since Father died."

The library was dim and dusty, shelves rising toward shadows, ancient tomes crammed into every available space. Sansa led him deep into the stacks, searching for some volume on household management, and when she found it on a high shelf, she asked him to retrieve it.

Jon reached up.

Sansa pressed close behind him, peering around his shoulder, her body flush against his back. Her breasts were soft against his spine. Her breath was warm on his neck. Her hand found his hip, steadying herself, her fingers curling into the fabric of his doublet.

"Is that the one?" she asked. "No, I think it's the one beside it. The red binding."

Jon shifted, reached for the other book.

Sansa's hand slid from his hip to his stomach, her palm flat against his abdomen. Her breath caught when she felt the muscle beneath his clothes, and her fingers pressed harder, exploring through the fabric.

"That's the one." Her voice had gone husky. "Thank you."

Jon turned with the book in hand.

They were face to face, inches apart, her body still pressed close, her hand still on his stomach. Her blue eyes were dark in the dim light, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

"Sansa."

"Jon."

His name on her lips. Not 'my prince.' Not 'cousin.' Just his name, soft and wanting.

"We shouldn't," he said.

"Shouldn't what?" Innocent. Wide-eyed. Her hand slid lower on his stomach, her fingers brushing the waistband of his breeches. "I'm just grateful for your help."

Jon caught her wrist.

Held it still.

For a long moment, they stood frozen, his fingers wrapped around her delicate bones, her pulse fluttering against his palm. She looked up at him through those auburn lashes, her lip caught between her teeth again, waiting.

"The book," Jon said.

He pressed it into her hands and stepped back.

Sansa took it with fingers that trembled slightly. Her composure slipped for just a moment, frustration and want flickering across her face, before she smoothed it back into pleasant gratitude.

"Thank you, my prince." The title was back, the distance restored. "You've been so helpful."

"Of course."

They walked out of the library in silence.

Jon's cock was hard.

Had been hard for the past ten minutes, straining against his breeches, impossible to hide if she looked down. He kept his body angled away, kept his cloak positioned to provide cover, kept his face neutral despite the blood pounding in his ears.

He knew what she was doing.

Knew exactly how she was playing him, the careful escalation, the manufactured opportunities for closeness. Songs-style seduction, the kind of courtship that highborn ladies learned alongside their needlework. Every touch was innocent. Every request was reasonable. Every moment of proximity could be explained away.

But the cumulative effect was devastating.

Jon watched her hips when she walked.

Couldn't help himself. The sway of them, the roll of her gait, the way her skirts clung to curves that seemed designed to draw his eye. He watched and she knew he watched, and sometimes she'd glance back over her shoulder with a small secret smile that said she'd caught him looking.

He stared at her tits.

The ones she showed off more brazenly each day, necklines plunging lower and lower until he could see almost everything, until one wrong move would spill her out of her gown entirely. She caught him staring and held his gaze, her cheeks flushing pink, her nipples hardening visibly beneath the thin fabric.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

The tension thickened.

Meals became torture. Sansa pressed against his side, her thigh warm against his, her shoulder brushing his arm with every movement. She reached across him for dishes she could have asked servants to pass, her breasts nearly grazing his chest, her scent filling his nostrils. She whispered comments about the food, the wine, the other diners, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel them move.

"The Karstarks have been quiet since your display," she murmured one evening. "I heard Lord Rickard pissed himself when Norvaxis breathed fire."

"That might be an exaggeration."

"Is it?" Her hand found his thigh beneath the table, squeezing briefly before releasing. "You're very frightening when you want to be."

"Am I frightening you?"

"No." Her eyes met his, dark and wanting. "You could never frighten me."

Jon's hand moved without his permission.

Found her thigh.

Squeezed through layers of silk and linen, feeling the warmth of her beneath, the softness of flesh that yielded under his grip. Sansa's breath caught audibly. Her eyes went wide. Her hand covered his, not pushing it away, pressing it harder against her leg.

Jon released her.

Reached for his wine.

Drank deep while his heart pounded and his cock throbbed and Sansa sat beside him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, looking at him like he'd given her a gift.

He should refuse her.

Should stop escorting her to secluded places, stop letting her press close, stop looking at what she showed him so deliberately. She was his cousin. Catelyn's daughter. Barely eighteen, for all that she looked at him with a woman's hunger.

But every morning, Catelyn limped to breakfast.

The Lady of Winterfell moved carefully, wincing when she sat, dark circles under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. She glowed despite the exhaustion, a satisfied warmth beneath her proper mask, and when her eyes met Jon's across the hall, her cheeks flushed with remembered pleasure.

Every night, Jon went to her chambers.

Every night, he fucked her until she screamed, until the bed slammed against the wall, until she lay trembling and dripping and ruined in his arms. Every night, he filled her with his seed and watched it leak from her swollen cunt and thought about doing the same to her daughter.

Sansa watched.

Watched her mother limp and glow and flush. Watched Jon's eyes follow Catelyn across rooms, watched the silent communication between them, the promise of more to come. Watched and burned and wanted, her patience wearing thinner with each passing day.

She'd spent three hours in that corridor.

Three hours touching herself to the sounds of her mother being fucked.

Three hours imagining it was her in that room, her screaming his name, her body being used and filled and claimed.

And every day since, she'd pressed closer, touched more, showed more skin. Waiting for Jon to break. Waiting for him to grab her and take her the way he took her mother.

But Jon kept his composure.

Kept his hands mostly to himself, that one squeeze of her thigh notwithstanding. Kept his face neutral, his voice steady, his desire locked away behind princely control.

Sansa's patience was running out.

She watched her mother limp to breakfast on the seventh morning, looking thoroughly fucked, satisfaction radiating from her despite her careful composure. Watched Jon's eyes follow Catelyn, watched the small smile that passed between them, watched her mother flush and look away like a maiden rather than a widow.

Something hot and sharp twisted in Sansa's chest.

Jealousy. Want. Frustration building toward something that felt like desperation.

She'd been patient. She'd been subtle. She'd done everything the songs said a lady should do, every touch innocent, every request reasonable, every escalation deniable.

It wasn't working.

Or rather, it was working. She could see Jon watching her, could feel his eyes on her body, could practically taste his want when she pressed close. But he wouldn't break. Wouldn't take what she was offering. Wouldn't cross the line she was all but begging him to cross.

Sansa pushed her food around her plate, not eating, not tasting.

Across the hall, Arya was watching Jon too.

Her sister in those tight leathers, those unlaced collars, that bold directness that was everything Sansa wasn't. Arya who trained with Jon every morning, who touched him freely, who made no secret of what she wanted.

Competition.

Sansa's jaw tightened.

If subtlety wasn't working, perhaps it was time for something more direct.

The knock came after dinner.

Jon sat in his chambers, a goblet of wine in hand, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Catelyn had excused herself early, claiming fatigue, but the look she'd given him over her shoulder said everything about what she was actually preparing for. He'd give her an hour to ready herself, then go to her chambers and fuck her until neither of them could walk.

The knock came again. Sharper.

"Enter," Jon called.

Sansa slipped through the door before he finished speaking.

She shut it behind her, the heavy oak clicking into place, and pressed her back against the wood. Her arms crossed beneath her breasts, pushing them up, the pale blue silk of her gown straining across the swell of flesh. The neckline was the lowest he'd seen yet, barely containing her, the inner curves fully visible, her nipples pressing against fabric so thin it hid nothing.

Jon set down his wine. "Sansa."

"Jon."

She didn't move from the door. Just stood there, watching him with those blue eyes that had lost all pretense of innocence. Her jaw was set. Her shoulders were squared. She looked like a woman who'd come to negotiate terms of surrender, and she wasn't the one surrendering.

"Your mother is expecting me," Jon said carefully.

"I know." Sansa's voice was level. Controlled. "She's probably in her chambers right now, loosening her laces, touching herself while she waits for you to come fuck her stupid again."

The crudeness startled him. This was Sansa, proper Sansa, songs-and-courtesy Sansa. She didn't speak like that.

"I've accepted it," she continued. "All of it. My father wasn't cold in the ground before you were in her bed. I've accepted that. Brandon and Rickon with their violet eyes that everyone pretends not to notice. I've accepted that too. This whole arrangement, the prince who visits to 'represent crown interests' and leaves my mother dripping with his seed. I've made my peace with it."

Jon opened his mouth.

"Don't." She cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I'm not finished."

He closed his mouth.

"What I haven't accepted," Sansa said, her voice dropping lower, something dangerous threading through it, "is why you haven't taken me yet."

The words hung in the air.

Jon's hands gripped the arms of his chair. "Sansa, you're..."

"A lady?" She pushed off the door, taking a step toward him. "Yes. I'm aware. I've been a lady my whole life. Proper. Courteous. Doing everything the songs say a highborn maiden should do." Another step. "And where has it gotten me? Watching my mother limp to breakfast while I touch myself in dark corridors, imagining it's me you're wrecking instead of her."

"You have a future," Jon said. "Marriages to consider. Lords who would..."

"Which lords?" Sansa's laugh was sharp, humorless. "The ones Norvaxis scared away? Bolton and Karstark fled so fast they left bootprints in the snow. Any other lord who might have pressed a suit now knows that House Stark is under dragon protection." She took another step closer. "You've ruined my marriage prospects, Jon. The least you could do is make it worth my while."

"Your mother..."

"Got two bastards out of this arrangement." Sansa was close now, close enough that he could smell her perfume, rosewater and something warmer underneath. "Two sons with Targaryen blood. Two boys who might ride dragons someday. Why should she have that and not me?"

Jon stood abruptly, trying to put distance between them.

Sansa was faster.

She closed the gap before he could retreat, her hands on his chest, pushing him back down into the chair. Then she was in his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, her skirts pooling around them in waves of blue silk. Her hands gripped his shoulders for balance, her face inches from his, her breath warm on his lips.

"Sansa..."

She kissed him.

Not the tentative, maiden's kiss he might have expected. This was hungry. Demanding. Her mouth opened against his, her tongue sliding past his lips, claiming him with the same single-minded determination she'd shown in everything else. She tasted of wine and want, and Jon's hands found her waist without his permission, gripping through silk.

She rolled her hips.

The motion ground her against his cock, which had hardened the moment she'd climbed into his lap. He groaned into her mouth, his fingers digging into her sides, and she did it again. Slower this time. Deliberate. Pressing down, dragging herself along the ridge of him, her ass settling against his thighs before she rocked forward again.

"I want you." She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing his, her breath coming fast. "I want to bear dragonriders. I want what my mother has."

She ground down once more, her ass pressing hard against his cock through layers of fabric. Jon's hips jerked upward despite himself, chasing the pressure, and Sansa smiled against his mouth.

"I want to be yours," she whispered. "All of me. Every part."

Then she rose.

Smoothly. Gracefully. Climbing off his lap with the poise of a lady who'd practiced rising from chairs since childhood. Her skirts fell back into place, hiding the legs that had just been wrapped around him. Her hands smoothed the silk over her hips, erasing any evidence of what had just happened.

Jon sat there, breathing hard, his cock straining against his breeches, his hands empty where her waist had been.

"The hot springs," Sansa said. "Tonight. Midnight."

She walked to the door.

Opened it.

Looked back over her shoulder with those blue eyes that had nothing innocent left in them.

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Jon alone with his racing heart and his aching cock and the knowledge that his careful control was crumbling faster than he could rebuild it.

The fire had burned low in Jon's chambers.

He sat in the chair where Sansa had left him, staring at the embers, his wine untouched on the table beside him. The taste of her still lingered on his lips. The weight of her still pressed against his thighs, phantom warmth where her body had been.

He should go to Catelyn.

She was waiting for him. Had been waiting for him every night since he'd arrived, her chambers warm and her body warmer, her need as desperate as his own. She would be there now, wearing something thin and silky, touching herself in anticipation, listening for his footsteps in the corridor.

Jon didn't move.

The hot springs. Midnight.

He wouldn't go.

He had enough women. Enough bastards scattered across the realm, enough complications to last a lifetime. Missandei in King's Landing with Valya and possibly another child growing in her belly. Catelyn here in Winterfell, mother of two sons who called him Papa, who looked at him with violet eyes that marked them his. Others he didn't let himself think about too often, women who'd warmed his bed and borne his children and waited for visits that came too rarely.

He didn't need another.

Especially not Sansa. Catelyn's daughter. A girl who should have been nothing more than family, who should have been married off to some lord who'd give her legitimate children and a proper life. Not this. Not him.

Catelyn would never forgive him.

Jon knew that with cold certainty. However she'd made peace with sharing him with distant women, women she didn't have to see every day, she would never accept this. Her own daughter. Her firstborn. The girl she'd raised from infancy, taught to be a proper lady, dreamed futures for that didn't include spreading her legs for her mother's lover.

He wouldn't go.

Jon poured himself more wine. Drank it without tasting. Stared at the fire until his eyes burned, until the embers blurred into shapeless orange light.

He thought about Sansa's mouth.

The hunger in it. The way she'd kissed him like she was claiming territory, nothing tentative, nothing uncertain. The roll of her hips against his cock, deliberate and devastating. The look in her blue eyes when she'd pulled back, triumph and want and something that looked almost like desperation.

I want to be yours. All of me. Every part.

He wouldn't go……

Jon stood abruptly. Crossed to the window. Looked out at the dark courtyard below, at the snow falling in lazy spirals, at the distant glow of torches along the walls. Winterfell slept. The whole castle wrapped in cold and quiet, unaware of what was happening in its heart.

His feet carried him to the door.

He wasn't going to the hot springs. He was going to Catelyn. That's what he told himself as he stepped into the corridor, as his boots found the familiar path through ancient stone halls. He was going to fuck Catelyn until neither of them could think, and tomorrow he would pretend Sansa's visit had never happened.

He turned left instead of right.

His feet knew the way to the hot springs even though his mind was still arguing with itself. Down the narrow stairs. Through the passage that led beneath the great keep. The air grew warmer as he descended, steam beginning to curl in the torchlight, the smell of minerals and ancient stone filling his lungs.

He should turn back.

He kept walking.

The door to the springs loomed before him, heavy oak dark with moisture, warmth radiating through the wood. Jon's hand found the iron ring. His fingers closed around it.

Enough women. Enough bastards. Enough complications.

He pushed through.

Steam billowed around him, thick and white, obscuring the chamber beyond. The springs themselves glowed in the dimness, water lit from beneath by some trick of the stone, casting rippling light across the vaulted ceiling. The heat was immediate, pressing against his skin, making his clothes feel too heavy, too confining.

Sansa waited at the pool's edge.

She stood with her back to him, facing the water, a simple white robe wrapped around her body. Her auburn hair fell loose past her shoulders, dark with moisture, curling slightly in the humid air. Steam rose around her like a veil, softening her outline, making her look like something from a dream.

She turned.

Their eyes met across the chamber.

Jon's breath stopped.

She held his gaze. Didn't look away. Didn't blush or stammer or show any of the uncertainty he might have expected from a maiden meeting her lover for the first time. Her blue eyes were steady, certain, burning with something that had nothing to do with the steam.

Her fingers found the tie at her waist.

Pulled.

The robe fell open.

Jon watched, unable to move, unable to look away, as she shrugged the fabric from her shoulders. It slid down her arms, pooled at her feet, and then she was naked before him.

His breath caught.

Tall. Willowy. But curved in ways that made his blood run hot, made his cock harden painfully against his breeches. Her breasts were full and high, the kind of breasts that would make men start wars, pink nipples peaked and tight despite the warmth. Her waist was narrow, almost impossibly so, flowing into wide hips that promised fertility, that promised sons and daughters with auburn hair and violet eyes. Her legs were long and shapely, pale as cream, leading up to the auburn curls between her thighs, darker than the hair on her head, neatly trimmed.

Sansa turned.

A slow rotation, deliberate, letting him see all of her. Her back was smooth and unmarked, her spine a graceful curve leading down to the swell of her ass. Full. Round. The kind of ass that would jiggle when she walked, when she rode, when he bent her over and fucked her until she screamed.

She completed the turn with a smirk.

Knowing exactly what she looked like. Knowing exactly what she was doing to him.

Jon had no doubt she would grow even more beautiful than Catelyn. Her mother was lovely, would always be lovely, but Sansa at eighteen was already devastating, and she would only ripen further with age.

The flush spread across her skin.

Pink staining her cheeks, her throat, the upper slopes of her breasts. From the steam, perhaps. From nerves. From want that matched his own, that he could see in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, in the way her nipples tightened further under his gaze.

She didn't cover herself.

Just stood there, letting him look his fill, her chin lifted, her shoulders back. A lady offering herself to her prince. A maiden presenting herself for inspection. A woman who knew what she wanted and had positioned herself to take it.

Jon crossed the room.

He didn't remember deciding to move. His feet carried him forward, closing the distance between them, until he stood before her with the steam swirling around them both. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Close enough to smell her beneath the mineral tang of the springs, rosewater and something warmer, something uniquely her.

His hands found her waist.

The skin was smooth beneath his palms, soft and warm, and she gasped at his touch, her eyes fluttering half-closed. He pulled her against him, feeling her bare breasts press against his doublet, feeling her hips settle against his, feeling his hard cock strain toward her through the fabric between them.

He kissed her.

No hesitation.

His mouth claimed hers, and Sansa melted against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing closer. She opened for him immediately, her tongue meeting his, her fingers tangling in his hair. She kissed him back with all the hunger she'd been hiding behind courtly manners, all the want she'd been banking beneath proper smiles and innocent touches.

The last of his resistance crumbled.

Sansa smiled against his mouth.

Triumph.

Sansa dropped to her knees.

The stone was warm beneath her, heated by the springs, but she barely noticed. Her hands found his laces before he could stop her, fingers working the ties with frantic urgency, pulling and tugging until the leather loosened. She yanked his breeches down his hips, freeing him, and her breath stopped.

Gods.

His cock jutted toward her, thick and hard, bigger than she'd imagined in all those nights touching herself in dark corridors. Flushed dark with blood, the head glistening with moisture that leaked from the tip. A vein pulsed along the underside, and she could see it throb with his heartbeat.

She'd never done this.

But she'd heard her mother worship this cock for hours. Heard the wet sounds through the door, the desperate moans, the sobbing gratitude. Catelyn Stark on her knees for a prince half her age, and Sansa had touched herself raw listening to it.

She would match her mother. Surpass her.

Her lips parted around him.

The taste hit her first. Salt and musk and something that was purely him, purely male, flooding her senses as she took the head into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the crown, exploring the texture, the heat, the way he pulsed against her.

Jon groaned.

His hand found her hair, fingers threading through auburn strands, and Sansa took it as encouragement. She bobbed her head, taking more of him each time, feeling him stretch her lips, press against her tongue. Deeper. More. She wanted all of him.

She gagged when he hit the back of her throat.

The reflex was violent, her body rejecting the intrusion, tears springing to her eyes. But she didn't stop. Pulled back, breathed through her nose, tried again. Gagged again. Kept going.

Her hand wrapped around what her mouth couldn't reach.

Stroking in time with her sucking, her palm slick with her own saliva, working the thick shaft while her lips stretched around the head. Wet sounds filled the chamber. Eager. Obscene. The kind of sounds she'd only heard through doors, never made herself.

She looked up through watering eyes.

Watched his face as she worked him. The tension in his jaw. The way his grey eyes had gone dark, fixed on her mouth, on the sight of his cock disappearing between her lips. His hand tightened in her hair, not guiding, just holding, and she felt powerful in a way she'd never felt before.

Her technique was messy. She knew it.

Inexperienced. Too much teeth sometimes, scraping against him in ways that made him hiss. Too much saliva, dripping down her chin, coating her hand. But she was eager. She was learning.

"Slower."

Jon's voice was rough. A command. Sansa obeyed immediately, easing her pace, drawing out each bob of her head.

"Deeper."

She pushed further, fighting the gag, feeling him press against the back of her throat. Held there until her lungs burned, then pulled back to breathe.

"Good girl."

The words shot straight between her legs. Her cunt clenched around nothing, empty and aching, and she moaned around his cock. The vibration made him groan, his fingers tightening in her hair, and she did it again deliberately.

"Just like that." His thumb traced her cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "You're doing so well."

Sansa preened under the praise.

She worked him with renewed enthusiasm, her hand stroking faster, her mouth taking him deeper. She wanted to make him come. Wanted to feel him pulse against her tongue, wanted to taste his seed, wanted to swallow every drop and look up at him with his cum on her lips.

Her free hand found her own thigh.

Slid higher. Found the slick heat between her legs, the evidence of her arousal coating her fingers. She was soaking. Dripping. Her cunt clenching with every sound he made, every groan, every whispered good girl that made her feel like she was flying.

Jon's hand tightened in her hair.

"Sansa." Her name came out broken. "Fuck. Sansa."

She looked up at him, his cock stretching her lips, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she'd never felt more powerful in her life. This was what her mother had. This was what she'd been missing. This man, this prince, coming apart because of her mouth, her hands, her.

His hips jerked forward.

She gagged again, harder this time, but she didn't pull away. Took it. Wanted it. Wanted him to use her mouth the way he used her mother's cunt, wanted to be ruined the way Catelyn was ruined every night.

Jon yanked her off.

The sudden loss made her whimper, her mouth empty, her lips swollen and wet. Before she could protest, his hands were under her arms, hauling her up, pulling her into his lap. Her thighs bracketed his hips, her bare cunt pressing against his spit-slicked cock, and his mouth crashed into hers.

Worship time was over.

Jon positioned her over him.

His hands on her hips, lifting her, guiding her until the head of his cock pressed against her entrance. The heat of him. The thickness. Sansa whimpered, her thighs trembling where they bracketed his lap, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

She was wet.

So wet. Had been since she'd knocked on his door hours ago, since she'd climbed into his lap and felt him hard beneath her. Since before that, if she was honest. Since hearing her mother scream night after night, since touching herself in dark corridors, since imagining this exact moment with such desperate intensity that her smallclothes had been ruined before she'd even left her chambers.

"Slowly," Jon murmured against her throat. "Take your time."

Sansa sank down.

The stretch was immediate. Overwhelming. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry as his cock pushed into her, spreading her around its thickness, filling her in ways she'd never imagined possible. No pain. The maidenhead she'd been told to guard so carefully had been lost to a horse years ago, a riding accident that had made her bleed and cry and fear she'd ruined herself. But this fullness, this pressure, this feeling of being opened and claimed and possessed...

Nothing had prepared her for this.

Inch by inch. Slow. Relentless.

Her body resisted and then yielded, her cunt stretching to accommodate him, her walls clenching around the invasion. She could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the heat of him inside her like a brand. Lower. Deeper. More.

Until finally her ass settled against his thighs.

She was filled to the hilt.

Sansa gasped, her head falling back, her chest heaving. She could feel him in her belly. Could feel the pressure of him so deep it seemed impossible, like he'd rearranged something fundamental inside her. Her cunt clenched around him involuntarily, and the sensation made her whimper.

Jon's hands tightened on her hips.

"Are you alright?"

Sansa answered by rolling her hips.

The motion dragged him against something inside her that sent sparks shooting up her spine, and she cried out, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. She did it again. Another cry. Another burst of pleasure that made her vision blur at the edges.

She was riding him.

Clumsy at first. Uncertain. Her body didn't know how to do this, didn't know the rhythm, didn't know how to move to chase the pleasure building in her core. But she was a quick learner. Had always been a quick learner. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping for leverage, and she began to bounce in his lap.

Better.

Her full tits swayed with the motion, bouncing with each rise and fall, and she saw Jon's eyes fix on them with something hungry. Her cunt clenched around him, milking him, and the wet sounds of their joining filled the chamber. Obscene. Perfect.

Jon let her set the pace.

For a while.

Then his patience snapped.

His hands tightened on her hips with bruising force, lifting her off him so suddenly she cried out at the loss. Before she could protest, he was turning her, positioning her at the pool's edge. Her knees found warm stone. Her hands braced against the floor. Her ass rose into the air, presented to him, and then he was behind her.

He drove into her from behind.

Sansa screamed.

The angle was different. Deeper. He hit spots inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes, made her vision white out, made her forget her own name. His hips slammed against her ass with every thrust, and she felt it ripple with the impact, the fat round flesh clapping against him in an obscene rhythm that echoed through the chamber.

"So tight." Jon's voice was rough, dark, satisfied. "Been thinking about this for days, haven't you? Watching your mother limp to breakfast, touching yourself, imagining it was you."

Sansa could only moan.

"So wet." His thumb traced where they were joined, where her cunt stretched around his cock, where her arousal coated them both and dripped down her thighs. "Dripping for me before I even touched you. How long have you been this wet, Sansa? Since you knocked on my door? Since you heard your mother screaming my name?"

"Yes." The word came out broken. "Yes, all of it, please..."

Jon laughed.

Low and dark and utterly satisfied, the laugh of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to her and took pride in every moment of it. His hips snapped forward harder, driving a wail from her throat, and his hand cracked across her ass.

The sting bloomed into heat.

"That's it." Another thrust. Another cry. "Take it. You wanted this so badly. Now you have it."

Sansa buried her face in her arms.

The pleasure was building. Cresting. Something enormous gathering in her core, something she'd never felt before, not from her own fingers, not from anything. Her cunt clenched around him in rhythmic spasms, her thighs trembled, her whole body shook with the force of what was coming.

Jon didn't slow down.

"Cum for me." A command. An order. "Let me feel you."

Sansa wailed as her first real orgasm crashed through her.

Jon didn't let her recover.

Before the tremors had finished rolling through her, his hands were under her arms, hauling her up, pulling her toward the pool. Warm water swirled around her calves, her thighs, rising to her waist as he walked her deeper. The heat enveloped her oversensitive skin, making her gasp, making her shiver despite the warmth.

He positioned her at the pool's edge.

Her hands found the smooth stone, fingers curling over the lip, and she understood what he wanted without being told. Her back arched, her ass rising out of the water, presenting herself to him. Steam rose around them in lazy spirals, the air thick and humid, the chamber silent except for their ragged breathing and the soft lap of water against stone.

Jon drove into her flooded cunt.

Hard enough to splash water across the stones. Hard enough to make her scream again, her voice cracking, her grip on the pool's edge the only thing keeping her from going under. He didn't ease in this time. Didn't give her body time to adjust. Just buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust and started fucking her like he meant to break her.

Sansa's voice went hoarse.

But she couldn't stop making sounds. Every thrust tore something from her throat, broken moans and wordless cries, his name spilling from her lips like a prayer. Jon. Jon. Jon. She understood now. Understood why her mother screamed for hours, why Catelyn limped for days, why the Lady of Winterfell glowed with satisfaction despite the exhaustion.

This was worth every ache.

His hand cracked across her ass.

Sansa shrieked, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling, her cunt clenching violently around him. The sting bloomed into heat, spreading through her flesh, making her walls grip him tighter. Jon groaned at the sensation and spanked her again, the other cheek, leaving matching red prints on pale flesh that the water couldn't wash away.

"Please." The word tore from her. "More. Harder."

Jon obliged.

His hips snapped forward with punishing force, water churning around them, her ass rippling with every impact. She could feel herself dripping around him, her arousal mixing with the spring water, her cunt stretched and used and desperate for more.

"Cum in me." The words spilled out before she could stop them. "Please. Breed me."

Jon's rhythm stuttered.

"Say that again."

"Breed me." She pushed back against him, grinding her ass against his hips, taking him as deep as she could. "I want your baby. I want dragonriders. Fill me up, make me yours, please, please..."

He growled against her neck.

His teeth found her pulse point, biting down hard enough to bruise, and his rhythm went brutal. Savage. The kind of fucking that would leave her walking crooked for a week, that would make everyone who saw her know exactly what had happened.

"Say you're mine."

Sansa's hands slipped on the wet stone.

"I..." She couldn't think. Couldn't form words. His cock was driving every coherent thought from her head, replacing it with nothing but sensation, nothing but need.

"Say it." His hand cracked across her ass again, making her wail. "Tell me who you belong to."

"I don't..."

He fucked harder.

Impossibly harder, driving into her with a force that should have hurt but only made her cunt clench tighter, only made her moan louder. She was falling apart. Shattering. Every thrust stripping away another layer of resistance until there was nothing left but the truth.

"Yours!" The word tore from her throat. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours..."

Jon buried himself to the hilt.

Sansa felt it happen.

Thick, hot seed pulsing into her womb, flooding her, filling her in ways she'd only imagined. Rope after rope of cum painting her insides, claiming her from within. She came again at the sensation, her cunt clamping down around him, milking every drop, her body shaking so hard she nearly lost her grip on the pool's edge.

The water churned around them.

Steam rose in thick clouds.

Sansa's arms gave out.

She would have slipped beneath the surface if Jon hadn't caught her, his arms wrapping around her waist, holding her against his chest. They stayed locked together in the steaming water, both gasping, his cock still buried inside her, his seed still leaking around their joining.

Sansa knew, with absolute certainty, that she would never be satisfied with anything less.

She had planned ahead.

The furs lay spread on the warm stones beside the pool, thick and soft, brought here hours ago by a servant Sansa had sworn to secrecy. She'd told herself at the time that she might not go through with it. That she was merely preparing. That having the furs ready didn't mean anything.

She'd known even then that it was a lie.

Now she lay on them, boneless, her body wrung out and trembling with aftershocks. Jon's weight settled beside her, solid and warm, and steam rose from their cooling skin in lazy spirals. The chamber was quiet except for their breathing and the soft lap of water against stone.

He kissed her.

Slow. Lazy. Nothing like the desperate claiming of before, nothing like the hungry collision of mouths when he'd first entered the springs. This was something else. Something softer. His lips moved against hers with patient thoroughness, tasting her, learning her, and Sansa melted into it with a sigh.

His hand traced patterns on her hip.

Idle. Wandering. Fingertips drawing shapes she couldn't identify on skin still flushed from exertion. Her own fingers found his dark hair, threading through the sweat-damp strands, feeling the silver streak at his temple that marked him Targaryen. Comfortable silence wrapped around them like another fur, warm and heavy.

Sansa curled into his side.

Her head found his chest, her ear pressed to skin, and she listened to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. The rhythm of a man at peace, sated and satisfied. Her body ached in the best possible way, stretched and used, her cunt still tender from his thickness. She could feel his seed between her thighs, leaking slowly, warm trails against sensitive flesh.

She thought about her mother.

Catelyn in the lord's chambers right now, loosening her laces, touching herself, waiting for a prince who wouldn't come. Waiting and wondering. Growing cold in an empty bed while Sansa lay warm and filled on furs beside the springs.

Guilt flickered.

Died.

She thought about Arya.

Her sister's frustrated glares across the great hall. The too-tight leathers, the unlaced collars, the bold touches during training that hadn't worked. Arya who'd been so certain her directness would succeed, who'd pressed and pushed and made her intentions obvious while Sansa had played the long game.

Sansa had won.

She thought about the seed in her womb.

Thick and hot, painting her insides, settling deep where it might take root. Might quicken. Might swell her belly the way Catelyn's had swelled with Brandon and Rickon. Dark-haired children with violet eyes, dragonblood growing in her womb, proof that she belonged to him.

The thought made her clench.

Warmth bloomed in her chest, spreading through her limbs, making her press closer to his side. Jon's arm tightened around her, pulling her against him, and his lips brushed her hair.

Neither of them spoke.

There was nothing to say. Nothing that needed words. She was his now, marked and claimed and filled with his seed, and the knowledge settled into her bones like certainty.

Sansa closed her eyes.

Steam rose around them, warm and thick, and she was already planning when she could have him again.

Chapter Text

The morning of the fourth day, Arya cornered him.

Jon had barely sat down to break his fast when she dropped onto the bench beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his. The great hall was mostly empty this early, just a few servants and old Nan dozing by the fire.

"You're taking me riding today."

Jon reached for the bread. "Am I?"

"You are." She stole a strip of bacon from his plate, ate it without breaking eye contact. "Unless you're too tired. Sansa's been walking funny for three days, so I can only imagine what state you're in."

He choked on nothing.

Arya grinned, sharp and knowing. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? She came back from somewhere at dawn, could barely sit down at breakfast, and she's been smiling ever since. Like a cat that got into the cream." She leaned closer, dropped her voice. "I'm not stupid, Jon."

"I never said you were."

"Good." She stood, brushing crumbs from her breeches. "Meet me at the stables in an hour. And don't make me come find you."

She walked away before he could respond, hips swaying in those fitted leathers she favored, her braid swinging against her lower back. Jon watched her go and knew he was in trouble.

Refusing Arya anything had always been more effort than it was worth.

An hour later, they rode out through Winterfell's gates into a crisp northern morning. The sky stretched pale and endless overhead, the sun a weak smear of gold behind thin clouds. Arya had chosen her favorite mare, a spirited grey that matched her mood, and she kicked her into a gallop before they'd cleared the treeline.

"Keep up, old man!"

Jon urged his stallion after her, the cold wind biting at his face as they raced across the frozen hills. Her laughter carried back to him, bright and wild, and something in his chest loosened despite everything. This was the Arya he remembered. The girl who'd rather ride and fight than sit through needlework lessons. The girl who'd made him laugh when nothing else could.

Except she wasn't a girl anymore.

Her riding leathers fit like a second skin, the breeches so tight they might as well have been painted on. Every movement in the saddle made her ass bounce, round and fat and utterly obscene, the kind of ass that had no business on a fighter but suited her perfectly. She looked back over her shoulder to taunt him about being slow, caught him staring, and didn't look away.

Her grin turned wicked.

"See something you like?"

"Shut up and ride."

She laughed again and kicked her mare faster.

They raced to a frozen stream at the base of the hills, the horses' hooves crunching through thin ice at the edges. Arya won by a nose and crowed about it for a solid minute, wheeling her mare in triumphant circles while Jon caught his breath.

"I let you win," he said.

"Liar." She brought her mare alongside his stallion, close enough that their legs nearly touched. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes bright, chest heaving beneath her leathers. "Admit it. I'm faster than you."

"You're lighter than me. It's not the same thing."

"Excuses." She reached over and punched his arm, harder than necessary. "Race back?"

"You just want to win twice."

"Obviously."

They raced back. She won again, this time by more than a nose, and Jon found he didn't mind. Watching her ride ahead of him was its own kind of torture. Her braid whipped across her shoulder with every movement, dark against the grey-brown of her leathers. Her hips rolled with the horse's gait. Her ass bounced, jiggled, drew his eyes no matter how hard he tried to look elsewhere.

She knew it, too. She kept glancing back, catching him looking, her grin growing sharper each time.

"Careful," she called over her shoulder. "You'll fall off if you don't watch where you're going."

"I'm watching."

"I noticed."

They slowed to a walk as they crested a ridge, letting the horses rest. The view stretched for miles in every direction, rolling hills and dark forests and the distant smudge of Winterfell's walls. Arya pulled up beside him, her thigh brushing his, and for a moment they just breathed.

"I've missed this," she said quietly. "Riding with you. You never treated me like I was fragile."

"You're not fragile."

"Sansa is." Her voice turned sharp. "Pretty and delicate and proper. Everything Mother wanted me to be." She looked at him sidelong. "Is that what you like? Proper ladies who do as they're told?"

"Arya..."

"Because I can tell you right now, that's not me. It's never going to be me."

He should stop this. Should redirect the conversation, maintain distance, remember that she was Catelyn's daughter and Sansa's twin and this was already complicated enough. But she was looking at him with those grey eyes, fierce and wanting, and he could still feel the warmth of her thigh against his.

"I know who you are," he said. "I've always known."

Something shifted in her expression. Softened.

Before she could respond, the sky darkened.

Jon looked up and swore. The thin clouds from this morning had thickened without warning, rolling in from the north like a tide of grey wool. The temperature dropped so fast he could feel it through his leathers, the air turning sharp and bitter.

"Storm," Arya said, unnecessary.

Within minutes, snow was coming down so thick Jon could barely see her ten feet ahead. Fat white flakes swirled in the wind, coating their shoulders, catching in their hair. The horses stamped and snorted, unhappy with the sudden change.

"Jon!" Arya shouted something else, but the wind tore her words away. She pointed toward a shape in the trees, barely visible through the white curtain of snow. A building, maybe. A hunter's cabin or a shepherd's shelter.

He nodded and urged his stallion forward. The snow stung his face, melted against his skin, soaked through his clothes faster than he'd expected. Beside him, Arya hunched in her saddle, her braid whipping in the wind, her leathers dark with wet.

They rode toward the shape in the trees as the storm swallowed the world.

The building was an old hunter's cottage, abandoned for years by the look of it. The roof sagged in the middle, shutters hung loose on rusted hinges, and the door stuck when Jon shouldered it open. But the walls were solid stone, the chimney still standing, and when he got the door closed behind them, the howling wind dropped to a muffled roar.

"Horses," Arya said through chattering teeth.

They found a lean-to around back, half-collapsed but enough to shelter the animals from the worst of the storm. Jon stripped the saddles while Arya dug blankets out of the saddlebags, throwing them over the horses' steaming backs. Her hands were shaking, her lips tinged blue, and he worked faster.

Inside, the cottage was one room. A hearth black with old soot dominated one wall. A wooden frame that might have been a bed once sat in the corner, its ropes rotted through. Cobwebs hung from the rafters, and something small skittered away when they entered, but it was dry and it was shelter.

Jon crouched by the hearth, checking the flue. Clear enough. He found old kindling stacked by the wall, dry despite the years, and set to work with his flint. Arya moved around him, and he heard fabric rustling, the sound of things being unpacked.

"I brought extra furs," she said. "For the ride."

He didn't look up. "That was smart."

"I know."

The kindling caught, flames licking up through the old wood, and he fed it carefully until it was strong enough for the larger pieces. Heat began to push back against the cold, slow but steady. He added more wood, watched the fire grow, and finally turned around.

Arya had spread the furs in front of the hearth. Thick wolf pelts, enough for two people to sleep on comfortably. She'd also brought dried meat, a skin of wine, and a small pot for melting snow. More supplies than a morning ride required. Far more.

She caught him looking at the spread and shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "I like to be prepared."

"For a blizzard?"

"For anything." She was already stripping off her wet outer layers, her fingers working the laces of her leather jerkin. "You should get out of those clothes. You'll freeze."

He should have questioned her planning. Should have asked why she'd packed for an overnight stay when they'd only meant to ride for a few hours. But his own clothes were soaked through, heavy and cold against his skin, and the fire was finally starting to throw real heat.

Jon stripped off his cloak, his outer tunic, his boots. Laid them near the fire to dry. When he looked up, Arya had peeled down to a thin undershirt and those painted-on breeches, nothing else.

The shirt clung to her skin, damp and nearly translucent. Her breasts were small but full, high on her chest, and her nipples stood hard and visible through the wet fabric. The cold, he told himself. Just the cold.

She settled onto the furs near the fire, drawing her knees up, her grey eyes catching the firelight as she watched him. Her braid fell dark and heavy over one shoulder, dripping onto the pelts. She made no move to cover herself.

"Better," she said. "Now you won't die of cold before I can beat you at something else."

The storm howled outside, snow piling against the windows, wind screaming through the gaps in the shutters. They weren't going anywhere for hours. Maybe not until morning, depending on how long this lasted.

Jon sat down on the furs across from her, keeping the fire between them. Not that it helped. The warmth was making steam rise from their clothes, from their skin, and the small space was already growing close and humid.

Arya was watching him like she was waiting for something. Like she'd been waiting for days.

"You planned this," he said.

"I planned for possibilities." She stretched her legs out toward the fire, and the movement made her breasts shift beneath the thin fabric. "The storm was luck."

"Was it?"

"Good luck." She smiled, slow and sharp. "For me, anyway."

The firelight caught her face, her braid dark against the furs, and the small space suddenly felt much smaller.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of flames and the muffled howl of wind outside. Arya watched him through the firelight, her grey eyes sharp as Valyrian steel, and Jon knew the moment she decided to stop waiting.

"So when are you going to fuck me?"

He choked on nothing. Actually choked, like a green boy who'd never heard a woman speak plainly. "Arya..."

"Not if." She cut through his stammering with the subtlety of a warhammer. "When. Because we both know it's going to happen, and I'm tired of pretending otherwise."

"That's not..." He tried to find words, any words, but she wasn't finished.

"Like i said, i know about Sansa." Matter of fact. Like she was discussing the weather or training schedules. "Saw her walking funny for three days. Saw that stupid satisfied smile she couldn't wipe off her face. Put it together easy enough."

Jon's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"And I know about Mother." Arya's voice didn't waver. "Have for years. Everyone in Winterfell knows, even if nobody says it. The way she looks at you. The way she started smiling again after Father died, but only when you visited. Brandon and Rickon calling you 'Papa' the first time wasn't exactly subtle." She shrugged. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said..."

"What pisses me off," she continued, riding over his words like they didn't matter, "isn't that you're fucking my family. It's that you made me be last."

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. "Arya, you're different. I didn't want to..."

She stood up.

Her hands went to the hem of her undershirt, and before he could form another useless protest, she pulled it over her head and threw it aside. Her breasts were smaller than her sister's, smaller than her mother's, but they were perfect. High and firm, pink nipples hard and tight from the cold. From want.

She shoved her breeches down. Kicked them off. Stood naked in front of him with her hands on her hips, firelight painting her athletic body in shades of gold and shadow.

Jon couldn't look away.

She was lean where Sansa was soft, muscled where Catelyn was curved, but those hips... Gods, those hips flared wide from her narrow waist, and her ass... even from the front he could see the swell of it, round and full and utterly obscene on her fighter's frame. Her thighs were strong, defined, the kind that could grip a horse or a man with equal force.

"I'm not a virgin," she said. "No maidenhead to worry about. Fucked a stable boy once, out of curiosity. Wanted to know what the fuss was about." Her chin lifted, defiant. "Went to the whore in Winter Town after. Asked her how to please a man properly."

Her thick braid hung over one shoulder, dark against her pale skin, the end brushing the curve of her breast. She looked at him like a challenge. Like a dare.

"But I want you to show me what real pleasure feels like."

The fire crackled. Wind screamed outside. Jon's cock was already hard, straining against his breeches, impossible to hide.

Arya's eyes dropped to the bulge between his legs, and her lips curved into a smile of pure satisfaction.

"I knew it." She sounded almost smug. "You wanted me. You just needed to stop being so fucking noble about it."

Arya dropped to her knees before he could move.

Her fingers found his laces, working them with quick, eager movements that trembled only slightly. The only sign she was nervous. Jon watched her hands, watched her face, watched the firelight catch the determination in her grey eyes as she tugged the leather loose.

His cock sprang free, hard and heavy, and Arya's eyes went wide.

"Oh." The word came out breathless, barely a sound. Her lips parted, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at what she'd uncovered. "Oh, fuck."

The stable boy had not been built like this. Not even close. Jon could see the realization hit her, the way her confidence flickered for just a moment as she understood that the whore's lessons had not prepared her for this. For the length of him, the thickness, the way his cock jutted toward her like a challenge she'd foolishly issued without knowing the stakes.

She took him in hand. Both hands. Her fingers barely wrapped around the girth, and she stroked experimentally, testing the weight, the heat, the way the skin moved over the hardness beneath. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

Jon's hand found her braid.

He wrapped the thick rope of dark hair around his fist once, twice, holding her without pulling. Not yet. Just letting her feel the grip, the promise of control he could take whenever he wanted.

Arya leaned in.

Her tongue touched the head of his cock, a tentative lick that made his breath hiss between his teeth. She tasted salt, heat, something distinctly him, and her eyes fluttered half-closed. She licked again, bolder this time, swirling her tongue around the crown.

"Mmmm....." The sound escaped her, soft and approving. She liked it. She liked the taste of him, the feel of him heavy and hot against her lips.

She took him into her mouth.

Her lips stretched around him, pink and pretty, straining to accommodate his width. She got maybe half his length before she gagged, her throat spasming around him, and she pulled back with a wet gasp.

"Fuck," she muttered, wiping her chin. "You're..."

She didn't finish. Just set her jaw with that stubborn expression he knew so well and tried again.

The whore had taught her things. Arya remembered them now, applying them with fierce concentration. Use your tongue. Hollow your cheeks. Breathe through your nose. She did all of it, sloppy and eager, drool running down her chin as she worked more of him into her mouth. Her head bobbed, her braid swaying in Jon's grip, her hands stroking what her mouth couldn't reach.

"That's it," Jon growled, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Just like that."

She moaned around him, the vibration making his cock twitch against her tongue. Her eyes flicked up to his face, watching his reaction, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hand tighten in her hair. She was studying him like she studied everything. Like a fighter reading her opponent.

She moved lower.

Her mouth found his balls, heavy and full, and she sucked one into her mouth while her hand kept working his shaft. Her tongue swirled around the tender flesh, then released it with a wet pop before taking the other. Jon's head fell back, a groan rumbling through him.

"Fuck, Arya..."

She smiled against his skin, pleased with herself, and went back to his cock. Took him deeper this time, fighting her gag reflex, determined to take more of him than before. Her throat fluttered around his head and she held there, eyes watering, before pulling back to breathe.

The stable boy had been fast. Quick fumbling in the hay, a few clumsy thrusts, and it was over before she'd felt much of anything. Underwhelming. Disappointing. She'd wondered afterward what all the fuss was about, why women sighed over men, why songs were written about this.

She understood now.

She wished she'd waited. Wished she'd saved everything for this moment, for Jon's cock stretching her lips, for the taste of him on her tongue, for the way his hand gripped her braid like she was something precious he might devour. He was already ruining her for other men and she hadn't even gotten to the good part yet.

"Mmmm..... fuuuck....." She pulled off to breathe, to lick him from base to tip, to worship him with her mouth the way the whore had shown her. "You taste good."

"Arya." His voice was rough, strained. "Look at me."

She did.

His eyes had gone dark, violet bleeding into grey, and the expression on his face made her cunt clench around nothing. He looked like a wolf about to tear into prey. Like a dragon about to burn everything in his path.

He pulled her off by her braid.

The motion was sharp, sudden, hauling her up from her knees with one strong grip. She gasped, scalp stinging, and found herself face to face with him. His free hand caught her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

The look in his eyes said playtime was over.

Jon spun her around.

One moment she was facing him, the next his hands were on her hips, turning her bodily, shoving her down onto the furs. She caught herself on hands and knees, her braid falling over one shoulder, her ass thrust up into the air like an offering.

She barely had time to breathe before he was behind her.

His cock found her entrance, nudged against the slick heat of her, and then he drove forward in one brutal thrust.

Arya screamed.

Not pain. There was no pain, not really, she was wet, gods she was soaking, had been wet since before the storm, since she'd watched him strip out of his wet clothes, since she'd planned this whole fucking thing. But the stretch. The stretch. He filled her completely, impossibly, his cock splitting her open in ways the stable boy never had, reaching depths she didn't know existed.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck..."

Jon didn't give her time to adjust.

He pulled back and slammed home again, setting a brutal pace that made her whole body jerk forward with each thrust. His hips crashed against her ass, the sound obscene in the small cottage, wet slaps of flesh on flesh echoing off stone walls. Her tits swung beneath her, her braid bounced against the furs, and her ass... gods, her ass was jiggling with every impact, fat flesh rippling in waves.

"Ah... ah... ah..." The sounds punched out of her, involuntary, synced to his rhythm.

She braced herself against the furs, fingers digging into the pelts, and found her voice.

"That's it?" She threw the taunt over her shoulder, breathless but sharp. "That all you got?"

Jon's rhythm faltered for just a second.

"Heard you were supposed to be good at this." She grinned despite the way her voice shook. "Soft southern prince. Maybe Sansa was easy to impress, but I expected..."

His hand cracked across her ass.

The spank landed hard, harder than she'd expected, and the sound rang through the cottage like a thunderclap. Pain bloomed hot and sudden across her right cheek, and Arya gasped, the sound torn from her throat before she could stop it.

"Fuck..."

Jon didn't stop fucking her. If anything, he went harder, his cock driving deeper, his hips snapping against her with renewed force. The handprint on her ass burned, throbbed, and she could feel the heat of it spreading across her skin.

"Keep talking," he growled.

She did.

"Is that supposed to hurt?" Her voice cracked on the last word, but she pushed through. "Hit me like you mean it, or..."

His hand cracked across her other cheek.

Arya yelped, her back arching, her cunt clenching around him involuntarily. Both cheeks burned now, twin points of fire, and she knew without looking that his handprints were blooming red against her pale skin.

"Hahhhh... fuck..."

Her ass was rippling with every thrust, fat flesh bouncing obscenely, the red marks growing brighter with each impact. Jon's hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he fucked her like he was trying to break her.

She loved it.

"Make me scream," she challenged, the words coming harder now, her breath ragged. "Bet Sansa screamed louder than this... bet she..."

Crack.

"Oh gods..."

Crack.

"Fuck, Jon..."

Crack.

Her ass was on fire. Burning. Every spank sent shockwaves through her body, made her cunt clench, made her thighs shake. She tried to keep talking, tried to keep up the taunts, but her voice was getting ragged, her words dissolving into gasps.

"This how you fuck my mother?" She barely got the words out, her voice breaking in the middle. "She likes it when you... when... oh fuck..."

Crack.

Jon's hand fisted in her braid.

He pulled, hard, wrenching her head back until her spine arched and her throat was exposed. The angle changed everything. His cock drove into her at a new depth, hitting something inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes.

"FUCK... hahhhh... oh gods, oh fuck..."

He fucked her harder. Faster. His hips pistoned against her burning ass, his grip on her braid keeping her head pulled back, her body bent like a bow. She couldn't think anymore. Couldn't form words. Her taunts dissolved into broken moans, fragments of sound that meant nothing.

"Jon... fuck... I... hnnnnghh..."

"Say my name." His voice was a growl against her ear, low and dangerous. "Say it."

"Jon... Jon... JON..."

She screamed it.

All the cockiness fucked right out of her voice, nothing left but raw need and desperate pleasure as she screamed his name into the storm.

Jon pulled out.

The sudden emptiness made her whimper, her cunt clenching around nothing, and before she could protest he flipped her onto her back. The furs were soft against her burning ass, the fire warm on her skin, and Jon loomed over her with that predatory look that made her stomach flip.

Arya saw her opening.

She planted both hands against his chest and shoved, hard, using all the strength in her fighter's body to knock him off balance. Jon went down onto the furs with a grunt of surprise, and she was on him before he could recover, straddling his hips, her hands pinning his shoulders.

"My turn."

She reached between them, found his cock, and sank down onto it with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her chest. The stretch was just as intense from this angle, maybe more, and she had to pause at the bottom just to breathe through it.

"Fuuuck....." The word dragged out of her, long and low. "Gods, you're big."

Then she started to move.

Arya rode him hard, planting her hands on his chest for leverage, her hips rolling and snapping with every drop. Her ass clapped against his thighs, the sound obscene in the small cottage, flesh meeting flesh in a rhythm she set herself. Her small tits bounced with every movement, her braid swinging over her shoulder, her burning ass grinding against him with each stroke.

She found her voice again.

"This is more like it." She grinned down at him, breathless but sharp. "Gonna make you cum before I do. Bet you can't last..."

Jon's hands found her hips.

She kept riding, kept talking, kept up the competition even as pleasure built in her core. "Sansa probably just laid there, didn't she? Let you do all the work. Bet she didn't ride you like... like..."

Her rhythm faltered as his grip tightened.

"Like what?" His voice was dangerously calm.

"Like this." She dropped hard, ground against him, clenched around his cock. "Bet she couldn't... couldn't make you..."

Jon's fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise.

He planted his feet against the furs, and then he was fucking up into her.

Arya's rhythm shattered immediately. One moment she was riding him, setting the pace, winning. The next she was just holding on, her hands braced against his chest, her body jolting with every brutal thrust from below. She wasn't riding anymore. She was being fucked.

"What was that?" Jon growled. "Something about making me cum?"

She tried to answer. Tried to find another taunt, another challenge, something to prove she wasn't completely losing this fight. Her mouth opened.

"I... hahhhh... fuck, I..."

The word turned into a wail.

Her competitive fire drowned in pleasure she'd never felt before, wave after wave crashing through her as Jon pounded into her from below. His cock hit that spot inside her with every thrust, the one that made her see stars, and she couldn't think anymore. Couldn't talk. Could barely breathe.

"Oh gods... oh fuck... JON..."

Her first orgasm hit without warning.

It slammed into her like a physical blow, her cunt clenching hard around him, her whole body seizing up. She threw her head back and screamed, her braid falling down her back, her tits bouncing as she shook through it.

Jon didn't slow down.

He fucked her through it, his hips never stopping, his grip on her hips keeping her pinned in place while he drove into her again and again. The pleasure didn't stop, just kept building, cresting into something even bigger.

"Can't... please... too much... ffffuck..."

Her second orgasm crashed over her before the first one finished.

She screamed again, the sound raw and broken, her body convulsing around him. Her thighs shook, her fingers clawed at his chest, and she felt herself clenching so hard it almost hurt.

Jon buried himself to the hilt and came.

She felt it. Felt the flood of heat inside her, his cock pulsing, his seed filling her in thick spurts. His groan rumbled through his chest beneath her hands, and his hips jerked as he emptied himself into her.

Arya collapsed forward onto his chest.

She was shaking. Couldn't stop shaking. Her face pressed against his neck, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her cunt still fluttering around him in the aftershocks. The fire crackled. The storm howled. She felt wrung out, destroyed, more thoroughly fucked than she'd ever imagined possible.

"Hahhhh....." The sound escaped her, barely audible. "Fuck....."

She lay there for a long moment, panting against his skin, thinking it was over. Thinking she'd need an hour before she could move again.

Then she felt him twitch inside her.

Still hard.

"Oh." The word came out small, surprised. She lifted her head to stare at him, her grey eyes wide. "You're still..."

The stable boy had definitely not been able to do that.

Arya fumbled toward the saddlebag she'd dragged inside with them, her limbs still trembling, her brain not quite working right. Her fingers closed around the small glass vial and she pulled it out, holding it up so the firelight caught the amber liquid inside.

Jon raised an eyebrow.

"The whore told me about this too." Arya's voice came out rough, wrecked, nothing like her usual sharp tone. "Said if I wanted a man to remember me, I should let him have everything."

She rolled onto her stomach.

The furs were soft against her oversensitive skin, against her still-hard nipples, and she pushed herself up onto her knees with her ass in the air. Her burned, spanked ass, still red from his handprints, still throbbing with heat. She looked back over her shoulder and shook her hips at him, watching his eyes go dark as they fixed on the obscene swell of her cheeks.

"I want all of you." The words came easier than she'd expected. "Every way. Don't want to leave anything for some other woman to claim first."

She held out the vial.

Jon took it from her fingers, his expression unreadable, and she heard the soft pop of the cork. Heard the slick sound of oil being poured. She turned her face forward, pressing her cheek against the furs, her heart hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears.

His slicked finger touched her ass.

She jerked, couldn't help it, the sensation so strange and new that her whole body tensed. But he didn't push in yet. Just circled, spreading the oil, letting her get used to the feeling of being touched there.

"Breathe," he said.

She tried.

One finger pressed in.

"Ohhhh....." The sound escaped her without permission, long and wavering. It didn't hurt, exactly. The whore had told her to expect discomfort, had told her to relax, but this felt... gods, it felt strange. Full. His finger sank deeper, working the oil into her, and she buried her face in the furs.

"Mmmm..... fuck....."

A second finger joined the first.

Her back arched, her hands fisting in the pelts. The stretch was more intense now, the fullness building, and she made sounds she'd never made before. High, keening whimpers that came from somewhere deep in her chest. Broken moans that had nothing to do with taunting or competition.

"Hahhhh..... oh gods..... that's....."

His fingers moved, spreading, working her open, and she felt herself relaxing around them despite the strangeness. Her body was learning. Adjusting. Starting to want more.

Then his fingers pulled out.

She felt the blunt head of his cock press against her ass.

Arya tensed. Couldn't help it. Every muscle in her body locked up, her breath catching, her fingers digging into the furs hard enough that her knuckles went white.

"Breathe," Jon said again, his voice rough.

She tried. Failed. Tried again.

He pushed in.

The head of his cock stretched her impossibly wide, wider than his fingers, wider than anything she'd imagined. Arya bit down on the fur to keep from screaming, the sound muffled against the pelts, her whole body shaking with the effort of not pulling away.

"Nnnnghh..... fuuuck....."

Slow. So slow. He sank into her inch by inch, letting her adjust, giving her time to breathe through each new stretch. The taunts were gone now. All the cockiness, all the competitive fire, burned away by sensation she'd never felt before. There was nothing left but desperate sounds, whimpers and moans that she couldn't stop making.

"Hahhhh..... Jon..... oh gods....."

Deeper. Deeper still.

She felt split open. Full in a way she didn't know was possible. When he finally seated himself completely, his hips pressed against her burning ass, she let out a sound that was half sob, half moan.

"Mmmm..... so full..... can't....."

He started moving.

Slow at first, shallow thrusts that let her feel every inch of him dragging against her inner walls. The sensation was overwhelming, too much and not enough at the same time, and she heard herself making sounds she didn't recognize. Animal sounds. Desperate sounds.

"Ah..... ah..... ah....."

She pushed back against him.

The movement was instinctive, her body demanding more before her brain caught up. Jon took it as permission. His pace increased, his thrusts going deeper, harder, and she buried her face in the furs and let herself drown in it.

Her hand found her clit.

She rubbed frantically, desperate for something to ground her, something to push her over the edge she could feel building. Her fingers worked in tight circles while Jon fucked her ass, and the dual sensation was too much, too good, too everything.

"Please..... fuck..... I'm gonna..... hnnnnghh....."

The orgasm hit her like a physical blow.

Her whole body shook, violent tremors that started in her core and radiated outward. She clenched around him, her ass gripping his cock so tight it almost hurt, and she screamed into the furs. The sound was raw, broken, nothing like anything she'd ever made before.

"JON..... FUCK..... GODS....."

He fucked her through it, his thrusts never stopping, and she felt him groan against her shoulder. Felt his hips stutter, his rhythm breaking. Felt the flood of heat as he filled her ass with his second load, thick spurts that seemed to go on forever.

Arya collapsed.

Face-down on the furs, utterly wrecked, drooling slightly where her mouth pressed against the pelts. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe. His cum leaked from both holes, warm and slick against her thighs, and she'd never felt more satisfied in her life.

"Hahhhh....." The sound was barely audible, more breath than voice. "Fuck....."

The storm howled outside. The fire crackled. And Arya lay there in a puddle of her own satisfaction, completely destroyed, wondering why she'd ever wasted time on that stable boy.

They lay tangled on the furs, fire crackling, storm still raging outside.

Arya curled against his side, her braid messy and half-undone, strands of dark hair sticking to her sweat-damp skin. Her body ached in ways she'd never experienced before. Good ways. The best ways. Every muscle felt wrung out, every nerve still humming with the memory of pleasure.

Jon's hand traced lazy patterns on her hip, her ass. His fingers found the warmth there, the skin still slightly red from his handprints, and she shivered at the touch. Not pain. Just awareness. Just the reminder of everything they'd done.

She tilted her head up, and he met her halfway.

The kiss was slow and deep, nothing competitive about it. No challenge, no taunt, no fight for dominance. Just warmth. His lips moved against hers with unhurried tenderness, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that made her chest ache with something she didn't want to name.

Arya was quiet for a long moment after they broke apart.

Unusual for her. She always had something to say, some comment or jab or observation. But now she just pressed her face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

"I want your babies someday."

The words came out soft, muffled against his skin. She felt him go still beneath her, his hand pausing its lazy exploration of her hip.

"Strong sons," she continued, the admission easier now that she'd started. "Warrior daughters like me. Little wolves with dragon blood in their veins."

Jon huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest. "What if they were handsome noble boys instead? Knight-loving ladies who wanted songs and tourneys?"

Arya lifted her head to smirk at him, her grey eyes catching the firelight. "Then I'd love them anyway." Her smirk widened. "But I'd teach the girls where to hide daggers in their dresses."

He didn't say anything.

Just pulled her closer, his arm tightening around her waist, and kissed her again. Deeper this time, with an intensity that made her moan against his mouth. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through her ruined braid, and she melted into him like she'd been made to fit there.

The tender moment sat between them for about thirty seconds.

Then her hand slid down his stomach.

Her fingers traced the lines of muscle, the trail of dark hair, until they found his cock already stirring against his thigh. She wrapped her hand around him, felt him twitch and start to harden in her grip, and grinned against his lips.

"Storm's not stopping anytime soon."

Jon pulled back to look at her, one eyebrow raised.

"And I'm not done with you." The challenge was back in her voice, but softer now. More playful. Less about winning and more about wanting. "Fuck me again."

He rolled her onto her back.

The movement was smooth, effortless, his body settling between her thighs like it belonged there. She spread her legs wider, welcoming him, her hands finding his shoulders as he braced himself above her. The firelight caught the silver streak in his dark hair, made his eyes gleam violet.

"Since you asked so nicely," he murmured.

She laughed, the sound bright and breathless. "I never ask nicely."

His cock pressed against her entrance, and her laugh dissolved into a moan.

The storm howled outside the abandoned cottage. Wind screamed through gaps in the shutters, snow piled against the windows, the world reduced to white chaos beyond these stone walls.

Inside, Arya's screams of pleasure echoed through the empty rooms.

Louder than the wind. Louder than the storm. Her voice rang off the rafters as Jon fucked her slow, then fast, then slow again. He learned her body over hours, found every spot that made her gasp, every angle that made her clench around him.

She came on his cock. Came on his tongue when he pushed her thighs apart and buried his face between them. Came on his fingers while he whispered filthy things against her ear. Lost count of how many times, lost track of where one orgasm ended and another began.

Her voice gave out somewhere around midnight.

The screams faded to hoarse cries, then to desperate moans, then to broken whispers of his name. "Jon..... Jon..... hahhhh....." She couldn't manage anything else. Couldn't form words beyond that one syllable, couldn't do anything but cling to him and shake.

He fucked her through it all.

Filled her again and again, his seed leaking from her cunt, dripping down her thighs, marking her as thoroughly as his hands had marked her ass. She lost herself in him, in the pleasure, in the storm that raged outside and the fire that burned between them.

When sleep finally claimed her, curled against his chest on the ruined furs, the storm was still howling.

But Arya was smiling.

Chapter Text

The first month at Winterfell settled into a rhythm that would have scandalized the Seven Kingdoms from Dorne to the Wall.

Catelyn discovered the truth within a week. Hard to miss when Sansa drifted into the great hall for breakfast with purple bruises blooming across her throat, bite marks that no high collar could quite conceal. Harder still to ignore when Arya walked bowlegged for two full days after the storm, wincing every time she sat down and grinning like a cat in cream whenever Jon caught her eye.

Jon braced for fury. For accusations hurled like daggers, for the cold Tully rage that could freeze a man where he stood. Perhaps a knife in the dark, or worse, the silent treatment that would make Winterfell's stone walls feel warm by comparison.

Instead, Catelyn cornered him in the lord's chambers that night.

"My daughters." Her voice came out strange. Heated. Almost trembling. "Tell me true. Do they please you?"

Jon stared at her, searching for the trap. "Cat..."

"Do they?" She stepped closer, and he saw it then. Not rage in those Tully blue eyes. Jealousy. Raw and burning and desperate. "Am I not enough? Must you have them too?"

"You knew this would happen eventually. You practically pushed Sansa toward me yourself, parading her in those gowns."

"I wanted you to look." Catelyn's hands fisted in his doublet. "Not to touch. Not to make her scream loud enough that half the castle heard. Not to try putting a babe in her belly, or Arya's, or..."

Her voice cracked. Jon caught her wrists, held her still.

"You're jealous."

"Of course I'm jealous." The admission came out like broken glass. "I had you first. I gave you sons first. And now my daughters spread their legs and suddenly I'm just another woman in your bed, nothing special, nothing..."

Jon kissed her. Hard enough to silence the spiral, soft enough to promise. When he pulled back, Catelyn's eyes were wet.

"You're the mother of my children. The Lady of Winterfell. The first Stark woman I ever touched." He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "Nothing changes that. Nothing."

"Prove it."

She rode him until dawn.

Catelyn's hips rolled with desperate fury, her heavy breasts swaying as she took him deep. Her nails carved lines down his chest. Her cunt clenched around him like she was trying to milk every drop, to claim him so thoroughly that her daughters' touches would fade to nothing. She came screaming his name, again and again, until her voice went hoarse and her thighs shook too badly to continue.

Jon flipped her onto her back and fucked her through three more orgasms before he finally let himself finish, flooding her with enough seed to put another babe in her belly if the gods were kind.

After that, the three Stark women reached some unspoken arrangement.

Jon never learned what words passed between them, what negotiations happened in solar corners or whispered across sewing frames. But the tension dissolved into something almost functional. Catelyn claimed certain nights as hers, brooking no argument. Sansa developed a talent for appearing in Jon's chambers at precisely the right moment, wearing precisely the right expression of innocent hunger. Arya simply took what she wanted when she wanted it, dragging Jon into empty rooms and behind closed doors with the same directness she brought to everything.

Winterfell nights filled with screams of pleasure echoing through stone corridors.

Catelyn's desperate wails one night, her voice cracking on "please, please, please" as Jon bent her over the lord's desk and reminded her who had her first. Sansa's broken sobs the next, overwhelmed and shaking as she learned exactly how much her body could take. Arya's fierce shouts the night after, competitive even in this, demanding harder and faster and more until Jon gave her everything she could handle and then some.

The servants pretended not to notice. The guards kept admirably straight faces. The cooks learned not to comment on the extra portions the prince required at breakfast, or the way the Stark women all walked a little carefully some mornings.

Brandon and Rickon, thank the gods, were too young to understand.

"Papa," Brandon asked one morning, his small face scrunched in confusion, "why does Mama make funny noises at night?"

Jon choked on his ale. Catelyn went crimson from hairline to bodice. Arya snorted into her porridge while Sansa developed a sudden intense interest in her embroidery.

"Nightmares," Jon managed. "Your mother has nightmares sometimes. I help chase them away."

Brandon accepted this with the easy trust of childhood. Rickon, only four, had already forgotten the question in favor of playing with his food.

The days passed in comfortable routine. Jon trained with Arya in the mornings, their sparring sessions inevitably ending with her pinned beneath him in the armory, her breeches around her ankles and her moans muffled against his palm. He walked the glass gardens with Sansa in the afternoons, listening to her plans for the future, for the children she wanted to give him, while her hand found its way beneath his cloak. He spent evenings with his sons, teaching Brandon his letters and letting Rickon climb him like a tree, before retiring to whichever Stark woman had claimed him for the night.

It was good. Peaceful. Almost domestic, in a way that should have felt strange but didn't.

Jon should have known it couldn't last.

The raven arrived midway through the second month.

Jon was breaking his fast in the great hall, Catelyn at his side and both daughters across the table, when the maester shuffled in with a sealed scroll. The royal seal. Black wax stamped with the three-headed dragon.

"From King's Landing, my prince."

The hall went quiet. Jon took the scroll, cracked the seal, and read.

His expression didn't change. That was the first warning. When Jon's face went carefully blank, it meant he was containing something that would otherwise explode.

"What is it?" Catelyn's voice carried an edge. She knew that look.

"Aegon." Jon set the scroll down with precise control. "He's managed to ruin a potential marriage alliance with Storm's End. Called Lady Cassana Baratheon too old to be a Targaryen bride. Suggested she might be worthy as a concubine instead. Brought up Robert's rebellion as if the Baratheons should be grateful for any royal attention at all."

Arya whistled low. "Even for prince Aegon, that's impressive."

"The storm lords are furious. Apparently there's talk of demanding his head. Dragons or no." Jon's jaw tightened. "Father wants me to fix it. Immediately."

"Fix it how?" Sansa asked, though her pale face suggested she already knew.

"However necessary. Which likely means..." Jon didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

The temperature in the great hall dropped by several degrees.

"You're to marry her." Catelyn's voice could have frozen the hot springs. "This Baratheon woman. You're to give her what Aegon refused."

"I don't know what I'll need to do. The letter doesn't specify. But I'm ordered to Storm's End immediately, and my father wouldn't send me to clean up Aegon's mess unless he expected me to offer something significant in compensation."

Silence stretched. Jon could feel the weight of three pairs of eyes on him, each containing different flavors of the same burning emotion.

Sansa's eyes had filled with tears she refused to shed. Her hands gripped her skirts beneath the table, knuckles white. All her careful plans, all her whispered hopes about dragons and princes and futures, crumbling to dust.

Arya's chair scraped back. She stood, walked to the nearest wall, and punched it hard enough that her knuckles split. Then she turned and stalked out of the hall without a word, leaving bloody smears on the stone.

Catelyn went cold. Distant. The warmth that had softened her face these past weeks vanished like morning frost, replaced by the mask of the Lady of Winterfell. When she spoke, her voice held no emotion at all.

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. Dawn."

"Then you should spend today preparing." She rose, smoothed her skirts with hands that didn't quite tremble. "If you'll excuse me, I have household matters to attend."

She left. Sansa followed moments later, her composure cracking as she reached the corridor, a sob escaping before the door closed behind her.

Jon sat alone in the great hall, the raven's scroll in his hand, and wondered how quickly joy could turn to ash.

He found Catelyn first.

She was in the lord's solar, staring at account books she clearly wasn't reading. Jon closed the door and crossed to her, but she held up a hand before he could speak.

"Don't."

"Cat..."

"I said don't." Her voice cracked on the word. "Don't tell me it means nothing. Don't tell me you'll return. Don't make promises you cannot keep."

"I'm not promising anything except the truth." Jon knelt beside her chair, taking her hand despite her resistance. "This is duty. Not desire. Aegon broke something that needs mending, and I'm the only one who can mend it. That doesn't change what we have."

"What do we have, Jon?" Catelyn finally looked at him, and the pain in her eyes cut deeper than any blade. "I'm not your wife. I can never be your wife. I'm just a woman who warms your bed and bears your bastards while you..."

"While I what? Marry some Baratheon lady I've never met? Even if that happens, even if I take a wife for politics, do you think that changes anything?" Jon's grip tightened. "I have a dozen lovers, Cat. Missandei in King's Landing. Your daughters under this roof. And you. You're still the one who taught me what it meant to be wanted. You're still the mother of my sons. No marriage alliance will ever erase that."

Catelyn's composure finally cracked. She pulled him up, kissed him with desperate hunger, and when they parted, her cheeks were wet.

"Come back to us. Whatever happens at Storm's End, whatever you must do... come back."

"I will."

She didn't fully believe him. He could see it in her eyes. But she let him go anyway.

Sansa was in the godswood, kneeling before the heart tree.

She wasn't praying. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Jon approached quietly, settling beside her on the cold ground.

"I thought..." Sansa's voice came out small, broken. "I thought if I was good enough, if I pleased you enough, if I gave you everything you wanted... you would stay. You would choose me."

"I'm not choosing anyone else." Jon pulled her against his chest, let her cry into his doublet. "This is my father's command, not my desire. I'd rather stay here with you, with your mother, with Arya. But princes don't get to choose."

"Will you marry her? This Lady Cassana?"

"I don't know. Maybe. If that's what's required to prevent war." He tilted her chin up, made her meet his eyes. "But even if I do, you're still mine. You'll still have my children. You'll still wear my marks on your skin and carry my seed in your belly. A marriage contract doesn't change that."

"It changes everything."

"Only if we let it." Jon kissed her, soft and sweet, tasting salt on her lips. "Wait for me. I'll return."

Sansa clung to him, and when he finally pulled away, her tears had stopped.

Arya was the hardest to find.

She'd retreated to the winter town, to a tavern where smallfolk knew better than to ask questions about the wild Stark girl with bloodied knuckles and murder in her eyes. Jon tracked her down just as she was finishing her third ale.

"Go away."

"No."

"I said go away." Arya slammed her tankard down. "Go fix Aegon's mess. Go marry some Baratheon cow. Go be the perfect prince who saves the realm while I stay here and..."

"And what?"

Her jaw worked. No words came.

Jon sat beside her, waved for two more ales. The barkeep brought them quickly, eyes carefully averted.

"You're angry."

"Brilliant observation."

"You're angry because you think I'm leaving you. That I'm choosing duty over desire. That once I'm gone, you'll never matter as much as whatever political alliance I forge in the Stormlands."

Arya's silence was answer enough.

"You're wrong." Jon turned to face her. "I'm not leaving you. I'm going to fix a problem my brother created, and then I'm coming back. To you. To your sister. To your mother. Nothing about this changes what we have."

"What if you marry her?"

"Then I marry her. And I still come back."

"What if she gives you children?"

"You'll give me children too. So will Sansa. So has your mother already." Jon caught her bandaged hand, ran his thumb over her split knuckles. "I'm not a man who loves only one woman, Arya. You knew that when you came to me. You knew I had Missandei, had your mother, would likely have your sister before long. And you still wanted me."

"That was different. Those were women I knew. Women I could..." Arya struggled for words. "Compete with. Fight for space. But some Baratheon lady with a claim on the Stormlands, someone who could give you legitimate heirs..."

"You think legitimacy matters to me? I have bastards across the realm. I love them all. Any children you give me will be loved just as fiercely, marriage or not."

Arya finally looked at him. Her eyes were red, though she'd never admit to crying.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Promise me you'll come back. Promise me I'll always have a place in your bed. Promise me that when you fuck this Baratheon woman, you'll think of me. Of how I fight you. Of how I make you work for it."

Jon smiled, something wolfish in the expression. "I promise. Though I doubt Lady Cassana will be anything like you."

"No one's anything like me." A ghost of Arya's usual fire flickered in her eyes. "That's the point."

He kissed her there in the tavern, not caring who saw. She kissed him back with bruising force, hands fisting in his hair, teeth catching his lip.

"Come back," she said against his mouth. "Or I'll come find you and drag you home myself."

"I believe you would."

Dawn came cold and grey, mist rising from the ground as the household gathered in the courtyard.

Norvaxis waited beyond the walls, his massive form casting shadows across Winterfell's towers. Jon could feel the dragon's impatience, the eagerness to fly, to hunt, to burn.

Soon.

Brandon and Rickon clung to his legs, not understanding why their father was leaving again. Jon knelt, gathered them both in his arms, and held them tight.

"Be good for your mother. Practice your letters. And when I come back, I'll teach you both to ride."

"Promise?" Brandon's eyes were huge, hopeful.

"Promise."

Catelyn stood apart, wrapped in furs against the morning chill. Her face was composed, her eyes distant, every inch the Lady of Winterfell. But when Jon approached, her mask slipped just enough to show the ache beneath.

"Come back to us."

"I will."

He kissed her, brief and proper, aware of the watching servants. Her hand caught his for just a moment, squeezed hard enough to bruise, then let go.

Sansa waited beside her mother, beautiful even with shadows under her eyes. She'd dressed carefully, in Targaryen black and red, as if reminding him what house she belonged to now. When Jon took her hand, she pressed something into his palm.

A ribbon. The one she'd worn in her hair the night he took her maidenhead.

"So you don't forget."

"Never."

Arya stood at the edge of the group, arms crossed, jaw set. She didn't come to him. Made him walk to her instead.

"If you die in the Stormlands," she said quietly, "I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She punched his shoulder, hard enough to sting. Then, before he could react, she grabbed his collar and kissed him with enough force to draw gasps from the watching servants.

"That's so you don't forget me."

Jon smiled. "Not possible."

He turned, walked through the gates, and approached Norvaxis. The dragon lowered his massive head, smoke curling from his nostrils, and Jon swung up onto the saddle with ease.

From the courtyard, three Stark women watched.

Catelyn, composed and breaking beneath it.

Sansa, tears streaming down her cheeks despite her best efforts.

Arya, dry-eyed and fierce, hands clenched at her sides.

Jon raised a hand in farewell. Then Norvaxis launched into the sky, wings beating great gusts of wind across Winterfell's walls, and they turned south.

Toward Storm's End.

Toward a mess his brother made.

Toward a woman he'd never met.

Two days of wind and sky stretched between Winterfell and Storm's End.

The land transformed beneath Norvaxis's wings like a living map unfolding. Frozen northern hills gave way to the green abundance of the Reach, endless fields of grain and orchards heavy with late fruit, rivers glinting silver in the autumn sun. Then the forests thickened, the skies darkened, and the Stormlands announced themselves with sheets of rain that lashed against Jon's face and thunder that rolled across the heavens like war drums.

Appropriate, he thought. The Stormlands greeting a Targaryen with fury.

Storm's End appeared on the horizon as the clouds briefly parted, and Jon's breath caught despite himself.

The fortress rose from the cliff face like a fist of black stone punched into the earth by some ancient god. No seams showed in those impossible walls, no mortar lines, just smooth dark stone that legend said Durran Godsgrief had raised with the help of Bran the Builder himself. Waves crashed white and furious against the base, the Shipbreaker Bay earning its name with every surge, and the spray rose high enough to mist the lower battlements.

This castle had withstood the wrath of gods. The Storm God and the Sea God both had tried to tear it down, sending wind and wave against its walls for a thousand years, and still it stood.

Jon wondered if it would withstand a dragon.

Norvaxis circled twice, the massive shadow falling across the castle like an omen. Jon felt the dragon's eagerness, the predatory interest in this place of stone and storm. The beast remembered, perhaps. Remembered when his ancestors had come to these shores and bent the storm kings to Targaryen will.

Land, Jon commanded. Gently.

The dragon descended to the outer yard with surprising grace, wings flaring to slow his fall, clawed feet touching down on stones that had felt dragon weight before. Servants scattered. Horses screamed in distant stables. But the welcoming party held their ground.

Jon slid from the saddle, his boots hitting stone that seemed to vibrate with the crash of waves far below. He straightened, pushed rain-damp hair from his face, and found himself looking up.

Lady Cassana Baratheon stood at the head of her household, and she was taller than him by two inches at least.

That was unusual. Jon was not a small man, but the Lady of Storm's End looked down at him with Baratheon blue eyes that held banked fury and sharp assessment in equal measure. She'd inherited her house's build along with its seat. Broad shoulders, strong frame, the kind of body that could swing a warhammer if she chose. He could picture her in armor, could picture her leading men into battle, could picture her breaking lesser opponents over her knee.

But there was nothing masculine about her.

Her gown was black and gold, the colors of her house, and it clung to curves that made Jon's mouth go dry despite the circumstances. Large breasts strained against the fabric, lifted and presented by a bodice that seemed barely adequate to contain them. Her waist nipped in tight, emphasizing the generous flare of her hips, and when she turned to gesture toward the keep, Jon saw an ass fat enough to rival Arya's. Round and full beneath the fall of her skirts, swaying with her movement, impossible to ignore.

Black hair fell in waves past her shoulders, gleaming despite the overcast sky. Her face was beautiful in a strong-featured way. Not delicate like Sansa, not wild like Arya, but striking. High cheekbones, a jaw that spoke of stubbornness, lips that might be generous if they weren't pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

"Prince Jaehaerys." Her voice carried the formal courtesy of a lady greeting an unwelcome guest. Perfect manners wrapped around ice. "Welcome to Storm's End."

Jon inclined his head. "Lady Cassana. I thank you for receiving me."

Behind her, the storm lords flanked their lady with hands near sword hilts and suspicion written across every face. Jon recognized a few sigils. Tarth's sun and moons. Estermont's turtle. Swann's battling swans. Men whose fathers had fought against his grandfather, whose brothers had died on the Trident, whose loyalty to House Baratheon ran deeper than any fear of dragons.

He wasn't here as a prince, Jon understood immediately. He was here as a Targaryen, and that name was poison in these halls. Perhaps his mother's Stark blood might win him some favor, but he wouldn't count on it.

"My brother's words were unforgivable."

The blunt statement cut through the formal pleasantries like a blade. Cassana's eyes widened slightly, the only crack in her composure.

Jon didn't stop. "I won't make excuses for him. I won't try to explain what cannot be explained, or minimize what cannot be minimized. Crown Prince Aegon insulted you, your house, and every lord who swore fealty to Storm's End. No apology can undo that."

The storm lords exchanged glances. This was not what they'd expected. Not the smooth diplomatic words, not the careful dance of courtly speech that would let everyone pretend the offense hadn't happened.

"Then why are you here?" Cassana's voice had lost some of its frost, replaced by genuine curiosity. "If not to make excuses?"

"I'm here only if you'll permit me to try earning back what my brother destroyed." Jon met her eyes directly, letting her see the truth in his words. "Not through pretty speeches. Not through promises I cannot keep. Through whatever actions you deem sufficient, if any exist."

The silence stretched. Rain began to fall again, pattering against stone and dragon scale alike. Norvaxis shifted behind Jon, steam rising from his nostrils, but the beast held still.

Something flickered in Cassana's blue eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or the first crack in her armor.

"You may stay." Her voice was still cold, but fractionally less frozen. "For now."

The first week tested Jon's patience in ways that made Aegon's provocations seem like children's games.

Cassana Baratheon did not trust him. Did not like him. Made no effort to pretend otherwise, except in the barest forms of courtesy that guest right demanded. She seated him at her table but placed him far from the high seat, surrounded by storm lords who watched his every movement with hands never far from their blades. She assigned him chambers in the outer keep, comfortable but clearly meant for lesser guests, and the servants who attended him reported everything to their lady.

Jon accepted all of it without complaint.

He rose early, broke his fast with whatever was offered, and made himself visible throughout the castle. Not demanding attention, not forcing his presence on anyone, just... present. Available. Watching and learning, the way his mother had taught him to do in unfamiliar territory.

On the third day, Cassana appeared in the training yard.

Jon was working through his forms alone, the way he preferred, when he heard boots on stone and the distinctive sound of a blade being drawn from its scabbard. He turned to find the Lady of Storm's End advancing on him with a bastard sword in hand and murder in her eyes.

She came at him like she meant to take his head.

The first strike nearly caught him off guard, a lateral slash that would have opened his throat if he'd been slower. Jon parried, pivoted, and found himself on the defensive as she pressed forward with a flurry of cuts that spoke of years of training. Her footwork was excellent. Her form was textbook perfect. And she was strong, strong enough that blocking her strikes sent vibrations up his arms.

"Lady Cassana." He ducked a high cut, sidestepped a thrust. "Is this a formal challenge, or simply morning exercise?"

"Consider it a test." She didn't slow down. Her sword swept low, forcing him to jump, then came up in a rising cut that nearly caught his chin. "I want to know what kind of man the crown sent to fix its mistakes."

Jon stopped retreating.

He'd been giving ground, measuring her, learning her patterns. Now he stepped into her next swing, caught her blade on his own, and twisted. The motion was subtle, a technique Ser Arthur Dayne had drilled into him over years of painful lessons, and it sent her sword spinning from her grip to clatter across the stones.

Cassana stared at her empty hands. Then at him. Then at the sword on the ground.

"How did you..."

"The grip was wrong." Jon sheathed his own blade and walked to retrieve hers. "You're holding it like a longsword, but a bastard sword needs a different balance point. Here."

He demonstrated, showing her the adjustment, the way the fingers should curl, the angle of the wrist. Cassana watched with narrowed eyes, waiting for the condescension, the smug superiority that would let her hate him properly.

It never came.

"Try again," Jon said, offering her the sword hilt-first. "Same attack sequence. But this time, keep your elbow closer to your body on the recovery."

She attacked again. He disarmed her again, but it took longer this time. Then he showed her what she'd done wrong, and they went again. And again. By the time the sun had climbed above the walls, Cassana was sweating through her training leathers and Jon had stopped disarming her entirely.

"That last sequence," he said, not even breathing hard. "You almost had me."

"Almost doesn't win battles."

"No. But it's closer than you were an hour ago." He smiled, and it was genuine, nothing courtly or calculated about it. "You're good. Better than most knights I've faced. Whoever trained you knew what they were doing."

Cassana's jaw worked. She wanted to dismiss the praise, he could see it. Wanted to find the hidden insult, the subtle mockery. But there wasn't any.

"My father started teaching me when I was six," she said finally. "After Robert went to the Eyrie, after Stannis became... Stannis. Someone had to learn to defend this castle if the worst happened."

"And you were the one who wanted to learn."

It wasn't a question. She looked at him sharply, but he just shrugged.

"My mother was the same. Rode better than her brothers, fought better too, though she rarely got the chance to prove it. Some women are born with steel in their blood. Nothing wrong with that."

Cassana studied him for a long moment. Whatever she found in his face made something shift in her expression.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Same time. I want to learn that disarm."

"I'll be here."

She walked away without another word, but her shoulders had lost some of their rigid tension. Jon watched her go and allowed himself a small breath of relief.

One crack in the wall. A thousand more to make.

The training sessions became daily ritual.

Cassana arrived each morning with the same fierce determination, and Jon met her blade for blade. He didn't hold back, not exactly, but he didn't humiliate her either. When she made mistakes, he corrected them. When she improved, he acknowledged it. When she finally managed to land a hit on him, a glancing blow to his ribs that would bruise for days, her face lit up with such genuine triumph that Jon found himself grinning back.

"Lucky strike," he said.

"Skill." She was breathing hard, sweat dripping down her temples, but her smile was fierce. "Admit it."

"Fine. Skill. But only because I taught you that feint last week."

Her laugh echoed off the training yard walls, a barking sound that had nothing ladylike about it. Several guards looked up in surprise. Jon suspected they hadn't heard their lady laugh like that in a long time.

The storm lords noticed.

They'd been watching every interaction, reporting back to their lady, discussing among themselves what kind of man this Targaryen prince really was. Jon felt their eyes on him constantly, measuring, judging. He gave them nothing to condemn.

He was courteous to servants. Respectful to lords, even the ones who barely concealed their hatred for his family name. He attended their councils when invited, offered opinions only when asked, and never once pulled rank or reminded anyone that he rode the largest dragon in the world.

"He reminds me of someone," Lord Tarth said one evening, his voice carrying further than he intended. Jon was supposed to be out of earshot, but the acoustics of Storm's End played tricks on sound.

"Who?" Lord Estermont's voice, gruff and suspicious.

"Ned Stark." A pause. "The way he listens more than he talks. The way he treats everyone the same, highborn or low. The quiet honor of it."

"His mother's blood showing through, maybe."

"Maybe." Tarth sounded thoughtful. "Robert would have liked him, I think. If he'd ever gotten the chance to know him."

Jon filed that away and kept walking.

"Ride with me tomorrow."

Cassana made it sound like a command, but Jon heard the question underneath. They'd been training together for ten days now, and the frost in her voice had thawed considerably. She still watched him with suspicion sometimes, still tested him in small ways, but the outright hostility had faded.

"Where to?"

"The cliffs. I want to show you something."

They rode out at dawn, just the two of them, no guards or attendants. Jon had suggested bringing an escort, but Cassana had dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

"I've ridden these lands since I could sit a horse. I don't need protection."

The Stormlands were beautiful in their wild way. Dark forests gave way to rocky coastline, the sea crashing white and furious against black stone. Cassana led him along paths that no one else would know, narrow trails that wound between ancient oaks, across streams swollen with recent rain.

She stopped at a clifftop overlooking a small cove, where waves churned against rocks far below.

"Robert used to swim here." Her voice went soft, the way it only did when she spoke of her brothers. "He'd dive from that ledge there, the one that juts out over the water. Nearly killed himself the first time, misjudged the depth, hit a rock. Came up laughing with blood streaming down his face."

Jon could picture it. The young stag, wild and fearless, throwing himself into danger for the sheer joy of it.

"Did you ever dive?"

"Once." Cassana's lips curved. "Stannis forbade it, which naturally made me want to do it more. I was twelve. Scared out of my mind the whole way down, but I'd have died before showing it."

"Did you hit the rocks?"

"Missed by a foot. Stannis didn't speak to me for a week afterward." Her smile turned sad. "He was always trying to protect me from myself. Never worked."

They sat on the clifftop, watching the waves, and Cassana talked. About Robert's booming laugh and easy charm. About Stannis's rigid honor and the wound of being second-born that never quite healed. About Renly, the baby of the family, charming and careless and too young to remember their parents properly. About her father Steffon, who'd died at sea when she was barely old enough to remember his face, and her mother Cassana, for whom she'd been named, who'd gone to the depths with him.

Jon listened. Asked questions when they seemed welcome. Shared his own mother's stories about the rebellion, careful and honest.

"Lyanna never talked about Robert much," he admitted. "What little she said... she didn't hate him. But she didn't love him either. I think she was grateful, in a way, that the betrothal never happened. Even though everything that came after was..."

"A disaster?"

"I was going to say complicated. But disaster works too."

Cassana laughed, that barking sound he was coming to enjoy. "Your diplomatic training is showing."

"Is it? I'll have to work on that."

Her hand found his arm. Just for a moment, a light touch that lingered before pulling away. But Jon felt the warmth of it long after they mounted up and rode back to Storm's End.

The second week brought more rides, more training sessions, more conversations that stretched late into the evening. Cassana showed him her father's favorite hunting grounds, the tavern in the village where Robert had drunk with smallfolk, the sept where her mother had prayed every morning until the sea took her.

Jon met the people of Storm's End. Not just the lords, but the servants, the guards, the smallfolk who worked the surrounding lands. He learned their names, asked about their families, remembered details from conversation to conversation. It wasn't calculated, not really. His mother had raised him to see people as people, not props or tools.

But it had an effect regardless.

"The prince helped old Marya carry her water this morning," a guard mentioned to his fellow. "Wouldn't let her do it herself, said his legs worked fine and hers had earned a rest."

"Saw him talking to the smith for an hour yesterday. Actually listening, not just nodding and walking away."

"He's not like the other one. Not like the crown prince at all."

The whispers spread, as whispers do. Jon heard fragments of them, caught the way the storm lords' postures shifted when he entered a room. Less hostile. More curious. A few even offered grudging nods of respect.

By the end of the fortnight, the hands near sword hilts had relaxed. The suspicious glares had softened to wary acceptance.

Jon thanked the heavens, privately, that no ravens from Winterfell had carried south any rumors of how he spent his nights there. If these lords knew he'd been fucking Ned Stark's widow and daughters, all their comparisons to the quiet wolf would curdle into something far less flattering.

But they didn't know. And Jon intended to keep it that way.

"You've won them over."

Cassana said it on the fourteenth night, as they walked the battlements after dinner. The storm lords had retired to their beds, the servants had finished their duties, and the castle lay quiet beneath a sky full of stars.

"Have I?"

"Don't be modest. It doesn't suit you." She stopped at a gap in the crenellations, looking out at the sea. "They were ready to demand your head when you arrived. Now they're comparing you to Ned Stark and wondering if maybe, just maybe, not all Targaryens are monsters."

"And you?" Jon moved to stand beside her, close enough that their arms nearly touched. "What do you think?"

Cassana was quiet for a long moment. The wind caught her black hair, sent it streaming behind her like a banner.

"I think my brother Aegon is an arrogant fool who deserves everything he gets." Her voice was flat. "If he came here on bended knee and begged forgiveness, I might consider letting him leave with his tongue intact. Might."

"But me?"

She turned to face him. In the starlight, her eyes were very blue, and very intent.

"You're not what I expected." The admission seemed to cost her something. "I expected another Aegon. Another Targaryen prince who saw the Stormlands as a prize to be claimed, who saw me as a broodmare for dragon blood. Instead you..." She shook her head. "You listen. You learn. You treat my people with respect, and my lords with honor, and me like I'm actually worth talking to instead of just bedding."

"You are worth talking to."

"Most men don't think so. Most men see the tits and the title and nothing else."

Jon couldn't help it. His eyes dropped, just for a heartbeat, to where her gown displayed the generous swell of her breasts. When he looked back up, Cassana was smiling.

"Most men aren't that obvious about it either."

"My apologies."

"Don't apologize. I appreciate honesty." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the salt spray in her hair, the warmth of her skin. "If we're being honest... I've been watching you too."

"I noticed."

"Did you?" Her hand found his chest, palm flat against his doublet. "And what did you think? When you caught me looking?"

Jon covered her hand with his own. "I thought that the Lady of Storm's End is the most beautiful woman in the Stormlands, and possibly the most dangerous. I thought that any man who underestimated her would regret it. And I thought..."

"Yes?"

"I thought that if circumstances were different, I would have kissed you a week ago."

Cassana's breath caught. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his doublet, pulling slightly.

"Circumstances," she repeated. "You mean your mission. Cleaning up your brother's mess."

"I mean everything. The politics. The history between our houses. The fact that anything between us would be scrutinized and judged and picked apart by every lord from here to King's Landing."

"Do you care what they think?"

"No. But I care what you think. And I won't have you wondering whether I'm kissing you because I want to, or because it's politically convenient."

Cassana studied him. That measuring look he'd come to know, the one that saw through pretense and weighed the truth of his words.

"Ask me," she said finally.

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me what I think. About you. About this. About what a marriage between us might actually mean."

The word hung in the air between them. Marriage. Not politics, not alliance, not duty. Something else entirely.

Jon took a breath. "What do you think?"

"I think I stopped caring about politics somewhere around the third day." Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled slightly against his chest. "I think when you showed me that disarm and didn't gloat about it, something cracked. When you sat on that clifftop and listened to me talk about my brothers for two hours without once looking bored, it cracked further. When you carried old Marya's water and remembered the smith's daughter's name and treated my people like they mattered..."

She stopped. Swallowed.

"I think I want this for reasons that have nothing to do with crowns or dragons or proving anything to anyone." Her chin lifted, defiant even in vulnerability. "I think I want you, Jon Targaryen. Just you. And I haven't wanted anything for myself in a very long time."

Jon's hand rose to cup her face. His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch like it was something precious.

"Then I'll ask you properly," he said. "When the time is right. When there's no doubt in either of our minds about why."

"And until then?"

He smiled. "Until then, I'll keep training with you every morning, and riding with you every afternoon, and watching you across the great hall every night until I can't stand it anymore."

Cassana laughed, soft and breathless. "That sounds like torture."

"The best kind."

She kissed his cheek, her lips warm against his skin, and pulled away before he could turn it into something more.

"Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, Cassana."

She walked away along the battlements, her skirts swaying with each step, and Jon watched her go with something warm and complicated settling in his chest.

He'd come to Storm's End to fix his brother's mess. He hadn't expected to find this.

But as the stars wheeled overhead and the waves crashed against the ancient stones below, Jon found himself thinking about futures. About possibilities. About a woman who laughed like thunder and fought like a storm and looked at him like he was worth wanting.

The politics could wait. The alliances could wait. For now, this was enough.

The night after their conversation on the battlements, supper in the great hall was a smaller affair than usual.

Just Cassana and Jon and a handful of her closest bannermen. Lord Tarth, Lord Estermont, a few others whose loyalty had been proven over years of service. The long tables sat empty, the torches burned lower than normal, and the atmosphere felt intimate in a way that made Jon's instincts prickle.

Cassana sat at the head of the table, and Jon couldn't look away.

Her hair fell in dark raven waves past her shoulders, brushed to a shine that caught the firelight with every small movement. Her full lips were painted red, a bold choice that drew the eye to her mouth, to the curve of her smile when she caught him looking. And her gown...

The gown was black velvet, cut lower than propriety allowed. The bodice pushed her tits up until they threatened to spill over the edge, pale flesh swelling against dark fabric, the shadow between them deep enough to lose himself in. The velvet clung to every curve beneath, outlining the generous swell of her hips, the narrowness of her waist, promising more than it revealed while hiding nothing.

Jon noticed because he was meant to notice.

And he ignored it all the same.

He kept his eyes on her face when they spoke, on her eyes when she laughed at something Lord Tarth said, on the clever way her mind worked when the conversation turned to matters of trade and defense. He asked about grain stores and garrison rotations, about the fishing fleet's autumn haul and the repairs needed at the eastern watchtower. Boring questions. Safe questions. Questions that had nothing to do with the way her breasts heaved when she breathed, or the way she leaned forward just slightly whenever she addressed him directly.

If it frustrated her, she didn't show it. But Jon caught the flash of something in her blue eyes. Challenge, maybe. Or hunger growing sharper with each moment he refused to acknowledge what she was offering.

The meal stretched on.

Cassana barely touched her food. Her venison sat cooling on her plate, her bread untorn, while her wine cup emptied and refilled with increasing frequency. She watched him across the table through the whole meal, that measuring gaze he'd come to know, but heated now in ways it hadn't been before. Every time their eyes met, something crackled in the air between them.

The bannermen exchanged knowing looks.

Jon saw it happening, the subtle shifts in posture, the glances passed from lord to lord. They'd noticed their lady's attention. Noticed where her eyes kept drifting. Noticed the way she'd dressed, the wine she was drinking, the tension that hummed beneath every word spoken.

Lord Tarth cleared his throat. "The hour grows late. My old bones aren't what they once were."

"Indeed." Lord Estermont pushed back from the table with suspicious haste. "Long ride tomorrow. Best get some rest."

One by one, they found excuses to retire. Yawns that seemed genuine enough but came at convenient moments. Remembered duties that suddenly required attention. Wives waiting in chambers above. Within minutes, the hall had emptied of everyone except Jon and Cassana, and the servants who suddenly became very busy elsewhere.

Plates vanished. Cups were collected. The remaining torches were allowed to burn low without replacement. The great hall of Storm's End, which had hosted kings and councils and centuries of Baratheon history, became very quiet and very empty.

Cassana rose from her seat.

She didn't speak. Just watched him with those blue eyes that had lost all pretense of anything except want. Then she circled the table, her skirts whispering against stone, her heels clicking a slow rhythm that matched Jon's suddenly racing pulse.

She stopped beside him. Stood over him while he remained seated.

The position was deliberate. She was tall enough that it put her cleavage directly at his eye level, the swell of her breasts inches from his face, the scent of her perfume flooding his senses. Something floral and warm, underlaid with the salt spray that clung to everything in Storm's End.

"I've made my decision."

Her voice came out low and rough. Nothing ladylike about it now. Nothing courtly or proper or careful. Just raw want and the certainty of a woman who knew what she wanted and intended to take it.

Jon looked up at her. "Cassana..."

"Don't." Her hand found his arm, fingers curling around his bicep with surprising strength. "Don't be noble. Don't be careful. Don't give me another speech about circumstances and politics and waiting for the right moment."

She pulled him to his feet. Didn't let go. Her grip tightened as she steered him toward the hall's entrance, her body close enough that he could feel the heat of her through layers of velvet and wool.

"The moment is now," she said. "I'm taking what I want."

They moved through corridors that seemed longer than Jon remembered. Cassana's hand never left his arm, her stride purposeful, her direction unmistakable. Guards they passed straightened and looked elsewhere, their faces carefully blank. Not surprised. Not disapproving.

The storm lords had wanted this match. Had pushed for it, whispered about it, planned for it from the moment Jon arrived. And now their lady was making it happen, and every man in Storm's End knew better than to interfere.

Her chambers loomed ahead. Heavy oak doors, iron-banded, old as the castle itself. Cassana pushed them open without breaking stride, pulled Jon through, and let them swing shut behind them.

The door had barely closed when she spun him around.

His back hit the wood hard enough to rattle the hinges. Then her mouth was on his, and two weeks of wanting finally unleashed.

She kissed him hard and hungry, nothing gentle about it. Her hands fisted in his doublet, pulling him closer even as she pressed him against the door. Her tongue pushed past his lips, claiming, demanding, and Jon's hands found her waist and pulled her flush against him.

Her breasts crushed against his chest. Her hips ground forward, pressing against the hardness already straining his breeches. She made a sound against his mouth, something between a moan and a growl, and kissed him harder.

Cassana kissed like she fought. All aggression, no hesitation, her tongue pushing into his mouth while her hands worked at his doublet with frantic efficiency. The laces gave under her fingers, and she shoved the fabric off his shoulders without breaking the kiss, her nails raking down his chest through the thin linen of his shirt.

Jon let her have it. For a moment.

Then he moved.

His hands caught her hips, spun them both, and slammed her back against the door hard enough to shake dust from the ancient frame. Cassana gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss, and he pressed his full weight against her. Pinned her there with his body while his tongue claimed hers, deep and possessive, taking back everything she'd tried to steal.

She growled.

The sound rumbled up from her chest, Baratheon fury and raw lust tangled together, and her teeth caught his lower lip. Bit down. Hard enough to sting, hard enough that he tasted copper, and Jon pulled back to look at her.

Blood on her lips. His blood. She licked it away slowly, her blue eyes blazing.

"Is that supposed to scare me off?" Jon's voice came out rough. "You'll have to do better than that."

"Maybe I'm testing whether you can handle a real mature woman." Her hands found his chest, shoved him back a step, then pulled him close again. "Or do you prefer the younger ones? Soft little things who swoon at a prince's touch?"

"Is that what you think?"

"I think you've been looking at my tits for two weeks and haven't done a damn thing about it." She grabbed his wrist, yanked his hand up to her breast, pressed it against the swell of flesh straining against velvet. "I'm not some delicate lady, Jon. I won't break."

"Good." He squeezed, hard enough to make her gasp, his fingers digging into soft flesh through the fabric. "Because I don't fuck delicate."

Cassana's mouth crashed into his again.

This kiss was different. Messier. Her tongue sliding against his, her teeth catching his lip again, her hand guiding his down from her breast to the curve of her ass. She moaned into his mouth when he grabbed it, when his fingers sank into the generous flesh through layers of velvet and whatever she wore beneath.

"Mmmm..... yes....." The sound vibrated against his lips. "That's more like it."

Jon palmed her ass with both hands now, squeezing, lifting her slightly onto her toes. The velvet bunched beneath his grip, and he could feel the heat of her even through the fabric. She rolled her hips forward, grinding against the hardness pressing through his breeches, and made a sound that was half moan, half demand.

His hands found the laces at her back.

The gown was complicated, designed to be removed by servants, but Jon had undressed enough women to know his way around court fashion. He worked the ties loose while his mouth moved to her throat, teeth scraping the pulse that hammered beneath her skin. Cassana's head fell back against the door, her breath coming faster, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"Hahhhh..... gods....."

The bodice loosened. Jon shoved it down, and her breasts spilled free.

Large. Heavy. Pale as cream with dark nipples already stiff and peaked, the kind of tits that men started wars over. They swayed with her breathing, full and round, and Jon's mouth went dry at the sight of them.

"Well?" Cassana's voice held challenge even now, even breathless. "Are you going to stare all night, or..."

He got his mouth on her.

His lips closed around one dark nipple, sucking hard, and Cassana's taunt dissolved into a wail. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling tight, and he sucked harder. Drew the stiff peak against his tongue, scraped it with his teeth, then released it to attack the other. Back and forth, back and forth, while his hands yanked her skirts up around her waist.

"Fuuuck..... by the Seven..... hahhhh....."

She was squirming against the door, her hips rolling, seeking friction she couldn't quite find. Jon kept his mouth on her tits, sucking and biting, leaving marks that would purple by morning. His fingers found the bare skin of her thighs above her stockings, traced up, up, until...

Nothing. No smallclothes. Just wet heat and coarse curls and slick flesh that parted under his touch.

"You planned this." He pulled back to look at her, his fingers sliding through her folds, finding her entrance and pressing just slightly. "Came to dinner with nothing under your skirts."

"I told you." Her voice cracked as his finger pushed inside. "I'm taking what I want."

Jon straightened.

Cassana dropped to her knees.

No hesitation. No coy games. She sank down like she'd been waiting for this moment, like Baratheon pride meant nothing compared to what she wanted. Her hands found his laces, worked them with fingers that trembled only slightly, and freed his cock from the confines of his breeches.

Her eyes widened.

Just for a heartbeat. Just enough for Jon to catch it before she recovered, her expression smoothing into something that looked almost like hunger. She wrapped her hand around him, testing the weight, the girth, her fingers not quite meeting around the shaft.

"Well." Her voice came out rough. "That explains a few things."

"Scared?"

"Please." She stroked him, slow and firm, watching his face for reactions. "I've had bigger."

Jon laughed. Couldn't help it. "Have you?"

"Prove I haven't." Her tongue traced the underside of his cock, base to tip, and she held his eyes the whole time. "Or are you all talk?"

"I thought you were the one who was supposed to be proving something."

Cassana's answer was to take him into her mouth.

She was experienced. Jon could tell immediately from the way her lips wrapped around him, the way her tongue swirled against the sensitive head, the confident rhythm she set as she bobbed down his length. No hesitation, no uncertainty. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it well.

Her hand worked what her mouth couldn't reach, stroking in time with her sucking, her grip firm and sure. She looked up at him through dark lashes, blue eyes full of challenge, daring him to be impressed.

Jon wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

"That's it?" He kept his voice casual, though the wet heat of her mouth was making it difficult. "I thought you said you'd had bigger."

She pulled off with a wet sound, glaring up at him. "I thought you said you didn't fuck delicate."

"I don't see any fucking happening."

Something fierce flashed in her eyes. She took him deeper, pushing past the point where she'd stopped before, and gagged slightly as he hit the back of her throat. But she didn't stop. Pushed further. Her eyes watered, her throat spasmed around him, and still she took more.

"Mmmmphhh....."

The sounds she made were obscene. Wet, sloppy, desperate. Drool ran down her chin, dripped onto her bare breasts, and she sucked him like her pride depended on it. Which, knowing Baratheons, it probably did.

Jon's hand found her hair.

Thick black waves, soft as silk, wrapping around his fingers as he gathered it into a fist. Cassana's eyes flicked up to his, questioning and wanting at the same time.

He pulled.

Her head tilted back, throat exposed, his cock sliding deeper as the angle changed. She made a choked sound, something between a moan and a gag, and Jon started to move.

Slow at first. Shallow thrusts that let her adjust, that gave her time to breathe through her nose, to relax her throat around his girth. But he watched her face, watched the way her eyes went hazy, the way her hands stopped pushing at his thighs and started gripping them instead.

"There we go." His voice dropped to a growl. "That's better."

Cassana moaned around his cock.

The vibration shot through him, made his hips jerk forward harder than he'd intended. She took it. Took all of it, her throat working around him, tears streaming down her cheeks from the strain. But she didn't pull away. Didn't fight.

Jon fucked her mouth, and Cassana let him.

The power exchange shifted. For the first time since she'd pinned him against the door, since she'd kissed him like she owned him, since she'd dropped to her knees with all that Baratheon pride intact... she surrendered.

Her hands fell to her sides. Her jaw went slack. She knelt there on the cold stone floor of her own chambers, naked from the waist up with her skirts bunched around her hips, and let a Targaryen prince use her mouth however he wanted.

"Mmmm..... hnnnghhh..... mmmphhh....."

The sounds she made were desperate now. Not challenging. Not competitive. Just raw need, muffled around his cock, her hips shifting as she sought friction that wasn't there.

Jon pulled back.

His cock slid from her lips with a wet pop, leaving her gasping, drool and precum smeared across her chin. She looked up at him with dazed blue eyes, her chest heaving, her dark nipples glistening with her own spit.

"Get on the bed."

Jon didn't wait for her to obey.

His hands caught her arms, hauled her up from her knees, and spun her around before she could find her balance. The writing desk loomed against the wall, covered in papers and ledgers and the careful work of a lady who ran her own castle.

He bent her over it.

Papers scattered. An inkwell crashed to the floor, black liquid spreading across stone like spilled blood. Cassana's hands slammed down on the wood to catch herself, her cheek pressed against some document that would never be the same, and neither of them cared.

Jon shoved her gown up around her waist.

Her ass was everything he'd imagined and more. Fat and round and pale as cream, soft flesh that yielded under his hands when he grabbed it, squeezed it, spread her open to see the glistening pink of her cunt. This was a Baratheon ass. An ass that could take a pounding and beg for more.

Cassana looked back over her shoulder.

Blue eyes blazing. Mouth swollen and wet. Dark hair wild around her face, nothing ladylike left in her expression. Just hunger and challenge and that fierce Baratheon pride that refused to bend even when she was bent over her own furniture.

"If you're going to fuck me," she said, her voice rough, "you'd better do it properly. Not like some green boy fumbling in a barn."

"Is that what you want?"

"I want a dragon." She pushed her ass back toward him, shameless, demanding. "I want a wolf. I want to be fucked like a bitch in heat by someone who knows what he's doing. Can you manage that, or should I find someone else?"

Jon answered by driving into her in one brutal thrust.

Cassana screamed.

The sound tore from her throat, genuine shock and pleasure tangled together, her cunt stretching around his cock in ways she clearly hadn't expected. Her fingers clawed at the desk, sending more papers flying, and her whole body shuddered with the impact.

Jon didn't give her time to adjust.

He set a punishing pace immediately, hips snapping forward, his cock driving deep with every stroke. The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the chamber, obscene and relentless, her ass rippling with each impact. The desk scraped against the stone floor, inching forward, and still he fucked her harder.

His hand cracked across her right cheek.

"FUCK!" Cassana's voice cracked. "Seven hells..... you bastard..... your whore mother....."

"What was that?" Jon grabbed her hip with one hand, kept fucking her, and spanked her again with the other. Harder this time. The sound echoed off the walls. "I didn't quite hear you."

"I said..... hahhhh..... I've had better....."

Another spank. Her ass was turning red now, his handprint blooming bright against pale flesh, and she pushed back against him like she was trying to take more.

"Harder." The word came out half moan, half demand. "Hit me like you mean it, dragon boy, or..... nnnghhh....."

He hit her like he meant it.

The crack rang through the chamber, and Cassana's cunt clenched around him so tight he saw stars. She was moaning now, real moans, the taunts dissolving into sounds she couldn't control.

"Maybe..... hahhhh..... maybe you're learning....."

Jon leaned over her back.

His chest pressed against her spine, his mouth finding the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath her skin, could feel the tremors running through her body, could feel how wet she was getting around his cock with every punishing thrust.

He bit down.

Hard. Hard enough to mark, hard enough that she'd wear his teeth for a week, hard enough that she cried out and shuddered and clenched around him in a way that felt almost like coming.

"Bastard....." The word came out broken. "You..... fucking..... bastard....."

"I'm not a bastard." Jon fucked her harder, his hips driving the desk another inch across the floor. "But keep calling me one. See what happens."

Cassana's only response was a moan that might have been agreement.

Her ass rippled with every thrust, red handprints overlapping now, her pale flesh marked and claimed. She was pushing back to meet him, taking everything he gave, her fingers white-knuckled on the desk's edge. The papers beneath her were ruined, soaked with sweat and other things, and somewhere in the back of Jon's mind he knew she was going to be furious about that later.

Right now, she didn't seem to care about anything except his cock.

"Harder..... fuck..... yes..... like that....."

The desk hit the wall with a crash.

Nowhere else to go. Jon kept fucking her anyway, pinning her between the wood and his body, and Cassana screamed something that might have been his name or might have been a curse. Her cunt was fluttering around him, getting tighter, and he knew she was close.

He pulled out.

The sudden emptiness made Cassana make a sound of pure outrage. Fury and loss and desperate need all tangled together, her hips pushing back toward nothing, her head whipping around to glare at him.

"What the fuck do you think you're..."

Jon was already lifting her.

His hands under her thighs, hauling her up against his chest like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. She was still cursing him, still demanding he put her down and finish what he started, but he was already carrying her toward the bed.

The real fucking hadn't even started.

Jon threw her onto the bed.

The mattress bounced beneath her weight, and before Cassana could scramble up or recover or launch another taunt, he was on her. His hands caught her ankles, lifted them, hooked them over his shoulders. She was tall enough that the position worked perfectly, her legs long and strong, her body bent beneath him as he drove back into her.

Deep. So deep she felt it in her throat.

"Oh gods..... oh fuck....."

Piledriver now, nowhere to hide. His cock speared into her at an angle that hit places nothing had ever touched, that made her vision blur at the edges, that stole every clever word she'd been saving. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open. The taunts died on her tongue, replaced by sounds she'd never made before.

But she was a Baratheon.

She fought it.

Her hands found his arms, fingers digging in, nails biting through skin until she felt wetness. Blood. His blood under her nails, and she used the grip to try bucking her hips, to change the angle, to take back some measure of control.

Jon didn't let her.

His weight pinned her to the mattress, his hips driving forward in a relentless rhythm that gave her nothing. No leverage. No escape. Just his cock splitting her open with every stroke, hitting so deep she could feel him in her belly.

"Ah..... ah..... ah....."

The sounds punched out of her, synced to his thrusts. Moans and gasps and whimpers that had no pride in them, that she couldn't stop making even when she tried. Her cunt clenched around him involuntarily, her thighs shaking where they pressed against his shoulders.

"That's it." His voice was rough, dark, satisfied. "There you are."

"Fuuuck..... gods..... yes..... right there..... don't stop....."

The pleasure built like a storm. Pressure gathering in her core, spreading through her limbs, making her toes curl and her back arch. She was going to cum. She could feel it coming, couldn't stop it, didn't want to stop it.

"Jon..... hahhhh..... Jon..... JON....."

She screamed his name when she shattered.

Loud enough that guards in the corridor definitely heard. Loud enough that half the castle probably heard. Her cunt clamped down around him in rolling waves, her whole body seizing, her nails raking fresh lines down his arms.

Jon didn't stop.

He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering, and Cassana's orgasm stretched into something else. Something overwhelming. Her face twisted with overstimulation, pleasure crashing into pain crashing back into pleasure, too much and not enough at the same time.

"Can't..... please..... hahhhh....."

She managed one more taunt.

Drew it up from somewhere deep, from the Baratheon pride that refused to bend even when she was bent in half beneath him, even when her body was breaking apart.

"Fucking..... dragon..... bastard....."

Jon's rhythm faltered for just a heartbeat. His eyes met hers, something dangerous flickering in the violet-grey depths.

"You'll be screaming my name before I'm done."

"Make me." The words came out broken, barely coherent, but defiant. "Make me..... if you can....."

He shifted position.

Dropped her legs. Caught her thighs and pressed them back toward her shoulders, folding her body beneath him, opening her completely. Deeper than before. Impossibly deep. His cock hit something inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.

Cassana's last resistance crumbled.

She was just sounds now. Desperate and broken, moans that might have been words once, whimpers that meant nothing except more and please and yes. Her hands clutched his back, nails raking lines of red from his shoulders to his waist, marking him the way he was marking her.

"Jon..... Jon..... fuuuck..... so good..... you're so..... hahhhh..... never felt..... gods..... yes..... perfect..... you're perfect....."

The praise spilled out of her without thought. Everything she'd been too proud to say, everything she'd hidden behind taunts and challenges, pouring free now that she had nothing left to hide behind.

Jon kissed her.

Deep and possessive, his mouth claiming hers the way his cock claimed her cunt. He swallowed her moans, tasted the surrender on her tongue, and Cassana kissed back with everything she had.

No fight left. No pride. Nothing but need and want and something softer underneath, something that felt almost like affection, like the beginning of something real.

"Jon....." She breathed his name against his lips between thrusts. "Jon..... yes..... yours..... I'm yours....."

The pace slowed.

Pounding gave way to grinding, deep and deliberate, every thrust measured now instead of punishing. Jon rolled his hips against her, filling her completely with each movement, and Cassana's body answered without thought. Her legs locked behind his back, ankles crossing, pulling him closer. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers tracing the scratches she'd left, the marks she'd carved into his skin.

She kissed him between ragged breaths.

Soft kisses now. Hungry still, but different. The fight had bled out of her somewhere between the desk and the bed, somewhere between the third orgasm that had shattered her and the fourth that was building slow and inevitable in her belly. She didn't care about winning anymore. Didn't care about pride or proving anything or the Baratheon fury that had driven her to challenge him in the first place.

The pleasure was too good to care about any of that.

Her second real orgasm built slowly, tension coiling low in her core, spreading through her limbs in waves of heat. She could feel him getting close too. His rhythm losing steadiness, his breath coming harder against her mouth, his cock twitching inside her in ways that meant he was fighting to hold back.

Cassana broke the kiss.

Her lips found his ear, breath warm against the shell of it, and she whispered something low and private. Just for him. Not for anyone else to ever know.

"Was this your plan all along?" The words came out soft, teasing, but with real curiosity underneath. "Get me hot and bothered and full of lust until I warm your bed? Plant your babes in me while I'm too cock-drunk to think straight? Have me submissive and loving before I realize what happened?"

Jon's hips stuttered.

His jaw tightened, a groan catching in his throat, and she felt his cock throb inside her. The image had hit him. Hit him hard.

"Don't." His voice came out rough, strained. "Don't tempt me with that."

But Cassana was smirking now, feeling the power shift back toward her even as she lay pinned beneath him. She'd found something. A weakness. A want.

"Imagine it." She breathed the words against his ear, her hips rolling up to meet his grinding thrusts. "Me heavy with your child. Round and full, my belly swelling with dragon blood. Your loving, strong wife..." She nipped his earlobe, felt him shudder. "Ruling Storm's End with your babe at my breast while you watch."

"Cassana..."

"I'd be beautiful pregnant." Her legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper. "Everyone says Baratheon women carry well. Big tits getting bigger, full of milk for your sons and daughters. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Watching me grow?"

Jon's control snapped.

He drove into her hard, once, twice, his rhythm breaking completely, and Cassana kissed him before he could respond. Deep and hungry, her tongue sliding against his, swallowing whatever words he'd been about to say.

Jon buried himself to the hilt and came.

She felt it.

Hot and thick, flooding her, pulse after pulse of seed spilling into her womb. Heavy. Endless. His balls clenching against her ass with each release, emptying everything he had into her. The sensation triggered her own orgasm, pleasure crashing through her like a wave breaking against Storm's End's walls, her cunt clenching and milking him through it.

They came together, mouths fused, her body working to take every drop.

His groan vibrated against her lips. Her moan answered, swallowed by his kiss.

The kiss didn't break until they were both spent.

Trembling. Collapsed together on sweat-soaked sheets, the silk beneath them ruined, the pillows scattered, the careful order of her chambers destroyed completely. Cassana's legs finally unwrapped, falling limp to the mattress on either side of his hips. Her arms stayed around him, holding him close, unwilling to let go just yet.

Jon stayed inside her.

Softening slowly, still connected, his forehead pressed to hers. Neither spoke for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being. The storm outside had picked up, rain lashing against the windows, thunder rolling in the distance, but inside her chambers there was only warmth and the sound of their mingled breath.

Cassana pulled him down against her.

His head found her breasts, cheek pillowed against soft flesh, and her fingers threaded through his dark hair. Sweat-damp curls tangled around her knuckles, the silver streak at his temple catching what little light remained. She stroked idly, gently, and they stayed tangled together in satisfied silence.

His lips found her nipple.

Not urgent. Lazy. He drew the peak into his mouth and sucked with expert pressure, tongue swirling, and Cassana moaned despite herself. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, her back arching slightly into the sensation.

"Mmmm....." The sound escaped her without permission. "Jon....."

She kissed the top of his head. Murmured encouragement against his dark hair, words that meant nothing and everything, praise and want tangled together.

Her mind drifted.

Dark-haired children with violet eyes or grey, nursing at these same breasts while Jon watched. Sons who would inherit his height and her stubbornness. Daughters who would learn to fight like their mother and rule like their father's blood demanded. The image settled into her chest, warm and wanting, and she found she didn't mind it at all.

His lips left her breast and found hers.

They kissed eagerly, tasting each other, learning the shape of this new thing between them. Soft and hungry at once, no more fighting, no more challenges. Just warmth.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys had been flying for hours with no destination in mind.

Just needing to be anywhere but King's Landing, where Aegon cornered her in corridors with that hungry, entitled look. Where he stood too close and spoke too softly about duty and family and how they were meant for each other, his violet eyes tracking her body like she owed him something. Where her mother kept arranging dinners with Willas Tyrell, who was pleasant enough, charming even, but not what she wanted.

Never what she wanted.

The wind whipped her hair into dark streamers, cold and clean, scouring away the suffocation of court. Below her, the Kingswood gave way to farmland, farmland to forest, forest to the wild hills of the Stormlands. Meraxes banked without being told, wings catching a thermal, turning south and east with purpose Rhaenys hadn't given her.

Where are we going?

The dragon didn't answer. Dragons never did, not in words. But Rhaenys knew her mount, knew the way Meraxes's muscles bunched beneath the saddle, knew the eager rhythm of those powerful wingbeats. The silver-bronze beast had a destination in mind.

Rhaenys let her.

The clouds thickened as they flew, grey and heavy with the promise of rain. The Stormlands earning their name. Lightning flickered in the distance, and Meraxes rumbled in answer, a sound of challenge and delight. This was her element. Fire and storm and the wild places between.

Storm's End rose from the cliffs like a black fist against the grey sky.

Rhaenys's breath caught. She hadn't meant to come here. Hadn't consciously chosen this direction, this destination, this particular castle where she knew, knew, Jon had been sent to clean up Aegon's mess.

But Meraxes had known.

Traitor, she thought at her dragon, but there was no heat in it. Only the rapid flutter of her pulse, the sudden awareness of her own heartbeat, the way her thighs tightened against the saddle as they descended.

The courtyard erupted into chaos when she landed.

Servants scattered like startled birds, their cries lost in the wind. Horses screamed in distant stables, the sound of hooves against wood carrying across the bailey. Guards shouted orders, hands reaching for weapons before recognizing the dragon, the rider, the Targaryen colors.

Rhaenys barely noticed any of it.

Because Norvaxis was already there.

The massive black dragon raised his head from where he'd been basking against the outer wall, crimson eyes finding Meraxes with an intensity that made Rhaenys's skin prickle. He was enormous. Twice Meraxes's size, scales drinking the weak sunlight like spilled ink. The Midnight Terror. Jon's dragon.

Jon was here.

Something in her chest loosened at the sight. A tension she'd been carrying for weeks, months, years, finally easing.

Meraxes crooned.

The sound startled Rhaenys. She'd never heard her dragon make that noise before. Not the hunting cry, not the battle scream, not the contented rumble after feeding. This was something else entirely. Something soft and wanting and almost... shy.

Norvaxis answered with a rumble that shook the stones beneath them.

Then Meraxes launched.

Rhaenys grabbed the saddle horn as her dragon shot skyward, wings beating furiously, climbing toward where Norvaxis had risen to meet her. She should stop this. Should command Meraxes down, should maintain control, should...

The dragons twined together in the sky.

Necks curling around each other, wings brushing, tails intertwining as they spiraled upward through the grey clouds. Norvaxis's massive bulk dwarfed Meraxes, but the smaller dragon pressed close anyway, crooning that strange soft sound while Norvaxis rumbled back.

Rhaenys watched with her heart in her throat.

Gods. Even the dragons knew.

She slid from the saddle the moment Meraxes touched down again, boots hitting stone, legs unsteady for reasons that had nothing to do with flying. The dragons had separated enough for her to dismount, but they remained close, Norvaxis's great head lowered toward Meraxes in a way that looked almost tender.

Steel rang against steel from the training yard.

Rhaenys turned toward the sound.

And there he was.

Jon, with his dark hair damp with sweat and that silver streak catching the weak sunlight. His body moving with the brutal grace she'd memorized years ago, the way he'd moved through sword forms since they were children, the way he moved through everything. Controlled. Powerful. Devastating.

He wasn't alone.

Beside him, sparring with actual skill, was a tall black-haired woman with a body that made Rhaenys's jaw tighten. Generous curves poured into training leathers that clung to heavy breasts and wide hips and an ass that rivaled her own. The woman moved well. Fought well. Kept up with Jon in ways most couldn't.

Jon disarmed her with a twist of his blade.

The woman laughed, the sound carrying across the yard, and said something Rhaenys couldn't hear. Jon laughed back. Then the woman shoved his shoulder with easy familiarity, the casual touch of someone who'd touched him before, who expected to touch him again.

Something hot and possessive coiled in Rhaenys's belly.

Mine, she thought, the word savage and sudden and entirely unreasonable. He's mine. He's always been mine. She can't have him.

Jon looked up.

His eyes found her across the yard, grey-violet meeting violet, and his face did something complicated. Something she couldn't read from this distance. Surprise, maybe. Pleasure. Wariness. Want.

The Baratheon woman followed his gaze.

Rhaenys watched her expression shutter into careful neutrality. Watched the way she stepped back from Jon, putting distance between them. Watched the recognition dawn, the calculation, the understanding.

Good, Rhaenys thought, smoothing her windswept hair with deliberate calm. At least one of them understands what's happening here.

She started walking toward the training yard.

The courtesies were perfect.

Lady Cassana Baratheon descended the steps to meet them with all the formality a princess of the blood deserved. Deep curtsey, head bowed just so, voice warm with welcome that sounded almost genuine. "Princess Rhaenys. Storm's End is honored by your presence."

"Lady Cassana." Rhaenys inclined her head, taking in the woman up close. Taller than expected. More beautiful than the rumors suggested. And those training leathers clung to a body that could tempt a septon. "The honor is mine. Your castle is magnificent."

Jon reached them, still catching his breath from the yard. His dark hair was damp with sweat, pushed back from his face, that silver streak catching the grey light. He kissed Rhaenys's cheek, the brush of his lips sending heat down her spine despite its chasteness.

"What brings you to Storm's End?"

Rhaenys smiled and lied with ease. "I needed to escape the capital for a few days. Aegon's been... difficult." That part was true, at least. "And I wanted to see how your diplomatic mission was progressing."

Something flickered in Jon's eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or wariness. "It's progressing well."

"Very well," Cassana added, her voice carrying warmth that made Rhaenys's fingers itch. "The prince has been most accommodating."

I'll bet he has.

"You must be tired from your journey." Cassana gestured toward the keep. "Let me offer you refreshments. Perhaps a tour of the castle while you recover?"

"That would be lovely."

They walked the ancient halls with Jon between them, and Rhaenys catalogued every detail with predatory attention.

The way Cassana's hand found Jon's arm to point out a tapestry depicting some long-dead Baratheon victory. The way she stood too close when explaining the castle's history, her shoulder brushing his, her voice dropping to something intimate. The way her tits strained against those training leathers in a display that was definitely deliberate, the fabric stretched tight across breasts that rivaled Rhaenys's own.

She's already fucked him. The certainty settled in Rhaenys's gut like hot iron. Look at how she touches him. How comfortable she is. How he lets her.

Jon paused before a suit of armor, examining the ancient plate with genuine interest. Cassana moved to explain its history, and Rhaenys seized her moment.

She caught Cassana's eyes over Jon's bent head. Smiled with too many teeth.

"I hadn't realized Jon's diplomatic duties included such... personal attention from the Lady of Storm's End." The words came out honey-sweet, poison underneath. "How fortunate for him."

Cassana's smile didn't waver. But her blue eyes went cold as the Shivering Sea, all that Baratheon warmth freezing solid in an instant.

"Storm's End takes hospitality seriously." Her voice matched her gaze, pleasant and frigid. "I've been ensuring the prince feels thoroughly welcomed."

Welcomed between your thighs, you mean.

Rhaenys opened her mouth to respond, something sharp and cutting ready on her tongue.

"Have you seen the view from the eastern tower?"

Jon straightened, turning back to them, and both women softened into warmth so fast it should have given him whiplash. Rhaenys watched Cassana's face transform from ice to sunshine, watched her own reflection in those blue eyes, two predators wearing pleasant masks.

"I haven't," Rhaenys said, threading her arm through Jon's before Cassana could move. She pressed close, her breast against his arm, her hip brushing his with every step. "Show me?"

Cassana moved to his other side. Matched the gesture exactly, her own impressive curves pressing against him, her hand resting on his forearm with easy possession.

They walked like that through the corridors. Jon between them, oblivious to the war being waged over his body. Or perhaps not oblivious. Perhaps just choosing not to acknowledge it, the coward.

Their eyes met over his shoulders.

Rhaenys saw her own territorial hunger reflected back. The same possessive heat, the same determination, the same refusal to yield.

This bitch thinks she has a claim.

Rhaenys would enjoy proving otherwise.

A messenger found them in the great hall, some dispute between bannermen over grazing rights that apparently required Lady Cassana's personal attention. Rhaenys watched the struggle play across the woman's face. The calculation of leaving Jon alone with a rival versus the duty she couldn't shirk.

Cassana excused herself with apologies and promises to return for supper, her hand lingering on Jon's arm, her eyes finding Rhaenys with a warning that Rhaenys answered with a serene smile.

The moment the doors closed, Rhaenys's composure cracked.

"Aegon's been watching me." The words tumbled out, weeks of frustration finally finding release. She turned to Jon, her hands clenching at her sides. "The way he looks at me now. The comments that aren't quite inappropriate enough to report but make my skin crawl."

Jon's jaw tightened. "What kind of comments?"

"He cornered me in the library last week." Rhaenys paced, her skirts swirling around her ankles. "Suggested we could strengthen the bloodline together. Said Father would approve. Said it was our duty as Targaryens." Her voice cracked. "He touched my hair, Jon. Told me it would look beautiful spread across his pillows."

Jon's expression darkened, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. But he said nothing.

So Rhaenys pushed harder.

"And Mother." A bitter laugh escaped her. "She's been parading me before Willas Tyrell like a broodmare at auction. Such a good match, she says. The Reach is powerful, she says. As if I should be grateful for a crippled lord who'd never satisfy me, who'd bore me to tears between the bedsheets while I wonder what I could have had instead."

"Rhaenys..."

"I'd rather die." The words came fierce and absolute. "Than marry some man I don't want while the one I do want fucks his way through every other woman in Westeros."

Jon's face went carefully blank. "I can't interfere. Aegon would run to Father again, claim I'm..."

"I don't care what Aegon claims."

"You should speak to Father yourself. Tell him what Aegon said. He'll listen to you."

Something in Rhaenys snapped.

She crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and kissed him.

Not the chaste greeting from before. A real kiss. Hungry and demanding, her body pressing against his, her hands fisting in his doublet. She felt him go rigid with shock, felt the moment his control wavered, felt him respond despite himself. His lips parted. His hands found her waist.

His cock hardened against her hip.

Rhaenys pulled back just enough to speak against his lips.

"Stop pretending." Her voice came out rough, breathless. "Stop pretending you don't want this. That you haven't wanted this for years. I've seen how you look at me when you think no one's watching."

"Rhaenys, we can't..."

"Make me yours." She rolled her hips against his hardness, watched his eyes flutter. "Claim me so thoroughly that no one else can have me. Not Aegon. Not Willas. Not anyone."

"You're my sister."

"Half-sister." She kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the pulse hammering in his throat. "And since when has that stopped Targaryens?"

Jon's hands tightened on her waist. Fighting himself. Losing.

Rhaenys smiled against his skin.

"Come to my chambers tonight." She pulled back, putting distance between them before he could gather his wits. "I'll be waiting. And Jon?" She held his gaze, let him see everything she'd been hiding. "Make me scream loud enough that the whole castle knows who I belong to."

She turned and walked away without looking back.

She didn't need to look. She could feel his eyes burning into her, could feel the heat of his want following her through the great hall doors. His cock had been iron against her hip. His protests had died on his tongue.

He'd come to her tonight.

Rhaenys smiled, her heart pounding, her thighs already slick with anticipation.

She'd waited years for this.

One more night was nothing.

Supper was torture.

Rhaenys sat across the great hall from Cassana, watching the Baratheon woman try to reclaim Jon's attention with talk of trade routes and garrison rotations. The storm lords had returned with their lady, filling the hall with noise and bodies, but Rhaenys only had eyes for one person.

Jon sat between them, positioned at the head of the table like the prince he was. Cassana leaned close when she spoke to him, her hand finding his arm, her impressive cleavage displayed in a gown of black and gold that left nothing to imagination. She laughed at something he said, the sound carrying across the hall, warm and intimate.

She's already had him. The knowledge burned in Rhaenys's chest. Look at how she touches him. How comfortable she is.

But Jon's eyes kept drifting.

Across the table. Past the candles and the platters of roasted meat. Finding Rhaenys again and again, grey-violet meeting violet, heat flickering in those depths before he looked away.

Rhaenys let her satisfaction show in small ways.

The curve of her smile when she caught him looking. The deliberate way she licked sauce from her fingers, her tongue tracing the length of each one, her eyes never leaving his face. The arch of her back that displayed her breasts in the low-cut gown she'd chosen, deep purple silk that clung to every curve and left her shoulders bare.

Cassana noticed.

Her blue eyes went cold, tracking the exchange, watching Jon's attention slip away from her despite her best efforts. Her jaw tightened. Her hand on his arm squeezed harder, possessive, trying to anchor him.

It didn't work.

Jon's gaze found Rhaenys again, lingered on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her throat, the knowing smile playing at her lips. His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around his wine cup until the knuckles went white.

Rhaenys raised her own cup in silent toast. Drank deep. Let a drop of wine escape to trail down her chin, her throat, disappearing into her cleavage.

Jon's eyes tracked every inch of its path.

Mine, Rhaenys thought, the word fierce and absolute. You've always been mine. She can't have you.

The meal dragged on.

Cassana grew more desperate, her voice rising, her topics shifting from trade to training to the cliffs where she'd shown Jon her family's history. Intimate things. Private things. Things meant to remind him of what they'd shared.

Rhaenys simply sat and smiled and let Jon look his fill.

When the final course was cleared, she rose from her seat.

"I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Cassana." She kept her voice warm, apologetic, utterly false. "The flight from King's Landing has exhausted me. I'll retire early, if you'll permit."

Cassana's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Of course, Princess. Rest well."

The look she gave Rhaenys said the woman knew exactly what was happening. Knew and couldn't do a thing to stop it.

Rhaenys inclined her head, let her gaze drift to Jon one final time, and walked from the hall with her hips swaying and her heart pounding and anticipation coiling hot and tight in her belly.

The guest chambers were cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth.

Rhaenys didn't care. Heat bloomed beneath her skin, burning away any chill, as she stripped out of the purple gown and let it fall. Her smallclothes followed. Then she reached for the garment she'd brought specifically for this moment.

Red silk, sheer as morning mist.

The shift clung to every curve when she pulled it over her head. Fell to mid-thigh, barely decent, the fabric so thin her dusky nipples showed dark through the weave. It whispered against her skin when she moved, a constant caress, a reminder of what waited.

She positioned herself before the fire. Let the light catch her silhouette, outlining the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the generous flare of her hips. Practiced the angle until it was perfect.

Then she waited.

Minutes stretched into eternities. Rhaenys paced, sat, paced again. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her thighs pressed together, slick with want she couldn't hide.

He'll come, she told herself. He has to come. He looked at me all through dinner. His cock was hard when I kissed him. He wants this as much as I do.

But what if he doesn't? What if Cassana kept him? What if she's spreading those thick thighs for him right now, taking what should be mine?

The knock came.

Rhaenys's breath caught. Her hands trembled. She pressed them flat against her thighs, forced herself to stillness, and called out in a voice that didn't shake.

"Enter."

The door swung open.

Jon stepped through and stopped.

His eyes found her immediately, tracking down her body with an intensity that made her skin prickle. The firelight caught the red silk, made it glow, and she watched his gaze linger on her nipples, dark and peaked through the sheer fabric. On the curve of her waist. On the shadow between her thighs.

Rhaenys let him look.

"Did you fuck the stag yet?"

The words came out sharper than she intended. Jealousy and want tangled together, making her voice cut.

Jon's expression didn't change. Those grey-violet eyes stayed fixed on her body.

"Has Cassana spread those thick thighs for you?" Rhaenys stepped closer, her hips swaying, the silk whispering against her skin. "Have you compared her to a real woman? Found her wanting?"

Still nothing. Just that burning stare, tracking her movement, watching her approach.

"She's just a stag." Rhaenys stopped an arm's length away, close enough to feel his heat, to smell smoke and leather and something warm beneath. "Solid. Earthbound. Storm lords and ancient castles and all that Baratheon fury."

Her hand rose to the ties at her throat.

"But I'm a dragon."

She pulled.

The silk whispered down her body, sliding over her breasts, her hips, pooling at her feet like spilled blood. She stood naked before him, firelight painting her olive skin gold, her chin lifted in defiance and offering both.

Jon's breath caught. His eyes went dark, violet bleeding into grey.

Rhaenys let him see everything.

Her breasts, full and proud, dusky nipples already stiff with want. Her waist, defined, flowing into generous hips that had made men forget their names. Her ass, magnificent even in silhouette. And between her thighs, dark curls glistening with arousal she couldn't hide, didn't want to hide.

"I have desert heat in my blood." Her voice dropped to a purr. "Fire and want and centuries of Valyrian passion. Everything she isn't. Everything you need."

She closed the distance between them.

Her hands found his chest, pressed flat against the fabric of his doublet, feeling the heat of him beneath. She tilted her face up, lips parted, offering.

"Take what you want, Jon." The words came out breathless, desperate, years of longing finally spilling free. "What we both want. What I've been waiting to give you since I understood what wanting meant."

Jon kissed her.

The dam broke the moment their lips met properly, years of wanting crashing through whatever restraint remained. Rhaenys moaned into his mouth, her tongue sliding against his, her hands fisting in his doublet as she pressed every inch of her naked body against him.

"Mmmm..." She pulled back just enough to speak against his lips, violet eyes blazing with triumph. "I knew it. I always knew. You wanted this when you were just a boy of seven and ten, didn't you? When I'd finally grown into these..." She took his hands, pressed them against her breasts, let him feel the weight of them. "You couldn't stop staring at my nameday feast."

Jon's jaw tightened. His fingers squeezed reflexively, and she arched into his touch.

"I know what you did that week." Her voice dropped to a purr, accent thickening. "Fucked three of your maids ragged. The Dornish ones." She laughed, low and knowing. "The ones who looked like me."

A growl rumbled up from his chest.

Rhaenys kissed him harder, swallowing the sound, claiming his mouth the way she'd dreamed of claiming it for years. His hands found her ass, gripped hard enough to bruise, and she rolled her hips against him with a moan that echoed off the chamber walls.

Their lips parted. Both breathing hard.

She pushed him.

Jon went, letting her direct him backward until his legs hit the bed. He sat on the edge, and Rhaenys sank to her knees between his thighs.

Gods. Her heart raced so fast she could hear it in her ears. She'd imagined this so many times, alone in her chambers with her hand between her legs, biting her pillow to muffle her cries. But the reality was better. The heat of him through his breeches. The way his breath caught when her fingers found his laces.

She worked the ties loose. Freed him.

Her composure cracked.

Thick. Hard. Bigger than she'd let herself imagine, and she'd imagined plenty. His cock stood proud against his stomach, flushed and leaking, the head glistening in the firelight. She wrapped her hand around him and her fingers didn't meet. The weight of it, the heat, the pulse of blood beneath the skin...

"You're going to ruin me for other men."

Jon laughed, low and dark. "That's the idea."

Rhaenys licked him from base to tip.

Slow. Deliberate. Watching his face as she learned the taste of him. Salt and musk and something underneath that made her cunt clench with want, made her thighs press together, made her moan against his flesh.

She took him into her mouth.

No finesse. No careful technique. Just sloppy, eager hunger, drool running down her chin because she didn't care about being pretty. She cared about making him groan. Which he did, the sound rumbling through his chest, when she hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard.

"Fuuuck..." His head fell back.

She pulled off. Mouth wet, lips swollen. Found his balls, heavy and full, and sucked one into her mouth. Then the other. Her hand worked his shaft in slick strokes while her tongue lavished attention on the sensitive sac, and Jon's fingers tangled in her dark hair.

Tightened.

"Mmmm..." She moaned around him. Yes. This was what she wanted. Years of watching him fuck other women. Years of burning. And now finally, finally, her turn.

"I've thought about this for so long." The words spilled out between licks, between kisses pressed to his length. "Touched myself imagining your cock in my mouth. Your hands in my hair." She looked up at him through dark lashes, violet eyes burning. "Daenerys isn't the only one who's been waiting."

Jon's grip turned punishing.

Pain sparked across her scalp and Rhaenys gasped, her cunt clenching around nothing, wetness sliding down her inner thighs.

"Stop talking." His voice had dropped to that growl that made her spine liquefy. "Suck."

Rhaenys obeyed.

She took him deep, deeper than before, let him hit the back of her throat and swallowed around him. Gagged. Did it again. Because tonight she'd give him everything, every fantasy she'd hoarded, every dream she'd never spoken aloud.

Tonight, she was finally his.

Jon hauled her up from her knees.

The motion was effortless, his hands under her arms, lifting her like she weighed nothing. Before Rhaenys could catch her breath, his mouth found hers.

This kiss was different. Not the desperate claiming she'd initiated in the great hall, not the tentative surrender she'd offered on her knees. This was Jon taking control, his tongue sliding against hers with purpose, his hands moving across her body like he was memorizing every curve.

She'd expected to stay in charge. Had planned this moment for years, rehearsed it in her mind, knew exactly how she'd make him beg.

Jon's palm slid down her spine, cupped her ass, squeezed hard enough to bruise.

Oh.

All her careful plans dissolved.

He walked her backward, his mouth never leaving hers, and her legs hit the bed before she realized they'd moved. She fell, sprawling across the furs, thighs spreading instinctively as Jon loomed over her.

That look.

Predatory. Focused. The violet in his grey eyes burning bright, his jaw tight, his gaze tracking down her naked body like she was prey and he was very, very hungry.

Rhaenys's stomach flipped. Her cunt clenched around nothing.

His mouth found her throat. Teeth scraped her pulse point, tongue soothing the sting, and she arched up into him with a gasp. Lower. His lips traced her collarbone, the hollow beneath it, the swell of her breasts. He sucked one dusky nipple into his mouth and Rhaenys's back bowed off the bed.

"Hahhhh... Jon..."

His hand slid down her stomach. Lower. Lower still, until his fingers found the wet heat between her thighs.

He parted her folds. Explored. Found her soaking.

"Dripping already." His voice rumbled against her breast, dark and satisfied. "Did sucking my cock get you this wet?"

Rhaenys opened her mouth to say something cutting. Something about how she'd been wet for years, how he should have done this ages ago, how...

His thumb found her clit.

"Nnnghh..."

The word died on her tongue, replaced by a moan that embarrassed her with its desperation. Jon circled that swollen pearl with devastating skill, pressure building, pleasure spiking through her with every stroke.

Two fingers pushed inside.

"Gods... fuck..." Her hips rolled, chasing his hand, seeking more. He curled those fingers, found the spot that made her vision blur, and Rhaenys grabbed his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "Kostilus, sȳz..."

High Valyrian spilled from her lips without thought. Praise and curses tangled together, her mother's tongue emerging when she lost the capacity for Common.

Jon knew exactly what he was doing.

"Let go." The command vibrated against her skin, his mouth trailing back up to her ear. "Show me how a dragon cums."

She tried to hold back. Tried to gather the shreds of her control, to make this last, to prove she wasn't just another woman breaking apart beneath him.

Jon added a third finger.

Pressed hard against that spot inside her.

Rhaenys shattered.

The orgasm ripped through her like dragonfire, starting where his fingers filled her and radiating outward until her whole body seized. She felt herself gush around his hand, felt wet heat flooding out of her, soaking his palm, the furs beneath them.

"Fuck." Jon groaned, the sound raw and hungry. "Beautiful. You're so fucking beautiful when you squirt."

She should have been embarrassed. Should have covered her face, made some excuse, pretended this wasn't happening.

But she couldn't think.

Could only shake and clench and let him wring every last spasm from her body, his fingers still working inside her, his thumb still circling, stretching the orgasm until she was sobbing his name.

"Jon... Jon... hahhhh... please..."

The pleasure crested again. Crashed over her in waves she couldn't control.

Years. She'd waited years for this.

And it was better than anything she'd ever imagined.

Jon pulled her up before she could recover.

The world spun, and then Rhaenys found herself arranged across his lap, her face pressed against his muscular thigh, his cock hard and leaking against her cheek. The position was unmistakable. Vulnerable. Her ass rose high behind her, bare and exposed, and she understood exactly what he wanted.

She took him back into her mouth.

Awkward at this angle, drool pooling against his thigh, but she hollowed her cheeks and sucked because she couldn't not. His taste flooded her senses, salt and musk, and she moaned around his length.

His hand came down on her right cheek.

CRACK.

The sound echoed through the chamber, sharp as a whip. Rhaenys yelped around his cock, the noise muffled, vibrating against him. The sting bloomed outward, spreading, transforming into heat that radiated straight to her cunt.

"This is for making me wait."

Another strike. Left cheek this time. Harder.

"Mmmmphhh!"

"All those years." His voice dropped to a growl. "Teasing looks across the great hall. Pressing those tits against me and then walking away."

CRACK.

"Wearing those gowns cut down to your navel."

CRACK.

"Bending over in front of me like you didn't know exactly what you were doing."

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Each accusation came with another spank, and Rhaenys couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except take his punishment while her ass burned and her thighs shook. She tried to suck him properly, tried to work her tongue the way she'd practiced in her fantasies, but she couldn't focus. The strikes kept coming, relentless, and she was moaning around his cock with every one.

Her cunt throbbed. Leaked. Arousal slicked her inner thighs, dripped onto his leg.

"Are you going to cum from being spanked?"

The question cut through the haze. Rhaenys whimpered around his shaft because she was, gods help her, she was so close. Her hips rolled without her permission, seeking friction that wasn't there, and another strike landed right where her ass met her thigh.

"Hnnnghhh!"

"Answer me."

She pulled off his cock just long enough to gasp, "Yes... please... I'm so close..."

"Then do it." His hand smoothed over her burning flesh, almost gentle. "Cum like a good girl."

The next strike pushed her over.

Rhaenys screamed around his cock as the orgasm crashed through her. Her whole body seized, back arching, ass clenching in rhythmic spasms while she gushed onto his thigh. Wet heat flooded out of her, soaking his leg, the furs beneath them, and she couldn't stop it, couldn't control anything.

Jon groaned above her. "Perfect. You're so fucking perfect."

She sobbed around his length, still shaking, still clenching.

"Should have done this years ago."

Rhaenys could only moan in agreement, because every competitive thought, every clever plan, every ounce of Dornish pride had been spanked right out of her.

Jon flipped her onto her back.

The motion was effortless, brutal, and before Rhaenys could catch her breath he was folding her in half. Her knees pressed toward her shoulders, her body bent beneath him, her cunt completely exposed and dripping onto the furs. She was open. Vulnerable. His.

He drove into her in one brutal thrust.

"FUCK!"

The scream tore from her throat, raw and broken. His cock split her open, filled her completely, hit depths she didn't know existed. The stretch burned. The fullness overwhelmed. And still he didn't stop, didn't give her time to adjust, just set a punishing pace that had the bed frame slamming against the wall.

His hips snapped forward. Again. Again. Each thrust punched the air from her lungs, drove sounds from her mouth that weren't words. Her hands clawed at the furs, seeking purchase, finding nothing. Her back arched off the bed. Her toes curled. Her whole body shook with the force of his fucking.

"This is what you wanted." His voice dropped to a growl against her ear, dark and satisfied. "Isn't it? All those years of teasing. All those looks. You wanted to be fucked like this."

"Yesss..." The word dissolved into a moan.

"Take it." His hand found her throat, pressed just enough to feel. "Take it like the dragon you claimed to be."

Rhaenys sobbed.

Not from pain. From pleasure so intense it broke something inside her, shattered the last walls she'd built around her wanting. Tears streamed down her temples, soaking into her dark hair, and she couldn't stop them any more than she could stop the sounds pouring from her mouth.

"Yes... please... more... Jon, please..."

Her body wasn't hers anymore. Had never been hers. Had always been his, she'd just been too proud to admit it. Every nerve ending belonged to him now. Every breath. Every heartbeat synced to the rhythm of his cock driving into her over and over.

The first orgasm crashed through her without warning.

"Hahhhh... FUCK... Jon... JON..."

Her cunt clamped down around him, milking his shaft in desperate pulses, her whole body seizing. But he didn't stop. Didn't slow. Fucked her straight through her peak and into the next, building pleasure on pleasure until she couldn't tell where one ended and another began.

Then he hauled her up.

The world spun. Her back hit cold stone, rough against her skin, and her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. He pinned her there, held her up with nothing but strength and the cock buried inside her, and started fucking her against the wall.

The roughness scraped her spine. She didn't care.

His cock was still driving into her, still splitting her open, still hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. Her arms locked around his neck. Her heels dug into his ass, pulling him deeper. And she could feel herself clenching around him in endless rolling waves, orgasm bleeding into orgasm until she lost count.

"I'm yours." The words spilled out between sobs, between gasps, between the wet sounds of their bodies meeting. "I'm yours, Jon. I've always been yours. Since I was old enough to want. Since I understood what this ache meant. Yours."

Jon's teeth found her throat.

He bit down. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, to mark, to leave evidence that everyone would see tomorrow. Rhaenys cried out, her cunt clenching so tight around him that he groaned against her skin.

"I know." His voice rumbled through her, dark and possessive. "I've been waiting for you to stop fighting it."

Rhaenys laughed.

The sound came out broken, tangled with tears and pleasure and something that felt like relief. Because he was right. He'd always been right. All those years of wanting, of denying, of pretending she could live without this...

She came again.

Screaming his name, her nails raking down his back, her body convulsing against the cold stone wall while Jon held her up and fucked her through every shuddering wave. Tears and sweat mingled on her cheeks. Her voice cracked on sounds that might have been his name or might have been prayer.

And still he didn't stop.

He suddenly pulled out and bent her over the edge of the bed.

Her face pressed into the furs, soft against her cheek, her ass still burning from his handprints. The position left her completely exposed, completely vulnerable, and when he lined himself up and drove into her from behind, the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated through her spine.

"Nnnngh... fuck..."

This pace was different. Slower. Deeper. Each thrust deliberate and claiming, his cock dragging against her inner walls, hitting places that made her toes curl. No more punishment. No more pounding. Just possession, pure and absolute, every stroke marking her as his.

Rhaenys pushed back to meet him.

She wanted all of it. Wanted to feel him for days, to walk through Storm's End tomorrow with the ache of him between her thighs. Wanted the whole castle to hear her screaming his name, wanted Cassana to lie awake in her chambers knowing exactly who Jon had chosen tonight.

"Yes... Jon... please... just like that..."

His hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the bruises already forming there. The wet sound of their joining filled the chamber, obscene and perfect, punctuated by her moans and his low growls.

"Close." His voice came out rough, strained. "Where do you want it?"

Rhaenys didn't hesitate.

"Inside." The word tore from her throat, desperate and sure. "Fill me up. Give me everything. I want to feel you for weeks."

Jon's rhythm stuttered. His fingers dug deeper into her hips.

"Rhaenys..."

"Do it." She pushed back harder, clenching around him, demanding. "Claim me. Make me yours."

He buried himself to the hilt and came.

The flood of heat made her gasp. His cock pulsed inside her, thick spurts of seed flooding her womb, so much, so hot, filling her until she couldn't take any more. She imagined her belly swelling with it, imagined the babe that might take root, imagined Aegon's face when he learned she'd been claimed beyond taking.

Mine now. Forever. He can never have what Jon already took.

The sensation pushed her over one final time.

Rhaenys screamed into the furs as her cunt clamped down, milking him through his release, her whole body shaking with the force of it. Waves of pleasure crashed through her, endless, overwhelming, until she was sobbing and laughing and completely undone.

Jon pulled out.

She whimpered at the loss, his seed already leaking down her thighs in warm trails. But before she could mourn the emptiness, more hot spurts landed on her ass. Her back. He flipped her over with rough hands, and she watched through hazy eyes as he stroked himself over her body.

Cum painted her breasts in thick ropes. Her stomach. Her throat.

Rhaenys opened her mouth.

The next spurt caught her tongue, her lips, dripped down her chin. She swallowed what she could, moaning at the taste of him, and more landed across her cheek, her hair, streaking silver through the dark waves spread across the furs.

She was a mess.

Covered in him. Dripping with him. His seed leaking from her cunt, coating her skin, drying in her hair. She looked up at Jon through cum-streaked lashes and smiled.

He laughed.

The sound was warm, genuine, nothing like the growls and groans of moments before. His hand cupped her face, thumb smearing through the mess on her cheek, and he looked at her like she was something precious.

"Beautiful," he said.

Rhaenys had never felt more triumphant in her life.

Rhaenys took his softening cock into her mouth.

Gentle now. Reverent. Her tongue traced lazy paths along his length, licking away the mess of their coupling, tasting salt and musk and something sweeter underneath. Their combined spend coated her lips, slicked her chin, and she savored every bit of it. The intimacy of this act, the tenderness after such brutal claiming, made her chest ache in ways she hadn't expected.

Jon's fingers found her hair.

Not gripping this time. Stroking. Threading through the dark waves that were hopelessly ruined, tangled and matted with sweat and his thick cum. His touch was soft, almost wondering, and when she looked up at him through her lashes, his grey-violet eyes held something that looked almost like awe.

"Where the hells," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillows, "did you learn to suck cock like a whore?"

Rhaenys smiled around his flesh.

She pulled off just long enough to answer, pressing a kiss to his shaft, then another, her lips trailing wetly along the sensitive skin. "Chataya was very happy to teach."

"Chataya." His voice came out strangled. "The brothel keeper?"

"Mmmhm." She took him back into her mouth, sucked gently, released him with a wet pop. "Ivory cock. Smooth as silk." Another kiss, this one to the crown. "Plenty of oil." A long, slow lick from base to tip. "Hours of practice."

Jon made a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan.

"Hours?"

"I wanted to be ready." She nuzzled against his length, breathing him in, memorizing the scent and taste and feel of him. "For you. Only ever for you."

His fingers tightened in her hair. Not painful. Possessive.

Rhaenys cleaned him thoroughly.

Every inch worshipped with lips and tongue. Every trace of their coupling licked away, swallowed, savored. She took her time, gentle and devoted, and Jon's breathing slowly evened out above her.

When she finally released him, his cock lay soft and spent against his thigh. Rhaenys pressed one last kiss to the crown, then crawled up his body to curl against his chest.

"Bath," he murmured. "You're a mess."

"Your mess."

"Still a mess."

They washed together in the basin.

The water was cold, but neither of them cared. Jon's hands moved over her body with unexpected gentleness, cleaning the evidence of their coupling from her skin. His seed had dried on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. His cum still leaked from her cunt in slow, warm trails. She was marked inside and out, claimed completely, and Rhaenys leaned into his touch like a cat being stroked.

I won.

The thought bloomed warm in her chest.

I finally won.

Tomorrow Cassana would know. Would see the marks blooming purple on Rhaenys's throat, the bite at her shoulder, the way she walked with that particular careful gait of a woman thoroughly fucked. The Baratheon would understand exactly what had happened in these chambers while she'd lain alone in her own bed, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Rhaenys smiled against the washcloth.

They fell into bed together naked.

Jon pulled her against his chest, one arm wrapped around her waist, her back pressed to his front. His body was warm, solid, safe. His breath stirred her hair. His heartbeat thudded steady against her spine.

Rhaenys pressed her face to his throat and smiled against his pulse.

Daenerys.

The name drifted through her mind like smoke. Her aunt, waiting in King's Landing with all that possessive devotion, saving herself for this man, planning their future in exhaustive detail. Daenerys who had been so certain she would be first, who had sent Missandei to keep Jon satisfied, who had been playing a long game while Rhaenys played a desperate one.

She'll know soon.

The satisfaction was almost better than the sex.

Rhaenys imagined Daenerys's face when she learned. The crack in that sweet facade. The violet eyes going hard with jealousy and loss. The understanding that while she'd been waiting, patient and pure, Rhaenys had simply taken.

I took what you were saving yourself for. I felt him inside me first. I tasted his seed first. I screamed his name first.

Her smile widened.

And there's nothing you can do about it.

She thought about Aegon. His hungry looks, his inappropriate comments, his certainty that she belonged to him by right of blood and birthright. All of it ending now, tonight, because she was Jon's. Marked. Claimed. Filled with his seed, still leaking from her cunt as proof.

You can't have what's already taken, brother.

She thought about Willas Tyrell. Pleasant. Charming. Utterly irrelevant now. Her mother's careful plans, all those arranged dinners and political maneuvering, crumbling to nothing in the face of what Rhaenys had done tonight.

Sorry, Mother. I chose for myself.

Jon's arm tightened around her waist. His lips brushed her hair, her temple, the shell of her ear.

"Sleep," he murmured. "You've earned it."

Rhaenys curled closer.

She was a dragon. She had claimed her prize. And nobody, not Cassana with her Baratheon fury, not Daenerys with her possessive devotion, not Aegon with his jealous hunger, not anyone, could take this from her.

Sleep pulled her down into warm darkness.

Rhaenys went with a smile on her lips.

Chapter Text

Cassana saw Rhaenys at breakfast the morning after and understood immediately.

The purple bruises blooming across the princess's throat. The bite mark at her shoulder that her gown didn't quite cover, the deep purple silk chosen to display rather than hide. The way Rhaenys walked with that particular careful gait of a woman thoroughly fucked, each step measured, her magnificent ass swaying slowly.

So. The little dragon got what she came for.

Cassana should have been furious. Should have felt betrayed, should have stormed across the great hall and demanded explanations, should have done any number of things that a scorned woman might do. Jon had been in her bed two nights ago. Had filled her until she screamed, had made promises with his body if not his words, had looked at her like she mattered.

And then Rhaenys had arrived, and apparently none of that meant anything.

But fury wasn't what sparked in Cassana's chest as she watched the princess settle into her seat with a wince she couldn't quite hide.

Something hotter. Something competitive.

No.

The word rang through her mind like a war drum.

I'm not losing him to some half-Dornish princess who flew in uninvited.

Rhaenys caught her staring.

The smile that spread across those full lips was slow. Triumphant. Her fingers rose to brush her own throat where Jon's marks showed darkest, tracing the purple bruises like they were jewelry, like they were trophies. Violet eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she held Cassana's gaze across the hall.

Look what I have. Look what he gave me. Look what you couldn't keep.

Cassana smiled back.

Too many teeth. All Baratheon fury wrapped in courtly pleasantness, the kind of smile that had made lesser men reconsider their life choices. She watched the triumph flicker in Rhaenys's eyes, watched uncertainty creep in at the edges, watched the princess's fingers pause on her throat.

That's right. Wonder what I'm planning. Wonder what I know that you don't.

Jon entered the hall.

He looked exhausted. Satisfied. Dark circles under those grey-violet eyes, his hair still damp from washing, moving with the careful economy of a man who'd spent the night doing things that required recovery. His gaze found Rhaenys first, something warm flickering there, then shifted to Cassana with what might have been guilt or might have been calculation.

Completely oblivious to the war being waged over his body.

Men.

He settled into the seat between them. The only empty chair at the high table, positioned perfectly for maximum discomfort. Or maximum opportunity, depending on how one looked at it.

Cassana leaned close.

Her breast pressed against his arm, soft and heavy through the black velvet of her gown. She'd dressed carefully this morning. Neckline plunging low enough to make septas weep, the fabric clinging to every curve, her hair loose and lustrous down her back. If Rhaenys wanted to play the game of display, Cassana would meet her on that battlefield.

"Good morning, my prince." Her voice came out warm, intimate, pitched for his ears alone. "You look tired. Didn't sleep well?"

From Jon's other side, Rhaenys pressed close with matching deliberation.

"He slept perfectly well." The Dornish accent thickened on the words, turning them into something almost obscene. Her hand found Jon's other arm, fingers curling possessively around his bicep. "Eventually."

Their eyes met over Jon's shoulders.

Cassana's smile didn't waver. Rhaenys's chin lifted in defiance. The air between them crackled with promises of violence, with the silent declaration of war that only women truly understood.

Jon reached for the bread, seemingly unaware that he'd become contested territory.

Cassana let her hand find his thigh under the table.

She squeezed. Hard enough to feel through the leather of his breeches, high enough to make her intentions unmistakable. Her fingers pressed into the muscle, claiming, possessive, and she watched Rhaenys notice. Watched the princess's violet eyes drop to where Cassana's arm disappeared beneath the tablecloth. Watched that perfect jaw tighten with something that looked very much like jealousy.

You got one night, little dragon.

Cassana's smile widened.

But this is my castle. My territory. My game.

She leaned closer to Jon, her lips nearly brushing his ear, her breast pressing more firmly against his arm.

"I was thinking we might train again this afternoon. I've been practicing that disarm you taught me." Her voice dropped lower, husky with promise. "Unless you're too... exhausted."

Rhaenys's hand tightened on Jon's other arm.

"Actually, I was hoping Jon might show me the cliffs you've been riding to." The princess's voice carried the same intimate register, the same layered meaning. "He's told me so much about Storm's End's beauty. I'd love a... private tour."

Their eyes met again over Jon's shoulders.

This isn't over, Cassana's gaze promised.

Bring your worst, Rhaenys's answered.

Jon reached for the wine, still oblivious, and both women smiled sweetly at each other while planning their next moves.

The game was just beginning.

The dresses became weapons within days.

Cassana struck first, appearing at dinner in black velvet cut so low her nipples nearly showed. The fabric clung to her heavy breasts like a second skin, the dark aureoles visible as shadows beneath the thin material, threatening to slip free with every breath. The gown hugged her waist, flared over her wide hips, outlined every generous curve of the body she'd decided to weaponize.

Jon's wine cup froze halfway to his lips.

Rhaenys's jaw tightened. Her fingers went white around her own goblet.

So that's how we're playing this.

The next morning, Rhaenys answered in sheer Dornish silk the color of sunset. The fabric left nothing to imagination. Her dusky nipples showed dark through the weave, stiff peaks that drew every eye in the great hall. When she stood before the windows to examine a tapestry, the outline of her cunt showed clear against the light, the shadow of dark curls visible through gossamer-thin cloth.

A serving girl dropped an entire tray of bread.

Cassana's smile went sharp as broken glass.

By the third day, the escalation had become a war.

Cassana countered with a gown that laced up the sides, gaps showing bare skin from armpit to hip. No smallclothes beneath. Just pale flesh visible through the openings, the curve of her ribs, the swell of her breasts from the side. When she walked, her magnificent ass moved beneath the clinging fabric, every bounce and sway outlined so clearly that Jon walked directly into a doorframe watching her pass.

The crack of his shoulder against wood echoed through the corridor.

Cassana glanced back over her shoulder, blue eyes dancing with triumph. "Careful, my prince. These old castles have treacherous architecture."

Rhaenys caught the whole thing from the end of the hall. Her expression promised murder.

An hour later, she appeared in something that was more strategic ribbons than dress. Purple silk wound around her body in careful loops, covering just enough to avoid true scandal while revealing everything else. Her breasts sat barely contained, the underside of each visible, dusky nipples straining against fabric that seemed to defy the laws of decent construction. Her thighs flashed with every step, olive skin appearing and disappearing, the suggestion of what lay between driving men to distraction.

Cassana bent over in front of Jon to retrieve a dropped napkin.

Her ass rose high, black velvet stretching obscenely over that magnificent swell, the fabric riding up to show the backs of her thighs. She held the position a heartbeat too long. Two heartbeats. Three.

Jon's throat worked. His breeches grew uncomfortably tight.

An hour later, Rhaenys dropped her fan near the hearth and bent to retrieve it.

That ribbon dress rode up past the point of decency, showing the full curve of her ass, the shadow of her cunt from behind. She took her time straightening, making sure Jon got a thorough view of everything the Dornish silk failed to cover.

Both women straightened at nearly the same moment.

Their eyes met across the hall.

Violet and blue locked in silent warfare, each woman daring the other to escalate further, each refusing to yield.

The storm lords didn't know where to look. Lord Tarth developed a sudden fascination with his wine cup. Lord Estermont studied the ceiling beams with intense concentration. The servants whispered behind hands, eyes darting between the two women and the prince caught between them.

At meals, Jon sat with Cassana pressed against his left side and Rhaenys against his right. Their breasts threatened to spill from their bodices with every breath. Their hands found his thighs under the table, fingers creeping higher, competing for territory they both considered theirs.

He couldn't eat.

Every time he looked up, there was cleavage. Bare skin. Violet eyes meeting blue over his shoulders in promises of violence. Heavy tits swaying when Cassana laughed. Dusky nipples hardening through silk when Rhaenys leaned close to whisper something in his ear.

His cock ached constantly. His patience wore thin.

On the fourth evening, both women bent over simultaneously, reaching for the same dropped spoon.

Two magnificent asses rose in the air. Black velvet and sunset silk stretched to their limits. Every curve displayed, every promise made visible, and Jon shoved back from the table so fast his chair scraped against stone.

"If you'll excuse me," he managed, voice strained. "I need... air."

He fled toward the bathhouse.

Behind him, Cassana and Rhaenys straightened slowly. Their eyes met over the abandoned table.

Neither smiled.

Neither looked away.

Cassana caught Jon alone in the corridor between the armory and the great hall.

She checked both directions, found the passage empty, and grabbed his doublet before he could react. One hard yank hauled him sideways, through a gap in the stonework, behind a tapestry depicting some ancient Baratheon victory. The alcove was barely large enough for two, dark and close, smelling of dust and old wool.

"Cassana, what..."

Her mouth swallowed the rest.

She kissed him deep and hungry, tongue sliding against his, her body pressing him back against cold stone. Her hands were already at his laces, working the ties, fingers quick and sure.

"Been thinking about your cock all morning." The words came rough against his lips, her breath hot on his skin. "Watching you train. Watching you eat. Watching you pretend you weren't looking at my tits across the table."

Jon opened his mouth to respond.

She dropped to her knees.

The stone was freezing beneath her, seeping cold through her skirts, and she didn't care. She freed him from his breeches and found him already thickening, blood rushing south, his shaft swelling in her grip. The sight of it made her cunt clench, made her thighs press together, made her moan before she'd even tasted him.

"Mmmmm..."

She wrapped her lips around the head.

No teasing. No slow build. Just wet, hungry suction that had Jon's head falling back against the wall, a groan rumbling up from his chest. She took him deep immediately, letting him stretch her lips, slide across her tongue, press toward the back of her throat.

Mine, she thought, hollowing her cheeks. You gave her one night. But I'm not losing you.

Her hand wrapped around what her mouth couldn't reach, stroking in time with her bobbing head. Sloppy. Thorough. Drool escaped the corners of her lips, ran down her chin, dripped onto her bodice. She didn't care about being pretty. She cared about making him forget every other woman who'd ever touched him.

"Cassana... fuck... I'm close..."

She took him deeper.

Swallowed around him, throat working, and Jon's hands fisted in her black hair as he came with a groan that echoed off the stone. Hot seed flooded her mouth, thick and salt-bitter, and she swallowed every drop. Kept sucking through the pulses. Kept working him through the sensitivity that made his thighs shake.

He started to soften.

She didn't stop.

Her tongue traced the sensitive underside, circled the crown, coaxed him back to hardness while he made sounds that weren't quite words. His cock swelled again against her lips, filling her mouth, and satisfaction bloomed warm in her chest.

That's right. I'm not done with you.

She sucked him through a second orgasm.

Slower this time. More deliberate. Milking every drop while Jon's legs trembled and his grip in her hair turned desperate. When she finally pulled off, her lips were swollen and wet, her chin slick with spit and seed, her jaw aching in the best way.

She tucked him back into his breeches with careful hands.

Rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Jon slumped against the wall, breathing hard, his expression dazed.

Cassana kissed his cheek.

"I'll see you at dinner."

She slipped out from behind the tapestry, checked the corridor, found it still empty. Her hips swayed as she walked away, her smile sharp with satisfaction.

Your move, princess.

Rhaenys found Jon in his chambers that afternoon.

No knock. No announcement. Just the door slamming open, her body silhouetted against the corridor light, that ridiculous ribbon-dress barely containing everything it was supposed to hide.

Jon looked up from the letter he'd been reading. "Rhaenys, what..."

She crossed the room in three strides and shoved him onto the bed.

The mattress caught him, furs soft against his back, and before he could sit up she was climbing onto his lap. Her thighs bracketed his hips. Her hands pressed flat against his chest, pinning him. Those violet eyes blazed with something fierce and competitive and utterly unrepentant.

"Cassana's mouth isn't the only one that can please you." The words came out sharp, accusatory. She'd heard. Of course she'd heard. Storm's End gossiped like any castle, and a princess on her knees behind a tapestry wouldn't stay secret for long.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard the whole castle hears."

Jon opened his mouth. "We should be more disc..."

Rhaenys kissed him silent.

Her tongue pushed past his lips, claiming, demanding, and her hips rolled down against his cock through his breeches. The friction made him groan despite himself, made his hands find her waist on instinct, made his body respond even as his mind tried to form objections.

She ground down harder. Circled her hips. Pressed the heat of her cunt against the bulge straining beneath leather until he stopped trying to speak at all.

"That's better." She pulled back just enough to smirk. "I'm tired of being quiet. I'm tired of hiding. I want them all to know."

Her fingers found his laces.

She freed him in seconds, his cock springing up hard and leaking, and she hiked that ribbon-dress up past her hips to reveal nothing underneath. Just olive skin and dark curls glistening with want.

She sank down in one smooth motion.

"FUCK!"

The cry tore from her throat, raw and loud, echoing off the stone walls. Her cunt stretched around his thickness, swallowing him inch by inch until her ass hit his thighs and she was full, stuffed, impaled on every bit of him.

She didn't wait. Didn't adjust. Just started moving.

Her hips snapped down with punishing force, rising and falling in a brutal rhythm that had the bed frame creaking against the wall. Her tits bounced beneath the ribbon-dress, threatening to spill free with every thrust, and her voice rose higher with each impact.

"Gods... so big... you're so fucking big..."

The words carried. Deliberately. She wasn't trying to be quiet, wasn't trying to muffle anything. Every moan, every cry, every desperate sound she made was pitched to travel through the door, down the corridor, into the ears of anyone passing.

"Deeper... yes... right there... Jon, fuck..."

Jon's hand came up to cover her mouth.

Rhaenys bit his palm.

Hard enough to leave marks, hard enough that he hissed and yanked his hand back, and she laughed breathlessly as she kept riding him.

"I want everyone to know." Her hips never slowed. "Want them to hear me coming on your cock. Want that stag bitch to lie in her chambers and listen to what she can't have."

"Rhaenys..."

"HARDER!" She screamed it, the sound rattling against stone. "Fuck me harder! Make me scream loud enough that the whole Stormlands hears!"

Her pace turned savage.

She bounced on his cock like she was trying to break something, her cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, her thighs burning with the effort. Sweat sheened her olive skin. Her hair fell wild around her face. Those violet eyes burned with triumph and want and fierce, competitive satisfaction.

"Can't get enough... nnngh... your cock... I can't... ahhhh... MORE..."

The orgasm built fast. Too fast. Pleasure coiling tight in her belly, her cunt clamping down, her whole body tensing toward release.

"Jon... Jon... I'm... JONNNN!"

She screamed his name loud enough to rattle the windows.

Her back arched. Her cunt seized around him in crushing waves. She shook and sobbed and rode him through every spasm, milking his shaft, demanding everything, taking more.

And she kept going.

"More." The word came out broken. "Fill me up. I want... nnngh... want to feel you..."

Jon's control snapped.

His hands grabbed her hips hard enough to bruise. His own thrusts punched up to meet her descent. And when he finally buried himself to the hilt and came, flooding her with thick hot seed, Rhaenys threw her head back and moaned loud enough for anyone in the corridor to hear exactly what was happening.

She collapsed onto his chest.

Both of them breathing hard. His cock still twitching inside her. His cum already leaking around their joining, warm trails sliding down to soak the furs beneath them.

Rhaenys lifted her head. That smug smile curved her lips.

"Did Cassana make you feel that good this morning?"

Jon's silence was answer enough.

Cassana found them at dinner.

She swept into the great hall wearing black velvet that made her earlier gowns look modest by comparison. The neckline plunged past her navel, barely held together by golden clasps that seemed to strain with every breath. Her heavy breasts swayed with each step, threatening to spill free, and her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

Rhaenys watched her approach with narrowed eyes.

Jon sat between them at the high table, looking like a man caught between two storms. His plate remained untouched. His wine cup stayed full. Every time he glanced left, Rhaenys pressed closer. Every time he glanced right, Cassana's hand found his thigh.

The tension could have cracked stone.

"My prince." Cassana stopped beside Jon's chair, her voice carrying across the hall with deliberate clarity. "I need to discuss garrison rotations with you. In private."

Her hand landed on his arm. Possessive. Claiming.

Her eyes found Rhaenys over Jon's shoulder and held.

My turn now.

The message was unmistakable.

Rhaenys's expression went murderous. Her fingers tightened around her wine cup until the metal creaked. Every storm lord in the hall watched with barely concealed fascination, waiting to see how the princess would respond.

But there was nothing she could do.

Not without causing a scene. Not without admitting publicly that she and Cassana were fighting over Jon like dogs over a bone. Not without sacrificing every shred of dignity she possessed.

Rhaenys smiled. The expression looked like it hurt.

"Of course, Lady Cassana. Garrison rotations are so important."

Cassana's smile widened. "Aren't they just?"

She led Jon away with her hand still on his arm, her hips swaying, her magnificent ass outlined by clinging velvet. At the door, she glanced back over her shoulder.

That look said everything.

I win tonight.

Cassana's chambers were warm, lit by a dozen candles that threw dancing shadows across ancient stone. She locked the door behind them, the heavy bolt sliding home with a sound like finality.

Jon stood in the center of the room, watching her.

"Garrison rotations?"

"Shut up."

She crossed the distance between them and shoved. Hard.

Jon fell back onto her bed, the massive four-poster creaking under his weight, and before he could rise she was climbing over him. Straddling his hips. Pinning him down with the weight of her body and the hunger in her eyes.

"You fucked her last night." Not a question. "I heard her screaming your name."

"Cassana..."

"I'm not angry." She reached for the golden clasps holding her gown together. "I'm competitive."

The first clasp opened.

"I'm going to ride you until you forget the princess's name."

The second clasp followed. The velvet fell away, and her breasts spilled free, heavy and full, nipples already peaked.

Jon's eyes darkened. His hands found her hips.

"I shouldn't pick sides."

Cassana laughed. The sound was warm, genuine, nothing like the sharp weapon she'd wielded in the great hall.

"I'm not asking you to pick." She ground down against the hardness straining his breeches. "I'm asking you to fuck me."

Her fingers found his laces. Quick. Eager. She freed him in seconds, and the sight of his cock made her breath catch. Thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed dark with want.

She'd had him two nights ago. She knew exactly how he'd feel inside her. Knew exactly how he'd stretch her, fill her, ruin her for anyone else.

She wanted it again.

She rose up on her knees, positioned him at her entrance, and sank down.

"Fuuuuck..."

The word tore from her throat as he split her open. Inch by inch, her cunt stretched around his thickness, her walls clenching, her thighs trembling. She took him all the way, until her ass pressed against his thighs and she could feel him in her belly.

Then she started to move.

Slow grinding circles. Rolling her hips, dragging him against her inner walls, finding the angle that made stars burst behind her eyes. Her heavy tits swayed above him, bouncing with her rhythm, and Jon groaned and grabbed her hips hard enough to bruise.

"That's it." She braced her hands on his chest. "Watch me. Watch me take what I want."

She set the pace. Controlled the rhythm. Rose and fell in waves that built and built, pleasure coiling tight in her belly, her cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses.

"Nnngh... yes... right there... Jon..."

His hands tightened on her hips. His own hips punched up to meet her descent. The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the chamber, loud and obscene, and Cassana didn't care who heard.

She wanted Rhaenys to hear.

Outside, in the corridor, Rhaenys heard everything.

She'd followed them. Of course she had. Couldn't stop herself, couldn't walk away, couldn't do anything except stand in the shadows outside Cassana's chambers and listen to the sounds leaking through the heavy oak door.

The wet slap of skin on skin.

The creak of the bed frame.

Cassana's voice, rising higher and higher.

"Harder... fuck me harder... gods, your cock... I can't... AHHHHH!"

Rhaenys's fists clenched at her sides.

"That's it... fill me up... I'm going to drain you dry... every drop... JONNN!"

The scream echoed through the corridor.

Rhaenys pressed her back against the cold stone wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her thighs pressed together, slick with arousal she hated herself for.

The sounds didn't stop.

They went on for hours.

Cassana's voice cracking as she screamed about how good his cock felt. How deep he was. How she was going to keep him inside her all night, was going to milk him until he had nothing left, was going to make sure he remembered who fucked him best.

"YES... YES... YESSSSS!"

Another orgasm. Another scream. Another spike of jealousy and want that made Rhaenys's stomach clench.

She should leave. Should storm back to her chambers. Should preserve what dignity she had left.

Instead, she stayed.

Listened to Cassana come again and again. Listened to Jon's groans rumbling through the door. Listened to the wet, obscene sounds of their coupling, the bed slamming against the wall, the gasps and moans and screamed names.

When she finally left, her jaw ached from clenching.

Rhaenys's chambers were dark and cold.

She slammed the door behind her, stripped out of her gown with shaking hands, and fell onto her bed. Her fingers found the slick heat between her thighs before she'd even settled against the pillows.

She was soaking.

Hours of listening to Cassana get fucked had left her dripping, her cunt swollen and aching, her body desperate for release.

Her fingers pushed inside.

"Nnngh..."

She imagined Jon. His hands on her hips. His cock splitting her open. His voice in her ear, growling filthy praise while he pounded into her.

Take it. Take it like a good girl.

Her hips rolled against her hand.

This is what you wanted. All those years of teasing. Now you have it.

She added another finger. Curled them. Found that spot inside her that made her vision blur.

Say you're mine.

"Yours," she gasped to the empty room. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm..."

The orgasm crashed through her.

Sharp and fast and nowhere near enough. She kept going. Kept fucking herself on her fingers, kept imagining Jon's cock instead, kept chasing release after release while her mind planned all the ways she was going to reclaim him tomorrow.

Cassana had won tonight.

But the war was far from over.

The guard found Prince Jon crawling out of Lady Cassana's chambers near midnight.

His arms stretched toward the corridor, fingers scrabbling against cold stone, his face a mask of exhausted desperation. Dark hair hung lank with sweat across his forehead. His doublet was missing entirely, his breeches unlaced and barely clinging to his hips, and his movements had the jerky quality of a man whose legs had simply stopped working.

The guard opened his mouth to ask if assistance was required.

Before the words came out, a female hand appeared from the doorway.

Long fingers wrapped around Jon's ankle. Pale skin, strong grip, black-painted nails digging into flesh.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Lady Cassana's voice carried warmth and menace in equal measure. She stood in the doorway wearing nothing but firelight and shadows, her heavy breasts swaying as she leaned down, her magnificent ass on full display to the empty corridor behind her.

Jon's fingers scraped against the stone floor as she dragged him backward.

"Help," he croaked, his voice cracking. "Someone... anyone..."

The guard's mouth worked soundlessly.

Cassana laughed, the sound rich and throaty, and hauled harder. Jon slid backward across the threshold, his hands finding no purchase, his protests dissolving into something that might have been a groan or might have been surrender.

The door slammed shut.

Wet sounds resumed immediately. The rhythmic creak of a bed frame. A muffled cry that could have been pain or pleasure. Then Cassana's voice, loud enough to penetrate oak: "You're not done until I say you're done."

The guard stared at the closed door for a long moment.

Then he turned, walked to the far end of the corridor, and decided very firmly that he had seen nothing.

The next night it was the guest chambers where Princess Rhaenys slept.

A different guard stood watch, younger than the first, still new enough to take his duties seriously. He straightened when he heard the commotion. Shuffling. Scraping. A low groan that echoed off the stone walls.

Prince Jon emerged from the chamber on his hands and knees.

His legs appeared to have given out entirely. He crawled with the desperate determination of a man fleeing dragonfire, pulling himself forward with arms that shook, leaving a trail of sweat on the flagstones. Bite marks covered his shoulders. Scratches ran down his back in parallel lines. His breeches were gone entirely, and what hung between his legs looked raw and overused.

"Almost," he gasped. "Almost there..."

The guard took a step forward. "My prince, do you require..."

Rhaenys appeared in the doorway.

She wore nothing but a satisfied smile and the evidence of their coupling, seed glistening on her inner thighs, her dark hair a wild tangle around her flushed face. Those violet eyes found Jon's crawling form and her smile widened into something predatory.

"Oh no you don't."

She crossed the distance in three strides, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him up. Jon's groan of surrender echoed through the corridor as she dragged him backward, his feet scraping uselessly against the floor, his hands reaching toward the guard in mute appeal.

The door slammed.

Rhaenys's triumphant laughter rang out, followed immediately by the unmistakable sounds of fucking. The wet slap of flesh on flesh. The creak of the bed. Jon's voice, cracking: "Rhaenys, I can't... I physically cannot..."

"You can dear brother." Her voice carried clearly through the wood. "I'm not losing to that stag bitch."

The guards exchanged glances across the corridor.

"Lucky bastard," one muttered.

The other nodded solemnly.

Neither woman let Jon sleep in his own chambers anymore.

They passed him between them like a prize, like a trophy, like a particularly stubborn conquest that required breaking. Cassana claimed him one night, fucking him until dawn turned the sky pink and his voice went hoarse from screaming her name. Rhaenys seized him the next, riding him through three changes of the guard, her cries echoing through Storm's End until the servants blushed and the storm lords developed sudden fascinations with their wine cups.

The household pretended not to notice.

They pretended not to see their lady stalking the corridors in nothing but a robe, hunting for the prince who'd tried to escape to the bathhouse. They pretended not to hear the princess's demands for "just one more round" at two hours past midnight. They pretended not to notice Jon walking like a man who'd spent a week in the saddle, wincing when he sat, unable to climb stairs without gripping the railing.

The competition consumed both women entirely.

Cassana cornered Jon in the armory after training, dropping to her knees and sucking him until his legs gave out, then climbing onto his lap and riding him on the cold stone floor while guards walked past outside. Rhaenys found him in the great hall during supper, pulled him under the table, and kept him there with her mouth until he spilled down her throat while the storm lords discussed grain shipments three feet away.

Neither would yield.

Neither would admit defeat.

And Jon, caught between a stag and a dragon, had long since stopped trying to escape.

Cassana found Rhaenys in the solar on a morning when Jon was too exhausted to leave his bed.

The princess sat by the window, dark hair loose around her shoulders, a cup of wine already in her hand despite the early hour. She looked up when Cassana entered, violet eyes tracking the movement with the wariness of a cat watching a rival predator cross its territory.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Cassana took in the marks visible above Rhaenys's neckline. Fresh ones, layered over the fading bruises from earlier in the week. The princess had clearly had Jon last night, had ridden him until he couldn't walk this morning. The knowledge burned, but Cassana kept her face smooth.

She'd left her own marks. Had her own nights. Had screamed his name loud enough for the whole castle to hear.

This war had no clear victor. Only two women destroying themselves trying to win.

"We need to talk." Cassana crossed to the chair across from Rhaenys and sat without waiting for invitation. Her own body ached from the night before last, her thighs still tender, her cunt still swollen. She'd fucked Jon for six hours straight, had milked four loads from him before he'd finally begged for mercy.

Rhaenys had claimed him the very next night and apparently done worse.

This can't continue.

"Can we?" Rhaenys's voice carried the musical lilt of her Dornish heritage, sharpened by something harder underneath. "I wasn't aware we had anything to discuss."

"Don't play coy. It doesn't suit you."

A flash of something in those violet eyes. Respect, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that the pretense was pointless.

"Fine." Rhaenys set down her wine. "Talk."

Cassana leaned back in her chair, studying her rival with the same attention she'd give a battlefield map. The princess was beautiful. Undeniably, devastatingly beautiful, with curves that rivaled Cassana's own and a face that could launch a thousand ships. She understood why Jon wanted her. She'd have wanted her too, if she were inclined that way.

But beauty wasn't everything.

"You're a princess of the blood." Cassana kept her voice level, conversational. "I'm the Lady of Storm's End, head of a Great House. We're both intelligent women who want the same man."

"And?"

"And we've been fucking ourselves raw trying to exhaust him into choosing." Cassana smiled, all teeth. "It's not working."

Rhaenys's lips curved. Not quite a smile, but close. "No. It's not."

"He had to be carried to his chambers two nights ago. The guards are placing bets on which of us will kill him first."

"I heard." Now Rhaenys did smile, sharp and satisfied. "I also heard he crawled out of your room begging for mercy."

"He crawled out of yours last night."

"Mm." The princess picked up her wine again, took a long sip. "So he did."

Silence stretched between them. Outside, gulls cried over Shipbreaker Bay, their calls carrying through the open window. The solar smelled of salt and old stone and the jasmine perfume Rhaenys wore like a weapon.

"I'm the obvious political match," Cassana said finally. "Storm's End needs a lord. The Stormlands need an alliance with the crown that doesn't involve bending the knee to your father. Jon marrying me solves a dozen problems at once."

"Jon marrying me solves different problems." Rhaenys's voice stayed smooth, but her fingers tightened on the cup. "I'm a princess. My children would be royal. The succession would be strengthened."

"Your children would be royal regardless of who their father is."

"But they wouldn't be Jon's."

The word hung in the air. Jon's. As if either of them had any real claim on him, as if he belonged to anyone but himself.

"He won't choose," Cassana said. "You know that. I know that. He'll keep fucking us both until we tear each other apart or tear him apart, and he'll feel terrible about it while doing nothing to stop it."

Rhaenys's jaw tightened. "He's a man. They're not known for making difficult decisions when the alternative is having their cock sucked by beautiful women."

"No. They're not."

Another silence. Cassana watched Rhaenys watching her, saw the calculations happening behind those violet eyes. The princess was smart. Smarter than she let most people see. She understood power, understood politics, understood the game they were playing.

She also understood that neither of them could win. Not like this.

"What are you proposing?" Rhaenys asked finally.

Cassana took a breath. "We share him."

The princess's eyes narrowed. "Share."

"You heard me."

"I heard you. I'm not certain I believe you."

"Believe what you want." Cassana spread her hands, a gesture of openness that was only partially false. "But consider the alternative. We keep competing. We keep exhausting him, exhausting ourselves. Eventually one of us makes a mistake. Says something unforgivable. Does something that can't be taken back. And then we're enemies instead of rivals, and Jon is caught between us, and everyone loses."

"Or I win."

"Or I win." Cassana smiled. "But neither of us is winning right now, are we? We're just... destroying the battlefield."

Rhaenys was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers traced the rim of her wine cup, around and around, a nervous gesture she probably didn't realize she was making.

"You're suggesting a treaty," she said slowly. "Like generals dividing territory."

"Something like that."

"And what would the terms be?"

Cassana had thought about this. Had lain awake after Jon finally collapsed beside her, had stared at the ceiling and run through scenarios while his seed leaked from her and cooled on the sheets.

"Jon will likely marry me," she said. "For the political alliance. For Storm's End. For the Stormlands. I'm the practical choice, and Jon is practical when he's thinking with his head instead of his cock."

Rhaenys's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. She couldn't. They both knew it was true.

"But marriage doesn't mean exclusivity." Cassana leaned forward. "Not for men like Jon. Not for Targaryens. You would remain his lover regardless of who wears his ring. You would have your place in his bed, in his life, in whatever future he builds."

"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"

"The same thing you do. A man who wants us both instead of being torn apart by choosing. A peace between us that lets everyone breathe. And..." Cassana paused, smiled with edges. "The satisfaction of not losing."

"Neither of us wins, you mean."

"Both of us win. Just not completely."

Rhaenys stood. Walked to the window, her back to Cassana, her shoulders tense beneath the silk of her gown. The morning light caught her hair, turned it into a dark waterfall that gleamed with hints of red.

"There's something you're not saying," the princess said without turning around.

"Several things."

"Say the important one."

Cassana rose too. Crossed to stand beside Rhaenys at the window, looking out at the bay where waves crashed white against black rocks. The dragons were out there somewhere, Norvaxis and Meraxes, probably hunting together. Probably fucking, if dragons did such things.

"The real competition," Cassana said quietly, "isn't about who wears his ring or who shares his bed. It's about whose belly swells first."

Rhaenys went very still.

"A child changes everything," Cassana continued. "A child is permanent. Undeniable. A claim that can't be negotiated away or shared or divided. Whoever gives Jon his first legitimate heir..."

"Wins."

"Wins something, anyway." Cassana turned to face her. "I want children. I'm thirty-five, and I want them before it's too late. I won't pretend otherwise."

"And you think I don't?"

"I think you're twenty-five and have time I don't have." Cassana kept her voice steady. "I think if we're going to share him, we should be honest about what we're both really after."

Rhaenys turned from the window. Her violet eyes met Cassana's blue ones, and something passed between them. Understanding, maybe. Or just acknowledgment of the battlefield they'd both chosen.

"So we share him," Rhaenys said slowly. "We stop trying to destroy each other. We let him have us both, and we accept that neither of us will have him completely."

"Yes."

"And we race to get pregnant."

Cassana smiled. "I wasn't going to put it quite that bluntly."

"I'm Dornish. We don't do subtle about fucking." Rhaenys extended her hand. "Fine. Treaty accepted. We share him, we stop the war, and we see whose belly swells first."

Cassana took the offered hand. Gripped it firmly, felt the strength in those elegant fingers.

"I look forward to the partnership," she said.

Rhaenys smiled back, all teeth and violet fire. "May the best woman win."

They released each other's hands. Stood there for a moment longer, two predators who'd agreed to hunt the same territory.

"He's probably awake by now," Cassana said.

"Probably."

"We should tell him about our... arrangement."

"We should." Rhaenys's smile widened. "Or we could tell him together. In person. In his chambers."

Something hot flickered in Cassana's belly. "Both of us?"

"Both of us. At once." The princess's eyes gleamed with challenge. "Unless you're not interested in sharing quite that thoroughly."

Cassana laughed. The sound surprised her, genuine and warm, nothing like the sharp weapons they'd been wielding at each other for days.

"Princess," she said, "I think this partnership might work after all."

They walked out of the solar together, shoulders nearly touching, both already planning how to get Jon's seed before the other could manage it.

The treaty had been signed.

Jon entered his own chambers that night expecting to finally sleep alone.

The door swung open, and his brain stopped working.

Both women lay naked on his bed.

Cassana's pale curves tangled with Rhaenys's olive skin, black hair mixing with dark waves across his pillows. They'd arranged themselves deliberately, artfully, a tableau designed to devastate. Cassana's heavy breasts pressed against Rhaenys's side. Rhaenys's thigh draped over Cassana's hip. Four eyes found him in the doorway, blue and violet both gleaming with satisfaction.

Jon's mouth went completely dry.

Cassana smiled. Patted the space between them with one lazy hand.

"We've come to an arrangement."

Rhaenys stretched, the movement displaying every curve, every shadow, every inch of olive skin glowing gold in the candlelight. "Consider this your reward for surviving our competition."

Jon tried to speak. Failed. Tried again.

"What..."

They rose from the bed together.

Moved toward him in perfect synchronization, predators who'd decided to hunt as a pack instead of fighting over the same prey. Cassana reached him first, her fingers finding his doublet's clasps, working them loose. Rhaenys pressed against his back, her breasts soft and warm through his tunic, her mouth finding the side of his neck.

Four hands pulled at his clothes.

Two mouths found his skin.

Cassana kissed his jaw while Rhaenys sucked at his pulse point. Then they switched, trading places around him, stripping him with cooperation that should have been impossible given the war they'd been waging. His doublet hit the floor. His tunic followed. Rhaenys's nails raked down his chest while Cassana worked his belt loose.

"She told me how big you get when you are with her," Cassana murmured against his throat.

"She mentioned how much you cum when you sleep with her." Rhaenys's breath was hot against his ear. "We both wanted to find out if the other was exaggerating."

They kissed him together.

Three mouths meeting, tongues sliding against each other, against him, a tangle of heat and wetness that made his head spin. He tasted wine on Cassana's lips, jasmine on Rhaenys's, and beneath both the unmistakable flavor of arousal. They'd been touching each other before he arrived. Had been working themselves up, preparing, planning.

His breeches fell.

His cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking.

Cassana looked down. Her eyes widened in both awe and amusement. "Gods how hard you get for two ladies….."

"Told you he couldn't resist." Rhaenys's voice carried pure satisfaction.

They pushed him toward the bed.

Jon went. Would have gone anywhere they directed, would have followed them into the seven hells if they'd asked. His back hit the mattress, the furs soft beneath him, and before he could gather his wits they were climbing onto the bed on either side of him.

Kneeling between his thighs.

Together.

Jon propped himself on his elbows, watching with disbelief as both women leaned in. Cassana from the left, Rhaenys from the right, their faces drawing close to each other, to him. Their lips met around the head of his cock.

"Fuuuck..."

The word tore from his throat.

Their tongues slid against each other, against his flesh, a wet tangle of sensation that made his vision blur. They kissed around him, kissed each other, their mouths soft and hot and impossibly skilled. Cassana's lips dragged up one side while Rhaenys licked down the other. Their eyes met over his shaft, something passing between them, and then Cassana took him into her mouth.

Deep. Deeper than before. Her throat working around him while Rhaenys moved lower.

Her Dornish heat found his balls.

"Nnnngh..."

She sucked one into her mouth, rolled it with her tongue, released it with a wet pop and took the other. Cassana bobbed on his cock above her, black hair falling across his thighs, her heavy breasts swaying with the motion. The sensation was overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.

They switched.

Cassana's mouth released him with a gasp, and Rhaenys immediately replaced her. That Dornish heat wrapped around his shaft, her tongue working the underside, her violet eyes finding his face and holding his gaze while she swallowed him down. Cassana moved lower, her lips finding his sac, sucking hard enough to make his hips jerk.

Jon fisted the sheets.

"Gods... I can't... this is..."

Rhaenys pulled off. Looked at Cassana across his twitching cock.

"You're taking him too shallow."

Cassana released his balls with an obscene sound. Glared at the princess. "Your technique is sloppy. There's drool everywhere."

"It's supposed to be wet."

"Wet, not drowning."

"At least I can get him past my tonsils."

"I was pacing myself."

They argued around his cock.

Actually argued, their voices sharp, their eyes narrowed, while Jon's shaft throbbed between their faces. Rhaenys's hand wrapped around his base, stroking slowly. Cassana's fingers found his balls, rolling them, squeezing gently. Neither stopped touching him while they bickered.

"Show me, then." Cassana's chin lifted. "If you're so skilled."

Rhaenys smiled. All teeth. "Watch and learn."

She took him into her mouth and didn't stop.

Down, down, down, until her nose pressed against his pelvis and her throat spasmed around his length. Cassana watched with grudging respect as Rhaenys held him there, swallowing, her violet eyes watering but triumphant.

Jon's hips jerked between their mouths.

He wasn't going to survive this.

Both women pulled back at the same moment, their lips meeting around his crown one final time. A shared kiss that included his flesh, tongues sliding against each other and against him, before they separated with matching wet sounds.

Rhaenys moved first.

She crawled up the bed on hands and knees, positioning herself in the center of the mattress, her magnificent ass rising high. Dark hair cascaded over one shoulder as she looked back at Jon, violet eyes blazing with challenge.

"Well?" She shook her hips, that fat Dornish ass swaying, the motion hypnotic. "Are you going to fuck me or not?"

Cassana settled against the headboard with a huff, arms crossed beneath her heavy breasts, blue eyes narrowed with obvious annoyance. "By all means. Don't let me stop you."

Jon positioned himself behind Rhaenys, hands finding her hips, the head of his cock pressing against her soaked entrance. She pushed back impatiently, and he drove forward in one brutal thrust.

"FUCK! Yes!"

Rhaenys's moan was loud. Deliberate. Pitched to carry, to fill the chamber, to make absolutely certain Cassana heard every note of pleasure. She looked over her shoulder at the Baratheon woman, smile sharp even as Jon's cock split her open.

"This," she gasped, "is what a real fuck feels like."

Cassana rolled her eyes. "You sound like a dying cat."

"Jealous?"

"Of that noise? Hardly." Cassana shifted against the headboard, watching Jon's hips snap forward, watching Rhaenys's ass ripple with every impact. "Though I'll admit, your ass is jiggling quite impressively."

Jon set a punishing pace, his cock driving deep, his balls slapping against Rhaenys's clit with every thrust. The wet sounds of their joining filled the chamber, obscene and relentless.

"Nnngh... harder... Jon, harder..."

"Your stamina's clearly lacking." Cassana's voice carried smug satisfaction. "Already begging and he's barely started."

Rhaenys snarled. Actually snarled, the sound feral and furious, and she pushed back against Jon with renewed force. Her hips rolled to meet his thrusts, her cunt clenching around him, her whole body working to prove Cassana wrong.

"I'll show you stamina, you stag bitch."

The pace turned savage. Jon's fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise as she fucked herself back onto him, taking every inch, demanding more. Her voice rose higher with each impact, broken moans and gasped curses tangling together.

"Yes... yes... fuck... FUCK... JONNNNN!"

The scream tore through the chamber as she came, her cunt clamping down in crushing waves, her back arching, her whole body seizing. Jon groaned at the pressure, barely holding back his own release as she shattered around him.

Cassana clapped slowly. Three times. Mocking.

"Adequate."

Rhaenys collapsed forward, breathing hard, and Cassana was already moving. She shoved the princess aside without ceremony, climbing over Jon, straddling his hips before he could catch his breath.

"My turn."

She sank down onto his cock in one smooth motion.

"Ohhhhh... gods..."

Her heavy tits bounced as she started to ride, setting a rhythm that was all power, all control. She braced her hands on his chest and worked her hips in rolling waves, taking him deep, grinding down on every stroke.

"I'm tighter than the princess, aren't I?" She looked down at Jon, blue eyes gleaming. "You can feel the difference."

Jon's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Smart man.

From the side of the bed, Rhaenys glared daggers. Her olive skin was flushed, her hair wild, her cunt still clenching with aftershocks. But her violet eyes burned with competitive fury as she watched Cassana ride.

Cassana's pace increased. Her tits swayed hypnotically, heavy flesh bouncing with every movement, nipples hard and flushed. She threw her head back, black hair cascading down her spine, and moaned loud enough to rival Rhaenys.

"That's it... fill me up... gods, your cock..."

"Move."

Rhaenys's hand closed around Cassana's arm, yanking hard. The Baratheon woman tumbled sideways with a yelp of outrage, and Rhaenys was already climbing into position.

"My turn."

She mounted Jon before Cassana could protest, sinking down onto his shaft with a groan of satisfaction. Her hips started moving immediately, desperate and hungry, riding him with everything she had.

The pleasure built fast. Too fast. Her cunt clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, pressure coiling tight in her belly, and she chased it with single-minded determination.

"Gonna... nnngh... gonna..."

The orgasm crashed through her like dragonfire. Her back arched, her cunt seized, and a flood of wetness gushed around Jon's cock. It splashed across his stomach, soaked the furs beneath them, dripped down his thighs in warm rivulets.

Rhaenys looked at Cassana with pure triumph.

"Can you do that?"

Cassana's jaw tightened. Her eyes went hard.

"Get off him."

She hauled Rhaenys aside, grabbed Jon's arm, and pulled him upright. Before he could process the change, she had her back against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, her cunt grinding against his cock.

"Fuck me. Standing. Now."

Jon lifted her, braced her against the stone, and drove home.

Cassana's scream echoed off the walls. Her nails raked down his back as he pounded into her, his hips snapping forward with brutal force, her ass bouncing against his thighs. The position was demanding, exhausting, and neither of them cared.

"Harder... harder... I'm going to... ohhhhh fuck..."

Her cunt clamped down. Her whole body seized. And then she was gushing around his cock, a flood of wetness that soaked his thighs, that dripped to pool on the stone floor, that proved beyond any doubt that she could match anything Rhaenys offered.

"HA!" The laugh came out broken, breathless, triumphant. "Told you."

Rhaenys was already pulling at Jon's shoulder. "My turn. Back to the bed."

They traded positions.

Traded insults.

"Your tits are sagging."

"Your ass is fat."

"At least I have one."

"At least mine doesn't jiggle like a bowl of pudding."

Jon held on desperately as they competed over his body, each woman determined to outdo the other, each refusing to yield. Cassana rode him until her thighs burned, then demanded he take her from behind. Rhaenys answered by having him fuck her against the wall, then on the floor, then bent over the edge of the bed.

They pushed and pulled and fought for position, two of the most beautiful women in Westeros locked in a battle where Jon was simultaneously the prize and the battlefield.

And through it all, neither would admit defeat.

Jon suddenly had an idea.

Before either woman could claim another turn, before Rhaenys could shove Cassana aside or Cassana could wrestle the princess off him, he moved. Grabbed Cassana by the hips and flipped her onto her hands and knees, positioning her in the center of the bed with her magnificent pale ass raised high, her heavy breasts swaying beneath her.

"Jon, what..."

He didn't answer. Just reached for Rhaenys and pulled.

The princess yelped as he manhandled her into position, draping her olive body over Cassana's pale curves, stacking them together until both women lay one atop the other. Rhaenys's breasts pressed against Cassana's back. Their thighs tangled. And there, presented to him like an offering, two cunts glistened in the candlelight. One above the other. Both dripping. Both waiting.

Both women craned their necks to look at him over their shoulders.

Cassana's blue eyes went wide. "What in the seven hells..."

Rhaenys's violet gaze burned with something between outrage and desperate curiosity. "Jon?"

He positioned himself behind them, one hand on Cassana's hip, the other on the curve of Rhaenys's ass.

"You've been competing all week." His voice dropped to that growl that made both women shiver. "Now you can compete at the same time."

He pressed into Cassana first.

Her cunt swallowed him in one smooth stroke, hot and tight and soaking wet. She moaned, the sound muffled against the furs, her walls clenching around him as he drove deep.

One thrust. Two. Three.

Each one made her whole body rock forward, made Rhaenys shift above her, made both women gasp in tandem. Cassana's magnificent ass rippled with every impact, pale flesh bouncing against his hips.

"Nnngh... yes... more..."

He pulled out.

Cassana whined at the loss. But before she could protest, Jon shifted up and pressed into Rhaenys.

The princess screamed.

Her cunt was tighter, hotter, clenching around him like a fist as he buried himself to the hilt. Three deep thrusts that made her back arch, made her nails dig into Cassana's shoulders, made her voice crack on sounds that weren't words.

"Fuck... Jon... hahhhh..."

He pulled out.

Drove back into Cassana.

"Oh gods... yes... right there..."

Out. Into Rhaenys.

"More... please... don't stop..."

He started alternating faster.

Three strokes in Cassana's cunt, feeling her walls grip and flutter. Pull out. Three strokes in Rhaenys, her channel slicker, her moans louder. Pull out. Back to Cassana. Back to Rhaenys. Faster. Harder. Building a rhythm that had both women shaking beneath him.

"More!" Cassana's voice came ragged, demanding. "Give me more, you bastard, I need..."

"Shut up." Rhaenys's snarl cut through the chamber. "Take your turn and shut up."

"Make me, princess."

Jon switched faster.

Two strokes each now. One cunt, then the other. Wet sounds filled the chamber, obscene and relentless. Both women's arousal coated his shaft, mixing together, dripping down to soak the furs beneath them. Their moans tangled in the air, harmonizing and clashing, competition bleeding into desperation.

"Jon... Jon... I'm close..."

"Me too... fuck... don't you dare stop..."

He could feel them both tightening. Could feel the tremors building in Cassana's thighs, the flutter in Rhaenys's walls. They were racing now, racing toward release, and he held the reins.

He fucked Cassana harder.

Drove into her with brutal force, watching her whole body shake, listening to her voice crack toward the edge. Her cunt clamped down. Her back arched. She was right there, right on the precipice...

He pulled out.

Slammed into Rhaenys.

The princess shattered.

"JONNNN!"

Her scream tore through the chamber as her cunt seized around him, milking his shaft in crushing waves. She sobbed and shook and came apart, her whole body convulsing, wetness flooding around his cock.

He didn't stop.

Pulled out of her spasming channel and drove back into Cassana.

"YES! FUCK! YES!"

Cassana exploded.

Her orgasm hit like a thunderclap, her walls clamping down so tight he could barely move. She screamed into the furs, her voice raw, her body bucking against him as pleasure crashed through her in endless waves.

Jon let go.

He buried himself to the hilt in Cassana and came with a groan that vibrated through his chest. Thick spurts of seed flooded her womb, pulse after pulse, filling her until it had nowhere to go. She keened beneath him, her cunt milking every drop, her body trembling with aftershocks.

Before the last pulse finished, he pulled out.

Slammed into Rhaenys.

The princess gasped as he buried himself in her still-clenching cunt and came again. More seed flooding into her, mixing with her own release, filling her just as thoroughly as he'd filled Cassana. She moaned something in High Valyrian, her walls gripping him, her body shaking.

Jon pumped into her until he had nothing left.

Pulled out slowly.

Both women collapsed against the furs, still stacked together, both cunts leaking thick trails of his seed. It dripped down their thighs, pooled on the ruined sheets, marked them both as thoroughly claimed.

Jon sat back on his heels, breathing hard, surveying his work.

Two of the most beautiful women in Westeros. Both filled with his cum. Both too wrecked to move.

"That," he said quietly, "is how you end a competition."

Neither woman had the strength to argue.

Jon collapsed onto his back, utterly spent.

His chest heaved. Sweat cooled on his skin. Every muscle in his body had turned to water, wrung out by hours of fucking two of the most demanding women in Westeros. The ceiling swam above him, candlelight dancing across ancient stone, and he couldn't have moved if the castle caught fire.

Both women crawled up his body.

Cassana from the left, Rhaenys from the right, moving in synchronization that should have been impossible given how recently they'd been at each other's throats. Their lips found his at the same moment, a tangle of three mouths meeting, tongues sliding against each other, against him. He tasted wine and salt and something sweeter underneath, the mingled flavor of their arousal, their satisfaction.

They kissed him together.

Kissed each other around his mouth.

Shared him between them with something that looked almost like cooperation, their earlier competition transformed into something hungrier, something that wanted to consume rather than conquer.

Then they moved lower.

Down his chest, lips trailing over sweat-slicked skin. Down his stomach, tongues tracing the lines of muscle, the scars from training. Lower still, until both mouths found his softening cock at once.

"Nnnngh... fuck..."

Jon's groan tore from his throat, raw and broken. His shaft twitched, oversensitive, still slick with the evidence of everything they'd done. But neither woman stopped. Cassana's tongue dragged up one side while Rhaenys licked down the other, cleaning him with gentle devotion, tasting their own spend mixed with his.

"So good," Cassana murmured against his flesh. "You taste so good."

"Mmmm..." Rhaenys pressed a kiss to the crown, violet eyes finding his face. "We should do this more often."

Their tongues met around his shaft.

Slid against each other, against him, a wet tangle of sensation that made his hips jerk despite his exhaustion. They kissed around his cock, their lips soft and hot, their mouths working in tandem. Cassana sucked gently at the head while Rhaenys lavished attention on his balls, and the stimulation built despite everything.

Despite the hours of fucking.

Despite the loads he'd already spilled.

Despite the certainty that his body had nothing left to give.

His cock thickened against their lips.

"Oh gods..." Jon fisted the ruined sheets, knuckles white. "I can't... there's no way I can..."

Rhaenys smiled against his flesh. "Your cock disagrees."

Cassana took him deeper, humming around his length, and the vibration shot straight up his spine. His balls tightened. Pressure built impossibly fast, his body responding to the dual attention with desperate urgency.

Then he was cumming.

Without warning. Without buildup. Just sudden, overwhelming release that punched through him like dragonfire, his cock pulsing between their mouths.

"FUCK!"

Thick ropes of seed erupted onto Cassana's face.

She gasped, violet-streaked with white, cum painting her cheeks, her lips, dripping from her chin onto her magnificent breasts. Her mouth opened to catch what she could, tongue extended, and another spurt landed directly on it.

"Mmmm..." She moaned, the sound obscene, and grabbed Rhaenys by the hair.

Pulled the princess into a deep kiss.

Their mouths crashed together, Cassana's tongue pushing Jon's seed into Rhaenys's mouth. The princess kissed back fiercely, her own tongue fighting for the prize, both women wrestling over his spend like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Cum smeared between their lips.

Dripped down their chins.

They swapped it back and forth, swallowing what they could, wearing what they couldn't, making sounds that were half moan and half growl. When they finally broke apart, gasping, both faces were streaked with white.

Blue eyes met violet.

Something passed between them. Not friendship. Not quite. But respect, maybe. Acknowledgment that they'd found a worthy opponent, a rival worth having.

"Not bad," Cassana breathed, licking cum from her lower lip.

"You either." Rhaenys wiped her chin, sucked her fingers clean. "For a stag."

They curled up on either side of Jon.

Cassana's head found his left shoulder, her heavy breasts pressing warm against his ribs. Rhaenys claimed his right, her olive skin glowing gold in the dying candlelight, her dark hair spilling across his chest. He wrapped an arm around each of them, pulled them close, and let exhaustion finally claim him.

Luckiest man in Westeros.

The thought drifted through his mind as sleep pulled him under. Two beautiful women in his bed, both satisfied, both wanting more. The competition resolved into something almost peaceful.

He had no idea.

Beneath his arms, both women lay quiet. Breathing slowly. Eyes half-closed.

And both, without realizing it, placed a hand on their own bellies.

Cassana's palm pressed flat against her stomach, feeling the warmth there, imagining what might be taking root. Thirty-five years old. Time running out. But tonight she'd been filled so thoroughly, so completely, that surely something would catch. Surely Jon's seed would find purchase in her womb.

Give me a child, she thought, the words fierce and silent. Before it's too late. Before she can.

On Jon's other side, Rhaenys made the same gesture.

Her hand spread across her flat belly, fingers pressing gently, as if she could feel something quickening already. Jon's seed was inside her. Thick and hot and claiming. And Dornish women were fertile, everyone knew that. Her mother had given Rhaegar two children before tragedy struck.

I'll give him his first, she thought, violet eyes flickering toward Cassana's sleeping form. His first legitimate heir. Mine.

Neither woman looked at the other.

Neither acknowledged the identical hope burning in their chests.

The race had begun.

And Jon slept between them, utterly unaware.