Archive of Our Own ^beta

The truth came in a cold room that smelled of tallow and old books.

Benjen stood by the door like he was guarding it. Maester Aemon sat behind his desk, milky eyes fixed on nothing, fingers laced over a letter so old the edges had gone soft as cloth.

"Sit down, Jon."

"I'll stand."

Aemon's mouth twitched. "You have your father's stubbornness. Both of them, as it happens."

Jon looked at Benjen. Benjen looked at the floor.

"Ned Stark raised you as his blood," Aemon said. "And you are his blood. Lyanna's boy. But your father, the man who put you in her belly..." The old man's thumb traced the edge of the letter. "Rhaegar Targaryen. My grand-nephew. They wed in secret before the war."

The room contracted. Stone walls, low ceiling, the hiss of a candle guttering in its own wax.

"You're lying."

"I am a hundred and two years old, child. I haven't the energy for lies."

Jon's eyes cut to Benjen. His uncle, his... whatever Benjen was now, met his gaze and held it.

"It's true. Ned told me before he sent you here. Made me swear to watch over you."

"Watch over me." Jon's voice went flat. "You've known since I arrived."

"Aye."

"Every time I asked why my father left me here. Every time I said I had nowhere else. You knew."

Benjen's jaw worked. "I knew."

Jon's hand found the back of a chair. He gripped it until his knuckles went white, then released it. Took one breath. Two.

"There are Targaryens in King's Landing," Aemon said. "Your grandmother Rhaella sits as regent for your uncle Viserys. You could go south. Claim your name. Your blood gives you a seat at that table."

"No."

"Jon..."

"I'm no one's prince. I'm no one's anything." He looked at both of them, the old man and the liar, and something behind his ribs locked shut. "I'm leaving."

"South?" Benjen stepped forward.

"East."

He sailed from Eastwatch on a trading galley that stank of brine and salted cod. Gave the captain two silver stags for passage and spent the crossing sleeping on coiled rope, eating hardtack, watching the Wall shrink to a white thread on the horizon and then to nothing.

Braavos first. Then Pentos. Then the long dusty road to Myr, where a sellsword captain named Harys Blackwood found him in a fighting pit, half-drunk and swinging a stolen sword like a man trying to beat the world to death.

Harys watched him lose. Watched him get back up. Watched him lose again.

"You've got the bones for it," Harys said, tossing him a waterskin. "Everything else is shit."

"I didn't ask."

"Didn't have to. You move like someone taught you court fighting and you're angry enough to learn the real kind." Harys spat. "I'll take a year off you. You won't enjoy it."

"I don't enjoy anything."

"Perfect."

Harys broke him down to raw material. Footwork until his calves seized. Sparring until his arms shook too badly to lift the blade, then sparring again with his off hand. How to fight in mud, in sand, in the dark. How to kill a man in plate. How to kill a man with nothing. Jon ate dirt and bled into it for months, and somewhere around the sixth month the bleeding stopped and the dirt started eating other people.

He sailed back to Westeros leaner by ten pounds and harder by ten years. The Northern burr still sat in his voice. The grey eyes still belonged to a Stark. But the way he carried a sword, the way he moved through a room, the way he watched exits and counted weapons... that was Essos. That was Harys.

He heard about the tournament in a tavern outside Maidenpool. Harrenhal. A grand tourney, the surviving Targaryens gathering, banners from every corner of the realm. The barkeep talked about it like a festival. Jon heard it like a drumbeat.

He rode for King's Landing. Gave his name as Jon Stone at the gates, a bastard from the Vale with a sellsword's resume and no family worth mentioning. The captain of the household guard watched him spar three men in the training yard, put down two, and yield cleanly to the third.

"Where'd you learn that?"

"Essos."

"Where in Essos?"

"All of it."

He was assigned a post within the week.

The Red Keep was a maze of red stone and old blood. Jon walked its corridors with his eyes open and his mouth shut, cataloguing faces, counting steps between doorways, mapping the place the way Harys had taught him to map any building he might need to leave in a hurry.

He saw the Targaryens from a distance at first. Viserys, pale and sharp, all theatrical fury. Princess Daenerys, young and watchful. And Rhaella.

Rhaella Targaryen moved through the court like light through deep water, slow and impossible to look away from. Silver-gold hair swept up to bare a neck that belonged in a portrait. Violet eyes that catalogued a room the way Jon catalogued exits. She carried herself with a stillness that had nothing to do with calm and everything to do with control, the kind earned over decades of surviving something that should have killed her.

She looked at Jon once, across the length of the great hall, and stopped mid-sentence.

Her companion said something. Rhaella didn't answer. Those violet eyes traced his face, his jaw, the dark hair, the grey eyes, and something flickered behind her expression. Recognition, or the ghost of it. She looked at him the way a woman looks at a word she can't quite place, something on the tip of her tongue.

Three days later, the captain of the guard pulled Jon aside.

"The Queen Mother's requested you for her personal detail."

"Why me?"

"Didn't ask. Neither should you."

The first night, Jon stood outside her door in the corridor of Maegor's Holdfast, back straight, hand on his pommel, listening to the muffled sounds of the keep settling into sleep. Footsteps below. A dog barking somewhere in the yard. The faint smell of dragonsblood resin seeping under the door.

"Guardsman."

Her voice, low and unhurried, carrying through the oak like smoke.

"Your Grace."

"The lace at the back of my gown. I cannot reach it. My handmaid has retired."

He stepped inside. The chamber was warm, lit by a dozen candles that turned everything amber and gold. Rhaella stood with her back to him, silver hair loose down her spine, one hand holding the gown against her chest. The lace in question trailed between her shoulder blades, half undone.

His fingers found the cord. Pulled it through the eyelet. Her skin was warm where his knuckle brushed it, and she inhaled, just slightly, just enough.

"Thank you, Jon Stone."

"Your Grace."

He left. Stood outside the door. Breathed.

The second night, a window latch.

"It sticks in the heat. The wood swells."

He crossed the room, worked the iron catch with both hands, shouldered the frame until it gave. Night air poured in, cool and salt-tinged from the bay. When he turned, Rhaella stood closer than she needed to, the candlelight catching the curve of her collarbone above a neckline that had dropped an inch since yesterday.

"You're very capable."

"It's a window, Your Grace."

"I wasn't talking about the window."

He held her gaze for one beat too long, then dropped it. Left. Stood outside the door. Breathed harder.

The third night, wine.

"I cannot manage the seal. My hands aren't strong enough."

Her hands had managed a kingdom for fifteen years. Jon said nothing. He broke the wax, pulled the cork, poured. When she took the cup, her fingers closed over his on the stem and stayed there.

"Will you drink with me?"

"I'm on duty, Your Grace."

"I'm your duty. And I'm asking."

"Then no."

Her lips curved. "Honest. I'd forgotten what that sounds like."

She released his hand. He poured his own cup, because something in the way she'd said forgotten cracked a seam in his discipline he couldn't name. They drank in silence. She watched him over the rim.

He left. Stood outside the door. His cock pressed thick and aching against the lacing of his breeches, and he shifted his weight and stared at the opposite wall and willed it down.

It went on.

Night after night. A stuck drawer. A fallen curtain rod. A chill she couldn't shake, could he add wood to the fire? Each excuse thinner than the last, each one delivered in that low, unhurried voice with those violet eyes steady on his face.

She touched his arm when he poured. Let her fingers rest on the muscle above his elbow, just long enough to feel the tension coiled there. She stood too close when he knelt at the hearth, close enough that her robe brushed his shoulder and the smell of her, rosewater and something deeper, something that clung to his clothes after he left, filled his lungs.

The gowns changed. High-necked silk became a loose robe. The robe became a thinner robe. The thinner robe started falling open at the throat, showing the swell of her breasts, the shadow between them, the pale skin that candlelight turned to gold.

Jon held the line. Jaw tight. Eyes forward. Every night harder than the last, in every sense of the word. He stood at his post with his blood running hot and his hands clenched at his sides and his cock straining against his breeches, thick and obvious, and he knew she could see it when she looked at him with that quiet half-smile, that tilt of her silver head.

Three weeks in, she called him inside to move a chest of drawers. She wore only a shift, sheer enough that the candlelight painted her body through the linen: the heavy sway of her tits, the dark circles of her nipples, the curve of her waist into those broad hips. She leaned against the doorframe and watched him lift the chest, watched the muscles in his arms and shoulders work, and when he set it down and turned, she was close enough to touch.

"You're very disciplined, Jon Stone."

"Aye."

"Most men would have broken by now."

He looked at her. Grey eyes into violet. His pulse hammered in his throat.

"I'm not most men, Your Grace."

"No." She reached up and brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead, her fingertips trailing down his temple, his jaw. "You're not."

He caught her wrist. Held it. Her pulse kicked against his thumb, quick and alive.

He set her hand down gently, stepped back, and left.

Outside the door, he pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes. His cock ached. His chest ached worse.

She knew. She'd known from the first night, from the first loosened lace, from the first excuse thin as gossamer. She'd read the want on him the way she read everything, with those violet eyes that missed nothing, and she'd been pulling the thread one night at a time, patient as a woman who'd spent thirty years learning exactly how long a man could hold before he broke.

And Jon, standing in the dark corridor with his blood on fire and his honour in tatters and a name he refused to speak burning a hole in his chest, knew she was right.

It was only a matter of time.

"Guardsman."

Half the candles had guttered out. The ones still burning threw long shadows across the floor, and her voice came through the oak soft as breath.

Jon closed his eyes. Opened them. Pushed the door.

Rhaella stood in the center of the room in a nightgown that was barely a suggestion. Sheer silk, pale as milk, clinging to every curve the candlelight could find. Silver-gold hair unbound, spilling past her shoulders, catching the low flame like hammered metal. Violet eyes already on him. Waiting.

"You've been so good, sweet boy." She didn't move. "So disciplined. Standing out there every night, stiff as castle stone in more ways than one, pretending you don't ache."

His jaw locked. The door closed behind him with a click that sounded like a trap springing shut.

"How much longer do you intend to punish us both?"

"I'm your guard, Your Grace. Nothing more."

"Come here and say that."

He didn't move. She crossed the room instead, bare feet silent on the stone, and pressed her palm flat against his chest. His heart slammed into her hand like it was trying to escape.

"I was married to a madman for twenty years." Her voice dropped. "I know what want looks like on a man's face, Jon. I've seen every shade of it. The cruel kind. The possessive kind. The kind that takes without asking." Her fingers curled into the leather of his jerkin. "Yours is none of those. But it is want. And you are terrible at hiding it."

Nothing. His throat worked. No words came.

She took his hand, lifted it, and placed it on her waist. The silk was warm from her skin, thin enough that his fingers might as well have been touching bare flesh. The curve of her hip filled his palm.

His grip tightened. He didn't tell it to.

"Ah." A small sound, almost satisfied. She stepped closer, close enough that her breasts pressed against his chest and her mouth hovered below his jaw. "I have waited thirty years to choose who touches me." Barely a whisper now, her lips brushing the words against his throat. "I am choosing you."

Something snapped. A wire pulled too tight for too many nights, finally giving way with a sound only he could hear.

His hand drove into her hair, fisting the silver-gold at the nape of her neck, and his mouth found hers. Hard. Graceless. A kiss that tasted like three weeks of standing in dark corridors with his blood screaming and his honour crumbling and his cock so hard it hurt, all of it pouring out at once. His other arm wrapped around the small of her back and hauled her flush against him, her soft body crushed to his chest, and he kissed her like he was drowning and she was the surface.

"Mmnh!" Rhaella gasped into his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting through leather. She kissed him back with a hunger that had nothing to do with patience, nothing to do with queens or composure or thirty years of anything. Her teeth caught his lower lip. Her tongue slid against his. She made a sound, low and desperate, and pulled him closer like closer wasn't close enough, like she wanted to crawl inside him, like she'd been starving and he was the first meal in decades.

His hands found the silk at her shoulders and pushed. The nightgown slid down her arms, caught for one breath on the swell of her hips, then pooled at her feet with a whisper of fabric on stone.

Rhaella stood bare in the candlelight. Full heavy tits, pale pink nipples already stiff, the weight of them settling naturally against her ribs. A waist that curved into broad hips, into thick soft thighs pressed together. Skin luminous and smooth, porcelain from throat to ankle, a body that belonged to a woman half her years.

Jon's mouth went dry.

"The blood of the dragon is a stubborn thing." Her voice was steady, but her hands stayed at her sides, fingers curling once. "Old Valyria bred us to last. To stay... young. Fertile. Long after we should have faded." A pause. "It is the one kindness the gods saw fit to grant my family."

He stared. Couldn't stop. His eyes traced the heavy curve of her tits, the shadow beneath them, the soft plane of her stomach, the silver-gold hair between her thighs.

Her chin lifted. The composure flickered.

"I am not the girl I was, Jon. I have borne children. This body has seen..."

"Shut up."

Silence. Then a laugh, bright and startled, breaking out of her like something shaken loose. "Did you just tell the Queen Mother to shut up?"

"Aye."

"You impossible, gruff, ill-mannered..."

He kissed her. Harder than before, one hand gripping her jaw, tilting her face up to meet him. His other hand found her breast, cupped it, squeezed. Heavy and warm, spilling over his palm, the nipple pressing stiff against the heel of his hand. His second hand closed on the other, both tits filling his grip, and he squeezed again.

"Mmmmh." Rhaella moaned into his mouth, her back arching, pressing herself deeper into his hands. Her fingers scrabbled at his jerkin, found the laces, yanked. She broke the kiss long enough to drag the leather over his head, then the linen shirt beneath it, and her nails raked down his bare chest. Ten lines of fire from collarbone to navel. She traced the lean muscle, the dark trail of hair below his belly, and her fingers dropped to his breeches.

She worked the lacing open. Tugged. His cock fell free, thick and heavy, slapping against his stomach. Ten inches of hard flesh, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip.

Rhaella went still.

Her hands stopped. Her breath stopped. Those violet eyes locked on his cock and stayed there, wide, her lips parting.

She wrapped her hand around the shaft. Her fingers stretched, curled, and failed to close. The gap between thumb and fingertip was an inch wide.

"Seven fucking hells." Her voice cracked. The queen's composure shattered clean in half. "The gods have been... very generous with you, sweet boy." She swallowed. "And very, very cruel to me. Because I am going to feel every single inch of this."

"You don't have to."

Rhaella dropped to her knees. The stone was cold beneath her; she didn't flinch. She looked up at him, silver hair spilling over bare shoulders, violet eyes burning, and one corner of her mouth curved.

"Be quiet, Jon."

She took him into her mouth.

Slow. She took him slow, lips stretched wide around the shaft, both hands wrapped where her mouth couldn't reach. Her fingers twisted on the upstroke, slick with spit, and her tongue pressed flat against the underside as she sank down another inch. Then another. Working him deeper with each pass, her jaw aching open, the weight of him filling her mouth until the head nudged the back of her throat.

"Glk." She gagged, pulled back. A thick string of spit connected her lower lip to the tip, broke, landed on her chin. She wiped it with the back of her hand, smearing it, and went back down harder. Deeper. Her throat seized and her eyes burned and she swallowed around him, and the sound that came out of Jon, low and bitten off behind clenched teeth, "Nngh," was worth every second of it.

His hand found her hair. Gentle. Fingers threading through the silver-gold, not pulling, not pushing, just... resting there. Cupping the back of her skull like something precious.

Rhaella looked up.

Violet eyes, wet and shining, locked onto grey. Her lips stretched obscene around his cock, spit glossing her chin, and she held his gaze and swallowed.

"Fuuuck." Ground out through his teeth, barely a word. His stomach clenched, the muscles jumping under his skin.

She pulled off. Both hands still working the shaft, long slow strokes, twisting at the head where he was slickest.

"In thirty years of marriage, nothing even close to this ever crossed my lips." Her voice was raw, roughened. She kissed the side of his cock, open-mouthed, tasting the salt of him. "So you will forgive me if I intend to be... thorough."

"Your mouth is going to finish me before we even start." His jaw barely moved. Every word cost him.

She laughed. The sound vibrated through his cock as she took him back in, cheeks hollowing, tongue flat and dragging along the thick vein on the underside. She bobbed her head, slow and deliberate, and his hips twitched forward, just once, an involuntary jerk he couldn't bite back.

She pulled off with a wet pop. Kissed the leaking tip, soft, almost tender. Looked up at him through damp lashes.

"Sweet boy." Her thumb circled the slit, spreading the slick bead of precum across the swollen head. "You're not finishing yet. I am nowhere near done with you."

He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted. She weighed nothing, or he was too far gone to notice. Rhaella's knees left the cold stone and her back hit the featherbed, silver hair fanning across the dark linen, and before she could draw breath he was on his knees at the edge of the mattress, pushing her thighs apart with both hands.

"What are you..."

"You had your turn."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Those violet eyes went wide, and for one breath the Queen Mother looked like a woman who'd lost the script entirely.

He lowered his mouth to her cunt.

The first stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from slit to clit, and her spine bowed off the bed like she'd been struck. Her hand shot down and fisted in his hair, yanking hard enough to sting, and what came out of her mouth was nothing close to Common Tongue.

"Kostilus, skoros... ñuha..."

He didn't understand a word of it. Didn't need to. Her hips rolled against his face and her fingers twisted tighter in his hair and the taste of her, salt and slick and warm, flooded his tongue. He licked her slow. Thorough. Flat broad strokes that mapped every fold, then tighter circles around her clit, then his lips closing over it and sucking, gentle, steady.

Her thighs clamped around his skull. The soft flesh pressed against his ears and the world narrowed to her pulse hammering against his jaw, the wet sounds of his mouth working, her breathing gone ragged above him.

"In thirty years," her voice shook, cracked at the seams, "nobody has ever..."

He sucked her clit into his mouth and the sentence died. What replaced it was a moan, long and unraveling, torn out of somewhere deeper than her throat. "Uhhhhhn, fuck..."

There. He stayed on it. Tongue circling, lips sealed, the same rhythm over and over because her hips were grinding up into his face and her fingers were pulling his hair hard enough to water his eyes and every sound she made told him exactly where she needed him.

"Jon, I'm... I can't... I'm going to..."

He clamped both hands over her hipbones and pinned her to the mattress. She bucked against his grip and he held her down and kept his mouth where it was, sucking, licking, relentless.

Rhaella came apart.

"AH, FUCK!" Her legs locked around his head, ankles crossed behind his skull, thighs squeezing so tight the world went muffled and dark. Her whole body shook, a full-bodied tremor that started in her belly and rolled outward, her back arched clean off the bed, her fists in his hair pulling him closer and pushing him away at the same time. Wet heat flooded his tongue. He licked through it, slower now, gentler, riding the aftershocks as her hips jerked and stuttered against his mouth.

"Nnh... nnh... nnh..."

He kept going. One more slow pass of his tongue, and her hand slammed against his forehead and shoved.

"Stop." Gasping. Her chest heaved, tits rising and falling, skin flushed pink from throat to navel. "Stop, you... you are trying to kill the Queen Mother."

He lifted his head. His chin was slick, his lips wet, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked up at her from between her trembling thighs.

"Aye. Seemed like a good way to go, Your Grace."

He flipped her. Both hands on her waist, turning her onto her stomach in one clean motion, then gripping her hips and pulling them up until her knees sank into the featherbed and her back curved, ass high, silver hair tangled across her shoulders. The candlelight caught the full round swell of her, the slick shine between her thighs.

Rhaella looked back over her shoulder. Hair wrecked, lips swollen, face flushed from throat to cheekbones. Violet eyes blown dark.

"You had better go slow with that thing, sweet boy. I am not a woman who begs, and I will not start because you split me in half."

He gripped his cock. Lined up. The swollen head pressed against her cunt, slick and hot, and he pushed forward.

Slow. Inch by inch.

Rhaella buried her face in the pillow and the sound that came out was muffled but unmistakable. "FUCK. Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

He stopped. Halfway. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hip, holding himself still while her body clenched and fluttered around him, adjusting, stretching. The wet heat of her squeezed so tight his vision swam.

A breath. Two. Three.

"Move." Her voice came through the pillow, rough and wrecked. "Jon. Move."

He sank the rest of the way in.

Her spine dropped and her fists twisted in the sheets and a sound tore out of her, "Uhhhhhn," long and shaking. He pulled back slow, pushed deep, and found a rhythm. One hand locked on her hip, fingers pressing white into the soft flesh. The other fisted in her silver hair, winding it around his knuckles, pulling her head back just enough to arch her throat.

Every thrust drove a sound out of her. "Mmph." "Ah." "Nnh." Muffled against the linen, bitten off, swallowed. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the chamber, obscene and steady.

He smacked her ass. Open palm, sharp, the crack ringing off stone walls.

"AH!" Her whole body jolted. Her cunt clamped down on his cock so hard his breath caught, and she twisted to look back at him with wild eyes. "Again. Do that again."

He did. Harder. The flesh of her ass rippled and flushed pink under his hand, and she dropped her forehead to the mattress and moaned, a sound that vibrated through the bed frame.

He leaned forward. His chest pressed against her back, his mouth at her ear, his cock buried to the root.

"For a queen," low, barely above a breath, "you take cock like you were born for it."

Her teeth bared. She turned her head, cheek pressed to the pillow, and those violet eyes burned into his from inches away.

"You have no idea what I was born for."

He pulled her hair harder. Her neck arched, throat bared, and he drove into her faster. The rhythm broke from steady into something rougher, hungrier, the bed groaning beneath them, the headboard knocking against the wall in a cadence that would carry through the stone to the corridor outside.

Rhaella's words collapsed. Full sentences to fragments to nothing. "Yes, yes, yes, I... Jon... I can't... nnnh... NNNHH..."

She came screaming into the pillow. Her whole body seized, back bowed, thighs shaking, cunt gripping his cock in waves so tight he had to grit his teeth to keep from following her over. Her fists ripped at the sheets. Her scream broke into something raw and formless, "AHHHHH, FUCK, FUCK," and her hips bucked back against him, grinding, taking every inch while she shattered around it.

Jon didn't slow down.

He pulled out. The sudden emptiness wrenched a broken sound from her, "Nnh, no," and before she could chase it his hands were on her, flipping her onto her back like she weighed nothing. The featherbed bounced. Silver hair whipped across her face, stuck to her lips, to the sweat on her cheeks and throat. Her chest heaved. Skin flushed deep pink from her collarbones to her belly, slick with perspiration, trembling in the low candlelight.

Wrecked. The Queen Mother looked absolutely wrecked.

Jon grabbed her ankles. Pushed her legs up, back, folding her nearly in half until her knees pressed toward her shoulders and her thighs spread wide. He pinned them there with his weight, one hand on each leg, and lined up.

Rhaella's eyes found his. Violet, blown black at the center, wet at the edges.

He sank in.

One stroke. All of it.

Her eyes went wide. Both hands shot to his forearms and her nails bit deep into the muscle, ten crescent moons carved into his skin. The angle in this position, the depth, his cock pressing into places nothing had ever reached.

"Seven... fucking... hells." Each word punched out of her on a separate breath. Her back arched off the mattress and her fingers dug harder, drawing thin lines of red. "That's... Jon, that is... fuck."

He held still for one breath. Let her body clench and flutter around the full length of him, let her adjust to the impossible depth. Then he rolled his hips.

Deep. Heavy. His full weight behind every thrust, pressing her into the featherbed until the frame groaned. Each stroke bottomed out, his pelvis grinding against her clit at the deepest point, and the wet sound of their bodies meeting filled the chamber like a second heartbeat.

"Hngh." Low, guttural, bitten off behind his teeth. She was so tight like this, folded and pinned, her cunt gripping him in a slick vice that made his jaw clench with every stroke.

Rhaella's hands released his arms. Her fingers slid up his shoulders, his neck, and locked behind his skull. She pulled him down, pulled him close, until his forehead pressed against hers and their breath mingled hot and ragged between their mouths.

"I can feel you." A whisper. Shaking. Her lips brushed his with every word. "Jon, I can feel you in my stomach."

"I know."

Her breath hitched. She kissed him. Messy, graceless, her mouth catching the corner of his lips, then finding them fully, tongue sliding against his while his hips drove into her. The kiss broke with every thrust, reformed between them, broke again. Spit and breath and the taste of each other.

"I chose right." Against his mouth. Barely a voice anymore, just a vibration between their lips. "Sweet boy... I chose right."

Something in his chest cracked open. He drove harder. Faster. The bed slammed against the wall, a steady brutal percussion, and his hands gripped the backs of her thighs and pressed them wider, pinning her open beneath him. Each thrust punched a sound out of her, sharp and climbing.

"Ah. Ah. AH. AH."

No pillow to bury it. Nowhere to hide. Her face bare beneath his, mouth open, eyes screwed shut, every sound ripped free and ringing off stone walls. Her legs shook against his shoulders, the thick flesh of her thighs quivering, her heels drumming against his back.

"JON! I'm... I... FUUUUCK!"

She came screaming his name at the ceiling. Her whole body locked, spine bowed, cunt seizing around his cock in violent rhythmic pulses. Her nails raked down his back and her legs clamped against his shoulders and the scream tore into something wordless, "AHHHHH, AHHHHH," raw and shattered and louder than anything that had come before, loud enough to carry through oak and stone and echo in whatever corridor lay beyond.

Her hands hit his chest and shoved. Jon's back struck the featherbed and before he could rise she was over him, one knee on either side of his hips, silver hair falling around her face like a curtain. She planted both palms on his stomach and pinned him there.

"My turn."

Her tits swung heavy as she shifted her weight, nipples flushed dark. Silver hair wild, stuck to her neck, to her jaw, tangled beyond any hope of saving. Those violet eyes, half-lidded, glazed, drunk on something no wine could touch, locked onto his from above.

She reached back. Found his cock. Lined it up.

Sank down. Slow.

Inch by inch, her cunt swallowing him, her thighs shaking with the effort of controlling the descent. Her mouth fell open and her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers curled against his chest, nails biting skin. Halfway. Three quarters. The stretch pulling a low, broken sound from her throat, "Mmmmmnh," climbing in pitch as gravity did the rest and her ass settled flush against his hips.

Every inch. All of it.

"Ohhhhh fuck." Raw. Wrecked. A moan torn from somewhere behind her ribs, long and shuddering, her whole body trembling around the fullness of him. She sat there, impaled, chest heaving, and breathed.

Then she rolled her hips.

Deep, grinding circles, her hands braced on his chest, fingers spread wide over his heartbeat. Each roll dragged his cock against something inside her that made her breath hitch, made her jaw clench, made her grind harder. The wet sound of their bodies shifting together filled the silence between breaths.

Jon's hands found her tits. Cupped them. Squeezed, hard enough that the flesh spilled between his fingers and her back arched, pressing herself deeper into his grip.

"Nnnh, yes..."

She sped up. The grinding broke into something sharper, her hips lifting and dropping, bouncing now, the heavy slap of her ass against his thighs marking time. Her tits swayed with every impact, caught in his hands, and she braced harder against his chest and rode him like she was trying to break something open inside herself.

"I want it." Breathless. Her hips never stopped. "I want you to fill me, Jon. Every drop. Inside me."

His jaw tightened. His hands squeezed her tits harder, thumbs pressing her nipples flat.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

She slammed her hips down and held. Ground against him, clit pressed to his pelvis, his cock buried so deep her stomach clenched.

"I have spent thirty years being told what I do and do not know." Her voice shook but her eyes burned steady. "Give me your cum, sweet boy. I want to feel it for days."

She rode him hard. The bed screamed beneath them, frame jolting, the wet crack of skin on skin so loud it swallowed every other sound in the chamber. Her thighs flexed, powerful, driving her down onto his cock with her full weight, and each impact punched a grunt out of him, "Hngh," "Ngh," bitten off and raw.

Jon grabbed her hips. His fingers sank into the soft flesh, deep enough to bruise, and he planted his feet on the mattress and drove up into her. Meeting her on every downstroke. The collision doubled, their bodies crashing together, and Rhaella's head snapped back and a sound ripped out of her, "AH, AH, AH," sharp and climbing.

Her cunt seized. Her whole body locked above him, spine bowed, mouth open on a silent scream that found its voice a heartbeat later, "JONNNN," and she clamped down on his cock so hard the pressure broke him.

He came. His hips drove up one final time and held, buried to the root, and his cock pulsed inside her. Thick ropes flooding her, filling her, each pulse drawing a groan from his chest, "Fuuuuck," guttural and shattered. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave ten bruises and his vision went white at the edges.

Rhaella ground down through it. Slow, deliberate circles, her cunt milking every pulse, every drop, her eyes open and locked on his. Violet into grey. She watched him come apart beneath her the way she'd watched him hold himself together for three weeks, with those knowing, burning, impossible eyes, and she didn't look away.

His cock kept pulsing. Load after thick load, more than she'd expected, her eyes widening just slightly as the warmth spread inside her and his hips jerked with each aftershock.

She leaned down. His cock still buried inside her, still twitching, still leaking the last of it. Her tits pressed against his chest and her hair fell around them both and her mouth found his.

Slow. Tender. The kiss of a woman who had all the time in the world and intended to use it. Her lips moved against his, soft and unhurried, and his hand came up and cradled the back of her skull, fingers lost in silver-gold.

She pulled back. Just far enough to speak, her lips still brushing his.

"I am keeping you, Jon Stone." Quiet. Certain. Her thumb traced the scar above his eyebrow. "Whatever name you carry, whatever you're running from. You are mine now."

Five minutes. Maybe less.

Rhaella lay on her back with her eyes closed, chest still heaving, his cum warm and thick inside her. One hand rested on her stomach. The other lay open on the sheets, palm up, fingers curled loose. Spent. Satisfied. Done.

Jon rolled her over.

Her eyes flew open as his hands gripped her hips and turned her onto her stomach, and then his cock pressed against her cunt, still hard, still thick, sliding through the slick mess of his own cum, and pushed inside.

"Hhhhh... what..." She twisted to look back at him, silver hair stuck to her cheek, violet eyes wide. "How are you still... Jon, you just..."

"I know."

"That amount should have drained a warhorse."

"Aye." He sank deeper. Her back arched and her fingers clawed the sheets. "Don't have an answer for you."

"You... nnh... you impossible..."

He covered her. His full weight pressing her flat into the featherbed, chest to her back, hips flush against her ass, his cock buried to the root. His mouth found the curve of her neck and his teeth scraped the skin there, tongue tasting salt and the fading ghost of rosewater.

Rhaella's face dropped into the pillow. "Mmmmph."

Slow. He kept it slow this time. Long, grinding strokes that barely pulled out before pressing deep again, his pelvis rolling against the swell of her ass, the wet sound of their bodies muffled by the sheets bunched between them. His hand slid beneath her, found her breast, squeezed. Her nipple pressed stiff into his palm.

"You're going to ruin me." Muffled. Into linen and feathers. "You understand that. You are going to absolutely ruin me."

His lips brushed her ear. "Aye."

"Is that all you can say?"

"Aye." He thrust deep and held. Her whole body shuddered beneath him.

"I hate you, Jon Stone."

"You're squeezing my cock so hard I can't breathe. You don't hate me."

A sound, half laugh, half moan, buried in the pillow. He kept grinding. Slow. Relentless. His weight pinning her flat, her hips unable to move, unable to do anything but take each stroke as he gave it. Her fingers found his forearm braced beside her head and gripped, nails biting skin.

She came quiet. A long, shuddering exhale, her body clenching around him in slow waves, her teeth sinking into the pillow to trap the sound. He kissed the back of her neck and kept moving.

Later. On her side, her back pressed against his chest, one leg hooked over his thigh. His arm wrapped beneath her, his hand cupping her breast, and she held his forearm against her body with both hands like an anchor. He rocked into her from behind, slow, deep, grinding circles that made the bed creak in a lazy rhythm.

"How many is that." Her voice had gone hoarse. Raw.

"Lost count."

"Liar. You count everything. I've watched you count the steps between doorways."

His mouth pressed against her shoulder. A smile she couldn't see. "Five. For you. Maybe six."

"Mmnh." She pressed her face against his arm, her lips warm on his skin. "I stopped feeling my legs after the fourth."

He rolled his hips. She shuddered, a full-body tremor, and her cunt clenched around him.

"Nnh... nnh..." Quiet. Almost silent. Her breath hitching against his arm, her fingers tightening on his forearm, her body curling inward as she came again with her face pressed into the crook of his elbow. A private thing. Small and shaking and entirely hers.

He came inside her for the second time with his face buried in her hair, his groan low and broken, "Fuuuck," his cock pulsing thick ropes into her already flooded cunt. She whimpered at the warmth of it, the fullness, her hips pressing back against him to take every drop.

They shifted. Tangled. Found new angles in the dark as the candles burned down to nothing, one by one, until only two remained. He took her on her back with her legs wrapped around his waist, slow and deep, his forehead against hers, breathing the same air. Took her from behind again, her hands braced against the headboard, his fingers laced through hers, pinning them to the wood.

The third time he came, she sobbed. A single, sharp sound, "Ah, gods," as the heat flooded her again, thick as the first, thick as the second, and her body seized around him in an orgasm she hadn't seen coming, one that ripped through her like a wave breaking over stone.

Grey light crept through the windows. Dawn, pale and thin, replacing candlelight with something colder. The last candle guttered and died.

Rhaella lay in his arms. Her head on his chest, silver hair fanned across his skin, one hand resting over his heartbeat. His cum leaked slow and thick down her inner thighs, pooling on the linen beneath them. Her body ached everywhere. Hips, thighs, the tender flesh between her legs, the bruises his fingers had pressed into her skin. Every muscle wrung out and trembling.

She smiled. Wide. Unguarded. The kind of smile that reached her eyes and stayed there, crinkling the faint lines at their corners, and she pressed her lips to his chest and breathed him in. Steel and woodsmoke and sex.

"I am going to be useless at court today." Murmured against his skin. "The entire small council will know. I'll walk in and they'll see it on my face."

"You could stay in bed."

"Mmm. With you in it?"

"Aye."

"Then I am never leaving this room." She kissed his chest again. Settled deeper against him. Her breathing slowed, evened, and within minutes she was asleep, her body heavy and warm and trusting in a way that tightened something behind his ribs.

Jon lay awake.

The ceiling of Maegor's Holdfast stared back at him, grey stone crosshatched with shadows. His grandmother's breath rose and fell against his chest. His grandmother's cum-slicked thighs pressed against his leg. His grandmother's silver hair, Targaryen hair, the same blood as his blood, tangled across his body like a net.

Grandmother.

The word sat in his skull like a stone dropped in still water. Rhaella Targaryen. Mother of Rhaegar. Rhaegar, who'd taken Lyanna. Lyanna, who'd borne Jon. The line drew itself clean and unbroken, and at both ends of it lay the two people currently tangled naked in this bed.

He stared at the ceiling. A crack ran through one of the stones, thin as a hair, branching near the corner. He traced it with his eyes and tried to think about anything else.

Her hand shifted on his chest. Fingers curling in her sleep, nails scratching lightly through the hair there. She murmured something in High Valyrian, soft and shapeless, and pressed closer.

How did I get here?

No answer came from the ceiling. The crack in the stone offered nothing. Dawn brightened by slow degrees, and Jon lay still beneath the weight of a woman whose blood was his blood, whose body still hummed warm against his, whose smile he could still see even with her eyes closed, and he stared at the grey stone overhead and had no answer at all.

Rhaella swept into the solar like a woman reborn.

Black silk edged in Targaryen red, cut low enough to frame the full swell of her tits and cinched tight at the waist before falling in heavy folds to the floor. Her silver-gold hair was half gathered in a loose knot at her crown, the rest cascading down her back in waves that caught the morning light from the tall windows. Her spine was straight as a blade. Her skin glowed, luminous, flushed with something deeper than rouge. And her mouth, those full lips, carried a private smile she couldn't seem to kill no matter how hard she pressed them together.

Elia's teacup stopped halfway to her lips.

Rhaella settled into the chair across from her, arranged her skirts, and reached for the pot. Poured. Sipped. The smile stayed.

"Who are you," Elia said, "and what have you done with the Queen Mother?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You look like you bathed in the Fountain of Youth and drank what was left." Elia set her cup down. The thin gold chains threaded through her Dornish braids clinked against her collarbone as she leaned forward. "Yesterday you had shadows under your eyes deep enough to plant seeds in. Today you're glowing like a bride on her wedding morning. What happened?"

"A good night's sleep." Rhaella sipped her tea. "I've been told it does wonders."

"Rhaella….."

"Truly. I slept very well. The mattress was... particularly comfortable."

Elia's dark eyes narrowed. Her fingers drummed the table, rings clicking against wood. "You have been miserable for months. I have watched you drag yourself through court like a woman attending her own funeral in slow increments. And now you walk in here looking ten years younger with a smile you can't wipe off your face, and you want me to believe it was the mattress."

"The pillows helped."

"I will throw this tea at you."

Rhaella laughed. Full, warm, startled out of her, and the sound alone confirmed everything Elia suspected, because Rhaella Targaryen had not laughed like that since before Aerys died.

"Fine." Rhaella set her cup down. Leaned in. Her voice dropped to something meant for confessionals and bedchambers. "His name is Jon. He's on my personal guard."

Elia's eyebrows climbed.

"He's nineteen. Northern. Built like a siege weapon someone wrapped in leather and taught manners."

"Rhaella."

"His cock is ten inches long and thick enough that my hand cannot close around it."

Elia's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"He put his mouth on me and I spoke High Valyrian for the first time in twenty years. I didn't even know I remembered the words." Rhaella's fingers traced the rim of her cup, slow circles. "He ate my cunt like it was his last meal on this earth, Elia. Like he'd been starving. Like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to want. In thirty years of marriage, Aerys never once... not once..."

"How many times?"

"I lost count after the sixth. He didn't."

"Six." Elia's voice went flat with disbelief. Her hands stilled on the table.

"For me. He finished three times. Each load..." Rhaella paused, and the smile crept back, wider, wicked. "I was still leaking at dawn. Thick as cream. I could feel it with every step walking here."

"Seven on the star…..."

"He went until the sun came up." Rhaella lifted her tea. "And when the light hit the bed, he was still hard. I could have gone another round. My legs simply refused."

Elia sat back in her chair. Her lips parted, her dark eyes wide, both hands flat on the table. The morning light caught the faint freckles across her nose, the beauty mark below her collarbone where her Dornish silk dipped low. She stared at Rhaella and said nothing.

The silence stretched. Elia's gaze dropped to her tea. Her thumb traced the ceramic edge, back and forth, and something behind her expression shifted. The playful shock drained away, replaced by something quieter. Hungrier. Sadder.

Rhaegar hadn't come to her bed in four months. Five, if she counted the night he'd entered her chamber, sat on the edge of the mattress reading that damned prophecy scroll, and left without touching her. She'd lain awake after, staring at the ceiling, her body aching for something as simple as a hand on her hip. A mouth on her neck. Anything.

"Elia?"

She looked up. Wet her lips.

"Would you consider..." She stopped. Started again, her Dornish lilt thickening around the edges. "If I were to ask. Hypothetically. Whether your Jon might be... borrowed. For a night or two."

Rhaella went still. Her violet eyes searched Elia's face, tracing the careful composure, the set jaw, the hunger sitting just behind the pride. Something softened in her expression.

"My son is a fool." Quiet. Certain. "I have watched him neglect you for months, Elia. You sit at his table and sleep in his bed and he treats you like furniture he's forgotten to move. You deserve better than what Rhaegar has given you."

Elia's throat worked. Her fingers curled around her teacup.

"You may have Jon. With my full blessing." Rhaella reached across the table and covered Elia's hand with hers. Warm. Steady. "And I mean that, sweetling. Whatever you need from him, however many nights it takes."

"Thank you." Barely above a whisper. Elia squeezed back, her dark eyes bright.

Rhaella's mouth curved. She lifted her tea, sipped, and those violet eyes glinted over the rim.

"Thank me after."

The knock came at sundown.

Jon's quarters were a guardsman's cell in the lower tier of Maegor's Holdfast. Stone walls, a narrow bed, a washstand, a rack for his sword and leathers. He'd been sitting on the edge of the mattress unlacing his boots when the sound cut through the silence, two sharp raps, confident.

He opened the door.

Elia Martell stood in the corridor wearing Dornish silk the color of sunset, orange bleeding into gold, the fabric cut low enough across her chest that the full swell of her tits pressed against the neckline like a dare. Her dark hair was split between two intricate braids wound tight against her temples and the rest falling loose to the small of her back, raven-dark with auburn catching the torchlight. Thin gold chains threaded through the braids clinked softly as she tilted her head and looked up at him. The beauty mark below her left collarbone sat just above the silk's edge, a punctuation mark on warm olive skin.

She smelled like blood orange and jasmine. She smiled like trouble.

"Rhaella sent me." She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "And you know why."

Jon stared at her.

He absolutely did not know why.

"Your Grace..."

"Don't play coy, sweetling. It doesn't suit that jaw." Her dark eyes traced his face, amused. "Rhaella told me everything."

His expression went flat. The kind of flat that, on a different man, might have preceded violence. On Jon it preceded a very long silence.

"What exactly did she tell you."

Elia stepped past him into the room. He didn't remember moving aside, but she was inside now, trailing her fingers along the edge of his washstand, surveying his quarters with the casual authority of a woman who'd grown up in palaces.

"She told me about the size." She turned. Her eyes dropped below his belt, then climbed back to his face. "Thick enough that her hand couldn't close. Ten inches, give or take whatever a queen's modesty rounds down."

"Your Grace..."

"She told me about the stamina. Three times you finished. Six times she did. Until dawn, Jon. Dawn." Elia's fingers found the gold chain at her throat and traced it. "She told me about the sounds she made. High Valyrian, apparently. She hadn't spoken it in twenty years and you fucked it out of her."

His jaw locked so tight a muscle jumped beneath his ear.

"My husband," and the word landed like a stone dropped from a height, "has not touched me in four months. Five, if we're being honest, and I am always honest about the things that wound me." She closed the distance between them. Close enough that the scent of her filled his lungs, warm and spiced, close enough that he could count the freckles scattered across her nose. Those dark eyes held his, and beneath the playful surface something raw and hungry stared back. "I want what Rhaella had. Every inch of it."

Jon opened his mouth.

Closed it.

His hand came up and pressed against his forehead. He looked at the ceiling, the narrow stone cell he slept in, the rack holding a borrowed sword, the boots half-unlaced on the floor.

"How is this my life."

Elia laughed. Bright and real, the sound bouncing off stone walls, her head tipping back and the gold chains in her hair catching torchlight. Her whole face changed when she laughed, the careful composure cracking into something warm and wild and entirely Dornish.

"You can brood about it later." She reached up and pressed both palms flat against his chest, fingers spread wide over the linen. Her thumbs traced the muscle beneath. "Right now I need you to take this off." She gathered the fabric in her fists and tugged. "And take care of a queen."

He pulled the linen over his head and tossed it on the bed.

Elia's hands landed on his chest before the shirt hit the mattress. Her palms pressed flat against his skin, warm and small, and she dragged them down. Slow. Over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, fingers tracing the dark trail of hair below his navel. A low hum rolled out of her throat, vibrating against her closed lips.

"Mmmmh." Her thumbs swept the grooves above his hips. "Rhaella wasn't exaggerating. About any of it." Those dark eyes climbed his body like a staircase she intended to take her time on. "I thought she was being generous. The woman hasn't had a decent fuck in thirty years, her standards could be on the floor. But no." Her nails dragged lightly back up his stomach. "She was being modest."

"She talked about more than my chest."

"She talked about everything, sweetling. I'm getting there…." Her fingers found his lacing. Tugged. Worked the knot loose with quick, sure hands, and yanked the breeches open.

His cock fell free. Thick, heavy, already half-hard and swelling against his thigh. The weight of it pulled it down before it stiffened further, flushed dark, the veins standing out along the shaft.

Elia went still.

Her hands stopped on his hips. Her breath caught, a small hitch in her chest, and those dark eyes locked on his cock and stayed there. Her lips parted. The gold chains in her braids clinked once in the silence.

She wrapped her hand around him. Small olive fingers stretching, curling, the tips straining toward her thumb and falling short by more than an inch. The heat of him pulsed against her palm.

"Yneroh va si rhoy." The Rhoynish spilled out of her rough and unfiltered. She looked up at him, dark eyes wide, her hand still gripping his shaft like she needed to confirm it was real. "I take it back. Every kind thought I ever had about the Mother's mercy. Every prayer, every candle, every copper I dropped in the sept." Her thumb swept the underside and his cock twitched in her grip. "This isn't a blessing, Jon. This is punishment. This is the gods looking at some poor woman and saying, you will weep."

"You don't have to..."

"Shut up." She dropped to her knees. The stone was bare and cold beneath her and she didn't spare it a glance. Both hands wrapped around his shaft, stacked, and there was still cock above her top fist. She looked up at him through dark lashes, lips parted, and opened her mouth.

She took him in sloppy. No preamble, no teasing, just her lips stretching wide around the head and a wet, graceless sound as spit flooded her mouth and slicked the shaft. "Mmph." Her jaw ached open, wider, the girth forcing it, and she sank down another inch and gagged.

"Glk." She pulled back. A thick rope of spit swung from her lower lip to the tip of his cock, broke, landed on her chin and the swell of her tits above her neckline. She didn't wipe it. She went back down. Harder.

Both hands twisted on the shaft, slick and sliding, wringing him in opposite directions while her mouth worked the swollen head. Her tongue pressed flat, circled, lapped at the slit where he was already leaking. The wet sounds filled the narrow cell, obscene, echoing off stone. Sucking. Slurping. The thick click of spit in her throat as she tried to take more and choked on it.

"Fuuuck." Low. Bitten off behind his teeth. His hand found her hair, fingers sliding through the loose waves between the braids.

Elia looked up. Dark eyes streaming, spit glossing her chin, her lips stretched obscene around his cock, and she hummed. The vibration ran through him like a current and his stomach clenched.

She pulled off with a wet pop. Both hands still stroking, fast, twisting, spit everywhere. Her voice came out wrecked and grinning.

"Four months, Jon." She kissed the side of his shaft, open-mouthed, tongue dragging along the thick vein. "Four months of an empty bed and a husband who'd rather read prophecy than fuck his wife." She took the head back into her mouth, cheeks hollowing, and sucked hard enough that his hips jerked forward. "Mmmmph." She gagged, laughed around his cock, the sound wet and broken, and kept going.

She pulled off gasping, her chest heaving, and three thick strings of spit swung between her lips and the swollen head of his cock, catching torchlight before they broke and landed wet on her chin, her collarbone, the olive skin above her neckline.

Elia dipped lower. Her mouth found his balls, heavy and drawn tight, and she sucked one past her lips with a soft, greedy sound. Her tongue rolled it, pressed it against the roof of her mouth, and her hand kept working his shaft above, slick fingers twisting on every upstroke. She released the first and took the second, her lips sealing warm and wet around it, tonguing the sensitive skin while her fist squeezed and stroked.

"Nnnngh." Jon's hand shot out and gripped the edge of the washstand. The wood creaked under his fingers. His head dropped back, jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing taut.

"Mmmmh." She hummed against him, the vibration rolling through his balls, up through his cock, into the base of his spine. Her dark eyes flicked up, half-lidded, watching his face from below. She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing the wet skin.

"In Dorne we have a saying, sweetling." Her breath ghosted warm across him. Her hand never stopped. "If you're going to kneel, kneel properly. We don't do anything halfway."

She licked a slow stripe from his balls to the base of his shaft, then swallowed him again. Deeper this time. Her jaw stretched, aching, and she pressed forward until the head hit the back of her throat and kept going. Her eyes burned, tears gathering at the corners, spilling down her cheeks in thin wet lines that carved through the spit already drying on her skin. The wet choking sounds filled the cell, thick and obscene, and she bobbed her head with her fists braced on his thighs, taking him deeper on every pass.

"You keep that up," ground out through his teeth, his knuckles white on the washstand, "you're going to make me finish down your throat."

Elia pulled off. Slow, deliberate, letting the head drag across her tongue before it left her lips with a slick pop. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing spit and precum across her knuckles, and looked up at him. Tears on her cheeks. Lips swollen and glossy. Those dark eyes sharp as a blade beneath the wreckage.

"Not yet." She cupped his face in both hands and pulled him down until their foreheads nearly touched. "I have very specific plans for where you finish, Jon. And my throat isn't it."

He lifted her. Both hands gripping her waist, fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her hips, and set her on the edge of the narrow bed. The mattress dipped under her weight. Before she could settle he pressed both palms flat against her inner thighs and pushed them apart, the Dornish silk riding up past her knees, bunching at her hips.

"I didn't come here for foreplay, sweetling." Her hands landed on his wrists. "I came here for that cock."

"Enjoy yourself first."

"I don't need..."

He slid two fingers inside her.

Elia's mouth snapped shut. His fingers sank to the second knuckle with no resistance, her cunt slick and swollen, soaked through before he'd even touched her. The wet sound of it filled the narrow cell.

Four months. Her body answered the question her pride wouldn't ask.

He curled his fingers. Found the spot, the textured swell along the front wall, and pressed. His thumb settled over her clit, circling slow, and he worked her with a steady rhythm that matched her breathing. Slow. Patient. Reading every twitch of her hips, every shift in her thighs.

Elia's hand shot to the sheets. Fisted. Her head dropped back and her jaw clenched and the bravado cracked clean down the middle like dropped pottery.

"Rhaegar never..." Her voice broke. The Dornish lilt bled thick through the fracture. "He never once... nnh... not with his hands, not with his mouth, not once in eight years of marriage..."

Jon said nothing. He added a third finger.

"AH." Her back arched off the mattress, spine curving, her tits straining against the silk. Three fingers stretching her, filling her, his thumb still circling her clit in those maddening slow passes. Her cunt clenched around him, wet and tight, and the sound of his hand working her was obscene in the quiet room. Slick. Rhythmic. Undeniable.

He watched her. Grey eyes tracking the flush climbing her throat, the way her lips parted, the way her hips started rocking up to meet his hand. When she chased him he gave her more. Faster. Deeper. His fingers curling on every stroke, thumb pressing harder, matching the pace her body begged for.

"I hate you." Mid-moan, the words tangled with a sound that climbed out of her chest. "Mmmmnh, I hate you for being this good at this, you miserable Northern..."

"You don't sound like you hate it."

"I swear on every god in Dorne I will..."

He pressed his thumb down hard on her clit and ground.

The sentence died. Her mouth stayed open, shaped around a word that never came, and what replaced it was a sound torn from somewhere below her ribs, raw and climbing. "Ah... AH... AHHH..."

Elia came on his fingers. Loud. Her thighs slammed shut around his hand, trapping it, the soft flesh squeezing his wrist. Her whole body seized, hips bucking up off the mattress, fists ripping at the sheets, and the sounds that poured out of her were half Common Tongue and half something older. "Valar si, noh rhoyne, FUCK, fueroh va..." Rhoynish and profanity braided together, spilling from her lips while her cunt pulsed around his fingers in hard, rhythmic waves.

He kept his hand where it was. Fingers buried inside her, still, letting her body clench and flutter and squeeze through every aftershock. His thumb rested light against her clit, barely touching, just enough to draw one more shudder out of her each time her breathing started to slow.

Elia lay on his narrow bed, trembling. Her chest heaved, the silk twisted and rucked up around her waist, her braids half undone against the thin pillow. Sweat sheened on her collarbones. Her thighs still twitched around his wrist.

"I am going to murder your king." Panting. Each word cost her a breath. "I am going to walk into his chambers and strangle him with his own prophecy scroll for never... in eight years... for never once..."

Her hand found his forearm. Gripped. Her dark eyes opened, wet at the edges, blazing.

"The old gods and the new sent you, Jon. Both of them. Every god in every faith looked down at Elia Martell's empty bed and said, enough."

His mouth curved. One corner, barely there, but Elia caught it before his hands closed on her waist and the room spun.

He flipped her like she weighed nothing. Stomach down, the thin mattress rough against her cheek, and then his palms gripped her hips and hauled them up until her knees found purchase and her back dipped. The Dornish silk bunched uselessly around her ribs. Cool air hit the slick heat between her thighs.

Elia twisted to look back at him. Braids wrecked, gold chains tangled in dark hair plastered to her neck, her face flushed from cheekbones to collarbones. Her lips were still swollen. Her eyes were still burning. But something shifted in them when she glanced down at his cock, thick and glistening with her spit, and her tongue swept her lower lip.

"Slow." The bravado thinned at the edges. "I mean it, Jon. I had that thing in my throat and my jaw is still aching. I am shorter than you and I am not built for..."

He lined up. The swollen head pressed against her cunt, parting her, and pushed forward.

One inch. Her fingers curled into the sheets. Two. Her breath caught. Three, four, the stretch pulling her open around the thick shaft, wet and impossibly tight, and her mouth fell wide. Five. Six. His hands locked on her hips, holding her still, feeding her every inch in one slow, relentless slide until his pelvis pressed flush against the round swell of her ass and his balls hung heavy against her clit.

All of it. Every inch buried in her small body.

Elia slammed her face into the mattress and screamed. "FUUUUCK!" Muffled by linen, ripped raw from somewhere below her lungs, her fists twisting the sheets white. Her cunt seized around him so tight his jaw clenched and his vision narrowed.

He held still. Both hands on her hips, fingers pressing deep into the warm olive skin, his cock throbbing inside her while her body clenched and fluttered and tried to make sense of the fullness.

A breath. Two. Her shoulders shook.

"Move." Into the mattress, barely a word. "Jon, move. And if you ask me if I'm alright I will find a knife in this room and I will put it somewhere you treasure."

He pulled back. Slow. Pushed deep. Her whole body rocked forward on the narrow bed, and the sound that left her was low and broken and half-swallowed by linen. He did it again. Deeper. Finding the bottom of her on every stroke, his hips meeting the soft flesh of her ass with a wet slap that echoed off stone.

Steady. Building. Each thrust a fraction harder than the last, a fraction faster, the rhythm tightening like a rope being wound. The bed frame groaned beneath them. Elia's small frame took every inch, her back arching deeper, her knees spreading wider on the thin mattress, and the wet sounds of his cock driving into her filled the guardsman's cell.

"You're splitting me in half." Through her teeth, her cheek pressed to the sheets, dark eyes squeezed shut. Her voice cracked on the last word and came back sharper. "Don't you dare stop."

His hand found her braids. What was left of them, dark hair tangled with gold chains, and he wound them around his fist and pulled. Her head snapped back, throat bared, spine curving into a deep arch that changed the angle of everything.

"AHHHHH!" High. Loud. Ringing off the stone walls of his tiny cell, a sound that would carry through the door and down the corridor and she didn't care. Her cunt clamped down on his cock and her hips bucked back into him, greedy, chasing the depth.

"For a woman who complained about the size," low, ground out between thrusts, his fist tightening in her hair, "your cunt is gripping my cock like you never want me to leave."

Her laugh came out broken, half-moan, half-breath. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetling." Her register cracked wide open, the Dornish lilt dissolving into something raw and graceless. "My body doesn't know what my mind thinks. It's... nnh... it's a traitor..."

He smacked her ass. Open palm, hard, the crack sharp as a whip in the small room. The flesh of her round ass rippled and flushed dark under his hand.

Elia came. Short, sharp, her whole body locking rigid, cunt seizing in fast violent pulses around his cock. Her fists ripped at the sheets and her teeth bared and the sound that tore out of her was his name wrapped in every curse two languages could offer.

"Jon, you... FUCK... Jon... noh rhoyne va si... you absolute bastard..."

He drove into her. Three more strokes, each one harder than the last, the narrow bed slamming against the stone wall, and Elia's broken curses dissolved into a sound that was just breath and vowels. Then he pulled out.

The sudden emptiness wrenched a whimper from her. Before she could chase it, his hands were on her, flipping her onto her back, and then he was behind her, lifting her, his arms hooking under her knees and pulling them up, back, wide. His hands locked behind her neck. Her legs pinned open over his forearms, her spine pressed against his chest, her petite body folded in half and spread so wide the cool air of the cell kissed every slick, swollen inch of her cunt.

Elia looked down at herself. Looked at the obscene spread of her own thighs, the wet mess between them, her tits heaving above her folded stomach.

"You filthy, barbaric, Northern animal." Her voice shook. "This position is... Jon, this is obscene, I look like a Lyseni pleasure house illustration, you cannot possibly..."

He pushed back inside her.

Her eyes rolled. White. Gone. Her head fell back against his shoulder and her mouth opened on a sound that started as words and ended as nothing, just a long, shattered "Uhhhhhhhn" that vibrated through her chest into his.

He bounced her on his cock.

Each thrust lifted her off his lap, gravity and his arms bringing her back down onto the full length of him, the angle so deep his cock pressed against something inside her that sent white sparks across her vision. The wet slap of their bodies filled the cell, loud, rhythmic, obscene. Her tits bounced with every impact, heavy and swaying, and she couldn't close her legs, couldn't shift her hips, couldn't do anything but take it.

"Jon... Jon... nnh... va si rhoy... fuck... fueroh..."

Fragments. His name and pieces of Rhoynish tangled with moans that climbed higher with every stroke. Her hands clawed at his forearms where they locked behind her neck, nails scoring the skin, but she couldn't get leverage, couldn't move, could only hang in his grip while he fucked up into her.

"He never..." Barely a voice. Wrecked, slurring, the Dornish lilt so thick the Common Tongue bent under it. "Rhaegar never... not once... never even tried to make me feel... nnh... nnh... like this..."

Jon's jaw clenched. His arms tightened around her, pulling her legs wider, driving deeper.

"Don't say his name." Through his teeth, low and rough against her ear. "Not while I'm inside you."

Her mouth curved. The ghost of a laugh, sharp and Dornish, forming behind her lips. "Jealous, sweet..."

He slammed up into her. Hard. The full length buried to the root, his pelvis grinding against her clit, and the laugh shattered into a scream.

"AHHHHH! FUCK! FUCK!"

She came. The orgasm ripped through her like something with teeth, her whole body seizing in his grip, legs shaking against his arms, cunt clamping down on his cock in violent, rhythmic pulses. Her head thrashed against his shoulder and her nails drew blood from his forearms and the sounds that tore out of her were raw and animal and louder than anything she'd planned, louder than anything she'd told herself this would be. "JONNNN! Noh... va... AHHHHH!" Rhoynish and screaming and his name braided into one long, breaking sound that bounced off every stone wall in the tiny cell.

He held her. Arms locked, legs pinned, her shaking body cradled against his chest while the orgasm rolled through her in wave after wave. His cock stayed buried inside her, thick and throbbing, and he didn't stop. His hips kept moving. Slow now, grinding, each roll pressing into her oversensitive cunt and pulling another shudder from her, another broken "nnh," another twitch of her thighs against his arms.

Tears streaked her cheeks. Her chest heaved. Her whole body trembled in his grip like a bowstring cut loose, and she turned her face into his neck and breathed, hot and ragged against his skin, her lips forming words she couldn't finish.

He kept going.

His hips snapped up. Harder. Faster. Each thrust bouncing her small body in his grip, the wet crack of skin filling the cell like a drumbeat, and Elia's broken fragments dissolved into a single climbing sound that rose and rose and kept rising.

"Your cock... nnh... your fucking cock, Jon... I can feel it in my chest... I can feel you everywhere..."

He drove up into her and held. Ground his pelvis against her clit. Her whole body went rigid, locked tight, every muscle seizing at once, and then something broke.

She squirted. A hot rush flooding his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath them, her cunt clenching in violent spasms around his shaft while her mouth stretched open on a sound that wasn't a scream and wasn't a word but something between both, raw and animal and ripped from the floor of her. "AHHHHH... FUUUUCK... JONNNN..." Her thighs shook against his forearms, trembling so hard the vibration ran through his chest, and the wet poured out of her in a second wave, soaking his stomach, dripping onto the mattress in a spreading dark stain.

"Mmmmnh... gods... what did you..." Slurring. Gone. Her head lolled against his shoulder and her body twitched with aftershocks, cunt still pulsing weak and fluttering around his cock. "That cock... that impossible, gods-cursed, beautiful cock... I didn't even know I could..."

He lowered her. Slow. Her back hit the thin mattress and her legs fell open, boneless, and she lay there. Wrecked. Shaking. Soaked from navel to mid-thigh, the Dornish silk rucked uselessly around her ribs, her braids destroyed beyond recognition, dark hair plastered to her neck and jaw in wet tangles, gold chains caught in the wreckage like shipwreck debris. Her eyes found his, glazed, the dark brown gone soft and unfocused.

He pushed her legs up. Back. His palms pressing behind her knees, folding her small body in half until her thighs pressed against her tits and her cunt opened slick and swollen beneath him. He settled his weight over her. Chest to chest, his hips between her spread thighs, and sank in.

Deep. All of it. One stroke that bottomed out and pressed her into the thin mattress until the frame groaned. His full weight bearing down on her petite frame, pinning her, covering her completely.

"Ohhhh..." Low. Shattered. Her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him close, pulled him down until his forehead pressed against hers and their breath mixed hot and ragged. Her legs hooked over his shoulders, ankles crossing behind his head, locking him in.

He fucked her slow. Heavy. Each stroke pulling back to the tip and driving home, bottoming out with his full weight, his pelvis grinding against her clit at the deepest point. The narrow bed creaked beneath them. Her body took every inch, tight and flooded and clenching around him in weak aftershock pulses that squeezed his cock on every pass.

Her hands slid up his neck, into his hair. Her lips brushed his. Barely touching. Sharing breath.

"Cum inside me." A whisper. Her lips moving against his, shaping the words into his mouth.

His hips stilled. One beat. His jaw tightened.

"That's dangerous."

Her fingers curled in his hair. Those glazed dark eyes sharpened, just enough, finding focus through the wreckage.

"I know it is." Quiet. Raw. The Dornish lilt stripped bare, no playfulness left, no bravado, just her voice cracked open to the marrow. "I want it anyway. I want to feel you, Jon. Every drop. I want you to fill me until it's running down my thighs and I can still feel it tomorrow when I sit across from him at breakfast."

Her thumb traced his jaw. Her lips trembled against his.

"And if the gods are good..." Barely a sound. Her eyes burned wet at the edges, bright and fierce and aching. "Maybe you give me what Rhaegar stopped bothering to."

Something behind his eyes shifted. The grey went dark, the jaw set, and whatever restraint he'd been rationing burned away.

He drove into her. Hard. The narrow bed slammed against the stone wall and Elia's breath punched out of her in a sharp "AH," her nails raking up his back. He pulled back to the tip and slammed home again, deeper, his full weight behind it, the wet crack of their bodies filling the tiny cell.

"Nnh... fuck... Jon..."

Again. Harder. Each stroke bottoming out with a force that rocked her small frame up the mattress, her tits bouncing with every impact, her thighs shaking where they pressed against her chest. The bed groaned beneath them. The headboard cracked against stone in a rhythm that matched her climbing voice.

She grabbed his face. Both hands, small and desperate, cupping his jaw, pulling his mouth down to hers. The kiss was messy, graceless, broken by every thrust. Her teeth caught his lip. His tongue found hers. She moaned into his mouth, "Mmmmnh," the sound vibrating between them, and he swallowed it and gave her another stroke that made her spine arch off the thin mattress.

"Harder." Against his lips. Barely a word, just breath shaped into command.

He obeyed. His hips snapped forward with a force that drove the air from her lungs, and she kissed him through it, her fingers twisting in his hair, her mouth chasing his every time a thrust broke them apart. Spit slicked their lips. Her tongue swept across his lower lip and he bit down, gentle, and her cunt clenched so hard around him his rhythm stuttered.

"Jon." Into his mouth. Her lips trembling against his, her eyes open, dark and burning and wet at the edges. Her hands slid from his jaw to the back of his skull and held him there, foreheads touching, noses brushing, breath tangling hot and ragged in the inch between their mouths. "Give me everything." The Dornish lilt cracked wide open, raw as a wound. "Every drop. All of it. I want all of it."

His hips drove forward one last time and held. Buried. Every inch. His cock pulsed and the first thick rope flooded her, hot and heavy, and a groan tore out of his chest, "Fuuuuck, Elia," her name ground out like something dragged across gravel.

Her eyes went wide. She gasped against his mouth, a sharp "Ah," as the heat spread inside her, pulse after pulse, his cock throbbing deep in her cunt. Her legs unhooked from his shoulders and wrapped around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and she pulled. Her heels dug into his ass and dragged him deeper, closer, sealing their bodies flush. No space. No escape.

"I can feel it." Shaking. Her lips moving against his, shaping words between his panting breaths. "I can feel every... nnh... Jon, you're still..."

Another pulse. Thick. Heavy. His cock jerked inside her and her whole body clenched in response, her cunt gripping him in a sudden, violent squeeze that ripped a broken sound from both of them at once.

"Don't move." Her legs tightened. Iron. Her small body locked around him, arms and legs and the slick grip of her cunt, holding him buried while his cock kept pulsing, kept flooding her, the warmth spreading deep and full until it seeped around the base of his shaft and slicked her thighs. "Don't you dare move."

He didn't. His arms shook where they braced on either side of her head. His stomach clenched with each aftershock, his cock twitching, and every twitch pulled another wave from her body.

Elia came. Quiet. A long, shuddering seizure that started where his cock pressed deepest and rolled outward through her belly, her thighs, her chest. Her cunt clamped down in slow, rhythmic pulses, squeezing him, milking the last thick ropes from his cock with a greed her body understood better than her mind. Her mouth opened against his on a sound that was just vowels, "Ahhh... ohhhh... nnh," and her fingers dug into his skull and her heels pressed harder into his back and she held him inside her through every wave, every flutter, every last drop.

Stillness.

His cock softened slow inside her. Heavy, still thick, still filling her enough that every small shift of his weight sent a tremor through her thighs. Elia kept her legs locked around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, and didn't let go.

The cum sat deep. Thick and warm, pooled where he'd planted it, and every faint pulse of his softening cock spread the heat wider. She could map it inside her. The fullness, the slick weight of it settling into places Rhaegar had never reached, never bothered to reach.

Her fingers found his hair. Slid through the dark strands, damp with sweat, and combed them back from his forehead. Slow. Tender. The kind of touch that had nothing to do with fucking and everything to do with something she hadn't come here for.

"I walked through that door expecting a good fuck, sweetling." Quiet. Her Dornish lilt soft at the edges, stripped of its usual sharpness. Her thumb traced the shell of his ear. "A scratched itch. A body to borrow for the night. Nothing that would follow me home."

His grey eyes found hers in the dark. "What'd you get instead?"

She didn't answer. Her hand slid from his hair to his jaw, thumb tracing the hard line of it, and she pulled his mouth down to hers. Slow. Soft. A kiss that tasted like salt and sex and something she wasn't ready to name. Her lips moved against his, unhurried, and when she broke away her mouth found his jaw, the rough scrape of stubble against her lips, and she kissed there too. Lingering.

The silence held. His weight pressed her into the thin mattress, warm and solid, his heartbeat thumping heavy against her chest. His cum sat thick inside her and she didn't move. Didn't want to.

Her hand drifted down between their bodies. Pressed flat against her own stomach, palm warm on the skin below her navel. The place where his seed pooled deepest.

Maybe.

The word bloomed quiet in the dark. Maybe right now, in this narrow guardsman's bed that smelled like steel and sweat and him, something was already taking root. His seed, thick and heavy as everything else about him, finding purchase where Rhaegar's indifference had left only emptiness. She pressed her palm harder. Her cunt clenched around his softening cock, holding him, holding it, and the thought should have frightened her.

It didn't.

A minute passed. Two. Then Jon shifted, pulling his hips back, and his cock slid free.

"Nnh..." The sound slipped out before she could catch it, her body clenching on nothing, the sudden emptiness aching. And then the flood. His cum spilling out of her in a thick, warm rush, pouring from her swollen cunt and pooling on the thin mattress beneath her. So much. She could feel it sliding down the cleft of her ass, slicking her inner thighs, and a moan rolled out of her chest, low and shuddering. "Mmmmnh... gods..."

Jon lay back on the narrow bed. Elia rolled onto her side, kissed his mouth, tasting herself and him and salt. Then his jaw. His throat, the pulse jumping beneath her lips. Lower. Her mouth dragged down his chest, open and wet, tasting sweat and skin and the faint ghost of woodsmoke. Lower still. Past the ridges of his stomach, her tongue tracing the dark trail of hair, her braids dragging ruined across his skin.

She found his cock. Slick, softening, heavy against his thigh, coated in the mess of both of them. Cum and her wetness glossing the shaft, thick and obscene.

She took him into her mouth.

Sloppy. Graceless. No technique, no teasing, just her lips wrapping around the sticky head and sucking with a low, grateful "Mmmmh" that vibrated through the sensitive flesh. She licked the shaft clean in long, flat strokes, tongue dragging through the slick mess, tasting his cum and her own cunt and not caring which was which. Her hand cradled his balls, cupping them gentle, her thumb stroking the soft skin.

"This cock." Murmured against the shaft, her lips brushing it, her breath warm. She kissed the base. The side. Dragged her tongue up the thick vein. "This impossible cock. I am going to build a sept in its honor in Dorne. Light candles. Bring offerings." Another kiss, wet and open, at the swollen head. "Every woman in Dorne should kneel before this thing and weep with gratitude."

She took him back in. Slow, worshipful, her cheeks hollowing around the softening length, her tongue cradling him. "Mmph." A sound of pure contentment, muffled around his cock, her dark eyes closed, her wrecked braids pooling across his hips.

Jon's hand settled in her hair. Fingers threading through the tangles, the broken gold chains, resting against her skull. He stared at the ceiling.

Stone. Grey. A water stain in one corner shaped like nothing.

Last night. His grandmother. Her silver hair fanned across his chest. Her violet eyes burning into his while she rode him until dawn.

His thumb traced a slow circle against Elia's scalp. She hummed around his cock, the vibration warm and lazy.

Tonight. His father's wife. Her dark eyes wet and fierce, her legs locked around him, begging him to fill her. Begging him to give her what Rhaegar wouldn't.

Both of them calling him Jon Stone. A sellsword from the Vale. A bastard with no name and no blood worth mentioning.

Elia's tongue swept the slit. "Mmmmh." Soft. Satisfied. She kissed the tip and nuzzled her cheek against his shaft, her breath evening out, her body curling warm against his thigh.

Jon exhaled. Long. Slow. The air left his lungs and the ceiling stared back, grey and blank and offering nothing.

What the fuck happened to my life????!??!