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One Week Later - Jon Snow
Jon walked beside Arya through the quiet corridors of Winterfell, the chill of the northern air wrapping around them. Arya had been restless all morning, her brow furrowed in thought. Jon could sense something was bothering her, something more than the usual frustrations she had with needlework or Sansa.
"Bran never falls," Arya finally muttered, her voice cutting through the silence.
Jon glanced at her, his expression soft but serious. "I know."
Arya's hands clenched into fists as they walked. "Someone pushed him, Jon. I know it. He wouldn't just fall like that. He's been climbing those towers since he could walk."
Jon's jaw tightened as he mulled over her words. He'd been thinking the same thing, but voicing that suspicion wasn't easy. From the moment he heard about it, he knew it could have never been just him falling. He stopped walking for a moment, making Arya stop with him, and turned to face her.
"You're not wrong, Arya. Bran... he's never fallen before," Jon said quietly, his voice low so no one else could overhear. "But saying someone pushed him... that's dangerous."
"But it's the truth," Arya insisted, her gray eyes blazing with anger and frustration. "You think so too, don't you?"
Jon looked away, staring out at the distant snow-covered fields. "I do," he admitted after a moment. "But we don't know who, or why. And accusing someone without proof... that'll only make things worse."
Arya kicked at a stray stone on the ground, sending it skittering across the path. "I just hate sitting around, pretending everything's fine when it isn't."
Jon placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I hate it too. But we need to be careful. Bran might wake up, and he might remember what happened."
Arya nodded, though the tension in her small frame didn't fade. "If he wakes up," she muttered under her breath.
They continued walking in silence, the stone path underfoot turning into the wooden planks of the covered bridge that stretched above the training yard. As they passed through the shaded archway, their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they heard raised voices below.
Down in the yard, Joffrey was facing off with Robb, red-faced and furious. He swung his practice sword wildly, but Robb was too quick for him, deflecting every blow with ease, his movements calm and measured. With each failed attack, Joffrey grew angrier, his form becoming sloppier, his frustration evident to anyone watching.
"He's losing it," Arya muttered with a smirk.
Jon couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Robb's making a fool of him without even trying."
They watched as Joffrey shouted something incomprehensible, his face twisted with rage. Robb, still composed, blocked his strike easily and countered, sending Joffrey stumbling backward. A few of the Stark guards looked on, sharing quiet smiles.
"The Prick too proud to admit he's outmatched," Jon said, shaking his head.
"Robb's going easy on him," Arya pointed out, her sharp gaze fixed on the scene. "If he wanted, he could finish him in a heartbeat."
"True. But Robb's smart. No need to humiliate the crown prince too much," Jon replied, though there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he watched Joffrey struggle.
Arya's smirk grew. "I wouldn't mind seeing Robb knock him down a few pegs."
Jon laughed quietly, but his thoughts quickly returned to Bran. As much as the scene in the yard distracted them both.
"We'll figure it out," Jon said softly, breaking the silence between them as they continued walking. "We'll get to the truth. Just... be careful, Arya."
She glanced up at him, her expression hard but resolute. "I will. Nymeria is with me if anyone finds me."
Jon nodded, though his mind was elsewhere.
Over the past week, he had been with the Queen twice more, both times careful to keep their encounters hidden—or at least, he hoped so. If they were discovered, he could already imagine the heavy weight of his father's disapproving gaze. His thoughts drifted back to the execution of the Night's Watch deserter. Jon could picture himself in the same position, kneeling before the executioner's block. His father would stand over him, Ice in hand, lifting the greatsword high. Jon could almost feel the cold steel against his neck. Strangely, though, the thought didn't fill him with fear.
He had overheard Cersei mentioning they would leave Winterfell soon, within the week. Robert was eager to hunt again with Ned, and Bran's fall had delayed their departure. But once they left, Jon knew he would ride north to the Wall with Uncle Benjen and Tyrion Lannister. The Queen would be gone, and he would never see her again.
"Jon," a small voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He glanced down to find Arya looking up at him, her face full of worry.
"Do you really have to leave?" she asked, her voice trembling, eyes threatening to spill over with tears.
"Leave?" Jon echoed.
"To the Wall. Why do you want to go there so badly?" Arya asked, louder now. Jon sighed deeply. He wished he could explain it to her, but as much as they were close, she could never truly understand what it meant to be a bastard. She had choices. He didn't.
Once, the thought of joining the Night's Watch had excited him. The honor, the duty—it had all seemed so noble. But now, something had shifted. The excitement was gone, replaced with a cold, hollow feeling he couldn't shake. Staying in Winterfell—or even going south—seemed more appealing than taking the black. But for a bastard like him, there was no other path.
"Arya," Jon said softly, kneeling to meet her gaze, his hands resting on her small shoulders. "We will see each other again. No matter where I go, you'll always be my little sister, and I'll always be your brother." He tried to smile, though Arya didn't smile back. Still, she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight.
"I'll miss you," she whispered, her voice muffled against the fur of his cloak.
"I'll miss you too, little wolf," Jon murmured, his voice barely audible.
"AGAIN!" The sound of a shout pulled them apart, and Jon glanced back to the training yard. Prince Joffrey was still getting knocked around by Robb. Jon noticed the Hound standing nearby, eyeing Robb with an unsettling grin as if daring him to step out of line. Then Joffrey said something spiteful, and Jon saw Arya's hands ball into fists beside him, her eyes blazing with anger.
"That prince better be careful, or I—" Arya began, but stopped when she realized Jon was already walking away.
"Jon! Where are you going?" she called after him, racing to catch up as Jon descended the spiral staircase that led to the training yard.
.
.
Joffrey's face was turning an alarming shade of red as he swung wildly at Robb, his sword cutting through the air. Robb deflected each strike effortlessly. The harder Joffrey tried, the sloppier his form became, which only seemed to frustrate him further.
"Come on, Your grace!" Robb called out, grinning as he blocked another wild swing. "Is that the best you've got?"
Joffrey's eyes narrowed in rage, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. He lunged forward again, only to be met with Robb's swift counter, sending the young prince stumbling back once more. The Stark guards who had gathered around exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
"You'll pay for that, Stark!" Joffrey spat, his voice trembling with fury as he readied himself for another attack.
But before Joffrey could make his next move, a deep voice rumbled from the sidelines. "Enough of this child's play."
Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stepped forward, his scarred face twisted into a mocking smile. He casually rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched Joffrey struggle.
"If you're looking to test your mettle, boy," Sandor drawled, his gaze now fixed on Robb, "why don't you try it against me?" His voice was thick with condescension, and his grin widened as he saw the effect his words had on Robb.
Robb's grin faded, his brow furrowing in irritation. The Stark guards stiffened, exchanging wary glances, their hands moving instinctively to the hilts of their swords. Sandor took note of their defensive postures but seemed entirely unconcerned.
"What's the matter, Stark? Not up for a real fight?" Sandor taunted, his tone dripping with disdain. "Or does House Stark breed pups too soft to fight with real steel?" He gestured lazily toward the training swords in their hands as though they were no more than children's toys.
"Careful, Clegane," one of the Stark guards muttered, his voice tight with anger.
Sandor turned his gaze toward the guard, smirking. "Careful? You Northerners are always so quick to protect your honor. It's almost cute. But your boy here," he said, motioning toward Robb, "he's all bark and no bite. Not much of a wolf, if you ask me. But more like a cat, and the cigil of House Clegane is a dog." he added with a nasty smirk.
Robb's face hardened, his knuckles white around the handle of his sword. "You think you're clever, Clegane?" Robb snapped. "Is this how you win your fights? With words?"
Sandor's grin only widened. "Words? No, boy. I win with steel. But judging by the way you're handling yourself against the prince over there," he gestured dismissively toward Joffrey, who was still fuming, "I'd say you'd barely last a minute."
"Say that again," Robb growled, his temper rising.
The Stark guards began to shift forward, sensing the tension, but Sandor stood his ground, unflinching. "You heard me, Stark. I said you wouldn't last a minute. I'd wager your father's whole damn castle that you'd be on your back before you even knew what hit you."
Robb took a step forward, his muscles tensing, his hand hovering over his sword.
"If you're so eager to fight, Clegane, fight me." Jon Snow's voice rang out, as he strode forward. The eyes of the yard shifted toward him, and Arya Stark trailed just a step behind her brother.
Sandor Clegane's lips twisted into a crooked grin, his full attention now locked on Jon. "Ah, the little bastard walks into the lion's den," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "I wasn't after your brother. He's hardly worth my time—like crushing an ant beneath my boot." His smile grew more smug as he eyed Jon's hand, moving to his sword.
"Jon Snow, there will be no fighting here!" Ser Rodrik Cassel stepped in, his voice stern as he tried to bring order. But Jon raised a hand, halting him.
"Don't worry, Ser Rodrik," Jon said with a calm, dangerous smile, his eyes never leaving Clegane. "Only a wolf can teach a bad dog its place."
At that, Sandor's snarl deepened. "Mind your tongue, Snow, or I'll cut it out for you."
Jon shrugged, a smirk forming on his lips. "That would be a first. You might actually have to catch something for a change."
Lannister men jeered and shouted in support of Sandor while Stark bannermen murmured quietly, their eyes fixed on Jon, willing him to hold his own against the fearsome Hound.
Jon tightened his grip on his sword. The Hound sneered, his burnt face twisting into something cruel.
"You got lucky with the Kingslayer and now you think you can defeat everyone." Sandor sneered at him.
"Well. I'm making a list of powerful knight I can defeat Ser Clegane. You are lucky. You will be the first on this list."
The Hound lunged first.
With a roar, Sandor swung his broadsword with brute force, the sound of metal slicing through the cold air sending a chill down Jon's spine. Jon barely blocked the strike, his arms shaking from the impact. He staggered back a step, quickly parrying another powerful blow. Sandor pressed forward, relentless. His strikes were brutal, each one meant to overwhelm and break through Jon's defenses.
Jon was on the defensive, his feet shifting rapidly in the snow as he tried to dodge and block Sandor's monstrous swings. The crowd roared with each clash of steel. Sandor's attacks were like hammer blows, and Jon struggled to keep pace. His sword moved quickly in his hands, but Sandor's sheer power made every block feel like his arms would give way.
"Come on, boy!" Sandor taunted, his breath steaming in the cold. "Fight back, or I'll end this quicker than you can blink!"
Jon grimaced but stayed silent, focusing on his footing, dodging left as another slash came for his torso. He ducked just in time to avoid a killing blow aimed at his neck. Sandor's sword came crashing down into the snow, but before Jon could counter, the Hound ripped it free and followed up with a punch to Jon's face.
The world spun for a moment as Jon's vision blurred, pain exploding across his cheek. He hit the snowy ground hard, the cold biting into his skin. For a moment, everything was a dizzy haze, and he could hear the Lannister men cheering loudly.
But Jon wasn't done yet.
Jon rolled to the side. Ignoring the pain coursing through his body, Jon pushed himself up, snow clinging to his clothes and face. He sucked in a sharp breath, his heart pounding, and raised his sword.
Now, it was time to go on the offensive.
Jon advanced with a speed that surprised even Sandor. His sword flashed through the air, faster and more precise than the Hound's heavy swings. Jon slashed and thrust, his movements fluid and relentless. Sandor barely managed to block the flurry of attacks.
Sandor snarled in frustration, swinging wildly, but Jon danced just out of range, darting back in with a rapid strike. The crowd's cheers began to shift as the Stark men found their voices, watching Jon take control of the fight. Jon's strikes were lighter but more precise, testing Sandor's defenses and pushing him back with every step.
The Hound was strong, but Jon was faster. Jon feinted left, forcing Sandor to lunge, and then quickly reversed, slashing at Sandor's exposed side.
The Hound growled, stumbling, but still held his ground, his broadsword raised in defense. Jon saw his chance. He swung low, then high, and finally brought his sword down hard against Sandor's sword, striking with all his might at just the right angle.
With a metallic clang, Sandor's broadsword was knocked from his grip, spinning through the air before landing in the snow several feet away. For a moment, the yard fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of both fighters.
Jon stepped forward, pressing the point of his sword to Sandor's neck. The Hound glared up at him, his chest heaving, but he didn't move.
"I yield," Sandor said, raising his hands. The Stark men erupted into cheers as Jon lowered his sword, and the Lannister soldiers grumbled among themselves. Sandor wiped snow from his face, glaring at Jon.
"Not bad, Snow," the Hound muttered, a strange look of grudging respect in his eyes. "Not bad at all."
Jon watched him walk away, walking back at Prince Joffrey, and he felt a rush of excitement, knowing he had won this time, unlike with Ser Jaime. This time, there was no draw. This time, he had won the fight.
As the cheers of the Stark soldiers filled the training yard, Jon lowered his sword, his breathing still heavy from the exertion of the fight. Snow clung to his hair and clothes, and a bruise was already beginning to form on his cheek where Sandor had landed that punch. Before he had a moment to gather himself, he saw Robb running toward him; a grin spread wide across his face.
"Well done, Jon!" Robb clapped him on the back, his blue eyes sparkling with pride. "I thought the Hound had you for a moment there. I thought I would need to beat him myself for you!"
Jon smiled faintly. "I didn't want to get hit in the face to do it, but it worked out in the end."
"Ahh, yes. You love your pretty face too much. This is a tragedy!" Robb said, acting like he was mourning with a big grin on his face.
"Shut up." Jon said half-heartedly, earning a chuckle from Robb.
Just then, Arya bounded up beside them, her wild hair bouncing as she grinned up at Jon. "That was amazing!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement. "The way you knocked his sword right out of his hands! Can you teach me..pretty please!"
Jon chuckled at Arya's enthusiasm. "It wasn't part of the plan, believe me. But I'm glad I gave you a show."
Arya puffed out her chest, clearly proud to see her brother best someone as fearsome as Sandor Clegane. "If I were you, I'd have taken that sword and—" She mimicked swinging a sword at Sandor's throat.
Robb laughed, ruffling Arya's hair. "Good thing Jon's got more sense than you, little sister."
As they laughed together, Jon caught sight of Joffrey standing at the edge of the crowd, his lips curling into a sneer. He wrinkled his nose, clearly displeased by the cheers for Jon and the fact that the Hound had been beaten. But Joffrey said nothing, just turned on his heel, his golden hair catching the light as he walked away in a huff, Sandor trailing behind him like a looming shadow. The Hound gave Jon one last glance, half a glare and half begrudging respect, before following his prince.
As the Lannisters disappeared, the Stark soldiers gathered around Jon, clapping him on the back and congratulating him for standing his ground against the Hound. Jon smiled, though his exhaustion was beginning to creep in.
"Well fought, Jon!" one of the bannermen called out.
"Aye, he won't be forgetting this fight anytime soon," another added with a grin.
In the midst of the praise, Ser Rodrik Cassel strode up, his white whiskers bristling beneath his stern gaze. He crossed his arms and gave Jon a pointed look.
"You've got skill, Jon," Ser Rodrik said, his voice firm but not without warmth. "But fighting the Hound? Do you have any idea how foolish that was? You could've been killed. A spar is one thing, but Sandor Clegane doesn't hold back. You're lucky you walked away in one piece."
Jon nodded, feeling a bit like a child caught misbehaving. "I know, Ser Rodrik. But it wasn't planned. It just... happened."
Rodrik gave him a knowing look but sighed, softening. "Be careful next time, lad. Your father would have never forgiven me if something were to happen to you."
Before Jon could reply, a new voice rang through the yard, cutting through the commotion.
"Well done, Lord Snow," the voice was soft but commanding.The crowd around Jon fell silent, parting quickly as they turned to see Princess Myrcella Baratheon approaching. Her golden hair was woven into an intricate braid, and her gown, a pale shade of green, shimmered in the faint light. A kind smile played on her lips as she walked toward Jon, a stark contrast to her brother's arrogance.
The Stark soldiers stepped aside, bowing their heads in respect as she approached, and even Arya went quiet.
Jon straightened, surprised to see her here. He wasn't sure what to say—he had never spoke to her. "Your grace," Jon said, dipping his head respectfully.
"That was an impressive fight," she said softly. "I've seen Sandor fight before, and few have managed to best him. You managed to get a draw with my uncle. They all say he is the best Knight in all of Westeros."
"Thank you, princess," he said, his voice respectful but hesitant. "But I was just lucky."
Myrcella's smile grew, her gaze flicking to the sword in his hand. "It wasn't luck. You have skill, Lord Snow."
Jon shifted slightly, still unsure of how to address her. "I hope you're enjoying your stay at Winterfell, Your Grace?"
"I am. It's a beautiful place," she replied, glancing around the courtyard. "I used to hear tales about the North, that it was full of wild savages."
Jon chuckled, glancing over at Robb. "Sorry to disappoint, Princess, but I'm sure those rumors came from Robb here."
"Shut up," Robb muttered under his breath, and Myrcella giggled, the sound light and genuine.
Before Jon could respond further, a new voice cut through the air. "Myrcella, your mother requests your presence in her chambers."
Ser Jaime Lannister strode toward them. Myrcella let out a small sigh of annoyance before turning back to Jon with a warm smile.
"I've heard you have a good singing voice, Lord Snow. Perhaps I'll hear it during the feast tonight?" she said teasingly.
Jon bowed again. "Of course, Your Grace. I'd be honored."
Her smile brightened before she turned and left, flanked by a Kingsguard and a Lannister guard. Jon watched her go, not expecting Ser Jaime to linger behind. But Jaime remained, his sharp eyes fixed on Jon.
"Ser Jaime, is there anything we can do for you?" Robb asked, stepping forward defensively.
Jaime ignored Robb, his gaze locked on Jon, studying him intently. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "Jon Snow, I wouldn't mind facing you in a duel again."
Jon raised an eyebrow, surprised. As he opened his mouth to reply, Jaime raised a hand. "Not now. Tomorrow, at first light."
Jon merely nodded his agreement. Jaime turned sharply, striding away with a strange look on his face.
Why do his eyes look so much like Rhaegar's? Jaime thought, his steps quickening, his breath slightly heavier than before.
Later - Cersei Lannister
"I heard you spoke with my daughter," Cersei remarked the moment Jon entered the chamber she had chosen for the evening. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Jon's heart quicken.
"She came to me, Your Grace—" Jon began, but Cersei cut him off sharply.
"I know that, Jon," she interrupted, her tone laced with authority. "This may not be my castle, but I always know about anything of importance that happens in Westeros." She smiled, a knowing, almost dangerous smile, as she lifted a cup to her lips, her gaze never leaving his. Setting the cup aside, she rose gracefully from her chair.
"Myrcella wants you to sing during the feast," Cersei continued her voice firm. "You will do that much for her. But let me make myself perfectly clear—you will not speak to her again." Her tone left no room for argument, and Jon felt the weight of her command.
"I understand, Your Grace," Jon replied, bowing his head in deference.
"Good," she said, her voice softening into something more dangerous, more intimate. "Now, you should serve your Queen."
Without warning, Cersei closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in quick, urgent kisses. She kissed him again and again, each one more intense, more insistent, until she finally slowed, savoring the taste of him as she lingered over his lips.
When her hunger for kisses was satisfied, Cersei lowered herself gracefully, spreading Jon's legs with deliberate care. Her hands moved to his pants, and with slow, precise motions, she began to pull them down. Her breath was hot, her eyes locked on his, glittering with a predatory gleam.
"The Queen is about to suck your cock, Jon Snow," she whispered, her voice thick with sultry promise. "Not everyone will have this privilege." Her words sent a shiver down Jon's spine, anticipation crackling in the air between them.
Cersei's lips hovered over the base of his shaft as she inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of his arousal. Without giving him time to react, she parted her lips and ran her tongue slowly along the length of him, drawing a shudder from Jon.
Wasting no time, she took him fully into her mouth, her warm, wet lips enveloping the tip of his cock as her eyes flicked up to meet his, a look of absolute control in her gaze.
The sensation was overwhelming for Jon, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Cersei's lips and tongue moved over him with practiced skill, taking him deeper with each pass. Her free hand gently massaged his balls while the other gripped his thigh firmly for leverage. Her mouth worked in a slow, deliberate rhythm, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head, her lips sliding up and down the length of his shaft with tantalizing precision.
A soft moan escaped Jon's lips, the pleasure building like a storm inside him. Cersei's gaze never left his, her eyes gleaming with mischief and power, a sinful grin pulling at the corners of her mouth between each movement. Jon's body reacted instinctively, his fingers digging into the bed as he tried to grasp the overwhelming pleasure coursing through him.
In the silence of the lavish chamber, only their breathless moans and the wet, rhythmic sounds of Cersei's lips working over him filled the air. The intimacy of the moment made the sensation even more intense.
Jon's body tensed, his back arching off the bed as the pressure inside him built to a breaking point.
"Cersei," he gasped, his voice thick with desire.
The moment her name left his lips, Cersei pulled her mouth away, leaving him trembling on the edge of release. Jon let out a frustrated groan, his eyes meeting hers. Her gaze was cold and sharp, her green eyes blazing with control.
"I'm your Queen, Jon Snow. Never forget that," she said with quiet authority, her words a stark reminder of who held the power between them.
Jon nodded instantly. "Yes, Your Grace."
Satisfied, Cersei smiled with a look of triumph, her lips curling wickedly before she took him back into her hungry mouth, her movements growing even more fervent.
Jon's eyes fell shut as the pleasure overwhelmed him. He could feel his release building, surging uncontrollably within him. "I... I'm gonna..."
Cersei's lips tightened around his shaft, her gaze never wavering, a knowing smirk dancing in her eyes. She was ready for it, eagerly waiting for what she knew was coming.
The first burst of his release hit the back of her throat, followed by more powerful spurts. Jon came hard, each string of his release filling her mouth, the intensity almost too much for him to bear. Even as she pulled away, Cersei made a show of catching the last few drops, letting them fall onto her lips and face, her expression one of sheer satisfaction.
"I'm sorry."
Cleaning off the last white bit from herself, Cersei frowned at Jon.
"What for?"
"I finished too early. I... wanted to last longer for you."
Cersei couldn't help herself. She let out a laugh that confused Jon.
"What's funny?"
"Jon, I was trying to finish you off quickly. Why do you think I put so much effort into sucking you off?"
"You wanted me to finish soon? Why?"
"Because..." Cersei started to sway her hips and touch her body. Jon's confusion swiftly made way for arousal as the queen traced her waist and cupped her breasts, which were already threatening to spill out of her dress.
"I just want you ready for the main event."
Not wanting to wait any longer for Jon to harden again, Cersei decided to properly motivate him.
Taking only a step back, Cersei reached behind her back, and quickly got rid of her dress, leaving her naked before Jon.
Jon quickly removed his shirt and the rest of his pants.
When he was done, Jon shivered as her hands traveled his flat chest. Her skilled fingers trailed every corner of skin she could reach.
She happily took notice of that. One of her hands left his chest to work on reflating him back to full mast. Once he was at full length again, Cersei made her move.
Both of her knees were now across from Jon's hips. And her dripping entrance was now right above Jon's aching rod.
"You are beautiful, Your Grace," Jon murmured, his lips brushing against her neck. Cersei let out a soft moan at the sensation, tilting her head back to offer him more of her exposed skin. His kisses deepened, trailing down her neck as she shivered under his touch.
"Good," she whispered breathlessly, her voice low and commanding. "Serve your Queen." Jon's teeth grazed her neck gently, drawing a louder moan from her, and her body arched into his. Their lips met, the kiss intense and full of hunger, as if they had been lovers for years.
Cersei's hands slid through Jon's hair, pulling him closer as his hands roamed down her body. She gasped as his fingers grazed her large breasts, his touch rough yet careful. Her breath hitched when his fingers found her nipples, pinching them softly. Pleasure coursed through her, but she craved more.
"Jon," she moaned again, her voice thick with desire, urging him toward what she truly wanted. She was ready for more than teasing; she wanted to feel all of him. NOW.
Cersei leaned in, capturing Jon's lips in a deep, passionate kiss, her movements calculated as she began to lower her hips. She used the kiss to distract him, her body trembling with anticipation. The moment the tip of his manhood brushed against her entrance, a surge of pleasure coursed through both of them, making the need to continue unbearable.
With slow, deliberate movements, Cersei began the torturously pleasurable process of lowering herself onto him. Their kiss broke as the intensity of the sensations became overwhelming. Inch by inch, she took him in, savoring every moment as his hardness filled her completely.
"Ahhh..." Cersei couldn't contain the sounds of pleasure as she enveloped him, feeling his thickness stretch her with every inch. Her eyes lingered on his face, flushed with desire, and she smiled as she cupped his cheeks. He looked almost innocent to her, especially when his face reddened further as she leaned down to steal another kiss.
When their lips parted, she slowly lifted herself, feeling the agonizing emptiness as she moved away from him. But she wasn't done—she had something else in mind.
As soon as she was high enough, Cersei slammed herself back down onto him, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. The jolt of pleasure from their union sent shivers through her, heightened by Jon's strong grip on her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin. The tightness of her body around him made every movement more intense.
Her mind, however, was consumed by the euphoria spreading through her, a feeling she knew would only grow.
"Enjoy this, Jon Snow," she moaned loudly, her voice sultry as she began to ride him. She set a steady rhythm, rising and dropping onto him again and again. His size was perfect, filling her completely while still allowing her to build up a smooth, sensual pace. As her movements quickened, the pleasure surged, her body aching for more with every stroke.
Her walls clenched tightly around Jon's cock, her pace growing faster with every thrust. Cersei moaned in ecstasy, her hands pressing firmly against Jon's chest as she bounced harder, the rhythm becoming more intense.
"Fuck! G-god!" Cersei cried out shamelessly, her voice loud and breathless as her body moved freely atop him. Her hips crashed down with wet, echoing slaps, her movements relentless. The pleasure coursing through her was overwhelming, but Jon wasn't far behind.
Jon's entire body felt electrified, his cock engulfed in the tight, burning pleasure of Cersei's body. Every sensation was amplified—her warmth, her slickness, the way her insides gripped him tighter with each stroke. But it wasn't just the physical pleasure that held him captive. Cersei herself, with her goddess-like legs, her perfect ass, and her enchanting beauty, was a sight to behold.
Her breasts bounced tantalizingly before his eyes, and Jon couldn't resist. He reached for them, his hands kneading her soft flesh as he leaned forward, closing his lips around one of her pink nipples. He sucked greedily, drawing a loud moan from Cersei's lips as his mouth teased the sensitive nub.
Cersei noticed the effect she was having on him. His grip on her flesh tightened, his breathing ragged, and she knew she was making his time unforgettable. But Cersei wanted more than just unforgettable—she wanted Jon to be consumed by her, to remember this moment forever. She wanted him to fall for her, to never such pleasure from anyone else ever again. She wanted him to 'Love' her.
Determined, she increased her pace, her hips bucking feverishly as she slammed herself down on him again and again. Their bodies met with force, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through them both. Her gaze locked onto Jon's, her eyes dark with lust, her face a picture of raw desire.
"Fuuuuuccckkk!" she screamed, caring nothing for how loud she was. At that moment, it was just the two of them, lost in the heat of their passion.
Each thrust drew gasps from Jon, his body on the edge of its limit. His eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to hold on, the pleasure so intense he could hardly think straight. They were both teetering on the edge, and neither could hold back for much longer.
So close.
So unbearably close...
"My Queen, I..." Jon groaned, his voice thick with need.
"I know," Cersei purred, her voice commanding yet soft, her eyes locked onto his. "Give it to me. Let it all out."
With just a few more powerful thrusts, Jon couldn't hold back any longer. His body trembled as he buried himself deep inside her, pushing his full length into Cersei's core. A wave of release crashed through him, his hot seed spilling into her in powerful surges.
Cersei, smiling in satisfaction, pressed herself down fully onto him, taking every inch of his cock, and feeling the warmth of his release flooding her. Each pulse of his climax sent ripples of pleasure through her, filling her not just with his seed but with a deep, intoxicating sense of joy and satisfaction that she hadn't experienced in months.
"That was amazing." Jon said, still a little breathlessly, but Cersei could feel his cock getting hard again, still inside her.
He snaked a hand behind her neck and bought her face down for a kiss. Unlike before, when Cersei took the lead, he was the one who opened his mouth and invited her tongue inside. An invasion she took, swirling her tongue with his.
To say Cersei was pleased would be an understatement. She loved seeing Jon take initiative. She was grinding her lower lips against his manhood, riling him up to go again. The heat between them was building up again, and Cersei was very eager to have another round.
The two tumbled together on the bed, their lips never separating for more than a second. They kissed like lovers.
Their mouths weren't the only things that were busy. A beautiful naked woman was on top of him, so Jon couldn't help his idle hands. They went to his favorite part first, enfolding her breasts and pinching her nipples. This didn't satisfy him enough, so they went to her ass next. He groped and gripped the cheeks before letting instinct take over again.
He kept one hand on one of them, but lifted the other. And without pausing to think, he let it fall back on her ass.
Hard.
"Ah!"
The quick, sudden, and pleasing sting hit Cersei like a lightning bolt. Jolts of pleasure shot through her entire body. She felt them again when he did it with his other hand. And then with both hands. The fact that his erect cock was pressing up against her rear only made her more aroused.
By the time he had left red marks on her ass, Cersei was done with the little game. She needed him inside her again.
Without a word, Cersei left the kiss, gently pulling his lip with her teeth as she did. She kept her hands on his chest as she straddled him, grabbing a hold of his member to keep it pointing up. She aligned herself with his tip, making sure to look at Jon's face the entire time.
Unlike before, when Cersei wanted to control everything, now she just wanted satisfaction. She wanted to be full.
So she slammed her hips back down, letting out a moan as she was filled again. A deeper groan came from Jon as he was once again assaulted by erotic pleasure. But once he readjusted to the feeling of Cersei's dripping hot snatch wrapped around him, he had no reason to complain.
Cersei would rise up until she nearly left him, then come crashing down on him again. Filling herself with his heat constantly, feeling better than she had in months. Not a single thought of Jaime entered her mind. All she focused on was the feeling and joy.
The sounds of both hips meeting each other intensified, the clapping noise getting faster and faster as the Queen picked up her pace. Her full breasts bounced wildly, all the while, hypnotizing Jon.
Jon rose, his hands leaving her ass and settling around her waist for support, and began nuzzling between her breasts. His mouth soon opened, alternating between the two nipples to suck, lick, and nibble to his heart's content.
Cersei was too enraptured to comment on how well he was doing. She could only moan and babble in lewd bliss.
The suite room had no noise aside from the sounds of sex: Cersei's raunchy screams, Jon's groans and sucking on breasts, and the slapping of their hips as they kept going for climax.
But as good as this felt, Cersei didn't want to cum like this. She wanted something a little better.
"Wait. Wait."
Cersei suddenly got off.
He was about to ask what he had done wrong, why she had stopped, when he saw her grab a bottle with oil from a drawer, she opened it, and he watched as she oiled his cock up and down before sticking a finger deep into her ass hole. Her back was facing him, and she was now on her knees on the other side of the bed. She dropped onto her elbows, pointing her backside directly at him.
She tossed her hair from her face and looked at him over her shoulder, and her toes curled in excitement. Jon stared at her toned, inviting ass.
"Come on," she said coyly. "It's all for you."
A delighted smile lit up his face. He was kneeling behind her on the sheets. His hands were on his hips, and he was pointing himself at her entrance. He was nudging her pussy from behind.
"Do it," Cersei whispered in a needy voice. Just loud enough for him to hear. Just loud enough to entice
His first stroke made her see stars. It had been so long since she had done anal, and she was remembering the joyful, painful bliss that came with it.
His second stroke made her whole body feel like it was quaking from the inside out. By the third stroke, she was squealing with how exquisite she felt.
"Nothing!" she cried. "Just — ah, just fuck me!"
He did so dutifully. His grip didn't waver, his speed never dropped, and his grunts showed how much exertion he was putting into this. Cersei screamed in pleasure into the bed matress as he thrusted into her. Thrust after thrust, she saw stars, and her moans grew louder from the pleasure cursing through her body.
"I- I'm gonna..."
"It's ok," Cersei assured him. "I'm not far behind."
Her approval was all he needed. He fucked her faster, his fingers digging into her hips, one hand tightly squeezing her ass. Cersei listened with contentment as his breathing grew more and more erratic.
And then, it came. They came.
When he finished, he groaned and pressed his chest to her spine and curled his arm around her in a tight embrace, and the sticky heat of his sweaty skin made her shudder against his warmth.
He trembled behind her, his breath hot against her shoulder blade as he pumped into her few more times, and when he finally went still, it was with his forehead pressed to her back and his arms wrapped loosely around her waist.
For Cersei, she let out a quivering cry as she reached her orgasm seconds later. She felt her fluids leak and spread down her legs, no doubt coating Jon's still-sheathed cock. The thought of it made her happier than she wanted to think about.
At this point, neither of them was able to think much about it.
The two collapsed onto the bed, Jon's arms still resting on her hips, his cock still inside her. Neither of them moved, content to linger in the moment, sated and fulfilled.
After a few minutes of quiet, it was Jon who finally broke the silence. "I will never forget this."
"Why should you have to forget?" Cersei replied, propping herself up on one elbow to gaze down at him. "This won't be the last time." There was a certainty in her voice that made him pause.
"I will ride to the Wall once you leave. My father says—"
"And what did Lord Stark say?" she interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp and cutting, catching Jon off guard.
"He said the Night's Watch is an honorable calling for bastards," Jon repeated, the words etched into his mind from countless conversations with his father.
Cersei stared at him for a moment before a burst of laughter escaped her lips. It was genuine, loud, the kind of laughter she hadn't indulged in for a long time. Lord Stark is even more naive than I thought, she mused to herself.
Jon's face flushed red with irritation. "What's so funny?" he demanded, a hint of anger in his voice. Cersei finally composed herself and turned back to him, her lips curling into a smirk.
"To think that Lord Stark would send his own blood to rot at the Wall, surrounded by murderers," she said with a sneer. "Tell me, Jon Snow, do you fancy the company of killers and rapists? Because those are the people who will be your 'brothers' if you go through with this."
Jon felt a knot in his stomach, sensing a cruel truth in her words. Robb and even Uncle Benjen had told him something similar. "There's no other future for me, Your Grace," he said bitterly. "In the South, no one will accept me."
He considered getting up and gathering his clothes. But Cersei reached out, cupping his chin and gently turning his face back to hers. She pressed her lips against his, a slow, deliberate kiss that made his resolve waver.
"What if I told you there's more to a Bastard's life, than just marrying with a large wall of ice, and kissing and fucking the worst kind people for the rest of your life." she said, her voice both commanding and enticing.
Jon hesitated, doubt flickering in his eyes, but he found himself listening. His thoughts drifted to Arya and how sad she had been when he told her of his plans. And to the pleasure he had just shared with Cersei. Could he really give all of this up to serve a future that held so little promise?
"What are you suggesting, Your Grace?" Jon asked cautiously.
Cersei's lips curved into a triumphant smile. You've lost, Lord Stark, she thought, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she opened her mouth to answer.
Night
The Great Hall of Winterfell was awash with the warm light of hearth fires. The feast was in full swing, but the raucous laughter and clatter of goblets seemed distant to Lord Eddard Stark as he sat beside his old friend.
Robert had changed. The lean, fierce warrior Ned had once followed into battle had been replaced by a man whose crown weighed heavily on his brow. His great bulk was spread across the high seat, legs splayed out carelessly beneath the table, and his face red from drink. The sound of Robert's boisterous laughter echoed across the hall, louder than the clamor of the revelry around him.
"Hah! More wine!" Robert bellowed, slamming his empty goblet down, causing the platters of food to rattle. "And you!" he said, catching the eye of a passing serving girl, his voice loud and slurred. "Come here, girl. Don't be shy now!"
The poor girl, cheeks flushed and clearly uncomfortable, scurried over with a fresh jug of wine, her eyes downcast as Robert grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him. He buried his face in her bosom, roaring with laughter as he made some crude jest that Ned barely caught over the din of the feast. Several nearby lords laughed along with the king, though some exchanged uneasy glances.
Ned Stark remained silent, his eyes dark and heavy beneath his brow, watching the display with a mixture of disappointment and sadness. He lifted his goblet slowly, taking a measured sip of the rich red Dornish wine, though the taste barely registered on his tongue. His thoughts were on his son.
Before them, the tables groaned under the weight of the feast. There were platters of roasted boar, the skin crackling and glistening with fat, the meat tender and pink beneath. Thick slices of venison, seasoned with juniper and rosemary, lay beside trenchers of dark bread, sopped in the rich juices that had run from the meat. There were capons stuffed with onions, garlic, and sage, their golden skins shining in the firelight. Pies filled with trout from the Wolfswood and onions from the northern fields sat alongside great wheels of cheese from the Dreadfort, sharp and pungent.
A haunch of mutton, spiced with pepper and cloves, was passed down the table, while bowls of thick, steaming stews filled with turnips, barley, and carrots were ladled into bowls, accompanied by roasted apples and figs, their sweetness balancing the savory flavors of the meats. And of course, there were the baked loaves of bread, crusty and brown, fresh from the kitchens, served with butter churned that very morning.
But none of it stirred Ned's appetite.
Robert, on the other hand, ate with abandon. He tore into a leg of boar with his teeth, grease running down his beard as he waved the bone about, gesturing wildly as he told some bawdy tale to the men around him. His crown sat askew on his head, and his tunic strained against the girth of his belly.
For the next hour, Ned was steeped in misery, the feast around him feeling hollow. That was, until Robert spoke up, his words hitting Ned like a block of ice. "Hey, Ned. I hear that son of yours is quite the singer."
The comment was like a dagger to Ned's heart, and he had to force himself not to react. He steadied his voice before asking, "Who told you that?"
"My daughter," Robert replied casually. "So, what do you say? Would you mind if he sang us a song?" Before Ned could think of an excuse, Robert made the decision for him.
"JON SNOW!" The King's voice boomed across the hall, silencing all conversation. Every head turned toward Jon, who looked stunned to be summoned. With all eyes on him, he rose from his seat and made his way to the High Table. He stopped in front of the King and Queen, knelt, and stood again at Robert's command.
"Your Graces. How can I serve you?" Jon asked respectfully, his voice steady despite the nerves coursing through him. He could feel the weight of everyone's gaze on him, most intensely the Queen's, and even noticed Ser Jaime Lannister watching him with a peculiar expression from behind the King.
"I hear you can sing, Jon Snow. Is that true?" Robert's voice boomed again, leaving no room for pretense.
Jon hesitated, knowing that lying would be futile. "...Yes, Your Grace," he replied, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.
"Good, then. Sing us a song," Robert ordered, his tone making it clear that this was not a request. Jon's face flushed deeper. Singing for Arya or in the privacy of his chambers was one thing, but singing before the entire hall was a different matter entirely. Yet, he knew he couldn't refuse.
Clearing his throat, he began to sing.
"Like the scarlet night veiling the dark
You can hide your fear
Can lie, my dear
Keep dreaming
Spread your blood-stained wings
Like a fallen angel
Falling and driven by the winds of time
Into the starry night
Like a goddess, embrace me for eternity
Fly into heaven
What's the lie
What's the truth
What to believe
In my life
See the flowers breathing in the rain
Try growing to the edge of light
It's so far away to reach out to the sky
I'll seize, I'll seize the roses with my wings
We'll fly
Like a fallen angel
Falling and driven by the winds of time
Into the starry night
Like a goddess, embrace me for eternity
We'll fly away
We'll find a way
You can hide your fear
Can lie, my dear
We'll see the end
We'll be the end
Embrace me for eternity
Fly into heaven."
The hall was silent as Jon finished. A stillness settled over the room, and for a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, Robert began clapping, a deep, hearty applause that spread like wildfire throughout the hall until it boomed with the sound of approval.
"Well done, lad!" Robert bellowed, grinning. "Maybe I should bring you to the South with me, eh, Ned?" The King laughed, but Jon saw his father's face tighten at the suggestion.
"Robert, we'll discuss this later," Ned said, his voice edged with tension.
"What's there to discuss?" Robert challenged, his tone already growing more serious.
Sensing he was no longer needed, Jon bowed. "Have a good night, Your Grace," he murmured before turning to leave, almost rushing to escape the brewing conflict. In his haste, he didn't notice the way Jaime Lannister's eyes followed him, a thoughtful look on his face.
Morning - Arya
The cold morning air of Winterfell was crisp. The castle was quiet at this early hour, and Arya Stark wandered the stone corridors, her steps light. Nymeria padded lazily beside her, her large grey body moving with effortless grace. The dire wolf's head was low, and her eyes were half-closed as if uninterested in their early morning adventure.
Arya had woken before anyone else, her mind still troubled by the unanswered question that gnawed at her—Who pushed Bran? Her brother's fall had been declared an accident, but something about it didn't sit right with her.
She had been sneaking around for days, searching for clues—listening at doors, watching the Lannisters when she could, but so far, she had found nothing. No proof. No whispers. Only dead ends. She was starting to feel the frustration bubble up inside her, like a knot tightening in her stomach.
"Maybe I should start looking in the godswood," Arya muttered to herself, more to fill the silence than anything. Nymeria lifted her head at the sound of her voice but didn't respond, still moving lazily by her side.
They passed through the courtyard, the cobblestones slick with a light frost. The sky was fully brightening now, and a few servants were beginning to emerge, rubbing sleep from their eyes as they set about their duties. But Arya ignored them, too lost in her own thoughts.
She stopped near the training yard, her eyes scanning the empty space. Nothing. Again. Just like yesterday.
"Ugh, I'm never going to find out who did it," Arya said aloud, kicking at a stone on the ground in frustration. She folded her arms across her chest and looked down at Nymeria. "Maybe this was a stupid idea."
Nymeria huffed as if in agreement, and Arya sighed. The morning air was growing colder, and the thought of going back inside and break her fast, pretending everything was normal, felt like a defeat.
And then, suddenly, Nymeria's head snapped up.
The direwolf's ears pricked, her body instantly alert. Arya noticed the shift and frowned, following Nymeria's gaze. "What is it, girl?" she whispered, but before she could react, Nymeria bolted, her large paws kicking up snow as she took off.
"Nymeria!" Arya shouted, running after her. "Nymeria, stop!"
But the direwolf ignored her, running through the castle grounds. Arya's heart pounded in her chest as she sprinted to keep up, her boots slipping slightly on the frosted ground.
"Nymeria! Wait!"
Nymeria didn't even glance back, her body moving swiftly and silently, cutting through the early morning mist like a ghost. Arya struggled to keep pace, weaving between the towers and walls of Winterfell, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she chased her direwolf across the grounds.
Finally, Nymeria slowed, her paws crunching softly in the snow as she came to a stop near the entrance to the crypts of Winterfell.
Arya skidded to a halt just behind her, panting from the run. Her eyes widened when she saw what Nymeria had led her to—the door to the crypts, the heavy wooden frame looming before them, was ajar.
It was never left open like this.
The cold, dark air that wafted out from the passage sent a shiver down Arya's spine. She glanced around quickly. The courtyard was deserted.
"Who left it open?" Arya whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
Nymeria darted down the stone steps into the crypts, her large paws making barely a sound as she disappeared into the darkness below. The flickering torchlight from the upper levels did little to illuminate the long stairwell, and the cold, damp air of the crypts rushed up to meet Arya as she followed after her direwolf.
"Nymeria!" Arya called, her voice echoing off the stone walls as she descended quickly. "Nymeria, wait!"
But as before, Nymeria ignored her, slipping further into the shadows. The only sound was Arya's hurried footsteps and the distant drip of water echoing somewhere deep within the ancient crypts.
Her breath fogged as she reached the bottom of the steps, where the crypts opened into the long, eerie hallways lined with the stone statues of Starks long dead. The carved likenesses of her ancestors loomed over her, their eyes watching her, their dire wolves lying faithfully at their feet. Arya had always found the statues unsettling, their stone eyes seeming to watch her as she walked by.
Nymeria had stopped ahead, sitting silently before one of the statues. Arya hurried to catch up, her footsteps echoing through the crypt as she approached her direwolf. Nymeria sat perfectly still, her head slightly tilted, her golden eyes fixed on something just in front of her.
"Nymeria," Arya whispered, catching her breath as she knelt beside her direwolf. "What is it, girl?"
And then Arya realized where they were. Nymeria had stopped in front of the statue of Lyanna Stark.
Arya's heart skipped a beat as she looked up at the statue of her long-dead aunt. Lyanna's stone face was peaceful and serene, with her hair carved to fall in loose waves over her shoulders. The statue was smaller than the others.
"Why here?" Arya murmured, more to herself than to Nymeria. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the statue. She didn't know much about Lyanna, only that her father rarely spoke of her and that she was kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen. But what could have brought Nymeria here, to this particular statue, of all places?
Just as Arya was about to stand, something caught her eye—a faint glint of red, shimmering in the dim light.
She blinked and leaned closer, her curiosity piqued. There, just to the right of Lyanna's statue, something glittered faintly against the rough stone wall. Arya narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.
It was small, barely noticeable at first, but as Arya drew nearer, she realized it was a tiny smear of something dark and red—blood, perhaps? The red glimmer caught the light just so, like a ruby in shadow.
"What in the Seven Hells...?" Arya whispered under her breath.
Her hand hovered for a moment before she finally pressed her fingers against the tiny red glint. The stone felt oddly warm beneath her touch, and for a split second, nothing happened. Then, with a soft, crumbling sound, a small portion of the wall gave way beneath her fingers, the ancient stone shifting and collapsing inward, revealing a hidden alcove just behind it.
Arya stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest as dust and debris fell to the floor in front of her. Inside the dark, newly exposed space, something caught the light—a chest, old and weathered, nestled deep within the wall.
Arya blinked, her breath catching in her throat. She glanced down at Nymeria, who sat still, her golden eyes watching Arya with a strange intensity. It was as if the direwolf had known this secret was hidden here all along.
"How did you know this was here?" Arya whispered, her voice trembling slightly. But Nymeria didn't respond. She simply stared at the chest, her ears pricked forward, waiting.
Arya's mind raced. Her first thought was to run to her father to tell him what she had found. Surely, this was important. But a second thought crept into her mind. She could tell her father later, if it was necessary.
She stepped closer, eyeing the chest. It was small but heavy-looking, the wood darkened with age and the iron hinges spotted with rust. There was no lock, no obvious markings to tell what lay inside. Arya hesitated for a moment, then reached in with both hands, gripping the edges of the chest and giving it a tug.
It didn't budge at first, wedged tightly into the space it had rested in for gods knew how long. Arya gritted her teeth and tugged harder, the weight of it straining her small arms. With a final, determined grunt, she managed to pull the chest free from the wall, stumbling back a few steps as she dropped it onto the cold stone floor with a soft thud.
She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at the chest in front of her. What could be inside? She looked again at Nymeria, who tilted her head slightly, as if urging her on.
With trembling fingers, Arya knelt and opened the chest. The hinges creaked faintly, the sound echoing through the crypt. As the lid lifted, Arya's breath caught in her throat.
Inside, resting on a piece of shimmering silver cloth, were two eggs.
They were unlike anything Arya had ever seen. They were large, almost the size of her head, and they gleamed faintly in the dim light of the crypts. One was a deep, midnight black with a faint sheen of red that caught the torchlight, while the other was a brilliant emerald green, the scales on its surface smooth and cold to the touch.
Arya's eyes widened, her breath shallow as she reached out a hand to touch the nearest egg. Her fingers barely grazed its surface, but even that brief contact sent a shiver down her spine. The eggs were warm, though not from the heat of the crypt—they felt as if they were alive, and she realized what she was staring at.
Dragon eggs.
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