
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/713066.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Ygritte, Robb_Stark/Sansa_Stark, Brandon_Stark/Catelyn_Stark,
      Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark, Edric_Dayne/Arya_Stark, Gendry/Jeyne_Heddle,
      Tyrion_Lannister/Sansa_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon/Sansa_Stark, Jaime
      Lannister/Brienne_of_Tarth, Arya_Stark/Gendry_Waters, Rickon_Stark/Osha,
      Barristan_Selmy/Missandei, Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Jon_Snow/Arya
      Stark, Khal_Drogo/Daenerys_Targaryen, Samwell_Tarly/Ygritte, Meera_Reed/
      Bran_Stark, Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister, Joffrey_Baratheon/Margaery
      Tyrell, Sandor_Clegane/Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Myrcella_Baratheon
  Additional Tags:
      Porn_With_Plot, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Alternate_Universe_-
      Canon_Divergence, Gratuitous_Smut, Fluff_and_Smut, Character_Death, Rape,
      Dubious_Consent, Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Crack_Pairings, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-08 Completed: 2013-04-20 Chapters: 23/23 Words: 37211
****** Wall, Hearth, and Home ******
by RedSmileyFace
Summary
     Alternate Universe. All characters are either a wildling, a crow on
     the wall, a companion at the brothel, or some combination of the
     above. For mature, and open, readers. Final warning, for mature only.
     Multiple pairings. Tags will be added as story continues.
Notes
     My first story posted on AO3 (though I have posted on FF.net).
     Working out how it all... works. Anyway, this is an exercise of smut
     writing, especially when feeling horny (yes, I admit it!). That's
     when the inspiration comes, anyway. Most is written, and posted on
     FF.net, so it'll be fairly quick posting.
     This idea started out as pure smut, but then themes, arcs, and plots
     found their way into some of the chapters. Now it's porn with plot
     (or is it the other way around?) Some chapters will stand as one
     shots, and other will have connections with other chapters, but all
     will be in the same universe. The first half of this chapter sets up
     the history of this universe, but then there's smut to the end.
***** Jon Snow and Ygritte *****
Fifty years after Jeor Mormont became Lord Commander of The Wall, one could
safely say that the honor that once stood there was back. There had been a few
centuries where The Wall was shunned as just another type of prison, a place
pretending that sins could ever be forgiven and deigning to "man the wall" with
only three forts open, run down ones at that.
Before those bleak centuries, sins had been forgiven, names were remembered,
knights led, and men wanted to go there, for glory and honor, in any of the
twenty well kept forts. After Jeor Mormont became Commander, the same was true
again. What was different between the before and the after, was that
forgiveness was earned, women could share the honor, and any knights who came
shed their titles as well.
There was now a system in place to gauge a person's worthiness. It works, even
though it was scorned at first. The Wall was no longer a degrading thought, no
longer ill conceived as a den of thieves, murderers, and rappers: now it held
the distinction as the finest company of soldiers, west of the Narrow Sea.
Anyone wearing black was revered as better then even a knight. The only vow
they took was to the Watch, shedding ties to family or home, and forsaking any
spouse (yes, women wear the black as well).
Anyone on The Wall not wearing black was in any of the stations below. A person
with the next highest honor, just shy of wearing the black except for the vow,
were held in esteem, but could not command a castle. These men and women are
held back by familial duty, or are married. They are free to come and go from
The Wall, to divide their loyalty, or get married (or stay married, if that
were the case).
The system goes down from there. Anyone with certain marks upon them is in a
type of imprisonment, confined to one fort, confined to certain duties, and
must prove themselves to no less then three people (fort commander, fort
measter, and fort cook) before they gain some trust among their brothers and
sisters.
Besides the forts, the gift has been open to the families of those on the wall.
Houses and villages spread out between The Wall and the lands of the lords.
These lands fly banners with Crows on them, but each village or home is allowed
a banner of Southron lord to fly underneath the Crow. Their loyalty may be to a
House, but their goods and services belong to The Wall.
Traffic to and from the wall is also different then it has ever been. The Wall
now has an open door policy with wildlings, they who can pass to the wild
north, or south to the "gift", with an inspection, of course. The only thing
The Wall keeps out is actual condemned people, White Walkers, and the Others.
The Last Home and Hearth (or First, depending which way you were traveling) was
an establishment more recently erected in Mole Town, just south of the Wall. It
was a new era, of wildlings traveling to and from north of the wall, and honor
coming back to the name "Night's Watch", and a new commander, Lord Commander
Jon Snow.
Wives were still vowed against, but no longer was whoring a hush-hush and
secret deal. It was out in the open. Snow decided that to mark his assumption
of command, he would enact the opening of a legal brothel for the crows. As
such, he granted a wildling woman, Val, the rights to open one in Mole Town,
the Last Hearth and Home, “Hearth” for short. There were even plans to open
more such places nearer to the other forts.
Lord Commander Snow, to show that he was serious and wasn't tricking his men
into doing something he would later chop their heads off for, was the first
crow to enter the Hearth. An honorable man, not really brainless with lust over
women like most others, did a quick glance among the ladies, and selected a
young woman near his age, with hair red as fire, and wearing only a white
cotton shift. Her name was Ygritte, had been born a wildling, and was one of
the less fancy ladies present. She had almost took the black herself, before
deciding she'd rather fight on furs instead of with steel.
Ygritte was rough as soon as they entered the room, shoving Jon onto the furs
that covered a straw bed, pouncing on him shortly thereafter. She didn't bother
with his sword or gloves or boots, but just started kissing him, her hands
stroking his manhood beneath his breeches. He groans into her, thrusting into
her hands.
She stops what she was doing to take off her thin shift, and then goes back to
his pants. She smiles at his dazed look, untying his breeches slowly. When his
manhood is released, it springs out hard and straight. She laughs, raising
herself to her knees. Jon grabs Ygritte's hips with his gloved hands, and they
bring their sexes together.
It's a fast pace, but a satisfying one for the both of them. To shake things
up, Jon manages to turn them over, weapons clanking, his cloak spilling over
them, creating a tent to hide their activities from observers.
There were no observers, obviously, and neither did they really care, except
that the new position was a welcome one. Ygritte arches into him, her head
falling back to the bedding, opening her throat for Jon’s kisses and bites.
She scratches his scalp, keeping his head from moving away, and wraps her legs
harder around him as she climaxes.
Jon was still hard, though, but willing to stop for a moment. They share a
smirk as he lies back on his knees. He goes to take off his gloves, sword,
cloak and doublet, revealing a sweaty tunic underneath. Though it’s nippy in
the room their actions have been literally and figuratively heated.
Ygritte sits up to help Jon take off his tunic, and she starts kissing his
chest. He doesn’t need any more foreplay, but is pleased she wants to touch him
anyway. He goes to touch her, finally, with gloveless hands, relishing in her
warm and leather skin (for she is no silken lady).
For each kiss she places on his chest, a new caress works over her skin. It
starts at her sides, and moves to her shoulders and upper arms. Innocent
touches, but it’s nice. Then he’s stroking her ribs, and the swell of her
breasts, and Ygritte has to acknowledge her pleasure with a moan.
Jon turns them, yet again, so that he is sitting, with her on his lap. As her
arms snake around his neck, he continues his caresses upon her breasts, making
his way to her nipples and tweaking them. She makes her pleasure known by
grinding against him.
In retaliation, he grabs her hips, and raises her off him, like he was
displeased with her, but then he roughly brings her down on him, causing her to
yelp, and he to groan. He goes to do it again, and Ygritte moves to help him.
She’s moving herself now, and Jon starts meeting her midway. He hugs her to him
while they frantically hump, and he outrageously thinks he wishes his boots
were off, so his toes could grip the furs. But who thinks of such things at
these moments? He laughs, and so does she, though she doesn’t get the joke, she
just likes to laugh.
Moans replace laughter, almost covering the sounds of slapping skin. A few more
rough meetings of the sexes, and their both climaxing together, groaning
together, falling down to the furs together.
Coming down from their high, they stare at each other for a beat, before their
laughing again. Comfortable with each other, though they only met a short while
ago.
Smirking to himself as he finally removes his boots after they disentangle, he
thinks the Hearth was the best thing he could have approved of, before turning
towards Ygritte again.
***** Robb and Sansa *****
Chapter Notes
     Unless stated, no characters in this universe are related. Because I
     can. ;) With that said... hope the story is enjoyed!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
SANSA AND ROBB
Every now and then, the crows would flock south and east to recruit. Robb was a
recruiter, and loved it. He would go from house to village to inn; sometimes a
brothel, and he would partake in whatever hospitalities were offered. He was
kind, genial, and an all around levelheaded guy; he was perfect for the job.
Robb thanked the Gods, Old and New, that Jeor Mormont had seen that in him,
before he passed away. Jeor instructed Robb's fellow steward, Jon, to reassign
Robb from stewardship and send him recruiting. As much as he loved his
"brothers" and Commander Mormont, he was enjoying his new role more then ever
thought he would. He was currently "ranging south", as they jokingly called
recruiting, in the Riverlands. A Lord and Lady Frey were hosting them, though
not at the Twins. This particular Lord Frey was a grandson of the Late Walder
Frey (late to his own death, most said), and wouldn't inherit the Twins, unless
twenty or so other men died first.
Robb's fellow brother, Theon, was there as well, and would take any recruits
and a few other crows in their group, back to the Wall after this visit.
Currently, however, Theon was commenting on how beautiful Riverland ladies
were. "How different from any other 'beautiful ladies' you see in every place?"
Asks Robb.
Theon laughs, and offers, "Well, you don't see many redheads anywhere else,
unless it's a wildling. Blue eyes are more like sapphires here, then anywhere
else, and have you ever seen a sand snake with cheekbones like hers?" He points
to Lady Sansa Frey as proof.
"No." concedes Robb. They share a laugh, drink a few more ales, and then eat
some more roast pig. When it comes time to open the dance floor, Robb goes to
the high table to ask the lady of the house for a dance, as was proper respect,
but Lord Frey interjected, "My lady wife does not dance."
Bowing, Robb turns to other women for the honor of a dance, and thinks not of
Sansa anymore.
That night, however, as he's drunkenly trying to find the room they assigned
for him, he hears furniture crashing, and he turns towards the sound. Coming
upon the Lord and Lady's apartments, he frowns. His sobering thought is that an
assassin is attacking his host.
Thinking no further, he unsheathes his sword and kicks open the door. What he
sees, however, is not an assassin, but an abusive husband who has thrown his
naked wife against furniture. In the few seconds it takes to process this scene
and its implications, Lord Frey has his own sword out.
"What in the seven hells are you doing?" Lord Frey shouts at Ser Robb.
Robb does not take his eyes off of Sansa, though it is not her nakedness that
rivets him, but her many injuries that normally would be hidden by a dress. "I
had thought you were being attacked, my lord, upon hearing furniture crashing.
I rushed to your defense."
Lord Frey is not pleased. "It is just me and my wife. Leave us!"
Robb finally looks at the Frey man. "No." Frey sputters, but Robb continues, "A
man of the Night's Watch defends the realm, and what you are doing, is clearly
a violation of a citizen. I am sworn to defend a lady in her need."
It is clearly flimsy reasoning; there was no such precedent for a crow
defending a beaten wife of a lord, but neither is it false reasoning. There
might as well have been such rules, since the Night's Watch was tasked to
defend citizens.
Frey cannot figure out if it is some cruel jape or not, but decides to err in
safety, and charges the crow with his sword swinging. Robb meets him, and the
clang is loud, echoing through the open door and down the corridors. A few more
clashes, and most of the people sleeping on that floor have awoken, and come to
see what the ruckus is.
After a few more clashes, Robb sees an opening and kicks lord Frey away from
him. Frey crashes against a fallen table, and promptly tumbles down to the
floor. He makes to stand up again, but his sword hand is stepped on, and Robb's
sword point is at his throat; Frey is forced to say, "I yield."
Robb turns towards Theon, who, awoken by the sounds, is at the doorway. "We
will leave at dawn, we won't stay any longer. Lady Sansa will come with us, be
sure there's an extra horse for her." Seeing Theon nod, Robb turns to Sansa, to
help her in some way.
"My lord!" she gasps, and Robb barely has time to turn around, let alone defend
himself, to see Frey charging him with his sword.
Just as Frey is about to swing, he lurches, misses Robb, and falls to the
floor, dagger in his back. Robb turns to see Theon in post throw. "You sleep
with a dagger?" As Theon has obviously came from bed.
Theon smirks, righting himself. "You don't?" He counters. "I'll see to the
horses." And he walks away to do so, though it is a few hours into the night.
That was three days ago. Now the crows, their current batch of recruits, and
Lady Sansa, were traveling to the King's Road. Upon reaching the King's Road,
they would split up: Robb and some others would continue south on the road,
while Sansa, Theon, and the recruits would go north. All the men were courteous
to the widow, and the women would give her encouraging looks, but did not
interact with her. Sansa would learn of their companionship the further they
got north, where class dwindled to mere titles and nothing more. Now, however,
she spent most of her free time, off the horse, silently crying in her tent.
Ser Robb would check in on her, made sure she had eaten, and that the pace was
to her liking. Then he would leave to attend to others. This day, however, he
had given leave for Theon to take charge, while he tried to comfort the lady.
"You are not happy." He remarks with his opening move on the cyvasse table,
seated on the floor across from her.
She contemplates the board, moves the knight, and says, "I was never happy as a
wife, and I doubt living on the Wall will be to my liking, but where can I go?
My in-laws would never take me in, my childhood home is no more, and my
family…dead. This is but a pain that is more manageable."
Robb moves one of his pieces, "The people at Mole's Town will take care of you.
Val, at the Hearth, will make sure you're never in pain again."
"A whore." She moves her dragon. "What am I to do there? Service men? Cook?
Clean? Sew? Some sort of servitude or other, that will mark the rest of my days
till death."
He counters her move. "Val will not make you do anything you do not wish. You
are under protection of the Night's Watch, and she's our greatest patron in the
Gift. There's another lady, a lady Cersei. The only thing she offers is money
management and childcare. You won't be forced into anything."
There are a few more minutes of silence. When he looks up to make sure she
hasn't spaced out, he sees she's crying again. He moves to wipe a tear away,
and she flinches away. Robb's first instinct is to flee the tent and the crying
woman, but he does want to comfort her, so he slowly walks around the table,
sits next to her, and cradles her in his arms. Her silent tears become sobs and
hiccups.
After a few minutes, she calms down again. Despite her aversion to touch, she
finds his hug and back rubs comforting. "I am afraid." She whispers.
"Don't be."
"I do not want to be in pain anymore."
"You won't. No one will hurt you at the Hearth, or at the Wall."
Her next sentence is so quiet, he's unsure if he's heard her correctly, but as
sure as he is an honorable man, she said, "Show me."
He looks to her in surprise, but the shock turns to sympathy. He raises a hand
to finger her cheek, wiping a tear away, before moving in to kiss her. It's
sweet and tender, and he makes no move to gain entry into her mouth. She
responds after a few pecks, and he moves his arms under her knees and neck, to
raise her onto his lap, but not straddling him. Once there, he starts caressing
her legs, over the material of her cotton skirt. Her breath hitches, but he
continues to gently kiss her.
The arm behind her back does not move, a steady presence; his other arm snakes
up her torso, and starts teasing a breast over her traveling dress. Again, she
shudders, but remains resolutely in place. When her kisses get more fervent, he
lowers his hand slowly, ghosting her whole body, all the way to her ankle,
where the hem of her skirt lays.
She breaks from the kiss, but doesn't ask him to stop. They stare at each
other, her with trust, and him with reassurance. His hand strokes her inner
calf, then her inner thigh, her skirts bunching in the process, before he meets
her small clothes. When he brushes her slit over the material, she sighs and
rests her forehead against his, breaking eye contact when she closes hers.
He reaches to take off her small clothes, bringing it down to her knees, before
coming back to her sex. It is not as wet as it could be, but he soon rectifies
that by rubbing her bundle of nerves. He is awarded with a moan, and wetness
seeping between her legs.
Leaving his thumb upon her button, he pushes his pointer finger into her
snatch. Slow and gentle, it does nothing to cause Sansa pain or fear. Her
breath on his neck quickens, almost in time with the thrusts of his finger.
When he adds a second finger, she jumps slightly, but continues to make small
moans. She's so quiet, Robb wonders if she ever made noise when Frey had his
way with her. He recalls that she hadn't screamed once when she was thrown
against furniture. It's not a new thought, but it still causes sympathy to
flare up within his heart.
By the time he's thrusting into her with three fingers, she's moving her hips
along with him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders for a better
purchase. A few more thrusts of the fingers and rubbing of the bundle of
nerves, she's groaning her climatic pleasure, shuddering in his arms.
She opens her eyes after a few seconds, to watch him as he removes his fingers,
only to taste them himself. It's an erotic sight, but it embarrasses her. "My
husband has never been gentle with me, or done anything for me like that. He
would always wash me off him afterwards."
Robb frowns, then pecks her on the lips, saying "Don't accept anything but
pleasure for you, from now on."
She nods, though she knows it's easier said then done. He fixes her clothing,
and then carries her to her furs. As he turns to leave, she asks, in surprise,
"What about you? Don't you need release?" for she could feel his hardness under
her.
"This wasn't about me," replies Robb, "It was about you. I'll be fine. Sleep
well, my lady." They both smile before he takes her leave.
And sleep well she does, for the first time in many moons.
Chapter End Notes
     This was written after Sansa's other chapters, which are more
     explicit then this one (she's one of the main arcs in this series):
     an intro chapter for Sansa, rather then a smut-fic. I have a hard
     time seeing Sansa at a brothel, so this was an explanation of how she
     ends up at the Hearth, though even I feel my explanation, and the
     whole story, is flimsy. But that's fanfiction for you! :p Let me know
     what you think, please!
***** Brandon the Elder and Catelyn : Eddard and Catelyn *****
BRANDON THE ELDER AND CATELYN
Brandon had taken many spear wives over his short life. His first was fellow
clan member, Barbrey, whom he knew liked him, so it was easy to take her as his
own. Even at a young age, he had proved to be quite the warrior, with a lean
and dangerous body that most wildlings envied or wanted. The two had lost their
innocence to each other, both around four and ten, and she was enamored with
him because of it. It was mere lust to Brandon, however, and he had not mourned
her frozen death, as much as he suppose he ought to have. Following her came a
string of nameless fucks that were mostly a one-time deal.
By the time he was a young man of eight and ten, he had been through the gates
of the wall at least three times; it open to his kind these past twenty or so
years by the Old Bear Commander. The last time, he had espied a southern lady,
and took her. Brandon's new "wife's" name was Catelyn Tully, and struggled like
a cat with a dog complex, but he eventually had her. Her warmth, beauty, and
manners were so different from the spear wives, that he had been attracted and
wanted it, even though he'd only met her for a few hours in Mole's Town.
After Bran and Cat made it back to his father's clan, they became involved in a
triangle of sorts. Bran's younger brother, Eddard, also became enamored with
the southern beauty, but said nothing. However, it was beneficial to Brandon,
because while he was fucking the lady, Eddard was treating with Cat's father,
and with the Commander of the Watch, promising them both Catelyn's health and
prosperity.
It was out of those talks that prompted both men to go south of the Wall.
Eddard took the black, and Brandon built Catelyn a home in Mole's Town. Brandon
even went through a ceremony to wed the woman, standing under a Weirwood and
making promises, southron style. He did not want to keep them, but his father
and brother would have his hide should he break his oaths.
There was comfort in Catelyn that Brandon did not expect, however. She always
wore her armor of courtesy and manners, so she always knew what to say to
appease him. He knew it for what it was, but over time he could tell that she
was warming up to his ways. Thus she always spoke her mind and counsel, but
never in a way that insulted him.
She grew to like touching him. Most women he interacted with liked to fuck him,
not caress him. She would hold his hand when walking. She would stroke his jaw,
his cheek, his neck, when she wanted to comfort him while her words were
admonishing him. When they were naked on bed before or after sex, she liked to
massage his back. His shoulders would get messaged when he was sitting at his
desk or eating at the table.
But he really liked bedding her too. Spear wives were wild and crazy, fun in
the sack, but Catelyn was demure and ladylike. It would amuse Brandon to wake
the wolf inside her, to hear her scream and thrash and push him back. It would
touch his heart when she wanted gentle sex, and it would inflame him head to
toe when she would initiate the act, instead of the other way around.
They made a baby together, but Brandon the Elder would never know Brandon the
Younger.
Brandon promised Catelyn he'd come back. He was hugging her naked and pregnant
form from behind, easing himself in and out of her. It was the most gentle he'd
ever been, tortuously slow, and she was trying to make him go faster by bucking
back into him. But he wouldn't let her, his hands on her belly and around her
shoulders guiding her. She held his arm against her, crying and mewling. "I
promise," he whispered against her ear, before inhaling the scent of her red
hair he loved so much.
When she gave up trying to go faster, he brought a hand to her sensitive
breast, and the other to her sex. It was like touching hot coals she jolted so
violently. A few more thrusts and caresses, and she was climaxing. He followed
a second later.
After he lowered both of them to the bed, spooning her from behind, he again
promised a speedy return from ranging beyond the wall with his brother. Ned
wouldn't let anything happen to him, anyway.
Ned barely came back alive to tell how wolves had attacked them, how he (and a
few others) had managed to survive and Brandon didn't.
EDDARD AND CATELYN
One minute he was sharing stories of his childhood with her, the next they were
kissing as if their lives depended on it. It took two years to get to this
moment, two years of tension, survivor's guilt, anger, and the attention of
Brandon's baby, before Ned and Cat acknowledged that what they both needed was
each other.
He was greyer then Brandon's browns and blacks, but his kisses were the same.
Brandon was leaner, but Ned's hands were as insistent as his brother's as he
pushed Cat to sit on the table. When he stood between her legs, his manhood was
different, but it sparked the same lust within her.
Ned kissed her more then his brother ever did, but Cat could not differentiate
between the two while she was ripping off his jerkin and tunic. She took it
upon herself to unlace her bodice while Ned raised her skirts about her waist,
calloused hands ghosting along her legs as Brandon used to do.
She broke their kisses, bringing his head down to her now bared breasts. One of
his hands had slipped into her, his thumb circling her bundle of nerves, while
the other fingers worked slowly in and out of her. When she started to grind
back onto his hand, he took it away, much to her protests.
He moved to kiss her lips, before unlacing his breeches. Cat took the
initiative to grab his member, to stroke it a few times, bringing them both
closer to each other. Ned calmly stroked her arms, to soothe her when she
didn't need to be soothed (or so she thought). She looked to his eyes, and saw
nothing but love. There was lust in the air, but his love for her was stronger
then Brandon's had been. In that moment, Brandon left her mind and only Eddard
surrounded her.
Eddard saw her love for him blossom in that moment, and he would never forget
that day and hour. As his hands moved to her ass, he moved in to kiss her lips,
yet again. He then thrust into her, and she gasped into his mouth.
After a few thrusts, Cat moves to hug Ned to her, and their pace picks up. A
series of grunts and groans follow, and they know the end is coming when their
hands violently grab at each other. Her ass will be bruised, and his back will
bleed, but it is nothing to the bliss that occurs, that flows through him and
her, and cements their relationship. A few moons later, Rickon would be born.
They want nothing but to stay where they are, but Brandon the Younger
interrupts their moment by waking up from his nap and asking for lunch.
***** Arya and Edric *****
GENDRY AND ARYA
They were both crows on he wall, but have not met until now. Arya lived at
Castle Black; Gendry was at Eastwatch by the Sea, a captain of a warship (The
Stubborn Crow). Gendry was visiting Castle Black, to make a personal report and
to vacation at the Hearth. Arya was a captain of a ranging group (She-Wolf
squadron, an all-female group), and she went to the Hearth at least once weekly
when south of the wall.
The two crows were waiting for available companions, when they struck up a
conversation. They were immediately smitten with each other, and proved it by
throwing insults both ways. 'Who was this stupid bull crow to call her a small
lady? And a poorly dressed one at that!' Thought Arya. 'Who was this lovely
creature with a mouth and a liking for bawdy japes? With a sword and dirk upon
her belted breeches, no less!' Thought Gendry.
"Pain in my arse; is your sharp tongue trying to make up for your dull blade?"
"At least I have a fine cloak. What is that, a salty fish on your back?"
"Wolf Bitch."
"Bull Ass."
Then they smiled at each other.
Before they trade more japes, Val tells Arya there's a room ready for her.
She stands, before turning to the blue-eyed, raven-locked man, "Next time you
come west, be sure to let me know by raven. I'll give you a tour of whole of
Castle Black, get you outside the Commander's solar." He nods.
EDRIC AND ARYA
There was nowhere else to go. His eldest aunt committed suicide, his uncle died
in battle, and the other Aunt left was playing politics, as she stood to
inherit the house; completely ignoring him in the process. He knew not even his
own parents. So when Edric left home for adventure with his Aunt's betrothed,
and they had arrived at Castle Black as guests, he felt that the Wall was a far
as one could go before turning warm again, so he stayed.
Edric even found love on the Wall, though it was not reciprocated. He never
told the woman that he loved her, but he felt relieved, somewhat, that she
would come to him regularly. He liked to think that there was something about
him that drew her to him, more then anyone else. A little songlike and
unrealistic, but that was his lot.
She really has no need of love at the Hearth, but of tenderness. The men on the
wall were rather harsh in their fucking (which she liked, too), and she just
wanted a change of pace. It wasn't uncommon for the crows to fuck each other
rather then go to the Hearth, especially since the Hearth had only been
recently built; they'd been "doing it" since Jeor approved female crows. It
also was inconvenient unless one lived at Castle Black or Oakenshield.
But, he loved her all the same. All that heat he grew up with, and it did
little to excite reactions from him or anyone else he knew, mostly droll and
proper. But, the further north he traveled, the more bawdy, brave, or fun,
people became. Maybe because they had to generate their own heat, were they
more alive then those in the dead of the desert. In any case, her warmth opened
his heart to things he never thought he would have enjoyed.
He never thought, for instance, that drunken sex would be so hot. First, she'd
out drink him, then she'd giggle like a Bravossi Monkey and pounce on him,
ripping clothes left and right, not caring whether they were fine clothes or
not. And when she used her mouth on his cock, like he was taught was unladylike
and shouldn't expect his wife (or lover) to do, he'd moan at her thoroughly
brazen act, her warm mouth, and her wet tongue.
She'd go so far as to make him cum into her mouth, and then she'd kiss him.
Alcohol and his cum would be in her mouth, and he'd relish it. Then he would
have fun undressing her, kissing every inch of skin exposed, even her cunt,
which some prat in the desert said was not worth tasting, but Edric disagreed.
If he ever left Val's employ to go home, he'd punch some sense into his friend,
who probably wouldn't be his friend anymore.
She would taste divine: a little musky, a little sweaty (she was a warrior
after all), and definitely a contrast to the ale from earlier. A lot headier
then the summer wines from home, true enough. He'd lap her up like an oasis
going dry when she came for him, and then he'd return the previous kiss, her
tasting her own juices mixed with ale.
Next, the caresses would commence. He'd map her body, from head to toe, and
everything in between. By the time he was tweaking her breasts, she'd be
begging him to take her, in not so many words. A sand snake would take, never
beg, and Edric thinks he'd never like a woman who didn't communicate her wants,
just expected it. Or a woman who just did the duty, but didn't have fun with
it.
He'd smirk at her, and she'd whine at him. Teasing her was more fun than it
should have been, but he so loved to see her growl at him. When he did finally
enter her, her growls became moans, her face an image of pure bliss.
She'd arch her back, offering up her breasts, and who was he to deny her, and
himself? Most of their coupling would end with his head in her breasts, both
their arms around each other, her head touching his. A few thrusts, and their
peak would have them crashing to the sheets.
He worshipped her body, and she gave him pleasure for his sacrifices to her.
But it was never enough; she'd be gone by the morning.
***** Sansa and Maester Tyrion *****
Chapter Summary
     A chapter that explains how Sansa signs up to be a whore.
Chapter Notes
     I really like how this chapter came out, myself; I hope you readers
     do too! Also, Tyrion is my favorite character in the "real" series,
     and I really hope I do him some justice, more so then with the other
     characters.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
SANSA AND MAESTER TYRION
Sansa had been at the Hearth for a few moons now. She knew nothing but kindness
from the proprietress, Val, and the other "ladies" at the establishment. She
even made a few friends, like fellow redheads Ygritte and Ros, and fellow
former southerners, like Jeyne Poole. They had given her comfort, happiness,
and a new appreciation for life. If not making her blush constantly (as per
Ygritte's stories), they had broken down her high walls, and Sansa realized the
more simple rules of the Old Gods were worth embracing, instead of the
complicated, man-made rules that were worth next to nothing. In it's most basic
form, all men and women were equal, and love was worth seeking, not
restraining.
Getting comfortable around men was a different story, however. After a moon or
so, she found herself entertaining guests in the common room; reading with or
for them, playing cyvasse, singing, playing the harp, or any number of things
that didn't involve intimacy. Some of the men scoffed at her, wanting only
physical fulfillment, not intellectual ones, from a whore. There were a few,
though, that proved Ser Robb correct, not all men were cruel.
Theon, who helped escort her to the Hearth from the Riverlands, would check in
on her now and then. He didn't want what she offered, and asked for her
physically, but Sansa though him kind to inquire after her and forgave his
crude nature. He did, after all, gift her with strings for the worn harp.
A scarred wildling crow, by the name of Sandor, liked to hear her sing. He was
rough with his speech, never seemed to smile, and had a violent reputation: but
after her initial fear of him, she realized him to be an honorable man. He'd
always stare at her, but other then beg for a kiss, he never made her
uncomfortable.
Even the Lord Commander of the Watch, Jon Snow, would ask for her, the rare
visits he was able to get. He would always ask for Ygritte to bed, but then
he'd ask for Sansa while he waited. He did not look at her with longing, like
most all the men did, but seemed (like Ser Robb) to genuinely care about her
health. He alone would ask her to tell her stories. He told her about his
childhood as a bastard wildling, and then she'd tell him the latest stories
written by the bards. When it was time for him to go, he'd bow to her, and
refuse her bow in return, saying she deserved more then what they had to offer
her.
After a few more moons of this, Sansa felt it was time to pull more of her
weight at the Hearth. Val, rightly so, thought it was out of some sense of
guilt on Sansa's part, of taking advantage of the Hearth's hospitality. Sansa
had to convince her, over a few more moons, that the case was more on the lines
of needing to prove that she would not be ruled by her past, and she wanted to
thank Val (and the Wall) for helping her, both reasons which were also true.
When Sansa finally convinced Val to let her sell her body, Val asked her whom
she had in mind, who she felt comfortable enough to sell herself to first.
Usually, the men chose, but in Sansa's case, things had to be dealt with
carefully.
That's how she found herself, a few days later, having her back massaged by
Maester Tyrion, who was kneeling beside her prone body. He was everything her
late husband was not; stunted, ugly, orphaned, of no social consequence…
intelligent, kind, witty, funny, sympathetic, considerate, courteous, truthful,
honorable, and a hell of a cyvasse player.
Maester Tryion wouldn't touch her at first, truly had enjoyed her for her
company. Sansa had to bet, and then win, a cyvasse game before she convinced
him to bed her. Val even gave him a discount for the event.
He continued to exhibit gallantry, by offering her a back massage when he came
to her the next night. Her nerves had been high, he could tell, and the more he
gently rubbed her shoulders, neck, and back, the more he felt her relax. When
he heard her sigh, and saw her close her eyes, he leaned down to kiss the back
of her neck.
Her hum of contentment emboldened them both. Tryrion started to gently untie
the laces on her back, and Sansa willed away her fears.
The laces of this particular dress went from neck to butt, so with every tie
undone, Tyrion leaned down and kissed the skin newly presented to him. After
the last tie was done away with, he again uses his hands, gently caressing her
back, and moving away the dress.
When he can move the fabric no more, he leans back, and starts to untie his
black leather doublet (a gift from Lord Snow). Sansa turns her head, opening
her eyes to see what he is doing. After his doublet falls to the floor, and his
black shirt was following, she moves to turn around, pushing her dress down to
her waist in the process. Tyrion moves to help take the dress off completely.
Still in his black breeches, he goes to kneel between her legs. He starts
massaging Sansa again, this time her stomach and breasts. Inadvertently, but no
less pleasantly, his hard cock also starts to massage her, rubbing up against
her lower lips.
Sansa again sighs, closing her eyes. Lost in the good sensations she hasn't
felt since Robb (or even before him), she experimentally shifts her hips,
rubbing him back, and is rewarded by Tyrion's groan of pleasure.
When the front of his breeches are straining and wet beyond tolerance, Tyrion
places his hands on Sansa's hips, stilling them. When she opens her eyes to
him, he then starts to unlace his breeches. As his cock springs free, he's
gratified to see a blush form on her pretty face.
Sansa really didn't know what to expect from a dwarf, but his cock is "normal"
sized. And, she's embarrassed to think, bigger then her late unlamented
husband's. Her eyes rake up his moderately defined torso, to his face, which is
sporting a kind smile. She smiles back, and he slowly enters her.
Her mouth opens in silent wonder, her eyes shutting again. He marvels at her
innocence in the situation. It's almost like she was a virgin. She might as
well have been, never having sex pleasurably before. He goes as gently as he
can, and is surprised to find hat he enjoys it as well.
After a few thrusts, she starts meeting him with her hips, and bites her lower
lip in obvious rapture. He would have her scream in ecstasy, but that is
something she will have to overcome in her own time. He is more then making up
for the silence, grunting at each thrust.
Subtly, almost unbeknownst to both, they go faster. She arches her back, and he
grasps at her breasts, kneading them some more. He feels a lurch in his heart
when her hands grab his, body begging him not to stop, and he hears a slight
hic come out of her mouth now, as he slams into her.
He can feel his climax coming. He's unsure how far she is, so he brings one of
his hands down to her sex, seeking and rubbing her bundle of nerves. Her eyes
shoot open, and then she's coming, mouth open again in silent wonder.
A second later, so is he, though he is more vocal about it.
Coming down from the blissful high, he slumps down onto her, his head upon the
pillow of her breasts. He hears her heartbeat go from fast to slow, and knows
she does not regret it. He smiles when he feels her arms hesitantly go around
him, hugging him to her.
They do not love each other, but it's a rather loving gift that they share.
Chapter End Notes
     Just a hint for future chapters... These two do not end up together
     in this story. Also, review, pretty please?
***** Gendry and Jeyne Heddle *****
GENDRY AND JEYNE HEDDLE
This girl reminds him of Arya, a little bit. As a matter of fact, there were
three women at the Hearth that reminded him of Arya: this Jeyne, Jeyne Poole,
and Alys; all closer in age to him, then the she-wolf. Arya, however, was the
only one with muscles, the only one who liked to talk about missions, fighting,
or politics, the only one who could inflame his anger and interest at the very
same time, and the only one with eyes of steel, rather then brown. But for now,
the only thing his cock was interested in was fucking.
He had tried to get in touch with Arya again, to meet up like they had once
before to walk the walls and corridors of Castle Black. He had enjoyed their
time together. He had thought to get her to show him her direwolf, like she
promised, and maybe her body too. Anyway, for Gendry, it had been a long time
at sea, a man had needs, and Arya, he knew, was more then willing.
But she was out ranging; they would not cross paths this time. Jeyne was here,
on her bed, still naked from her previous customer. She lay on her back with
her legs open, her doe brown eyes staring at him with lust. He knew this Jeyne
wanted him for herself, somehow coming to prefer him to others, when they
haven't even lain together yet. But he knew his looks would do that to some
women.
He starts to undress, and stalk closer to her. Impatient to start, Jeyne slowly
masturbates while watching him undress. One hand goes to a breast, and the
other starts to circle and rub her clit. The scene, and her moans, encourage
him to undress faster, and she's so ready for him, that when he slips into her,
she cries out and clamps around him.
He groans in the heat and the grip of her snatch, and he grabs her thighs
harshly in retaliation. Her breasts rise and fall with her post orgasmic
breathlessness, and he's drawn to swallow one in his mouth, his other hand
squeezing the other. It takes a few licks and squeezes, but Jeyne becomes ready
again.
Her arms snake around his back, and her hips grind against him, showing how
ready she is. So he comes out of her, only to thrust back in, causing a scream
to come from her mouth. He looks at her in mild amusement, raising him self
from her chest. Smiling back, she asks why he stopped.
"Excuse me." He quips, before obliging her, starting to thrust again. The pace
is slow, at first, but quite enjoyable. "Faster!" she screams, so he starts to
piston into her, bruising her thighs where his hands have made their home.
Each thrust is met with a loud "ugh!" from her, and Gendry just can't stop
smiling; never has he met a louder whore. Her breasts bounce at each entry, and
her body has taken on such a nice red blush, that Gendry wants to explore it.
Releasing her thighs, he moves to run his hands all over her torso, causing her
to moan and scream in enjoyment.
Feeling himself nearing completion, he leans down to bite on her shoulder as he
thrusts once, twice, thrice more, and climaxes. His seed signals her own end,
and she clamps his dick yet again, eliciting a final scream from her open
mouth.
As she comes down from her high, she sees he's smiling at her. A devilishly
crooked one; she moves to kiss him. Her lips meet stubble, however, and his
once roguish smile his gone.
In about two minutes, after putting on most of his clothes, his whole presence
is gone.
***** Sansa and Joffrey *****
Chapter Notes
     Just to share some nonsense, it was the first Sansa chapter written,
     but obviously not the first posted. I had the chance to change
     things, and edit others, to keep it in line with previous chapters.
     Also, I do not condone Joffrey, or rape of any kind; there is no grey
     area.
     WARNING: RAPE CHAPTER.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
SANSA AND JOFFREY
He was handsome, but so had been her husband. Ser Joffrey, accidental Commander
of Oakenshild, seemed put out that she didn't simper or blush in his presence.
She heard from Ros that Joffrey liked to be rough, and she thought she had
prepared for it. It couldn't be worse than her husband had been, could it? But
yes, yes it was much worse. He was exactly like her abusive husband; made worse
by the fact that she had been doing so well moving away from the past, and he
brought her back.
It started out fine, with small kisses and roaming hands. But then he bit her
neck (not at all a turn on to her), and held her a little more strongly then
was necessary. Trying to placate him, she placed a hand on his cheek, "Please,
you're hurting me." That had been the wrong thing to say. He grabbed her wrist
in a vise grip, "You're here to please me, not the other way around, whore!"
and he trips her to the floor, not one foot away from the bed.
She whimpers, tears falling down her face, ugly memories coming to the surface
once more. She's unable to bring herself to stop this rape, as she'd promise
Ser Robb she would. Her tears and fear seems to please Joffrey though, smiling
as he unlaces his breeches.
She tries to scoot away, but her body hurts from her fall, and she doesn't get
very far. He grabs her ankle, drags her closer to him, and slaps her hard.
Nothing escapes her lips but a gasp, blood welling from her lips, and tears
flowing freely. She has the nerve to bring a hand to her face, to look at him
reproachfully, so he slaps her again, harder. This time she does not look back.
Enjoying her pain and fear, he leers at her; lightly beating his cock with his
own hand, every now and then spitting into it, knowing that Sansa will not be
wet.
Feeling himself getting close, he rips off her gown; one she brought from her
previous home, and roughly shoves into her. Her body remembers, is used to it,
but still it brings no pleasure. She is a broken woman who needs tenderness,
not roughness. She lies there, refusing to participate, but Joffrey likes his
women beaten. He thrusts into her over and over again, bruising her breasts
with rough hands, biting her collarbones, asking her if she likes it, whore
that she is. She doesn't reply, but no answer is required. Each pump brings
fresh tears to her waxen face, but no vocal cries come.
After he spills in her, he laughs in her face. "Pathetic. Maybe I ought to get
my man, Gregor, on you." She has no idea who "Gregor" is, and she has a feeling
she doesn't want to know.
As he leaves, she sees Sandor, Joffrey's second in command, through the
doorway. His face is impassive, as always, as he stares at her, but she does
nothing to cover herself, or move from the floor. He comes in, and lifts her
from the floor in his arms, despite the fear still present in her eyes, though
Sandor has been nothing but kind to her.
"Seven hells girl," Sandor whispers to her, "scream, yell, protest; call for me
next time." He then gently places her on the bed, bringing up a sheet over her
nakedness. He moves to wipe a tear from a cheek, before Joffrey yells, "Hound,
to me!" He leaves her, both wishing he could stay.
Chapter End Notes
     Teaser: Joffrey will get his due, it'll just take a few tries to get
     there, is all. Teaser #2: Sansa will be happy again, eventually.
***** Myrcella: Jamie and Brienne *****
Chapter Summary
     Myrcella watches her father fuck a woman not her mother, and she
     doesn't mind it.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
MYRCELLA: JAMIE AND BRIENNE
There's giggling in the spas, and it draws Myrcella's attention because she
recognizes her father's voice. Opening the door quietly, she's shocked to see
Ser (lady?) Brienne in his arms, her back against the wooden edge of the tub,
and she's smiling. She never smiles brightly, only grins or smirks. Myrcella
decides she likes the smile on the lady's (ser's?) face; it brings out a
beautiful quality that just couldn't be explained by a nine year old.
Brienne and Myrcella's father were friends, though, had been partners of the
wall; what were they doing naked together in the spas? Myrcella watches
fascinated, as they seem to be undulating up and down against the edge, moaning
and giggling, kissing and hugging. She will have to ask her mother, she thinks,
if she wants answers. Then she thinks she'd rather stay curious a while longer,
because she knows her mother hates Ser Brienne, though she knows not why.
A loud splash brings her back to the present; Brienne has just pushed her
father away, a large laugh breaking from her lips. He laughs in turn, raising
his hands in mock surrender, and she can see the reason he left the wall to
stay at the Hearth, his handless hand. He doesn't service any women other then
Myrcella's mother, as far as Myrcella knows, but stays there for his bastard
children, who live there as well.
Myrcella likes Brienne, despite the taunts of her ugliness. She's glad to see
her father stroke Brienne's scarred cheek as if she was the most beautiful
woman in the world. Brienne deserves it for putting up with slurs from both men
and women; she's so kind to her and her brother, Tommen, and a perfectly
honorable knight (if only she would smile more often!)
They move in to kiss again, and now it's her father's turn to have his back to
the tub's edge. She sees both her father's arms snake around Brienne's back,
caressing her, causing Brienne to moan. At that point, Myrcella decides to
leave, starting to get an inkling of what's going on and feeling like she was
intruding on a special moment.
Myrcella is unable to turn away when she catches them in Mole's Town, after a
few name days have come and gone. Taking a shortcut behind the apothecary and
fabric stores, she finds her father and Ser Brienne kissing in the relative
privacy of the trees. Enchanted rather then embarrassed, Myrcella (unaware that
she was doing it) moves to hide behind the stack of firewood also in the area.
Of course Myrcella has heard the moans of patrons, the creaks and groans of
furniture and floors, and saw a little bit in the spas, but she has never known
what was really involved. Her mother, Cersei, forbade anyone from exposing her
daughter to such acts.
The smiles on her father's and Brienne's faces are beautiful, and Myrcella
wonders why anyone would wish to keep children in the dark. Her friends may
have plans to take the black, or go south; but as far as Myrcella is concerned,
she wants to stay where she's grown up, the only place she's ever known. Her
mother would rather her marry, and marry well, but wanting to force her
daughter had made Myrcella rebellious.
By now, her father had started to take off his clothes. Myrcella blushes,
knowing only lovers should see each other's nakedness, but still she doesn't
turn away. He places his face next to Brienne's whispering something into her
ear. Brienne blushes, something Myrcella was unaware the maiden warrior
(another unfair name others called her) could do, but Brienne starts to unlace
her own breeches too.
They keep whispering to each other, as they take off the rest of their clothes.
Every now and then, one or both will laugh. As much as Myrcella does not know
about coupling, she knows most patrons do not laugh as much as these two do.
It's a nice change, and she thinks she likes the idea that sex is different for
different people, that there's no strict format or style to adhere to.
Her father's stumped hand goes behind Brienne's back, pushing them closer
together, and Brienne's hands grasp at his ass. They're kissing again, this
time with moans. Father pushes Brienne towards the closest tree, her bare back
receiving plenty of scratches in the process. Not caring in the least, it
seems, Brienne only moves her hands to her father's shoulders, and lifts a leg
around her father's hip.
It's at this moment that Myrcella really notices Brienne's muscular form. The
leg was buff and well defined, as were her arms, sleek and beautiful. Moving to
her chest and abs, however, Myrcella, only a maid of two and ten, feels guilty
pleasure at the fact that her breasts are not as small as Brienne's, which are
mere points, and that her stomach is smooth, whereas Brienne's looks like it
would be bumpy and uncomfortable to touch for a man.
There is a downfall to noticing Brienne's leg, however, and it's the fact that
it's in the way of viewing her father's cock. Admiring Brienne's body, she
misses the moment when her father guides himself into his friend. For friends
they still are. Other then the time in the spas, Myrcella has not seen the two
in such an act, and neither have they made their affair known to others.
After a pump or two, her father's hands go under Brienne's thighs, her having
jumped slightly to wrap both legs around him. Leaning Brienne again against the
tree, he thrusts into her with a quick pace.
Brienne breaks the kisses to lean her head back, gasps falling out of her lips,
her eyes closed in bliss. Her father places his head in the crook of her neck,
but Myrcella cannot tell if he's biting, whispering, or sniffing her. Myrcella
notices that her own breath has hitched, and though her moon blood has not come
yet, there is such a degree of want in her, that she can't help but wonder what
it would be like to be kissed, or more.
It's barely a thought in her head, kissing, when her father groans rather
loudly, stilling against Brienne, who, not a second later, also makes a loud
noise. Something between a moan and a scream. It sounds wonderful, though, and
Myrcella is happy for them.
Myrcella loves her mother and her father, but not when they are together. There
is an undercurrent of tensions, regrets, and resignation. She has never seen
her mother look at her father with adoration or respect, like Ser Brienne does
whenever they're in the same room. She has never seen her father stroke her
mother's cheek, or give her searing kisses, as she's seen him do for Brienne in
their hookups.
Unable to tear her view from the previous carnal act, Myrcella is, however,
able to turn away from the tender way they dress each other, handing each other
their swords, etc., that commence as they move away from the tree.
On her way home to the Hearth, Myrcella picks up wild flowers, being sure to
pick some of her mother's favorite red ones to add to the bouquet.
Chapter End Notes
     For me, it's hard to write Brienne and Jamie. So much of their
     relationship is based on banter and dialogue: I hate writing dialogue
     and I couldn't come up with many jokes for them to share, so... third
     person POV it is! Besides, I wanted to try it out, the peeping tom
     view... Hope you like, and thanks for reading!
***** Gendry and Arya *****
GENDRY AND ARYA
They finally had time to meet up. And as previously planned, they would meet
the direwolves of Castle Black. There were direwolves all along the wall,
except for Eastwatch and Westwatch, both barren of forests that the wolves
loved. Since Gendry lived on the sea and at Eastwatch, he had never seen one up
close.
Castle Black boasted five wolves, with a sixth one at the Hearth. Apparently,
once injured and nursed to health by the companions, the direwolf, named
"Lady", made it's new home there.
Arya showed him her wolf first, Nymeria, the only female currently in
residence. "She must be fought over constantly." Jokes Gendry.
"Yeah. And we're linked through our minds. Maester Samwell says that's the
reason I'm so… promiscuous."
"Really?" His eyes take on a suggestive gleam.
"Yes." She ignores his eyes for the moment. "And here's Ghost." She directs his
attention to a white wolf with red eyes. "He usually mounts Nymeria the most."
She continues to show him the others (Summer, Shaggydog, and Grey Wind), before
Nymeria actually starts to whine in heat.
Gendry laughs at the irony, before noticing that Arya is staring at him with
lust. As the four male beasts start sniffing the female and snarling at each
other, Arya drags him to the bales of hay surrounding the wolves' den.
He can hear that it's down to too males (the white one and the black one,
damned if he could think straight and remember their names), when Arya turns
away from him, takes off her cloak, lowers her breeches and weapons to her
ankles, and bends over a block of hay.
And, really, who was she to demand sex without romancing him? He chuckles; he
had set out to woo her into fucking, and here she is, making it practically
happen for him! She looks over her shoulder, making sure he'd do it, whining
and whimpering along with Nymeria, that Gendry wonders if it's more wolf or
woman that he's going to oblige, but who cares? He starts to unlace his
breeches, noticing her stare go to his groin in appreciation.
He grabs her ass, caressing the flesh, and she bumps backwards, to get him in,
and he just pulls back, tut-tut ting, teasing her. Her whines increase, but
Gendry is watching Ghost and Shaggydog (he remembered them finally) growling
and snarling still. He, perversely, wants to know whom he's representing as
surely as Arya is representing Nymeria.
In the back of his mind, he recalls that Ghost is the alpha, but somehow Ghost
is backing away from Shaggydog at the moment. Gendry doesn't know much about
direwolves, and he wonders if Ghost is just not interested in sex now, or if
he's being nice to Shaggydog, but whatever the reason, Shaggydog takes his
place behind Nymeria, paws on her back and thrusts into her. Taking the cue,
Gendry pushes into Arya.
Both wolf and woman howl in appreciation. Shaggydog is going so fast, he's a
blur, that Gendry gets a complex. But Arya doesn't complain. Far from it, if
her pants were any indication. She bucks back to meet him every time, their
pace fast and furious. Her ass will have bruises from his hands, as surely as
Nymeria will suffer scratches from Shaggy. He groans at her tightness, her
wetness, and hunches over her back, wishing they could be naked and he could
lick her back, reach around to grab at her breasts, but never mind, his cock is
deliciously happy.
He closes his eyes, nearing his peak, and when she clamps down on him, howling
in completing, and thrusts once more into the vice, and spills his own
completion.
Later, as they're lying in the hay, sated and with breeches tied again, Gendry
comments that it wasn't how he thought it would go.
"What do you mean?" asks Arya.
"Don't get me wrong, that was beyond amazing. You should know, however, that I
had planned to romance you into nakedness and having my way with you."
She giggles. "That's what you get for thinking to woo me, the wolf-bitch."
He agrees. "But I wouldn't have it any other way. I like that you're not… like
other women. I've ranged across the world in my black ship, and in the ships
before I was a crow, and you're the first woman to ever demand sex from me."
They laugh.
As the laughter dies down, and their smiles become relaxed in the silence, Arya
leans to kiss him. She meets stubble instead.
He moves to get up, but Nymeria is there, licking his face. He laughs, but Arya
does not join him. "Why?"
He grows serious, relaxing against the hay again. "I was a pirate, and a
bastard besides. I was once a cruel bastard, too, but my lust for pain has
since subsided. The only reason I wear the black is because I got caught.
Pirates don't kiss, that plunder isn't for us. Call it one of the rare pirate
code rules."
"Well, as the only woman to have had her way with you, I demand that you kiss
me." He stares at her for a few moments, lowers his eyes to her lips, red and
ripe for plundering, before taking his leave of her and the wolves.
***** Osha and Rickon *****
Chapter Summary
     A parallel wolf-induced lust story to "Arya and Gendry", where
     Shaggydog's human gets it "on".
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
OSHA AND RICKON
Just as Ghost stepped aside for Shaggydog, Rickon felt a twitch in his groin.
He groaned as a wave of lust inexplicably coursed through his veins. A lad of
three and ten, he had yet to "become a man". This, however, was a most
inconvenient time since he was learning to man the Wall.
As his penis hardened to the point of pain, he fell to his knees and moaned
quite loudly. His mentors on the Wall came to him in worry. "What's wrong?"
asked Grenn, their leader for the day.
"It hurts!" was all Rickon could offer. It was more surprising then painful,
but how does one put that into words in such a situation?
"Right." Grenn said in pseudo authority, " Pyp, take him down the winch to see
the maester."
"No," interrupted the only woman on the Wall that day. "I'll take him down."
The men had a healthy fear of the wildling woman, turned crow, so Grenn just
nods his approval.
The woman was named Osha, and she had noticed where Rickon's hands had gone,
what is agony was. She was surprised the others did not notice, but it was
probably the view they had of the boy: an innocent who had more of a fighting
streak then any inclination to notice women.
As they got into the winch, she asked, "You're in lust, aren't you?"
He just nodded. Osha moved his hands from his groin and started unlacing them.
In the relative privacy of the winch, she went down to her knees and brought
out his penis. He didn't protest, too far gone to question.
As Osha licks the head, and fondles his balls, Rickon grabs the back of her
head. She gets a few licks up and down, before the wolf gets restless, and he
uses both hands on her head to shove himself down her throat. She starts to
gag, but recovers quickly, loosening her throat and grabbing his butt for
purchase.
He's in and out of her mouth as if it were her cunt, not her mouth, but neither
seemed to care. Osha doesn't even feel any desire herself, her pussy staying
dry as if she were licking a brother's dick (a brother she doesn't have); she
only wants to help her charge, her friend.
They're halfway down the wall when he releases into her mouth. The taste is the
first thing that surprises Osha out of the whole ordeal, salty and a bit musky,
and definitely more delicious then other men she's had. She wonders if it's the
wolf aspect. If Rickon had more staying power, she might have started to get
curiously wet.
After letting go of Osha's head, Rickon slides to the floor of the winch, not
bothering with his pants. Osha sits next to him, shoulder to his shoulder, and
says that she hoped it felt good, because her head and throat would be sore for
the rest of the day.
"Why did that happen?" Rickon wanted to know.
"Because your wolf was getting some."
"But, he's done that before, and I didn't have this problem."
"It's your age, you're old enough I guess. Something in your body just… turned
on or something." It was the only explanation Osha could give.
Rickon turns to her. "I'm sorry, Osha, but thank you."
She smiles at him. She had known him since he was a babe at Mole's Town. She
was not old enough to be his mother, at only two and twenty now, but she had
many fond memories of watching over him when his parents came north of the Wall
to visit. Though roughly ten years younger then his own mother, Osha had been
seen as a second mother, for Rickon as well as Bran (the younger).
It annoyed her at first, mostly for the jeers of "mother hen", even as she
loved them anyway; how she wanted to maintain an air of fear and toughness, but
he and Bran wore her down over time.
Remembering how little Rickon even followed her to the Wall only one name day
past; she rumples his hair, fixes his laces, and gives him a peck on the lips
before the winch finally reached the bottom of the Wall.
Chapter End Notes
     I don't know why I assumed there would be any Osha and Rickon
     stories. I guess age would be one issue, and lack of characterization
     would be another. But... Rickon with anyone just seems silly, unless
     it's Osha, who he has had some sort of rapport with. I don't know...
     hopefully I won't burn under harsh criticism for this. As far as I
     know, I'm the first to use them for a relationship tag...
***** Barristan "The Bold" Selmy and Missandei *****
Chapter Summary
     Ser Barristan saves Missandei from an unruly customer, and she thanks
     him.
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: Young teen/older man sex
See the end of the chapter for more notes
BARRISTAN "THE BOLD" SELMY AND MISSANDEI
He had been at the Hearth plenty of times, but had never lain with a companion.
The Hearth was more then a brothel, it served as an inn as well. In fact, there
were children running its corridors. Children of the Wall, they were called:
born from the Night's Watch, wildlings, of whores, or any combination of the
three. Sometimes Barristan would play with them, and they'd call him "Barry" or
"grandfather". It surprises him how much it warms his heart. Even before Lord
Snow's "Erection" (as the Wall fondly called the proclamation to allow legal
whoring), there had been bastard/orphan children in Mole's Town, and all along
the Wall's Gift.
While whoring might not have been legal, anyone with a lick more sense then
Grenn could tell where these children came from. Moon Tea was not easy to get
in the North, as the herbs necessary liked warm and dry climates. One would
have to import from as far south as Highgarden or from the eastern lands.
Anyway, it mattered not where these children came from, Bold Barristan had
heart enough to love them all.
Barristan stayed in a room at the Hearth whenever he and his Commander traveled
from Sentinel Stand. His Commander usually stayed at Castle Black, and would
trust Barristan and others in their retinue to stay in Mole's Town.
Barristan himself had been offered leadership of one kind or another in his
last twenty years at the Wall, having been there thirty years. He refused to
take command, of either a castle or of the whole Wall. He couldn't lead with
determinism; he was at his best as a loyal soldier with an occasional and
welcome opinion.
Now, in his early fifties, he was growing weary of traveling here and there and
of watching the ladies try to get in his pants. Before the Hearth had been
built, before Jon Snow was made Commander, Barristan had had no problems
keeping his celibacy vows, even when the Old Bear allowed female crows. Then,
all of a sudden, sex was available again, via Lord Snow's "erection". To
Barristan however, it was never just sex, it was an intimate and personal act,
no matter what others said, or how "heated" he got. However, a few years pass,
and he's able to avoid the carnal act; it's easy again since all the women who
try to undress him are all the same in his eyes.
He had loved, once, to a lady promised to another. He never told her, and had
made his vows at the Night's Watch before trouble could arise. But he always
remembered her. She was smart, beautiful, witty with tact, graceful, and kind.
She had died, though, even before she had a chance to marry, driven to grief
over forbidden love.
Now, he was playing cyvasse with a child of the Wall, Myrcella. All of a
sudden, there's a cry, a girl running down the stairs with a sheet covering her
nakedness. Barristan recognizes her as Missandei, a wildling whore, who
happened to have wildling brothers sworn to the black. He had watched her grow
up from childhood to maidenhood, to see her move from her brother's room at the
castle, to the rooms in the Hearth. She always had a smile and a kind word for
him.
Now, however, her face is streaked with tears, sobs coming from her lips. She
sees him, and bypasses Val to run into his safe arms. He holds her shuddering
form, but looks to the stairs, where the man who had paid for her services is
slowly descending as well, tying his breeches and unconcerned with the
commotion.
Barristan is surprised to see Commander Joffrey of Oakenshield, when the light
of the common room hits his face. He knows very little of the boy, except that
most do not like him. Joffrey also has a reputation at the Hearth for being a
little rougher then was deemed acceptable, but Barry just chalked it up to
youthful ignorance and a harsh life on the Wall.
Turning back to Missandei, he asks her what happened. "He was… " Cough,
"choking me!" Looking down at her throat, he can see signs of bruising, and he
turns to Joffrey.
"Ser, by what reason have you felt the need to harm this innocent girl?"
Joffrey sneers, looking like he'd rather ignore the old soldier as he buckles
his sword belt back on. "It was for my pleasure. I bought her services, didn't
I?"
Val tries to intercede, to suggest they go to another room, but Barristan cuts
her off, in a rare display of anger. "These girls, these women, they deserve
better." He looks around the room. "Who else has been hurt by this... unworthy
ser?"
None of the ladies in the common room will look to him, and the other men
seated remain still. Joffrey laughs. "See? They all know, they're nothing but
cows: cattle, horses, bitches: all for the pleasure of men. I will walk out of
here, and no one will say anything. I will come back tomorrow night, and they
will allow it to happen again! Nothing but lowly whores, and I won't be sorry
see them cry, look at me in fear, and bleed."
There's silence in the room. Almost. Moans and cries of ecstasy are in the
background, and Missandei is still weeping; but no one else offers a comment.
Finally, after seemingly to get his anger in check, Barristan starts to speak,
low voiced and dangerous, "Is that because no one will give you respect on the
Wall?"
Joffrey's smirk falls into a scowl, "How dare you?" He stalks towards Selmy,
shoulders hunched, trying to look menacing, but Selmy knows by now it's all hot
air. "I am a Lord on the Night's Watch, all you are is a washed up old man,
past his time, I..."
Barristan drawing his sword out silenced whatever he would next say. "Dare to
test your claim, boy?"
Joffrey lord looks stunned, no longer sure of himself. He looks around the
room, seeking support, but none of the whores would say anything (the one time
he would wish they did), and all of the men folk, black or wild, respect the
ex-knight too much to reprimand him, let alone help Joffrey. Too late he
realizes he should have remained silent before.
Swallowing, knowing that once the blade was out, Barristan followed through
where others would make threats, Joffrey brought out his own sword. He was as
good as dead.
*****
Later, Missandei is scrubbing Barristan's back while he soaks in a tub. There
is nothing untoward about this situation, he having been helped by the
companions before.
"You were vary gallant, grandfather." Whispers Missandei. He grunts in
response. She hugs him around his shoulders, uncaring that it gets the front of
her dress wet. He allows her a few moments, before unclasping her hands in his
own, and turning to face her, "No one should be mistreated like that. I was
just doing my duty as a knight of the realm. No situation in life could take
that distinction away from me."
Missandei responds, "Knight or no, not every man does what he has to." Smiling,
she leans in to kiss his cheek. Then she kisses his lips. Barristan is too
shocked at the bold girl to do anything other then just let her. When she
places her hands on his chest, however, he moves away from her, grasping her
hands again. He looks at her in disappointment, a look she mirrors.
"Grandfather, please. I love you!"
He sighs, "You do not love me." Seeing her shake her head in the negative, his
own heart grows heavy as he's about to break hers. "You love the idea of me. Of
honor, and kind men. There will be another, younger, worthier, man for you."
Her eyes neither leave his nor tear up; her strength impresses him, as much as
it makes him sad. "I have loved you since I was a little girl, grandfather. My
parents are properly buried in the wild, with your assistance, when no one else
would help us. You have helped to train my brothers with the sword. You have
taught me to read, when no one, myself included, thought it needed. My brothers
and I owe you our very existence. More then that, I owe you my heart, which I
give freely!"
"You do not need to give yourself to me, out of a feeling of debt. All that I
did, I did because I wanted to, I cared for you all, and still do. I would be
remiss in my caring if I allowed you to bed an old man simply to thank him."
Tears do fall from her face now, and Barristan brings up a hand to wipe a tear
away. "I was afraid. Earlier, when Joffrey was abusing me, that I would never
have the chance to tell you I loved you. He was beating me, preventing me from
running out the door, and the whole time I was fearful for my life. More then
that, I was surprised to feel fear at never seeing you again."
Missandei moves to hug him, and Barristan allows it, stunned at the amount of
emotion coming from the girl. She continues, "When I ran into you arms in the
common room, never have I been so relieved to see you! I swore to myself I
would not let you leave my sight again, before telling you how I feel. I do not
do this out of a sense of debt, but because I truly, unequivocally, love you,
grandfather."
She releases him, and stands up. "I have told you, and do not regret it. You
leave for Sentinel Stand tomorrow, and…" her voice starts to choke up, "I look
forward to seeing you again in the future!"
She starts to run towards the door. "Wait!" Barristan stops her. "Wait." He
stands from the tub, glad she has stopped, and he doesn't have to follow her
through the corridors. He grabs a towel to wrap around his torso, before
stepping out of the tub, and walking towards her.
Reaching her, he turns her around, and hugs her to him. She starts sobbing
against his chest, thinking he only wishes to comfort her, while still
rejecting her. Wasting not a moment more, he grabs her head, moving it so that
he might kiss her properly.
It is tender and sweet. He can taste the salty tears upon her mouth, and its
bittersweet taste goes wonderfully with her soft and yielding lips. The tears
still fall, but she responds with such ardor that Barristan is left with little
doubt of what she has confessed.
Breaking the kiss, he looks into her red-rimmed eyes and has his own confession
for her. "I may have kissed many a fair lady in my day, but never have I lain
with one." It brings a smile to her face, and then a laugh bubbles forth from
her lips.
He smiles sheepishly at her, and her heart is hit with a pang of adoration.
"Grandfather, your body is an old warrior, but your heart and soul are of my
age. Come, let us finish your bath."
Towel less, and in the tub again, Barristan watches Missandei as she takes off
her clothes. He has seen women naked before, and he appreciates her unique tan
not seen in many wildlings, her golden eyes that are rare in the whole of
Westeros, and finds her flat face a nice change from the full faces that are
more common in the hearth.
However, noticing her body is not what runs through his head as she unties her
laces holding her bosom, it is the fact that he indeed loves her back.
The love was a trap of his making. He had taught her to be smart. It caused her
to be witty. Not only did he drill swordsmanship to her brothers, he drilled
courtesies, gallantry, and gentility to all three. At times, he would share
stories of adventure to all the Children of the Wall, and she would always take
them to heart, playing them out with her dolls, and then pretending she herself
was a lady in fact. What had started as an attempt to be a father figure, had
caused Missandei to become the woman he once loved, all over again. Smart,
beautiful, witty with tact, graceful, and kind; she was Ashara reborn, one that
wants him back.
He reaches for her hips as she climbs in the tub with him, calloused hands
stroking the smooth skin. She shudders, and he knows it's not from the heated
water. She lays her own dainty hands on his leathery and muscled shoulders,
before lowering herself to straddle his thighs.
Missandei smiles at him, rubbing his shoulders, and he smiles back. Her eyes
lower to his chest, and her hands follow, seemingly in awe of his body. It does
not tickle, but he chuckles that though she has been with countless men, she is
still in awe of him.
Her awe is nothing in comparison to his amazement of having her before him; he
can only wonder at his talent for hiding it better. His own eyes travel her
smooth skin, so unlike his own rough leather-like skin. His hands feel her
silken hips, travel up soft and yielding sides, cup firm yet plush breasts,
better then any goose-feather pillow.
At her gasp, he looks again at her face, now flushed and opened mouthed.
Squeezing her breasts, she moans and arches towards him. Moving a hand around
her back, and the other to her chin, he maneuvers her into another kiss.
Her hands lower to his hips, and her breasts smash into his chest. When he
feels a hand take his cock, he starts sucking her neck, moving his own hands to
her ass.
He had been semi hard throughout the evening, but having her gentle hands
stroke him like this, brought him to harsh attention. He can no more do
anything for her but gasp and groan into her neck, as her thumb strokes the
tip, and then strokes the whole length of him.
At his growl of appreciation once her other hand fondles his balls, Missandei
rises a bit off him, placing her hands back on his shoulders. Squeezing her
bum, he guides her center towards his shaft. Belatedly he wonder if she's ready
for him, but is so green in matter of sex, that he can't do anything but thrust
up into her warmth.
She lets out a small shout at his entrance; he is glad to realize she is
already wet for him, and it has nothing to do with the bath water. She hugs
him, mouth by his ear, and he loves hearing her moans and gasps.
It is her turn to move, pretty much taking charge by raising herself up, and
slamming down. She does it again, and he moves his hands off her bum, choosing
to explore her body some more.
The third time she falls on him, he thrusts back into her. A scream tumbles
from her lips into his ear, and he sucks her neck. Now their rhythm is set,
she'd rise from him, and he'd me her fall with thrusts.
"So close!" she whispers. He smirks to himself that he's able to last this long
with her, for her. Another thrust, and she moves a hand to her core. This time,
she doesn't rise off him, but grinds, rubbing herself a few times, mewling into
his ear. It's making him mad with lust, he knows he is close himself.
The grinding not doing it for him, he thrust up into her, and she clenches him,
screaming her orgasm. One more thrust, and he's groaning his own release,
spending his seed into her. A few more small thrusts later, and he's done,
coming back to reality.
Missandei is still straddling him, heavily breathing, and still hugging him.
He'd like to stay like this for a while longer, but the water is getting cold,
most of it having sloshed onto the floor unbeknownst to them.
"Good thing we're on the first floor." He says to the air.
She giggles, and moves to look into his face. "I love you, Barristan!"
He smiles at her use of his name, and taps her nose, "I love you too, Missy."
She pouts at him; "Surely, I am worth more then my childhood nickname,
grandfather?"
"Absolutely." He pats her hips, gesturing for her to stand up. He follows her,
and then picks her up bridal style. "So long as you are employed by Val,
however, I can never have you for myself, so you will stay 'Missy'."
She's quiet till he places her on the bed, then, "What if I came with you to
Sentinel Stand?"
Sighing, he climbs in, gathering her in his arms. "Could you leave your
brothers?"
"Why can't they be transferred? Why can't you be transferred closer here?"
"Are you serious about staying with me?"
"Yes."
They can work the details out later, but Bold Barristan is about to have a
life-changing event. He pecks her on her lips. "I love you, Missandei."
Chapter End Notes
     This more or less cropped up from one little, tiny, scene in "Dance
     with Dragons", where they interact so nicely, I'm like "aw...". Of
     course, I doubt GRRM intends anything, but their pairing wouldn't
     leave me alone, and I didn't resist too much. Hope you enjoyed!
***** Sandor and Sansa *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
SANDOR AND SANSA
He was nicknamed the Hound, a loyal, but painfully candid; second only to the
commander of the Oakenshield Castle, just east of Castle Black. His real name
was Sandor, but Hound suited him fine. A snarling old warrior with a loyalty to
the fight, he had earned a reputation as one of the best, if not fiercest,
wildling. His scarred visage lent to the reputation.
He hated his commander, Joffrey, but Sandor had somehow been picked to be his
steward and bodyguard. It was ridiculous, Joffrey barely old enough to command,
and Sandor not even a crow, just a Wildling who refused to vow anything, except
his brother's death. He had a feeling Lord Snow was playing a game, which he
hoped somehow Sandor would off Joffrey.
Sandor was more patient then people gave him credit for (though still not a
lot). It was scary to see him when he let loose, to see him fight with no
hesitation or reserve. That, coupled with his blunt tongue, gave people the
false impression that he was more of a brute then a man. His rage was great,
but rarely was it released, unless his brother, "Gregor", was mentioned, or was
around. Which, unfortunately, happened to be a lot of the time, since both were
serving at Oakenshield.
Sansa, at the Hearth, was really the only one who knew of his kindness. Others
came to trust him, to learn of his positive qualities, to come to call him
"friend", but Sansa was the one who solely relished in his smiles and
gentleness. She was nicknamed "Lady" at the Hearth, but he always called her
"Little Bird". Her feather light kisses and touches were heart rendering, and
her moans and gasps were like sweet songs to his ears, besides the songs she
sang when they first interacted.
Sandor had noticed Sansa the first day she arrived at the Hearth, escorted by
Theon. Her party had arrived in the middle of the day, and it was warm enough
for her to go without a cloak. He saw her shinning red hair, slim but curvy
build, and smooth and innocent face, which was ducked down in shyness and fear.
He did not let her see him yet; wanting to know what personality went with the
beauty, wishing to spare himself her reaction upon seeing his scarred face. The
more he watched over the next few moons, the more he thought of his own sister,
who turned into a wounded soul and had perished under their brother's brutal
hands.
He had only ever gone to the Hearth whenever "Accidental Commander" Joffrey
went, and he would drink and pay for a fuck like any other hot-blooded man. But
when Sansa started to entertain the customers with her singing, reading, or
cyvasse skills, he was unable to resist talking to her, unable to resist going
to the Hearth more often then before. He mostly wished to hear her sing, which
his sister loved to do (though without the benefit of a harp or training).
Sansa, at first, looked at him with trepidation, but she looked that way at
everybody; Sandor knew that she was a broken, shy little bird, and did not take
it personally.
Sandor did take it personally when she started to smile brightly at his
approach. Her courage was returning, and he was glad to see it. She was no
whore, but at the Hearth she was blossoming in a way that he knew she never
could at the castle from whence she came, but where she honestly belonged. He
saw her become friendly with a number of customer's, and he was jealous of her
attention, but he knew it was for her good.
Then she decided to lay with men.
Bloody hells, but he had wanted to be the first, though she had chosen the
Maester, Tyrion. He admits to jealousy, but Tyrion was a safe and honorable man
to lie with, even the Hound had to admit that. Sandor, far from looking safe,
did have a few trysts with the ladies that ended up with him paying extra for
their care afterwards. Sansa probably asked around, and had decided, rightfully
so, that Sandor was not a good choice for a first customer. He, however, looked
to her the following day, and asked for her health. She smiled at his caring
words, and said she was more then fine. She said her past was slowly fading,
and she was glad to move forward.
He worried that she would eventually regret lying with men, and he'd never get
the chance. Then he worried that Joffrey ruined whatever progress she had made
when he violated her trust. But the next time he went to the Hearth, she came
to him and gave him a song, giving him small smiles the whole time. He had
always asked for a kiss from her, and that time, she willingly gave him a
chaste one.
He wouldn't see her for a while, Joffrey deciding to take a break from the
Hearth, and demanding his Hound stay with him. Something about being threatened
by an "old soldier". Sandor didn't mind so much, there was enough ale in
Oakenshield's kitchens, and plenty of men to spar with, to keep him occupied.
The next time he saw her was not in the Hearth, but in the outskirts of Mole's
Town. Riding his horse back to Oakenshield from the town's kennel master, he
spied her red hair first, the only bright spot amongst the dreary browns of the
trees, and dull whites of the old snow.
She was by a Weirwood: a rare one that was not part of a castle or town, but
still in the wild. Thirty or so paces from the worn road, he could see her
kneeling in front of the sappy face, grey wool dress still dry upon a layer of
blood red leaves. Her grey dress and red hair almost blending with the
weirwood, he wonders that he could distinguish her; maybe it had been the
leaves that drew his eyes.
Dismounting, he walks to within ten paces of her, and stops. Something compels
him to unsheathe his sword and take a knee, sword point to the ground. Later,
he'll say it was the Old Gods, at the time, he'd say it was his wish to honor
Sansa. Perhaps it was a little of both.
Sandor looks towards Sansa for a while, taking in her stiff, but regal,
posture, and red hair gently swaying in the breeze, her tiny feet poking out
from under the dress. Feeling a bit intrusive on her quiet revere, he lowers
his gaze, lowers his head to the pommel of his sword, and closes his eyes,
content to listen to the noises of the forest.
Sansa herself had just arrived not long before, also drawn towards the red of
the leaves. Her unfortunate husband had kept to the Seven, but her family,
before she married, had kept to the Old Gods. It did her spirit good to see the
Weirwoods again, to see something of her childhood. She almost felt as if her
father, mother, and siblings were among the leaves, in the sap eyes, looking to
her and giving comfort.
There were Weirwoods beyond the Wall, she was told, but she had been too
nervous to enter a warrior's place, let alone go beyond towards the night
terrors. One of her first trips to Mole's Town had made going beyond the Wall
unnecessary, after spying a wild Weirwood not too far from either the Hearth,
or from Mole Town.
Saying the last of her prayers, Sansa gets to her feet. Turning to go home, she
sees Sandor on one knee a few paces from her, looking up as she crunches the
leaves under her, a look of serenity upon his face.
He stays kneeled as she walks up to him, tentatively smiling at him. He returns
one, one that brightens his smooth face, and scrunches up his scars in an
interesting contrast. She is used to him by now, scars physical and mental, and
she stops just short of touching his raised knee.
"I did not know you kept the Old Gods, Sandor."
"I don't. I saw you, and I came to keep you company."
Sansa blushes, "I thank you." He nods. "You have always been so kind to me.
Even more then Maester Tyrion, and that is saying something!"
Sandor smirks. "I couldn't give a fuck about him, or the other wh… companions.
It's you. Damn, Little Bird, you make a man feel wanted. Needed." He wants to
say more. He almost does, but leaves Sansa to figure out the rest. He knows she
cares for him, and not his money, when she chooses to spend time with him. He
knows she knows that he cares for her as well. He just can't say it. Not yet,
if ever.
Sansa steps closer, her one leg just touching his raised knee, and places her
gloved hands on his shoulders. "I never thanked you for your compassion
after... after Joffrey..." She can no more say the rest then he could tolerate
it, so he gently shushes her, smiling to show that he understands.
Blushing again, Sansa leans forward to kiss him. Closing his eyes in bliss, he
allows her to control the pace, and how much she wants. He groans when she begs
entrance to his mouth, readily granting it to her.
As their tongues battle, he lowers his sword between them, better for his own
gloved hands to grasp her hips underneath her cloak.
He is glad he decided to forgo armor that day, choosing only a cloak to cover
his jerkin and breeches. Glad, because that would be too much fumbling for what
he knows will come next, as soon as she steps away from his grasp and starts
untying her cloak, and taking off her gloves.
Standing himself, he also unties his black cloak, and lays it on top of the
snow and red leaf ground. Sansa gingerly stepped over his sword, before lowing
her own grey cloak atop his.
Not really warm enough to take anything else off, Sansa next lowers herself on
top of the cloaks, and looks to Sandor. Or rather, looks at his un-gloved
hands, which are untying his breeches. Flushed, with an open mouth, she bunches
up her skirts, reaching to take off her small clothes.
When he kneels between her legs, she reaches for his face, a hand upon each,
and unique cheek. Hovering over her, he welcomes her kisses as she welcomes his
warm finger by her slit.
Skillfully rubbing her bundle of nerves and thrusting a few fingers into her,
he is surprised at how quickly she becomes wet. Most whores he has known have
become desensitized to sex, and need extra coaxing; her getting wet for him
gets him hard for her. Harder then when her hands reach for him, shyly feeling
the length of him.
Knowing him to be hard, she caresses his torso underneath his tunic. He
shivers, her cold hands creating new sensations for him.
Breaking the kiss, she arches towards him, head thrown back in bliss, and he
knows she's almost close to breaking. A trail of ice fire marks her hands
moving to his back, anchoring her to him as she clenches on his fingers, hollow
gasps breaking from her lips.
After a last, breathless gasp, she falls back on the cloaks. He removes his
hand from her, replacing them with his girth, lengthwise at her entrance. He
hovers over her, hands braced about her head. He spends a few moments looking
at the woman beneath him.
Her red hair is all over the place; some in her mouth, over her face, but he
likes how it shines against his black cloak, which was larger then her own
cloak. It's the only black clothing he'll wear to mark his station at the Wall.
He has never liked it, until it was contrasted with Sansa's hair.
Her eyes are closed, so he rakes his eyes lower, taking in the form of her
heaving breasts and waist underneath her dress. Lowering the gaze further, he's
further aroused seeing her legs, gartered and silk stockings still on, relaxed
and wantonly open to him, skirts bunched up to her hips.
He promises himself that he'll go to her at the Hearth, so he can readily map
her naked body. This, however, is needed to show her he can be as kind to her
in coupling, as he is when they talk.
Flexing his hips, his cock rubs against her slit, getting slick with her
juices. Glancing back towards her face, he reaches for her chin; moving it to
meet her eyes, open once again.
He wants nothing more then to sink into her right as her lusty blues look again
at him, but he wants her ready. He kisses her, hand lowering to caress her
neck, then her breasts. Though covered with a cotton dress, he can feel their
firmness and that they're pebbled. Groaning, he again slides up and down her
slit.
Her cold hands start her own exploration of him, discovering the hard plains of
his abs and chest. She scratches at him in lust, in tandem with a barely heard
moan.
Knowing her to be ready, he grabs her waist and turns them over, causing a gasp
to escape her lips. With her now straddling him, confusion on her face, he
smirks, at the same time begging her. "Take control." He rasps at her, his own
control barely there. "Take your time, do what you want."
She shyly looks down, and he fears that she'll go too slow, or worse, get off.
But when she looks up, there's such a look of adoration, he wishes he could be
her knight for true.
Delicate, cold hands still underneath his tunic, she caresses him a moment
more, before bring her hands to her skirt, lifting it so she could see their
groins. Grabbing his member, she strokes it once; to tease him he is sure,
before slowly lowering herself onto him.
It's his turn to throw his head back in bliss, a guttural groan releasing from
his lips. Hands on her hips, he helps to raise her off, and then bring her
down. Another groan escapes him, though all Sansa has done is open her mouth in
ecstasy. One more thrust up into her wet warmth, he forces her to stay still.
Looking at her, a frown on her face, he almost laughs. "Girl, it's OK for you
to enjoy this. Say my name."
"Sandor… I don't see…"
Cutting her off, he tells her to say his name again, raising her off him.
"Sandor?"
"One more time, Little Bird." Preparing to thrust into her, as he brings her
down.
"SandOH!" Pleased at the sound, he whispers, "Good little bird, I like hearing
you sing."
"Oh gods!" she mumbles, before another thrusts brings forth a moan from her.
The more they meet each other, the louder her moaning gets, the sweeter it is
to Sandor's ears. Sometimes, she says his name, and he'll thrust harder for it.
He's about to cum, and he grabs her hands to his chest, allowing her to thrust
against him at her own speed. A few more times, with a mix of "Sandor!" and
"Oh, gods!" and he spills into her.
Her own climax comes with a loud scream.
Collapsing down on him, she starts crying against his chest.
Surprised at such a reaction, he sits up, hand under her chin to look at her;
"I wasn't that bad, was I Little Bird?"
She laughs, wiping away tears, "No. I have not been so free to enjoy… coupling,
ever." She looks at him with a teary smile. "Thank you, so much. I… I really
appreciate it, Sandor."
She loved him, he knew, she wanted to say, "I love you", but could not. Neither
could he. "Anything for you, Little Bird."
Sandor realizes that neither one would ever take vows again, would never commit
to duty, or love, or a person; but, in a small way, they had promised each
other better things, better treatment. After they fix their clothing again, he
hands her a wild winter rose, and she plucks red leaves out of his hair.
After gently lifting her up to his horse, he looks up to her and asks, "What
would Val say about you giving yourself to me for free?"
With as straight a face as Sansa can muster, she replied, "I could not give a
flying fuck as to what she would think." Then she gasps, a hand fluttering to
hide her smile.
Sandor has a moment of shock, before he barks loud laughter towards the sky.
Climbing up behind her, he gives her a ride home, both feeling that the
Weirwood was smiling, and not frowning, at their departure.
Chapter End Notes
     Point of interest, that no one will likely care about; when I first
     started writing about this couple, I had a completely different
     chapter for these two. It was much shorter, and I more or less
     deleted it, with some lines thrown into this one. This turned out to
     be one of my favorite chapters in this series. In any event, it's
     about time these two got together in this universe. Hope you enjoyed!
***** Jon and Arya *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya "helps" Lord Commander Snow prepare for the Queen's visit.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
JON AND ARYA
Grey eyes met grey eyes. Both were glaring, and both refused to back down.
"This was my night off, my lord." Says female grey eyes.
"I'm sorry, but I need your help if I'm to prepare for the Queen's visit, since
my steward decided to be sick, now of all times." Replies male grey eyes.
She sighs, and both unconsciously run hands through their similar dark brown
hair. Her frown matches his stern face, and she finally gives up and relents,
"I'm sorry. I was just excited to try a new man at the Hearth. Do you know how
rare it is for there to be male whores?"
Jon smiles, "About as rare as finding an overzealous female sex fiend, such as
yourself?"
"Yeah." She rubs her long face, his equally long one nods in sympathy. He hands
her a wine goblet. "Let's get started." And they do.
Three hours later, Arya stretches in her chair. "Think it's properly planned?"
"Except for my speech, yeah. You can go now."
She stands, moving towards the door, before turning to look at her brother in
vows, if not in blood. Her friend, who knew everything about her, and vice
versa, was rubbing his temples in frustration. When both were younger, she had
followed him everywhere in their clan, pestering him to play with her, or teach
her to fight. And then she followed him to the Wall, only a few name days after
he. She would not abandon him during a fight, so she would not abandon him
during speech writing.
She walks back to him, and he looks at her with surprise. "I'll just give you a
neck message, to help with your speech."
"You're a pal, Arya. And your messages are much better then Sam's." They share
a laugh at their mutual friend's expense, before she starts kneading knots out
of his neck.
It is not the first time she gives him a message, but it is the first time he
moans in appreciation, and leans his head back. She kisses his forehead, ready
to leave again, but he grabs her head, and moves both their heads in for a real
kiss. Breaking from the kiss, grey meets grey and he says, "I think I've had
too much wine."
"You say that like it's a bad thing, my lord commander." She says his title
slowly, deeply, and he has inkling where things might go. His cock twitches in
anticipation.
Not disappointing him in the least, she moves around him, to stand between him
and his desk. Slowly, achingly, she takes off all of her clothing, one at a
time, throwing them at him. He'd take her jerkin, smell it, and drop it to the
floor ready to receive her under tunic. After she takes off her breeches, she
reaches behind her to indiscriminately wipe off all the papers from his desk,
and continues to hop on it.
Jon is weirdly thankful that none of the papers floated into the fire, and even
more strangely grateful that no one can read his quirky mind at times like
these, before he stands up from his chair.
It is his turn, now, to take off his clothes one by one. He doesn't hand them
to her for inspection, like she had done for him, but she just giggles every
time more skin is revealed. Smirking, Jon remarks that maybe she was the one
who had too much wine.
She slaps his chest; he grabs her thighs in return, reaching down to properly
kiss her. They taste of wine, moan together, and grab each other's hair. Who
needs a mirror? Thinks Jon Snow. Here is my double, and my opposite, right
here.
They mutually break from the kiss, and the similarities end. Arya leans back on
her elbows, and Jon grips her knees, stepping to place his dick at her
entrance.
When he slams into her, it is all they can do not to scream, and bring men
running with swords drawn. It had happened once with Jon and Ygritte, and the
Commander would rather not have to relive that embarrassing moment. To focus
his mouth on better things, he brings his head to her chest, and licks a
breast. After a thrust or two, he moves to the other one.
He thrusts again, and he wonders why they have never done this before? Though
he loves her as he might a sister, he does not see her as one. She's young,
fierce, and beautiful in her own right. She's tight and wet for him; this
should have been done ages ago. When her hands move to grab at his shoulders,
for a better purchase, he bites her neck to, again, keep from moaning, which
would also damage his "leader image".
Their pace is faster now, and Jon picks her up from the desk, the better to
slam her against the wall, and then continues railing her.
She meets him again and again; short gasps falling from her lips. They're not
really loud, but Ygritte rarely lets him dominate, so he places a hand on her
mouth, and bites her neck harder. Under his palm, he feels her scream in
pleasure. He imagines that his hand on her mouth just gave her incentive to not
hold back.
He can feel the end for him, so he tells her. She nods in response, head
leaning back on the wall, mouth heating his hand from her panting. Some thrusts
more, and he's biting her neck with all the force of his finish.
The bite stimulated Arya to arch off the wall rather violently, and it signaled
her own end, one where she was screaming even louder against Jon's hand.
Spent, they both slump. Arya relaxes against the wall, while Jon falls to his
knees, bringing his sister in vows with him. Releasing her neck, he rests his
head on her's, smirking at her. "Believe it or not, I think that helped with
the speech."
Arya just gives him a look that clearly questions his sanity. "After we just
did, that is what you are thinking of?"
"What?" He releases her and stands up, giving her a hand to help her up. "I was
just thinking of how much better I feel, then before fucking you." She just
smirks and shakes her head, so he further defends himself. "Before, I was so
stressed about the speech. Now, I feel so elated, I could probably write a
speech to save for a future war effort, or something."
Arya, who has now begun putting her clothes back on, says nothing, but
continues to smile. Jon comes up behind her to hug her to him, to show. He
hasn't dressed yet, but the touch is only friendly, as well as appreciative.
"Thanks, Arya."
Glad he's done talking about speech writing, Arya pats his arms surrounding
her, "Anytime, Jon. Do you need more help with the speech writing?"
He kissed her hair, before replying. "No, I think I can quickly get through it
now. If not, I'll just replay our hour. Coincidentally, did you know it was the
Wolf Hour?"
Arya snorts, and breaks from his embrace, placing her jerkin over her tunic.
"You, my lord commander, are not all there in the head, but I love you anyway."
She pecks him on the cheek, before stealing out of his solar, one last friendly
smile sent to each other before she was gone.
Chapter End Notes
     I have no idea why Jon is so silly in my head when I write him.
     Perhaps it's because he's so serious in the books, and I just want to
     friggen shout at him sometimes. Though I do love how he's grown as a
     person, a fighter, and a leader. I would say sorry about silly Jon,
     but I'm not; I enjoyed writing this one. Hope you enjoyed too!
***** Queen Danerys and Drogo *****
Chapter Summary
     The Queen visits the Wall... and the Hearth.
Chapter Notes
     I'm actually a bigger Jorah/Dany shipper, but all things considered,
     it flowed well to write the following for my story... and I do like
     Khal Drogo's character.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
QUEEN DANERYS AND DROGO
Upon the Queen's arrival at the Wall, she was given lush quarters at Castle
Black, and loaned extra stewards during her stay. She stayed the length of a
moon's turn, and all during her visit, she was pleased; had even made lasting
friendships from the Night's Watch and with Wildlings.
She was honored: decorated with awards, gifted with Wildling curios, and
entertained with many elaborate or humble songs. What she lacked for summer
wines was more then made up with homemade brews, and she missed not her rich
boars and deer, when she could feast on strange bear, pig, and goose.
Danerys had fun, and those she visited felt honored in turn that she was not a
haughty sort, her humble admiration towards their ways was a boon to Westoros.
Her strength as queen strengthened ten-fold during her visit.
There was one place, however, that might have spelled danger, and that was the
Hearth. It is known that Danerys Stormborn drove her thunder and lightening
throughout Essos, burning and abolishing slavery and bringing a new era of
prosperity to an already prosperous land. She had come to the Wall riding
clouds that promised the same if the Hearth was full of unwilling victims.
When Lord Commander Snow escorted Queen Danerys Targaryen, the first of her
name, to the Hearth, he spent the short trip telling her about how he had
sanctioned the place, and how Val, the Wildling woman, had built and run the
place.
"It is not that I do not trust you, Jon." Replied the queen, already on a first
name basis with the commander, "Just that I need to see for my own eyes."
So she saw. Val had been a most gracious host, and even allowed Danerys to talk
to her companions in private (there really was no question that she would, but
it was better that she acquiesced).
Sansa, demure and refusing to meet the queen's eyes, told of her sad story, of
her choice, and of how she wouldn't change a thing that couldn't be changed.
Elaborating on that, she spoke of her dreams of ladyship, castles, silks, and
so on. But that life would include a lord husband that she would not love,
since she was in love with a wildling. Dany nodded, and hugged the woman in
sympathy.
Ygritte told the Queen that she was the first to sign up, and that she loved
it. She had already loved sex beforehand, what was better then being paid for
it? And she was saving too, had the full confidence that should she decide to
leave, there would be no problem.
Myrcella traded stories with the Queen. She had been wide-eyed and hungry to
hear about the warm and colorful south, but had also been full of pride for the
Hearth. Danny learned how Myrcella was raised, and even felt a stirring of
jealousy that she had not had the freedoms Myrcella had towards interacting
with children of all ages and backgrounds, towards learning the same things
boys learned, towards Myrcella's choice of staying at the Hearth or going
anywhere she wished. Never did Dany have the choice to not be queen.
The jealousy quickly passed, for she remembered that she did have a happy
childhood. Despite her father's wilting death of madness, and her elder
brother's fruitless campaigns against the slavers, which cost him his life:
Dany had known no happier moments then in the Keep's walls. Always were the
gardens in her mind as she ravaged Essos in revenge for Viserys' death.
Constantly did the memory of strong walls soothe her disquieted mind during her
battle with the House of Undying. And when people cursed her or cast frowns in
her direction, did she recall the lords, ladies, servants, and all at court who
would smile at her. Though for the choice, Dany and Myrcella are similar after
all, having grown up where they feel safe and happy.
Danerys was pleased to have met many and more, almost all that lived at the
Hearth. She even remarked that she had never seen male companions before.
Val, cheeky and unafraid of that whom the kneelers knelt to, asked, "Would your
grace like to sample one of the males? I would not even charge you." (There was
no question of charging the queen, but it was better that Val had control.)
Unaccustomed to her subjects being so brash (but nevertheless enjoying it),
Danerys was stunned into blushing silence by the proprietress's offer. Dany did
not lack in the knowledge of sex, but the south did lack the Wall's openness
towards it. Unsure, hesitantly, she finally said, "It would be unseemly for a
queen to take part in such a... dalliance."
Val just smiled.
Dany looked away, "Though I am tempted." Opening up to the Wildling woman as
she hadn't opened up to anyone about such matters, she confessed some more. "It
has been so long since my paramour has left me." She was speaking of one Ser
Jorah Mormont. A knight almost thrice the queen's age, he had nevertheless won
her heart for a time, before betraying her.
He did not so much leave the queen, as the queen banished him. Banished him for
taking it upon himself to do what he thought was right, without consulting, or
even telling, his beloved queen. The end result did not damage the kingdom, or
even her person; but the trust that had been strong and comforting, was
breached and no longer existed.
It had been a long and torturous twelve moons since. She sometimes regretted
releasing him from her service, missing his humor and confidence (she had
thought they talked about anything and everything under the sun). At other
times wished she could punish him worse then she already had.
By the end of the tale, Val had the queen in her arms. "That's the wonderful
thing about my hearth; all comfort and love, without commitment or trust. You
don't have to see or hear from this man ever again, should you wish, and no one
would be insulted. Indeed, it would be this man's honor to worship you and make
you feel wonderful, as our queen should feel.
"And, if I may be bold, the land knows of your bareness; what's the worst that
could happen?" And it was true; a witch in Essos had cursed Danerys to
barrenness, until the day should be night. It burns, the reminder that Dany
could never have a family of her own, that the throne would fall to one of her
unworthy cousins after she would travel with the Stranger.
So it was that Dany came back the next day (after reassuring Lord Snow that she
was pleased already with the establishment), and met with Val's choice for her.
Upon entering the room, she saw the man had a hungry look for her, very much
like when Jorah would look at her during their more romantic moments. But
that's where the similarities ended. This man was younger (though still older
then she), taller, tanned, more muscular, darker hair and eyes, and he wore
less. Only in a pair of horsehide breeches, with small bells in his hair, she
recognized him as a Dothraki, and wonders how he found a home here at the
Hearth.
Val had told her to shed her titles, that it would make this "dalliance" more
enjoyable. It makes it easier, Dany thinks, to allow the Dothraki to take
charge, for she knows not what to do. She knows "what" to do, but not
initiating it with a complete stranger. So instead of trying to come up with a
command, she just takes the initiative to take off her cloak, the bearskin one
that was a gift from one of the larger Wildling Tribes. It had reminded her a
bit of her Bear Knight, but no thoughts of him come to her now.
Underneath, she's wearing a customary northern style dress; thick cotton and
high cut to the neck. The color purple marking it as a rich dress (purple dyes
were hard to come by), and the embroidered silver vines added to the status of
the wearer. The coloring complimented her eyes and hair, and was cinched to
flatter her body; it seemed to make her man for the night even hungrier at the
sight of it.
Blushing, Dany stood there as the horse lord closed the distance between them,
sending a waft of masculinity, sweat, and horse smells up her nose. Taking a
deep breath of the comforting scent, she calms her nerves and brings her hands
to his chest, feeling bold and excited, never in all her reign (or pre reign)
as she done something so... forbidden.
Grasping her hips, he brings her flush to him, lowing his head to inhale the
scent of her. It sends a shiver down her spine, and memories to surface of
Jorah. How she missed him! Tears started to fall, regrets bubbled, and she
almost convinced herself to call out to him when she returned to the capital,
and to call this "dalliance" off.
"No." the man whispered. Refocusing on the here and now, she realized that he
had brought his face to hers, no doubt to kiss, before he saw her crying. "No."
he said again, bringing a hand up to wipe her tears away. Though large and
powerful enough to pulverize her face, he nevertheless handled her like she was
fine Myrish lace, instead of a hardened queen.
Leaning into his touch gratefully, she thanks him for his compassion. "No." he
says again, a wrinkle of confusion on his face. Chuckling, she realizes that
the Drothraki man knows very little of her language. He smiles at her chuckle,
the most soft "No" tumbling from his lips.
"Yes." she replies, commands. He must know that word as well, for he surges
forth to claim her lips.
Possessive and domineering, it is the opposite of his hands, which still caress
her in an idle fashion. Giving in to the passion, she opens her mouth to his
bites and licks, licking back and enjoying the taste of sweat.
All at once his hands reach the collar of her dress, and he rips it, down to
the waist. There is a small part of Dany that is dismayed, the dress was a gift
from the combined efforts of the Hearth companions; but it barely scratches at
her desire to be consumed in the moment.
Shivering in excitement, she arched her chest, seeking the heat of his chest.
Closer to him, she can now feel his erection against her abdomen. Groaning,
feeling herself getting wet, her hands move from slack idleness to the belt
that hold up his unique horse hide pants, as no strings hold him together.
Feeling that the woman is about to lower his unbuckled pants, he mirrors her
action, and all too soon, they're both naked before each other; lips still
attached.
Abruptly breaking from their kiss, Drogo gently, but forcefully, turned Dany
around, guiding her to a position she had never experienced before. She had
half a mind to be insulted at the dog position, before the other half of her
mind relished the naughtiness of it. No queen had ever been so handled before,
she thinks. If they had, it was a well-kept secret.
Any thoughts that might follow were quickly blown to nonexistence as Drogo
thrust into her.
He was indeed a horse lord; he filled her up completely. Giving her no chance
to dictate the pace, he continues, his speed swift and accurate. After the
initial yell of surprise, Dany moans with wild abandon, rocking with his every
thrust, reduced to mindless pleasure.
At one point, he leans down so his chest is blanketing her back. He slows down
to prolong the pleasure. Danerys tries to buck back, but he brings an arm
around her, pinning her to him. She cries out, he doesn't seem to notice. All
she can do in his embrace is pant.
Confused, and frustrated, she growls. He growls in response, giving up a
thrust. Gasping in surprise, she waits for more, only to have to growl again.
Another hard thrust.
"UGH! What the hell? ARGH!"
To which he thrusts hard again. Angry, and turned on even more, she screams
bloody murder, to which he angrily thrusts again.
"Fuck." He speaks into her ear. "Fuck!" She screams back. And he's pounding
into her again, no longer just fast and accurate, but harsh too.
She loves it.
"Seven…! Bloody…! HELLS…! AAAHH!" And she's screaming her release, to which he
follows shortly thereafter.
Collapsing to the ground, him falling on top of her, she thinks she doesn't
want to give him up just yet. That evening, not only did she loose some pent up
frustrations, Drogo learned some new Westorosi cuss words, too.
As Queen Danerys Targaryn, the first of her name, leaves the Wall, notables
flank her in her honor. She nods to the Maesters. She smiles at the Commanders
who could make it. When she comes upon Snow, she hugs him, before reaching her
dragon and mounting it with Drogo, in honor, sitting behind her.
In the back of the crowd that has gathered, the crows snicker upon hearing Arya
bemoan the fact that she never got to try him out.
Chapter End Notes
     Well, I just turned everything around! This was hard to write,
     because I wanted it to be simple Dany and Drogo action. But... she's
     queen! And Drogo can't just be a wildling. I had to explain how they
     got where they were, and why, especially since most of the characters
     are at the Wall. "THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SIMPLE STORY!" I said to
     myself. Yeah…right. ;) Though I never did explain Drogo at the
     Hearth... That'll remain a silly mystery. Also, the rewording of the
     curse was on purpose, and will be revisited later. Hope the story was
     enjoyed... leave a note!
***** Samwell and Ygritte *****
Chapter Summary
     Through the most round about way imaginable... Jon convinces Sam,
     through Ygritte, to ask Gilly out.
Chapter Notes
     This came out of left field, I have had no prior thought of these two
     together. This is probably the most crack chapter of this whole
     story... I won't even go through the thought processes of this one.
     Also, Sam and Gilly 4Evah!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
JON: SAMWELL AND YGRITTE
Because Lord Commander Jon Snow was always so busy, he sometimes asked for a
companion to come to Castle Black to entertain him. Eventually, he would just
ask for Ygritte, seeming to like her more then the others. Sam had asked Jon
why he didn't just take one of the women on the watch at Castle Black, there
were plenty and most were willing. Jon just smiled and said he ought to set an
example to show that he still wouldn't chop anyone's head off.
Naturally, Sam knew better. Craven he was, but dumb as an aurochs he was not;
that was Grenn. No, Sam knew that Jon was in love with Ygritte; The Commander
was just too stubborn, or pathetic in the ways of romance, to admit to it.
Of course Sam would have to suffer Jon and Ygritte running though Castle Black,
seemingly just to make his life miserable; it did not help Sam if those two
were in love or not. It was mere coincidence, really, but... honestly! In his
own library! They should make a quiet rule or something for the sacred place of
books. It was unfair seeing what they had, when he knew he would never get the
woman of his dreams being fat and cowardly as he is (flashes of Gilly filter
through his brain).
And the day he stumbled upon them in the stables, ugh! The irony was that they
were entirely quiet that time; he had no forewarning that they were there. He
had slammed the door open, finesse rendered impossible with the saddle in his
hands, causing the pair to jump, and himself to squeak in surprise. They had
been in the middle of the carnal act, her on top of him, his hands on her ass,
writhing upon a block of hay.
Gathering his wits, Samwell had enough gumption to yell, "Honestly! Is there no
where safe from you two?" And he walks away, determined to put off his horse-
riding lessons for another day. He hears giggling behind him, and it just makes
him madder.
That night, however, things turn around. An entirely naked Ygritte sitting on
his crotch wakes him from his sleep. Gasping in surprise, he raises himself to
his hands, an utterly shocked look on his face. He slowly begins to realize
that she managed to get his dick out of his breeches, hard, and in her, all
before he woke up. "Don't be mad." she whispers, before swiveling her hips. Sam
groans, falling back to his bed, instinctively grabbing her hips in the
process. She places her hands on his bare chest (she somehow got the tunic off
too), and starts to earnestly move up and down on him.
"What about Jon?" He asks.
"Shh. Don't worry about him. It was his idea, anyway." So he forgets about his
friend and commander, fleetingly wonders if this constitutes as rape or not,
then concentrates on the woman above him, breasts swaying just above his head.
He tentatively reaches a hand to a breast, and with her moan of encouragement,
strokes a nipple. She's rocking him harder, and he's feeling pretty good too,
when she shudders over him, and then stills.
Still hard in her, Sam leans up and kisses her. It's awkward, but Ygritte
teaches him what's good and how she likes it. He uses both hands now to knead
her breasts, and she arches into his touch. Deciding his hands shouldn't have
all the fun; he wraps them around her waist, bringing his face closer to her
boobs, and swallows one. Ygritte laughs at him, but it's a gentle, encouraging
one, so he smirks into her cleavage, biting one tit to tease her.
She whimpers with the bite, a thoroughly un-Ygritte like sound, that it reaches
Sam's cock, causing him to thrust up into her. She has by now recovered from
her own orgasm, and is moving against him again. Instead of doing all the work
this time, she reaches around his neck and hips, and forces him to follow her
as she turns them. Now on her back, his face still in her cleavage, he starts
to move away for fear of crushing her. "Don't go." She whispers. "Your fat, not
a horse. You won't hurt me." Her hands grip him harder, and he stays.
Ygritte moves her hands to his neck, before swiveling her hips. Instinctively,
Sam flexes his own hips. Hearing her moan, he does it again.
"Please!" She groans out, "Harder!" Pulling almost all out, then thrusting back
into her heat, he hears himself groan, without his realizing he was doing so.
It felt so good, that he did it again.
"Ugh! That's it! Faster!" So he does what he's been doing, but faster. And it
seems to pleasure, she hasn't stopped moaning and crying out. Emboldened, Sam
stops analyzing the situation and just goes for it, loosing himself in her
tight heat, feeling a rush and tightness in his own cock and balls.
Without realizing it, he has been pounding into Ygritte steadily for the last
few moments, Ygritte matching and meeting his thrusts. Her hands lowered to his
ass, scratching his back along the way. When she squeezes his buttocks, it's
his undoing, and he screams a release, hot streams of cum hitting her walls.
Dimly, Sam is aware of her own scream, her arched back pushing into him.
As Sam feels the last of his seed leave him, so his strength does as well. He
has enough presence of mind to roll to the side, and just stares at the ceiling
in amazement.
He feels Ygritte laying herself on his chest, and becomes aware of the state of
his body for the first time since letting go to the experience. He still is
breathing hard, but it doesn't bother him as much as after practicing
swordsmanship; in fact, it feels like coming down from a blissful high instead
of working up a heart attack.
He realizes he's sweaty, and his limp dick is sticky with juices, but his
normally neat mind couldn't care less about that as the fact that perhaps this
type of exercise should be done more often…
As if reading his mind, the strangely tender Ygritte pecks his lips, before
leaning on her elbow and looking down at him with a smirk. "Gilly would be one
lucky woman." She smacks his chest for good measure, "If you would just work up
your nerve to talk to her!"
Sam smiles at her, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, "Thanks, Ygritte."
Frowning again, "Do you really think she'd like me to court her?"
Ygritte laughs. "You southron boys know nothing. I thought Jon was bad, and he
was a Wildling!" She starts stroking his stomach, as if for good luck. "You,
Sam, are the nicest man alive. Gilly needs a nice man after her abusive father.
You have the added bonus of saving her from him; she adores you, Sam. You both
are perfect for each other, it almost makes me sick with heartache." After a
minute second of reflection, "Almost."
"Yes. But… does she like me?"
Rolling her eyes and getting off the bed, Ygritte tries to reassure him. "Yes.
She always looks to you when you're near. Haven't you noticed that she always
brings you your favorite beer when you visit the Hearth? And… she always has an
ear for your stories. Who else does?"
Watching Ygritte dress, but his mind elsewhere, he concedes her point. Most
others would find his talk boring or awkward. Never before had he noticed how
easy it was to talk to Gilly. "OK." He says finally, moving to lace his
breeches as if he were going to take on the world this second, "I'm going to
the Hearth tomorrow to treat some of the kids, I'll ask if she would like me to
court her."
Ygritte smiles at him, knowing that the wildling woman would only look at Sam
strangely, before showing him what she really wanted. "I'm glad. I'd say 'good
luck', but you won't need it." She hugs him, before going to find Jon.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading, and leaving kudos, and the few comments I have
     received! You all are awesome.
***** Gendry and Arya II *****
Chapter Summary
     Arya will get a kiss out of Gendry, if it's the last thing she does.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
GENDRY AND ARYA
They're ranging south of the wall, between Castle Black and Oakenshield. It's
more recreational then work related, so the pace is slow. It was their fourth
time meeting, and Gendry had wanted to see more of the surrounding lands.
Eastwatch by the Sea boasted sea, sand, rock, and not much else. Granted, he
saw trees whenever he traveled west, but Arya promised a picnic by a babbling
brook, and who could resist talking water? Hearing Arya laugh at that was music
to his ears.
Once they're out of sight of the fort, Gendry gets off his beast of burden, and
sits behind Arya on her mount, just to be closer to her. For a while, they talk
about their respective lives on the Wall (or at sea, in Gendry's case). Before
long, Gendry's hands start wandering her body. Arya, far from minding, slows
the horse's pace, and leans back into Gendry's chest.
Bringing his head closer to her, he nips at her ear, causing her to moan
appreciatively. Fondling her breasts, and biting at her throat, he's rewarded
when Arya arches her back and brings her butt closer to him, creating blissful
friction on his crotch. Shifting in the saddle, he finds a good balance to
grind back, and they both groan with pleasure.
Upping the game, Gendry takes off a glove, replacing the naked hand at the heat
between her thighs. He gives her a few rubs there, smiling as one of her arms
reaches behind his head, anchoring him to her, or was it to anchor her to him?
Either way, with the new purchase she flexes her hips to greater the friction
at her juncture, almost raising her whole body off the horse, but for her feet
in the stirrups.
His own need swells, but her wanton shamelessness makes him laugh, able to
ignore his cock for now. He fingers her waistband, teasing as she literally
growls at the loss. "Does Nymeria get hot when her mistress does?" He huskily
asks into her ear.
"No!" She pants, frustrated, "It's only the other way around. Now..." and
impatiently she grabs his hand, and with her other hand unlaces her breeches.
Within a second, she's shoving his hand down her own breeches, guiding his
fingers to her bundle of nerves. Yelping at the contact, she again raises her
hips. Once she's content he won't stop this time, she brings her hand back to
his head, scratching lightly at his scalp.
Languidly, he slides his fingers down her slit, finding copious amounts of
wetness there, and bringing them back up to her pearl, rubbing it some more.
"Please!" She whispers to the world at large, eyes closing and mouth open in
pleasure, all of which he can see from over her shoulder. Looking down her
body, seeing the swell of her breasts rise and fall as she pants, his one arm
circling her waist, and his other arm disappearing down her pants, her legs
flanked by his, straddling her horse; he momentarily smirks at the naughtiness
of it, and he can't wait for her to ride him next.
Looking back to her groin, he goes about fingering her in earnestness. He
alternates between slow and fast, between thrusting fingers into her twat and
rubbing her, and before long, she upgrades from moaning to screaming in
pleasure. At one point she flexes her thighs in instinct, causing the horse to
confusedly trot a few yards. The jolting sensations cause her to completely
break in ecstasy, and it gets Gendry harder as well.
Coming down from her high, Arya has presence of mind to slow the horse down
again, but not much to move from her spot on his chest, and he doesn't move his
hands from her either. They turn their heads to look at each other, seeing the
same lust in each other's eyes, panting their desires into each other's faces.
Arya tries to maneuver his head closer to hers, but he removes his hands from
her, and grabs at both of hers, bringing them in front of her. Normally, he'd
walk away from any woman trying to kiss him, but Arya drew him in, and he
couldn't quit her. So much, he knew that she would succeed in claiming his
lips, and he'd be her's forever. He was eager for it, he realized, but couldn't
let go of his habits just yet.
Dismounting from the horse, and ignoring her confused face, he grabs her around
the waist and helps her come down as well. He takes a step from her, making
sure she watches as he starts to undress, first with the clothes covering his
torso, then his boots. Lastly, he discards his breeches. He starts stroking his
cock with one hand, grabs her shoulder with his other, and nudges her down to
her knees, where she goes willingly.
"Kiss me." He commands. And she does, at his tip, before licking it, going down
and back up its length. Groaning, he grasps her head, one hand caressing her
cheek, the other grabbing at her hair.
When she next licks near the top, he flexes hands and hips, bringing his length
into her mouth. Groaning at the heat, he moves to thrust again, and she relaxes
her throat accommodatingly. Coming out of her mouth, he shudders feeling her
tongue lick him. Feeling close, he quickly thrusts back in, jolting when he
feels her hands on his balls, fondling them.
Arya knows he's just about to burst, so she swats away his arms and moves away
from him.
"Fuck!" He swears. "What the hell?"
Unperturbed, Arya starts stripping. He watches her, dazed, trying to finish
himself off with his hands and being thoroughly denied completion. Anger flits
through him, but so does lust for her now bared body. "Kiss me." she demands.
His face contorting in anger, he stalks to her, trying to intimidate her, but
she stands her ground, glaring right back at him. Growling, he shoves her to
the ground, but she grabs at him, causing him to fall on top of her. He's
unprepared for it, so she's able to continue the momentum, stopping only when
she was straddling his waist.
He goes to lift her hips, thought to bring her on his cock, but she uses
leverage to deny him. "Kiss me!" She yells.
He punches her in the face, stunning her, and rolls them around. However, she's
faster at recovery then he thought, and just continued the momentum, and they
ended up where they started, him on his back. She punches his jaw this time,
impressing and arousing him some more, then she hastily grabs his head roughly,
going in for the kiss.
"No." He whispers, placing one hand on her lips. She can see the anger in his
eyes, but it isn't as it was before. He wants her still, his hardness nestled
behind her butt, so she steels her resolve. "I won't let you fuck me unless I
can kiss you, Gendry."
They stare at each other, at an impasse. They could fight all day over it, he
could probably overpower her if he kept trying, but then she would be furious
at him. He had done it to Jeyne, when she tried to kiss him for a second time,
but now they no longer fucked, and he wasn't regretful over it. But, this was
Arya. There would never be another like her; feisty, wise, battle hardened...
Her wetness pools on his stomach, and his member is throbbing, it's a wonder he
can think at all.
Lowering his gaze from her angry eyes to her plump lips, and then back to her
steel gaze, he knows he has lost. He takes a second to get used to the idea of
being claimed, instead of him claiming her, and he figures it's appropriate
that the only woman he would kiss would be the one that had beaten him to
submission (not that he complained too much). Moment of contemplation over, he
grabs her head and meets her halfway, crushing their lips together.
At her gasp of surprise, he thrusts his tongue in her mouth. Quickly
recovering, she starts battling him back, tongues fighting for dominance. There
might have been a few bites in there, but that could have been his inexperience
in kissing.
Moaning into his mouth, placing her hands at his shoulders, he feels her
raising herself off him, and feels her heat above his aching cock. He breaks
the kiss, whispering "Yes." He thrusts up, but she stays above him, tut-
tutting.
"Kiss me." she whispers back. He surges up to kiss her again, and she sits down
on him. Groaning, he grabs her hips with one hand, using the other to brace
himself on the ground, and he relishes the contact.
She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he's sure it's so he doesn't break
the kiss. He wouldn't break it; he couldn't get enough of her mouth now. He
smirks into the kiss, and she smiles back.
When she grinds into him, he raises his hips impatiently. Hard at keeping
himself in a seated position, he cannot help her with her thrusts.
Concentrating instead on the kisses, and the feel her breasts smashed against
him, he moans when she falls down on him again.
The next time, he meets her with a thrust, and they both groan into the kiss.
Moving his hand from her hip to her ass, he strokes it, feeling it flex as she
raises herself again. "Yes." she whispers into his mouth, moving her hands to
scratch at his head. "Mmm." He replies, before they meet again, groaning anew.
As she continues to bounce on him, and now messily kissing him, he reaches down
for her juices, and caresses her ass with it. He feels her shiver as the cold
air meets the wetness there, causing her to slow down, curious as to what he is
doing. Up to her arse hole he goes, and thrusts a finger in.
"AAh!" She screams, breaking the kiss, arching up and into him, almost making
him loose his seated position. Excited, she thrusts again down upon him, and
again, and faster, him unable to do more than sit there, and let his finger do
the thrusting into her back entrance.
Breasts bouncing in front of him, the sight of his cock disappearing into her,
the dominance he has over her excitement, he wonders at how he is able to hold
off from finishing. The tightening of his balls comes upon him; he knows he's
almost there.
Leaning in to her neck exposed to him with her head thrown back, he bites her.
"Ungh!" is her reply, and the next second brings her release, loud and long
moan filling the air.
Stilling his finger in her, he nevertheless grinds up, finding his release in
her tightening cunt a moment later, stream after stream of cum hitting her
walls. She shivers with a few aftershocks, hugging him again close to her.
Finally spent, he falls back to the forest floor, bringing her down with him.
When their breaths even out, he continues to stroke her back, small mewls of
contentment emanating from her. He has never heard her so softly, so much as a
woman in love, and not the wanton girl he was used to, and it brings an ache to
his heart.
"There will never be another." He whispers.
"What?" She murmurs against his chest.
Fingering her chin, bringing her face towards his, he kisses her anew, putting
all his energies into it, letting her know of his love. And, unless he was very
much mistaken, she was doing the same.
Chapter End Notes
     Sometimes, I feel that the ending is disjointed from the rest of the
     story. Other times, it's just the right amount of sweetness to go
     with their raunchy attitudes, that it works for me. IDK. Hope it was
     enjoyed! Thoughts?
***** Meera and Brandon the Younger *****
Chapter Summary
     A natural phenomenon helps Bran and Meera consummate their love.
Chapter Notes
     Whelp, I know nothing about paralysis, or paralyzed person's
     relationships, so forgive me if I get anything wrong, or if it comes
     off as stupid.
MEERA AND BRANDON THE YOUNGER
Meera loved Bran (the younger), and thought it a great blessing to have him in
her life. He treated her as an equal, with respect, and loved her in return.
Bran thought Meera was the kindest woman he ever knew. She never treated him
like an inferior, and she always had creative ways for them to do things. She
loved talking to him about anything, even if it was silly stories about dragons
and knights, and always included him in her daily tasks.
They would laugh, and cry, together, they would ride horses together (in
saddles fashioned by Maester Tyrion), and rarely would anyone see one without
the other.
Meera had been a lord's daughter, but a lord so relaxed, that he did not mind
that his daughter went to Old Town to become wise, nor did he mind that she
decided to join the Night's Watch. Her father had plenty of sons, and loved all
of his children enough to allow her freedoms.
It was in Old Town where Meera had met Bran (the younger). He was already
crippled by that time, and was still bitter about it. Being closest in age
among the students, however, unconsciously pushed them to interact with each
other more then with anyone else. Years later, they both believe it was divine
providence that brought them together.
Bran had sworn he'd go back to the Wall, to family and friends, as soon as
possible. Especially since his half-brother, Rickon, nearly broke Bran's arm
trying to keep him there. He left Old Town when he was four and ten, a scant
seven years since arriving. The Wall was close enough to Meera's own family
that she readily agreed to go back with Bran. She had not forged a chain in
those seven years, that being reserved for Maester's in truth, but she was
welcome as a forester, tracker, and warrior in her own right.
Bran was assigned to Oakenshield, and Meera followed him there. Bran was
Maester there, with a special dispensation to continue his training at the
Wall. She became his shadow: a sworn shield of sorts.
Little did he need her to defend him, but he found it helpful to have her
around to help him with things he could not do unless standing. Plus, neither
could begrudge the excuse to stay in each other's company.
Meera knew Bran had wanted to be a warrior, and would sometimes, in bleak
moments, blame Jarl for the fall from what was supposed to be a leisurely
climb: the fall that caused him to become cripple. Bran sometimes felt that he
couldn't be counted on to do anything, and would feel guilt since the anger
towards Jarl was unjustified; the man had lost his life. Meera would leave him
alone at those times.
Bran knew Meera, and understood her urges for a more physical relationship. Or
even a proper one, despite his Maester and Night's Watch vows against taking
marital ones. She was older then he was, around nine and ten or twenty, and
though she never thought of marriage and sex before, it came upon her unawares
at how much she would wish for a family, or at how much her body wish for
fulfillment. When it became too much to think about joining as man and wife, or
of ever holding a babe in her arms, or (most ashamedly) of wanting to slake her
lust, she'd fall into despair or anger and would be halfway to the Hearth,
before turning around, in even more shame. Bran would leave her alone at those
times.
After the worst was over, they would spend time cheering the other up. If Bran
were down, they would have mock jousts on horseback (with the modified saddle),
sometimes even including the men of Oakenshield. They all (except Lord Joffrey)
respected and liked their Maester.
If Meera were feeling low, he'd fondle her to completion, even if it weren't
enough. She'd backwards joust on his lap, and he'd bring his fingers around to
her lower lips, finger-fucking her to release. Always was she wet and ready for
him at these times, though he could never rise to the occasion.
Now past his five and tenth name day, they had heard of Rickon's wolf-induced
lust, though only three and ten. Summer had mounted Lady a few times already,
and even mounted some normal wolves that prowled the Wall as well; they had
concluded that though Bran was bonded to Summer, there was nothing that
Summer's lusts could do for Bran's paralysis, and he was no longer hopeful. At
most, he would feel more affection then was normal for Meera, and would take
notice of her curves; but nothing else occurred.
And then something wonderful happened: the night of the eclipse came, and so
did he.
The maesters, scholars of science, observed the heavens and noted that the
eclipse was nothing more then a mathematical and normal occurrence: rare, but
normal.
The priests of R'hllor condemned the eclipse, saying it was doom made visible;
the swallowing of the sun would be followed by the doom of winter for the
world, from which no one would survive.
The brothers and sisters of the Seven swore it was some portent, demanding that
more people swell their ranks.
The Old Gods whispered in their leaves, for anyone who would listen, that
indeed the eclipse was magical, and would grant the most worthy special boons.
Though Bran was a maester, and believed in the math of the heavens, he had
special favor of the Old Gods, and he was granted a boon. They had already
given him his wolf, Summer, in preparation for this day.
The day of the eclipse, Bran and Meera brought Summer to the Hearth, ready to
help Lady in her heat again. They barely petted Summer away to do his thing,
when there was a clamor among the patrons. Following everybody to the front of
the establishment, they witnessed the start of the eclipse.
The sun was halfway hidden, when Bran felt that Summer was starting to grow.
Almost conversationally, he told Meera that the wolves started. She nods.
He almost has his attention back to the eclipse, when he can feel a blood rush
to his manhood. Groaning at the sensation, he grabs for Meera's wrist, glad
that peoples' attentions are so riveted by the eclipse that he can get away
with his lusty display.
"What's wrong?" Meera asks, noticing his distress.
Looking at her, he's stunned to silence by her beauty. It was always there, but
never had it hit him this hard as to how much he loved, and wanted, her.
She looks over his body, searching for what might be wrong. He hears her gasp,
and knows she is getting the idea. Tentatively, she reaches to his groin,
almost shyly rubbing his length. She looks to him in amazement, and puzzlement.
"How?"
"It doesn't matter." He says. Later, he would wrack his brains in figuring it
out, but in the haze of the moment, all he has a mind for is claiming her. It's
a miracle of sorts that he's able to tell her to get themselves to a private
room.
Door closed, he grabs her hips and maneuvers her to straddle his lap. She
giggles, but he silences her with a needy kiss. Before she has presence of mind
to return the favor, he had his mouth on her jaw, and had plans to make his way
to her throat.
Never has Bran been so insistent, that Meera is barely able to control the
sharp jolts of pleasure that run through her body, causing her to moan with
everything he does.
Biting her neck, he feels satisfaction of marking her as his, before roaming
his hands under her tunic. Meeting the swell of her breasts, nipples hardening,
he feels his blessedly hard cock go even harder at the feel of her. She is
perfect for him, and to him, that he moves to kiss her lips again.
Arms around his shoulders, she welcomes the chance to return the kiss, tongues
dancing and teeth grazing lips.
Overwhelmed with the sensations, she arches into him, grinding him in the
process. Though he has grown hard, he still has little leg and hip movement,
but little does it deter their session.
She moves her hips again, loving the friction between their sexes. "More."
Bran laughs. "You'll have to remove your breeches for me get to you."
She blushes in embarrassment, smiling at the silliness of it all. They untangle
themselves from each other, and she stands. Almost in tandem to they take off
their tunics, and unlace their breeches. Bran is content to leave his on, as
Meera bares her sleek legs. She comes back to Bran, placing her hands on his
shoulders, and straddles him again. Almost reverently do they explore each
other, almost as if the heat from earlier had dissipated.
She stroked his upper body. Though he has always granted her pleasure, never
had he had any reason for her to caress him. He is not muscular, and is young
besides, but he keeps himself healthy and lean, and she marvels at his heated
skin, the smooth strength of it.
Nor had she ever seen his cock before. The heat from before returns full force
looking at it, hard and ready for her. Bringing herself closer, she rubs her
sopping cunt over it, readying them both for the next step.
When she raises herself to her knees over him, hand stroking his member before
placing it at her entrance, he hugs her closer, face relishing the feel of her
pert breasts.
Then she lowers herself, bit-by-bit, getting used to the feel of him. When she
grits her teeth and stops, Bran feels a stab of worry, and moves his hands to
her face. He barely has a question formed on his lips, when she falls the rest
of the way down, a barrier being breached that causes her to cry out in pain.
A part of Bran has always acknowledged that he would have rather her had
fulfillment then not, but another part had been a jealous paramour, always
worried that perhaps she had gone to Hearth, despite her saying otherwise (not
that he would hold it against her). Full implications would hit him later,
after the wolf-haze left, but all the sympathy he could offer now was to wipe
her tears away. He almost licked them away, but was able to ignore that
animalistic instinct.
To distract from his need, though, he does sniff at her neck, taking in her
musky and earthen smells. Kissing her neck, he's rewarded by her sighs, and
goes to mark her again as his.
Gasping at his bite, Meera arches in pleasurable pain. Bran was a generous
kisser, but never before had he done such, and twice in one sitting! Curiously,
it turns her on rather then not. There's a brief thought that it was Summer's
influence, then she moves their faces for a proper kiss.
The pleasure overtaking the pain, she swivels her hips curiously. Rewarded both
with a spike of pleasure and his growl of appreciation, she does it again.
The third time she does it, his hands caress her breasts, before moving south
again to her hips. Growling as she teases him with another grinding motion, he
grabs at her hips and lifts her up, surely leaving bruises in the process.
Maneuvering her hands to his shoulders, she smiles at him. He returns a smirk
as he forces her down on all of him.
Crying out in surprise, her smile becoming an open mouth of joy. The next time
he urges her up, she helps him, raising herself the rest of the way, and moving
down before he has a chance to force her.
Quickly getting used to the rhythms, Meera bounces upon Bran repeatedly, hoping
this miracle lasts, but unable to hold back. She feels his hands everywhere,
mapping that which he was already familiar with, moaning loudly for him to know
she loves it.
Distantly, they hear the wolves howl, Bran grabbing her ass to him and
thrusting up from his seat. She gasps in both pleasure and surprise. They look
at each other in stunned silence, momentarily still.
"Oh, Bran." She mumbles, unsure smile on her face.
"Meera." He whispers, lowering his gaze to her lips, moving in to claim them.
Almost unwillingly, she breaks the kiss, "Can you do it again?"
Tears come unbidden to his eyes, "No. But, Meera, I'm dying here still." He
smiles, a paradox to his tears; to feel such strength in his legs for that one
instance when his wolf came, but for it to leave him again.
His cock, however, still was hard. Meera smiles at him, one hand brushing his
wet cheek, the other embracing him around his shoulders. She starts bouncing
again, thankful for the strength of her own legs after years and years of
tracking.
This time they do not break eye contact: pants mingling together, and they
watch the other as she rides out their completions.
Bran goes soft, and the world around them becomes light again. The eclipse is
over, little do they care at the moment. They're content to just sit there,
marveling at what just happened, enjoying each other's company.
***** Cersei and Jamie *****
Chapter Summary
     Cersei contemplates life without Jamie.
Chapter Notes
     1) I feel I have to reiterate that unless written in, no characters
     are related.
     2) I realize I've been spelling Ser Jaime's name wrong for all this
     time... but I'm not going to change it. Call it my personal author's
     quirk, but I have a cousin Jamie, and it took a total mental shift to
     spell that cousin's name correctly, that I'll be damned if I have to
     shift back again. Not that anyone cares, but maybe somebody will
     laugh at my anecdote? Stupid "i" placement... :p
See the end of the chapter for more notes
CERSEI AND JAMIE
In the end, Cersei wonders if Jamie had loved her only because she loved him.
She did not doubt the love, only doubted that if things had been slightly
different, they would still be together.
Such romantic nonsense was beneath her, at first. Her parents would have ended
up together, no matter what, there was never any question of those two being
soul mates. How was she, their only daughter, to know that that's what she
wanted herself, until it wasn't possible anymore? Until she realized, too late,
that Jamie's soul mate was another woman?
Cersei followed Jamie to the Wall; left her parent's modest home and honest
betrothal to follow a dream: to be a warrior and to have the man she loved, not
one that she was handed over to. She was a mature maiden of five and ten, and
he a man grown of eight and ten.
Attracted to his sun-like features, his carefree smile, and jaunty attitude,
Cersei cornered his drunken self after a night of village revelry, and gave up
her maidenhood to him. She did all the work, taking off his black clothing,
kissing him, making him hard, and riding him like a horse. It was a wonder that
he was able to grasp her hips and meet her at all, inexperienced and drunk as
he was. She imagines that otherwise, he might have been able to keep his
Brother's Vow.
The next morning, they awoke naked amongst the hay of the barn, and he started
to apologize, before she silenced him with a kiss. They realized they wanted
more, him with his morning wood and her still wet. This time, he took charge,
laying her on her back and thrusting into her. Over and over again he plowed
into her, giving her more orgasms then she thought possible, before he released
his own pleasure.
He didn't even have to ask her to go, she was packed the next day and when the
crows left for the north again, sitting behind him on his horse, with no
regrets, except to see her mother cry.
It was like a dream. They fucked liked rabbits, years before the Hearth was
"erected", and he taught her swordplay and archery. She had seriously thought
of taking the black herself, to be part of a brotherhood of warriors respected.
The dream changed then; she became pregnant, despite the moon tea she regularly
drank, and Jamie wouldn't let her destroy the life within her that had
miraculously arrived.
He, of course, made it up to her by giving her wild pregnancy sex. Her
sensitive body craved it, and he more than willingly gave himself to her. She'd
tell him to be gentle, but he didn't listen. He'd bite her enlarged breasts,
and would harshly rub her bundle of nerves, till she was coming without the aid
of his cock.
She'd hardly come down from that, before he'd shove his dick into her. He'd
start slow, to get her ready again, and then he'd pick up the pace. The next
orgasm would be even more intense then the first and she'd be crying his name
for the whole Wall to hear.
Her pregnancy happened three times, and all three times he did as before. She
gave him two sons and a daughter: Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. She heeded his
advice to stay off the Wall, and became a matron of sorts to all the Children
of the Wall. She even helped to manage accounts for various people of the
"Gift". She still practiced weaponry, so she never regretted this new role.
But it was not enough. Jamie loved Cersei for their shared history. But he
loved Brienne, for no reason then that they had fought each other, saved each
other, and mutually respected the other.
When one's life is in another's hands, Cersei supposes, it makes bonds strong.
There was proof enough between men posted on the Wall, and between women as
well, but rarely did they post mixed sexes together, for proprietary reasons.
Cersei herself had witnessed the arrival of a barely conscious Ser Lady
Brienne, and a maimed Ser Jamie unable to properly carry his comrade in arms
across the Wall in to safety. He had refused to leave Brienne's side, and spoke
of how they both owed the other their lives. She would get the full story
another time but then, there was no more to tell, until he was sure Brienne
would live.
Cersei was not a healer, but she helped with both their injuries, going so far
as to carry messages from one to the other, much to her embarrassment, at
first. They were embarrassed too, but then it became normal. She wished she
could feel anger, and jealousy. She left her home for this man, and for what,
for this ugly woman to supplant her? But all she felt was sadness; not even a
sense of loss, for she never had him fully, at any time.
In another life, Cersei would feel hurt and betrayal, anger and murderous rage.
As it is, he never asked her to follow him, never asked her to marry him, never
lived with her for any amount of time. She kept waiting, accepting what he gave
without asking for more, and that's probably what doomed her.
But she has a wonderful life, she can admit that. She has three children, two
who love her unconditionally and seek her for advice still. She might not have
respect as a warrior, but she has the respect of both the Wall and the Gift.
She might not have the love of the man she would pick out for herself, but whom
has she ever really loved beyond all measure? There was still time, perhaps
another man would come into her life who would sweep her off her feet for true.
They three settled into an uneasy friendship, but it grew as the moons went by.
There was a love of affection, if nothing more, and even Brienne could be in
Cersei's presence alone without awkwardness and tension. Sometimes, Cersei
swears she and they are the only three who are aware that the Maiden Warrior
and the Handless Slayer were fucking, little did they publicly display
affection. Little does it matter, she supposes.
Jamie, without his sword hand, manned the Wall no longer. He stayed at the
Hearth in an unofficial guardian role, and spent more time with his younger
children.
Brienne never could give him children, but gave Jamie all her heart, which he
returned wholly. Not knowing what else to do, she stayed at the Wall, in time
earning a leadership of one of the forts.
Cersei protected and reared the Children of the Wall. The unclaimed, the
bastards, the wildling lost. She was a true lioness when it came to her young;
and no man could tame her wild heart.
Chapter End Notes
     In an effort to find sympathy for Cersei when I didn't want to; this
     happened. I bet, if she lived in a more modern setting, she could be
     a righteous feminist babe. Alas, she lives in a medieval setting,
     where all women are expected to be are pretty faces and/or rich, or
     nothing. Poor girl wasn't allowed to play with the guys and no one
     takes her seriously, D'OH! Was it any wonder that she became bitter
     and bitchy?
     That said, hope this chapter was enjoyed, and has some sort of weight
     to Cersei's characterization in this universe...
***** Joffrey and Margaery *****
Chapter Summary
     Joffrey's cruelty is matched by Margaery's cunning.
Chapter Notes
     WARNINGS: For part two; mentions of abuse, character death.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
JOFFREY AND MARGAERY
PART ONE
Joffry had been a little better to deal with after the incidents with the ex-
knight, Barristan Selmy, and with Val; but the change was not much. He still
refused to do his commander's duties, leaving it to Sandor or Maester Bran (the
Younger), to run the base. It was absurd, Sandor wasn't even a crow, and the
men at Oakenshield not only followed his orders, but respected him too. Bran
also had more respect as a cripple then Joffrey ever would. Most had half a
mind to believe that either one was better fit for the job instead of
"Accidental Commander Joffrey".
It was a fluke, a damn joke. Everyone knew the story of how Joffrey became
commander. The previous Commander of Oakenshield, a fat slob who had once been
a fierce fighter, had died due to a bad hunting accident, and the men were
voting for their new commander. Nigh on a fortnight had passed, and no
consensus had been reached.
Joffrey, now only seven and ten, was obviously a poor candidate a year ago, the
time of the incident. But he had put his name in, regardless. He made pretty
speeches that no one remembered, he boasted strength and skill when everyone
there had beaten him in sparing practice, he claimed a rapport with the
wildlings, and he hadn't even met one yet: one big fat liar.
On a night of drunken revelry, one crow joked that he would vote for Joffrey,
just to shake things up. Another picked up the joke, shouting to the hall at
large that Joffrey would be best for them, "Lord of the Lies!" By the end of
the night, they were singing his lies to the tune of "The Bear and the Maiden
Fair".
The next morning, the hung-over crows found themselves, yet again, voting. It
was easy to think that one man might place Joffrey's symbol (for those who
couldn't use letters) on the maester's parchment, in order to create a few
chuckles. This had been going on for so long, that a good joke was needed. So
easy to believe, that it was only a small step up to believe that ten or more
would think the same.
Otherwise, it would have been inconceivable to believe that Joffrey landed the
role of Commander of Oakenshield by three fourths of the majority.
That night, they all sobered upon hearing Maester Brandon proclaim Joffrey
their new Commander.
PART TWO
Ser Barristan had spared Commander Joffrey of Oakenshield his life after a
harsh lesson, but Joffrey had not been spared ridicule by his garrison, or by
his second, Sandor, and most definitely not by the whores of the Last Home and
Hearth (or first, depending which way you were traveling). Anytime he went
back, if he tried anything, he was summarily grabbed by any Crow who happened
to be in the vicinity and dumped out into the snow. It was humbling.
It galled at him, and chafed at him. He tried the nice route once or twice, and
just couldn't get off. That just made him angrier. It got so bad that he
started raping some of the women of the black. Though it was rough as he
wished, they fought back to his disappointment. He ended up with some black
eyes and cracked ribs. It was sad, had he reflected on it; any of the women of
the black would be more then a match for him. It was a miracle that he survived
this long; his station would not protect him indefinitely.
Then there were rumors circulating that there was a new woman at the Hearth who
liked it rough, that she had left her cushiony life wanting something more
exhilarating and life affirming. Taking a chance, Joffrey asked for her.
Margaery, ex lady, new whore, was everything Joffrey could want. Except for the
fact that she inexplicably became friends with Sansa, she was beautiful,
experienced, mature, and masochistic.
She gasped beautifully when he choked her. She smiled coyly when he tied her to
the bed. When he entered her ass, or smacked it, she offered no complaints.
When he asked her if she liked it, or asked her who was her master, she always
answered satisfactorily.
She presented her jewels proudly, wearing no scarves or high collared cloaks to
hide bruises, nor powders to dim the purple and blue makeup surrounding her
eyes. Red and swollen bracelets adorned her wrists and ankles, while she
gracefully presented a fashionable new way to walk. Always was a smile on her
face when Joffrey was around.
They had been fucking for a moon or so, when she shyly asked to spend the
night. Smiling indulgently, he kissed his affirmation, adding that she must not
be late.
They started with dinner. There she proudly offered a wine from her home, a
special brew of amazing spiciness and flavor. He agreed it tasted superb. They
drank with the appetizer (Bravossi brushetta). It went well with the main dish
(roasted duck with a Tyroshi spice glaze). The desert was to die for; the
Valerian volcano cake literally smoked in their mouths with the addition of the
wine.
Joffrey told Margaery that it couldn't have gone better. She agreed. He went to
kiss her, but all of a sudden felt woozy. "Ugh. Must have been something I
ate." And he doubled over with cramps. "Do you feel anything?"
"No. I spent my life building up an iocaine immunity." She said.
Aghast, he looked to her, and then to the wine flagon. Rising from his spot, he
knocked the table over, before stumbling out into the hall. "Maester!" he
yelled. "Poison! Help!"
Margaery followed him, watching as he stumbled from his room over to the
Maester's quarters. They were empty. Gasping, he turned and glared at Margaery,
who only offered a stoic face.
Joffrey made his way throughout Oakenshield. At first he felt only woozy and
dizzy. Then his vision got blurry around the edges, and his extremities started
buzzing with pins and needles. His mind was dulling, and he couldn't figure out
where he was headed. Margaery maneuvered him, little that he was aware at this
point.
They found themselves at the top of the Wall. When Joffrey exited the winch, he
had blood gurgling from his mouth, and he could barely stand. He saw the
Maester, Bran the Younger, sitting in his chair, Meera standing behind him, and
he lurched towards him. "Help!" he begged, a spittle of blood accompanying this
plea. Bran looked with sympathy, but did nothing.
Falling upon his knees, Joffrey crawled along the Wall, dimly aware that his
soldiers were lined up and flanking him, a dozen or so braziers outlining their
features. He grasped the cloak of the next man, seeing that it was in fact one
of the Wildling women turned crow, and she just kicked him, yanking her cloak
from his grasp.
The next man did not turn from him, but grasped his shoulders and lifted him.
Joffrey's hope was short lived, Sandor had been the one to pick him up, and
there was only a scowl on his face. His second-in-command whispered, "For
Sansa." and Joffrey knew he was doomed. No one would help him. Swaying on his
feet, he glanced at the blurry figures of his men, and heard whispers of all
those he had wronged, though he caught very few names.
His heartbeat was slowing, and his chest was hurting. Ragged breath rattling
through the blood lining his throat, he turned once more to the woman he had
started to feel for. "For me." She said.
"You..." cough, "Nothing?"
Coldly she looked at him. The Stranger himself could not have been more
hauntingly beautiful, blurred vision flecked with moonlight was she. Falling to
his knees yet again, his heart stopped beating, and as the last of his blood
finished traveling through his arteries, he heard, "Nothing."
He couldn't hold himself up anymore. He wanted to live badly, but his own body
fell to the side, defeated.
Accidental Commander Joffrey accidentally fell off the Wall. Or so it was
reported.
Chapter End Notes
     This was a long time in coming, that when I finally finished it, I
     put it ahead of another chapter. I always knew what I wanted for
     Joffrey since the beginning of this story, but not how to work it. I
     almost despaired finishing the story without this chapter written.
     But, yea! I only apologize for the lack of smut in this one...
     His death scene in the book was neither long enough nor repentant
     enough (in my opinion). I hope this was satisfactory? I certainly
     enjoyed killing him! *wicked grin*.
***** The Hound and His Wolves *****
Chapter Summary
     Sandor, with Sansa, is a good guy. Sandor before Sansa, as seen by
     Arya, is a terrible person.
Chapter Notes
     Sandor is an ASSHOLE. But he's the right kind of asshole. But... How
     does one write about an asshole being a good guy, before he was a
     good guy? Where is the line that he would not have crossed? And he's
     a wildling, who have different rules then southrons, so it's not like
     he could purchase a fuck, GAH! This was hard to write, but not for
     lack of inspiration, just trying to keep Sandor in character without
     going too far off the deep and evil end... I hope it's enjoyed, but I
     apologize if some do not appreciate. Also, I apologize for the fight
     scene, which might not be that great.
     It was almost two chapters, but then I thought it would be a nice
     contrast between Sandor the Wildling, and Sandor at the Wall. And
     part one was too short, anyway.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
THE HOUND AND LADY-WOLF
Lady was in heat, and they had brought Summer from Castle Black to placate her.
Summer was the gentlest wolf, and least likely to ever mount Nymeria, so
whenever Lady, the gentlest female, was in heat, the maesters usually brought
Summer around to mount her.
Not that Sandor cared in the least about that, he only cared that Sansa was
also in heat. She would become a different person, a frenzied and wanton woman
so unlike Sansa, that he almost didn't want this woman who was not his lover.
Almost. She was still Sansa, in the way that she allowed no man to touch her
except him when the wolf was upon her. They even told him about the time he was
away ranging, when she had spent the whole time in heated agony and refused any
help. For that, he would want her too.
No woman wanted him without pay, but for her to freely want him in her sane
state, and to ONLY want HIM while in wolf lust? It was a double dose of
affection that spoke volumes to him. So it would be with wild abandon that he
would take her from behind, grasping her hair, bruising her hips, cussing in
her ear, and relishing the satin skin of her backside against his chest and
groin, while she just moaned and growled and whined like a bitch. He never felt
more like a dog then in these moments, and he reveled in it, bringing back
memories of old conquests and pleasures he had set-aside for her.
He could hear the direwolf, Lady, nearby, and would catch how both females
seemed to match sounds. But Lady would always finish first, and Sansa would
slump down to her elbows, one part of her sated, but not the other.
He would pull out then, and turn her on her back and plunge right back in. He'd
lean over her, search out her eyes, see them go from lusty glaze to blue love,
and he'd have Sansa back. As much as he liked it rough, he liked her more.
She'd understand if he had kept going, but he knows it's better this way, for
both of them.
He'd grind into her, get her ready again, and he'd know when as she reaches up
to caresses his scarred face. And when he goes to thrust, she'd meet him, again
and again. Most times, she'd pull his face down to kiss him, and she'd taste
sweeter then any summer wine. When they reach completion together, hugging and
groping all the while, he'd hear Lady howl, knowing that her other half was
sated as well.
THE HOUND AND THE WOLF-BITCH
WARNINGS: DUBIOUS CONSENT, UNDERAGE, FIRST TIME
Her first friend, his last murder. That's what brought them together. They were
born years apart, and raised in different clans north of the Wall, but had
never interacted before her fourth and tenth name day. He knew not of her
existence, but all knew him: the meanest old dog north the Wall at only five
and twenty.
Arya and Sandor, today, don't really like each other all that much. If they had
talked things out that first time they met, they might recognize that Sandor
was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that Arya was too quick to judge,
and too slow to forgive.
Sandor loved to fight, and did not have too much aversion to killing. He earned
the name "Hound" not by being good at what he does (though he certainly was
that), but because he loved it too much.
His own counsel he kept, and his opinions as well, but to find purpose and
reason for the sword, he loyally followed the leadership of others, quick to
obey and always without question.
Mycah (Arya's only friend at the time) happened to live in the same clan as
Arya. He was nothing more then a boy who befriended her when they were young,
who continued to fight with Arya after Jon the Snow Wolf had left; and the
Hound ran Mycah down as if he had done something wrong. In reality, he was just
another unfortunate victim in one clan's raid of another. Only after Sandor
made it south of the Wall would he never murder again. Kill in battle or
defense, yes; murder unarmed and innocent people, no.
However, Arya saw it then, and anger festered in her heart that couldn't be
assuaged unless the Hound died himself.
The girl, with the help of her wolf, Nymeria, tracked the Hound successfully,
and when the opportune moment occurred, attacked him.
Sandor's saving grace was that Arya still had much to learn. Hearing a twig
snap, he turned toward the sound. Sentinel trees hid his pursuer from view, but
had he not turned he would have missed the sight of the silent wolf charging
him. Too late to draw forth his sword, he aims a punch for when she lunges at
him, knocking her squarely on the side of the head, just beyond her gaping maw.
Forced to the side, but not terribly hurt, the wolf shakes her head while
turning to face the man again. He himself has turned to face a girl trampling
from her cover, small rusted sword raised to strike him. He grabs the blade on
its swing, grimacing in pain as it tears his glove and bites his palm, but
nevertheless does not let go. Quickly, he wretches the weapon from the girl's
grip, and simultaneously punches her jaw. Though not with the full strength of
his dominant hand, the girl still reels with the impact, falling to the ground
with a gasp, but not in defeat. He flips the blade to grasp the hilt, readying
to attack.
However, distracted by the girl, the wolf is able to jump upon the man's back,
causing him to topple to the ground. She goes in to snap his neck between her
teeth, but barely scratches her target as the moving warrior turns and elbows
the beast off his back. Continuing his movement, he swings the other arm, still
holding the girl's weapon. It slashes at the wolf, causing her to yelp and hop
away.
He regains his feet, only to be knocked again as the girl crashes into his
midsection. She climbs atop him, swinging madly, landing many blows in
appropriately painful spots. However, Sandor did not survive the wild north
beyond the Wall by sheer luck, and little did her punches really injure him.
Bucking and swinging, he turns the table, now atop the girl and he head butts
her; she goes unconscious.
He looks to the whimpering wolf, and then assesses the damage of his self. The
palm that grabbed the blade is profusely bleeding, and is the worst of his
injuries, despite the fact that his head hurts more with the punches she landed
there. He wraps his hand with a strip of torn cloth, damning his body to
another ugly scar, and retrieves the blade that caused the injury.
Fully intending to kill his assailant with her own weapon, he is surprised when
the wolf, limping and slow, moves atop her mistress. Rarely has he ever seen
such loyalty from an animal; he knows, he's had a few himself. A godless and
callous man, he nevertheless takes the sign at face value, and decides he'll
reward the faithful animal and not harm it, or her master.
He cannot let this go without getting back at them however. Anger now coursing
through his veins after the adrenaline wore off, he snaps the girl's small
blade in half over his knee, and throws it aside. Muttering obscenities,
grabbing at the rope off his supplies, he starts tying the wolf and the girl
up, one too injured to protest much and the other still unconscious.
He does not know what to do with the girl and her wolf, but nigh on a moon's
turn has come and gone, and they're still in his possession. All three have
more or less healed from the attack, with nothing but faded bruises or scabbed
wounds well on their way to scarring. The girl, Arya he learns, is still bound
by rope. The wolf, Nymeria he learns, will not run away without her mistress.
Much to his amusement, and Arya's anger, the wolf won't attack him, somehow
having his respect.
He has been making his way south, drawn to the Wall for some inexplicable
reason. The life of a clan raider has become mundane, and the spoils of women
and meager possessions do little to entice him anymore. He does not know what
he'll find with the Crows, but he figures it doesn't hurt to look. He also does
not know why he does not ditch the girl.
The anger that boils in him had been lessening before Ayra's attack, but now it
is his constant companion. She does not cease to goad him, to ask questions, to
damn him for killing her friend (little that he remembers such), to flaunt that
she is the only woman around for many days ride. She is not even pleasing to
his eyes, and is too young besides; though he doubts not that some men would
adore her pixie face and lean body. Hells were he more desperate, he might even
find her enticing; but he's not that far gone. Especially when all she moans
about is some poxy faced son-of-a-whore.
One day he gets so fed up with her, questioning which whore ever birthed him,
who probably was the only one to ever love his face, and going on to say he'd
be lucky to earn enough coin to buy a willing cunt. She calls him an ugly
brute... a rapist. He growls, it's true, but it just makes him hunger for the
very things she's condemning him for.
They were widlings, and no wildling man paid for a woman, nor would any
wildling woman accept the money anyway. It was a take or die world out there,
and he took. It was not for Arya to know that he left them alive, and cared
for, unlike what his brother would do. It was not for her to know that had his
sister lived, he might have tried for a more willing woman than not. It was not
for her to know that it was in his sister's memory that he was going south in
the first place, for something better than the harshness of the north.
The last straw surpassed, Sandor gets up from where he was sitting and stands
above where Arya is bound. She stops her tirade, gracing him with an ugly scowl
upon her horse-life face. Leaning with one hand on the tree above her, he grins
at her, rather menacingly, and uses his other hand to outline his cock
underneath his furs and breeches.
Indignant and surprised, she can do no more then glare daggers at him as he
starts rubbing himself. Up and down he goes, evil grin never leaving his face.
She looks away for a moment, a remnant of her childlike sensibilities, before
she turns back to face him, glare also persisting. A sliver of respect grows in
him, but not much.
He takes a moment to take off his glove with his teeth, spitting it to the
ground, before resuming. Widening his stance, he straddles over her body
underneath him, slowly unlacing his breeches. He laughs at her when he she
lowers her glare to his cock, eyes widening at the sight. "Please." She
whispers, the meekest he's ever heard her, "Don't..."
"I'm not gonna rape you, scrawny assed bitch. Now shut up." She locks with his
eyes again, glares back as well. Barring his teeth at her, he takes his weeping
cock; slowly spreading it's wetness up his length. When he reaches his balls,
he fondles them, growling and jerking his hips forward, and he's further
gratified to she her cheeks go red. From mortification or from being turned on,
he isn't sure, but he's positive she's uncomfortable, and he roughly laughs
again.
She kicks him with her bound legs, but it does little to knock him down.
Growling, he kicks her in her side, causing her to cough and roll to the side.
"I see the wolf doesn't give up too easily." He rasps, "Too bad it doesn't do
you any good. It didn't do your bastard 'Michael' ("Mycah!") any good, and it
won't stop me from fucking with you. You think you're better then me? Fuck you!
This world is harsh, and that poxy faced whore was lucky to leave before he got
it worse then a clean death, which I know I gave." She hasn't looked back at
him, and he's grateful. Now he can fuck himself without worry about her trying
anything again.
"Fuck you." She whispers, almost broken, but still with a bite to it. He
smirks, and just flexes his hips to his hand. He looks at her body, unable to
really see anything through the layers of furs and crusted snow, and imagines
it's something more then she really would be: big teats and round ass.
Groaning, he almost closes his eyes in ecstasy, but he shouldn't take his
attention off of her.
Thoughts of random women with wonderful attributes filter through his mind;
thoughts of fleshy mounds, wet cunts, silken hair on heads and between legs,
eyes with both fear and lust together. Never lips, though, and never any
complete woman come to mind. Not that he needs it, what he has in mind is
enough to have him fisting himself to completion.
Ropes of cum shoot from him, and hit his captor in the face, neck and torso.
She screams indignantly, and it's almost what he would like a fucked woman to
sound like, so it just makes his completion last longer. With a final twitch,
he laughs in her face. He pays no mind to her growling anger, and just pushes
away from the tree, reaching to lace himself up again.
They're a few days travel from the Wall; they can even see it looming from afar
if the trees were thinned enough, when things change again. Ever since the
incident when he fucked his hand over her prone body, she had been mercifully
quiet. He still bound her hand and foot at night, but only after he was ready
to sleep, after she had proved helpful with cooking meals.
Her glares persisted, and he sometimes swore it was her growling, and not her
wolf, but they were linked, he learned. One might as well have been the other.
Nymeria still would not attack him, but actually trusted her mistress in his
presence alone, while she went off by herself for longer intervals.
Occasionally, though, he heard scuffles in the woods, and howls, knowing that
the direwolf was protecting them both from her wolf cousins, or bears.
One night, when Nymeria was there, he saw signs of impending heat. Turning to
Arya, he asks, "How does she act" nodding towards the wolf, "when she needs to
fuck?"
Arya looks at him suspiciously, "Why?"
"She's showing signs of heat. Tomorrow, or the next night perhaps, she'll want
a pounding."
Arya's face pales at that, but offers a straight answer for once. "The wolves
will fight for her. They'll ignore us, but be prepared for them to get real
close." Sandor nods in acknowledgment.
So it's no surprise to him when, a few nights later, he sees male wolves
smaller then Nymeria come out from the trees. They go so far as to walk not
three paces past him and the camp fire as if they didn't exist. Wary in any
case, he stands with a torch and moves closer to Arya, whom he had already tied
up for the night. He finds it annoying to hear her whimpering; she was the one
who knew what would happen, and apparently witnessed it before, her fear isn't
helping his any.
Nymeria's tail is in the air, proudly displaying her hunger and sex, and her
smaller cousins either sniff at her or break off to scuffle with one another;
yips, barks, howling, and growls filling the air like some strange song. Some
break off dejectedly towards the trees again, while others remain surrounding
the direwolf. Eventually, it's down to a handful of wolves, and Nymeria growls
in anticipation. It's then that he realizes that Arya isn't scared but aroused.
When her moan of lust breaks through her whimpers, he looks to her in surprise.
Her eyes are closed, but her mouth is open, red tinting her cheeks. Her bound
legs rub each other, obviously trying to alleviate some burn. Starting to get
an inkling of just how far girl and wolf are linked, he kneels down and roughly
thrusts a hand between her legs to rub along her sex. He pays little mind to
her jolt and gasp, reveling in the heat he feels there.
Removing the hand, he places the torch aside and takes off his gloves. He
ignores her pleas to untie her hands, not wanting her to take care of herself,
leaving him to his hand again. She obviously isn't in her right mind, and would
never take him otherwise, but he wouldn't say no to the chance of a sopping
cunt, whether its mind wanted it or no.
Taking his dagger from his boot, he slashes at the ropes binding her ankles and
knees, and then thrusts it into the ground. Instinctively, the girl plants her
feet in the ground, and starts grinding her hips, begging for friction. Off to
the side, he sees that a big wolf, only slightly smaller then the still growing
Nymeria, has won the right to mate. He notices that the other wolves have left,
and he doesn't have to worry about them changing their focus to him.
Grabbing Arya's thighs, he pulls her closer, rubbing his hardening member
against her sex. Moaning, she somehow is able to again ask for the freedom of
her hands, still bound behind her back.
He leans down, laughing in her ear, "My cock will be much better then your
hands, bitch. You know you want it."
"Ugh, no!" Contrary to her words, she shamelessly rubs against him. He dry
humps her for a few moments, before moving to take off her boots and breeches,
leaving her bare ass upon the snowy ground. Little does he care for her
clothing, but she has nothing else to wear, ripping would add insult to injury.
"Please! My hands!" She begs. Gutturally, he laughs, releasing his cock from
confinement for the second time in her presence. "NO!" She screams, the same
time lifting her hips towards him and back arched as if to present her breasts
to him, covered and small though they are.
Off to the side, he hears the two wolves in the middle of their mating, but his
focus takes in the girl before him. He has half a mind to fuck her like the
bitch and dog they are, but dismisses it in favor of practicality. Leaving
bruises on her thighs, he rubs his cock up and down her weeping cunt, before
roughly shoving himself in.
She screams when he takes her maidenhood, tears leaking from her eyes, and he's
contrite enough to stop for a moment, leaning down to her neck and inhaling her
smell, trying to distract from her tightness that almost has him cumming then
and there. Dirty and sweaty, it's a smell he's used to on himself, but never a
woman, let alone one too young to be this unruly, and more skinny then not. He
places a hand in her straw hair, the other at her boney hip, and bites her
pungent neck. It's different from women he's used to; raw and untamed, a
reflection of the wolf, he supposes.
When her cunt squeezes him in lust, he does a half thrust in response,
eliciting a throaty moan from her, tinged with a sob. He raises himself from
her, placing his hands in the cold snow about her head. The view below him his
less then arousing, but for her red cheeks; had her twat been anything but
tight and wet, he doubt he would have gotten hard enough.
She glares at him, still able to recognize that she would not choose him for a
mate. However, as he offers a foul grin in return, she swivels her hips
instinctively, begging for more friction. This time, he pulls all out, before
slamming back in, eliciting another moan from her. Her eyes close, no doubt
thinking of someone else, and he thrusts again, in turn thinking of matured
women with better assets. Perhaps she'd be kissed with fire, as opposed to
ashes as Arya is... and definitely more curvy, if he had his choice.
Other then their sexes, they're not touching. He wonders if she were free if
she would scratch his back, and he groans in imagining it, thrusting as well.
She'd most likely punch him, he thinks, thrusting harder. Good thing he kept
her hands tied up, it wouldn't be worth it, no matter how arousing it is to
think of, and he thrusts long and hard again thinking about her feistiness. Too
bad she wasn't decently pretty as well.
Groaning aloud, he grabs her throat with one hand, punishing her for not being
both strong and beautiful. It is not a strong grip, just a light pressure, but
she gags nevertheless, breathless and arousing all the same. She opens her eyes
again, moaning but portraying her anger in her eyes, and he just grits his
teeth and thrusts again.
She meets him again and again, becoming quite the pro despite the fact that it
is her first time. They can hear Nymeria and her rutting partner still going,
growls filling the air. But as he goes faster, nearing his completion, they pay
no mind to the wolves. He roars his release, spilling into Arya. She growls,
loudly and angrily, but rides out his climax seeking her own release. He's
almost spent, when she finally peaks as well, and he's glad he doesn't have to
help her find her finish.
Slumping down on the girl (causing her to huff indignantly) he looks to the
side, seeing that the wolves had finished as well, pretty much without them
noticing it.
The rest of the trip to the Wall is silent and uneventful. He had finally cut
the bonds from her wrists, and she was free. Though earlier in the trip, Arya
had decided to go to the Wall as well, so it was no surprise to him that she
stuck around.
The fight had not died out of Arya, but when Sandor had gently cleaned her
woman's place and gently redressed her before releasing her bonds, when she
could have done those herself, she had gleaned something of the man she had
previously been unaware of.
Rubbing her still aching wrists when they're a day from their destination, she
regarded her captor. "I know our ways are harsh."
He made no reply, not even to look at her.
"You're an asshole. But… you're the right kind of asshole." That got his
attention, causing him to stop what he had been doing. "I'm not saying I like
you, or would ever want to, but… " And here, she looks like she does not know
what to say.
When he looks to her finally, it tumbles out, "You owe me, for Mycah. But you
don't owe the world for him. Don't think you helping me with my wolf haze let
you off. It was a rape, and I didn't ask for your help!"
"The fuck are you trying to say, wolf bitch?"
Sighing, Arya looks to the ground. "I don't know. But I won't try to kill you
in the future. If you promise me one thing." And she looks at him again, steel
eyes blazing.
"What?"
"Don't kill anymore innocents. Don't kill any more bystanders, no more dead who
just happened to be in the wrong place. Don't kill anymore Mycahs".
After a few silent moments, Sandor grunts and nods. They turn from each other,
silent again, but in understanding.
Chapter End Notes
     I have caught up to what has been finished, polished, and edited. The
     next three will take some time to finish and post, so I apologize for
     that.
     Also, I like a lot of chapters of this story, (I should, else I
     wouldn't post them), and sometimes I have trouble thinking which is
     my own personal favorite. But, I think as far as getting into
     someone's head and writing their evil persona and hinting at how far
     they've come, more so then any other character: it really was a trip,
     and for that reason this is actually my favorite. Whew!
***** The Queen's Bedding *****
Chapter Summary
     Dany and Drogo get wedded... and bedded....
Chapter Notes
     I apologize for the late update! Anyway. I'm not totally 100 percent
     happy with this chapter, I feel another chapter should have been the
     last "smut" chapter, and this one in the middle of the pack, but I
     hope this is enjoyed anyway.
     Also, I always wanted to write a happy bedding scene, because I felt
     if I wrote one, through the process of writing it, I would realize
     why Westeros had such a strange custom. I think I was partly
     successful... Kinda like an ancient version of the bachelor/
     bachelorette party. Maybe? Anywho... reviews?
DANERYS AND DROGO
Queen Danerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, first of her name, was pregnant.
No less than three Maesters had confirmed it, before the news was spread
throughout Westeros that the queen was with child. It would take another few
days for the news of her marriage to her consort, the Dothraki warrior Drogo,
to follow the first news. The wedding would take place soon, before her stomach
would swell beyond the tricks to hide it.
Lord Commander Snow, among others, had sent his congratulations. He asked for
news about how such a miracle was granted to his grace, the queen. He was well
within his rights, as a friend, to ask, and Dany was overjoyed to tell him how
it happened.
Then Lord Snow had to share the news with Maester Bran the Younger, and both
rejoiced that the thrice-cursed eclipse was actually a twice-blessed event. It
had allowed Bran to grow hard (and it hadn't been a onetime event), and it
allowed Dany to procreate (they hoped it would not be a onetime occasion for
her, either).
The eclipse was still cursed by the Targaryen cousins who were now no longer in
line to inherit the throne, but that is another story.
The day of the royal wedding came. It was a long and complicated spectacle; it
included rites from the Old and the New Gods, plus those of the Dothraki. Never
had Danerys been so fond of combining rituals to appease her subjects. It used
to frustrate her to no end, but her wedding was, in her mind, perfect.
Drogo wanted nothing more than to skip the Dothraki presentation of presents
and go straight for the Westorosi bedding that he heard so much about, but Dany
would have him wait. He glared at everyone giving him and his new wife a gift,
but it was more mock hot air then real anger.
Drogo finally had his bride to himself. Naturally he had to share the as yet
unclaimed wife with the men one last time, before she was all his, forever and
always. By nature, he was very possessive, but he had laughed as hard as any
person present when it was time for the bedding. The women grabbed at him,
pinching and groping, tittering and blushing. Their last chance to admire his
physique and, ahem, "member", before it belonged to one woman only.
Knowing that, and knowing that his bride loved him and was jealous for only
him, and was beautiful herself, could Drogo really begrudge the men their last
chance of fondling her? Besides, Dany was laughing herself, the light and
infectious one that brought joy to his heart.
Once they were naked together in their chambers, they laughed heartily together
at the tomfoolery of it all. This laugh of hers went down an octave, and was
rich for a woman. She reserved it for him, and he relished it.
The laughter died down, and they shared a quiet look. He reached to her, laying
a hand on her just swelling stomach, and the other on her cheek. "Mine." He
spoke.
Smiling, laying her hands over his one on her stomach, she asked, "Do you
remember our first time?"
Chuckling, he replies in the affirmative: how could he not? She had been angry
and bitter over the loss of Ser Jorah at the time: he, barely able to carry a
conversation with her. They recall the raw and primal passion, which had not
dimmed in the time they've been together, but rather had been enhanced by
friendship and true affections.
"Our first as husband and wife should be different, even more then all the
others." Dany mused.
He kisses her briefly, bringing their naked bodies closer, before asking what
she had in mind, groaning in anticipation. They had sex quite regularly since
they left the Wall, he can only imagine what new position she'd like to try.
She blushes furiously, with no reason to, as they had quite a list under their
figurative belts; dog, backwards joust, side-by-side, him on top, knees over
shoulders, ass-to-cock, etc. When she offers no suggestion after a while, he
kisses her again, deep and longing. She moans, going flush against him, and he
moves a hand to her ass, helping with their closeness.
When he moves to kiss her neck, she decides to show, rather than ask. Pushing
his shoulders, she laughs at his questioning look, pushing him some more, till
his knees hit their bed and he sits.
Only when he maneuvers to the headboard, as she requested, does she follow him.
She stalks him, prowling a bit like he's seen her dragons act; hungry for the
kill, quiet and gracefully crawling nearer to their dinner, shining eyes of
lust, leathery wings low to the ground, as her hair drapes around her shoulders
offering tantalizing glimpses of her body behind. He welcomes the chance to be
devoured by her.
Not disappointing him in the least, she climbs over his legs, straddling them,
before she grabs his cock, stroking it, and swallowing it as far as she can
take him. Groaning in pleasure, he grabs her hair as if they were reins,
thrusting into her as she works him up. All too soon, she's off of his member,
sitting up and scooting closer to him. Moving close to his ear, taking his
hands into her own, she whispers, "I would ride you like the stallion you are."
They stare at each other during the span of a blink, eyes hooded and dark,
before she lets go of his hands to grab his shoulders, raising herself above
his sex. "Moon of my life," he, thick with accent, tells her, "ride me through
the night." And he grabs her hips, though not to move her, but to encourage.
So she falls on him, moaning loudly in the process. Quickly, she rises again,
only to fall again, keeping her eyes on him, knowing that he enjoys it as much
as she.
She gallops hard upon him, and he in turn was an excellent mount, flexing and
thrusting at all the right moments. Because she's in charge of this ride, and
wants to prolong it, she slows it down, leaning in to kiss Drogo, who groans
with the shock of the slowed movements, buy relishing how her hips swivel upon
him, enjoying her mounting as no saddle has a right to enjoy.
She releases his lips, moving back to start up another gait, a trot this time,
and she takes the opportunity to rake her hands all over his torso, relishing
the heat he gives off and the sheen of sweat, admiring his smell as it mixes
with her perfume. If nothing else, his smell alone could please her; so she
leans close again, smashing their chests together, allowing her the chance to
inhale his scent, and bite his neck appreciatively.
He, in turn, caresses her sides, leaving a trail of light goose bumps as his
calloused hands trace the swell of her growing breasts, the flair of her hips,
and the round smoothness of her ass. They each shiver with their treatments
received, and he gropes her butt, squeezing and maneuvering, begging for more
friction and speed.
She gradually speeds up again, the force of the oncoming ecstasy prompting them
both to jerk and messily speed up to meet the promise of an overwhelming
finish.
And the finish comes, strong and powerful, her already sensitive pregnant body
tingling in an overpowering way, causing her to close her eyes, unable to focus
on anything but the onslaught of pleasure, screams escaping her lips and
permeating their marital room, shortly thereafter joined by a powerful baritone
of manly ecstasy.
Only when they both calm down does she mutter "whoa", slumping against her
husband, the horse lord, now Queen's Consort Drogo. "Whoa, indeed." He agrees,
and then they're both breathlessly laughing. He fingers her long, curling,
hair, and a far off, but satiated, look upon his features.
"What is it, my sun and my stars?"
He pecks her lips before responding, "I hope our babe has a hint of your
beauty: your eyes of amethysts, your hair of molten silver, your smiles that
light up my life, my precious moon."
She smiles at him, cupping his face within her hands, "And I hope our babe has
a hint of your strength: may he or she always love to run, may he or she laugh
in the face of danger as you do, and have the secret wisdom to be one with
horses."
They kiss again, and it only leads to other positions that make their marriage
bedding one of the top five, more happily successful wedded beddings, in the
history of Westeros.
***** Epilogue 1: Nymeria *****
Chapter Summary
     I'm not the biggest fan of singling out readers in author's notes,
     BUT, this chapter would not exist without one reviewer, so I'd like
     to thank "xxsupernaturalgalxx" for pushing for another chapter
     featuring GENDRYA. I hope it's enjoyed!
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
NYMERIA
She padded through the moonlit rooms of her den, instinctively cataloging
familiar smells and wary for unknown ones. Satisfied all is well, she pushes
her way into her mistress's room, quietly and gently climbing onto the bed of
furs and tangled limbs. The woman smells of strength and love, the man of salt
and friendliness. Though wolves mate for life, Nymeria has taken to loving this
man more then any male wolf that might mount her.
Nymeria's sister, Lady, has mated for life with Summer, but Nymeria has had
three litters and had not known positively who was the sire. Somehow, she is
aware of the dwindling numbers of direwolves, and it's instinctive not to
choose one mate, to not stagnate the gene pool. The male human that she loves,
however, has been faithfully mated to her mistress for many cycles now, so many
beyond the wolf's counting.
She lies at their feet on the bed, smelling the pungent appendages even through
many layers of fur. It's comforting, and she feels her eyes closing, sleep
claiming her old soul.
She awakes to pattering feet of the young. Her own pups have been assigned
along the Wall, as soon as they could hunt on their own. The three female
babes, however, have not yet left their mother's side, and the wolf treats them
as her own; nipping them when they do not behave, licking their wounds clean,
scaring bullies away, and, while they are tiny, carrying them around from the
scruff of their tunics.
The eldest girl, Nym, able to feed herself and walk and form human sounds of
communication, jumps onto the bed. Nymeria is not surprised, and neither is her
mistress it seems, but the man yelps, almost jumping at the rude awakening. The
woman and girl laugh, and Nymeria loll her tongue out in good spirits.
Recovering, the man starts tickling the girl, and laughter fills the air.
Panting in excitement, Nymeria stands on the bed, tail wagging, waiting for an
invitation to join.
"Nymie!" Comes a squeal from the door. The middle girl, Mary, is crawling
through the door, staring straight at the wolf. Nymeria is used to bad
pronunciations of her name, and gets down from the bed to lick the little girl,
who laughs in turn, trying to pet, but ultimately smacking, the wolf. She pays
no mind to the smacks, and just grabs the babe from the scruff and carrying her
to the bed, where she hands the girl off to her mistress. Arya rubs her head,
going for the spots behind the ears and causing her to growl in pleasure.
The man has stopped tickling the eldest girl, and they're talking about food, a
few words the she knows filtering through her ears; promises of "bacon",
"toast", and "sausages" making her realize, she could go for food right about
now, despite the successful hunt she had last night.
She turns her head away from her mistress's hand upon hearing the youngest,
Rhea, starting to squall. Not waiting for the humans, the wolf pads out of the
room and towards the messy room of the girls. Coming to the crib, she sees the
youngest is red faced and sad. Placing her snout through the bars, she licks
the face, and the baby magically stops, unsure of what to make of it, fingering
the mucous on her face as if it were the strangest thing in the world.
Her mistress laughs at that. Picking the babe up, she lowers the shoulder of
her human contraption, allowing the babe to suckle at her breast. Tail still
wagging; she follows mother and daughter to the kitchen, where the man has
started to cook, with the eldest on the stool next to him looking serious in
her cooking training. The middle child is on the floor at his feet, playing
with a yarn doll their friend, Lady's mistress, had made for them.
Butting her way through their bodies, she is rewarded with a scrap of bacon
despite her rude behavior. Chomping the meat, she walks to the door, planting
herself there and slowly, despite what one would think, relishing the treat.
They're talking, and bits of known words filter through her conscious, and she
knows that Lady's mistress, Sansa, will come by with her own pup, and will
watch the four babes as her own mate, Sandor, and Nymeria's humans go to train
at the Wall.
The bacon consumed, she watches her pack interact in the golden morning,
relishing the minute signs of contentment. Her mistress keeps the youngest in
her arms, even after the babe is finished with the breast. Her mistress's mate
keeps touching Arya in small ways, always with a smile, and sometimes he pecks
her on the lips.
The elder girl teaches the next to hold a fork, while the middle girl keeps
glancing slyly at her "Nymie", occasionally "accidentally" dropping bits of
sausage from her fork for the wolf to snatch.
Far from scolding, the eldest will laugh too, and also "accidentally" drop bits
of toast with butter. Nymeria likes the butter more then the toast, but she'll
eat it all. It is a game for the girls, but the wolf doesn't mind, and neither
do the human adults. They smile indulgently, while all know that if Auntie
Sansa were around, she would hide her amusement behind a straight face (but she
would be amused, there would be no denying that).
Lady barks her and her pack's arrival, and Nymeria bounds outdoors to tumble
with her sister. Lady is weaker from an ancient wound, but she can hold her own
against stupid humans, and can still play. Nymeria minds her sister's sensitive
neck, but is so happy to see her, that they're rolling in the dirt despite
Sansa's gasping in distress.
The one her mistress calls "Dog" laughs deeply, and Nymeria turns to head butt
him, playfully nipping at his outstretched hand. Then she licks Sansa's
fragrant hand in hello, before chasing a laughing boy who's parents have named
"Pip".
After what seems an eternity of hellos and hugs and human speech, Nymeria is
finally on her way to the Wall with her mistress Arya, as well as with Gendry
and Sandor. It's barely a league away, and the sun is still low in the sky when
she leaves the humans to wrestle with her wolf family under the shadow of the
Wall.
Soon she sees in her mind that Arya is going beyond the Wall. It has been a
long while since she has gone there, ever since Nym first swelled within Arya's
womb, till Rhea was born, Nymeria's mistress had not gone ranging. She kept up
with training, but usually it was Gendry who ranged away from their pack, along
with her. She sometimes felt Arya in her consciousness, keeping an eye on them
in their unique bond.
Nymeria feels Arya's restlessness now, and she reciprocates by running ahead of
her mistress's host, eager to scout ahead.
It's an uneventful ranging; as most are nowadays, spring upon them once again.
However, Nymeria finds it harder to keep up her stamina, and she feels aches
all along her body. No one would know, though, if not for Arya. She calls for
their medicine man, the fat but friendly one, and he caresses her fur as kindly
as he does for Ghost, and pronounces her just aging. She licks away Arya's
tears, unaware of what all the fuss was about; it was the natural way of
things, was it not?
She would fight, till she could fight no more. She would eat till her teeth
fell away. She would play until her joints hurt too much. And when it was all
done with, she would lay and sleep and wake no more. Sensing the fear even
without their bond, Nymeria allows Arya to hold her and weep into her fur
without protesting much. And when Gendry hugs them both, she licks his face,
thankful for his compassion to whatever is ailing her mistress.
Nymeria's brothers also ail, as does Lady. Many more cycles go by, though,
before the unknown end will appear. She still hunts and ranges, though slower
and usually with a younger dire wolf along as well. She still nips, and growls,
and plays, and stalks, and hunts, and everything else a creature of the Wall
does, right up till the last moon of her life.
Lady has been gone for a while now. Nymeria had been with her at the end,
whimpering and licking her to make her better, but knowing it fruitless. And
when Lady had passed, Nymeria sang the song of loss, joining in with her
brother's howls to the stars.
Pip had lost his parents by then, and he took it the hardest, loosing yet
another of his family. He had had grasped at Lady's fur in denial, and when
they had taken Lady away for burial, he had placed his snot in Nymeria's fur
instead, but she cared not.
Pip was here now, holding onto the hands of his pseudo sisters. Nym, Mary, and
Rhea were all crying, though their tears were silent. They had reached young
adulthood, in human terms, and one had even made vows to the black. Ghost, the
remaining direwolf of their litter, was whining in the background, while Arya
knelt before her, tearless but joyless, rubbing her fur and speaking every now
and then of good times. Gendry knelt behind Arya, hands on her shoulders, a
glint of tears in his eyes.
Ghost howls for her, long and mournful. No longer does breath move through
Nymeria's lungs.
Her eyes, though, they still see. They are less sharp, but still it serves when
one is guarding against the long night.
Her nose, that still works too. No longer do smells make themselves known like
a wall to the face, but still it serves to know between a festering wound and a
clean one without waiting too long.
Her ears, those too live on. Never can one be surprised that Gendry is sneaking
up behind.
Nymeria watches Gendry grow old. He gets burly, but never fat; wrinkles
crinkling in happiness, toothy grins always bright. She loves his distinctive
smell, and his deep, rumbling laugh. She loves to touch him, to feel his smooth
skin under her equally fur-less paws, reveling in his own brand of strength.
She sighs, always in pleasure, when he pets her, never shying away from her own
weakening skins. Sometimes, her mind is shut out, but always afterwards, she
feels blissful satiation; and she knows he is the happy cause.
Her life is surrounded by him, and of brief flashes of skirmishes where her
skills as a dangerous direwolf are put to good use again. Life floats on by
though, sometimes with glimpses of her children: three girls who become mother,
warrior, or innkeeper in their own rights. Sometimes awareness of other people
float by, and she'll attempt to nudge them with her head, or playfully nip at
them. Her blunt teeth remind her of who is in charge, and her small head shakes
in amusement, and all share a moment in remembrance of a faithful companion.
Arya is always with her. Never does Nymeria have a thought that is not known by
her mistress, though sometimes Arya can keep her thoughts to herself (most have
to do with Gendry, and their mating). It is her mistress's turn to protect them
both, though Nymeria lends her her senses. It's Arya's turn to run through the
woods, sometimes for no reason at all. Sometimes, she'll even indulge Nymeria
and eat raw meat, though that is very rare.
It is also Arya's turn to grow old, to grow frail, to become bedridden. Gendry
has passed to the great beyond, and Nymeria feels a chasm of sadness, but also
an oasis of memory. They are brightened when new pups arrive, ones that beg for
stories, stories of grand-sires, of wolves, maybe a fallen princess, or the one
about the Hound. If Nymeria still had a tail, she would wag it during those
happy moments, smelling their youth and exuberance, basking in their love and
admiration.
In the end, Rhea, Mary, and Nym are all that stand beside Arya's bed. Neither
woman nor wolf mind, really, and are content to talk about whatever their girls
wish. In Arya's final moments, she makes them swear to bury her next to Gendry,
and when they do, she sighs one last time, a smile on her face, a life well
lived.
Chapter End Notes
     I may have gotten really close to crying with both of my epilogues.
     Though they are somewhat sad, I do hope they convey long lives that
     were happy and awesome. Also, I hope it was clear what I was trying
     to convey with Nymeria and Arya's connection in the second half of
     the chapter. If it's confusing, let me know, and I'll try to clear it
     up. I also originally tried to write it from Arya's POV, but Nymeria
     would not be denied, and for an epilogue, why not?
***** Epilogue 2: "Little Pip" *****
Chapter Notes
     1) One last time to say THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS/KUDOS! It makes
     me feel legit, and honored (and giddy with happiness).
     2)For those who might not know, Peregrine Falcon is a real type of
     bird of prey. Apparently the popular one for falconry. Only after I
     wrote this, picking Peregrine for a boy's bird name in honor of
     Sansa's "Little Bird" nickname, did I realize that Peregrine would
     probably be better for somebody in the Arryn family. Oh well. I just
     like the name. How many other manly bird names are there anyway?
     3) I see this as a kind of "passing on the torch" type of story. As
     always, hope you enjoy.
PEREGRINE FALCON
Little Pip, as his father liked to call Peregrine, had just celebrated his
seventh name day (full of lemon cakes and toy weapons and a new pet falcon that
his father would train him with), when there was a major shift in his life. As
an adult, he barely remembers life before living at Castle Black, but when he
recalls the Hearth of his childhood, he recalls how beautiful his mother
looked, how brave his father was.
Pip, as a child, remembers stories about how the Hound couldn't leave the Wall,
or he'd become rabid and restless. How he tried once to be domesticated, once
his pup arrived, but couldn't handle it, so returned to the Wall. Pip remembers
hearing how his mother, bruised and bleeding, had returned to her cage to sing
and exchange wit with men, but not kisses. Pip remembers whispers about how a
hound and a bird should never live together, that it was "the Hound's" entire
fault.
His mother always told him what a brave man his father was: defending the
realm, defending her honor. Pip wonders if it was his father who brought his
mother away from the hound, and asks his father this very question. His father
just shook his head, and told Pip not to worry about it, that no harm would
ever befall him or his mother. It was not a very gratifying answer, but Pip
left it alone.
He saw his father at least once a senight, if not more. His mother was always
there for him though: telling him stories, teaching him his letters, sneaking
him lemon cakes, tugging at his unkempt clothes, hugging him, kissing him,
keeping the monsters away; all the things a mother should do, he thought.
She would do all that for his father, too. And he would giggle at the thought
that his father, a seasoned warrior of the Wall, needed protection from the
monsters too. His father would rumple his hair, and tell him he had had no
mother half as wonderful as Pip's own, and he should cherish his mother for it.
At the time, it was an intimate, father and son, smile. Later, Pip would
understand.
Sometimes, when he could not sleep for fear of dark nights full of terrors, he
would tip toe to his mother's room at the Hearth. If he was lucky, he could
climb into her bed, snuggle with her, and dream of happy things. If he was
unlucky, his father would be there, and his mother would be chasing away his
dreams, and not Pip's.
Pip would hear his father's grunts and moans, but his mother would never make a
sound. Pip imagined that his father was fighting monsters, defending his
mother; or that she was holding him as he shook in fear, never knowing their
lovemaking for what it was till he was older. In any event, Pip would then go
to the kitchens to eat away his fears.
Pip once heard his father's wrenching sobs across the door. He stayed at the
door that time, listening as his mother cooed at his father. Pip heard her
whispering, but not what was said, and he could imagine her stroking his
father's hair, as she was wont to do when he himself was crying. Near the end
of that night, Pip heard his father saying, "I'm sorry" over and over again,
while his mother soothed him with "It is OK, love, it's OK." And, "You are not
your brother, you are not my late husband."
As a man grown, Peregrine learned hatred directed at his father. Though he
would remember how his father would caress his mother, and look at her as if
she were the finest woman in all of Westeros, he would shake in anger over the
news that his father hadn't protected his mother from the Hound because he WAS
the Hound.
Peregrine's fury would cloud his senses upon learning how the Hound had once
laid a vengeful hand upon his mother, choking her, smacking her, and dragging a
knife along her throat and stomach. Rabid, resentful of domesticated life, the
Hound had snapped one day, unable to keep his fury in check until it was almost
too late. Peregrine promised himself he would never loose his anger in such a
fashion.
He spent a fortnight telling anyone who would listen, that if the Hound (not
his father, nor Sandor, but the Hound) were still alive, he'd kill him. His
mentor, Arya, said that the Hound did indeed deserve no favors, but she said it
so sympathetically, Pip wondered if she was just indulging him.
The Old Wolf, Commander Snow, told the Young Falcon (as they had started to
call him, after his falconry skills) that the Hound had already paid for his
sins, so Pip should shut up. Peregrine spent two days in the ice cells after
punching the Commander in the face for that.
He had seen the Commander, Aunt Arya, and his father friendly towards each
other. He has memories of good times, and he wonders at how such anger could
overshadow all that was good. No relationship was perfect, and there had only
been the one time. Most would say once was enough and would be correct, but,
nearly seven years of Pip's childhood was good and loving, though he could only
grasp a handful of memories. And even before he was conceived, carried, and
born; his parents had that which bards sing of.
As an adult, Peregrine knows now of his father's issues and temperament; most
would say it was a miracle he hadn't struck Sansa sooner, or more often, such
as he was. As a man, Peregrine knows it isn't a miracle; it is a testament to
the strength of love both his parents had for the other.
Peregrine recalls, soon after his seventh name day, his father on a cot in the
Hearth, red all over his body, bloody and smelly with festering wounds. His
mother, ever like her nickname of "Little Bird", had fluttered around his
father, keeping him alive for longer then anyone had a right to live. She
sobbed, and hugged him, not caring in the least for sickness or blood.
On his lucid days, his father would spend his dying time stroking his mother's
cheek, fingering her hair, whispering oaths of love. His mother returned the
sentiments. As if they had never done so before, nor would ever have the chance
again; the boy had been confused, but the man was saddened anew.
On one of his father's better days, he called for his Little Pip. Pip cried, in
shame at the time, in fondness later. When told he would not be able to see his
father anymore, Pip cried "Why!?", sobbing and pounding at his father's chest
and mother's skirts, demanding that his father promised to teach him all kinds
of things; and Pip learned about what it was really like to defend the Wall.
Others, White Walkers, bears, wild wolves, all that and more would tear a man
to shreds. His father was lucky, they said, to make it back to say "goodbye"
one more time, before the many stings of an Evil Uncle's blade finished him
(said uncle who lost his head during that battle).
Little Pip's father's last words were "Be good to your mother". The Hound's
last had been, "I'm so sorry, Little Bird."
Pip's mother, despite the efforts of the Maesters, fell sick and died soon
after; illness contracted from the very festering wounds the Hound had
suffered. Maester Samwell tells an adult Peregrine that his mother should have
lived, but her soul just did not want it. Not even Pip, her son, could shake
her out of her fog of depression. He never got a chance to honor his father's
dying wish.
The Hound and his Little Bird were buried, side-by-side, under a wild Weirwood
tree near the outskirts of Mole Town. There was a Child of the Forest there, to
say some words, but all Pip can remember is tears falling down his face,
blurring the images of the red leaves, and faces of those who tried to comfort
him.
Peregrine spent the rest of his life living up to his mother's goodness, and
redeeming his father's nature; groomed by the Old Wolf to be the Young Falcon,
the next Commander of the Night's Watch.
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