The Wall Between Our Worlds
"A King is first a man.-" Cameron Dokey
"In freedom, most people find sin."-John Green
In this modern version of Westeros, Ygritte, a rising reporter for the Free People News gets an assignment write an in-depth profile of the new King in The North, Jon Stark. Of course, Ygritte knows Jon, all too well. And as their old flame burns to a fever pitch, honor, duty and the Crown threaten everything.
This is porn with plot, but there's almost no plot for about three chapters, though there is a bit of a setup in the first chapter.
Prologue:
She drove away, furious and fuming and heartbroken. She tried to fight back the tears so that she could navigate safely, but it was no use. Eventually, she had to pull over. Behind her, looming in her rearview mirror was the shadow of Winterfell. Gods, she wanted to curse the sodding place.
Once, it had been a place full of happy memories and laughter and love. The summer snows, the Godswood, the baths with the great hot springs, the broken tower. So many wonderful memories, forever soured.
Ygritte Wilde was not a weakling, she was strong, descended from the Free, from those who had never knelt—until the only other option was death. But there she was in her vintage Mustang, crying her eyes out over Jon bloody Stark.
Her mother had told her it wouldn't end well. And she was right. They were from different worlds and if given a choice, he would always choose the world of kings and vassals. His father had given him a choice and he hadn't chosen her. His birthright was worth more than that.
"The one thing that's mine," she sobbed aloud. "You said you were mine and I was yours. Why?"
She knew why. She did. But that didn't make her heart hurt any less.
Meanwhile, from his tower room at Winterfell, Jon Stark had watched her go. Watched her as she drove off; he doubted she'd even said goodbye to Arya. She'd probably never talk to him again. It was for the best, he knew it was. She deserved better than a bastard than a baseborn son wrought out of lust and treachery and who could give her nothing. She was a Wilde, not noble or high, but true.
The ring in his pocket seemed to burn. It was silly of him to even believe that for once, he could have something that was truly his. Winterfell was not his, the wolf sigil he'd tattooed on his wrist on his eighteenth birthday was not his, not by right. A Stark he was in his heart, but that didn't matter. Nothing his heart said mattered, apparently.
It was for the best, he fought to convince himself. She'd go off and live her dreams and be happy and be normal and find a guy who she would love and he'd love her. And it wouldn't matter anymore, not the six years they'd been together, not the fact that he was sure he'd never get over her. None of it would matter because he didn't matter.
The fact that her last kiss still clung to his lips like a vise, forever burned in his memory like her touch, like her smell, like the sound of the noise she'd made whenever he pushed inside her, that breathy little moan would haunt him for the rest of his life.
But it was for the best. He was certain of that.
He vowed he would learn to be a better liar—at least to himself.
And yet he watched her go, he watched her baby blue car fly out of the gates of Winterfell and out his life. He sighed, he knew it was going to be a vodka kind of night.
Her headlights sped out of his view and he turned away, aiming straight for the kitchen.
Little did either of them know that someone else was watching Ygritte flee. She smiled darkly, happily surprised at how well her plan worked. She didn't think they would fall into her trap so easily. But they were children, children who fancied themselves in love. And their love was a threat. The bastard prince was wolf-blooded through and through. And his father, damn him, doted on him. If he were to marry and start breeding before the heir, well, she could not have that. She straightened the diamond trout pendant around her neck and smiled. "Family, duty honor," she whispered to herself before turning away from the laptop screen in her office.
Three Years Later
Ygritte
Her red hair splayed across his expensive pillow, the fire roaring in the nearby fireplace only equal to the fire burning in his eyes and in her loins. Love for them was a whirlwind; it had picked them up an dropped them down—in his bedroom apparently. They'd been dating almost a year, and they'd been fighting desire for much, much longer.
It wasn't her first time in his immaculate home. The place that put her dreams to shame and where he never felt he truly belonged. And if he didn't, surely, she didn't either. But none of that mattered now, not when the hot velvet of his tongue brushed up against the roof of his mouth, as if he wanted to drink her from the inside out. Not when his strong, well-muscled arms cradled her closely. Not when her breath was shallow and her belly was tight and she could feel wetness pooling between her legs and she ached for his touch everywhere at once. No, nothing mattered now except the fact that they were wearing too many clothes. Everything she was wearing felt constricting, practically a prison. Her hands roamed through his luscious curls and over his shoulders and back. She bucked up against him when his hand reached to gently squeeze a breast through her blouse and bra. It was far from their first trip to first base, but this was different.
They were alone in his room, they could go as far as they wanted to and she never wanted to stop. Suddenly her hand was reaching under his shirt, greedily feeling his taut abs and back. Before she knew it, she had ripped apart his t-shirt, simply because she wanted to feel more of his skin. Her aggression surprised her, but he brought it out in her, the wildness, the freedom, the feral.
He started kissing down her neck and over her shoulders, nipping and nibbling at whatever bare skin he could find. She could feel his hardness brushing against her thigh and suddenly wondered what it would be like to have him push into her…..
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPP!
She always tried, with varying degrees of success, to never think about him. Her current longest record was 98 eight days. But this time, this time she hadn't even broken the one week mark. Every night for the past six days, there had been the dreams. Dreams of him, of them, of their ill-fated love and her completely predictable, yet still devastating heartbreak. She should've known better. Princes, bastard or not, had obligations. But she couldn't think about it right now. It was Monday morning.
Ygritte fucking hated Monday mornings. She was perfectly convinced that Mondays were a curse from the Gods to keep them humble. And nowhere were the mornings worse than in King's Landing. Somehow her Northern temperament had never fully adjusted to the Southern weather, and the horn honking and the people yelling and the constant noise didn't help matters at all.
She missed the North, she missed her home. She was due for a visit, she knew. And her mother was constantly pestering her. Karsi was only slightly more tolerable. Her father, the only one she could call without being hounded, knew better than to push the issue, but he couldn't help but drop a few hints about how much he wanted her home.
She missed the North, the openness, the cool crisp air, the grassy fields that seemed to go on and on for miles and miles. But she didn't want to go there, not now, especially not now.
She dragged herself from the bed reluctantly and got ready for work. She took a look in the mirror and ran a hand through her dark red hair. Suddenly she remembered the way it felt when he would run his fingers through it. If she stood still long enough she could almost smell his cologne.
She shook her head. "I've got to get to work, get my mind off of this." She knew (or at least she thought she did) why he was so present in his mind. Jon Eddard Rickard Stark, the Fourth of his Name, the Heir of the First Men, King of the Free, the King of Winter, King in the North was on everyone's mind.
Already, he was known as the White Wolf. She sighed. She was sure that being King was as much as a surprise to him as it was to the rest of the world.
It had been a little less than three months when King Eddard Stark, Crown Prince Robb and young Prince Rickon had been taking a car to visit Benjen Stark who lived in the New Gift, not far from her own parents when the driver had swerved to avoid hitting a stag lying in the middle of the road, losing control of the car and killing Robb and Rickon instantly. The Quiet Wolf, as the King was known, clung to life for five weeks.
If the reports she'd heard were true, Jon had never once left his side despite protests of his stepmother. With his last breath, King Eddard declared Jon his heir, giving him the North instead of his two trueborn daughters, Arya and Sansa. His third son, Bran, had forfeited all rights and claim to the Northern Throne when he was eighteen. He still lived at Winterfell, but he could never rule it. So Jon had ascended to the throne. Apparently, Dowager Queen Catelyn had returned to the Riverlands with her elder daughter, Sansa, while Arya stayed at Winterfell. Loathing had always been mutual between Catelyn and Ygritte as she loathed Jon. Sansa was beautiful and accomplished but she took her mother's side in everything. Ygritte and Arya had always been close, she'd been the one Stark Ygritte had called when she'd heard about the family tragedy. She'd wanted to speak to Jon, but they hadn't spoken in three years and there was too much damage and hurt between them.
And she didn't really have time to think about it. She had to get ready for work.
Work was Free People Daily, out of the fourteen major Westerosi newspapers, FPD was the eighth-largest. However, it was the only newspaper in the South founded by descendants of the Free Folk. It hadn't been Ygritte's dream career. No, she wanted to work for Winter Town Press, North Westeros's premier newspaper. But she couldn't stay in the North. There were too many memories.
Ygritte had been there for less than a year. She'd transferred to Rosecrown University in the Reach after spending two years at First Men University, the most prestigious college in the North. It was where the Starks had been educated for generation after generation. So there were obvious reasons why she felt she had to get the hell out. She'd headed South and hadn't looked back yet.
She'd written for the college newspaper and it was one of her articles that had gotten the attention of Tormund Giantsbane, also a northern transplant, and the editor of Free People Daily. Over the past months, the two had grown more and more like family. Ygritte loved Tormund and he made her feel like she wasn't so far from home after all.
As she moved through her flat, showering, downing a quail egg omelet, ironing her black skirt and white blouse, reveling in the heat of late summer. Summer was summer in the south. It rarely got this warm up in the North. She could remember only being able to wear short sleeves one summer.
It was the summer of her first year at the Torrhen Stark Academy for Exceptional Youths, King Tor's as it was commonly known, she'd been accepted on an archery scholarship. Gods, what a summer that had been. She could almost see him, standing in the quad, with his wealthy, privileged friends, sneaking a fag out by the grand fountain, black curly hair blowing in the wind, laughing wildly at something his brother said. He hardly ever laughed, but when he did, his smile was enough to make all the now in the North melt.
She shook herself out of her reverie. What was wrong with her? why could she not get the fuck off of Memory Lane? She got dressed and blasted loud music in her ears as she took the train to her office. She lived on Shadowblack Lane within sightline of the Red Keep. Her neighborhood was an enclave for twentysomethings starting out. She worked in the Street of Steel, once a home to armorers and forgers was now the corporate hub of King's Landing.
Ygritte had just settled into her desk with a large cup of coffee and burnt black bacon when Tormund called her into his office.
"Ygritte, you're moving up in the world," he said with a smile as he stroked his well-groomed red beard. The two gingers smiled at each other as Ygritte inquired what he meant.
"You've been requested. You went to school with the Stark kids, right?"
Ygritte's face fell. Where was this going? She dreaded knowing the answer. "Aye," was all she could manage to say.
"Well," Tormund said with a jovial smile, not picking up at all that his reporter was going through a silent hell. "The King in the North wants to grant us an interview. He asked for you."
"Seven hells," was the only thing she could say.
Tormund seemed surprised. "We keep the Old Gods here," he said. "What, did you not get on back in school?"
Ygritte, for a moment, thought about telling Tormund the whole ordeal. Though the Stark children were subject to a serious amount of press while they were growing up, she and Jon had been pretty good about keeping their relationship under-wraps. Jon was never the focal point of the press anyway.
The press had always been more interested in Robb and his girlfriends.
"I know 'em," Ygritte said, her thick Northern accent sounding stronger, the way it always did when she was upset. "I don't want it, Tor."
"What do you mean, you don't want it? The King in the North wants to give us an exclusive interview. Do you know what this means for us?"
"Tormund, I don't give a—," she started, but Tormund was having none of it.
"Forget it, Eeeg. This interview is yours. He says he won't give it to anyone but you. He sent a helicopter."
"What?" Ygritte sounded taken aback. Jon was not the type to flash his family's wealth around.
"You're going," Tormund said finally.
"Seven fucking hells."
Jon
He honestly couldn't decide if he was mad or a simpleton. If Robb was there, he would've told him he was "batshit nuts." Jon would've been inclined to agree.
But Robb wasn't there.
His possibly compromised mental state notwithstanding, he was going forward with this course of action, and consequences be damned, he would see it through.
He sat in his office, his father's office, the office that was supposed to go to any off his brothers, but never to him.
It was the office that belonged to the Kings in the North and it had been their seat since they were known as the Kings of Winter. Winterfell and the North were never supposed to be his, nor the burdensome thorny crown that went along with it. But by some sick, ludicrous twist of fate, he found himself as Jon Stark, the King in the North.
It was something he never expected. If anything he expected to occupy a seat on his brother's Small Council, if the Queen Mother didn't ban him from the castle. He expected a small castle and a life of charity functions and fancy meaningless balls and cocktail parties.
He expected his rather expensive and extensive education would go to waste. Throughout his childhood, he'd often wondered why he had to go through the same tedious lessons about political science, international relations, and diplomacy that his brothers did.
Had his father, King Eddard in all his wisdom, somehow known?
Jon had every reason to believe he did. The last thing his father said to him before he went into a coma he would never wake up from were still ringing in his ears and haunting his dreams. "Ice & Fire must unite North and South, Ice & Fire go to…Rhaegar."
Rhaegar Targaryen, the King on the Iron Throne and the ruler of everything south of the Neck. He'd ruled now for nearly twenty years, the same amount of time as King Eddard's Reign, also known as the Sweet Summer. There had been peace in all of Westeros during that period. Eddard and Rhaegar were not counted as particular friends though both had attended the same university and graduate program in Essos.
They were deeply respectful of each other and were always cordial when they met which was often. They were allies, the other never hesitating to send aid at the behest of the other, but that was it. Ned never allowed his children to go to the Court of King's Landing. Most of the realm thought that the Houses of Stark and Targaryen would unite which was something Ned would not hear of.
"The North stays in the North," Ned always said. "Nothing good comes of running down South."
But now it seemed that his father wanted him to go to Rhaegar. Why he didn't know.
There were some things, now, he would never know. The question of his mother had always been a complicated one. His father was always evasive, his stepmother spiteful and the rest of his friends and family pensive about the whole thing.
But it didn't matter. Winter was coming…and so was she.
Sending a helicopter for Ygritte, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best idea. They hadn't had spoken for three years. She was going to be fucking pissed at him having the audacity to summon her.
But he was King now. He didn't fool himself into thinking that he could simply do as he liked. But there were things he could do and that he was only answerable to the Gods for.
Still, he was sure he'd probably face the wrath of the Old Gods and the New then face Ygritte's.
But he had to see her. And see her, he would. And hopefully, if the Gods saw fit to be kind, she was still his.
Ygritte
The helicopter landed on the roof of Winterfell and Ygritte's blood boiled. The King in the North wanted an interview, did he? All he was going to get was the curse-out of his life and a black eye. Ygritte didn't know what he was thinking. Did he think because he was King, he could go about summoning her whenever he pleased?
They hadn't spoken in three years and now, now he wanted to see her, now he wanted an interview? How did he even know where she lived and worked?
Then she remembered he was a Stark. And they knew everything about you. That was their life work, apparently.
The door of the helicopter opened and a cold wind raced in. She didn't even know why they used the term "summer" in the North. It was almost never warm enough for short sleeves. And it certainly wasn't warm enough for the ensemble she'd chosen. She didn't even have on stockings and her wedge heels weren't practical for the cobblestone and brick of Winterfell.
"Gods, it's colds," she shrieked. But at the same time, she relished it. She hadn't smelled the crisp Northern air in a long time. Though she was cold, she didn't feel out of place. She was of the North. But as the attendants led her wordlessly through the familiar corridors, her confidence shook a little.
There were too many godforsaken memories in this place. She was walking up a staircase that she'd held him on when some particularly nasty words of Catelyn had sent him reeling. She walked through a hallway where she and Sansa and Arya put on a fashion show. She glanced out a window and saw the courtyard where Robb and Jon would park their motorcycles and where they would build the bonfire every year.
Gods, what was she doing there? She was about to demand to be taken back to the helicopter when she realized she was there. In the East Wing, one floor below the sleeping towers: the King's Chamber. It was only then that she realized that Jon wasn't just Jon anymore. He was the King in the North.
She was still going to blacken his eye.
The huge weirwood doors opened slowly, automatically. It seemed Jon was attempting some modern amenities to the six-thousand-year-old castle. Well, Ygritte wished him luck would that, but she would not be staying for tea, thank you very much.
The attendants showed her in. "Your Grace," they said with deep bows.
Jon was seated at his desk, his back away from them, but he turned and Ygritte's breath caught. Gone was the wide-eyed teenager she'd known once and loved. Jon was every bit a king from his tailored suit to his well-groomed hair, not that his hair needed grooming. He made a startling picture. The boy, clearly had been killed, and the man had been images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRTs1JySIe75tpb8A3EURIy78Lglz2oHO_-nln40P57eBQgDo2v
He smiled at her, and did nothing to hide his appraisal of her body, the way his eyes lingered over her form did nothing to ease the tension in the room. He took her in slowly, her round hips and sheer blouse. Her skin was red and flushed from the cold and her hair, red as ever. She looked more of a woman than when he'd seen her images?q=tbn:ANd9GcROjOAvrhzUPi251srhyOYVd9s3kzITc-X1OpRhwYuB1bWNQjWL
She'd cut and straightened her usually untamable hair. Gone were the cargo pants and sweaters and instead she looked polished and professional and sexy. He wanted nothing more than to take her on his desk.
"Will Ms. Wilde be staying for tea?" one of the attendants asked. They'd both forgotten they were there.
"Yes," Jon said matter-of-factly.
"NO," Ygritte said emphatically. Their eyes met, her flashing blue his boring brown and this, they both realized, was an impasse.
"That will be all, Oswyn, Nell." The servants were dismissed and the room, though now only holding two people felt full and heavy.
The doors closed and they faced each other again. "You son of a bitch!" she screeched. He could tell' how angry she was, but all he could do was smile, which made her angrier.
"You think you can just summon me up here because now you're some shit king?!" She tried to attribute the pounding of her heart as nothing but anger and frustration at him ordering her there and not the fact that he had smiled broader.
"Good to see you too, Ygritte," he said as he rose from his chair and started towards her. He should've known that this would happen. The effect she had on him hadn't changed. "You still haven't knelt," he told her as he walked closer, close enough for her to smell his cologne which was still weirwood pine, honeycomb, and mint.
"I haven't what?" she asked fighting the urge to inhale his musky scent.
"Knelt to me. I am King," he smiled again. He knew he was pushing her buttons. He knew it was working. He greedily inhaled her scent which was still smoked winter roses, lavender, and plum. King's Landing hadn't ridden her of her Northern accent and it was music to his ears. "You're supposed to kneel in front of a royal personage," he said seriously but the mirth in his eyes told another story.
She slapped him across the face. "You know, I could have you executed for that."
"I don't live here anymore," she said.
"That's true. But still, I could." She reached to slap him again, but he caught her wrist. It was the first time they'd physically touched in three years. Their eyes locked and for a moment, it was three years before; she was still his and he was still hers and suddenly Ygritte couldn't breathe.
Jon pulled her into his arms and she tried to pull away but before she knew it, he had his hands on her waist. "Take your hands off me, you bastard," she said, but it wasn't strong and they both knew she was wavering. But her resolve hadn't gone completely. "I mean it if you don't—,"
"Ygritte," he interrupted. "Shut up." He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, softly testing the waters. Ygritte didn't mean to kiss him back, or so she told herself as her mouth opened over his and their lips melded into each other.
Jon pushed his tongue into Ygritte's mouth and listened to her moan. His hands roamed over her hips and down to her bottom, pressing her into his already hard cock. The thin fabric of her blouse pressed up against his chest and he could feel her stiff nipples. They didn't break the kiss as Jon picked Ygritte up and hoisted her around his waist, her legs locking into place.
The pent-up desire and frustration that had been plaguing both of them for nearly three years took over. Jon carried her across the huge room and practically threw her on his desk, sending what he was sure were important papers clattering to the floor in the process.
But it didn't matter. All that mattered was his lips on hers, the smell of her hair, her fingers caught in his curls and Gods, he wanted her.
It had always been like this, from the start of their relationship, the irresistible urge and pull between them. Ygritte had never been shy and it was safe to say that she brought out the Wolf in Jon.
She let out breathy moans and gasps as he planted a trail of kisses down her neck, pulling her shirt open in the process and cupping zealously at her bra-clad breasts.
She pulled her legs around him tighter bringing his hardness in closer contact with her now soaked center. "You going to fuck me, Jon?" she asked when she felt him yanking her skirt up. She cooed in his ear and kissed the skin right under his chin, wondering if he still shuddered. "Or should I say, Your Grace?" she teased.
He did. "You want me to fuck you?" he asked as fingertips reached her center, barely brushing away at the dampness of her panties. "It feels like you do. You're sopping for me."
He brushed the tips of his fingers along her inner thighs, lightly, teasingly, enjoying the sound of the frustrated little whimper she let out. His thumb squeezed her clit suddenly and she yelped, nearly jumping off the desk. He held her in place and continued his torturous assault.
"Minge," he said huskily calling by the nickname she hadn't heard in three years. "You know what I want," he said reaching up to grab the waistband of her panties. She arched back into the desk and sighed deeply knowing what was coming. "I know you want it too."
"You know nothing," she breathed as he dragged her drenched panties down her legs. Every nerve of hers was on fire, and damn him, he remembered. He remembered how to play her body until she was ready to beg him. Well, two could play that game. And she would. Later.
"Ginger Minge, my favorite," he said licking his lips. He blew directly on her clit, causing a soft scream to fall from her lips. He vowed to make her scream much harder than that by the time they were done. He could tell she'd recently done some grooming as there were only a few kissed by fire curls covering her glistening opening. Smelling her essence, he felt himself grow even harder.
Finally he planted a soft kiss right on her bare center. Her hand landed in his hair as he began to lick and lap at her folds, biting tenderly, drinking her in, his tongue thrusting into her quickly and then slower, sending wave after wave of pleasure into her and moan after moan keening out of her.
She came quickly, suddenly after he sucked on her clit, drenching his face as he drank her like she was his favorite glass of mead. He pulled back, their eyes meeting his eyes glazed with lust and his lips glazed with her.
She yanked him by his collar and gave him a hard kiss, feeling his hardness pulsing against her knee. "Fuck me now," she demanded, and he had no other plan but to oblige. She made quick work of his belt buckle, shoving his expensive trousers down along with his briefs, freeing his cock which sprang up quickly.
Ygritte didn't have time to ponder anything else as before she knew it, her legs were spreading wider as he entered her slowly, making her feel every inch, her mouth gaping wide as she took him in.
She had really, really missed him.
He could barely contain himself, relishing in the velvet, silky heaven that surrounded his cock. He spent a moment savoring the feel of her, one he'd never forgotten. This was home, he realized.
And that was his last rational thought for a while as she rolled her hips and he started thrusting with a vengeance.
"Harder," she urged as she had always liked pure fucking rough. He buried his face in her bra-covered breasts and sucked at the tops of them, before capturing her lips in a greedy kiss.
He plunged in and out of her, moaning and grunting and on the edge of losing control, he reached down and scraped his fingernails against her clit, sending another, deeper, orgasm through her. She clutched around his cock, hastening his own release, he spilled into her, drowning her with his seed.
He fell against her, both of them sweaty and limp. When their breathing slowed a bit they smiled at each other. Wherever they were at that point relationship-wise, one thing was certain: they were still addicted to each other.
Wordlessly, Jon swept Ygritte off her feet and carried her to his bedroom. There was much work to do.
Worth continuing? And for those that don't know R+L=J but J does not know this and as for the succession in King's Landing, all in good time. Next up it's Ygritte's turn and we catch up with other characters.