THE GIANT SLAYER
"It has been quite some time since one so young has made such an impression." The man said, a smile stretching across his face, nearly detracting Jon's gaze from the crimson and emerald feathers adorning his neck and torso. "Barristan the Bold reborn, the people are saying."
For a moment, he sat stunned, the feathers still capturing his attention, until he realized he was in a conversation. "Thank you my Prince, but I am no knight." He recovered, remembering to use the honorific the banished Prince of the Red Flower Vale preferred, according to the king.
Tilting his head slightly at his misstep, Xho's smile falters momentarily. "Just so, Master Snow, you are the champion all the same." He says, leaning in a bit closer, waving his hand through the air between them in a grandiose manner. "As a man of-" He says, creasing his brow as he studies Jon's face. "Six and ten."
"Five and ten." He responds, attempting to mask his annoyance at the Prince. "I turned five and ten before reaching the city." He further explained, only realizing his mistake after he made it.
The prince's demeanor brightens heavily as he latches onto a possible common ground. "You've just had a nameday?" He nearly shouted, drawing the eyes of several passersby. "How did you celebrate your step into manhood?"
"I stopped my sister and our wolves from being executed." He returns flatly, causing the smile adorning his dark skinned companions' face to drop. "As a bastard, I rarely have a grand spectacle such as this in my honor." Jon said, waving his hand around in the air, gesturing to the festivities around them.
For several moments, the pair sat in silence, Jalabhar Xho clearly attempting to find a way to restart their conversation as Jon silently dared him to try.
Just as Xho seems ready to move along, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair which once hosted Ser Thoros of Myr, he shifts his weight heavily in the chair, securing himself on his chosen perch. "Even so, your bastard status aside, you have distinguished yourself from others," He says, waving his hand about the crowd. "defeating several men well above your station, including the Knight of Roses." Xho continues, grating against his patience even further. "I could use a man like you, for when I retake my kingdom, Jon the Giant Slayer." Xho persists, finally finding the proper thread, unraveling the practiced calm Jon had spent his lifetime of bastardry cultivating.
In the time that had elapsed since his triumph over Ser Gregor Clegane, the entirety of the Red Keep, highborn and low, had taken to addressing Jon by one of the several epithets that has been created since, denoting his crude victory. He's heard every name from Jon Giant's Bane, to The Red Wolf, which a washer woman mistakenly addressed him as earlier this very evening. Of the names he has heard thus far, the most insulting was The Snow that Crumbled the Mountain; a clear play on his status as a bastard. It's as if the populace is judging him for slaying the monstrous man, who was more monster than man, and dispensing Justice that was long overdue. And there is more Justice to be had.
Attempting to contain his ire, Jon begins to flee into his other self, seeking out the calm sanctuary of Ghost's mind as the image of the crowd is soon overtaken by that of his brother and sisters, huddle together in their den surrounded by the small cousins. He is drawn back to the conversation, his attempt interrupted by Jalabhar Xho's persistent chattering.
Just as he is contemplating dismissing himself from the feast, a small cough draws his attention to the opposite side of the table, where a small person waits patiently. "Jon?" She intrudes on the building tension, her voice soft and sweet. She rocks nervously on her feet, her golden hair swaying from side to side as a small strand of hair falls over her emerald eyes. Extending a had to him, Princess Myrcella Baratheon gestures for him to take hold of her arm. "Would you care to dance with me, Jon?" She questions, skipping the unnecessary honorific of Ser, unlike the other higher born attendees.
Rising from his seat with all haste, nearly toppling the table and its contents onto the floor, Jon pounces on the chance to rid himself of the Prince of The Red Flower Vale as he comes upon Myrcella on the other side. Taking hold of the offered arm, Jon escorts the young princess into the fray, slipping by several couples already in the process of performing to the cadence, ignoring the uncouth shouts that masquerade as whispers.
Taking Myrcella's hand in his own, aligning their bodies properly as the rhythm slows to a crawl, Jon cannot help but thank the gods for the years that Sansa and Jeyne Poole once used Robb and himself to practice their steps.
The pair fall into step with the rest of floor, moving and swaying with the assembled guests. As a child of less than ten namedays, Princess Myrcella moved with a practiced grace that reminded him of Sansa, though Jon still has to compensate for the difference in height. Fortunately for them, none would notice, as the eyes that once followed them seem to have found other things to occupy their attention.
"You are a very good dancer, Jon." Myrcella utters softly, drawing his attention downward towards his partner, pulling him in with her innocent emeralds. "I apologize if my height is a problem." She elaborates, looking into his eyes as her own glitter with an emotion that he find troubling. "It is very gracious of you, taking account of my shorter legs." She declares, tapping his shoulder twice as the cadence shifts. "Twirl me." She commands.
He does, spinning her softly as she becomes lost in the crowd, leaving Jon to take hold of a new partner and fall back into step with the rest of the floor.
The woman in his arms could not have differed more from princess Myrcella, despite the golden hair upon her head. Unlike the princess, the woman is tall as well as being well proportioned, her vast bosom against his chest, and wide hips swaying with his indicating her jaunt into womanhood.
Following the sudden change in tempo, Jon lifts his hand above the unnamed woman's head, twirling her about. As she turns, her backside lingers just a bit longer than necessary, allowing his hips to explore more of her body. Facing Jon once more as she leans heavily into his embrace, she thrusts her breasts tighter against his chest as she smiles seductively. "You move with your feet as well as you do with a lance." She teases, leaning in as their breathing hastens, from the dancing or the tension, he cannot tell.
"Many thanks, my lady." He returns, gripping her hips tightly as they hasten their steps, darting through the cluttered floor, her hair tumbling loosely over her shoulder. "I've been told." He smiles, releasing her to her next partner as he takes hold of Princess Myrcella once more.
In his embrace once more, Myrcella begins to speak, taking up the same topic as before as though they had never parted. "I thought you were wonderful in the tourney, Jon." She says, nearly tripping over his boot, clutching his hand tightly to steady herself. She blushes prettily. "Thank you, Ser."
"I am no Ser, Princess." He corrects, causing her blush to deepen.
"It was very exciting to see you joust, Jon." She blurted, forcefully abandoning the ensuing conversation of his bastardry. "You seemed to be almost half horse at times. It was quite entertaining." She continues, slowing her pace as the music ebbs to a halt.
Taking her by the arm, he escorts her from the floor while searching the hall for another Baratheon woman entirely. In the seat of the highest honor, where Robert Baratheon should sit with his queen, a massive drunken lout sits upon a King's chair, pawing at a serving girl nearby. Upon his chin, his beard glistens with wine and food as he slams his massive paw on the table, screaming for more wine. Though Robert Baratheon is the only king he has ever seen, he refuses to believe that this is how the Lord Protector of the Realms should behave himself.
What he does not see is Queen Cersei Baratheon.
A sudden break in Myrcella's stride forces his eyes back to the floor, where he takes stock of the pair before him. Standing before them with Sansa at his back, urging him forward, Bran stood terrified on unsteady legs as he shakily held is hand out to the princess. Bumping him harder, nearly toppling the lordling of seven, Sansa becomes more insistent.
"Would you do me the honor, Princess Myrcella?" Bran requests, bowing clumsily despite his reputation as a skilled climber throughout Winterfell.
Beside him, all of the tension that once invaded Myrcella Baratheon instantly fades as she loosens her grip on his forearm, stepping forward as her fingers linger on his sleeve a bit longer and then on his hand, caressing his forefinger softly.
Taking Bran's offered hand and squeezing it within her own small palm, the princess tugs him to the floor as the current song reaches it's peak.
Watching them from the outskirts of the floor, Jon cannot help the chuckle that rises from his throat, especially when looking upon his brother's terrified face.
"The Princess is very bold." Sansa breathes from his side, nearly scaring him from his skin. Turning his head, he takes in the sight of his little sister. "I think she fancies him." She continues, oblivious to the fright she has just given him.
He follows her gaze to the floor, noticing that Bran's fear has all but vacated his face. "Aye." He replies, drinking in the sight of the two children stumbling about the floor, tripping several of the other couples. "They aren't very good, are they?" He continues, causing Sansa to release a light chuckle.
She glares pointedly at him, attempting to stop the fit of giggles bursting from her. "As I recall, you were worse at his age." She admonishes, though it lost most of its bite through her giggling. Holding out her arm, she allows Jon to escort her back to the high table. Though it was a short walk, he was grateful for the small gesture, having not seen much of Sansa since their stay in King's Landing began. While Sansa had been distant, he had seen Bran and Arya frequently, especially at the beginning of their stay, before Arya started her dancing lessons and Bran discovered his fondness for Tommen. At a certain point, the pair had reached an inconvenient level of interest in his activities, especially when his desire was to sneak out to see Cersei.
His eyes flicker to the side as he pulls out Sansa's chair, expecting to land upon the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, instead finding her chair empty. Attempting to cover his concern for his lover, Jon shifts to a broader question. "The tables seem to be emptying, somewhat." He began, looking over and noting the absence of Tommen and Arya as well. "The Queen and Prince Tommen seem to have gone already. As has Arya." True to his expectation, Sansa does not seem to suspect anything.
"I'll try to find her." He lied, squeezing her shoulder once more, before making his way towards the large oaken doors leading out of the feasting hall.
Though he hadn't seen the direction in which Arya had made her escape, he knew she was likely abed or prowling the Red Keep, causing trouble for some washer woman or scullery worker. Either way, his little sister was not at the forefront of his mind as he crosses the threshold leading from the Great Hall.
"You weren't thinking of leaving." A feminine voice call from behind him. Before he can turn to answer, a soft hand takes hold of his wrist, lifting his arm as a mane of golden tussles against his side. Beneath his arm is the woman from the feast, smiling brightly up at him, steering him down a corridor leading away from Maegor's Holdfast. "It's poor manners to leave a feast in your own honor." She continues, falling in step with Jon as her breast deeper into his side, stirring his more carnal nature.
Jon scrambles to think of an excuse, other than bedding the Queen or any other treasonous acts he could think of. "I have never been one for feasts." He responds, deciding that the truth is easier to stick to than a lie. "I was never aloud to attend feasts when lords and ladies were hosted." He explains, hoping that the more dour fragments of his life will sober her, as they ought to.
Defying his expectations, his companion bumps his hip with her own, shrugging his arm from her shoulder to her waist, his hand landing on her backside. "And now you are a squire in King's Landing, and the guest of honor to His Grace himself." She rebuts, placing both hands on his side. "You must behave accordingly." She admonishes, shoving him into a darkened alcove. "I found this place before the tourney." She explains, struggling to untie his breeches in the encroaching darkness. Kissing his neck viciously, she begins to tear at the bindings of his doublet, leaving the ties of his breeches undone. "No one will bother us." She surmises, ripping open his doublet and tunic simultaneously.
On some level, Jon grudgingly commends the level of thought that has been put into her plan. The alcove is situated conveniently for secret rendezvous, tucked into a darkened section of a forgotten corridor. In all of his exploration of the Red Keep, he has likely passed it by no more than once, which is strange seeing as he has been learning all he can about the place.
His admiration of the mysterious woman is cut short, as the golden haired maiden drops to her knees before him, dragging his small clothes and breeches down with her.
"M-my lady." He stammers as her lips tickle the head of his cock. "This is hardly appropriate." He flounders, looking for reasons why he cannot with her what he has done with another. What his body is desperate to do. "You have yet to even give me your name." He gambles weakly, hoping she will take this as a rebuke, for he is unsure of his will to stop.
In the darkness, his vision is somewhat impaired, though he is certain that she is smiling. "All who know me call me Ami." She says, engulfing his manhood into her jaws before he can offer further protest.
Her mouth is warm and wet, and not-at-all displeasing, as she set upon him with ferocity. As she begins to jerk her head along the shaft of his manhood, Jon finds it difficult to form any thought whatsoever, especially in regards to protesting her attentions.
Having never been with a woman other than Cersei, he finds the comparison to be quite unbalanced. While his interactions with the Queen have always been pleasurable, the sensation that Ami elicits is beyond anything that he might have imagined. He becomes lost in her motions, running his hand through her hair, like spun gold.
She tosses her head back and forth along his cock, taking him all the way to his hips, before coming back, licking the slit at his head savagely. After what feels like a lifetime, Ami removes her lips from his cock with an audible smack, before nibbling softly down the underside, creating a strange sensation. Moments later, after nearly bringing him to the edge, she takes him back inside of her jaws, sucking the life from his flesh as she attacks his manhood viciously.
It only takes him a moment to reach his peak. "Ami." He says weakly. "Ami, I've reached my-" he announces as he grips her head, attempting to remove her from his cock before he erupts within her mouth. Oddly enough, his warning only seems to spur her on, causing her to move her head faster as he reaches his peak, spilling within her.
He slumps against the wall, regaining his strength after such a trying ordeal, as Ami rises to her feet, kissing his abdomen and chest softly on her way up. "Did I please you, Jon." She whispers, biting his ear as she strokes his hardened cock. With her other hand, she guides him to her sex, brushing her small clothes aside so that he may feel her heat. She is wet to the touch, almost overflowing as she guides his fingers inside. "I want you to take me." She whispers, switching positions with Jon, so that he is now pinning her to the wall.
He moves forward, placing his head at her entrance. "Please." She whimpers, rubbing her mound against his head, wetting his manhood with her desire. "I want you inside of me." She whimpers, nibbling at his neck.
Jon's breath catches in his throat as he slides within her, fully enjoying the feeling of a woman for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. For a long moment, he merely rests with Ami against the wall, enjoying the tightness of her around him. Hoisting her against the wall sharply, gaining leverage beneath her, Jon can feel her tighten around him as her breasts falling loose of her bodice and falling onto his chest.
As he makes to move once more, continuing their coupling, Ami begins to push at his chest, producing a low muffled sound of displeasure. He instantly pulls out of her, wondering if he might have frightened the poor girl, until a voice from the darkness answers his question.
"Lady Amerei Frey." Lord Varys whispers, announcing his presence to the pair of fornicators. "Several of your brothers have been searching for you." He continues, either unable or unwilling to read the situation, as Amerei stands posted against the wall, scandalized. "As is your dear husband, Ser Pate." He reveals, causing Amerei to squeak, ruffling her clothing in the dim light of Lord Varys' torch, gathering up her dress as she scurries away.
For a long moment, the two men stand in silence as Jon repositions his clothing, lacing his clothing after putting his manhood away. "I tried to stop her." He speaks into the silence, hoping his explanation was not as weak as it sounds.
"Ah yes." Varys replies, with no small measure of sarcasm. "I could see you were putting up quite the valiant fight." He continues, tittering lightly at his own jape, attempting to provoke him. "How were you to overcome such a vicious assault?" He derides further, refusing to relent.
Jon snorts harshly, refusing to rise to the bait, choosing instead to see the humor in it. "You've made your point." He returns.
"Clearly she is quite the formidable opponent." Varys says, continuing his assault, clearly believing he can amuse himself further. "You even had to use the wall to gain leverage." He concludes, bursting into a true fit of laughter, or as true as Jon has seen from him thus far.
"Why have you sought me out tonight." He inquires, ignoring the eunuch's taunts as best he can.
Composing himself, Varys pulls a sheet of parchment from his dagged sleeve. "Despite your protests, I have sent word to your great-uncle on The Wall." He says, raising a hand to stifle the ensuing storm of outrage. "I was discreet. I used no names and made sure to leave out any obvious identifiers." He explains, calming the panic within Jon's chest. "He sent word that I thought you might find interesting." He says, extending the parchment to Jon before slipping into the night once more.
Jon begins his trek to The Tower of the Hand, his quest to see his love all but forgotten.
As he bolts the door behind him, Jon cannot remember how he got to his chambers, or even who he saw on his way there, though he surely encountered someone judging by the large wine skin in his hand that was not there previously.
Pulling up a chair, he begins to read the words of his grandfather's uncle, or great uncle depending on which Aemon he is.
Young Nephew,
I truly hope you are all that you claim, as it would bring nothing but joy to my heart; though if what you speak is false, it would be kinder to continue this charade, than to tear away what joy I have left to me.
From my perch upon the edge of the Seven Kingdoms, I was forced to watch as mine own kin tore the realms apart, only for his flame and that of his line to be snuffed out, giving rise to another.
More than a decade has passed since that day, yet I still wait for the King's Justice to darken my doorstep, uniting me with my long departed kinsman. Fortunately, the long arm of the Iron Throne seems to have overlooked this poor old man; for that reason, I pray that your look favors that of your mother, lending its grace to shelter you from harm.
And though I am forbidden from aiding in the wars and politics of the realms, it is certainly not a crime to bestow a gift upon one of the few kinsmen I have left. To right a wrong done to our family, I shall return to you what was foolishly gifted away nearly a century ago.
While it is much too heavy to send by raven, I will see that it is put in the proper hands once more. With this, I am entrusting you with our legacy, as I can no longer bear the torch alone.
With regards and gratitude,
Maester Aemon of the Nights Watch
Consumed by the contents of the correspondence from the last of his father's kin residing in Westeros, he fails to notice the trails of tears stumbling down his cheeks until they begin to fall, swelling the ink on the parchment like raindrops, threatening to ruin his only tangible link to his father.
He sets the parchment on the chestnut drawing table, forcing the chair away from the desk as he swipes at his eyes with the sleeves of his tunic, lamenting his weakness.
I never knew these people, he chastises. They are only words on paper and names in stories.
Rising from his seat, Jon steels himself as he shuffles to he corner of the room on unsure feet, taking up a flint and striker, along with a candle.
He returns to his seat and immediately begins to strike the minerals together, bringing to life a small flame, intent on concealing all evidence of his treasonous introduction.
Retrieving the parchment from the surface of the desk, he holds a corner of the letter above the open flame, slowly lowering it onto the crest of the fire. As the edge of the parchment swiftly shifts, turning from tan to black, he finds his resolve waning.
Yanking the parchment from the flame, Jon begins to pace the room, debating his next course of action.
Before his mind has the opportunity to catch up with his movements, he is crouched before the hearth, removing the grate from the blackened alcove. He tugs at the wall deep within the hearth, pulling the hidden door to, revealing a sizable chest which rest comfortably upon a narrow ledge.
Reaching through the small portal, he opens the lid of the chest, revealing the bulk his winnings from the tourney.
He places the letter within the container, sealing the lid on the chest and closing the passageway behind it.