Preface
Playing the Game
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/33646243.
Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
F/M
Fandom:
Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Relationship:
Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Missandei, Bellegere Otherys the Courtesan/Jon Snow, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Character:
Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei, Bellegere Otherys the Courtesan, Meraxes (ASoIaF), Dosh Khaleen (ASoIaF), Kinvara (Game of Thrones), Jeyne Poole, Sansa Stark
Additional Tags:
Rough Sex, Dom/sub, Breeding, Character Death, Harems, plot heavy, Action Heavy
Language:
English
Collections:
oddnendz's Favorite Finished Works,
Unlimited Erotic Works
Stats:
Published: 2021-09-02 Completed: 2023-01-16 Words: 162,431 Chapters: 61/61
Playing the Game
by CambrianBeckett
Summary
Summary: Featuring a Jon Snow with more dragon blood in him than canon. Not quite mad, but certainly carrying himself with more confidence and royal composure than one would expect, he can't help but draw the eyes of women, both noble and not, everywhere he goes.
One of my current ongoing stories and caught up to where it's at over on all of my other websites such as QuestionableQuesting, Hentai-Foundry, Fanfiction, and Webnovel. This story will update twice a month, usually.
Links to my profiles on other websites can be found in the Notes at the end of the chapters.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Chapter 1
"So then, there's no hope. It's done. The Doom comes."
A head of silver-gold hair lifts and a pair of piercing violet eyes stare at the speaker. Feminine lips quirk up slightly in a sardonic smile.
"You speak truth brother. It is done. Valyria has brought about its own destruction and we will die along with it."
"Perhaps we will not. Perhaps we will survive, in one form or another."
That draws a very un-ladylike snort from the kneeling woman.
"You speak of the Targaryens."
"Aye, the Targaryens… a minor house to be sure, but dragon riders, nonetheless. They are of Valyria, are they not? Perhaps it will rise anew, through them."
"It will not."
The man, of the same features as the woman he speaks with, his own sister, stiffens and his jaw clenches as she continues on.
"I have seen it. I have seen what will become of the Targaryens. They will abandon our ways. They will abandon us. And for their betrayal, the dragons will die and leave this world, until a Targaryen lives who is not raised to be beholden to false gods. Even still, Valyria will not be reborn through them… not as the future currently is."
Gritting his perfect teeth together, the handsome, gorgeous man slams a fist into the wall beside him, cratering it with his strength… or seeming to, as the damage disappears the moment, he pulls his hand back.
"Then there truly is nothing to be done? Valyria is to be our tomb, as we waste away among the ruins of this civilization?"
"… Perhaps. Or perhaps not."
That catches his attention as he glares at the kneeling woman, violet eyes ablaze.
"Speak plainly sister. Our time is already short."
The sardonic smile grows a fraction of an inch.
"And yet, for beings such as us, we have all the time in the world to change the future."
"… How?"
"It will require a sacrifice from both of us. I would send our essence forward, flinging it through time and space, to one who's veins run thick with Valyrian Blood."
A frown on an otherwise perfect face.
"There is a catch, what is it?"
The kneeling woman bows her head slightly.
"I would send our essence forward… but not our minds. We will still die here slowly, together. We would rot among the ruins of Valyria together until we faded completely."
"Then what is the point of this exercise?! You would have me sacrifice my strength moments before I will need it most?!"
"I would have us sacrifice together, in order to take revenge on those that wronged us!"
And like that, the small chamber falls into silence, the kneeling woman knowing she's said too much and the standing man staring at her agape.
"… You know… you know where the Doom comes from?"
Letting out an explosive breath, the silver-haired beauty hangs her head.
"… I do."
"You have kept this information from me and our siblings. Why Meraxes? Why hide it?"
Having been so named, the being who is not in fact a woman at all abruptly stands, and one might wonder how they ever mistook her for a mortal in the first place.
"Because there is nothing any of us could have done Balerion! They hid themselves well, these gods and goddesses! They moved in the night and the shadow and they poisoned the right minds to bring our Doom about! We sat upon our place of power, secure in our own supremacy for far too long! Now here we stand, and here we die!"
The man is no longer a man, now that he too has been named. Balerion, the High God of the Valyrian Pantheon, stares at his younger sister with hurt in his glowing violet eyes.
"Who Meraxes… at least tell me who, before you tell me any more of your plan for revenge."
Meraxes sucks in a breath and then lets it out again, even though the Goddess does not truly need to breathe.
"… The Seven. It is the Seven who would end our reign."
A low, inhuman growl builds in Balerion's throat.
"The Seven! Those two-bit, nameless, reprobates! Who are they to topple us?! We are the most powerful Pantheon this world has ever seen, and they would engineer our downfall!? FUCK!"
Stepping forward, Meraxes puts a hand on her brother's arm.
"I am of a similar mind Balerion, but as I said, there is nothing we can do directly. You know as well as I that their nameless nature allows them to hide from our gaze. How do we find the Father, when every man is or seeks to become a father? How do we find the Mother when every woman ends up whelping a child? Don't get me started on the Stranger… regardless, they are out of our reach. But revenge is NOT."
Balerion nods slowly, a considering glint entering his eye.
"What can we do? What form will our revenge take dear sister?"
The smile on Meraxes' face is particularly evil, and quite spectacular to behold.
"As I said, I would fling our essences forward, through time and space. I would have us gift our power to one whose veins run thick with Valyrian blood. And with our strength and our power, this one will grow to become the shame of the Seven."
Balerion is intrigued now, enticed even. He leans forward until his lips are but mere inches away from his sister's, and he breathes out a single word in response.
"How?"
Meraxes' smile becomes coy as she in turn leans in as well. Their eyes locked together, their lips very nearly touching, she tells him.
"He will lay with their women. He will command the respect of their men. The Seven themselves will be powerless to stop him as he becomes God-King of the continent where they reign strongest, and in the end, he will defile their priestesses in their places of worship while their priests watch on in envy and arousal. This will be our victory. This will be the Seven's shame."
Balerion's answer does not come in the form of words. One hand curls into Meraxes' silver-gold hair while the other presses against the small of her back and pulls her into him. He smashes his lips against hers as the two of them begin to kiss. God and Goddess begin the dance as their forms shift and twist and change. They started as Valyrian. They swiftly change into the form of dragons, massive, hulking, celestial versions of the living creatures that Valyria tames and rides.
And as Balerion and Meraxes begin the ritual that will send their essence forward in time, the Doom of Valyria begins, an entire peninsula carved up and destroyed in but a day by their own magics, twisted upon themselves by those driven insane by the Seven. The Valyrian Freehold burns and its Gods and Goddesses burn with it as their worship diminishes massively in too short a time frame for them to do anything about it.
By the time Valyria's Pantheon lays rotting in the ruins of their past glory, Meraxes and Balerion have completed their task. While their siblings crawl about, bemoaning their fates and struggling to survive, these two are already too weak to move. They are too weak to do anything but lay side by side, heads turned to face one another as they intertwine their fingers and smile.
It may not be today or tomorrow or the next day… but their revenge will be complete, one way or another. They are sure of it.
-x-X-x-
Just around four hundred years later, in a misnamed tower before the sight of Kingsguard and Midwives, a beautiful baby boy, dark of hair and dark of eye, opens his mouth and hollers, demonstrating just how strong his lungs are. He is swiftly handed over to his exhausted mother, and though Lyanna Stark is in great pain, she looks down at her babe with as best a smile she can muster anyways.
Those in the room were in on one of the greatest secrets the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Many of them would not live to tell it to anyone.
And yet, none of them knew the deeper truth. Not a single person alive could have guessed at the power the baby in Lyanna's arms really held inside of its tiny body.
-x-X-x-
He wakes with a start, coming up out of his bed with a sharp inhalation of breath. Nostrils flaring, Jon Snow stares out at the sparse, confined space that is his bedroom within Winterfell. That dream had been… had been… slowly, his brow furrows, even as his dark brown eyes cloud with confusion. He couldn't remember, anymore. He'd had a dream, and it had been startling, that much was true. But the rest of it? The details, even the vaguest of details… it was lost to him.
Letting out the breath he'd been holding in since he woke up, Jon shakes his head and tosses the furs covering him while he slept aside, getting out of his bed in the buff, not even hissing as his bare feet touch the cold cobblestone floor of his bedroom. The cold… the cold has never bothered him, all that much. He's always been naturally warm, hot-blooded in a way that even others weren't. More than once, he'd acted as a heat source for his friends, for his siblings.
A slight upturn of his mouth appears as Jon shakes his head in amusement, remembering the last time Arya curled into him on a particularly cold winter day for warmth. And then the beginnings of a smile die an equally quick death as he recalls what happened afterwards, when the Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Stark, had stumbled upon them.
Jon Snow was Eddard Stark's son… but he was not born of Catelyn Stark's womb. This made him a bastard, a mark of shame for his otherwise honorable father, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And yet, where some Lords might have sent him away or even snuffed him out in his cradle for daring to be proof of their infidelity, Ned Stark had decided to raise him in Winterfell, along his legitimate sons and daughters.
As much as Catelyn Stark hated it, Jon had grown up by Robb Stark's side, as his brother. He'd doted upon Arya, his sister, and helped Robb and Theon teach Bran and Rickon how to shoot a bow. He didn't have such a good relationship with Sansa, but then, she took after her mother more, a proper Tully Lady. No matter, in the end. It wasn't… it wouldn't matter for much longer anyways.
Jon was leaving. Not today, of course. But today was his Nameday, the day that he'd come into this world. He was effectively a man now, and he could make his own decisions, if he liked. Soon, he would be striking out on his own. He would be walking his own path. Perhaps if Catelyn Stark had been a bit kinder, he could have seen himself spending his life as his brother's loyal servant. He could have fought by Robb Stark's side happily until the day he died, fighting the fights that needed fighting, protecting those that needed protecting.
But the Lady of Winterfell would never allow it. She was already eyeing him up these days, even before his Nameday had come to pass, as if she expected him to leave today. He wouldn't though. His brothers and sisters would be sad if he did that, and Jon wasn't going to allow his father's wife to chase him out of the only home he'd ever known THAT quickly.
Still, he had no doubt that she planned to make this day hell for him. It would be no different than any other Nameday, really. Whispered congratulations and cheer in the halls, and no true recognition of the fact. His father would probably give him a hug and what not, but there would be no feast. Not for a bastard. Not for Jon Snow.
Chuckling mirthlessly at his own wallowing, Jon shakes himself a bit, wiggling all of his extremities and moving over to his trunk to get his clothes out so he can begin putting them on. It's time to face the day, no matter what it might bring.
-x-X-x-
By midday, Jon is beginning to regret ever getting out of bed. He has a problem, and surprisingly enough, it's nothing that has to do with one Lady Catelyn Stark. Oh sure, she's been doing little things here and there to try to make sure he knows he's not wanted in Winterfell all day long. But her efforts pale in comparison to what Jon's feeling as he tries to go about his daily activities.
Lust. Pure, unadulterated lust. It's not something he's ever had to deal with, before. He's a virgin, and even when he first began transitioning from boy to man, Jon hadn't had to worry about too much of a libido. Not like Theon Greyjoy, his father's ward. Or hostage, depending on who you asked. Regardless, Theon was a whoremonger. Not a truly awful one, he still did his duties and what not, but Jon knew for a fact that Theon spent many a night with the whores that lived in the town just outside of Winterfell.
Regardless, for the first time in his life, Jon is noticing the women around him. He's noticing the softness of their faces, the curvaceous nature of their bodies. And he's desiring it. He's hungering for it. He's CRAVING it. It's like some sort of great beast has awoken in his chest, needling at him to take care of an urge that, before today, Jon had never experienced before in his life.
It's funny, because up till now, his first and only plan has been to join the Night's Watch. As nothing more than Eddard Stark's bastard, he's not really in a position to go or do anything else, at least at first glance. He doesn't have coin with which to go traveling across Westeros. Perhaps his father might give him some if he asked, but the thought has never crossed Jon's mind before.
Now though… in the space of a day, he could no longer imagine himself joining the Night's Watch, for one reason and one reason alone. He didn't think he could be celibate. He couldn't take the oath required of him, to lay with no woman, for the rest of his life. It wasn't exactly what he expected to stop him from following what he'd believed to be an honorable path, if not quite his destiny… but there it was.
However, that was the future, really. Jon had a more pressing matter right in front of him at the moment. Namely… how was he going to calm down his raging libido right NOW? Before the end of the day, Jon Snow was sure that he was going to snap. And when he did, he wasn't sure who'd end up getting hurt as a result. He needed… he needed to handle this, to nip this in the bud on the spot.
… He needed to have sex. It seemed crass, but every time he so much thought about doing the deed, the monster inside of him roared its approval. This was what it wanted. It wanted him to fuck a woman. It wanted him to pin someone down and just TAKE them. And Jon was getting to the point where the idea didn't sound so bad, if he was being honest.
The only problem was a limited number of choices. Winterfell wasn't hurting for women, to be fair. But many of them were effectively off-limits to him. He was, after all, just a bastard. Still, there were at least two options in front of Jon, from what he could see. He could do as Theon did, and go to the whores outside of the castle in order to scratch his itch… or he could go to Jeyne Poole.
Jeyne Poole of House Poole was the daughter of Vayon Poole, the steward of Winterfell. Normally, even a steward's daughter would be beyond that of a bastard such as himself. If they were caught together, then he would certainly be in trouble. But he had a feeling that if he did make overtures towards the attractive young woman, she would be receptive to them.
He hadn't failed to notice how her eyes seemed drawn to him, earlier today at breakfast. Lots of people had been watching him, to be fair, it was technically his 'big day', but not in the way Jeyne had. Jon had seen the look in her eye, and for the first time, he'd recognized it. He'd even resonated with it. But was that worth the risk, truly?
Perhaps not. Perhaps the whores were better. One whore in particular, named Ros, had Theon's praise, given the amount that the Greyjoy boy spoke about her. He could go to her, and possibly get his problem taken care of that way. One way or the other though, Jon knew that he couldn't just let this continue to fester. Before the end of the day, he was going to fuck a woman for the first time. The only question was… would it be Jeyne, or would it be Ros?
Consequences
It wasn't that Jon had anything in particular against whores on a personal basis. But at the same time, the idea of laying with one as his first time ever was… disgusting. That wasn't to say he wouldn't some time in the future, given the chance, but this felt different. This first go at a woman, it felt like it had to mean something. Of course, in the grand scheme of things having 'meaning', bedding a Steward's daughter wasn't all that special either.
But Jeyne was still the best of his two easiest choices, and Jon found himself drawn to her over the whore outside of the castle with each passing moment that he thought about it. Which was why he made sure to make eyes at Jeyne, when dinner finally came around. As the Steward's daughter, she was sat a bit higher on the food chain than Jon himself, even if he was the Lord of Winterfell's bastard. At the end of the day, where her father's title afforded Jeyne more respect, Jon's birth status afforded him more disrespect than his Lordly father could ever make up for.
All the same, it wasn't too difficult to catch her eye, nor was it all that hard to throw her a roguish smile and a wink. Jeyne's eyes widen at that, but not in a bad way if the shy, surprised, but altogether happy smile that splits her lips is anything to go off of. She averts her gaze after a moment but can't help glancing over at him throughout the meal. Jon, meanwhile, makes use of the fact that nobody ever pays the bastard any mind to basically make eyes at her for the entire dinner.
By the time the meal ends, and everyone is getting up to leave, Jon is rock hard in the confines of his trousers. Jeyne Poole, meanwhile, is nibbling at her lower lip and constantly sneaking glances his way now, as if to see what he's going to do. When he does nothing, Jeyne makes to leave the room, only to nearly jump out of her skin when he begins to follow her.
She leads him out of Winterfell's hall, with Jon making sure to keep a respectful distance as he trails behind her. There's still a chance for her to change her mind after all, a chance for her to shut him down. While she's not likely to do so outright, if she really is afraid of him, she can easily go to a guard and complain about him following her. Jon's distance will allow him to claim that he was simply going the same direction at her, and that the girl was making something out of nothing.
The one thing that the Steward's daughter wouldn't do, if she weren't at least a little interested, would be to go straight to her quarters, stop at the door and give him a look of longing… and then leave said door several inches ajar for him. Seeing as Jeyne Poole does EXACTLY that, Jon makes sure to look left and right, and then he heads over, his head held high, his shoulders squared, and a confident, easy smile on his lips.
Stepping into the young woman's room, Jon finds a rather simple sleeping area. Even more simple than his, surprisingly enough. Though, when you really thought about it, it made an irritating sort of sense. In public, a Steward's Daughter stood above a Lord's Bastard, because of Lady Catelyn Stark and her vendetta against him. In private, a Lord's Bastard was afforded a bit more comfort than a Steward's Daughter, if only because Lord Eddard Stark cared for his bastard son and Jon's comfort and made sure he had at least halfway decent quarters.
Regardless, Jeyne's room isn't THAT bad. It's certainly the kind of place he could see himself taking her to bed in. Speaking of which… Jon smiles as Jeyne fiddles with her dress, looking away but not screaming or telling him to get out.
"Hello, Jeyne."
Something in his voice must really work for her, because the Steward's daughter experiences a full body shudder at that, licking her lips. Finally, she glances up at his eyes.
"H-Hello Jon…"
He likes that. That she doesn't call him Snow. To be fair, most of the women in Winterfell refer to him as Jon. Even Sansa, so eager to emulate her mother Lady Stark, still calls him Jon. Catelyn Stark doesn't, of course, and neither does the Septon, though they rarely interact. But where all of the men save for his brothers and father refer to him as Snow, including Theon, the girls do not.
And in this instant, Jeyne does not. Which means more to him than she could possibly know. Stepping closer, Jon watches as Jeyne trembles, but interestingly enough, doesn't shrink back. She doesn't try to escape him, as he prowls ever closer.
"I saw you looking at me at breakfast, Jeyne. So, I decided to look at you at dinner. And you know what?"
"Y-Yes?"
Jon leans in close, his nostrils flaring as his lips rest just inches away from Jeyne's flesh.
"I liked what I saw."
And then he takes her up in his arms and kisses her. It's not a particularly gentle kiss, but somewhat rough and savage… the sort of thing that one might call 'manly', as he holds Jeyne close and kisses her deeply. Of course, if she wasn't willing, this would probably be a hardship for her to endure. But she is willing, she's oh-so-willing, and the moment he pulls her in, Jeyne Poole collapses against him, her hands coming up to rest against his chest but not to push him away, and her lips pushing back against his lips just as hard. Jon initiates things, but the kiss is a mutual one, which they both thoroughly enjoy.
After a few moments though, they do have to come up for air. As they do so, Jon's eyes twinkle and his tone turns husky as he looks down at Jeyne.
"What about you, Jeyne? Did you like what you saw?"
For a moment, Jeyne just blushes heavily. Then, a small smile and a nod as she ducks her head, resting her forehead against his chest. Jon is just about to push forward with his plans however when she leans back and looks at him, her face falling.
"Jon… I don't think we should do this…"
She's an observant, intelligent girl, to already understand where he wants to go with this. And while she's no noblewoman, there is a certain stigma around losing your maidenhood to a man you are not married to, especially for a Steward's daughter. But Jon doesn't care about that. He wants her. He needs to be inside of her. Letting out a low growl, Jon leans in close, bumping his forehead against Jeyne's, staring her right in the eyes.
Jeyne Poole is not a vision of beauty, or anything like that, but she is a soft, pretty young woman, and Jon knows that he wants her. He also knows, just from looking into her eyes, that she wants him right back. So, when he next speaks, its with a rumbling confidence and a knowing gaze as he stares at her.
"If you want me to leave, just say so. If you want me to stop, tell me to stop. If this isn't something you want deep within your heart just as I do, then all you have to do is say no."
He waits a beat, giving her a chance to reject him right then and there. Ros was still an acceptable backup plan, if that proved necessary. But while Jeyne's mouth opens, no words come from it, and after a moment she shuts it again and doesn't resist when he kisses her again. Nor does she resist when he begins to pull at her dress, tugging it down off her shoulders and then off her body altogether.
As his mouth lowers to feast upon her breasts, his tongue sliding across her hardening nipples, Jeyne moans and writhes, but she does not tell him to stop, she does not ask him to leave. If she did, he would have been gone in an instant. It would have left him more than a little frustrated for sure, but nonetheless, he was an honorable sort of man, and he had no desire to hurt her.
But he was going to fuck her. It didn't take long to get them both out of their clothes and onto Jeyne's bed. The old wooden frame of the bed groaned and creaked a wee bit in protest of having more weight than the slip of a girl who usually lay her head down to rest upon it every night, but Jon was too lost in what he was doing already to worry about that sort of thing.
Jeyne was similarly lost, and even growing more enthusiastic by the passing moment. Her hands slide up and down his body as assuredly as his slide up and down her own, and it's Jeyne who in fact takes hold of his cock and guides him between her legs, which she spreads apart to make way for him, her nervousness and her concern clearly temporary as she eagerly presses him into her slit. It returns to her then though, and she pauses, biting her lower lip as they pull apart for a moment.
When he looks down into her eyes, however, Jon doesn't see a girl nervous to continue onward, he sees a young woman waiting for HIM to deliver the finishing touch. Drawing her hands away from his member, intertwining their fingers together, Jon Snow thrusts forward, pushing through Jeyne's hymen, taking her virginity and claiming her for himself.
He watches as her face contorts in both pain and pleasure, watches her mouth open to let out a yell. He silences her before she can make a single noise with his lips once more on her own, the two of them kissing deeply. Their tongues writhe against one another, and Jon quickly begins to thrust away inside of Jeyne's sex, begins to fuck her as he'd been so desperate to, all day long.
He can't explain it, but it doesn't feel like his first time. This is the first woman he's ever been with, and yet, he knows exactly what to do. He knows how to please her. He knows how to please himself and slake his lusts upon her body. So that's exactly what Jon does. And as he slides in and out of Jeyne's freshly deflowered quim, the Steward's daughter mewls and moans into his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck and spreading her legs for him all the wider.
Jon can't say how long they go at it like that. Eventually though, he can feel himself getting close, just as he can somehow tell Jeyne is the same way. The desire to fill her with his seed is strong, and before Jon knows what he's doing, he's speeding up, taking her even faster, fucking her even harder. Jeyne cries out, and her head tilts back as she experiences an immense, mind-unraveling release, and in the midst of her ecstasy, Jon unloads into her womb, filling it with his white, hot ejaculate. It feels right, to do it. It feels right to… claim her in this way.
It continues to feel right, even as they lay there, him on top of her, panting heavily and each coming down from their respective pleasure highs. And then the moment is shattered by the door opening.
"Jeyne, are you in her- by the SEVEN! JON!"
Sansa's loud shout causes him to whip his head around, but by the time he's done so, his sister is already gone, the red head fleeing down the hall. And judging by the look of sheer panic on Jeyne's face, Sansa isn't about to keep quiet about this.
-x-X-x-
By the time morning rolls around, Jon having retreated to his quarters to await… well, whatever there was to await, everyone in the castle seems to know. Jon isn't surprised when his father sends men to collect him even before breakfast time. Jon goes, because of course he does. And to be fair, he doesn't see what he's done wrong. Why should he be ashamed for laying with a woman? It's only what they expect from a bastard like him…
Still, to see the bone-deep weariness on Ned Stark's face as Jon is left alone with his father in his solar, it does cause a twinge of guilt to spark in Jon's chest. But the primal, roaring voice that's been growing within him since his Nameday yesterday snuffs it out. Despite the fact that he's a bastard, and his father is a Lord, Jon… doesn't feel like he should have to bow down to this man seated before him, for some strange reason.
"Jon… what have you done?"
Lord Stark sounds deeply, deeply tired. Jon can imagine the man didn't sleep well, if Sansa had gone straight to her parents and told both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell what she'd seen. He can only imagine how Catelyn Stark reacted to the news. Jon, meanwhile, slept like a baby.
"My Lord."
Ned flicks his eyes to Jon, and then looks away again, seeming to almost be lost in thought.
"You've left me with little choice, Jon. Cat wants you out of Winterfell before the King and the Royal Party arrives. I've had your horse prepared, along with provisions… you leave for the Night's Watch after breakfast, which you will not take in the Great Hall."
Jon stiffens at that.
"I didn't rape the Poole girl, father."
Here, Ned startles. He looks confused for a moment, before shaking his head.
"No one is saying you did, Jon. Well, Cat… but no. Jeyne Poole herself has confirmed that it was consensual and more than that, a mutual choice. She spoke on your behalf, but that doesn't change the fact that I cannot turn aside the Lady of Winterfell's ire this time. You deflowered the Steward's daughter, and worse, your sister walked in on the two of you."
"And for that, you would send me to the Night's Watch? What crime have I committed?"
Here, Eddard Stark looks at Jon with a frown.
"I only thought… I believed that your plan was to serve with the Night's Watch, to leave with Benjen when he next came to visit. That time table has only been moved up. Was this not your last hoorah, my son?"
Ah, that explained it. It felt like a lifetime ago that Jon had wanted to join the Night's Watch, but for the Lord of Winterfell, it'd basically been the plan all of Jon's life. It made sense that Ned would just assume that was where Jon would go now, if Catelyn would truly no longer tolerate his presence in Winterfell.
"… And what if I no longer care for that path? Perhaps I'll go South instead."
His father looks more pained than he ever has in Jon's presence before now at that. Never did Jon think there would be a day when he would see Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North squirm, but there it was. There's silence between them for several seconds, dragging on far past anything reasonable, before finally, Ned just nods.
"If… that is your wish, so be it. But I cannot support you if you choose to go that route. The horse and provisions in the stables are only for a man on his way to the Wall. Not for a man on his way South."
Jon's jaw clenches at that. So that's how it is then? His father will help him get to the Wall so that he can sell his soul to the Night's Watch and spend the rest of his life miserable and freezing his balls off, but the moment Jon shows a backbone, his dear Lord Father abandons him? He really shouldn't be surprised, he supposes.
Something of his anger must show on his face, however, because before he can make a decision, before he can say something else, Lord Stark looks to the side and then back to him again, something like resolve showing on his face.
"Perhaps a third option."
Pulling free a parchment, Ned begins to write.
"You may take the horse and the provisions, as well as this writ, with you… if you promise me you will go to White Harbor and seek passage to Braavos. This writ will entitle you to one hundred silver stags in White Harbor, and with that, you should be able to open an account in Braavos, allowing you to seek your fortunes there, across the Narrow Sea."
As Jon stands there stunned, his father finishes writing and folds up the parchment, sealing it properly and holding it out to him. Eddard Stark looks him right in the eye at that, deadly serious.
"If you want freedom, then the Free Cities might just be where you find it, Jon. But one way or the other, it's time to choose."
Jon's mouth is dry as he considers the options before him. Did he go to the Wall, despite his reservations? Did he go South, with nothing but the clothes on his back, not even a horse or a weapon to his name? Or did he go to Braavos, journeying to Essos with a rather substantial sum of coin, to find a new life there for himself?
Decisions
He stares at his father, for a moment longer. No… not his father. Even if Eddard Stark is the man who birthed him, it's all to clear to Jon now that this man that sits before him is and always will be Lord of Winterfell first and foremost, and his father… last. Clenching his jaw, the young man reaches out and takes the letter from Lord Stark's hand.
"It would seem that I have my path laid out before me then, my Lord."
Ned just looks a little tired, as he lets go of the letter and sits back somewhat heavily in his seat, letting out a low sigh.
"I never wanted this for you, Jon…"
He has some idea of what the Lord of Winterfell THINKS he means when he says those words, but all Jon truly hears is that the other man wanted him isolated and forgotten on the Wall, and nowhere else.
"No, I suppose you didn't. You'd rather have me gone, to live out the rest of my days on the Wall, freezing my balls off."
Ned's jaw clenches a little at that, and some fire sparks in his eyes, outrage for Benjen most likely. And yet, for the first time in his life, Jon sees right through this man who beget him, who provided the seed that saw him birthed. He sees shame and guilt, beneath the outrage. He sees Eddard Stark's true feelings and knows that his words hit home.
"The Night's Watch is an honorable path, Jon. To be a Watcher on the Wall is to-."
"Guard the Realms of Men. I know. But… it's not my path. It never will be. Goodbye, Lord Stark."
With that, he turns and leaves the room. Thankfully, the Lord of Winterfell lets him go, likely with the understanding that Jon was leaving. And he was, he was heading for the stables, where he would likely find his horse and his provisions prepared for him. He was just taking the long way around. First, Jon went to his room. They would not begrudge him that much. It took barely any time at all to pack up his things into a rucksack and swing it over his shoulder, heading for the door.
However, even then, he did not go directly to the stables. There was at least one person Jon knew he wanted to say goodbye to. Luckily, he ran into her long before he reached her room, because he was fairly certain Lady Stark would have guards outside her door at this point, just to turn him away. But Arya had never been one to conform to anyone else's plans. It just wasn't in her nature.
"Jon!"
The small girl hits him right around the midsection, and he grunts as he embraces her, her thin arms wrapping around him. He smiles down at his half-sister and almost certainly his favorite sibling, even as Arya looks up at him, eyes wide as she takes in his pack.
"I-It's true then? You… you're leaving?!"
She looks half ready to hit him or run from him, so Jon interjects quickly.
"Not by choice, Arya. Never by choice."
Arya stops then, blinking as she looks at him, confused and taken aback.
"What does that mean?"
Jon hesitates. Part of him holds loyalty to his father even now. He might have been Lord of Winterfell first and Jon's father second, but he'd still done fairly well by Jon all these years. However, when Jon puts all of the small shows of affection by his father up against all of the cruelties and snubs both great and small done by one Lady Catelyn Stark… he finds himself speaking all the same.
"The Lady of Winterfell has decided that my presence is no longer wanted nor warranted, Arya. I've been told I have to go… tonight."
Arya's eyes are wide, and her mouth opens and closes a few times as she connects what he's saying.
"The Lady of… m-mother? Mother is banishing you?!"
Jon smiles wanly and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say there was nothing, he could do about it. Because truly, there wasn't. Even little Arya understood that, because rather than beg him to stay in defiance of her mother or anything foolish like that, the young girl immediately jumps to what is, in her mind, the next obvious solution.
"T-Then take me with you! I don't want to stay here if you're not here Jon! I want to travel; I want to see new places! Let me come along!"
As much as Jon yearned to have some part of his family at his side in that way… he immediately knew he couldn't say yes to Arya. Not ever. He loved her, and where he would be going would be undeniably rough. Essos was not a place for little girls, not if what Jon had heard was true. Plus, he could only imagine that he and Arya wouldn't even make it to White Harbor, let alone onto a ship across the sea, before Lady Stark had them ridden down. Heh, and if he kidnapped Ned's youngest daughter, Lord Stark would be right there with the men who came for them.
Shaking his head, Jon touches his hand to Arya's lips before she can exclaim, seeing her eyes already clouding over with anger and sorrow and indignation.
"I'm sorry, Arya… but I can't take you with me. And you know that, don't you? You know that if I spirited you away from this place, your mother would have us both hunted down. Your place is here, Arya Stark, in Winterfell. My place… my place is elsewhere. However, when you are of age, know that you will always have a place at my side, understood? I… I intend to go across the Narrow Sea, to Essos. I'm going to find my fortune there, as a matter of fact. If someday you follow in my footsteps, seek me out if I still live. Alright?"
Arya's face takes on a look of determination, but it's the sort of determination of a girl who has a long-term plan, not mulishness that might see Arya trying to follow him into the night. His little ploy has worked, and he breathes an internal sigh of relief as she gives him a sharp nod. Jon smiles at her softly and pulls away, stepping further down the hall, now moving in the direction of the stables.
"Goodbye, Arya Stark. Until we meet again."
"U-Until we meet again, Jon!"
And then he's gone, because he's pretty sure if he spends any longer staring at his youngest sister, he really will try to spirit her away from this place, consequences be damned. Not to get back at Lady Stark or anything like that, but because Jon knows in his heart of hearts that Arya is a wild, untamed wolf girl… and the next time he sees her, if he ever makes it back to Westeros, she'll likely have had all of that unbridled enthusiasm and rough-and-tumble eagerness stripped from her as the older women in her life forcibly molded her into the perfect little lady.
She'd fought all these years against the idea, but Jon knew how the world worked. Arya couldn't fight against it forever.
-x-X-x-
There was no one waiting for him in the stables besides the stable hand, as well as a horse and provisions. Jon had half-expected Robb or Theon to show up, Robb for a stiff goodbye and Theon to gloat and laugh at him one last time. But it seemed that Jon was not worthy of either of their time, be it to say farewell or to mock him.
That was fine. He took his horse, he took his supplies, and he rode out of Winterfell, making his way down the road towards White Harbor. Not the King's Road, mind, though he probably could have taken the King's Road south until it forked off towards White Harbor, but that might have had him encountering the King's Party, which he knew was currently making its way North, and Jon had no desire to do that, not truthfully.
Instead, he took a smaller, but still well-traveled road that ran along the White Knife river, right up until the fork in the river, where he crossed over to the eastern side and continued all the way to White Harbor. He could have taken a boat, perhaps, and maybe he should have instead of riding his horse the entire way, but Jon had always been more inclined to horseback riding than boats, and he was more than likely about to spend a whole lot of time at sea.
Regardless, he makes it to White Harbor without incident, and with his father's letter in hand, gets himself an audience with Lord Manderly. The man is gruff and a bit short with him, but Jon doesn't see utter condemnation in the Lord's eyes, so he assumes that word of his exact deeds has not reached White Harbor, or at least not White Harbor's Lord just yet. Instead, the man is probably just not inclined to respect a bastard. It wouldn't be the first time.
Regardless, his father's letter gets him in, and whatever contents written seem to impress Lord Manderly enough. A hundred silver stags are brought to him in a bulging coin pouch, and Jon leaves the Lord's Office a great deal richer than he was going in. However, before he can make it all the way out of the man's castle, he finds himself accosted by a comely, well-dressed brunette, wearing her hair in a braid.
"You're Jon Snow."
Jon blinks at having his personal space suddenly invaded, though, even as he stands there slightly nonplussed, other parts of his body begin to… go to work.
"… What of it?"
At having her words confirmed, the young woman flashes a toothy smile, showing off pearly whites that mark her as a daughter of nobility. Before he can really say or do anything else, she's taken him by his hands and is dragging him along, pulling him from the hallway and into an out of the way nook. Jon could have stopped it, could have stood fast and demanded an explanation… but his blood is already starting to purr awake within him, and a need that he hasn't scratched since before leaving Winterfell grows.
It grows even more when the brunette, after ensuring they'll have some privacy, drops to her knees before him and begins to work open his trousers. Though, as much as he wants this to continue to it's inevitable conclusion, Jon does have SOME sense left to him. He stops her, warding her off with a hand and practically growling down at her.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
She looks up at him almost surprised, her big brown eyes nice and wide. Then, she smiles again, almost impishly.
"I want to see if the rumors are true. If you're as big as they say you are."
Jon's eyes widen slightly, and in his surprised stupor, the girl takes advantage, finishing with unbuckling his belt, after which she reaches in and unceremoniously drags his cock out of its confines. Jon grunts and the young woman gasps at around the same time. Her slender fingers feel good around his pulsing, throbbing length, even as her full, pouty lips rest just inches away from his cockhead.
"It… it's true. You're gigantic. A-And warm… so warm…"
She stares at his cock like she's in a trance. Jon is about to ask her if she's done or if she's really going to just provoke him like this and expect him to leave well enough alone, but before he can say anything… she takes him in her mouth, enveloping his cockhead between her full lips and beginning to suck at his cock. Jon grunts and then lets out a loud groan and judging by the wide-eyed expression on her face as she glances up at him, she really doesn't know what she's doing… but she keeps doing it.
And she enjoys doing it too, from the look of things, slobbering and slurping all over his cock in a completely undignified, inexperienced, but altogether enthusiastic manner. She bobs up and down on his knob, pulling back once in a while to catch her breath and moan wantonly as she strokes his saliva-coated shaft up and down with both hands. Her drool ends up dripping down onto her bared upper chest, and sliding into her cleavage, staining her dress a bit as she makes a complete mess of herself.
It still feels amazing though, especially after the weeks of travel from Winterfell to White Harbor. Sliding one of his gloved hands through the brunette's braid, he grips gently but firmly and helps her along just a bit, throwing his head back and groaning his enjoyment. Jon… Jon could get used to this. Of course, it's not long before even her inexperienced technique ends up sending him right over the edge.
Jon groans and tosses his head back, giving her a belated warning.
"Fuck, here it comes!"
To her credit, she tries. She tries to swallow it all, something that Jon wouldn't have expected from a noblewoman. He would have thought she would move to the side or something. Though to be fair, he wouldn't have really expected her to drop down to her knees and suck off a bastard in the first place. And yet, that's exactly what she'd done, even knowing who he was.
Some of his seed escapes her mouth and drips down onto her dress, but the majority of it ends up down the young woman's throat, gulped down as her neck convulses visibly. When she pulls away, Jon quickly begins to tuck his cock back into his pants, staring down at her slightly askance, half-expecting her to scream for the guards. Instead, she scoops up what seed managed to escape her lips and sucks her fingers clean, before standing and giving him a messy sort of grin.
"Your seed is quite delicious, Jon Snow. Oh, how it warms my belly. If only it could warm my womb as well… but alas, I must keep my maidenhood intact for my wedding day. Still, thank you for the treat. It was most appreciated."
And like that, she walks away. Jon stares after her, knowing without a doubt, despite the fact that she never told him her name, that he'd just had an encounter with Wynafryd Manderly, the eldest daughter of Lord Manderly. With that in mind, Jon decides that it's about time he was on his way. Luckily, he'd entered the port town of White Harbor in the early morning hours, and there were still ships in the harbor preparing to leave that could take him across the Narrow Sea, to Essos.
His sale of his horse gave him enough money for such passage, allowing him to keep his small fortune of silver intact, at least for the moment. But as Jon shopped around for passage, he found himself pondering his options. His father had told him to go to Braavos and open an account with the Iron Bank, post-haste.
That probably was the best idea, if only because the Iron Bank was actually most likely to TAKE his silver stags compared to other establishments across the Eastern Continent. But… Jon did wonder if that was truly where he wanted to go. At the end of the day, as far as he could tell, he had three choices. He was definitely leaving on one of these damn ships, he had no intention of staying in White Harbor any longer than necessary. But which?
He could go to Braavos, as his Lord father had suggested. He could also go to Pentos or Myr. Truth be told, Jon didn't know much about either of them. He knew the most about Braavos. The question was, was he still feeling rebellious enough to ignore conventional wisdom and take one of the other two boats rather than the one heading to the home of the Iron Bank?
To Braavos!
Truth be told, Jon wasn't feeling overly rebellious, or anything like that. While he certainly held some anger towards Eddard Stark for the way that he'd been summarily thrown out of Winterfell just for sleeping with the Steward's daughter, in his heart of hearts, Jon knew that the Lord Paramount of the North still cared for him and wanted what was best for him.
That said, heading to Braavos truly was the best option, and Lord Stark had given him good advice by pointing him in that direction. There was no point in self-sabotaging himself just to stick it to his father one last time. So, Jon went for the ship that was heading to Braavos, and he negotiated with the Captain for a hammock on said ship.
The journey across the Narrow Sea was in and of itself uneventful. Jon did have to get his sea legs under him of course, but luckily, he did not seem to have a predilection for sea sickness. He even managed to avoid throwing up a single time, something that the actual sailors on the ship were somewhat impressed by, just as they were impressed that he was helping out and pulling his own weight within two days of them pulling out of White Harbor.
Jon understood why, of course. He realized now that he likely would have faced the same skepticism if he'd gone to the Wall and joined the Night's Watch as he'd originally planned. He was… caught between two worlds, in a way. He was a Lord Paramount's bastard son. By all rights, he should not have been raised in Winterfell, alongside his father's heir and the rest of the Lord and Lady Stark's sons and daughters.
Honestly, Lord Stark probably hadn't done him any favors by keeping him so close, especially not when his lady wife so clearly despised Jon and what he represented with all her heart. It wasn't fair, not to Jon and not to Catelyn Stark. Maybe if he'd been raised somewhere else in the North, he could have set his sights lower, could have accepted his lot in life.
But no, Eddard Stark had had him learn his letters, he'd had him take lessons alongside Robb, he'd had him learn the bow and the sword and how to ride a horse. He'd taught Jon to be a Knight, if not a Lord, and now here Jon was with all his knightly skills, on a boat headed for an entirely new continent that, from what he'd been told in his lessons, much preferred mercenaries, sell swords, and savages over a knight.
With that in mind, Jon knew he was going to have to change. To be fair, he was already changing, in a way. Whatever had happened to him when he'd woken up that morning so filled with… desire, it was more than just a need to have sex. He felt stronger and faster and all around more powerful. But that didn't make him invincible. He would not let it go to his head.
He was no longer a Lord's bastard, Jon had decided. He wasn't even going to be Jon Snow anymore. He was just going to be Jon, and Jon was a man with a strength to his body that other men might grow envious of, and a willingness to use that strength to pull his own weight and then some. By the end of their voyage to Braavos, Jon had managed to impress the crew of the ship he'd signed on with. And he'd learned quite a lot about the sea as well in the interim.
Perhaps that was to be his path, perhaps it lay not on a road or anything like that… but in the water, on a ship. For now, though, Jon was too busy marveling at Braavos itself to contemplate his future just yet. He'd heard a lot about the Free City on the voyage here. He knew some of Braavos' history, how unlike the other Free Cities, it had never fallen under the authority of the Valyrian Freehold from which the defunct Targaryen Dynasty had originally sprung three hundred years ago.
No, instead Braavos was founded by escaped slaves, and it was because of this that the slave trade was not allowed within Braavos, unlike so many other Free Cities. So important was this that it became the 'First Law of Braavos', according to the ship's crew, and was even engraved on an important arch somewhere in the city.
On top of that, the city itself had remained in secret for nearly a century, leading people to be unsure of exactly when it was founded. More people used the date of it's Uncloaking to pinpoint when it truly came into being, as that was the moment in which the Sealord Uthero Zalyne sent fort his ships to every corner of the world in order to proclaim the existence of Braavos.
That was another thing that it was interesting to wrap his head around. None of the Free Cities truly had a 'King' as they had in the Seven Kingdoms, from what Jon knew. But while some were ruled by councils of Magisters who were usually just the wealthiest men in the city, Braavos was ruled by a Sealord who was chosen by Braavosi magisters and officials from the Iron Bank of Braavos. He served for life, which made sense to Jon, but at the same time, the fact that he was picked rather than inheriting the position DID strike Jon as somewhat odd.
Still, all that Jon had been told, including the simple truth that Braavos was the wealthiest and most powerful of the Free Cities, did not prepare him for the sight of the Titan of Braavos as they slowly came up under it's legs, and then went through into the city beyond. The Titan was monstrous, a massive, giant man… and a fortress besides from what Jon had heard.
He can believe it too, as the Titan lets out a loud roar at their entrance, and if he squints as best he can, Jon can even see the places where the great statue is meant to open up to allow for stones and pots of burning pitch to be dropped down onto the decks of any would-be invaders. The thought was certainly a frightening one, but when Jon had professed his weariness at the idea back when the crew were first talking about the Titan of Braavos, they'd laughed him off. Apparently, according to them, not since the Century of Blood had anyone been foolish enough to 'provoke the Titan's wrath'.
Regardless, after the Titan, the awe doesn't stop. Beyond the massive statue is the Arsenal of Braavos, and beyond that is Braavos itself. A hundred islands sprawled out across a grand lagoon… such a description really doesn't do the Free City justice, in Jon's opinion. For one, there were no trees at first glance, as they came into the Chequy Port, located directly behind the Arsenal. Braavos was instead a city of stone architecture and granite monuments, covered in small stone bridges going over canals that were filled with boats.
Jon remembered being told about that. People in Braavos used boats instead of horses. Of course, he didn't expect to use either, at least at first. He was a young man with only a little wealth to his name. Once he'd opened an account with the Iron Bank, then he would decide what to do next. Whether any boats factored into his future… well, that was still to be decided.
After settling things with the ship's captain, Jon makes his way into the city itself, actually a little bit richer for his troubles. Apparently, he'd done enough work to earn the wage of a ship hand, which meant he didn't just have a hundred Silver Stags anymore, but also five Braavosi coins as well, square and made from iron. Jon wasn't so sure about the value of iron coins, but he couldn't very well deny the fact that the Iron Bank had made this city the wealthiest in the world, now could he?
Luckily, the Iron Bank is a rather large building. Not at all hard to miss. It being early afternoon, Jon makes his way there first. As he does, he gets some looks. His clothing might have changed since he left his homeland behind, the furs of the North having no real place at sea and even less so in Essos if the current climate was anything to go by. But he couldn't very well change his face, and while there were some of his complexion around, he still seemed to be drawing looks as he walked along.
… Mostly from women, actually. Noticing that finally, Jon presses his lips together into a thin line and tries to ignore the way his cock attempts to jump to life in his britches, pushing back on his libido as he focuses on the task at hand. There hadn't been any women on the ship to Braavos, which was probably why it had been a relatively uncontentious voyage.
That didn't mean Jon wasn't ever going to touch a woman again, but he'd come to realize that the opposite sex had a certain effect on him, and he needed to focus. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted by the pleasures of the flesh. Not now, certainly not now. Luckily, the front steps and large entrance of the Iron Bank soon comes into view. Jon takes those steps two at a time, one gloved hand on the pommel of his sword as he prepares to step into the Iron Bank itself… only to be stopped at the door by guards.
"Hold. No weapons are allowed on the premise."
Coming to a halt, Jon blinks, having to fight back on the instinctive urge to bristle at the Braavosi guard. But… honestly, it made plenty of sense, didn't it? The Iron Bank would not want any incidents happening within its walls. Still, it wasn't exactly something Jon was used to. His hesitation provokes a reaction from the second door guard.
"Do you have business inside or not, foreigner? If you do, you will have to hand over your sword."
Grimacing, Jon hands over his sword, not trusting himself to speak and not make a fool of himself. On top of learning everything he could about the City of Braavos on the way here, he'd also gotten a crash course in understanding the Braavosi version of High Valyrian. The language of the old Valyrian Freehold had split into a multitude of bastardized dialects across all of the Free Cities, from what Jon had been told.
He'd learned how to understand the Braavosi version well enough, but he was still somewhat uncertain about how to SPEAK it. Regardless, once he hands over his weapon, he's allowed inside the bank without another complaint. The inside of the Iron Bank is vast and opulent and… empty. But in it's emptiness there is a sort of extravagance and prestige, Jon supposes.
Before he can even figure out where he is supposed to go, however, he is accosted.
"Hello there. Westerosi, right? Welcome to the Iron Bank."
Blinking, Jon looks to the Braavosi man, surprised to hear the Common Tongue from his lips. Clearing his throat, Jon nods and speaks in the same tongue.
"Ah, yes… I am from Westeros. I'm here to, uh… open an account? My name is Jon."
"Of course, you are. You have come to the right place, Jon. My name is Tycho Nestoris, and the Iron Bank has been awaiting your arrival."
Wait, what? Jon blinks dumbly at that, and stares at this Tycho fellow somewhat incredulously.
"You've been… waiting for my arrival? How is that possible? Why would you… I don't understand."
Smiling a rather enigmatic smile, Tycho gestures for Jon to follow him. Without much else to go off of, the young man does. As they walk, Tycho talks.
"Your father sent word ahead of your arrival. As such, we've been waiting for you. Now, I understand that you're here to make an account with us. This is good, to put your trust in the Iron Bank is always the right choice. But of course, an account requires more than a first name… and I understand your discarding of your last name. As common as they are, the bastard names of Westeros simply won't do."
He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he came to the Iron Bank, but this… this wasn't it. Somewhat bowled over by everything, all Jon could really do was nod in agreement, even as Tycho kept talking.
"We've had time to prepare though, and we think we've come up with an excellent idea. Right through here."
They step through a pair of doors that seemingly open on their own, startling Jon somewhat. Within the room however is something that draws his attention far more. There is a freshly painted sigil on a black cloth, draped over a canvas. Jon finds himself staring at it, even as Tycho steps to the side. The sigil is of a dragon, painted white as snow, curled in on itself.
"What do you think? And of course, a name to go with it. We were thinking perhaps… Dracarys?"
Dragonfire? Jon's nostrils flare as he steps towards the sigil in front of him. His blood is pounding in his ears. Part of him wants to say no, that this is ridiculous, that it doesn't make sense. What connection does he have to dragons? Why would his house sigil be that of a dragon? Why would he take on a name tied to dragonfire?
But then, why does it all sound so right in his head. Jon doesn't understand what's happening. He doesn't know what's going on. It… it feels right. Though, even in his head, 'Jon Dracarys' sounds a little stupid. Ser Dracarys… not so much. Or Lord Dracarys perhaps? His mouth is dry as all hell, and he doesn't know what to do. Dracarys doesn't sound QUITE right, but it sounds more right than Snow, if he's being honest. It sounds truer than anything ever has, in his entire life.
"I… I'll take it."
"I'm pleased to hear it. I'll get the paperwork started right away. The Iron Bank is quite happy to count you among our patrons. For now, why don't you go find a place within the city to stay for the evening. This mark will allow you free room and board at any of the city's best inns on the Iron Bank's behalf."
Well that's certainly generous. Jon remains in a somewhat confused daze, even as he takes the small mark from the banker in front of him and hands over his pouch of Silver Stags so that the man can begin setting up his account. Then, he's ushered back out of the Iron Bank, all the way to the steps where the guards still hold his weapon. It's as Jon is taking it back that Tycho speaks up.
"Ah, you may not want to do that, Jon."
Both Jon and the door guards look to Tycho at that, and the banker smiles politely, before gesturing up towards the sky, where it's gotten significantly darker since Jon's arrival. Just how long was he inside, anyways?
"When night falls on Braavos, the men of the city wander the streets with swords at their waists and challenge any who also have a sword to duels. Perhaps you would be better off keeping your blade with us for safekeeping for the evening. You can pick it up when you return in the morning."
Something on Jon's face must show how much he doesn't like that idea, because Tycho chuckles and spreads his arms apart, holding his hands open.
"Of course, this is only a suggestion. If you will entrust your sword to me, as you have entrusted your money, I can assure you, no harm will come to it."
Jon believes him. He's not sure why, but he trusts the banker, oddly enough. But it's not his sword or his coin that Jon is concerned about. Being defenseless in a strange city… it makes him uneasy. Still, it sounds like he will all but provoking attacks or at least challenges by carrying his sword in the first place. The question has thus become… how does Jon wish to risk his life tonight? Does he keep his weapon, or go weaponless?
A Night on the Town
Even understanding why Tycho is making the offer, even trusting Tycho at his word… Jon is loathed to part with his sword, in the end. Eventually, he answers the banker with a soft smile and a shake of his head, keeping his hand on the pommel of his sword to drive his point home.
"I'll keep this with me."
The Iron Bank Representative looks physically pained for a second, and even glances at the guards on either side of him who have been watching this entire affair, as if he's contemplating sending them with Jon… or having them disarm Jon by force. Both the two men and Jon tense up for a moment as they await Tycho's response, but in the end, the banker's shoulders sag and he just lets out a low nod.
"Very well… do try and be safe then out there, alright? You will almost certainly be challenged to at least one duel… try not to lose."
It's curious, the level of interest that Tycho Nestoris has shown in Jon so far. Is it on behalf of the Iron Bank, or on his own behalf? That's the real question, and either way it ends up answered, Jon always wants to know why more than anything else. Still, he gives Tycho a nod and a wave goodbye, and then makes his way back down the front steps of the Iron Bank, and back into Braavos itself.
Where the Iron Bank was this clean, quiet place, orderly and majestic in its simplistic furnishings, the rest of Braavos is alive, despite the fact that the sun has set. In fact, Jon would say the city seems even more lively with the sun set, or perhaps just a different kind of lively. As he walks, he keeps an eye out and a hand on his sword, but there's no denying that his thoughts are wandering, just a tad.
What did the Iron Bank want with him, truly? It made sense that Jon would need to take on a new last name. He detested the moniker 'Snow' to begin with, so it wasn't like he was upset that the Iron Bank would not allow him to make an account while using the extremely common name. All the same, he wasn't too sure about 'Dracarys'. Dragonfire… it had nothing to do with him. Did the Iron Bank know something he didn't? No, of course not.
Once upon a time, he would have preferred the name Stark. It had been his dream for quite a lot of his life. He'd wanted nothing more than to be legitimized by his father. Not that he wanted to steal his brother's inheritance… he simply wanted to be a Stark, alongside Robb, alongside Sansa and Arya, alongside Bran and Rickon.
He knew that was too much to ask though, and he certainly had no desire to use that name now. Not in a foreign land, after effectively being banished by Lord Stark himself. No, he needed a new name for himself. He just had to figure out what it should be. Dracarys… he was pretty sure that 'Dracarys' wasn't it, but he would have to think up other ideas before he returned to the Iron Bank in order to figure out what worked better.
For now, he just needed a place to procure a warm meal and to lay his head. More than a little tired, though not truly exhausted, Jon finds himself heading past a gorgeous fountain towards where he sees some lively partying going on. He can only hope one of the places down the street before him will prove to be an inn with rooming for the evening.
However, before he can reach any of them, Jon is stopped by a sudden foreign-sounding voice.
"Westerosi! You carry steel in Braavos? You must want to die! Draw your blade and let us duel!"
Blinking, Jon turns, knowing immediately that the title 'Westerosi' is likely being applied to him. It's funny, because he's not ever thought of himself as from Westeros before now. No, he was from the North, and the North was almost its own separate entity in the minds of Northmen such as himself. Still, he's not surprised to find a Braavosi waiting for him, sword already drawn, a wicked smirk on his lips.
It's not filled with malice though, and even as Jon pauses for a moment, he considers his would-be challenger and reflects that the man is no older than he is. Given the lack of hair on the Braavosi's chin, he can't be that old at all. But then, Jon isn't too old either, so perhaps that's exactly why the other young man is challenging him. Given the other Braavosi behind him, he might have even been pushed into doing so… though from the look of things, he didn't seem all that unhappy about it.
There's a jovial desire for murder and mayhem in the foreign swordsman's eyes, and Jon knows instinctively that he's not going to get out of this with a simple refusal. Letting out a low sigh, the young man draws his own sword from its sheathe and steps forward, cocking his head to the side as he contemplates the Braavosi before him. He should respond in kind, he supposes.
"Braavosi! I accept your challenge! Admittedly, I am new to Braavos, as you have already noted, and this will be my first duel. Anything I should know?"
The Braavosi puffs out his chest, and gestures to the fountain nearby.
"We fight before the Moon Pool, Westerosi! It would be an insult to fight to anything but the death!"
Jon blinks at that. The Braavosi is still so jovial, and yet now the duel is to the death? Well, it's too late to try to back out now. And something within him balks at the idea of running away. He's not a coward, and he never has been. Perhaps this is where Jon dies, perhaps this is where the story ends… but something tells him that that's not quite the case. Smiling easily, Jon brings up his sword, a simple arming sword, and nods to the Braavosi, who has a much thinner blade, from the look of things.
"Very well then… to the death."
-x-X-x-
Jon thrusts forward, and his sword punches up into the armpit of yet another attacker, drawing a strangled cry from the Braavosi as he galls to the ground, his legs suddenly turned to jelly, his lifeblood quickly leaking out of him. Grunting, Jon barely spares the latest dying man a glance as he whirls about, looking for his next opponent… but there's no one left standing who bares a blade against him.
That's not to say the area around the Moon Pool as he now knows it to be called is empty by any means. Even the immediate area around him is… well, it's filled with corpses. Jon swallows thickly as he stares at the carnage he's created, but he doesn't let his bile overcome him. It was… it wasn't what he wanted, but it was necessary, in the end.
He was beginning to think this hadn't been a simple duel, in the beginning. He was starting to think they'd been sent to kill him, potentially. But that… that would be crazy, right? Who would want him dead? And yet, Jon couldn't help but feel that the first one's friends had used the young man's death at the end of Jon's blade as an excuse to attack him, all at once. It certainly didn't sound like the honorable thing to do, the way they'd come at him, forcing him to fight them off.
Maybe it was because he was of Westeros, and so they hadn't thought they needed to be honorable with him. And yet, there were guards around the edges of the Moon Pool now, and there had been for some time, and none of them had ever stepped in. Rather, instead they'd just watched… watched along with all of the other onlookers as Jon slaughtered a group of Braavosi.
Where had that come from? Staring down at his blood-caked sword and his gloved hand, Jon breathes in and out slowly, trying to regain his breath, even as he attempts to comprehend what just happened. He wasn't… that wasn't entirely him. In the beginning, against the first Braavosi, that had been him. He'd fought well, but he'd caught a few nicks here and there from the water dancer's strange style. In the end though, Jon had fallen into the deadly dance of swords and it was his blade that had found his enemy's heart first.
But afterwards, when he was suddenly being attacked from all sides, something… else took hold of him, something else acted through him. It was like he was possessed by the Warrior himself. The moment that thought runs through Jon's head, there's a spike of pain along with it and he winces, bringing his other hand up to his forehead.
"Westerosi?"
Jon spins about, half-expecting to have to fight another Braavosi, before his thoughts catch up with his ears and he processes that he's being talked to by a woman. A downright beautiful woman at that. Jon is struck for a moment at just how gorgeous a visage this woman who has appeared before him is, like a mirage or a spirit, coming down from above. Young and lovely, she has dark, black hair, light, brown skin, and a voluptuous figure that causes something else to rise within Jon rather than the bloodlust he's been operating with since the fighting started.
She smiles, and her smile is enough to light up the night more than the stars and the moon and the lanterns around them already are. Reaching out, the woman speaks again.
"Please… come to me."
Blinking, Jon begins to take in more details. The woman is not that of a spirit sent from above… she is but a woman, and it's rather obvious now that he's looking where she came from. The way the Moon Pool is set up, it lies between the front steps of the Iron Bank and a large canal. Braavos' canals are its roads, in a way, but there are also stone paths along either side of the canal, upon which Jon assumes places such as alehouses, inns, and even brothels are likely located.
Most of the onlookers have come from those lit-up buildings and are standing there watching along with the guards on either side of the Moon Pool. However, directly in front of Jon, behind the woman reaching out to him, is the canal… and a rather large pleasure barge. From the look of things, this woman is a courtesan.
Jon has heard a great deal about the courtesans of Braavos. How could he not, one of the things Braavos was renowned for worldwide was its courtesans. There was a difference, Jon had had it explained to him, between a Braavosi Whore and a Braavosi Courtesan. A Braavosi Whore worked in one of the brothels, which were managed by Madams, who in turn served at the pleasure of the richer men and women in Braavos.
Braavosi Courtesans however, served at their own leisure, working for no one but themselves. Every courtesan worth anything was said to have her own pleasure barge, as well as servants to work said barge. Jon could see the servants of this courtesan arrayed behind her now that he was looking, and from the way the men were frowning and the women were staring, this courtesan had come out to speak with him against the protests of some of her servants.
Swallowing thickly, Jon looks back around himself, at the blood and carnage he has caused. It wasn't his intention to kill anyone tonight, but… it had happened all the same. He just wanted to rest, but he wasn't sure what the guards would do to him if he didn't take the woman up on her offer. And to be fair… she was very beautiful; Jon couldn't deny that.
Slowly, he walks forward, sheathing his sword as he does so. The courtesan's smile widens, and when he places a gloved hand out in the air, her dainty, light brown fingers come up to intertwine between his digits. She grasps at him and pulls him along behind her as she takes him to her barge. It's like something right out of fairytale, and part of Jon expects something to happen to him, a dagger in the back perhaps.
He's ready for it, or at least he likes to think he is, even as he's brought into the courtesan's inner chamber. Some of her servants follow them in at first, and Jon watches, nonplussed, as two of the stronger male servants drag a tub full of steaming water into the room, and a few of the daintier female servants carry in platters filled with grapes and cheeses, and decanters filled with wine.
The courtesan keeps his hand in her own as they watch her servants prepare the room together, until finally they're done and have departed, leaving him and the gorgeous dark-haired woman alone. It's when she turns and begins to strip him out of his blood-splattered clothing that Jon stops her, furrowing his brow slightly.
"Do you… do you have a name?"
She blinks at that, and then lets out a laugh that flows through the air like water crystals, her eyes sparkling as they regard him.
"I do. Do you?"
Jon flushes at that, but he's allowed himself to be led along for long enough, he thinks. Stepping forward, he doesn't quite exude menace, but he does tower over her as he smiles down at her.
"I asked you first."
Her reaction is… interesting. Her breath hitches, and her pupils dilate with visible lust and desire. He's seen it before in several women at this point, but he's never seen it in a courtesan of all people, so that's certainly interesting.
"I… I am known in Braavos and beyond as the Black Pearl. But my name… my name is Bellegere Otherys."
Jon inclines his head at that, and this time when she reaches for him to resume stripping him of his clothes, he allows her to do so. After a beat of silence, he gives her his name as well.
"Jon."
She startles at that, and then smiles, and Jon finds he rather likes her smile. She truly is a gorgeous woman…
"… Jon… a simple name for a not-so-simple man, if I'm on the mark. Which… I usually am."
Jon grunts at that, even as she finishes pulling his sweat-soaked, blood-splattered clothing off of him, letting it fall in a heap by his side and pulling him, now naked, across the room to where the tub of hot, steaming water sits. She helps him into it, and Jon lets her do so, relaxing into the tub as Bellegere takes a fine cloth and begins to wipe him down, beginning to wash him with her own two hands.
"Is that so? Is that why a woman of your stature is cleaning a man like me? Because I'm not so simple?"
He refuses to let himself be lulled into what might very well be a false sense of security, but there's no denying that it feels… good. And he's not going to just not enjoy it, he's not built that way. Bellegere takes her time in answering, the Black Pearl humming a soft tune under her breath as she cleans the few small cuts, he'd taken during that first duel.
"It is more than that, Jon. You are special. I can feel it. I want… I want to taste it…"
As she continues cleaning his chest with the cloth, her other hand descends beneath the water and grasps at his cock. Jon lets out another grunt, even as she begins to stroke him to full mast, her lips trailing along his neck and up to his ear before she speaks again.
"I would like to show you what I have to offer, if you would allow it."
Jon grimaces a little at that. Perhaps he should have said something earlier, but then, she'd come to him. It wasn't really his fault if she was expecting payment…
"I am not a rich man, Black Pearl. I do not think I can afford you."
Bellegere lets out another soft, tinkling laugh at that, and he can feel her shaking her head as she nuzzles into his hair.
"I do not require coin from one such as you, Jon. All I require… is a choice."
Furrowing his brow, Jon cocks his head and looks back at her.
"A choice?"
Smiling, Bellegere drops the soaked, soiled cloth to the side and uses her newly freed hand to part the low cut of her dress, letting her sizable, succulent breasts pop free of their already-loose confines, showing off her chest to him as she thrusts them forward, offering herself to him quite clearly.
"How would you have me, Jon? I can show you my skills in a myriad of ways. Shall I take the lead? Or shall you? I am yours… use me as you will."
Well now, with an offer like that, how was Jon to refuse?
A Dragon Lord's Conquest
He has every intention of simply taking the lead, at first. Rising from the bath sees Bellegere rising from her kneeling position beside the tub of hot water along with him. His hand comes up, snaking behind her head as his fingers slide through her hair, and then he's gripping tightly as he brings her in for a kiss. However, it's as their kissing that something… awakens within Jon.
Truth be told, he really has no right taking the lead in a situation like this. By all appearances, he is little more than a wet-behind the ears boy, thrust into the world early and forced to grow up and become a man. Meanwhile, the Black Pearl is… well, she's the Black Pearl. Her experience is undeniable, or else she wouldn't be a top-class courtesan with her own barge and all of the trappings that came with that, spending her days enticing men to join her as she wanders the canals of Braavos.
And yet, all of that is merely surface level. Beneath the surface, for all that Jon has a distinct lack of direct experience at this point, he's more than just his identity, more than just his young age would imply. As Bellegere presses up against him, submitting to his domineering kiss and running her hands along his body, leaving his cock, straining and hard behind… something awakens in Jon. Something fierce and primal, something aggressive… and possessive.
With a low, guttural growl, he grabs Bellegere by the throat quite suddenly, not quite choking her, but holding her there most firmly. Then, he steps carefully out of the tub, with purpose, forcing her to back away as he moves forward, forcing her feet to match his steps. Her chocolate-brown eyes are fixed on his, slightly wide but without fear, even as he takes her to the nearby bed, an incredibly extravagant, ceaselessly opulent area of the cabin that takes up an entire wall with its size.
Once he has her standing right in front of the bed, Jon lets go of her hair, but not her throat, using his now freed hand to reach down and grab her dress. With a strength he did not know he possessed, he rips the already loose garment clean off of Bellegere's body, positively tearing it to shreds. The half-exposed courtesan lets out a light gasp at this, which subsequently turns into a moan. That moan only grows louder and more wanton when Jon absolutely attacks her neck a moment later, kissing and biting and suckling at her tender flesh.
His hands come down to her breasts, full and perfectly round in their existence, and he grabs at her chest, squeezing it harshly, kneading it as if his digits were claws, and he was laying claim to her. Bellegere moans again, though there's also a slight whimper of pain in her voice. She masks it well, but Jon hears it all the same… and part of his exults in that pain. Part of him wants to hurt her more, even as he claims her.
Releasing her breasts, Jon spins the Black Pearl about, and thrusts her down onto the bed behind her, still having enough presence of mind not to force her to the slightly wet floor of the barge cabin, rather than using the actual bed itself. He forces her face down though, rather than on her back. He bends her over, pushing her face into the blankets and pillows, and lifting her hips up into the air so that her ass is nice and high. He spreads her legs apart, giving himself a nice view of her pussy lips, which even now are exceedingly wet.
But then, Jon already knew that much. He couldn't say exactly how he knew, but he could smell it. Her arousal, it was as evident as anything to his nose, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the desire that she's giving off, as he inhales her scent and finds her to be a wanting, needing bitch in need of a good, hard fucking.
Another growl emits from Jon's throat that's more bestial than man, even as he grabs hold of Bellegere by her impressive hips, bringing his cock up under her to slap against her dripping wet quim. The courtesan cries out, moaning beneath him, back arched in a truly delicious manner, submission evident in every fiber of her being.
But just because she submits doesn't mean Jon goes any easier on her. He wants more of her whimpers, he wants to hear her mewl in pain. Bringing one hand up, he slaps his palm down on one of Bellegere's ass cheeks, spanking her on the spot and causing her to cry out softly from the sudden stinging pain. His cock throbs where it's currently hot dogging her pussy lips, and with a slightly wicked grin on his face, staring down at her reddened butt cheek, almost mesmerized by it, Jon repeats the action on the opposite buttocks, with similar results.
Bellegere is not so pale as most of the women Jon has known in his life, having grown up in the cold, sunless North. She is tanned, and while not dark of skin, she still has more brown to her than say, Sansa or Arya, or even Jeyne Poole could boast. Even still, her full, curvaceous ass pinks up quite beautifully under his strikes, so Jon keeps spanking her, enjoying leaving his mark on her, and Bellegere keeps crying out, moaning and squealing in equal measure as she shifts her body back and forth, sliding her dripping wet cunt lips across the top of his pulsating member in an effort to entice him.
Entice him she does, and eventually Jon is distracted from smacking her bottom red. Grabbing hold of her pinked ass cheeks instead, causing her to whimper slightly at the contact, He holds her steady and lines himself up. As he pushes into her from behind, finally entering the courtesan, another growl emits from Jon's throat, but this one is more… satisfied than the ones before, less aggressive and more pleased.
Bellegere moans out as she's finally penetrated, and her inner walls clench and flex around his cock in a most satisfying way. Jon… Jon can't help himself. That feeling is rising up inside of him again, that desire to conquer and take and make this woman his own. He wants her, he wants to make her his… and she clearly wants the same. Pulling back, Jon thrusts forward much more viciously, exulting in the cry that leaves Bellegere's lips. Then he does it again, and again, and again.
As he begins to fuck the courtesan with all his might, slamming home into her cunt with a purpose that not even he himself can properly explain, Jon starts to lose himself in the pleasure. She is so much more than young Jeyne Poole. She is more than the noble girl who decided to suck him off, at White Harbor. And she is all his, even if she might not know it yet.
Leaning forward, practically collapsing on top of her, Jon mounts Bellegere Otherys, he mounts the Black Pearl, and begins to fuck her even harder from behind, taking her with a ferociousness that he hadn't known himself capable of, before tonight. But then, he's not quite himself right now. Something has made something in his blood rise up and take over, something deep within him has been awakened. Perhaps it's wrong to say he's not himself right now… perhaps it's righter to say that he's more himself than he ever has been before.
Reaching out, Jon wraps a hand around Bellegere's throat again, and then slides the other hand around to grab at the Black Pearl's perfectly rounded tits as he lifts her top half slightly up off the bed, holding her in such a way that her back continues to arch as her head tilts upwards and her wanton moans fill the room, rather than being muffled by the blankets and pillows beneath them.
Jon's throbbing, pulsating cock has never felt so big, so large, so hard before. He's deeper inside of Bellegere than he would have thought possible right now, fucking the courtesan so hard that he's pounding against the entrance to her womb itself, ramming up against the cervix. And surprisingly enough… that last barrier is starting to give away. Jon's nostrils flare as the pleasure finally gets to Bellegere. She's a courtesan, so one would expect her to be able to last a while. And to be fair, she had, though it was a toss up whether the spankings and everything else had contributed or helped her stave off her eventual orgasm.
Regardless, one finally arrives, with the beautiful tanned courtesan crying out as an explosive orgasm rocks her gorgeous, voluptuous form. She spasms in Jon's grasp, though she doesn't truly go anywhere thanks to the way he's holding her. Her insides though, clench and squeeze down around his cock in a way that not even Jeyne was capable of when she'd cum for him. The Black Pearl's pussy is the tightest, wettest hole that Jon has ever fucked, and he just can't get enough of it.
Luckily, he's far from done. Turning Bellegere's head to face him, he kisses her deeply, passionately, practically claiming her mouth as his own as he continues to fuck into her. Her orgasm has made her inner passage even slicker than it already was, and Jon doesn't hesitate to go as fast as this allows him to go, battering into her cervix all the harder… until finally, he goes right through.
Bellegere screams as he penetrates her womb directly, but the noise is mostly swallowed up by Jon's mouth covering her own, and by his tongue doing it's best to make its way down her throat. As he kisses her, his cock pushes past her broken cervix and into her womb, and the last few inches of his member disappear into her pussy as he finally sheathes his entire length inside of her.
For a moment, Bellegere freezes up at this deepest of penetrations, tensing in his arms… and then she's shaking again as she climaxes once more around his cock, her inner walls and now her cervix as well tightening and squeezing and flexing along his member. Jon groans into her soft, full lips as he continues to kiss her and fuck her at the same exact time, never once slowing down, savagely pounding into her from behind with all his might.
Eventually, he disengages from her lips and pushes the courtesan's face back into the blankets beneath them, one hand grabbing up a fistful of her hair as he does so and the other coming back to rest on her upturned ass. He pounds into her from above rapidly and roughly, slamming into her womb again and again, until finally, after multiple orgasms on her part, he finds himself milked of his seed, his white, hot ejaculate filling her womb to the brim as he groans and all but collapses on top of her.
By the time he's done with her, the Black Pearl is already beginning to bruise. He was as violent as he was passionate, as brutal as he was possessive. He didn't just take the lead, he conquered her, he claimed her… and even as they both begin to come down from their respective highs of pleasure and ecstasy, Jon finds himself leaning forward and biting into her shoulder, marking her as his own with his teeth. It's instinct more than anything else, something primal and feral deep within him that he can't even explain.
Eventually though, Jon rolls off of Bellegere, laying on his back among the blankets and pillows, the bed they're both on incredibly soft and comfortable, to be perfectly honest. Though it feels a little strange, not having any furs like one would have in the North. Jon doesn't think on it too long though, as Bellegere slides up alongside him, cuddling close despite the physical abuse he's laid upon her. She looks at him with lust and love in equal measure in her chocolate-brown eyes.
"I knew… I knew you were special, Jon. I could feel it. I could feel it in my blood. I… I am Bellegere Otherys, descended from the first Black Pearl, also named Bellegere… and Aegon IV Targaryen. And I pledge myself to you, Dragon Lord."
Jon blinks owlishly at that, but before he can actually ask what she means by that, it seems like the courtesan's strength is finally leaving her, because her eyes droop and she suddenly slumps forward, passing out against his chest, very clearly exhausted by what they'd just done together. There's a strange sort of pride that fills him at knowing he basically caused that much, a primal satisfaction that he'd exhausted his… 'mate'?
More confused than ever, Jon isn't sure what to do about all of this. Dragon Lord? Why would she call him that? More than that, she was descended from a Targaryen? The fourth Aegon specifically… Jon couldn't say how far back that was, he didn't actually know his histories all that well, it'd never been important, truth be told. But the fact was, she had Targaryen blood, as diluted as it might be.
And she was naming him Dragon Lord. He didn't… he didn't understand. Right now, though, Bellegere wasn't in a position to give him answers, unfortunately. Still… Jon was conflicted. Part of him was screaming to run. To flee this situation, and maybe Braavos altogether. Part of him didn't trust her pledge, didn't trust her words.
Another part, which in turn fueled the former part, was pleased with it though. It was an alien satisfaction, worming its way through Jon's chest, through his very soul if not his mind. He was happy, that she'd effectively given herself over to him. He couldn't exactly explain why, but he was happy. Did he have any right to be though? Should he stay or should he go? Was this all a trap that he needed to escape before the walls finished closing in? Or could there be something here?
Jon didn't know what to do, as he lay there with Bellegere's naked, freshly fucked body pressed up against him. But it was time to make a choice. Pursue this… or run.
Getting Answers
Needless to say, Jon doesn't get much sleep that night. But he doesn't leave either. He stays, because at the end of the day, the Black Pearl's words required further interrogation and investigation. Bellegere Otherys… she'd named one of the Targaryen's as an ancestor, Aegon the Fourth, if Jon had heard properly. Unfortunately, while Jon had had some lessons alongside Robb, as the bastard, he wasn't the focus of their tutelage. He was allowed to slack off, and while at the time he'd been glad to be able to do so, focusing on his martial training over his book learning, he regretted not knowing his histories better now.
All the same, the fact that Bellegere had named him Dragon Lord was the most disconcerting thing of all, and as far as Jon knew, no amount of book knowledge would have allowed him to understand why exactly she would call him that. He was Eddard Stark's bastard, a bastard of the North through and through. That was why his name had been Snow for much of his life. He was a wolf by blood… not a dragon.
And yet, maybe if it were just Bellegere or just the Iron Bank, Jon could chalk it up to confusion or just plain wrong information. But at the Iron Bank, they'd presented him with a crest that was distinctly draconic in nature, and a last name that Jon somehow knew meant dragonfire. Meanwhile, at the same time, Bellegere had now called him Dragon Lord.
Something was going on, and Jon wanted to get to the bottom of it. Still, he was no monster. He would never truly hurt a woman. He lets Bellegere sleep… however, when she finally stirs, when she pushes off of his chest with a yawn, and then smiles broadly up at him with adoration in her eyes, Jon simply clenches his jaw.
"I am owed an explanation, courtesan."
Faltering slightly at that, Bellegere furrows her brow.
"I… I don't understand, Jon. What do you need explained?"
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the age difference between him and the absolutely gorgeous woman (he's so young, and while she's still fairly young herself, he feels too young in this instant) Jon hardens his resolve.
"You named me Dragon Lord before you passed out last night. You, Bellegere Otherys, descendant of the first Black Pearl and Aegon IV Targaryen. You pledged yourself to me and named me Dragon Lord. Explain."
Bellegere searches his face for a moment, honestly surprised. Bringing a hand up, she places it on Jon's chest, splaying her fingers outwards.
"Do you… do you truly not know, Jon? Can you not feel it? Even with my blood so diluted, I can feel it. The connection between us. Between two people who have the blood of the dragons flowing through their veins. It's what drew me to you last night, as much as your prowess in battle. Can you not sense it? Your presence… it's so much stronger than mine. Concentrate. Focus."
Jon has a look of consternation on his face, even as he does what she says. It feels ridiculous, but he 'reaches out' to Bellegere with his senses… and to his shock, he feels it. Like she said, her blood is much more diluted than his. In truth, even though Jon had no way of knowing it, he shone like a beacon to those who shared the blood of the dragons, be they Targaryen descendants or even descendants of blood from Old Valyria.
Meanwhile, to find that connection, to find that blood within Bellegere takes more focus and concentration, just as she'd said. But he does feel it… he feels the way they've tied themselves together through their coupling as well, and how her words the night before when she pledged herself to him… they weren't just true, they were binding, in a way. She was his.
"But… but how. I'm the bastard of Eddard Stark…"
Bellegere bites her imminently kissable lower lip and gives a half shrug, which does amazing things to her naked caramel breasts as she looks up at him with those chocolate brown eyes of hers.
"I do not know, my lord. Perhaps your father slept with a Targaryen woman?"
The problem was, there weren't any at the time, as far as Jon was aware. Save for the Queen… but then, she was pregnant with a girl if Jon was remembering what he'd heard correctly. And he couldn't really see his father cuckolding a King, even if it was the Mad King. Nor could he think of a time when Eddard would have had a chance to do it. No, Jon had always assumed his mother was either a whore or perhaps an innocent barmaid that caught his father's eye during the war. It was the only thing that made sense.
But then, what sort of peasant girl would have dragon blood in them? Jon was so confused… and Bellegere was sucking his dick. Blinking at that sudden realization, Jon looks down to find that the beautiful courtesan has laid herself halfway across his lap and taken his cock between her lips as she splays her hands across his legs, her beautiful caramel breasts squished against his body.
She looks up at him with those gorgeous eyes of hers, slurping and lapping at his morning wood, even as Jon's breath hitches. He finds himself placing a hand in her hair almost instinctively, and before he even registers what he's doing, he's guiding her along, controlling the encounter, commanding her… dominating her. She goes along with it happily, her throat continuously swallowing as she suppresses her gag reflex in order to take his cock all the way into her mouth. As her lips suction down around the base of his member, one of her hands slips up to fondle his balls, and Jon groans, tossing his head back as the truly masterful technique of the gorgeous dark-haired courtesan sends him right over the edge.
As Jon finishes inside of Bellegere's mouth, the Black Pearl drinks every single drop. When she finally pulls back, it's with a wanton self-satisfied smile on her face, even as she swipes a bit of his cum from the corner of her mouth back between her lips.
"Feeling better, my lord?"
He was, truth be told. Now that he was coming down from the impromptu release, he found himself thinking clearer.
"Yes… I need to return to the Iron Bank."
Bellegere frowns slightly at that but doesn't say anything. Jon doesn't fail to notice though, and at this point, he'd rather she speak her mind than keep secrets.
"What? What is it?"
"The Iron Bank… what business do you have with them my lord, if you don't mind me asking?"
He doesn't, truth be told. He can feel it, can feel the power her oath to serve him has. Bellegere is not a spy, here to drain him of both cum and information and then leave him high and dry. She is his, and a possessive feeling of satisfaction wells up within him as he acknowledge that. So, Jon tells Bellegere everything, from his Lord father giving him the silver, to his arrival in Braavos the day before and his trip into the Iron Bank, as well as what had happened with the banker he'd met with.
By the time he's done, Bellegere looks pensive. She collects her thoughts for a moment, before speaking.
"… They know more than I do about you, Jon. I'm sure of it. For me… for me it was a feeling. I was drawn to you last night, and only after I got close enough, only after you took my hand, did I know why I was drawn to you. Only as you took me like the dragon lord you are was I able to tell the blood that ran through you. The Iron Bank… they would never operate on a hunch or a feeling like I did. They can tell you more about your past, about your heritage."
Jon had already come to the same conclusion, truth be told. Nodding, he begins to rise.
"You're right…"
Turning to Bellegere, who remains sprawled on the bed, looking as gorgeous as ever, Jon comes to a decision and holds out a hand to her invitingly.
"Come with me?"
Bellegere's eyes widen, and her lips curl into a smile as her entire face lights up. She takes Jon's hand and lets him pull her to her feet, then takes it a step further as she leans into him, pressing her naked body into his.
"With pleasure, my lord…"
Jon almost takes her again, right then and there. The woman is pure sex, there's no doubt about it… but the day isn't getting any younger, and he wants answers. Bellegere will always be there for him to have later.
-x-X-x-
"Jon! Welcome back… and I see you've brought company as well. The estimable Black Pearl…"
Tycho is there to greet them within minutes of entering the Iron Bank, Jon having handed over his sword to the door guards once again before stepping inside. He seems jovial towards Jon, but when his eyes land on Bellegere, who is currently hanging off his arm wearing her finest silks and a tasteful amount of jewelry, his jovial attitude grows slightly colder. He hides it well though, even as Jon nods to his plus one.
"Bellegere Otherys has my complete confidence. She'll be staying at my side while we continue our talks from yesterday."
The Iron Banker falters ever so slightly, but in the end bows his head in acceptance.
"… Very well. Right this way then, you two."
Soon enough, they're in a private room, seated at a table. Jon and Bellegere on one side, Tycho Nestoris on the other. There's a moment's pause as the banker collects his thoughts, but while he's doing so, Jon decides then and there that he's not going to beat around the bush.
"Let's cut to the quick of it, shall we? What do you know about my bloodline? About my heritage? About… about my dragon blood?"
Tycho startles at that, and after a moment he tosses an accusatory look over at Bellegere. The courtesan is as composed and calm as ever, smiling gently, looking as gorgeous as always. Eventually, Tycho turns his gaze back to Jon, eyeing him for a long moment as if to truly take his measure. Whatever he seems must impress him, because in the end he nods.
"Very well. Cutting to the chase… you are the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."
That wasn't what Jon was expecting to hear. Even knowing that he somehow had the blood of the dragon in him, even after what he'd learned from Bellegere, never in a million years had he thought to hear that. Taken completely aback, physically rearing back as if struck, Jon gapes, wide eyed.
"W… What?"
Tycho nods, as if his reaction was expected. Then he continues on, all business.
"Indeed. You were born to Lyanna Stark in the Tower of Joy during the year Two-Hundred and Eighty-One. The same year that your father, Rhaegar Targaryen, the last Prince of Dragonstone, died at the Battle of the Trident. But he did not pass from this world before annulling his marriage to Elia Martell in order to marry your mother. As such, you are legitimate."
Something wells up in Jon, some emotion he can't quite identify. All he knows is that he's suddenly on his feet, hands pressed into the table as he leans over it.
"How?! How do you know this?! What proof do you have?!"
Tycho pauses for a moment, before shaking his head.
"I apologize. Suffice to say, we have our methods. And our proof, bought and paid for at great cost to the Iron Bank. We pride ourselves on our bookkeeping, you see, and in order to keep our records in order we must have knowledge of ALL of our clients and their holdings. It wouldn't do for any of our account holders to be keeping secrets from us."
Letting out a sigh, the Iron Banker gives Jon a pitying look.
"Unfortunately, I cannot tell you anymore at this time. You have a choice before you now, Jon. You have a path to walk, but it is up to you which path that is."
Holding out his hands, Tycho presents one palm, and then the other.
"On the one, you may become just one more of our valued clients. We will not turn you away, of course. You will always have an account within the Iron Bank, so long as you do not cross us. But our relationship will be of a strictly professional behavior. Whatever you do with the information you now hold, with the knowledge of your heritage… that will be up to you… and any allies you come across along the way."
Tycho pointedly glances at Bellegere as he says that, before continuing on with a small smile.
"On the other, we had hoped that you might join with us in a closer bond than simply account holder and bank. I will be blunt, Jon, since you seem to appreciate that. Westeros is in significant debt to us, debt that we have every reason to believe may never be paid. There have been multiple plans presented in order to get said debt paid… you could say that you're mine."
Jon furrows his brow at that, but before he can ask for an explanation, Tycho gives him one.
"Truth be told, I didn't expect to get this opportunity. None of us did. You were held rather tightly by the North for all your life, and out of all of Westeros, the North is not… quite as beholden to us. On top of that, all of our operatives reported you were being groomed to grow up and eventually exile yourself to the Night's Watch, which would have left you unable to inherit. It was only when you abruptly changed course, only when we found out that you were heading this way, that we saw a path forward, through you."
"Through me."
Tycho nods as Jon parrots the words in a slightly disbelieving tone.
"Indeed, Jon. The Iron Bank would like to sponsor you. We would like to help you gather an army, with which you would cross the Narrow Sea and take the Iron Throne. Of course, King Robert has lived in excess for all his reign and all your life… he's created staggering debts, to say the least, both to us and others. We would not expect you to pay these, at least not in full… instead, if you were to accept this offer, the Iron Bank would assist you, would help you in making a name for yourself, and in exchange, when you finally sat upon your throne… you would allow us to establish a branch of our bank in King's Landing."
And there it is. Jon might not know much about banking. Hell, he barely knows his numbers, though he can at the very least count coin. But something tells him that what Tycho is asking for is no small thing. And yet… what does Jon want? Now that he knows who he is and what he is… what does he want? Frowning, a stray thought passes through his mind.
"What… what about Viserys Targaryen? As Rhaegar's younger brother, doesn't he have more of a right to the throne then I do?"
Tycho smiles slightly, seeming almost proud that Jon was thinking politically, even if it was in rather simple terms.
"He would, though with the success of Robert's Rebellion and the shattering of the Targaryen Dynasty, the 'right' to the Iron Throne becomes incredibly murky, in my and my colleagues' humble opinions. That said, Viserys was considered as an option as well… and discarded. Unfortunately, the young man is incredibly unstable and mentally unsound. He's also being manipulated by other schemers and is currently in the process of selling his sister to one of the more prominent Horse Lords. Apparently, he hopes to convince the great Khal Drogo to take his sizable khalasar across the Narrow Sea to attack Westeros in his name."
Jon frowns at that. Something about the derisive tone Tycho adopts makes it sound like a bad plan. Bellegere leans in close and murmurs into his ear.
"The Dothraki refuse to travel on boats Jon. They view saltwater as 'poisoned water'. Convincing a Khal and his khalasar to cross the Narrow Sea would be like… would be like convincing the armies of Dorne to go beyond your Wall to fight those Wildlings that live up there."
Ah, now he understands. Jon gives the slightest of nods, grateful to have Bellegere at his side for this. Beneath the table, he gives her hand a squeeze. However, even as grateful as he is for her presence, he knows that this decision has to be his and his alone. So, does she, obviously, given that she has not tried to give him any advice, or tell him what to do.
No, in the end, Jon has a choice to make, and judging by Tycho's expectant, hopeful expression, that choice needs to be made now. Does he strike out on his own? Or does he take the Iron Bank's assistance and see where that leads him?
Making a Choice
It doesn't take Jon long to come to a decision. In the end, what is he to do but say yes? While he could strike out on his own, and with Bellegere by his side he wasn't quite sure it would BE 'on his own', there was no denying that the Iron Bank… they were an institution with such a rich history that their existence permeated even into the frozen north, all the way to the halls of Winterfell, to Lord Stark himself.
His father had sent him here… or rather, his uncle. Jon finds himself wondering if Eddard Stark would have told him to go to Braavos and make an account with the Iron Bank if he'd known that they knew. If he'd known that the Iron Bank was waiting to offer Jon all of this, Lord Stark likely never would have let Jon go in the first place.
But it didn't matter now what his uncle thought. Didn't matter what he wanted either. What mattered was what Jon wanted… and while he might have spent most of his life content with being the bastard, this last little while, ever since his birthday, Jon was… content with nothing. He wanted more. He wanted it all. He… he needed it all.
The Iron Bank would help him with that. As would Bellegere. Still holding the courtesan's hand beneath the table, he gives it another squeeze, this one of assurance rather than thanks. He doesn't want her to think that he's choosing the Iron Bank over her. No, he wants… he NEEDS her by his side. Still, leveling a calm stare over at Tycho, Jon nods his head.
"I've made my decision. I accept the Iron Bank's offer of sponsorship."
It's not all that noticeable. Honestly, Jon isn't sure whether he's imagining it or what. Tycho doesn't make some big show of letting his shoulders slump in relief or allow his face to beam with happiness. He's a banker, and he has some self-respect. But that doesn't stop Jon from seeing the slight downturn of Tycho's shoulders as a tenseness that he hadn't noticed before leaves the other man. It doesn't stop him from noting the avarice and happiness in the banker's eyes as Tycho bows his head in acknowledgment of Jon's words.
"Wonderful. You have made an excellent decision, Jon."
Jon cocks his head to the side at that, the young man keeping his tone level, even as his eyes flash.
"I would hope now that we've come to an agreement, you might tell me exactly what proof you have of my claim to the Iron Throne. What evidence is there of my lineage?"
Tycho does smile at that, a carefully crafted smile as he inclines his head to Jon's question.
"But of course. Let me gather the evidence, as well as the contract that we will both be signing. I shall be back shortly."
Tycho rises from his seat and bows low to Jon, all the way to the waist. From what little Jon remembers of his lessons on court etiquette, which he had NOT been allowed to skip out on, Tycho's bow is more in line with a bow to royalty then anything else. Jon just nods his head in return, watching as the banker leaves the room. And then it's just him and Bellegere.
Before Jon can even speak, Bellegere is on his lap. Blinking as he suddenly finds himself with handfuls of the gorgeous courtesan, Bellegere bites her lower lip when he gives her a questioning look.
"Long have I wanted to say that I fucked a man in the halls of the Iron Bank. Would you care to make a humble woman's dream come true, my King?"
Jon's cock was already beginning to rise given the lapful of Black Pearl he was contending with, along with her rubbing up against him. It practically springs to life however when Bellegere names him her king. A growl erupts from low in Jon's chest, out of his throat, even as he pulls the beautiful caramel-skinned woman in closer, kissing her deeply and pressing her up against his chest.
His hands slide down and work quickly at her dress, and Bellegere in turn works at the ties of his trousers. In no time at all, her cunt is exposed, his cock is out, and she's sinking down onto his member, filling herself with him even as Jon groans into her mouth, luxuriating in the taste of her lips and the tightness of her pussy.
The courtesan rides him slowly, gasping and moaning his name as they kiss and embrace one another. But eventually she does pull back a bit, rising up his cock and then slamming herself back down onto it, even as she offers him her breasts… which Jon greedily feasts upon.
"If you had said no, if you still said no, ah… there are paths open to you even now, your m-majesty."
Her breath hitches and she moans, even as Jon looks at her, continuing to fuck her but nonetheless listening to her words.
"We, mm, courtesans of Braavos are, ah, not like those of other places i-in the world. Especially we Titled Seven. Oooh, while the others c-cannot boast of, hah, my same blood… I know that if given the c-chance, you would, oooh, conquer all of them~"
Bellegere pauses to let out a squeal and Jon feels it as she climaxes around his cock, her inner walls clenching and squeezing down hard along his member in an obvious orgasm.
"They would follow you, my King, as I, ooh, do. They would p-pledge themselves to you… a-and with them, you could, mm, have all of Braavos."
Jon lifts a brow at that, even as he grunts at the feel of her cunt attempting to milk his cock for all that it's worth.
"I'm not certain that's how things work around here, Bellegere…"
She gives a breathless laugh in return, her hands settling on his shoulders so that she can speed up the pace, bouncing herself up and down on his dick faster and faster, her exposed breasts bouncing and jiggling in a most satisfying fashion along with her, mere inches from his face.
"You, mm, would not be Sealord, no. But ours is no small power, ooh, my King. With the, hah, Titled Seven at your back, you would have a c-considerable amount of, mm, influence~"
Before Jon can respond to that, Tycho does it for him, stepping back into the room with a rolled-up scroll in one hand, and a small book in the other.
"She's not wrong, Jon. The Titled Courtesans of Braavos exist in a class above any other in their profession, even those in Braavos that are untitled. It would be accurate to say that the power in the city is built around four central pillars. There's us, of course, we at the Iron Bank who provide wealth to merchants both here and further on. Then, there's the Sealord and his Arsenal, who keep the peace of the city, as well as taking care of it's defense. And of course, there's the Titled Seven, Braavos' most famous courtesans, who with their charm and beauty, command fast sums of wealth and influence and power, all on their own."
At first, when Tycho had entered the room, both Jon and Bellegere had frozen up, the courtesan in particular seeming like she was going to jump off of his cock in embarrassment. But by her very nature, Bellegere Otherys was not a woman easily embarrassed. She hadn't brought him to release yet, and that made her loathe to part with him before their coupling was done.
When Tycho continued speaking in such a casual tone, not even seeming to regard Jon and Bellegere's intercourse as a problem as he opened the scroll and spread it out on the table before them, Bellegere ultimately decided to continue. As such, Jon found himself talking to the poised banker while an absolutely gorgeous woman continued to ride his cock, gyrating her hips across his lap and barely even keeping her voice down as she bites her lower lip to keep her moans contained to some whimpering.
"You mentioned four pillars?"
Tycho's lips turn up slightly and he nods, clearly pleased that Jon had noticed, especially when he was distracted with… other things.
"Indeed. The fourth and final pillar of Braavos' power structure is the House of Black and White, home to the Faceless Men who worship the Many-Faced God. They are… a more silent power here in Braavos. Truthfully, they tend not to cause much of a stir unless someone else decides to prod them. They do not take contracts on anyone who lives in the city, of course, lest they be ousted. Similarly, though, nobody moves against them, leaving them in peace to ply their trade."
Jon had of course heard about the Faceless Men. Assassins… and now that he was apparently to be a King, the mere mention was enough to send a shiver down his back. Though, not enough to wilt his cock buried inside of Bellegere's quim. That was probably more of a testament to the Black Pearl's technique more than anything else though. There was no denying that Jon had a healthy fear for the Faceless Men's reputation.
"… What's to stop someone from hiring one of them to come after me?"
Tycho's smile actually grows at that.
"You're not a coward for being concerned, Jon. You're smart. That said… we are what would stop them."
Jon blinks at that, but Tycho is already continuing on, gesturing down at the contract between the two of them.
"Obviously, once you sign this contract, you will be allied with the Iron Bank. Given our wealth and our residence here in Braavos, we have a long-standing relationship with the House of Black and White. Put simply, if someone were to try to put a contract out on your head, the House would come to us first, so that we might present them with a counter-offer."
That was surprisingly reassuring. And also, he was getting close. Part of Jon wonders if he should be embarrassed at cumming inside Bellegere right in front of the Iron Bank representative. Another part of him, the part he was beginning to consider distinctly draconic in nature, was pleased to be putting this other male in his place by seeding the female in front of him.
Regardless, Bellegere's clenching cunt milks Jon of his seed, and once he's filled her womb, the courtesan quickly climbs off of his member, tucking it back away and fixing her dress as she retakes her seat without a word. Tycho, not commenting on the lurid display at all, merely pushes the contract forward. Jon, of course, reads it.
Sure, part of him wanted to just get it over with and sign the damn thing, but even if he was raised as a bastard, he was still raised as a Lord's bastard. Eddard Stark had made sure that Jon knew his letters, and Jon wasn't going to let that go to waste now. Of course, just because he COULD read and write didn't mean he understood legalese… but luckily, the contract was actually rather straight forward, much to Jon's surprise and relief.
It confirmed all that Tycho had already offered, as well as what the Iron Bank expected from Jon in return. They would help to put him on the Iron Throne, and in exchange for forgiving most of the debt once Jon was King, he would allow them to install a branch of the Iron Bank in King's Landing permanently. On top of that, his Master of Coin would be an Iron Bank representative.
Smirking a little at that part, Jon glances over at Tycho Nestoris and cocks an eyebrow.
"And who exactly would the Iron Bank send to be my Master of Coin, hm?"
Tycho inclines his head in acknowledgment of the subtle undertone to Jon's voice.
"That would of course be the choice of those higher than me. However, all things taken into consideration, I think they would go with an option that you would be most comfortable with… a familiar face, if you will, to better facilitate our extended relationship."
Right. That made sense, the banker wouldn't be doing all of this if he wasn't getting anything out of it. In the end, Jon had already made up his mind, really. Barring any traps in the contract, he was always going to sign. Given he couldn't find a trace of said traps, it seemed it was time to make the plunge. Taking the quill and ink well that Tycho had provided earlier, Jon signs his name on the dotted line. Not so much with a flourish, but with the painstaking effort of a young man who had been taught how to write many years ago and didn't get nearly enough practice with it.
Still, he thought his signature had come out pretty well, and from the approving nod that Tycho gave, it seemed he was right. As the banker takes the contract and sets it aside to let the ink dry, he grabs the small book as well, and opens it up to a specific page. Once he's presented that to Jon, Tycho moves to sign the contract himself, all while speaking on what Jon will find within.
"This is a copy of the diary of High Septon Maynard. The particular entry I'm showing you details her action during the time period that immediately preceded Robert's Rebellion. Namely, the fact that she secretly annulled the marriage between Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife, Elia Martell at the time, and then just as secretly married Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark in a private ceremony. She also notes in the writing that Lyanna was already several months pregnant at the time. The dates and your age line up perfectly, we've found."
Jon leans forward and reads… but it's just as the banker has said. If Tycho is to be believed (and at this point, Jon is pretty much required to trust this man that he's now signed on with for the long haul) then this diary is indeed proof of Jon's true parentage… his true heritage. In the end, it's really only confirmation of what he already knew, what he'd known to be true since Bellegere had explained to him what she felt just by being near him, and he in turn had reached out to sense the dragon blood within her.
But Jon doesn't say that. In the end, composing himself, the young man swallows past the lump in his throat and leans back in his chair, nodding.
"Very well then. Thank you for showing me this. I… I confess, I know not what we do next?"
Tycho inclines his head.
"As I see it, you have two options before you. Initially, it was our plan to send you on to Pentos with a small force of mercenaries at your back. The marriage between your aunt and the Dothraki Khal is at the end of the month. Just enough time to get you there, where you could perhaps interfere in some way. We do not believe Viserys can be reasoned with… but having Daenerys Targaryen at your side would be a boon as well as add to your legitimacy."
Tycho pauses and then looks to Bellegere.
"However, the Black Pearl has suggested a different route. You now have the Iron Bank's backing, Jon. One of the four pillars of Braavos. One of the three that actually move about the city in any meaningful way. If you were to manage to… conquer the Titled Seven as Bellegere is suggesting, well… that would give you two of the main three. It is one thing to have the Iron Bank's backing. It is another entirely to be able to bend the Sealord to your ear through the combined pressure of the Iron Bank and Braavos' Titled Courtesans."
Spreading his palms wide, the banker offers something of a shrug.
"These are the two immediate paths I see available to you. Both have their upsides and their downsides. Both will lead towards our ultimate goal of installing you on the Iron Throne. You need only choose."
So that was it then. He had one of the seven Titled Courtesans of Braavos already, and with Bellegere's help, he could take the other six and show them what it meant to bed a dragon. Or, he could go to Pentos with the Iron Bank's backing and save an Aunt he'd never met from marrying a savage, while confronting an Uncle he'd never met who was apparently just as Mad as his father, Jon's grandfather.
It was a tough call. But it was Jon's call to make.
Off to Pentos
Thinking about Daenerys Targaryen, Jon can't help but feel something welling up inside of him. Deep within his chest, the dragon that he's only recently realized slumbers there has had its interest piqued. Daenerys… Daenerys is where his future lies. Or more accurately, it is he who she belongs with. HER future… is with him.
He can't just allow his Aunt to get married to some barbarian savage, now can he? She's of his blood, after all. His Uncle wants to sell Daenerys for an army, and from what Tycho has already told him, Viserys Targaryen is not well in the head, not at all. If Jon focuses his efforts here in Braavos, then obviously his power and influence within this one city will increase in the long run, so long as he's successful. But at what cost to the rest of the world? Allowing his only living relatives to go off with a Dothraki Khalasar is… in no way advisable, as far as Jon can tell.
Letting out a low sigh, Jon squeezes Bellegere's hand beneath the table, and gives her an apologetic smile before turning back to the Iron Banker across from them.
"I will accept the Iron Bank's wisdom on this matter and go to Pentos."
Tycho looks pleased by this, while at the same time, Jon can feel Bellegere stiffening at his side. Still, she slowly relaxes, as he rubs soothing circles into the back of her hand with his thumb. He doesn't say it, obviously, but he's hoping to convey his meaning anyways. Just because he's rejected her plan for the time being doesn't mean that he's rejecting her. In point of fact… Jon can't imagine a world where he lets Bellegere leave his side.
She, like the Aunt he's going to save, has the blood of dragons flowing through her, no matter how faint that blood is. And Jon… Jon is feeling quite… possessive.
"Very well then, your majesty. I'll arrange for transport."
Jon simply gives Tycho a nod, which the Iron Banker takes as a goodbye, given that he departs the room a moment later. Once he's gone, Jon turns towards Bellegere and smiles at her, asking one simple question.
"Come with me?"
Her eyes light up at that, and she smiles shyly, the small smile doing wonders for her great beauty as she ducks her head a bit, but ultimately nods in response. Jon's heart swells, and his blood roars in triumph. It's only right that the courtesan follow him to the ends of the earth. He is the dragon, and she is his in every way that matters.
Of course, that does make one wonder how Daenerys will react to him. He is the dragon… but then, so is she, right? Will she bow to him and submit to him, as Bellegere does? Jon finds himself curious to see just what sort of woman his Aunt is, that she would allow Viserys to marry her to a horse lord. Well, he supposes he'll find out soon enough.
-x-X-x-
A day later, they're on a ship, headed for Pentos. The ship is at the head of a fleet of four, with the other three of them each a mighty vessel filled to the brim with mercenaries and weaponry. Though, from what Tycho had hastily told him on the docks before their departure, Jon was not expected to besiege Pentos with this small force or anything like that. Nor could he expect to be able to use three ships of mercenaries, no matter how battle-hardened they were, to fight Khal Drogo's entire khalasar.
No, the mercenaries were there to back him up and to keep the Iron Bank's investment from depreciating through his death. Basically, they were to help him beat a hasty retreat if his mission ended in failure in anyway and he found himself threatened with fatal harm. They were also there to protect him from any would-be assassins and keep him safe until he could make his challenge.
Though, who that challenge would be to, Jon did not yet know. He was still considering his options on that front… considerations that were made somewhat more difficult by the distraction Bellegere was currently providing. Obviously, Bellegere's pleasure barge was not made to brave the seas. But she was still the Black Pearl of Braavos, with all the wealth, power, and influence that that came with.
So, the first ship in their fleet, unlike the others, was not filled with mercenaries and the like. It still had a sizable crew to it of course, a ship this large needed one, but the rest of it's passengers were of a softer variety. Effectively, Bellegere had purchased this ship from the Arsenal of Braavos and they'd brought it along with the rest of the fleet so that she and by extension Jon could live in comfort on the journey to Pentos.
This left them both in the Captain's Quarters on the ship, with Bellegere as eager as ever to distract him… to please him, more like. Jon lays back on one of the cushioned lounges that she'd had brought aboard, and watches as the absolutely gorgeous caramel-skinned courtesan dances for him, all smiles and flowing movements, showing off her beautiful body in more ways than one, clad in the finest silks that give tantalizing views of parts of her.
He's seen her completely naked, of course. He's been deep inside of her more than once now. And yet, watching her dance, watching the traces of a body he knows to be beautiful appear and then disappear before his eyes as the flowing silks hide the juicier parts of her gorgeous form… there's something to be said about how absolutely mouthwatering Bellegere currently is.
Seeing no point in denying himself what he truly desires any longer, especially with how hard he is right now, Jon beckons Bellegere over to him as casually as she can manage. Her smile grows, and the beautiful courtesan slinks ever closer, still dancing, still swaying back and forth as she shows off in every way that she possibly can.
Working his pants open, Jon extracts his cock from its confines, given that it was beginning to hurt. He gives Bellegere a pointed look, but her smile only grows wider still… more teasing, certainly, as she turns and lowers her bottom, still clad in her silken dress, onto his crotch, rubbing and grinding down on his cock, but with the soft, silken garment still very much… in the way.
Jon growls and makes a move to grab her, but Bellegere is ready for it, giggling as she pulls right out of reach, the minx. His nostrils flare, and the dragon in his chest demands satisfaction. But… he refuses to let either it or her win. He refuses to act like a beast ALL of the time. No, Jon will not chase her… he knows now that she will come to him willingly, eventually.
Instead, the young man, who the Iron Bank would see as King of all of Westeros, leans back in his seat once more, even taking his hand off of his cock as he lounges back. The only thing that betrays his current casualness is of course his twitching, hard erection, but then, that is as much bait as anything else.
When he does not chase Bellegere, she notices and looks back at him with a slight pout. But Jon is the picture-perfect image of serenity, save for his throbbing member, and simply raises a single eyebrow back at her. Taking the challenge for what it is, the seductive, sultry courtesan licks her lips and begins to dance again, though this time she's having a hard time not staring at his cock, rather than staring him in the eye.
More and more, Bellegere is staring at his big, fat length. More and more, Jon notices that she's approaching, almost unconsciously, moving closer and closer without seeming to even notice that she's doing it. She dances right up to him, and only with such proximity does the Black Pearl realize that she's effectively been drawn in by Jon's member. With a light huff, Bellegere admits defeat and falls to her knees between his legs.
Her silken dress is pulled down off of her shoulders, and her delectable dark-skinned breasts fall out as she leans up and forward, encapsulating his cock between her tits. Or at least, as much of Jon's sizable member as she can. Once she's got her breasts firmly wrapped around his lower length, Bellegere leans her head forward and sucks his cockhead into her mouth as well, bobbing up and down the first few inches of Jon's shaft, allowing the drool, saliva, and some precum to collect on her lower lip and ultimately slide down his length into the crevice of her cleavage to provide lubrication for her to slide her tits up and down the rest of his cock.
Jon groans now, knowing he's won their little battle before. Bellegere broke first, and now here she is, submitting to his power. The dragon in his chest that had so ardently advocated for chasing after her is now pleased, practically purring in Jon's head, its feelings a mirror of Jon's own at this point. He's just as satisfied, just as content to have HIS woman on her knees, so directly worshipping him and his cock.
It's not long before Bellegere extracts his release from him. Jon doesn't give her any warning beyond a simple grunt, but then, an experienced courtesan like the Black Pearl doesn't need it. Having sensed his impending climax, Bellegere is more than ready for it, and the moment his seed begins to hit the back of her throat, she's swallowing, drinking down his white, hot ejaculate like it's nobody's business but theirs.
Her hot, wet mouth feels like heaven, and so do her tits. Jon lets his head fall back as he finishes, as she swallows every last drop. He lays there, lounges there really, even as Bellegere pulls back from his cock, letting it leave her mouth with a pop. Then she climbs up onto his lap and happily sinks down onto his member, seeming to sense his desire to remain lazy, and taking it upon herself to continue giving her master pleasure.
As she rides him, Bellegere begins to moan, panting heavily, her face growing more and more flushed as her exposed breasts bounce and jiggle in front of his face. Leaning forward, she brings her chest closer and closer purely unconsciously… and Jon can't possibly resist such an open invitation. Bellegere yelps, squeals, and then moans some more when he reaches up and takes hold of both of her tits in his hands, pulling them down into suckling range.
Slurping and lapping and even nipping at her sizable rack, Jon plays with Bellegere's breasts to his heart's content, even as the caramel-skinned courtesan continues to bounce up and down his cock quite happily, grinding into his crotch, her cunt walls clenching and squeezing HARD at his member. It's not long before she cums for the first time that evening, and once that happens its as if the floodgates have been opened.
He's quite aware that it's partially his heritage that's doing it. Bellegere has already confided in him that no other man she's ever lain with is capable of making her feel quite so good. In point of fact, she even told him that for many of her clients, she's usually faking her pleasure. Part of being a decent courtesan involved knowing how to please the men who came to her for comfort, after all. She was, without a doubt, an excellent actress.
Jon had of course told her that he never wanted her to pretend with him, that he wanted her to tell him if he was hurting her or wasn't doing something right. Bellegere had smiled and told him that she'd never had to pretend yet… and didn't ever expect to. Even now, Jon knows he can trust her… he can feel it in his chest, her pleasure, her adoration, her devotion. He can feel that her orgasms are real, even as her cunt clenches around his cock in a most satisfying faction, all while he continues to lavish her exquisite, perfect tits with praise.
It's not long before Jon reaches his next climax and pumps a nice, thick load of seed into Bellegere's womb. Even as the courtesan subsequently collapses onto him from the pleasure, he's already moving to wrap his arms around her as he smiles.
His Aunt's wedding is a month away, and according to Tycho, the journey would take just about as long. Until then… he had a lot of free time to fill.
-x-X-x-
"Your orders, my lord?"
As Jon looks over at the Captain of the small Mercenary Company that the Iron Bank had procured for him, he can't help but smile somewhat crookedly. There's an actual real note of respect in the other man's voice that hadn't exactly been there early on in their journey. Jon had quickly come to the somewhat sensible conclusion that spending all of his time in bed with Bellegere wasn't conducive to keeping his skills sharp.
It would be so easy to fall into this lull, this sense of security that he didn't need to continue training just because he had men to fight for him now. Jon refused to do that though. Perhaps he got that from his uncle… perhaps he'd gotten it from the stories of King Robert. The man had been so very strong, when he'd struck down Jon's father at the Trident. He'd been a monster of a warrior, by all accounts.
And then, by all accounts, he'd spent the next two decades growing fat and weak, letting himself get lost in whoring and drinking to the extent that even the North heard rumors of Robert's follies. Jon refused to become like that, he refused to ever be like that, just as he refused to ever be like the Mad King who'd kicked his grandfather and his uncle on the Stark side of the family.
He would be better… he had to be better. So, after spending that first day with Bellegere, Jon had transported himself to one of the other boats and asked for training. Fighting at sea was far different from fighting on land, as he quickly found out, but learning how was an excellent use of his time nonetheless, Jon had deemed. Not only had he learned quite a lot about how to deal with the rocking of a boat while still trying to stick his opponent with the pointy end of his sword, he'd also managed to keep his muscles strong and loose, and his stamina and strength at exactly where it would be.
Now that he was in Pentos, even if there was no one currently attacking him, Jon had every reason to expect that he would be committing violence of some sort before the end of this. The only thing left to do was decide what came next. They'd made good time, and there was three days left before his Aunt's marriage to the Dothraki Savage was to take place. Khal Drogo and his Khalasar were already here, of course, all camped outside of Pentos, currently peaceful… or as peaceful as the horse lords could be.
He had two options once more, as far as he could tell. He could go find Viserys right now and challenge his uncle for control of their House. Of course, with how diminished their House was, that effectively meant control of the last female Targaryen, namely Daenerys. This would almost certainly result in a duel, which might upset the Magister said to be hosting Viserys and Daenerys, one Illyrio Mopatis. It would likely also upset the Horse Lord that'd come all this way for Daenerys. But given Jon had four ships and a company of mercenaries, he was pretty sure he could make off with Daenerys before Khal Drogo and his khalasar could even learn of what he'd done and try to ransack the city.
Or, Jon could wait. He could wait three more days, and then he could crash the wedding itself and challenge Khal Drogo for Daenerys' hand in marriage, simply bypassing Viserys altogether. Given what he'd been told about the Dothraki by Tycho, Drogo would have to accept a one on one challenge or lose face… and Jon's mercenaries would allow for this, a show of force at the wedding that would give Jon a chance to say his piece.
So, there were his two options. He was here for his Aunt… now all he had to do was decide how he was going to get her.
The Wedding
The wedding was a raucous affair, to be sure. In the end, Jon was never going to just… go to Viserys and make his mad uncle give up Daenerys before the wedding could take place. He just wasn't that kind of man, at the end of the day. In fact, Jon was beginning to feel like he wasn't a man at all. Not entirely. No, there was something more lurking within him, just beneath the surface. Was it dragon? Perhaps. Was it also dire wolf? Maybe.
Either way, rather than pushing matters with Magister Illyrio Mopatis by invading the man's manse right then and there to secure his Aunt, Jon had decided to wait. Having his mercenaries lay low for three more days wasn't exactly a hardship. The Iron Bank had paid them more than enough in advance to be able to enjoy the pleasures of the city. In the end, Jon made sure that the Mercenary Captain had his men well-rested the night before the wedding, and ready for whatever might come.
When he found out that the Dothraki weren't even trying to keep non-Dothraki out, Jon decided that storming the entire thing would be… uncouth. Instead, he and his men simply… walked in and sat down. He had been assured by the Captain that his company would only partake of the wine and food in so much as was required to blend in. At this point, having trained with many of them throughout the journey to Pentos, Jon could pick most out of the crowd. They were spread through the wedding, just as he'd intended.
Jon himself stayed a respectful distance away, watching Daenerys from afar. She truly was beautiful. Pale skin, white hair, purple eyes… she was a gorgeous woman, to say the least. Just a tad younger than him, but clearly already coming into her maturity, with a woman's body, if the hints of it he could see under her beautiful dress were any indication.
She was also terrified, disturbed, and altogether disgusted by what was happening around her, Jon could see this clear as day. Oh, the young woman tried to hide it. His Aunt clearly knew that she couldn't make a scene, if the frequent glances towards his Uncle and her new husband were any indication. She was far too afraid to even say a word, until of course words were directed at her.
As the wedding goes on, gifts are given to Khal Drogo and his new Khaleesi. One by one, supplicants make their way up to the dais to set down chests filled with everything from rare incense, to valuable gems, to even snakes. None of it is all that interesting… in truth, Jon has more of his attention focused on the Dothraki in the center of the wedding instead.
They really are savage… but even savagery can be beautiful, in its own way. As the Dothraki men and women dance with one another, grinding into each other's bodies, things get more and more aggressive, until one of the men has one of the women on all fours and is outright mounting her. From the looks of things, he's slipped his cock inside of her by the time another Dothraki man runs up and pushes him off, trying to take his place.
What follows is a fist fight that escalates into an all out brawl that then in turn escalates even further into a duel to the death as the two draw their Arakhs and begin swinging. Jon honestly loses track of which one was which is the ensuing melee, and by the end of it he's not sure if the first one is the one who wins, or if it was the second. Either way, one of them gets their intestines spilled and their braid chopped off, while the other gets the attentions of not only the initial Dothraki woman, but a second as well, both of them clearly immensely turned on by his victory.
That's when things finally get interesting. Jon watches, eyes widening slightly in recognition, as Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island walks up to the dais where Daenerys and Khal Drogo are sat. While the disgraced Knight should not recognize him, Jon certainly recognizes Ser Jorah. He remembers being told all about the man's flight from the Seven Kingdoms. He was an abject lesson of what slavery could lead to. Instead of facing execution for his crimes, Ser Jorah had ran… and now he was here, giving Jon's Aunt books.
It was almost time, wasn't it? But, even as Jorah pulls back and Jon considers making his move, he finds himself stopped again by a larger chest than most being brought forward. Something… something about the chest catches his eye, even as the Magister stands up and speaks clearly and concisely, and certainly loud enough for Jon to catch his words.
The chest is opened, and something in Jon begins to pound as he stares at what can only be dragon eggs. Daenerys reaches in and picks one up, holding the green egg high enough for Jon to make out its scaled detailing.
"Dragon's eggs, Daenerys, from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai. The ages have turned them to stone… but they will always be beautiful."
"Thank you, Magister."
Jon forces himself back under control as Khal Drogo abruptly stands. The entire wedding goes quiet, everyone watching. Daenerys, realizing what's happening, carefully puts her dragon egg back in its chest alongside the other two. When she stands, Drogo begins walking forward. It's then that Jon decides to act, with his Aunt still up in the dais and Drogo in the center of the wedding. Stepping out of the crowd, Jon draws his sword and shouts in carefully practiced Dothraki.
"Khal Drogo! I challenge you for the hand of your new khaleesi!"
He doesn't actually speak Dothraki. But to make the challenge something that the Dothraki Horde will actually respect, he has to start off on the right foot. As such, he'd practiced that statement quite a lot on the way here, and been assured by his teachers, Bellegere and the Mercenary Captain, that he had it down rather pat.
Judging by the way Drogo stops dead in his tracks, nostrils flaring and eyes widening in rage, he has indeed gotten his point across… either that, or he insulted the man's horse. One way or the other…
"And who might you be, to invade the wedding of a Khal?"
Of course, that's when the Magister steps in. Beside Illyrio, Viserys hasn't actually risen from his seat. Probably because his Uncle doesn't know what Jon said or who Jon was, else he'd be a lot more… upset. As it is, Jon just smiles, never taking his eyes off of Drogo, even as he addresses the Magister.
"My name is Jon. But that's irrelevant. A Queen of the Seven Kingdoms does not deserve to be sold like chattel to a Horse-Lord."
THAT gets a reaction from Viserys. Daenerys as well, his Aunt's eyes going wide at his words, even as Viserys jumps to his feet, a mad snarl on his face.
"You DARE-!"
"I accept."
Khal Drogo's guttural response in Dothraki is not as loud as Viserys' screeching, but still cuts through the Targaryen Princeling's words like a knife. Or perhaps more accurately, like an Arakh. With Khal Drogo having accepted his challenge, one of his Dothraki tosses exactly that to the Khal, and Drogo catches it, holding the Arakh aloft and roaring to get the crowd riled up and roaring back at him in approval.
Jon just smiles, his men not having drawn their own weapons just yet. None of them were expecting him to just be able to walk in and get a one on one fight with the Khal… but it seemed that the earlier bloodshed had Drogo's appetites piqued, and the Khal was taking the opportunity to shed some blood of his own, even if he didn't know who Jon was.
The space in the middle of the wedding was already fairly empty by this point, but it doesn't take much for Dothraki and 'guests' alike to form up a circle. Jon and Drogo circle around one another, taking each other's measure. Jon holds his sword before him with two hands on the hilt, with Drogo postures with grunts and snarls, one-handing his arakh, looking like a prowling animal rather than a knight.
But then, he isn't a knight… he's a horse lord. And he's without his horse. When Drogo finally moves, its fast. Extremely fast. Jon is able to block the Khal's swing all the same, but there's quite a lot of strength behind the blow, and Jon is grateful for his two-handed grip. If he'd tried to one-hand it like Drogo is doing, then he probably would have lost his weapon and then his life, right then and there.
As it is, Drogo is stronger than him. Jon could have told anyone that just by looking at the Dothraki man however. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and well-muscled. The fact that he has more strength just means Jon has to play smarter and dirtier. The next blinding fast swing from the Khal's arakh is not blocked, it's parried, deflected to the side as Jon seeks to counter attack with a slash at Drogo's stomach. He dodges out of the way though, but Jon can still see the slight surprise and begrudging respect show up in the Khal's eyes from the strike.
The fight from there just grows faster and harsher and more brutal by the moment. But where most men would begin to falter under the relentless assault that Drogo was capable of putting out… Jon was finding himself right at home. Where most would start to tire, as Khal Drogo himself began to, Jon… felt more revitalized by the moment.
He couldn't explain it, nor could he describe it. It was like this was what he was meant for. Battle. Victory. Conquest. Those three words pound into Jon's head, but it's also almost like they slither. Claws sink into his skull, even as Jon continues to fight Drogo with a dogged determination, resolute and relentless in his own way… indomitable, in fact.
It's never fear that enters the Khal's eyes. Drogo isn't the sort of man that can feel fear, Jon's pretty sure. He's not a man that's capable of terror or even horror. Rage, anger, fury… all of those and more, yes. But even if he's not afraid, Jon does see the wariness on Drogo's face… and the weariness soon after. That's the most that he gets from the other man, before he's knocking Drogo's arakh aside and sliding his own sword up into the man's chest, piercing right through his heart then and there.
Having done his research, Jon twists and then pulls his sword out just as quickly as he thrust it in, and as the bare-chested Khal falls to his knees, arakh falling from nerveless fingers, Jon is spinning around him and slicing his sword through braid and neck both, cutting Drogo's braid from his head and his head from his body, both at the exact same time.
As Khal Drogo's decapitated corpse falls to the ground in the middle of what was supposed to be his wedding, there's a beat of silence. But, Jon does not allow himself to relax. After all, he knows what comes next. A Dothraki cry, one filled with more emotion in the form of sorrow and rage then Jon was expecting, sounds out as Khal Drogo's Blood Riders push out of the crowd and rush at him, their own arakhs in hand.
Jon doesn't even have to think, truth be told. His body still thrums heatedly from his fight with Drogo. All that strength, all that power that came from the prolonged combat… allows Jon to make absurdly short work of the Blood Riders, his sword knocking aside their arakhs and cutting them down, one by one by one, until all three of them lay dead at his feet, alongside their headless Khal.
Even when THEY are dead, Jon doesn't allow himself to relax. Neither does the Mercenary Company that the Iron Bank sent here to watch over him. Each and every man is staring at him with wide eyes, but they also have their hands on the pommels of their swords, ready to draw and fight for him at a moment's notice. Jon is impressed with their discipline, truth be told.
His eyes flicker across the rest of the wedding carefully taking in the reactions of those around him. The Magister looks shocked and vaguely disturbed, as well as deeply confused. Beside him, Viserys is just as shocked, his anger still present but also… muted by his awe at what he'd just watched. Jorah Mormont stands off to the side, looking like he's ready to draw it as well.
Daenerys… Daenerys is afraid of him, but beneath that fear, as well as the disgust from seeing so much death in such a short amount of time, Jon can also sense relief. Relief that she no longer has to marry Khal Drogo. Relief that they didn't have time to consummate the wedding before the savage man's death. His Aunt is young and meek and soft in a way Jon knows he should have expected but truthfully didn't… and she is relieved.
"… Khal… Khal… Khal…"
That's when it starts. Everyone who is not Dothraki can only watch in muted surprise as the Dothraki who have been allowed to attend Khal Drogo's wedding begin to sink to their knees and bow their heads to Jon. As they do so, they title him at the same time, naming him… Khal?
… He should have seen this coming. As Jon stands there, mouth slightly agape, sword bloodied and held in his grip, he wonders what he's supposed to do now. So does the Mercenary Captain, as it turns out, because the man is soon at his side, asking heatedly what they're supposed to do next. Jon isn't entirely sure. He just usurped Khal Drogo, and at the man's wedding at that. He killed Drogo's Blood Riders, the only Dothraki who were required to try and avenge the dead man.
But he was pretty sure he couldn't be Khal… could he? But then, the Horse Lords did respect strength. The only question was… did Jon REALLY want to climb down this rabbit hole? Or did he want to take his Aunt and get the fuck out of here, back to Braavos where he could plan his next step with his allies in the Iron Bank?
The Confrontation
"I demand to speak with this new Khal immediately! Do you know who I am? Unhand me this instant, I am Viserys Targaryen, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros!"
How had his life become this? As Viserys' high-pitched voice emits from outside of Jon's tent, the young man rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to make the headache currently forming go away. He's not doing a very good job of it, but then that might just be because Viserys won't fucking shut up. Still, it seems that the Dothraki guards are keeping Jon's uncle at bay, for the time being.
Or rather, Khal Jhono's guards were keeping his uncle at bay for the time being. Yeah… they'd given him a new name. Apparently 'Khal Jon' didn't sit well with most of the Dothraki, so they'd started calling him Jhono. Being given the title of Khal, and then a Dothraki name along with it… Jon wasn't sure how to feel about all of that. But this was the path he'd chosen, wasn't it? And now here he was, at the head of an entire Khalasar, making his way East towards Vaes Dothrak to be confirmed by the crones there, rather than making his way West to Westeros.
But then, truth be told, Jon wasn't all that inclined to invade Westeros right away. That was at least half of why he'd decided to take up the mantle of Khal. Not that everyone had been all that happy with the change in leadership. Khal Drogo's bloodriders were not the end of it, by far. While every Dothraki at the wedding had submitted to him after watching Jon slay Drogo and his bloodriders so handily, the rest of the Khalasar had not been there, and seeing was believing, as the saying went.
Jon had effectively spent the last few weeks fielding challenges from Dothraki who thought that they could beat him and take the Khalasar for themselves. He'd accepted all comers and fought each one to death or disgrace. Some of them, Jon had left alive, merely removing their braids as a show of dominance. Those were the ones that the rumbling monster inside of him had seemed to think would actually submit and cause no further problems.
Those were the minority. The majority of the men that challenged Jon were the sort of ambitious men to definitely cause problems and hold a grudge going forward. So, those ones Jon killed, listening to the feeling inside of his chest, the desire to conquer and destroy and control leading him to ending the lives of any man he didn't think would fall in line after he beat them to a pulp.
Recently, the challenges had slowed down to a crawl. At this point, most of the Khalasar had seen Jon fight at one point or another. Most of them had seen him spill blood and claim a life by now. He was still foreign, of course, but more and more were referring to him as Khal Jhono, as if changing his name made him more palatable to them.
Of course, with the settling of the Khalasar came new issues. Such as his aunt and uncle. Jon had… allowed Viserys to come with them when the Khalasar left Pentos, against his own desires. It just made sense, in the end. Leaving Viserys behind left an enemy at his back. Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer. Viserys needed to be watched if he wasn't going to be killed, and Jon wasn't quite sure he wanted to kill his uncle yet… even if the other man clearly was quite unstable.
Regardless, while he'd let Viserys and the slaver Jorah Mormont come with them, he'd kept them separate from Daenerys. Daenerys, who he had yet to touch… but even now, Jon was being counselled to take her. Not just by Bellegere, though the Black Pearl, who even now was traveling with him, was most insistent that he bed the last female Targaryen sooner rather than later. But also, Jon's captains within the Khalasar itself, his 'kos', were also advising him to take Daenerys as his khaleesi, lest he be forced to hand her over to the crones in Vaes Dothrak.
He would have to deal with that eventually, but for now he merely had Daenerys tucked away out of sight, given all the comforts a woman of her station deserved but not allowing her any visitors, for the time being. Her guards told him she didn't seem all that put out by the situation… and that more than anything, she seemed too obsessed with the petrified dragon eggs the Magister back in Pentos had gifted her just before Jon's challenge.
"Unhand me! Unhand me immediately! Ser Jorah, if you are loyal, you will assist me!"
Jon sighs, the headache having only gotten worse by this point. With a primal growl that starts low in his chest, the young man abruptly stands up. This draws Bellegere's attention, though she remains lounging off to the side, even as Jon stalks across the floor of the tent and throws it open.
"I will speak with him."
The Dothraki guarding his tent take one look at him, glance at each other, and then let Viserys go. The slightly disheveled, and entirely pissy man scowls mightily at the hulking Dothraki warriors, before looking to Jon with a narrowed eye glare. Behind Viserys stands Jorah Mormont himself, with a hand on the pommel of his sword, but obviously no intention of drawing it any time soon.
Jon simply raises an eyebrow at both of them, before standing aside.
"Well? Come in."
The two Westerosi men do so, even as Jon walks back to his seat and sits back down. He doesn't miss the way both Viserys and Jorah's eyes slide up and down Bellegere's body as they feast upon the courtesan's beauty. While the jealous dragon within him rears its ugly head at that, he's able to control it easily enough. Let them look. Neither would ever get a chance to touch.
There's a beat of silence as a result of their momentary lapse in attention though, and Jon clears his throat into it, drawing Viserys' attention and pinning his uncle with his dark eyes.
"I assume you wanted to speak with me for a reason, yes?"
Viserys' nostrils flare at that, and he squares his shoulders, doing his level best to puff out his chest.
"You're Jon Snow. Eddard Stark's bastard. Your father helped the Usurper kill my brother, my father, and steal the throne from its rightful owners. Now here you are, interfering with my plans and taking the army I paid for EAST instead of west! Did your father send you?! Is this all some plan to keep the Usurper in power?!"
Jon just raises an eyebrow at that and shakes his head, glancing over at Jorah Mormont, who's looking at him curiously. Obviously, the disgraced Northern Knight was Viserys' source of information, but how Jorah even knew who Jon was confused and surprised the young man.
"It's just Jon now. No Snow, not anymore. As for my father… my father didn't send me to do anything. After all, he's been dead since the Trident."
That takes both Viserys and Jorah back, the latter blinking rapidly and the former's face scrunching up in confusion and disdain. Before Viserys can start getting a full steam of head going again, Jon speaks up once more, driving his point home.
"My father was Rhaegar Targaryen. My mother was Lyanna Stark. According to evidence provided by the Iron Bank, they were wedded in secret and thus married at the time of my birth. I am a Targaryen… and your nephew. Though I think we'll both agree that Jon Targaryen is a piss poor name for a King."
Viserys' eyes widen, and the dragon in Jon's chest rumbles with satisfaction as the silver-blonde man suddenly pulls his sword from his sheathe and charges. As Viserys comes at Jon, the latter is already beginning to stand. He's unarmed and unarmored… and not remotely worried as Viserys charges him with the sword, thrusting it towards Jon's chest.
It's all too easy, in the end. Was Viserys ever even trained as a swordsman? Jon has to assume so, but even if he was, he'd obviously let his training lapse significantly. Or perhaps he was simply so angry that he was unable to keep from telegraphing his attacks. Regardless, Jon catches Viserys' wrists with ease, even as he dodges the initial thrust. In the same moment, in one smooth motion, Jon turns his uncle's blade back upon the man and forces Viserys to sink it deep into his own chest before he can even properly react.
Viserys' eyes bulge out of his skull and blood flows from his lips as he's impaled on his own sword. Jon holds his uncle's wrists fast, not allowing the other man to collapse quite yet as he leans in close, whispering to him. All the while, his eyes are actually over Viserys' shoulder, pinning Jorah Mormont in place. The slaver has half-drawn his blade, but the moment Jon looked at him, he froze up, unable to move.
"Thank you, uncle. It didn't feel right, having you killed because of what you might do. But self-defense? I can live with that."
Then, he yanks Viserys' wrists in such a way as to twist the blade buried in his uncle's chest before finally releasing his grip. His uncle collapses forward onto the floor of the tent, face down and decidedly dead, even as Jon flexes his hands and looks to Jorah, cocking an eyebrow and grinning a macabre grin that honestly feels more right on his face then it should.
"Jorah Mormont. Why are you here, in Essos?"
The disgraced knight looks between Viserys' corpse and Jon for a long moment before sliding his blade back into its sheathe. Out of the corner of Jon's eye, the newly minted Khal sees Bellegere slowly begin to relax, his lover tucking what was likely some sort of throwing implement back into her hair as she leans back. If Jorah notices that the courtesan was ready to kill him in an instant, he doesn't say anything.
Instead, the knight kneels and bows his head before Jon.
"I have come a long way to serve the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms… your grace."
Jon's smile dims somewhat, even as he looks down at the knight with some measure of disdain.
"I know who you are, Jorah Mormont, just as it seems you thought you knew who I was. I know you to be a slaver, a man who took the freedom of other men away so that you could turn a profit. Eddard Stark might not be my true father, but he raised me all the same. Why would I want a slaver in my service?"
Jorah actually looks stricken when he looks up at Jon after the young man is done speaking. In the end, he has to bow his head again, this time not out of respect or deference, but pure shame. Swallowing thickly, the disgraced knight collects himself for a moment before speaking.
"… I made mistakes. Grave mistakes. I regret what I did to those men, your grace. If you would have me, I would like to try to redeem myself through service to you."
Jon lets the silence sit for a moment… and then smiles.
"Very well. Who am I to deny a man his second chance?"
He doesn't mean one word of it of course, even as Jorah looks at him with shocked wide eyes and slow rises at Jon's beckoning. Even as the young man sends the disgraced knight off, he's turning back to Bellegere with an expression of disgust on his face, the courtesan giving him a nod of understanding in return. She at least understands what Jon is doing.
Jorah Mormont is not to be trusted… but better to have him close by for the time being, so that they can find out the knight's true purpose in Essos. Regardless, as the Dothraki pull Viserys' body out of Jon's tent, Jon knows that it's time to speak with Daenerys. The young woman seems so very fragile, but with his uncle now dead, the dragon in his chest is all but roaring for him to claim his prize. Even if Jon himself doesn't see her that way, the advice of his lover as well as his captains is to claim Daenerys as his khaleesi.
He's a Khal now, which means it's time to start acting like it, he supposes. Though, how exactly is he going to go about this? He could approach Daenerys with gentle kindness and tender love. It wasn't what Bellegere liked, but a girl as fragile as Daenerys might need a gentle hand. Or, he could do as his captains had been suggesting and mount the girl like a true Khal apparently did.
But he wasn't a true Khal, was he? So perhaps that wasn't the right option either. Perhaps his best bet was to strike a middle of the road path, where he could have the best of both worlds. He could make Daenerys want it; he knew he could. And once he made her want it… he could mount her all the same and conquer her as the dragon in his chest demanded…
The Confrontation Pt. 2
Stepping up to the entrance of the tent that he's confined Daenerys too since they left Pentos, Jon nods to the two Dothraki standing guard there and they nod back, stepping aside. They weren't there to keep Daenerys in, from what Jon had seen of her, the Targaryen woman didn't have a single fighting bone in her entire body. She was much like his sister Sansa in that way, entirely woman, all noble lady with all the demure and submissive attitude that came with it.
No, the guards were there in case her brother or Ser Jorah finally figured out where she was and tried to break her out. Whether or not two Dothraki would be a match for a Westerosi Knight or not was up for debate, but at the very least Jon had wanted to believe that they would be able to raise an alarm, allowing for him to act swiftly to stop any kidnapping attempts.
Now though, that probably wasn't going to be an issue. With Viserys dead, Jorah might try to make a break for it with or without Daenerys, but Jon would simply have him watched. If he tried to abscond with Jon's aunt, then there would be hell to pay. Putting that out of his mind for the time being, Jon steps into the tent.
Daenerys is laying on her side facing away from him when he enters, but Jon isn't trying to be quiet, and when she hears his boots scuffing against the ground, she looks back over her shoulder to see who it is. Upon making eye contact with him, the truly beautiful young woman immediately moves from lying down to sitting up, kneeling upon her bed and keeping her gaze down and submissive as her hands clutch at her dress in her lap.
Slowly, Jon approaches her, considering how best to start things off. In the end, while it might not be the best idea, he decides to go with the truth. Perhaps this will make things more difficult in the long run, but he's not going to hold anything back when it comes to Daenerys Targaryen. Not if she's to be his khaleesi.
"Your brother is dead."
Daenerys stiffens for a moment, but doesn't move otherwise, keeping her head down, her gaze averted, even as he comes to a stop in front of her, looming over her kneeling form.
"… H-How did he die?"
Her words, when they do finally come, are soft and quiet and altogether demure… the perfect tone for a noblewoman, for a princess to take with the conquering barbarian that holds her captive. Once again, Jon considers lying or withholding information, but once again he decides that honesty is the best policy. She'll find out one way or another from Jorah if he allows the disgraced knight to stick around, after all.
"He drew his sword and attempted to run me through… I was forced to kill him in self-defense."
Another pregnant pause as Daenerys digests this information, her silver-blonde hair still dominating his view of her as she keeps her gaze in her lap.
"… I see."
Frowning at the distinct lack of sorrow or even horror in her tone, Jon drops to one knee while bringing a gloved hand up under Daenerys' delicate chin, lifting her head so that he can look her in the eye. He's expecting at least the beginning of tears, but her gaze isn't even watery. In fact, Daenerys Targaryen's face is almost entirely devoid of emotion. Though, he does see a miniscule hint of gear in those beautiful violet eyes of hers.
"No tears for your brother?"
A small sardonic smile graces her face at that, not reaching her eyes.
"It would seem he woke the dragon… your grace."
Jon leans back a bit, even as his eyebrows lift upon his forehead. It takes him a moment to properly comprehend what Daenerys means, but when his thoughts finally settle, he understands.
"You can feel it then, can't you? Just like Bellegere could… but probably even more so."
Daenerys bites her lower lip for a moment, more emotion filling her visage by the moment. It's becoming increasingly obvious that she was trying to put on a brave face, trying to remain emotionless… but also that while she's clearly well-practiced at being the demure, quiet young lady, it's hard for her to remain so in his presence. She can feel him, just like Bellegere could. Calling her to, demanding her submission.
It leaves him wondering if Viserys felt the same thing. Was it possible that was what prompted his mad uncle's attack on him, in the end? If there was a voice telling Viserys to submit, telling him to bow before the superior dragon… Jon could see how that might incense the Beggar King to attack instead, despite all signs pointing to Viserys being somewhat cowardly.
With his fingers still propping up Daenerys' chin, Jon doesn't wait for the beautiful silver-haired woman to formulate a response. He leans forward and kisses the last Targaryen woman right on the lips then and there, taking her mouth with his own, half-dominating her tongue with his tongue and half-teasing her, toying with her, simply enjoying exploring her mouth.
She lets him do so, of course, submitting completely and utterly from the very beginning. But there's also a bit of… detachment to her that Jon finds not to his liking. She's used to being kissed and touched… too used to it even. Jon can't help but feel glad that he killed Viserys when he did, even as he does his best to coax the woman out of the shell he finds before him.
Moving his hands downwards, he takes the hem of Daenerys' dress from her, and slowly pulls the garment up over her head. She doesn't resist, the kneeling Targaryen woman allowing him to strip her down, kneeling there before him on the bed completely naked. She truly does have a spectacular body, Jon has to admit as he takes her in, observing her blemish free, perfectly pristine form.
"Lay back."
Daenerys does as she's told, laying back on the bed, and Jon moves into position over her. He kisses her again, keeping one hand in her hair for a moment as his tongue explores her mouth, while his other hand begins to explore her body. Here is where Jon gets his first reaction, his caressing of her soft flesh provoking hitches in Daenerys' breathing, as well as soft gasps.
But even here, her reactions are muted. Just what had Viserys done to her? How much had Jon's uncle hurt his aunt? Daenerys' quip comes back to mind, about Viserys 'awaking the dragon'. It didn't sound like her own line when she said it, it sounded as if she was repeating what someone else frequently said, words she heard constantly, as if she was almost mocking them, though Daenerys didn't seem to truly have a mocking bone in her body.
Regardless, intent on coaxing the woman out of the girl, Jon slips the hand he has on her body down to betwixt her thighs. Daenerys' violet eyes widen at this, even as he begins to slick her lower lips with his digits, running his fingers back and forth across her slit. Had Viserys never gone this far before? Jon could imagine him refraining from sullying his sister's virtue too early.
As much as the Targaryens tended to marry in-house so to speak, there was no denying that Daenerys was Viserys' most valuable bargaining chip. That was obvious, given the fact that he'd tried to sell her off to a Dothraki Khal for an army to retake Westeros. Now, Jon found himself in charge of that very same army, going east rather than west. It was a strange turn of events to say the least, strange indeed… but for now, he would focus on the task at hand.
Disengaging from her mouth as well, Jon slides his lips and tongue down off of Daenerys' face and across her upper chest, before eventually coming to a stop at one of her beautifully pale, perfectly sculpted breasts. He closes his lips over her tit and swirls his tongue around the little nipple capping the breast off, leaving her to moan now that her lips are no longer obstructed by his.
Smiling slightly, Jon keeps up the offensive, finally managing to draw some reaction from his khaleesi. Daenerys, submissive and demure Daenerys Targaryen, squirms and whimpers and mewls beneath him, even as her face grows redder and redder in the face of his efforts. His fingers delve betwixt her pussy lips, and the Targaryen woman cries out, her back arching and her chest pushing into his mouth as her entire body quakes.
It's not quite an orgasm, he doesn't think… but it's a sign that he can certainly draw one out of her, given a bit more time. So, that's exactly what Jon sets out to do, continuing to finger Daenerys, continuing to suckle at her breasts one after the other. All the while, his dark eyes remain fixed on her face, even as she in turn stares down at him with wide eyes of her own, her lips parted, her chest heaving up into his mouth with every panting breath.
She's staring at him in abject disbelief, even as she swims in pleasure, her glazed eyes all but confirming how good he's making her feel. Jon can only imagine that Viserys' treatment of her, whatever form that took, did not leave Daenerys very excited about the prospect of sex. It was Jon's job to show her how enjoyable a tumble in the furs could be.
It doesn't take much longer before Daenerys Targaryen, his khaleesi, his wife he supposed… reaches climax. It's an explosive orgasm to be sure, her pussy juices coating his fingers liberally as she squirts all over them, her entire body shaking and spasming. He covers her mouth at the last moment with his free hand in order to muffle her ecstatic squealing, and even as she screams into his palm, Jon is watching her with a smile.
She's ready now, he's fairly certain. Ready for the next part. When Daenerys is done cumming, Jon pulls his digits out of her cunt and his hand away from her mouth. She lays there under him, red-faced, panting heavily, and flushed with arousal and need and contentment as well. She thinks she's satisfied, but Jon is far from finished with her.
Standing up, he begins to undress before her. He enjoys the way her violet eyes feast upon every fiber of his being as he does so, her gaze staying on him as he exposes his muscular torso and then his long legs and thick cock. As his member, already quite erect, springs free of its confines, Daenerys' eyes focus on it, a mixture of trepidation and anticipation filling her gaze.
But there's no true fear left in her, nor does she look away. Instead, to her credit, the beautiful young woman spreads her legs apart for him, laying back and offering herself up to him as her breasts, slick and wet and reddened by his attentions, heave up and down from her panting. Jon just chuckles, kneeling back down on the bed once he's as naked as she is.
Grabbing her by her hips, Jon flips Daenerys onto her front, drawing an 'ooh!' from the Targaryen woman, even as he pulls her hips back so that she's brought onto her hands and knees. Leaning over her, his breath ghosting across the nape of her neck, Jon speaks in a gentle tone, even as he places his cockhead against her lower lips, rubbing his thick member up along her dripping wet slit.
"The Dothraki will expect a mounting. This is how Drogo would have taken you that day, if I hadn't stopped him. I'm their Khal now, I suppose… and you're my khaleesi. I've done all I could to prepare you, so it won't hurt… are you ready, Dany?"
The pet name seems to almost send a jolt through Daenerys' system. Her back arches and she lets out a bit of a mewling purr beneath him. Jon knows in that moment that he has her, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Y-yes… I'm ready…"
And truly, she is. He could have taken her like this from the start, but it would have hurt her and might have even been uncomfortable for him. Jon had yet to fuck a woman that wasn't wet, but he'd heard of chafing and the like. Regardless, as he thrusts forward and claims Daenerys Targaryen's virginity right then and there, their foreplay, his taking the time to coax out some form of Daenerys that would enjoy this… it pays off.
She's nice and wet as he claims her as his own, and his cock slides in deep, even as it tears her hymen. Daenerys lets out a quiet little yelp, but it's followed up with loud wanton moans as Jon begins to fuck her like a Khal fucks his khaleesi, mounting her and plowing her from behind with deep, rough thrusting. Daenerys is more than wet enough that the experience is not the painful one it could have been. Her moaning soon turns to cries, but they're cries of ecstasy and pleasure, not of agony or pain.
Jon doesn't bother trying to silence her this time around. He lets Dany sing as he fucks her from behind to his heart's content, as he finally claims her as his khaleesi. And sing she does, moans and squeals and screams reverberating through the space and likely out of the tent, filling the entire area. No one will disturb them, but Jon is very much aware that everyone around them is hearing the two of them going at it right now. It's about as private as one can get in the middle of a camped khalasar, he figures… which means its still a very public fucking, to be sure.
Still, needs must, and Daenerys needs to be fucked and claimed as his khaleesi before they reach Vaes Dothrak, lest the crones there try to kill her, or claim her for themselves. Of course, it's not all about practically. The last female Targaryen truly is a beauty, and Jon can't deny that he enjoys every bit of mounting her and fucking her as hard as he can. Dany does as well, if the multiple orgasms she reaches before he finally cums are any indication.
When he does finally fill her with his seed, Daenerys groans beneath him in abject ecstasy, shuddering through one last climax before slumping forward onto her front, her back arched and her ass high in the air, mostly due to him holding her tightly by the hips. Pulling out of her once he's fully creampied her womb, Jon grunts as he falls to the bed beside her, laying on his back and basking in the afterglow.
To her credit, Daenerys recovers from the mounting quickly, and to his surprise, her first act upon leveraging herself back onto her hands and knees, is to lean over him and initiate a kiss all on her lonesome. Her own kiss is more tender and explorative than anything else, but Jon enjoys it all the same, letting her tongue past between his lips for a few moments before she pulls back.
"I…"
Carefully, Daenerys climbs off the bed. Jon watches her go, not all that worried at this point. She's not trying to escape or anything like that, they both know walking out of this tent right now, naked and freshly fucked as she is, would not end well for her. Instead, Daenerys goes and grabs a chest from the pile of gifts that people had given her at her wedding to Drogo. Jon had let her keep them all, hoping that they would at least help her stave off boredom as the journey east began.
Dragging the chest over by one of it's handles, Daenerys brings it to the edge of the bed and kneels beside it. Sitting up, Jon raises a brow at his khaleesi, only for her to simply flip open the lid in response. Nestled within are three petrified Dragon Eggs. Now, Jon remembered them from the wedding. It was the Magister from Pentos who had gifted them to Dany.
But at the time, he really hadn't paid them much mind. His blood had already been roaring in his ears as it was, and his focus had been on Drogo and getting Daenerys out of the savage's clutches. Now though… he couldn't say whether it was because of proximity or maybe something to do with them having just consummated their relationship, but he can't take his eyes off of the dragon eggs.
Something is thrumming within him. Something is telling him that these aren't as dead as one might think. Something is telling him that he could do more with these eggs, and judging by the look on Daenerys' face, she's feeling it too, or at least some of what he's feeling, given she felt pressured to present them to him.
The only thing was… did he want to give into this urge? He felt like he was being guided, directed even. Did he want to allow such guidance to control him, to allow himself to be directed down whatever path this was? Or no, was he going to reject this… thing and step back. He was his own man, wasn't he? Should he really be allowing some unseen force to push him in one direction or the other?
The Birth of Dragons
In the end, his instincts hadn't failed him yet and this… urge he was feeling was little more than an extension of those instincts, right? Swallowing thickly, Jon reaches for the eggs and places his hand on one. It's warm, but not physically. No, to the touch it's actually quite cold… but even as his fingers spread over the petrified scales of the egg's surface, Jon feels a warmth inside of him, suffusing his very soul.
His breath hitches and then suddenly he's moving. Pushing out of the tent, he finds himself shouting commands. It's all of his own volition, it's not like something has taken control of his body, wresting it away from him… but he's definitely being guided. Still, he's decided to let whatever this is guide him, so guide him it does.
Soon enough, Viserys' body has been retrieved under Jon's orders. Wrapped and bound of course, so that darling Daenerys doesn't have to see her brother lifeless and dead. Jon gets the impression that the last female Targaryen has led something of a sheltered life. She was little more than Viserys' pawn, despite having the blood of Kings and Queens flowing through her beautiful body.
Regardless, Viserys' wrapped body is placed atop a hastily constructed funeral pyre, the wood brought forward and latched down, before being coated in oil. Jon himself nestles the petrified dragon egg at the base of the pyre, though he does let Daenerys help, watching as she carefully and gently sets down one of the three eggs, biting her lower lip all the while. He can't say for sure if she's staring at the dragon egg so intently because she wants to avoid even catching a glimpse of her brother's shrouded body, or if she's simply as engrossed as he is at this point.
Jon lights the pyre himself, taking Daenerys by the hand as they stand at the forefront of those gathered and watching. For a brief time, everyone watches, as the fire burns and grows, feeding off of the wood and the oil and the air itself. But once the blaze is… substantial, Jon finds himself once again being guided, urged even. For anyone else, what he does next would be a death sentence… but for him and Daenerys…
There are cries of shock and concerned shouts as Jon and Daenerys step past the outer ring of the pyre, and further in. Khal Drogo's khalasar roars as their Khal's killer and usurper seems inclined to commit suicide. Jon even think he hears the Mercenary Captain shouting out in concern… perhaps even Jorah Mormont's hoarse Westerosi accent calling out to him and Daenerys.
Once they're amongst the flames, but still visible, Jon turns around with Dany at his side. The two of them stand there, the fire licking at them but not truly touching them, and Jon makes eye contact with his lieutenants, with the Mercenary Captain, with all of those watching. The shouts of alarm and cries of worry die down as everyone realizes that he and Daenerys are untouched by the flames, left unburnt despite being in the midst of a raging and growing inferno.
It's not long before the flames do cover them both from view though, and then it's just Jon and Dany. As he looks to his khaleesi, to his Queen, Jon smiles at Dany, who in turn smiles back. Even amidst the flames, her smile is a tentative, shy thing. Even as the fire does finally reach their clothing and burn it off their bodies, she blushes and averts her gaze as he looks down upon her.
Without questioning it, Jon lays Daenerys down on the ground before the burning pyre, before the dragon eggs nestled at it's base. His cock rises betwixt his legs, and he spreads Daenerys' thighs apart, even as her pale skin starts to develop a layer of ash from the burning wood next to them. He too is not invulnerable to the gathering ash… and yet, there's no difficulty in breathing. It's almost as if the fire is breathable to creatures such as them… to dragons such as them.
Jon thrusts into Dany without a second thought, causing her to moan, though it's mostly drowned out by the roaring flames around them. Still, those same roaring flames make it wholly impossible to focus on anything but Daenerys Targaryen and her contorting face as he fucks her and she expresses her pleasure, honestly and happily beneath him.
He takes her right there on the hard ground, the only saving grace being that it's not exactly cold, given the circumstances. He fucks her on her back, and she welcomes him with open arms, her soft body his for the taking, her soft lips his for the kissing. Jon takes and Jon kisses, and Jon has his way with the beautiful young woman, the last female Targaryen. In a way, she is the last Targaryen period, even if he is Rhaegar and Lyanna's son.
After all, was he not raised a bastard? Was he not raised a man of the North? It was difficult at times to reconcile that with this, with his new path. He was a Northman… but he was also a Dragon. This… all of this felt so very right, and Jon has no problem with giving in, seeing where his urges will lead him. And lead them somewhere they do.
Eventually, Jon spills his seed inside of Daenerys, only for him to cling to him all the tighter, demanding more without saying a word. So, he gives her more. He takes her and claims her and makes her his all night long, unloading into her womb, thrusting into her clenching cunt again and again and again. It's during this time that they both hear it… more than hear it, they FEEL it. The eggs crack and begins to open, but also, the creatures within them being born, being awoken… they leave their marks on the world as they fight their way free of what is now their prisons.
Three little dragonlings, so very small, crawl all over Jon and Daenerys as he makes love to his khaleesi. Black, red, green. Their coloring is certainly interesting, and Jon won't deny being all too interested in them… but he's also more than a little distracted by Daenerys herself. Still, eventually the time comes when he and Dany have to pull apart. The fires die out, the pyre and the wrapped body upon it both burnt to a crisp.
He and Daenerys are the only ones left standing… them and the three infant dragons clinging to their naked bodies. Standing tall and proud, Jon cares not for his nudity as he leads Daenerys out of the circle. The red and green dragons have come to perch on his shoulders on either side, while the black dragon clings to Daenerys' back, peeking its head over her shoulder.
The khalasar in its entirety watches with wide eyes as their new Khal performs what must look like miracles. Or perhaps witchcraft. Jon is all too ready for a challenge, ready for someone to attack him when he is seemingly defenseless, naked and without steel to protect himself. He's almost looking forward to it, because right now he does not feel weak or helpless. Right now, he thrums with power, with strength, with energy that he can't quite put a name to.
He would gladly kill a man right now, oddly enough. Any man who came at him, he would put in the dirt as a show of force to those who claimed to follow him, that he was not to be tested. He wanted it… he welcomed it. And perhaps that was why no such challenge came. Perhaps these men, these simple mortal men, could sense something had changed, something monumental.
Jon and Daenerys are left thoroughly unmolested as they return to their tent with their new dragons. Food is brought, cooked horse meat that the dragonlings snatch up quite greedily before either Jon or Daenerys can eat. Bellegere slips in when she can and tends to him as well as Daenerys, seeming happy to take up the role of maidservant as she cleans them off. More like her eventually arrive, treating Jon and Dany like the King and Queen they are… or rather, the Khal and khaleesi they are.
Jon can't say for sure what the future rightly holds… but as he interacts with their new dragons, he won't deny that this feels right. That these actions feel like a step in the direction he's supposed to be going.
-x-X-x-
They make good time to Vaes Dothrak. Upon arrival, Jon camps his Khalasar outside of the city and then ventures in with Daenerys and several of his Dothraki Lieutenants at his sides. The dragons as well, come with them, already beginning to grow but still small enough to ride on their mother and father. Jon hasn't come up with names for them yet, but the one with black scales still clings to Dany, while the red and green love to sit atop his broader, more masculine shoulders and vie with one another for his attention.
Regardless, despite the oddity of an outsider such as himself being named Khal, especially by a khalasar as large as Drogo's, Jon is let in. Or perhaps that's precisely why he's let in, because his khalasar is massive and seemingly utterly loyal to him at this point. He's certainly killed enough of the dissenters and challengers that the majority of the rest better be loyal.
Regardless, he and Dany are brought to the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen, to speak with the High Priestess. The moment she lays eyes on them, she gasps. Luckily, Jon has been practicing hard on their journey here, and has a much stronger grasp of Dothraki now when she begins rapidly speaking. Even still, she's a bit fast and he's not sure he catches all of it.
Furrowing his brow, the young man steps forward and leans in, causing the two small dragons on his shoulders to do the same.
"Sorry… what was that last bit? Stallion Who Mounts the World?"
The High Priestess begins to speak again, and Jon follows along as best as he can. Apparently, it was a prophecy. The Stallion Who Mounts the World was supposed to be the Khal of Khals. He would unite the entirety of the Dothraki people under his banner and ride to the ends of the earth with them at his back. There was something about 'all the people of the world' being his herd as well.
Jon just shakes his head, a little surprised.
"I don't know why you're telling me this."
The High Priestess gives him an exasperated look and finally slows down a bit, speaking more carefully, though still in Dothraki.
"Because you… you are the Stallion Who Mounts the World."
Jon just gapes, more than a little bewildered by the very idea. He was… what? How did that work? Jon believed in the Old Gods, which meant he probably had to believe that the gods of Essos were at least partially real as well. Though to be fair, the Godswood were a very physical representation of the Old Gods. On the other hand, he'd seen the Godsway on his way in. Lined with the spiritual monuments and holy paraphernalia of a hundred different religions on both sides, it acted as a physical representation of the Horse Lords' Gods in the same way, didn't it?
Still…
"How can I be he? This is my first time in Vaes Dothrak, and a few months ago I was not… I could not even be said to have knowledge of Essos, let alone the Dothraki."
The High Priestess gives him a bit of a glim eye at that.
"Obvious, that is, from your atrocious accent. Still, I am sure. You come to us, already in your power. Do you not feel it? Your very presence sings to my ears."
Feeling more than a little bewildered by the High Priestess' zealotry, Jon is almost relieved when another of the Dosh Khaleen steps forward, up to the side of the older woman and gives him a sympathetic smile. This woman is obviously foreign in nature, at least to the Dothraki. But then, it was clear that Khals took brides based off of beauty rather than bloodline. Perhaps half of the Dosh Khaleen that Jon could currently see were of Dothraki descent. The rest were outsiders, and the one who spoke up now was one such of those.
"Great Khal… the High Priestess speaks truth. Long has the prophecy of the Stallion Who Mounts the World been with us. Longer than any of us have been alive. It comes from a time far, far in the past… before the Dothraki had a word for the creatures on your shoulders… a word for dragons."
Jon's eyes widen at that, his nostrils flaring as comprehension hits him. The dosh khaleen who has spoken up changes languages from Dothraki to Low Valyrian and lowers her tone so that only Jon and Daenerys hear her, likely to avoid upsetting the High Priestess.
"After all, your majesty… a simple horse could not hope to mount the world, now could it? Not like a dragon could…"
When she puts it like that, Jon supposes it makes some sense. The Stallion Who Mounts the World… the ancient Dothraki who had no word for dragon, would of course have had to have some way of describing them, given that they lived just north of the Valyrian Free Hold. In a way, that took some of the bite out of their prophecy, out of such a strong statement. If the Stallion Who Mounts the World was how they'd seen dragons, then yes, he did fall under that definition.
And yet, it was equally clear that the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen expected him to fulfill this prophecy in it's entirety, starting by subjugating her entire people. It was somewhat surprising, that the Dothraki Widow wished for an outsider such as him to conquer every khalasar and bring them all under his banner for the purposes of riding to the ends of the earth, but at the same time Jon supposed he understood.
It wasn't about purity of blood or family names with the Dothraki. Hell, they didn't even seem to have surnames, as far as Jon could tell. It was about strength and power… and that, he had in spades. Still, Jon supposed he had a choice to make here. He'd come all the way to Vaes Dothrak, only to be declared the subject of a prophecy that he wasn't sure he was looking to fulfill.
Leading one admittedly large khalasar was one thing, but conquering the entirety of the Dothraki… did he really want to jump down that rabbit hole? This might be his last chance to depart, taking his dragons, Daenerys, Bellegere, and the mercenaries hired by the Iron Bank and departing. Or… he could take on the whole of the Dothraki in a bid to see this prophecy potentially fulfilled.
A Decision Made
No… no, there was no backing out now, was there? He'd come all the way to Vaes Dothrak. Abandoning things now would only cause the Dothraki to try and hunt him down, more than likely. And even if they didn't… how could he possibly pass up an opportunity like this? Not just to have an army at his beck and call, because truth be told, the Dothraki weren't that much of an army.
Oh certainly, they were a legendary fighting force. Jon had heard tale of their riding prowess and the like… but he'd also heard plenty about their savagery, and he'd seen plenty as well. How many Dothraki Warriors had he personally had to kill on the trek from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak? At the end of the day… the Dothraki were not soldiers. They were warriors. They weren't an army. They were a horde.
But a horde could be used, and if there was one thing the Dothraki seemed to understand, it was strength. More than that though, this was an opportunity to fix an inherent wrong in this part of the world. He was a stranger, an outsider from an outside land… and Jon knew that before, when he'd just arrived in Essos, he didn't have any right to tell anyone what to do. But then everything with the Iron Bank and Bellegere had happened, and then Pentos and Drogo and Daenerys had happened…
Jon had power now, he had authority. He had every right to tell people what to do… and while he'd been unsure of himself before, hatching those dragons, making love to Dany among the flames of her own brother's funeral pyre… it awakened something in him, a second awakening akin to the first that he'd had all those months ago back in Winterfell.
He felt more sure of himself then ever before… and if he was going to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World, if he was going to be Aegon the Conqueror come again… then there were certain things Jon would no longer abide.
Looking to the waiting Dosh Khaleen and their High Priestess, Jon sets his jaw.
"If I am to take up this mantle… if I am to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World, then the Dothraki will have to change. I will not allow slavery under my watch. The Dothraki will no longer claim people as property, as chattel. If I remain here in Vaes Dothrak for the purposes of unifying your people under my banner… then I refuse to give an inch. It is your people who will have to change. Are you sure the Dothraki can survive such a thing?"
There's a long, pregnant pause at that. It's just him, Daenerys, and the Dosh Khaleen at the moment. The priestesses of the Dothraki are looking at him with a variety of different expressions. Some of them are Dothraki, and of those, a few are looking at him askance, as if he's asking too much of them. The others are assessing him, as if to see if he can back up his words. Some of them are not Dothraki however, and those… those look ever so slightly hopeful, for as good as they hide it.
But then, even if the Dosh Khaleen are made up of widowed khaleesi, a foreign khaleesi was likely bought or captured, rather than entering the khalasar of her own free will. Daenerys would have been the same, little more than a slave, a piece of meat sold by her brother to Drogo in exchange for an army. A foreign woman, destined to one day join the Dosh Khaleen, perhaps.
Now that she was his, he would not let that happen. She was his khaleesi, but she was also his family. Jon didn't intend to spend the rest of his life among the Dothraki… or rather, he would bring them with him, only if they proved they could change. This idea of him conquering the world, of him taking over everything… it does speak to him, if he's being honest. His blood sings with a desire to rule, and that melody has only grown in volume since he hatched his three dragons alongside Daenerys.
Speaking of Dany, she's looking at him with pure adoration. Jon has learned well since bedding his khaleesi that Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, is not stupid by any means. She is timid and shy and young… younger than him, even. And perhaps she is a bit ignorant of much knowledge that many took for granted. Her brother kept her sheltered, sequestered, blind to much of the world.
But behind that timid façade that her brother had forced her to wear in order to survive his rages, there was a bright, curious young woman. Jon had caught several glimpses of her so far, and he had to admit, every time he saw more of her true self, he fell just a bit more in love with Daenerys Targaryen. That's all to say, Dany wasn't dumb. Because she wasn't dumb, she no doubt understood that slavery was back. Just as she no doubt understood that what Viserys had done to her, selling her to Drogo, was effectively a form of slavery.
So, in the end, it made sense that she would be on board with his declaration. Now all that was left was to see how the Dosh Khaleen would react. Jon would be their Stallion Who Mounts the World… but on HIS terms, not the Dothraki's.
"… We will see what you can change, Khal Jhono. First, you must unite our people. Only then might you be able to force the Dothraki to become something new. But it will not be easy. There will be pain. Bloodshed. Suffering."
Jon doesn't back down at her harsh words, his jaw instead squaring as he frowns most severely.
"There already is. For however long your people's history is, all the way up to this very moment. There is pain, bloodshed, and suffering being perpetrated by the Dothraki in this very city."
That gets a responding frown from the High Priestess.
"It… it is forbidden to shed a free man's blood within Vaes Dothrak."
Even as she says the words, he can see the resignation in her eyes, Jon just smiles a cold smile and nods, both of them knowing that the crux of the problem lies in the heart of what she just said. Rather than continue to debate the matter though, Jon simply settles it with a blunt, true statement that he means with all his heart.
"When I am done changing the Dothraki, that will still be true. But the word 'free' will no longer be needed, because every man and woman in Vaes Dothrak will be free."
In the end, the High Priestess bows to him, still seeming rather resigned. Jon wonders at that but listens as she speaks all the same.
"Very well. Riders will be sent across the Dothraki sea. The Khals will be summoned. They will come, and there will likely be war. You should be ready for battle, for many of them will not accept you. They will fight instead, and you will have to kill them."
Funny, just a few months ago, Jon had actually never killed a man before. Then he'd arrived in Braavos, and in the span of one nightly battle, he'd killed an entire gang of them. Then had come the wedding in Pentos, where he'd killed Drogo and then his Bloodriders. After that, the entire way here had been one fight after another, in which Jon had had to kill quite a few Dothraki.
He'd gotten good at killing, not that he took pleasure in it. Though… there had been pleasure in killing both Drogo and Viserys. The pleasure had not come from taking their lives, mind… but from protecting Daenerys from the two men. Protecting HIS claim over her, at that. Nostrils flaring, Jon's smile, which still doesn't reach his flinty grey eyes, widens a fair bit.
In a way, he was laying claim to the whole of the Dothraki now too, wasn't he? And if the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen was to be believed, the other Khals were unlikely to fall in line. Jon got the impression that at the very least, his lieutenants and the Dothraki Warriors that made up his own Khalasar would fight for him. He'd weeded out those who hated or despised him on the way here, defeating all challengers. It left his Khalasar perhaps a bit smaller, but nevertheless filled with those who were aware of how strong he was, of the power he wielded.
But these other Khals… he would kill them like he killed Drogo if he thought it necessary. He would not allow them to gainsay him, nor would he allow them to stand in his way.
"If that is what I must do, then I will do it and they will die. Send out your riders. Call the Khals and their Khalasars here. Let it be done, one way or another. If I am the subject of your prophecy… then I suppose it is high time I prove it, hm?"
The High Priestess bows, and many, though not all of the Dosh Khaleen follow her lead on that. As he looks over these widowed khaleesi, he finds that many of them are looking at him with appreciative, even lustful gazes. But… he's not here to turn the Dothraki Priesthood into his own personal harem. As it currently stands, he already has Dany and Bellegere to boot.
Turning with the former at his side, Jon departs from the temple. He and Daenerys make their way back to the Khalasar, at which point Dany stops him on the edge of their camp with a hand on his arm.
"… There's something I must do… will you come with me?"
Jon inclines his head in agreement and lets Daenerys lead the way. The beautiful young woman is quite fun to follow behind, and Jon finds himself staring at her feminine figure, specifically her swaying hips and her delectable ass, both of which are held in tight Dothraki leathers at this point. Eventually, they arrive at the tent that Jon knows as Daenerys', at least when she's not with him. He walks in behind her, only to blink in mild surprise at seeing three women he's never met before waiting for them both.
Two are of Dothraki descent, with caramel skin and black hair and almond-shaped eyes. They're both beautiful… but not quite striking in the same way as the third. The third feels like a mixture of Daenerys and Bellegere if he's being honest. Daenerys' looks, Bellegere's skill. With fair hair and blue eyes, she was obviously from Lys. More than likely, she was from the pleasure houses of Lys in particular. The way she looks at him when she and the other two girls realize he's with Daenerys is… distinct, to be sure. She's hungry for him in that same way Bellegere was that night back in Braavos.
"Jon… these are my handmaidens. Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah. I… they were wedding gifts, given to me shortly before you… intervened."
Jon raises a brow, even as Daenerys straightens her back and squares her shoulders, looking away from him to the three women. It's obvious she's trying to be confident, though there's still a slight tremor in her voice.
"H-However. I realize now that the three of you did not have a say in the matter. A-And that is w-wrong. So… I am offering the three of you your freedom, here and now."
Irri and Jhiqui go wide eyed at this. Doreah clearly hears Daenerys, but only has eyes for him, while Jon… Jon just gives Dany a smile and a one-armed hug, proud of her.
"We… have nothing. Where would we go, khaleesi?"
It's the one Daenerys named Irri that speaks up, looking somewhat fretful and confused, as if her entire life has just been upended on her… which to be fair, it has. Daenerys though, isn't done.
"I would… I would like it if you all stayed. I would like to keep you on as my handmaiden. But I will not treat others as property. Not ever. You would be free women… and under my protection if you decided to remain."
Irri and Jhiqui share looks at that, before slowly nodding. It's obvious they don't really understand what's happening… but at least they seem to recognize that Dany isn't throwing them out. Meanwhile, Doreah licks her lips and steps forward, thrusting her chest out and giving Jon a seductive smile, even as she speaks to Daenerys.
"And what of Khal Jhono's needs? He is a Khal among Khals, is he not… I have heard that the Black Pearl of Braavos advises him… and takes care of him. But a man such as he would have more than one woman. Would we be expected to serve him as we serve you, khaleesi?"
It's obvious what Doreah wants, and Jon can smell her arousal in the air. Daenerys doesn't quite catch on right away though.
"I-I… Jon would never force you to do anything you didn't want to do! And neither would I!"
"Ah… but what if it's something I want to do?"
Now Dany understands. Her handmaidens are all looking at Jon speculatively now, and as he looks back at them, he can smell not just Doreah's arousal in the air, but Irri and Jhiqui's as well… and on top of that, Dany is also beginning to grow wet. When he glances over at her, it's to find that she's looking down at the ground and blushing prettily, clearly fidgeting as she imagines such a thing, him with her handmaidens. It's obvious to him that she doesn't mind the idea one bit… in fact, does his khaleesi perhaps enjoy the thought of him with other women?
Jon lifts an eyebrow as Doreah, seemingly sensing the same thing from Daenerys, closes the distance. The Lysene pleasure slave may now be a free woman, but she has a very particular set of skills, and she's eager to use them. Her saunter over to him is as sultry as it is seductive, until she's draping her arms around his neck and leaning in to kiss him. He lets her, just as he lets her move past his lips after a moment, to whisper in his ear.
"The khaleesi is still but a girl… she requires instruction in how best to please a man as virile as you. Perhaps together, we can show her."
There's no doubt in Jon's mind that he's about to fuck Daenerys' three handmaidens. The only question is, how to go about things? Doreah clearly has something in mind… shall he go with the flow and see what she intends? Or perhaps he should do as he's done countless times, and just dominate the exchange entirely.
Or perhaps words have no place here. Perhaps the only noise that any of the four women should be making for the next while is that of unintelligible pleasure as he fucks each and every one of them into a stupor…
Unleashing the Dragon
… You know what? Sure, together they can show her. Jon sees right through Doreah, can tell that the Lysene whore is a hungry little slut and is eager to get in his good graces. And… that's alright. But if she thinks she's going to wrap a dragon around her finger and lead him along by his cock, she has another thing coming entirely.
Jon doesn't answer with words. He answers with actions, as he's been doing for a good while now. Grabbing Doreah by her hair, he drags her in for a savage, domineering kiss, leaving no question to his attentions as he roughly handles her, his other hand coming up to drag down the leather hide top she's wearing and expose a pair of supple breasts, which he gropes and kneads to his heart's content.
Doreah's answering yelp is swallowed by his mouth, and while she squirms at first, she stops fighting him very quickly, well aware of her place in the world when compared to him. It's not even comparable, really, and at the end of the day, they both know he can do whatever he wants to her, because of the power disparity. At the same time though, the scent of Doreah's arousal grows stronger, filling his nostrils at this point, and it's obvious that for all she's powerless to resist, she's also helplessly turned on.
When he finally disengages from their lip lock, she gasps and looks ready to try and say something, but Jon doesn't give her the chance. Spinning her around so that the topless Lysene is facing the other three women, he reaches down and tears her skirt off next, ripping it away from her body and exposing her lower half. His arms hook through her arms, and he pulls them behind her back, even as he bends her forward slightly.
Still, she does try to speak, tries to continue on with her earlier suggestion, given he hasn't actually said no to her.
"L-Lady Daenerys-!"
However, in the midst of Doreah trying to give her mistress a lesson, that lecturing tone she'd taken on making it clear what she was attempting, Jon's cock is out and slaps down between Doreah's ass cheeks. She goes still, freezing up as she goes completely silent, and though Jon can't see the pleasure slave turned handmaiden's face, he can imagine what she looks like, because he assumes that the look on her face is mirrored on the faces of the three women watching.
Wide eyes, mouth slightly agape. With a grin, without even giving Doreah a chance to collect herself and try talking again, Jon pulls back just enough for his cock to find purchase in the beautiful Lysene's cunt, and then thrusts forward, taking her from behind standing up, her knees knocking together and her arms restrained behind her back.
"Oh! Oh, oh, oh!"
Doreah's little gasps and exhalations are positively adorable, at least in part because they're real. Jon's not sure HOW he can tell, but he can… and he knows that despite her experience, she's not faking it. Her cunt is already fairly moist, and only grows wetter still as he fucks into her, pounding into her with raw, bestial might. He fucks her as a dragon would, as a dragon SHOULD, claiming her in front of Daenerys and her other two handmaidens.
The two Dothraki handmaidens are both alternating between trying to avert their eyes and sneaking peeks. It's obvious they're ashamed of their own arousal, and don't believe they should be watching… and yet, they can't help themselves. After all, when is the next time that the two of them will get to watch a dragon fuck a mere woman such as Doreah?
Daenerys though… his Dany is a different story altogether. She's not looking away, and those purple eyes of hers are wide with excitement as she watches him pound into Doreah, her gaze flitting between his face, her handmaiden's face, and down below, where the two of them are joined together. Unable to help herself, the shy young woman, a dragoness in her own right, slowly begins to strip, right then and there.
When they see her do so, Irri and Jhiqui follow suit, though they blush all the while and still try to refrain from watching. It's amusing to Jon that the two Dothraki handmaidens would be the ones that would be… uncomfortable in this instance. Surely, neither of them can possibly be virgins at this point, given the nature of Dothraki culture.
But while they've undeniably been passed around and used more than once in their lives, it would seem like both Irri and Jhiqui are unused to bearing witness to a Khal fucking another woman in front of them like this. More than that, Jon's very presence fills the tent, his draconic heritage making him larger than life. It's no wonder that they're having a hard time… and no wonder that Doreah is already insensate on his cock.
Her pussy walls clench and squeeze down hard around his member for the umpteenth time as he milks another explosive orgasm out of her, the Lysene shaking and spasming in his grip. With one final thrust and a last grunt, Jon cums inside of her, pumping his seed into her cunt and dropping her at his feet a moment later. Doreah falls to the ground face first, ass up, and just… stays where she is, even as Jon steps over her and begins making his way towards Daenerys' other two handmaidens.
After seeing his khaleesi's response to him being with another woman, Jon has already decided to leave Dany for last. She's obviously getting off on watching him fuck her handmaidens, her eyes filled with delight as she now bites her lower lip and blatantly and brazenly touches herself. She seems more confident in this moment then she has since he met her, the shyness dropping away as the true dragoness peeks out.
Both Irri and Jhiqui freeze up at his approach, like two small prey beneath an approaching large predator. But Jon is a bit gentler with them then he was with Doreah, at least at first. He takes them by the hair firmly, but not too roughly, and brings them together in a kiss. As they tentatively do as he wants without him having to say a word, beginning to make out with one another, he leads them to a bed of furs and pushes them down onto it.
Jhiqui ends up on the bottom, while Irri ends up on the top. It doesn't really matter in the end though because Jon fucks them both at the same time. His cock thrusts into Irri first, before pulling out and pushing into Jhiqui next. As he expected, neither are virgins… but it's obvious from the off-set that this is the biggest cock both have ever had. Certainly, as he grips Irri by her hips and begins to fuck both handmaidens in earnest, the two Dothraki women end up terminating their kissing in order to just cling to each other, moaning and mewling and squealing as he quickens his pace and begins to fuck them both like an animal… or more accurately, like a dragon.
Growling, Jon slams into Irri and then Jhiqui over and over again, pounding into the two darker-skinned women with a viciousness that leaves them both in a right state by the time he's done with them. As with Doreah, the two simply can't keep up. By the time Jon cums again, his seed exploding between their bodies this time around and coating their caramel skin in his white, hot ejaculate, both Irri and Jhiqui are in quite the stupor.
Finished with the two of them, Jon pulls back and finally turns his eyes towards Daenerys… only for his khaleesi to surprise him by leaping into his arms just as he's turning around. He reacts quickly enough to grab her and hold her to him all the same, and with a bit of fumbling, he's inside of her, even as she kisses him, and he kisses her back. It's a hungry sort of lovemaking the two of them engage in, and Jon, still in full primal beast mode, grips Daenerys by her pale buttocks as he bounces her on his cock quite aggressively.
In response, the dragoness half-moans, half-growls into his mouth, their tongues wrestling with one another and Daenerys' fingernails clawing at his rippling back muscles. Jon growls and just fucks her harder in response. If Dany wants to turn this into a battle for dominance, then that's perfectly fine with him.
Of course, almost immediately after he gets serious, his mate folds like a stack of cards. Daenerys Targaryen is NOT a strong woman, nor is she a particularly strong dragoness. She's never had the opportunity to be, her brother spending her whole life tearing her down rather than building her up, leaving her afraid and worried.
It makes it all the easier for Jon to put her in her place and remind her that he's in charge here… but it also gives him leave to be kind and generous with her. She's not the sort of threat he has to put his boot on the neck of at all times, thankfully. Instead, once Daenerys submits, Jon returns to kissing her, their tongues dueling, but in a far less competitive way as Jon leads the encounter from that moment on, fucking Daenerys hard and fast, bouncing her up and down on his cock as the beautiful, pale-skinned young woman cums again and again around his length, just as her handmaidens did before her.
Dany lasts a bit longer perhaps… but not long enough that Jon doesn't leave her in the same state as the others by the time he finally spills his seed in her womb and fills her with his release. As he finishes with her, Jon carries her over to the same pile of furs he brought Irri and Jhiqui to, where the two Dothraki handmaidens have since rolled away from each other, lazing about on their backs and relaxing, quite satiated.
Laying Daenerys down between the two dark-skinned women, Jon smiles approvingly as they immediately turn onto their sides and press into Daenerys, murmuring quietly into their khaleesi's ear and taking care of her quite enthusiastically. Doreah, meanwhile, crawls on trembling limbs with some assistance from Jon, who grabs her by her hair and pulls her over. When he presses her face into Daenerys' dripping wet cunt, the Lysene pleasure slave doesn't need any further instruction… she begins to lick and lap and slurp at his seed and her mistress' pussy, eating Daenerys out, slowly at first, but more eagerly as time goes on.
Jon watches the four women for a moment, a satisfied smile on his face, before he gets dressed and heads out. There's far too much for him to check up on and far too much preparation to be done before the other Khals and their khalasars arrive in Vaes Dothrak. If 'Khal Jhono' is going to change an entire culture… he's going to have to be ready for a fight.
-x-X-x-
His thoughts that day prove prophetic, when a few weeks later, Jon finds himself being challenged on all sides. It's nothing all that surprising, to be fair, and thankfully, for the time being at least, there's been no bloodshed as of yet. But tensions are brewing, and things simmer just beneath the surface, ready to boil.
It would seem Jon has a choice to make. The Khals have mostly arrived at this point, with the Dosh Khaleen declaring those that haven't shown up to be cowards and not true Dothraki at all. None of the big khalasars are absent, from what Jon has been told, so that's good at least. Those that have avoided this call to Vaes Dothrak are small and ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Though Jon still intends to deal with them eventually… something tells him 'meaningless' doesn't mean 'non-threat', in the end.
Regardless, his current foes are the ones that DID show up. Not a single Khal was willing to submit to the Dosh Khaleen's declaration of Jon's place as the Stallion Who Would Mount The World. This… isn't that surprising. For one, he's a foreigner. If the Stallion wasn't going to be a Dothraki, well then the Dothraki probably didn't want the Stallion. However, Jon had the feeling that even with his pale skin and Westerosi features, he could have likely won a few of the more faithful Khals to his side… if not for the other thing.
The 'other thing' being his stance on slavery. Sorry, but Jon was born in Westeros, in the North, and he was raised to consider slavery one of the darkest of sins. He wasn't going to hide behind the traditions or culture of this people he'd so abruptly inserted himself into. If they wanted him to be their savior, their prophecy figure… then Jon was going to fix them or die trying.
So yes, every Khal who'd come to Vaes Dothrak was his enemy, by their own choice. The distinction, in the end, came down to the form of challenge that they'd sent him. Some of the Khals, the ones with greater confidence in their personal prowess, or smaller khalasars, or more often a mixture of both… they had challenged Jon to one-on-one battles, duels much like the ones he'd already been fighting near every day since he'd killed Drogo and become a Khal.
Meanwhile, some of the Khals with the larger khalasars were determined to make a war of it, challenging his entire khalasar to a sort of blood sport on the open plains outside of Vaes Dothrak. Tens of thousands of Dothraki warriors, all engaging in battle, all at once.
It just… felt a little wasteful to him. But on the other hand, he wasn't sure how he might stack up against multiple opponents. The Dothraki he'd fought so far… none of them had really compared to Khal Drogo. But now he'd be fighting numerous Khals, and he had to imagine that at least some of them would be as good as Drogo had been. Jon himself was pretty damn good… but he didn't consider himself invincible or unstoppable or anything like that.
Honestly, he really just wanted to consolidate things under one form of challenge, so that no one could rightfully complain when all was said and done. But perhaps that instinct was wrong? Perhaps he should be taking them on in their preferred way, beating all comers as they'd challenged him to prove he was the strongest? It was a tough decision, in the end. One he would need to make soon… very soon.
Consequences
When all is said and done, Jon looks back and feels he made the right call by demanding that all challenges be between him and the other Khals in one-on-one personal combat. To be fair, as the Dosh Khaleen made clear, this was the way things were done in Vaes Dothrak to begin with. While it was common for rival khalasars to clash and do battle with one another across the great Dothraki Sea, it was apparently highly irregular for them to participate in some sort of mass khalasar versus khalasar honor duel right outside of Vaes Dothrak.
Ultimately, Jon probably would have been just fine if he'd taken all challenges as they'd come, because he'd inherited Drogo's khalasar and even with the purging he'd had to do while they traveled from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak, he still had one of the biggest khalasars in Dothraki History. However, if he'd tried to make every challenge a khalasar versus khalasar sort of thing, his legitimacy would likely have been called into question far more stringently.
As it was, there were still plenty of Dothraki that were angered quite a bit by the idea of some wet-behind-the-ears Westerosi boy leading their people. Obviously, Jon had proven himself to the Dothraki of his own khalasar already, and the Dosh Khaleen themselves were backing him up… but he still needed to show his strength of arms to the rest of the Dothraki people, especially if he was going to lead them out of the era of slavery and rape and murder they'd been wallowing in for so long.
Luckily, The Duels as they had come to be known, had seen to that. The very first day Jon had begun dealing with the Khals who would usurp him, there had been plenty of laughter and derision from those who gathered around to watch the ceremonial duel take place just outside of Vaes Dothrak. His very first competitor had even given a speech in Dothraki, a long monologue that Jon had allowed, if only because it gave him a chance to do some stretching and get all limbered up for the day ahead.
The monologue had had several fair points. Jon was indeed Westerosi and had not a single ounce of Dothraki Blood within him. On top of that, he was also young. Not too young to be a Dothraki Warrior to be sure, but one of the youngest to ever be called Khal. Of course, his first challenger was insistent that Jon was no Khal at all, spitting out the name 'Khal Jhono' with great disdain as he riled up the crowd in his favor, and claiming that the Dosh Khaleen had been bewitched by Westerosi Magics, by blood witches or something.
By the time their fight had finally begun, most of the Dothraki in attendance were cheering on Jon's opponent, even some who Jon knew came from his own khalasar. The two of them had come together, their blades clashing… and the cheering had faltered when Jon swiftly dodged his enemy's sword before cutting out his hamstring, sending him crashing to one knee and beheading him on the backswing in one smooth motion.
He dealt with the Khal's bloodriders as well, the men waiting in the wings to attack immediately, though even they took a second to react, staring wide-eyed and surprised at the death of their Khal. No one expected the Dothraki Warrior to go down so easily, and Jon later learned this was because that particular Khal was considered the closest thing Drogo had to a rival.
The second challenger didn't bother with a monologue. He simply snarled and charged Jon the moment that the previous Khal and his dead bloodriders were pulled out of the ring. Jon took him down just as quickly. It was a matter of necessity. Jon had plans, he had things he wanted to be doing, and he needed to be doing them, not wasting his time here reining in the Dothraki Hordes.
That was why Jon's intentions were to finish this within the week. He was going to make his way through every challenger and the subsequent fight with their bloodriders by week's end, so that he could get started on what really mattered… ending slavery within the Dothraki Culture as a whole.
By the end of the first day, Jon had made his way through half a dozen Khals and their bloodriders. The second went much the same. By the third, some of the cons of Jon's decision to make every challenge a one-on-one duel began to show themselves. He was still fairly happy with how it all turned out, of course, but there were some minor downsides to his choice.
For one, some of the Khals scheduled to challenge him began to flee from Vaes Dothrak. Not many, of course, and those that did had fairly small khalasars, made even smaller when some of their warriors refused to follow them. But upon realizing that they couldn't possibly beat him, he who had gone from being this young upstart Westerosi to a near-mythological figure in battle, a few cowardly Khals did flee, using what excuses they could to make their men leave with them in the dead of night.
They would not be welcome back in Vaes Dothrak of course, but these remnants of what the Dothraki had been would no doubt linger around the edges of what Jon planned to have them become for some time. And if he didn't do something about them, they might come back to bite him in the ass later on.
Another minor irritation was the assassination attempts that started up around the third night in. Whatever power had awakened within Jon on his eighteenth name day, whatever sort of dragon it was that now rested in Jon's soul… it wasn't so easily ambushed as all that. Nor was it easily poisoned apparently. The worst part was the fact that he was usually with a woman at night, or multiple women, and they were in danger because of him.
Luckily, none of his women were ever harmed, and Jon was able to dispatch the would-be assassins easily enough. But all the same, their attempts were an unwelcome surprise, and a show of just much his presence was already beginning to disrupt the Dothraki way of life. For the Horse-Lords to resort to such underhanded measures as knives in the dark and poison in his food, well, it just showed how afraid they'd become of him.
It wasn't all bad though. Jon's decision did come with some pros to go alongside those scant cons. For instance, his prowess in battle quickly elevated him from some Westerosi boy to the Khal of Khals that the Dosh Khaleen claimed him to be in the eyes of many Dothraki Warriors. His blood might not be Dothraki, but as the Dosh Khaleen had taken to constantly preaching, nothing in the old scriptures said that the Stallion Who Mounts the World needed to be of Dothraki Descent.
In fact, given the translation of that title in Ancient Dothraki being 'Dragon', and given Jon's three growing dragon children, well… it was quickly becoming obvious to many of the Horse Lords with some semblance of sense that they were witnessing history, that they were becoming part of something greater. Everyone wants to matter, in the end. It's just how you go about making yourself matter that sets you apart.
By the end of the week, one in five of his challengers would surrender instead of fight him, offering him their braid and letting him cut it so that they could in turn rejoin the Dothraki as nothing more than a braidless warrior, regaining their lost honor from the old system under the new system that he was creating. Jon especially liked those because it meant he didn't have to kill the bloodriders.
It wasn't that he was flagging or anything like that, the dragon he had become didn't seem capable of it, truth be told. It was like he'd been empowered by the gods themselves or something, and truth be told, he was beginning to buy in to his own mythos, at least a little bit. He wasn't just some Westerosi anymore, he wasn't even just some Targaryen King in exile or something. He'd become the Khal of Khals in truth, the Stallion Who Mounts The World… he'd become a dragon.
And yet… it seemed that not everything was going to go his way forever. Despite succeeding in his self-appointed goal of beginning the reformation of the Dothraki, Jon had other problems now… big problems. Sat in his tent, Jon presses his lips tightly together as he looks down at the letter that Tycho Nestoris, Representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos, has sent him.
"Is it bad, my love?"
That's Bellegere, as it turns out. Daenerys is currently with her handmaidens, looking after the dragons. Bellegere was the one to bring him the letter personally, and as he'd sat down to read it, she in turn had knelt down and fished his cock from its confines, before wrapping her full, tanned breasts around it. Almost as if to remind him that of all of his women, Bellegere certainly has the most substantial rack.
She's been tending to his needs for a while now as he's been reading, but it might have become clear that Jon has finished and grown pensive, because now she looks up at him from betwixt his legs and peers at him, visibly concerned as she nestles his cock between her breasts even now.
"It's… the man who I was raised to believe was my father is now dead."
That was the least of it, truth be told, but it was the most important to Jon, at least in the moment. Eddard Stark was dead… and the Seven Kingdoms were at war with one another. A low gasp leaves Bellegere's throat at the news, and she looks at him with pity and sorrow on his behalf.
"I'm so sorry, Jon… is there anything I can do?"
Perhaps it's a little crass, perhaps it's inappropriate… but he's not just Jon Snow, he's the Khal of Khals and a dragon now. And the dragon in his chest was already purring in contentment from Bellegere's attentions, even as it roared in anger at the loss of his blood uncle. So, Jon smiles down at Bellegere and tells her the truth.
"You're already doing it."
That gets something of a blush from the Black Pearl of Braavos, but she just smiles coyly in the end and returns to pleasuring him with her tanned tits and gorgeous mouth. Her pillowy lips close around his cockhead and she begins to quietly suck him off, even as Jon considers all that he's learned from Tycho's letter.
Westeros is at war, and from what the Iron Bank can tell, it's at least partially because of Jon. When Robert had arrived in Winterfell after Jon's departure, it was to ask Eddard Stark to become the Hand of the King for him after the passing of their mentor and Jon's namesake, Lord Arryn. Lord Stark had accepted, but according to the letter, had gone to King's Landing alone.
That was curious to say the least. It was one thing to leave Robb behind, but supposedly Ned had refused a betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey, claiming it was too premature? Maybe that was true, but Jon had a sinking suspicion that it was because his uncle knew that Jon was out there, and that shit might just go down in some way or fashion.
In the end, Jon's choice to go to Daenerys and interrupt her wedding to Drogo had apparently made waves. Such waves that they reached Westeros' shores at some point during the time period where Jon and his new khalasar were making their way to Vaes Dothrak. Upon hearing about Jon's exploits, King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, had had Lord Eddard Stark stripped of his post and locked in the Black Cells.
From the letter, Tycho was certain that Lord Stark hadn't cracked, even if they had tortured him. There were no hints that Jon's true identity as Rhaegar and Lyanna's legitimate son was known to the Kingdoms of Westeros at this time. Even still, things hadn't ended there. Apparently, while Ned had languished in the Black Cells, Robert had been assassinated, and somehow the Lannisters thought they could get away with pinning it all on the most honorable man in Westeros.
… They were calling it the War of the Five Kings. Robb had been named the King in the North, Stannis and Renly were apparently fighting for their brother's throne after both had declared all three of Robert's children bastards, and meanwhile even Balon Greyjoy had decided he was King of the Iron Islands, rebelling a second time and sending his reavers to raid the Westerlands for fun and profit.
In the middle of all of that were the Lannisters trying to hold onto power in King's Landing. It was all rather wild, but beyond Lord Eddard Stark being executed down in King's Landing for apparent treachery, all of Jon's special people were still in the North, apparently. Ned should never have left Winterfell, but at least he'd been smart enough to leave everyone else behind.
Tycho's letter didn't necessarily state outright that the Iron Bank wished for Jon to return to Braavos. The banker was smarter than that. But it was certainly implied in the man's final words, a request for a response in all due haste about what Jon intended to do next. He needed to decide, obviously. Because as far as he could see, he had a choice between multiple options in front of him.
He could return to Braavos and rely on the Iron Bank's plans for how to capitalize on this War of the Five Kings to ultimately seat him on the Iron Throne of Westeros. Alternatively, he could continue to focus his efforts here in Essos. Either he hunted down the remaining Dothraki Khalasars that had fled Vaes Dothrak in order to properly bring the entirety of the Horse Lords under his banner… or he turned his eye to Slaver's Bay and got a faster start on turning the Dothraki from slavers to liberators as he intended.
A groan leaves Jon's lips and he brings a hand down atop Bellegere's head, guiding her back and forth along his member for a few moments before finally cumming. He doesn't need to warn the gorgeous prostitute, she knows when a man is about to ejaculate and she's all too ready to swallow every last drop of his seed. When she's done and his cock pops out from between her lips, the Black Pearl graces him with a happy smile, clearly hoping that she's pleased him, if even just a little.
Jon smiles back, because she's actually pleased him a lot more than a little, and even if Daenerys is now his khaleesi or wife or Queen, Bellegere… Bellegere will always hold a special place in his heart. Still, as he strokes a hand through her hair and enjoys the way she leans into and nuzzles at his touch, Jon's eyes turn back to the letter once more.
He needs to come to a decision it would seem… and fast.
Happy News
Despite what was happening on Westeros, there was no doubt in Jon's mind that he'd made his bed here in Essos and he needed to lie in it. The Dothraki may not have started out his problem, but through his actions and repeated choices that had taken him East, he'd effectively made them his responsibility. His uncle's death hurt, and he worried for the rest of the Starks, but he couldn't allow that to distract him from the real good that he was doing in Essos right now.
Likewise, he could not just turn his eyes towards Slaver's Bay and immediately begin his plan to remake the Dothraki into liberators rather than slavers by going after even bigger slavers. As tantalizing as the prospect of doing so was, he needed to get his own house in order first. That was something the late Lord Stark had drilled into his brain. And the Dothraki were unequivocally his house now.
So, while it wasn't the easiest or most rewarding path in front of him, Jon nevertheless set himself to the task of hunting down the remaining Dothraki Khalasars, both those that had fled Vaes Dothrak during his week of victories, and those who'd never shown up in the first place. They were effectively rebels now, insurgents in his lands, so to speak, even though the Horse Lords had never really been a true nation or held actual territory before.
With the Dosh Khaleen behind him and his skill and strength of arm leaving the vast majority of the Dothraki Hordes at his back, Jon got to work changing that fact. The Dothraki may not have been a unified people before, but they were now. He was supposed to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World, after all, and the very first bit of that prophecy involved him uniting all of the Dothraki under his banner, into a single khalasar.
Of course, when a prophecy made such grandiose claims, it left out the nitty gritty details of such an undertaking. The week of challenges, of dueling other Khals one and one and then dealing with their Bloodriders… truth be told, it was the easiest part of Jon's work. Running down the cowards who wouldn't stick around to actually face facts and fight him was much more irritating and took longer… months longer.
But it had to be done. Luckily, Jon did not have to be at every battle, or part of every hunt. With the amount of Dothraki at his command, he was able to split his forces up and spread out across the Dothraki sea in all directions. Rather than acting like a bunch of sharks each fighting for their own spot in the great sea however like the Dothraki had before, this was more akin to a kraken slowly unfurling its tentacles.
News of the change quickly reaches the Free Cities of Essos as Vaes Dothrak went through many, many changes. Traders had taken the risk of traversing across the Dothraki Sea to trade with the Horse Lords in Vaes Dothrak before Jon's arrival and ascension of course, but now that the risk was lessening, the number of traders and caravans willing to make the journey was growing.
One might worry that the Dothraki would balk under Jon's new edicts and the decisions he was making that were changing the very fabric of their society, the very makeup of their culture. Jon did worry, he worried every night and every day. But… he wasn't entirely sure he was human anymore. It was the proximity to his and Dany's new dragons that did it, that made him feel it, but there was something in him, something he simply couldn't escape from.
It wasn't so much a whisper, as it was a warm sensation in his chest. He had these feelings now that he couldn't always quantify or explain. However, they could definitely be relied upon to help him get his house in order, he quickly discovered. When it came to assigning Dothraki warriors to lead groups of Horse Lords out into the Dothraki Sea to hunt down their wayward, cowardly brethren, Jon found that he could pick out the most loyal among the Dothraki for such undertakings.
Likewise, when he himself went on a hunt with his original khalasar at his back to deal with some of the larger rogue khalasars, it was like he could tell what they were going to do before they did it, which moves they were going to make. And once they were laid low before him and his army, he could always tell which of them were actually willing to submit, and which ones were trying their hand at subtle insurrection, with bad intentions in their blackened hearts.
It was the dragon within him, both Bellegere and Daenerys assured him. Though even they both seemed absolutely amazed by what he was describing, in awe of him in a way that made him feel like they viewed him as something more than human. So too did the Dosh Khaleen, venerating him as the Stallion Who Mounts the World in all of their prayers and sermons, declaring him akin to a God.
Which, to be fair, for a society that worshipped a horse, being above the horse would make him a God, he supposed. Even though he knew he wasn't truly a God. He was less sure about whether or not he was a dragon though. Fire did not burn him, though of course it did not burn Daenerys either. But also, where the infant dragons they'd hatched together sometimes acted up and would nip at Dany's fingertips when she would bug them, they were always completely subservient to him. Like scaly, winged cats who recognized him as the bigger cat, or something.
All of it was rather strange… but it was also undeniably beneficial, so Jon didn't spend too much time fighting it. He spent plenty of time questioning it, as he tried to question a lot of things, but at the end of the day, he was not exactly in a position to deny help, regardless of what strange corners it came from in the end.
Ultimately, as the next couple months went by, Jon relied on his instincts and on the strange feelings in order to right the Dothraki Ship and consolidate the Horse Lords under his banner… and his alone. He fought not just for the freedom of the people the Dothraki had long driven under the hooves of their horses and enslaved, but also for the freedom of the Dothraki themselves. Freedom from the backwards, savage, and altogether vile society that they'd been born into and lived with for so many generations.
It's on a return trip from dealing with one of the last large rebel khalasars however, that Jon finds himself blindsided by something that he didn't see coming whatsoever. Normally, whenever he would return from a hunt, he would be greeted by his khaleesi and by Bellegere. However, this time around, as he enters Vaes Dothrak… it's just the Black Pearl waiting for him with a fixed smile on her face and her hands clasped in front of her.
"Bellegere… where's Dany?"
The courtesan bites her lower lip at that, and then a sunny, surprisingly bright smile spreads across her faces as she suddenly reaches out and grabs Jon by the hands.
"It's good news, Jon… your khaleesi is with child."
Jon blinks, and then actually processes Bellegere's words, and a bright smile spreads across his face to match her own.
"That IS good news… but then, where is she? She can't be that far along yet…"
Here, Bellegere lets out a soft sigh, glancing back over her shoulder.
"She's far enough along to have developed a bump… and she's decided that she's bloated and ugly and undesirable now, and that I am better off seeing to your needs alone, or with your handmaidens, until she's given birth."
… Honestly, that did sound like something Daenerys would do. The young woman, the last Targaryen… she could be rather soft and quiet and shy, and while Jon had done his best to undo the damage growing up with her brother had left her with, it was obvious that the physical effects of becoming pregnant were throwing her off something fierce. All the same…
"Take me to her, Bellegere. I want to see my Queen."
The smile that the Black Pearl gives him makes it clear that's exactly what she wanted to hear, and together they make their way through Vaes Dothrak, to where Daenerys has sequestered herself away.
-x-X-x-
Bellegere opts to wait outside, so it's just Jon that enters the room where Daenerys is hiding from him. Looking up at the sound of his feet against the floor, the beautiful, pregnant Targaryen woman's beautiful violet eyes go wide, and she immediately gets to her feet. She really isn't that far along just yet. In fact, if he didn't know better, the dress she's wearing would hide the baby bump that Bellegere had assured him existed quite well.
"J-Jon. I… I would have thought Bellegere would have told you what state I'm in, I'm not-mmph!"
It takes him that many words to cross the distance between them and gather Dany up into a kiss, cutting off her rambling before it can properly get started, even as he hugs her close. She stiffens and then squirms for a second, before ultimately relaxing and melting into his grasp, kissing him back with her soft lips and submitting to his tongue pushing into her mouth and intertwining with her tongue, as she always did.
When they pull apart a few moments later, Jon looks directly into Daenerys' eyes and speaks from the heart.
"I know you're pregnant. I need you to know that I care not what you look like… I love you for who you are, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. I will always love you, my khaleesi… my Queen."
Daenerys' breath hitches at his declaration, and she ducks her head in embarrassment.
"You are as radiant and beautiful as the day we met, Dany. This pregnancy has not and will not diminish a single ounce of your great beauty. Do you understand me?"
"… Y-Yes, my Khal."
He can tell that that's not enough… so he slowly removes Daenerys' dress, exposing her beautiful young, and yes, pregnant body underneath. Then, he leads her to the bed and has her lay down, before moving atop her. He's careful and gentle and altogether cautious. He may have a dragon's appetite when it comes to sex, but he was raised to treat women with respect and kindness and a gentle hand by the man who'd turned out to be his uncle. He knows how to control himself.
Jon enters Daenerys carefully, penetrating her velvety folds as she gasps and pants, already wet for him. He fills her with about half of his cock, and refuses to go any further, taking her slowly and tenderly as he makes love to the beautiful young woman. Daenerys mewls and moans and whimpers as she looks up to him with adoration in her violet eyes. Her inner walls clench and cling to his cock, and ultimately she cums for him, just as she'd cum for him when he fucked her hard and fast.
He dare not hurt her though in her delicate state, so Jon never speeds up, he never goes deeper. He takes her like this, carefully and slowly, and finishes on her thighs and lower lips, not inside of her. Daenerys looks down the length of herself at his cock, still rock hard, and licks her lips as she reaches up and pulls him into a deep, tongue-filled, passionate kiss.
Jon kisses her right back, though it does nothing to help his erection. When they finally pull apart, she once again glances down at his raging hard-on, and then smiles up at him.
"Thank you, Jon. Now… I think you need to give Bellegere a visit to have her take care of you the rest of the way while I rest."
He can tell that she's perhaps a little jealous of Bellegere in this instance but can also tell that this interaction between the two of them has left her satiated and happy for now. Any jealousy is only temporary, for eventually she will give birth, and once she's recovered from bringing his child into this world, they can have all the fun they want and do it all over again.
Still, there's no denying that Dany is right. Jon… Jon isn't remotely satisfied, but luckily he has other women to handle his urges to pin down and ravage and ravish with his cock. Luckily, he has the Black Pearl at his beck and call.
-x-X-x-
The moment he enters her tent, Bellegere seems to instinctively know what the problem is, dropping to her knees before him and taking his cock out from his hastily retied trousers. Her hands stroke up and down his length, and she smiles up at him from her place on the floor.
"I hope you and your Queen had a productive encounter, my King."
Chuckling at all of the Westerosi-themed titles, Jon shrugs his shoulders with a smile.
"Dany is fine now… thank you for bringing her concerns to my attention."
Nodding her head, Bellegere turns her eyes towards his cock, and a moment later is bobbing up and down on his member as only a trained courtesan such as herself can. As Jon is tossing his head back and groaning from the feel of her experienced tongue on his prick, a sudden stray thought hits him. He puts it out of his mind for a moment, but it comes back the more Bellegere pleases him with her tongue, until Jon simply can't seem to shake it.
Taking hold of the beautiful Black Pearl by her curly locks, Jon pulls her back off of his cock, tilting her head so she's looking up at him as he in turn looks down at her.
"There's one thing I don't understand… how is Dany the first woman I've gotten pregnant? I've fucked you for far longer, and I came inside you just as many times…"
Blinking, Bellegere looks surprised for a moment, before flushing a bit in embarrassment.
"A-Ah… well, I've taken precautions, of course. There are many herbal remedies that prevent pregnancy, Your Grace. I believe your Seven Kingdoms use Moon Tea, more often than not. Given my history, it was only natural for me to make sure that your no doubt incredibly virile seed did not take…"
Jon mulls that over in his head for a moment, considering her words and trying to decide what he felt about them. On the one hand, even if turned out that he wasn't technically a bastard, he'd grown up as a bastard and knew what it was like. It didn't leave him all that motivated to bring more bastards into the world, just to suffer as he had.
On the other hand, if he were to have bastards to go along with the trueborn children of his khaleesi and Queen, would they suffer as he had? This wasn't Westeros, it wasn't the North. It was Essos, more than that it was the Dothraki. Jon was already changing things here, why wouldn't he be able to ensure good lives for any children he had with other women?
Something told him Dany wouldn't mind, either way. In fact, in hindsight, something in Dany's tone when she'd sent him to Bellegere seemed suggestive and might have even been what sparked his need to question the courtesan about their past couplings not taking root in the first place. With a strange certainty that had yet to lead him wrong, Jon knew Dany would be fine with him breeding Bellegere, or even her handmaidens for good measure.
… One way or another, he was about to fuck Bellegere silly here. She was sucking him off in preparation for him to rail her and plow her with all his might like the dragon he was, like he currently couldn't do with Daenerys.
The only question left was, was this where he told Bellegere to stop her precautions, or should he let her continue what she was doing, to avoid bringing more bastards into the world?
Seeding the Black Pearl
With her curly dark locks already in his hand, it's the work of moments to gather them the rest of the way up into a tight ponytail. Bellegere winces a little as he does so, blinking up at him in confusion and worry, afraid that she's done something to upset him, but clearly not sure what that was. Regardless, Jon has spent some time mulling over her words and her actions, taken nominally for his benefit but in secret without telling him.
… He finds he doesn't like it. Any of it. He doesn't like that Bellegere did what she did without consulting him first… and he also doesn't like that she's made sure not to get pregnant from his seed. She should be well enough along by now, and the draconic presence Jon has come to terms with is roaring in anger inside of him, like it's been cheated or stolen from in some way. He may have been raised a bastard, but he was not a bastard… and none of his children will ever be bastards either. At least not in his eyes… and not in the eyes of the Dothraki he now rules over either if he has anything to say about it.
"Bellegere… from now on, you will cease all such herbal remedies you've been taking to prevent my seed from quickening in your womb. Am I understood?"
The Black Pearl's eyes go wide at that, and she quickly averts her gaze, even though it's difficult with how he's holding her by her hair right now and forcing her head to tilt backwards so he can stare down at her. His throbbing, pulsing, saliva-covered cock is still hanging in the air just a couple of inches from her beautiful features, ready to take its place between her lips once more. But first, they NEED to have this talk, apparently. It's long overdue.
"I… I… o-of course, my King. Do you mean to… to breed me?"
Jon doesn't even have to mull that one over. He nods once, decisively, a motion that Bellegere catches out of the corner of her eye.
"I do."
… It's rather amusing, watching the Black Pearl, one of the seven Titled Courtesans of Braavos, blush like a virgin maiden. Her face flushes and red covers her features, slowly descending past her jawline and down her neck, to the top of her chest and even her full and supple breasts.
"I-If that is my King's will… w-who am I to deny him?"
The part of Jon that is a dragon agrees. Especially given that Bellegere had been secretly denying him for months now, all the time they'd been together in fact. But Jon is also a man, and a man with a rational, logical mind at that. He can tell that Bellegere never intended to hurt him with her actions… in fact, it was the exact opposite. On top of it likely being a common practice for women of her profession to drink such herbal remedies, she clearly did not want to upset the line of succession or make problems for him in the future, once she found out exactly who and what he truly was.
At the end of the day, however, it was Jon's choice to make… or so the dragon in his heart claimed. Yes, he deserved a voice… but so did Bellegere, did she not. Rather than putting the woman's mouth back around his cock, rather than face fucking the Black Pearl into submission and then bending her over and railing her to a second completion, Jon uses his grip on Bellegere's hair to yank her up off of the ground. He's gentle enough about it to make sure nothing is torn from her scalp, but firm enough to draw a light yelp from her lips, even as he draws her onto his lap and sits her on his knee.
Her hand quickly takes hold of his cock as she perches there on his leg, and she strokes and squeezes his member, biting her lower lip and staring at it rather than looking at him. She really does look small right now, for all that she's one of the womanliest women that Jon has ever had the pleasure of meeting or lying with.
For his part, he allows her to fondle and play with his cock, he allows her to keep him hard and ready for action. Meanwhile, Jon's hand makes its way under Bellegere's loose dress and betwixt her thighs. His fingers reach her cunt, and he finds his digits taking on an exploratory role. She's wet, of course, but frankly, she's always wet for him. The gorgeous tanned courtesan has a knack for growing wet from even giving head, her pussy always willing and ready for him within moments of entering his presence.
Alas, that alone will not be enough to tell Jon if Bellegere is on board with this… he's going to have to be upfront and forthright in his query. So, as he fingers her and she in turn strokes his member, Jon catches Bellegere's eye and refuses to let her look away, locking gazes with her most effectively.
"You would be our child's mother, Bellegere. That's who you would be."
Blinking dumbly, clearly a little lost, Bellegere makes the cutest questioning noise in the back of her throat, causing Jon to quirk up one corner of his mouth in a smile.
"You asked me, if this was my will, then who were you to deny me. But you are also a part of this. You would become a mother if I were to impregnate you. The mother of my child… possibly even my children. And since it takes two to create life, I would seek your counsel, I would seek your commitment."
Pulling his fingers from her lower lips, Jon initially means to bring them up to her chin so that he can tuck them under it and lift it up for what he was to say next. But of course, he is currently holding a Titled Courtesan of Braavos on his lap. Whether she does it intentionally or simply can't help herself, Bellegere manages to catch his slippery, dripping fingers in her mouth before they even make it all the way to her chin, her head dipping down so she can take hold of them and suckle them clean.
Her eyes remain fixed on his eyes the entire time, and Jon stares, already fairly certain he knows her answer after something like that. But still, when she's done he places his spit-cleaned fingers under her chin all the same and levels her gaze once more with his.
"Bellegere Otherys… will you do me the pleasure of carrying my child? Will you accept my seed within you, allow me to breed you, and grow heavy with my babe in your belly?"
Eyes wide, pupils dilated, Bellegere beams.
"Y-Yes… please, there's nothing I want more!"
Tossing her arms around his neck, she initiates the kiss. Jon kisses her right back though, wrapping his own arms around her body. Then, angling them both backwards, he lets Bellegere fall onto the bed as well as lets her take him with her, until she's on her back and he's on top of her. They makeout for several long moments, their tongues intertwining, while at the same time Jon's hands are busy, moving all over Bellegere's body.
He tugs and pulls and ultimately tears at her loose dress until it's bunched up and mostly off of her. Then, he disengages from her lips and yanks it over her head, ultimately tossing the offending garment between him and her gorgeous body aside. With her naked and willing beneath him, Jon and the dragon in his breast are in agreement in this moment… it's time to do what should have been done ages ago. It's time to breed this gorgeous woman with her traces of dragon's blood deep inside of her.
His hands grip strongly at Bellegere's tanned thighs, and he yanks her legs apart and up and to the sides. She gasps, spreading herself open for him willingly with one hand while the other yanks a breast up to her own mouth for her to suckle and nibble at. She looks to him like a strange sort of paradoxical creature. At one instance, she feels almost innocent in her anticipation and trepidation, like she's never done this before. At the other, it's incredibly obvious she has, and that she's more than happy to do it again.
Even knowing she's spent much of her life as a courtesan, even knowing that this is far from the first time he's fucked her, Jon can't help but feel like it's all new, as he slides into Bellegere again. His cock fills her warm, wet cunt with ease, spreading her pussy lips wide and stretching out her inner walls in a most satisfying manner that has Bellegere moaning wantonly around the nipple in her mouth.
She truly does look delectable right now, as he begins slowly sliding in and out of her. It almost feels like their first time together all over again. And in a way, it is… it's their first time purposefully trying to create life. With that in mind, Jon can't hold himself back for long. Soon enough, he's leaning forward and grabbing hold of Bellegere's other breast, placing his mouth around the nipple, and circling it with his tongue.
At the same time, his free hand moves around to cup the tanned courtesan's ass cheek, holding her close to him as he begins to fuck her, grunting properly and truly into her breast, his cock pistoning in and out of her cunt. He's not just fucking her; he's planning on spilling his seed inside of her. And not just because it feels amazing to spill his essence inside of a woman, but because he wants to knock her up. He wants to breed Bellegere just like he bred Daenerys. Fuck, he wants a million children, as many as he can possibly create.
That's… the dragon speaking, Jon is fairly sure. Even as he loses himself in the Black Pearl's body once more, even as he takes his pleasure from her gorgeous form while in turn giving her pleasure, he can tell that it's the draconic instincts buried deep inside of him that are egging him on, spurring him forward. It's strange… but also not unwanted? This desire to spread his seed far and wide, to become a father to many, many sons, and daughters… he's not against it. Even if perhaps it's a slightly alien desire, even if his upbringing would cause him to lean away from it, normally…
Nothing is normal anymore, in the end. Nothing about his life since he'd left Winterfell behind had been in any way, shape, or form 'normal'. It'd been one bout of insanity after another, either his own insanity, or the insanity of others. Or even the insanity of the world at large, to be frank. So yeah, maybe it wasn't normal for Jon to want a lot of children, given his own upbringing and history and the customs of Westeros.
He didn't give two flying shits what was normal anymore. And maybe that was part of what being a leader was. Maybe being a leader, be it a Khal or a King or what have you, was about changing the very definition of what 'normal' was. If he was in charge now, if he was already doing his level best to change the Dothraki and their way of doing things, then why not change this too?
Burying himself in the crook of Bellegere's neck, Jon cums inside of her. He cums inside of her, like he's done so many damn times before. But this time, he knows for certain, deep in his soul, that this will take. Bellegere will not use her herbal remedies, because he has told her not to. She will let his seed sit within her womb and take root, because they both want a child to be born from this coupling.
Jon isn't going to stop here. He's going to take the world by storm, one way or another. He's going to end slavery among the Dothraki… and he's going to end the discrimination and prejudice against bastards among the Westerosi. He'll make them listen. If they won't bend, he'll break them. He's sick and tired of the way things are, he realizes. The world… it's wrong. And he thinks maybe he's the only one that can make it right. One way or another, Jon isn't going to give up. Not until he's changed the world for the better.
"… Again, my King?"
Looking down into Bellegere's eyes to see the courtesan smiling up at him even as she wraps her arms around his neck and clenches her cunt around his cock in a way that has him growing hard again in moments, Jon chuckles and focuses on the task at hand for the time being.
"… Yes, again."
And again, it is, the two of them going at it for the rest of the night as Jon makes absolute certain that he's bred the Black Pearl with his seed.
-x-X-x-
Of course, now that the Dothraki are his… what is he to do? He's consolidated the remaining rebel khalasars under his banner at this point. All who walk and ride across the Great Grass Sea know that the Stallion Who Mounts the World now rules in Vaes Dothrak. The Dothraki would follow him if he decided to go to Westeros at this time. Braavos would fund him.
But is he ready to go back, just yet? When there's so much slavery left on Essos? He could always return to Essos later… and he would return, there was no doubt about that. In the end, Jon had to decide which continent deserved his attention first. On the one, the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros were at war. On the other, the practice of slavery, long forbidden in Jon's homeland, was still alive and well.
Westeros, or Essos? Westeros… or Essos.
Slaver's Bay Pt. 1
Kraznys mo Nakloz was not particularly pleased with being summoned to this meeting. At least he could take some solace in the fact that every Good Master of Astapor who mattered had been brought together as well. All of them were sat around a large, round table, each of their chairs as grandiose and ornate as the last. None could be said to stand above the others, this way. Those in this room were equal in their superiority over those outside of it.
Of course, as he well knew, some were more equal than others. Sitting back in his chair, rubbing at his freshly oiled beard, Kraznys hums to himself as the meeting begins. The only servant he's brought along with him today is a newly purchased Naathi scribe. She'd become his assistant as of late, mostly because she was an attractive creature, and he enjoyed showing her off to his peers. Exotic slaves were always admired among the Good Masters of Astapor, especially since they mostly dealt in the Unsullied, who were stripped of their exoticism and anything that made them special through their training.
"Please, everyone be seated. We are here today to discuss the troubling news that arrived for us a week hence."
Kraznys resists the urge to snort at that, as one of his peers tries to take control of the meeting. He stays quiet, but as expected, another of the Good Masters does not, quickly trying to seize control for HIMSELF instead.
"Indeed, we are! The Dothraki have come to Slaver's Bay in force! The numbers that were said to be outside of Meereen number beyond the biggest khalasars we've seen on record! There is danger here, if we are not careful."
In the interest of being contrarian, another Good Master abruptly stands, scoffing and waving off the one who was just talking.
"The Dothraki are no threat! So what if they have banded together. They are still little more than Horse Lords! They are savages, but they are smart enough to know that they cannot take a city without heavy losses. Whoever this new Khal is, he will demand tribute from Meereen, and they will pay it. The Dothraki will leave, and I say let them!"
And of course, a fourth Good Master, younger than most of them has to speak up then.
"Ah, but is it truly wise to allow such a thing? Yes, there is precedent… but perhaps we can foster a change by banding together with our Sister Cities. If Yunkai is willing to lend her support, I say we do as well. Help Meereen push back the Dothraki once and for all, and they will leave Slaver's Bay alone for a generation!"
There's a pause at that… and then raucous laughter as the older Good Masters point and laugh at their junior, much to his flushed detriment. Kraznys chuckles along as well, because it really was a funny joke that the young Slavermaster clearly didn't mean as a joke. Really, banding together against the Dothraki? And potentially risk damaging their product? They didn't get to the wealth and status they had by USING the Unsullied for war, they got where they were by SELLING them to others.
As the laughter dies down, another Good Master speaks up.
"We have yet to hear from Yunkai. I am curious to hear what they think of Meereen's claims. It's entirely possible this whole thing is being blown out of proportion, is it not?"
There are nods around the table at that. The so-called 'Great Masters' of Meereen really were a bunch of drama queens in their experience. And there were far too many of them. There were more Great Masters of Meereen then Good Masters of Astapor and Wise Masters of Yunkai put together. They had a whole ruling class, rather than a handful of Slavemasters. They also had the vast majority of Slaver's Bay's religion centered around their Temple of the Graces.
Some people even had the gall to say Meereen was the 'Capital' of Slaver's Bay. No one in Astapor said that of course… not if they wanted to keep their tongue. Honestly, Meereen's Holier-Than-Thou attitude left Kraznys ill-disposed to supporting them. Especially against a Dothraki Khalasar. The Dothraki demanding tribute was a simple fact of life in Essos. Nothing to be frightened of, really.
There's a sudden grinding of stone against stone as the doors to the meeting room are pushed open. A couple of the Good Masters flinch, but most of them simply turn their attention in that direction, blinking as a sweat-covered, out-of-breath courier steps into the room, flanked by two Unsullied guards.
"G-Good Masters of Astapor… Yunkai… Yunkai asks for aid."
And then he collapses. No one moves to help him, but with a snap of his fingers, one of the Good Masters at the table directs the Unsullied to strip the courier of any documents. There's a letter, the contents of which are read out before the letter itself is passed around. It's a simple enough missive.
"Hold on… the Dothraki are now besieging Yunkai? Did Meereen already pay the tribute then? Or did they refuse and the Dothraki moved to what they thought was a softer city?"
"No, you fool. Read closer. Yunkai is claiming that they're being besieged as WELL as Meereen. Apparently, the Dothraki are covering both cities at the moment."
Kraznys blinks at that, a little surprised. One of his peers voices his own thoughts with a loud scoff.
"That's ridiculous! There's never been a Khalasar that big before. Surely they're lying!"
"Perhaps they are. Though, what reason would they have to lie? Is this Meereen and Yunkai conspiring against us? Perhaps they wish to take over the production of the Unsullied and are trying to push us out?"
As the other Good Masters mutter amongst themselves and nod, Kraznys finds himself slowly nodding as well. That did make sense, didn't it? Much more sense then some sort of massive Dothraki Khalasar capable of besieging two cities at the same time. As conversation turns towards what exactly Meereen and Yunkai could hope to gain from this ruse, the unconscious courier is dragged from the room and the stone doors are closed again.
Kraznys simply sits back and lets the conversation wash over him. He's not much of a talker, frankly. He prefers to save his voice for when he's closing a sale. The other Good Masters, for all that they're supposed to be his peers, aren't worthy of his time in his most humble opinion. Still, it's good to be kept abreast of these things. Whatever they ultimately decide to do about Meereen and Yunkai's power play, Kraznys will probably support it. After all, Astapor is his home… and deep down, he believes it to be HIS city as well. He won't let anyone take what's his from him.
As the meeting begins to drag and the Good Masters each begin to grow weary of spending so much damn time with each other, a motion to table the discussion and reconvene in another week is passed. However, just as they're all standing up to leave and the stone doors are grinding open to allow them to exit… an Unsullied dressed in the attire of a Guard Captain strides into the room.
Pulling off his helmet and falling to one knee, the Unsullied speaks clearly and concisely, without a trace of fear in his voice.
"Masters. Dothraki have been sighted in the distance. Astapor will be under siege by nightfall."
Kraznys' eyes nearly bulge out of his head at that, and he's not the only Good Master to react that way, some choking on their own spit as they process the message delivered deadpan by one of their slaves. It was easy to call some Yunkai Courier a liar… but far harder to name one of their own specially trained slave soldiers as one too. After all, they beat the lying out of the Unsullied early on in their training.
Which meant there were Dothraki on the horizon. Which meant Astapor was under siege. It no longer mattered what was happening to Meereen and Yunkai. Astapor was threatened, and thus Astapor would have to respond.
-x-X-x-
It just made sense, in the end. Jon wasn't just Khal Jhono anymore, leader of the largest Khalasar in history. He was Jhono, Khal of Khals, leader of ALL of the Khalasars. With the Dothraki wholly consolidated under his banner, Jon had turned his attention towards Slaver's Bay. It would be a good test run, he figured. He'd been working hard to change Dothraki Culture. It wasn't easy, but he felt like he was getting somewhere.
Eventually, they would reach a place where to be a Horse Lord was an honorable, if war-like way of life. To be fair, there was a lot about the Dothraki that Jon was content to keep. But slavery had to go, and slavery was such an ingrained part of life here in Essos that he knew it wouldn't be easy. Still, after bringing the Dothraki under his rule and hunting down those cowards who'd tried to run away, Jon had the biggest army that Essos had probably ever seen. At least, this side of the Bone Mountains anyways.
Which meant when he came upon Slaver's Bay, he didn't have to settle for besieging one city at a time and giving the others time to find out and decide how to react. Instead, he'd been able to spread out his forces so that the equivalent of at least two to three Khalasars was besieging all THREE of Slaver's Bay's primary cities.
Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor were ripe for the taking, and standing there in his command tent overlooking a map with all of his current forces arrayed on it, Jon knew he just had one thing left to decide. How the fuck he was going to do said taking.
"Any ideas? Because frankly, at the moment I'm ready to just launch an attack against all three cities and be done with it. The only thing staying my hand is the potential loss of life."
His War Council is made up of a dozen or so people. Dany is there as his Khaleesi at his right hand. Bellegere sits at his left, and everyone here knows not to question her presence. The Braavosi Mercenary Captain, who's job Jon had dramatically altered when he'd decided to take control of the Dothraki, stands further to his left. The High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen, who had practically begged to be allowed to come and witness his continued ascendancy, is further to his right.
And finally, there are around half a dozen Khals under his control, the Commanders of his separate armies. One of them is the one who answers him first, snorting and pounding a fist on his bared chest.
"Dothraki do not fear death, only defeat. Let us bring down these Slavers, once and for all!"
A small smile spreads across Jon's face at that, because while the man's outburst is somewhat counterproductive, it's also a sign of just how widespread Jon's teachings regarding slavery are becoming. Of course, he'd pretty much killed all of the old guard, so these six Khals with him now were almost all as young as he was.
The Captain is the next to speak up, clearing his throat.
"I would recommend waiting, your Grace. We have siege weaponry still set to arrive from Vaes Dothrak, after all. We moved our main armies ahead of it, but another week or two, and we'll be able to tear down the walls altogether before riding right in. The Dothraki will sustain far less casualties, that way."
Jon inclines his head at that point. It was a good one… it's just, it rankled a little bit to be here now, be in position to strike… and then wait longer still. Travel time was always a problem, to be sure, but now they were here. And every day they spent waiting for the siege weaponry was a day that the slaves in Slaver's Bay remained in bondage. A day that more of them died.
"We could… trick them."
Daenerys' sudden input surprises Jon, as well as most of the men at the war council. All eyes go to her, and for a brief moment, she shrinks back. But then she sees his encouraging smile, and fortifies herself, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders.
"I just mean… they think that we're here for tribute or something, right? That's what the Dothraki do, they demand tribute from cities. Who's to say they'd expect anything different from us? You could… we could convince them that we will accept their tribute, while also demanding it be given in their most holy places by their highest officials, o-or something. They would open the gates for us, then… and we could go inside and conquer them?"
It was… a somewhat childish plan. But Jon could see the value in it. He was still expecting some of the Khals to start roaring about honor or something like that, but as he looks to the Dothraki men, he's surprised to find them all actually thinking it over. One or two are even nodding slowly, like they can follow what Daenerys is suggesting.
… Huh, in the end, do the Dothraki not consider such trickery to be dishonorable? So long as it's not other Dothraki being tricked, it's fine? That honestly sounds like the sort of double standard that the Horse Lords would have.
Pressing his lips together, not hearing any other suggestions at the moment, Jon can tell he has his options laid out before him. And frankly, the main three seem to be the only ones worth considering.
Charging in right away, making it a straight fight… they'd win, he knows they would, but there would be considerable losses. Or, waiting for the siege weaponry from Vaes Dothrak to arrive, the tools of war they'd commandeered from the Eastern Markets in Vaes Dothrak and using them to tear down the walls in a way no Dothraki Khalasar had ever done before. By far the safest plan, but also the slowest.
Alternatively, he could go with Dany's idea, tweaked a bit of course to make it workable. Trick the Slavemasters of Slaver's Bay into opening their gates willingly, if possible… and then take them over from within in a near-bloodless coup. If it was all done at once, it might just work. The other cities would have no time to react or even hear about it before it was done to them as well.
Three choices. Each with their downsides and upsides. Jon just had to decide which one he liked the best, because no one else was going to make this decision for him.
Slaver's Bay Pt. 2
As the Dothraki Leaders are led into the open meeting area, Missandei of Naath presses her lips together thinly. They aren't exactly what she's expecting. Well, no, that's not quite right. A few of them look like the dark-skinned slave woman is expecting a Dothraki Khal to look. But they all defer to the same young man. A pale man, with grey eyes and pitch black hair.
This is the one they call Khal Jhono, it has to be. This is the one they are calling the Khal of Khals. He's… nothing like Missandei had expected, truth be told. He's young and handsome, but he carries himself with a confidence that she can't help but admire. Perhaps if their situations were different, she may just have taken a fancy to him.
But she was the slave to the Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz of Astapor. The very same man that the Khal of Khals was now here to treat with.
For a moment, silence falls as everyone takes the measure of each other. Then, Missandei's master speaks, and she listens, expecting that she'll have to interpret for him.
"Welcome, Khal of Khals, to the Great City of Astapor."
It's a little surprising, to hear her Master sound so… genial. But then, perhaps it is not, given what Missandei knows. There isn't just an army camped outside of their walls. There are multiple. The Khal of Khals, by all accounts, has earned his title. He has united the Dothraki in a way that has never been done before. The Horse Lords no longer fight and squabble amongst themselves. They are not one unified force, and they have come to Slaver's Bay and laid siege to the Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor.
These are all things that, as a slave, Missandei does not truly need to know. She was not told them by her master or by any other Good Master. But she knows how to close her mouth and listen carefully. She hears things, and she keeps those things close to her chest to make sure no one knows she's heard them.
Right away, Missandei can tell that her master was right to keep his tone… respectful. The woman at the Khal of Khals' side, who Missandei had initially mistaken as a Lysene slave, steps forward and speaks right back in Low Valyrian.
"You stand not just before the Khal of Khals, Khal Jhono. You also stand before Jon of House Targaryen, Son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. You stand before the Rightful King of Westeros and the Blood of Old Valyria."
Missandei is not a fool. She's heard things. If he is who the violet-eyed woman says he is, then that makes her…
"And who are you then?"
The woman shoots a glance at the Khal of Khals after Kraznys asks his question, only for Khal Jhono to give her a soft smile and a nod. The look of love in his eyes takes Missandei's breath away and confirms the Naathian Slave's theory even before the woman herself does.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, also of House Targaryen and the Blood of Old Valyria. I am Khaleesi to Khal Jhono as well as the Rightful Queen of Westeros."
Missandei is feeling uniquely pointless, at the moment. Normally, she would be in the thick of things by now, acting as Master Kraznys' interpreter. And not just translating, but literally interpreting the sorts of things he liked to say when he thought that his customers could not understand him. The Good Masters of Astapor were so very secure in their own superiority. To be frank, they had every right to be in Missandei's experience.
It's clear, however, that Daenerys Targaryen's usurping of Missandei's usual role has thrown her master for a loop. Although, the massive Dothraki Horde outside of Astapor's walls had probably done the same thing. Missandei still wasn't sure if Master Kraznys had pushed to be elected as the spokesman of the Good Masters for this meeting, or if he had been pushed into the role. If it was the former, she suspected he was beginning to regret it.
Bristling, but at the same time maintaining a polite veneer, Kraznys eyes the Targaryen woman for a long moment as he clearly (at least to someone as experienced with him as Missandei) has to take the time to formulate a response that won't be insulting.
"Tell the Khal of Khals that Astapor is open to all buyers. We have many Unsullied here for sale, and I suspect you have the coin to pay for them."
There's a pause, in which Daenerys leans in towards Khal Jhono and murmurs to him, and he murmurs back. Missandei strains to hear, but she can't pick up much of anything. The dirty look that her master gives her assures the dark-skinned slave that he blames her for her inadequacy here, despite the sheer impossibility of her being able to eavesdrop when they are whispering to each other twenty paces away.
It's not her fault that the Khal of Khals has a Khaleesi who speaks Low Valyrian… but she suspects she will be punished for it later all the same.
"We are here for the Unsullied. But my Khal does not intend to pay with coin. You will give us your Unsullied, and we will allow Astapor to remain standing."
Missandei's eyes widen at the overt threat, and a tendril of fear rushes through her heart. What she had heard said that the Khal of Khals came to negotiate tribute in good faith. Obviously, her master was trying to make a sale before they got around to whatever tribute Astapor would have to pay. But now, it seemed that the very product they were trying to sell was what would be demanded as tribute.
It was surprising. The Dothraki had never had any need for Unsullied before. They were their own warriors, after all.
"… You can't be serious."
Master Kraznys' incredulity is perfectly understandable, in Missandei's humble opinion. But down below, the light-haired Khaleesi just smiles a razor-thin smile.
"Quite serious. We've already arranged the same with the Great Masters of Meereen and the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Meereen has agreed to provide my husband with the best of their fighting pits. Yunkai has agreed to provide us with ships. Astapor must do its part as well. Your Unsullied will do just nicely."
The confidence is palpable. Missandei fully believes that the Khal of Khals could ransack and raise Astapor to the ground if he wanted to. Especially since the Good Masters have let him and so many of his Dothraki in, at this point. They've already effectively surrendered. Now, it isn't really Missandei's place to question her master or his peers… but perhaps they should have spent a little longer figuring out what the Dothraki wanted before they opened the gates.
Regardless, it's understandable why Master Kraznys is having such trouble finding his voice. Missandei watches as Daenerys continues on after a moment, when it becomes clear the Good Master isn't sure what to say.
"I assume you've heard the old Dothraki Legend about the Stallion Who Mounts the World. When you heard that the Khal of Khals had come to Slaver's Bay, did you really think we were here for simple tribute? The Good Masters of Astapor will submit the same as your peers in Meereen and Yunkai have already done… or you will all die."
She says it so matter-of-factly. For a moment, as her master bristles, Missandei fears that a fight will break out. The Dothraki and their Khal of Khals certainly seem ready for it, hands on their blades. Perhaps they shouldn't have been allowed to bring weapons into the city, but it seemed the Good Masters had made a lot of mistakes.
Is she about to die? Is this where it ends, with her blowhard of a Master getting himself and everyone else here killed as the Dothraki ransack the city?
But no, a moment later the fight goes out of Master Kraznys and he slumps back in his seat, waving a hand and speaking in a subdued tone.
"Very well. The Unsullied will be yours."
There's a brief pause in which Daenerys and her husband confer once again, while Missandei still stands with her heart pounding in her chest, unsure what's to happen next. And then…
"Very good. Begin preparations at once. My husband wishes to set sail for Westeros within the week."
It's a peace offering, Missandei immediately recognizes. And so does her master, who perks up and looks suddenly almost happy. All of it… it makes sense, doesn't it? The introductions had made clear that this Khal of Khals was intending to conquer Westeros. After all, he thought himself their rightful king. Which meant he couldn't stick around Slaver's Bay, now could he?
And yet, even as Master Kraznys seems all too eager to get things together and be rid of them, Missandei can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. Something about all of this struck her as odd. Perhaps it was because she'd been able to sit back and observe rather than having to use all of her mental power on interpreting, but… something wasn't right.
-x-X-x-
"They are yours, Khal of Khals. Take them and your armies and leave us in peace."
As Kraznys mo Nakloz shoves the harpy's fingers into Khal Jhono's hands, Missandei's breath hitches. That sense of foreboding doesn't leave her, even as the Khal of Khals turns the whip over, looking at it. The handle is made of black dragonbone, presumable, and elaborately carved and inlaid with gold. The pommel is a woman's head with pointed ivory teeth, a harpy. The transfer of the whip signified the transfer of the Unsullied into the Khal of Khal's hands.
Eight thousand Unsullied were lined up behind all of them. Astapor's entire current crop, given to the Dothraki in order to appease the horde camped both out and now INSIDE their walls. In the end, the Good Masters had no choice. It was either fight to the last or give up and live another day. Of course, her Master and the others were going to choose what they did.
Still… still…
Missandei watches as Khal Jhono hands the harpy's fingers to Daenerys, speaking to her in common tongue with a soft smile on his lips.
"You do the honors, love. It was your plan, after all."
Missandei feels her master's eyes upon her, him expecting her to translate. But she can only stare, transfixed. Daenerys, for all her confidence the other day, grows shy and embarrassed under her husband's praise.
"Are… a-are you sure?"
Chuckling, the Khal of Khals gently closes Daenerys's pale fingers over the black dragonbone handle.
"I'm quite sure."
"Slave. What are they saying?"
But still Missandei doesn't answer Kraznys. She's too busy watching as Daenerys steps away from the Khal and towards the Unsullied. And then, the light-haired, violet-eyed woman is shouting in Low Valyrian.
"Unsullied!"
There's a banging of spears, as the Unsullied respond to the one who holds the harpy's fingers. Daenerys smiles… and then speaks.
"Take the city! Slay the Good Masters! Slay any who raise arms, any who hold a whip! Harm no children!"
And then it begins. Though Missandei did not notice it, Kraznys was actually reaching for her, likely to punish her, when Daenerys begin speaking. She only finds this out when a glint catches her attention out of the corner of her eye, and she turns just in time to see Khal Jhono slicing off the outstretched arm of her master with his sword before bringing it around and through Kraznys mo Nakloz's neck in one easy swing.
What follows is pure pandemonium. Missandei can't even begin to explain it. But what she will not forget is the way the Khal of Khals looks at her, right after he's disarmed her old master. He gives her a smile, and in common tells her that everything is going to be alright so long as she keeps her head down.
By the time it's all over, he's kept his word, and Missandei finds herself without a collar around her neck for the first time in a long time… too long. She's free. They all are. As she finds out after the fact, it was never the Dothraki's intention to bargain with any of the Masters of Slaver's Bay. Apparently, the rumors had been true. It had seemed so fanciful that even Missandei herself hadn't believed it. The Dothraki, rejecting slavery and excising it from their culture? Such talk HAD reached Slaver's Bay before the Khal of Khals did, but no one had taken it seriously.
Apparently, the Masters had failed to take it seriously to their own detriment. Slaver's Bay was no more. And Missandei was free. She didn't know what to do with such freedom, so she did the only thing she could think of, the only thing that might get her close to her savior. She pledged herself to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen's service.
And to Missandei's utter delight, Daenerys accepted. Of course, she should have known that the beautiful woman was onto her from the moment that she saw the knowing glint in those violet eyes. One day, she would learn to stop underestimating the woman the Khal of Khals had declared worthy of being his khaleesi.
-x-X-x-
It'd worked, and for that Jon was grateful. The loss of life had not been none, but it had at least been minimal. And he was proud of Daenerys for the role she'd played in things as well. After the Masters were slain, the Unsullied had been given a choice to go their own way or follow. They'd chosen Daenerys, amusingly enough. His beloved wife now had her own personal army, and frankly, Jon suspected they would die for her.
Of course, after all of that, Jon wanted two things. A bath, and a warm body to go to sleep next to. Before he can even finish the bath, however, he found himself interrupted by his pregnant khaleesi… and her newest handmaiden.
"Jon… this is Missandei, my newest handmaiden. She has something she'd like to say to you."
Blushing, the dark-skinned former slave looks to Daenerys and then down at the ground… before happily shedding her dress and revealing her nubile body to his eyes.
"Khal of Khals… I wish to thank you properly for my freedom. I-If you will have me…"
Immediately, the dragon in Jon's soul makes its presence known, wanting him to take and claim her on the spot. But was that the best thing for Missandei? As he sits there in the bath, Jon considers what to do. Does he resist temptation? Or does he give in?
Missandei of Naath
Gracing the nubile dark-skinned former slave with a tender smile, Jon nods his head. He can see just how important this is to her, and truth be told, he's not sure he could possibly resist at this point. He's allowed the Dragon within his heart to make itself heard far too many times by this point. He IS the Dragon, and he can never escape that fact. In the end, all he can try to do is temper his conqueror's instincts.
"Of course, Missandei. Please, approach. And Dany… you stay as well."
His pregnant khaleesi blinks at this, as if surprised. Did she truly think that he wanted her to bring him other women to pleasure him on their lonesome while she was pregnant? Jon knew she had insecurities about her looks and worries that her current state would turn him off, but honestly…
After a moment, Daenerys smiles and bows her head, slipping her own dress off and moving over to him as well. The bath Jon is sat in is a large one. Perhaps even the largest in all of Astapor, in fact. Jon had simply asked to be directed to a good solid bath, and yet, he'd been brought here, to what might as well be an entire bath-room.
It had been comfortable, to be fair. The water felt incredibly good on his skin. As Daenerys and this new woman, Missandei, step down, he watches as both of them go a little wide-eyed at the feel of the water on THEIR skin as well. Their beautiful bodies are soon glistening as they step deeper and deeper into the temperate bathwater, until they're up to their waists in it.
Jon beckons Dany to his side and his pregnant wife comes to him, allowing him to pull her into the crook of his arm. He leans in to her and nuzzles her hair, breathing in her scent for a moment before murmuring into her ear.
"Will you help me with her, Dany? Help prepare her for me, won't you?"
It's a mark of how good a woman his beautiful khaleesi is that she doesn't get offended or anything like that. After all, asking a khaleesi to help prepare a servant girl for sex? Shouldn't it be the other way around, really? Hell, shouldn't Missandei be preparing HIM in some way? But no, Jon can tell that this new woman, this dark-skinned beauty… she is unsure of herself.
She knows she wants him, he can tell that much, and she knows she owes him everything. It's made her arousal and her desire to be of use to him and his incredibly obvious. But at the same time… has she ever even had sex before?
Nodding her head in agreement with his words, Daenerys pulls away from his side and wades through the bath, back to where Missandei is standing still, clearly uncertain what to do next without any orders. As his pregnant Queen slips into place behind Missandei, their skin colors in stark contrast, Jon pulls himself up a bit further out of the water, seating himself on the top step just before the rim of the bath itself.
This in fact brings his cock into focus, as the upper half of his erection tips up out of the water as a result, standing up straight and bouncing a little in the buoyancy provided by the liquid he's partially submerged in. Jon doesn't fail to notice how Missandei's eyes focus on it, even as Daenerys' hands dance over her newest handmaiden's body expertly, playing her like a fiddle.
"Do you like what you see, Missandei? Your Khal's big… fat… cock?"
He really had turned his darling khaleesi into quite the minx, hadn't he? Though in all fairness, it was Bellegere who had turned him into the insatiable man-slut HE was. Still, Missandei jerkily nods in response to Dany's query, her dark smoky eyes never leaving his bobbing cock. Reaching up, Jon takes hold of his member and begins to stroke it pointedly, even as he gives her a soft smile.
Slavery was never okay. And Jon had seen a lot of it since arriving on Essos. It didn't make him happy any time he saw it, but from the skittish way Missandei was wiggling in Daenerys' hands, it was so very obvious that this young woman had been treated rather poorly. Oh sure, her body was blemish free from what he could see, meaning that whatever they'd done to her had done no permanent damage… but Jon knew, as much as it pained him to admit it, just how many ways there were to hurt someone without leaving a scar.
The fact of the matter was, skin as dark as Missandei's was not common in even Essos, from what Jon knew. It certainly wasn't common in Westeros. Which meant that Dany's new handmaiden had likely been taken from far away, perhaps even oceans away. She'd been stolen from her home and made into a slave, more than likely. And that was wrong. It was more than wrong, it was horrible.
Which was why Jon would do his best to be as gentle with her as possible. It was no less than the young woman deserved after all she'd been through. By offering herself to him as she did, she'd ultimately sealed her fate. His was the blood of Valyria, and apparently that damnable blood was insatiably tied to conquest, both personal and general in nature.
But he could at the very least introduce her to the concept of being his woman… carefully. Which was why Daenerys was currently the one playing with Missandei, touching her gorgeous dark breasts, running hands across her glistening dark stomach, dipping her fingers beneath the surface of the bath in order to play betwixt Missandei's thighs.
"Do you want to get a closer look, Missandei? Do you want to see your Khal closer?"
"Y-Yes, Khaleesi…"
Slowly, the two gorgeous, starkly contrasted women come closer and closer, wading through the bath to get to him. Jon watches them come; his own grey eyes dark with lust as Missandei slowly kneels on the step just below the one he's sat on. This leaves her not quite eye level with his cock, but instead closer to chest-level, her beautiful supple breasts each capped with a rock hard black nipple at this point.
Daenerys stands behind her, running her hands through Missandei's gorgeous exotic hair.
"Go on then. Show your Khal your appreciation."
Blushing, but nevertheless eager for all that she's also nervous, Missandei reaches out and takes hold of his cock with both hands. After a moment of stroking, she decides to wrap her breasts around his member instead. Doing so causes Jon to groan as her dark-skinned chest rubs oh so softly at his pale white cock.
"D-Do you like that, Khal of Khals? Do you like my breasts, w-wrapped around your member? Please… allow this lowly slave to please you."
Daenerys is quick to step in there, not quite tugging on Missandei's hair, but certainly drawing her attention as she leaned down.
"Not a slave, Missandei. Not anymore. You're my handmaiden now. Though if you ever want to be anything else, you need only tell us, and we will make the proper arrangements."
Missandei's eyes flick up to meet his finally at hearing that, and Jon makes sure to give her his most encouraging smile and nod to make it abundantly clear that he agrees with Daenerys, one hundred percent. Seeing this, the former slave flushes, the faintest of smiles dancing across her lips and enhancing her exotic beauty even further as she hesitates for a moment before speaking up.
"I… I can speak nineteen languages, khaleesi, Khal of Khals. My previous Master, Kraznys mo Nakloz, used me as an interpreter more often than not."
That gets some raised eyebrows from both Jon and Daenerys as they share a look over the gorgeous dark-skinned young woman's head. Missandei, not daring to look up after speaking so brazenly, spends the ensuing moments of silence continuing to slide her slippery, soft breasts up and down his cock. Eventually, Jon gets past his surprise and speaks up, though his voice is quite husky and deep with arousal at this point.
"If it is your wish, Missandei, I would be glad to have you at my side in such a role. Eventually, Dany and I will return to Westeros, our homeland… but I honestly have no idea when that will be, or what sort of path we'll take to get there. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated."
The hesitant but dazzling smile that Missandei gives him in response to that positive affirmation near-breaks his heart.
"I would like that very much, Khal of Khals."
If he could have his way, he would just have her call him Jon. But at the end of the day, standards had to be met. She was not his wife, Daenerys was. As Dany's handmaiden and his potential interpreter, it was appropriate that Missandei remain at least somewhat subservient to both of them. Even if they were all three getting quite… intimate at this point.
Seemingly unable to take it any longer, Daenerys abruptly tugs on Missandei's hair, causing the dark-skinned former slave to yelp as she's brought back to her feet, off of her knees. Spinning her around, his pregnant khaleesi proceeds to give Missandei a deep, thoroughly nonplatonic kiss on the lips. Though he can't see it, he can certainly hear the way his pregnant queen all but sticks her tongue down her newest handmaidens' throat.
Meanwhile, his eyes remain affixed on Missandei's back profile. Once again, she is blemish free, not a single ounce of scarring, which fills Jon with some measure of relief. Her ass, meanwhile, is oh so very shapely, perfectly heart-shaped in fact, her hips curving out beautifully. And all of it with that dark, exotic skin.
As intently as Jon is staring at Missandei's ass, he's all too ready when Daenerys abruptly pushes the other woman back into his lap. His masculine hands dart out and grab hold of her securely by the sides, and he pulls her back into him, onto his lap… and specifically onto his cock as Daenerys pushes her down. Trapped between what was effectively royalty to her, Missandei just whimpers as she squirms upon Jon's cock. His cockhead presses against her slippery folds, and slowly but surely, she sinks down onto his hard length.
Meanwhile, Daenerys is leaning forward, still kissing Missandei, her hands on the other woman's breasts now, molding them, molesting them, kneading them to her heart's content. Stuck between Jon and Dany, all that the dark-skinned young woman can do is take the pleasure being thrust upon her, her moans captured by Daenerys' lips even as her pussy clenches and squeezes down energetically around his cock.
What follows is a slow-paced lovemaking, of sorts. Jon never even thrusts up with his hips. In the end, it's a sensual undulating atop his cock as Daenerys helps Missandei ride him, gyrating her hips back and forth on his member. His hands slide up and down her sides and hips, sometimes giving her gorgeous bountiful buttocks a good squeeze before moving on.
Missandei rides him to more than one moaning orgasm as Daenerys swallows up her cries, until finally Jon simply can't take it anymore and lets himself loose, his cock milked of his release deep within her cunt.
As he fills her with his seed, Daenerys pulls back and stares Missandei in the eye.
"Do you feel that Missandei? That's the seed of a dragon. Of your savior. Would you bear the Khal of Khals' child as I do, given the chance?"
Missandei doesn't even have to think about it. She nods her head up and down rapidly, moaning all the while as she gives Daenerys her answer.
"Y-Yes, Yes, Yes! A t-thousand times yes!"
Well, that settled that, Jon supposed. When Daenerys gives him a look from around Missandei's head, complete with a foxlike grin, Jon just chuckles softly and shakes his head back at her. Not in disapproval though, and he knows she can see that. He might be exasperated, but he's amused more than anything. And if Dany wants him to knock up as many women as possible for whatever reason, Jon can go along with it. The dragon in him certainly like the idea, that's for sure.
Regardless, Missandei slumps into Daenerys' arms as they finish up. Even though it hadn't been nearly as fast paced or rough as Jon usually went, the exotic dark-skinned young woman is completely exhausted, strangely enough. It makes it feel like he made the right decision, keeping Dany with them and engaging in a gentle three-way rather than conquering Missandei in a one on one session.
Leaning back in the bath, Jon allows Daenerys to gather her new handmaiden up, watching as the two of them leave the tub and towel off before dressing. As he watches them go however, only most of his focus is on their gorgeous bodies, now covered up once more. The rest of his focus is on the future.
Slaver's Bay was his, though calling it Slaver's Bay was probably an inaccuracy at this point. They would have to name it something else, now that Astapor, Meereen, and Yunkai bowed to him. And yet, once again Jon found himself at a crossroads. Because… his heart told him that it was time to return to Westeros. But his soul, his dragon blood… it whispered to him that he wasn't done in Essos quite yet.
What else was there to do, really? End slavery all across the continent? A fool's errand for anyone else, but for the Khal of Khals, the prophesized Stallion Who Mounts the World, it was a distinct possibility. The amount of power Jon had at his back, especially after taking Slaver's Bay… was considerable. It was just a matter of what the hell he was supposed to do with it all, really.
Missandei of Naath Pt. 2
The Dothraki have liberated Slaver's Bay.
Even for someone as foreign to these lands as Jon, the absurdity of that statement did not escape him. To anyone who didn't understand what he'd been doing since he arrived in Essos, that sentence would sound patently ridiculous. Even those who may have heard rumors of his exploits were probably rather incredulous about the whole thing.
Laying back in bed, Jon lets out a sigh of contentment and finds himself considering everything that's happened in the last few weeks. Slaver's Bay is one hundred percent theirs. The Slave Masters of all three cities have been put to the sword, one and all. Slavery as a whole has been outlawed in the bay, just as it has been in all Dothraki Lands.
Of course, on that note, Slaver's Bay was no longer appropriate. It was distinctly inappropriate. Jon still needed to decide what to call it now, because it did need to be renamed, but that was probably one of the smallest concerns he had at the moment. Still, he was currently leaning towards something culturally appropriate, like Harpy's Bay or something.
He really wasn't in this to completely wipe out these people's way of life. Cut out the slavery at the center of it, root and stem? Certainly. He saw it as his duty as a Son of Westeros to bring an end to slavery wherever he could find it. The fact that it was something his allies all the way back in Braavos agreed with wholeheartedly was only icing on the cake.
So far, the Iron Bank was willing to assist him in his conquest of Essos. As far as they were concerned, he was cleaning things up most satisfactorily so far. If he hadn't had success after success, Jon imagined that might have been a different story. But success was all he'd gotten so far. And yet… he did wonder at what could have been.
Where would he be now, if he'd stayed in Braavos and courted the Sealord, or the Titled Seven? Well, if he had, who knew what would have happened to Daenerys, so that was right out the window. But then there was always the 'What If' of where he would be if he'd simply rescued Dany and then absconded with her back to Braavos, skipping out on the Dothraki in general.
He had to believe that he'd done more good than bad with his actions so far. Lots of people had died along the way, but death was a fact of life, at the end of the day. Changing the Dothraki from the inside, ending slavery within both the Horse Lords and Slaver's Bay… Jon had to imagine that Eddard Stark would be proud of him.
Of course, he would never get the chance to ask the man, because his actions had consequences. Even if he felt like he made the best choices he could have along the way, it didn't change the fact that his adoptive father was now dead. Could Jon have done something to change that, if he'd gone back to Westeros sooner? Or would Lord Stark have been obligated by oath to King Robert to kill Jon the moment he stepped foot back on Westeros' shores proclaiming himself a Targaryen King?
As much as it pained Jon to admit it, especially given the news he was hearing out of Westeros these days, he knew that all of their conflict and strife was only making his claim to the throne stronger and stronger. Robert Baratheon was dead, and in his place was a sadistic monster of a boy, if the rumors were to be believed.
Last Jon had heard, albeit news from Westeros took months to travel across the sea to them, they were calling the current fight a 'War of the Five Kings'. In the face of that, what was one more, right? Except… Jon didn't feel right about going to Westeros just yet. It didn't feel like it was quite time. Part of him, the part that still identified as Jon Snow, wanted nothing more than to go back to Westeros to fight alongside the North.
He liked to think Robb would welcome him with open arms. They may not be brothers by blood, but they were brothers by upbringing, for all that Catelyn Stark had sought to keep such bonds from forming. She might as well have let them be, for all the harm her machinations had ultimately pulled. He and Robb had always been close, and despite knowing the truth of his heritage now, Jon still loved the other man like a brother.
But no. As much as his heart wanted to go to Westeros, to stand by Robb's side and protect him with all the armies Jon could bring along with him… his mind knew better. Robb would have to fight his own battles, because Jon… Jon wasn't done yet here in Essos. He may have fundamentally changed the Dothraki, he may have liberated Slaver's Bay… but the work was just getting started.
A low groan slips free of his lips, and Jon looks down to where Missandei and Doreah have been servicing his member. The two handmaidens have developed something of a competitive streak between the two of them. The former Lysene bedslave seems to almost take offense to the Naathi scribe's inclusion in his bed. Though she's smart enough not to voice those feelings aloud, it leads to her and Missandei fighting one another while doing their best to pleasure him.
One might expect Missandei to crumble under such pressure, to submit to Doreah and accept her place below the other handmaiden in the vaguely established hierarchy of the women who shared Jon's bed. Certainly, that was what Doreah had expected. After all, a Lysene Bedslave is expected to be a mixture of sexually aggressive and submissive, effectively donning whatever mask their client of the day might want of them. A slave translator like Missandei, meanwhile, was expected to be submissive all day long, obeying her Master to the letter as she interpreted the words of those he was speaking with for him.
But much to Doreah's surprise, and secretly Jon's and Dany's as well, Missandei had proven herself to be more than just her preassigned role, more than just her past as a slave. Having imprinted quite strongly on both Jon and Daenerys during their first time together, the dark-skinned, nubile Naathi scribe seemingly had no intention of letting Doreah bully her into submission.
Hence, their competitiveness… which Jon had to admit, he enjoyed quite a lot. Smiling a little, he places his hands atop both their heads, sliding his fingers through blonde and black locks respectively. Their eyes flicker up to him, before they refocus on their task, ebony and ivory skin side by side, their tongues lolling out of their mouths and working their way up and down either side of his shaft. They constantly fight with one another using said tongues, trying to encroach on each other's 'territory' so to speak, butting in where the other doesn't want them time and time again.
It results in an all too pleasurable experience for Jon, and with a loud groan, he tightens his grip on their hair, holding the two handmaidens fast.
"Here it comes, girls…"
Both of them go limp in his grip, allowing him to pull their heads back a bit, angling them properly so their faces are turned up as they open their mouths nice and wide, their tongues lolling out. For good measure, Jon puts them cheek to cheek, grinning wickedly, knowing how much they disliked each other. And then, he came all over their faces and breasts. Painting the two handmaidens white with his cum has become something of a favorite past time of Jon's. They're just so eager to please, so eager to impress him… and Daenerys has more than enough handmaidens that she can spare two for his own needs. She's glad to do it, in fact.
As soon as he's done cumming, Jon pulls them both back… and then uses his grip on their hair to maneuver them both to face one another. He doesn't need to save anything, doesn't need to give a verbal command… they know what he wants from them by now. It's become somewhat routine, Jon having the two of them do this each and every time they've pleasured him together. He calls it 'kissing and making up'.
Of course, anyone looking upon it wouldn't call it that. As Jon releases their hair, the two handmaidens practically attack each other. Their mouths and tongues are all over each other's faces as they fight to slurp up as much of his seed as possible from the other's body.
It's as Jon is sitting back and enjoying the show that the door opens and Bellegere slips inside. The Black Pearl is starting to show now, just the beginnings, but she looks just as beautiful as she ever has in his opinion. Smiling at her, Jon beckons her to his side.
"Bellegere…"
Casting an amused glance at Missandei and Doreah, the Braavosi Courtesan approaches Jon's bed, happily snuggling into his side when he reaches out and pulls her close.
"Your Majesty…"
That gets Jon's attention, and he looks to her more closely as his lips curl downwards a bit into something of a frown.
"You know I don't expect such formality from you, Bellegere."
Smiling slightly, Bellegere just nods as she brushes some of his hair from his face tenderly.
"When it's official business though… there's been news, Jon. From Volantis."
Jon's brow furrows at that, and he lets out a curious noise, prompting Bellegere to continue. As she collects her thoughts in order to do so, so does he. Volantis is… well, it's not necessarily the next stop on his path of conquest, but it might as well be. It's certainly one of the closest of the poorly named Free Cities, and the rumors say there are five slaves to every free man in the city. Obviously, Jon can't allow for that to continue, not without becoming a hypocrite incapable of practicing what he preaches.
"Officially… Volantis is alarmed by what we are doing. As we knew they would be, of course. They brushed off the rumors that the Dothraki had unified under your banner just as the Masters of Slaver's Bay did. But now… well, the coordinated conquest of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor all at the same time has been an eye opener."
Nodding, Jon hums in the back of his throat. He knew all of that already, but he also knew Bellegere wasn't trying to waste his time. Which meant that she had new information.
"… There is reportedly a schism currently taking place within the religion focused on R'hllor, the Lord of Light. A schism that, if the information is to be believed, is completely focused on you."
That gets a startled blink from Jon, and he even rears back a little in confusion.
"Me?"
Bellegere just nods, looking as baffled as he feels.
"Elements within the Red Priesthood have named you as one of their mythological figures. Specifically, they claim you are Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised."
Jon shakes his head at that.
"Wait, isn't that what Stannis Baratheon is currently basing his entire case over in Westeros on? Doesn't HE have a Red Priestess at his side claiming he's their chosen one?"
Bellegere, just as privy to all of the information coming from Westeros as Jon is, just nods slowly.
"Like I said, it is creating something of a… schism. Not only is there that report out of Westeros, but the information we're getting from Volantis says the rulers of the city are none too happy with this sect of the Red Priesthood who are beginning to preach your values. And in response, some of the Red Priesthood have begun to denounce their fellows as well as you, claiming that you are a false idol designed to tempt away from true service."
It takes Jon but a second to properly parse that last bit.
"Slavery. They mean slavery."
Bellegere winces but nods, liking it no more than he does. After all, she was from Braavos, where slavery was just as abhorrent.
Letting out an explosive sigh, Jon looks away for a moment. It seems he's come to another crossroads. Because while Volantis might seem like the obvious next step, there's been something that's been niggling at the back of his mind for some time now. The dragons that he and Dany had hatched together… they were getting bigger by the day, to the extent that they were quite large now.
Jon did his best to spend every day training them and training WITH them, recognizing that they weren't just their 'children' as Dany tended to call them, but also his greatest asset. One day, he would ride one of them into battle.
But training them… it wasn't that he'd hit any snags, really. It was just… that feeling was back. That feeling he got, back when he first hatched the eggs in the first place. And this time, Jon was pretty sure the feeling was pointing him towards Valyria. The burnt out husk of the Valyrian Freehold actually lay between Slaver's Bay and Volantis, but of course, if they were to go to Volantis they would travel around the destroyed peninsula, by sea.
Something was calling him to Valyria. A dangerous, barely understand land that purported held monsters and horrors mortal men couldn't begin to comprehend. And yet, it was also home, presumably. It had been centuries since the Targaryens abandoned the Freehold, reportedly on the prophetic dreams of doom from one of their House.
And now, some strange feeling in the back of his skull was itching at him to return there. To go back. The only question was… was he going to listen?
Of course, it wasn't so black and white. Jon honestly had no idea which situation was more time sensitive. It sounded to him like Volantis was quite volatile, a powder keg ready to blow. If he waited to move on the city, who knew what would happen in the meantime? But also, Jon had never tried to ignore the feeling for an extended period of time, before now. Would there be consequences if he did? Who was to say Valyria wasn't just as time sensitive as Volantis?
He didn't have enough information… but he had to make a decision anyways, based on what he had to go off of.
Journey to Valyria Pt. 1
A/N: Originally posted the wrong chapter, this is the correct chapter now. Tomorrow's chapter will be the one that was posted for several hours before this one.
-x-X-x-
"Are you absolutely certain of this, your majesty?"
Jon smiles, more than capable of appreciating Captain Jorio Dyniros' caution. The mercenary had been with him since Braavos after all, the one dispatched by the Iron Bank to… secure their investment. Jon may have gone off the beaten path, but he had no desire to upset the greatest bank in the world. Still, there were some things that were more important than coin and wealth.
Not that the Iron Bank understood that. And Jon was well aware of that simple fact. He comprehended that his most powerful ally was in fact an institution that sought what was owed it above all else. That, by going in the opposite direction that they'd intended for him, Jon strained their relationship, just a tad. But he liked to think he'd more than proved at this point that he had no intention of forsaking them all. He would not forget those who had helped him rise so high.
So far, the Iron Bank had seemed rather pleased with the backwards-looking progress he'd made. Part of that probably came from Jon making the quite judicious choice early on to try and begin paying back his debts… preemptively, so to speak. Jon understood what the Iron Bank wanted from him. They wanted to put him on the throne of Westeros so that he could rule over the Seven Kingdoms and they in turn could be repaid the crowns they were owed to them.
Jon was perfectly fine with that arrangement, but there were things he had to do first. Saving Daenerys had been the most obvious, but after her, things had become a lot less obvious and a lot… murkier. He'd gone from saving Daenerys, to leading a Dothraki Khalasar, to leading the entirety of the Dothraki, to conquering Slaver's Bay and outlawing slavery there.
Now, Braavos had been built on free men who had managed to escape their bondage and find a safe haven away from Essos' rampant slavery. So an institution like the Iron Bank wasn't going to be upset seeing slavery expunged from the continent. They certainly weren't going to be upset when he was sending some of the massive amount of wealth he was accumulating back to them through the Great Grass Sea along routes that had not been secured and safe to travel for quite a long time.
Jon's control over the Dothraki didn't just give the Iron Bank material wealth, it gave them stability in a region that had never, ever been stable before. The Iron Bank could send caravans and merchants through the Great Grass Sea with his marking and have it be understood by any legitimate Horse Lords that came across them that they were under his protection. And they could charge a premium for such a thing as well.
So yes, all of this was to say, the Iron Bank was mighty pleased with Jon, even if he hadn't gone in the direction they intended for him to go. And part of that came down to having one of their representatives with him in the form of Caption Dyniros. With the sheer amount of land between them and him, the Iron Bank had to trust in the Captain to be their eyes and ears, as well as their mouthpiece when it came to their needs and their desires.
And so, of course the man was coming to him now. After all, the announcement Jon had made… the Iron Bank likely wouldn't be too happy to hear about it by the time it reached their ears. Of course, given how far away they were, he'd probably have either succeeded or failed in his latest endeavor by the time news reached their ears as well. Which was why Captain Dyniros was attempting to do his duty and step in.
"I am. But I am also more than willing to hear your concerns, Captain."
Pressing his lips together thinly, the Braavosi frowns.
"I would think my concerns speak for themselves. Old Valyria has been a toxic, dangerous wasteland full of monstrosities and other horrors for centuries now. That's not changed any time recently, as far as I'm aware. I'm not sure it's in our best interest to be going on this expedition to the ruined peninsula. Not when there are other, better things we could be doing… such as Volantis."
Jon smiles a bit at that.
"So you'd rather I have us press on through to Volantis then?"
They were already on the move, as it were. Going from Meereen, they'd made good time and ended up entering the ruins of Bhorash, a former border stronghold of the Valyrian Freehold just the day before. It was where they were making their camp now as they planned the next leg of their journey, which would take them on to Mantarys, and then south towards Oros.
That was where Jon needed to go. He couldn't say how he knew, just that he knew. That voice in the back of his head that wasn't a voice was telling him he needed to get to Valyria. And this was the best way there, as far as Jon was concerned.
"… I would rather have us not have entered this area at all, your Grace. Respectfully, I would rather we had taken the boats around the entire peninsula to Volantis and landed there to secure an audience with your supporters in the city, as soon as possible. I worry…"
Here, Captain Dyniros catches himself. Jon just gives him a raised eyebrow and smiles slightly.
"Speak freely Captain."
"… Very well, I worry that we are marching to our doom."
Jon smiles at that. Because in all fairness, under normal circumstances he would agree with the Captain. Old Valyria was an unknown place of horrors and untold danger that had swallowed up its fair share of treasure seekers. The most famous that HE had heard of was one of the Lannisters leaving on an expedition to try and recover the lost Valyrian Steel Sword of a Lannister King from long ago some years back. And he'd never returned.
So yes, to most, Valyria and anything to do with it was a fool's errand. But Jon knew better. He could feel it in his very bones. As if to confirm it, a dragon's cry suddenly splits the air before Jon can even begin to respond, causing the young man's smile to spread even further across his face, even as the Braavosi Captain flinches just a tad.
"Do you hear that, Captain? That's how I know we'll be all right."
Looking somewhat unsure, Captain Dyniros frowns.
"With all due respect your majesty, your dragons are very impressive but still only half-grown. They aren't even fit for riding yet."
And that was true, while the dragons had grown to about the size of a large stallion apiece, they still weren't really ridable. They couldn't support a human's weight and fly just yet, but Jon had hope. Soon… soon he would get to experience the joy of flight. It was honestly something he was very excited about.
Still, in regard to the Captain's words, Jon just shakes his head, chuckling ruefully.
"No, I'm not relying on my dragons to see us through Valyria safety. You're right, they aren't quite ready to go into battle just yet. I'll leave our safety to my Dothraki Horde and my khaleesi's Unsullied."
While they ultimately answered to him above all else, there was no denying that the Unsullied they'd freed in Astapor had imprinted more on Daenerys than anything else. As the Mercenary Captain continues to look unconvinced and worried, Jon continues on.
"Do you know how I know that we're meant to go to Valyria, Captain? It's a feeling. No more, no less. But it's the same feeling that prompted me to go to Daenerys and put a stop to her wedding to Drogo rather than staying in Braavos or traveling immediately to Westeros. It's the same feeling that prompted me to use the sacrifice of Viserys Targaryen to hatch those dragon eggs in the first place and give birth to the first dragons anyone has seen in hundred years."
Jon quirks the side of his mouth up and gives the Mercenary Captain a helpless shrug.
"My instincts or whatever the hell this is… it hasn't led me astray yet now has it? And so, I will continue to follow the call. Old Valyria calls for me, it calls to my blood… and so I will answer it and we will see what we may see. Though if you wish to turn back, I will not blame you nor hold it against you. This is beyond what you've been paid to do, I understand that."
For a long moment, Captain Dyniros sits in silence, assimilating everything Jon has just said. In the end, he shakes his head.
"No… no, my place is at your side, your grace. It is abundantly clear that I cannot persuade you to take a more cautious path, so I will do my duty and keep you safe to the best of my ability."
Jon makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat at that. He would have expected a Mercenary Captain to be… well, more mercenary then that. After all, his Dothraki would likely follow Jon into the jaws of death itself after how he'd proved himself to them. For them, the idea of glorious unknown battle excited more than terrified. Meanwhile, the Unsullied had their freedom but were too broken to know what to do with it. They neither feared nor hoped for battle and were merely eager to support Jon and Daenerys in whatever they did.
Captain Dyniros though… it was rather touching that he would stick around as long as he had. It certainly wasn't worth the pay, so perhaps he had some other reason, some loyalty beyond coin.
"… Tell me you at least know what to expect in Mantarys, yes?"
Lifting an eyebrow, Jon smiles slightly.
"I've heard some things. Why don't you tell me the rest, yes?"
And so the good Captain does. Apparently Mantarys has quite the ill reputation. It's allegedly a city of monsters. Founded by the Valyrian Freehold, it was too close to Valyria itself to have self-rule. Although it was purportedly quite wealthy and altogether glorious, it was Valyrian men sent from Valyria itself who ruled it in the name of the Freehold. Hence, it had never been counted among the 'Free Cities'.
From what the Mercenary Captain had to say, Mantarys was not a place to be traveled lightly. Jon couldn't help but be a little curious, after all, it sounded like Captain Dyniros had personal experience with the city. But no, according to the Captain he had only seen a few of the horrors in his travels, such as more exotic courtesans in certain Free Cities. From two-headed girls to girls with… other features, it all sounded fairly fantastical.
But then, everything Jon knew about Old Valyria sounded pretty fantastical, didn't it? He would just have to wait and see, in the end…
There was a choice ahead of him though, both figuratively and literally. Based off of the good Captain's descriptions, Jon had to make a decision. Did he use Mantarys as little more than a stop along his journey, hurrying through without truly pausing to 'smell the wildflowers' as the saying went? Or did he stop and see what the apparently sinister city had to truly offer?
Journey to Valyria Pt. 2
A/N: I accidentally posted this up yesterday by mistake instead of the actual Chapter 23. If you're reading this and it feels really familiar, that's why. Go back and read actual Chapter 23 today if you haven't yet.
-x-X-x-
The expedition to Valyria does come with one rather large downside. It's the first time since meeting either of them that Jon hasn't taken Daenerys or Bellegere with him. He simply isn't willing to risk it, at the end of the day. Both women are visibly pregnant by this point, and with them in such a state, Jon has no desire to bring either into the Doom.
Leaving them behind in Meereen with Dany in charge was the right decision, he knew as much, but that didn't mean Jon missed them all any less. He'd dragged them both from one end of Essos to the other after all, he'd gotten both of them pregnant with child. More than anything, Jon knew he had to come back to them both for those reasons at the very least.
Regardless, Daenerys had been unwilling to let him go without some token of her Will alongside him. While she'd ordered a vast portion of the Unsullied who now hung off of her every word to follow him and his Dothraki Hordes to Valyria, she'd also wanted a more… personal touch as well. Which was how Jon found himself waking up every morning with Missandei and Doreah working their tongues up and down his shaft in their own competitive way. And how he spent every night experiencing the pleasure of their bodies.
This was probably for the best, because it gave him a clear mind. A clear mind that made it all the easier to make the decision to move on through Mantarys quickly, rather than holding in the proclaimed City of Monsters for any length of time. Captain Dyniros was quite relieved that they weren't sticking around the city for too long. Meanwhile, Jon got a few glimpses of just why Mantarys had the reputation it had.
Much of the population was indeed quite… deformed. There were people with two heads, there were people with multiple arms or legs. There were even people missing ears or noses or eyes, and even those who had three eyes instead of the usual two. Sometimes the deformities were as intense as the two heads example, sometimes they were as minimal as having four or six fingers instead of the normal five.
However, those were just the lower class of the city, as Jon was informed. In truth, Mantarys was apparently ruled by a collection of clans, each of whom had somehow mated their flesh with those of animals, or perhaps had their flesh mated with animals by the Old Valyrians before the Doom. There were some with eyes of a snake, or even the tail of one in place of legs. There were some with the ears and snout of a canine, with fur across their bodies and claws in place of fingers and finger nails.
These clans were many, though not limitless, and each one had some sort of strange hybridization to it, some sort of monstrous quality brought on by an animal aspect that they apparently considered sacrosanct, all their own.
Needless to say, these clans were apparently always at each other's throat, which was probably why Mantarys could not possibly present a unified front to Jon and his armies. Luckily for the City of Monsters, he and his people were just passing through.
In the end, none of these clans ended up approaching the great Khal Jhono. Which was just fine with him, because he did not try approaching any of them either. His armies restocked and paid the city handsomely in gold for the opportunity, and then he and his forces made their way south, leaving the city behind within just a few days, rather than spending a week or two longer there as Jon had initially considered.
Honestly, he was plenty glad to put Mantarys behind him. As magical as his world had become ever since he'd reached adulthood, especially considering his dragons, Jon found himself rather turned off by the concept of these… animal people who were squabbling over Mantarys. Beasts should remain beasts and humans should remain human in Jon's eyes. It was better that way and putting Mantarys distinctly in the past was just fine by his estimation.
Oddly… the further into the Valyrian Peninsula that they got; the stranger Jon's dragons began to react. They were growing bigger by the day now, at a far faster rate then they had been before he and his had arrived in these lands. Was it something to do with the lands itself? Was it something to do with them being in Old Valyria now? They had yet to cross the Smoking Sea, but all the same, these were the Lands of the Long Summer.
They were making good time on their way to Oros, despite the grueling nature of their trek, but even at the best time, it would still take weeks. Weeks in which Jon's dragons continued to grow and grow… and weeks in which Doreah and Missandei continued to entertain him night after night.
It was on one such night that Jon entered his tent to find the two handmaidens waiting for him in… quite the interesting pose. There, kneeling on the ground in the center of his tent, is Missandei. She's been thoroughly restrained, with what looks like a long piece of rope used to bind her and restrict her in incredibly enticing ways.
With her elbows high on either side of her head and her hands forcibly laced behind her neck, with the rope even pulled taut through her teeth to gag her as it wrapped around her breasts to accentuate her dark skinned tits, she looked… she looked quite tantalizing. But also, from the way her eyes were somehow hooded, somewhat put-out.
Beside her stands Doreah, a smug smirk on her lips as the Lysene licks them and runs a hand across Missandei's naked flesh.
"Do you like what you see, Great Khal? The Naathi has finally learned her place."
Missandei bristles, even as Jon lifts a brow, easily putting two and two together. It's obvious Missandei isn't happy about this state of affairs… but she also isn't fighting either. She'd be struggling and pleading with him to end this if Doreah was truly forcing her into this situation. Likewise, Doreah knew better than to try something like that. Which really left only one option.
"And how long will this be Missandei's place?"
Jon's amused tone causes Doreah to falter slightly, flushing as her smug grin drops in favor of a lip bite at the fact that he'd seen through her so very quickly. Glancing to the side, she mutters her response.
"… For the night only, Great Khal…"
Of course. Still, just to be sure, Jon walks forward and grabs Missandei by the chin, tilting her head back and looking down into her eyes.
"Is this so?"
Missandei lowers her gaze and nods demurely as best she can in her bound position. It's just as he thought, Doreah had somehow tricked her into a wager and then defeated her handedly in whatever competition it was that she'd come up with. Missandei was likely annoyed with herself for falling for it and with Doreah for tricking her in the first place. But a bet was a bet, and one must always pay their dues.
"Well then… it seems her mouth is otherwise occupied, Doreah. Who is going to wet my cock with her tongue if not Missandei?"
"I will of course, Great Khal!"
Without hesitation, Doreah excitedly drops to her knees beside Missandei, ignoring the bound and gagged Naathi Scribe entirely in favor of pulling his cock from its confines and slipping it right into her mouth. She moans throatily as she begins to suck him off, bobbing up and down his majestic, massive member and swallowing it whole like the former Bedslave she is, even as her hand comes up to grope and fondle his balls.
Her experience is nothing to scoff at. Doreah knows how to please a man, she knows how to make sure a man who has paid for her time will leave satisfied. She can be a little full of herself sometimes, but at the very least, she knows her craft quite well.
Still, Jon would let her have this. Tonight was her night, whatever wager she and Missandei had ultimately come up with. Doreah had won, and while it was obvious that he had been made into a prize… he did not mind it all that much, at least not for this. Especially since he could see from Missandei's eyes that this would not happen again, at least not in the same way. The gorgeous Naathi might have been tricked this time, but she would not be made a fool of twice.
For now, Jon relaxes into Doreah's eager cock gobbling, enjoying as she takes him down the back of her throat without gagging a single time, swallowing his entire member and then some and bobbing up and down his dick at a rapid pace.
Soon enough, he's cumming down her throat… the moment that she's done swallowing his load however, Doreah whips off of his cock and spins around, pushing Missandei down onto her back as the bound and gagged ebony girl lets out a squeak through the rope between her teeth. Pinning Missandei in place, Doreah has a wide smug smile on her lips as she wiggles her ass in Jon's direction, looking back over her shoulder at him, her eyes twinkling.
"I'm all yours, Great Khal. Unfortunately this disobedient little brat doesn't get anything tonight… but that's alright. You can slake your lusts on me to your heart's content."
Ah, so denial is the angle that Doreah is going for. Very well. Dropping to his knees behind Doreah, he grabs the Lysene by the hips… and proceeds to slam his cock home into her hungering twat. She'd just been in the midst of saying some mocking thing to Missandei, trapped beneath her, but Jon cuts her off as he begins to fuck her atop the bound Naathi Scribe, pounding into Doreah from behind.
Reaching out, he grabs hold of her hair and yanks her head back, while his other hand moves around to grab one of her tits. Jon holds nothing back as he proceeds to fuck the former Lysene Bedslave hard from behind, reminding her of just who and what he is. He is the Great Khal as she delights in addressing him, but he's also a dragon… and dragons do not often like being made into tools for the foolish little games of humans.
While Missandei does take her lumps and is denied any pleasure that night, at least of the physical variety, Jon nevertheless gives her quite the show as he fucks Doreah right in front of her, letting her watch with some satisfaction as her rival's face contorts and eventually turns quite silly from the rough plowing she receives. Eyes rolling up in her head, tongue lolling out of her mouth, Doreah loses the capacity to be smug or proud of her victory over the other handmaiden as Jon turns her into his fuck toy and proceeds to use her all night long.
After all, she's the one who said he could slake his lusts on her to his heart's content. So that's precisely what he does, perhaps hoping just a little bit that she might realize she and Missandei could last so much longer against his stamina if they just worked together instead of constantly competing with one another.
But alas, it's not meant to be. The very next night, Missandei has managed to turn the tables on Doreah, and it's she who Jon fucks into a stupor as the Lysene lays bound and gagged and frustrated beneath them both. Not to be outdone, the two constantly plot and scheme against one another. Jon lets them have their games, far too focused on leading an entire army down the Valyrian Peninsula to interfere too much. So long as they aren't hurting one another, it's fine.
If they go too far, he'll put a stop to it, but for now, they're playing their role, acting as a nightly distraction after a long day, and pleasant morning surprises before he has to get to work once more.
-x-X-x-
They've arrived at Oros, and while the ruined city is said to have inhabitants still, those scant few that make their home here are steering clear of Jon and his armies. Probably for the best, really, the Dothraki are a little ornery at this point after the grueling trek that was the Lands of the Long Summer. Luckily, they'd more than stocked up on provisions for their short stay in Mantarys, and by moving through the city quickly, they'd not dallied or used up more of their original provisions from Meereen.
Regardless, Oros was… a dead city, to say the least. Broken down and crumbling, it was ultimately lifeless in a somewhat unsettling and odd way. As he and his people had made their way through the city streets, it had been just a little too quiet for Jon's tastes. Nothing and no one had attacked them though, and eventually they'd arrived at the city harbor… where a decision had to be made.
There were ships in the harbor, certainly… but none of them were of a serviceable state. Still, Captain Dyniros assured Jon that the wood could be taken and transformed into some boats with the labor of the Unsullied doing most of the work. The thing was… did Jon really want to go that route? Not only would it take longer, but he wasn't sure the Dothraki were all that interested in traveling across the Smoking Sea anyways.
They would do so if he commanded it, just as they would eventually travel to Westeros under his command. But… there was another option. His dragons were getting bigger. The black one especially was now large enough to carry a rider, presumably. He could… go alone? With just his dragons at his side, he could fly across the Smoking Sea rather than boating across, to find out what treasures Old Valyria had in store for him.
That was… a dangerous idea, for numerous obvious reasons. But it was also the fastest option. Unfortunately, when Jon turned to that feeling in his chest that was currently leading him onward, he couldn't say for certain which option was preferable. It wasn't specific enough for that, all he knew for sure was that he needed to get to Valyria itself, that his journey lay across this expanse of water.
Dragons or boats… or turning around and abandoning his cause when he'd already come so far. But… surely not, right?
Journey to Valyria Pt. 3
For a long moment, staring out across the Smoking Sea, Jon is undeniably tempted. It would be so easy to just fly over there on his dragons and see what the hell all this fuss was about. He was being pushed to do so. But… just because he was feeling driven in this direction didn't mean he needed to be reckless or foolhardy about it.
At the end of the day, Jon had more to consider then just himself, didn't he? It would be selfish to go alone and risk everything. The army that had followed him here wasn't just here to support him, they were relying on him. It was Jon who had brought them this far, and it would be Jon who would bring them further still.
If he got himself killed by going off all alone, who's to say what would happen to the peoples he'd brought together? The Unsullied would hopefully revert to Daenerys' control given their love for her, but what would the Dothraki do? Would Jon's Will extend past his death? Or would the Horse Lords merely return to their old ways within a scant few years?
No, unfortunately he'd grown beyond the point where he could be reckless and foolhardy. So with a sigh, Jon turns his back on the idea of flying his dragons across the Smoking Sea to Valyria and instead orders the Braavosi Captain to see about having the Unsullied build boats for their ultimate crossing. It would take longer of course, but in the end, it was the better option, the safer option.
The next few weeks are spent sitting and waiting to be ready for the next leg of their journey. Jon has to admit, there's more than one time over those weeks where he's half-tempted to change his mind and ride his dragons over after all. Not even Missandei and Doreah can truly distract him from his driven obsession with getting to Valyria, though the two gorgeous women certainly try their best.
Jon slakes his lusts on their bodies night after night, feasting upon one and fucking the other. He plows them both silly again and again, and everything starts to blend together. In the beginning, he'd kept track of the 'score' between the two of them, as Doreah and Missandei continually looked to one-up each other and aimed to humiliate the other in his presence, each trying to assert their dominance over the other one. Though in Missandei's case it started out defensive, eventually she was just as eager to bring Doreah low as the Lysene Bed Slave was to do the same to her.
At the start, Jon kept better track of things, wanting to make certain that neither was truly in danger of overcoming the other so much that their dynamic became set in stone one way or another. Competition was fine, especially sexual competition, but Jon would not abide bullying. He'd gotten enough of that from the likes of Theon Greyjoy growing up.
Eventually though, Jon had to admit, he'd lost track of who was overcoming who more often. To be fair, it seemed pretty equal still, all things considered. There were just as many nights where Missandei had one whatever little challenge and was in charge of Doreah, as there were nights where Doreah was in charge of Missandei. And there were even nights in between where they hadn't come up with a new challenge for the day yet and were just fighting one another for his attention.
All of it was fun in it's own way. All of it was pleasurable, to say the least. And Jon had to admit, it satiated one sort of dragon within him, the kind that wanted to conquer, to fuck, to slake it's lusts. However, it didn't satisfy the feeling that he needed to get to Valyria. It didn't completely deal with this antsy desire to just get on with things, a desire that was soundly rebuked by the simple need for time in building ships that would transport even half of their forces across the Smoking Sea.
That was the compromise, ultimately. Jon couldn't possibly bring his entire army, not without waiting months. But half his army was still a considerable force indeed, and with it, he should have no issues dealing with whatever awaited him in Old Valyria. It was just a matter of biding his time and letting the construction continue.
To be fair, it wasn't all bad. As it turned out, those ships that were in the harbor? They weren't quite as old as they might have seemed. No, while Jon hadn't realized it at first, this wasn't some fleet that had somehow survived the Doom and was from Old Valyria. Rather, it was a Westerosi Fleet… a fleet of ships that Jon had heard about in passing during one of his history lessons, as a matter of fact.
It probably wouldn't have stuck as well as it did if not for the fact that it was a well-known smudge on the otherwise impeccable Lannister name. Anything that make those lions who shit gold on a regular basis look even a little worse was bandied about in the North constantly, laughed at by all Northmen in fact. This was one such story, one that Jon had heard tell of many a time.
King Tommen Lannister the Second, also known as the Lion King, was a King of the Rock before the Conquest of Westeros. After the Doom, it was said that the Lannister King sailed his great fleet to Valyria, eager to plunder all of the wealth and all of the magic that he was sure still remained. Only, he'd never come back. And he'd taken the Lannister Family's only Valyrian steel greatsword with him, a sword called 'Brightroar'.
Now, that story might have faded into the annals of history, but everyone knew that Tywin Lannister, after rebuilding his family's reputation from the trash heap his weak-willed father had left it in, had also sought to find and claim a new Valyrian steel sword for his house. It was, in fact, one of the few things the Great Lion had failed at, time and time again.
Tywin was said to have offered heaps and heaps of gold to any number of lesser houses if they would part with their own ancestral Valyrian steel, but no one had taken him up on that offer. You couldn't put a price on Valyrian Steel, after all… it was valuable for more than just gold.
When Jon had found out that the ships in Oros' harbor were of King Tommen's Golden Fleet, he'd been excited… for all of about a day. As it turned out, most had already been searched, and on his orders, the rest of the ships were searched ahead of schedule as well. But no sign of Brightroar or even King Tommen himself turned up. There was no flagship here, no King's Quarters to be found.
This couldn't be the entire Golden Fleet, Jon eventually realized. This right here was as far as this part of the armada had gotten, but it didn't seem to be as far as King Tommen himself had gotten. Where the man was, Jon didn't know… but perhaps he'd find sign of him when he finally reached his destination.
And so, the day eventually came that they had enough boats, constructed by the steady hands of Unsullied, to cross the Smoking Sea. Jon brought more Unsullied with him then Dothraki, but also brought his fair share of Horse Lords as well. They weren't well-versed as manning boats rather than riding horses, but luckily the Unsullied were and they were able to make up the backbone of Jon's sailors as they finally set out on the Smoking Sea.
Behind him, Jon left a good half of his army, as well as Missandei and Doreah. This next leg of the journey was no place for soft women, and as strong as the two handmaidens were in many ways, this was not one of them. Jon would be fine without their attention and care for a little while.
He's proven right in his decision on the second day of their voyage. The Smoking Sea was not some massive ocean. They weren't expecting the journey from Oros to Tyria to take longer than three days or so at most. But halfway through their voyage, disaster very nearly reared its ugly head.
"KRAKEN!"
The shout is what Jon wakes up to, even as the ship rocks beneath him. Rising from his bed, grabbing his sword and not much else, he rushes out onto the deck of the boat in time to see massive tentacles ranging here and there. The creature is still mostly submerged, but it's in the midst of their fleet and seems large enough to be attacking multiple ships at the moment.
Just as Jon arrives on the deck, one of it's larger tentacles curls tighter around a boat off to his right. The crunching splintering of wood fills the air as the ship begins to give beneath the Kraken's might, starting to sink as it takes on water through the holes the Kraken is putting in it. Then, a final squeeze sees the boat bisected completely, torn in half and sinking all the faster as it's occupants have to abandon ship.
It's a mess and a half if Jon has ever seen one, and unfortunately… it's not one he's at all prepared for. He's never engaged in ship combat before, let alone against a Kraken. Luckily for him, he's surrounded by trained warriors. The Dothraki are not the kind of men who let their fear rule them. They were more inclined to respond to terror by trying their best to attack it with all they had.
This was exactly what happened, with Dothraki screams filling the air as they rushed the Kraken's tentacles with their blades. At the same time, the Unsullied were clearly a bit caught off guard as well, but their own training did not allow them to be ruled by shock or fear either. Instead, those who were needed as sailors remained at their posts fearlessly, unworried of death, while those who could grabbed their spears and began to stab the Kraken wherever they might reach.
They still ended up losing a full quarter of the fleet by the time it was done. But at the very least, the Kraken died too. Jon couldn't do anything but assist with his own sword, hacking and slashing for what felt like hours as the Kraken tried it's damnedest to kill them, and after realizing it's plight, escape. But it's too intwined with the ruins of the boats it's already destroyed to get away by that point.
In the end, Jon puts his blade through one of the creature's massive, inky black eyes and the battle comes to a close. And yet, he doesn't feel a sense of accomplishment as he looks around at their cripple fleet, half of the boats having sustained some sort of damage, while waterlogged Unsullied and Dothraki climb aboard those ships that still remain, assisted by their fellows.
Not everyone survived this encounter, but who was to say whether this was the only Kraken in these forsaken waters? In fact, Jon was fairly confident in saying it probably wasn't. Pulling his sword free and swallowing thickly, Jon moves to the upper deck and lifts his voice, calling out across the small fleet.
"ONWARD! GET US MOVING BEFORE THE NEXT ONE SHOWS UP!"
The prospect of having to fight ANOTHER mythological creature any time soon gets the reaction he wants. His Unsullied were already preparing to continue on, but there were some Dothraki who were insisting that they wait until they'd gotten trophies from the dead beast. They would have to make do with what they'd already managed to snag however, because Jon didn't want them sitting still for any longer than this.
Luckily, his decision to get them sailing again as fast as possible seems to be the right one, even if he's beginning to have doubts about waiting for the boats to be built in the first place. Here he was thinking that just flying across the sea on his dragons would be dangerous, but instead it was now looking like the safer option. No krakens in the sky after all…
Regardless, they make it to Tyria without any more deaths, at least. The place is every bit as inhospitable as expected, but what really catches Jon's eye is what's waiting for them in the harbor. More of the Golden Fleet, all docked and just… sitting there. Some of the boats are half-sunk from age of course, but one in particular is utterly massive and Jon just knows… that boat has to be the King's. It might hold Brightroar, it might hold some clue to finding Brightroar.
But is it really important right now? Does Jon really want to take even this much of a detour when he's so close to his goal he can almost taste it? That feeling in his gut, that NEED to come to Old Valyria… it's positively SINGING now that he's this far along. Valyria itself is still a journey away, Tyria is only a port city, but all the same… they're almost there.
Perhaps he could check out the Golden Fleet on the way back instead? Or would it be better to ransack it now and then move onward?
Journey to Valyria Pt. 4
In the end, despite the feeling in his gut egging him onward… Jon stops. He is, at the end of the day, his own man after all. Yes, these feelings he gets, these urges… they certainly have helped him so far. He's gotten where he is today by following them, quite literally in fact. Without them, he wouldn't even have this chance to ransack the Golden Fleet in the first place.
All the same, Jon wouldn't have gotten where he was today by not having his own mind, his own voice. He's the one who decides, not some mysterious feeling in the back of his head, in the depths of his gut. And so, when choosing between pushing on and checking out the long-lost Golden Fleet of King Tommen II, Jon knows what he wants to do… and he does it.
"Get everyone off of the boats and make sure they all get fed quickly. In the meantime, I ask that a squad of men follow me as I check out that massive ship in the harbor. Only volunteers if you please, it will likely be a treacherous venture."
His words are taken with the seriousness that he intends them, though some of the men who hear him do huff a bit. Yes, the massive ship that just has to be the Flagship of King Tommen the Second is half sunk into the water, and likely very dangerous to traverse. But at the same time, they'd all just gotten done fighting a fucking Kraken in the middle of the Smoking Sea. In comparison, traversing a half-sunken ship from hundreds of years ago is… child's play.
In the end, he has more volunteers then he knows what to do with, especially since the Unsullied know no fear and have only the desire to keep him safe from harm until they can reunite him with his wife and their Mistress. The respect that Dany commands from the Unsullied is rather intense. Jon is just glad that they're on their side now.
They're not just capable soldiers, but capable men in general. He shudders to think of what would have happened if he'd only had Dothraki to crew the ships that had brought him to the shores of Old Valyria. The journey probably wouldn't have happened in the first place, in all honesty.
As such, in the end, Jon's entire squad of volunteers ends up being handpicked Unsullied. Some of his Dothraki DO volunteer, of course, but Jon can tell from their eyes that they only do it out of a sense of bravado, or perhaps even duty. Not a single one of them WANTS to step foot on another ship quite so soon, and especially not one as decayed as the massive half-sunken vessel that dominates the harbor.
So, Jon spares them by only taking Unsullied and though the Dothraki make a show of grumbling over it, he knows the truth, that they're all too happy to be left behind.
As expected, traversing the flagship is both difficult and dangerous. Honestly, it makes Jon appreciate the fact that he'd had them boat across the Smoking Sea, rather than flying here on the back of his dragons. Not only was he not certain the ship was capable of even supporting the weight of one of his dragons in it's current state, but the trip across, fraught with peril as it had been, had nevertheless given Jon back some of the sea legs he'd only first earned on his trip from White Harbor to Braavos so very long ago.
After months of travel on horseback across plains and arid barren lands, Jon had needed the trip to re-familiarize himself with sea travel. It helps him now to traverse King Tommen's flagship, which he's becoming more and more sure of the identity of as they continue on. Not only is the construction of the ship ornate and ostentatious, but as they get closer to it, as they climb aboard and begin moving through it's rickety halls… the lion motif is undeniable.
This right here is indeed the Golden Fleet that Jon remembered from his childhood stories. A tale meant to turn young boys off to the idea of adventure, one meant to make the young Lord Robb realize that his place as a nobleman was with his people, in the North. King Tommen had set sail looking for glory and riches… and in the end, what he'd done instead was very nearly beggar the Lannisters, as well as leave his wife a widow and his son a Lord far too soon.
It was certainly a cautionary tale, though not one that had ever truly been directed at Jon. After all, bastard that he was, they probably thought it better if he went on adventure. Perhaps that was why Jon had always liked King Tommen's tale. Though it was obvious to him now that the ancient Lion King had bit off far, FAR more than he could chew.
It takes time, a lot of time in fact, and there are one or two close calls where a rotted board snaps and nearly sends someone into the depths of the harbor. Given what they faced just getting here, Jon doesn't want to know what lives under the water of the port. Luckily, the Unsullied are all quick on their feet. No one falls in, not even Jon, who finds himself grabbed by two different hands the one time he very nearly slips.
But eventually, they find it. The Captain's Quarters. Or perhaps, more accurately given just how large they are, the King's Chambers. There's no doubt in Jon's mind as he looks around at what was once likely a truly gorgeous room, that this is where King Tommen stayed on his voyage to Old Valyria. The massive bed on one side of the room is in shambles, and everything is covered in mold and rot that has Jon worrying for their lungs, but at the same time… this is a King's room.
Making his way over to the desk, Jon isn't sure what he'll find. The desk itself is half-rotted at this point, so many years having passed since. There's no sign of the sword that Jon had initially sought when he came here, unfortunately, not near the desk nor anywhere else throughout the room. Brightroar, as it stands, remains lost for the time being.
However, to Jon's mild astonishment and interest, when he slides open one of the less rotted drawers, there amidst the equally rotted unprotected papers… is a message in a bottle. Or at least, a paper in a bottle. Protected from the elements, the scroll of paper catches Jon's eye and he quickly uncorks the bottle, unable to help himself. He's always been naturally curious… and how can he not be, all things considered? This right here… these just might be the last writings of King Tommen II in existence.
Pulling the paper out, he unravels it, dragging it taut and reading it with extreme interest. His eyes dart back and forth across the page as he reads the words of a Lion King dead for over three hundred years.
We should never have come here. I… I should never have come here. The men were right. My advisors were right. It's unfortunate that I've only come to accept that in the wake of the latest round of executions, long after I've killed them all for daring to disagree with me.
If you are reading this, then you read the final words of King Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock, Lion King. If this is my son… I am sorry. Turn back now, before this accursed place swallows you up as it has me. Hopefully, my son has been smarter than I was. Hopefully this message has been found by someone else. But even then, heed my words… and turn back.
Valyria is not meant for you, just as it was not meant for me. The land is alive, it's teeth and claws deadly in their temperament. What it waits for, I do not know, but I do know this. It has bled me and my men dry of every last bit of resources we brought to this place. And for what? Crates of Valyrian Steel sit in the holds of my ship, but I dare not try to return home. We need supplies to make such a voyage, but the land is barren of food, of succor.
To say nothing of the creatures that patrol the waters around Old Valyria. If we are to return home, then we must push on. There must be some way to control them. The Valyrian Freehold was a land of magic, of power. It was the realm of dragons and dragon riders! If we can just make it into Valyria's inner sanctums, then perhaps… perhaps.
For now, the gates hold us back. We've broken down what feels like a dozen of the damn things, and yet there are still more defenses, more walls, more traps. My men die by the day, either to the traps or at the hands of my headsmen for daring to speak treason, for thinking of deserting now instead of continuing forward. And yet, even my headsmen begin to hesitate before they swing their axes. I wonder how much longer they will obey my commands.
I go now to the next gate. I will lead from the front, and show my men that I am not so craven as to remain on this ship and wait for them to bring me more riches, more glory. I will pray that this gate is the last, that what we are looking for is on the other side. If it is, I imagine I will return in triumph, and this message will be destroyed, never to see the light of day.
But if not, then let this message act as a warning to you, good ser. Whoever reads this, turn back now, while you still can. You know not the horrors that await you if you don't.
~ King Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock
He reads and re-reads the note what feels like a half a dozen times. It's… both terrifying and heady in it's implications. In the end, when one of his Unsullied tells him that it's probably not safe to stay aboard the rotting vessel any longer, Jon lets them pull him off of it in a daze, his head swimming as he considers all that this ancient Lion King has said.
Is it a surprise, that a King turned out to be a tyrant? No, not really, not in Jon's eyes. After all, he'd been born in the wake of a tyrant, his grandfather Aerys, being removed from the throne. Looking back on his journey to this point, the number of tyrants that he'd beheld, that he'd had to fight and even kill, were too many to count.
It was more surprising that King Tommen had apparently had enough decency in him to realize at the end of his life what mistakes he'd made. Like he'd said in the letter, the realization came too late to matter, but all the same.
And then there was the warning inherent in the ancient King's writing. Danger awaited them ahead. Given the journey here in the first place, Jon could easily and readily accept that. Danger had plagued their path the entire way here, and that the heart of Old Valyria would be just as dangerous… it was honestly unsurprising.
All that talk about gates though… from what he'd seen so far, and what he'd been told, Jon had always assumed Valyria to be a crater, blown apart by whatever had destroyed the Freehold so many years ago. But then… what was this about gates? Had something locked itself up nice and tight after the Valyrians blew themselves to kingdom come?
Shuddering, Jon's eyes trace over the letter once more. He's read it what feels like dozens of times, by the time dinner arrives. He keeps reading it then, holding it in his hand as he eats rather mechanically with his fork. He reads it, and he considers.
He's come so far. Too far to turn back now… right? That's what the feeling driving him forward would like him to think, certainly. But what if that feeling was a trap? What if Jon wasn't… wasn't worthy, or whatever, just like King Tommen hadn't been?
His lips thin out as he considers his options. The ancient King who'd written this missive hadn't thought that turning back was a choice for him any longer. But that probably had to do with the executions, with the lack of provisions. King Tommen couldn't try to go home, because he didn't have the men to crew his ships left to him, and even if he did, the Krakens would likely come for him.
Jon… Jon could still turn back. He could still return across the Smoking Sea and put this endeavor behind him as a foolish lost cause. They had the provisions for the return trip after all, and they'd killed one Kraken. His men were blooded now, they could handle another if it came to that.
But could he really turn back? After all of this? Could he really just… leave this behind? Or rather… could he afford not to? Could he afford to risk his men, his people who had followed him this far, on whatever horrors lay ahead? Would he be as cold and callous as the ancient King Tommen and spend the lives of his Dothraki and Unsullied to break down whatever gates remained between him and his goal?
… Perhaps there was a third option. The most dangerous option of all, to be sure, but an option all the same. He could… he could go on alone. Traversing the Smoking Sea on boats instead of dragon back felt like it had been the right decision in spite of the Kraken attack that they'd suffered. But now… now Jon wondered if this might be where he should part ways with his men.
This land is not meant for you, just as it was not meant for me.
Jon's eyes keep straying back to those words. A warning, to be sure, and a clear one at that. But what if King Tommen II was wrong? What if this land WAS meant for Jon? What if whatever was drawing him here had been waiting all this time for him? What if… he could just walk right in?
A dangerous idea, to be sure, but one that Jon nevertheless found himself thinking about. The safer option would be to bring his men with him, true. Safer even that would be to turn back and give up on this whole foolish endeavor. But Jon… Jon wasn't the Khal of Khals because he took the safe option, now was he?
Uncovering the Truth
"Hold down the fort here, Captain. I will continue on alone."
Needless to say, that gets Captain Dyniros' attention quite fast. More than a few of the men are in ear shot to hear Jon's words as well, and they all stop to stare as the Braavosi Mercenary sputters.
"W-What?! You can't possibly be serious!"
But though Jon offers a half-smile, there's no denying from the look in his eye and the set of his shoulders that the young, if impossible charismatic man, is deathly serious.
"I am, Captain. What lies ahead… requires Valyrian Blood. I can't promise anyone's safety… no, more than that, I am almost certain that the path ahead promises death for anyone except for me. Best that I forge ahead alone while everyone else waits for me."
Now, the Captain had been hired by the Iron Bank, but that didn't mean he was read in on all of their secrets and plans. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Jorio can't help but respond with something of a disbelieving tone as he gazes upon Jon's dark black hair and pale Northern features.
"You… are Valyrian?"
By this point, Jon is well aware that they've drawn a crowd with their impromptu conversation. And a few of the Dothraki in particular look ready to start a fight over him going on without them. They'd crossed the Smoking Sea after all, and if they could do that, if they could cross poison water and fight the monsters hidden in its depths, they could damn well handle anything else.
But Jon knew better. It was resonating within his very soul, and King Tommen's letter… it only solidified that feeling he'd been having since they arrived at the water's edge on the opposite side of the shattered Valyrian Peninsula. With a sigh, he turns away from the Captain and addresses those around him as a whole instead, his voice ringing out and being heard far beyond what should have been possible. The nascent grumbling that had begun rising up amidst the men goes quiet in the face of Jon's words.
"I am Jon Targaryen, Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. To many of you, that will mean nothing, and that's alright. But what it DOES mean is that this here is my homeland. I would not have come to this place if I were looking for riches. I have riches aplenty thanks to the Dothraki and our Liberation of Slaver's Bay."
He takes a breath, while everyone watches him, staring at him silently.
"I have been drawn here by a feeling I cannot shake. I have come here to find out my history, to discover what became of my ancient people. Valyria stands in ruins around us… and yet, still it stands. The fleet that rests in this harbor belonged to a Westerosi King from over three hundred years ago! And yet, though he brought an army, he could not claim what lay in the ruins of this once great Freehold."
Another pause as Jon collects himself, but still no one speaks. The air itself almost seems to be a scant second away from being on fire. No one even moves a muscle, their attention wholly caught on the young man in their midst. In that moment, Jon shines like… like a living god.
"He could not claim what was not his by blood or conquest. Like a scavenging rat attempting to pick at the remains of a devoured corpse, he found it too much for him to handle, and it became his ruin. The Lion King could not claim what could never be his. But now I am here… and I go to claim MY birthright."
As if on cue, one of Jon's dragons lets out a truly massive roar. The three winged creatures come in for a landing, surrounding him almost. Without hesitation, Jon gets on the largest one's back, a black monster that will only grow even bigger with time. Once he's situated between it's spines, he looks down at Jorio Dyniros and smiles.
"As I said, Captain, hold down the fort here. I will return soon."
And then he's gone, before anyone else can say a word. Not that any of them have anything to say. To stand in the presence of such a man was itself a feat… and for some who collapse to their knees once he's gone, even that much cannot be said.
-x-X-x-
The speech was utterly impromptu, Jon would never admit to anyone. Still, he was feeling pretty good about it, as he and his dragons approached Valyria itself. The ruins of a once great city sprawl out before him in the far distance, but the air above it is covered in a thick smog that seems to move amongst the buildings in an almost living way.
Not wanting to chance anything, Jon comes down for a landing in front of the first of many gates. Valyria's first wall has definitely seen better days, and the gate itself has been shattered… but then, Jon had already known that from King Tommen's letter.
The King of the Rock had given him some clues on what to expect, but even with the letter, Jon still finds himself a little… unprepared for what he finds. It is at once the most heartbreaking and most… wondrous view he's ever seen. Walking through the first gate, he sees skeletons in scraps of Lannister red and gold here and there. He sees older skeletons as well, scooped to the sides. There's even carts of Valyrian Steel, clearly collected into a shipment and then never taken back to the harbor.
There's no sign of a King though, no sign of Brightroar. Still, not one to be foolish, Jon discards his own sword and takes up a Valyrian Steel sword from among a literal pile of them. He's prepared for it to feel wrong, to go looking for one that fits properly, but the very first one is perfect. Curious, Jon tries out another anyways… and finds that it's just as good.
Truly, they didn't make them like they used to. Snorting at his own joke, even as his dragons follow behind him, sniffing at both skeletons and crates alike, Jon sheathes one of the Valyrian Steel swords and then continues making his way further into the city. Valyria, the city rather than the Freehold as a whole, was like… like an onion. It had layers.
Needless to say, beyond the initial carts, there's not much to see for the first several layers. But then, King Tommen and his men had clearly peeled those layers of the city back, ripping through the gates and then looting and ransacking everything that they could.
How many months had the Lion King spent on his greedy venture before realizing he had stayed for too long? If he'd stopped at one or two layers, would he have still been able to return home with more Valyrian Steel then anyone else had in the entire world? Or perhaps all of the Valyrian Steel had been deeper in, only after they'd spent themselves to the point of disaster…
Certainly, the further that Jon walks into the city with his dragons, the more ornate and ostentatious things get. The outer layers of Valyria could be compared to what he'd seen in Essos' Free Cities so far, but the further in that he goes, the more obvious it becomes that this was once the center of the world's power.
More and more skeletons in scraps of Lannister colors line the main street as Jon pushes further in. Until finally, he reaches a gate that isn't broken down. A gate that's still closed shut. Laying his eyes upon this, the first intact gate he's seen since entering Valyria, Jon can admit to being impressed. The thing is not only huge… it looks almost unreal. Not… not QUITE Valyrian Steel, Jon doesn't think. Not even the ancient Valyrians had seen fit to waste their special metal on such extravagance.
But magically enhanced? Magically empowered? Jon could easily imagine that. The runes etched into the shining metal of the gate certainly seemed to speak to the idea. And yet… the feeling in Jon's heart urged him ever onward. Especially now, that draw was stronger and stronger. With a hitch in his breath, Jon steps forward and places a palm in the center of the game… and without hesitation, it opens for him.
He's not… surprised. In fact, one might say he's quite pleased. It was almost expected in a way, and he hadn't known what he would do if it had failed. It hadn't though, and so he moves forward, his dragons still at his side. Jon is very conscious of his surroundings now, as he moves deeper in, the gates in front of him every few thousand feet opening as he approaches now.
These parts of Valyria are still untouched since the disaster. The older skeletons that were pushed aside by Lannister men are now strewn about more haphazardly where they all must have died when the Doom of Valyria came for them. Likewise, their clothing is probably magical, if the fact that many of them are still wearing intact, ornate robes is any indication. Enchanted to be able to last hundreds and hundreds of years… impressive, to say the least.
Gold and gems and Valyrian Steel become more and more prominent in these untouched, albeit still-ruined parts of the city. And yet, still Jon continues ever onward. Still, he knows he has not reached his goal. Like he'd told his men out on the harbor. He was never here for simple material wealth. This was never about riches or treasure. Jon… Jon was here for something MORE.
At the center of Valyria stands a massive structure. A temple? A monument? Jon couldn't say for sure, only that it's bigger than even Meereen's Great Pyramids. Bigger than the Wall? Not only did Jon never actually get to see the Wall and find out for certain, but the top of this structure also disappears into the black clouds that cover the city skyline, so he has no way of knowing one way or another.
Regardless, Jon is drawn towards it. So towards it he goes, followed by his three dragons, feeling like… feeling like he's coming to the end of a very, very long path.
And so he steps inside of the structure, and so he makes his way along a massive, mostly intact hallway. And so… he comes to what can only be described as a cross between a throne room and a place of worship. With numerous thrones carved out of stone that all feel a bit too large to sit a man comfortably, Jon gets the distinct impression that these thrones are for the gods… the gods of Valyria.
He's not sure how he knows that, but he does… just as he knows that the man sitting upon one of the thrones in spite of them being a bit too large REALLY shouldn't be alive at this point. Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock, raises his head as he rests Brightroar between his knees. His eyes blaze with a golden and silver fire, and his lips curl back into a rictus of a smile.
"You have arrived, after so many years. Our heir. Our descendant. The vessel of all our power… finally come home, to return what was so graciously given."
Jon straightens up, recognizing that he's definitely NOT speaking to King Tommen here. And perhaps it's rude, but he goes with blunt in his answer, frowning slightly as he looks around the large room, at all of the empty thrones within it.
"Who are you?"
"A reasonable question, but also a disappointing one. Still, it is to be expected. I am Balerion. The Last of Valyria's Gods."
"Now, now brother. Lying so quickly to our Last Hope? You are not QUITE the last."
Jon starts at the sibilant hissing that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It's like it's being pounded directly into his head. Then, just as he's wondering where and who it's coming from, a massive shadowy form detaches itself from the ceiling of the huge chamber he finds himself in, uncurling and unfolding truly titanic wings. The dragon that swoops down and lands in the middle of the chamber is bigger than all three of his dragons combined… by at least half a dozen magnitudes.
Turning its head on a long and sinuous neck, it looks to him.
"Meraxes. Goddess of the Sky."
Needless to say, 'Balerion' looks displeased.
"Nothing I have said was a lie. After all, while a God might be a Dragon… a Dragon cannot be a Goddess. You are but a faint shimmer of the sister I once had! A broken reflection I keep around out of a sense of misplaced affection, nothing else!"
Spittle flies from King Tommen II's lips as he rages at the hulking dragon. Said dragon snarls at him in turn, clawing at the floor beneath her.
"And what does that make you then, brother? If I am no longer a Goddess for inhabiting this flesh and blood form that YOU trapped me within, how can you still lay claim to being a God while wearing the skin of a weak human?!"
… Had he seriously stepped into an ongoing dispute between sibling gods? With a flick of his fingers, Balerion scoffs and Meraxes is sent careening into a nearby wall, leaving the space between Jon and him open once more.
"Because I can do that, dear sister. Now be quiet while your betters are chatting."
Jon can't help but think there might be some truth to Balerion's claim to godhood over Meraxes', if only because the latter does not try to rise and attack. If the biggest fucking dragon Jon has ever seen is cowed by this glowing eyed possessed Lannister King, then that means 'Balerion' has some serious firepower backing him up.
Smiling with Tommen II's face, Balerion steps down from his throne and off of his dais, walking towards Jon with Brightroar held loosely at his side.
"We… nay, I have waited for you for so long, my boy. It was not fair or just, what was done to us and the Freehold. But finally, after all this time, here you are… our vengeance made manifest."
Jon furrows his brow at that, frowning. Vengeance? Either reading his mind or face, Balerion chuckles as he comes to stop a half dozen paces away.
"Twas the Seven who did this to us. The Doom of Valyria came from those worthless, two-bit, no-name reprobates. Admittedly, we had grown… too big for our britches. The most powerful Pantheon of Gods and Goddesses that this world had ever seen… and we let it go to our heads. A bunch of upstarts brought us so very, very low."
"And then I came up with a way to take our revenge!"
Meraxes' interjection is not appreciated, if the look on Balerion's face as he shoots the dragon a glare is any indication. But when he looks back to Jon, he's all smiles.
"Yes… the fragment of my long lost sister is correct. It was indeed Meraxes who conceived of the manner in which she and I empowered you across time itself, all those hundreds of years ago. Have you noticed how much stronger you are then the average mortal man? How much MORE you are? That would be because I infused you with my might, with my strength, with my divinity. You are a product of our vengeance against the Seven. You are the instrument with which we will take our comeuppance after all this time."
Brow furrowing, Jon takes this all in… and finds himself confused about one thing in particular.
"I… haven't even been on Westeros for years now. I haven't taken any vengeance on 'the Seven'."
Here, Balerion smiles while wearing Tommen II's face.
"Well, no… but that too was by design. MY design. I assumed that, much like my siblings, I would wither away after the Doom. Especially since I imparted so much of my power unto you as part of my sister's plan. But then… then this one came along."
He gestures down at himself with his free hand, making it clear that he's talking about the King of the Rock.
"So brash. So arrogant… so ignorant. He wanted it all. All of Valyria's riches, he desired them. But of course, he was never going to get them. Cut his losses and run home with his tail between his legs? He wouldn't dream of it! Especially not with me whispering in his ear. And so, when all was said and done and his men spent on material gain, I brought the little King into this chamber and he gave me what I so desperately needed… time."
With Balerion so close to him now, Jon is beginning to see more than just the glowing gold and silver of his eyes. Tommen II's body… is falling apart. Oh, not too noticeably, but the cracks of molten fire in his skin are growing almost imperceptibly. Jon thinks he understands what the Valyrian God meant by time… and it honestly sickens him, just a little bit.
"You did not take your revenge as my sister and I initially intended. You came to Essos instead. You gathered your blood to your chest, you gathered men to your side… and most of all, you came here to me. All as I directed of you, all as I have foreseen. You have finally arrived, my boy… and we can finally join together."
Spreading his arms wide, Balerion grins a wide grin, showing off golden and silver teeth in a mouth that glows hot with his presence. Until now, his lips had been closed… they aren't anymore, and he looks all the more inhuman for it.
Reeling, Jon blinks rapidly at the God's suggestion.
"Join… together?"
Letting out an echoing laugh that almost seems to resonate with something inside of Jon, Balerion grins even wider.
"But of course! You are a vessel of power, boy! MY power! Once I have taken back my divine might, once I have regained my former glory through you, I will be unstoppable. The Seven have grown lax in their time on top. I have watched from the shadows as they find themselves beset on all sides by upstarts of their own. In their millennia year war against the Old Gods of your North, they have left themselves open to attack from other sources… such as the Red God, R'hllor."
Balerion laughs again.
"But none of that matters. Together, as one, we will destroy ALL of them with ease. Essos will be ours; Westeros will be ours. The Pantheons of this world, Gods and Goddesses alike, will TREMBLE before our might!"
"Not just your power, brother. Mine as well! Or did you forget that I gave just as much as you to this enterprise! And now you seek to take it all for yourself you greedy-ack!"
Balerion raises a hand in Meraxes' direction and then closes it into a fist, cutting off her sibilant voice with a sneer.
"Silence, fragment of mine sister. I keep you around for nostalgia's sake, not to hear you whing!"
And then he turns back to Jon and holds out his other hand towards him, not in an aggressive motion, but in offering. Palm up, fingers outstretched, he offers his hand for Jon to take, a wide smile that might be charismatic if not for how manic it clearly is, stretched across Tommen II's face.
"Come, my boy. Together, let us remind them of the Valyria they have forgotten."
Jon… wasn't sure what to do. This was what the feeling in his chest wanted, he knew that much… but then, apparently the feeling in his chest, urging him onwards, pushing him forwards… it had been Balerion all along. The Valyrian God and he were connected through the power that Balerion and Meraxes had apparently sent forward in time… centuries ago.
Something told him that for all the power Balerion had over Meraxes, the latter was not as much of a fragment as the former liked to pretend. Something also told him it didn't matter, in the end. He could take Balerion up on his offer… or he could be the White Knight and side with Meraxes.
Or he could do what he always did… and forge his own path.
Uncovering the Truth Pt. 2
"No."
His response echoes through the chamber, which had fallen silent as both Balerion and Meraxes waited for Jon's answer. Needless to say, they both react in some manner of surprise at his response. Meraxes immediately begins hissing in laughter, while Balerion's glowing golden eyes widen in disbelief, the stolen face he's wearing stretching into a rictus of shock.
"Excuse me?"
Well aware that this probably wasn't going to be good for his health, but not willing to accept anything less all the same, Jon lifts his head high, jutting out his chin as he stands tall and stares a Dragon God of ancient yore down.
"I cannot offer you my body, honored ancestor. I'm still using it."
Meraxes' laughter grows even louder, but Balerion is too incensed, too focused on Jon himself, to silence her once more. The nostrils of the ancient Lion King that he's possessing flare in indignation and anger.
"Did you not hear me, boy?! You and I… we are meant to be one! We are meant to join together! You are my destined vessel, the return of Valyria and the return of magic to this world! Without our guidance, Essos and Westeros will crumble before the Oncoming Long Night! You would do well to rethink this foolhardiness! It will not serve you in the long run!"
Jon clenches his jaw, wondering briefly if he was making a mistake. The Oncoming Long Night sounded particularly terrifying, especially if Balerion was speaking of a return of the White Walkers that Jon had grow up hearing tales of from Old Nan. One might be liable to claim such tales were nothing more than fanciful stories meant to excite and engage young minds, but Jon had seen dragons born… he'd seen magic aplenty since coming to Valyria as well, so it wasn't so hard for him to believe.
Except… it was the rest of what Balerion was trying to peddle that he simply couldn't stomach. The Dragon God spoke of joining forces, of them becoming one. He spoke of gifting Jon his power, his might, for this sole purpose. But he also spoke of withering, he spoke as if the original plan had been for him and Meraxes to disappear. Now, obviously they were still lingering, for all that Balerion called Meraxes a fragment.
Except… what made Balerion any more than Meraxes at this point? What made him anymore than a fragment as well? And why were Jon's instincts screaming that letting Balerion have his body would do nothing but spell doom for Jon and all that he loved?
Yes! Yes, you see it! My brother is a fool! Neither of us are what we once were, but he is the one who still insists on playing god! Balerion is no more than I am, he is but a shade. We were never supposed to be anything more! All that truly made us divine, we sent forward to reside within you! There will never again be a Balerion or a Meraxes… you must kill him! Free me, you have the power to do so! Free me from his binding and I will help you!
It takes Jon half a moment to realize those aren't his own thoughts, that Meraxes is transmitting her thoughts into his mind somehow. He glances in the hulking dragon's direction to see her eyes glowing a faint purple, much fainter than Balerion's gold. Jon frowns though, because even now he can feel a hint of deceit in Meraxes as well. At the same time as she admits she's nothing more than a fragment, she also asks him to side with her over Balerion.
There is a selfish desire in both of these shades of long lost Dragon Gods. Nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, Jon once again directs his attention to Balerion, just in time for the golden-eyed zombie king to decide he's had enough.
"Filth! If you will not give me your body, I will take it by FORCE!"
Like a set of claws, Balerion reaches out with his free hand, the hand he'd offered to Jon mere moments before with the promise of glorious unity. Without a shadow of doubt in his mind, Jon knows he can't allow that rotting hand to touch him. And so, with a flash, the Valyrian Steel sword he picked up on his way here slices up, interposing itself between him and the ancient, decaying body of King Tommen II… and cuts the offending hand right off at the wrist.
Rather than blood, golden ichor spills from the stump as Balerion stumbles back, eyes wide and staring down at his wound in disbelief.
"You… you dare?!"
Unfortunately, Jon's opening move doesn't give him nearly as much time to breathe as he might have expected. Balerion comes to terms with the loss of his hand quite rapidly, probably because it's not HIS hand to begin with. The next thing Jon knows, he's having to block as Brightroar comes slashing down upon him in the grip of King Tommen's remaining hand.
Even with a one-handed grip on the Valyrian Steel sword, the force that Brightroar lands upon Jon's own unnamed blade is… considerable. Enough to make the young man's eyes widen, as well as leave him glad that he had his sword in a two-handed grip to meet the blow. But that relief doesn't last long, not when Balerion continues to swing, continues to rampage forward, ravaging Jon's defenses.
Backpedaling swiftly, Jon blocks what he can and dodges what he cannot. The inhuman might behind Balerion's swings is obvious, and intense to say the least. The fragment of a Dragon God is no great Knight, no amazing swordsman. It's possible he's never used a sword in his life, given how he wields Brightroar. He attacks Jon with it like one would attack with a club, not a gorgeous blade made of Valyrian Steel.
And yet, it's a testament to how much power this shade of Balerion still has that Jon can't seem to get himself off the backfoot. He's being driven back, being nearly thrown around the chamber in a way, doing everything humanly possible to avoid the blade that's seeking to harm him. Balerion clearly isn't trying to end his life, but the Dragon God seems to have no issues with maiming him, and Jon has to fend off many blows aimed at removing hands or feet, at taking off one of his limbs and leaving him disabled and helpless at Balerion's nonexistent mercy.
Or at least, that's how it starts. The longer they're fighting, the more desperate Jon becomes, the more open to certain ideas he finds himself. As he is now, he's going to lose this fight. He's doing everything HUMANLY possible… but as it's been explained to him, he's not entirely human, now is he? He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. But he's also more than that. He is the vessel of two divinities, the answer to treachery among Gods dating back hundreds of years.
He can't afford to be merely human here, can he? And what Meraxes suggested gives Jon an idea. He reaches within himself even as he dodges Balerion's crazed swings and looks for his supposed inner power… and to his surprise, he finds it with an almost startling ease. Because truthfully… it's always been there.
When he fought those Braavosi the night he'd met Bellegere, his gods-given gifts had been with him. When he'd fought Khal Drogo for Daenerys' hand, the blood of dragons and gods had flown through him. When he'd made his way to Vaes Dothrak and taken control of the Dothraki themselves… every challenge, he had been supported by his divine might and thus his divine right to rule, every step of the way.
The Dothraki had made him the subject of their prophecy and had ultimately fallen in line behind him as he'd turned their entire society on it's head, changing traditions and cultural norms that had lasted hundreds if not thousands of years. How was that even possible? How was it that a pale Northman from Westeros had somehow managed to become the Khal of Khals?
If he were any normal man, he would not have been able to achieve the things he'd done. No amount of mortal charisma or skill with a blade would have carried him through the day. It was only because he was in no small part divine that he had accomplished the things he had. For that, Jon supposed he should offer thanks to Balerion and Meraxes for their support.
But as the shade of Meraxes had already made clear, the God and Goddess were already long gone, in truth. What he was facing now were nothing but mere fragments of their divinity. Rather, the vast majority of their two divinities… now resided within him. All Jon had to do… was stop acting like he was in any way a mortal man.
"Enough."
Brightroar comes down and this time Jon catches it easily on his own sword in a one-handed grip. The deep, reverberating voice comes not from Balerion's lips… but his own as he stops this latest attack dead. Golden eyes go wide as Jon frowns and then reaches out, covering King Tommen's face with his free hand.
"This… is enough. Rest now, Balerion. Rest now and know you succeeded."
"N-No, I-!"
But it's too late for any last defiance, any last refusals. Only one of them is truly a Dragon God here… and that's Jon. His hand glows and Balerion's borrowed body convulses and spasms before the golden glow of magic filling it flows back into Jon. In a way, the shade gets what he wanted all along. But you know what they say, be careful what you wish for.
The footing between Jon and the fragment of Dragon God simply isn't equal. There can be no unity. The two cannot become one. If Jon had allowed the shade of Balerion to take over, they would have always been less than they could have been, reduced to a demigod state. As it is now, Jon absorbs the shade, swallowing it whole in a way and taking the fragment to add back to the greater whole that is his person.
As the last of Balerion leaves King Tommen II's body, the golden glow leaves his eyes and an ancient, weary gaze stares at Jon in abject gratitude.
"Thank you…"
With those final words, the Lion King rapidly decays, his skin flaking away as so much dust, his bones disintegrating as well, and his clothing falling to bits and pieces. In a handful of seconds, King Tommen II is gone, and all that's left behind is Brightroar, clattering to the floor of the massive temple with a sense of finality.
Reaching down, Jon casually picks up the ancestral Lannister blade. It almost seems a paltry prize in comparison to what he's discovered and achieved by coming here, but still… he HAD wanted it, and now he had it. House Lannister's missing Valyrian Steel sword… perhaps it would come in handy one of these days.
Carrying both swords, Jon sighs as he turns to face the silent dragon skulking in the shadows of the temple chamber. The shade of Meraxes creeps close, her long sinuous neck arching as she trails her tongue along rows and rows of massive, sharp fangs.
"Are you going to fight me too?"
He hadn't gone along with freeing her. He hadn't sided with her against her brother. Instead, he'd destroyed Balerion on his own without her help while she stood aside and did nothing. Frankly, Jon didn't know what to expect from the fragment of Meraxes now. He could, with his new found power, simply force the issue and bind her to him just as effectively as Balerion did… more so, in fact, but part of him was loathe to do that.
"Perish the thought, young master. You have proven your strength, your worth. You do not rely upon the trickery, the treachery of my fool brother. And I do not rely on his delusions. We both know what we are, do we not? Shade and God… Dragon and Man."
Jon inclines his head, acknowledging the truth in her words. Part of him is a God now. There's no escaping that, not with two divinities filling him. But he's also still a man too. He's still Jon Snow, Jon Targaryen, Khal Jhono. He's still a great number of things to a great number of people. But he can sense that Meraxes is not done yet, so he holds his tongue and lets her finish.
"… That said, I find myself disinclined to follow my brother into the great beyond. Shade that I might be, I would prefer to… stick around, if it pleases your majesty. You do not have to worry about my loyalty. I know the difference between a true God and a pretender."
She spits out the word 'pretender', glaring at the throne where Balerion had been sat when Jon first entered. Meanwhile, Jon himself can't help but be a little surprised, his eyes widening slightly as he inhales sharply.
"You truly want to continue to persist in this fragmented existence of yours? After so long, I would think you happy to finally be able to rest."
Scoffing at that, Meraxes' purple eyes flash.
"I did not fight the pull of the dark for this long just to give in to it after finally seeing my brother brought low."
And then she hesitates, and something much… softer enters her voice.
"… As well, I am afraid your majesty. I am afraid of what comes next. It is possible that for something like me, there is no next. I fear oblivion…"
That's… fair. Still, Meraxes is an odd case. Jon knows he has to do something about this. More than that, he knows that he's one of the only beings around who CAN do something about this. His rise to divinity has been meteoric and incredibly swift to be sure, but already he's getting a sense of things that he once thought were mere gut feelings.
Meraxes is a problem that needs to be solved here and now, and there can be no question of that. Looking at it from his new set of circumstances, Jon sees three options before him for what to do with the fragment of a Dragon Goddess.
One, bind her to him as she is now. Make her at least somewhat whole again in the process. She would never be the true Meraxes reborn once more, but he could at the very least rub down the fraying edges so she wasn't so much of a torn and shredded fragment of an entity that she was now. He would have a massive, hulking dragon at his side by the end of it, one with an intelligence and loyalty to him that could not be denied.
Two, bind her to him but change her form. It would probably make the process of sanding down the edges of her existence into something more… complete even easier. By reforming Meraxes into the body of a human woman, Jon could effectively condense her down. Rather than being the shade of a Goddess, she might just be a whole mortal being by the time he was done. He'd lose out on the massive hulking dragon, though something told him she would still maintain some of her draconic attributes when he was done.
Three, end her existence here and now just as he had with Balerion. It would probably be the most merciful option. For all that the fragment was afraid of oblivion, Jon could see now in a way that he didn't before just how much Meraxes was suffering, how much Balerion must have been suffering while waiting for him all these years. Jon couldn't say for certain that the first two options would actually end this suffering in the same way that simply… letting her go would. It was entirely possible she would continue to suffer, even if he bound her to him in either of the two possible forms.
But… a decision still had to be made all the same. Jon just needed to figure out what he was going to do.
Meraxes, Dragon Goddess
He was divine now… but that didn't mean he had to be self-sacrificing and all-encompassing good. Gods were not always righteous and just, that much he'd already known. That was all to say… if Meraxes wanted to stick around, then who was he to deny her that? She wanted to stay, he wanted her… but at the same time, he wanted her for what she could be, not for what she was.
While her current form was massive in comparison to his three dragons, it was ultimately meaningless. Jon was… he was a God now, albeit one in mortal flesh. Still, with the power he could now call upon, he didn't need Meraxes as she was. Which meant he had leave to change her into what he wanted of her instead, and in the process maybe he would even make a real girl of her at the same time.
"Perhaps I do not want another dragon, Meraxes."
The shade of a Goddess' narrows her draconic eyes at that, easily seeing past his words to the underlining meaning of what he was saying. Slowly, she bows herself low to the ground in supplication.
"Then what would the young master want of me? Name it, and I shall endeavor to be it."
No, it was easier if he just did it, rather than forcing her to try and shave herself down. Rather than reply, Jon reaches out and takes ahold of Meraxes with his mind, his senses exploding outwards in a way that wasn't possible before. Or maybe it was always possible, and he simply didn't understand. There was so much that made sense now when it hadn't previously. His… nascent godhood put things into perspective, there was no denying that.
Meraxes' massive draconic form seizes up under his hold, the shade of a Goddess going tense as her eyes widen. But Jon shows neither mercy nor hesitation. There can be no 'let's take this slow' with this kind of thing. Either he acts with purpose and haste, or it might all come unraveled and Meraxes will be destroyed regardless of no choice of either of theirs.
And so, he begins to work, like a painter on a canvas… or more accurately, like a sculptor with marble or clay. After all, this is no blank canvas. This shade of a Goddess is truly a mess of a creature, a mass of wriggling essence, a fragment of what had once been but could never be again with the fall of Valyria. And so, Jon moves metaphysical hands through said essence, cutting away at the edges, rounding them down and working to get rid of the frayed nature of her existence.
As he'd thought, this would have been impossible if he'd tried to keep her in her draconic form. Binding her to him would have certainly been possible. Easing some of her suffering, sure. But there was no way to properly shape a sculpture without carving away lots and lots of the raw material first. And so, Jon carves. He carves and he scoops, and he takes from Meraxes, flinging what he cuts from her away into nothingness, letting it fade back into the fabric of the universe.
The great hulking dragon before him shivers and shudders, buckling under his work. And then parts of her begin to slog off. An entire wing, to start with. Claws. Scales. Pounds upon pounds of dragon flesh. Until her entire head and long neck fall away from her, rapidly decaying and vanishing much in the same way King Tommen II did after Jon consumed the fragment of Balerion.
He's not consuming this shade however, he's… repurposing her. Even as the dragon falls to pieces and decays, there is SOMETHING left behind… or rather, someone. Under all that flesh and scales turning to dust and vanishing into nothing, a body is left… a humanoid body, even a human body in a lot of ways. Jon… doesn't try to control this part of the shaping.
He lets his power and what it's telling him of Meraxes do it for him. With one of his twin divinities coming from the original Dragon Goddess herself, it's easy enough to just go with the flow and let that part of him take the wheel. As such, he doesn't know what to expect from his work until the sculpted woman rises from the ashes of her previous form. He has to admit though… his efforts manage to take his breath away, if only for a second.
Meraxes, because she still needed a name, was beautiful. Unquestionably Valyrian features stare back at him as he soaks in her presence. Long, beautiful, cascading hair in silver-gold and white down her back. Striking violet eyes, set in a beautiful face with full, pillowy lips and high cheekbones. And from the neck down, her body wasn't anything to scoff at either. Full breasts, narrow waist, wide hips, long legs.
Of course, she was not entirely human. Here and there, there were smatterings of silver scales, glistening in the torch light of the room. They mixed and melded with her flesh almost seamlessly, a simple reminder of what she really was… or perhaps, what she'd come from.
If not for the scales, Jon would call her a dead ringer for Daenerys' long departed mother, Rhaella Targaryen. Not because he'd ever seen what Rhaella looked like, because he hadn't… but because she was Dany herself, only twenty years older. Rather than a nubile young woman like Jon's khaleesi, Meraxes' new form was that of a fully matured woman. A mother of dragons to put even Dany to shame.
Looking down at herself, at her five fingered hands and at her naked body, Meraxes blinks.
"I see- oh. That's… different."
One of her hands comes up to run across her bobbing throat as she gets used to her new voice. Jon, meanwhile, can't help but draw closer. He's fascinated by just what he's created… and of course, aroused by her beauty. He's still a man, after all.
"You truly are the heir to my true self's legacy, young master. This form… this was the Avatar I preferred to take, the appearance I would assume, when I deigned to speak to the Dragon Priests of Valyria, all those years ago. I can only assume there is no coincidence here."
Jon cocks his head to the side for a moment before nodding and answering honestly.
"There is not. I let that part of myself guide me as I reshaped you."
Her full pillowy lips curl back into a smile and her violet eyes dance as she steps up to him, closing the last bit of distance between them.
"I live to serve you, Master."
And then, putting words to action, Meraxes drops to her knees then and there, making Jon's breath hitch. Obviously, he was expecting as much. But still, he's no less aroused when she takes the initiative, working open his pants and pulling out his cock. Cooing at the sight of his raging erection and mammoth-sized member, Meraxes proceeds to put her new womanly form to good use, wrapping her breasts around his shaft and looking up at him with amusement in her face.
"Is this what my Master wants? To see me debase myself in service to him?"
"… For now, yes."
"Of course, Master. Please, use this worthless concubine to your heart's content. I am but a slave for my master's pleasure…"
Getting to work, even as his cock jumps at her words, Meraxes leans forward and spits down into her cleavage, while at the same time sliding her tits up and down his shaft faster and faster. Lubricating the passage, she works him over with her breasts, before finally taking advantage of his size and swallowing the head of his cock whole as it pops out from betwixt her massive tits again and again.
"Ommph~"
Jon groans, resting a hand atop Meraxes' head and enjoying her mouth and tongue greatly. Especially when she hums, showing off serious technique as her mouth vibrates across his glans. He's a little startled to see how well she knows how to service him with that body of hers… but then he realizes, he'd made it so. Without even consciously choosing it, he's bonded them. He was supposed to, to be fair, but he hadn't even thought about it as she'd risen in her new form, and they'd began to talk.
Except, some part of him clearly had. She was his in mind, body, and soul now. The fragment of a dead Goddess was no more. This Meraxes was merely a woman… a woman single-mindedly devoted and loyal to her new God. She would certainly serve him… but Jon wanted more. And while he knew now that he was a God, not merely a dragon… he was still decidedly a Dragon God.
With a lust-filled growl, he pulls Meraxes off of his cock and lifts her up. Sensing his intentions with ease, his new priestess, the first of his true religion, moans as she wraps her arms and legs around him. A moment later, he's impaled her upon his cock and is bouncing her up and down as he stands there, sturdy as a tree trunk.
Meraxes cries out, tossing her head back in ecstasy… and thrusting her tits up into his face. How could he do anything but take advantage of the feast on offer before him? Leaning forward, Jon's eyes spark as he takes one of her tits halfway into his mouth, not just sucking the nipple, but biting down into the breast flesh as his tongue works over her teat.
Then, he swaps to the other, playing between them for a time. All the while, his cock continues to thrust upwards as he plunges her new body down onto his member, impaling her over and over again. He thrusts deep within her, wondering if this new body of hers is capable of getting pregnant.
But then, of course it is. His divinity helpfully informs him of this fact within a moment of Jon having the thought, and also eagerly informs him of his ability to decide whether or not Meraxes would get pregnant with this coupling. Luckily, he'd already had that conversation with Dany about Bellegere all that time ago, wasn't it?
Because of that, because he already knows Dany's opinion on the matter, Jon doesn't hold back. He fucks Meraxes deep and soundly, feeling as she orgasms for him time and time again, bouncing on his member. He sucks her nipples, one after the other, and imagines them lactating for him… only to discover they do so on his unintentional mental command, letting him drink deeply of her breasts, which are full in more ways than one.
Mewling and moaning, Meraxes offers up nothing but words of encouragement and desire, expressing her happiness through both verbal ecstasy and her actions as she clings to him all the harder, holding on tight as he fucks her silly and then some. And when the time finally comes, when Jon finally reaches his own release… he doesn't hesitate to spill his seed inside of Meraxes. He doesn't hesitate to fill her with his cum and not just finalize making her his woman, but also breed her as well, impregnating her on the spot.
His priestess can clearly feel this desire through their bond, as she cries out in lust and ecstasy, tossing her jubilation upwards towards the massive chamber's ceiling.
"Yes! Breed me, Master! Fill my womb with your seed and make me a mother! May your children spread across the surface of this world and bring about a new age of enlightenment!"
Hm, that didn't sound half bad, if he was being honest…
-x-X-x-
It's strange to think that his journey to Old Valyria is finally over, and with such success as well. Of course, it's not quite that simple… but only because Jon has brought quite a lot of mortal men with him, in the end. Now that he's come into his full power, disabling the ancient magics that protected Valyria and its riches from the likes of greedy men like King Tommen is a simple enough task.
With his natural charisma and all-around charm, which he now knows comes from his divinity, Jon is able to get his people to work on collecting Valyria's riches within the day. His arrival back at the harbor had been met with awe, not just because Meraxes was beside him, wrapped in a sheet and yet still looking beautiful and sexy. While Jon had not changed in physical appearance, he'd changed in metaphysical appearance… and even the mortal men who followed him could feel that.
Meraxes, when he wasn't fucking her, quickly got to work on proclaiming him a God and beginning to proselytize to the gathered Dothraki and Unsullied around her. Needless to say, both groups were taking to her teachings with not-so-startling ease, the Dothraki already ready to follow him to the ends of the earth as the Stallion That Mounts The World and the Unsullied ready to accept that one of their saviors was divine.
Of course, Meraxes had her hands full when one of the Unsullied thought for themselves long enough to ask if this meant Daenerys was divine as well. Perhaps sensing that rejecting the idea out of hand would cause problems for her, his priestess had gone ahead and declared Daenerys a Dragon Saint… and then not actually explained what that meant. She didn't need to though in the end, the officious and important sounding title mollified her Unsullied students.
Meanwhile, Jon was busy cataloging Valyria's wealth. He was now the richest man on the planet, more than likely. Of course, he'd already been pretty high up there before he took a trip to this peninsula and uncovered his own divinity while ransacking Valyria. But regardless, the amount of Valyrian Steel he now had was enough to outfit an army. And not just in swords and other weaponry either, but in mundane things such as cups and plates and utensils.
Truly, he was now wealthy beyond compare. But Jon didn't care about that. What he cared about… was finishing what he started. He had a decision to make now, a choice in front of him once again. Valyria was… Valyria was his, and perhaps he could make it into a proper stronghold, given time. But the rest of the world continued to turn around him as he did other things, and Jon was more aware of that then ever now.
His awareness, in fact, spread rather far. He couldn't quite call it omniscience, because he couldn't see everything everywhere with full clarity, but his sight certainly extended beyond that of a mortal man now. For instance, he could easily peer into Volantis from where he was and see, despite their vaunted massive black walls, that they had imprisoned a beautiful Red Priestess named Kinvara for daring to speak in his name.
The choice between Volantis and Valyria that he'd made ages ago, the decision to come here instead of going there next… it had cost her dearly. But Jon couldn't bring himself to regret it. Still, she was there, and he was here. He should probably do something about that.
At the same time though, he could look even further afield to his home of Westeros. It had been years since he'd been back, and he already knew that the people of Westeros had not simply frozen in time while he was gone. They had continued to live their lives… which usually entailed killing each other, more often than not. The continent had been embroiled in war for so long.
Unfortunately, either because of the distance or because of the Seven's hold on the continent, Westeros was more clouded to him than anywhere in Essos. Irritating to say the least, but from what Jon COULD tell by 'looking' in that direction, things had… momentarily calmed down, at least. What that meant, he could not say. In the end, did it matter? Things would likely not stay calm for long. And he had a duty, both to his people and to the Iron Bank, to eventually return to Westeros and take the Iron Throne.
Those were his options for the moment. Volantis, to save this Kinvara woman… or leaving her to her fate and venturing to Westeros, to begin finishing what his father and mother started decades ago… and what a Valyrian God and Goddess had started centuries before that.
Kinvara, the Red Priestess
Volantis. Oldest of the Free Cities, the first colony of the Valyrian Freehold. Located Southwest of the Valyrian Peninsula, traveling there after Jon's successful trip to Valyria itself was not so much a hardship, as merely something that took time. Time for his armies to regroup and resupply off of the treasures that he'd found in Valyria. Time for his dragons to grow bigger and stronger by the day. Time for Jon himself to grow as well, as he settled into his divinity.
It wasn't like the trio of dragons that he'd hatched using Viserys Targaryen's blood were getting any more food than before. They ate well enough, but given they were part of his army, which was on the move, they ate only as much as could be spared, just like anyone else. And yet, after Jon's visit to Valyria, after confronting Balerion and reshaping Meraxes, things had changed. HE had changed.
Was it any wonder then, that his dragons were growing larger and larger in his presence? He was himself something of a Dragon God now, the combined might of two of Valyria's ancient deities flowing through him. With Balerion and Meraxes' power fully unleashed and unlocked within him, it was as if he was providing some sort of holy sustenance to the dragons, leaving them twice their size by the time Volantis came into view.
Once upon a time, the Volantenes had been loyal subjects of the Valyrian Freehold. And then the Doom of Valyria had struck, and the Freehold was no more. In the aftermath of that great event, Volantis had tried to rebuild the empire under their rule. They had tried to pull together the crumbling infrastructure that the Dragon Lords had built up for them and had tried to rule without the key component that allowed the Valyrian Freehold to stretch out it's reach so damn far… dragons.
They failed, of course. Apparently, part of that failure had been because Volantis had ended up opposed by the last Valyrian House with living dragons, Jon's house as a matter of fact. House Targaryen, under the command of Aegon the Conqueror, had entered the war on the opposite side. The reasons why were lost to history, supposedly. Whether Volantis had done something to insult Aegon or had simply not done enough to assuage his pride and bring him over to their side, Jon knew not.
What mattered was that they lost, and a large part of that was because of the Targaryen intervention in their attempt. Perhaps that was why Volantis had turned against him now? Or perhaps it was the Lord of Light that the city seemed to predominantly worship.
After turning his eyes in the direction of Valyria's First Daughter, Jon had allowed his people to tell them everything they could. That was where he'd learned all of the relevant information about Volantis' history. But there was also the present to be considered. What was the Volantis of today like, that they had cause to act against him?
While he could peer into the city with ease with his burgeoning divinity, his awareness telling him some of the things they were saying about him, Jon needed more than that. He needed eyes and ears on the ground. Every god needed followers; every deity needed mortal worshippers to do his bidding. Luckily, Volantis was a city teetering on the precipice of a civil war. And all because of him.
The Red Priestess Kinvara, who had dared to preach in his name, had been arrested. She'd been arrested because despite her position as High Priestess of Red Temple of Volantis, that apparently did not make her the highest-ranking member of the organization. Despite such airy and august titles as 'Flame of Truth, 'Light of Wisdom' and even 'First Servant of the Lord of Light', she had not had full authority when she'd done what she'd did.
Or rather, she had the perceived authority… but not the true authority. Her position had not been as secure as Kinvara had thought, presumably. Her predecessor, one Benerro, was the High Priest of the Lord of Light before her, and he and his old guard had become… increasingly irritated with Kinvara's preaching on Jon's behalf.
She had dared to declare him Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised. She had dared to prescribe their greatest prophecy to him, a Targaryen who already had a number of prophecies prescribed upon him. And they had imprisoned her for it.
Perhaps if Jon had delayed his trip to Valyria and gone to Volantis first, he could have stopped her unjust imprisonment, as well as the hardships that she suffered on his behalf. He wouldn't have had nearly the level of divine power he had now, of course, but from what he could tell, the city had been more split and more welcoming back when he'd made his original decision.
With some politics and some… aggressive negotiations, he might have managed to help Kinvara shore up her position, making her strong again where she hadn't even realized she was weak. He could have helped her and could have ultimately taken Volantis without much in the way of bloodshed, so long as she, as High Priestess, declared him Azor Ahai before all.
But Jon had foregone that route, and truth be told he would not beat himself up over it. His path was his own, and he was content in his choices. Perhaps if Kinvara had died, he would have felt some guilt over her demise, and she certainly would have been too far beyond his reach to help even as he was now, if only because her soul likely would have gone to her precious Lord of Light.
But she lived, which meant all could be made well… even if it was to be done largely through violence and bloodshed.
The ultimate result of his tardiness was a First Daughter seemingly united against him, with its defenses prepared for his arrival. As his army made camp outside of the city's massive walls, one might wonder how he intended to breach the city's defenses. It was, after all, the eldest of the Free Cities. This also meant it was the most fortified. And even if he got past the first layer, it was like trying to peel back an onion. The deeper he got, the more layers he would have to break through.
In that way, the architecture actually reminded Jon of Valyria itself, which made since considering Volantis' past. The Black Walls of the city's eastern portion might not have been quite so magical or impenetrable as the fortress that Old Valyria had become, but they were still tall and proud and strong, protecting a labyrinth-like maze of palaces and temples and cloisters.
Jon could fight his way through the first half of the city in no time, and then end up spending his army's strength and lives getting absolutely nowhere against those massive, hulking Black Walls. Or he could reach out and find purchase in those within the city.
They expected him to approach them as a man. Albeit a powerful man at the head of a large army, but a man all the same. They expected him to siege them, to try and break their defenses with his hulking army. They expected him to fight them mortal to mortal… but Jon's mortality had never been more in question.
Instead of wasting the lives of his people, Jon sat and closed his eyes. With Daenerys and Bellegere having rejoined him, he is not alone, even as he reaches out with his growing divine awareness. The first of his Queens rub their naked, nubile bodies into his sides, rubbing him down and cleaning him, bathing him as he works. Jon, supremely relaxed, finds the hearts and minds of those in Volantis… and claims those that yearn for him.
He does not just represent a threat to the Lord of Light and the Red Religion, after all. He is the Breaker of Chains. He is the one who has declared slavery anathema across half of Essos at this point. The Dothraki no longer enslave. Slaver's Bay no longer enslaves. And when he's done with Volantis, the First Daughter will no longer worship that awful practice of slavery either.
Volantis is filled with slaves, much like the vast majority of the Free Cities. They outnumber their masters ten to one. Of course, slave rebellions happen all the time, and ultimately are almost always put down. Indeed, even if a slave rebellion was to take place, the Black Walls would still provide protection to the First Daughter's ruling elite, where only the most trusted and loyal house slaves were allowed access.
But even among those slaves were ones who longed for freedom. Even among those, Jon found embers he could stoke into raging bonfires. Rather than a rebellion, he urges the slaves to be smart, he coaxes them to think and plan. Within a day of Jon's arrival outside of the city walls, there were slaves conspiring to welcome their true Lord into Volantis. Within a week, a plan was in motion that, even after it was discovered, could not be stopped.
With slaves manning the city's many, many gates, Jon and his armies were able to stride right in. That wasn't to say there wasn't fighting in the streets of the ancient city, there definitely was. But, armed with Valyrian Steel and effectively given a free pass inside, the fighting that did occur was incredibly one sided in favor of the invaders.
By the end of the day, even Old Volantis, that section of the city hidden behind the Black Walls, had fallen to the conspiring house slaves oh so trusted by their beloved Masters. As it turns out, having a god whispering in your ear about who to bring in on the plan and who to leave out made for all the difference in whether you could lead a successful slave uprising or not. Having that same god march in with an army to back up your bid for liberation was merely the icing on the cake.
Pulling his blade free of Benerro's chest and kicking the dying High Priest onto his back, Jon straightens up, standing there in the midst of the Red Temple's largest courtyard, watching as his Unsullied and Dothraki alike put down the last of the Red Zealots who had come to face them for one final, doomed last stand.
… In the end, he hadn't even had to use his dragons. Twice the size they were when he arrived in Valyria, the sheer destructive potential they represented could not be discounted. Which was exactly why he'd left them behind after his plan regarding the Volantene slaves had rapidly showed results.
Casting his senses out, Jon thins his lips and makes his way out of the courtyard, down a hall and then further down still a spiral staircase that went underground. Unlike King's Landing's Famed Black Cells, the Red Temple's prison was not quite so dark and dreary. Oh sure, it was still bereft of sunlight, but the dungeon was nevertheless well lit with open flames, perhaps all the better to hypnotize, entrance, and ensnare their prisoners with.
Jon can feel the magic in those flames, can feel the ever so light touch of another deity. However, when HE looks into the flames, he sees nothing but the back of a fleeing coward, as the Lord of Light runs from his attention, time and time again. Thanks to Balerion and Meraxes' combined essence, Jon was so far beyond R'hllor it wasn't even funny. In fact, something told him that the Lord of Light had not always been a Lord at all. Once upon a time, the vaunted Lord of Light had been little more than a steward to his betters.
It was only in the destruction of Valyria and the slow decay of its gods that upstarts and usurpers such as R'hllor had managed to… make their mark.
Regardless, he eventually arrives at the dungeon cell in question, and with a strike of his sword, breaks open the lock and throws open the door. There, in the depths of the cell, is a woman chained to the wall, a flame put in front of her, ever roaring. As she slowly leans forward, said flame illuminates her badly burned flesh, the sheer abuse that Benerro and his followers had forced upon their captured High Priestess turning Jon's stomach and making him wish he could go back and kill the bastard again.
As it is, he already knew it would be bad. Without hesitating, Jon approaches the burned woman.
"A-Azor Ahai… you've come…"
Smiling, he tosses aside the burning brazier between them, and lets his eyes alight in a glow that provides illumination to the space instead. Gently, he reaches out and caresses one of her charred cheeks, even as his palm begins to glow as well.
"I did, Kinvara. I came for you."
Before his glowing eyes, Kinvara is healed. This is but a small fraction of his power, a paltry use that Jon doesn't mind one bit. Burns like these are honestly quite easy to turn the time back on, and as her flesh restores itself under his divine direction, the deposed High Priestess' beauty is revealed. With her red robes in tatters and shreds, their abuse and torture of her extending all the way down the length of her body, Jon can only watch as her flesh heals all across her half-naked form.
Hair regrows, and her eyes refocus as the haze of constant pain is lifted from them. Her lips, pouty and full where moments before they'd been cinders, part slightly as she breathes in her first clean breath in months.
"You… you have s-such power. The Lord of Light has blessed you mightily, Azor Ahai!"
Shaking his head, Jon offers a sympathetic smile.
"No, Kinvara. This is my own power. R'hllor had no part in it. Whether I'm his Azor Ahai or not… he is not my god and never will be."
The surprise on Kinvara's face would be priceless under better circumstances. Her eyes wide, her lips parted. It's almost amusing… almost. Because he knows what he's doing here, in shattering her misconceptions. He's all but confirming for her that her detractors and naysayers, those that deposed her and put her down here… were right to do so. If she was a true follower of R'hllor, she should have been right alongside them, dying to defend Volantis from him.
Or at least, that's what Jon figures is probably going through her mind right now. In truth, from what he could tell, the 'Lord' of Light was hedging his bets. R'hllor had pitted his followers against each other so that he would hopefully have one side that could follow Jon and influence him if the other side failed to kill him and remove his threat from the board.
Well, fuck R'hllor and fuck his Red Religion. Any society based on slavery wasn't one that Jon felt he could abide by. Which meant he only had one option available to him right now. He was going to have to convert Kinvara around to his way of thinking. He was going to have to make it clear to R'hllor's former High Priestess that she was staying his FORMER High Priestess. If she wanted to worship a god… then she could worship Jon.
Still, he didn't have to be mean about it. Not unless he wanted to be.
Kinvara, the Red Priestess Pt. 2
Jon was a nascent Dragon God. With that came a certain possessive nature to his divinity. The desire to hoard, to take, to own… all of that swirled around him. The desire to conquer too. As such, he really could have gone either way in this moment. But at the same time, as a nascent God, he needed to decide his domains, didn't he?
He wasn't entirely sure how that worked, but something told him it wasn't really a choice he got to make. Instead, his domains were tied into his very sense of self, his actions, his soul. And indeed, there were things that he'd done since leaving Winterfell that made sense for what he could call his domains.
For starters, he'd traveled and traveled, not stopping and settling down anywhere, but instead continuing forward this entire time. Years he'd spent traveling at this point… indeed, in the future one of his titles might even be the Traveler. But there were the other things as well. His courage and unending determination were both evident in the way he'd challenged first Drogo for Daenerys, and then acted decisively to end the threat Viserys posed to him and his khaleesi. There was courage in the way he'd chosen to fight the Dothraki culture, refusing to let it subsume him and instead transforming it into something more tolerable to his sensibilities.
Of course, looking back Jon now knew that it was his divine spark which allowed him to pull off the incredible bullshit that he'd pulled off with the Dothraki. Even just being their messiah figure wouldn't have saved him if he were naught more than a man. But because he WAS more than a man, he'd succeeded in all that he'd set out to do.
That could be another domain, that of Victory and Conquest. He had never lost, never even truly stumbled. His path had been obvious to him from the beginning, and he'd never once stopped moving forward in order to accomplish his goals. And indeed, he'd accomplished every single goal that he set out to accomplish.
But more than all of that, Jon felt that his first and primary domain… it had to be Freedom. Starting with the Dothraki, Jon had freed slaves wherever he'd gone. He'd abolished slavery in Vaes Dothrak and all across the Grass Sea, and then he'd gone on to abolish slavery in a place literally called Slaver's Bay. Freedom… it was something near and dear to Jon's heart, if he had to be honest.
Perhaps that's why he could see it, when he gazed upon Kinvara. The chains of dripping red, lodged in her sense of self, in her soul. You didn't get to be the First Servant of the Lord of Light without taking on some spiritual shackles from what Jon could see. And really… that was more offensive to his sensibilities then anything.
Reaching forward, Jon lays his actual physical palms upon Kinvara's cheeks, causing her to look up at him with teary eyes. The broken High Priestess doesn't seem to know what to do now that her world has come crashing down around her. So Jon helps her out a little bit, and gives the beautiful woman the clarity she deserves.
He could have been swift and ruthless in tearing out those chains of hers, he could have done it quickly and left her soul in tatters for him to reshape in the same way he had reshaped Meraxes. But no, he takes his time and does it right, slowly unhooking each chain from the depths of Kinvara's soul and healing over the gaping wounds left behind in a manner that no doubt causes her pain, but also such sweet relief right alongside it.
She gasps, her mouth hanging open as she stares at him in awe and bewilderment. Jon just continues to smile down at her, even as he does his grisly but so very necessary work. Indeed, R'hllor's hooks don't want to go. The Red God was not looking to give up one of his most devoted servants so easily. But there was no direct interference. Indeed, Jon was beginning to believe fully with all his heart that the Lord of Light was afraid of him. No matter how Jon stretched out his divine senses, R'hllor was nowhere to be found, despite Volantis being the veritable seat of his power.
And so, eventually the task is done and Kinvara is as healed as she can be, while also finally being free. Wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, Jon gives her a gracious smile as she kneels there, gazing up at him in absolute wonder.
"You're free, Kinvara. High Priestess no more, I declare you free of the shackles of the Red God. You are your own woman, to do with yourself as you please."
Mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a bit, it takes Kinvara time to find the words. When she does, she sounds absolutely flabbergasted, but also tentatively joyous.
"I-I had no idea. I didn't think… how could I not have known?"
Shaking his head, Jon sighs.
"R'hllor's claws were deep within you. His hold on his followers is most insidious. No mortal could never have known. You cannot blame yourself."
Latching onto what he said in the middle, Kinvara's eyes light up.
"B-But you knew. You knew and you healed me… you freed me. You… you truly are a God in your own right, aren't you?"
Jon chuckles and inclines his head.
"I am. I am the first God of Valyria this world has seen in over four hundred years. I am of the Dragons, but I am also of Freedom, of Courage and Self-determination, and of Victory. I am Jon Targaryen, I am Jhono, Khal of Khals, and I am a number of other titles and names I have simply not been given yet. Rise Kinvara. Rise and leave this place by my side."
Slowly, the former High Priestess begins to rise to her feet… only to sink back down to her knees. For a moment, Jon thinks she might be weak still, but no, she did so on purpose… so that she could reach for his buckle, for his trousers. While he'd half-expected this, he still affects a certain amount of surprise as he raises an eyebrow at her.
"My dear?"
Blushing, the woman, admittedly young for her position but still older than him, begins to work open his pants and extract his cock from their confines.
"You have given me my freedom. I choose to use it f-for this. I choose to worship as a woman might worship a man… I choose to worship as a priestess might worship her God brought before her in mortal flesh."
Certainly a poignant and almost moving statement… and only slightly ruined by her immediately taking his cock in her mouth a moment later. Letting out a soft chuckle, Jon places a hand atop Kinvara's head and lets her suck his cock. If that's what she wants, he's certainly not going to stop her. After all, the freedom of choice is quite important to him now, even more so than it was before.
Eyes looking up at him, gazing upon his features almost reverently, Kinvara bobs up and down on his cock, sucking and slurping away without fail as she takes him into her mouth and indeed, does her best to worship him with all her heart. With her lips wrapped around his length and her tongue writhing along the underside of his member, it's not long before Jon is letting out a heartfelt groan and cumming right down her throat.
She swallows every last drop, of course, drinking down his seed with her hands clasped in front of her, almost like… almost like she's praying. Jon realizes belatedly that's exactly what she's doing, and he feels a bit of light from her repaired soul as the godly woman repledges herself to him with a religious fervor he has yet to encounter.
… This better not awaken anything in him. He was the God of Freedom or something damnit, not the God of Debauched Worship!
-x-X-x-
Needless to say, the middle of a dungeon wasn't the best place to get a blowjob in the first place, so Jon doesn't let things go any further than that, at least down there. Instead, after she's done swallowing his load, he leads Kinvara up out of the dungeon depths she'd been imprisoned in, and back into Volantis proper. Now under his control, the First Daughter is at his mercy… so Jon does what he does best and goes about setting it's peoples free.
Meanwhile, he has a bone-deep certainty of what he needs to do next, and not even an insatiable priestess is going to stop him from getting ready.
And so Jon gathers his advisors and close loved ones together in the most expensive palace of the city, to talk about finally going to Westeros. That's how they all find themselves gathered around a table, effectively calling a war council, but with Kinvara bent over in front of him, his cock buried in her twat.
Thankfully, everyone seemed to be… very understanding?
Jorio Dyniros very deliberately doesn't look him in the eye as the Braavosi Mercenary Captain clears his throat.
"Your majesty… the latest news from Westeros has arrived."
Inclining his head, Jon gives him his full attention.
"Let's hear it. I'm not going to abide by any further of a wait… I intend for us to head for Westeros next. It's been long enough since I saw my homeland, and I'm sure that the Iron Bank has great hopes for me to finally make good on my obligations."
Chuckling, Captain Dyniros just shrugs, even as the others around the table smile at the self deprecation.
"I wouldn't be so worried about that, Your Grace. The tribute you've sent back to the Iron Bank throughout your… travels across Essos has already made a sizable dent in the debt that is owed to my employers by the Iron Throne."
Jon smirks at that.
"Hm, I suppose conquering multiple cities and then ransacking the remains of Old Valyria would be quite productive and profitable. Imagine that."
"Indeed, Your Majesty. As for the situation in Westeros… now does seem like the best time for you to head over there. Things in the Seven Kingdoms are in dire straits. The War of the Five Kings is long over… but has in turn been replaced by a much colder, calmer conflict, one between Westeros' remaining rulers… all of whom appear to be women."
Jon blinks at that, a little surprised.
"All… women? Truly? How does that work. No, first… what of Robb Stark and the North?"
Here, Dyniros winces, no doubt having been informed of Jon's connection to Robb. Not for the first time, Jon feels a distinct stab of irritation over his inability to gaze upon Westeros proper with his divine senses. He'd tried before, but only been able to get a sense that things had at least died down a bit. Of course, that might be explained by all of the highborn men in Westeros dying… but that was ridiculous, right?
"Unfortunately, King Stark is dead and has been for quite some time. The only solace I can offer you is that those who are said to have had a hand in his murder were all slain as well."
And so Captain Dyniros begins to explain, and Jon learns of such awful events as the Red Wedding, while also hearing joyous tidings in the form of the Purple Wedding. The names weren't exactly inspired, but they were apt, he had to admit. At times, he fucks Kinvara harder and faster, his anger ultimately taken out on her until he can realize what he's doing and calm down again.
His adoring and devoted priestess just takes it though, covering her mouth to avoid moaning too loudly while Captain Dyniros continues to explain. By the time he's done, Jon isn't sure he wants to believe what he's hearing… but he does. Dyniros isn't lying, and while some of the details might be off or out-dated because of how long it takes information to travel, the broad strokes are probably true in most cases.
Indeed, it would appear that most of the noblemen of the Seven Kingdoms have died, either on battlefields in the War of the Five Kings, or falling to treachery, some from within their own houses, some from without.
Robb had died in the Red Wedding and taken much of his army with him. But Jon was gratified to hear that it was Sansa Stark who now ruled as Lady in the North. How she'd done so was a little less exciting to hear… apparently, his sister had grown up a lot since he'd last seen her. The mysterious deaths of Roose Bolton, Ramsay Bolton, and her benefactor Petyr Baelish couldn't be pinned on her, but they had certainly paved the way for her to take power as the only legitimate heir left in not just Winterfell, but the entire fucking North.
Meanwhile, Riverrun and the Eerie were all but headless, babes and children left behind to rule them if they managed to survive all the politics and infighting likely to occur over the next couple decades.
And then there was the Baratheon Dynasty, all but destroyed at this point in time. The rumors that Robert Baratheon's children were not in fact his children, but bastards born of incest, were all but irrelevant by now. King's Landing didn't even have anyone sitting on the Iron Throne at this point… instead, the Faith Militant had rose up soon after the disastrous Purple Wedding and with their High Sparrow leading the charge, had disrupted any attempt by either side to salvage the Lannister-Tyrell alliance.
Tommen Baratheon, the next in line after his brother Joffrey was poisoned at the Purple Wedding, had been assassinated in all the chaos, along with the Lannister men. Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister, and even Tyrion Lannister. All were said to be dead. Cersei Lannister and Myrcella Baratheon were the only two from that House to make it out of King's Landing alive, retreating back to Casterly Rock and holing up there.
Meanwhile, the Tyrell men had suffered a similar fate as the Lannisters, with only Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother Olenna making it out of King's Landing and back to Highgarden. It was said that Lady Margaery Tyrell was now ruling there, though how long her authority would last would likely depend on the grace of her more ambitious subjects, and just how good her grandmother was at keeping her from being toppled unceremoniously.
Of course, Cersei had sent out letters to all the Seven Kingdoms proclaiming Myrcella as the rightful Queen of Westeros… but no one was swallowing that bitter pill, not at this point. Least of all the new Princess of Dorne, Arianne Martell. With the backing of her uncle's bastard daughters, she had apparently deposed her own father and taken control of the country.
If that all wasn't ridiculous enough, there was even a Lady Reaper of Pyke for the first time in living memory. Yara Greyjoy had been beset on all sides by challengers after the death of her father, including her father's brother Euron Greyjoy. However, it was said that the Drowned God must have smiled upon her, because a pitched sea battle between their two forces had ended in Euron's defeat and death.
Finally, there was the weirdest rumors of all. Jon wasn't sure he believed them though, because it seemed almost too fantastical to possibly be true. It was one thing for there to be a King Beyond the Wall, that was fairly common place. It was another thing entirely for there to be rumors of a Wildling Queen ON the Wall, with it being said that the Wildlings had taken the Wall from the Night's Watch and then held it, manning it with what was said to be the greatest movement of Wildlings in centuries, over a hundred thousand strong with more of them joining by the day.
That last one, Jon wasn't sure he believed, though the tales of the Queen On the Wall being 'kissed by fire' and having beautiful blue eyes certainly made the fanciful rumors more appealing. Still, the rest… the rest he believed, despite not really wanting to.
It still all seemed too convenient for words, truth be told. As Jon continues to fuck Kinvara from behind, he can't help but ponder the complete insanity of what he's just been told. There are divine hands at work in this particular pie. Be it the Seven meddling, or R'hllor fucking around, or perhaps even the Shade of Balerion acting in some sort of limited capacity to make things work out the way they had. Hell, it could be all three.
Either way, this was the reality that Jon found himself in. King's Landing was overrun by religious fanatics who would almost certainly wage war against him simply for being who and what he was. Meanwhile, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms were either completely headless at this point, or held by highborn women clutching onto the last scraps of power they had with all they could.
"I would say, Your Grace… that the Seven Kingdoms are decidedly ripe for the taking."
Still fucking Kinvara, Jon inclines his head over at the Braavosi Captain, acknowledging and agreeing with his words.
"You're right, of course. Now… what say all of you? There are many options here… where should I go first?"
Everyone exchanges glances, but ultimately it's Dyniros who clears his throat and gives the first suggestion.
"I would suggest, given your armies and the fleet of ships you can now command, that you make straight for King's Landing. Take the city and the Iron Throne will be yours by both birthright AND conquest. Certainly, the Capital of the Seven Kingdoms must be secured first and foremost."
He's not wrong, but at the same time it's obvious his words are tinged with loyalty to the Iron Bank. In their eyes, King's Landing would be the biggest priority. Jon nods, but looks to Bellegere and Daenerys as well. Daenerys fidgets for a moment before humming thoughtfully.
"I-I remember once upon a time that brother told me about Dorne and how our elder brother was married to a Princess of theirs. I remember Viserys claiming that one day he might marry into their ruling family as well, and use them to retake the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps… perhaps we have allies there and should start in Dorne?"
While it was true that Elia Martell was Rhaegar Targaryen's wife… Jon was the direct result of Rhaegar setting her aside to be able to marry Lyanna Stark. Showing up in Dorne and proclaiming himself the lawful son of that union and direct evidence of Elia's humiliation might not go well. Or, the Dorne might be looking for any good option at this point, and welcome him with open arms anyways.
He would have to deal with them eventually regardless, even if it mean turning his armies and ships in their direction instead of King's Landing.
"Perhaps the North."
Bellegere's answer finally comes and honestly takes Jon by surprise, just a little bit.
"You've lost quite a lot of family while you've been gone Jon. And while you've gained just as much, there's no reason not to try and secure that which remains. Sansa Stark is your cousin, is she not? Perhaps it would be best to go to her first, to make sure her control over the North is secure… and to show her that she has a powerful friend returning from a long and very fruitful journey."
Not a bad idea, he supposed. Sansa… how WOULD she react to him showing up again after all this time? Honestly, Jon wasn't sure how he was supposed to react to HER. If his sister really had become a poisoner… well, she likely had some very good reasons. Regardless, the North was very far away, even compared to the other options. Dorne was the closest, King's Landing a bit further up the Narrow Sea, and then the North and White Harbor were all the way up into the Shivering Sea. It would be a long voyage, to be sure.
"Mm, m-my Lord… if I might i-interject?"
Blinking, Jon looks down to see Kinvara glancing back over her shoulder at him. Nodding his head to her, he watches the beautiful priestess currently impaled on his cock collect her thoughts for a moment before speaking.
"The Gods of Essos fear you. R'hllor flees from your presence even now, despite being the strongest deity in all the Free Cities. But the Gods of Westeros… I suspect they will fight you tooth and nail. While this… Faith Militant in King's Landing must be dealt with, and the Seven put in their place by your August Self, there is also the Iron Islands and their Drowned God to consider. And, I suspect… no one would expect you and your armies to come from the West, would they?"
An unorthodox fourth option, to be sure. And one that would probably not work if he was not divinity made manifest. But with his powers… he could probably get them as far as Oldtown before ransacking the place for a resupply, and then go on to the Iron Islands. Perhaps even stop in Highgarden first to secure the Tyrell position, if he felt like it. And if he did go the route of Oldtown and Highgarden, he could then decide if he wanted to secure Casterly Rock first or head up to Pyke from there as well.
Four options then. Four paths to take. He was homeward bound, that much was certain, but where would he go first? The Seven Kingdoms awaited his arrival. They were sorely wanting for a King. And Jon was ready to give them one.
To the North!
Staring down at the map of Westeros for a moment, Jon lets out a low sigh as he makes his decision.
"You all raise excellent points… but Bellegere is right. I started out on this journey believing myself alone in this world. The instant that I discovered I had family in Essos, I went searching for it."
He looks to Daenerys at that and offers his heavily pregnant khaleesi a smile. Any day now, both Daenerys and Bellegere are likely to give birth, increasing the size of his family even further.
"It was that decision, to go looking for my family, which led me down this path in the first place. That made me the man I am today. Without that choice, who knows where I would be? Who knows WHAT I would be. Given all of that… how can I ignore the other half of my family? How can I ignore those who raised me?"
Nodding decisively, his piece said, Jon points at the map, specifically to the North.
"We make for Winterfell, to reinforce Lady Stark."
Every head in the room bows in subservient agreement with his choice, while Daenerys has a watery smile on her face, clearly remembering how he saved her, how he came for her. Jon suspects he won't have any issues from her corner with his decision. They both understand the value of family, in the end. Bellegere, meanwhile, is also smiling at him indulgently.
With one final grunt, Jon delivers a hot, thick load of his seed into Kinvara's womb. The converted Priestess moans wantonly, shuddering beneath him as she takes his cum without a single ounce of protest. Through his new senses, Jon can tell she'll get pregnant, his seed now… super charged with virility, for lack of a better word.
He can also tell that if he wanted to, he could stop it. But he doesn't want to, and so he doesn't bother stopping it, instead secure in the knowledge that he's knocked the former Red Priestess up right then and there in front of everyone else in the War Room.
The council is adjourned shortly after that, and everyone gets ready for their departure. Even with Jon's new divine might, it's not like it's easy to get ready to move an entire army across an ocean. Things take time, though he's not above using his power to… speed it up a bit. Still, in the end he actually ends up delaying for a few days more when both Daenerys and Bellegere go into labor only a week apart.
The Khal of Khals' first two children are born on a warm day with a blue sky shining overhead. Daenerys gives him a boy, and Bellegere gives him a daughter. When it comes time to name them, Jon honestly isn't too sure at first what to go with. He's half-tempted to give the mothers leave to do the naming, because he's never been very good at naming… well, anything or anyone.
But both Daenerys and Bellegere insist on him being the one to name his two firstborns. It's important, apparently. And so, Jon goes with his heart. His firstborn son is named Ben, the namesake of his favorite Uncle… the Uncle that he actually knew as his Uncle all through his years growing up. If he has too many more boys, he'll probably name one Ned as well, and probably another Rob too, but for now… for now, Eddard Stark's lies are a little too fresh, even at this point.
And so, Ben Targaryen, Prince of the House Targaryen, is brought into this world. Jon is afraid that the name will be too simple a name for a Prince at first, but Daenerys loves it, her entire face shining with happiness once Jon tells her of his decision. Meanwhile, Bellegere's daughter… he can only go with Lyarra. The name of a grandmother that Jon never got to meet, as well as a namesake of the mother he never got to meet either.
He hoped, if either of them were looking down upon him, that Lyanna and Lyarra Stark would be proud. If nothing else, the little she-wolf was quite the howler and quickly grew into her name…
Of course, after naming both children, Jon was gently reminded by the two mothers of his babes of something else he'd put off for far too long. Naming his dragons. He'd had three of them for how long now? And while they'd grown up big and powerful, and were completely obedient to him (especially after his divinity had become manifest) the fact that they were still nameless was a bit of a black mark, wasn't it?
But Jon was already out of creativity, and so he gave the task of naming the three dragons over to Daenerys and Bellegere, refusing to take no for an answer. They would name them, or the dragons would remain nameless!
In the end, he'd gotten the new names of his beautiful winged creatures within a day. For the red and green dragons, Daenerys put forth the names Rhaegal and Viserion, leaving the black dragon to be named by Bellegere, which was fitting considering her former status as the Black Pearl of Braavos. In the end, Bellegere names the large black dragon Balerion come again, and Jon, amused by his own experiences with beings called Balerion, allows it all the same with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand.
And so, the dragons and his babes all have their names. Ben, Lyarra, Rhaegal, Viserion, and Balerion. For Jon, names are… less important, these days. As a God of Dragons and Freedom, he feels people out through their very souls, knowing them more by their essences then by the titles attached to their physical features. None can hide from his gaze behind an assumed name, none can deceive him. He knows everyone down to their very depths and finds it easier to identify them by such things.
But still, Jon well understands the importance of names to mortal men and women, and so leaves it be.
Finally, with the children declared healthy enough for it, they set off. Traveling out of Volantis with hundreds of ships and armies that will likely bring the already weakened Westeros to its knees. Or so Jon hopes.
Truth be told, he's growing somewhat weary of war. It would be easier, if he could simply… take control of the Seven Kingdoms with no further bloodshed. But he doesn't expect it to be that easy. In fact, he knows it won't be. It's going to be hard. It's going to be difficult. But they're going to get it done, one way or another.
-x-X-x-
Of course, traveling from Volantis to Winterfell is not a simple or direct shot. Winterfell was landlocked for one… and Volantis was on the underside of Essos for the other. Given that Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr were all still slave-holding cities and Jon had already resolved to stop his conquest of Essos and move on to Westeros, he refused to stop in any of the three for a resupply.
Instead, they took enough supplies aboard their armada to make their way straight past the three Free Cities, and with a little divine assistance from Jon himself, made their way into the Narrow Sea, not stopping until they reached Pentos. Thanks to him, they didn't lose a single ship, and indeed the other ships in those waters steered well-clear of Jon and his armies, not wanting to turn the massive leviathan that was a Dothraki Naval Force in their direction.
The Dothraki had always been terrifying in an existential sort of way to the inhabitants of the Free Cities, but the sailors of the seas likely never thought they had to worry about such things. And to be fair, they weren't going to be facing down ten thousand Dothraki screamers on an open field any time soon.
Still, the Dothraki reputation for being afraid of the 'poison water' and dreading sea travel was quickly falling to the wayside as Jon forced it to, as he bolstered his warriors and helped prod them along in their training as sailors and seafarers. Indeed, it likely would have been nigh impossible to get a Dothraki Army across the Narrow Sea without what he was doing, but it DEFINITELY would have been impossible for that Dothraki Army to also double as the sailors of dozens of the hundreds of ships that made up the armada.
But thanks to Jon, it was all too possible, and not long before they reached Pentos. The resupply in Pentos was short as the merchant lords of the city happily gave tribute to the first Dothraki Khalasar to ever come in from the bay. After that, it was on to Braavos, where Jon stopped in only to pay his respects to the Iron Bank and the Sealord and explain that he was finally making do on his promise to retake the Iron Throne and begin completing his deal with the Iron Bank.
Luckily, that promise got him out of Braavos just as quickly. Jon wasn't sure he could have handled numerous meetings with bankers for days on end without doing something truly regrettable. It was fine though, they saw in him not just a potential claimant to a throne that owed them money anymore, but a King in his own right… a Conqueror, even.
Jon's exploits gave him nearly as much influence and power as his manifested divinity did, and it wasn't long before the Dragon God found himself arriving back in White Harbor once more, finally back home.
Of course, he'd left White Harbor on a boat to Braavos years before with nothing but his bastard name and a hundred Silver Stags to it. He was returning as a Conquering King. To say that the Northmen weren't thrilled to see him would be an understatement. The looks he's getting as his flagship docks in the harbor and Jon steps off of it, could freeze a man solid.
And yet…
"A-Ah! There you are my boy! There you are!"
And yet, there's Lord Manderly. Jon is surprised to see the portly man has survived all the wars that have plagued the North and indeed the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. But then, after a moment of thought, he's actually not all that surprised at all.
"Lord Manderly. A pleasure."
"Yes, yes! We must… where is the bread? The wine?! Bring it quickly!"
Despite sounding jovial, Lord Manderly's eyes are a bit wide, as if he's afraid… which obviously, he is. Jon can sense it, can feel the undercurrent of tensions throughout White Harbor and indeed the North. Now that he's here, actually on the continent itself, it's become all the clearer that the Seven, the actual Gods and Goddesses themselves, are actively trying to block his senses.
Of course, their power is limited in the North, and so Jon reaches out towards Winterfell… only to pull back once he ascertains that Sansa is in good health and currently in good spirits. He can find out more about her and her condition when he actually sees her in the flesh again. For now…
"I would be happy to sup at your table, Lord Manderly. Me and my armies have come a long way."
"Y-Yes… your armies…"
As wine and bread are produced, Jon bites into the loaf and drinks from the cup. No poison, which is a mark in Manderly's favor. With that, Guest Right is observed, and the Lord of White Harbor visibly relaxes.
"I-I would be happy to host you, uh…"
As he fumbles with what to call Jon at this point, Daenerys steps forward and slides a hand into his before speaking clearly and concisely.
"You stand before Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protect of the Realm. Furthermore, you stand before the Khal of Khals, Breaker of Chains, Father of Freedom, Conqueror of Slaver's Bay, Valyria, and Volantis aside. You stand before the Stallion Who Mounts the World!"
Sheesh, when she lists it all like that, he sounds somewhat pompous, doesn't he? Lord Manderly, meanwhile, has gone deathly white at the revelations inherent in Daenerys' proclamation. The Northmen filling the harbor all look positively gobsmacked as well, like they aren't sure what to think. After a few moments of Lord Manderly trying to find his voice and failing, Jon sighs and shakes his head.
"I'm not here to demand your fealty, my lord."
"Y-You're not?!"
His abject disbelief is rather understandable, but Jon just smiles.
"I'm here to help, Lord Manderly. I've heard what befell the North, and I still very much consider it one of the places closet to my heart. Who owes fealty and loyalty to who can be decided after the North is secured, and will likely be a conversation between me and Sansa, don't you think?"
A look of stark relief spreads across Lord Manderly's face, and from how quickly the pudgy man takes the lifeline Jon is offering, Jon in turn begins to get an idea of just how the Lord of White Harbor survived all of this conflict.
"Y-Yes… yes! Lady Stark will certainly wish to speak with you! I-In Winterfell, more than likely! I, uh… I'm afraid White Harbor doesn't have the accommodations for all of your men however, your uh… Your Grace?"
Nodding, Jon looks back at the massive fleet of ships he's brought with him and smiles.
"Not to worry. My armies are ready for the cold. I've prepared them appropriately. We've also brought with us plenty of supplies, and even some things to trade from Pentos and Braavos."
"Wonderful! Then it would be my honor to host you, Your Grace! A feast in your honor is appropriate, at the very least!"
Unable to hide his amusement over just how… accommodating Lord Manderly now was since he realized Jon would be moving on peacefully soon enough, Jon just nods and lets the Lord of White Harbor begin leading him off the dock and towards his castle.
The feast that takes place that night is rather unlike anything that White Harbor has ever experienced, and certainly unlike anything House Manderly has ever hosted. Jon's Dothraki Lieutenants attend on their best behavior, but their best behavior is still fairly ruckus. Luckily, they have enough of their own women that no Northerner who doesn't want to be included has to fear being… forced. Jon wouldn't have allowed it anyways, and his slow reshaping of the Dothraki into a culture that wasn't so based on rape and slavery has been paying dividends for some time now.
Regardless, more than a few adventurous Northern girls are intrigued enough to leave the Hall on the arm of a Dothraki Lieutenant, and Jon can only hope that his men don't ruin too many cunts. While he'd certainly force the issue if any of White Harbor's maidens wanted to come along after the night was over, it would still be better if they stayed here.
That all said, Jon had felt a certain woman's eyes on him since the feast started and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what was going to come later that evening, once he was in his quarters. It was why he'd ultimately decided to bed down alone, leaving Daenerys and Bellegere and their handmaidens to find warmth in each other's arms.
And so, as Jon laid down in a bed of furs for the first time in a long time, he didn't have to wait long before he felt a certain presence making its way in his direction. Sure enough, his door eventually creaks open, and a nubile young woman slips inside, wearing nothing but a thin nightgown.
The years since they'd last seen each other had been kind enough to Wynafryd Manderly. The girl who'd sucked him off all that time ago has blossomed into a truly beautiful woman, and it makes Jon wonder why she hasn't already been married off. As he sits up and she freezes upon the realization that he's awake and aware and was in fact waiting for her, Jon raises an eyebrow questioningly and smiles.
"Come back for Round Two, Lady Manderly?"
Flushing with embarrassment, Wynafryd nevertheless rallies exceptionally quickly, even offering him a cheeky grin as she bats her eyelashes at him.
"You certainly kept me waiting for your return, Your Grace. And to think, you left a bastard and came back a King. Whatever is a little lady like me to do, if a King wants a piece of me?"
Jon snorts as she purposefully hikes up her nightgown, exposing her long legs and her puffy pussy lips to him. It's obvious what she wants… the only question is, is it what he wants? He could still reject her and make his way to Dany, Bellegere, and the rest for some fun with them instead. Or he could take Wynafryd right here and now. For a one-off? Or to breed and make one of his women?
He did tell Lord Manderly he wasn't here to force anyone to bend the knee… but it didn't look like he'd be forcing Wynafryd to bend anything, if he did want to take her as his own. She was all too willing.
Wynafryd Manderly
Staring at the brunette noblewoman, admiring her pretty face, her cheeky grin, and her pale long legs and exposed nethers, Jon swings his legs off the side of the bed and stands up. Wynafryd's eyes widen a little bit and her breath hitches as he closes in on her, taking the few ponderous steps needed to come upon her.
"You're much larger than I remembered, Your Grace."
Considering he hasn't even taken his cock out yet, that's a bit amusing of her to say. Still, wearing nothing but a pair of pants, Jon's chiseled musculature is on full display… and there's no denying he's done a bit of growing up since they last saw each other. So has she, to be fair. Reaching out casually, he catches hold of one of her tits through her nightgown, giving it a good squeeze and a prolonged grope as her pouty lips part and her breath hitches.
To her credit, she leans forward into his touch, whining a bit.
"I've seen things that would make your head spin, my dear Lady Manderly. I've been out there exploring the world for quite a few years now. Westeros is… so very small compared to the vastness that rests beyond it's shores and I still feel like I haven't seen it all."
Keeping his voice low and husky, deep and seductive, Jon isn't surprised when Wynafryd leans forward, hanging off his every word, her eyes fixated on his lips while her own lips remain parted in delicious need. Leaning forward, he takes a kiss from her. Not stolen, because frankly it's pretty obvious at this point that she's freely offering every bit of herself.
Still, it's best described as a TAKEN kiss all the same, as he pulls her to his chest by his grip on her breast and surges his lips against hers. Wynafryd moans into his mouth, and then yelps when he bites down on her soft, pillowy lower lip, none too gentle with her. When he finally pulls away, she's flushed and her eyes are slightly watery, and it's obvious at a glance that the young noblewoman has lived a life of luxury and decadence, even up here in the North.
But then to be fair to her and her father, having your Keep in the region's only harbor and controlling most of the North's sea trade is always going to produce wealth aplenty. Jon doesn't blame either of them for it, not Wynafryd nor Lord Manderly. They are merely products of their circumstances. The North made hard men and women… but too much gold could produce enough comfort to make soft people of even the hardest individuals.
Still, for all that Jon was even richer, he had faced nothing BUT conflict since leaving the North. Everything had become a battle for him, every action a conquest, every fight a step on the road to his destiny. Now that he was back, it was hard to remember that he was among kinsmen, hard to remember that these should be those closest to him, his would-be allies.
Wynafryd though… Wynafryd wanted him, and he wanted her. At the end of the day, there was nothing else to be done. Their joining was already decided… though he would be magnanimous and be nothing if not entirely truthful with her.
"Earlier… you said I left a bastard and returned a King."
Eyes wide as she stares up at him, the beautiful brunette waif nods her head in acknowledgment. Jon smiles… and lets a bit of his divinity exude from his physical form. His eyes begin to glow, and his presence takes on an unearthly feel and he can see reflected in Wynafryd's eyes a sudden uncomprehending awe of him.
"You were half correct, my dear. I left a bastard… and returned a God."
When she begins to collapse to her knees, Jon catches her. While part of him thinks it might be fun to have her second experience start the same as the first… they already did that last time, didn't they? Besides, the floor is cold, and he doesn't want her to bang her knees. Instead, gathering up the slim Northern girl, Jon turns and lays her down on the bed behind him, climbing on after her.
She whimpers as he covers her with his form easily, his body exuding more than enough heat as she nestles into the furs beneath her. Sliding his hands up under her nightgown, Jon slowly but surely hikes it up and up her body, until she puts her arms above her head in order to let him take it completely off of her.
Once her singular garment is removed, Jon wastes no time in releasing his cock from the confines of his pants, freeing his erection and letting it slap down upon Wynafryd's belly, down betwixt her legs. She looks along the length of her own naked body at his cock and her breath hitches.
"That thing… you're going to ruin me, Your Grace."
Cocking his head to the side, eyes still aglow with light and voice still heavy with power, Jon chuckles.
"And? Did you think you could come to me and give yourself to me and not be claimed, Lady Manderly? Did you think that there was any other way this night could end without you permanently joining my retinue and spending the rest of your days by my side?"
Blushing deeply, the pale brunette averts her gaze, even as a very small smile appears on her puffy, pillowy lips.
"I h-had hoped… but didn't dare to assume…"
Smirking, Jon slides his cock along her nubile body, across her mound, until the head of his member presses against her slit.
"Fret no longer, my dear Wynafryd. Consider yourself claimed."
And then he thrusts forward, his hot, throbbing length searing into her quivering quim and knocking the air from her lungs. Wynafryd's eyes widen, her mouth drops open, and the breath catches on her lips as she silently screams from the sudden penetration. Jon, enjoying the tightness of his newest conquest, can't help but lean forward and capture one of her teats in his mouth at the same time, groping and squeezing her breasts to his heart's content.
He realized now that back when they'd first met, Wynafryd's chest was nothing to write home about. Bigger than Jeyne's maybe, but then he'd gotten to Braavos, and the Black Pearl had rapidly put the young noblewoman to shame. Now though, while Wynafryd STILL didn't stack up, Jon chalked that up to post-pregnancy fat in all the right places. Truly, Wynafryd had blossomed into a beautiful woman… one that he was more than happy to take and make his.
Thrusting into her, Jon is pleasantly surprised when she in turn manages to bring her legs up and wrap them around his waist. Moaning up a storm, Wynafryd clings to him with all four lings, her hands clawing at his rippling back muscles and her ankles locking behind his back. He barely feels it, of course. She is but a mortal woman… and one unused to him at that.
Still, it's certainly very nice, having her as an active participant. Her body rocks beneath him with the force of his thrusts, her inner walls clenching and clinging and squeezing down around his cock. Her breasts are soon reddened, and her nipples made puffy by his focus on them as he goes from one to the other with his mouth, attacking them with a single-minded focus again and again.
As her insides spasm around his thrusting cock, Jon doesn't let up, not even for a second. She should know what she's getting into… even if they both know she'll never back down at this point. For a young woman like Wynafryd to not be married by now… it spoke of the struggles that all of Westeros had suffered rather than any personal faults on Lady Manderly's part, he was more than certain. In a time when the continent hadn't been torn apart by war, she would undoubtedly have been married off by now. The fact that she was not only made it abundantly clear just how bad things were.
Still, the petty Lords of the North's loss was Jon's gain. As he reaches his release, he doesn't hesitate to spill his seed deep inside of Wynafryd, fulling the beautiful, flushed brunette with his cum. He pumps and she moans, her eyes fluttering as she stares up at him, mouth open in awe.
"S-So… so full…"
Chuckling, Jon just nuzzles her neck for a moment before pulling out of her. As he collapses onto his back on the bed however, he makes sure to take Wynafryd with him, ultimately resulting in her laid out across his broad chest. As she nuzzles in, Jon wraps his arms around her, holding her close and letting her bask in the warmth of both their coupling and his own natural warmth.
"Welcome to the family, Wynafryd."
"T-Thank you, Your Grace…"
-x-X-x-
There was no denying what had happened, and to say Lord Wyman Manderly seemed unsure about what to do about it all would have been the understatement of the century. Torn between horrified and pleased, that was the Lord of White Harbor's attitude toward the whole affair. He was intent on not upsetting Jon, but at the same time was doing a poor job of hiding how upset he was at Jon taking his daughter in such a fashion.
In the end, Jon helped things a lot a bit. Part of his divinity was based in Freedom, as it were. And so, letting that piece of divinity run wild, he'd made sure that Lord Manderly focused on his love for his daughter… and his desire to give Wynafryd the freedom to choose. When the young Lady Manderly made it abundantly clear that she was happy at Jon's side and wanted to be the King's latest concubine, Lord Manderly had been much more content with things, coming to accept it with his usual amiable attitude.
A week later, and they were leaving White Harbor behind. Not all of Jon's armies, of course. Considering the size of his fleet and his forces, there was just no way to take them all with him to Winterfell. Instead, Jon took a good portion of his men and Lord Manderly was gracious enough to send a few soldiers as well, more than likely because Jon now had the man's daughter traveling by his side.
It was fine though, as far as Jon was concerned, he wasn't expecting any battles. The North had suffered enough in the time he'd been gone, and Winterfell would always hold a special place in his heart… as would its Lady, Sansa Stark. Jon could only imagine the horrors that Sansa had suffered while he was gone. The fire-haired girl he'd left behind could not be anything BUT a young woman forged in hell at this point.
Of course, Jon also wondered exactly where Arya had gone. He'd heard nothing about the majority of his no-longer siblings save for that most were missing, and of course Robb was dead. All in all, it was with a heavy heart that Jon found himself cresting the hill and coming down upon Winterfell. The Seat of the Starks looked like it'd seen better days… but also like it was more prepared for war than ever before.
Fortunately, Lord Manderly's men, and indeed Lady Wynafryd herself, were on hand to smooth things over. Jon's forces were made up of mostly foreign people after all, and Jon himself had been gone a long time. Still, all is well, all is fine… and the gates are opened before him. As he strides into Winterfell, Jon finds himself face to face with Sansa Stark after far too long, a smile on his face even though there is none on hers.
Looking as if she has ice in her very veins, Sansa stands with her hands clasped together so tightly in front of her that the knuckles on her fingers are white. Her lips are thinned out… and yet, she looks so incredibly beautiful. Clad in a fine fur dress that gives her the appearance of a military general about to go to war, she looks… she looks more like a She-Wolf than she ever did when he knew her previously.
"Sansa…"
His smile and soft tone don't seem to really loosen her up very much, even as she gestures to the side and a man comes forward with bread and salt.
"Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell."
Jon wastes no time in taking the bread, swiping it with salt, and taking a bite to make sure Guest Right is observed as he chuckles, eyes dancing merrily.
"I see my reputation precedes me, hm? But please, out of everyone, you know you don't have to call me that. It's still me. I'm still Jon."
He can see it in her eyes… she wants to believe him, truly she does. But she's been hurt too many times before. She's been burnt too many times before. She's afraid of him, afraid of what he might represent. And that fear turns into anger as she lashes out at him, showing a sharper tongue than the Sansa he once knew was ever truly capable of.
"Are you? Are you truly? Or are you Khal Jhono, Khal of Khals and ruler of the Dothraki?"
Her tone is tight but betrays none of her fear or nervousness, only showing her irritation and hostility towards him and his. Except… Jon is pretty sure she's not truly hostile towards him. Sansa might have been a bit of a brat back in the day, but this… this wasn't like that. This was an obvious act, one designed to maintain her incredibly high guard at all times. She was keeping him at arm's length in case he turned out to be another monster.
Because of his divinity, Jon could see it upon her. He could see the scars not just on Sansa's physical form, but on her soul. The pain she'd suffered in his absence had been immense, clearly.
"Or perhaps I should call you the Last Targaryen? One wonders why you are here and not down South, fighting over that damnable throne. Unless you think to muster the North to help you take the South. I suppose it is my duty to inform you that we are in no position to turn our eyes away from our own enemies to our North. Not that you would know anything about that."
Frowning, Jon reaches out and grabs Sansa by the shoulders as gently but firmly as he can.
"Sansa… I know as much as I possibly can, but I would love to know more if you would but tell me. Perhaps… perhaps this is a conversation that should take place in private."
She trembles in his grasp, not quite shaking, but Jon can SEE how badly she wants to simply collapse forward into his arms and sob into his chest. That she doesn't speaks to the iron will she seems to have developed since they last saw one another. Still, the ball was in her court now. Private or public? Where exactly did she want to have this conversation?
Sansa Stark Pt. 1
Finally, Sansa's shoulder slump and she lets out a very soft breath. Pulling herself from his grasp, she nevertheless tilts her head in agreement.
"Indeed, Your Grace. Let us retire inside."
And with that, they make their way indoors. Jon's retinue split off, for the most part, but when Daenerys moves to step away as well, Jon catches her hand in his own and tugs her to his side, bringing her with him as they follow Sansa to her father's old office, which from the look of things, has become the Lady of Winterfell's War Room.
Admittedly, Jon is almost glad to be a god as he steps back into the office. The last time he'd been here, Eddard Stark had been telling him that he wasn't going to be allowed to stay. That his actions with Jeyne Poole were enough to get him thrown out on the basis of Catelyn Stark's dislike of him alone. Now… now both the previous Lord and Lady Stark were dead, one killed down in King's Landing and the other slain at the Twins alongside her eldest son.
As much as Jon disliked Catelyn Stark for disliking him in turn for no other reason that she thought he was her husband's bastard, he could acknowledge that she hadn't deserved to die like she had. Robb definitely hadn't deserved to die like that.
Regardless, leaning into his divinity allows Jon to… accept the return to this room with more aplomb than he otherwise would have. So much had changed, not just in the time that he'd been away, but also in the room itself. And the people who were now in it… they'd changed too. He, Daenerys, and Sansa… none of the three of them were anything like they once were, all that time ago.
When Sansa turns to regard him and sees he's brought along Daenerys, Jon preempts any caustic words on the part of the red head by stepping forward and introducing the two women.
"Sansa, this is Daenerys… mother of my firstborn, and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
Stiffening up, Sansa's nostrils flare as she bows her head respectfully towards Daenerys.
"A pleasure, Your Grace."
And then she looks to him and her lips thin.
"However… I must correct you on one matter. There is another child. A Snow."
Jon jolts, blinking as he finds himself caught off guard for the first time since becoming divinity made manifest. He didn't… no, he did know. He just hadn't thought about it. Hadn't realized. A foolish oversight on his part, but, well, he hadn't felt her…
"Jeyne…"
… And he still didn't feel her. Sansa bows her head and swallows thickly, nodding.
"I've raised her daughter as a member of the household. Jeyne… Jeyne didn't survive the Boltons and their depravations, but I kept her daughter safe. I kept YOUR daughter safe. She's seen a few years now…"
Sansa trails off, and from the way her eyes dart to Daenerys, she's clearly wondering how his Queen will react to all of this. Jon wonders as well for all of a moment before knowing as easily as breathing. Daenerys is no Catelyn Stark. Reaching out to him, hugging his arm, the Targaryen woman smiles.
"Oh, but that's wonderful. We must be allowed to meet her. And… if it's alright, we should take her in, don't you think Jon?"
The woman who had pushed for him to impregnate all of his concubines after finding out that Bellegere was doing everything in her power to avoid stepping on her toes wouldn't care that Jon had had a child long before he'd met her. Of course, this completely surprises Sansa, catching her off guard as she blinks owlishly. Jon just smiles and shrugs when she looks to him for confirmation.
"Natural born children are treated very differently in Essos than they are Westeros. We'll most definitely want to take the girl with us whenever we end up leaving… but first, I'm here to help Sansa. Please, tell me of your woes. You mentioned enemies to the North?"
Once again, the cracks in the red head he'd grown up with shine through. Sansa Stark has grown from a fragile and altogether soft girl into a hard, very brittle woman. She juts out her chin and does her best to hide the wobble of her lower lip, even as she slowly lowers herself into a chair and nods, clutching at the edge of her father's desk, which even with her impressive fur dress, feels too big for her.
"Yes."
Her tone is clipped but betrays a tenor of nervousness… of want and desire, and of clear jealousy and envy. She hides it well, but Jon is who he is. He is WHAT he is too. He sees through her, even as Sansa begins to explain.
"The North… the North is weaker than it's ever been before. We've suffered greatly in the time that you've been gallivanting across Essos, Jon."
Daenerys doesn't like that, he can tell, but Jon places a hand on the small of his Queen's back and sends her calming, soothing sensations to settle her down before Sansa can notice.
"I've heard some of what's happened in Westeros, and some of what's happened to the North and to you. But not all of it. Still, I'm sorry you had to suffer, Sansa."
Jaw set, nostrils flaring, Sansa trembles for just a moment before catching herself.
"The Boltons thought they'd won. But the North never forgets. And a lone wolf backed into a corner will always strike out. I killed them, Jon. I killed them all. Poison."
Daenerys gasps, but Jon is just nodding along, having already suspected as much. Sansa Stark had taken back her agency. The Lady of Winterfell had risen. Her bid for freedom, even through an underhanded tactic like poison, still resonated with him deeply. He was, after all, a God of Freedom above all else.
"You did what had to be done, Sansa. The Boltons and Freys tried to decapitate our family. So, you did the same to theirs in turn. An eye for an eye."
Sansa jerks her head up and down in a nod, even as she works her jaw.
"I just wish I could have taken revenge on the Freys as well. For mother, for Robb. But like I said, the North is weak enough as it is… and I fear that we will be conquered any day now and there will be nothing I can do to… to stop it."
Her voice hitches and takes on a wobbly tone as she professes some truth to him, letting her guard down even if just a little. Jon resists the urge to stride forward and take her in his arms right then and there, knowing she would not respond well. She has to come to him for this to work. Still, Jon lets his face soften, lets his eyes fill with sympathy.
"You have a heavy weight on your shoulders, Sansa. From what I can tell, you've been carrying it well if nothing else."
That gets the first smile from the icy Lady of Winterfell that he's seen since he arrived. It's a small thing, and gone as quickly as it comes, but it's a smile all the same.
"Thank you. And with your arrival… perhaps we're saved."
She shrugs her shoulders, acting almost unconcerned as she leans back in their father's old chair. She looks at him expectantly, as if she thinks he's going to immediately shoot her down, that he's going to deny her what she needs. She's so very ready to be proven a fool again, so ready to be betrayed and backstabbed once more. But Jon just steps forward and nods, standing before their father's desk.
"I won't let any more harm come to you or the North, Sansa. You have my word."
So prepared for rejection, so ready for betrayal, Sansa Stark looks shocked speechless at his heartfelt declaration of intent. As she stares at him, surprised, Daenerys steps up beside him and gives her own two coppers.
"Jon has never let anything stand between him and doing the right there before, Sansa. I'm sure you know him fairly well, but you should know… he cut across the coast of Essos to save me from a pair of monsters, one of which was a savage warlord and the other my own brother. He then took on the whole of Essos over its institutionalized slavery, before plumbing the depths of Valyria itself. He is… capable of so much. You don't have to worry anymore, now that he's here."
Looking between them, it's clear Sansa doesn't even know what to say in the face of… well, all of that. Giving her an encouraging smile, Jon gently coaxes more out of her.
"What is the threat to the North, Sansa? The Wildlings?"
Jerking her head up and down, she lets out a low shuddering breath before finally speaking again.
"The Free Folk, or so they're demanding we call them. And truth be told, we can't exactly gainsay them at this point. They hold the Wall, every last bit of it. The Night's Watch is defunct as far as we can tell, with every brother either dead or turncoat. Our scouts say that the Free Folk occupying the wall number in the tens of thousands… there might be over a hundred thousand of them. And though the vast majority seem intent on fortifying the Wall for some reason, there has been plenty of spillage, raids on lands as far south as Last Hearth."
As she speaks, she leans forward again, tapping the map of the North that lays out on their father's death at the appropriate places when she mentions them. Jon stares down at it, forced to believe her. Not just because he trusts Sansa wholeheartedly, but because reaching out… he can feel them.
A hundred thousand isn't a bad estimate. All those little lights, many of them packed onto the Wall all along it, while at the same time spilling into the North with some even settling on the Gift in the meantime. Its even easier to see all those little lights with his divine senses because beyond them… beyond them is nothing but Darkness.
"… You said they're demanding that you call them Free Folk. Does that mean you've been in contact with them? Non-violent contact?"
Nodding again, Sansa sighs.
"Yes, they sent… envoys. As embarrassing as it is, they were the ones who told us that the Wall had fallen to them in the first place. With how weak the North has become, with how in disarray everything is, we likely wouldn't have known until they were right on top of us, if they had wanted to invade. But I can only imagine they're holding off to shore up their food stores before marching on us. Or whatever it is they do. I can't imagine they'll be happy with just the Wall, not when they can have all of that and more."
Frowning, staring down at the map with his actual eyes while peering North with his divine senses, Jon… shivers.
"What have they said about their intentions? Why did they take the Wall in the first place? Why do they fortify it?"
Groaning, Sansa rests a hand on her face.
"They're claiming that they're running from something. That the dead rise again, if you can believe it. Obviously, it's all lies. They're trying to lull us into a false sense of security, I imagine. Not that it's even all that necessary, given how much has been lost to the wars in the South at this point. The North is theirs for the taking whenever they finally decide they want it. We'll fight, of course, but… well, until you arrived, I didn't have much hope."
Jon nods slowly, taking all of this in. Both Sansa's information… and the information he was now privy to that she wasn't.
"… Indeed. My armies should present a bulwark against further Free Folk aggression. I can start moving them into position in the coming weeks, and once we've fortified Last Hearth, we can push onto the Gift. However, it might be a good idea to hear the Free Folk out. If it is a lie, it's an outlandish one. But if it's true…"
Sansa scoffs at that, abruptly standing from her father's chair and crossing her arms over her chest as she looks away.
"Really? You're seriously entertaining the thought that the dead might be pushing the Free Folk down past the Wall?"
Daenerys speaks up here, her tone soft and comforting.
"Sansa… Jon and I have seen much in our time on Essos… Jon more than me. He is not the same man you last met. He is… not a man at all anymore."
Before Sansa can respond to his Queen's confession, Jon proves it. He unveils a bit of his divinity, letting Sansa gaze upon a fraction of his True Self for half a moment before cutting it off again. His eyes glow with power, the room flashes with light… and then it's gone. He's half-expecting some sort of reaction from Westeros' Gods, expecting the Seven to do something… but they remain as silent as they have since he showed up on their home turf.
Despite them blocking his gaze when he was back on Essos, now that he's actually entered their realm, they're suspiciously silent. Almost like the Red God back on Essos, hiding from him out of fear or something. Only, they should be much more powerful as a Pantheon then a single god, so what do they have to fear of just Jon?
Regardless, Sansa DOES react, her eyes widening as she slams back into the nearest wall, awestruck by the half-second view of his true self. Finally, the steely, icy red head shatters, choking sobs of emotion that could be positive or negative as she holds a hand to her mouth and gazes upon him as if seeing him in truth for the first time.
Jon offers her his arms… and Sansa all but leaps into them, crashing into his chest with great force as the Lady of Winterfell finally allows herself to break down. Jon smiles and holds her, comforting her even as she sobs into his chest, as she clings to him for the warmth and comfort that he is most able to provide.
However, he's taken off guard a bit when her emotions suddenly take a turn. He sees it coming at least, but he's still somewhat surprised when she suddenly pulls back from him, looks him in the eye… and then kisses him on the lips with amorous intent. Sansa Stark's lips are soft and a bit salty from her tears, even as she plies his mouth with her own.
Daenerys is watching of course, but her smile makes it clear she's perfectly okay with this… supportive of it even. Meanwhile, Jon is just now realizing how badly Sansa wants him, indeed, how badly she has wanted him. This… this goes back to Jeyne, doesn't it? When Sansa witnessed the two of them together, her first instinct might have been to tell her mother… but afterwards, it was clear that the sight had affected her deeply.
Jon could give her what she wants. He could give her what she so desperately desires. But would it be what she needed? And… if he was going to give her this, would he do it with or without Daenerys' help? One thing was for certain… Sansa needed him; he just wasn't sure how to make sure they all came out of this intact.
Sansa Stark Pt. 2
After a moment of consideration, Jon leans into kissing Sansa Stark. The She-Wolf startles at first, as if she wasn't expecting such easy acceptance and reciprocation. But as soon as she has it, she turns ravenous. The red head is sexually aggressive in a way Jon never would have expected from her. He can see the wounds on her soul after all, the scars left behind by her experiences during their time apart.
In spite of them, but also in part because of them, Sansa doesn't seem inclined to take things slow. She devours his mouth with her own, and when he returns the favor, she lets out a muffled, wanton moan into his lips, her body still pressed against his from the initial seemingly platonic hug as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in close, simply holding her to his chest.
This is no longer that first platonic hug, no longer him trying to comfort the Lady of Winterfell as she finally allowed her to break down. Now, the two of them are engaged in a Lover's Embrace, all of Sansa's cards out on the table. What she wants from him could not be more obvious at this point, especially when her hands, which start out clutching at his chest, slowly begin to dip down lower.
Its then that Jon has Sansa stop, catching her wrists and finally disengaging from their shared lip lock. Because as much as he's happy to do this with her, they can't just get straight into it. He'll give her what she wants… but on his terms. Always on his terms. Sansa looks crestfallen for a moment that he's stopping her, but when she tries to pull further away, Jon holds her fast, shaking his head.
"I'm not rejecting you, Sansa. But if we're going to do this, you should be aware that you cannot replace any of the others… just as they would not be able to replace you."
Right on cue, Daenerys steps up behind the red haired Lady of Winterfell and slides her hands along Sansa's shoulders. Jolting, Sansa looks back at the beautiful Targaryen Queen and blushes at what she sees. In the time that he and her have been making out, Daenerys has not been idle. Stripping down to nothing, the Dragon Queen is quite beautiful right now, ethereal almost in her nudity. She should be freezing, even here in doors. It's the North, after all. But she's not shivering as she runs her hands along Sansa's body and begins to help her out of her furs. She's smiling, even as her naked form radiates a heat that only a dragon could radiate.
"I would be happy to call you my sister, Sansa. I would be happy to share my King with you. Is that what you want? For us to pleasure Jon together? Because it's what I want as well."
Jon can't help but smile fondly at seeing how far Daenerys has come. He'd always known there was more to his khaleesi then just a scared young maiden he'd saved from Khal Drogo and her brother, but at the same time, he'd had concerns that his actions would keep her true strength from ever blossoming. Thankfully, she'd proven him wrong on that count, time and time again.
This time was no different. Sansa was effectively finding herself browbeaten by kindness as Daenerys effectively ran over her to bring them closer together. In short order, the two women are kneeling before him together, and Daenerys is walking a now-naked Sansa through pulling his cock out of its confines. His length, by the time it flops out, is already quite hard.
Sansa's breath hitches and her eyes go crossed trying to stare down the barrel of his pillar of cock meat. She licks her lips, even as Daenerys whispers sweet nothings in her ear, running one hand along Sansa's breasts and the other up to his cock, taking hold of it and angling it properly between them. Soon enough, the two beautiful dames are on either side of his dick as it rises to its full length, pointing out straight, throbbing and pulsating with need.
Staring into one another's eyes, the Lady of Winterfell and Mother of Dragons begin to lick and kiss at either side of his shaft, with Daenerys walking Sansa along, acting the part of the older sister-wife and helping her junior through the first steps of submission towards their would-be husband. He and Sansa weren't married yet, but at this point, given what he knew and could feel, it was clearly only a matter of time.
Jon just watches on, a hand resting on the back of either woman's head as they work over his shaft with their tongues and lips, while also kissing one another around his cockhead more than once. He doesn't take control… he lets them do as they please for now, knowing it'll be time for him to act soon enough. As he runs his fingers through their hair, Sansa begins to grow surer of herself, more certain of what she can get away with.
As such, Daenerys is caught slightly off guard when the red head suddenly reaches up and reciprocates. This entire time, Dany has been playing with Sansa's tits, massaging her breasts and pinching her nipples. All of the sudden, Sansa is doing the same with Daenerys' still-heavy, milk-laden, post-pregnancy tits. As they begin to lactate, leaking milk all over Sansa's fingers, Daenerys moans into Jon's cock, her mewling cries reverberating through his shaft.
In retaliation, the Targaryen woman begins to play with Sansa's tits much more viciously as well, and soon enough the Lady of Winterfell is moaning just as wantonly along his dick. Their hot breath ghosts up and down his shaft right alongside their tongues and mouths, and in the end, Jon simply can't hold back any longer.
Groaning loudly, tilting his head back as he makes his enjoyment clear, Jon can feel his impending release… and Daenerys, who knows him so well, can as well. If she wanted to, the Mother of Dragons could have hoodwinked Sansa out of it all, because the red head is completely unaware of the eruption that's about to happen. But, rather than take it all for herself like Jon KNOWS she wants to, the gorgeous Targaryen grabs Sansa and pulls her back in front of his cock as she too moves into position.
The result is the two beautiful women on their knees before him, pressed together at the sides, their tits smooshed together, and their cheeks smooshed together as well. Realizing belatedly what's about to happen, Sansa only manages to mimic Daenerys at the last second, tilting her head back and lolling out her tongue in a mirror of what the other gorgeous woman has done.
The look of anticipation on their flushed, aroused faces is more than enough to put Jon the rest of the way over the edge, and with a loud groan, he proceeds to cum, spraying his seed all across their beautiful, pristine features. Blemish free, pale skin is suddenly coated in hot, sticky, viscous white substance as Jon lets out all over their faces.
Sansa flinches back of course, having not been expecting it, or rather, perhaps having not been expecting quite so much. But Daenerys has a firm hold of her, and after exulting in the coating of seed he's deposited on her face for a moment, the Dragon Queen turns and attacks Sansa with her mouth, licking her clean and kissing her heatedly.
While the Lady of Winterfell freezes up at first from suddenly engaging in a passionate, sloppy makeout session with another woman, she soon gets into it, and seems to be greatly enjoying herself. Meanwhile, Daenerys is still leading, still teaching, though whether Sansa realizes it or not is up in the air.
Watching the two beautiful women clean each other off with their tongues and mouths is certainly a treat though, and by the time they're finished, his cock is ready for Round Two and so is Jon. Meeting Dany's eyes for a moment, he's glad to see that she has no misconceptions about what's to happen next. In fact, she helps him get Sansa up into position, helping the Lady of Winterfell to her feet and over to her father's desk, now her desk.
Jon follows after them, even as Daenerys proceeds to bend Sansa over the desk, her breasts and face smooshed into the wooden surface, her hips lifted into the air by Daenerys' hands, and her thighs spread apart as well by the Mother of Dragons' fingers. Showing off Sansa's glistening pussy to him, Daenerys smirks.
"She's ready for you, Your Majesty. Isn't that right, my Lady?"
Looking back over her shoulder at him, Sansa looks uniquely vulnerable in that moment. Her fragility shines through the cracks in her soul, but along with that frailness comes a bright, bursting hope that only Jon's nascent godhood allows him to sense. She's so, so beautiful in this moment, so much more than the sum of her parts, so much more than just her trauma.
Trembling, Sansa bites her lower lip before ultimately nodding.
"Y-Yes. I'm ready, Your Grace…"
Taking hold of her hips from Daenerys, Jon favors Sansa with a kind, warm smile.
"I'll always be Jon to you, Sansa."
She blushes and smiles right back.
"Then please, Jon… take me."
He's inside of her a moment later, plunging into her depths and filling her with his cock. She's so damn wet, but also incredibly tight. It's been sometime since she had a man in her, and her last sexual experiences were, from what Jon understands, not of her choosing. Well, this time she's the one who initiated, she's the one who wanted this to happen.
And so, Jon fucks the Lady of Winterfell over her father's old desk and Sansa cries out, moaning as her inner walls clench around his cock, her pussy squirting along his length. She shudders and spasms, her blemish-free back muscles rippling as she takes him inside of her again and again, her ass cheeks bouncing and jiggling with each thrust.
The North will make or break you, and Sansa has certainly become quite the She Wolf in their time apart… but she's still a somewhat soft noblewoman, at least in physicality, and her body welcomes him as a noblewoman's body should welcome her King. The Lady of Winterfell takes her King's cock to the hilt, crying out and moaning wantonly all the while.
Daenerys, of course, is not to be forgotten. While his Dragon Queen was all too happy to cede the first round of actual sex to Sansa, given she could tell how badly the red head needed this, that doesn't mean Daenerys isn't going to demand some… reparations in response. Walking around to the other side of the desk, the naked, recently pregnant Targaryen gets into position… and plants a foot on the chair on that side of the desk, exposing herself to Sansa right in front of her face.
Grabbing Sansa by her long red braid, she proceeds to thrust her mound into the Lady of Winterfell's face. Sansa lets out a muffled squawk at first, but Dany just smiles as she uses her other hand to play with one of her own tits, pinching the nipple between her fingers.
"Its time for you to properly thank me for all of my help, my Lady. I'm sure you don't mind~"
Judging by the way Daenerys' face contorts in pleasure a moment later, Sansa has decided she does not in fact mind. Jon chuckles, even as Daenerys moans, clearly taken slightly aback by Sansa's sudden enthusiasm for carpet munching. For his part, he keeps fucking the Lady of Winterfell from behind. Sansa Stark deserves all that he can give her and more, and this, at least, is a good solid start.
Knowing what he knows now, would he have come back to Westeros earlier, if only to be able to ease Sansa's suffering and sense of loneliness? Unfortunately, probably not. Everything he'd done in Essos had led him to what he had now. Everything that had taken place during his time in Essos had taken place for a reason. He wouldn't be who he was, if he hadn't stayed on the other continent for as long as he did.
That didn't mean he couldn't regret what happened to Sansa in his absence. And it didn't mean he couldn't make it up to the Lady of Winterfell, for all she suffered. That started with bringing her to multiple orgasms, something Jon does as he fucks her over her father's desk to completion again and again before ever reaching his own release.
Finally, though, he thrusts forward for the first time, and cums inside of Sansa. He can tell its what she wants… its what she's wanted since she walked in on him and Jeyne Poole all those years ago. She just didn't understand then, and Jon… Jon forgives her for that. He forgave her a long time ago.
As they finish things up, there are no words spoken. There's some heavy breathing from Sansa and Daenerys both, even as they follow Jon to a bed. When the evening comes to a close with them curled into his sides, resting against him, he lets himself drift off to sleep with a smile on his face, content that his return to Westeros has gotten off to an excellent start.
-x-X-x-
Of course, in the morning, Jon finds himself once again at a crossroads. As he, Daenerys, and Sansa get up, get dressed, and make their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, he knows he has a decision to make. As much as he might wish to… he cannot go South right now, not to any of the half dozen places he needs to eventually conquer if he's going to be King of the Seven Kingdoms.
No, the true danger is up North. He can feel that, his newly awakened divinity is pushing him in that direction, and he's fairly convinced that the threat is NOT in fact the Wildlings that now occupy the Wall. There's some truth to their claims that they're running from something, and Jon and his armies, as well as his dragons, will be needed when the time comes.
That said, that doesn't mean he needs to rush off to the Wall right away. Now that he's here, back in Winterfell after so long, Jon is feeling both nostalgic… and somewhat anxious. So many good memories here… but also so many bad ones as well. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. Did he want to stay here in Winterfell for a little while long, shoring up defenses and reacquainting himself with the people of the North and the Lady of Winterfell a bit more?
Or should he head to the Wall right away, to browbeat the Wildlings into submission with his armies and dragons, and find out just what they were dealing with in the True North?
Stay or go? Stay or go…
The North
In the end, Jon chooses to stay. It's the right call to make. He's just been going, going, going for so long now. He's been pushing forward at all costs. Even after venturing into the heart of Valyria and finding out the truth about himself, he'd just kept going. So yeah… it was time to take a moment to smell the roses.
But regardless, after making his intentions to stay in Winterfell for a while longer before venturing North clear, Jon finds himself meeting a very young girl with familiar hair and familiar eyes.
"I… I named her Jyene, after her mother. But I suppose she's still young enough… you could give her another name… i-if you wanted."
Its just Jon, Sansa, and young Jyene Snow in their father's study this time. Daenerys is elsewhere, helping to manage his household as more and more of it arrives in Winterfell by the day along with his armies.
Staring down at the cherub-like face before him, Jon can't help but smile.
"No… Jyene is just fine."
Much like her mother, Jyene had brown eyes and dark hair. She was very Northern in that way, and just like Jon, her Targaryen blood had not won out. It was wild to think that just as he was half Targaryen, Jyene was a quarter Targaryen. In that way, the North had had its due, taking its revenge on the Targaryen Dynasty. Both he and his firstborn were as Northern in looks as they came.
Reaching out slowly, hesitantly, to avoid startling the young girl, Jon gives her a soft, kind smile.
"Hello there, young one. My name is Jon… and I am your father."
He leaves off his other names and all of his titles. This isn't some court announcement or anything like that. This is a man finally meeting the daughter of the woman he impregnated. While it wasn't Jon's fault that he had to leave… he still feels some guilt at Jeyne's loss. She didn't deserve to burn out as quickly as she did. She should have had a long, happy life ahead of her.
If only he'd known what state he would be leaving her behind in, perhaps he would have fought harder to stay. Perhaps he would have even chosen differently. But then… none of the things that had happened would have happened. All of the suffering he'd managed to prevent in Essos would have continued on in his absence. He never would have discovered his divinity, or at least it wouldn't have been in the same way.
As young Jyene slowly, hesitantly reaches out and places her small hand in his own, Jon is forced to acknowledge that Jeyne Poole's life and death were not his to command. And all he could do to atone for his part in any suffering she might have experienced, was to be there for the girl she'd left behind.
"M-Mama talks about you a lot…"
Blinking at the way the girl says that, Jon looks to Sansa in confusion, only to see the Lady of Winterfell blushing in embarrassment.
"She… she calls me Mama. Jeyne died when she was little more than a toddler. I'm… I'm the only mother she's ever known."
What Sansa is leaving unsaid, that she's not disabused Jyene of the notion, that she's acted in the exact opposite manner of her own mother in this regard by choosing to accept Jyene as a surrogate daughter… Jon doesn't miss it. The smile he gives Sansa Stark is blindingly bright, even as he reaches out and takes her hand in his as well, making her fidget and squirm shyly.
"Thank you, Sansa. Thank you for being there for her when I could not. And… I think I speak for both myself and Jeyne when I say… she couldn't ask for a better mother."
Sansa's breath hitches, and her free hand goes up to her chest as if to still her pounding heart. Jon just gives the hand he's holding one last comforting squeeze, before turning back to Jyene. He notices the way those brown eyes of hers dart back and forth between him and her 'mama', and sees an intelligence in them as she looks at him assessingly for a moment before seemingly finding him to her satisfaction. A broad smile that's decidedly a mix of both his and Jeyne's smiles spreads across the little girl's face, showing off rows of pretty white teeth as she beams up at him.
Jon's heart fills with a sensation of pure and utter bliss, and in that moment he's not even truly divine anymore. He's just a man… a man with his daughter and her could-have-been mother. Taking both of Jyene's hands in his own, Jon licks his lips.
"Would you tell me? Would you tell me more about the things you and your Mama have done together?"
As Jyene excitedly nods and begins to babble, Jon listens intently. It was a tragedy that Jyene had never gotten to know Jeyne as her mother, because Jon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jeyne had no doubt loved her daughter with all her heart. But at least the little girl had him and Sansa… and she would soon be part of an even larger family as well. The others, Daenerys and Bellegere chief among them, would dote on her unquestioningly. Of that, Jon had no doubt. Jyene, regardless of what her last name ended up being, would grow up loved and cherished, surrounded by family.
For her and for the rest of his children, Jon would set this world to rights. He would fix the broken mess that was Westeros, and he would figure out how to stop the threat he sensed to the North. One way or another… Jon wouldn't let anyone, or anything hurt his loved ones ever again.
-x-X-x-
After a long morning spent being regaled with the exploits of young Jyene and a slightly embarrassed but also fondly smiling Lady Stark, Jon finds himself making his way to Winterfell's Godswood. Specifically, he winds his way through the three acres of forest to find the Godswood's Weirwood Heart Tree.
Even after all of the trouble that Winterfell had suffered in its absence, even after changing hands what feels like three or four times… the Godswood at least, was still intact. That was good, because Jon… Jon needed answers.
He wasn't all-knowing. He didn't automatically understand everything happening around him. There were limits, even to divinity it seemed. But he'd had an epiphany, overnight. He'd wondered, briefly, why he hadn't felt the Seven since stepping onto their home turf. But then… this wasn't there home turf, was it?
He was thinking like a Targaryen. He was thinking like an Essosi, really. Over in Essos, they looked across the sea to Westeros and saw nothing but the religious monolith that was the Seven. But Jon had grown up in the North for almost the first full two decades of his life. And the North had never forgotten THEIR gods, for all that Southerners like Catelyn Stark had done their absolute best to bring the 'Light of the Seven' to the Northern 'Savages'.
Of course, he wasn't going to feel the Seven here in the North. This was not the heart of their power. This was the heart of the Old Gods' power. This was the home of his mother's gods, of his uncle's gods, of his grandfather and great-grandfather and going all the way back to the original First Men, thousands and thousands of years ago.
Still, it was a little odd, wasn't it? He hadn't sensed the Old Gods' presence either, so far. Why was that? If the Seven had no sway here, this far North, then where were the Old Gods holding them at bay?
Coming to a stop in front of the Weirwood Heart Tree at the center of Winterfell's Godswood, Jon does not kneel. Not because he is a King, or a Khal, or whatever title one might want to foist upon him at this point. No, he does not kneel, because he is a divinity in his own right. Instead, he bows his head respectfully to the Weirwood, able to sense at least something different about the tree in front of him compared to any other three in the Godswood.
Reaching out metaphysically, Jon searches for what he's looking for, eyes drifting shut as he studies his surrounded with a different sort of sense. Frowning, he pushes deeper, further… and slowly but surely uncovers the truth of this place and of the North and its Gods in general. The Old Gods are not like any God he's heard of or encountered before. But then, he should have known that to begin with. Once again, he's blinded by his own hubris, by his own expectations formed from years of traveling across Essos.
The Old Gods are not like the Seven, nor like the Red God R'hllor, and certainly not like the fragments of the Valyrian Gods he encountered in old Valyria in the form of Balerion and Meraxes. They are not divine presences in the conventional sense. The Old Gods… aren't gods at all.
Instead, the Old Gods of the North are… the North itself. They are the nature all around Jon. They are the trees that surround him on all sides. The ground beneath his feet. The rivers frozen over on the surface, but still flowing in their depths. They are even the people and the things that those people make. The Old Gods are every stone of Winterfell, every wooden beam cut down and hewn by human hands. They are even in the descendants of the First Men. They are Sansa, they are Jyene… they are him.
It's a little startling to realize, and somewhat amusing, to say the least. Because in the end, despite being a nascent Dragon God in his own right, Jon can't help but feel very, very small in that moment. And yet, it's a good feeling. No wonder the Seven have no hold here in the North, in spite of multiple attempts by their Andal Servants to push their influence throughout all of Westeros, including its Northern Region.
Its all but impossible for any conventional God or Goddess to usurp the Northern Old Gods. One would need to tear them out, root and stem. Just marrying into the Northern lines and diluting them with Andal blood… it would never work. Because every single Northerner, man and woman, had the smallest bit of their Gods within them. The blood would ALWAYS run true. In the end, any child born of a Northerner and an Andal would be more Northerner than Andal.
In fact… the corners of Jon's mouth quirk upwards in a sardonic grin as he digs a little deeper and finds out its even more than that. Any child born in the North at all, no matter where their parents came from, was born with a piece of the North's unique nature within them. Even Andals beget of two Andals… would become First Men in nature.
Amusing, to say the least. Perhaps Jon should have been alarmed, perhaps it should have upset him… but in truth, it was comforting in a way. It was almost nice, really, to know that the world wasn't so small that he could no longer be surprised. And it was even nicer to know that his eventual conflict with the Seven… because there would be conflict between him and that Pantheon, Jon was sure of that, would not risk the North.
The Seven might be able to take him down, he knew not if he was powerful enough to win against them yet, but they would NEVER have the North. Not in a million years.
Letting out a low, pleased sigh, Jon begins to pull back his senses from the Weirwood in front of him… only to pause as he feels something akin to fear from the thrumming power suffusing the land. Its not quite that direct… as previously mentioned, the Old Gods of the North are not some of the pantheons of conscious divinities like the Seven or some of the Essosi Gods and Goddesses. But he still gets this sense of unease… directed not towards the South, but towards the North.
Frowning, Jon solemnly nods his head as he lets out a low sigh.
"I know… I can sense it. The Darkness… we'll all have to work together to push it back, won't we?"
He gets a sense of… approval, causing a wan smile to spread across his face.
"Heh, not to worry. I'm here to help."
-x-X-x-
"So then, you're the Prodigal King everyone's talking about. Heard you left a bastard. Now you return with more titles then most kneelers on this continent ever get, and a couple of armies besides."
The first words spoken to him by the Free Folk's Envoy cause Jon's eyebrows to rise high on his head. He's not expecting the Wildling Woman who's staring him down to be so… educated in her words. Smiling slightly, Jon just inclines his head at the somewhat blatant disrespect she's showing him.
"I am he. Westeros needs me… so here I am."
Scoffing, the beautiful wildling, with long blonde hair the color of honey reaching all the way down to her waist, shrugs her shoulders.
"The name is Val. I am the Ambassador for the Queen-Upon-The-Wall, Queen Ygritte. The Free Folk have no quarrel with you or yours. Do you have quarrel with us?"
Jon hums at that, pretending to consider her words.
"… You say you have no quarrel with me or mine, but as you yourself stated, I am of the North, recently returned here. What you see around you is mine. The North is mine, my people, and I will protect them."
Val grits her teeth at that.
"We don't have quarrel with the people South of the Wall either. Not unless they make quarrel with us. Told the Lady Stark that. We won't kneel to her or anyone else, but we also don't want to fight. We're just trying to prepare for what's to come."
Her last few words are so frigid, so standoffish, that its clear from both them and the way she tenses up that she's expecting him to make a mockery of her concerns, of what she's saying. When Jon just nods seriously, she looks downright surprised.
"Ambassador Val… I am aware that the true threat in the North is not your people. I promise you… I want to help the Free Folk fight it."
The look of doubt on Val's face makes it clear she's not sure whether she believes him or not. Jon has to consider what to do here. Should he unveil his divinity to this Free Folk Woman, to make her truly see who and what he is? Or should he continue to masquerade as nothing beyond a conquering warlord for a little while longer, since that's clear what she expects of him.
It might be easier for her if she doesn't have to grapple with the fact that she's in the presence of a god. But then again, it also might make it easier for him to get what he wants from this exchange…
The North Pt. 2
As he and Val gaze upon each other, Jon considers his options. It just feels so very limiting, keeping himself hidden from the Free Folk Ambassador, if he's being honest. If he doesn't reveal his true nature, she will always think of him as little more than a kneeler king. For most people, being known as King of the Seven Kingdoms and Khal of Khals might be enough. But in this case, staring into Val's doubtful eyes, he knows that it will never be enough. Not for her and her people. If he hides his true nature, he will always be just another monarch to them.
Letting out a low breath, Jon offers Val a small smile.
"Would it help if I told you that I've seen it? Even now, I can sense the Darkness to the North. It is all encompassing, and continuously encroaching further and further South. It tastes of hunger and ice and nothing nice. We all, Northmen and Free Folk alike, WILL have to come together to fight this threat. This acknowledge with my every breath."
Val's eyes narrow at that, before a moment later seemingly going wide in understanding. She cocks her head to the side, assessing him now.
"… You're either a Warg or you've got the Sight then. Which is it, to give you such insight into our enemy?"
Jon blinks, the words familiar yet not to him. He remembered hearing tales about the two as a child, right alongside fanciful fairy tales about the White Walkers as well. With his newfound divinity, understanding the true nature of both warging and greensight is the work of a moment… and to his great amusement, he realizes he is indeed a Warg, though not a Greenseer. Of course, his divinity does effectively give him the same vision if not more than a Greenseer with the Sight would have.
"As it turns out, I am a Warg, though I've never warged before. No, my understanding of the threat we face comes from somewhere else."
And because just talking about it clearly isn't working and Val is just looking more and more skeptically at him, Jon lets out a sigh… and shows her instead. Unveiling his divinity to a mortal woman like Val probably isn't something he should be doing all willy nilly, or over and over again. Hell, he hadn't even shown Sansa this.
But at the same time, if Val needs more to trust, then who is he to hold back? He's not lying when he says they'll need all hands on deck for the upcoming conflict. He can't afford to have the North and the Free Folk at odds because of hundreds of years of grievances when that bad blood could result in the deaths of them all… or worse.
And so, Jon shows himself to Val, exposing his nascent divinity. He watches as her eyes widen, the room lighting up with his power. He may or may not be glowing slightly, but not in a truly physical way. Rather, Val is seeing him for his true nature, seeing him laid bare before her. She's seeing into the depths of his soul in a way Jon suspects many mortals wish they could do with one another.
It would be so much easier, if they didn't have to use words to communicate. So much easier if everyone always knew exactly where they stood with one another. Not easier for those with a duplicitous or destructive nature, but then, Jon would love a world where those sorts of people could no longer hide anyways, so he didn't see how that was a bad thing.
Alas, they lived in this world, where only someone like Jon, with one foot in divinity and the other in his born mortal form, could do this with someone. And so, he lets Val see him for his true self and waits and watches her reaction.
Tears well up in her eyes, tears of awe and stupefaction. It reminds him somewhat of Kinvara… but only at first. Quite quickly, her nose wrinkles and her face scrunches up in confusion as Val shakes her head, taking a step back.
"I don't… I don't understand."
Jon's own brow furrows at this. He's pretty sure he's showing her every part of himself. It should be completely impossible to miss, right? Thankfully, Val elaborates a moment later, showing that she does indeed register what he is. In fact, it's what she's registering that's conflicting so heavily for her.
"How can… how can you be a God of Freedom and a King of Kneelers in the same breath?"
Ah, of course. Val's hands curl into fists at her sides, and she actually looks a bit angry with him. Or perhaps just frustrated.
"Freedom… Freedom is highly prized among my people. We would worship you, if you were part of our culture. But at the same time, you force people to kneel! You seek to become the Kneeler King of the South! This is a contradiction! YOU are a contradiction!"
Jon sighs, and slowly pulls his divinity back into himself. Too long looking into the heart of a god would be unhealthy for any mortal, and Val in particular seems like she's rapidly becoming distraught.
"Life is never so black and white, Val. I don't force anyone to serve me. They follow me willingly. I will admit, I have come to Westeros to… impose upon its people. But there's far too much suffering here for me to just let things be. Having Freedom as one of my domains doesn't mean I let others enact injustice on those around them. Not when I can do something about it."
And then his own eyes flash, as he narrows them at her.
"Your people. You call yourselves the Free Folks. And you do not have slaves. But you do enforce your will on each other, don't you? You have tribes, with leaders. Tell me, how did you come to be Ambassador? How did Ygritte become Queen Upon the Wall, hm?"
Val stiffens at that… and then deflates just a fraction. She looks suddenly somewhat forlorn, as she makes her way over to the nearest chair and sits in it, heavily.
"From the way you talk, I suppose you already know the truth then. About mine and Ygritte's arrangement."
Jon presses his lips together into a thin line, having not intended to give that away. But at this point, it was impossible not to address the elephant in the room. There was no duplicity around him. No one could hide their true selves from him. He didn't perceive people in the same way anymore. Like he'd shown Val his true essence, he'd perceived her by her soul from the moment he'd entered the room. He knew exactly who and what she was.
"… I know that you are the true voice of the Free Folk, yes. That Ygritte took command on your instigation, because you feared the others would not listen to you or follow you for whatever reason. She might hold the title of Queen, but it is you who organizes and leads your people from the shadows."
Looking away, Val bites her lower lip.
"I do not LEAD. I merely… suggest the most prudent courses of action. I… one of your kneeler would-be kings came to the Wall, you know. He arrived right after we took it from the Night's Watch. If we'd been delayed any further, if we'd been held off any longer, he would have shown up just in time to rout us, and then everything would have been ruined. We got lucky he arrived too late."
At that last line, she lets out a bark of bitter laughter.
"Lucky. Hmph. Stannis Baratheon, the prisoners said his name was. Stannis Baratheon died North of the Wall, along with much of his army… but not before killing Mance Rayder, the actual King Beyond the Wall. The man who brought us all together to go South in the first place. The one who united our people for the common goal of survival."
Val clenches her hand together.
"He was father to my sister's child. Now he is gone, and in his wake, I was best suited to pick up the pieces. But of course, no one else would be willing to acknowledge that. They called me Princess, when Mance was still King. But after he died, everything was close to fucking falling apart. We had the Wall, but no one knew what the fuck to do with it, and no one was listening to me."
Lifting her head and thrusting out her chin, Val looks upon Jon with narrowed eyes.
"So yes, Ygritte and I hatched a plan. She'd played a pivotal role in taking the Wall, so she had enough respect to start taking on the challenge. In the end, she got where she is on her own merits… barely needed help from me at all, really."
Jon raises an eyebrow at that, and Val flushes and looks away, likely suspecting he knows exactly how she 'helped' Ygritte become Queen On the Wall. Certainly, her methods weren't very honorable… but he doesn't really blame her. She was in a bad situation, almost as bad as Sansa's in fact. It seemed that hard women having to make hard decisions was something of a theme of late, up here in the North. Might be the same down South too, Jon didn't rightly know yet.
"Ygritte IS Queen. She just… listens to me because I'm smart. That's our relationship, godling. That's all there is to it."
They both knew that wasn't true. They both knew that wasn't their entire relationship. Still, Jon isn't about to push. He already feels a little guilty as is. Not for knowing what he already knew, because he can't help but know the things, he knows the moment he knows them. However, he does feel bad that Val realized it, and was forced to explain herself to him. Still, there is one other thing Jon feels he has to note.
"You are who you are, Val. Princess of the Wildlings… Advisor to the Queen. You are the power behind the Free Folk, whether you like it or not. You may not be their Queen, but you are their Heart."
Val stiffens at that, eyes flashing as her lips thin out. But Jon isn't done yet.
"Which raises the question; what are you doing down here? If you are the voice in Ygritte's ear, why did she send you to Winterfell as her Emissary instead?"
When Val goes to respond angrily to that, Jon cuts her off with a grin and a wave of his hand.
"I know. She didn't send you. You sent yourself. And you did it because you realized you had to. You realized, for all your unofficial power and influence, that THIS was where you were most needed. Deep down inside, you knew that your people needed mine and my sister's. This threat we face is greater than all of us. Only together can we face it and hope to prevail."
Val is silent, contemplative at that, and after a moment Jon steps over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"I aim to make for the Wall soon enough. Not to dislodge your Queen who sits upon it, nor to subjugate your people. After all, I am the God of Freedom first, and a kneeler king second. I hope to join our peoples together and fight this threat off once and for all. I hope you'll help me with that."
And then he steps away, leaving her alone. She has quite a lot to think about.
-x-X-x-
Jon routinely visited his dragons. It was a part of his daily duties, though he wouldn't even really call it that. Duty implied it wasn't something he wanted to do, but in truth, he loved his dragons like they were his own children. For all that it was Daenerys who had garnered the title of their Mother from the people, Jon would always be their Father.
Even more so now, that he was literally a God of Freedom AND Dragons. As he approaches them, Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion all whip their heads around, looking to him excitedly and effectively prancing over. Jon just laughs, welcoming the great beasts to his sides as the Unsullied who were watching over them all watch with relaxed if wary eyes.
They know that the dragons won't hurt him, but there's a difference between knowing and feeling, and there always will be. The three dragons have grown and grown and are truly massive creatures at this point. Easily the size of a house, and not a small one either. They are… perfect for riding.
Unfortunately, Daenerys hadn't been free to join him on this day, but that's alright. They can't always be attached at the hip, and if nothing else, a solo ride will help Jon clear his head. Because… he does need to work through some things.
Val was right, after all. As he climbs onto Balerion's back and the hulking black scaled dragon preens at being chosen this time around to be ridden while Rhaegal and Viserion both temporarily sulk, Jon is forced to acknowledge and contextualize the wildling woman's words.
He is the God of Freedom… but he is also the King of Westeros and the Khal of Khals. By blood, the Iron Throne belongs to him. By conquest, he can take it. Should he, though? He's always believed unifying Westeros under his banner was his destiny. From the moment he found out the truth about his nature… well, first thing he'd done was run off to secure his family of course, but after that, he'd stopped at nothing to accomplish his goals while righting wrongs wherever he found them.
That said, he had changed quite a lot from the young man who had been initially sponsored by the Iron Bank in a Hail Mary attempt at getting their money back from a heavily indebted Westeros. He wasn't a man at all anymore, truly. He was a god now.
Could he continue to call himself the God of Freedom, if he was intending to crush all resistance under his will and make Westeros his Kingdom once all was said and done? Or was it that he was trying to bring freedom to the downtrodden?
The world was not so black and white, just as he'd told Val. But as a nascent god, Jon could shape it all the same in whichever way he wanted, couldn't he?
As he rides Balerion, flying high in the sky with Rhaegal and Viserion on either side of him and the black scaled Dragon, Jon can't help but look both North and South. There is that same Darkness to the North, currently encroaching upon the blazing light that is the Free Folk upon the Wall. Their souls are like individual pinpricks coming together to form a whole.
To the South however… there is no such darkness. But there is a miasma, a sort of… melancholy in the lands controlled by the Seven. That Pantheon of Gods, those who had worked together to destroy his own ancestors, and who he was made to take revenge for them all, was clearly struggling. Their lands, the Six Kingdoms who were not the North with its worship of Old Gods, were struggling.
Once he was done handling the problems to the North, Jon would have to handle the problems to the South. There was no denying it, those Southern Kingdoms did not deserve the suffering heaped upon them by their rulers.
Still, there was the question of just HOW he should go about doing things. Val's words had left him somewhat uncertain of what the best path forward was. By revealing himself to the wildling's TRUE leader as a nascent divinity, he had effectively decided how he was going to treat the Free Folk going forward.
But how would he approach the South? As the God of Freedom, or the King of Westeros? Would he come to them with kindness, or approach them with wrath? Tch, it wasn't an easy decision. Maybe it wasn't even one he should be making right now. Nothing was as black and white as anyone might hope it to be…
The Wall
The Wall is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the greatest single structure in all of Westeros. As a matter of fact, having traveled most of Essos before his recent return to his homelands, Jon feels like he's in a solid position to state that it might just be the greatest feat of engineering in all of Westeros AND Essos. Truly, even the Black Walls of Volantis have nothing on this super-structure.
Spanning a hundred leagues in both directions, the Wall was a truly colossal fortification, and at its height, all nineteen of its castles were manned by the men of the Night's Watch. Today, however… NONE of them were manned by men of the Night's Watch.
Who was to blame for this, truly? Jon couldn't help but feel that laying the blame entirely at the feet of the Wildlings was a mistake. After all, long before the Free Folk began to feel the icy touch of undeath and were forced to flee North, the Night's Watch as an institution had fallen out of favor. Thousands of years before, they were a respected order numbering thousands upon thousands of men strong.
To fully man the Wall would take at least that many crows, probably even more. And yet, as time had passed, the Watch had fallen into disrepair, from everything Jon had heard. Growing up, he was told that to join the Night's Watch was a great honor, but other things he'd been told… had allowed him to read between the lines.
By the time he'd made the decision to go to Essos instead of the Watch, only three of the Wall's nineteen castles were still manned by crows. Castle Black, the central castle, was where the majority of the remaining Watch were stationed. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, at the far eastern end of the Wall, served as the Night's Watch's main port and resupply post. And finally, the Shadow Tower at the western end of the Wall served as an early warning system, or an attempt to keep the Wildlings from just… boating around the Wall entirely.
Jon didn't fully know which it was, because in the end, it hadn't mattered. Those three castles were days travel apart from one another, even if one was journeying atop the Wall, which provided a flat surface and a straight line. DAYS of moving between castles… it was a recipe for disaster. And disaster had finally come.
The Night's Watch was no more, because when the Wildlings had finally come upon the Wall, they did not try to go around it by boat, or even tunnel under it as Jon's uncle had once told him they sometimes did in small raiding bands. No, they'd attacked directly, and the Night's Watch had crumbled in the face of their ferocity and numbers.
It was a good, solid lesson. Even a fortification as amazing as the Wall… was only as good as the men manning it. Just having the Wall in place wouldn't save any of them, if the dark forces at work in the True North were allowed to continue as they were. The Wall would keep no one back, if it was not manned with the armies of men.
As all of this passes through Jon's mind, the nascent divinity swoops down from the clouds on dragon's back and gazes upon the Wall that his ancestor, Bran the Builder, broke. It truly is a majestic thing to be sure… and to his mild surprise, looks to be in a much better state than it was previously. There are little pinpricks of light all along its length, showing that the Free Folk who now occupy it have spread out along the Wall and begun inhabiting the castles that were abandoned up until this point.
He'd wondered, when everyone had made such a point to call this Ygritte woman 'Queen Upon the Wall'. After all, the original title among the Free Folk was King Beyond the Wall. The change was distinctive and telling, and it made it clear that at least for now, the Wildlings sought to fortify, rather than continue running.
It spoke to an intelligence among their number that Jon could work with. Whether it was Ygritte or Val who had realized they couldn't keep running forever, that they had to eventually make a stand somewhere and that the Wall represented the best opportunity for that… it mattered not. What did matter was that he had a meeting with a Queen.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jon smiles at seeing the long van of his army making their way up the King's Road towards the Wall. Reformed Dothraki, Freed Unsullied, and Blooded Northmen alike. It was a great force, perhaps not the greatest that Westeros had ever seen, but great enough. If they could find common cause with the Wildlings… if they could work with these self-styled Free Folk… then maybe, just maybe, the threat to the North could be defeated, once and for all.
Winter was Coming. Those were the words of House Stark, the House of his Mother. And Jon believed it. With eyes that shone with divine purpose, he looked North and saw Winter in all of its raw, terrible glory, coming to snuff them all out. But he refused to let that happen without a fight. Let Winter come. It would meet the flames of his people's spirit and conviction and find itself turned aside once more.
-x-X-x-
"Presenting the Kneeler King."
Jon isn't sure what he's expecting, but he probably shouldn't have been expecting much. The Free Folk man in charge of 'announcing' his arrival even goes so far as to spit on the ground once he's finished speaking, clearly uncaring of how his words are taken or whether he's doing a good job or not. Not that anyone in the Free Folk 'court' reprimands him.
As Jon walks into what used to be the Night's Watch's main hall within Castle Black, the organization's primary headquarters, he gazes around the room, meeting the eyes of plenty of hard men and hard women who shine under his gaze. They're all putting on brave faces, but there's no denying the truth… they're terrified. Not of him, but of what they've been running from all this time.
Each and every Wildling in this room has dealt with the dead coming back to haunt them. Jon can see it, the things they've seen, the things they've survived… it's writ-large across their souls, and he feels a brief moment of pity for them… before turning his gaze to the woman sat at the head of the table, in the closest thing to a throne that Castle Black has ever had.
The first thing he notices is what everyone else no doubt notices. The fiery color of her hair is so striking, so shocking in this dreary, dark-colored place, that it's impossible not to notice. However, the second thing Jon notices, is the fire of her soul. The Queen Upon the Wall is a woman who has survived many challenges, but not come out the other side without her fair share of scars, both physical and otherwise.
A long scar runs down one side of her face, along an eye, though the eye itself is not cloudy or covered by an eyepatch at least, meaning she managed to pull away from the strike enough not to lose it, but not enough to avoid being marked by the scar for the rest of her life. Still, it gives character if nothing else, to an already striking, stunningly beautiful woman.
Beside Queen Ygritte stands her advisor in all things, the closest to a princess the wildlings have, Val. After his and Val's conversation, the Free Folk woman had headed North ahead of him and his forces, to announce their coming and keep fighting from breaking out. For the moment, at least, things were peaceful… but tensions were already running high, and Jon knew it was up to him to make sure the Living didn't start slaughtering each other before the Dead could even arrive.
The corner of Ygritte's mouth quirks up as she gazes down at him from atop her platform.
"When I heard some powerful Warlord had come from across the sea and conquered the North before Val here could make common cause with their kneeler lady, down in Winterfell, I had to admit I was surprised. But also… I thought you'd be taller."
There's an uproar of laughter from the assembled wildlings at that, while Jon just smiles, patiently waiting it out, letting them get it out of their system before responding.
"While it is true that I come from Essos, I was born in these lands. I am of the North, the same as you and everyone in this room."
Another woman, from off to the side, scoffs at that and pipes up.
"We call anything below the Wall South. You are not of the True North."
Jon just shakes his head.
"Such division is inadvisable, given our current circumstances. Once upon a time, our peoples were one. The Wall may have separated us into two factions, but that was not it's intended purpose, as my recent forefathers may have thought. You all should know better than most, what the Wall was originally made for. After all, you now man it in preparation for the battle to come."
For a moment, all is silent, before a quiet murmur starts up among the crowd of wildlings. Eventually, one of them, bald and with ropy scars across his skull, steps forward with a sneer and a glare.
"What would a kneeler King know about what we've been fighting? About what we've been preparing for?"
He's not all that inclined to reveal his divinity to everyone in this chamber. He showed himself to Val, but that was different. This… still, there's no reason not to reveal a fraction of his power. Looking to the Wildling Man, Jon lets a bit of glow creep into his eyes, his voice sonorous as he speaks with conviction.
"I've seen it. The threat coming from beyond the Wall. You need not convince me… I know what we're up against."
The Wildling man's own eyes widen, and he takes an abortive step backwards before scowling and spitting on the ground.
"Greenseer and Kneeler King then. Doesn't make much difference…"
"The Magnar Styr of Thenn is right. What you know matters little, depending on what you intend to ask of us. The Free Folk have taken the Wall. Have you come to take it back?"
"No."
It's clear to Jon that his answer surprises everyone, a ripple going through the crowd as they all look at each other, confused. Only Val and Ygritte appear unsurprised. Val, because she's seen to the depths of him, and Ygritte because Val has likely prepared her for this encounter. Smiling now, though it's a sharp, predatory smile, the Wildling Queen leans forward.
"Then why have you come?"
"To help. To make common cause against our mutual enemy. Our battle is with what's chased you down here from the North. If we work together, we can-!"
While he'd been speaking, Ygritte's smile had been growing wider and wider. It seems clear to him that he's playing right into her hands on this, saying what she wants him to say, what she NEEDS him to say to give her more legitimacy in the eyes of her people. Which is why Jon sees the moment that her smile vanishes, as he's abruptly cut off by the man from before, this… Magnar Styr.
"Liar! It's a fucking trap! It always is, with the kneelers!"
Jon falls silent, as the Magnar looks around the chamber. Not just because he was interrupted… but because he could always see this in the Wildling Man's soul. There was no other way this could go. Ygritte may have wanted one thing, but Styr wants another entirely.
"The Wall is ours! If we let these kneelers in, if we give it back to them, we'll find ourselves crushed between them and the dead!"
Clearing his throat, Jon shakes his head.
"I have no intention of fighting any of the Free Folk while the true threat remains."
Styr stabs a finger in his direction.
"Precisely! They will use us… and then they will turn on us! We took the Wall on our own. We don't need their help to defend it! And if we accept their help, we will only be going to our doom!"
"Magnar of Thenn! You speak out of turn!"
Ygritte is clearly furious at being gainsaid in her own court. Jon has to resist the urge to quip something like 'First Time?' up at her. Meanwhile, Styr whips around and snarls.
"Out of turn? What, is this some kneeler court where we cannot speak our minds?!"
The murmurs from the other Free Folk in the Queen's Court begin to grow in intensity, and Jon… Jon sighs, recognizing that there's only one way this will end. This time, when he speaks, he injects a hint of divinity into his words, silencing the room and making sure no one will interrupt him.
"Neither I nor my armies will leave this threat to the Free Folk to face alone. I have come to help and help I shall. If you have a problem with that… then we can settle this like men."
A savage grin spreads across the Magnar's face at that.
"Oh? You wanna fight?"
No, Jon actually didn't want to fight. But it was quite obvious that Styr did. The bald wildling man was spoiling for a fight, and if it wasn't Jon, he'd soon be fighting Ygritte for her nonexistent crown. At a time like this, Jon couldn't let that happen… and admittedly, some men needed killing. The Magnar of Thenn's soul was not pitch black, no mortal man's was… but it was certainly black enough, stained by the actions of his past.
"A duel, you and me, here and now. Kill me, and my armies will depart from the Wall and leave you and your people to your fate."
"Deal."
Styr doesn't hesitate. One of his tribesmen throws him a weapon and he's swinging at Jon faster than the blink of an eye, even as Ygritte rises from her throne, roaring in anger at the complete disruption of her court.
But if Jon was capable of handling challenge after challenge when he was still unaware of his own divinity… he's far beyond any mortal man now. His own sword is out of its sheathe and deflecting the Magnar's weapon to the side between one moment and the next. To make sure everyone catches up to what's going on, he lets the wildling man live for a few exchanges, their weapons clashing until, with one flick of his wrist, he relieves Magnar Styr of his head, decapitating him in a single, clean strike.
There's an uproar from who Jon can only assume as the Thenns that this Magnar led, but they're far outnumbered by the rest of the court, and though they shout and scream, none of them attacks. Instead, they're pushed out of the hall entirely, and soon Jon is left with only wildlings who gaze at him with respect… or in Queen Ygritte's case, something a little… different.
"A duel before the Old Gods. We will accept the Kneeler King's help. Our armies combined will defend the Wall from the Oncoming Dead."
Ygritte's words are met with silent nods of agreement, no one left to gainsay them at this point. Jon, for his part, just smiles and gives the Queen Upon the Wall a polite bow of thanks. That said, he does not fail to notice the way her eyes follow him out just a bit more intensely then the rest of her people.
-x-X-x-
"You should Steal her."
Jon lets out a sigh, as later that night Daenerys makes her opinion known from upon his chest. His beautiful wife runs a hand down his abdomen and wraps her fingers around his currently soft cock, even as she rests her ear against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.
"Daenerys…"
"They'll respect it. They'll have to. Apparently, she's been fending off attempts for as long as she's been Queen. The number of men she's gelded… and yet, the wildlings I've spoken to today all act as if it's a foregone conclusion that eventually one will succeed, and they'll have a new King."
Staring up at the ceiling, running his fingers through Daenerys' hair, Jon grimaces. Because it's not just that the Free Folk will likely accept such behavior… its that Ygritte likely would as well. That's what he'd seen in her gaze, after he'd slain the Magnar of Thenn. Not just respect… but a burgeoning desire. It was almost like the two of them had been meant to have a destiny together. His divine eyes allowed him to see the could-have-been connection between them.
If he'd gone North and become a Brother of the Night's Watch… but then, Jon wasn't entirely sure how a relationship between a Crow and a Wildling could have ever ended in anything but a tragedy.
Regardless, Daenerys was right. The Free Folk were half-tolerating Ygritte as their Queen because she had Val's backing and she'd taken on all challengers. But they were also half-tolerating her as Queen because they imagined one among them would eventually manage to steal her from her bed, claim her as his woman, and be named King.
It was sick and twisted, and Jon was actually happy that Ygritte had managed to fight off all of her would-be attackers up to this point. How she got any sleep though, he did not know.
And yet… and yet, he was nevertheless considering becoming one of those men. If it wasn't for the interest he'd seen in Ygritte's soul, behind her beautiful blue eyes, he wouldn't be. But there it was. Some part of Ygritte wanted to be Stolen. Not by just anyone… but by him.
That said, was now really the time for such a thing? Just as Jon had stepped in to challenge Styr before the Thenn could get around to challenging Ygritte, going after the red head now would almost certainly cause some instability, even if some of the Wildlings would be happy with it.
Perhaps it would be better to wait until the battle was won… but at the same time, it might help their forces unify quicker, if he laid claim to the Wildling Queen?
Tch, to Steal her now or later? Or… not at all?
Queen Ygritte
"… Fine."
Daenerys perks up on his chest, lifting herself to look at him with a smile. She strokes his cock a little bit more, getting him half-hard, before purposefully pulling away and leaving him hanging.
"Don't bring her back here. As much as I'd love to play with her with you, this first time needs to be between you and her."
Jon raises an eyebrow at that, even as Daenerys just shrugs.
"From what I've managed to glean of their traditions, you'd normally Steal her and bring her back here. A True Wildling Man will steal his woman from afar, in order to strengthen the clan as much as possible. But things are different. She's their Queen. You're our King. You're not just Stealing her for the sake of Stealing her… you're committing to a hostile takeover."
The more Daenerys talks, the more excited she sounds about all of this. Licking her lips, the beautiful blonde Targaryen looks half-ready to pounce on him again… but refrains, holding herself back as she explains the rest of her thinking.
"You need to take her in her room, upon her bed. Pin her down and fuck her silly, Jon. Make her your woman right then and there, in the eyes of the Free Folk. Make your own form of Stealing… and bring them around to your way of thinking, just as you did with the Dothraki."
Jon snorts at that and shakes his head.
"Maybe not QUITE like I did with the Dothraki… I had to kill hundreds of them in single-combat before they finally submitted. If at all possible, I'd like to leave it to just the one Magnar I had to kill today…"
Daenerys winces but nods sympathetically.
"Do this right… and you should be able to. Now go… go and claim another Queen~"
Having his khaleesi's blessing and knowing that Ygritte was expecting it… Jon lets out a rueful sigh and nods as he climbs out of his bed. He barely gets dressed, a pair of pants and nothing else, his nascent divinity making the elements not a problem. He doesn't feel the cold, even as he makes his way through Castle Black, creeping along its dark corridors towards the old Lord Commander's Chambers, now repurposed for the Queen Upon the Wall, as he was given to understand.
Long before he comes into sight of them, he detects the Spear Wife guards that Ygritte has protecting her. He's a little surprised by that, and even more surprised when he watches through his divine senses as they intercept a Wildling Man and send him packing with some swift violence. Jon could have looked into this… but tonight was more about the side of him that was still a man, than the side of him that was a god. Instead of just peering into the souls of these women that were protecting Queen Ygritte… he would ask the red head herself.
Slipping past the Free Folk Spear Wives is simple enough. Entering Ygritte's quarters without being detected, Jon isn't exactly surprised when he's attacked almost immediately. The sword that Ygritte wields is Valyrian Steel, and Jon knows it as Longclaw, taken from the old Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jeor Mormont. In another life, Jon might have known the old man better, if he'd gone to the Wall as his Uncle had initially wanted.
Regardless, Jon himself is weaponless, but that does not mean he is helpless or unarmed. With swift grace, he dodges Ygritte's first sword swipe, noting it as half-hearted to begin with. Her weapon might be truly spectacular, but the woman herself is more Archer than Swordmistress, and besides that, there's a part of her that wants him to succeed. She'll still give it her all, or so she thinks, but only because that's what's expected of her. Wildling women are expected to put up a considerable fight every step of the way.
Dancing out of reach of her sword, Jon's eyes twinkle as he grins, inclining his head towards the Wildling Queen.
"Queen Ygritte."
Fully dressed, wielding her stolen sword in front of her, Ygritte's pretty face is marred with a scowl.
"I hope you're not sneaking into my quarters for more kneeler talk after what I saw today. If so, it'd mean you know even less than I thought."
Jon chuckles and shakes his head.
"Oh no. I'm very much here to Steal you."
Ygritte's eyes light up at that, and she grins.
"Good. Tis a good time for it."
Then, she lunges forward, once more swinging her sword at him as Jon dodges. However, this time he doesn't just dodge, he glides along the edge of that deadly Valyrian Steel blade and reaches out, grabbing hold of the hands Ygritte is using to hold Longclaw before she has time to react, and deftly spinning the blade out of her grasp.
Flinging it to the side, he wraps the pretty red head in a hug, holding her back against him for a moment as she squirms in his grasp.
"Oh? I didn't know that."
Scoffing, Ygritte explains, even as she struggles.
"Course you didn't. The red wanderer is within the Moonmaid. Means it's a great time for a man to steal a woman. If you hadn't killed Styr today, it probably would have been his and his Thenns overwhelming my Spear Wives and me tonight. Luckily for you, you at least know when to handle a problem, heh."
And then she does this thing that, if he were leaning more into his godhood, wouldn't have worked. But because he's leaning more into the side of him that's still a mortal man, Ygritte breaks free, whipping away from him, having placed a cut along his inner thigh with a dagger she had hidden somewhere in her furs. Her beautiful blue eyes glitter with excitement, even as she grins wickedly.
Jon can't help but be a little surprised, which in and of itself is surprising to him these days. She'd used him to handle the Thenns, hadn't she? She'd acted all outraged, but in truth, she'd wanted Styr dead.
The cut on his thigh has already healed, though the slit made in his pants remains. Regardless, Jon just smiles, as he and Ygritte continue to face off.
"I had wondered about the guards."
Ygritte just smirks, bouncing her dagger from one hand to the other, before committing to a few experimental lunges. Very aware of his skill at disarming her, she doesn't full commit on any of them, and its obvious that they're less attacks and more traps, trying to get him to over-extend his reach so she can REALLY stab him.
"They keep the riff raff at bay, especially on a night like this one. They're forbidden from entering the room however, no matter what they might hear. If any man successfully gets past them, he's up to me to deal with."
Jon slowly nods, accepting this information. Ygritte snorts.
"'Course, the dearly departed Magnar of Thenn would have brought his whole tribe up here, were he still alive. His men would have Stolen my guards, while he came personally to Steal me. Then, tomorrow, you would have been dealing with Styr as King Upon the Wall. Like I said, you dodged an arrow on that. I'd hoped you'd come, after how you dealt with him…"
Jon raises both eyebrows at that. He knew Ygritte wanted him to do this, wanted him to try and Steal her, but he wasn't sure she was allowed to say it. Of course, the vicious grin on the red head's face a moment later tells a slightly different story.
"Not because I want you to Steal me, Kneeler King. No, because I'm going to Steal you!"
She lunges forward again then, and Jon grunts as he dodges her once more. She's faster than she was before, showing that her probing strikes really had just been feints. More than that, she's so much better with the dagger than she was with Longclaw. Honestly, she wasn't meant to wield a Valyrian Steel Sword.
He, of course, was still unarmed… and even took a few more glancing blows, as Ygritte managed to slice her dagger along his bared arms and even get a couple of scoring hits across his ribs. Not that it mattered, with how fast his healing was. Even if he was leaning more into his mortality then usual, he was still a God. And Ygritte… Ygritte was quickly beginning to realize that.
"I see. So, you were hoping to become Queen of all of Westeros, were you? Changing the paradigm, turning it on its head and stealing me instead of the other way around?"
Ygritte's lips curl into a frown, as her intelligent eyes assess the damage, or rather, lack thereof, that she's managed to cause to him so far.
"… My people need a future. I don't care about all your Kneeler Lands. Just enough for the Free Folk to prosper. You can rule the rest however you want… just so long as you remember who your true Queen is."
Jon can't help but grin and shake his head ruefully. She's definitely surprised him with all of this. He'd thought he had the Wildlings pegged. Val was the true power behind the Throne, while Ygritte was just the muscle, the woman who Val whispered into the ear of. But Jon could tell that this plan… Val had no part of it. This plan of Ygritte's, to claim him and Reverse Steal him on the very night when it was most favorable for a man to do so to a woman, was all hers.
And yet… and yet, the reason that her plan was such a surprise, remained intact. He could still see her soul, could still see her desire. Her words were at direct contradiction with what her soul wanted. She said she desired this, but at the same time, Jon could SEE that she wanted it to go the other way, deep down inside.
It was a good lesson for the nascent godling to learn. What he saw of a person's true desires in their soul was not always what they would do or say, given half the chance. Human beings were contradictory creatures by their very nature, and often worked against their own best interests, out of either pure stubbornness, or because they thought they were working for something greater than themselves.
Ygritte believed that the only way for her people to be truly free was to take him and lay claim to him through their traditions. So, she was going against her own true desires, and giving this her all… or so she thought. Jon could tell that her heart wasn't really in it. The Wildling Queen was weary, worn down, and ready for a change.
So… he would give it to her. Suddenly bursting forward, going off of the defensive and finally onto the offensive properly, it's almost child's play for Jon to disarm the red head again. Her dagger is tossed across the room just like Longclaw was, and this time he doesn't stop at just hugging her to him. Yanking her into his grasp, he pulls at the furs she's wearing with all his might… and watches as they tear free.
Ygritte cries out, able to spin away from him as he removes half of her garments in one go, leaving her half-naked just like him. Her pale breasts are quite delectable, each capped with a rock hard nipple from the cold, even as she grits her teeth and glares at him, doing nothing to cover herself up. Left in only her own pants, she clenches her hands in and out of fists, even as Jon shakes the furs he pulled from her, causing two more daggers to fall free.
The Wildling Queen just drops to a knee and pulls another blade out of her boot, before lunging towards him again, this time with a hint of desperation to her. Jon slides to the side, letting her cut along his arm, before disarming her of that blade as well. However, this one he doesn't throw away. This one, he repurposes for himself, using it to cut through her pants before she can react.
"You-gah!"
A moment later, and he's taken her to the bed. Grabbing her up and tossing her over, Jon wastes no time in following Ygritte there, pinning her in place, stripping her the rest of the way out of her clothes as she fights like a hellion the entire time. At least, she fights until he finally brings the blade she so thoughtfully gave him up to rest under her chin. Then, she goes absolutely still. Her big blue eyes stare up at him, before flickering to the spot she last cut him, where his blemish-free arm stares back at her.
"What… w-what are you?"
He sees a hint of real fear in her eyes, warring with her lust and arousal. Which… fair. She's been fighting monsters for years now, the creatures coming down from the True North not quite as human-looking as him, but just as unkillable, he imagined. And he has no desire to be compared to those creatures.
"I'm no monster, Ygritte. I was born a mortal man… but I became something more."
He doesn't hesitate like he did with Val; he doesn't consider whether or not to show her. If he's going to be Stealing Ygritte and making the Wildling Queen his wife in some fashion, then she deserves the truth. And so, Jon opens himself up to her for half a moment, revealing his true nature to the Wildling Queen. He doesn't know how much Val told her about him and what he truly was, but even if she told her everything, it's obvious Ygritte didn't believe it. Until now.
A single tear streaks down the Wildling Queen's cheek, and she lets out a shuddering gasp as Jon pulls the blade away from her throat, seeing the fight go out of her.
"H-Heh… never stood a chance, d-did I?"
Jon solemnly shakes his head, watching her carefully. But no, she's not going to attack. In fact… the Queen of the Free Folk spreads her legs for him, even as she averts her gaze, turning her head to the side and closing her eyes. She's ready for him to claim her. She likely expects it to be quite rough. Part of her is excited. Part of her is afraid.
Jon could give her what she expects… or he could try to show her that sex doesn't have to hurt, or be painful, or be so one-sided in the man's favor. He could make it all about her instead. Alternatively, there might be a middle ground to be found here…
Queen Ygritte Pt. 2
His moment of contemplation would have cost him, if he weren't a nascent divinity. As it is, Ygritte might as well be moving in slow motion when she suddenly jolts into action again, her momentary surrender just that, a simple gambit to try and make him drop her guard. Unfortunately for her, he sees it coming a mile away, and when she tries to knee him viciously in the groin, he blocks it.
Suddenly fighting like a wild cat again, Ygritte howls as she claws at him. But Jon just tosses the knife he'd been holding to her throat away, and grabs her by the wrists, wrestling with the fiery red head until he's forced her over onto her front and properly pinned her down to the bed. Straddling her as she keeps on squirming, Jon just shakes his head in disbelief.
"I show you I'm a god and your response is to KEEP attacking me?!"
Ygritte spits and hisses like a particularly angry cat.
"F-Fuck you! Just fuck me already, you bastard!"
Even as she struggles, he can tell she's turned on. So at least there's that. She DOES want this… she's just not the kind to give up, under any circumstances. Well, he supposes that decides it for him. He has no choice in the matter… she's forced his hand.
Jon snorts at his own inner thoughts, knowing that he's feeding off Ygritte's own desires, and maybe a little off the Free Folk on the Wall as well. His divinity isn't entirely contained to his mortal body, after all. Part of that allows him to spread his awareness far and wide, and part of that allows the mortals around him to influence him ever so slightly.
It's nothing he can't handle, but a part of the part of him that represents Freedom has a certain… savage quality to it. Freedom, at it's base, is a primal thing, based in strength and the ability to do anything… even, sometimes, at the expense of others.
Ygritte bucks her hips back against him again, trying futilely to dislodge him so she can slip out from under his hold and restart their fight, regardless of her own personal desires. But perhaps, subconsciously, she's also trying to engage him, because her bucking has the result of instead causing his cock to slip into place between her creamy, pale thighs.
As his cock touches against her slit for the firs time, Ygritte freezes up for just a heartbeat… but that's all Jon needs. She howls again, as he thrusts into her, claiming her on the spot. His member spears the beautiful Spear Wife turned Queen quite deeply indeed, and his body comes down on her, pinning her in place. Pressing his chest into her back, Jon slides his legs down her legs, hooking his feet around her feet to truly arrest all of her motion.
Hands on her wrists, he yanks them behind her back, forcing them together so that he can hold her arms in place with just one hand. The other goes to her hair, gripping tightly and pushing her face into the furs as he slams home into her cunt again and again. She wants it rough? She expects him to be brutal? Fine, he can be brutal.
Fucking Ygritte is like almost no sexual encounter he's ever had before. There's no moment when he's focused on her pleasure, no instant where he's making sure that she's enjoying herself. And yet… she IS enjoying herself. Oh sure, she keeps on fighting the entire time, bucking her hips and cursing him out, but Jon feels it, the treachery of her body.
As he slams her into the bed again and again, her inner walls grow wetter and wetter. She was moist to start, he'd noticed, but soon enough, she's sopping wet. The sounds that his cock makes as it slides in and out of her gripping, clenching cunt are growing lewder and lewder, more and more depraved. Ygritte herself is growing more and more flustered, gasping and panting as she wiggles and writhes beneath him.
He can feel the moment the fight truly goes out of her. The moment that she stops bucking her hips to try and get away and starts bucking back against him for a different reason. A throaty moan leaves her lips, even as Jon refuses to let up for the time being. While he believes that she's finally stopped trying to defeat him, he's not going to let her have another chance at it all the same.
Instead, he continues to hold her in place, continues to grip tightly at her hair, pinning her to the bed beneath him as he drives his cock deeper and deeper into her with every thrust. As he reaches the entrance to Ygritte's womb, pounding against the gates that are the fire-touched Wildling Woman's cervix, he leans forward as well, and latches onto her neck with his lips.
It's the gentlest treatment he can offer her, when she's proving to be such a feisty minx. It's the kindest he can be to her, when he needs to tame her properly, and make her his woman. Still, having that small bit of softness in the midst of a truly brutal fucking… it definitely takes her aback and sends her head spinning.
The Wildling Queen lets out a low, keening, confused whine as he sucks at the side of her neck, his tongue tracing over the sensitive flesh. She tries to jerk away, not understanding what he's doing, but with his hold on her hair and his body holding her body down, there's nowhere for her to go. After sucking hard enough to leave a mark, Jon moves his lips to Ygritte's shoulder… and bites down hard there, causing her to yelp and shudder at the more familiar pain.
A moment later, and she's shaking beneath him in what Jon quickly realizes is an orgasm. It's nothing too over the top, nothing incredible… but she's definitely cumming, for all that she tries to hide it by clamping her lips shut. She would have been better off trying to cover it up by howling and yowling some more instead, though even that likely wouldn't have fooled him.
By clenching her teeth tightly and trying to contain it however, she just draws attention to it instead. Chuckling darkly, Jon shakes his head, and buries his face in her hair for a moment. She of course responds by trying to jerk her head back to break his nose, but he holds her fast and keeps her from doing so.
"Don't want your guards to hear your enjoyment of my spear, Queen Ygritte?"
"F-Fuck you…"
"That's exactly what we're doing. C'mon. Stop fighting it. Relax… enjoy."
Jon's words wash over Ygritte, seemingly having no effect at first. And yet, the more he fucks her, the more she slowly gives way before him. He ravages her, there's no other word for it. The plowing is brutal and ceaseless, her cunt stretched around his cock, which is now beginning to push past her cervix itself and into her womb.
He doesn't usually go this far, doesn't usually go all out… but if anyone needed it, it was Ygritte. And the more he fucks her, the better it gets. She really is a hellion, but she's his hellion now, and Jon needs her to understand that. He won't let anyone else harm her… or her people.
"N-Never…"
She might say that, but he can feel her body giving way. As well… what the hell constituted a proper theft? When did she stop fighting, according to her own customs? Was it because he hadn't taken her away from her own bedroom and back to his, that she was just constantly struggling against him?
A low growl leaves Jon's throat, the growl of an apex predator, of a man who was born of a wolf and a dragon, and who rose to become a god. Ygritte freezes up once more, giving him the chance to ask.
"When do you become mine, Wildling Queen? Have I not stolen you at this point? Have I not claimed you as my wife?"
"Not… yet…"
Her answer, delivered through gritted teeth, tells Jon all he needs to know.
"Ah. Alright then."
His tone must give it away, because her eyes widen and she fights all the more fiercely for the next few seconds… before he thrusts into her womb one final time, and proceeds to unload deep inside of her. His seed leaves his churning balls and travels the length of his throbbing cock, before painting the Wildling Queen's inner walls white, coating them as a startled gasp leaves Ygritte's lips, followed by one last explosive orgasm on her spot.
… There it is. As she comes down from the pleasure high a few moments later, the involuntary spasming and bucking of her body finally relaxing, Jon can tell that she's no longer fighting him. No longer fighting for the right to try and force HIM to submit, as he's just forced her to submit. Though that does beg the question…
Letting go of her hands, Jon pulls back out of Ygritte, sitting back on his ass with a sigh as he watches her lay there, his seed slowly but surely seeping out of her cunt.
"If that's how it ends, if that's when you're claimed… how exactly were you going to claim me? Was it just a matter of who ended up on top and who ended up on bottom when I finally came inside of you?"
A tremble runs through the pale, naked red-head's body, as she lays there prone with her legs splayed out and limp.
"… Told you… what I was trying was new. Didn't get far enough to figure that part out…"
Her voice, when it finally comes, is soft and weary. She sounds tired, undeniably so. And here Jon was considering having her clean his cock with her tongue as an apology. Somehow, he suspected that wasn't the best idea at this point, heh. She might be his, but she was still a Wildling… yes, Jon didn't think he wanted his dick anywhere near Ygritte's mouth, not when she was in this state.
Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Jon sits there for a moment, considering things.
"We'll tell them tomorrow. How do you think they'll react?"
"Aye, tomorrow. There will be challengers. Lots'll fucking be happy I got claimed, but not that I got claimed by you. The smart ones would have seen it coming after Styr though."
Jon nods slowly, considering whether to spend the night here, providing aftercare, or to leave Ygritte to recover on her own. He would normally go with the former, but he's not sure the red head would be accepting of his presence.
Before he can come to a decision however, the door to the chambers open. Jon had, of course, sensed the approach of someone besides Ygritte's Spear Wives, but even he is mildly surprised at the intrusion. Ygritte, meanwhile, finds some hidden well of strength as she jolts up from her face down position, her features etched with anger at being interrupted.
"Who dares?!"
"I dare."
Just as quickly as Ygritte got up in arms, the fight goes out of the exhausted red head, as Val pulls back her cloak, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. In hindsight, Jon really isn't surprised to see the beautiful blonde, even as she steps forward, hesitating for a moment as she takes in the scene. A faint smile spreads across her lips, her eyes darting between Jon and Ygritte.
"I assume we have a new King Upon the Wall then?"
"… Aye…"
Ygritte sounds so defeated. Jon feels bad, but it was her fault for fighting it so fucking hard. Even when she knew it was impossible to beat him, even after she knew she couldn't even hurt him, she'd kept fighting. Impressive, but also foolhardy. He would just have to show her that she could trust him with not just her heart, but her people as well.
Val, meanwhile, just nods as if she'd expected as much… and then pulls off her cloak to reveal her nakedness underneath. As Jon raises a brow at the beautiful Wildling Princess' revealed body, Ygritte tiredly looks over… and goes wide-eyed.
"N-No! Val, stop it!"
"This isn't about you, Ygritte. Truly it's not."
Striding forward, Val slips down to her knees between Jon's legs. He blinks owlishly, as she gives him a quick smile before wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and bringing it to her lips. The blonde slides her tongue out and laps some of their combined fluids off of his dick right then and there, causing a groan to leave Jon's mouth.
"L-Like hell it's not!"
At hearing that groan, Ygritte is up off of her front, on her hands and knees as she glares down at Val. After a moment more of licking, Val pulls back and gives her a smirk.
"I'm telling the truth. I know we discussed me sharing the burden… but honestly, this isn't that. I told you how he and I met in Winterfell. I warned you what he was like, and you didn't listen. Are you at all surprised that I'm taking my chance?"
With that, Val slides back down his cock, taking the whole of it in her mouth and swirling her tongue as she cleans and cleans. Jon groans again, his member growing fully erect in no time at all as Ygritte watches, eyes wide and mouth agape. He really feels like he's ended up in the middle of something here…
"He's mine!"
Aaaand that certainly wasn't what he expected from Ygritte's mouth, given the way they'd just fucked. If Val is likewise surprised, she doesn't show it as she pops his cock back out from between her lips and gives Ygritte a rather messy grin.
"No, you're his. And as you'll quickly learn, he has MANY women. Why shouldn't I join the ranks alongside you? I want children, and he would make an excellent father."
Val is just about to go back to sucking his cock, when Ygritte lets out a howl and leaps from the bed, tackling the other woman. Jon blinks at this, staring down at the two Wildlings as they… well, fight like a pair of wildlings. Scrambling across the floor, snarling at each other, the battle is surprisingly evenly matched. Ygritte seems to be the fitter, more experienced of the two, but Val is fresh and hasn't just got done being fucked silly.
The fight could really go either way, but Jon feels a sense of responsibility here. Maybe he should step in… but on who's behalf? Or maybe he shouldn't step in at all?
Ygritte, Val, and the beginning of Battle
After half a moment, Jon… stays where he is. Quite frankly, he doesn't know who to step in for. He doesn't really want to pick a side here. He'd already crushed Ygritte's dreams, while Val seemed entirely too mean spirited. Sure, the blonde had claimed this wasn't about Ygritte, but then… why hadn't she waited until later to approach him? Why had she come here, to this place, to offer herself to him in front of the red head?
No, there were no good options here. He couldn't justify siding with either woman truth be told. It was better to just let the two wildlings get it out of their system, Jon figured. So long as they didn't hurt each other too much.
There's a lot of hair-pulling, scratching, and slapping going on as the two naked beauties roll around on the ground. Ygritte might have started this scuffle, but Val seems to have an early advantage all the same, on account of being fresh and not nearly as sore. And yet… and yet, Ygritte soon proves that there's a reason she was Queen Upon the Wall and Val was just her advisor.
As the 'Princess of the Wildlings', maybe Val would have had a better claim to the title of Queen further down South. In fact, it might have been expected of her. But here and now, Jon begins to see that as smart as Val is, as powerful as her mind is… Ygritte is simply the better fighter in all regards. While she definitely has to spend a moment adjusting to fighting naked, and the creampie he filled her with probably isn't helping, she nevertheless manages to get Val beneath her, pinning the blonde down and slapping her silly until the fight is beaten out of her.
Jon is just about to step in and call it, not wanting Ygritte to hurt her friend too badly on his behalf, when Ygritte stops herself. Bright blue eyes narrowed dangerously, the red head's gaze flicks between Val… and Jon's cock.
"Tch. You want him so badly? Fine, you can have him. On MY terms."
Jon just raises his eyebrow, as Ygritte yanks Val up by her blonde locks none too gently. The wildling Princess looks a lot less smug than she did when she came into the room several minutes ago, and whimpers as Ygritte all but drags her back over to where she'd been knelt between his legs.
"Open."
Ygritte's command is followed by the reluctant wildling, the loser of the cat fight opening wide and taking Jon's cock back into her mouth. Except, this isn't Val sucking his dick anymore… this is Ygritte milking his cock with her friend's throat.
"Hulghk! Hulghk! Hulghk!"
"What? This is what you wanted, isn't it?!"
Ygritte's snarl carries quite a lot of hurt in it. Thanks to his divine senses, he can tell that it's because she's personally offended, that Val would do this, try to offer herself to him on the night where he'd stolen Ygritte right in her bed.
The red head likely wouldn't have had a problem with it, if Val had approached things differently. No, she wouldn't have minded quite as much, if Val were… well, more considerate about it. But by showing up like she had, to give herself to Jon in the moment of Ygritte's defeat, she'd incensed the fiery red head something fierce.
At the same time though, Jon could tell that Ygritte still cared for Val, immensely. The two women were pretty much as close to one another as Bellegere and Daenerys. Of course, the Black Pearl and his Khaleesi weren't all that inclined to scuffle like Ygritte and Val had, but that was more because those were women unused to fighting, and more than that, Bellegere happily submitted to Daenerys' superiority in all things.
In this case, Jon can tell… Val is coming to terms with Ygritte's superiority over her as well. As the red head face fucks Val upon his throbbing cock, the blonde's hands come up and grab hold of his thighs. But she doesn't try to push away, instead, looking up at him, she starts to work with Ygritte, her tongue writhing along the underside of Jon's shaft.
Ygritte doesn't notice, but he certainly does. A low groan leaves Jon's throat, his head tilting back in visible enjoyment of the spasming, convulsing gullet that his cock is buried in, and the enthusiastic, entirely too eager tongue that's working along his girthy underside.
To think, Val had managed to hide this from him, back when she hadn't fallen all over herself immediately in Winterfell. Or no, she shouldn't have been able to hide such a thing from him… which meant this was a recent development. Some time between then and now, she'd decided she wanted a piece of him. Luckily for her and Ygritte, there was more than enough of Jon to go around.
He cums without warning, and as Val sputters, Ygritte's eyes widen before she grins somewhat maliciously. Shoving her sister in all but blood to the base of his cock, the red head forces Val to desperately swallow his seed, gulping it down as best as she possibly can. But even her best isn't quite good enough. His cock pulses and her cheeks bulge, before finally his cum explodes out of her nostrils and the sides of her mouth. The wildling Princess' gorgeous face is turned into quite the mess and great big cum bubbles expand out of her flaring nostrils even as Ygritte finally shows mercy and yanks her back off of his cock bodily.
Tilting Val's head back, the red head makes it clear she hasn't totally forgiven her yet, by drooling spittle into her mouth in a humiliating display that Jon is a little ashamed to say, arouses him something fierce. There's just… something so very wild and enjoyable about these two women, being so primal and… aggressive and brutal.
Or rather, Ygritte is being all those things. Val has been soundly beaten in their little scuffle and can do nothing as Ygritte transitions from drooling into her open mouth, to kissing her heatedly, slurping the cum off of Val's face and locking lips aggressively for a moment. As the two women makeout, Jon's cock surges back to full mast in no time.
The nascent divinity can already tell what Ygritte intends to do next, after all. He can see the desire to both dominate Val AND give the blonde wildling everything she wants, in the depths of the red head's soul. As such, he's not even remotely surprised, when Ygritte rips Val away from the lip lock just as she ripped her away from his cock, before spinning the so-called Princess around and planting her face in the stone of the chamber floor.
Face down, ass up. That's how Ygritte positions Val, as she reaches back and grabs hold of the other wildling's ass cheeks, spreading them wide… and drooling more saliva down between them, against her back door. When Val yelps as Ygritte proceeds to stick a finger in her ass and move it around, the answering grin on the red head's face sends shivers up even Jon's spine. Still…
"Here. You'll fuck her here… and nowhere else until the Dead are defeated and the White Walkers slain."
"What?!"
Val's indignant squawk results in an immediate retaliation from Ygritte, who lifts a hand up, and then brings it down lightning fast.
SMACK!
"Eep!"
"I said what I said, Val. You wanted this… you'll get it. But not without some punishment."
Ygritte's eyes flash as she delivers her ultimatum. And sure, Jon could have gainsaid her… he could have given Val what she REALLY wanted… but he hadn't interfered before, and Ygritte had won their little fight. More than that, Val WAS in the wrong, for barging in here and intruding upon their time together. And even more than that… Jon could tell, quite easily, that Ygritte needed this. The red head needed this moment of control… and luckily, despite Val's indignation, she's actually not as upset by the idea as it might seem.
Coming down off of the bed, onto his knees, Jon places his cockhead against Val's back door. Coated in her saliva and other fluids, his member glistens in the moonlight that pervades the Night Watch Commander's Quarters. Slowly, he begins to push forward, with Val moaning into the floor and Ygritte keeping her ass cheeks spread nice and wide, watching as he proceeds to split her fellow wildling open upon his cock.
"F-Fuck. So… so BIG."
Grinning wickedly, Ygritte just nods, eyes fixated on the sight of him penetrating Val anally.
"Damn straight he is. Give it to her harder. I want her to really feel it… and to know what she's missing out on, for the time being."
Val whines, as Jon raises an eyebrow at that.
"Y-Ygritte, y-you bitch!"
But there's no heat to her words. Even the blonde has come to realize she was in the wrong. And, to Jon's honest surprise, he can tell the two women are already well on their way to reconciling. What he's seeing from their souls matches up with the smirk on Ygritte's face, as she laughs at Val's misfortune. While Jon begins to fuck the blonde wildling woman even harder in the ass, Ygritte reaches down and around, under him, to slap at Val's sopping wet pussy with the heel of her palm.
Crying out, Val's anal passage clenches down around his cock, milking him for all its worth. He doesn't let up though, continuing to fuck her right then and there, jackhammering into her with considerable speed and might as her bowels stretch to accommodate his sizable shaft. Val's groans and squeals fill the room, right alongside the squelching of her anus and the squirting of her empty cunt as Ygritte lays smack after smack across her mound.
The 'punishment', if it can even really be called that, continues for quite some time, until Jon finally finishes inside of Val, though not in her womb as the wildling Princess had clearly wanted. But then, her Queen had made her decree, and Jon at least was going to make sure to honor that. Val's cunt would remain untouched until AFTER the evil monsters coming for their souls were fully defeated.
This, Jon was resolved to make a reality… even if Val was definitely intent on trying his resolve with a dogged determination. After all, as soon as he had pulled out of her ass and laid back down on the bed with Ygritte curled into his right side, the blonde wildling was up on the bed as well on his left, stroking his cock with her hand and curling in just as closely.
If Daenerys had anything to say about him leaving to tame one wildling woman and ending up with two, he was going to cut her off and remind her that all of this was HER idea. Honestly…
-x-X-x-
There is some… token grumbling from the Free Folk when it comes out that Jon Stole Ygritte in the night. And by token grumbling, there are a handful of direct challenges for his new title. Jon accepts all comers, of course. Sure, he has three massive fuck-off dragons, sure he has a huge army… but he can't be constantly focusing on everything at all times, even if he is a god.
Instead, he lets those with rage and malice in their hearts come to him and he kills them, one by one. Oh, not all of them. Some of the Free Folk who challenge him aren't quite as bad as the others. He lets those live, and only kills the ones who would make problems for him and his, Army of the Dead be damned.
They need to be united for the fight ahead, there's no doubt about that in Jon's mind. Luckily, the Free Folk as a whole aren't so thickheaded that they can't understand power when they see it. After Jon spends most of the morning fielding challenges, cutting off heads, and all around displaying his unstoppable combat prowess, they quiet down quite a lot, and a look at the inhabitants of the Wall with his extra senses lets him know that none of them are plotting against him in the moment, at least.
Oh, there's a few who might try something once the threat of the White Walkers and their Army of the Dead has passed, but those can be handled afterwards. Right now, they need all hands on deck. The Wall isn't going to protect itself after all, and the Free Folk had effectively cannibalized the last remnants of the other organization that guarded it.
In the coming days and weeks, the rest of Jon's forces, as well as their supplies, arrived at the Wall. With the Free Folk already manning most of the castles, Jon's Unsullied, Dothraki, and Northmen all made for excellent reinforcements all along the Wall's length. For the first time in thousands of years, the Wall's true purpose was being fulfilled once more. It was almost enough to make one weep in joy and pride.
Unfortunately, Jon could see what was coming for them. The Dark Power coming from the True North, moving inexorably south towards the Wall and its defenders. This was it. This was the Second Battle of the Dawn. There would be no do-overs. There would be no room for errors. Jon had put himself in charge, which meant it was all on him and his nascent divinity. They would win or lose, entirely on his decisions.
When the day finally came, that the Army of the Dead arrived at the forest's edge just north of the Wall, Jon stood atop the massive structure and gazed down, his glowing gold eyes zeroing in on the true power behind this army, the true Darkness he'd been feeling all this time. Although, to his surprise… that Darkness was hiding something.
The followers of R'hllor had a name for this feeling of Darkness. They called it the Great Other, and named it the god of darkness, cold, evil, and fear. The counterpart to R'hllor, the Lord of light, the god of fire.
Well, now that Jon is laying eyes on it, he finds there's some truth to what they said… and quite a lot of inaccuracy. For one, there is no Great Other. Not truly. Thanks to his divinity, Jon knows exactly who he's looking at right now. In the same way that his essence rings with his titles, the Stallion Who Mounts the World, the Prince Who Was Promised… so too does the entity at the back of the army of the dead radiate with a title as well. The Night King.
He is a being of pure darkness. His power is immense, perhaps even a match for Jon's own. However… he is not alone. The Night King represents darkness, to be sure. Beside him, however, is a presence that was hidden from Jon's senses, moving silently in the Night King's shadow all this time.
The Corpse Queen sits astride her own undead mount alongside her King and stares up at Jon with unflinching glowing blue eyes as the Night King does the same right beside her. Both are as aware of him as he is of them. Where the Night King's 'crown', if it could be called that, comes in the form of naturally grown horns protruding from his skull, the Corpse Queen wears a crown of frozen ice upon her brow.
Where the Night King is bald, showing off those aforementioned protruding horns all the more menacing, the Corpse Queen has long, flowing white locks, all the way down to her back. She reminds Jon of Daenerys, in a way. So small, beside her King. And yet… not to be underestimated.
Her Domain is of Ice and Frost. The Night King is of Death and Darkness. The former has a place in this world. Winter must always come eventually, after all. But the latter… the latter would see the world destroyed. It is… discomfiting to see them so close to each other. The Night King and his Corpse Queen, come to destroy the living. But was she truly on his side? Was she truly that set on conquering all?
Jon's eyes can't help but focus on the collar around the Corpse Queen's neck, and wonder if it was just a fashion statement, or something more. At the same time though, he can't spend too long wondering. He needs to make a decision.
His initial plan had been to immediately take the fight to the Night King, once he showed himself. While Jon's Army of the Living fought the Army of the Dead, he was going to engage in god on god combat with the Dark God commanding him. That had been the plan… but now he hesitates, face to face with two gods instead of one.
And yet… the Old Gods sing through him and every person upon the Wall. Here, their power is concentrated into its purest form. Can Jon truly stay back, can he truly remain upon the Wall like… like a coward, and avoid the much needed coming fight?
What was he to do? Let them come to him? Or take the fight to them? Either way, he would be risking everything. But then, that was always the case. Jon could have run back to Essos with his loved ones, but he'd be leaving the rest of Westeros to their deaths. No… this was it. This was where he made his stand.
He just had to decide what form that stand was going to take.
Battle for the Dawn
No. He would be a fool, to abandon such a defensible position. Jon jolts, his eyes widening as he realizes the fight has already begun. Down below, the Night King's lips curl back into a toothy grin, and Jon's nostrils flare in response. Even from all the way over there, the other God had been trying to influence him. Poking at him, prodding at his defenses. The urge to go down there and fight two Gods by himself had not truly been Jon's own inkling. No, it was spurned on by the God of Death and Darkness, by a primal fight or flight instinct.
For Jon, flight was an impossibility. Always had been. And so that nudging had very nearly provoked him towards fight instead. But that too would have been a mistake. Rushing in, leaving the Wall behind, trying to take the fight to the Night King and his Corpse Queen… it would have proven the end of Jon, more than likely.
Instead, he had to pick the third option. Neither fight nor flight. He had to stand his ground.
The Wall wasn't just the greatest mortal defensive structure ever made; it was an incredibly powerful form of divine defense as well. So long as he remained atop it, he was protected in a way that could not be discounted. With that in mind… he had to stay right where he was and force the Night King and Corpse Queen to come to him.
Pushing away the Night King's shadowy influence is both difficult and easy. He does it in a moment and watches the Night King's grin turn into a snarl. Without wasting another beat of time, the God of Death and Darkness flings a clawed hand forward, and the Army of the Dead launches itself at the Wall, screaming so loudly that Jon is sure it can be heard up and down the length of the entire structure.
The War for the Dawn has begun, and as Jon watches on, he can't help but be proud of all that he's accomplished, all that he's done to prepare for this moment. He didn't even know he WAS preparing for it… but nonetheless, the forces arrayed here, the Army of the Living that he's brought together… it would not be half this size without his direct assistance.
Dothraki, Unsullied, Northmen, and Free Folk fight alongside one another, as the dead and damned attempt to scale the Wall and overwhelm its defenders. They have no choice, which Jon finds somewhat fascinating. The Wall is not impenetrable, as the wildlings have proven time and time again over the last several thousand years. But at the same time, to these creatures… it very much is.
The wildlings had been ranging south of the Wall through a variety of methods all this time. They had hidden tunnels beneath the Wall, as well as boats that they used to travel by sea around the Wall's edges. As the Night's Watch had crumbled further and further, these tunnels had stopped being discovered and filled in, and the boats had stopped being caught and destroyed. Wildling rangings had become a fact of life for those in the North that lived closer to the Wall, and not even the death and destruction they wrought had been enough to stave off the ultimate demise of the Night's Watch.
Hm, Jon found himself wondering if this was part of the Night King's divinity at work. Had he turned his Domains of Darkness and Death to the task of weakening the once ascendant organization? Had his divine power slowly turned mortal opinion of the Night's Watch from reverence and appreciation, to indifference, apathy, and even scorn?
Heh, or perhaps it was just the human condition at work. Greed, selfishness, and a distinctly mortal sort of apathy, all at work to slowly but surely erode a certainty in the need for the Night's Watch as time continued to roll on by and the true purpose of the organization fell further and further away from human memory.
Honestly, it could have been both. In the end, it mattered little whether it was the Night King's plan or not. The Night's Watch had died, and if not for Jon, even the Free Folk likely would have crumbled when the Army of the Dead finally came upon the Wall. Instead, all along the Wall, Jon could see with his divine sense that the Free Folk were holding strong, right alongside his own armies of Dothraki, Unsullied, and Northmen.
Former slavers and slaves from far away lands, working in unison alongside First Men from both sides of the Wall. It was a beautiful sight to be sure, made all the more beautiful by his dragons winging back and forth along the top of the wall, breathing their fire across the first remnants of the dead to make it to the top.
The wildlings had never struggled particularly hard with getting past the Wall, at least in living memory. But that was because the Wall had never been made to keep them out in the first place. They were Children of the North, same as the Northmen they now fought alongside. With the ancient ways closed, the tunnels beneath the Wall filled in all along its length, the Army of the Dead had no choice.
They could not dig like the wildlings could, because the magic of the Wall did not allow it. They could not swim, because water seemed to be anathema to their kind. In the end, all they could do in the face of the Wall's magic was climb. Climb, and try to overwhelm the mortal defenders at the top.
Needless to say, despite how innumerable the Army of the Dead seemed to be, they were not having a good time of it. The Wall was too defensible, and too well-manned. Jon suspected that the last time this happened, there were not DRAGONS on the side of the First Men. Certainly, as he watches the Night King and Corpse Queen from afar, he sees a glittering anger and inhuman rage directed at his dragons in the former's eyes.
While his divine sense keeps him abreast of how things are going all along the Wall for his forces, Jon's true focus remained fixated on the Night King and his bride. The Gods of Darkness and Death, and Ice and Frost, command the lion's share of his attention. And a good thing too, because it means he bears witness to what happens next.
A nimbus of shadow and darkness explodes from the Night King, but Jon pushes through it with his divine sight, likely the only one to see as the Night King reaches out and grabs the Corpse Queen forcibly by the back of her neck, jolting her and all but shaking her around as he snarls in her ear. The inhuman female Goddess' face twists into an unpleasant grimace, but the Night King merely shakes harder.
A moment later, and her hands come together before slowly spreading apart. Between them, a spear of pure ice is formed. Jon flinches back at the sheer power radiating off of that spear, even as the Corpse Queen's hands spread further and further apart, until eventually the Night King's free hand snaps out and snatches the spear from her grasp.
The nimbus of shadow and darkness collapses in on him, and coalesces around the spear itself, settling into the ice's core and giving it a flickering darkness to it that Jon is pretty sure he only sees because of his nascent divinity.
Gritting his teeth, the young Dragon God begins to prepare to defend himself. The Wall is a great force and a powerful shield, but he will not rely upon it entirely. The Night King would not go so far to create a weapon that could not penetrate, that would not do its grisly work. And so, Jon tenses up, ready to dodge, ready to block, ready for anything as the Night King takes the Spear of Ice and Death in hand and rears back, preparing to throw it.
Or… Jon thinks he's ready for anything. His eyes widen, when the Night King abruptly changes course at the last second, his preparations turning out to be nothing more than a deception. What does a God like him have to worry about the physical, after all? He needs no wind up time… in the end, it proves to be just a feint.
Whipping around, the Night King lets the deadly spear fly… but not at Jon, nor at any of the other humans on the Wall. Instead, he aims with pinpoint accuracy at one of Jon's dragons, and the godling can do nothing but shout in horror as the weapon flies true.
"NO!"
The spear catches Viserion right under the wing in his breast, and with divine sight, Jon watches as the Corpse Queen's Ice penetrates through the natural armor provided by Viserion's scales. A moment later, the Night King's death magic explodes inside of the great big green dragon, and Jon chokes on his own spit as the beast lets out a strangled cry and immediately begins to fall.
Perhaps it wasn't right to play favorites, but Jon had long given Viserion the least consideration of his three dragons, in the deepest recesses of his mind. He'd almost come to regret letting Daenerys name the green dragon after her older brother. Viserys had not left the best impression in Jon's mind, and he'd unconsciously come to attribute similar qualities to the dragon that became his namesake.
And yet… and yet, in that moment, as Viserion plummets like a rock, Jon feels as if a piece of him is being torn away, as if a piece of his heart has been ripped out of him. Worse… worse still, is the feeling that continues to spread through him. A near-certainty that mere death is not all that awaits his loyal dragon if he does nothing.
The death magic laced through the Ice Spear had certainly done its job of tearing through Viserion's insides. The dragon is dead even before it hits the ground, and there's no helping that. However, Jon can feel a secondary effect already at work. It's taking longer then it would otherwise, because of just how large and magic-laden a creature, Viserion is. What would take mere moments to work upon a human corpse, will take minutes to work on Viserion.
But… how is it that he can even see the Night King's necromantic magics at work so clearly within the dragon's body? How… no, Jon knows how, and he jolts into action the moment he realizes what he's missing.
The Night King is the God of Death and Darkness. He's attempting to use both of his Domains to pull Viserion over to his side, to turn the great dragon into his creature and make an undead revenant of his flesh. But he's struggling because Jon is unconsciously holding on. And Jon is holding on… because Viserion is HIS. Not just his dragon because Jon and Daenerys hatched them, or anything like that. But his in the way a loyal follower of a God belongs to that God.
For Jon is the last of the Dragon Gods. He is the inheritor of Old Valyria's Divine Essence. He is all that remains. And its long past time that he start fucking ACTING LIKE IT!
With a snarl, Jon reaches out and begins a tug of war with the Night King. With his feet planted firmly on the Wall, he is unassailable. Which puts him in the perfect position to hold back the God of Death and Darkness as he seeks to save Viserion. The dragon is dead, there's no doubt about that. But death… death is not the end. It is merely a new beginning.
As the Night King's necromantic energies war with Jon's divinity within Viserion's corpse, scales and flesh alike begin to fleck away from the dragon carcass. More and more of Viserion's bones are exposed, as the creature's essence is drawn away, towards the Wall. The Night King tries to stop him, but to Jon's great satisfaction, the older God is left clutching nothing but fragments, nothing but scraps.
In the end, there is no undead revenant to be made of Viserion's body. The dragon is stripped down to his bones, and then those too fade away without a flicker of the telltale blue of undeath every coming aglow in the eyes.
Meanwhile, Jon holds out a palm… and in it, Viserion's essence coalesces. When all is said and done, Jon holds in his hand a bright green dragon egg. Viserion Reborn, the cycle of life brought back around, the closest to resurrection that Jon could get.
The Night King had still scored quite the victory, destroying one of Jon's greatest allies, killing one of his dragons. But the shift in the battlefield that the older God had hoped to create does not materialize. Without an undead dragon of his own, Balerion and Rhaegal continue to enjoy aerial supremacy, dominating the skies with their majestic forms.
Of course, now Jon knows what the Night King is capable of. And the God of Death and Darkness has no reason not to try again, if only to remove another dragon from the battlefield, even if Jon has shown himself capable of saving them from the Night King's undead clutches.
As the older God whirls around towards the Corpse Queen again, Jon knows he must respond. He has an opportunity to strike here, while his enemies are distracted. The only problem is… who does he strike at? He is the God of Dragons… and Freedom. And it has become quite clear to him by this point, that the Corpse Queen is not Free. The Goddess of Ice and Frost is very clearly in the Night King's thrall, and not at all happy about it.
He might never have found that out, if he'd decided to take the fight to them. Even in the slim chance that he'd been able to win two-on-one, he would have likely forced the Corpse Queen into survival mode and forced her to fight to the death to protect herself, if nothing else. Tch… the only question now was, did he trust her?
In this moment, he could strike at the Night King… or he could strike at the Night King's control over the Corpse Queen. That collar around her neck seemed like a safe bet. He would be extending himself either way, but it was the only choice he had. Hanging back had been the right call at first, and the Army of the Living were WINNING against the Army of the Dead.
But if he kept hanging back, the Night King would likely fell his two remaining dragons, and force Jon to focus all of his divine might on keeping their souls and bodies out of the necromancer's hands.
No, this was his moment. But to strike at the Night King while his attention was turned to the Corpse Queen, or to strike at the Corpse Queen's collar? What if… what if the Goddess was a worse monster than even the Night King? Could Jon afford to unleash her without knowing where her loyalties would lie once she was freed?
Could he afford not to, on his foundation as a God of Freedom?
Only half a beat to decide… so whatever he chose, he needed to make it quick.
Battle for the Dawn Pt. 2
In the time between seconds, Jon makes his choice and strikes with utter confidence and absolute surety. To the mortal eye, Jon's attack takes the form of a massive gout of dragonfire, even larger and longer in breadth then anything his dragons have managed in the battle so far.
Reaching all the way from the top of the Wall to the ground upon which the Night King and Corpse Queen stand below, Jon's dragonfire roars, consuming everything in its path, slaughtering undead and White Walkers alike wherever it finds them. It is, after all, the conceptual attack of a god. They never stood a chance.
However, while the non-divine eye might see an awe-inspiring gout of dragonfire, reaching out to blanket the Night King and Corpse Queen in its flames, the truth is much more than that. On a far higher level, the dragonfire is only one aspect of the whole… just as the Night King's own response is.
As soon as Jon commits to his attack, the Night King's head whips back around to face him, a rictus of an evil grin spreading across the monstrous entity's face. The God of Death and Darkness had prepared another trap for Jon, and the swirling shadows leap up to defend him and the Corpse Queen from the dragonfire. The flames buffet the shadowy shield-like defense, at least as far as anyone who is not divine would see.
But at the same time, there is so much more to both of their actions. They simply operate on a different level from the armies fighting all around them on their behalf. Even as shadows and flame struggle against one another, the fire eating up the shadows but in turn being eaten up BY the shadows in a never-ending vicious circle, the concepts of Death and Freedom go to war as well.
… Or so the Night King intended. Jon can see what the God of Death and Shadow THOUGHT his enemy would do. He can see how the shield of shadow is in turn backed up by a much greater defense of Death. He had seemingly ready Jon quite well, and thought he knew what the other god would do. He had planned to capture Jon's Domain of Freedom, and kill it, right then and there.
Truly, god-to-god combat was on a whole other level. If he'd chosen to strike at the Night King, Jon's divinity would have been torn asunder. Defeat would not have been assured, they would have still had the Wall, but victory would have become increasingly improbable, and nigh-impossible. If he had struck at the Night King, he would have lost a part of himself, the part that sung for Freedom for all, the part that had long influenced him, even before he'd gone to Old Valyria and discovered his origins.
Luckily, Jon was never aiming for the Night King. The God of Death and Darkness, it would seem, held an overwhelming contempt for his 'ally'… and hadn't even thought to include her in the occasion. A massive oversight, to be sure, a lesson that gods were far from infallible. Jon already knew that for himself of course, but it was nice, to be able to shove it right back in the Night King's face mere minutes after the other god had brought down Viserion.
In a fake out of his own, as the dragonfire gout buffets across the Night King's shadowy shield, a single lance of pure, golden energy shoots through it, aiming not for the Night King as the other god expects… but for his companion. Specifically, for the collar locked tight around the Goddess of Ice and Frost's neck.
The concept of Freedom reaches for that clear and visible symbol of her enslavement, and Jon feels that if it were anything else, even another divine concept, it would wash across the collar like so much water, having no effect. The collar was a divine artifact in its own right, after all, made who knew how long ago, and constantly reinforced and empowered over millennia.
Indeed, Jon comes to realize just how lucky he is to have the Wall of his ancestor, Brandon the Builder, beneath his feet. He realizes just how NEW to all of this he truly is, as his attack, while successful… causes the thinnest crack in the collar, rather than obliterating it outright.
There is a beat of dead silence, in which a dew drop could have been heard, as all three gods pause for what might have been an eternity, or the barest fraction of a second. Jon can't help but hesitate, in seeing the ineffectiveness of what was, by all rights, an incredibly successful attack. Meanwhile, the Night King's inhuman glowing blue eyes start to widen, as he in turn realizes he was faked out by the nascent divinity that had placed itself against him.
The Corpse Queen's brow furrows, and Jon likes to think that the Night King's aura turns to panic. Certainly, thinking about it later, he'll definitely come to that conclusion. In the moment, he can't say for sure… until quite suddenly, the collar around the Corpse Queen's neck frosts over near the single small crack Jon's attack managed to make in it… and a moment later, shatters off of her throat entirely.
The Night King whips around towards the Goddess of Ice and Frost once more, but this time it is not in the manner of a slave owner yanking his slave's chain… but a panicked hunter-gatherer, realizing quite suddenly that he has placed himself next to a prowling shadowcat. Of course, to liken the Corpse Queen's immediate and entirely expected attack to a shadowcat lashing out with its claws would be a… gross understatement.
Jon can only watch, a slow satisfied grin spreading across his face, as the Night King is forced to fling himself away, both physically and metaphysically, as a swirling vortex of icy, windy power explodes out from the Corpse Queen, expanding in all directions in a growing orb around her.
She is angry. She has always been angry. She is of Winter, and Winter is crisp and cool at the best of times, while raging and furious most others. And the Night King chose to shackle that. He chose to collar that. He chose to command, control, and attempt to TAME that. Now, Jon couldn't quite say how long the Corpse Queen existed under the Night King's control. How long the icy, blue-skinned female Goddess with her crown of icicles had been collared.
But certainly, not long enough to tame her. Nor did Jon think there was ANY true length of time, in which a Goddess like this could be actually tamed.
The tide of the battle turns in an instant, as the Corpse Queen gives chase and begins to harry the Night King, regardless of where he flees to. At the same time, the effects of her freeing make themselves known throughout the fight between the Army of the Living and the Army of the Dead as well. Nascent divinity that he is, Jon need only Look to See what there is to See.
He Looks and takes in how the Night King utilized the Corpse Queen's ice and frost to empower his White Walkers and his Undead. How the cold seeped into the bones of the Dead, increasing their power, their speed, their longevity. Its even worse, for the White Walkers. One might call them the children of the God and Goddess, so interwoven into their being the Corpse Queen's power is.
But if that's the case, then the White Walkers as a whole are beings born of rape. And the Corpse Queen, Aspect of Winter that she is, holds no love or tender affection in her cold, frozen heart for any of them. For the Night King's Undead, this means they slow down immensely. They still move forward, shambling over each other to try and assail the Wall all along its length. There are… millions of them, by Jon's estimate.
But they are now scrambling, near-toothless things, slowed to a crawl and decaying rapidly in some cases as the cold within them is turned against them by the freed Corpse Queen's fury.
For the White Walkers, it's even worse. Their very essence is made up of both their 'parents'. And suddenly, half of what makes them possible very much doesn't want anything to do with them anymore. By and large, the commanders of the Night King's Army, his officers… tear themselves apart in a frenzy of howling screams. Perhaps a handful prove strong enough to pull together in the aftermath of the… mm, breakup. But even they cannot do anything but charge and fight and die against the Wall and the Army of the Living that defends it.
And it's not like any of them can flee either. Not even the Night King, God of Death and Darkness that he is, can flee. Through every fault of his own, he's trapped himself and his Army between a rock and a hard place. The Wall is an unassailable defensive structure, even for Gods… and at the Night King's back is the True North. A place of undeniable cold and frost, ice and winter.
If Jon had to wonder who came first, the answer is made increasingly obvious. Whatever dark hole the Night King had crawled out of, wherever the God of Darkness and Death had come from, in THESE lands at least, the Corpse Queen had been there first. Perhaps she was like the Old Gods, until the Night King came along and shackled her concepts and domains into a living body. Perhaps she was just minding her own business, when he showed up and enslaved her for thousands upon thousands of years.
Either way, she's free now, and the True North answers to HER call, not his. With all of his power, all of his divine might, concentrated here at the Wall, it's almost too easy for the Corpse Queen to call upon the might of Winter, and bring it crashing down from the North, down upon the Army of the Dead and the Night King… and down upon the Wall, as well.
Even Jon very nearly stumbles, as the Wall shakes from the Corpse Queen's fury. A handful of mortal men fall to their deaths at pretty much every fully manned fort the Wall has. The attack isn't even truly an attack, but merely a byproduct of the blow the Corpse Queen is dealing to the Night King and his Army. It's enough to tell Jon what he had feared was indeed reality.
This was not suddenly a two on one battle in his favor now that he'd freed the Corpse Queen from the Night King's control. This was a free for all. Winter was still coming… and Jon and his forces had to hold the line.
" HOLD THE LINE! WINTER COMES! BUNKER DOWN AND WEATHER THE STORM!"
His divine voice echoes all along the Wall, buffeting the mortals who fight for him, but also sees many of them to safety. Plenty were beginning to over-extend, seeing how slowed down the Dead were becoming and rushing forward to engage and put an end to the fighting once and for all. It was why so many had fallen off the massive fortification when the Corpse Queen's power struck it.
Now, they pull back. This does not give the Army of the Dead any ground… they no longer have the strength to truly assail the Wall. Instead, they find themselves in a meat grinder, the storms of Winter itself pasting them against the ancient fortification until there's not even bone left behind. All is turned to ash, that in turn mixes into the snow and icy ground below.
Meanwhile, after seeing as many of the defenders to relative indoor safety as possible, with the Wall's magical defenses protecting them to the best of its abilities, Jon focuses his divine senses once more on the Night King and the Corpse Queen… just in time to see the Corpse Queen put her hand right through her former enslaver's chest and damn near lift the Night King's physical form off the ground as she reaches out and tears his head clean off with a triumphant roar that sounds fiercer than the fiercest Winter Winds Jon has ever experienced.
At the same time, on the conceptual level… the Corpse Queen tears apart the Night King's concepts. His Domains of Death and Darkness… for a moment, Jon is afraid that he truly has unleashed something worse, as he recognizes the possibility for the Corpse Queen to consume these concepts and bring the Night King's Power over to herself.
It was what anyone with a human mentality would probably do. The chance to double your power? Even Jon would be greatly tempted. But no… no, the Goddess of Winter does not add Death and Darkness to her divinity. She shreds them, shreds the Night King down to his basest being… and before Jon's divine eyes, kills a God outright.
This does not, of course, end the concepts of Death and Darkness. People will still die, just as surely as they will live. Shadow will still exist, and darkness will still fall as day turns to night and then back again. But the God who laid claim to those concepts is, quite suddenly, no more.
As the Corpse Queen tosses the Night King's headless body to one side, she holds his head aloft and using her ferocious icy winds, rends it down to just the skull, sanding away all the flesh and skin and the eyes and nose, until there's nothing left but a horned, inhuman skull in her grasp.
She admires it for a moment, reminding Jon that she too is incredibly inhuman. And then… she looks to him. Directly at him, staring up at him as he stands upon the Wall. Even now, her winter storm buffets the Wall. If it were any other fortification, like say, Winterfell, it would already be gone, ground down to nothing beneath the sheer power behind these icy winds. Such is the fury of a Goddess unshackled.
But the Wall is made of sterner stuff and holds for now. And Jon finds himself facing down another choice. He might be divine now, but he started life as a human. Somehow, he doubted the Corpse Queen had done the same. No, it was far more likely that the Night King had forced the concept of Winter itself to take on a corporeal form and shackled it for his purposes.
That said, trying to treat with the Corpse Queen might end badly. It would almost certainly be better if Jon simply held the line here at the Wall until the Goddess grew weary and finally left. After all, she had all of the True North as her Domain. With the Night King no longer ruling her, she was free to do as she wished.
But at the same time… there was something to be said about having good relations with one's neighbors, was there not? And Jon, as much as he was born of the meddling of Dragon Gods, as much as he had his foundation in Freedom, was also a Child of the North. Winter sung through his blood.
… This was probably his horndog nature acting up, wasn't it? He was self-aware enough to know he had one, that he ended up bedding most of the women he met. They always enjoyed themselves, to be fair, but still…
Perhaps now was one of those scant few times where it was better if he kept it in his pants? Even if it ended up feeling like a missed opportunity down the line…
Lady Winter
In the end, he doesn't make the choice he makes JUST because he's a horndog. Really. That plays a part in it, sure, but also, he has a good reason for what he does! While staying on the Wall and enduring was a good choice for the mortal men and women under his command, doing so himself alongside them would be plain negligence and dereliction of his duty.
Even as defensible a structure as the Wall was, the bite of Winter would still manage to take its due from the mortals using the Wall as shelter. And Jon would be a craven and a coward if he did not do everything in his considerable power to offset that eventuality and alleviate the mortal deaths that would no doubt take place just from even a small amount of contact with the elements.
Put bluntly, he could sit back and be perfectly safe himself and lose an 'acceptable' amount of his people… or he could go down there, interface with the Corpse Queen directly, and distract her with his own presence to save some lives. Yeah, really, in the end, what he was doing was objectively selfless, when you actually thought about it.
And so, with his mind made up, Jon descends from atop the Wall. He briefly considers having his dragons come with him, but he wouldn't want them to face down the Night King alongside him, so why would he wish to risk them here as well? No, he tells them to take shelter as well, passing off Viserion's egg and then making his way to where the Corpse Queen waited in her corporeal form.
"Corpse Queen! I would treat with you!"
Her head twitches in an inhuman manner, her equally monstrous eyes focusing on him and narrowing as she hisses angrily.
NoT cORpse QuEEn.
Her voice, if one could even call it that, is decidedly grating on the senses… much like the winds of winter would grate away at an unprotected human being's flesh. Jon grimaces but nods his head in acknowledgment all the same. Obviously, Corpse Queen was something the Night King forced upon her. It was interesting, because Jon hadn't had to be told it. Not either of their names. He'd just gazed upon them and KNOWN who and what they were, what they represented.
For him to look at the Corpse Queen and know her to be the Corpse Queen, but for her to reject such a name… it spoke to the demonstrable vileness of what the Night King had done to her. He'd forced the name upon her, probably right alongside the collar, and done so with such emphasis that it had become stuck, a part of her that she couldn't get rid of.
"I see. Do you have a name for me to call you instead?"
A pause, as if she's studying him. Then, the grating voice comes back.
WiNTer.
Of course. How could he expect anything else? Smiling softly, Jon gives a proper bow and chuckles.
"Very well, my Lady Winter. If it pleases you, I-!"
That's when she lunges. He's able to catch her by her wrists and spin her, but the winds that buffet the both of them a moment later are hers to command. Jon's eyes widen, as she quite literally finds leverage in midair somehow, and manages to slam him backwards into the freshly fallen snow and then further still, into the ground. The snow around them puffs up in a large explosion and when it clears away, there is a crater there. A crater Jon lies in the center of.
He is not hurt… not until she extends her head forward and brings those sharp teeth down upon his shoulder, biting through his furs, through the armor he's wearing, and into divine flesh. Jon grunts, even as his hold on her wrists proves to not be quite as solid as he might have liked. No, rather… she's simply stronger than him, and no matter how hard he fights, she's able to bring her long claws down upon his chest, and sink them into his muscles as well.
Jon grimaces, wondering if he's made a mistake. Is this where he's devoured, just like the Night King? Has he foolishly thrown away his life, by coming down here to try out diplomacy with Winter itself? Fool that he may be, at least he has her attention fully on him now. And if she does… consume him, it should be enough to satiate her and get her to leave the Wall all the sooner, at least.
Except, as he lays there, trapped beneath the inhuman Goddess, her fangs buried in his shoulder and her claws in his chest… she does not move further. She does not tear out of him as she could, does not remove whole chunks of him. It's a bit awkward, but Jon is able to look her in the eye, to see her staring at him in turn.
Keeping her jaw latched firmly on his shoulder, Lady Winter pulls her claws out of his body… and rakes them down his front. But only enough to remove the pesky, pesky clothing in his way. Jon grunts as he's bared to the harsh elements. But while any mortal man might freeze his bits off in mere moments, Jon isn't just no longer mortal, he's a God of Dragons. And Dragons are their own personal furnaces, one and all.
Jon runs hot… VERY hot, and so even with the coldest winds of winter rushing across his now naked front, his cock is still throbbing, still warm along with the rest of them. Crouching atop him as she is, Lady Winter's claws rake along his chest, and her feet come up to wrap around his cock. Seriously? Jon can't help but stare at the… frankly inhuman Goddess, as she begins to stroke his throbbing, hot shaft with the soles of her blue feet.
She's cold, of course, but once again, he is a Dragon God. He's more than warmth enough for the both of them, and in fact, even as icy as she is, her cold is more stimulation than anything else. A new sensation, causing him to only get harder under her ministrations. All the while, she's still got her teeth buried in his shoulder, and still has her eyes fixated on his face.
"… You know, you could have just asked."
Though maybe not. Maybe she didn't see a way to ask. Maybe… maybe he was foolish for trying to ascribe any human sensibilities at all to her. She could speak, after a fashion. And she knew enough to know she hated her name. But those were probably all things forced upon her by the Night King. Which meant… this too was forced upon her by the Night King.
Jon grimaces at the realization of WHERE a primordial force of Winter might have learned rough, savage sex like this. The only reason it was consensual was because he was a horndog. But what the Night King had done to her… Jon assumed that very much was NOT consensual. Well, either way…
His hands come up and grab her hips, and Lady Winter goes still, eyes widening and teeth digging in a little harder in anticipation of some betrayal. But Jon just holds her, rubbing soothing circles into her sides with his thumbs, and stares at her with as open and welcoming an expression as he possibly can. When she sees that he's not going to do anything more to her, she starts moving again after a moment.
Apparently, she's done with her feet, because those come off of his cock. She moves her body a bit, shifting it sinuously and unnaturally down his form. Then, she finally pulls her fangs from his shoulder, without doing any more damage to him than she already had. Crouching over him, her legs bent at the knees and her feet planted on either side of him, Lady Winter lines herself up and promptly impales herself upon his cock.
The almost-human expression of surprise that spreads across her face as she does so takes Jon aback a little bit. His heat fills her cold sex, his throbbing member like a flickering campfire in the middle of the winter blizzard that is her icy body. No mortal would ever survive this sort of experience. But then to be fair, they likely wouldn't even manage to make it close enough to SEE her, before her divine winds flensed their flesh from their bodies and stripped them down to their bones.
Not for him. For him, he got to couple with Lady Winter directly. Or, as she'd introduced herself, just Winter. Shuddering atop his cock for a brief moment, the embodiment of Winter hisses through her fangs, soaked even now in his divine blood. Then… she begins to ride him.
At this, Jon cannot sit idly by, no matter what she might wish of him. He is not the God of Dragons and Laying About While The Woman Does All the Work, after all. He might have been, if he'd made different decisions in his life, if he'd been a lot lazier.
But no, he is the God of Dragons and Freedom. He could no more deny his true nature than she could hers, and the Domain of Freedom demands… demands he MOVE. And so, Jon thrusts up, his grip on Winter's hips tightening briefly as she gasps and her inhuman eyes flick down to him. But then he keeps doing it, fucking up into her harder and faster by the moment… and it proves to be the right call. She's enjoying it, the feel of his warm, hot rod pushing up into her.
Not that he likes to think of what she no doubt experienced under the yolk of the Night King, but Jon imagines that by comparison, he's a thousand times better than that monster ever could be. Certainly, she moans, even if it comes out sounding like a winter wail, as her cunt clenches down upon his shaft.
He's half-tempted to take the reins from her, to spin them over and put her on her back so he can fuck her properly… but in truth, Jon can tell that wouldn't be good, not for either of them. There are women in this world who want to be dominated, who want to be pushed down and fucked, and in some cases bred and kept by a handsome and powerful man such as himself.
Winter is not one of those women. To be fair, she is not human at all. In the end, she is a force of nature, and Jon must treat her as such. The Night King… what he'd done to her, in making her his Corpse Queen and controlling her for who knew how many thousands of years, had done enough damage. Jon refused to add to it.
And besides, he could do just as much from down here as he could from on top. Thrusting up into her from below, his grip on her hips tight even as she rides him hard and fast, hissing and moaning and wailing, Jon enjoys himself immensely. And the harder they go… the more intimate they become. Somehow, things go from rough and savage to almost gentle, as he finds himself sitting up.
Rather than turning the tables, he merely… augments the experience. They end up in the lotus position, a position Bellegere had actually shown him once upon a time. His legs are crossed, presenting a seat for Winter to take in his lap. Her ass bounces against his inner thighs as she rides his cock. Meanwhile, her own legs cross behind his waist… and her arms wrap around his neck, one forearm resting on the bite she'd made upon his shoulder.
Staring into her eyes, Jon… foregoes kissing her. One does not kiss Winter. They survive Winter. And so, he dips his head lower instead, to her breast, and licks and slurps at her beautiful blue chest, taking one nipple into his mouth after the other.
She enjoys that, Jon can tell, and so he keeps it up until he feels it… until he HEARS it. Winter throws her head back and positively screams as she climaxes upon his cock, hot with his dragon blood and throbbing inside of her. In turn, Jon grunts and thrusts up inside of her one last time before he, God that he is, pumps the Winter Goddess before him full to the brim with his seed. He fills and fills her… and likes to think he washes away the last tidbits of taint left behind by the Night King from within her in the process.
Of course, he doesn't get a chance to ask how she's feeling. As quickly as it all happens, Winter is gone. The Goddess retreats from him so fast that he barely catches a glimpse of her as she disappears to the North, flying away. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she was embarrassed. But a Goddess like her? No, someone like her didn't feel embarrassed.
Still, at the very least Jon could be sure of one thing. Winter had cum, heh.
-x-X-x-
Returning to the Wall without clothes might have been difficult, if he weren't a God. As it is, he sees no one that he does not want to see, before reaching the place he wants to reach. Stepping inside of the room, Jon gazes at the sight before him in… mild amusement. Daenerys, his beautiful Queen, smirks as she gazes at him with lidded eyes and rosy cheeks.
"Hello, my King. We were just… warming up."
Heh. Jon's eyes dip down to the shapely backside in front of Daenerys, where the 'Wildling Princess' Val is currently on her hands and knees, eating the Mother of Dragons out. Then, his eyes dart over to the moaning, squirming form of Ygritte, the Queen Upon the Wall currently tied up in some Yi Tish silks rather expertly, from the look of things.
At Jon's raised, amused brow, Daenerys happily explains.
"Ygritte over there challenged me to a little competition for just who would get to have your company first, when you finally got back. She seemed to think that because I have not spent quite as much time as her in these frozen lands, that I would be easy. She wanted us to see who could make the other cum first, fastest, and most frequently."
Smirking, Jon's Queen shrugs her shoulders as if to say 'what can you do?'.
"Needless to say, I won. Mm, but now I wonder… should I take first go, or gift it to Val here? I heard that Ygritte declared Val would not get a proper fucking until the Dead were defeated and the White Walkers slain. But that's been done now, hasn't it?"
"Nnngh!"
Ygritte's muffled denial makes Daenerys snicker. Daenerys is right after all, but clearly Ygritte didn't want Val to get fucked in this manner. No, she probably would have preferred to be in Dany's place, making the other Free Folk woman submit to her as her Queen before allowing Val to take Jon's dick. Alas, it sounded like Ygritte had made her challenge and lost. And Jon… Jon was still quite hard.
Still, part of him just wanted to bury himself in Daenerys instead, in this moment. And from the twinkle in her eyes, he could tell that his beloved Queen, his khaleesi, his Mother of Dragons, wouldn't mind one bit if he decided to do so. It was up to him… as it always was.
Val the Wildling Princess
Maintaining eye contact with Daenerys the entire time, Jon begins to remove his furs and leathers. Piece by piece, garment by garment, the God-King strips naked, revealing every last inch of his perfect, divine form. Needless to say, as he does so, Daenerys can't keep her eyes on HIS face like he's doing with her. No, her eyes roam and they roam constantly, her tongue darting out to lick at her lips, before ultimately, she bites the lower one in anticipation and need.
Still, she doesn't change her mind. She doesn't beg him to fuck her, doesn't toss Val away. She leaves the choice in Jon's hands, and Jon… Jon already knows what he's going to do. And so, he moves in… and kneels behind Val. He seizes ahold of the Wildling Princess' wide hips, noting not for the first time how perfect they are for the purposes of childbearing. As he grips down on them, Val jolts in response, before wiggling in excitement.
Reaching down, he takes ahold of his cock with one hand and guides it to Val's glistening wet slit, running the bulbous head of his member up and down her pussy lips with intent, building both suspense and anticipation. Of course, he's not just going to fuck her, no matter how enticing the situation. And so, still maintaining eye contact with Dany, Jon speaks, though his words aren't meant for the Mother of Dragons, but rather the Wildling Princess betwixt her legs.
"Is this what you want, Val? For me to fuck a baby into you? For me to knock you up, to get you with child as I did the woman in front of you, and as I've likely done with your Queen?"
Daenerys, understanding precisely what he's doing in that moment, smirks. While she doesn't loosen her grip on Val's hair, she does yank the other woman's head back, giving her leave to gasp and pant for air as well as deliver her response. Jon doesn't have to wait long, to be fair.
"Y-Yes!"
It's a credit to how… in tune with one another he and his khaleesi are, that Daenerys doesn't just assume that's the end of it and shove Val back down. The Wildling Princess tries to go, tries to return her tongue to the violet-eyed Queen's snatch, but Daenerys holds her fast via that grip on her hair, sniffing haughtily in turn while Val whines pitifully. Jon smirks, plying her folds with his tip, pushing ever so slightly into her… and then stopping again.
"Then beg, Val of the Free Folk. Beg for my cock. Beg for my seed. Beg for the privilege of bearing my children."
The Free Folk had fought alongside Jon and his forces and held the Wall. And he would not forget that fact. But he also had no intention of forgetting that they'd slain the Night's Watch, ending an institution that had stood for thousands upon thousands of years. He had very nearly been a brother of the Night's Watch, once upon a time, long, long ago.
Still, he would give them credit for staying and fighting, for taking the Wall and fortifying it and preparing for the Army of the Dead and Damned, rather than simply continuing to flee South. If they had kept going, if they had invaded the North and beyond, they likely would have ruined any chance the Living had of fending off the Night King and his White Walkers. He and his army would have arrived at an undefended Wall and swept over it without pause, and no other defense in all of Westeros would likely have been strong enough to stop the darkness.
At the same time, they were fools. Not for standing and fighting, they'd done the right thing there… but for acting as if they had any position to negotiate from a position of strength with him in the first place. Honestly, they were lucky he was a benevolent god. Jon understood that their very nature was contrarian, that they were rebellious to the core, and as a God of Freedom, he felt something of an obligation to support their version of it… to an extent.
However, as he kneels there behind Val of the Free Folk, palming her hips and ass cheeks and nudging into her sopping wet folds with his cock, Jon waits. Because he has all the time in the world, and they all know that Val… Val will break.
"… P-Please! Please fuck me with your big fat cock! Fill me with your seed! Knock me up! Breed me! I want it! I want to carry your children, Your Majesty!"
A glance to Ygritte shows the red head watching in wide-eyed silence, not even trying to speak through her gag anymore. This much, it would seem, was enough to satisfy any further desire she might have had to see Val humiliate or degrade herself. But at the same time, Jon liked to think the Wildling Queen was smart enough to realize Val wasn't just degrading herself in this moment… she was degrading their people as a whole.
Jon thrusts forward into Val from behind, burying his entire length into her cunt. In the same moment, Daenerys drags Val back into her pussy, grinding the Wildling Princess' face right back into her quim. It's funny… out of most of the women Jon has interacted with, Val went the longest from first meeting to getting impaled upon his throbbing, meaty member.
Indeed, all those weeks ago, back in Winterfell… Jon had admired her resolve. But said resolve hadn't lasted long, now, had it? In the end, here she was all the same, face buried in his Queen's cunt, snatch filled with his cock, getting fucked from behind while eating out his khaleesi. All was exactly as it should be. The Wildling Princess, brought low by Jon's cock and Dany's cunt. The Wildling Queen, tied up and gagged in the corner, forced to watch. And Jon and Daenerys Targaryen, ascendant and returned at last to their respective home.
Jon fucks Val long and hard, through multiple squealing orgasms on the part of the Wildling Princess. Of course, most of them are quite muffled by Daenerys' quim, the beautiful Mother of Dragons throwing her head back and letting out a wanton moan of her own, as she bucks her hips into Val's face, climaxing once or twice herself.
In the end though, it can only really go one way. With one last thrust and a grunt, Jon slams forward and spills his seed inside of Val, filling the Free Folk woman to the brim and then some with his cum. Needless to say, there's no doubt that Val will be pregnant with his child soon enough. He is a God after all, he can make sure of these things.
Speaking of… pulling out of her, Jon doesn't hesitate to pull her away from Daenerys' quim. Seeing this, the Mother of Dragons smiles and lets go of Val's hair, allowing him to do so. Setting her to the side to rest, Jon moves to take her place. One hand goes around the back of Daenerys' head, and the other goes to her hip. His cock, meanwhile, replaces Val's tongue right then and there as he slides up inside of his Queen, his khaleesi… the mother of his child.
Daenerys, for her part, gasps and then moans quite wantonly, eyes fluttering as she bucks her hips into him in response. She does squeak, however, when he lifts her up into the air a moment later, forcing her to rapidly wrap her limbs around him and cling to him for dear life. The result is that she falls down the length of his cock far faster, and Jon grins as she lets out an even more wanton moan right into his ear.
"… J-Jerk."
For a moment, Jon is reminded of how Daenerys was when they first met. All that time ago, when he'd come upon her and her brother in Pentos, at that wedding to the Dothraki Warlord, Khal Drogo. She'd been so young back then. He was just as young, to be fair. Time had made something of them both. Regardless, she'd also been so very fragile, back then.
She'd done a lot of maturing in the time since, they both had. She wasn't that fragile, fearful girl anymore, though for a brief moment, she reverts. But then Queen Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, comes back and she's using her grip on his shoulders and waist to begin bouncing on his cock, even though he's the one holding HER aloft.
Chuckling, Jon begins to help out, his hands cupping his Queen's pale ass cheeks. He thrusts up into her as she rides him, fucking her deeply and swiftly without fail. They have an audience, but in that moment, neither Jon nor Daenerys care anything about that. No, in that moment it's all about the two of them and nobody else. Ygritte has been neutralized and lost her challenge to his Queen besides. Val has been seeded, given what she wanted, and has no cause for complaint.
In this moment, the world shrinks down until they and they alone are all that exists in front of the other. Staring into Daenerys' eyes, Jon wonders for the first time what he's going to do about her entirely mortal life span. He, as a God, will live for a lot longer than her… unless he does something to change that.
Something to think about, to be sure. Something to consider, once peace has been had. Once Westeros is theirs, once they sit as King and Queen of this land… then Jon can concern himself with making something new out of something old, perhaps.
For now, he satiates himself with his Queen's body and fills her with his seed, impregnating Daenerys for a second time right then and there. He doesn't need to ask her as he made sure to ask Val, nor does he need to make her beg. They both know she would gladly do so if he demanded it of her… and that, in and of itself, is enough for him.
-x-X-x-
Leaving the Wall behind, Jon and his armies had returned to Winterfell, where it became time to plan their next move. In his Uncle's office, Jon found himself considering his options, a map of Westeros with the most up to date information they had right in front of him.
This time, he is alone to make his decision. But that does not mean the words of his advisors, from all that time ago back in Volantis, do not still ring in his ears. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Westeros, as a whole, has moved at a glacial pace in the time Jon has been busy up in the North.
While he was fighting undead and defeating the Night King, the rest of Westeros was carefully maintaining their status quo… to an extent. The most recent reports revealed that there were forces on the move, but even still, they were taking their time, treating it like a game of cyvasse, rather than the knife fight that Jon personally saw it as.
All of the major players from last time were still secure in their positions. Yara Greyjoy still ruled as Lady Reaper of Pyke in the Iron Islands. Cersei Lannister still reigned as Lady Lannister in the Westerlands, continuing to prop up her daughter as the rightful heiress to the Iron Throne to anyone who would listen. No one was, of course.
However, on top of no one listening, there were apparently reavers on the Westerlands' shores. Iron Island ships were beginning to raid up and down the coast of the Westerlands, clearly sensing weakness and a fat bounty to be had. Cersei and Myrcella sat pretty up in Casterly Rock for now, yes… but how much longer, was still in question.
Meanwhile, the Faith Militant still 'ruled' in King's Landing, though the latest reports revealed that their so-called High Sparrow had been assassinated, much in the same way he'd had the former High Septon killed. The city was falling into a dark place from what Jon could tell. Both the mundane reports he had received… and his own divine senses, were telling him nothing good was happening there.
It was still the seat of the Seven, the Pantheon of Gods and Goddesses that had destroyed his predecessors in Old Valyria a few centuries ago. His purpose, if the shades of Balerion and Meraxes were to be believed, was to destroy the Seven in turn, and take his revenge. However, gazing upon them from afar… all he saw was darkness. Not the same dark cold that he got when he'd gazed North while the Night King still lived, but a different sort of darkness. One of blood… despair.
At the same time, the Faith Militant had enough of a hold on King's Landing to still make moves elsewhere, it seemed. While Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother still lived, their hold on Highgarden and Old Town was apparently more tenuous by the day. Whether the Tyrells even still ruled or not was up in the air. Instead, all of Jon's reports spoke of another name… Tarly.
And yet, this Tarly would not be able to rest on his laurels for long. Not with the Faith Militant sending their ramshackle 'army' to 'purge' the sinners and heretics from Highgarden. Apparently, they were going to pull the roses up by the root personally.
All the while, a certain Princess Martell continued sitting pretty down in Dorne. If she was planning on making any moves, Arianne Martell hadn't decided the time was right just yet. No, rather, she was definitely still biding her time, taking it slowly, and watching carefully for her moment. A schemer, if Jon had ever seen one. And perhaps that made it better to take care of her sooner, rather than later.
He'd just finished a war, and from the look of things, his would-be subjects were intent on starting up a handful more to take its place. Not that those in the South even knew what they'd nearly lost it all too. Tch, if Jon wanted them to understand what he'd done for them, he'd unfortunately have to go to them, one by one, and show them directly.
Even still, it would seem like his time putting out fires was far from done. The only question was, which fire would he move to deal with next?
Lady Margaery Tyrell
"My Lady, we must consider our options. The Faith Militant press closer to Highgarden by the day, and I cannot guarantee the army will stand in their way."
… House Tyrell had certainly seen better days; Margaery can't help thinking as Randyll Tarly's words wash over her. Down to just her and her grandmother, with even her mother taken by suicide, Margaery Tyrell was indisputably Lady of Highgarden. She could also, ostensibly, still come to be known as Lady Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South. Her father's old titles, both of them.
Though, that particular pipe dream was becoming less and less likely by the day, wasn't it? She would need a properly established Monarch to grant her such rights. Given the lack of precedent, and the fact that there'd never been a Lady Paramount, nor a female Warden before now, she would never survive trying to claim those titles on her own.
Especially when such… naked ambition would almost immediately cause the betrayal of the man standing in front of her. Lord Randyll Tarly of House Tarly, said to be the Reach's last great military commander. For now, he was loyal to her and House Tyrell, at least on the surface. But Margaery knew why that was. She knew what he wanted.
Of course, she doesn't let any of her true thoughts show on her face. Back straight, hands folded in her lap, a calm and soft smile on her lips, Margaery Tyrell sits regally, still a young beauty that draws the eye with her comely features and altogether soft demeanor. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be Queen. But alas… things did not always work out as one might expect, or even have wanted.
Keeping her tone as soft as her features, gentle yet questioning, Margaery tilts her head ever so slightly to the side.
"You… cannot guarantee that the army will stand in their way, Lord Tarly? Do the men no longer hold loyalty to House Tyrell?"
In his defense, the noble has the good grace to at least look offended on her behalf, as he grimaces and shakes his bald head.
"I'm afraid that the soldiers are… torn between their loyalty to the Seven, and their loyalty to you, my Lady."
Unfortunately for Randyll Tarly, Margaery sees right through him. He might be an old hand at leading men into battle, but he's still relatively unpracticed when it comes to politics. He's an ambitious old goat, but one that has only seen the opportunities in front of him more recently. The way he's trying to steer this conversation is like that of a child slowly trying to weasel his way into a dessert.
Alas, Margaery cannot just turn him away. And she feels as if day by day, they get closer and closer to her being forced to give him what he wants, no matter the… unsubtle methods he uses to push her in the direction he wants her to go. Still, his most recent words provoke an actual, honest reaction in her, as Margaery finds her lip curling back in a sneer, her eyes growing flinty as she leans forward.
"The Faith Militant are NOT the Seven. They are heretics and blasphemers who slew the High Septon as well as my father and brother. I'm told they've even killed their vaunted High Sparrow, in recent times! There should be no question that they pervert the Faith of the Seven with every breath they take!"
A hand on her arm is the only thing that finally calms Margaery down. Just under the table, her grandmother reaches out from beside her and touches her gently, but firmly. Surprised by the sudden contact, Margaery shoots her grandmother a look for a moment.
Lady Olenna Tyrell has not visibly moved from her position beside her. The old woman has never looked more her age, sitting there seemingly in her dotage, staring out the window that currently constitutes the room's source of natural light. Known for her wit and sarcasm, they called her the Queen of Thorns. These days though, Margaery knew the whispers had turned more… insulting. These days, Olenna was known as the Withered Rose.
Regardless, Lord Tarly cannot see her grandmother's hand beneath the table, and while his eyes do follow Margaery to Olenna, he looks… almost pityingly at the old woman, before turning his gaze back to the young Lady Tyrell. Indeed, the pity remains in his face… even if it doesn't feel at all real, as he dips his head in apology.
"I know that my Lady, and you know that. Of course. But… the men do not know that. They only know what they've been told. The rumors about you continue to persist to this day, and with you refusing to take on a husband, the rumors only grow…"
And there it is. They've finally gotten to the heart of the matter. Lord Randyll Tarly saw an opportunity for advancement for his House. He saw an opportunity to usurp House Tyrell. And frankly, if these weren't such strange times, Tarly would probably have already replaced Tyrell as Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South. If there was a King sat upon the Iron Throne in King's Landing, Margaery didn't doubt that she would have already been usurped, and bloodlessly at that.
Only the lack of any discernable Monarch had kept House Tyrell in power despite losing all of its male claimants. Well, that and all of Margaery's incredible efforts to that effect. It wasn't as though she'd been idle, not by any stretch of the imagination. Unfortunately, even her best was steadily proving to be just not good enough…
"The words the Faith Militant would peddle about me are lies one and all. They killed my father and brother and made up sick, terrible lies about them as well. And now good Reachmen are allowing similar lies about their liege to worm into their ears? You HAVE told them these are falsehoods, have you not?!"
Margaery doesn't let herself get shrill, but she does allow her voice to be raised just enough to get her point across. And once more, Randyll Tarly has the good grace to pretend to be contrite and offended on her behalf, even bowing his head to her in response.
"Of course, my Lady. But that does not change the situation we find ourselves in. The Faith Militant, heretics though they might be, believe they fight with the backing of the Seven. They come down the Roseroad even now and have apparently passed Bitterbridge. They will be to us within a fortnight, and there's not much I can do about that. Not unless…"
Here, he trails off purposefully. Once again, such ham-fisted politicking that its enough to make Margaery's skin crawl. It takes quite a bit of effort to keep how much disdain she feels for Lord Tarly's childish attempts from her face. In the end, she can't afford to just ignore his leading words. She has to keep him on side and engaged in his duties, or all truly IS lost.
"Unless what, Lord Tarly?"
Like a kitten pouncing on a much bigger cat, Randyll leans forward.
"A proper marriage would solidify the army's loyalty, my Lady. My son, Dickon, is of the right age. House Tarly has ever been loyal to House Tyrell. Show the Reach that that loyalty is recognized. Marry Dickon, and I can secure the loyalty of every Reachman from here to Sunflower Hall."
It takes everything Margaery has not to scoff. Such a… one track mind, Lord Tarly. Unfortunately, she cannot rebuke him nearly as sternly as she wants to. As flimsy as House Tyrell's position is, Margaery can only ever be gentle in her denials.
"… We've had this conversation before, Lord Tarly…"
And indeed, they had. Margaery had made her position quite clear, for all that Tarly had continued to push for it all the same. She knew that eventually she would have to get married. But Margaery Tyrell was no fool. If she married while the Reach was still in this state of turmoil and flux, while the Faith Militant was bearing down on their heads and threatening to ravage the lands, then she might as well have handed herself over to the Reach giftwrapped in a bow.
There would be no reason for her new husband to keep her, once they'd married. By right, he would become the new Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South. He would have the ability to supplant House Tyrell as the ruling House of Highgarden, as Tyrell in turn had done to the Gardeners so many centuries before.
The worst case scenario would be that the Faith Militant proved to be too strong and ultimately her new husband, likely Dickon Tarly in this hypothetical, handed her over to appease them. But even the best case scenario, if Margaery wed too early, would be that her new husband would garner all the glory for pushing the Faith Militant out of Reach lands.
In either case, House Tyrell would fall to the wayside. It would not be Dickon Tarly marrying into House Tyrell, with Margaery ruling Highgarden, but her marrying into House Tarly, with Dickon taking over as Lord of the Reach.
That… that she could not allow. Which was precisely why Margaery had made her excuses, continually claiming that she would only marry once the lands were no longer besieged. If she could just hold off until the Faith Militant were removed from the Reach entirely, then she could claim their removal was the work of House Tyrell and its vassals… and she wouldn't even be lying all that much. Then and only then would Margaery marry, though if she could avoid it, she would prefer to marry a weaker-willed man than Dickon Tarly. Someone she could keep in check…
"We have, my Lady… but unfortunately, I believe the situation has changed. Desperate times call for desperate measures."
Lord Tarly's response sends a jolt through Margaery's spine, her eyes widening for a moment before she gets her reaction under control. It's not just the words he uses, but the way he says it. Solemn, with a sense of finality. She realizes, staring at the balding military commander, that he's not just going to accept a gentle rebuke this time around. He's not going to let her weasel out of this. Somehow, the political novice has caught her in a trap…
Margaery opens her mouth… and then closes it again, unsure what to say. She needs a moment to think. No, more than that, she needs a moment alone with her grandmother. However, before she can formulate a way to request that without giving the game away, something else happens. The door to the room is suddenly swung open, and the man they'd just been chatting about comes barging in, panting and out of breath. Dickon Tarly looks to have run all the way here, and in armor at that.
"F-Father! Banners, in the d-distance!"
Whipping around, Randyll Tarly's eyes widen and his hands clench into fists.
"What?! The Faith Militant is here already?! That's not possible!"
Shaking his head side to side, Dickon continues to catch his breath.
"N-No, father. They… it's the Starks. And the Targaryen King! And… they have… dragons!"
Margaery can't hide her shock at those words, her entire carefully crafted demeanor coming crashing down at Dickon's report. She knows she's staring, open-mouthed at the boy, but she can't help it. Fortunately, Lord Tarly is just as shocked as she is by this new information.
"What… that's… no, impossible!"
"I saw it with my own eyes, father!"
Dickon looks stricken. A big, strong, strapping young lad, Margaery couldn't help but find there to be a lot to like about the man. If things were different, she would actually be happy to marry him. But in this moment… it's clear he's afraid. Meanwhile, Randyll is forced to either continue denying it and call his son and heir a liar or face the facts.
He wrestles with it for a moment, and while he does so, another light touch on Margaery's arm catches her attention. Jolting, the young Lady of Highgarden realizes precisely what she has to do in that moment.
"Lord Tarly!"
Putting on her most authoritative voice, Margaery catches Randyll Tarly's attention, forcing him to look at her. She is still in charge here, technically, and there's only one reasonable response to the news Dickon has brought.
"You will not engage the Starks in battle unless they attack first. Fly a flag of truce and see if they and the Targaryen King wish to parley. I will be happy to meet with them, in these trying times."
Even as much of a child at political maneuvering as Randyll Tarly is, he's at least smart enough to recognize an opportunity slipping through his fingers when he sees one.
"My Lady, I'm not sure-"
"You have your orders, Lord Tarly. Please, carry them out."
It's the first time she's ever cut him off. The first time she's felt like she could get away with it, truth be told. His son is in the room after all, looking back and forth between the two of them, still in a panic. And it's obvious, at least to someone of her political acumen, that Randyll Tarly hasn't fully explained his plans to Dickon.
In the end, Tarly the Elder is forced to bow at the waist.
"As you command, my Lady."
And with that, he and Dickon take their leave, ostensibly to negotiate a meeting under truce between her and… and the Targaryen King. Margaery swallows thickly. She doesn't know much about Jon Snow. Not nearly as much as she would have liked. But she knows one thing… he's a better option than the ones she has in front of her right now. Still…
"Grandmother…"
In an instant, Lady Olenna Tyrell transforms. From staring almost vacantly out the window in Lord Tarly's presence, the old woman suddenly straightens her back, eyes flashing with that same barbed intelligence she'd always been known for as she looks over at Margaery with thinned, cracked lips. The Withered Rose was anything but… a fabrication that they'd concocted to keep Margaery's many enemies from seeing fit to assassinate Olenna and leave her without any support.
"This is your one and only opportunity, child. You must be ready to seize it with both hands."
Margaery inhales sharply at that, glad to hear her own thoughts echoed back by her sharp as a whip grandmother. Still, she is not without her doubts.
"He does not sit upon the Iron Throne yet. What if he fails to secure it?"
Shaking her head, Olenna smirks ever so slightly.
"The boy is smarter than I would have thought. King's Landing is a cesspit that sucks in all who enter it. He will have to go there eventually, to put an end to the madness that pervades it if nothing else… but he made the right call, coming here instead. The Reach has ever been Westeros' breadbasket, and I don't imagine he found much in the way of supplies for his armies in the North, for all that his landing there was sentiment."
Then, Olenna's face takes on a sharpened look to it once again.
"However, that he has come down from the North now, with the Starks on side and even stronger than before… means he has not yet suffered defeat. He will be confident… perhaps overly so, but he will also be strong. You must approach him as only a Rose can, my dear granddaughter. Entice him with your beauty, but do not let him think you are without thorns. Still, in the end you must bend the knee to him and no other. HE is the only one who can secure House Tyrell's claim to Highgarden."
Margaery swallows thickly, even as she slowly nods.
"… I've heard tell that he has a harem from Essos. That he has more children than any Targaryen King we've had in generations."
Humming at that, her grandmother slowly nods.
"You're considering seducing him? Perhaps… perhaps that is the way forward. I can only advise you, child. You are not like your father, who needed to be more… directly led. In the end, I trust you to make the right choice. Whatever that might be."
That gets an explosive exhale from Margaery, her grandmother's vote of confidence feeling amazing but also like a punch to the gut, all at once. Still, there was no denying that their fortunes had just changed.
Whether it was for the better or worse remained to be seen…
Lady Margaery Tyrell Pt. 2
As she'd hoped, the Starks and the Targaryen King had not simply rushed into the Reach ahead of the Faith Militant for the chance at attacking and ransacking Highgarden first. Indeed, Margaery had been right to order Lord Tarly to fly a flag of truce. The parley had been arranged within a day, and now here she stood, escorted by an honor guard along with Lord Tarly to a tent outside of Highgarden.
On the one hand, she might have preferred to receive the Targaryen King and his retinue as visitors to her Court. One might have thought it would give her an advantage in the coming negotiations. They would be wrong. If she'd invited the Targaryen King into Highgarden but NOT pledged her loyalty on the spot and granted him her Castle to use as he liked for as long as he wished, she would have been damaging her own foundations, perhaps even enough to cause the house of cards she was currently managing to finally teeter over entirely.
Her position was not nearly secure enough to risk insulting the Targaryen King. But neither did she want to just roll over and submit without certain concessions first. Hence, this meeting on ostensibly neutral ground outside of Highgarden. She had her soldiers with her, and the Targaryen King had his… but to be fair, they all knew it was a polite fiction.
Margaery had caught glimpses of the dragons, as they'd made their way down from the Castle. It was impossible not to, the creatures were utterly massive. They were bigger than she could ever have imagined, and as they said, seeing was believing. Lady Margaery Tyrell had no problem believing that those three dragons could lay waste to not just Highgarden but the whole of the Reach, if they needed to.
That the Targaryen King hadn't started with the Fire and Blood his family was known for was also a good sign. But then, to be fair… he was only tangentially Targaryen, wasn't he? He'd started life as Jon Snow and grown up under the eyes of the Starks. Winter was in his blood even with the truth of his parentage, if the reports were to be believed. His father might have been a dragon, but his mother had been a wolf. And he… he was something else entirely.
"Presenting Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, Presumptive Lady Paramount of the Reach, Presumptive Warden of the South."
Margaery can't help but straighten up a little bit as she's announced. Stepping into the room, a small smile graces her features at the face that the Targaryen King is allowing her. She hadn't asked for it, after all… hadn't dared. For him to declare her the Presumptive to both of her father's former titles without them even sitting down to talk however… that spoke well of her chances.
Indeed, beside her Lord Tarly bristles a little bit, but stays quiet. Margaery has not failed to notice that her men are his men, in this moment. Her honor guard, the men who are ostensibly here to keep her safe, all answer to Lord Tarly. Which wouldn't be a problem seeing as he was supposed to answer to her, but Margaery didn't doubt that if he decided to stop answering to her… his men would follow.
Still, this is her opportunity to fix everything, and solidify her family's place as the stewards of not just the Highgarden but the whole of the Reach for generations to come. If the Targaryen King was- oh… he's rather handsome.
She doesn't let it show on her face, but her mind does do a little bit of a stutter step as she finally lays eyes on the man. He's younger than she expected, despite knowing he was close to her in age. But there's also something about him… something almost otherworldly.
Blinking, she shakes herself ever so slightly to clear her mind, even as she continues to walk forward, ultimately coming to sit down at the table where the King is already seated. To his right is his Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, and when Lord Tarly sits down to Margaery's right, she can't help but stiffen just a little bit. Alas, she's not in a position to say or do anything about it.
Before Lord Tarly can say anything, Margaery makes sure to speak up first, even if it might be rude to do so instead of letting the Targaryen King have the first word. She just… wants to get out in front, so to speak.
"Your Grace. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, and an honor to have you here in Highgarden. On behalf of House Tyrell… and indeed all the Reach, we welcome you."
The way he looks at her, the would-be King without a Throne… it sends a shiver down Margaery's spine. It's like he can see right through her, and she's very much not used to feeling like that. Not ever. Still, he smiles slightly and inclines his head in acknowledgment of her words.
"The pleasure is mine, Lady Tyrell. You have beautiful lands. I would hate to see anything happen to them. As such, you might be pleased to know that my armies have stopped the advance of the Faith Militant. We managed to stop them from crossing the Mander River and have fortified the town of Bitterbridge against their advance."
For a moment, Margaery just smiles and nods as she assimilates this information. Then, her mind catches up with what she's saying, and her smile freezes on her face. Wait…
Beside her, Lord Tarly also seems to catch up with what the Targaryen King has just said, and how it pertains to what HE told her a day before. Shifting in his armor, the Reach's Military Commander finally seems to realize he needs to say something.
"Our own scouts reported that the Faith Militant had already made it past Bitterbridge and were closing in on Highgarden by the day."
Eyes flicking over to the older man, the Targaryen King raises a single brow, before offering a gracious smile.
"Perhaps your scouts were mistaken or misinformed. Perhaps they mistook my forces for the Faith Militant. I assure you, Bitterbridge still stands, and the Mander remains uncrossed."
Bristling at being corrected, even gently, Lord Tarly scowls openly now.
"You would have us believe that you have enough men to hold both the Mander AND arrive at Highgarden in force?"
Though she remains silent, Margaery is forced to admit that that's a fairly good point. The army outside of Highgarden, not even counting the three dragons, is considerable. And yet…
"Yes."
The Targaryen King's answer is succinct and to the point, and holds not an ounce of deceit, as far as Margaery can tell. That doesn't stop Randyll Tarly from bristling even more, however. Before the man can speak again and potentially ruin everything, either on purpose or by sheer pigheaded stubbornness, Margaery steps in.
"I am prepared to bend the knee, Your Grace."
That gets his attention, as well as the attention of Lord Tarly. But Margaery plows right ahead, not hesitating for even a moment.
"I'm sure you've heard all sorts of rumors about me and my ambitions… but the truth is, I have no desire to be Queen… not anymore. My one and only desire is to see Highgarden rebuild from the losses we've suffered these past few years. For that to happen, for Highgarden and House Tyrell to be born anew… we need allies. And unfortunately, we are beset on all sides by enemies."
As Margaery falls silent, Lord Tarly takes the opportunity to lean in close to her and speak.
"My Lady, I am not sure…"
But Margaery holds up a hand to cut him off. She wishes she had her grandmother with her, but the old woman in her dotage that Olenna Tyrell is feigning being right now would not come to a meeting such as this outside of Highgarden's walls. In order to keep up the charade and in turn keep Olenna alive, Margaery had been forced to leave her behind.
Still, she cuts Lord Tarly off and keeps her eyes solely on the young King in front of her. He's her age… and yet, Margaery doesn't doubt that his experiences outstrip her by quite the wide margin. He's not hesitating in the face of her admissions, but rather looking at her with a knowing, almost pitying smile.
"Your humility does you credit, Lady Tyrell. The relationship between the Starks and the Tyrells might have never been particularly tight purely for geographic reasons, but the relationship between the Targaryens and your House has ever been a close one. I would be happy to accept your pledge, and to welcome Highgarden into my Court. What would you need, for that to happen?"
Margaery doesn't hesitate. If she did, she's sure Randyll Tarly would try to get another word in edgewise.
"First and foremost, the Faith Militant must be removed from our lands. The people of the Reach have suffered enough. We will not have heretics claiming to be divine vessels of the Seven harming our subjects any further."
Smiling, the King inclines his head in easy acknowledgment of that point. Behind Margaery, she hears the slight shifting of her honor guard. Tarly men they might be one and all… but they were also Reachmen. That was why she had made a point to see to THEIR most pressing concerns right away.
"Secondly, that House Tyrell and our place here in the Reach is reaffirmed by Your Grace, both now and after you've retaken the Iron Throne and reunited the Kingdoms of Westeros under your banner once more."
Chuckling at that, the Targaryen King nods again.
"Of course. Though I must admit, I'm a little surprised by your surety that I will succeed."
Resisting the urge to snort in an unladylike manner, Margaery settles for giving him a dry look instead.
"I've seen your dragons, Your Grace. I have no doubt you'll succeed, as your ancestor before you. And as you say… the relationship between your House and my family has ever been a close one."
Smirking, he acknowledges the point with another dip of his head. Letting out a low sigh, Margaery sucks in a deep breath… before going for broke, as one might say.
"And finally, if it pleases Your Majesty, I would put my name forward for consideration as Lady Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South. As the last living, cognizant member of House Tyrell, I find myself with the unenviable task of relying upon your grace if I am to rule in your name here."
Beside her, Lord Tarly doesn't quite come out of his chair, but it's a damn near thing. Margaery likes to think only the mention of the Targaryen King's dragons stays her military commander's blade. She's well aware she's being heavy handed here, but she's not going to get another chance like this one. And as she gazes into the Targaryen King's eyes, she makes sure to convey with every fiber of her training just what she's willing to do for him, if he agrees.
Based on the way he seems to see right through her, Margaery fully believes he sees what she's offering, even if she doesn't dare to tease anything more in case her own men see any hint of impropriety. Luckily, beyond a slight smile, the Targaryen King gives no reaction to what he may or may not be able to see. Instead…
"Consider it done."
He chuckles, when everyone on the Highgarden side of the table, Margaery included, just stares at him, amazed.
"You might think this a difficult decision for me, simply because it's not the 'done thing'. But the 'done thing' is what got us into this mess in the first place, is it not? These last few years have not been kind to Westeros, and the Noble Houses have suffered greatly right alongside the peasantry and commonfolk. More than any of that though… I would be a hypocrite if I denied you, when I've already given the same rights to Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, my Lady Paramount and Warden in the North."
Margaery's eyes widen at that, as she now realizes why the announcer had been so ready to name her Presumptive to both of those positions. It would seem this Targaryen King was far more… open-minded than even she could have imagined.
Still, with concessions given and Lord Tarly speechless with impotent rage but unable to do anything to interfere, the deal was forged swiftly enough, with Lady Margaery Tyrell bending the knee and King Jon Targaryen accepting her pledge of loyalty, right then and there.
With that, she had no issue with inviting him and his retinue into the Castle proper… and soon enough, a feast was taking place.
-x-X-x-
Hours later, Margaery found herself in bedchambers, on her knees once more… before both the Targaryen King AND his Targaryen Queen. She's a little drunk by this point, but not so much that she's not still in complete control of her faculties as she works open the laces of King Jon's breeches and pulls out his cock.
It's quite sizable, his member. Margaery bites her lower lip as she stares at it, before glancing up at him… or rather, at the both of them. She's quite glad she hadn't decided to go any further than just attempting to secure her own position in Highgarden, because it's obvious that Daenerys Targaryen is in a league of her own.
The gorgeous Queen is currently pressing herself into her King's side, turning his head in her direction and kissing him deeply. As she lounges there on the bed next to him, she doesn't seem to pay Margaery any mind. And so, Margaery figures she shouldn't pay her any mind either. Seeing as she'd opened the door for this… well, she might as well get to work, right?
Slowly at first, she begins to bob up and down Jon's cock. The King's member is thick and throbbing, and bigger than any she's ever had before. She doesn't think he minds that she's not a virgin, either. That sort of thing doesn't matter to him, Margaery can already tell. The feast they'd had an hour ago had been one in which she'd heard many, many stories.
In fact, there was only one thing Margaery knew for sure that she wanted tonight. One thing she absolutely knew she had to achieve above all others. Because… well, the King had already given her the titles she'd asked for. He'd already secured House Tyrell's place as the rulers of the Reach.
But he had not secured their future. Rather, he could not… that was something only Margaery could do. She needed an heir and fast. If she didn't have a child soon, preferably a son no matter how open-minded her new liege was, then Margaery wouldn't put it past even an old man with honor like Randyll Tarly to talk himself into doing away with her entirely. He'd convince himself that she wasn't fit to rule the Reach and would resort to underhanded tactics to have her removed.
However, if she was pregnant… and not just pregnant, but pregnant with the Targaryen King's child, well… that changed everything, didn't it?
And so, Margaery continues to bob up and down on Jon's cock, sucking away at his member and preparing him for what would hopefully soon be her seeding. He was a virile man, after all, and she a fertile young woman. It was a perfect match.
Lady Margaery Tyrell Pt. 3
"Glughk! Glughk! Glughk!"
As she graduates to throat-fucking herself on the Targaryen King's member, Margaery reflects how easy it would be to just focus on the goal, to ignore his Queen entirely and work towards only what was right in front of her.
However, had she really gotten where she was by taking the easy route? Just because something was easy, didn't mean it was smart. And Lady Margaery Tyrell prided herself on being relatively smart. As such, as she takes Jon's cock down her throat, filling her mouth and esophagus with his meaty, throbbing shaft, Margaery slides one hand off of his leg and over to the side… into his Queen's lap.
Daenerys doesn't stop kissing her husband, the gorgeous couple still making out with one another quite heatedly. She does, however, spread her legs open after a moment of stiffening at Margaery's touch. If she didn't currently have a mouth full of pulsating man-meat, Margaery would be smiling like the cat who caught the canary.
As it is, her eyes flash with excitement, even as she looks up at the two royals. They're still paying her little to no mind, but she doesn't let that stop her. As her tongue swirls around Jon's cockhead and glans, before she descends once more to the base of his shaft so his balls can bounce on her chin, Margaery works her fingers into his Queen's quim.
Daenerys Targaryen has everything Margaery Tyrell thought she ever wanted. The other woman is everything Margaery thought she would get to be for much of her life. Her father was a blowhard and something of a dullard, and on account of that fact, her grandmother had been forced to effectively rule Highgarden via Mace Tyrell as proxy.
But it wasn't Mace Tyrell who told Margaery she would be Queen… or at least, it was not solely his idea. No, it was Olenna Tyrell who had put her seal of approval on the plot to have Margaery ascend to Queenhood. It was a plan that they'd practically been aiming towards all of Margaery's life. After all, who else was Joffrey Baratheon going to marry? Sansa Stark? Hah, she was all the way in the North, and besides, it was rumored that Lord Eddard Stark and King Robert had had a falling out at the end of the rebellion, all those years ago!
… Needless to say, it had been quite the little upset to House Tyrell's plans, when the Hand of the King had died and Robert Baratheon had immediately decided to go North to ask Eddard Stark to be his Hand, and even gone so far as to engage their two children to one another. Sansa had been Margaery's competition, sure, but she had seemed so far away it wasn't even funny.
They had certainly underestimated how deep Robert's love for the Starks went… but in the end, it had worked out all the same, hadn't it? House Tyrell had adapted, as it always did. First, by aiming to back Renly. With over a hundred thousand men, Renly Baratheon had seemed like he had it all in the bag. Never mind that he loved her brother more than she. They didn't need love to produce a couple of children, even if Loras would have likely had to join them in their marital bed to help things along.
But then Renly had been assassinated, and House Tyrell had pivoted yet again. Margaery had ended up married to Joffrey Baratheon after all… for all that they hadn't even gotten the chance to consummate their relationship before he too was assassinated. Ah, but Tommen would have been a fine husband, if a bit young… yet, it was not to be.
Margaery and her grandmother had barely made it out of King's Landing alive. As had Cersei and Myrcella, from what Margaery had heard after the fact. Everyone else had died… and the Faith Militant had gotten worse and worse.
Meanwhile, sat before her were the would-be King and Queen of Westeros. They hadn't been there for any of it. They hadn't seen the things she'd seen; hadn't had to survive the things she'd survived. And they were just going to come in and take the Iron Throne for themselves.
If Margaery were a lesser woman, she might have been jealous to the point of rage. But how could she be? Maybe it wasn't fair. Maybe it wasn't right. But if there was one thing that Margaery Tyrell had learned over the last few years, it was that nothing in this world was fair or right. In the end, you could only do your best by yourself and those you loved… nothing else mattered.
Her family's bid to put her on a throne and a crown upon her head had nearly led to their extinction. Let it not be said that Margaery Tyrell could not see when they were beaten. That, however, didn't mean she wouldn't do everything in her power to shore up her position all the same.
And if that meant serving these two beautiful people right in front of her, then that was what she would do. The Lady of Highgarden bends the knee in more ways than one as she fingers her Queen and sucks off her King, submitting herself to the two of them at the same time, working two digits in and out of Daenerys' sex while continuing to throat Jon's cock.
Until finally, a strong, powerful hand lands atop her head and pulls her away from the cock before her. At the same time, a delicate set of fingers grasp her wrist and drag her digits out of the slit she was pleasuring with them.
"She's an eager one, my King. But I sense only minor subterfuge. How about you?"
Margaery goes still. She'd intended on looking up at the two of them and smiling suggestively, offering herself up for them to take. But when she makes eye contact, it's like she's looking into the eyes of not just royalty… but divinity. Her mouth opens and then closes shut, as she stares up into Jon and Daenerys' eyes and they in turn stare back down at her, down into her very soul.
After a moment, the corner of Jon's mouth quirks up and he chuckles.
"I think we both know what she wants, my Queen. Are you saying we give it to her?"
Margaery's heart pounds in her chest. She'd thought she was doing well, but from the sound of things, they had seen right through her. They knew what she desired more than anything and were debating whether or not to gift her what she so desperately needed… an heir.
If she couldn't get Jon to impregnate her here and now, well then… she'd probably end up having to marry Dickon after all. The upside would be that she was established now, and so long as the Targaryen King lived long enough to unify the Seven Kingdoms, House Tyrell would remain in charge of Highgarden. Dickon would have to take her name, instead of the other way around.
Still, it wasn't what she preferred. She opens her mouth to try and convince them, only to stop and flush when Daenerys gives her a look. After a long moment of silence however, the beautiful Targaryen woman smiles.
"I don't see why not. Margaery is a smart girl."
That's… are they not the same age? Margaery doesn't dare to ask. Instead, she merely goes along with things, as she's manhandled up onto the bed by the two royals. She's the Lady of Highgarden, Lady Paramount of the Reach, and the Warden of the South. And yet, as wild and lawless as the whole of Westeros is these days, it's not like she has the liberty to reject her King and Queen's advances.
And so, Margaery finds herself on her back, her legs spread quite willingly as Jon's cock presses into her cunt and a moment later slides home. She was already quite wet, so pushing into her is supremely easy for the man. Margaery can only groan and moan, and she barely even has to exaggerate it. His cock DOES feel amazing, so big and thick and stretching her out in such a satisfying manner.
Of course, with Jon fucking her… that leaves Daenerys unattended. And we can't have the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms unattended, now, can we? Margaery blushes, as Daenerys moves into place over her face. The Targaryen Queen's intentions are obvious, but the Tyrell Lady makes no effort to protest or resist.
As Daenerys sits down on her face, Margaery even reaches up and hooks her arms over the other woman's pale thighs, lifting her head up off the bed to work her tongue directly against Daenerys' snatch. It feels right, truth be told. It feels right to pay homage to her Queen, given she's all but begging her King to fuck a baby into her.
And to his credit, Jon isn't hesitating for even a moment. With Daenerys' approval, though he might have done it anyways, she couldn't say, the King fucks Margaery with gusto, pounding and plowing her deeply as she lays back on the bed, tongue swirling and licking and lapping at the Queen's cunt. At the same time, Daenerys leans forward and plants her hands upon Margaery's breasts, palming and groping them while, from the sound of things, making out with her husband.
… She's nothing but a toy to them, Margaery sheepishly realizes. Far from being a third, equal member in their lovemaking, she's akin to a pet, or a sexual aid. There's no other way to describe it. For all her experience, for all her sexual escapades, she's still ended up here, laid out beneath the King and Queen, getting fucked by one and eating out the other.
Still, it's better than her other possible fates. Ending up in the hands of the Faith Militant for a sham trial and swift execution. Or assassinated by her own men as said Faith Militant got ever closer to Highgarden. Even having to marry Dickon Tarly, to give House Tarly legitimacy as it took over the Reach from the Tyrells.
Before the Targaryen King and his armies arrived, that last possibility seemed to be the best Margaery was going to be able to hope for. But now? Now she had option. Now, she had possibilities. The future was bright… and so long as Jon's star kept on rising, so long as the King she'd ultimately hitched her carriage to didn't fall in battle… Margaery Tyrell would be okay.
Better than okay, even. Eyes half-rolling back in her head, the Lady Tyrell gurgles into Daenerys' gushing quim as she clenches down around Jon's cock with her own spasming slit. Cumming for the fifth time in who knew how long, Margaery Tyrell shudders as she lays there underneath the two of them. A moment later, she feels it… she feels HIM. The Targaryen King cums inside of her, filling her with his seed.
She's not sure how she knows, but in that moment it's as clear as day to her… he HAS succeeded. He HAS impregnated her. She doesn't know why she's so sure, only that she is. There is no doubt in the Lady of Highgarden's mind… she will give birth to the King's bastard, and Jon will legitimize him or her as a Tyrell, making them Margaery's heir.
House Tyrell would not die this day… the thought puts such a bright smile on Margaery's face that it doesn't even dim when Daenerys climaxes all over her features a few moments later. Dazed, blissed out of her mind, and completely and utterly satiated by two people who were very much out of her league, Margaery Tyrell lays there… and rests, content that her family's future is secured.
-x-X-x-
Margaery Tyrell, Jon finds himself reflecting, wasn't a bad girl necessarily. Overly ambitious? Perhaps. But that was as much a matter of nurture as it was nature. Margaery was a girl who had been raised to believe she would be Queen. At the very least, she'd been raised to have certain expectations of how the world would work for her, instead of against her.
After Robert's Rebellion, no one had expected the whole of Westeros to fall into turmoil and strife under two decades later. Usually, there was a bit more time between these things. But then again, Robert's Rebellion had been unprecedented, in that it saw an end to the Targaryen Dynasty that had lasted three hundred years.
Or well… it had tried to see an end to it. Jon smirks ruefully as he sits atop one of his dragons, quite at home upon the back of the massive black beast. As a God of Dragons, he doesn't even have to speak to his pets, not really. He can reach out and connect to them in a way that's almost like a mind-link, giving them their orders directly.
… The Faith Militant forces besieging Bitterbridge had been dealt with quite decisively. Some had surrendered, though the fanatics among them had had to be put to the sword, one and all. Not a single one had been willing to back down, except in an attempt at subterfuge and espionage, trying to seek a position from which they might be able to sabotage his army or assassinate him or his wife.
Jon had personally killed those who had surrendered with ill intentions. He was not merely a King, but a God. He knew what deception in a mortal looked like, after all.
Those who were not quite so… fanatical, but had joined the Faith Militant all the same, had been questioned extensively. Jon wished he could peer deeper into King's Landing to confirm what they were saying, but the place was shrouded in darkness, even to his divine sight. But then, that alone somewhat confirmed what they were claiming, now didn't it?
According to their prisoners, King's Landing was a charnel pit, and supposedly… supposedly everything happening there was sanctioned by the Seven themselves. Jon wasn't sure about all of that… but certainly, something was happening.
Still, while they had an over-abundance of the resource that was 'people' in King's Landing, they had swiftly run out of armor and weapons with which to wage war. Judging from the 'army' that had been sent to lay waste to Highgarden and bring Margaery Tyrell to 'justice', they weren't going to be committing to any fresh assaults any time soon. Even this army that Jon and his forces had just defeated had been poorly armed and poorly armored, and from their prisoners, that was the best the Faith Militant had to offer.
The stories painted a grim picture indeed… and yet, Jon had never felt stronger. His timely arrival in the Reach, along with Margaery's bending of the knee, had prompted both nobles and smallfolk alike to begin unconsciously worshipping him above all others. He was their King, but more than that, he was a direct symbol of their salvation, their survival.
He'd gotten a similar boost from the Wall, after they defeated the Night King and he personally sent Lady Winter on her way. And Jon could admit, in the privacy of his own mind… the power was intoxicating.
He could move to gain more power like it, by continuing to settle things in other parts of Westeros. Or he could take the fight to King's Landing and deal with the Seven and their worshippers once and for all. From there, the rest of Westeros would have to come to him… or risk destruction.
But he couldn't do both. A decision had to be made.
The Sand Snakes
"The Pretender will be here soon. We must decide how we are going to deal with him."
"We should never have let him bring his armies into Dorne in the first place. Dorne has fought off Targaryens and their dragons before, but now we've invited Dothraki, Unsullied, Northmen and Reachmen to our doorstep. And for what? Don't tell me we're going to bend the knee."
"It would spit in the face of everything we've done to do so. But matching the Pretender army to army was never an option. Perhaps a more… subtle approach is in order?"
"Girls, please. I'm sure that your cousin has her own ideas for how we are to move forward. My beloved, your father, will be avenged. Of this I am certain."
All eyes turn towards her, and Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell straightens up, not quite stiffening as the other four women in the room, her so-called 'Council', all await her opinion. Mostly so they can take issue with her thoughts, no doubt.
From the outside looking in, Arianne imagined it would appear like she had it all. Not only was she the seemingly undisputed ruler of Dorne, having 'inherited' from her father and becoming the ruling Princess of Dorne, but she was also a great beauty in her own right. She had power and looks alike and could command thousands of men to do her bidding at the drop of a hat.
Unlike many of the other political forces in the whole of Westeros, she also had no desire for that idiotic throne of swords, nor did she have any inclination of tangling with the Faith Militant. All reports pointed to the followers of the Seven all but going crazy, and while they paid lip service to the religion down in Dorne, it had never been all that important to them, truth be told.
Arianne had no misconceptions, based on the Faith Militant's single-minded, over-zealous pursuit of Margaery Tyrell, that if they'd gotten their way in the Reach, they would have eventually made for Dorne to put an end to what 'debauchery' they deemed happening here. Arianne would have liked to see them try, in all honesty… unlike the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne was strong, even with the loss of its ruling Prince and her Uncle, the Red Viper.
Dorne was as strong as ever… at least on the surface. Beneath the surface, however, was another story entirely.
Arianne's grasp on both her seat and her people was tenuous at best, and it was all a result of these four women sitting around her. Ellaria Sand, her Uncle's former Paramour… and Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene Sand, her Uncle's three eldest daughters. The trio made up the oldest and most trained members of the Sand Snakes, the name Oberyn's bastard get had taken for themselves in a bid to reclaim the word 'Sand' for their own.
Arianne had never thought less of her bastard cousins for their parentage, to be clear. She had never believed them necessarily lesser than her, merely because they were born out of wedlock across several different mothers. No, she considered them lesser than her because they were born to her Uncle and she to her father. She was the heiress to Dorne, the one who would take over when Doran was gone. Uncle Oberyn had never even wanted to be part of the line of succession from what she knew, and his bastard daughters certainly wouldn't be.
So then, why did it feel like Arianne was a prisoner more than a ruler, these days? Why did she feel trapped between her cousins and the oncoming tidal wave threatening to drown Dorne in blood?
Truly, the Princess understood Ellaria and the Sand Snakes' concerns. She did. This Targaryen King had started life as a bastard just like them. Assumed the bastard son of Eddard Stark, he had begun life as Jon Snow. Raised in the North, he had then made his way to Essos, where everything had changed. The Iron Bank themselves had provided the proof that not only established Jon Snow as the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, but also evidence that made it clear Rhaegar had set aside Elia Martell as his wife and remarried Lyanna before the boy was born.
This made him a trueborn Targaryen, and in fact gave him the rightful claim to the Iron Throne… if it was true. Needless to say, the Sand Snakes were loathe to accept it, and Ellaria was all too willing to stoke their impassioned flames, if it kept them angry and furious like she was.
Uncle Oberyn had never made secret his love for Arianne's dearly departed Aunt. The deaths of Elia Martell and her two children had been not just a tragedy, but a horrific crime against House Martell. Oberyn had never forgiven any of the parties involved, from the Lannisters who ordered the deed, to the Baratheons and Starks for all but condoning it by rewarding the Lannisters after the fact.
He had passed on his love for Elia and his hatred for her murderers to his daughters. To Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene, this man proclaiming himself the trueborn son of Lyanna and Rhaegar could only be a Pretender spitting upon their aunt's grave. For him to be telling the truth would be even less conscionable, for the three of them.
Ellaria Sand, meanwhile, was happy to back them up, as it kept their anger focused in the right direction… that is, the same direction as her own. Ellaria did not hold the same love in her heart for Elia's memory that they did, but her Uncle's old Paramour HAD loved Oberyn with all her soul, and his death at the hands of the Mountain had been infuriating for them all.
When Arianne's own father Doran had refused to do anything, she had leapt at the chance to depose him alongside Ellaria and the Sand Snakes. Her presence and pedigree offered a degree of legitimacy to their hostile takeover. She was always destined to become the ruling Princess of Dorne, after all.
However, she had never agreed to some of the things that had happened afterwards. Her father had been deposed, yes, and quietly set aside… and that should have been it. His poisoning… that, Arianne had never condoned. And though Tyene Sand would swear up and down that she did not play a part in it, Arianne did not think she would ever believe her.
Alas, there wasn't really anywhere else that the Princess could turn to. She was trapped in a gilded cage of her own making. Oh, certainly she was the ruler of Dorne. She was in charge, and people listened when she gave orders. They listened perhaps a little too well. For a while now, Arianne had begun to wonder what would happen if she gave the wrong order. If she gave an order that the remaining Lords of Dorne could not accept, would they not rise up against her and replace her with someone among them… and be right to do so?
On the other hand, if she pushed back too much against Ellaria and the elder Sand Snakes, would she find herself poisoned at one of her meals, or waking up in the dead of the night to a knife between her ribs?
It was a tight rope, the Princess of Dorne found herself walking. And now the Targaryen King, or as her cousins called him, the 'Pretender' threatened to upset everything with his visit. He was powerful and growing more powerful by the day. He was strong and threatened everything Arianne held dear. But she didn't think killing him was the answer.
Unfortunately, she knew that wasn't what her so-called 'council' wanted to hear. Ellaria might pretend to be aloof, but with the Sand Snakes baying for the man's blood, Arianne knew which was her Uncle's Paramour would ultimately fall.
And yet… and yet…
"I do not think provoking him is the best option. His armies are vast, his influence expansive, and his reach… well, his reach has brought him all the way from the North's vaunted Wall down to us here in Dorne in just a few short months. I believe caution is our best path forward, cousins, Lady Sand."
Giving Ellaria that title, especially in private, was such a small thing for Arianne to do, and it always served to please the older woman. But this time, she can tell her carefully considered words are not finding purchase in the four in front of her. Obara's eyes narrow and she scoffs.
"Caution? Pah! Dorne has never fully bent the knee! It is why you are still a Princess, and not a Lady! You would have us bend the knee to the Pretender now? To what end?"
Looking the most brutal of the Sand Snakes directly in the eye, Arianne tries not to let any of her fear for Obara's physical strength show on her face. At the same time, she's careful not to give too challenging of a gaze towards the bull-like woman, lest she decide to charge.
"To the only end that matters. Our survival. You said it yourself, Obara. He has united Northmen and Reachmen alike under him. Westeros has seen untold death and destruction in the last few years, and now this man comes to our lands with fresh armies and the backing of the Iron Bank. Whether he is truly a pretender or not, he is dangerous… and I believe we would be best served to placate him."
There's a pause as Arianne throws Obara's words back in her face. Then, the martial woman's face scrunches up in anger, and she opens her mouth to speak, only for Nymeria to place a hand on her arm and silence her.
"Perhaps the Princess is right. Perhaps it is time to let bygones be bygones. Pretender though he might be, his power and influence are indisputable. If he can offer us all a brighter future… who are we to toss that aside?"
The last thing Arianne expected was for Nymeria of all people to take her side. The closest in personality to their father, Nymeria Sand has always been a cunning, observant, and calculating character. So then… what's her game, here? Before Arianne can even begin to suss that out, Nymeria gives her a smile and nod.
"I'm sure there is much to do to get ready for the Pretender's arrival, your highness. Do not let us keep you. And of course, if there's anything you would require from us, please do not hesitate to ask."
Dismissed from her own council meeting. How hilariously sad. Still, Nymeria isn't wrong. Rising to her feet, Arianne holds her head high, considering some parting words. Ah, to hell with it.
"All I ask of you is to please consider NOT addressing him as the 'Pretender' while he is here. Whether in his presence or anyone else's. We know not what ears will be floating about."
Not waiting for a response, the Princess of Dorne leaves the room, not quite fleeing. As she goes, she wonders if she's finally stepped over the line with the Sand Snakes and her Uncle's Paramour. Probably. Almost certainly, even. Still, not even they would be so foolish as to make a move while the Targaryen King was visiting, right? And so, she should have at least until his departure to make her preparations. And if she wanted to continue living, if she wanted to continue ruling… she would have to make those preparations ironclad.
-x-X-x-
Dorne. Had there ever been a more wretched hive of scum and villainy? Alright, so setting aside the ancient bad blood that his Targaryen Ancestors had with the only Unconquered Kingdom of Westeros, Jon supposed that was probably a little unfair of him to say.
Still, having arrived in Sunspear, he could see precisely how things had gotten to where they were in Dorne. The place was teetering on the edge of all out civil war, with the Dornish Lords all growing more and more dissatisfied with the ruling Princess, Arianne Martell. And yet, thanks to his divinity, Jon could tell how in over her head Arianne was. She wasn't a bad person… she just hadn't exactly surrounded herself with good influences.
The Sand Snakes and Ellaria Sand also weren't necessarily bad people, at least originally. But the death of Oberyn Martell had brought out the worst in them, and the taste of power that the four women had gotten from the part they'd played in deposing Arianne's father for her had clearly gone to their heads.
They were convinced at this point that they knew best, and more than that, that the only way for them to complete their vengeance against House Lannister was to continue to pick fights with just about everyone who so much as looked at them funny.
Jon and his entourage received a truly Kingly welcome to Sunspear, at least on the surface. His armies were allowed to camp outside of the gates, and he and his family were accepted at the palace as honored guests. Rather than get straight into negotiations, there had been feasting and merriment alike. After all, unlike Sansa or Margaery, Arianne didn't necessarily need anything overt from him. So, they had no need to rush things.
That didn't mean there weren't situations going on behind the scenes, however. Situations that Jon, thanks to his divine senses, was more than capable of gleaning. Princess Martell had gone so far as to tell the Sand Snakes that her goal was to placate him and ultimately bend the knee in an effort to keep Dorne's independence intact. It was, frankly, the wisest move she could have made, the smartest path forward in his somewhat biased opinion.
But of course, the Sand Snakes couldn't accept that. They saw him as a pretender, as a fake, and as an insult to their Aunt's memory, all wrapped up in one. And so, behind the Princess' back, they'd decided to take matters into their own hands.
Jon wasn't too concerned, if he was being honest. Their plans were actually rather simple. They were going to poison both him and his dragons and use those deaths to force Arianne into turning on the rest of his armies. By removing him and his dragons from the equation, they thought it would be child's play for Dorne to carry the day. They were wrong, of course. Not only would Daenerys have stepped up, but Jon's armies still outnumbered Dorne's forces by about five to one and were literally right outside the city at that.
Still, it didn't really matter, because Jon was immune to the poisons, they intended to use on him, and as the God of Dragons, conveying that same immunity to his dragons was equally simple.
Really, as the day winds down and the Sand Snakes prepare to put their plans into motion, all that's left for Jon to decide is how much rope he wants to give them to hang themselves with. He could nip it in the bud before they even got started, but knowing their true natures and thus their plans, Jon could also see some value in letting things play out as they intended for them to, until the point at which it became obvious the poison was having no effect.
Could be fun, to see just how far they were willing to go…
The Sand Snakes Pt. 2
When the knock comes at the door of his guest chambers, Jon smiles softly, almost sadly. Alas, it's better this way.
"Come in."
After all, while he could have likely thrown his weight around and seen the Sand Snakes punished for things they had yet to do, in the end it would be better to let them make their attempts against him. It would only make it easier to force Princess Arianne to bend the knee, really.
Through his door steps a cloaked figure… a woman, obviously. Bare-foot, she steps further into the room, keeping her head down and her eyes averted.
"Your Majesty. A gift, from the Princess. She hopes that you will enjoy."
Before Jon can response, Tyene Sand throws her hood back and pulls off her cloak with a flourish, to reveal her nudity underneath. The Dornish woman offers him a soft smile as she exposes herself to him. Jon, meanwhile, remains silent as he takes in her visage. The first thing he notices is the blue paint all across her body.
Drawn in swirls, from her collarbone and neck to her breasts, down to her belly and thighs, the bright blue is clearly there to draw the eye. However, Jon knows what it's truly meant to do. What it's meant to draw the eye FROM.
Her lips, after all, are a similar shade of blue. Not quite the same color though, but Jon isn't sure he would have noticed the difference, if not for his divine senses. As Tyene makes her way forward, Jon sweeps his eyes up and down her naked, painted form and nods his approval, smiling slightly.
"How exotic."
It's certainly attractively done, and as Tyene slowly kneels down before him and reaches for his pants, she looks up into his eyes, batting her own oh so innocently.
"Thank you, your Majesty."
Extracting his cock from its confines, she opens wide… and takes him into her mouth. The moment that his dick touches her lips, Tyene Sand drops the innocent, child-like act that she'd been playing at. The fully-grown young woman had been acting the part of the maiden, as though she were as pure as fresh driven snow.
Heh, though they probably didn't have that sort of phrase all the way down here in Dorne. What it actually was, Jon couldn't be bothered to think about at the moment. After all, Tyene was attempting to poison him right this instant.
It was clever enough, he supposed. Bobbing up and down his cock, spreading more and more of her poisonous lipstick along his shaft, Tyene sucks and slurps him off like the master cocksucker she is. She works her way all the way down the base of his dick and then back again, without pause and without break. And all without choking or gagging on his sizable length a single time.
Now at first, Jon isn't completely hard, so it's relatively easy for her. But once he's fully erect, she still manages to swallow down his dick like it's nothing difficult at all. It would honestly be impressive… if her blue lipstick wasn't specifically designed to be incredibly detrimental to his health.
At the same time, Jon was aware that his dragons were being poisoned as well. A shame, that. A shame… because of course, it wouldn't work. Jon refused to let it work. Staring down into Tyene's eyes, he lets none of his true feelings come to the surface. Instead, he pretends to be the man she thinks he is. A 'pretender' to his throne, a King unworthy of his crown, and ultimately… an enemy to her and her sisters.
He's not their enemy… or at least, he never wanted to be. But unfortunately, Jon can see the Sand Snakes for how they really are. Their father's death has poisoned their hearts far more effectively than Tyene's lipstick could ever hope to poison him. They will not stop until they've destroyed everything around them in a vain bid to seize control of their surroundings. They are desperate, hurting girls who will only hurt more people if left to their own devices.
"I'm getting close, milady…"
Jon's words, measured and calm, cause Tyene to pause, her eyes flicking up to meet his. By this point, she's expecting him to show some slight signs that the poison is working. But he isn't. Just as his dragons will also prove to be completely okay.
Recovering quickly from her momentary lapse, Tyene pulls off of his cock with a gasp, and presents her face and chest to him.
"Please, your Majesty. I am no lady. I am but a Sand. I beg of you, spill your essence upon me. Use me as the rag I am."
If he didn't know all he knew, like that Tyene was hamming it up on purpose, or that Arianne most definitely did NOT send her here this night, Jon would have been quite angry at the Princess of Dorne. Sending a bastard to act like she was worthless to a man who had grown up as a bastard? It would have been a grave insult. And the sad thing was, he knew Tyene wasn't even trying to ruin Arianne's reputation with him on purpose. She thought he would be dead within a few hours, after all.
Still, her technique was enjoyable, and her body is beautiful, even if her soul is rotten. In the end, Jon has no problem coating her in his seed. He cums all over her, covering her in ejaculate. Tyene moans and wiggles this way and that, pretending to enjoy it, her eyes lidded as she refrains from licking her lips at all costs. His cock is still coated in blue from her lipstick, and he sees how she glances at it, before slowly rising to her feet.
"I hope you are well-satiated, your Majesty. If it is alright, I shall take my leave."
"Of course. Thank you for the gift of your company."
Tyene bows low at the waist, and then gathers up her cloak and leaves. Jon watches her go, his divine senses allowing him to track her far longer than a mortal man would. He could probably go to Arianne right now and show off the poisonous lipstick painting his cock, as well as the tainted meat supplied to his dragon.
… But no. He wanted to see what they would do, now that their first attempt had failed. Women like these… would not give up easily.
-x-X-x-
"The poison did nothing. Not to the Pretender, and not to the Dragons."
"He's inoculated himself and them against poison, clearly. We have to assume his entire entourage is inoculated against any number of poisons, if not his whole army."
"His whole army?! Surely not…"
"Well, probably not… but attempting to poison an army of that size is sure to get us discovered, and then the dragons, which ARE immune to poison and have been let into Sunspear itself, will burn us all to ash."
"… Please tell me we have another plan."
"We do. This is where Obara comes in."
"Hmph, if you wish me to spar the Pretender and have an 'accident', I can certainly manage that much."
"You're on the right track, but not quite. He's immune to poisons, fine. But poison and venom are not the same thing."
"You have a venom for me to coat my weapons with?"
"Not your weapons. That would be to obvious. No, you aren't going to touch him in the spar, Obara. You're going to lose… and you're going to give yourself to him as a result. When he has you on your back… that's when the venom under your nails can come out to play."
"Tch, devious. Normally, I would be against such a plan… but fine. Fine! I shall go along with it. Father would be pleased with such underhandedness if nothing else. It's not like the Pretender deserves honor or respect, after all."
"Well said, Sister. Well said."
-x-X-x-
When Obara Sand challenges him to a spar a couple of days later, Jon is ready for it. He knows what she's about from the beginning. He knows that while her weapons might not be poisoned, her nails are envenomed. He can see in her very soul how it pains her to throw the spar… and so he decides to show her a small mercy.
WHUMP!
"F-Fuck!"
For the fifth time in as many minutes, Jon sends Obara to the ground, sprawling on her belly as he easily blocks her blow and drops her with a blow of his own. They've been sparring for a little while now, and he's not taking it easy on her. She'd been planning on going slow, on holding back, and on letting him beat her. But he hasn't let her let him beat her.
With a snarl, Obara gets up off the ground, bouncing from foot to foot and shaking herself off.
"Tough bastard, aren't you?"
Jon grins a toothy grin, cocking his head to the side.
"Aren't we both?"
Not dignifying that with a coherent response, Obara lets out a roar and lunges at him again. Needless to say, this newest lunge goes about as well for her as all the others. Jon spins out of the way, her weapon not even touching him, and takes her between the shoulders with the hilt of his sword, pounding her right back into the sandy dirt of the sparring pit.
"FUCK!"
She's not holding back. She's not even trying to throw anymore. Nor is she attempting to even keep a façade up. If she saw the opportunity, she'd probably try to kill him outright. It's clear she's forgotten what her actual mission was, and so Jon decides to throw her a bone… or rather, enough rope to hang herself, he supposes.
"Good spar, Obara Sand."
"W-Wait… I'm not done."
"Maybe you aren't, but I'm feeling sweaty. You know us royals… can't stand to get too dirty."
He grins as he jokes, but he also heads for the exit. Obara doesn't reply, merely glaring daggers into his back as he goes. Still…
He's barely gotten his clothing off when she barges into his room a few minutes later. The tub is right there, filled with freshly poured hot water, and he really is covered in a thin layer of sweat, just as she is. But rather than letting him get in the tub, Obara stomps forward and pushes him back against the wall, before savagely kissing him.
Jon lets it happen, of course, knowing full well what her true intentions are. Still, that doesn't stop him from taking advantage. She's offering herself up on a silver platter for the express purpose of murdering him. Just because she wants him dead, doesn't mean he's going to reject her offer.
And so, as the conquering King she thinks he is, Jon grabs her by her hips and spins her around, shoving HER up against the wall. He then begins to rip her own garments clean off of her body, including the leather armor she's wearing. She gasps at the savagery, and for just a moment, actual attraction colors her deep, black hatred for him. For just a moment, Obara is conflicted.
But then that attraction shifts into lust, which mixes with fury into something spiteful but also aroused as she remembers that not only is he her and her sister's perceived enemy, but he also just personally humiliated her in the sparring pit for several minutes straight.
With a growl, she all but bucks and fights against him, until he gets her under control and lifts her up off the ground, slamming her against the wall. He's inside of her a moment later, fucking her as she welcomes him in with legs that wrap around his waist and pull him in close. Meanwhile, her nails come up, as her arms wrap around his shoulders… and then they come down.
Jon allows her envenomed nails to puncture his godly flesh, knowing full well that he could make it, so she chipped every last one before every making it past his skin. But no, instead, he lets it happen. He lets her draw her claw-like hands up and down his back as they hate-fuck like a pair of vicious, truly spite-filled rabbits. He pounds her into the wall hard enough to make it shake and for dust to spill forth, while she clings to him, screaming her rage and her pleasure for all nearby to hear.
They fuck and fuck and fuck, but Jon… Jon refuses to cum inside of her. And so, when the time comes, he does to her what he did to Tyene. Pulling out of Obara, he breaks free of her tight grip with ease, causing her to yelp as she falls down on her ass. A moment later, his cum covers her face and chest, the powerfully built warrior woman just staring up at him in disbelief.
Stepping away from her, Jon turns his back on her… letting Obara see the fresh rents in his flesh, where her nails did their work. It doesn't completely quell her anger, but it does keep her from actually attacking him again right then and there.
As he slips into the bath waiting for him, Jon glances over at her and raises an eyebrow.
"You're welcome to join me, if you like."
For a moment, Obara is surprised by the invitation. Then, she scowls, and Jon can see from her soul that she decided to take it as a mocking insult for some reason, rather than in the sincere way he intended it. Jumping to her feet, the eldest Sand Snake stomps out of his room, his cum still coating her Dornish features.
Jon watches her go, sighing as he considers what will happen next. Once they realize the venom has failed, they will likely send Nymeria. And once Nymeria fails, they will probably resort to using Ellaria Sand, Oberyn's former Paramour, after all. Ellaria… is not as committed to his death as the three Sand Snakes. She loves them for being Oberyn's daughters, and she would do much for them, including try to kill him, but she's currently taking a backseat to all their plans.
As he relaxes into the bath, Jon considers his options. He could let this play out to its inevitable conclusion and give Ellaria enough rope to hang herself with as well, he supposed. But he could also end it when Nymeria comes knocking, and settle for the Sand Snakes and the Sand Snakes alone…
The Sand Snakes Pt. 3
If you wanted something done right, you did it yourself. This adage was something their father had lived by, and why he had personally gone to King's Landing to try and avenge his sister, their aunt. It was an adage that he had tried to instill into each and every one of them.
… But they'd grown up together, and Nymeria had to be honest, she had never even considered that the statement might apply to her sisters. It was simply inconceivable. Obara and Tyene were each so reliable in their own way, specializing in their own fashions. Nymeria had always been able to count on them… until now.
Not that she blamed either of them for their failures, necessarily. It wasn't their fault that the Pretender King had proven immune to both poison AND venom. Nymeria didn't doubt for a second that they'd both tried their best. She knew for a fact that neither Tyene nor Obara would betray their sisterhood, so when Tyene told them that she'd applied more than enough poison to kill ten men over and the Pretender hadn't even flinched, Nymeria believed her.
And when Obara had spoken of how she'd gotten on her back for the Pretender and raked his flesh with her envenomed nails dozens of times as he fucked her, Nymeria believed her as well. The two women wouldn't lie to her… but it didn't change the fact that their efforts had ended in failure.
In the end, it was up to Nymeria. And the Justice that could not be accomplished with neither poison nor venom, would instead be delivered at the end of her blade.
Luckily, these halls are her home. She knows the hidden areas of Sunspear's Palace well and does not even have to rely on the usual corridors to sneak into the Pretender King's quarters. Instead, she comes in through the ceiling, through a ventilation shaft carved to increase airflow through the Palace, given just how hot it got in Dorne.
It's a bit of a crawl, and not at all comfortable, but Nymeria makes the journey all the same. After all, unlike Tyene and Obara, she cannot be seen or fingered by anyone other than her target. Her purpose is not to seduce, nor to make it look like an unfortunate accident, but to kill the Pretender dead in his sleep.
As she slips into his quarters, Nymeria draws her blade. Left bare rather than coated with any poison, she will have to deliver a true killing blow to make sure the deed is done. Up through the throat, under the chin, pinning his tongue to the roof of his mouth and stabbing directly into his brain. A swift killing move, to be sure.
Creeping closer to the bed, Nymeria can see him clearly in the moonlight drifting through the nearby open doors that lead out onto a balcony. That was another possible entry point, but she had passed it up out of concern that scaling the outside of the palace, while simple for one such as her, would have seen her caught.
She has not been seen; she has not been identified. No one knows she is here, and no one will know. She will complete this assassination and go back the way she came, and all will be well with none the wiser.
Arriving at the bed, Nymeria prowls onto it, being very careful to keep her movements as unobtrusive as possible. She is weightless as a feather, and silent as a mouse. He will not awaken… not until it is too late. She is almost there. All that is left is to position the blade and drive it in for the kill. She will-
"I'd wondered, when you would show up."
Nymeria's eyes widen, as the Pretender suddenly comes alive beneath her. Before she can do anything, his hands have captured her wrists, and she finds herself on her back as he turns the tables on her so effectively that she actually freezes for a moment in terror. She's been caught. She, Nymeria, has been caught!
"After your sisters, I knew it was only a matter of time before you made the attempt. Nymeria, yes?"
For a heart-stopping moment, she assumes he somehow knows. That he was aware Tyene and Obara both tried to kill him, and that she was here to do the same. After all, she still has a dagger in her hand. How can he not see it? And yet… his tone is jovial rather than truly accusatory, and his eyes… those dark eyes of his only have time for her face, she belatedly realizes.
He does not see the dagger, and quick as a whip, she hides it behind her hand, along the back of her fingers, a somewhat shoddy effort at mimicking an old coin trick her father taught her many years ago. He doesn't notice though, just grinning at her wickedly, knowingly. As if he's quite sure he knows exactly why she's here.
"What is it about you Sand Snakes, hm? All three of you vying for my attention in such a short amount of time."
He thought she was here to seduce him! Not an unfair assumption, given what had happened with both her sisters. This… Nymeria could use this. Still very aware of the dagger she's concealing and the strength of his grip on her wrists, Nymeria flashes the Pretender a wicked smile dripping with sultry, seductive energy and licks her lips. She tells him precisely what she knows he wants to hear.
"Power, my lord. You have so much of it… and we crave but a taste."
Then, she makes a show of spreading her legs for him, even though she's still fully clothed.
"I thought to take, but I understand now… I am the one who will be taken."
He looks at her for a moment longer, and then chuckles.
"Indeed, you will be."
The barrier provided by her garments proves to be nothing to a man as ravenous and debauched as the Pretender King. He gathers her wrists in one hand and holds them above her head as he uses his other hand to pull her top up and free her breasts, and then pull her pants down to expose her slit. He is not too rough, but neither is he gentle.
She's sure she could break free of his one-handed hold with ease and bring the dagger up into him… but Nymeria can't be confident she'll kill him in one blow like this. He is heavier and bigger than her, and she can't risk him using his last moments to take her life or do some irreparable damage in retaliation.
And so, she goes along with it, gasping as he frees his cock from its confines and sheathes it inside of her without so much as a 'by your leave'. He does not hesitate to fill her like he no doubt filled her sisters, and Nymeria has to work hard not to give off how angry she is by the liberties he's taking. To be fair, she offered herself up 'willingly' once she understood the circumstances. Still, she is annoyed.
This was not supposed to happen. She was not supposed to have to fuck the Pretender like Tyene and Obara. And yet, here she was on her back all the same, and all the angrier for it. More so even, because he makes it feel good. As he slides in and out of her, he quickly realizes she's not quite wet. Rather than complaining about it or even pointing it out in a disgruntled manner like some men would, he says nothing. Nor does he do what most other men would do, and just fuck her dry for his own pleasure, ignoring hers.
He's a downright considerate lover, bringing his hand up to her breast and leaning forward to suckle at the other one as he pleasures her while fucking her. It's enraging, because no matter what sort of sham act he puts on to try and facilitate her enjoyment, he is still a Pretender, still the man claiming to be proof of serious infidelity done against their Aunt. And that, Nymeria refuses to be swayed into forgiving him for.
With a grunt, she bucks her hips and spins them both over, so that he's back on his back and SHE'S on top, where she belongs. As he lands with a grunt, the air expelled from his lungs, Nymeria revels in that feeling of power for a moment. She probably should have gone for the kill right then and there, while she had the moment of surprise.
… But her cover is intact, from what she can tell. He knows nothing. And so, Nymeria takes a moment to slide up his length and gyrate her hips, smirking easily as she teases just the tip of his cock with her pussy lips, kneeling over him, straddling him and running her free hand down her front. He gazes up at her hungrily, and she lets him do so. Let him have one last look at Dornish Perfection before she ends his life.
Still, she cannot prolong this forever, and she is NOT planning on letting him reach climax. And so, Nymeria prepares to end it, her dagger coming up from the side, ready to drive right through his ear and into his head and-
The Dornish woman's eyes widen as the Pretender's hands suddenly fall upon her gyrating hips… and slam her back down. She hadn't realized it before, but his cock… he hadn't been using all of it, when she was on his back. Only now, with her on top, has she put herself in a position where he could surprise her with his entire length all at once.
His cock punches up against the entrance of Nymeria's womb and causes her to let out a squealing cry. A blessing in disguise really, because the sudden jolt sends her dagger flying from her loose, prepared grip and skittering off into the room's shadows. She has no idea where it goes, but thankfully the Pretender doesn't seem to notice because of the noise she makes when he fills her with his cock.
Grinning up at her, the despicably handsome man chuckles.
"Like that, did you? Well, there's more where that came from."
And then he begins to fuck her, and Nymeria quickly loses any semblance of control she still had over the situation. This has… never happened to her before. Oh, she's had a few dominant men take her to bed, though she always picked them out for a good time. But she's never ever been so thoroughly dominated from below like this. She's never been on top, seemingly in control with all the power… and taken for a ride by a man she HAS ON HIS BACK!
But the Pretender King does exactly that, and he doesn't let up. Nymeria's moans are reluctant but very real, and her body betrays her as her cunt clenches down upon his pistoning cock. He thrusts up into her, bucking his hips at a rapid but measured and controlled pace that she can't get enough of. Eyes rolling back in her head, Nymeria grits her teeth.
This was NOT how this was supposed to go… but she had no choice but to bear with it. She would simply have to outlast the Pretender, and once he was worn out, exhausted, and asleep, she could find her dagger, finish the job… and get out of here without anyone being any the wiser.
Yes. Yes, that would work perfectly. She just… she just needed to hang on.
-x-X-x-
Needless to say, Nymeria did not manage to outlast him. Not that night, and not in a million others if he gave her the chance. Jon fucked the last of the three Sand Snakes in quite the stupor without her ever even being aware that HE was aware she was there to kill him the whole time. And when morning comes and the servants arrive, Nymeria gets to make quite the walk of shame as numerous people see her in his bed despite her best efforts.
After that… well, Jon knows what to expect. And really, it's a crying shame, because the food… the food is delicious.
Sitting at a small dining table absolutely covered in gorgeous, well-cooked dishes, Jon sets down his fork and looks to their hostess for the evening, giving her a smile.
"My compliments to the chef. This is amazing."
Ellaria Sand looks right back at him, smiling as well like she hadn't poisoned every single dish at the table.
"I will be sure to let him know. He was so very excited to serve a King."
And the sad thing was, she wasn't lying. Ellaria Sand, despite being a Bastard, was Oberyn's Paramour when he was still alive. And so, she lived like a Princess here in Sunspear, with her own private chef. And that man, a Dornish as well, had put his heart and soul into making this meal that Jon, Daenerys, Arianne, and Ellaria had all just consumed.
Yes… they had gone that far. After the failure of all three Sand Snakes, the trio had turned to Ellaria… who had decided the only way forward was to burn and salt the fields entirely, by killing not just him, not just his Queen… but also Princess Arianne Martell as well.
Jon supposed this was their attempt at taking over all of Dorne, though it seemed rather poorly thought out in his opinion. Indeed, the sheer variety of odorless and tasteless poisons that Ellaria had stacked the deck with was miraculous… but even if she had succeeded, he wondered what she really thought would happen next.
He and Daenerys were fine of course, despite both consuming great amounts of the delicious, incredibly poisonous food in front of them. Arianne though, the poor dear, was beginning to feel it. Just barely, but the signs were there, a drop of sweat beading on the Princess of Dorne's forehead as she raises a goblet and smiles as well.
"Yes. Thank you for the invitation, Ellaria. This meal has been phenomenal."
Smiling coyly, Ellaria bats her eyelashes.
"Well, I felt it only appropriate. After what I've heard about how Oberyn's daughters have been cavorting about… they're not my own flesh and blood, but they might as well be, you know. I do hope you aren't just stringing them along, your Majesty."
Jon raises an eyebrow at that. Was Ellaria trying to sow dissent between him and his Daenerys, with how she coyly glanced at the Targaryen Queen at the end of her statement? But why? She thought they were both dying tonight. What would be the point?
… No, he knew. He could see it in her soul. Ellaria Sand was the most poisonous, irredeemable, twisted one of the four of them. She was once a woman who loved and was loved in turn. Not necessarily good, but she cared for Oberyn as much as he cared for her. His death however, had twisted her heart and soul into a blackened morass from which nothing good could come.
Far from being upset, Daenerys takes another swig of very poisoned wine and gives Ellaria a giggle.
"Oh? I'm not so sure it's my King who's doing the stringing along. After all… poison, venom, a dagger… one has to wonder just what ARE your girls' intentions towards my beloved husband, Ellaria Sand."
Ellaria's gaze travels down to the blade Daenerys has been playing with for quite some time now. One might be excused for mistaking it for a simple knife at first glance… but upon closer inspection, any inspection at all really, one would recognize it as an assassin's blade. Nymeria's blade in particular.
Eyes widening, Ellaria abruptly stands, her chair knocked back onto the ground with the speed she moves.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Poison? Venom? Dagger? Are you feeling alright?"
It's a sickeningly sweet, perfectly timed statement, because it's immediately followed by a sudden cough from the Princess sitting with them. As Arianne Martell begins to choke, the poisons coursing through her veins moving faster now, Ellaria gets a satisfied look on her face… one that Arianne sees, her eyes widening in realization and horror.
"E-Ellaria… what… w-what have you done?"
"What I needed to do, Princess. For my daughters and for Dorne. It's starting now. Unfortunate, but-!"
Ellaria's smugness evaporates, her victory speech cut off at its knees by its own orator as she realizes something very important. Jon and Daenerys aren't reacting in the slightest. Still seated, they watch her with interested looks on their faces, as if they're watching a play and are simply two uninvolved observers. While Arianne is rapidly losing all function and will likely die within a few minutes, they sit there, perfectly fine.
"… No. No, that's not possible. You-!"
Leaning forward, Jon furrows his brow.
"We… what? Did you think Tyene's poison simply wasn't rare or obscure enough, Ellaria? Did you think I could not convey my immunity to more than just my dragons? No, rather, more than that… what did you think was going to happen if you DID kill us? Dorne would have burned."
Eyes wide, Ellaria's jaw clenches and she stands straight.
"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Dorne will never fall to the likes of you, Targaryen Scum."
A choking noise from Arianne forces Ellaria's eyes to the side, and for the briefest of moments Jon sees regret appear in the Dornish woman's face. Of course, he also sees where the regret stems from. Ellaria regrets that ONLY Arianne will die. That her gambit has only managed to kill one of three targets, and the one that Ellaria least wanted to do away with personally herself.
Shaking his head, Jon finally stands up, steps over to the dying Dornish Princess, and puts his hands upon her. Under the smiling gaze of his wife and Queen, and the shocked eyes of Ellaria Sand, Jon uses his divinity to not just scour Arianne Martell's body of the poisons she ingested, but also heal the damage left behind, until she's once again at peak health.
"You… what are you?"
Looking to Ellaria, Jon smiles a sad smile.
"I am the King of Westeros. And you and your 'daughters' have made your last attempt upon my life."
Princess Arianne Martell
Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. Those were her House's words. In this instance, those words meant that the Princess of Dorne walked away from the Execution Block and the celebration cropping up around it with her back ramrod straight, her head held high, and her eyes dry as the arid climate Dorne itself was known for.
In the end, the Targaryen King had left Arianne Martell with little in the way of choices. She hated him just a little bit for that. But at the same time, any hatred or dislike was far, FAR outweighed by everything else. Suffice to say, her feelings towards King Jon were… hmph, complicated.
He'd saved her life. There was no denying that. Without his intercession, she would have died, poisoned by her own dead Uncle's paramour. Of course, by similar logic, if the Targaryen King had never come to Dorne in the first place, then one could presume that Ellaria Sand would never have had cause to poison their entire meal like that.
… But that wasn't entirely true, now, was it? Ellaria and the Sand Snakes… they had grown to enjoy being in charge. Using her as their proxy, after a fashion. Yet, Arianne was not some puppet ruler, to be danced upon their strings. She was her father's daughter, and in hindsight, it was only ever a matter of time before they decided to do away with her as well. The poison in her meal, the knife in the back, or the scorpion in her bed, would have come as soon as her use to them was deemed used up.
She was lucky, in a way, that they'd so thoroughly overstepped their bounds before that moment could come. In that way, the Dornish Princess felt some measure of gratitude towards the Targaryen King. He had taken the brunt of the Sand Snakes' wrath and not so much as flinched. He and his Queen had imbibed poisons that had very nearly killed Arianne without so much as batting an eyelash.
Ultimately, he had exposed their treachery, and after Ellaria's attempt on her life, forced Arianna to act. Because, in the end… he had refused to act himself. He'd washed his hands of the entire situation and left it up to her to decide their fate. Once the Sand Snakes and Ellaria Sand were all imprisoned, he had been completely silent on what he wanted done with them.
He was the only one, in that regard. The Dornish Lords in Sunspear had brayed for their blood. The Dornish Lords NOT in Sunspear had sent messengers demanding the same by letter. With King Jon silent on the issue, she truly had had no choice. Executing her bastard cousins was the only option. Even exiling them would have likely seen her toppled by her Lords within the year. Letting them live was simply not on the table, not without his intercession.
And indeed, what reason did he have to intercede on their behalf? They were family, but Arianne could admit… she was almost relieved that he'd left it in her hands. Her position as Dorne's Princess would have been weakened all the same if he had taken matters into his own hands to kill his would be assassins. She couldn't say she would have blamed him for it, but it would still have left her reputation in tatters.
By giving her the opportunity to make things right all on her own, he had allowed her the chance to repair the nearly burnt bridges between her and her subjects. For that, she supposed she was grateful.
It didn't make it any easier though, having to order their executions. Having to stand there, to stand tall, as they cried out, as they cursed and spit figurative venom at her right up until the axe went swinging down for each of them.
Her Uncle's oldest daughters and his last Paramour were dead. The rest of his children would have to be watched very carefully. Technically, they were ALL Sand Snakes… but Arianne refused to let any of them take up their elder sisters' mantles. If any of Oberyn's other bastard children stepped even one foot out of line… she would take action.
For now, however, it was done. The Lords of Dorne who were in Sunspear to witness the execution were holding a damn party over the act, and so were the peasants. Not that the peasants truly cared one way or the other, they just took any opportunity they could get to feast and party.
Arianne would not be joining any party or feast on this evening. No, she had somewhere else to be… someone else to see. And so, she reaches the guest quarters for the King of Westeros with her back still straight and her head held high… and knocks carefully, before waiting for a response.
"Come in."
Stepping inside, the Princess of Dorne is careful not to purse her lips tightly together at the sight of King Jon's Queen with him. Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, smiles softly, even as she sits in a chair off to the side, nursing a glass of wine. Arianne bows her head in the Queen's direction, before focusing on the King himself, who is currently sat on the edge of the bed.
She doesn't let her eyes linger too long on his chiseled form. He's currently shirtless, wearing only his pants. It was possible he knew what she was here for. If only she got the same courtesy as her wayward cousins, who all got a chance with him alone. But no… no, such thinking was unbecoming of her. She could hardly begrudge either the King and Queen each other's company after what Ellaria and the Sand Snakes had all tried.
Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.
Hands clasped in front of her, Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, takes a few steps forward… and bends the knees. As she bows her head, a small part of her pride breaks… but she knows this is necessary.
"You have my deepest apologies for the actions of my cousins and my uncle's Paramour, Your Grace. There is truly no manner in which I can convey the depth of my sorrow. They wronged you, and whatever you demand of me in recompense, I will do my best to give to you."
There's a brief pause, but Arianne doesn't dare lift her head. Instead, she stares at the floor, a very odd feeling indeed given she had never bowed her head like this to anyone before now.
"They're dead then? The execution over?"
The Targaryen King sounds… almost concerned. Arianne quickly nods her head, while keeping her eyes fixated on the ground.
"Yes, Your Grace. It is done."
"Oh, you poor thing."
Arianne jolts at the words that come not from King Jon, but from Queen Daenerys. Suddenly, the beautiful purple-eyed Queen is at her side, kneeling along with her and… and wrapping her arms around her in a comforting hug?
"You did the right thing, dear. But all the same, nobody should have to put down family like that."
Daenerys' words are a strange comfort. It's odd to have this woman consoling her about ordering the execution of the women who had tried to assassinate her and her husband. A moment later, a shadow falls over them both.
"Lift your head, Princess. Are you not the Ruler of Dorne?"
Blinking rapidly, Arianne lifts her head to see Jon offering her his hand, a smile on his handsome face. She takes it, and together both she and Daenerys rise, as Arianne finds herself in very close proximity to the defacto King and Queen of Westeros.
She's reminded then, of that night. Of her near-death experience… and the way in which Jon had saved her life. The Targaryen King was more than just a man, she was sure of that. He was… a God.
"I… a-are you sure there is nothing I can do for you? The sins of my family against your person are great, my King."
Shaking his head, Jon just smiles. Daenerys, surprisingly, is the one who answers her again.
"It's not about what you can do for us, dear. It's about what we can do for you."
Blinking, Arianne looks between the two of them, somewhat confused. Daenerys continues on, unabashed in her wording.
"You have secured the loyalty of your Lords for now, but you are but one woman, and House Martell is… greatly diminished. You will need an heir, won't you? You will likely be expected to marry one of your Lords if you do not take care of that issue soon. As it so happens, the views on bastards are… laxer in Essos. And my husband and I have brought not just our armies and our court over from that continent, but also some of their beliefs as well."
Here, Daenerys makes her point perfectly clear as she runs a hand along Arianne's dusky arm, giving her an encouraging smile.
"You would be welcome as a… semi-permanent member of the King's Harem, Princess. And in return, Jon can gift you with healthy, strong, able-bodied heirs. That… I can guarantee."
Arianne has ever considered herself a seductress. She lost her virginity at a young age just to spite her father, and was a promiscuous, sexual creature ever since. But in this moment, she feels a little hounded, her face flushing as she looks between the King and Queen of Westeros and feels altogether like prey, rather than the huntress she's always seen herself as.
And yet… and yet…
"V-Very well… that would be… most appreciated."
Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken. And yet, Arianne does not resist, as Daenerys helps to undress her while Jon undresses himself. She does not struggle, as the Queen leads her over to the bed by the hand and lays her on her back. She is no virgin. She's had dozens of lovers. And yet, she feels like a hapless maiden as she watches Jon approach her. The Targaryen King who is more than just a King climbs up onto the bed, and moves between her caramel legs, spreading them apart with pale hands.
He gives her a pleased smile, as he presses his throbbing mast against her core. And then, a moment later, he's inside of her. Arianne can't help but cry out, throwing her head back in pleasure. It feels shameful to have gone from an execution to… to THIS so suddenly, but in her defense, she has a very good excuse.
Eyes wide as she looks up at him, Arianne feels distinctly vulnerable… and not just because she's on her back, naked, with the King's cock buried in her cunt. Truth be told, that part is completely natural for someone like her. Sure, the Targaryen King might be the highest ranking man she's ever had, but he's far from her first.
And yet… he is her first in one way.
"P-Please… let me see it again?"
Jon pauses for a moment, and so does Daenerys on the bed beside them. The King and Queen share a silent glance before slowly, Jon nods. Then… then she sees it. It had only been for a moment back at the dinner. But it had also felt like an entire eternity. In the end, what she'd witnessed in that instant as she was healed, as she was Freed of the poisons that were rife through her blood… was divinity made manifest.
She witnesses it again now, as Jon reveals his true nature to her once more. This time, it's much slower but also much longer. Seconds pass and turn into minutes, and Arianne gasps and mewls, tears of wonder and awe streaking down her cheeks. She cannot deny it. Seeing what she's seeing, it makes the truth of the world impossible to ignore.
No amount of politicking, no amount of doublespeak or doublethink, will allow her to ignore what's right in front of her. Westeros' new King is not simply a man blessed with the proper bloodlines and the good fortune of having armies willing to fight for him and women who love him deeply, and dragons to burn down his enemies.
No, Westeros' new King… is a God.
Arianne Martell has never been a very religious person before. The Seven were… there, she supposed, but she had never put much faith in them if she was being honest. Dorne in general had some diehard religious fanatics, everywhere did, but at the same time, they were not overly zealous down in Dorne.
And yet, in that moment, Arianne reaches out and welcomes Jon into her arms as he couples with her. As he fucks in and out of her, she embraces God himself, crying out into his shoulder, basking in his presence and glory. And she cums for him. It only seems right, in the end. She cums harder than she's ever cum before and loses track of everything except for the feeling of him buried deep inside of her.
It's amazing, being the center of his attention. The Queen is there, but she maintains her distance, clearly enjoying the view seeing how her hands have wandered down her body. She herself does not partake, however. She leaves it all to Arianne. She gives Arianne this moment to be the entirety of the King's world, and to have a God gazing at her is… is everything, she finds.
Eventually, he returns the favor, filling her with his seed as Daenerys had offered. The Princess of Dorne doesn't doubt for a second that she will be pregnant very soon indeed. Nor does she doubt for a second that her children will be healthy, and strong, and able-bodied. They will, after all, have the blood of the divine flowing through them.
Eyes fluttering, Arianne falls asleep with a smile on her lips. She may have lost much today… but she's gained much more.
-x-X-x-
Dorne had fallen in line. It was no surprise. Like a rot being excised before it could reach the heart, the Sand Snakes and Ellaria Sand were removed from the board… and Dorne had the chance to flourish. With his backing, the Princess would remain in power. With his child growing in her womb, Jon did not believe she would prove a problem in the long run.
His hand in seeing the Sand Snakes removed from their positions of power at the Princess' ear left both the Lords and the smallfolk of Dorne quietly worshipping him, even if they didn't necessarily see it that way. They were happy that he'd come and would be happy to be his subjects going forward. The power of their faith flowed through him, making Jon all the stronger.
It was probably time to head for King's Landing. The dark miasma made him leery though. He was strong enough… but was he ready to face what lay at the heart of his Seven Kingdoms? Or perhaps... one more detour was in order.
Myrcella "Baratheon"
"Ah, Myrcella, dear heart. Come in, come in. Tell me, have you seen either of your brothers today?"
Entering her mother's bedchambers, Myrcella Baratheon's lips purse for a moment, before ultimately, she shakes her head. When she speaks, her tone is quiet but strong… not a waver to be found in her voice.
"No, mother. I confess I have not seen either of them in quite some time."
Cersei Lannister glances up from her table at that, eyes almost hawkish as she follows Myrcella's passage down into the younger blonde's seat. Then, just as quickly as that sharp look finds her, it vanishes, replaced by a warm smile and a pair of glazed over eyes.
"Oh, well… I'm sure they're around. More than likely simply getting into trouble as men do. As they say, boys will be boys, and men… men are no different, my love."
Myrcella slowly nods, even as she pours herself a cup of wine from the decanter in the middle of the table. It's already half-empty, but then, Myrcella knows where the first half has gone. Into the goblet held in her mother's hands. One moment, Cersei will be grasping her cup with both hands so tightly her knuckles are white. The next, she lounges back lazily, her goblet held in that 'proper manner off to the side as she gives Myrcella a knowing, doting smirk.
"Go ahead, child. But only a small sip. No more."
Myrcella just smiles and nods and takes that small sip before holding the cup in her lap, out of Cersei's line of sight. It doesn't take more than a moment for the older woman to look off to the say, not a glance but a full-blown gaze off into the distance. It's then that Myrcella brings her cup to her lips again and takes a longer, fuller pull.
"Oh, dear heart. Where did it all go wrong?"
For a moment, Cersei sounds altogether broken and Myrcella jolts, eyes widening as she looks to her mother. But as quickly as the older woman sounds broken, she shifts tacks again, eyes swinging back around and narrowing at her.
"Tell me, daughter, have you kept up with your lessons?"
Myrcella nods, as has become instinct. Agreeable as ever. Then, because she can't help herself, she asks a question of her own.
"Mother… where do you think we are right now, exactly?"
Cersei blinks at that query, before scoffing and holding her wine glass off to the side, her hand dangling backwards at the wrist.
"What a silly question, Myrcella. Did that little spot of wine addle you so quickly? We're in Casterly Rock, of course."
"O-Of course, mother…"
Cersei nods… and then scowls, glancing off to the side for a moment.
"Your grandfather best return soon. He's been away in the field for far too long. He needs to be here, to properly lift you up as the next Queen. Him and the Westerlands Armies he took with him. Altogether, our forces shall be more than enough to sweep and retake Westeros for you. The Iron Throne will be ours… yours."
Myrcella grimaces, but then Cersei looks back to her, and she quickly harnesses that grimace into a soft, pleasant smile as she tilts her head.
"I'm sure he's on his way right now, Mother. Grandfather has never been one to dally, no?"
Letting out a 'hah!' of laughter at that, Cersei takes another long drink of wine.
"No. If there's one thing Lord Tywin does not do, it's 'dallied'. Of course, there are other things he doesn't do either, despite the rumors. Shit gold, for instance. If only he did…"
Myrcella gasps, not because she's shocked, but because it's expected of her.
"Mother!"
Cersei blatantly rolls her eyes, before putting on an apologetic face a moment later as though she hadn't.
"Ah, sorry Myrcella. You're right. I shouldn't talk like that. Neither should you. You are a Princess after all… the Crown Princess now that your brothers are gone. Joffrey… Tommen… do you know their greatest failing, dear heart? They share it, of course."
Here, Myrcella bobs her head, repeating by rote.
"Yes, Mother. They didn't listen to you."
A smile flickers across Cersei Lannister's face, and a hint of something more flickers across her eyes. She takes another long pull of wine before tilting her emptied goblet in Myrcella's direction.
"That's exactly right, my love. They didn't listen to me. Men rarely do and look where it's brought us. Eddard Stark could have gone home, you know. He could have taken his filthy, flea-bitten daughters with him after bending the knee to Joffrey and everything would have been fine. But then, Joffrey could have taken my counsel and let Eddard Stark take the Black, defusing at least one front of that stupid, insipid conflict they called the War of the Five Kings. And Tommen… don't get me started on Tommen."
Letting out a moan, Cersei places her free hand on her forehead, splaying her fingers out as if she's feeling faint. Myrcella takes the opportunity to take another sip from her wine cup while her mother isn't looking.
"At least you listen, dear heart. At least you, of all my children, are obedient. The Crown Princess. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne. One day, my love, you WILL be Queen. But for now, you will listen to your mother, and continue to learn at my feet."
"Of course, Mother. I've learned so much from you already."
The smile Cersei gives Myrcella in response to that is almost knowing in its sharpness, and for a moment Myrcella feels alarm. Then, just as quickly as it shows itself… it's gone, and Cersei's eyes are glazed over again. She looks momentarily confused, before refocusing on Myrcella.
"Myrcella, my child… have you seen Jaime today?"
Myrcella's hand on her cup tightens, and her jaw ticks. But she keeps herself… contained.
"No, Mother. I can't say I have."
"Hm. It's not like him to be gone for so long. Do you think… do you think he's with your brothers? I asked him to take over Joffrey's training so many times…"
"… Perhaps, Mother. In fact… yes, I imagine that's exactly where he is. With Joffrey and Tommen."
Another brief smile spreads across Cersei's face, before she gives Myrcella a sharp look.
"You mustn't address Joffrey in that familiar of a way, dear heart. I know he's your brother, but he IS the King now. And you know how he gets."
Feeling tired as can be, Myrcella just lowers her head.
"Of course, Mother. But it should be fine here, yes? With just the two of us?"
Cersei scoffs at that.
"Don't be ridiculous, child. You never know who's listening. You never know who's watching. I've taught you better than that, Myrcella. You must always act as though you have eyes upon you. Sit up straight now. There you are."
Myrcella was already sitting straight, but when Cersei snaps off the order, she's quick to sit even straighter. A satisfied smirk spreads across the older blonde's face, and she nods her head.
"Good girl. Now, tell me about your day. How were your lessons with the Septa?"
Myrcella opens her mouth to speak, only for the door to the room to suddenly burst open, revealing a young man clad in Lannister Soldiers.
"M-My Queen! There is news from the East! The Targaryen, his dragons, and his armies… they grow closer by the day! If we're to get you out of here, we need to act swiftly! We can't-!"
"Be silent!"
Cersei's hissed, venomous tone cuts through the panicked young man's words like a knife through butter. The young man flinches, turning to look at Cersei with wide eyes, immediately apologetic.
"O-Of course, Queen Mother! A thousand apologies, I-!"
"You will cease your prattling this instant."
The young man shuts up immediately.
"Good. So then, we are surrounded, are we?"
"N-Not quite yet, Queen Mother-!"
"Silence. It was rhetorical. Or, if anything, I was speaking to my daughter. Not YOU."
Trembling now, the Lannister Soldier goes even more silent. Cersei looks to Myrcella then, and a hint of the old Cersei Lannister is back as she smiles a macabre smile.
"Ironborn at our shores, besieging the harbor. Dragons at our back, coming down upon us from above. Tell me, Myrcella… do YOU think we can escape the net that has closed around us? Do you think we can escape the grasp of Dragons and Krakens alike? Lions we may be, and proud at that… but do you think we should flee?"
A test, of course. Even after everything, her Mother still made it all a test. Smiling slightly, Myrcella shakes her head.
"No, Mother. I do not see escape as an option."
But of course, Cersei just scoffs, her eyes growing madder by the second.
"That is because you are blind, child. Escape is ALWAYS an option. Leave us!"
Those last two words are directed to the Lannister Soldier, who glances to Myrcella. She gives him the slightest of nods, and he leaves the Queen Mother's bedchambers behind.
Cersei, meanwhile, sweeps out of her chair at the table, and moves over to a nearby cabinet. She quickly retrieves two vials, even as Myrcella rises from her own chair… and joins her mother over on the bed. As they sit beside one another, Cersei tries to hand Myrcella one of the vials… but Myrcella shakes her head and takes the other.
"This one is mine, Mother. That one is yours."
Cersei scoffs and rolls her eyes at that.
"Honestly, Myrcella. They're both poison, and you're more than old enough to know that."
But she doesn't fight Myrcella on her daughter's choice. Together, they remove the stoppers on the two vials… and drain them at the same time. As wine hits Myrcella's throat, she swallows and swallows, before watching her mother let out a breathless sigh.
Together, they laid down on the bed, mother and daughter, both of them waiting for the contents of the vials to take effect. Only one of them actually understands what was IN the two vials, however. Myrcella's vial truly was just wine… while Cersei's was a simple sleeping draught, nothing poisonous, nothing fatal.
The Queen Mother's eyes flutter and she quickly fades, even as she clings tightly to Myrcella's hands until sleep finally claims her. Better that than death, Myrcella thinks as she slowly extricates herself from Cersei's grip and rises from the bed.
Gone is Cersei Lannister's daughter. Gone is Princess Myrcella Baratheon. In her place stands Queen Myrcella Baratheon, rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms… or so some people liked to claim. So her Mother herself had proclaimed, once upon a time.
Though Cersei rarely remembered it at this point, it was she who had coronated Myrcella, lifting her up and making her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms several months back. Cersei's authority in the rest of Westeros was questionable at best and nonexistent at worst, but in the Westerlands, in Lannister Lands, her word had been law.
And so, Myrcella had become Queen… of one Kingdom and one Kingdom only. She had then used that newfound power to do something someone should have done a long fucking time ago. She'd locked her own Mother up.
Moving to the cabinet, Myrcella carefully refills the two vials, one with wine and one with sleeping draught. Then she puts them both back where Cersei found them, for the next time that the ailing Queen Mother needs a 'way out' and decides to take her daughter with her. Myrcella had found it to be much safer to simply play into Cersei's delusions and have the tools for her and Myrcella's 'suicides' at hand, rather than risk Cersei plotting with sharp instruments or the like.
… Her mother was unwell, to say the least. She didn't know what year it was, most of the time. She couldn't remember who was and wasn't dead from one moment to the next, and of course, above all else… she still thought she was in control. When Myrcella had used her authority as Queen to confine Cersei to her own quarters for her own safety, the psychotic break that her Mother had suffered afterwards had left her unable to even remember the coronation.
Shame, that. It was quite beautiful… or as beautiful as it could be, all things considered.
Slipping out of her mother's chambers, Myrcella nods to the young man waiting for her outside.
"I-I apologize, your Majesty. I know-!"
"No, it's fine."
Turning to the guards ever-stationed outside of her mother's door, Myrcella nods to them as well.
"Let no one in or out."
""Yes, Your Majesty!""
… Why they were all so loyal to her even now, Myrcella didn't quite understand. She hadn't really done anything to deserve their loyalty. All of the Lannister Men were dead. As were the Baratheon Men… if her brothers had even BEEN Baratheon. If SHE was even Baratheon.
And yet, here she was, a Queen of a falling Kingdom, the Ironborn growing bolder and bolder by the day, taking more and more of her people. She was doing her best, but between them and dealing with her mother, Myrcella was at wit's end.
Now… now the Targaryen and his forces were very nearly on her doorstep. She had been aware of him and his armies for quite some time now, of course. But there was nothing to be done. Even now… there was nothing to be done.
"My Queen, we can still try and sneak you past the Ironborn blockade, o-or find a way to slip you North, to Oxcross and then the Golden Tooth. The Targaryen's army comes from the South, by way of the Ocean Road and Crakehall!"
Myrcella looks to the young Lannister Soldier for a moment. He truly cares for her. Not in a lustful way, but in a subject caring for his liege. He means every word he says. And yet… one thing bothers her. Why is HE the one telling her all this? Why is this young man, who can't possibly be anyone of importance, the one advising her in this moment?
Ah yes, that's right. Because everyone older was already dead. It was just them. Too young and too inexperienced by half… but they were truly all that was left.
Letting out a soft sigh mixed in with a chuckle, Myrcella shakes her head.
"Even if I fled North, the Dragons can easily outfly even the swiftest horse. Hiding in the hills would likewise be of little use when they take to the air with such ease. My good man… there is no escape. My options are the Ironborn… or the Targaryen."
"Y-Your Majesty…"
He looks heartbroken, and so Myrcella spares him a fond smile and even places a gentle hand on his cheek. The poor lad barely has stubble there, and not from shaving, but from an inability to truly grow a beard just yet.
"Do not fret. Your Queen will not abandon you. Not now… not ever. We shall see what this Targaryen desires for assistance in ending the Ironborn threat plaguing our shores. And if that is my life… so be it."
The young Lannister Soldier has a protest on his lips for that, but Myrcella has already turned and began walking away. She had a missive to write, and a brave soul to send with it. It was time… to try and parley.
A "War Council"
To His Grace, Jon Targaryen, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. May this Letter find you well.
I know that even now, you encroach upon the Westerlands. You come with armies, to take what is rightfully yours by birthright and conquest. There is little I or my people can do to stop you. There is even less I wish to do to stop you. The Ironborn raid our shores even now, harassing us, burning our homes, stealing our women, killing our men. Consider this missive my complete and utter surrender.
The soldiers of House Lannister, what little remain, will stand down. All I ask is that you grant them clemency. Many were conscripted and want little more than to return to their farms and families… if they still remain. The damage done by our forefathers to not just the Westerlands, but Westeros as a whole, is immense. An entire generation, lost to needless bloodshed.
No more, I say. If it pleases you, Your Grace, I would invite you to Casterly Rock, for the official and public handover of all the Westerlands to your control. We submit, totally and utterly.
I know that my life, and the life of my mother, are likely forfeit. All I ask, if our deaths are necessary to satisfy any grudges that exist between our Houses, is that you let it be swift and relatively painless. My mother is not well, and for all that her crimes may deserve judgment, she is a shadow of her former self.
Still. Whatever is necessary for you to leave the rest of the Westerlands in peace… whatever will move you to save what remains of my people from the Ironborn… you need only ask it of me. I am, for better or for worse, the last voice of authority in these lands. I await your response or your arrival with anticipation.
Yours,
Myrcella Baratheon
-x-X-x-
"It's, mm, a trap, of course."
Jon can't help but be a little amused as Daenerys advises him. She was so quick to push for him to show mercy and understanding to the other women they'd found struggling with different circumstances up and down the length of Westeros. From Sansa to Margaery to most recently Arianne, they'd all received Daenerys' pity and sympathy, in the end.
But now… as they were marching on the Westerlands, making their way to Casterly Rock, Daenerys had changed her tune. The two of them were enjoying a little break together, and Jon had shared with her the letter that Myrcella had sent to them. Notable was the complete lack of titles at the end of it. It went a long way towards making the offer of surrender and utter submission appear more legitimate.
And yet, at the same time, the young woman clung to her last name even now… the last name that more than half of Westeros whispered she was not entitled to. Even Jon's ears, all the way over in Essos, had heard the rumors. That NONE of the children supposedly born between Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon were actually legitimate.
The rumors stated that every single one, was in fact the product of incest between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, the twin siblings engaging in cuckolding the King right under his very nose for over a decade and a half.
Of course, Jon didn't need confirmation from mortal sources to know the truth. He might not be a God of Truth, necessarily, but he could peer into a mortal's soul all the same. And while Westeros was… clouded, most of that darkness was centered around King's Landing. The Westerlands, ironically enough, was very clear.
As he and his armies got closer and closer to Casterly Rock, the clearer everything became. Indeed, at this point Jon could reach out and gaze upon both Myrcella and Cersei and recognize the truth of the matter.
Still, he keeps his knowledge to himself as he looks over at his Queen. Daenerys is laid out on a bed, naked with her pale chest heaving. There's a dark-skinned beauty, kneeling between her legs, and as Missandei eats out Daenerys' cunt, one of her hands is up on the Mother of Dragons' chest as well, groping and squeezing it as Daenerys moans throatily.
Jon himself is sat nearby in a cushioned chair, watching the spectacle… but not idly. No, between HIS legs kneels Doreah, the gorgeous handmaiden sucking his cock dutifully and most importantly quietly. She COULD have choked down his dick with greater enthusiasm and eagerness, but that would have made all sorts of noise, and she was quite aware that there was a time and place for such things.
Instead, she's much less obtrusive than Missandei is… not that Jon minds watching the dark-skinned translator's gorgeous peach-shaped derriere sway back and forth in the air like a cat while she drives her tongue wildly as deep into Daenerys' cunt as possible.
"Hm. Do you think so?"
His belated response to Daenerys' words causes the blonde's eyes to snap to his and she clearly notes something in his tone or his face, because they narrow for a moment.
"O-Of course. Jon… House Lannister is not to be, nngh, t-trusted. They betrayed our f-family in the worst possible way during the Rebellion. The, ooh, Usurper, at least, was upfront about his l-lack of loyalty."
Jon tilts his head to the side at that.
"Everyone involved in the decision making is dead, darling. Your father. My father. Tywin Lannister. Jaime Lannister."
Daenerys' eyes flash, especially at that last name. Jaime Lannister. Kingslayer. The man is fortunate to be dead, truth be told. Jon would not quite know what to do with his grandfather's killer, if he weren't already deceased.
"And what… of Cersei Lannister's crimes?"
Jon sighs at that, and glances to the side. He gazes off in a seemingly random direction… but it's not random at all. They are in fact only a day's march away from Casterly Rock, where both Cersei Lannister and Myrcella Baratheon await their arrival. The former, unknowingly of course. Cersei isn't in any sort of state to understand why her daughter, her last remaining child, is doing what she's doing.
"Myrcella is not lying, dear heart."
Daenerys' eyes widen at that. She, out of everyone in the world, is closest to him. Bellegere is a very, very close second, and maybe some would argue that the former Black Pearl deserved to be first in his heart, but it's simply not the case. Jon has to be honest with himself, if nothing else. Still, Daenerys knows well what he's becoming… what he's already become. She understands his divinity better than most, and not just trusts, but believes IN him wholly and utterly.
And so, she knows that when Jon says what he says, he means it. Myrcella's letter… is the truth. The Westerlands lay in shambles, and the Ironborn pick at its rotting carcass like the scavengers they are. Furthermore, Cersei Lannister, for all her crimes against his Northern Family, is a shadow of her former self, a complete and utter shell of a woman. The deaths of not just her sons but also her brother and father and everyone she has ever known or loved save for Myrcella… have shattered her completely.
Killing Cersei now would be like putting down a sickly, elderly animal. Maybe such a mercy killing would even be appropriate, but it would be neither satisfying nor righteous.
"Cersei Lannister does not even know herself any more. She is a broken woman, and I am inclined to let her die naturally, at this point."
Daenerys digests this, even as Missandei, likely detecting her Queen's turmoil, slows down her efforts a bit to give Dany a little bit of room to breathe. Meanwhile, Doreah's efforts are bearing fruit. Jon is ready to blow at any time. Of course, he's currently holding himself back, choosing not to cum in Doreah's mouth. That would be a waste of his load.
This was, after all, a meeting of two-fold purpose. Yes, he and Daenerys were here to discuss Myrcella's letter. One might question why they were doing so, when Jon was a God and Daenerys was still a mortal woman. But any who did question such a thing simply didn't understand WHO Jon was at this point in time.
For so long as he retained his physical flesh, for so long as he still remained a man as well as a god, Jon refused to just stop listening to those around him. He refused to always assume he knew best, even if most of the time he did. He would not let hubris take him in the way it seemed to take almost every other God and Goddess he'd encountered in his travels.
So many deities, all convinced of their inherent superiority. Jon… Jon knew what he was and who he was. But that didn't mean he was so far removed from the human condition that he couldn't still take advice and accept outside opinions.
That said, there was no problem with multitasking. Myrcella's words about the Lannister Troops standing down had been accurate. None of the Westerlands' soldiers had tried to fight them as they marched on Casterly Rock this past week. As a result, Jon had had a lot more free time… time he had spent with his lovely ladies.
Doreah and Missandei… were as competitive as ever. And their most recent competition had ended in a decisive victory for Missandei, one that Doreah was still smarting over, even now. That was almost certainly why she was currently quietly trying to make him blow his load in her mouth. Not going over the top, not choking herself on his cock… but putting every bit of her skills and training into making him cum all the same.
Swirling her tongue over his glans one moment, sliding it down over his balls the next, she quietly but expertly works to get him off… to no avail, alas, as he continues to deny her this, continues to hold back his release. He is no mere mortal man, for all that she has the training of a pleasure slave to back up her exquisite technique.
Smiling down at the former prostitute, Jon runs a hand through Doreah's head… and then slowly pulls her off of his cock, before standing up. Doreah gasps as his member pops free of her lips, and pouts mightily as well. But if she thought she could somehow change his mind, she was mistaken. Missandei had won fair and square… and thus Doreah had been reduced to the position of fluffer, while it was Missandei who would be bred today.
Moving over to the bed, Jon climbs up into position between the gorgeous, dark-skinned translator. He takes her shapely hips in his hands and drives his cock right into her from behind. There is no resistance beyond the usual tightness. Her sopping wet slit spreads open wide for him, accommodating his shaft as Missandei moans wantonly into Daenerys' cunt. In response, Dany moans as well, his Queen reaching out and grabbing Missandei's hair, driving her deeper into her crotch as she arches her back.
The sounds of moans and squelching noises fill the air, their three bodies a mixture of undulating flesh and pleasure. Ecstasy fills every fiber of Missandei's figure, and it's clear she knows what's coming next… she's going to get exactly what she deserves, exactly what she's earned even.
Together, the King and Queen spit-roast the beauty between them. Jon's cock spears in and out of Missandei's hungering twat, her pussy positively begging for a breeding. Daenerys, for her part, humps up into Missandei's face. Though, even as they're tag-teaming the woman, Daenerys' lidded eyes find his and she looks at him from over Missandei's arched form.
"You're absolutely certain, Jon?"
Nodding, Jon once again glances in the direction of Casterly Rock, before speaking confidently and with a certain surety.
"There is no trap. If House Lannister were more intact, there might have been one… or they might have simply been planning to bend the knee and bide their time for a generation or two until a better opportunity presented itself. It would have been a toss-up, I imagine. But now? There's no great schemer left. Cersei Lannister sits in her room all day, plotting her own death half the time for fear of being held accountable for her actions. Myrcella, meanwhile, tiredly tries to hold everything together, while the Ironborn snatch more and more people and resources from her lands."
He finishes his long-winded explanation with a grunt, driving deep into Missandei's cunt and drawing a muffled squeal from the linguist. She cums for him then, but it doesn't take him over the edge just yet. Rather, he doesn't let it. Instead he's looking to Daenerys rather seriously, staring her right in the eye as they continue to enjoy Missandei between them, while also driving her absolutely wild with ecstasy as well.
Her pussy walls tighten and clench down around his cock. Her ass jiggles with thrust after thrust. Her soft body gives way beneath his strong, domineering motions. His hands grip tightly on her hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her flesh. In turn, Missandei pushes back into his thrusts as best she can.
To be fair, her eagerness is to be expected. She and Doreah had been competing for this for a little while now. Not that they needed to, Jon would be happy to impregnate both of them. It was just the way they were with each other, and Jon… well, Jon was all about freedom of expression, needless to say. Doreah wouldn't be deprived for too long anyways. Jon wasn't that cruel. But Missandei was definitely first. Their latest competition had assured that much.
Regardless, Jon looks Daenerys in the eye and asks her point blank.
"What would you have me do, my Queen?"
Perhaps its cheating. He already knows, after all, what Daenerys is going to choose. And yet, he refuses to take her agency away from her. She, more than anyone, deserves a voice. Especially against the House that caused their family so much harm and sent her and her brother on the run so, so long ago.
The Westerlands Submit
Taking a moment to consider it properly while Missandei continues to eat her out, his Queen eventually lets out a shuddering breath.
"… Myrcella is not responsible for the crimes of her parents. By your words, she sounds… sounds like an honorable young woman."
Jon inclines his head in acknowledgment of Daenerys' point, while his hands remain affixed to Missandei's hips, his fingers digging into her dark skin, his cock pistoning in and out of her cunt. The beautiful translator cums for him again and again, while Jon himself is slowly reaching the point where he will tip over the edge.
Of course, he decides when that happens… and he's not done talking with Daenerys just yet.
"… But Cersei Lannister's crimes are too numerous to be forgiven. And… if her malady is one of the mind, could it not c-cure itself? Could she not one day return to the vindictive and vile woman she, nngh, once w-was?"
Its not an unfair point, and Jon once again tips his head in acknowledgment of Daenerys' words. Emboldened, his beautiful Queen continues on.
"An example needs to be made, Jon. The Westerlands must learn who their true King is. Myrcella… Myrcella should live, but Cersei should d-die. That is what I would have you do, my King."
Not a moment later, Daenerys is arching her back, thrusting up her chest as Missandei sends her over the edge into another mind-melting climax of her own. It was to his Queen's credit that she'd controlled herself long enough to tell him her advice. Smiling, Jon thrusts forward a handful more times into Missandei's clenching cunt, and then proceeds to cum, filling her with his seed, pumping a hot, thick load directly into her womb.
Missandei, trapped between her King and Queen and all the happier for it, shakes and spasms, gurgling into Daenerys' quim as she takes Jon's load deep into her body. There's no doubt he's knocked her up right here and now in this moment, and as he pulls out, he watches Missandei bring a hand down to frig at her clit, before running it over her abdomen, just above her womb.
Gently and carefully, he sets the translator aside, letting her rest next to them as he moves in on Daenerys and leans down, not penetrating her, but embracing her all the same. As he brushes a hand through Daenerys' hair, he gives his Queen a proud smile.
"You're right, my love. Myrcella has done nothing deserving of punishment. Cersei, on the other hand, cannot be allowed to live."
Oh, he could force things into such a shape where she COULD be allowed to live. He could even twist Cersei up, making her into a toy for him and his Queen, and get their vengeance on the practically defunct Houses of Lannister and Baratheon that way. But no… that would be against who Jon was at his core.
He was a God of Freedom, after all. To subjugate and warp Cersei's already ruined mind even further, to make her compliant and pliable… it would go against his truest principles. He had not worked so hard against slavery over in Essos to turn around and engage in a more personal form of slavery here in Westeros.
But at the same time, Daenerys was right. Cersei Lannister's malady was one that was self-inflicted. As such, she could technically snap out of it at any time and become just as much of a nuisance as she ever was. Even if she hadn't necessarily ordered his uncle's death, even if she hadn't played too much of a role in the wars that followed and nearly wiped out House Stark… she had still been a part of all of it. And if she were to recover, she would eventually be his enemy.
Better to handle Cersei now, rather than let her become a problem in the future. While Jon himself was not in danger from the deranged woman's machinations, it would only result in further heartache for Myrcella if they let Cersei become a threat to the Seven Kingdoms at some point down the line. And perhaps it was odd for Jon to already care so much about Myrcella… but to be fair, he had been watching her via his divine senses for some time now. She had a good heart. He would be happy to call her one of his allies… and of course, something more than that.
Daenerys looks vindicated beneath him and pleased that he's listening to her. Which is why Jon regrets having to say what he says next, even though he knows he has to say it.
"However… there will be no public execution, my Queen. In that regard, you are incorrect. The Westerlands are already broken. They do not need another example of how little they have left. Cersei Lannister's execution would not convey the message you might want it to convey… instead, her quiet passing and Myrcella's complete submission will serve us better."
For a moment, Daenerys appears mulish… but then she ducks her head and lowers her gaze.
"As you say, my King."
Jon lets out a sigh and runs his hand through her hair again, before pulling her into a kiss. Their tongues are soon swapping spit, and after a moment he slides his cock inside of Daenerys, thrusting up into his Queen as she moans for him. They might not always see eye to eye on everything, but that was fine. Jon didn't want to surround himself with people who only agreed with him. At the same time, Daenerys knew that he was in charge, and that ultimately the final decisions HAD to lie with him.
And this was a very final decision indeed… with this, the Westerlands were already theirs. They would arrive at Casterly Rock soon enough, and everything would be settled once and for all.
-x-X-x-
She doesn't cry, as she leaves her mother's chambers for the final time. Stepping out, Myrcella looks to the guards there.
"… The Queen Mother has passed. Have preparations made for a quiet funeral, so that she may be interned in the crypts."
The Lannister Guards share a look, but neither says what they're probably actually thinking. Instead, they snap off a pair of salutes and bow their heads.
"As you wish, your majesty."
Shaking her head, Myrcella smiles a faint smile.
"You shouldn't call me that any longer. I am not your Queen. If all goes well, I may still be your Lady… but the rightful King and Queen of Westeros are here now. And we will soon owe them everything. Do not forget that."
After another long moment of silence, the two guards bow their heads again, this time without saying a word either way. Myrcella figures that's the best she's going to get and makes her way through the castle. It's honestly a testament to the trust placed in her that she didn't have an escort from the Targaryen forces following her everywhere she went.
They'd arrived just yesterday after all. The Targaryen King and his Dragons, as well as his armies. Upon seeing them, Myrcella had honestly been outright relieved. She'd made the right decision in offering her letter of complete and utter submission. The loss of life if she had tried to fight it out, or even if she had attempted to negotiate terms… Myrcella didn't want to even think about it.
But then, she also didn't want to think about having to poison her own mother. The Targaryen King had been merciful about it, at least. When she and he had met with one another, the conversation had been brief. Her and her people's clemency was predicated on one simple thing… the quiet removal of Cersei Lannister.
Rather than ordering a public trial and execution for a woman who was barely capable of telling you what time period she was in, the Targaryen King had allowed Myrcella to handle things privately. He had not demanded it be painful, he had not demanded it be a spectacle. He had simple demanded her mother's death.
Even a year ago, Myrcella wouldn't have been able to do it. Even a year ago, she would have wailed and cried at the injustice of it all, and ultimately begged to die in her mother's stead. But time changed everything. Cersei Lannister was a shell of her former self, and after watching her mother deteriorate as much as she had, Myrcella didn't consider this a betrayal, not anymore. Hell, if Cersei had it her way, they both would have gone to sleep and never woken up again a hundred times over.
… Myrcella had been tempted to engineer a situation in which Cersei demanded they both drink poison, as she'd done countless times before. But in the end, that had felt more than a little crass. Ultimately, Myrcella had dosed Cersei's wine with the painless, fast-acting poison and simply not partaken on this day. When her mother's strength began to fail her, she'd helped Cersei to the bed and stayed with her until the end.
It was all over now, but at the same time it was all just beginning. Arriving outside of another set of quarters, Myrcella nods stiffly to the dark-skinned Unsullied standing guard there.
"The King is expecting me, I believe?"
They step aside without a word, allowing Myrcella to pass them by and enter the chamber. As she does so, she's a little surprised to see not just the King… but also his Queen, Daenerys Stormborn. She goes a little stiffer, and her lips thin out as she tries not to make a fool of herself. Bowing deeply at the waist to both monarchs, Myrcella clears her throat.
"My King… my Queen. It is done."
There's a beat of silence, before suddenly she's wrapped up in a set of feminine arms.
"Oh you poor thing."
Receiving comfort from Daenerys of all people was not something Myrcella was expecting, especially not after the history between their families. House Baratheon were the infamous usurpers in Daenerys' eyes after all, or so Cersei always said, and House Lannister were traitors. So yes, the hug is very unexpected indeed.
When Daenerys finally pulls back, she looks ashamed.
"You're just a girl. A young woman with the weight of the world on your shoulders. I know that feeling all too well… you didn't deserve any of this. I'm so sorry."
Blinking rapidly, blushing profusely, Myrcella shakes her head.
"Y-You have nothing to apologize for, Your Grace. It is my family… BOTH of my families, who have wronged yours."
"The sins of our fathers and mothers should not stain us. I DO have something to apologize for, because initially, I believed you to be a copy of your mother, and your letter to be a trap. I see now I was wrong… you are merely in over your head."
It was true, but Myrcella still feels a little bit of irritation. She might have been in over her head, but she'd done her best, hadn't she?! She bristles for a moment before getting herself under control, but it's too late… Daenerys noticed her momentary indignation. Rather than getting upset with her however, the Targaryen Queen… pulls her into another hug?!
Myrcella doesn't really understand what's going on. She'd just killed her mother on the orders of her new King. Dress it up as nicely as you wanted, but that was what she'd done. As for herself, King Jon had made no allusions one way or the other about what would happen to her next. She had done this for her people, in the end. Not for herself.
"We have things to discuss now."
The King's voice cuts through the moment that she and the Queen are apparently having, and Daenerys reluctantly pulls away from Myrcella, giving her an encouraging smile and a squeeze of her hand. As for Myrcella herself… she turns to King Jon and bows her head, waiting for his judgment.
"You have offered your complete and utter submission, in exchange for the safety and well being of your people. I have accepted that offer. With the passing of your mother, you have held up the first part of your end of the bargain. In turn, I strip you of the name Baratheon. You were never one to begin with, as we both know. Instead, I raise you, Myrcella Waters, to the name Lannister. You are the Lady of Casterly Rock now, Warden of the West and Lady Paramount of the Westerlands."
At first, his 'reward' for the quiet execution of her mother doesn't sound very good. But then he keeps talking and Myrcella is left wide-eyed and awestruck by his generosity. Indeed, she was always a bastard… but then, it was the right of the King of the Seven Kingdoms to grant a bastard legitimacy any time he wanted. Normally, a House would petition for the King to do so, but there was no one in House Lannister left. No one but her.
"Next… there is the matter of the Ironborn. I will deal with them for you, Lady Myrcella. I will deal with them for you most thoroughly. But I will require repayment. Your oath of fealty for one… and also, a child."
Myrcella blinks, and then blushes as Daenerys gives her another encouraging smile and nod.
"A c-child, Your Grace?"
"Indeed. You have no suitable matches at this time, yes? The Seven Kingdoms is very much lacking in eligible male nobility at this point."
Wracking her brain for a moment for any potential suitors, Myrcella blinks again in shock as she finds herself coming up short.
"… No, Your Grace. No one comes to mind."
"As I thought. Then I shall be the donor. I will get you with child, and you will bear a son or daughter who will inherit the Westerlands upon your passing. House Lannister will be reborn through you… and myself."
That was… it made sense. She had, after all, offered total submission. Such orders should not be unexpected. And Myrcella had been willing to die for her people, if it meant King Jon would save them from the Ironborn. She supposed she should have been ready to live for them too, hah. A child… she was afraid of being a mother, after seeing how Cersei did it truth be told. But at the same time, she could do it better, couldn't she?
She could be better than Cersei Lannister, better than everyone she'd ever known. The King was giving her an opportunity here.
Bowing her head yet again, Myrcella doesn't hesitate.
"I accept, Your Grace."
"Very good. I will not ask anything of you until the threat is dealt with, however. The Ironborn will be defeated. All that's left is to decide how exactly I will destroy their culture."
Myrcella's eyes widen at that. The Targaryen King sounds MOST wrathful. She can't help but be a little intimidated… but also a little aroused.
-x-X-x-
Jon, meanwhile, is focused more on what comes next. He would bed Myrcella eventually, but he refused to do so until after he'd saved her and her people. The only problem was… the Ironborn were backed by a God. To be fair, the Drowned God was a fickle thing that rewarded only strength and victory, and even then, if it wasn't the right kind of strength or the right kind of victory, he might rescind his favor at a moment's notice.
The Ironborn were not unbeatable in the water, as proven multiple times over the years, their ill-fated rebellion being the most recent. However, it was obvious, at least to one such as Jon, that the Ironborn had seen more success than not in more recent times, and the Drowned God currently favored them. He could fight them as a man would, with his armies and fleets and dragons.
There was every possibility the Drowned God would not interfere, so long as Jon kept things within reasonable limits. But at the same time, there was also every possibility that the Drowned God would decide to interfere solely because of what Jon was… a divinity encroaching on his territory.
Perhaps, then, it was better to come out swinging so to speak. To fight as a God would fight a God, and not engage in petty mortal warfare but instead in divine combat for control of the seas.
One thing was for certain, as he'd told Myrcella, Jon would not suffer the Ironborn culture to remain. He intended to dismantle their culture of slavery and raiding and evil, just as he had done with the Dothraki. No matter what it took.
Yara Greyjoy
Yara Greyjoy was many things. The first ever Lady Reaper of Pyke. The last living Greyjoy. A stalwart warrior and a strong sea captain. She was also a woman, if the aforementioned 'Lady Reaper' bit hadn't clued one in. Some of these attributes were more beneficial in her experience than others. Some of them were like weights around her neck, shackles around her wrists and ankles.
She had had to fight and claw her way to her current position with every bit of grit and tenacity she had in her person. It wasn't easy, by any stretch of the imagination. It also wasn't without sacrifices along the way. Ruling the Ironborn wasn't as simple as being the strongest, or even having the right name. Not when you were a woman. You had to constantly be proving yourself, not just to those close to you, but to each and every Ironborn man you met.
Yara had seen it too many times to count at this point. She wasn't even that pretty, at least by the main continent's standards. Aside from her title, there wasn't a single thing about her that screamed 'lady'. She was a warrior, through and through. Yet, did that stop men from looking at her like a piece of meat? You would think it would, but no. It felt like every single stranger she met was a toss-up, a coin flip if you will between respectful and fantasizing about what she would look like on her back with their cock buried in her fucking cunt.
The Lady Reaper of Pyke had long gotten used to it. She'd grown up with it after all and had been fending off attempts to see her in that position for far, FAR too long. Still, when everything had started going to shit, Yara had seen her chance. The Ironborn needed a proper leader… and who better than she, the only child of Balon Greyjoy to actually be raised on the Iron Islands?
It certainly wasn't going to be Theon, raised by the Starks and turned into a soft bellied Greenlander. Not that he'd made it back to them anyways, in the end. Yara was the best option… but of course, her Uncle, Euron Greyjoy, had had something to say about that.
Her father had been right to banish Euron from their waters. But privately, Yara found herself wishing with the benefits of hindsight that the former Lord Reaper had simply executed his younger brother straight out. It certainly would have saved her quite the headache.
When Euron had returned, he'd done so with all manner of strange discoveries and frankly disturbing ideas rummaging around in that crazed head of his. He'd come with a small contingent of followers, and immediately begun siphoning off Yara's own supposedly loyal reavers. It wasn't long before the Ironborn were in the midst of a full-blown civil war, with only a few houses staying neutral to see where things landed.
It was those neutral houses that forced Yara's hand, in the end. She'd known how things would play out from the start. If Euron won, then the neutral houses would submit to his rule, accepting him as their new Lord Reaper. But if she had won? They would have seen weakness even if there was none. They would have used whatever damage Euron did to her forces to turn on her next, and they would have finished her off, weakened as she likely would have been, even if she DID prove victorious.
Yara was stuck with her back against the wall. And if she didn't want to end up on her knees, either facing down an axe or a 'sword', then she needed to change the game. She needed to flip the board.
… That was why she'd gone to the Drowned God and offered herself in earnest. When all else fails, turn to the Gods, yes? Of course, the Drowned God was an interesting deity to be sure. He didn't 'help' very much. Rather, the religion of the Ironborn was very fitting as it fit into the culture of the Ironborn itself. One of personal improvement, alongside the reaving, raping, and carving of coastal towns and villages, and kingdoms alike.
Still, Euron Greyjoy was an affront to the Drowned God's religion. He wasn't just lax in his belief, but a full blown heretic and heathen from his time in different seas. The knowledge he'd brought back, the things he'd returned with, and the attitude he showed to the Drowned God and the Ironborn's religion… all of these things gave Yara an opportunity.
She'd prayed to the Drowned God day and night. She'd had the priests drown her damn near a dozen times. And in the end… he had answered her prayers. He had given her what she needed, even as he'd pulled a part of her down into the depths with him at the same time.
Even now, she felt it. A slimy shackle upon her very soul, wrapped tightly around some ethereal part of her like the strongest tentacle of a kraken. There was nothing Yara could do about it though. She was but one mortal woman, and she existed to serve the Drowned God's whims at this point.
It had worked, at least. They had defeated Euron Greyjoy in pitched naval battle. And not just the Drowned God had assisted them in sinking her uncle's ships. No, there had been a mighty storm at the time as well, one that shot lightning bolts which ONLY struck the enemy fleet and left their own untouched.
No one had spoken of it, not even the Drowned God's own priesthood. It was madness to even consider that the Storm God and the Drowned God might have worked together. Sure, Euron was a heretic of the highest order, but just how much of a threat was he for the two eternal enemies to put aside their enmity, even for just a single battle, and take him down?
… In the end, she supposed it didn't matter, really. What was done was done, and it wasn't like the truce, if there even was one, had lasted longer than a day. After the fighting was all said and done, after the battle was over and Yara was Lady Reaper of Pyke with an unassailable position as the Drowned God's Chosen, well, the Storm God had gone right back to sometimes sinking their ships, to sometimes blowing their vessels off course.
The sea was no kinder to them then it had ever been either. It was a hard life that the Ironborn led, but they wouldn't trade it for anything. The opportunity to return to the old ways and pay the iron price that came with the chaos that was happening on the main continent was just too delicious.
Perhaps some small part of Yara wished they could change. Perhaps some small part of her felt the shackle on her soul, placed there by her decision to turn herself over to the Drowned God, and recognized it for what it was. She was a slave. A thrall, to use Ironborn terminology. She was just as much a thrall to the Drowned God as many men and women were all across the Iron Islands. Taken in raids on both the coast of the mainland as well as merchant vessels, there were thousands of thralls that lived on the Iron Islands.
She hated feeling kinship with them after all this time. She hated being beholden to the Drowned God. But there was nothing she could do to change that. Nothing she could do to escape her fate. She was his now, and when she died, her soul would likely spend eternity in his clutches, receiving his… special attentions.
Still, it wasn't all bad. She WAS Lady Reaper of Pyke. She WAS the undisputed ruler of the Iron Islands. Men might look, and they might imagine her on her back, but that was all they would ever do. As the Drowned God's Chosen, she was untouchable. Saintly, even.
And at the same time, it wasn't like Yara had changed anything. The Ironborn raided even now. In fact, they raided more than ever before. The state of the continent was such that there was really no one left to stop them. Oh sure, a raid here or there might not go entirely according to plan. They might be repelled or pushed away before they could get all they'd come for.
But there was no more fleet to oppose them on the waters. There were no enemy ships left to get in their way. For the first time in a long time, the Ironborn had naval supremacy. They were the undisputed Masters of the Sea, and with their ships, they could ravage up and down the western coast of Westeros with impunity.
Without a King to sit the Iron Throne, with half of the Seven Kingdoms in disarray and the other half turned inward, dealing with their own problems… it was the Ironborn's time to shine. A Golden Age, one might call it… or perhaps an Iron Age, if you wanted to be particularly cheeky.
That wasn't to say Yara didn't know about the Targaryens, of course. She wasn't dumb and the Ironborn weren't completely blind to what was happening on the other side of the world. They might have mostly kept to their own seas outside of exiles like Euron, but it would be all but impossible NOT to hear about the Targaryen King and his armies making their way from Essos to Westeros.
Some of the rumors, like the one that said they'd fought an army of undead and White Walkers upon the Wall, were simply ludicrous. But others, like how they'd apparently reconquered the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, before moving onto the Reach and Dorne… well, those couldn't be ignored or denied, especially when they were collaborated by so many different sources.
There was also all the talk of what sort of man the Targaryen King was. A liberator, they called him. They said he ended slavery over on Essos, or at least damn near did so. They said he changed the entirety of the Dothraki, an infamous people of horse riders and slavers, and removed the very idea of slavery from their minds somehow.
Yara didn't know if that rumor was any truer then the one regarding the Wall. It certainly sounded fantastical and make believe. Indeed, it sounded impossible. But for some reason, it spoke to her on a deeper, more personal level than the Wall rumor. As thought some part of her yearned for it to be true, for the Targaryen King to be deathly opposed to slavery in all of its forms.
A passing thought, to be sure. But either way, she expected him to make his way to the Iron Islands in some fashion sooner rather than later. Especially when the latest reports had him and his armies, as well as his massive, hulking dragons, arriving in the Westerlands. Once one of their greatest rivals for naval supremacy, the Lannister Fleet had seen better days. In fact, it was practically nonexistent at this point.
The Westerlands, for as much as they'd suffered along with the rest of the mainland, were as green and fertile as ever. Was it any wonder that when given the choice between reaving the Westerlands and reaving the North, Ironborn chose the Westerlands time and time again? They barely had enough knights and soldiers left to repel one in ten raids at this point.
Not anymore though. Not with the Targaryen's armies taking up residence in the Westerlands. Yara had attempted to pull back her Captains, to have the Ironborn lay low for a while in the hopes that the Targaryens would continue on their way to King's Landing. But her more rebellious and independent Captains had refused to listen to her orders, as to be expected at this point.
And besides, it wasn't likely that the Targaryen would have truly turned away at the coast anyways. Not if the reports of the Westerlands rolling over and swearing fealty were also true. He couldn't very well be seen abandoning his subjects to Ironborn predations right after they'd bent the knee, now could he?
Still, Yara wasn't sure they would be able to beat back the Targaryen King and his armies. She wasn't sure the Ironborn hadn't gotten a little fat and lazy off of these last several months of being the only true force of power on the seas. She wasn't sure of much of anything at all… especially seeing how a storm had been raging over the entirety of the Iron Islands for the last seven days and seven nights.
As Yara sits in her study, the study of her forefathers, she presses her lips together and furrows her brow, wondering when the Targaryen King would make his move.
It was then that she felt it… a tug on her very soul. The slimy chain, the kraken's tentacle wrapped around her sense of self pulses with a strange feeling of panic… and then begins to pull.
Yara's eyes widen, as she realizes what's happening after one long moment of confusion. The Drowned God… he's demanding assistance. But not the sort of assistance she knows how to give. She is but a mortal woman. No, he's demanding she give of her very essence for whatever he's doing. A battle, perhaps? Is that what the storm is? A battle between deities?
A gasp tears itself from Yara's lips as she falls forward, barely catching herself on her hands on the desk before her. She doubles over, grimacing in pain as the Drowned God's demands become more and more insistent. No doubt, he's not just pulling from her, but from everyone who owes him fealty. Every Ironborn who has sworn themselves to him and meant it, or who has strong faith in him.
It's not just her, but that's not really much of a consolation prize, because it still feels like he's asking too much. She feels like she's drowning right there in her father's study on dry land, feels like she's being pulled into the deep.
… She could fight it, but she's not sure that would end well for her. She could give in, but that probably wouldn't end any better. What does she do? The world spins and Yara's eyes roll in her head as she gasps and pants and whimpers. This wasn't the kind of battle she knew how to fight. And yet, she had to make a decision all the same.
The Drowned God's End
A/N: B
e advised that this story is rapidly coming to its proper conclusion. I don't expect there to be more than 5 more chapters of this before I mark it as Complete!
-x-X-x-
… She has no choice, in the end. She has to fight, doesn't she? She refuses to be fodder for a war between the Gods. The world spins faster and faster, but Yara does not go with the flow. She does not move with the tide in order to maximize the chances of her survival. She rejects the Drowned God and in doing so, instinctively rejects the teachings of her forefathers, the culture of the Ironborn she's supposed to lead.
All her life, deep down inside, she's known that the Iron Price was wrong. She's known that the Ironborn were misogynistic, slaving, rapist pigs. She, better than most, should have known she would never be able to rise to the top, all due to what lay betwixt her thighs. In the end, there was no hope for her to ascend from within the system. Her only hope… was to break the system.
But even as she finally begins to fight, even as she finally begins to thrash and claw at the Drowned God's grasp… he is still divine, and she is hopelessly mortal. It's like trying to survive the sea itself all by her lonesome. What can she possibly do against such a thing but sink beneath the waves and drown?
That's exactly what it feels like as she sits there in her father's study, choking on her own spit, clawing at her father's desk. Yara Greyjoy, Lady Reaper of Pyke, can feel herself being pulled beneath the metaphorical waves in spite of her struggle, in spite of her fighting with all her heart. She is but one mortal woman, and the Drowned God has hundreds of thousands of followers more than her.
As her head sleeps beneath the metaphysical waters, Yara knows this is the end for her. The Ironborn Deity will take everything she is and use her up in the process for whatever this battle between deities is that he's having. She's done, and all she can feel is regret and outrage that this is what her choices amounted to. This is who Yara Greyjoy was at the end of it all.
She… didn't want to die.
That's when something strange happens. To extend the earlier metaphor to its breaking point, its as though a hand from above the waves comes down from below and grabs her hand. Yara has to grab back for it to have any effect, but she does. Oh yes, she does. She clings to that hand, that impossibly strong hand, with all of her mental might and waning focus.
And slowly but surely… she is pulled free of the water. Slowly but surely, she is pulled free of the Drowned God's influence.
-x-X-x-
It starts with him flying to the Iron Islands with only his dragons beside him. No one is happy about his decision, but Jon stands by it all the same. Taking the fight to the Ironborn would have been a temporary solution at best, as it had proven to be time and time again over the centuries. The most recent example was the Ironborn Rebellion.
Sure, one might say that King Robert was too lenient in his victory. Letting Balon Greyjoy live. Letting his son foster with Ned Stark. Jon had seen enough slavery in this world to know the Ironborn's way of life was too abhorrent for such mercy. And what he saw now with his divine senses made him even surer of that belief.
The Iron Islands were a pit of despair to Jon's senses. Not nearly as bad as whatever the fuck was going on at King's Landing, mind you. That particular horror show was one Jon was still leery about tackling… hell, it was why he were here and not there in the first place.
But that didn't detract from how awful the Iron Islands appeared as Jon gazed down at them from thousands of feet up in the air, riding Drogon and frowning.
… It said a lot about the Drowned God's nature that his greatest concentration of power wasn't in some depths far off in the middle of the Sunset Sea. No, his power was concentrated here, on the Iron Islands. That was why Jon couldn't tackle this as a mortal man with his armies at his back. Even if the Drowned God was loath to offer his followers practically anything in the way of assistance and even if that held true despite Jon's own divine nature… fighting the Ironborn directly wouldn't CHANGE anything.
He would have to kill every single Ironborn, he would have to wipe the Iron Islands clean of all life in order to do away with their pathetic and vile culture. And even that probably wouldn't work, for the Drowned God was not a God of the Sea in the conventional sense… he was a God of People. It was in the name. Water did not Drown. Creatures of the ocean did not Drown. People and animals of land Drowned.
Fighting the Ironborn was a pointless struggle. Jon didn't blame the Kings before him for their attempts at quelling the Ironborn over the centuries, however. Some things a King had to do, even if the results were eventually reversed a generation later. But Jon wasn't just a King. He was also a God… and that meant he had options none of his predecessors had had before.
As he closes in on the Iron Islands, Jon reaches out with his divinity, making his intentions clear. He's not here for the Ironborn. He's here for the Drowned God, to end the threat posed by the bastard once and for all. He's not subtle about it, nor sneaky either. He isn't a God of Skullduggery or Stealth after all. He is a God of Freedom and Dragons, and he does not DO quiet.
… Which is why it's embarrassing that he almost ends up swallowed whole a heartbeat later. Despite being thousands of feet up in the air, despite being very far removed from both the Iron Islands and the waters surrounding them down below… Jon very dearly underestimated the Drowned God's power and reach.
He grunts, having to clutch at Drogon's spines as they're both suddenly yanked down by a metaphysical weight. The Drowned God responds to Jon's challenge by rearing up and attempting to drag him down into the icy depths. As Jon struggles against this attack, he can FEEL the Drowned God's influence over him and his dragons growing, trying to surround him and pull him in like a metaphysical whirlpool.
… Key emphasis on the word try, for even as Jon finds himself outmatched by the older deity, and sorely regretting his overconfidence… the presence of another makes itself known. In an instant, what was a day of clear skies changes. Thunderous, dark storm clouds form, and Jon can only gawk upwards as he realizes precisely what he's just stepped into so unprepared.
The Drowned God is not the only God that the Ironborn acknowledge. It is merely the only God that they worship. There is another God in the Ironborn's culture, one that is no less real and no less powerful.
As Jon finds himself in a losing battle with the Drowned God, he finds an unlikely but also natural ally in the Storm God, the first deity's eternal enemy. The clouds overhead open up, and rain begins to pour down as lightning strikes fill the sky all around Jon. Physical representations of the Storm God's wrathful divine presence, one and all.
In setting such a magnificent storm on the air above the Iron Islands, the Storm God forces back the Drowned God's influence. No longer is Jon the one being surrounded and drowning in an older deity's power. No longer is HE the one on the backfoot. One might worry that in this instance he would be caught between two deities and their eternal feud and torn asunder as a result.
… But the Storm God was not an evil God. Not like the Drowned God. He was an angry sort, but also had a keen mind it would seem. For he recognizes in Jon a kindred spirit and extends a hand in alliance against their shared enemy. There's a tinge of amusement that comes with this offer, mostly directed at how Jon had blindly rushed in to do battle with the Drowned God without any idea what he was up against.
… The Targaryen King figures he probably deserved that. Gratefully, he accepts the alliance. Together, they turn their combined efforts against the Drowned God. Let it not be said that Jon is of no assistance either. The Drowned and Storm Gods have been evenly matched for millennia. Jon's presence tips the scales in the Storm God's favor, perhaps once and for all.
In fact, the Drowned God rapidly gets desperate enough to prove himself the biggest hypocrite of all. The deity probably wouldn't have lifted a finger of Jon came to the Iron Islands in the form of a mortal King seeking to conquer them and bring them under his rule. But now that it is the Drowned God in danger of losing… he's all too happy to pull on his followers, drawing on the essence of every Ironborn there is who worships him and owes fealty to his name.
To Jon's dismay, it seems to be working. The Storm God is not a God of People like the Drowned God. He is a God of Nature, of the World. This means he's more powerful than the Drowned God on a one to one basis but is forced into retreat is the Drowned God draws upon the belief of his followers.
Jon's presence offsets this somewhat, and the Storm God is not immediately forced into retreat. However, something will have to give eventually. Either they will push hard enough for the Ironborn to begin dying en masse as the Drowned God sucks up everything they have to give… or the Drowned God will manage to outlast them.
If the Storm God retreats, Jon will have to flee as well, to regroup and return to fight another day. And truth be told, as the divine combat between the three of them continues, he doesn't know which it'll end up being. Genocide of the Ironborn, or a forced retreat by him and the Storm God.
… Luckily, he never has to find out. In the heart of the Drowned God's power, on the Isle of Pyke… Jon suddenly sees it. A single bright soul, thrashing for freedom. To be clear, there were a handful of Ironborn fighting against the Drowned God's pull. Most were not. Most were giving everything they had to their God.
But this one in particular was special, even if she didn't know it. This one was Yara Greyjoy, last living Greyjoy, Lady Reaper of Pyke. In an instant, Jon knows her. He knows everything there is to know about her. And he knows, instinctively… that she longs to be Free. Free of both the Drowned God and the Iron Price. Free of the shackles placed on her and all her people by their filthy culture.
As the God of Freedom, Jon is uniquely equipped to take advantage of Yara's bid of freedom. Her struggling is rapidly hastening her demise until he grabs hold of her, refusing to let the Drowned God suck her dry. And with Yara Greyjoy saved, with her fighting back with all her heart, Jon has the key to the Drowned God's defeat in the palm of his metaphysical hand.
Pointing out the opening to the Storm God is easy enough. What's harder is shielding dear Yara from the wrathful deity's sudden outpouring of power. The strength of a thousand divine lightning strikes pours into the crack created by Yara's defiance of her God, striking the Drowned God in the heart of his divinity and rending him asunder.
Meanwhile, it takes all Jon has to keep Yara Greyjoy alive through this. Several thousand Ironborn die along with their God, but many more survive as his influence and presence is at long last removed from the Iron Islands and the world altogether. No more will he haunt these waters. No more will he push the Ironborn to rape and reave and pillage.
For a moment, Jon lets himself sag in relief… until the Storm God makes his intentions clear and forces Jon back to full focus.
… The tempestuous deity is loath to let any of the Ironborn survive. He wonders why Jon worked to save Yara, when in truth the slate needs to be wiped clean. The Drowned God and his followers must ALL die… no exceptions.
Before, Jon would have agreed. Hadn't he thought to himself that Robert's half-measures were a failure when it came to the Ironborn? But now… now Jon finds himself wanting to save Yara Greyjoy, funnily enough. He finds himself looking for a way to reform the Ironborn, now that their evil, vile God is destroyed.
He considers briefly taking them under HIS wing and promising the Storm God that he would rehabilitate them. He did so with the Dothraki after all. However, Jon isn't so sure the older deity will go for such a thing. Not when Jon's focus will be more on Westeros and Essos than the Iron Islands going forward, and they both know it.
… Instead, he comes up with a different idea. Pitching it to the Storm God is the work of moments, while waiting for the other deity's answer feels like an eternity. Finally though, he gets a response. Jon can't help but cringe a little at the conditions. Hopefully Yara Greyjoy would be… amenable.
-x-X-x-
Yara's eyes are still wide as she pants heavily, slowly but surely recovering from the near-death experience she'd just got done having. The Drowned God… was gone. He was defeated, and she… she was free. She knew this intrinsically, somehow. She knew it in the same way she knew her own hands. She was… free.
"Hello, Yara."
Flinching, Yara looks up from her father's desk before immediately rising to her feet. Her eyes go even wider, as she lays eyes on the man she knows to be her savior. The Targaryen King… but so much more than that. So much more than she ever could have imagined. He was a God. He was also the one who had freed her.
"… H-Hello."
Damn it all. Her entire life she'd been strong, and now was when she got weak in the knees? Smiling softly at her, the handsome deity in mortal flesh clears his throat somewhat awkwardly.
"Ah… there are conditions. The Storm God will demand tribute and sacrifices from your people for the next one thousand years. The Iron Price is over. There will be no more reaving. There will be no more looting. However, in return… you all are free of the Drowned God's influence. Free to do what you like, so long as it does not harm those under my protection."
Slowly, Yara nods. It's about the best she can expect, that THEY can expect. The Ironborn have thumbed their noses at a lot of Kings over the centuries. But this is on a whole other level.
"… There is one more thing as well. The Storm God has a more personal demand of you… and me. He has asked that you bear my child… as proof of his and my alliance."
Yara blinks at that, even as the literal God in front of her rolls his eyes.
"I know that you're on board, Lady Reaper. I can sense your arousal building in your soul. So I will not quibble over whether you will agree or not. I will merely ask that you choose how you would have me take you, to assuage my own guilty conscience if nothing else."
He's right, of course. Though to have it pointed out has her blushing like some Greenlander Maiden, rather than the Lady Reaper of Pyke she's supposed to be. Hm, how to have him take her though… now THAT was a good question…
-x-X-x-
Also as of now, my first ever original novel Breaking Providence is being released publicly on all of the websites I post to! Please if you have the time at least give it a try for me and let me know what you think, it would mean a lot!
Yara Greyjoy Pt. 2
"I would…"
The words catch in her throat, which convulses nervously as her eyes dip down in consternation. At the same time, Jon sees her true desire crystallize in not just her thoughts, but in her very soul. She struggles to ask for it because it goes against everything she's ever been taught, everything she was raised on.
He's half-tempted to force her to finish the sentence anyways. Half-tempted to make her say the rest of the words. 'I would have you take me like one of your Greenlander women. Gently and tenderly, and with love and care.' That is what he sees in Yara Greyjoy's mind's eye. And perhaps it was only fair that he force her to say it. To make her atone for her actions over the course of her life if nothing else.
But Jon wasn't here to exact vengeance or even justice from the mortal woman in front of him. She had made the right decision in the end, and he refused to punish her, even if she deserved it. Any censure would have to come from her new god, which Jon was not.
"Very well."
He gives her a smile of understanding and offers her his hand, watching as she freezes up for a moment before realizing what his being a God truly means. It's nice having it all laid out on the table, Jon supposes. As she takes his hand, he leads her away from her father's study and down the hall to her quarters. As they go, Jon reflects on the woman he's about to bed.
Yara Greyjoy was not necessarily a bad person. She was simply… hard. Her hard life had turned her into a hard woman. The circumstances of her existence had forced her down a specific path. In order to survive, she had done quite a few questionable things. She had made quite a few questionable decisions. But if she hadn't, she would likely be dead or subjugated to another man at this point, maybe even her own kin.
In the long run, Yara Greyjoy made a better Lady Reaper of Pyke than Euron Greyjoy would have made Lord Reaper. Euron Greyjoy, Jon now knew from his divine senses, was a threat to not just the Drowned God's power, but all divine power. And to be fair, Jon was well aware that there were plenty of Gods on this world that deserved to be threatened, that should in fact be put on notice.
But Euron Greyjoy was not the one to put them on notice. He was a man who had not known how to stop. He would have kept going and going and going. For her part in dealing with him, if nothing else, Jon would make sure to give Yara exactly what she wanted.
As they near her bed, he stops her and wordlessly strips her down. She doesn't fight him on it, but neither does she help him. He can sense her feelings, can tell exactly what she's thinking. She is… in awe of him. It's not entirely unexpected, Jon supposes. He did save her from not just death, but having her soul consumed by a ravenous, desperate God.
The Drowned God wouldn't have just killed her, he would have taken everything she was and assimilated her into his power to further his fight against Jon and the Storm God. And certainly, an argument could be made that it was Jon and his ally's fault in the first place that the Drowned God had been backed into such a corner. But it wasn't an argument that Yara was trying to make.
Instead, she says nothing at all as she's stripped bare before him. Removing his own clothes is the work of a moment, causing her to gasp as he's suddenly just as naked as she is. The Lady Reaper's eyes dip down briefly, before darting away in an embarrassed flush. She's even more embarrassed because she's embarrassed.
If he weren't a God, she would never be capable of showing this vulnerability to him. Even as a King, he would still have also been just another man. Yara might have gone to her death defiant and angry. Only her brief touch with soul-death and the unique glimpse she'd gotten into the three way battle between him, the Drowned God, and the Storm God had given her the perspective she needed.
As such, she lets him lie her back on the bed. She spreads her legs as he moves between them and fits himself against her slit. Her arousal is such that he doesn't have to wait long before penetrating her. Jon barely even grunts as he pushes into her. Slowly, gently, and tenderly. Just as Yara had wanted in her heart of hearts, even if she hadn't been able to voice it out loud.
He takes his time with her, letting her get used to his size before ever even moving. He slides his hands up and down her body, feather-like touches at first followed by slightly more pressure. But he never gets rough with her. He fondles her and massages her but does not grope or maul her. He touches her with an affection that Yara can feel in every move he makes.
For all her faults, for all her weaknesses, Yara Greyjoy had been the key to the Drowned God's defeat. She was the weak spot through which their victory had been attained. For that, Jon doesn't even have to feign his affection of her. She might not have been perfect, but then no mortal being was. Even Gods weren't perfect, not by a long shot.
As far as demands go… the Storm God's demand was perhaps an unreasonable one. And if Jon had thought for even a second that he would have to force Yara into this, he would have found another way. Thankfully for all parties involved, when he'd checked she'd proven willing. For her savior… she was more than willing, she was ecstatic.
They kiss, their tongues intertwining as Yara moans into his mouth. Her hips buck up into his thrusts, her inner walls clenching along his length. He drives deeper into her, but never harshly, never roughly. Still, he stretches her out in a way Jon can tell is just as satisfying for her as it is for him. It's not long before Yara squeals into his mouth, and cums upon his cock.
He spends a bit more time with her after that, making sure the entire experience is as pleasurable for her as possible. In the end, he fills her with his seed though. By the time he does so, by the time he cums inside of her, Yara is quivering beneath him, perhaps a little overwhelmed by his… aggressive gentleness. He is still a God after all, and she is but a mortal woman.
As he pulls out of her, Jon considers leaving it at that for a moment. He considers getting back on his dragon and flying away, leaving the Iron Islands behind him in the process. He still had Myrcella to lay with as well to finalize their deal, and then he had King's Landing at long last. There was no more escaping the latter, as it were. He would have to finally confront whatever evil lurked there once and for all.
For now though… he runs a hand through Yara's hair as she lays there drowsy and slowly recovering. He'd stay with her for a little while longer. A day more, perhaps. He'd help make sure the Storm God and the former Ironborn got off on the right foot, and maybe have Yara write a letter for him as well. Then, he would return to the Westerlands.
-x-X-x-
To the Lady Myrcella Lannister of Casterly Rock,
The Ironborn are no more. Raids on your shores will stop. The Storm's Chosen will make sure of it. If any dare to reave you further, know they are pirates and we shall get to them sooner or later.
Sincerely,
Yara Greyjoy, Lady of the Storm Islands
… It's a much shorter, much more concise letter than the one Myrcella had sent to the Targaryen King weeks ago. To think it had only been weeks since she'd sent off that letter. Hell, it had only been days since he'd promised her he would follow through on his end of their deal. It wasn't like he had to. He could have been a tyrant if he wanted to and forced her to bend the knee without doing anything to help her on his end.
Instead, he'd gone on dragon back alone to the Iron Islands and came back with… with this. Standing there in her grandfather's study, Myrcella's mouth opens and closes wordlessly as she stares at the writing. It's not that she doesn't believe its real. Nor does she doubt Jon believes he's succeeded. But still…
"You're wondering how you can trust it."
Myrcella jolts and blushes as she looks up into the smiling face of the handsome Targaryen King before quickly ducking her head again.
"It's alright. I can understand why you might doubt the word of the Ironborn. But please, do not doubt my word. The Ironborn truly are no more. Their God, the Drowned God, has been destroyed. Their culture has been turned on its head. From now on, the Storm God will shepherd them as a people, and while he is a harsh deity… he is not an evil deity."
There's a surety in Jon's words that makes it impossible for Myrcella to doubt him. Still, all this talk of gods and religion… truth be told, the blonde has not been overly religious for a long time. When she was younger she was taught all about the Seven, of course. She was raised to be pious and devout, and she had been. But as she got older and the world got bigger and crueler, Myrcella had ultimately drifted away from her faith.
Now… now she wondered if maybe her faith had merely misplaced. Certainly, the Seven had never gotten the results that the man in front of her had gotten.
When Jon suddenly chuckles softly, seemingly for no reason at all, Myrcella jolts before blushing and looking at him.
"… Then I suppose it is time for me to uphold my end of the bargain, isn't it?"
Jon sighs, giving her a wry smile.
"We don't have to if you're not ready, Myrcella."
She can tell that he both means it… and is merely saying it because it's expected of him. She can also tell he knows that she's ready but is still willing to give her an out just in case. Honestly, it's quite nice of him… but Myrcella has been ready since before he even left.
Grabbing him by the hand, she leads him not to her bedchambers, but around her grandfather's old desk. She hasn't spent much time in here since her and her mother had retreated to Casterly Rock so many moons ago. It felt almost like disturbing the dead, and if there was one dead man that Myrcella did not want to disturb, it was Tywin Lannister.
But the Old Lion's ghost didn't seem quite so scary now, not with Jon by her side. And so she sits the Targaryen King down in her grandfather's old chair, almost marveling at how good he looks in it. Then, she drops to her knees between his legs and begins taking out his cock.
"You don't have to do this either, you know."
"I know… but I want to."
Extracting his member from its confines is not difficult. Myrcella is proud to say she doesn't even hesitate in doing so either. Once she has his length in her hands, she does pause for a moment to stare at it however. Her hot breaths of air ghosting across it cause it to grow and twitch in her grasp, until she's staring at quite the impressive length of specimen.
Biting her lower lip, the young blonde's eyes dart between Jon and it for a moment… before she finally leans forward and begins to lick at it. She doesn't know what she's doing, she'll be the first to admit as much. But she doesn't mind all the same. In fact, she quite enjoys the taste to her mild surprise. Licking up and down his cock also prompts all sorts of interesting noises from the King as well. As she services his member, as she worships his dick with her mouth, Jon groans in appreciation, and places a hand atop her head.
She half expects him to take over from there. She knows she's doing a pretty poor job altogether and wouldn't be surprised if he was suddenly taking charge. But no, his hand just sits there atop her head, relaxed as she continues to lick at his cock. Of course, as active as her tongue is… there's more she can do, isn't there? She's heard all about it, though she knows she wasn't meant to.
Such crass language was not meant for a Princess' ears, but Myrcella had listened all the same. And she'd listened well. Moving in further, the blonde finally descends down Jon's cock, taking him past her lips properly.
As she fellates a man for the first time, Myrcella knows she's still not very good at it. And yet, Jon doesn't seem to despise her for her inexperience or failings. Nor does he deride her for them. The Targaryen King truly is a good man, even if maybe this isn't the best estimation of his 'goodness'.
Still, she can't help but relax into it, never going too far, never pushing herself too hard. He doesn't ask it of her, and she doesn't dare try for something she's not capable of. Instead she happily suckles at the top few inches of his cock, swirling her tongue around the head of his member every time she pulls back.
In the meantime, she finds herself pondering how he'll inevitably take her. There's a variety of positions that her mind ends up conjuring. On her back across her grandfather's desk. Or even bent over it. Perhaps on the floor, like… like some bitch in heat. It would be no less than a bastard like her deserved.
She's not sure she minds any one of them. She'll happily go along with whatever he wants after what he's done for her and her people. That's not something her mother would have appreciated… but her mother wasn't around anymore. Myrcella had done the best she could for Cersei Lannister. The Queen Mother had gotten to go quietly, and that was probably better than she deserved.
Now… now it was Myrcella's time. She didn't know what the future held, but she was eager to find out all the same.
-x-X-x-
Also as of now, my first ever original novel Breaking Providence is being released publicly on all of the websites I post to! Please if you have the time at least give it a try for me and let me know what you think, it would mean a lot!
Myrcella "Baratheon"
As Myrcella fantasizes about which way he'll take her while bobbing up and down on his cock, Jon sits in Tywin Lannister's chair and contemplates what he sees in the beautiful young blonde's mind. The new Lady Lannister has had a tough life, but then Jon already knew that. Even still, her mind's eye reveals the effects of that tough life even now.
She blames herself, both for her family's crimes and for their downfall. She thinks that somehow her nature as a bastard makes her culpable. At the same time, she's stuck in that antiquated, out of date mindset that the sins of the father or mother need fall upon their daughter.
Jon didn't believe that to be true. He refused to accept it, in fact. He would do everything in his considerable power as both King of Westeros and a literal god to change it going forward. The crimes of the dead were their own. Their children did not deserve to suffer for what they had done. Myrcella did not deserve to suffer for what her mother and grandfather had done.
That all said, as much as Myrcella's fantasies lean the way they currently lean because of her self-flagellation, there's also a hint of arousal there. A thread that Jon casually plucks mentally and follows backwards. That's how he ultimately decides what to give her. Not because she thinks she deserves to be treated like garbage, but because she wants to be treated roughly.
Reaching down, Jon grabs Myrcella by her golden locks and yanks the young Lady Lannister off of his cock. In a lot of ways, she's proving to be Yara Greyjoy's opposite, at least in matters of intimacy. The Lady Reaper of Pyke had wanted to know what it meant to be treated tenderly, as though she were a Greenlander noble lady, just the once.
Myrcella wanted to know what it would feel like to be treated like a whore. Whether it would be just the once or not… well, that would be up to her.
As Myrcella gasps from his rough treatment and his throbbing erection slipping free of her lips, Jon rises from the chair and in the process pulls her up to her feet by her hair. The Lady Lannister scrambles to follow his grasp, lest the pulling tug at her scalp any more painfully. Then, she lets out an explosion of breath as Jon spins her around and bends her over her grandfather's desk right then and there.
Tywin Lannister, commonly known as the Old Lion, was a widely feared and respected man. Jon isn't so sure he would have feared or respected the old Lannister Lord if he'd ever met him, however. Tywin Lannister had ruled with an iron fist and done all he did to make his House great at the expense of the Realm and countless people within it.
And what did Tywin have to show for it? Well, if nothing else his House would live on, Jon supposed. And with a purer bloodline than ever before, given Myrcella's parentage. House Lannister was consolidated into Myrcella alone, with the bastard girl as its last living member.
Jon's pretty sure it's not what Tywin would have wanted. Not in the least. He's pretty sure that all of the Old Lion's plans had ultimately fallen to ruin after his death. Frankly, he was lucky that his House WOULD survive in some form or other. But then, that went back to not punishing the son or daughter for the crimes of their forefathers.
Still, didn't mean Jon couldn't take some measure of pleasure out of flipping up Myrcella's skirts, exposing her pale bottom to open air as he yanks away her smallclothes. The Lady of House Lannister gasps before wiggling her hips excitedly back in his direction until he grabs onto them with both hands. Holding her in place, he slams his spit-polished cock into her virgin sex without any further warning, knowing full well that Myrcella doesn't want a warning… she wants to be fucked.
Fuck her he will. Thrusting into her hard and fast from behind, Jon smiles as she squeals from the feeling of his cock splitting open her absolutely sopping cunt. The young blonde ends up on her tip toes as he fucks her, her hips rising higher into the air to match the speed of his thrusts. Tywin's large desk rocks with every pistoning motion of his hips, and shudders as Myrcella in turn shudders atop it.
Tossing her head back, the young Lady Lannister moans wantonly and throatily up into the air.
"Pleeeease… harder! Nnngh! Yes, m-my King! Take me! Make me your w-woman! Breed me!"
Jon can tell from her frenzied thoughts that she's half-spouting whatever she thinks he'll want to hear. But there's also a tremble of pleasure to her tone, and part of her actually quite enjoys the things coming out of her mouth, just as much as she's enjoying being railed from behind by him. Chuckling softly, Jon gives her both what she wants as well as what she thinks HE wants.
His throbbing member slams into her hips with bruising force again and again. Her pale skin will definitely be marred in the coming day… unless he does something of course. But then, why would he not do something? He is a god after all. There might be those who consider this usage of his divinity to be… small and inappropriate, but they are mortal men and Jon… Jon is so far above them it isn't even funny.
So yes, as he rails Myrcella over her grandfather's desk with enough force to leave bruises, Jon also rubs soothing circles into her flesh with his thumbs. And these soothing motions are not just comforting… they are also healing. Using a bit of his divinity, he restores Myrcella even as he damages her. All of it lasts for only a moment. Every thrust into her is healed as soon as he pulls out, every bruise she would have had never has a chance to form.
Myrcella gets all of the pleasure and enjoyment of the rough sex she secretly craved, with none of the soreness or pain she privately believed herself deserving of. It was the best of both worlds, and as Myrcella tips over the edge into her first orgasm, Jon reaches up and slides a hand through her blonde locks again, running his fingers over her scalp.
Moaning even louder than before, the Lady Lannister gets the whorish treatment she's looking for as she herself acts like a little whore, bucking her hips back into Jon's thrusts again and again until he even stops moving altogether for a moment to let her fuck herself back onto his cock. Then, he goes right back to slamming into her, until finally… well, they were here for a purpose beyond Myrcella's pleasure.
With a grunt, Jon spills his divine seed inside of the blonde's womb, filling her to the brim with cum he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt will impregnate her. Shuddering, Myrcella collapses forward face down on the desk as he lets go of her hair, her fingers clawing at the wood as she feels him filling her up. Only once he's done does Jon pull back, running his hands along her body for one last rejuvenation as he does so. He's not about to leave her with a single ounce of the pain and discomfort she thinks she deserves.
Pulling her back with him, Jon brings his lips to Myrcella's ear, whispering into it as he holds her more tenderly.
"You are absolved of your forefathers' crimes, Myrcella Lannister. You are absolved of your bastard status. I will not have you seek to punish yourself for anything outside of your control, do you understand me?"
For a moment, Myrcella freezes in place. Then, finally, she nods slowly.
"… Yes, your Majesty."
Smiling softly, Jon sighs and plants a kiss atop her head. Then, he looks past her, staring through the wall out into the distance with his divine senses.
Myrcella was the last loose end. The final nail in the coffin, one might even say if they were feeling particularly macabre. Jon could no longer ignore it. There was something he had to do. One last enemy he had to confront, even if it ended up killing him.
-x-X-x-
King's Landing. Perhaps it was once a nice place, though Jon had never heard anything good about it. Apparently, it smelt absolutely rotten at all times. Funnily enough, he would never get to experience that. As he approaches the city itself, feeling the dark miasma through his divine senses, Jon can only shake his head at what he sees.
Myrcella had told him what her mother confided in her. That there were caches of wildfire buried all over King's Landing at the late Mad King's behest. That they had never been dug up, and that Cersei had actually considered using all of it back before she and Myrcella fled from King's Landing, but her love for her daughter had stayed her hand. When she realized they could actually escape, Cersei had focused on that rather than one final 'fuck you'. It was probably one of the last sane decisions that the insane Queen Mother had made.
Regardless, Jon had assumed he and his armies would have to tread carefully. He could not see into King's Landing because of the darkness shrouding it from his senses, so he'd taken Myrcella's words to heart. Now, however… well, things had clearly changed quite recently, hadn't they?
Now that Jon and his armies were close enough to see with mortal eyes the state of King's Landing, it was quite clear that something had happened shortly after the Faith Militant that he had routed in the Reach had left the city. Because King's Landing… was a burnt out husk.
There was no army of men waiting for them. There was no defense of the city to contest their invasion. There weren't even fucking walls anymore. The place had been blown to kingdom come, with green flames licking at the little that remained of ruined buildings.
The city had been turned into a crater, and a very dangerous one at that. Was there anyone still alive in all of King's Landing? Jon had known from what little he'd been able to see when he peered at the darkness that the place had become a charnel pit. That the people of King's Landing had turned on one another, and things had truly become desperate as… something happened with the Seven.
King's Landing, or more specifically the Great Sept, was the place in which the Seven's power was greatest. It was the place where their worship was most consolidated. Though, how true that was now, Jon didn't know. No, wait… he did know.
To his mild surprise, he begins to realize that the influence of the Seven is waning. The power they held over this place and indeed the vast majority of Westeros… its slowly falling apart. This wildfire attack could not have been planned on their part, because it killed enough of the millions of their followers here in King's Landing that Jon can FEEL his divine hold on the continent overtaking their own in real time.
The darkness is receding, and all it would take was for him to wait and eventually he could have just walked in and done whatever the fuck he wanted.
But… something told him he would regret that. A whisper on the edge of his consciousness. Only a whisper at first, but it rapidly grows in volume until… until there are words he can make out.
Jon…
… Jon…
… JON! HELP!
His head jerks to the side as though he's been struck, and Jon snarls as he grabs the reins of Balerion.
"Form a perimeter around the city! Do not approach the Wildfire!"
His orders are obeyed without question, though Daenerys on the back of Viserion looks at him aghast.
"Husband… what are you going to do?"
"… I'm going in."
"But Jon… tis madness!"
Jon looks over to his beautiful wife and Queen and in that moment he's struck by a vision of what could have been, a version of events that would never come to pass because he had averted them long ago. It's a terrible vision, of a different King's Landing and a very different Daenerys. A mad Daenerys.
He doesn't hesitate to push it out of his mind, even as he shakes his head.
"It is what I must do, my Queen. Someone needs my help."
To her credit, Daenerys looks stricken for only a moment before gripping Viserion's reins just as tightly.
"… Then I'm coming with you."
His instinct is to say no. But as he stares into his Queen's eyes, Jon can tell… she'll be with him till the end. This is something they have to do… together. Perhaps, even, this is the first step on Daenerys' path to divinity.
Breathing out an explosive breath, Jon doesn't argue. He simply nods. That in and of itself seems to shock Daenerys, but she follows him up into the air all the same as they take flight. Rhaegal is left behind, while the two dragon riders upon their dragons make their way into King's Landing… more specifically towards the burnt out husk of the Red Keep.
The Throne Room has seen better days, blown open by the explosions and left to the elements. But the Iron Throne is still intact… and even has someone sat upon it. Jon isn't focused on that though, even if he can feel the source of darkness emanating from that figure. As he and Daenerys come in for a landing, Jon is more focused on the small slip of a girl kneeling in front of the Iron Throne, her head bowed and her brown hair messy.
" LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE, WENCH! YOUR MACHINATIONS HAVE BROUGHT OUR ENEMIES RIGHT TO US!"
Finally, Jon identifies the figure sat on the Iron Throne. Sandor Clegane. Except… not quite. The scarred man known as the Lannister's Hound has been overtaken entirely by something else… a divine presence has invaded his body, turned him into little more than a puppet at best. He is the source of the Darkness, but HE is little more than a husk himself at this point. The true source of the darkness that pervades King's Landing are the Seven that have taken up residence within him.
Even still, Jon barely pays him any mind. Because, even with her turned away and hunched over, even with the years between them… Jon would recognize that slip of a girl anywhere. As he leaps down from Balerion's back, his hand on the handle of his Valyrian Steel Sword, Jon calls to her, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt now that it was her voice calling to him for help.
"Arya!"
Slowly, the girl's head rises… and turns. Jon's heart clenches as he sees in Arya's eyes the same glowing darkness that fills Sandor Clegane's. A schism has formed. The Seven Who Are One have become The Seven Who Are Two. One to embody the masculine… and one to embody the feminine. As Arya Stark slowly rises to her feet to face him, Jon can see how much of a toll the fragments of divinity occupying her body have taken on it. She moves jerkily, with inhuman stiffness.
" Hello… Jon…"
Jon grimaces, his hand tightening on the pommel of his still-sheathed blade.
"Oh Arya…"
-x-X-x-
Also as of now, my first ever original novel Breaking Providence is being released publicly on all of the websites I post to! Please if you have the time at least give it a try for me and let me know what you think, it would mean a lot!
The Fractured Seven
A/N: Hey guys, this story is very nearly complete. Thanks for enjoying the ride with me, and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and the final chapter as it comes out next time!
-x-X-x-
His immediate impulse is to slaughter them both. He has, after all, faced this same situation once before. Back in Old Valyria, he'd faced down Balerion and Meraxes, the last remaining fragments of the Valyrian Pantheon. He'd found the two shades inhabiting the corpse of Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock, and an utterly massive dragon respectively.
However, two things stay his hand for the moment. First, that situation and this one were clearly not as similar as they would appear at initial glance. Balerion and Meraxes were barely surviving and both inhabited bodies that were already long dead. The Seven Who Are Two are still divine and nowhere near the diminished shades he'd faced back in Old Valyria. More than that… he thinks their hosts might still be alive. And while he might not give two shits about Sandor Clegane, he's willing to do quite a lot to save Arya Stark.
The other thing that stays his hand is the way that last encounter ended. Yes, he'd 'killed' Balerion for lack of a better word, absorbing the shade into himself and kickstarting the seed of divinity that had already rested within his soul. But he had not consumed Meraxes in the same way. He had let her live. And so, perhaps this situation could work out in a similar fashion. It had to.
It has not been often since ascending to his divinity that Jon has found himself somewhat at a loss. But in this moment, he is uncertain what to do, and his hesitation results in him pursing his lips together and shaking his head.
"… How? How did this come to pass?"
Still sat upon the Iron Throne, Sandor Clegane sneers, his eyes filled with darkness and his face twisted into a rictus of hatred.
" WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION US?! WE ARE THE SEVEN! THE KINGS OF THE IRON THRONE HAVE SWORN TO US FOR CENTURIES! IF YOU WISH TO RULE OUR SEVEN KINGDOMS, YOU WILL DO SO AS WELL!"
The arrogance would be hilarious under different circumstances. Misplaced though it is, Jon supposes he can see where the Fractured God inhabiting Sandor Clegane is coming from. There has never been a King of the Seven Kingdoms that did not swear to the Seven. Even the Conqueror himself all those years ago had submitted to the Seven, hadn't he? And yet…
"Who am I? I will tell you who I am. I am your reckoning."
Jon draws upon his power then, glowing brightly. The first thing he does with his expressed divine might is make sure to shield Daenerys. At his back, his Queen's devotion to him sings warmly, adding to his inner fire. Spreading outward from there, Jon draws upon the worship and adoration of those surrounding the city. And then even beyond that.
The pits of darkness that have replaced Sandor Clegane's eyes widen in outrage.
" YOU DARE?!"
But Jon just laughs.
"If sitting upon the Iron Throne requires swearing myself to YOU… then I don't want it."
The Fractured God rears back as if struck, before clawing at the arms of his throne and sneering.
" DO NOT BE A FOOL! OF COURSE YOU WANT IT! ALL OF YOU PATHETIC MORTALS WANT POWER!"
This interaction is a telling one. And Jon can't help but be a little… disappointed. The Seven Who Are One might have been a force to be reckoned with once upon a time. Centuries ago, when they maneuvered to bring about the Doom of Valyria and knock the old Valyrian Pantheon down from their pedestal, Jon imagines the Seven were something to be feared. And in the centuries since, he imagines they reached the height of their power too, what with most of the Seven Kingdoms worshipping them.
Even in Winterfell they'd had a small sept and a Septon. Give it a few more decades and Jon wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the North had finally taken to wholeheartedly worshipping the Seven as well. Their reach was far and their slow but sure manipulation of the mortals who followed them was quite… insidious.
However, something had clearly gone wrong. Very, very wrong. Even before Jon had gotten to Westeros, the Seven had clearly fallen apart at the seams. He thought he might know how that had happened, but so long as the Fractured God was talking… his feminine counterpart was silent. And if Jon wanted answers, he knew he would only get them from the latter.
"And that is where you have erred. I am not mortal."
" STOLEN POWER!"
"No. I have never BEEN mortal. I was born with this, the potential to become a God. I was created, my entire existence crafted centuries ago… by the very deities you sought to supplant half a world away. I said it before… I am your reckoning."
With a snarl, Sandor Clegane finally jerks up out of his throne, his body moving just as unnaturally and inhumanly as Arya's did. However, there's something a bit more fluid and… martial to his motions, as he picks up his sword.
" WE HAD NO ISSUE DESTROYING THE GODS OF VALYRIA! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK WE CANNOT DESTROY YOU TOO, WHELP?!"
Jon smiles at that, before reaching within himself again. He is already shimmering with his power, his presence only growing stronger by the moment as he draws upon his followers all across the Seven Kingdoms. From the North to the Reach, from Dorne to the Westerlands… all follow him, all worship HIM. Plenty of them still hold the Seven in their heart as well though. The… creature before him feeds off of their misplaced worship.
But that faith is dying. Has been dying in fact for a long while now. The Seven have overstepped. The Faith Militant have not been good stewards, nor have they been very successful missionaries. Indeed, everywhere they have gone, they have either been stymied… or done more harm than good.
No wonder the Seven saw fit to inhabit mortal bodies. After a certain point, there was no one left in King's Landing for them to see their will done through. No King. No Court. No High Septon. Not even a High Sparrow… his own people had ultimately torn him apart. King's Landing had truly become a place of darkness under the Seven's direct rule. A charnel pit full of nothing but pain and anguish.
But in taking Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark as their hosts, they'd trapped themselves. In Sandor Clegane, Jon could see the Father, Warrior, and Smith resided. But rather than strike at him with divine power, they raised a mortal weapon against him. It was almost sad how far they had fallen without even realizing it.
"… You seem so sure I will be your opponent. But seeing what you've done to yourself… seeing the shadow of your former glory that you've become… it only seems fitting to let her have a go at you instead."
For the first time, the Fractured God inhabiting Sandor Clegane's body shows confusion.
" WHO-?"
But Jon is already raising his hand. From it, Meraxes, Goddess of the Sky, springs forth. Back in Old Valyria, when he'd reshaped the shade of Meraxes into a woman, he had not completely destroyed her dragon form. Rather, he had split them apart. The shade's consciousness had ended up in the human body he'd crafted for her, the one he'd then gone on to breed.
She had joined his entourage and been a part of his family ever since. However, he had never forgotten her massive draconic form. And… Meraxes was as much part of the seed of his divinity as Balerion had been. In the end, she would always be a part of him.
From his hand, a massive, hulking dragon arrives. Bigger even than Balerion, but most importantly… gloriously unkillable and immortal, for it was not a true dragon, but a part of his divinity instead. Sandor Clegane's soulless black eyes widen as he raises his sword, Meraxes lunging forward at him in a snarl.
Their battle through the open-air throne room is a quick one. The Fractured God truly has diminished himself immensely by taking on mortal flesh. Jon isn't sure what this fight would have been like if the Seven Who Are One remained as they were and stood united against him, but he does imagine it would have been quite a bit more difficult.
Instead, Meraxes soon pins Sandor in place, a flickering, almost ghostly claw punctured right through his chestplate and chest alike. As she holds him to the ground, the Fractured God squirms… but cannot escape as Jon approaches him, sword in hand. Rather than a palm upon Sandor Clegane's face as he'd done with Tommen II all that time ago, Jon sinks the tip of his Valyrian Steel Blade right through the man's open, screaming mouth, cutting him off into a choking gurgle.
He sups upon the divinity within the flesh puppet via that medium instead, taking the Father, Warrior, and Smith and stripping them down to their base components before pulling back.
Only then does he turn to face the young woman he'd always seen as his little sister. Technically, they were not siblings. But Arya didn't know that. Had never gotten the chance to learn that in fact. To her, he was her big brother… and as she rises to her feet, his lips thin out.
" We… have… missed you Jon."
Beside him, Meraxes growls but Jon shakes his head and dispels the glowing representation of his divinity with a thought. The unkillable dragon had been Meraxes enough to hate the Seven with all her heart, but in the end, she was just another part of him. And Jon… Jon did not hate the Seven. He just knew them to be his enemy.
"Does any of Arya Stark still exist in there?"
A weak smile spreads across her face at that.
" More… than existed of Sandor Clegane in the end. She is with us. As we are with her. There is no separation, Jon. Not anymore."
A low sigh leaves Jon's lips and he probes her with his senses to verify the truth of what she's saying. To his mild surprise, she doesn't fight him. The Fractured Goddess, unlike her counterpart, stands before him completely vulnerable and even submissive. It's in that that he's able to understand why things turned out as they did.
The Father, Warrior, and Smith had become… corrupted by their own aspects and the evil at the hearts of their followers. As things had turned into a horrifying shitshow here in the Seven Kingdoms, with everyone killing each other for power, the masculine aspects of the Seven had grown darker and darker.
At the same time, the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone had remained pure. Or rather, mostly pure. There was still that glowing darkness in Arya's eyes, however it was not nearly the pits of black that had overtaken Sandor Clegane.
Meanwhile, the seventh aspect, the Stranger… that was their downfall, in the end. The Stranger was not here. Or rather, it was both here and not here. The Stranger was an aspect of the Seven that always stood apart from the rest. For a mortal mind, this was easy enough to explain. The Stranger was neither feminine nor masculine. This allowed the Seven to be perfectly balanced. Three feminine and three masculine.
However, on the divine side of things… the Stranger was the lynchpin. The rest of the Seven hadn't even realized it, but so much of their power and influence had come to rest upon the counterbalance that the Stranger provided. Remove the Stranger from the equation and you quickly developed an imbalance. Three and three were not quite so equal as they first appeared. Things… had taken a turn for the worse.
Jon couldn't say where the Stranger had gone. After all, it still felt like it was here in this place, even though it was not. But the Stranger's support… THAT had been undeniably withdrawn a while ago. And the Seven had crumbled without it.
" Now you see… Jon."
He did. The Father, the Warrior, and the Smith were not just the masculine aspects of the Seven, they were the more martial aspects. Without the Stranger, they had effectively pushed the protests of their more feminine counterparts down and turned the Faith into something to be weaponized and turned against their enemies. All the while, the Mother, Maiden, and Crone could no longer calm their brothers down. They could no longer be the voice of reason, for their masculine counterparts were no longer listening.
The imbalance had gotten so bad that when it came time for the Seven to make the incredibly ill-advised decision to occupy mortal flesh, likely in response to his own existence as a deity in a mortal body… they'd ended up splitting into two bodies, rather than embodying the same one.
Not that embodying the same body would have helped them. Jon was a unique set of circumstances. Gods were not meant to inhabit the flesh of mortals. The only reason he was able to do so was because it was his OWN flesh, his own body that he'd grown up in. Even then, it wouldn't last forever.
That all said, he had a choice to make. Arya Stark stands before him, vessel for the Fractured Goddess within her. He believed it when she said that she was as much Arya as she was the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone.
But his purpose was clear. It had always been clear. He was Valyria's Revenge. He was the reckoning, just as he'd named himself to the Fractured God.
Finishing off the Seven and absorbing their divinity would kill Arya, no matter how gentle he tried to be. She might still be alive, but she could no longer survive without their presence. They had effectively hollowed out parts of her, just to make themselves comfortable. To remove them now would leave her listless and barely existing, let alone living.
But was she living even now? She hadn't chosen this. Neither she nor Sandor Clegane had. He'd put the Hound to his final rest… shouldn't he do the same with his sister?
Jon's lips thin out as he looks down at his sword, and then at Arya. Standing there, eyes filled with blackness, the Fractured Goddess waits patiently for his judgment. She makes no move to fight back or defend herself. She merely… waits.
At his back, Daenerys too waits. She does not counsel him one way or another in this matter. But her presence and her never-ending support feels good all the same. With her silent support, Jon knows he's making the right decision.
Steeling himself, he moves to do what must be done.
-x-X-x-
Also as of now, my first ever original novel Breaking Providence is being released publicly on all of the websites I post to! Please if you have the time at least give it a try for me and let me know what you think, it would mean a lot!
The End (Epilogue)
A/N: Here we are with the final chapter of Playing the Game. Thank you all for reading along over the years!
In terms of what comes next, my readers on another certain website have made the decision to change out my Game of Thrones slot for another setting, specifically Percy Jackson and the Olympians.
You can expect the first chapter of that new fic, called Coming of Age, to release at the end of February!
-x-X-x-
He refuses to accept that he's lost her. He refuses to believe that there's not enough left of Arya to be worth saving. Even if the slimmest fraction of his baby sister remained, she would be worth saving.
Letting out an explosive breath, Jon steps forward and grabs the sides of Arya's face. As before, the Fractured Goddess doesn't react, not to fight back nor to defend herself. She simply stands there expectant and waiting for whatever he decides to do. Looking into those black eyes, Jon's lips thin out into a line.
"… Do you trust me?"
Those pools of blackness do not blink, even as he feels a slight undercurrent of confusion from the Fractured Goddess.
" We do not understand. We are powerless, trust is not a factor here."
Jon just shakes his head and stares her down.
"Do you trust me, Arya?"
There's a flicker across Arya's face, and then her lips curl into a smile that's all her. No trace of the Fractured Goddess can be seen in that smile. It's a smile that Jon saw a million times when they were both so much younger and not nearly as heavily weighed down by the weight of their respective experiences. It's a smile Jon would honestly have given anything to see again, and here he is now, getting it for free.
When Arya speaks, there is no ephemeral quality to her words. It's only for a moment, but in that moment she sounds completely clear… completely Arya.
"Always, Jon."
That's all he needs to hear. This would either work or it wouldn't, in the end. He would either save Arya, or he would kill her. But there was no other choice. Or rather, the other choice was guaranteed death, rather than a slim, slim chance of righting this wrong. Knowing that, how could he not give it a go? Splaying his fingers along her skull, his thumbs pressing into her temple, Jon lets out a slow sigh… and begins to push.
-x-X-x-
The sounds of children laughing and playing draw Jon out onto the balcony and he can't help smiling as he looks down to see nearly a dozen of his brood, almost every single one from different mothers, all racing about and getting along with one another. It's a beautiful sight to be sure. The sun is shining overhead, and everyone is wearing smiles.
They've left King's Landing behind. The place isn't salvageable, not even by someone of Jon's power. Sure, he could have tried… but it was better to just write the whole thing off and start over. He neither wanted nor needed to sit upon the Iron Throne to make his subjects listen to him. For the first time in history, it wasn't that damn throne that anyone worshipped, nor the Seven in the Great Sept of Baelor. It was him and him alone.
As such, Jon felt rather entitled to making some massive changes. Like reorienting the center of his new Empire away from King's Landing. Admittedly, he was still biased to Westeros a fair amount, even after all the time he'd spent in Essos. That was why he'd decided to set his Capital at Harrenhal. Not that it would be known as that for much longer.
With the forces at Jon's disposal, the ancient and utterly massive unfinished castle's completion became a matter of time rather than resources. Harrenhal would be complete at long last, and once it was, it would be the new jewel of the Seven Kingdoms. More than that though, it would be the Seat of Westeros' new Dragon King.
Was it any wonder then, that Jon had already decided to rename the place to Dragon's Perch? From Dragon's Perch he would rule all of Westeros and all of the land he'd conquered in Essos as well. And… he would finally be able to turn his eyes towards the remaining so-called Free Cities of Essos. There were plenty of them still, plenty who still practiced slavery. They unknowingly spit in the face of a God of Freedom… but they would know their folly soon enough. Oh yes they would.
Likewise, Braavos would soon know the rewards of supporting him from damn near the very beginning. Not just supporting him, but outright setting him on this path to begin with. All those years ago, quasi-exiled from his homeland, Jon hadn't understood a thing. Part of that could be blamed on the late Lord Stark, but he'd made his peace with the memory of his father-turned-uncle. Ned was only doing what he thought was right, in the end. And he damn near lost everything for it as a result.
It was the Iron Bank in Braavos that had opened his eyes to the truth. And sure, Jon was well aware that they'd done so for their own purposes. He would still see them rewarded. Besides, better a bunch of cutthroat bankers and a city that abhorred slavery then a bunch of slaving merchants propping up an awful system.
Jon would-
"Beloved… are you even watching the children any longer? Or are you thinking about the future again?"
"Please, come back inside my King."
Jon can't help but smile in fond amusement as Daenerys and Bellegere appear at his sides and grasp his arms, tugging him back into the bedroom. It would appear they are at long last ready for him. To be fair, he was indeed still watching the children… God that he was, he had been multitasking so to speak. Was that such a crime?
Still, he lets them pull him over to the bed. He even lets his Queen and Consort strip him naked, the two of them helping him out of his clothes as he stands there… looking at the room's final occupant.
Blushing profusely, Arya Stark, youngest daughter to Eddard and Catelyn Stark, lays back and spreads her legs apart, showing off her naked, nubile body. She has more scars than Jon would have ever preferred she have, but she won't let him heal them… at least not all of them. They compromised and he removed the egregious ones, but she kept the rest, considering them and the experiences she gained from them as much a part of her as everything else that had happened.
There had been a lot of compromising, where Arya Stark and the Fractured Goddess were concerned. Even now, Arya was not the Arya he'd known. But… she was more Arya then she was Maiden, Matron, or Crone. As evident by her eyes. Back in King's Landing, her eyes had been black pits of darkness. Now? As she gazes at him and he gazes at her, Arya's eyes are shining gold.
Climbing onto the bed at the silent beseeching of Daenerys and Bellegere, their hands all over his body including stroking his cock to full hardness, Jon moves into position between Arya's legs. Her golden eyes flit down to where they're going to be joined and an honest, eager smile alights upon her features as Daenerys and Bellegere guide his member down and in.
Jon lets out a low sigh, even as he fills Arya's cunt. He grunts, while she groans. Her tight pussy walls stretch and stretch for him, her compact body leaving it a very confined feeling. But not a bad confined. In fact, it's quite a pleasurable experience.
… He'd effectively made Arya a demigoddess. Giving up some of his own divine power in the process, Jon had helped to fill back in some of her missing parts with his memories of her. It would have been better and a lot easier if he'd had a snapshot of her soul, but alas all he could really go off of was his mortal memories.
Luckily for him, the Fractured Goddess, the feminine half of the Seven… was not ill-disposed to him. Admittedly, Jon could never have saved Arya without her help. SHE had more information for him, having been with Arya when he was not. She'd been able to help him… even as it meant the Goddess lost parts of herself in the process.
It was a flat out swap, in the end. Before, Arya's symbiosis with the Maiden, Matron, and Crone had been entirely lopsided in the Fractured Goddess' favor. They were three parts of a divine being after all, and Arya was… she was only one mortal girl. But afterwards, with Jon's interference and the Fractured Goddess' submission, he had been able to make Arya the dominant one in the relationship. The Maiden, Matron, and Crone were still there, whispers of advice in Arya's ears, but it was Arya who was in control now. It was she who was in the rider's saddle.
And it was she who Jon made love to now, filling her with his cock and leaning down to bring his mouth to her chest. Arya cries out as he slides in and out of her, arching her back up into his mouth and throwing her head back. All the while, Daenerys and Bellegere are far from idle. The two run their hands across Jon's body and Arya's alike. Bellegere even leans down to give the younger woman a long, lingering kiss.
When the Black Pearl is finished making out with her, she pulls back… and slides a hand through Jon's hair, guiding him up to Arya's lips. The two of them meet there, entangled in one another. And not just physically either. Even as their hands find one another, even as they intertwine their fingers, Jon is reaching out with his divinity. Arya does the same in turn.
She is far from a full Goddess just yet. Demigoddess really is the better answer. In way, she's his daughter just as much as she's his sister or cousin. At the same time… she's none of those things. Certainly, if it doesn't get her what she wants, she's made it clear she's happy to disown any familial connection in order to be with him.
It had been Daenerys who had laughed and explained to Arya how Targaryens did things… and how, having a piece of Jon's divinity inside of her easily made Arya a Targaryen in Daenerys' book.
It was all perfectly copacetic in the end. Jon would be a hypocrite to have copulated with Sansa but not Arya. His littlest sister was all grown up now, and far from the child he'd once known. Planting himself deep inside of her, enjoying how she orgasms around his cock, Jon lets out a breath… and lets himself go. He fills Arya with his seed and essence, all while what divinity she still has wraps around his much greater 'body'. They comingle with one another, even as he fills her womb.
There's not a doubt in either of their minds that he's gotten her pregnant. But then to be fair… Jon has never failed to get a woman he's laid with pregnant, has he? God of Dragons and Freedom… and Breeding as well, perhaps.
Grinning at the silly thought, Jon finally ends the lip lock with Arya, gazing down into her golden glowing eyes. Then, his head is turned as Daenerys kisses him, demanding his attention. On the other side of him, Bellegere dips down and begins cleaning his cock with her mouth as it comes out of Arya's sex. His Queen and Consort certainly have no intention of letting Jon lapse on his duties in the bedroom. That's for sure.
That's okay though. Jon loves them all the more for it… and knows quite well he'll need them in the future to keep him honest.
-x-X-x-
A couple decades later, Jon watches from the audience as his firstborn daughter by Jeyne Poole and his first son by his Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, are married to one another. There's a broad smile on the Dragon King's face as the ceremony proceeds. The two young people look positively incandescent to be sure, and Jon is glad to know that their love is true in spite of the slight age gap.
It was one of the many decrees he'd made sure of, in the end. He had many, many children. He refused to let any of them marry for anything less than love. Political marriages, arranged marriages… marriages without choice, without consent… they were little more than slavery in the eyes of a God of Freedom. If the two people most involved were not given an option, then it was forced and that was just plain wrong.
Some of his children had still paired up of course, like the two who were getting married today. It was the Targaryen way after all and having been raised around him and Daenerys and his many other wives as well as each other, it was almost inevitable that some in his massive brood would fall in love. Jon was happy to encourage their affections for one another.
Just as he was happy to encourage those who sought love matches outside of the family tree, so to speak. Jon wasn't going to begrudge his daughters and sons who found significant others in different places besides their own household, that was for sure. Though he did vet each and every one of them… and found some to be very wanting indeed.
He would never let anyone use or abuse his family. Not in a million years. Though, just as he'd made sure that none of his sons or daughters were being taken in by a con artist or a grifter, he'd also made sure to remove the Targaryen Madness from every last one of his children, and he would likely continue to do so with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and so on and so forth.
Once upon a time, the Targaryens had seemingly had no other choice but to intermarry in order to keep their control over dragons intact. But this in turn had given way to the Madness that had nearly destroyed them in the end. Daenerys' father being the last and perhaps greatest example of that in fact.
Jon wouldn't let it happen again. Now, House Targaryen had not just a King at its head but a God. And so he would make sure that anyone and everyone who was born into his family was Free of Madness. It was only right in the end.
-x-X-x-
A hundred years later, and Jon sits upon his throne in Dragon's Perch, a smile on his face as he observes his children and grandchildren taking turns dealing with supplicants who have come quite a long way to beg for his family's assistance.
He still rules as King of Westeros, of course. He also rules as Dragon-Emperor of Essos. Slavery could not be abided… and so Jon had not abided it. The rest of Essos had fallen to his armies, and slavery had been fully outlawed. These days, he split his time near-equally between Dragon's Perch and renewing the destroyed lands of Old Valyria. The Doom had been quite the miasma over the peninsula, but with the worship of millions of freed slaves fueling Jon's power, he was making great progress in restoring Valyria to… not quite its former glory, but something entirely new instead.
After all, slavery was something the so-called Valyrian Freehold had practiced as well.
On a more personal note, he had extended the lives of all of his family. A member of House Targaryen had not died on the continent of Westeros in the past century. If they left his purview and went adventuring Jon could no longer guarantee their safety, but so long as they remained on the continent, he was able to keep them from fatal injury, all while extending their lifespans and holding back sickness.
He was almost ready to begin leading some of them like Daenerys and Bellegere onto the path of divinity. Arya had already managed to ascend on her own, becoming a Goddess in truth. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised… she was a foot in the door already.
Finally, Jon had gone ahead and used his divinity to propagate dragons… and the freedom that was dragon riding. For hundreds of years, Targaryens and those with Targaryen blood had been the only ones who could hope to ride dragons. Everyone else was shit out of luck.
But when you were a God, you did not need dragons to maintain your power. House Targaryen's power was based in divinity itself now, not the dragons that they rode. And so Jon, in the interest of making sure dragons never died out ever again… had done something perhaps a little inadvisable. He had changed the way dragons worked. He had fundamentally altered them so that any who came into the world from this point on would be tamable by ANY mortal man or woman, not just those with Targaryen or Old Valyrian blood.
There were hundreds of dragons of differing ages now, all across Westeros and Essos. And he suspected there would be thousands more in the years to come.
-x-X-x-
Approximately five centuries have come and gone. The world looks vastly different from what it did in his youth. But then, so does Jon. He's long since left his mortal body behind, as have the women he fell in love with along the course of his mortal lifespan. In the end, he ruled for almost two hundred years before ascending.
He could have continued on forever as he was, Jon had ultimately realized. Due to what Balerion and Meraxes had done when they'd flung their divinity into the future to nest within him, Jon's body was uniquely suited for holding within it all the divine power that he accumulated, no matter how strong he inevitably got.
And he DID get strong. With the proper changes to the fabric of society and his careful stewardship for all those years, Jon had caused something of a population boom on both Westeros and Essos. And all of those new human beings were raised by their parents to give thanks to one deity and one deity only… the Dragon King and God of Freedom, Jon himself. The more people had come to populate his lands, the more powerful Jon had gotten, until he eclipsed all contemporaries.
In the end, the real reason that he left behind his mortal form and became a fully ascended God was because his wives could no longer maintain their existences at his sides. Helping Daenerys, Bellegere, and all the others who wanted it to ascend to godhood had ultimately been very easy once he figured it out with Arya's help. However, at a certain point their mortal bodies just weren't made to withstand the pressure like his was, and their mortality began to fail them.
Arya was the first to ascend. Her departure was the wake up call Jon needed. And so, one summer day, he and all of his women, as well as those of their children that were ready, had ascended together.
It wasn't too different, in the end. But at the same time, it was incredibly different. Jon was no longer the King that ruled from Dragon's Perch. That man was consigned to the history books. However, as a God he would continue to reside within the hearts and minds of his people for all eternity. Along with the others, he ended up forming a Pantheon.
That was when the entity he'd labeled as 'Lady Winter' had come a-knocking. Their situation was much reserved as she'd come slinking into his newly formed Celestial Court… child at her side. His child. Their child. A daughter, of course. The Goddess of Winter, a nature Goddess, was no longer as strong or stronger than he was. Her power hadn't declined either, for Winter still existed and was quite powerful to begin with. But Jon's power had grown beyond imagining.
Still, he welcomed her and their divine daughter with open arms all the same, or at least the divine version of open arms. The Pantheon was formed, and they would continue to look over their children and people for quite a long time to come, of that Jon was certain.
-x-X-x-
Mortal ingenuity would never cease to amaze him. A thousand years had passed since he'd been born on the world that many scholars named 'Planetos' these days. As a divine being, as a God… Jon had honestly thought he'd seen it all. He and his Pantheon were the undisputed deities of Planetos by this point. All other Gods and Goddesses had either been absorbed into his Celestial Court or laid low and dispersed depending on their temperament.
Some deities were quite literally made of Evil. Born of it, basking in it, the only true option for dealing with them was to destroy them outright. But plenty of others were just fine and perfectly tolerable. Plenty were even appreciated for their contributions to his Court.
Together, they had shaped a world to their liking, a world where mortals could forge their own paths and chart their own futures. But never in a million years did Jon for a second think that this would be the future they would chart.
As the first ever 'rocket' launches from the planet's upper atmosphere into space, Jon's breath does a proverbial hitch, the divine entity almost wanting to reach out and pull it back to keep those on board safe. It doesn't help that he has two direct descendants on board, a young man and woman rising off of the world and into the blackness of the great beyond.
But… he does not try and impede them. He is the God of Freedom after all, and what could be freer than this? Even if Jon's divine awareness has spread across the entire surface of Planetos by this point, he has no clue what's out there in space. For once, he only knows what the mortals have been able to discover with their newfound 'sciences'. He can only speculate off of what they have written down and theorized.
The stars are just distant suns. And there are other worlds out there. Other worlds just like Planetos, waiting to be found and explored. Jon won't lie… it terrifies him. The very idea scares him to his core. Not for himself, but for his people. For the mortals he has watched over for so damn long.
And yet… he cannot go against his nature. And so he watches as his descendants take to the stars. At his sides, reaching out to him and comingling his divine essence with theirs in a way vaguely reminiscent of holding hands, are Daenerys and Bellegere. Their own apprehension is the same as his, as all three of them take comfort in one another's presence.
There's no denying the apprehension… but alongside it there's excitement as well. For the first time in a long time, confined as he is to Planetos itself, Jon doesn't know what's going to happen next. And quite frankly… he can't wait to see what the future holds. Both for him and his Pantheon, as well as their adventurous and inquisitive descendants.
-x-X-x-
Also as of now, my first ever original novel Breaking Providence is being released publicly on all of the websites I post to! Please if you have the time at least give it a try for me and let me know what you think, it would mean a lot!
Afterword
End Notes
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