As the dust settles after the greatest war Westeros has ever known, Jon fucks Sam in King's Landing's throne room, pressing him into the stone steps that lead up towards the throne that glints in the dying light of the sun.
They're both tired and sweaty and aching and battered and bruised, but they're alive. They're alive and the truth of that sings through Jon's bones as he slides his cock into Sam, burning and tight and so good Jon nearly cries.
The survivors are licking their wounds, the people of King's Landing recovering in the hours after the fight. The remains of White Walkers pile outside the city, the smell of dragonfire stinking to high heaven. A new age has begun and the remains on Jon's family are safe. He feels good.
Sam's fingers scramble for purchase on the worn stone, but Jon grabs them both in one hand, pinning them above him. He growls, biting at the juncture of Sam's neck, as he fucks into Sam harder, his hips snapping quicker and quicker, Sam keening and crying out. His teeth leave marks that will mottle into bruises, and Jon likes the way they stand out against Sam's pale skin.
Jon normally isn't like this. When he and Sam share their bed, he's tender. Sweet. Gentle. But they've just survived the fiercest battle for nearly three hundred years and Jon is so fucking thankful that Sam has made it that he just needs to - to make sure he's still here. That he'll always be here. His Sam.
His Sam. His cock slides in and out of Sam, the curve of his pale backside almost slipping off the step. Jon pushes him back, and wraps a callused hand around Sam's aching cock.
"Gods, Jon..." Sam starts, but a quick stroke of Jon's hand has him panting, words escaping him. Jon smirks down at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the Iron Throne, all dull shimmer and steel. Next to Sam, it's nothing more than a rusted relic. Sam is warm and alive and his.
"I'm going to fuck you in the Sept next. Make you face each of the Seven with my cock in you and you begging for it, and they're going to know... they're going to know that you're mine and I'm yours and we're alive."
Sam stutters his reply on a particularly efficient thrust of Jon's hips that has him crying out instead. Jon's hand on his cock speeds up and he leans forward, Sam's hand wrapping around the back of Jon's neck so they can kiss. Sam gives everything to Jon, trusts him like no one else ever has, and that kind of control just breaks Jon.
Jon comes a moment later, triumphant roar stifled by Sam's mouth, but his victory is all but assured in the warm clasp of Sam's body. Sam comes a moment later, striping Jon's hand and their stomachs in come.
Panting, Jon reluctantly slides himself free, and collapses on the steps next to Sam. They've won. Daenerys and Tyrion and their armies and allies are outside, celebrating the victory, and they'll be in here soon. Jon is more than happy to make he and Sam's relationship known - in the war, they've survived worse - but he doesn't want to share this side of Sam with anyone. He's bad enough when he's found Sam talking alone with a handsome captain or general in the tents before battle.
"You're serious about the Sept, aren't you?"
"Of course. The smartest, bravest man in Westeros, I want them to know he's mine."
Sam flushes, his cheeks already pink with exertion, and Jon pushes onto one elbow to kiss him, lacing his trousers with his free hand. "I'm pretty sure everyone in Westeros is aware of that by now. We weren't exactly quiet."
Jon grins. "I suspect we weren't the first to christen the throne after a victory. And no one's surprised anyway. You and me, as always" He gets to his feet, Sam following him a moment later. He presses a kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth as they walk out of the Throne Room.
If the smirk Missandei gives Sam during the celebration feast is anything to go by, everyone definitely knows. Strangely, Jon can't find it in his heart to feel a jot of guilt.