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"You know better," Ned says. The son he'd raised should have known better, surely, yet there he'd been, on the eve of his wedding to another, twined around the eldest Mormont daughter like a vine about a tree, his hand in her hair and his mouth on hers as if he could merge them into one. Ned's first thought should have been of Robb's promise, of his word given to the Freys with the weight of Winterfell behind it. But at first, Ned had only thought how happy Robb looked, how his touch spoke of such intimacy and familiarity. Then he'd thought of how many hearts would break from that intimacy, no matter what course his son took, and his own heart had felt as heavy as iron in his chest.

"You wouldn't understand," Robb says bitterly. "You'd bed duty and honor like a woman if you could." It's ironic, really, that what keeps Ned from chastising Robb for his words is the fact that he does understand, and quite well. He knows all too well what it means to put aside a woman you love to do what is expected of you. To do what is right. He knows what it is to be haunted by the choices you've made, by the rumors so complex that you have trouble knowing what's true. If he closes his eyes, he can still see her own eyes as if no time has passed, the color of violets in spring, a purple so startling and lovely that by the time a man was done staring at them he'd already fallen in love with no hope for escape. He sees her falling in his dreams sometimes, even still, even as happy as he is with Cat. He sees her body tumbling through the air only to be swallowed by surf and he knows he did not do right by her, no matter what lies are true and which truths are false.

"I understand regret," is all that Ned says. "And one of my greatest regrets was pretending I had a choice." Robb frowns, his brow creasing in confusion, and Ned is reminded once again how young he is, how sheltered his life has been. Maybe Ned has been too indulgent. Maybe his heart has been too soft.

"Father..."

"You are no longer a boy, Robb. I trust you to do what's right." Ned stands, effectively ending the conversation, though he can see the questions in Robb's eyes, can see his dissatisfaction. Ned does trust him to do what's right. It's only that Ned is no longer sure what right truly is, and he's afraid of what the answer might be, if only he were honest with himself.

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It’s the illicit thrill of it that she seems to like best. Jon would think her genuinely worried at being caught, but her eyes shine each time she sneaks into his tent to work eager hands beneath his clothes, each time she sends her maids from the wheelhouse on some thin pretext so he can crawl beneath her skirts and make her come. She bites the edge of his hand when he covers her mouth, licks at his palm and makes him feel half mad. Once she asks him to take her for a ride and when he spreads her legs open across the saddle and frigs her with his fingers, her skirts up about her waist, her cries are loud enough to be heard for half a league.

“Sometimes I think you want to get caught,” he says, and the mischief in her eyes makes his heart pound and his cock ache. That she would be pleased in some way for others to know about them is a sweet shock.

“Nonsense,” she tells him airily. Then she slides her hand over his cock beneath the table, smiles and takes a dainty bite of her supper while he struggles to breathe.

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It’s sweet of him. Honorable really. She knows he doesn’t mean to make her feel wrong or soiled. Quite the opposite, he intends to make her feel safe. But with each day that passes after their wedding that he doesn’t touch her, her heart grows heavier, she feels more lost. He may not wish her to take his hesitation as rejection, but sometimes it’s hard to think it anything else, no matter how silly she knows it to be. It is not right that Sansa has been wed to Jon for weeks and still the only man who has touched her is Petyr Baelish.

Jon had been horrified when she told him, he’d held her gently and stroked her hair, though she could feel his fury fairly vibrating through him. It had made it easier to get out the words, that he’d been so angry. All while she’d suffered Littlefinger’s unwanted attentions, she had wondered if she was wrong to hate them, if she was wrong to hate him for forcing them upon her. He’d saved her. He’d protected her. But still she’d hated him and Jon’s anger had felt so good it almost made her cry.

But now he won’t touch her, and she’s had just about enough of a man deciding such things on her behalf.

It takes two glasses of wine before she’s brave enough. Then one more glass to erase the deep current of worry that he does not touch her not because he wants her to feel safe, but because she is tainted by what she’s endured. That is not Jon, she tells herself firmly. Jon would not do that. So she finishes her glass of wine and takes up the bottle, brings it to his chambers where he’s already retired.

It takes him several moments to answer her soft knock, long enough that she almost turns craven and flees more than once. If she weren’t so affected by drink already, she might have run; it’s only that she doesn’t trust her feet to move properly at the moment. He’s wearing a dressing gown when he opens the door to her, but it’s thrown on hastily, barely belted at his waist, as if he donned it only at her knock. His chest is bare in the vee of the neckline, it glows golden in the firelight and she’s consumed by an urge to touch that skin, so she does, before he can even finish saying her name in question, and his voice dries up on the S with a hiss. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes when she flattens her palm on his breastbone, and she knows he hasn’t held back his touch because he thinks her tainted.

“I want to be with you, Jon,” she whispers, and he pulls her inside, shuts the door behind her, and then as if despite himself, pushes her against the heavy oak and opens his mouth hot and sweet over hers, pushing through the seam of her lips to taste her tongue. When she cries out, he recovers himself, rips his mouth away and presses his forehead to hers, gasping for breath.

“Sansa, I’m sorry,” he pants. “I’m sor-”

She knows his honor, understands who he is, so she gives him no chance to protest, doesn’t let the apology leave his lips before she’s the one kissing him, before she’s the one pushing her tongue in his mouth to lick at his tongue and teeth and gums, over the fluted ridges on the roof of his mouth.

“Shut up, Jon,” she says, dragging her lips across his jaw, finding his earlobe and testing it with her teeth. “Just kiss me.” His moan is wild and sharp in her ear. She can feel the strain in him, knows that he battles with himself for what he thinks is her sake. So she works one hand between them, palms his already-hard cock beneath the cloth and then he hauls her up into his arms like she weighs no more than a feather to pin her to the wall and bury his face at her throat, her legs hitching instinctively about his waist.

“I hate what he did to you, Sansa,” he says, his voice sounding angry, anguished. “I hate that he touched you, I hate that he hurt you.”

“Jon,” she coos, tangling her fingers in his dark hair, the curls softer than a kitten’s fur. He kisses her neck, her shoulder, nuzzles his face in the dip between her breasts and gives his hips a roll that has her seeing stars.

“Tell me what you need, Sansa.”

“Fuck me, Jon,” she says. “I want you inside me. I want you to make me forget any man but you.”

His moan vibrates through her skin, and he attacks her mouth, kisses her more deeply than she thought possible. Now that he’s sure of her desire, he shows no hesitation. Her head spins with it, with how easily he hefts her, how sure his hands on her body are as he carries her easily to his bed and drops her to the mattress, his own body following instantly to cover hers. He is no stranger to women. She’d known that before, he’d told her everything, they’d shared everything before they married, but it’s a different thing to feel it in the way he touches her. It puts her quite helpless in his hands. He gathers her shift at her waist, shucks his breeches and pushes inside her with the sweetest sound, her body trembling uncontrollably, and she knows that this is one sort of helplessness there couldn’t ever be enough of.

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His hands are so very much bigger than hers. Everything about Jon is bigger: he looms over Jeyne, dwarfs her with the spread of his shoulders and the stretch of bones and muscle. It fascinates her, has her putting herself against him just to feel the difference, to feel him surround her entirely. It's the only time she feels safe.

"I'm not all that big," he laughs, when she holds his hand up to hers to compare, setting the heels of their palms together and lining their fingers up. Hers are so much shorter than his that he can bend his knuckles over the tips of them and hold her there. "You're just tiny."

"I hate being tiny," she breathes. The lines on his palms are a picture, they tell some story, she's sure of it. She traces them over and over, gently, until he shivers. She loves it when he shivers. It makes her feel bigger than she is. Then she spreads his fingers wide, shuffles them with her own until their fingers lie between each other like books on a shelf. The strength of him when he squeezes is reassuring. His kiss even more so. Their tongues touch like their fingers and Jeyne lets herself be engulfed.

"I like that you're small," he breathes into her kiss, drawing sighs and shivers from her with his lips, sketching his hands over her to make her into a picture to match the lines on his palms. "Isn't there some saying about good things and small parcels?"

"If I am a parcel, then I must be unwrapped," she answers, and he needs little urging, his hands going to the laces at her back, pulling on them like his mouth pulls on the skin over her pulse, bringing blood to the surface to mark her his. The first touch of his hands on her skin is always hot, it always makes her feel twin urges to run away and climb inside him. His hands span her waist, thumbs touching, fingers wrapping almost to her spine, then they slide to cover her backside and heft her up against him so easily it makes her head spin. She would feel like a doll, no more than a child to him, but for how he makes her feel anything but childish. Even Robb had not made her feel this way, a woman with a woman's secrets, no matter that her head barely reaches Jon’s collarbone. But now her legs are wrapped around his waist, her eyes are level with his and she keeps them open as he kisses her, looking at him until she feels cross-eyed and has to close them. She does hate being tiny, but being with Jon like this makes her think maybe she shouldn't.

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He’s resisting. So far as Dany can tell, he resists everything. It’s part of his charm, she supposes, that he clings so fiercely to honor even when it’s clearly a losing battle. He’s older than she, but it doesn’t seem it when she takes him to her bed.

“This,” he says, panting with his effort to restrain himself. “I shouldn’t…”

“You should,” she counters. “I want to see.”

“Your Grace-”

“I am not your Queen here, Jon,” she says, trailing one hand over his belly, scratching lightly over the coarse hair that arrows to the hard cock he’s struggling against the urge to touch. “I am your lover, and I wish to see you touch yourself.” She can see the twitch of his hand, the tension in every line of his body.

“My lover asks it,” he says, a bit of a smile creeping over his mouth. “But does my Queen command it?” She feels her lips quirk in an answering smile.

“Would you obey if she did?” He doesn’t answer, but his breath comes out in a rush, his tongue a pink flag when he licks his lips and nods. He is a curious creature, this Jon Snow. “Then your Queen commands it.”

A sound of pained pleasure and relief escapes him when he finally curls his hand around his cock with a familiar touch. She spreads her fingers below his navel, feels his stomach jump and quiver. He is so pretty, this boy of hers. He has the prettiest mouth she’s ever seen in Westeros and Essos both, and though she knows he’s only had one lover before her, whoever it was taught him well, if the way he uses that mouth is any indication. Dany traces his lips with one fingertip, heat pooling in her belly when his tongue darts out to taste it just before he catches it gently between his teeth.

“Good,” she croons, dragging her now-wet fingertip down his cheek, over his jaw, along his throat and collarbone. His hand twists, swirls over the head of his cock and pulls the moisture beading there down along his length, and he arches off the bed into his own touch unthinkingly. “Lovely, so lovely, Jon. Do you think of me when you touch yourself? Do you imagine it’s my hand on your cock, my mouth around you? Do you imagine making me hot and wet and burying yourself in my cunt where you belong?”

He makes only a ragged sound in response, his hand moving at a quicker pace, his cheeks burning red. Dany laughs. She wonders if she was ever so easily scandalized. It’s impossibly charming, and she presses her lips to his forehead, strokes over his chest and his belly as he moves his hand.

“I think of you when I touch myself,” she whispers. “But it’s never as good, not as good as it is with you. Come for me, Jon, I want to see you spill for me.”

As if her words are permission, he gives a strangled shout and grips his cock, squeezing up to the tip, his release painting thick on his hand and stomach. “Good boy,” she breathes, wrapping her hand around his, letting their fingers slide slick together as they wring the last shivers of pleasure from his body together. “That’s it, good boy. There’s my lovely boy.”

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Barbrey
She’s the first woman he’s ever touched in such a way. He’s only met her before once or twice. Lady Barbrey is not a frequent visitor to Winterfell – indeed, she has little reason to come this far North, but here she is, on some reason or errand he can’t remember now with his head so fuzzy from wine. His head is fuzzy from the taste of her as well, from the sweet, sharp scent of her pressed against his nose and the feel of her pleasure coating his tongue like lavender honey. Her skirts are bunched at her waist, falling against his forehead, and her hand flexes in his hair, pulling him where she wants him, urging his lips and tongue against her. He’d never thought to even kiss Lady Barbrey, let alone put his mouth on her…on her cunt, he supposes he should say. That’s what Theon always calls it, and though Jon thinks Theon a prick who knows little, in this much at least he knows far more than Jon. He’s not entirely sure how it happened. Only vague flashes remain in his head: her pouring him a glass of wine, and then another, her hand sliding up his thigh to rub over him through his breeches where he was already hard – where he is perpetually hard these days, it seems. They’re in the south tower, he can tell, but how they got there is a mystery. It seems not worth investigating when his mouth is in her cunt and she’s making soft hisses and cooing encouragement that hits his ears so sweet it makes his cock weep.

“There’s a boy,” she says on a moan when he tries closing his lips around her and sucking, so he does it again, sets up a steady, insistent pressure that makes her shake and close her thighs about his head. “Oh, yes, there’s a lovely boy.” He’s never heard such words from her before. Every time she’s been here, she’s been short, sharp, looking about her with hard, calculating eyes. She seems to hate his father. It makes this feel all the more illicit, all the more wrong. All the more irresistible. When a heavy tremor shakes through her body, he keeps his tongue against her, firm and soft. She holds him there, even though he has no intention of moving, her ankles crossed at his back, her hands pressing his head deep into her cunt so he can’t breathe. They stay like that, the damp heat of her pleasure covering his lips and dripping down his chin, until she looses him so suddenly that he sits back onto the floor hard, only able to look up at her as she drops her skirts and collects herself.

“You’ve a gift for this,” she says mildly, her eyes assessing him like they do everything else. “Perhaps I should visit Winterfell more often.” There is nothing sweet or pleasant about her smile, but still her words make his blood heat and his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. If he goes back to the room now, he thinks he can get himself off before Robb or Theon come back from the feast. Then she leans down and licks over his chin with a broad tongue before kissing him and sweeping the taste of herself from his mouth. “Won’t Ned enjoy that,” she muses with a hard smile when she pulls back. He doesn’t understand her words, can barely get his head clear enough to think on them. And then she’s gone.

 

Ygritte
This is his favorite bit. He likes all of it, the touching and the kissing, fucking her and being held by her warm cunt. But this part – what Ygritte calls the Lord’s Kiss – that’s what he thinks on, that’s what he dreams about when he’s apart from her. That’s what consumes him so perpetually that he trails off in the middle of sentences, earning a sharp elbow in the ribs from Tormund and a knowing grin.

She’s sleeping now. She’s exhausted. He should let her rest, as they get little sleep now that she’s breached his defenses, wormed her way in to where he’s vulnerable and soft. But he can’t stop himself trailing a hand down her ribs and belly, over the line of her thigh to her cocked knee and then back down. He groans when he feels her wet under his fingers. It takes only the space between thought and movement for him to slide down, to run his tongue over the soft skin at her hips and down through wiry hair to find her cunt.

She’s still asleep when she moans and sighs, her knees falling open to let him get his face at her fully, and he takes the invitation. Gods, she tastes so good, he thinks.

“So good,” he says aloud, and she stirs, stretches languidly, swimming between sleep and wakefulness as he sups on her cunt like a man starving. Her release comes with a long shivery sound and he laps at her, sucks up every drop she’ll give him, licking over her gently even after she’s come and is lying limp and boneless on the furs.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, voice still limned with sleep. “I had the loveliest dream.” Jon turns his head, kisses the inside of her thigh, and then returns his tongue to her cunt despite himself, unable to resist the need to taste more, to always have more. “Give me the dream again now that I’m awake to enjoy it,” she tells him, slouching low, slinging one leg over his shoulder to press her heel against his spine and cant her hips up to his mouth. He doesn’t answer, but his thinks his tongue curled inside her is response enough.

 

Asha
She tastes like salt. It’s ridiculous to think that, but still that’s how she tastes, like the air of her home has seeped through blood and bones until it’s embedded in her skin. She is the hardest woman he’s ever known. Even fucking her is not soft. Asha does not yield, no sweet words tumble from her lips. Instead she snarls at him, pushes and pulls, takes what she wishes and gives what she chooses. She is pushing him to his knees even as he kneels, unlacing her breeches with rough hands and wriggling them down to kick them aside before curling a hand behind his head and pulling his face into her cunt with no preamble at all.

Jon groans, he can’t help it. He has wanted to get at her cunt since the first time they met, since she looked him up and down and smirked as if she knew something he didn’t. It does not disappoint. She yips and growls and shoves at him, putting him just where she wants him, yanking at his hair with no tenderness. The salt is stronger here, layered over a sweet tang, and he licks into her, licks over every bit of her, fascinated at her taste, wanting to chase it through every nook and crevice.

“Who would have imagined,” she pants, using both hands to hold his head as she works her hips against his face, humping at him in a way that would make his cheeks flame if he didn’t enjoy it so much. “You Northerners are good for something after all.”

 

Lysa
Jon had never imagined doing such a thing as this. Lysa Arryn is not young, and she is not beautiful, neither in face nor spirit. But she is lonely. She wants and she needs and it turns her in on herself, and he can’t help but feel for her. Jon understands what it is to be lonely.

There is a sob in her voice at every word she says, in each moan and choked cry that his tongue and lips on her cunt wring from her. It pains him to think on what could make a woman so sad, what could make her clutch so to him. What could make her forget his family and hers, the hatred her sister bore for him, the love she herself bore for another man. She’d called his name once, Petyr, just once, before biting her lip, and Jon resolves himself to please her. The first touch of his tongue had made her start and tremble, a look on her face like this was something new and shocking to her. That was as sad as any of the rest of it.

 

Dany
Their marriage is forged on alliances, on family and tradition and power. She is the Dragon Queen and he is the Prince who was Promised, and together they can hold Westeros. Jon knows the reasons, he has heard them time and again. But as far as he’s concerned, this is where their marriage is forged, in their bed, with his tongue buried in her cunt as she rides his face like she rides her dragons.

“Jon,” she breathes. “Jon, oh, oh, please, never stop, never stop.” He sinks his fingers into the yield of her arse, urges her hips over his face in a steady rocking motion and sucks at her just hard enough to make her squeal and squirm. He has no intention of stopping, but he can tell her so later.

 

Sansa
Sansa comes to them long after Jon has accepted that she is dead. It is the sweetest shock imaginable when Satin tells him she’s here, says she is a maid grown with red hair and sky blue eyes, calling herself Sansa and asking for him.

“No,” he tells Satin automatically. “She can’t be. She’s dead.”

“Perhaps you should tell her that,” Satin suggests, and he leaves to fetch her, making Jon think once more that he really should find a more deferential steward now that he’s King, but knowing he never will.

There is no mistaking her. His whole body seizes up in recognition the second she steps through the door and despite all his thoughts of being cautious and careful with her, he is at her feet in seconds, his legs giving way so that he drops heavily to his knees and wraps his arms too tightly around her hips, burying his face in the soft curve of her belly and breathing her in deep. She even smells the same.

“Sansa,” he says. “Sansa.” He expects her to recoil, to push him away. But she twines her hands in his hair, she holds him close to her, and he swears it’s her tears that he feels drop hot and wet on his cheek, though it may be his own.

The next time he is on his knees before her, moons later, it is for an entirely different reason.

“Jon,” she pants, “you are wed to Daenerys,” but still she lets him nuzzle his face against her cunt over her smallclothes, gasps at the feel of his tongue hot and wet on her through the cloth. Her hands roam over his hair and shoulders and back, she touches him as tenderly as she always does now, now that they’ve found each other again, now that the walls between them have crumbled like so much else and they are each bedrock for the other to cling to.

“It was her suggestion,” Jon laughs before nipping her smallclothes down with his teeth and getting his tongue on her, gods, gods, she could not be sweeter and he could not want her more.

“She,” Sansa gasps. “You…oh, oh, oh.” Jon shoulders her knees apart, gently pushes her to lean back against the wall and open herself to him. He covers her with his mouth, sucks over her, and then nudges his tongue in to tease at her opening, to drag up to the bud at the top of her sex and work over it ruthlessly. “Jon, Jon, but. But.”

“Sansa,” he interrupts, pulling away and rubbing a firm palm over her mound, loving the way she squirms and shakes for him. “Do be quiet and let me enjoy this.”

“You,” she gulps. “You enjoy this?”

“I live for this,” he says, husky and rough, “for you,” and her eyes glitter and darken before slipping closed, her fingers trembling in his hair with new violence. “And I will show you just how much I enjoy this as often as you’ll let me.” He takes the thin, weak sound she makes as assent and he smiles and sets himself to dismantling her entirely.

 

Catelyn
It was the most shameful thing he’d ever wanted, and Jon was no stranger to shameful desires. She was his father’s wife. The closest thing he had to a mother, though that wasn’t very close at all. And she hated him.

The hatred in her eyes should have dimmed his need, it should have killed any desire he had for her instantly. But it never had. He dreamed of her sometimes, imagined going to her, putting his head to her breast and letting her soothe him. Imagined licking the delicate line of her collarbone where it disappeared into her summer shifts. He imagined pushing her to a chair and crawling beneath her skirts, getting his head between the thighs he imagined were as creamy white as the insides of her wrists. He imagined licking over her, licking into her, the way he’d overheard Theon mention once. Of course, Theon had done such a thing to a whore, and Lady Stark was many things, but nothing close to a whore. Jon didn’t know if this was something done to ladies. Jon didn’t know much of anything. He only knew that from the second he heard Theon speak of putting his tongue between a woman’s thighs to taste her sex, Jon had imagined doing it to Catelyn Stark and it had become one more shame to build into the wall between them.

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Sansa remembers nothing of winter and very little of spring. Her life has been summer, all summer, and that’s something that pleases her. Spring may be a time of passion and adventure in the stories, but summer is a time of love, it’s a time of safety and happiness and marriage. Summer is when life is truest, when love is most real, and Sansa hopes she never knows a single winter, no matter what her family’s words are.

It’s silly to think of some things as belonging to summer, when in truth Sansa wouldn’t know the difference, but she can’t imagine any other season being right for lemons, for the sweet-tart burst of them on her tongue, a taste as yellow as the fruit itself. The first time she’d had a lemoncake, Sansa felt like someone had sprinkled sugar on the sun and given it to her. Robb had offered it to her, telling her he’d swiped some from the kitchens and they were very good, did she want one? She’d eaten the one he’d taken for her, and then the ones he’d taken for Jon and Theon as well, and she hadn’t felt the tiniest bit bad; Robb could just steal some more for all of them. She’d loved the second and third even more than the first, loves each one more than the last. She couldn’t imagine anything ever tasting better, and she hopes she never tastes anything that does, just the way she’d rather summer last forever, no matter what fall and winter might hold. She wants her whole life to be boys giving her lemoncakes and chasing moths in the meadow and sugar sprinkled on the sun. She thinks maybe it will be, too; Sansa’s always been lucky.

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No one ever speaks of her. There are no tales about her, no rumors or whispers, not like her cousins. Even her own father seems to forget she exists sometimes. But then, sometimes she thinks maybe he’d rather she didn’t. It’s something she’s learned to care about less over time, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever manage not to care at all.

Other girls her age hear talk of marriage; not right away, but someday. Suitors are discussed for them, betrothals are arranged. Some girls are even wed only a few years older than Shireen is. She doesn’t entirely understand how marriage is different than merely sharing a home with someone – her mother is married to her father, but they seem no different to each other than anyone else, and if there is anyone Shireen’s father seems exceptionally close to, it’s Davos Seaworth or more recently the Red Lady, who unsettles Shireen in a way she doesn’t fully understand – but she thinks perhaps she would like being wed to her cousin Edric. They could read together, and go on adventures, and he would never care at the deadened skin on her face that seems to fascinate and repel others in equal measure. But no one suggests it and Shireen would never ask for it, and then he’s sent away so it’s just as well. And if there is no one Shireen could imagine being wed to after that, it seems to matter little, as there are no offers and perhaps never will be. But it’s all right. Shireen has grown used to accepting things she’d rather were otherwise.

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She’s just about the loveliest girl Mya has ever known. It’s nothing that Mya could ever point to, though few would ever contest Sansa’s beauty, especially now that she’s reclaimed herself, taken back her Stark name and let her hair grow in red and shining. Mya had been shocked to learn of her true identity, but not all so shocked once she thought about it; Alayne had never seemed quite right, and it’s a relief to find that this was why. But as beautiful as Sansa is, surely other women are just as beautiful if not more so, legendary beauties like Cersei Lannister and Margaery Tyrell. Mya could not say just what it is about Sansa that makes her a hundred times lovelier than any other in Mya’s eyes. How to explain the tilt of her head when she listens to Mya speak, or the way she bites her lip and gives the tiniest smile when something truly pleases her. How to tell them of the way Sansa’s voice is like silk on Mya’s skin when she whispers at night in her bed, pulling up the linens over their heads and turning to Mya, curling to face her so close that Mya can feel the puff of her breath and taste the sweetness of it on her lips, like the lavender sugar on the cakes that Sansa says she favors most, though sometimes Mya sees her eyeing the lemoncakes like they’re something denied to her.

Sansa is even lovelier in the baths they share, her long, red hair piled atop her head with curling tendrils trailing loose to stick to her damp cheeks and neck, one long curl dipping into the water and fanning out into red fingers that swirl and reach each time Sansa moves. The water beads on her delicate collarbones, warm enough to have her cheeks and the slope of her chest and her knees where they break through the water flushing pink and sweet, and all Mya wants to do is close the distance between them, to leave her side of the copper tub and lie between Sansa’s cocked knees, to lick every bead of moisture from her collarbone and push her tongue between Sansa’s soft coral lips and let her suck that moisture from Mya’s tongue. Sansa would be so sweet to kiss, Mya knows that better than she knows anything, and it makes these baths with her a sweet torment, but it’s one she’d never give up.

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You have never known anyone so well. You think you never will. No matter whom you touch and how, no matter which mouths you taste, what skin you memorize with fingertips roughened by mail and sword and scars, no one could ever be so familiar to you as Jon.

There are leagues between you now, land that stretches wide to separate you from your brother. But still a tether exists between you, a rawhide lace that pulls tight and taut, so that sometimes you think you hear it sing in the wind like a bowstring, think you can feel tiny vibrations that translate Jon into a tug at your spine, a sort of gravity in your chest that pulls you not down but away, away from this place your mind should be and into a memory of a kiss, the last kiss, gods, let it not be the very last kiss.

“You are somewhere else,” your mother tells you urgently, her concern laced with only the barest bit of exasperation. “This is not a game, Robb.”

“I know it isn’t,” you snap, and you do, but neither is Jon. Nothing with him has ever been a game, not since you were babes and half-thought yourselves two pieces of the same person. And now he is at the Wall and you are at war, and you can only rebuild him in your mind from scraps of memory: the shallow grooves between his ribs that perfectly fit your fingers; the soft, hairless patches of skin where his thighs crease; the way his lips quiver out your name like it’s a prayer to all the gods there ever were. He should be here. He should be here and everything is off without him, as if the whole world has taken a step to the side.

The future rushes to meet you like the tide that licks at your feet, pulling away when you stoop to catch it in your fingers, only to surge back once more. You have never seen a beach before. It is wrong to discover something new without Jon beside you, when you have discovered everything together so far. You wonder what he discovers without you. You wonder if he reconstructs you from memory.

The water drains through your cupped hands when you catch it. Only salt remains to show that you ever held it at all. You’ll smell it on your skin that night, you’ll taste it on your lips, and you’ll remember. You couldn’t forget if you tried.

Chapter Text

She’s not quite convinced yet. He’s got his hand in her smallclothes, his fingers sliding over the delicate furls of her cunt, he can feel her grow slick at his touch, but still Sansa stammers and blushes and hovers her hands nervously at his wrists, her fingers fluttering like bird’s wings.

“Are you…Jon, are you sure that…oh, oh, I don’t…Jon.” His name dissolves into a tight whimper on her voice, sliding up an octave when he pushes his fingers deep and crooks them, sliding them inside her in a beckoning motion the way he’d learned with Ygritte.

“You like that, sweetling?” he asks, smiling when she opens her mouth but can make only a squeaking sound. Then he circles his thumb on the bud at the top of her sex, watches her intently as she tilts her head back and shudders, her hands ceasing their fluttering and coming up to clutch at his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground. Her pleasure clings wet and warm to his hand, and she tightens and pulses around his fingers. “Or would you rather that? Tell me where it feels best, lovely girl.”

Sansa arches her back, makes an instinctive rocking motion with her hips to ride his fingers like she’s astride a horse. He grins openly at her uninhibited need, at the way she takes what she wants from him despite her initial hesitation. She has never stopped surprising him, this girl. He hopes she never does. She curls her hand at his nape and tangles her fingers in his sweat-damp curls, tugs them sharp and sweet. “Both,” she pants. “All of it. Just don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promises, dragging his nose across her cheek to nuzzle her temple, inhaling the sweet citrus scent of her hair, dropping kisses over her cheek and jaw and chin. “Never.”

Chapter Text

It doesn’t seem wrong.

It’s the thinnest rationalization, she knows. Robb is her husband, he is her King, but Jon is his Hand, he and Robb seem so like separate pieces of one person sometimes, closer even than brothers. When Jon touches her, it doesn’t feel quite like it does from Robb, but more like a mirror of it, or an echo, something almost but not quite the same. Jon is more careful, more intent on her response. He does not have Robb’s easy certainty. But he makes her shiver just the same, makes her whole body tighten like a fist at the feel of his fingers moving over her, inside her.

“So sweet,” he murmurs into her hair, dipping his fingers into her and collecting the wet heat of her need, slicking it over her and circling to make her squirm and whine.

Jeyne is unsure if Robb knows. It seems strange that Jon would keep such a thing from him. But then it seems strange that he wouldn’t. He has never discussed it with Jeyne, never said one way or another if Robb is aware of what is between his wife and his Hand. Sometimes she thinks Robb must know, and it heartens her, only reinforcing her instinct that it isn’t wrong. Other times it hurts, to think he could know and still allow it, that he could feel no possessiveness of her at all. Still other times she decides he couldn’t possibly know, and that’s when guilt eats at her like an acid, but it’s never enough to keep her from Jon, from his nimble fingers and the sweet, rough words he whispers in her ear, calling her sweet and lovely and good, so good, Jeyne, you feel so good.

Her fingers dig into his forearm as he works his hand between her thighs, her nails leaving thin red crescents in his skin. She bucks up into his hand, writhes and moves in a way completely unbefitting a noble lady, but she’s no noble lady with him, she is only Jeyne and he is Jon. His words are filthy in her ear now, he tells her how much he loves her cunt, how she’s hot and wet around him, how he watches her at court and imagines crawling beneath her skirts and eating her out right there for all the world to see. She gasps and stiffens, feels herself throb heavy around his fingers with her release, which comes fast and hard and has not even begun to fade when his fingers push her up towards another, towards one more, always one more.

There is always more with him. It’s what’s most different between him and Robb. And it’s what Jeyne likes best about him, which seems more wrong than his touch ever could.

Chapter Text

“Oh. Oh yes, that.

The words are hard to say. Not because of the words themselves, but because Arya has to pull her mouth from Gendry’s long enough to form them. And she does not really want to take her mouth from his just yet. Maybe not ever. This kissing business is far nicer than she ever expected it to be. It doesn’t seem all so long ago that she’d watched the Sailor's Wife kissing one suitor or another in Braavos and felt her face screw up in distaste, thinking that it seemed a silly thing to do. It doesn’t seem silly now. It seems…wonderful. And so does everything he’s doing along with it.

“Do that again,” she says. He doesn’t answer, only makes a noise that rubs over her like Nymeria’s fur used to once, long ago, soft and coarse all at once. He finds her mouth again, kisses her like he’d been doing when she pulled away, and she makes a noise of frustration. This time it’s he who pulls away.

“What?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, giving him the scowl she reserves for when he’s trying her patience, which is all the time.

“Oh, and I was supposed to determine by ‘that,’ was I?” He returns her scowl in kind. He’s had as much practice at his as she’s had at hers. Her own scowl only deepens, and then it’s joined by a flush. He would make this difficult.

“My hair.”

“Your hair,” he echoes, with an air of expectation.

“You…” she starts and then falters. Her voice lowers to barely more than a whisper when she continues, saying, “you pulled it.” Her cheeks flame even hotter, with embarrassment and nerves and a bit of anger at herself, for being embarrassed and nervous. Gendry looks embarrassed too, but also intrigued, and…something else. Something that Arya has no name for, but that she knows she likes all the same. It makes her pulse beat in unexpected places.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, a little breathlessly. The idea that she can make him breathless is novel enough to merit closer inspection, but that’s for another time. For now it just makes her feel bold and daring, like a different kind of girl with a different kind of life.

“That’s too bad,” she says, putting on a teasing voice that feels silly but has enough of an effect on him to make it worth any silliness. “I really quite liked it.” His mouth drops open at that, his eyes dark and intent on hers, so intent that she thinks he could look through her if he wanted.

“You did,” he breathes in something close to a question. His hand travels slowly up her back again, his fingers giving little taps as if he’s counting her ribs on his way up. When he reaches her hair, he winds his fingers in it, but he doesn’t tug, only holds them there.

“I did,” she answers.

“Do you think I should do it again?” he asks.

“I think you should do it again,” she says. The tug at her hair is immediate, but tentative, gentler than she’d like. She rewards it with a sharp intake of breath and the tightening of her fingers at his shoulders, the cloth of his tunic bunching in her grip.

“How was that?”

“Good,” she says. “Do it harder.”

“Harder?” he asks with a bit of alarm. “But what if I-”

“I’m sturdy,” she interrupts. “Do it harder.” Something in her voice must convince him – must do a lot more than convince him, given how he shifts her on his lap, which feels quite different than it did when she first straddled him earlier, oh gods – because he gives her hair a good tug, and oh, now that’s just it. The squeak that escapes her lips is more than a little embarrassing, but it’s hard to care, because he pulls again, steadily, her scalp tingling with the pressure, and she could just about die.

“How was that?” he says in a rumble against her throat; somehow her head tipped back without her intending it to, and he’s drawing his lips over her neck. He sounds far surer of himself now, the wretch, downright smug. She should hit him. Too bad all she can do is squeak again, even squeakier than before.

“Good,” she manages. “That was very good.” She feels him smile against her throat.

“I’m a fast study,” he says.

Chapter Text

It’s terrible. It’s filthy and horrible and wrong, and Jon can’t stop himself. It’s the bloody fucking peaches that are the problem. Peaches are in season, and Sansa loves them. It seems each time Jon turns around, she’s eating another peach with kittenish greed, pursing her lips against the softly fuzzed skin of the fruit, her pink tongue darting out along her lips and even over her fingertips to lick delicately at every stray drop of juice. His sister licks and sucks and nibbles at those peaches and all Jon can do is helplessly imagine putting his face between her legs and doing the same to her.

Gods, but he wishes winter would come already. If peaches don’t go out of season soon, he’ll go out of his mind.

It’s not something he’s ever done before, making a woman – a girl, Sansa is not much more than a girl, a girl who is his sister, gods preserve him – peak with his mouth. He’s done little more than look before, the single time he touched a woman ending abruptly and guiltily as the idea of fathering a bastard like himself filled his mind to crowd out all else. But Theon has spoken of it, mostly with the self-important tone that Jon’s come to recognize as bluster, but with a thick enough strand of truth in it that Jon knows he’s done such a thing and can speak from experience.

“Like tasting a ripe peach,” Jon had overheard him saying once, “but so much better.”

And now here is Sansa with her endless peaches, and Jon might genuinely perish from how much he wants to eat her like she eats those peaches.

She would be so sweet, he thinks. Everything about Sansa is sweet. Even when she snubs him, firm in her loyalty to her lady mother, she is gentle about it, soft, her edges blurred by regret. He thinks that her gasps and cries would be equally soft and sweet were he to taste her, to delve into the sweet mystery of her body with his fingers and his tongue. Especially his tongue. Gods, he will burn in every hell there is for how he wants to taste her. He already burns each night when he takes himself in hand in the hushed darkness of his room and imagines his mouth upon her, his tongue inside her, the nectar of her response coating his lips like honey.

Ladies do not want such things, that is what he’s gathered he should believe. Septa Mordane won’t even acknowledge that ladies have legs beneath their skirts, let alone the desire to feel pleasure. But Jon is no fool. He has seen the way Lady Catelyn looks at his father. He has seen their touches, their shared glances that burn with a fire he’s only recently come to understand, and very little at that. One night he’d climbed the tree outside their room to listen with burning cheeks and guilty fascination to the soft cries and whimpers coming from the throat of the woman who has only ever looked at him with eyes as harsh as her cries then were sweet. He could barely look in her direction the next day, but a new truth lived in his heart: Ladies merely pretend they do not want such things.

Would Sansa want such a thing? Would Sansa even know such a thing exists? She’s not long past girlhood, only a handful of years, though so much taller now than she was, taller even than Jory and Mikken, though not quite so tall as Jon himself. He could kiss her so easily. All it would take is the tilt of his head and he could taste her lips, slip his tongue between them to stroke into her mouth the way he would do between her thighs, thighs that he imagines are pale and soft and ever-so-slightly rounded. Would her thighs give to his touch? Would she shudder and quake and ease her legs apart in invitation, her slender fingers spearing through the tangle of his hair to pull him closer? Would her desire for him spill down her thighs, sweeter than peach juice and more intoxicating than wine? Yes, he thinks. It would shine damp on her skin and call him to taste, to savor, to trace the wet trails back to their source and sup upon her cunt like a man starving. A lady Sansa may be, but something in Jon knows that she would respond to love, that she’d answer desire with her own and meet need with need. Gods, but she would be glorious.

Glorious and maddening and still his sister. Winter cannot come soon enough.

Chapter Text

It’s kind of ironic.

Joffrey had been a parent’s dream – top grades, head of the student governing board, captain of the lacrosse team. Ambitious and neat, liberal with ma’ams and sirs. A handsome, well-mannered monster. Sansa’s parents had never objected once to her dating him; he wasn’t the type to cause objections, at least not from the outside.

Mya, on the other hand… Her motorcycle is nearly as big as the family car, her ears are studded with piercings and a tattoo creeps up the side of her neck from underneath her shirt. She doesn’t seem to own a single article of clothing suitable for church or Sunday supper, though Sansa thinks she’d pay good money to see the look on her parents’ and Old Nan’s faces if Mya showed up at the house in threadbare jeans, a leather vest over a sleeveless shirt, and boots so heavy the floor shook with every step. In short, she’s what they would deem a bad influence.

“I’m concerned about you, Sansa,” her father would say.

“Think about your future,” her mother would say.

“She’s probably a lesbian,” Old Nan would say. You don’t know the half of it, Sansa would think. They’d die if Sansa told them just where Mya’s other tattoo is.

She’s as kind as Joffrey was vicious, as tender as he was cruel. Where Joffrey seemed to get off on hurting Sansa, Mya seems to get off on…well, getting Sansa off.

“Such a pretty girl,” Mya breathes, brushing her nose against Sansa’s clit in a touch that feels both ticklish and really fucking good. “I could frame your cunt and hang it on a wall.”

Sansa laughs, squirming to either get away from the teasing touch or to get more of it, or maybe both. “Please don’t.”

“Fine,” Mya says. “I’ll just have to do this every time I want to admire it.” She has this way of eating Sansa out, this particular way of covering all of the really good bits with her mouth at once and sucking. It makes Sansa’s eyes cross. If Mya weren’t between her legs, her shoulders pushing Sansa’s thighs wide, it would make her legs cross too. Seems that Mya’s always between her legs these days.

The motorcycle had scared her at first. But it had thrilled her too, and it hadn’t taken Mya long to coax her onto it for a ride. Maybe Sansa would have loved any motorcycle ride with any person. Maybe sitting with her legs spread wide and her whole body pressed from shoulder to hip against anyone at all would have been just as exciting and terrifying and downright hot. But Sansa doesn’t think so. She’d pretty much humped Mya’s arse that first time, but Mya didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Mya seemed to be hoping for just that.

Sansa’s humped her in plenty of different ways now, and without so many pesky clothes, but there was definitely something special about that first time.

“Someday I’m going to eat you out while you sit on my bike,” Mya says at a traffic light, and Sansa still hasn’t stopped throbbing when the light turns green and Mya revs the throttle and roars ahead, her body leaning into Sansa’s with the momentum. Sansa squirms closer, until the seam of her jeans rubs just right every time Mya's body shifts against her.

“Take the long way,” she says. Mya turns her head just a bit, just enough to Sansa to see the hint of a dimpled smile on her face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter Text

“There must be someone I can tell,” Sansa thinks.

She is trotting through the halls of the keep at a pace far too brisk to be ladylike, her flashing feet trying in vain to keep up with her feverish brain. The image of what she just saw seems burned on the inside of her eyelids, her lady mother and lord father tangled together head to foot, entirely bare, with their faces… Their mouths… Oh, she simply must tell someone!

First, she thinks to find Jeyne, before she remembers that Jeyne is away from Winterfell in the company of her father, not due to return for another two days yet, and Sansa couldn’t possibly wait two more minutes, let alone two more days. And then, she thinks perhaps this is something she wouldn’t wish to share with Jeyne. It is one thing to spy on Theon in his constant – and ineffectual – attempts at wooing the kitchenmaids. It’s quite another to speak to her of things that are so intimate. Intimate in a way that Sansa isn’t sure she’s ready to broach with her dearest friend.

She doesn’t consider Robb for more than a blink. Even if this were something she might talk to him about, which it is decidedly not, he’s lately begun to be so aggravating, lording things over her as if he’s ten years older than she rather than only one. The other day he’d even patted her on the head. It had been all she could do not to fly at him with nails and fists and feet. Arya would have. It’s not often that Sansa wishes she were more like Arya, but that certainly qualified.

No one else among her siblings would suit, all of them too young. Theon…never. Which only leaves…

Jon opens his door just before she raises her fist to knock a third time, slight annoyance on his face at being disturbed. She knows he studies his lessons after supper. For a moment, she feels guilty for disrupting things, but his annoyance melts away as soon as he sees her, replaced by cautious curiosity, and she remembers what sent her rushing to his room in the first place.

“Mother and father,” she blurts, pushing past him and leaning back against the door to slam it shut. He looks at her expectantly, but she finds she has no idea how to continue, no clue what to say to him to describe what she say.

“Lady Stark and father…?” he prompts, raising one eyebrow. Suddenly Sansa realizes how much older he’s gotten, how much older she’s gotten. How much he looks like father. Suddenly she has an image of him doing what she’d seen her parents doing, his face between a lady’s legs with her thigh over his ear. Blood rushes to her cheeks, her eyes widening into serving platters. There’s the queerest jumpy feeling in her belly and for a moment, she wants only to flee his room and hide.

“Sansa, are you all right?” he asks, the expression on his face turning into concern. His hand at her elbow is meant to be solicitous but it only makes her feel jumpier.

“Yes.,” she says, her hands instinctively smoothing her skirts, though she knows they’re as fresh and unwrinkled as they were the moment she donned them this morrow. It’s a bad habit, something she does when she’s nervous, which has clearly not escaped Jon, judging by the way his brow knits and his eyes flick down to her busy hands and then back up. “I’m…yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Was there something you were trying to tell me?” he asks. His hand is still at her elbow. Worse, he squeezes A sickly sweet ache spreads low in her belly, one that’s somehow uncomfortable and agreeable in equal – and confusing – measure. The tale of what she saw has died in the back of her throat. Could she possibly still tell him, speaking of mouths in such intimate places when she can’t stop staring at his mouth? Some small, reckless part of her wants to blurt it out, wants to see the look on his face as she speaks the words.

Thankfully – or regrettably – the rest of her is far more circumspect.

“No,” she says, the word barely more than a breath. “No, nothing.”

She doesn’t miss the disappointed expression on his face as she whirls and leaves. She thinks she’ll remember that expression for quite some time.

Chapter Text

At first, she worries. Jon has never had much in the way of guile. She’d had no way to tell him of the ruse she maintains here, as she’d had no advance notice of his arrival; it’s an unaccustomed lapse in her circle of “helpers,” as she calls them, the people who act as her eyes and ears in all the places she cannot herself be. Through them she knows nearly everything that occurs in the Vale, and frequently beyond. Petyr taught her well. But there hadn’t been even a whisper of Jon’s coming. He must have wished not to be seen. And yet here he is, wandering through the crowd at her betrothal feast, looking as out of place in his worn black leathers as rose in the snow.

Her whole body tenses at his approach. Surely he’s noticed that she’s given him no acknowledgement, or barely even glanced at him. But he greets her as he would any other guest, waiting for her to give him her name, only the flicker of his eyes and a faint smile telling her that he sees through her Alayne persona to the sister he once knew beneath. She should have known. Jon would never do anything to put her in danger.

The meal is excruciatingly long. All she wants to do is speak to him, take his face in her hands, assure herself that he’s real. Nerves make her eat little and drink much, so that by the time she escapes and has him brought to her solar, the floor seems to tilt beneath her and her blood bubbles like the sparkling wine she’d drunk so much of before.

“Please,” she says when he parts his lips as if to speak. “Please, just say my name.” She fears he won’t know what she asks – that he’ll call her Alayne and some small part of her will die – but again, she needn’t have worried.

“Sansa,” he tells her. “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa.”

She laughs in delight, rushing into his already-open arms. She could practically be weightless for how easily he lifts her, his arms about her ribs in a bruising embrace, as if she isn’t his less-beloved sister, the sister who called him half-brother and never knew quite how to behave towards him. As if he has missed her as keenly as she did him.

Chapter Text

He hardly recognised the little girl he once knew.

Years and death and struggle had dimmed his memories, but still Jon always thought he would know Arya anywhere, in an instant, in less time than it took for his heart to beat again. This girl before him - this woman - was nearly a stranger. The difference wasn’t in her face so much as it was in her, in the way she moved and held herself, in the very way she inhabited the world.

“Arya,” he breathed in disbelief, watching her chin lift and her jaw tighten, “welcome home.”

And then she was there again, the Arya he knew, his baby sister; she was shining in Arya’s eyes, written in the happy twist of her lips, heavy in the weight of her body as Arya threw herself into Jon’s arms and held on as if she’d never let go again, both of them truly home at last.

Chapter Text

It’s one of the perks of sorority life. Ever since Sansa joined, she’s had more feminine support than she’s ever had in her life. Help with classes, dating advice, loaned clothes and shoulders to cry on. Anything Sansa needs, one of her sisters is there.

Including, it seems, when she’s drunk and horny and hasn’t had a date in forever.

“What’s a little fooling around between friends?” Margaery had asked her, already dragging her hand up Sansa’s thigh and under her skirt. They’ve made out before a few times – okay, a lot of times – so it’s not as forward as it might be. Sansa has heard the sounds that come from Margaery’s room when she brings girls home, which serves as a good reference. And Margaery is gorgeous and Sansa is really, really horny.

“I bet your cunt is as pink as your lips,” Margaery purrs, just barely brushing said cunt with her knuckles before dipping an exploratory finger in to circle her clit.

“God,” Sansa breathes. “You’re really going for it. I was expecting some over-the-knickers action for a bit.”

“Fast first,” Margaery says, gathering moisture on her fingertips and returning to circle Sansa’s clit in earnest. Sansa grips the arm of the sofa, keenly aware that although they’re alone in the room, there are people within earshot, and that she would really like to get off before anyone wanders in. “Then I’ll take you up to my room and go down on you extra slow.”

Sansa sucks in a shuddering breath and feels the first orgasm starting to build. “You’re a real pal, Marg.”

Chapter Text

Gendry has never liked secrets before.

There have been many of them in his life, all bad. Secret parents, secret plans, secret escapes. All he’d ever wanted was a simple life but fate always seemed to have other intentions for him. So it is again, with yet another secret, but this is one he’s found he enjoys keeping.

She’s waiting for him when he returns to his chamber after a morning’s work in the smithy. Left to his own instincts, he’d never touch her at such a time; his hands are always soot-streaked, nails caked with grime that lingers even with the most rigorous washing, and Sansa is too fine a lady for that. But she seems to like it when he dirties and marks her. Sometimes she even refuses to let him wash her clean before she dresses and rejoins her husband for supper, leaving Gendry to remember his handprints on her waist, her arse, her tits, as she sups at the head table looking for all the world like a dutiful wife.

She looks like nothing of the sort in his bed. Gendry has never been one for religious devotion, but he could fall to his knees in praise at the sight of her, all cream and copper and pink. Then she parts her knees and he could weep. For the hundredth time, he thinks Renly is mad; that anyone could be wed to Sansa and not wish to bed her is inconceivable. And yet this had been Renly’s idea, his choice, his way to gain an heir with the look of a Baratheon without the task of bedding his wife. Every bit of it happens with Renly’s blessing.

Sometimes, though, they pretend that it doesn’t.

“Renly is with his lords,” Sansa says, unfurling one long leg and brushing her toes against his stomach. “If you hurry, he won’t catch us.”

Gendry catches Sansa’s ankle in his blackened hand, leaving streaks on her pale skin as he kisses his way from ankle to knee to where she’s already wet for him.

“The last thing I intend to do with you,” he says, punctuating his words with the slow pull of his tongue, savoring her gasp of pleasure the way he savors her cunt, “is hurry.”