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Chapter Text

His fists continued to collide with the bloody mass of meat that used to be Ramsay Snow’s face. The metal gauntlets he wore had carved out so much flesh and bone that it was now unrecognizable. Still, it was the only thing he could focus on, the one part of the world that gave him purpose. Ramsay Snow had terrorized an innocent girl thinking it was his favorite sister, and had boasted how he would do the same to his new bride once she arrived from the Vale. Worse, the scouts provided by the mountain clansmen had found six female bodies so far, stripped of skin and nailed to crosses or trees in grotesque homage to the Bolton sigil. Jon previously thought the wildlings beyond the wall were the barbarians, but he now was convinced otherwise. Skirmishes between the small warbands of the free folk were quick and comparatively surgical in their precision compared to the atrocities of the Bolton men. Most of his time in the Battle for Castle Black was spent firing arrows from a tower and issuing commands. But this, charging into the thick of a battle and dismembering his foes, seeing their entrails and hearing their screams, was chaos. Jon was no longer a person, he was a beast. Savage.

But as long as he could destroy this one person utterly, to remove every identifiable trace of him from the North, his own brutality was worth something. His violence and selfishness would be worthwhile. His bastardry, dishonesty, and dishonor would be useful.

Noises were muffled compared to the sound of his own gasps of breath, the grunts of exertion leaving his throat, but the screams of the dead and dying around him weren’t worth listening to anyway. He shut them out, like most things outside his singular objective, which was becoming harder and harder to recognize with every punch. Which is why it surprised him, some indeterminable number of minutes or hours later, when he found himself hauled up by his arm pits by two men in armor far too clean to have been involved in the battle and far too fine to have come from the North. Valemen, Ramsay’s promised aid accompanying his bride.

Jon struggled against his new assailants, who had ripped him from his one remaining purpose in life, but to no avail. He was made to face away and forced to his knees. He continued to struggle, even as the noises became somewhat more recognizable as speech, though perhaps as heard from underwater or far away.

“–ood lust, my la–”

“–needs a soak, or maybe a–”

“–to the lord’s chambers.”

Blood and grime obscured most of his vision from the slits in his helm, so he felt more than saw that he was being dragged inside the keep. His head continued to ring, but the voices directed at him at least now seemed less hostile. No more screams or war cries, but calming voices and reassurances that he was safe. Jon wasn’t sure he should believe them, and so he continued to struggle whenever he could muster the energy. Once he nearly succeeded in freeing his arm, only for another armored body to restrain him again from behind.

He was finally thrown onto a cold stone floor, knocking the wind out of him, and was immediately doused in water that was just shy of scalding. The water seemed to have done its job, dislodging much of the accumulated detritus from his helm and allowing even more noise to get through.

“Bring more water, but leave the rest to me,” said a soft voice, softer than any he had heard in what felt like a lifetime.

“My lady, it would not be proper, let alone safe to–”

“There is not any other with whom I would be safer. Do as I have said, then leave us,” said the lady, now with a firm finality contrasting her sweet tone. The voice reminded Jon of his father’s lady wife, commanding yet feminine, but had something else to it that Lady Catelyn’s never did, at least for him – gentleness.

Another bucket of warm water was thrown over his head, and he could hear the scrape of wood against stone as furniture was hastily repositioned around the room, before a thud sounded through the chamber which must have been the door closing. Despite the silence, his head still most resembled a rung bell, and thoughts buzzed through is head too fast to interpret. Something brushed beside him, causing him to lash out his arm and grab the offending object.

“Jon.”

His name from that gentle voice struck him harder than any of the swords had from outside. He allowed his head to be forcibly stilled, and his helm at last to be removed from his head.

The lady before him was a beauty – flaming red hair, long with smooth waves in whatever wasn’t pulled behind her head in a plait, a contrast to the matted braids of the free folk. Her face was long, but the features themselves were rounded and graceful. Her eyes were soothing pools of spring water. Her lips were pink, and looked softer than petals as they moved. It was clear that she was trying to speak to him, but the only word that made it through the battle-fog of his mind was his name as she said it again, “Jon.”

The impulse hit him like a war hammer in the chest, unavoidable and insurmountable and inevitable. He did not know this Valewoman, but her beauty and her gentleness and the persistent buzzing of his mind stripped away all of his inhibitions, and he pulled his body upright and kissed her.

Her immediate reaction was to pull away, which he anticipated and prevented by pinning her upper body to his with his left hand, his right still holding tightly to her thigh as she knelt by his side. She then tried to cry out, but this was swiftly averted as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, seeking out her own and caressing it as he planned to later do to her clit. Her hands came up, uncalloused and soothing little candle-flames of warmth brushing against his face, and to his relief rather than pushing him away they began to comb through his beard, the hair on his scalp, the hair behind his neck. She leaned into him, and her tongue began to curiously explore his mouth as well.

His cock felt harder than Longclaw’s steel. He had not been with a woman since Ygritte, and hadn’t even felt the urge to take himself in hand since his death. But now, months later, the urge to be inside this angelic figure washed over him like the tide, vast and profoundly deep. She had all the beauty of Lady Catelyn, but none of the iciness. She had Ygritte’s fire, but not her acidity. She was warm, and willing, and she would be his.

Jon pulled back, shivering as his name left her lips yet again in a deliciously pleading moan. His goddess closed the distance between them and peppered his face with kisses, but allowed him the space he needed to unstrap and discard his armor. His hands left her body as he rushed to pull off his soiled gauntlets and gloves. It took all of his willpower to stay away from her long enough to work the straps at what pieces of his armor remained after the brawl, and something primal roared in his chest when she began to unlace his tunic once the weight of the chest plate and hauberk left his shoulders. He moaned as her hands worried over the bruises covering his chest and stomach, and nearly tore through the laces of his breeches to get his hands back on her.

Although his mind still felt clouded, in a moment of clarity he was grateful that the sludge of the battlefield had largely been removed with his clothing, meaning that he would no longer tarnish his prize with his touch. And touch he did, one hand groping the surprisingly bountiful flesh of her tit. He roughly thumbed over where he suspected her nipple to be, earning him a moan and shiver from her which in turn caused his cock to throb. She resumed kissing his mouth aggressively, driving her tongue inside his lips to rub against the rough patches where his teeth had cut into the flesh from blows to his head. Rather than disgust her, the taste of his blood only seemed to inflame her more, and she tugged at the hem of his breeches in a clear plead to remove them.

Remove them he did, sliding them off to the side along with his smallclothes. His hand that was not again busy at her breast went behind her back, pulling at her laces one by one with patience that would have been excruciating were it not for her hand that caressed his cock and stones as he did so. He could tell he was on a hair trigger, like a crossbow wound too tight, but his desire to fill her womb kept his seed inside. Soon enough, her fine thick travel dress came over her head, leaving her in a silk shift and filigree-embroidered wool stockings which drove him wild. He stood with her in his arms, sliding his hands up her thighs to grip her ass as her legs followed and wrapped around his waist.

Jon’s cock strained against the warm silk smallclothes it was compressed against as he carried her to the room’s bed, pulsing with vulgar intent. He threw her down without gentleness or kindness, but she did not seem to mind and kept her legs spread wide for him, her knees flexing to point her dainty feet toward her treasure. “Jon,” she said again, this time the only thing that needed to be said, to communicate her desire for him. He did not know how she knew his name, or anything else about her, but that was diminishingly important as her thumbs hooked the waste of her smallclothes and slid them up her legs, her knees briefly coming together as the silk slid off her body.

This left her cute pink cunt exposed to him for the first time. Her inner lips protruded slightly from the outer, flush and pink but also dainty compared to Ygritte’s, which had been larger and more ungainly if no less desirable. Her bush was as fiery red as her hair, although it had clearly been shaved into a triangle to be contained in her smallclothes, something his wildling lover had never been concerned about. Jon felt his breath leave him at the realization that he was about to fuck a true lady such as this.

Despite the protests of his cock, he failed to resist the urge to dive between her soft thighs to feast. She was hot and wet, such that the drops of natural lubrication dripping down between the cheeks of her ass became the perfect appetizer for his meal. He soon finished his treat and quickly made good on his earlier promise to himself by setting his tongue to attack her clit. He pushed up the little hood to better expose her sensitive nub to his ministrations, while his hands wrapped around her hips to pull her into his mouth and hold her as she writhed. She somehow maintained enough presence of mind to pull off her stockings before she exploded, soaking his beard in delicious nectar which he lapped up with his tongue as his hand soothed the contracting muscles between her skin and her womb.

Her tug on his hair as her convulsions slowed was a clear enough signal even in his overloaded state. He crawled up her body and bracketed her with his arms. An errant thought was grateful that her hair was bound so he did not have to worry about accidentally pulling on it with his elbows, although he hoped she would still be agreeable to doing this again with her flaming locks freed. His cockhead was now exposed, his foreskin having retracted while he ate her cunt to reveal its angry red tip capped with a pearlescent bead of seed threatening to drip into her belly button.

She pulled him down to her mouth and immediately wrapped her delicate tongue around his in mimicry of the treatment he had just given her, grabbed his shaft with her hand, and positioned him against her slick cunt. His hips fell into hers involuntarily, and his stones only had a handful of strokes to ache and throb against her ass before he emptied his soul inside of her, the tight wet warmth too much to bear. What felt like a dozen pulses of seed filled her cunt as his moans filled her throat. Her soft hands caressed his back much like he had her stomach after her own orgasm earlier, but rather than feeling drained he felt more worked up than ever.

Jon pulled out of her, relishing the sight of his seed pouring out of her lower lips to stain the sheets, tinged with red from either her maidenhead or his roughness, not that he cared which at this moment. She sat up to chase his lips, which allowed him to pull her shift over her head and finally expose all of him to her. Her breasts fell one after the other out of their silk prison, pointed pink nipples mounted on coin-sized areola still quivering with arousal. He kneaded and pinched both of them with his rough fingers before flipping her over, needing to claim her again. The scars crisscrossing her back were a surprise, but marked her as a survivor and only increased his desire to fill her with seed as many times as she would allow. He traced a few of them with his fingers from her shoulders down to her hips, eliciting shivers each time.

The cheeks of her bottom were round, full, and pillow-soft as he pried them apart to line himself up with her still leaking cunt. As he filled her, he cherished the clenching heat of her which had been overlooked due to the speed of his orgasm during their first round. Her walls stretched and caressed around him as he began to truly fuck her, the lubrication from his seed allowing him to set a punishing pace that made the flesh of her ass bounce enticingly against his hips. Lest the sight unman him quickly yet again, he bent over her body and pressed his chest into her back as she braced herself on her elbows, sinking into the bed under his weight. This freed his hands to hold her bouncing breasts as his hips pistoned into hers from above.

The pleasure from his cock had now completely replaced all previous thoughts of battle, politics, wars, and loss in his mind. There was nothing else in the world besides the beauty underneath him and her tight cunt wrapped around his cock. He was moaning, but so was she, chanting his name in what sounded like reverence as he fucked her. His mind cleared enough to remember to give her pleasure too, so he moved a hand down to mash against her clit. Once again, she didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t gentle as her cunt clenched down on him tighter than a blacksmith’s vice, causing his balls to throb and erupt into her once again. He slammed his hips tight against hers, feeling the head of his cock push against the entrance of her womb as thick ropes of seed filled her cunt.

He fell to the side once they were both finished shaking and pulled her into his chest. He felt tears slide down his face, not from sadness but perhaps due to the sheer physical and emotional exhaustion of the past few hours. He caressed her as lovingly as he could as their breathing evened out, and not even her full ass pressed against his cock was enough to arouse it now. It felt like his brain was also softening, now that he felt safe and satisfied for the first time since that cave with Ygritte. Thoughts of guilt began to creep to the surface through his sleepiness, he didn’t even know this woman’s name. He was able to ignore them though when she twisted around in his grip to face him, kissed him soundly and whispered his name softly.

“I missed you so much,” she said, before gently laying her head on his chest. Exhaustion pulled him into sleep, wrapped in her mutual embrace. Consequences were for the later; for now he finally had peace.

Chapter Text

Jon awoke with an intense need to piss. He scrambled out of bed to the room’s privy and relieved himself. The quick movements made him aware of the tightness of his muscles, the bruises scattered across his torso and limbs, and the dull ache in his stones. As he drained his bladder, he felt his head clear enough to take stock of his current situation.

His army of the free folk, mountain clansmen, Stormlanders, and whatever remaining Umber, Karstark, Mormont, and Manderly men he could pull together had won. This was not inherently surprising. Bolton had taken the majority of his fighting men to war with Robb, and although Ramsay Snow had enough men left to cause chaos with Winterfell held by his child brother, they lacked any discipline and fought with ferocity rather than skill. Ramsay himself wasn’t even much of a threat, clearly never dedicating any serious amount of time to practice in the yard.

Still, seeing his childhood home become a bloodbath as his men and charges were cut down so needlessly, all at the whim of the madman who murdered his brothers, had been enough to send Jon into a frenzy. He had heard of men having their blood up after a battle, and previously would have considered those men lacking in self-control, but now he understood. Although they had been protected by his gauntlets, his knuckles were still bruised from the destruction they had wrought upon Ramsay Snow. Jon was unsure how long he had beaten the man’s face into his skull, but he now recalled clearly enough being dragged off the corpse, getting cleaned up by a lady, and then ravishing her without thought to the consequences.

Sparing a glance at his bedmate, he was ashamed to feel his cock twitch once more at the sight of her. Her back was facing the privy, exposed from the sheets to the surprisingly warm air of the room – Winterfell’s heated walls a welcome relief from the constant, oppressive cold of Castle Black – which left her heart-shaped curves of her hips, ass, and cunt exposed to him before her delectable thighs snuck back under the furs. A white trickle of seed leaked out of her, and it took effort to restrain himself from licking it out only to replace it with more. The intrusiveness of the thought wasn’t new – ever since his death and resurrection at the hands of the red witch, he would be overcome by primal urges, usually calling him to violence. It was the lust that was new here, but it was just as powerful, if not more so.

Others take him, he didn’t even know her name. But she knew mine, he realized. She said she missed him. And she clearly trusted him, he could remember her assuring her escorts that she would be safe. No woman in their right mind would make that claim while tending to a man after a battle, particularly one without his wits about him.

He owed her an explanation, and an apology, and time for her to ask for whatever she wanted of him – Jon was not naive enough to assume she had done this for him selflessly. She had extracted his seed, and was in control of what appeared to be a sizable contingent of very well armed and armored men from the Vale. She had all the power now, having caught him in a moment of weakness. Jon prayed to the old gods that she did not ask too much of him.

Moonlight dripped through the smudged glass windows of the room, indicating that it was well past the hour of the bat, likely nearer the hour of the owl. Jon threw on a dressing robe from a wardrobe and used the surprisingly still-functioning bell system to ring for a servant. He was presently surprised when one actually answered at the door. He quietly asked for some food to be brought up from the kitchens, then worked on starting a fire in the hearth while it was done. A warm blaze brightened the space by the time the servant returned with a loaf of brown bread, a block of Cerwyn cheese, a pear, an apple, a modest cut of venison, and a decanter of mulled wine. This modest meal was a feast compared to anything he had had in years, and his stomach growled involuntarily. Be it the sound or just happenstance, the woman began to stir in the bed.

She sat up and allowed the furs to fall down her chest, exposing her tear-drop shaped teats and soft but slim belly. She looked dazed, but smiled when she made eye contact with him and said the word he remembered her saying most before they slept – “Jon.”

He offered an acknowledging nod back to her before waving her toward him, where he was sat near the hearth on a rug made from the pelt of a snow bear. “Come, I had some food brought up.”

She nodded and looked around briefly for her discarded shift before seeming to decide that it wasn’t worth the hassle and swinging her legs out of bed to walk toward him. There was no stopping the instantaneous erection from forming, thankfully obscured by his robe, but the effort to maintain a neutral face when confronted by her beauty left him otherwise mute. Her skin was pale, but glowed in a healthy way under the light of the fire. Her wide hips curved out of a modest waste, and were rounded in a way that was uncommon in the North of late – clearly the Vale still had plenty of food for her to maintain such a lush figure. As she walked over, she untied something in the plait of her hair and shook it out, revealing wavy fiery locks that cascaded down past her shoulder blades behind her, the color matched by her carefully sculpted eye brows and the triangle of hair over her mons pubis. She sat next to him, her thigh brushing against his in casual intimacy, and bent over to tear a chunk out of the bread and bring it to her mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned in a way that reminded him all too clearly of her moans from only a few hours earlier. His cock twitched painfully once again, so he began to eat as well, lest he forget himself and take her once more.

“It’s not quite the same as Gage’s baking, but I can forgive whoever it was that braved the kitchens to make this. It’s perfect,” she said, sighing in contentment.

Jon’s eyes widened. Her familiar tone, red hair, knowledge of Winterfell and its staff, it all finally clicked together in his head, like a solution coming together to a problem unexpectedly in a moment of distraction as the last piece fell into place. “Sansa,” he said to her stupidly.

“Jon,” she said back, smiling at him again, but this time it made his chest hurt and his eyes water. He pulled her into an embrace which she readily reciprocated, in a way she never had when they had last seen each other as children. “I still cannot believe I found you,” she was saying to him. “When I saw fighting, I feared the worst, but to finally see you again was better than I could imagine.”

She sounded so earnest, so deliriously happy, and that only made the guilt stab further into his chest. He pulled away and looked at her. Her face had lengthened with maturity, now displaying her Stark heritage ever so slightly despite her prominent Tully features. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, but also a hope that he could not understand.

“Sansa, I am so sorry for what I did to you. After the battle I wasn’t thinking straight, and–”

“Jon,” she interrupted. “You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want you to do. I know how strange that sounds, and I don’t fully understand it myself, but I don’t regret what we did and I don’t want you to either.”

She sounded so confident and sure of herself, a far cry from the attention-seeking girl he last knew her as. He thought to correct her, to say that siblings should never do what they had done, but before he could he realized that he also didn’t regret it. Sansa had never felt as much like his sibling as the others had because of the distance she placed between them after she began to associate his bastardy with the pain it caused her mother. Whatever had happened to her in the years since their last meeting, she clearly held no such compunctions against him anymore.

He answered her hesitantly, “I think we’ll have to talk about that more later, but I won’t let it affect my joy from seeing you alive and well. The stories of you that made it up to the Wall had convinced me that you were dead, that I was the last of our pack.”

“I thought the same, at least for a time. So much has happened, but I remember when I heard you had been made the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. That was when I realized that you truly were brave, and gentle, and kind, and just how much I missed you. I felt so proud that you were being recognized for you own worth. Looking back, I was likely too proud, as I think that was the final clue Myranda Royce needed to confirm my identity…” she trailed off, and blushing prettily in the firelight.

They slowly explained the stories of their lives to each other as they ate the meal and savored the mulled wine together. He told her of his time at the Watch, his regret and anguish as the news of each death from their family made it to the Wall, his time with the wildlings who preferred to be called free folk. He told her about Sam, and Pyp, and Maester Aemon, and Donal Noye, about Mance and Melisandre and Stannis Baratheon. About becoming the Lord Commander, and doing his best to save everyone, but being killed for trying to save their little sister. He even told her about the faint memories he had dreaming he was Ghost, until a bonfire sacrificing a princess brought him back to life. He told her about leaving the Watch behind, rallying the remaining loyal Northern forces and bringing him to take back their home and avenge their family.

“I thought my life was over, Sansa, and it was, but I was brought back anyway. And I had no idea why, what my purpose was when everyone I had ever loved was dead. I think I was planning to die retaking Winterfell, or that perhaps I wanted to once I gave our people a better chance than they had, but to see you again…” he trailed off, and Sansa hugged him tightly, pressing her naked bosom against his chest and holding him in a way that no woman ever had before. He felt safe, cared for. Loved.

She told him of her life as well. The guilt she carried for betraying her father and sister to Cersei in a fit of girlish naïveté and stubbornness. Of being beaten for it, threatened, shamed, married against her will. How she became an unwitting conspiracy to murder at the age of thirteen, and her abduction from one nightmare to another. And finally, how she learned to take power back in her life. How to use the allure she held over her uncle by law to extract information, which she then leaked through Myranda to the lords of the Vale until said uncle found himself overextended without his levers to power, and was rightly killed for it. How she took charge of the Vale as her cousin’s regent, the goodwill generated by her father during his fostering having earned her the allies she needed to stabilize the situation. And how she used that power to learn of the goings-on in the North, to arrange a marriage between herself and Ramsay “Bolton”, which allowed her army of two-thousand cavalry to cross Bolton-held Moat Cailin uncontested.

“From there we rode toward Winterfell on the Kingsroad, stopping at holdfasts to gather loyalists whenever we could. It was about a day’s ride south of Cerwyn that we heard about an army supposedly lead by Jon Snow marching to retake Winterfell, so we road through the night to get here. I had of course originally planned to seize the castle myself as soon as we were through the gates and have Ramsay hung, but it seems you’ve saved me the trouble.”

Jon chuckled. “Sansa, the ever-polite little lady, was planning a deception on that scale? I can hardly believe it.”

“Well, you’d better,” she laughed back at him. “I always thought the world was split into good and evil, nobility and vice, but now I know that it’s nothing like that. People can only be relied on to care about their own interests, and to act for their own benefit. I don’t see any reason why I should handicap myself from being able to do the same.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?” Jon asked.

“I’m still her,” Sansa replied. “Just wiser, I’d like to think.”

“I’d agree.”

They each drank more wine, having finally run out of things to say to each other, but the silence was comfortable. The moonlight had shifted, now barely making it through the window as they approached the hour of the wolf.

“Jon,” she said, sounding timid in a way she hadn’t before.

“Yes, Sansa?”

“I still want you.”

Jon’s heart raced and his cock twitched against his thigh, becoming half-engorged once again at even that small admission. She had remained naked throughout their conversation, and he had at some point joined her and slipped out of his robe due to the heat of the fire in Winterfell’s naturally warm rooms.

“I hadn’t planned on this between us, but when you kissed me after I removed your helm… I realized how perfect it felt. I wasn’t repulsed, it was the opposite. I’ve never felt better than that,” she admitted, a rosiness coating her pretty cheeks once more. “I and must consider my own self-interest. I want to stay in Winterfell, with you. After all my experiences with lords, princes, and knights, I don’t want to have to marry a stranger again. And while the Northern lords would happily follow you into battle, your claim is weak as a bastard which would only cause you problems over time. You can offer me protection, and I can offer you legitimacy. It might be odd, but given the circumstances… I think we can make it work.”

He didn’t have to think hard about her offer. Their thighs were already pressed against each other on the snow bear pelt. He lifted his hand to her face and guided her gaze away from the fire until she was looking at him. “Sansa, I don’t care about the lords, or legitimacy, or any of that. But if you’ll have me… I would have you too,” he admitted. It was as she said; he should feel repulsed, but that feeling was simply absent. The gods might damn him to an icy hell, but he wanted her more than anything else. She was a purpose for him, a reason to continue existing. She wanted him, and he wanted her to have whatever she wished.

It was impossible to say who moved first, but the next moment he could remember they were kissing. These weren’t the heated, animalistic kisses from earlier. They were measured, and languid, and sensual in a way he had never experienced. The only other woman he had ever been with had never kissed him like this, with patience and love at the forefront. That was what Sansa exuded as she guided him down until they were side by side, petting each other slowly across their naked skin and savoring each other’s bodies. His cock was pressed against her flat tummy, steel against silk, pulsing against her with virile intent, but he didn’t force the issue. It felt wrong to rush something so intimate.

After minutes of caressing each other’s tongues and learning each other’s sensitive areas with their hands, she rolled on top of him, pressing her searing hot center across his rod and grinding herself against him. A drop of precum leaked out of the tip of his cock as she rocked forward, which she proceeded to smear around the top of his shaft to prepare him for her. When she lined him up with her center, they were both more than ready. She gasped into his mouth as he filled her, and he became determined to make her gasp like that as many times as he could. She seemed content to rock her hips against him, grinding her clit against the bone of his pelvis while rubbing her hands up his chest, down his arms, through his hair. He returned the affection, caressing the flair of her hips, rubbing her scarred back, running his fingers through the hairs at the base of her neck, tweaking her stiff nipples.

Sansa began to pant against him and lifted herself further up his shaft before letting herself fall back down, clearly wanting more aggressive movements, although she had to fight her trembling legs to make it happen. Jon took over for her, gripping the globes of her ass and moving his cock up into her, first at her original pace then faster and faster as her gasps turned to moans, and moans turned to screams. She was now flushed from her face down to the valley between her breasts, pulled away from his mouth to take deep gasping breaths. He took one of her breasts into his mouth and sloppily mashed her nipple with his lips and tongue, while one of his fingers wandered to her tightly puckered asshole and began to tease it in time with his thrusts.

She grunted as her cunt clamped down on him like noose, suddenly and completely forcing the life out of his cock. He unloaded a deluge of seed into her while she convulsed above him, holding her hips against his lest even a drop of semen slip from her before it absolutely had to. They were both a sweaty mess, their thighs sloppy and wet as he softened and slipped out of her. They held each other, still trembling in dazed pleasure, until he remembered something important.

“Marry me, at first light, in the godswood. Please,” he forced out between breaths, still coming down from his high.

“Mm-hmm,” she sighed, content. She arched against him, and if she were any more like a cat, he expected she would be purring. “But only if you’ll take me like that again afterward.”

“As many times as you like. I’m yours.”

Chapter Text

“I am Arya Stark, of Winterfell,” she said for the first time in years. There was a beat of silence that followed, before the kindly man asked her again.

“Who is a girl?”

“Arya Stark, second daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark,” she said again, now with some fierceness, no longer able to leave her face placidly blank as she had for so long in this temple.

“A girl is not no one. A girl is indeed Arya Stark,” the kindly man confirmed. “The House of Black and White is no place for Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

Arya couldn’t agree more. “I will return to my home.”

“Why is it that Arya Stark wishes to return home now? A girl has done many deeds in service to the many-faced god. But now a girl has had her heart changed,” he replied, and not unreasonably. She had lived here for years, learning customs and tongues and trades, assuming disguises and learning to lie. But there was no need for lies anymore.

“Mara the mermaid heard something in service to the Black Pearl. She heard that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was killed by his men for trying to save his sister. She also heard that Jon Snow defeated the Bolton army at Winterfell to try to get her back.”

“Two truths and a lie once again. But which are the truths, and which is the lie?”

“I am not sure, but I don’t care. Jon didn’t give up on our family, so I won’t either. If there is even the smallest chance he is fighting for Arya Stark – for me – then I must not let his fight be in vain.”

“If Arya Stark must do something, this one believes there is nothing that will stop her from doing so,” the kindly man said. “Only those who are no one may serve in the House of Black and White. Arya Stark, she cannot do this.”

“Valar dohaeris. Arya Stark will serve, in her own way,” she replied.

“Just so. In her own way,” he nodded. “Arya Stark never did the bidding of the House of Black and White. No one did. And while we all serve the many-faced god at the end, Arya Stark is not to do so until it is her time.”

“Valar morghulis,” she answered. That seemed straightforward enough. If all it took to leave the Faceless Men was a promise not to use their craft without their permission, she would take that as a win. “Although, I won’t lie to you – not about this, anyway,” she corrected, which earned her a nod of respect, “I might still kill people. Arya Stark will kill anyone who would harm her family. But I won’t take life needlessly – I’ll only kill in battle, or if it is the only way to keep my family and loved ones safe.”

“Just so,” the kindly man said. He let the silence linger, but gave her an imploring look, which made her finally blurt out the question that was itching at her brain. “But seriously, you’re not gonna try to kill me after I leave or anything, right?”

“To become a servant to the many-faced god is to become no one. It is not something to be lauded or pursued; no one wishes to give up their identity, their self. If a person is able to be oneself, one does not have a place in our house, where people come to die. This is a happy plce to be away from, Arya Stark of Winterfell,” the kindly man chided. “Also, does a girl not recall that we are forbidden from killing those whom we know? And I now know you, Arya Stark. You have told me your name. So long as you are yourself, you will never be in danger from those of the House of Black and White.”

“Right. Good,” Arya said, mostly to herself. “Well, thanks for everything… I’ll be heading out now?” She didn’t intend to end it as a question, but things were starting to feel awkward and she didn’t really know what else to say.

“One final thing, a parting gift,” the kindly man said.

Oh shit, here it is, Arya thought as her muscles tensed, ready to run or fight as need be.

From one of the many shadows in the room, an acolyte approached carrying a fine leather pouch, which he presented to Arya while keeping his eyes away from hers. The bag itself was plain but well made, and did not seem to portend any immediate danger. She grabbed it, noting that it was heavier than she expected.

“A girl has made many labors throughout the city of Braavos. No one works without pay in Braavos, the city of people freed from the shackles of slavery. Arya Stark must take payment for her services,” the kindly man explained. Sure enough, jiggling the pouch produced the clinking sound of metal coins, which was confirmed upon inspecting its contents. While far from a fortune, this would be enough to secure her passage across the narrow sea if she were willing to work some as well.

“Thank you,” she said, and not feeling the need to say anything else, she turned and walked toward the temple entrance.

“Valar morghulis, Arya Stark of Winterfell,” the kindly man called to her.

Arya didn’t turn back as she whispered, “But not today,” and stepped into the sunlight. Then she remembered that there was more than one servant of the House of Black and White. Well, some insurance couldn’t hurt.

She ran back to the doors and shouted as loud as she could, hoping the echo would carry her voice into the catacombs below, “I’m Arya Stark, bitches!”

=====

Not wanting to waste time, she pulled Needle out from the loose stone she had hid it under so long ago and made her way to the docks to find passage. With her breasts bound and her hair tied back, along with her current outfit of loose pants, a white shirt, a leather vest and belt, and finally the thin sword tied to her waste, she passed well enough for a boy. It was easy to find a ship bound for the North – going on a year ago, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had secured a loan from the Iron Bank and immediately used it to buy massive amounts of food to be imported to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. More recently, ships had been departing for White Harbor too. She approached the quartermaster for one of the latter, and after a brief conversation that convinced him she could navigate the rigging well enough to be helpful, she was hired on for the journey for a pittance of coin, but more importantly with a bunk and two meals per day as part of her wages.

The journey only took two sennights, the advent of winter calming the tempestuous autumn seas. White Harbor crowned out of the horizon one midday like a rising moon. Barking seals and crying gulls heralded the return of Arya Stark to the North.

Most of her coin went to the purchase of a horse, a hardy garron that would be able to traverse the snow-covered roads to Winterfell without difficulty. The rest went to food and warm clothing for the journey. It felt odd to be speaking common tongue again, better to finally unbind her breasts, and refreshing to be surrounded by wilderness after years spent in a port city.

After another two sennights of travel up the White Knife and then further west, the hills started to become more familiar. Creeks and groves sparked memories, although it was hard to be sure of their veracity given the changes time and winter made to the landscape. Then, beyond a hill, she saw smoke billowing in the gray sky, and her eyes teared up once she crested the rise and saw her home once again. Winterfell was different – the walls had scorch marks that hadn’t been there before, the roof of the great hall was clearly new, and Wintertown, usually nearly uninhabited as crofters tended to their land in outlying villages, was bustling with activity. But the most important thing was unchanged from when she left – hanging over the battlements were the snow-white banners of the direwolf of House Stark.

Arya cantered her garron down the hill, but slowed it to a walk to avoid trampling anyone in the bustling town streets. Finally, she approached the open portcullis of Winterfell itself, flanked by two guards. It hurt her to realize that she did not recognize them, almost as much as it amused her to find that they were younger than her by a significant margin, based on the barely visible peach fuzz dusting their round faces.

“Who are you, and what is your business in Winterfell?” asked the one on the left, his voice cracking only once to his credit.

“I’m here to see the Lord of Winterfell. Is he in?” she asked in return.

“No, but the Lady is currently hearing petitions in the great hall. You’ll have to tie your own horse though, not enough hands to be doin’ that for everybody,” he explained. She didn’t take offense – if barely-pubescent teenagers were all that was left to guard the gate, she didn’t imagine there would be any stable boys at all.

A Lady though? Did Jon get married? In her rush to get to Winterfell, she hadn’t lingered longer than a few hours in White Harbor, and given the thick winter snows she hadn’t run into any travelers along the way to share gossip with. Still, she didn’t regret it. She was home.

She entered the great hall through the fresh pine doors, admiring the sturdy construction, though it was not at all ornate. And there, sitting on the dais on the ancient ironwood throne of House Stark, was her sister Sansa.

Arya slipped to the back of the petition line, hunched her shoulders, and made herself look small. Sansa was one of the last people she expected to see, and she didn’t want to be noticed until she had time to better assess the situation. That, and it felt like she had taken a punch to her gut. Logically, she remembered the guard telling her that the Lord was away, but now there was a terrifying new possibility – what if it wasn’t even Jon?

If Sansa had found a way to retake the castle, Jon might actually have died at the Wall, might truly be gone –

Arya slowly advanced in the queue of petitioners, more filing in behind her. She listened, distracting herself with the requests and petty disputes of the smallfolk, merchants, and minor lords coming to see her sister. She learned two key things from these interactions; the Boltons had enacted a reign of terror against the people of the North, which had somehow been put down with a battle at Winterfell itself; and that her sister was no longer the jealous, air-headed maiden Arya remembered. She demanded an enormous tax on luxury goods being brought in by merchants, but none on any kind of food. She distributed land to various groups of women and old men wearing animal hides and talking in a brogue that was even thicker than usual. She promised shelter, care, and positions working within Winterfell itself for a number of women full in their pregnancy from rape.

Finally, it was her turn to approach. Fear cuts deeper than swords.

“Hi Sansa,” she said. She remembered a second later to smile, though she doubted it was convincing. She gave a little wave to try to make up for it.

Sansa cocked her head first, then her smooth brow wrinkled as she grew perplexed. Sansa had retained her beauty into womanhood, pale skin with bright red hair and a sizable bust, all wrapped in a fine but modest wool gown, occasionally rubbing her belly. Arya waited another few heartbeats, preparing to explain further when Sansa’s eyes widened like saucers and she launched herself off her seat, shouting “Arya!”

The next thing she knew, Arya was collapsed on the ground in a mutual embrace with the sister she would have sworn she hated, the two of them sobbing. Arya couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, not like this, making snot run down her face and feeling a tingling sensation beneath her cheeks. She clung to her sister as if they would be ripped apart any moment, and Sansa squeezed her tight in return and stroked her fingers through her hair. “Arya, Arya, I’m so sorry. For everything…” she heard, which made the sobs come even harder.

Sansa apologized to the remainder of the petitioners and ended the hearings early, never letting Arya go. Soon they had been escorted to the Lord’s chambers, which had been their fathers, to cushioned chairs around the hearth which crackled with burning logs. “Arya, little sister… I can’t begin to describe how much I’ve missed you,” she said, once they were settled and wine was busy mulling with aromatic spices in a pot by the hearth. “…although I understand if you don’t feel that way about me. I was absolutely terrible to you during our last few months together.” Even though the tears between them had stopped, it was more due to dehydration than lack of emotion. Sansa looked wracked with guilt.

“You really were! It was awful!” Arya replied, laughter now alternating with her sobs. “You were such a stuck up bint, and you cared more about your precious golden prince than you did us –”

“Never again,” Sansa interrupted, now snarling with seriousness. “I’m serious Arya, never again. My family always comes first, including you.”

Arya’s heart thawed, just a little. It was enough that they could talk to each other and begin to share their stories. Her own she kept brief and vague, both out of wishing to honor her promise to the kindly man and out of discomfort with all the things she did for survival… and especially those she did without survival in mind. Sansa did the exact opposite, which in hindsight she should probably have expected. Her story was tragic, filled with misguided trust, abuse, and betrayal.

“…but by the time we arrived at Winterfell, the battle was nearly over. Jon and his army had–”

“Jon is alive!? Why didn’t you tell me sooner!” Arya shouted, her heart beating out of her chest.

“You didn’t know? Gods Arya, I’m so sorry!” Sansa said, eyes wide. “I honestly thought you knew already. Yes, Jon is alive. I received word that he came back through the Wall about a sennight ago, that he is returning to Winterfell.”

A weight lifted off her chest, like doves bursting out from her ribs. She smiled, and felt a tear squeeze its way out of her sore eyes and run down her cheek. She called Sansa stupid for wiping it off with one of her delicate fingers, but there was no heat in it.

“What was he doing beyond the Wall though? I thought you said he was in Winterfell when you got there?”

“Well, that’s an entirely different story…” she said, and as usual, she was correct. It sounded like something out of one of Old Nan’s tales from their childhood, filled with magic and corpses, desperation and hope. Arya was enthralled with it, and wouldn’t have believed it could be true if she had not seen for herself some of the secrets of the world. And if anyone could do all that, of course it would be Jon.

They took a break from talking after that as a meal was brought to them. The bread was brown now instead of black, but it was warm and still tasted heavenly even with the North’s simple seasonings of salt and butter. The spices from the mulled wine cleansed her palette, refreshing her mouth for another bite and helping her relax. She allowed her mind to wander as they ate in companionable silence. Arya decided to start a lighter conversation.

“So who is your beau then?” she asked glancing toward Sansa with what she hoped was a sly look, waggling her eyebrows for good measure. She had caught her sister mid-bite, and enjoyed watching her cheeks pink as she chewed faster. “You must be four or five moons gone if I had to guess. I never imagined you would be the one between us to pop out a bastard!” she japed. Now Sansa paled and tried frantically to swallow her food, which made Arya roar with laughter.

“I guess some things never change,” Sansa murmured once she had cleared her throat and caught her breath, shaking her head. “And yes, I am pregnant, but my baby will not be a bastard.”

“You’re really drawing this out for me Sansa,” Arya commented, biting into some of the fruit brought up with their meal. “Who did you marry then? How did you even find the time with all the rebuilding here? Was his cock just that good that you couldn’t help yourself?”

“Arya!”, yelped Sansa with as much embarrassment as Arya had hoped, her blush now blotchy and scarlet down to her ample cleavage. The visual was too much and she giggled in a way she hadn’t since she was a girl, but she reached out and took her sister’s hand to offer her comfort.

“I’m sorry Sansa, I didn’t mean to prod at you like that,” she said, then corrected herself. “Well, I did, but I didn’t mean to frustrate or embarrass you too much. We’ve both matured so much since we last saw each other, so I figured…” Now it was Arya’s turn to blush. “Well, I’d like us to be better sisters to each other. I might have come back for Jon, but only because I didn’t know you were even still alive. When I last saw you, you didn’t listen to me, you told me you hated me, but even then I would never wish upon you what you experienced. You’re my family Sansa, and I love you,” Arya finished. Stark gray eyes stared into Tully blue to convey her sincerity. “And if anyone who hurt you is still alive, I promise to torture them for you in disturbingly fitting ways. But now I think we’re on a more even playing field. You’ve been involved in some murders too, and whoever this mystery man is clearly fucked you well based on your reaction. And I might tease you about that, but really I’m just happy that you’re also– hey, knock it off!”

Sansa had pulled her in for a hug, pinning her arms and squeezing their chests together. Lucky bitch, she thought with an embarrassing amount of envy as she couldn’t help but compare their breasts. Sansa was now the one shedding tears once again. “I love you too Arya. I know as a child I always asked for a better sister, but I was clearly an idiot, since I had the best one right here.” She squeezed her extra tight before letting go, her facial expression serious once again. “But Arya, you may not like me as much after I tell you who the father is.”

“Oh, it’s not like I’m some blushing maiden anymore either,” Arya said, trying to cheer Sansa up. “It’s not like you’re fucking Jon or anything tru–”

The widening of Sansa’s eyes told Arya everything she needed to know, shutting her up quickly. She saw Sansa’s lips move as she tried to explain, but all she could hear were her own thoughts. They’re married. They’re married. THEY’RE MARRIED.

“I need to take a walk,” she said as she hurried out of the room, leaving her plate of food only half eaten and doing her best to ignore Sansa’s plea of “Arya, come back!”

She could not remember much of what happened for a while after that. It was late dusk, near the hour of the bat when Sansa found her in the godswood, tucked next to an outcropping of stone and roots that she could no longer fit under like she had when she was a child. Even though so much has stayed the same, and there isn’t room for Arya Stark anymore after all.

Sansa sat down right next to her, marring her dress with the leaves and mud caused by snow melt in the heat of the hot spring, and put an arm around her shoulder. Arya appreciated that Sansa didn’t say anything, giving her time to collect her thoughts.

Arya couldn’t pull them together, though. The hurt, she understood. What kept her mind reeling though was the disgust – or better put, the lack thereof. She knew she should feel disgust at the thought of her siblings coupling, but what she felt instead was even more worrisome: jealousy. Jon was mine first!

“I thought of you, you know,” Sansa said softly, focusing on the heart tree ahead of them. “They day we got married here, I thought ‘It should be Arya here with him instead of me.’ You always loved him so much. More than anyone, really.”

Arya lashed out, “You didn’t think ‘Maybe I shouldn’t marry my brother?’” She immediately felt bad as tears filled Sansa’s eyes. “Sorry, that was a real bitchy thing to say. But gods, how did you even convince the lords to let you do that?”

Sansa tugged her tighter, likely to hold her down lest she run away again. “He’s not really our brother, he’s our cousin – and settle down right now before you start panicking again so that I have time to explain.” Arya did her best to stop squirming, frustrated that Sansa could still see right through her despite their years apart. “The night before the wedding, Jon had a dream. He sometimes dreams of being in Ghost, and said this was like those times, but he was visited by a raven with three eyes who spoke with Bran’s voice and told him to check Aunt Lyanna’s grave in the crypt… I hope that makes sense so far?” she asked, clearly expecting more protests at the admitted wild explanation.

“I believed you about the Others, didn’t I?” Arya chided. “Besides, I still have wolf dreams too. And I can use that same feeling to see through cats.” She shrugged, wanting Sansa to move on with her story.

“Right. Of course you can,” Sansa sighed. “Anyway, once we woke up, we went down there with a few of lords as witnesses and opened her tomb. Inside, there was a stack of old letters, a harp, and a sword, all wrapped in a marriage cloak.”

But wait– Arya thought and blurted out, “Are you saying that Aunt Lyanna actually married Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Sansa nodded. “Most of the letters were illegible at this point, but they had been communicating secretly ever since the Tourney at Harrenhal in the year of the false spring, and it was clear she was smitten. I’m not sure if they ever truly married, but she certainly pushed for it. And once we realized that, a lot of things began to make more sense.”

“Like how father never claimed Jon was his son directly, only that he was ‘of his blood’,” Arya said, mind now racing to look for other connections. “Like a cousin. I thought he was just being dramatic.”

“We didn’t even think of that one, actually,” Sansa corrected. “My first thought was that of course father would never sully his honor with another woman – Jon was his sister’s, whom he loved, and that’s why he kept him safe and raised him alongside us. And as far as passing him off as his own bastard, what better way to protect him from King Robert? That man certainly didn’t have any tolerance for restraint or nuance. If he had known, he would have had Jon smothered in the cradle, or worse,” Sansa said, visibly shuddering at the thought. “I feel terrible for everything mother went through because of that, but I understand father’s actions too.

“Regardless, with all the evidence right there, and witnesses to certify that the grave was intact and untampered with when we opened it, the lords believed us when we said that we were cousins. Jon didn’t waste any time after that and announced our immediate marriage in the godswood. And that was that,” she finished.

Arya mulled over these revelations. It hurt to lose Jon as her brother. He’ll still be my favorite, even if he really is my cousin. But Jon was still family, and by all accounts still the amazing person she knew him to be. Still…

“So wait, Sansa… you said you woke up together with Jon before all that happened?” Arya asked, turning to look at Sansa for the first time since their conversation in the godswood began just to catch her blushing again. She really is pretty all flushed like that. “You’d already fucked him, hadn’t you?”

Sansa looked back at her, eyes wide like a surprised doe, but she was still quick to quip back with “Well how could I not, his cock was just that good and I couldn’t help myself!” She kept her face straight for a second longer before breaking out into peels of laughter, which Arya gladly joined before the gloom started to creep back in.

“I’m happy for you Sansa, truly,” Arya said once they stopped giggling like little girls. “You deserve as much joy as you can find. And Jon does too,” she said. She paused, thinking over her next words carefully and said “You both sound really happy with how things turned out. I’ll stay here until I can see Jon again, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to survive seeing you two every day as husband and wife without it being weird. Once I’m sure he’s safe I’ll find somewhere else to–”

“You will do no such thing, Arya Stark!” Sansa snapped, sounding an awful lot like their mother in that moment. “The Starks belong in Winterfell, all of us. We’re a pack, and now more than ever we need each other.”

Arya grimaced, wanting badly to stay with them after so long apart, but Arya knew herself. She loved Jon, and now that she knew such relations were a possibility, she freely admitted to herself that her love was far from sisterly. It probably has been since forever, honestly. If she stayed in Winterfell, she would either die from envy or try to seduce him – and that would go poorly no matter the outcome. It took so long to find her family; she could not let herself destroy it. Once will have to be enough. Only once, then they won’t be bothered any more by Arya Stark.

Chapter Text

Jon cantered his horse through the open gates of Winterfell, the experience a far cry compared to his last time returning home. His riders cantered in behind him, whooping and shouting in victory as the household of Winterfell welcomed them home. Men jumped off their horses to embrace loved ones and kiss their women. One of the free folk riders went so far as to pick up a maid and throw her over his shoulder to carry her off to the nearest free nook to have his way with her, which he allowed as the maid in question seemed not at all upset by the prospect. Foot soldiers would be marching in not long after, and Jon was sure that the spear wives who had marched with him would have a similarly easy time finding bedmates.

Many a child would be seeded tonight, not that he could blame them. He planned to sow his own seed into his wife tonight, or mayhaps even before dinner as well if she was willing. His stones ached from months of disuse, exacerbated by the motions of his horse in his rush to finally reach the gates. He had taken himself in hand once on the trek back up to the Wall months ago, but now that he had felt the warmth of Sansa’s embrace the comparison was like finding ash in your mouth after biting into a cake. Only a fool would eat ash when they knew cake was to come. Sansa, my wife. Gods I am lucky.

He saw her standing in front of the great hall, her flaming red hair loosely plaited and her face beaming at him with pride and warmth. Like his men, he dismounted in record time to wrap her in his embrace and kiss her soundly. The difficulty closing the distance to her mouth was confusing for a moment, but his head quickly cleared once he looked down – and saw that her belly had started to swell, just starting to round gravid with his child. He looked back to her eyes in time to hear her say “I missed you Jon,” before he discarded whatever semblance of propriety there was left in their reunion by claiming her soft mouth again, tugging her bottom lip between his as he rubbed her belly with one hand and her ass with the other. His cock was already raging for her, to claim her again and again in celebration of the life they were creating together.

“Sansa, you have no idea how much I missed you,” he said when they finally separated.

“Your letters were quite descriptive, Jon,” she replied back. “So I think I have some idea. But I’ve had some bloody spotting, so the Maester and the woodswitch both advised against doing anything which could make that worse.”

She noticed his crestfallen look immediately and laughed at him while gently slapping his chest. “Oh you poor thing, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” she said, winking at him. “I actually have a surprise for you which I’m sure will cheer you right up.”

“Oh, and what could –” he started, before a blur collided with him from his left and did its best to squeeze the life from his body, shouting “Jon!”

He did his best to extricate himself from the petite figure with a mop of curly brown hair resting against his chest, finally pulling the woman to arm’s length, at which point time stopped.

Everything about her was different, but nothing had changed at all.

“Arya!” Jon shouted now, and pulled her back in to his embrace and lifting her off her feet. Although she had grown, he was still taller. “I missed you so much, Arya” he told her as he buried his nose deep in her hair and breathed in her scent.

“I missed you too, stupid. Now put me down!”

“No,” was all he said as he continued to hold her, since inexplicably Arya Stark was alive and home at last. Sansa giggled at Arya’s protesting grunt and wrapped them both in a hug of her own, protecting them from the chaos of the revelry going on around them in the yard.

“You’ve grown, little sister,” he said as he finally set her down.

“You did, too. And you got your eye a clawed to hell. It looks handsome,” she said, giving him an appreciative nod. “But you know as well as I do that I’m not your sister.”

Jon felt a pang of sadness hearing her say it, just as he had when he realized it months ago in the crypts, but he had already come to terms with that particular loss. “You may be my cousin, but you’ll always be my little sister,” he said. He kissed her forehead, then ruffled her hair for good measure. It was longer now, loosely tied behind her head and clean rather than the occasionally knotted appearance she sometimes sported after venturing into the Wolfswood. He grinned when she swatted him away.

The gesture was as familiar as it was loving, filling in a piece of his heart that he never thought he would find again, even after his marriage to Sansa – Sansa, my wife and the mother of my child, he thought with not a small amount of dread and an equal measure of guilt. Sansa only smiled though, alternating between looking at Arya and himself with the same expression she made when she was particularly proud about a piece of embroidery she finished. Even then the guilt remained, for despite Sansa’s happiness at their reunion, Jon’s feelings for Arya were nearly identical to those he had for his wife. Love. Family. MINE.

Objectively, it shouldn’t be surprising that he felt this way. As a woman, Arya was stunning. While at first the sisters looked nothing alike, but now that they were both women grown there was certainly more resemblance than there had been during their childhood. Whereas Sansa’s face had lengthened into a more mature form, Arya’s cheeks had widened so that they now paired nicely with her long jaw and thin nose, effectively making her into a classical beauty in her own right. Although she was taller now, she was still a head shorter than Sansa, the top of her head only rising to Jon’s shoulder. Despite the height difference, the sisters shared the same thin wastes and wide hips. Even Arya’s bust was bigger than he might have expected, although she was nowhere near as endowed as Sansa there. The biggest differences were their hair and eye color and the way they were dressed, which had always been the case. She was a woman every bit as beautiful as his wife.

And therein lied the problem. Jon could appreciate beauty as an independent quality of a person. No man who saw Val could describe her as anything other than beautiful – but that ethereal beauty did not engender the same desire in him that Arya did. To have. To possess. To fuck.

The only other person who drove him to this much distraction was Sansa, and he had allowed that primal urge to control him before he even realized who she was. He blamed it on his blood running hot after battle, on his elation at no longer being alone, on the euphoric release of being complete accepted and loved. And when it was just him and Sansa, the choice had been easy. That their marriage was blessed by the old gods and the lords was just happenstance, he would have stayed with her regardless and never complained as long as he could have her with him.

And now, minutes after finding out he would be a father, all it took was seeing Arya again and he was no longer satisfied. The beast he had become hungered for more.

Jon now knew that Lord Stark had never sired him as a bastard, had likely never strayed from his wife at all. But he also knew that many men did, something that he never truly understood. Why throw away the love of a woman and jeopardize your own family? What could possibly be so satisfying to justify such a risk? But now he knew, and it shamed him.

The reunion continued inside the great hall. A feast was held to celebrate the victory of the living. Great feats of valor were recognized, toasts were made, mead and ale and even wine flowed freely. Although Winterfell had known of Arya’s return for over a sennights, it was fresh news to the fighting men and women returning from beyond the Wall. The cheers for her were among the loudest, especially from the older lords and men who remembered the true daughter of Eddard Stark.

Throughout it all, Jon stayed with his family and tried his best to relax. He had just vanquished an enemy from before even the Age of Heroes, but all he could think about was how his cock became heavy when Arya smiled at him or laughed at one of his japes, and how wrong it was to feel that way while sitting next to his pregnant spouse.

The merriment went on through the evening, but the sun hadn’t even fully set when many of the men and women retired from the feasting to celebrate life and victory in other ways. The Starks pulled into the family solar for the evening and continued to chat with each other through the hour of the eel, at which time Arya tapped out to return to her own chambers. “I wouldn’t want to prolong your reunion, after all,” she teased with a wink to them both as she left.

Jon did ache, feeling hyper-aware of his stones as they boiled from disuse during the campaign to the far north. Surely if he were able to slake his desires using Sansa’s nubile body he would forget all about her little sister, but he recalled the delicacy of her condition and the recommendations of their advisors.

“Sansa…” Jon started after they had stripped down to their smallclothes, but paused as he took his wife in. She had her eyes clothes and her arms pulled over her head as she yawned. The expression squinted her eyes and crinkled her nose while her shift pulled tight against her full breasts and rounding stomach.

“Yes, Jon?” she said, smiling despite catching him staring, or mayhaps because of it.

He smiled back. “I love you,” he told her, finding it to be truer than ever before, even if at the same time he felt he needed that reassurance.

The crawled under the furs of their shared bed and kissed each other senseless. He wanted to devour her, to pin her underneath him and rut her again and again, but even that urge was easily suppressed to keep her and their child safe. Their kisses turned languid. He stroked her back, hips, and legs while she responded in kind with her delicate hand on his cock. Despite feeling as though his erection could crack glass, it wasn’t what his body craved. He pulled her hand away and rubbed small circles in the bones of her neck until she fell asleep, arms draped around his neck.

Jon was not sure how long he lied awake in his marriage bed, listening to the sounds of Sansa’s breathing and watching her chest rise and fall as the fire slowly dwindled. His love for her hadn’t faded despite the magnetic pull in which his other cousin had him ensnared. Unfortunately, love alone wasn’t enough to quell his erection, and the earlier petting left his stones literally throbbing with his pulse. Sleep would not come until he did, so after mustering his resolve he got up to take care of the problem himself.

He was about to step into the privy when a shadow shifted silently under the door to their chambers. Months of fighting and a betrayal by his own mend had made him hypervigilant; he would not be able to achieve release without investigating.

Jon drifted to the side of the room away from the fire to avoid casting a shadow of his own, light on his feet and as quiet as he could given the circumstances. This route also placed him between the door and Sansa, satisfying a nearly subconscious need to protect his mate. He hoped to grab his sword, sheathed against the far wall by the bed, but this plan was abandoned when the doorknob began to turn. He closed the remaining distance fast as lightning and braced himself next to the door, hands at the ready to meet his assailant.

As soon as the door opened wide enough, Jon dove through the gap and wrapped the mysterious figure’s mouth under his hand before spinning them around and pinning them to his chest. He was about to call for the guards when he recognized the dark curly hair on his short assailant.

“Arya!” he whispered, or tried to despite his shock. “Others take you, what are you doing here?”

She remained frustratingly silent, but the reason became apparent when a wet tongue lathed the inside of his fingers. He pulled it away from her in surprise, feeling foolish for being so caught off guard.

“Thank you for that,” she drawled, turning back to look at him, her grey eyes shining in the soft lantern light of the hallway. “And I’m here to see you, obviously.”

Jon couldn’t help the groan that left him, although it came out more like a growl. “And what requires you to sneak into my chambers to see me at this time of night?”

“Oh please, it’s not like you were sleeping,” she snorted back. “I just noticed during dinner that you had a problem, and I figured I could help you with it.”

Jon was about to ask her what she meant, but it became obvious when she pushed her hips back, squeezing his still-hard cock between the firm globes of her ass. He was all-too aware that he remained only in his smallclothes, and was reminded of what he had been preparing to do. “Arya…” he growled again, against his better judgement.

“You seemed so tense at dinner,” she whispered, rocking her hips against him. “And then there was this monster tightening your breeches. I could actually see it throb when you looked at me.” Her eyes were dilated, inky black pools drawing him into her. “I know that Sansa can’t take care of it for you right now. Since you can’t have one Stark sister, will the other suffice?”

His head pounded, or mayhaps his chest. His wife slept peacefully just around the corner, the wife that he loved, who carried his child. He should feel guilty. He should feel ashamed.

But he didn’t. That primal, instinctual pull that took over him as he claimed Sansa pulsed again from the recesses of his mind, and his doubts sublimated like steam rising off the Wall in the afternoon sun.

Jon tightened his arm around Arya’s chest, squeezing the modest chest of his cousin through her loose clothing as he pulled her taught against him. It was her turn to moan, eyes closing in pressure and her small hands bracing herself against the corded muscle restraining her. He nipped at the shell of her ear. “Fine, have it your way.”

He dropped his center and attempted to pick her up as a groom would do for his bride, but she pre-empted him by jumping into his arms and wrapping her toned legs around his waist. She was dressed in a garment unfamiliar to him, like a shift but so short it didn’t even cover her thighs. He cupped her delicious ass, covered with a thin piece fabric so smooth it had to be made of silk from Yi-Ti which was shaped like a pair of breeches with the legs cut off just below the hip. The heat from her cunt easily permeated her foreign undergarments and his, causing a pulse of liquid to seep out the tip of his cock. She pulled herself up his body with her arms around his neck and buried her tongue into his mouth, distracting him from the critical task of finding somewhere to ravage her.

In the dim lighting and encumbered as he was, Jon walked them to the closest empty chambers he could find. They were warm, which only benefited them as he set her down and they stripped themselves naked. Jon’s smallclothes were quickly discarded, allowing him to drink in the delectable sight of Arya’s breasts falling out of her not-shift as she pulled it above her head and threw it to the ground. Despite the lack of fire in the hearth, enough moonlight came through the window to highlight her pale skin and beaded nipples. She was thinner than Sansa, but lithe and cat-like rather than thin and hard like Ygritte had been. The skin of her belly teased him the with suggestion of strong abdominal muscles underneath. She shucked the short-breeches off her flared hips, exposing her glistening cunt topped by a small rectangle of neatly trimmed hair.

Words were not necessary between them now; they smiled at each other as Arya sauntered closer to him and wrapped her arms again around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her and compressing the thickness of his cock between their bellies. She remained the more aggressive kisser of the pair, somehow, but slowed the pace down as her hands drifted around his body squeezing his muscles appreciatively and worrying briefly at each scare they encountered.

Jon returned the favor, caressing and groping at her body in equal measure. Her breasts were smaller than Sansa’s, but firmer and delightfully tender as he sculpted them and rubbed his rough palms across her nipples. Her back and legs were toned, but wrapped in skin nearly as smooth as her garments had been. The real prize though, the piece of her that Jon’s wandering hands couldn’t help but return to, was her ass. Sansa’s was enticing for being soft and full, rippling whenever he fucked her like a wolf, but Arya’s was round and taught and flexed under his hands when he smacked it.

Still locked in their passionate kiss, Arya took advantage of his distraction with her nubile body to walk him back to the bed and lay him flat when his legs bent against her relentless pressure. She continued her aggression by crawling up his body, kissing her way back up his torso and chest and throat to his mouth once again. His cock pulsed as the sides were briefly compressed by her breasts before being replaced by her belly until finally the base was kissed by the moist lips of her cunt. The heat of it led to another spasm near his balls, and a pearly bead of fluid lubricated the head of his cock.

Arya finally pulled away from his lips and rested her forehead against his. Two pairs of nearly identical grey eyes were locked together, in awe of what was about to happen. Maintaining eye contact, Arya reached down and wrapped her small hand around his cock, fingers just barely touching at it’s thickest point. She stroked him until the sensitive head was exposed and slotted it against the wet furnace of her cunt. She sank down quickly, eager to have as much of him inside her as possible, and soon enough their pelvises were flush against each other.

“I love you Jon.”

“I love you too, Arya.”

For that was what he felt, like an inferno in his chest than now burrowed down into his groin. His cousin joined their mouths together once again, slow and languid as she pulled his hips up and down his shaft. Her arms wrapped under his neck, holding him tightly. “Oh gods Jon, I love you so much. I’ve always loved you,” she whispered into his mouth, not daring to separate from him as though he might slip away from her. “It’s always been you.”

“Yes Arya, always,” he answered, because it was true. No one knew him like Arya. She was the one person who always believed in him, always wanted him for who he was, who loved him unconditionally. How could he possibly not feel the same about her? “I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

At his declaration, Arya began to whimper and tremble, her hips switching from a vertical motion to a grinding one, squeezing the apex of her sex against his pelvic bone. Realizing she was in the throws of climax, Jon grabbed her hips and pulled her into him, increasing the pressure as much as he could to make it better for her. Her whimpers turned to moans and then shrieks barely muffled by his mouth, and her trembles escalated to shakes and then spasms, until she was nothing but a tight ball of pure pleasure writhing in his arms.

Jon began to sooth her back and hips and legs as her orgasm subsided. She pulled her mouth away and buried her face in his neck, gasping for breath as her sheath rippled around him. “Jon, fuck me. Please, keep fucking me,” she pleaded, voice staggered and raw.

All too pleased to oblige her, he shifted them up the bed until he could rest his feet on it and then pulled her legs forward so that he could wrap his arms under her toned thighs. Then, gripping her perfect ass in his hands, he forced her body up and down his cock. She was tight as sin, but so wet that his girth had no difficult forcing apart the lips of her cunt anew with every thrust. He pumped into her even as he manhandled her body, increasing the mind-shattering pleasure for both of them as his cock delved into the furthest reaches of her depths and stretched her more even then.

Every muscle in his body pulled taught to fuck her hard, taking his pleasure as she demanded. She was moaning again, hot against his neck and loud enough to wake the castle. Pressure built and built at the base of his cock and even deeper in his pelvis, tightening maddeningly until in a moment of passion she nipped at the lobe of his ear and sucked it into her mouth. The completely novel sensation made him burst, his cock shuddering at the sheer volume of seed it expelled into her womb. He pinned her hips against his as he emptied months of pent up lust into her, and she took advantage of that opportunity to grind her clit against him again to force herself into yet another orgasm.

The tension finally abated as they melted into each other, swirled into one being made of pure bliss and relief. Jon was asleep within moments.

=====

Arya’s chest still heaved when she felt Jon’s breathing even out as sleep claimed him. Aftershocks still jolted down her limbs and involuntarily tightened her cunt around his still-engorged cock, slowly softening insider her. Tears pooled in her eyes from the intensity of her most recent orgasm and the unrepentant and unbounded love they shared for each other.

Fuck, she thought.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. FUCK.

She knew this was a bad idea. She knew it, and she did it anyway.

Jon hadn’t changed at all. He was the same amazing, kind, handsome big brother – cousin – that he always had been. And he loved her unconditionally.

He loved her even though he was married to her sister, who was carrying their child. Her own niece or nephew.

Fuck!

Arya had planned this days ago, and she knew what it meant. She knew what a betrayal this would be to Sansa, and how unfair it would be to both her and Jon, and she decided that she wouldn’t care. She thought it would be worth it.

Sansa had changed completely. She was smart now, or rather she was unashamed to show it. She was considerate to others, even those she previously would have considered below her station. And she clearly loved Arya, too. She favored Arya above all others, even in public, and welcomed her ideas when they were offered. She hugged Arya tight the way she had previously done with mother, father, Robb and Bran and Rickon, but never her or Jon. She had even invited Arya to share her bed the evenings leading up to Jon’s return, and they had stayed up whispering like young highborn sisters as they never had in their childhood.

One time, she had promised herself. Just once with Jon would be enough for her, then she could slip away and leave them to their happily-wedded bliss.

And it was perfect. Jon was perfect. The sex was better than she had ever imagined it could be. But it was marred, ruined by the knowledge of the betrayal it represented.

Arya Stark thought she changed, but she hasn’t. She still ruins everything.

Once she was sure Jon was sleeping deeply, she began the tedious process of extricating herself from him without waking his peaceful form. His scarred face looked younger than he had earlier in the day, despite his beard. She let out a breath when his cock finally slipped out of her and falling to his muscular stomach with a wet thwack, allowing a deluge of thick seed to ooze from her cunt.

She thought about what that meant, then did everything she could to stop thinking about it for now. Her mind and emotions were too scrambled to even consider that until she had a chance to calm down.

The tears still lingering in her eyes spilled down her cheeks, and she did her best to ignore them.

Finally, she escaped his strong, grasping hands and rolled off him to the side of her mother’s bed. Arya allowed herself a smirk at the thought of what her mother would think of her current situation, then felt guilty for that thought too when she remembered that she would never get to see her mother again. She choked back a sob, albeit barely.

Calm as still water, she thought as she took deep breaths and pulled on her night shirt and shorts. The silk was sure to stain with Jon’s cum, but it wasn’t like she could make her escape from Winterfell completely naked. Maybe she could find another pair in Lys, or Myr.

Glancing at Jon one last time until her eyes burned and her cheeks tingled, she made her way toward the door and slipped into the hall, quiet as a shadow.

She ran face-first into Sansa’s full breasts.

“No!” she shouted as she scrambled back against the closed door to the room Jon still slept. Sansa looked at her with her brow furrowed, like a puppy trying to understand the behavior of an unfamiliar cat. Not angry or even upset, but confused and trying her best to understand.

Arya’s gut dropped out beneath her. Her chest ached, her ears rung, and her body crumpled. She wrapped her arms around herself and wept, rocking on the floor outside hear dead mother’s chambers as everything fell apart around her and her selfishness finally caught up to her. Stupid, stupid! How could I be so stupid!

She could have lied. She could have concocted a story about missing her mother, which was true, and she could have lied to Sansa. She was good at lying. It might have worked.

But eventually the truth would come out, and Sansa now seemed at least as good at knowing what Arya thought as Arya was at lying. She had hoped to be spared the pain in her sister’s eyes and her own embarrassment and heart-wrenching guilt from stealing her cousin. That she could run away and become someone else, like she always did when things became difficult or sad.

And more than that, she couldn’t bare to lie to Sansa after all the kindness she had shown her in the past sennight. It wouldn’t be right.

So she cried on the floor in the hall and waited for the inevitable judgement of her only surviving sibling.

“Oh, Arya,” she heard, before being wrapped in a warm embrace by her sister. “It’s okay, Arya, it’s alright.”

Arya only cried harder and tried to push Sansa away. “No it’s not!” she yelled. “You don’t know what I did, Sansa. It’s not okay!”

Sansa had tears in her eyes too now, but shook her head and gave her a wet smile. “Arya, I’m sure that everyone in this wing of the castle knows what you did. I’m telling you that it’s alright.”

To say that Arya was stunned would have been to say that the Wall was cold. She gaped at her sister like the fish of their mother’s sigil, not at all fierce or strong.

“What are you talking about Sansa?” she pleaded. “You can’t mean that!”

“With all due respect Arya, only I get to decide what it is that I mean,” she scolded back. “And I do mean it. I love you Arya, you’re my only sister. And I love Jon, my husband. But I know what you two meant to each other. I saw how much our marriage hurt you, I knew how it would affect you as soon as you came back. Seven hells, all these months together and I’ve felt guilty about having him when you couldn’t, even though I thought you were dead!”

“I finally have you back, Arya. I missed you so much. I can’t let you go again,” Sansa said, grasping Arya’s hands in her own.

“But Sansa, Jon is your husband –”

“And he has always loved you,” she insisted. “Even as he loves me. We can ask him to be sure, but I believe that he has enough love for both of us.”

“Both of us…” Arya repeated dumbly. She had heard of such things before, women living in secluded harems serving the merchant princes of Qarth, or the empresses of Leng who have kept two husbands each for hundreds of years. But polygamy was a sin in the eyes of the Seven, and had not been practiced in the Seven Kingdoms since they days of Maegor the Cruel. “Sansa, the lords would never allow it!”

“Piss on the lords, Arya,” Sansa said fiercely. “Half of them are dead, that the other half were willing to follow Jon through the literal icy gates of hell. They won’t stop us, and if they even try I will make them regret it. We are family, all the family either of us have left in the world, and we’ll be stronger together as a pack then any of us would be apart. Wolves in the wild share the same mate, so why can’t we?”

Arya gawked at Sansa, awed at this new side of her she had never dreamed of. Heated, passionate, and beautiful. Slowly, Arya uncurled herself and reached out to Sansa’s face, timidly rubbing the back of her knuckles against her sister’s porcelain cheeks.

Sansa leaned into her touch, then turned and kissed her wrist with petal-soft lips. Grey eyes bored into blue as she delivered more exquisitely tender kisses up Arya’s arm, over the sleeves of her night shirt, and then up her neck and jaw. She pulled Arya up until they were sitting hip to hip, and messaged her delicate hands up Arya’s arms and in the hair at the base of her skull, where she soft circles as Arya’s sore eyes finally closed. Arya felt her lips get caressed, her bottom lip get sucked on and worried until Sansa pulled away.

Arya took a deep, shuddering breath and opened her eyes.

“Thank you Sansa,” she said, although it didn’t feel like nearly enough. Sansa had given Arya everything she ever wanted, despite everything Arya had done to her. Tears now streamed freely down her face as buried herself in her sister’s bosom. “Thank you. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“Stay with us, Arya,” Sansa replied. “Love us. Help us rebuild our family and our home.”

Chapter Text

Warmth surrounded him as light from the window streamed into the dusty, ill-used room. The stray sunbeam pierced through the fog that had clouded his mind the previous night, ripping away the hazy delirium he had been experiencing when confronted with his sisters – well, cousins. Jon was hesitant to call it an out-of-body experience, both because he had lived – died? – through one of those before and it was distinctly different, and because he was clearly in his body the entire time whatever it was would happen. He could see, feel, even control some of his movements, but it felt as though something were guiding his thoughts as a puppet-master controls a marionette.

From the very first time he ever laid with Sansa, claiming her mindlessly after the battle for Winterfell, to his uncontrollable urge to have Arya last night despite his wife sleeping one room away, each time the urge to fuck surged in his mind it was as though it was riled by an external force, self but not-self. It’s too fucking early to be sorting through that mess, he decided.

The sunlight now lit the inside of his eyelids a fleshy red-yellow, which certainly contributed to his awakening, but at least equally contributory were the plush lips, warm wet mouth, and delicate tongue worshiping his cock.

“Arya, you need to stop,” he said, trying his best to prevent a groan of pleasure from coming out in place of the words. “Sansa will be awake any moment. Last night was a mi– Ow!”

Perhaps surprisingly, the pain which interrupted him came from his shoulder, while the delicious pleasure tormenting his cock continued unabated. A sleepy voice next to him chided, “Don’t say things like that, stupid. I had a lot of grief I had to process, and you are not making me do that all over again.”

Jon groped in front of him until he found the naked body of his younger cousin so he could pull her closer. He opened his eyes to find hers, Stark-gray and so much like his own, staring back at him. They were puffy, like she’d spent a good deal of time crying, but her expression was replete with a mysterious emotion he hadn’t seen the night before, or indeed ever in her beautiful face. She leaned into him only slightly, but allowed him to guide her forward until their lips were imperceptibly close. They gazed at each other for a pregnant moment, and whatever she saw in him satisfied her enough that she relaxed, closed her eyes, and traveled the imperceptible distance left between them to take his lips in hers.

Last night had been rough and animalistic, years of pent-up lust and love boiling over between them. This was entirely different. If anything, their mutual love bloomed brighter as Arya controlled the delicate, feminine kiss. Her lips were petal-soft against his, her tongue only teasing him rather than violently invading his mouth. Her breathing deepened, but she did her best to keep their embrace languid and measured. He soothed her back with his free hand, the other trapped to the bed by her tapered waist. She exhibited gentleness previously entirely foreign to his concept of Arya Stark, and it was hard to determine whether it was her softness in that moment or her rapid escalation to a full-body orgasm which was more surprising.

Arya shook quietly, whimpering in his arms as he continued to pet and soothe her spine. He kissed the tears off her cheeks and rested his forehead against hers so that she could feel him with her through her body’s storm.

And it was as she lulled him down into her own peace that Jon realized that someone was still pleasuring him, someone else, and that his peak was imminent too.

“Arya, what – I’m –”

“Shh Jon, it’s okay, let it out, it’s okay…” she whispered to him, face still utterly calm and relaxed and resting against his.

Jon’s thoughts raced even more, confused about what was happening, how he could have possibly been so distracted, about what it all meant – and then Arya kissed him again, in that same slow and methodical way, and the tightness at the base of his groin exploded into the mystery-woman’s mouth. The contractions of his orgasm pulled his stones taught against his body, and her technique shifted from stroking her full lips around the shaft to keeping just the head of his cock in her mouth while her tongue licked circles around his rim. He continued to pulse his seed into her until it became painful, and Arya comforted him through it much like he had done for her moments before.

Whoever it was below the furs moaned as his cock was released, flaccid from its exertions.

“Arya,” Jon panted. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Something wonderful, I hope,” she said to him, smiling nervously.

“Who in all the Seven Kingdoms did you invite into bed with us?,” he asked, utterly failing to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

She didn’t answer though, instead allowing their bedmate to crawl up his body until a bird’s nest of familiar red hair breached the furs. Sansa pulled herself on top of Jon, rather than beside him, leaving her face intimately close to both Jon and Arya’s in the process. Sansa smiled at Jon’s expression, clearly amused at his bewilderment, then calmed him with a brief peck on the lips before looking at Arya.

“Did he really make you climax just from a kiss?” Sansa asked.

“It was really nice, okay?” Arya answered, trying to fight down her rising blush using her well-practiced vocal aggression. “I haven’t exactly been in a place to feel loved and safe for a long time, and it just hit me really hard is all.”

Sansa’s eyes filled with concern, and she joined Jon in caressing Arya’s body before leaning over to give her a brief kiss too. “I meant what I said last night Arya,” she whispered firmly. “I’m not letting you go again, ever.”

Jon pulled the three of them together tightly, since that seemed to be what the moment called for, but eventually his curiosity won out. “I love you, both of you, but would one of you please tell me what is happening right now? The only reason I don’t think I’m dreaming right now is because I distinctly felt the sensation of not dreaming anymore earlier, but none of this is making sense.”

“Poor man,” Sansa crooned at him. Arya played along by patting him on the face. “Why don’t we tell you over breakfast back in our own chambers. This room is far too warm to be comfortable.”

Sansa, the only one of them not recovering from orgasmic bliss, was the first to slip out of their cocoon of furs and walk to the door. Her white shift was pulled tight around her hips, accentuating the round globes of her ass as she walked to the door, and Jon felt the familiar urge begin to rise from the base of his skull before he forcibly tamped it down remembering the delicate nature of her condition.

“Gods, but I’m hungry too,” Arya groaned as she got up, not even bothering to find her clothes and sauntering after her sister on long, svelte legs. Jon followed after, happy that guards were posted at the entrance to the family wing rather than outside of individual chambers.

Returning to the lord’s chambers, Sansa instructed them to wait in bed while she rang the servants to refresh the fire and bring up a meal for the three of them. Jon collapsed into his marriage bed and let the still-naked Arya burrow next to him, wrapping himself around her as they both watched Sansa sit at her nearby vanity and comb out the knots in her wavy red hair.

As the servants scurried about their business – two of the maids also looking particularly well-fucked this morning – Sansa and Arya explained their intense conversation from the night before.

“Absolutely,” Jon said without a second thought. “I’ll marry you tonight Arya, if you’ll have me.” He kissed her for good measure.

“Of course I’ll marry you, stupid. Although good luck getting out of bed to do it,” she replied with a grin.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t enjoy the moment as much as he would have liked. His family deserved to know that there was something wrong with him, even if he didn’t know what it was. So, once the food had been left out and they sat on the snow bear pelt in front of the hearth for their meal, Jon did his best to explain what he had been feeling.

“It’s like whenever I see one of you, especially when you’re… vulnerable? Available? I become unable to focus on anything else. The urge to claim you and fill you are all-consuming,” he explained to the best of his ability. “I’m still me, and I’m still controlling what I’m doing, but not the of thought process that leads me to want those actions. Does that make sense?”

Arya stared at him with narrowed eyes as she used her teeth to rip apart a piece of brown bread covered in strawberry preserves.

“Are you saying you didn’t actually want us, Jon?” asked Sansa. She was putting on a brave façade, but he could tell the implication hurt her.

“No! The farthest thing from it – I love you Sansa. And you too Arya, both of you so much. Trust me when I say that my desire for each of you is not new to these experiences,” Jon tried to explain, ignoring the cough Arya made that sounded suspiciously like the words ‘sister-fucker’. “But the me from before… Well, before all this, I would never have acted on those impulses. Sansa, I didn’t even consciously recognize you, but I was happy to fuck you senseless. And Arya, in my current state of mind, I still cannot believe that I fucked you while Sansa was one room over – I swore to myself that I would never stray from her, and I truly meant it. But something else took over, and those thoughts just didn’t matter anymore when it did.”

It sounded pathetic, even to Jon’s ears.

Arya finished off her bread before rendering her verdict. “Well, we need to figure out what this is then, because if this kind of thing happened with another woman I would be forced to geld you, and that would be devastating to Sansa.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Arya!” Sansa beamed. Arya winked at her and blew her a kiss. Jon rolled his eyes.

“Let’s think about it then,” Arya started, interrupting herself with a thick slice of bacon before continuing. “Something you said sounded familiar. You were still in control of your own actions, but your thoughts were being raised or suppressed as if by an outside force.” She waited for Jon’s acknowledgment. “That’s like when I see through the eyes of a cat. Unlike the wolf dreams, I don’t have direct control of the cat’s body. But I have some limited influence on its thoughts, which I can use to indirectly control its behavior. It’s not much – I can keep it curious about particular sights or sounds, or make a new location seem very interesting, which will make it stay put or walk somewhere else respectively. Maybe something like that is happening to you?”

Jon’s eyes widened as he asked, “Wait, you’re a warg too?”

“What’s a warg?”

“We’re getting off topic,” Sansa interrupted before they got too distracted. “There was a free-folk skin changer you told me about once – Baramyr I think? You told me that he once said that the joining works both ways, you slip into the animal but the animal also slips into you. Could this ‘outside force’ be Ghost?”

They sat in silence as the thought simmered, occasionally eating small morsels of breakfast. The fire had warmed the chambers considerably at this point, allowing Jon and Arya to enjoy their continued nudity in the privacy of the family bedchambers.

“So, does that mean Ghost is incredibly horny?” Arya asked seriously.

They contemplated this too. Jon watched Sansa’s breasts heave under her shift, and considered how much more comfortable she would be without it, before he shook the intrusive thought away once again with a not insignificant amount of effort.

“I think he must be,” answered Jon. “He’s the last of his kind. Even north of the Wall, I never encountered another direwolf. And the wolves he encountered in the Haunted Forrest and the Wolfswood stay away from him out of fear.”

“That’s a lot like you, isn’t it?” Sansa added. “When I found you, no one in your own army dared to pull you off Ramsay, even though his skull was no longer recognizably human. Everyone respects you, but they keep their distance in personal matters.”

“I guess that’s true. I have a habit of isolating myself…”

“But neither Arya nor I are afraid of you in the slightest. We’re equals. We’re the only ones deserving of being your mates,” she smiled, rubbing the small swell in her belly.

The thought sat well with Jon. Whether it was because it answered his questions adequately or because Sansa had described herself and Arya as his mates, he couldn’t say.

“I’ll have to show him how much I appreciate his intervention the next time I see him, then,” Arya commented. “He’s indirectly responsible for some truly incredible sex. Do you think he’d fuck Nymeria?”

“Nymeria is still alive?” Sansa asked, now being the one to derail the conversation rather than contain it.

“Oh yeah, she’s been in the Riverlands the entire time. I’ve been having her hunt down Freys and Lannisters in my dreams,” Arya said with what Jon suspected was affected nonchalance. “She has a pack of forest wolves that follow her around, but the few times any of them tried to mount her she ripped out their throats. Poor bitch is probably starving for a proper roll in the furs.”

Arya paused in the middle of a bite of sausage. “Okay, the parallels are actually really pretty wild here, even for me.”

Sansa remained silent, and Jon noticed tears pooling near her nose. Recalling the fate of Lady, he scooted next to her and wrapped her in an embrace, which Arya joined shortly thereafter. Sansa’s tears truly began to flow then, eventually devolving into full on sobs that they did their best to sooth away. Jon wrapped her completely from behind, while Arya ended up in her lap and licked the tears off her face as the ran down her cheeks, mirroring his own comforting actions to her from earlier that morning, but in a way that felt more primal.

“You’re still a Stark, Sansa,” Arya cooed at her. “Always a Stark. Always part of our pack.”

Sansa guffawed, and started giggling despite her tears. “Wow, that sounds so corny. I can’t believe you actually said that!”

“Hey, you’re the one who started with all the ‘wolves in the wild share the same mate’ shit last night!”

“But don’t you think calling us to a literal wolf pack is a bit on-the-nose?”

“Ugh, you’re impossible!”

“Girls, girls,” Jon interrupted. “We don’t need to worry about all that rubbish. We’re family, and we love each other. Arya, don’t you think we should show Sansa how much we love her?”

“Now that sounds like a great way to cheer someone up,” Arya agreed.

Sansa only whined though. “Mmmnn, but you two know I can’t have sex right now… And believe me, I am not happy about that at all.”

“I believe you gave a very effective demonstration on how to pleasure someone without escalating to sex itself just this morning, my beautiful wife,” Jon reminded her while pulling the straps of her shift off the shoulders to release her impressive breasts.

Arya, still in her lap, continued pulling the dress down her body with one hand and cupped a tit in the other. “I think Jon is right, Sansa,” she whispered sensually into her sister’s ear. “I learned quite a few things in Braavos, and I’d be happy to demonstrate some of them to you… if you want me to?”

Arya bit her lip while waiting for a response, pleading with Sansa with her eyes and leaning ever further into her until their bare breasts rubbed against each other. The thought of Arya’s stiff nipples dragging through Sansa’s soft tits made his hardening cock pulse against her back.

Although Jon couldn’t see it, Arya would later attest that Sansa’s eyes had fully dilated by the time she said “Fuck yes” and pulled Arya into a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

They fell sideways, Arya and Sansa kissing and groping each other in what Jon could only describe as an explosion of repressed lust. He focused on liberating Sansa’s hips from her shift, followed by her smallclothes, until the three of them were all as nude as their namedays on the snow bear pelt. He considered moving them to the bed, but having fucked Sansa on the pelt before, he knew it would serve their needs as good as anywhere else.

Arya now had Sansa pinned to the ground and rocked her cunt back and forth across Sansa’s thigh, all the while kissing her and toying with her clit. Jon lay down on her other side and pulled her leg back to give Arya more room to work. He mouthed kisses all over her arm, torso, and neck, paying special attention to her own hardening pink nipple whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Their combined efforts were clearly effective, as minutes later a modest but clearly pleasurable wave shook Sansa’s body. Rather than give her a break though, Arya took the opportunity to shift herself into a position he was intimately familiar with between his wife’s thighs. Jon couldn’t help but think that the view of Arya’s curly brown hair nestled against Sansa’s hot cunt must be almost exactly what he looked like doing the same, from Sansa’s point of view, and the idea made his cock pulse where it rested against Arya’s hip, smearing a small amount of fluid against her smooth skin.

Knowing that this was all about comforting Sansa, Jon against suppressed the desire to ram his cock into one of his cousins’ tight cunts and instead moved himself up higher to gently caress Sansa’s mouth with his own, much like how Arya had kissed him earlier that morning. One hand wrapped around the fiery hair at the back of her neck, which seemed to ground her to him. Tully blue eyes stared into Stark gray as Sansa became increasingly overwhelmed from her sister’s oral stimulation.

“Please Jon, Arya, please!” Sansa moaned repeatedly, louder and louder as she approached a much bigger peak than before.

“That’s it, Sansa,” Jon soothed her, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “You’re doing so well. Let us take care of you. You’re ours.”

Her expression became strained, to the point that she almost looked pained, so he decided to push her over the edge. Jon reached for her far nipple and grabbed it, wasting no time to roll it tightly between his thumb and finger. The effect was instantaneous – Sansa screamed in pleasure and her eyes rolled up as a convulsion passed up her legs out to her toes. Her abdominal muscles contracted rhythmically in time with pulses of clear fluid squiring from her cunt onto her sister’s face.

Arya moaned in turn as she was covered, but kept her face buried in her sister’s thighs as her tongue continued to coax even more pleasure from the spasming woman with hair kissed by fire.

Sansa’s eyes slowly refocused and she pushed his hand away from her chest, moaning “Sensitive,” in his ear. She kissed Jon deeply as she came down, then pulled back to say “Reward her, Jon.”

And so he did.

Arya continued to lie on her belly teasing Sansa’s clit with her tongue, albeit more gently than a few minutes ago, but hearing their conversation she obligingly lifted up her hips and spread her knees. The view this gave Jon as he knelt behind her was nothing short of miraculous. Her cunt was puffy and leaking with arousal, and her ass was nothing short of exquisite. When Arya bounced it up and down, causing the cheeks to ripple against each other, Jon couldn’t tell whether his heart would jump out of his chest or his balls would explode first.

He rubbed the head of his cock up and down her slit first to coat it in her juices, then rubbed it against her clit to mimic the teasing she was giving her sister. A needy whine convinced Jon to stop toying with her, and he began the slow process of penetrating the athletic brunette.

Arya’s cunt felt incredibly tight, and became tighter still when the muscles near the entrance clamped around him. He began to thrust, causing his hips to slap against the flesh of her ass and making the satisfying sounds of wet, rhythmic clapping fill the room. All three of them were now vocalizing their pleasure whenever it suited them, free to express themselves in the safety of their home.

Jon grabbed Arya’s hips and pulled himself higher over her, now crouched on his toes and driving his cock deep into her depths from above. His seed-laden balls slapped against the apex of her cunt as he pounded her. The sensation of his cock cradled within her perfect sheath, the head kissing her cervix with ever thrust, her ass smacking against his hips, was overwhelming.

His mind was blank in what he distantly recognized as the culprit sensation they had been discussing, but now he surrendered to it willingly as its interests fully aligned with his own. Mate. Breed. He fucked Arya even harder.

Arya was now nearly screaming, the noises only muffled by Sansa’s cunt. He felt her small, dexterous fingers stimulating her clit and occasionally rubbing his stones. Sansa was trembling again, now pinching her own nipples and biting her lip in pleasure as her eyes were squeezed shut tight.

It was impossible to tell who finished first, but at some point they dissolved into a chaotic mass of euphoria together. Despite feeling completely drained by Sansa’s mouth this morning, Jon dumped what felt like a dozen spurts of seed into Arya’s cunt, turning her skin under his fingers white from the pressure of his grip.

They fell on top of each other, in each other, surrounded by each other. For a few blissful minutes, there were no differences between them, as they were all one content soul sharing an amalgamation of bodies. Eventually though, and all too soon, rational thought began to return.

“I’m so lucky to have you two to in my pack.”

“I swear to the old gods, if you start–”

“Uggh, shut the fuck up with that corny shit!”

“Like you have any ground to stand on–”

Jon smiled in contentment, glad to be with his family. He felt happy.

Chapter Text

Sansa could confidently say that the last two years had been the best of her entire life. While she would never forget the horrible things that happened to her family and even herself which lead her to this point, ever since she decided to take matters into her own hands, life continued to get better. Pushing Petyr Baelish through the moon door herself, reuniting with Jon, finding her long-lost sister and marrying her as well (Sansa had never been more happy about incorporating the free-folk into their budding realm than when Morna of the White Mask explained to her their concept of plural marriage), and best of all the birth of her son Edwyn, named after the Spring King of old but in honor of her father.

And while today would not doubt be happy, she also felt melancholic as she lay her sleeping son down into his crib nestled in the corner of the nursery. At nine months old, her precious boy now had multiple teeth and squealed in delight every time he was given a new food to try. His appetite as before was voracious, but he was pulling less and less milk from her teats every time her nursed. Sansa had made the decision to wean him, for both the maester and the woodswitches agreed on two things: he was old enough to eat on his own with cow or goat milk supplementing when necessary, and she would be unlikely to conceive as long as she still nursed. She would miss these tender moments, just her and him and nothing else, but she would be lying to herself if the thought of having another child didn’t motivate her through this new stage of life.

With the first of the future generation of Starks safely secured and in the care of his nanny, one of the Winterfell maids abducted the Dreadfort as a girl during the war and who had accepted the position on the condition that Arya teach her how to use a dagger which would be concealed on her person at all times, Sansa made her way down to the Godswood to find her spouses. A gentle brush against her mind from Queen was enough to figure out that they started without her.

Although the return of Nymeria to the North was not a surprise to the three to of them, Arya being able to direct her movements and navigate the she-wolf through the neck during her dreams, the discovery of a third living direwolf certainly was. Appearing as if out of nowhere in the Wolfswood, the direwolf with a coat of red and brown had terrorized the hunters and shepherds until they intervened. While first to merely be an unusually large forest wolf, Ghost and Nymeria quickly ascertained the truth when Jon and Arya rode out to control the beast or cull it, whichever was easier. Sansa, having just given birth at the time, wasn’t able to accompany them, but was still able to experience the moment through the eyes of her partner.

She was in the mind of the animal when the mated pair approached her, curious but cautious. She had never encountered another of her kind since braving the ice-water to escape the rotting ones, and so their smell was intoxicating. She could tell the grey one already carried the white one’s pups, and her heat was soon to come as well. Perhaps they would welcome her and the white one could mount her as well? The pair were accompanied by men on horses, smelling of leather and steel, but they were not afraid. She would not fear them either.

Sansa awoke from that nap with her son in her arms, feeling both elation and relief.

The first, as even though Jon and Arya reassured her constantly with their words and their bodies that she was one of them, she still hadn’t felt truly a Stark knowing she had betrayed their family and allowed Lady to die for it. She had prayed to the Old Gods daily for absolution, and this was clearly their answer.

The second, because in retrospect this fledgling bond probably explained why she often awoke in the later stages of her pregnancy craving meat served raw and bloody. The maester had explained she was likely deficient in iron, something supposedly common in mothers, but the woodswitches had always been more nebulous in their suspicions.

The russet color shaded with darker brown fur on the back and complimented by white fur at the front feed reminded Sansa of the bright dresses, capes, and gloves worn by queens in the stories from her childhood. While she had outgrown their restrictive and unrealistic influences on her notions of romance and love, she still loved the ideas of nobility and beauty that they presented. And so rather than a Lady, this wolf was a Queen.

Sansa still had minimal control over their bond, nothing close to approaching the seamless integration Jon shared with Ghost or the mastery of not only Nymeria but near any animal she wanted that Arya boasted, but Queen often picked up on subtleties in how others were feeling that Sansa quickly grew to rely on.

Right now, Jon and Arya were apparently feeling quite aroused.

She finally left the great keep, crossed the covered bridge and took the armory stairs down to the courtyard. She let the guards know to keep everyone clear of the Godswood, citing a meeting of the King and his Queens. The guard blushed, but Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed at this point.

Many of the more traditional Northern lords had balked when they emerged from the family chambers the day after Jon’s return from the Wall and announced their intention to marry once again, the three of them together. Roger Ryswell had gone so far as to challenge Jon for her hand, only to be rebuked by Arya who demanded he best her instead if he wished to claim her. The older man balked at the idea of fighting a teenage girl, and only accepted due to her goading. The match in the yard wasn’t even close; Arya had him, disarmed, pinned, and his genitals under threat of permanent damage within half a minute.

No one else dared to challenge her, and the support free folk helped normalize it for the rest. For better or worse, many of the Northern nobility had found comfort in spearwives during the campaign beyond the Wall, and so had decided to accede rather than risk their ire as much as to avoid their own gelding. Sansa ensured those spearwives were bonded to their men under the heart tree immediately after her own wedding for their trouble, so long as they wanted it.

So had begun their division of labor as the new absolute authority of the reconstituted Kingdom of the North. Sansa used her charms and social graces to manage the sometimes prickly nobility, with either favors and promises or by pitting quarrelsome parties against each other as needs be. She was grateful to give up management of Winterfell itself to Arya, who had always had a better head for numbers and got on better with the servants and smallfolk besides. Jon remained the final decider on matters of justice, management of their guard and levies, delivering threats to lords who didn’t understand Sansa’s more subtle methods, and acted as the figurehead whenever such things were needed.

It worked for them, each using their own talents to the best of their ability and happy to rely on their partners for the rest. She knew most people relied on only one spouse, but Sansa felt it was a joy to have two.

Sansa found Queen about half-way to the heart tree, snuggled tightly between Nymeria and Ghost. She was a needy thing compared to the other two, always sticking to one of them like a bur. She was smaller than Nymeria, and absolutely dwarfed by Ghost, but still came up to Sansa’s breast whenever she allowed her to give her affectionate pets or brushings. Nymeria and Queen were both pregnant, Nymeria likely to deliver any day now. Sansa looked forward to nursing little pups once again, and had been personally instructing their new Master of Kennels, who thought the three of them were quite mad.

“Oh fuck!”

The source of the call became apparent as she rounded the last curve of the path, bringing into view her husband and wife.

While Sansa had worn a beautiful layered dress in different shades of gray and blue, which highlighted her hair and eyes, Arya was dressed nearly like Jon was – hair pulled back in a leather tie, brown leggings, but white shirt with buttons down the front rather than a tunic.

The hair tie seemed a particularly smart idea given how vigorous Arya was in forcing Jon’s cock down her throat. Her lips dripped in saliva, which surely would have attracted errant hairs and stuck them to her face if they were loose, and the tie itself seemed to provide a nice grip for Jon to help guide her head to the appropriate depth. She had found them just in time for him to yank her head off him, and Sansa watched with bated breath as he throbbed in the cool spring air.

“That was cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?” she asked.

“I knew what I was doing,” Arya proclaimed. “I had everything under control.”

“It sure didn’t feel like it,” Jon said, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as he continued to hold her by the back of her head at arm’s length.

“Arya, we’ve been working on this for a whole month! I would have been quite cross with you if you’d ruined it!”

“Hey, we were hear on time. I was just getting him ready for you!”

Sansa finally completed her approach, dropping to her knees beside Arya and taking over Jon’s grip to pull her head further back and force her into a kiss. Her tongue delved into her sister’s mouth instantly, probing for any seed accidentally leaked prematurely, and was satisfied to find none. She pulled back, gray eyes meeting blue.

“You’ve done a good job. Now help get me ready for him.”

Arya grinned, her pearly white teeth looking feral and sending Sansa’s heart skipping in anticipation.

While it had apparently been quite the surprise for Jon and Arya, Sansa had known she felt attracted to women for years. At first it had been ‘practicing’ kissing with Jeyne Poole, something easy enough to justify herself given the limited opportunities for exploration under the ever-watchful eye of Septa Mordane, but those justifications became quickly inadequate when she first laid eyes on Margaery Tyrell. Like much of her time in King’s Landing as a confused newly-flowered maiden, she had suppressed the memories of her first time touching herself while thinking of the southron beauty, not willing to accept the truth of it until the end of her time in the Vale. While Jon had been the one to take her maidenhead, her first shared sexual encounter belonged to the exquisitely talented Myranda Royce.

Arya’s beauty had struck her senseless when she revealed herself in Wintefell’s great hall, so much so that she worried others thought her a fish for her gaping. She sister’s figure was lithe and graceful, but powerful and lethal in equal measure. Her body looked deadly, her face striking, and Sansa would happily be slain and stricken.

Much like with Jon, guilt at her attraction to a family member failed to manifest, far outcompeted by the feeling of inadequacy. The shadow of an opportunity passed by and now locked away forever. Yet that too abated as they rekindled their relationship (reforged it even, for it quickly became stronger than it ever was during their girlhoods) and Sansa noticed Arya’s fascination with her bosom. She wished she had been able to seduce Arya more naturally into her relationship with Jon, but mainly to spare Arya the pain she went through rather than for any feelings of her own. The poor girl had spent so long denying her very own existence that she felt she no longer deserved family or happiness. Finding Arya sobbing and shaking like a leaf while searching for her missing husband that night was utterly heartbreaking. While not as common as it had been those first few months, Arya still occasionally cried after particularly intense orgasms.

She was also the most sexually adventurous of the three, though they all got to benefit from it. She had apparently spent some of her time training under a Braavosi courtesan, which left her with skills she was more than happy to share in their marriage bed. Or bath. Or solar. Or the once on the throne in the great hall. And more often recently, in the Godswood. Sansa doubted the gods minded the display.

Sansa sighed as her sister-lover’s dexterous fingers made their way around her neck, tugging at the laces down her back until the dress fell forward off her shoulders. She kept her grip on Arya’s hair, holding her goddess-sculpted face against her own and stroking her tongue along those perfect teeth. Jon’s whine forced her to speed it up though, so Sansa released her sister who made quick work of the remainder of her clothing.

At this point the trio had developed habits in their preferred midday rendezvous location. A broad, flat rock extended over the heated pool in front of the weirwood tree, the surface grown over enough with lichen to not chafe during rutting. A small rock nearby was just the right size for them to place their folded clothes to avoid getting them covered in dirt or foliage during a tryst. Arya quickly passed off Sansa’s dress and undergarments to Jon for him to fold as she got started.

Sansa dropped her face into crossed arms in front of her on the warm lichen, turned to the side to allow plenty of air for her upcoming exertions and giving her the added bonus of being able to watch Jon strip from his own clothes as Arya soaked her middle two fingers in her mouth then slid them slowly into her cunt. Jon’s cock bobbed up and down with his awkward motions trying to untangle the breeches from his ankles, showing just how very eager he was for her. The tip was an angry red where it peaked through his foreskin, and it still shined with Arya’s saliva, making Sansa lick her lips.

Yet even the sight of Jon’s perfect cock was not enough to keep her attention once Arya got going. The slow back-and-forth movements of her fingers gradually sped up, pressing against the area at the front of her cunt that Arya insisted was connected to her clit on the other side and making globes of liquid pleasure explode behind her eyes.

“You’re so tight Sansa, I can barely fit my fingers in here,” Arya panted next to her, her other hand now palming one of Sansa’s still sensitive breasts. “You must strangle Jon’s poor cock within an inch of its life.”

“Nnnnhh,” Sansa moaned back, making her voice whiny on purpose so Arya would be rougher with her. “Stretch me out for him then!”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Arya gasped back, like she couldn’t believe she had the privilege of performing this particular duty.

Sansa just felt lucky she got to experience it.

Arya changed the movement of her hand, hardening the two fingers inside her and changing to an up-and-down motion instead. She ramped up the intensity rapidly, and soon Sansa could help but scream. The repeated pressure and release against the front of her cunt was mind-melting, and she became even more aroused listening to the noises from the act, wet and vulgar and sloppy. Arya bent lower, shifting to her other tit and pulling down on her nipple while biting the auricle of her ear and whispering naughty nothings to stoke her further.

Although it felt like forever, she likely lasted less than a minute before the throws of passion took her past her peak and she squirted clear sticky-slick fluid onto the rock below.

“Give it to me,” she heard Jon’s voice behind her, deeper than normal due to his own arousal. She heard Arya whimper and could envision him pulling the soaked hand into his mouth, using his demanding tongue to steal every bit of her release from between her sister’s fingers. “You did well Arya, but it’s time for me to take over.”

“Hell yeah,” Arya said softly, stepping away to hastily strip herself.

“Are you ready for me, Sansa?”

“Yes Jon, please fuck me,” she replied, shaking her ass side to side for good measure. “I want you to breed me again so bad…”

It turned out that even with Ghost now having two direwolf mates of his own, the both of them pregnant at that, he still seemed to push Jon into the hyper-aroused state with alarming frequency. They had termed it “the beast”, and it had only one desire. To breed.

Honestly, Sansa herself also became very aroused whenever she considered it. She loved Jon more than she ever could have imagined as a little girl, and being pregnant felt magical. Her body bloomed in a way that made her feel beautiful, and even though there had been a moratorium on sex in the middle of her pregnancy she was eventually told it was safe to engage in gentle love-making that made her feel special and treasured. The feeling of cradling little Edwyn in her arms as Jon and Arya held her after birth was magical. She would give Jon as many children as he wished, and to facilitate that the three of them had agreed to starve Jon’s cock of release for an entire month until the weaning process was complete so that they could maximize her chances of getting pregnant again as soon as possible. And to have him ready for their special surprise, but that would come later.

“Then that’s what you’ll get,” he growled, and pushed into her roughly. As much as she treasured how soft and sweet Jon and Arya could be when they were gentle, ever since her first time with Jon she sometimes developed a craving to be well and truly fucked.

And fuck her Jon did. No sooner had he pulled their hips flush together did he pull back, dragging his deliciously thick cock through the sensitive entrance of her cunt and slamming back into the deepest reaches of her with abandon. The rubbery head pounding against her cervix again and again stretched her walls in a way that felt nearly painful but all the more satisfying for it, like finally getting a meal after spending too long hungry.

“Sansa, can I suck your tits? Please?” Arya asked from next to her while pulling her red hair behind her ears and out of her eyes, having become quite disheveled I the last few minutes.

“Uh-huh,” she squeaked out, barely registering the question.

The next thing she knew, a warm set of lips wrapped around one of her nipples and began to suck while her other breast was teased and soft fingers began to circle her clit.

The roar she emitted was primal as a climax ripped through her. She would have collapsed and thus smothered Arya completely had Jon not had a vice-like grip on her hips. The rippling of her cunt was apparently too much to handle however, as he soon pulled her taught against him and emptied himself inside her. She could practically feel the seed coursing through the V-shaped muscles of his abdomen as they pulsed against her ass.

“Holy shit…” he said, then fell out of her likely onto his ass. Sansa didn’t honestly care at all, about anything. She was still floating, and hoped she would never come back down.

A slap on her ass cheek, made her reconsider, and she rolled onto her back to allow Arya a chance to breath. She felt Jon’s seed sloshing next to her womb, and it felt better than eating every lemon cake from the kitchens all at once.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to crush you.”

“Well I meant to get crushed, so don’t feel bad about it at all,” her sister replied. “I think I came too, finally getting to taste some of that sweet milk little Edwyn has been hogging.”

“Gods, you’re such a wierdo,” Sansa replied, although there was no bite in it. Arya’s fascination with her breasts and nursing was something they had discussed before, and Sansa had preemptively given her permission to suck from her while she was still lactating only once Edwyn was weaned. It would likely be only a week or so until her milk dried up completely, and she was fine allowing Arya to take the limited opportunity. The gods knew Sansa felt weird enough urges of her own; it didn’t feel right to judge Jon or Arya for their preferences when they were so willing to cooperate with hers.

“Guilty,” her sister sighed in absolute satisfaction. She lifted her head, something Sansa did not think was possible for herself just yet. “You okay over there Jon?”

“Just give me a minute,” he answered, voice still deliciously gravelly and panting for breath. “I don’t think we should do this whole waiting thing again. My stones hurt after that.”

“Excuses!” Arya laughed. “Well Sansa, since he ‘needs a minute’,” she said with sarcasm, indicated using a Braavosi mannerism she called ‘air quotes’, “what’s say you and I start on today’s surprise?”

Sansa could really just use some cuddles right now, but she had been part of planning the surprise after all, and one look at Arya’s impish smile was enough motivation to convince her. “Okay, but you’ll have to help me up, I’m still basically boneless.”

She took Arya’s offered arm and let herself be guided the short distance to the trunk weirwood tree, less than a dozen steps from their favorite stone.

“What surprise?” Jon asked, cock already hardening again in interest. Gods, she loved him.

They faced him together, arms wrapped around each other allowing Sansa to stroke Arya’s gorgeous form. “Well, you know how despite every effort you’ve made, Arya has yet to fall pregnant?”

“Pretty hard not to notice something like that,” Jon grimaced. “I didn’t think it polite to pry. The free-folk have it right on that one, it should be the woman’s decision. You’re the ones who have to deal with the consequences.”

“See how smart he is?” Arya asked rhetorically, slapping her shoulder like someone bragging about a well-trained pet. Sansa ignored her.

“She’s been managing things on her end,” Sansa explained.

“Not with moon tea, I hope?” Jon asked, expression now clearly worried. “I’ve heard that can be dangerous to long-term fertility…”

“Gods no,” Arya interjected. “That stuff is poison, and it tastes awful. In Braavos there’s this amazing plant called silphium, which is said to have been used by the Valyrians for–”

“He doesn’t need the details, Arya”, Sansa interrupted, knowing her sister could go on interminably long tangents about the most random topics. “She’s stopped taking it Jon.”

“You mean–” he said, eyebrows flying up to his hairline in excitement.

“She’s saying you should fuck me, Jon,” Arya added helpfully. “You can breed me too, starting today.”

Jon was on his feet and kissing her almost faster than she could blink. Then he turned and kissed her, cupping her ass much like she was sure he was cupping her sister’s. Sansa pushed him away, gently.

“Can you let me get her ready for you, Jon?”

His eyes were black pits. “Be quick.”

The command sent another trickle of arousal to her own sex, but now it was time to prepare Arya’s. With much less gentleness than she used with Jon, she molded her cheeky little sister into the position she wanted; bent over to a nearly right angle at the hips, arms braced against the white bark of the tree.

“Others take you, Arya, how on earth is your ass that perfect?” Sansa groaned, genuinely confused at how succulent it looked as she squeezed the cheeks together and pulled them apart. While both the girls had their mother’s wide hips, Arya’s ass was definitively rounder despite being no less pliant, the cushion stretched taught over muscle.

Arya groaned at the ministrations, saying “Like you’re one to talk, your tits could smother me. I bet Jon could fuck them if you pushed them together.” It was Jon’s turn to groan as he envisioned her idea. To be fair, Arya was probably right. They would have to try that some time.

Sansa slipped one of her hands forward to cup and grope one of Arya’s tits, which despite her complaints still more than filled her hand. She used her other hand to lift one of the vixen’s ass cheeks, exposing her glistening cunt and cute pink asshole. Sansa dropped down to her knees between her legs, looking forward at worshiping at the altar of her ass. She grabbed two thick handfuls of it and buried her face between her legs, nose wedged near the lips of her cunt while her tongue darted as far forward as she could to lick her clit. Arya moaned as she circled it, and moaned even deeper when she slowly raised her head and dragged her tongue across her slit. Too tempted not to, she continued even after passing her cunt itself, licking the salty skin beyond it before circling her crinkled pink anus.

“Sansa– holy shit!” she shouted in surprise. “That feels – oh gods – what?”

“What is it, Arya?” Sansa asked conspiratorially. “You can suck my tits but I can’t lick your ass?”

Jon had stayed close to them, and now tenderly rubbed Arya’s back to sooth her. “That sounds like a fair trade to me, Arya. Are you going to be a good girl and let her?”

After the slightest nod, because Sansa was too horny to wait for anything more than that, she resumed her sacred work. Arya quickly lost her composure as her tongue lathed her ass. She was clean and completely hairless around this hole, tasting only mildly of metal. As much as she wanted to spend hours right there eating her ass, Arya’s legs were starting to quiver and Sansa realized that her sister wouldn’t be able to stand for much longer. She moved one of his hands to her clit and rubbed it back and forth vigorously between two of her fingers.

The effect was immediate – Arya’s babbling stopped and was replaced by a low groan which built in volume as the muscles of her pelvis started to contract furiously. She finished her off by delving her tongue as far into her tight hole as she could, at which point Arya let out a high-pitched squeal and collapsed onto her hands and knees.

Sansa pulled back, grabbed Jon’s thick cock, and lined it up with Arya’s now weeping cunt, but in a surprising burst of motion Arya turned around and pulled him into a kiss, her tongue immediately plunging into his mouth as though searching for hidden treasure. She then pulled away and rested on her bottom nearby, deciding that this was a special moment they needed to share together. Jon moved both his hands between her legs and slid his arms under her knees, then stood up and pressed forward until she was trapped between his muscled torso and the weirwood tree. Her arms went around his neck for balance as she continued to force their mouths together, barely giving him room to breathe but giving him the leverage he needed to hike her up until his elbows supported her knees and his hands palmed the globes of her ass.

His cock was now leaking lubricant from the tip and smearing into her navel, the shaft tight with arousal as it was squeezed between their bellies. His stones looked like they were being pulled down into the earth with the strain of containing months of accumulated seed, his large deposit into her own womb barely starting the process of draining him.

“Jon, stop being stupid and fuck me,” Arya, still kissing him and lost in the pleasure of his embrace.

And that was likely the last rational thought he had, since Arya had taken matters – well, his cock – into her own hands and pulled it down so that the head was now kissing the lips of her cunt. Using his grip on her ass, he pulled her hips down, impaling her to the to the base of his cock in one violent motion. Despite being well lubricated, Sansa could see her tight folds peel back the folds his foreskin, exposing the sensitive glans to her heat as he penetrated her slowly but surely.

They both devolved into a mass of grunts and moans, attacking each other’s mouths with equal ferocity in an attempt to get as much inside each other as possible. Jon kept her pinned against the tree, but still used his hands and his hips to piston in and out of her, staying deep inside her. Sansa imagined such a motion would brush the ridge of his cockhead back and forth against her cervix while his tip kept a near constant pressure on the back of her cunt, and buried two fingers of her own inside of herself to manage her own arousal at the thought. Jon’s stones swung with each thrust, occasionally slapping against the cushion of Arya’s ass with a satisfyingly wet squelch.

Lasting barely longer than he had with Sansa, Jon seized Arya’s hips and pressed even harder against her. His orgasm was visible even from beside them, his stones contracting up against the base of his shaft as his cock pulsed into her sister’s cunt in slow contractions. He continued thrusting for the first few blasts, but quickly lost focus and instead pulled her hips tight to his, his fingers blanching the skin of her ass as he continued to fill her.

Arya didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. After the second shot she lost muscle tone again, and as their bodies descended from their peaks he laid them down on a pile of fallen foliage, exhaustion claiming him too.

“Oh fuck…” Arya said, between breaths. “Of fuck, that was awesome!” Her modest breasts heaved against him as she rested her head against the crook of his neck.

“Fuck!”

Jon and Arya looked as one in her own direction, just in time to see Sansa frig herself to climax at the thought of how much pleasure the two most beautiful people in the world just shared with each other.

“Wow Sansa, I didn’t think you had it in you!” Arya laughed as Sansa came down from her high.

“Shut up, Arya,” she said, not having enough energy to even open her eyes or come up with a better retort.

“Right, sorry. That one did look really nice though, good job!” Arya congratulated, pumping her fist in the air and slapping Jon’s hand. She was always so weird about orgasms.

“You looked like you had a pretty good one yourself,” Sansa played along. “Think he put a pup in there?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Might want to try again, just to be sure. Speaking of… Jon, did you even go soft?”

Arya pressed her hands against his chest, then began to saw her hips back forth, likely rubbing the head of his clearly-still-engorged cock against the rough patch at the front wall of her cunt. “I think I could go again now, if you wanted,” Jon said, although his voice was strained.

“Anything for my big brother~” she teased, before starting to fuck him in earnest once again. Sansa soon lost count of how many times they had each other, first in the Godswood and later their chambers, and they enjoyed the rest of the day in each other’s delightful company.

Chapter Text

Being pregnant was the fucking worst. And to add insult to injury, perfect-lady Sansa took to it like a duck to water.

Her skin seemed to glow under almost any lighting. Her lips darkened into a beautiful natural red-pink hue. Her hair thickened and shined. Her already voluptuous figure was only accentuated by her now-visible baby bump. If she had been present during the Andal invasion however many thousands of years ago (hundreds being more likely, she believed), they would have stopped their attempted conquest of the continent and bowed before the Mother reborn.

Arya took to pregnancy like a cat took to water. Boiling water.

Her skin was pallid, making her look like a corpse. Her lips were always dry and cracked. Her hair felt brittle, and became even more rebellious, something even Arya didn’t know was possible. Her belly felt odd and misshapen, and had already given her stretch marks near her hips.

And that was before she even began to consider the horrible morning sickness she’d had, puking her guts out after nearly every meal for over two months, or the horrible aches in her joints which stopped her from training in the yard.

The maester had reassured her that despite how different her own pregnancy was from Sansa’s, that both were within the expected range of normality for young women in their condition. Rather than reassure her, that made her feel worse. Of course Sansa gets all the luck.

She felt hungry, but nauseated by her favorite foods. Constantly tired, yet restless and unable to sleep through the night.

And incredibly fucking horny.

Once the morning sickness – and what a joke of a name, it was constant – set in, sex was the last thing on her mind. She was too miserable to even consider it, and found herself grateful that her spouses could enjoy themselves even though she couldn’t. But now, it felt like half of her conscious thoughts centered around getting impaled on Jon’s thick cock. Too bad she now looked less like a spunky sex-kitten and more like a misshapen turnip. Every time she considered seducing one of her siblings, or even just asking for some skin-to-skin time, she drowned in embarrassment instead.

So Arya did the only thing she could think of. She took matters into her own hands.

“Nnnnnh,” she whimpered as quietly as she could. Curled up on her side under the furs, knees as close to her chest as her body would allow in its current state, one hand jammed down her smallclothes and the other hugging a pillow, she rubbed two fingers around her clit as fast as she could.

The relief was minimal, at best.

“Nnnrrrrggh, fuck!” she swore, flopping over in frustration.

“Arya, are you okay?”

“Uh… Yeah Jon, I’m fine.” Her husband’s heavy footfalls approached the door to the bedchamber from the adjacent solar. “Really Jon, it’s–”

The door opened, and Arya was sorely tempted to burrow under the furs and never resurface. But that would only make her look weaker. Even less capable. Calm as still water. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. It will be okay, Jon loves me unconditionally.

“Arya, you look like shit.”

She threw a pillow at him, making him stagger after it impacted his face.

“I feel like it too, and thank you very much for that by the way. What do you want?”

Jon approached their bed with caution, and sat down close to her once he was sure no other projectiles were imminently flying toward his person. Hesitantly, he brought a hand to her face and brushed some of the wildest hairs behind her ear.

“I want you to feel less miserable,” he told her earnestly.

Arya wanted to lash out, but she wanted comfort far more. She leaned into his touch. “Stay with me for a bit then?” she asked. She winced at how much it sounded like pleading.

“Of course,” Jon assured her. “Let me strip down a bit though, otherwise the furs would smother me.”

Seeing him already dressed for the day and undoing it all just for her only magnified her feelings of inadequacy. She had always been the capable one, the reliable one. The one who could do things that her sibling-spouses couldn’t, or wouldn’t. And now she was not only failing to fulfill her own obligations, but preventing Jon from completing his own as well.

“Hey,” he whispered to her, now pulling her into him from behind. “Get out of your head little sister. You can ask us for help, you know.” Even though they had many labels for each other now, some more accurate than others, little sister was still her favorite to hear from him.

“Back rubs,” she declared. He ruffled her hair just like he used to when he was little, then he complied.

While she was still absolutely miserable, moments like this made her happy. She could forget the trauma of the war and all the terrible things she did to survive and just be Arya, Jon Snow’s favorite sister. And it was even better now, because Sansa wanted her around too. She daydreamed for a bit about what life would have been like if Sansa had been as nice to her when they were girls. Maybe even mother would have joined in. Perhaps mother would be more sympathetic to her now; she never let her hear the end of how grueling her own pregnancy had been to her. Of course, she would just as likely say Arya deserved her current misery for not being enough of a lady, or for disrupting a marriage, or for bedding her bastard brother. She began to feel constricted again.

“The shift is chaffing,” she mumbled. Jon moved around, ultimately rucking it up around her shoulders before resuming the firm, strong strokes of his palm down her back.

The pressure was perfect. Her joints felt too loose, like she would rattle apart with any serious exertion, but his steady compression of her spine was fastening all the pieces back into place. Arya moaned in relief, and was extremely grateful to his dead wildling lover for teaching him that such vocalizations meant ‘keeping doing exactly that’.

Sooner than she could have hoped, the ache in her back eased and others began to come to the forefront. “Can you do my hips?”

“With pleasure,” he said, his voice having taken on the gravelly quality she knew signified his arousal. He always did love a chance to fondle her ass.

Although he did spend time pressing against her low back, he seemed to notice her more satisfied noises as he shifted away from her spine, and soon enough he was squeezing the sides of her hips together with surprising strength. “Gods, that really helps,” she groaned in encouragement.

She felt his arms tremble with the effort, pushing the rough skin of his fingers into her sides hard enough to bruise, but it was all worth it as her body was brought back into alignment.

Eventually, even Jon’s ridiculous stamina gave out and he released her. His fingers danced along her legs and hips, wiggling the blood back into them and soothing the aches she was sure she had transferred to him.

The relief on her outsides was palpable, and now all that remained was the need for that same pressure on her insides.

Staying on her side, she craned her neck to look at him and used her arm not pressed into their bedding to pull him in for a kiss. It felt like heaven to be able to twist her back and neck in such a way without shooting lightning bolts down her spine. She meant for the kiss to be a peck, but the sight of his eyes wide and black as coal made her nip at his lower lip with her teeth, and soon they were languidly enjoying each other’s mouths.

Jon’s hands started stroking up and down her legs much in the same way he had done to her back, making her shiver in anticipation. She canted her hips back and was rewarded with the delicious feeling of his cock slotting into the groove of her ass, hard and hot as Valyrian steel straight out of the forge despite the twin barriers of her smallclothes and his breeches. It only took a few writhing motions for him to delve a hand between them to loosen the ties and shuck the unnecessary garments down his legs, allowing his cock to heat her skin directly once he slipped it under the last remaining linen barrier between them.

The arm that was trapped between her hips and the bed wormed its way up her side until the elbow was exposed, allowing him to bend it to gently slide over the bulge in her middle.

“You’re so gorgeous like this Arya,” he growled into her ear, making her shiver again.

“You don’t have to say things like that Jo–”

Her protests were cut short by a grunt into her mouth, her tongue quickly captured by his own and abducted, incarcerated between his teeth.

They continued to kiss and grind against each other until Arya had dripped so much slick out of her cunt that the bedding felt wet underneath her. She let go of his head and sent her hand on a far more important mission, snaking it between them to grab his cock and put it where it belonged. He twitched against her groin in anticipation, and thankfully wasted no time in burring himself inside her once she had him slotted against her weeping slit. His delectable thickness seared her insides as he spread them apart for the first time in far too long until he was fully buried inside her. His kisses came to a halt but his eyes remained closed, like he was savoring the moment.

She rocked her hips back only twice before his grip on her tightened.

“No Arya,” he said, forcing her to stop. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

She let him.

Normally Arya liked to be an active partner, even if she wasn’t necessarily always in control. Fucking was more fun when you felt out of breath and heavy-limbed afterward, and that only happened when you put in your own work. But she was happy to surrender herself to her cousin’s slow, firm thrusts. The angle put pressure along the front wall of her cunt rather than the deepest parts of her, their usual favorite, and it stretched the front of her pelvis perfectly. After a few dozen strokes it felt like her clit would burst from the stimulation. That sensation built and built, accentuated by the contractions of his flat abdomen against her butt cheeks and the coiled strength of his thighs as they occasionally moved against her legs, until he took her clit in hand and frigged her with the rough pads of his fingers until she cried out and shook with release. The heat in her belly turned into liquid fire as he filled her with his seed a few moments later. The sensation of his cock pulsing inside of her sent after-shock tremors through her legs.

They both panted to catch their breath.

“Others take you Jon, you spilt a lake inside me,” she accused, feeling his slick seed pour out of her once he had softened. “You realize you can’t get me more pregnant, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind if it had worked,” he responded, still lost in his own bliss. She punched him in the shoulder. “Ow!”

“You’ll freeze in the icy crypts of hell before I bear any more of your children, stupid. Being pregnant fucking sucks! Let Sansa do this stuff, she’s better at it anyway.”

“Whatever you say, little sister.”

=====

Over the next decade, Arya became pregnant twice more, becoming the proud mother of two boys and a girl.

Chapter Text

“Name?”

“Maryssa, m’lady,” she replied, doing her best attempt at a curtsy.

“And why d’ya want to enter service, Maryssa?”

“I’ve served at Winterfell going on two years now, but after me mother passed, I needed a change. Master Arya recommended I try the city.”

“Master Arya Stark herself?” questioned the house-matron. “D’ya have papers then?”

She produced them, hands fumbling only slightly from nerves as the matron scrutinized them. Maryssa hoped they were satisfactory – she wasn’t able to read to know for herself.

“Dinner service in the Great Hall?” she prodded, eyes continuing to scan the squiggles.

“Aye m’lady, entertained near half the Northern nobility at one time or another, I imagine,” she answered, moving her hands behind her back to worry at her skirts, lest she be deemed a fidget.

The matron focused on her again, searching her face, and either finding something satisfactory or nothing of concern, nodded. “I’ve only ever had honest endorsements from Winterfell, and yours’s superb. We might not be the seat of the King, but you’ll find New Castle to be just as busy, if not more so. I hope you’re ready to work hard.”

“Of course, m’lady!”

“And be careful – pretty young blonde thing like you is like as not to get groped often at dinner. Gotta be polite and pretend you’ve done the teasing should it happen, but know that if it ever goes beyond that ya do have a choice. The Lady runs a tight ship.”

Maryssa blushed, but demurred. “Aye, m’lady.”

They discussed lodging and salary (two stags a sennight, far better than most households could afford to pay) and she was sent on her way to prepare for dinner service that very night, as The Lady was currently hosting merchants including a suitor.

After changing into livery, the head footman took hardly one look at her before assigning her the wine, a sweet and quite strong dark yellow variety from Tyrosh that they called ‘pear brandy’. It smelled foul to Maryssa, but it wasn’t her place to question the sommelier. The footman pinched her cheeks hard, nearly making her cry out, and tightened the laces under her chest before handing her the flagon. “Smile when you offer, but leave your eyes half closed. Be sure to bend over when you pour. Make them feel welcome.”

“Aye, m’lord, I’ll be sure to. Not m’first feast,” she replied, not surprised but shaken nonetheless.

“Get to it then, get on!” he griped, slapping her ass as she passed by him, forcing her to skip in her step and bounce into the feast proper, breasts jiggling precariously in their bodice and rump sore from the swat. ‘Asshole’, she couldn’t help but think, but Maryssa knew she shouldn’t think such things.

She made her rounds through they hall, heavy with nautical theming to the point of being gaudy. Maryssa didn’t recognize even half the creatures painted on the walls and ceilings, which were covered in ropes and cloth styled like seaweed and other bobbles besides, but she did her best not to gawk. The Northern knights and merchants and harbor masters sipped politely at her strange drink, and were generally well mannered enough to pretend they weren’t ogling her tits as she served them. The Tyroshi contingent, however, were altogether more rowdy.

Young to the man, naught could have been mistaken as a day over thirty. Some still had peach fuzz on their faces, which they died all manner of bizarre colors along with their hair, which was always trimmed and coiffed. If Maryssa had to guess, they kept their hair shaped using some sort of animal fat. It would also explain their confusing and oft overwhelming smell, like a mixture of flowers and rancid meat. Boisterous enough to give even a wildling blush, their hands weren’t shy in their appreciation of her assets. She played along as best she could, trying not to let them see it bother her, as she knew that would only make it worse. She peeped at the pinches, swatted the gropes, and flitted away from those who were bold enough to grab at her. Smile, smile, smile. Wink, wink, tease.

She refilled her flagon twice for the Tyroshi contingent alone before finally making her way to the head table to serve the happy couple. Lady Wynafryd Manderly, the Lady of White Harbor, was blushing something fierce at the prodding of her suitor, a handsome-enough fellow with ostentatious clothes and hair dyed blue on one side and red on the other, each side forming horns. His pointed chin-beard was chequy green and purple, something Maryssa considered an impressive combination of expensive, time-consuming, and ridiculous.

“More pear brandy m’lady?” she asked The Lady first. It seemed the right thing to do, as the Lady of the city.

“I’ve had plenty for now, thank you,” she deferred, although not unkindly.

Her suitor was not so well-mannered. “A girl gives it here, then, and quickly!” he slurred, thrusting a goblet at her across The Lady’s body, somehow managing to both stroke his knuckles against the soft flesh of Maryssa’s own cleavage and have his arm enveloped in the much more voluminous tits of The Lady herself.

The strange man’s yellow eyes blazed at her, not even attempting to hide his lust. “Oh yes of course, master…?”

“A girl will call me Master Mallequo,” he said, flashing clean white teeth. His accent, in addition to the usual long vowels of Bastard Valyrian, had a musical quality to it seemingly unique to the Tyroshi, like a drunk songbird or a seagull attempting to beguile a sailor. “And a girl comes closer, so she does not spill onto our Lady Manderly.”

She dipped a small curtsey, trying her best to apologize to The Lady with her eyes without being caught, and moved to the other side to pour the man his drink.

“This White Harbor has many beautiful women, Mallequo thinks,” he said while she thrust her chest toward his face. A hand found the back of her thigh and worked its way up to squeeze her ass. “A girl will come often tonight, to make sure his cup is full. Yes?”

“Aye, m’lord”, Maryssa answered, allowing herself to blush. “Whatever ya need, I’ll take care of you.” He smiled his too-white smile once again, and she departed.

The feast went on, but it only took two more passes of pear brandy for the Tyroshi contingent to become too sloppy to reliably stay awake. Strong indeed. By her third pass at the head table, The Lady had disappeared, but Master Mallequo remained grinning.

“A girl has done well, keeping a man happy.”

“Ummm… t’was me pleasure, m’lord,” she tittered back, twisting a bit to dodge his hands tugging at her bodice.

“A girl could make a man happier still,” she said, glassy eyes now looking dangerous. He tugged her down by the top of her bodice, the tight laces a saving grace to pull her down with it rather than exposing her then and there.

Maryssa glanced around nervously. Many of her countrymen had already departed, and the guards were too busy managing some of the more belligerent Tyroshi drunks to pay her any mind.

“A girl would be pleased to make a man happy,” she answered, batting her eyes for good measure.

The man scooped her up, forcing her to wrap her legs around just above his hips to avoid pressing their crotches together. He held her by the waist and began to suckle at her neck, forcing her nose to deal with the onslaught of odor from his greasy hair. Maryssa didn’t gag, but it was a near thing.

“What is a girl’s name?” he grunted as his beard roughed the skin of her neck and shoulder.

“Maryssa, m’lord. But some have called me Mercy.”

“Mmmmnn, Mercy, fun we shall have together,” he said salaciously. Maryssa squealed in reply.

She was light enough not to make him too top-heavy, drunk as he was, so he managed to bring her to an unoccupied bedroom without too much effort. He threw her on the thankfully soft bed, immediately bracketing her under him with his elbows and reaching a hand under her dress to slide up her thighs. He began speaking in lilting, dying-pigeon Tyroshi, a language Maryssa had absolutely no business understanding at all.

“I can’t wait to fuck this tight ass. Once I’ve filled the fat bitch with my son, I’ll take you with me back to Tyrosh and put a collar on your pretty neck. What do you think, slut? Will you like being my pleasure slave? I’ll have your collar forged out of sunset-kingdom silver, to mark my sunset-kingdom whore.”

“Your voice is so beautiful, m’lord,” she mewled at him. “What are you saying?”

“How sweet a girl looks. So sweet for me. Mercy for me.”

The man’s chequy beard assaulted the skin of her chest as he kissed at her neck and Maryssa couldn’t suppress the gag from the animal-fat smell of his hair this time, but passed it off as a gasp as Mallequo’s finger finally found her asshole and teased it. She knew some whores preferred to get fucked there to reduce the risk of pregnancy, but she had never considered it personally. Regardless, this charade had gone on long enough.

“What about my tits, m’lord Mallequo?” she asked him, making her voice as breathy as possible. “You’ve stared at them all night. Are they sweet too? If you want Mercy, shouldn’t you suck my tits?”

The response was immediate. The Tyroshi tugged at her bodice until the laces ripped, finally freeing her perky breasts. The lecher immediately lathed her nipples with his tongue, trying to suckle milk that had long sense dried up. Try as you much as you like, you’ll never get a fucking drop.

Fortunately, she only had to tolerate his licks and rambling for another few moments before he began to slacken, and not long later she was able to pull his hand out of her dress and roll him onto the bed. She made quick work of rucking down his pants, then stood on the bed and kicked him as hard as she could in the stones.

The sweetsleep powder she’d applied to her teats this afternoon had done its trick, and the slaver continued to slumber despite the bruise forming at his groin. Ostensibly it had been to make him sore enough that when he awoke he would feel as if he’d fucked her. She kicked him again, hard, because she wanted to.

She pulled her dress back up and tied it behind her neck, much looser than it had been at dinner out of necessity, but thankfully much more comfortable. Then, swift as a deer, she made her way out of the small servant’s cell she had been carried to and through a tapestry to a hidden stairwell leading to The Lady’s suites. The guards, seeing a slightly unkempt blonde serving woman, indicated her to the servant’s access hall to The Lady’s chambers when she indicated she was there to stoke the flames at the hearth. She rung the bell by the door and waited until she heard a gentle ‘come in’ before entering.

Wynafryd Manderly rested on a cushioned seat, knitting what appeared to be a scarf out of a teal ball of wool yarn at her feet. The Lady’s eyebrows rose slightly as she assessed her. “You’re the woman who was serving the pear brandy at dinner, aren’t you?” she asked. Although it was subtle, her right hand changed grip around her knitting needle, ready to stab with it if needed.

“Right in one, Wynny,” she replied.

“Seven hells Arya, you nearly scared the life out of me,” Wynafryd complained, visibly relaxing back into her seat as Arya pulled the blonde wig off and shook out her hair. It felt good to let it tumble out of the tight bun against the nape of her neck.

Feeling much more like herself, she plopped down on another cushioned couch facing her host. “Sorry about that, I didn’t want to blow my cover. For this to work, it’s important that I was never here.”

“I understand,” the woman said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Still, I wasn’t expecting you for another two weeks. How did you make it so quickly? It can’t have been a sennight since I sent the raven.”

“That was actually pretty fun,” Arya answered. “You know that messenger system we set up for more reliable communication and package delivery between Winterfell and White Harbor? I decided to ride the whole way myself. Each palfrey was able to canter most of the distance between each way station, which let me get about one-hundred and twenty miles each day, with plenty of time to eat and sleep. It took me three days altogether. It took almost near as long for Sansa to make this wig.”

“Incredible,” Wynafryd said, sounding bored. She had started knitting again. “Well, what do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know how you lasted this long,” Arya grimaced. “He’s absolutely wretched.”

“Don’t I know the half of it.” Her nicely shaped brows furrowed as the needles clicked through a particularly complicated part of her pattern. “Damned bugger is persistent. I’ve certainly learned my lesson about agreeing to being courted. But the trade has already started to flow, and damned again if it doesn’t save us some much needed money. I’ve been able to increase our granaries, larders, cellars, and pantries to nearly half capacity, even with all the extra mouths to feed. White Harbor is strong, so I must be strong for it.”

Arya smiled, affectionately this time. Wynny was one of the good ones.

“Well, he definitely has to go. Despite his insistence, he is certainly a slave-owner. I think he’s also planning to steal the silver from the vault in the Old Mint before he leaves, as he promised me a collar to remind me of home. Oh, but he wants to get a son out of you first, of course.”

“Of course,” she sighed. In High Valyrian, she asked, “And does he know you understood him?”

“Nope. He was as drunk as a monkey in a rum barrel,” she answered, swapping to the much more eloquent and formal second language of most nobility living along the Narrow Sea, although the phrase itself was coined by Braavosi sailors. Still much more pleasant on the ears than the bastard Tyroshi variant. She switched back to the common tongue. “I’m honestly surprised you weren’t able to get him to slip yourself. It wasn’t exactly difficult.”

“He expects it of me, unfortunately. He’ll all but fondle me in plain view of my household, but his lips are sealed on any matters of import, unless he’s asking for an official betrothal.”

Arya nodded, knowing the type. “Well, if you don’t think we can force a more public admittance of guilt, I suppose it will have to be an accident then.”

Wynafryd paused. “Arya…” she said, giving her a stern look.

“Oh piss off with that look Wynny, don’t think I haven’t figured out what your dear grandfather, Old Gods guide his soul, did to those troublesome Frey visitors you had a while back.”

The glare intensified. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. And please stop calling me Wynny, you know I hate that.”

“Sure,” said Arya, with a shrug. She didn’t feel like clarifying which statement she was agreeing to. “So anyway, ‘Master Mallequo’ is soon to find that unfortunately fatal accidents tend to happen to those who outstay their welcome in White Harbor. Terrible thing really, being allergic to shellfish.”

“That won’t work,” Wynafryd shook her head. “He’s already eaten oysters, clams, cockles, muscles, and crab since he’s been here.”

“Damn, you mermaids really do go all in on the theme, don’t you?”

“Wylla hated it. She’s very happy to be a Hornwood now.”

“I’m sure. But you’ve left off an important White Harbor delicacy that I guarantee he’s never had before – the waters are too warm in Tyrosh – lobster.”

The Lady made a face, looking quite like Sansa when she’d tasted coriander for the first time some moons back. “Delicacy? Surely you’re mad. Those sea roaches are only fit for the smallfolk to eat, and even they truss it up in spiced cream soup first.”

Arya scoffed. “No no, it’s all about presentation. Serve it still in the shell with the top charred and slather the whole thing in butter or something. You’ve really gotta sell it. They didn’t send their best and brightest; I guarantee none of his retinue will be any the wiser. Your courtiers can manage for an evening. And while it will be tragic, everyone knows that shellfish allergies are as deadly as they are unexpected and unpredictable.”

Wynafryd thought for a moment, knitting paused.

“You’re sure it will work?”

Arya absently thumbed the small vial of the strangler sitting in her pocket. “Absolutely.”

“Well, assuming things go off without a hitch, I’ll be in your debt.”

“Bollocks,” Arya corrected. “Hearth and heart and harvest, swords and spears were given. You are granted mercy, help, and justice. By earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire. It has been sworn.”

“By earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire,” Wynafryd Manderly repeated. “Well, at least let me offer you a bed and a real meal tonight. And despite everything, that Tyroshi pear brandy is actually quite delicious, if strong, so you really must try some. I’ll even send a bottle back to Winterfell with you. It’s the least I can do.”

“These words are accepted,” Arya answered, grinning. “I think your house-matron will quite miss Maryssa though. I didn’t realize my recommendations were so well received.”

“I’ll let her know that Maryssa was recalled to Winterfell, so there will be no slight,” Wynafryd promised.

“Oh, and get rid of your head footman,” Arya remembered. “He trusses up the serving women like whores. I trust you can devise your own solution for that?”

“Certainly,” Wynafryd grinned, dangerously.

=====

Arya enjoyed the ride back up the White Knife much more than she had the ride down, opting for only twelve hours per day of riding rather than sixteen. Even though the horses were all palfreys with nice ambling gaits available, riding at speed for so much of the day left one plenty sore.

The relay system had been Jon’s idea, based on a system he had been working on at the Wall once all the castles were manned before he had been… removed from command. Each station was placed about ten miles from the next and housed four palfreys (with plans to substitute them for garrons in the winter), ten draft horses, wheels, axels, spokes, nails, and the other materials needed to repair wagons, reins, saddles, saddlebags, harnesses, dried rations for one hundred person-days, grazing area for the horses, silos being filled with horse feed for the coming winter, access to either the White Knife itself or one of its tributary streams for water, and a stable hand to maintain the animals, along with lodging for their families. Four of the thirty-eight stations were larger, each also including an inn, a smithy, a farrier, and enough crofters to support food for the whole system, and a small keep to house the landed knights from White Harbor who oversaw each hamlet.

The whole endeavor was massively expensive, to the point that it was too early to tell whether or not it would remain a viable project, but the benefits were already apparent. It was just under four hundred miles from Winterfell to White Harbor, and the White Knife had too many falls and rapids to allow barges to pass. Trade from the most prosperous city in the North to its principle keep was always a slow, dangerous process that only worsened with the heavy winter snows. Hopefully, with the way station system that the smallfolk manning it were deeming ‘the Northern express’, cargo and riders could more easily move trade to the heart of their kingdom. If the system worked, Torrhen’s Square and Barrowton had both already expressed interest in forging their own routes in a similar style.

Even Arya had been surprised with the speed she made, both there and back, but she was more than happy to finally see the walls of her home rise from the grain fields as she crested the final hill. Taking care of her vassals was a chore done gladly, but the hole in her heart could only be filled by her family.

It felt impossible to believe how different things were for her than they had been just four years ago. She had been no one, and now she was Arya Stark. And not just Arya Stark the badass warrior of her childhood fantasies, but Arya Stark the skin-changer, Arya Stark the Master of Winterfell (a title she chose for herself, Sansa already being indisputably Winterfell’s Lady and Jon its Lord, and she certainly wasn’t going to be known as its mistress), Arya Stark the sister, Arya Stark the wife, and Arya Stark the mother. It felt good to be able to use her own name for each role of her life, a concept which had been all but driven out from her in her time studying to be an assassin. It felt good to belong.

It also felt good to be someone else for just a bit, loathe as she was to admit it. While she would never trade Maryssa’s life for her own, it felt like looking across a lake and seeing a version of herself that might have been. Mayhaps living the life of a servant or a crofter would be more appealing if there wasn’t the threat of rape even in the most supposedly civilized areas. She would need to discuss that more with Jon and Sansa. Surely they could do better.

The whole situation still made her shiver if she thought on it too hard. Even knowing what using the sweetsleep powder would entail did not stop it from being abhorrently unpleasant. If she had been able to turn it into a lip coloring of some sort she would have been able to administer it with just a kiss, but then there would have been no way of avoiding the poison herself. Only an idiot would think poisoning someone with a kiss was a good idea. Far worse though was the feeling of the Tyroshi’s greasy fingers rubbing her asshole, trying to worm their way inside her. She supposed it was lucky he didn’t try for her cunt, but that didn’t reassure her. By whose right did that Tyroshi slave-fucker think he could claim her ass? Her ass belonged to Jon and Sansa. They loved her ass. And Malle-what’s-his-name had the audacity to think that he would be the first one to fuck it? The thought had Arya simmering with rage.

Rage that she put aside as she finally guided her palfrey through the Wintertown gate and to the stables. The stable hands recognized her immediately, riding being in her top three favorite activities for entertainment behind playing with her family’s children and fucking her siblings. She bounded up the stairs to the family wing to hopefully engage in at least one of them before dinner tonight.

She found her family all together in the nursery. A pang shot through her at the site of them, Jon and Sansa looking like the perfect happy couple watching over their growing brood. Dark thoughts slithered through her mind, whispering to her that she didn’t belong here, but they were banished once her arrival was noticed and met with a horde of smiling faces, big and small.

“Arya!”

“Wow, you’re already back?”

“Mama!” “Mamama!” “Ma!”

Arya would never get tired of hearing that chorus.

Edwyn talked so much now that it was difficult to get a word in edge-wise, a truly precocious two-year-old, and fierce little Lya babbled like it was her mission to keep up with him. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t have a favorite among the three.

“Ma!” Aemon said again, before doing something she’d never seen him do before. Pulling on a toy chest, her little boy got his feet under him and teetered toward her, one fat-footed step at a time.

She dove to her knees with her arms out wide and caught him just as he began to topple over, pulling his chubby face against her chest and snuggling him, making sure to get a good whiff of his sweet curly baby hair.

“Mmm, Mama missed you so much!” she sing-songed, hugging her little wolf tight. “And you’re walking! So strong. I’m very proud,” she praised, peppering him with kisses while he giggled. Soon the other two children toppled her in a dog-pile of hugs – wolf-pile? It didn’t have the same ring to it, but it would definitely annoy Jon and Sansa… she’d have to work on it – allowing her to drown in kisses and greetings, her favorite way to spend a day.

Much later, after dinner and bedtime, Arya finally found time to catch up with her spouses and explain what happened at White Harbor… leaving out a few details which they didn’t necessarily need to know. She worried sometimes about the importance of full honesty, and she would always tell them the truth if they asked directly, but they trusted her completely and some things were best left out of mind. Instead she regaled them of the success of the Northern express, the desperate need to find Wynny a good husband, and her thoughts on the sorry state of the safety of women in general which needed a firm solution.

The night wore on, and as usual with the three of them together, they ended up grouped closer and closer together, light touches became more frequent, jokes became a bit more breathy, and delicious feelings of intimacy permeated the room. As they divested each other of their clothing, a thought from earlier in the day crept back into Arya’s thoughts, planting a seed which grew and grew throughout the wonderfully exfoliating scrub Jon gave her while Sansa did her hair in the bath. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she repeated to herself until she finally worked up the courage to ask.

======

“Jon,” his sister started abruptly. If he didn’t know any better, he would say her cheeks were more flushed than usual, although that was more likely just the heat from the bathwater. “I want you to fuck my ass tonight.”

He paused the motions of the sponge against her svelte leg and tried to make sense of what he just heard. While unexpected, he would be lying if he said the offer wasn’t appealing in its own way. “Really?”

“Yup,” was all she offered in reply, eyes closed as Sansa used a basin to rinse her hair. Despite continuing said motion mechanically, Sansa’s eyes had widened in shock.

“What brought this on, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Arya took a moment to answer. “Does it truly matter?”

“… No, I suppose not,” Jon relented.

“Wait… what?” his older wife stuttered, hands still rinsing the younger’s curls but now seeming to finally process the conversation. “People do that?”

“Yeah. Especially in brothels,” Arya replied with a sigh. “There’d be even more bastards running around if they didn’t.”

“It’s true Sansa. Theon bragged about it once or twice. For some whores it was cheaper than their cunt,” Jon clarified, then begrudgingly added, “It was also how some brothers of the Night’s Watch… satisfied each other.”

Sansa’s cheeks bloomed a fetching rosy color at the thought. Despite the normalization of their routine debauchery, not even a tenth of which would have given Septa Mordane an apoplexy, she was still prone to occasional bouts of innocence such as this, the product of her more formal youth. “Oh,” she said, contemplating this revelation. “And it feels good for the… recipient?”

“So I’ve heard,” Arya answered. Jon nodded in agreement.

“Well, we’ll have to make sure you’re clean then, won’t we?” Sansa stated primly.

Arya cracked an eye open at that. “Huh?”

“Jon, once you’re done scrubbing her legs can you turn her over so you can clean her asshole? I would hate for your cock to get… soiled.”

The situation was so unexpected that he burst into a fit of laughter, which Arya joined half a second later. Sansa harrumphed and pretended to be put out, but was forced to admit the humor in it once Arya copied request in her Sansa-voice, over-emphasizing Sansa’s mannerisms and playing up the formality as much as possible. After getting the giggles out, Arya conceded that some preparation actually did sound like a good idea.

And so it was that Jon found himself kneeling beside a bath tub, using a course sponge to gently scrub his sister’s ass, cheeks and hole and all.

“You’ll have to clean deeper too, Jon,” Sansa chided him as he pulled away. “That’s right Jon. Clean me out,” Arya agreed, shaking her hips back and forth, sloshing the water near the top of her thighs and making her buttocks glisten in the suds.

“You two will be the death of me,” Jon answered, cock already thick and throbbing against his thigh as Sansa gently stroked it, her other hand rolling one of Arya’s nipples. “One day they’ll find my corpse as dry as a husk, I swear it.”

“But with a smile plastered permanently on your face,” Arya teased. “Now come on, don’t keep me waiting until the bath water gets cold.”

Careful not to startle her, despite her confidence, Jon ran his hands up the inside of her thighs, lightly grazing the outer lips of her cunt with the backs of his fingers before curving under the round swell of her bottom prying it apart. He had touched, rubbed, and even licked her crinkly pucker before, but this would be the first time he ever penetrated it. Keeping one hand to hold her open for him, he dipped the other into the soapy water to coat it with suds and pressed it firmly against its destination. The pressure built and built, but the stubborn hole held tightly shut. Arya started whining.

“It’s alright Arya,” Sansa soothed her, still tweaking her chest. “Is your big brother’s finger too big?”

“Feels like his fucking cock already.”

“Maybe you need me to loosen you up first instead? Clean you out for your big brother?”

“Oh fuck – fuck, yes, that sounds great,” she moaned.

Reluctantly, Jon removed his finger and shuddered as Sansa released his cock from her caress. Rather than go straight for Arya’s ass, which he knew she absolutely appreciated at least as much as him, she started by running her fingers through the pink folds Arya’s cunt to stroke her pearl. Jon took himself in hand, slow and loose so he didn’t spill, as he observed the tantalizing sight.

Arya’s keen cries escalated quickly as her sister teased her clit, and it wasn’t long before she began to tremble. While not a mind-shattering orgasm, Jon was fascinated to notice contractions of the muscles around her cunt and asshole, clenching and releasing to milk an absent cock. Oh how he wished he could fill her like her body craved.

Instead, Sansa took the opportunity from him, quickly coating her own finger in soapy water and wriggling it into her puckering, spasming hole while it was loose and needy. Arya’s light and airy squeals deepened as Sansa pushed in further, twisting her finger about. She pulled it all the way out and rinsed her whole hand in the bath water before quickly re-inserting herself, this time using her slightly longer middle finger to reach even deeper. She repeated the process a few more times before escalating again, this time with two fingers at once.

“Uugggh, fuck!” Arya called out, loosing more and more exclamations as Sansa focused less on ‘cleaning’ and more on driving her fingers in and out of Arya’s ass like a small, dainty cock. “Rub the wall near my cunt more, that feels so fucking good!”

Judging by sounds of her escalating pleasure, Sansa had complied. Jon noted that for when it was finally his turn. Even with only gentle touches against his cock, he already felt nearly finished. He stopped his motions lest he un-man himself, and decided to reward Sansa for all her hard work by teasing between her legs instead. “Jonnn…” she protested, in the tone she used to rile them up. “You’re making it hard to concentrate…”

“As if you’re not being a little tease right now, trying to be so prim and proper while fucking your sister’s ass,” he growled into her ear. Sansa’s breathing deepened. “Have you thought about this before? You’ve always been jealous of her ass. Does it feel good to fuck it?”

Both of them groaned in response.

“You know Sansa, your ass is just as fuckable,” Jon continued. He pulled his finger out of her cunt and began to rub circles around her own trembling crinkled hole. “Maybe after I’m done with Arya, you’d want to try it out yourself?”

“Noooo…” she moaned again. “I’m not ready for that yet Jonnn…”

Jon always assumed he wanted strong, confident women. And he did, Sansa and Arya both exhibited those qualities without reservation. But Sansa had found that she enjoyed sometimes playing the reluctant, demurring lady. A needy little thing that was contrary and coy. It was a parody of what she was expected to become in her childhood and adolescence, and she described it as a way to take control over part of her memories in which she felt powerless. And Jon found that he quite liked that kind of woman too, at least when it was one of his sisters, because he knew they didn’t need to depend on him, but they wanted to. The absolute trust they had that he would take care of them drove him wild.

“Maybe later then,” he said, nipping at her ear. With the hand not teasing Sansa’s ass, he slapped Arya’s to make it glow red. “Do you think this one is ready for me instead?”

“Fuck yes it is,” Arya gasped, her belly flexing and contracting in heavy bursts. She twisted, popping Sansa’s fingers out of her ass and dipping her body one last time under the water for a final rinse. Jon helped Sansa off the floor, but they both paused as Arya burst out of the water and shook out her hair in a display of lithe, muscular glory.

They toweled each other off, teasing and pinching all the while to keep the mood light, and eventually stumbled together into their bed. After some negotiation and bargaining, they eventually decided on a position for their first attempt.

Sansa pulled Arya into a kiss, tongues immediately wrestling each other, and used her momentum to pull Arya further on top of her, cradled between her succulent thighs. Arya bracketed her legs around her sister’s hips, exposing both of their slick pink cunts for his appreciation. The brunette snuck fingers down between them to tease Sansa’s clit across her flaming minge, while Sansa lost herself playing with Arya’s ass and occasionally teasing her fingers across the ultimate destination of the night.

Not wanting to be left out, Jon laid on his stomach between them and burred his face between his younger sister’s cheeks. They had experimented with this previously, and Jon put his findings from those experiences into practice by alternating his tongue’s attention between her asshole and her cunt. He could immediately notice the difference made by their earlier attempts at preparation – the taught round muscle was more relaxed than he’d ever felt it. Still, from what little Jon had overheard about this process, he knew over-preparation would be better than the contrary, so he devoted himself to he pleasure.

It could have been hours that Jon spent kneeling behind his little sister, although it was likely only minutes. His hands wandered and his tongue kept licking ass to cunt to ass again. He grasped her taught buttocks, framed her wide hips, teased her nubby clit, and blindly caressed Sansa’s thighs and cunt and ass too to make sure she felt just as loved.

The fire-kissed sister was the first one to climax, overwhelmed as she was by Arya’s constant teasing and mixed with Jon’s intermittent and surprising attentions. As she moaned into her sister’s mouth and thrashed under her strong legs, Jon reared himself up and slotted his now weeping cockhead into her leaking, spasming cunt, which only served to driver her deeper into her abyss of pleasure.

Driving into her tight cunt and feeling the smack of his stones against the plump cheeks of her ass was heavenly, but as much as he wanted to seed her as he had nightly for the past week he had instead been charged with a mission. Satisfied that his cock was coated in enough of Sansa’s juices, he ripped it out of her and hauled himself up the stack. The older sister recovered as best she could, which was just enough to pull Arya’s delicious succulent cheeks apart so he could plop his cock against the hole they had spent so much time preparing.

The flow of moans between sisters reversed as Sansa’s orgasm finally completed and Jon began the agonizing process of penetrating Arya’s ass for the very first time.

Despite the all their efforts cleaning, teasing, kissing, licking, and preparing, the ring of muscle guarding her rear entrance did so zealously. However, unlike his earlier attempt with a finger, his cock now had the benefit of two forms of natural lubrication, his pre-cum and Sansa’s own orgasmic juices. Slowly but steadily, his cock delved to new depths in Arya’s nubile form. Barely the head was in, and the intense pressure had already peeled his foreskin as far back as it would go along his shaft. Jon had to crouch on the balls of his feet to get a better angle, remembering Arya’s earlier comment about the pleasure being the strongest when stimulated against what must be the back wall of her cunt inside her body. He gripped the top of her hips for balance, pulling her against his pelvis with constant pressure.

“Oh fuck Arya – Others take me, your ass is incredible, fuck!” Jon grunted, losing the battle to keep his sanity amid the overwhelming pleasure of the experience.

“Uuunngghh,” was her eloquent reply, muffled as it was by Sansa’s mouth. “Fuck you feel big, fucking twice as big as normal, holy shit, holy shit,” Arya continued, panting between breaths. Jon noticed sweat starting to bead across her back from her efforts, and licked up along her spine to taste it. This generated even more incomprehensible babbling and a sudden relaxation of her hole, causing him to nearly fall forward and crush the two of them as her ass all but sucked his cock further in.

Jon made the mistake of looking down at where they were now fully joined, Jon’s cock harder than steel as it was padded on either side by the globes of her butt compressed against his hips. His whole body throbbed at the visual, and combined with the heat of her insides and the absolute illicitness of the act his stones threatened to violently disgorge everything they had then and there. It was sheer will-power that kept him intact so that he could give Arya her wish and fuck her ass.

“Sansa, rub her clit.”

“Mm-hmm!” Sansa moaned in agreement, her mouth still occupied. One of Sansa’s hands continued to caress Arya’s thick butt, but the other dipped between the two and presumably began to follow his command. Jon didn’t wait a moment longer to begin pistoning out of the tightest hole he’d ever fucked. While her cunt was tighter at it’s deepest parts, the muscle of her puckering orifice strangled his cock like a noose.

She also felt deeper like this – normally penetrating the hole way into either of their cunts would find the head of his cock kissing a cervix, and pounding that spot too hard or fast could become quickly sensitive or overwhelming. There was no such barrier in these uncharted depths, allowing Jon to truly let go of all of his inhibitions to slam himself home time and time again.

The night was catching up to Arya, her gasps and moans becoming prolonged into a never ending stream of profanity and pleasure. Finally she snapped, liquid squirting out of her cunt to drench his bollocks and thighs and asshole seizing him so tight that the skin of his cock could not longer move, becoming locked in place forcing his hardness to pull against it with each thrust. Jon lasted only seconds longer before he too exploded, claiming the last frontier of his younger sister for himself with his thick, burning seed.

Neither Jon nor Arya were able to support themselves as pleasure wracked their bodies, and both ended up collapsed on top of Sansa in a naked pile of orgasming Starks. Thank the gods the servants are used to hearing our antics at this point.

“That looked like it felt so fucking good Arya,” Sansa cooed. “Did he do a good job?”

“Uh-huh,” Arya forced out, still notably out of breath, which was not helped by her head being stuck between Sansa’s heaving breasts and Jon’s own muscular chest. “Fucking fantastic. You sure you don’t want a try?”

Sansa glanced up at Jon with her sweet river-blue eyes and bit her lip, clearly considering it, but eventually demurred. “Not tonight at least. I think I’ll want more… preparation than you had. It’s definitely not a ‘no’ though!”

“That’s the spirit!” said Arya. “That was exactly what I needed though. Thanks for making it so special, guys.”

“Anytime, Arya.”

“We love you.”

“Best family ever.”

Chapter Text

It was Sansa’s day presiding over the Wolves’ Court as the petitioners had begun to call it, and despite the busy of procession men and women from all around their kingdom whom she had heard, the matter of it was that the work was not even half done and she was already tired of dealing with other people’s shit.

The work was valuable. She took her family’s charge over them as a responsibility, to keep them safe, see to their justice, and improve their lives.

She was good at it. Although Jon technically had the bronze and iron crown of the North fitted to his regal brow, they had agreed to share power equally, even literally so as far as the crown was concerned so that petitioners who know that the voice coming down from the stone dais at Winterfell spoke with authority. And though Jon and Arya were both frightfully clever in their own ways, Sansa knew that she had the most discernment and patience for political games between them.

But what truly drove her mad, what made her wish to be more like her more martial siblings, was perfectly encapsulated in situations like the one before her now.

“I apologize Magnar Garung, I must have misheard you,” she spoke into the now silent hall. She channeled the tone her mother had used to address her now-husband in their childhood, finding it had the perfect amount of ice to strike fear into the weak-hearted and give the bolder ones at least some pause in their actions. She never realized how frightening it was back then, the wrath never being directed at her in particular, but Jon and Arya both recalled it with clarity and confirmed that her imitation was flawless. “Again I ask, what brings you before the Stark of Winterfell?”

The man in question glared at her for a moment, then allowed a gnarly smirk to blossom across his face, asymmetric and scarred from frostbite. He looked around the room, making a show of it, though for what audience she couldn’t discern. He likely saw allies in those gathered from the enfeoffed free folk clans of the Thenns, Shieldbreakers, and White Masks. Perhaps he even saw kindred a kindred spirit in The Knott himself, who had descended from his mountain home to ask for a charter to mine a newly discovered iron vein, but was dressed in furs and leathers rather than wool or cloth and perhaps looked more free folk than Knott.

I swear to all the gods, I will strangle Arya for what she has done to my sense of humor.

Unfortunately confirming all of her expectations, the Magnar of the Garungs circled back to her and spit a red and brown glob of phlegm onto the step leading up to her throne. His teeth were stained from sourleaf, once again flowing up the kingsroad in trade. Given that he still had most of them, the disgusting habit was surely a new one.

“The Stark of Winterfell? I no Stark of Winterfell see. Only woman. Magnar morag smegmo den. Morag sygerrik wun.”

Sansa saw red. “Morag oldtun spek! Morag magnar wun!”

Whereas her earlier question had silenced the room, her declaration in the Old Tongue sent a flurry of whispers susurrating around the hall. Even those few words made her voice feel hoarse, the sounds required more guttural than common, but she had said them with a straight face and did her best to bluff against her discomfort. The subtle nod of approval from Morna Whitemask gave her the confidence she needed to press forward.

“In Winterfell we speak the common tongue, but the Starks are of the North and speak in the old ways too,” she scolded, voice stern. It was a bold statement to make, as Sansa truly only knew a few hundred words. The best among them was Jon, who could be generously be referred to as conversational, and even then he never had the knack for their strange word order. Having seen how effective Arya was when she utilized her mastery of Valyrian, Sansa had been taking lessons with one of the free folk turned stewards exactly for situations like this. “There is but one crown of bronze and iron, and you see it on my brow. Petition me, or be gone lest you further fowl my hall.”

Queen slipped through the doors, sensing her frustration but keeping near the hearths for now. Sansa shouldn’t need her to manage this, but her presence did bring her courage. I am a wolf, and I am in my den. Perhaps the Lannisters have it right – hear me roar.

The man growled in frustration. “Why I to you listen? See?”, he exclaimed, indicating to his marred face. “Others this give. I Others fight. What scars you have?” He spit again, and restated with emphasis, “Why I to you listen?”

Sansa kept her eyes locked on his as the options flashed within her mind.

She could accept the indignity – maintain her armor of courtesy and keep his words from reaching her heart, and demure the matter to her husband, confirming the Magnar’s view of her role as a subservient extension, but never an equal. Mother’s way.

She could force him to comply – have the guards force him to his knees and smack him with each new utterance of disrespect. Perhaps have him flogged at sunset as an example to others. Cersei’s way.

She could smile and agree with him – bribe him or seduce him or control that which he desires, and use those advantages to their maximum extent until finally stabbing him in the back once his usefulness had waned. Petyr’s way.

Or, she could do it her way.

She stood up and stepped forward to the edge of the raised platform.

“Daisy, please attend to me,” she asked, knowing her attendant would come with all haste. She kept her gaze trailed on Magnar Garung, keeping his attention as Queen snuck closer, only a contingency plan at the moment. The man broke first, eyes pulled to the not-quite-flowered brunette who approached her side.

Sansa turned as well, gave her a warm smile and clasped her hand, hopefully imparting just how serious she was with a squeeze when she made her demand. “Daisy, please unlace my dress and shift. The girl’s eyes widened and she tried to pull her arm away, but another squeeze from Sansa froze her in place long enough for logic to take over once again. “Aye, m’lady.”

The crowd protested with exclamations of confusion and disbelief as she turned around, presenting her back to scores of courtiers. She rolled her head and pulled her hair over her left shoulder, focusing on the springy red waves to distract herself as Daisy obeyed, methodically undoing the laces of her dress, red with gray and blue trimming and embroidery today. It had been one of her mother’s, found hidden away in a storage room, but she allowed it to be pulled away from her. She will forever be grateful to her mother, but that’s not who she needs to be right now.

Daisy dutifully pulled the dress off her shoulders after untying the lace down to the level of her hips, and Sansa held the front to her chest to maintain her modesty. The shouting grew into a dull roar as Daisy started again with the laces of the top of her shift. She felt more than heard the guards step across the room, stopping those foolish enough to approach in a misguided attempt to protect her virtue.

It’s far too late for that, she thought sadly. Where were you when I was three and ten Ultimately, she cared not for their protection, as she had learned long ago that the only one who could truly protect her was herself. Not with a sword, or a dagger – though she did carry one strapped to the inside of her thigh most all the time now – but with her mind, and in the choices she made in who to trust and how to position them to her benefit.

“Magnar Garung!” She shouted over the din, looking over her right shoulder until his eyes crept up her body back to her own. Mercifully, the crowd quieted, not wishing to miss whatever the point of this spectacle would be. “If scars are strength, how many scars do you have?”

“I four scars,” he answered, and to his credit she notices the flicker of recognition in his face and body. He is anticipating what he will see. With her next move, she’ll win – her strength will be unimpeachable, and his respect will be hers. Loyalty will come later. Respect must come first.

“Daisy, please show Magnar Garung my back,” she says, although she knows her voice doesn’t project the way she wishes it would. Even though it’s correct, even though she wins, it’s still difficult. Painful. Shameful, she might have once thought – but now she knows well that the shame isn’t hers to bear.

The hand maiden pulls at her shift, exposing the fine lace of disrupted, gnarled skin spanning her back from shoulders to waist. Ser Boros Blount had neglected to remove his gauntlets when he beat her bloody to meet out Joffrey’s punishment for Robb’s victory at Oxcross. His first blow was to her belly, and she had curled around herself in pain leaving primarily her naked back exposed to his aggressions. The knuckles had been spiked, carving gouges of flesh out of her with each blow. She doesn’t remember much of the aftermath – Tyrion had her dragged away, and a maester had done his best to clean her up, but the marks remained.

“Sixty-seven scars!” she proclaimed, glaring at the recalcitrant petitioner over her shoulder. “Morag magnar wun mag wun. I am strong. Magnar duc spek, duc magnar nag.”

Petty lords and merchants, servants and smallfolk watched entranced at their interaction. Sansa maintained her focus on the chieftain, waiting his response. She could not break. The man’s eyes seemed wider than coins as he traced each line. Her first thought was that he leered the feminine curves now exposed along with her scars, Jon and Arya having long ago succeeded in convincing her that they did not mar her beauty in the slightest. But there was concentration, not desire. Like a man seeing a map for the first time and staring at it in wonder has his whole world was but a fraction of the larger whole. He was studying each mark, counting them, to be sure he was not setting his pride aside for nothing.

Finally, he closed his eyes and spoke. “Magnar spek, ich nag. Magnar ich… forgive.”

It was enough.

Sansa nodded to Daisy, who snapped at a guard and soon enough a cloak was thrown over her shoulders.

“You are forgiven, for you did not know. You will not be forgiven for such behavior again,” she intoned. “Now tell me, what do you need from House Stark?”

======

The Magnar’s petition was heard, and he was invited to feast with them this evening as a way to restore his honor. Sansa couldn’t let such a dressing down, both figurative and literal (Damnit, Arya!), fester into insult when it was not meant to be. She recognized how radically different the free folk’s lives had become in this new North, and integration required graciousness. Despite his initial response, he had made the effort – coming to Winterfell for justice rather than forming his own warband, doing his best to speak the Common Tongue even though he was far from fluent. She efforts deserved a reward.

She heard a few petitions after his too, to show others that such an unprecedented display did not rattle her. She could not display weakness.

But rattled she was, in her heart of hearts. So once the court was dismissed to make way for the midday meal, and her shift and dress had been redone to her satisfaction, she left the keep in search of someone to calm the tremors still coursing through her limbs and still the hummingbird thrumming of her heart.

Queen stalked her prey ahead of her coming, demonstrating the effectiveness of hunting in packs. Her quarry was unknowingly cornered even before her arrival.

“Jon!” she called to her husband, distracting him in the middle of removing his light armor. He had been training in the yard this morning, first drilling the garrison then transitioning to individual sparring with the lords, heirs, and captains of the various retinues currently visiting their home. His endeavors left his cheeks flushed and his hair and skin slick with sweat. She had made it to him just in time – any longer, and the stench would start to foul, but freshly exerted he smelt masculine and home. “Pants off. Now!”

“Sansa, wha–”

“Did I stutter?” she demanded, closing the gap between them and tugging at his belt and quickly removing it to get to the ties underneath.

“Oh fuck,” he murmured when she dropped to her knees in front of him. After an eternity of digging, she found her treasure, already throbbing and engorging for her with each steady pulse of his heart.

Dissatisfied with his incomplete response to her, Sansa enveloped the head of his cock. She pursed her lips around the tip, peeling back the foreskin to expose his sensitive glans to the attack of her tongue. Jon’s hips stuttered in front of her, and groans slipped out of him as she made languid circles around him.

Although the flesh in her mouth remained pliant, it expanded further with each tease and stroke until even light pressure from her lips pulled the skin taught over the hardness beneath. She began to bob her head, coating him with saliva and shifting her tongue to tickle the area just below his tip, and was rewarded with a slightly tangy taste and the feeling of her husband’s thick fingers carding through her hair, now bereft of any remaining training garments thus letting her feel his delicious fingernails scratching at her scalp.

Just as he started to apply a bit more force to his grasps, trying to plant himself deeper in her throat, she tapped on his hip and pulled herself back with a final glurrk.

“Jon, I need you now,” she whined. She wiped an escaping bit of drool on her sleeve.

He panted for a moment, his heated gaze both plaintive and ravenous, and it made her nearly complete. So nearly, all it took was his sculpted arms hoisting her up under her knees and his thick cock slotting inside her cunt for her to finish.

She was strong in front of the lords. A crowned queen to her subjects. A morag magnar – woman lord – to the free folk. Someone scarred from hardship, a survivor, a victor.

But she was also a woman, who occasionally enjoyed getting fucked.

“Gods, Sansa, you’re on a hair-trigger. What’s gotten into you today?” Jon asked as he fucked her through her orgasm.

“Mmmmmmmnnnnnnmmm,” she responded as best she could. Thick hands gripped her buttocks tighter, forcing her ass to slap against his carved abdominal muscles and the masculine cords with wet plaps. She was already leaking so much that her skirts were likely stained, and possibly ruined. A small price to pay for such pleasure. Feeling that he was busy, she slipped one of her hands out of his hair and slid her own thin digits down between their bodies to pull her smallclothes further aside and stimulate her pearl. “Talk later. Fuck me, please,” she forced out between gasps.

“Sansa, gods, fuck!” he growled into her hair. His chest rumbled, which flared the warmth building once again low in her belly.

Reality began to fall away. The searing length of his cock coaxed the warmth at her center to spread further, out and out and out and out. Slick skin slapped and pulled and slapped again. Her nose was filled with the scent of primal exertion, and her ears the grunts of his mounting tension. She needed his tension, need the strength by which he held it. Need the physical strength of his body, and the focused strength of his mind.

“Give me your seed Jon,” she forced out between them, eyes shut tight to hold onto her own tension just a bit longer. “Fill me with you. I need you.”

His non-verbal exclamation of climax surrounded her, encapsulating them in a singular perfect moment. She snuck his seed out from him, her womb hiding it greedily from the world of her own secret use. She could feel it, filling the void inside her and giving her much needed peace.

Their breaths evened out slowly, and Sansa was grateful that Jon didn’t set her down immediately as she was entirely sure that she would not be able to stand on her own. Moreover, she enjoyed these intimate moments with him.

“I decided to show the court my back,” she told him softly, able to explain her aberrant behavior now that the god’s own itch had been scratched. “The Magnar of the Garungs was being… difficult, and I saw a way to win and took it.”

Jon breathed against her neck as he processed the information, seeming to turn it over slowly in his own recovering mind until his cock softened and slid out of her. Sansa clenched her pelvic muscles, and moved her smallclothes quickly back into place, jealously guarding every drop of him.

“That can’t have been easy to do,” he finally replied. He set her down gently. Once sure she would stand, he helped straighten her skirts and then captured her face, pulling her in for a short but deliciously possessive kiss. “Did it work?”

“Yes.”

He smiled so much it crinkled the skin around his eyes. The wrinkles would some day be visible all the time, and the thought of it made Sansa smile back. Lord Crow with his own crow’s feet. “Of course it did.” He kissed her again, sweetly this time. “Do you need anything else from me?”

“Always,” she answered. “But nothing more right now. Thank you, husband mine.”

======

Sansa danced a flighty jig with the Garung Magnar as her partner. Her ladies had convinced him to bathe in one of Winterfell’s many hot pools, and the knots had been cut from his beard. He cleaned up nicely, and was a courteous enough dancer when plied with mead.

This was a skill that only she had, among the three of them. Jon drew so many disparate factions together with his skill and achievements, and Arya kept them honest and in line with her disarming friendliness paired with a touch of spycraft when needed. But Sansa was absolutely the best among them at making sure their subjects felt seen, and heard, and sheltered. At incorporating all of them neatly into the fold, of fostering and protecting and growing the new identity of their fledgling country.

Cersei saw fealty as a way to dominate her subjects. Petyr saw a way to manipulate those too weak or impotent to seize power for themselves. But to Sansa, fealty meant a commitment to support and honor those sworn to them, so they would receive the same in return. Hearth and hall and harvest, for mercy and help and justice. Need for need, a relationship of different privileges but similar dignity.

Some women would think her mad, to dance with one who was not long before considered a savage. Others might judge her for cavorting with a man not her husband. For her part, Sansa just enjoyed dancing. Although, a small part of her she preferred to hide away crowed at how close her partner’s hands were to her husband’s essence whenever they wrapped around her waist.

Ultimately, her husband new her heart and did not criticize her methods. He trusted her, and gave her what she needed to succeed on her own terms, be it space or seed or love or time.

Chapter Text

“Jon.”

From the depths of slumber, Jon’s consciousness registered the whisper. Knowing it probably only meant trouble, he did his best to ignore it and drift back into his dream – the contents of which were already forgotten.

“Jon, you awake?”

He did his best not to move, hoping against hope that he could fool her. He should have known better.

“I know you’re awake Jon, your breathing changed,” she said, voice remaining a low whisper close to his ear so as to avoid waking up their third bedmate – a courtesy she clearly didn’t extend to him.

“Well, I’m awake now Arya,” Jon puffed out, doing his best to keep his own voice low. “What do you want?”

“Can’t sleep.”

Grey eyes finally opened to look see their twin pair peering at him through the dark night, hungry and enthralling. There was hardly any light in the room – the fire was down to dull embers, the torches extinguished, and a new moon meant only faint starlight trickled through the curtained window.

“You woke me up… because you couldn’t sleep?” he asked, patience thin. Sleep had been hard for all of them lately, for more reasons than one. She had the decency to look guilty, albeit just a little.

Then she grinned. “I guess you’ll have to punish me.”

Jon was tired, grumpy, and more than a little sore from the fun he and his wives had earlier in the night. Satisfying two women was exhausting, doubly so with both their appetites whetted by their wolves going into heat this week. It turned out that Jon wasn’t the only skin-changer affected by the moods of a partner animal… or perhaps Arya and Sansa just wanted an excuse to demand more sex. While he knew he shouldn’t complain about it, the temptation existed, only held in check by the knowledge that none of his men would have any sympathy whatsoever to his plight.

Then again, Arya only talked that way in particular when she wanted it rough.

Sleep-addled and frustrated, Jon expended the minimum amount of brain power necessary. Quick as his body would allow, he pinned her to the bed with a hand around her neck. His other hand yanked a leg to the side to open her up for him, allowing him to delve his fingers into her glistening cunt.

Jon didn’t want to waste time. He squeezed his thumb against the pulse point on the side of her neck, taking care not to compress the other side or her airway just as she had taught him, while his right hand frigged two fingers against the top wall of the inside of her cunt as fast as he could while his thumb mashed her clit. Arya quickly began to tremble under him, and her faced flushed from his efforts. She slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the moans that he ripped from her body, until her eyes rolled back and her body convulsed.

Before she even finished her climax, Jon picked her up, flipped her over, shoved her head into the goose-down pillow as hard as he could without hurting her, tamed her writhing hips with his other hand, and slammed his straining shaft inside her clenching, dripping sex. Arya’s slick outer entrance parted quickly, still flexing and relaxing in her ecstasy, but her natural juices were concentrated to the front of her channel so barely halfway in the loose skin of his cock pulled tight. The sensitive head telescoped out of its covering and was immediately compressed by her secretive inner depths, just barely fitting all the way inside her.

Jon balanced precariously above her, one hand holding her head face-down and the other gripped tight at her waste while his hips pounded down into hers without restraint. All attempts at discretion or moderating the noises of their pleasure were gone from his mind – and apparently Arya’s. Her ragged screams laced with occasional profanity were only barely muffled by the pillow, and grew louder as Jon strained himself to increase the speed and force as much as possible.

“Is this what you wanted, little wolf-bitch?” Jon growled at her. “You wanted me to claim you? To force you to submit!?”

“Hhhnnnggh!” was the only sound that escaped Arya’s writhing form. Absently, Jon noted that the involuntary muscle movements from her first orgasm hadn’t ever stopped. He fucked her even harder.

His needy little sister had been a ball of conflicting instincts and emotions for a while now. Nymeria and Queen were both frequently seen biting at Ghost’s scruff, teasing him to mate them once again, which explained why they were all so particularly horny recently. However, unlike the more demure russet-red direwolf who was happy to be taken, Nymeria was just as likely to wrestle Ghost away as let him mount her. Like wolf, like warg. Arya had been demanding sex almost constantly, but yet she had not let him release inside her in days – something about a shortage of silphium. Instead Jon had been spilling every load into their sister, who was now happily late in her courses.

The muscular cheeks of her ass compressed against his hips with every thrust. His balls, which had been completely emptied into Sansa earlier in the evening, were rapidly filling back up, eager to seed the younger Stark sister who had for so long denied him. Now she was trembling and pliant beneath him, and the base of his cock scraped tight against her pubic bone with each hard thrust, stimulated him further and further.

Leaning down as best he could without restricting his lower body’s efforts, muscles aching with the effort, he growled into her ear and bit at the fleshy little lobe that dangled from the bottom of it. She gasped.

Arya thrashed against him and screamed loud enough to wake the dead from the depths of the crypts.

His whole body burned with exertion as he fucked her through it, never relenting his absolute dominance over her svelte frame. He pressed his hips down, scraping his cock against the front wall of her vagina while plundering its depths. The friction was enough to get the familiar burning sensation to start at the base pelvis, his balls tightening up and–

Jon was flat on his back, cock wet and bobbing in time with his pulse in the air of their chambers, cold compared to the clutching fire of Arya’s heat. His stones, cruelly interrupted before their moment of triumph, clutched tight in painful retribution for the lack of relief.

“Not– not– not–,” Arya kept starting, still gasping for breath as she curled into a tortuous ball and rolled around their bed until she was sufficiently buried in the furs. “Not inside– not inside right now.”

“Seriously Arya, what the fuck?” Jon begged. He pressed his fingers tight against his scalp and combed them through his sweaty hair. His mind felt as frayed as his muscles, strained with effort and nowhere to exert it.

His little sister-turned cousin stroked a hand softly against his cheek to get his attention.

“Thanks big brother,” she told him. “Love you.”

She kissed him, soft and sweet.

Then her eyes closed and she drifted quickly into a peaceful sleep, the beast sated for now.

Leaving Jon wide awake, incredibly horny, and feeling like he just got punched in the gut by a giant. He was still hard, but Arya’s fluids were already drying on his shaft, adding one more barrier between him and release.

He pulled another pillow over his face and groaned. He kept it there, soft feathers covered in linen adding an additional veil to the darkness of the room and allowing him the mental distance to attempt to calm his tense body.

Fortunately, he needn’t have bothered.

A warm mouth quickly slurped his cock into its depths, the moist heat a soothing balm against the harsh cold night, like stepping out of a blizzard and into the warm, safe walls of Winterfell. Jon moaned with gratitude, and was answered with a faint hum by his savior.

A strong tongue coiled up, down, and around his shaft, prodding gently along it to gather whatever taste of slick was left on him by his little sister, even dipping down to where a bead of it had pooled where the base sprouted from his sack. Smooth fingertips slipped softly across his tight, wrinkled scrotum and carefully massaged the sore orbs beneath, helping them relax.

Jon pushed his down shelter aside to card his hand through the fiery locks of the incredible woman who never failed him in his times of desperation. Taught, round, kissable lips glided up and down his rod, lubricating it once again with plenty of split and reassuring his shot nerves that he would not languish in frustration for long.

“Gods, Sansa, thank you,” he thanked her, voice gravelly and rough.

She pulled up off of him, leaving a final wet kiss on his engorged tip and stroking his shaft and balls as she looked him in the eye. Arya’s gray eyes had been consuming, needy, but the blue of Sansa’s gaze somehow found a way to glimmer despite the surrounding darkness.

“Poor brother,” she cooed at him. She was rarely as enthusiastic about playing with their origins as siblings during sex, but her capacity for surprise never ceased to endear him to her. “Our little sister was so mean to you, leaving you unsatisfied and all worked up like this.”

She licked him, pink tongue lathing the stretchy loos skin around his glans and stretching it around the engorged, solid flesh underneath.

“Sansa…” Jon groaned out, her strokes numbing his frantic mind. The relief provided was better than its absence, but it wasn’t satisfying him. She teased and drew him in as expertly as she did courtiers.

She leaned over him, squeezing her ample breasts between her arms and allowing them to flatten against his own pectoral muscles so she could kiss him while still attending to his stones and shaft. Her mouth tasted of the most beautiful mixture – him, her, their sister-wife, all combined and inseparable, as they should be.

“I’m sorry our little sister is such a brat,” she whispered in his ear, squeezing just a little harder for emphasis. “You worked so hard to satisfy her, and she just left you throbbing with pent-up seed.”

“Mnng, Sansa, fuck–”

“You need a sweet cunny to pump it into, don’t you?” she moaned into his ear, silky sweet. “I’m not as wild as her, but my cunny is just as tight. I could squeeze it all out for you, take all your treasure just for me… will you give it to me Jon?”

She rolled off of him, into the thin space between him and her satiated sister. Slowly, ever-teasing, she pulled her thighs up to frame her breasts, holding her legs at the knees to display her lewd pink cunt, fiery minge, slim tummy, and impressive cleavage.

“Since you can’t breed the little Stark sister, can’t you make sure you breed the older one?”

He didn’t need more prompting.

Jon kneeled in front of her, taking her legs over his shoulders and freeing her arms to wrap around his neck as he slowly slid home. Unlike Arya’s wild and demanding need, Sansa had prepared him well and was herself slick and smooth all the way to her deepest recesses, his own prior gooey load coating his cock with each out-stroke. He fucked her steadily until he got up to speed, a rhythm no less raw or hard than what he had given Arya, but somewhat better cushioned by Sansa’s thicker thighs. Wet, squelching noises emanated from their joining as he worked her into a frothy mess.

Sansa herself pushed his head toward her to capture his mouth, devouring his moans of satisfaction and contentment and massaging his tongue now that other parts of her were massaging his cock. Jon’s tongue launched its counter-offensive, aided by his curious hand palming up her breast to pinch a cute pink nipple, making her create moans that he could consume in turn.

The feelings in his chest were overwhelming. Gratitude, relief, love, longing, jealousy, all were there, wide as The Wall and deep as an ocean, well beyond any verbal expression.

She shifted the angle of her hips, making the tip of his penis kiss the mouth of her womb. Jon’s hips pushed even harder against hers, tight warrior’s muscles against soft womanly curves to prolong the intimate, internal kiss with each thrust. Unwilling to hold back any longer, and unable to even if he tried, he locked himself insider her as deep as possible and shuddered as his seed left his body to find its home. He kept her surrounded by his frame, the only movement allowed the throbbing of his balls and the pulses of seed up his shaft.

Eventually it stopped, but he did not notice until Sansa pulled away and nipped at his own earlobe. He allowed his body to finally relax and rolled off her so that she could breath, leaving their hands intertwined. A masculine pride of a job well done swelled in him as he watched her breasts roll and jiggle on her chest with each deep, rejuvenating breath she took.

“Better now?” she asked, quietly.

“Much,” he responded. “Thanks again.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling at him lazily. “Any time. Arya might not want to get pregnant again at the moment, but I’d be happy to make us all parents again.”

He squeezed her hand. “You’ve already missed your moon blood though, right? I think we’ve already succeeded.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to be sure,” she demurred. She rolled onto her side and kissed his cheek, then stretched out her sweaty naked body until it was flush with his. “Who knows, maybe now we’ll have made twins!”

Jon smiled at the thought of two little girls, some improbable mixture of the three of them, terrorizing their older siblings and parents alike.

“You know she loves you, right?” Sansa asked. Jon knew what she meant.

“Of course,” he answered, carefully. “It’s different for everyone, I think.” He let the thought sit for a bit, to find just the right words to say. “But you both show me love by giving me your trust. We each trust the others to take care of not only ourselves, but the other as well. The only reason Arya didn’t feel guilty using me and going right back to sleep was that she knew you would take care of me after she was done.”

“And I didn’t mind taking care of you, because you always fuck me harder when she’s riled you up,” Sansa replied, stroking a hand idly through the dark hairs on his chest. “That’s nice from time to time, you know.” She pinched his nipple for emphasis, until he swatted away. “But I don’t mind doing this for her either. Aemon’s pregnancy was hard on her, and she’s not even had twenty namedays. She wants more time in the youth she nearly skipped, and seeing her find her own place in the world gives me great joy.

“And you Jon, you somehow find a way to take care of both of our needs, and support our own projects and goals, and look after the children, and you never complain. Life with both of you is just so perfect, better than I ever imagined things could be.”

Sansa pulled his hand under hers until they both covered her trim lower belly, just above her neatly maintained fiery curls.

“Any children we give each other are a blessing. I cherish all of you so much, you, Arya, Edwyn, Lya, Aemon, and whoever our newest will be. I love that I get to be a wife, and a mother, and a queen just like I always dreamed. I love that you two make me feel like a Stark again.”

They curled into each other and their breathing gradually deepened. Just as Jon’s mind was winding down, he felt their third piece slot herself behind Sansa, likely seeking warmth on the chilly night now that her own sweat had dried.

We must look like Ghost, Queen, and Nymeria do in the woods, all curled up together – he thought, and then sleep claimed him at last.