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They did not fuck at first, although it hardly absolves either of them. It had been Robb's fault, in truth. Father had been ill – just a fever, something that passed without harm, but for two weeks left him stricken in his chambers and left Robb in his role. It had also been Lord Bolton's fault, of all people. He had been an unexpected guest, said there had been an accident within his retinue that delayed his return to the Dreadfort, hence he required a place to stay the night (truthfully Jon did not believe him, though he could not say why, other than it was difficult to believe any word of Roose Bolton's).
Robb had been happy to play the gracious host, despite misliking the man, with one great exception – he refused to exclude Jon from the dinner table. He and Lady Catelyn fought like animals over that. “Lord Bolton will be insulted,” she snarled. Truly, is it he who will be insulted?
“Lord Bolton has a bastard of his own under his roof,” Robb said. “If that does not insult him, neither will Jon. I will not tell my brother he's not worthy of supping with a man with flayed corpses on his banners. That the family that has always wanted to destroy ours is more trustworthy than he.”
Jon had been heartened and humiliated as he eavesdropped. He pities me, he thought. Robb had always pitied him. Robb was so full of love, and so very happy, and Jon was so unhappy – Robb's only response could be pity. It is better than hatred, Jon thought as Lady Catelyn gritted her teeth, knowing she had lost the argument.
If Roose Bolton was insulted, he did not show it. He spoke to Jon politely, but coldly – the same way Lady Catelyn did, but Jon soon realised this was how he spoke to everyone. Jon pitied the man's bastard son. It could not be any easier to have that coldness as your blood than it was to merely wish it was.
At the end of the night things went awry, as Roose Bolton leaned in to say something to Lady Catelyn, perhaps knowing Jon was listening. “I must say, your husband's bastard is very well behaved,” he said, and Jon watched as Lady Catelyn stiffened in her seat. “If I had seated Ramsay amongst your children, he would have gloated the whole night.”
Lady Catelyn caught Jon's eye as Lord Bolton pulled away. For once, she was the first to break the gaze.
He remembers how surprised he was when she came to his chambers that night. That had never happened in his living memory (he had some vague inkling of a fever he had when he was scarcely more than a babe, but the memory was too hazy to be any use). He lay in bed as she stood there, appraising, and he wondered if his father would wonder where she was (but no, Father was too ill to wonder much of anything).
Truthfully he does not know how it came to pass, what words they said, more words than they had ever let pass between them, what let him know that she wanted him to kneel before her. But kneel before her, he did, for she was the lady and he was the bastard and in truth he would always be kneeling before her.
When he kissed her he thought of his brothers and sisters, how she would kiss her children's hands, their hair, their foreheads, and how they would kiss her in return with their innocent smiles. She will let me kiss her here, he thought as he traced his tongue through her red hair and red folds. Down low, where no-one can see.
She did not moan for him, but when he looked up at her her eyes were closed and her head was thrown back. As she inched toward release she wound her soft fingers through his dark hair, pulling him close, encouraging him. Am I good, my lady? he thought as he sucked her nub between his lips. Am I as good as my father? Does he make you moan when he does this for you?
He heard nothing but heavy breaths. Do I kiss you better than any of your trueborn babes? He was becoming bitter, all the more so for how sweet she was in his mouth. He had never thought to find such sweetness in her. If I kiss you well, will it be enough? Will you love me like my brothers and sisters, like your husband?
She cried his father's name when she came, and left without a word.
It should only have been that once, a solitary night of desperation and revenge, and he blames her for the fact it was not. It was her lady's courtesy that insisted she repay the favour. Perhaps she felt like she had taken advantage.
He was too rough with her, paying back a thousand slights both real and imagined (it was hard to tell the difference sometimes). She gagged as the spittle fell down her chin and stained her fine gown. He pulled and yanked at her long auburn hair, that hair his father loved so much, like he could take it away from him – like he could have his revenge on his father for loving so this woman who made his life hell. She looks like a whore, he thought as she bobbed her head, taking the punishment he dealt. Does she do this for my father the way my mother must have done? He imagined the look on Robb's face if Jon were to tell him their mothers were one and the same.
Robb would kill me for this, he thought as he thrust in deeper. So would Sansa. So would Bran and Rickon, if they were old enough to understand. So would Father. Even Arya– he moaned as he came, seed filling her mouth so there was no more room for cold courtesy.
She pulled away so she could spit it out, but he stopped her with a hand on his jaw. “No,” he croaked. “Swallow.” Take my seed in your belly. Perhaps there'll be another bastard around here soon.
(He was not such a green boy he didn't know that was impossible, but at that moment oh, how he wished.)
She fixed him with one of her glares, icy as ever (and they still call you a Southron). Then she spat.
Between them there was just an awkward silence, as she knelt before him and he stared at the white patch by his feet (it looks like snow, he thought). “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, not meeting her eye.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, and when he looked back at her she licked her lip. He held out his hand to help her to her feet, but there was no need. She stood easily and was gone.
It carried on that way for awhile, trading kisses down below so unlike the motherly ones they would never share. Father recovered quickly and yet they did not stop, and some nights she would even come to him covered in a thin sheen of sweat telling him she and his father had just shared their bed (and he wondered what exactly she said to his father those nights). Still, those nights she was always the one to kneel. She did not let him taste his own father's seed, for which he was grateful, although he half-suspected she might like him to.
It was always an act of power, domination, revenge, he knew that – he knew that when her nails dug into his scalp and he knew it when fine red hairs came away in his hands. And yet, they took turns very politely, Lady Stark's night and then the bastard's. One time, the first time in two weeks, they actually shared a laugh – a first for them – when they realised they couldn't remember whose turn it was. Jon played the gentleman that night, going to his knees, and only half-resented it.
They always did it in Jon's chambers, however, for safety's sake. The bastard in Lady Stark's rooms would inevitably be seen. She was always the one to come to him, and he served her, with tongue or cock – it was much the same. He was always rougher than she was, but she was always the one in control, she never let him forget that – not with the haughty glance she gave afterwards, even when she was still wiping his come from her lips. They both wanted it as much as each other, but only one of their desires mattered.
The first time he was brave enough to stand, to push her toward his bed, he expected a backlash – for her to pull away, slap him, scream. He half-expected to have his head cut off. Instead she just looked curious as he crawled over her body, tangling his legs with hers, pressing his cock against her thigh through their clothes, rough cotton meeting soft velvet.
“I want to fuck you, Lady Stark,” he whispered in her ear. I want to fuck you like my father does. I want to fuck you like he fucked my mother.
She groaned as she brought a hand to his hip, nails digging in as she pulled him closer. “I know, Jon.” She called him by his name. Her legs spread wider for him. “But you won't.”
He growled, face flushing and prick hardening in humiliation. She smirked.
“Not tonight, at least.”
He came against her leg like the green boy he was. Then, he crawled down his bastard's bed, thin and narrow, and finished her off with his mouth like usual. “Ever the gentleman,” she whispered just before she peaked. He hated how glad he was to hear her compliment him.
Things degenerated from that point, but only so far. There was only so far they ever could in Winterfell, with Ned Stark's watchful eye haunting everything, even his own cuckolding. But they could touch, now, with hands and skin and not just lips and tongues. He learnt she would forget herself if he only could use his fingers, that when he slipped a second one in she would moan and buck and shiver. Once, he lay them across her while he worked her nub, and he swears he heard her whisper please. It was all he could do not to spill right there.
Once, she wrapped her hand around his cock before she took it in her mouth. It shocked him how warm the touch was. He half-expected her to be cold-blooded.
They could do it on the bed now, which was good. She was older than him, after all, and he wondered what would happen if her back gave out. Her legs pulled him close, pushed away her skirts and pressed his cock right against her cunt, but only ever when his breeches still protected her. He swore and snarled with frustration, but he could not have her, he could never have her until she said. Once, he swears he heard himself whisper please.
They stared into each other's eyes while they did this, like lovers, but her gaze was as cold as ever.
She took to holding his hands above his head while she rode his clothed cock, friction of the coarse fabric making her whimper in pain as much as pleasure, denying her his prick as much as it denied him her cunt. His clothes were so unlike the fine tunics and lovely dresses she made her babes. He twisted and turned and protested, but they both knew he was stronger than her and could break her grasp if he wished, and they both knew he would not. It would not do for the bastard to undermine the lady so.
There was something enjoyable about hating her like this, the heat of his anger mingling with the heat of his lust, resentment filling him like he wished to fill her, fury peaking as she peaked above him. She won't take my cock because she knows she would like it too much, he could fool himself, bathing in bitterness. She wouldn't be able to leave. She'd be my whore. She'd lay in my bed all day and moan so loud the whole castle would hear. She'd beg me to put a bastard in her.
One night, she slipped. She'd seemed distracted all day, and Robb said she and Father had had a fight. Her grip loosened, and Jon prized one hand from her grasp, tearing open his own breeches like an eager virgin.
“Snow,” she warned, gripping his other hand tighter like it would do anything but leave bruises and make him harder (or maybe that is what she meant to do).
“Shut up,” he said, and seven hells, she did. He took himself in hand and held himself against her hot wet cunt, and she whimpered as he teased her.
“Do you like it? Is it better than Father's?” he asked and she groaned. “You want me inside you, don't you? I can tell. You know you shouldn't, know what a mistake you'd be making, but it'd feel so good...” Her eyes were closed and he thought that was good, because it meant she couldn't see him digging his nails into his palm so he wouldn't spill just yet. “...Perhaps that's what my mother thought too.”
She gasped, and started rocking back and forth faster, and he moved his hand from his prick to her hip so she wouldn't slip. If she was to take him, it would be deliberate, on either her part or his.
“Maybe she wasn't a whore after all. Maybe she was a highborn girl, as noble as you, my lady,” perhaps if he had married her I would be as noble as your babes. “Maybe she knew it was wrong, knew she would disgrace herself, but she wanted father's cock so bad... You've had father's cock, Lady Stark. Tell me: is it worth bearing a bastard for?”
She opened her eyes, and glared. It did not hurt him this time. He didn't feel like she could do anything to him.
“That's why you've been teasing me like this,” he said, fooling himself into thinking he was sure he was telling the truth, and perhaps fooling her too. “Riding me through my clothes, holding me down when we both know I could do the same in a second, if I wanted. Secretly, you want me to lose control. I'm just a bastard, after all, lusty and devious. How much do you think it will take? How long before I give into my nature, pin you to the bed and fuck you like a whore? How long before I spill my seed in you and there's another bastard about the place?”
He almost hesitated, wondering what in seven hells (her hells) he was saying – to the Lady of Winterfell; she could have had him killed for this (though she couldn't truly, for then she'd have to explain why she was with him in the first place). But the look on her face – lust, shame, anger, satisfaction? – it was too good to resist. If Father would kill him for defiling his wife, it would be worth it.
She shuddered, moaning, her hand and her legs squeezing tighter around him. He chuckled, a sound so unlike him (none of this was like him).
“You want that, don't you?” he whispered and she nodded. “You want me to fill you up, make you carry around my babe. You want to do to father what he's done to you.” It's not about me, it's never about me; I'm just a bastard and they are the Lord and Lady. The anger just encouraged him. “Father will laugh and smile as your belly swells with my child; he'll never even know how you've cuckolded him. And who better to father the thing than me? The boy he forced under your roof, made you look at every day, your walking humiliation.” I'm not a person to you at all, am I? “You'll probably even let me hold the baby, and he'll smile at that too, think you're finally letting go of your anger. He'll leave us alone together and think we won't fight, we might not even hate each other. Then I'll suck the milk from your teats and fuck you again, put another bastard in you and Father will be even happier about this one than the last. Is that what you want, Lady Stark?”
She moaned so loud he wasn't sure she even heard him, but it didn't matter. He wasn't saying it for her. His legs trembled beneath her, going numb from the weight; she was close but so was he, and truth be told he did not know what he was about to do.
He pushed himself up and she gasped, her hand fell away and his grabbed her waist so she wouldn't fall. “Beg me for it,” he leaned in to whisper in her ear, teasing with his teeth. “Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to seed you. Beg, my lady.”
His prick twitched and ached but he wouldn't let himself do it, he couldn't, not until she begged him and she was going to beg him. Seven hells, she had to beg him, he was going to die if she didn't–
A cry, a moan and hands buried in his tight dark curls, pulling him closer, closer, always closer – but still she did not speak, and the rage became too much to resist.
“It doesn't matter,” he spat in her ear, gloating at her flinch as his saliva hit her. “I won't. I'll never father a bastard.”
Lady Stark threw her head back in ecstasy and fell silent, her body rocking against him so hard he feared she might break. The tremors spread from her body into his until they shook the bed frame, until they seemed to shake the walls themselves, until Jon felt like a dragon or some such thing would burst from the floor beneath them. It almost undid him, but just before it could her peak started to fade, and she pulled away, barely even a fraction of an inch but enough to leave him cold and wet and aching.
He tried to follow her, press himself against that sweet red cunt but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. The gesture was almost loving. He could see her doing that do his father when they finished, stroking the plains of muscle and rolls of fat that come with the years. He snarled, and she smirked.
“Beg.”
He could not. He would not. Then she would win, and the point of this was not for her to win – and maybe it wasn't for him to win either, but at least it was to be a fair fight. He simply glared with as much hatred as she ever did. And so she sighed, pulling herself off him and pulling down her skirts, hiding their sins beneath a silken shield. Once more, she didn't even look at him as she left.
When he came into his hand he grunted like an animal and bit his lip, thinking that he had done exactly what she wanted.
Father went away briefly, to attend to some matter in White Harbour. He took Robb with him, and left his wife in charge of the castle. Both Father and Robb gave Jon sorry looks before they left, something that stirred both his guilt and his rage. Don't worry, he thought. Lady Stark and I will get along just fine together.
It was the first time he was brave enough to try anything outside his chambers. It was the first time he was brave enough to come to her. Perhaps it was never her I was frightened of.
“Do you want something, Jon Snow?” she asked when he found her in father's solar, going over accounts. He should have said something, come up with some excuse, but he couldn't think of anything – he had no good reasons to talk to her – and so he silently shut the door behind him.
She knew why he was there, she must have done, and yet she did nothing. She did not move towards him, nor make to run. She just waited. He sat across the desk gingerly, raising two fingers to run through her auburn locks. “You have beautiful hair, my lady,” he said. Father loves it so.
That earned no reply, and so he let his fingers sink through the red waves, until he could rub her nipple through the ends of her hair and her green velvet gown. She moaned as her back straightened. “Not here, Snow.”
“No?” He lightened the pressure, and watched as gooseflesh broke across her skin. “You'd rather I took you to my chambers. Maybe one day I'll keep you there, Lady Stark. Maybe I'll tire of sharing you with father and I'll take you for my own.”
She groaned, leaning into his touch. “You wouldn't dare.”
No. No I wouldn't. “I'd dare touch you here,” he said, reaching for the buttons between her breasts. Undoing them wasn't enough to expose her, but she shivered at the touch of cold Northern air. “In Father's solar, where the steward and the maester and god forbid, your children, might come looking for you.” He watched as one of her hands made its way to her inner thigh, stroking herself slowly, cautiously. “Father is a very brave man. Everyone says so.” Her eyes fluttered shut, and he smiled. “How much of that do you think I inherited?”
Her hand on his wrist surprised him. The tightness of her grip and her angry glare did not. There was a moment where he was afraid, he thought she would throw him out – out of the solar, out of her bed, out of Winterfell. She just stared at him, appraising.
“Let's find out,” she said after far too long. She let go. “Grab a chair, Jon Snow.”
He was puzzled, but did as the lady commanded, pulling himself up desk to her so they were both half-hidden by the desk. When he returned he founds her skirts scrunched up roughly around her waist. She grabbed his wrist again and pressed it to her, instructions not necessary.
Jon was too impatient to tease. He plunged two fingers straight into her, wet and waiting for him, his thumb pressing hard on her clit. She gasped so loud he thought Father might hear her all the way in White Harbour, and then bit her lip. She would not make such a mistake again.
He thrust his fingers in deeper, harder, but he could not make her moan for him. She had set her will to silence, and he would have to content himself with squirming and whimpers. But oh, how she squirmed for him.
After a minute, she looked down, seeing his white skin plunge between her red folds. She hurriedly pulled her skirts back down, even though the shape of his hand was still clearly visible through the fabric. He laughed. “Is that supposed to hide us, my lady?” he asked.
“No.”
He carried on without more words, her breath hitching as he worked her toward her peak, his cock aching in his britches but he refused to reach for it. I'll go back to my chambers and deal with it myself. She doesn't have to know how much I like this.
Then came a knock on the door. They both jumped, staring at one another in utter panic. I didn't want someone to actually come looking for her! he thought, suddenly remembering what a stupid boy he was, lustful and impetuous. He blamed her for it. She was the older woman, the wise mother, and she should have stopped him.
“Jon?” came a voice, and it puzzled him. Who would be looking for him now, and who would be looking for him here? “I saw you sneak in here, what are you doing? You promised you'd play with me today!”
The voice was small, the voice of a young girl. Jon smiled. Arya. Of course. He was just about to pull away when he saw how Lady Stark glared, looking between him and the door, and his rage towards her swirled through his breast once more. And so he smirked.
Let's find out how brave I am.
“Come in, Arya,” he said, and did not move his hand.
Lady Stark held her breath as her youngest daughter entered the room, but she did not move, did not pull away from his hand. Arya frowned at them, confused. She was just a child, but even she knew her mother and her bastard brother sitting together was abnormal.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Jon laughed, pushing his fingers into her mother imperceptibly deeper.
“Just helping your mother with the accounts,” he said.
Lady Stark gave a long, deep sigh. “I think I can handle them on my own,” she said. He pulled his fingers back again slightly, and felt her tense under his fingers. Don't pretend you don't want more, my lady. “By all means, go play with... your sister.”
Oh. Do you think I'll reward you for that?
Arya grinned and nodded like that was the best idea she'd ever heard. Jon smiled, and faced Lady Stark once more. “Are you sure, my lady?” he moved his fingers slowly now, and watched as she dug her nails into her knee to repress a shudder. “Can you finish this on your own?”
“I don't need your help, bastard.”
Jon stopped. The rage and bitterness swept over him like an ocean, and Catelyn bit her lip, having let her composure break. Arya, little Arya gasped slightly, and when he looked at her she saw how worried she was that a fight was about to begin. She's just a little girl, he thought, guilt sweeping over him too. This is her mother. I am her brother. I shouldn't be exposing her to this.
But there was no way to stop right now without exposing her to it far more thoroughly, and that look on Lady Stark's face – shame and fear and dread, and impotent rage – he wasn't sure if he could bring himself to give that up.
Jon sighed. Then he gave Arya his softest smile.
“Go wait outside, you,” he said. “Your mother and I have a few things to discuss. I promise I'll come play with you in a minute.”
Arya frowned, then decided to flee before the fight proper began, and Lady Stark sighed in relief as she went. She then turned her furious eye on Jon.
“You shouldn't have done that.”
He smirked. “I shouldn't have,” he nodded. “And you shouldn't have let me.”
He thrust his fingers in deeper, faster, rougher, and she moaned as she rocked toward the movement. I knew I could make you, he thought, even though he didn't know. “Arya's waiting for me,” he whispered as her eyes started to roll back in her head.
Then he stopped.
She shook and shivered, her hips thrusting forward, but he would not be roused. Not this time. She stared at him, eyes full of heat and desperation. He smiled at her. “Beg.”
She said nothing. She wasn't that desperate.
He pulled his hand away so fast she gasped.
But he didn't stand up right away, he remained sitting just long enough for her to watch him suck her juices off his fingers. Gods help me, she's so sweet. “I'll see you at dinner, Lady Stark,” he said, knowing there was no way he'd be allowed to sit at the high table.
He walked off, but she called to him one last time. “Jon!” He turned to face her, confused. “If you dare tell Arya what we just did...”
That pricked him, made his foul mood settle deep in his stomach. She thought he would expose Arya to this, just to get his revenge on her?Because that is exactly what you just did, he told himself, but he shook the thought away and stayed angry with her. “Who do you think I am?” he asked. She didn't answer, and he stormed off.
Arya did have to wait a little more, long enough for Jon to sneak into a cupboard and finish himself off. But that didn't take long, and he resented the fact.
He should have known he wouldn't get away with it. Sure enough, he was not allowed to sup at the high table, but that was no more than he expected and no worse that what she would have done if he wasn't (not quite) fucking her. But her waiting in his chambers, laying on his bed when he returned to it – that threw him off-balance and she smirked as he struggled to return to it.
“What you did today was cruel,” she said.
He shrugged. “It was.” What you do to me every day is cruel, my lady. He thought of watching his highborn siblings laugh and joke together over their fine venison, and her looking at them with so much gentleness, so much sweetness. The only sweetness I'll ever get from you is in your cunt. How am I meant to resist?
“And dangerous.”
Of course, what she did to him could never be that. The Lady of Winterfell could always get away with mistreating the bastard.
“And yet you've come back for more,” he said, watching as she relaxed into his bed. Why? he wanted to ask. She wants to do to father what he did to her, he reminded himself, but surely there would be safer ways – one of the stable boys or soldiers. Maybe even Greyjoy. She was a beautiful woman, and he doubted any man would refuse her bed. So why him? Why the one man – or boy, really – who wanted nothing more than to hurt her, humiliate her? His whole life humiliated her, hadn't she had enough of that?
“I have,” she sighed with something almost resembling a smile, and it answered none of his questions. “You want my cunt, don't you, Jon Snow?”
“I do,” he said. He smiled to himself. “The only part of you I've ever liked.”
She laughed. “You seemed mighty fond of my breasts earlier as well.”
A memory stirred, long forgotten, of being scarcely more than an infant and watching a redheaded babe suckle at her teats. Sansa, it must have been. Robb he would not remember, Bran he would remember too well and Arya's hair was the wrong colour. He remembers her not even seeing him, too wrapped up in love for her child to even glare. He already knew her hatred well, and he remembered the cloak of cold envy that surrounded him.
He did not speak of it.
“You want to fuck me,” she carried on. “You want to spill your seed inside me and watch it run down my legs.”
You want me to do those things too, he thought. Only the gods know why. Yours or mine, I am not sure.
He knew he should approach her, pin her to the bed and take everything he could, everything she would let him. And yet for some reason he was not brave enough. He felt like a wild animal walking into a trap. She almost-smiled once more, unreadable, and he felt no safer. “Well, come on then.”
He frowned. “You won't let me, my lady.”
“Do you think I'd be here if I didn't want it?”
“Oh, I know you want it.” Despite himself, he couldn't resist – he began to step forward. “I know just how much you want it. I know you want it when you grind against my cock, only letting my breeches stop me. I know you want it when you take me in your mouth, wishing more than anything it was another hole. I know you want it when my father fucks you, when you feel his cock inside and you bite your lip to keep from calling out my name.” I don't know that. “I know you want it so badly sometimes you can't sleep at night.”
He had gotten close without even noticing, looming over her, making himself feel tall and mighty and lordly like his father. Her breath went shallow as her legs spread, seemingly of their own volition. He sighed, almost sad. “But you don't want it enough to let me.”
She moaned, long and loud. “And I don't want it enough to take the risk,” he whispered.
“What risk?”
“Of fathering a bastard.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You want to, though,” she said. “Every time you're with me. Even when I only take you in my mouth, even when you take me in your mouth, you think about leaving me with child.”
He couldn't help himself. He pounced on her like an animal, like a wolf, and she gasped in shock. He dragged his cock along her thigh, grabbing at her skirts with reckless hands. I have been lured into a trap, he thought, but he was unable to pull away, and the thought occurred that maybe this was all a trap. That she wanted the baby so she would have proof. So one day she might tell his father and have him sent away for good.
It only made him want to fuck her more.
“Yes, I want to,” he snarled in her ear, feeling her writhe beneath him. “I want it so much I can't sleep at night either.” Her legs clutched tight around him, closer, closer, almost there– “But I won't. I can't. I vowed to myself, I'd never–”
He cut himself off. This was too much, this wasn't his usual mocking words, this was more confession than accusation. He let himself go quiet as he ground against her, just wanting to come and be done with it. But she stopped him with a hand on his hip. When he looked at her, there was almost something soft in her eyes – no. He had long since stopped fooling himself he could find any softness in her for him. The only sweetness in her is in her cunt.
He laughed to keep himself under control. “I should be grateful,” he said. “If you would let me fuck you, my lady, I'm not sure if I could resist.”
She looked up at him, pondering.
“I'll let you fuck me. Get up for a second.”
He was confused. But the Lady of Winterfell had given him an order and so he obeyed. Perhaps I can tell father that's what it was, he thought. That she ordered me and she was the Lady of Winterfell, I could not possibly refuse, so it was not my fault and he shouldn't have left me alone with her. Perhaps he could give her his child and it would not be his fault either. He watched as she rolled over, hair spilling and tangling across her shoulders, and lifted her arse into the air for his benefit. “Lift my skirts, Snow,” she said and he did so, holding his breath as her bare skin was revealed to him. He could not see her cunt, but at the moment it almost didn't matter.
He only half-understood what she meant him to do. Greyjoy's mocking voice rung in his ear. Of course, the girls always make you pay more to take them up the arse, but trust me it's worth it. The next part he said casually, as an afterthought. And less of a risk, I suppose.
He should have been smug, that the proper Lady Stark would let him do something even most whores would be reluctant about, but in that moment he was too stunned. This was not so dangerous, sure, but it was far filthier than simply giving him her cunt. “It will hurt, my lady,” he said, and sounded so deferential he hated himself for it.
Lady Catelyn scoffed. “I am not so foolish I did not prepare myself.”
He frowned, and pressed a thumb against her curiously. To his surprise he found the skin slick with oil, and he breached her easily.She must do this with Father, he thought, and drove the digit deep inside to hear her gasp. She must like it. At least my mother would have insisted on being paid.
He tore his thumb away, yanking at his laces. If she had prepared herself, there was no reason for him to make it any easier on her – he wanted to fuck her like a whore, like his mother must have been fucked. He wanted to thrust straight in and make her nothing but a hole for his cock. But as he pressed himself against her, he paused. No. He wanted to make her beg first.
He was about to do so, but she beat him to the punch. “Please.”
It was such a small, flat remark. It was the bare minimum of begging. He knew she only said it so he would not tell her to, and he knew he would get nothing more out of her. He could tell her to beg, but she would tell him she already had. The rage was too much to resist and so he thrust straight in, praying it would hurt, but knowing it wouldn't.
She was good though, hot and tight and moaning beneath him. Not sweet like her cunt would have been, but he had lived without sweetness from her all his life, he could go one more night. It was even better as he felt her fingers move to rub over her folds, wet and greedy for him, gasping as she worked. He fucked harder, and she let him, let him dig his nails into her hips and god, how he wished he would leave bruises. Father will ask questions, he thought with a thrill.
“Snow,” she choked, too far gone to aim her cold words at him, and he shuddered as he felt her slip two fingers inside herself, pressing up against his cock through the thin skin. She can't get enough, he thought, fucking harder and deeper, as if he'd find something if he could only get far enough inside.
She cried out and clenched around him, and he knew he couldn't last. It made him angrier still, and he thought he must win this, somehow, and so he leaned down to hiss in her ear. “You even fuck like a bitch,” he said, and then spilled himself as deep inside her as he could.
A cry rang through the air and he could not be sure whose it was – perhaps it was both of theirs' – and he threw his head back as he let his climax wash over him. Part of him wanted to throw himself around her, stroke her hair and kiss her back and run his hands over her until she came. It was what he always said he would do with any woman who would let him between her legs. But he had never thought she might be that woman, and he knew she would let him fuck every hole she had before she would ever let him kiss her. He would not bother.
His climax left him raw and sensitive, but he couldn't bring himself to pull out, not while she was groaning and working herself to completion beneath him. Someone might hear, he thought, his wits returning, but she buried her face in the furs and went so quiet when she came. I want you to moan for me, he thought, pouting like a sullen child, but his cock still twitched at the feel of her shuddering and clenching.
She came down with a long, shaky sigh, and he finally pulled out.
He fell on his back, as did she, and for a second it was like they belonged there. Like she wouldn't have to return to her chambers soon to avoid rousing suspicion. Like one he got his breath back, they could have another round, and he could claim that wet cunt that consumed him. Like he actually wanted her to stay, like they didn't fucking hate each other.
He turned to look her in the eye, all those questions from before returning. Why do you do this, Lady Stark? Do you really hate me enough to fuck me? How can you do this if you love my father so? How can I do this if I love my father so? If I kiss you well enough, will you love me like your trueborn babes? Will you ever let me kiss your lips? Will you ever let me fuck your cunt?
She smiled, really truly smiled, and answered none of them. “You were better at that than I expected,” she said, and even the compliment was an attack.
“I have Stark blood, my lady,” he said, fighting back. “That is how wolves fuck, is it not?”
She laughed. “Wolves seek to breed,” she said. “But still: I have the Stark name. And I fuck like a bitch.”
He groaned and she pulled herself up and away, brushing the hair out of her eyes. You cannot just pull your skirts down and pretend nothing happened, he thought, but of course she could, for Father was gone and she was the Lady of Winterfell and no-one here would dare question her account. He'd fucked her, really truly fucked her for the first time, and he was left wondering if he had ever fucked her at all.
Father returned and he knew he wouldn't see her that night. He had seen how she had run to his arms as soon as she could (as soon as was appropriate), as if she could barely resist tearing his clothes off and having him there and then in the courtyard, with all their children watching. You'd think she hadn't been fucked in weeks, he thought, remembering the sight of his come dripping from her and adjusting his tunic to hide the swelling in his breeches.
He didn't sleep well that night, tossing and turning and furtively fisting his cock, trying to wring the tension out of him but only growing more of it every time he came, trying to think of anything other than her. He's fucking her right now, he thought, bitter in a way he didn't fully understand. Her mouth, her arse, her sweet wet cunt. I wonder if he wonders why her arse is so loose, so ready for it? Will he ask questions? No, Father would never. He trusts her, he loves her. Why does he love her so?
The questions about his father, however, paled into insignificance beside the questions about her. Why does she let me do it? It's not as if father doesn't fuck her well. She's come to me when she can barely walk from it. What is she missing?
He moaned as he remembered his desperate words, the thought of her belly swelling with his bastard, and he fisted himself once more. Was it just the humiliation? He knew some highborn women were like that, took to being bedded by peasants and sell-swords, wanting to be treated like nothing more than whores. Perhaps that was why she never managed to send him away – his life was her humiliation, but she enjoyed it.
As he expected, he did not see her that night, but he did not expect to be shaken awake in the dawn light. He blinked a few times, wondering if it was a dream. “Lady Stark?”
“Jon Snow.” She did not give him time to adjust, hitching up her nightdress and straddling him, reaching eagerly for his breeches. He groaned and arched towards her. “Your father will be awake soon. We don't have long.”
Seemingly she meant that, as she barely waited before he could feel her, hot and wet around him – was that father's seed? But in his sleep-addled haze, it was almost like having her cunt, and he bucked up helplessly. She moaned, fisting her hands through his dark hair as she rode him. He knew the sweat that covered her brow was not all from him; the dark, loving bruises on her neck were not from him; the bitemarks on her thighs and breasts were not from him either. That is how wolves fuck, he thought as she rocked on top of him, harder, faster, until he thought his hipbones might shatter. What do I do to her that father can't?
It did not last long, both of them too tired, too fragile, too aware that they would have to get up soon. Jon had slept poorly and been woken early, and he knew his siblings, and Greyjoy, and perhaps even father would laugh throughout the day at how sleepy and grumpy he was, grumpier than usual. If she was my mother she would laugh at my sullenness too, he thought, too tired to tell himself not to. Then again, if she was my mother we wouldn't have this problem, since I wouldn't be fucking her.
She moved to climb off him and he caught her wrist without thinking about it. “Lady Stark,” and she looked like she could barely believe he had dared to do that, he could barely believe he had, and know he was thinking about it, and mostly he thought that he was being incredibly stupid. “...Why do you do this? With me?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you?”
“Because you've made my life hell for years and I'm getting revenge in the only way I ever can. Because father loves you so much and I still can't for the life of me understand why. Because you're the closest thing to a mother I'll ever have and I'm desperate for you to just pay attention to me, even if you hate me.” It was too honest, all too honest in the early morning light but he swore he could see pity in her eyes. “There are a lot of reasons. But none of them explain why you would let me share your bed.”
She sighed, and so softly he didn't really believe it was happening, reached to stroke his dark hair from his forehead. “How old are you, Jon Snow?”
He frowned. “Robb's age? Sixteen, seventeen, thereabouts.” Truth be told, no-one knew how old he was. Father would speak so little of his birth they couldn't even know if he was born before Robb or after him, and Jon resented that enough he wished he could blame it on Lady Catelyn, but he knew he couldn't. Perhaps it was never her I was frightened of.
“I was married at that age,” she murmured, and he saw her and Father at Riverrun, standing in front of an oak since there are no weirwoods in the south, bathing in sunlight. He did not know what the Riverlands looked like, and he probably never would, but suddenly he was curious. All he could think of was that they must look like her. “You look like him.”
He frowned. “I do, my lady. And if he weren't sleeping in your chambers right now that would be an adequate explanation.” She laughed at that. “So is it just that I am young and pretty?”
She laughed again, but he didn't mean it as a jape. Rage swirled in his breast once more – but it was not the same rage, it was not for himself this time but for his father. He was a hypocrite for it, but he couldn't bear the thought Lady Stark would betray his father for nothing more than a young body and pretty face. Was my mother anything more than that?
Lady Stark saw the look on his face and her laughter stopped. “No,” she said and he sighed with relief. “It's that... you look like him when I married him.”
“Before he betrayed you?”
Hesitantly, she nodded. “Before I even really knew him. Before I loved him, back when I thought I wouldn't care if he fathered a bastard, since I'd never love him like I loved Brandon.”
Jon frowned. He knew Father had a brother, who the Mad King killed, and he knew Lady Stark had been betrothed to him first. He didn't know she had loved him. He thought of little Bran, sweet and gentle and nothing like what they said of the Wild Wolf, but still, always Catelyn's favourite even if she would never admit it. Was that why? Was Lady Stark's favourite son the one named after the husband she could never have?
Brandon Stark would have had dozens of bastards, he thought, but decided not to mention it. It felt cruel. He tried looking for something to say that wasn't cruel, and could come up with nothing. Perhaps that was why she spoke to him so little when she wasn't in his bed.
He knew he should want to say cruel things to her, like normal, but at this moment he didn't. He didn't hate her, not with her soft and vulnerable above him, sharing with him her pain. It was almost like she trusted him. Almost like he loved her. Almost like she's my mother, he thought with his come still dripping from her, and he started to feel sick with himself. But perhaps this was what he always wanted.
She sighed as she looked into his eyes, and he felt like she was looking right through him. “Most men in Westeros have bastards, Jon Snow,” she said. “Most of them try to forget they exist, in the most part. At best, they send coin and visit perhaps twice a year.”
He still couldn't bring himself to answer and she didn't look like she was expecting him to.
“He must have loved your mother very much to bring you here.”
Oh. There was a pain in her eyes, a pain he had never seen before, and it made him want to reach for her, hold her, tell her Father could never love another woman like he loved her – and that was true. As much as he resented it, he'd never seen any man love a woman like Lord Stark loved Lady Stark. She could see it in him though, how much he pitied her, and she bristled under his gaze, that cold glare coming back as vicious as ever. You, the bastard of Winterfell, dare pity me? he swore he could hear her thinking.
“I should go,” she said, finally climbing off him. “Your father will be looking for me soon.”
He did not try to stop her, but he winced at the slam of his door, and as he lay there the sting of rejection festered into an ache, hurting more than it had since he was a child.
It was almost like she was my mother, he thought. But she's not. And she never will be.
Perhaps it was inevitable, with how they talked about it, how they teased one another with it, the way she kept inviting him further and further in until there was nowhere else left to go. And still, when it happened it surprised him. He doesn't know if it surprised her too.
She was on her hands and knees, taking it from behind like usual. He could feel the curve of her delicate fingers through a thin membrane of skin as she worked herself, like usual. He snarled and groaned and huffed with frustration, wanting so badly to claim her, to make her his, but never quite being able to – like usual.
She was baiting him. She must have been. “I wonder,” she murmured as her voice cracked, “if he did this to your mother first?”
He stopped. How dare you bring my mother into this?! he wanted to shout, as if he hadn't brought her into it all along. He thought of the highborn lady he hoped his mother was shaking her head in shame, and the whore he feared she was just laughing at her son and his stepmother, at their pathetic attempts at depravity, both knowing what they wanted but too fearful, too proper, too noble to ever have it. He imagined her voice cracked with age and drink, nothing like Lady Stark's. Won't even fuck a woman because you're too afraid of a squealing brat? How cute, little lordling. Trust me, your father didn't think twice about it.
Suddenly he pulled out of her, and before Lady Stark had the chance to ask him what he was doing, tossed her onto her back.
“Snow,” she warned but it was no use, he had lost control, and he pressed himself against her cunt with all the delicacy of a rutting animal. Well what does she expect? I am only a bastard, I do not fuck like the highborn men. I fuck like a wolf, and she fucks like a bitch.
He paused as he looked into her eyes, dark with lust and yet still cold, still looking at him appraising, like she could never quite figure him out. It made him feel good, powerful, and for a second he thought he didn't really need to fuck her after all.
“Tell me to stop,” he said. “Tell me not to. Tell me it's not worth the risk. Please, my lady.”
She moaned as her eyes rolled back in her head. “Jon.”
He thrust in.
She cried out and he fell silent, all words stolen from him as white bloomed behind his eyes. She felt so hot, and so wet, and he thought of the Riverlands, that home of hers where she had birthed her first babe, where he had never been. She spread her legs so readily as he buried himself inside her, he thought he might drown, but somewhere beneath the aching pleasure he could still hear her voice call out.
“Seven hells, Jon Snow, move.”
He could not tell if it was a plea or a command and at that moment it didn't seem to matter.
Move he did, thrusting roughly and recklessly as she wrapped her legs around him. The faster he moved the wetter she became for him, until he could practically hear it, and it should have been disgusting and maybe it was but it only encouraged him, and she cried out, until he could hear her begging in his ear, more Snow, faster, harder, more, please, come, come for me Jon, please...
It didn't take long until he finished, his seed deep inside her, and she moaned as he seized her neck with his teeth. I'll leave a mark, he thought, though that won't matter very much if I also get her pregnant.
She squirmed and writhed and fixed him once more with her ice cold glare. She wasn't finished. He did not pull out, he just reached down and took her nub between his fingers as he slowly softened inside her, and when she came it was with a quiet gasp and her eyes fluttering shut.
Finally, he pulled out and fell onto the bed beside her, and they lay together like husband and wife.
After a moment, she finally spoke. “I don't suppose I can tell you to somehow get it out?”
He smiled at the jape, and then rolled over to look at her. She seemed older, somehow. Though I can hardly say I've made a woman of her.
One of his hands rolled across her body softly, over the soft curve of her breast, listening to her breath hitch as he tickled her ribs, rubbing his hands over the belly where his brothers and sisters once lived. And where my son or my daughter may live also. Then he slid one finger back inside her, feeling the wetness both hers and his own, and she shuddered at his touch.
When he pulled his finger out he could see nothing of himself in the liquid, only her. He huffed in disappointment. So he brought his finger to his mouth, wondering if he could taste himself instead, wondering if he truly wanted to.
She turned on her side as he did this, watching curiously. When his hand fell from his mouth, they were left just staring at each other. “Snow.”
Don't call me that.
He took that hand and threaded it through her red hair, Robb's hair and Sansa's hair and Bran's and Rickon's, that hair father loved so much he gave it to most of his children. And he kissed her. He expected her to pull away, slap him, scream, but she didn't. Her eyes fluttered shut once more and she kissed him softly, like she barely knew him, like she must have kissed his father on her wedding day.
And so there they lay, kissing like they did not hate each other, sharing the taste of him and his father and perhaps his mother too, but more than anything her, always her.
It should only have been that once. They should have returned to what they did before and prayed to the Old Gods and the New that they would be lucky, there would be no baby. But instead he fucked her almost every night, gave her his come, even as the terror of what might happen sometimes kept him from sleep. There could be no going back, there never was – it was like the gates had shut behind them, and they both needed it too much to just stop. He went to the Godswood and prayed forgiveness, for fucking her, for ever fooling himself into thinking he wasn't fucking her. But he did not pray there would be no baby. He was too Stark for it, and he could not lie to himself – he knew deep down, neither of them wanted to be lucky.
He heard it first by chance. He noticed a merry tilt in Maester Luwin's as the door to his chambers was a crack open, and stopped to listen. “It is without doubt,” he said. “Far too early to know the sex, of course, but for your lord husband's sake I will pray it's a girl. I think he would very much like to have three daughters for three sons.”
Father has four sons, he thought, but he did not expect Lady Catelyn to remind Maester Luwin of that. “Thank you,” she said. “I think Ned would like that. Although I'm not sure we need to give Sansa and Arya another thing to fight over.”
Luwin chuckled at that, and Jon was like a child, pressing his eye at the crack in the door and spying. Luwin stood to fetch herbs and remedies and Lady Stark's eye started to wander, until it inevitably found him. Jon almost jumped, afraid he would be in trouble.
Instead she just sighed, giving him a look both warm and unimaginably sad. And in that moment they both knew they had made a terrible mistake.