Lost Artefacts: Alternative

by captainalfie78works

Summary:

Patreon said my work was sexually gratifying… bro there was more story in that than in any other work.

(I'm gonna be honest with y'all, this is gonna be more than a smut fic. This is actually my first idea of where I was going to take the starlight crown arc of Lost Artefacts. The labyrinth of lorassyon was going to connect to the other mazes of the world but at different points in time and in the final fight between Jon and Mya they were going to constantly shift between time periods starting from Aegons Conquest and ending with the Others invasion. I thought it was a cool idea but there were a lot of plot holes and in the end it seemed a bit too unrealistic even for me. That being said a few changes are gonna be made to the story such as Jon having his axe and shit and some other stuff being changed.)

 

Jon led the way through the dark, winding passages of the labyrinth, his torch casting long shadows on the damp stone walls. The air was thick and cold, and the silence was broken only by the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. His eyes strained to see, constantly scanning the ancient writings etched into the stone. His body was tense, muscles coiled and ready for any threat.

Obara followed closely, her eyes darting nervously around the dark corners. Her body was rigid, every muscle taut with agitation. She gripped her spear tightly, the knuckles of her hands white. Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts, the paranoia creeping into her voice. "This place is cursed," she muttered, her eyes flicking to every shadow. "We shouldn't be here. We need to get out."

Samaya walked beside her, her movements more controlled but no less wary. Her senses were on high alert, every fiber of her being screaming that they were in danger. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the darkness ahead and behind them. "Stay close, Jon," she said quietly, her voice steady but with an edge of tension. "I don't like this. I feel like we're being watched."

Jon kept moving, his focus on the writings on the walls. He paused occasionally to examine the carvings, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the ancient script. His face was set in a mask of concentration, the flickering torchlight casting shadows over his features. "There must be clues here," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "We need to understand what these writings mean. They might lead us to the center."

The walls were covered in moss and grime, the air damp and musty. The floor was uneven, and they had to watch their step to avoid stumbling on the rough ground. The torchlight flickered, casting eerie shapes that seemed to move in the periphery of their vision. The darkness pressed in around them, making the narrow passageways feel even more claustrophobic.

Obara's agitation grew with each step. Her breaths were louder, more ragged. She swung her spear at shadows, the sharp point slicing through the air. "I don't care about the damn writings, Jon!" she snapped, her voice echoing through the corridors. "This place is driving me mad. We need to find a way out, not get lost in some ancient scribblings."

Samaya placed a calming hand on Obara's shoulder, though her own tension was palpable. "Easy, Obara," she said softly. "Jon knows what he's doing. We have to trust him."

Jon ignored the bickering, his eyes fixed on another section of the wall. He traced his fingers over the rough carvings, the stone cold and damp under his touch. He read aloud, translating the words haltingly. "They... dug too far... found something... evil." He paused, his face grim. "This is not good."

The passage narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The air grew colder, their breaths visible in the torchlight. Obara's paranoia reached a peak, and she started muttering to herself, her eyes wide and wild. Samaya's grip tightened on her weapon, her jaw clenched. Jon pressed on, his mind working furiously to piece together the fragments of ancient knowledge.

They came to a junction, the path splitting into three dark corridors. Jon stopped, raising the torch to cast light into each passage. He studied the walls, looking for any indication of the right way to go. "This way," he said finally, choosing the middle path. "It feels right."

As they continued, the carvings grew more elaborate, the figures depicted more monstrous and terrifying. Jon, Obara, and Samaya finally stepped into a large chamber, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. The ceiling above them was dotted with small glowing crystals, giving the eerie impression of a starlit sky. The walls were covered in intricate carvings and ancient runes, their meanings long forgotten but their presence adding to the otherworldly feel of the place.

In the center of the chamber was a massive hole, its edges rough and jagged as if it had been torn open by some great force. The darkness within seemed to stretch on forever, a yawning abyss that swallowed the light of their torches. Jon approached the edge, peering into the void. He felt a chill run down his spine as he stared into the blackness.

"We're here," Jon said, his voice low. He turned to Samaya and Obara, who stood close behind him. "This must be the heart of the labyrinth."

Obara, still agitated, looked around with wide eyes. "What in the seven hells is this place?" she muttered. "It doesn't feel right."

Samaya nodded, her grip tightening on her weapon. "We need to be careful. I have a bad feeling about this."

Before they could say more, a shout echoed through the chamber. "Jon!"

They turned to see Mya storming into the room, flanked by Gendry and Edric. Mya's eyes blazed with anger, her body radiating a bloodthirsty intensity. Her fiery hair seemed to glow in the dim light, and her face was twisted with hatred.

Jon stepped back, his hand going to his side where his axe should have been. "Mya," he said, his voice steady. "You're persistent, I'll give you that."

Mya snarled, her hands curling into fists. "You killed my father, you bastard. I've been waiting for this moment." Her voice dripped with venom. "I'm going to enjoy killing you."

Gendry stood beside her, his massive warhammer resting on his shoulder. His face was a mask of fury, muscles taut and ready to strike. Edric, though injured, had a fire in his eyes that mirrored Mya's rage.

"You can't hide from us, Jon," Gendry growled. "We'll finish this here and now."

Jon glanced at Obara and Samaya, both of whom had taken up defensive stances. "We won't go down without a fight," he said, his eyes locked on Mya.

Mya laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Good. I wouldn't have it any other way."

The room exploded into chaos as everyone charged at once. Jon gripped Winter Weaver tightly, feeling the familiar cold surge through him. He met Mya's fiery advance head-on, their weapons clashing with a thunderous noise. The heat from her necklace was intense, the flames licking at Jon's skin, but he gritted his teeth and pushed back with all his strength.

Obara lunged at Gendry, her spear darting like a viper. Gendry swung his warhammer in a wide arc, forcing her to dance back to avoid the crushing blow. She jabbed at him, her spear glancing off his gauntlets with sparks flying. Gendry roared and swung again, the force of his strike cracking the stone floor.

Samaya engaged Edric, her sword meeting his flaming blade with a clash of steel. Sparks flew as they exchanged blows, the heat from Edric's sword searing the air around them. Samaya's strength was formidable, but Edric's fiery assaults kept her on the defensive.

Jon and Mya circled each other, her flames growing hotter with each strike. She threw a fireball at him, and he barely managed to deflect it with Winter Weaver, the icy aura of the axe absorbing some of the heat. He closed the distance between them, swinging his axe in a powerful arc. Mya blocked with a wall of fire, but Jon's momentum carried him through, the cold of Winter Weaver clashing with her flames.

"You're not getting away this time, Jon!" Mya screamed, her eyes blazing with fury.

"We'll see about that," Jon growled, pushing forward.

Obara fought fiercely, her spear spinning in deadly arcs as she faced Gendry. She managed to land a few strikes, her spearhead piercing his flesh despite his armor. Gendry, enraged, swung his hammer with reckless abandon. One of his strikes caught Obara's leg, shattering bone and sending her crashing to the ground.

She tried to rise, her face contorted in pain, but Gendry was on her. He brought his hammer down with a sickening crunch, crushing her skull. Blood and brain matter splattered across the floor as Obara's lifeless body went limp.

Samaya, seeing Obara's fate, fought with renewed ferocity. She dodged Edric's flaming strikes, her sword moving faster and hitting harder. She landed a powerful kick to his chest, sending him stumbling back. But Edric recovered quickly, his sword blazing with renewed fire as he swung at her.

Jon saw Obara fall and felt a surge of rage. He pushed Mya back with a flurry of strikes, the air around them crackling with the clash of ice and fire. He dodged a fireball, the heat singeing his hair, and closed in on her, aiming for a decisive blow.

Mya countered with a blast of intense flames, and Jon felt his skin blister under the heat. He grunted in pain but kept moving forward, his axe cutting through the fire. He swung at her, and she barely dodged, the blade grazing her arm and leaving a trail of frostbite.

Gendry, having dispatched Obara, turned his attention to Jon. He charged, his warhammer raised high. Jon spun around just in time to deflect the blow with Winter Weaver, the impact sending vibrations up his arms. Gendry pressed the attack, each strike of his hammer a brutal, bone-crushing force.

Samaya and Edric's fight took them across the room, their blades a blur of motion. Samaya parried a slash of flame and retaliated with a powerful swing that knocked Edric's sword from his hand. She followed up with a series of strikes, her blade cutting deep into his flesh. Edric screamed in pain but managed to retrieve his sword, the flames flickering as he reignited it.

Jon, locked in combat with Gendry, felt the strain of the battle. Gendry's strength was immense, each blow a test of Jon's endurance. He ducked under a swing and drove his axe into Gendry's side, the icy blade biting deep. Gendry roared in pain and fury, swinging wildly with his hammer.

"You're going to pay for killing my father!" Gendry bellowed, his voice echoing in the chamber.

"Your father was a prick!" Jon shouted back, dodging another hammer blow.

Mya, seeing an opening, unleashed a torrent of flames at Jon. He turned just in time to absorb some of the heat with Winter Weaver, but the force of the blast knocked him off balance. Gendry seized the opportunity, landing a crushing blow to Jon's shoulder, the pain searing through him.

Samaya, having overpowered Edric, rushed to Jon's aid. She tackled Gendry, her strength surprising the giant man. They tumbled to the ground, grappling fiercely. Jon used the moment to regain his footing, his eyes never leaving Mya.

Mya advanced, her hands glowing with fiery power. "You're done, Jon," she hissed, her voice filled with malice.

"Not yet," Jon replied, raising Winter Weaver.

They clashed again, the chamber filled with the sounds of their battle. Jon swung his axe with all his might, the icy blade meeting Mya's flames in a burst of steam. He pressed forward, his strength bolstered by his rage and determination.

Samaya and Gendry continued their brutal struggle, fists and weapons striking with deadly force. Samaya managed to land a punch that sent Gendry reeling, but he recovered quickly, his warhammer swinging in a wide arc. The hammer caught Samaya's side, breaking ribs and sending her crashing into the wall.

Jon, seeing Samaya fall, felt a surge of desperation. He pushed Mya back with a series of powerful strikes, his axe cutting through her defenses. He managed to land a blow to her chest, the cold seeping into her body and weakening her flames.

Jon stood over Mya, his chest heaving, Winter Weaver raised high. Mya's eyes widened in fear, her flames flickering out as she stared at the blade poised to end her life. Just as Jon was about to bring the axe down, a massive force slammed into him from the side.

Gendry's warhammer connected with Jon's ribs, sending him flying across the chamber. Pain exploded through Jon's side as he crashed into the ground, rolling to a stop near the edge of the massive hole in the center of the room. He struggled to rise, gasping for breath, but Gendry was already on him, his immense strength shoving Jon over the brink.

Jon's stomach lurched as he plummeted into the darkness. The walls of the hole whipped past him, his speed increasing with every second. The air rushed by, making it hard to breathe, and lights began to blur past him like stars in the night sky. His heart pounded in his ears, the sensation of falling overwhelming every sense.

Faster and faster he fell, the lights becoming a dizzying blur. The wind roared around him, drowning out his own screams. His mind struggled to keep up with the speed, everything becoming a chaotic whirlwind. Then, without warning, everything went black.

When Jon woke, he was lying on cold, hard ground. The air was damp and musty, the only sound the faint dripping of water somewhere in the distance. His body ached all over, every movement sending jolts of pain through his limbs. He groaned and rolled onto his side, retching violently. The contents of his stomach spilled onto the stone floor, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced himself to his knees. His head spun, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He looked around, confusion settling in as he realized he was no longer in the same chamber. The hole was still there, but the room was different. The walls were covered in ancient carvings, their meanings lost to time.

"Where the hell am I?" Jon muttered, his voice hoarse.

He pushed himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. He stumbled to the edge of the hole and looked down, but it was just as dark and foreboding as before. The thought of how far he had fallen made his stomach churn again. He staggered back and leaned against the wall, trying to piece together what had happened.

Gendry had thrown him into the pit. He had been falling, the lights, the speed. And then...nothing. He couldn't remember anything after that. He shook his head, trying to clear the lingering dizziness. The carvings on the walls seemed to pulse in the dim light, their shapes twisting and turning in ways that made his head hurt.

Jon rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He needed to find a way out, to get back to the others. He couldn't afford to be disoriented now. He had to keep moving, had to find a way to end this madness. He took a step forward, his legs unsteady but holding. As he walked he started checking himself for injuries. He gingerly pressed on his ribs, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through him. Definitely cracked, but he'd dealt with worse. His body was a patchwork of bruises, the deep purple and blue marks marring his skin. He ran his fingers over a few burns, remnants of Mya's flames, but they seemed superficial. With a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, every movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his torso.

He staggered forward, limping slightly, and took in his surroundings. The chamber was large, the air damp and cold. The ancient carvings on the walls seemed to watch him, their eyes following his every move. He shook off the unease and started searching for a way out, the need to escape this place driving him. Jon moved through the chamber, running his fingers along the cold stone walls. The carvings depicted strange scenes, battles between men and beasts, figures of power and terror. He rounded a corner and saw a faint light coming from a narrow passage. With a grunt of effort, he squeezed through the opening, the rough stone scraping against his bruised skin.

He wandered through the twisting tunnels, each step echoing in the silence. The air grew colder, his breath visible in the dim light. He passed more carvings, their details becoming more intricate and unsettling. Time seemed to blur as he walked, his mind focused on finding a way out. Finally, after what felt like hours, he saw a brighter light ahead. He quickened his pace, ignoring the protests from his aching body. He emerged from the tunnel and blinked against the sudden brightness. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the landscape.

Jon stepped forward and looked around, his eyes widening in shock. He was standing on Battle Isle, the massive form of the Hightower rising above him. The familiar sight of Oldtown spread out below, the bustling city coming to life as night approached. He stumbled forward, the reality of his situation hitting him like a blow.

"How...how is this possible?" he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse.

He had been in the depths of the labyrinth, miles and miles away. Now he stood thousands of miles from where he'd started, in a place that was both familiar and impossibly distant. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of what had happened.

"Impossible," he whispered. "This can't be real."

He took a deep breath, the salty air of Oldtown filling his lungs. The sounds of the city, the cries of gulls, the distant murmur of voices, all felt surreal. He looked back at the entrance he had emerged from, wondering if this was all just a dream. Jon shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. He had no idea how he had traveled so far in such a short time.

Jon sighed heavily as he sat down on a rough, sun-bleached stone, looking across the expanse of sea to Oldtown, barely a mile or two away. The Hightower loomed in the distance, a beacon of memories both bitter and sweet. "It's been a while," he muttered to himself. Jon had spent years here, completing many of the chains on his Maester's link before his world had turned upside down, forcing him to flee Westeros.

The days in Oldtown had been different. He remembered the long hours spent in the library, the smell of old parchment, and the quiet camaraderie among the Maesters. There had been a sense of purpose then, a drive to learn and uncover the mysteries of the world. But those days were long gone, replaced by harsh reality. Shaking off the memories, Jon stood up and made his way to the water's edge. He could have walked across the sea, his axe Winter Weaver creating a path of ice, but that would draw too much attention. Instead, he decided to swim, blending into the surroundings and avoiding unnecessary risks.

He dove into the cold water, the shock of it sharp against his skin. He started swimming with strong, steady strokes, the salt stinging his wounds and bruises. The sea was rougher than he remembered, the waves higher and more forceful. As he swam, he kept his breathing even, conserving energy for the long journey. The water was dark, the depths hiding unknown dangers. He felt small fish brush against his legs and saw the occasional glimmer of a larger shape below, but nothing threatened him directly. The rhythmic motion of swimming helped focus his mind, pushing away the confusion and pain.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally saw the docks of Oldtown coming into view. His muscles burned, and his lungs ached, but he pressed on, determined to reach his destination. The sounds of the city grew louder, the mingling of voices, the creaking of ships, and the calls of dockworkers creating a familiar cacophony. Jon reached the harbor and grabbed onto one of the wooden posts, pulling himself up with a grunt. He climbed onto the docks, dripping and exhausted, but relieved to have made it. The rough wooden planks felt solid beneath his feet as he took a moment to catch his breath and gather his bearings.

Jon stood at the edge of the harbor, soaking wet, his clothes dripping onto the wooden planks below. He looked around, frowning as he took in the sights and sounds of Oldtown. Something felt off. The city was familiar yet strangely different. He had expected some changes since his time here, but this was more than he anticipated. Buildings he remembered had been replaced, streets seemed narrower, and even the people seemed to carry themselves differently.

His instincts told him that something wasn't right. Jon had always prided himself on his keen sense of observation, and right now, his gut was telling him that Oldtown had changed far more than it should have in the time he'd been gone. He shook off the uneasy feeling, deciding that he would think about it later. He needed to find Obara and Samaya.

But as he thought of their names, a sharp pain rushed through his heart. Obara was dead, and Samaya was likely gone too. The realization hit him hard, and a wave of self-loathing washed over him. He clenched his fists, feeling the rage and guilt build up inside him. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to protect them, yet he had failed.

Unable to contain his anger, Jon punched a hole through the nearest stone wall. The solid rock crumbled under the force of his blow, drawing the attention of several passersby. They stared at him, eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. Jon didn't care; he was too consumed by his own failure. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He couldn't afford to lose control, not here, not now. He needed to put this out of his mind, at least for the moment. He had to stay focused if he wanted to survive and find a way back to where he was needed most. There would be time to grieve later, to deal with the pain and the guilt. For now, he had to push it all aside and keep moving.

...

Jon moved through the narrow streets of Oldtown, eyes sharp and alert. The wet clothes clung to his body, and he knew he needed to change quickly. He spotted a line of clothes hanging to dry in a small courtyard and made his way over with purpose.

He glanced around to ensure no one was watching before swiftly untying the clothes and stuffing them into a large pouch he had pilfered earlier. He moved with practiced ease, every motion fluid and quiet. He found a secluded corner behind a stack of crates and began to strip off his wet garments. The cold didn't bother him, but he knew the damp clothes would slow him down.

Jon pulled on a fresh pair of trousers and a tunic, both a bit snug but serviceable. He tucked the wet clothes into the pouch, tying it securely. His new attire allowed him to blend in more easily with the townsfolk, making him just another face in the crowd.

He stepped back into the busy streets, his eyes scanning for potential targets. The market was bustling, filled with merchants, sailors, and townspeople. Jon slipped through the throngs, his hands quick and nimble. He brushed past a merchant, deftly lifting a few silver stags from the man's belt pouch. The merchant never noticed, too engrossed in haggling with a customer.

Jon continued through the market, his fingers finding their way into pockets and pouches with practiced ease. He pocketed a few more coins from an unsuspecting sailor and a distracted noblewoman. Each time, he moved on without breaking stride, his face a mask of calm indifference.

He approached a fishmonger, who was busy weighing his catch of the day. Jon's hand darted out, snatching a handful of coins from a wooden box. The fishmonger was none the wiser, and Jon slipped back into the crowd. He felt the weight of the coins in his pouch grow heavier. He had enough coin to last him for at least a moon, so now he weaved through the bustling streets of Oldtown. His destination was the Citadel, a place he hadn't seen in years. Despite his rough past with many of the Archmaesters, there was one who had always had a soft spot for him; Marwyn the Mage. Jon hoped that Marwyn could provide some answers or, at the very least, some direction.

The gates of the Citadel stood tall and imposing, yet Jon approached them with the confidence of someone who had once walked its halls. He stepped through the gates, his eyes scanning the familiar grounds. Novices and acolytes moved about, engrossed in their studies or chores. Jon made his way to the Hall of Records, where he knew he could find information on Marwyn's whereabouts.

He approached a young acolyte sorting through a stack of scrolls. "I'm looking for Archmaester Marwyn the Mage," Jon said, his voice steady.

The acolyte looked up, a confused expression on his face. "Who?"

"Marwyn the Mage, Archmaester of Higher Mysteries," Jon repeated, a frown forming on his lips.

The acolyte's confusion deepened, and he glanced around as if seeking help. "I'm sorry, ser, but there's no Archmaester by that name here."

Jon's frown turned into a scowl. "Don't play games with me, boy. Marwyn's been here for years."

The acolyte shook his head. "I assure you, ser, no such person exists here. The Archmaester of Higher Mysteries is Archmaester Vaegon."

Jon's eyes widened. Vaegon? The name struck him like a blow. Vaegon was known in the history books as a prince of House Targaryen who had become a maester. He had lived long before Jon's time. "Vaegon?" Jon echoed, disbelief thick in his voice.

"Yes, Archmaester Vaegon," the acolyte confirmed. "He's been Archmaester of Higher Mysteries for many years."

Jon's heart pounded in his chest. Something was very wrong. "What year is it?" he demanded.

The acolyte blinked in surprise. "It's 105 AC, ser."

Jon staggered back, his legs weak. He found a chair and collapsed into it, his mind reeling. 105 AC. He was supposed to be in the year 301 AC. His mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what he had just learned. How could this be possible? He had somehow traveled back nearly two centuries in time.

The acolyte took a cautious step towards him. "Are you well, ser?"

Jon didn't respond, his thoughts a chaotic mess. How could he be here, in this time? What had brought him to this place, this era? He thought back to the labyrinth, the fall, the strange light, and the blinding speed at which he had traveled. His ribs ached with every breath, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the turmoil in his mind. He tried to piece together a coherent thought, but everything slipped through his grasp like sand. He had no idea how to get back, or even if he could. The faces of Samaya and Obara flashed through his mind, and a sharp pang of guilt and sorrow cut through him. He had failed them.

Jon's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, to rage against the impossibility of his situation. But instead, he forced himself to breathe, to think. Jon managed to force a thank you to the acolyte, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stood on unsteady legs, trying to regain his composure. But as he turned to leave, the weight of his situation hit him again like a tidal wave. He stumbled, crashing into the stone wall of the corridor. His stomach churned violently, and he doubled over, vomiting onto the floor.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he straightened up, his face pale and sweaty. Without another word, he pushed himself away from the wall and hurried out of the Citadel.

...

For the next two months, Jon made Oldtown his home while he tried to find a way back to his own era. Every day, he revisited the maze under the Hightower, hoping to uncover the secret that had transported him thousands of miles and, seemingly, across time. He examined every inch of the ruins, searching for hidden passages, deciphering old runes, and even throwing himself into the gaping hole that once seemed bottomless. However, the hole here was only six feet deep, the darkness merely an illusion.

The days turned into weeks, and Jon's frustration grew. Each expedition into the depths of the Hightower's maze yielded nothing but dead ends. He grew familiar with every crack in the stone, every musty smell, and every echo that haunted the ancient corridors. His hope slowly eroded, replaced by the grim acceptance that he might never return to his own time.

Jon continued to study the ruins, pouring over old texts and consulting with scholars, but he hit a dead end at every turn. The magic that had transported him was beyond his comprehension, and without the Starlight Crown or any other source of ancient power, he found himself at a loss. The days grew longer, and his search more desperate, but eventually, he had to face the harsh reality.

He was trapped in this time, far removed from everything and everyone he knew. As the second month drew to a close, Jon finally gave up. The ruins held no answers, and he accepted that he would never go home.

With this acceptance came a sense of resignation. He pondered what to do next, knowing he could not rejoin the Citadel or remain in Oldtown forever. The city's labyrinthine streets and ancient buildings felt like a prison, reminding him constantly of his failure. He needed to leave, to find a new purpose.

Jon decided to make his way to King's Landing. The journey was long and arduous, but he needed to find a new direction, something to anchor him in this strange new world. When he arrived, he was greeted by the familiar stench of shit and unwashed people. The streets were crowded, filled with merchants hawking their wares, beggars pleading for coin, and the general hustle and bustle of the capital.

As he navigated through the teeming masses, Jon looked up and saw a dragon flying over the city. His heart raced with excitement and curiosity. Dragons were creatures of legend, and seeing one with his own eyes filled him with a sense of wonder he hadn't felt in months. It was a sign, perhaps, that this new era had something to offer him after all.

Despite his excitement, Jon was running low on coin. His funds from Oldtown had dwindled, and he knew he couldn't rely on thieving forever. Stealing had never sat well with him, and the guilt gnawed at him every time he pocketed someone else's hard-earned silver. Jon walked through the crowded streets of King's Landing, a meat pie in hand. He chewed thoughtfully, mulling over what he'd do for coin. His old life as a Maester and scholar felt a world away, and he had neither the funds nor the resources to resume his former occupation. There was no ship for him to sail, no grand expedition for him to lead. The reality of his situation weighed heavily on him as he navigated the throng of people.

Children ran past him, laughing and playing a game of stickball. One of the children's throws went wild, the ball skidding to a stop at Jon's feet. He picked it up, smiling faintly as the children hesitated. "Here," he said, tossing it back gently. The game resumed while Jon continued walking, biting into his meat pie. The taste was decent enough, but his mind was elsewhere. As he walked, he found himself in a small square with a fountain at its center. He sat down on the edge of the fountain, watching the water trickle and splash. What could he do for money in the short term? He had a set of skills that didn't quite fit the needs of a bustling city. He was a capable fighter, but he had no desire to sell his sword to the highest bidder. Thieving was out of the question, despite his earlier success; the guilt of stealing from honest folk gnawed at him. He needed a solution that would provide him with enough coin to survive, and perhaps even a way to return to his own time, if that was possible.

As he sat there, lost in thought, snippets of conversation from passersby reached his ears. They spoke of an upcoming tournament, one that would be held in honor of King Viserys' impending son. The excitement in their voices was palpable, and Jon found himself intrigued.

"A grand tournament," one man said. "The finest knights from across the realm will be there. It's going to be a spectacle!"

"Do you think we'll see the dragons?" a woman asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"Most certainly," another replied. "They say Prince Daemon himself will be competing."

Jon took another bite of his meat pie, a smile forming on his lips. Jon opened his pouch, letting the few dragons, a dozen stags, and some coppers clink together. The sound was meager, but it was all he had. He counted them again, humming softly as he did so, his mind already calculating what he could buy.

"It should be enough to get some basic armor and a decent sword," he muttered to himself. The melee was usually first, and if he could win that, then he could afford a decent horse for the jousting. While he could use his axe for the melee he didn't want to if he could help it, the frost that covered the blade and the gem embedded in the hilt made it quite eye catching.

"Time to get rich," Jon muttered to himself as he stood up from the fountain.

——————————————————

Rhaenyra Targaryen was a vision of beauty at fifteen name days. Her silver-gold hair flowed like a cascade of molten metal, catching the sunlight and shimmering with every movement. Her eyes, a deep violet, she wore a gown of rich crimson, the color of her house, with intricate gold embroidery that highlighted her slender waist and delicate shoulders. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with a youthful blush on her cheeks that only added to her allure.

Beside her stood Alicent Hightower, two years her senior. Alicent was a striking contrast to Rhaenyra with her chestnut hair falling in soft waves around her face. Her green dress was simple yet elegant, accentuating her natural beauty without overshadowing her friend. The dress clung to her curves in all the right places, hinting at the woman she was becoming. Her eyes, a warm brown, radiated kindness and intelligence. They were seated on the upper dais above the melee ring, an area reserved for the highest nobility. Rhaenyra's mother, Queen Aemma, sat beside her. Heavily pregnant, Aemma looked pale and tired, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. Despite her condition, she managed a weak smile for her daughter.

Rhaenyra couldn't help but worry for her mother. She leaned closer, her hand brushing Aemma's arm. "Are you sure you're all right, Mother?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Aemma patted Rhaenyra's hand gently. "I'm fine, my love. Just a little tired. Go, enjoy yourself." She kissed Rhaenyra on the cheek, her lips cool against her daughter's warm skin.

Reluctantly, Rhaenyra stood and returned to Alicent, who had been waiting patiently. "Is everything all right?" Alicent asked, her brow furrowed with worry.

Rhaenyra nodded, though her eyes lingered on her mother for a moment longer. "Yes, she just needs to rest. Let's enjoy the melee."

They turned their attention to the melee ring below, where knights and men-at-arms were preparing for the contest. The atmosphere was charged with excitement, the crowd's anticipation palpable. The clang of steel and the murmur of the spectators created a symphony of sounds that filled the air. Alicent leaned in, her eyes scanning the participants. "Do you think Daemon will join the melee?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

Rhaenyra shook her head. "No, he's saving himself for the joust. He always prefers the grander spectacle."

They giggled together. They whispered about the various knights and men, their eyes alight with the innocent intrigue of young girls. Ser Criston Cole, with his dark hair and piercing eyes, drew many admiring glances from both girls. He was a favorite among the ladies of the court, his skill with a Morningstar matched only by his handsome features.

"Look at him," Alicent said, pointing to a man with mismatched armor and a bastard sword in his hand. He was crouched on the ground, stretching his limbs, looking out of place among the polished knights.

Rhaenyra laughed at the sight, but her amusement was short-lived. When the man looked up, their eyes met, and she felt a strange sensation spread through her body. It started in her chest, a fluttering that quickened her breath, and then moved lower, settling between her legs.

Alicent chuckled as she observed the warrior with mismatched armor. "Look at him, Rhaenyra. He'll be lucky to last a few minutes in that condition. He'll be taken out early for sure."

Rhaenyra, however, couldn't tear her eyes away from the man. There was something about him that held her attention. "I don't know, Alicent. I have a feeling he might surprise us."

Alicent laughed, shaking her head. "Really? With that armor? He looks like he pieced it together from a blacksmith's scrap heap. And I thought you were rooting for Ser Criston?"

Rhaenyra shrugged, her gaze never leaving the mismatched knight. "Ser Criston is a fine knight, but there's something about this one. I think he'll win."

Alicent laughed again, her skepticism clear. "You're being ridiculous, Rhaenyra. Just look at him. He's a mess."

Rhaenyra's eyes followed the man as he stood and stretched. When he glanced up at her again, she felt a tingling sensation spread through her body. She couldn't explain it, but there was a magnetism about him that drew her in.

'I wonder what he's thinking about,' she mused, her heart racing a little faster.

...

Jon sighed, stretching his arms above his head, his mismatched armor clinking with the movement. "I forgot how boring these tournaments could be. Take forever for the damn things to start," he thought to himself. He yawned, a loud, exaggerated yawn that caught the attention of several knights and sellswords nearby.

One knight in polished steel approached him, sneering. "You'll be one of the first to fall, wretch. Get out now, or face certain death."

Jon yawned again, louder this time, right in the middle of the knight's threat. The knight's face turned red with anger. "Sorry, what were you saying?" Jon asked, feigning innocence.

"You're gonna die, boy," the knight spat before storming off.

Jon chuckled, shaking his head. He crouched down, stretching his legs and glancing up at the upper dais. His eyes settled on the young woman with silver-gold hair, her beauty unmistakable. "She really is beautiful," he thought, guessing her to be the princess.

A wave of melancholy washed over him as he remembered the history he had read in "Fire and Blood." It was filled with the triumphs and tragedies of House Targaryen, though Jon doubted the accuracy of much of it. "Words from a jester dwarf are almost as unreliable as a Maester," he mused with a chuckle.

Yet, one undeniable truth was the grim fate of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Devoured by her half-brother Aegon's dragon, Sunfyre. Jon sighed, his thoughts wandering through the pages of history.

His contemplation was interrupted as King Viserys stood up, raising his hand for silence. The murmurs of the crowd hushed instantly.

"Welcome, one and all, to this grand tournament!" Viserys began, his voice carrying across the grounds. "We gather here to celebrate the impending birth of my son. May the gods bless him with health and strength. Let the melee begin!"

The crowd erupted into cheers as the signal was given. Jon stood, rolling his shoulders and gripping the hilt of his sword. The melee erupted into chaos, the air thick with the sound of clashing steel and the screams of the wounded. Blood splattered across the ground, mixing with the dirt to form a sticky mud that pulled at the feet of the combatants. The acrid stench of sweat and fear hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

Jon stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a mix of surprise and wariness. This melee was far bloodier than any he had witnessed before. Men were not merely being disarmed or knocked unconscious; they were being killed. He saw one knight cleave another's head clean off with a savage swing of his axe, the headless body collapsing to the ground in a spray of crimson. Another sellsword was gutted by a sword thrust, his entrails spilling out onto the ground as he screamed in agony.

He couldn't help but feel a bit of unease at the brutality before him. Melees were usually contests of skill and strength, not bloody massacres. Jon shifted his grip on his bastard sword, keeping a wary eye on the combatants around him. His mismatched armor drew a few curious glances, but most were too preoccupied with staying alive to pay him much attention.

A shout rang out, and Jon turned to see the knight who had threatened him earlier, charging at him with his sword raised high. "You're gonna die, boy!" the knight bellowed, his face twisted with rage.

Jon sighed, stepping back just enough to brace himself. The knight closed the distance quickly, swinging his sword in a wide arc aimed at Jon's head. Jon didn't move his feet, only his arm, bringing his sword up in a lazy parry that deflected the blow effortlessly. The knight's sword glanced off Jon's blade, the force of the impact jarring the knight's arm.

"That all you've got?" Jon asked, his tone mocking.

The knight growled, pulling back and swinging again, this time aiming for Jon's midsection. Jon blocked the attack with minimal effort, his expression one of bored indifference. The knight's face reddened with frustration, and he launched a series of rapid strikes, each one more desperate than the last.

Jon parried each blow with ease, his sword moving with almost languid precision. He didn't bother to step aside or reposition himself, letting the knight's fury spend itself against his superior technique. "You're not even trying," Jon taunted, his voice carrying over the din of the melee.

"Shut up and fight!" the knight spat, swinging his sword with all his might. Jon caught the blade on his own and twisted, wrenching the sword from the knight's grip and sending it spinning to the ground. The knight stared at his empty hand in disbelief, then back at Jon, who hadn't moved from his spot.

"You might want to pick that up," Jon suggested, nodding toward the fallen sword.

The knight lunged for his weapon, but Jon was faster. He kicked the sword away, sending it skidding across the ground. The knight scrambled after it, only to have Jon plant a boot on his back, pinning him to the dirt.

"Pathetic," Jon muttered, pressing down with just enough force to keep the knight from moving.

The knight struggled, trying to push himself up, but Jon's strength was overwhelming. With a final, desperate effort, the knight rolled over, swinging a gauntleted fist at Jon's knee. Jon caught the punch with his free hand, his grip like a vise around the knight's wrist.

"I told you, you're gonna die," the knight hissed, his eyes blazing with defiance.

Jon leaned in close, his voice a low growl. "Not today," he said, and with a swift, brutal motion, he brought his sword down, bashing him in the head with the hilt and knocking him out. He didn't much like killing people and only did it when he had to he still had dreams about the Dothraki and what he did to them.

The melee continued, a cacophony of steel and screams. Jon stood amidst the chaos, his sword at the ready. Another knight, this one wielding a mace, charged at him with a roar. Jon braced himself, watching the man's movements. As the mace swung toward his head, Jon ducked and stepped to the side, bringing his sword up to parry the blow. The impact jarred the knight's arm, making him stagger.

Without missing a beat, Jon drove his fist into the knight's gut. The force of the blow lifted the man off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground several feet away, gasping for air. Jon didn't wait for him to recover. He turned, his eyes scanning for the next opponent.

A sellsword with a spear lunged at him, the point aimed at Jon's chest. Jon sidestepped, catching the shaft of the spear with one hand and yanking it forward. The sellsword stumbled, and Jon used the man's momentum to twist the spear from his grasp and flip him over his shoulder. The sellsword landed hard on his back, the breath knocked out of him. Jon snapped the spear over his knee and tossed the pieces aside. A pair of knights closed in on him, one with a sword and the other with a warhammer. Jon's eyes narrowed as he assessed the threat. The sword-wielding knight struck first, a swift, practiced slash aimed at Jon's neck. Jon blocked the blow with his own sword, then kicked the knight in the chest. The knight flew backward, colliding with the other knight and sending them both sprawling.

Jon moved quickly, stepping forward and bringing his sword down on the sword-wielding knight's wrist. The knight screamed as the sword was knocked from his grasp. Jon followed up with a punch to the man's jaw, the force of the blow snapping his head back and rendering him unconscious. The knight with the warhammer had regained his footing and came at Jon with a wild swing. Jon ducked under the blow and grabbed the knight's arm, using his superior strength to twist it behind the man's back. The knight cried out in pain as Jon drove his knee into his back, forcing him to the ground.

Another sellsword, this one armed with a dagger, tried to sneak up on Jon from behind. Jon sensed the movement and spun around, his sword flashing out to knock the dagger from the man's hand. He followed up with a punch to the sellsword's face, sending him sprawling backward, blood spraying from his nose.

Jon was breathing hard, his muscles tense and ready. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him, could hear their shouts and gasps.

...

Rhaenyra and Alicent gasped in unison as they watched the melee unfold. The man in mismatched armor was a sight to behold. His movements were swift and brutal, each blow precise and powerful. Knights and sellswords fell before him, their cries of pain echoing through the arena.

"Gods, do you see that?" Alicent whispered, her eyes wide with amazement. "He's throwing them around like they're children. Look at how he fights, Rhaenyra. Have you ever seen anything like it?"

Rhaenyra couldn't tear her eyes away from the spectacle below. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him dispatch one opponent after another. There was a raw, almost primal energy to his fighting, something that set him apart from the others. She felt a strange sensation spread through her, a mix of excitement and lust.

"Who is he?" Alicent continued, leaning closer to Rhaenyra. "He's incredible. I've never seen such strength, such skill. Do you think he might win the whole thing?"

Rhaenyra nodded absently, barely hearing her friend's words. Her eyes were fixed on the man, the way he moved with such deadly grace. She could see the power in his strikes, the way his opponents crumpled under his blows. It was mesmerizing, and she felt her heart beat faster as she watched him.

"I think he might," she replied softly, almost to herself.

Alicent laughed, a light, musical sound. "And here I thought you Ser Criston, had the whole thing," she said. "But this one... there's something about him, isn't there?"

"Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "There is something about him."

...

The melee continued to rage around Jon, but he stood unfazed, his mismatched armor barely scratched. Knights and sellswords came at him in waves, each thinking they could best him. They were wrong. Jon moved through them with ease, his strength and skill unmatched. He disarmed a knight with a single twist of his wrist, sending the man's sword clattering to the ground. A sellsword lunged at him from the side, but Jon caught him by the throat and threw him into a group of fighters, toppling them like pins.

However his next opponent wasn't like the others he'd faced so far. Harwin Strong, a towering man known across Westeros for his immense strength, brandished a greatsword. The arena seemed to hold its breath as the two men faced off. Harwin charged, his greatsword arcing through the air with a force that would have cleaved most men in two. Jon met the strike head-on, catching the blade with his own sword. The impact echoed like a thunderclap, but Jon stood firm, his feet planted solidly on the ground. He shoved Harwin back with a flick of his wrist, sending the giant stumbling.

Harwin's face twisted in surprise and anger. He swung again, but Jon was faster. He sidestepped the blow and delivered a crushing punch to Harwin's ribs, the force of which sent the larger man skidding back. Harwin growled and came at him again, this time with a flurry of heavy strikes. Jon parried each one effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise.

With a swift move, Jon slipped inside Harwin's guard and slammed his fist into Harwin's elbow, breaking his arm with a sickening crack. Harwin roared in pain but refused to yield. He swung his greatsword with his remaining arm, but Jon ducked under it, delivering a brutal kick to Harwin's knee that sent him to the ground.

Harwin tried to rise, but Jon grabbed him by the throat and hauled him to his feet. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Jon lifted the much larger man with ease and slammed him back down, shattering his collarbone. Harwin screamed, his body convulsing in agony.

Jon didn't let up. He grabbed Harwin's good arm and twisted it until the bones snapped. Harwin's eyes rolled back in his head from the pain, but Jon wasn't done. With a powerful heave, he threw Harwin into the crowd. The impact was tremendous, sending people sprawling and drawing gasps from onlookers.

Jon winced as he realized he might have thrown Harwin too hard. The man lay unconscious. The melee paused for a moment as everyone took in the scene. Jon scanned the field, realizing that there weren't many contenders left. As he turned, he saw his final opponent step forward. Ser Criston Cole, his armor shining, held a Morningstar with practiced ease. Jon noted the confidence in Criston's stance, the way he moved with the weapon as if it were an extension of his own body. They approached each other, the crowd murmuring with anticipation.

"Do you want to surrender now?" Criston offered, his voice steady, though a hint of a smirk played on his lips.

Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "I've come too far to quit now."

The fight began with Criston swinging his Morningstar in a wide arc. Jon stepped back, feeling the rush of air as the spiked ball whooshed past his face. He countered with a quick slash of his sword, but Criston was quick, deflecting the blow with his shield. They circled each other, each looking for an opening.

Criston moved in with a series of rapid strikes, the Morningstar a blur of deadly spikes. Jon dodged and parried, his armor ringing with the impacts. He felt a spike graze his arm, drawing blood, but he pressed on, ignoring the pain. He swung low, aiming for Criston's legs, but the knight leaped back, avoiding the blow.

The crowd gasped as Criston's Morningstar connected with Jon's side, the force of the blow staggering him. Jon grunted but stood his ground, retaliating with a powerful thrust. Criston blocked with his shield, but the impact drove him back a step. Jon pressed the attack, his strikes relentless. He felt his sword cut through leather and chain, drawing a grunt of pain from Criston. They exchanged blows, each accumulating injuries. Jon's face was slick with sweat and blood, a gash on his forehead trickling down into his eyes. Criston's armor was dented and scratched, his breathing labored. Despite the injuries, Jon had the advantage, his strength and skill pushing Criston to his limits.

With a swift move, Jon stabbed his sword into the earth, using it to duck under a powerful swing from Criston. He surged up, his fist smashing into Criston's breastplate, denting the metal and winding the knight. The crowd roared at the display of raw power. Jon yanked his sword from the ground and flowed into a downward slash. Criston brought his Morningstar up to block, but the sheer force of Jon's strike sliced through the chain, disarming him. The weapon clattered to the ground, but Criston wasn't finished. He drew a dagger, eyes blazing with determination.

Jon dropped his sword, bringing both hands wide and clapping them against the sides of Criston's helmet. The impact rang out like a bell, reverberating through the arena. Criston staggered, his ears ringing, and fell to the ground unconscious.

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps, Jon stood over Criston's prone form, breathing heavily, his body aching from the numerous hits he had taken. He raised his hands, acknowledging the crowd's cheers, though his mind was already elsewhere. As the adrenaline began to fade, Jon felt the sting of his wounds more keenly. He looked up at the dais, catching the eye of the princess once more. There was a strange intensity in her gaze that made him pause, but he quickly shook it off.

Viserys clapped and stood up, moving to the edge of the upper dais. "A splendid display, my friend!" Viserys shouted out, his voice booming across the arena. One of the Kingsguard stepped forward and called for Jon to come forward and remove his helmet.

Jon did so, letting the helmet fall to the ground with a thud. He pushed his thick black locks out of his face, revealing his bright purple eyes and striking features. The audience erupted in gasps and whispers. Ladies in the crowd stared wide-eyed, and one older woman even exclaimed, "I love him!" Jon turned to her, winked, and watched with amusement as she nearly fainted.

Alicent and Rhaenyra both gasped at the sight of him. "Who is he?" Alicent whispered, unable to tear her eyes away. "What family or house is he from?"

Rhaenyra, studying Jon more closely, noticed the Valyrian features – high cheekbones, the well-shaped jaw, and those unmistakable purple eyes. "He must be of noble blood," she murmured.

Viserys, still smiling, addressed Jon. "Who are you? I don't recognize you."

Jon, standing tall and proud, replied, "I am Jon Snow."

The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs of shock. Both nobles and commoners alike were astonished that a bastard had bested some of the best warriors in the realm.

Viserys, however, remained unfazed. He gestured to one of the game masters, who brought forth a small chest containing 10,000 dragons. "What will you do with your new wealth, Jon Snow?" Viserys asked.

Jon scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "I've never been in a joust before, so I thought I'd try and win that. Perhaps gain myself even more wealth, your grace."

Laughter spread through the crowd, including the King. "I think you'll find the joust a much different test of skill than the melee. But nevertheless, I shall look forward to seeing you in the jousts. Perhaps you may surprise us again," Viserys said, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Your champion!" Viserys proclaimed, pointing to Jon and clapping. The crowd went wild, cheering and chanting Jon's name.

Viserys raised his hand, signaling for the crowd to quiet down. "The tournament shall continue tomorrow with the jousting!" he announced. The king then stepped back, leaving the dais.

Jon picked up his helmet, whistling softly as he made his way out of the ring. The cheers of the crowd still echoed in his ears, and he noticed even some nobles looking at him with approval. It was a pleasant surprise. "I guess the Blackfyre rebellion hasn't happened yet, so bastards aren't seen too unfavourably," he mused. "Though I'll probably still stay away from any septs."

As Jon walked out of the arena, a servant approached him, bowing slightly. "Ser, as the champion, you are invited to the Red Keep tonight for the feast."

Jon thanked the servant and flicked him a gold dragon. The servant's eyes widened with gratitude, and he bowed deeply. "Thank you, ser! Thank you!"

Jon continued on his way, smirking to himself. He didn't much like the Red Keep, though. Every time he went there, he usually ended up fucking Cersei all night. "Man... Cersei was insane, but she sure could fuck," he thought. His breeches started to feel tight at the thought. He readjusted himself, shaking his head to clear the memories.

———————————————————-

Rhaenyra and Alicent sat in Rhaenyra's room, both freshly bathed. Rhaenyra's silver-gold hair fell in wet waves down her back, her fair skin glowing from the warmth of the bath. Her body was slim yet curvaceous, her young breasts firm, her waist narrow, and her hips just beginning to widen with the promise of womanhood. Alicent, in contrast, had chestnut hair that clung to her neck and shoulders. Her skin was a warmer shade, her body slightly fuller with a more pronounced hourglass figure. Her breasts were a bit larger, her waist cinched, and her hips flared more noticeably than Rhaenyra's.

Both girls were draped in simple robes, their wet hair leaving damp spots on the fabric. As they chatted, they couldn't help but return to the topic that had been on their minds since the melee.

"Do you think Jon Snow will attend the feast?" Rhaenyra asked, a touch of curiosity in her voice.

Alicent smiled knowingly. "It would be an honor to be hosted at the Red Keep. I imagine he wouldn't miss it for the world."

Rhaenyra shrugged, a nonchalant air about her. "He didn't seem like the type to care about such honors."

Alicent's smile widened. "You've been thinking about him a lot, haven't you? Do you have a crush, Rhaenyra?" she teased.

Rhaenyra blushed, reaching out to playfully swat at Alicent. "Stop it!" she laughed.

Alicent giggled, and before long, their playful banter turned into a light-hearted tussle. They fell onto the bed, their bodies entwined as they laughed and wrestled, neither truly trying to win. They finally settled, lying close together on the bed, looking up at the canopy.

"Still, he was handsome," Alicent said, her tone more serious now. "And skilled. So skilled that he could become a Kingsguard or a knight."

Rhaenyra found herself humming in agreement, though her thoughts were more about the lustful feelings she had felt when looking at Jon. The way he moved, the strength he displayed—it stirred something deep within her.

"Would you take him to your chambers?" Alicent asked, breaking Rhaenyra's reverie.

Rhaenyra was shocked by the boldness of the question. She didn't answer immediately, her mind racing. Finally, she nodded.

Alicent smiled mischievously. "I would too," she admitted. "It's a shame he's a bastard."

Rhaenyra sighed, her thoughts sobering. "Even if he wasn't a bastard, it's unlikely he'd be a suitable match. He'd have to be the son of a great lord or at least a wealthy one to be considered by our fathers." The room fell silent as both girls pondered. After a moment, they began to get up, preparing themselves for the feast.

"We'd better get ready," Alicent said, smoothing her robe.

Their hair had been carefully combed and arranged, with Rhaenyra's flowing like molten silver and Alicent's falling in soft chestnut waves. They helped each other dress, donning fine gowns appropriate for the occasion.

Rhaenyra chose a gown of deep Targaryen red, embroidered with House Targaryens crest. It was tight at the bodice, accentuating her slim waist and flaring out gracefully at the hips. The neckline was modest yet flattering, adorned with a delicate black lace. She wore a necklace with a ruby pendant, a gift from her father.

Alicent wore a green gown that complimented her auburn hair and warm skin tone. The dress was elegant, with golden embroidery that traced floral patterns along the hem and sleeves. The bodice was snug, showing off her curves, and the skirt flowed beautifully around her. She wore a simple gold chain around her neck, which added a touch of sophistication to her look.

As they finished dressing, they took a moment to admire each other. They were both stunning, each beautiful in her own way. With a final adjustment to their gowns and a shared smile, they left the room, ready to join the festivities at the Red Keep.

...

Jon Snow walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, led by a servant. He adjusted the collar of his new outfit, feeling the smooth fabric against his skin. The black doublet was rich and fine, adorned with subtle silver embroidery. Underneath, he wore a fine silk white tunic that contrasted sharply with the dark doublet. His breeches were made of soft, supple leather, and his boots were polished to a shine. Freshly bathed and clean-shaven, Jon looked even more handsome than he had during the melee. His dark locks fell neatly around his face, framing his striking purple eyes.

As he walked, noble ladies turned their heads, their eyes following him with interest. Some smiled coyly, whispering to each other as he passed. Jon offered a polite nod, his expression neutral. He had grown used to the attention, but he knew better than to let it distract him.

Finally, he reached the Great Hall. The servant opened the large wooden doors, and Jon stepped inside. The hall was a grand sight. Banners of the Targaryen house, black with red dragons, hung from the walls. The high ceilings were adorned with chandeliers that cast a warm glow over the room. Long tables were filled with lords, knights, and even some sellswords, all enjoying the feast.

The tables were laden with food. Roasted boar with crispy skin, platters of venison, and whole chickens glistened with juices. Trenchers overflowed with bread, cheese, and fruits. Bowls of stew and soup steamed, filling the air with mouthwatering aromas. Servants moved among the guests, filling goblets with wine and ale.

Musicians played in one corner, their melodies weaving through the conversation and laughter that filled the hall. The sound of lutes, pipes, and drums created a lively atmosphere. Noblemen and women chatted animatedly, discussing the events of the day and the upcoming joust. Jon scanned the room, taking in the sight. He spotted a few finally dressed lords seated close to the royal families table, he assumed they were the Great Lords.

Lord Baratheon was deep in conversation with Lord Hightower, both men gesturing animatedly. Ser Harrold Westerling, still nursing his wounds from the melee, laughed loudly at a joke told by a fellow knight. Even some of the sellswords who had participated in the melee were present, enjoying the food and drink.

Jon made his way to an empty seat, nodding politely to those who acknowledged him. He sat down and poured himself a goblet of wine. The rich, red liquid swirled in the cup, and he took a sip, savoring the taste. He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it in half and dipping it into a bowl of stew. As he ate, he listened to the conversations around him. Lords discussed politics and alliances, knights boasted of their exploits, and ladies gossiped about the various Knights and Lords sons that were in attendance. Jon leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of wine. A knight sitting next to him, Ser Edmure, turned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"That was some display you put on out there, Jon Snow," Ser Edmure said with a grin. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

Jon shrugged. "Here and there. You pick up a few tricks when you travel as much as I have."

Another knight, Ser Garret, laughed. "Aye, well, those tricks served you well today. Never seen Harwin Strong thrown like a sack of potatoes before."

Jon chuckled. "He's a strong one, but sometimes strength alone isn't enough."

Ser Garret smirked. "Strength and speed, lad. You moved like a shadow out there. Where'd you get that from, eh? Some secret training ground hidden in the North?"

Jon shook his head. "Nothing like that. Just practice and a bit of luck."

Ser Edmure raised his goblet. "To luck, then. May it stay with you in the joust." The men clinked their goblets together and drank. They all drank heartily after their toast, the wine flowing freely. Jon leaned back in his chair, enjoying the camaraderie, when a female servant approached. She had long blonde hair cascading down her back and big breasts barely contained by her low-cut dress. Her hips swayed enticingly as she walked, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

She smiled at Jon, her lips full and inviting. "Would you like more wine, my lord?" she asked, her voice smooth and sultry.

Jon nodded, holding out his goblet. "Aye, fill it up, please."

As she leaned over to refill his cup, her breasts brushed against his arm. She lingered, pressing herself a little closer. Jon didn't pull away, a smirk playing on his lips. "Careful there, you might spill," he said, his voice low.

The servant giggled, her eyes locked on his. "And what a waste that would be," she replied, finishing the pour and letting her fingers trail along his hand.

Jon took a sip, his gaze never leaving hers. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Elena," she said, leaning in closer so that only he could hear. Her breath was warm against his ear.

"Jon Snow," he replied, his hand slipping around her waist and pulling her closer. She didn't resist, pressing her body against his.

"I know," she replied, her lips brushing his ear. "You fought well today. Very impressive."

Jon's hand slid down to her hip, squeezing gently. "I aim to please," he said, his eyes darkening with desire.

Elena shivered, a flush spreading across her cheeks. "Maybe you can show me just how well you aim later," she whispered, her fingers playing with the laces of his doublet.

Jon's grin widened. "Maybe I will," he replied, his voice husky. He leaned in, his lips grazing her neck, making her gasp softly.

Their flirtation was interrupted by a loud cheer from the knights as another toast was called. Elena stepped back reluctantly, her eyes promising more to come. "I'll be around if you need anything else," she said, her fingers trailing down his chest before she turned to leave. Jon watched her go, his blood heating and his cock hardening.

The knights watched Elena as she moved away, their eyes lingering on her form. Ser Garret whistled low under his breath. "By the gods, she's a fine woman," he said, his voice filled with admiration.

"Aye," agreed another knight, Ser Roland. "I'd marry her just to bed her."

Jon laughed, taking another sip of his wine. "Why not marry her then?" he asked, his tone teasing.

Ser Garret shook his head. "She's turned down offers from lords and knights alike. The lass has standards, it seems."

"Aye, I've heard the same," Ser Roland said. "Elena's been approached by more men than I can count, but none have managed to win her over."

Jon looked back at Elena, who was busy attending to other guests. Her dress clung to her curves, accentuating her ample breasts and shapely hips. Her waist was narrow, leading down to long, toned legs. She moved with a grace that was almost hypnotic, and Jon couldn't help but appreciate the way her body swayed with each step.

Their eyes met across the room. Elena brushed a strand of hair away from her face, her smile coy and inviting. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Jon felt a thrill run through him. He returned her smile, lifting his goblet in a silent toast before taking another drink.

"She's a beauty, no doubt about it," Jon said, his voice low. "But it seems she's not interested in just any man."

Ser Garret chuckled. "No, she's not. But she seemed plenty interested in you, Jon Snow."

Jon smirked, feeling a surge of confidence. "We'll see about that," he said, his eyes following Elena as she moved through the hall.

...

On upper dais, King Viserys sat at the center, his broad frame encased in regal finery, beside him was his heavily pregnant queen, Aemma, looking pale but serene. To their left, Princess Rhaenyra sat with her friend Alicent Hightower. The two girls whispered and giggled, enjoying the feast spread before them.

Alicent tapped Rhaenyra on the shoulder, interrupting their light-hearted conversation. "Look who's come in," she said, her voice filled with excitement.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the entrance of the hall, Jon had entered. He wore a rich black doublet over a fine silk white tunic, with well-fitted breeches and polished boots. He was freshly shaven, his dark hair neatly groomed, and his striking purple eyes scanning the room.

"He looks even more handsome than before," Alicent gushed, her eyes sparkling. "That clean-shaven look suits him so well."

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, feeling her core tighten as she took in the sight of Jon. His confident stride and the way his clothes fit his muscular frame sent a wave of desire through her. She found herself unable to look away, her heart beating faster with each passing moment. They continued to watch him, unable to tear their eyes away. "It seems we aren't the only ones who have an eye on him," Alicent whispered, nudging Rhaenyra and gesturing towards Elena.

Jon and Elena were openly flirting, their body language filled with mutual attraction. Elena pressed herself against Jon, her hands lingering on his arm, and Jon responded in kind, his smile suggestive and playful. Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed as she watched them. She glanced down at her own body, comparing herself to Elena. She was shorter, her breasts smaller, and her backside not as full. The comparison stirred a sense of inadequacy within her, making her feel less desirable.

Alicent leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. "I envy Elena," she admitted. "She could take Jon back to her room if she wished. No one would think twice about it." Rhaenyra felt a surge of anger at those words, a visible scowl forming on her face. The idea of Elena with Jon filled her with jealousy and frustration. She clenched her fists under the table, her knuckles whitening.

Viserys stood up from his seat at the center of the dais, a broad smile on his face as he looked out over the bustling Great Hall. The murmur of conversations quieted as the guests turned their attention to the King. He raised his goblet, the rich wine catching the light from the torches and chandeliers.

"Thank you all for coming," Viserys began, his voice resonant and warm. "It brings me great joy to see so many gathered here to celebrate this momentous occasion. Your presence is a testament to the bonds we share and the unity of the realm."

He paused, looking around the hall at the assembled lords, ladies, knights, and sellswords. His gaze lingered on the noble families, the loyal bannermen, and the brave warriors who had fought in the melee earlier that day. "I would like to extend my heartfelt congratulations to the victor of today's melee if he is here. Your skill and valor were a marvel to behold." Viserys raised his goblet higher, prompting the crowd to cheer and toast in Jon's honor.

"But now," Viserys continued, his smile widening, "the hour grows late, and it is time for us to partake in another cherished tradition. Let the dance commence!"

At his command, the musicians in the corner of the hall began to play a lively tune. The strings and flutes filled the air with a melody that was both joyous and inviting. Servants moved quickly to clear space in the center of the hall, transforming it into a dance floor. The guests began to rise from their seats, couples pairing off and moving to the cleared space.

Rhaenyra's gaze was fixed on Jon as he stood up, extending his hand to Elena. She watched, irritation bubbling beneath her composed exterior, as Elena took Jon's hand and they moved to the dance floor. Jon's movements were smooth and confident, his mismatched armor replaced by fine clothes that made him look every bit the nobleman he was not. Elena's hand rested on his shoulder, and she leaned in closer than necessary, her laughter ringing out over the music.

As the dance progressed, Rhaenyra's annoyance grew. She watched Jon and Elena glide across the floor, their bodies moving closer and rubbing together. Each time Elena's laughter reached her ears, it felt like a needle pricking at her patience. Rhaenyra's fingers drummed restlessly on the table, her nails tapping against the polished wood.

"He's quite the dancer, isn't he?" Alicent's voice broke through Rhaenyra's thoughts. She turned to her friend, seeing the amusement in her eyes.

"He is," Rhaenyra replied, her voice tight. She couldn't deny the charm and skill Jon displayed, but it only fueled her irritation.

Alicent leaned in closer, her smile widening. "You know, you could always join them. I'm sure you'd make a much more interesting dance partner."

Rhaenyra's eyes flicked back to the dance floor, where Jon spun Elena with ease. The sight was enough to make her blood boil. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "I think I will," she declared.

Alicent giggled, clapping her hands together. "Go on, then. Show him how it's done."

...

Jon sat with the knights, nursing his drink and watching as people got up to dance. He observed several men approach Elena, asking her for a dance, only to be politely turned down. One of the knights next to him laughed, clapping Jon on the back.

"I think she's waiting for you," the knight said with a grin.

Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm not much of a dancer," he replied, though he couldn't help but glance over at Elena, who was now looking at him expectantly.

Another knight, a burly fellow with a scar across his cheek, leaned in. "I'd try and tame a dragon to bed her," he said, causing a ripple of laughter among the group.

Jon rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a grin. "You lot are hopeless," he said, though he found himself standing up. "Alright, alright." He straightened his doublet and made his way across the hall, feeling the eyes of the knights on his back.

When he reached Elena, he gave her a bow. "Would you do me the honor of a dance, my lady?" he asked, extending his hand.

Elena's smile widened, and she took his hand. "I thought you'd never ask," she said, her voice a soft purr. They moved to the dance floor, finding a space among the other couples.

As they began to dance, Jon couldn't help but notice how close Elena pressed herself against him. Her breasts pushed against his chest, giving him a tantalizing view down her dress. She looked up at him with a flirtatious glint in her eyes, clearly enjoying his attention.

"So, where are you from, Jon Snow?" she asked, her voice low and intimate.

"Up north," Jon replied evasively. "A long way from here." He spun her around, making her laugh.

"You must have some interesting stories," she said, her breath warm against his ear. "A man like you, all alone in a strange city."

Jon smirked. "You could say that," he said, his hands resting on her hips as they moved to the rhythm of the music. "What about you? Where do you hail from?"

"The Reach," Elena said, her eyes sparkling. "A place of green fields and golden harvests. Far different from the North, I imagine."

Jon nodded, making a mental note of her words. "Aye, very different. But both have their charms," he said, his hand moving up to the small of her back, pulling her a bit closer.

Elena laughed again, a rich, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. "You're quite the charmer, Jon Snow," she said, her body pressed firmly against his.

They continued to dance, their bodies moving in sync. Jon found himself enjoying the moment, the warmth of her touch and the way she moved against him. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself such simple pleasures.

"Tell me, what brings you to King's Landing?" she asked, her lips close to his ear.

Jon hesitated for a moment. "Just passing through," he said. "Wanted to see the city, maybe find some work."

"Work? A man like you?" Elena teased, her eyes widening slightly as she felt his hardness against her. "Surely you could find more... interesting pursuits."

Jon chuckled. "I'm open to suggestions," he said, his voice husky. He pulled her even closer, their bodies almost melding together. "Any ideas?"

Elena's smile was wicked. "I might have a few," she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

Their dance continued, Elena constantly grinding against him. Jon's blood started to heat up and he found his hands tracing her back. "You're quite the mystery, Jon Snow," Elena said, her eyes locked onto his. "I like that."

"Good," Jon replied, his lips close to her ear. "Mystery keeps things interesting."

As they danced, Jon's thoughts briefly wandered to the upper dais where the royal family sat. He caught a glimpse of Princess Rhaenyra watching them, her expression unreadable. But he quickly pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the beautiful woman in his arms.

"You dance well," Elena said, her voice breaking through his thoughts.

Jon grinned. "You make it easy," he replied, his hand slipping lower on her back. "Tell me, Elena, what else do you enjoy besides dancing?"

Elena's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased, her body pressing even closer against his. "Perhaps you'll find out, if you're lucky."

Jon laughed softly. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his voice filled with promise.

As the song came to an end, Jon and Elena found themselves reluctant to part. Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to crackle with desire. But before Jon could say anything more, they were interrupted by a voice from behind.

"May I dance with the champion?"

Both Jon and Elena turned to see Princess Rhaenyra standing there, a pleasant smile on her face. Jon hesitated for a moment, his mind wrestling with the surge of desire that flared every time he caught sight of Rhaenyra. He could feel it, and he knew she felt it too. It was something he had experienced before, a kind of pull that was said to be common among the Targaryens. He had felt it with Daenerys and Rhaella, and he knew how dangerous it could be. The desire between Targaryens often became all-consuming, and Jon was acutely aware that everyone here knew him as Jon Snow, the bastard. They didn't know his true name, Daemon Targaryen, and that was something he needed to keep hidden. Rhaenyra was the Princess of the realm, and he was certain that pursuing anything with her would likely end with him losing his head.

Still, Jon forced a polite smile and prepared to excuse himself from the feast, but Elena's voice interrupted him. She curtseyed to the Princess and said, "Of course, Princess," before leaning close to Jon, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "Come and find me later."

Jon felt a tingle run down his spine at the warmth of her breath against his ear. He smiled at her and wished her a good evening before turning to face Rhaenyra. Bowing slightly, he said, "Princess, it's an honor."

Rhaenyra smiled back at him, her eyes locking with his as they began to dance. Their breathing grew heavier the moment their bodies touched, each contact sending a shiver through them both. There was an intensity in their gaze that neither could hide. Every brush of their hands, every small touch, seemed to ignite something within them.

Jon struggled to keep his focus. "It might be considered unseemly to dance with a bastard," he said, his voice tinged with a mix of caution and longing.

Rhaenyra's smile didn't falter. "Anyone who has an issue with it can tell Syrax," she replied with a confident tilt of her chin.

They danced slowly, with Jon deliberately keeping his answers short and respectful, trying to maintain a polite distance between their bodies. This, however, did not please Rhaenyra. She maneuvered them closer to the center of the crowded floor, where they were less visible to prying eyes. "Do I make you nervous, Jon Snow?" she asked, her voice low and teasing as she stepped closer.

"Your title makes me nervous, Princess," Jon replied, his voice tight as he tried to keep his composure.

"Perhaps it's best if you dance with someone else, Princess," Jon suggested with a polite smile, hoping to end the dance before things escalated.

"I wish to dance with you," Rhaenyra insisted, her gaze almost possessive as she looked up at him. "Do you truly wish to get away from me, Jon Snow?" Her hands roamed from his arm to his chest, her touch lingering as she stroked his hand.

Jon swallowed hard, his body reacting to her closeness. "I do think it's best," he struggled to say, feeling the heat of her body pressed against him.

"Liar," she whispered, a smirk curling her lips. "I know you feel it..." Her voice was almost a purr. "I've felt it ever since I first saw you, even before you took your helmet off." Jon felt her grip tighten on him, pulling him closer. "You want me just as badly as I do you."

Jon took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. Rhaenyra's body was fully pressed into his, her warmth seeping into him, making it harder to think clearly. "Alas, it can never happen," he said finally, his words heavy with regret as he tried to ignore the desire burning between them.

They continued to dance, Jon slightly relieved as the song neared its end. But Rhaenyra wasn't finished. "Are you going to see that serving girl?" she asked bluntly, a slight frown creasing her brow.

Jon raised an eyebrow, amused by the jealousy in her tone. "I hardly have a reason to refuse," he replied, trying to keep the conversation light.

They danced until the song ended, and then Rhaenyra went up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "I would give you a reason to refuse if you wait till later." She let her nails graze his chest before stepping back, thanking him for the dance with a smile that was both sweet and knowing before returning to the upper dais.

Jon chuckled softly to himself as he made his way back to his seat. The knights who had been watching him cheered and joked as he rejoined them. They clapped him on the back, teasing him about dancing with the Princess.

The feast continued for a few more hours, with Jon laughing and conversing with those around him, but he knew when it was time to take his leave. He said his farewells and began to head towards the exit of the Great Hall. As he made his way out, a servant approached him and bowed.

"Ser, the Princess has arranged quarters for you in the Red Keep. I've been sent to escort you there," the servant said respectfully.

Jon raised an eyebrow, surprised by the arrangement. "Thank you, but my belongings are at the inn," he replied, considering his options.

The servant nodded. "If you tell me which inn you're staying at, I can have your belongings brought to your room, Ser."

Jon sighed, seeing little reason to refuse. "Very well," he agreed, giving the name of the inn before following the servant through the halls of the Red Keep.

He was led to a well-appointed room within the keep, the door opening to reveal a space far more luxurious than the simple inns he was used to. The servant showed him in, explaining that his belongings would be brought to him shortly. Jon thanked the man, who bowed deeply before leaving him alone in the room.

Jon stood there for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The room was spacious, with a large bed covered in fine linens, a writing desk, and a fireplace that cast a warm glow across the stone walls. He walked over to the window, looking out over the Red Keep, and let out a long breath.

Jon sat on the edge of the bed, his muscles aching from the melee. He tugged off his boots, letting them drop to the floor with a dull thud. Rolling his shoulders, he felt the tightness in his muscles begin to ease. He stood up, peeling off his doublet and tunic, the fabric sticking slightly to the bandages wrapped around his torso. The injuries weren't serious, but the bruises and cuts were a reminder of the fierce battles he had fought earlier in the day. He laid the clothing neatly on the chair beside the bed, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his bare, muscular chest.

Walking over to the balcony door, Jon pushed it open, allowing the cool night air to wash over him. He stepped outside, leaning on the stone railing and looking out over the sprawling lights of the city. The air was crisp, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the room. He raised his hand, and within moments, his axe flew across the city to him, cutting through the night sky like an arrow. He caught it with ease, the familiar weight comforting in his hand. He left it standing against the wall outside, a silent guardian over his room.

As he turned to go back inside, a smile spread across his face. He hadn't expected to see anyone in his chambers, but there she was—Elena, sitting on the bed, her posture relaxed but her gaze intent. She was dressed in a nightdress that clung to her figure in all the right places, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination. The moonlight filtering through the window illuminated her, highlighting the curves of her body.

"You didn't come and find me," she pouted, her fingers lightly tracing the soft silk of the bedspread. There was a playful lilt in her voice, but her eyes were locked onto his, challenging him.

Jon chuckled, stepping inside and leaning against the doorframe. "Perhaps I'm not interested," he teased, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his words. Elena smirked, clearly not convinced. As Jon began to change his bandages, he could feel her eyes on him, watching his every movement with an intensity that made the air between them crackle. She shifted slightly on the bed, the movement drawing his attention back to her.

"Are you sure you're not interested?" she asked, her voice lower, more seductive, as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Jon swallowed. "You're quite persistent," he murmured, finishing with his bandages and meeting her gaze once more. Elena rose from the bed with a fluid motion, her body shifting as the thin fabric of her nightdress clung to every curve. Jon's eyes followed the way her breasts, full and heavy, moved slightly with each step. Her hips, wide and pronounced, swayed with a natural rhythm, her bare feet making almost no sound on the cold stone floor. She was short, her head barely reaching his shoulder, but her body was full, large and small in the right places.

As she neared him, Jon couldn't help but notice how the fabric hugged her waist, accentuating the narrowness compared to the fullness of her hips. Her thighs, though slender, had a soft roundness to them, visible beneath the clinging nightdress. The closer she got, the more he could see the firmness of her flesh, her body inviting in a way that was impossible to ignore.

When she finally stood before him, her breasts nearly brushing his chest, she looked up at him with a mixture of challenge and vulnerability. Her lips parted, and she asked, "Do you not like me, Jon?" Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but the question carried the weight of her desire, leaving Jon with no room for doubt about what she wanted. Jon's eyes traveled down Elena's body, taking in every detail without shame. He let his gaze linger on her breasts, full and round, the thin fabric of her nightdress doing little to hide the shape of her nipples, hardening under his scrutiny. His eyes moved lower, tracing the curve of her hips and the way the nightdress clung to her thighs. She was built to tempt, every inch of her body an invitation, and Jon felt the pull of that invitation deep in his gut.

Elena's breath hitched as she felt his eyes on her, and she let out a soft, pleased sound as she ran her fingers up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath. "I like it when you look at me," she breathed, her voice full of raw desire, her fingers trailing up to his collarbone.

Jon leaned down, brushing his lips against hers, just enough to feel the warmth of her breath, the softness of her mouth. Then he pulled back, walking past her to the wardrobe where his night clothes had been laid out. As he pulled the rough-spun shirt over his head, he spoke, his voice hard and without any of the softness he had shown her before.

"I've heard the stories," he said, his back to her as he dressed. "Lords, knights—men who would give you titles, wealth, anything you could ask for. Yet you're here, sneaking into the room of a bastard." He turned to face her, his eyes dark with a mix of confusion and a hard edge of cynicism. "What do I have to offer that they cannot, a hundredfold?"

Elena turned to face Jon, brushing her long hair behind her shoulder, deliberately revealing even more of her chest. Her breasts, large and firm, seemed to almost spill out of the thin fabric, her nipples visibly pressing against the material. She let Jon's eyes roam over her, enjoying the way his gaze lingered on her exposed skin.

"My mother used to tell me," she began, her voice soft but clear, "that there are people in this world who were made for each other. That, despite everything, they find one another because they're meant to be together." She watched Jon's face carefully as she spoke, searching for any sign of how he might react. His expression was guarded, but she could see the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes darkened with something unreadable.

Elena smiled, a hint of self-mockery in the curve of her lips. "I know it sounds silly," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "but I want to believe it's true." She stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his. "And the moment I saw you, Jon, I knew it was you."

As she approached him, Elena shifted her body slightly, and with a smooth motion, she let the nightdress slip from her shoulders. The fabric cascaded down her body, pooling at her feet. Jon's eyes took in every inch of her, his breath catching in his throat.

She stood before him, completely bare. Her skin was smooth and pale, her breasts full and heavy, with dark nipples that seemed to harden further under his gaze. Her waist was narrow, accentuating the flare of her hips and the fullness of her thighs. The slight curve of her belly led down to the soft mound between her legs, a patch of dark hair above it. Her legs were strong, slender yet firm, holding her stance with a quiet confidence.

Elena let him look, let him take in every detail of her naked body, "Do you see now?" she asked, her voice low and steady, "Why I chose you, Jon?"

Elena walked forward, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. Her bare skin gleamed in the dim light, her eyes locked onto Jon's as she moved. "Even if you are unsure of me," she said, her voice firm, "I am sure of you."

Without hesitation, she pressed her body against his, her breasts flattening slightly against his chest. Her hands reached up, sliding over his shoulders, pulling him closer as her lips found his in a hard, urgent kiss. She parted her lips, deepening the kiss, her tongue pressing against his, demanding a response.

Jon's hands moved to her hips, gripping her flesh with rough fingers. Elena arched her body into his, pressing her pelvis against him, feeling the hardness of his arousal through the thin fabric of his pants. She let out a low, breathy sound, a mix of satisfaction and need, as she began to grind against him, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles.

Her hands slid down his body, tugging at the waistband of his pants, pulling them down just enough to free him. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his length. Elena's hand tightened around Jon's length, stroking him with slow, deliberate movements. She watched his face, taking in the way his jaw clenched, the way his breath quickened under her touch. Without breaking eye contact, she stepped back, their lips parting, and she pushed him gently but firmly toward the bed.

Jon let himself be guided, his legs hitting the edge of the mattress before he sat down heavily. Elena followed, kneeling in front of him, her eyes dark with intent. Her hands moved to his thighs, rubbing them, feeling the tension in his muscles as she spread his legs slightly.

"Many lords and knights have asked me to perform this on them," she said, her voice low and husky. "But I've refused them all. Yet I'll do it for you."

Without waiting for a response, she leaned forward, grabbing both of her breasts, her soft mounds enveloping his hardness. The warmth and pressure of her flesh sent a jolt through Jon, and he let out a low, guttural sound. Elena began to move, sliding her breasts up and down his length, her hands pressing them together, increasing the friction. She kept her eyes on him, watching his every reaction, feeding off the tension in his body as she worked him with slow, deliberate strokes, her lips hovering just above him, teasing without touching.

The sight of her, on her knees, her breasts wrapped around him, was enough to drive Jon wild. Every movement, every brush of her skin against his, was an assault on his senses, pushing him closer to the edge. Elena held Jon's gaze as she let a glob of saliva drop from her lips, watching as it landed between her breasts, slicking his length. The added slickness made her movements smoother, more fluid. She increased the speed, her breasts gliding up and down with more intensity, the wetness adding to the friction and amplifying the sensation.

Jon's breath hitched as she quickened her pace, her hands pressing her mounds tighter around him, creating a warm, wet tunnel of flesh. Each stroke deliberate and precise, designed to bring him closer to the brink. Elena's eyes flicked up to his face, reading the pleasure and tension there, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile as she felt his body begin to tense beneath her touch.

As Elena continued her movements, Jon felt the tension build rapidly. With a final, deep thrust between her mounds, he released, his climax hitting with force, spilling over her chest and throat. She maintained her rhythm until every last drop was drawn from him.

Breathing heavily, Jon looked at Elena as she wiped herself with a quick, almost mechanical motion. Instead of slowing down, she climbed onto the bed, her eyes locked onto his, filled with determination. Grasping his length, now slick with their combined fluids, she guided him back to hardness with her firm strokes.

Elena straddled him, her hand trembling slightly as she positioned herself above him. Jon could see the brief hesitation in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by resolve. She lowered herself slowly, her body tense as she felt him press against her maidenhood. With a determined breath, she pushed down, breaking through with a sharp gasp, her body tightening around him as she took him inside her.

The sensation was intense for both of them. Elena paused, her breath catching as she adjusted to the feeling, her tightness gripping him like a vice. But then she began to move, slowly at first, each motion a deliberate effort to find a rhythm. Jon gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as she rode him, their bodies coming together in a raw, primal union. The pain in her expression gradually gave way to something else, something intense.

Jon's eyes were fixed on Elena as she began to move above him. Her blonde hair bounced with each thrust, the strands catching the dim light as they swayed with the rhythm of her motions. Her breasts, full and heavy, jiggled with every rise and fall, drawing his gaze as they moved freely in time with her body.

Her moans grew louder, each one a raw, unfiltered sound that filled the room. The tightness inside her was almost unbearable for Jon, her body gripping him with a firmness that felt both constricting and intensely pleasurable. Each time she lifted herself and then lowered back down, the feeling of her warmth, her slickness, enveloping him sent shudders through his entire being.

The way her hips moved, grinding down onto him, created a sensation that was almost too much. The friction, the tight heat of her as she adjusted her movements, made it feel as though she was trying to pull every bit of pleasure from him, milking him with each slow, deliberate motion. Her inner walls clenched around him, the pressure building as she began to ride him harder, the bounce of her body becoming more erratic and desperate.

Jon's hands gripped her hips tighter, feeling the soft flesh beneath his fingers as she moved faster. Her moans became cries, louder and more urgent, her body moving with a wild abandon. The sensation inside her was overwhelming—tight, hot, wet—like nothing he had ever felt before. It was as if her body was designed to draw him deeper, to keep him buried inside her, the grip of her walls creating a near-constant pressure that made it hard to think of anything else.

Elena's movements became more erratic, her breathing ragged as she neared the edge. Her body tensed, her hips grinding down onto Jon with increasing urgency. Then, with a loud, piercing cry, she climaxed, her entire body trembling as she tightened around him.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Jon could feel her inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, each contraction squeezing him with a fierce, almost painful intensity. The sudden tightness, combined with the heat and wetness, drove him over the edge.

Jon's body responded instinctively, his hips thrusting upward as he released inside her, the intensity of her orgasm pulling his own from him with an almost violent force. The sensation of her gripping him so tightly, the way her body seemed to milk every last drop from him, left him breathless.

Elena collapsed onto Jon, her body still trembling from the intensity of her climax. As she pressed herself against him, Jon could feel the weight and warmth of her body, her skin slick with sweat. Her breasts, still firm and heavy, flattened against his chest, and he could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, each breath hot against his neck. The scent of her—an intoxicating mix of sweat, sex, and the faint lingering smell of the oils she used—filled his senses, making the moment feel raw and real.

Her body was soft against his, her skin warm and slightly damp, clinging to him as if she never wanted to let go. The feel of her heart still pounding in her chest, echoing against his own, made the connection between them feel even more intense. As she breathed heavily, her breath tickled his ear, sending shivers down his spine. After a few moments, Elena shifted, her body sliding off his and onto the bed beside him. She moved close, pressing herself into his side, her arm draped across his chest. The feel of her soft, warm body curled against him, her leg draped over his, made the aftermath of their shared release feel both intimate and comforting.

...

Rhaenyra paced back and forth across her chamber, her bare feet padding softly against the cold stone floor. Her teeth worried at her nails, a habit she often succumbed to when nerves got the better of her. She muttered to herself under her breath, frustration evident in every step she took.

On the bed, Alicent lay sprawled comfortably, her laughter echoing in the room. "You should have seen your face," she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Telling him you'd give him a reason to refuse that woman. Honestly, what were you thinking, Rhaenyra? What could you even do? You're still a maiden!"

Rhaenyra stopped pacing and shot her friend a glare, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and irritation. Crossing her arms over her chest, she huffed and turned away, staring out the window at the darkened city below. "I don't know why I said it," she admitted, her voice lower now, tinged with confusion. "I just... I didn't like the thought of Jon with her. That woman has no right."

Alicent raised an eyebrow, sitting up and folding her legs beneath her. "So you said something without thinking. But you must know Jon is his own man. He can choose whoever he wants," she said, her tone more serious now, though a smirk still played on her lips.

Rhaenyra's frown deepened, her mind racing. She wasn't used to this feeling, this... possessiveness. She'd never cared before about who a man spent his time with. Yet, the image of Jon dancing with that woman, her body pressed against his, had sparked something primal and uncomfortable within her. It wasn't just jealousy—it was something deeper, more intense.

"I just didn't like seeing them together," Rhaenyra confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know why, but it... it made me angry."

Alicent shook her head, still amused. "You've never acted like this before. I've known you all my life, and I've never seen you so worked up over a man. Especially one you barely know. You do realize what this could lead to, don't you?"

Rhaenyra didn't answer immediately. She knew exactly what Alicent meant, but she wasn't ready to admit it—not even to herself. All she knew was that Jon Snow was different. He wasn't like the other men in court, and that intrigued her... perhaps too much. "I don't know, Alicent," she finally said, turning to face her friend. "But I'm not going to let that woman have him so easily."

Alicent sighed, shaking her head with a knowing smile. "Be careful, Rhaenyra. You're treading on dangerous ground, especially for someone in your position."

Rhaenyra nodded, but her mind was already made up. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she knew one thing—she wasn't going to let this feeling go. Not yet.

———————————————————-

The morning sun beat down on the tournament grounds, casting long shadows over the dirt and stirring the dust from yesterday's events. The stands were filling quickly with lords, ladies, and common folk, all eager for the day's jousts. The air buzzed with excitement, the sounds of armor clanking, horses snorting, and the distant murmur of the crowd blending into a steady hum. In the royal box, Rhaenyra sat beside her friend Alicent, both dressed in fine gowns that shimmered in the sunlight. Rhaenyra's mother was absent, having taken ill, and though Rhaenyra tried to focus on the spectacle before her, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at her insides.

"You seem distracted," Alicent said, her voice low as she leaned closer to Rhaenyra, her eyes scanning the field. "Is something on your mind?"

Rhaenyra forced a small smile, not wanting to reveal the thoughts racing through her head. "Just thinking about the jousts," she replied, her tone light but unconvincing.

Alicent gave her a knowing look but didn't press further. They both turned their attention back to the lists as the first knights took their positions. The trumpets blared, and the crowd roared as the knights charged, lances lowered, the thunder of hooves vibrating through the wooden seats. The clash was quick, with both riders unhorsed in a cloud of dust, much to the delight of the spectators. As the next set of knights prepared for their tilt, Alicent nudged Rhaenyra and pointed discreetly toward the left side of the field. "Look, it's your uncle," she said with a hint of excitement.

Rhaenyra followed her gaze and saw Daemon, his dark armor standing out among the gleaming plate of the other knights. His helm, shaped like a dragon's head, concealed his face, but Rhaenyra recognized him instantly. He rode a powerful black horse, a beast that matched his rider's formidable presence. The crowd's noise quieted as Daemon took his place, his opponent, a knight from House Velaryon, looking small in comparison.

"I don't think anyone stands a chance against him," Alicent whispered.

The trumpet sounded, and the two knights spurred their horses forward. The clash was almost too quick to follow. Daemon's lance struck true, slamming into the Velaryon knight's chest and sending him crashing to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers as Daemon circled the field, his horse prancing beneath him. He raised his visor, revealing a cold, confident smile before turning to await his next challenge.

Rhaenyra watched her uncle with a mix of admiration and something darker, something that unsettled her. Daemon was everything a Prince should be—strong, skilled, and fearless—but there was always an edge to him, something dangerous that she couldn't quite put into words. She tore her gaze away from him as the next few tilts were announced, but her attention kept wavering, her thoughts pulling her in different directions.

Finally, the moment she had been both dreading and anticipating arrived. Jon rode out onto the field, and Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat. His armor was a patchwork of mismatched pieces, cobbled together without care for appearance, and his horse, though sturdy, was far from the sleek, well-bred destriers of the other knights.

"Is he really wearing the same armour, even after winning so much?" Alicent asked, her voice tinged with disbelief as she looked down at the figure in the lists.

Rhaenyra nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from him. "Yes," she said softly, her voice barely audible.

Alicent frowned slightly. "He looks so out of place here," she remarked, though her tone wasn't unkind.

Rhaenyra could only nod, the knot in her stomach tightening. She hadn't visited Jon's chambers the night before, and now, watching him from the royal box, she couldn't help but wonder if he had noticed her absence. Was he disappointed? Angry? Did he even care? The thought twisted in her gut, and she felt a surge of relief when Jon looked up at the box and smiled. It was a small smile, but it was enough to reassure her that she was still in his thoughts.

The herald stepped forward, announcing the next joust. Jon's opponent was Ser Gwayne, a seasoned knight known for his skill in the lists. Rhaenyra felt her unease deepen as she watched Jon prepare. He had never jousted before, and the idea of him facing off against a knight like Gwayne made her stomach churn.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" Alicent asked, her voice laced with concern.

"I hope so," Rhaenyra replied, her eyes never leaving Jon as he adjusted his grip on the lance.

The trumpet sounded, and the knights charged. Rhaenyra held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as the horses thundered toward each other. Gwayne's lance came in low, aiming for Jon's chest, but Jon reacted quickly, raising his shield just in time to deflect the blow.

"Oh gods," Alicent murmured, her hands clutching the edge of her seat.

Rhaenyra's breath caught as the two knights wheeled their horses around, readying for the next pass. This time, Jon's lance struck true, smashing into Gwayne's chest with a force that sent the older knight flying from his saddle. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Rhaenyra let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"He did it," Alicent said in amazement, her eyes wide as she looked at Rhaenyra. "He actually unhorsed Ser Gwayne!"

Rhaenyra's thoughts were a jumble of emotions. She watched as Jon dismounted, his face serious as he removed his helm and handed it to his squire. He looked up at the royal box again, and their eyes met. There was something in his gaze—relief, perhaps, but also something more complicated, something that made her heart race with uncertainty.

The next few tilts passed in a blur. Rhaenyra watched, but her mind was elsewhere, on Jon, on the way he had looked at her, on the way she had hesitated to visit him the night before. What had he thought when she didn't come? Had he assumed she didn't care, or that she was avoiding him? The thought gnawed at her, leaving her feeling unsettled and unsure.

Finally, the herald announced Jon's next tilt, and Rhaenyra's heart leapt into her throat when she heard Jon's name called again. He was to face Ser Harold, a knight with a fearsome reputation. The crowd murmured with anticipation, and Rhaenyra felt a cold dread settle in her stomach.

Alicent leaned in close, her voice low. "Jon hasn't jousted much, has he?"

Rhaenyra shook her head, her eyes fixed on Jon as he mounted his horse again. "No, he hasn't."

The trumpet sounded, and the knights charged. Rhaenyra gripped the edge of her seat, her knuckles white as she watched the two men hurtle toward each other. Jon's lance came down first, smashing into Harold's shield with a resounding crack. The force of the blow unseated the larger knight, sending him crashing to the ground.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Rhaenyra hardly heard them. Her eyes were locked on Jon, who sat motionless in his saddle for a moment before raising his lance in victory.

"He did it again," Alicent said, her voice filled with a mix of awe and disbelief.

...

Jon rode back to the other end of the field, the crowd's cheers still ringing in his ears. His horse, a sturdy beast, was lathered in sweat and breathing heavily, just as Jon was beneath his mismatched armor. When he reached the end, Jon swung his leg over and dismounted with a heavy thud. He removed his helmet, the cool air hitting his sweat-soaked face as he handed the helm to a temporary squire assigned to him. The boy, wide-eyed and eager, took the reins of Jon's horse and led it away to be cared for.

Jon walked toward the tent assigned to him, his muscles still thrumming from the exertion. Once inside, he reached for a jug of wine, pouring himself a generous cup. He took a long drink, savoring the way the liquid eased his dry throat. With a chuckle, he muttered to himself, "This is really easy." He knew, of course, that there was more skill involved in jousting than just strength, but strength was something he had in abundance. If he connected his lance with any part of another knight's body, they went flying—it was as simple as that.

He set the cup down and ran a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back as he tried to catch his breath. His chest heaved, the weight of his armor pressing down on him, but there was something exhilarating about it all. He had bested knights who had spent their entire lives preparing for events like this, and he had done it with brute force.

"You're doing pretty well out there," a voice came from the entrance of the tent.

Jon's eyes widened in surprise; he hadn't even heard anyone approach. He turned quickly, his body tensing out of instinct. Standing in the entrance was a man with long, silver-gold hair that fell past his shoulders, his black armor polished to a high sheen. The man's presence was imposing, and Jon felt a momentary jolt of unease before he quickly composed himself.

Jon bowed slightly, his voice steady as he said, "It's an honor to meet you, my Prince."

Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. Jon had heard the stories, both the ones whispered in dark corners and the ones told with awe. He sometimes wondered why his parents had named him Daemon. Most Daemons were Blackfyres, and the other famous one was known for being violent and unhinged. There was a dark reputation that came with the name, a reputation that Daemon Targaryen seemed to embrace fully.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, stepped further into the tent, his eyes scanning the modest space before settling back on Jon. Daemon's gaze was intense, his presence commanding. "I hear you won the melee," Daemon said, his tone casual but his words deliberate. "And this is your first time jousting?"

Jon nodded, meeting Daemon's gaze. "Yes, my Prince. The melee was... enjoyable."

Daemon smirked, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. "I'm disappointed I couldn't join the melee myself. I would've loved to test my sword against yours."

"Maybe next time," Jon replied, a slight smile on his lips, though his eyes were cautious.

Daemon walked further into the tent, his gaze still appraising the surroundings as if searching for something. His presence filled the small space, and Jon felt a tension simmering beneath the surface of their conversation.

"Word travels fast at court," Daemon began, his tone shifting slightly, a hint of something more sinister creeping in. "I've heard rumors about you and the Princess. Something about the two of you dancing at the feast last night."

Jon's muscles tensed. He hadn't expected Daemon to bring this up so directly. "We danced, yes," Jon replied, careful to keep his voice steady. "It was a feast. People dance."

"People do," Daemon agreed, his tone smooth but with a sharp edge. He took a step closer to Jon, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But it's interesting how quickly tongues start wagging when a bastard like you shares the floor with a princess."

Jon didn't flinch, though the words stung. He knew what Daemon was implying, and it wasn't just a warning about rumors. "It was just a dance," Jon said, his voice firm but not confrontational. "Nothing more."

Daemon's smirk widened, but there was no warmth in it. "I'm sure that's what you believe," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "But the court is full of people who like to twist simple things into something more... complicated."

Jon held his ground, meeting Daemon's gaze without backing down. "I'm not interested in court games," he said, his voice hardening slightly. "I'm here for the tournament. That's all."

"For now," Daemon replied, his voice a quiet warning. He let the words hang in the air for a moment before he took a step back, his eyes still fixed on Jon. "I hope to see you in the final," he added. The message was unmistakable—Daemon was watching, and he didn't want Jon getting any closer to Rhaenyra.

Jon nodded, his expression unreadable. "As do I, my Prince."

...

The day's jousts ground on with a relentless pace, each tilt more brutal than the last. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and dirt, the roar of the crowd a constant backdrop to the violence on the field. Knights rode out to face each other, some eager to prove their worth, others grimly determined to hold onto whatever pride they had left. Many left the lists broken, either in spirit or in body, as the unforgiving nature of the sport took its toll.

Daemon Targaryen continued his bloody path through the competition. His black armor made him a dark presence on the field, a figure that drew both awe and fear from those who watched. The Rogue Prince wasted no time in dispatching his opponents. One after another, they fell before his lance, unhorsed and sometimes bloodied, left sprawled in the dirt as he rode back to his end of the field without so much as a glance at the fallen.

The crowd loved it. Every time Daemon unseated another knight, they roared their approval, hungry for more of his ruthless efficiency. He showed no mercy, no hesitation, just the cold precision of a man who knew his place in the world and was determined to remind everyone else of it.

Jon, meanwhile, was preparing for his next tilt. He had already bested Ser Criston Cole in the melee, and now they faced each other again on the lists. There was no love lost between the two—Criston was known for his skill, and he had no intention of being shown up by Jon once more. The crowd murmured with anticipation as they took their positions, the tension between them palpable.

When the trumpet sounded, both knights spurred their horses forward. The ground trembled under the weight of the charging beasts, and the air was filled with the clattering of armor and the hiss of breath through gritted teeth. Criston's lance aimed true, going straight for Jon's chest, but Jon twisted in the saddle at the last moment, deflecting the blow with his shield.

In the same breath, Jon's lance found its mark. He drove the point into Criston's shoulder, the force of the impact enough to punch through the knight's armor. Criston let out a grunt of pain, and his grip faltered. The crowd gasped as Criston was ripped from his saddle, hitting the ground hard, his armor clanging against the dirt. Blood seeped through the crack in his armor, staining the ground beneath him.

Jon reined in his horse, turning back to see Criston struggling to rise, his face twisted in pain and anger. The crowd roared in approval, but Jon didn't allow himself any satisfaction. He had no time to revel in his victory; he knew the day was far from over, and his next opponent would likely be even more dangerous. As Jon dismounted, Criston was helped off the field by his squire, the knight's face a mask of fury and humiliation. Jon watched him go, his mind already shifting to the next bout. He had proven himself in the melee, and now, with Criston once again bested, there was no denying that Jon was a force to be reckoned with.

But there was still Daemon.

Daemon's next tilt was as brutal as the last. His opponent, a knight of House Baratheon, was no novice, but he was no match for the Rogue Prince. Daemon's lance struck with a savage force, splintering on impact as it crashed into the Baratheon's chest. The knight was thrown from his horse, landing in a heap, his armor dented and bloodied. Daemon barely acknowledged the victory, turning his horse sharply and riding back to his place, already preparing for the next challenge.

King Viserys stood in the royal box, his face flushed with excitement as the latest joust ended with Jon unseating yet another opponent. The king clapped his hands together, his laughter loud and genuine as he watched the field below. The crowd roared in approval, their cheers echoing across the grounds. Viserys turned to those seated around him, his eyes bright with delight.

"Incredible! Absolutely incredible!" Viserys exclaimed, still clapping. "Who would have thought that a man with no experience in the lists could make it this far? A bastard, no less!"

Rhaenyra forced a smile as she looked at her father, her feelings a swirl of conflicting emotions. She was proud of Jon's success, but the sight of her father so joyful, so carefree, while her mother lay ill and close to giving birth, sparked a flicker of anger within her. How could he be so caught up in this spectacle when Queen Aemma was suffering, when the birth of their child was imminent?

"Yes, Father," Rhaenyra replied, her voice steady though her heart was not. "It is remarkable how far he has come."

Alicent, who had been watching the proceedings with keen interest, leaned forward slightly, her eyes darting between Rhaenyra and her father. "Perhaps," she began, her voice soft yet clear enough to be heard over the crowd, "if he were to win the final tilt, he should be knighted."

Her suggestion caught the attention of everyone in the royal box. Viserys, Rhaenyra, and even Otto Hightower, Alicent's father, turned their gazes toward her. Alicent, feeling the weight of their stares, shrank slightly under their scrutiny, but she quickly regained her composure.

"It would be the greatest reward for a bastard, would it not?" Alicent added, her tone more confident now, though still careful.

Rhaenyra, eager to support her friend and sensing an opportunity, quickly nodded in agreement. "Alicent is right, Father. If Jon were to win, knighting him would be a fitting reward. And perhaps, we could bring him into service for House Targaryen. Having such a skilled warrior in our service would be a boon to us."

Viserys considered their words, his expression thoughtful as he weighed the idea. The king was no fool—he knew the value of loyalty, especially from someone like Jon, whose strength had already been proven on the field. After a moment, a smile spread across his face, and he nodded.

"Very well," Viserys said, his voice carrying a note of approval. "That seems like a good prize. If Jon wins the final tilt, he shall be knighted and brought into our service."

Otto Hightower, who had been watching the exchange with his usual calculating expression, surprised Rhaenyra by nodding in agreement. "It would suit the smallfolk well to see one of their own raised up," he remarked, his tone measured. "And it would solidify his loyalty to the crown."

Alicent couldn't help but giggle softly at the outcome, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She leaned closer to Rhaenyra, her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke into her ear. "Perhaps you have more of a chance now," she teased, her words carrying a hint of mischief.

Rhaenyra felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but she kept her composure, smiling back at Alicent as the jousts continued below. The final tilt was upon them. Daemon and Jon faced each other from opposite ends of the lists, the tension between them palpable. The crowd had gone silent, the air thick with anticipation. Daemon sat atop his black horse, his dark armor gleaming menacingly in the fading light. On the other end, Jon steadied his own mount, his mismatched armor making him look like a patchwork knight, but there was nothing mismatched about his resolve.

They rode forward at a slow pace, meeting in the center. Daemon lifted his helmet first, his silver-gold hair falling around his shoulders as he smirked at Jon. "You've made it this far, bastard," he said, his voice low and taunting. "You should be proud. But this is where it ends."

Jon lifted his own helmet, returning the smirk without hesitation. "I hope you don't think I'll let you win just because you're a prince," he shot back, his voice steady, though he could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Daemon laughed, a deep, loud sound that carried over the field. "I'd kill you if you did," he said, the laughter in his voice not quite reaching his eyes. Jon laughed along, but a part of him wasn't entirely sure if Daemon was joking or not. There was a dangerous edge to the prince that made it hard to tell.

As they met in the center, Daemon did something unexpected. He leaned his lance over the barrier between them, touching the tip of Jon's lance with his own. It was a gesture of respect, one he hadn't shown to any other knight that day. Jon was surprised but returned the gesture, tapping the tip of his lance against Daemon's.

Without another word, they returned to their starting positions, each preparing for the tilt to begin. The announcer's voice boomed across the field, calling out their names, whipping the crowd into a frenzy as they prepared for what was sure to be a brutal clash.

The trumpet blared, and both men spurred their horses forward, the beasts charging down the field with thundering hooves. Jon aimed his lance directly at Daemon, but as they closed the distance, Daemon shifted his body slightly, deflecting Jon's blow with a skillful twist of his shield. Jon's lance glanced off Daemon's armor, failing to find its mark, while Daemon's own lance struck Jon's shield with a solid hit. Jon grunted as the force of the impact rattled through him, but he stayed in the saddle, refusing to give Daemon the satisfaction of unhorsing him in the first pass.

They wheeled around for the second round, the crowd buzzing with excitement. As they charged again, Jon squinted against the sunlight, only to realize too late that Daemon had angled his shield to catch the sun's rays, blinding him just enough to throw off his aim. Jon's lance missed entirely, while Daemon's struck true, the force of the blow splintering the lance against Jon's armor. Pain shot through Jon's chest as he struggled to keep his balance, but he gritted his teeth and held firm, refusing to fall.

The crowd was on its feet now, the noise deafening as they prepared for the third and final pass. Jon knew he couldn't afford another mistake. His body ached from the last hit, his chest burning where the lance had struck, but he forced the pain aside, focusing on the task at hand.

They charged one last time, the ground shaking beneath them as they barreled toward each other. This time, Jon didn't let the sun or Daemon's tricks distract him. He tightened his grip on the lance, aiming carefully as the distance between them closed. Daemon raised his shield again, but Jon was ready. At the last moment, Jon shifted his weight, driving his lance down hard into Daemon's chest.

The impact was brutal. Daemon's lance grazed Jon's shoulder, but it wasn't enough to unseat him. Jon's lance, however, struck with such force that Daemon was ripped from his saddle, his body crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. The crowd erupted into applause, the noise nearly drowning out everything else.

Jon reined in his horse, turning to see Daemon lying in the dirt, his armor dented, his helmet rolling away from him. The Rogue Prince had been unhorsed, something few had ever witnessed, and the crowd couldn't believe what they had just seen.

Jon didn't bask in the victory, though. He knew better than to underestimate Daemon, even now. He dismounted quickly, ready for anything, but Daemon merely lay there for a moment before rising slowly to his feet. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar as Daemon gave Jon a curt nod before turning and walking off with a slight limp. Jon watched him go for a moment, feeling the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, the noise of the crowd crashing over him like a wave. They cheered his name, their voices filled with awe and excitement. The bastard from the North had done the impossible—he had unhorsed the Rogue Prince and won the final tilt.

Jon was soon surrounded by people, his squire, and a few others who had rushed to his side, patting him on the back, congratulating him. But there was no time to dwell on the victory. He was quickly ushered forward by Viserys himself, who had descended from the upper dais, flanked by Rhaenyra, Alicent, and a few Kingsguard. The king's face was alight with joy, clearly pleased with the day's events.

Jon dismounted from his horse, his legs aching from the brutal joust, but he pushed through the pain. He walked forward and knelt before Viserys, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The crowd fell silent, eager to hear what the king would say.

Viserys smiled down at him, his eyes shining with approval. "You have proven yourself, Jon," he said, his voice carrying over the quieted field. "You've earned another 20,000 dragons," Viserys continued, gesturing to a chest being brought forward by a servant. The heavy lid was lifted to reveal the glimmering gold inside, a prize that would have made any man's heart race.

But before Jon could fully process this reward, Viserys raised a hand, and the crowd hushed even further. "This isn't the only prize being given today," the king announced, his voice filled with anticipation. The crowd held its breath, the silence now thick with expectation.

Viserys drew his sword, the blade catching the light as he held it aloft. "Jon, you have shown bravery, strength, and honor in the face of overwhelming odds. For this, I shall do more than reward you with gold." The king's voice boomed as he spoke, making sure all could hear. "Kneel, Jon, and prepare to be knighted."

Jon's heart raced as he lowered his head, feeling the steel of Viserys's sword touch his shoulder. The king's voice took on a formal tone, each word deliberate. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong and to maintain your arms. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death with a steady heart. In the name of the Seven, I charge you to be honorable and true."

Viserys lifted the sword and brought it down gently on Jon's other shoulder. "Arise, Ser Jon Ironheart," he declared loudly, his voice filled with pride. "For you did not falter even once and gained victory!"

The crowd roared once more as Jon stood, Viserys raising his sword high before pulling Jon into a hug, a rare gesture from the king that spoke volumes of his approval. Jon felt the weight of the moment, the reality of what had just happened settling in. He was no longer just a bastard—he was a knight, recognized by the king himself.

But Viserys wasn't done. As he released Jon from the embrace, he spoke again, his voice carrying over the crowd. "And as an added bonus," he said with a smile, "the Princess has reminded me that she has need of a Sworn Sword, and I can think of no better man for the task."

Jon's eyes widened in shock. He had not expected this—knighthood was one thing, but being brought into service for House Targaryen, sworn to protect the Princess herself, was another entirely. He glanced at Rhaenyra, whose eyes met his with a knowing smirk. She had clearly played a part in this decision.

'Shit.'

———————————————————-

As the tournament drew to a close, the excitement in King's Landing began to wane, but Jon's duties were far from over. With the jousts and melees behind him, Jon found himself constantly by Rhaenyra's side, fulfilling his role as her sworn sword. He didn't participate in any more events, instead, he was relegated to standing guard while Rhaenyra spent her days with Alicent, her ever-present companion. Rhaenyra often commanded Jon to join them when they were alone, whether they were having a quiet picnic in the gardens or spending hours in the castle library. It was clear that she enjoyed his company, though her reasons were not entirely innocent. When Alicent would leave them, the Princess's behavior would shift. She'd draw him into conversation, her eyes never leaving his, a subtle tension building between them that Jon couldn't ignore.

But it was the nights that were most challenging for Jon. Rhaenyra would often summon him to her chambers under the guise of needing him for some small task. Each time he entered her room, he knew what awaited him.

Rhaenyra would be naked, her slender body fully exposed. She had a slim frame, her breasts small but perfectly shaped, her hips curving gently down to a tight waist. Her skin was smooth and pale, untouched by the sun. Her long, silver-blonde hair flowed down her back, cascading over her shoulders and brushing against her breasts. Her beauty was undeniable, and she knew exactly how to use it to her advantage.

With a knowing smile on her face, Rhaenyra would approach Jon, her eyes locking onto his as she moved. Her fingers would trail over his chest, her touch light but electrifying. She would press herself against him, her bare breasts flattening against his chest, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered words designed to break his resolve. Her hand would sometimes drift lower, grazing over the bulge in his trousers, teasing him, wanting him to take her.

The connection between them was raw and undeniable, a primal, lustful bond that simmered just beneath the surface. Rhaenyra was obsessed with testing Jon, pushing him to the edge, daring him to act on the desire that burned between them. And every time he managed to pull away, it was a struggle. Jon would leave her chambers with a painful erection, the image of her naked body burned into his mind. The need she stirred in him was intense, almost unbearable. He would go straight to Elena, unable to contain his frustrations any longer. Their nights together were rough and desperate, a physical release for the tension Rhaenyra left him with. Elena seemed to understand without needing to ask, and she never questioned the urgency with which Jon took her.

The days passed in a tense blur, the tournament's excitement giving way to a growing sense of dread within the Red Keep. Queen Aemma had gone into labor, and the entire castle was on edge. Rhaenyra rushed to her mother's side as soon as she heard, with the king following close behind, his face a mask of worry. Jon, fulfilling his duty as Rhaenyra's sworn sword, was there as well, though his presence in the birthing chamber was as a spectator.

Jon had once been trained as a Maester, and his chain had been forged faster than any other in the history of the Citadel, particularly in the study of medicine. He had seen births before, assisted in them even, and he knew the signs of trouble when they arose. As he stood at the edge of the room, he watched closely, his eyes narrowed as he observed the Grandmaester attending to Aemma.

The Queen's screams filled the chamber, her voice hoarse from the pain. She writhed on the bed, her face twisted in agony, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Make it stop, please, make it stop!" she cried, her hands clutching at the sheets, her body convulsing with each wave of pain.

Jon's eyes flicked to the Grandmaester, who was fumbling with his instruments, his hands unsteady. Jon could see it clearly—the baby was not positioned correctly. From the way Aemma's abdomen was distended, it was evident that the child was lying transverse, not head-down as it should be. This was a dangerous situation, one that required skilled hands and a clear mind, neither of which the Grandmaester seemed to possess in that moment.

The Grandmaester wiped his brow, his face pale and sweaty. "The babe is stuck," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "The only way to save the child is to cut the Queen's belly open. But she will not survive it." His words were flat, devoid of hope, as if the outcome was already certain.

Jon felt a surge of anger rise within him. The Maester was correct that the babe needed to be delivered quickly, but he was wrong about the inevitability of Aemma's death. There was another way, though it would require precision and care. Jon stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos. "This is madness," he said, his tone sharp. "There's a chance to save them both."

The Grandmaester shot him a withering glare. "You dare to interrupt? What do you know of such things, boy? Guards, remove him at once!"

But before the guards could act, Viserys held up his hand, his eyes locked on Jon. "Hold," he commanded, his voice firm. "What do you mean, Jon? How can you save them both?"

Jon took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I trained as a healer for many years, Your Grace. I know of a way that may save both the Queen and the child, but it must be done quickly and with great care. The child is lying across, not head-down. If we turn the baby inside the womb and deliver it feet first, there is a chance they can both survive."

The Grandmaester scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "This is nonsense! A fool's errand! Do not listen to him, Your Grace—this is beyond his skill!"

But Viserys's eyes were locked on Jon, desperation evident in his gaze. "Do it," the king said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Save them both, if you can."

Jon wasted no time. He ordered the room to be cleared of all but the necessary attendants, giving him space to work. He quickly fashioned a cooling mixture from the common herbs and medicinal plants available in the room, using it to numb Aemma's abdomen, slowing the blood flow and dulling the pain. He applied pressure to the sides of her belly, using his hands to guide the baby's position, careful but firm as he manipulated the infant inside the womb.

Jon worked swiftly, his hands sure and steady, focusing on the task at hand. He managed to turn the baby, positioning it feet-first, all the while keeping Aemma calm, though she still cried out in pain. Once the baby was aligned correctly, Jon used a sharp, sterilized blade to make a precise incision, just enough to assist in the delivery without risking Aemma's life. He then guided the child out carefully, his hands working deftly to ensure both mother and child remained stable.

With one final push, the baby was delivered, wailing as it entered the world. Jon quickly cleaned the newborn and handed it to a waiting wet nurse. Aemma, though weak and exhausted, was still alive, her breathing shallow but steady.

The room was filled with a stunned silence, broken only by the baby's cries. Rhaenyra, who had been watching in horror and hope, rushed forward and engulfed Jon in a tight hug, her relief palpable. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

Jon, still reeling from the intensity of what he had just done, nodded stiffly, his eyes flicking between Rhaenyra and the Queen, who now rested with her child beside her.

...

Jon, after ensuring that both Queen Aemma and the newborn were stable, quietly excused himself from the chamber. The family needed time alone together, and Jon was exhausted, his body and mind drained from the intense effort it had taken to save both mother and child. He made his way to his new chambers, which were located near Rhaenyra's quarters. The walk felt longer than it should have, his legs heavy, his mind buzzing with fatigue.

Once inside, he wasted no time. He stripped off his soiled clothing and quickly washed himself, the cold water doing little to revive his energy. He dried off and then collapsed onto his bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief against his tired skin. His eyes closed almost immediately, the weight of sleep pulling him under as he lay there, finally able to rest.

Some time later, Jon was jolted awake by the sound of his door opening and then closing softly. He sat up quickly, his senses still groggy from sleep, and saw a figure standing near the door, cloaked in shadow. It was Rhaenyra.

She stepped forward, her face partially hidden by the hood of her cloak. Her voice was steady, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "No more games, Jon... we both know this will happen," she said, her words direct and unapologetic.

With that, she pushed the cloak off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. Rhaenyra stood before him, completely naked, her pale skin glowing in the dim light. Her body was slender and slim, her breasts small but firm, with pink nipples that were already hard. Her waist was narrow, leading down to the gentle curve of her hips. Her stomach was flat, and between her legs was a sparse patch of silver-blonde hair that matched the long waves cascading down her back and over her shoulders. Her legs were long and toned, the muscles taut beneath her smooth skin.

Jon's eyes took in every inch of her, the exhaustion from earlier fading as desire surged through him. Rhaenyra didn't move, letting him look, her expression unflinching, her intent clear. She was done with the teasing, the games—they both knew where this was leading, and she wasn't going to wait any longer.

Rhaenyra moved forward with a determined grace, her eyes locked on Jon as she climbed onto the bed. Without hesitation, she pulled the blanket off him, revealing his body beneath, just as bare as hers. Jon's breath caught in his throat as she leaned in close, her skin brushing against his, the warmth of her body sending a shiver through him.

"You saved my mother today," she whispered, her voice low and filled with a mix of gratitude and desire. "Your reward is me."

Her words hung in the air, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. Rhaenyra's hands slid over his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles as she pressed her body against his. Jon knew the risks all too well—getting caught with Rhaenyra could mean exile or even death. He'd faced the harsh reality of exile before, but in that moment, he found himself not caring. The bond between them was too strong, the pull too intense to resist any longer.

Without another word, Jon pulled Rhaenyra closer, his hands gripping her hips as their bodies pressed together. He finally captured her lips with his, the kiss hot and explosive, igniting something deep within both of them. It wasn't soft or tentative; it was fierce and full of hunger. Their mouths moved together, tongues exploring with a raw intensity that sent shivers down their spines. The heat between them grew rapidly, their bodies reacting instinctively to the closeness, to the need that had been building for far too long.

Rhaenyra's fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin as she pressed herself even closer, her breasts flattening against his chest. Jon's hands roamed up her back, pulling her tighter against him, their kiss deepening, their breaths mingling as the intensity between them escalated. Jon's hands roamed over her bare back, feeling the smoothness of her skin under his fingertips. Rhaenyra responded with a mixture of eagerness and uncertainty, her inexperience evident as her hands explored his body, learning the feel of him.

As they continued, Jon's hands moved down to her breasts, cupping them gently. Rhaenyra gasped slightly, her reaction one of pleasure. Jon took his time, showing her how to respond, how to move with him. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. Rhaenyra let out a soft moan, her body arching into his hands, the sensations new and overwhelming for her.

Her own hands began to explore more boldly, tracing the contours of his chest and stomach. She was clumsy at first, unsure of where to touch, but Jon guided her, showing her how to respond to him. He took her hand and placed it against his erection, letting her feel the hardness there. She hesitated, but Jon's gentle encouragement helped her to gain confidence, her fingers wrapping around him tentatively.

Jon could feel her inexperience in every movement, but he was patient. He kissed her again, slower this time, guiding her through the rhythm of their bodies. He moved one hand between her legs, finding her wet and ready, her body responding to his touch even as her mind struggled to keep up. He teased her gently, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes, showing her how to react, how to let herself enjoy the sensations.

Rhaenyra was clearly new to this, her movements unsteady and unsure, but she was learning quickly. Jon could feel her body responding to his, the way she began to move with him, her own hands exploring more confidently now. Jon knew that she was a maiden, that this was her first time, and he took care to be gentle, to guide her through the experience. He wanted her to feel comfortable, to enjoy the sensations without fear or hesitation.

He could feel her relaxing into the moment, her body becoming more attuned to his. Jon moved slowly, carefully, teaching her with each touch, each kiss, until she was moving with him naturally, their bodies working together in a way that felt right, that felt inevitable. Jon felt the intensity between them reach a peak, and without hesitation, he gently flipped Rhaenyra onto her back. She looked up at him with a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement, her body trembling slightly under his touch. Jon leaned down, kissing her deeply, his hands exploring her breasts again, squeezing and caressing them, feeling her nipples harden against his palms.

He moved lower, trailing kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and finally down to her chest. His lips found her nipples, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over them, drawing soft moans from her lips. Rhaenyra arched her back slightly, pushing her breasts closer to his mouth, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her.

Jon continued to move lower, his kisses tracing a path down her stomach, feeling the smoothness of her skin under his lips. He reached the space between her legs, and without hesitation, he spread her thighs open. Rhaenyra's breathing quickened as she felt his hot breath on her most sensitive area.

Jon kissed her inner thighs, teasing her, making her wait as he took his time, letting the anticipation build. When he finally brought his mouth to her folds, Rhaenyra gasped, her hands flying to his hair, gripping it tightly. Jon's tongue flicked over her clit, circling it slowly, building the pressure until she was writhing beneath him.

He didn't stop, his mouth working her expertly, his tongue and lips focused on bringing her pleasure. He could feel her body tense, her muscles tightening as the sensations overwhelmed her. Rhaenyra moaned loudly, her hips lifting off the bed as Jon's mouth drove her closer to the edge.

Jon continued his relentless attention, his tongue exploring every fold, every sensitive spot. Rhaenyra's breathing became erratic, her moans louder and more desperate as she neared her climax. Jon sucked on her clit, his tongue pressing against it firmly, sending her over the edge.

Rhaenyra cried out, her body shaking as the orgasm ripped through her. Jon didn't stop, continuing to lick and suck as she rode out the waves of pleasure. When she finally started to come down, he only slowed his pace slightly, giving her time to recover before he started again, building her up once more.

He repeated the process, bringing her to the edge again and again, each time more intense than the last. Rhaenyra's body responded to his every touch, her thighs trembling, her moans turning into cries of pleasure. She lost track of time, lost in the sensations Jon was giving her, her body completely under his control.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of pleasure, Jon allowed Rhaenyra to rest, her body exhausted, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she caught her breath. She lay on the bed, her body still trembling from the intense pleasure Jon had given her. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a desperate need the fire in her belly only growing stronger.

"Please, Jon," she whispered, her voice shaking with desire. "I need you... now."

Jon looked down at her, seeing the raw hunger in her eyes. Without a word, he positioned himself between her legs, his erection hard and throbbing. He could see how wet she was, her arousal glistening on her inner thighs, and he knew she was ready for him.

Rhaenyra's hands reached out, grabbing his arms, pulling him closer. She spread her legs wider, offering herself to him, her body arching up to meet his. "I want you inside me," she begged, her voice low and filled with lust.

Jon lined himself up with her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick folds. He paused for a moment, looking into her eyes, but all he saw was need—pure, unfiltered need. Without hesitation, he pushed forward, entering her slowly, feeling her tightness around him.

Rhaenyra gasped, her nails digging into his arms as he filled her. The sensation was overwhelming, her body stretching to accommodate him. Jon moved deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully inside her, their bodies pressed tightly together.

"Gods," Rhaenyra moaned, her hips moving instinctively, trying to get more of him. Jon pulled back slightly before thrusting forward again, setting a steady, hard rhythm. He could feel her body clenching around him, her tight walls gripping him as he moved inside her.

She was so tight, so wet, every thrust sending jolts of pleasure through both of them. Jon gritted his teeth, focusing on the sensation of her heat, the way her body welcomed him, drawing him deeper with every movement. Rhaenyra's moans grew louder, more desperate, her body arching to meet his thrusts, wanting more, needing more.

Jon grabbed her hips, holding her in place as he pounded into her, each thrust harder than the last. Rhaenyra cried out, her hands moving to his back, her nails scratching down his skin as she lost herself in the intensity of it all.

"Yes, Jon, just like that," she panted, her voice breaking with the force of her pleasure. He could feel her tightening around him, her body on the edge once more, and he increased his pace, driving into her with a raw, primal force.

Rhaenyra's cries filled the room, her body trembling beneath him as she came hard, her walls clenching around his cock, milking him as she shuddered through her orgasm. Jon didn't stop, his own need pushing him to the brink. He could feel the pressure building, the heat coiling in his belly, ready to explode. With a final, powerful thrust, Jon buried himself deep inside her, his body tensing as he released, filling her with his seed. Rhaenyra moaned, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him even closer as she felt him spill inside her. They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies locked together, both of them breathless and spent.

Jon sat back on his heels, his chest heaving as he withdrew from Rhaenyra. He looked down at her, her legs still spread wide, her inner thighs glistening with sweat and his seed dripping from between her folds. The sight of it made something stir inside him again, the primal urge not yet satisfied. Rhaenyra lay there, her body still trembling slightly, her breathing uneven. She looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. But Jon wasn't done, and the sight of her like this—vulnerable, open, and marked by him—only fueled his desire.

Without a word, Jon grabbed her hips and flipped her over onto her stomach. Rhaenyra let out a small gasp of surprise, but she didn't resist. He pulled her up onto her knees, spreading her legs wide, and positioned himself behind her. She arched her back instinctively, her ass up in the air, presenting herself to him.

Jon ran his hands over her ass, squeezing it roughly before spreading her cheeks apart. He could see everything—her swollen, slick folds, still dripping, and her puckered asshole, exposed and inviting. His cock twitched at the sight, growing hard again as he lined himself up with her entrance.

He didn't hesitate. Gripping her hips tightly, Jon thrust into her from behind, filling her in one swift movement. Rhaenyra moaned loudly, her hands gripping the sheets as he took her hard and fast. There was no gentleness in his movements now, only raw, primal need.

Jon set a brutal pace, his hips slamming against her ass with each thrust. The sound of their bodies coming together filled the room, along with Rhaenyra's breathless moans. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her body rocking with the force of it.

He reached around her, his hand finding her clit, rubbing it in rough circles as he fucked her. Rhaenyra cried out, her body tightening around him as he drove her closer to the edge again. Her wetness coated his cock, making it easier to slide in and out, each movement sending waves of pleasure through both of them.

Jon's grip on her hips tightened, his nails digging into her flesh as he felt himself getting closer. He could feel her walls clenching around him, her body responding to his every touch. She was close, and so was he, but he wanted to drag it out, to feel her come undone beneath him one more time.

Rhaenyra's breathing became more erratic, her moans turning into desperate cries as she teetered on the brink of another orgasm. Jon didn't let up, his pace relentless as he pounded into her, pushing her closer and closer until finally, she shattered around him.

Her body convulsed, her pussy clenching down on his cock as she came hard, her cries echoing off the walls. Jon felt the intense squeeze of her orgasm and couldn't hold back any longer. With a final, deep thrust, he came inside her again, filling her with his seed. Jon didn't pull away this time. Instead, he shifted his position, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He pulled Rhaenyra up with him, guiding her into his lap. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, but Jon wasn't done. He lifted her legs, draping them over his shoulders, her pussy now fully exposed and pressed against his hard cock.

With her back arched, Rhaenyra was completely open to him, her body at his mercy. Jon gripped her hips tightly, his strong arms moving her into position as he lined himself up with her entrance. Without a word, he thrust into her, filling her completely in one deep stroke. Rhaenyra gasped, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he buried himself inside her.

Jon set a rough pace, his hips driving upward as he pulled her down onto his cock. The angle was intense, making every thrust hit deep inside her. Rhaenyra moaned loudly, her hands gripping his biceps for support as he took control. Her legs, resting on his shoulders, made her feel more exposed, more vulnerable, but also more connected to him.

He could feel her sex clenching around him with every thrust, her slick walls gripping him tightly. Jon's focus was entirely on her, his hands moving to her ass, squeezing and spreading her cheeks as he fucked her harder. The bed creaked beneath them, the room filled with the sound of their bodies slapping together.

Rhaenyra's eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent scream as the pleasure built inside her again. Jon's cock filled her completely, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her whole body tremble. She could feel the tension coiling in her belly, the pressure building as Jon's relentless pace drove her closer to the edge.

Jon's hands moved up her body, one hand gripping her waist, the other reaching around to grab her breast. He squeezed it roughly, his thumb brushing over her nipple, sending jolts of pleasure through her. Rhaenyra's moans grew louder, her body responding to every touch, every thrust, as Jon pushed her closer to another climax.

Her legs, still draped over his shoulders, tightened around him, pulling him even deeper inside her. Jon's pace didn't falter, his strong arms holding her steady as he drove into her again and again. Rhaenyra's nails dug into his skin, her body tensing as she neared the edge. Jon could feel her getting closer, her pussy tightening around him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn't slow down, didn't let up, his hips pounding into her with a steady, brutal rhythm. He wanted to feel her break around him, to feel her lose control completely.

Rhaenyra's body tensed, her back arching as she finally came, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. She cried out, her whole body trembling as Jon continued to thrust into her, drawing out every last drop of pleasure. Her pussy clenched around him, milking his cock as she rode out her orgasm.

Jon gritted his teeth, feeling her tightness pulling him closer to his own release. He thrust into her a few more times, hard and deep, before finally letting go. He came inside her, filling her with his seed once more, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

This was what was so dangerous about Targaryens, especially those who shared a connection. No matter how many times Jon spilt his seed he could do it again, Rhaenyra would never fail to make him hard and he would always want to shove himself inside her.

Jon leaned down to kiss Rhaenyra, the connection between them growing stronger with every touch. She was quickly becoming an addiction for him, one that he happily slipped into without hesitation. The feel of her, the taste of her, the sound of her voice—all of it consumed him.

As their lips parted, Jon's hands traveled down to her feet, lifting them gently. He kissed the tops of her feet, his lips brushing against her soft skin. Slowly, he moved to her toes, kissing and taking them into his mouth one by one, his tongue swirling around them. He engulfed her feet with his mouth, savoring the way her body responded to his touch. Rhaenyra moaned loudly, her head falling back against the pillow as she breathed out, "I love you, Jon. I love you so much." She repeated it over and over, the intensity of her feelings pouring out in her voice.

Jon's desire for Rhaenyra flared up again, more intense than ever. This time, he wanted something different, something that would leave its mark on both of them. He grabbed her ankles, pulling her legs up and apart, holding her in place as he positioned himself between them.

Without hesitation, he leaned down and kissed her feet, not gently, but with a rough, almost possessive intensity. His mouth covered her toes, his teeth grazing her skin as he moved from one foot to the other, his hands keeping her legs spread wide. Rhaenyra's breath hitched, the sensation sending a shiver through her entire body.

Jon's grip on her ankles tightened as he thrust into her again, hard and deep, his body driving into hers with a force that left no room for softness. The connection between them was raw and unfiltered, a reflection of the intense bond they shared.

Rhaenyra gasped, her back arching as she felt him fill her completely. He kept her legs in his hands, pulling her closer with each powerful thrust. Her moans filled the room, a mixture of pleasure and something more primal, more desperate. There was no tenderness here, only a deep, almost brutal need that pushed them both beyond the edge of control. Each thrust was harder than the last, his body slamming into hers as he held her in place.

Rhaenyra's cries grew louder, more urgent, her hands gripping the sheets as she met his thrusts, her body responding to every movement he made. The sensation of him inside her, combined with the rough kisses on her feet, sent waves of pleasure through her, leaving her gasping for breath.

Jon could feel her tightening around him, her body on the brink of release. He didn't let up, driving into her with everything he had, the connection between them reaching a fever pitch. Rhaenyra's body tensed, and she cried out, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. With a final, deep thrust, Jon followed her over the edge, his release hitting him with a force that left him shaking. He held her ankles tightly, his body pressed against hers as they both rode out the final waves of their shared climax.

When it was over, Jon let go of her ankles, collapsing beside her on the bed. The room was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths, they had done something neither could ever go back from... for better or for worse.

———————————————————-

Over the next few weeks, everything changed between Jon and Rhaenyra. Their desire for each other became an all-consuming force, driving them to find any possible moment to be together, no matter the risk or the place. Their time alone was no longer just for conversation or companionship—it was filled with raw, physical need that they couldn't resist.

It started in her chambers, where they would meet late at night. Jon would slip inside quietly, and the moment the door closed behind him, Rhaenyra would be on him. "I've been waiting for you," she'd whisper, her hands already tugging at his clothes. They would fall into her bed, their bodies tangling together, her legs wrapping around his waist as he thrust into her, both of them desperate to satisfy the relentless hunger that had grown between them.

But it wasn't long before the secrecy of her chambers wasn't enough. They began to take more risks, finding moments wherever they could, no matter how dangerous. One afternoon, while walking through the gardens, Rhaenyra suddenly pulled Jon behind a thick hedge. Without a word, she lifted her skirts, revealing she wore nothing underneath. "Take me now," she demanded, her voice low and commanding. Jon didn't hesitate, pushing her up against the stone wall, his hands gripping her hips as he entered her. The roughness of the wall scraped against her back, but she didn't care, urging him on with her hands and her hips. "Harder, Jon... fuck me harder," she moaned, barely keeping her voice down.

The library became another secret rendezvous. They were supposed to be reading, but as soon as the room was empty, Rhaenyra pushed Jon into a chair, straddling him as she undid his trousers. "We have to be quick," she breathed, her hands guiding him inside her. She rode him there, her hands gripping the back of the chair, her hips moving with desperate urgency. Jon groaned, trying to keep his voice low as she bounced on his lap, her breasts pressing against his chest through her dress. "Gods, you feel so good," he whispered, barely able to keep control. When they finished, both breathless and flushed, they quickly dressed and returned to their books as if nothing had happened.

The stables were another favorite spot, though it was far from private. One evening, as they checked on the horses, Rhaenyra suddenly turned to Jon, her eyes dark with lust. "I can't wait," she whispered, pulling him into an empty stall. She bent over the edge of the stall door, lifting her skirts, presenting herself to him. Jon wasted no time, freeing himself and thrusting into her from behind. "Fuck, Rhaenyra," he groaned, his hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her. The smell of hay and horses filled the air, mixing with the sound of their bodies coming together. Rhaenyra bit down on her arm to stifle her moans, her body trembling with each thrust. "Don't stop, Jon... don't you dare stop," she panted, pushing back against him.

Even in the Great Hall, where they had no business being alone, they couldn't resist. Late at night, when the castle was mostly asleep, they passed through on their way to their chambers. Rhaenyra suddenly stopped, her hand on Jon's arm. "Here," she said, pulling him behind one of the tall pillars. She dropped to her knees, unfastening his trousers. "I need you," she said, taking him into her mouth before he could protest. Jon looked around nervously, knowing how dangerous this was, but the sight of her on her knees, her lips around his cock, made him forget the risk. He groaned, his hand tangling in her hair as she worked him with her mouth. "Rhaenyra, fuck... we're going to get caught," he gasped, but she didn't stop, her eyes locked on his as she sucked him. When he couldn't take it anymore, he pulled her up, turned her around, and entered her from behind, his hands squeezing her breasts as he fucked her hard and fast. The echoes of their moans bounced off the high walls, and when they finished, they quickly dressed and slipped out, the thrill of the risk making it all the more satisfying.

The council chambers were the most dangerous of all. One afternoon, when they knew it would be empty, Rhaenyra locked the door behind them and pushed Jon onto the large oak table. "Here?" Jon asked, his voice a mix of excitement and disbelief. "Right here," she replied, climbing onto the table and straddling him, her dress hiked up around her waist. She guided him inside her, the feeling of the hard wood beneath them adding to the intensity. Jon grabbed her hips, pulling her down onto him as he thrust up into her, the table creaking under their weight. "Fuck, Rhaenyra," he groaned, his hands sliding up to squeeze her breasts through her dress. Rhaenyra threw her head back, riding him with abandon, her moans filling the room. "Gods, I love this... I love you," she panted, her body shuddering as she came hard around him. They finished quickly, knowing they couldn't risk being caught, but the thrill of it only made them crave each other more.

No place was safe from their desire. Whether it was in the privacy of her chambers, the open air of the gardens, or the dangerous confines of the council chambers, Jon and Rhaenyra gave in to their needs again and again, the risk only fueling their passion. They knew they were playing a dangerous game, but neither could bring themselves to stop.

Alicent had started to notice something off about Rhaenyra's recent behavior. The Princess had been turning down invitations to accompany her on outings or to other events more frequently. Whenever Alicent pressed her for details, Rhaenyra would brush it off with vague excuses. Her suspicions grew, and she began to keep a closer eye on her friend.

One afternoon, when Rhaenyra said she needed some time alone, Alicent decided to follow her discreetly. She waited until Rhaenyra had left her quarters before slipping out of her own room and trailing behind at a safe distance. She maneuvered through the corridors of the Red Keep, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection.

Alicent watched as Rhaenyra made her way to the gardens. The Princess walked quickly, her face flushed with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Alicent followed, using the greenery and stone walls as cover. She crouched behind a large bush and peered through the leaves, trying to get a better view of what was happening.

Rhaenyra entered a secluded part of the gardens, where the tall hedges and flowering plants provided natural cover. Alicent could barely make out Jon standing by a stone bench, his armor slightly disheveled. He looked up as Rhaenyra approached, a smirk forming on his face.

Rhaenyra greeted him with a smile. "I'm glad you're here," she said, her voice soft but eager. "I missed you."

Jon stepped forward and took her hand. "I missed you too," he replied, his tone equally affectionate. He pulled her into a passionate kiss, their lips meeting with urgency.

Alicent watched in shock as Rhaenyra's hands roamed over Jon's body. She could see them clearly now, their kisses growing more intense. Jon's hands moved to Rhaenyra's waist, pulling her closer.

Alicent's heart raced. She had known Rhaenyra harbored feelings for Jon but had never thought it would escalate to this. She felt a mix of surprise and curiosity. She watched as Rhaenyra lifted her skirts, revealing she wore nothing underneath. "Take me now," she whispered urgently, her breath hitching with desire.

Jon didn't hesitate. He quickly undid his trousers and guided Rhaenyra onto the bench. She sat on it, her legs spread, her body poised for him. Jon stepped between her legs, entering her with a deep thrust. Rhaenyra gasped and moaned, her hands gripping the edges of the bench for support.

"This is so wrong," Alicent thought, her face reddening as she tried to process what she was seeing. She had always considered Rhaenyra's affection for Jon a harmless infatuation, something that would fade away. But the intensity of their physical connection was far beyond what she had imagined.

Rhaenyra's moans grew louder as Jon picked up the pace, his hands gripping her hips, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "Oh, Jon, yes... just like that," Rhaenyra moaned, her voice trembling with pleasure. Jon's breathing grew ragged as he drove into her, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the garden.

Alicent was unable to tear her eyes away, her mind reeling from the sight. She could see how desperate Rhaenyra was, her body shivering with each thrust. Jon's face was flushed with exertion, his focus solely on Rhaenyra. He let out a low groan, his grip tightening on her hips as he continued to push into her.

Rhaenyra's legs wrapped around Jon's waist, pulling him closer. "Don't stop," she panted. "Please don't stop."

Jon's hands roamed over her body, exploring her curves as he continued his relentless pace. "Never." Alicent could hardly believe what she was witnessing. Her friend, the Princess, in such a compromising and unrestrained position. She knew this was something she should not have seen, but her curiosity and disbelief kept her rooted in place.

As they neared their climax, Rhaenyra's moans became more frantic. "Jon, I'm close," she cried out. Jon responded with a deep, guttural groan, his thrusts growing more erratic. Both of them reached their peak simultaneously, their bodies trembling with the force of their release.

Alicent slowly backed away, her mind still reeling from the discovery. Alicent's curiosity about Rhaenyra and Jon only deepened as she followed them more closely, each encounter igniting a burning fascination within her. The things she witnessed became etched in her mind, and she found herself increasingly captivated by their intimate moments.

One afternoon, Alicent trailed behind Rhaenyra and Jon to a secluded corner of the castle gardens. She carefully positioned herself behind a dense hedge, peering through a small opening. Jon and Rhaenyra were engaged in a heated encounter, hidden from casual observers. Rhaenyra's dress was pushed up around her waist, exposing her bare hips and thighs. Jon was standing, holding Rhaenyra's hips as he thrust into her. She was moaning loudly, her head tipped back, her hands gripping the garden wall for support.

"Don't stop, Jon," Rhaenyra pleaded, her voice filled with desire. "I need you."

Jon's breathing was heavy and ragged as he continued to thrust, his hands moving to her back and pulling her closer. "You feel so good," he grunted. "I can't get enough of you."

Alicent's breath caught in her throat as she watched, the raw and unrestrained nature of their activity striking her deeply. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the way Jon's body moved, how Rhaenyra's moans grew louder with each thrust. Her own body responded to the sight, and she found herself trembling as she imagined Jon's hands on her. That night, alone in her chambers, Alicent's thoughts were consumed by what she had seen. She traced her fingers down her own body, touching herself as she replayed the scene in her mind, imagining what it would feel like to be in Rhaenyra's position.

A few days later, Alicent followed Rhaenyra and Jon to a quiet part of the castle's library. She hid behind a row of bookshelves, her heart racing with anticipation. Jon and Rhaenyra were seated at a large table. Jon was leaning back, his trousers pulled down to his knees, while Rhaenyra was on her knees before him, her head bobbing as she took him into her mouth. Jon's hands were tangled in her hair, guiding her movements.

"Rhaenyra," Jon groaned, his voice rough with pleasure. "That feels incredible."

Rhaenyra looked up at him, her lips moving up and down on his shaft. "I want to make you feel good," she said softly, her voice muffled by her actions.

Jon's eyes were closed, his face contorted in pleasure as Rhaenyra worked her mouth. Alicent's fascination only grew stronger as she watched. The sight of Rhaenyra's inexperienced but eager attempts to please Jon, combined with Jon's reactions, stirred something deep within her. That night, Alicent lay in bed, her hand moving down her body as she imagined Rhaenyra's mouth on her. She touched herself, her mind filled with vivid images of Jon and Rhaenyra's actions.

A few more days passed, and Alicent's obsession only intensified. She followed Rhaenyra and Jon to a secluded courtyard, where they had spread a blanket over the grass. Rhaenyra was lying on her back, her legs spread wide. Jon was on top of her, thrusting rhythmically as Rhaenyra moaned and clutched at the blanket beneath her.

"I can't get enough of you," Jon said, his voice filled with raw need.

Rhaenyra responded with a cry of pleasure. "Yes, Jon, just like that. Don't stop." Jon's movements were forceful, and Rhaenyra's body responded eagerly to each thrust. Alicent's eyes were glued to the scene, her own body reacting to the sight. She watched as Rhaenyra's face contorted in pleasure, her legs wrapped tightly around Jon. The intensity of their encounter made Alicent's heart race, and she found herself imagining what it would be like to be in their place.

That night, Alicent lay in her bed, her thoughts consumed by the scene she had witnessed. Her hand traced down her body, her fingers pumping in and out of her sex as quickly as she could, she was so tight that she could only get her pinky inside anymore would risk breaking her Maidenhead, she grabbed her breasts thinking about Jon. She couldn't shake the images of Rhaenyra's moans, the way her body responded to Jon's thrusts. Alicent's fascination turned into obsession as she pictured herself in Rhaenyra's place, feeling Jon's weight on top of her. Sweat coated her skin as she gripped the edge of her bed, her breathing ragged. Her hand moved between her legs, fingers urgently rubbing and pressing against her clit. The thought of Jon's hard cock thrusting into Rhaenyra, their bodies grinding together, made her tremble with desire. She imagined the way Jon's thick, veined shaft would feel, the way Rhaenyra's moans would echo through the room.

Her fingers worked furiously, each touch and movement driven by the mental images of their intimate moments. She pictured Jon's rough, commanding hands and Rhaenyra's eager, inexperienced responses. The friction and pressure built up quickly, her body responding to the relentless stimulation.

Alicent's breathing grew harsher, her moans louder as she imagined herself in Rhaenyra's place. She envisioned Jon's cock sliding in and out, her own body clenching around it. She twisted her fingers, desperate to replicate the sensations she had seen, pressing harder as her climax approached.

Her body arched and writhed on the bed, her hands moving with a feverish urgency. The heat between her legs intensified, the slickness making her touch more frantic. Her entire body shook with the force of her release, her fingers digging into her flesh as she cried out in a mix of pleasure and frustration.

Afterwards, she lay there, panting and slick with sweat, her body sprawled across the bed. The images of Jon and Rhaenyra continued to swirl in her mind, leaving her in a daze. Her fingers still rested between her legs, coated in the remnants of her climax.

Her obsession with them had pushed her to the brink. Alicent froze, her eyes wide with shock as she heard the voice. She looked around her chamber and saw Rhaenyra and Jon standing there, both as naked as she was. They wore smirks on their faces.

"What are you doing here?" Alicent asked, her voice trembling. "This is my room."

Rhaenyra smiled and walked closer. "Privacy is a luxury you didn't afford us," she said. "Besides, you wanted us here. You were thinking of us just now, weren't you?"

Alicent's face turned red from embarrassment and surprise. She tried to say something but was too shocked. Rhaenyra and Jon approached the bed.

Rhaenyra climbed onto the bed. "You've watched us enough. Now it's your turn."

Jon got on the bed as well. "Let's make this night memorable for you."

Alicent felt a mix of shame and excitement. Rhaenyra and Jon moved closer, their naked bodies pressing against her. Jon grabbed Alicent's arm firmly but gently. "Don't be shy. We're here to give you what you want."

Rhaenyra's hands explored Alicent's body, making her shiver. "You've seen us do it. Now you get to feel it."

Jon's hand slid down to Alicent's thighs. He positioned himself between her legs. "Relax and enjoy. We're going to make sure you get what you need."

Rhaenyra whispered in Alicent's ear, her breath warm and teasing. "Let go. We're here to satisfy your desires."

As Jon touched Alicent's inner thighs and guided her legs apart, Rhaenyra continued her teasing. Alicent lay there, overwhelmed as Jon and Rhaenyra continued their actions. Jon positioned himself between her legs, pressing closer. Rhaenyra, still next to her, continued exploring with her hands.

Jon moved his hands to Alicent's hips, holding her firmly. He looked down at her and said, "Just relax. Let us take care of you." He guided his erection toward her, and Alicent's breath caught in her throat as she felt the pressure and heat.

Rhaenyra's hands roamed across Alicent's body. She placed one hand on Alicent's breast, rubbing and kneading it gently. Her other hand slid down to Alicent's abdomen, moving lower and brushing against her outer lips. Alicent gasped at the contact, her body reacting instinctively.

Jon's movements were deliberate as he slowly penetrated Alicent. He watched her face, noting the mix of discomfort and pleasure. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, his voice steady but filled with focus.

Rhaenyra leaned over Alicent, her own bare body pressing close. She whispered, "Just let go, Alicent. We're here to make sure you feel good." Her lips brushed Alicent's ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

Jon started moving in and out, his thrusts slow but steady. Alicent's body responded, her breathing becoming more ragged. Jon adjusted his angle, hitting deeper and making her moan. "You're doing great," he encouraged, his hands gripping her hips.

Rhaenyra's fingers continued their exploration, moving over Alicent's inner thighs and occasionally brushing against Jon's movements. She watched Jon closely, clearly enjoying the way he was making Alicent react. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Rhaenyra said, her voice low and teasing.

Alicent's body was tense but also eager. She felt Jon's thrusts increasing in pace, the pressure and friction building. "Yes," she moaned, her voice barely a whisper as she struggled to keep her composure.

Jon's pace quickened, and he increased the force of his thrusts. Alicent's moans grew louder, her body arching and responding to the rhythm. Rhaenyra, beside her, was now using both hands to stimulate Alicent further, her fingers moving over Alicent's clit and rubbing in time with Jon's thrusts.

The room was filled with the sounds of their actions—heavy breathing, moans, and the rhythm of Jon's thrusts. Alicent's hands clutched at the bed, her body moving with Jon's motions.

Rhaenyra's touch was relentless as she kept her focus on Alicent's pleasure. "You're almost there," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice filled with encouragement. She continued rubbing and stroking, making sure Alicent felt every touch.

Jon, now fully immersed, drove deeper and faster, his breathing matching the intensity of the moment. "I'm close," he grunted, his grip on Alicent's hips tightening as he thrust with more force.

Alicent felt her own climax approaching. Her moans grew louder, her body trembling as she neared release. Rhaenyra's fingers worked quickly, pushing Alicent over the edge.

With a final powerful thrust, Jon climaxed, and Alicent followed moments later, her body shaking with the intensity of her orgasm. Jon's body slumped slightly, still inside her as he took a deep breath.

Rhaenyra pulled away, giving Alicent a brief, satisfied smile. "How was that?" she asked, her tone a mix of teasing and satisfaction.

Alicent, still catching her breath, managed a weak smile. "It was amazing," she replied, her voice filled with both exhaustion and satisfaction.

———————————————————

As the weeks passed, Alicent had become a regular participant in the secret encounters with Jon and Rhaenyra. Their meetings grew more frequent, and the three were often together, indulging in their desires wherever they could find privacy. They met in hidden chambers, quiet corners of the castle, and secluded gardens. The secrecy only seemed to heighten their desire for each other.

During this time, the kingdom faced a tragic loss. Rhaenyra's infant brother, Baelon, died after a short, fragile life. His passing devastated both her mother and father. The sorrow in the royal family was palpable. The loss of the infant heir was a blow to their hopes and dreams.

Amidst the grief, Daemon Targaryen's actions further complicated the situation. Daemon had insulted the dead child, calling him "heir for the day" in a crude manner. This disrespect led to Viserys banishing Daemon back to the Vale. However, Daemon defied the order and instead traveled to Dragonstone, asserting his claim as Prince of Dragonstone. This defiance threatened to ignite a new conflict, one that Viserys was determined to handle personally.

Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, advised against Viserys confronting Daemon directly. He feared that Daemon's actions might indicate madness and believed it was safer to handle the situation from a distance.

Despite her father's refusal, Rhaenyra insisted on confronting Daemon herself. She was determined to reclaim Dragonstone and retrieve the stolen egg. Jon, her loyal companion, agreed to accompany her. They flew to Dragonstone on Syrax, Rhaenyra's dragon.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by Daemon and his new wife, a woman he introduced as his second spouse. Rhaenyra demanded that Daemon vacate Dragonstone and return the stolen egg. Daemon, however, refused to comply. He argued that if he was to be banished from the seat of House Targaryen, he would keep the egg for his firstborn.

Daemon then looked at Jon and proposed a challenge. He said he would agree to leave Dragonstone if Jon could bring him an egg from one of the wild dragons on the mountain. Jon immediately agreed, though Rhaenyra's face showed her concern and displeasure at the dangerous quest Jon was about to undertake.

 

(AN: It's done... it's finally done.... Any lord of the rings fans?)