Chapter Text
The morning sun beat down on the Red Keep's training yard, harsh and honest. Jon moved through his sword forms alone, each strike skilled and brutal. The kind of drills that carved muscle memory into bone. Longsword cutting air where flesh should be, footwork automatic, shoulders burning in that good way that meant progress.
Overhead, the dragons wheeled and cried.
Five of them now. Changed everything since they returned.
Jon paused mid-form, blade lowering as he watched them spiral against the cloudless sky. Norvaxis dominated the formation, black scales drinking light like a wound in the heavens. Twice the size of any other. The Midnight Terror, they called him. Everyone knew whose dragon that was.
He remembered how the world shifted when dragons flew again.
Trade agreements flooding in from every corner of the known world. The Free Cities sending envoys laden with gifts and desperate smiles. Braavos and Pentos competing for Targaryen favor like dogs begging scraps. Volantis swearing eternal friendship through their Red Priestesses. Even the Iron Bank adjusting their rates for the crown, suddenly flexible where they'd been iron for centuries.
Nobles arrived weekly to pay homage. Great Houses sending daughters and sons to court, everyone wanting proximity to dragonfire. The Reach sent grain and gold. The Westerlands sent Lannister cousins with golden hair and ambitious eyes. Dorne sent wine and warriors. The North sent... well, the North sent him summers with his Stark cousins, and that was enough.
The realm prospered under Rhaegar's rule. Roads safer than they'd been in generations. Harvests better. Smallfolk actually fed, actually protected, actually giving a damn about who sat the Iron Throne because for once it mattered in a good way.
Dragons changed everything. His father's vision made manifest in fire and scale.
Jon returned to his forms. Worked up a proper sweat, tunic clinging to his back, hair damp at his temples. Comfortable in the silence, in the rhythm of blade through air, until boots crunched gravel behind him.
He didn't turn. Didn't need to.
Aegon approached flanked by three lordlings. Tyrell cousins and a Redwyne, the usual sycophants who laughed at Aegon's jokes and agreed with Aegon's opinions and probably wiped Aegon's ass if he asked nicely enough. Their footsteps had that particular cadence of men trying to look casual while following their leader.
Jon kept drilling.
Aegon was in training leathers too, black and red with golden thread at the collar. Far above, Sunfyre's golden scales caught the light as the dragon circled. Beautiful, that one. The most gorgeous of the clutch, poets said.
Notably smaller than Norvaxis.
Wasn't that always the fucking problem.
"Brother." Aegon's voice carried that particular edge it always did. Pleasant on the surface, something harder underneath. "Training alone again, I see."
Jon didn't pause his form. "Aegon."
"Interesting technique." One of the Tyrells. Loras? Leo? They all blurred together, pretty and useless. "Very... Northern."
The Redwyne snickered. "Learned from wildlings, perhaps?"
Jon's blade cut air. He said nothing.
"A true Targaryen prince would train with proper partners," Aegon said, circling to Jon's left. Staying just outside striking range, whether he knew it or not. "Not alone like some hedge knight working for his next meal."
The forms continued. Steady. Controlled.
"Though I suppose you've been busy." The other Tyrell, the one with the weak chin. "Hard to find time for proper swordwork between all that bastard-making."
Laughter. Sycophantic and sharp.
Jon's jaw tightened. He kept drilling.
Aegon moved closer. "The Dark Prince, they call you. So mysterious. So brooding. Too good for company." His voice dropped. "Too good for your own brother. For the heir to the Iron Throne."
Jon lowered his sword. Turned, finally, to face Aegon directly.
His brother looked good. Always did. Silver-gold hair perfectly styled even in training leathers. Violet eyes bright with something that wanted to be anger but looked too much like hurt underneath. The image of a Targaryen king from the songs.
Jon was taller. Broader. Darker.
He wondered, not for the first time, why that mattered so much to Aegon when Aegon was the one who'd wear the crown.
"I'm training," Jon said. Flat. Simple. "You're welcome to join. Or you can keep talking."
Aegon's nostrils flared. "Is that what you think of me? That I just talk?"
"I think you brought an audience." Jon's gaze flicked to the three lordlings, then back. "I think you didn't come here to spar."
"Maybe I came to remind you of your place."
"My place." Jon's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "And where's that, brother?"
Aegon stepped closer. Close enough that Jon could see the vein pulsing at his temple. Close enough to smell the expensive oils in his hair.
"Behind me," Aegon said. "Where second sons belong."
Jon held his gaze. Said nothing.
The silence stretched.
"Do you think you're better than me?" Aegon's voice went sharp. A blade unsheathed. "Is that it? You think because your dragon is bigger, because women spread their legs for you, because the smallfolk whisper your name like you're some fucking hero, that you're better than the Crown Prince?"
The challenge hung in the morning air.
Above them, Norvaxis screamed.
Jon said nothing.
His eyes answered clearly enough.
Aegon's jaw clenched. He stalked to the weapons rack, snatched a training sword, tested its weight with a sharp cut through air. Then grabbed a second and hurled it at Jon.
Jon caught it without looking. The weight settled into his palm like it belonged there.
The sycophants backed up, spreading along the yard's edge with grins splitting their pretty faces. Entertainment. That's what they thought this was. A show for court gossip, something to whisper about over wine.
It wasn't.
Aegon came in fast. Technical. Proper form drilled by the best masters gold could buy, footwork textbook perfect, blade angled exactly as the treatises prescribed. He was genuinely skilled. Quick feet, good instincts, the kind of swordsman who would beat most knights in the realm on any given day.
Jon gave ground.
The first exchange, he retreated. Testing. The second, he let Aegon's blade slide past his guard by inches, remembered how his brother moved. The weight distribution, the tells, the patterns. Aegon always favored his right. Always overcommitted on the riposte.
Third exchange. Fourth.
Then Jon stopped retreating.
The shift was immediate. Brutal.
His counterattack drove Aegon back three steps. A beat, a bind, a strike that rang off Aegon's hastily raised guard hard enough to numb fingers. Five steps now, Aegon scrambling, footwork failing him as Jon pressed forward with the inevitability of tide against sand.
Every strike Aegon attempted got turned aside. Not blocked. Turned. Redirected like Jon knew where the blade would be before Aegon decided to put it there. Like this was nothing. Like Jon was bored.
That's what made Aegon's face twist with real hatred.
He wasn't losing to some foreign technique. Not some Northern trick or wildling savagery the lordlings could mock later. He was losing because Jon was simply better. Faster. Stronger. More natural with a blade than Aegon would ever be, no matter how many hours he trained, no matter how many masters he hired, no matter how perfectly he performed the forms.
Some things couldn't be taught.
Aegon knew it. The knowledge burned in his violet eyes, humiliation and fury and something that looked almost like grief.
He overextended. Lunged when he should have recovered, desperation making him sloppy.
Jon could have ended it there. Could have taken his legs, put him on his back in the dirt, pressed the training blade to his throat while the sycophants watched their golden prince grovel. Complete humiliation. The kind Aegon would never forget, never forgive.
Instead, Jon twisted.
A simple motion. Blade against blade, leverage and angle, and Aegon's sword went spinning from his grip. It clattered across the stone, loud in the sudden silence.
Aegon stood there breathing hard. Flushed with shame and fury, chest heaving, hands empty. The sycophants had gone quiet. Nobody was laughing now. Nobody was grinning. They stared at their feet or the sky or anywhere but at the Crown Prince who'd just been dismantled like a training dummy.
"Aegon." Jon lowered his blade. "It's done."
Aegon lunged.
Bare-handed, graceless, nothing princely about it. He came at Jon like he meant to throttle him, fingers clawing for his throat, all that courtly control shattered into something raw and ugly.
White cloaks.
Ser Arthur Dayne materialized from fucking nowhere, hand clamping on Jon's shoulder with iron strength, pulling him back. Ser Barristan Selmy had Aegon, arms locked around the Crown Prince's chest, restraining him even as Aegon thrashed and spat fury.
"Disrespect," Aegon snarled, fighting Barristan's grip. "You arrogant bastard, you think you can humiliate me, think you can just…."
"Enough." Arthur's voice cut through the yard like a blade. The Sword of the Morning didn't raise his volume. Didn't need to. "Both of you. Enough."
Jon let himself be held. Didn't fight it. His sword arm hung loose at his side, training blade still in his grip, and he watched his brother struggle against Barristan's restraint with something that felt too tired to be anger.
This. Always this. Every fucking time.
"The king will hear of this," Barristan announced. His voice carried the weight of decades serving the crown, disappointment and steel in equal measure. "Both princes. His Grace's solar. Now."
Aegon's fury flickered.
Something calculating slid behind his eyes. The wheels turning, already planning how to spin this. How to make Jon the villain. The aggressor. The second son who forgot his place and needed to be reminded.
Jon just felt tired.
The summons came within the hour.
Not the throne room. Not public. Rhaegar's private solar, where family matters stayed family matters and the court couldn't feast on Targaryen blood.
Jon walked through the corridors alone. The Kingsguard had released him and Aegon separately, kept them apart, probably smart given how Aegon's hands had been shaking with rage. Now Jon climbed the Tower of the Hand's stairs with that particular heaviness in his chest that always came before these conversations.
Always the same. Always exhausting.
The solar doors stood open when he arrived. He was the last.
Rhaegar sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The king looked tired in the way he always looked tired when his sons fought. Silver hair pushed back from his face, violet eyes distant with that particular disappointment Jon had memorized years ago. Prophecy and dragons and the fate of the realm occupied his father's thoughts. His sons' petty rivalry was beneath him, a distraction from greater concerns, and that weariness said it all.
Elia sat beside the king, her face carefully neutral. But her dark eyes moved between her children with the sharp attention of a woman who'd survived decades of court. Calculating. Waiting to see how the pieces fell before she spoke.
Lyanna didn't sit at all.
His mother stood near the window with her arms crossed, grey eyes blazing with Northern fury barely contained. Her jaw was set. Her foot tapped the stone floor. Jon knew that look. She'd already decided who was at fault and was simply waiting for someone to challenge her so she could rip them apart.
Rhaenys lounged against the opposite window, one long leg crossed over the other. Her gown was dark purple, cut low enough to draw eyes, and she was watching Jon with those violet eyes that held too much heat. Her lips curved in something between sympathy and hunger. Like she wanted to comfort him and devour him in equal measure.
He looked away.
Daenerys perched on a chair's edge near the corner, small and silver and luminous. Her hands were folded in her lap, posture perfect, but her gaze kept sliding toward Jon when she thought no one noticed. Quick glances. Longing and worry tangled together.
Missandei noticed.
Dany's lady in waiting stood by the door, still and unobtrusive in her servant's attire. Her dark eyes catalogued Daenerys's stolen looks, filed them away, moved to Jon's face and lingered there with something softer than professional attention.
And Rhaella.
The Dowager Queen sat apart from everyone, dignified and quiet in silver silk. Her soft violet gaze rested on Jon with concern that felt almost maternal. Fingers laced tight in her lap, knuckles white, and when their eyes met she offered him the smallest nod. I'm here. I see you.
Jon inclined his head slightly. Grateful.
"Now that we're all present." Rhaegar's voice carried the weight of the crown even in private. "Aegon. Tell me what happened."
Of course he let Aegon speak first.
Jon kept his face neutral as his brother stepped forward. Aegon had cleaned up since the yard. Fresh clothes, hair rebraided, every inch the Crown Prince despite the red still staining his cheeks. His voice came out smooth, the performance of a man who'd rehearsed his lines during the walk here.
"I approached my brother in the training yard," Aegon said. "To offer him partnership. Brotherhood. I've tried for years to bridge the gap between us, Father, and today I thought perhaps we could train together. Instead, Jon..." He paused. Swallowed. Let his voice catch with perfectly calibrated hurt. "He attacked me. In front of witnesses. Humiliated me deliberately, methodically, as if my position meant nothing. As if I meant nothing."
Lyanna's jaw tightened.
"I defended myself as best I could," Aegon continued. "But Jon's aggression was... I've never seen him like that. The hatred in his eyes." Another pause. A shake of his silver-gold head. "I fear for what he might do if this behavior continues unchecked."
The silence stretched.
Jon watched his father's face. Watched Elia's careful neutrality. Watched Aegon standing there with his wounded prince expression, so perfectly crafted, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness.
"That," Lyanna said flatly, "is horseshit."
Elia winced. Rhaegar closed his eyes. Rhaenys laughed behind her hand, a bright sound that cut through the tension.
"Lyanna," Rhaegar said.
"No." His mother uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. "I'm not listening to this. Aegon brought three lordlings to mock Jon while he trained alone. Three witnesses who'll say whatever Aegon tells them to say. And you're going to sit there and pretend this is about Jon's aggression?"
"The queen speaks out of maternal bias," Aegon said. "Understandable, but hardly….."
"Don't." Lyanna's voice went cold as Northern winter. "Don't you dare dismiss me, boy. I've known you since you were mewling in your cradle, and I've watched you pick at your brother for twenty years. This isn't new. This is just the first time you got embarrassed badly enough to cry about it."
Aegon's face flushed. "I am the Crown Prince…."
"And Jon is a prince of the realm, and I am your father's queen, and if you interrupt me again I'll show you exactly how Northern women handle disrespect."
"Enough." Rhaegar's palm rose. The room fell silent.
The king's violet eyes moved from Lyanna to Aegon to Jon. Settled there. Weighed.
"Jon," Rhaegar said. "Your account."
Jon stepped forward. Kept it simple. Kept it short.
"Aegon came to the yard with three companions. They mocked my training, my mother's house, my children. Aegon challenged me. I accepted. I won." He paused. "When I disarmed him, he attacked bare-handed. The Kingsguard separated us."
No embellishment. No defense. Just facts.
Rhaegar pinched the bridge of his nose.
The silence stretched again. Jon could feel everyone's eyes on him. Rhaenys's heat, Daenerys's worry, Missandei's quiet devotion, Rhaella's soft concern. His mother's fierce protectiveness. Elia's careful calculation.
And Aegon's hatred. Burning like dragonfire behind that violet gaze.
"Jon." Rhaegar lowered his hand. "You will travel north in two days. Lady Catelyn Stark requires the crown's attention regarding matters of her household and the succession of Winterfell. You will represent my interests there. Stay as long as needed."
Exile.
The word hung unspoken in the solar's air. Everyone knew what this was. Diplomacy dressed in silks, punishment dressed in purpose. Jon was being sent away because his presence inflamed his brother's jealousy, and removing the irritant was easier than addressing the wound.
Aegon's lips twitched. Satisfaction, quickly hidden.
"I understand, Father." Jon bowed. "I'll make preparations."
"Good." Rhaegar's voice softened slightly. Almost apologetic. "Dismissed. All of you." His gaze shifted to Aegon. Hardened. "Except you."
Jon straightened. Turned toward the door.
He didn't miss Aegon's smirk as he passed. The satisfied curl of lips that said I won, I won, I won. Crown Prince victorious. Second son sent away in disgrace.
But Jon also didn't miss his father's expression.
The cold that settled over Rhaegar's features as the door closed. The steel in violet eyes that promised nothing good. Aegon thought he'd won. Aegon thought his version of events had been believed, accepted, rewarded.
Aegon was about to learn otherwise.
Jon walked down the corridor alone. His boots echoed on stone. Behind him, his brother's victory was already turning to ash in Rhaegar's solar, and some small part of Jon felt satisfaction at that.
But it didn't make the banishment sting less.
Winterfell. Catelyn. His sons.
Two days.
He kept walking.
Evening shadows crept through Jon's chambers like unwanted guests.
He folded a tunic. Shoved it into the chest. Grabbed another. Folded it wrong, swore under his breath, did it again. The fabric protested his grip but he didn't care. Two days. Two fucking days and he'd be flying north on Norvaxis, away from King's Landing, away from everything that mattered, because his brother couldn't handle losing a sparring match.
Gold coins clinked as he dropped a pouch into the chest. Letters followed. A dagger with a wolf's head pommel that Arya had given him years ago.
The room felt hollow. Too quiet. His things looked wrong packed away like this, like they belonged to someone leaving permanently instead of a prince on diplomatic errand. But that's what this was, wasn't it? Diplomatic language wrapped around exile. Pretty words hiding ugly truth.
Aegon got to stay. Aegon got to preen and gloat and play the wounded prince while Jon flew north to deal with succession matters that any competent steward could handle.
He grabbed a shirt and twisted it between his hands. The seams strained.
A knock. Soft. Familiar.
Jon's hands stilled. He knew that rhythm.
"Enter."
Missandei slipped through the door carrying a wine flagon and two cups. The candlelight caught her immediately, and Jon's breath shortened.
She wore a sleeping gown of gossamer silk. Sheer as morning mist, hiding nothing. The dark curves of her body showed through the fabric like shadows given flesh. Heavy breasts swaying with each step, nipples visible as darker points against the pale material. The swell of her hips. The shadow between her thighs, a promise wrapped in whispers of cloth.
Daenerys had sent her. Jon knew it without asking. His aunt used Missandei to keep him satisfied, to drain him of the appetites that might otherwise chase Rhaenys or other women Dany considered threats. A tool. A distraction.
But Missandei's dark eyes held warmth that went beyond duty. Something genuine lived in the way she looked at him, in the soft curve of her lips, in how her fingers trembled slightly as she set the flagon on his table.
"My prince." Her voice was honey and warmth, that Naathi accent making music of simple words. "I thought you might want company."
Jon watched her pour. The wine was Arbor gold, expensive, catching candlelight like liquid sunset. She brought him a cup, settled beside him on the bed with that fluid grace she couldn't seem to help, her thigh pressing warm against his through the thin barrier of her gown.
"The confrontation with Prince Aegon." She kept her voice carefully neutral. "Would you like to speak of it?"
He drank deep. Let the vintage burn down his throat, warm his chest, loosen something tight behind his ribs.
"Nothing to speak of." The words came out harsher than intended. He softened. "He came to the yard with his little pack of lordlings. They said things. He challenged me. I won." Another drink. "Now I'm being sent north because apparently winning is a crime when you're the second son."
Missandei's hand found his thigh. Warm through his breeches, fingers gentle.
"It all seems... unfair."
"It is unfair." The admission surprised him. He didn't usually talk this much, didn't usually let frustration spill out where others could see it. But the wine was good and Missandei's presence was better, and the words kept coming. "I didn't even want the fight. I was training alone. Alone. He came to me. Brought witnesses. Set the whole thing up so he could play victim when it went wrong."
Her thumb traced circles on his leg. Soothing. Patient.
"I saw but…..why does the king continue to side with him?"
"My father knows the truth." Jon stared into his cup. "That's the worst part. He knows exactly what happened, knows Aegon started it, knows I held back. And he's still sending me away because it's easier than dealing with his heir's jealousy."
The silence stretched. Comfortable. Missandei didn't try to fill it with empty reassurances or pretty lies. She just stayed close, warm and present, her hand steady on his thigh.
Jon finished his wine. Poured more.
"How's Valya?"
Missandei's whole face transformed.
The careful neutrality melted away, replaced by something radiant. Love, pure and uncomplicated, the kind that made her dark eyes shine like stars reflected in still water. Her smile grew until it couldn't grow anymore, and Jon felt something ease in his chest just watching it.
"She's wonderful." The words tumbled out, accent thickening with emotion. "Three years old now, and so bright, my prince. She asks questions constantly. Why is the sky blue? Why do birds fly? Where does the sun go at night?" Missandei laughed, soft and sweet. "The servants at the manse say she exhausts them, but they adore her. Everyone adores her."
Jon found himself smiling. "Does she look like you?"
"Her hair, yes. Her skin. But her eyes..." Missandei's voice caught. "She has your eyes, my prince. Grey with hints of violet. Beautiful eyes. Eyes that see everything."
"And she's comfortable? The manse is adequate?"
"More than adequate. You've been generous beyond measure." Her hand squeezed his thigh. "She wants for nothing. Tutors, toys, playmates. A garden where she grows flowers and picks them all before they bloom." Another laugh. "She asks about you constantly. When will Papa visit? Why doesn't Papa live with us? She draws pictures of dragons and insists I send them to you."
Jon thought of the small collection in his desk drawer. Childish scrawlings of black shapes that might be dragons, stick figures that might be princes. He kept every one.
"I'll visit her before I leave." The promise came easily, meant completely. "Spend some time. Let her show me her garden."
Missandei's eyes glistened. Not tears, not quite, but something close. Something that looked like love, or gratitude, or both tangled together until they couldn't be separated.
"She would like that very much." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I would like that very much."
The moment stretched between them. Charged. Shifting.
Missandei's hand slid higher on his thigh.
Jon's gaze dropped without conscious thought. Found where her nipples pressed against sheer fabric, dark points straining against gossamer, impossible to ignore. The wine warmed his blood. Her proximity warmed everything else.
She stood.
Slow. Deliberate. Holding his eyes with that dark, liquid gaze that promised everything.
Her fingers found the tie at her throat. Pulled.
The sleeping gown pooled at her feet like surrendered moonlight.
Jon's cock hardened immediately. Painfully. Straining against his breeches as he took in the sight of her.
Lush brown curves, soft and generous. Heavy breasts with dark nipples already stiff, swaying slightly as she breathed. The swell of her hips, wider than any highborn lady would allow. The magnificent roundness of her ass. And between her thighs, neat dark curls already glistening with want.
She was beautiful. Devastating. His.
Missandei sank to her knees between his legs.
Jon stopped thinking about Aegon entirely.
Her lips brushed his cockhead first. Soft as silk, warm as summer, parting around him with a reverence that pulled a groan from somewhere deep in Jon's chest. She took him slow, soothing, her tongue swirling the sensitive crown while those dark eyes stayed fixed on his face. Watching. Learning. Cataloguing every flicker of tension that bled from his shoulders.
"You work so hard, my prince." The words ghosted against his flesh between kisses. Her hands worked what her mouth couldn't reach, stroking the thick shaft with lustful devotion, cupping his heavy balls like something precious. "Let me take care of you. You deserve this."
Jon's head fell back. His eyes closed.
She swallowed him deeper.
The wet heat of her mouth engulfed him inch by inch. Cheeks hollowing, throat fluttering around his length, and Jon felt the last of his anger at Aegon dissolve into pure sensation. Her tongue traced the vein along his underside. Her fingers squeezed his base in rhythm with her bobbing head. She gagged slightly when he hit the back of her throat but didn't stop, determined, devoted, taking more of him than should be possible.
Wet sounds filled the chamber. Obscene and perfect.
"Fuck." The word escaped him. His hand found her hair, not guiding, just holding. Grounding himself in the moment.
Missandei hummed around his cock. The vibration made his hips jerk.
She pulled off to breathe. Strings of spit connected her swollen lips to his shaft, glistening in the candlelight. Her eyes were hazy, pupils blown wide, and her tongue darted out to catch the strand before it broke.
Jon hauled her up onto the bed.
She gasped as he flipped her onto her back, hands firm on her hips, and then gasped again when he shouldered between her thick thighs. He spread them wide. Looked his fill at the glistening cunt waiting for him, dark curls soaked with arousal, folds swollen and ready.
He buried his face in her.
"Āeksio!" The Valyrian burst from her. Then Naathi words he didn't recognize. Then just sounds, wordless and desperate, as his tongue worked her slit from entrance to clit and back again.
She was already soaking. Arousal coated his chin, his lips, flooded his senses with her taste. Salt and sweetness and something distinctly her. He licked and sucked, found the swollen pearl of her clit and focused there, flicking and circling until her thighs clamped around his head hard enough to muffle the world.
Her hands fisted in his dark hair. Her hips rolled against his mouth, grinding, seeking.
"Please." Broken Common now. "My prince. Yes. There. Don't stop. Please don't stop. I need... I..."
Jon didn't stop.
He added two fingers, curling inside her, finding the spot that made her voice crack. His tongue kept working her clit while his fingers fucked her slow and deep, and Missandei's whole body went rigid beneath him.
She shook apart with a wail.
Gushing against his palm, clenching around his fingers, trembling through her peak while he worked her through it. Her thighs squeezed his head. Her hands yanked his hair. Her cries rang off the stone walls in a language that might have been prayer.
Before she could recover, Jon flipped her onto her stomach.
"My prince..." Breathless. Still shaking.
He dragged her hips up until she was on her knees. Ass high, face pressed into sheets, that magnificent brown backside presented to him like an offering. He lined himself up. Felt her entrance flutter against his cockhead.
Drove into her in one brutal thrust.
Missandei screamed.
Jon started fucking her hard enough to make the bed slam against the wall.
Each thrust punched another cry from her throat. High and desperate, pleasure and overwhelm tangled together, her fingers clawing at the sheets while he pounded into her from behind. Her ass rippled with every impact. The wet slap of flesh on flesh filled the chamber, rhythmic and relentless.
"Kirimvose," she sobbed into the mattress. "Kirimvose, kirimvose..." Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Jon gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. Pulled her back onto his cock with every forward thrust, burying himself to the hilt, feeling her clench and flutter around his length. She was so wet, so tight, and her cries were getting louder with every stroke.
The bed frame cracked against stone. Again. Again.
Her screams echoed through the chamber. Loud enough that the guards outside definitely heard. Loud enough that half the hallway probably heard.
Jon didn't care at all.
Jon pulled out.
Missandei whimpered at the loss, cunt clenching around nothing, but before she could protest he was flipping her onto her back. His hands hooked under her knees. Lifted.
She folded like paper.
Her legs pressed toward her shoulders, body bent nearly in half, completely open and utterly helpless as Jon drove back into her soaking cunt. The angle changed everything. He sank deeper than before, impossibly deep, hitting places that made white sparks burst behind her eyes.
Missandei's eyes rolled back in her skull.
"Kostilus!" The Valyrian tore from her throat. Then words in Naathi, rapid and desperate, a flood of sounds Jon couldn't begin to understand but their meaning was clear in every syllable. Praise. Worship. Begging. "Ñuha dārys, sȳz, sȳz, sȳz..."
Jon pounded into her folded body without mercy.
Each thrust drove the air from her lungs. Each withdrawal made her whine. Her heavy breasts bounced wildly with the force of his fucking, dark nipples tracing circles in the air, the full weight of them jiggling and swaying hypnotically. Her face twisted in desperate pleasure, mouth slack, drool escaping the corner of her lips to trail down her cheek.
She was babbling now. Common and Valyrian and Naathi all tangled together, a mess of languages and need.
"My prince yes... kirimvose... fuck me harder... please... give me another baby... want your seed... breed me again... want your child in me... please please please..."
Jon growled against her throat. His teeth found her pulse point, bit down hard enough to leave a mark, and Missandei's whole body seized around him.
She squirted.
Hot fluid gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs, flooding the sheets beneath them. Her cunt clamped down so tight he could barely move, and still he fucked her through it, driving through her orgasm into the next. Her third crashed into her fourth with no space between, one endless peak that had her screaming herself hoarse.
The sheets were ruined. Soaked through. Neither of them cared.
Jon's arms burned. The position demanded everything from him, holding her folded and open while he used her, and finally he let her down. Her legs fell to the mattress like cut strings. Her chest heaved. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, lost in pleasure.
But Missandei wasn't done.
She pushed him.
Jon let himself fall onto his back, surprised by her sudden strength, and then Missandei was straddling him. Her thighs bracketed his hips. Her hand found his cock, still iron-hard, and guided him to her entrance.
She sank down with a moan of pure satisfaction.
"Yes." The word stretched into a sigh. She settled fully onto him, took every inch, and her eyes fluttered closed in bliss. "So full. You fill me so well, my prince."
Then she started to ride.
Her hips rolled in deep circles, grinding her clit against his pelvis, hands braced on his chest for leverage. Those beautiful brown curves moved like waves, undulating, hypnotic. Her heavy breasts swayed with her rhythm. And her ass, that magnificent fat ass, slapped wetly against his thighs every time she dropped back down.
Jon gripped her wide hips hard enough to bruise.
His eyes tracked the bounce of her backside in his peripheral vision. Watched how her whole body moved, how pleasure transformed her face, how she bit her lip and whimpered and rode him like her life depended on it.
He pulled her down.
Kissed her deep and filthy, tongue claiming her mouth the way his cock claimed her cunt. She gasped against his lips, moaned into him, and her hips never stopped moving.
"Seed me," she begged between kisses. "Please. Give me another babe. A sibling for Valya. Want to be heavy with your child again. Want everyone to know I'm yours."
The image broke something in Jon.
Missandei round with his child. Belly swelling, breasts growing heavier with milk, that gorgeous body ripening with new life. Another daughter. A son. His blood growing in her womb while the whole realm watched and knew exactly whose she was.
He couldn't hold back anymore.
Jon slammed her hips down and thrust up, burying himself to the hilt, and came harder than he had in months. His cock pulsed and pulsed, flooding her with thick ropes of seed, pumping his release directly into her womb. So much. Too much. It leaked around him immediately, white streaks escaping their joining to trail down his balls.
Missandei shattered.
She came screaming his name, cunt clenching and milking every drop, working his cock with desperate contractions like her body was determined to wring him dry. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Tears of pleasure, of overwhelming sensation, of something that looked dangerously close to love.
She kissed him through it. Wet and messy, tasting of salt and wine and gratitude.
Jon stayed buried in her.
Still hard. Still pulsing with aftershocks. His seed settling deep inside her where it belonged.
Missandei collapsed against his chest, trembling, and whimpered against his throat.
"I can feel it," she breathed. "Feel how much you gave me. So much, my prince. So warm. So full."
They stayed tangled together in the aftermath.
Jon's cock softened slowly inside her, and Missandei made no move to separate. She lay draped across his chest, breath evening out, her heartbeat gradually slowing against his ribs. The sheets beneath them were ruined beyond saving. Soaked through with sweat and her release and the seed that leaked steadily from her stretched cunt, pooling in cooling puddles on silk and fur alike.
Neither of them cared.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time lost meaning in the warm haze of satisfaction.
Eventually Missandei stirred. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, his throat, the hollow beneath his collarbone. Then she slid down his body slowly, her soft curves dragging against him, her intent unmistakable.
Her mouth found his spent cock.
"Missandei..." Jon's voice came out rough. Wrecked. "You don't have to..."
She ignored him entirely.
Her tongue traced the length of his softening shaft, gentle and thorough, licking away the mess of their combined release. She hummed against his flesh, a sound of pure contentment, like she was savoring something precious rather than performing a duty.
Jon groaned. His cock twitched against her lips, oversensitive, almost painful.
"Stop." The word had no conviction behind it. He couldn't make himself mean it.
Missandei's dark eyes lifted to meet his. She held his gaze and took him into her mouth, soft suction pulling another groan from deep in his chest. Her curls spilled across his thighs as her head bobbed slowly, worshipping his softening flesh with lips and tongue.
She was thorough.
Every inch cleaned. Every trace of their coupling licked away. She worked the base with gentle fingers, cradled his balls in her palm, pressed soft kisses to the crown that made his toes curl against the mattress.
Impossibly, he began to harden again.
Not fully. Not the iron length he'd fucked her with earlier. But enough. Enough for Missandei to moan around him, pleased and hungry, and take him deeper.
Her throat fluttered against his cockhead. Her tongue worked the sensitive underside. She swallowed around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him with her mouth the way her cunt had milked him before.
Jon's hands found her hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Grounding himself as pleasure built again, slower this time, a gentle tide rather than a crashing wave.
"Fuck." His head pressed back into the pillows. His eyes squeezed shut. "Missandei. I'm going to..."
She took him to the root and swallowed.
Jon spilled down her throat with a broken sound. Less than before, but she worked him through it anyway, milking every last drop with soft suction and patient tongue. She didn't waste a single bit. Swallowed everything he gave her, then licked him clean one more time for good measure.
When she finally released him, her lips were swollen and slick. Her smile was pure satisfaction.
She crawled back up his body.
Jon was boneless. Emptied of everything. The tension that had coiled in his shoulders since the training yard, the frustration that had burned in his chest since his father's solar, the fury at Aegon that had poisoned his blood for years. All of it drained away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and warmth and the soft weight of Missandei settling against him.
She arranged them with careful hands.
His head came to rest on her breasts, cheek pillowed against warm brown skin. His arm draped across her soft stomach. His spent cock, still sensitive, nestled between her plush thighs where it was warm and safe and surrounded by her.
Missandei stroked his dark hair.
Fingers gentle through the sweat-damp strands, tracing patterns on his scalp that made his eyes flutter closed. She pressed kisses to his forehead. His temple. The silver streak at his left that marked him Targaryen no matter how Northern the rest of him looked.
She began to speak in Naathi.
Soft sounds Jon didn't understand. Words that rose and fell like music, lilting and sweet, settling into his bones like warmth from a fire. He couldn't translate them, didn't try. Just let the rhythm wash over him, let her voice fill the spaces where anger used to live.
Her hand kept stroking his hair.
"I love you." Common tongue now, whispered against his forehead. "Our daughter loves you. You're a good man, Jon. A good father." Her lips brushed his temple. "Aegon doesn't deserve to breathe your air."
Jon made a sound. Agreement or gratitude or something in between.
"You work so hard." Her fingers traced the shell of his ear. "You try so hard to keep the peace. To be what everyone needs you to be. And they punish you for it." Her voice hardened slightly, then softened again. "But you have me. You have Valya. You have people who see you truly."
He turned his face into her breast. Breathed her in. Coconut oil and flowers and something warm underneath that was just her.
"Thank you." The words came out muffled against her skin. "For this. For everything."
Missandei's arms tightened around him.
She began to hum. A melody he didn't recognize, something from Naath perhaps, rising and falling in patterns that suggested waves against sand. Lullaby rhythm. Safe sounds. The kind of music mothers sang to children to chase away nightmares.
Jon drifted.
Her heartbeat steady under his ear. Her soft thighs cradling his cock. Her voice wrapped around him like a blanket, warm and secure and utterly devoted.
The exile waited. Winterfell waited. Catelyn and his sons and whatever political complications his father had dressed in diplomatic language. All of it waited, two days away, inevitable and exhausting.
But not tonight.
Tonight there was only this. Missandei's warmth. Missandei's love. The steady rhythm of her lullaby carrying him down into darkness.
Jon fell asleep surrounded by her, and for tonight at least, none of it mattered at all.