Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7559023.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Robb_Stark, Howland_Reed/Ned_Stark, Ramsay_Bolton/Theon_Greyjoy,
      Benjen_Stark/Yoren, Domeric_Bolton/Theon_Greyjoy, Renly_Baratheon/Loras
      Tyrell, Stannis_Baratheon/Davos_Seaworth
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Robb_Stark, Howland_Reed, Ned_Stark, Catelyn_Tully_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Omega_Jon, Alpha_Robb, dark!Robb, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha/Omega,
      no_betas, Intersex, Intersex_Omegas, Boypussy, Mpreg, Pregnancy_Kink,
      Breeding_Kink, Size_Kink, Rape_Kink, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Dubious
      Consent, Somnophilia, Anal_Sex, Vaginal_Sex, Oral_Sex, Rough_Sex, Male
      Lactation, Breastfeeding, Fingerfucking, Possessive_Behavior,
      Feminization, Crossdressing, Dom/sub_Undertones, Porn_With_Plot, H_plus_N
      equals_J, Omega_Theon, Breasts, Alpha_Ramsay, inappropriate_use_of_fruit,
      Riding, Loss_of_Virginity, Dirty_Talk, Alpha_Loras, Omega_Renly, Mild
      Child_Grooming, Ass_to_Mouth, Come_Inflation, Cunnilingus
  Series:
      Part 2 of Tales_of_Snow_and_Madness
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-23 Updated: 2017-12-23 Chapters: 21/? Words: 234994
****** Crown the Wolf with Bronze and Blood ******
by PockyofNyanyaland
Summary
     Jon was supposed to be older when he had his first heat. Instead, he
     was eleven years old, and his father wanted him at Winterfell with
     him and his half brothers and sisters. Before his mother left him at
     Wintefell, he gave him three warnings. One, to never be alone with
     Lady Stark. Two, to never forget that he is a child born of love.
     Three, to never lose Robb Stark’s heart, for to do so was to lose the
     heart of Winterfell.
     Part Two of Tales of Snow and Madness
Notes
     Welcome everyone to my second story! I highly suggest reading the
     first part of this story, though the main thing you need to know is
     Howland + Ned = Jon. Secondly, I'll start putting warnings in these
     notes but there's a scene in this chapter where Howland 'helps' Jon
     with his heat. It's treated very clinically but I'm sure there might
     be some people that might be disturbed.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
North of the Wall, people spoke the Old Tongue. In the rest of Westeros, people
used the Common Tongue. Within the Neck, whose inhabitants carried the blood of
those who sing the song of earth, their language was the True Tongue, but that
was a secret kept within their swamps and bogs. Jon learned the Old Tongue from
his uncle, who was taught it by Jon’s mother when they were wed. He was taught
the True Tongue by those who sing the song of earth, and recited nursery rhymes
to his brother and sister while they were still suckling on their mother’s
teat. The Common Tongue was the one he used to communicate to father, who lived
in castle called Winterfell, far, far away from the Neck, and who wrote him
letters every fortnight and visited him every year for the week of his nameday.
In each letter, he told him how much he cherished Jon and his mother, and how
we wished he could be by their side.
“He is a man of honor,” swore his mother. He explained to Jon that it was not
his fault that Jon was a bastard. They were married under the Old Gods, not the
New, and by southern governance, their marriage did not exist. “You are as
trueborn as any of his children or mine.” Howland would then cradle his oldest
son and tell him sweet stories of their union. He talked about the Tourney of
Harrenhal where they first met, and their wedding night in front of the
weirwood tree. He told no tales of the war, for he declared it savage and
unfitting for the ears of children, and he wished that he and his sibling’s
nights were filled with dreams of passion and goodness, over the hateful sound
of a man’s heart being plundered by swords and war hammers.
Jon supposed, that if he was to be a bastard, there was no better place to live
than the Neck—except, possibly, Dorne. There were many children of the Neck who
had no fathers; their sires being weary travelers on the kingsroad or
inopportune guests who had the misfortune of getting lost in these swamps. Some
fall into the quicksand beneath the waters, such as the occasional Frey who
wished to break the ceasefire, while others found themselves being guided by a
pretty crannogman who wanted a memento to remember them by. Alphas were rare in
the Neck, so people made do when they wanted a child. When Howland gave birth
to not one, but two alphas, people thought Benjen’s cock was magic. They jested
that Jon’s mother was selfish for not sharing.
If their people were to follow the law of the land, the Neck would have more
Snows than actual familial names. But the people of the Neck had their own
practices, and the Citadel’s tendency to overlook or blatantly ignore the
Neck’s disregard for the rules, led to these children taking the surname of
their mothers. Jon was recognized by his father; he was a Snow, not a Reed, or
a Stark. His name was a brand of wickedness outside the Neck, but a mere
anomaly within it. Nonetheless, he was family. The crannogmen hunted together,
bathed together, and ate together when they could.
Jon especially liked their hunting lessons; he enjoyed the hours of the day
where they brought out their nets and spears, and went for their weekly hunt.
His mother was the lord of these lands, and led the hunt on the first day of
the week. Children from the ages of eight and twelve, like Jon and his sister,
were sent to the shallow areas away from the rabid quicksand and the preying
lizard lions. They got to hunt small game like perches and frogs, or fumble
through the dirt for clams and crayfish. Children like Jon were given spears
while children Meera’s age clutched onto their blunt gigs with pride. The
youngest children were not forbidden from these activities. They sat with the
pregnant omegas, or the elderly, and were taught how to clean and prepare the
meat for storage. From afar, Jon could see his younger brother, Jojen, settled
between two swollen omegas who were teaching him how to clean a frog for
consumption. Jojen was bored but quietly complied to their wishes. Unlike him
or their sister, Jojen preferred the history lessons, and excelled at the more
unusual education of the Neck.
“I missed,” Meera claimed dejectedly. She was too eager. She wanted to capture
the fat crappie that dawdled near the rocks, not realizing the size of the
creature was an indication of its vitality, not an opportunity for her. Jon
watched the fish swim toward his backside and stab it right through its eye. He
removed it from his spear and tossed it to the basket with the others.
The alpha girl tried again, but this time, was too desperate to prove herself.
She was only eight years old, and already wanted to be a warrior. Jon laughed
when she missed and though she glared, she never stopped trying. Jon went up to
her. “You are scaring all the fish away,” he reprimanded. The sound of bells
never far from his tongue. “Here,” he instructed when he grabbed her. “Hold
your spear close to the water but not close enough that they can see a
shadow…wait…Meera, I can feel your shaking…and…now!” Meera struck the crappie
in its chest. She shrieked in joy and hugged her brother. Jon kissed her curls.
She deposited the fish into the basket, and heard their announcer blow his
horn, announcing the end of the hunt.
Their group moved out of the waters. On the way to the mud lands, Jon fumbled
his step.
“Jon?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing Meera, just the heat.”
“You’ve been sick for a long time,” Meera scolded. “Mother said your sheets
were doused in sweat last night and your footwork was mucked up during spear
training. Father was not impressed.”
“I—”
“You need to see a healer,” Meera told him. “Leave the matters of skinning and
shelling to us. Get some rest.”
So demanding, as alphas tend to be. Jon was grateful their little brother
shared none of her aggressive nature. He took their basket to their mother for
distribution, and ignored the protest his sister gave him. When he arrived, his
mother only glanced at him and gave him a single word of thanks. He thought he
was safe, until he commanded Jon return home for rest.
“But mother—”
“Your complexion is sallow. I was persuaded to let you come on the hope that
you would faint before we arrived. Now, you’ve gotten worst. Let’s hope your
ailment has not contaminated your comrades.”
Jon frowned and though he wanted to protest, he knew better than to defy his
lord mother’s ruling. He left for his bedroom where a mess of blankets and
pillows were stacked on top of each other and confined to a bundle, the
traditional bed for unmated omegas. He felt a churning in his stomach and his
body was on the verge of a fever. He laid on top of his sheets, and for the
first time, he found them too hot, too stifling for what he wanted. An hour
passed, and his holes were wet, soaking through his pants. He stripped himself
of all clothing. In shame, he reached down and slipped his fingers into his
cunt. Jon moaned and dug deeper. He added more fingers, and began to dive them
in and out. He played with his clit, teased his pucker and pinched his own
nipples. He bit his lips to cover up his moans.
After Howland was finished with his distribution, he left his men to check on
the condition of his son. He entered the room, and was taken back by the smell
of fresh greens rising underneath newborn snow, and the flowering of snowdrops.
He went towards his child and held him as his boy whimpered.
“Mother…it burns. I want…I want something…inside me…” He moaned in the True
Tongue. Afterwards, he began begging for an alpha, any alpha, and whispered in
the Common Tongue that he wanted his father. He begged his mother to bring him
here. Howland held him closer. Young omegas, ones unaware of the nature of
their blossoming, tended to assume that their craving was for their alpha
sires’ care. Howland did not bother to correct him, not in his heat of mind.
Finally, the Old Tongue took over and he began whimpering, an odd clash between
the purity of a child and the roughness of the First Men.  
The True Tongue sounded like the whispers of bells in the wind or the foam
resting on the water. The Old Tongue reminded of Jon of bronze clanging onto
shields and how crude metals molt into thrones. The language of the Andals, the
Common Tongue heard through Westeros, was the one Jon disliked the most. Their
meanings were subtle. Their tongues were laced with the venom called deceit.
His mother told him that when they speak, those words produced the same sound
as steel slicing a man in half.  
Howland whispered something in the True Tongue, and Jon’s body calmed. He
worked himself up to a dead sleep when Howland finally left. He ordered a
passing crannogman to get his husband.  
“My son believes he is dying. Get me some medicine, and contact my husband.”
“What should I tell him?”
“Tell him that my son has blossomed.”
The man protested the diagnosis.
“He is but a boy of eleven! At the very least, his heat should not occur until
his fourteenth nameday!”
Howland told the man that he did not care for his predictions.
Benjen arrived shortly after with the medicine. They told the crannogman who
brought him to get them some rations and meet him in his room. Benjen asked
what was going on, and to his surprise was dragged inside Jon’s bedroom. The
smell was suffocating.
“Help me carry him to a more secure location.”
Benjen obeyed the command. He lifted Jon into his arms and allowed his mother
to wrap him up in cloths to stifle the scent. He was a small child, the
crannogmen blood was evident in his body, but Howland was petite of frame as
well and could not lift him. They carried him to Howland’s bedroom, and Benjen
placed him onto the bed where his mother wrapped him in his own covers. Jon
refused them when he woke again, but Howland proceeded regardless.
“It’s too hot, mother…”
“I know, but we have to sweat out the fever. Do not argue with me.” Howland
remained completely calm as he tightened the furs together. Benjen asked if
there was anything else he could do, but he could not. He advised Benjen to
leave once provisions were secured. Jon and Howland would wait the fever out
together. A crannogmen returned with three days’ supply of fresh water and
chucked shellfish and grilled flounder. Howland brought out a bowl and poured
the water inside. He touched it and suddenly the coolness of their rainwater
turned to the relief of a hot spring. He grabbed a wooden object covered in a
wax from his cabinet. He dipped it inside the water. Once it was warm, he
lathered it with oils.
His son was watching between half-lidded eyes. “What…what is that?” He was
awed.
“Something to make the pain go away, my love.”  He took Jon into his arms, and
managed to burrow into the sheets far enough that he could touch his son’s
groin with the object. He placed the tip inside his cunt. He kissed Jon on the
forehead, and told him to prepare himself. Then, he slowly pushed it
inside until Jon was fully impaled on its girth.
“Ah!” Jon panted. He squirmed and squeezed his thighs together. Howland dragged
the object in and out and kept control of the makeshift cock’s speed. Jon
begged for more. He tried to push his hips onto it and claw out for the tool,
but the sheets bounded him. Howland moved faster, hitting Jon’s spot over and
over again until he finally came. Sated for now, Jon curled up against his
mother.
“That feels good,” Jon murmured. “Why does it hurt so much?”
“Your womb is preparing itself for a child, Jon. Soon, your hips will widen and
your breasts will swell. The heat means you are able to be mated.” In their
brief time before the next wave of hormones, Howland did his best to educate
his son about his upcoming adulthood. He was still a child and held the words
in awe. He could not acknowledge the enticement of his own body, how the sight
of his own bare flesh would encourage the lusts of other men. Howland refused
to let his son be covered in garb of shame. He told Jon he was special. His
body’s sensuality was something for him and his partner to enjoy. He had every
right to seek pleasure the way alphas do.
“Will it always hurt?”
Howland told him that it will. “But one day, you may find an alpha to share it
with, and you will feel incomparable pleasure than ever before. And yours came
at such opportune time, now you can celebrate with your friends…” The Neck had
two coming of age ceremonies every single year for omegas and alphas who
reached maturation.
Jon purred like a kitten and snuggled against his mother. “Will father be
there?”
Howland tightened his grip on the sheets. Jon did not notice. “Perhaps…but your
father is a very busy man. And you just had your nameday, we would not want to
inconvenience him to come out of his way again, do we?”
Jon frowned. “No…I suppose not…”
Howland’s heart clenched shamefully at his son’s sorrows. He was about to make
up another lie, something to soothe his son’s sorrows, when Jon flushed and
began squirming in place again. Howland felt the sheets soak and grabbed the
tool like a weapon. “Shh…” He whispered, as he dived inside for a second round.
“Let your mother take care of it…here, I’ll let you hold it. But you must not
be too eager or you’ll hurt yourself.”
Jon agreed, and his small hands latched onto the object. If not for his
mother’s guiding hand, Jon would have worked himself into a frenzy. Instead,
the pistoning was steady and the satisfaction was slow but eventually there.
Howland wanted to drag the process on, because without an alpha’s fluids, there
was no quick way to end a heat.
The next four days were tortuous. Howland never left his side. The crannogmen
were patient and of service; they left meals outside their door, light dishes
that would settle Jon’s stomach, and a consistent stream of fresh water for
drink and for bathing. Howland cleansed Jon’s body by towel as if he were his
babe again. On the day Jon’s heat subsided, Meera caught her first eel. Howland
was sad to have missed it, but smiled at his sweet daughter when she asked if
Jon could have it. Eight years old, and she took her role as an alpha more
seriously than those three times her age.
When Jon was finished, he forgotten all about the pain but remembered the
releases. He asked his father what it was like to have an alpha inside him.
Howland shushed him by saying he was too young to be asking such things.
“I can be a mother now,” Jon explained, “that means I am no longer a child.”
Howland was unconvinced, and instead told him that the first heat was only the
beginning. When his body was more developed, it would feel better. He should
not waste his first experiences when his holes were still adjusting to pleasure
objects and wooden instruments. Jon felt obliged to refute the claim, but then
there was a knock on the door. Jojen and Meera were checking up on Jon, as they
did every afternoon after their lessons. They were ecstatic to see that their
brother was conscious and aware of their presence. They embraced him, and told
him that they missed him dearly. Howland shooed them away. Jon needed to bathe,
and then they would have their meals and a chance to catch up.
Meera practically dragged Jon to the communal springs. Jojen, a mere child of
six, toddled after them. Jon had to remind his sister that their brother’s legs
were not as long as theirs and they needed to slow down. Meera pouted, but then
had the bright idea to lift her brother into her arms and skip. Howland smiled,
and wondered how long it would take for one of them remembered that Jon had no
clothes to change into when he was done.
While they were gone, Howland focused on taking care of the soiled sheets. He
smelled the thickness of his son’s cream, and frowned at the obvious fertility.
He wondered if he should set aside a ration of birth control for Jon next time
they went gathering. He thought against it when he realized the implication.
His son will not have any contact with alphas outside his family—not for a long
time. He heard a knock on his room, and he told them he was busy.
“Even for your husband?”
“Especially for my husband.” Howland gathered up the sheets. Benjen offered to
help, but took a single whiff of Jon’s luxuriance and gave Howland peace to
continued. Howland readied the sheets for washing and the furs for a good
scrub. Benjen asked Howland if he would like him to send Ned a raven, or if
Howland preferred to do it.
Howland told him he preferred neither. “Jon is not going to Winterfell.”
“Did my brother agree to this?”
Howland said nothing.  
Benjen’s eyes narrowed. “Howland…”
“Jon is too young. I have already decided. This is not up for discussion.”
Howland walked pass Benjen to take the laundry to the washing basins. Benjen
followed. Howland was fast, and though Benjen’s long legs gave him an
advantage, he was barely able to keep up with his spouse’s determined march.
When Howland made his destination, he released the sheets into the baskets, and
attempted to abandon Benjen again. He was sorely disappointed when the alpha
cornered him in the hall. He pushed the crannogman against the wall and kept
him trapped between his arms.  
Howland did not flinch. “Yes, my husband?”
“You made a deal with my brother.”
“And now I’m breaking it,” Howland admitted without trepidation. “Will this be
all?”
Benjen refused to settle the matter. “My brother was told he would be able to
raise his son when he matured.  You promised him this, Howland. Are you so
cruel, you would deny a father his son and a son his father?”
“I made that oath under the belief that Jon would be older and ready to face
the world outside the Neck. For goodness sakes, Benjen, he is eleven years old!
He is small enough to be suckling on my teats and playing with dolls. Lady
Stark will ruin him! I refused to let him be subjugated to that bitch’s
distain!”
“Are you so fearful of a woman that you would deny the one request that man has
ever made of you? My brother will not allow anything to happen to this child.”
“Your brother chose his duty over me countless times. Over and over again, and
I have loved him in spite of that. What am I do if he does the same with Jon?”
“Jon carries his blood; he will not do anything to cause him harm,” Benjen
promised. “He has the Stark look, and the Reed soul, and that is enough for my
brother. Believe in the man you love, and not the lord you serve.”
Howland thought it was pretty notion, but he was reluctant to believe in
anything, not after the last four days when his son clung to him, begging for a
mercy he was powerless to provide. He imagined the hedonists and the deviants
who would debauch his child, and there were no oaths that were worth more than
a mother’s fear. He stood his ground, and made Benjen promise not to tell
anybody outside of the Neck.
“This is my brother, Howland.”
“Jon is your blood, too,” he reminded. “We always believed Jon would be older.
What’s wrong with waiting another year? I can prepare him better. It would be
no hardships on either of our ends.”
Benjen was reluctant, but Howland continued to prod and beg. He reminded Benjen
of the beasts that lurked outside the Neck. “If that is not enough, then
remember that I am your wife, if only in name. I have been good to you. Jon is
the brother of our children. It is them you must answer to when I receive a
raven from Winterfell telling me that my son, my innocent boy, has been raped
and murdered in some tavern because an alpha believed omegas to be objects.”
Benjen could do nothing against the claim. He submitted to the idea of one
year, and nothing more.  He also promised retribution if Howland dare
manipulate him again. Howland breathed a sigh of relief. He agreed to Benjen’s
terms, and kissed his cheek.
“Come,” Howland said instead. “Let us celebrate more jovial matters. We need to
add another plate to the coming of age ceremony. And I’m sure Jon will be
running to us in tears soon. The older omegas will not let him leave those
springs without the scars of merciless teasing.”
“You perform your duties, Lord Reed. I would like to take a bath as well,”
Benjen told him. “Though, I’m sure no amount of washing would completely rid
the stench of disloyalty.”
Howland frowned, and though his guilt curdled in his gut, he did not dwell on
it. He would make it up to Benjen. The Stark was not the type of man who
carried grudges on the people he loved. None of the Starks were. Howland took
advantage of this fact too often not to anger the gods, for the Starks were
faithful worshippers as well.
On the day of the celebration, all the newly bloomed children gathered in the
halls of Greywater Watch to feast on fish that was broiled with garlic and
onions, smoked with salt and pepper, stewed with their fellow inhabitants of
the swamp. The tables were filled sautéed frog legs, breaded and glistened with
oils, and there were plates of succulent crayfish tails, and shucked claims.
Every few dishes or so, the children caught sight of a different breed of
snake, braised or boiled, loaded with any seasoning they could find from the
swamp. Music was loud with percussions and the whistling of high pitched air,
but outside the walls, no one could hear a thing but the cackle of swamp birds
and the hissing of lizards. They loved to spoil their children on this day.
Before the ceremony, Howland was given a bowl of peaches that grew in the heart
of the tallest tree of the Neck, and could only be reached by those who sing
the song of earth. Years before him, Howland’s father was tasked with
collecting the fruit. There, he would meet Howland’s mother, who always made
sure their hands touched when handing over the basket. This year, the one in
charge of delivery was a soft spoken male name Seed. The peaches held a
prophecy for each child that ate them. Some occurred almost immediately, and
others could take years. When they were finished with their fruit, the child
was to crack the seed and listen to a song only they could hear. They were
forbidden from telling anybody what they heard until it happened. 
No one was allowed to eat until every child was finished with their song. When
all the children were seated, shaking with excitement of the momentous
occasion, Howland rewarded each of them with their peach. Almost immediately,
the children devoured it, eager to find out what future awaited them. Parents
watched with amusement as more seeds crushed. The children giggled and laughed,
others were confused. There were no sad faces this year. Jon furrowed his brow
when his sang. Someone on his side asked if it was good or bad, and to
Howland’s surprise, he merely shrugged her off. Howland was desperately
curious, but he knew that this secret might be one Jon took to the grave.
Once the last child was done, the people wolfed down the food. They traded
stories about their own celebration, and for those whose prophecies have
already been completed, they would complain either about their dullness or
excitedly brag about their fortune.
Howland supposed a confusing kismet was better than a depressing one, but the
voice in his head reminded him that Jon was destined for greatness. Howland
believed the gods would give Jon what was rightfully his, and that destiny was
filled with horrors readied to be defeated for rewards. Throughout the event,
Howland watched Jon with a sense of forlorn. His son had bloomed, and now, the
days ahead will be filled with nothing but judgements and melancholies. He
looked like a Stark, and with those curls bouncing on his shoulder, Howland was
reminded of Lyanna.
“Please, save him…Howland…Please...promise me you’ll try…”
I tried Lyanna, Howland mused, and perhaps I fulfilled my promise too well. He
shook his head, and attempted to rid himself of depression. The war was the
last thing he wanted to think about. Instead, he wished to focus on the party.
While Howland was absorbed with hosting, he was too busy to notice that Benjen
was nowhere in sight. It was not until Lord Fenn pointed it out that Howland
questioned the location of his spouse. He was by his side when the children ate
their way to their futures, but left at the beginning of the feast. The
disappearance unnerved Howland. The Lord of Greywater Watch asked those near
him if they’ve seen him, but his people brushed his concerns off.
“Maybe he’s taking a piss,” one of them suggested. It was a likely proposal,
but Howland learned to trust his instincts and he knew there was something
wrong. Finally, the long haired Stark appeared at the entranceway. Howland
rushed to speak to him, but another man made it to his side first.
Howland’s heart stopped.
“Father!” Jon’s announcement had every eye turning to the doors. Jon leapt from
his seat, and dashed over to his sire’s side.  He reached his tiny arms out for
a hug, and Lord Stark lifted him into his arms. Jon pecked him on the lips and
then snuggled into the croak of his neck. In spite of the severe circumstances,
Ned smiled. Omegas were encouraged to be affectionate in the Neck. If possible,
even adolescents were carried by their parents. Jon was bigger than most omegas
in the region, but he was still so small that it was no hardship for Ned to
carry him.
Howland walked up to them. “Lord Stark,” he greeted cautiously. Some of the
higher lords around him bowed but otherwise went forward with their party.
Ned tightened the grip on his son. “Lord Reed.”
Jon frowned against Ned’s skin. He picked up his head and asked what was wrong.
Howland could have lied, but realized that even with his words, his son would
be able to tell something was wrong. Howland walked forward to Ned and kissed
him. Regardless if it was habit or the sensation of his lips on his, the long
awaited desire that both of them shared for one another, Ned kissed back just
as passionately.
“Nothing is wrong,” Howland said when they parted. He was breathless. Eleven
years and Ned was the strongest aphrodisiac the gods could offer him. He
attempted to smile at his son. Jon grinned when he thought his parents were not
fighting. He tugged on his father’s shirt and demanded they sit together with
his mother. When they walked back to their table, Howland walked behind them.
He caught Benjen’s gaze, and the Stark turned away.
Traitor, he thought.
Ned’s men were also present. He ordered them to take a seat or mingle with the
crannogmen. The budding omegas competed with the older ones for their
attention, and it took less than ten minutes for one man to be dragged off into
the hallways. Ned and Howland, to their credit, stayed civil throughout the
festivities. Jon sat in Ned’s lap and allowed his son to feed him. He was so
happy. He asked how long Ned planned to stay this time. Ned answered he was not
sure, but it depended on Jon’s mother. Howland shivered. He tried to be calm
throughout the party. He hosted to the best of his ability, and partook in the
cleaning that carried on afterwards. Ned offered to put their son to bed in the
meantime.
When all the guests departed to their crannogs, Howland escaped the halls to
check on his son. Ned Stark was already waiting for him outside the door. He
told him that they needed to talk, and in response, Howland suggested his room
for privacy.
“You lied to me,” Ned announced once they were safely indoors. “I’ve known you
for over twelve years, Howland, and not once have you ever held me in such
contempt!”
“I kept a secret,” Howland defended. “I’ve kept many secrets from you, Ned.
That is the way of crannogman.”
“But never a secret about me. Never a secret pertaining to our son!”
“I was trying to protect our son!”
“From what?” Ned asked. “From me? Do you believe I could ever harm him?”
“Not intentionally. But he’s not your only son, is he?” Howland laughed and the
sound is cruel, even to his ears. “You have many children aside from him.
You’ve bonded with that woman, maybe not out of love, but out of the knowledge
that in your old age, she will be the one by your side and not me. She has
given you heirs with titles and none of the shame of bedding a crannogmen.”
“I’ve never been ashamed of you, Howland. I’ve never denied our love, nor have
I ever denied Jon the love of a father.”
“When you were eighteen and married me in front of the weirwood tree, before
our son was born and blossomed into a beauty, that meant something. We are not
children anymore. I am his mother, you are his father, and together we must act
in son’s best interest. I say that his best interest is with me. You can wait,
Ned Stark. Wait a year. Wait until he is ready, until I can prepare him
better.” Ever since Jon laid in his womb, Howland knew how significant Jon was
in the plans of the the gods, and his own retribution. He had cursed his child
to a fate he did not want. Jon was meant for Wintefell, but the greatest paths
often had the harshest trials and the most dangerous obstacles. If Jon was to
be sentenced there, his soul would be well armored and his heart made of
obsidian. Howland would be damned if he sent Jon towards the devils unprepared.
“And what happens when a year passes and he is still not ready? How much longer
will you keep my blood away from me?”
“I’m sure your lady wife will warm your bed during that time.”
Ned growled. “That is not fair. Catelyn is my duty.”
 “Yes,” Howland agreed. “And your honor means everything to you. It was what
led you to put your cock in that woman time and time again. It’s what made me
listen to the bells of Winterfell sing every time she bore you a child. Do you
not realize? How often are my dreams are haunted with the screams of babes that
would never be mine. I can never hold them. They are not my children and they
should be. You know they should be.” 
Ned did not deny him. “I cannot change the past, Howland. But give me a chance
to do right in the future. Jon is my son.”
“Yes, he is your son every nameday and whenever you have the time to send him a
letter. You put him inside me and watched as he cried in my arms while we left
Winterfell for good. For you, it was over with. But for me,” Howland held back
his cries. “I brought him into this world. I raised him. I nursed him when he
was sick and held him when he was crying. I love him, just as I love you, and I
swear, when he is ready and not a second later, he will take his place at
Winterfell. But I will not send my child away to have his innocence slaughtered
and his heart broken as I was!”
The declaration took out all warmth from the room. For the longest time, Ned
said nothing. Howland wanted him out of his chambers, and the thought scared
him, for he cannot think of a moment in time where he did not crave Ned’s
presence in his arms. Finally, Ned spoke.
“You act as if I felt nothing.”
Howland looked at him.
“Do you believe that I do not rejoice at my son’s nameday, as if I am unaware
that it is the only time out of the entire year I can spend my days and nights
by your side? Do you believe I would not take a sword to my chest, over and
over again, to avoid the pain of leaving you and Jon behind?” Ned watched
Howland’s unmoving face and continued. “The night I heard about Jojen’s birth,
I prayed to the gods for the chance to have you in my arms again. Then the
Greyjoys announced their intentions to abandon the Iron Throne and you were
given to me for a few, short months. Watching you leave those gates took more
out of me than any war did.”
Howland turned away. He stood strong, and told Ned that he would never hurt
him. “But I will not allow you to leave with our son. The crannogmen will have
no mercy on your men if they take him from me.”
Ned’s expression was solemn. He understood Howland’s cruelty was motivated by
the deepest love for his children, and there was no clemency for those who went
against his rule. No one left the Neck an enemy of Lord Reed.
“Then I will stay forever.”
Both of them knew it was a promise that could not be kept, but they also knew
one of them would submit. Ned kept true to his word, and sent ravens to
Winterfell detailing an unforeseen hurdle in his plans. He asked Maester Luwin
if he could watch over Catelyn and his children, and suggested that Lady Stark
be watched over intently, for her health always failed when he visited the
Neck. When Old Nan read this letter, she pursed her lips at Maester Luwin.
“He’s gotten better at his words,” the crone muttered. “You know what he’s
asking, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Luwin agreed. “Lord Stark wishes for his children to be accommodating to
their half-brother. He wants to make sure that they treat him without bias.”
Old Nan narrowed her eyes at the man. “You’re good at your words as well.” She
reread the letter. “I can make the boys immune from that southern lady’s
poison, and possibly the girls if they’re away from that blasted heretic.” She
sighed. She thought about the beautiful lord who would listen to her stories
more intently than the children she cared for. He was always so happy to see
her, and brought her little cakes from the kitchen when he visited the nursery
to see Ned’s son. When both children slept, he would tell her stories about the
children of the forest, who he called by an entirely different name. One day,
Old Nan had asked about her sons, those who died in the Rebellion. Howland eyes
would become distant, and instead of talking about how they died, he described
their behavior throughout the journey, how one was prone to telling jokes and
riddles, and how the other liked to swim in the summer lakes because Winterfell
was too cold. Old Nan cried and thanked him.
She hoped Lord Stark knew how lucky he was.
Father stayed the ceremony and several days after, but Jon was not happy and
neither was his mother. This was the first time he’d seen his parents fight,
for their time together was so short, they could not afford to waste it on
disagreement. They stayed in separate rooms, which had never happened before,
not even when his mother was pregnant with Meera and Jojen, and his father
refused to bed him in fear of disrespecting his Uncle Benjen. Jon was forced to
ask his uncle if this behavior was to go on forever. His parents were making
fools of themselves.
Benjen laughed. “Your father and mother love each other. This is merely a
hindrance in their love affair. Mark my words, they’ve faced far greater demons
than this and still managed to be faithful in matters of their affections. Just
let the flow move in its intended path and those two will find each other
again.”  
“But they are miserable! Father will be back at Winterfell soon, and I don’t
want him to leave believing mother does not love him! Do you not care about
their happiness?”
“I am indifferent to their romance.” Benjen declared without thinking. He was
currently showing tying an arrowhead to the shaft. He rustled his nephew’s
hair. “I love them both dearly. Howland is my friend and your father is my
brother. I know them both well enough to understand that this is merely a
trial.”
Jon was unsatisfied with the answer. The next day continued in the same cold
war, and neither of them were ready to resolve the matter.
The turning point was at supper. Benjen, in an act of defiance, sat on Jon’s
side and demanded Meera follow his lead by taking his left. Jojen sat on Jon’s
lap. The seat beside Ned was the only one available, and when Howland attempted
to grab his youngest child as a shield, Jon tightened his hold on his little
brother. Jojen protested softly, but eventually submitted to his elder
brother’s touch. Such a sweet disposition for an alpha, but then again, Jojen
was a special one.  
The meal was discomforting. Jon’s father kept glancing over at Howland, and his
eyes begged for a single touch, a kiss of affection or a soft murmur of
appreciation. Howland’s eyes held no sympathies but there’s was a shiver in his
skin that occurred whenever Ned leaned too close or their arms accidentally
brushed. They loved each other. For the life of him, Jon could not understand
what had made them so upset that they could not remember this.
One of Howland’s aids, a crannogman who enjoyed lingering around the larger
crannogs and learning the secrets of his peers, interrupted their meal with a
letter from Winterfell. He giggled and said that it was for Lord Stark. The
seal was familiar. The Warden of the North took the parchment and read its
contents.
“What does Lady Stark want?” Howland was in no mood for pleasantries.
“She wishes for my return immediately,” Ned answered. Jon’s head snapped up. He
could not allow that to happen, not while his parents were still fighting! He
ate slowly and watched his father with hawk eyes. Lord Stark folded the paper
as if it were rubbish.
“You do not wish to answer her?”
“I have already informed the maester of my mission; he will understand that my
lack of response means that my original intentions have not changed. If she
continues to worry, I will send my men to deliver the message.”
Howland paid an unnatural amount of attention to his soup. He did not look at
his lover when he spoke. “Your wife will be angry,” Howland told him. “She will
say you favor our child over hers.”
“My children with her shall have issue and inheritance and the honor of a
trueborn name. They will be raised under my watchful eye and within the walls
of Winterfell. Our son has but a week in the entire year, and the rare moments
like these.” Ned paused. “If I leave, I will have less time to spend with you.”
Howland stood up at that moment. He was not hungry, and told his family that he
would be in his rooms. With a single hesitation at the door, he informed them
that he will be amendable to company this evening.
Jon beamed and watched his father’s stern expression warped into a small smile.
When they finished, Jon asked if his father wanted to visit the weirwood tree
before he made up with mother. He agreed, and while they walked, Ned talked
about Winterfell. He spoke of the landscape, and how vast the land was that
houses in the North would not meet for miles. He declared Winterfell a castle
with towers as high as the tallest trees in the Neck, and there were horses,
which Jon called grand beasts. His father told him that he wanted to teach him
how to ride those ‘grand beasts’ and to see the other creatures like stags and
wolves. He said that soldiers carried longswords like Jory and Desmond instead
of spears and bronze knives. Jon asked if there were giants, and Ned laughed,
but said there were people often mistaken for them. When they reached the
weirwood tree, they made their prayers. Jon spoke in the True Tongue, which led
his father to smile and tell him that Jon sounded like his mother when he
spoke. Jon giggled and asked about his siblings. He wanted to hear stories
about the babe Rickon and his biting habits, or Bran and how he was learning
how to climb despite being a toddler. He wanted to hear about Arya and her
ability to ride the grand beasts and the stories his sister Sansa made up with
her dolls. Most of all, he wanted to hear about Robb, who he remembered vividly
as the boy who kissed him in his crib and was the heir to Winterfell and was
becoming a great swordsman and a great leader. Ned asked how he remembered
their intimacy, and Jon smiled and said he never forgotten.
Ned did his best to divulge in the stories. The duo finally returned when night
fell and Jon was resting in his arms. He took Jon to his rooms, and made his
way to Howland’s quarters, where he was assaulted with fierce kisses and
diligent hands desperate to undress him.
“I thought you were not coming,” Howland declared.
“I had to put our son to bed,” he told him as he took off his shirt. His pants
were ready to sink off his hips. He lifted Howland up and helped his legs wrap
around his waist. He carried him to his bed and dropped him there. He bit
Howland’s nipples, earning a yelp. Ned’s lips traced down to his belly button
and he went lower until he reached his cock. After swallowing it whole and
giving him a particularly hard suck, Ned released it with a ‘pop.’ Howland
moaned and spread his legs wider. Ned took out his hard cock. He rubbed his
manhood against Howland’s swollen clit until he was ready to cum. When he was
on the verge of tearing into his sheets, Ned entered him. Howland screamed as
he came.
Ned became a beast. He only stopped pounding him into the bed to feel Howland’s
cunt clench around his growing knot. When he grew to his fullest, he was only
satisfied when he felt an influx of cream dousing his cock. He stuffed
Howland’s mouth full with fingers. When he took them out, Howland was still
sucking and a sliver of saliva connected his mouth to them. He took his cock
out of Howland in order to flip him on his hands and knees. He reentered him
and fucked him like a bitch. He forced his wet fingers into Howland’s eager
backside. The ass swallowed him like a second mouth. Howland moaned loud enough
for the whole castle to hear.
Ned came once and asked Howland if he wanted to continue. He was already
growing hard again. Howland opened his mouth to say something but he could only
moan. Ned was playing with his pucker and ramming his fingers into his
prostate. He kept on forcing them in whenever Howland spoke.
Howland trilled and only managed to announce his submission. “Whatever you
want, Ned.”
“What do you want?” Ned asked. He pistoned his fingers into Howland again and
made him come on them alone. Then, he removed his hand.  Howland’s voice could
only produce harsh breaths. Ned was unsatisfied and asked again with a thrust
accompanying each word. “What do you want?” He asked his made, rough, slow
strokes against his g-spot. When Howland didn’t answer, Ned stuck his soiled
digits next to his half hard cock. Howland wrapped around the intrusion and he
started buckling his hips so that his folds were rubbing against Ned.
“Ned…” He moaned pitifully. “Please…”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You!” Howland tried to control his screams. “I want you to fuck me!” All he
wanted was Ned’s cum overflowing inside him. He wanted to gorge himself on
Ned’s seed and he wanted to make up for the four days they were apart. “I want
you to use me so badly that I—! That I forget what it’s like to not have your
cock! I want to be full! I—ah!”
Ned complied, and he made up for their time apart the entire night. They would
not rest until the next morning. On their last session, Ned found himself
releasing on top of Howland’s back because his holes could not withstand
another load. His stomach was already inflated with come and he was leaking all
over his sheets. Jon was satisfied by their lack of presence at breakfast. He
would not see them until afternoon, when he snuck into their room and watched
his father sleeping soundly beside his mother. He tiptoed inside and saw his
father’s hand subconsciously rub circles into his mother’s butt. He moaned at
the sensation and snuggled closer to Jon’s father.
Jon was curious about the bit of cream on his mother’s face and when he reached
out to touch it, his mother slapped his hands away. Jon jumped.
“Don’t bother people when they’re sleeping, my love,” Howland reprimanded. He
opened his groggy eyes and winced at the paleness of his son’s moonlit skin. In
a daze, he ruffled his messy curls. Jon giggled and crawled onto the soiled
sheets. They were wet and sticky. Ned woke up then. He was surprised to see Jon
there, and covered himself and Howland up. Jon wondered why. He’d seen his
mother bathe many times in their community pools.
His mother waved off his father’s attempts to make their actions clandestine.
He stood up from the bed, his nipples swollen from the attention. Jon could
count at least a dozen love bites. “What’s the matter, Jon? Did you need
something?”
“It’s afternoon,” Jon told them. “I came to ask if you would like to eat under
the flowering bungalows together. You’ve reconcile, correct?”
Howland smiled sinfully. “Yes.” He pushed away a strand of Jon’s hair. “But
I…we would like to talk to you about something.”
Jon furrowed his brows. Ned whispered something in his mother’s ear, and due to
their short distance, he could hear the suggestion of ‘waiting for the right
time.’ Howland said that Jon needed to make his decision.
Jon crawled forward to them. He wanted to be held, but his father warned him
about getting too close. They were dirty. So Jon sat in his place when Howland
asked if Jon remembered his fifth nameday.
Jon perked up at the memory. With the passing of his heat, Jon’s cheek appeared
eternally rosy and his mouth forever opened in awe. He remembered the open
fields of vast northern lands, how the skies were blue as a painting and rested
on the short grass that bunnies and ground squirrels could feast on, and the
dirt was dry and the roads hard. His father had taken him on a horse, and
though he was too young to ride on his own, his father took him several miles
out of the Neck so that he could watch his first sunset on a horizon instead of
peering through the light of the trees.
“Yes, mother! Father took me riding on a grand beast through the dry lands, and
watched the sun melt into the ground. He gave us dried meat of the big deer—”
“A stag,” Ned clarified.
“A stag,” he said wondrously. “You could not leave the Neck because you were
ready to burst with Jojen. But father taught me how to read the stars. He told
me in Winterfell, they were everywhere because there were no trees to hide
them.”
“How much do you remember about Winterfell?”
Jon frowned. “Almost nothing,” he confessed. “I was too young. All I remember
is my brother’s cries, and the black pools resting underneath the weirwood
trees where I was born. I remember the sun piercing my eyes and the chill of
fallen snow. I remember shadows of a great citadel and the dust of crypt. Is
that bad?”
Ned was taken back by the memory; for Jon was just a babe when he left and he
expected less than nothing. “No, that is very good Jon. Your memory is
impressive.”
Pride was evident on Jon’s face.
Ned asked, “Do you wish to see it again?”
Jon looked down nervously. “If father is willing to accommodate our entire
family.” 
In another conversation, Howland would have been proud of the love his son bore
him. Today, he was weary of poor reactions. “Jon, I have kept a secret from
you.” He reached out to gently stroke Jon’s cheek, an act of comfort that made
him purr when it happened and worry when it stopped.
“What kind of secret?”
“Years ago, when your father attended your fifth nameday, he requested to take
you to Winterfell to live amongst him and his other children. I refused. To
take you so young would have turned my love into loathing, and he knew that. He
asked me ‘when’ and I told him to wait until you blossomed. I thought you would
be older. I thought we would have more time together.”
Jon choked up. “Are you sending me away, mother?”
Howland used his free hand to take Ned’s, and the one on Jon’s cheek moved to
grasp his little fingers. “Lord Stark is your father, and therefore within his
rights to request your presence. I believed you deserve the joys of his
tutelage.”
“But I am not unloved by him!” He turned to his father. “Most crannogmen do not
know their fathers. You visit me every nameday. You send me ravens bearing
letters and beautiful gifts—”
“Most men do not know they are fathers of crannogmen,” Howland interrupted.
“Most crannogmen are not bastards by title.”
Ned spoke before Jon could respond. “Jon, I want you at Winterfell, if not for
your sake than for my own. I am selfish in making this request. You are my last
link to your mother. I have never taught you how to hold a sword heavy enough
to sink the crannogs. I was not there for your first words. I cannot teach you
how to ride a horse on the kingsroad alone, or how to hunt beasts that roam on
dry lands.”
Jon was at a lost. He did not want to make his father sad but the message
terrified him. He would never hear the ringing of those who sing any longer,
and would be cursed by the trappings of an unmoving fort, unable to swim in the
bogs for their rivers are ice, and no longer able to hide within the wet
willows. His footsteps would no longer quieted by the caw of birds and smacking
of lizard lions. He would be trapped in a cage.
“May I…” He sucked a little breath. “May I have some time to think?”
Howland looked at Ned, and agreed. “Try to make your decision soon, my love.
Your father has to return to Winterfell soon. You might regret not going.”
“How do you know?” Jon snapped before he could stop himself. He glared at him.
You’re sending me away to a land without escape. One ruled by the woman who
took father away from us, Jon thought. That woman hates me and you are sending
me to her.
“Careful Jon,” Ned warned. “You will not speak to your mother in that tone.”
Jon simmered and apologized to his parent. Howland responded with grace. “I
would like to hear your decision by tomorrow morning at the latest. I will not
force you to go, and neither will your father.” Howland was adamant with this
statement. In the midst of their reconciliation, they agreed to let Jon decide.
Neither would force them, and they would stick together for the sake of Jon’s
security.
Jon agreed and ran off to his rooms, his offer for a picnic rescinded. Howland
leaned on Ned’s shoulder, fearful that he was too quick to appease and risked
his son’s happiness for the brief chance of his own. Ned soothed his worries
and thanked him for his support. He reminded him that this was what he wanted,
even if the timing was less than desired. Jon would prosper in Winterfell. Ned
would make sure that their son desired nothing.
“You will spoil him,” Howland teased in spite of his sorrows. “He already has
more toys and jewelry than all the citizens of the Neck combined. If not for
our climate, I’m sure his closets would be decked with silks and dresses.”
“I wished to spoil you but you do not let me.” His kissed Howland’s neck
tenderly. He let the covers slip away once Jon was away. He nipped at every
trace of unmarked flesh. Howland told him to stop, because he was not ready for
more. There was still so much seed in him. Howland yelped when his cunt was
intruded upon. Ned prodded Howland’s hole apart to release some of the come
stuck inside. When a good amount was drain, Ned removed his hand. “There, now
you can take me again.” Holland whimpered and raised his hips again.
When they arrived at dinner, Howland rested on Ned for support.  Ned reveled in
the knowledge that Howland’s body was still corrupted with his seed. Jon was
late. Howland asked Meera where her brother was, and she responded ‘praying.’
He arrived moments later, covered in dirt and leaves, and before his father
could reprimand him, declared that he made his decision.
“What decision?” Meera asked.
“I’ve decided to go to Winterfell.”
“What?” Howland’s only daughter sounded aghast. “You’re leaving us?” She turned
to her mother. “Why are you sending Jon away?” She looked at her uncle. “Why
are you taking my brother?” Then, she asked her father. “Why didn’t you tell
me?” Howland said that he was going to tell her later after Jon made a
decision. He explained that Jon’s father wanted the chance to raise him at
Wintefell, just as he was given the joy of having Jon in the Neck.
“It is only fair.”
Jojen’s precocious green eyes narrowed at his mother. It was as if to say
'since when do you care about fairness?' He left his father’s side to take a
seat beside Jon. Despite the grime and filth, Jojen sunk his head into Jon’s
lap and laid there. He ignored his meal in exchange for a nap on the lap of an
unwashed omega whose scent was pungent and sweet.  
Ned ignored the argument for the sake of asking his son if he was sure. Jon
nodded.
“But it is not without cost. I have a few stipulations before I agree to come
with you.”
Howland was taken back. He looked at Ned, whose eyes never left Jon. Ned asked
what those stipulations were, and if they were just conditions, he would be
amendable to agreeing as well. Jon smiled at the opportunity. He was right to
trust the guidance of the gods.
“First, I want the opportunity to leave whenever I want. If your lady wife or
children are cruel to me, I will not stay if it means being away from a home
where I am loved.”
Ned frowned, but found the term agreeable. He would hate to see his son go, but
he would hate it more if his son was living without defenses against ridicule
and scorn. That was the reason he agreed for Jon to be raised in the Neck,
where there were fewer amenities but greater tolerance. A child with Jon’s
nature would become accustomed to Catelyn’s antipathy, and would become sullen
and longsuffering to avoid conflict with his father or his siblings.
“Your first term is reasonable. What else?”
Jon sighed in relief. He had made his first victory. “Secondly, I wish for my
family to accompany me. Meera has always wanted to travel outside the Neck, and
Jojen will become a recluse if he doesn’t. I want my mother to help me settle.”
Jon bit his lips. “It won’t be for long, and if Winterfell becomes
uncomfortable, we’ll be using fewer resources to travel home.”
Ned could not deny the temptation of having his lover in his own home again. He
never felt right bedding Howland in the Neck, miles away from Winterfell. The
act made him feel like he was treating the mother of his son as some cheap
whore instead of the regal warrior and lord he was. For a short period in time,
he can pretend they were family—the family Ned was meant to have.
“I agree to that as well. Is that all?”
“One more,” Jon announced. He took a deep breath. “After Jojen was born, Uncle
Benjen stopped sharing a bed with mother. They saw no point in keeping up the
pretense. With Meera and Jojen, House Reed now has two heirs. You have five.
Uncle Benjen has been good to me, and he carries great respect for my mother
and my mother to him. By not bedding each other, they do not ruin this. They
are happy.” He looked at his father. “You told me that you have only loved my
mother. To prove this, I want you practice celibacy during my time at
Wintefell. I want you to stop disrespecting mother, the man you claim to love.”
The dining room feel silent and Ned’s face was unreadable. Jon stood his
ground. Though only eleven years old, he acted as if he was already facing a
lord’s burden. Howland said nothing and came to no one’s defense. Tonight he
would thank the gods and make a grand sacrifice to them for blessing him with
such a loving son. He made the request without being told that this was one of
Howland’s greatest desires. He did not know what he expected.
Finally, Ned stood up. He walked over to the other side of the table and told
Jon to start packing. He agreed to all of his terms. Jon’s face lit up with an
unimaginably bright smile and kissed his father. Howland let out a breath of
relief. His body was light after a great pain in his heart was removed.
“Thank you,” Jon said as he ran out of the dining room without food in his
belly. Howland mused that they will have a creeper in the kitchen soon. Before
Howland left for the weirwood tree, Ned saw a sliver of come drip down his
thighs and fucked him within the hallways. He told him that he would have him
on every stone of Winterfell while he was there. Howland asked if Lady Stark
would be so eager for his presence in his bed, knowing that he was leaving hers
permanently.
“I would have left her bed empty after Robb, had you told me so.”
Howland grimaced. He wrapped his arms around Ned and thought that he should not
have to tell him anything. When they were finished, Howland instructed Ned to
rest for tomorrow. They will leave after every one secured their belongings.
Jon had a mountain of gifts to pack because the boy treasured everything Ned
has ever bought for him. Ned said there were plenty of gifts at Winterfell.
Howland laughed and said he was right. He would spoil his son.
Howland led Ned to his rooms before he was touched again. He abandoned his
lover after a long coupling in their sheets. Howland entered the realm of the
gods when he touched the weirwood tree and chanted a prayer asking for
protection for his son. Then, he promised a great sacrifice in exchange for
power. Those that sing the song of earth whispered secrets into his ear and
said that winter was coming, and the North would break free from the chains of
summer that kept them weak.
Howland watched the ravens morph together to make a shadow in the sky. The
woods became dark. He asked what his son’s destiny was, what message did the
fruit give him? He heard laughter.
“Howland,” they giggled. “Howland, you know such things are sacred.”
“We told no one of your fate, not even your mother when she died.”
“She wanted you to be happy.”
“I care about my children. If you cannot tell me their fates, then tell me of
the gods’ desire.” Howland asked. “Tell me what they want.”
Howland heard laughter. Then, he heard silence for deliberation. The shadow of
ravens rested on Howland’s shoulder and cawed his answer. “The gods are fond of
you Howland Reed, just as they are fond of your children. They wish for the
land to be theirs again, where the wolves roam with giants and see the bears
play with roses, where dishonest men are stripped of their treacherous shrouds
and have their mouths cleansed with soot.” The laughed. “Your blood is blessed,
and the Stark doubly so.”
Howland thought about his beautiful boy and how his curls resemble Lyanna when
she rode horses, and how he enjoyed resting in the corners after too much time
in the crowds like Benjen, and he was reminded of his face, that perfect face
he fell in love with at first sight, at the tourney where he asked the gods for
that one man to be his forever.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     As a warning, please be very worried about Jon when he is alone in a
     room with Robb. Some of the stuff in this chapter are trigger worthy,
     and they are both underage (11 and 12 to be precise). I suggest you
     read the tags. :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Lady Stark was forbidden from being alone with her children.
The decree was unofficial in its legitimacy, but Catelyn would be a fool not to
notice the way the servants were always within arm’s reach of her, how they
stalked her every move, be it the brushing of her daughter’s hair, or her
discussion on her son’s studies. She tried her best to stifle her humiliation
when she saw how fast they readied her lukewarm tea and how stale the
honey cakes were when they were brought. Maester Luwin was subtle in his
transgressions. There were always lessons for the children of Winterfell, and
he always had a book in hand or an object of fascination to distract her
children.
Old Nan was not. She was there for every breastfeeding, for every memory
Catelyn wanted to recount to her toddler and babe, and there was a time she
bothered to lie to Septa Mordane, saying she was curious about her faith so
that she could intrude on her daughters’ lessons. Neither of them bought it,
but neither of them had the will to spar with the stubborn crone.
The younger servants watched the interruptions with indignation on Lady Stark’s
behalf. The ones employed at Winterfell for less than a decade saw no reason
behind the unjust behavior—they saw only the dishonoring of their kind and wise
lady. It was the older servants, the loyalists of the North and the adamant
believers of the Old Gods, whom hid in the shadows at Lady Stark’s expense.
 They remembered what the young ones did not. They remember the madness that
befell Winterfell when Catelyn was just a green girl. They will never forgive
her weakness; the splat of her body when she hit the ground, nor will they
forget the treacherous claims against Lord Stark’s son, the precious babe who
knew no sin but the blood of passion in which he was born.
Lady Stark kept silent. She would not give them another reason to act against
her. She was wronged in the worst ways, and though she knew her past
transgression may have warranted such concerns, she refused to see their
actions as anything less than treason against her being. They were cruel, to
judge her for the sin of being human. It was easy for them to pass their
sentences when their lovers carried no bastards. They would not have to raise
the child in their home. They were not demanded to love someone who only served
to remind them of their husband’s betrayal. Was it not enough that she loved
her children with all her heart? Why must she care for a stranger when no one
else was obliged to nurse their neighbor’s kin?
On the afternoon she received the raven signifying her husband’s return, a
child and his family in tow, Catelyn left for the sept to ask for guidance. She
turned to her septa, her companion since she was a girl, and beseeched her
wisdom for such matters.
“My husband thinks so little of me that he employs spies at my beck and call,”
Catelyn revealed. “Does he believe me to be so vindictive that I would
suffocate his son in his sleep? Does he think I am a woman who could plot the
death of children?”
“He worries not for his son’s life, but for the purity of his children.”
“He believes I will teach them ill will.”
“Are his fears unfounded?” Septa Mordane inquired, a knowing presence within
her question. Catelyn looked away, ashamed. “Lady Stark?”
“You’ve known me since I was child, you can address me however you please.”
The septa sighed. “Cat, you know why your husband places guardians around your
children. He wants them to be raised as brothers and sisters. He wishes for his
son to be loved. And despite the immoral nature of his son’s birth, you cannot
fault him for loving the boy. It is a trait that the Mother would smile upon.”
“Yes, I understand he loves his son. If only he loved our children as much,”
Catleyn bemoaned. She got on her knees to pray, in hopes that the burn will
distract her from her bitterness. “Lord Stark has smiled more from the mention
of the witch’s name than he has our entire marriage. When Robb disarmed his
first opponent in practice, Lord Stark praised him and then bought his bastard
his first sword. Sansa begs for another doll for her collection, and he refuses
her on fear of spoiling her but has no qualms finding merchants that will
travel to the Neck. Arya sneaks to the stable to ride horses, and instead of
punishing her, he makes plans to take the boy horse backing riding on his
nameday.  All my children’s achievements pale in comparison to his precious
son, the bastard bred of love, not duty.” 
“Your children have issue. Robb will be the Lord of Winterfell,” Septa Mordane
soothed. “Lord Stark would not take that away from him, especially not for an
illegitimate omega son, a frog eater no less. Even the North do not look upon
them with kind eyes.”
“What does it matter if my children have a name?” Catelyn asked. “He could
always legitimize the boy, and King Robert will allow it. Give him lands or
marry him off to some high lord. He’ll provide a dowry worthy of a prince to
ensure the best possible match, and it is my children, my beautiful Sansa and
my sweet Bran, who will live in the shame knowing that they are worth less than
a bastard.” 
Septa Mordane tried to dismiss those thoughts, but her excuses fell on deaf
ears. The love Lord Stark bore his other family was renowned. She told the
woman to pray instead. The Mother will reward her fidelity to her husband and
the Crone shall provide her protection against the witch’s influence. When
Catelyn was finished, she felt no less relieved but satisfied that her
complaints were heard without judgement. She ventured to the courtyard where
Robb was practicing with the squires and the Greyjoy boy. She wished to speak
with him, and made note of Mikken’s apprentice and lover, a stern faced omega
who glanced at her while he used a wet stone. Ser Rodrick caught sight of her
and ended the lesson. He directed Robb’s attention to his mother, and took away
his sword. When Robb offered to clean up, Ser Rodrick told him ‘next time’
because there were other pressing issues at hand.
Robb was disappointed but obeyed nonetheless. Since his father left for the
Neck, he had been restless. He could not stand still for a second; he wanted to
fight, be it a sword in his hand or a body ready to wrestle. Maester Luwin
suggested that Robb was showing signs of rutting, but the theory was easily
dismissed. He only just turned twelve, and there were no omegas on the verge of
heat to encourage such maturity. Catelyn kept an attentive hand on his shoulder
as they walked back into the castle. She brushed her hand against his hair and
noticed that she no longer had to reach so low to touch it. Her son had gotten
so tall. He was already at her chin. When he fully matured, he would tower over
her.
“I heard ravens came from the Neck today. Have we gotten a date to when father
would be back?” Robb asked. He tried not to sound anxious. Catleyn hated the
attitude of the North. They all wished for their blood to become water.
Children should not be so contained. She could not understand how they could
encourage their people to not feel less they become weak during the winter.  
She bet that child was allowed to cry and whimper when he wished. Not Robb,
though, heaven forbid his trueborn son have the disadvantage of a heart.
“He is leaving today,” she answered, a grimace unable to leave her lips. “I’ll
imagine we’ll see him and his child within the week.”
Robb brightened up at the mention of his half-brother. “His name is Jon,” Robb
reminded. There was reverence in his voice and it made Catelyn shiver. She
tightened her grip on her shawl. Robb continued, “Old Nan said that when he was
born, he was no bigger than a newborn kitten. We were able to fit in the same
crib because he was so small, and I clung onto him as if he were a doll. She
said I was a good older brother, because I protected him.” Robb paused. “You
will be kind to him, won’t you, mother?”
Catelyn does not respond the way Robb would like. She asked, instead, why he
cared.
“Because he’s mine. He’s my younger brother and I won’t allow you to make him
feel unwelcome here. Father expects me to take care of him.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he told me so,” Robb revealed. He tried not to sound too petulant, or
act like some loose tongued brat. “He said that Jon has wanted to see me again
since he could speak. That I am his older brother, and I should protect him
from harm, and in return, he will be mine. He loves me, and I won’t forgive you
if you make him sad.”
“He has not seen you since you two were babes. How can he claim to love you?”
“Because we are brothers, we are bonded by blood and fate. Lord Reed says he
dreams of me at night, and I him. He even told me that his first word was
Robb!”
Catelyn stood still. “When did he tell you this?” How could they have been
communicating without her knowledge?
“When Lord Reed writes to father, he sometimes asks about my wellbeing. He said
he heard wonderful things about me. He is very kind,” Robb hesitated. He did
not dare give too many compliments to his father’s lover, less he insulted his
mother. “On occasion, he asks for Jon’s input. He is as sweet as strawberries,
mother.”
Catelyn clenched her fist. She leaned on top of him and though she wanted
nothing more than to whisper malicious tales of the baseborn breed, she instead
kissed her son’s forehead. “You are such a good boy, Robb. All your siblings
are lucky to have you as a big brother.” Even the ones who do not deserve it. 
Robb beamed at the compliment. The smile lifted Catelyn’s spirits. She ordered
him to take a bath and get ready for supper. She wanted to hear all about his
progress with the sword. When she watched him leave, her skin began to crawl.
Children’s laughter swarmed her ear and when she turned to seek out the sound,
she found an empty corridor. She must have been hearing things.
Ned Stark swore that if the only sound he heard for the rest of his life was
his son’s laughter, he could die a happy man. Jon was chasing his younger
sister on the open fields where the grass was hemmed by deer and rabbits. He
cooed at the flowers he picked up and watched in amazement by their ability
to fit in his little brother’s hand.  Howland told them that they needed to
wash up, and when they refused, he chased after them.
Benjen took a seat next to his older brother. He followed his Ned’s gaze and
chuckled. Ned asked him why he was laughing.
“Nothing.” Benjen shook his head. “Watching you is a reminder of how lost
fatherhood is on me.”
“Meera and Jojen are good children.”
“Howland raised them well. I spend more time at the wall than the men
themselves—even rode out North with the Lord Commander a number of times, while
Howland was manning a land that moves and children whose nightmares came true.”
Ned turned back to the glorious sight ahead of him. Howland’s skin, a
combination of moon and milk, was sweating. The droplets dripped down his neck
and slipped underneath his shirt where Ned envisioned it was traveling into his
backside. Howland captured his eldest son and tackled him into the ground.
Meera and Jon shrieked with joy.
“You’ve been good to him. You have been better to Jon than I could ever wish
for. You are the father of my niece and nephew whom I love. I am grateful.” Ned
sighed. “I wish I could thank you more for your sacrifice.”
“The Wall will always be there. It will not be long before Meera and Jojen come
of age, and they have expressed their approval of my departure.”
“That was not what I was talking about.”
Benjen chuckled. He glanced at Ned Stark’s men, all of them travel weary and
wistful for their families and homes. They laughed amongst themselves, some
brave enough to look over and then turn their backs in meekness. He did not
mind their cuckoldry comments, and bared no humiliation at the suggestion that
he could not please his own wife so his brother had to take the mantle. The
Starks were loyal to their kind.
“When we announced our engagement, I wanted you to stop me. I wanted you to
fight for him,” Benjen confessed.
“I could not. Howland had a duty as I did. We were both lords to our land. From
the days of the Marsh Kings and the Kings of Winter, our families have always
ruled. He is beloved, as was his father before him, and their ancestors before
them. You were supposed to be his good brother when I was the second son, but
then Lord Tully made me keep Brandon’s promise, and our plans were casted away
for maps of war. You were to take The Black after Robb was born. Yet, you loved
me enough to prevent my child from withstanding the callousness of my southern
wife. Thank you for marrying him.”
“I married my friend, and the mother of my nephew. You are my brother, Ned. It
is my duty to protect you as much as it your duty to protect me.”
Ned was satisfied by the declaration. Howland walked towards them with his
children following along like ducks in the water. He smiled playfully. “I wish
to wash myself and my children. Would either of you like to join me?”
Ned got up and offered to show him to the springs. Benjen refused the
opportunity. He almost laughed when one of Ned’s men tried to follow them. The
man, who was called Ponther, claimed that it was his duty to watch over Lord
Stark. Howland laughed and said that he was in good hands. When he was
hesitant, Howland assuaged his fears by kissing the high lord languidly. Ned,
who was not the type of man to bask in public displays of affection, did
nothing but endure Howland’s diligent hands in unbuttoning his shirt. Howland
parted from the kiss and asked if all the men were so eager to watch them.
“I do admire a man who is hard…working of course. I would hate for harm to
befall my love. All of them.” Howland gave his beloved children a fond smile.
He turned back to the men at hand. “How attentive must you be to ensure the
best possible protection?” Howland took a step further. The men backed away.
“Should you check my body for weapons? In case I intend to do great wrong
against him?” He loosened his shirt. Ponther gulped. He could feel Lord Stark’s
glare burning into his skin as Howland unveiled his smooth chest and pink
nipples. He heard Benjen Stark let out a bark of laughter.
“I…”
“Perhaps I should strip now for inspection?”
Howland started to slip off his garment when Cassel unceremoniously smacked his
fellow guardsman on the head. He turned to Lord Reed, and made every attempt
not to meet his eyes or his chest. When that was impossible, he focused on Lord
Stark instead. “Forgive us, my lord. We do not fear your loyalty but we are not
in the Neck anymore, and on the open lands, there is nothing but thieves and
cutthroats.”
It was an understandable premise, but Lord Stark turned to his lover and turned
back to announce that their services are better off guarding their supplies
from thieves and cutthroats. Out of duty, Jory was reluctant to comply to such
orders, but was simultaneously relieved. He did not trust himself not to look
at Lord Reed’s sumptuous body. He asked that Lord Stark not go too far. When
they left to bathe, Benjen’s chuckle became full blown amusement.
Jory shook his head. He felt like an old man when he just entered his prime. He
knew Lord Stark could handle himself, but he took his job as the newly
appointed captain of Ned's guardsmen seriously. He and his men walked towards
the other Stark lord.
“I don’t know how you could do it,” Ponther moaned as he slumped down against
the tree Benjen's form leaned upon. “I would never leave my bed if I had that
creature in it!”
Benjen drank some water. “Howland knows men in a way men do not know
themselves. I’ve seen him tempt a man to swim in quicksand and another to lick
the poison off his arrow. In the Neck he is called a skógr þegn.”
“What is that?”
“It is an Old Tongue word. They are the ones the gods choose to bless with
their knowledge, and when they are generous, their power.”
Desmond, another guard, scoffed. “My family are faithful worshippers of the Old
Gods and we’ve never heard of such beings.”
Benjen never said they were human. He kept silent, for he had already said too
much in jest.
“I heard that the crannogmen have mated with the children of the forest. That
is why they are so small and inhuman,” said Alyn, a handsome young man who was
entranced by southern myths. “It would explain Lord Howland’s beauty.”
Desmond burst out laughing. “Everyone knows that’s nothing but lies made up by
midwives and crones to tell children! There’s nothing of substance in the Neck.
Even the lords lack proper meals. They have no goods to share or gold for
purchase. When there’s no food, they grow frail and nimble as all men do.”
“But they are ethereal beings, are they not?” Benjen suggested, hoping to stir
up the pot more than necessary. The banter was amusing at least. Without his
brother and spouse by his side, it was the only entertainment he had. “You all
had your fill of them if I remember correctly.”
The men became red in harmony, their faces bleeding embarrassment and shame.
“They are a lascivious sort,” Jory said diplomatically while Ponther claimed
he’d seen whores with more shame. Jory honored his role as captain and hit his
companion again. “Those are Lord Reed’s men,” he hissed. He turned to Benjen
with an apologetic look. “Lord Benjen, we apologize for our disrespect.”
Benjen told them he was far from insulted. He pushed the matter again. “I
admire you all. I’ve never met a man who did not find my wife…otherworldly.”
The looks on their faces said that such a claim was far from the truth. Alyn,
the youngest and the most foolish of the four, was the first to protest. “That
is exactly what he is! I would not call him beautiful, if I were to think again
on the subject. He is, as you say, otherworldly…unnatural. In a room, he would
be the first one to catch my eye.”
“I wish you would think at all,” muttered Jory. “Perhaps we should move on to a
different subject.”
“Yes,” Benjen agreed. “Tell me, how many bastards have each of you fathered by
now? An estimate is a good start.”
Howland rose out of the water as sudden as a kraken and as beautiful as
a mermaid. He captured his youngest son in his arms as the other children
paddled to get away. They all screamed with joy. Despite their intention to
bathe, the children were swimming in the deep streams as if it were a lake. It
had been two years since they’ve been in water clean enough to see their hands.
The last time was on Meera’s sixth nameday, when she begged her mother for the
chance to enjoy open water free from predators. He had sneaked her and her
friends to a riverlands lake, at night so that they were free from unwanted
guests and played underneath a garden of stars blooming for their enjoyment.
Following a proper wash, they all played water tag—even Jojen, who was normally
so sullen and lethargic, was floating with his brothers and sisters. From afar,
Ned watched with a fond expression. Howland choose to forgo his clothes, and
though the water covered his nether regions, he made no attempt to hide his
chest. His breasts had deflated after childbirth but they were still as high as
they were in his youth, and would never be rid of their slight swell. Once
dampened, his hair became as dark as raw honey. He swam with his children for a
while longer, before allowing them time to themselves to return shore. Ned was
quick to provide his cloak for Howland, lest one of his men decided to make an
appearance. Howland kissed him upon returning. He tried to loosen Ned’s shirt.
Ned stopped him.
“You do not wish to bathe with me?”
“I doubt we will get much bathing done.”
“That was the intention when I invited you,” Howland teased. “I want to relive
that day on the Iron Islands. When I was swimming in those harsh waves and you
came in to keep me steady.” He played with the outline in Ned’s pants. “Your
sword was most helpful in keeping me firm.”
Ned grasped his hands. “The children…”
“…are aware of how they were conceived.” Howland lifted up their joined hands
and playfully bit Ned’s knuckles. “We do not shame carnal desires in the Neck,
not when there are so little pleasures to be had. We have no gold to give.
False notions purity matter not when there are no bounties.”
“I thought you cared for their innocence?”
 “I do. It is why I teach them to worship their bodies. To seek out pleasure
when it makes them happy, so that if liars and hypocrites come, they cannot
make them curdle in shame for their natural desires. I will not allow some
alpha to take advantage of them, and use shame to keep them silent and
complacent.” He let go of Ned’s hands and pressed his body against the high
lord so that Ned could feel his wetness against his leg. Howland slowly began
to rub himself against Ned’s thigh.
“Howland…”
 Howland closed his eyes at the sound of Ned’s growl. He hummed pleasantly. He
could feel his cunt drip. “If I begged for your cock right now, does it make me
less of a lord in your eyes?”
Ned denied the notion. He does, however, protest such exhibitionism. “Your
children can see us.”
“If you like,” Howland purred, “You can tell them I was tired and the only
place to rest was on your cock.”
“That is not funny.”
“Just the tip,” Howland bargained as gently led Ned to the ground. The alpha
raised an eyebrow, because he knows that anyone who has ever made the claim
‘just the tip’ never intended to use only the tip. For Howland, this was
especially true. Ned sat down and Howland straddled his lap. He let the cock
enter his fluttering lips. He moaned. “We can take a nice, long wash after and
come back to camp properly sated.” 
From afar, Jon was happily paddling around. Even Meera, who had all the energy
of a young alpha, could not keep up her older brother’s antics. She asked why
Jon was so enthusiastic.
“We are going to Winterfell, Meera. It’s exciting.”
Meera was confused by the sudden change in attitude. “I thought you were
upset.”
“Because I thought I was going to have to stay there! If I don’t like it, I can
always come back home!”
“Yes,” Jojen agreed, his voice was high pitch and light, “But won’t your father
will be sad if you do not stay?”
“I think he will be more sad if I am unhappy. He told me it was for best, and
how could it be for the best if I am miserable? Surely, it will be a wonderful
experience. Father said my other brothers and sisters are eager to meet me! He
has given me my aunt’s room, and he promised me all her dresses and toys!”
“You are easily swayed by pretty things,” Meera said worriedly. She swam closer
to both her brothers. “I hear people here are repulsed by the flesh. They hate
being touched and only have sex to make babies. Parents don’t carry their
children, not even if they are small enough to be carried!”
Jon dismissed such horrid notions. “That’s impossible. Father carries me all
the time, and he beds mother for pleasure.”
“But that’s why you’re a…” She wanted to sound wise beyond her years but the
word was lost on her. “Bah…Baa…
“Bastard.”
“Yes, bastard! Outside the Neck, I heard any child made without love is given
their alpha’s last name. But if they’re not, they have to take another name.”
“That’s why I’m a ‘Snow,’” Jon chirped. He admitted he found the tradition
strange, but if he had his own sons and daughters, he would have Snow Children.
He could call his babes Snow Cubs or Snow Bunnies!
“Why are they only called Snow? Doesn’t the Common Tongue have more words? Like
Ice or Hail?” Jojen asked his older brother.
“Mother said that people don’t like bastards so they try to keep track of
them.”
“But that makes it more confusing. If one lord has a Snow and another has a
Snow, how can they tell which snowflake is theirs when it is time to divide
rations?”
“They don’t divide rations.”
Jojen stared.
“The Andals are stupid,” Jon admitted, rather disappointed by their lack of
consideration. “They think it is okay to abandon their children or let other
people say bad things about them. Lonnel Fenn said that if you have a bastard,
you can make them a slave or send them away to fight.”
“How will they be held? Who will kiss them and make sure they are happy?”
“No one,” Meera revealed. “Bastards are left alone here.”
“That’s not good!” Jojen declared. He turned to his sister. “Meera, we cannot
let Jon live with such horrible people!”
“I will be fine,” said Jon, who was confident of his father’s devotion. “My
father is the greatest lord in the world. He promised to protect me.”
Jojen and Meera were unconvinced. She started floating on her back, letting her
lily skin get touched by the arms of the sun. “Are you sure you want to go,
Jon? These people are…strange. What if they find you frail? Those outside the
Neck…they are so big. And they don’t fight like us, they are so direct, so
loud. They die for the silliest reasons—their armor is too heavy so they can no
longer run. Their sword is so slow; a giant could dodge it. They call us
cowards because we do not want to die for unjust men and foolishness. How can
you become a skjaldmær if everyone hates you?"
"I heard they worship humans and call them gods," Jojen state venomously. 
“It does not matter. I have to go.” Jon looked back and forth. Then, he
stared deep into Meera and Jojen’s eyes and held a firm gaze. “I really, really
have to.” He took a deep breath. “It’s my…destiny.”
For a moment, neither of them knew what he was talking about. Then, Jojen
uttered a little ‘oh’ and whispered something in his sister’s ear. Meera
squealed in surprise. “Jon! You’re not supposed to—!” Jon immediately lunged on
her to shut her up. Howland got up from where he was sitting, a trail of cum
leaking on his legs to call out to his children. He asked if they were alright.
Jon yelled back that they were fine. They were just getting out of the water.
He practically dragged his little sister to the camps, mouth held captive by
Jon’s hand. Howland gave them his dagger before they left. “Be careful walking
back.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “We know how to travel without being seen.”
Howland swatted him on the butt for his insolence. His children giggled as they
scampered back to their resting spot. Meera seemed eager to speak again.
Howland took Ned by the hand and said they needed to wash up. Ned spared a
concerned glance towards Jon’s silhouette. “Should we…?”
“No, we need to wash. There is no one here.” He led Ned to a shallow area. “I
made sure of it.”
Though far from persuaded, Ned complied with Howland’s wishes. He put his
sanitation in Howland’s hands. Howland cleaned Ned’s cock with his mouth and
gave his balls a thorough job. Ned offered to attend to Howland, but was
stopped when Howland reminded him that they needed to bathe. “I’m a lot messier
than you.”
Howland grabbed a towel and wiped off Ned’s dirt and sweat. Ned asked if
Howland could ever forgive him for taking away his child. Howland paused but
resumed his activity once the moment of contemplation passed. “No mother is
ever ready to let go of their children. But I accept it because I know it is
fate. I’ve had Jon for eleven wondrous years. You will be lucky to receive half
of that.” He clutched Ned’s face and asked that he take care of him. “Treasure
him, Ned. For he is result of our love, and without him, we would be a distant
memory.” Then, he kissed Ned. When they parted, Howland resumed washing the
lord. When he was finished, Ned took his cloth to return the favor.
“I will never be at ease seeing you drenched.”  
“You saved me from drowning once, do you doubt your ability to do so again?”
Howland joked. Ned’s face exclaimed that it was beside the point. Howland
contained his smile to prevent sparking Ned’s annoyance. “I have never felt
safer than I have by your side, whether it be amidst a battlefield or sitting
beside a weirwood tree.”
The words soothed Ned, and as he drifted towards Howland’s lower back, he told
Howland that he hoped Jon felt the same way. Howland said nothing on the
subject. Instead, he asked if Ned thought about Catelyn when they were
together.
“Never,” Ned answered. He brushed the cloth against Howland’s thigh. “I do
think about my children.”
“What do you think about?”
“I think about how they would look with green eyes instead of blue.”
“Do they all have blue eyes?” He asked as if he did not know the answer.
“No,” Ned answered. “Arya’s eyes are gray, like Jon’s.” Like Lyanna, they both
thought.
Howland leaned back against Ned’s chest. “I hope they get along,” he said. “I
hope they love each other.” Ned made the same prayer. They continued their bath
and saved further clandestine acts for the privacy of their tent. Ned thought
about his bed in Winterfell, and knew that the location was not the only reason
it was so much colder than the one he shared with Howland.
The further they got from the Neck, the more touch starved the Reeds became.
Whenever there was a bush large enough to conceal them or a tree thick enough
to hide, Howland dragged Ned away for a green crown. The northern guardsmen
eventually grew weary of finding the two in compromising positions that they
simply requested the two not stray too far. Jory considered the measure of ‘too
far’ to be the point where Howland’s screams were no longer heard.
The children were suffering as well. Meera refused to leave her father’s side
for anyone but her mother, and Jojen was almost a permanent fixture in his
mother’s arms when he was not copulating. They constantly needed to be held.
When Benjen had his arms full with either Meera or Jojen, the other would seek
attention elsewhere—at several points, even cuddling with the guards. Though
they found their behavior strange, none of them had any problems until Jon
started demanding to be held. While two young alphas were one thing, a fertile,
recently bloomed omega was an entirely different matter.
Ned was not surprised that their tents were combined, and they all slept
together. Benjen preferred looking at the stars, but Meera, who resembled her
father in more than just looks, asked that his bedside include her. Ned asked
Howland if this was going to be issue at Winterfell. Howland denied it, saying
that as long as Jon was frequently given attention, he would be fine. He had
his own room in the Neck.
“Though, having him bed close to someone he trusts would alleviate his
stresses,” Howland suggested. “I heard you are giving him Lyanna’s bedroom. Who
will be his neighbors?” Ned had been planning for Jon’s arrival since he was a
child. Howland imagined that the room would be nothing short of
luxurious—especially considering how frugal the North tended to be. Any child,
lord or otherwise, with as much goods as Jon would be considered spoiled.
“He will be alone. Lyanna was the only omega, and so she had her own private
quarters in Winterfell. With my children, Catelyn wanted them close so we sent
them live on another floor…you look unhappy.”
Howland sighed. He wrapped his arms around Ned’s waist and rested his head on
his chest. He looked up to Ned through his golden eyelashes. “We crannogmen are
not meant to be alone. We hunt in groups. We fight in groups. With Jon being so
far away from home…are there no other vacancies near him? Perhaps one of his
siblings would want to stay close to welcome him, if only for a little while.”
Ned should refuse. The repercussions of such an action was something he wanted
to avoid, especially if one considered the message he was sending to his
people. Yet, Howland looked so concerned. He went on to suggest Arya, because
he knew from Ned’s letters that she desired to be a warrior. “He helps Meera
with her footwork, and already knows how to use his size to his advantage. Arya
would like him.”
“Yes,” Ned agreed. “But she has already settled into her new room after Sansa
requested to move, and I do not want her to have to accommodate once more for
another sibling.”  
“Then perhaps someone who might welcome change. In the letters you’ve written
me, you made it sound as if Robb was quite eager to meet Jon. Do you thinking
he would be willing to take responsibility of his younger brother?”
Ned thought about it, and concluded that the suggestion was not outside the
realm of possibility. Robb had been inquiring about Jon since he was aware of
his existence. “He has many duties already. I would have to talk to him.”
“Please do,” Howland asked. “Our son is not so delicate that he would fall to
pieces without the slightest touch, but he is a child who is prone to
sullenness. He needs someone to support him or he’ll lock himself away.”
Howland kissed Ned’s shoulder. “Don’t you want to ride horses with a son whose
laughter can be heard through the fields?”
The explanation encouraged Ned, who favored his second son more than he cared
to admit. He was sure Robb would be obliging, and the move would not be a
hardship on either of their parts. On the side, Jon made a little groan. He
curled up further into his father’s arms.
On the last day of their journey, Jon swore never to leave his father’s arms.
He was tired, and wanton for a bed and blankets and pillows, and wished to rest
for days. He clung to his father the way Jojen attached himself to their mother
and how Meera refused to unclasped her arms around her father’s neck. They had
to walk their way through the gates while the rest of the men rode inside.
When they came in, Jon managed enough strength to open his eyes. He gasped and
always fell from his father’s arms. It was so big! He thought, his mind clouded
with awe and intrigued. There must have been over a thousand rooms, and there
were walls made of stones bigger than his own body! He saw towers that reached
to the sky, and a land without any water or roaming beasts to watch out for.
Except for the grand beasts who could around so freely. People had their own
stands to display their trade; Jon had never seen a blacksmith before. He had
never seen so many swords and steel. The people were large—even the elderly
whose backs have bent over time. One of the old ones, who was hitting a sword
with a rock, turned to look at him. Jon squeaked and buried his face into his
father’s neck.
“Mikken! You’re scaring the poor boy!” Another man stated, hitting him on the
shoulder. The man growled that he had not mean to. Jon blushed and shut his
eyes. Unwillingly, he was making himself more tired. Both the men bowed and
welcomed both Lord Starks, and Lord Reed. More and more people entered the
Great Keep’s yards to see Jon. They overwhelmed him.
“It is warmer than I remembered,” Howland mused. He turned to Benjen. “We
should take our children to the hot springs while we are here.”
“Aye, they would enjoy it. They might like the glass gardens as well.”
“And I want to show them the crypts. They should meet their aunt Lyanna.”
“And their uncle Brandon,” reminded Benjen. “As well as my father and mother.”
“Yes, yes. Them too.” Howland brushed their names off like dust in the wind.
Benjen tried not to roll his eyes at the nonchalance. Howland never forgave the
eldest Stark for dying, or the former Lord Stark for his southern schemes. They
walked further inside and were greeted by men and women of age or older than
Ned and Howland. They cooed at the children, and made comments about their
size.
Gage, the head cook of Winterfell, took a break from his duties to fret over
the children. He said they looked malnourished. He would gladly fatten them all
up, and asked Meera, the only one who resembled consciousness, if she liked
strawberry tarts. Howland took his insults as words of love. “She’s never had
them, Gage.”
“Are they yummy?” Meera asked shyly.
Gage laughed and said his desserts were the best in the North. She would love
them. Meera grinned and jumped out of her arms to poke her little brother. “Did
you hear that? We’ll be given the best desserts in the North!” Jojen was
drowsy, and only spared her a look before going back to sleep in his mother’s
arms. She pouted and despite her own fatigue, ran to her other brother. Jon was
almost knocked out, and despite the furs Uncle Ned brought for them, he was
shivering. Meera asked her uncle to lower him down.
Ned got on one knee so that Meera could whisper in his ear. “I’m not ready to
let you go without a fight. So while you’re sleeping, I’m going to make a bunch
of plans for us and we can explore Winterfell and see if it is wonderful as
they claim it to be.”
Ned smiled. He let his brother scoop her up so that they could take them all to
bed. Meera said she wasn’t tired, but could not stifle her yawn. Against her
wishes, Benjen took her to the guest quarters with Howland following along. He
kissed his son goodnight, and told Ned that they would be awake at dinnertime.
Ned walked further and was greeted by his own creepers. He told them to come
out. “Arya, Bran, I can see both of you. Tell your brothers and sisters to come
out.”
The guilty parties came out of their hidings places, one with a sheepish grin,
and the other one simply amazed by the size of his older brother. Robb had to
drag Sansa out, as she was only there for curiosity and was reluctant to meet
her half-brother. She was only a little older than Meera, and already aware of
the term bastard. Rickon was no where in sight. Ned sighed. He must be with his
mother.
“He is as small as I am!” Arya wondered. She reached out to touch him, but Ned
kept his son out of her grasp.
“He’s sleeping Arya,” Ned warned. Truth be told, he was reluctant to let go of
his son and leave him in the hands of others. Since he walked through the gates
of Winterfell, nearly everyone has commented on his son’s size. It was expected
that Jon was small; he was an omega and a crannogmen. But small meant many
things in the harsh North, and it made Ned worry that ‘small’ was synonymous to
‘weak’ and ‘vulnerable.’
Arya was disappointed, but then asked if he would be joining them for dinner.
Ned said yes. He added that Jon was eager to meet her as well, and to sweetened
their palettes, he mentioned that Howland had prepared all of them gifts. While
the other children seemed excited, a look of concern washed over Arya’s
features. She hated the presents she received from other lords—boring things
like dolls or hair pieces. Ned sensed this, and requested Arya be nice even if
she does not care for the object. “They do not have much in the Neck, and since
most crannogmen are omegas, even the girls are taught to fight. You might be
getting a knife or a spear, knowing Howland.”
Arya perked up. “Really?”
“Yes. So be kind to Lord Reed.”
“I will!” Arya promised. She was still awed by his presence, and with a
tenacity that befell all unruly children, she reached up to touch Jon again.
This time, Robb stopped her. “Arya, quit it and let our brother sleep. He must
be tired from his journey.”
“But—”
“Go prepare for dinner, or better yet, go find Lord Reed and make your
acquaintance with him. You should be more welcoming to our guests,” Robb
lectured. He wanted his siblings out of sight. He wanted to be alone with his
father—and Jon. Especially Jon, his mind hissed. Especially the beautiful
little brother who caught his eye the moment he entered Winterfell.
“But you haven’t greeted him yet!” Arya protested.
“I have to talk to father about something.” Anything, he’ll make up any story
or excuse in order to follow his father into Jon’s bedroom.
Arya, with once last huff of annoyance, stormed off with his siblings following
in tow. Sansa was especially eager to leave, and though she said no words of
protest, Ned could see that she bit her lip to avoid correcting her older
brother earlier. Half-brother, he could imagine her saying.
Ned sighed, and turned to his oldest son. “Do you mind coming with me to Jon’s
room? You could talk to me there.”
Robb was surprised before he remembered his earlier statement. “Yes, it would
be better to speak in private.”
Ned carried Jon into Lyanna’s bedroom, where there was a welcoming bundle of
rabbit and fox furs of the highest quality, the kind that was bred for
slaughter and not hunted down. Ned would never spare such a luxury for anyone
else. He must have bought them in secret, thought Robb. For mother would have
been screaming for the heavens if she knew.
“What did you want to talk about?” Ned asked once he placed his resting son in
the bundle. Robb did not miss the way his father kept a hand close by in case
his little brother leaned in for a touch.
“I…” He saw the collection of dolls resting on the shelf. He remembered hearing
the servants being ordered to take Jon’s luggage indoors. The trunk they
carried was heavy, and when someone asked what was in it, the guardsman had
said ‘toys for Lord Stark’s bastard.’ The man grumbled in response, saying
words Robb could not hear but knew were distasteful comments about his younger
brother. “I wanted you to know that while you were gone, I made sure to say
nothing but good things about Jon and Lord Reed to my sisters and brothers.” He
thought some more of what to say. “And mother was gracious in her behavior as
well.”
Ned said nothing. He planned to confirm such things himself. “Thank you, Robb.”
Robb would not be dismissed so easily. “I’m worried, though. Mother has
expressed her disapproval about Jon’s presence. Not to us, I would have never
allowed it! But I heard some of the maids talking and they were…not so kind.”
Robb was bashful. “I ordered them to stop. I know it is not my place to make
demands, but I told them that long as Jon carried the blood of a Stark, he
would always be welcomed at Winterfell and should be treated with respect.”
His father chuckled. “You are a good brother. I know you have the sense not to
allow your siblings’ minds to poisoned with myth.”
Robb beamed. “I will be a wonderful brother to Jon. I swear, father. He will
never want for anything while I am alive.”
Ned beckoned Robb to come closer, and when he did, he received a fond ruffle of
the hair. “I am most grateful. If possible, I would like you to consider a
proposal.”
 “What kind of proposal?”
“The kind that would invite you to move your belongings.”
“Where?”
“Here,” answered Ned. “Take the room beside Jon’s own. Jon’s people
are…affectionate. They enjoy being touched and watched over. With him so far
away from home, I aim to make him as comfortable as possible. He needs—”
“Yes!” Robb agreed immediately. He coughed. “I mean I want Jon to be happy as
well. I will gladly move rooms.”
Ned was grateful for the positivism. “It’s good that you are so eager to take
responsibility.” He grasped onto Robb’s shoulder. “I want you to know Robb,
that Jon is your little brother. That makes him yours. Yours to care for, and
yours to protect. In return, he will care and protect you.”
“Will we be like you and Lord Reed?” Robb asked. “You told me that Lord Reed
loves only you, and has sworn to be by your side forever. You said there was no
one you trusted more in the world.”
“Yes,” Ned agreed. “One day, you will be the Lord of Winterfell and all of the
North will be under your protection. Your siblings will be longed married and
have taken their own vows of servitude. Jon will have you.”
“Because he is mine,” Robb parroted. “He will always be mine, even when you are
gone.” He turned to his soundly sleeping brother. “In a letter, Lord Reed once
told me that he was born for me. That’s why he’s an omega and I’m an alpha.
Because we had to take care of each other’s needs when no one else can.”
Ned wondered if it was worrisome, to place so much responsibility on Robb at
such a young age, to make him responsible for another life. Yet, he saw the
resolve in Robb and felt it was for the best. Even if Jon had no allies, he
would have the love of another Lord Stark, and that was what he needed to
survive.
He got up to leave. “Take care of him, Robb.” When Ned walked to the door, he
expected Robb to follow. Instead the boy stayed.
“I want to watch him for a while. Just until the men bring his things—that way
he’ll be at home when he wakes up.”
Ned valued the logic. He told Robb to be on time for dinner; Lord Reed wanted
to see him again.
Once alone, Robb could not control himself. He ran his hands through Jon’s
hair, and when the boy did not wake, he drifted onto his face. Jon leaned into
his touch. He purred when Robb stroked him. More, his actions told Robb. He
wanted more. Robb moved onto his chest and gave his brother’s nipple a little
pinch. Jon whimpered but did not wake. Robb moved towards his groin, where a
hot, aching quim rested beneath his fingers. The heat was smothering. He undid
the tie of his little brother’s pants and removed them until they rested on his
knees.
Robb’s mouth went dry. Down there, his pussy was so pretty and pink. He dipped
two fingers into Jon’s folds and took them out at once. He looked as glistening
fingers and tasted them. Robb moaned. It was so good, so creamy and filling. He
put his fingers in again, this time with less patience. Once fully inside, he
admired how hot his little brother was and how good he was at making all this
honey for Robb. He was soaking his entire hand. Robb curled his fingers inside
Jon and spread them open. He could feel Jon writhing and churning on his
digits. He started to ride Robb’s hand like he was on a horse, and Robb was all
too happy to comply with the tourney. He met every rise of Jon’s hips with his
own movements, and worked actively on playing with Jon’s pleasure spot.
Finally, when Jon was close, Robb took his fingers out and leaned over to give
Jon’s clit an inquiring suck. Jon came all over Robb’s face.
Robb wiped it off, he could not resist licking his fingers clean. He moaned at
the taste. He wondered if all omegas tasted as good, or if Jon was special.
Surely he was; he could not understand how his father could keep his mouth
clean if Lord Reed tasted as good.
When he was finished, Robb kissed Jon’s flushed cheeks and told him goodnight.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” Robb promised. He left licking the remains off his
fingers, and walked past the servants carrying two trunks worth of goods. They
did not notice his content expression, and will probably not notice Jon’s
fever.
Jon woke up shortly after night fell. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he
left his room in search of food. The moment he stepped out, however, he
immediately retreated for the safety of his home. Everything was so big, he
thought. Winterfell looked like it housed giants.
After he waited for a while, bored and frighten, but content with his
surroundings, his father knocked on his door and asked to come in. Jon lunged
on his body, telling him that he was hungry but did not know where to go. His
father apologized for taking so long. He told Jon to observe his surroundings
as he took him to the dining room, so that he could remember his way to the
kitchen. Jon complied with his wishes. It was not until they reached their
destination that he shuddered and curled deeper into his father’s arms.
The hall was almost three times the size of his dining room at home, and the
ceilings were so high, he thought only mountains could reach the top. From his
father’s arms, he could see the heads and faces of his siblings. One girl,
about the same size as Jon, almost accosted him upon sight. She tried to reach
out to him, and Jon was further heaved up his father’s shoulder.
“Arya,” he warned, “Be careful with your brother. He’s not used to his
surroundings yet.”
Jon thought of protesting, saying that he was plenty capable of meeting his
little sister. Then, his eyes caught sight of a young man, who Jon supposed
could be his age or decades older—Jon could never tell with people outside the
Neck. He clenched onto his father tighter. In response, his father asked what
was wrong.
Jon blushed. He asked, “Hverr þeir?” to his father in the Old Tongue. He knew
his father had been taught a few phrases by his mother, and the latter
encouraged Jon to speak it when he did not want to be understood. Then, he
added, because the young man was so handsome, “Hann mjǫk fríðr!”
Robb saw the blush on his cheeks, and thought it was adorable. He wanted to
grab Jon from his father’s arms and keep him safe in his arms. Their father
said something in response, an odd language he’d never heard before. Then, he
heard his name.
Jon gasped, and he looked happy. He kissed his father on the cheek and asked
for something. Robb felt envious. He heard the crannogmen needed to be touched,
or they would go mad. He assured himself that when Jon was comfortable, he
would kiss Robb and hug him as much as their father. More so, Robb thought,
because they were brothers.
Old Nan came in with Lord Reed, his uncle, and their children. Meera kissed the
aging woman on the cheek when she left to take her seat. The crone found
herself surprised but charmed. She saw Jon and petted his curly hair. He kissed
her on the forehead as a thank you. Robb bristled. Everyone got to touch Jon
and got kisses from him. Why was he not allowed to hold him yet?
“He’ll be spoiled if you keep carrying him,” Old Nan lectured to their father.
Robb hoped his father would heed the woman’s advice and let go of his little
brother. Instead, Uncle Benjen simply pointed out that in the Neck, children
who were not held by their parents were considered þungr stein, and were
believed to be bad luck.
“And we wouldn’t want to insult our guests by telling them to treat their
children like heavy stones, do we?” Benjen teased. He, himself, was cradling a
huddling Jojen. Despite being such a solitary character, even he enjoyed the
touch of his family. Meera, bold and bright eye Meera, introduced herself to
her cousins. When Jojen refused to leave his father’s side, Meera dragged him
down to stand beside her.
“I am Meera. I am eight years old, and may one day be the Lady of House Reed.
This is Jojen. He is six years old, and may one day be the Lord of House Reed.
We are your cousins! It is very good to meet you!” Meera kissed Arya first,
because she was the closest. Before moving onto Robb and Sansa, who were too
shocked to do anything. She gave a slight peck to Bran, who actually leaned in
and preened. The toddler would become very fond of the crannogmen’s methods.
Howland could already tell.
“One day?” Robb was the first to question such declaration. “Isn’t your brother
the heir, since he is a boy and an alpha?”
“The gods have not decided yet,” said Meera. “We cannot know for sure, except
that a Reed has always rested in the Greywater Watch. If the gods forbid our
inheritance, then we cannot take the chair.”
“How do you know?” Sansa asked. Try as she might, she could not completely
withdraw herself from the strange guests. She was too curious about the exotic
world so different from the rest of the North.
“Because they tell us, and then we tell the current Lord Reed.” Meera said it
as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If the gods are wrong, how
are we expected to listen to humans?”
“But…” Sansa protested. “Could you not just lie, and say that the gods said it
was you?”
“We cannot lie about what the gods say,” Meera countered. She sounded aghast by
the suggestion. Before she could proclaim further protest, Howland asked that
Meera silence herself.
“I do not enjoy witnessing faith being shoved down the throats of nonbelievers,
and I expect Lady Sansa does not like it either.”
Meera wanted to say something, but her mother’s word was final. She apologized
to her cousin, and took a seat. Benjen sat beside her, and Howland took a
positioned next to him. He took Jojen into his lap. Howland looked at the
children across from him. They were beautiful.
“It is good to finally meet you. I am Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, the
wife of your uncle and the mother of your brother, Jon.” Howland smiled. “I am
most happy. I have always wanted to meet Ned’s children.”
The children in question were silent. Sansa and Robb, the eldest of the five,
did not expect Lord Reed to be so kind. They had thought he would be angry at
them for existing, for not carrying his blood. Rickon was no older than a babe.
He cared nothing but for his mother’s arms, who was currently holding him as if
she thought Howland would spirit him away. Bran was staring at Jojen who stared
back. The older boy smiled and when Bran giggled, Jojen turned to whisper
something to his sister. Meera swatted him on the arm. “Stop your jests,” she
hissed, as if he had said something crude. Perhaps he did, but no one else
heard.   
Arya was excited. For she was a child, and did not recognize the dire situation
her family was in. She did not see Howland as her father’s mistress, but as a
known warrior who saved her father’s life and bore her older brother. Howland
caught her admiring gaze, and addressed her immediately. “I would like to offer
you all gifts for welcoming my family.” One of the servants, who had been
awaiting such a cue, came forth with a trunk. “The crannogmen are poor people
but we are rich where it matters.”
“And what is that?” Catelyn snapped.
“Happiness,” Howland answered. “Soul. Love. We are a community where joy takes
precedent. We love our sons and daughters, trueborn or natural, born from the
wind in the skies or the mud in the waters.” The trunk rested by Howland’s
side. He opened it and handed out his gifts in little boxes. Arya grasped onto
hers, but to her surprise, it did not open.
“I think my box is broken,” Arya announces as she shakes its contents. Ned
warned her against it, and Howland laughed.
“You are not ready to open yet. None of you are,” Howland explained. “The boxes
open when your hearts do. It is blessed by an ancient magic that not even the
maesters know of.”
Catelyn, who had bared the brunt of Howland’s magic, rescinded the offer. She
took the present out of Sansa’s hand and gave it back. “My children do not want
your witchcraft.”
“Mother,” Robb protested. He easily dismissed his mother’s fears as he
investigated the box. “Howland is joking. It is probably puzzle of some sort.
We just need to figure out how to unlock it.” He heard of such contraptions in
the stories. The knot that could not be undone, or the box that held a secret
compartment.
Howland was amused. “Believe what you want. But these gifts are for your
children, not you.”
Sansa looked away. “I do not want it.”
“Sansa,” Ned reprimanded. “It is rude to refuse a lord’s offer.”
“If it is not a gift from my mother, then I do not need it.” She leaned in
closer with her loving parent, and refused to leave her side the entire dinner.
Catelyn rested a protective arm around her favorite child. She was a good girl.
Howland stopped Ned from pushing her further. He addressed Sansa with grace.
“Lady Sansa, you have a strong, northern soul. I admire your fidelity to your
mother.” He took back Sansa’s gift. “Jon will hold this in his room until you
are ready to receive it.”
The comment unnerved Sansa, who did not expect such gracefulness from the man
her father betrays her mother with. While none of the children were able to
open their presents, they were excited by them. Bran and Arya were advent
believers of the Neck’s supernatural origins. Magic was capture in their tiny
hands and they were eager to see what was inside. Arya, a finicky girl,
wondered if opening their hearts was some sort of curse. She wondered if she
should bathe the box in blood or something demonic of the sort.
Howland took out a pouch and asked for the Greyjoy boy. Theon’s head perked up,
and though he was years older than Robb, he appeared as much as a child as the
Arya or Bran. Howland smiled full of compassion and eyes glazed with sympathy.
“I wanted to give this to you.”
The ironborn omega walked towards him. He was cautious, and his face was
covered with a frown permanently latched on his face since he was taken in by
Lord Stark. Howland found him comely, though only the conventional sort. When
the boy was close enough to touch, Howland took his hand and undo the bag with
his nimble fingers.   
“Why does Theon get a pouch?” Arya asked, a jealously tinged her tone.
“Because Theon is full of misfortune,” Howland answered. He stroked Theon’s
cheek, and the boy shivered. He was surprised by the sensation, for even in the
Iron Islands, he was not well acquainted with touch. “A child should never have
to pay for his father’s crimes.”
He revealed a lovely woven bracelet, made of the tender reeds that grew on the
edge of the swamps and was decorated with a single pearl. It was small, with
little value except for its prettiness, but it reminded Theon of home.
“I remember when you were taken from your home—we had to pry you out of your
mother’s arms. She kept begging us not to take away her last son. She asked for
mercy, and wailed like a banshee as you were carried out those doors. You
weren’t supposed to be the one, did you know that?”
Theon nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He remembered the argument with a sense of anger
and sorrow that no amount of pompous showcasing he did in the North could ever
rid his mind of the truth. He was the unwanted one.
“It was supposed to be your sister, because she was an alpha, and the heiress.
But your father tried to convince Lord Stark to take you. He said you were just
an omega. The Baratheon king said that was more reason to refuse, but I
convinced Ned to take you.”
Theon seemed surprised by the news. “Why?”
Ned tried to stop Howland from talking. “Howland, he’s a child.”
Howland ignored him. “He’s older than our son.” He brushed Theon’s hair from
his face. “On that day, I saw something in your soul. Something that will
amount to great things. Do you remember your brothers?”
Theon shook his head. He remembered their cruelty, how they fought viciously in
battle and tortured him at home, with compulsive lies and degrading japes
against his manhood. They teased him for his small cock and cunt, and every
remark led Theon to retreat to his mother’s arms or his older sister’s
protection. He did not remember their faces, he did not remember anything but a
figure. “No, my lord.”
“They were stupid, cruel men.” Howland smiled. “I believed I killed one of
them, or could have. There was one man who bore your sigil on his shield. He
guarded the walls on Pyke, and when he tried to kill me, I did not let him. He
managed to throw me into the water before he died” He kissed Theon’s wrist. “I
believe you can be better than them.”
Theon nodded, unsure of what to make of such a prophecy. He took his hand back
and thanked Lord Reed for his bracelet. He admired it, despite wanting to keep
his pride. The ironborn are not allowed such beautiful goods to be gifts, and
it was so pretty. He’d never seen a freshwater pearl before.
Howland dismissed him and he went back to his seat. While the children played
with the mechanisms, the servants brought out their soups and meats. The
crannogmen children were surprised by the display of fresh venison. Jon poked
his dish with a finger. The dish burnt it and yet he was more impressed than
hurt. He told his sister, his excitement getting the better of him, that the
flesh was thick and full of juices.
“Jon, we have guests,” Howland reminded.
Jon covered his mouth. The other children stared at them strangely, as if they
thought they imagined the sounds coming out of Jon’s mouth. Jon blushed
furiously and repeated the sentiment to his father. Ned chuckled, and chose to
ignore the slip. “You’ve had it before, but back then it was jerky. The meat
would have become rotten when I arrived to the Neck. I think you and your
siblings will like it.”
Meera, the most curious of the Reeds, dug into it and chewed. She was happily
surprised. “It is very good uncle!” She turned to her father. “Will we be
eating like this often?”
“I suppose so,” Benjen agreed. He took a gulp of his ale.
“Will we grow big like you?” Jojen asked. He took a small, meek little bite. He
made a noise of approval that was met with Howland cutting up the pieces for
him. He was fed another bite. Meera and Jon protested the treatment, which was
met with Benjen cutting up Meera’s own steak and Jon being fed a piece by his
father.
“Maybe Old Nan was right about being spoiled,” Benjen muttered playfully. Meera
kissed her father on the cheek. They ate happily and hungrily.
Jon asked new siblings want they liked to do. Arya said she enjoyed riding
horses, and Jon was amaze. He called her fearless. She was smaller than him!
“Do you plan on being a skjaldmær?”
“A what?”
“It is an Old Tongue word. It is simply the term for a warrior who can give
life as well as take it. So all omegas who fight are skjaldmær and so are alpha
females. My father is one, and Meera and I hope to be one as well.”
Arya was delighted by the prospect. She turned to her father. “Father, can I
become a ska…sciel…whatever Jon said?”
Ned found the answer lost on his tongue. Catelyn was the first to deny such a
prospect. “Arya, the battlefield is no place for ladies.”
“But—!”
“Arya,” Catelyn interrupted. “This is not for discussion. Your father and I
agree that your place is in a home.” She smiled. “You’ll do a lot of good in
this world managing a household and making sure your children are safe and your
lord is happy and wise. Like the good queen Alysanne.”
“But I don’t want that!” Arya retorted bitterly.
Her yelling caused her father to order her silence. “Do not shout, Arya.”
Catelyn sighed, and wanted to soothe her youngest daughter’s ailments. She did
not want to upset her, but she did not want to award her child with notions of
false hope. She heard of the dangers that befell women and omegas in the camp;
they were all slaughtered and rape by their enemies. Even their own allies if
they were corrupted by their vile and carnal desires. She would not allow such
a punishment on her child, even if Lord Reed saw to it to put his children in
danger.
“We can discuss whether you are able to train with you brothers in the future.
For now, you are too young.”
The notion surprised everyone in the room. Howland caught Lady Stark’s eye, and
in return he rested an indiscrete hand onto Ned’s thigh. He whispered in his
ear, and there was a brief huff of arousal. Catelyn tightened her grip on her
fork. No, she thought, they would not. If Ned was so far seduced by the whims
of a witch, she would protect her children from harm.
Jon continued talking to Arya, and while Meera was preoccupied with Bran. Jojen
became jealous by the lack of attention, and started speaking with the toddler
as well. Though, Bran was for claims, his simple sentences brought great joy to
the two Reeds.
Sansa remained quiet. Yet, with a wandering eye on Jon and her brothers and
sisters, it was clear she wanted attention. She wanted to talk about dresses
and dolls with Jon, and tell stories about her tea parties with Jeyne and
Turnip. Robb was silent for an entirely different reason.
Gage took the liberty to bring out two trays of strawberry tarts as promised.
He wanted to see their reactions. “Here, for my little lizard lady.”
Meera giggled. She took her first bite and almost squealed in delight. “It is
the most delicious I’ve ever tasted!” She declared. She grinned, a mouth
stained with red. “Thank you, Gage!”
Jojen waited for his mother to hand him a piece and his eyes widened when the
taste of wild strawberries and juicy filling covered his mouth. He took large
bites, and would only pause when Howland warned him not eat too fast.
When it was Jon’s turn, his heart was pounding in excitement. He did not notice
his older brother sneaking behind him, and taking the tart out of his hand. Jon
blinked in confusion.
“I want to feed you,” Robb revealed. He shimmied in between Jon and the Reeds
and raised the pastry up for Jon to taste. Though initially shocked, Jon found
himself flattered instead of annoyed. He opened his mouth as one would for a
cock, and waited for Robb to invade his mouth with the pastry. Once inside, Jon
bit into it, letting his lips stain red. He closed his eyes and chewed at the
delicious morsel. He moaned and opened his eyes. He smiled, shyly, temptingly.
“It is delicious. Thank you.”
Robb was stunned for a moment, and then asked his brother if he would like
another bite. Jon nodded and allowed himself to be fed. Ned hid his grin. His
son was taking his duties very serious, and as a father, he was proud to see
his sons get along. When Jon was finished with his pastry, he sucked and licked
the crumbs off Robb’s fingers. Everyone already finished their desserts except
Robb. Instead of eating it, Robb offered his tart for Jon.
He picked it up and placed it next to Jon’s lips. Jon did not open them.
“What’s the matter? I thought you liked them.”
Jon averted his gaze. “It would not be right of me to take from you.”
Robb narrowed his eyes. “You are not taking it. I am offering. Open your mouth
and let me feed you.”
“Robb.” The Winterfell heir looked up to see his father’s frown. “If your
brother does not want it, do not force him. He might get sick if he eats too
much.”
“That’s not what he said,” Robb countered. “He said he did not want to take
from me. Here, Jon.” He bit into the pastry, swallowed it and announced he was
full. “Now, you must have it or it will go to waste.”
Something was caught in Jon’s throat. Then, he nodded and opened his mouth
again. Truth be told, he loved it. He wanted to eat a hundred of them. Robb
watched with great satisfaction as Jon swallowed his bite. “Is it good?”
Jon nodded. “Thank you, Robb.”
“He can eat it himself,” Catelyn interrupted. “He is not an invalid.”
Robb did not care. “He is my brother and I must take care of him. I want to
make sure he is full.”
Jon glowed with pride at having been accepted as Robb’s brother, and not a
burden on the Stark heir. He finished up the pastry with great eagerness, and
licked off Robb’s fingers again. This time, leaning forward to rest his hands
on Robb’s thighs. Catelyn had enough of such sensuous imagery. She saw
Howland’s smirking face, and knew something must be done.
“Jon, have you bathed yet? I heard you were sleeping all day?” Catelyn asked,
and winced at her harsh tone. She prayed to the Mother for the strength to be
kind to this child, this being who reminded her of everything she could never
have with her husband. She could not smile, but she was able to weather the
concern she had for Robb and direct towards Jon. “You should bathe. If you wait
any longer, you might catch a cold.”
“Your concern is very touching,” Howland noticed. To Catelyn’s surprised, he
agreed. “My son should take a bath.”
“We can have the servants draw one up right now.”
“That will not be necessary. I had hoped to show my children the hot springs,
but I suppose Jon can get the first look. Robb, would you mind showing your
little brother to the springs underground? I think he will be most grateful for
your guidance.”
Robb perked up. “I would be honored, Lord Reed.” He stood up and took Jon by
the hand. “You will love it…the hot water on your muscles is like another
heaven.”
Jon beamed. “I am happy you are the one to show me.” Robb let him out of the
door, and before anyone left, Jon heard his sister asked why they couldn’t go
with them.
“You already took a bath, my love,” Howland announced. He woke them up early to
be able to facilitate the time for Robb and Jon to be alone. Poor Cat, who was
seething in her seat. Things never go the way she planned, Howland mocked.
Catelyn stood up with a huff and demanded to talk to Ned. The lord begrudgingly
complied.  Benjen and Howland guided their children outside while the rest of
the Starks pitter pattered to their own rooms. Sansa was given Rickon to hold.
When passing Ned, Howland whispered for him to visit his bedchambers when he
was done. It had been hours since their last coupling.
Outside the doors, Lady Stark announced that she was horrified Ned let Jon be
alone with their son. “You know what bastards do to trueborn children.”
“I know what some natural born children do to some trueborn children. I know my
sons would never hurt each other.” Ned was sure of this. He had seen the way
Robb looked at Jon, as if the light of the sun came from his smile. Jon
worshiped Robb, had been wanting to meet and befriend his older brother since
the moment he could speak.
“You don’t know that!” Catelyn denied. “You barely know the boy!”
“And whose fault is that?”
Catelyn was taken back, for she never heard such viciousness from Ned, not even
when Catelyn made the mistake of speaking ill about Lord Reed. Catelyn calmed
herself. “I don’t want my son to get hurt. You don’t know what that…what Lord
Reed is capable of. What he wants.” You don’t know what he promised to do,
because every time she thought about revealing what happened all those months
ago, her resolve was overcome with the fear of being locked away and labeled a
mad woman.
“I know what he is capable of better than anybody. I also know he wants to be
with me. I know he wants his son to be happy. Just like you.” Ned sighed. “You
are many things, Catelyn. But above all, you are a good mother. You love your
children. If you truly fear Jon’s presence, do you think it is wise to anger
Jon into lashing out at his brothers and sisters?”
Catelyn froze, and after some thought, she shook her head. “I understand, my
lord. Forgive me for impulsive fears.” He was no help. She would settle this
her own way. She would protect her son from the Witch of Winterfell’s schemes,
regardless of any threat to her life.
Ned saw through her façade but he was tired of fighting. “Thank you, Lady
Stark.”
Robb took Jon to his favorite spring, the one located right underneath the
glass gardens where the fruits and vegetables grew. He explained to Jon that it
was the warmest area in Wintefell, and in the daytime, it was hotter than a
summer’s day in Dorne. He said because of the strawberries and the pears and
the greens that grew, the air was cleaner. Jon agreed, and said he would like
to visit above one day.
Robb tucked a stray curl from Jon’s ear. “I will show you tomorrow, and I will
also bring you to the crypts to visit our aunt and uncle.” And he would show
him the inside of the Great Keep, and the Library Tower with thousands of books
on warriors and kings, and the gargoyles of the First Keep where they could be
left alone.  
“Will you show me the godswoods? Father told me your weirwood is magnificent,”
Jon asked. He sounded so excited.
“I will take you anywhere you would like,” Robb promised. He saw a sweat bead
fall down Jon’s skin. He suggested they partake in the bath that was promised.
“Do you mind me bathing with you?”
“Not at all,” Jon chirped. “I find it odd that some people here do not bathe
with their families.” He stripped himself, revealing a plate of delicious,
unmarked skin. “But then again, you have private baths here, and no lizard
lions to fear.”
“Perhaps we should consider the crannogmen methods,” Robb said offhandedly as
his eyes took in Jon’s body. He took off his shirt when he realized that Jon
was almost completely nude. He did not stop staring when he did so. “I will
bathe with you as often as you like, until you are more used to bathing alone.”
He laughed at Robb’s proposition. “Then I will never get used to being alone!”
Jon dipped his toes into the steaming water and then sunk into the springs. He
moaned when he was completely immersed in the comfort of heat. He flicked some
water at Robb. “What are you staring at? Join me!”
Robb almost tripped attempting to comply. He went into the water and his weight
caused a wave to wash over Jon. He giggled and swam over. “I’ve always wanted
an older brother,” Jon confessed. “I like being an older brother but
sometimes…I just want to be taken care of.” He smiled at Robb. “Father promised
that you will love me.”
“I will—I do!” Robb swore. “I am very good at being an older brother. You will
not be disappointed.” He made it so that they were no more than an inch apart.
Up close, Jon is overwhelmed. He tried to swim back but Robb caught his arm and
drag him forward until their chests were touching and Jon could feel Robb’s
boyhood pressing against his thigh. He was big.
“You look like my father,” Robb said.
Jon nodded. He heard that being said many times before. Robb smiled. “Except
you are much prettier—you are the prettiest omega I’ve ever seen. You’re
prettier than my sisters.”
Jon smiled but he felt uncomfortable with the grip on his hand and tried to
struggle free. Robb only tighten his hold on him. “Why do you try to escape?”
“I—”
“I would let you go if you asked.”
Jon said nothing.
“No other alpha would heed your demands. You’ve blossom like a flower, and now
you can marry and have babies. Even if you didn’t want babies, you’d still have
to have them. Your husband would hurt you if you didn’t.” Robb kissed his
cheek. “But I would never let them. You will never have to marry anybody you
did not want to while I am the heir to Winterfell.”
“I…” Jon was silent. He looked down. “Thank you, Robb.”
Robb gently stroke his chin upwards. “You’re so quiet. You and my father,
you’re both quiet wolves. That’s what people call him.”
Jon knew that, and asked Robb if they should get out. The heat was overwhelming
him. He was not used to such temperatures. Robb told him to stop being silly.
“You haven’t stayed here long enough—I’ll tell you when the heat is too much.”
Jon whimpered when Robb gripped onto his ass. He felt a long finger poke at his
hole. As a hormonal young omega, it felt good. He was growing wet and hoped the
water hid his arousal.
“Gods, you’re beautiful.”
“Please let me go.”
“Why are you so scared of me? I’m your brother. I will protect you from harm.
You do not have to be afraid of me.”
“Robb!”
“I will always protect you.”  
“Let go of me, Robb!” Jon was serious. 
For a second, he swore Robb would refuse his demand, would order him to stay
because he was a lord’s and Jon’s older brother and could do what he wanted.
But after a moment passed, Robb loosened his grip and Jon was released. Almost
instantly, Jon got out of the springs. He hastily put on his clothes and ran
out of the hot springs. Robb stayed in the waters, glowering at the doorway
that Jon left through.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Originally, I used up my maximum characters to rant about this
     reviewer who really upset me. For the first time in the eight years
     I've been writing fanfiction, I had to delete a review(s). It was not
     that s/he flamed me, because they didn't, not in the literal sense,
     but the first time they reviewed, they wrote “U don’t u just do a one
     shot instead of dragging it out and makeing people wait forver for a
     update" and the second time, they wrote “Y don’t you just do a one
     shot instead of dragging it out. When a story takes to long to b
     updated people lose intrest.” The comment irritated me because this
     wasn’t a critique on my writing—this was unnecessary advice from a
     non-writer who assumed that writing was just so fucking easy, that my
     story could be finished in a one shot. My story, which begins with a
     chapter with over 10000 words, is ONLY being dragged on to make
     people wait. I don’t like it when people assume such negativity about
     my person, and I don't like it when people belittle how much work
     writers put into making a quality product. To give a clue to what I
     originally wrote, it had the lines "If I could shit words out my ass,
     I would gladly finish this story in a hundred thousand word oneshot."
     I was very upset. But I deleted the original rant because it is none
     of anybody's business who I have problems with. You guys are here to
     enjoy the story. I still wanted to vent a little, haha, which is why
     I wrote this but not to the expense that my anger takes away the joy
     of my story. I am grateful for everyone who reads this story, and I
     apologize to those who read the original rant.
     2. Back to business! For cultural reference, while it is rare for
     omega males and alpha females to fight, it is not unusual. I based
     their warrior culture off the Viking lore. Alpha females and omega
     males are the shield maidens of Westeros. Female omegas almost never
     fight, but there are some exceptions (which we will see).
     3. Yes, I am using Old Norse in replacement of the Old Tongue.
     Because the Old Tongue (in the books and the shows) have different
     dialects, the one used by the Neck is based in Old Norse.
     4. If you have any questions about the story, please ask. If it's a
     spoiler question for the story (and there won't be a lot because I am
     writing this as I go), I will tastefully assuage your fears.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The servants brought roasted chestnuts and left them on the nightstand because
Gage remembered how much Howland enjoyed them when he was pregnant. He said it
was a Northerner’s greatest plight when they were in their sacred condition, as
he himself inhaled an entire tree when he carried his little Turnip in his
belly. When Gage’s mother was the head cook of Winterfell, Lyarra Stark ate
them every morning and night for all four pregnancies. She was a fearsome
woman; wit as sharp as pine needles, and thunder that pounded with her step.
Her grip was firm when she handled her four wolves. The water that ran through
her veins turned to ice when Rickard Stark began his secretive nights with
Maester Walys, and began organizing marriages for her four children to
loathsome Southerners. Ned recalled her fondly, with memories of her carrying
him on her broad shoulders as she took him to the highest towers of Winterfell
so that he could overcome his fear of heights, or her taking him to the lakes
during winter so that he knew how to ice fish. They slept in separate bedrooms
after Ned was sent to the Eyrie. She was furious. Though Lord Rickard was
adamant in building his alliances, he never took another woman to bed. He loved
his wife in spite of how she despised him.
She died while Ned was away, and would not see any one but her children on her
deathbed. She claimed, in her madness, that her family had been poisoned by the
southerners. Ned never learned what she died of. Pneumonia was what the maester
concluded, though the servants would deny the thought of their lady succumbing
to disease. Some say she was poisoned. His father never acknowledged the loss,
and had the maids clean her room every fortnight as if she planned to rise from
the dead.
Howland was given her room while he stayed, and after he leaves, it would
become Ned’s room. He did not want to insult his lady wife further by demanding
her relocation.
Howland cracked open a nut with his teeth and dug into the creamy meat of it.
Ned came storming into the room at that moment, paused, and stared at the seed
in Howland’s fingers. 
“Are you with child?” Ned asked. He gazed into his stomach with hopefulness
that overshadowed the worry that wore down his wrinkles.
Howland was surprised, but then giggled. “No, I am not. I have taken my
medicine.” Ned face dropped, and though Howland felt for him, they knew it was
for the best. They already agreed that more children would be a bigger a
liability on their hearts. He walked up to Ned and pressed the other half of
the chestnut into Ned’s mouth. He chewed on it and they kissed. When they
parted, Ned asked why he told Theon about his brother. 
Howland hummed as he fussed with the buttons on Ned’s shirt. He slipped it off
his shoulders and looked up at Ned with half lidded eyes, intoxicated by lust
and the ghosts that resided in this bedroom. Ned attacked his neck and Howland
moaned with pleasure. He jumped to wrap his legs around Ned’s waist and clung
one hand on his back and another in Ned’s hair to keep steady. He sucked on his
earlobe and whispered that he wanted to see a reaction. “I needed to make sure
there was no love lost between Theon and his horrid family.”
“He will never hate his family. He knows he has to return one day.”
Howland was far from convinced and kissed Ned until they were both breathless.
He was laughing, and his eyes carried nothing but unreserved amusement. Ned
knew he was keeping secrets from him. Howland asked why Theon had to return at
all. He was not the heir; why could Ned not marry him off to some high lord’s
son. “You are more his father than that blasted salt lord. Why not take
advantage of his gratitude? He is a pretty child.”
Ned narrowed his eyes. “The Iron Islands are his home, and we cannot keep him
forever. He must be sent back as a token of good will between us and the
Ironborn.”
“You think you can turn a squid into a wolf by raising him like cub—I do not.
Those of the sea, their blood runs blue while a wolf is red. Tentacles do not
become paws, rubber cannot replicate fur. Theon Greyjoy is trapped on a melting
island that threatens to dissipate into the salted seas, but once he is in the
water, he cannot defend himself against the sharks that wish to feast his
flesh. You should have given him to me when I asked.”
“What did you plan on doing with him?”
Howland laughed. “I would have received his loyalty; I would not have allowed
him to linger in this limbo of iron and ice. He would have made a fine
companion to Jon and would have been his protector. You fall deeper in love
when you give rather than when you receive. Theon must give to Jon and he will
love him all the more for it. I will do what I can while I am here, and
instruct Jon to do the same.”
Ned did not approve of such plans. “You cannot use children in your schemes.”
“I saw his soul, Ned.” Howland warned. “He has the will for treachery and the
capacity for great horrors. He will betray our son and yours for the chance to
belong. I will do us both a favor by subduing his proclivities. He will be
loyal, and he will be useful.”
Ned tossed his lover onto the bed, but Howland grinned at the rough treatment.
Ned was adamant about maintaining Theon’s connection to the salt islands. “He
will be an outcast there if he is too northern. I do not want the bond between
him and my children growing too strong.”
“He is already too Northern.” Howland grimaced. He recovered from his sudden
attack and laid languidly on the bed, allowing his robe to come undone. “Why
not make him one of us? I bet he is quite fertile—he will make a pretty wife to
one of your less loyal lords. Keep an ear out for Robb if there is a snake in
the garden.”
“He will lose that ear if he is found out,” Ned countered. “No, he will return
to the Iron islands, to prevent any further rebellions.”
“You can easily suffocate any child of insurgence from those desolate lands.
No, when a man is hit, it is not the arrow that struck that kills him but the
infection festering from within. Your own men keep you vulnerable.” Howland
felt his seduction wavering under his frustration. “I have told you once and I
will tell you again: your honor will kill you Lord Stark. I will protect you,
but there's almost so much protection I offer you and our children.”
“Theon respects Winterfell and my rule.”
Howland laughed. “When you were fostered, did you once consider yourself a
falcon? A bird of prey instead of the beast that you are?”
Ned said nothing.
“Why believe Theon is any different? Omegas are not as susceptible to pretty
promises and decadent deceptions as you believe. Some of us use our minds as
well as our cunts. We are not here solely for the sake of alphas. We have our
own motivations as well.”
The mood gone, Ned backed away from the supple body. Howland sighed and
attempted to reassure Ned that he meant nothing nefarious. “Love can be bred
for even the worst masters, and you know that Jon is a sweet, good boy. Theon
will be cherished under new instruction, and he will have the North to thank
for it. Imagine him going back to the Iron islands and him witnessing the rape
and raiding. Would you rather have him join, or protest?” Howland walked up to
the older man whose back was now turned. He wrapped his arms around Ned's waist
and sucked on the flesh. The hybrid of air and ice that resided on top of Ned’s
skin was finer than any venison or strawberry tart. Howland could not trail any
higher, and decided that Ned must go down.
“You convinced me to take him over his sister because you reminded me of what
happened to omegas on those islands. Now you intend to use him for your own
purposes.”
“I only ask you to do what is natural,” Howland explained. “He is not a kraken;
he has been weaned by wolves and the milk has turned him into a maiden of the
sea. If you try to hold him with a firm grip of devotion, he will slip out.
There’s a reason the sea beasts went extinct. They went mad, and so the First
Men and those who sing songs of earth had to get rid of them. You cannot fight
insanity with sobriety.”
“I do not want to talk about this. I am not his father; I have no sovereignty
over his being.”
“You act as if you are and then claim you are not. This confuses the boy and
makes him questions his faithfulness. I am trying, Ned, to guarantee the safety
of the children. You and that woman may not see it, for your union is a
travesty, but I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“Catelyn Tully is not meant to lay with you. She is a fish; she is meant to
fill your belly not warm your bed. Her body is soft and ours are hard. She is
prey not predator, and when winter finally comes, she will either die with the
rest of them or swim underneath an ice cage, content with servitude while we,
as hunters, will rule.”
Ned grabbed Howland and pushed him to the bed. “No more talk of this ruling. No
more of this madness, Howland. We spoke about this.”
“Aye, and you ended the conversation before I could convince you. You may be
too far North to see the signs but the world has not been in sync since the
death of the dragons. The towers in the south are crumbling and the cages are
unleashing the grand beasts so that they may fight to see who reigns.
Personally, I intend to see to it that iron melts and a wolf sleeps on bronze.”
Ned had enough. He pushed Howland on the bed and kept a grip on his throat. “No
more. Howland, I will not have your predictions lead us to a war.”
“Not my predictions,” Howland countered softly. He was smiling in spite of the
way his throat constricted by the lost of air. “My son’s. Jojen has the sight.”
“What?”
“He has visions, of days past and of future omens. And his power is far greater
than mine.” Howland was fearless with the hand on his neck, a moment away from
strangulation. Men have pissed themselves for less. “The stag is not meant to
hold the throne, and you know this. I saw you, Ned. When they placed that crown
on Robert’s head, you were terrified of the things to come. But I am telling
you, the lands will die and then be reborn. The stag will fall.”
Ned dragged Howland and flipped him so that his knees rested on the hard floor,
as if he was punishing him for a foul mouth. “What you are saying is treason.”
“When the stag falls,” Howland breathed out as Ned ripped away his
undergarments. “The south will burn, the river will ride on fire and the fishes
will grow legs or they will die. He saw it all.” Howland twisted his head to
kiss Ned’s lips. “We could be together again.”
And by the gods, Ned wanted that. He wanted to fall into the dark abyss of
Howland’s prophecies and allow the destruction to happen. Instead, he undid his
pants and pressed his cock against Howland’s backside. “No,” he growled. “Stop,
Howland, before you do something you regret.”
Howland tightened his grip on the sheets. He laughed at the thought of
regretting anything that would lead him to have Ned again. Ned entered Howland
with the finesse of a boar and Howland craved the roughness. Enjoyed it more
than their gentle love making because he knew that Ned could never fuck Lady
Stark the same way. Knew he thought she was too fragile to withstand his raw
cock and could never experience the sweet burn of an abuse hole.    
While he pounded into Howland’s hole recklessly, he kept a hand interlaced with
Howland’s own. The sensation was sweet, but made Howland moan louder and scream
higher for he had nothing to hold onto when Ned made a particularly hard thrust
against his prostate. He bit the sheets, his arms, anything to keep himself
from crying. It was maddening how Ned was when he had no control, when he split
Howland’s tiny body in half with his large cock and pounded into him until he
was bloated and gaping.
When Ned spilled inside him, he told Howland, “Never again. Never speak of such
treachery again.”
Howland made no promises, and instead, kissed his lover hard enough to bruise
their lips and took a hold of Ned’s lower lip with his teeth. He bit, but not
hard enough to draw blood. He shoved off any attempt of Ned’s soft touches and
comfort for freckles made of bruises. “I can give you your heart’s desire,” he
murmured. “I am the only one who can provide the life you yearn for. What we
always yearned for.”
Ned released him and tossed him onto the bed. He positioned his cock so that it
was touching Howland’s cunt. Howland tipped his head back and waited to be
entered. They heard a noise at the doorway, and immediately, Ned turned around
to face whoever was watching them.
Robb spent hours looking for Jon, and the night was becoming fearsome. He asked
the guards if they had seen him, and they reassured him that Jon had not left
their gates. It was a small reassurance, but one he needed to hear. He could
not bear it if Jon saw to his premature departure by leaving. He would not
survive outside these walls if someone wished to do him harm.
Robb sought Jon throughout the gardens and the halls, asked every available
servant and worker to keep an eye out. When they asked if Jon was missing, Robb
reassured them that they were playing a game. If it got any darker, Robb would
tell the truth. For now, he wanted to be the one who rescued Jon. After he
finished these halls, he would go to the crypt. On his way to the west exist,
he heard animalistic noises coming from his deceased grandmother’s room. He was
told that they were ghosts within these walls, and the child within him could
not help but shiver at the superstition. He peeked for the sake of settling his
suspicions.
“Hmph!” Robb shoved a hand over his own mouth at the sight. He could not
contain his gasp. His father was inside Lord Reed—he was—they were—gods!
Howland was bent over the bed, knees digging into the hard wood and getting
speared by his father’s big cock. No matter how deep his father thrusted inside
or how fast he moved, Howland never screamed a word of protested. He enjoyed
serving his lord; it was his duty to do so and his instead of running his hips
buckled with every thrust. When he was flipped over, Robb saw a glistening
untouched cunt waiting to be plowed.. He could not control himself. He moaned.
Ned charged towards him before he gained the sense to run away. His eyes
widened when he saw his son. “What are you doing here?” He looked over at
Howland, who recovered from his own surprise. "Were you watching us?" 
Robb tried not to tremble. He knew lying to his father was not a possibility,
but the shame of admitting the truth was almost too much to bear. Yet, he
clenched his fist and prepared himself for the deserved punishment.
“I…” He bit his lip. “I lost Jon.”
“What?” Ned’s stern expression became molded with rage. He gripped onto his
oldest son’s shoulders and demanded Robb to explain himself.
“We got into a fight at the hot springs. He…he ran off. I got him angry. I’m so
sorry father!”
Ned brought him closer to him. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know, father!” Robb burned with shame. “I checked the guards, and the
servants. They said they haven’t seen him. He has not left Winterfell; I am
sure of that!”
Ned was not soothed by such declarations. He put on his clothes, and swore a
great punishment after he found his son. “Go to your room, Robb. Do not expect
mercy from me tomorrow.”
Robb shivered but could not defend himself. However, his father chose to punish
him, he would gracefully accept it as his just desserts. If Jon was hurt in
anyway, any punishment less than a beheading was undeserving.
“Jon is not harmed. I would know if he is,” Howland revealed. His confidence
was reassuring. He turned to Robb with an odd gleam in his mind. “But with it
being so dark, I am sure he must be terrified.”
Robb shivered under Lord Reed’s gaze. Howland grinned like a cat who swallowed
a canary whole.
Ned saw nothing but the red of his son’s blood, stranded somewhere in
Winterfell, eyes bawling at the sight of shadows. He left the room in a fury.
Officially alone with Lord Reed, Robb became empathetic with a fly consumed
with the pheromones of flytrap. He could not resist the musk of sex and arousal
that lingered in the room so potent after a rough coupling. He looked up for a
second and regretted. Howland was entrancing with his moonlit green eyes, big
as a child’s but with none of the innocence.
“Come closer, my love. I cannot hear you when you are so far away.” His voice
was like a siren. Robb obeyed and settled for sitting on the cusp of the bed.
Howland joined him side by side, but did not bother to close his robe. Robb was
entranced by the bare flesh. His nipples were hard with arousal. Robb was sure
that if he stood up, there would be a puddle of his father’s cum beneath him.
He tried to look away, but Howland captured his face and forced his stare.
Robb gulped down the coward’s spittle in his throat. “Are you not going to
search for Jon?”
“No,” Howland shook his head. “I know he is safe. The gods have gifted my son
with great guidance—he has never remained lost for long, someone always finds
him.” Howland wrapped an arm around Robb’s shoulder and drew him in closer. He
hummed. “I am grateful for this opportunity. It has been a long time since
we’ve been alone together. You were still suckling on my teats then.”
Robb remembered, much to Old Nan’s claims that he was too young to even
comprehend such an action. “Mother got sick, so you became my wet nurse. I am
thankful.”  
Lord Reed smiled with such fondness, Robb almost believed he could be his son.
His touch served as a healing balm to Robb’s trembles. He made the mistake of
staring at Lord Reed’s ruined body, tender and purple from his father’s
fucking. He was envious that his father had such a thrall in his possession.
Lord Reed craved his father’s touch. Lord Reed would never run away from his
father, because his father was powerful and strong and could provide Lord Reed
with everything he’s ever wanted. Robb was a boy, and Jon saw how pitiful he
was so he left him. His inferiority made Robb more distressed at his actions. 
“I’m scared,” he confessed.
“Why are you scared? I am not angry. Brothers fight. You should have seen the
tussle your father had with your Uncle Brandon at the Tourney of Harrenhal, or
when Benjen impregnated me with my lovely Meera. He was burning with jealousy.”
Howland laughed, and the melodious nature lightened the Robb’s heart immensely.
Still, he could not stifle his concern.
“I…It is my fault Jon is not with us anymore. I scared him off by…by being very
rough with him. He was so beautiful—I wanted us to be like you and father. I
acted foolishly. I don’t understand why he…he is supposed to be mi…” The words
died on his lips. He turned to Howland with wide eyes filled with fear. “Do you
think he will hate me?”
Howland took Robb’s hand, the one that was applying pressure to Robb’s sore
skin. He allowed him to touch his flesh, brush his finger against Howland’s
nipples and drift slowly down the finger shaped bruises on his belly button to
his smooth groin where he dropped the hand. Robb did not have the sense to
retreat and let it rest on Lord Reed’s thigh. There was a thin layer of sweat
on his skin. The moistness reminded Robb of Jon’s soaked flesh beneath his
hands. He was growing hard.
“Jon has a forgiving heart when it comes to his family. If you say sorry, I’m
sure he will accept your apology.” He leaned closer to Robb and removed the
concerns from his heart. “What motivated your actions?”
“I…” The words could not leave Robb’s mouth. “I…” A sudden wave of entitlement
washed over Robb has he remembered the lull of Jon’s sweet cunt, and the way
his body squirmed around Robb’s churning fingers. Jon was his, he repeated in
his mind over and over, since the day Jon’s name made way to his consciousness.
“Jon is mine,” he whispered. “Jon belongs to me,” he said out loud, to support
his actions to himself.
“He does,” lulled Howland, his words thickened the air as if Robb was swimming
in a vat of honey. “He is my gift to you and your father. But you must earn him
before you can receive him.” He rested his hand on Robb’s cock. “Do you deserve
him, Robb?”
Robb shook as the chills overcame him. “I….I did not think he would be angry.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“His body wants me,” Robb revealed. “He desires me. I desire him.”
“But you deserve his supple body underneath yours? Do you think you are worthy
to have his innocence sheath your cock, that you can fuck him against the walls
of Winterfell and have his cunt clench around you like there was nothing more
to his being than to be your whore? What warrants you to believe that Jon is
meant to be by your side, sharing his wisdom and his services only to you?”
Robb was taken back by the question he had no answers to. He attempted to leap
off the bed but was pulled back by Howland’s grip. Robb laid on the bed where
his father planned to devour his lover, and he was helpless. He could not run
away.
“Tell me, Robb. Why should I give my son to you? Someone who steals from his
host after he nourished your aching body with his kindness and love?” Howland
dipped his face lower so that strands of his hair touched Robb’s cheeks and he
could almost taste the flowers on Howland’s breath.
“I don’t…” He panicked. “I…no,” he confessed. “I don’t deserve him…no.” A sob
trailed after his revelation. Howland sighed; his disappointment in the young
heir hurt more than the time Theon jabbed his wooden sword into Robb’s stomach
and gave him splinters. He would do anything to rectify the regret. Howland got
up from the bed and declared he would leave Robb to his own thoughts.
 “But…but I love him!” He shouted. “I would do anything to have him!”
Howland was in the middle of tying up his robe when Robb made his declaration.
Howland turned around and let the tie hang loose. He walked over to him.
“Anything?”
“Anything,” Robb nodded. “I won’t…I won’t hurt him again. I promise! I could
not control myself because I did not expect him to be so beautiful. I will do
anything to protect him. He is my brother and I love him and I will give him
anything his heart desires!”
Howland returned to the bed. “What if he wanted your heart? What if all he
wants is your love and respect?”
“He can have it,” Robb swore. “On my honor as a Stark, the lands of Winterfell,
and may the Old Gods and the New hear me, I swear to make sure Jon wants
nothing in this world.”
Howland kissed Robb’s forehead. “You are such a sweet boy. And such a good
brother.”
Robb preened with pride.
“You must promise me one more thing.”
“Anything,” he repeated.
“You are your father’s son, so you will put your honor and duty above all else.
But you must never, ever, on your life and on Jon’s, place it above your love
for my child.”
The request was strange, but Robb found it fitting for a mother to ask. His
father warned him about making vows at such young an age—no one knew where he
would be a decade’s time. However, he knew that he could never hurt someone as
lovely as Jon in the future, especially if he grew up as faithful and
enchanting as Lord Reed.
“I promise,” Robb vowed. He saw Lord Reed relaxed in relief, and he, himself,
was grateful for the opportunity to be friends again with the lord of the Neck.
He asked Lord Reed, with a shy glance at his healing body, if Jon would become
as beautiful as him.
 “A mother will claim all her children to be beauties, but I assure you that
Jon shall be a desirable as an oasis to a marooner in Dorne.”
Robb grinned, for he would love Jon even if his skin was inflicted with
greyscale or if he was missing an arm and a leg, but the thought of his
delicate frame resting on his bed for years to come made him gleeful. He would
encourage the envy of every Northern lord and their grandfathers and grandsons
to come.
“It will not be hard for you or your father to arrange a suitable match for
him,” Howland suggested, keeping his teasing audible but not so heavy Robb
thought it was outside the realm of possibility. “Despite the poverty of my
home, there were plenty of young men who were willing to forgo a dowry when I
made my appearance at Harrenhal.”
Robb’s head snapped up at the new knowledge. He thought Howland had remained
faithful to his father. Howland gently stroked the boy’s cheek. “I refused them
all, of course.” Much to their chagrin, and they expressed their disapproval
with threats against his maidenhood. He should have killed them. “I only had
eyes for your father, even before I met him, I was his.”
Robb was enraptured by the romance. He could not allow Jon to be sold off to a
man who would not appreciate him. Jon would stay with him. Robb was positive
that Jon and Robb’s birth was an act of the gods hoping to recover the past
through their bodies. He loved his mother, but Howland was his father’s
soulmate. Jon was destined for him in the same regard.  
“I need to apologize to Jon,” Robb whispered. He repeated the sentiment to
Howland out loud. He said they needed to find him before his father did, or
else he would never forgive him! “Please, Lord Reed. Help me find my brother
before my father brings him here, and demand I apologize. He will think my
feelings of shame are an act!”
“What do you think I can do?” Howland asked with a cold stare and a vicious
grin. Robb shivered, but he held the resolve of his parents when discussing
family and piety.
“You know Jon is safe. I think you possess the ability to find him. I heard
rumors about your…abilities.”
“What rumors?” Howland laid his body on the bed, dedicated to the comforts of
his own being. He did not seem insulted by Robb’s accusation, but amused. “What
do these green girls and boys from the South say about me, when they believed
the moss covers my ears and the rubbing of vines are too loud to listen?”
For Jon, Robb thought as entered the cave where the gluttonous dragon lived,
the one who feasted on boys’ fears and the hearts of little girls; a tongue
dripping in threats and promises. He will bear any indignity and face any
obstacle to receive Jon’s forgiveness.
“They call you the Witch of Winterfell,” Robb began. “They said you bewitched
my mother on your last visit and made her sick. She…tried to kill herself
because of you.” He corrected himself. “What I mean is, I heard them say that
you casted a curse on her. And that you…you enchanted my father into loving
you. They said you breathed in the soul of vixen and carried the tongue of
snake, and that my father was seduced by your body.”
"What else?"
"I...I heard you were an enchanter. You possessed my father with a spirit
incarnated of lust and debauchery, and use spells to control the flowers and
the leaves."
"I suppose I must practice black magic as well."
Robb nodded.  
Howland tipped his head to the side. He crawled over to Robb. “Do you believe
them?”
He did and he did not. “I believe your love for my father is genuine and his to
you. Do you believe my love for Jon is real?”
Howland smiled a line of secrets. “I do.” He stroked Robb’s cheek and whispered
in his ear, “Bring me that box over there, the one covered in bones and blue
beads. It will have what you want.”
Robb dashed to the desired object. He held up the item that resembled the
description and turned to Lord Reed, who nodded. Lord Reed opened the box and
revealed an etui with a pinch’s worth of black needles. They were the smallest
needles he had ever seen but fit well within Howland’s fingers.
“Give me your hand, Robb.”
Robb did not hesitate to show his palm.
Howland pricked his pointer with one of them, and then used the same device to
piece his own skin. Howland pressed the injured parties together and then
sucked on the mixture. He whispered the language made of nymphs and satyrs, and
kissed Robb on the lips.
Robb witnessed Jon cradled by a cloak of red leaves burning underneath the
moonlight sky where birds made of stars dropped onto his skin whenever a shiver
rolled over his body. Jon’s face was covered with black streaks, a trail of
teardrops representing Robb’s betrayal against his being. A pool separated
them, and whenever Robb attempted to cross, a blue fish jumped out of the steam
and attempted to bite off his toes. Robb prevailed in spite of such obstacle,
and a raven the size of his body dashed forward with the branches of a weirwood
following him.
The vision ended. When reality invaded the realms of fantasy and Robb retreated
to his home, he took a step back, horrified by the sight. Howland was amused.
He asked Robb if everything was alright and before he could answer, perhaps
question the sorcery, Ned Stark entered the room.
“I can’t find him. I am calling the guards. Robb, I told you to go to your
room. I will deal with you later—”
“I know where he is,” Robb whispered. His body was shivering from the
aftershocks. He repeated his statement again, out loud. “I know where Jon is.”
He left the room in a hurry, and spared no glance to his father and his lover.
Ned was too stunned to give chase. He turned to Howland who sucked his finger
under a guile of innocence. “All is well,” he promised his lord. “Come to bed
with me, and tomorrow we shall see our sons and daughters again in feast."
"Jon--"
"Robb will find him. He will repent for his sins, but not tonight.”
“Has Robb revealed his indiscretions?”
Howland hummed. “No, you raised a boy who is willful, but not a fool, though.
He knows better than to repeat his mistakes.” He returned to his undressed
state by removing his robe. “His heart is heavy after his sins. He will beg Jon
for forgiveness.”
“You are rather forgiving.” Ned narrowed his eyes, for their time together had
made him disillusioned with the existence of Howland’s mercy. “Where is Jon?”  
“Jon is where he needs to be, and I bear no ill will towards my son’s
disappearance.” He paused. “It is Robb’s impulses that I find issue with.”
Howland knew none of the details but he can infer that Robb took an invitation
that Jon was not ready to give—he would press Jon for more information later.
“But after tonight, Robb understands that not even you, Lord Stark, can save
him from my wrath if he harms our child again.”
Robb dashed to the godswoods. The song of night skies and snowdrops took him to
the weirwood tree where Jon rested, curled up beside a stone with the grass
along the pool tickling him. Robb touched his cheek and pulled back. There were
ice blades warmer that Jon’s flesh. In a flurry, he undid his fur cloak and
wrapped it around his brother. When Jon did not wake, Robb was frozen in fear.
He tried shaking him. Then, his younger brother let out a puff of breath to
prove his vitality, and Robb was relived. He carried Jon on his back to their
bedroom. The guards saw them. One warned him not to play so late at night—one
of them could have gotten hurt.
Back in their den, Robb wrapped Jon’s body in all the furs and cloaks he could
find. He took some out of his own room next door. Soon, the whimpers of frost
turned into happy purrs. Content with his new surroundings, Jon opened his eyes
and saw Robb bustling about, contemplating if he should grab a robe from the
wardrobe or order the servants to bring another.
“What are you doing?” Jon asked. He yawned and fought the shutting of his lids.
They were so heavy.
“I am getting you warm. You were sleeping in the godswoods. You might have
gotten a fever.” Robb could not help himself. “That was stupid. You should have
returned to your room.”
“I was angry at you. You laid your hands on me when I did not ask you to.
Mother says that you can’t do that.”
“You’re my little brother,” Robb muttered. He should be able to do what he
wanted. Nonetheless, he returned the robe to the hanger. He walked towards Jon
who tried to move but could only squirm in his cocoon of wool and fur. “I’m
sorry,” he apologized. “I did not mean to scare you. Since I’ve learned about
your existence, your companionship is the only thing that can provide me joy. I
swore to your mother and I swear to you, I will only ever act in your own
wellbeing. I want us to be confidents, for you to whisper your secrets in my
ear while grasping my hands for support. I want to confide my love in you. You
matter more than the skies and the lakes and the earth where wolves roam.”  
Jon was moved by the confession, for he was happy Robb loved him so
desperately. Jon cared for Robb as well, and understood that he could not spoil
him with forgiveness. “I will not accept your apology today,” Jon replied. “For
I am still angry with you.” Tomorrow, maybe.
Robb nodded. He was disappointed by the lack of clemency, but agreed to his
sentence. Tomorrow, he would pick flowers for Jon, and ask Gage to make him
lemon cakes or orange cream. He moved to return to his own room.
“Wait!”
Robb stopped.
Jon was still covered in blankets. He rolled to his side and unraveled his
covers. “Tonight is very cold.” He blushed a rose red. “You’re already here and
we…We could warm each other up…if you are so inclined to spending time with
me…”
“Yes!” Robb agreed. He practically ripped off his shirt and kept only his
pants. The eagerness turned his rosy glow into a red rash. He thought of
protesting but Robb was already unwrapping Jon like a present from the gods. He
enveloped his arms around Jon’s small frame and kept him close to snuggle.
Jon’s reflex was to curl like a kitten in his arms. Despite being upset, he
enjoyed Robb’s protective stance around him; the makeshift enclosure he formed
to keep their bond steady. Robb wondered if he should suggest undressing but
understood that was boundary too great for him to cross.  
Before they went to sleep, Robb slipped his hands underneath Jon’s shirt and
tried not to pinch those adorable tits. His fingers kept snapping like a crab
when they went near his chest. He resolved to massage Jon’s skin while they
slept—he figured the gentle rubs would lull Jon to sleep. After a few minutes,
Jon turned around so that they were face to face. Robb was worried about the
upcoming reprimand, but instead received a larger armful of Jon. Jon was sound
asleep. His lips were dry and rested on Robb’s chest.
Robb resisted kissing him. He imagined the first time their lips would touch to
be when they were both awake. Jon would have his eyes closed and his lips would
be barely parted, puckered and pink.  Instead, he maneuvered one of Jon’s legs
around Robb’s hips and kept a firm grasp on his backside. He had the prettiest
hole if Robb remembered correctly. He wondered if it would be as wet if he
wasn’t in the water.
When Jon woke up the next morning, he could not comprehend the reason behind
his loose bones and delight that made his body sing. Robb was by his side,
cradling his body like gold. He felt sticky. He turned around to inspect the
cause, but ended up awakening Robb who removed their limbs from their knotted
embrace. He asked why Jon chose to woke up at such an ungodly hour to which Jon
responded by turning on his stomach and flicking his feet up and down in a
playful manner.
“I like waking up early. It’s the only time in the world where a person can be
alone.”
Robb stared at the way Jon’s legs seemed to bounce on the air. He remembered
them wrapped around him yesterday, and wondered what else he could manipulate
to have those beautiful bowlegs against him again. “You like being alone?”
“I like having my own privacy,” Jon confessed. “In the Neck, there’s always
someone watching. That’s why we can keep secrets from the world but never each
other.”
Robb got up. “Winterfell is full of places to collect your thoughts, Jon!
You’ll love it here!”
“I hope so.” Jon got on his hands and knees and crawled over to Robb. “If you
behave for the rest of the week, I’ll tell father I want to stay.”
“I thought you were always going to stay?”
Jon shook his head. “Father gave me the option to leave if I do not like it
here.”
Robb stilled. That was news to him. His father told him that Jon was staying
with him until he finished adulthood. The answer was vague, and so when he
asked, Lord Stark merely replied that he wanted to secure a good future for Jon
in case of his death. Maester Luwin informed him that meant marriage, as well
as a number of things, but Robb brushed the idea off. Jon would not be marrying
anybody until Robb was old enough to have a say in the decision.
“I’m sorry,” Robb told him again. “It is tomorrow already. Do you forgive me
now?”
“What world do you live in that forgiveness is granted upon request?”
“The world in which I am the Stark heir.”
Jon tried not to laugh. “You cannot gain forgiveness with time and demand. It
needs to be earned.”
Jon needed to be earned. Forgiveness needed to be earned. People kept telling
him that, but they fail to mention what he needed to do to acquire the income.
Robb pulled Jon on top of him. He squealed in surprise. “Robb!”
“Forgive me, and I’ll take such good care of you,” Robb swore. He tightened his
grip around him and felt his breath on his neck. “Every year Lord Manderly
sends us gifts from the ports, ceramics with decorations of birds and flowers
from the Vale, silks from Volantis, citruses as big as your head, silver cuffs
and rings from their mines. The Umbers give us wool as thick as a brick,
imagine a sheep as fluffy as a cloud on your shoulders, and the ironwood given
to us by the Forrester make the finest furniture in the land.” He stroked Jon’s
backside. “Stay with me and you will want nothing.”
Jon maneuver himself so that he faced Robb, who rested underneath him. “You are
forgetting, Robb, you are not Lord Stark yet.”
“Yet,” Robb repeated. “But I will be. And when I am Lord of Winterfell and
Warden of the North, it will be forbidden for anybody to make you cry.” He
hesitated. “Even me.”
Jon stared at him for the longest time, perhaps measuring the strength of his
resolve through the endurance of his gaze. Then he smiled, and thanked him.
“But I still don’t forgive you,” he stated before kissing Robb on the cheek and
racing away from him.
Robb was taken back by the declaration. He got up and saw Jon rummaging through
his wardrobe, completely in awe of the new items. Some were Sansa’s secondhand
wears, feminine articles that Arya despised and would not take for herself.
Others belonged to his late aunt, and were already dusted for freshness. A few
were new. Robb remembered his father being in a rush to get to the Neck, and
asked Sansa to find a few pieces she thought her little brother would like.
Sansa could not defy her father, and would hold to that excuse when asked about
her loyalties. Robb knew she enjoyed the activity—she loved looking through the
silks and patterned wool, muttering to herself about what her brother would
look good in. She only knew his coloring. He remembered her crying in her room.
“What if he hates what I picked out? What if he thinks I have no taste?” There
was a shawl knitted in her room that Sansa could not bear to give to her older
brother, because she thought it was too silly with its yarn flowers and button
accents.
Jon snapped him out his thoughts by asking if a dress would be too much for
breakfast. “I’ve always wanted to wear one—my mother has a few of them from his
southern travels. Long and flowy cottons in blue, grey, and green.  I tried
them on but they didn’t fit.”
Robb supposed it would be too dirty and inconvenient to dress like Sansa in the
Neck, with all the mud and lizard lions to outrun. Jon asked if male omegas
wore dresses in Winterfell.
“The ones who work in the domestic sphere sometimes do. I’ve seen others wear
them for special occasions. Nothing too extravagant, not like the southerners
in the Reach or the Crownlands.”
“Oh.” Jon sounded disappointed. He put the dress back and looked for something
subtle. Robb quickly rectify his mistake.
“But you can wear anything you wish! I’m sure you’ll look lovely in a dress.”
Jon looked unconvinced. “I think I’ll wear pants today. I don’t want to stand
out right now. The people here must find me odd.”
Robb denied the notion. “You are beautiful, Jon. It is only fair that you wear
worthy of your being!” He thought for a second, and then decided on another
approach. “Besides, father has gotten you all these pretty dresses and skirts.
Sansa picked some of them out as well. You will only disappoint them if you
arrive in your usual wears. They will think you didn’t like them.”
The suggestion surprised Jon. He would hate to disappoint his father and new
sister. He took out a charcoal, cotton gown, perfect for a morning tea, and
admired the beading on the front. He took another one out, a smoky blue dress,
the color of Prussian cat, and traced his hands over the long sleeves. He never
wore anything so many layers and fluff. 
“Which one do you prefer?” he asked.
“The blue one used to be Sansa’s. I think she’ll appreciate your shared
tastes.”
Jon grinned, and worked to get undressed. Before he could undo his pants, he
spared a suspicious glance towards Robb who was staring.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
“What?”
“Turn around. You can’t control yourself.”
“I teased you once!”
“You’ve only known me for one day! Besides, you’re being punished,” Jon
protested. “Turn around.”
Robb grumbled something indistinguishable, but did as commanded. “What else
will my punishment entail?”
Jon thought for a moment. “We will not be taking any baths together until you
are forgiven. And when you show me around Winterfell, you need to take my
brother and sister with us. They’ll be our chaperones.”
“A chaperone?” They were not children!
“Father said I need to protect my chastity against deviants,” Jon impishly
revealed. He went back to dressing himself, repeating his earlier command for
privacy. “Which reminds me, you are no longer allowed to touch me.”
Robb groaned with the drama of an actress. He fell back onto the sheets in
petulance. “Was that why you were allowed me to sleep with you? So that the
torture was worst now that I’ve had a taste?”
“Stop the theatrics,” Jon instructed. He continued dressing himself.
When Jon was not paying attention, he sneaked another peek at Jon’s fair skin
and the curve of the ass he played with all night. Jon threw on the dress and
asked for Robb’s opinion. Robb turned away and asked with faux belligerence if
he was allowed to look.
“Of course,” Jon stated, amused by the behavior. He walked over to Robb, and
revealed his new garment. The color looked marvelous on his body, made his skin
glow like the moon floating on a pool. The top was a bit tight, but the
pressure made Jon’s chest come together, creating an alluring curve.
“You’re stunning,” Robb whispered in awe. Jon grinned and lent out his hand.
Robb took it and pulled himself up, tipping Jon forward with his weight. Robb
caught him. He basked in joy at the weight in his arms. He let go after a few
moments of struggles from Jon’s part.
Jon shoved him away, pouted his pretty, pretty lips, and told Robb to get
dressed. Before he left for his room, he grabbed Jon’s arm. “Wait for me,” Robb
requested.
Jon bit down the nervous quiver in his lips, before nodding.
“Robb?”
Robb turned around.
“I still get to touch you.”
They were the last to arrive at the breakfast table. Robb kept a firm grasp
around Jon’s waist and asked if he wanted to sit on his lap. Jon giggled and
ran to his father’s side instead. He happily placed his bottom on his father’s
thighs. Robb frowned and turned away. He controlled himself from grumbling. He
would rather not alert his father’s annoyance.
“I see you two made up,” noted Ned, who was cutting up his son’s sausage link.
Jon nodded. He bit the piece and chirped in happiness. “What creature is this?”
“Pork.”
Jon stared.
“That is a pig,” Howland stated. “You saw them on the journey, when we visited
that tavern near the bushes shaped like rabbits. Do you remember?”
“The pink creatures!”
“Yes," Howland smiled. "They’re very delicious. A lot of fat so they’re good to
eat for the winter. You’ll see them when you visit the livestock.”
Jon remained in awe. “Dry lands are incredible. You can breed your own meat and
always have food at hand. And your pelts are so soft and warm. Not rough like
lizard leather, or as thin as leaf skin.”
Howland and Ned shared a smile, and the older man placed an affectionately
stroked his son’s hair. Catelyn watched them with no small amount of
irritation. It took all her strength to come to breakfast. She would not have
Howland chase her out of her routines, nor would she allow the bastard to make
her feel unwelcome. She narrowed her eyes at his choice of clothing.
“Is that Sansa’s dress?”
Sansa picked her head up to stare. Indeed, her mother was correct in her
assessment. Jon was wearing her dress, a plain, dainty number with misshaped
blossoms on the hem, and a blue that lost its original color. She outgrew it
years ago and had wanted to give it to Arya, who could not sew to save her
life. Arya hated its girlishness, though, and hated its poofy nature with all
the layers and waves.
Jon did not share her sentiments. He played with the bottom for a bit and
grinned, so happily one might think she presented him with silks embedded with
diamonds. “I really like it. I hope you’re not upset I’ve taken your dress.”
Catelyn turned her gaze on her oldest daughter. Sansa looked down at her plate
to avoid either person’s stare. “It’s fine. I have no purpose for it anymore.
It doesn’t fit.”
“Thank you, Sansa!” Jon cheerful replied made Sansa blush. She would not say
that she was happy he enjoyed her gift, for it was old and a hundred times
worn—not a worthy gift in the slightest. She thought, at best, he would tell
her it was nice and never wear it. The both resumed their meal. With the crisis
averted, Howland continued to talk to Arya, who sat beside Howland, listening
to him talk about skinning snakes and sucking on their flesh.
“What do snakes taste like?”
“Well after you drain the blood and cook the meat, the texture reminds me of
chicken, a bit stringier and with more bones. The taste, however, is mild—like
a light fish. Depending on the breed, you might be able to taste something
sweet as sea urchins or as salty as pork."
Arya grinned. “If I go to the Neck will you capture some for me?”
Catelyn was about to dismiss the possibility of her traveling to that
godforsaken environment. Howland countered her request with a suggestion of
his own. “If you go to the Neck, I will teach you how to hunt and cook them
yourself. A girl should know how to hold a spear. My children were half your
age when they held their first gig.”
Arya almost shrieked in delight. She told Howland she could not wait until she
was old enough to travel South. She heard Greywater Watch moved every second of
the days and nights, and there were flowers bigger than her in the swamps. She
was so excited she could barely breathe.
Bran shared the same sentiment for an entirely different reason. He was
snuggled between two alphas who took turns feeding him like a doll. They kept
fighting on who got to keep him in their laps so they agreed to share him.
“Would you like some more sausage, Bran?” Meera held up another piece.
Bran shook his head.
“He is probably too full. You overfed him. Here, Bran, have some milk.” Jojen
held the cup to his lips.
Bran took a sip and choked a little when it went the wrong way.
“You gave him too much! He can’t breathe!”
Bran let Meera wipe away the dribble running down his cheek.
Jojen took out some candy in his pocket. He said it would cure his stomachache
and that his sister would never be so mindful to his wellbeing. Meera denied
such notions, going so far to say that Bran would never go hungry because she
knew how to hunt. Bran took the candy, and thanked the both of them.
They would have bickered forever if Benjen did not stop their nonsensical
behavior. “Bran is only three. He can barely form sentences let alone declare
his love for his favorite cousin. Stop it.”
Both of them grumbled and soften their touches with Bran. They continued to
kiss and stroke his skin throughout the meal. Despite the rough treatment, Bran
basked in the attention. He was worried that when Jon came, he would lose the
special treatment he received as Lord Stark’s male omega. The thought never
crossed his mind with all the love he received from his cousins. He wished they
could stay forever.
Chapter End Notes
     1. It took way too long to write a chapter this short. I can't wait
     to write the next chapter. When I was writing this, all I could think
     was: I got to get to the next chapter. I can only get to the next
     chapter once I finished this chapter. Let's do this.
     2. Four years of Catholic school made me obsess with finding
     loopholes in religion. In the ASOIAF, the old gods frowned against
     bastardy as well as the new gods. So I wondered about that. The Old
     Faith was originated by the children of the forest. What did they
     consider to be marriage? What did they consider to be bastards,
     considering they didn’t have family names? I made the artistic leap
     that ‘bastardy’ was a poor translation by the First Men of ‘don’t
     abandon your children, you assholes’—not necessarily children out of
     wedlock.
     3. I have a thing for boys in pretty dresses.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 Before they left for the crypts, Howland pulled Jon and Meera’s hair back with
ribbons. Jon received a black strip of silk that made Robb swoon. He reached
out to touch him, but was met with a discrete swat. Jon covered his mouth when
he saw Robb’s shocked expression. The boy growled and turned away, utterly
affronted by the action. Jon tried not to laugh at his older brother.
Thankfully, the boy had the sense not to cause a scene. Following his
rejection, Jon hopped over to his father. Lord Stark complied to his cry for
attention by giving him a kiss on top of curly hair and telling him that he was
as lovely as his mother. It was the highest regard he could give anyone.
For Meera, Howland granted her a strip of green velvet that matched her eyes.
She asked Bran if she was pretty, and he giggled. He called her “beautiful”
with his own jumbled pronunciation. The act made Jojen jealous, and he
responded by demanding a ribbon for himself.
“No!” Meera whined. She turned to her parents. “Mother! Father! Don’t give him
one! He’s only doing it to spite me!”
“Not true! I want to be pretty, too!” Jojen protested. He turned to Bran and
said, “I want to look nice for Bran.”
Meera clenched her fist. Her brother was the only person who could upset her.
“Your hair is not even long enough to use one!”
Jojen’s resolve did not falter. He said that he would “wear it around his neck”
and asked Bran if he thought it was a good idea. Meera countered that he would
look stupid. The toddler, so overwhelmed by the alphas’ furies, scampered off
to his mother’s arms. The woman glared. She ordered the maid beside her to get
a ribbon for Jojen. Ned certainty bought enough for Howland’s beloved children
that they could afford to share. Bran shivered, and she whispered a comforting
phrase to keep him calm.
“Septa Mordane is in the next room having her lunch. She always has a few on
hand.” Then, Catelyn turned to the youngest Reeds.  “I would ask you two to
cease your belligerence. I will not allow for any alpha posturing to upset my
son.”
Jojen and Meera had the decency to look ashamed. Howland wondered if their
fighting had something to do with them being alphas—they never had any
competition with Jon—or if it was a result of Bran’s proximity. While neither
of them were close to rutting, the two have been quite taken with the boy since
their arrival. Though, Howland was worried about whether this would affect
their relationship in the future, he was soon cleared of his concerns.
The serving girl who was given the order hesitated to move. Though it was a
mere moment, Howland witnessed the brief disturbance in her eyes when she
casted her gaze on top of Jojen, and her mouth twitched the slightest bit
downwards. He had seen a familiar reaction from many people—from those heretics
that worshipped knighted icons and human gods, to the Northerners who valued
warriors bearing steel instead of the cleverness of a wide eyed archer. 
“Is there something the matter?” Howland insinuated. 
The girl was alarmed. “No, milord.”
“Then why do you not move?”
The girl looked to Lady Stark for assistance, but was met with a raised
eyebrow. “Is there a problem?” Lady Catelyn had her hands full with a babe in
one arm and toddler underneath the other. She did not need a reminder of how
unmotivated the staff had become to her demands, and she did not need proof of
her own loyalists’ incompetence.
“No, milady. I simply thought that because Jojen was an alpha boy, he would
be…”
“What would he be?” Howland’s charm slipped away from him as towers of defense
arrived in their stead. “He is an alpha, like my daughter. And he is a boy,
like my son. Why is he not allowed to dress like his brother and sister? What
is strange about that?”
The girl squeaked a bit. She was very new; a transfer from Deepwood Motte. “I-
I apologize. I will get the ribbon.” She walked past by Howland who grabbed her
wrist before she could escape.
“Do you disapprove of the way I raise my son?”
“No, milord!” But she did, and the disgust that twinkled in her eyes was as
clear as crystal to Howland. “It’s just that in the North, alpha men do
not…well…such things are…” She was on the verge of tears. “Ribbons are for
omegas, milord. And girls. Male alphas don’t wear them here.”
Howland tightened his grip. “Why does that matter?”
The girl struggled to find the words. Her wrist hurt. “Because…it is known that
…strange proclivities are to occur if they engage in such behaviors, milord.”
The chill that presented itself earlier now invaded the entire room. No one but
Ned noticed Benjen’s grimace. His face tightened and his wrinkles dug as deep
as ditches when such proclivities were mentioned. Everyone was aware, however,
that the offense would not go untouched by Howland. The fate of the girl would
not end in a field of daisies but by a pile of worms.
“Is that so?” he asked. “You were hesitant to give my son a ribbon, the nephew
of your lord and the possible heir of the Neck, because you were afraid that he
would be infected with such afflictions?”
The girl attempted to respond, but couldn’t. Her throat filled with her own
saliva. The liquid clogged into a sensation as thick as mud, and it tasted like
death in her mouth. She could not speak. She could not cry for help. Ned hissed
at Howland that the girl meant no harm. “She is simply repeating what she has
heard.”
Howland did not care. He asked the girl, “Tell me again about the dangers of a
ribbon? Tell me why I should fear it?”
The girl started coughing. Rickon wailed, for his mother was shaking so much
that she could do nothing else. In terror, she got to her feet and announced
her departure. She took Rickon in her arms and grabbed Sansa’s wrist, whose
eyes were wide and rightfully terrified. She tried to take Bran away but he was
enraptured by the scene. He refused to move. He was staring off someplace, but
his attention was not on the serving girl, or Howland. The fact served as a
factor to her leaving without him. Howland would never hurt Ned’s children, she
reassured herself, he was safe there.
Jojen interrupted the girl’s unfortunate experience by retracting his desire.
He denied ever wanting the ribbon. “I only wanted one because Meera had one,”
he confessed, confirming Meera’s earlier claim. “I don’t like ribbons.”
Howland did not acknowledge him. He held his grip on the girl’s wrist. She was
bound to bruise tomorrow, if her lungs did not give out. Jojen pleaded with his
mother. “Mother, I don’t want it.” Jojen saw a trail of dead bodies in his
dream, and he knew his mother would be involved in the graveyard’s
construction. He did not want this premonition to come true. “Mother,” Jojen
pleaded. He looked to his favorite cousin, whose eyes were focused on something
in the air. Jojen thought it was curious that he would stare at dust in the air
than the choking woman. Unless, he could see the sparks of green and gold, but
that was impossible. It was one thing to see the results of magic, but another
to witness the actual force.
Jojen was taken back when the possibility hit him. No, Jojen thought, that
would make Bran a…. “Mother,” he petitioned again, with more force this time
around. “Mother, Bran is watching.” The address of outsiders made Howland’s
focus falter, and the girl was released from his hold. She gasped for any
pockets of air she could saver. Howland let go of the girl’s hand and told her
to leaven and make herself useful. She was no more than dressing on the wall at
this point. The girl all but ran out, and from afar, they could hear her
bursting into tears. She would moan about this for days’ end.
Meera, heavy with concern, abandoned her previous stance. She undid the ribbon
in her hair and tied it around Jojen’s neck. Jojen repeated his sentiment. “I
don’t want it.”
“Neither do I,” she lied. She made a perfect bow. “There, now you can be
pretty. Right, Bran?”
Bran, empathetic to the change in temperament, peeked over at Jojen’s neck. He
saw the emerald adorned on Jojen’s skin and smiled. “Pretty,” he told them. He
reached out to touch the velvet on Jojen’s neck and giggled at the softness. He
acted as if he never saw the entire incident.
Jojen took his hand and kissed his fingers. “Thank you, Bran. You’re very
pretty as well.” He turned to his sister and kissed her. “And Meera is the
prettiest.”
Meera grinned. “Thank you—ooh!”
Jon sprung out of his father’s arms and tackled his little sister to the
ground. While she protested the rough treatment with threats and complaints,
Jon grabbed her hair. She tried to fight him off but he was bigger than her and
stronger. She wondered why her mother and father did not stop him until she
felt her hair being held back by a familiar object.
“You can have my ribbon!” Jon offered. He moved over to lie on his back, the
cold of the dining room floor was unwelcoming, but he liked it better than
sitting after a fight. Meera was shocked, but recovered quickly with giggles of
her own. She told him he should have just given to her, to which he pointedly
responded that she would have never taken it if it was not forced upon her.
The puppy pile grew when Jojen walked over, Bran in hand to lie with his older
siblings. Bran eyes were wide and curious, for he was never allowed to lie down
on the kitchen floor! It was too dirty. As if reading his thoughts, Jojen
promised that Bran would not get dirty because he would be lying on top of him.
Bran wanted to refuse, but then Arya, bold and vivacious Arya, jumped into the
pack in hopes of joining their bonding moment. Bran was dragged alongside her
and all together, on the floor, rested a group of children, cuddling like feral
dogs. Theon called them all childish, but he sat beside Robb who was looking at
them with definite envy. Robb remembered what Jon said, and he decided to stay
put. He met Jon’s eye and the boy looked impressed. He moaned a little and the
noise rose Robb’s hackles. He then complained that Meera jabbed him in the
stomach and giggled when Robb glared.
Ned would have words with all of them at this point, but Howland was still
fuming. Benjen reached Lord Reed before Ned did. He comforted Howland by
muttering reassurances of his own. “The girl meant no harm,” and “That’s just
the way the world is.”
Howland lashed out of him. “So I should just allow her to continue her
ignorance? What if my son hears such foolishness? What about his happiness
then?” He growled at him. “You of all people should not how unacceptable it is,
to have those values forced upon a child.”
To their credit, they spoke in hisses and whispers, as husbands and wives do
for the sake of their children. Ned found Jojen’s envy contagious. Ned was
reminded that Benjen was Howland’s husband. True, they stopped sharing a bed
with each other, but they would always have their children, and they would
share the Neck for years to come. Benjen learned secrets in his time there,
secrets that outsiders like Ned could never be privy to.
Ned was shameful of his resentment. He brought it upon himself when he accepted
Lord Tully’s proposal, and he had no right to clench his fist whenever Meera or
Jojen called Benjen ‘father.’ He had no reason to be envious of Benjen and
Howland. These were the two people in the world whose love for him was
paramount to any other.
He went forward to them and announced that they should head to the crypts. They
have a long day ahead of them. He wanted to show the children the glass gardens
afterwards, and then the godswoods. He also discussed taking them to the hot
springs if they had time. Benjen gave Howland a hopeful look. Ned finally
soothed the dragon by declaring he would talk to the maids about the issue, as
well as any who served under him that such talk was not allowed. He promised
Howland and kissed his hands—an act of fidelity reserved for a king.
Howland agreed. He got up and collected his children. He asked if all of them
were ready for the tour and they chimed in agreement. Arya grabbed Jon’s hand
and hauled him towards their location, only slowing down when commanded. Meera
and Jojen grasped onto Bran’s little fingers, each other them by his side.
 Robb and Theon were standing behind them. Theon went along for the sake of not
being abandoned. Ned asked Ser Cassel to pardon his son from his lessons, and
that meant Theon would be left alone. He did not like how the alphas treated
him—like a traitor, or worst, a piece of meat. They wrestled with him too
personally for someone of his standing. Theon was the son of a high lord! He
was supposed to marry well and give birth to a bunch of pretty babes! Not
wallow in their pig shit.
Down below, the crypts were musty with history, and dusty with death. The Reeds
found the place fascinating. They had traveled a respectable deal away from
their parents, with Robb and Theon acting as guardians. Jon listened as his
Stark sister regaled the history of the location, and discussed how all the
Starks were buried in here.
“What do you do to your people when they die?” asked Arya, who was surprised by
the utter shock on Meera and Jojen’s faces as they touched the ground and
listened to the dead rumble.
“We bury them underneath trees, and let their bodies feed the earth,” answered
Jojen. “We don’t put them in boxes.”
“They are called tombs,” Meera corrected. “But no…we do not have so much
fanfare for the deceased. We celebrate their parting into the lands. This is so
strange!”
Arya did not voice her astonishment. Nonetheless, she began to tell stories
about her favorite relatives. Jon listened intently. These were his ancestors
aas well. They went further into the tunnels for more recent deaths, and landed
upon Lady Lyanna, their father’s sister. Jon touched her tomb, and felt a
warmth pass through him. Arya told them that either she or Sansa would have
been given her namesake, but it made her father sad whenever he was reminded of
her.  
“She’s the woman who introduced our fathers to mother,” Meera stated. “Father
said that Rhaegar Targaryean tricked her into following him, and he went mad,
and caused a war over her. She couldn’t escape because she was with child.”
The Starks taken back by the revelation. Their father never told them that part
of the story! Even Greyjoy was intrigued, for he was taking lessons with
Maester Luwin, and the old man never mentioned that part of the rebellion.
“What happened?” Arya asked. She could only count a handful of first cousins in
existence, but none with dragon’s blood.
“He died,” Jon revealed. His voice cold and distant. “Lyanna died in
childbirth, and the child was a stillborn. The body was never found. Father
said he disappeared into thin air.” Hatred flushed through him whenever he
thought about Lyanna’s deceased babe. He thought about Robert Baratheon, and
how his father always told him it was for the best that the child left this
world, for the king would have had him slaughtered. His mother hated talking
about the war, and refused to give details when asked. His father was equally
reluctant, but allowed himself to be pushed for information. 
Robb saw his change in demeanor, and gently suggested they return to their
grandparents’ tomb. Their parents awaited there. While they walked, Robb walked
beside Jon, and grabbed his dress. He pulled the younger boy towards him and
waited for their siblings and Theon to be out of sight. Jon asked what he was
planning, and the boy rose to his own defense.
“I can tell you’re upset, but…I was told by my father that my Aunt Lyanna was
one of the kindest and bravest people he knew. She loved her family very much,
and I’m sure…I’m sure that her son is well taken care of by the old gods
because of it.”
Jon stared at him. Robb was sure he had said something foolish but then Jon
kissed him for his kind words. “My mother said the same. I hope they are happy
together.” He left when Robb was too stunned to speak. When he recovered, he
made a note of his own accomplishment.
Kind words, he thought, after Jon was sad made him happy. A happy Jon gave him
kisses.
The adults paid their respects in another corner of the crypt. Benjen was
especially emotional in the presence of his mother, whose tomb stood as high as
their father. She was a Stark in blood and in marriage, and was a Northern
fundamentalist in the highest regard. She loathed the South. Before
Ned's fostering, she took him and his older brother to visit their grandmother
in the mountains. For weeks, Benjen asked her “when are we coming home?” to
which she replied “soon” but refused to give a time. He had no idea that his
father did not sanction the visit; not until Lord Rickard Stark arrived with a
fleet of guards to take them home and the Flints gathered up their men in
preparation of warfare. The mountain dwellers were loyal to the Starks, but, in
the words of Torghen Flint, “Lady Lyarra is as much a Stark as you, my lord.”
From afar, Ned heard the scampering of little footsteps. He was grateful for
the interruption; the memory of what happened afterwards was almost as painful
to bare as Lyanna’s death.
They traveled to the glass gardens afterwards, where all of the Neck
inhabitants were given bits and pieces of fresh fruits and vegetables. Unlike
the younger kids who abhorred the presents of carrots and cabbages, the Reeds
were fascinated by plants that could grow underneath the ground. The head
gardener took one look at Jon and his eyes teared up. He had been employed with
the Starks for over thirty years—about the same time Ned was born. He reached
out to Jon and the boy, after some prodding from his mother, took his hand. He
was led to string of bushes filled with blue winter roses. Only a few had
bloomed, but he felt compelled to pick them for him. Jon giggled and reached in
for a kiss. The man, who was old and fatherless, was thankful for the Stark’s
affection.
A laurel of flowers on his head and a belly full of goods, Jon skipped out of
the glass gardens. The boy caught more than a few stares by the residents. Ned
reassured his son that it was because of his resemblance to Lyanna, but he was
aware of that Jon’s inclination towards pretty things would cause a few
questionable looks. Regardless of the negative reception, he enjoyed the sight
of his son so full of spring and step.
He stopped by Mikken’s place. The man dropped the red steel into the water, and
the hiss caused Jon to jump. Robb laughed at his alarmed expression. He said
that their master of arms would teach him how to fight while he was here. They
would train together. Jon nodded and said goodbye to the kind blacksmith. The
man’s omega promised to make him the loveliest sword when he was ready to bare
steel. Jon thanked him.
They made rounds throughout Winterfell. Tomorrow, Ned promised that they would
visit the animals, and perhaps learn how to ride horses or go hunting. They had
yet to meet the kennel master, Farlan, or the master of horses, Hullen. Meera
asked if she would be allowed to ride, and her uncle complied to her wishes. He
told her he would spare no expense for the children of Howland and his beloved
brother. Howland laughed, for such an offer could only be made to children of
the Neck, who knew so little of material goods.
At the end of their tour, they visited the godswoods. Meera, Jojen and Jon
joined their mother in prayer. Robb was encouraged to participate when he
realized he could be seated beside Jon during the act. When no one was looking,
he was able to admire Jon’s beauty without the suggestion of perversion. Jon
was enchanting. Robb could not help but admire the length of his lashes or the
purse of his lips in devotion. When Jon awoke from his prayer, he glanced over
at Robb, who looked away. He tried his best to look concentrated in prayer
while Jon inspected him.
Afterwards, they all returned to the main tower, and Ned gave the order to run
a few baths for the children. They would not be enjoying the hot springs today.
Most of the children were disappointed, except for Jon who glanced over at Robb
in suspicion. The boy turned away and huffed. Jon still hadn’t forgiven him.
Benjen left Howland and Ned alone to enjoy their bath. He claimed his respects
to his mother was unfinished. The comment unnerved Ned. Though he believed his
discomfort went unnoticed, such was not the case when he and his lover were
linked together in the tub.
“You never speak about your mother,” Howland commented. He laid his back on top
of him and his head rested on top of Ned’s chest. “I know you were very young
when you left for the Eyrie, but I doubt you were much older than Benjen when
she died. He cannot stop speaking of her.”
Of course not, Ned thought. Benjen was her favorite child.
“My father and mother had a…tumultuous relationship.” That was an
understatement. He tried to rectify his claim. “I heard they loved each other
in their youth.” From Old Nan, he heard great tales about their romance. His
mother was not a beauty, but as a young woman, she was highly admired for her
wit and worldliness. She used to join her father, the legendary Wandering Wolf,
on his travels. They said that even in the face of mercenaries, she did not
flinch or falter. She demanded nothing, and pulled her weight despite being the
daughter of one of their renown fighters. It was after witnessing her
father's demise by a treachery that caused her to hate the southerners. She
relocated to the mountains, and even served as the advisor for Lord Flint.
“I was told that when my father professed his love to her, my grandmother would
not allow it. She said that their union must first be honored by the gods. When
he came to visit her home, she set forth a hound and a mountain lion as his
challengers.”
Howland turned to him in excitement. “And he succeeded?”
Ned nodded. “So I have been told.” He did not know if he still believed the
story, but he found it a pleasant tale to recite to his lover. “He stabbed the
lion in its heart with his sword, and leashed the hound with a rope and
strangled it.  Then, he presented the pelt to my mother, and asked for her hand
in marriage. She accepted.”
Howland rose so that he was facing Ned. Their cocks touched when Howland seated
himself on Ned's lap. Some of the water spilled over the tub. Howland cradled
Ned’s face in his hands. “What happened to them?”
Ned sighed. He kissed Howland’s chest and tried not to lose himself in the
downward spiral of lost love. He never told anybody what he witnessed. The
notion was forbidden as the members of their generation sunk to the ground.
“My mother hated the south. When she was a child, she witnessed her father and
his men killed by southerners who did not wish to pay him for his services.”
Howland knew that Ned’s grandfather served the Second Sons. Everyone knew about
it. Though it served as a stain on the Stark name, Ned never shielded his
lineage from anybody. “When she learned I was to be fostered in the Eyrie, she
was enraged. She took me and my brother to the mountains. She told us that our
grandmother was sick so we needed to take care of her. We left in the dead of
night and disguised ourselves as peasants.” Ned held onto Howland a bit
tighter. “Lord Flint was kind. He offered us a home for as long as we wished.
He even suggested my mother take a new name and he would grant her farmlands
for her livelihood.” Ned shook his head. “But we could not hide forever. One of
the men recognized us, and immediately informed my father. He came to the
mountains to take us back. When he threatened to have Lord Flint beheaded for
treachery, my mother submitted on the condition that no one be punished for her
actions.”
Howland understood that he was not given the true story. “You can tell me
anything, my love. I hold no judgements. I tell no secrets.” His eyes were full
of sorrow. “You’ve supported so many lives for too long. You deserve your own
peace.”
The gentleness was almost enough to make Ned cry. “When we arrived home, my
brother and I were sent to our rooms. But I wished to comfort my mother, who
cried the entire trip. She was always so brave—so I waited for her. I heard
them fighting and hid under their bed. They fought so intensely. Then,” Ned
shut his eyes and forced himself to remember what he saw. “He hit her. He’d
never done that before. For as long as I’ve known them, he always cherished my
mother. Before he could apologize, my mother told him she had enough. She would
leave him, and so he hit her again. She tried to escape his wrath, and they
ended up wrestling on the floor. He ripped off her clothes,” Ned choked. He
splashed the water around and felt the world close on him. Howland wrapped his
arms around him and held him close.
“It’s alright. I’m sorry to have made you relive that. You do not have to tell
me anymore if you do not want to.”
But Ned did want to. He wanted to reveal what he saw all those years ago. “He
raped her in front of my eyes and I did nothing to stop it.”
The second he said it out loud, Ned was shackled by childhood horrors. He
remembered his mother's outcries, how she scratched his father's skin until he
was bleeding, how she bruised herself bloody fighting him off. He can still
hear the way the seams of her dress ripped apart. She did not cry but she did
scream. She called his father horrible things. The worst part was how
Rickard held onto her after he was finished, how he clung onto her despite the
fact that his arms were being shredded by her nails.
“You were a child,” Howland defended immediately. His protest became louder as
Ned removed himself from the memory. “It was not your fault.”
“If I had said something sooner,” Ned denied, “He would have stopped. He let
her go when he heard me whimper. My mother screamed at him not to touch me. I
was crying the entire time, and she held onto me and kept me close. She was
violated by my father, and yet she saw to my comfort before hers.”
Howland refused to release Ned from his arms. He kissed him on the forehead and
repeated the notion. “It was not your fault, Ned.”
Ned wondered how long he had been waiting to hear those words. “They rarely
spoke afterwards. I was told he visited her while she was on her death bed. The
maids told me that he spent his entire time telling her he was sorry and that
he loved her more than life.” Ned told Howland a secret. “I used to dream that
she woke up, at least once, to forgive him.”
Howland closed his eyes and cried for the tears unshed. “Your mother and father
loved you,” he told Ned. “They would have wanted you to know that there was
nothing to blame you for.”  
Ned hoped what Howland was saying was true. Selfishly, he asked Howland if he
could love him in spite of his flaws.
Howland smiled. “You never have to ask for my love or my loyalty, Ned. It is
yours to use as you please.”
They left for bed shortly after. Howland slept within Ned’s embrace, and
reveled in the sensation of the universe setting things right for them.
For the following days, the Reeds acted as if Winterfell was always their home.
Once they were more comfortable with the layout, they participated in rowdy
games of hide and seek with their cousins. The crannogmen were masters at the
game, were accused of turning into shadows when playing.
Jon was not to start his lessons until he made the decision to stay, but Meera
begged her uncle to teach her how to ride. Her green eyes were identical to
Howland’s, and Ned found himself faltering within seconds. He asked Harwin to
educate his niece. The time spent away on horses made it easy for Jojen to
monopolize Bran’s attention. He was inseparable from the boy.  Though, Catelyn
abhorred his mother’s presence, she could not hold her ill will towards the
child who loved her son so wholeheartedly. He was no threat when he recited
fables to Bran about the gods. His mannerisms were appropriate and he spoke to
her kindly. She allowed him to be present with her child as long as an adult
lingered for protection. 
Howland did not worry about his children’s obsession. They were too young to
have their lusts be a concern. If the time came that Jojen or Meera would ask
for Bran’s hand in marriage, the omega would have the final say. At least, he
hoped that to be case. He and his sister never shared the same taste in alphas.
Instead, he focused on making things comfortable for Jon. He advised his oldest
son to befriend the Stark ward, for he was more experienced with heats and it
would be valuable to have an older omega support him. Theon was surprised by
the newfound responsibility. Though he protested the request and displayed his
annoyance freely, there was a flush of pride that came whenever he shared his
advice. Jon was sweet and eager to learn. They talked about other subjects as
well. Jon learned that Theon loved playing with the dogs from the kennel, and
he enjoyed hunting more than riding. He liked archery and could spend hours
bragging about how good he was at it.
Jon asked him if he ever had an alpha inside him. Theon flushed deeply when
questioned, and denied it. “But—it won’t be long until I do! I’ve gotten a lot
of requests! I get them every single day!” He crowed. Jon did not doubt his
popularity. Theon was pretty, and his breasts were big for his age. They would
get bigger in time. Truthfully, Jon only asked to make sure that the older boy
had not set his attentions on Robb, or vice versa. Jon then asked the boy to
show him the dogs. The boy grumbled but was secretly happy about the visit.
They met Palla, who gladly showed them the latest litter.
“They really like you,” Jon praised. Most were kind to him, but they lapped
onto Theon’s face like he was covered in honey.
Theon grinned in pride. “Of course they love me. I’m here almost as much as the
kennel master is.”
“Will you be able to take some home with you? Once you return to the Iron
Islands?”
Theon became deathly still. “No. I can’t.”
One licked Jon’s cheek and he giggled. “Maybe if you asked father. He is very
kind. I’m sure if you told him how much you care for them—”
“I can’t,” Theon stressed again. He sounded angry. “We don’t hunt on the Iron
Islands, only fish and raid if we need food. There’s no use for hounds.”
“Oh,” Jon was surprised. “I’m sorry. But maybe you could keep one as a pet?”
Theon scoffed and put the pup back amongst its siblings. “It’s fine,” said
Theon, though his tone indicated otherwise. “The ironborn don’t need something
as soft as pets. We’re not soft like you green folk. We don’t need hounds; we
don’t need anything. I’ll become someone’s rock wife and he’ll provide for me.”
He all but ran out of the kennels. Jon followed, yelling out his apologies. He
told Theon he did not mean to upset him.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Theon,” Jon pleaded.
Theon scowled in response. He turned his back on Jon and headed to the castle.
Jon refused to let up, and took ahold of the older boy’s arms. Jon was small,
though, and appeared to swinging. Staring deep into his eyes, Jon asked Theon
again. “What is wrong?”
Theon unleashed everything. He said Jon should get used to the nicest things
because that’s his fate now. “You’re going to become a doll and marry the third
or fourth son of a nobleman and give him lots of babies. Or maybe you’ll even
marry a high lord who rings gold when he walks!” He mumbled something cruel,
and objected the injustice. “It’s not fair! You’re a bastard, but your father
is Lord Stark and he loves you. He sends you letters and gifts. My father has
not sent word since I came here! Yet, I have to return to that horrid place and
marry some lord who will take salt wives and rape me whenever he pleases
because I’m an omega and that’s all I’m good for!”
He started heaving out large breaths, and only silenced when Jon embraced him.
“I’m sorry,” he told Theon. “I wish you didn’t have to return.”
As soon as Jon said it, Theon started bawling. He never confessed it to anyone,
and he did not know why he felt compelled to share his secret with Jon.
Nonetheless, he accepted the comfort and hugged him back. It felt nice to be
touched. When they returned, Theon’s eyes were all red. He claimed hay fever,
and though his excuse was doubted, no one questioned him. Before he left, Jon
asked if he would like to look at his dolls and dresses. Theon snidely remarked
that he was too old, but then hesitated. “If you’re so desperate for
companionship, I supposed I have to come.”
Robb watched the interaction without any amusement. He pulled Jon aside to hug
him, and said he missed him before Jon could provide any sort of reprimand.
Then, as an extra distraction, he asked if he enjoyed the puppies. Jon
brightened up. “They were adorable! Will we get to play with them when they are
older?”
Robb replied that Jon could do whatever he wanted at Winterfell. “I will not
rest until you are properly spoiled.”
Jon blushed, and told him to cease the compliments. “I can see right through
you, Stark.”
“And I see you. Stop being so beautiful and I will,” Robb countered with ease.
Jon turned apple red, and it made Robb proud. He wondered what else he could
make Jon’s body do, but never got the chance to find out when Jon ran away.
Robb glared at his fleeing figure. Jon had to stop doing that.
Despite their earlier interaction, Robb made sure that his presence was never
far from Jon. The younger boy pretended to protest, but could not help but
enjoy the flattery. From the reports of the younger omegas, all huddled in
their cliques for gossip, Robb Stark was the most desired alpha in the North.
He had offers coming in from the Karstarks and the Manderlys, and there were
even some families in the South that were eager to make their acquaintance with
the lordling. Jon giggled when he saw Robb showcasing his prowess in the
swordsmanship. He was taking down boys whose first ruts were finished whenever
he saw Jon watching.
Shortly after each posturing, Jon would be dragged away on some journey by his
younger siblings, whether they shared a mother or a father. Arya grew
especially fond him and his mother, the latter who was never short on tales of
warrior maidens.  There was little wonder why, Arya, out of all her siblings,
was the first to have her gift revealed.
Though Ned did not want to initiate Jon into activities he could not commit to,
he allowed his two children to take their ponies for a trot around Winterfell’s
gates. Jon saw his sisters riding together, and wanted to join them. Howland
and Ned followed them closely. Jon held onto Arya’s hand while they rode for
fear of falling off.  Though the horse was not yet grown, Jon was shocked by
the height he reached on top of it. Arya made sure to comfort him every second.
She praised his progress, though Jon was at risk of falling off a few times.
When it was over, Arya helped Jon off the horse. She initiated a kiss much to
her older brother’s surprised. She said Jon did wonderfully, and would continue
to do well if he stayed to learn. Jon nodded and hugged his sister.
“If I stay I will teach you how to fight like the crannogmen. We can be
skjaldmær together,” Jon promised. “You, me, and Meera.” He thought for a
second. “And Bran.” The boy was equally eager to join the ranks of knighthood.
The two hugged once more, before Arya was condemned to her lessons.
“Embroidery,” she moaned dramatically. She stopped by her room to get dressed,
and noticed her gift opened. At first, she thought someone had broken in her
dwellings. Then, she saw that the gift remained and nearly screamed in
excitement.
Chasing down the halls, she ignored her septa’s order to stop. Instead, she
went through rooms and floors until she found Howland in Rickon’s nursery,
singing him to sleep. He looked so happy with her little brother in his arms
that Arya forgot he was not her mother. When his song finished, he asked Arya
if she liked her gift. 
Arya jumped. Then, with the emotional flexibility of a child, she was overcome
with joy. Her face expressed her approval. “I love it!” She grinned. “It is the
greatest gift I have ever received!”
Howland smiled and he placed little Rickon back in his crib. “Do you know what
it is?”
The question confused Arya. “It is a dagger. Right?” She hoped it was not some
toy, like those wooden swords given to Robb for sparring.
“It is, but this one is special.” He walked towards her, and took the dagger
from her hands. He directed it towards the back of his wrist and slid it across
his skin. Arya tried to stop him, but she looked down and saw that nothing had
happened. Suddenly, her worry was replaced with disappointment.
“So it is a toy…” 
“Of course not,” Howland disagreed. He brushed away Arya’s hair and smiled down
at her. “You look like her, do you know that?”
Arya was surprised by the change in topic. Then, she nodded. Arya knew exactly
who she was referring to. “That’s what they told me.”
“I loved her. I wanted to call her my sister, in the same way I wanted to call
you and your siblings my children. If Jon had been born a girl, I would have
given him that name.” He sighed, and his eyes were wet with unfallen tears.
“She was very fierce. Had her father allowed her to carry steel, she would have
made a great warrior.” He took the dagger from her hands. “She died a few
months before her nameday. I had this blessed with a powerful spell for her.
Now, I am giving it to you.”
Arya’s eyes widened. She took the dagger back. “What does it do?”
“This blade can cut flesh, but only those who have ever spilled the blood of a
Stark. Use this dagger when your mind and heart are in conflict, and when you
are doubtful of whom you share bread with. It will seek out your enemies, and
leave you fearless of betrayal.” He kissed her head. “This,” he declared. “Is
your best asset. You are clever, Arya, and you do not wield your honor like
badge. To your father, that is a sin, but to a warrior, it is what separates
the ground from the grave.”
Howland kissed her forehead. “Be who you are meant to be Arya, not who others
want you to be. And I swear, one day, people will remember the name Arya Stark.
Do not be dim. Do not have doubts. Do not have mercy.”
Arya gasped as lightning bugs crawled up her skin. She felt alive, and the pull
of the dagger felt magnetic. She promised to cherish her gift for decades to
come. She hugged Howland and vowed to use it on her worst enemies—the ones that
hurt her family. Before she left, she stopped to tell Howland that, “he was her
family, too,” and she would protect him as well.
The sentiment touched Howland. Instead of crying, he settled for a smile.
Arya wasted no time in bragging to her siblings about what she received. While
Catelyn protested such a vulgar present, Arya soothed her concerns by saying it
was just a toy. She cut her arm as proof and sliced up Sansa’s leg as a prank.
Robb questioned her delight, for it was not like her to be so impressed by
gimmicks. She smirked, and said he was jealous that his gift had yet to open.
Robb denied the accusation. True enough, he spent hours that night trying to
get the object to open. On the following day, his shame was increased when he
learned that Sansa had received her present. She refused to reveal what it was,
and said it was between her and her older brother.
“I thought you said he was your half-brother,” Robb reminded angrily.   
Sansa blanched. She wanted to defend herself by telling Jon that she did not
mean it. Instead, Jon held her hand and criticized Robb on his behavior. “You
are being very mean, Robb. I do not like it.”
Robb growled and left the table, much to his father’s disappointment. Ned
glanced over at Catelyn, who was holding back her horror at the thought that
her sole advocate was switching sides. Sansa spent every moment at the table
trying to reassure her mother that she still loved her. She exclaimed that her
hair was pretty, and that the dress looked lovely on her. Catelyn smiled, but
the wrinkles around her eyes were weighed down by concern. She went to bed
early that night.
Before Howland and Ned went to bed, she thanked Howland for his gift. It was
beautiful. “I would like to visit the Neck one day, and see where they grow.”
“I would like that as well.”
Ned wondered what he did, and Howland replied “nothing.”
“The gods wanted them together, and so they shall be.”
Howland did not tell him that earlier than day, he had made a stop to the
kitchens to ask Gage if he could make lemon cakes for his children. “I heard
the lemons were in bloom, and I wanted my kids to have a taste of them.”
Gage agreed easily. He sent his little boy to the gardens to grab some lemons,
and when he came back, Howland asked the boy if he would like to play with his
son later. Turnip was surprised that the lord would ask such a thing. He looked
to his mother who nodded his approval. “Jon is a very sweet boy. You would like
him.”
Turnip gleefully agreed. He came to Jon’s room with lemon cakes and tea in
hand, and found out that Jon had already prepared dolls for them to play with.
Turnip had only played with cornhusks and yarn puppets before. He was not used
to porcelain and fine silk, and expressed his disapproval immediately. “I
cannot play with these, my lord. They are too precious! If I break them, my
father could never pay back the debt!”
Jon frowned. “I’m not a lord,” he pointed out. Then, he had the brightest idea
and handed Turnip one of his toys. “There! If I give one to you, then it won’t
matter if you break it. It’ll belong to you anyways.”
The notion did more to horrify Turnip than to relieve him. Jon found the
behavior tiresome, but continued his argument regardless. In the Neck, he lent
his dolls to his playmates all the time. They were returned more often than
not, and the valuable ones, he kept on display. While Turnip explained
propriety, Jon took a bite of his lemon cakes. He moaned. “These are delicious!
Did your mother make them?”
Turnip was not the brightest candle in the castle, and was instantly
distracted. He praised his mother’s work and said that he just baked them. “The
tea is fresh from the garden as well! Jasmine and mint!”
Jon took a sip and chirped about its deliciousness. He asked if Turnip wanted
to be a cook as well.
“Yep!” Turnip was glowing. Jon handed him the doll without him noticing, and
the boy cradled it while he was talking. It fit snuggly in his arms. “I’m only
a scullion now, but my father has been teaching me a lot. I know how to cook
eggs and use bones to make broth…” Once in his element, the boy became a never-
ending bard. Jon listened politely.
Sansa was leaving her lessons when she overheard them speaking. She saw Turnip
holding a doll much too fine for his stature, and understood that Jon must have
lent it to him. Sansa was a bit taken back. She was surprised that Turnip
allowed Jon to do so. When she asked the other omegas at Winterfell to join her
for games, they all refused. They said her dolls were too nice for them and
Jeyne later confessed that they felt ashamed. Sansa took the hint and took to
playing in private.
While floating in the doorway, Jon caught her eye. Turnip stood up in respect,
but Jon sat leisurely. He asked if she wanted to play with them. Turnip choked
up. In response, Sansa spun her heel and walked off. She never said a word.
“She hates me,” Jon said quietly. Turnip tried to alleviate his pain by saying
that Sansa is a lady—she had to abide by certain standards. “She’s different
from us—she’s not…” Turnip lowered his voice. “She could hardly be called a
Northerner. Don’t worry, everyone knows that when she marries, it’ll be to a
southerner. She won’t be mean to you much longer.”
The excuse did nothing for Jon. “She is still a Stark,” Jon muttered. She was
still his sister.
When Sansa went into her room, she saw a plate of lemon cakes awaiting her. She
thought about visiting her mother and sharing them with her, but remembered
that her mother was at the sept. She then considered finding Jeyne, but the
girl already turned her down once. “I have duties,” Jeyne told her. Sansa tried
not to think about the annoyance that lingered in her tone when she refused
Sansa’s request. It would only make her sad. Instead, she ate her cakes alone.
The room was so quiet that she could hear her own chewing. She wondered if she
should offer some to Arya, but they always got into a fight when they ate
together. She could not think of any more people. She found herself full on the
second bite.
I’m so lonely, Sansa thought. Her eyes teared up. If I had taken Jon’s offer, I
would…Sansa shook her head. She wiped away her silly tears, for she was a lady
and ladies do not cry over bastards. Her father, Robb, her younger brothers and
sisters, they were all forgetting about her mother; how hurt she was to have
her father’s illegitimate child and mistress staying with them. The shame was
killing her, and Sansa was the only one to see it. She needed to be faithful
even if no one else was.
After a while, her cakes remained uneaten.  Sansa knew she could not keep them
in her room, for fear of rotting and letting the rodents and roaches in. If one
of the servants got it, Gage would learn that his hard work would have been for
nothing. Sansa feared she would have cried when confronted.  She decided that
she could give it one of the guards. They would appreciate the gesture.
On her way there, Jon was coming back from the kitchens. He saw the cakes in
her hands and asked if she was feeling sick. The question surprised Sansa.
“No, of course not. Why do you ask?” Sansa winced at how defensive she sounded.
If Jon noticed, he did not show it.
“I was told that lemon cakes were your favorite. It was why my mother had them
made. He wanted us to enjoy them together.” Jon looked down. “I will tell him
and our father that you were under the weather and could not enjoy them with
me.”
It was the perfect excuse. Sansa could return to the kitchens instead of
finding a scapegoat, and no one would be the wiser. Except, Sansa’s stomach
churned from her brother’s kindness and her own callousness was more vivid
because of it. “Or, we could eat it together if you’re not full.”
Jon’s eyes widened. Sansa had never made such an offer before. “Are you sure,
Sansa?”
Sansa nodded meekly. “We would have to eat it soon. Before…” Before her mother
got back from prayer. “Before dinner, or we’ll be too full for proper food.”
Jon giggled. “You’re a real lady, Sansa. I don’t think I’ve ever met one beside
you or your mother.”
The compliment made Sansa’s day, and she felt considerably better about
extending her offer to Jon. She was a lady, and ladies were expected to be kind
and generous and give aid to those who needed it. If Jon wanted someone to
befriend and play with, she was the only one who could do it properly.
They went into his room, and the cakes tasted better than before. They made up
little stories for their girls, and Jon asked if she wanted to be a princess.
Sansa told him ‘more than anything’ because she loved the idea of attending
balls and having tea parties. When pouring imaginary tea, Jon told Sansa a
story about the Marsh King’s daughter—how she was forced to married Rickard
Stark after he slewed her father in battle. “She heard he was called the
Laughing Wolf for his jovial nature, and sought to punish him for murdering her
father.”  Sansa gasped. That was rather cruel for a princess. She wondered if
he was making fun of her. “When they were married, she told King Rickard that
she would not bed him until he could solve her mysteries. He accepted her
challenge, but found himself stumped whenever she reached the climax.” Jon
chuckled. “He thought she would hand him riddles from children’s books, or
commoner plays. Instead, she gave him tales of murderers and thieves, and at
the end of the night, she asked ‘who did it?’ but he could not answer. Soon,
the famous Laughing Wolf could no longer smile.” Jon lowered his voice as to
add drama. Sansa leaned in, completely entranced. “His advisors told him to
kill her and take another wife, but he found his sullen bride too alluring. He
could not let her go. His maester accused her of bewitching him, but King
Rickard refused to believe him. He threatened to have the man killed if he said
another word.” Jon bit into his cake. Sansa forgot they even existed. “He
worked tirelessly to solve her riddles until finally, he managed to complete
one.”
Snasa was delighted. “Did they fall in love?”
Jon nodded. “The had several children together—the oldest was Rodrik Stark, who
would later inherit his father’s position as a King in the North. He was the
one who annexed Bear Island.” That was where his aunt lived now. “The second,
an omega boy, would be given the Neck to rule. That’s where my line comes
from.”
Sansa was amazed. “So the Reeds come from the Starks as well?”
Jon nodded. “And the Marsh King, who was the ‘first among equals.’ He was
touched by the old gods, like your ancestors were—like our ancestors were. We
must always remember that our lineage is derived from kings.” Less we allow
ourselves to be dominated by those undeserving, thought Jon.
The suggestion was ominous in its essence, but Jon was quick to change the
topic before Sansa could question him. He smiled and fed Sansa a lemon cake
with his hands. She chomped on it. When they were finished with their cakes and
playing, Sansa acknowledged that her return was inevitable. She said goodbye to
Jon, who was reminded of another concern.
“Wait!”
Sansa stopped.
Jon rustled through his possessions, and picked up a familiar box. He handed it
to Sansa. “This is for you.”
Sansa gingerly reached out for it. “Thank you.” She would have to hide it from
her mother and septa, but it made her smile to know Jon kept it safe for her.
As soon as it was in her hands, they were both surprised to see the lock come
undone.
“Open it!” Jon exclaimed, overwhelmed with his own excitement.
Sansa did as command, and when she lifted the lid, a flower with five, red
petals as big as Sansa’s entire body sprung from its confinements. It was
attached to no ground or water, but a seed sprouting from air. Jon gasped at
the sight of it. He took Sansa’s hand and demanded that they leave immediately.
At first Sansa was too shock to do anything. Jon tightened his grip. “We need
to go!”
He dragged her throughout the halls. If a serving girl or boy saw the blur of
red, they could only assume it was Sansa’s hair dashing past them. They ended
up alone in the courtyard, where Jon told Sansa to release the seed. At first,
the eldest Stark girl was too surprised to do anything. It was after Jon pushed
a second time, shouted ‘now’ with such force, that she obeyed. She held the
seed out in her hand and out of nowhere, a gust of wind came upon them.
The petals fell apart and scattered into a million pieces, creating a whirlwind
of a red around Sansa and Jon. Sansa gasped as she saw something she could not
begin to describe or believe—creatures were bred from the red remains.
Fairies, she thought. The flowers were breeding fairies. One creature went up
to her nose and touched bopped her with its lips. Sansa giggled. When the
sensation was over with, the seed remained in Sansa’s hand. It was still
blooming, but not in the same magnitude as before.
“What was that?” she asked Jon. Her excitement could not be measured. “That was
beautiful! I saw fairies, Jon!”
“Those were flowers from the gods. I do not know what the word is in the Common
Tongue, but in the Old Tongue, they are called faeblóm. They’re similar to
weirwood trees except they are not meant for worship. Those who sing songs of
earth would plant them as a mark of territory.” Jon squinted his eyes around
the area. Then, he pointed to a spot of red in the landscape. “There, now it
will be forever known that Sansa Stark was here.”
Sansa giggled. She placed the flower back into her box. “Is it okay to leave it
in here?”
Jon nodded. “It is yours to do as you please.”
Sansa and Jon linked hands and returned to the towers where they would have
dinner. Catelyn was horrified to see the two bond, but made no note of it to
anybody. She asked about her lessons, and tried to ignore the way Robb’s
jealousy riled up whenever a gift was mentioned. She was imagining it, she told
herself. Her children were not being seduced by these ungodly beings. They were
human. Yet as soon as the thought entered Catelyn’s mind, she knew she was
lying.
The following day, Robb was no closer to opening the box. He distracted himself
with lessons from Maester Luwin, and became obsessed with strategy and warfare.
He had the aging man provide him with a book of riddles to sharpen his mind and
listened to stories of sorceries and spells. The man was cautious to indulge
the young lord, yet did as commanded when Lord Stark did not halt the
additional teachings. “Not all magic is bad,” Ned pointed out. The maester was
not so sure.
On the training grounds, Robb was ferocious. Theon was reluctant to train with
him being so rough, and the other boys stopped holding back. He returned with
more scrapes and bruises than ever before; he did not even need Jon’s presence
as an incentive.
“I suspect he’s entering a rut,” suggested Rodrik. “It might be because of his
brother’s presence. I fear they are…compatible.” The suggestion tasted like
sludge on his tongue. “If the boy chooses to stay, they should be separated
from each other. We should prepare a heat room in the near future. We do not
want a repeat of what happened with your sister.”
The recommendation was plausible. While rare, there were cases of siblings who
recognized each other as potential mates. The Targaryeans were notable
examples, and Lyanna’s blossoming had encouraged a rut within Brandon. His
older brother never went far in his advances. He was taken down as soon as he
claimed Lyanna to be his. The two were embarrassed by the circumstances and did
not speak for days. Benjen teased the two regardless.
Ned said he would look into it; the same moment Howland returned from an
expedition around Winterfell, chatting with the retainers and their families.
He carried Jojen in his arms. The little boy asked his uncle where Bran was,
and the man replied he was sleeping in his room. Jojen squirmed out of his
mother’s arms but the omega kept him put.
“Jojen, we promised Jon that we would have lunch together. Bran will be here
when we get back.” He positioned his youngest child so that they were facing.
“Don’t you want to spend time with your older brother?”
“We don’t know if he’s leaving,” Jojen pointed out. “But when we go back home,
I won’t be able to see Bran for years.” Not until Jojen was old enough to ask
for his hand in marriage—and there was no guarantee Bran would find him worthy.
His mother was firm in his decision.
“After lunch, you can visit him.”
Jojen opened his mouth to complain, but one glare from his mother and he
slammed it shut. Howland touched his uncle’s shoulder as a goodbye, and bid Ser
Rodrick adieu. The man did not like his mother, but he would not refuse a
lord’s courtesy.
While they gathered goods for their picnic, Jojen sat on the kitchen counter,
his tiny legs swinging. He looked outside the window, a small opening at the
top of the wall. He asked if they could bring Bran along. Surely, neither Jon
or Meera would complain.
Howland paused. “What is it about Bran that has gotten you so worked up? You’ve
been obsessed since you came.” He tried not to sound worried. He was sure Meera
was infatuated, but Jojen’s emotions were not something to underestimate.
“If I told you, would you ask uncle to arrange a betrothal?”
Howland shook his head. Such an odd boy he raised; the child could care less
about ruling and power, but give him a pretty omega and he’ll fight to the
death to have him. “No, but I can make it so that it is not outside the realm
of possibility.” He put in a whole pie into the basket. “I could also make it
so that Lord Stark never hears of your proposition.”
Jojen frowned at his mother’s manipulations. He looked around and told his
mother that this was not the time or place to have such a discussion. The
implication made Howland sigh, and the Lord of the Neck requested one of the
scullions pack their lunch. He followed his son to a window in the hallway, a
corner where no one could arrive without being spotted instantly.
Alone, Jojen used the True Tongue to explained his theory about Bran. “He can
see our magic—not just the outcome, a broken arm or a choked throat, but he can
see it in the air. I planted a flower in another room and asked him to find it.
He was able to trace the trail. I’ve seen him talk to the ravens and the
leaves, and when he dreams, he sees things that I do as well, but more
vividly.” 
“Are you saying that Bran is a…?”
Jojen nodded. “If I am right, that would make him a greenseer. If he isn’t
trained, his powers will go away or become out of control. I cannot let that
happen, mother!”  
Howland grimaced at the possible fate. If Catelyn had anything to do with it,
then Jojen was right. Bran would lose his potential in a matter of years.
Howland, as a devote worshipper of the gods, could not allow the corruption to
continue. “Find Bran, and have him join us at the weirwood tree.”
Jojen took the duty like a soldier. He dashed out of Howland’s presence, while
the man tried to soothe his aching headache. He had not plan for this. At the
very least, he would need to convince Ned to foster his omega son in the Neck,
and at most, convince him to arrange a marriage with one of Howland’s children.
Regardless of what needed to be done, Howland must first confirm the theory. He
took the children to the godswoods, where they laid a picnic blanket and
arranged their meal. Jojen was holding onto Bran, singing his praises while the
boy sleepily tried to keep up with all the excitement. They had plums and figs,
some custard and puddings—mutton and breads and cheeses. All in small portions,
for the crannogmen did not eat that much.
Howland grabbed his knife and made a prayer; Meera and Jon were snacking on
figs and cheeses, and Jojen was rocking Bran in his arms. Afterwards, Howland
dug the blade into the weirwood tree and allowed the red sap to pour over the
object. He walked over to Bran with the knife still dripping. They all went
silent. Howland took Bran into his arms, and led him to black pool. The boy was
staring at Howland’s hand. Howland gave the knife to Bran to hold and held his
grip to keep it from falling. He dipped his palm into the black pool and
allowed the water to swirl around Bran’s hand. The boy gasped.
“Just watch the water,’ Howland told Bran. “Let the water sing.”
The water rose until it covered Bran’s arm. His eyes turned black before they
turned white as clouds, and he saw visions from behind the wall. They were like
the dreams Howland had been privy to, except instead of flashes and visual
metaphors, Howland was there. He was standing on top of a snow mountain with
Bran holding onto his hand. Down below, he watched mammoths walk in their
natural order, and giants came into view, carrying boulders and lumber. They
retreated to an area where the wood and boulders were stacked on top of each
other. It was an infrastructure. Howland’s mouth dropped. They were building a
castle.
Bran let go of his hand. As soon as that happened, they were removed from the
experience entirely. Bran pulled away from the hold the pool had on him and
retreated to Winterfell. With his tiny legs, he could not go far. Jojen wanted
to follow him, but Howland pulled him back. They needed to speak to each other.
He told Jon to go in his stead.
 Jon ran after him, and within moments, captured his half-brother into his
arms. The boy struggled, and though his pudgy body squirmed in his arms, Jon
kept a tight grip. After tiring himself out with his efforts, the boy submitted
to the embrace. He was scared. He was shivering. Jon soothed him with
encouragements. “You were so brave, Bran. Do you understand how special you
are?” He hummed a song that was warm, and Bran’s body was filled with heat. The
boy calmed down into he was snoring in Jon’s arms.
With the boy safely snugged in his arms, he informed his mother that they were
returning to Winterfell. Howland agreed, and when Meera and Jojen tried to
follow, he forced them to stay. “Let Jon handle this,” Howland told them. “He
needs to learn.”
Jon took Bran to his room, and tried to set him in his bed, but the boy clung
onto him for security. He mumbled for Jon not to leave him. The older boy
kissed his forehead, and told the boy that he would not. “You’re my brother,
Bran. I could never leave you.” And while the boy rested through the
understanding, the meaning made an impact.  He let go of Jon and was put to
sleep.
Later that night, Bran woke up to the sound of rattling. He opened his blue
eyes, as pretty as the Braavosi sea according to his mother, and searched his
room for the cause. He got out of bed and sought out the noise. He saw
Howland’s gift glowing through the crack. He went near it and heard voices.
When he stepped away, the whispers became softer and the caw of birds became
silent. He bit his lip. If he was to be a warrior, a knight or a skjaldmær, he
needed to be as brave as Jon believed him to be.
He opened the box, and found a red marble as big as a man’s eye, with an ink
design that looked like a raven. He took it out and placed it against the
moonlight for admiration. The glow combined with the crystal created a
kaleidoscope in his rooms, consisting of moonshine, shadows, and glass
reflections. He watched as the image swarmed his wall and performed a scene of
ravens and arrows. The creatures separated into rain drops that formed a
thousand eyes. He looked into each eyeball and saw a spell.
When he dropped his hand, the contents removed itself. He lifted the marble
upwards and they came again. He thought to whisper one of the enchantments, but
a part of him knew that this was not the time to do so.
Bran would have his moment, but it was not tonight.
Bran could never tell anybody about his gift, both out of practicality and
inability. How was he to tell his mother and father that he kept monsters in
his room who sung him songs to sleep? He was only a bit older than a babe, and
could barely babble the words, ‘orbs’ and ‘ravens.’ Robb discovered the open
box when he was scouring for evidence. He was enraged. He could not believe
that Arya, Sansa, and Bran already had their contents revealed. Rickon was too
young, he knew, but that did not explain the others.
On the second to the last day of the week, Robb confronted Howland about his
cursed box. “It won’t open for me and I do not know why. There is something
wrong with it.”
Howland, who had recently engaged in intercourse with his father, was reading
letters from the White Harbor. His father had left to discuss “urgent matters”
with Maester Luwin, which meant it was one of the rare moments Robb was alone
with the lord. Robb looked away during the conversation. He was not yet used to
Lord Reed’s brazenness.
"Are you even listening to me?" Robb scowled at Lord Reed's nonchalance. 
Howland sighed, and tried to sound more put out than he actually felt. "Lord
Manderly is requesting my intervention on a private matter." Holland chuckled.
"Apparently, he is a much more honorable man than I give him credit for. It
turns out that even southerners have morals to strive for." 
"Lord Manderly is not a southerner." The man and his sons became enraged when
someone even suggested it. 
"He acts like one." Howland put the letter aside and turned his attention onto
Robb. He addressed Robb's previous concern. "If this is about your gift, do not
fret. It is not broken. The box opens when it is supposed to.”
“And when is that?”
“When you deserve it.”
Robb could have screamed, but such behavior was more befitting of a child than
the Stark heir. He would not prove the Lord of the Neck right. “I am not a
fool. The box opens whenever my siblings interacts with Jon. It has something
to do with him. Why have I not received the gift? What am I doing wrong?”
Howland chuckled. He did not give the boy enough credit. “You are not wrong.
All your siblings were able to receive their gifts after they spent time with
my son. But it is more than just occasion and activity. It is the bond of blood
and the bond of love that I enchanted those boxes with. Arya, Sansa, and
Bran—they have all opened their hearts to Jon. You have not.”
For all his young life, Robb had felt no greater offense than from that single
accusation. “I love Jon,” he declared, madness ringing with every word. “You
cannot say that I care less about him than anybody here.”
Howland narrowed his eyes. Such a conceited child, he was. “Tell me Robb, have
you ever carried a babe inside your belly, or drink and eat to preserve a life
that was not yours?”
Robb became mute.
“Have you ever watched the man you love carry your child away, knowing that
stopping him meant withholding a life of love and acceptance for your
offspring? Could you ever love someone with your actions over your own words?”
All of Robb’s defenses were nothing compared to Howland’s auxiliary. He stood
and listened with dignity, for he had so little left. Howland left the bed and
cornered Robb against the door.
“You come in here twice to ask me to give Jon to you, and I told you that you
needed to deserve him first. I was not clear before. You want Jon to stay, then
you must give him what he deserves. Take the North for him, Robb Stark. Make
him desire you so much that he is inclined to give you your heart’s desire. The
skies only rain on the earth that feeds it first.” Howland scoffed. “Otherwise,
how could you claim to love him?”
“I…”
“You?”
Robb pushed himself away. He marched out of the room. He saw Jon walking
towards his mother’s quarters, and his younger brother seemed charmed to see
him. “Robb!” he chirped. His happy expression faltered when he saw the rage
burning in Robb’s eyes. When he hesitated to pursue a hug from Robb, the older
boy was further incensed. He would not stand for such blatant dismissal. He
grabbed his arm. Jon jumped. Robb watched his steel colored eyes widened and
his pretty mouth gape. Good, he thought, Jon’s eyes should only be on him.   
“Robb, I warned you about touching me.” He was so cute when he tried to sound
threatening.  
“Come,” he ordered. He attempted dragged the boy to his room, and ignored all
his protests. His younger brother would be silent soon enough.
You’re hurting me, thought Jon. He asked instead, “Where are we going?”
“Your room,” Robb revealed. He told him, with more irritation, “Your mother is
infuriating.”
Jon pouted at the insult, but he knew it was a common sentiment. Even his uncle
was caught expressing his disapproval more than once. He wondered what his
mother did now to force such a reaction. He was distracted by his thoughts when
he felt a bruise forming. Having enough of such rough-housing, Jon did his best
to struggle. Robb was bigger than him, but Jon was wily. He managed to slip out
of his grasp and get away. He chased down the halls, towards his mother.
Before he could escape, Robb lunged onto Jon. There were no servants around so
Robb kissed him as if he were underwater and all the breath in the world was
reserved in Jon’s lungs. Their teeth clanked together; their lips were smashed
like a hammer on potatoes. The sensation was awkward and messy. Neither of them
knew how to kiss like adults. When they parted, Robb revealed that he does not
care about the gift.
“What?”
“The gifts Lord Reed gave us Starks. I don’t care about it. Fuck it to hell.
It’s stupid and childish and I don’t want it if it remains a symbol of how much
I don’t want you, because it is a lie. I want you, Jon. I love you more than
anybody I have ever loved before. I want to kiss you like adults and make love
to you and stick my cock into you over and over again until you are mine.”
Jon’s face bled with humiliation. “Robb! You cannot say such things to your
brother!” He searched the hallways for eavesdroppers. “Especially not here! The
gods—!”
“The old gods wanted us together. They made us alpha and omega because of it.
They—” Robb took a huge breath and kissed Jon again. This time, he was more
concentrated on forming an alliance of their lips than fighting a battle. He
wanted it to feel good for Jon, but he was losing control of himself. He
parted, and they were breathless. “I want to kiss you better. For that, I need
more practice.”
 “But—” Jon was horrified and intrigued. Robb made it sound like he was
proposing to him—but that wasn’t possible! “What about your duty?”
“My fate is to be your husband, and the duty of a husband is to provide the
means to survive for his spouse and to sire children for nursing.” He was being
irrational, but the confession alleviated more than his guilt; it opened doors
to delicious forms of darkness. He grasped Jon’s face. “Can you imagine? A
North under our rule? Our old gods would prosper,” Robb could care less about
them. “And these lands would never have to follow a false king ever again—a
king without dragons. We will release this realm from the Southern hold.”
“What if your people protest our union? What if they condemn us for our sins?”
Robb glowered. “Anybody who refuses can meet my blade.”
“Break the hackles of the southern hold, removed the leeches with the winter’s
cold…”
Jon shivered. He could not dwell on songs when he had a vow to validate “I…”
“Promise me your hand in marriage, Jon. Promise me you’ll stay. I cannot keep
my promise if you do not stay.” The intensity in Robb’s eyes made him
impossible to refuse.
Jon hesitated. He did not enjoy being forced into an agreement. Yet, he could
not deny Robb anything. “I will stay.”
“That’s not enough,” Robb growled. He shook his younger brother and kissed him.
This time, Jon was prepared. He jabbed him the chest with his knuckles. Robb
was a beast, however, and moved forward to devour his neck. Jon hit him again
in the ribs.
“We are outside,” hissed Jon. He was not fast enough for his neck to leave
unharmed. He knew that if he ever faced a mirror, bites and bruises would be
commonplace on Jon’s skin. Robb was not yet a man, but he was still susceptible
to the desires of one.
“I need you to swear. Swear on the gods you love so much.” Robb went down on
his knees. Jon prayed that no one walked by to see them. Robb was more dramatic
than a heat drunk omega!  
“I swear,” Jon promised, this time a little tiredly. “I swear on the gods that
I will stay by your side.”
Robb grinned. He whispered in Jon’s ear that he would be there for Jon’s heat.
The promise made Jon wet, and had Jon’s eyes been blinded by arousal, he would
agree. Instead, he retained his sensibility during the sensualism. They were
not Targaryeans! Jon would not allow their lusts to send them to an early
grave. “I cannot have a child right now!” Though he could if he wanted to—he
wanted to enjoy his father’s attention alongside his brothers and sisters. Robb
looked offended, as if Jon had just told him that he did not want his
offspring. Jon clarified. “If father finds out that you have given me a babe,
he would separate us. You do not have the power to keep us together yet.” Jon
interlaced their fingers. “I would love to be the bearer of your children,
Robb. Nothing would make me happier.”  
Had Robb replied with a stereotypical alpha response, a haughty expression of
ownership and lack of acknowledgement of Jon’s agency, Jon would have returned
to the Neck the following day. Instead, Robb embraced Jon and thanked him for
his understanding. “You will not be disappointed in your betrothed.”
Following their discussion, far more calm near the end than when it started,
Robb retreated to his room. He decided that he would begin moving in his
possessions to Jon’s bedroom, little by little—enough not to cause a stir in
the household. He saw the box granted to him by Lord Reed sitting on his table.
He knocked it off for the sight of it was an insult.
The second it hit the floor, he heard metal clanging on the wooden floor. He
turned around and saw a bit of bronze underneath his dresser. Bending
downwards, he saw a circlet of iron spikes shaped as longswords. When he tried
to touch it, the object turned to dust and shattered in the air. The dust
formed a creature that immediately clouded his eyes. He could have screamed.
Except, as the copper and tin forced itself into his blue eyes, he became
overwhelmed with the images of a Northern kingdom, regal and great as the fairy
tales he heard. Surrounding him was an army of direwolves and men, each of them
bearing steel or blood. He was king, and by his side, Jon was his queen.
Chapter End Notes
     1. If you read my other story, you would know that I am taking a
     hiatus between August 26th and September 22nd. I don’t think it will
     affect this story too much considering I take over a week to update
     already (my other story, which has shorter chapters, is updated every
     Thursday).
     2. I will be taking requests during this time. Please send them to my
     newly made Tumblr page: sometimesimeow . tumblr . com
     3. Next chapter is the last chapter of young Robb/Jon (hopefully). I
     want them to be older before any hardcore sexy times happens.
     4. How many people recognize the mythological references in the
     story?
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Howland Reed held onto his wailing children for hours. Not a peep of distress,
a mutter of annoyance, or a sigh of exhaustion escaped his lips during the time
he embraced his daughter and son. Jon made his decision, and there was nothing
any of them could do to change his mind. Meera and Jojen knew this to be a
possibility, but nothing could prepare them for the heartbreak that followed.
“I don’t want him to leave!” cried Meera. She was sobbing, and her snot and
tears soaked Howland’s shirt. Howland held her tighter. His poor girl; how
could he be so callous as to think he could withstand her pain? His youngest,
Jojen, was not faring any better. At six years old, he could barely comprehend
the severity of the situation. He did not know the right response. Should he
beg Jon to stay? Or should he let him prosper with his other family? Should he
cry for his leaving? Or should he be happy, for Jon was alive and well and
surrounded by family? His confliction made his mind and heart ache and decided
that the tears welling up in his eyes were better released than withheld. 
“It will not be forever,” Howland explained. “You can visit him on his nameday,
and one day, Jon will return to the Neck. Perhaps he will even have a child—a
little niece or nephew for you both to play with. Or, he may come back a great
warrior. Meera, you can train with him again.” Howland stroked her cheek. She
turned away. Howland frowned in dismay. He refocused his attention on Jojen and
tried to sway his sadness. “Jojen, with Jon at Winterfell, it will be easier to
convince your uncle to broker a union between you and Bran. Wouldn’t you like
that?”
Jojen responded positively to the suggestion. Meera cried harder.
Howland could do nothing more than resort to soothing words and cheap
consolations. Any other Northerner would convince them to hide their tears, for
they were alphas and needed to be strong as stone and have souls frozen in ice.
He was not an average Northerner, however, and would let them cry as they
please. Deep inside, he wished to join them, but as a mother, his duty was to
comfort, not be comforted.
Jon made his decision, and it was the right decision. Their sorrows were
coupled with their own infuriation that they knew his choice but were too weak
to withstand the backlash. None of them would beg him to stay. They had no
right. But it hurt. The agony dug into their hearts and splintered throughout
their beings. Howland bit back his own sobs; he wiped away his tears so fast,
it was as if his hands never left Meera and Jojen’s curls.
Benjen arrived moments after Meera and Jojen cried themselves to sleep. Howland
knew he was waiting. He had no skill for solace, even for his own children,
whom he loved but could not care for like a father. Benjen told Howland that
another raven arrived—this time from Oldcastle. They were coming in flocks as
Lady Dustin made her grievances known. Lord Reed grimaced. He carefully laid
his children to rest and kissed each of their foreheads. He walked over to
Benjen and swiped the letter out of his hands.
“The old man is reaching his final days. When I asked Lord Manderly for
assistance in mediating the matter, I did not mean for him to twist a dying
man’s hands.” Howland grumbled as his eyes skimmed over the letter.
“Wonderful.” Howland crumpled up the paper. “Now, Lord Locke is requesting a
bride for his trouble. A man with no teeth believes his cock will magically
rise from the dead to give him an heir.”

“At least he does not claim privy to an existing bastard.”
Lord Reed growled. He did not want to be reminded of his current crisis. “She
has no reason to believe her husband sired a bastard, nor does she have any
evidence to stand on. I offered her safe passage through the Neck, and she
repays me by demanding a child. I have had enough with that malicious cow’s
campaign against me!”
Benjen Stark wondered if it was unlawful of him to be more amused than
concerned by the circumstances. “How many is that now?”
“With Lord Benfred from House Tallhart, and one of those ridiculous lords from
House Ryswell, I have to deal with three paternity claims. Lord Manderly has
calmed them down some—but it won’t be long until Lady Dustin accuses him of
partiality.”
“Would she be able to?” Benjen remembered two different lords: the Manderly in
his youth, an intimidating warrior who was kind, shrewd and jovial—who snuck
him sweets in his pockets even when the wolf pup protested, and his current
form—a man of gross proportions who could match his worth in weight. Benjen
found him slovenly, but judging by how often he made appointments with his
wife, the Stark knew there was more than meets the eye.
Howland nodded. “We’ve come to many profitable arrangements in the past.”
Dealing with scoundrels masquerading as businessmen, and removing competition
from his ports. “And his late wife was a crannogman.” Lady Wylla Greengood was
a friend of Howland’s late father and resided from the southernmost part of the
Neck. She had webbed fingers and toes like a fish and was able to swim in the
depths of swamps for an impossible length of time. Her skin tinged green, even
on dry land, and was an adventurer at heart. She was an inspiration to
Howland—being one of the few crannogman to travel outside the Neck. Decades
ago, she saved Lord Manderly from a shipwreck and nursed him back to health.
When he recovered, Wyman Manderly demanded to marry the mermaid who saved his
life or he would take no other in his home. “My father arranged a name for
her and sanctioned her nobility to the Citadel. Out of love for his late wife,
Lord Manderly will support my rule.” Without a doubt, Howland would need the
help. “Even Lady Dustin’s brothers will hesitate to raise arms against a man
whose body is made of silver.”  
“Are their suspicions unwarranted? Paternities are hard to claim enough, even
if the lord desires the responsibility.”
“Of course they are warranted!” Had Benjen no sense of his predicament? Was he
deaf and dumb to the schemes of the Neck? “You should have learned from your
propositions that knots are a delicacy in the Neck. If we did not bed traveling
lords and merchants, our numbers would have been reduced to a single house!”
“What is the problem if a few lords decide to claim their bastards?” They would
not be treated any differently by the crannogmen if their attitude towards Jon
was taken as evidence. “Knowing your people, they would use the opportunity to
turn themselves into ‘Moss’ and “Mushroom’ to avoid mimicking Jon.”
“The problem is with their mothers. Lady Dustin wants to foster the child in
her home. She needs an heir or else her position at Barrowton is threatened.
She has refused every marriage offer given to her, and her hourglass of
fertility is reaching its last grain.” Howland crossed his arms. “She is doing
this to spite me. She has never forgiven Ned for not bringing back her husband,
and with Jon’s stay, she is taking the opportunity to attack.” The woman would
never resort to actual warfare for her revenge—she was loyal to the North and
would follow Stark rule—but she hated Ned and Howland on a personal level, and
that retribution required underhanded methods.
Benjen tried to soothe his wife’s worries. “Lady Dustin is a bitter woman whose
grudging is unmatched by any other. The lords will only support her claim until
the trouble exceeds the worth of Lady Dustin’s silence. They do not want
bastards—they want deaf ears to her whining.”
Howland’s lips twitched. A smile was the last thing that should be on his lips.
Anybody who did not recognize the dryness in Benjen’s humor would have surely
accused him of being earnest. The Stark furthers the jest by claiming that Lady
Dustin’s brothers, the two Lord Ryswells, have “appeals equivalent to a colt
with a gout. They do not need worse luck finding wives.”
Benjen pressed his lips against Howland’s forehead. Like a child, Howland clung
to his shirt and accepted the affection. He shoved his face against Benjen’s
chest and tried to suffocate his stresses. His fists made wrinkles in Benjen’s
dressing.
“They look down on us. They always have. My people have protected these lands
from intruders since the Hammer of the Waters, and yet we fall privy to
discrimination. It is not fair.” Howland released his grip. He looked up to
Benjen, a layer of lashes hiding his determined gaze. “I was given a prophecy,
Benjen. Like all the crannogmen, I was told of my fate as a child and I have
strived for it. Every. Single Day. They will not lay their dominion over me. If
the only way to garner their respect is through force, then they will learn
that in the Neck, wars are won before the battles start.”  
“Howland…” Benjen took a deep breath. He wondered if Howland was this ravenous
before his separation from Ned. All crannogmen were content with their moving
homes and their sporadic livelihoods—only Howland showed ambition. He heard
from his good sister that Howland always thirsted for glory and respect the
Neck deserved, but from what he remembered, his friend was never so
bloodthirsty in their youth.
“My father told me that all the crannogmen are my children. I am to care for
them. I already sent one child away, I will not do so for another.” They did
not need more Snows inside the Neck. They would not import more the grounded
traditions of others into their wetlands. The North has bent the knee long
enough—if Howland needed to remind them of their true natures, he will. Howland
marched over to his room. “We need to pack immediately. If we leave tomorrow,
we can make it there before the next moon phase.”
“Is that not rash? Does Jon not need more preparation?”
“Jon has received as much care as I can give him.” Howland sighed. Benjen could
sense his wife’s frustrations. “I have been gone too long. He will understand.”
He would, for that sweet boy of his took after his father when it came to duty.
He would never demand his mother stay a moment longer if it meant jeopardizing
the peace and security of his people.
Before he marched off, he turned to Benjen. His eyes were full of sympathy.
“Try and talk to your children when they wake. Your time with them is shorter
than you realize.”
Howland skipped supper to pack, and when he heard a knock on the door, he
assumed it was a maid bringing his meal. When it opened without his permission,
he knew his theory was half off. Lord Stark stood by the doorway. Howland heard
him set a plate down. Though the pain was greater than the bite of a thousand
leeches and the jaws of a lizard-lion, Howland faced him.
“I have to go,” Howland told Ned. There was no prompting. He was not obliged to
justify a necessity. Yet, he wanted it to be known that this was not his
heart’s desire but his mind’s petition. “My people need me.”
Ned said nothing. He rushed over to Howland and pulled him into a kiss he would
remember for years. Howland closed his eyes. He savored the taste of Ned’s
tongue and remained mesmerized by how well aligned the older man’s lips were
with his. He let Ned carry him to their bed and take off his clothes. Ned
returned the favor by removing his own garments. Then, he allowed him to
swallow his cock and lick his cunt until he was dripping over his face. Howland
squeezed his thighs to encourage Ned to dig deeper into him. Ned’s lips were
swollen and red and glistened with Howland’s juices when he kissed him again.
Their lovemaking was like a slow-moving hurricane that swallowed wherever it
rode. Ned buried himself to the hilt in Howland; he churned inside him while
Howland twisted and rolled his hips for friction. Instead of making long, deep
thrusts, Ned stirred his cock until the juices thickened and a knot swelled
inside Howland’s gluttonous cunt. He pushed and stretched Howland’s pussy with
great concentration, dragging his lips out whenever he pulled back.
“Ned…!” Howland cried. He gripped one hand in his lover’s hair as the man bit
his shoulder. The bed sheets would stain. “Ned, I need you—go faster! Please!”
“You’re tight,” Ned growled. He pushed in further, and let the sound of
Howland’s slick squish together and echo in his ears. He spread Howland’s legs
wide apart. He went faster upon request, but his movements were sudden and
erratic. He wanted Howland to tighten around his cock. He wanted to bury
himself in that warm hole for days. Howland needed to be fucked the way he
deserved—with a cock twice the size of his cunt filling him up and making him
feel owned. He belonged to Ned like this, warming up his cock and being bred
with his children.
Howland and Ned continued until they came—big spurts of cream filling up
Howland’s hole. Howland moaned. Ned was plugged into his cunt, and the knot was
forcing all that thick come into his womb, making his stomach wantonly round.
Ned pushed in deeper. He saw his knot pressing against Howland’s stomach
obscenely.
When they finished, Ned lifted Howland up and wrapped his legs around his
waist. Howland let Ned carry him, cock still lodged inside his pussy, and body
boneless with pleasure. He did not protest when Ned choose to lie on his back
and had Howland resting on his chest. Out of possession, Ned used three fingers
to stuff Howland’s ass hole, causing his cunt to clench around his cock.
“Ned,” Howland gasped. “If your intention is to fuck my legs off, I’m afraid I
have to stop you before you succeed.” He whimpered when Ned slammed his fingers
against his prostate. He came immediately and bit down on Ned’s chest. Ned’s
cock was getting ready to pump another load. He could feel it pulsing inside
him. “Or if you’re planning to fill me with a lifetime’s worth of cum before I
leave, then I suppose I can’t stop you.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” Ned confessed.
Howland laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. “And what would you
have me be while I am here? Your mistress? Someone to warm your cock at your
beck and call? A wet hole for your seed whenever you need release?”
Ned’s cock twitched inside him. Howland found the reaction pleasing because he
rolled his hips and began sweet talking his lover for more. “I bet you would
like that. You could keep me in this room for breeding—I’ll stop taking my
medicine. No, you’d make me stop. You shove your cock in me over and over again
until I get pregnant.” Howland mirrored his words with his physicality. He
loved the teasing as much as Ned hated it. He giggled, deliriously high. “I
would never say no to you. You like that, don’t you? I’m so shameless—you could
fuck me anywhere. You wouldn’t have to drag me away into another room, I could
be standing in the courtyard and you could simply lift up my skirt and pound my
hole. I’d be your property. A whore. A pleasure slave. You could bend me over
while you speak with Maester Luwin, or spread my legs in the middle of our
son’s lessons. Maybe you keep me on my knees while you fuck my mouth, gag me
until I’m choking on your fat dick. I love it when you treat my throat like a
cunt, all slippery and hot and wet. You always get me dripping for it.”  
“Don’t do this to me,” Ned begged. He groaned when he came again. The second
load was spilling out, despite how well plugged in Howland was. Howland reveled
in the overstimulation. “Howland, you are the mother of my child.”
“What does that matter?” He whispered. “Whores have their master’s children all
the time.”
Ned surprised him by pulling the lord into an embrace. Howland struggled to be
released but Ned kept him still. He closed his eyes. What could he say? He
wanted Howland to stay so that he could have a semblance of the family he
dreamed of. He would have Winterfell, his duty and his lineage, he would train
Robb how to handle the affairs and find marriages for his daughters and sons.
Then, he could have Howland. The everlasting, enchanting Howland, who saved his
life and soul, who gave him a sweet son with every piece of the people he loved
inside him.
“Would you stay if I asked you to?”
Howland was silent.
“I don’t know,” Howland confessed at last. He stroked Ned’s hair away from his
face and stared into his eyes. Jon has the same haunting gray eyes, only a
little lighter, like Lyanna’s. Benjen’s eyes were like a storm—they were almost
black. All of their children have Howland’s eyes, green. “Like lily pads,” Ned
once described. Benjen called them leaves. Lyanna agreed because he remembered
her taking her laurel of winter roses and stringing a single one around
Howland’s wrist. She told him that if she was the rose then Ned was the vines
and leaves that kept them together. The Starks were not poets, but they meant
what they said.
“You’ve never asked me.” Oh, and Howland thought he’d gotten rid of the hope in
his voice.
Ned kept his grip firm around his body. They stared at each other. Finally, Ned
spoke.
“I love you.”
Howland’s eyes soften, but there’s sadness in them; the same sadness he carried
whenever it was time for Ned to leave the Neck. He kissed his husband—his true
husband. Because while Benjen has been by his side for eleven years, and has
been titled spouse, friend, and sire, he could never compare to Howland’s
soulmate.  
“I know,” Howland replied. And then he thought:
Wouldn’t it be lovely if the whole world knew how well he was loved?
-
Ned left the room after Howland fell asleep. He wanted the man to rest before
he departed on his journey, and that would not be possible if Ned remained in
his bed. He thought about the way Howland shivered without his presence and
decided to get a shawl from his bedroom.
At this time of day, Lady Stark would be at the sept, praying to her gods for
prosperity in her home, for the good fortune of her children (for the removal
of vermin and the defeat of her enemies). Today, she was here. She was drinking
her tea and wearing her nightgown as if she never left the room.
“I’d thought you be at the sept.”
Catelyn looked at him as if she were staring at a stranger’s corpse. Her eyes
were dull and held the amount of care given by someone who valued human life
but could not muster the feeling to cry for a stranger. She finished up her
tea, and poured herself another cup. “You were wrong.”
Ned sighed. He forgone his original intentions and sat on the bed. “We should
talk.” 
“Should we?” Catelyn blew on the liquid. “You despise such an activity. I’m
apologize for making you uncomfortable. I do not possess Lord Reed’s tongue.”
“Catelyn,” he warned. He always spoke to her as if she were a misbehaving
child; a relative who was constantly causing trouble but was tolerated out of
affection forced upon him. She does not mind the tone today.
“You must be so happy. Your son has decided to stay. You are halfway finished
with your perfect family!” Catelyn put down her tea. She got up. “Now, you must
convince Lord Reed to join you, and you will have everything your heart
desires. Of course, you must rid yourself of your first wife. Send me away to
my father’s house, or if you are kind and wish to spare me the shame, kill me.
There are plenty of tales relating to merchants traveling with diseases, or a
wildling raid that ventured too far south. Oh! I have the perfect idea. I love
to swim, but the waters here are different than the North. I could drown. Drown
in this tundra of death and despair you call a home.” She laughed.
“Catelyn, you are ill.” Howland assured Ned that he would do Lady Stark no
harm, but could not guarantee that his presence would not result in a
resurgence of madness. Ned had not seen the signs, so utterly distracted by his
son and lover’s appearance. He regretted his carelessness. “Sleep, stay in the
room until Howland leaves.” He will order the maids to search the room for
silverware and bar all the windows.
“Then, there’s our children. He loves our children. Not like me, not like your
cruel wife who is so horrible that she cannot bear to love the child who
reminds her of husband’s infidelity every time she looks at him!  But—” Catelyn
gasped. “You will want time to make up for all the years missed. You must be
quick! Marry our daughters and sons off as soon as you can, and foster your
heir onto some worthy Northern house. Rickon is so young, Howland can pretend
he gave birth to him. He did that—he did that to Robb—do you remember? When the
fire in my son’s hair burned to brown, and his soft roundness turned sharp as
knives. That milk of his is poison, and you let our son feed off of it.” She
shoved him away in anger.
Ned knew better than to disagree with her. He tried to lead her to the bed,
where she could rest. He touched her skin and she was burning—with fever or
madness, he could not tell. “Rest, Catelyn. You will feel better afterward.”
Her strength was enviable. When he placed her body on the sheets, she dragged
him onto it. They wrestled for a few moments until she was on top of him. “I
thought you wanted to talk.”
Ned contemplated the ways he could remove Catelyn off of him without hurting
her. “We can talk later.” When Howland was gone and Catelyn regained her
senses.
“How does he touch you, Ned?” She pressed her hand against the outline of his
cock. “I want to try it, too. You can pretend I am him when you fuck me like
you’ve always had. Do you know that I’ve started to whisper his name when you
mouth it? You think I can’t see your lips in the dark, but I can feel them
against my skin. Howland. Howland. Howland. You’ve branded me with him.”
Catelyn rolled her hips. She let out a little gasp when he twitched. She smiled
down at him. “Let me replace the man you love. He’s leaving you—I knew it the
second Jon announced he would stay. You’re going to lose him again. Just like I
lost Brandon.” She rubbed a finger on his lips. “I was to be his wife, and now
I am yours. Howland was supposed to be your wife, and now he’s your brother’s.
Irony, thou name is Stark.”
In the dusky lighting, Catelyn’s blue eyes darkened to an unrecognizable shade
of black and the desperation reminded him of Howland. He remembered his older
brother telling him how happy he was with his father’s selection.
“She’s very beautiful,” Brandon told Ned. He had just come home from Riverrun
to inform his family of Lord Tully’s acceptance. “I mean, nothing compared to
Cersei Lannister or the queen—but she has the most perfect breasts I’ve ever
seen, and she’s a Tully. No madness runs in their blood.”
Ned said nothing. Benjen was in the other room, seething in rebellion. He
refused to speak to his brother and father, for the only words that came out of
his mouth were accusations of betrayal. He spent the entire dinner complaining
about how their mother’s grave was turning. Their father, instead of punishing
him, sent him to his room. Brandon advised their lord to teach him a lesson—he
cannot possibly expect his wife to live amongst such disrespect but Lord Stark
waved him off.
“Benjen is a child. He will grow out of it.” The statement was followed by a
wistful expression indicating what Ned thought. Benjen sounded like his mother.
Ned excused himself immediately. He waited for Brandon in his room and asked
what Catelyn looked like.
“I told you she has perfect breasts, what more do you need?”
Ned gave his brother a pointed look.
Brandon sighed. “She’s a Tully. Red hair. Blue eyes.”
“Red like fire, or red like mother?” Their mother had dark auburn locks that
she always held back in a traditional northern fashion. She told him that it
blended in with the red dirt from the mountains she grew up in, or the brown
sands toasted by the Braavosi sun.
Brandon thought for a second. “A mix of both, actually? More fire, though.”
Ned tried not to be disappointed.
When Catelyn’s hair rained down on his face, painted with the shadows of their
bedroom, he was reminded of his mother and the way her hair would fall on him
when she sang him to sleep or gave him a lesson. Yet, his love for red paled in
comparison to his devotion to mud, honey, and leaves.
Catelyn gripped his arm. She lunged at him. Her kiss was forceful and fraught.
Ned worried that all her strength had been poured into that single kiss and she
would fall to pieces the next second. She proved him wrong when she spoke.
“I’ve served my purpose, and now you abandon me. Two alpha boys, and the three
prettiest omegas in the world. An heir and a spare. A sweet boy to replace the
one you lost. A child like Lyanna. A babe for the south.” Catelyn released his
arm and laid on the bed. “My presence has never provided you pleasure. That’s
why my other holes remained untouched. I would never be held in such regard.”
She was a brooding mare, and nothing more.
Ned sighed. “Goodnight, Catelyn. I will send someone to bring more tea for
you.” With a dash of milk of the poppy for kind dreams. “We will speak
tomorrow.”
“Did you mean it?” She asked. “What you promised me?”
“What?”
“Years ago, when you first proposed fostering your son here, you told me you
would allow me a lover. Did you mean it?”
“Yes,” Ned answered. He thought it was only fair that his wife found happiness.
“And I would secure an inheritance for your children.” He would not allow her
to suffer any more shame than she already endured at the hands of his
indiscretions.
“Of course you would,” Catelyn was entertained by the prospect. “You are a good
man, Ned.”
“Catelyn?”
“Go,” she dismissed him. “Spend time with Lord Reed before he leaves. Happy
moments with a beloved are rare, and should be treasured.”
Ned obeyed. It was the first command she had ever given him. When he left, he
saw his beauty of a daughter walk towards him. He asked Sansa about her
intentions and she said she was visiting her mother, who was too tired to pray
with her in the sept. In her hands was a piece of cake.
“She did not eat her dessert at supper—which never happens! I thought she might
like some when she feels better…”
Ned was about to order her elsewhere. When awakened, Catelyn would be
subjugated to the beasts that played in her mind. Yet he recalled how helpful
Robb was during her recovery the last time and he wondered if another child
would ease her affliction. He told Sansa that she must be very careful, for her
mother was not well, and that the things she says may not come from a sound
mind. Sansa heeded his advice and frolicked to her other parent.
Her mother was on the bed, and her head was turned in the direction opposite of
the door.
“Mother?” she called softly to avoid waking her if she slept, but louder than a
whisper so that she could be heard. Her mother faced her and her lifeless
expression brightened to accommodate her child’s presence.
 “Sansa,” her mother greeted. She got up and leaned on the bedpost. Catelyn
motioned her daughter towards her. A dove of a child placed the cake on the
nightstand, hopped on her mother’s bed, and curled up against her dwindling
form. “Mother, I brought dessert.”
“Thank you, Sansa.” But she didn’t take it. Sansa stared at her worriedly. To
assuage her daughter’s fears, Catelyn reluctantly took the cake and many a tiny
dent in the pastry. She smiled and told her it was delicious. “Would you like
to have a bite?”
Sansa nodded. She opened her mouth and was fed a crumble. Her mother tenderly
stroked her hair. They looked so much alike, except for the innocence. Sansa
was still blind to the world; she was utterly untouched by the spirits that
wandered the earth in search of vengeance and curses. Catelyn picked up another
piece and her daughter repeated her mouth’s ‘o’ shape.
“Mother, are you ill?” Sansa asked after she finished swallowing.
Catelyn paused. “Why do you say that?”
“Because father said you were, and you are in bed when you are normally at the
sept. You have refrained from eating as of late, and I heard that you do not
sleep well.”
“I am not sick, Sansa.” Catelyn returned to her petting. “But I am sad.” And
mad. Oh, so, very, mad.
Sansa frowned. “Is it because Jon is staying?” She embraced her mother. Her icy
skin burned, and Sansa mustered as much heat as she could to warm her up.
 “Don’t be sad, mother! I…Jon is very kind…but you are our mother! I like him
but I will always love you more. I love you the most! If you desire it, I
will…”  Sansa thought long and hard about what to say next. Catelyn stopped her
before she could make any promises.
“Sansa, you are my darling,” Catelyn professed to her. She clutched her little
hands.  “You are the best thing I have ever brought into this world.”
Sansa hesitated, for her mother was weak and her voice cracked and whittled in
a hoarse whisper. Then, she nodded. “Thank you, mother.” She asked her mother
if she was alright. “You sound strange.”   
“Did you know?” Catelyn smiled, sad and wilted as a widow. “When I married your
father, he was the finest choice my family could broker. I was to be given the
North! How excited I was to be Lady Stark. But I let my ambition cloud my
judgment, and now you have a brother I did not bare. I regret it every day…”
 Sansa stayed silent throughout the story. She asked her mother if she would
like some more cake, but the lady refused her. She told her she needed her
rest. Before Sansa left, Catelyn told her how pleased she was that she raised
such a fine daughter. “I could die happy with your smiling face as the last
thing I see.”
Sansa giggled. She laid with her mother until a serving girl made her
appearance with the tea. Sansa requested her own cup. The girl was unsure.
Catelyn took the first sip and after tasting it, she told her daughter that the
liquid was too hot for her to drink. In response, Sansa sang a short song and
waited for her mother to fall asleep before she left. She ate the rest of the
cake and wandered to her bedroom where a pile of fabric scraps awaited her. She
was hoping to make a dress for her doll, but she figured her mother would be
more grateful for a pair of gloves. Hopefully, if she had enough, she could
make a pair for Jon as well.
-
That night, Howland and his children slept in Lyanna’s bedroom. Their time was
limited together and they needed to make the most of it. Howland woke up hours
before daybreak and saw Jon fiddling through his wardrobe.
“What are you doing, my love?”
Jon jumped. He did not answer and closed the closet door. He ran back to his
bed to avoid an interrogation. He was unsuccesful—Howland scooped him up in his
arms before he could retreat. After a bit of squirming and raspy protests, he
settled into his mother’s arms. He heard his mother giggle. Jon frowned.
“I could not sleep. I wanted to stay awake so that I could have more memories
of all of you.”
Howland kissed his curls and hummed. The vibrations tickled Jon’s skin and he
laughed. “You’re so silly,” his mother claimed. “But I am happy you think so
fondly of us.”
“Meera and Jojen are my brother and sister. You are my mother. I won’t see you
again for years.” That was an exaggeration. He knew his family would visit on
special occasions, such as his nameday or his wedding. Only the former sounded
appealing. “You should be here with me, and with father.”
Howland did not disagree. He did not sound angry when he told Jon he was right.
“And maybe, one day, our dreams will come true.”
Jon did not believe it. He glared at his mother. “Don’t mock me! You and father
cannot be together. Not while Lady Stark is alive.”
Howland stared. He was taken back by the declaration. As soon as he said it,
Jon covered his mouth in shame. “Forgive me! I did not mean to wish her ill
will. I’m…” Sorry? But he wasn’t sorry, he was mortified by his own
ruthlessness. He clenched his fist. “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to
stay with father. You’re so much happier with him than without.  I want us to
be a family.” Tears welled up in Jon’s eyes. “Why can’t we be a family?”
“Shh...” Howland soothed. “You know why I cannot stay. I am Lord Reed of
Greywater Watch, and the Chief of the Neck. I have to lead my people and
provide order to our wetlands.” He kissed his son’s forehead and reassured him
of the infinite possibilities of Winterfell. “But you are Lord Stark’s son, and
the gods gave you a fate greater than anybody could imagine.”
Jon’s eye widened. “How do you know about that?”
 “I asked the gods. They told me that majesty befalls you. In order to attain
our former glory, the North needs you, Jon. They need you to accomplish your
destiny, and by the gods, you shall.” Howland smiled ominously. His green eyes
glowed. “Heed my advice, Jon. You belong at Winterfell. You carry the blood and
soul of a Stark, you are just as trueborn as any of his children. Never forget
that. No one, not even Lady Stark, can take that away from you. You are the
proof of our love and the promise of our future. Lady Stark will never forgive
you for existing.” Howland sighed. “But you do not need her forgiveness. Never
allow her to warp your mind into something unholy. She is threatened by your
existence. Your father loves you, and so do your brothers and sisters.
Especially Robb.”
Jon nodded. Robb adored him. He promised. They were to be married.
“I ask that you do not give her advantage. Never be alone with her. And never,
ever, lose Robb’s favor.” He clutched his face. “Since the day you were
conceived, your existence has been the light of my life. The first step to
attaining all you deserve has come. Robb is the heart of Winterfell, and he has
given you his heart.”
-
Howland traded a night of rest to appease his son’s anxiety. When he woke, it
was mid-afternoon and he was dragged from location to location to experience
the last few joys of Winterfell. He knew of only one joy, and he was nowhere to
be seen. Meanwhile, the servants readied his possessions for travel. They would
be leaving tonight. At breakfast, Robb asked if it would be safe. Both Benjen
and Howland reassured him of their security. Both of them were experienced
travelers under the moon and have yet to face a danger they were not ready to
defeat. Ned offered a few of his men for protection. They found the gesture
amusing but knew better than to challenge Ned’s protective nature.
Afterward, Howland settled the last of the matters of Jon’s stay. Not even
Ned’s needling could convince him of Winterfell’s positive education. He
visited Ser Rodrik who was in the middle of preparing a lesson for his
students. The man was surprised to see the crannogman and not at all pleased.
“Lord Reed,” he bowed appropriately.
“Ser Rodrik,” Howland responded. “I wanted to discuss my appreciation for
your…interest in my son’s swordsmanship. I heard you will be taking him under
your tutelage.”
The master of arms nodded. He puffed his chest out in pride. “I am responsible
for training any young man of Winterfell in the art of a sword. That includes
your son.”
“A yes would have sufficed.” Howland rolled up his sleeves. “My son has never
held a sword before—we crannogmen have no use for them.”
“Worry not, I will make a warrior out of him yet. He will not fall behind under
my guidance.”
Howland smiled, a look of dismissal and contrive. “My son is a warrior, Ser
Rodrik. He knows how to fight as well as any of your boys do—perhaps even
better. Just because we do not allow our enemies to take advantage of our
brashness does not make us weak.”
Ser Rodrik bristled. “Be that as it may, but a boy of his nature will have a
hard time finding cover every time someone wishes him ill. He will fight in the
methods I train him in.”
“No, he will learn your methods and be given privacy to use mine. This is not a
negotiation.”
Ser Rodrik did not take it as such. “Jon may not carry the name Stark but he
carries the blood. My family has been responsible for educating the sons of
Winterfell for generations. He will learn the ways of a knight not a—”
“Not a what?” Howland eyes narrowed. He took a step forward.
“My lord, I have overstepped my boundaries.”
“No, finish your sentence,” Howland commanded. “Not a what? A coward? That’s
what the crannogmen are to you people. Cowards. Never mind that if it wasn’t
for me, your lord would be dead. I saved his life. My people have saved
thousands of lives from invaders. You are so eager to forget how the North has
been untouched for so long—because my people stopped them from going through.
From burning your farmlands, killing your children, and raping your wives. My
people stopped that but we will always be those poor, uncivilized barbarians.”
Ser Rodrik attempted to apologize. Howland marched outside. Ser Rodrik followed
and witnessed the Chief of the Neck grab a training lance. He slammed the
wooden pole against the ground and broke off the top part. Ser Rodrik called
out to the lord but he was ignored.
Ned was watching his children on the courtyard when the familiar signal of a
spear aimed for his shoulder. Had he been younger, and immersed in warfare, he
would have dodged it. Alas, he was in his home and he never knew anyone foolish
enough to attack a Stark in Winterfell.
The spear hit his shoulder and then retracted to aim for his waist. This time,
he knew to move out of the way.
“Lord Stark!” One of his guardsmen called. The men released their blades.
“Stand your ground!” Ned ordered. He turned to Howland who tried to remove his
balance. He got out of the way and removed his cloak for agility and
distraction. He tossed the fabric onto Howland and released the steel at his
side. When Howland took a step forward, Ned addressed the blade towards his
lover. “What madness has become you, Howland?” He sounded more concern than
angry, and not at all betrayed.
Howland played with his makeshift spear. He was not a Dornishman, he did not
twirl it and spin and showboat like a monkey on stage. Instead, he traced
pictures into the sand, he switched the staff from arm to arm. Howland was
trying to distract him through slow, patient movements. Ned had seen him use
the same technique on many opponents to dire results.
“Your men think that my methods are a result of their cowardice. They think I
am weak.” Howland hit his lover’s knees, causing Ned to falter. He aimed for
the unbruised shoulder and was met with a sword. Ned got up and pushed him
backward. Howland regained his stance. “I am not weak.”
“No, you are not,” Ned grumbled. He prepared himself for the next move.
Howland jabbed his stomach. He kicked up the cloak and mirrored Ned’s earlier
technique. Most of the time, Howland would employ a net to capture his enemies.
A cloak was severely heavier and not as flexible. Ned was able to remove the
object easily but found his cheek being stabbed by the invading wood. He was
knocked several steps back.
Ned heard his men moving forward and he repeated his command. “Anybody who lays
a hand on Lord Reed will be removed as a guardsman and sent to the dungeons!”
He looked up at Howland. “If we are to fight, then let us be equals. I will not
fight you with steel while you carry wood.”
“Then, do not fight me. I don’t care. The wounded are my preferred prey.”
Howland stabbed his spear into the ground where Ned was and the dust rose up.
“They don’t run as fast.”
Ned groaned at the crannogman’s absurdity. He saw Ser Rodrik whose nostrils
flare with indignation. He must have been the one to instigate this erratic
behavior. Howland made another close call. Ned threw his sword on the ground
and avoided another attack. He tackled Howland to the ground afterward.
At this point, dozens of Winterfell’s inhabitants swarmed to the courtyards to
watch. Ned saw both his sons at the front of the audience. Only Jon remained
calm—if anything he was entertained. He was used to his parents’ sparring. In
the Neck, they called this type of behavior ‘play-fighting.’  In jest and
practice, crannogmen would leap from trees and jump out of their rabid fauna to
attack their fellow men. “Mother, please hold off until Meera arrives! We would
like to bet in your victory!”
The audience stared at the Snow child who was hopping on his toes for a better
view. Howland used the distraction to flip Ned over. He kissed him, licked his
tongue in a long, drawn-out matter. Ned had tasted enough of Howland’s kisses
to know when something was amidst. He bit the crannogman’s lips.
Howland got off and wiped the blood from his mouth. “You bit me?”
“You poisoned me,” Ned reminded. He tried to spit out the remains. “What did
you give me this time?”
“This time?” Robb mouthed to his younger brother. Jon shrugged.
“I don’t know,” Howland lied. He was grinning, and skipping in a juvenile
manner. “Would you like another taste?”
Ned withstood the following attack in order to get ahold of Howland. He
dislodged the weapon and held Howland in his arms. He could feel his vision
blur. “Give me the antidote, Howland.”
Howland struggled for a bit before settling in his arms. “No.”
Ned tightened his grip. “Now. You’ve lost.”
“Yes, but I’ll be taking my enemy down with me.” Howland spoke again, louder
for everyone to hear. “In actual warfare, it would not matter if you vowed to
spare my life in exchange for yours. I am your enemy—you would end my life
regardless. Not all men are honorable with their promises. At least this way, I
can take you down with me.”  
Ned sighed. His vision blurred and in his fatigue, he released Howland from his
grasp. “Just give it to me, Howland.”  
Howland laughed. “There’s no antidote, my lord.”
Ned sunk to his knees.
“I gave you a sedative. You will be awake in an hour.”
As soon as Lord Stark dropped to the ground, the guards came running. They
bounded Howland and took him away. Jon tried to stop them but was pulled back
by Robb. “They will not hurt him,” Robb assured him. “He is still your mother,
and father would never forgive them.”
Jon knew better than to protest. He watched as one man checked his father’s
pulse, and outrage course through him. Did they honestly believe that his
mother could do his father harm? They should be ashamed of themselves.
Winterfell erupted into whispers. Jon tried to listen, but Robb pulled him
away. Jon refused to play ignorant to the rumors. They called his mother
‘unjust’ and ‘disloyal,’ ‘reckless’ and ‘crude.’ He glared at the ones closest
to him. They shielded themselves away.
“Don’t worry,” Robb pacified. “You heard father. No one would dare harm your
mother. Once father awakens, he will be released.” He leaned forward to whisper
in Jon’s ear. “And I’ll remember all the faces of these slanderous persons.
They cannot be allowed to speak about your mother that way.” Lord Reed will be
his good mother, and Robb cannot grant such disloyalty clemency.
Jon flushed in approval. He kissed his cheek and thanked him. “I must check on
my mother. I will see you tonight.” Jon followed the guards as they took his
mother prisoner. He could not believe how weak the Winterfell citizens were.
How fragile were their minds and how thin were their stomachs to churn at the
sight of a bit of play fighting?
-
When the guards and Howland were out of sight, they removed the binding around
his wrists. Howland already knew that the ropes were for show. They did not
even bother to tie him up—just wrapped the textiles around his hands. Heward
apologized for the rough treatment and offered to bring him blankets for his
stay in the dungeon. “You will be released once Lord Stark wakes up.” He
paused. “You are sure you only gave him a sleeping potion?”
 Howland glared at him.  
The man turned away. “Yes, well, you are welcome to ask for anything to ease
your time here. Your short time here.” He glanced over at Howland’s hands to
check for burn marks. There were none. He sighed in relief.
During his stay, Howland was visited by his children who cooed at his martial
skills. He played games with them for the first hour and told Jon how much he
loved him. In response, Jon asked if he could pick a fight with his father
again. “That way, Meera can watch and you can stay in the dungeons forever!”
Howland looked at the stone walls where roaches and rats contorted their bodies
to fit. Jon grinned sheepishly. “It’s not the worst place we’ve ever lived.”
They laughed and focused on more pleasant conversations. They made plans for
Jon’s nameday, and told him that he needed to practice his spearing.
“I plan on fighting you when we meet again. And I will win.”
Jon kissed her and told her that he accepted her challenge. Despite their
dismal surroundings, the Reeds were gay with laughter. They were relieved of
their duties as entertainers and caretakers by Benjen. The man told his
children to finish packing, and for Jon to greet his father from his nap. “He
is fine, just weary and tired. I came in lieu of guards to release your
mother.” He held up the keys in evidence. When the children left, he mocked
Howland for his temper tantrum.
“My brother wants to have words with you.”
“He will have to teach me a lesson.” Howland pressed his lithe body against the
bars of the dungeon. “You would let your brother punish your own wife?” He
teased. “What if he wrongs me?”
Benjen rolled his eyes. “You have hundreds of new bruises and I can count more
scratches on your skin than actual hair. I believe he is the only one that can
handle you.” Benjen threw him the key.
Howland pouted when he caught it. He undid his gate and left the dungeons. He
marched over to Maester Luwin’s quarters—where forgotten paper corals built on
top of each other and ink based parasites grew on his belongings. The place was
a bigger mess than the graveyards in the swamps, where the snake bodies decayed
and the rotted trees sunk. Ned was resting on the bed nearby.
“He is tired,” Luwin explained. He sprung out from a pile of books—Howland, who
has been trained since his youth to detect predators and camouflage prey,
jumped in surprise. The man continued his explanation. “He did wake up, and I
informed the guardsmen that he was just fed poppy milk—I am well aware that was
not the truth.” He saw Howland open his mouth in protest. “But he has not
gotten much sleep this week. I added a little something extra to his water. I
thought he would appreciate the nap.”  
Howland agreed with this method. Ned looked so peaceful. “Thank you.”
“Since you are here, I have a few questions regarding your son.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I tutor all the Stark children in various subjects. It is well known in
the Citadel that the Neck uses…a less structured system. I need to know how you
would like Jon’s regime to proceed.”
Howland raised an eyebrow. “You are asking for my opinion?”
“He is your child.”
“He is,” Howland agreed. The lord took a seat at Maester Luwin’s table. He did
not acknowledge the mess, and focused on the man before him. “Jon knows all the
basics. He can read, but his literature is limited to his father’s letters. The
same applies to his writing. He knows his maths well, as he and his siblings
join me when I calculate the Neck’s rations. History, he is well versed in.”
More than Maester Luwin, in fact, but Howland does not say that out loud.
“So a focus on reading and writing.” Luwin grabbed his pen and quill.
“Yes,” Howland hesitated. “He will probably be behind for those reasons. I
recommend he join his little sisters than those his age.”
Luwin found that suggestion amicable. Unbeknownst to Howland, the maester wrote
down a note to place Jon with Theon for their history lessons, but kept the
maths with Robb. “What about his other pursuits? Can he read the stars? Map
drawing or navigation? Medicine?”
“I think he would enjoy the stars. The trees are covered in the Neck so we do
not see them unless we venture elsewhere, and even then, they are nothing more
to us than pretty decorations. I don’t think he cares much about traveling.”
Few crannogmen required knowledge of travel and geography. Their homes took
them wherever they needed to be. “And he knows medicine. I trained him myself.”
 Luwin nodded. He thanked Howland for his input, and would arrange something
suitable for his son. They would begin their lessons immediately. The maester
glanced over to the lord who muttered something in his sleep. Howland walked
over to him. He wiped a strand of hair from his face.
Measter Luwin revealed, “He was worried about your reaction, but Lord Stark
plans on having a formal presentation for Jon in the coming years. To ensure
positive results, he wants to equip Jon with the best possible education. He
has the beauty,” Luwin commented. There was nothing perverse about his
statement; it was simply an observation. “But knowledge will strengthen his
chances for a good marriage.”
The revelation was not surprising to Howland. “Even if Jon is a bastard?”
Luwin sighed. He looked up from his quill and paper to give Howland a tired,
almost reprimanding look. “Jon is still the son of the most powerful man in the
North, and his mother is a high lord. To be frank, your lineage carries more
nobility than some great houses.” The Reeds were descended from kings, unlike
the Tullys or the Tyrells who originated from noblemen and cadets. “You may not
have the resources to secure a proper dowry, nor is your reputation one to
proclaim, but you hold great sway over a region that covers nearly a fifth of
the North.”
Howland sat on Ned’s bed. From afar, he took a moment to truly look at Maester
Luwin, who had been nothing but civil to him since he arrived in Winterfell
twelve years ago. “Where are you from, Maester Luwin?”
Luwin placed a scroll on top of a huge pile of papers. “I am a northerner, Lord
Reed. My parents were farmers. They sent me to study at the Citadel when they
caught me reading.”
“Are you from Winterfell?”
“No,” he chuckled, and it was the first time Howland heard him laugh. “I come
from the Grey Cliffs. I was asked to come here when the previous maester fell
ill. Lady Stark—Lord Stark’s mother,” he clarified. “Demanded the Citadel send
a northerner to fulfill his position. The Citadel sent over a dozen men, and
yet after an hour alone with them, she sent all the men away. I was the first
one she allowed to treat her, and Lord Rickard Stark announced that I would be
his replacement.”
Howland wished he could have met Ned’s mother, for she sounded fearsome and he
enjoyed that. Perhaps, he thought, when Bran mastered his powers, such a spell
would not be outside the realm of possibility. Howland found the fatigue from
all the planning to be overwhelming. He removed his footwear and announced to
Maester Luwin that he planned on joining Ned in rest. If his children came,
tell them that they were allowed to do whatever they wish at Winterfell, given
that nothing breaks. Luwin shook his head at the sparse limitations but
complied. There was something oddly charming about watching the two interact,
and he wondered if his latent romantic was surfacing.
-
They slept until the beginning of dusk. Howland was spooned underneath Ned’s
chin and Ned held onto him as if he was the last person alive. He woke up
seconds earlier to kiss Howland’s hair and mold their bodies together. The
sensation made Howland purr. He opened his eyes and for a single moment, and he
only saw Ned and Ned only saw Howland.
“It’s time,” Howland reminded him. His voice was so soft it could have been
mistaken for a child’s. The moment shattered into a thousand pieces of glass,
and it stung with every step. “I have to go home.”
“I know.” He kissed Howland’s shoulder. “That does not mean I have to be happy
about it.” It did not mean he would not fight to make Howland regret his
return. “The Neck could have been my home.”
“You would have enjoyed it there.” Howland interlaced their hands. “There’s no
extravagance except for the most important occasions, and the communities act
as one family so you would never be lonely. We kiss each other and hug and make
sure all our children know that they are loved.”
Ned grasped onto his hand. “What else?” He asked because there was nothing more
potent and painful than the memories that were never had.
Howland kissed their intertwined fingers. “I like to listen to the birds when I
wake up. They sing to me with the service of the gods. I am terrified of
allowing other people’s hands on the Neck, so I rule almost autonomously. You
would have to be our children’s primary caretaker. And though poor and without
boars and cows and deer, there are fruits to feast on and jams made of
flowers.”
Ned had been there less than a month ago, and he felt the longing as if it had
been a decade since he last traveled south. “Beautiful,” he agreed. “Like our
son.”
Howland sighed softly. “I would have given you a dozen children and more.”
Ned relished in the dream and pushed it away when the longing overwhelmed him.
-
In the end, their goodbyes ended with little fanfare. Meera cried harder than
she ever had before, and Jojen spared more tears than he cried in his lifetime.
They talked about all the occasions they could see each other again. “We have
three namedays between all three of us, and perhaps we could convince your
father to come for mother’s celebration as well!” Meera held onto Jon with the
greatest amount of strength.
Ned helped Howland onto his horse. He handed over snacks for him and his
children. “I had Gage prepare them beforehand.”
Howland smiled down at the basket. “I will savor every bite.” He looked into
Ned’s eyes and asked him not to overwork himself. “Jon is supposed to make you
smile, not frown. Do not allow your time together to be filled with misery, but
don’t spoil him. I want my child to remain as sweet as honey, not sour like
curdled milk.”
Ned agreed to those conditions. Howland kissed him again, and left to talk to
his son.
When Ned finished saying goodbye to Howland, he afforded a single hug for
Benjen and wished him the best of luck. He asked his younger brother for the
same favor. “Take care of Howland for me” and “be there for your children.”
Benjen chuckled and asked for the same consideration for his nephew.
“Jon is a good kid.”
“I know,” Ned acknowledged. “When you join the Night’s Watch…you should bring
Jon along with you. He has always wanted to see the wall.”
Benjen told him that he planned on bringing all the children. “They’re damn
excited for it, too.” He glanced over at the castle walls and reminded Ned that
with him at the Watch, he was halfway done. “With me gone, that means Howland’s
hand in marriage is open…”
“Benjen,” Ned warned. “I have a wife.”
Benjen only shrugged. “Wives die all the time.”
Before his oldest brother could reprimand him, he strolled over to his black
steed and prepared himself for the night’s journey. He waited for Howland to
finish his farewell.
Howland gave one last hug and kiss to his eldest son. “Remember what I told
you.”
Jon wiped away a tear. “I will.”
“And know that I love you more than life.”
“I do.”
Howland bit his lip to stop himself from crying. The second he released it to
give another goodbye, the tears began to flow freely. He embraced his son and
his soul refused to let go. “I love you, Jon. We will all miss you dearly.”
Jon sniffled and agreed.
They parted ways and kissed again. Against his lips, Howland told him to go to
Robb and fulfill his destiny. “If I catch a sliver of injustice, I will come
here and take you home. I promise.” 
Jon said there was no need to fulfill that promise. “Father loves me, as does
Robb. They will take care of me.”
Howland grasped onto his child’s cheek. “Sweet boy,” he whispered fondly. “You
will become a man before I know it.”
They kissed and said their goodbyes.
With that being said, the Reeds rode on their horses and left the gates of
Winterfell. Jon repeated the mantra in his head. He would see them again, and
with every passing year, he planned on taking back what was rightfully his. He
would not let the new gods that forced his parents apart to gain victory over
the old gods again. From afar he could see Robb waiting and ran towards him.
Robb wipes away the leftover tears on Jon’s face. He was wracked with strife.
Robb held onto him and told him that he would make him feel better. He would
make him so happy he would forget they even existed.  
Jon knew that was impossible, but he found the vow reassuring. Robb was the
heart, he repeated in his hand. He had his heart. He had Winterfell in his
arms, and there was nothing stopping him from setting things right again.
Chapter End Notes
     Hello everyone! Thank you for withstanding the longer than average
     update. Every chapter will be posted biweekly on Sunday. There will
     be a timeskip after this chapter of about four years. Thank you all!
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Regardless of longing, Jon was destined to live as a Stark in Winterfell.
Following the Reeds departure, he replaced the yearning for his family with the
distractions of the far North. He heeded his mother’s advice by immersing
himself with the duties of a privileged lordling—riding horses, playing with
dolls, learning about the stars and listening to the bird’s calls. He liked to
dip his little feet in the black pool and pray to the weirwood; he adored
listening to Bran whisper his little spells and incantations when they were
alone. He was never good with the other knowledge—that was Jojen’s expertise.
He knew how to warm his touch and make his companions more amenable to the
truth, but was limited from anything greater. Bran kept his newfound gifts a
secret from everybody but his older brother, who was ready with helpful
suggestions or a sly hint in the guise of a herb. He was most amused by Arya,
whose mind was bursting with schemes. He learned of numerous underground
passageways through her tutelage and the secrets of leaving Winterfell
undetected for a random burst of horseback riding. Sansa was lovely as well. He
enjoyed her innocence, the lighthearted nature of their conversations, how they
could speak about fairy tales and princes with such childish glee. His mother
never indulged in such whimsy. He spent the least amount of time with the
youngest but grew to adore him as well. Rickon craved being held and Jon found
solace in the familiar act. Above all, there was Robb. 
And there were no words made my man to describe the passion shared between the
two brothers. 
They were lovers, in both the purest and most tainted sense. If they ever found
themselves separated by distance, their souls would journey back to each other
in an instant. Robb was restless when Jon was not around him. He swore his
brother’s presence was near, even when the younger boy was on the other side of
the castle. He made excuses to be by his side and skipped lessons with Luwin to
cuddle him in their bed. His crimes resulted in lashings and extra lessons,
which accumulated each time he left to visit Jon.
When Robb’s rut first arrived, he needed to be restrained by his father’s
guards. He demanded Jon’s attention with sharpened fangs and grew ravenous with
lust when they were forced apart. The behavior concerned his parents—Catelyn
pleaded with Ned to separate their bedrooms until the heated affair was
finished. Ned was inclined to agree, but before he could order their temporary
estrangement, Jon fell into an early heat. Robb's behavior spiraled out of
control. Robb tackled through two guards to get to him and had to be subdued by
three. For a twelve-year-old, he was fierce. Jon kept pleading for release and
his older brother. In spite of Catelyn’s insistent, Ned refused to acknowledge
the connection between the two requests.
“He wishes for comfort—you are an omega. You should understand how the mind
muddles the desire for a hearth and a bestial ache."
Catelyn wanted to scream. She settled for a forceful shout. “They are too
close! Robb does not see Jon as his brother, but his mate. Your boy has spurred
a rut from our son!”
“The nature of the mating cycle is strictly physical. Our bodies choose a
compatible partner for breeding, and this, in turn, awakens our ruts. There is
nothing sinister about their behavior. Your prejudices lead you to imagine
wickedness.  They may see each other as potential mates but once the rut is
over with and Jon is cool again, this matter will be settled. We have nothing
to fear.”
“Do you hear yourself?” For this, Catelyn groaned. “It will not be long before
Robb succumbs to his urges,” His whore, her mind whispered. “Heed my advice,
Jon will be bedded and bred before the year ends.”
“That is enough,” Ned warned. “The two of them will be spoken to when their
fever subsides. Then, they will be brothers again and your fears will be put to
rest.”
“You think because your brother and sister carried no desire for each other
that the same policy applies to all who experience the wickedness of incest.
Need I remind you of the Targaryen's proclivities?”
Ned glared. “Jon is not a Targaryen, and neither is Robb. They are brothers in
blood and spirit. They will not be separated again.”
Lord Stark refused to indulge the matter any further. His wife’s complaints
lingered in his mind, and he wrote a letter to his beloved in the Neck. Howland
assured him that there were no evils in their affections. He declared that “the
nature of a heat and rut derives from the gods’ gift of life—to produce the
strongest offspring from the most compatible partners around. Do the dangers of
incest not lie in the birthing of monsters?” He declared that Robb and Jon have
proven beyond such a consequence. From that, they are above the Targaryeans; a
dead breed who followed lost traditions instead of listening to the touch of
their souls. The letter assauged his fears, but Catelyn’s voice could still be
heard in the back of his head.
Jon’s heat lasted the week. Almost as soon as the boys were bathed and towel
dried, Robb came running into Jon’s room. He immersed himself with the scent of
his beloved. His skin lingered with the promised of budded snowdrops and a
clean sheet of ice, and he smelled deliciously untouched. Robb made sure to
spread his dominance all over his younger brother with kisses and squeezes upon
the giggling the boy.
Jon giggled and accepted the affection as a habitual greeting. He showcased his
submission through his neck. He preened when Robb growled and attacked it with
love bites. They tumbled into Jon’s remaining sheets—the rest were taken away
for a good wash.
Ned arrived while the two were snuggled against each other. Robb was hidden
underneath the covers. He was not finished decorating Jon’s chest. He ordered
the two’s attention, and the boys immediately (and reluctantly) followed their
father’s order. Robb popped up from the sheets with a grimace.
“With your fever subsiding, it is my duty as your father to produce
boundaries…” He began. The lecture was standard. Luwin, who had trained under
several maesters at several houses, was privy to some of the best and worst
discussions regarding the issue. He advised Lord Stark that a simple
conversation was best, and to keep it short for their attention spans were
limited. Ned agreed, and his drollness was met with bored gazes and obedient
agreements. Before Ned could leave the room, the two returned to their
playtime. He would give the two a day’s rest, before having them returned to
their studies.
For the following years, Jon’s heats continued to synchronize with Robb’s ruts.
Catelyn's complaints were commonplace, her pleas were endless but Ned could not
separate them. When he tried, once, to return Robb’s old room, Jon fell into a
terrible depression and Robb was furious. He acted out in the worst way, by
refusing his lessons and threatening to abdicate his position. Normally, Ned
would not allow such immaturity, but he was weak to Jon’s pretty eyes begging
for his brother. The combine torture led him to never suggest such a thing
again, much to the dismay of his wife. Instead, they refurbished the quarantine
area for the future, and while the notion upset the Stark heir, it was better
than an utter removal from his little brother’s life.
Nature decreed that Robb Stark was a man, and like a boy, he took advantage of
his maturity to reach new heights with his little brother. He grew bold—he
transcended beyond their kisses in the dark. His tyranny began with experiments
using Jon’s heat supplies and missing objects from the kitchen. He enjoyed
watching Jon squirm with a particularly large phallic tool thrust in him, be it
a heat stick or a gourd the size of Robb’s arm. He made Jon give him a show; a
reward for whenever he bested an older boy in swordsmanship or scored
particularly well on an exam. There was no greater pleasure than watching his
little brother rub his clit while moaning Robb's name. When he was bored, he
made Jon suck his fingers clean and lick the precum off his cock.  Before long,
he inserted himself into Jon’s mouth and filled his throat with cum.
Robb’s daring grew with every secret act and it took all of Jon’s strength to
keep his brother’s lusts satisfied. His reminders were beginning to fall on
deaf ears. Jon's willpower crumbled. During their trysts, Robb made him feel so
good. It became difficult to be the voice of reason when the taunting of sin
was so persuasive.
Their risks accumulated until they became reckless with locked doors. Fifteen
and as brazen as brothel master, Robb was insatiable.  During one of their
engagements, Theon barged in. With the speed of a mountain cat, Robb dashed
underneath the covers, leaving an unnoticeable bump between Jon’s legs. Theon
only saw a bundle of furs. 
“Jon, you must talk to your father!”
Jon squeaked from shock. He tried to settle his nerves. “About what,
Theon—humph!” He covered his gasp in time for Theon to disregard his
discomfort. Robb had pardoned Jon's pants. His underwear was being removed. He
could feel his older brother’s tongue inside him.
Theon jumped onto the bed. He moaned, dramatic as a sailor's wife. “About my
presentation ceremony. My fertility glass is waning! If I do not have one soon,
I will die an old maid!”
Robb licked his clit with fervor. He was sloppy—like a dog—and the juices were
pouring out. Jon bit back a moan. Robb was eating his cunt like he was made of
cream.
“Theon…hmm! Theon, you are only…ha…eighteen. You are far from an old maid.”
“Eighteen and still unmarried might as well be. There are omegas with child as
soon they experience their first heat. I should have had a ceremony by now. I
should be married. Your mother said it himself; I am the son of a traitor. If
not for my noble blood and beauty,” Theon was obsessed with his appearance, “I
would hardly be considered a great match. My family lacks the means for a
suitable dowry, even with Lord Stark’s assistance. I need a ceremony. I needed
one years ago.” He laid on the bed. The movement caused Robb’s tongue to reach
a particularly deep spot. Jon moaned.  
Theon’s attention peaked. “What is the matter?”
“I…” Jon tried to come up with the words. “I can talk to my father. But I
cannot promise anything.”
Theon grinned. “That’s why I came up with a plan. I was thinking you could ask
for a joint ceremony.”
“What?”
Robb’s grip tightened around his thigh. He touched Jon’s inner spot in
vengeance. Jon cried out ‘no’ before he could stop himself.
Theon crawled over to the younger omega. From the distance, he looked
predatory. “It’s disgraceful for a high lord to give so much preference to a
bastard child—even one of a high lord.” Theon was never soft with his words. He
was an ironborn, after all. “But two ceremonies for the price of one? That’s
perfect! He’ll have an excuse to give us the grandeur we need without losing
face. I’ll have the beautiful ceremony I deserve with all the finest lords at
my beck and call, and you will…well, you’ll get the attention for future
reference. My spoils can be yours.”
Jon snuck his hand below the sheets to control Robb’s furious pounding. “I
suppose so, but I…”
“Oh, I know you’re not looking for a mate. Like I said, this will be for me.”
He stared deep into Jon’s eyes. This time, he was pleading. “Jon, I beg of you.
I need to get married. I am starving for a cock.” Jon blushed furiously at the
confession. “I’ve wanted to be mated forever, but the lords here prize a
maidenhood on their omegas. I touch myself every hour that I can but it does
stop the aching. I am so hot down there I can light a fire. Could you imagine
how hard it is to control yourself when there are so many, viable, lustful
alphas in the world?”
Jon understood too well. He said nothing and Theon took the silence as a
denial.
“Well, one day you will. Please, Jon, for me.”
Jon came all over Robb’s face. He whimpered his agreement.
Theon was ecstatic. He left the room, but not before giving Jon a reprimand for
not taking care of his health. He was looking absolutely feverish.
With Theon’s departure, Robb arose from the covers. He glared straight into
Jon’s soul and could sense his shame. He stuck his fingers into Jon’s supple
ass and bit his nipple. “It seems I need to remind you about keeping your
promises.”
Jon shut his eyes. “Please, you know who my heart belongs to," he pleaded. 
“I do,” Robb growled. “But you’re not the one I worry about.”
Jon’s teeth clench onto the sheets. He would need a great deal of time to
compose himself after Robb was done disciplining him.
-
Hours later, Jon was released to his father’s arms. Robb was ruthless. He
marked enough places on Jon’s skin that one would suspect a leech infestation
in his room. Sansa’s high-collared dresses and shawls were godsends.
Jon knocked on the door to his father’s. Lord Stark appeared fatigued when he
opened them but that was quickly replaced with regard when he saw Jon’s shy
expression. He invited his darling boy inside and lifted him onto the bed. Jon
took the initiative to kiss his father’s lips and burrow into his chest. He
loved his father’s smell—like cedar musk, iced pines, and weirwood soil.
Earthly, his mother described with such fondness. Lord Reed would keep baskets
of dried tree droppings in his room to remind him of his one true love.
“What do you need Jon?” His father asked, with a hopeful yes attached to the
answer.
Jon fiddled with his dress. He found the notion more embarrassing when
confronted. “Um…father, I…talked to Theon recently.”
Ned prepared himself for a headache. He loathed the days where Theon’s advice
infiltrates his sweet boy’s mind.
“He’s worried about his prospective matches. And…he suggests a presentation
ceremony might help him acquire a match.”
Ned figured there was a reason the Greyjoy had been on his best behavior. He
did not understand why the older boy had to drag his son into it.
“He fears you won’t give him one for himself—maybe even consider it a waste of
resources.”
Ned frowned. The thought annoyed him for a number of reasons. Was Theon so
detached from his family that he did not consider the affection Lord Stark have
for him? Was Howland right when he suggested he instill loyalty instead of
honor? He wished to defend himself. Truthfully, he was not entirely convinced
that Theon wanted to make a permanent home of the North.
“…Theon suggested we share a presentation ceremony.”
“What?” Ned was taken back.
Jon looked away. The advice sounded silly in his ears. “I mean, it makes sense.
Theon wants to get married, and I can’t stay here forever…”
Why not? Ned thought, aghast. He stifled his narcissism. He was beginning to
sound like the children—petulant without the means to let go. “Do you want a
presentation ceremony? To…to get married?”
Jon shook his head. He blushed, for he was sure his proposal looked more
foolish than ever if he did not believe in its legitimacy. “I…” He took a deep
breath and answered honestly. “I want to stay here at Winterfell. I want to be
with you and Robb forever.”
The declaration touched Ned and he embraced his beloved child. His size
reminded him of Howland, how delicately he would fit into Ned’s arms and yet
never lose his innate fierceness. Ah, what a stunning child he produced. Ned
kissed Jon’s forehead and promised to organize something for the two boys. A
presentation ceremony meant everyone would see Jon, and perhaps, Ned could
arrange a union where his precious son could relocate to nearby lands. There
were plenty of lords with second or third sons privy to the suggestion of
having their own holdfast or being in personal service to a high lord.
Yes, he thought, proud of his own ingenuity, he would not lose his son again.
-
Lord Stark was late to dinner. When he arrived, he did not hesitate to make the
official announcement. “Winterfell will be hosting a conjoined presentation
ceremony for Theon and Jon. I’ve spoken to Maester Luwin and we can arrange the
celebration to occur in a fortnight and send invitations tomorrow.” 
Everyone was surprised by the suddenness of the situation, especially Jon.
Tactfully, he asked,  “Is that not too soon? Will the lords not be upset by the
abruptness?”
Ned shook his head. “We have checked our calendars. Two weeks gives all the
lords enough time to get their affairs in order, and has the highest turnout we
could hope for. There are no pressing namedays to account for.”
Robb clenched Jon’s thigh and growled his disapproval in his ear. In
opposition, Theon grinned; he was ecstatic at getting what he wanted. Jon
remained forlorn. Lord Stark saw his reluctance and reassured him that this was
just to field the offers. Marriage was not a possibility for him—a notion to
which Theon protested and was quickly reminded, “unless a prized union can be
found.”
Lady Stark was amenable to the idea. There was a bit of hop in her
movements—she did not even care that she was not consulted within the matter.
“Let us hope you both find yourselves promising lords. I wish you the best.”
This was not a lie. If Ned found a young man worthy of his precious son, he
would not let the lord get away. A betrothal would be arranged before the ink
dried. Then, Catelyn would no longer have to linger in the uncertainty of the
bastard’s departure.
Robb sensed his mother’s thoughts, but Jon’s tiny sway into his hold assuaged
his concerns. He wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulder. He knew the ceremony
was coming—his father would never spare a cent towards Jon’s happiness. He
composed himself and shared her sentiments. “I agree. Theon, I wish you nothing
but the best. Let us hope we can find a lord to handle you.”
Theon laughed and threw a pea at him in protest.
Jon kissed Robb’s cheek as a reward for his good behavior.
Catelyn shivered. Her skin crawled whenever there was a display of affection
between the two of them.
The kids were less convinced of the positivity in the news. Since they did not
have foresight into the matter, they unleashed their concerns. “Does this mean
that Jon is leaving us?” Arya asked. “That cannot be true! He only just came!”
Catelyn wanted to point out that it had been the longest three years of her
life, but she kept silent. Instead, she told Arya that if Jon found brighter
pastures elsewhere, she, as his sister, should be happy for him.
Arya crossed her arms and ignored the sentiment. “Jon is a Stark. He should be
here with us.”
Sansa denied, partially to be contrary. “Jon is an omega. He needs to marry and
extend his husband's line. He will not stay with us forever. Stop being a
child.” Her mouth twitched downwards. Her words did nothing to convince her of
her own hesitancy.  “We will miss you, of course. I hope you can visit us.”
Jon shut down all of their fears. “It is just a ceremony! I am not leaving!” He
huffed his disapproval. “I am only having the ceremony as tradition. I doubt I
will find someone to marry in a night. I am afraid you are all stuck with me
for much longer.” The children giggled, and Rickon, a toddler, cheered.
As true as the statement was, Catelyn could not help but hope. His words
satisfied her children’s apprehensions and that was enough for her not to
linger in her disappointment. She did not need to stir up the pot any more than
she already has.
 “We shall see,” Catelyn quipped, her final words, and returned to her meal.
Robb took a few more bites, before stating his surfeit. Jon was worried, for he
knew the look in Robb’s eyes and regretted his part in this arrangement at all.
When their father gave permission to Robb to leave, Jon followed shortly after.
The young man, to say the least, was not happy.
“Robb, you knew father was going to agree! He…”
“He loves you, so he’ll do what he thinks is best for you,” Robb finished. “He
completely disregards what I know is best for you.” He punched the wall. Jon
winced.
“Are you so hot?”
Robb’s eyes blazed. “In front of me, I had to listen to my father discuss
mating my beloved to another alpha! Tell me if any other would withstand such
an insult? I have given you great patience.”
“Robb…” Jon sighed. “I can take care of myself.” He reached out for his
brother, but the heir grabbed his hand and slammed him against the surface.
Robb pushed him further into a corner when they heard footsteps in the hall.
When the serving girl left, Robb captured Jon’s lips. He slipped his hands
underneath Jon’s skirt and fondled the perfect ass. His hole felt nice and
slippery. Jon leaned back onto the fingers. He loved the sensation of being
filled.
When he released Jon’s lips, he mouthed his little brother’s neck. “Perhaps,
it’s time I made you mine for good…”
Jon’s eyes widened. The pleasure retreated with the arrival of common sense. He
pushed his older brother away. “Robb! Your jealousy has made you foolish! You
are endangering us both if you get me pregnant! Do you not love me enough to
hold back your lusts?”
Robb swore a storm. He kicked the stone wall and ignored the pulsing in his
toes. Jon moved to stop him from punching the boulders and breaking his fist.
“I don’t understand why I should wait! I’ve waited long enough! Three years!
Three years of allowing men to rip me out of your arms! Of hearing you cry for
my seed and not being able to father a child in you! I won’t let another man
take you! You are mine, Jon!”
“I know, but I don’t trust the tansy,” Jon revealed. “The crannogmen use
different herbs than those here. Because of the Andals, those that sing stopped
sharing the seeds. I would...” Jon paused. An idea came to mind; one he was
surprised never came to fruition sooner. He came closer to Robb and wrapped his
arms around the Stark heir. He pecked Robb’s lips and fiddled with the teen’s
trousers. “I would have to ask my mother to bring them when he visits," he
muttered. 
Robb, who was consumed with his jealousy, did not notice the change in mood. He
mumbled great profanities and kissed back roughly. “I will kill anybody who
lays a hand on you. Whether you give your consent or not.”
Jon sighed breathily. He enjoyed Robb’s possessive nature, if not for the
glorious pleasure he received afterward, then for the protective gaze he
enraptured Jon in. “Of course, and that would be your right.” Jon thought of
what to say next. “You are to be the Lord of Winterfell, Robb. For one to
disobey your order would mean committing treason against the whole North. A
most grave offense.”
Robb nodded. He patted Jon’s backside and the younger boy snuggled against his
chest. Jon looked up at his brother through his dark, long lashes and wide gray
eyes and asked if Robb would be merciful. “The gods are generous to those who
wait.”. He stood on his tiptoes and whispered in Robb’s ear, “If my mother gets
a letter from me, asking for the herbs to prevent a child, I could be free from
the burden.”
Robb’s eyes widened. “Tell me you do not jest.”
Jon smiled. He pulled the strings of Robb’s pants apart and sneaked his hands
inside so that he could grasp Robb’s cock. He was so big and heavy in Jon’s
hands. He leaked all over. Jon’s throat would be sore for days after getting
thrust with that monster. “Unfortunately, the herbs take several days to take
effect.”
Less time, if a spell is attached. Jon had too much sense to reveal that tidbit
of information. “If the future Lord of Winterfell is patient and well behaved,
his little brother would be inclined to…open up for him.” Jon made slow,
painfully arousing strokes. His pussy got wetter with every touch. “I could let
you inside me—and you can come, over and over again.”
Robb groaned and with a powerful thrust into Jon’s hands, he made a puddle in
his palms. The cum overflowed and Jon released the member in order to collect
his treat. Tantalized by the milk, he slurped up the remains on his hands.
Robb’s youth held no chance to the image. His cock hardened with every finger
being licked clean. “You little tart,” he accused.
Jon, who was immersed in his meal, looked up with a cream filled face. He was
dragged away by the wrist and sent straight to his room where Robb literally
threw the younger boy down.  Robb undressed his bottoms where a semi-hard cock
fluttered in Jon’s face. Jon gulped at the increasing size. He swore Robb grew
an inch in width since last month. He licked his lips.
“Get it wet, little brother,” commanded his lord. “You need to ease the way for
that gorgeous cunt of yours.”
The crannogmen feared the redness in his face would never go away. Instead, Jon
leaned forward and relaxed his throat as much as he possibly could to
accommodate the bulging cock. He whimpered when he realized Robb was still a
growing boy. In a few years, Robb would be as big as their father.
-
After having his way, Theon was bustling with energy. He spent most of his time
caged up in his bedroom, adjusting the bodice of his dress to make it as
sluttish as possible without appearing slovenly. He wanted embroidery and lace,
and no matter how many complaints the septa gave towards the cut of his dress,
he heeded no one’s advice but his own. When he was finished, he told Jon that
there was not an alpha alive that could resist him.
“The front of the dress dips to here,” he explained. “And I didn’t want to seem
too eager—it makes an omega look desperate, so I kept the lining and made the
sleeves longer than necessary.”  Jon listened and nodded absentmindedly to show
his involvement. He could barely speak. His throat hurt from last night. “What
will you be wearing?”
Jon strategically gulped down his water.
Theon rolled his eyes while he waited.
“One of Sansa’s old dresses,” Jon croaked out. “I don’t want to catch anybody’s
attention.”
“Don’t worry,” Theon waved him off. “Once they see me, they won’t even look at
you.”
Theon’s words did little to daunt Robb’s initial concerns. If anything, he was
affronted on Jon’s behalf. Jon carried no ill will to Theon. He knew the boy
was acting out. Most omegas got their presentation ceremony as soon as their
first heat. At most, high-born lords tended to wait a year or two to build up
the momentum. Jon hated the politics outside the Neck. He had not thought much
of Theon’s age, but the implications became known to him soon enough.
Theon received his heat when he was fourteen. That was four years ago. He
should be selecting potential mates by now, not just announcing his
availability. As per tradition, he would have to wait at least two years to
collect his offers. Anything less smelled of desperation.  Each upcoming year
meant that Theon was older, and therefore his desirability went down and his
dowry would increase.
Jon leaned against Robb’s shoulder. He was tired. Theon moved on to the next
willing partner: the eager Sansa who jumped at the chance to join an adult’s
conversation—even if it was just clothes. Her skin turned to the color of hair
when Theon became purposely explicit, but she withstood it for the chance to
prove her maturity. Here she was, a girl of eleven and already discussing
marriage and mating.
Truth be told, his father had offered to purchase him a new dress for the
ceremony. Jon dismissed the offer. “The event is for Theon. He would be
heartbroken if I attended wearing a new dress while he had to remake his old
ones,” Jon made sure to sound as saccharine as sugar for his next statement.
“If I never marry, I would be just as happy living at Winterfell and taking
care of you in your old age, father.”
Ned kissed his little boy. Again, he was envious of the crannogmen and their
breeding of sweet boys and girls who adored affection and shunned needless
cruelty. When they parted from their embrace, Jon declared that he could not
wait to see his beloved mother.   
“It will be like having a nameday. I’ll have you and mother and all my siblings
together again.” He sighed dreamily. “As it should be.”
Ned’s eyes soften at the last remark. He kissed his son and shooed him away.
The ravens were coming by the dozens. He had work to do. On his way to Theon
and Robb, he passed Lady Stark whom he was careful not to make eye contact
with. The woman ignored him with the same amount of chilliness.
Her meeting with his father was probably the reason for her absent at the
dining table. Jon shivered when he remembered the pressure of her presence. In
response to the drop in temperature, he snuggled up closer to his brother.  The
room was cold. Robb suggested he return to his bedroom, and Jon sleepily
agreed. They both got up and said goodbye to their siblings. Theon whined about
the joint action. “You don’t need to follow him wherever he goes! If he takes a
piss, I bet you’re watching.”
Robb scowled and told the older boy to mind his own business.
Jon giggled and pointed out that he needed to relieve himself.
“Well, I’ll just wait for you.”
Everyone in the room erupted into giggles and Robb flushed a shade worthy of a
Tully. Maester Luwin interrupted their jests when he arrived. “I’m afraid Jon
will be doing the waiting, Robb. You have to make up your studies.”
Robb winced. “I thought I completed them all.”
“Ah yes, I’m sure that is what you thought when you left your scrolls on the
table but remembered your cloak on the other side of the room.”
“I was afraid Jon would get cold,” Robb mumbled. He groaned in defeat. Before
he left, he spared a kiss on top of Jon’s lips. “Expect me soon.”
“Of course,” Jon agreed. He tried his best to sound exasperated, but could not
fight his grin. Robb was in a pleasant mood today. Cheeriness was the
foreshadowing of foreplay, which Jon’s toes curled for. Nonetheless, he had a
few minutes before Robb was done. If he spent his time with his siblings, he
would go over the allocated amount and Robb would be upset. He took the
solitary route and decided to make a quick stop to his father’s study to ask if
he would be coming to dinner.
There, he overheard his father and Lady Stark speaking.
“The number of reservations are on the verge of overwhelming,” Lady Stark
pointed out. Jon wondered why she sounded so breathless and blissed. She
thought any attention towards Jon was too much attention, positive or
otherwise.
“We’ve gotten some requests from the South to attend. I am inclined to deny
them.”
“Why?” Lady Stark shuffled through the papers. She picked out one that carried
a sigil from the Reach—Jon could not remember the exact one. “This one is from
the Lord Tarly. A warrior of great means. He is offering to send his oldest son
here! I thought you’d wanted Jon to be taken care of.”
Ned would never send his son so far away. That, however, wasn’t the concern.
“Lord Tarly is one of the greatest martial minds I’ve ever met and he is one of
the cruelest. I will not let my child be in his presence.” He sighed. “Catelyn,
let us not play games. We know the purpose behind this southern interest.”
The room muted with the silence.
Lady Stark frowned. “I suppose we should get it over with.” She placed the
letters on the table and took a seat. Jon was in awe of the transformation from
a needling wife to a shrewd politician.
“Robb is a man now—it is about time we spoke about marriage.” She drank from
her goblet, but no more than a sip of wine. It was an act—a small display to
suppress the solemnity of the issue. “Because he is our heir, we need not be
hasty. The Tyrells have yet to wed their eldest and he will be thirty before
the next winter.”  
Jon’s stomach dropped. He waited for his father to point out that a rut meant
nothing. Jon had his first heat ages ago and he was still a baby in his
father’s eyes. Yet the denial never came. Instead, Ned agreed with his lady
wife.
“They know we will wait. They are hoping to catch his eye now so that when it
is time, they’ll already have a foot in the door.”
“Or a man in position to strike,” Catelyn was merciless in her metaphors. “I
doubt it is not only an act. The gods know how much Robb loves his little
brother. I'm sure one of many maids have already sent their gossip to their
relatives working in the other houses. If they secure a union with one of their
younger alphas to Jon, it will make it easier to secure another alliance in the
future.”
“Aye, Lord Manderly and Lord Umber have been waiting for this moment as long as
I have been dreading it.” The last time he met with them, they were badgering
him on details of Jon’s ceremony. They sent their reservations right away. Lord
Umber will be sending two of his younger sons and one of his daughters. Lord
Manderly was sending both his granddaughters—conveniently an alpha and an
omega.
Lady Stark looked away. “I assume you do not wish to cater to the south.”
Ned sighed. He did not mean to insult his wife, but he refused to lie. “I want
my children near me, even when I am gone.” He hesitated. “I will not deny the
Southern lords entry, but I want to make it clear that any foul play with my
omega son will have dire consequences. Robb and Jon should have the opportunity
to marry for love.”
“Unlike you.”
Ned stayed silent. Catelyn took a much longer gulp. She felt like she needed it
more than anyone. 
“I want our son to be happy as well. He should have choices. Even if you do not
heed my advice so highly, at least acknowledge that the more families that
come, the more choices your children will have in the future.” Catelyn paused.
“While not of great means, Lord Reed’s beauty is renown and he is of royal
blood. If one is particularly superstitious of such matters, Jon will have no
hardship finding a mate.”
Ned knew this but thanked Catelyn for the compliment.
Catelyn shook her head. “I am merely stating a fact. I will not lie and say I
am not eager to see him go.”
Jon’s heart dropped at the confession, though he already knew it to be true. It
was one of the many things said in the conversation that made Jon’s heart pound
apprehension and his soul bleed sorrows. He could not bear to hear any more and
dashed back to his room. Being alone with his insecurities was the worst
possible outcome, but he feared he had no other choice.
Ned thought he heard something at his door. When he saw that it was nothing, he
returned to his seat. As he did so, Catelyn asked him why he never asked the
king to legitimize Jon. King Robert would surely grant it.
“I have wanted to ask you since we married, but I felt it was not my place.”
Truthfully, she did not want to give him any ideas. At this point, however, it
became clear to her that Ned had thought of it. Legitimizing Jon would give him
a plethora of new opportunities, and may even secure a marriage with a first
born alpha—albeit of a lesser family.
Ned shook his head. “I've considered it. But Howland refused to ask the king
for any favors. He believes that any acknowledgment of a royal decree was an
admittance of servitude.”
“Does he hate the kind so much that he would subject his son to bastardy?”
“Howland does not see Jon’s situation as sinful.” Oh, and Catelyn’s heart wept
at the fond smile. Ned was so blindingly in love with that man, she wished
herself gone from this world. “Howland used to say there was nothing more
Northern than ice and the most beautiful ice was softened to become Snow. Our
son is a Northerner. He is beautiful and kind and will accomplish more than I
could ever dream. I want to believe him.” Ned returned to his documents. He
told Catelyn that the following week shall be very busy. He requested that she
not interrupt him unless the news was crucial.
Catelyn bowed her head and left Ned alone to sort out his papers.
-
Robb was exhausted after his lessons. He cursed the gods when his arms were
filled with an eager Jon, ready to be ravished. The boy was relentless. He
practically tore off his brother’s pants and almost ripped the buttons off his
shirt. When he was done, he dragged Robb to his bed.
“I’ve been waiting forever!” Jon climbed on top of Robb and sucked on his neck
and kissed his lips like they were made out of chocolates and cherries. Robb
moaned, but as hard he tried, he could not lift a finger. Jon ground his hips
and asked Robb what he wanted tonight.
“My throat is still sore from yesterday. You fucked it really hard. I’m so
stretched out there.” He laughed and leaned in for another kiss. “I could use
my hands. You like it when I’m covered in cream, don’t you?”
Oh gods, he did. There was nothing more arousing than seeing Jon’s curls
drenched in his cum. He loved how his mouth looked with it pouring out of his
mouth because it was too much to swallow.
“Maybe, I could put your cock between my breasts. They’ve gotten so big since
you last played with them.” He took Robb’s hands and encouraged him to squeeze.
Robb groaned. It was like milking a cow. He couldn’t get enough of those
handfuls. Despite what his cock desire, he found himself empty of energy and
dropped his hands to his sides.
Jon frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“Fuck, Jon. It’s nothing. I’m just tired. Give me a moment and I will be ready
to…” Robb yawned before he could finish his sentence. “Sorry, Maester Luwin
said he might never get another chance to get me alone so he…got out my old
lessons…and had me…” He yawned again. “I tried to finish all of them in one go
so I would have time for you but…”
Jon rolled his eyes. Leave it to his older brother to work himself to death for
sexual favors and then not have the energy to perform. He got off Robb and was
about to get dressed when he had an idea. “Well, maybe you need a break.”
Robb was about to deny the suggestion when he felt Jon lift up his head to rest
on a stack of pillows. Once Robb was properly seated upward, Jon opened up his
top to reveal his perky nipples and lifted up his skirt to show off his pulsing
pussy and cock.
“What are you…”
Jon stuck two fingers into his pussy. He churned them inside of him and felt
the juices dripping out. He moaned and bit his lip to keep the noise down.
Robb groaned. “Jon, you are killing me.”
Jon pretended not to hear and he bit his lip harder to hide his smirk. He used
his other hand to rub his cock while he thrusted his fingers into his cunt. The
squelching noises echoed in the room. Jon whimpered. “Robb…Robb…”
“Fuck Jon.” Robb was breathless. “…You…try putting another finger inside you. I
want to see you stretch around them.”
Jon complied and added a third finger. His hands were smaller than Robb’s, and
even three fingers paled in comparison to Robb’s two. Robb told him to add
four. Jon was so fucking obedient.  He added in the four fingers and nearly
screamed.
Robb’s cock hardened. He imagined his size was bigger than Jon’s fist when
knotted. Young and fearless, he told Jon that if really wanted to practice for
his cock, he needed to use his entire hand. Robb mustered all the energy he
could to crawl over to Jon and whisper in his ear.
“You’re so small, Jon.” He replaced the hand on Jon’s cock with his own and
moved it to feel his. “Can you feel how big I’ve gotten for you? I’m going to
fill you so well. I’m going to stuff you raw.”
Jon kissed Robb. It was the perfect time to add in his entire fist. Robb shoved
his tongue so deeply into Jon’s mouth that the sound could only be heard
through the vibrations in his throat. Jon came buckets. His cock spluttered a
string of cum,and his cunt spasmed.
When they were finished, Jon and Robb returned to their youthful innocence.
Robb was lulled into a peaceful slumber and Jon laid next to him, stroking his
backside. Before he went to sleep, he asked Jon what his behavior was about.
“I really missed you.”
Robb scoffed. “I miss you, too. But that’s not why you gave me that
performance.” He kissed Jon. “I’m not complaining, though.”
Jon fiddled with Robb’s chest. There was a handsome spot of hair growing. Jon
liked it. “Well, with my ceremony, there might be a few alphas who show up that
father might like. I don’t want to get married, Robb. I want to be with you
forever.”
“You won’t get married,” Robb promised. “The only person who will kneel beside
you in front of that heart tree is me.”
“That may be so,” Jon agreed. He stifled down his jealousy and told Robb he
didn’t want the option to arise. “You are my mate. You belong to me.” He sucked
on his ear. “And I figured as your betrothed, I could give you something to
look forward to.”
Robb accepted the excuse. They slipped into slumber and prepared themselves for
the days to come.
-
That night, Robb woke up before Jon. He was early for dinner so he decided to
take a small stroll to recapture his health. While walking down the halls, he
met his mother. She seemed pleased with herself and asked how was his nap.
“Good, mother. Thank you for asking.” He paused. “How was your discussion with
father?”
Lady Stark’s smile was tight. Robb’s eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce
whether or not her confined nature was related to Jon’s peculiar behavior
tonight.
“It was quite informative. Your father and I are working very hard for this
ceremony.”
“I’m sure you are.” His mother wanted Jon gone, and the best way to ensure such
an outcome was to arrange a marriage pact. “Jon is grateful you’ve taken so
much care into it.”
“It is my duty, as will be his one day for his children.” Lady Stark reminded.
As a mother, she made it her mission to remind Robb of Jon’s temporary status.
She did not want him to get attached—not to someone who was never meant to
stay. Robb adored his mother. Would kill and die for her—but she would rue the
day she dared to control his and Jon’s love. “There will be plenty of important
alphas coming to this ceremony and many of them have eligible omega children.
You should keep an eye out for a prospective wife.” She smiled. “Only the eyes,
though.”
Robb chuckled at the joke, not because of the humor but for the notion that
Robb could have eyes for anyone but his brother. “I am quite satisfied as
a bachelor. This ceremony is for Theon. I don’t want to draw any attention away
from him.”
Lady Stark’s smile tightened again. “And Jon.”
“What?”
“The ceremony. It is for Jon as well.”
Robb brushed off his nerves. He was a fool to think his mother would not catch
that. “Yes, yes for Jon as well.”
Catelyn’s eyes narrowed. “You do realize Jon will have to marry one day? He
cannot stay here forever.”
He’d be a fool not to, but Robb knew better than to smart mouth his mother. He
could not afford to bring suspicion into their relationship—not any more than
he already has. “Marriage is the farthest thing from Jon’s mind. But if it is
what he wants, I could never deny him anything.”
Catelyn bore her son only skepticism. “You realize you will have to marry one
day as well, don’t you? A match for the good of the family.”
“I am the heir. Of course, I know I need to marry.” Robb shrugged, and he was
seconds too late to realize how his nonchalance angered his mother. He
straightened his back but it was too late. His mother was staring, a purse in
her lips and offense in her eyes. His father’s son, Robb was not a politician.
He had no words to save him. “Mother, I understand I have to produce an
heir—but marriage is sacred. I want a union of souls, not an alliance of law.
Father wants that for us.”
“You are the scion of one of the greatest families in Westeros. You need your
name to prosper.”
“Starks rarely wed outside the North to great success and prosperity. What good
has southern matches brought to our family?”
“And I suppose you regret my presence as well?”
Robb grew frustrated. “That is not what I meant. You are my mother. I love you
but—”
“But I am not the Lady Stark the North deserves.”
“No!” Robb denied.
Lady Stark shook her head. “My head grows ill. You have said your piece, Robb.
I have said mine.”
“Mother, I did not mean to offend you.”
“I hope you are on your best behavior when the lords come.” She hesitated
before moving down the hall. “I hope you find the love you deserve.”
“Mother, be reasonable—”
Lady Stark stopped in the middle of her tracks. She turned around and touched
her son’s cheek. At fifteen, Robb was already half a head taller than her. She
regretted losing him so soon. “You are my son. You will make a wonderful Lord
Stark—perhaps the best. You deserve more than a castle in the North and a title
filled with barren land. Do not mistake my ambitions for greed. I wish you the
love and respect. Things your father lost and I never received from our
marriage.”
With a great sigh, she kissed her son’s cheek and pardoned herself. As he
watched her walk away, he told his mother that he loved her. “Mother, you must
know that.”
She shook her head. “I know.”
That did not mean he did not love others more.  
-
As promised, all the ravens were sent out by the middle of the week. They
stopped receiving them at the same time. Lord Stark was notably disagreeable to
last minute arrivals and made it clear he would refuse any unannounced visitors
short of the king.
When the day came, Winterfell was decorated with notable regality despite its
definitive austerity. The Starks were all there to greet the incoming lords and
ladies. Sansa was especially excited for the preview of her own ceremony. The
turnabout was quite successful and Jon reassured her that her presentation
would be doubly effective.
“You are the eldest daughter,” Jon informed.
Sansa giggled at her fortune. She let Jon decorate her hair with flowers and
scent her red locks with leftover lemons. Then, they walked to the front
together. There was more resignation than excitement in his march. She knew he
did not want to marry, but she hoped he could muster an ounce of excitement for
the alphas. They made such a hard journey after all.
Before they left for the courtyard, Sansa made her concerns known.  Jon shook
his head and told her that he would be on his best behavior. “I don’t want to
get their hopes up.”
“If you gave them a chance, you could fall in love,” The eleven dreamed
wistfully. “Some of these men are quite nice. Lord Karstark sent me a lovely
necklace for my nameday last year.”
“Lord Karstark has his own ambitions,” Jon muttered. He overheard nee
eavesdropped and learned that the lord’s omega daughter was accompanying her
brother for the ceremony. Nonetheless, he smiled to relieve Sansa of her doubt.
The two walked hand in hand and stood next to each other for the greetings.
There were at least two dozen household members prepared to lead the guests to
their accommodations and twice as many alphas ready to man the horses and
carriages.
Theon’s excitement was all nerves at this point. Jon held his hand for comfort.
The boy’s breath became steady once more and he sent Jon a grateful look. The
men and women all came with jovial grins and blatant intent in their eyes. Most
Northerners were not suited for politics. They kissed Theon and Jon’s hands,
sent their regards to Lord Stark, and eyed Robb’s adulthood with ill-disguised
aspirations.
Lord Manderly was flamboyant in his entrance. The litter that carried him
strained to do so but he paid them and his mockery no heed. Once on foot, he
stomped towards Lord Stark and pulled him into a warm embrace. Many were
aggravated by the blatant affection.
“Ned, my boy, every year I see you, you come out looking more and more like
your father,” he praised. He patted the Warden of the North on the back as if
he were a child and laughed loud enough to shake the ground. Ned was silent.
“Ah, but there’s your mother’s fierceness. That woman never liked me—I was too
southern for her liking. Did you know what she used to call me?”
“No, Lord Manderly,” Ned replied diplomatically. His mother had few kind words
for anybody. He tried to retain his authoritative stance, but Lord Manderly was
his father’s peer. When he was a boy, the man was one of the fiercest warriors
the North had to offer. It saddened him to see him such a deprecating state,
but Howland quickly assuaged his concerns. “That man sleeps on silver. He is
the last person to be pitied.”
Lord Manderly laughed again. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to repeat what
she said. The kindest thing I’ve ever been called by her? ‘The tolerable
southerner.’ Of course, it was good practice. I am made of steel now.” He
winked at the younger man and moved on to the prospective brides. Ned sighed in
relief. There was something about being near his father’s friends that made him
a boy again.
From Lord Manderly’s men, two young girls came off horseback. They were
enchanting in a way that the North and South were unfamiliar to, but for Jon,
reminded him of home. The older of two had long brown hair worn in a braid
adorned with pearls. She was an alpha. The second carried a shorter, similar
braid with garish green hair. She was an omega and carried a feistiness her
sister did not have. Both girls wore gloves.
Lord Manderly sent a knowing grin and wink towards Jon when he caught him
looking. Though Jon was adamant not to accept any advances, he was sincerely
entertained.  
“I would like to introduce my two granddaughters. My brilliant Wynafryd, the
alpha daughter of my eldest and heir to the Manderly house, and Wylla, the
apple of my eye and the tartness of my pie.” He sent a sly look towards Robb
before returning to Jon. “Words cannot describe how happy I am to make your
acquaintance. I’ve wanted a marriage alliance with your mother for some time.
My wife was friends with your grandfather. When she left the Neck to marry me,
she dreamed of the day our families could unite.”
From afar, a Ryswell boy coughed about his thoughts of the brown nosing. Wylla
glared in a manner that requested a fight but her sister kept her calm.
Wynafryd stepped forward. She thanked Lord Stark for his generosity in housing
them and for bringing their attention to such a gorgeous omega.
Then, out of nowhere, she kissed Jon. The world fell silent. One alpha asked if
that was allowed. Jon could feel Robb’s anger radiating off him. Yet, he did
not push her away for the greeting was common where he was from. Where he was
truly from.
 “I hope that we become well acquainted,” she spoke when they parted.
Jon gasped. All at once, he was overwhelmed with the richness of bells and the
flutter of his heart added to the symphony in his mind. She could speak it.
She knew the True Tongue.
“My grandmother taught me before she passed away. Grandfather encouraged our
usage—he said that no matter the discrimination we faced, we should never
forget our lineage. That is why he is so desperate to marry a crannogmen.” She
took his hand into her gloved one. “We are quite a prosperous family. Should we
not extend our goodwill to those who need it the most?”
Jon was taken back by the insinuation. She was not holding back at all. Her
grandfather looked proud. From afar, he could see the other guests watch them.
Some of the omegas were staring appreciatively, though they could not hear a
word. Jon forgot the other reason families sent their omegas to these
events—they got to scope out the competition while seeking out opportunities if
they miss their original target.
As long as no alpha boys were born, Wynafryd was set to inherit the lands and
titles of the richest family (sans the Starks themselves) in the North. She was
beautiful and dressed to kill with her low neckline and thin skirt. Jon was
sure he felt something quite impressive when they kissed. Bold in a manner that
was not shameless, loyal to her family, and aware of the crannogmen ways. If he
was not so maddeningly in love with Robb, she was someone he’d consider being
with.
Robb knew this and immediately went to his side. “We are happy to make your
acquaintance. Our history with the Manderlys is one of faithfulness and trust.
You have honored us with your presence.”  He pulled Jon closer to him.
“Perhaps, we should keep the displays of affection to a minimum. We don’t want
anybody to suspect my little brother of impurity, do we?”
Jon saw that Lady Wynafryd was no fool. Her eyebrow raised curiously at the
display of possession but she had the tact to say nothing. Jon groaned. He
would have words with Robb later. The lady excused herself to see the rest of
the castle. Her little sister, the potential prospect for Robb, remained
unimpressed by the lordling. “With all due respect, Lord Robb, your brother is
a crannogmen. We have different tolerances than men like yourself." 
Robb became still as ice. Wylla smiled wickedly. Jon coughed. Wynafryd shook
her head in exasperation. Their grandfather would not have much luck securing
that Stark alliance as much as he would have liked. “Forgive my sister, she is
tired from a long journey.”
“We understand.”
This was a statement from Lord Stark, who ushered the two girls and their
grandfather to their quarters. He sent a careful look to Robb who bristled. Jon
furthered the sentiment by grabbing onto Robb’s arm and whispered, “My mother
will be arriving today. He agreed to bring the herbs. I can take them today and
be ready by the end of the ceremony for you.”
Robb growled. “You test my control with your very being.”
Jon flushed. He stroked his arm as more people came. The Karstarks were careful
not to ignore Jon, but their intention was keen on Robb. He practically threw
his daughter at the boy. Alys Karstark was less than impressed by her father’s
actions and Jon found himself a friend when he heard her mutter of the
ridiculous showboating of her father and brothers. Having not reached her heat,
she was more entertained by the landscape of Winterfell and their proximity to
the Wall. She asked her brother if he suspects a wildling raid could occur
nearby and he called her an idiot for imagining it.
The greetings went on for hours. Even Theon, who enjoyed the attention, grew
bored with the pleasantries. The look in his eye made it clear he already found
a few positive applicants. Lord Bolton, in particular, seemed adamant in
pushing his eldest son onto the Greyjoy while leaving his bastard to Jon.
Ramsay was nice, if Jon could ignore the chill he felt whenever he smiled. He
was Robb’s age, but judging by the way he kept sending appreciative glances
towards Theon’s bosom, it was clear he cared as much for Jon as the younger boy
did him. Theon, who was about as subtle as a thousand horses, shared the same
attraction to the bastard. They kept sneaking flirtatious glances at each other
when they thought their conversational partners were not looking.
Jon rolled his eyes.
"Is that you Jon?" He heard someone ask. Jon gasped as he found salvation in a
familiar face. She was the only woman besides his sister he looked forward to
seeing today and he ran up to her to express his joy. “Aunt Jyana!”
The woman captured him in an embrace. They were close in size, but Jyana
carried a daintiness about her that could be mistaken as frail. Unlike her
brother, she was never a skjaldmær. She lacked the muscles of a warrior, but
there was a hardness to her disposition that appeared in every crannogman.
By Jyana’s side were her daughters by marriage and one by blood. Only two of
the Mormont girls were of marrying age, and none of them were particularly
eager to kneel in front of a heart tree anytime soon. Nonetheless, they wanted
to see Winterfell and Winterfell they shall see.
 “Jon, you’ve gotten so big.” Jyana never exclaimed anything. Only made simple
statements of truth and tranquility. Jon wistfully drank in her scent, the
flavor of calming chamomile and soup after a long day. From the wise men, Jon
was told that his mother represented the Neck's violence and passion; their
strength in the hardest times. Jyana was the peace, the tranquility of home and
unity of their people.
“It is good to see, Aunt Jyana! I am glad you are well.” They pulled away. On
Jyana's left side was a girl about Bran's age. Jon got a good look at his
cousin; she was the only omega of Lady Mormont and already inherited her
father's fierce glower. She was named Lyanna—for the girl Jon’s mother always
wanted but never received from Lord Stark. “This must be Lyanna.”
Jyanna nodded and gently stroked her cub’s hair. “I would like you to meet my
good daughters, Dacey, Lyra, and Jorelle Mormont. The youngest is with her
father, and the second eldest is fornicating with a bear.”
Jon was startled.
“I am a messenger, Jon.” Jyanna sounded exasperated. She leaned in to whisper
the True Tongue in his ear. She was discreet, as expected of a crannogman.
“None of them are planning to propose. You are safe. We are here for the
sights.” Jon was grinning like a fool when she returned to her usual demeanor.
“Has my brother arrived yet?”
Jon shook his head. He looked over to his father who grew apprehensive. He sent
his horses to the allocated location hours ago. Jyanna walked over to him to be
greeted. They maintained a comfortable distance, but there was clearly no ill
will in the act. They found each other to be pleasant company, both quiet and
unassuming. She introduced her daughters. She said hello to Robb. Her nature
was not to be seen—Jon found it curious she choose to marry outside the Neck,
and to a woman so much older than her. Lady Mormont eldest daughter, Dacey, was
only a few years her junior. Perhaps that was why they were so close. Where the
other children were allowed to wander (with the exception of Lyanna), she never
left her good mother’s side. There was a possessive gaze directed towards the
older woman.
Hooves echoed in the courtyard. Jon shook his head. He was seeing things,
projecting his fantasies onto other people because of his own situation.
When he looked over to the entrance, he was distracted from any shoveling of
mates or cruel intentions. The guest of honor arrived. Jon could not contain
his joy as mother, uncle, and two siblings came down from their horses and ran
to take him in their arms.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     I haven't started on the next chapter yet but I'm not as concerned as
     I should be given that I already have an idea in mind. Be weary of
     the Boltons coming though because Domeric is still alive in my story.
     And so is Ramsay. :) Also, I love the Manderlys. They are definitely
     one of my favorite families and I'm sad the television series did not
     do them justice.
     Thank you for all your support and I'm sorry for not responding to
     the comments. I appreciate all of them. I'm just a bit swamped right
     now so the possibility of late chapters is more prevalent than ever
     (let's hope it doesn't come to that--I already took one hiatus, I
     shouldn't get spoiled). But I will get through it. Hopefully I'll be
     able to fulfill some prompts (feel free to send me one at my tumblr:
     sometimesimeow) and my website will be made soon so the possibility
     of showcasing my original work is getting closer.
     Yes, but enough about my life. May you all have pleasant wishes and I
     hope you enjoyed this chapter and the one to come...hopefully on
     time.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Oh goodness, this chapter deserves so many warnings. Ramsey is Ramsey
     in this chapter. Theon is more fucked up than anybody can imagine,
     even me.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Howland Reed was not a humble man. In his youth, he flaunted his beauty to his
pleasure and enjoyed the madness that flashed in men’s eyes whenever they
caught glimpse of his bare skin. He was not chaste as omegas were groomed to
be; he did not value abstinence but partook in it for the joy of delayed
gratification. The touch of his lover was so much sweeter after an absence.
Whenever he visited Winterfell, he dressed in a manner made to arouse. Furs
that Ned bought him, shirts and tunics from his lover’s wardrobe, thin dresses
that dipped low on the neckline. He hardly ever wore his undergarments—they
were too confining for a creature like Howland; a creature made to be fondled
and fucked.
For Jon’s ceremony, he took a different approach to his wardrobe. Rather than
provoke the other lords’ lusts, he settled for a reminder of their respect. He
wore his armor—a thin steel that resembled a jerkin more than actual plates and
black leather made from one of the great dragonsnakes. He kept a spear on his
back and a dagger by his side. When he got off horseback, he walked with the
grace of a lord, not a crannogmen.
He dressed like he was going to war, thought Jon.
He remembered the armor from whence he was young, wandering through his
mother’s things as all children do. When Howland caught his snowflake, he told
Jon that he only wore armor on the battlefield because Jon’s father commanded
it.
“He had it specially made for me. He took every caution I discarded. The armor
they provided the soldiers was too constraining for my fighting methods. He
knew that unless the steel was flattened into skin, I would go without it. So
he sent a design for his blacksmith and had it delivered to our camps.” He
stroked his son’s head. He smiled to himself. “I was a great warrior. The most
famous skjaldmær in Westeros. Even the warriors who hated me, who spat on my
footsteps, could not deny that I was formidable. When they saw me fight, they
all wanted to kiss the ground and thanked the gods I was not their enemy.”
Today, surrounded by lords of various standings, Jon knew his mother was not
lying. As a bastard, he was not expected to mingle with member of other houses.
None of the crannogmen were obliged to wander beyond their borders, not for
pleasantries or peacekeeping. He did not know politics in the way his siblings
did and only knew that when his mother left his side to greet his father, there
was tension in the air. The lords watch Jon’s mother with weary looks and
unwavering eyes—as if they believed that if they blinked, a knife would find
its way to their throats.
To Jon’s surprise, Howland did not greet his father with their usual kiss. They
called each other by their titles, not their names, and they barely touched
before Howland made his way back to Jon. He wondered what transpired between
them to produce such coldness. Regardless, his sister had enough affection to
distract him.
“I’ve missed you, brother. Tell me you’ve been well since I’ve last seen you.”
Jon laughed. He hugged his sister tighter. “Winterfell has been kind to me.
These months have been too long.”
“At least it is not another year,” Meera bemoaned. She let go to allow Jojen an
embrace. Jojen hugged him and as soon as they parted asked where Bran was. Jon
laughed and pointed to a spot a few feet away. Bran was holding hands with
Rickon and standing beside Arya, looking bored. Jojen thanked him and scampered
over with more ungainliness than Jon thought possible. Jojen was always the
nimble one in their trio.
Turning back to the scene before him, he observed how every lord and lady
addressed Howland. There was contempt from Lady Dustin—he heard that years ago
she tried to take a crannogman for an heir and her requests were rejected. The
matter was settled quietly but the damaged had been done. Howland wanted blood.
To Lord Stark's relief, he would not have it tonight. He turned to face the
Manderlys. The Lord of the Neck smiled graciously and greeted the
Manderly descendants with more fondness than he did their patriarch. Howland
praised the green in Lord Wylis’s eyes and shook his gloved hand. The stout
lord puffed up in pride. He was short for an alpha—a trait, no doubt, he
inherited from his mother, but proud as the tallest man in the room. Jon heard
from the Starks that all the Manderly children wore gloves in respect to their
late lady. Jon knew better.
Afterwards, Howland made a show of greeting the rest of the nobility. He was
tactful, but there was an edge to his smile. He made small mockeries towards
the rare southerners that arrived, though none were able to understand his
hellishness. The Freys glared but said nothing. They were there for Theon. They
thought the North to be simple place, unable to make such calculated
compliments. The Northern lords kept their distance but maintained their
civility. The North loathed the crannogmen but they could not deny Howland
Reed’s strength nor could they vocally express their disapproval towards their
liege lord’s mistress. There were many new lords—some of whom did not fight in
the war. Instead, they shook his hand. Some bowed, for Howland was poor and
strange but he was still a principal lord. They would rather be his friend than
his enemy.
There was a second, unsettling truth behind their courtesy that no one said out
loud but Jon heard all the same. The North was a harsh kingdom filled with
barren lands. It was the perfect place to plant a grave. No one, not even a
noble man or woman, was immune to death’s touch. Wives died all the time. They
could not fight the possibility that if the current Lady Stark were to pass,
there was already someone to take her place.
They all stared at Jon with hungry gazes. Some reminded themselves that he was
still a bastard, no matter how loyal his lineage was and that the Lady Stark
was healthy as the children she bore. There was no reason to think of her
demise. Others took more time to stare at the Snow child and admired his
beauty. He certainly had the Stark look, but his allure resembled his mother.
Some of the older men, the ones who remember Lord Reed’s impious behavior
wondered what it would be like to have such a nymphet in their household. He
certainly looked compromising and if he aged like his mother—they glanced over
at Lord Reed, whose dark magic is rumored to have kept him youthful while the
rest of them aged with the icy rivers and black sleet—there would be no
disappointments in their bride.
When the last house made their appearance, the noble alphas and omegas
disappeared into their guest lodgings. Robb was ordered to help his father with
the arrangements. They kissed before he left Jon was alone. Theon made his way
towards Jon and pulled him into an embrace.
“Did you see the turnout? There must have been at least fifty alphas!”
Jon did not have the heart to tell him that they did not all come for him. They
came to see Sansa, or Arya, or Bran. Instead, he told Theon, with a light small
and dull eyes. “You shall have your pickings then.”
Theon grinned. He looked to the emptying courtyard and whispered in Jon’s ear.
“Since we are not competing, how do you feel about the Bolton bastard?”
Jon was taken back. “Do you mean Ramsey Snow?”
“Yes, him! He was quite fit, was he not?”
Jon pursed his lips. “I thought you said you’d never marry anything less than a
first son. Ramsey is a bastard. He has an older brother.” It pained Jon to
admit it, for he thought the policies of legitimacy was crude and he hated
giving in to these false traditions. He wondered what caused this change of
heart.
Theon reassured him that marriage was the farthest thing from his mind.  “Me? A
bastard? I rather eat shit! No…” He smirked, as wily as a fox. Jon grimaced at
his foster brother’s expression for only cruel thoughts followed such a look.
“But, his brother seemed interested…The Dreadfort is a prosperous piece of
land, nothing like the Manderlys, but still worthy of renown. And if his
brother could be convinced to visit our home…”
Jon’s eyes widened. “Theon, what you are insinuating is a great betrayal! One
that goes against the gods and the soul.”
Theon scoffed. “You are the result of a betrayal.”
“I am the result of love!” Jon protested with every fiber of his being. “My
parents were married under the canopy cloaks of the old gods. I will not listen
to you degrade their love.”
Theon kept himself from pointing out that Jon was conceived after the marriage
between Lord and Lady Stark. He did not want to lose his justification, nor did
he wished to incur Jon’s wrath. Instead, he laughed off his suggestion like it
was a joke. “I was jesting, Jon. By the Drowned One, can you not take
everything so seriously?  I swear, you’re made of more sea salt than I am.”
Theon abandoned Jon then, for the younger boy was still seething at the
suggestion of unfaithfulness. He thought about Robb and how easy it would be
for him to marry another while Jon remained as his mistress. The heir would
never let him go and Jon could not bear to leave his side. He thought about
Alys Karstark, who would surely grow up to be a beautiful woman full of charm
and wit or Wylla Manderly, who was wealthy and would one day turn her raw iron
into a blade. Then, there were the southerners. Jon learned from his lessons
that the Tyrells had an omega daughter who was highly advanced in her studies.
The North would never turn down such a prosperous union if she showed interest
in the North. Joining her family meant gaining access to resources they would
surely need when winter came. He kept listing names from the north to the south
in his head and found himself growing more dismal by the second.
The skies grew darker and the wind blew colder. The chill washed his body and
Jon’s sorrows turned to outrage. Robb was not their father. He would never
choose his duty over Jon—not for a thousand omega brides and all the kingdoms
in Westeros. If he ever left Jon’s side, it would be because he was forced to.
Jon’s indignation made him imagine all the vile threats made against his
beloved to force him into a betrothal he did not want. The desire to wring the
omega heads of those insipient prospective brides grew. Jon retreated to the
walls of Winterfell. He would think of sabotage and death later. He had an heir
to look after.
-
Before the festivities, Howland visited the weirwood tree. He left his children
to their own proclivities—crannog children aged far faster than their outside
counterparts. He entrusted them their independence and paid no mind to where
his husband had gone. The solitude was unnerving—a crannogman trait he would
never rid himself of. He wondered if the same could be said of his son.
On his knees, he whispered his prayer with the fervor of a crab who cracked his
own claws in attempt to achieve freedom. It had been too long since he gave
grace. The presence of the northern powers unnerved him. He sensed a great
trial to befall his child but the nature of the beast escaped him. His
frustration made him careless. He did not hear the presence behind him until
the chill was close enough to touch.
Howland kept his eyes shut. He rested his hand on his dagger.
“Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to interrupt your prayer.”
Howland did not pause. He stood up and did his best to receive the lord
graciously.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Lord Bolton. I was about to finish. I have
spent too much time here. My son must long for my presence. The gods are
yours.”
“I did not come for prayer.”
“Oh?” Howland tilted his head. He enjoyed playing coy, but whether Lord Bolton
was as amused could not be determined. “Forgive my assumption. I will leave you
to your business.”
“I have come for you,” Lord Bolton grasped onto his arm before he could leave.
Howland stared at the offending hand and wondered what kind of an impact would
be made if the leeches he loved so were to suck his arms dry the next morning.
“Have you thought about my offer, Lord Reed?”
Howland redirected his gaze to Lord Bolton’s glower. He found that cruel men
had the same eyes and they hated being looked into. “Lord Bolton, I have said
my peace on that matter. To ask a wedded omega for his hand is not only
distasteful but a great indecency. Continue this pursuit and I will be forced
to bring this matter to my husband. The brother of our liege lord. I imagine
neither Starks will be pleased to hear of your advances.”
Lord Bolton remained unperturbed. He let go of Howland but his large frame
stood in the way of Howland’s escape.  His poise bothered Howland, who was used
to men cowering beneath his spear.
“He will not be your husband much longer,” Lord Bolton reminded. He drew close
to Howland. The lord of the Neck was sure that if he took another step
backwards, Lord Bolton would follow and Howland would gain nothing but the air
of weakness. He stood his ground. “I heard the plan was for him to abandon you
upon your youngest’s first rut.” He brushed the tips of his fingers against
Howland’s cheek. The touch was too light to be considered an assault but it
made Howland shiver all the same. “I imagine your fertility would not wane
before then.”
Howland was fast—fast enough to draw fear in the man whose blood ran with leech
spittle and whose skin was made of the layer of ice that lured children onto
lakes before they sunk them into their deaths. He placed a dagger against Lord
Bolton’s throat.
“If I told Lord Stark the reason behind your death, do you think he would lift
a hand against me?” Howland pressed the back of the blade into his neck. “Or
would he sooner strip your son of his titles if so much of a whiff of treason
remained in the air?”
For the first time since they spoke, Lord Bolton’s breath hitched. He gave no
answer. Howland released him from his hold and made his way to hall where the
feast was to be held. “I will see you at dinner. I trust you will be on your
best behavior.”
Roose Bolton could not allow the crannogman to have the last word.
“Lord Stark does not deserve you.”
Howland pursed his lips. Against his better judgement, he addressed the
statement. “You are a spiteful man, Lord Bolton, and a fool if you think you
deserve what Lord Stark does not.”
“Be that as it may, your devotion is unwarranted. Lady Stark lives and will
continue to live until your body withers and your voice shrills with death. Do
you think he’ll want you then? When you are old and brittle? You will spend
ages waiting for a man who will leave you to the snakes when you are no longer
the object of his desire.”
Howland did not flinch at the accusation. He would not give Lord Bolton the
glory, nor would he add value to a lie. “Lord Bolton, tread lightly when you
share grounds with a crannogman. You will find yourself swallowing sand in your
grave.”
“You are the most desirable omega in the North,” Bolton confessed. “During the
war, the men wrapped their fingers around their cocks listening to you scream
and salivated over the cream on your thighs. You took your lord so well. We all
imagine ourselves in his place.” Lord Bolton took a step further. “If there was
any justice in the world, you’d belong to an alpha who could fill your womb as
well as they did your holes.”
“And you think you could be that alpha?” Howland mocked. He glared so fiercely
at the lord, it was a wonder the man did not go up in flames. “Do not play
games with me, Lord Bolton. I know how you despise the Starks—there is
treachery in your blood. Thousands of years ago, my ancestors warn the Starks
to rid the North of your kind and yet their honor would not allow them to kill
a man who bent the knee. And here you are, propositioning me for a union you
know will cause strife.”
“Why would I threaten my livelihood by angering my liege lord? I am not a fool,
Lord Reed. I desire you. I have only a son and a bastard. It is not uncustomary
for a man of my standing to desire another wife and child.”
“There are many options for you, Lord Bolton. But not many opportunities to
humiliate the lord you loathe,” Howland sneered. “You have brought your
children. Understand that my son will never touch your kin—not if I have any
say in it.”
“Then it is good that you do not have all the say. Unless you would like to
tell Lord Stark of our conversation?” Lord Bolton suggested. “He would send me
away tonight.”
Howland chuckled. He shook his head. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? More
fodder for your hatred and more time for your schemes. No, I will have you in
my sight.” Howland moved towards the entrance. “Give the gods your humility.
You will need their mercy. For whatever you have planned, I will return a
thousand times over.”
Roose Bolton watched the crannogman leave while admiring the sway of his ass.
He mourned the lost opportunity. If Lord Reed was not under the protection of
the Starks, he would have raped him a thousand times over by now.
-
Jon paced within his parents’ bedroom for ages. Earlier, he had rummaged
through his mother’s belongings, searching far and wide for what Howland
promised him, only to give up when he realized that his knowledge of herbs had
dissipated with his years at Winterfell. When his mother finally returned from
prayer, the boy lunged upon him and demanded affection like a starving kitten.
He wanted a mother’s pampering to soothe his aching concerns.
“What took you so long?” He whined through his kisses. 
“There was a snake in the garden that needed to be skinned.” Howland mused. His
spirits were already lifted from his son’s presence. He would deal with the
Boltons in due time. He had more pressing concerns at the moment. “What has
gotten into you?”  
 “I need the herbs I requested. Now. You must teach me how to ingest them.”
Howland raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you are ready?” Jon pulled away.
Howland was horrified by the red eyed glare—a blinding sign of tears and
frustration. He brought the child to bed and coddled his miserable child. “What
happened?”
“I am losing the heart of Winterfell!” Jon shouted. Howland was taken back.
“All these omegas—they’ve come for Robb. They are more suited for him than I
am. They are not bastards! I must watch while they lift up their frilly skirts
and rub their laces against his cock and I can do nothing—”
Jon’s rant was ended with a tightened grasp on his neck. Howland pushed him
onto the bed with fingers dangerous close to his larynx. He looked up at his
mother, who was pitiless in his gaze.
“I did not leave you at Winterfell to be shamed by those egregious thoughts. If
you continue to despise your bastardy status, I will take you by the scruff and
return you to the Neck until you are reminded of who you are and where you came
from,” Howland swore. “Have you forgotten what I’ve taught you?”
Jon shook his head to the best of his ability. “No, mother.”
“What did I say?” Howland pushed further down. “What did I tell you to never
forget when I allowed you to be ripped out of my arms?”
Jon looked down.
“What did I say?”
“That I am the child of love,” Jon whispered. “That I am as true born as any of
yours or father’s children.”
“Yes, and should you ever be ashamed of your lineage?”
“No.” Jon met his mother’s gaze, this time he was overwhelmed by his
confidence. “I am the son of two great lords and the scion of kings. My blood
is royal and pure. I am blessed by the gods.”
Howland’s shoulders relaxed. He let go of his son and gave him time to sit up.
“That you are, my love.” He stroked Jon’s cheek where he struck. “And you must
never allow anyone to dismiss you for they will be the ones to grovel at your
feet. Now tell me, what has gotten you so inflamed?”
Jon sighed. His frustrations came back to him but at a lesser force. “I want
the herbs. I wish to be intimate with my lover without the consequence of a
child.”
“You mean you wish to bed Robb before another omega can lay claim on him?” Any
other time, Howland would have made the suggestion with a smile and a tease.
Jon was a wreck, his sanity was in shatters and there was no place for subtlety
and half-truths.
Jon wished he could be surprised by his mother’s intuition. Instead, he was
sweating a storm of fright. “How did you know?”
Howland revealed nothing of his plan. Jon would never trust his heart again if
he believed their romance to be the ministrations of gods and men. No, Howland
wanted their affair to be worthy of ballads and romances. “There could be no
one else,” Howland told him. “I see the way he looks at you. You are his heart.
You have always been his heart.”
“Does father know?”
Howland scoffed. “By the heavens, no.”
“Will he hate me if he finds out?”
“He could never hate you,” Howland swore. “At worst, he would send you back to
the Neck. But that does not mean he would not punish Robb for the
indiscretions. If the two of you are discovered, Robb shall face dire
consequences. He might even be stripped of his position.”
Jon was aghast. “It is not his fault, though! We decided together that this is
what we both wanted. I love him.”
“He is the heir to Winterfell. Regardless of your consent, he is in the
position of power here. Your father will see this and suspect Robb enforced
your obedience. You must not let him find out—not until the time is right.”
Jon knew the truth was never an option, but hearing it from his mother’s mouth
made the knowledge all the more upsetting. The right time might never come and
their love would remain a shameful secret. His mind deviated from the assurance
of his love’s loyalty to the abyss of insecurities. He wondered how easy it
would be for Robb to abandon him for a pretty omega whose skin smelled of poppy
seeds and roses. Jon did not know what he would do in that circumstance—but he
doubted he could stay as strong as his mother. No, he would want blood.
“I want the herbs. I want Robb and me to be one in body, not just soul,” Jon
whispered, his mind already lost. “Please mother.”  Howland had seen the look
before—sometimes on his own face. He knew the darkness that was swimming in
Jon’s mind was nothing to be cured but controlled. Howland had committed crimes
and feats with that darkness and would never tell a living soul of his deeds.
Howland took out one of his famed boxes and unlocked it with a spell. Taking
out a bag heavy with powder, he handed it over to his son. “I crushed it
beforehand. You need only to add a teaspoon to your drink, once a day. And make
sure the liquid is hot. I trust you still possess that particular skill?”
Jon cradled the offering. “Only a teaspoon?”
“For four days,” Howland informed. “Any earlier and the risk is yours to take.
I brought a seed for the future but I will speak with Luwin about planting it
in his study. And you must hide this bag well.  If your father finds it in your
room, he will question its presence.”
Jon nodded. Before he left the room, he kissed his mother. “Thank you, mother.
I am in your debt.”
Howland smiled. He stroked his hair and hummed. “You are my child. I only want
the best for you.”
-
Howland had never attended a presentation ceremony in his life, but he
genuinely believed that the seating should not have been as complicated as it
was. As the two presenting omegas, Theon and Jon were expected to be seated
side by side. However, as they were not brothers and Theon was of a higher
rank, they did not want to lessen his value by seating him next to a natural
born son. Truthfully, Theon did not mind, but he wanted to avoid a scandal and
Jon hated being the center of attention. After a great toil, the two boys were
encouraged to mingle with the guests instead of staying in their seats. The
second issue was Howland, Ned, and Catelyn. Ned and Catelyn were the hosts of
the party and were expected to be seated together. On the other hand, Howland
was Jon’s mother and was expected to be by Ned’s side. To sit on the same table
as his wife was a grave insult, but to not sit on the table meant that Jon’s
value would be diminished and his bastardy status would be further emphasized.
Benjen settled the issue by pointing out that he could sit beside his brother
and Howland could next to him.
“I am a Stark as well. We can make the main table to represent all of us as a
family.”  
They all agreed, unable to withstand another headache. With the day coming to
an end and the night arriving, the Starks and Reeds greeted their guests. The
lords and ladies poured in and were greeted to a fine feast of birds and
beasts. There were chickens on every table, pork chops glazed in honey and
apples, steamed carrots and potatoes. The guests were ravenous and ate and
dance to their heart’s content. Various bards and singers were present to make
the night further enjoyable. Lord Umber made a careless comment about wishing
he was at the Neck. The musicians were far more accommodating to his tastes.
Some men laughed while others knew nothing of what this giant man was
insinuating. There was only one grand feast at the beginning of a presentation
ceremony and the nobles hoped to make the best of it. Tomorrow the alphas would
leave for their hunting trips. Theon would be present for tomorrow's trip while
Jon was to socialize with his potential mates. The third day was the reverse.
Before dinner, Theon touched himself through four comings to control his urges.
Being surrounded by all those virile cocks made him delirious with lust. He
wanted nothing more than to get underneath the table and suck the young men
bone dry. Instead, he was left aching through dull conversation with the Bolton
heir.
Domeric Bolton was an accomplished young man and a worthy partner for someone
of Theon’s standing. He served as a page in Barrowton for four years and
squired for a knight at the Vale. He loved horses, almost annoyingly so—Theon
preferred dogs himself—and planned to enter the upcoming tourney at the Reach.
Theon listened while nodding his head absentmindedly. He was glad Jon was
sharing this ceremony with him. If Jon was not present, there was no way the
Bolton bastard would be allowed to sit with the other trueborn alphas. Instead,
Ramsey Snow sat on the left of Theon’s side, eating his chicken and fingering
his half-brother’s potential mate.
Theon was drinking his wine when Ramsey pinched his clit. He choked and
predictably, Domeric was there with his napkin to wipe off the spill. Theon
smiled and thanked him with all the graces he learned from the septa. He would
not lose this prized stallion. Domeric seemed as interested in him as well. Out
of all of his choices so far, Domeric was the finest in terms of looks, wealth,
and potential. He was as cold as an ice pick, but that mattered little in the
grand scheme of things.
Besides, with a brother like Ramsey, who needed a personality?
Theon dropped his napkin on his lap and while he reached down to place it, he
took ahold of Ramsey’s hand and dug it further into his cunt. Ramsey tensed up.
Taking the act for what it was, he began to fingerfuck the slut with all his
might. Theon was especially encouraging as he rode those digits throughout
his conversation with Domeric. When the Greyjoy's flush became too noticeable,
Theon asked to excuse himself.
“Forgive me, I am unused to being around so many alphas. I am afraid I am
overwhelmed. Please excuse while I get some fresh air.”
Ramsey rolled his eyes. Only a fool could not see through the act and Ramsey
was surrounded by jesters and jokers. Theon was hungry for a knot; as all
omegas were. He sent Ramsey a sly invitation with his eyes, beckoning him to
follow. Ramsey had overheard the men talk about bedding the bastard and wedding
the lord but Ramsey knew better. He took one look at the other Snow in the room
and knew that such a possibility could only be done in reverse. Jon stank of
loyalty; the way all Starks did.
After a respectable period of time, Ramsey announced he was going to bed.
Unlike the nobles, his quarters were further away from everybody else. “How
could anybody expect a bastard to sleep amongst trueborn sons?” He asked, a
grin on his face and daring in his eyes. The bitterness did not go undetected
and judging by the glares in his father and his brother’s eyes, it would not go
unpunished.  As soon as he said it, the men all turned to Jon who was staring.
He was not hurt, however. His gaze was strong.
Ah, Ramsey thought. How intriguing.
-
Theon and the Bolton boy were fortunate that the other guests were too consumed
with their own pleasures to notice their obvious attraction. Howland wondered
if Lord Bolton was watching but dared not make eye contact. Instead, he settled
on his children. All of them were enjoying the festivities once they made
acquaintances with their intended interest.
Robb remained by Jon’s side as expected. Whenever an alpha attempted to speak
to Jon, Robb was present in their conversation. He was charming and respectful,
but it was clear to all the alphas that no one was getting near Jon without the
approval of the Stark heir. This did not deter the other lords, who began to
send their omegas conjoined with their alpha sons and nephews.
Out of all of them, it was Wynafryd Manderly who kept her distance. She
observed them as a crannogman would and her green eyes reacted to nothing.
Howland decided that he liked her, if only out of respect for her grandmother.
He would ask her father later if she intended to or had already held a sword.
Howland stopped watching when the girl was propositioned into a conversation by
Lord Leobald Tallhart. The omegas that were sent to Robb were being rejected
like dusty rags and it was time for them to move onto their second choice. If
Wynafryd was insulted, she did not show it. She greeted his darling Brandon—a
nervous thing for he was the child of a second son and not the first.
Her sister was far more rambunctious and struck a friendship with Howland’s own
daughter. Unlike her sibling, she took after her father and grandmother. She
was not suited for politics and was entranced by Meera’s storytelling and
boldness. Her behavior, unbeknownst to her due to youth, was akin to an
invitation for courtship. She leaned towards Meera when there was climax to her
tale and clung to her arms when she was particularly excited.
Oh, thought Howland. This was a twist of events. He would be lying if he said a
relationship with the Manderlys would be opposed, but he had not thought a
union was a possibility. Jon was meant to be a Stark. Jojen’s affection for
Bran was strong as ironwood. Meera was more compromising than he had originally
realized.
By Meera’s side was her brother, who had taken to old habits and rested Bran on
his lap. The younger boy was much bigger than whence he was a toddler but so
was Jojen. He clung to Bran as if he were a doll and kissed him whenever he did
something particularly adorable. To Jojen, this was ranged from a simple cough
to a draw of breath. Jojen was insatiable for action and Bran loved to deliver.
He returned Jojen’s kisses in full and though only a child of six, knew when to
stroke Jojen’s arm and purr to awaken his alpha instincts.
Howland wondered how long he should let them indulge in this play-courting. He
would formerly speak to Ned about Bran’s fostering tomorrow. The only hitch he
could see is Catelyn’s influence and Jojen’s lack of temperament. Jojen would
not resist Bran’s blossoming when it came. Howland could already imagine the
scandal of another Stark child seduced by the Reed line.
Watching made him worrisome for he was a striker, not a spy. He left the table
to mingle with the other guests—his attention directly on Lord Manderly. Only
one of them was getting a Stark tonight but that did not mean he should let the
other man go empty handed. His path was intersected by Jyana.
“Brother, I wish to speak with you. May we have a moment?”
Howland felt annoyed but remembered that this was his sister and he should
never feel anything less than love for her. He agreed to abandon the party.
They took their conversation outside, where the spies were small in numbers and
their voices could be heard as vividly as the bird calls and the wind whistles.
“It has been awhile since we spoke in private. May I ask for the occasion?”
Jyana told him. “I inquire the truth. I sensed the dark nights many years ago
upon Jon's conception and said nothing. When Jon blossomed, the demons rose
again and still, I kept silent.  Now, I say my peace. What darkness has
possessed you, Howland? To what ends do you mean to engage the gods below?”
Howland chilled at the accusation, however true it was. The crannogmen all had
a talent for witchcraft—naturalistic rituals, dealing with elements so that
their hands were akin to flippers and their wet wood could be warmed by fire.
Few had the nerve to delve beyond their spells for survival.
Howland took a step forward. Jyana stood her ground. He stroked her cheek and
in utter awe, praised her ingenuity and wit. “My darling sister, you are clever
as you are beautiful. Our parents would be proud.”
“I am not as beautiful as you nor am I as clever,” Jyana reminded. “But I know
you Howland and the darkness has made its presence known. When you unleash
those lords, they do not stay in the same place. They travel into men’s minds
and wars are made. Tell me, whatever you have planned, will you be able to
suffer the consequences?”
“Nothing can compare to the suffering already dealt to me, not even what the
gods can prepare,” Howland promised. Nothing could compare to losing his
soulmate to another woman, to sit around while she held the throne meant to be
his. Nothing hurt as much as losing a son, to be forced to see him once a
year—the babe whom he nursed from his own teat and pushed out of his body in
agony.
He tenderly moved the strips of her hair to the side. Then, he kissed her on
the forehead. “Tell me, sister. Do you love your husband?”
Jyana did not answer. “Howland, I am worried for you.”
“Do you love the child you bore her?”
“Of course, I do. Lyanna is my life.”
“Jon is mine’s.” Howland revealed. “Ned is mine’s. Jojen. Meera. All of them
deserve laurels of winter roses and baskets of strawberries and respect and
adorations and yet they would never receive them if things continue as they do.
How could I claim to love them if I refuse to do everything in my power to make
them happy?”
Jyana said nothing. She took her brother’s hand and asked that he not let the
madness rule his conscience. Howland responded that it was not madness that
made him act the way he did, but love. He tightened their conjoined hands and
led her back to the party.
"Your soul is pure, sister. Even when corrupted by temptation, you remain loyal
and true. I admire your honor. It is a trait I find often in my loved ones."
Jyana tensed. "My husband is good to me." 
"Yes, and if all goes well you will love her as much as she does you," Howland
agreed. "Out of everyone, we never expected you to leave the Neck. Father
thought it was going to be you who ruled, but then those peaches sang and we
found that your destiny laid further North." 
"The gods are not wrong, but that does not mean we can allow them to use us as
vessels for a celestial war. The territory you are crossing is treacherous. You
will lose more than your soul if you continue on this path." 
Howland paused. Then, he kissed her and apologized. "I love you, my dear
sister. Your words shall be taken into consideration." 
Jyana was hardly foolish enough to believe him. "Howland..." 
“Come, we must rejoin the party. Your good daughter must be worried about you.”
Jyana did not miss the implication whenever Howland spoke about her good
daughter. She thought it was worst she could not deny it.
When the two of them arrived back, Theon and Ramsey had already left for bed.
-
Ramsey could not keep his hands off the whore once they were alone. Since most
of the servants were at the party, the hallways were abandoned. Ramsey did not
have to travel far to find the omega. Theon was waiting for him in one of the
corners and immediately pulled him into an embrace as an octopus would his
prey. The cream was already dripping down his thighs. Ramsey lifted up the
older boy’s skirt and ripped off the lacing of his bodice so that his tits were
bouncing about. 
"Fuck, these are amazing." They were large as oranges and had nipples the size
of coins. He admired the pink color for a little too long and Theon ordered him
to have a taste. "They're waiting for you," he tempted.
Taking a nipple into his mouth, he began to bite and mark the breast to his
pleasure. Theon squealed like a stuffed pig. He bunched up Ramsey’s hair and
encouraged him to bite harder, to draw blood. “Don’t you want to mark me? Make
me bleed. I bet your brother would love that.” The challenge was further
encouraged when Theon began to ride his fingers. Ramsey had forced them in as
soon as they kissed. He lived by the law that he should never be alone with an
omega without stuffing their holes full.
Theon could not help himself. He knew better than to give his maidenhood to a
bastard but he could not deny the temptation of having such a virile alpha near
him. If he had it his way, he would have longed spread his thighs and get that
fat, bulging knot inside his pussy. He wanted to be used, be bred and claimed
like a proper omega, and have his hungry hole filled to the brim and then spill
all over the floor. He could feel Ramsey’s manhood through his dress. This boy,
who was no older than Robb, was experienced and could give Theon the fuck of
his life.
“I can’t believe I'm attending the ceremony of such a slut. I didn’t think they
made omegas like you anymore. You’re not even human, are you? Just a wet hole
eager to be plowed by an alpha.”
Theon gasped as Ramsey added in another finger. He came on the spot. The juices
soaked Ramsey’s hand and the boy grinned maliciously. He continued to fuck the
raw pussy with his hand. Theon wrapped his thighs around Ramsey’s waist. If he
could maneuver himself properly, Ramsey would be able to remove his pants and
have his cock stuffing the whore within seconds. Alas, Theon had other plans
when wrapped his arms around Ramsey and pulled him into a kiss. 
Ramsey was taken back by the gesture. None of his other pursuits were so
romantic in their expressions (never mind he could count his consensual bed
partners on a single hand and most were whores). Theon pushed his breasts
against the boy’s chest for good measure. Then, he furthered complicated the
issue when he let go and moved his hands downwards to grip Ramsey’s cock.
“I’ve never had a cock inside me,” Theon confessed to Ramsey's pleasure. He
rubbed the manhood through the cloth. The friction made him groan.  “I’ve
always wanted to. I want a big, fat, pounding knot—someone who could make me
his whenever he wants. I want a real alpha.” He fluttered his eyelashes as he
went in for a second kiss. “Are you alpha enough for me?”
Ramsey growled. He took out his fingers and Theon screamed. He used them to
ripped away Theon’s panties instead and worked on removing his cock from his
confinements. Ramsey promised him he would make him pay for his insolence. 
Theon gasped in pleasure when he saw the member peeking out of his britches. He
imagined that monster stuffing his mouth or entering his raw ass without
preparation. Theon craved the pain of being violated. He remembered the stories
from his youth. His brothers used to brag about bedding their salt wives raw--
in any hole they could find. The thought of being taken by those glorified
pirates made him sick, but the sensation itself was a fantasy for a thousand
masturbations.
 Instead of opening his cunt, however, Theon pushed him away.
“Forgive me my lord, perhaps you misunderstand my intentions.” He almost
shivered in delight when he saw the utter outrage on Ramsey’s face. “But I am a
noble omega. My father is a liege lord. I cannot sully myself with a bastard.”
He tried to move away. When Ramsey would not let him, he added an extra point.
“Did you really think I would hand over my maidenhood to the likes of you?”
Theon did not have to wait long for a response. Ramsey grabbed him by the hair
and tossed him onto the wall. He screamed at Theon, disregarding any possible
bystanders. He was so angry that Theon was growing wet.
“You fucking whore! Do you think I am stupid? You propositioned me with the
intention of getting your cunt ruined. Do you think for a second I would not
fulfill your request? You little slut!” He slapped Theon across the face. Theon
whimpered. Oh, he would be red tomorrow and people would know foul play was
amidst. He wondered what he would say in response. He did not have time to
think about it when Ramsey slapped him again and forced him on his knees. He
shoved the cock into Theon’s face.
This boy’s untouched mouth needed to be filled, but one look at those bare
breasts sent Ramsey towards a downward spiral. He told Theon to use his hands
to bring him release. Theon found the request strange but complied. He could be
obedient, Ramsey sneered, if he was better trained. Theon wrapped his palms
around the cock and rubbed him up and down. On occasion, Theon boldly planted
kisses on the glans, desperate to taste the building seed.
When he was finished, Theon worked the shaft faster. Ramsey told him to aim for
his breasts. He wanted to see those magnificent teats covered in his come. He
got his wish when Theon stroked him especially hard and licked the tip of his
shaft.
Soften by his orgasm, he was barely able to catch Theon making his escape.
Having none of the slut’s coyness, he pulled Theon back to him. Those breasts
were still covered in cum but were not as beaten with bruises as he would have
liked. His mouth remained untouched and he was still a virgin. None of those
traits fared well with Ramsey. He grabbed onto Theon’s wrist and dragged him to
his chambers.
Once in open view, Theon’s confidence shattered. “Stop! Ramsey, I am undressed!
I cannot walk out like this!” He was a catastrophe. His chest was out in the
open. His dress was ripped apart. Anyone looking at him would know what
happened and expect the worst. He could not allow one of the guest to see him
and have rumors flock the castle.
“You’re my whore now. Who cares what you think?” Ramsey responded. His grin
made Theon’s blood ran cold and Theon tried his best to fight him. As they
marched down the hall, Theon’s wrist was turning blue and his breath
quickened with every pillar they pass without getting caught. Theon struggled
to find something that would aid him to freedom. On the next painting they
passed, he saw a vase. He grabbed it and without further warning, slammed it
against Ramsey’s head.
The bastard let go of Theon, giving him a small window of opportunity. The
Greyjoy dashed down the hallway. Ramsey, once he recovered, chased after him.
Theon ran for his chastity. He refused to think of the horrors that would
become of him if he were to get caught—no matter how wet the image made him. He
needed a prosperous marriage. Ramsey was a bastard, he told himself. He was a
cruel bastard.
The words were repeated as a mantra in his head. Just when Ramsey began to
close in on the last living son of Euron Greyjoy, a voice saved him.
“What is going on here?”
Theon wanted to kiss the ground when he saw who the voice belonged to.
Howland walked out of the shadows to confront the two. Theon ran to him. He hid
behind his back for protection, for Ramsey was a monster but Howland was a
sorcerer. They controlled monsters, didn’t they?
To his credit, Ramsey did not admit his guilt, even with the damning evidence
of what was happening. “We were playing a game of chase. I was too eager in my
pursuit. Apologies. I’ll end the game here and allow you to escort the lordling
to his chambers.”
Howland believed none of it. Only the daftest fool would. He turned to Theon.
“Theon, what happened? Why were you running?”
Theon froze as all attention was directed towards him. He thought about his
situation. Even with his earlier encouragement, he would face no penalty.
Ramsey was a bastard. Theon could easily spin a tale about being forced into
the corner and violated without his consent. After another moment of
consideration, he answered Howland to the best of his ability.
“Ramsey is right. We were…playing. I would like to be escorted to my room,
now.”
Ramsey appeared surprised, and perhaps, intrigued by Theon’s decision. They
would meet again in the next three days. Theon loathed to think of it but the
tingle in his lower regions said otherwise. Howland stared at the two
suspiciously before taking off a cloak from one of the statues and covering
Theon’s chest.
Before Ramsey could turn his back, Howland ordered him to stay. Theon watched
with apprehension as Howland walked up to the bastard. Howland raised his hand.
Ramsey froze. To his surprised, Lord Reed wiped off a sliver of blood on his
forehead. It must have come from the vase.
“I understand you are Lord Bolton’s son?”
“Yes,” Ramsey admitted. “I would clarify myself as a bastard but I assumed that
matters little to you, Lord Reed.”
“It doesn’t.” Howland narrowed his eyes. “I suggest you control yourself in the
future. My son is uninterested in mating, but if I find out you’ve directed a
similar pursuit of him, your father will not be able to save you.”
Ramsey wanted to reply that his father would not save him if he was drowning on
a lake—claiming it a result of his own stupidity to be there. Instead, he
agreed to the command but then pointed out that if his father could not help
him, perhaps his future good mother would.
“I trust my father has made another offer towards your hand?”
Theon jumped when heard of such news. Howland glared at the boy.
“I am married,” Howland replied instead. “You and your father would do well to
remind yourself of the proper courtesies when dealing with omegas. Less they
themselves take action against their pursuers.”
Howland said nothing more and would not listen to another second of roundabout
dribble. He took Theon by the hand and ushered him into his room. When they
arrived, Howland all but threw Theon inside.
“If he goes near you again, tell me and I will have him removed from these
lands,” Howland promised. Theon meekly agreed to those conditions. His
hesitance unsettled Howland who suspected a misunderstanding.
“Theon, is there something you would like to tell me?”
Theon choked up. Finally, he shook his head. “Nothing, Lord Reed. I was…we were
playing a game. It got out of hand.”
Howland’s glower did not waver. “Be careful about the games you play, Theon.
And be especially careful about who you play them with. The world is not kind
to omegas and you best remember the viciousness behind a man’s touch before you
remember the comforts.”
He left without saying goodnight. Theon rested on his bed. He could not help
but admire the bruises on his breasts. Ramsey left teeth marks of a rabid babe
and caused one nub to bleed. Theon had not notice. He had been too aroused.
-
When the party had ended, the maids carried the men to their bedrooms and Robb
and Jon retreated to their own quarters. Jon swiped a goblet of water before he
left. He placed it on his dresser and pulled out his bag of ground herbs. Robb
stared as his younger brother dropped a teaspoon of molted green into his drink
and mixed. He caught of whiff of it in the air. It smelled like moss on an
ironwood tree.
Feeling bold, he walked up to Jon’s back and wrapped his arms around him.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” He murmured. “The medicine you asked your mother to
bring you. The herbs that will prevent our child.” His voice was toneless. He
did not sound particularly pleased or upset and the unreadable nature of the
statement made Jon tense.
Since he did not know how to response, he settled for a neutral explanation. He
swirled his spoon and watched the water thicken into the swamps of his
homelands. “It is only temporarily. When we are ready to have a child, we will
do so. I would rather be cautious and together than loose minded and apart.”
Robb sunk his head onto Jon’s neck. He sucked on the bare skin. Jon was
distracted with the potion so Robb took advantage of the opportunity. His hands
worked on the top of his dress. Robb removed each lace with the precision of a
maester. Jon gasped as each string came undone.
He tried to concentrate on the spell to heat up the water.
Robb removed one of his sleeves. His tongue traveled from Jon’s neck to his
shoulder and tasted his flesh beneath him.
“Robb…” Jon moaned.
“Carry on with your spells,” Robb ordered. “I already have to wait four days. I
would rather not prolong my abstinence.” He removed the other sleeve. “I cannot
wait to have you, once and for all.”
Jon finished while Robb was in the middle of marking up his spine. Jon drank
the liquid in haste. It burnt his throat but the pain was a good distraction.
He tried not to envision the sight of Robb behind him. The older boy had
already lowered his dress to showcase his ass. Robb cradled the cheeks with an
obsessive air and kissed each one affectionately.
“Mine,” he praised. He sounded so awed. “All of this is mine.”
Jon turned around to reveal his barely clothed pussy. He ordered Robb to remove
it for him. Robb did as command and took the panties down with his teeth. Jon
gasped with the barest hint of tongue ran across his quim. He grasped onto
Robb’s hair and told him to behave.
Robb pouted. He got off his knees and kissed Jon. “I am so eager to have you in
my bed.”
Jon agreed. He returned the favor to Robb by undressing his own shirt. He
admired the smooth muscle. Robb was to join the others on their hunting trip
while Jon would be left behind to deal with the other omegas and the few
suitors who choose to stay. The act was tedious but at the same time riveting.
His omega side preened from the attention. He licked his lips as he played with
Robb’s curls.
“Tomorrow, we will be apart for hours. And before that, you would be expected
to spar with those alphas.”
Robb winced. “It will not be as long as we fear. If we can get enough game, we
could be finished far before sundown.”
Jon hummed. “I hope so. I do not wish to be apart from you long.” He started to
squeeze Robb’s cock through his britches. When he let go, Robb gasped. Before
he could punish his impish omega, Jon took him by the hand and led him to the
bed. Robb was hesitant to follow orders but he could never deny Jon anything.
He laid on the bed while Jon climbed on top of him.
Jon leaned down to kiss. They were slow, languid kisses implying a long and
tortuous night ahead of Robb. “Did you get look at any of the omegas?” Jon
asked as he sucked Robb’s tongue.
“Hmm?” Robb could barely pay attention to the words. He was enamored by Jon’s
technique of tongue.
“The omegas that came. What did you think of them?” Jon rolled his hips on top
of Robb’s cock. He grasped onto Robb’s chest.
Robb moaned. He struggled to answer. “They were…they were nice. Fine people. I
guess. Gods…”
Jon bent down for another kiss. When they parted, he asked Robb if he could
name any of the ones that caught his eye. Far too distracted, Robb tried to
remember the names but could muster nothing. “I can’t remember, Jon. I only
have eyes for you.”
“Really?” Jon asked as he rolled his hips again. He allowed Robb to grasp his
ass and squeeze. “What about Alys Karstark? Or Cley Cerwyn? He seemed fond of
you.”
“Who?” Robb asked.
Jon purred. He rewarded Robb with another kiss for that answer.
They continued their game throughout the night. They evolved past humping like
rabbits to using their fingers and tongues. Eventually, both brothers were too
worn out to move. Just when Robb was about to go to sleep, Jon warned him of
another incident he should be privy to.
“What?”
Jon played with the hairs on Robb’s chest. He had a number of them now.
“I just thought you should know that the other alphas were saying
such…crudethings about me. And their sires were encouraging it.”
Robb stiffed. “Like what?”
“Nothing.” Jon kissed his arm. “Just that I would become their family whore if
I were to wed them. They said that if I was anything like my mother, I would
spend my whole marriage on my back. I think they said it was where an omega
belongs.”
Robb gritted his teeth. “Did they now?”
“Yes, Meera overheard them talking. She left before she could hear anymore. She
thought she would swing a spear into their hearts. She is such a good alpha,
Robb. She will make any omega swoon.”
Despite the knowledge that Meera was Jon’s sister—a fact meaning less than it
should have given their relationship—Robb could not stifle the jealousy that
occurred whenever Jon praised another alpha. Robb pulled Jon into a tighter
embrace.
“Worry not, little brother. I will take care of it.”
Jon smiled against his skin. “Will you now?”
“Yes,” Robb swore. “I will make them regret every vulgar word utter towards
you.”
Tomorrow, he would remind them that Jon was not only a Stark but he was his
Stark.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Dragonsnakes refers to anacondas. I thought about using the word
     ‘anaconda’ and then remember that they called crocodiles ‘lizard-
     lions’ so ‘dragonsnakes’ happened.
     2. Anyway, I had a great day yesterday. My website, Murder_at_the
     Cathouse was launched. This will be where I display all my original
     work. Then, my books that were lost in transit got delivered. Milk
     was on sale. Green tea was on sale. Things were great.
     And when I went to work, I found out that yesterday was not Friday as
     I originally believed, but Saturday.
     And I had still not completed this chapter.
     So I apologize for the excessive mistakes and the lateness. This is
     what an all-nighter looks like. I hope to never do it again but I
     know that’s impossible and instead choose to be impressed that I
     wrote over nine thousand words in less than 24 hours.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Robb rested with the soundness of the dead and Jon is both envious and unnerved
by his quiescence. He tested out Robb’s fatigue with tempting touches, laying
fingers on his chest and kissing his nape with such chasteness, a bystander
might believe it to be innocent. Robb remained asleep. Jon supposed that if
Robb had not become mad with frustration than he was unswayable till sunrise.
Jon crept out of the covers and snuck into the halls. He knew the passageways
by heart. The darkness had no power over him.
When Jon arrived at the bedroom, he saw through the night’s shroud and sought
his way to the bed. He crawled underneath the sheets and laid beside the warm
body. Unlike Robb, the person he sought was not a heavy sleeper by any means.
Jon curled up to rest more comfortably in his partner’s arms.
“Who is there?” Theon jumped. From groggy uncertainty to violent attentiveness,
Theon was released from his slumber to address the presence. Jon was tossed
onto the other side. He made an 'oofed' noise. Theon’s eyes widened. “Jon? Is
that you?”
“Who else would be sneaking into your room at night?” Jon asked, irritation
heavy in his grumble. He was jesting, but Theon’s silence was enough to warrant
his suspicions. “Theon?”
“It’s nothing. Go to sleep, Jon.”
“Theon, were you expecting someone else…?”
“No!” Theon groaned. “Jon, I swear, you are a mole if your frequent digging is
any indication of your being. And why do you keep entering my room without my
permission? You are not a child anymore!”
When aggravated, Theon tended to lash out in a physical manner. Despite the
risk of a tumble, Jon pushed. “Theon, what have you done?”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “Let the Drowned One take me away! Stop insisting
something is wrong! I am not you, waiting for my elder brother to come and
fondle in the night.”
Jon paused. He clenched his fingers on the sheets. His eyes were burning gold
as the moon laying the horizon. “Theon, be careful with your whispers. The
walls have ears and coming from the mouth of our foster brother, your words are
heeded as gospel.” Jon leaned towards him. “I will not have you breathing life
into vile rumors and innuendos that can harm our family.”
Theon grimaced, for he recognized the tone; he knew there was blade attached to
the tip of that tongue. The subject was a sore spot for Jon. He felt threatened
by any wrongdoing towards Robb, imagined or otherwise.
“Stop your dramatics,” Theon mumbled, denying that fear had pierced his heart
at the moment. “I mean nothing by it.”
“Winterfell is a hive in which the workers produce honey flavored with
deceits.” Jon glared. “I am not the only one who is at risk if people find time
to investigate rumors. There are plenty of devastating falsehoods that could
ruin us all.”
Theon hated being spoken down to; he especially loathed being reminded of an
obvious fact he overlooked. He retreated back under his covers. “Fine! I will
keep silent. Now, get your rest. You may not care about mating, but I intend to
be betrothed by the end of this week. I need to look my best for the hunt
tomorrow.”
“So soon? I thought you would at least wait the year before accepting any
offers.”
Theon was hesitant to admit the truth. He told Jon that he did not want to
wait. “If someone of high prestige makes his intentions known, I would rather
not allow another lord to counter it with a better dowry. Where would I be
then? No lord would have me if he thought himself a second choice.”
“But weren’t you worried about appearances? That you would seem….desperate?”
Theon scoffed. He turned away from Jon and stared at the wall. “I am no more
desperate for a cock than the harlots who arrived on your father’s coin to find
themselves a lesser alpha. If they could disregard their pride, why should I be
immune? Times are changing. Your mother once told us that if omegas allow
ourselves to be traded like cattle, we will be treated like cattle. Branded and
made to bear meat for the slaughter.”
Jon would have agreed with the sentiment, but the words came off as a parroted
declaration of Howland rather than Theon’s own thoughts.
“You left the party early tonight.”
“I was tired.”
“You were so excited earlier.” Jon pointed out. He was suspicious and made no
effort to hide his disbelief. “The Bolton boy—the younger one, he left after
you. Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened!” Theon shrieked. He covered his mouth afterward. Outside,
they heard a few steps pausing as if waiting for another sound. There were a
number of guards wandering about, carefully guarding the rooms in case an alpha
proved ungallant. After a moment, the sounds ceased.
Jon was staring. Theon groaned. He might as well paint his body with his
indiscretions if he continued behaving like some serving wench who bedded his
lord. “And he is not a Bolton. He is a bastard. He means nothing to me.”
“I am a bastard,” Jon reminded. “We all have a place in this world. Bastards
and trueborns alike. If he’s caught your eye and was allowed to join his
brother in this courting charade, we cannot say he is nothing. That he did
nothing.”
Theon glared. His frustration with the argument forced him to ignore Jon. Jon
continued to bother him, regardless. Theon resisted the urge to make peace.
Recognizing teh defense of silence, Jon huffed. He mimicked the older boy’s vow
of silence but refused to leave well enough alone. He snuggled closer. He let
his curls touch Theon’s neck. Theon tried his best not to smile but the
softness of Jon’s touch made him laugh.
“You are horrible,” Theon grumbled without bite. He turned so that he was
facing Jon. Jon grinned. The Snow child touched Theon’s face. There were no
bruises. He trailed down his nightshirt and was met with aggravation. Theon
swiped his hands away.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you will not like what you see. I won’t be responsible for tarnishing
the innocence of Lord Stark’s favorite child.”
Jon pursed his lips. “I am not innocent, nor am I my father’s favorite.”
“You are definitely his favorite,” Theon denied. He did not address the earlier
accusation; he, too, doubted the virtue of Jon Snow. Not his chastity, for if
Jon had lost his maidenhood, Theon would surely know (and simultaneously become
enraged that a boy so much younger than him, someone he trusted and guided
through adulthood, could enjoy the pleasures of the flesh before he) but the
saying that all bastards grow up faster than their legitimate counterparts came
to mind. He was sure that accounted for the Bolton bastard's brutal tendencies.
His touch pulsed on top of Theon's skin.
Theon stopped his depraved thoughts. He would not grow wet while sharing a bed
with an omega.
“What happened tonight?” Either Jon missed the earlier comment or believed
Theon’s invasiveness to be a primary matter at hand, Theon did not care. Theon
focused only on finding the answer to appease his foster brother. Both denial
and silence proved ineffective.
“The Bolton bastard—he wants me,” Theon hated how soft his voice became. “I
believe he will do anything to have me. Even if it will ruin me in the
process.”
Jon’s eyes became sharp. “Theon, if you are implying that he has wronged you,
then you must tell me. Has he harmed you in any way?”
Theon hesitated. Then, after a moment, he removed the opening of his nightshirt
and revealed the malicious scars covering his body. Jon chilled at the sight.
Jon got up. “Theon, we must tell father! We cannot allow this grievance to go
unpunished. Father will have him sent to The Wall! He cares more about you than
you care to admit.”
“Jon, do not speak a word of this to anyone, not even Robb.”
“Theon—!”
“Promise me!” Theon demanded.
Again, Jon said nothing. Theon attempted to appeal to Jon’s rational side, the
part of him corrupted by politics and the civility of being Lord Stark’s
precious bastard.
“What would you have me say?” Theon’s asked. His whispers were heated by
passion and a righteousness that did not exist. “That my lusts overcame me and
I tempted an alpha into a fever? That when he touched me, he made me as wet as
a village flooded by a storm and I allowed him to continue his courting,
despite the fact that I made no plans to receive him. His brother is my best
chance at receiving a suitable proposal. How do I know that if I shed light on
this incident, Lord Bolton will not cast me away for a less problematic mate?”
“Father will not blame you for an alpha’s lack of control. And if Lord Domeric
does not receive you for a fault that is not your own then he does not deserve
you!"
Theon shook his head. He laughed, cruel and disbelieving. “Oh Jon, you are the
most noble of bastards if you believe justice befalls the realm of omegas. The
North loathes me. I will be cast out like rusted iron befitting the son of
Balon Greyjoy.”
Jon was not unsympathetic to Theon’s plight. He did not believe his friend was
lying, either.
Yet, he would not be his mother’s child if he did not check Theon’s story for
holes.
“There are other ways for us to remove Ramsay from Winterfell. Or at the very
least, leave him incapacitated until the end of the ceremony. If you wish, we
could ask my mother for his methods on dealing with unfavorable alphas.”
Theon became tense. “Jon, that is not necessary.”
“Something needs to be done.”
“I will be fine. I will keep my distance from Ramsay.”
Jon could spot a lie, especially one so devastatingly dishonest.
“Would you like to see him again?”
“No!” Theon protested—but he was far too quick about it. A response with that
much suddenness either implied absolute certainty or a large defense. Jon’s
stare was unwavering. He waited for Theon’s explanation.
And Theon knew Jon could wait forever. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I should
not even acknowledge him. His brother is dressed in accomplishments and laurels
of future notability. I would be a fool not to address him my complete
attention.”
“But Ramsay?”
“He is a beast in every way. Our moment together was sudden and merciless. He
would sooner choke the life out of me than love me.”
“Yet you are drawn to him?”
Theon frowned. He did not know what Ramsay was to him but the devil leading him
astray with promises of forward hands and a mouth on fire. “I am drawn to him
in the way my eye would seek out a fire in a hailstorm. His brother is a cold,
humorless being who resembles more ice than man.” Theon sighed. “I cannot have
both and if I had to choose, I would select his brother, if only for the
security.”
“It says something about a man who is chosen over a monster for nothing more
than his security.”
Theon glared. “I do not have the luxury of suitors. What other choice do I
have? Would you rather me return to the Iron Islands, where my mate would put a
son in me and his hundreds of salt wives? And every day I would be locked in a
rock fortress, letting the wet air turn my skin into prunes? Or should I live
in a barren land given for the sake appeasement to a third or fourth son?”
“You should be happy,” Jon retorted. “In a marriage with the potential to love,
at the very least.”
“Because your parents are so happy in their respective betrothals?” Theon
mocked.
“They would have been if men did not dictate their happiness in lieu of gods.”
“Well, neither want me to be with Ramsay. Idon’t want to be with him—not all of
me, at least.” Theon shut his eyes. He struggled to convey his true feelings—a
volatile kaleidoscope of emotions he was unfamiliar to. “I ache for him. His
touch has provided me with more pleasure than I have ever known but at the same
time, I fear him. I have never had an alpha make me run for my life.”
“What?”
“It does not matter,” Theon interrupted the outrage. “We will not be together.”
“Lord Bolton could legitimize him. Father could try and lend his persuasion in
that matter.” Jon could not judge the nature of ill-witted lusts. He was far
too biased. The most he could do was lend his shoulders to his friend and
foster brother. He would support him, given that Theon remembered such kindness
in the future.
“Even if Ramsay was not a bastard, he’d still be a second son.” Theon shook his
head. He tried to clear his head by staring at the ceiling and imagining stars
above the brick. “I should count my blessings instead of pushing my luck.”
“I do not believe the gods would have brought you two together without the
precedence for something greater. That is the only explanation for your
unwarranted attraction.”
“You sound like your mother.”
“My mother is a very wise man.”
Despite the dreariness, Theon smiled. “And what would your mother do in my
situation?”
“He would have both.”
Theon chuckled. “Liar, your mother does not have an unfaithful bone in his
body. His love for your father is what ballads are made of.”
Jon smiled regardless. “I meant he would have the passion of a lover under one
arm and carry the weight of his people in another.” Jon rested his head against
Theon’s soft chest. “He would find a way to have Ramsay’s passion and Domeric’s
power. He would take it for himself if he had to.”
“Your mother is as ruthless as a blizzard to a newborn babe. If I was to follow
his example, I would be leading a life of immorality, the only path of an omega
who betrays his alpha’s rule.”
“We are birthed from immorality,” Jon whispered. “You are the son of a traitor.
I am a bastard. Together, we are condemned by gods that neither of us follow.
We are pitiful.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“It means we should get what we desire. At any cost.” Jon held Theon’s hands as
his voice dimmed into a light murmur as fatigue came upon him. “Everyone hates
us. Why should we not prove ourselves worthy of slanders already made?”
Theon said nothing. When he finally found an answer, though weak and motivated
by nothing more than his desire to have the last word, Jon was already asleep.
Theon would wait. He resolved to have the final say tomorrow.
-
Since Jon’s arrival, Robb developed an aversion to sleeping in solitary. He did
not know if his repulsion was linked to his violent ruts where his father’s men
would drag him away, clawing into his skin to distract him from the pain of
being torn from his mate, or if the peculiarity was innocent, stemming from
having a constant companion for his slumber. Either way, he knew Jon was
responsible. He spoiled Robb with his presence.
On the morning of the hunt, Robb woke up to the smell of sharp mint tea and the
tang of lemon rinds in the air. He looked over to the table in Jon’s room,
where his brother practiced his letters and maths and saw that Jon was
preparing a cup for the both of them, paired with a plate of fruits ranging
from bulbous blackberries fresh from the gardens to various melons sliced
neatly along the edge. When he saw Robb rise, the younger boy walked towards
him with a sway of the hips and a grin on his lips. Without a word, Jon climbed
into his lap. They kissed, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world
instead of precious hours before the hunt.
When they parted, Robb asked about the special service.
“At breakfast, they will dine you on cured meats and grains. I figured you
needed more substance. So I went into the kitchen. Gage asked me what I wanted
and I told him ‘something sweet for my beloved brother with a sharpness to
clear his mind.’” Jon added a kiss to his explanation. He tugged on the lower
lip with his teeth and encouraged Robb’s hands to roam where they would not be
invited until the night. “You will need the extra strength to defend my honor.”
The other boys would give Jon the respect of septa once Robb was done with
them. He lifted Jon up and wrapped his tiny legs around his waist. Jon laughed
as he was carried to the desk and laid down next to the delicacies. Robb took a
piece of berry and pressed it into Jon’s lips.
Jon smiled slyly. Instead of taking a bite, he wrapped his lips around the
blackberry and sucked as if he were draining it for juice. Robb groaned as Jon
worked his mouth upwards so that he was swallowing his fingers. He released
them with a ‘pop’ and tightened his thighs around his brother.
Robb lifted Jon’s shirt to reveal a pair of pink nipples perked up for
attention. He grabbed a thin slice of honeydew and placed it between Jon’s
breasts. Jon shivered from the coolness. “Robb…”
Robb bent down and worked on the food in front of him. If Jon wanted to serve
him, he would do so wholeheartedly. Robb ate the melon off Jon’s chest and
sucked love bites wherever the nectar touched his skin. He placed two berries
on top of Jon’s nipples and bit into them—leaving a visible stain on Jon’s
white skin. He did not have to worry about a stain, however, for Robb was quick
to clean off the mess. Jon moaned as Robb sucked and nibbled on his nubs.
During his meal, Robb ground his cock against Jon’s erection. He relished in
the sensation of Jon’s cocklet struggling to get free. To further frustrate his
beloved, Robb snuck his hands on top of the younger boy’s bottom and squeeze
his cheeks—while slipping a pinky into Jon’s hole.
Jon whimpered. He reached for Robb so that he could lace his fingers through
his hair. Once he caught the older boy, he lifted himself up for a kiss,
ignoring the grapes that skipped on the ground.
“You are so cruel,” Jon whimpered. “I was being a good omega for you.”
“And I was rewarding you,” Robb counters. He licked off the juices of Jon’s
chest and several other places that have never seen a fruit. Tasting salt and
ice instead of sugar and tarts, he sought to rectify this dilemma by picking up
one of the few grapes left on the plate and adding them in—particularly inside
Jon’s untouched cunt.
Jon nearly screamed when the first grape entered him. Robb pushed the drupe all
the way inside his cunt where it teased the corner of his g-spot. Robb added
another when Jon became too quiet. He wanted the boy to unravel under his
hands. He was deliberately slow for this reason. When Jon tried to push them
out, Robb slapped his thigh—a reminder that he wanted Jon open for him. He was
careful not to hurt him. He only wanted to tease Jon and he needed those grapes
intact for what happened next. Robb kept adding them until Jon was writhing
like a fly caught in a web. He begged for Robb to release him. There were at
least eight grapes inside him.
Robb took the last grape between his fingers. “Jon, you said you wanted to be a
good omega. I want you to prove it.”
Jon whimpered. He raised his hips for better access.
Robb pretended to be nonchalant. It was hard, considering how delicious Jon
looked stuffed with objects. He was Robb’s personal dessert. He glanced over
Jon’s tussled nipples and wondered how they would look with rings attached to
them--like the omegas in the scriptures sold in brothels.
“If you want to serve me, you would let me finish. I don’t like being told how
to take care of my omega. I know how to take care of you; that’s why you choose
me.”
Robb peeled off the final grape. Jon watched. He was shaking when Robb licked
the veins and sucked the purple skin off. Then, he pressed it against Jon’s
clit and rubbed it.
“Robb!” Jon squealed. He clenched the sheets. “Please don’t make a mess out of
me. We have to greet our guests this morning. Some have already seen me. They
will wonder what made me change.”
Robb did not answer. He pressed the final grape inside and then stuffed the
accompanying finger inside and churned. Jon screamed. Robb kissed him to feel
the vibrations against his lips.
When they ended their kiss, Robb observed the mess before him. Jon was heaving.
His cunt was dripping with jam. Robb eyes narrowed when he thought about the
alphas on the training grounds, how their eyes would drink in Jon’s disheveled
appearance and rip their dicks off to the thought of him. “You will come to the
training grounds today to watch us. If you cannot participate with us, I want
them to have their eyes on you, watching me.” It was considered unsightly for
an omega to partake in activities with alphas, however innocent.
Without warning, Robb took out his fingers. Jon came a second time and let his
voice bleed through the walls. Robb, who was fearless in the way boys were,
laughed when he witnessed Jon’s lack of control. Drool was dripping out of his
mouth and his eyes were wide and blown with pleasure. He knew that he alone
owned the luxury of producing such a lovely face from his brother. He sucked
the remains off his fingers. Sweet with a touch of tartness, just like their
breakfast and exactly like Jon. After a moment of contemplation, Robb ordered
Jon to tell them the truth.
“Tell them I got you dirty.”
-
A half an hour before breakfast, Lord Stark was busy cleaning up the mess he
made between Howland’s thighs. He parted those tight legs and savored the cream
as if they were milked from the heavens. Howland was silenced by the bedsheets
between his teeth. He bit down to avoid making any noise as Ned devoured him.
When they were children, Howland and Ned celebrated their love through open
displays of affection. While Ned was a stoic, even as a teenager, he was also
an alpha. He was proud to have his attraction reciprocated by an omega so fine
and fertile. Their deep kisses and wandering hands were credited to youthful
indiscretions. Their peers would cheer for them while their elders shook their
head in disapproval, hiding their mischievous winks and nostalgic grins.
As adults, the politics of their romance became synonymous with sin. Their
touches, regardless of whether they were purposeful or accidental, were deemed
immoral. Their longing looks were depraved. Howland refused to be judged by
hypocrites. “I have half a mind to remind them that if I am a sinner, we will
all burn in the same pot.”
Ned could not agree more, but instead of acting in his own self-interest, he
soothed Howland’s concerns with a reminder that while Catelyn shared his home,
Howland owned his heart. The men who carried titles on his land were his
children and he needed to care for them despite their deprived humor. Any
leader who allowed his ego to dictate his rule was not a ruler worth following.
He was not without fault, however. The libel warranted minor aggressions on his
part. He was less likely to entertain some follies of vocal lords and slow to
answer their reasonable but small demands. Yet, this did nothing to stop the
rumors. Instead, it added walls between the whispers.
For Jon’s ceremony, they agreed to maintain an air of appropriateness, if only
to spare Jon discomfort. Howland respected Ned’s decision. He reasoned that it
was necessary for a favorable income, especially if Lady Stark was to attend.
“Your wife is so fragile. I would hate for the other lords to suspect the worst
if her mind were to catch fire.” Howland agreed. He undid his dress shirt.
Ned’s eyes followed the way it to the ground. Howland did not like the lack of
attention so he caressed his lover’s face so that he was staring at him. “And I
know, there is nothing that makes her burn more than witnessing our love.”
Ned di not answer. Howland statements towards Catelyn always bordered the lines
of a threat. Instead, he cleared his mind by joining his love for a tumble. He
acted for the sake of absolute debauchery. While the lords were being escorted
to their bedchambers, hanging off the shoulders of guardsmen and sturdy mated
omegas relegated as babysitters, Ned worshiped his lover’s body. Howland aged
days in what had cost Ned decades. The Warden of the North refused to lend an
ear to the rumors—black magic, he heard them whisper, for there was no other
rationale for the firmness of Howland’s skin, how his face remained in the
winter of Jon’s birth while the rest of them came closer to the decay of
rotting life in the compost.
Ned woke up to these thoughts and a pink, puckering mouth, swollen as the day
they met, wrapped around his cock. He came when Howland swallowed him down. His
throat was as tight as his cunt. Ned was reminded of the fact when Howland took
his awakening as a chance to explore more during their busy morning. He pushed
the older man back to the bed and tease him by rubbing the folds of his cunt
against him. One would suspect Howland of being a virgin if they dug their
fingers inside. Ned tried to position his cock but was met with a disapproving
slap.
“Our son’s adulthood has made me nostalgic,” Howland teased. “I wonder if my
lord is too old to remember how to give a proper lord’s kiss?"
Ned shivered. He flipped Howland on the bed. The younger man laughed as gaily
as they did when they were children. To encourage him, Howland spread his legs,
beckoning for him to come closer. Ned placed himself between those enchanting
thighs and dipped his tongue. His sighed at the taste. Those men were wrong.
There was nothing unholy about a creature so perfect.
When they were finished, Ned prepared for the hunt. He would keep a watchful
eye on everyone in his party. He vowed to find a mate worthy of his son. If his
son must wed, it would be to an alpha who worshiped the ground he walked
on—just as the children of Howland deserved.
-
When a serving girl came to get Theon, he was torn between making an appearance
and huddling under his covers like a frightened child. He does not know if he
could face his guests today, Ramsay, Domeric, or even their father, Lord
Bolton. The Lord of Dreadfort gave him chills. Theon was sure that if he came
downstairs, the man could sniff out his infidelity.
If he did not attend breakfast, he would appear frail, or at worse, fickle
towards the advances of the awaiting alphas. They would deem his absence as an
insult—they have traveled miles to make his acquaintance. These were Northern
alphas as well. They admired an omega who could hold a sword in one hand and
suckle a babe in another. He could not claim illness for if he did, Lord Stark
might forbid him entry for the hunt. Theon did not want to miss the event. Even
without the alphas, Theon enjoyed the activity. The sun of a virile chase made
his skin glow.
He opted for the lesser evil and told the serving girl he needed more time to
get dressed. Wearing a pair of trousers that accompanied his form like a glove,
he left his room. His face was drained of color. If someone saw him, he would
not need to make any excuses. They would have already thought he was sick.
“Theon, are you unwell?”
Theon cursed his luck. He turned around to see Lord Stark and Lord Reed walking
beside each other as men in marriage do. Lord Stark was a cloud compared to his
lover, who stunned men’s hearts even when dressed in his dreary drabs. If Jon
cared to utilize his looks the way his mother did, Theon would face
humiliations worthy of a lady swollen with a beggar’s spawn. Try as he might,
his bitterness could not evaporate into the Northern mist. His past was made up
of scenes being second place to a bastard and now his future was at risk of
being destroyed by another.
“I am not, Lord Reed. I am afraid I am not as well rested as I would have liked
to be. Jon came into my bed yesterday and we spent the entire night talking.”
“Will you be able to join the hunt?” asked Lord Stark. “If not, Jon will
replace you—”
“No!” Theon protested. He composed himself immediately and smiled graciously at
his lord and kidnapper. “I would not miss the hunt for the world. You do not
have to worry.”
Lord Stark appeared unconvinced. Truthfully, Theon wanted to be sent to bed,
but his previous concerns towards his reputation would remain. Lord Reed
offered his own suggestion. His green eyes shot through Theon and saw the
Greyjoy’s insecurities written on the wrapping paper of the box containing his
heart.
“If Theon would prefer, he could spend the morning practicing his archery. I am
sure our guests would appreciate the effort he is putting into their
entertainment.”
Theon was startled by the opportunity and was horrified he did not come up with
it himself. The excuse was brilliant. He could avoid Ramsay while promoting his
own value as an omega who was dedicated to the pursuit of strength. He agreed
at once. “I would like that, Lord Reed. In fact, I was hoping to suggest it
myself,” he declared haughtily.
Lord Reed’s lips twitched, indicating his own disbelief. Lord Stark asked if he
should send him his meal.
“I would be most grateful, Lord Stark.”
Once the arrangement was made, Theon walked over to the archery grounds. He
controlled his steps—he was a second away from dashing with joy. He imagined
Lord Stark would break the news to the alphas soon. They would praise him.
There were some men who preferred the damsels but in the North, it was the
warriors who caught their attention. They wanted sturdy brides to breed heavy
sons. He was fortunate that his was more inclined to a bow than a sword (unlike
Jon, who wielded thin blades like they were melted into his hands). Archery was
far more elegant. He heard the late Lady Stark was a masterful archer and
hunter. Even Lord Reed utilized arrows during the war.
Theon was giddy with delight. His reputation was not only salvageable but
growing with each hour. He prepared his leather gloves, a trusted bow, and a
standard quiver of arrows. There was no one to spot him but such a matter meant
little as long as there was the possibility of bystander to witness his aim.
For this reason, Theon did not bother warming up on the easy range. He needed
to make an impression for any wandering eyes. He tussled up his hair for an
artfully disheveled look and splashed water on his face so that his face would
glisten.
His shots were impeccable from the moment he shot his first arrow. During his
practice, he wondered where he should aim if he came across a wild boar or a
grown stag. He should not be as bold as to take down the creature
himself—though he was confident he could. The alphas would feel emasculated. If
he was a part of Domeric’s party, they could work together on the matter. He
could shoot a hind leg and allow the older boy to deliver the final blow. Maybe
he could catch a few rabbits and gush over his accomplishment—therefore
allowing the alphas to pander him with their conceit and patronization. Theon
looked forward to it.
He had three arrows left when he finalized his plan. When he got started on the
final bundle, he felt a pair of arms wrap around his torso. He gasped. His
arrow fell midway through the journey. He tried to turn around to address his
assailant, but the man’s grip was firm.
“I was looking for you last night. I would have entered your room but you had
company. I am glad it was not another alpha. I doubt I would have handled that
too well.” Ramsay dipped his mouth onto Theon’s neck. “Though I am grateful to
learn how your body burns for me.” Ramsay’s hands trailed low to fondle his
omega’s bottom. Theon struggled to break free.
“Let me go, Ramsay!”
“I do not want to,” he mumbled. “Not when you feel so good in my arms. You are
wound tighter than a bounded whore.”
“I will scream.”
“And ruin your precious reputation? No, you care too much about what the others
would say. A folly—I’ll have to re-educate you to only care about what Isay.”
Theon recalled what Jon had done during their expedition into hand to hand
combat. The crannogmen were physically incapable of facing their enemies head
on; they were too small. It was why they resorted to their illusions and dirty
tricks. They fought with their heads.
Theon bashed his skull against Ramsay’s nose. The younger boy lost his balance
as Theon ran to get another arrow from his quiver. He resumed his form and
aimed his next shot towards Ramsay.
Ramsay touched the blood running down his nose. He stared at the pointed shard
directed at his face. Then, he addressed the shaking hand and chuckled.
“You’re not going to shoot me.”
“And why wouldn’t I?” Theon asked, sounding bolder than he actually felt. He
had no clue what he wanted to do with Ramsay but he needed him gone. He was a
liability—a vicious mosquito who would suck his honor and virtue and breed
bastards into his womb if he let him get any closer.
Ramsay got up. Theon kept him a target. To his surprise, the bastard walked
over to the spare bows and stepped forward towards Theon. When he leaned over
to take an arrow, Theon did not shoot. When he strung the bow, Theon remained
still. Ramsay raised his arm and focused his aim in Theon’s direction. Theon
refused to let go. In a moment, a sharp, streak of wind dashed past his face
and landed on the second ring, a few inches away from where Theon’s own arrows
stuck. He was good, given the distance. But he was not better than Theon.
“You should leave,” Theon told him. “Whatever came over me last night has been
banished from my body.”
“I don’t believe you.” Ramsay looked deep into his eyes. “I can already taste
your cunt dripping on my lips. There is no one but me for you.”
Theon scoffed. “You mother must have been a farmer for you are full of shit. I
do not need you to satisfy me. I am sure your brother will do just fine.”
The insinuation made Ramsay lose his smirk. “My brother has the personality of
an ice pick. You would be better off sticking a frozen branch up quim than to
expect pleasure from him.”
“He is worth far more than you.”
“You little—” Ramsay took a deep breath before continuing his sentence. He was
cunning, but he had a temper, Theon noted. “You should be cautious with your
words, Lord Theon. I don’t think you know where you stand. Why would my brother
even want you?”
“I am the son of Balon Greyjoy. My father is the liege lord of the Iron
Islands, the captain of the greatest fleet known to Westeros—”
“Your father is a traitor and you are a traitor’s son. You are no better than
me.”
Theon dropped his bow and stomped over to the younger boy. He was taller than
Ramsay. He just noticed it now. He gripped onto his collar and though his body
was lithe, his arms were firm with muscle. “I will not let you sully my name,
bastard. Leave me alone and I will not admit your offense to Lord Stark. I
trust he will keep you silent.”
Ramsay grinned, his madness resembled a starved shark. Before Theon could
provide a distance between the two of them, the younger boy pulled Theon into a
kiss. Theon resisted with every muscle in his being, only to fall powerless
when Ramsay’s teeth pierced his lower lip and forced his mouth apart. Ramsay
ravaged his mouth with his tongue. Theon was lost against his loins. When he
heard footsteps drawing near, his instinct was not to separate them but to drag
Ramsay away into a shed where they could not be seen.
Alone, Theon had no chance of salvation. He thought about the scandal of being
caught in the arms of a bastard. At best, he would be sent back home where he
would greet an island filled with iron and tin and other common metals
befitting a tavern whore. He focused on biting Ramsay’s ear, relishing the
texture of garnet stud on his tongue. Ramsey cupped Theon’s ass, eliciting a
giggle from the older boy. He should not be laughing—his virtue was at risk.
But he felt more alive than he had his entire life. Ramsay carried no skill in
the bedroom but he was wild where it mattered. Theon would feel his cock for
days to come if it ever entered him. As Ramsay was about to remove his shirt, a
thud from the outside could be heard, accompanied by a complaint about the
mess. Theon was paralyzed.
When the noise disappeared, Ramsay returned to his ministrations but was met
with a harsh refusal. Theon pushed him away. Ramsay saw the rejection and
screamed. He grabbed Theon’s shoulders and pushed him against the shed door.
Theon knew that would bruise later. Before Ramsay could strike, Theon kissed
him again. He drew him closer to him. Ramsay found his rage dissipating as he
became consumed with lust.
Theon was the first to part. He remained close so that their lips touched. “I
want you,” he confessed.
Ramsay tried to pull him in for another kiss but Theon refused. “But I don’t
want you more than I want me, sitting beside my lord husband and his lands,
raising our trueborn children together. I deserve that. You can’t give me
that.”
Theon gave him a kiss for his trouble. Ramsay held onto Theon before letting
him go. Theon sighed in relief. He did not cast a single look back when he
opened the door to leave. But before he passed through it, Ramsay spoke.
“Bastards can rise high in this world.”
Theon heard of such stories, but he did not need a high-ranking bastard when he
could get a pureblooded lord. “A pinnacle of a prick means nothing to those who
stand on top of a mountain.”
“Yes, but mountains crumble. And brothers die.”
Theon paused. His fingers clench the opening of the door.
“Then perhaps an avalanche is in order.”
-
When breakfast was done with, the alphas retreated to the training ground for
some posturing. Theon joined the ranks of omegas who sat in the shade, the ones
who sent the alphas a few thoughtful looks and polite smiles—indicating their
attraction but maintaining a façade of nonchalance and exasperation. Alongside
them were both the Manderly girls. Wynafryd carried a parasol as she told
stories to the omegas about her travels. Her confidence drew omegas to her but
made the alphas seethe with rage. Alphas were expected to be segregated from
their omega counterparts. Wynafryd was allowed to sit with them in spite of
tradition. At breakfast, she claimed she would not be joining the alphas for
their training. “I am more prone to pen than sword,” she said, before declaring
that her responsibilities to White Harbor encouraged her to focus on her
studies rather than her spars. When one of the alphas gave her grievance, she
responded in kind.
“I find jousting and sparring and wrestling for play primitive. There are other
pursuits worth investigating. Like caring for one’s children or providing for
one’s omega. You may find me cowardly, to care so little for aggression, but I
intend to settle my disputes with my tongue, not my hand.” She sipped her
morning drink. “And I assure you, my tongue is quite skilled.”
The omegas flushed and swoon; even Jon was entranced by her poise. He found
himself falling for her tales of Dorne and Volantis and admired her position on
civil pursuits. She was wealthy enough to afford the individuality but used her
oddities to her advantage. Her sister, on the other hand, was fidgeting like a
hummingbird amongst a field of flowers.
Wynafryd followed his gaze. She placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder and drew
her close. “Though, that is not to say I do not respect The Warrior and his
efforts. My family is quite active in the military. While I do not partake in
martial pursuits; I do not expect the Warrior to end his influence on us.” She
smiled at Jon with the pride of a mother. “My sister hopes to join the ranks of
the skjaldmær, like our grandmother and of course, your mother, who I dare say
is the most famous skjaldmæralive. I heard from my grandfather that you may
usurp such a title.”
Jon giggled. He could not control himself. His red face betrayed his composure.
“You flatter me, Lady Wynafryd.”
“How could I not?” She leaned towards Jon and whispered in the tongue that made
Jon shiver, “To have such a beautiful creature in my presence and not give him
praise is a crime that the Old Gods and the New agree upon.”
Jon was moved to a point he did not notice the older girl caressing his hand.
They pulled away from their conversation at the sound of a boulder hitting the
dirt. They turned their attentions to the courtyard. Robb had disarmed Eddard
Karstark and forced him to the ground. His breaths were hard and heavy. He
looked up so that he could capture Jon’s gaze. Jon needed nothing else to
capture his complete attention. Robb was covered in sweat and grime and Jon
wanted nothing more than to wash him in the springs, to lather his body with
milk and rub soap suds into his skin. When he returned to reality, he saw that
Robb was glaring at them—no, glaring at Wynafryd. And she was facing him
without remorse. When Jon looked down, he noticed he was still being held and
pulled himself back. He turned away—ashamed of his mocked infidelity.
Wynafryd smirked, the way ladies do when they are scheming against their
enemies. She unlocked the door of their pen and walked over to the training
grounds. She clapped. Her alpha peers startled, alarmed by her intrusion.
“Wonderful! I am overwhelmed by your skill, Lord Robb. Tell me, do you always
fight with such passion?”
Robb gripped his wooden sword until blisters invaded his hands. “I try to give
my best in all my endeavors,” he told her. “Especially surrounded by alphas
courting my brother.”
She laughed. “A necessary thing for one with a beauty for a brother,” Wynafryd
agreed. Robb narrowed his eyes. “But you are an inspiration. I feel inclined to
join you on today’s hunt. It would be a good time to bond over shared
interests.”
“Do not be offended, Lady Wynafryd, but you are not the type of person I expect
to partake in a hunt.”
“Nonsense,” Wynafryd disagreed. “I do join parties on occasion. I find a lack
of activity to be crippling.”
Robb paused. He turned to his sparring companions who offered no disagreement
and would not be able to in fear of stirring the Manderly wrath. “You are full
of surprises, Lady Wynafryd. I hope you do not find our practices barbaric.
From reputation, you shun violence.”
“A misconception, I am glad to say.” Wynafryd smiled regardless. “I believe a
good lord will fight for his men but a great one will make sure they never lift
a sword.”
Jon held his breath. Robb was looking at Wynafryd as if she summoned the devil
to their playground and was hiding him in her bosom. Finally, Robb held out his
hand and agreed.
“There are no truer words spoken. I would be honored to have you there.”
-
After the practice, they retreated to their rooms for proper attire. It was a
sunny afternoon. The amount of layers they had on initially would have been too
restricting. Jon was helping Robb put on his jerkin when the older boy spun
around and pulled Jon into a rough kiss. Jon gasped when he was released. He
brought one of his hands to cradle Robb’s face. When they pulled away, Jon
rested a chaste kiss on his cheek.
“You are jealous,” Jon stated, though he did not sound upset.
“A beautiful alpha, with money and prestige, comes into my home and declares
her intentions to court you. Her father is a loyalist and a friend to the
crannogmen. Her family has ties to yours. How could I be happy?” Robb sounded
pained. As threatened as he was by Wynafryd, her challenges contrasted his
strengths. He could dismember a man in seconds, even an Umber, but a Manderly
who carried her blades in her head was an entirely different matter altogether.
Jon kissed him as if his lips was snow resting on top of a tree. “She is a good
ally to have in the future. Did you hear what she was saying about her sister?”
“I was training, Jon. I could only see her hands upon yours.”
Jon disregarded the petulance. “Her sister intends to be a skjaldmær.If they
are acting in favor of their family, then we should not be surprised to see
Wylla standing in front of the White Harbor fleet as captain one day. History
has taught them not to let power escape their family.”
“So you are saying I should be her friend?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” Jon disagreed. He looked up at his brother through
his lashes. “I can be her friend.”
Robb tensed. Jon could feel his nerves itching the tips of his fingers. He hid
his smirk and when Robb forced him against the wall, he tried not to laugh.
“I will be civil,” he promised. “You keep your distance.”
Jon made no promises but the kiss that brought Robb to his knees.
-
While the horses were being prepared and the men were readying their crossbows
and spears, Jon resolved to spend his free moments with his siblings. He saw
too little of them as of late. He asked a serving girl if she had seen them and
she responded that they were separated. Jojen and Bran were huddled near the
fireplace in their family’s drawing room while Arya, Meera, and Wylla were
taking advantage of the alphas’ departure to train. Meera had the option of
joining the hunt but opted to stay behind so that she could spend time with her
cousin. Wylla joined them after overhearing their conversation. Meera loved
nothing more than to spend time with the fiery omega. The Manderly was
fascinated by martial techniques of the crannogman. Meera was elated by the
presence of her new student.
Inwardly, Jon was relieved by their attraction. If Meera could secure a
marriage to the Manderlys, their families would remain on good terms.
When Jon entered the courtyard, he saw that the numbers were greater than he
imagined. Lyanna was present—the toddler grasped onto her training spear with a
sway in her step. It was too heavy for her. Jon snuck up from behind to swooped
her into his lap. While she squealed her protest, she was soothed by the
familiar smell of dew that danced on top of all Reeds. He sunk his nose into
the nape of her head. She smelled like wild pine and berries.
The training went by smoothly. Ser Rodrik was accompanying the alphas on their
trip. He was not there to instruct them. Meera performed well in her tutelage.
When he was her age, he was given the responsibility to help the crannog
children learn their steps as well. He’d forgotten that Meera was the same age
as he when he first left. He kissed Lyanna’s head and hummed. He would keep a
careful eye on his sister. She was like their mother, skilled and vicious, but
had her father’s aptitude for patience. If the gods were wise, they’d choose
her to receive the Neck. Jon knew nothing of Jojen’s ambition, or of any desire
that was not related to Bran.
Speaking of which, he gently removed Lyanna from his lap and kissed her on the
top of her head before he left. She was small—small enough that one would
wonder if she had any bear in her at all. His sisters were still practicing. He
was not able to say goodbye.
Afterwards, Jon journeyed to the bedroom where he was sure to witness his
brothers bonding. He opened the door and saw that in Jojen’s lap was a book not
a boy. Bran stuck to his side reading scriptures. On the other side of him were
items he could not see. When Jon spread the entrance further, Bran jumped. He
tried to hide the contents but Jojen stopped him.
“It is only Jon,” Jojen soothed.
“But—!”
Jon walked over to the two boys and kissed them both on the cheek. He asked the
younger of the two to show what they have learned. “I have never known such
talents. My perchance for the arts ends with a flicker of flame or a cooling
breath. Tell me, Bran, where have you been since I last saw you? I know you
were getting dreams of the beyond.”
Bran did not answer. Jojen spoke for him. “We were casting on dolls. It is an
old art—”
“And a forbidden one,” interrupted Jon. He did not sound angry. His thoughts
were neutral on the matter. He wanted to investigate and allowed his brothers
the chance for explanation.
“But a useful one,” protested Jojen. “We have made great progress. Bran can
give a man sweats in another castle and have him listen to voices when he is in
another room. We have been practicing.”
“I am proud he is so accomplished.” Jon bent down so that he was sitting across
from them. He glanced over the writings. The ink was faded and illegible. Bran
read the magic with ease. He was destined to be another Brynden Rivers if he
continued this path, or perhaps rise higher to sit beside Shiera Seastar. Jon
flipped through the pages. “Tell me, Bran, can any of these spells work over
long distances?”
“What do you mean?”
Jon leaned in. “If I asked for you to watch over our brother and give action to
those who wished him harm, could you do that?”
Bran hesitated and then nodded.
“Could you make me do that?”
“Jon,” Jojen warned. “What you are asking for can only be done if you possess
the inclination. If not, the damage to your mind cannot be undone.”
“The Stark and Reed line is made up of wargs and dreamers. You cannot possibly
believe there is no water in my well.” He turned to Bran and kissed him.
“Perhaps it is time I remove the blockade.”
Jojen was reluctant, but Bran was already flipping through the pages to find
the right spell. He showed it to Jon, who saw the black marks and moving lines
that meant nothing to him. “We can try,” Bran agreed. “I can give you the body
of a bird.”
Jon hummed thoughtfully. “I have always wanted to fly.”
-
The hunting party was divided into two groups. Robb was given leadership
parallelled to his father’s position. The land they were assigned was not grand
by any means—the game was small and meek and the grass grew with fertility that
rivaled the Iron Islands. Nonetheless, it was more than Robb could ask for his
first expedition. Half of Ned Stark’s guardsmen were instructed to aid Robb’s
group. They were sent as a precaution and though one of the Umbers jeered at
the thought of a nursemaid, Lady Manderly agreed that men of importance needed
protection.
“Spares are disposable,” she quipped rather cruelly to the second son.
Rodrik Umber glared. He was the most vocal about her frivolity. She was dressed
in wears finer than the entire lot combined. She wore an engraved leather coat
made to resemble dragonscales and a fine skirt thick with the wool of the
Westeros’ finest sheep. Beside her was a crossbow, though she did not seem
particularly keen to use it.
Robb remained on his best behavior. To be fair, he appreciated the defense but
could not tell whether she aimed to please him or mock him. The Manderly had
kept her distance for the last two days; she was far more interested in her
omegan company than she was bonding with her brethren.
The Umber prepared his steed. “I did not come to Winterfell to be insulted by
an alpha who fashions herself after whores.” He declared, laying an accusatory
glance on the rouge on her lips.
“Odd you feel that way. Your sister was fawning over the shade last night.”
Rodrik roared. Wynafryd’s horse attempted to back away from the stomping giant
but the girl gripped her crossbow with the possibility for an attack. Before he
got off his horse for a spar, Robb ordered their silence.
“If you two will not be civil, then be apart. You are scaring off the game with
your bickering,” he snapped.
Wynafryd’s grip on her weapon remained. Rodrik took out his axe. Finally,
Wynafryd smiled and placed her bow back into its holster. “Of course, my lord.
I live to serve.” She took her mare towards the direction of the river. The
Umber glared but followed suit in the opposite direction.
Robb sighed. He surveyed the rest of his group members. So far, only the
Mormont girls were successful in bagging in meat. Theon was a few yards away,
overlooking a cliff and making small talk with Lord Domeric. Robb made sure to
keep an eye on him, as his responsibility of a guardian. Today, he did not care
much for hunting—not when Jon was not present.
“Well done, Lord Robb,” he heard someone praise. Robb turned around to see Lord
Bolton’s natural born son coming up towards him. “Your father could not have
handle the situation better.”
“You flatter me.” Robb paused. “You are…Ramsay, correct?”
Ramsay nodded. “I wanted to make my acquaintance. My brother is quite taken
with Lord Theon and has forgotten my presence. It seems I am without company.
Most noblemen do not want to be associated with my kind.”
“I hold no such prejudices,” Robb declared. He traveled a bit further to keep
an eye on their progress and beckoned Ramsay to follow. The bastard did so
without complaint.
“I do not blame my brother for his abandonment. Your father’s ward is an
exceptional beauty. Tell me, what is your secret for resisting so long?”
Robb laughed. “There is no secret. Our cycles never matched. He is a brother to
me.” More so than his own, he confessed inwardly.
Ramsay hummed. “A blessing and a curse it is, to have brothers so beautiful.
After Jon, you must deal with three more ceremonies and three more groups of
alphas begging for your siblings hands. I cannot imagine being in your shoes.
I’d be flaying them by the dozens.”
“It is a hardship, I’ll admit.” He stared in the direction he last saw Lady
Wynafryd. He ignored Ramsay’s last statement, finding him more sympathetic than
horrifying. “I had not expected the aggression of these suitors. My brother has
never met an alpha that was not family or service. I worry for his innocence. I
would hate for these men and women to force their corruption upon him.”
“Forgive me for my boast, but I am happy not to be in your wears.”
Robb chuckled. Ramsay joined him in his amusement.
“Tell me,” Robb asked. “Why are you here? I understand that as a natural son,
your father must have encouraged you to court my younger brother. Yet, I have
not seen you speak to him since your arrival. Is he not to your taste?”
He was half-joking. If Ramsay was clever, Robb would not be surprised if the
boy was befriending him for the approval to court Jon privately. Robb would
never grant such a request, but he was not rash enough to make judgments.
Ramsay seemed like a fine fellow.
“I assure you, my lord. You have nothing to fear from me. I appreciate flowers
that bloom in winter, but I prefer my omegas salted and sun kissed.”
The words surprised Robb who followed his peer’s eyes towards Theon. The older
boy was nodding in agreement of whatever the Bolton heir suggested. The Stark
felt a pang of sympathy towards his companion. He, too, knew the pains of a
love that could never be. Unlike Ramsey, he was in a position to fight for it.
“I heard Theon’s appearance is common where he is from. Perhaps if the means
come upon you, you should travel there.”
His suggestion was callous, but Robb knew that Theon was too proud to
reciprocate the affections of a bastard. If not for Jon’s recognition by both
his parents, they would not have been friends.
Ramsay considered the advice before dismissing it with good humor. “My father
would send me on a saddle to the nearest harbor if he thought it would rid
himself of me. But I am afraid the heart is an entirely different matter. Tell
me, Robb, would you abandon the object of your affections so easily?”
Robb thought of Jon, he thought of his father and Howland and the love they
shared. He apologized to Ramsay. “Forgive me, I have insulted you.”
Ramsay chuckled. “A humble lord you are—apologizing to me.” His expression took
a turn as his teeth, sharpened as the daggers in his holster and white as the
snow on the ground, gleamed at him. “I may be a bastard but I am destined for
great things. One day, your foster brother will see that and he will be begging
to sit by my side.”
Before Robb made his first appearance outside of Winterfell, he believed Jon’s
treatment to be commonplace. He found out how wrong he was when he saw a boy
with the name Snow being beaten for spilling drink on his lady, the wife of his
father. To be here, to be recognized as Lord Bolton's bastard son meant he was
worth more than many in his position.
“Your words are wise,” Robb agreed. “Lord Reed, Jon's mother, once wrote that
'children conceived in passion are designed to follow theirs to the fullest
extent.' I do not doubt your ability to turn your gossipers into subjects of
slander.” Robb recalled a few letters denying Lord Stark’s invitation to his
brother's ceremony. They were insulted. They refused to give attention to a
bastard--no matter how defined his lineage was. Robb curbed his own anger by
reminding himself that those same people would one day have to bow down to Jon
as their lord.
Ramsay was pleased by the notion. They heard the bushes shuffle and the leaves
sway from the birds dancing in between branches. The day was extraordinarily
quiet. Robb hoped the men fared better with their endeavors. Ramsay returned to
watching his brother and mate—however adamant the boy was in denying him. From
the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow creeping upon them.
“Did you see that?”
Robb was already preparing his arrow. He tried to position himself for the best
shot but found his grip shaky. The beast was hiding. From the size of his
shadow, Robb assumed it was either a stag or a large boar—one that had traveled
too far for his next meal.
“I cannot see him,” Robb admitted. He lowered his arrow at the same time Ramsay
held up his. Robb watched the direction of the point. If Robb did not know any
better, he would assume the bastard was aiming elsewhere.
“Careful, you might hit someone.”
Ramsay’s grip remained firm. “Do not distract me, my lord. I am supposed to be
concentrating.”
Robb stared. He turned back to the scene before him. He saw a horn. “You appear
to have prowess in archery. If that is the case, I suggest you shoot. But
understand that if it were to land on something other than your intended
target, contesting your innocence would not be an easy task.”
The statement forced Ramsay to falter. He flinched. His cool gaze turned into a
heated glare—he was contemplating his options. Robb saw the bloodlust in his
eyes and he understood the need to stop the chaos, if for nothing more than to
keep Jon’s name from being further sullied. One bastard's crime meant
punishment for them all.
The decision was made for them. Out of nowhere, the boar—a vicious beast with a
dirt crusted coat and tusks as big as a man’s arms—was forced out of his hiding
place by the call of a crow, warning them of a falling tree branch. The
creature ran out of the way and dived straight into the legs of the horses
before him.
“Shit!” swore Robb. Ramsay used his prepared arrow on the rampaging creature
but managed only to hit backside. With the newfound pain, the boar became
incensed. He charged towards Theon’s horse and knocked him off his steed. Up
close, they saw that the pig was comparable to the horse. The tusks hit the
hind legs and the blood gushed all over Theon’s body. Domeric tried to
dismantle himself to defend Theon, but he was beaten by Ramsay who already
prepared his second arrow and shot again. Robb utilized Ramsay as a distraction
and charged towards the creature. He used his hunting spear to pierce the
boar’s head. The pig fell to the ground—his head was crushed against the
ground.
The two young men, bastard and heir, got off their horses. Robb helped Theon
up. He asked for his condition and once he confirmed his health, moved over to
appraise the creature, a dagger in his hand for safety. Ramsay moved to join
Robb, but was pulled into an embrace by Theon.
“You are a better archer than I gave you credit for,” he praised. He was
covered in blood. Ramsay had never seen a higher beauty and took the
opportunity to kiss his hand.
“It was an honor to defend you.”
Theon smiled, the way omegas are taught to smile when they are hiding their
lusts. Ramsay could smell the arousal off him. He would definitely be getting
rewarded tonight.
From a distance, two pairs of eyes followed the bundle of four. Domeric Bolton
noted the closeness of his brother and fiancé’s interaction, he saw the
sweetness of Theon’s smile and compared it to the haughty nature he received
from the boy. Then, he caught the satisfaction in his half-brother’s grin.
Ramsay looked up to meet his gaze. Domeric burned when he saw the contents of
his gleam.
Pride.
From afar, the crow cawed as if waking up from a dream.
-
Jon opened his eyes. When he raised from the covers, he saw Bran resting in
Jojen’s arms. His breathing was regular. His expression was at peace. Jon
sighed in relief. “Is he well?”
“I would not have forgiven you if he was not.”
Jon gave him a meek expression. Jojen sounded more disappointed in Jon than he
thought possible for little brothers to be. Jojen turned back to Bran and ran
his fingers through his hair. “You were right, though. You are a warg. Though I
recommend you refrain from partaking in your gifts for nothing. You are not as
strong as you think you are.”
Jon agreed with Jojen’s verdict. The headache surfacing was enough to convince
him that he must reserve his newfound abilities for issues of the utmost
importance.
“How was it?” Once his fears were unconfirmed, Jojen was left with his
curiosity.
Jon opened his mouth but no words came out. He touched his arms but there were
no feathers. He pressed his fingers against his mouth and only felt the soft
pucker of his lips.
If he were to look into a mirror, Jon would not have recognized himself.
-
After the hunt, the meat was taken away to be cured. Robb Stark beamed when his
father acknowledged him. Lord Bolton had never known Ned to be a proud man, but
he made sure his son was not without praise. Lord Bolton did not mind
recogonizing the Stark heir’s valor, but found himself unnerved when his own
bastard was given attention.
Roose desired nothing more than to disregard the entire event, but when he
entered his guest quarters and saw his eldest waiting for him, he knew there
was a more serious issue at hand. Domeric was playing with the leeches—a habit
from his childhood he resorted to when he was stressed. He never saw his son
happier than when he was crushing the creatures—letting the blood gush out when
they were squished or having their remains drip over his fingers.
“What are you doing here, Domeric?”
Domeric took a pen and stuck the tip through the leech’s body. The blood
dripped off the table. “I’ve made a grave mistake with Ramsay."
“You see your folly now? When your pride has shattered?” Roose sat on the
opposing chair. “Today was a disgrace.”
Domeric’s face betrayed nothing. “I thought I could use him. The way that
peasant whore painted him—wild, unruly, soulless—I figured he’d make good
company for the future.”
“You asked for a monster. You were given a rabid dog.” Roose held no sympathies
for fools, even those who spurred from his loins. “I thought your pride knew no
bounds when you asked for him to be sent to the Dreadfort.”
“I made a mistake,” Domeric admitted. “They say for every genius, a lord breeds
ten fools. You’ve beaten the odds, father. Your bastard has become a threat.”
“You have given him the power to become one.”
“Then, I will put a leash on this rabid beast.”
“If it were so easy, it would have already been done.”
“It will be done.”
“If you say so.”
Domeric glared.
Roose sighed. “If you need to dispose of him, do so in a manner that will leave
you blameless. I will not allow rumors of kinslaying to enter my home.”
For the brief moment, Roose caught sight of his son’s pure, unadulterated
anger. His facade was slipping. Roose pursed his lips in disgust. Domeric spoke
again when he was composed.
“Does this mean I have your permission to act as I see fit?”
“You are not a child whose behavior needs to be guarded and dictated. Act,
don't act, but do not believe that you shall receive my protection for all
grievances. You are both my sons and if one of you were to fall, there is the
other to replace him.”
Domeric took in the words as he would a fine wine. He requested a pardon and
left the room. His brother was located in the bottom wing. He should pay him a
visit—but then he heard the rich laughter of a serving wench and was reminded
of more preferable company.
When he moved his brother to the Dreadfort, his intention was to instill a
sense of loyalty into the bastard. As much as he respected his father’s values
of a peaceful land and quiet people, he knew that some orders required
enforcement. Monsters made the best killers.
The problem was controlling them and Domeric was too proud a man to recognize
his own shortcomings in the area.
Ramsay never wanted anything that Domeric was not willing to give up. The
Bolton heir refused every inane request and was met with further bitterness,
resentment that would only fester in the act of kinslaying. Before Domeric
could send him away, the invitations for Lord Stark’s ward and son were sent.
Domeric could not resist. When he saw the Greyjoy, he made his intentions
known. He desired Theon—that ample bosom and pretty face was hard to resist—but
history repeated itself and Domeric knew that Ramsay wanted the boy as well.
Domeric left the halls to travel to where he heard the Stark ward was staying.
His aggressions have been too subtle. It was time to remind the traitor’s spawn
who he was.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Sometimes I wonder if I made this story dark enough to warrant the
     warnings I’ve given it. But then I get a request for cuddles. And
     here we are. I had to reread a few chapters of ASOIAF and then watch
     the clips for GOT to write this. I think watching the Iwan Rheon
     skewed up my vision of Ramsay. I have a thing for Welsh men. In the
     television series, they made him out to be this super villain who was
     always several steps ahead. In the books, Ramsay is cunning and
     quick-witted but has no aptitude for the long game (Ironically, Robb
     shares this same quality). Jon, on the other hand, is depicted as
     being short-sighted in the television series but is quite the
     strategist in the books. I also love Wynafryd, who is depicted as
     meek initially but is later revealed to be the only person Lord Wyman
     trusts with his secret plans—meaning her grandfather trusts her over
     his own son. I love both adaptions so I’m taking bits and pieces from
     both to make the characters in this story.
     2. Also, I apologize for the late update. I promised to get this out
     by Monday but it is 12:36 AM HST on Tuesday. I am sorry. I
     procrastinated again. The only upside is that I get to wish you all a
     Happy Halloween! I doubt anybody cares but I was a modern-day
     Margaery Tyrell.
     3. But, in the future, I would like to warn people if I am late. I
     made a twitter @cheshiresua and I will be using it to also give
     previews of my chapters. I am trying to get more involved with social
     media. As I mentioned before, I have a website: Murder_at_the
     Cathouse.
     With that being said, thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed
     it so far and I look forward to your input and opinions!
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning: The Bolton boys being the Bolton boys and Theon baring the
     brunt of it. Underage blowjobs?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Though their hunting groups returned without fatalities, many of the men and
women were not without their injuries. The beasts of the woods were desperate
for more days on this earth and the members of their party were reckless with
their weapons and ambitious with their drink. Maester Luwin was assigned to
cater to the older lords and ladies. The younger alphas were left to their own
devices. Since they were sent to the calmer regions, they were allocated
scrapes and bruises but nothing beyond what they would have received for rough-
housing.
The omegas came upon them their soft bodies and suggestive touches. They were
eager to spread their sweet smelling lotions and soothing salves. Many
approached Robb with the intention of cooing at his verve, only to be stopped
in their tracks by Jon. He all but growled at them to stay away.
Robb’s younger brother ordered Robb to undress under the guise of dressing his
wounds. Robb smirked and followed his command, allowing Jon to drink up the
image of his roughened form. Once at his mercy, Jon grabbed a dampened towel
and took his time to teased the body before him. There was not a spot of flesh
left untouched. Jon was liberal with his creams, massaging them into the
bruises and cuts. When Robb hissed at a particularly deep wound, Jon whispered
his apology with a nip on his ear. Jon traveled down until he reached calves
and then stopped. With a gentle squeeze, he leaned over and asked Robb, “Do you
want a reward for your valor today?”
Robb moaned. Jon kissed his brother on the cheek before abandoning him to
retrieve the medicine. Robb tried to control his breathing. His little brother
was biding his time, tempting him with swaying hips and wet lips. He hid his
erection by crossing his legs. As more alphas shuffled out of the room, Jon
continued to play with Robb’s control. He became clumsier; he began dropping
tools and bandages so that Robb could get a look of his perfect ass. What was
worse was when Jon began to attend to other alphas instead of devoting all his
time to his true alpha. Robb clenched his fist when he heard his little
brother’s giggle, fleeting and flirtatious—open and wanton.
Robb recognized that his whore needed to be disciplined more thoroughly.  
Jon sensed his antagonism but refused to indulge his whims. He continued his
duties and doused the other alphas with more charm than they have been
introduced to during their stay. Even some alphas who arrived for the purpose
of meeting Theon were entranced. The room cleared without haste; every
agonizing second served to incense Robb, who wanted nothing more than to rip
apart Jon’s dressing and ravish him against the table. Finally, Beth Cassel
arrived to warn them that they were to all bathe or participated in the curing
that was to come. Maester Luwin wanted the room cleared and cleaned when they
arrived. “Unless you all wish to help? We could use the assistance.”
The alphas hustled out with resistance, leaving Robb and Jon alone. As soon as
the last man left, Robb stood up in a fury, his erection at full mass. “You
little tease! I should—!”
Before he could finish his sentence, Jon dropped to his knees. The younger boy
hastily freed Robb’s manhood. Jon pretended to pay no mind to Robb’s shock.
Looking up through his pretty lashes, he begged so prettily for Robb’s
forgiveness. “I’ve wanted you alone since I heard about your accomplishment. I
am sorry. You were just too much for me; I couldn’t be near you without having
a taste.”
He rubbed Robb’s erection against his face. Jon was small—the cock against his
cheek looked obscene, more so when a sliver of pre-cum staining his skin. Jon
tried not to laugh when he saw Robb’s face. Instead, he silenced himself by
sucking on the tip. Jon was too short to grind his hips against the floor but
his own cock was aching. Instead, he focused on pleasuring his lord.
Robb groaned while he watched his little brother slurp up his cock like a
delicacy. Both the boy’s hands were on him. Robb gripped Jon’s curls and tried
to force more down Jon’s throat. The added pressure gave Jon a jolt.
Jon felt like he was melting. He swallowed an inch down and Robb's cock was
hitting his throat like he was inside Jon. The sensation reminded Jon of the
way Robb would put his fingers inside his ass and tease his cunt with his
tongue.
I want to have sex, Jon thought. I want Robb to fuck my holes like he fucks my
mouth.
Jon swallowed down another inch. He was gagging for three more. His throat
squeezed down to ensure Robb’s cooperation.
“Fuck!” Robb swore. He could not believe how tight his little brother was! He
started hitting the back of Jon’s throat because it felt so damn good to be
inside him. He kept ramming it in deeper, hoping to hit him in a special spot
that did not exist. 
Jon was as wet as a dam. He tried to focus on pleasuring Robb but all he could
think of how hard Robb was thrusting into his throat. Jon felt close and he
wondered how anybody could resist coming with Robb’s musk overwhelming their
senses. He smelled like an alpha, Jon thought, hazy and blissed out. He smelled
like his alpha. To get more of that luxurious scent, Jon forced whatever he
could get down his throat.
“The fucking Gods, Jon!” Robb hoped there was no one in the halls. There was no
way he was leaving Jon’s throat without filling him up. He wanted the boy
stuffed with cream from the inside out.
Jon desired nothing else but to swallow every last drop of Robb’s essence. He
tried to tighten his throat, clench it, gulp his brother’s cock down until he
was choking and Robb was coming buckets. He did not have to try much harder
when Robb rammed all the way inside him and came.
Robb released his grip on his brother’s head. He retrieved his dick out and
leaned against the table to support himself. Jon was swallowing down as much as
he could but the cum spilled out of his mouth and he was drooling cum. To save
it from the floor, Jon cupped his hands to collect the extra semen. He licked
it off his fingers while Robb watched. Youth was a curse in this instance. The
Stark heir could feel his cock getting hard again.
He should just ram it inside Jon’s ass if his little brother was still craving
cock, he thought. 
Jon looked at him knowingly. “You are thinking about fucking me, aren’t you?”
Robb was taken back by the accusation. He steadied himself by asking how he
could not. “You’re so desperate. Has the knowledge of my efforts make me more
desirable? Should I kill something else for your pleasure?”
His father had taught him that such practices, killing alphas for sport and
whatnot, was archaic. Omegas were more than prizes to be won and Ned Stark
trained all his children according to these beliefs. Yet, Robb knew in spite of
his father’s teachings, he heard from Lord Reed that their coupling was most
intense whenever Robb’s father proved victorious. 
Jon finished licking the last of his sullied fingers. He got off his knees and
asked Robb if he wanted to return to their bedroom.
“We can enjoy ourselves before tonight,” Jon suggested as he licked the shell
of Robb’s ear. “I’ll let you rut between my thighs.” He pressed his supple body
against Robb. His body was hot and flushing. His crotch was wet. Robb was
tempted to slip a finger inside when he saw something alarming. He pushed his
lover away and grabbed his arm.
“Robb—!”
“Where did you get this wound?”
Jon wondered what he was referring to when he saw the lesions on his arm. It
was the same place Bran had touched him for the ritual. He pulled away.
“I was training with the other omegas,” Jon lied. He composed himself and
looked into Robb’s eyes. With a tilt of his head and a pout on his lips, he
asked Robb if he thought him weak because he was an omega. “Just because we’re
not alphas does not mean we are not well trained—unless you mean to tell me
you’ve been going easy on me these last sparring matches?” His question
bordered a threat.
Robb defended himself immediately. “No! You are one of the best fighters I
know, Jon.” He sighed. “I just don’t like knowing you got hurt.”
“It's just a bruise,” Jon soothed. He put the arm out of reach so that Robb
could not stare. If he did, Jon feared he would see that it was not the mark of
training but something more sinister. He touched Robb’s cheek. “You’ve given me
far bigger bruises.”
Jon’s thumb slipped into Robb’s mouth. Robb sucked on it and pulled his little
brother closer. Before they could share a kiss, the door opened and they parted
like a head on a chopping block.
“There you two are. You two always forget about your duties whenever you are
together.” Howland pointed out as he walked through the door. He pretended not
to be alarmed by Robb’s state of undress or his son’s swollen lips. Before
either could defend themselves, Howland spoke again. “Robb, the alphas are
getting ready to prepare the meat. Your father wants you to be there. Said
something about skinning the beast of a boar you brought home.”  
Robb hesitated. He stared at Jon with longing in his eyes—much to the chagrin
of Howland. It was the Gods’ miracle they were not caught yet. 
“I don’t think he likes being kept waiting," Howland pressed. 
Robb reluctantly complied. He kissed Jon on the lips—chastely for the sake of
appearances—and promised to see him at dinner. As he headed for the doorway,
Howland tossed him his shirt. “I think you will find that to be useful,” Lord
Reed suggested. “And please fixed those pants of yours. They look undone.”
Robb gaped. He tried to get an explanation from Jon but the boy merely blushed.
Robb turned away, but prior to him leaving the door, Lord Reed informed Robb
that he did well today. “I’m very proud of you, Robb.”
Jon was surprised by the compliment, as was Robb. Once he got over his shock,
the Stark heir puffed up with pride and left to help his father.
Jon attempted to escape as well but then Howland redirected his attention
towards him. The Lord of the Neck grabbed his son’s arm to check the bruises he
knew to be there. “Such an ugly mark on your pretty skin,” Howland mused. “I
thought I sensed sorcery in the woods.”  
Jon pulled his hand away. “It was a warging spell. Nothing dark.” His mother
performed much worse in his youth. “Given my bloodline, I am bound to come into
the gift eventually.” What did it matter that he skipped a few years?
“Our gifts come to us when we are ready to receive them. We do not decide when
that is so. These marks are a warning.” Howland sighed. “I worry for you, Jon.
These forces are dark and tempting. If you do not control them, they control
you.”
“Because power corrupts and the spirits possess those who fall at the mercy of
desire,” Jon recited. There were thousands of quotes and passages ingrained in
his head. “I may be a Stark, mother, but I am still a crannogman. I remember
our teachings.”
Howland smiled, though there was a tinge sadness attached to it. He kissed his
son’s forehead and told him to get ready for dinner. “Promise me you will not
do it again—not until the Gods call upon you to do so. I will never forgive
myself if you lost your mind to these enchantments.”
Jon nodded. “I promise, mother. You do not have to worry about me.”
Howland accepted his vow and shooed him away. When he was out of the doors,
Howland returned to original intention. He grabbed a few pots from Luwin’s
spare collection and filled them up with the soil from outside. Once they were
properly filled, he took out a bag from his pocket and placed a handful of
different seeds and plant life into the pots. He whispered his spells into each
one.
Howland warned Maester Luwin not to interfere with their growth. He made up the
excuse that wanted Jon to familiarize himself with the Neck's flora. As Howland
prepared for future sprouts, he felt a prick on his finger. He looked down and
saw the vivacious pincers of centipede digging into his flesh.
Howland grabbed the beast and let it dangle in the air. The creature was
fighting for freedom—its teeth were snapping and its legs twitched. Still
holding onto its body, Howland grabbed a nearby jar and dropped it in. Such a
deformity should not go to waste, he thought. There were plenty of uses for it.
 
***
Howland never bothered to knock on Bran’s door; he was never surprised by the
incrimination he witnessed whenever he entered. Jojen spared his mother a mere
glance before returning to his ‘playmating.’ Howland scoffed at his insolence.
They were far beyond playing. His youngest alpha was scenting Bran. The omega
was rooted firmly in Jojen’s lap, baring his neck in submission and allowing
Jojen’s hands to wander underneath his robes. Howland was tempted to pull them
apart—Jojen was moving far too fast for his liking. The only consolation to
their behavior was that they were children. The only reason they were allowed
in the same room alone was because Jojen, as precocious as he was, was rutless.
The boy had another five years before the fever was even a possibility.
Then again, Howland thought tiredly, he had been wrong before.
“I brought a present for Bran,” Howland announced. He sat down in front of the
two boys and revealed the contents of the jar. Bran gasped when he saw the
prickling creature—how it tackled the glass and gnaws at its prison walls. Bran
reached out to grab it, only to have his hand captured by Jojen’s own.
“There are far better gifts in the world,” Jojen pointed out. He glared, much
to his mother’s distain. Jojen took Bran’s reaching hand and brought it to his
mouth for a kiss. Howland noted the lesion—positioned exactly where Jon’s
was—and allowed sympathy to passed through his heart. His son may be defiant,
but he was not without cause.
“I do not intend to harm him,” Howland defended. “And to suggest such a thing
makes me wonder if your connection to your cousin has made you insolent. If so,
I will rectify such behavior. With distance.”
Jojen cradled Bran closer to his body. He became a child once more. “No,
mother. I apologize for my disrespect.” He shoved his nose into Bran’s hair.
Then, overwhelmed by his sweet scent, started sucking on his neck. The boy
giggled.
“Jojen, stop it! You’re tickling me!”
Howland rolled his eyes. “Jojen, he is a babe.”
“Am not!” Bran argued. His pout could be seen by a blind man. “Jojen said he
was going to mate me as soon as I can bear his children.”
Howland glared at his youngest son, who had the audacity to shrug. “You always
told me to be prepared.”
“Well, the least you could do for your mother is prepare me.”
Jojen hummed. He did not answer Howland’s accusatory glare but instead
refocused on the creature sitting between them. “What is this? Bran is tired.
He and Jon were playing all afternoon.”
The number of things ‘playing’ has become euphemism for is astounding. He
needed to improve his son’s lexicon.
“Another game for Bran. I would like to see something.” Howland crawled over to
lift Bran out of Jojen’s arms—much to the older boy’s protest. Bran merely
asked what they were going to do.
“Do you need me to get the box? The one with the eyes?”
Howland smiled and the sight was as lovely as blue roses in the gardens. “No,
my darling. Those spells are for when you are much older.” He kissed Bran’s
lips as if he were his own. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he should
have been.
Howland set Bran down. He opened the jar and ignored the intensity of Jojen’s
gaze. The boy would throw the worst tantrum if Bran got a splinter, let alone
the magical backlash of a misfired spell. He took out the fearsome bug and
dropped it onto the ground. Freed from its confines, the beast roamed around
the floor with vicious intent. When it reared its ugliness close to Bran, Jojen
almost lunged at it—only for its body to be constrained by an unseen force.
Howland kissed Bran’s head again and took his hand in his. Bran watched as the
centipede was levitated off the ground. He saw the green and gold and gasped as
the colors formed a fog around the bug’s body. Howland told him to concentrate
on its body. He wanted him to lift it up himself.
Bran grinned. Without hesitation, the gold transformed into silver and instead
of the bright reflection of leaves, the green darkened to a transfixing
emerald. He mastered levitation ages ago.
“Such a spectacular child you are,” Howland praised. Howland felt his heart
lightened by the sight. Even if they were not joined by blood, Bran’s gifts
were proof that he was meant to be his. He moved onto the next activity. “Now,
I want you to remove its legs.”
“What?”
The creature was released. Once it dropped to the floor, it tried to escape
when it recognized that victory was no longer an option. Howland pulled it back
before it could.
Jojen jumped to Bran’s defense. “Mother, what you are requesting is cruel!”
“No crueler than what the rest of this world will ask of him,” Howland
defended. He hushed Bran’s concerns with another kiss and an explanation. “I
was going to end this creature’s life earlier today—when it bit me. I kept it
alive for you. I wanted to see what you coulddo.”
Bran was hesitant, as sweet children were when they were told to harm those
less fortunate than themselves. Howland soothed his concerns by telling him
that such cruelty was no different than skinning a rabbit or cooking a frog.
“Killing those creatures serve a purpose, mother,” Jojen protested. He tried to
reach out for his omega, but Howland’s glare kept him complacent.
“Does nothing I do serve my children?”
Howland repeated his request. With a kiss against his ear, he told Bran to make
it “quick, painless, like the wilting of a dandelion so dear to the eye but
worthless to the earth that birthed it.” After some contemplation, the boy
concentrated on the creature before him. Like wavering wisterias, the limbs of
the centipede fell off one by one. The bug became docile, as if drunk on the
milk of the poppy. It was alive in the barest sense, for it no longer squirmed
with anticipation.
“Without its tools, what does it resemble?” Howland asked. Bran stared. The
beast, black and barren, was helpless under Bran’s spiritual touch.
“Like a worm.”
Howland smiled at his perception. “I do like worms. They are such valuable
commodities. We could use more worms on this earth.”
Bran agreed. The centipede’s body was coated with the green and silver and
lightened to a charming shade of pink and peach. Along with its legs, the
pincers that were once so vicious were snapped off to be replaced by an unseen
orifice. The scales of its shell were replaced with tender and slippery flesh.
It shrunk. Once so lively, the creature was sluggish and slow.
Bran dropped the creature on the floor. Howland picked it up and placed it
inside Bran’s hand. The worm was sat with the leisure of a king. “What a
stunning child you are,” Howland praised.
Bran awestruck. “I did that?”
“Yes,” Howland revealed. “And you could do more. More spells and enchantments
and even potions. More feats than you could ever dream of.”
Bran could not believe. He could be the greatest knight that ever lived! He
could become the next Brynden Rivers, the legendary “Lord Bloodraven” if what
Lord Reed claimed was true.
“And it would be easy for me and my people to teach you. You are such a
marvelous student, Bran. Your brilliance will outshine the stars.”
Jojen, who was once so angry with his mother, became enlightened by the path
they were traveling. “You were spectacular, Bran,” he seconded. He tried not to
be embarrassed by his own fickleness. His mother would surely tease him for his
behavior tonight. 
Bran blushed from the praise. “Thank you, Lord Reed.”
“I think you should live in the Neck with us.”
Bran choked. “What?”
“Soon, you will reach the age of fostering. There is no other place more true
to the old gods than the lands of which the hammer of the waters struck. There
is no better location to guide you throughout your destiny. You cannot tell me
that your place is here, when your magic calls for you in the earth and skies.”
The words rung true, for Bran had felt more at home climbing the walls of
Winterfell than within them, trapped like a bird in a cage. He wanted to touch
the trees. He needed to feel the clouds. “B-but…My family, Lord Reed. My—”
“Your father was fostered by the House of Arryn for most of his young
adulthood. He tells me nothing of happy stories and the wondrous brotherhood he
shared with the king”—the vile, brute of a man—“Do you not want to share a
union with us? Jojen would surely rip out his own heart out if it meant keeping
yours for safe keeping. We will not mistreat you. I would care for you as if
you were my own.”
Bran did not doubt Lord Reed’s promise. The man already loved him and his
siblings as if they were diamonds in the sky. The Stark sat in turmoil for the
longest time. Howland assuaged his fears by reminding him there was still time
to make a decision.
“It will be another few years before a choice needs to be made. I just want to
extend the invitation. You are always welcomed in our home, my darling.” He
removed Bran out of his arms and into his son’s receiving embrace. “I will see
the two of you at dinner. Enjoy your play.”
Howland resolved that he would no longer push his agenda until he could receive
confirmation from his lover and his lover’s wife. Even if Bran agreed to leave
his home, there was no guarantee his parents would submit to such a request.
Ned was adamant about keeping his children close to home. While the Stark
patriarch enjoyed his time as a ward, he was reluctant to part with own
children. After losing his own family in such a tragic manner, he counted his
time with his children as if they were on loan.
During his stride down the halls, he found himself in the midst of walking past
Lady Stark. They did not interact with each other if they could help it; they
choose instead to ignore each other’s presence unless other dignities were
expected of each other. Since they were alone in the halls, they would continue
walking without so much as a nod of recognition. Tonight, Howland had other
plans.
“Lady Stark, just the woman I was looking for. How are you this evening?”
Howland’s lie was easy and effortless. He sounded like a thief.
“Very well, Lord Reed. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Such a lady she was; Howland could taste her seething and his tongue sought to
snarl at her insolence. “I wanted to congratulate you on arranging such a
successful presentation. Robb was quite fruitful during the hunt. He was the
talk of the hunting party. You must be proud to bear such a child.”
“Thank you, but this ceremony is for your son. Should you not be congratulating
him? I heard he was well received.”
Howland avoided baring his teeth. “Permission to speak freely, my lady? I
understand that my words often convey meanings unintended by your ears.”
“You may speak however you wish. The wisdom of a mother is always welcomed by
the gods' ears.”
“I am grateful your gods are so lenient,” Howland mocked. “But on the matter of
the ceremony, I believe we should drop the pretense. We know that their purpose
was not to court my son or your ward, but to introduce themselves as your
potential successor. An aspiration, I am sure, you are empathetic to.”
To her credit, Catelyn displayed no reaction towards the accusation.
“Regardless of their purpose, you must be happy of the outcome. Few natural
born omegas, however noble, receive a presentation ceremony. One of this
magnitude is unheard of. I would not be surprised to hear if he receives a
marriage proposal in the following months or so.”
“Yes, I am most thankful for your assistance. I heard you took special care in
settling the arrangements.” Howland would not deny that Catelyn could handle
herself in the financial realm. She was not the wastrel southern ladies were
often depicted as. “But I fear it was for naught. Jon has taken no particular
liking to his selection, Lady Stark.”
Catelyn smiled, which alarmed Howland who had never known the woman to so much
as twitch her lips in his presence. “I am not so sure about that. He seems fond
of the Manderly heiress. While just today, I overheard them whispering in that
language of yours. They make a beautiful couple."
It took a lot of strength not to grimace in Catelyn’s presence. He kept his
cool and instead wondered about the watching. “You pay a great deal of
attention towards my son. Forgive my surprise; for the past few years, you’ve
all but consider him a shadow for his older brother.”
Catelyn took a moment to respond. She may not be clever, but she was smart. She
would not charge into a battle of wits without sufficient equipment. “As Lord
Stark’s wife, his happiness is my pleasure. If my husband desires the best for
his son, should I not offer my support? Jon could not do any better than Lady
Wynafryd.”
Oh, but he could, thought Howland. “That’s an argument for another time. One I
will be discussing with your husband.”
There was plenty from that statement to unnerve Catelyn. The suggestion of a
better match for Jon or the way Howland said the word ‘husband’—as if he was
making a joke.
“Since we are on the topic of sons and their well being, I wanted to discuss
Bran.”
Catelyn furrowed her brows. “What about Bran?”
The subject was not a comfortable one. Howland did not enjoy asking this woman
for favors; he never wanted to hand her the power of holding his desires—not
since that dreadful night fifteen years ago. Yet, there was no way to avoid it.
Ned already forced one mother to be separated from his child, he would not do
so again. He needed Catelyn’s support.
“For the past few years, I’ve kept a close eye to Bran’s growth. He is a
magnificent child and will only exceed expectations. Your devotion to his care
is praiseworthy.”
“Thank you."
“He reminds me of my Jon—which is why I recommend he explore his horizons. From
one mother to another, I believe he would greatly benefit from the guidance of
the Neck as Jon has of Winterfell.”
“You…wish to foster him?” Catelyn pronounced the suggestion as if she was
amused. Her smugness was infuriating. Howland refused to answer her arrogance
with his bitter retorts. He needed her complacent, not defensive.
“Not now, of course. But perhaps when he is older, nine or ten, as Ned was when
he left Winterfell.”
“I see.”
Before he could announce another piece of evidence, Catelyn stunned him with
her answer.
“I am not oppose to the suggestion.”
“You…are not?” Now it was Howland’s turn to be suspicious.
“No,” Catelyn repeated. “But I am not eager to part with my son, either.”
Howland straightened his back to get a good look at the woman before him. He
should have suspected the fish amongst wolves was a barracuda. Howland’s
gracious facade disappeared and left behind the Lord of the Neck.
“What can I do for you, Lady Stark?”
Catelyn hummed, as if contemplating her request. Howland knew her demands were
settled. “I am not unwilling to compromise. But the thought of sending my son
to the Neck is frightening. I have never parted with any of my children for
long and I know from your reaction, there is no greater pain on this earth.”
“But there are rewards to seeing your child grow, especially under wisdom you
cannot provide yourself.”  
“So I’ve heard,” Catelyn agreed. “Which is why I want all of my children to
experience what the world has to offer. There is only so much the North can
provide.”
Howland smirked. This time, his amusement was genuine. “And I suppose you’ve
developed a method for further education. A method, perhaps, Lord Stark may not
approve of.”
Catelyn pursed her lips. “There is a tourney happening in the Reach. Robb has
become quite skilled with a lance. I spoke to him about the matter and he has
expressed his desire to participate,” she explained.
Howland could not control his laughter. When he spoke, it was beyond mocking.
“And, I suppose this tourney is one that crowns a queen of love and beauty? I
heard they’ve continued the practice after all these years.”
“It is.”
“Then, you can understand why Ned refuses to have any part in it.” Howland
amusement dissipated to annoyance. “He refuses to engage in southern
entertainments—especially ones that imitate the humors that cost him his
family.”
“Fifteen years have passed and Lyanna still refuses to rise from the grave.
This blockade against Southern forces has done us no favors. If winter is
coming, we need the alliances.” She sighed. “Besides, you are one of the
North’s renowned loyalists. A favorable performance from Robb during this
tourney will have every southern lord and lady reevaluating what they thought
they knew of these lands.”
Howland wanted to shake his head and admonish the woman, but he knew her words
had some merit. He could not resist jabbing her with her conceit. “Tourneys
often serve as mating grounds for ladies awaiting favor from single lords. I
met your husband and mine at a tourney. As did you. I am sure there will be
plenty of omegas for Robb to take his pick.”
“I would not oppose a southern good daughter," Catelyn retorted. No shame
infiltrated her words.
Howland’s contempt was hidden by his tranquil expression. “Behold, another
contender for the game of thrones. You surprise me, Lady Stark.”
“Do I?” Catelyn was not amused.
“I thought you were this naïve lady, trapped in her web of undoing. And how
could I not? You wedded a lord who will never love you. Have children who will
defy and leave you. Your power will never be your own.”
“And yet here I am,” Catelyn finished. “Wearing the name of the man you loved.
Being called mother by his children.”
“His child also calls me mother,” Howland reminded with a glint of fury in his
eyes. “In case you are inclined to forget.”
“I could never forget!” she snapped. Recognizing her error, she pulled back her
rage and resumed her composure. She took a breath for her sanity. “Regardless
of our differences, we share the love that all mothers have for their children.
We will do what is best for them in spite of what others think they know.”
Howland agreed. The acknowledge was painful for he had nothing but resentment
for this woman. “I will speak to Ned on the matter of the tourney when you
profess your acceptance of Bran’s fostering. I trust you will have time to
converse with him before dinner.”
Catelyn stiffened. “We are to speak of the costs for the ceremony. I will bring
it up.”
“I will return the favor tonight.”  
The deal was struck. Their parting was as stiff as their negotiations and had
the added pretense of pleasantries.
***
Following the transaction, Catelyn spent her entire trip to the study
reassuring herself of the benefits. If Howland managed to convince Ned, she
would receive what she wanted. Her children would get a taste of the southern
atmosphere and the south would have the opportunity to envy her offspring. If
Howland failed, Catelyn would gain evidence that her husband’s love for his
mistress was not infallible.  
The object of her dismay, however, was the added consequence of losing her son.
Bran was unlike her other children. His predisposition towards nature was
unsettling. He was restless and acted as if he were chained to the walls. He
woke up in sweats because he believed his blankets to be suffocating him. He
could never stand to be indoors for long. She feared for his life. If Howland
could provide him solace, she had no choice but to accept his offer. Catelyn
shook her head. Such a decision had yet to made.
There was still the possibility that Ned would deny Howland’s request for
fostering—he loved their children so—but the chances were slim if Catelyn gave
her approval. If she was any less of a woman, she would rescind her part of the
deal once Howland granted her desire. Catelyn refused to indulge the
dishonorable suggestion. She was many things, but an oath breaker she was not.
Catelyn caught Valon Poole’s eye the second she arrived. Lord Stark was running
late—he sent a message to start without him. The notion made her proud. He may
not love her, but he respected her enough to handle their fiscal concerns—a
feat many ladies were not given despite their childhood training. They were
halfway done measuring the rations when Valon realized he forgot the papers
regarding the wine exports. He excused himself to retrieve them. He recommended
Catelyn take a break.
Catelyn was reluctant to do so, if only because she did not want to be left
alone with her thoughts.  
To relieve her concerns, she walked outside to take some fresh air. She never
opened the windows and all the rooms she frequented had theirs boarded up.
While she enjoyed the breeze from an already open source in the halls, she
overheard the maids chatting in the other room. She was inclined to ignore
them, but her curiosity was peaked when she overheard Lord Reed’s name joined
with Lord Bolton’s. She glanced inside and saw one of Lord Bolton’s serving
boys gossiping with her own.
“He is waiting for Lord Benjen to take the Black. He’s already proposed twice!”
“How shameless!” Gage’s son gasped. Turnip, Catelyn remembered vaguely.
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Bolton’s boy warned. “He’ll flay you alive.”
Another maid scoffed. “Flaying has been outlawed for years. Lord Stark saw to
that.”  
“Well, he can’t watch all his men, can he? No one stops Lord Bolton from
getting what he wants. If they did, he wouldn’t have that bastard of his. Now
that one is a piece of work.” He checked to see if anyone was watching. Catelyn
got out of sight. When the boy deemed the coast was clear, he returned to his
story. “He raped Ramsay’s mother for not following the law of the lord's right.
Who knows what he’ll do to Lord Reed if he continues to refuse him?”
“Lord Bolton is a monster,” Turnip announced. “Lord Reed would rather die than
marry him. Besides, he is one of the greatest warriors who has ever lived. It
is Lord Bolton who should be afraid.”
“You don’t know Lord Bolton.”
“And you don’t know Lord Reed,” the same serving girl from before pointed out.
“He’s called the Witch of Winterfell for a reason.”
“Superstitions and woods witch lore,” the boy dismissed.
“They carry enough truth for men to fear him. He holds madness in the palm of
his hand and delivers it to whoever he wishes. Look at Lady Stark. She’s
suffered the brunt of it.”
For the longest time, Catelyn held her breath. Then, servant reminded them of a
key fact. “Lord Bolton isn’t afraid of anything—not even Lord Reed.”
***
Theon was preparing for a bath when he heard his door creaked. He pretended not
to notice his intruder as he slipped off his shirt. He paid no mind to the
footsteps drawing closer to his unbutton trousers. When he was thrashed against
his own bed, he played the part of an aghast virgin to theatrical perfection.
“Get off me, Ramsay!”
Ramsay was not listening when he sunk his teeth into Theon’s shoulder, causing
the older boy to let out a high-pitch squeal. He grasped Theon’s cunt and
squeezed. Theon, though older, was still smaller than the Bolton bastard and
fit right inside his hand with little spillage. Ramsay’s hand washed itself in
the dripping heat. Theon tried to gag himself on the sheets. Ramsay released
his fangs and got up.
“Oh, don’t be like that. I want to hear you scream,” he hissed out, blood
dripping down his face. He licked his lips. He grabbed onto Theon’s body and
forced him on his back. Theon was trying to shake him off but Ramsay was
stronger. He smashes their lips together so that Theon could get a good taste
of himself.
Theon fought harder when he tasted the iron on his tongue. Their teeth clacked
against each other; Theon bit Ramsay’s lip so the blood kept flowing; Ramsay
shoved his fingers into Theon’s hole so he kept dripping; Theon wrapped his
arms and legs around Ramsay so that he could get him closer, deeper. When they
parted, Theon was moaning like foghorn. He kept humping against Ramsay’s
fingers. Ramsay was losing his balance with each thrust. He was forced to
remove his fingers to get on the bed.
Theon whimpered at the loss of intrusion. His eyes were blown and hazed, his
mouth was open and drooling. He looked like a whore with his painted lips—the
genuine kind who would do their work for free. Ramsay maneuvered himself for
better balance. He was now kneeling on the bed, right above of Theon with his
perfect, thin bow legs wrapped around his waist.
“More,” Theon moaned as he reached out for Ramsay. Ramsay was tempted to
fulfill his request, but remembered where those hands had been. He was incensed
to teach his omega a lesson.
Without warning, he gripped Theon’s throat and held him against the bed. Theon
choked, spittle flew from his mouth and his pupils grew wide. “R-Ramsay—!”
“Did you have fun conversing with my brother, Theon?”
Theon tried to get those hands off him. He scratched and slapped, tossed and
tumbled. “L-let g-go!” He started coughing.
“I asked you a question: did you enjoy my brother’s company?”
Theon knew the right answer. He knew it would involve swearing his devotion to
this mad man and be rewarded in the most toe curling, fingernail ripping way.
“Y-yes…”
Ramsay’s eyes widened. His grip became tighter. Theon struggled for air but
kept his defiance. “Yes!” He screamed. He started smirking, looking Ramsay
right in the eye as he did so. “I-I f-fucking l-liked it. He—” Theon started
hacking. Ramsay’s head was screaming at him to strangle the bitch but after
one, final squeeze, he let go.
“You fucking slut!” He thought as he moved to slap the Greyjoy. Theon winced
when the hand hit him. Ramsay moved to strike again but this time, Theon caught
it. He grabbed the hand before the bastard could lose control and shoved the
fingers deep into his mouth. He tried to swallow the fingers down and imagined
Ramsay’s manhood raping his mouth.  
With each slow, agonizing ‘pop,’ sense was revived into Ramsay’s being. Theon
tried not to smirk as he nipped the tips. Once they were drenched with his
saliva, Theon pulled himself up. He tried to crawl onto Ramsay’s lap. The boy
was suspicious and attempted to pull away but Theon swung his legs across his
body.
“Domeric has his charm"—his title and his lands—"I liked learning about those
things.” Theon smiled so prettily. “Maybe I should give him a chance to play
with me…”
Theon began to grind on Ramsay’s hips. He could feel that hard cock trying to
enter his pussy. He wanted it so badly. It was a shame he had to keep his
maidenhood until his wedding day. If only Ramsay was the heir—he could have
skipped his meal and be split on this prized stallion for hours.
Ramsay refused to coddle the conniving slut. Once at Theon’s mercy, Ramsay saw
through the ruse. He felt humiliated having fallen for such an obvious trap by
such a dumb omega. Ramsay could not let him get away with the insolence. He
threw the boy against his bed. Theon whimpered. He tried to drag Ramsay back by
the hem of his pants, desperate for another kiss. Ramsay ignored him. He
rummaged through his dressers to what he knew was hiding. There was no way an
omega as desperate and slovenly as Theon would go without a—.
“Well, what do we have here?”
Ramsay’s smile was terrifying. Theon cringed as he saw the device in Ramsay’s
hand. It happened to be his largest tool, used for his worst heats. He tried to
run away but Ramsay lunged on him. While he struggled, Ramsay shoved the
imitation into his cunt without mercy. “Ah!” Theon screamed, his eyes teary and
fearful.
“Let’s play a game, shall we?”
***
An hour later, Theon was wobbling to the bathing rooms, dressed in a thin robe
for he could not be trusted to undress himself. The serving girls were asked to
prepare his dining wears. He basked in the steam the second he arrived.
Stumbling to the tub, he hesitantly entered one feet at a time, praying he did
not slip. The hot water felt like heaven on his cunt, which was red and swollen
from overuse. Ramsay did not bother with preparation; he wanted Theon damaged
by dinnertime, when the Greyjoy was forced to return Domeric’s side in hopes of
attaining the fated marriage proposal.
Rummaging through the soaps and perfumes, he found the salve kept in omega
bathrooms for the sake ‘softening their skin’ when in truth, was used for more
licentious purposes. Theon dipped the cream onto his cunt and winced. The
sensation was soothing but he was sore; the pain was worse than any sparing
session he had been through. Despite his sensitivity, he was getting used to
the violation. Theon massaged his pussy more leisurely. He wanted to enjoy his
bath.
While entranced by his own pleasure, he was not oblivious to the opening door.
Ramsay’s presence made him cautious. He could not handle another one of their
sessions and warned his intruder that he was too tired for more activity. “You
have run me worn and ragged.” He leaned his head back against the tub. “You can
wait until tomorrow to have me.”
“A generous offer, Lord Theon.”
Theon snapped his eyes open. The water overflowed as he twisted his body around
to get a better look at the man. Domeric Bolton’s stare was intense—a hailstorm
in the middle of a ten-year summer.
“Lord Domeric!” Theon cried out as he tried to cover himself up. His position
allowed only obscenity so he sunk deeper beneath the perfumed water. “You
should not be here.”
“You did not seem upset when I first arrived. Perhaps, you were expecting
someone else?”
Chills ran down Theon’s spine. He narrowed his eyes and behaved as if he were
victimized instead of accused. “Lord Domeric, this is improper. While I am fond
of you, I must request that you leave immediately.”
Domeric’s expression altered by the slightest degree. He seemed angry—but Theon
could not read anything beyond his detatched persona. Theon’s fear amplified
when the elder boy drew near.
“Are you fond of me, Lord Theon? As fond as you are of my brother?”
Theon stiffened. He refused to behave in an uncouth manner. He spent too much
time on Domeric to lose him and there was no other suitable alternative. He
became shy and hid himself further. “Lord Domeric, forgive me for being forward
but no lord has caught my eye but you. I believe you are in bad humor.” He
pretended to relax once more. “I met with Jon before my bath. We engaged in a
bit of playfighting. I thought he was coming in for another joke.”   
Domeric’s mouth remained thin and straight. He reached over to touch Theon’s
shoulder—Theon tried not to shiver. He touched Ramsay’s mark and ran his
fingers over the deep incisions. “He is quite vicious. There are marks all over
you.”
“He is,” Theon agreed. He tried to push the Bolton’s departure along. He
ignored the looming foreshadowing. “Lord Domeric—”
Domeric cradled Theon’s face. His fingers were cold. He touched Theon’s lips
and called him beautiful. “I imagine our children would have your charms.” His
hands remained on Theon, even when he relegated to his knees. “Shame that
behind such lovely complexion lies a slut.”
Without warning, Domeric submerged the omega underwater.
Shocked forced Theon to gasp and the gravity of his mistake was exemplified
when water—bitter, foul, contaminated water was stuffed into his throat and
filled his lungs. He grasped onto the hand that held him but the man refused to
budge. Theon fought desperately for breath. After a moment, and one that was
not too soon, he was released.
“Are you a virgin?” Domeric asked when Theon resurfaced.
Theon tried to cough up the residual liquid. Domeric was not satisfied with the
hesitation and forced Theon under water again. Theon wondered, in the midst of
death, why he was tangled between these two vicious men. But Ramsay was
different from brother. He was hot. Ramsay was going to destroy him, break him
down, make him crave him until he was crying and dripping with cum. He was
going to be ruin for all men. He was going to fill him up with children and
force Theon to ride his cock while his stomach was swollen with alphas—Theon
found himself losing consciousness.
He wanted to give Ramsay so many alphas.
At long last, he was released. Domeric asked the same question. “Are you a
virgin?”
Theon coughed again. Domeric was about to repeat the motion for a third time
when Theon clung to sides of the tub.
“Yes!” Theon sobbed. “Yes! I am still a virgin!” He wondered what would happen
if he was not one, but somewhere in his mind, he knew the answer. Domeric was
going to kill him. He was different from Ramsay. Ramsay wanted to hurt him. He
wanted Theon to beg. Domeric would take what he wanted from Theon—or else
dispose of him when he became a liability.  
Domeric was satisfied. He released Theon—drenched as a drowned cat.
“I will submit my proposal by the end of the ceremony,” he announced, much to
Theon’s shock. “Following your acceptance—and you will accept—my father will
send the dowry conditions to Pyke. By reputation, Lord Greyjoy is not a
generous man but I trust he will not want to lose face but refusing to pay. A
few ships should be no hardship on his part. Lord Stark will also offer his
assistance in the matter. We will not be demanding a number outside of
reason—you are merely his ward, after all.”
Theon hacked up more water. He glared—the pretenses fell apart the second the
Bolton heir tried to kill him. Domeric preferred the docile kitten. To rectify
his attitude, Domeric returned to Theon’s wet body and shoved his fingers
inside Theon’s used cunt. He ignored the boy’s thrashing and observed the
quality of his purchase. He was loose—a fact that made him doubt Theon’s
earlier testament.
“Were you lying to me, Lord Theon?”
The violation forced tears into Theon’s eyes. He felt so sore.“No!” He
protested vehementally. “I have toys!” he explained. “I use them for my heats!
No cock has ever entered me!”
“So not even my brother has had a taste? It is not like him to practice self-
control.” Domeric’s eyes narrowed. “Especially with a creature who is willing.”
“No, I am a virgin! I swear!”
Domeric was tempted to shove his whole fist in to punish Theon, regardless. He
restrained himself. “Good—I hope you refrain from such practices in the future.
We will have our ceremony as soon as possible. I want you tight when I bed
you.”
Theon whimpered. He nearly screamed when Domeric released his hand. The boy
sunk so low, Domeric wondered if he planned to drown himself—he did have the
mentality of mad men with his family’s history and such.
An archaic practice, Domeric thought.
Before he left, Domeric performed the courtesy of kissing Theon’s hand. He was
still a noble omega after all—propriety was expected of the two of them. He
trusedt there would be no further problems and the last of the remaining would
be removed once he sent Ramsay away for good.
***
The dinner was starting when Benjen met with the Night Watch recruiter. He was
grateful to see a familiar face beyond the crowds of unknown lords and
ladies—being around nobility made him feel like an outsider despite his
upbringing. Yoren chuckled when he saw the Stark who greeted him. They embraced
like brothers.
When Benjen noticed his lack of companionship, he asked if Yoren would like to
join him for a walk. Lord Stark was overwhelmed with other duties. “Tonight was
the second night of Jon’s presentation ceremony,” he informed.
Yoren raised an eyebrow. “I see. Is it alright for me to be here? Hate to
interrupt a celebration with a pander for rapists.”
Benjen chuckled. “The men of the Night’s Watch are always welcomed.” He took
Yoren to the stables where they were alone—saved for the hay and horses. There,
he demanded a kiss from the older man. Benjen grinned through the kiss from the
familiar taste of sourleaf—bitter and addictive. Yoren did not resist and
instead removed his own shirt with help from Benjen’s wanton touch. The Stark
was desperate for scarred skin and rough hands. His height allowed him to push
Yoren’s head upwards to get a hold of that fine neck. Benjen, like any alpha,
was provoked to mark it. Yoren was not one to offer submissiveness—Stark or
not.
“Your preferences haven’t changed,” he growled as he undid his pants. Benjen
followed suit.
“Why would they?” He asked. He knew the answer well. Most men who took the
Black resorted to wayward practices out of frustration. There were few like
Benjen who actively sought a knot or hard form.
Yoren did not answer. He told Benjen he was not in the mood to be knotted.
Benjen complied without question. He bent down and offered his bare region for
Yoren to do as he pleased. Without lubrication of any sort, Yoren attacked the
opening with minimal preparation. He knew Benjen preferred the burn from their
few nights together—he was a favorite amongst the men because of this. Men of
the Night’s Watch fucked the way all men who lived on an hourglass did:
ruthless and senseless—as if they were on constant ruts. When he was finished
getting wrung dry, his knot settled against Benjen’s prostate. The man did not
whimper or squeal like omegas did—his moans were harsh; he delivered masculine
grunts. After Yoren came, he pulled out immediately. Benjen liked to clench
around a cock after receiving their cum. It made it impossible to leave
afterward.
Yoren grabbed his pants to take out some sourleaf and chew. He did not bother
to get dress right away. Benjen was more relaxed than he had been all week. He
laid there and wondered about the last time he was fucked so brazenly.
“I lost my maidenhood here.”
Yoren chuckled. “You have no maidenhood to give.”
“Because the value of innocence is only placed on omegas—a sex alphas deemed
property over person?”
Yoren said nothing.
“I was the Stark of Winterfell. He was a recruiter; a wandering crow like
yourself.”
Yoren calculated Benjen’s age to the men in service at the time. It was before
his shoulder injury. “Might have been Yohn or Cleyton.”
“Either way, I did not see him again. He must have died sometime after my
wedding.”
That happened.
“He initiated my rut. Such an act was unheard of at the time—mostly because the
perpetrators were disposed of. Maester Luwin took good care to hide the scandal
and he never breathed a word of it—not even to my brother. I snuck out to see
him before he left. He fucked me in this barn and told me if I ever visited the
Night’s Watch, he’d do it again and again.”
Yoren chuckled. “Don’t tell that’s the only reason you wanted to join.”
“Not the only reason,” Benjen denied. “But I did not want my life to be wasted
on counting coins and mediating disputes between the mill man and the tailor. I
wanted to be a part of a brotherhood.”  
Yoren sighed. He got dressed. “You are always welcomed with us.”
“I know,” Benjen told him. “I look forward for the years to come.”
“Are you sure about joining? You may never see your children again. May never
hold another in anything but the comfort that tomorrow may not be your last
day.”
Benjen said he was sure.
The world beyond the wall is not ready for men like him.
***
When they finished with their trysts, Benjen joined his wife in the dining hall
with Yoren in toll. He reintroduced the recruiter to Howland, who returned his
nod with a hug. “It is good to see you again. I must ask, how are the men I’ve
sent you?”
Yoren chuckled. “They are not the worst lot I’ve seen. A bit empty headed,
though that’s fine. Don’t need too much brains for what we’re doing—good with
scavenging, I’ll give them that.”
Howland smiled, though there was an edge to the suggestion. Benjen knew the
empty-headedness was not a trait they were born with. Howland’s people had
their ways of dealing with traitors—he was sure the Marsh fellow would be
regretting his espionage for years to come, shoveling snow and manure up at
Castle Black.
After meeting Howland, Yoren set off to greet Lord Stark. He was respectful, as
all low-born men were trained to be in front of their social superiors, but
there was no meekness about his regard. Lord Stark returned the respect.
“I feel as if I have not seen you in ages,” Howland moaned. He leaned on his
husband’s shoulder, finding comfort in the alpha’s scent. The scent was same of
which lingered on his beautiful chidren and resembled the man he loved so. 
Benjen led him to their seating. He allowed Howland to curl up under his arm.
The rest of the guests watched from the corner of their eyes—there were
hundreds of topics to gossip about and their affection was a thin layer of
news. He supposed the lords and ladies expected them to be stoic—their marriage
was a farce, an act of mercy. Benjen was counting down the minutes in which he
could leave his children with honor.
Benjen wondered how so many people could miss how much he loved his wife. “I
will miss you,” he confessed to Howland.
Howland hummed. “You will live.” He casted an eye on the chatting crow. “Lyanna
was the heart of the North. Ned was the head. Brandon was the soul. And you,
you were the body that kept everything together. You were the shoulders that
supported the head. The ribs that secured the heart. And the meat that provided
value to the soul.”
Such a declaration made him wonder if he should stay, but Howland read his
thoughts and refused his doubt. “But the heart has been replaced and found a
soul to accompany its rule. The head has settled on earth and needs no anchor
for the clouds. You will be missed and you will be adored. The time has come
for you to achieve your destiny. You must be selfish, Benjen. I pray to the
gods you act on your own accord.”  
“Will you be okay?” He casted an eye on Meera and Jojen. They took no notice of
their parent’s discussion. “Will my children be fine, fatherless?”
Howland took his hand. “You are my friend and brother. I love you. Our children
will know about your feats and the flush of pride will never become unfamiliar.
They want you to be happy.”
Benjen brought his wife closer to him. He saw his brother watch them. There was
a flash of jealousy in his eyes. He stifled it with reason. Benjen wanted to
whip the courage into the head of Winterfell. His brother should be marching
past the tables, ripping his lover away from his brother’s arms and taking
Howland to bed. Instead, he followed proper protocol. He mingled with his
guests and tried to keep a close eye on Howland.
Benjen looked down and saw Howland’s gaze redirected towards his brother. He
could have laughed. They were like children; when one looked forward, the other
looked away. He was reminded of their first meeting. The two were immersed with
each other from the start but shyness and insecurity—all on Ned’s part—kept
them separated.
Despite their interruption, Benjen was confident that this was not the end for
them. Jon would not become their finale. He was the North’s future, as Howland
enjoyed claiming with madness in his eyes. Benjen knew better than to doubt the
bond of soulmates.
The youngest Stark moved on to his two children. Jojen was cradling Bran; his
grin was larger and his expression brighter. He was a sullen child most of the
time—much like his father and brother. Benjen pitied the curse he planted on
his own son, but Bran did not seem to mind. He accepted Jojen’s affections and
quirks as endearments. His daughter was giggling with Wylla Manderly. He did
not meet the girl personally but heard from rumors that she was a wild child—an
ideal match for his straightlaced alpha. Meera would have her hands full with
her.
His brother's ward was keeping to himself. He sat beside the Bolton boy with
the saddest smile he'd seen since Jon uttered the word 'papa' and only Howland
could hear. From afar, the Bolton bastard glared enviously. The last to catch
his eyes were his two nephews—each engrossed with what the other had to say. He
heard they were inseperable—Howland was a masterpiece. He surely played a part
in this tragedy. Benjen sighed and drank his wine. He soothed himself with the
assurance that when hell froze over, he would not be present for the chill.
But—
He casted a glance towards the boys in question. Jon kissed Robb on the cheek
and whispered something in his ear. Robb laughed. Benjen wondered if the joke
was funny or if Robb would laugh at anything his lover said.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Ideally, I would like to finish this story in fifteen-eighteen
     chapters. Then, I’m going to focus on another fandom with the
     occasional request to the GoT fandom.
     2. So Eddie Redmayne is my ideal Howland Reed. I made a college for
     him. He_is_perfect.
     3. I am desperately trying to update on time and fulfill requests.
     There will be a Jojen/Bran oneshot coming up titled "Choke" and an
     original short story called the "Art of Making Dragons" some time
     this week. Both will contain copious amounts of porn. The latter will
     have a bit of bestiality. Yay!
     4. Thank you all for reading. I am especially grateful to the people
     who review. I understand there are some people who read and bookmark
     this story who believe that the few seconds to write a review is
     worth more than the hours I spend writing. So though I do not always
     respond, I am happy to receive all my comments.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
     The first six thousand words have no sex—just politics. I feel that
     is more of a warning than any explicit foreshadowing. Robb does go a
     little cray, though.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Lord Reed was dressing for dinner when he spotted the gold collar in his
personal possessions. The present was wrapped in red cotton and the gleam from
the metal showed through the cloth. Howland was wary of it; he carried an
aversion to all objects cloaked in blood. Before he could discover its sender,
someone knocked on his door. He haphazardly wrapped it before allowing his
guest in.
“May I come in, Lord Reed?”
Howland smiled to himself. “You never need permission in my presence, my love.”
He turned around to give his lover a languid, well-deserved kiss. Howland was
grateful he did not have the time to put on his cloak. He relished in the lack
of restrictions when he wrapped his arms around Ned’s neck and felt his lord’s
arms around his torso. Ned lifted him on top of the cabinet. Various personal
belongings fell to the floor, including the better left forgotten gift.  
Once they separated, Howland rested his forehead against Ned’s own. He bemoaned
their futures. “Our days are limited. After tomorrow night, we shall have Jon
and Jojen’s nameday and then you will be lost to me for another year.”
“I do not need the reminder.” He sunk his teeth into Howland’s neck and Howland
shivered. “Being without you after having your scent on my skin is torture
enough.”
Howland was rejoiced to hear the declaration. He remembered Lord Bolton’s
warning and vowed to reap vengeance on the man who rooted doubt against his
alpha. Howland caressed Ned’s face and smiled—perhaps a bit apologetically for
his treason. “Perhaps if we prolonged your trips, it would give me time to
remove the grimness from your face.” Howland giggled, amused by his own humor.
“Though, I supposed I should be grateful you never smiled in our youth. If your
lips were moved by the slightest skirt, the competition aroused would have been
symptomatic to a tourney for the crown.”
Ned chuckled. “You think too highly of me. Brandon made sure to draw the moths
with his torch. I was a single candle in a southern hall by comparison.”
“Brandon was a show horse with a temperament to match. You were a stallion
readied and worn for battle. I made my decision very clear on which one I
preferred to ride.”
Jowland’s wickedness never disappointed Ned’s esteem. He remembered that
fifteen years ago, Howland choose him. Selected him out of the high lords and
ladies and chose a second son without humor when he could have had the first.
Ned was not the heir then; he was destined for the life of a minor holdfast
like his mother’s father and carry a banner for his brother. There were worst
choices but for someone of Howland’s talents, there were alphas, reckless in
their youth, depraved by their age, intoxicated by lust, all of whom would have
fell for his manipulations.
Ned was about to take him to bed when they were interrupted. A serving girl
asked for permission to enter. Howland laughed at the frustration on his
beloved’s face and kissed his frown tenderly. “Tonight,” he promised. Ned
reluctantly released him. Howland got on his feet and turned to the door. “Come
in,” he allowed. The servant entered and was alarmed to see Lord Stark’s
presence.
“Milord,” she bowed. “Forgive the interruption.” She looked at the Lord of the
Neck with meekness. “Lord Manderly requests an audience with Lord Reed.”
“Is it a business matter or a personal conversation?” Howland asked. He was
already redoing his robe and combing his fingers through his hair to assume a
respectable appearance.
“Business,” Wyman called from behind the door. “A small matter in all honesty
but men of my age need to take advantage of our rare moments of lunacy.” He
opened the entrance so that his large form would no longer hide behind the
frame—a notion quite piteously in hindsight. He lingered there but they could
all tell he was itching to sit. When he saw Lord Stark, he laughed and the
sound shook the ground. “My lord, I expected to see you later tonight! I
apologize for interrupting your intimate moment but there are some private
matters to discuss with Lord Reed.” He winked at his liege lord. “Do not fret,
my dear boy! If I remember anything about my wife, it’s that delayed
gratification is best left in the hands of a crannogman. I am sure he will
repay you tenfold.”
Ned coughed. Despite the insinuation of Lord Manderly’s presence, Lord Reed
must admit that there was some amusement to watching his lover squirm. He took
Ned's hand and whispered his goodbye. "I will see you later."   
Once they were alone, Lord Manderly kissed Lord Reed with great paternal
affection, a sensation Howland was unused to. It had been years since his
father died. Lord Manderly complimented Lord Reed’s dress—though expressed his
disappointment at the open slit on his chest. “Forgive me for being an old man,
but in my day, people treasured modesty.”
“You did not mind when your wife was inclined to her short skirts and
sleeveless shirts,” Howland jested.  
Wyman laughed and it was as hearty as ever. Howland wondered how anyone could
think this man weak when his energy was beyond that of a newly rutted alpha. He
offered him a seat on his bed and watched the mattress sink. In return, Lord
Manderly handed him a ransack of what he claimed to be the “finest Dornish
wine” for the “most beautiful living lord.” Howland did not handle liquor well
but trusted the Lord of the White Harbor enough to risk a glass. Together, they
toasted a successful ceremony and beautiful progeny.
“I must say, my heart bleeds for a world that is not blessed with more of yours
and Lord Stark’s children.”
Howland smiled into his wine. “We have made a beautiful child,” He took another
sip. “But all our children are nothing to scoff at. I never thought I would
give birth to an alpha, much less two. The fates are funny that way. I hope
they have the good sense to give me pretty grandchildren to spoil.”
The elderly lord laughed. “My wife was of the same mindset. For nine months,
she swore to everyone in the city that her womb was carrying an omega, giggled
in her sweet, broken tongue—her language was poor back then—and everyone
prepared the prettiest quilts and dresses and gems in preparation. Then, came
my Wylis. I have never seen a city more disappointed at the birth of an alpha!
A son no less!” Wyman chuckled. He shook his head; any recollection of his wife
made his eyes wistful and his face light up with simultaneously joy and sorrow.
Howland felt for him. He remembered the funeral. The city mourned for a week of
their lovely lady who would sing and dance with the orphans on the streets, who
educated their populace of the nature of rations and relegating duties to those
who have no start in their lives. The ports were closed. The men and women were
given days to cry. Wyman Manderly sat by his wife’s crypt for two days and when
she would not rise, set on a solitary sail so that her body could return to the
seas as foam. He came back a broken man but stayed satisfied that he gave his
wife the end she deserved.
“Your wife was beloved,” Howland praised. As a gesture of comfort, he touched
Wyman’s hand. “You Manderly men have the good fortune of fine and fierce
spouses. I can see from your granddaughters that Wylis made a good selection as
well.”
Wyman nodded. His jovial mood returned. “Sweet girl, she is, and utterly
devoted to my son. My wife enjoyed her company. They became close confidents.
Leona was the youngest of her siblings and had no experience with children—she
practically begged for my wife’s assistance.” Wyman chuckled. “I must say, when
Wylis declared his love for the girl, I was frightened that the past would
repeat itself and I would be forced to take drastic measures.”
“Oh? How so?”
“My father was a cruel man.” Lord Manderly’s face became fearsome—an expression
adorned whenever he met a being foolish enough to insult his family or harm his
lands. The same look that predated blockade and sanctions, defiled deals and
violent shipwrecks. “He beat me for the smallest infractions—if I took too much
on my plate one evening or if my footing was off during swords training; for
any reason, he wanted his hands on me. I accepted my fate. He had no other
children. I was his heir. I knew he was stuck with me—I allowed the injustice
with the faith that my title was within arm’s reach. I was content,” Wyman
explained. “Until I met my wife and I understood what joy was; I longed to
never let another take it away from me. For months, I courted her and she
responded in kind. For every cruel word, she paid me back in a hundred praises
and for every bruise, I received a thousand kisses. When her heat drew near, I
made my intention to marry her.” Wyman laughed and the sound was manic. “He was
livid. He thought my marrying a crannogman meant I was condemning our line with
the blood of monsters.” The air grew cold. Wyman grimaced. “He threatened to
kill her if I did not stop my disgusting infatuationwith her. He said things
about her that I will not repeat but the kindest was that she was a creature
and a devil.” He drank more and asked Howland to refill his cup. Howland
complied but was hesitant to give him a glass more than half full. “She was not
a noblewoman but your father made arrangements with the Citadel so that she
could make the claim. It wasn’t enough, of course.” He smiled and there was
something sinister about his grin that shook Howland. “I asked my friend,
Rickard Stark—your lover’s father for assistance. He was not the lord then, but
he pleaded on my behalf to his father and Lord Edwyle Stark gave his decree of
protection. I was married the next day. My father did everything he could to
get me to cast my wife aside, but she was strong. Her will could not be broken
by the maliciousness of a loveless man. Things changed, however, when I caught
her bleeding in our bed.”
Howland stared at the man before him. “Lord Manderly…”
“Blood from her bottom—the worst possible effect of tansy. By some miracle,
Wylla and my Wylis, still but a bean in her stomach, survived. But the damage
had been done. What sort of husband was I, to let my wife and child live under
a tyrant’s hatred?”
He would not be the man Howland believed him to be and before the story was
finished, Howland knew the ending.
“He died a deserving death.” Wyman drank the last of his wine. “Men like us,
Lord Reed, we have a duty to our loved ones. We see the world as it is, not as
it is sold to us by the bards and the historians—we seek to rectify the
injustice before the ones we cherish can become aware of them.”
Howland stared down into his wine and saw his reflection was clearer than the
crystal in his vanity. “Why have you come here, Lord Manderly?”
Wyman steadied himself so that he was leaning forward. “More than ever, the
North needs solidarity while we prepare for another southern invasion—both of
the literal and figurative sort. When I left for Winterfell, my intention was
to share a line with you and another with the Starks. Ambitious of me, I admit,
but the former was what my wife would have wanted. She loved your father; he
was a brother to her. From the day you were born, she decided that our blood
would share a child. The child of kings. I sent my granddaughter here to seduce
your son—had I known his heart was taken, I would have had her refocused her
attentions elsewhere and given my youngest more initiative.”
Howland listened without response though his heart pounded throughout their
conversation. He would give no cause to the suspicion, but if his plans took
fruit, he would need an ally of the strongest sort to ensure obedience. “Your
insinuation is crude,” Howland pointed out. “But if it were true, where would
your alliances lie?”
Lord Manderly reminded Howland that they have sided with blasphemers before.
“During the Dance of Dragons, House Manderly delivered a legion of warriors to
Rhaenys Tagaryean’s aid and supported her rule during the Great Council—we
accepted her son and the sons and daughters of many Tagaryeans despite their
incestuous natures. After all, we are all of the same blood once our bodies are
stripped of their perfumes and armors.”
“The Tagaryeans had dragons—people allowed a great many vices when such allies
creep within the shadow of kings. They were also mad men.”
“Because they did not follow the law of nature—you’ve heard of the techniques
they’ve used to arouse a heat between incompatible pairs. Our bodies are drawn
to mates who will produce the most viable progeny—to force fertility is an act
against the gods, both the new and the old. The Targaryeans ingested poisons
and metals and false desires into their being to ensure the ‘purest bloodline’
and ended up convoluting their minds with madness. If what I see is true, then
we shall have no such problems in your line.”
Howland could not control his relief. He suspected the same, of course, but
hearing it from another was the justification he needed to continue his plans.
The Targaryeans are dead for their crimes against nature—their line poisoned by
their own conceit.
“How many people have noticed—if what you’re saying is true?”
Lord Manderly did hesitate. “My granddaughter suspects—she has not said a word
to me but she is my successor in every way.”
“And of the other houses?”
Lord Manderly paused before giving his evaluation. “Lady Dustin has been
watching. I doubt she suspects the worst but while her husband’s family are
loyalists, she is not. The North will not trust her words but if what I am
saying is true—” He sent Howland a sly glance. “Then, if she were to make an
accusation today and be denied, when a revelation is made in the future, the
North will levy in her favor. It does not help, Lord Reed, that she holds
thorough ties with another family who bares the Starks no love.”
Howland was quite aware. “Her sister was Lord Bolton’s late wife.”
“And the Boltons loathe the Starks.”
Howland closed his eyes. He knew Lord Bolton had motives beyond deranged lust
and power grabbing when he made his proposals. “Lord Bolton has expressed his
desire to marry me after my husband takes the black.”
“He wants a hostage.”
“That seems to be the case.” Howland sighed and got up from where he sat. He
thought about his dreams and those of his youngest son. “But we cannot afford
to lose this opportunity. The tides are changing in the North’s favor.”
Lord Manderly agreed. “There is civil unrest within the South. King Baratheon
is draining Westeros of its integrity and gold. He loses supporters every day—a
number which will drop upon the death of his Hand. The Lord of the Vale is old,
after all. His lands suffer from his lack of presence and his son is an
invalid.”
Served him right, thought Howland. That man destroyed the chance for Howland’s
son to have a father and now he shall never have the child he desired. Justice
was divine.
Lord Manderly continued. “Lord Tully has crabs in his stomach. His son is an
emotional fool—prone to outbursts and thirsts for recognition he cannot get on
his own merit. They have civil unrest in their own lands.”
“The Freys,” Howland pointed out knowingly. He closed the cap of the ransack
for later. “That leaves the Reach, Casterly Rock, the Iron Islands, and Dorne.
The islands are a nonissue, but I heard that Theon's sister, the heiress; she
loves her brother. His father may not give a damn but he will not live
forever."
"If we are speaking about the love of brothers, I assume Lord Baratheon will
side with the king if war were to break out.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Howland remembered the look on the boy’s face when Lord
Stark rescued them and the utter distaste he had when he heard that the
Targaryeans were slaughtered. The boy was fickle and callous, but he shared no
great love for his elder brother. “And I was not aware we were talking about
war. I was speaking of winter and potential alliances when it comes. Is that
not what we were talking about?”
Lord Manderly was amused. “Yes, my apologies. Winter is a war and we must
prepare for the worst. But speaking of which, if the riverlands and the vale
are in no position to bring us their fruitfulness, then why should we not aim
for the best. The Reach is unspoken for and their exuberance is admired
throughout the land.”
“You would know, would you not?” In spite of his mocking, Howland agreed. “I
have heard stories about the Tyrells—good things. They treasure family but they
are ambitious. They want more than what they have and they want others not to
have more.”
“They are not the only ones. But compared to the Lannisters, I find them
preferable,” Lord Manderly admitted. “The Lannisters rule the kingdom, but they
rule it through gold. Speaking from a man who shares a similar trade, gold is a
luxury and luxuries hold no sway when men starve. They have no other commerce
but the trade of power.”
“And power is cheap these days,” Howland wondered how long they’ve been
speaking on the matter. He checked the windows and knew their time was coming
to an end.
“Fortunately for us, the Lannisters have made a lot of enemies. Dorne—.”
Howland smiled at the obvious fact. “I have dealt with Dornishmen before. They
are not unlike the Neck in some ways—though they are bit more gaudy than I
would prefer.” He thought of their gouted prince and his snake of a brother—a
man who once looked upon Howland with fascination and misery when he returned
his sister’s body to him—unarmed and without fear. “We can use them.”
“For the winter.”
Howland stared for the longest moment. “Yes, for the winter.” He got up and
threw on his cloak. “Let us have a break from such dire conversations. We
should eat and be merry. As a whole, the North rarely joins together in
celebration.”
Lord Manderly agreed that he should treasure the moments he has with his son.
“It is our duty to pave the roads for their success but—” He cast a glance to
the oncoming body of curls. “They should have the sense to draw their own maps.
Does your son have what it takes to do what must be done?”
Howland smirked. He asked Lord Manderly to leave ahead of him for decency’s
sake. “And Lord Manderly? With all due respect, my son is my son and he is the
first among equals. He will not draw the map. He is the destination.”  
***
Jon was unamused at the sight of his mother walking out his bedroom with the
Lord of White Harbor. Though he did not suspect his mother to be
unfaithful—especially not with a man like Lord Manderly. He quickened his steps
until he was side by side with his mother.
“Why was Lord Manderly in your bedchambers?”
Howland turned to him, amused, before looking forward. He did not hasten his
steps but remained composed as a willow swaying in a breeze. “We were
discussing business.”
“Because most business conversations are held in the privacy of one’s own
bedroom—shared over the enjoyment of wine?” Jon glared. “I can see the red on
your lips and the smell the fertilization on your breath.”  
“Some companies are best held in the presence of wine,” Howland answered. “And
it was only a single cup.” He was being purposefully vague and that frustrated
Jon, who knew nothing of his mother’s schemes. As a child, he did not mind
playing dress-up in the veil of ignorance but as an adult, the divorce from
innocence was now a liability. He was tired of remaining in the dark. Jon moved
in front of his mother.
“You cannot handle your liquor—not even ale. That is why father and uncle
demand to be by your side when you drink.”
Howland frowned. He wondered when all his children became so disobedient with
him. “Your father was aware we were alone. He approved of it, if you must
know.”
“But he was not there; he did not hear you speak about me and this place and
all your plans that my siblings and I have no say in.”
“He was not there because there was no need for him to be. Lord Manderly is
like an uncle to me. He has been so kind to our people despite the passing of
his wife and carries no obligation to our survival but aids regardless.”
Howland shuffled his cloak. “You should get acquainted with him, considering
you have no intentions of joining his family.”
Jon was taken back. “Mother, that is not fair! You know why I cannot entertain
his granddaughter’s advances.”
Howland stopped. He turned to his son. “I do, but regardless, the North is
changing right now and we must stay together, both as a country and as a
family. In the last fifteen years, treachery has forced the changing of crowns
and altered the political landscape of Westeros. We are powerless if we are not
together.”
Jon understood that. He wanted his mother to know he understood it. “I am
ready. Robb—” Jon’s heart clenched when the name was uttered. “He will never be
allowed to marry me. Not even if father approved of our union, the South will
never decree our marriage valid and our men may turn from us unless we can
prove ourselves worthy of rule.”
“More than Robb,” Howland reminded, “Bastards cannot ascent to power under the
rule of a king who scatters his own as if they were shit in sewers.” He sighed.
"In the Reach, there is a girl with the name Flowers. Her father’s wife keeps
her as a servant and allows her trueborn daughters to whip her when they are
displeased by her image. In the westerlands, I’ve heard of a boy who, on his
first rut, was bound and sent to the Wall so that he could remain out of sight
from his trueborn brother.” His kissed Jon’s forehead. “Everything I have done
I did for love.”
Jon believed him. But he was not a mannequin for a dressmaker nor was he a doll
for a puppeteer; his destiny needed to be in his control and not carried on the
good intentions of his mother. “Mother, these are precarious times. The
smallest secret kept from our allies could lead to our ruin.” He tried to
control his tone; he wanted to appear diplomatic. “I will not lose Robb for a
mistake that could have been rectified had I been more aware.”
For the longest time, Howland remained silent. Finally, he touched Jon’s cheek
and sighed as if he was told that winter had come. He looked forlorn. “Return
to your lover, Jon. Allow me the peace of enjoying what was once a babe in my
womb.”
“Mother!” Jon felt exasperated by the sentimentality. He was about to protest
when Howland interrupted him.
“Tomorrow, the game begins. The North knows about you and soon, news will
travel south and you will catch the king’s attention, just Lyanna did years
before.”  
Which king?  Jon had the sense not to ask. With great severity, he wondered,
“How do I win in a game I’ve never played?”
Howland chuckled. He returned to his stride before answering. “In the game of
cyvasse, the dragon is the most powerful piece on the board, but the truth
remains that whoever kills the king is deemed the winner. We use our allies and
their strengths and we use our enemies’ weaknesses to our advantage.”
“And what if they have none? Or ours pale in comparison?”
“Then, we cheat.” Howland replied without hesitance or apology. “Love and honor
will not always mingle in the same crowd and one day you will realize that
having both is not an option.”
Jon paused. “Do you want to be king, mother?” Jon was raised upon the legends
and histories. The Marsh King, the Kings of Winter, the Kings of the Mountains
and Moon, all children’s lore for when they could not sleep. To his education,
they were as vital as math.
“No,” Howland answered. “I want your father.”
***
When they arrived to the dining hall, his mother left his side to hug his uncle
with the affection shared between fond spouses and greeted a man dressed in
black that Jon vaguely recognized as a crow. Jon, on the other, was joined by
Robb. The older boy was quick to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him
aside so that they may be seated. They drank their wine with more eagerness
than typically allowed. They spoke to each other using sweet words and pet
names and made promises of the forbidden sort.
Jon would have enjoyed the flattery more if his earlier conversation did not
linger in his mind. He was still thinking about the advice as the night went on
and the liquor poured more feverously.
Tired of being left alone with his concerns, he leaned over to invite his older
brother to join him on the floor. He was hardly a dancer, but movement was
supposedly the cure for a volatile mind. His brother was surprised—he laughed
off the suggestion only to be pulled in against his will. The other guest were
too intoxicated to care, or perhaps their affection amused them. Jon knew the
steps enough to put on a bit of a show. He was forced to take lessons by his
father and after successfully making his argument against the activity, was
forced into them again in an attempt to get Arya to dance.  
Robb was laughing, having drunk a good share more than his little brother. His
hands traveled everywhere. The dance was a southern import—and required little
touching beyond the limbs. Robb sought to push the boundaries by slipping his
hands pass his brother’s wrists to grab his waist and touched his thighs when
they were supposed to circle each other. Jon heard cheering but all he saw was
Robb’s overt lustfulness. Like most boys, Robb found his dance lessons to be
absolute misery. Unlike most boys—their father included—Robb was good at it, as
he excelled in all his lessons.
When they were finished with their performance, Robb pulled Jon in until his
back was touching Robb’s chest. The Stark heir kissed his brother’s shoulder,
then his neck, and was about to move onto his face when Jon pulled away. The
Snow child gave Robb a warning look but the older responded with a wild grin.
To Jon’s surprise, Robb pulled him into an embrace and made an obvious show of
squeezing his ass in front of all their guests.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. Tempting fate was a game to him
and he ran Jon’s blood cold when his grape-flavored tongue licked the shell of
his ear. Jon failed to push him away, though he desperately tried to. The men,
intoxicated by their celebration, did not fail to cheer on their intimacy. They
could not read between the lines—could not see Robb’s ill-fated attractions as
anything more than foolishness done during a drunken stupor. Alphas blinded by
ale and wine did such things. They saw a pretty omega and all they could think
about was sticking their cocks inside, fucking them until they were bloated
with cum and child.
When he was finally released, Jon could not get away far enough. Robb was
pulled away by several alphas, all of them giving him their stamp of approving
for his ‘advances.’ They thought he was joking and would mock him the tomorrow
morning for assaulting his little brother. Jon retreated to his table. His
aversion made more men laugh—they thought he was shy, embarrassed of all
things. He was both grateful and horrified by the callous assumption. He tried
to catch his breath but before he could sit, he was given another goblet.
He was about to refuse until a voice clarified that the content was water. “You
must be thirsty after that performance,” Lady Wynafryd assumed. “I was watching
readily.”
Jon hesitantly took the cup. He assured himself that no one would be foolish
enough to drug him in front of so many people. Wynafryd smiled and offered him
a seat beside her. She told him that the dance was beautiful. “I would have,
however, enjoyed a routine more reminiscent of something native to our shared
history. I have never been to the Neck, but I heard that their practices, their
dances and rituals, are raw and without restraint.”
Jon grimaced. He was keeping an eye on Robb. The boy remained oblivious to his
lover’s outrage. At the moment, the future lord of Winterfell was lathering in
the praises of his fellow alphas. They were envious of him for being able to
touch Jon as he pleased and without consequences; they were brothers, after
all, and Jon was a bastard.
“We are physical people,” Jon answered without much thought. “Our dances do not
require so many rules.”
“Will you show me?”
Jon was taken back by the suggestion.
Wynafryd licked her lips. She touched Jon’s hand—a forward yet appropriate
gesture, given their environment. “Please? I am a good student.”
Jon glanced over at Robb, who was still rejoicing over his carelessness. In
retaliation for his thoughtless behavior, Jon got up and held out his hand.
“Will you join me for a dance, my lady?”
Wynafryd giggled and took his hand. “I believe I shall.”
The two of them made quite a display. The alcohol was settling down until
everyone was sitting at rest, watching them with vague interest. There was no
proper way to dance like a crannogman—with the exception of practiced
performances for rituals and events, there was no structure or routine. Jon
returned to his memories—when he was a boy of eight on his nameday or eleven
when he celebrated his awakening with his crannog comrades.  He recalled the
joy he felt when one of his friends, Lonnel Fenn—whose father was said to be a
giant, span together in circles until they tumbled down. He remembered the
squeal Lyra Boggs made when he lifted her up in jest. The crannogmen touched
and fondled where they could, kissed wherever they were allowed. They swung
their hands to loud music and swayed with the breezes. He did not have the
space to do so in Winterfell’s dining hall, but took advantage of Wynafryd’s
willing body to do what they could. He touched her in a way noblemen would call
scandalous—and though their movements were laced with laughter, there was a
gleam of intention in both their eyes.
When the music died, there was more cheering, more laughter, more noises
proclaiming that daring was an extravagance of the young. Jon turned and saw
Robb glaring. He turned back and saw Wynafryd smirking. Between the two, it was
the Manderly heiress who took his hand and kissed the back in appreciation.
“You are a fine teacher, Jon Snow. I would have your hands on me again.”
Oh, and there was that shrewdness again, wrapped in a façade of frivolity and
conceited lust. Jon was no longer naïve to her aims. She was her grandfather’s
successor—Lord Manderly had been calling her that since they arrived. She was
second in line to the seat of White Harbor but there was never doubt that she
was the heiress. She wanted their disapproving glares and their quick
judgements. It was how the Manderlys stayed in power despite others’
lustfulness for their lands. She was a northerner but her blood ran hot with
southern tendencies.
Jon took a step back. He smiled, more gracious than Sansa on her best days. “My
lady, there are rumors that you are a skilled player of cyvasee. Are you as
good as they say?”
Wynafryd raised an eyebrow. “I like to think I am. The White Harbor often dealt
with merchants from the east and they taught me the game. I have participated
in tournaments in Volantis.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn,” Jon lied. He noticed the others were watching,
wondering how this change of topic came about. “Perhaps as payment for this
lesson, you could take time to teach me.”
Wynafryd’s eyes sparkled. “I would be honored. Unfortunately, the only time I
have is the morning before my family departs. Would you mind joining me for a
private breakfast? With your father’s permission, of course! I’ve heard great
things about the glass gardens.”
Jon admired the grip forcing his hand. To ask his father for permission would
mean recognizing Wynafryd as a genuine contender for his maidenhood. By
accepting, Jon would be announcing his official intent to marry. The other
suitors were waiting with mindful ears.  
Jon took a step back. He tried not to grimace. “If my father allows it.”
All at once, the visiting noble men and women turned to Lord Stark. He was
taken back by the forwardness of both parties. With a cough and some
reluctance, he gave his nod of approval. He would assign a chaperone tomorrow.
Lord Manderly laughed and more than ever, the roar resembled thunder before a
treacherous storm. Howland stared; there was no emotion on his face. He did,
however, turn an eye to his fellow nobles. They, too, watched with great
interest. Lord Karstark gripped his goblet; he was seething. Lord Bolton
expressed more curiosity towards Howland’s son than he had the entire trip; he
mimicked Howland’s actions, assessing the room for his fancy. Lord Umber was
not discreet when he urged his son for more initiative. Howland's sister caught
his eye; she frowned at him. Her good daughter Dacey whispered something in her
ear that made her fingers curl. She took Lyanna into her arms and pardoned
herself. Jyana understood what the people present did not.
Jon tipped the hourglass tonight. The game had begun.  
***
Ned Stark drank more than he should and more than he was used to. For most of
his young adulthood, he acted as the sober fellow for his friends’ adventures.
He accepted the role without a fuss. Tonight, he needed the sacks of wine and
goblets of liquor to drown out the gloom of his son’s departure.
“Calm yourself, my love. Jon has accepted no proposals. It is only a meal.”
Howland followed the guards as they escorted the Lord of Winterfell to his
bedchambers, which meant it belonged to Howland as well. They were
fortunate—Ned was not a belligerent drunk; the only sign of his ale related
escapade was his loose footing. He was, nonetheless, forlorn. He grieved Jon as
if the boy had died in battle.
Jory laid him on his bed and appointed Howland with the task of caring for him.
Howland thanked the men for their assistance. He arranged the pillows so that
Ned was sitting upright and prepared a bowl for the horrors of drunkenness.
When Howland moved to undress him, he was pulled into sloppy kiss. Howland
laughed at the slovenly gesture used to take off his clothes. He helped so that
Ned could focus on worshipping his body with his drunken lips and wandering
hands. On the bed, Howland straddled Ned. The liege was motivated by Howland’s
happy giggles—a preferred sound to the tremble in his heart.
Ned tugged Howland’s nipple with his teeth to draw him closer. His hands were
working out of place with his head. His hands were spreading Howland’s cheeks.
He wanted to taste Howland and he wanted to be inside him. Ned stabbed his
fingers into his hole.
Howland moaned. He advised him to slow down. “You need to prepare for tomorrow.
You still have not picked a chaperone for Jon and Wynafryd. Robb—”
“Not Robb,” Ned grunted. He all but threw Howland in the air so that the
younger man could land on his cock. Howland tried to steady himself but Ned
refused to relinquish control. Howland whimpered. His instincts flared at the
manhandling—he could feel his cunt gushing with each thrust. Ned was digging
his fingers into his ass and hips, lifting him up and down whenever he wanted
to thrust deeper. Howland wondered how he was going to handle the journey
home—his cunt was sure to suffer from the exertion.
Howland grabbed Ned’s hair for balance. Leaning forward gave the Stark better
access to his body. He dug his teeth into that white neck and did not let go
until Howland gasped. The blood dripped down his chest. Ned licked each drop
until he was reacquainted with Howland’s stomach. The flatness triggered
madness within Ned. He threw Howland off his cock and onto his bed.
“I should have given you another child,” Ned growled. “The world should have
forgotten what you looked like without my pups inside you.” He reentered
Howland. His thrusts became sharper. Howland swore the indenture of Ned’s cock
could be felt through his belly. “I should have thrown your medicine into the
swamps. Kept you on my cock so that you’d forget what it was like to be empty.
Locked you in this room so that all that was left was a brooding mare for my
babes…” Throughout their fucking, Ned spewed countless regrets. Howland
listened to them over his helpless gasps.
“I should have killed Benjen for touching you.”
***
The guards came when they heard Howland scream. They were relieved to find him
underneath their lord, passed out and drooling from his crushing orgasm,
fingers entangled with the most powerful man in the North. Neither of the two
men had enough courage to check for pulses.
Ned woke up hours later—his head splitting from his earlier ambitions with
alcohol. His throat felt dry and his bladder was full. Howland was resting
beside him. He put on his robe and walked to the closet to relieve himself.
When he came back, he found Howland sitting in the nude at his desk with two
cups of water in front of him. Ned took one and went back to the bed. He asked
if things escalated while he was out of sorts.
Howland chuckled.  “Only you remember Wynafryd requesting privacy with our
child; that was the brunt of it.”
“That was enough.” Ned took a large gulp of his water. He sighed. “Jon told me
he was not looking for a mate.”
“He is not,” Howland assured. The man was heartbroken by the possibility. The
White Harbor was days away from Winterfell. “It is good of him to become well
acquainted with nobles of note. We do not want people to perceive him as Lord
Stark’s secreted bastard, a treasure hidden from the realm’s eyes.” He drank
his share of water. “He needs to expand his repertoire of companions.”
“What is wrong with Winterfell?”
Howland laughed. “There is nothing wrong with Winterfell. Winterfell is
wonderful. But it is not the entire world. When he travels to the Neck, he
stays on the kingsroad and is forbidden from visiting other houses or
holdfasts. He is your precious son—no one would deny that but he is also a
mystery.” Howland paused. He walked over to Ned and kneeled. “And perhaps you
should consider a similar philosophy with all your children.”
Ned did not say anything. He brought his fingers to Howland’s mouth and
Howland’s suckling was instinctive. “You’ve been talking to Catelyn.”
Howland almost choked. Ned drank more water.
When Howland recovered, he got up and sat on Ned’s lap. “I have,” Howland
confessed. “Our agendas are compatible.”
“Sending my children away?”
“No,” Howland protested. “Never.” He kissed Ned. “I would never perform an act
against you, you know this.” He caressed his lover’s face. “But I want what’s
best for our children—all of our children. If that means sending our sons and
daughters to the south or the Neck or wherever their destiny lies, so be it. We
cannot keep them safe forever.”
“Is that not our duty?”
“To a degree, yes.” Howland pulled Ned into an embrace. “But we should also
prepare them for this cruel world without us. We will not be here forever.”
Ned held him tighter. “I cannot imagine a world without you and Jon in this
world.”
Howland thought to tell him he’d lived it but decided against such vile
teasing. He grasped Ned’s face and smiled. Ned was confused. Howland wanted to
laugh at himself. He wondered how he could ever suspect such innocent man of
malice. “Tonight…you were saying things that concerned me.”
“What kind of things?” Ned often lost himself in the heat of lovemaking.
Howland appreciated his passion.
Howland wondered if he should confess. He shook his head and pressed against
Ned’s chest so that he was lying on his back. “That Robb should not be allowed
to guard his brother tomorrow.” He straddled Ned’s hips.
Ned groaned as Howland got himself comfortable. “Robb is heat compatible with
Jon. I would be inviting a brawl if I put them in the same room with Jon.”
“Are formalities necessary? Jon’s heat was a month ago. His scent is sweet but
not tempting.”
“Robb’s instincts will be to protect Jon from potential rivals. Stark men are
not known for their self-control when it comes to protecting what’s ours.”
“How so?”
When Howland leaned down to kiss Ned, Ned rolled his body so that they were
side by side. Howland squealed. “Ned—!”
“Our mates are ours,” Ned sounded possessed. His growl caused Howland to
tremble. “There are alphas in my family who’ve slaughtered children and burned
villages to get to their mates. When my father won my mother’s hand, her
cousin, a fleeting Flint of little prestige, challenged my father to a dual. My
father grabbed his sword and slit the child’s throat before he could even lift
his hand. He crushed his skull out of anger—anger that someone fool could try
and take his mate away. The boy mother’s cried for mercy. My mother did not.
She never begged for anyone’s life—not hers, not even for my grandfather when
those men killed him. Her heat was spurred by the blood. My father rutted her
for days.”
Howland found himself growing breathless “Did you thirst for blood in my
honor?”
The look on Ned’s face made him bite his lip. Ned gripped Howland’s cock.
“Those boys at the tourney…those boys who tried to ravage your body. I tried to
settle my rage by beating them at the tourney but it did nothing to remove the
bloodlust. I needed them to understand you were mine. During the war, they…”
“They were on our side.”
“But they wanted you,” Ned growled. “They said things when they thought my ears
were down but my men were loyal and quick to spill their grievances. Out of the
hundreds with wandering eyes and loose tongues, only those men attempted
to—they were a stain on your veil I had to remove.”
Howland did not ask for details. He provided no judgements when he brought
Ned’s knuckles to his lips. “They deserved it; they deserved to die for what
they tried to do to me.”
“They were my men in battle, my comrade in arms…I sent them straight to the
enemy as fodder for the horses. Being young boys, they only wanted to prove
themselves. They did not take kindly to a Northern general—especially one not
much older than themselves—but they followed my commands and I sent them to
their deaths. One of them, I saw after the Battle of Bells. His foot had been
torn off but he could have been saved—I cleaved my sword in his skull and
called it an act of mercy.”
Ned took back his hand from Howland’s palm and stroked his lover’s hair. “You
are the end of my humanity, Howland.”
Ned returned to his slumber after another round of lovemaking. He slept with
Howland’s body draped on top of him. Howland laid without sleeping. He drew
circles onto his chest. He thought about their lands and wondered what the snow
would look like covered in the blood of men and ruled by the roar of beasts.  
***
Within the same night, Robb marched to his lover’s quarters with a carnal
disposition. His attempts were halted by two of his father’s guardsmen. They
stood in front of Jon’s room with swords prepared.
“Let me in,” he growled. “I want to speak to Jon.”
“We apologize, Lord Robb. Jon has requested his privacy for tonight. We are to
bar entry to all alphas—including you.”
“I am his—” He heaved a breath worthy of drowning man. “—his brother. You have
no right to keep him from me. Move aside.”
“His requests were quite clear.” They turned to one another. One of them spoke,
with more reluctance on the matter, “Your father, prior to his slumber, made it
known that he wanted the two of you separated. All alphas pose a potential
risk. Return to your quarters.”
Robb was deafened from reason and blinded with rage. He tackled the doorway.
“Jon!” He shouted. “Let me go! I need to see him! Jon!” The men were forced to
hold him back. They were used to the struggle; his strength now was nothing
compared to his ruts but he was getting stronger with age and training.
Jon listened from the safety of his room. He gripped the sheets tighter and
tried to drown out his brother’s cries. When the noises died down, he heard his
brother grunt in frustration. Finally, there was a slam indicating Robb had
retreated to his bedchambers—right next to Jon’s. Jon heard thrashing on the
other side of the wall. Robb was destroying his room. Jon whimpered when he
heard the glass shattering and the wood snapping. His desk for his studies and
the bed he never used since Jon arrived.
He buried his head in the pillows. Everything was going to be okay, Jon
thought. He would make it up to him tomorrow. He promised.
***
Despite lacking the aptitude for the game, Jon’s grandmother owned a collection
of Cyvasse boards and a set of jade pieces—a memento from her time in the Free
Cities. In the game, the players arrange the tiles on the board, with a screen
in the middle, so neither can see how the other arranges their board. 
Wynafryd helped him with the placement early on. She told him since they were
not actually opponents, she was allowed to guide him. She instructed him on the
roles and the rules. She was patient and carried no agitation whenever Jon
stopped to ask questions.
They played a few practice rounds before Wynafryd decided they should dedicate
one round to his own private arrangements. Jon agreed. During their first game
on his own, he continued to ask more questions, starting with the trebuchets
and dragons.  
“Thank you for this, Lady Wynafryd. I’m afraid most people have lost patience
with me by now.”
“Nonsense,” Wyanfryd dismissed. “I think it’s a blessing that my future wife
shares at least one common interest with me.”
Jon’s response was a tense smile. “And what can the crossbowmen do again? To
the elephants?”
Wynafryd paused. Her eyes were peering at him; Jon wondered if he should have
indulged her flirtation a little longer. Before he could apologize, she
answered, “I think you know what they can do, Jon,” Wynafryd folded her hands
and leaned in. “Why don’t you make your move and see?”
Jon licked his lips. He used his elephant to dismantle a catapult on Wynafryd’s
side. “You were planning to trap my dragon.”
Wynafryd laughed. She positioned her rabble in front of her king. “Indeed, I
was. Good call.” Jon made another move while Wynafryd spoke. “That was a lovely
show you put on last night. The encore this morning was stunning as well.”
“You are quite the performer yourself,” Jon praised. He finished up and waited
for Wynafryd to respond. “Half the court finds you frivolous and the other half
thinks of you as nothing more than a loaded skirt chaser.”
“I was going to play the meek bride but that’s a role reserved for my enemies.”
She sacrificed an elephant to save her dragon. “I don’t want to be your enemy,
Jon.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A pretty wife?”
“There are whore houses for that.”
Wynafryd picked up a sausage and bit into it. She smacked her lips in approval.
Then, she revealed her true desire. “Power.”
“I am neither a Stark nor am I a Reed. I have no power to give you.”
“I thought we were dropping pretenses, Jon.” She leaned back. “Centuries ago,
my family ruled a land located along the banks of the mighty river Mander in
the Kingdom of the Reach. We swore fealty to the Gardener kings to avoid
bloodshed and though we are proud descendants of the First Men, we accepted the
Andals into our home. Years later, King Garth X sired no alpha heirs—only
omegas who were well into their marriages to my family and House Peake. Several
counts of murder, conspiracy, and a war later, and we were expelled to the
North because a king who was threatened by our power.”
Jon took a few sips of milk to calm his nerves. He was shaking—he hoped the
screen shielded his body from sight. “I suppose you want to rule again.”
Wynafryd laughed. “And betray the custody of the lords we swore ourselves to?
Nonsense! We had nothing when we left the Reach. We were penniless and
friendless. Your family saved us. My family will follow the name Stark until
the end of our days.”  
“Then where is the power you seek?”
“Within the glory of the North.” Wynafryd’s response was light and airy, as if
she did not ask for the sun to be kept in a bottle. “By reminding the south of
our fifty thousand soldiers and our brutal borders and our shivering seas and
making it clear that we cannot kneel to kings who have wasted our loyalty on
golden whores and pretty horses.”
“You want a war.”
“That is the price for a kingdom.”  
“I don’t want a crown.”
“No, but what you want is not necessarily in lined with what you need. And that
alpha of yours—he needs to become king."
Jon continued to deny her. "Why would he want to be king?"
"Because only a king is given so much leniency with his desires.”
Jon stood up. He refused to give this woman any more leeway than he already
has. “Cease your treachery—I am willing to dismiss this conversation as
mindless dribble by children but we will speak no more of it.”
Wynafryd rebuffed his efforts. “This is treason, Jon. We may be young and it
may take decades but this is what the seasons are leading to.” She stared,
unwavering in her confidence. “House Manderly will support the Stark claim. We
have fifteen hundred soldiers—a number that does not include the people who man
our fleets. We have silver. We have ports. You will need us, but we will need
the guarantee that our loyalty will be remembered.”
Jon took a deep breath. He looked outside to where Desmond was standing guard.
The man heard nothing and was chatting with a serving boy. To Wynafryd’s
pleasure, Jon sat back down. He clenched his fist and continued the
conversation with great reluctance.
“If your words carry any merit, then you understand the importance of
discretion alongside loyalty.” He swallowed to wet his dry throat. “I want to
trust you. But it has been centuries since we’ve shared a living relative. My
family has ties to the Mormonts, the Flints and their neighboring mountain
clans, even the Glovers are closer to us than you. How can you change the way I
see things?”
For this question, Wynafryd did not have an immediate answer. Instead, she
picked up one of her pieces—a king and handed it over to Jon. “We’ll just have
to change that, won’t we?”
***
Jon left the glass gardens with a heavy heart. He ran past Desmond; his guard
was completely immersed with whatever his omegan companion had to say and did
not sense Jon’s presence until he was a blur. The man ran after him but Jon was
too fast. He was running for his life. His brother was lurking nearby. A
punishment awaited Jon and the weirwood tree was his only solace.
When he arrived at the godswoods, the world deafened except for the lingering
hymn of spirits telling him to remember the feeling of snow on his lips and his
mother’s tears. He walked to the weirwood tree in a trance. He stared at the
miserly face and though his legs were shaking, he could not bend his knees.
Instead, he waited, lulled into a security they could not promise. He felt arms
wrapped around him and he did not remove them. He felt a fangs—harsh and
unrelenting—bite into his flesh and he did not beg for mercy. He cried out his
brother’s name. “Robb…”
The hands on his waist tightened. “You drive me mad,” Robb growled. Jon
whimpered when he was forced onto the ground. He ripped off Jon’s pants before
undoing his own.
“I watched from a distance as that woman played her games, leaning over to
showcase her warm breasts, licking her lips as if she imagines your honey
spread over mouth—she wants you and to further your own agenda, you behave like
some harlot in a brothel. Is what she’s offering so vital to your cause?”
Jon shivered. He tried to deny Robb’s accusation, keep him ignorant for as long
as possible. Robb did not deserve to be held accountable for the blood on Jon’s
hands. “Robb, we were talking about the game. There was nothing you should
worry about...ah!”
Robb holstered Jon’s legs so that they were wrapped around him. He placed his
cock in between Jon’s pussy and moved as if he was thrusting inside him. “I am
not a fool, Jon,” he growled. “You came here to ask for forgiveness with a cunt
as dry as Dorne. For hours, I watched as you tempt her with your pretty
mouth—practically shoved her cock inside you for a conversation. You were
playing a game, indeed, but it wasn’t on the board.” Robb maneuvers the tip of
his cock against Jon.
“Robb! Stop it! You promised—!”
“I keep oaths to those who deserve my word.” He pushed inside. Jon clenched the
dirt. “Tell me your plans or we end everything today.” He leaned down. “I’ll
tell father I ravaged you in the godswoods. I’ll showcase your ruined cunt
throughout the courtyards, fuck you on the fields if I have to, and make sure
every single alpha knows that you’ve tasted your brother’s cock. They’ll see
your body wrecked and know that their measly manhoods could never satisfy you.”
His cock pushed against Jon’s clit.
Jon’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Robb’s cock was almost inside him.
His pussy was making a puddle on the ground. He struggled for his sanity and
gasped out, “Father will—”
“Father will send me to the Wall for defiling you,” Robb concluded. “But I
don’t care. Nothing matters if I lose you.” He leaned in to bite Jon’s neck. “I
want the North to know you are mine—always and forever. I’ll get you fat with
my pups. Can you imagine it? My children feeding off your pretty breasts,
milking you as I wood. You’ll spend decades without my cock inside you and know
you can never have me again.”
Jon could not keep it any longer. He came, gripping on Robb’s body for balance.
He screamed Robb’s name and plead for the gods to help him. He swore to tell
Robb everything—all his secrets and plans and every horrid thought he’s had
regarding the sovereignty of the North and his doubts about their love.
Both of them rested underneath the weirwood tree, overcome with satisfaction
and terror.  
***
Lady Stark was on her way to the sept when she saw her son and the bastard
leave the godswoods. She stopped where she was. She took in the sight of Robb’s
arm around Jon’s waist and his lighthearted expression. His happiness would
have been a welcomed contrast to his behavior this morning—he was livid when he
saw Jon’s empty chair. Yet, all she could see was Jon’s damp shirt and his
flushed cheeks. Robb would claim a fever was responsible and Jon would obey his
reasoning.
She could already imagine their bastards running around Winterfell.
The wind blew. Catelyn tightened the shawl around her shoulders and returned to
her journey. The sept would be warmer.
Catelyn was supposed to meet with her husband on the matter of the tourney, but
he became distracted by other pressing concerns. According to Maester Luwin, he
was already securing rations for the trips—meaning the witch upheld his end of
the bargain. She was both relieved and upset, and no matter how hard she tried,
she could not dwell on the former alone. Her anger was getting the best of her
and still, she remained silent. She stopped throwing tantrums when the witch
was present—emotions were objects to Lord Reed; he molded them into a weapon
and she was sickened whenever he turned her anguish into a blade.
She walked in the direction of the wind and when she arrived to her
destination, the gust settled into dead air. It was colder than before, but the
sept was pulsing with heat. Before she could retreat to her haven, someone
interrupted her.
“May I have a word, Lady Stark?”
Lady Stark removed her fingers from the handle and turned. She composed herself
and tried to smile despite the ice snakes shivering up her spine. “Lord Bolton,
to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’ve heard that your family will traveling south for the upcoming tourney. I
wanted to extend an offer of companionship for the trip. I believe it will
present a better image if the houses were to travel as whole—at the very least,
it will be a more reasonable expenditure.”
Catelyn could have corrected him by saying that nothing was set in stone, or
stalled by declaring that it was a matter better proposed to her husband.
Instead, she raised her eyebrow and questioned Lord Bolton’s sources.
“You are quite well-informed, Lord Bolton. I only just proposed the trip to my
husband. Perhaps you have more ears in the castle than I do,” Lady cruelly
insinuates. “Either way, it is a discussion you should be having with Lord
Stark.”
Lord Bolton was not deterred. “I aim to be well-informed, Lady Stark. Besides,
your husband is busy with his lover. A shame, but understandable.”
Lady Stark smiled tightly. “I suppose so.” She remembered what she heard in the
corridor. From afar, she saw the serving girls walk past them. They knew who
was with her—she was safe for the time being. “You and my husband share the
same tastes.”
The chill returned tenfold. “Is there something the matter, Lady Stark?”
Catelyn forced a blush on her cheeks. “No, just that I have lived in the castle
for some time. I hear things, too. I heard about your proposal to Lord Reed.
Oh! But to bring up a rejection is unsightly. Forgive my manners, Lord Bolton.
I don’t know what came over me.”  
“It is alright,” Lord Bolton answered without missing a beat. He took a step
towards Lady Catelyn. He did not seem remorseful and his boldness made Catelyn
breathless. “You are the Lady of Winterfell. You may say and do whatever you
please.”
Oh, Catelyn adored the statement, however false it was. She let down an ounce
of her defenses, but kept her men at arms. She tried to settle the original
matter. “On the matter of the tourney, I will discuss the proposal with my
husband. I believe he will find it amendable.”
“Will you be attending?”
“Yes, I’d hope so,” Catelyn admitted. “I miss the south.”
“It has its merits,” Lord Bolton agreed. “Some people are more tolerable than
others.”
Catelyn laughed. “Is that all your liege lady is to you? Tolerable?” She was
joking; she rarely had the chance to jest with other northerners—her southern
company diminished since she was married and she was often by herself.
“You are more than tolerable, Lady Stark. If I was your husband, I would flay
the men who say otherwise.”
Catelyn turned her back on Lord Bolton but could feel his stare burrowing into
her body. She faced him again. “Have you ever been inside a sept before, Lord
Bolton?”\
Lord Bolton answered plainly, “I have. During my trips to the south, I examined
their structure.”
“What do you make of them?”
“Big. Showy. A bit unnecessary in its grandeur—with no offense to you, my
lady.”
“I took none,” she replied. She looked at the building before her. Smaller than
the one in Riverrun but vastly bigger than any other sept in the North—saved
for the familial shrine of the White Harbor. “My husband had it made for me. I
was distressed when I first arrived to the North, prone to sleepless nights and
wild daydreams. He thought it would calm me down some. I think he wanted me to
be happy.” She smiled fondly at the pearl painted bricks and the engraved
leaves. “When I die, it will be taken down. Unless, of course, my son weds a
southern omega.”   
Lord Bolton walked forwards until they were standing side by side. “There is
another option.”
Catelyn smiled. “Oh?”
“Another could take Winterfell.”
Catelyn stilled. She turned to the side and saw Lord Bolton’s unmoving face. He
bypassed her to open the door to the sept. “Both are viable options,” he
explained. “Enjoy your prayer, my lady.”
For the longest moment, she stared at Lord Bolton’s face without a single word.
Then, she swallowed. “Lord Bolton, would you like to join me in prayer?” She
paused. "No one but my septa enters when I present. We will be alone. No one
would say anything towards your reputation." 
 If Lord Bolton was surprised by the offer, he did not show it. Catelyn walked
ahead of him and though she did not look back, she could hear his footsteps
following her.
***
Later that day, Jon proclaimed he was too ill to attend the final hunt. Many of
the alphas protested but were silenced by Lord Stark’s glower. He demanded
maester Luwin reserved his unrelenting attention towards his son. While Lady
Wynafryd offered to stay behind to nurse him, Robb halted the attempt by
personally requesting her companionship during the hunt.
“I want to ride beside you, Lady Wynafryd,” Robb’s smile was as pretty and
false as fool’s gold. “Circumstances may permit that we learn to appreciate
each other’s presence.”  
Lady Wynafryd hesitated but could not refuse.
The latest hunt was not as successful as the first, but produced a healthy
sense of comradery amongst the alphas. Jon did his best to mimic the phenomenon
with the other omegas. He was reminded of the Neck with how often he was
swarmed with their affection.
Afterwards, the lords and ladies returned at nightfall to pack up. Despite not
attaining their desired result, they were happy. Jon was simply a preliminary
round—an albeit, beautiful introduction. They would have their chances
elsewhere. Lord Stark had three omega children, after all.
Those who were successful acted immediately. True to his promise, Domeric
Bolton declared his intent to marry Theon. He furthered his agenda with the
promise of a proper courting and a respectable dowry request. He was direct,
which he knew Lord Stark would appreciate, and made the pretense of asking
Theon for his permission—as if the boy’s hand was his own to give.  
Theon shook when he answered yes. He cried a bit, much to Domeric’s
displeasure. When Lord Stark asked if he was alright, he nodded and said he was
happy that an alpha like Domeric thought so much of him.  
Good boy, thought Domeric. When the attention turned back on him, he continued
with his proposal. “I am participating in a tourney soon. I want Theon to
attend. If I win, I will gladly crown Theon my queen of love and beauty—though
I must admit, such a feat is a stretch.” He was one of the best riders in the
North and would easily slaughter the southerners on horseback. 
Ned nodded. He was impassive towards the proposal. “I will send a raven to Pyke
illustrating the terms of the betrothal and the rest of the dowry can be
negotiated at Dreadfort. If Lord Greyjoy does not send someone—” Theon winced
at the likely possibility. “—then rest assure, I will send someone to go in
their place.”
Domeric was cruel. “Robb, I assume. For practice towards his real siblings.”
Theon did not cry this time. He waited until the meeting was over and sobbed in
the comforts of his own room. He had enough dignity to mourn his freedom in
solitude.
Jon said goodbye to his mother without a tear in his eye. The sun of ambition
dried out his eyes. He kissed his mother and siblings and promised to see them
soon. Meera mocked him for his happiness. She joked that he wanted them to
leave. Jon poked her ribs and told her not to be silly.
“I am not a child anymore. I will not cry for someone I expect to see again and
soon.”
Meera giggled. "Good answer." 
Howland stroked his cheek and praised his bravery. He hugged his family
farewell. After watching them leave the gates, he returned to his room. Robb
was waiting by his desk. Beside him were two large hourglasses.
Jon licked his lips.
Robb tipped the first hourglass over. The sands poured onto the ground. “Two
more days,” Robb reminded as he captured Jon’s lips. He stripped him of his
shirt so that Jon’s breasts were on display. He admired their swollenness. A
small bead of white dripped from his nipples. 
Robb stared.
“A repercussion of the medicine,” Jon moaned.
Robb started pinching his nipples. Then, he started squeezing. More dribbles
slewed out. Robb chuckled. He took off Jon’s pants and fingered his crotch. Jon
was getting wet. “That’s more like it,” he explained. “Milk and honey—my
favorite things in the world.”  
While Robb kept Jon company, Ned and Catelyn were left alone. Ned could not
sleep. Walking over to his trunk, he received a tiny wooden box. He opened it
and the hymn of the crannogmen rang throughout the room. He heard Howland’s
voice. He went back to bed and laid there until his lover’s lull put him to
sleep.
Catelyn’s methods for rest were much more plain. She asked for tea. When her
handmaiden left the room, she got out a pouch of red powder and dropped a
spoonful into the steaming liquid with some honey and mint for flavor.
The ceremony ended that night. One of them would be married before the end of
the year. It was a success in all definitions of the word.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I was disgustingly ill last week. I thought it was just hayfever and
     then it turned out to be a real fever and here we are. I know I don’t
     have to update “on time” but I like the idea of stability and
     discipline. I’m afraid if I don’t update regularly, I’ll start
     believing that I don’t have to update at all. Anyways, however late,
     I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, though!
     Several reference points for this story:
     a) Targaryeans will not be involved in this story and neither will
     the white walkers. Putting them in is far too much work and there are
     no particular voids that need to be filled by them. This does not
     mean, however, that the wildlings aren't going to be involved. I
     can't do that to Tormund, Mance Ryder, or Ygritte.
     b) “Heat Compatibility” refers to alpha-omega pairs whose heats and
     ruts synchronize. It is NOT comparable to soulmates (which is more or
     less a romantic notion rather than an actual occurrence—same as our
     world). Being heat compatible is supposedly the body’s way of
     detecting the best breeding partner. Ned was heat compatible with
     both Howland and Catelyn. Brandon was compatible with Lyanna. As
     implied by Lord Manderly, there are artificial methods to incur
     compatibility but they have side effects (i.e. my explanation for the
     Targaryean madness because there's not way to justify incest without
     it!).
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Since they were children, Robb’s blood burned with the ferocity of a warrior.
Jon theorized that such heat dissolved any inclination towards politics that
once resided in his body. Fortunately, the Snow Child was not as narrow-minded.
His mother was living proof that omegas could be warriors and though they would
never garner the respect and reputation of their Northern counterparts, they
could still rise above their statuses using various talents and schemes. Jon
would never be as big as Robb or but he could see the cracks in the pavement
that Robb missed. He could think in the long term as oppose to Robb’s quick
wits and perhaps that would be enough to elevate him to the platform of a
ruler.
More than ever, Jon needed to diversify his strengths. After their father had
decreed that the Starks would be attending the tourney in the south, Robb was a
devotee to the lance and Ser Rodrik was his septon. He made it known that he
promises to fulfill. Following a rather exceptional practice, he proclaimed
that if he were to win, he’d crown his brother as the queen of love and beauty.
Jon choked on his drink. Lady Stark drank her wine with a tense expression.
Ned paid no mind to the declaration. “It is your first southern tourney.
Conceit will only lead to your demise.”
Robb flushed with embarrassment. “You are right, father. I apologize. I just
wanted to make my intentions clear.” Robb smiled. “But our northern steeds are
more resilient than their mild mares. I think I have a good shot at placing in
the novice rounds.”
Lord Stark tried not to smile and settled for a twitch of the lips. He, too,
believed that Robb was capable of claiming victory from the South. Lady Stark
was the first to speak. “The laurel is quite an honor. Perhaps you should
refrain from making any serious declarations. If you were to find another omega
you fancy, it would be the finest start for courtship. No one would dare
contest.”
Before Robb could correct her assumption, his father spoke against the counsel.
“I’d rather Robb restrict his winnings to his siblings. We don’t need him in
the lap of another alpha’s bride.”
Lady Stark tightened her grip around her goblet. To avoid an altercation
between his parents, Robb hastily agreed with his father. He then took Jon’s
hand and kissed his wrist. “Mother, I want the world to know that anyone who
desires my brother needs to earn the approval of the man who plans to stab them
through the heart.”
Jon rolled his eyes and took his hand back. “Let us hope such a man does not
lay you on your ass.” Their siblings giggled. They did not understand the lust
in their eldest brother’s eyes while their father played the blind man to their
flirtation.
Robb trained harder after that night. Motivated by his oath, he performed as if
his trainers were competitors for his brother’s hand. Ser Rodrik was an
excellent teacher, having won many tourneys in his prime. He taught Robb the
markings and instructed him on where to aim for the most effect. Robb was a
prodigy in all acts of violence—ideal for an alpha. For days, Jon watched him
remove his father’s men off their horses and trampled on their pride. He spent
his days consumed with thoughts of victory that he ignored his corporal
weaknesses—except at night when his bones gave out, and flesh turned blue. At
night, Robb held onto Jon warmth, but that was the limit to their physicality.
Days turned to weeks, and Jon came to the unsettling realization that he was
still a virgin.
This tourney was becoming more of a hassle than expected.
To avoid being disappointed with Robb’s distracted state, he devoted himself to
his training and settled for touching himself when Robb was away. They did not
even take baths with each other anymore. Their daily rituals long fell out of
synchronization.
At the moment, Jon was with Theon learning groundwork. Robb was finishing up
his practice. Lord Stark waited for him to complete his last trial run of the
day. Ned was in no hurry; he enjoyed listening to Ser Rodrik’s praise.
“He has an eye for weak points. He knows where to hit, even if his opponent is
unaware themselves. I think we can expect favorable results from his first
tourney. He'll be put in the novice rounds, as per their customs. If that is
the case, he will most likely place. He might even win.”
Lord Stark nodded. He was proud of his son’s progress and hoped the best for
his performance. He never voiced a word of this to Robb, though. The boy had
enough weight on his shoulders without his father’s expectations piled on top
of them.
When his son returned from the stables, Ned beckoned him over. Robb followed
without question. They stopped at the towers overseeing another practice. Jon
was wrestling with Theon, and though Greyjoy was older and larger, Jon was
nimble enough to slip out of his grasp numerous times. Robb could not say a
word to his father, but the sight of Jon wrapping his legs around Theon’s neck
was enticing. His brother’s flexibility was the stuff of fantasies.
“I heard your training has been going well.”
“I…” Robb paused. He tried to formulate the best response in his head. His
father thought pride was a wasteful vice, but the lord hated false humbleness
as well. He considered what Jon would say in his place.
“I’m sure Ser Rodrik would have the most to say on that matter,” said Robb, an
air of caution in his tone.
“We have spoken. He has high expectations for you.”
And what about you, father? Robb thought. His father said nothing, negative or
otherwise, about his training. He wondered if anything he did was up to par for
the Stark patriarch. “I hope I can live up to his expectations.”
“You will.” Ned paused.
When Jon was a baby, Ned often cradled him in his arms and whispered his never-
ending love. He called him ‘perfect’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘the most brilliant
thing he ever made.’ Ned was scared that Jon, as a bastard, would never know
love like his siblings. Howland asked Ned if he spoke such kind words to his
heir.
“He is my son. He already knows he is loved,” Ned had replied.
“But do you say it out loud? Does he hear your affections when you speak?”
“I love all my children.” He remembered looking down at Jon’s small body and
wondering what would happen if he held on too tight. “But Jon is special. He
needs more attention than my trueborn children will.”
Howland laughed and got dressed for his daily duties. “That poor boy,” Howland
mused. “To be born a Stark and not a Reed. He will know his father’s hand
before his heart.”
In the present day, Lord Stark turned to his son. “Your best is all I ask for.”
Robb startled at the confession. He nodded. “Yes, father!”
The sound of a heavy fall broke their concentration. They turned to see Theon
forced onto the ground by Jon. Their trainer, Mikken’s omega, praised Jon’s
technique. “Wonderful! Did everyone see the way Jon got out of Theon’s grasp?
How he twisted his body? Even though he’s not as strong, he was able to gain
the upper hand with his flexibility. I want you to learn from that.”
Jon grinned. He let go of Theon and laughed as the other boys and girls praised
him. As Jon was about to retreat for the next pair's match, Theon let out a
scream of frustration. He slammed his fists onto the ground. Without warning,
he got up and tackled Jon. Jon gasped as his face hit the floor and the dirt
scraped his cheek.
“Jon—!” Robb cried out. He moved to abandon his post, but his father held him
back. “Calm down, Robb. I want you to watch your little brother.”
“I am watching! That’s how I saw Theon—!”
“Watch. Don’t speak.”
Jon waited a moment or two, perhaps out of shock, before getting out of the
chokehold. The result was Theon thrown on his back. Jon hastily straddled him
and pushed his weight on his chest to limit Theon’s breathing.
“What is the matter with you?” Jon yelled.
Theon said nothing. He struggled to be released but winded up losing breath and
choking. Jon was ordered to get off him. Jon complied, but his annoyance was
evident. Before Theon could receive his lecture, he stormed off. Jon, in a fit
of anger, shoved the comforting hand off. Jon chased after the older boy.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen your brother angry.”
The moments were rare. Jon was beautifully submissive. Robb needed to commit
horrible follies to incite his anger. “Theon was childish. I will speak to him
on the matter,” Robb assured. Inwardly, he sighed, wondering why such
troublesome matters must burden him.
He did not notice the fond expression on his father’s face, prompted by Robb’s
casual acquittal to his duty.
“Your brother has been on edge. Do you know if it is related to the courtship
ceremony? Was he upset by the results?”
Robb could have scoffed. The two of them had been relieved to discover that
while Theon was propositioned, Jon remained available. No one had asked for his
hand in marriage—not even the Manderly girl. Perhaps the other suitors were
waiting for their options to expand; maybe no one found themselves worthy of
Robb’s criteria. Then there was the possibility that Lady Wynafryd frightened
them off more than Robb did. No one wanted to face a humiliating rejection from
a bastard, and no one was willing to compete with the granddaughter of the
second richest man in the North.
“I assure you father; Jon is happy to retain his independence for a while
longer. He wants to remain with his family.” Jon wanted to remain in Robb’s bed
with his legs spread open and his cunt dripping from the constant intrusion of
a cock. He wanted Robb’s lips on his chest, his tongue in his hole, and hands
on his flesh.
“He is still young,” Ned cautioned. “There is still so much the world has to
offer him and I want him to have the best.”
Robb tightened his fist. “Winterfell is the best,” he reminded his father. “Jon
is a northerner. He is a Stark. The best for him is Winterfell. It will always
be Winterfell.” It would always be him. Robb repeated, with more resolution,
that he was the best for Jon, regardless of what his father believed.
***
Robb and his father parted ways when their mother made her appearance. Catelyn
had been in good spirits as of late and praised her son’s progress upon her
arrival. After kissing him on the cheek, she told him that she needed to speak
to his father about their travel arrangements. Robb nodded his understanding.
“I’ll take my leave. Father. Mother.”
The two watched their eldest walk away. As soon as Robb was out of sight, Ned
led the way to his study. She brought out a parchment and a pre-inked quill and
followed.
“The lords want to confirm who will be attending. I have already written down
Robb and Jon, and Sansa and Arya’s as well.”
“Arya?”
“Since Sansa refuses to be left behind for her brother’s first southern
expedition, I imagine Arya will submit her protests as well. They are both old
enough to travel and being next to each other will limit their complaints.
Sansa will hold her tongue if she is seen as spoilt compared to her sister,
Arya will remain silent if Jon is around and Jon is used to long trips so he
will have no grievances.”
Ned’s lips quirked at his wife’s ingenuity. “Thank you,” he told her. “And Bran
and Rickon?”
“Bran and Rickon will stay as planned. It is a great distance to travel and I
rather not burden the other lords to accommodate their youth. Perhaps the next
one,” Catelyn suggested. “Bran wants to see the knights.”
“We’ll see how this event turns out. If all goes well, I will have no issue
sending my children more frequently to the South. It will be a good experience
for all of them.”
The statement implied that Ned’s firm stance on southern alliances was softened
to a flexible mold. Howland must have been particularly persuading. Catelyn
stifled her jealousy as she did all envy concerning her husband’s mistress. She
wondered what Howland had said to bring forth such accommodation. Catelyn
wished she could learn. “You’ve been sitting on the issue of attending. Have
you made your decision, Ned?” She asked.
“I have.”
Ned opened the door to his study and held the door for her. Catelyn entered as
commanded and took her seat. As soon as she did that, she reached over to where
he kept his ink and wetted her pen once more. She waited.
“I will not be attending the tourney. There are too many loose ends at
Winterfell to address.”
“Oh.” Catelyn wrote down the following information on the paper. “I see. Well,
this is important news indeed. We should make a list of the guards you are
willing to part with. I know it is a lot to ask, but Ser Rodrik has expressed
his desire to see Robb perform for his first tourney and—”
“Catelyn.”
Catelyn stopped writing, but Ned could see her fingers tremble. “I heard from
Maester Luwin that your father’s health has gotten worse.”
Being born with a title and marrying into infidelity meant that patience and
composure were second nature to her. She forced herself not to think of the
Riverrun’s raven and its heart-wrenching message.
“Crabs in the belly are not known to produce favorable results,” Catelyn stated
evenly. She distracted herself by drawing another list for Ned’s men. “But he
is in the early stages of his illness. The maesters predict another three,
perhaps four years. I have time.”
“Time you should spend with him,” Ned spoke out. He sighed and left his seat to
be beside Catelyn. He took her writing hand in his. “I was barely there for my
mother when she passed. I do not want the same regret to linger in your heart.”
“I…” She sighed. “Ned, I cannot.”
“If your father needs extended care, you are welcomed to prolong your stay in
the South. I’ll tell the guards to escort you.”
Catelyn’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “I have my duties, my lord.”
Ned stared at his wife. “I think if I were ill, having my children by my side
would be the best medicine. Your loyalty to your father is a duty in itself. Do
not feel obliged to abandon him for me as he would not have abandoned you for
the world.” Ned gripped her hand. “Bran sleeps in his room and Rickon is
weaned.” Ned paused. “You should be there for your father.”
For the longest time, Catelyn cannot say anything. “Thank you,” she breathed
out at last. She could not contain the tears in her eyes. She smiled and looked
as innocent as she did on the day Brandon proposed, untouched by war and
infidelity. “Thank you, Ned.” A sudden burst of boldness rose up within her.
“I…I want to bring the children if that is alright. If only for a few days—it
will be after the tourney, of course! We can stay at Riverrun on the journey
back. That way, we would not inconvenience the other lords. And it will not be
long. I will send them ahead after my father has seen them! The weather is
perfect for a swim in the lakes. Sansa and Robb have said they would like to
swim in warm waters for a change and my father would love to see how the
children have grown. If…even Jon can stay,” Catelyn informed reluctantly. She
would warn Robb to keep his brother in his room—her father would rather the
bastard sleep in the woods than enter as a guest.
Ned smiled, and though it was small, it made her heart weep. “I am not opposed
to letting our children join you. They should know where their mother comes
from.” He let go of her hand. “But I will not force him to accommodate my son.
I will ask that Jon is escorted to the Neck. If Robb is discovering his
southern roots, then Jon should take the opportunity to be reintroduced to his
own. He has not spent more than a few days there in the last four years. He
will enjoy the trip.”
Catelyn’s relief was immeasurable. She looked down at her hand where her
husband touched and tried not to be so elated at the sensation. The moments of
compassion they shared were rare, limited to the joy they felt towards their
children. His gentleness was a treasure in ways Ned would never be able to
understand. When she left the room, she placed a hand over her heart. She
wondered how many moments it would take for her guilt to overcome her sorrows.
***
For the four years they’ve been together, Jon had allowed Theon to escape from
many grievances. He learned at a young age that Theon’s haughtiness was to
deceive his self-deprecation and his tantrums were releases of frustration—how
his status as a prisoner and ward remained unchangeable, how his father had not
answered a single letter or showed an ounce of love, how he was an outsider
despite desperately wanting to be a northerner.
Jon was forgiving, but Theon was tipping over the edge of mercy and Jon was not
as eager to pull him to safety. He was tired. Theon was older. He was to be a
bride, and it was time for him to learn that not everyone was as understanding
as the Starks.
Theon was rampaging through his room when Jon slammed the doors opened and
forced himself upon the older boy. He pushed the Greyjoy onto the bed. Theon
thrashed about like a fish on land. “Get off me! Jon!” He screeched. He tried
to throw a punch to no avail. “What is wrong with you?”
“I should be asking that!” Jon hissed. “You’ve been impossible since the
ceremony! I am tired of it, Theon!”
Theon could not answer for his behavior. He scratched and hissed and snapped
his jaw like a rabid dog, and Jon fought him tooth and nail, uncompromising and
unyielding. Jon caged Theon with his nimbleness—he entwined his legs between
Theon’s. His forearm pressed against Theon’s larynx and constrained his breath.
“Let go!” Theon gasped out.
“Not until you tell me what has caused you to behave like some half-witted
liver eater who is so desperate for a fight, he hurts the people who loves
him!” Jon tightened his grip when he felt Theon about to escape. “For gods’
sakes, you are about to be married, Theon!”
The fact made Theon struggle harder. When he failed to break free, he screamed,
“You all must be so happy to be removed of the burden in your home!” He quit
struggling. “I will be someone else’s problem soon so leave me alone!”
“You are not a problem, Theon.” Jon loosened his grip enough for Theon to catch
his breath. He sighed. “Is this about your sister? I heard your father refused
to let her come for your dowry.”
“No one lets Asha do anything,” Theon sneered. “If she does not come, it is of
her own doing. She’s probably disgusted that her little brother has become some
northerner’s bitch.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “So this is about your sister?”
“No!” Theon protested. “This is about you Starks treating me like a pawn and
after I’ve served my purpose, to a point where my family has forsaken me, you
are handing me off to be someone else’s toy. Good riddance! I am grateful to
wash my hands of you lot!”
Jon let him go. When Theon thought himself free, Jon struck him. Theon cradled
his burning cheek.
“You are an ungrateful fool. My father has done nothing but care for you these
last few years. He has supported your desire for a ceremony and has promised to
aid you with the dowry—all above his duty. My siblings and I have loved you
like a brother. You have no right to say the things you do.” Jon glared. “We
are your family, Theon. Perhaps more so now that yours has abandoned you.”
The words stung. Theon wanted to deny them, but he had no place to do so. He
had just dismissed their attention seconds earlier and was left with Jon’s
accusation ringing in his ears. “Get out,” he hissed.
“Theon.” Jon’s voice was firm. “I am not leaving until you understand that
this—this behavior of yours in unacceptable. We are not your enemies. You
cannot keep building these defenses and striking our cores while expecting us
not to retaliate.”
Theon said nothing.
“Theon?”
The older boy got up. “You said it yourself: I am to be married. I will no
longer be your problem.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“No,” Theon hissed. “But it is the truth. I will be the Lord of Dreadfort, the
omega of the flayed men. I will rule over the skin dungeons and be feared as a
fleshing knife. There is nothing you can do about it.” Theon would settle into
his cold home, wrapped in the chokehold of a man who will spear him on his ice
prick while Lord Bolton’s men licked their chapped lips and imagined doing the
same. He was trapped—and he would never know the taste of salt or the touch of
fire ever again.
Even the Starks cannot defeat the cold.
Before Jon could defend himself, there was a knock on his door. Robb came in,
freshly bathed with the scent of Douglas fir on his skin. Farlan restocked
their soaps, and the merchants were generous in their variety. The arousal
brought upon by the scent was a welcome distraction to Jon’s strife.
Robb entered the room as if their fight did not happen. The two of them were
not quiet; Jon knew it was impossible for Robb not to have heard them having a
go at each other. Instead, he kissed Jon on the cheek and settled for a
dispassionate grope on his ass. His actions bordered obscure; Theon scoffed
without recognizing the perverseness of Robb’s palm.
“If only my betrothed was so affectionate,” Theon mocked. “Well, your lover is
here. Be on your way.”
Jon gritted his teeth. “Theon, I have warned you against saying such things,
even in jest.”
“Actually, if it is alright with Theon, I would like to have a moment with him
in private.”
The two omegas were taken back by the request. Jon turned to his older brother.
“Robb?”
“What do you want to speak about?” Theon asked. His body swelled with pride
from the look of distaste on Jon’s face. The child was so insecure about losing
Robb’s affection—never mind that Theon knew him first. Their familiarity made
Jon unnerved. His insecurity was heightened when Robb was selected to be
Theon’s guardian and not Jon’s (never mind, thought Theon, that it had less to
do with Robb and Theon’s romantic intentions and more to do with their bodies
disinterest with one another).
“A small matter. Since the raven from Pyke, I suspect father will send me to
Dreadfort in Lady Asha’s stead.” Robb stroked his little brother’s cheek. He
pecked his lips. “I will see you before dinner, in our room.” He placed a hand
on Jon’s waist. “Put on a dress tonight.” A skirt for his hands to play with or
easy access to fondle those pretty parts Robb longed to ravish.
Jon was torn. He did not want to give the appearance of distrust, but he did
not want to leave the matter with Theon unsettled. The younger boy sent a
suspicious glance towards Theon before leaving the room. Theon rolled his eyes.
Robb walked up to his father’s ward and brushed his finger against Theon’s
swelling cheek. “You should not agitate him. He may not look it, but he has a
wicked temper when pushed.”
Theon slapped his hand away. “I know that temper firsthand.”
Robb chuckled. “Yes…then you should know that it only appears when someone has
gone too far. You’ve been stepping on quite a few toes, and I don’t appreciate
the way you’ve been treating Jon.”
“Because Jon comes first,” Theon spat out. “He always does. The second he
arrived within these halls, my position towards the throne went from the floors
to the crypts.”
“That is not fair,” Robb pointed out. “Jon is your friend. He has always been
there for you.”
Theon could tell he was struggling to keep calm. He took to insults against Jon
like arrows against him.
“He went through that travesty of a ceremony for you—regardless of how he felt
about the alphas slobbering over him. In case you are inclined to forget, you
can get married because of him.”
Theon would never forget it. Though he knew it was unreasonable to get angry at
Jon for fulfilling his desires, he could not help but resent the outcome and
the road leading to it. He was angry at Jon. He was angry at the Starks. He was
angry at himself for digging this hole and for requesting Jon hand him the
shovel. He was a fool, and he could tell no one—not without his shame being
revealed.
Robb eyed him with caution. He moved around Theon so that he could sit on his
bed. “Sit with me, Theon. It’s been awhile since we’ve spoken intimately.”
“Before Jon came,” Theon reminded. “We were close before your infatuation
turned to another omega.”
The jealousy was evident in his voice. Robb was amused. He knew at one point
Theon humored the idea of them marrying each other. Robb would keep the secret
to his grave, but he considered the same before he met Jon. Theon’s figure was
mouthwatering; only a blind man would ignore the truth in front of them.
Neither of them held much hope after Jon’s arrival and Robb’s first rut. When
Robb and Theon proved incompatible, neither of them entertained the notion any
longer. They were not upset, but Theon held a vial of bitterness—less from his
affection towards Robb and more towards the evidence that to Robb’s inner
alpha, Theon was less attractive than a bastard. The notion was a passing
offense but it must have aided Theon’s insecurity.
“You were infatuated with Jon as well.” Robb pointed out. “We all were.” He
motioned Theon to sit and Theon, unable to disobey an alpha’s command, sat.
Robb leaned towards him. “May I tell you something I’ve never told Jon?” The
confession caught Theon’s attention. He looked up from his petulant stance.
The Stark’s gaze was smothering.
“I’ve always appreciated the form of the male omega above the female. There’s
something undeniably erotic about the union between the two sexes I cannot
resist.” Robb was staring at Theon’s body in a way that could have been
perceived as lustful. Theon shivered and corrected himself. No, he knew what
lust felt like. This was fascination, perhaps even admiration if one were to be
kind. “Your bodies are harder, with…with all these angles, sharp as swords but
there’s an aching softness about your flesh, more fat in your cheeks. The way
your breasts bounce—it’s more noticeable on your chests. As an alpha, I’m
tempted to fondle as I please. You cannot imagine the pleasure of it; the
satisfaction of a squirming omega in your lap while you play with his nipples
and milk them from the top. Their masculinity cannot be denied, but instead of
making us want to reject you, it stimulates our instincts to dominate. As a man
and alpha, I see a male omega and know there is nothing more satisfying that
forcing one into submission, spilling my seed into him and making him bear my
children.”
Theon listened with the echo of heavy breaths and blood boiling his flesh red.
He was so consumed with Robb’s description that he almost missed Robb’s last,
damning commentary.
“…Ramsay and I had a marvelous conversation on the matter.”
Theon held his breath. Robb took a moment to lay down on the bed. He closed his
eyes, humming a playful tune that contrasted the damnation he accused Theon of.
“You have not told anybody, have you? Not even your best friend.”
“How do you know about Ramsay?”
Robb ignored the fright in his voice. “We struck an alliance during the
ceremony. He knew I shared no bias towards bastards and I was confident he
cared little for my Jon.”
“You need higher standards for friendship.” Theon turned away. “He is a
monster.”
“Jon is my everything. It should come of no surprise that he is my cause for
building power.”
Robb never shared Jon’s hesitance for confessing his love. Theon never caught
on to their romantic implications and figured their affection was an ongoing
joke between the two of them. He figured all alphas were as possessive of their
little brothers. He would not know. His siblings’ coldness served to warp
Theon’s perspective in multiple ways for Robb to take advantage of.
“Ramsay is a bastard. He has no power.” Theon paused. “He speaks about me?” He
asked softly.
“We share a raven. You are one of the only things we talk about. That, and how
he is being sent to live with one of House Bolton’s vassals. His brother is
concerned that Ramsay’s presence will be a…distraction for his future wife.”
Theon’s heart clenched. He had been wondering what had happened to the bastard
son. He was livid after Theon’s acceptance. Theon waited all night, not
catching a wink of sleep, for Ramsay’s arrival so that he could explain
himself.
Ramsay never came.
“He will be happy to know he is in your heart.”
Theon clenched his fist. “He has no heart to do the same.” Theon moved to
leave, but Robb grasped onto Theon’s arm. The Stark stared at Theon, wary of
escape. “Lay with me.”
Theon flushed. “I won’t be Jon’s replacement.” He tried to turn away. Robb’s
grip was firm.
“No one can replace Jon. I would never mock him by trying. Lay with me; we are
brothers, Theon.”
Helpless and silent, Theon took his place beside Robb. He laid down on the
sheets and could feel the heat pulsing from Robb’s body. “You’re warm.”
Robb smiled. “So are you.”
They laid like that for a while. Robb closed his eyes. Theon was encouraged to
follow suit and right as he was about to drift to sleep, Robb asked him what
would happen if Ramsay was the second son and not a bastard.
Theon sighed. Not this again. “A second son would be lucky to taste the sides,
let alone partake in the main course. I’ve made the right decision.” The smart
decision. Second to the Starks in power and fourth in wealth, being wed to the
heir of Dreadfort was a blessing.
“But what if? What if I made Ramsay a legitimate son? He is an ambitious young
man; I’m sure he’ll use his newfound status to his advantage.”
Theon did not doubt it. He did not doubt that Domeric’s next meal would be a
feast of fattened worms upon flesh and mud in a wooden casket. Theon chuckled
at the image. “Do you plan to petition the king on my behalf? You Starks are
far too kind to a traitor’s son.”
Robb denied the suggestion. “I do not care if you are a traitor’s son.”
“King Robert might.”
“King Robert would not be the one to perform the act.”
Theon stopped laughing.
Robb sat up. “I asked: ‘what if I were the one to legitimize Ramsay?’ He would
certainly be more loyal to me than his brother. And when considering the
Bolton’s history of treachery, loyalty is something I need right now.”
For what? Theon thought. “You cannot do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because—!” Theon tried to steady his breath. “Because only a king has the
power to give titles to bastards.”
Robb said nothing. The younger boy got off his bed and straightened his shirt.
He checked himself in the vanity, brushing off a stray curl from his head.
Theon’s instincts told him to remain alerted.
“Perhaps I shall become king, then.”
Not even Theon’s heart risked making a sound. Robb turned away from the mirror
and smiled at Theon as if his suggestion would not lead to a beheading. He
walked back to him. It took everything in Theon’s power not to retreat to his
sheets. When Robb moved to kiss his cheek, Theon shunned him. Robb kissed his
forehead instead. “You are my brother. Perhaps not in blood, but I have cared
for you as if you were from the same womb. Jon cares about you. I know this
spat is just passing. You should make up with him. Siblings need to love each
other.”
Theon would never be loved like Jon, not by Robb or by his older sister. He
told Robb as such. “My sister does not care about me.” His voice was not as
steady as he would like. “She thinks I’m a whore.”
“You don’t know that.” Robb licked his thumb and used it to brush away Theon’s
bangs. “Your father sent the letter, but we’ve always known how your father
felt about you, haven’t we?”
Theon could have cried then. The tears welled up in his eyes. Robb sweetened
his message to avoid a flood.
“But your sister has never done anything to lose your affections. She is always
at sea so her letters are far and in between, but they are there. And she sends
you gifts on your nameday, even though the way of your people says otherwise.”
“She refused to negotiate my dowry!” Theon protested. “She—she doesn’t want to
come to my wedding.”
“She is afraid you are losing your lineage. She is scared of losing you.”
“Asha isn’t afraid of anything,” Theon hissed, half with disbelief and the
other half, pride.
Robb chuckled. “We are all afraid of something. You are her precious, omega
brother. I’ve told you this before. She has lost you for over half a decade and
now must face the fact that you will be gone to her forever. You have decided
to marry a northern man in a northern ceremony. She is losing what she believed
was hers.” Robb explained. “It’s an unspoken fear amongst us alphas.”
“You are lying.”
“I am not,” Robb promised. “Trust me, Theon. I have four omega siblings. I fear
the day I will lose them to an alpha, one who might not take care of them like
I can or will mistreat them without me knowing. I might never see them again.
My mother has not visited her sister since the birth of her nephew. It is a
painful sensation, but it is one I must survive.”
Theon wiped away his tears. “What do I do, then?”
Robb held Theon’s hand. “Write to your sister and tell her how much you miss
her. How much you love her and want to see her again before you are married. It
may be the last time you meet in person. Speak from the heart.” Robb leaned in.
He kissed Theon on the lips, lightly and with the affection of a brother.
Theon swooned regardless. He wondered when the little boy who used to follow
his skirts became a man.
“Your sister will one day be the Lady of the Iron Islands. We will need her to
remember that she loves her little brother, the future Lord of Dreadfort. A
northern house.” Robb took a deep breath and inhaled Theon’s scent. He smiled
fondly. “Because you will be the lord, one way or another.”
***
In another room, Arya and Sansa were fighting again.
Jon could have screamed.
Though the two sisters have never gotten along, their tensions tripled since
his ceremony. While Jon denied the possibility of him being married off, the
two girls were convinced that their time together was fleeting. They were
determined to consume his company before he was gone for good. Jon loved his
sisters, but their bickering made it so that he was a stranger to peace. The
two girls competed for his attention as if he were the crown. At the beginning,
he was flattered, but today, he was frustrated. Robb was with Theon. Theon was
a bitch. Arya was yelling. Sansa was snide. And Jon was still a fucking virgin!
“I found Jon first. He and I were supposed to go over my training for father.
I’ll be learning how to fight very soon. I am going to be skal…warrior, like
him! He doesn’t want to play your stupid games!”
“It’s pronounced skjaldmær. See, you can’t even say it! It must not be that
important. Besides, Jon is tired. He has been training all morning. He wants to
relax with me. People don’t want to behave like animals all the time, Arya.”
“Some people want to be exciting—!”
“Both of you, shut up!”
The two fell silent. Jon rubbed his temples and took a deep breath.
“You have been acting like toddlers all week! This is not the proper behavior
of a lady—” And before Arya could look down on her sister, Jon continued, “Nor
is it fitting for a warrior. You two are sisters; it is time you act like it.”
“But Jon—!”
“I said enough!” Jon sighed. At least their protests were in unison. “Do you
know how much I long to see my sister again? My little brother? I see them
three times a year if I am lucky and I worship every second I am with them. To
see you fighting with each other while I must wait weeks for a raven is an
insult to me.”
At least they had the decency to look ashamed. They turned away from each other
but did not meet Jon’s gaze either. Jon grabbed the two of them and pulled the
girls into a hug. It was a feat. Arya was smaller than him, but Sansa has
always been tall for her age, and her limbs overwhelmed Jon’s body. Despite the
hardship, he did everything within his power to hold onto them for as long as
he could. He relished in their scents: poppy seeds and lemons, baked apples and
spiced woods, and the fresh snow that lingered on all the Stark children. He
prayed for the ice never to melt.
“You have to stand by each other. You two may be too young to understand, but
we are Starks; we have a lot of enemies. For you two, a fight is fight; a mere
conflict between siblings. To others, it is an opening for much worse. People
will try to take advantage of that, and you cannot let them. Starks are wolves.
Wolves hunt in packs or they starve as one.”
Jon paused to see if his words made any impact. When he saw their shamed
expressions, he continued. “Sansa, Arya, listen to me and never speak a word of
this outside our family. Things are going to change. The North is going to be
the center of the world, and you two will be at its peak. Don’t be
disillusioned into thinking that because you are omega and female that you have
no worth beside your wombs.” He pressed his lips against Sansa’s red hair and
tightened his grasp on Arya’s hand.
“When Robb becomes the Lord of Winterfell, he will need all of our love. You
need to support his claim to these lands at all costs. There’s a tall tale that
a woman’s loyalty is to her husband, but that is not true—it is your ambition
you must place before anyone else’s and your family will love you regardless of
what that is.”
Jon allowed the words to sink in their hearts before he released them. He
kissed both of his sisters: Sansa first, for she was the oldest and most likely
to flee and Arya second, because he could count on her to stay. He was about to
suggest a different game for them to play together when he heard the door
opening. He thought it was Robb and decided to ignore him. A petulant act, but
one that usually led to long kisses and begging on Robb’s part.
“Arya, Sansa, are you in here?”
Jon froze.
Lady Stark walked into the room uninvited. Jon held his breath. His sisters
mimicked him, for it was rare that they were audience to their mother’s and
Jon’s unease.
“Girls, since you two seem to be getting along, why don’t you spend some time
together outside? I want to speak to Jon.”
The girls did not move. Sansa’s eyes went back and forth from Jon to her
mother. Arya sent her older brother a suspicious, hesitant glance. Jon tried to
smile for them. “Go,” he told them. “I will see you at dinner.”
When the girls left, Jon tried to make his room more presentable. “I apologize
for the mess. Arya and I were playing and then Sansa arrived…” As Jon was about
to flatten his sheets, he noticed one of Robb’s shirts resting underneath the
furs. From a glance, there was nothing suspicious about them. If one were to
investigate, however, they could see the spots of dampness, indicating a less
than savory intention. Jon tried to hide it, but Lady Stark’s hawk eyes caught
them in a second. “Is that one of Robb’s shirts?” She asked as if she did not
already know the answer.
“Yes, he was…he changes in here sometimes.” All the time. The room was as much
Robb’s as it was Jon’s.
His mother’s warning came to mind. Jon thought about escaping, thinking of an
excuse to leave Lady Stark’s vicinity but nothing came to tongue. She never
visited him. They ran into each other in the halls; avoided gazes during their
meals. For her to make an appearance in his bedroom, his and Robb’s sanctuary,
was something he never prepared for. Jon folded the shirt and placed it on the
side to hide the stain. “I’ll return it to him immediately.”
“It looks like it needs a wash.”
“I’ll wash it.” Jon said without thinking. The shirt was one of his favorites.
He used it when he fingered himself, squeezing his cock with his dainty fingers
and pressing his nose against Robb’s wears. He was a pervert of the highest
degree and enjoyed every wrinkle on Robb’s expression when the older boy
figured out what he had done.
“Very well,” Lady Stark agreed. Jon thought about offering her a seat, but that
would be inviting her to stay. She saved him the trouble of speaking. “Thank
you for that.”
Jon jumped.
“Sansa and Arya have antagonized each other since Arya learned her first word.
Their father and I have tried to cull their bickering but we’ve had little
success. I think they’ll listen to you this time.”
Jon remained speechless. Upon his silence, Lady Stark took the opportunity to
continue with her original intention. “I wanted to speak to you about the
tourney. Your father will have his moment, but I wished to make a few things
clear about Robb.”
The mention of Robb’s name removed any nervousness from Jon’s body. He knew
Lady Stark suspected their less than familial relationship; she certainly
complained to Jon’s father enough times for the fact to be known. Yet without
the approval of her husband, Lady Stark could do nothing to separate them. This
tourney was important for Robb in regards to finding a worthy mate; Jon was an
obstacle. It made sense that Lady Stark would make contact to keep him from
being an issue.
“Because the tourney is happening so soon after your ceremony, people will
suspect that this is a ploy by Lord Stark to earn a profitable match for you.”
“Father would never—”
“The South does not understand your father like you do,” Lady Stark
interrupted. She continued as if she never heard the outburst. “They will
suspect many things about you and your brother.” Jon looked down. He did not
want Lady Stark to see him glaring.
“Regardless of how well Robb performs, he will be expected to mingle with the
omega ladies and lords. I noticed during your ceremony that he was adamant
about protecting your virtue.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
“Well, while Robb is your older brother, I ask that you do not follow his
example. You’ve said it yourself. The Starks have many enemies. There are those
who would like to win the king’s favor and remove Lord Stark from his pedestal.
Your mother has never been well-received in the southern court, either. There
are tensions between him and the king.”
“King Baratheon is a child killer,” Jon muttered, reiterating what his mother
used to say. Lady Stark gave him a sharp look.
“He is your king.”
Jon bit the inside of his cheek. “My mother says that a crannogman only bends
the knee to a Stark. Robb is the only one who can sway my body.”
The statement alone was grounds for Lady Stark to strike him, burn his
treasonous tongue, or send letters to her sister illustrating the sedition of
the Neck. Jon cursed his forgetfulness. He forgot about her sister. Lady Lysa
may report such treason to her husband, jeopardizing any plans he may have.
There was a chance no one would take Lady Stark seriously, her accusations were
high in his youth. Jon tried to clear his head. He needed to think clearly. He
made a grave mistake and could only wait for the outcome.
Lady Stark was like steel. “Regardless, it would be best for the North if Robb
is well-received. Others will be reluctant to approach him with an omega by his
side, blood relations or not. So please keep your displays of affection
reasonable.”
She was warning him not to scare off potential brides. Reason kept Jon from
laughing. He wondered what it was like for her; to have sight in a crowd of
blind men and be gagged in a room of deaf ears. No matter how many implications
were made or the evidence in front of her, she could not proclaim her theories
without smearing her son’s image. She could plead with her husband to separate
them but he would never, not when all Lord Stark wanted was for his children to
love each other.
“Robb will do whatever he pleases. I cannot stop him. I have no power,” Jon
told her. He made sure his voice was soft and submissive—the opposite of his
mother. He wanted to appease Lady Stark to prevent falling into this metaphoric
lake, especially after he almost slipped off the ice.
The expression on Lady Stark’s face indicated that she did not believe him;
yet, she did not contradict him, either. “Either way, I recommend you do not
encourage such trespasses. There are eyes everywhere.”
“Yes, Lady Stark,” Jon agreed. He did not wish to argue on a matter he did not
oppose; even if the advice came from a woman who hated him. When she made no
movements to leave, he asked if she had other business.
Lady Stark pursed her lips. “Since Bran and Rickon are too young to travel,
your father has decided to stay behind at Winterfell.”
“I see.” Jon’s disappointment was present but light. He knew his father did not
care for the South and with Lady Stark’s presence, there was no need for two
guardians.
“Perhaps, you should write to your mother. Have him keep your father company
while we are gone?”
Jon blinked. The air sparked and the hairs on his back rose. He narrowed his
eyes. “That is a kind offer, Lady Stark. But would that not be upsetting for
you? To have my mother take your place while you are gone?”
“Hmm?” Lady Stark raised an eyebrow. The act was so delicate that her surprise
appeared natural. Jon repeated the question.
“My lord husband desires it and as your father’s wife, his will is mine,” Lady
Stark reminded. “Why should I play ignorant to his intentions? I have my pride,
Jon. If your mother is to come, let it be done with my permission rather than
my deception.”
Jon remained unconvinced. To avoid his interrogation, Lady Stark sighed, albeit
dramatically. She explained her concerns. “Regardless of my partiality, I can
no longer deny that you are a part of this family. The whole North knows of you
and soon, so will all of Westeros. Bran,” A flash of annoyance appeared on Lady
Stark’s face—she could not fake her sincerity this time, “is likely to be
fostered in the Neck. It is time I stop being a bystander to the workings of
Winterfell.”
Her words, though plausible, did nothing to assuage Jon’s suspicions. Their
conversation was interrupted by the door. Robb entered.
Upon seeing her son, Lady Stark prepared to leave. “Think about what we
discussed, Jon.” She planted a kiss on Robb’s cheek as soon as he came in. Robb
watched the two warily. He bid his mother goodbye and locked the door when she
left. Jon was thinking to himself. He barely noticed Robb when he sat on his
bed and pulled Jon into his arms.
“What were you two talking about?” Robb asked. One of his hands slipped
underneath Jon’s pants.
“Nnh…nothing. She…” Jon mumbled. “She was very kind.”
“Good.” Robb used his free hand to grab Jon’s face and pulled him into a kiss.
“I’ve missed you.”
Jon could tell. Robb wasted no time removing Jon’s trousers. He placed Jon’s
bare bottom on his lap and forced him to rub against Robb’s swelling cock. Robb
attacked Jon’s neck, leaving blue bruises all over his skin. Robb’s hand seemed
huge underneath Jon’s pussy. The Stark heir stuffed two fingers inside while
the outline of his cock rubbed up against Jon’s ass. The sensation of Robb’s
fingers combined with the near penetration had the younger boy leaking all over
him.
“You are so tight,” Robb grunted out. “It has been ages since we’ve seen each
other.” Jon choked on his spit when Robb dug his fingers in deeper. Robb was
relentless. When he felt Jon coming, he retreated in a single, fluid motion.
The harshness of Robb’s digits being dragged out of his hole was too much for
him.
“Robb!” He shouted as he came.
Without warning, Robb shoved Jon onto his bed. He took off his ruined pants and
revealed his aching cock, red and desperate for a hole to fill. He spread Jon’s
legs and lifted up his hips.
“I cannot believe I’ve waited so long for this,” Robb groaned. He was about to
lean down for a taste when a foot stopped him in his tracks. Jon’s pointed toes
touched his forehead, warning him not to go further. Robb pushed it away. He
went forward and the foot aimed for his chest, keeping their distance.
“Not funny,” he growled.
“Not joking,” Jon huffed. “We are not doing this now, hours before dinner where
we can be interrupted at any time.”
“The door is locked.”
“So we should make our guest wait until your knot swells down?” Jon asked. “I
assume you plan to knot me.”
“Of course.”
Jon gave him a sharp look. Robb glared. He moved forward despite Jon’s protests
and shoved his cock against Jon’s pussy. “I’ve waited too long for this.” He
was prepared to enter Jon at that moment, but Jon kicked him off.
“That is not my fault,” Jon hissed. He tried to get up. Robb heard nothing but
the rejection pulsing through his ears. He lunged onto the younger boy and
pinned him down.
“If you think you are leaving this room without your holes gaping from a knot,
you are mistaken. I want my cum leaking down your thighs and your belly full of
my load. You are mine, Jon. I want you now.”
Robb shoved his fingers inside Jon’s ass and used them to anchor Jon onto the
bed. The boy squirmed helplessly; he was reduced to nothing more than a pitting
whore under his brother’s watch. He turned away to avoid his brother’s gaze.
“Robb…?”
“Yes, love?” The sweet address sounded cruel on Robb’s tongue. He was pumping
his fingers in violently, not sparing Jon a second of reprieve.
“Ki…me…” Jon gasped out when Robb’s finger hit his prostate. His cock spurted
out a thick line of cum. He choked back a sob as Rob ignored his orgasm and
resumed his actions. He ignored Jon’s raw cock and his sloppy ass in favor of
punishing Jon for his rejection.
“What was that?” Robb leaned into Jon’s ear. “I didn’t hear you.”
Jon whimpered. “Robb…please…kiss me.”
If the boy was going to beg like that, Robb was going to knot before he was
inside him. Robb grinned like a savage beast. He leaned down and gave Jon the
kiss he deserved. Deep and powerful; he wanted to mark Jon from the inside. Jon
opened up his orifice beautifully; Robb could not wait until his quim did the
same.
Despite his initial reluctance, Jon became especially enthusiastic about
kissing. He sucked and nibbled on Robb’s tongue like he was a treat. When it
was time for Robb to get some air, Jon did not let go. He sunk his teeth into
Robb’s lips.
“Umph!” Robb tried to pull back, but he could not get away from Jon’s mouth. He
was forced to remove his fingers. Jon used the opportunity to push his brother
off. The older boy tumbled backward onto the sheets. Jon straddled him to keep
him still.
Shit, thought Robb when he saw the impact of Jon’s glare. He was going to get
it now. “Jon—”
Jon punched him without hesitation. “Robb Stark, you are an ass!” He hit him
again. Robb groaned; Jon was incensed; he was biting his lip to keep himself
from yelling. Before he could throw another punch, Robb grabbed the back of
Jon’s head and forced him into another kiss. This time, it was pure roughness;
there were none of the façades of innocence as before. Jon tried to push him
off him, but Robb had other plans. He wanted to fuck Jon, and he was not
particular about which hole he got.
When Jon was released, the boy was breathless and weak-boned. His cock was
twitching again. He was leaking everywhere; Robb was tempted to have a taste
but decided not to push his luck. He waited until Jon dropped to his side and
curled up under his arm.
“Jon—”
“Unless what comes out of your mouth is an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”
Fuck, Robb swore. He could hear the pout in Jon’s voice.
It made him want to fuck him even more.
“You are mine, Jon. I don’t have to apologize for taking my dues.”
Jon took ahold of Robb’s cock and squeezed. “Do you want to get hit again?”
Despite his manhood’s precarious position, Robb laughed. He pulled Jon into an
embrace, ignoring Jon’s protest as he was accustomed to doing.
“If you continue to refuse me, I’m going to tie you up and keep you here,” Robb
whispered. Jon shivered at the request.
“Robb…”
“Actually, I can see the merits of that proposal. I could keep you up here. A
few hours of being tied up like a hog might work wonders your pride. Can you
imagine yourself? All trussed up, on your back with your legs bent to your
shoulders. The only thing you could see would be that cocklet of yours,
dangling in front of your face. Hells, your pussy would be dripping into your
mouth.”
“Robb, you cannot—!”
Robb tightened his hold when his brother tried to get out. He licked the shell
of Jon’s ear. “You’d scream; I can already tell you’d make a lot of noise. I’d
have to gag you. A blindfold would be required as well. I heard the sensations
triple when sight is taken away.”
Robb fingered Jon’s back entrance. The younger boy whimpered. “Would you like
that, Jon? Would you like to be treated like my personal whore? My cum bucket
for the rest of your life?” He pushed his pointer finger all the way in. “I’d
like that,” Robb whispered. “I’d like to come back to my room after a long day
of training and lectures and see my pretty boy whore, bloated and drenched with
cum, a wet hole stretched out from the morning’s rut, and an ass spread open on
a toy of my choosing.”
Jon could not help himself. He came, wetting Robb’s legs once more.
Robb took out his fingers from Jon’s ass and gave them a proper lick. Each
‘smack’ of the lips was accompanied by a smug smirk.
Jon used all his self-control not punch Robb a third time.
“You are a sadist,” huffed Jon. With shaky legs, he tried to get up. He was not
surprised when Robb followed and joined them together once more. “Let me go,
Robb. I have to get dressed.”
“Why? We were so close to enjoying ourselves.”
By the gods, was sex the only thing on this boy’s mind? “I need to clear things
up with Theon. You interrupted us before I could, remember?”
“Theon is fine. I spoke to him. He will return to normal by dinner; I assure
you.”
Robb’s confidence was astounding in all the worst ways. “The point is not that
‘he returns to normal, but he does not behave so recklessly in the future.” Jon
sighed and grabbed his pants. After sniffing it, he concluded that it was not
proper attire for a talk. He tossed it aside. “He is important for our plans.
More than that, I am worried about him. He is our brother, even if he does not
share our blood.”
Robb pressed his lips on Jon’s shoulder and delivered a chaste kiss. “Hopefully
you do not love him as much as you love your brother.” Jon rolled his eyes. He
felt Robb smile against his skin. “Though, I am not opposed to having Theon
join us for a night.”
Jon paused. He bit down his agitation. “Oh? Is that something you want, my
lord? Another omega to warm your bed?” He tried to sound nonchalant.
He failed.
Though Jon’s coolness could be seen as mockery, Robb could taste the jealousy
on Jon’s skin. He relished in the rare, possessive display. While Jon was not
immune to insecurity, his worries were always hypothetical. He never had to
compete with another omega for Robb’s affection. Robb was never foolish enough
to admit an attraction to other omegas.
Until now, that is.
“Theon cannot compare to your beauty, but it is hard not to stare when he shows
off his body. He loves attention and what kind of man would I be to refuse
him?”
“A man without a lover,” Jon warned.
Robb laughed into his ear. “He is a barely a shadow in my mind. You are my
light. Although…” Robb twisted his little brother so that they were facing each
other. He latched onto Jon’s nipple.
“Robb, stop it! You cannot keep doing as you please—!”
Robb, predictably, did not listen. He opened his mouth and engulfed Jon’s
nipples with his mouth. He used his tongue to play with the wet nubs, licking
them until they were raw and swollen. Jon’s protests died into soft moans as he
got into the habit. The young crannogman sunk his hand into Robb’s curls and
urged him to continue. Suckling on Jon was one of their many secret pastimes;
Robb loved feeding on Jon’s milk, and Jon could not stop indulging him.
After giving Jon a final lick, he kissed his little brother.
They parted, breathless.
“When you first came to Winterfell, you took a bath with Theon. I used to tug
my cock, all alone in my bedroom, imagining what the two of you were doing
behind closed doors.”
“We were bathing, you idiot—”
“I had this fantasy,” Robb interrupted. “Of you two together.” He licked the
sweat off Jon’s chest. Jon shut his eyes and focused on his brother’s voice.
“How you would straddle his face with your little hips and let his tongue
pierce that tight pussy. You’re such a good boy, Jon, you’d return the favor by
wrapping your pretty mouth over his cock and trying to stuff him down your
throat.”
Robb sucked a hickey onto Jon’s waist. Jon gasped.
“You perverse—”
“There were other times I imagined interrupting one of your shared sleeps. You
two would be ready for me. You always are, Jon, and Theon would not need much
convincing. You would give me a wonderful performance, wouldn’t you? Kissing a
bit, nibbling on each other’s lips before testing your skills on my cock.”
Robb flicked his tongue on Jon’s clit. Jon gripped the sheets. “You…hah…think
far too much of yourself…” He breathed out.
Robb chuckled. The vibrations of his laugh sent a minor quake against Jon’s
cunt. He could feel Robb’s beard scrape against his lower lips. “I cannot wait
to be inside you,” Robb rumbled against Jon. The sounds of squelching echoed in
the room. The Stark heir delved into his feast.
Jon gripped Robb’s hair. He wanted to get lost in the feeling, but he
remembered his plans for tonight. He could not let Robb's impatience ruin them.
Using every ounce of his self-control, Jon took Robb’s hair and led him towards
his mouth. He was gentle; the two met in a languid kiss. When they parted, Robb
climbed on top of him. Before he could enter Jon, Jon asked him what he was
most excited for.
“What?” Robb muttered.
“I asked: which hole are you most eager for?” Jon leaned back and spread his
legs. His used right fingers to spread apart his pussy. “This one? Or…” He
lifted up his hips to reveal his puckering hole. “This? Which one of my
virginities will your take first, my lord?” Jon watched Robb’s pupils dilate.
“Fucking hells,” Robb whispered in awe. “You are going to be the death of me.”
He reached out to test the elasticity of both. The choice was impossible. He
would have to use a toy to get the other ready while he raped the first.
Jon responded by snapping his legs shut. Before Robb could protest, his younger
brother shoved him off the bed. Jon crawled onto the floor like a preying cat.
His head stopped at Robb’s crotch. He licked the slit and swallowed it whole in
one gulp. Robb could see an indention in his throat. Before he could come, Jon
removed his mouth. The bastard licked his lips and moved forward until his
palms were on Robb’s chest.
“Ever since we’ve met, I have been waiting for you to enter me. I made plans
for us.” Jon ground his hips against Robb’s chest. “Will you put my hard work
to waste by taking me now? Can you not wait until tonight?”
Robb would rather have an anal dalliance with Ice. In the end, he submitted to
Jon’s plea. “Tonight,” he swore, “I will only wait this evening. Otherwise, I
am coming in your room the next morning and fulfilling my own promise.”
Jon did not care about the threat. As soon as he heard that he won, he could
not hide his grin of triumph. Immediately, the seductress left, leaving behind
a cheery nymphet who sought butterfly kisses and sweet snuggles.
***
At dinner, Arya and Sansa were considerably more amicable than before. Jon
watched them with a loving smile. They argued a bit on the criteria of proper
mealtime mannerisms, but there was no longer any contempt in their dispute.
Meanwhile, Rickon squirmed in his lap, trying to stab his thigh for more meat.
Jon sighed and pinched his cheek for trying to throw his vegetables on the
ground. “Don’t waste food,” Jon scolded. He got a piece of carrot and placed it
against his lips.
“No!”
“Yes,” Jon countered. The child saw the resolution in his older brother’s eyes
and stared at the tantalizing piece of steak on his plate. Jon held his ground.
“Carrots first, meat second. I am serious, Rickon.”
The boy was about to refuse until their father said otherwise. “Eat your entire
meal or do not eat at all. That includes dessert.”
The threat of losing his sweet privileges made Rickon turn a new leaf. He
begrudgingly ate the vegetable. While he chewed, Jon placed a small kiss at the
top of his head.
Robb glared.
“Perhaps it is time for you to enjoy your meal. Rickon must be getting heavy.”
“Am not!”
Jon took a sip of water. “I don’t mind. Between all of my siblings, I am given
the least time to him.”
Robb frowned petulantly. He took a vicious bite of meat. His hands were
twitching; he was used to fingering his little brother during his meals. Even
when he was exhausted from his lessons, he never missed a moment to get his
fingers soaked with his brother’s honey. He moved his hand to the table and
started tapping.
“Is there something the matter, Robb?”
“Huh?”
“Your cup is about to fall off the table,” Sansa pointed out. Robb glanced over
at his vibrating palm and pulled back.
“Nothing, I’m just a bit restless.”
“Thinking about the tourney?” Ned suggested. He was nearly done with his meal.
“Hmm? Oh, right, of course.” He glanced over at Jon who was busy cutting up the
rest of Rickon’s meal. He took a bite of his own dish. Robb watched the boy
swallow; the way the bump went down his throat reminded Robb of a load of cum.
“I cannot wait for the chance to use my lance.”
Jon choked. His coughing caught the worry of Rickon who tried to kiss him
better. “I'm all right,” Jon muttered while wiping off a trace of saliva.
“Your first tourney is always exciting.” He paused. “But do not slack off on
your duties as a brother. Make sure to keep an eye on your siblings while you
are there. It will be hard, but you’ll be the head alpha so their care is your
responsibility.”
Robb startled from the revelation. He had forgotten that by not coming, Lord
Stark had placed Robb as the alpha representing the Starks. “Yes,” Robb
coughed, a bit of sweat dripping down his forehead. “I will not disappoint you,
father.”
Jon took a moment to grasp Robb’s hand. “You’ll be fine,” Jon soothed. “You
were born for this.”
His assurance meant the world to Robb, who returned to his usual pride. “I will
make sure the Stark name is revered.” He kissed Jon’s hand. “And make sure no
harm comes to my beautiful brother.”
Jon took his hand back. He avoided Lady Stark’s knowing gaze and smiled in
spite of the hairs rising on his back. “And your beautiful sisters,” he added.
“Yes, and my beautiful sisters.”
“You should use this event to the fullest,” Lady Stark interrupted. “You’ve
never been so far south. I advise you to take the opportunity to mingle. You
may find a friend or two.”
Arya scoffed. “I doubt those prissy lords want to deal with an actual
northerner.”
“Arya!” Sansa scolded. “That was very rude! I hope you don’t plan on running
your mouth there as you do here.”
Before Arya could retort, Jon agreed with Lady Stark. “We should all take
advantage of our surroundings. You may be making more trips to the south in the
future.” For marriage or for politics was left unspoken. He finished off his
water and turned down the maid who offered to refill his cup. “Perhaps you
should consider getting acquainted with the omegas there. They’ll no doubt be
interested when they see your skill, and coupled with that face of yours, they
won’t be able to resist,” he told Robb.
“Jealous, brother?” Robb teased.
Jon ignored him. Sansa voiced her own thoughts on the matter. “I hear the
omegas there wear long dresses and perfumes from Essos. Do you think I can buy
a bottle while I’m there?”
“You’ll have to ask father for the allowance,” Lady Stark told her.
As soon as she was given the advice, she turned to her father. The older man
sighed. He agreed, of course. Though he did not want to spoil his children, he
could not deny his daughter a small souvenir. “You’ll be allowed a single
present for memory. Choose it wisely.”
Sansa kissed her father in thanks.
Meanwhile, Robb refocused his attention on Jon. Without warning, he tipped his
remaining water onto Jon’s lap. Rickon gasped.
“Apologies,” Robb told them. He helped Rickon off Jon’s lap and stood him on
the chair. One of the maids picked him up. Catelyn ordered them to get him new
trousers.
“Will I still get dessert?” He whimpered. He did not want his trials of carrot
eating to go unrewarded.
“Of course, my sweet,” Catelyn assured. “As soon as you get back.” The serving
girl left immediately.
Without Jon’s shield, Robb attacked. He picked up his goblet and ran his hand
up Jon’s thigh. His younger brother wore a dress—just as he demanded. Once up,
he placed the cup on his table and returned his hand to its rightful position:
three fingers deep in Jon’s hot cunt.
Jon pressed his thighs together. Robb settled down the delighted noise rising
his throat.
Robb churned and churned until the butter was melting all over his skin.
***
Theon spent dinner in his room, tearing up parchments and rough drafts,
wondering if there was a point to his efforts or if he was being played the
fool. The quill shook in his hand as he tried to compose a message for his
sister. If he pleaded with her to come, he would look desperate. She would
think he was weak and following that train of thought, believe that the Starks
were unable to take care of him.
At worst, she might try to take him home. He could imagine her now: “Theon has
been your captive long enough; I want him home and away from you shit-eating
wolves.”
Fuck, she might even start a war.
His sister’s dramatics was often overlooked due to her coolness at sea. She ate
the meat she pillaged from farms and owned goods from the villages she
ransacked. She fucked whoever she wanted whenever she wanted. He imagined she
was having the time of her life, sucking on the tits of omegan women and
playing with the cocks of younger men; a courtesy that belonged to Lord Balon
Greyjoy’s heiress.
Despite her luxuries, Theon knew she had her hands full. She captained ships
and led raids, steadied their remaining family when their father could not. He
heard that his mother’s health was dwindling and she was often consumed with
nightmares of her lost sons. Sometimes, he was compelled to write back. Little
moments of his life he thought were entertaining. Asha rarely responded. When
she did, her letters often ignored the original message. Once, he let Jon read
one. The bastard’s assessment was that his sister did not want him to lose his
culture.
“A lot of my messages are ones that describe the Neck. We write in the Old
Tongue because the True Tongue has no letters. They do not want me to forget.”
Jon paused afterward. Theon knew why.
The boy wanted to ask if Theon had forgotten his home.
Truthfully, the only thing keeping Theon’s responses alive was a single letter
sent ages ago. Theon had been so frustrated by Asha’s sporadic replies that he
decided to stop sending any messages altogether. For a single year, he refused
to let the Iron Island raven fly.
Asha was livid.
She suspected that Theon was dead and they were keeping the knowledge from her
to avoid a second rebellion. She threatened Lord Stark with a fleet. Had it not
been for her age and Lord Stark’s forgiving nature, a war would have been on
the horizon. Lord Stark told Theon to maintain his correspondence.
Theon refused.
“It is not fair that I must speak to her when she does not care enough to
reply! I am not some sailor’s wife waiting for her husband to return. I refuse
to give any love to someone who cannot offer it in return!”
No matter how many pleas and reasons, none of the adults could convince Theon
otherwise. They wrote to the young Greyjoy heiress of the matter and when they
received no response, they knew a relationship had been severed.
Robb would hear nothing of it.
Robb, whose only two values were honor and family, dragged his foster brother
onto the chair and tied a pen to his hand. He commanded Theon to write.
“I refuse!” Theon screeched. He tried to stab the younger boy with a pen. “She
hates me.”
Robb kept him still. “She doesn’t hate you. She loves you. Stop fighting!”
“No, she doesn’t! If she did, she wouldn’t be ignoring me for half the year.”
Robb sighed. “She is busy. And worried about you. You cannot keep rejecting her
love. She is your sister.”
“She doesn’t care! How many times do I have to say it?” Theon settled down.
“How do you know how she feels?”
“Because I’m an alpha,” Robb said confidently. Theon rolled his eyes. He was
about to protest when Robb continued. “And so is she. She is an alpha whose
main experience with omegas is her mother—driven mad by loneliness and lost.
She is an alpha whose omega brother is thousands of miles away from her and she
must constantly worry about his wellbeing because her only source of reliable
information are the letters he sends her about his day. Letters she no longer
receives.”
From this declaration, Theon sunk into his chair. Shame was blooming on his
face.
“Understand that when she loses those letters, she is also losing her
reassurance that you are not your mother.”
The words felt like lightning on the water. Theon wrote to his sister that
night and received a letter three months later.
Theon sighed from the memory. He dropped his body over the desk in fatigue. He
wondered if Asha would be so invested in his wellbeing if he wasn’t an omega; a
creature to be cared for; weak and fragile.
No, probably not, thought Theon. If he were an alpha, he would be the heir, and
she’d be working harder than death to secure her position before his inevitable
return. He’d be mocked by her as soon as he stepped on foot of the island.
There were some perks to being an omega, he supposed.
The conclusion sparked an alternative option for Theon. Taking out a piece of
paper, he hesitantly started his letter. Asha thought he was weak. He did not
have to prove her wrong. She would come to her dear brother’s aid if he wished
it. He thought of a plethora of excuses: the Starks did not understand him; he
wanted his family at the wedding; it would make him happy for them to be
reunited. Words and words poured out of his hand until his food became cold.
When Theon finished his letter, a flush of pride ran through his spine. Asha
was going to come, and she was going to bring an armada.
***
Right after they finished dinner, Jon grabbed Robb into a corner of the hall
and kissed him ravenously. The aggressive action rendered Robb speechless. When
he tried to respond, Jon quickly released him, heaving with swollen lips. Robb
attempted to recapture them, only to be refused.
“Tonight,” Jon whispered.
“It is nightfall now,” Robb whined.
Jon bit his lip to keep him from laughing. “Tonight,” he repeated. “At
midnight. Meet me in the council room where the Lord of Winterfell sits. I will
be waiting for you.”
With a tender kiss to seal the promise, Jon spirited away. Without his
presence, Robb’s ears were opened to the footsteps of his sisters. He could
hear them being swooped into Jon’s arms.
Robb had no choice but to comply.
***
No one but the ghosts haunted Winterfell at night. Robb sat by the hourglasses
like a madman, observing the harbor sands fall into a pile and tormented
himself with visions of Jon’s squirming body until the last grain fell.
When all his tools were finished running, he walked down the dismal halls. He
was silent, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of the guards. The maids were
resting in their rooms. The Starks rarely called upon their servitude at this
hour so they were able to rest freely. The guards’ minds were only half-awake.
When he reached the throne room—the council room, he corrected, for the Kings
in the North were no more and this hall was meant for a liege lord to receive
his people, not a king to his subjects—his heart pounded. Anticipation skipped
over his shoulders and danced to his toes. He took a deep breath. Jon laid
behind these doors, he reassured himself. Jon was waiting for him, and he must
not allow him to wait forever.
He opened the doors, and the drumming of his heart stopped into a defeating
silence.
Before him, Jon Snow, son of Howland Reed and Eddard Stark, sat on the throne
of Winterfell.
And there was not a single article of clothing on him.
“Ah, fuck me.”
Jon laughed, breaking the tension with his lightness. Robb marched forward so
that he could be by Jon’s side. As soon he reached his feet, he sunk down to
his knees and kissed Jon’s feet.
“Shall I call you Lord Snow tonight?”
Jon licked his lips. He took away his foot and got up from his chair. Robb
hardened when he saw Jon’s sweet honey trickling down his leg. He followed suit
and stood up. When they kissed, Jon pressed himself against his older brother.
He wrapped one of his legs around Robb’s hips. The Stark heir understood the
offer and lifted his brother up. Jon wrapped his entire body around Robb. His
weight was nothing more than a feather, but the seat was so close, and Robb
realized this was his intention. Jon wanted to get fucked on the throne of
Winterfell and Robb would obey his wishes. But Jon was about to be placed
there; Jon stopped him.
“I did not leave the throne for the sake of returning to it.”
Robb sucked on his collarbone. That was his first mark of the night.
“You left to greet me. I am returning you to your rightful place.” They kissed
again.
Jon bit his lower lip so that they would. He licked the side of Robb’s neck.
“The seat belongs to he who calls himself the King in the North.”
Robb stuck his fingers into Jon’s ass. It was tight, like how he left it in his
bedroom. He knew Jon’s pussy would be looser after the abuse it suffered at
dinner. Robb was not content with a simple message after being denied the way
he was.
“Shall I call you King Snow, my grace?”
Jon could not help but smile. He gripped onto Robb even tighter and sunk deeper
onto Robb’s fingers. Slowly, he began to ride the hand as if it were a cock.
Robb grunted. He could feel Jon fucking his prostate without remorse.
“The only man who can sit on the Throne of Winter…” He huffed. “…Is a Stark. I
am not a Stark.” With one solid movement, Jon shoved himself to the hilt on
Robb’s fingers, resulting in his first orgasm of the night. Robb’s cock was in
pain. His alpha instincts screamed at him to punish Jon for coming without
permission. Instead, he drowned himself on Jon’s moans. The older boy whispered
in his ear. “I want you to sit on the throne. I want to ride my king.”
What was a king who did not live by the will of his people? Robb moved forward
and unceremoniously sat on the cold wood. Jon joined him by lifting up his hips
so that he was removed from Robb’s fingers and seated on his lap. He rode him
while his cock stuck through the fabric. Pre-cum leaked through. Jon wanted to
taste it. He pulled on the drawstrings and released the appendage. He placed it
in between his pussy lips and rubbed it.
“Centuries ago, before the dragon lords and the stag usurpers, the Starks ruled
the North. They unified the kings through the blood of sex and cemented their
kingdom on their bones. You are the heir to their rule. The bearer of many
bloodlines.” Jon pressed downwards on Robb’s cock. His cunt opened the
slightest bit, ready for the intrusion.
“Jon…” Robb choked out a gasp when he felt himself go deeper. His tip was
almost in. Jon rolled his hips so that Robb churn the surface of his pussy.
“Tonight, I am going to do the same. I am going to crown you with my laurel of
blood.”
With a deep breath, Jon pushed himself down in one, harsh move.
Robb let out a long-awaited guttered groan.
The presence of a cock caused Jon to gush out a river’s amount of slick. Robb’s
cock stretched out his hole more than any of his toys. The heat was almost
unbearable. He could feel the veins rubbing against his inner walls. So
consumed by the feeling, Jon made the mistake of trying to leave. He managed to
lift himself so that the tip was at the entrance but Robb refused to let him
escape. As soon as the cold air hit his shaft, he sought to engulf himself in
the tight heat once more. He grabbed Jon’s hips and forced himself all the way
to the hilt.
“Robb!” Jon sobbed. “You’re tearing me inside out.” He bit into Robb’s shoulder
when the older boy shoved a finger inside his ass to silence him. Robb could
feel the wetness on his skin; he wondered if it was tears or drool.
“I have waited years for this moment. You said you were going to make me king.
I want my crown.” Robb made himself comfortable. He steadily fucked into Jon’s
cunt by lifting the smaller boy all the way to the tip and then slamming him
down. A moan of pleasure met each thrust. Honey dripped out. Robb’s cock was
getting drenched. “More, I want more,” Jon cried.
Robb chuckled. He was sure that tomorrow morning would be filled with stories
of wayward ghosts and fearful apparitions. He refused to silence Jon, however.
His moans were like hymns of worship. With Robb’s fingers punching his prostate
and his pussy being pounded, there was no surprise when Jon spilled all over
Robb’s chest. His pussy squeezed Robb’s cock.
“Fuck!” Robb swore. He shivered and dug as far as he could go. “Your body is
grasping me so tightly. You feel so good, Jon.” Without warning, he released
Jon’s hips so that the boy sank on his knot. If Jon thought he was stretched
before, it was nothing compared to the bulge tearing him from the inside. Jon’s
head fell back. No longer controlled by Robb’s hand, Jon started bouncing
relentlessly, fucking mindlessly on Robb’s cock until he came. The knot was
wrecking his cunt. He knew tomorrow it would be nothing but a gaping hole. Robb
made an effort to pitch deep inside Jon; far enough that he could feel his cock
through Jon’s stomach.
The taste of Robb’s never-ending cum was as familiar to Jon as water. He came a
second time thinking about all the times he choked on its thickness. He
fantasized about the way the cream stuck to his throat, making his voice rough
and guttered. The sensation of Robb’s cum inside him, however, was entirely
new. It coated Jon’s insides and mixed in with Jon’s essence. Though his mind
said otherwise, his pussy clenched around the cock. He wanted to milk him dry.
He wanted to be bred.
Despite coming, neither of them wanted to stop or separate. The slightest
twitched turned into another round of lovemaking, and the mildest quiver was
followed by an orgasm. The two of them took advantage of their youth. It took
the l of dawn for them to return to their rooms. Robb carried Jon through the
halls; it seemed like they were more guards than ever before.
Once inside their room, Robb tucked Jon into bed. The boy passed out. Like any
good alpha, Robb wiped off his sweat and licked both of Jon’s holes clean. With
perverse pleasure, he pressed a hand against the swollen belly. The slightest
push caused the cum to pour out like a dam. He imagined filling Jon’s womb with
a magnitude of princes and princesses. Robb’s cock twitch. He undid his pants
again and climbed on top of his brother. He figured another round wouldn’t hurt
either of them.
***
Before morning struck, Jon woke up to the feeling of Robb inside him. The young
man was underneath the covers, mouth on his chest; cock plugged into Jon’s
cunt. He was finished. Jon closed his eyes. Brushing a hand through Robb’s
hair, Jon wondered how he should prepare for his next heat. He’d be lucky if
Robb was only twice as vigorous during a rut. More wetness dripped out of his
hole. Robb’s cock was not enough to keep everything inside. Jon moaned when
Robb shuffled in his sleep, his knot hitting one of Jon’s special spots. Jon
tried to adjust to the size but failed. Finally, he gave up and went back to
bed. When they woke up, Jon was going to have a talk with his king about
knotting him in his sleep.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you for enjoying this chapter.
     A lot of people have been concerned that this story was being
     discontinued. Rest assured, I am not abandoning this story and have
     no plans to do so. I am just busy. I am busy and tired and more than
     a bit overwhelmed. I don’t want to update for the sake of updating
     because I have done that in the past and have lost interest in
     stories because I was unsatisfied with the work I was producing.
     I will try to update when I can but I can no longer promise regular
     chapters until March when everything is settled with my move and
     work.
     I will, however, be writing an extra piece to explain the alpha/omega
     dynamics of this universe, including the physical differences between
     male omegas and female alphas, as requested by Adhara Snow. It’s too
     long to explain in a note so I figure I make a separate part for this
     story. If you have any questions about the universe, ask them now. I
     will be explaining inheritance, anatomy, mating biology, and the
     current statuses of the Starks, the Reeds, and other players in this
     story. But if there’s a high request for a certain family, I will do
     that as well.
     Also, because I know this will become a concern, but Theon and Robb
     will not be a thing. Robb was just trying to make Jon jealous.
     Sorry for the long note. Happy Friday the 13th!
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     There is a lot of smut in this chapter. Half of it was not planned. I
     wrote this chapter in February and my first instinct was to bombard
     the first 6000 words with smut.
     Warnings: Threesomes, Moresomes, half-sibling incest, underage,
     twins, rough sex, infidelity, please warn me if you see a tag I
     should have placed.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The Northern party joined at Barrow Hall to collect their steeds. Lady Dustin
was generous with her loans; she loved her nephew dearly and offered the Bolton
heir her finest horse—a black stallion with a callous temperament and the
thickest thighs of his team. He was trained to ride the frosted fields of
Northern mountains and race the snow coated terrains. Riding the southern
plains would not compare. For the first time since they met, Theon saw Domeric
smile.
For propriety’s sake, Robb was allocated the next choice. No matter what, his
selection would be amongst the finest in the North. Despite her indignity to
the Starks, Lady Dustin refused to let her father’s name be besmirched. Until
the day he dies, there would be no other who can claim the title of the North's
greatest horse breeder. Robb walked up to the large beasts—they were tussling
in place—too well trained to make a commotion, but their animal natures were
impossible to overcome. In the middle of the harras was a white stallion as
unwavering as The Wall. When Robb drew near, he straightened his form and stood
at attention. His composure was an example for the colts on the other side of
the stable. When the other horses caught the direction of Robb’s attention,
they, too, sought to imitate such poise.
“What do you think, Jon?” Robb asked. His brother was a mere step away. The
bastard child came closer until Robb was able to wrap his arm around his waist.
He pressed his lips against Jon’s ear. Jon relished in Robb’s hot breath. He
managed to spare a glance at the patient steed before giving his opinion.
“Certainly not the most impressive creature but without a doubt the most
dignified.” Robb chuckled when Jon sunk his face into the scruff of his neck.
“He is a creature worthy of a king.”
Jon’s fingers played with the drawstrings of his brother’s pants. Desperate to
be alone, Robb thanked Lady Dustin and ignored the disgust she displayed when
he slipped his hand underneath Jon’s furs. She did not concern him. No one
would trust the words of a wolf-caller. When he was outside, he took Jon to his
tent so that they could wait the rest of the selection in peace. Sansa and Arya
attempted to see their half-brother, but Robb prevented their entrance. “Jon
might be coming down with a chill,” he told the girls. “You are still young. We
cannot allow him to infect you two.”
“What about you?” Arya asked; suspicion indoctrinated into her tone. Though the
youngest of their party, she was already beginning to suspect that Robb’s
excuses were attempts to keep Jon to himself. She was not wrong. “Should you
not maintain your health for the tourney?”
Robb’s eyes narrowed. “I am older than you. My body is sturdier.”
“Not that much older,” Arya muttered.
Robb refused to indulge her. He closed the blinds on their tents and ignored
their protests until they went away. When he turned around, he saw Jon laying
on the bed. He was rubbing his entrance through his pants. Robb laughed and
walked over to the bed. The older boy climbed on top of his brother and covered
Jon’s hands with his own.
“Is there something wrong, little brother?”
Jon winced when Robb pushed against his entrance. He was still clothed. Jon’s
back arched and he thrust his pelvis up to Robb like an offering. Unable to
resist, Robb undid the ties that kept Jon’s pants together. His eyes followed
the bare flesh that led to an open slit stuffed with a wooden phallus. Robb
undid his trousers. Ever since Robb discovered the joys of his brother’s cunt,
it became unbearable to keep his cock dry. He was an alpha and alphas were
entitled to their mate’s wet holes whenever they pleased.
Jon screamed into the sheets when Robb removed the object from his cunt. He
felt empty without the toy. He gasped when Robb stuck his fingers inside. Robb
gave an approving noise. “Hopefully, you’re loose enough for me.” Robb stuffed
his tip in. Jon could not walk with an object as big as Robb’s manhood. They
decided on a smaller phallus. Jon regretted their decision when the tip of
Robb’s cock entered him. He shuttered when the intrusive object started
wrecking his soft little cunt.
“Gods, that’s good. Keep clenching; I want to feel you around me.”
Jon and Robb fucked the entire night. They missed dinner, and when a guard came
to check on them, Jon was already sleeping. He faced the side of the tent while
Robb was upright, going over his notes. Robb told the man that neither he nor
Jon had an appetite. Robb did not mention he'd already stuffed Jon’s belly with
cum. That hardly seemed appropriate.
The guard lingered to inform Robb that half of the party will be leaving tonigh
so that they could set up the tents at the tourney. “Lady Jyana suggested it.
We’ll be operating on the difference of a half-day. The first party will stop
in the Neck while the second party will rest outside it. If Jon would like to
visit the Neck, he should leave now.”
Robb frowned at the suggestion. Without hesitating, he told the guards: “It has
already been decided that when we return, Jon will be staying in the Neck while
my family resides at Riverrun. I will not be parted from my brother until
then.”
The guard accepted his message and left. Robb returned his attention to his
slumbering brother. The thought of their brief separation was unbearable. He
slipped underneath the covers and indulged in a little snack. Jon’s ass was
only used once tonight. Robb moved his tongue inside and started lapping up the
slick Jon’s body produced. Omegas were like that; they were eager for fuckings
whether they knew it or not.
***
Lord Howland was not present for the first party's arrival. His daughter and
son sat on their makeshift thrones—two pillows woven with pickerelweed and
stuffed with leaves. Benjen Stark was beside them; the quintessence of a
reluctant lord that did his job well but without joy. Instead of tents, he
offered the crannogs for safe dwelling—there were too many beasts within the
Neck, and the lands were always moving. The men they slept next to tonight may
not be there in the morning, having drifted to farthermost regions of the Neck.
“The Neck is filled with willing hosts. They are all eager to provide
accommodations.”
After making the announcement, Benjen whispered something in his daughter’s
ear. The little alpha ran to a nearby doorway and brushed the vines aside. If
their exclusively alpha party had not made their decision, it was made for them
when Meera revealed the throng of thralls. At least a dozen omegas were
standing before them, dressed in hems that reached the height of their cunts.
Flashes of pink teased them from underneath their skirts. Little droplets of
slick ran down their thighs and threatened to make a puddle on the floor.
Beneath their thin clothes were swinging breasts, made visible by the sweat of
the swamp. Some of them decided that their chests were better left bare. The
room became overwhelmed with the stench of arousal.
“Lord Umber,” Lady Jyana addressed. Her composure was second to none. “I
believe you remember Lord Ryon and Lord Cley of House Fenn.”
Two men walked forward. They were the eldest of the group and beautiful beyond
words. Though they were twins, one of them had his blond hair shaved off to one
side and wet lips meant to be stretched. The other kept his hair long and in a
braid; his eyes were half-lidded; as if prepared for a bedding.
“Lord Umber,” the braided one spoke. “We are honored to have you with us
again.” He entangled his fingers with his brother and waited for an answer.
Watching them press against each other resurfaced the bulk of Greatjon's
fantasies. His erection was ready to rip through his pants. His son, Smalljon,
looked back and forth, before concluding that whichever crannog his father
rested in was not the crannog he was to reside.
“It has been a long time.” Lord Umber did not take much to recover. He walked
towards them, puffing out his chest to display his muscles. Some of the
crannogmen pushed their thighs together. They were like sluttish colts—he
doubted their ability to walk with all the aching in their cunts. Lord Umber
laughed. Without warning, he pulled the meeker Fenn into a kiss. The lords
gasped, scandalized and aroused by their display. Smalljon groaned; he was not
in the mood to watch his father rut a stranger.
With great reluctance, Greatjon let go of his prize. “How long has it been
since you've been fucked raw?”
Lord Cley was still trying to regain his breath. “Fifteen years,” he answered.
The way his short hair framed his heart-shaped face made his sweetness more
distinct. He leaned in for more, but Lord Umber redirected his focus to his
older brother. Cley whimpered to catch his attention—an instinctive response
for preening omegas. He scolded himself immediately. Lord Umber was a fair man.
He wanted to make sure both twins received his affection.
“Fifteen years and not one visit,” accused Ryon. Though he pretended not to be
as ruined by the virile alpha, the flush on his face said otherwise. “Did we
not please you? It was our first time entertaining a guest and one so…largeat
that. We simply must have been a disappointment.”
“Not at all,” Lord Umber denied. His confidence surged; he relished in the envy
of his fellow lords. “I could think of no finer hole—host.” Lord Umber chuckled
at his gaffe. “Before we are reacquainted, allow me to introduce my eldest son
and heir: Jon. I call him Smalljon.”
Smalljon Umber reluctantly stepped forward. Commotion fluttered throughout the
crowd. Though he was beneath his father in height, his stature was one that
mimicked mountains. He was enormous. Their maester predicted that he would one
day tower over his father.
Three months from his twentieth birthday, the heir of the Last Hearth was
hardly a novice when it came to bedding omegas. His father encouraged him to
wet his cock whenever the opportunity arose. To his dismay, there were more
omegas that feared his manhood than those who were eager for a taste. In the
Neck, that was not the case. While Smalljon was prepared to battle any alpha,
he was not armed for the beasts before him. The crannogmen were overwhelmed
with thirst. Their eyes were savage as they assess the prey before them.
“Perhaps my grasp of your language is weak,” Cley stated. He stepped forward
and pressed his palms against Smalljon’s chest. He shivered. “He is not small.”
Lord Umber chuckled. “A term of endearment.” He groped Ryon’s bottom. The
younger man released a shrill of pleasure. “My brother says he is bound to grow
even bigger than me.”
“He will be bigger than you?” Cley gasped. His crannog brethren mumbled out
their disapproval. It was not fair that the Fenns housed two giants in their
home.
Cley agreed, though his reluctance was evident. “Unfortunately we cannot house
the two of you. Our crannog would sink.”
A few of the waiting omegas stepped forward to offer their homes. Ryon stopped
them. It was selfish of him, but he wanted the first taste to remain in the
family.
“We have children!” he reminded everyone. “Would you like to meet them,
Smalljon?”
The omegas stepped back. They remembered the rules. The Fenns claimed priority
over the Umber cocks.
“You have children?” Lord Umber asked. The surprise was evident.
“I have a son and Cley is the mother of twins. A boy and a girl. They are all
omegas.” Ryon licked his lips. “They blossomed this year. They have never been
touched, either. I have taught them a few things, but they are anxious to learn
pleasure from an alpha.”
“How old are they?” His father asked—unable to shake the gnawing in his gut.
“Fourteen,” Cley answered. He sounded so proud, unaware of Greatjon’s growing
dismay. “And they are the most precious creatures in the world. You will not
regret having them. They are at home, preparing dinner. If we leave now, I can
tell them to make another plate and set up dwellings in one of the spare
crannogs.” He was beaming with excitement.
Smalljon hardened at the prospect. To his surprise, his father appeared
reluctant. He could tell the man wanted to protest and Smalljon, for the life
of him, could not understand why. Throughout their journey, his father boasted
of the fine selection of bodies—all willing and tight. “Nothing like the whores
in a brothel,” Greatjon cheered. He thought his father would be throwing him at
the offer.
When Smalljon admitted no protest, the twins accepted their victory. Greatjon
was dragged to the waiting crannog where his cock would be slicked up with oils
and sunk into their cunts. Lord Cley walked towards Smalljon and announced that
he would send for him once everything was finished. “I hope you do not mind
waiting. It is short notice and we must prepare for your comfort.”
“If I took him in, there would be a meal and a bed ready,” muttered one of the
crannogmen. Cley glared at her. She pouted defiantly. Cley returned his
attention to Smalljon and requested his patience. Before he left, he told his
fellow omegas that they could partake in him as much as they pleased—after
their children received their first load.
Smalljon wondered if he would have any say in the matter. Judging by the
hopeful resignation on the creeper’s faces, he guessed not. “You said there
were three of them?” He asked instead.
Cley smiled. “Yes. I hope they treat you well.”
If they were half as beautiful as the Fenn lords, Smalljon would not care. Once
the matter was settled, the rest of the alphas awaited their hosts’ command.
Their cocks were straining through their pants.
Lady Jyana decided to put them out of their misery. “The journey must have made
you weary. I trust my good brother has already set the housing arrangements.”
She turned to Benjen for confirmation.
The acting Lord of the Neck said something in the Old Tongue. Without
hesitation, the crannogmen dived into the group of alphas. Some did not wait to
leave Greywater Watch before removing their guests’ clothes. The alphas were
mistaken when they thought they were presented with a feast. Tonight, it was
them who provided the meal.
***
If Greatjon were a better man, he would have marched to the neighboring crannog
and upheaved his son from the blasphemous breeding that was to occur. The Fenns
were not motivated to deceive him on the matter of paternity. They confirmed
that it was Greatjon’s seed that settled in their stomachs fifteen years ago.
Lord Umber could not hide his dismay. Empathetic to his distress, Cley and Ryon
sought to alleviate his worries.
“Of course, we will not ask you to claim them!” Cley’s fingers picked up a
piece of fried fish and slipped it past Greatjon’s lips. The crappie melted in
his mouth and the freshness of garlic and cayenne frolicked on his tongue. Cley
licked the crumbs off his face and retrieved a piece of steamed okra. Greatjon
opened his mouth. Though he loved his son, Smalljon’s soul was not worth the
Neck’s luxury.
“We understand how your people view children outside of wedlock. We bear you no
ill-will, Lord Umber. If anything, we are grateful for your gifts to us,” Ryon
added as he massaged the giant’s cock. Ryon was pleased to see that the
magnitude of his manhood had not shrunk with Ryon’s growing age. He was bigger
than Ryon’s arm. “Do not feel obliged to adopt our sweetlings if it is not your
wish. A child should be a blessing, not a burden.”
Cley poured more wine into Greatjon’s glass. More mead would weaken his
resistance. After Greatjon took a gulp, Cley captured his lips and Ryon
engulfed his massive erection. The double assault took away the last of
Greatjon’s reservations.
While Ryon desired another child, Cley was content with his twins. He separated
from the Umber lord and prepared his ass. Lord Umber watched with keen interest
as Cley worked in each finger to the knuckle. His erection grew in response and
stretched out Ryon’s throat. Ryon choked. He tried to release Lord Umber’s
cock—an unacceptable act, for Lord Umber responded by slamming Ryon’s head
against his balls and forcing his entire cock down his throat. Ryon’s eyes
rolled to the back of his head. Lord Umber lifted the younger man’s head so
that he could push it to the hilt. Before long, Ryon’s throat imitated a
sleeve, letting Lord Umber use him as he pleased. As a reward for his service,
Greatjon released a bear’s share of cum inside his body. The bulbous head, in
the middle of a knot, sealed most of the cum inside Ryon’s throat. The remains
of the load seeped out of his mouth, bulging out his cheeks and dripped to the
floor.
Cley could not help himself. The sight of his brother’s ravished throat caused
him to cum. With ragged breaths, he crawled over to Lord Umber and joined their
mouths again. He loved the heightened intimacy of kissing more than his brother
did. Lord Umber brought his large hand on Cley’s bottom and replaced the
fingers the younger man put there.
The size of the man’s thumb alone was equivalent to some omega cocks. Two
fingers were enough to split him apart. Cley whimpered, and the sound did
wonders to Greatjon’s cock. It twitched and prepared for another round in
whatever hole was willing. Ryon, whose mouth was still recovering from its
brutal use, let out a little gasp of approval. His cunt ached, and Cley’s
asshole mirrored the sensation. They were twins after all. Ryon crept onto Lord
Umber’s lap before his brother had the chance. He reminded Cley of their
promise.
“Me first,” Ryon rasped out. It hurt to speak. “You promised I could have
another child. Alpha seed is most potent at the beginning.”
“He has plenty of seed,” Cley pointed out. He nonetheless agreed to his
brother’s demands—it was a duty as an older brother to make sure Ryon received
everything he wished. Besides, Ryon was right. Cley was fortunate to have twins
on his first try; Ryon deserved another babe to keep him happy.
There was never enough preparation for a giant’s cock. Ryon made due with his
honey and fingers. Lord Umber was nothing if not a virile alpha. He spent his
youth massacring soldiers and spent his lordship slaughtering wildlings
escaping the Wall. He was more robust than alphas half his age. Without
hesitance, he grabbed the Fenn’s hips and forced himself in, balls deep.
Ryon swore in his native tongue. “Big! You’re so big! I’m getting split apart!”
He screamed. Lord Umber understood nothing and even if he did, he would not
stop. Lord Umber lifted him up so that he was pounding him against the floor.
The plates on their table shook and threatened to fall. Cley saw the outline of
his cock press against Ryon’s stomach and moaned. Umber was too big for them.
Not that his brother cared, thought Cley, as he watched his brother get
violated from the inside out. Ryon was getting fucked without remorse. Rather
than worry about the way his twin was getting impaled, his cock twitched with
satisfaction. They were mirror images of each other, coupled with their
connection; it was like he was getting fucked himself. Cley bit his lip as his
pussy quivered and shake from the phantom intrusion. He slipped his hand
downwards and tried to quell the ache pulsing through his body. He thought of
son and daughter and wondered if he should reconsider his plans for another
child. Surely, his babes would not mind another brother or sister to dote on.
Oh, and if it was an alpha this time…
Cley came at the suggestion.
Greatjon used the two of them for the rest of the night. They were grateful for
each other—when one twin needed rest, the other sacrificed their body for
pleasure. By the time Greatjon was sated, both omegas were long passed out.
The food was cold but edible. He grabbed a plate of crayfish and walked outside
to taste the air. The swamps were humid—even at night. He had been warned
against traveling alone in the Neck but Umbers cared little for words of
caution. He would not impose on his guests any longer than he already had and
there were plenty of omegas in the Neck eager to be ravaged. During his nightly
excursion, he came upon another crannog—this time, there was a small home on
top of it. He did not bother to wonder about the inhabitants and simply walked
inside.
Fate was an entity with humor.
His son laid before him, resting with five omegas by his side. His cock was
buried inside a slumbering girl of fair complexion and dark brown hair—much
like his own. He sighed. The sound rumbled through the quiet dwelling and woke
his ever alert son up. Like the warrior Greatjon raised him to be, the young
man instinctively grabbed a nearby dinner knife and prepared for battle. When
he saw his father, he groaned. The girl holding him threatened to wake. She
mumbled Smalljon’s name and adjusted herself on his cock. Greatjon briefly
heard the approval for Smalljon to continue before the girl returned to sleep.
Greatjon kicked his son to fully revitalize him. “Get up,” he ordered.
Smalljon, with no small reluctance, removed the sweet girl from his lap.
Ignoring her whimper was no small feat. The heir to the Last Hearth could feel
his resentment grow as his cock touched the open air. Quickly dressing, he
followed his father outside.
“Had your fun?” His father asked. He tried to sound like an authoritarian; he
failed.
Smalljon raised an eyebrow. “There are five freshly fucked omegas in that
house. I had more than fun.”
Lord Umber let out a laugh that resonated through the swamp. Smalljon could
hear the rustling within the dwelling. “I thought you were given three.”
“They brought friends.” Smalljon pretended to be unaffected. His father knew
better—his son was ready to bust a nut in pride for having fucked so many
nubile beauties. “I was doing them a kindness.”
Lord Umber laughed—harder and louder this time. He almost entirely forgot what
his original intentions were. A head of gold popped up from their shanty home
and Lord Umber remembered the chill from earlier. Memories of Greatjon’s
wartime celebration returned in the form of a doppelgänger. He could only
stare.
“Jon?” The child called, voice as melodic as a kitten’s mew. He seemed
surprised by the elder Umber’s presence but did not remain shaken enough to
ignore his pleasantries. “I thought I heard voices. You must be Lord Umber.”
There was no other man he could be. “I am Lonnel Fenn.”
He did not bother with a handshake and merely pressed his body against
Smalljon’s arm, as if shielding himself from danger. His innocence was
contradicted by the knife in his palm. When Lonnel saw the direction of Lord
Umber’s gaze, he did not falter. The honeyed child smiled and showcased the
dagger as if he were a child with a toy. “These lands are treacherous to those
who do not know how to guide the crannogs. You could get hurt.”
Smalljon scoffed at the suggestion. He patted the boy’s head. “I believe we are
well-equipped.”
Lonnel smiled like his mother—as if each tooth guarded a secret. Lord Reed had
the same smile. Lonnel hummed and let go of his partner. “If you are sure. But
please return to bed soon.” Lonnel pressed his face against Smalljon’s bicep
and inhaled the sex-drenched odor. He sighed as if experiencing a dream before
leaving them to their business.
Lord Umber could not help but stare.
Smalljon was laughing this time. “If you’d like a taste, I doubt he would
protest.”
The suggestion alarmed Greatjon. He laughed to hide his discomfort. “I am quite
sated.”
“When I was a boy, I watched you kill a dozen wildlings and not even then was
your bloodlust sated.” Smalljon sighed. There was a pause; he asked if it was
because of their blood relation.
Greatjon stopped laughing then. A silence passed between them before his father
asked when he made the discovery. There was no shame in his confession. He even
chuckled once he believed the charade done with.
“Mara—your daughter—wondered why she was not bigger. Lonnel said that ‘their
blood was too strong to be swayed by mortals, even giants.’”
“You stuck your cock in them? Even with this knowledge?”
“If they do not care, why should I?” Smalljon loosened his britches to prepare
for his return. “They know the old gods better than we do.”
As a father, Greatjon was inclined to disagree. His protests sounded false.
Pleasure was so hard to find in the barren North. He could not squander his
time on worthless sins. The lord let out a boisterous laugh and bid his son a
pleasurable evening. Smalljon was right. The creatures of the Neck need not
adhere to the morality of men.
***
They were packing up their final campsite when Robb dragged Jon off to the
woods. Ser Rodrik made Robb promise that when they got to the Reach, his full
attention would be on the tourney. Jon agreed with the vow. While the North was
accustomed to their effusive behavior, the same could not be said of the South.
Robb’s reputation would be cemented in his appearance at the tourney and Jon
was adamant about keeping him respectable.
Robb was not as concerned.
The two were secreted in a small corner of the woods, several paces from their
campsite and hidden by a collection of boulders. Robb trapped Jon against one
of the trees. Jon wrapped his legs around his older brother’s waist and bit
into his shoulder to silence his moans. Robb was slamming into his ass with
pleased grunts and no signs of restraint.
“Fuck, you feel so good!” Robb rolled his hips and snapped forward again. Jon
was well-trained at this point; he knew how to clench his hole so that his
tightness heightened. Robb’s fingers dug into his hips. “Gods, you’re fucking
tight. It feels like I’m going to break you…each time, I think I’m going to
split you apart. Let me…” Robb started rutting wildly just then. He pounded and
pounded so hard that Jon had to let go out his shoulder.
“Feels so good,” Jon gasped out. He wanted a release so badly. He bounced on
Robb’s cock, meeting each thrust with a grind of the hips. Robb’s balls were
hitting his skin so hard it bruised. Jon tried to lift up his hips to ease Robb
in deeper. Robb responded by thrusting his growing knot all the way in. He lost
himself to the pleasure of a good knot-fuck, shoving in and out without
remorse. His knot swelled up to prepare for release. Without warning, Robb
drowned Jon’s prostate with his cum. His bulging knot was shoved against his
brother’s sweet spot. Jon whimpered as he delivered his orgasm and clung to
Robb with their sweat as adhesive.
Weakened from his mating, Jon draped over his brother’s body for support. The
older boy responded by leaning against the tree. Jon relished in the feeling of
Robb’s form—the weeks of training made his body hard. He was bigger and he
loved using his newfound strength to his advantage. The omega in Jon flourished
from the frequent manhandling. As much as he enjoyed the change, he grew
increasingly bitter of the troubles such attractiveness presented. As soon as
they entered the southern plains, Robb was the target of much attention. Jon
was not surprised by the number of omegas offering their services to such a
fine lord, nor could he blame them. With the exception of the crannogmen,
Northerners tend to be larger than their southern counterparts, having more
direct links to the First Men. Their statures gave them an animalistic
appeal—promising a thorough and rough breeding. Coupled with Robb’s noble air
and fine features, he was considered prime estate in the omega community.
The thought made Jon nauseous.
Jon tilted his head upwards for a kiss. Robb complied with a pleased noise.
They spent a good amount of time kissing while Robb deflated. After a while,
Robb heard someone calling for them.
“It’s Dacey,” Jon murmured when they separated. “She’s coming closer,” Jon
added.
Robb grimaced. He shifted his position. His knot deflated enough to get out but
he could not help but stretch Jon’s body when he left. The younger boy let out
a shrill of pleasure. It was enough to get him hard again.
In record time, the two attempted to look presentable. They left their haven
and encountered Dacey in minutes.
“Are you two slacking off while the rest of us do the work?” Dacey growled.
Jon blushed, ashamed of his negligence. He was about to apologize when Robb
spoke out. “We wanted some time to ourselves. There’s no telling how the
southerners are going to receive Jon and I’ll be too busy to watch out for him.
A good brother should make sure his siblings are taken care of.”
“A good heir knows his duty is to be with his men. Just because you’re to be
the Lord of Winterfell does not mean you can pass off your responsibilities to
your lesser lords. We are not servants.”
“We’re sorry—,” Jon began. He was cut off again.
“You’ve been a mood for a while,” Robb accused.
Dacey’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve been upset since we’ve separated into two parties.”
“I am upset because the lord I am expected to swear fealty would rather rut his
brother than do his job.”
“Careful, Mormont.”
She did not miss a beat. “There’s a stain on his pants.”
The accusation burned into Jon’s gut. He knew they were too reckless. He should
have asked Robb to keep his distance. He was about to beg for Dacey’s silence
when Robb, the calmest he’s ever been, countered with his own cruelty.
“Perhaps your desperation for your good mother has made you see things,” Robb
sneered. Dacey froze. The insinuation was as obvious as it was scandalous. Jon
tug at his brother’s sleeve.
“We should go,” he pleaded. There was nothing that drew the eye more than the
sight of two alphas quarreling in front of an unmated omega. He did not need
this to be the day of revelations.
“You go,” Dacey told him; her voice was on edge. “I will have words with your
brother.”
Jon eyed the sword by her side. She was taller and older than Robb though she
lacked his bulk. Her people were hard warriors. Robb may have received more
varied training than her, but that meant nothing without the will for
execution.
When she saw that Jon did not move, she continued. “Jon, I am a steadfast
northerner. I would never dream of hurting a Stark. Please, pack your stuff so
we may leave.”
Robb nodded his reassurance. At last, Jon squeezed his brother’s arm and left
them alone. When he was out of sight and ear, Robb sighed.
“You promised you would keep our secret,” Robb reminded her.
“Forgive me, but I suspect Jon already knows he is having an affair with you.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Well, you are not particularly discreet,” Dacey defended. “Or else I would not
have caught you two at Barrow Hall.” That would be the last time she ever did
the unrequested kindness of bringing dinner to a spoilt brat. “How do you know
about my feelings for Jyana?”
“I didn’t.”
“What?” Dacey hissed.
Robb raised an eyebrow. “I suspected something was amidst when you accepted our
relationship. I watched you. I saw the way you looked at her and the way she
looked at you.” He shrugged. “I made a guess.”
“You made a fucking guess!” Dacey kicked a tree. She groaned. Her foot pulsed
with pain. She punched a rock. She swore and cussed—she did everything but cry.
When she was done letting out her frustration, she sat down, heaving.
“She is old enough to be my sister.” The Mormont heir’s tone was filled with
injustice. “We are seven years apart. My father had lived over two decades
before she was born.”
“Some alphas marry below the age of their children.”
Dacey shook her head. “I was compatible with her—and so was my father. Can you
imagine the torture? For almost a decade, I’ve listened to my good mother moan
while my father plows her into her bed. I watched her body swelled with my
sister, and I used to wait for her to stop playing with my siblings—the younger
ones call her mother—so that we could be alone.”
Robb tried to imagine losing Jon to another alpha. He could not. There was too
much blood whenever the arrangement was hypothesized.
“Does she know?”
Dacey nodded. “I told her the night of Barrow Hall—when she suggested we split
up into parties and said she wanted me to stay with you. You ungrateful twat. I
was incensed. And stupid enough to confess.” Dacey sighed. She leaned against
the tree that Robb and Jon were once fucking on. Robb had the good sense to
keep this to himself. “She said I was irrational. And as a kindness, she would
forgive my confession. When I tried to kiss her, she stopped me.”
“I’m sorry.” Robb felt for her strife. The qualms of unrequited love were
unmatched by all.
Dacey shook off his pity like a beast. “Don’t. You’re one of the lucky ones,
Robb.” She stood up and stepped forward. “But you won’t stay lucky if you
continue to act so foolishly.” Dacey struck him on top of his head. "Is your
cock made of magic? Is Jon not supposed to put some sense into you?”
“He tries,” Robb admitted. “But he cannot refuse me, nor would I allow him to
if he did.”
Dacey approved of the admission more than she cared to admit. “If I said the
same, Jyana would hate me.”
“I would not allow Jon to do that either.” Robb chuckled. “Jon is mine. He has
been mine since he was born. And even if he wanted to, I would not let him tell
me ‘no.’”
***
Their party was welcomed at Highgarden by a guide. He was confirmed a Tyrell
man hired to help them. The man led the way to their allocated position within
the camps where the members of their party had finished setting up. As
expected, their presence caused a riot of whispers. While many northerners
frequented the South for trade and leisure, the Starks were an anomaly in the
sense that they have not taken part in Southern affairs since the war.
Sansa watched her mother converse with the guide. She looked so lovely and
natural; their southern expenditure had done wonders to her mood. Sansa, on the
other hand, was out of place. Girls her age were dressed in fine silks and
poofy skirts; their hair was decorated with roses and daisies and other flowers
she could not even begin to name. There was one child, no older than Arya,
wearing a necklace made of emeralds! On her left, she saw a group of omegas
playing with their dolls. Sansa tried to smile at them, but the leader of the
group turned her nose and laughed. She said something to her friends, and they
joined her mocking.
Sansa’s face burned with embarrassment. She bunched up her ragged dress, dull
from wash and stained from travel, and walked faster to her tent. She wished to
hide and never be seen again!
Before Sansa could get lost in the crowd, Jon took ahold of her hand. He
smiled, sweetly as she’s always known him to smile, and advised her not to
concern herself with them. “Sansa, do not waste worries on the envy of objects.
You are the finest flower of this field, with or without the silks from
Volantis.”
Sansa scoffed. She could not be bothered with the lies. Jon was her brother; he
was supposed to comfort her. Besides, such advice was easy for him to give.
From every direction, alphas were turning their head for a chance to savor his
sight. She was too tall with gangly limbs and hair like sores. For once, she
was jealous of her carefree sister, who would roll her eyes at her callous
southern peers and earn their contempt without a thought.
“Sansa,” Jon pressed; his voice, solemn. Sansa turned to her brother. He gently
grasped her hand and spoke, “You need to hold your head up high. You are the
eldest daughter of Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You
are responsible for representing the North.” He brushed away a strand of red
hair. “What will happen if word gets out that Lord Stark’s eldest daughter
suffers from weakness of will? He would never live it down.”
Sansa was startled by the suggestion. She never thought about how her behavior
would affect her family! Straightening up for the sake of the North, she
continued marching with her family as if nothing was wrong. Still holding her
hand, Jon hid his grin.
When they arrived at their given location, they could not hide their shock from
the lavish accommodations before them. Tents three times the size of their own
were set up, and a collection of squires awaited them hand and foot. The guide
did not wait to be asked.
“Lord Tyrell has anticipated Lord Stark’s arrival for some time. He wanted to
make sure you were well adjusted. The tents are on loan until the tourney’s end
and the feast provided has been paid for. These are all for your men to use.”
He smiled at Lady Stark, proud of his employer’s generosity as if it came from
his own pocket. “Furthermore, we would like to extend an invitation to your
family.”
“An invitation?” Sansa asked excitedly.
“To stay at Highgarden throughout the tourney,” the guide clarified. “For you,
your children, and…your husband’s natural son.”
Jon startled at the address. The guide avoided his gaze, as many have done
since his arrival in the South—it was either that or intrusive curiosity. Jon
tightened his grip on Sansa. When she asked if he was alright, he smiled and
said nothing. Jon stared straight into the guide's eyes and saw nothing but
annoyance—the man did not hide his irritation that a bastard child was to
accompany the finest lords in the Reach. He frowned in dissatisfaction. There
was nothing to be read from the messenger.
“Can we go?” Sansa pleaded. She did so loudly when she saw how much attention
the invitation attracted. The girls from before were staring. “I’ve never been
inside a southern castle before.”
Arya was eager to see the dwelling as well. She was an adventurer and loved to
witness the various nooks and crannies of a new house. Robb, the only
dissenter—for he preferred to stay with his camp—said nothing. Lady Stark did
not hesitate to make her decision.
“Of course we could not refuse the offer of a high lord. Please tell Lord
Tyrell that we would be honored to break bread with him.”
“Very good, Lady Stark,” the guide smiled, for he knew she was a proper
southern woman despite her rugged companions. He continued his journey
forwards, where his masters were waiting.
***
Lord Tyrell of Highgarden welcomed his visitors with open arms. Like any busy
lord, he made them wait the customary five minutes (two—for he was an impatient
man and standing behind his gates, waiting for the sand to pour down the
hourglass, was no fun). Thankfully, he was not sweating. He was given ample
time to greet them as his servants gave notice to their arrival (they were
mother’s spies, employed as gardeners and maids). Once he gave the Starks his
proper pleasantries (poorly hiding his disappointment when he saw that Lord
Stark was not amongst them), he walked them through a hallway lined with golden
roses (all painted) and tapestries dedicated to the noble (but not royal)
lineage of the Tyrells.
Sansa decided that she liked Lord Tyrell, even when he mistook Jon for herself.
He was an omega high lord and they were a rarity beyond diamonds (there was a
rumor that his mother, a female omega, was the true matriarch of the family).
Though fat from a decade of child-bearing, he maintained his good cheer and had
a pleasant (albeit foolish) approach to life. He was a babbler, though, and the
children decided that marveling at the Highgarden’s grandeur was a better use
of their senses. The entire castle was filled with decorative pillars and
adorned with knick-knacks that served no purpose but to look nice. There were
heirlooms of every kind and compared to their Northern home, Highgarden was a
marketplace of treasures.
While the journey to the Highgarden court was long, they eventually met Lord
Tyrell’s husband. Lady Hightower was handsome—in the way many alpha women
are—and tall. He liked big things, they would come to know, and she was a good
deal younger than the man himself. While Lord Tyrell took the birth of his
children as an opportunity to let his body run free, Lady Alerie did no such
thing. She was a friendly person and loved her wife with dearly. Thanks to her
mother-in-law’s meddling, she did not gain Hightower as her father had planned.
The crone even made her keep her family name. In contrast to her father, Alerie
was not bitter about the circumstances. She supposed it was because of her
husband’s endearing nature. His plump form only heightened his delightfulness,
and she adored getting him pregnant. Though age was upon them, she and Mace
were still aiming for their fifth child, much to the chagrin of his mother and
her father. Why rule a kingdom, Alerie thought, when there were so many
pleasurable activities to indulge in—like making children?
“This is my husband, the beautiful and ever dignified, Lady Alerie Hightower,”
Lord Tyrell cooed. His doting address caused his mother to roll her eyes. Lady
Alerie ignored her. The lady left her seat to greet the Starks. She thanked
them for coming all this way. Then, she introduced her children.
“Unfortunately, my second son, Garlan, is not with us today. He is practicing
for the tourney.” She laughed merrily. “He has his eye on an omega and hopes to
crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty.”
Lady Stark wished she could not relate. She spared a glance towards her eldest
son and glared at the hand wrapped around his brother’s waist. She returned her
attention to Lady Alerie.
“But this is my youngest, Margaery—I believe she is the same age as your eldest
son.” As if on cue (as if she was ever not on cue) the mentioned omega stood up
and bowed respectfully. Jon took a long, hard look at her. She was as pretty as
a doll and well aware of her good fortune.
“I am pleased to meet you,” she told Lady Stark. “You are as beautiful as your
reputation makes you out to be.”
In response, Lady Stark gave her a warm smile. “Oh, believe me, Lady Margaery.
I am more pleased to make your acquaintance.” Jon could hear her smugness oil
the wheels in her head. Margaery Tyrell was everything a mother could want for
her son. Any alpha mated to her would be promised beautiful children and a
dowry sufficient for an army. Jon’s control of his emotions weakened; his
jealousy poured out of his skin. Robb tightened his non-discreet hand on his
hip. Jon would scold him for it later; for now, he relished in the touch.
“Do not worry,” Robb assured. “Men in the Reach are chivalrous to a fault.
Alphas are not allowed to initiate courtship without their sire’s permission.”
His lips lingered against his ear. “And I have no intention of asking for it.”
When they were alone, Jon promised to reward Robb for his fidelity—right after
he punished him for his insolence.
Lady Alerie continued her introductions. “And this is Loras, our third son.”
Loras coughed shamelessly. His father laughed. “Oh excuse me, Ser Loras
Tyrell.” She rolled her eyes, but it was quite clear that she was proud. “He
was made a knight last year. We have high hopes for him. On his first tourney
at Storm’s End, he won both the novice tournament and placed in the advance
rounds. We expect him to take the laurel. Ah! But don't tell Garlan that! We'd
hate for him to think we have no confidence in him and he tries so hard.”
Loras kissed Lady Stark’s hand before throwing a smile at Sansa. His grin made
Sansa’s heart flutter—Loras reminded her of the knights in her fairy tales.
Perhaps the most beautiful of his family members, the man’s flowing brown hair
and golden eyes would forever be imprinted in her memory. Not only was he
beautiful, Loras was a fierce warrior, an alpha, and came from a good family!
Surely, if Sansa proved herself a worthy mate at this tourney, she could
convince her father into making a marriage offer! Jon was right. Sansa’s sour
mood became fresh again with the new possibilities.
When the last and eldest of the children was to be introduced, Lady Stark had
long forgotten of his condition. Instead of an appropriate nod or a brave
stand, the heir to Highgarden walked over to the northern nobles. His leg
dragged, but there was no sign of discomfort on his face. He was brave—and no
one dared disgrace his efforts by dismissing him from the task.
“I am honored to meet you, Lady Stark, and your lovely children. May we build
great bonds during this tourney.” He bowed, as expected of a lord. For a
crippled man, it made him look like a king.
He was clever, Jon praised inwardly. He watched the performance with the
natural suspicion ingrained in him as a crannogman. Before he could look away,
Willas caught his stare. Jon was taken back by the intelligence hiding in those
hawk-like eyes. Within seconds (but not soon enough, for in his eyes, Jon saw a
leader and a tactician all at once), those orbs were filled with warmth and
sympathy.
“You must be Jon Snow.”
Lady Stark tensed, as did Robb. Jon kept his composure in spite of the
atmosphere’s strain. He lowered his eyes. “Yes, my lord. I apologize if my
appearance offends you. I was told I would be welcomed here.”
Willas did not hesitate to answer.
“Of course you are, or else I would not have invited you.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “You invited me?”
If Willas thought he made a mistake, he did not show it. “While the South has a
poor reputation towards natural born children, I assure you that my family
holds no such prejudice. We invited you here because you are a beloved child of
Lord Stark and will be treated as such.”
"We are not bigots," Mace proudly proclaimed.
Contrary to what other people believed, the alpha was a warrior—Willas was the
kind that used a pen instead of a sword (the worst kind, the kind that couldn’t
be fought because their battle lines were drawn with maesters and scribes)
"You are too kind." Jon faked a yawn. “Apologies, my lord. The trip has made me
fatigue. May I ask to see my room?”
“I shall send for a girl,” Willas offered; his voice smooth as molted glass. He
motioned the serving girls to come forward. “They will escort you.”
Robb, who had been silent during the interaction, accompanied his brother.
Throughout the interaction, he watched the Tyrell’s motions, from the way his
fingers clenched his cane to his twitching smile that never became full. Willas
escaped his wrath through his eyes. Robb kept note of every alpha he meets. He
observed them all, from the top of their heads to the bottom of their soles,
less he caught a darkened gaze or the hint of fangs.
When Willas looked at Jon, there was no lust, only desire. He wanted something
from Jon, but it was not his body or his babes. Robb planned on figuring out
the motive; but for now, he would continue watching, waiting to decide whether
Willas Tyrell was going to become a friend or a foe.
***
Their allotted bedrooms were next to each other. Jon wondered about the
distance the Tyrell spies went through to collect as much information as they
did. They knew enough to know that Jon and Robb slept by each other’s side, but
not enough to know that they slept in the same room. Or perhaps the Tyrells did
not want to let on that he knew more than he did. Neither possibility was good,
but one required him to act with more tact than the other.
Robb took off his dirty clothes as soon as they got in. In response, Jon
removed each lace of his trouser; he teased the string between his fingers and
motioned it up and down. He kept his eyes on Robb at all times. Robb threw his
jerkin on the floor and his shirt followed. Sweat was dripping off of Robb’s
body. Jon’s cock twitched. Jon crawled on his hands and knees until he was in
front of Robb’s hips. The heir was standing, tall and firm, with a half-erect
cock that said he was flustered by Jon’s sudden wantonness.
“You were so good just now,” Jon praised. “I had thought when Willas stepped
forward; you’d rip his head off.”
“He is a cripple,” Robb dismissed. “I would never fight a man unable to defend
himself. I have my honor.”
“He is still the heir to Highgarden,” Jon pointed out. His expression was wary.
“And you were watching him very closely.”
“He is…curious,” Robb admitted. “He may be stronger than me—to inhale your
sweetness and not ravish you on the spot.”
Robb hopped onto the bed beside Jon. He pulled his younger brother into a kiss.
Jon was wearing nothing but a shirt whereas Robb still adorned his pants. They
laid in bed; getting their fill of each other’s mouths. Robb slipped his hands
on Jon’s bottom and pushed his finger in to pry his hole open. Jon gasped. He
parted away from Robb.
“You promised Ser Rodrik that you would concentrate on the tourney,” Jon
reminded; he tilted his neck to give Robb greater access.
“It has been a long time since we’ve made love on a proper bed. If I am to be
condemned to abstinence, why not enjoy one final moment of luxury?”
Jon whimpered when the finger pushed all the way into his hole. His slick
started pouring out. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw the window on the wall.
The sun shone through, and he could get a glimpse of the cities below. Jon
giggled.
“What is the matter?” A frown marring his perfect features.
Jon licked his lips. “I was looking through the windows.” He pushed himself off
of Robb’s finger. He got off the bed and walked over to the window sill. “Do
you remember the history of the Kings of the Reach?”
Robb groaned. “I suppose you’ll tell me?”
Jon smacked his lips. “You need to catch up on your lore.” Jon undid the first
button of his shirt.
“I’ll do that when you can write a letter without mixing the tenses.”
“Your language is a farce of the tongue,” Jon snapped, ruining his seductive
stride. Robb chuckled in victory. Jon’s cheeks lit up red. Robb walked up to
him and joined their lips.
“The Kings of the Reach began with Garth Greenhand, the High King who led the
First Men across the Arm of Dorne. From his loins came Garth the Gardener and
founder of the now extinct House Gardener—the last member dying in Field of
Fire. His steward, a member of the Tyrells, submitted to Aegon Targaryen's rule
and was rewarded the Reach to rule.” Robb smirked. “Is that what you wanted to
know?”
“No.”
Robb raised an eyebrow.
Jon smirked. “Because of King Garth’s legendary fertility, the Gardeners had an
unusual wedding tradition.” Jon rubbed the outline of Robb’s cock. “Newly
wedded couples were expected to put on a live show for the entire kingdom. They
did this to test the Gardener’s potency.” Jon chuckled. “I was wondering if we
could give the world a show.”
Robb’s excitement was able to brush off his embarrassment. He overlooked the
scene before them. Their room was far too high to be seen but still gave Robb a
bird’s eye view of the towns below them. The thought of claiming Jon in front
of a crowd got his cock to full hardness.
Robb flipped Jon around so that his face was pressed against the glass. He got
out his cock, already dripping with pre-cum, and pressed it against Jon’s cunt.
He remembered the stories—how men would offer their virgin omegas to King Garth
to have their crops ripened and their trees bountiful with harvest. Any maiden
he deflowered would receive strong alphas and fair omegas. Almost all the
members of the Reach were believed to be a descendent of his. It was said that
the lands alone carried his potency and that couples having problems conceiving
could step forward on the Reach’s plains and be blessed with children the next
day. It was all poppycock, but Robb was tempted to test out the truth. Jon was
taking his medicine religiously, but for pride’s sake, Robb believed his seed
could overcome the magic.
Just as Robb was about to enter his brother, the doors knocked.
“M’lord?” An unfamiliar chime rang. “Are you in there? We were sent from Lord
Tyrell to deliver your wares. May we enter?”
Robb wanted to turn them away, but Jon’s laughing reprimand stopped him. The
younger boy advised him to pull up his pants while he retreated to the bed.
Robb raised an eyebrow.
“I am supposed to be resting,” Jon reminded as he slipped underneath the
covers, bottomless.
Robb groaned as he walked to the door and let them in. Not expecting a half-
dressed lord, the two serving girls gasped. Jon snapped his head to their
direction. He forgotten how private southerners were about their
bodies—Northerners dressed conservatively for the weather. Inside their homes,
where the warmth of the hot springs protected them, Robb was used to being in
various states of undressed. Growing up in the Neck, Jon was also used to the
low neckline or the shorter skirt. Their workers knew not to stare.
The South had not yet learned.
“We…” She sounded breathless. She was fascinated by Robb’s Northern body, lined
with muscles formed from the labor all Northerners were expected to engage
in—even lords. “Oh, my…” Her friend jabbed her in the ribs.
“We are here to deliver some dressing options for dinner—for you and your
brother. Lord Tyrell was worried that your clothes were unsuited for the
South.” She, too, could not resist licking her lips. Her attention moved
downwards. Jon stiffened. It was obvious where her sluttish gaze was falling
upon.
“Can my brother and I have some privacy? I would like to be alone,” Jon
snapped. The girls jumped, embarrassed by their lustfulness. They scattered
away immediately.
Robb closed the doors and chuckled.
“What is it?” Jon asked, a warning tone accompanying his question.
“Nothing,” Robb said as he shook his head. He laid their clothes on the bed.
There were a dozen outfits for each of them. “Lord Tyrell was very generous.”
Jon picked up a dress for himself. “This looks new.”
“It probably is.”
“A bit much for a bastard, even a recognized one.”
“Your mother is a nobleman as well.”
Jon was unconvinced. “They are very kind to us.”
“Too kind, I suppose?”
Jon sighed and put away his concerns. “I don’t wish to draw any conclusions
before more clues make themselves known. The South is known for their
wastefulness, and I doubt Lord Tyrell bears me any ill-will.” Jon went back to
bed.
“But Lord Tyrell is not who you are worried about.”
Jon pursed his lips.
“No, he is not.”
***
At dinner, they were introduced to Lord Garlan, the second son. He was a true
second son. Like his younger brother, most of his interests laid in sports and
chivalrous exploit but he carried none of Loras's conceit. Conversation was
rich during the first plates. The Queen of Thorns was silent at the beginning
the dinner—holding her tongue if her reputation was to believed. Like the spies
she employed, she kept an open ear to each conversation, no matter how small.
For that reason, Jon asked to be seated next to Arya instead of Robb. Though
upset by the change of seating, Robb understood the strategy enough to let it
slide. Being so close to Robb would make him weak to habits. Even now, staring
at him from across the table, Robb was wondering about how slick Jon remained
after being fucked in his new dress.
“How do you like your new dress, Jon?” Willas asked. “I was worried it would
not fit. I heard the crannogmen were small but given your diet at Winterfell; I
was led to believe you would be a bit bigger.”
“Most of your options were lovely,” Jon stated. “Really, your family is too
kind. I am simply ashamed that you wasted such luxury on someone of my
standing.”
Willas was amused by his submissive answer. He took a sip of his wine.
“Standing? What do you mean?” He asked.
Jon narrowed his eyes. He put on his most charming smile to hide his grimace.
“I am a bastard, my lord. I understand you are trying to be kind, but I do not
care for falsities.”
Willas chuckled. “We are all bastards, Jon. One way or another.”
“Willas,” his grandmother warned. Her voice was sharp as needles. “I assure
you, I am most certainly not a bastard. And if you are to be so crude with your
language, you might as well join the whore houses the other fat fools
frequent."
"I simply stating fact."
"I have told you before; if debating history brings you joy, I can arrange a
ride to the Citadel. Otherwise, you wasting your breath here, where dumb oxen
and headless chickens roam.”
“Mother!” Lord Tyrell was aghast at the insult—in front of their esteemed
guests no less!
Willas brushed her off. “We are all bastards, in some way or the other. Our
ancestor bedded hundreds of omegas yet only married a small handful of those he
impregnated. The Tyrells, the Hightowers, the Redwynes,” he sent a pointed look
at his grandmother. “All of us. Bastards. I was talking to a friend of mine…”
The table erupted into groans.
Even Lady Alerie was upset. “Not that dreadful Martell again!”
“Oberyn has an eclectic mind,” Willas defended.
“After what he did to you, I cannot believe he has the nerve to request your
friendship!” stated Lord Tyrell, wrecked with anger. Lady Alerie rested her
hand on his chest. Her precious omegas’ health always waned with stress.
Willas chuckled at the strife he formed. He turned back to Jon. “My point is:
an educated populace should not have their behaviors swayed by superstitions
and unfounded fears. The treatments against bastards are unjustified. You are
the son of Eddard Stark, an esteemed high lord, and Lord Howland Reed, arguably
the most famous omega warrior of his generation. Why is it that you, in
comparison to your brothers and sisters, be subjugated to misfortune? Why
should any child have to suffer from their lineage?”
Jon was taken back. A lump was caught in his throat.
“Willas,” his little sister strained. “I do not believe this is the time for
such conversations. You are being offensive to our guests.” Willas glanced over
to Lady Stark, who was visibly shaken by Willas’ claims. Before he could
apologize, Robb spoke.
“I agree.”
They turned to the Stark heir. Despite the presence of wine, Robb’s eyes were
never clearer.
“Even in the North, a bastard as fortunate as Jon suffers from this
prejudice—despite his attempts to hide it from me, I’ve seen it.” Robb directed
his attention to Willas. He ignored Jon’s burning gaze. “On our way here, we
were staying at a tavern. I was practicing my racing in the woods, and one of
the men heard Jon being called ‘Snow.’ He did not know who Jon was. He waited
until Jon went to the woods for relief and cornered him in woods. If Jon had
been a trueborn child, that would not have happened.”
“How did you…” Jon was speechless. He could not finish the question.
“Jory told me. He said you handle it yourself; that he found the man dead when
he came upon you two. Ser Rodrik made me run a hundred paces to relieve myself
of the anger. He convinced me that such an action would only shame you so I
kept silent. Yet, I could not let it go. I went to investigate and the
innkeeper claimed that you were a bastard so they did not mind it. They would
have let you get raped because you were a bastard.”
“Robb,” Catelyn advised her son. “This is not the place for such conversation.”
She turned to her daughters. Sansa and Arya were staring in horror.
Robb gulped the last of his wine. The serving girl was quick to fill up the
goblet. “One day, when I rule the North, I plan on having Jon by my side. I
want his presence to remind the world of how high bastards can rise.”
There was no greater conviction ever spoken than Robb’s declaration. The dire
story should have ended all conversations for the night. Willas, a talker by
trade, was quick to agree. He spared the drowning atmosphere no mind. It was an
impressive skill, one that even his grandmother was amazed by.
“A most terrible occurrence,” Willas told him. He directed his attention to
Jon. “I assume that your method of handling the man is an allusion to your
mother’s skill.”
Jon nodded. He was startled by the question; while people were quick to point
out his sire’s lineage, his mother remained a ghost in most conversations.
“Yes, I hope to be a warrior as great as my parents.”
“A noble gesture, one I wished to mimic once upon a time.” Willas patted his
leg dramatically. “Unfortunately, my fate was redirected towards parchments
rather than pavement. Such is the life of a cripple.”
“If only you fell on your mouth that day,” Lady Olenna quipped. “Then perhaps
we could finally eat in peace.”
“Yes, I am sure you are eager to hear from Garlan and Loras, grandmother.”
Willas turned to his younger brothers. “Tell me, Garlan. How is Lady Leonette?
I heard she changed her hairstyle.”
“Oh yes!” Garlan swooned, for he was more or less unconcerned with his
brother’s politics. “She has taken to wearing her hair in four braids instead
of two. I bought her a collection of magpie clips to go with the style but I am
contemplating giving it to her before the tourney or after. If I give it to her
before—”
“No one cares,” Lady Olenna dismissed. “And don’t bother to speak Loras, I am
equally unconcerned with the horse you’ve chosen.” She settled on her eldest
grandson. “I swear, did you run your mouth this much before the accident?”
“No,” Willas revealed. “The benefits of being cripple lies in the audacities I
can utter.”
Lady Margaery giggled. Their guests, despite the earlier tension, were inclined
to smile. Willas changed the topic. “Robb, forgive my candor but have any
omegas caught your eye? I’ve been told that the Reach has some of the most
beautiful omegas in the world.”
“You’ve been told?” Robb asked. “You do not think so?”
Willas laughed at the side-step. “I am a man of logic, Robb. Someone with my
ailment needs a partner with more to offer than a pretty face.” He glanced over
at Jon. “Perhaps a warrior?”
Lady Olenna shut down the possibility before Robb had a chance to be insulted.
“Willas, flirting without discrimination is your brother’s territory.” Loras
gasped at the insult. She turned to Jon. “Pardon my grandson but he finds these
jokes amusing. He has no interest in you. Though you are a pretty thing, the
Reach will never welcome a bastard as its ruler.”
“Mother, after what was just said?” Lord Tyrell looked embarrassed. Truth be
told, Robb was embarrassed for him. Jon was too shocked to respond.
“It’s a cruelty to let him think otherwise. Besides, he has no intentions of
marriage here. No self-respecting Northerner would. Entering the circle of
omegas here is like experiencing a second hell. I’ve been a wife for over forty
years, I’ve joined the irregular cross-stitching circles, have attended every
poorly played recital from the high harp to the accordion. You spare yourself
and stick to the North.” She scoffed. “You will thank me later.”
“Mother, that is not true!” Lord Tyrell was taken back by the malice, for he
loved making his rose handkerchiefs and his husband always smiled when he came
up with a new tune.
“Yes! Lady Leonette plays the high harp beautifully!” Garlan defended. He stood
up, indignant of the accusation. Everyone stared at him. He settled down.
“Well, she does.”
Willas laughed. He apologized to his guests. “I am sorry. We don’t meet
northerners often. I got ahead of myself.”
Jon glanced over at Robb, who was more confused than jealous.
“It is alright. I…appreciate the gesture,” Jon said evenly.
Robb continued the conversation. “Um…no I am not searching for a wife at the
moment. I am still young.” He took a bite of his food. “But you must have
plenty of offers, being the heir of such a fine kingdom.”
“You would think so? Ah, but I am a cripple and these are the lands of
knights.”
“A rich cripple,” Robb countered. “And I doubt your children will be trampled
coming out of the womb.”
The humor was dark and suited for a harder table. Willas, a connoisseur of
comedy, laughed. “True, I have no one to blame but my high standards.”
“They are as high as the skies,” Lady Margaery reprimanded, but there was good
faith in her tone.
“What are those standards?” Jon asked. Despite his suspicions, Jon could not
deny that Willas would make a profitable ally in the future. Perhaps a man for
Sansa, or even for Arya, if she could be convinced.
Willas hummed. The look in his eyes said he knew exactly what Jon was planning.
“I do not care for great beauties but they must be eye-catching. I want people
to stare when they make a speech. I prefer girls over boys, a preference that
is not set in stone, but there. Heat compatible, for it is known that they
produce the finest children. She, let’s use the address for the time being,
would have to come from a large family. I want many children and I am growing
old; fertility is a necessity. Well-educated, of course, but more than that, I
want her to dominate a conversation. I want her to challenge my authority.” He
chuckled and thought some more. “As I stated before, I think it is best for me
to find a fighter. I am not ashamed to be the one protected. Someone who
understands warfare will know when it is the time to act and when it is the
time to stay. And having a spouse who could lead will improve an army's moral.
Oh, she needs to have a presence—a power behind her that would make everybody
listen. Bravery, oh I lust for it. Wit that captures my heart.”
Loras could not help but scoff. “You ask for too much. Female omegas do not
fight. Unless they are bastards from Dorne.” His father shot him a reprimanding
look.
Arya looked ready to argue the matter. It was Jon who spoke. “They do in the
Neck,” Jon denied. All eyes turned to him. “As well as in the farther regions
of the North, where wildling raids are common. My aunt spoke of it. She married
the Lady of Bear Island. There, because males are expected to go on fishing
expenditures—it is said that the sea favors their sex—the women stay behind and
fight raiders—alpha or omega. My cousin Lyanna is an omega and she holds a
spear and a sword.” He sent an affectionate gaze to his sister, Arya. “And
soon, I will teach my sister how to do the same.”
Arya grinned.
“A enlightened concept,” Willas approved. “I admire your forward thinking.
Often, we forget how advance the North is, dismissing your people as savages
because of your sparse way of life. Yet your omegas have more rights than ours
do and instead of letting your people suffer, you develop new technologies to
survive the winter. Is it true that your people breed plants in clear houses?”
Robb nodded. “We call them glass gardens. Father plans to have one in every
direction before winter comes. They are hard to manage without a spring to warm
them, but our maesters have made strides to improve their accessibility.”
“Fascinating.” Willas grinned. “Perhaps, if I get myself a Northern bride, I
will be able to have one of my own.”
“Maybe you should make a test,” Jon jested. “When our grandfather wanted to
marry his wife, our great-grandmother set forth two traps for her hand. He
battled a mountain lion and a hound and then served her pelts as a bridal
price.”
The story was almost unbelievable; Loras scoffed in disbelief. “You northerners
have strange customs.”
Garlan, who found the story to be the epitome of masculinity, cheered the tale.
“Ah…true love does conquer all!” He wondered if he could do the same for his
future bride. No other man would ever go to such lengths.
Willas laughed. He took the suggestion in stride. “Perhaps I shall make a
riddle?” He made a contemplative expression. “I don’t know where I could get a
lion. Perhaps, a bear?”
“Willas…” his grandmother warned.
Jon chuckled. Robb smiled at the cheer on his face. He turned to Willas. “We
wish you the best of luck and all the blessings of the old gods and the new.”
He raised his glass. “For if you find such a woman, she must be made with their
hands.”
***
When dinner was over with, Margaery escorted her brother to his bed. He leaned
on her for support when they were in view and as soon as they were left alone,
he walked on his cane with leisure.
He was sure Jon suspected the truth—the boy was clever up to see through his
first act. He must have known that the reason he remained unmarried at his age
was to wait out the best possible offer. There were so many omegas in Westeros,
from proud and affluent families, that have not bloomed. Furthermore, with all
the heated tensions in the capital, they would be fools not to take advantage
of it when the time was right. An alpha’s virility lasted far beyond an
omega’s.
“How was dinner?” Margaery asked once they reached his bedroom. She helped him
into his bed.
“Why ask? You were there.”
Margaery smiled tightly. “I mean, how was your selection? Do you still think it
was a good idea to invite the Starks?”
Willas chuckled. He asked her to light the candles. Once she was finished, she
sat on his bed. “Are you still bitter about losing the petition? Not even Loras
grumbled this much.”
“I am beginning to think that the Baratheons would have been a better choice
than the Starks.”
“And of course, the Lannisters would have been the best,” Willas teased.
Margaery pouted. “No, we made the right decision. I am sure that after tonight,
grandmother will agree.”
“Why?” Margaery asked. For though she was shrewd and calculating, she was
young. Her inexperience weakened her foresight.
Willas took her hand. He directed her towards the window. “What do you see when
you look outside?”
Margaery sighed. She was not in the mood for a riddle yet complied nonetheless.
“Highgarden, brother. I see Highgarden.”
“Ah, but is it the same Highgarden you grew up in? The same Highgarden from
last year? Or the year before?”
Margaery raised an eyebrow.
Willas continued. “Winter is coming. The crops have depleted and the lands are
growing barren from overuse. The Starks know storage techniques that have kept
them alive for centuries. They’ve bred their plants to be more impervious to
the cold. Their glass garden is reported to be as large as a house and will
survive a hailstorm. I have tried to develop their methods but I have found
nothing. This isn’t just about gaining power or wealth, Margaery, this is about
staying alive. The Lannisters know power. The Baratheons know war. The Starks
know how tolive.” He sighed. “You don’t remember the winters, but I do. The
worst one was before you were born—a fifth of our people died.” He kissed her
forehead. “I am not letting that happen again.”
Margaery had never seen her brother so shaken. She grasped his hand. “What do
you need me to do? Is it about the heir? Should I seduce him or—”
“No.” Willas rejected the proposal. “No, I won’t risk your happiness for
anything less than a kingdom. I will secure the northern alliance. Garlan will
satisfy our kingdom by marrying Lady Leonette and Loras will mate that
Baratheon boy and get Storm’s End. You focus on capturing the kingdom.”
Margaery said nothing.
“Do you understand Margaery?”
After a while, the girl nodded. The doubt in her eyes was evident. Willas took
ahold of her face.
“From the moment you were born, I knew you were destined for great things. We
all did. You are so clever, Margaery. You are smarter than me.”
Margaery laughed. No one was smarter than Willas. As if hearing her thoughts,
he denied her.
“You are and that’s why you’ve been groomed to be a queen—not a lady. A lord
does not deserve you. A kingdom does. And while your husband’s name is written
in history books, a single inscription in a book of genealogies, yours will be
on houses and towers, statues and monuments. The Great and Wise Queen Margaery.
Some queens are remembered, but legends never die. You Margaery? You will be a
legend.”
Touched by his faith, she embraced him with all the love in her heart.
Jokingly, she asked what would happen if she did not like her husband. “Then,
you tell us,” Willas informed her. “And he will not be a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“As long as you have an heir, your position is secured. A husband who cannot
support his queen is just another inconvenience. In my experience,
inconveniences are better off…gone.”
Chapter End Notes
     ***Super schizo-end note alert***
     --
     Chapters will be updated every two weeks on Saturday. Thank you very
     much for your patience and I hope you enjoyed the recent update.
     Also, still working the A/B/O universe extra. Sorry, I was so focused
     on writing the chapters, it went over my head to do the universe
     explanation.
     --
     I posted this at the end of Runs in the Family but this story has
     more serious offenders so I'm reposting it here:
     So one of my favorite fanfiction authors recently posted a note,
     which I respected and somewhat admired her for, and she said she was
     suspending her account because the number of reviews to her hits,
     bookmarks, and subscribers were severely disproportionate to one
     another. And this is normal, I don't expect everyone who reads this
     story to review it. I do expect people who bookmark and subscribe do-
     -out of common courtesy. I don't appreciate it the fact that I spend
     hours on these chapters and some people can't be spared a few minutes
     to write some sort of appreciation.
     Fanfiction is a hobby. It's free whether I update every week or once
     a year. And no one wants to be the writer who says "oh if I don't
     have ten reviews, I'm not updating." That's bitch stuff. I
     transferred from ff.net to AO3 to avoid that behavior. Yet, when
     people don't review, it makes me reconsider why I bother to work as
     hard I do to produce quality work in a timely matter. I'm sorry to
     unload this on the more faithful reviewers but it's been annoying for
     some time.
     --
     Next chapter will feature a lot more plot than smut. Plus, we get to
     see Lyanna Mormont take some more action. I fucking love that badass.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     If the last chapter was smut incarnate than this was 90% plot. I’m
     genuinely disappointed in myself. There is a sex scene at the end.
     It's rough but I think you'll like it. Next chapter will have so much
     more smut. :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Howland arrived at the riverlands with little fanfare and less notice. He was
accustomed to traveling with discretion. As a child, his ambition was only
rivaled by his curiosity, and he longed to see the world outside the Neck. His
mother forbade his interests, and with her relatives’ eye on every leaf and
bubble, the hardship of elusion was immeasurable. Yet, Howland kept on trying
until his skills were so profound that he became a legend. The Freys and their
lopsided minds and lackluster efficiency were nothing compared to the magic of
his mother. If he could evade her, there was no wonder he crossed the Twins
with ease.
Howland traveled for days and arrived at his destination at night, shrouded in
steel and black—Stark colors. He dared not be so obvious in green. His face was
protected by a cloak and no one was the wiser about his identity. He walked up
to the gate of his chosen destination and handed them a parchment with an
unrecognizable seal. He said his business was dire.
Half an hour later, a boy—whom Howland could tell by his green eyes and high
height was a son of this castle—came out to greet him. He did not know
Howland’s name but he was eager to make his acquaintance. “My mother and father
will see you now,” he told Howland. “I apologize for the wait. We are not used
to visitors at this time of night.” He bid Howland to follow and the Lord of
the Neck did so at a respectful distance. Howland kept his head down in
subservience and checked to see if his mask was in place. He could not afford
to make mistakes—not at this stage in the game.
***
When Robb left Winterfell, his wardrobe consisted of a few shirts, a single
jerkin, pants, chainmail, his riding armor, and shoes fit for travel. When he
woke up, his clothes were nowhere to be found. Robb would have suspected foul
play if the thieves did not replace his items with a billowy shirt made of
satin, a jerkin with more decorations on it than any of Sansa’s dresses, a
coat—a gorgeous blue coat with a platitude of gold buttons that did not even
work, and pants, no—breeches, as his mother would later clarify—that had volume
comparable to a bloated slave owner. Next to the outfit rested a strip of sky-
blue satin of the highest quality. Robb searched high and low for his own
clothes before realizing that the outfit was not some sick prank—but a gift. 
“Fucking southerners,” he swore.
Understanding that he could not face the world in his drawers, Robb reluctantly
got dressed. He threw the shirt over his head and got started on the jerkin—the
bone-gripping vest that Robb swore was not his size until he remembered that in
the South, they prided themselves on their prowess in asphyxiation.
He just finished tightening the damn contraption when he heard the door open.
He was not surprised to feel a pair of arms wrap around his waist; only Jon
entered without warning.
“Please love, any other moment and I would gladly take your embrace but I can
barely breathe as it is.”
Jon laughed and let go. “I take it that your new wares are not to your taste?”
“I am not in the business of suffocation.” He took a moment to catch his
breath. Then, he grabbed his pants. He could tell from the leather lining that
this would be a greater trial than the tourney. “Jon, I will swear my fealty to
you today if you tell me where my clothes are.”
“You have already sworn your life and crown to me. Your fealty was implied.”
Robb heard Jon fiddle with his new tokens. Despite their impracticality, the
items were of high quality. The Tyrells did not exaggerate when they said they
spared no expense. “The serving ladies took it for a wash last night. They
should be done drying before the novice rounds begin.”
“Good or else I would have suspected them of sabotage.”
Jon erupted into giggles. Robb smiled in response. Despite the aching in his
ribs, he would gladly adorn a fool’s garb in a trade for his brother’s glee. He
tied up the britches of his pants though the gesture was unnecessary. He would
need a giant’s strength to remove them.  
He sighed as he saw what was left of his outfit. He dared not insult his hosts
by refusing their gift but nothing weighed so heavy as the jacket in his hands.
He looked at the offending cloth still left on the table. “I can only assume
that this was left here as an act of mercy. I am meant to hang myself after
getting into these pants.”  
“I believe it is a scarf,” Jon told him with a smile. He was more than amused.
“A what?”
“A scarf,” Jon repeated. “You wrap it around your neck for warmth. Sansa told
me about it."
“I am not cold,” Robb pointed out. “We are in the South.”   
“It is the fashion of the men here.” Jon swiped the offending cloth from the
table and walked up to his brother. With their faces close enough to kiss, he
wrapped the fabric around his neck. The coolness of the cloth made the older
boy shiver. “Southern clothes suit you,” Jon murmured. He tried to mimic the
bows and master the ties but his skills were nonexistent. His fingers pressed
against Robb’s chest.
“Do they?” Robb asked, his tone touching Jon’s nerves like a harp string.  
“Yes, you look…regal,” Jon breathed out. He looked up through his lashes and
saw Robb’s eyes burning through him.
“Do you like it?”
Jon licked his lips and avoided his gaze. “You are handsome, Robb. A change of
wardrobe does not hinder or help your appeal.”
“Aye, but do you prefer me like this?” Jon yelped as his older brother pulled
him in closer. Robb grabbed his ass and smirked with the infuriating smugness
Jon had grown to love. “When I was born, my hair was as red as a fox playing in
the dirt. My eyes were still blue but they were the color of the sky not the
midnight you seek when we are wrapped in our sheets. I was born a Tully—the
septa reminds me of this often.”
Jon could imagine a babe just as Robb described, grasping for life in the skies
and giggling in his mother’s arms. He touched Robb’s lean face, sharpened from
the stocky child he was when they met.
“You are a northerner, Robb. An exotic dress cannot change that.” Jon pulled
his brother into a gentle kiss. He played with the buttons. “Though I admire
the colors, I simply cannot have you attracting so much attention. We must
retrieve your clothes as soon as possible so that I can undress you.”
Robb chuckled at the sweet evasion. There was no better joke than the beguiling
attraction of Jon's beauty. Once Robb came to his senses, he took the
opportunity to get a good look at his brother. He bared teeth at the sight.
“Speaking of exotic dresses…”
“Oh?” Jon’s smile was devious. He pulled back to provide Robb with a view.
“Southerners are odd, aren’t they?” Jon asked as he traced the veins of his
neck to the valley of his cleavage. Robb followed the motion with his eyes.
Jon’s dress was black with gold embroidery—the Tyrells relished in their
embellishments—and dipped as deep as the bowels of hell. “They praise chastity
in their omegas yet see fit to reveal their flesh to the world.”
Robb came close enough to corner him against the table. He honed in on Jon’s
barren nape and pushed his leg between his thighs. He grinded his knee against
Jon’s swelling cock. Jon moaned. “Do you like it?” He mocked, throwing Robb’s
words at him.
“I do.” Robb sucked his collarbone. “I cannot condemn all southern inventions
just yet. Not when they are so kind to give me such access to this tantalizing
form.” Jon shivered in delight. Robb lifted Jon upwards and laid him on the
table. One of Jon’s breast escaped his confines. Robb latched onto the nipple
and sucked. Robb’s cock was ready to rip through the seams of his pants.
They were too tight, thought Jon. The sight was getting him wet. He spread his
legs further apart. The dress was light and airy—Robb slipped his hands
underneath and gripped Jon’s thighs. He leaned down. “Are you allowed to keep
this when we leave?”
Jon laughed and shook his head. “Where would I wear it?”
“At home; at Winterfell.”
“I would freeze to death.”
“Perhaps in private, then,” Robb suggested. They kissed each other in leisure,
forgetting for a blessed moment about their location or the tourney or their
duties as a dutiful bastard omega and the highborn heir of House Stark.
When they parted, Jon lifted himself up by grabbing onto Robb’s shoulders. He
laughed when his forehead touched Robb’s right shoulder blade and soaked in the
sound of his breathing. “This will be the last we see of each other before the
tourney. Lady Margaery has invited Sansa, Arya, and I for a private breakfast
in the rose gardens. Theon is invited as well.”
“He will like that,” agreed Robb. “Have you sent him a dress?”
“Or risk facing his wrath?” Jon asked. He lifted up his head to face Robb with
faux indignation. “Yes, I had one of the servants send him an option from last
night.”  
“Good.” He kissed Jon on the cheek. “It is for the best we don’t see each
other. Just the thought of you makes me lose all focus.”
“You will do very poorly for I will be sitting in Margaery’s box for the
tourney.”
Robb laughed. “Then I will lance blindfolded.”
Jon rolled his eyes at his foolishness. He sighed and picked up Robb’s new
jacket. The cloth around his neck would go on untied. “It’s quite flamboyant.”
“Men here like to be seen. Even if it makes them a moving target.”
“I prefer you in fur over silk.”
“As do I.” Robb took the jacket from Jon’s hand and put it on. He winced. “Why
must they wear so many layers? I swear, I’ve worn less in the winter.”
Robb sighed and button it up. Jon stopped him.
“You will die of a heat stroke. Wear like this and if they have any complaints,
say that you preferred to be unconfined but are grateful for the indulgence and
admire the taste.” Jon shook his head. “I have a feeling Lord Tyrell picked
your gifts out. The serving girls were gossiping about the hours he spent on
your wardrobe.”
“He should not have gone through such a grand effort.”
Jon bit his lip. Robb recognize the expression as one of hidden gossip. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Jon,” Robb warned. “Must I force it out of you?”
Jon tried not to smile. “I heard a rumor.”
Robb raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
Jon looked away, his amusement clearly showing. “Apparently, when father lifted
up the siege at Storm’s End, he had to discuss the terms of surrender with Lord
Tyrell. The man was…quite accommodating.”
The smirk on Robb’s face grew. “Oh? So Lord Tyrell was smitten? With our
father?”
Jon could hear the jeering rising to his tongue. “Be nice to him,” Jon advised.
“An appreciative glance is not a crime. And he is utterly devoted to his
husband.”
“I never said anything,” Robb replied with the innocence of the devil. He
paused and shook his head, trying to cover up his laughter. “I was just imaging
father in these pants." 
Jon’s scoff erupted into full-blown laughter. They ended their amusement when a
serving boy knocked on the door, offering his assistance. They turned him down.
Jon was at the door when he paused. 
“Robb?”
“Yes, Jon?” His face was calm for a man about to enter his first tourney. Jon
figured some motivation was in order.
“There is one item I believe the North should consider adopting.”
Robb stared at his brother strangely.
Jon lifted up his black skirt to reveal a pair of crotch-less golden knickers.
His cock was limp but free and his pussy lips were spread on top of the bunched
lace.
“I was a bit nervous when I saw them at a…private stall. But father gave us a
lovely allowance and they were just so pretty. I bought them in gold—like the
laurel of roses you promised me.”
Robb gaped. Before he could gather his senses, Jon dropped his skirt and opened
the door. “I will see you soon. Good luck, brother.”
***
Theon was delivered the dress an hour before breakfast was supposed to start.
The short notice made him annoyed, almost as annoyed as when he had to refuse
the Tyrell’s generous offer and stay in at the camps. He was currently settled
at the Mormont's tents with Dacey as his temporary guardian. 
“I cannot believe this! I have less than an hour to get ready before dredging
to the castle like some mule! Are they paying their servants with sand
dollars?”
“If you have a problem then you should have joined Jon at the castle last
night,” quipped Lyanna. The child was dressed for the day in her usual black
garb and putting braids in her hair for convenience.
“I wanted to,” Theon snapped.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Lyanna, do not be rude,” chided her mother. She was dressed modestly as well
but the plainness of her wardrobe brought out her exoticism.
Theon was about to reply when the answer came from the entrance. “Pardon me, my
ladies. May I enter?”
Theon could not suppress his wince. He replaced his dismal expression with a
smile, much to the judgement of the omega Mormont.
“Yes, Lord Domeric. We are decent.”
Lord Domeric was dressed better than ever. He intended to make an impact at
this tourney and understood the values of appearance. He nodded appreciatively
at Theon’s new dress.
“I see you have taken to Southern fashion. You look lovely.”
“You are too kind, Lord Domeric.”
“I mean it.” Oh and the chills returned to the Ironborn's skin. Theon repeated
a mantra in his head: smile, smile, smile. Smile until his teeth fell out and
his lips stretched across his face.
“May I ask why you are here, Lord Domeric?” Jyana asked. She finished tying up
her hair and walked forward. Theon was a bit in awe at her courage; up close,
she was a little over half the size of the Bolton heir. Her expression was
stoic and firm. She stood between him and Theon like a shield and her
skepticism was a fortress. She was a child of the Neck and the crannogmen
feared nothing.
Lord Domeric was respectful. He was able to stare into her green eyes for the
briefest of moments before looking away. He heard of the Neck’s divinity and
whether or not he believed in such high tales, he refused to take the risk.
“Lady Jyana, please accept my sincerest hopes that your good daughter places in
the tourney.”
“As do we all. Why are you here?”
Lyanna scoffed out her laughter. Theon hid his amusement by looking down.
Lord Domeric remained courteous and cold. He did not flinch. Pity, Theon
thought. He would have liked a semblance of humanity in the man he was to
marry.
“I came to ask Theon to join me for breakfast and a walk around the woods. We
will not travel far; there is no need for a chaperone.”
Theon clenched his skirt at the offer. “Forgive me, Lord Domeric but I have
been invited by Lady Margaery for this morning’s meal. Perhaps lunch or
dinner?”
“I will be practicing with the other alphas for lunch and we will be surrounded
by guests for dinner. I wish to talk to you alone.”
Theon could not stop his frown. Before he could make another refusal, Domeric
continued to push for his obedience. “If you are so inclined to join Lady
Margaery then I will respect your wishes. I will not force someone to withstand
my company.”
The threat brought chills to Theon’s spine. His smile resurrected itself once
more and he stepped forward. “Nonsense. I am always pleased to make your
acquaintance. I am merely worried about offending the Tyrells with my refusal.”
“An appropriate fear,” Domeric agreed. “I will settle the matter when I speak
to Lord Loras and Lord Garlan today so that their sister knows no offense.”
“You are too kind, my lord.”
“Please arrive at my tent when you are finished with your business. I look
forward to seeing you, Lord Theon.”
Domeric left and Theons swore ice filled his footsteps. He took a deep breath
and resumed his hair dressing. His hands were shaking.  
“You are being foolish,” Lyanna told him.
Theon stopped his braiding. “You don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to listen to him. If you let him control you, he will do so for
your entire marriage.” Her eyes were green, like her mother’s, and raged like a
hurricane of sharpened leaves. Each blade pierced into Theon’s insecurities. He
resumed his braiding.
“You are a child. What do you know?”  
“That makes things worst; you are dumber than a child!”
“Lyanna.” Her mother warned. The tent fell silent with Jyana’s disapproval.
“Disrespect will not be tolerated in our tents.”
“Father would have said the same thing.”
“Your father can wield an ax and take down a bear twice her size; she is the
Lady of Bear Island, and until you possess the same ability, you will learn
when to speak and when to listen.”
Lyanna pursed her lips and looked away. “One day I will.”
“And I dream of the freedoms you shall possess when you do,” Jyana countered.
Theon watched how Jyana’s declaration touched Lyanna. Though the omega’s body
ached to disobey, she settled in her own spite instead.  Theon found her
devotion enviable. “Yes, mother.” Petulance ooze out of her tone. “I will not
apologize.” Righteousness was her strongest suit, and she would not allow
anyone to rob her of her honesty.
Jyanna sighed, neither disappointed nor surprised. “I will not ask you to take
a stance you do not believe in.” She sat next to Theon. “Let me help you with
your hair,” she offered as she took his locks into fingers. It was her attempt
at playing peacemaker. She must have been used to it, marrying into a family of
alphas. He was pleasantly surprised by the braiding; Jyana’s handiwork was
skilled. “You must want to be presentable for the tourney,” she told him.
Theon did not say anything. He had almost forgotten about the tourney. The
novice tournament was today. Robb would be participating and a few other
northerners were joining for the experience. There were so few knights in the
North, as they did not follow the Faith of the Seven, and few participated in
the tourneys, finding them girlish and wasteful. Theon smiled genuinely this
time. Without a doubt, he knew a Northerner would be taking the prize today.  
“Lyanna, did you enjoy Winterfell?”
Lyanna looked up from her collection of papers. She was a strong reader; even
better than Bran and they were roughly the same age. He supposed growing up
amongst so many older siblings must have aged her. “I did. It was interesting
to see a fort that immense.”
“Since Theon cannot make the tea, I would like you to go to Highgarden in his
place. I hope you enjoy the architecture.”
“What?”
Theon snapped his head around so fast; his hair might have caused Jyana
splinters. “What?” He mimicked.
“This may be your only foray into the South. You will regret not investigating
further. Besides, you said you enjoyed Winterfell. Highgarden is ten times the
size and much more grand. There is great history there.”
“Do you wish me to study the layout? Are we going to war?”
“My darling, please.” Jyana closed her eyes. “It will give me a peace of mind
to know that you are safe.”
“And what dangers shall befall our camp today?”   
“A mother’s wrath for one.” Theon wondered if Jyana had ever raised her voice
in her life. She was as silent as death most of the time. Jyana tied up the
last strand on his left side and went to work on the right. “I have duties at
the campsite. Your sister is busy with the tourney preparations. I don’t want
to leave you out alone and to keep you here will cause an aneurysm of boredom.
Go to your cousin; he will take care of you.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You could run away,” Jyana suggested. “I would be quite cross if you did.”
Though Theon suspected that Lyanna would never become an obedient wife, she was
still a dutiful daughter. Lyanna tidied up her books on the table. “I expect
retribution for this.”
“I heard the food is pleasant in the South, the Reach in particular.”
“I will eat until my stomach explodes and you will have to bear the
consequences.” Her declaration was childish, but her tone was even. She sounded
like an adult settling a negotiation term that displeased her.
“I would expect nothing less.”
Lyanna sighed. “Do I have to leave now?”
“If you’d wish to make the tea on time. Ask one of the Mormont men to escort
you.”
Once Lyanna left, Jyana began decorating Theon’s hair with beads from his
jewelry box. “Such a precocious child I have brought into this world,” she
mused. There was no confliction in her tone; she loved her daughter dearly.
“When I look back on the day, I wonder if she did not come out dressed in
shield and holding a pen.” Jyana finished the last of her project and brought
out a mirror. “What do you think?”
Theon stared at himself. He was gorgeous, as always.
“Perfect,” he told her. He brushed his hand against a braid. Taking a closer
look at himself, Theon grimaced.
His beauty was wasted on the Boltons.
***
The ate their breakfast in relative silence. Domeric did speak to answer his
father’s question on how he would spend the day (“Practicing for tomorrow with
the other men, father”) but was otherwise prudent with his speech. When they
were finished, he gave his hand to Theon, indicating that the two of them were
done with their meal. Theon took it, as a good wife should, and followed
Domeric outside. The Bolton heir led Theon to a walking road alongside the
river. They were a few paces from the campsite and within screaming
distance—the appropriate location for an omega to have an unsupervised date.
When Domeric placed a hand on Theon’s shoulder, he jumped a foot in the air.
“I apologize for startling you,” said Domeric, his tone unwavering.
Theon responded with a shaky smile. “No, you are not at fault, my lord. I am
not used to an alpha’s touch.”
“How odd. I thought you’d be accustomed to it.”
Theon froze. “What?”  
Domeric’s face revealed nothing. “You are the only omega amongst your siblings
and from what I heard, you are close to Robb Stark. He treats you like an older
brother.”
Theon shivered. He shook his head at his foolishness. “Yes, we are close but he
keeps his distance as we are not bound by blood—misunderstandings can arouse.
With my siblings, we were not affectionate, not even when I was young.”
“A pity.” Domeric stopped at a cluster of wildflowers and stared at the running
river banks. “I did have an ulterior motive asking you to join me this
morning.”
“Oh?” Theon prepared for the worst. He bit his lip so that the pain could crowd
out his drumming nerves.
“Yes,” Domeric told him as stepped in front of his path. He touched Theon’s
cheek. His hands were cold despite the southern climate. “I wanted to apologize
for what I did to you in Winterfell. My behavior was unacceptable for a future
husband.”
His admission surprised Theon. He looked up to Domeric. There was no apology on
his face but there was…something in his eyes.
“I was jealous. Ramsay has a knack for taking the things I want and destroying
them.” Domeric’s eyes shifted to a blazing fire. “When I saw you two together,
your connection, I was overwhelmed. I saw all his victims in you, and I
couldn’t let you end up like them.”
Theon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Victims?”
Domeric sighed. “Omegas he would play games with; pretty little creatures he’d
use for his ‘hunts.’ They turned up dead within a few weeks of catching his
eyes, sometimes a few days. There was a shepherd’s girl whose innards were
eaten by dogs.”
“Oh god…” Theon shivered. 
Domeric leaned in. “When you are my wife, I will protect you.” He touched
Theon’s braid. “But as my wife, you must be loyal to me above anyone—be it your
father or the Starks. You must obey my law as if I was king.”
Their lips were an inch away from each other. Theon stood as still as a statue.
“Will you forgive me, Theon? Be my beautiful, dutiful wife?”
Theon’s lips parted just the slightest. Domeric took the opportunity to lean in
and capture his lips for a kiss. There was no passion or tenderness, but it was
a kiss that sealed a union for the two of them.
When they parted, he offered to take Theon back to the camp. Theon accepted.
“I look forward to crowning you,” he said as they drew near to their camp.
“I look forward to wearing it,” Theon replied evenly. “And Lord Domeric, may I
speak freely?”
“Yes.”
Theon took a deep breath. “I am the son of Lord Balon Greyjoy, liege lord of
the Iron Islands. I would never sully myself with a bastard.” He gave Domeric a
look of affection. “Not when I can have you: the heir of Dreadfort.”
A semblance of a smile appeared on Domeric’s face. Theon sighed in relief.
Domeric was satisfied. Theon was safe for now.
***
“Tourneys center on the melee, or mock combat, and each round consists of a
general fight where men are divided into two sides and came together in a
charge or a joust. At a signal, a bugle or herald's cry—my family likes to use
a horn that sounds like a hawk’s, and the riders will come at each other and
meet with levelled lances. The goal is to unhorse the other person. If someone
remains on horseback, they will quickly turn and try again. If neither can get
knocked off, the winner is decided by points.”
“Points?” Sansa asked.
One of the accompanying ladies scoffed. Sansa looked down in embarrassment. Jon
glared at the girl and grabbed his sister’s hand. He whispered something into
her ear—an assurance he knew she’d appreciate.
Margaery did not share her companion’s distaste. She smiled when she answered.
“Points are decided by their aim. If they hit the shield in the center, that’s
10 points. If they hit the side, that’s less. Hitting second docks you two
points less for each position.”
Her charm alleviated Sansa’s fears. She drank her tea in peace. She did not
notice the obvious jealousy in the other girls’ eyes.
“The novice tournament should be completed today. They operate under a single
elimination format—the man who loses the round is dropped from the tournament.
The advance tournament is based off a reseeding method where the winners are
played against the losers of the previous round. At the end of the day, the
people with the lowest scores are eliminated. The hope is to get the best
lancers in the final round.”
“How long does it last?” Jon asked.
“With the size of this tourney? I give it three days. One time, Garlan and
Loras kept on tying with each other and they lasted a whole week.”
Jon grimaced. He took a sip of his tea, a mouthwatering blend of rose hips and
raspberries. He took a bite of his day cake and fed a piece to Sansa. The girl
was abstaining from feasting when she saw the scarce way the girls partook in
their deserts. She opened her mouth out of habit; Jon fed her regularly and
chewed happily on the little morsel.
One of the ladies, a Hewett girl from Oakenshield, narrowed her eyes. “You are
rather close to your father’s bastard, aren’t you? How kind.”
A chill overtook the warm summer day. Jon paused from cutting another piece. He
then resumed his activities.
“Sansa, you are as thin as a bird, have some more cake.” He lifted his fork and
placed it in her mouth. Sansa chewed on the strawberry. Despite her discomfort,
the fruit was delicious.
The Hewett girl’s taunting smirk lowered to a displeased frown. She was the
middle child of two girls and a bastard. She was not the prettiest nor the
ugliest member of Margaery’s group of ‘friends, ’ and she was at the median of
wealth. Being ignored was commonplace in her life but not by a bastard of all
things.
“It’s no surprise,” she spoke again. Louder this time. “You Northerners have a
lot more tolerance to the uncivilized.”
“Gwen,” Margaery spoke up. She was warning her. The Hewett was about to make
another ill-spirited retort when Jon spoke up.
“A lady must always be sweet, pleasant, and patient. She cannot be overly
frank, and must limit her talking as to not seem boisterous. A lady must speak
with an even tone at all times, and is expected to favor other people's
opinions and needs over her own. She must think for others before herself. Make
others feel at east. And she must be kind.”
Jon laughed and to an untrained ear, it was to himself. To those with a talent
for mockery, it was clear he was laughing at Lady Hewett. “Forgive me, my
youngest sister, Arya, loathes those lessons. I had to remember the words in
verbatim to teach her. Was I mistaken?”
Margaery observed him with curiosity. “Yes, word for word. Impressive.”
Jon smiled. He put down his cup of tea. “Then, perhaps Lady Gwendolyn should
follow my example.”
“You little—!”
“Perhaps she should,” Margaery agreed. Lady Hewett stared at her, horrified.
Margaery ignored her before tasting a piece of her cake. “I trust she will be
on her best behavior for the remainder of this meal. I couldn’t live with
myself if I, your hostess, made you, my honored guests, feel uncomfortable with
my chosen company.” She washed down the taste of sugar with her tea. “I will
take this as a lesson to consider my companions more carefully.”
The admission startled her guest. Gwen sunk into her shadow, a scowl prevalent
on her face.  
“Tell me, Sansa, what is the North like? I trust the Reach has been
overwhelming for you, with all the flora and sun. You must find the heat
unpleasant.” Lady Leonette, whom Jon recognized as Garlan’s wife-to-be, asked.
She was older than Margaery by two years, bright-eyed, and dainty. Her attempt
to soothe the tension was brought upon by her sweet but dim nature.
“Oh no, the weather is fine. I spend plenty of time in the grass gardens at
home, where the climate is as hot as Dorne on some days.” Sansa replied, eager
to dwell on happier topics. “Your kingdom is beautiful, though. I love all your
flowers and fruits and you have the cutest creatures.”
There was something about her statement that attracted Margaery to the
conversation. “The glass gardens? My brother has told me about them. I heard
that’s where you plant most of your vegetation?”
“Yes!” The positive attention did wonders for Sansa's complexion. “Because the
fields can only be farmed during certain times of the year, some houses in the
North will have glass gardens to last them throughout the winter.”
“How wonderful!” Margaery proclaimed. “I would love to get to know you better,
Sansa. You must have so many interesting stories to tell.”
Sansa shook her head. “Lady Margaery, you flatter me. I’m sure my experiences
are nothing compared to yours!”
Jon listened to the conversation with an unreadable expression. He waited for
the girls to chat with each other some more before addressing a theory. “Lady
Margaery, you and your brother seem quite fascinated with the North. I’m
surprise neither of you have been there.”
Margaery did not miss a beat. “Oh, my brother’s leg keeps him from riding more
than a few days from Highgarden and my parents forbid me from traveling without
a small army attached. They are frightened for my safety and I hate to trouble
anyone for a whim.”
“You are a true lady,” Sansa praised. There were hearts in her eyes. “Isn’t
she, Jon?”
Jon smiled at his sister because he could not share the same expression with
these omegas. “Yes, she is.”
“I only do what is expected of me,” said Margaery. “My brother is the heir of
Highgarden and he falls asleep every night with his books as his pillows, my
other brothers are knights and I take pride in being the dutiful daughter.”
“How honorable of you,” agreed Jon. He paused and looked out at the gardens
where his little sister and cousin roamed. They were playing with sticks and
pretending to be warriors. Lyanna was more skilled, but Arya took the bruises
with good sportsmanship. She got up and kept on fighting. Jon was so proud of
her.
“Where is Lord Willas today?” Jon asked.
Margaery raised an eyebrow but she never stayed startled for long. “He’s in the
gardens, working on some project. Today he was supposed to check out the fields
for fertility or something of the sort. I can never wrap my head around those
things.” She laughed, pretty and girlish. Sansa swooned.
“I see.” Jon got up from his seat. “Excuse me, I’m afraid the younger ones will
eventually get bored of their play. I’m going to take them inside. Do you
mind?”
“No, of course not.”
Jon pressed his lips against the top of Sansa’s head and bid the girls goodbye.
His departure surprised Sansa, who would be left alone to the vultures. She did
her best not to call out for her brother. The other girls would be merciless if
she did.  
As soon as Jon was out of sight, Gwendolyn's taunts returned. She was as
merciless as she could be under Margaery’s watchful eye. She asked if Sansa was
interested in anybody.
Sansa turned red at the thought. She was a child and her romances were pure
without a semblance of the sexual nature. She thought of a man with golden eyes
and flowing brown curls. “Oh I know that look,” cooed Leonette. Without Jon’s
protection, she swooped in to comfort Sansa. “Who is it?”
“Oh no, it’s—it’s no one. I was—I—I simply thought Ser Loras was handsome.”
Margaery giggled which was overshadowed by her companions snickering in the
background. Sansa stared at them. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m afraid you’re not his type.” Lady Hewett’s friend, a Fossoway, giggled
mercilessly. “He prefers finer pastures.”
Gwendolyn Hewett slaps her shoulder in jest. “Oh you are horrible!” She accused
while laughing. Each giggle made Sansa want to bury herself into a hole. “You
need not be so crude,” she teased. Gwen looked at Sansa with taunting eyes.
“What she means is Ser Loras is already infatuated with Lord Renly Baratheon of
Storm’s End.”
“They absolutely adore each,” Margaery offered. Her tone was kind, a clear
contrast to the ladies. “Worry not, you will have plenty of options with your
beauty.”
Lady Hewett barked out laughing. “Yes, beauty is one thing but I doubt anybody
would want to go to bed with a wolf. Her moonblood will only come when the
teeth below bites.”
Sansa gasped.  
Lady Margaery was about to excuse the girl when Lady Hewett kept on talking.
“Besides, I don’t know what alpha would want to sully himself with someone who
could love a baseborn brother.”
Lady Margaery turned around. She stalked when she heard Sansa slammed her
teacup against the table.
“Do not talk about my brother that way!”
The silence from earlier returned. Lady Hewett looked aghast that this child
could tell her what to do. “What did you say, Lady Sansa?”
Lady Margaery thought about defending Sansa. She remembered what her brother
told her about time and place. She turned to the Stark and waited for the red
cub's reaction.
Sansa clenched her dress. She stared her straight in the eye and apologized. “I
apologize for raising my voice, but Jon Snow is my father’s son and my brother;
he has been recognized and he should be treated with respect.”
“He is a—”
“Son of the Warden of the North and the Lord of the Neck, the largest region in
the North. He has the blood of kings as do I.” She took a large gulp and sat up
straighter. “I understand lineage may not mean anything to you, Lady Gwendolyn,
as you are a child of House Hewett, whose lineage to Garth the Gardener is
through his liaison with one of the many maidens at the time and therefore,
began with a bastard. I am a child of a high lord, subservience is expected of
me. If my father commands me by my brother's side, I must follow him as
etiquette demands. You may not understand, but things are expected towards
ladies of my standing.”
Lady Hewett was as stunned as a fish bludgeon by a club. Margaery giggled and
beckoned the others to join her. The girls followed her lead and the area
erupted in polite laughter. Sansa followed while Lady Hewett glared.  
“Oh you two, I do love a good debate. It keeps the mind sharp.” Margaery
gestured a serving girl forward. “Please bring the cheeses; I believe the mood
calls for them.”
A few minutes later, Jon returned. He informed them that Lyanna and Arya would
make it in time for the tourney but they would be left to their own devices.
“Hopefully, they do not get lost,” worried Lady Leonette.
“Oh, they are clever children. They will be fine,” Jon assured. He looked at
the fuming Hewett and the embarrassed Fossoway. “What did I miss?”
***
“He wants us to act ‘carefree.’ What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Laugh? That’s what girls do here. They laugh a lot—even when
things aren’t funny.” Arya paused. She grabbed her cousin by the shoulders and
dragged her to the nearby bushes. “Look, there he is.”
Lyanna looked up to see an older man sitting in a gazebo, distracted by a pile
of books and papers. He did not hear them, fortunately. He was utterly devoted
to his work and every now and then, his eyebrows would furrow in displeasure or
confusion.
While Lyanna watched the man for weaknesses—she was well-educated on the art of
espionage by her mother, but Arya was a more tactical creature. Arya surveyed
the area for assistance. When she found what she was looking for, she poked
Lyanna with the stick.
“What?” Lyanna whispered.
“Here,” said Arya as tossed the weapon in the air. Lyanna caught it with a mild
stumble.
“Let’s play some more. The serving girls saw us earlier. They won’t think it’s
weird if we’re playing again.”
The plan was plausible. Lyanna and Arya resumed their earlier activities,
laughing a little louder than they had before and trying to smile even though
it was a struggle in between thrusts. Lyanna disarmed Arya after a few strokes.
They were in front of the gazebo. From the corner of her eye, Arya noticed that
Willas stopped what he was doing to watch.
“You do not concentrate,” instructed Lyanna. Arya winced. The Mormont was loud
and a touch overdramatic. “You are bad. You are gripping too hard.”
“Can you show me how to grip it?” Arya asked. Her acting skills were miles
above Lyanna. The younger girl was honest; years of living with an all-seeing
mother made her attempts at deception futile.
“Are you girls having fun?”
Arya gave a sizable jump—the reaction expected of a child who was surprised.
Jon wanted natural, after all. Shame about Lyanna, however, for the girl
snapped her head to Willas as soon as his attention was caught.
Willas paid no mind to the odd reaction of the latter or pretended not to.
“Aren’t you supposed to be having breakfast with my sister?”
“It was boring,” Lyanna spoke up. The best lies were ones that were half-
truths—Arya taught her that.
“All they wanted to talk about was dresses and lords and I think they may have
said something about their presentation ceremony…,” Arya added.
Willas chuckled. “I see.” He smiled at the two of them and it was brotherly and
full of charm. Though neither of the girls were bloomed, they recognized his
handsomeness.  “Well, have either of you had breakfast yet? I can call someone
over with a platter and we can have a meal together.”
Lyanna and Arya looked at each other. They hid their triumphant grins. “Yes,
but we can always eat more.”
“I love food,” agreed Lyanna. They skipped over and sat on both of his sides.
Willas nodded at one of the waiting servants and they left to bring some
snacks. “So who is your friend, Lady Arya?”
“This is Lyanna Mormont of House Mormont,” answered the Stark girl. “She is Jon
cousin. Her mother is Lady Jyana Reed of House Reed and her father is Lady
Mormont.”
Willas tipped his head to replace a bow. “Lord Willas Tyrell of House Tyrell. I
am happy to make your acquaintance.”
While they waited for the food, Lyanna and Arya skimmed over his notes. Arya’s
eyes widened at the sight of the numbers. “Are these the reports for
Highgarden? You grew so much food this month!” Almost four times what the North
makes combined.
Willas almost instinctively tore the page from her hand. He kept himself under
control and reminded himself that no one was stupid enough to use Lord Stark’s
daughter or his lover’s niece as spies. Besides, he reminded himself, this was
a good time to test their worth.
“That’s the portion we collected from the west farms. I’m checking the amounts
and comparing them to the taxes from the lords of that area. It’s easier to
perform the review in sections than as a whole—better to keep track of it.”
Lyanna nodded. “So you’re investigating the houses for withholding funds.”
Willas raised an eyebrow at her bluntness. He chuckled. “You have a sharp
tongue, my lady.”
Lyanna did not notice her folly. Perhaps because of her own youth, neither did
Arya. She was fascinated by the numbers. Maester Luwin had not taught her this
level of mathematics yet. 
“Plenty of lords withhold their actual profits to keep more for themselves or
sell to other lands. It’s a consequence of the feudal system we live in. Mother
was talking about it,” Lyanna pointed out. “Through your form of governance,
you have to check for disloyalty or else you’d be losing twice the amount taxes
you already are.”
“Oh?” Willas smiled warily. “Am I losing something now?”
“House Hewett,” Arya proclaimed out of nowhere. She pointed to his numbers on
the page. “His numbers dropped dramatically from last year. Maester Luwin said
the coastal areas were doing better because of the trade winds. If anything, he
should be increasing or remaining steady—not diminishing.”
Willas took the page from the youngest Stark girl. He stared at it before
grabbing his pen and making a note. The serving girl and boy arrived with their
food. Two platters of cold meets, cheeses, fruits, and teas of several
varieties. He dismissed them.
“How old are you two?”
“Nine,” said Arya. “Eight,” replied Lyanna.
Willas chuckled. “You two will be a fright when you get older.”  
“I hope so,” said Arya, giddily. “I want to be a warrior, like my brother.”
“Robb or Jon?”
Arya smirked. “Jon, because he is an omega and beautiful and no one stops him
from doing anything.”
“You should work on your footwork then,” chided Lyanna as she bit into an apple
slice. “When do you start training?”
“Soon!” Arya said petulantly, having forgotten about Willas for a brief moment.
Willas turned to Lyanna. “Have you learned swordsmanship, Lady Lyanna?”
Lyanna nodded. “Just the basics. My mother wants to send me to the Neck so that
I can bloom there but father wants to keep me at Bear Island.”
“What do you want?” Arya asked.
Lyanna shrugged. “The crannogmen have so many secrets and hidden wonders. I
don’t think a year or two would kill me. But my home is on Bear Island and it
shall always be on Bear Island.”
“I wouldn’t mind being fostered at the Neck or Bear Island—but omegas rarely
get fostered. We’re so unlucky,” whined Arya.
Willas chuckled. Lyanna turned her attention towards the heir. “And what about
you, Lord Willas? What can you do?”
There was a challenge there. Willas heard it and so did Arya, who straightened
and watch the events unfold as she chewed on her cheese and crackers.
“I’m afraid I am a boring man, Lady Lyanna. You will be disappointed to hear me
speak on the matter.”
“I’ve never met a man who was truly boring and well aware of it,” Lyanna
pointed out. “It’s quite interesting.”
Clever girls, both of them. From afar, he heard the cawing of his majestic
fleet. He smirked and asked the two if they wanted to see something wonderful.
They nodded. He set out his arm and waited for the creature to come. Out of
nowhere, a gust of wind drew near and through the openings of the gazebo came
forth a large and fearsome bird of prey. The girls gasped. 
“This is Goldclaw, one of my hawks. I breed them as a hobby, though I have
found that my creatures have become in high demand. Please, if you’d like to
take a look, come forth.”
The girls did not need to be told twice. Willas brought his arm further out.
The girls cooed and awe at the sun-kissed wings and its wide, golden eyes. His
beak was as hard as diamonds and his claws were as long as their faces. He was
bigger than a typical hawk—and his face was gruesome in nature. The girls loved
him.
Willas enjoyed watching them. He could tell that while they would never grow up
to be conventional beauties, they would blossom quite nicely. He heard Arya
Stark resembled her aunt and Lyanna Mormont was half a crannogman, well known
for their exotic appeal. He’ll see her mother at the tourney and get a good
look at the future.
“I bet if I put my finger in his mouth, he’ll snap it off,” said Arya,
completely enraptured by the fine beast. Willas chuckled. She was not wrong.
It was a pity they were so young; Willas does not know if he could stall his
grandmother’s sentencing for so long. But Arya was a Stark. A union to her
would prove beneficial and it would be easier to convince his grandmother to
hold off on a betrothal. Yet, while smaller omegas were supposed to take longer
to bleed—crannogmen bodies were unknown.
“Here, let me try,” Lyanna spoke. Willas was so caught up in his thoughts he
did not have time to warn her. Lyanna touched the top of his head and the
creature purred like a kitten under her hand. She smiled and stroked his beak.
Lyanna opened her mouth and bells came out. The creature sang like a lovebird.
Lyanna and Arya giggled.
Lyanna, Willas sighed, was a mystery. She knew things about the crannogmen and
the Neck, a region that was poor but martially strong and whose survival
methods are legendary. His spies knew nothing about them except the bits and
pieces from the crannogmen who married outside the Neck. 
Willas decided to play a game. “Do you like riddles?”
Arya and Lyanna looked at each other again. They must be close friends, Willas
wondered, to speak without words. “Why?” Lyanna asked.  
“I want to give you a riddle and if you solve it, you will get a reward.”
“What’s the reward?” Arya asked. She was grinning.
“A gift of your choosing—whatever you please.”
“Whatever we please?” Lyanna raised an eyebrow.
Willas pretended to think for a moment before smirking. “Yes, whatever you
please. I trust you two are honorable women—you will not demand something I
cannot afford and make me an oathbreaker, will you?”
“No, Lord Willas, I would not,” Arya answered innocently. The two girls burst
into giggles. Even Willas scoffed.
“What are the conditions?” Lyanna asked.
“Well, you have to solve it by the end of the tourney, particularly at the last
feast. And the demand must be made immediately, I don’t like to hold onto debts
for long.”
“Agreed,” said Arya. “What’s the riddle?”
Willas thought for a second.
“Just tell us already,” Lyanna interrupted.
Willas shook his head at her impatience. “Alright. You must come to me, holding
the hand of a loved one but never touching their skin. One of you must wear my
sigil while the other must wear nothing.” Willas stood up and leaned in. “And
when you present yourself, you must carry something that will never die while
your mouth is filled with poison.”
“That is impossible!” Arya argued. “That makes no sense.”
“Then you must get creative,” said Willas. He stood up and collected his
things. “I wish you the best of luck.”
Arya groaned when he left. “We should have waited to hear the riddle before
agreeing.”
“No, this was fair. We lose nothing by not solving it.” Lyanna glanced at her.
“You are welcomed to not participate.”
Arya could sniff out blood in the water like a shark. “Is that a challenge?”
“Of course it is.”
Arya was taken back. Then, a wide grin replaced her face. “I’m definitely going
to solve it first.”
“You’ll have to beat me,” Lyanna said. “And I don’t lose.”
The two girls laughed—genuinely this time—and raced out of the garden to find
Jon. They had so much to report to him and so much reading to do.
***
While the omegas occupied their time, Robb was on the field, adorning his
southern garbs and grasping for air like a drowned dog. He and Ser Rodrick were
familiarizing themselves with the soil.
“The ground is softer here. It might slow him down.”
“He was fine on the road,” assured Robb. He looked back and saw the horse
staring off to the horizon.  
“Aye, I have no doubt he shall do well.” Ser Rodrick leaned in. “Besides, with
your skill, none of these green boys have a chance.”
Robb chuckled in response. His laughter was overshadowed by the crowd of
giggling omegas crowding around Ser Loras. He and a few of the knights were
coming back from their training and getting their horses into the stables in
time for the novice tournament. The Tyrell boy stopped to entertain the
populace.
Robb scoffed at him. It was just his luck that Ser Loras caught his
disapproval. His eyes narrowed.
“Have I offended you, Lord Robb?” He asked as he walked towards him.
The Stark was never one to bite his tongue in public to an illicit remark made
in private. “No, my lord. I am simply fascinated by the leniency you have
towards dallying. It is a good thing you remain unattached. I imagined if you
had an omega, he would surely be bristling with insecurity.”
The accusation struck a nerve. The omegas stopped smiling and watched the
interaction with vigilant eyes.
“I'll have you know,” Loras told him, with subtle rage in his tone, “That I am
courting an omega, Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End.”
“Then he must be quite a character,” Robb responded smoothly. “To allow his
alpha to be so careless with his affections. If I had an omega, I would grant
him complete devotion on my part.”
Loras grabbed him by the too tight collar. Ser Rodrick beckoned the boy to calm
down. “This is not the time to fight,” he reminded them. "There are bystanders
about."
Loras let go but his anger was still present. He returned Robb’s scoff with one
of his own. “Perhaps you should be lecturing your father on loyalty. I hear he
is quite free with his affections,” Loras mocked.
Robb lunged at the boy. Ser Rodrick slapped his hand on Robb’s shoulder before
the boy could go any further than a needle’s length. Loras chuckled and walked
away, earning the last laugh in the end. Unable to let anything slide, not even
with Ser Rodrick’s advice, he called out to Loras and said he hoped he enjoyed
watching the tourney.
“And when it is your turn to joust, Ser Loras, I will watch you—right by Lord
Renly’s side. We are both meant to be lords, after all.”
The reminder of their statuses humbled Loras. He snarled and walked off without
response, even ignoring a floundering omega or two. Ser Rodrick shook his head.
“I thought your father gave you his cool blood—it seems I was mistaken. You are
as hot-headed as your uncle.”
“Surely I am better than that,” Robb suggested. “Besides, I couldn’t let him
walk off. We wouldn’t meet on fighting grounds today; he’s in the advance
tournament.”
Ser Rodrick sighed. “Maybe you should count your paces.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Robb gestured to the riding grounds. “Because then I’d look like those fools.”
Rodrick followed his gaze and saw a group of squires getting into fights about
missing their counting. The master-of-arms was exasperated by the sight.  
“Robb, go put on some proper clothes and armor. You have a tourney to win.”
***
Lady Margaery’s private box was the most desire seating of any lady of the
Reach. No one knew who Lady Margaery would invite until they arrived at the
tourney. There was no way to track the Tyrell’s mood—girls who’ve been
attending her tea parties for years were jilted out of nowhere and even first
cousins risked being excluded. They did not know until one of Lady Margaery’s
waiting attendants offered to escort them to the box.
When they arrived, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, and Jon were given precedent. Lady
Margaery was thorough and even offered Lady Lyanna a seat. The Mormont girl was
surprised—she’d didn’t even realize she’d been acknowledged. She refused and
choose to stay with her mother and the other Northerners.
Lady Stark was expected to sit amongst the elder Highgarden elite, where she
would be sharing the best view with her fellow liege lords and ladies. Ser
Loras sat with Lord Renly and was more affectionate than ever, lauding him with
praises and kisses, feeding him like a babe. Some were aghast by the public
display but Lord Renly basked in it.
More girls filed in the box. Jon caught the heated glare of Lady Hewett and her
friends as they were turned away. Lady Margaery asked Sansa to sit beside
her—cementing her beloved status. Sansa was so excited. Jon smiled and stifled
the jealousy in his heart. He knew Sansa loved him but he recognized that
Margaery was the older sister she always wanted. He could not fault her for
that—Margaery was a lovely girl who never said a bad word about him and did not
intend to.
She was also extremely clever—and for that, Jon was wary.
They waited for the first round. The announcer proclaimed that the first round
was between “Lord Robert Stark of House Stark” and “Lord Alester Norcross of
House Florent.”
Jon held onto Sansa’s hand from above and on his right was Arya. They wished
their brother the best of luck as he came onto the field. They had good manners
not to shout though were inwardly cheering to the heavens.
Robb’s steed dashed forward with a frightening amount of speed. Northern horses
were large and trained to handle coarse ground and jagged landscape. Their
bodies were heavy which should have been a problem if they were not already
used to running across the piercing snow. The Florent boy was overwhelmed by
the speed and the strength. He fell as soon as the point landed on his shield.
 
His siblings and even his mother, a true southern lady, could not contain their
happiness. Fortunately, their cheers were overwhelmed by the rousing approval
of the entire northern camp.
Lord Tyrell laughed joyously. “Your son is off to a good start!” He praised.
Lady Catelyn smiled. “Yes, he is.”
The wine poured generously throughout the tournament—Lord Tyrell bared no ill
will to the constant wins by the northern party. Both his sons were in the
advance tournament and carried no humiliation from the losses. And who was he
to deny all these fine, northern alphas their winnings. He trembled at the
sight of their large bodies and dark features on his grounds.
The crowd, despite their animosity, were intrigued by the northern forces. They
were brutal and violent and spared no mercy, even to their closest friends.
The tourney continued until the final two rounds were filled with northerners.
When Robb defeated the man, he confirmed that he was going to place at least
second in the tourney. Whoever won the next round would go up against him. He
drank his water and watched.
The announcer blew his match horn. “Now to see who shall be entering the final
round. I call forth Lord Jon Umber of House Umber and Lady Dacey Mormont of
House Mormont!”
The announcer stepped aside while Dacey and Smalljon prepared their positions.
Lady Jyana gripped her daughter’s hand.
“Mother?”
Jyana kissed her daughter’s head. “It’s fine Lyanna, pray for your sister.”
Smalljon Umber was almost twice the size of any man in the tourney but Dacey
was one of the few that looked like the same species. He was stronger than her
but not as skilled on the horse. The creature was beginning to tire from
lugging the man around. Dacey counted on that as an advantage and prepared her
lance. When the two stampeded towards each other, it was as great as a battle.
People held their breath as both lances hit their respective targets.
Smalljon’s javelin pierced through Dacey’s shield, leaving splinters in the air
and Dacey’s body was thrown onto the ground.
Jyana jumped up from her seat and cried out “Dacey!” at the top of her lungs.
She was heaving death until the younger woman stood up. Lyanna grabbed her
hand.
“Mother, she is alright,” she soothed. People were staring at them.
Jyana composed herself and sat down. She was shaking. A few men came out to
help the Mormont woman up. She shook off their help. Jyana turned away when
Dacey looked at her, a longing gaze on her expression.
***
The final round was between Smalljon and Robb.
No one expected Robb to win.
Jon laughed himself to tears when his brother lost.
“I cannot believe we thought he could win against an Umber,” Arya commented
dryly.
“Arya!” Sansa scolded. “That is our brother!”
“Who I believed would have genuinely won—had Smalljon not decided to
participate.” Arya shrugged. “Look, even Jon is laughing.”
“I cannot believe I thought he would win,” Jon shook his head. “What was I
thinking?”
“Jon! Not you, too!” Sansa was horrified by the lack of support.
The three directed their attention to the end of the tourney. Smalljon was
handed a laurel of golden roses to crown his Queen of Love and Beauty. Without
hesitance, he rode his horse to his final competitors and with more charm
thought possible for an Umber, he delivered it to Dacey Mormont.
Robb watched with resignation as Dacey lunged on top of the younger man and
toppled him off the horse. The Northerners cheered even louder than they did
the entire tourney for this was true entertainment. The southerners were
horrified but could not stop watching.
Dacey wrestled the laurel out of his grip. She grabbed her horse and almost
tramples her competitor where he laid. Robb, like a true gentleman, helped his
friend up. The two of them watch Dacey ride to stand where her good mother sat.
The older woman held her breath. Her green eyes burned at her good daughter—a
grave contrast to her original ignorance. She was daring her not to do it; this
was their lives at stake.
Dacey took the laurel and placed it on her little sister’s head. She held
Lyanna’s hand up and praised this tourney’s Princess of Love and Beauty.
When the cheering went down, Lyanna took off the laurel. She touched a petal of
the golden roses—real roses gilded with low quality gold. She looked at Lord
Willas who glanced back her. She returned her attention to her prize and
grinned.
She would indeed “get creative.”
***
Jon and Robb choose to return to the camp that night. Smalljon used his
earnings to celebrate with his people. His dragons bought liters of fine wine
and ale and good cheer throughout. Only Domeric and two other knights would
participate in tomorrow’s tourney—the rest were allowed to drink their weight.
Jon sat beside Robb and leaned against his shoulder.
“I was so looking forward to a golden crown,” said Jon.
Robb chuckled and drank his wine. “Next tourney, I promised.”
Jon scoffed. “No thank you.” Robb raised an eyebrow. Jon took his hand and
entangled their fingers.
“Life is short; I do not want to waste ours in the South. I miss our bed and
our springs and your presence beside mine at night. We can’t do that if you
partake in more tourneys.”
Robb chuckled and kissed his little brother’s head. “As you wish.”
Their tender moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Theon settled in
between the two. “What are you doing forgiving his loss so easily? We should be
condemning him with our disappointment!”
Jon laughed and Robb scowled. “Sod off, Theon.”
Theon chuckled and drank his wine loosely. He handed the empty cup to Robb.
“Hold this, Domeric will have kittens if he sees me drinking.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Domeric is as tightly wound as a maester’s asshole. Why
do you indulge him?”
“Why don’t you join us tomorrow at the castle?” Robb suggested to keep the
attention off Theon’s unsettling marriage. “You could stay in Jon’s bed?”
Theon wished he could take the offer. “I have to stay at the camps where
Domeric can watch over me like a proper husband to be.” He stole Jon’s share of
ale. “I’m going outside to somber up before Domeric finds me.”
They wished him luck. Jon handed him a dinner knife.
“For any wandering deviants,” advised Jon.
Theon ruffled up his curls. “Thanks, bastard.”
Both boys scowled at his poor humor.
***
Despite his intoxication, Theon was vigilant about not being seen by Domeric or
his men. He drifted further into the woods where the light of the moon still
shined through but company was nonexistence. There were no creatures this close
to the city and he doubted anyone followed him or else he would be on his back
by now. He observed the sky and stars and wondered how people could live so
long under such meek creatures. In North, they were huge, unburden by filth and
pollution. Soon, his vision blurred, the alcohol taking effect.
Theon closed his eyes to forget. When he opened them, he prayed for a clearer
landscape.
He received a hand on his throat instead. Before he could scream, a rough and
aching voice whispered in his ear and commanded him to be silent. All Theon’s
instincts told him to stand down and obey his alpha.
“You will not say a thing,” hissed Ramsay. Theon was breathing so heavily and
he could feel his cunt gush with each word. Ramsay grinded his hips against the
older boy. His cock was already out and large. “I’m going to let you go and you
will take off that dress of yours. Do you understand?”
Theon nodded. Ramsay let go. His reward was a slap to the face. “Nodding
doesn’t get me anywhere. Take off that fucking dress!”
Theon did as he was told. Like a whore, he displayed his breasts and untouched
cunt to the bastard waiting for the worst. Ramsay licked his lips and admired
the fine form before him. He latched onto the bare nipple and bit down. Theon
yelped like a wounded dog.
Ramsay shoved two fingers up his ass and let go of the nipple. “Don’t fucking
scream. Gag yourself however way you can. I’m not letting anybody interrupt us
because your cocksucking mouth is so desperate, it can’t keep quiet.”
Theon covered his mouth with his hands. In between his muffled moans, he gained
the courage to ask about Ramsay’s presence. "I thought you were gone." 
Ramsay continued thrusting into with his fingers. “Why are you fucking
complaining?”
“I’m not!” Theon protested as the perfect spot was hit. He came all over
Ramsay’s fingers. “I…you were casted away. I…” Theon missed him so fucking
much, he came at the thought of him sometimes.  “I’d thought I’d never see you
again and you…”
“You think I leave you alone while my fucking brother gets the first taste of
you?” Ramsay shook his head. “No, you were mine before you were yourself. I own
you.” He played with Theon’s clit. “These are mine. Your holes, your breasts,
your body; they are mine. My fucking father can send me to Esos and I’d still
find you.”
The pathetic look on Theon’s face did something to Ramsay’s willpower. He
kissed Theon, all fangs and passion, and felt the boy submit. When they parted,
Theon was still aching.
“I watched you this entire time, waiting for us to be alone. I’ll let him win
the first few battles, let him stew in his petty victories.” Ramsay laughed.
“But then I’ll take you; I’ll take everything from him.”
Theon thought about Domeric’s warning, of all the omegas Ramsay abused to his
darkest pleasure. The sickening part was that while Theon believed him; he
didn’t care. Those whores and peasants were not as beautiful as him nor as
loyal to Ramsay—that’s why they lost his attention. Theon could keep Ramsay
occupied. He would bear him a dozen of his heirs; this was his fate and Theon
wanted this madness more than anything in the world.
Theon wrapped his hands around Ramsay and pulled him closer. “Take me,” he
begged. “Fill me with your child so that Domeric never gets the chance.”
With no more patience to waste on conversation, Ramsay stroke his cock a good
number of times before a bulging knot came into view. He loved this more than
anything—ravishing omega cunts with a heavy knot in hand. He placed his bulge
against Theon’s tight rim before slamming it inside, creating a nice, temporary
gape for his eyes to take pleasure in. A snarl escaped his lips as he grounded
himself in deeper and split Theon’s hole further apart. He could not tell what
he enjoyed more—Theon’s uncontrollable wails or the thought that he had beaten
his brother to this virgin’s omega outstretched cunt.“Fuck,” Ramsay swore. “I
knew you’d be good. I’d knew you’d be the perfect, tight bitch to have my
children.”
“Fuck,” Ramsay swore. “I knew you’d be good. I’d knew you’d be the perfect,
tight bitch to have my children.”
Theon could not comprehend his words. He was too busy basking in the pleasure.
His muscles clenched around Ramsay’s knot and had another orgasm from feeling
Ramsay’s cock inside him. He could not believe how good he felt.
“So good, so good,” Theon moaned over and over again. His eyes were rolling
back and his mouth was drooling. Ramsay laughed in between his moans. He could
not believe how well his bitch omega was taking it.
“You want it harder?” He asked. “You want me fucking you all night, turning
your pussy raw until your gaping? You want that?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Theon shouted.
Ramsay fucked deeper into and was mesmerized by the way Theon’s tit bounced.
Ramsay grabbed one and squeezed until bruises decorated the breast. Theon cried
out. Ramsay loved hearing each moan. He would dedicate an ass-raping session to
punish him later, but fortunately, his boys would keep all wandering guests
out.
Ramsay took in the desperation on Theon’s face and used it as motivation to
give Theon a heavier pounding. He was pulling Theon’s lips inside and out with
how hard he was going at him. Theon took it all with stride. He fucking loved
being treated like the object he was. Ramsay laughed as he suckled a breast. He
could not believe he was lucky enough to meet an omega who knew his worth as a
cum bucket. Someone beautiful and submissive and completely his.
By the time Ramsay was done with him, Theon was nothing more than a limp
container of cum. His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. Ramsay’s knot
deflated enough to be freed. The bastard refused to leave the heat of his sweet
milker and let his release sluggishly leak from Theon’s cunt.
“…ove you…” Theon whispered. “…babies…”
The older boy was out of it.
Fuck it, so was Ramsay.
“You are a fucking whore and I will never leave you,” he declared as he
fingered Theon’s ass. He kissed Theon’s forehead. “You’re going to be mine
until the day you fucking die.”
Chapter End Notes
     So I redid my research and realized that (canonically) Lyanna was
     born in 290 AC, making her Bran’s age not Rickon’s. I edit the
     previous chapters.
     And yes, what Robb is wearing is the blue outfit from Cinderella. Sue
     me. I had to. I really, really had to.
     I have no clue who is going to win the advanced tourney. It is
     between Domeric, Loras, and Garlan. Please tell me your preferred
     rankings. Please. Help. Vote.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the lateness! Here is chapter 14!
     I may never write a tourney scene.
     The Dragonstone Baratheons are mentioned.
     Loras and Renly have some tourney fun and so do Jon and Robb.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When Theon returned to the banquet hall that night, his eyes glazed over from
the brutal lovemaking. Ramsay had him on his hands and knees, fucked him like a
dog while his breasts swung in the air. Through the sharp, squelching noises,
Theon heard the vivid moans of Ramsay's companions. They called him names
depicting him as Ramsay's 'tight cunt' and 'stupid slut.' His stomach churned
when he realized they were fondling themselves over him; all of them wanted to
fuck him but could never have one because he belonged to Ramsay and Ramsay did
not share. He tightened his thighs together to control the throbbing in his
cunt. He wanted nothing more than to return to the woods for another round. Jon
made him another offer to stay at Highgarden but responded with another refusal
and a satisfied smile.
Theon tightened his thighs together to control the throbbing in his cunt. He
wanted nothing more than to return to the woods for another round. Jon made him
another offer to stay at Highgarden but responded with another refusal and a
satisfied smile.
“Nonsense. This is when Domeric needs me by his side the most.” He licked his
lips. “He is going to be my husband. I want to make sure each day is filled
with my support and devotion.”
The maturity of the answer startled Jon, who expected Theon's willpower to
falter at the repeated offer. “Very well,” Jon answered. “I’ll inform the maids
not to prepare a room.” Theon nodded absentmindedly. He continued to drink from
his goblet, ignoring Jon’s suspicious stare.
The following morning, most of their camp was hungover and weak. Some were
still leaning on each other for support. Domeric remained resilient—he had the
good sense not to partake in liquor binges before his tournament. He was
pleased to discover Theon at the Bolton tent without his intervention. When he
arrived, he kissed Domeric on the cheek. Nothing indecent, but a favorable
response between betrothed. Domeric concluded that he made a wise decision
yesterday towards their relationship. The boy sat by his side without
commentary and remained poised throughout their meal. The image of a quiet,
dutiful wife.
His father looked curious but pleased by Theon’s sudden taming. Domeric fought
the smug expression off his face. After breakfast, Theon stayed by Domeric’s
side while they walked to the tourney grounds. They made light, innocent
conversation—nothing distracting or insensible. Pure drivel but the kind of
small talk that was soothing rather than annoying. The advance tournament began
in the morning as opposed to the afternoon of the novice round. There, Theon
poured Domeric a cup of water and massaged his shoulders. When the participants
were expected to make their way for the opening ceremony, Theon publicly showed
his support to the Bolton by kissing his helmet.
“Good luck, my lord,” he told him with a demure smile. Domeric responded by
kissing his hand. The gesture was common amongst lovers, and it gained the
support of several audience members who cheered their affection. Young love,
they claimed with a smile on their face.
Theon walked away while Domeric rode out to the front. He climbed up the stairs
to Margaery’s box—the premium seats for omegas—where Jon was waiting for him.
“Your behavior is commendable this morning. Last night celebration has done
wonders for your mood.”
Theon cast his eyes onto his betrothed’s form. “I was certainly reminded of my
duties as a wife.” Theon smiled at Jon. “And that is to support my husband.”
Jon stared at him. Without a word, he redirected his attention to the tourney.
Lord Tyrell was making a grand speech, filled with flowery language and
launching into fifty phrases that could have been said in one. From behind him,
Margaery praised Theon’s selection.
“Domeric has a good chance at winning. His performances in the past tourneys
have been spectacular and I heard he is a step away from becoming a knight.”
Theon tried not to sneer at her. She was pointing out the obvious as if she was
more than some witless brat. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Theon thanked
Margaery with a proud smile for her kind observation. He noticed the stares of
the audience and relished at the ferocity of their jealousy. Domeric was not
handsome but he was tolerable with no scandals to name of. He had a reputation
for being skilled with a lance and some say he was half-horse himself. Many of
these southern twats wanted to be in Theon’s position. They wanted to be the
one to kiss Domeric’s helmet, walk down rivers with him and bear his children.
Theon grinned. They should be envious, he thought. They should want to be him:
a future lord and the bearer of heirs.
To the pleasure of his audience, Lord Tyrell finished his speech. His box was
sat high and he was surrounded by many high-ranking lords and ladies. His
husband was by his side and there was a plate within arm’s reach, ready to feed
her beloved spouse in case he got peckish. Lord Tarly was beneath them, looking
visibly upset. His eldest son was unable to qualify for the advance tournament
and his youngest scored well but was not able to unhorse a Northerner in the
novice tourney. Lady Stark was present in his section, and besides her was
Robb, looking every bit indignant that instead of having Jon by his side, he
was given Willas.
Jon laughed when Lord Tyrell accidentally stumbled getting back to his seat.
His hand tactfully landed on Robb’s shoulder and lingered on his fine form.
Robb was encouraged to help the portly omega to his chair. He did so with a
smile and that became his death sentence as Lord Tyrell took a moment to fondle
Robb’s form. Jon could hear him now: 'Oh, what muscles you have! Oh, I wonder
if you'll grow bigger than your father!' The grin on his face could have looked
coquettish had it he been in his teens, but the omega had aged to a point where
his flirtations appeared deviant. His wife paid his molestations no mind and
pinched her omega’s cheeks for being such a rakish creature. They giggled and
flirted with each other throughout the tourney. If Lord Tarly was displeased
before, he was equipped for vengeance now.
Without the northerner presence, the participants appeared to have a taste for
theatrics. Not one to be upstaged by any of the young lovers, Loras rode his
horse over to Lord Renly and delivered him a bouquet of roses before commanding
his horse to rise to lift him up for a kiss. The people clapped at the trick.
Loras grinned before sending Robb a smug look. The younger boy ignored him,
much to his disappointment. He leaned over and praised Lord Renly for the
roses. The older man blushed causing Loras to rile himself up. He headed his
mare to the tournament lines.
People were smart during the first day. No one overexerted themselves and aimed
to receive the highest points rather than use up their energy to unhorse their
opponents. Unlike yesterday, the tourney was without the eagerness of youth.
Tomorrow would become more brutal and by the third day, they would all be out
for blood.
They continue competing until lunch. Domeric scored the highest for the first
half of day one. And Loras and Garlan gained a significant amount of
points—almost enough to guarantee their position for the final rounds. When
they ended for their break, Jon was accosted by Jyana, who asked if they’ve
seen Lyanna.
“She said she was uninterested in the tourney and wanted to explore.” Jyana
sighed. “I told her not to leave my side.”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” Jon soothed. He glanced over at Robb who was
distracted. Lord Tyrell seemed eager to drag him off somewhere. Robb sent Jon
an apologetic look. Shaking his head, Jon turned to his aunt. “I’ll help you
look for her,” he volunteered. He told Theon to warn Robb of his absence at the
lunch table, which the boy begrudgingly accepted to obey.
“I’m not your servant,” he complained. The crannogmen walked away before he
could be heard.
***
The inner rings of Highgarden contained a complex of towers, courtyards,
colonnades and statuaries with greenery spreading across their fields, ivy,
grapevines and climbing roses entwined through the building walls. The plethora
of gardens and arbors are filled with flowers and not to be beaten by the
Martells; the Tyrells indulged in pools, fountains and man-made waterfalls
visible throughout the complex. The outermost regions of Highgarden were the
"briar maze", a famous labyrinth of hedges that served to entertain the guests
and inhabitants while deterring the enemies from their access. Enemies have
died wandering around these parts while the guards were instructed to master
the shrubs in their heads. They were not given permission to have maps, less
such documents fell into the wrong hands.
For obvious reasons, people were told to avoid the woods surrounding the
castle. There were beasts there, big cats and bigger bears, wild boars with
tusks as sharp as knives. Lyanna hoped the rumors were true. She entered the
woods on her own accord, bearing nothing but her prized laurel.
***
His brother's lack of presence was unpleasant but necessary. Robb was reluctant
to admit as such. Their dining table was out in the open; members of elite,
high-ranking noble houses were seated with them, including the ever
conservative and militant Lord Tarly, who was glaring at his liege lord like he
was suggesting a coup d’état on the crown. There was solace in the knowledge
that Jon was tucked away under his aunt’s wing and not in the company of a
fervent lord or captivated guard. Robb hung onto his fleeting optimism like a
lifeline.
The finalists of the novice tourney were asked to join them on Lord Tyrell’s
bequest. Much to Lord Tarly’s frustration, the liege lord of Highgarden took
advantage of his position by acting like a lovelorn omega on the precipice of a
heat—never mind that Lord Tyrell’s most recent heat ended a winter ago.
The northerners, who were the victims of such attentions, found his antics
annoying but endearing at the same time. Lord Tyrell was a generous, jovial
spirit who was so tragic in his flirtations that one must be amused by his
failed attempts rather. They could not bring themselves to be offended. For the
sake of his happiness, his husband flaunted the northerners’ best assets one
after the other.
“Oh dear wife, look at Lady Dacey’s fine breasts! Why I must say, there’s more
muscle than fat in those pecs! Oh how wondrous female alphas are in the North;
if only mine are so hard! These are like rocks on a plate.” She said in good
cheer. She grabbed the finalist by the arm and brought her over to her husband
to inspect. Dacey was unused to compliments nor was she experienced in dealing
with such vapid attentions.
Lord Tyrell wasted no time fondling his new prey. On his left, Smalljon Umber
took a seat while his father remained out of harm’s way. The Lord of the Last
Hearth had a war's worth of intuition to avoid danger and an omega with
wandering hands.
“Nonsense! Everyone knows my husband has the finest mounds of the Highgarden
fields.” Despite his protests, Lord Tyrell lunged at the offered teats. “Oh,
but this is a noteworthy chest. And just enough fat for a good squeeze.” He
smiled up at the towering woman and his lighthearted expression was so
praiseworthy—like a child overlooking a field of roses—that Dacey could not
will herself to hate him. “You are an exemplary specimen.”
Dacey sighed. “Thank you, my lord.” She returned to her seat. When several of
her companions laughed, she shot them a bloodthirsty glare to shut them up.
Lord Tyrell remained in high spirits. He returned to groping Smalljon’s bicep,
admiring his magnitude and questioning his dimensions in other matters. “My,
you must have a ton’s worth of muscle in this arm alone! Tell me, how do men in
your lands get so big? I bet you're just filled up everywhere.”
While Smalljon spoke of his daily duties, the Lady Hightower laughed with the
other wives and husbands. She was a charming thing; pretty as a portrait and a
master at keeping moods lighthearted and bright. When Lord Tarly made a passive
remark about her wife’s frivolities, she never lost her dignity. “Oh, this?
These are merely blithe amusements wives play when they get bored. I have
nothing to fear.”
“But your reputation,” Lord Tarly muttered. “With all due respect, Lady
Hightower, a husband who cannot reign his wife’s frivolities risks a cuckold.”
There was a pause; the atmosphere threatened to sour.
Lady Hightower was never one to let a crowd spoil. As a child, her maesters
would berate her for not focusing on her studies; she failed their tests on
maths and literature, never read a book on history in her life, but she was a
queen in the area that mattered: reputation. A natural-born socialite, Lady
Hightower learned how to maneuver a mob to bend to her will and challenge a
septon to praise her plight. As far as she was concerned, there was no better
currency than a good rumor or the credit of a careful tongue.
“Lord Tarly, you never cease to amuse me!” Lady Hightower laughed in good
humor. She grasped onto her husband’s hand—bringing his attention away from the
molested giant—and cradled his cheek. “Though I am reluctant to reveal my age,
I feel inclined to offer my wisdom to you. Years of marriage has given me the
foresight to wedded bliss and it is selfish to keep my opinions at bay.” She
waved a hand at the curious lords and ladies. “The secret to catching an
omega’s eye is no different than the law of a successful marriage. For both,
the key is to maintain the omega’s happiness.” She offered a tiny kiss to Lord
Tyrell’s cheek in which he noticeably preened. ‘When I met my darling husband,
I was far from the strongest or the wisest of his suitors—in fact, some of the
people on this table took that position from me!”
Lord Tarly glared.
“But throughout our time together, he understood that if we were to wed, there
was no one more inclined to devote themselves to his happiness.” Her hand
slipped on top of his shoulders as she massaged into his sore spots. He moaned
at her diligent hands. The Lady of Highgarden was an expert in that area as
well. “There’s a delightful proverb about the matter. Make your omega smile
every day and he or she shall never stray!”
The entire table chuckled. Their liege lord and lady kissed in front of their
guests; blatant about their loyalty towards one another. Lady Hightower
returned to host the party with the confidence expected of a woman of her
prestige. She went on to say that she enjoyed Lord Tyrell’s flirtations. “His
nature becomes more frolicsome whenever he catches a whiff a virile alpha.
Ideal for breeding,” she told them all.Their laughter became more pronounced as
people bit back their contentions with awkward smiles.
Lord Tyrell blushed. "Oh you naughty thing!" Their laughter became more
pronounced as people bit back their contentions with awkward smiles.
Willas smiled into his glass. As the heir of a liege lord, he took a seat
beside Robb. “Father and mother have been opting for another child since
Margaery's heat. They fret constantly about having an empty nest.” He leaned
into Robb’s ear so that they could talk amongst themselves. “They have high
hopes despite my mother’s age.”
Robb took a sip of his own wine. “I’m sure your lack of wedding plans does
nothing to dissuade them.”
Willas laughed. “True.” He glanced across the long table. “My parents do give
me something to look forward to. Perhaps, your family will give me purpose to
break my celibacy.”
“What?” Robb’s head snapped in the direction of the Highgarden heir.
Willas ignored Robb’s shock to give his mother attention. Lord Tyrell, drunk on
another glass of wine, announced his hopes of an omega. “Another lovely girl,
or a pretty boy to spoil rotten. I can think of nothing better than opening up
another room to deck with dresses and dolls.”
More condescension filled the table. Many of them laughed and lauded Lord
Tyrell with their best wishes. Some had the audacity to scoff silently at his
foolishness. Willas loathed their smug expressions. He heard what they said
about his mother. His beaten leg made it hard for him to stand so he made his
voice loud enough to hear. “Perhaps,” he suggested, the nonchalance rolling off
his tongue, “Mother, you should consider fathering a child. I read that in
Essos, alpha married other alphas. Female alphas have children all the time.
And it is not unheard of for male omegas to sire children. Sperm tends to
outlive the egg.”
There were many guests who attempted to smile, those who wished to perceive the
statement as a joke. They did not dare to laugh before another, high-ranking
lord did, in fear of displaying off immaturity or ignorance. After more
hesitance, no one dared speak.
“Dothraki,” Lord Tarly said at last. His growl broke the silence. “You are
talking about the Dothraki.”
Willas turned his attention to the Lord of Horn Hill. “Oh, that’s right. The
khals take female alphas to become their wives because they believe it will
produce stronger warriors. Thank you for reminding me.”
“You want us to mimic the customs of horse fuckers?” Lord Tarly accused. The
man was a noted traditionalist who upheld the classic standards of masculinity
and femininity as good as law. Willas was bored with him. His redeeming
qualities consisted of his exemplary military mind and the sole benefit of his
conservatism was his loyalty to the Reach. He abhorred the conditions he ruled
and was ruled under—being the bannerman of an omega overlord who would rather
focus on fucking than fighting.
Lord Tarly was in the majority that wished for Garlan’s ascension to the Seat
of Hightower. His younger brother was a great warrior—the best in their family
in regards to swordsmanship—and his humility and silence made him a preferred
leader over Willas, especially by the more powerful personalities. The second
son would never dare claim Willas’ territory; Willas was adamant about
instilling the principles of love and loyalty when the threat aroused. He
laughed to hide his bitterness. “No, of course not.” Willas remained level-
headed. “I am merely mimicking your wisdom, Lord Tarly. You are a fine
commander and I admire your shrewdness in regards to warfare—the way you adapt
combat techniques from across the seas to your own military ploys is ingenious,
revolutionary almost. Surely, you cannot fault me for following your lead.”
Lord Tarly was not amused by the insinuation. Robb noted that a flicker of
respect came to the man’s eye. He prized courage above all and though Willas'
leg limped when he walked, his balls hung heavy and low.
“You have a sharp mind.” Before Willas could thank the man, he ended his note
bitterly. “Let us hope you do not disappoint us in a similar manner to your
predecessor.”
The accusation released a tremor of disbelief and outrage. From the side, his
wife grasped onto his arm and whispered something in his ear one could only
assume to be a desperate plea for an apology. Randyll Tarly chose well when he
courted her, thought Willas, for she was the portrait of omegan perfection. She
would never dare disobey her lord’s command in public—though, from the will in
her eyes; he could tell that even the Lord of Horn Hill would not escape a
chilled shoulder when he came home.
Garlan and Loras made a show of themselves. They never failed to defend their
beloved mother.
“How dare you imply such callousness in front of my mother? He is your lord!”
Loras shouted, unsheathing his steel in violent rage. The whole table gasped.
Willas bit back a smirk at their reactions.
Robb noticed his humor without saying a word. He watched the event play out.
Garlan, who lacked Loras’ dramatism, kept a hand on his hilt. He told Lord
Tarly to stand if he believed his own fallacy. “Come at me if you dare.”
Willas replaced his instinctive scoff. His sister was chatting with the omegas
at another table nearby, but she, like the others stopped to watch. He sent her
a message with his eyes. All three sons have spoken, but the daughter remained
silent. He would not have that. He gestured her to come over and make her
peace.
Margaery was startled by the silent command. She was never one to back down
from a challenge—nor was she to refuse a mission from her brother. She stood up
and walked towards the table, her hands clasping together for applause. She
directed her attention to Lord Tarly.
Willas waited to see what his sister could offer. The Lord of Horn Hill would
never lose his cool amongst the presence of two green boys. The sight of them
bearing steel resembled children wielding wooden sticks rather than opponents
of war to him. A woman of merit—that was a villain unmet.
“You are so good to us, Lord Tarly,” Margaery praised. She placed a guiding
hand on both her brothers' shoulders and pushed them back to their seats. She
walked towards her parents and settled beside her father’s side—a position
meant to imply she was dependent on their protection. Willas was proud; barely
fifteen and his sister was a master at stagecraft.
“Being liege lords, the ruler of this fine kingdom, we are used to the
sycophants of society. It is a sad thing,” Margaery said as she cast her gaze
downwards. “They pour praises in our goblets after spitting in our pitchers.
You are not like that. You display your displeasure openly but not once has
your behavior suggest betrayal, Lord Tarly. A true man of honesty and honor.
One we need in the Reach.” Margaery picked up her stare to meet his. “Though I
do not appreciate your tactlessness, I understand that they are spoken, not of
malice but, a jest between companions who have the highest regard for each
other. After all, you've known my parents for so long. I like to think they can
call you friend.”
The branch bearing his salvation was hanging above the lord’s head. Lord Tarly
was not a foolish man. “You have an ear for conversation,” he told her.
Lord Tyrell perked up. Ah, he thought, Lord Tarly’s behavior was all an
elaborate show—'a busting of balls' as one would say. He heard the game was
common amongst warriors and cheerily drank his wine in bliss.
Margaery kissed her mother and father on the cheek before retreating to her
seat. She casted Willas a sly smile. He tipped his wine glass in her favor.
“Your sister is remarkable,” Robb complimented; his tone even.
Willas drank the last of his cup and held it out for a serving girl to fill.
“She is the pride of Highgarden.”
Robb scoffed. “I thought your brother claimed that prize.”
Willas was amused the counter. He stood up, much to the surprise of his fellow
heirs. His leg throbbed with irritation. “Many at this table may have come to
certain unfavorable conclusions following this interaction. I want to raise my
glass towards my compassionate and generous mother and my jubilant and mindful
father. You are all fortunate to be residents of the Reach. Any other lord
would have placed Lord Tarly on trial for such disrespect.” He spared a knowing
glance over at Lord Tarly. The man would have admired the severe reaction—he
thought their policies were soft as a sheep’s back. “But the Tarly’s decade-
long friendship with my family has allowed them leniency. Our allegiance has
yielded many rewards. He is one of Westeros fiercest commanders and the
greatest warrior the Reach have ever produced.” Willas lifted his newly filed
glass. “Congratulations, Lord Tarly. You have made yourself indispensable to
me.” A smile came to Willas’ face. “Until, of course, someone else comes
along—someone with an eye for the evolving world and a keenness for strategy
that surpasses your own. In that case, I hope you prepare yourself for the
consequences. I may not be a Lannister but I am a Tyrell; we have more than
enough to repay our debts.” He sipped his wine. Looking straight in his eyes,
Willas told Lord Tarly that he looked forward to the future.
***
While the competitors readied themselves for the second part of the tourney,
Willas requested Robb’s company over a pitcher of wine. They waited for the
competition to start. Robb was on edge; his eyes were nomads searching for a
home within Jon and he was left tragically wandering. Willas poured him a
fuller glass.
“You were rather quiet, Lord Robb. I’m sorry if our discussion intimidated
you.”
Robb scoffed. “Intimidate is not the word I would use.”
“How would you describe the event? And speak freely,” Willas encouraged. “I did
not ask for your company to hear lies.”
There was something he wanted to hear, Robb grumbled inwardly. “Notable,” he
answered out loud. “You southerners like to mark your territory, even at the
expense of your men’s pride. I can’t say I approve of those methods; all the
fancy words and subtle threats.” Keeping his boast light, he told Willas that
he was raised to rise above subtext. “Though I supposed for your family, the
gesture is necessary. The Reach has a history of strife and to each his own how
he handles his men.”
Willas chuckled darkly. “Northerners are notorious for their allegiance to
their liege lord.”
“Notorious is not a kind word.”
Willas continued his pouring. He ignored Robb’s point. “Forgive my paranoia. I
was taught to be mistrusting for the reasons you suggest. My grandmother
regrets not instilling more discipline into my father’s upbringing—she says
comforts made him soft. And by soft she means foolish.”
“You believe loyalty is a comfort?”
“I can assure you, an average man is more likely to die at the hands of his
wife than his rival.”
“We are not average men.”
Willas nodded his head. “No, we are not.”
“What do you see me as?”
Willas tipped his glass in approval. “Rest assured, I do not see a fool.”
“Thank you. Rest assured that the few people I seek the approval of all share
my blood.”
Willas hummed in amusement. “I can’t say I don’t appreciate a Northerner’s
sense of humor. There is not a lot of room for comforts in the North, is
there?”
Robb made a motion of drinking from his wine but a drop did not hit his lips.
“I would say our space for comfort is equivalent to your number of friends.”
“Your assumption is correct” Willas shook his head. “I find myself selective of
company as of late. A ruler’s power is only as strong their weakest ally.” He
set his goblet down and gave Robb a once over. “I will not waste your time any
longer. We are born to be great men, Lord Robb—the best of our kingdom. We will
have power neither of us can comprehend as we sit. For some, having power means
an endless amount of omegas lifting up their skirts for a taste of their
fertile cunts. For others, it means building a legacy for your children based
on the backs of giants. I have an idea on how I plan to use my power and I am
sure you are inclined to your own plans.” The bronze crown flashed through
Robb’s mind for the first time in years. He remembered the image of a northern
kingdom and his cavalry of direwolves. “So let me ask you, Lord Robb: do you
believe we will be enemies or friends?”
***
Before the second half of the tourney began, Ser Loras asked Lord Renly if he
would like to see his horse. After they were seen inspecting the mare, the two
of them returned to Loras’ tent. As per tradition, Loras dropped a piece of
silver in each of their guards’ hands and the men snuck out of the back of
their tent unseen. They closed the entrance on their way out.
Once alone, Renly wasted no time stripping Loras of his armor. As an omega who
preferred the frills of court, Renly would never be the warrior his brothers
were. He displayed his strength through ripped shirts and scratch marks
instead. When he was done stripping his lover, he used his free hands to grasp
Loras’ face and pull him down for a sloppy, desperate kiss. He moaned as soon
as he tasted Loras’ tongue.
So good, Renly thought, drunk on pleasure. His alpha tasted like honey and
heaven and he could have spent hours sucking on his tongue and drinking in his
saliva. Renly scolded himself on his lack of control. His pants were ruined—his
own juices were seeping through the threads to make a puddle on the ground.
Renly moaned into the kiss. His addiction was spiraling out of control. Every
time Loras finished soiling his cunt, Renly craved another round immediately.
He wondered if this was why omegas were supposed to be chaste until wedded.
Renly felt sinful. He could not resist Loras for the life of him. As soon as
Loras was near, he became this shameless harlot who opened his legs for the
chance of a knot inside him.
Loras continued kissing him until they were on the bed. Renly was stripped of
his ruined trousers and revealed his furnace of a cunt to his lover. Renly
could not resist spreading his legs further apart, showing Loras exactly how
much he was aching for him—his lips fluttering open and slick with pussy gloss.
Loras pressed the fat head of his cock against Renly’s cunt and let the older
man thrust back, his dripping hole blindly seeking out the friction. When the
head slipped inside, they moaned together. Renly rolled his hips, urging Loras
to come closer and guide his cock into his welcoming warmth. Loras spread his
hands over the omega’s hips and worked his cock in deeper.
“You’re so gorgeous,” Loras gasped as he watched his cock disappear inside
Renly’s cunt. His omega wanted a long, proper fucking that they didn’t have
time for. To distract his whimpering omega, Loras began to fuck him hard enough
to shake the bed and pushed Renly’s body up and down like a rag doll. Loras
rode him harder with each whimper. He especially enjoyed the sight of Renly’s
pussy swelling up every single time he pulled out and thrusted back in. He
relished in the way his pussy lips unwrapped whenever he pulled out, rubbing
against the texture cunt. Loras what not a patient man; he thrust himself all
the way in and released huge spurts of cum, filling him up. Renly screamed.
Pulse after pulse, Loras gave him impossible pleasure and coated his insides
with delicious white heat. Loras held off his knot.
“Please,” Renly whimpered. “Please, please, Loras, I just need you to knot me
for a second. Just a second. I want you to stretch me out, ruin my cunt with
your thick cock, please, I only want you, just fuck me open so that my pussy
gapes all day long, I can’t wait for you fill me up again,” Renly babbled as
more cum leaked out.
Loras groaned. He pulled the pliant body close and wrapped Renly’s legs around
him. Once stabilized, the knight lifted him up. Renly let out a delightful
shrill. The older man kissed him again, sucking on his tongue and nibbling on
his lips. Loras was getting hard again. He idly fingered Renly’s asshole while
he seated himself on his bed and let Renly rest on his cock. Renly tried to
spur another fucking. He was grinding his hips until Loras gave him a warning
smack on the ass.
“You can’t,” Loras rumbled. “I have to get ready soon.”
Renly licked his lips. As much as he loved watching Loras win, he wanted to get
fucked even more. Loras was the victor of several tourneys this year. Surely,
he could afford to miss one.
“Please,” Renly begged. He bent down to place a love bite on Loras’ collarbone.
Loras closed his eyes and shivered. “Don’t you want me?” Renly asked as he
clenched around Loras’ cock.
Loras groaned. He wondered where Renly learned these moves—probably from all
those books of his. When Loras squired for the man, the beautiful lord had the
audacity to show him, then a boy of thirteen, those debauched pages that he
secreted away under his bed.
“Omegas are not allowed to have desire,” Renly had whispered in the dark; the
fire from the candles made his green eyes glow. Loras remembered getting hard.
Renly teased him mercilessly for his blush and ruffled his brown locks with
fondness. He was eighteen and already the prettiest omega Loras had ever met.
“But I cannot help myself. This book was supposed to belong to my brother. His
husband’s friend bought it for them as a joke for their wedding day. But
Stannis never laughs. He threw it out the window and I found it. I had to keep
it. I looked through the pages and there were these omegas—so many pretty
omegas in all these horrible positions. I didn’t even know there were so many
ways to fuck." Renly licked his lips. "Some climbed on top of their partners
and rode on them like horses. Others let themselves get mated like dogs. Look,”
Renly encouraged huskily. “This omega is licking his alpha’s cock while his
hole is getting reamed.”
Loras’ erection grew with each turn of the page. Renly was not unaffected. He
slipped his hands inside his skirt, much to Loras’ shock. Renly caught his
expression and let out shaky laugh. “You must never tell anyone about this,
Loras,” Renly warned. "I would get into a lot of trouble." Before Loras could
ask, Renly pushed in three of his fingers inside him. Each thrust made a
squelching noise that echoed in the room.
When his orgasm came, Renly decided to take his seduction a step further—he
laid down on his bed and spread his legs. The Tyrell was entranced; the hole
was sucking in each finger like it was starving. Loras gripped his cock for the
first time and rubbed himself. Renly moaned out loud, urging him to come
closer. When Loras obeyed, the heat eradiating from Renly’s cunt made him lose
control. He came all over Renly’s pussy. When the Lord of Storm’s End was
finished chasing his own orgasm, Renly removed his slick, dripping fingers. He
crawled over to Loras’ shaking form. With a tiny smile, he thrusted his fingers
into Loras’ perfect lips and let him taste his salted honey.
Loras sucked on his fingers eagerly. When Renly took them away, Loras followed
their direction and landed himself in front of Renly’s face. Loras was unable
to resist the temptation of a beautiful, older omega yearning for him. He
leaned in and kissed Renly until they were both breathless.
The tryst became an affair with each invitation to Renly’s bedroom. The
following month, the affair turned into a courtship when his rut arrived and he
deflowered Renly on the beach. Loras admitted that his youth made him
reckless—choosing a mate at the age of thirteen was hardly reasonable, though
there was no shame in being accepted by an older omega who ruled over his own
lands. Loras became the hero of his bannermen’s sons. No one in his family
protested, but his eldest brother encouraged him to hold off on a proposal
until he made a name for himself.
Loras followed his suggestion—Garlan was a prime example of Willas’ expert
decision making—and was rewarded by the confidence of a thousand men twice his
age. Omegas of all standings flocked towards him for a smile and the alphas who
once flirted with Renly in front of him, the ones who sneered at his high voice
and short stature, shrunk in submission at his presence. He had knocked over
hundreds of those alphas, stomped on their shields and their pride. Served them
right for infringing on his territory.
The memory of those alphas reminded Loras of why he participated in these
tourneys at all. He gently lifted Renly off his cock much to the irritation of
his lord. “I have to go,” he informed reluctantly. The air touching his manhood
was a far cry from the delicious heat of Renly’s quim.
Renly pouted. He continued to try Loras’ patience by licking his ear. “Are you
saying that knocking other men off their horses is preferable to this?” Renly
gave his hips a slow roll.
Loras groaned. In a maneuver of grace and finesse, he turned Renly over and
landed him on his back. He informed Renly that “there was nothing he preferred
to him.” Renly leaned down and kissed him. “But if I do not go now, I will be
called a coward until the end of my days.” After the explanation, Loras got
dressed for the tourney. He grabbed an intact shirt from his trunk and whatever
spare jerkin he could get his hands on.
Renly laughed. “I bet you enjoy being fawn over by those desperate omegas.”
The suggestion, though spoken in mirth, made Loras tense. The beast from the
North’s commentary came to mind. Knowing that such a distraction would ruin his
streak, he turned to Renly to settle the matter.
“Does it upset you when I smile at other omegas?”
“You do more than smile, don’t you?” Renly teased, running a finger down his
chest. “You run your hands through your long hair and they swoon. They touch
your arms and you tell them to squeeze. You like the attention. You make them
think they’re special and get them wet before fucking me.”
“I’ve never done anything with them. They’re nothing,” Loras defended. He faced
Renly who was beginning to clean himself up. “You mean everything to me.”
Renly was not the least bit jealous. “I know there’s no danger in making
amusing those twats.” He smiled at him. “Loras, jealousy and possession…that’s
when you start to consider your beloved as property. I trust you.”
Loras leaned in to give Renly a kiss. “I cannot wait to crown you as my queen.”
While Loras shared a similar sentiment, he was aware that if another alpha
decided to challenge his claim on Renly, he would slaughter the man where he
stood.
Renly began to get dressed when Loras made his promise. “You better keep that
vow. Stannis finds me frivolous for avoiding marriage this long. He believes
our relationship to be doomed.”
“Stannis has the personality of a lobster and the attractiveness of one as
well,” Loras pointed out. “He could not afford to wait for a marriage offer.
Hence his pathetic union to that criminal.”
“I shiver thinking about them,” Renly told him. “Stannis pretends to be this
upstanding omega when every night he gets plowed like a field, popping out
children like some brood mare. I’m not even sure their marriage is legal.”
Loras paused; he remembered the scandal in small details. “The man's wife is
still alive, isn’t she?”
Renly nodded. “Because he is the king’s brother, the High Septon promised to
grant an annulment if both spouses agreed. Robert must have thought it was
impossible; he believed that no self-respecting omega would go through such
humiliation.” Renly scoffed. “The Citadel processed the divorce and their
marriage within the same week. She was in attendance. I remember her kissing
Stannis’ cheek and thanking him for her sons’ advancement.”
“Are you sure Stannis’ goal was not to rile up the king into a fit? They sure
enjoy a good fight.”
“Funny you should say that,” Renly noted. “They were at odds when I left. One
of Stannis’ good sons—he has so many of them,” Renly said in distaste. “—was
brought to the Small Council to learn what being the Master of Ships entailed.
Robert was livid when he found out. He stormed into the next meeting and him
and Stannis got into a row. ‘A commoner? On my council? Your whore’s son?’ You
could hear him yelling from outside the castle. For a man who loves to lecture
me on the ‘importance of upholding omegan values,’ Stannis tends to ignore the
lesson on submission.” Renly shook his head. “My brothers were so immersed with
their argument that they missed the opportunity to come. Robert is probably
prolonging the matter out of desperation. Once the fight is settled, he’ll have
to deal with the queen and the shrew will never let him live it down.”
That explained why the Lannisters were not in attendance. Loras made a note to
inform his sister.
Renly helped dress Loras in his armor. “Promise me when we marry, you will
never drink yourself into a stupor to avoid hearing my voice.”
“As long as you promise not to use those hunting trips to seek out other alphas
because my touch sickens you.”
They agreed to each other’s conditions. When Loras was fully dressed, he asked
Renly if he was satisfied waiting.
“Of course,” Renly answered. “Marriage is for omegas who wish to use childbirth
to excused their aging bodies. I have not given up on living.”
The notion appeased him and he captured Renly’s lips in a kiss. “You are my
soulmate,” he swore. Marriages of youth were reserved for wartime negotiations
and desperate political matches. Becoming a husband made him feel decrepit and
old; at his age, the thrill of a lover surpassed the comforts of a wife.
***
While original predictions led the organizers to believe that the tourney would
last an upward of three days, the number of drop-outs and “unexplainable
injuries” proved them otherwise. At the latest, the tourney would last two and
a half days, with the final round taking the whole morning and leave a free
afternoon. By the second day, less than half the alphas remained. The predicted
finalists behaved more brutally as the numbers dropped. Domeric was not even
pretending to aim at their shields anymore—he was out for blood.
On the final day, a fog of seething spread throughout the Reach. Gone was the
careful precision and the excessive caution of the first day. Everyone in the
final round was riding on blind rage. People cheered for broken bones and
speared chests.
“There are not such frail flowers anymore, are they?” Jon mocked. Robb
requested they sit together with the northerners on their final day at the
tourney. Willas promised to explain the situation to his father in a way that
would garner his respect. He wrapped his arm around his half-brother’s waist
and held him close.
While Loras rode to his end, he passed by Robb with a devious smirk. The hairs
on Robb’s back rose as Loras drew closer to his seat. A rose in hand, he
carefully dropped the flower onto Jon’s lap. Jon was taken back by the gesture.
“What the fuck…?” Robb growled as Loras dashed away. He stood up to deliver his
own message when Jon pulled him down.
“Do not make a scene,” Jon pleaded. “It is only a rose.”
“He is insulting me!”
“He wants to rile you up. Do not grant him the honor.”
Robb snatched the rose from his hand and threw it onto the field. “I’ll kill
him.”
Robb was serious about his declaration. The tourney was chiseling away at their
endurance and riding their sanity to the edge of a cliff. Neither of them were
prepared for the toll abstinence placed on them. After he lost his maidenhood,
he spent a good portion of his days being fucked by Robb. He never admitted how
eager he was for it, painting Robb as the aggressor in their trysts. Never
before was he more aware of his crannogman nature and how predisposed he was to
seek out pleasure.
Grasping onto Robb’s hand, he urged Robb to walk away—preferably during the
round.
“If you cannot control your temper, I ask that you leave the premises. Let us
leave together.”
“I don’t want that flower boy to think he got to me.”
Jon cursed his brother’s obliviousness. “Robb, I insist. Let us have a moment
of privacy to discuss the root of your anger.” Jon tightened his thighs to keep
himself from spilling over.
“I know the cause.”
“Robb,” Jon hissed. He tightened his grip and stood up. The force drew Robb’s
attention away from the offending alpha. Once he caught sight of Jon’s flushed
face and aroused form, his eyes widened. “We must go—now.”
Robb needed no other explanation. He was dragged away to closest empty tent he
could find. The audience was too absorbed with Loras’ performance to give a
damn about the fleeing heir. If he were in the right mind, Jon would have
laughed at the devotion the South had towards their sports. All Jon could think
about was having a fat cock stirring inside him.
Robb did not bother to undress either of them. He opened up his pants and
lifted Jon’s skirt to reveal the sight of cunt framed by crotchless panties.
“Fuck, that looks good.” he growled. He bent Jon over the bed to get a better
view of his backside. Jon’s ass was fat and round; while his tits were of an
average swell for a male omega, his ass was the stuff of dreams. He drew an
army’s worth of stares whenever he bent down to pick up a pen.
Jon’s pussy lips peeked out below his ass and Robb’s dick was the hardest it
has even been. He sunk into Jon’s cunt without warning—not that the younger boy
would have preferred the time to be spent talking. He was just as desperate as
Robb for a breeding.
Robb moaned from the spongy feeling of his cunt, all wrapped around Robb’s cock
and clenched to keep him lodged in. Jon was slicked up with honey and the
wetness made it easy to move. Robb grounded himself to the hilt. He lost
himself as he fucked his half-brother without mercy; each thrust was followed
by one harder, faster, or deeper and Jon begged for more each time. The room
was filled with breathless moans and the squelch of cum being sloshed around in
Jon’s cunt. The potent smell of sex brought them into a drug-induced haze.
Robb’s cock was pulsing red and looked better covered in the slick produced by
Jon’s pink pussy.
The intensity of their lovemaking made the bed shake. Jon began to wail. While
most people were occupied with the tourney, there might have been a few
wanderers lurking about. To silence his brother, Robb grabbed onto Jon’s curls
and twisted his head in order to capture his lips in a rough kiss that was
nothing but tongue and teeth.
Jon surrendered to his dominance. His omega instincts riled up and demanded he
bring Robb to completion. He rocked his hip backwards to encourage a rougher
pounding and clenched right before Robb thrusted back in to provide more
friction. Robb howled and worked to return the favor. He angled Jon’s body for
better access to his clit. Once he asserted his aim, Robb fucked into Jon as
hard he could
Jon wailed as he came. His body was riddled in shockwaves and Robb thrusts
against them. He was seconds away from unloading himself into Jon’s perfect
body when Jon, overwhelmed by the orgasm, pulls forward until the tip was
touching his lips. In one swift, sudden movement, he bounced right back onto
the cock. Robb’s manhood directly hits Jon’s clit a second time, unleashing his
second orgasm of the hour. Jon lost his mind from pleasure; his body fell limp
onto the bed.
There was no question on what would happen next. Robb’s continued to thrust
until the familiar swell of a knot lodges its way into Jon’s body. Jon was wet
enough for a year’s worth of pounding and made the extra knot-thrusts feel like
heaven.
Before long, Robb was bursting inside Jon’s pussy and filling the little omega
up with enough batter to fill a pot. Knots released a copious amount of cum and
the amount he’s been storing up for the tourney made it clear to both of Ned’s
children that the stream was not going to stop for a while. Both of them
relaxed into their positions.
Despite the risky circumstance, neither complained.
***
The final round was between Loras Tyrell and Domeric Bolton—a clash of
territories that would be the talk of the year. The noblewomen prepared their
mouths for gossip and court-intended posturing, especially the women of the
crownlands. They were eager for their return home and the chance to give their
sympathies to Queen Cersei. “Such a shame you could not make it,” they would
jeer with a kind smile, “The tourney was the greatest in decades.” King Robert
would become red-faced with embarrassment and present his own tourney—one more
grand to satisfy his people’s lust for a show. Another event to show off their
pretty dresses.
No one in the audience understood the irony of the final round. Both men were a
prime examples of the importance of spinning a story; they were devious in
their own right and yet society remained blind to their true personas. Early in
his career, Loras’ desperation to claim victory led to some underhanded tricks
to guarantee a win. He was young then—desperate to earn the right to court the
man he loved. Domeric fared no better; while displaying the guise of a stern
but honest man, he developed a habit of mutilating his competition’s bodies and
minds.
Confident of their victory, neither men resorted to deceit for this round. They
trotted to their end and waited for the hawk to cry.
Away from the tourney, Robb and Jon remained curled up in each other’s arms.
Robb’s knot deflated but the two decided to take advantage of the distraction
to lounge. All at once, the world turned to silence. They risked falling asleep
when the earth trembled with applause and alerted them to the end of the
tourney.
The boys quickly dressed. They managed to return before the crowning but as
soon as they saw the winner, they both knew who would be selected.
Following the end of the tourney of Highgarden, a wreath of golden roses
crowned the Lord Renly Baratheon was named the queen of love and beauty.
***
The tourney’s final feast was grand, even by the Reach’s standards. The food
consisted of numerous types of fish, smoked and grilled to perfection, boars
braised for a half a day, venison cured with spices from the east, fresh quail
whose pink meat glistened with juices, fruits arranged to depict artwork and
tapestries, and each dish was accompanied by lavish entertainment: from foreign
dancers to three dozen musicians seated on the balconies. Jon wondered what
their expressions would be if their extravagance was wasted on Domeric Bolton.
Judging by Theon’s relieved expression at the tourney, Jon was grateful to
never know.
Speaking of the Greyjoy, Jon watched with some disappointment at how Theon was
catering to Domeric’s mood. The man kept a cool head in his defeat—but his fist
remained clenched and there was a downward weight of his lips. Jon doubted
Theon would leave the night unscathed. Domeric intended to released his rage
and Theon’s newfound obedience would not be enough to mollify the pressure.
“Perhaps that is his intention,” Robb suggested when Jon voiced his concerns.
“A wife who enjoys the harvest is a wife, a wife who survives the storm is a
queen.”
“And what will you do if Theon visits tomorrow morning? Sporting a black eye or
a bruised rib?”
Robb paused as Domeric grabbed Theon’s wrist and pulled him close. There was no
play in his movements. Domeric trailed his hands underneath the table and Theon
did his best to control his voice. The men at the other table chuckled and
cheered at the rough treatment. Robb listened to them praise Domeric “putting
his bitch in his place.” Robb frowned. “Domeric may be my bannerman one day.
The North remembers.”
The answer was not pleasing but it was adequate. Jon avoided the scene to read
the room. He observed his Aunt Jyana fluttering about and acknowledged the
absence of his cousin once more. Lyanna was making a habit of ghosting her
relatives, appearing and reappearing in a span of hours to seconds. She was a
crannogman without a doubt. Jon wondered if he should offer his services again
or if he should allow the matter to settle on his own. Lyanna was found when
she wanted to be.
Jon’s decision was made for him when a musician from above glanced over at the
entrance and stopped playing midway. His neighbor was about to scold him when
he followed his gaze to the door. One by one, all the musicians were silenced
in shock. One noble lady turned to the door and gasped louder than any song.
When Arya Stark caught sight of the entrance, she swore with the language of a
sailor and her mother was too stunned to reprimand her.
Lyanna Mormont arrived to the banquet hall wearing a wreath of golden roses on
top of her head—the prize that honored her as the princess of love and beauty
and reminded the guests of the Tyrell’s sigil. She did not come alone; her
companion sparked the fear and interest of every man and woman in the room. On
her right side was a black bear cub walking in leisure, admiring the shining
lights and drawn to the smell of good food. The closer she came, the tighter
the guards gripped their weapons. She walked further and further towards the
Tyrell’s grand table. No one dared make a sudden movement and whispers of
witchcraft filled with room with each step she made.
Lyanna stopped in front of Willas but remained several feet away. She said
nothing but pride was evident on her face. Willas raised an eyebrow. He caught
sight of the book she carried in her left hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Tyrell shrieked. The high pitch startled
the predator and the beast rose on two feet. The guards branded their swords
and marched forward. Lyanna turned to ursidae and offered her hand to pacify
him. The beast roared and though ferocious, Willas knew a babe when he saw one.
The frightened creature was soothed by the intensity of Lyanna’s calm. She did
not falter once, not even when the bears paws were outstretched and the claws
were an inch from her face. After a few seconds of soft-spoken suggestions, the
beast settled down.
Willas stood up. “Lady Lyanna,” Willas spoke up before the matter got out of
hand. “I assume you are attempting to solve the riddle?”
The prompting was met with some surprised as the viewers watched with wonder.
Was this some sort of game, they wondered? What was the crippled son mad, they
thought? Lyanna did not answer any of them with words. She walked forward with
the bear following. The guards were about to stop her when Willas commanded
otherwise. “Let her come,” Willas ordered. “She is here for me.”
Lyanna placed her book on the table. A History of Aegon the Conqueror, Willas
noted with amusement. Free of the book, Lyanna took out something from her
mouth and addressed Willas for the first time tonight.
“Lord Willas, I have solved your riddle,” she announced, adding more fodder for
the rumors sure to come. To her credit, Lyanna did not smile like little girls
did when they believed themselves to be clever.
“I see you’ve tried,” Willas offered, not yet proclaiming her victory. “Forgive
my caution, but I am not sure I understand the answers.”
The bait did not earn Lyanna’s smile. She turned to bear and sung chimes from
her mouth. The bear stood on its hind legs and outmatched her by at least twice
her height. Lyanna feared nothing of nature—she held out her hand and waited
for the bear to act. Like a dog, the creature rested his palm on hers.
“You have asked me to come to you, holding the hand of a loved one but never
touching their skin. My house’s sigil is a black bear. This bear represents my
beloved family and I bring him here holding his hand without touching his
skin.” Lyanna stroked his fur and the bear settled down. “He wears nothing
while I am dressed in your sigil.”
Willas fought the urge to smile. He waited for her to address the second part
of the riddle. She pointed to the book. “When I first presented myself to you,
I carried this book to represent what will never die while my mouth was filled
with the poison you seek.”
“A book can burn,” he pointed out. “Is that not death?”
“The book can burn but the legend will never die,” Lyanna retorted, a hint of
taunt in her tone.
Intrigued, Willas asked the final question. “And what was the poison in your
mouth?”
Lyanna stepped forward and handed him a gold coin. “I can think of nothing
stronger than the bane of money.”
Willas hesitated. He reached out and took the coin from her hands. With a
satisfied sigh, he spoke. “I have been beaten,” he announced. Laughter bubbled
in his throat. He placed the coin on the table and requested Lyanna sit by his
side.
Lyanna opened her mouth to refuse but he insisted, claiming that they could
discuss her reward. The reminder of the incentive brought a smile to her lips.
When she sat beside him, the people gasped. She wondered about their shocked
expressions when Willas distracted her. “Have you decided what you wanted?”
Lyanna nodded. She reached for the goblet and almost spat out the contents.
Wine; Lyanna smacked her lips to rid herself of the bitter taste. Willas
chuckled and ordered her water and juice. The serving girls were quick to both
requests. Lyanna sipped the citrus mixed with much preference. “I want hawks,”
she announced. “One for me and each of my sisters.”
“How could you be satisfied by my beasts when you have tamed a bear?”
Lyanna stared at the creature that wandered around the room. She saw her
mother, an ever disapproving frown on her face, walk up to the cub and call it
towards her. The beast obeyed. She sent her daughter a warning look and the
severity made her wince. Willas recognized a scolding when he saw one and
chuckled. “Your mother would not approve?”
Lyanna refused to answer. “You promised me whatever I desired. I want a
hawk—like yours. And four more for my sisters," Lyanna repeated. Her tone made
it clear she thought she was speaking to an invalid.
Willas agreed with a few questions attached. “Have you ever worked with hawks?
If not, I will have to send someone to train you, or—”
“Or what?”
“You could stay here and I could teach you.”
Lyanna scoffed. “You want to foster me?”
“Why not?” Willas asked. From afar, his eavesdropping sister choked on her
wine. “You told me you were going to be fostered in the Neck. What’s wrong with
spending another year at Highgarden? It would not be for long.”
Lyanna did not have an immediate retort to his question. She turned away to
gaze over at her family. For a second, he would have accused her of
sentimentality. Her answer rid him of the accusation.
“My mother has an unusual gift.”
“I do not doubt that.”
Lyanna offered a rare, amused smile. “She could always tell when someone was
lying. I used to think it was remarkable until I realized I had the same gift.”
She turned to Willas. “You’re lying to me, Lord Willas. Or you are not telling
me something. Either way.” Lyanna shrugged. “I do not want to spend my life,
short or long, in your company.”
Willas lifted his goblet before returning it to the table. He would keep his
wits sharp around this bear cub. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t like me?”
“I do like you,” Lyanna disagreed. “But if we are to be enemies one day, I do
not wish to like you enough to come to your gates, place a sword against your
throat, and hesitate from doing what needs to be done.”
Willas could not answer her concerns for her reasoning was the exact purpose of
his suggestion. She was a fearsome thing, wasn’t she? If her foresight
continued to grow, he would have to make her his wife.
Lyanna was startled by the sudden laugh coming from her right. She saw Willas
chuckling to himself. She scolded him for the eccentricity. “You southerners
are strange. Laughing without cause is a sign of madness in the North.”
Willas apologized. “I thought of something funny and could not help myself.”
“What?”
Willas directed his gaze towards the northern party and landed on the heir of
Winterfell. The younger man was enraptured with his brother and did not notice
Willas intent. The future lord of Highgarden recalled Robb’s response from the
earlier day. He decided to indulge in a bit of wine. "If we do become enemies,
I'd hate to kill a little girl."
Lyanna pursed her lips. "At least I can outrun you, it's not hard to kill a
cripple."
Willas laughed again. War was coming and the Tyrells would see that it predates
winter.
Chapter End Notes
     Re-read the books. Stannis married his wife after the Rebellion, not
     before as the TV show declares. I am a huge Stannis/Davos shipper. I
     do not know how relevant they are going to be the series or if they
     will appear at all. It’s up in the air.
     The description of Highgarden is a genuine, canon description of the
     castle. I didn’t make that up like I did the Neck. I was actually
     disappointed by my last minute research because I found out that for
     each harvest moon, Highgarden has a big masquerade to celebrate and I
     would love to write that one day—HOLY SHIT, I FIGURED OUT MY WILLAS/
     JON ONESHOT. Okay, I am done.
     I have no clue when this story is going to end but it’s not going to
     end in 15 or 18 chapters like I originally planned. Also, I’m sorry
     for the chapter being late. Sam was actually supposed to appear in
     this chapter (hence Lord Tarly’s presence) but I did not have time to
     write him in. Hopefully, I’ll write the scene one day. I intended
     this to be a 3-part series so hopefully (fingers crossed) we get to
     see an older Lyanna soon.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     Shortest chapter I've ever written for this story. Marathon sex.
     Edmure appears.
     I literally spent thirty minutes trying to think of innovated ways
     for Jon and Robb to have sex in this chapter. My future lover is
     going to be one lucky son of a bitch if I have half the creativity in
     our relationship as I do my stories.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Robb spent his allowance on a silver cuff that resembled a collar on Jon’s
wrist. As the heir of Winterfell, his duties outnumbered those of the other
Stark children. Robb's father rewarded his labor with more coin to spend. To
guarantee a good deal, he enlisted the help of Willas Tyrell. The heir
recommended Robb a local merchant but reminded  Robb to warn the man that the
Tyrells would like to see his selection afterward. The bracelet had a sapphire
and enamel centerpiece. Nothing extravagant, but enough to give the illusion
that Jon was spoken for. Jon thought it was a lovely choice and rewarded his
good taste by allowing Robb to plow him in one of Highgarden's hallways. The
thrill gave Robb more pleasure than any tourney. 
Jon hid the bracelet underneath his sleeves, but there were moments in the
light where the silver glistened. They should have known the gift would not
remain a secret forever. While Jon applauded Robb's self-control, Lady Stark
was quick with an objection.
The brothers were walking up the steps to Riverrun when Catelyn caught a
glimpse of the jewelry. She demanded Jon show his gift to her. Though
reluctant, Jon complied. Catelyn grasped onto his wrist. She examined the
quality of the product and accessed its value. She glared at Robb. “Did you buy
this for him?”
Robb sighed. “Mother…”
“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped. “Either you bought this for him, or he stole
it.”
Jon gaped at the accusation. Before Jon could defend himself, Robb answered
without remorse. “I was not going to lie to you. I am not ashamed to admit I
bought Jon a gift. He is my brother.”
“Yet your sisters remain unadorned.”
“They have their souvenirs from their journey, and I bought Bran and Rickon a
present.”
“Using funds from your father’s request. This gift was your money, and you
spent it on Jon, who wasted his coin on something he cannot share.” Lady Stark
was referring to their little revelation party at dinner. Sansa waved her
newest doll around and revealed the engraved comb she received from Margaery;
Arya purchased a bottle from an apothecary and refused to divulge in its
peculiar substances. Both Jon and Robb remained silent about their choices.
“Trust me, he spent his coin on an item we could both enjoy,” Robb retorted.
"And I especially took pleasure in his purchase."  
Jon turned red. Lady Stark caught his embarrassment. “We are visiting my
father,” Lady Stark hissed. “And you decide to showcase your preference to the
child I did not bare.” While she reprimanded her son, her grip on Jon’s wrist
tightened. Jon bit his lips to avoid drawing attention to his discomfort. He
did not want to cause a scene here. “We are not in Winterfell, Robb. Jon will
not receive favor for being Lord Stark’s bastard.”
“I know!” Robb growled back to everyone’s surprise. “That’s why we’re sending
him away like a man doomed for the Night’s Watch! Even though you know Jon is
more mine than anyone else!”
Silence filled the area. More of Winterfell’s men walked passed them. One
stopped to ask if there was anything wrong but Lady Stark ordered them to march
ahead of them. She needed to have a long conversation with her son.
“If anything,” Lady Stark began, her voice more solemn than the grave of a
child. “His fair treatment will be a reminder of my disgrace. You are putting a
target on his back and a knife in mine. Have you no shame than to bring forth
the child of the man your father wronged me with? In front of my father?” Lady
Stark pulled down Jon’s sleeve to cover the bracelet. “Keep hidden. Keep
silent. When it is time to leave, one of the men will escort you to the
traveling camp.” Catelyn let go and turned to Robb. “I am allowing him to enter
my childhood home. If you were not my son, I would not be able to spare the
love or humility needed to withstand this treatment.” Having said her peace,
she walked away.
Robb’s hand returned to Jon’s back, but the touch was soft. Robb was a man of
conviction, but his mother’s speech shook his belief. He was quiet and tense.
His shoulders dropped. His head pointed down. Like a dog beaten and sweetened
when the threat of death passed. Jon trembled. For the first time, Jon was
reminded of the sway Lady Stark had over her children. He heard that a wife’s
war with their husband’s mother ended only in the death of one or the other. He
was foolish to disregard such wisdom. Jon clenched his fist. He dragged Robb
off the road and secreted them behind a tree. Alone, he kissed Robb so deeply;
it was as if they were seconds away from making love.
From the taste of Jon’s tongue and the thickness of his saliva, Robb regained
his resolve. Robb grasped onto Jon’s butt and massaged his cheeks. Jon
whimpered but made no protest, not even when more people walked on the road.
They were out in the open. Anybody could turn their head and see the movements
behind the trees. Someone might investigate and that turned Jon on as much as
it made him tremble in fear.  The bastard boy rubbed his nipples against Robb’s
chest. He ground his hips against Robb's cock. He reached out and pulled Robb’s
face down so that his tongue was fucking Jon’s mouth. He wanted his touch to
consume Robb. 
The desire for devastation was unlike anything Jon had ever felt. Years ago,
maybe even days ago, Jon would have spoken for Catelyn Stark. ‘I shouldn’t be
here,’ he rehearsed in his head. ‘You should show your grandfather more respect
than to bring the bastard of his good son to his door.’ The words never left
Jon’s mouth. Panic made sanity its prey and control was slipping from his
fingers.
Fuck me here, Jon thought desperately. Push your cock into my creamy cunt until
I am dripping on the floors of your grandfather’s castle. 
Robb wouldn’t be thinking of his mother then.
The horror that he was no better than Catelyn Stark was not powerful enough to
defeat his wicked thoughts. He could no longer claim greater care for Robb’s
wellbeing—not when he silently wished to spite Lord Tully with his presence and
curse Lady Stark to the grave. The tourney changed him. The day Robb mounted
that horse, he declared his eligibility as a bachelor. He was an alpha prime
for marriage and a cock for omegas to sink their cunts onto.
Jon grabbed Robb’s prick and wrapped his hand around him. Robb caught his
breath. “Jon,” He moaned. Jon bit his lips as he slowly stroked him. The image
of those horrid omegas made him sick. All their eyes were on Robb. On them.
People were watching, waiting for their love to fall apart. They were waiting
for the great and precious heir to Winterfell to figure out that his wayward
brother was a bastard. 
Jon refused to let another hateful word pierce Robb’s skull. That woman should
never be allowed to practice her influence over the Starks again. If there were
a chance his siblings would ever doubt him, it would be through her doing. More
than ever, Jon was prepared to fulfill his mother’s prophecy. He was Howland
Reed’s child, and Catelyn Stark was the woman who tore his family apart. Jon
could no longer deny his feelings. He hated her. She was the reason his mother
cried, clutching onto the sheets his father laid on because the smell still
lingered. She was the reason why, for eleven years, he could only see his
father for one a week, only to watch him ride away on his horse, back to her.
She was the duty his father abandoned him for, and if the honorable Lord Stark
could not bring himself to leave her behind, then Jon shall act in his place.
After jerking Robb off with a few urgent strokes, Jon’s hands were coated with
cum. Robb was heaving; his mind was clouded with a pleasant haze while Jon
settled on vengeance. For being Robb’s mother, Catelyn's end would be swift.
His gratitude would grant her that mercy.
***
 When they are inside the castle, Jon made his expected complaints. “Perhaps, I
should not be here,” Jon spoke softly but loud enough for their party to hear.
“It seems disrespectful,” he said with no resolve.
If the people think I am a doll, delicate and obedient, they will make no
attempts to break me, he thought. A toy sword threatens no one.
“You will leave in a few hours,” Robb surmised. His grip on Jon’s back returned
in full force. He pushed his fingers into Jon and left fingertip-shaped bruises
on his hips. Marking his territory when he was gone; Jon hissed in pleasure. 
When they got closer to the hall, Robb leaned in and whispered, “I cannot wait
to have you in my room. I plan to be the first lord to have fucked his lover in
all the strongholds of Westeros.”
Jon moaned. He checked to see if their companions were watching but they were
far ahead. With a small gasp, Jon told Robb that he might be late to the title.
“I heard the king had beaten you to that privilege.”
“Rumors, I assure you.” Robb licked the shell of his ear. “Father refused to
let him disgrace his sister in their ancestral home and Dorne will never
welcome him on their sands. I have mastered Winterfell, Highgarden, and soon,
Riverrun.” 
"And all at the age of fifteen," Jon jested. "The bards will sing about you." 
Robb grabbed a handful of Jon’s bottom, relishing in its thickness. He swore.
“And you. This deserves a pounding that is legendary.” 
Robb continued to fondle Jon as they entered the great hall and waited for the
Lord of the Trident to arrive. Jon could not help his giggles, not even when
Lady Stark glared at them to remain silent. To their audience, they were
children, amused in each other’s company. When they spoke, Robb mouthed his
words against Jon’s neck while Jon replied with whispers against Robb’s lips.
Using a cane and a servant’s shoulder, Lord Holster Tully arrived with his son
on his right and a maester on the left. When he saw Catelyn, he regained his
strength and walked up to her with little to no aid. As soon as he was close
enough, the kissed his eldest child—the most beloved of his three children.
“For the past month, I have laid awake at night, waiting for the chance to hold
you again.” Catelyn’s eyes filled with tears as she embraced her father.
“I’ve missed you as well.” Catelyn never felt safer than when she was with her
father. She held onto him a little longer to memorize his form. Though once a
proud leader and warrior, the illness shrunk him. He was almost as big as her,
now. When they parted, she introduced him to her children.
Lord Tully greeted his granddaughters with more affection than he could afford
to give. His excitement was a sight to behold on so sick a man, but Catelyn
could not help but fear for his heart. The maester sent her a knowing smile and
mouthed that the circumstances were excellent for his health. She relaxed from
the knowledge and watched her father interact with his grandchildren. He was
especially fond of Sansa, who resembled his Catelyn so truly, he’d thought he’d
traveled back in time. “She reminds me of you, staring at me while I was in my
prime. Lovely girl.” Catelyn and the maester smiled in amusement. In contrast
to his doting, Lord Tully’s reaction to Arya was more playful; he called her a
tough creature and cooed at her when she spoke. “Smart as a whip, this one. I
can tell. I can always tell.” Arya grinned. When it was Robb’s turn, the heir
kissed Jon on the cheek before leaving to introduce himself. Lord Tully reached
upwards to touch his face. He marveled at Robb's appearance and patted his
shoulders in pride. He proclaimed that Robb was a strapping young man with much
potential. “You’ve grown so much—towering over me like a weed. I heard you
placed in the tourney at Highgarden, against all those flower boys. Sent a few
of ours to the maester, as well.”
“I tried my best,” Robb answered smoothly. “I heard you were quite the jouster
as well. Perhaps you would have given me more competition."
Lord Tully roared with laughter before a cough infiltrated his ranks. Maester
Vyman ran to his side, prepared to put back a lung if need be. Fright
overwhelmed Catelyn but quick as it came, Lord Tully recovered. “Good humor on
this one. Given who his father is, I figured we’d have to slaughter a cow to
get him to smile.”
Catelyn’s smile grew tense. “Father…”
“Oh, I jest. He knows that! Don’t you, my boy?”
Robb’s smile was tight. “Of course, grandfather." 
Lord Tully offered rooms for all of the Stark men guarding his daughter and
grandchildren. He made no mention of Jon, and when his gaze fell on the bastard
boy, his fist trembled but he said nothing. Whether his behavior was a result
of the maester’s warning or a lecture on civility, Catelyn dared not bring
attention to her husband’s bastard. She caught her brother’s bored expression
and with a nod of the head, directed his attention to Jon and Robb, who were
quickly reuniting.
The sharp instruction made Edmure stumbled forward. He offered to show his
nephew to his room.
“I’ve got a lot to teach you, Robb. We’re going to have a real adventure while
you’re here! Just don’t tell your mother,” he warned; Catelyn would kill him
for what he had planned for her son. Jon followed with a hurried step. “Wenches
and wine until you’re passed out on the street with your dick being sucked by
an eighty-year-old whore. You are finally at the right age for that. Back then,
you were no bigger than a tadpole. Couldn’t do anything fun.”
“Sounds fantastic, Uncle Edmure.” Robb was only half-listening. Jon was
trailing behind them. “Jon,” Robb called out, slowing his steps so that his
brother’s legs could catch up. The bastard hastily retreated under Robb’s arm.
Up close, Edmure was taken back by the beauty of the bastard. The young boy
exhibited all the finer attributes of an omega, starting with his lush, pink
mouth that parted slightly at all time. He heard from one of his men that the
action was common for wanton omegas. It was a signal that their mouths were
available for cocksucking without looking like whores. Edmure’s pants
tightened; he wondered if the rumors were true. Though drowned in a dress that
was too big for him, Edmure could see the soft, svelte form hiding underneath
his too thin dress. The bastard was northern;  thank gods for that. The heat
required him to wear things that made his nipples peek through, and the outline
of his panties could seen.
Fuck, the boy was wearing lace. Edmure licked his lips. Lace was his favorite.
Jon’s eyes were wider than a standard omega, though; big orbs of gray, the type
of eyes that filled with hearts after a thorough fucking. He looked small and
innocent. It could be a farce. Edmure remembered the boy’s mother. The slut was
always on his knees for his sister’s husband, sucking dick down that golden
throat and taking a cock twice his size into his childlike hole. He heard tales
that the crannogmen were all whores.
“So you’ll be leaving today? To visit your other family?” Edmure failed to
sound casual.
Jon did not mind. He smiled with those pretty, plush lips, and said he was. “It
has been a long time since I had an extended stay in the Neck. I miss my birth
home and my people.”
“Thought you Northerners were all the same.”
“The same honorable man rules us, but we are not the same—at least, not unless
the Southron are open to comparisons between yourself and the Freys.”
Edmure coughed, unable to respond. He loathed having any comparison to those
ingrates. He switched the topic to something more pleasant, like the amount of
ease in having Jon’s thighs parted. “If you have a few hours here, you might as
well enjoy them. I could show you the wonders of Riverrun. Far preferable to
staying in this grim castle. Why there’s an incredible lake, you might enjoy.”
“I have no suit for swimming.”
“You won’t need one,” Edmure said slyly. “Water is at the perfect temperature.
You could go swim bare-titted without a problem.”
Jon laughed, and Robb answered for him. “Perhaps we’ll consider the offer,”
Robb replied. “If we recover from our rest in time, we’ll join you for a dip.
But for now, Jon and I need to retreat to my room.” He pressed his finger
against Jon’s lips. Jon flicked his tongue against the tips. “I trust Jon’s
taste before anyone else.”
With his offer shut down, Edmure became oddly professional. He took Robb to his
quarters and noticed that Robb never took his hands off Jon. He was protective,
as alphas tend to be of their omega siblings. Edmure thought nothing of it
except for the fact that Jon was a bastard.
“I must say, I never thought it possible for siblings to be so close.
Especially not those under your circumstances.” Edmure meant it as a
compliment. He bedded many noble whores that were cast away by their siblings
despite their fathers’ recognition.
Jon frowned, thinking the commentary had more malice. “Well, our father raised
us as brothers, and we are close in age. I suppose that helped.”
“Ah, that must be it.” He offered Jon a smile which was shyly returned. The
action incensed Robb.
“There’s a bit more to the story than that, Jon,” Robb pointed out. Jon yelped
when his older brother grabbed him by the arm and bent him over the bed. He
lifted up a side of Jon’s dress, just below his twitching hole, and revealed
the two perfect bubbles of fat. Robb squeezed one cheek and let it go. The
mound bounced, catching Edmure’s breath.
“Truth be told, there’s no way I can leave Jon alone when he has an ass like
this.”
Edmure jumped when Robb gave it a harsh slap.
“Ah!” Jon cried out. His moan made Edmure’s cock twitch.
Robb repeated the motion again, turning the other cheek red. His bruised bottom
was more alluring than a bathing omega. Edmure drooled over the sight. “Do you
understand how hard it is? Keeping cocks away from my brother’s cunt? I might
as well join the Night’s Watch; my duties would shrink by the hundreds.” Robb
slapped him again. Jon sobbed against the sheets.
Edmure was speechless. He gulped and like all fools, he spoke when it was time
to stay silent. “I bet half the men in Winterfell want to fuck him,” Edmure
muttered, entrance by Jon’s submission. He never fought back; like the perfect
omega whore. He whimpered and cried and waited for another blow. Robb grinned
and walked up to his uncle.
“I'm not surprised you understand. We’re alphas,” Robb reminded, playing up to
Edmure’s idealism and old traditions. “You’re lucky, Uncle Edmure. My mother
and aunt were older than you; they married young, so you did not have to dirty
your hands. That is what an alpha does for his family—we keep our omegas pure
and pliant, and we protect them.” Robb led Edmure to the doorway. “Thank you
for showing me my room. But I have to discipline Jon before he leaves.”
“Discipline?” Edmure gulped. The image of Jon’s raw bottom was fresh in his
mind. The boy was crying; he wondered if he could take any more damaged. “F-for
what?”
Robb tilted his head to mimic confusion. “Oh, just maintenance spankings—the
usual for omegas like Jon. Though archaic, the tradition has worked wonders on
Jon’s behavior.” Robb raised an eyebrow. “It’s a common practice amongst noble
families. Encourages the natural born children to keep their legs closed. Have
you never heard of it?”
Edmure denied the accusation. “Of course I have!” He had not, but refused to be
seen as less knowledgeable than his teenage nephew. He nodded with more
confidence than he had. “Continue with your punishment. I shall see you at
dinner. And…” He licked his lips, straining to get a view of Jon before he
left. His cock was straining for the chance to watch them. “If you need help,
you are welcomed to ask for my assistance.”
To his credit, Robb requested a favor instead of grabbing that sword and
ramming it through Edmure’s heart. “Could you send a serving girl up with an
empty bottle. One used for traveling? I have a present for Jon.” Once Edmure
agreed, Robb slammed the door in his face.
When he turned around, Jon was sitting upright on the bed. His lips pursed and
his eyes, watery. When he looked up towards Robb, he was clearly upset. “You
shouldn’t have done that,” Jon whispered. He got off the bed and checked the
damaged in a nearby mirror. “He might tell someone about your treatment of me.”
“Uncle Edmure is a known fool. He does not suspect a thing,” Robb soothed. He
walked over to Jon and wrapped his arms around him. Jon trembled and pulled
away.  “Besides, he wouldn’t dare reveal his ignorance.”  
“You don’t know that.”
Robb persevered in his affections. He gripped onto Jon’s curls and threw him
onto the bed. Jon pressed his thighs together in defiance. Robb chuckled. He
kissed Jon. When the younger boy was distracted, Robb's hand slipped down to
that soaking pussy. With enough force, Jon was putty in his hands. He played
with Jon’s tongue until the boy spread his legs, moaning and begging like a
whore. Robb sunk his finger into Jon, delighting in the tight entrance.
“I love how loose your cunt,” Robb praised. “I never need to prep you anymore
because you’re always so slick and ready to take my cock. The filthiest slut
I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t matter which hole I decide to pound, either way,
they're both mine.” Jon’s inner walls were accommodating to Robb’s fingers, hot
and smooth against his skin, fluttering around his knuckles and begging for
more. Robb wanted to enter that heavenly heat, but for now, he needed to stall
until the maid arrived.
Robb added another digit to the first and then another because the second went
in too easily, he could not resist. When he managed three fingers inside, he
spoke.
“You should join me here,” Robb told him. He slipped his fingers in and out;
they were drenched with Jon’s honey and dripping onto the sheets every time he
pulled out. Jon was coming like a faucet and was regaining the strength for
another orgasm. At this point, Jon just wanted Robb’s cock. “We can leave early
and enjoy the Neck afterward. I want to taste that freedom, that delicious
moment where you can fuck wherever you like there, and no one stops you.”
“Everyone would know about us in a second. Eyes are everywhere. There are no
secrets in the Neck,” Jon huffed out. Robb shoved his fingers in again. Jon
whimpered and went back to being a hole Robb could vent his frustrations on.
“I want to fuck you in front of the weirwood tree,” Robb announced. “Father
told me that’s where he married your mother.” Robb sighed. He added in an extra
finger. “That feels good,” he said breathlessly. “You like the idea. You’re
clenching onto my fingers.” Robb groaned. “You’re getting tighter. Fuck, how is
that possible? It’s so hard to move with how snug you’re becoming. Imagine if
my cock was inside you. Maybe we should go right now. Elope. We could
consummate our marriage the way they did. I’ll fuck you in every way imaginable
before getting you on your back, so I can get a good look at your face while I
fuck a baby inside you.”
Jon came a second time. Robb was sleeping on an ocean tonight. He pulled out
and saw his fingers covered in Jon’s honey and cream. He laughed and flicked
them on the bedsheets, getting some spots onto Jon’s face. Robb leaned down and
licked the mess off Jon’s face. “You should be with me,” Robb whispered. “We’ve
never been apart.”
Jon was panting. “You agreed to let me go. We need to learn how to be away from
each other.”
“I agreed because it is what my grandfather wants.” Robb let out a throaty
chuckle. “But it is not what I want.” He tried to kiss Jon, but the younger boy
turned away.
“You want me to stay in the home of someone who hates me?”
“What I want—” Robb growled. He flipped Jon over so that his bare ass was in
front of him. He pulled Jon's panties to the side to reveal his puckering hole.
“Is to be inside you whenever I damn well please.” Had Jon not tested his
patience, Robb would have plowed Jon’s prepared cunt. Instead, he needed to
placate Jon’s sour mood with his cock.
Robb aligned his cock with the glistening pink entrance and sunk inside his
brother. The sensation was so tight and hot that Robb’s vision blurred. Jon’s
ass was the best in the kingdom, and it made him lose control every single
time. When his sight came back to him, he was buried inside Jon, his balls
pressed against the meat of the boy’s ass and he marveled at the way the fatty
mounds cushioned his cock.
Jon moaned, and his insides twitched and clenched around Robb. Robb groaned and
started to move. His cock was sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole,
pumping harder at every thrust. Jon was wild for Robb. He wailed for more,
asking Robb to go harder and use him. He could hear Jon’s butt cheeks slapping
against his balls, the movement of those mounds sent an extra vibration to his
cock. When Robb felt he was about to come, he changed the angle to curb his
knot while still slamming against Jon’s prostate. As soon as Jon came, Robb
pulled out in an instant. Jon was reluctant to release him. His greedy ass
clung so tightly that when he pulled out, there was a loud, obscene ‘pop.’
There was a knock at that moment—perfect timing in Robb’s opinion. He covered
Jon’s body with a bedsheet in case it was his family. Jon was unable to defend
himself, not with his boneless body and blissed out mind. Robb tied up his
trousers but kept it loose to hide his erection. He was relieved to see a maid
with his request.
The bottle was bigger than he expected but Robb found that the size excited him
more. He grabbed Jon’s limp body by the curls and forced his head onto Robb’s
cock. Jon, worn down by Robb’s hard pounding, remained obedient. He opened his
mouth with all the strength he had and let the cock slip inside. He rode Jon’s
face until he knotted inside his mouth. Jon threatened to choke, but Robb
gripped his throat.
“Keep it in. Don’t swallow until I tell you to. And try not to spill.”
Robb rode Jon’s face with a few urgent thrusts before coming. Jon’s cheeks
expand with mouthfuls of cum. Knot orgasms were huge, sometimes even producing
whole gallons.
When Robb slipped out of Jon’s mouth, a trail of cum dripped down his lips.
Still, Jon obeyed the first order. He did not swallow.
Robb grinned. He took the empty bottle and pressed the opening against Jon’s
lips. “Pour everything in.”
Jon obeyed, coughing as he did so. He wrapped his lips against the bottle’s
opening and spilled Robb’s semen inside. When Jon was done, Robb used his
fingers to pry open Jon’s mouth.
White cum coated his teeth and gums, and the look was more arousing than
anything. Robb chuckled. He dipped his fingers inside and used the liquid to
coat Jon’s mouth. He kissed his brother on the forehead. “Good boy,” Robb
cooed. The heir raised up the bottle. Less than a quarter was filled. “But it’s
not enough. You have to fill it up before you leave.”
Jon stared at him. For a second, Robb thought Jon was going to do something
foolish—ask Robb what he was planning or maybe even tell him no. To Robb’s
delight, the eager slut reached over to grab Robb’s cock. He started pleasuring
him with his hands and lapping at the tip. Robb could feel himself getting
harder; he sniffed the air and noticed an influx of pheromones; the kind that
mimicked a heat. Fuck, he thought. Jon was trying to spur on a rut. He heard
that only pleasure slaves and whores could use that technique and even then, it
was when they were desperate.
Robb ran his hand through Jon’s curls. Jon was desperate, he thought, his
little brother could not get enough of his cock.
***
Unable to shake his unease, Edmure asked for a drink with his sister. When she
questioned the origins of their bonding, he told her that he was concerned
about the relationship between Jon and Robb.
“He seems trapped.”
“Robb?”
Edmure gave her a strange look. “No, Jon.”
Catelyn sighed as the serving boy poured them each a glass of wine. “He is
fine. His father treats him better than some of our children.”
Edmure shook his head as if she were the child. “I’m not worried about your
husband. I'm concerned about the way Robb treats him. He acts like he’s
this…object.” A stunning object, whose lips carried the perfect amount of
plumpness and spoke the sweetest, softest words, Edmure could think of. Not a
slut like he original considered, too gentle. 
Catelyn scoffed. “Jon has Robb wrapped around his fingers. I’m hoping the
distance will do them some good.”
Edmure's petulance continued, sure abuse was on the horizon. This was one of
the reasons Catelyn worried about her brother. Though his temper was unruly, he
had a good heart. All his life, he yearned to be the hero of some pretty
omega’s story, got involved with shameful affairs and gold-grubbing wenches. By
some miracle, he had yet to father a bastard. “You’ve always liked the lost
ones,” Catelyn told him, much to Edmure’s confusion. “Mind you; you could never
tell the villains from the victims.”
“Cat—”
“Do you remember those stories our septa used to tell us?” Catelyn asked,
running her finger around the rim of the glass. “The one about the mermaid
princess?”
Edmure paused before nodding. “Yes…the mermaid who gave up her life in the sea
to become human.”
“She wanted to become human for the sake of winning the prince’s heart. She
loved the prince. Worshiped him more than anything in the world. To be by his
side, the mermaid went to the sea witch to barter for a pair of legs. In
return, she made a deal to sacrifice her soul if she could not make the prince
fall in love with her. To win that bet, the sea witch sent her daughter to
seduce the prince. Fascinated by this newfound beauty, the prince rejected the
mermaid’s love and married the sea witch’s daughter. The mermaid leaped into
the sea in sadness. Rocks crushed her body.”
Edmure frowned. “It was an awful tale for children. I stayed awake for weeks,
crying.”
Despite her severity, Catelyn laughed. “You only liked the stories with happy
endings.”
“I like being happy,” Edmure agreed.
Catelyn shook her head. “You think Jon is the mermaid. You want to save him
before he destroys himself, but you are wrong. He is the sea witch’s daughter.
He has corrupted my son with his pretty face and fragrant body. I ask you, kind
brother, not to allow yourself to be fooled by his sweetness. Even the ripest
peaches turn rotten when they are exposed to the sun.”
“You are being silly,” Edmure scoffed. “He is a beautiful creature.”
“And that marks his goodness?”
“He smiles so warmly. I cannot believe any badness exists in a child that
docile.”
Catelyn drank the last of her wine. She considered having another cup but
stopped herself by reciting the values of temperance. “I must tend to my
children. You would do well to heed my advice, little brother.” Catelyn cradled
her brother’s face. She remembered a time when he listened to her with such
reverence. She smiled sadly. “If I die, Edmure, it will be by the hands of
crannogman. Remember that at least.” She let go of her brother’s cheek and
walked away.  
***
“Jon, you have to work harder if you want me to knot. If I just cum, it won’t
be enough.”
Jon whimpered; he glanced over at the half-empty bottle and continued sucking
on Robb’s balls. He took off his mouth to press kisses over the tip and shaft
before slurping up his cock. Robb groaned; he grabbed Jon’s hair and rammed
into his throat with a full erection. Jon gagged over, and over but Robb kept
on pounding his throat. He held Jon while his younger brother squirmed and
cried.
Jon could feel the bulge growing, forming the much-desired knot. To keep the
momentum going, he slowed down his movements.  Jon stretched open his mouth and
swirled his tongue whenever the head came near to provide more resistance. When
the knot was halfway formed, Robb decided to take a step further. He jammed
himself all the way into Jon’s throat.
It went in far too quickly; a clear indicator of the constant attention Jon got
from Robb. The thought aroused him in a delicious way. He heard from his
father’s men that “there was nothing better than a virgin cunt,” but he
wondered if there was something better, something like the used body of an
omega made gaping by himself. Jon was never going to recover from Robb. His
holes would always be tight given the size of snug cunt and tense throat, but
they were never going to be as taut as they once were. Robb ruined his body for
other alphas. 
Robb let out a little moan and wrapped his around Jon’s throat. “I’m going to
knot your throat, love. I’m going to stretch your mouth out until it becomes a
third pussy for me to use. Fuck, I love how you feel around me. Let me shove
myself in more, make my cock feel good when you wrap around me.”  Robb
continued to jerk back and forth. Jon choked, but the extra spittle smoothed
the entrance down his throat. It was like he was getting wet over Robb. The
perfect slut. Jon reached forward to steady himself on his hips. Robb continued
to jerk back and forth until it was clear he was about to come. He dragged the
knot out of Jon’s throat, an action that hit a switch within his brother. Jon
came while gagging on Robb’s forceful retreat. Robb followed; he pushed Jon’s
face against his crotch and came a few pints into Jon’s mouth.
This time Jon was unable to keep himself from swallowing a good amount of cum.
He moaned. It tasted so good, he thought. He wanted to fill his belly so badly.
Knowing it would upset Robb to do so, he dashed over to the bottle and released
the contents of his mouth. Robb sighed in contentment. He fell to the bed for a
break and watched Jon try to fill the bottle. His lips twitched when Jon gulped
the remaining contents, unable to sacrifice more for the bottle.
“You’re such a beautiful slut,” Robb accused lovingly.
Jon blushed, having been caught. Robb gestured him forward, and while the boy
complied, he did not dare meet Robb’s eyes. He caressed Jon’s face. “You were
hungry for me, weren’t you? It must have been torture—all that thick, virile
cum in your mouth and not being able to swallow a single drop. That’s why you
disobeyed me, isn’t it?”
Jon nodded meekly. “You taste so good, Robb.”
Robb took the bottle from Jon’s hands. It was almost full. One more load should
complete it. “Do you know why I’m doing this?”
Jon hesitated. He shook his head.
Robb chuckled and allowed Jon to lie down next to him while he played with his
hair.
“I bought you that bracelet so that alphas understand that you belonged to me.
I am giving you this bottle as a reminder for yourself. You are mine. This is
my way of guaranteeing that I am always with you.” Robb kissed Jon. The boy
closed his eyes and purred in pleasure. When they finished, Robb raised the
bottle and stated they had one more round to go. Jon whimpered.
“This is plenty,” Jon told him. The bottle was huge, and Jon’s throat was
throbbing.
Robb quirked his lips. He grabbed the bottle and poured the cum onto his
fingers.
“What are you doing?” Jon moved forward to stop him but was motionless when
Robb held out his hand to collect his cum. The muskiness overwhelmed Jon’s
nostrils. Jon salivated as the phantom flavors ghosted over his taste buds. His
gray eyes were hypnotized by the way the thick milk came out of the bottle. He
licked his lips when the mixture coated Robb’s fingers. Unfocused, Robb gripped
Jon’s throat. Jon gasped when Robb shoved his fingers into his mouth. His shock
was replaced by arousal when the taste of Robb filled his mouth again. This
time, Robb did not give him the command to hold it in. Jon sucked. He slathered
his tongue around those fingers and licked the tips dry. When he realized there
was more cum further in, he swallowed the fingers up to the knuckle.
He heard Robb chuckle, but the chance to quench his thirst allowed him to drown
out the mocking. “I know you,” he heard Robb tell him. “You need me inside you.
You’d go mad without my cock—this,” Robb growled as he poured his cum over
Jon’s face, “Is your medicine. And we need it to last or else who knows what
will happen to you without me.”
Robb pulled out his fingers. Jon stuck out his tongue to collect the cum
running down his face. He was intoxicated. He wiped the semen off his cheeks
and wrung the remains out of his ear to slurp up from his hands. Robb’s cock
twitched.
“Since you’ve come to my understanding, I think it’s time we start again. And
we have to make up for the bit we lost.”
Jon’s shoulders dropped; the fear of the upcoming act made him reluctant to go
further. Robb chuckled and reassured him that he could do it. “You’ll do it for
me,” Robb encouraged, his hold on Jon was more than physical at this point.
“And you’ll do it for yourself. Imagine how light your body will become after
you’ve sated me. All those beautiful omegas,” he whispered, relishing in the
tension in Jon’s muscles. “Will never pose a threat once my balls are sucked
dry. You’re going to make sure I can’t get hard until I see your pretty mouth.”
Jon took a deep breath. After a few moments of reinforcement, Jon pulled
himself together to provide for Robb’s needs. He moved forward to straddle
Robb’s lap. His cunt pressed against Robb’s firm cock and massaged it between
his pussy lips. Robb chuckled at the determined expression on Jon’s face.
To further his efforts, Robb gripped his ass and pushed him down so that he was
grinding on top of Robb’s cock. It was not enough, but Jon’s struggle made a
lovely picture. "Ride me harder, love. I want to feel your ass bounce on top of
me.” It was his most remarkable feature.
Jon kept moving, and with some careful motivation from Robb, Jon was rubbing
himself raw on Robb’s member. The cock hardened to a necessary degree for
fucking, but he needed more stimulation to build up another knot. Robb pinched
and slapped Jon’s ass and thighs to make it happen. Though it was hurting Jon,
he could not help his arousal. He panted and moaned, and his cum gushed over
him. He was a whore for Robb and Robb loved that there was no one, not Edmure
or Willas or Wylla, who could change that.
***
When the bottle was full, Jon only remained conscious for Robb’s voice. He was
breathless and limp, while Jon was purring in delight. Robb rubbed his belly, a
small bump indicating Robb’s hefty load. He was so happy he had such an
attentive alpha, one that knew his needs better than he did himself.
“Have no more than a small cup a day, maybe a drop or two if you’re less
needy,” Robb instructed.
“A drop’s not enough,” Jon hummed. He was sucking on Robb’s fingers like candy.
Robb's last load was overflowing, and Jon was pleasantly stuffed. Robb sighed,
but there was no annoyance in his tone.
“At least try to preserve until I come get you.”  
“Don’t talk to any of the omegas when you arrive at the Neck,” Jon stated
seriously. A frown marred his pretty face. “Introduce yourself in the open and
ask someone to send you to me. If you try to find me on your own, I guarantee
you’ll end up in some unknown crannog with a heat-drunk omega on your lap.”
Robb chuckled. He assured Jon that there was no one else for him.
Jon got up, his bliss waning as reality settled in.
“What is the matter?” Robb asked.
Jon was silent at first. Robb continued to push him with kisses on his neck and
playful nipple tugs, urging him to speak. Jon rubbed his hands against Robb’s
chest.
“I have your bracelet and scent to ward off alphas, but you have nothing of
mine. That is not fair,” he told Robb. “How will someone know not to steal you
from me?"
Jon returned to straddle Robb’s lap. Robb groaned.
“I swear, Jon. You have drained me of my will and strength. I have no more to
give.”
“Then think of this as vengeance.”
Robb relaxed onto the bed. Though his cock was limp, he had more than enough
parts to satisfy his lover’s playfulness. He dipped his fingers into Jon’s sore
cunt and scooped out his cum. He brought his stained figures to Jon’s lips and
fed him like a baby. Jon sucked eagerly. When Robb tried to pull out, Jon bit
him.
“Fuck,” Robb winced and pulled out. The blood dripped from his fingers. Jon
gasped, but alongside the fear was his excitement. Robb caught it. He would
have been a fool not to. With a growl, he moved his wrist to Jon’s lips.
“Bite me,” Robb ordered.
“Huh?”
“You want to claim me, do so. I want the whole world to know that I am proud to
wear a collar of my own because my omega is beautiful and fierce and genuine.”
Jon breathing became harsh. Without further goading, he leaned down and bit
Robb’s wrist. The bite was nowhere hard enough; it left indentures but no
marks. They would heal in a day.
“Harder,” Robb commanded.
Jon obeyed.
“Harder.”
Jon’s teeth sunk into Robb’s skin.
“Harder.” This time Robb gripped his throat and with a voice just above a
threat, he told Jon, “Prove to me how much you love me.”
Jon bit as hard as he could. He teeth punctured Robb’s skin, and there was
blood all over his face. The sight was terrorizing and arousing. If he could,
Robb would have fucked him again. Instead, he kissed Jon and painted his flesh
with blood. His flavor was delicious mixed with Jon’s saliva. Despite being the
one marked, Robb had never felt like he owned Jon more.  
***
Robb walked with Jon to the camps, and yet it felt like an execution. Jon told
him not to be dramatic. “Your mother was not completely erroneous when she
suggested we test our independence.”
“You are taking her side again?” Robb asked, amused. “I liked it when you were
fighting over my affection.”
Jon paused. Then, he kissed Robb on the cheek and expressed a sigh against his
ear. “Have you always known? That my act of the docile bastard was a guise for
the wickedness in my soul.”
Robb frowned. He pulled away so that he could look into Jon’s eyes. “There is
no evil in your soul. If you were any more divine, I would see your face on a
heart tree.”
Jon sighed in relief. He closed the distance between their bodies so that Robb
can wrap his arms around his waist. The whole world can see, and Jon wants them
to. “Are you ready?” Robb asked him.
“As ready as ever,” Jon said. “I was not lying. I missed my friends and my
family, but it will not compare to my longing for you.” He glanced over at the
looming castle. “Will you be alright?”
“As much as you loathed to admit it, I am half a southerner. A Southron, they
say here,” Robb declared with a small smile. “I should experience my roots.”
“That's one way to look at it,” He laughed while his fingers clutched onto
Robb’s shirt. The one he picked out before he left the castle.
Robb kissed his hand. “I will come back to you.”
Jon kissed his cheek, a spot dangerously close to his lips. His tongue brushed
against his skin. Robb did not care if all the Riverlands could see them. He
wanted to ravish Jon like a man with no honor. He recognized the kiss was a
test. Jon is solidifying his self-control. Robb tightened his hold on Jon to
prevent his rashness.
“I will wait for you,” Jon told him.  
“Good.” Robb closed his eyes. He will not grope him, he told himself. No matter
how beautiful his brother is. “I look forward to your longing," he said as he
kissed Jon's bracelet and let his lips ride up his arms.
Jon swatted him away, a bit of joy in their solemn departure. “You are a cruel
man, Stark.”
“As long as you allow me, Snow,” Robb replied.
Desmond called out to them; he was Jon’s sworn knight for this journey. His
mother scoffed at the decision to send Jon, a guard. 
“There is no safer place for Jon than the Neck.” When her daughters asked her
to elaborate, she spoke with solemnity. “Their devotion to House Reed goes
beyond duty or love. They know the truth, anyone who harms a Reed will be
cursed. Their lands will sink to sand and their food to rot.”
When Robb asked how she knows this, she said that everyone in the Riverlands
knew it. “The Frey like to gossip.” There was a fiddle in her hands, making her
touch up the ribbons on her dress, which made him believe it was not the whole
story.
The memory satisfied Robb’s fear. What was left was the pain. He clutched onto
Jon’s cuff when the boy tried to move. When he let go, Jon sent Robb a
regretful glance. He brushed his lips against Robb one more, just to hurt
himself. “I love you,” he swore.
Robb nodded, his face betraying the coolness in his voice. “I love you, too.”
Jon walked away without another word. All Robb could do was watch.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter was disgustingly short and also late. I actually had a
     lot more planned but I was tired and decided to move it towards the
     next chapter. I am so sorry. For real, it will not happen again. I am
     going to be on time next week. Chapters will be posted on Saturday
     afternoon. I swear, none of this late shit.
     Though I loved the revised funeral scene in the television scene in
     the series, I have to admit that it’s sad we only get to see the
     foolish side of Edmure Tully. He may not be smart, but he is kind and
     desperately wants to be a hero. He’s like Sansa in his idealism—he
     wants to save the smallfolk, lead armies, etc. But unlike Sansa, who
     was forced to grow from her horrible life experiences, Edmure
     remained sheltered in Riverrun until it was too late. At least that's
     my opinion. :)
     Next chapter features Robb’s experience at Riverrun and Howland
     appears.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jon’s departure visibly brightened Lord Tully’s mood. His high spirits
prospered throughout dinner, from the introductory course of fresh oysters to
their celebratory cuisine of broiled fish simmered in a lemon sauce that took
fourteen hours to cook. He presented their gifts the same time the serving
omegas brought out the clam stew. Lord Tully was every bit the doting
grandfather. He gifted Sansa and Arya with jewelry made from freshwater pearls
and sea glass while rewarding Robb a lance for his achievements and a sword for
his future.
“You never treated me so well,” Edmure complained. He smiled against the rim of
his goblet while Catelyn giggled into her sleeve.
“I spoil you rotten, you little beast,” Lord Tully huffed. “I’ll treat you
better once you’ve married and father me a grandchild or two. Don’t make your
sisters do all the work.”
“If he married, the whorehouses would go out of business,” muttered Catelyn
with fondness. She was sitting beside her father, and though his hearing waned
from time to time, he was fortunate enough to catch that little snippet. He
howled in laughter.
Robb smiled from Lord Tully’s liveliness. Though he was displeased to be
separated from Jon on account of Lord Tully’s sensitivity, the man was still
his grandfather. He was happy that the man was well; it made his mother beam
like the stars.
While they waited for dessert, a serving boy arrived to change Robb’s wine.
“It’ll be more fitting for the palette,” he explained; an appreciative gaze
accompanied his words.
Robb was never unaware of his attractiveness, but without Jon’s intoxicating
scent overshadowing the other omegas, their arousal became more noticeable. Out
of respect for Jon, he turned away after thanking the omega.  The boy made a
little noise of disbelief before serving the others.
Edmure chuckled; he assumed the son of the honorable Lord Stark was shy due to
inexperience. He scooted over to his nephew and told him not to be afraid to
take liberties with the staff.
“Quite a few of them were hired based on their more…accommodating natures,” he
whispered, nodding over to the same boy who was pouring wine into his mother’s
goblet.
Robb smirked, not because he was tempted but because he found the offer no more
alluring than week-old cabbage stranded on a gourmet banquet. The omega was
endearing as many of the servers were, but all failed to elicit a reaction from
the Northern heir. Endearing was no match for enticing, and tolerable was a
slave to divine beauty.   
“I have no intentions of dallying with strangers while I am here,” Robb
answered smoothly. “I am half-Tully, and we honor family first.” He told
Edmure, “I hope you can lend me your guidance before I leave, uncle. I want to
garner as much wisdom as I can before I go home.”
Edmure was never a scholar and barely had the mind of a student. There was not
a person alive who could ever say they relied on Edmure Tully for his acumen.
Robb could see the way his eyes lit up and knew he was safe from further
proposals—at least for the night.
The desserts came before Edmure could discuss his plans for their bonding. Robb
thanked the timing. Edmure was without son or brother and planned to turn Robb
into a surrogate. When the younger heir reached out to collect his share of the
lemon cakes, his sleeve pulled in and revealed his wrist. Edmure’s eyes
widened.
“By the gods, Robb. Did you get attacked by an animal on your way here? Look at
the size of that thing!”
Robb was confused by the statement until he noticed how everyone’s eyes honed
in on his wrist. Ah, he thought with more composure than what was reasonable
for his carelessness. Jon’s love bite was on display. Rather than covering it
up, he chose to ride his calm back to his seat. 
He refused to show that he was alarmed by its discovery. There was something
disgraceful about denying Jon when his lover was not there to watch. He was not
going to let go of his love whenever it served him to do so. Jon may call him
foolish, but Robb was no coward.
“Where did you get that?” Catelyn asked. “You didn’t have it before you went to
your room. Did you get into a fight with Jon?” Her voice was soft, but Robb
could read into her sharpened crow’s feet and how the lines of her mouth became
more pronounce. The subject of their brotherly relationship made her wary, and
her wariness manifested in age. She seemed older—as if the Mother lost a bet to
the Stranger.
“Get what?” Robb pretended to be surprised when saw the bruise. “Ah, I didn’t
notice that. Jon and I were roughhousing in my guest room for a bit. We got a
bit out of hand. I didn’t even notice,” he lied. He hoped that downplaying the
injury would conclude that the matter was not dire.
Alas, Robb forgotten that these were strange lands and northern proclivities
were not permitted within these walls. His grandfather trembled with anger.
With more force than Robb thought possible for a pestilent man, Lord Tully
slammed his fist and turned to his daughter.
“Your husband allows his bastard to attack his heir? What sort of lawless
household does that man run?” 
Catelyn took a deep breath. She feared the effect her father’s anger would have
on his health and attempted to cool his fire.
“Father, please. It is not a matter to lose your health over."
"So I should watch while that child roams like trueborn and disgrace my
grandchildren?"
"Eddard recognizes Jon Snow as his bastard, but the child has no place in the
line of succession for Winterfell. Even Arya will have claim over him.” She
tried to smile for both their sakes. “Why worry ourselves over a pointless
matter? There’s no harm in having them believe that they are siblings.”
“We are siblings,” Arya snapped, though no one of age listened. “Jon is our
brother,” she insisted to deaf ears. Sansa grabbed her hand and told her to be
silent. "The adults were discussing important matters," she scolded. Arya
pulled her hand away and watched the scene before her. 
Lord Tully pushed for an unhappy revelation. “He has issue, does he not?”
Catelyn hesitated to answer. She tried to explain with diplomacy. “Lord Stark
has prepared a dowry and inheritance should he pass before the former is used.”
“Jon is my brother,” Robb told him. Unlike Arya, his words were heard. “That is
his right.”
Catelyn groaned at her son’s rashness.
“He should have never been rewarded such privileges.” Lord Tully shook his
head. “Think of your children, Catelyn. Their reputations will be marred should
Jon marry into a family whose station rival their spouses.”
“That will never happen,” Catelyn swore, more as an assurance to herself if
anything. She told herself every night after the ceremony and on some days; she
believed it to be true. Hearing it from another person, her father, no less,
made all those insecurities resurface. “Jon is a bastard, father; times have
not changed so drastically.”
Lord Tully scoffed. “The skies have darkened for nobility, Cat. Titles are
cheap. I’ve seen merchants buy a lordship with silk.”
“Then that is their own business,” Robb pointed out irritably. “I am not
concerned with them. I am a Stark. Winterfell is my priority. The North is my
priority. Above all, my family holds my heart, and I would burn both to the
ground to ensure the safety of the last. Jon shares my blood, and I am proud to
say so.” Robb shook his head. “This is an irrelevant issue.”
Lord Tully sighed at his grandson. There was no resentment directed at his
rudeness, merely pity that the boy could be so naïve. The patronization boiled
Robb’s blood. 
“Robb, understand that out of all the children, you are in a most precarious
situation. You allow him to capture your heart and he will hold it hostage in
his hand. That is the nature of bastards.”
Fireworks followed the declaration and not one of them were lit by Robb. Arya
slammed both her hands onto the table, drawing the adults’ attentions for the
first time. She was tired and frustrated and angry. No one listened to her, and
she wanted to be heard. 
She loved Jon, too. 
“None of this is Jon’s fault! Stop taking it out on him!”
“Arya,” Sansa pleaded with her from her seat. She grabbed her dress and tried
to pull her down, but the omega’s anger increased her strength tenfold.  Arya
batted Sansa's hand away.
The argument unleashed a fury of unresolved issues, the most prominent being
the way Robb monopolized Jon’s attention. For years, Arya's had to suffer
through Jon's divided love amongst her siblings, often leaving her with the
short end of the stick. First, it was on account of her mother's wishes and her
duties as Stark's youngest omega daughter. Then, their activities diminished
because of Robb's claim over his freedom. Robb took Jon out riding. Robb was
the one to escort Jon to parties. Robb got to sleep with him. Robb got to say
goodbye. She was already last place in her parents’ hearts, but she would not
be the last in Jon’s.
“Robb is always telling Jon what to do! Jon listens because Robb is the heir
and he’s a bastard! It’s not fair! Robb bosses him around and Jon never tells
him no! Not ever! Not even when Jon wants to!” Arya accused.
“Arya, don’t make such vile accusations—” Sansa reprimanded.
“What do you mean, even when he wants to?” Robb interrupted. He glared at his
youngest sister. “Jon consents to our activities because he loves me. He
doesn’t tell me no because he wants me to be happy. He chose me.” There was a
fever in his tone, and from that point on, Catelyn held her breath for her
youngest’s fate.
“He is my brother, too,” Arya reminded him. “And I would never treat him the
way you do.”
“Please, stop it, both of you!”
“I treat him with reverence. He has never been short of luxury or love by my
side. I have never denied him anything!”
“And what do you get in return?”
“Arya, you are acting just horrible!” Sansa shouted. “Stop it!”
Robb’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot help who Jon preferences.”
“You’re wrong!” Arya yelled. “You don’t know what he wants! You force him to
believe that your desires are his own. He used to play dolls with Sansa and
ride horses with me. He doesn’t do any of that now because you don’t allow it!”
Robb knocked over his chair. He marched over to his little sister, and though
his mother screamed at him to calm down and Sansa begged Arya to apologize for
her behavior, Robb did not stop. Never in Robb’s life had he ever contemplated
striking his siblings so brutally. He reminded himself that the action was
unsightly and wrong and would cause Jon to hate him so terribly, he might
establish abstinence as a punishment.
Robb crouched down to meet Arya’s face. He did not lay a hand on her, much to
his mother’s relief. “There is no one Jon loves more than me,” he told her
without a doubt in his mind. He raised his hand, and she flinched noticeably.
Robb grabbed the back of her head and kissed her forehead. There was no
affection in his lips, just a warning. “Even on my deathbed, that honor will
not go to you, Arya. He would sooner follow me to my grave."  
Arya was silent after the declaration but not beaten. Arya clenched her fist
and opened her mouth to respond. She was interrupted by a violent coughing fit
that came from the head of the table.
Both siblings turned to the side to see Lord Holster Tully hacking up his meal
onto the ground. Catelyn and Edmure dashed over to his side. Arya and Robb had
the decency to end their argument. Robb ordered one of serving girls to call
for a maester. He helped Edmure in lifting up his grandfather to keep him from
choking on his own spittle. The gesture was enough to keep him stable until
Maester Vyman arrived. With the help of Lord Tully’s personal guards, they
carried him to Vyman’s den.   
***
It had taken three hours of treatment before Maester Vyman informed them that
Lord Tully was stable. “Stress,” he told them with aggravation and a judgmental
stare, “He riled up his heart and that added pressure to his stomach. As long
as he keeps a cool head, he should recover nicely.”
Catelyn sighed in relief. “Thank you, maester. Can we see him now?” 
Vyman nodded. “Go ahead, but don’t take long. He needs his rest, and so do you.
I’ll be staying in the room beside him. His guards are on watch. They will tell
me if anything happens.” He glanced over at her, Edmure, and Robb. The two
girls were sent off to bed hours ago; Catelyn wanted to prevent a
direct delivery of bad news. She spent her waiting time forging a blunt mace to
soften the potential blow. “He will be fine,” Vyman reassured them. Catelyn
smiled gratefully and stored the weapon for a rainy day.
“That’s a relief,” Edmure said. He stood up. “I’ll check on him first.” He
walked into the room with a back drenched with sweat. When Catelyn saw the
stain, she was taken back. She had misjudged her brother. When their father was
carted away by his men, he reacted with an uncertain amount of nonchalance. He
told her not to be concerned. Their father was too stubborn to die, he said
with a chuckle. She thought him crass and childish. She screamed and scolded
the youngest Tully like he was ten again. It was then she realized that he was
brave for her; Edmure had survived these scares for over a decade alone since
she and Lysa left. His home was Riverrun, not Winterfell or the Eyrie. No
matter where he traveled or how many women he bedded, he would never be able to
escape the worse of their father’s health.
Edmure was doing his part for their father. It was time Catelyn did the same.
She turned to her son and was somewhat satisfied to see his guilt. He caught
her disapproving gaze and bowed his head.
“I am sorry,” he told her. “I should have never raised my voice.”
“You shouldn’t have done a lot of things tonight. The least of them was raising
your voice,” Catelyn snapped. “Talking back to your grandfather? Fighting with
your little sister? You know better than that. I taught you better than that.”
She rested her head in her hands and bemoaned the situation. “Maybe as a child,
I could have understood your foolishness, but you are a man, Robb. I have never
been so embarrassed in my life.” That was a lie that made her pause. She had a
slew of trauma following her marriage to Ned, and the shame would never end as
long as Howland Reed had a cunt to plow. “This is not the behavior befitting
the heir of Winterfell.”
Robb sighed in shame. “I was angry. And unprepared,” he admitted. “Out of
respect for my grandfather, I agreed to let Jon leave. I did not agree to let
anyone drag his name through the mud. He is my brother, mother. Grandfather’s
words would have never been accepted in the North—”
“This is not the North! You are not a lord yet. You are Lord Stark’s son, but
you have no power or influence in the South!” Catelyn shouted. The outburst was
lightning that stunned Robb silent and still. Catelyn massaged her temples and
resumed a calm voice though her irritation lingered. “I should have made things
clear about what to expect, but I thought it wasn’t necessary. I was wrong.
Jon’s influence over you has proven to extend the distance.”
“This is not about Jon.”
“And again you are mistaken,” Catelyn countered. “From the moment Jon arrived
at Winterfell, you have shoveled the dirt and snow to form a road that suited
his life. It has affected you as a person, and I was willing to stay silent as
long as you maintained your good graces but not here, Robb. It is because of
Jon that my father lays on a resting bed.” She sighed. “Please, be good. Make
me proud, Robb. Put me first and honor my wishes above your brother’s. Make the
last of my days in Riverrun a joyous occasion. I may never get another chance
to be with my father again.”  
If Robb were a better son, he would have promised to heed her authority.
Instead, he took her hand in his and promised vindication. “Allow me to see
grandfather after Uncle Edmure. I will apologize for my behavior but not my
words.”
Catelyn was about to reprimand him, but Robb redeemed himself. “I will tell him
that my behavior was a result of losing the tourney to a future bannerman. I
will say that the humiliation made me rash and I sought an outlet for my
aggression. I love my brother,” he told her. Catelyn sighed at the confession.
“But that was an excuse to look for a fight.” He swallowed as he developed a
better backstory, more reasons that would please the Tully patriarch. “In the
North, we seek out the highest challenges in regards to combat or debate. I was
told that Lord Tully, my grandfather, was unparalleled in both subjects. He did
not disappoint me, but I was wrong to take such an uncouthly tone towards him.
From this point on, I will respect his authority as a great liege lord.”
Catelyn’s lips twitched in approval, but she was not ready to release him.   
“And what if he brings up Jon? Can you control yourself if he continues to
speak out against your father’s bastard?” She emphasized the last two words,
knowing they would spur Robb’s offense.
Robb tightened his grip on his mother’s wrist. “I will change the topic.”
“And if he continues to sink his teeth into the issue?”
Robb narrowed his eyes. “I will hold my tongue,” he promised. “For your sake.”
And for Jon’s. The more influence Jon was perceived to have over him, the
harder it would be to remove the stigma against him. There was nothing that
sickened a will more than gossip.
Catelyn accepted his answer. Edmure opened the door and told them that his
father was ready for rest but was willing to take on more visitors. Catelyn
kissed Robb’s forehead and said to go ahead. He obeyed.
Edmure raised an eyebrow. “You will let him enter alone?”
“Of course. He wanted to apologize to his grandfather for his behavior.”
“Huh,” Edmure made a strange, appraising face. “I did not see that coming. With
how incensed he was at father, I’m surprised he isn’t returning to the North.”
Edmure let out a hearty laugh. “But if he is your child he must be proper.”
“He is,” Catelyn agreed. “Robb is a good boy without all those horrible
influences around him.” 
***
Maester Vyman’s predictions proved accurate, and Lord Tully’s health recovered
after an eloquent apology and a good night’s sleep. He was put on bed rest for
another day and skipped a hearty breakfast for plain gruel, much to his
chagrin. Robb manifested the following morning as an ideal heir. He greeted
Sansa with adoration, complimenting her hairstyle and the added embroidery on
her dress—she put in an intricate pattern of fishes swirling into a pool on her
sleeves. Sansa took his compliments as what they weren’t—sincere. After her,
Robb expressed his regrets from last night to his youngest sister. He kissed
her cheek, and though Arya did not forgive him, she did not move away, either.
After eating his morning fruit, Edmure suggested they visit the townsfolk and
travel around the city. Robb refused and opted to spend time with his
grandfather. Together, they talked about the past and shared a spot of
distilled liquor. When Robb commented on whether that was a suitable drink for
a man in his condition, he responded with the reassurance that the strength of
the glass cleaned the evils in his stomach.
Robb never failed to fake his interest. When Lord Tully’s ramblings became
madness, Robb remained attentive, even making a general comment or two that was
well-received by the ailing lord.
The next day, when sanity settled into Lord Tully’s mind, the man took his
grandson fishing. Catelyn protested, but the maester informed her that to keep
his health, he needed to be at an equilibrium of relaxation and activity. 
"Line fishing fits both those requirements." 
Northern fishing, which involved risking their lives on ice, spearing, or
netting, was different than southern fishing. When Robb arrived at the lake, he
was surprised by the tranquil environment, everything from the sparkling water
to the warm breeze alarmed him. The atmosphere was deathly quiet. He wondered
if they were wandering into a trap and announced his trepidation.
His grandfather laughed hard enough that Robb was worried about another
coughing fit. “Robb, have you ever been fishing?”
“Of course,” Robb answered, a little offended. “My father and I went ice-
fishing when lakes were frozen, and I’ve traveled to the waters near Bear
Island during the season.”
His response restored Lord Tully’s cheer. “Robb, have you ever fished with a
line? From the shore to a lake?”
Robb became confused. “You can’t possibly get very far with a line.”
“You don’t have to when fishing in freshwater. There’s plenty of good fish
nearby.”
“Don’t we have to get inside the water?”
Lord Tully shook his head and chuckled. “Not necessarily,” he explained. “We
just set the bait and wait for them to bite.”
“Won’t that be dangerous if they get out of control? We’ve had some fish almost
tip our boats. We find their fierceness makes them more appetizing.”
He grinned. “Our fish are less aggressive than the ones at sea, though plenty
put up a good fight. They are no less delicious for being gentle.” He
encouraged Robb to sit down. “Besides, We are fishing for pleasure, not food.
You do not have to be so serious.”
Robb understood the principle of fishing and hunting for bonding and
entertainment—given that they occurred in parties and groups. The activities
encouraged companions to discuss strategy and forced communication when they
waited for their prey. The idea of fishing for leisure, however, was a mystery
to him. Nonetheless, Robb was ready to wrap his mind around the lesson. 
Holster shook his head in amusement. Northerners loved to make things harder
for themselves, he mused.
Regardless of Robb’s peculiarities, he was open to Lord Tully’s teachings. For
an old man, an attentive ear was something of a luxury.
“The key to enjoying fishing is patience. Patience is a quality of character
unmatched by any other trait and fishing is an activity that helps hone it for
the future.” He tossed his reel into the water. “As a lord, Robb, there are
going to be days that test the limits of your patience. Days like that, you
might cast for hours without a single bite. On other days, there’s always a
creature biting, one after the other. Fishing is unpredictable enough to give
you a range of experiences. You have to think on your feet; you have to decide
whether or not the beast is worth reeling in or if it put up a good enough
fight to live another day. Sometimes you lose the fish. Sometimes one never
comes. That doesn’t mean you give up forever.”
Robb chuckled. He mimicked his grandfather’s actions and dropped his reel into
the water. “I suppose there’s lesson to be had in everything.” 
“Yes,” Lord Tully nodded. He patted a spot next to his seat. “Sit, relax. Take
notice of your surroundings and enjoy the good earth that the Seven has
rewarded us. Life passes by so fast for an old man like me—fishing slows
everything down.”
Robb conceded to his request. Though he found the endeavor dull, he dared not
disappoint his grandfather. He waited like a good dog and when the fish came,
pretended to be more excited than he was. The grin on his grandfather’s face
was worth the performance.
“You’re doing very well,” his grandfather complimented.
“I have a good teacher.” Robb reeled the fish in. “Besides, I understand the
importance of the patience you praise.” His cock had endured three years of
longing before he was allowed stretch open his little brother. The wait was
worth the pleasure. Robb was to reside in Riverrun for five more days.
Afterward, he would need a week’s travel before he could stick his tongue up
Jon’s soaked cunt. The things he planned to do to him would make a whore blush.
“I wish your uncle was so amendable. He rather lose himself to wenching and
wine than listen to me speak.”
Robb threw the fish on the side and prepared another bait. “I’m sure Uncle
Edmure cares a great deal about you.”
“Oh, he cares a great deal about a lot of things. He cares about what people
think of him and about being the hero and collecting the glory.” Lord Tully
sighed. “Do you know what happens to lords like my son?”
Robb did not respond.
“They are used, just as I was. When Robert’s Rebellion happened, several houses
rebelled against me. I had it coming; given the moments I was more reckless
with my governance.” Robb pretended not to be aware of the truth. He heard from
Maester Luwin that Lord Tully was known for dealing lowered taxes to his more
'faithful' nobles. Loyalty could not be bought with coin. “Do you know what’s
the best way to ensure the loyalty of a lord?”
“What?’
“Grandchildren.”
Robb raised an eyebrow. Lord Tully explained, “There is nothing a lord wants
more than to see his daughter or son wedded to a liege lord. If they do that,
they are almost guaranteed that their grandchild will become one of the most
powerful men in the kingdom. We all want our legacy to have meaning when we
pass. We want to ensure that our name is mired with laurels and prestige. So we
fight and scheme and do what we must to have the honor bestowed upon us.” Lord
Tully gave his words time to wash over Robb before speaking again. “Our names
are what last after we die. We need to nurture them. Do you understand?” 
“Yes,” Robb answered. His lips twitched upwards. “But I have no interests in
such matters.”
Lord Tully paused. He saw his grandson had removed his gaze from him and turned
to the lake.  
“A name is important, and I am proud to be a Stark, but it is not the only
thing that lingers when we die.”
“Then what does?”
Robb did not answer him. Out of the woodwork, Edmure arrived. He sauntered over
to them and swung his arm around his nephew. “There you are! Father, what do
you think you’re doing dragging a virile young man like Robb to an elder’s
activity like fishing? He is in Riverrun for less than a week! He should be
visiting the brothels and flirting with barmaids!”
Lord Tully scoffed at his child. “I am educating him on the merits you never
learned.”
Edmure laughed like his father, Robb noted. His uncle boasted that he was
stealing Robb away to educate him on the pleasures of Southron women. “Trust
me, Robb. I know the best places in town.”
"He's been to all of them." 
Robb chuckled in amusement. “I’m content spending the day with grandfather,
Uncle Edmure.”
Lord Tully beamed, smugness all over his face. Edmure rolled his eyes.
“Father’s health is not that bad. You don’t have to lie,” he countered.
Holster swatted his son’s arm. “Cheeky brat,” he muttered. “I should have
beaten you more.” There was hardly any bite to his words. He got up and
announced his departure. “My son’s boom should have scared off the fish. Go
with your uncle. Keep him in line in case he does something foolish,” he
instructed, shooing him away like a fly. “Or just plow him with enough wine to
keep him nimble,” he teased, humming a familiar tune.
Edmure turned red. “Father, you promised never to speak of it!”
The man’s booming laugh could be heard, even when his stature was no longer
seen. Edmure groaned. He turned to his nephew and gestured him in the direction
of the city. “Come, dear boy. The town is swimming with omegas lusting for a
cock hidden behind a pocket of gold. My treat!” He announced.
Robb marveled at the pride loaded into the commentary. His father would die if
he ever made such a declaration.
***
Edmure took him to a tavern as a preview for what he planned. After they had
ordered two cups of ale and fried fish critters, Edmure presented Robb with a
booklet to read while they wait.  
“You never struck me as a reader,” Robb noted as he took the papers from his
hand. “I figured you’d claim history as maester’s work.” 
 “You are not wrong about that.” Edmure admitted. “But, my dear nephew, that
piece of literature is something us alphas can use. It’s more than scholar’s
dribbles; it’s a review of the finest entertainment Riverrun has to offer.”
Robb raised an eyebrow. He read the first paragraph out loud. “Northside. Elsa.
Blue eyes that make you want to strip naked and swim within the waters of
Riverrun before fucking on the sand like children. An odd picture.”
“The job does not necessarily draw the attention of poets.”
“You read this garbage?”
“More than any of the Seven’s scriptures,” Edmure told him shamelessly. “And
that is not trash. That is a guide to some of the best whores in Riverrun. It
tells us noblemen who we should yearn for when we’re whacking our cocks in the
bin.”
Robb shook his head. “I prefer the Tales from Valyria.”
The ale arrived alongside the food. Edmure took a swig of his drink. “You
would. Thus is the consequence of being the son of the honorable Lord Stark.”
The next time Edmure smiled, it was without mirth. “Unless, of course, when my
sister is concerned.”
Robb gave him a tired look, and if the man were half as observant as he would
like to be, he would have noticed appraisal accompanied the exhaustion. Robb
prayed to whoever was listening that this conversation would not turn violent.
Edmure relieved his fears when he took another gulp and declared he intended to
loosen his nephew’s bones with a good fucking. “The tavern operates a brothel
upstairs. Check out page four. ‘Lyros. A cunt that tastes like churned
butter.’”
“I’m not interested.”
Edmure remained unconvinced. He shook his head in pity. “Robb, knowing my
sister and good brother, they’ve kept you in a cage your entire life. You are
not in Winterfell anymore; no eyes are watching you.” Edmure gestured a nearby
maid for more ale. The one who walked towards them was the tawdry type
described in the pamphlet. “You don’t have to be perfect, but you do have to
become a man.” Edmure’s idea of masculinity was a warrior who fought, fucked
and drank. To prove the right to indulgence, Edmure sat an omega on his lap
while she refilled his ale. She did not fight his advances and giggled his name
as if he were a naughty child.
He must have been a frequent patron, Robb observed.
Edmure wasted no time lifting up her dress to showcase how easily he could have
her. He stuck two fingers inside her, fucking them in and out while she dripped
over the floor. Her moans were heard throughout the tavern, but most of the
customers paid them no mind. Some ignored them while others whipped out their
cocks for a stroke.
Edmure played with the girl’s nipples and planted kisses on her neck and lips,
sucking on her flesh.  The way he manhandled her sparked Robb’s alpha
instincts. He imagined bending Jon over a table while an entire tavern watched
his little brother get used.
“Think of this as a treat before a proper meal,” Edmure suggested. “I’ll take
you to a finer place tonight, but there’s nothing wrong with their mouths.
Which do you prefer, boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Robb said immediately before cursing himself. “I mean: I don’t partake.”
The tavern was not catered to the wealthy, and none of the omegas were
encouraged to display elegance or class. They were there to make coin. A new
omega came over to proposition Robb. The first thing Robb’s eyes go to were his
breasts. They were huge. Though Robb opted to ignore them, he found himself
being bombarded with illicit promises.
Robb excused the young man by claiming he was flattered by his beauty. “But I
am uninterested in carnal activities outside my marriage bed,” he told them
more rigidly than he would have liked. His lie was accompanied by a flawless
and well-meaning smile. The whores gave Edmure an incredulous look, debating
whether Robb was simple or impotent.
Edmure sighed and told all the omegas to leave. “You can't tell me you aren’t
the least bit tempted.”
Robb shrugged. “I’ve sworn to my little brother that I would never embrace
someone who was not as beautiful as him.”
Edmure chuckled at the preposterous vow—they must have made it when they were
children and Robb was too much of a noble fool to forsake it. “You will have
your maidenhood forever,” the heir of Riverrun proclaimed, “if that is your
standard.” Another joke came to mind and however crude, Edmure had to say it.
“Or else adopt the Targaryen method and pry those pretty thighs open.”  
To Edmure's pleasure, Robb found humor in his mockery. “Jon is eager to please.
All I’d have to do is suggest it, and he’d present himself, ass up and tongue
hanging. He gets worse when his heat comes along. He claws at my door and begs
for a breeding. We have to be separated because of my rut. Father’s afraid I’ll
ruin him.”
“You’re compatible?” Edmure asked, surprised. The topic was taboo outside the
family, but the scandal made the news more alluring. He and his friends used to
listen to the stories of omegas presenting young and losing their virginities
to their brothers and sisters. The son of the blacksmith used to brag about how
tight his brother’s cunt was when he presented. He shared him with his father,
and since then, the child was their personal fucktoy. From then on, he allowed
every alpha to mount him as soon as he was in sight. It was well known that if
an omega got deflowered by his own kin, they would become insatiable. Tiny
bundles of heat and honey that were willing to get fucked by anything with a
cock.” Though it was improper to do so, Edmure was inebriated enough to
continue the conversation. 
“We are,” Robb said proudly. “When it first happened, I could tell when he was
coming. We sleep in the same bed, but that time, he got so needy. He grinded
against the sheets, and when he needed more, he humped my leg like a dog. He
smelled so good. I knew he was ready to take it, but my father stopped me.”
Robb’s tone became bitter. “He made Maester Luwin keep track of Jon’s heats
from that point on.”
“Fuck,” Edmure muttered. He was on his third cup of ale. “Can’t believe you had
an omega in heat and didn’t even get to taste him.” The fact that Jon was
Robb’s half-brother wasn’t processing. All he heard was a story about an alpha
being denied what he deserved.  He palmed his cock and wondered which bitch he
should use to alleviate him. He decided on the closest one and grabbed the boy
from earlier. The omega demanded his payment upfront. Edmure practically threw
his coin at him.  
“Do you mind?” Edmure groaned out. His cock was straining against his pants,
and he needed to knot someone before he exploded.
Robb shook his head. “Enjoy.”
The omega got on his knees and pulled out the cock from his trousers. He
swallowed him down until the lord’s balls were pushed against his cheeks.
“Take it bitch,” Edmure commanded. He tried to focus on Robb. “Are you sure you
don’t want to have a taste?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re still young.” Edmure jerked further down the boy’s throat. He was
unaffected. Edmure could have stuck a corn cob beside his dick, and it wouldn’t
have made the boy flinch. Robb wondered if he could ask the young man for his
secrets. That way, Jon could learn how to sleep with Robb’s knot in his mouth.
“That’s a shame,” Edmure guttered out as he thrust more wildly. He gripped onto
the boy’s hair for better control. “I heard a few of the whores on the north
side are having heats. There’s nothing better than fucking an omega in heat.”
For once, Robb was intrigued. He bit back a moan of displeasure. “I heard that,
too.” He finished his ale then but refused a refill. “I’ve always wanted to
fuck him in heat. There’s nothing better than an omega reduced to an animal,
where all he thinks about is getting pumped full of cum. I heard they get all
slicked up and spongey because the ruts are so rough and they want to be
prepared for whatever cock they get. Is it true that their cunts suck in the
knots instead of just stretching around them?”
Edmure flushed. He remembered his first omega in heat. He paid a pretty penny
for her, but she was worth it. She would push back into the cock and tried to
get him to cum as deep as possible. He got to knot her mouth, ass, and cunt,
before sharing her with a few other alphas. Seeing an omega take two knots was
spectacular.
The memory of the whore made him close. He was so enraptured with his purchase
mouth that he remained unaware of Robb’s final words.
“I’ll find out soon enough. My father cannot keep me away from him forever.”
***
Until darkness rose, Edmure continued to drink himself to death. Robb, in
contrast, took his sips with leisure. His drunkenness prevented him from
continuing his plans. They returned to Riverrun without stopping by the
brothel. Edmure could see Robb’s sobriety settling in. Unlike Edmure, his
temperance would save him from a terrible scolding.
Clever brat, Edmure thought, still shaken from the gallons of ale.
When they arrived at the castle, Robb announced he was going to bed. Meanwhile,
Edmure attempted to sneak into his room but was caught by the two people he
hoped to avoid. His sister and father were waiting, having a spot of tea and
cakes. She was disapproving as ever of his brother’s proclivities and swatted
him upside the head for dragging her son along his wicked shenanigans.
“Ow!” Edmure rubbed the back of his head. “That’s not fair! He didn’t even
accept the boy I tried to buy for him!”
Catelyn struck him again with more force.  
“My son has a reputation to maintain. Yours has longed been sullied. What would
happen if someone saw him dallying with whores?”
Lord Tully laughed. “Don’t be so hard on him, Cat. They are alphas.”
Catelyn did not listen. She crossed her arms and addressed her brother’s
carelessness. “You could have taken him anywhere, but instead you choose a
brothel? What should I expect next, a poppy den and a gambling room?”
Edmure rolled his eyes at his sister’s dramatism. “You told me he was a stick
in the mud, so I sought to rectify that.” The liquor was making his head pound.
“I said no such thing!”  
Edmure rolled his eyes. “Your letters clearly stated that Robb was uninterested
in immoral exploits. That if he was not playing his father’s squire, he was
buried in a book or training with his comrades. Sounds like a child in need.”
“That was not a concern. It was a point of praise.”  
The belief was pitiful. His sister was an omega; she did not recognize that
Robb’s behavior was the symptom of a much darker issue. The child was dull.
There was no passion in his soul or fire in his loins. Edmure suspected
impotence or an inclination towards the unnatural. The sole grace of Robb’s
soften cock was that any other hot-blooded alpha would have fucked his brother
by now. There was no way a pretty omega, a bastard no less, could have a heat
and not get fucked. Robb was too good to take advantage of his given right, and
it was a waste of tight cunt.
“You need not worry, dear sister,” Edmure said with a sigh. “The boy has no
taste for wenching.” He shook his head in regret. “’Tis is a shame. There are
plenty of omegas who would have parted their legs for him at no cost. He could
be bedding half the country if he opened his eyes.”  
Catelyn was aware of the fact. She avoided revealing the truth behind Robb’s
chastity. “Tomorrow, we will go swimming in the lakes as a family. Try to be on
your best behavior.”
Edmure agreed, grateful for the conversation to end. He could get to the bottom
of Robb’s proclivities later. His plans may have failed tonight, but there must
have been a way to slacken Robb’s toiled demeanor.
***
When Robb came to his bedroom, he was greeted by an uninvited guest. Arya’s
presence was gravely unappreciated despite his morning’s attempt at
reconciliation. Without the crowd verifying his efforts, his little sister was
no better than a strenuous annoyance. All he wanted was to get balls deep
inside Jon and sleep. The former was not a possibility, but the latter was—once
the middle Stark was removed from the premises.
“What are you doing here, Arya?”
“I bet you asked him to hurt you,” his youngest sister stated. 
The accusation tasted like honey on her lips and salt on Robb’s ears. Robb
narrowed his eyes at her. "The matter is done, Arya. If you wish for a fight,
wait until we leave Riverrun. A confrontation now will only endanger our
grandfather’s health.”
Arya glared at him. “You’re not fooling anyone." 
Robb took off his coat and jerkin before tossing it on the bed. The ‘thud’ of
the fabric made Arya jump, revealing that her confidence was a show and she was
still a child. She had no business confronting her brother in such a
distasteful manner.
“You are acting like a child, Arya.” Robb told her, not a pitch out of place.
“A jealous one. It’s making you imagine injustices.”
“I am not!”
Robb got ready for bed. “Go to sleep. I will deal with you after we leave.”
“He wouldn’t love you as much if you didn’t make him.”
 Robb stilled. With a clenched jaw and balled fist, he turned to face her. 
“Everyone knows Jon didn’t get a proposal because of you. You keep him all to
yourself, but you’re afraid that Jon will love someone else and leave you.
That’s why we’re not allowed to spend time with him anymore. Because if he were
allowed to, he’d love me more and you can’t handle that.”
Anyone else would have been dead for making such a declaration. It was Arya’s
omega scent that saved her; her smug words were a challenge, and as an alpha,
Robb had every right to discipline her whether she was an adult or not. Robb
unleashed a wave of pressure into the air, and the atmosphere dropped to a
nothingness reminiscent of death. Arya shivered and shook; his rage suffocated
her.
Robb’s face betrayed nothing, not even when he sat beside her. “We’ve never
been close, have we, Arya?”
Arya coughed.
“I asked you a question.”
An alpha’s orders must be followed. “No,” she choked out. 
“Alphas and omegas are more likely to have compatibility if they are of
opposing sexes. That’s why alpha boys are not encouraged to bond with their
omega sisters. It’s one of the many reasons why I was unable to spend time with
you or Sansa.” Robb chuckled. “Of course, our age and our responsibilities
played a more significant role in that matter. I was the heir. Sansa was the
oldest omega so she had to married first. And you, you needed a lot of help to
become a lady. We all had our paths and we all had our interests. Sometimes,
those interest overlapped but not in the way that brought us closer.” He
smiled. Arya knew he was talking about Jon. He did not mention their brother,
but both were aware of the rivalry planted when he arrived. The Stark children
loved thier half-brother. In return for their affection, he drove them mad with
desire. Howland Reed made sure to nurture that worship. They came to him for
all their needs; affection and joy, love and deovotion. He was their brother,
but he was also theirs.
"Do you know who I'm talking about?"
Arya coughed and nodded.  She regretted provoking Robb the way she did. She was
immobile, and only an alpha’s order would release her binds. She could have
cried at her foolishness, but even her tears were not her own; she never felt
anything so horrid. Bile was churning and rising to her throat.
Father never used his status on her, no matter what she did. He thought it was
immoral to do so. She was aware that alpha orders weren’t invincible and had
any other alpha given her command, the taming would have been laughable, no
more than a mouse’s cry. But orders from a sire were almost impossible to
disobey, and Robb was close enough to their father that his effect was nearly
identical. 
“Allow me to offer you my guidance on the matter, as a brother should.” He
kissed her on the top of her head, and the affection was sickening—a poor
imitation of their father’s warmth. “Jon is mine. He was born for me. If it was
possible for him to love another, I would scourge the earth until the two of us
are the last people on earth.” He let go of Arya. She dashed away but was held
back by the firm grip around her wrist. “And I’d bury you screaming before I
let you take him from me.”  
Robb let go of her. 
When she escaped, Arya ran past her bedroom and into Sansa’s arms. Her older
sister was about to scold her for being out so late and interrupting her sleep.
She stopped at the beginning of her lecture when she felt the tears against her
chest. Arya was terrified; mute and shaking. Sansa decided to lift up her
covers and wrap her youngest sister in them. When she asked what happened, Arya
was too frightened to explain. Instead, she told Sansa that Robb was scary.
“I never want to marry an alpha. They’re horrible,” she cried. “I want an
omega, like Jon!”  
Sansa stroked her hair. She did not tell Arya that such a dream was impossible,
despite propriety egging her to educate her sister. Her omega instincts won
over her mind. It consumed her with a desire to comfort. She told her sister to
get some sleep and that she would stay awake until she did. When Arya clung
onto her tighter, Sansa sang her to sleep. 
***
Robb’s scar was throbbing after he left. His conversation with Arya reminded
him that his bed was empty tonight. The drive to expunge him from the pain made
his heart pound and pushed sanity to the edge. He was restless and anxious. He
wanted to scream and punch and breed at the same time. Robb grabbed a vial of
oil from his bag and slathered it over his hands. He gripped his cock and
imagined he was fucking into Jon’s wet hole.
The sensation wasn’t half as good as Jon but he made do with the fantasy. He
could picture the redness in Jon’s cheeks as he begged for a proper dicking.  
“ Please, Robb. Knot me. Fuck me harder. I want you to breed me. Just stuff my
cunt until I’m filled with pups. Please, please, please.”
There was a filthy squelch that accompanied each stroke of his cock. Robb
growled lowly and started pumping himself faster. He thought about how Jon’s
hole fluttered around his knot,  squeezing him from the inside. The image had
the warmth inside him grow. Robb could feel his knot building up.
No matter the role he played, Robb was an alpha and alpha’s instinct was to
breed. Jon’s practicality only appealed to the nature of man, but the alpha in
him wanted to explore his primal soul.
The hardest thing to resist was how easy it was to have him. Jon was willing;
even at his most reluctant, all it took was few commands and a firm hand to get
him stretched out and wailing. There were plenty of ways to impregnate his
brother without their father ever discovering the identity of the sire. He
could convince his little brother to meet him in the godswood when everyone was
asleep. He could put on a show for their father. Gag Jon so no one would hear
him scream and fuck him raw. When he finished, Robb would return to his bedroom
and pretend to have slept while his little brother was getting raped. Jon would
be found with Robb’s thick cum gushing out of both his holes, dripping down to
his feet.
Jon would be ruined. He’d have no choice but to remain in Winterfell and under
the protection his older brother. But neither Robb nor their father could
always be there to watch over him. Chances are, Jon would get raped again.
Pregnant omegas were the horniest, and nursing omegas were known for cock
warming.  Year after year, Jon would be filled with Robb's pups.
Robb longed for the savagery. He came all over his hand and sunk boneless onto
his sheets. His eyelids dropped, and when he slept, he fantasized about Jon’s
wrecked womb. The sweetest part was that their father would never know he was
the culprit. 
***
North of Riverrun, within a castle of high stone walls and an inner sanctum
built upon the beams of dark oak, Howland sat in a room with no windows and a
dining table with nine chairs. As an honored guest, Howland was given a seat
beside the current lord. The food was set, and stomachs rumbled, but none of
the seven children were eating.
When the doors slammed open, Howland heard the eldest son thanked the gods. He
watched as a familiar face come to light, and a small, cloaked figure walked
beside him. He closed the doors and checked the curtains and the corners to see
if there were any uninvited guests.
The only girl spoke. “We checked before dinner, father. There is no one here
but us. Please, sit down and eat.”
Lord Tytos Blackwood was weak against his daughter’s pleas. “Of course,
Bethany. But one can never be too sure."
Tytos marched towards his rightful position at the head of the table, and his
shadow followed. Howland stood up to greet him. “Thank you for allowing me to
join you. I was told that such an intrusion was unheard of.”
“Few have the right to do so,” Tytos informed. He smiled gravely. “Pardon our
eccentricities. We do not eat until all the members of the family are seated.”
He sent an affectionate glance at his companion. "I did not mean to take so
long." 
Howland followed his gaze. He smiled and moved over to hug the shrouded being.
“I have missed you.”
Lord Tytos Blackwood’s wife was legendary for being unknown. If not for the
enchanting green eyes that his children all shared, many would have assumed
them to be bastards made legitimate through the wily ways of the Blackwood. The
Bracken family often said as such to discredit them. For the sake of a
political ally and a dear friend, Lord Howland Reed put a stop to the
defamation. He confirmed, decades ago, that Lord Blackwood married into the
obscure Blackmyre family of the Neck. The official statement was that his wife
was ill and kept inside the castle for his health. More rumors were sprouted
from that lie but nothing the Blackwood House could not handle.
The truth was not as simple. The companion removed his cloak and revealed a man
with nut-brown skin, freckled with snow-colored spots. He had large ears and
green eyes the size of a doe’s. His hair was thick and rich as the moss of the
Neck and Howland longed to run his fingers through it. He could not be confined
by human measures of beauty but the sight of him made Howland nostalgic. If it
weren’t for the number of fingers on his hand, Howland would have thought him
inhuman.  
“I have as well,” Lyre Blackwood confessed, a musical quality to his tone. They
kissed on the lips; a friendly gesture that surprised his children. Howland
returned to his seat. While the Lord of the Neck sat at a respectable distance
from Lord Blackwood, his wife’s place was to serve. He gathered food on their
shared plate before returning to his lap where he took in great joy feeding his
husband. Lyre’s submission astounded Howland for as much as Lord Blackwood’s
children proved indifferent. Howland removed his surprise with rationality and
enjoyed his meal as a rare guest. The food was delicious, and his hosts were
lovely. He answered all the questions the children had about the Neck and made
a similar invitation for them to join him. Howland provided a distraction for
their parents who were engrossed with each other.
More than anyone, Howland understood the reasoning behind the Blackwood’s
secrecy. The union between one of those who sing the song of earth and man
usually produced children like Howland or Jyana. They looked human; for the
seed of man was strong. But for every flower that bloomed red, there was
another that was white. Lyre’s appearance was unearthly. The clandestine nature
of his identity was paramount in keeping the secrets of the Neck. When he chose
to marry Lord Blackwood, those secrets came into jeopardy. Lord Howland’s
father agreed to allow the union under the condition that he’d never be seen
beyond the eyes of blood and water. The other option was less reasonable.
Before Howland could concern himself with the memory, he noticed that his hosts
have forgotten about him. When they finished licking off each other’s fingers,
their tongues found a way into each other’s mouths. He watched Tytos shoved
their plate to the ground to make room for their bodies on the table. Their
children flushed, not from surprise but out of humiliation. They never thought
their parents would be so shameless in front of a guest.
“You do not have to watch,” suggested Lucas, the second oldest. “We could have
the pudding in the parlor.”
Howland laughed. “How green do you think I am, boy?”
Lucas blushed and resumed his meal. Bethany and the younger boys giggled.
Howland shook his head and continued eating. He did not blame Tytos for his
bold claim nor was he a stranger to acts of the flesh. One of the joys of
marriage was the permission to showcase one’s omega without shame; to receive
the envy of men whose wives honored decency over debauchery. Lord Tytos would
never receive that opportunity while those who sing the song of earth remained
in hiding.
The man dreamed of violating his wife on the steps of Stone Hedge. He longed
for the look on rival’s face while he fathered another child with his fertile
wife. On the occasion where they are both obliged to attend, he often bragged
about how much he longed for another daughter but kept siring sons. Lord Jonos
Bracken always got riled up—the man had only omega daughters and a bastard
Tytos suspected to be a cuckold.
Howland sipped his water while Lyre gasped for his husband to fuck him. The
crannogman were nothing if not dedicated lovers. Lord Blackwood’s cock was long
and thin like the man himself. When Tytos pushed his cock inside, it looked
obscene because of their differences in size. He could see an obvious indention
pressing against Lyre’s stomach.
Tytos picked up his rhythm. He’d been fucking his wife for years; the man
carried seven of his children. He knew better than anyone what his spouse was
capable of. Lyre was moaned underneath Tytos’ palms. His got pounded
mercilessly, and Tytos was holding him down as he snapped his hips faster.
Howland was fascinated by how brutal he was going. From a distance, it almost
looked like Tytos was fucking a child. Lyre was tiny; he was smaller than
Howland despite being five years his senior. Howland watched Lord Blackwood’s
dick become blurry from the speed. He could hear Lyre’s slick dripping all over
the floor. Tytos stuffed his fingers alongside his cock, forcing a shriek out
of his wife’s mouth. He took out his fingers and licked them off.
Howland took a deep breath. The slick smelled delicious even to an omega like
himself—it reminded him fresh rain—and it made him delirious. The children were
unaffected. They did make a groan, however, when Tytos ejected his cock from
their mother’s body and grabbed his wine glass. After two strokes, he was
spilling inside.
Howland could not hide his interest as Tytos pried open his wife’s mouth and
poured the cum cocktail down his throat. When they were done, Lyre was covered
in fluids. Tytos announced that he would be finishing dinner in his room. He
asked Howland to join them in the bedroom. His two eldest sons were to follow.
Howland chuckled which contrasted their children’s reluctance. They walked
quickly. Though Lyre was hidden by his cloak, his thighs were still dripping.
When they got to the bedroom, his husband carried him to the bed and devoured
his cunt.
“Tytos!”
“Father, please.” Brynden shook his head in disapproval. “Have some decency for
our guest.” Howland noted that the young man was not disgusted but displeased.
He was afraid of insulting Howland. Howland's lips twitched. He could not
believe some people still cared for his honor. 
Tytos removed his mouth to answer. “He is the Lord of the Neck. You cannot tell
me he has never seen an omega debauched.”
“Rarely by his husband,” Howland teased. “We tend to rely on the kindness of
strangers.”
Tytos’ tongue pumped in and out of his wife’s drenched cunt, and his lips
slurped up as much honey as it could. He licked Lyre’s plush, silky walls and
enjoyed his dessert despite the discomfort of his sons. “Tell me what you’re
here for, Howland. I doubt you travel to the South for fun.”
“I used to,” Howland pointed out. "When I was young, the mysteries of the
southron were infinite." 
“Look how that turned out for you.”
Howland smiled despite the insult. “You have a wicked tongue, Lord Blackwood.”
Lyre laughed and moaned at the same time. He squeezed his husband’s head
between his thighs. “Howland, once my lord is done with me, I will be unable to
think. Please, hurry.”
Howland smiled. He glanced over at the two boys. “Do you trust them?”
Lyre gasped. “My own children?” Tytos flicked his tongue against his clit, and
he wailed. Then, he answered, “Yes, yes, yes. I do.”
“Good.” Howland sat down at the table close to their bed. “I want to discuss a
proposition with you, not only as your fellow lord but as friends of the Starks
and believers of the old gods.”
“Interesting,” Tytos stated. He removed his mouth much to the displeasure of
his wife. The crannogman thrust his hips upward, but instead of indulging,
Tytos grabbed Lyre’s hair and forced his mouth against his suffering cock.
Howland watched as his friend was forced to hump the bed for friction. “What do
you propose?”
“An alliance,” Howland declared, “To bring a crown to my beloved lands and
offer you the power to bring your love to light.” 
Chapter End Notes
     Fuck, this chapter was hard to write. Crown the Wolf is one of my
     favorite stories and this time, I was going crazy trying to get over
     my writer’s block. I’m sorry for being two days late. Please forgive
     me. And for what is about to happen next at the end.
     Also, as you could tell, I took advantage of the fact that Lord
     Blackwood’s wife was unknown. Add in the fact that the man was a
     believer in the old gods and a staunch Stark loyalists made him a
     perfect southern ally. Now onto the hiatus alert!
     HIATUS ALERT
     Ah, yes. Another one. I will be going on hiatus from May 14th until
     June 11th. I’ll post a schedule the next time I update (which will be
     the day before my hiatus). You will receive one more chapter before I
     take a break.
     It’ll only be for a month (I’m going on vacation for two weeks and
     then I need another two weeks to write, schedule when to write,
     outline what to write, and try to adjust my work schedule to my
     writing schedule and prepare for school—because writing is a risky
     career and as a realist, I like to prepare for failure while praying
     for success.)
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings…hmm…minor threesome (AOOO) and sort of bestiality at the
     end? There’s a lot of blood in the end, too, but it’s just blood.
     It’s not kinky.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When Jon was a child, he used to anticipate the community baths. He and the
other children would group together behind a rock to admire the bloomed omegas
cleansing off their glutinous bottoms and swollen breasts, playing with
cocklets or fingering themselves as they talked about their latest exploits.
Some would engage in more indulgent activities with each other or with one of
the rare alphas residing in the Neck. Others used the bathing time to catch up
on gossip, conversating about adult topics like trades and battles and
children. Jon longed to grow up and be one of them.
It was not until Jon reached the springs that he realized his childhood—his
treasured spot of espionage was overtaken by a new generation of crannogmen.
They giggled as he was stripped down to nothing. Jon was the object of envy,
and it was a good feeling. So much had changed since he left and the simple
acknowledgment of his adulthood made his body burn. He could not believe how
strange normality was to him; of how geography could turn him from "just
another omega" to the bastard of the North.
 His friends took advantage of his awe to fondle his assets.
“Ah!” Jon yelped when a pair of hands came out from behind him to pinch his
nipples. When he saw the assailant, he shouted, “Kyle!”
The mischievous crannogman giggled. Kyle Boggs was one of Jon’s childhood
companions and as an adult grew even more enthralling with his long lashes and
ginger locks. More laughter filled the area as Jon’s friends jumped into the
water, tussling and splashing each other with joy.
Kyle dragged Jon away from the shallow pools so that they could swim with their
dust. There was no trench in the Neck deeper than the size of two crannogmen,
but for their small statures, that might as well have been an ocean. Underneath
him, someone pulled Jon’s legs under. He tried to fight off his assailant but
the stranger let him go before Jon could manage a hit. When he resurfaced, Jon
was completely drenched. After shaking his head of the excess water, he saw the
other omegas laughing at him.
Jon pouted at them. “You are so cruel!” he accused, splashing in their
direction.
Kyle captured him in his arms. The Boggs omega leaned in and kissed Jon, poking
his tongue inside so that he could taste him. Jon’s instinct was to fight off
any touch that was not Robb. He stopped by reminding himself that the gesture
was nothing more than a greeting between friends. Kissing was standard in the
Neck.
His home, Jon reminded himself. He was a crannogman, too.  
The Snow child was pulled out of his thoughts when his underwater attacker
pounced on his backside.
“Have you’ve forgotten me, Snow?”
“Lonnel!" Jon shrieked. "Not you, too!”
The Fenn boy laughed. “You have no tits, but an ass as soft as clouds. Alphas
must spend hours eating your hole for dessert.” Lonnel squeezed Jon's mounds.
Jon could feel two thumbs spread his butt cheeks apart, letting the water slip
inside him. Jon’s moans became louder than the laughter. His friend's cocklet
pressed against the curve of his ass and his lips sucked on Jon's ear. Jon felt
lightheaded. 
“Lonnel, you must stop…”
“You are so lewd,” Lonnel teased. “Your hole has become loose since we last saw
you. How many cocks have you taken into this cute, little hole? Ten? Twenty?”
“He should have bedded the entire North by now,” murmured a Boggs girl, a
cousin of Kyle’s. “That’s what I would do if I ever leave these plains. I
wouldn’t go a day without an alpha.”
“They have houses there,” whispered a Quagg boy. “Where alphas give coin to
omegas for bedding them. Can you imagine, being rewarded for receiving rewards?
They rut inside omegas, stuffing their mouths and cunts, not even waiting for
their turn before adding another cock inside them. Have you ever spread your
legs at those houses, Jon? Don’t lie; I bet you have.”
Jon whimpered; he shook his head. “No,” he whispered with a face as red as an
apple. “I don’t want to.” He panted, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth shaped
like an ‘O,' the common expression of a fucked out whore.
The thought of confessing aroused him. If there was anybody he could trust with
the affair, it was the crannogmen. They were the secret keepers of gods and
monsters. He knew they wouldn’t betray him; what were the harms of revealing
his transgressions here? With every sinful caress by his brethren, his reason
wavered, and his selfishness prevailed. Jon was not at Winterfell. The Neck was
a haven where he could be applauded for his accomplishments, not reviled for
his sins.
Kyle flicked his cock and Jon’s self-control left as he came into the water.
“One,” he breathed out. The water was boiling. “I’ve only had one alpha.”
“One?” Gasps spread throughout their party. “You are lying,” said the Quagg,
aghast by the notion.
Jon stared at his accuser with half-lidded eyes. “I have no reason to lie,” he
challenged. Sex was not deemed immoral within the lands that move. More hushed
whispers were made in light of the scandal. “I love him; so I’ve offered him my
fidelity in heart and body. He is mine, and I am his.”
“He must reside in Winterfell, then,” Lonnel observed, ever the insightful one.
“To have the time to foster your affection. Who is he?”
Jon bit his lip before swimming circles around his neighbors. “It is a secret.”
“Is it one of the guards your father assigned to watch over you?” Kyle asked.
“Perhaps the one with the broad shoulders and long hair?"
"Jory?"
Kyle nodded. "My mother has bedded him before. She says he has a fat cock that
is quite filling. Please share if that is the case. I want to taste him for
myself.”
Jon laughed. “If that were true, he would not be my lover. I will not tolerate
unfaithfulness.” He kissed his friend’s lips. “Only my honey may touch my
lover's lips.”
“That eliminates the giant,” quips the Quagg.
The crannogman erupt into giggles. Jon joined them, knowing exactly who they
are referring to. Lonnel laughed the hardest and reminded them that they must
seek the answers within the walls of Winterfell.
“I have a theory,” Lonnel hummed. “One that would explain the secrecy.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Shall I confirm or will you remain smug about your
errors?”
Lonnel swam towards him. "Tell me, Jon." He wrapped his arms around Jon’s neck
and tangled his fingers into his curls to keep him from escaping. “How many
times has your brother use that deceitful mouth of yours?”
As soon as Lonnel asked, Jon sputtered out his shock, resulting in howls and
jeers from the entire group. His whole body turned red with embarrassment. The
crowd crannogmen swarmed around him like sharks in the water, begging for
details of their bedtime trysts and their naughty adventures around the castle.
“Oh, you fiendish slut!” Kyle hailed with high spirits. “To seduce your brother
and gain the guaranteed pleasures of an instant fuck. Your cunt must be ruined.
I bet your insides are softer than jam.” Kyle reached down to finger Jon’s
cunt. Jon’s mortification had him retreating to the nearest exit. His efforts
were in vein as the Bogg girl trapped his waist between her arms. 
“I hear he is the most handsome alpha in the North. What is his name again?”
“Robb,” murmured Jon, who nestled his head within her scruff. Her sources were
correct. “The sun falters upon his brightness, and he calls me the fire that
sparks his light.”   
The Boggs girl laughed and allowed his heated complexation to seek refuge in
her snake pit. She patted him on the back as a small comfort. “You are smitten.
Tell me, how does his cock measure up to his face?”
Jon blushed. They were waiting for him to answer; their eyes dissected his back
for untold stories of filth. Their admiration curled his toes. With a heavy
breath, he told them that “Robb’s cock is gorgeous.”
The omegas shrilled in excitement. They urged Jon to continue, pulling on his
arms so that his story could be shared amongst them.
Jon bravely allowed himself to be swayed. He returned to the center. With a
bitten lip, he revealed his favorite details of his lover’s manhood. “Robb’s
length is average for an alpha, but his cock is thick—as big as a weirwood
branch.” Jon tried to mimic the size with his hands. The omegas gasped at the
distance he displayed. “Whenever he’s inside me, I can barely move because I’m
so stretched out. The veins of his cock rub against my walls and he pulses cum
by the gallons." Jon licked his lips. "When I walk, his cum drips out of me
because I am so open.”
The Boggs girl sighed dreamily. “How did it feel the first time you were
together?”
Jon sighed, remembering their first time on the throne. “Wonderful,” he
whispered. “Like we were becoming one.”
“Where have you fucked?” asked an older boy.
Jon smiled as bright as his cherry cheeks. “Everywhere we could,” he bragged.
“We’ve done it in the rooms of Winterfell, in the woods, in the hot springs.”
Jon caught his breath; his honey was clotting between his thighs. The water
became thick with desire. “I let him do things to me.”
“What kind of things?”
“Dirty things,” he confessed. “I let him tie up my hands and legs so that I
can’t move. Sometimes, he puts stuff inside me. Not just tools, but fruits and
custards. One time, he made me go through swords training with my insides
churning honey and milk. When I was finished, he spent hours eating me out.”
“Wow…” Kyle awed. Jon was so experienced. He fingered his ass while pressing
Jon for more details. “What if you get caught? Won’t your papa be angry with
you?”
Jon blushed. It had been years since called his father ‘papa’ and the word made
their gossip sound more scandalous. “He would be. So we have to be careful not
to get caught.” Not that Robb cares; the thought of Robb’s insensitivities
inclined Jon to discuss the issue. “Robb doesn’t listen to me. He takes me
whenever he wants.”
“What if you say no?” Lonnel pushed. “Does he punish you?” The Fenn smacked his
friend’s bottom. Jon yelped. His cock twitched. “Does he bend you over and fuck
you anyways?”
“Yes,” Jon choked out. “He keeps fucking me until I want it. Then he fucks me
harder for denying him in the first place.”
"You were always so cautious," sighed Kyle. "I bet you say 'no' a lot so he can
teach you a lesson. You can't say no to your alpha." 
Jon bit his lip. "Maybe," he conceded, looking around to check for Robb's
wandering ear. It was a silly thing to worry about, but the thought of Robb
listening to his dirty confessions made him stick a finger inside his pussy. 
“Will we ever meet him?” The Quagg asked eagerly.
“One day,” Jon promised before having a vital thought. “But you can’t have a
taste! He’s mine!”
“Selfish,” Kyle muttered. “Your mother doesn’t share either.”
“That’s because your loose cunt does not tempt Lord Benjen,” Lonnel quipped.
Kyle flicked water in his face. “And you are so taut? You have taken the
Umber’s cock like the peaches sang for it.”
Lonnel flushed. Jon laughed at the pinkness of his friend’s cheek. He kissed
him to show his support. “Don’t be cruel; it can’t be helped that Lonnel is
more skilled to take on the Umber. It’s in his blood. In due time, you too will
be accomplished enough to handle such a beast.” The comment sparked their
competitive nature. Lonnel sent Jon a grateful look. Within seconds, all of the
crannogmen launched into their own dirty tales, of the alphas they’ve bedded
and the swords they’ve swallowed. Jon absorbed their unsolicited advice; some
tidbits even intrigued him. He longed to test out the suggestion of being
fucked in his sire’s bed or being stripped naked while Robb licked the
delicacies off his body.
An enormous wave swept over him and his friends, interrupting their candor.
They shrieked and turned to see the cause of the upsurge. Smalljon Umber was
being dragged into the springs by the twins, Robar and Mara Fenn, Lonnel’s
cousins. Jon sunk into the water to cover up his form while the others drew
closer to the scene.
Kyle stayed behind to remark on Jon’s inhibition. “What is the matter? Do you
have grief with the giant?”
Jon shook his head, making ripples in the water. “He is an alpha, and I am
bare.”
“I do not see the problem.”
 “Outside the Neck, it is considered immoral for omegas to be seen by alphas
outside their blood.”
“You had no problems earlier.” Kyle nodded over to a female alpha in her late
twenties, fiddling with a group of omegas.
Jon sighed. “I do not want an outsider to see me undress. Especially one who
can spread stories of my figure to other alphas. He is not trained to keep
secrets as we are.”
The point was well-made. “Very well,” Kyle submitted. He pointed to a nearby
rock where some of the other crannogman were already seated. Kyle agreed to
swim there. “The giant will not see you and you, can still partake in the
pleasure.”
Jon thought about his options. He decided against refusal—especially when it
meant losing an opportunity to bond with his former comrades. He swam to the
boulder and found a spot where he could watch Lonnel join the surfeit. 
Lonnel laughed when he reunited with his bedpartner. Smalljon captured him in
what looked like a tongue fucking rather than a kiss. Jon trembled with desire.
More than ever, he was glad he stayed for the indulgence.  
With Lonnel’s arrival, Smalljon was responsible for the needs of three omegas.
He took his duty seriously. The springs were his bedroom and the water was his
bed. He laid Mara Fenn on her back and she floated like a water lily, legs
spread and a pair of tits unable to be covered by the ripples. Jon stared
enviously. Female omegas were blessed with godly breasts—they were the subject
of wicked games and erotic dreams. Rarely were male omegas so fortunate, with
exceptions being Theon and his ample oranges. Jon was not surprised when
Smalljon reached out and massaged one in his hands.
They looked so soft, Jon sighed, like giant pillows of cream. On her tiny body,
Mara’s breasts looked like watermelons and coupled with her childlike features
made her entire appearance obscene. Men like Smalljon appreciated the contrast.
It made their fucking seem more forbidden.
Feeling neglected, Robar reached out to steal the giant from his cousin. He
grabbed a bicep and squeezed, making it clear to Smalljon he needed more
attention. Smalljon obliged.
Lonnel protested when Smalljon removed his lips and placed them on Robar. The
younger twin eagerly took in Smalljon’s tongue. His enthusiasm contrasted his
sister’s gentle submissiveness or his cousin’s careful seduction. Ever the
fighter, Lonnel refused to lose to such low-brow provocation. Unlike Robar,
Lonnel was training to become a skjaldmær; his physical strength was impressive
for a crannogman, and he was a master of using weight and gravity to his
advantage. Without saying a word, Lonnel hooked his leg around Smalljon’s hips
and managed to lay him onto his back.
The impact of the Umber’s body resulted in a small tidal wave that had the
younger children shrieking in delight. The kids were located on the opposite
side of the springs from Jon; the Snow child could see Meera alongside them,
staring wide-eyed and cheeky.
Their childish behavior made Jon nostalgic. Smalljon’s howl of laughter
returned Jon’s attention to the scene before him.
Lonnel straddled Smalljon’s lap. “I get to have you first. Do you have any
complaints?” Lonnel asked while rolling his hips.
Smalljon chuckled and shook his head. “No, as long there is no conflict.” He
wouldn't mind having a three beautiful omegas fight over him, but he was
reluctant to ruin an opportunity. The Fenn twins pouted but adhered to the
verdict. They frolicked over to start kissing Smalljon. Lonnel lowered onto the
Umber’s cock. He released a series of choked  sounds that got Smalljon harder.
Lonnel screamed when he felt the increased stretch of his asshole.
“Big,” Lonnel guttered out. He tried to relax; this was not the first time he’d
taken the Umber’s cock but there was something about doing it in the springs,
deep inside their hidden lands, where everyone was watching, that kept him
tense. He hoped that with his upcoming heat, he’d be looser. The only benefit
it seemed, was the surplus honey he produced. Smalljon had no problem slipping
in, but Lonnel’s sensitivity increased. His entire body into an erogenous zone.
“You feel so good,” Smalljon praised, thrusting upwards. Robar was clearly
unhappy that Smalljon’s tongue was being used for matters outside of pleasuring
him; he kissed the alpha to remind him of his place.
“This is ours until Lonny is finished with your cock,” Robar ordered. “I want
to use your mouth.”
Smalljon was not one to listen to orders, even ones he enjoyed. Robar yelped
when the large man used his left hand to grope his ass and his right to squeeze
his sister’s tits.
“If you want my cock,” he growled out. “Then you wait until I put you to use.”
He slapped Robar’s ass. Everyone gasped at the red handprint on his cheek. One
girl came. The Umber was so rough; everyone was shaking, hoping that the Umber
would direct his anger onto one of them.
Robar whimpered as Smalljon slapped him again. “Yes!” He gasped. “Anything you
want!”  
Satisfied, Smalljon returned his attention to Lonnel. The crannogman tried to
ride him, but Smalljon's shaft was lodged against his prostate and his tip was
entering his womb. Every move made his mind go blank. After a few, testing
bounces on his cock, Lonnel started working his way into a steady rhythm. Loud
squelching noises and wanton moans became the only sound in the springs.  
The friction was not enough for the man-giant. Just as Smalljon was pulling
out, he jolted all the way in, relishing in the way Lonnel clenched around him.
Lonnel's cum splattered all over his chest. His body slumped down, but Smalljon
refused to let Lonnel faint without bringing him to completion.
Smalljon closed his eyes and inhaled Lonnel’s slick dripping down his cock.
“Fuck, you’re getting ripe. Going to breed this ass the way it deserves.”
Lonnel wailed when Smalljon grabbed his hips and began to move him up and down
like a ragdoll. Each time he was pulled off the cock, the crannogmen could see
the way Lonnel’s hole gaped. After a few more ruthless thrusts, Smalljon pushed
all the way inside, creaming into Lonnel’s belly and making him swell by the
sheer volume of cum.
Most of the crannogman followed suit. Jon gasped; he came down from his high
and removed his sticky fingers from his cunt.
Smalljon removed Lonnel off his cock and pulled him up into a sloppy kiss.
Boneless from pleasure, Lonnel went limp against his body. Mara was the one who
rested him in the water. After she had finished caring for her cousin's
comfort, she started licking Smalljon’s cockhead while massaging it between her
tits. She was getting him clean and hard again for her and her brother.
Northern conventions on sex were severe and the south doubly so. Jon had long
forgotten the appetites of those who devoured without consequence.
“What is he still doing here? I thought the Northern party left last night.”
Jon asked, pretending that reason was still his friend and not a passing
acquaintance.
“They were,” Kyle answered, out of breath himself. “But the Fenns’ heats are
coming up. They’ve asked the Umber to help them through it and he agreed.”
Envy coursed through his veins. Jon dreamed of spending a heat with Robb.
Unfortunately for him, Maester Luwin kept a watchful eye on his student’s moons
and made no room for error. Jon and Robb had plans for a “mistake” that never
had the opportunity to be made.
“What if they’re not compatible?” His jealousy was seething. The others did not
acknowledge his bite, far too focused on Mara’s shrieks of pleasure.
“The Fenns’ heats are synchronized to each other. As long as the Umber is
matched with one of them, the others will not be disappointed.” Kyle smiled
thoughtfully. “They have the makings of betrothal. The heat will be a good
chance for the Umber to narrow down his options.”
Jon pursed his lips. They were allowed to be brazen, Jon thought. They weren’t
siblings like he and Robb were.
Tired of coveting his friend’s fortune, Jon got out of the water. While he got
dressed, Cley Fenn, the mother of Mara and Robar Fenn, joined him on dry land.
“Have you enjoy your swim?”
Jon nodded. “I have; it was nice to be surrounded by my people again.”
Cley smiled demurely. The expression reminded Jon of his sister and her natural
pleasantness. “I am sure that must be the case. Outside customs can be quite
rigid.”
“Have you ever traveled outside the Neck?” Jon asked.
“A few times. I sometimes join your mother on his political expenditures, but
no place treasures me like the Neck.”
Jon looked away. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Will you stay long enough to speak to your mother?”
Jon shook his head. “I’m afraid I am only here for the week—until my brother’s
party passes through.”
“Maybe Howland will still be at Winterfell when you return, or perhaps you’ll
see him on the road.” 
“That is a hope of mine,” Jon admitted. “But thank you for making me feel like
home, regardless of my mother’s presence. It is rare for me to be treated so
well.”
Cley frowned. He reached over and stroked Jon’s cheek. “Are the people North
cruel to you, Jon?”
Not always, he wanted to say. No, he should have muttered. “As long as I have
my family, the cruelties are no more than dust in the wind. I am so grateful
for my brother’s love.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Jon flushed a bright red.
The Fenn covered his mouth to dampen his laughter. He brushed Jon’s curls out
of his face. “I cannot speak for your mother or father, but if my son or
daughter were in the position you are in, I would ask them to choose their
happiness over their soul.” Cley laughed. "Who knows what the gods have planned
for us?" 
***
For the next few days, Jon returned to his routine before Winterfell. He cooked
food alongside his brothers and sisters of the Neck, ate in the community
crannogs, and stayed in a different bed each night. There were so many things
he missed about his home. The way Meera hugged him every morning without fear
or remorse. How Jojen could speak to him freely about the hauntings in his
head. The way his people talked to him without a care for his line or lineage.
Jon savored his acceptance as if he were in an indefinite, dreamlike state.
When it came to the training day, Benjen beseeched his nephew to help him teach
the children about swords in case the crannogmen faced an enemy possessing the
weapon.
“Unless you are desperate, you should never pick up a weapon you don't know how
to use. This is how people get hurt.” Jon remembered Ser Rodrick telling him
gruesome tales of the stupid squires trying to best bandits with a recovered
sword or the downtrodden maiden slicing herself open on her attacker’s rapier.
“I’ll teach you the basics in case you are missing spears or knives and are
forced to take your enemy’s sword.”
Jon asked for a volunteer. He was proud when Meera jumped at the chance. She
took her wooden sword. Given that this was practice, Jon made the first move.
Crannogmen were taught to never hit first unless attacking in a group.
Meera was quick to dodge her first attack, but her grasp on her sword was weak.
Jon was able to dismantle her hold in a second. He paused and taught her a
bitter grip. “Remember, because of your lack of experience; you are better off
disabling your enemy. Hit the legs.” Jon tapped the back of her calf. “That
way, there will be time for us to come to your aid you or they’ll simply
stumble onto one of our less stable grounds. Start again.”
The second time around, Meera was faster on her feet. She dodged most of Jon’s
attacks, and the places he hit were not vital. His little sister managed to
“scratch” his cheek with her sword, leading to Jon stabbing her sides and
kicking her sword out of her hand. Before she could grab it, he took hold of
her wrist and twisted it behind her back.
“Better,” Jon compliment. He kissed the top of her curly brown hair. “But I
told you—stop aiming for my top half. You are small; it’ll only strain your
muscles to aspire for height.”
“Not that small,” Meera murmured. She elbowed Jon in the ribs and pushed him
backward enough to grab her sword. Before Jon could react, Meera held him at
sword point.
Jon was surprised. His chest swelled up in pride and disappointment. Pride, for
she surpassed his expectations. Disappointment, for he missed her gradual climb
of skill.
“You’ve become quite impressive.”
Meera grinned. “I am the same age you were when you left. Father says I am
better than you were at fighting.”
Jon blinked. Once the truth hit him, he finally acknowledged that Meera was not
small. For an alpha, she was of the minute size, but she was taller than he was
at her age. Alphas entered their ruts later than omegas, but who was to say she
would not mimic Jon’s early blossoming? The thought of his sister’s fleeting
childhood was sobering. The fact that he missed so much of it hurt. He glanced
over to Benjen who waited for his next move.
In Winterfell, the underhanded tactics employed by the crannogman resulted in
jeers and disgust. This was not Winterfell, Jon told himself, and he was a
crannogman, through and through.
Jon dropped his sword. “You have bested me, Meera.” He told her with a sweet
smile. “But surely you understand that uncle was kind. He is your sire, after
all. His legacy depends on you so he must be quick to praise.”
Meera furrowed his brow. “I have beaten you. I am better,” she said, with the
sword still pointed at his Neck. 
Lovely, cautious girl.
“True,” Jon admitted. “I am sure you will spread the news. To mother, when he
comes back from Winterfell.” Jon took a step closer. “To our brother, who
speaks to the trees.” He looked away from Meera, bearing his neck; a common
tactic that omegas employed to display submission. Meera was an alpha by
instinct, no matter how many omegas raised her. “And, of course, to Lady Wylla.
I’m sure she will be happy to hear from you.”
Meera’s face flushed with embarrassment. The audience rustled with soft
chuckles. Using the distraction to his advantage, Jon swiped her legs  of the
ground and had her falling off her feet.
The giggles evolved to full blown laughter. Even Benjen cracked a smile.   
“Jon!” She yelled. “That was cheating!”
“We are crannogmen,” Jon spoke, the words slipping off his tongue. “We are bog
devils and mud men. We are not honest people. Remember what mother told us?”
Meera rolled her eyes. “Honest people die young.”
“What else?”
Meera sighed, she punched the dirt in disappointment. “A battle is not won with
a wound and no enemy is done unless dead.”
Jon chuckled. He offered his hand, and before she could drag him down, he
lifted her up with an impressive show of strength.
“Nice try,” he told her, much to her displeasure. He pointed to her seat. “Sit.
Who will be next?”
All the hands were raised.
***
When all the children were due for a bath, Meera was nowhere to be found.
Sensing an issue, Jon hopped from crannog to crannog to seek out his sister.
When he found her, Jon joined Meera near a nest of turtle eggs and a number
hatched ones.
“It is nice to see that after all these years; your oasis has not changed.”
Meera sighed as she picked up a baby turtle. It squirmed in her palm. “I’ve
named this one Thyme. When he is grown, I will boil him a vat of thyme and
onions so that I can eat his flesh while he is still tender and succulent.”
Jon nodded. He picked one up, squirming by his side. “What is his name?”
“She is Tomato. She will be simmered in tomato sauce and spices.”
Jon sat down next to her. He wrapped his hand around her shoulder and pulled
her close. “Is there something wrong? I did not mean to embarrass you; I
figured everyone knew about Wylla.” Keeping a secret in the Neck was
impossible.
Meera shook her head. “Everyone knows; I speak about her all the time." Meera
grinned sheepishly. "And, of course, several other omegas.” Jon raised an
eyebrow. “I am one of the only alphas. I get an offer every week in preparation
of my rut.”
Jon ruffled her head. “When did my little sister become so filthy?”
Meera's smile left as soon as it came. She hesitated before asking, “Do you
love me, Jon?”
Jon gave her a bewildered look. “Of course I do. Why would you ask me that?”
Meera returned the turtle back to his family. “You have other sisters now.
They’re omegas and delicate and need to be protected…unlike me. You live with
them and not me. Sometimes, I wonder if you prefer their presences to mine.”
“Oh,” Jon was surprised by the thought. He immediately pulled Meera into a hug.
“My sweet, sweet sister. I can’t believe you ever thought that.”
“I know it’s silly—”
“No.” Jon shook his head. “No, it is not. This is my fault; I don’t visit you
often enough to prove my love.” He kissed her on her forehead and sighed,
drinking in her mossy scent of oud and leather. Masculine and alpha with the
freshness of femininity. He stared into her eyes.
“Meera, you are my sister, and I will never love you any more or any less than
my other siblings.” He cradled her hand. “But I must confess that you are
special.”
“Huh?” Meera’s ears latched onto the praise.
Jon chuckled. “You are my first little sibling; the first child I ever held in
my arms. Before you, I…I never considered having a babe of my own.” He gingerly
touched Meera’s cheek. “You were so small, barely the size of an apple flower.
I cradled you in my arms every night and sang the songs mother taught me.” He
could still remember Meera’s giggles as he blew raspberries onto her stomach.
“No one can take that away from you, Meera, or me.”
Meera tightened her grip around him. “I don’t want you to go back,” Meera
confessed. “I …I know you have to. I do.  Your father is Lord Stark and you
must obey him. But I don’t want you to. And it hurts. It hurts when we eat
together, when you train me and when we do the things that we used to do
because I know it’s not going to last and it won’t happen again, not for a long
time.” Meera pulled back to wipe away her tears. “I want us to be together
again.”
Jon’s clenched his fist. He wanted to say something to alleviate Meera’s fears,
but none of the lies sounded appealing. 
So he told her the truth.
“We will be together again," Jon promised. "All of us. You, me, Jojen. It will
happen, soon." 
"How do you know?"
"I just do," Jon sighed. "The webs are spun and the flies are coming forth for
our feasting. Meera.” Jon wiped away her tears. “The world will become ours and
we'll get to shape it for the ones we love.”
Meera stared into Jon’s eyes. She paused and then nodded. “What do you want me
to do?”
Oh, and more than ever, Jon remembered they were of the same blood. “Grow up,
but not too fast,” Jon teased. Meera smiled alongside him. When they finished
with their laugh, Jon cradled her hand. “We are all intertwined on this
tapestry of fate. Yours is dyed in garish green and it weaves the ships that
dance in our waters and the silver that strengthens our earth.”
“Earth and water, soil and stone,” Meera repeated.
“Yes,” Jon agreed. He gave her one last kiss. “Now, let’s go home. I want to
show you a few techniques you can teach the other children. It’ll be good for
you to learn before I leave.”
***
Jon’s moment with Meera made him wonder if he had been neglecting his younger
brother. When everyone was asleep, the bastard child checked the mats for his
honey-haired brother and was dismayed by his absence. He looked in several
crannogs, careful to keep his steps light, to no success. He came to the
conclusion that the disappearance was spiritual. The Snow child wandered around
the swamps, led by the flame he conjured in his hand and the tracks of trees.
Before long, they directed him to his desired location. Jon found their moving
weirwood with Jojen’s bored expression as a greeting.
“Do you know when I sleep here, I sometimes dream of your parents’ wedding
night?” He asked; the sickly innocence of his voice made his words all the more
unnerving. “They loved each other. I think it was the happiest mother has ever
been, even happier than when he had us.”
“I know.”
Jojen was a solemn child. He stared up at the canopy of leaves that blocked the
night sky. “I dream of other things, too. Sometimes, if I close my eyes at the
right moment, I can see you. And Bran. I like to see Bran. He prays often. I
think he can sense when I am dreaming.”
“You shouldn’t sleep here,” Jon advised. “There are monsters in the water.
Lizard-lions and swamp creatures that crave the flesh of little boys.”
Jojen chuckled; the sound was odd from a nine-year-old. Jon walked over to him
and pulled him into his lap. Heavens, Jojen was getting big as well. He was an
alpha, so it made sense that he was almost Jon’s size.  
“Why must you wander so much?” Jon asked, hugging him tightly. “Why must you
make me worry?”
“You should worry about yourself. I am protected by the gods and those who sing
songs of earth. They understand my fate is not to die underneath a heart tree.”
Jon shook his head. “Unless you’ve heard the song of peaches, do not tell me
you understand fate.”
“I have the greensight.”
“You have red blood and that makes you vulnerable. Human,” Jon reminded.
Jojen remained unconvinced. “Do you feel human, brother?”
“Yes.”
“Even when your skin changes form? Do you still feel human then?”
Jon sighed. “I regret engaging in those arts.”
“Good,” Jojen noted, smug that his original assessment was accurate.  “You
weren’t ready. But one day you will be. You are a skinchanger, just like Bran
and your sister, Arya.”
Arya? Jon thought in surprise. “Jojen, where did you hear these things?”
“I didn’t hear them,” Jojen reminded with a little sigh. “I saw them.”  
“Jojen,” Jon stressed.
“You’re going to run with wolves, Jon. I’ve seen you. A wolf with fur as white
as snow, eyes as red as blood and as big as a horse,” Jojen swore. For the
first time, he smiled at him. “Soon, Bran will be ready to embrace his
abilities. He will be sent to the Neck where I will be asked to foster his
talents. Before then, I have to grow myself.”
“Hence the sleeping,” Jon said with a reluctant. He shook his head. He
remembered Lady Stark mentioning Bran’s fostering. “Perhaps, Bran will adapt
better than I have.”
Jojen tilted his head in confusion. “But you are happy at Winterfell?”
“I am happy.”
“Are you not happy here?”
“I am happy,” Jon repeated.
“You don’t sound happy.”
Jon sighed. “My joy is a preexisting condition. It is subject to being
overshadowed by detachment and thought. And worry for my little brother.”
Jojen did not fall for the joke. “Perhaps mother's absence  has made you
dissatisfied.”
Jon stroked his brother’s hair. Jojen was wise and reasonable, and yet, his
plausibility was wrong. “I am no stranger to this feeling. It occurs whenever
Robb and I are separated. He makes me whole, and without him, I am half of
myself.”  
Jojen snuggled further against Jon’s chest, hoping his warmth would sate his
longing. “You will be together soon.”
“I know,” Jon reassured.
“You two are destined for each other.”
Jon laughed. “Your confidence is milk for the starving babe.”
“It is not confidence but foresight.” Jojen paused. He knew he was supposed to
keep his outings a secret, even from the crannogmen, but his brother was sad.
Jojen hated seeing him suffer. He stood up. “Come."
“Hmm?” Jon was surprised. His brother loathed traveling for anyone who wasn’t
Bran.
“Come with me,” Jojen ordered again, sounding every bit the alpha he pretended
not to be. “I want you to see what I see.”
Secrets with Jojen were always intriguing. Jon followed for the humor; for
years, Jon’s brother revealed to him spells of snow and songs of lightning. He
made flowers bloom before time had the chance and waters spring like the
geysers of shaking mountains. Jojen possessed an aptitude for sorcery, and
their mother intended to nurture that talent.
The alpha boy led Jon further into the swamps; dodging dangerous snakes and
peeking lizard lions on their way to the mysterious destination. If not for his
blind trust, Jon would have turned around and retreated to their crannog.
Jojen’s adamancy won his commitment.
When Jojen stopped, Jon was faced with an unfamiliar tree. He suspected he was
staring at a weirwood until he saw the hanging fruits.
“This is a fig tree,” Jon noted. “Why have you brought me here?”
Jojen picked out a piece. “Eat it and find out.”
A million doubts were running through Jon’s head. None of them were persuasive
enough to overrule Jojen’s certainty. Jon took the fruit from his brother’s
hand and sunk his teeth into it. When he finished swallowing, the bastard boy
choked. He coughed until he fell to the ground and his vision turned black.
***
Jon never thought there would come a day where he would lay with a wolf, nor
would he ever imagine himself being submissive to the beast’s demands. The
wolfman bore the body of a human; his torso was thick with muscles and his
broad shoulders overwhelmed Jon’s small form. His fitness aroused Jon’s
instincts; his omega cunt grew wet from being in proximity of a worthy mate.
When the beast growled through his long stout, Jon reached over and ran his
fingers through the smoke grey fur and let his skin be burnt by the wolf’s
yellow eyes. Jon moaned as the wolf plowed him like a fertile field.
“I am going to have your pups,” Jon vowed. He could not understand why the
words left his mouth. “Fuck me full of them, please! Please!”
The wolfman flipped Jon on his hands and knees and started fucking into him
like a bitch. It felt so good, Jon thought, his insides were melting. He could
barely think or breathe.
I want his cock, he moaned, I want it over and over again. I want to be filled
with his alpha's progeny.
“Fuck me,” he gasped out. “Fuck me hard, don’t stop!”  
Jon shut his eyes as his relief drew near. Right as the beast was about to
release his seed, he howled at the moon and lodged his fangs into Jon’s neck.
Jon’s blood splattered everywhere. The blood seeped into the ground and dyed
their surroundings red. Jon dug his fingers into the blood dirt. The grains
turned to mud before thinning into water. The blood from his veins transformed
the earth into an ocean of crimson.  
Jon was overwhelmed with emptiness. He opened and saw that he was alone. The
water beneath him swirled into a whirlpool, and he was sucked in without a
thought of escaping. When he resurfaced from the depths of blood and hell, he
was sitting at a table in a throne room. 
On the throne was a stag walking on two legs, watching his guests fill in. The
stag sat down and golden chains bound his legs together. Beasts of all kinds
came to take their seats. His fellow dinner companions stared at each other
without once making contact to their leader. Jon saw a mermaid holding the skin
of a man who had been stripped to his bone; besides her was a skeleton holding
her leash. He saw a bear with thorny vines wrapped around his neck with a rose
attached to each claw. Snakes were slithering on top of hands and feet, hissing
at their misfortune. The ground was still wet with blood and Jon could see the
dead fish floating to the surface.
Faceless men and women wearing red robes came in with concealed dinner plates
and a goblet covered with cloth. Before Jon can reveal his dish, a roar that
shook the earth echoed throughout the room. The guests remained immobile; they
accepted the misfortune that was to come. A lioness wearing a false mane jumped
over Jon's head and landed on the table. The beast marched  towards the trapped
stag. The horned creature struggled to break free from his binds but he was too
weak.
The lion pounced.
The stag was reduced to salvagery.  
From the befallen creature, another feet of blood flooded into the room. Jon's
knees were soaked. The lion tore apart the flesh while the other animals stayed
hungry and complacent. Jon, without thinking, removed the cap off his plate.
There was nothing but bones. He removed the towel from his glass and saw molten
dragonglass gleaming in the light. He picked up the goblet and the beast roared
once more. This time, the lioness was looking at him.
At once, his guests started to shriek in unison horror. The lioness walked
towards him as if in a trance. When the beast came close enough, Jon grabbed
his spare bone and lodged it into the lion's mouth where her tongue was pierced
and black blood was spewed.
A liar's tongue, Jon thought.
The lion roared in anger.
In his defense, Jon grabbed his goblet and poured out his dragonglass out. The
liquid solidified and turned into a blade. He pushed it against the bones on
his plate and watched it become steel. Equipped with a sword, Jon was able to
strike straight into the beast's heart.
The blood rained upon his guests and behaved like acid. The animals of the
kingdom disintegrated into mud. The sludge did not kill Jon. Instead, it coated
his arms and overtook his body until he was taken away.
Jon's new environment was nothing spectacular, but it was special. He
recognized the tree as the one he prayed to at Winterfell; the tree where his
mother gave birth him at after a night of trialing labor. He saw his father
 there, caressing Ice, his Valyrian sword. Lady Stark joined him. They were
younger, at least by five years.. Lady Stark was on edge, and so was Jon's
father.
"It is for the best that your offer was rejected. He does not belong here."
"He will come when he blossoms," Ned told her. The comment sounded like gravel
in Catelyn's ears, but for Ned, it was a reassurance.  "Howland and I have come
to an agreement."
Catelyn scoffed. "Of course you have. You are willing to negotiate with your
lover. Heavens forbid, you give the same courtesy to your wife."
"I have offered you plenty of say," Ned spat out. Jon was taken back by the
aggression. He had never seen his father so angry. "And that say has left me
childless."
"You have Robb and Sansa and--"
"I don't have Jon!" Ned stabbed his sword into the ground. Catelyn jumped. Jon
was surprised by the fear on her face. "All these years, I have been forced to
learn about his growth through letters and week-long name days. I heard about
his first steps instead of seeing them. Jon showed me how he held a spear when
I should have been the one teaching him. These are aspects of his life that I
will never recover through letters and visits. I need him here. I need him with
me."
Catelyn clenched her fists. "He is a bastard," she reminded him. "His presence
dishonors me. You would be so cruel as to make me endure that humiliation?"
"He is my son." Catelyn shook her head; she heard the words plenty times
before. "I want to raise him alongside his brothers and sisters while they can
still value his love."
Catelyn scoffed. "Don't act as if you care about them." 
Ned glared at her. "I love all my children. Do not insult my fatherhood,
Catelyn.." 
"I am not denying you are a fair parent," Catelyn spat out. "I am merely
stating a fact. You don't love your children like you love your bastard. If
that boy were in the room, you would never so much as glance at your other
children!"
"That is not true." A horrible thought came to mind. "Do you say such things to
our children?" What poisons has she fed their children. 
"Of course I have not," Catelyn denied. "Why would I hurt them with the truth?
I am not you. You and that bog devil wait for the day I turn in my grave."
Ned grabbed her wrist and tightened it. She gasped, and Jon copied the
surprise. "Do not use that language against my son's people," he warned her.
"Especially when Jon arrives. He will come when he blossoms. If I am lucky,"
Ned sighed. "He will bloom young. When that happens, I will hear no protest
from you and none of this trash shall fill my children's ears."
There was silence. "Have I done nothing for you these last few years?" Catelyn
asked. "Do my words mean nothing?"
"You have words."
"None of value!" Catelyn shouted.
"Your value ended when Robb was born!"
The words confirmed every fear Catelyn Stark had since her marriage.
Recognizing his cruelty, Ned opened his mouth to apologized. "Catelyn —"
"Don't," Catelyn warned. "You are an honest man, Ned. Do not patronize me by
saying you did not mean what you just said. I am not a fool." Catelyn walked
towards him. She stared into his eyes and asked him for the truth.
"Have you ever wished me dead?"
Ned sighed. "Catelyn..."
"Answer me," Catelyn demanded. "Answer me and I will remain silent for Jon's
flowering. You will not hear a whisper of protest from my lips. You will not
hear me fight for my pride. It is yours."
"I do not wish to hurt you."
"I've done that to myself."
Ned, with the dignity of an honorable man, looked her in the eye when he
answered.
"Yes," he confessed.
"When?"
Ned did not hesitate the second time. "When we were married. When Robb was
born. When Howland was pregnant with Meera."
Catelyn could not help but laugh. "There were more times, weren't there?"
"Yes."
"How fortunate am I," Catelyn told him spitefully. "To have married an honest
man." She laughed but the sound was as bitter as rotten fruit. "You must give
my condolences to Howland. If you  loved him more than your duty, you would
still be together.”
"Catelyn," the warning was caught between a plea. 
"I will keep promise. Seven or ten years from now when your spawn enters his
first heat, our children will never hear a salt from cannister." Catelyn smiled
wickedly. "I will hold my tongue, empowered by the knowledge that while that
man would have given everything for you and your child; you would have never
exchanged the same courtesy. And that," she reminded him. "Is more cruel than
anything you have ever done to me."  
Those words pierced Jon and Ned alike. The bastard looked down and saw his
heart bleeding. He watched as his father walked away without defending his
honor and he saw unshed tears swelling up his eyes. He walked with dignity
regardless and disappeared into the trees. Despite his father’s absence, the
memory lingered and so did the pain. Wounds were formed on Jon’s skin, bleeding
him out. Jon could not figure out how to satiated his pain.
He walked forward and stepped on a branch.
To his amazement, Catelyn turned around. She raised one of the eyebrows that
shaped her bloodshot eyes.
“Why did you return?” she asked. Her voice was softer than it ever had been.
Jon lunged at her without thinking. His mind was consumed by pain. He wanted to
stop hurting. His hands wrapped around Catelyn's throat. Her choking pleas
brought him more relief than any drop of poppy. She scratched at him, and her
talons healed the gaping scars all over his arms. Strengthened by his hatred,
he throws her into the black pool and holds her down. While she grasped for
freedom, Jon used all his strength to push her underneath the surface. It felt
natural. He was stronger—stronger than he had ever been his entire life. As
soon as her body became limp, Jon let her go. He touched his heart, and there
was nothing there; not even a stain. 
Jon smiled in relief. He glanced at the corpse in the water and moved closer to
watch her body sink. When he looked into the water, he saw father’s satisfied
expression reflecting back at him.
***
The next morning, Jon woke up in his bed with Meera and Jojen curled into his
arms. His mind was clear of any loneliness or concerns; when he touched his
chest, he heard the beating of Robb’s heart. He was whole again. Without waking
up his little siblings, Jon left the crannog. He broke out into a sprint,
dashing past the earlier risers to get to the entrance facing the southern
plains.
He stood out in the open where anyone could see, friend or foe. If a Frey was
having an early morning, he would be dead. If his mother were here, he would
have reprimanded him for being a fool while his father would have given Jory a
lashing for leaving him unattended. Neither thought reached his consciousness
as the horses in the horizon came into view.
Jon stood there. He was too far away to be seen by the party; it would have
been safer for him to retreat to the swamps. Jon waited instead.
Out of the many stallions, one started to gallop faster than the others. It was
headed in his direction. Jon watched the horse charged towards him without fear
or joy. He was simply waiting for fate. Jon did not need to see the rider’s
face or feel his kiss to know that Robb was coming for him.  
Chapter End Notes
     Happy Mother's Day!
     “First” day of my hiatus starts now. I’m glad I was able to post this
     in time. Please, enjoy this chapter. Once I finish writing the
     chapters, I’ll put some previews up on my twitter. :) I'll probably
     be editing a few chapters when I have time, too. But, here is a
     schedule_of_the_updates.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
     If you didn't hate Domeric before, you will hate him in this chapter.
     He pulls some emotional and physical shit with Theon.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Robb stood right in front of him.  
The Stark heir had dashed over on horseback, fast as the grey winds in a storm.
Jon’s eyes clouded over with wonder; he was as frozen as ice lands the Starks
lorded over. The bastard was not sure whether or not the dream before him was
brought on by pinning, or reality. Nothing was clear until Robb took a step
forward.
Jon dashed into the solace of his arms, wrapped himself in the heat of the
intimacy. He was on the edge of crying, for he had never wanted anything so
badly and have his prayers answered. Jon planned their reunion to be a
heartfelt but confined affair, one that could be celebrated more thoroughly in
private. Despite it all, Jon cannot deny what his heart wanted, and Jon’s heart
wanted nothing more than to live alongside Robb. When they touched, Robb kissed
Jon’s temple first, before moving onto his left cheek and then his right, his
collarbone, and finally rested on his lips. They continue such a cycle without
a care, playing blind men to the eyes in the background.
More galloping was heard from a distance. Robb reached out for one more kiss.
Jon whimpered and pulled at his sleeves. Loneliness and desire had made him
blind to reason. Jon's moans tugged at Robb’s cock.
Jon was as lovely as Robb remembered, perhaps even more so. Absence makes the
heart grow fonder, and with every new day, Robb loved him more than the day
before.
“I want to take you,” Robb growled, his teeth brushing against Jon’s ear.
“Now.”
Jon gasped. The horses were drawing closer. Horses carrying Robb’s mother,
their sisters, their father’s entire party. But Robb was relentless with his
touches—he manhandled him and whispered filthy things about the things he would
do to Jon once they were alone.
“For days, I’ve been without you. Can you imagine how heavy my balls have
become?" He brought Jon's hands to his groin and made him weigh his heavy cock
and balls. Jon moaned. More slick dripped down his thighs. "I’m going to fill
you up until your womb is fat with child. I want cum spilling out of your
mouth.  You're going to be known as the Northern whore after I stretch out your
fucking cunt. Fuck—!” Robb grabbed Jon by the curls and pulled him into another
rough kiss. “You’re mine." He made Jon put his hand down his pants. The horses
were coming closer. Jon could hear them neigh, but neither of them focused on
anything other than each other. "I keep thinking about how tight you've gotten.
How I need to ruin your holes again. You need that."
Jon wanted to scream. He grabbed Robb by the wrist and dragged him into the
protection of the Neck. The two of them bypassed the swamps and the rotting
trees, stepped on top of a moving crannog before moving onto another one. Robb
had never run so fast in his life and never so blindly. He put his full faith
into Jon, more than he had any other god, and followed. When Jon finally
stopped, Robb looked around and saw that he was in the presence of a rotting
godswood and in front of him was the biggest weirwood tree he had ever seen.
Jon kissed him before any questions could be asked. When they parted, Jon
caressed Robb’s cheek and smiled. “This is the greatest weirwood of the Neck.
There are several others but they are much smaller and this one…” Jon
swallowed, but he wasn’t nervous. He was embarrassed. “This one is where my
father and mother first made love.” Jon wrapped his arms around Robb and pulled
him close. “This is where they were married.”
Robb didn’t need to hear anything else. He captured Jon in another kiss and
tore off Jon’s shirt before any protests could be uttered. Jon laughed, high
off the blessings of love, and lost himself in the pleasure. He undid the ties
on Robb’s trousers and pulled out his cock. The two fell to the ground in a
tumble, searching for all the crevices and corners of each other’s bodies.
Before long, Jon was sprawled on his back with Robb nestled in between his
legs, fingers opening up with slow, contained movements. It had been too long
since they were together and Jon tightened like a noose underneath him. They
were out in the open, prepared to be caught at any moment, free.
It was perfect.
“Missed this,” Robb muttered as Jon’s ass clenched around his fingers. He
leaned in and pressed a kiss against his lover’s temple. Jon purred like a
kitten. 
“Fucking gods, you’re so sweet.”
Jon spread his legs further apart. He was red and pink all over. His cheeks
were flushed with arousal and his hole puckered around Robb’s thumb, sucking
Robb in with his pinkness.
Robb groaned and twisted his fingers inside so that he can tease Jon’s
prostate. He decided that this was going to be the hole he used first. It was
so eager, dripping all over his fingers like a well.
“Robb, please. It’s been too long; I can’t handle anymore teasing.” Jon was a
mess of bitch; turning the ground into a puddle with his fluids. Robb leaned
down to lick a sliver of sweat off his chest. Jon’s insides were hotter than
usual—days of being apart made him more desperate than ever—and now his hole
was reflecting his wantonness.
“Please, please…I need your cock. Please,” Jon whimpered. His eyes were glazed
over, focusing only on his pleasure, and drool flowed freely from his mouth.
Robb pushed his fingers deeper to prepare Jon for his cock. The second the tips
touched his prostate, the younger boy was coming all over his chest.
“Gods,” Robb grunted out. “You’re aching for it, aren’t you?” 
“Hurts, Robb,” Jon whined. “I need you.”
Robb wasted no time slipping his fingers out of Jon’s hole, admiring the slick,
squelching noises as he left. He pressed his cock against Jon’s opening before
sinking deep inside. Robb grunted as Jon’s hole, snug and warm, stretched to
accommodate his thickness. He was so small, Robb moaned, pushing in further to
feel that clenching heat. Jon squirmed and screamed as Robb’s pulsing veins
rubbed against his insides.
Robb’s cock disappeared into Jon’s plump ass. There was no need for clenching
on his brother’s part. Jon's plush inside stuck to him like honey.  It wasn’t
long until he was buried balls deep and bellowing up hefty thrusts into his
ass.
“Fuck, Jon,” Robb snapped. He pressed his palm against the bulge in Jon’s
stomach. His cock was splitting his lover open.
Jon did not respond, eyes hooded and mind gone from the cock inside him. On
instinct, he spread his thighs further apart and made short, curt bounces on
the giant cock lodged inside him.
Robb growled and picked up the pace. He moved closer to work his hips further,
managing to press against Jon’s sweet spot in the process. Jon came again,
wrapping around Robb’s cock in the tightest, most unbearable embrace possible.
The feeling of it had his eyes slipping close and delight pulsating inside him.
“Perfect, Jon. I’m so close.” Jon whimpered underneath him, drained and
fatigue. Robb could feel Jon’s release adding to his already soaked body. It
made their fucking sound filthier. “I’m going to fuck you full, Jon.”
It didn’t take long for Robb to finish. He grabbed Jon’s cheeks and pressed
them together to add friction to his cock. Once he clasped them together, he
shoved himself in as deep as possible into Jon’s womb. Robb emptied his release
into Jon within seconds. His cock swelled up with a half-swollen knot, meant to
ensure another round. Even if Jon wanted to, he couldn't escape. 
Robb loved being an alpha.
Despite being plugged inside him, some of the release escaped from Jon’s hole.
The sight of Jon’s sloppy fucked out expression had Robb's grinning like a mad
man. He immediately grabbed Jon’s thighs and wrapped them around his wrists.
With Jon’s wading consciousness, Robb had the power to move him as he pleased
and made sharp, jabbing movements into Jon’s body. He still needed to fuck
Jon’s cunt before the rest of his family went looking for them. For now, his
cock craved a second round in Jon’s ass.
Seconds away from passing out, Jon’s hooded eyes stared at the weirwood's
crying face, wondering if they've ever regretted a union they blessed.
***
Though Jon’s friends begged him to stay longer, particular with his brother and
lover in tow, he refused. He wanted to make it to Winterfell in less than three
days’ time. After some goading, the two agreed to have breakfast in the Neck
before setting out on their journey. The girls were excited about the news,
happy to take part in Jon's home traditions. Even Sansa found their freedom
fascinating. 
While they ate, Robb’s cock was still coated in Jon’s slick. Robb almost
regretted leaving the Neck so soon when one of Jon’s friends dropped his cup
and asked the Snow to pick it up. Jon agreed and much to Robb’s surprise, found
his cock being engulfed by Jon's plush mouth. His mother was sitting at the end
of the table. Though she had not turned towards him, she was close. Robb looked
down and saw that Jon was sucking him off without shame. Robb heard giggling
from all of his hosts; the boy from his left leaned in and asked if he was sure
about leaving.
His questioner was gorgeous—a Fenn or Boggs, Robb couldn’t remember. All he
remembered was how the mysterious boy laid a discreet hand on Jon’s head and
stuffed Robb’s cock further down his throat. Robb’s tongue bled to hold back
his moans.
“We’re an accommodating sort,” the crannogman purred as Jon tried to breathe.
“We understand you and Jon do not share, but there’s nothing wrong with having
fun with friends. We are friends, aren’t we? Lord Robb?”
Tears welled up in Jon’s eyes. He swallowed so that Robb could feel the ripples
around his cock.
“Fuck,” Robb gasps. The crannogman’s hand was still on Jon, and he made no
attempts to remove it. He laughed instead.
“Jon and I are quite close. We used to listen to the older omegas tell us
 about the alphas they've fucked, and getting  lessons on how to pleasure their
cocks.” He grabbed Robb’s hand and placed it on top of his breast. Robb
groaned, and despite his self-control, his fingers couldn’t help but twitch and
squeeze. “One of them told us that alphas like to feel powerful and that
sometimes, being an obedient little cockwarmer was all they needed to come.”
Jon’s friend released his grip and grabbed Robb’s hand instead. He sucked on
Robb’s fingers until they were deep inside his throat. Robb closed his eyes
when the boy started talking again.
“Did you know? Another one used to show us how to use our tongues. Made us
practice relaxing our throats on cobs so that we can choke on a cock without a
problem. Jon left before we could get more advanced lessons, but I’m sure you
taught him well.”
Robb made short, curt thrusts into Jon’s throat until the friction became
unbearable. He took his fingers out of the crannogman’s mouth and used both
hands to grab Jon’s head and shove his cock down his throat. Jon choked this
time, and within seconds, Robb was coming. Huge globs of cum poured into Jon’s
stomach. Jon took in every drop, trying not to draw attention to himself. Most
of the Neck knew what he was getting up to, but his more Northern compatriots
didn’t. Robb slumped in his seat when he was finished.
When Jon came up, he handed the cup back to his friend and cleared his throat
with his own refreshments.  
Robb was taken back by his nonchalance. He stared at Jon’s blissed out
expression, how red his face was and how large his pants were. The only thing
more noticeable than his red body was his pleased expression. When Jon notice
his worry, he smiled and lean over for a small, chaste kiss.
“Next time we are here,” Jon whispered dreamily, “I want you to stay with me.”
Jon rubbed his still open cock. “I'd like for you to meet all of my friends,
properly. We’ll have so much fun, I swear.”
Laughter was heard from around the room. Eyes and ears everywhere, he
remembered. Robb sighed, hands shaking, and took a large gulp of his drink. No
wine for breakfast but he was grateful for the sobriety. He shook his head to
remove any wayward thoughts. The Neck was a strange place; it was like the air
was made of poppy and everyone was hooked on the high. 
As Robb felt his cock massaged for the second time, his mind shut down. Like
many alphas, the thought of a gorgeous omega prepared for another fucking was
more of a consecration than a complaint.  Jon was more open than ever. He knew
that once Jon was in his right mind—in Winterfell—Robb will be scolded for
thinking with his cock again. 
He should put an end to this behavior. 
All of Robb’s convictions shattered when Jon’s lips traced over his ear, and
his tongue flicked out to taste his skin. His hand was still on his cock and
then joined by another unfamiliar palm. There was more laughter, more joyous
sounds of beautiful omegas watching his even more perfect omega bring him
pleasure.
Robb sighed. Weren't children taught not to look a gift horse in the mouth?
Perhaps, Jon’s newfound hedonism was a nice foreshadowing to their futures, or
at the very least, a lovely motivator for what they planned to accomplish
together.  
***
The two set out to Winterfell after breakfast, which resulted in an hour of the
greatest pleasure in Robb’s life. Jon was more relentless and reckless than
ever before, he sucked, fucked, and offered Robb a chance to do whatever he
wished to Jon’s body. Robb never denied him once, and when a few of the
crannogman sat to watch, he couldn’t refuse—not when Jon was so accommodating
to their requests. When the offers became more explicit, Jon was more than
happy to oblige. Robb had never thought so many of his fantasies could come
alive in one hour, but they did. 
After the Neck, they traveled on the same horse, with Jon asking to hold the
reigns. Robb was not surprised by the lead Jon wanted to take—not until Jon
insisted he warm his fingers in his cunt while they rode. The galloping made
his movements uncontrollable, with his fingers curling and twisting inside of
Jon at random points of time. They tried their best to get ahead, only to fail
and fall behind. Jon was not complaining; he took advantage of their defeat by
moaning like a battle horn and begging for Robb’s cock to their next camp.
A better man would have questioned his lover’s sudden change, and a clever one
would have sought a solution. Robb was neither better nor clever. Despite his
inhibitions running amuck, Jon was still his sweet and insightful self. He was
unusually lucid after their romps in the forest or their fumbling in the tents,
promising to be good to Robb while swearing this was the last time he was so
reckless with their relations. He never followed through with the last
declaration, but he remained true to his character.  
When they arrived in Winterfell, a soaked saddle and a horse drunk off
pheromones, Jon was lustfulness had worn off again. He was more jovial than
ever when he greeted their father, jumping off to capture their sire in a hug.
Ned took him in his arms as gleefully as Robb had ever seen him. He was holding
him even as he hugged the girls. When Robb came closer to greet him, he noticed
the lines of his father’s face were more pronounced than ever. 
“Was everything alright while we were gone?” Robb asked.
His father nodded. As always, his disposition was coarse as the sands of the
Bay of Seals. “Things were as it should be. I heard you achieved high marks at
the tourney.”
Robb nodded. “I was second.”
Ned made a noise that could have been approval or disappointment. Jon was
smiling, regardless, so Robb hoped for the former. “I trust you will strive for
higher in the future. That is, if you chose to participate in other tourneys.”
Robb and Jon shared a look. The ambiguous nature of their father’s words made
his praise impossible to read, especially if one was a Stark and not a Snow or
a Reed. Thankfully, Jon was a seasoned maester in the art of his father’s
affections and could feel the pride radiating from his father’s pulse. He
provided a kiss to break the strife. When his lips against the bristly beard,
he laughed joyously, bringing about a small but loving smile on Lord Stark’s
face.  
“How is mother?” Jon asked once the tension broke. “Did he leave already?”
Ned frowned at the question. “Your mother never came. I was told he had
business in the Neck too dire for him to visit. Did you not see him?”
Jon shook his head. “He left the Neck before I arrived.”
There was a pause. Lord Stark narrowed his eyes.
“Do you know when?”
“I never asked,” Jon answered. He tried to recall what the other crannogmen
told him but could remember nothing of worth. “Perhaps he made a trip to the
White Harbor for supplies? He was seen heading North.”
“There are many reasons he could travel north,” Ned muttered under his breath.
“A horse, maybe?”
“Father?” Jon’s worried expression him stopped Ned from suggesting further
theories. The lord sighed and tried his best not to let his suspicions get the
best of him. Jon was a sensitive child, one brimming with innocence he hoped
would never be marred.  
“He must have business with Lord Manderly, some matter of trading or thieves.
You have nothing to worry about.”
Their father was a horrid liar, but Jon would never curse his questions on a
man with no answers. The strangeness would be investigated later. For now, he
hoped for a bath to rid himself of his travel-borne fatigue. “If that is the
truth, then I can rest easy.”
Jon watched his father sigh in relief. His father’s honest nature would be the
death of him one day. He could never hold a story until the end.
“Robb?” Jon called. He grabbed Robb’s hand and urged him forward. Aphrodisiacs
of the highest caliber must have coated his cunt for he was insatiable. He
found that only Robb’s cock could relieve his yearning. He swore never to leave
his brother's side again if withdrawal made him so wanton. "Come join me in the
springs." 
Robb did not need to be asked twice. 
Ned interrupted their plans. “I have some business with Robb. He won’t be able
to join you in the baths.”  
Heat raged inside his body and it took all his self-restraint to stifle it
down. “Will it take long? I can wait.”
“It will take a while. You must be tired. Take a dip in the springs and go to
bed.”
“I rather wait for Robb.”
“You are tired, Jon. You’ve traveled a long way to get home and your face is
sallow and red at once. When I held you, you had a fever. Take a bath and be
rested.”
“I want to wait for Robb!”
The disobedience alarmed him. “Jon, you have bathed alone before. You do not
need your brother’s presence.”
“I want to wait. I do not feel like being alone today! Must you take everything
from me?” Jon snapped. He placed a hand over his mouth to cover his shock. 
Ned was surprised as well. He was more inexperience than he cared to admit and
he had no clue on how to deal with such odd behavior from his eldest omega.
Jon hastily turned his eyes to the floor. “I am sorry. I am being
disrespectful.” He tried to reason his behavior and found the only thing that
made sense was his sorrow. He struggled to get out of the words, “It has been a
while since I’ve stayed in the Neck. I was able to see Meera and Jojen again
and…leaving so soon has made me…nostalgic for another time. I’ve taken it out
on you, father. Please forgive me.”
Ned did not hesitate to offer his sympathies. Guilt played a part in his
leniency, for he, third to Howland and Jon, remembered the pain he caused when
he ripped his son out of his mother’s arms. It was another tragedy he bestowed
on the man he loved, and no matter how many promises he made to the gods, it
seemed his punishments were never-ending on the men he loved. “Forgiveness is
not necessary,” he declared.  
If any outsiders were listening, they would have been surprised by the
generosity. Any of his children would have been discipline for being so
defiant. But Jon was his babe; his cub to spoil, and Ned took advantage of his
bastard status to rain liberties on him. “Prepare your bath, and I will send
Robb in as soon as possible to join you.”
Jon nodded. He planted another kiss on Ned’s temple, this one in triumph. The
Snow child dashed over to the castle while Robb watched in disbelief at how his
little brother received his way. Though it was not the first time their father
had spared the rod, it was the first time Robb noticed the difference in their
upbringing. Robb was not offended of the preference towards his half-brother.
If anything, he received a welcome spurt of energy, like drinking giant’s blood
or eating eels. Father may be their sire, but that did not mean he considered
them true brothers—not entirely. He knew they were different and that
difference was a circumstance he could take advantage of.
Ser Rodrik did praise him for his ability to detect weakness.
The present and future Lord Stark walked into the study, where a map was laid
out haphazardly, alongside a few other papers Robb would one-day study as Lord
of Winterfell. Robb glanced over and noticed that the sigil of House Greyjoy
was on one of the letters. He waited for an explanation.
Ned gave a long, heavy sigh before sitting on the chair. “Lady Asha of House
Greyjoy made her appearance here.” 
“Was there an altercation?” 
Winterfell had the resources to defend any Ironborn attack, but an act of
aggression could potentially endanger Theon’s life. At the moment, the omega
was at Dreadfort, admiring his future dwellings and preparing for his dowry
negotiation.   
Ned shook his head. “Lady Asha came on civil terms.” The word ‘civil’ being
used loosely. “She inquired about Lord Domeric and his intentions with Theon.
When I announced they were betrothed, she was not happy. She was less pleased
to learn that the engagement was already in motion, and done entirely without
her approval.” Ned shook his head. “It was careless of us to accept the
proposal without consulting with their house."
“It was our right,” Robb denied, partially as a justification to their
insolence and another out of childish irritation. He bared no love to a family
who wished to claim heirs when convenient. For nine years, Robb was the one who
comforted Theon, the one who held his hand and wiped away his tears. Together,
they withstood Balon Greyjoy's rejection and together, they built up Theon's
esteem. “We sent them word when it came to his ceremony, and they did not
respond. Theon is your ward, and you have funded his upbringing. Maybe not by
nature but by law, you had a right to extend his hand in marriage.”
Despite the sound reasoning, Ned was hesitant to agree. He did not want to get
in the habit of starting wars. “While Lady Asha was here, she demanded the duty
of the dowry. I informed her it was already her right and directed her to the
Dreadfort.”
Robb’s lips curled into something between disapproval and worry. “Is she there
already?”
“Her ships were seen on the coast.”
Robb sighed. “She could cause problems for Theon by being there. The Ironborn
don’t care for outsiders, and beauty on those lands are scarce. How do we know
she isn’t there to stop their betrothal?”
“That is no longer our concern.”
Robb clenched his fist. Their ineptitude made the matter no less comforting.
“So there is nothing we can do?”
“I was going to send you if no one could come in the Greyjoy’s place. If you
believe you can provide a comfort to Theon without becoming an adversary to the
Greyjoys, by all means, go.”
Robb glared, having discussed the matter with his father before the ceremony,
he knew he was powerless. There was no way he, another non-familial alpha,
could interfere in their betrothal without threatening either Asha or Domeric.
While Robb mulled over the issue, Ned changed the topic. “What do you think of
Domeric, having seen him at the tourney?”
Robb frowned. He dearly wished for some ale or wine of some sort. 
"Why do you ask?" 
Ned's lip twitched. "Lord Bolton is an ambitious man. He aimed to marry into a
great house when we were peers but failed. Regardless, he is efficient,
cunning, and ruthless." Ned frowned. "I am wondering if his son has inherited
these traits."
“Well, he is certainly not frivolous,” Robb offered. “No time for nonsense.”
“Unlike Theon?”
Robb shrugged. “Opposites can bring the best out of each other?” Though he
hardly believed it, and neither did his father.
“It’s good to have common interests, a method of conciliation if marriage
proves difficult.”
Robb agreed. “I don’t doubt he will be a fair husband to Theon, if not out of
honor than for the sake of his reputation. Bad husbands make for poor bed
partners and people are hesitant to join forces with a wife-beater. Even out of
necessity, they aren’t trusted.”
“Fair point.”
“But the Boltons are no friends of the Starks,” Robb admitted. “I don’t care
for his company, and neither does Jon."
Ned became on edge. The mention of his darling son always alerted his
attention. “Has Jon mentioned being wronged at any point?”  
Robb shook his head. “He mentioned a distaste towards Lord Bolton. That’s all.
He does not like the way he talks to his mother.”
“What way is this?” Lord Stark stood up. “Has Lord Bolton attempted to harm
Lord Reed?”
If there was a book on every behavior his father forbade, the pages would be
crossed out and scribbled over when Howland Reed was concerned. The man was
obsessed with his lover’s well-being and became beast-like when his affections
were being threatened.
“No attempts that I am aware of,” Robb noted evenly. “But Jon may have a
clearer idea. He’s quite vague on the matter.”
Ned clutched onto the desk to contain his anger. Memories of the war
resurfaced, including Bolton's pervasive comments. He settled down and cleared
his throat. “Have you expressed these concerns with Theon?”
“What good will that do?” Robb got up from his chair. “Theon is a grown man.
He’s made his decision.”
“Being grown does not stop you from being green,” Ned muttered solemnly. “If
that is your belief, then we will leave the matter to the Boltons and the
Greyjoys to settle.”
Robb nodded. “May I be excused, father?”
Ned gave a motion for dismissal. For the rest of the night, Lord Stark would be
locked in his study, hunched over documents and searching through the archives
for methods on preservations. When it was time to break for food, he would wear
himself to the bone by investigating Howland’s disappearance. His lover was as
wily as a fox and no matter how often Ned had been dragged into his schemes, he
was weak to those green eyes and tantalizing lips. Ned would forgive Howland
for all his trespasses. For years, the Lord of Winterfell sought to make sure
those trespasses never occurred. 
For years, he failed.
Robb, on the other hand, journeyed to the baths to join his lover. Before
entering, he told a wandering servant that their services were no longer needed
and to inform his mother of their absence at the dining hall. Once they were
finished, he and Jon would return to their rooms to rest.  
As he stepped into the steaming room, Robb pushed away his concerns for his
foster brother. Theon was arrogant and vain, fragile as glass and glutinous for
more than he can swallow. Yet, Robb could think of no other, alpha or omega,
who was more devoted to their elevation. For this, Robb was envious of the
kraken. Theon was ruthless. He would fuck a horde of alphas if it meant
securing an army and set an orphanage on fire if it guaranteed a home.
***
Even from afar, the Dreadfort was an impressive specimen. The walls were thick
as stone and high as skies, and the merlons were crafted to imitate sharp
teeth. All the towers were massive, meant to evoke a sense of fear to those who
lived on the outside. Its great hall was dim and smoky, with rows of torches
grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls. The hall had a vaulted
ceiling and wooden rafters that were charcoal black.
“The smoke did that,” said the servant leading Theon through the halls.
The structure was the embodiment of misery. It was not the castle Theon
imagined for himself but it was fearsome and he would take it over any salt-
drenched hell.
When Domeric departed from a nearby room, he gestured the two towards him. The
servant acted in haste, dragging Theon along without touching him. The servant
bowed.
“You may leave,” Domeric dismissed. “I have matters to discuss with Theon.”
“Of course, milord.”
When they were alone, Domeric placed his hand on Theon’s waist. The ironborn
shivered but maintained his composure.
“I hope you’ve been informed of our unexpected guest.” 
Theon nodded. “I have.” He tried to remain amicable, but his ribs were cracking
from his heart’s pounding. “Forgive my sister. Alphas on the iron shores,
they’re not raised with any grace.”  
Domeric nodded. “I understand.” They continued down the hall for some time. “I
will do my best to make her comfortable. She is to be the Lady of the Iron
Islands, after all, and more importantly, my good sister.” Theon swore the
spirits of the tortured and tormented were following him with their eyes and
every chill he received was the ice of their fingers, sucking out his life’s
blood.
“Is there a problem, Theon?”
 “Just a chill,” Theon lied. 
“Did the servants not light enough candles in your room?”
Theon shook his head. “Oh, it is no fault of theirs. I am dressed improperly. I
had thought with all the torches; I could wear one of the southern dresses I
received from Highgarden. It seems I have forgotten how cold the winds are in
this part of the North. You must think me quite foolish.”
Truth be told, Theon only wore this dress because of the fetching way it
amplified his bodice. Domeric, for all his stoicism, had been sneaking looks
throughout their walk. When Theon learned of Asha’s unannounced arrival, he
almost tore the laces out. Asha was going to take one look at him and deemed
the North turned him into a whore.
“Not at all,” Domeric denied. “You are the fairest bride to have ever walked
these halls.”
Theon smiled as if that were high praise. He did not doubt Domeric’s flattery.
The Boltons were not known for breeding beauties, both a testament to their
wicked blood and their inability to attract a finer mate. He supposed there
were worst things than to be known as the most beautiful Bolton to have ever
lived.
“The Dreadfort is a powerful beast to manage. I hope all goes well with my
sister. Nothing would please me more than to the lord of this great fortress.”
Domeric agreed. “The gods are on our side.”
“Oh? Have you spoken to them?” Theon hoped to sound coy, maybe even playful. He
glanced over at his betrothed and saw nothing but the severity of a warrior,
clutching onto a sword as his fingers were chopped off. Domeric was staring at
a portrait of the wall, one dedicated to a distant ancestor. “We were called
the Red Kings once. We ruled over the lands stretching from the Last River to
the White Knife and the Sheepshead Hills. People feared us. Ever since the Long
Night, we fought against the Kings of Winter, our greatest enemy and contender
for the North. We wore cloaks made of their flayed flesh and went to battle
with their blood in our mouths.”
Theon frowned. “How horrible.”
“Don’t be weak,” Domeric snapped.
Theon’s pride absorbed that slap like the liver took liquor. “I am not weak!”
he hissed. The horror of his actions followed immediately after. The Greyjoy
looked down to cover his slip up. “Apologies, my lord.”
Domeric regained his detachment in tune. “I was out of line. You are perfect.”
The Bolton brushed his fingers against Theon’s cheek. He moved his hand down to
Theon’s chest and trailed the slit of Theon’s swollen, compressed breasts.
Theon stiffened but did not move away.
“It’s as if the gods created an omega using my ideal,” Domeric murmured.
Despite their kind message, the words stung like an accusation. Theon turned
towards the painting to hide from his betrothed’s gaze.
Domeric did not take his eyes off him. Theon winced when he spoke. “As a
Greyjoy, you are a descendant of the legendary Grey King. Within you is the
blood of kings who have held the shores of the Sunset Sea all the way to the
Bear Islands. Some might argue that any child of ours has a rightful claim to
these lands.”
Theon frowned. “The Starks won those lands centuries ago. Our houses have long
bend the knee.”
“The curse of monarchs is that they often lose their thrones in the way they’ve
inherited it. Usurpers have a tendency to be usurped themselves.”
Before Theon could respond, Domeric continued his stride forward. “I’ve
arranged for a meal to be brought to you and your sister. I trust you will
remind her of how beneficial our union will be for you.” He brought Theon’s
hand to his lips and kissed him goodbye. Theon’s glare was on him when he left
and ended when he was no longer in sight. Theon entered the dining room. There
was Asha, drinking like the fish that swam in the iron waters.
Theon remembered Asha as an ugly girl, whose beauty in comparison to him, was a
little more than a tack pretending to be a blade. This Asha was lean with long
legs that swung over the table in an uncouth manner. Her black hair was cut
short and her hands were chafed and rough as an alpha should be. Though he
found familiarity in the angle of her cheeks and the fierceness of her glower,
he would not have recognized her as blood if she didn't come on her iron fleet.
Asha did not stand to greet him; Theon felt foolish for expecting such respect
as a Northern-raised omega when he could not accomplish so much as an Iron-born
babe. Her reaction was fitting. She glanced over at his state of dress and
snorted.
“You look like a whore.”
Theon, whose confidence could rival the brightest suns of Dorne, felt his pride
gutted by the insult. Asha did not notice his fallen disposition. She stood up
and kept on talking, running her tongue through his heart over and over again.
“Did that alpha make you wear that? Figures, alphas like that look. It isn’t
enough you give him a hole to fuck, he needs something for his eyes.”  
Theon gritted his teeth. “Asha, you are being very rude."
“Bet he imagines putting his cock through your tits. How could he not? What do
you do to get those silks, Theon? Do you let him use your mouth? Has he fucked
your cunt yet or just the other holes?”
“Asha, don't say such things. It's not...” Theon struggled to get the words
out. "Civil," he hissed. 
Asha chuckled but there was no mirth. “You talk like them to. Civil. Fucking
hell, Theon. You’re better than this. Where is my little brother? I came here
for him, not some harbor whore—”
“Asha!”  
"—who'd spread his legs to get a dress!" 
"Do not say that!"
"God, if father could see the whore he gave away —"
"Stop it!" 
"Asha, will you shut the fuck up!" 
The entire room became quiet. Theon took a deep breath. He grabbed the wine
flask and poured himself a cup. One of the servants came in. They set the
plates in silence, not once paying mind to the feuding siblings. They were the
essence of discretion—Lord Bolton made sure of that.
Theon ignored the food for more wine. When he finished his gulp, he gathered
the gall to ask what she was doing at the Dreadfort.
Asha’s eyes softened. “I got your letter.”
Theon scoffed. “So?”  
“So my omega brother—the only brother I have left—is getting married.” Asha sat
back down. “How could I not come?”
“I only asked you to name a limit for the dowry. You did not have to be here.” 
Asha slammed her fist against the table. “A dowry?” She sneered. “Is that all
our family means to you? A few ships and a couple of coins?”
Theon shook his head and laughed cruelly. He discarded his wifely guise in
favor of his warrior spirit; he would not be made the victim today. “You should
be grateful it is so cheap. Father will be dancing in the shores after getting
rid of me; his stupid, whore son.” He poured himself more wine. The glass shook
in Theon’s hand and spilled over when he drank. “It’s been nine years, and the
first word you utter towards me was ‘whore.’ You call yourself my sister but
you and father have abandoned me ages ago. I may not raid or pillage, but I
have survived the only way I could after your loss.” Theon stood up. “You
should leave. I will send a raven to Winterfell. They will appoint Robb as my
guardian alpha, and he will settle the dowry in your place.”
Asha knocked the plates off in anger. “Do not play such a childish game, Theon!
I am your guardian alpha! I am your sister!”
“I have made my decision, Asha. I don’t want you here.”
“Like hell you have.” Asha grabbed his arm. When she saw the terrified look on
his face, she reached out to comfort him, but the sight of her palm made him
flinch. Her heart wrenched at the fear in his eyes. She thought herself over
such weakness but Theon had a gift; he could melt her iron heart and make her
blood sing with sorrow.  
“What’s with that look?” She asked gruffly. She hated it. Hated how he acted
like a salt wife, beaten and bred until he was grateful for a morsel of
kindness. “You look like a dog.”
Theon glared; it was the fiercest she’s seen him since they met. She would have
been proud if not for the words spoken.
“If I recall, the last time a Greyjoy touched me, it wasn’t out of love.”
Theon turned his back on her at that moment. He lifted his dress and held his
head up with pride. When he returned to his room, Theon ripped off his corset
and tore through the silk to rid himself of the dress. His beautiful dress, the
one he was so proud to receive was suddenly as filthy as a rat’s ass. He wanted
it burnt, used as fodder for the fireplace or as cloth to wipe shit off shoes.
The more degrading, the better.  
Someone knocked on the door during his tirade.
“I am not in the mood for company!” Theon shouted. He grabbed his dresses out
of his wardrobe and made plans for all of their demises. They were all like the
ones before. Pretty, frivolous, fit for awhore. While he looked for a knife in
his belongings, he almost cried. If Ramsay could see him, he would have laughed
at his foolishness, right before calling Asha a windless bag of cocks. The
thought made Theon laugh despite his fuming.
From behind him, Theon heard the doorknob turn. He was about spit fire when the
entrance revealed Domeric’s form. Theon panicked, for he knew Domeric would not
be pleased by his behavior. He tried to provide a justification, but the excuse
came out in jumbles. Domeric raised his hand to silence him.
“It is alright. The maids informed me of your sister’s vulgarity. I do not
blame you for feeling offended.”
Theon sighed in relief. “Thank you, Lord Domeric.”
Domeric nodded. He walked forward. Theon assumed that his betrothed was
inspecting for damages of his tantrum before realizing that he was practically
undressed. His corset was about to fall off and he was down to a single layer
of skirt.
“I see you’ve ruined your dress.”
Theon turned red. “Asha was not pleased by it. She thought it was …wanton.”
Domeric paused. To Theon’s surprise, he agreed. “I’m sure your sister will be
more accommodating once she sees how well you’ve taken her advice.” Domeric
tenderly stroke his cheek when he finished talking. It felt forced; like a
statue masquerading as a human being.  
Theon clenched his fists. While he was grateful Domeric’s aggression had not
resurfaced since Winterfell, he could not help but spite Domeric’s favor
towards his oppression. Ramsay would never encourage him to follow another
alpha’s wishes. If it were him, he would have cut Theon’s skirts and parade him
around like a true whore.
Before Theon could let his daydream prosper, Domeric’s frozen fingers slipped
off his top, leaving him bare.
“Domeric, what are you doing?”
“Don’t play innocent,” Domeric scolded; his tone was so soft, Theon could have
mistaken it for gentle. The flaying heir pulled down the waistline of Theon’s
skirt and dropped it to the floor. “You are a vision.” The praise came off as
critique. Theon was judged while Domeric stripped away his clothing and
dignity.
“This isn’t proper,” Theon reminded. He offered a forgiving smile, waving off
Domeric’s violation as a joke. He tried to push the Bolton away, but it was
futile. Domeric twisted his arm around his back and bent him over the bed. He
shoved Theon’s face into the mattress. Theon’s mouth was stuffed with stunning
silks, and he could taste the treated satin down his throat. Drool and tears
stained his dresses as he tried his hardest to breathe.
“You’ve been so good to me these last few days,” Domeric noted. There was no
inflection in his voice. Theon swore there was more emotion in history texts.
“I’ve overlooked your grooming in the process. That was my mistake. Letting you
speak to your sister without a chaperone was another. I should have prepared
you. Made it clear on what you needed to say to ensure our future together.”
Domeric twisted his arm further. Theon struggled to break free but the fabric
muffled his screams.
Domeric sighed as he traced his fingers against Theon’s slit. “Still as wet as
ever.” He brought the finger up to his mouth and licked. “Sweet. As expected of
high-born omega. Better than the horse shit peddled in the taverns.”
With one of his hands preoccupied, Domeric’s grip weakened. Theon managed to
free his mouth for a plea. “Domeric!  I am to be your wife; you cannot do
this!”  
“Do not worry,” Domeric assured. “I have no plans to hurt you. What kind of
fool damages his own property?” He pressed his hand against Theon’s cunt,
sliding the finger between his folds. “Once you know your place, there will be
no need to discipline you in the future. Now,” Domeric whispered. “Be good for
your alpha.”
Theon choked as a finger slid in.
“Hmm.” Domeric pinched his clit. Theon’s teeth gnashed against the embroidered
fabric to keep himself from moaning. The beads snapped inside his mouth. He
cringed when a second finger was jabbed inside. 
“You’re too rough!”
“You’re a bit loose,” Domeric surmised. “And you’re not as responsive as
before. Has something happened recently?”  
Tears filled Theon’s eyes; he tried his best not to let them fall loose. He was
ruined if Domeric discovered his lost maidenhead and he was dead if the Bolton
found out who took it.
“I am sorry!” Theon sobbed. “Lord Domeric, please forgive me!”
Domeric paused. “For what?” he asked.
“F-for, for being a-a whore!”
Domeric stopped his ministrations. Theon gasped. He was ready to come, and
Domeric’s torture was making his head light and his vision dark. While Domeric
mulled over the confession, Theon grinded against the bed sheets. Inwardly, he
used the Bolton’s hesitance to his advantage. Theon swallowed his fear and
continued his tall tale.
“In the south, the older omegas told me about using objects to ward off
temptation. I’ve only ever used my fingers but they insisted on trying
something bigger. They said it would feel better.”
A frown marred Domeric’s face. His grip loosened, allowing Theon to roll on his
back and face Domeric. “Most physical maidenheads are lost on horseback. They
told me that no one would notice.” Theon’s face turned red—a side effect from
holding his breath for so long. “I was overzealous,” he confessed, hoping the
shame of his wantonness was conveyed over his fear of getting caught. Theon
closed his eyes and waited for the verdict.
Domeric remained unreadable. He stared at Theon, searching his expression for
signs, everything from a trembling lip to a twitch in the eye. Theon held his
breath the entire time. After a long pause, Domeric spoke.
“It’s unfortunate you’ve resorted to such measures.”
Theon released his breath in relief. 
“You will stop engaging in such filth for the time being,” Domeric ordered.
“Our wedding night is drawing near, and I want you taut. Too much zeal and
you’ll lose your ability to please.” It was an old wives’ tale that self-
pleasure would cause omegas to reject their alphas. He was surprised someone
like Domeric believed it. 
Domeric retracted his fingers. He rubbed them in Theon’s hair to clean them,
making the Greyjoy hitch his breath in disgust.  For a moment, Theon considered
this round a victory. He fooled his betrothed, and this deception would be the
first of many. His triumph was short-lived. As soon as Theon sat up, Domeric
undid his pants.
“It would be improper to deflower you before a dowry has been settled, but
there are other ways to treat your urges.”
Domeric pressed his cock against Theon’s lips. Theon was not foolish enough to
excuse himself from the task. He was walking on thin ice, and the fish were
prepared to suck his flesh clean if he fell through.
The omega opened his mouth and let the hardness slip inside. It filled his
mouth and stretched his jaw. At the very least, Theon was aware his betrothed
was well endowed. It proved less of a comfort when the lancer began to make
short, jabbing thrusts into his throat. Theon was good—not too good unless
Domeric expected foul play. When it came time for Domeric’s release, he shoved
himself to the hilt, making Theon choke violently on his cock. Domeric grabbed
his head and kept him still so that all the cum traveled down his throat and
into his stomach. When he let go, Theon was heaving, but there was not a drop
of cum out of place. Clear spittle hacked onto the floor.
“Very good,” Domeric noted. “Clean work. We’ll use our engagement to further
your skills. For now, remember what I’ve told you.”
Theon rubbed his neck. When he groaned, his entire throat throbbed in pain.
“I’ve postponed the dowry negotiations until tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, you
will dine with her privately. Inside your room.”
Theon closed his eyes shut. He’d rather die than see her again. “I don’t want
to.” After a pause and muffled sob, he asked, “Please don’t make me.”
“I’m not making you; you want to,” Domeric replied. “A high dowry will ensure a
successful beginning for us. You want to be a good wife, don’t you?”  
Theon whimpered and tried to retreat underneath the covers.
Domeric’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and grabbed Theon’s face. Though his
grip was soft, the steel in his expression made Domeric look like a giant
cradling a bug.
“Tomorrow morning, I expect Lady Asha’s full cooperation. More than that, I
imagine that she will lend her full support to our union and nothing less. Do
you understand?”
Whether it was the influence of the Starks or the blood of the Kraken that
broke through, Theon did not care. His disguise fell through. He glared, fierce
and fuming, at Domeric. As soon as it came, the expression melted into one of
submission. The make-up came too late. Domeric had caught him.
And some part of Theon did not care.  
“Of course, Lord Domeric. Forgive my insolence," he said sweetly. 
Domeric’s pursed his lips. He let go of Theon and nodded his approval. When he
departed the room, he clenched his fist in frustration. He swore to whip that
cheek out of his bride before the wedding. There was no point in having a
powerful spouse if he couldn’t control him.  
***
Before the dinner, two maids were brought in to help Theon tidy up. They looked
at his dresses on the bed and asked if they were to enter his wardrobe.
“You can leave them in my trunk, I—” Theon’s tongue stopped working. He glanced
over at the gowns. While the year had been eventful, the Starks did not play
host to grandeur nor did they promote the participation of waste. The next time
he'd be able to wear those dresses could be months or years from now.
He would be married by then.
“Leave them on the side. I will decide what to with them later.”
The girls obeyed. After the room was sufficiently scoured, Theon dressed in a
pair of dress pants and a dark shirt. Simple but unable to draw any praise or
ridicule. The maids told Theon that Lord Domeric insisted on the ensemble.
The Greyjoy sighed.
A knock was heard on the door, and when the maid was allowed in, she announced
that Lady Asha was waiting outside.
Theon stiffened. He gathered up his courage to say: “Let her in." He could
barely turn around when he heard Asha’s footsteps. He swore to himself that the
past would not repeat himself. He would not allow his sister to get the best of
him twice in one day.
Theon turned to the maids. “Leave us,” he ordered. Despite his apprehension
towards Domeric, it felt good to see the Bolton staff heed his instructions.
Unlike the Stark’s servants, who followed his commands in contempt, the
retainers of the Dreadfort obeyed out of duty. Theon was their lord. His word
was law, just below Lord Bolton and his heir.
The power was like a shot of poppy, and Theon latched onto the small comfort
like a rope in a storm.  
When he turned to his sister, he was taken back. Asha seemed to have undergone
a change in the last few hours. Theon was not naïve enough to call it
humbleness, but his sister’s ferocity seemed subdued. She sat down at their
prepared table. Two plates filled with turkey, potatoes, and carrots sat there,
steaming. On their sides was a flask of wine and two cups. Asha poured one for
herself and another for him.
Theon took a deep breath and sat down as well. While Asha helped herself to the
meal, Theon could barely bring himself to nibble. After chewing the rest of his
carrots, he dived in for the wine.
“You should eat more,” Asha remarked, the first thing she’s said all night.
Theon tensed. “I’m not hungry.”
Asha snorted. “Are you following one of those thinning whims stupid omegas get
themselves into? Don’t bother.”
Theon gripped his fork. “I’m not hungry.” 
“Eat your food.”
“I don’t want to!” Theon snapped and tried to remember why he had to suffer
through this caricature of hate.
Asha slammed her turkey leg onto the table. “You’ve always been a spoiled
child.”
“What?”
Like Theon, Asha was weak to her impulses. She swallowed the entire wine glass
in one gulp before pouring another for the future. “You were the youngest. You
were the omega. And even as a child, you were pretty. Mother treated you like a
fucking doll; spoiled you like a peach sitting in the sun.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is,” Asha growled. “It broke her when you were taken away. She cries every
day, and when she’s lucid enough to remember who she is, she spends her time
writing you letters.” Asha shook her head. “Then, after years of waiting for
your return, she gets a fucking letter, saying that day will never come. You
would rather be the whore —"
"Wife!" Theon corrected. 
"Whore," Asha repeated. "Of some nobleman than return home to your family! If
she could see you now, she’d lock you in the tower with her. She’d never let
you out of her sight. The Starks made you weak. The North stole you like a
changeling, and now you’re one of them.” Asha slammed her fist on the table. “I
could have made you strong.”
It was traveling back in time when Theon was a child without a voice. When men
could take him away and no one would listen to his screams. He threw his fork
on the floor. 
“I didn’t ask to be here!” Theon shouted, tears welling up in his eyes. “Did
you forget that? Did you forget how I begged for help when they dragged me onto
their ships? Did you forget how father held mother back? No one listened to me!
No one cared! 'At least he’s just an omega,’ father said. Did you remember
that?” 
Asha winced. Theon could feel the guilt resonated off her, and while the
sensation was sweet, it was not enough to satisfy him. He wanted it to hurt. 
“It should have been you,” Theon hissed. Asha, for all her faults, was no
coward. She looked him straight in the eye as Theon screamed his heart out.
“You were the heir. But by some twist of fate, I was taken instead. And I’m
glad I was,” Theon gloated when he saw a flicker of pain past through her eyes.
“Give your insults against the Starks all you want, but those words are no
better than the waves pounding on the rocks. Robb was more of a brother to me
than ours ever were. You know that as well as I do.”
Asha clenched her fist. “Robb is the son of the man who kidnapped you. He is
not your brother—” 
“Neither was ours! Do you know what they did to me?” Theon asked. His eyes
clenched shut as the memories returned.
“Theon—”
“Robb never held me down and showed off my cunt to his friends,” Theon hissed.
“He never let them put a stick inside me for a tin coin or strip me naked at
the docks for a prank. He never offered to whore me out for my first heat and
let sailors fondle my breasts for a bet!”  
 “Theon, that was a long time ago. I would never let that happen—”
“It doesn’t matter what you say,” Theon reminded. He wiped away the tears that
sprung from those horrid times. “Because father gave enough acquiescence that
nothing you say matters.”
Asha closed her eyes in disgust.
Theon looked down at his cold meal. “The Dreadfort is one of the more
prosperous regions in the north. I’ll be well provided for. There is no raping
and pillaging needed here.” Theon scoffed. "Omegas do well by being pretty,
here."  
“That is not the iron way. It is in your blood, Theon; you cannot be rid of it
with a ridiculous ceremony.”
Theon kept his resolve. “We will wed in front of a heart tree and not a drowned
man. I will not burden you with giving me away. Robb or Lord Stark will be more
than up for the task. At least, I will have one alpha who cares for me there.”
Silence filled the room. Theon was about to call for a maid to come in but Asha
spoke. “You keep insisting that I do not care,” Asha spoke, frustration
embedded in every word. “I would not be here if I did not care.”
Theon stared at her. 
Asha stood up. To his surprise, she walked over him and bent the knee. Theon
gasped.
“I have never bent the knee to anyone in my entire life. I will do so today,
for you. To get it inside your thick head that no matter how whorish your dress
is or how stupid your choices are, you are my brother and I will never abandon
you.” She sighed angrily, and Theon could tell she wished for more wine. “You
were a terrible baby, now and before. You used to wake up the entire castle
with your bawling. One night, you just wouldn’t stop. Screaming like a dying
pig. I wanted to strangle you." Asha took in a sharp breath. "That night, I
looked down at your crib, and you smiled at me. Didn’t cry for the entire
night.” Asha reached out for his face, and unlike before, Theon allowed himself
to be touch. She licked her chapped lips and turned away. “Send a raven before
the ceremony and I will give you away. Whatever the fuck that means.” She went
back to her seat. “And don’t worry about the dowry. We may not wear gold on our
britches, but we are still high lords.”
“Lord Stark has offered his assistance,” Theon offered softly. Asha was no
longer looking at him. “You can speak with him—”
“For fuck’s sake, Theon, I will not beg your kidnapper for aid,” Asha snapped.
She poured out a third glass of wine. Theon considered calling for another
flask. “At least you’ve had the sense to wed a man close to the sea.” Pride
bubbled in Theon’s chest. While a small victory, he was glad someone
acknowledged his cunning in selecting a mate. The Dreadfort was miles away from
the Shivering Sea, but they owned a portion of the harbor.
When the matter was settled, the two returned to their meal. Despite the chill
on his meat, Theon never felt more ravenous. His favorable mood made him less
mindful of his surroundings. He did not notice Asha’s staring.
“You’re getting married,” she whispered; she sounded bemused and defeated at
once.
“I am.”
She shook her head. “You’re too young. Fucking hell, you’re the same baby you
were when you left.”
Theon swallowed. “I’m old here. I’ll be nineteen soon.”
“That’s because alphas here like their cunts stupid. Young and stupid,” Asha
remarked. 
“Stop.” Theon could feel a migraine growing. He knew where this conversation
was leading and when Asha spoke next, he was not disappointed.
“I don’t like him.”
Theon sighed. “He’s an acquired taste.”
“He’s a cunt.”
Theon choked on his potatoes. He pushed down the blockage with wine. “Don’t let
him hear you,” he coughed out.
“Cunt,” Asha repeated. “A tight cunt who couldn’t take a pounding if a gnat
fucked him.”
Theon couldn’t help it. He muffled his laughter with his sleeve, but Asha
heard. For the first time since they’ve reunited, he saw her smile. She looked
beautiful, like their mother.
“He talks like you’re already his. Came to me, with his pristine boots and
silver buckles, called me ‘my lady’ and told me how fortunate he was to have
been chosen—like he didn’t twist your arm to get your hand.”
Theon remembered the incident from earlier. He kept his mouth shut.
“There are always going to be alphas like that. No often how much I pray,
there’s not enough water to drown them and not enough storms to strike them
dead.”
“Alphas like what?”
“Alphas like our father.” Asha paused. “Alphas that make omegas cry.”
Theon tightened his grip on his cup. “But that’s the curse, isn’t it? Omegas
end up like their sorry mothers, and then they marry  bastards like their
fathers.” Theon did not have the strength to defend his betrothed. He finished
the rest of his cup. “If only I was born an alpha.”
“If only.” Asha raised her cup. “But knowing you, you’d have been a bigger
fucking cunt than you are now.”
***
When the servants came to take their plates, Asha took her leave. Her mood must
have been on par with Theon, for the next morning, Domeric expressed his
content.
“The servants informed me,” the spies, Theon translates, “That your sister was
in a pleasant mood when she left your quarters last night. I am glad you were
able to reconcile.”
“As am I. When will negotiations begin?”
“Soon. We are waiting for father to finish his morning inspection. While our
meeting happens, I recommend you explore the castle. It is good for my future
bride to understand his home.”
Theon furrowed his brow. “I won’t be able to attend?”
“No,” Domeric answered as if he was reciting common sense. “It doesn’t concern
you.”
“It is mydowry.”
“But it is not your say,” Domeric retorted. “You don’t even know your worth.”  
Theon’s hands balled up into fists. Domeric must have found the argument
tedious because he turned his heel and walked away. “All of the
Bolton retainers have been instructed to heed your commands. You can send for a
guide if you like, or you can be alone—do not leave these walls.”
After the instruction, Domeric abandoned Theon in the halls. Theon snarled and
marched into the courtyard. He decided that while walking off his frustration
provided little relief, a trip to the kennel may provide comfort. The dogs of
Winterfell loved him, and he was confident the hounds of the Dreadfort would be
no different.
When he arrived, the kennelmaster welcomed Theon with a bow and introduced
himself as Ben Bones. He showed him around the kennel. His daughter, an omega
girl with long, dark hair, glared at him throughout his tour. A whine drew his
attention to the left den.
“What is going on?”
“One of the bitches is giving birth. She finally hit the hard part, so we’ll
see some pups soon.”
Theon perked up at the news. A puppy was exactly what he needed to cure his
sick spirit.
“I want to see her.”
 "Bit of a rough sight for a highborn like yourself. Lots of blood. Dirty.”
Theon did not care. He walked ahead and saw the whimpering form of a large,
muscular black-haired dog. He crouched down to check on her condition.
“Careful milord. That one’s Grey Jeyne. She’s a savage beast, I’ve seen her
tear apart a hound for a bone.”
Theon stroked her tummy as she urged her pups free. She must have appreciated
the gesture for she leaned into his hand.
“I believe she has other concerns.”
Ben cackled. “Right you are, milord.” He licked his lips as Theon grabbed the
dog’s head and rested it on his lap. His breasts were on full display, bouncing
every time he decided to bend over and pet the bitch.
When the pups started to crown, Theon was asked to move aside. He waited until
each one was out, not caring that it took hours. Soon, a litter of pink pups
was squirming on the sheets, seeking their mother’s warmth and milk. They were
ugly things, blind, fat and wrinkled, but Theon loved all the same. He watched
their mother lap onto their disgusting bodies and cleaned them up until there
was not a lick of blood left. It was lovely. 
Life was simple for dogs.
While Grey Jeyne was preoccupied, the kennelmaster tried to win his favor by
bringing him another hound. “Her name is Kyra. She’s one of her master’s
favorites.” He leered when the beast latched onto Theon’s top and pulled it
down with her claws. The view of Theon’s rose buds was the highlight of his
service.
Theon laughed at the rambunctious creature. “She’s rather friendly.” The
creature attacked his face with sloppy, wet licks which Theon took as kisses.
“I'm surprised Domeric cares for these creatures. He strikes me as a man who
doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong,” the kennelmaster agreed. “But her master is his
brother. Lord Bolton’s bastard.”
Theon froze. “Ramsay? Ramsay Snow?”
Ben nodded. “You’ve met?”
Theon tried to quell his heart and returned his attention to the lovelorn dog.
“He was at my ceremony. We weren’t well acquainted,” Theon lied. “Is he
around?”
From afar, Bones’ daughter dropped her holdings. Theon heard her curse. She
must have been eavesdropping.
“Nay, his father sent him away. Must have picked the wrong whore again.” Ben
cackled, “He’s a beast, that one. Loves the thrill of a good hunt and a solid
blade. Never a dull moment with his presence. He even let me join him on a hunt
once.” Bone's yellow teeth glowed in the darkness. “Made me feel like a green
boy again. He even offered me a taste of his prize.”
The crudeness was cringe worthy.
Since Theon arrived, every second of his stay was filled with stories of Ramsay
Snow, each more elaborate and gruesome than the one before. Rather than
frighten him, the tales made him yearn for more. Theon wanted every morsel of
news he could find out about the bastard.
“Do you know when he’s coming back? I mean, if he was important enough to bring
to the ceremony, then surely we should get to know one another?”
The kennelmaster shrugged. “He’s a different breed, milord. One with a taste
for omega flesh.” He stared at Theon’s form. “You should be grateful he is
gone; he wouldn’t have left you alone. Pretty thing you are.” Pretty cunt you
have, Bones mused.  
Theon bristled. The problem was that he was alone. Ramsay had not contacted him
since that night. A part of him was fearful their affair was a ruse; a
treacherous prank to humiliate his trueborn brother through the violation of
his bride.
Whatever the cause for his distance, Theon sought answers. He thanked the
kennelmaster for his time and marched back to his quarters. A bath was in
order; he was drenched in wet fur and dog drool. Domeric would not appreciate
the odor. He was not surprised to see that the sun was setting. The North
reached nightfall quicker than the south and the Dreadfort was no exceptions.
Domeric might be waiting in his room. He hoped negotiations went well; he
rather wished to avoid being drowned in the bathtub. 
Once was enough.  
***
The Bolton men struck a hard bargain, but Asha was no less heavy with her
punches. In the end, House Bolton would receive a substantial number of ships
and Theon’s weight in iron. It was more than what any islander would ask for;
Asha commented as such when they tried to increase the price.
“We can offer your brother more than what any islander can.”
Asha smiled and snorted, amused by the suggestion. “Yes, I’m aware of your
wealth. Even in this cold tundra, there’s more gold in your vaults than several
islands combine.” Asha shook her head. “That doesn’t make you a good husband.
Just a rich one. There are good men in the islands. Men I’ve raided with. Men
who would gladly give their lives for a bride like my brother. Men who would
give their lives for me.”
Domeric did not falter. “Regardless, Theon has expressed his wishes to marry
me. Would you take away his choice?” 
“Maybe.” Asha shrugged. “Maybe I’m giving him the opportunity to make better
choices.”
Domeric narrowed his eyes.
“Enough,” Lord Bolton cut in. “Iron is an abundant resource within your lands.
We can remove the request for gold in exchange for the highest quality of
iron.”
Asha pursed her lips. It was reasonable. “Fine.” She crossed one leg over the
other. “What’s next?”
“That was the end of the dowry negotiations. We should move onto the wedding
preparations.”
Asha scoffed. “This is omega’s territory. Where is my brother anyways?”
“He wasn’t interested in attending,” Domeric answered.
“It’s his dowry. If I should suffer, so should he.”
“He believed the matter should be handled in accordance with tradition. Once
our betrothal is settled, he will officially enter our house. Thus, it is a
matter between us,” Domeric explained.
Asha rolled her eyes. “Right, that giving away bullshit you northerners
peddle.” She sighed. “Carry on. How much is the wedding going to cost us?”
One of the problems with Theon marrying so soon was the funds involved. When he
was born, the family planned on using Maron and Rodrik’s dowry payments to pay
for Theon’s; when they died, the task was given to her. She never expected he
would marry a mainlander.
Lord Bolton was relieved to inform the vile woman of the cost. “They will be
married after Domeric’s nameday, which is a month from now. The ceremony itself
will cost nothing. Our marriages require only a heart tree and prayers. We will
take care of the feast for the wedding night. Our guests will be limited to a
select few. This includes the Starks. You are welcomed, as is your father and
mother.”
Asha scoffed at the idea. Her father would sooner drown himself for good before
he allowed Lord Stark to sit at his table.   
“Fine,” Asha agreed. “But if we’re going to have a northern ceremony, I want
the wedding feast to adhere to iron traditions.”
The Boltons shared a look. “What does that entail, Lady Asha?”
Lady Asha scoffed. “Take your britches out of your ass,” she grabbed the
agreement and skimmed over it as she spoke. “I only have two requests. One, I
want it done by the shore, overlooking the sea.”
“That can be arranged,” Lord Bolton agreed. “Though we cannot guarantee the
weather will be fair.”
“I’ll risk it,” Asha said dryly. 
“What is the second condition?”
Lady Asha smirked. “For the bedding, six witnesses must walk the bride and
groom to their bed. There will be no stripping or sacrificial transport. When
it is time for consummation, a Drowned man must be in attendance. Watching your
every move.”
Domeric glared at the woman. “Fine,” he told her. “I have no complaints.”
Asha, thankful for the matter to be over with, agreed. “Neither do I.” 
The alphas prepared their sigils and stamped their papers. Once completed, the
maester finished up the last of the documents and tidied up the papers. “We
will ship these documents to the Citadel in the morning.”
Asha nodded. “If you excuse me, I want to see my brother.” 
“Of course, Lady Asha.” Domeric nodded. “Do tell my bride that I look forward
to our wedding day.”
Asha sneered. She stormed out of the room before she could hear the rest of his
sentence. 
***
Asha never knocked in Pyke; Theon wondered why he expected such formality in
Dreadfort. Asha barged in his quarters right as he was applying oil. The sight
made her stop in her tracks.
“What is that smell?”
Theon sighed. “Lavender and honey.”
“Why are you putting that on your body? Are you a pastry?”
“It’s oil,” Theon explained. “It's to soften your skin. You should try it;
you’re looking chafed.”
“That’s what work looks like,” Asha gritted out. “And after dealing with that
ass, you should be kissing mine.”  
Theon rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
“Don’t start that again,” Asha warned.
Theon had the good sense to listen. He asked how the negotiations went.
“Poorly. I would rather eat a donkey’s anus than go through that again,” Asha
looked through his things for some wine or ale. She found nothing and groaned.
“But at least the matter is settled. You’ll be married in a month.”  
“Thank you,” Theon told her. He meant it as well. “I would have joined you if I
could.”
“What stopped you?” Asha mumbled. “Could have used your pretty breasts when he
tried to rob me.”
“Domeric said it was not an omega’s place.” The argument happened long enough
ago that the bite was lost.
Asha stopped moving. “What?”
Theon shrugged. “I have some gift wine. It’s spiced but I think you’ll like
it.”
“Theon,” Asha snapped. Her voice was low as if she was trailing on a line and
any mistakes could have her drowning in a pit of rage. “It wasn’t your decision
to not be there?”
Theon shook his head. “Domeric said I would add nothing to the negotiations. He
was right. I don’t even know what your limit was, or Lord Stark’s for that
matter. I would have been dead weight.”
Asha marched over to him and grabbed his shoulders. She opened her mouth to say
something, but the words died on her lips. She shook and it was the most
frightened he’d ever seen her. Then, slowly, she loosened her grip, and let him
go.
“When are you returning to Winterfell?” She asked. 
“At the end of the week." If he remembered correctly. "I’ll be staying with the
Starks until the wedding. If I overstay my welcome here, no one would believe I
lost my maidenhood on our wedding night.” Theon shrugged. “Why do you ask?”
Asha pretended to be nonchalant about the matter. “You’ve been speaking so
highly of the Starks that I’ve considered coming with you. Meet this Robb boy.
See how he fares with me.”
Theon laughed. “You’d make him shit his pants.”
“All the better for me to come.”
Theon laughed again. It was strange, to smile so much. He wasn’t ever this
jovial when they were children. He wondered if it was because they’ve grown up;
if time was all that was needed for them to like each other. “I’ll send a
raven,” he promised. He turned around and found a half empty bottle of ale
whose origins were unknown. He poured her a glass regardless. 
After he filled the cup, Asha grabbed it but did not drink. She stared at him.
“The Starks were good to you, weren’t they?”
Theon nodded. “I’ve been fortunate.”
“What about Domeric? Does he treat you well?”
Then tightened his lip but he didn’t falter. He'd gone too far to give
everything up now. “He has the means to provide me everything I want.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Theon smiled despite his nerves. Asha set down her glass. She cradled his cheek
again; she was obsessed with the gesture.
“If…” Asha swallowed. “If that man ever hurts you, you come back to us. To me.
Or hell, even the Starks, if they’ll take you. But if they don’t, you come back
to Pyke.”
Theon scoffed. “Father would love that.”
"I don't give a fuck what he wants!"
Theon jumped.
Asha took a deep breath. “Just promise me. I don’t care if it’s tomorrow or ten
years down the road. If he lays a hand on you, you tell me. I’ll rip out his
heart and deliver it to the Drowned God.”
Her threat was the sweetest declaration of love he had ever heard from her or
anybody else. He hugged her. Though she was slow to return the gesture, as soon
as her arms were around him, it felt like she would never let him go.
***
While matters settled on a grave of flayed men, other cemeteries were less
discreet about their affairs. Robb never doubted that Jon was his reason to see
the sun the next day, but watching the steam of the hot springs hide him
brought out a sense of urgency. He wanted to hunt, fuck, and claim. Before Jon
could utter a greeting, Robb grabbed Jon and pushed him against the wall.
Robb was rock hard. Everything became numb except for the senses devoted to
Jon’. His touch was obsessed with Jon’s hot flesh. His eyes locked on Jon’s
flushed face. His nose inhaled in Jon’s scent. Jon, Jon, Jon.
“Why are you wearing still wearing your dress?” Robb growled.  
Jon smiled. “No one was here to take it off me.”
The Snow child squealed when Robb ripped open his top to reveal his flat chest.
He turned him around so that his nipples pressed against the wall. Robb removed
his skirt in haste. The ground piled up with shreds of fabric. Jon’s moans
could be heard from the hallway but neither of them cared. All Robb cared about
was removing those awful clothes and getting balls deep inside his lover.
He parted Jon’s ass and stuck three fingers inside his already wet hole. Robb
could have come again. Jon was soaking, more so than at any point in their
journey.
“You're so fucking ripe for it,” Robb growled.
Jon could feel slick running down the backs of his legs. While his slutty hole
twitched for Robb’s cock, his cunt ached and clenched around an imaginary knot.
His heart was pounding. He was panting like a bitch in heat.
Jon froze. 
No, he thought. It's too early.
“Robb, we have to go.”
The last of lucidity was used on this one request. He couldn’t stop what
was happening and he didn’t want to. All he wanted was a big, thick cock
stuffing his cunt until he broke.
“What?” Robb breathed out.
Good, Jon thought as the wave got closer. Robb could still speak.
“We need to get back to my room.” 
“Fuck,” Robb swore. “Just let me knot you here first.”
“No, if you…if you knot me now, we won’t be able to...” Jon moaned. He
tightened his thighs together to keep himself from coming. Robb’s fingers were
still curled up inside him. “Let’s go to…my room…I’m…”
Jon bit his lip so hard it hurt. His back was bouncing on Robb’s fingers until
he couldn’t take it any longer. He elbowed Robb off him. Robb made a beastly
noise but Jon kissed him before he could retaliate. When they parted, Jon
continued to suck on Robb’s neck. In between kisses, Jon spoke:
“If we get to my bedroom…ah…we can…you can knot me before anyone notices
something amidst. I could be yours this time. It’ll be…an accident…no one could
blame us.”
Robb growled. He gripped his lover so hard, it left bruises. “What the hell are
you talking about?”
“Robb,” Jon moaned. “I'm in heat.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     So I lost track of time, thought Friday was Thursday, realized I had
     less than two days to write this chapter. Finished 13,000 words in
     three days. I actually had to withhold out several plot points
     because I was too tired to write them. I am putting them to the next
     chapter.
     So yes, next chapter will include: motherfucking heat sex and more
     Asha and Theon because it's really fun to write Asha. It's a smut-
     based chapter in comparison to this one.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
There were some books that all newly rutted alphas pined after in their
maesters' library. These scrolls, while educational in form, were filled with
torrid passages relating to their founder’s fertility. In the Reach, they were
blessed with tales of Garth the Gardener’s prowess; how omegas were would line
up in a row with naked cunts, ready to be plowed and seeded with the hero’s
thick tool. There were similar stories of Lann the Clever, founder of the
Lannister name. He used his wits to sneak into Casterly Rock and have his way
with the lord’s children in their sleep. Nine months later, the omegas gave
birth to golden-haired babes while insisting they had no carnal knowledge of an
alpha.
As a boy of the North, Robb Stark preferred a passage from the Winter's Kings,
or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell, a book written by
Maester Childer about House Stark, the one-time Kings of Winter. It contained a
ballad about how Brandon the Builder sought the aid of the children of the
forest to raise the Wall. The children agreed to send him an envoy to test his
resolve. Brandon waited in the woods with his sword in hand, predicting a
battle with a giant or a tumble with a wolf. Instead, his ears were enchanted
to hear the melody of the bells and birds. Brandon was said to have followed
the song of a raven to a weirwood and there, he came across the omega offspring
of a child and a human. The boy was smothering in his heat, washing himself
with a cloth dipped in the black springs. When he heard Brandon come forth, the
nameless nymph was spooked. He blended in with the wind and wraiths. He hid
behind the sentinels and oaks, climbed onto the ironwoods and ash, and dashed
between the elms and soldier pines. Brandon the Builder found him each time,
pushed him to the ground and stuck his fingers into his cunt and tongue in his
throat, but the child was clever and slippery as an eel. The great architect
could never get ahold of him long enough to sink his cock inside. For
countless, hours, the game continued until Bran the Builder, out of
frustration, grabbed his sword and threatened mutilation against the heart tree
if he continued to be denied. Pious and pure, the boy submitted. Brandon
fondled the nymph to his heart’s content. They fucked for five days, feeding
off chestnuts and black water. When they parted, Brandon was given the support
he beseeched from the children of the forest, but the boy disappeared. Brandon
was haunted by the omega's ghost; in his dreams and waking day, he saw visions
of him and his swollen belly, having been fucked full with Brandon’s seed. Bran
became obsessed with finding him. One night, the omega swore only to return
when Brandon had built him a castle. Brandon worked tirelessly for months,
having vowed to never shut his eyes until the omega was back in his arms. When
the fortress was finished, Brandon heard the cry of a babe in the throne room.
There was his queen and in his arms was Brandon’s first born son. Brandon took
the baby into his embrace, cradled him as the squirming bundle of joy opened
his bright green eyes—so much like his mother's—and asked him for his name.
"Brandon," the omega sang, with the sound of bells lingering on every word. "I
named him after a great man.”
***
The door was still open when Jon lost to his instincts. Seconds before the lock
turned, he was nothing more than an omega needing to be bred. Robb's rut was
creeping upon him as well; the alpha in him urged a haven before any action
could be performed—one where no one could interrupt or stake their claim on his
omega while either was vulnerable. Robb barricaded the door with his desk and
dresser and Jon's wardrobe as well, moving the furniture with more strength
than he ever had in his entire life. Jon was whimpering on the bed, ripping off
his dress without a thought to Robb’s efforts. They had just come out of the
baths, so Jon wore only a thin robe. The Stark heir wasn't even sure if Jon
knew where he was; all Jon could think about was getting his cunt wrapped
around a thick knot and getting fucked until his body swelled with babes. He
was a sight; lost in his heat and his scent was dripping with sex.
“Robb,” Jon moaned. His voice was guttered and wrecked with arousal. He humped
the sheets and used his fingers to stuff his pussy while he waited for his
lover.
Robb tore off the threads of his clothes to take them off. He stalked forward;
the closer he got, the more excited Jon was. He could smell Robb's rut in his
sweat, and the scent made his mouth water.
“Please, Robb, please I need you—”
"Fuck," Robb swore. He climbed onto the bed and pushed Jon down on the sheets
where the boy eagerly spread his legs. Jon took out his fingers and the sound
squelching slick echoed in the room. He used his hands to spread the lips
apart. Jon's cunt gaped beautifully for him. He was wet as a well, leaking all
over the sheets and trying to clench down on an absent knot. Jon whimpered. He
pulled his pussy apart to stick his fingers deeper inside while he stretched.
"I'm going to fuck you as you deserve," Robb promised as he gripped his cock
and sunk into Jon's cunt. Jon's eyes became blank and hooded with pleasure,
indicating his final descent into a full-blown heat. Robb was not far off. This
was his first time breeding with an omega in heat and it was his little
brother. He was going to ruin Jon. The thought of defiling the person he'd
sworn to protect made him harder than usual. He could imagine Jon's suitors
coming with hopes of seduction, not knowing that Jon's womb was already fucked
full.
Robb could not wait for Jon to become accustomed to his cock in a rut. His
fingers dug into Jon's hips and he slammed inside. The bed grunted from the
force and threatened to fall apart while he spent his time viciously fucking
into the omega underneath him. The sensation was delicious. As the name
implied, omegas’ insides were hotter in heat but they were creamier too with
their tight, spongey cunts desperate to get churned and pounded. Above all, the
thing that drove Robb mad was the wantonness. An omega in heat was desperate
for a knot and would do anything to get one. There were cases of princes and
princesses wandering into taverns, pretending to be whores just to get an alpha
to knot their throats and untouched virgins as young as twelve sneaking into
their father's rooms.
The room thundered with the slapping of skin against skin, and the bed squeaked
like mice caught in a wolf’s mouth. Robb bared his teeth in a snarl as his knot
started to bulge into Jon’s cunt. The swollen ball popped in and out, pulling
sharp yelps out of Jon’s lips. Robb slammed deep and rutted roughly into Jon’s
cunt, rubbing his insides raw. The knot eventually sunk all the way in and
engorged enough to tie them together.
Jon gasped. He came at a moment's notice while Robb's orgasm rushed through his
cock and into Jon’s bruised cunt. He coated Jon's channel with big spurts of
cum. Robb could feel how desperately Jon clamped onto him, shuddering and
wailing as his second orgasm overcame his body.
Robb protectively slumped over Jon's body as he caught his breath. With any
rut, each orgasm gave the alpha another peek of sensibility. The reason left as
quick as it came as Jon's muscles resurged with strength and started to milk
his fading knot greedily.
Having lost the ability to speak, Robb grunted. He let his cock nestle into
Jon’s soaked cunt. Jon didn’t respond well to the inactivity. He sobbed
underneath him, urging Robb to continue.
Robb waited until his knot was small enough to break free before slipping out,
cum and slick following his trail. Jon whined, high-pitched and meek. He rolled
Jon over and maneuvered him to the standard mating position for omegas. It was
understandable for an alpha to desire a traditional mount. Jon raised his big,
bulbous ass and pressed his face against the sheets. He spread his knees far
apart and arched his back in offering.
In a moment of sentimentality or plain, beast-like possession, Robb ran his
hands over Jon's limp form, worshipping the flawless, milky skin while Jon laid
there submissively. He bent down to kiss Jon's neck but without thinking, his
teeth clung onto his skin. Jon wailed, but he didn't fight it. He rocked his
hips against Robb’s cock, cradling Robb’s growing hardness in between his
cheeks. Robb gripped one of Jon’s butt cheeks in each hand and spread them
apart to get a good look at Jon’s pink, puckering hole. He leaned in and gave
the glistening a good, long lick before sticking his tongue in and eating his
brother out. He was starving and wanted to gulch down the honey sweet ravine of
his brother. Jon gushed all over Robb's face, and it wasn’t long before the
eldest Stark child’s cock became full again. Robb removed his mouth and
positioned his cock against Jon’s hole.
Mine, he thought as the rut blurred his vision. Mine, he whispered and over
again as his control dimmed.
Mine.
***
Sex lingered on the stones of Winterfell like moss in the cracks; present but
unseen. No one could locate the origin, nor could they determine the smell. The
servants made small talk of it before dinner, claiming a faint aroma of
flowering snow buds and ripened strawberries and wondered if Gage’s gardens
were particularly lush that evening. Ned was compelled by his lover’s scent; he
picked up a dress Howland wore when they were teenagers and sat down on his bed
with his nose buried in the silk. After a few more exhales, his suspicion
overshadowed his longing. His hand clutched onto an unseen object covered in
fabric. He sought answers that no human could answer so he settled for theories
instead.
Ned visited Maester Luwin after dinner. The man diligently minded his scrolls,
coming up with plans for the lessons missed and working on the tasks Ned
requested. Ned was mindful. He knocked on the door and asked for pardon. Luwin
welcomed him kindly.
“What ails you tonight, Lord Stark?” Luwin asked.
Ned was never a man for frivolities. “I need you to bring out the maps.”
Luwin frowned but obeyed. “What of?”
“One of the North and one of Westeros.” Ned paused before explaining. “Howland
was not at the Neck when Jon arrived. I suspect he was elsewhere.”
“That tends to be the case when someone is not present.” Luwin tutted Ned for
his blatancy. He arranged his paperweights to keep the map of the North spread.
Ned sighed. He walked over to Luwin’s side and waited for the man to unroll
Westeros’ guide. When he was done, Ned voiced his concerns, “When we last
spoke, Howland’s behavior was disconcerting.” That was a lie; Ned corrected
himself as to not offend Luwin’s intelligence. “His statements bordered
treason. If I know Howland, he wouldn’t have said anything if he hadn’t already
set the pieces in motions.”
“Forgiveness over permission is a policy Lord Reed is fond of.” Luwin shook his
head. “Have you spoken with him since then?"
"I've sent a raven, but he would never admit to anything unless it were too
late to turn back.”  Ned grabbed a miniature horse and placed it on the
northern map, right on top of the Neck. “According to Jon, Howland was seen
traveling north.” He moved the horse towards Moat Cailin. “Howland knows the
stronghold better than anyone. It is a deathtrap, but places of peril happen to
fall under Howland’s expertise. He would have no problem staying there
unharmed, and using it as a base for his plots.” Ned moved upward and reached
the White Harbor. “After the Starks, House Manderly is notorious for its
continued negotiations with the Neck. He could have provided Howland with
horses and gold and allowed him to access anywhere from his Harbor to a
clandestine road to the south. The possibilities are endless.”
Luwin nodded. His fingers lingered over the White Harbor. “Why are the
Manderlys so accommodating?”
Ned hesitated. “Howland told me his wife was from the Neck.”
“Ah,” Luwin acknowledged. Then, he took a few knights from his box of toys and
laid them at Ned’s side. “How many houses have the crannogmen infiltrated,
based on your knowledge?”
Ned hesitated. He took a few pieces and laid them on several unmarked spots in
each kingdom. “Quite a few—but Howland has never revealed a number. I know of
Lord Manderly’s union because of his frequent dealings with Howland.” Ned did
not mention the jealous row that occurred when he suspected infidelity. Howland
put a stop to those wicked thoughts but not before laughing at his incredulity.
“You are everything to me,” Howland had sworn with more devotion than a septon.
 
“Hmm..." Luwin grabbed more pieces and placed them near capitols Ned was
hesitant to add allies in, namely, King's Landing. "I do not know Howland as
well as you, but I know how someone of his caliber acts. I know that when they
consider severing themselves from the body, they’re not likely to do so without
the help of an ax or fire. He’ll need allies and those bound by blood make the
best ones.” Luwin waited for his lord's response. After a heavy silence, Ned
put a piece inside every kingdom, from Dorne to the Riverlands. He sat down on
a nearby chair and sunk his head into his hands.
“Blood and gods,” Ned whispered hatefully. Luwin raised an eyebrow. Ned
unwrapped the fabric he kept hidden and revealed a golden collar. “The maids
found this in our room—it had slipped underneath the dresser. They suspected it
was a gift from me to Howland that he had forgotten.”
Ned handed it off to Luwin who observed it with a sigh. “It’s a courtship
gift.” He placed it on the table and sat across from Ned. “Do you know who he
received it from?”
“According to my brother, Howland has no intention of marrying after their
separation. But I know him well enough not to underestimate his resolve. If he
wants a war, he might do anything to ensure his victory.”
“But would he betray you?”
“I would not blame him if he did,” Ned answered. “I have betrayed him in a
hundred worse ways.”
“You have done so out of duty, not pleasure. Your dealings have never been
anything but a sacrifice.”
“Yes, but sacrifices should be done in solitude; all of mine were at the price
of his happiness. I have taken his child from him; I have given up our life
together.” Ned sighed. He glanced over at the collar. “Tell me I do not deserve
punishment for what I’ve done.” 
“You do not.” Luwin took the cloth out of Ned’s hands and proceeded to wrap the
jewelry. “You are a good man. You have spent more years on this earth serving
the realm over living in it. If you are to be a martyr than Lord Reed is your
rapture. He is the gift the gods have given you for your faith. You are allowed
to be selfish, if only with him.” Luwin tossed the golden trinket aside like a
rock in the river.
Ned chuckled. "You almost sound like a holy man."
"I am a pragmatic one," Maester Luwin answered. "I know that when honorable men
are at the edge of a cliff, they will consider jumping to spare themselves the
push."
"Then, what do you propose I do? To settle his spite and my suspicion?”
“Speak with Lord Reed.”
“What if he refuses to answer the raven?”
“Then do not send one. A flock would not be enough to carry the weight of your
words,” Luwin explained. “If Jon’s presence is any proof, it is that you’ve
always been more persuasive in person.”
“I cannot leave Winterfell without reason,” Ned protested.
“It would do the North no good to have a lord with sullied thoughts. Let that
be your reason.” Luwin returned the present. "Sometimes, a piece of jewelry is
molten metal, and a trip north is a peaceful excursion. You do not find fact
with theories; you find them with tests. You ask questions.”
“Questions rarely receive answers when Howland is involved.” A small smile
appeared on Ned’s face regardless. Despite Ned’s reluctance, relief was
present. He had been wrong before; perhaps Luwin was right, and he was reading
too much into a silly necklace.  
“But…” Luwin began. “If you happen to be concerned with courtships, perhaps it
is time to chase after husbands and wives.”
Ned raised an eyebrow. His stomach dropped when Luwin clarified his meaning.
“The journey south was a momentous occasion for your children. We’ve received
more letters for fostering and courtships in the past week than we have in
years. Lady Stark wants to begin discussing offers.”
The discussion is as appetizing as cow piss, but he finds himself forced to
swallow. Ned admitted that went to great lengths to avoid the conversation, but
Luwin was no longer giving him a choice.
“Robb is uninterested in marriage,” Ned declared. “And he is past the age of
fostering.”
“I agree. Robb is a child of Winterfell, and any involvements with other lords
would appear to be favoritism.” Luwin got up from his seat to fetch a pitcher
of water. “But I was not referring to Robb.”
Luwin poured Lord Stark a glass before giving one to himself. Ned noted that
his movements were slow. He was an aging man with a certain delicateness that
omegas were known for. When he was younger, he asked the man why he never
married. Luwin chuckled and said that his time was not the best for poor omegas
with a mind. It was either the Citadel or the Silent Sisters. 
The Lord of Winterfell sipped his water. “The others are too young. Sansa has
at least a year before she enters her heat.” Though he said that, he revealed
that Lord Arryn referenced her in one of his letters. He hoped the information
would be enough to divert Luwin’s attentions. “Robert has always dreamed of
unifying our bloodlines. Sansa and Prince Joffrey are the same age; I’m sure
Lady Stark would not oppose.”
“Few mothers would object to their daughters becoming queen,” Luwin agreed. He
glanced over King’s Landing on his map. “Is Sansa the only one he’s spoken
about?”
“All of our children have been mentioned in the passing.”
“Even Jon?”
Ned’s jaw tightened. “Jon is none of their concern.”
“Because he is illegitimate or because you refuse to allow others to
acknowledge him?” Luwin sighed. “What would happen if King Robert comes to the
North and sets his eyes upon him? Listens to him laugh and hears the past
haunting him? What would you do then?”
“That will never happen. Jon is my natural born son; there is no reason for him
to be in the presence of a king.”
“Lord Stark, I would keep silent on this, but even you must see—"
“Jon has been through enough—”
“—that he looks like her,” Luwin stressed. Silence fell upon the room and
suffocated Ned with its weight. “He looks like Lyanna. He has her eyes and
sometimes, I see a bit of her soul in him.”
“He has my eyes. He is my son, and the son of the man I love,” Ned defended.
“You told me that Lyanna died with her son,” Luwin reminded him. “And yet we
only buried one body. Where is the child, Ned?”
“You were there when Jon was born. You delivered him to this world. You know he
is my son.”
Luwin clutched onto a link around his neck and stared his lord straight in the
eye as he told him, "Lord Stark, I am old, but I am not senile. I know Howland
took the child and I know you know where he is. You would never let an
unmarried Stark leave our crypts, leave Winterfell. There is a part of Lyanna
in your son.” Luwin’s solemnity was matched only by his fear. “And if my
suspicions are correct, there is a dragon in there as well.”
Ned turned away in shame. He would never forget the moment he found Lyanna;
dying in a pool of blood, alone except for a nursemaid who could provide no
comfort, who was in service to the man who betrayed her. He remembered how she
begged Howland to save her child, the stillborn lying on the bedsheets like a
stone covered in flesh.
Ned lost his sister to a dragon; he would not lose his son to a stag.
Luwin retreated a few steps behind the truth. “I see their resemblance, and so
will others. If Robert’s eyes draw upon him, what will you do?”
“They will never meet,” Ned swore. "Some lords live their lifetimes without
ever facing a king. A bastard should not be an issue.”
“He is not a bastard; he is your bastard,” Luwin reminded. “Jon is as well-
known as any of your children, perhaps even more so. I have requests asking for
his portraits; some are willing to pay the fee to have his image in their
homes." 
Ned growled. “Those portraits aren’t for courting.”
Luwin told him he was missing the point. “You were lucky; Lord Arryn warned us
that the king was not attending the tourney this year. You may not be so lucky
the next year.”
“Robb has gotten his fill of tourneys. He won’t be traveling south for a while.
He said so as much. Wherever he goes, so does Jon.”
Luwin almost groaned in frustration. “There will always be more events; more
chances for Robert to catch a glimpse of him. Stories and songs spread like
wildfire. People know your son is beautiful, they will want to look, and when
they do, they will want to touch.”
Ned pounded his fist on the table. The horses scattered across the map. “No one
is laying a hand on Jon!”
Luwin swallowed. With a heavy heart, he made a suggestion that could have cost
him his life if he were given another lord. “And what if Jon wanted them to?”
Bile hardened and coiled inside Ned’s throat. Luwin had seen the lord
speechless many times, but never as discomfort. "Jon is a child.” Ned gritted
his teeth.
“Children do not stay children forever. He is fourteen. Jon may be your babe,
but he is an omega who has bloomed. He has desires…”
“He is a child!” Ned stood up with fire coursing through his veins. “He desires
nothing more than the love of family. He will not be corrupted under my watch.”

“But there will be a time when you will not be watching him. It is all the more
reason to consider marriage.” Luwin’s voice was gentle. “If you want Jon to
protected, assign him a protector. Alphas tend to respect territory.”
“My son is not a piece of land,” Ned growled.
Luwin nodded and with a sad smile, he told Ned. “Lord Stark, with all due
respect. You can protect him for as long as you live and breathe—but the fact
that he requires your protection is telling in itself.” He rested his hand on
Ned’s shoulder. “Take this from an old omega. I, too, had a mother and father
who loved me. They scurried for coins every night to have enough to send me to
the Citadel because it would protect me,” Luwin tugged at his chain. “I have
never been abused by an alpha, but I have never fallen in love with one either.
The only children I have ever cherished carried the Stark name; the only home I
have ever known is yours and not my own.”
Luwin stroked his lord's cheek as a mother would. The man was both a mother and
a father to him growing up, and a valued advisor when he became a lord—he still
was; his plea was sharper than expected; Ned could feel the cutting against his
chest, forming thinly veiled slices in his heart.
“I would like rest. It has been a long day.”
The maester waited for something unsaid or heard before nodding. “Of course, my
lord. Would you like some poppy for sleep?”
“No.” Ned shook his head. “I would prefer something stronger.”
Not for the first time today, Luwin displayed hesitance. He was never quick to
disobey his lord, but he never relished in discourse, either. “My lord, if you
are suggesting…”
“I am.”
“Lord Reed will not be pleased.”
“Neither am I,” Ned told him. “I will consider a trip to the Neck, but for now,
I need to see him.” He reached out his hand. With grave reluctance, Maester
Luwin turned his back on his lord. He took out a key and unlocked a safe where
he kept some of his most valuable herbs and spices and brought out a jar filled
with golden moss. From his drawer, he took out a pair of pincers and a slab of
glass. He latched onto the smallest amount of moss but was halted by Ned.
"A little more," Ned ordered; his voice was soft as a wolf's rumbling throat
and just as menacing.
Luwin complied. The amount was not indecent but would ensure his lord the
finest dreams in all the lands. Ned returned to his room alone. His tea was
waiting on his night table, and with great shame, he added in the golden moss
and waited for his drink to glow green. When it did, Ned took a deep breath and
prayed to the gods to forgive his weakness. He was only a man. 
***
“Would you like to dance, my love?”
Howland twirled on the tables while the bodies of men broken on ale and wine
and battle covered the ground. Ned had forbidden Howland from drinking with the
rest of the warriors—his poor tolerance was the fertilizer for trouble and Ned
had no intentions of letting the weeds of avarice grow. The war was over; he
was tired of fighting. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been snuffed, and they had
won, as everyone knew they would. The king had a belly full of wine to show for
it, and a seaside kingdom was crawling on snapped fingers and broken knees. For
his victories, Ned was given a child, put to sleep by his lover’s spell because
the crying became unbearable.
Almost all the men had either drunk themselves to a stupor or returned to their
cabins or tents; they were desperate to wake up and find themselves on the road
home. When Ned deemed it safe enough, he had allowed Howland a cup which turned
into two and then morphed into three. Ned could not feel angry or ashamed;
Howland looked beautiful when he was dancing. He laughed freely. When Howland
got dizzy from another spin, the crannogman missed a step and landed into Ned’s
arms. The two fell to the floor and erupted into giggles. They were younger
then; they were happier.
Lord Stark watched the scene with diluted eyes and pleasure—intense,
overwhelming pleasure that made his meat tender and turned his muscles into
jam. He remembered being that young man at the table, watching his lover’s
cheeks redden with spirits and kissing the blush away. He remembered biting his
nape and howling like a dog as he did so, how Howland spun his legs around his
waist and how he laid upon the table like an offering. Ned remembered being in
love; love was what made the nostalgia feel like bliss. He was not a romantic
man, but the memory turned him into poetic, fantastical, whimsical beast of joy
and wonder. The reality was far away, and all that mattered was that he was
with Howland again.
“What are you doing, Ned?” Ned heard a voice from behind ask. He turned around
and saw Howland; the Howland of his present, grave and gaunt but so beautiful.
The Lord of the Neck reached out and cradled his lover’s cheek. “You’re only
supposed to take the moss during my heat. I’ve warned you. Using it too often
can cause holes in your head—”
Ned pressed his hand on top of Howland’s. His touch was warm. “I missed you,”
he confessed. Ned did not wait for Howland to respond. He pushed his true wife
against the wall of their dream and ravished his lips. Howland opened his mouth
and wrapped his hands around his neck. When they parted, Howland was too
breathless to speak. The sight of his glassy eyes and red cheeks riled up the
beast inside. Ned never controlled himself in a fantasy. He kissed Howland
again and again, but nothing satisfied him. Ned moved his lips downwards,
caressing every part of Howland's skin with his mouth. “You lied to me,” Ned
breathed out, and when he said those words out loud, he realized he was not
angry. He was scared. “You did not have business in the Neck. You refused my
offer to further your agenda—you placed our time together second to your
schemes.”  Within his dream, the hypocrisy tasted like peppers, and it was
bitter, and it burned, but Ned swallowed the spice by the pound.
Howland’s face contorted with pain. “Ned…”
“I don’t care,” Ned revealed with a heavy breath. “Tell me you love me and all
is forgotten. Tell me whatever you have planned, you would never put us in
peril. You would never put our son in danger.”
Howland reached out for Ned until they were a nose apart. “Everything I have
done; I have done for us. Everything I do is for us.” Tears welled up in
Howland’s eyes, but unlike his lover, he maintained his control. “Ned, I refuse
to live without you any longer.” Howland clutched onto Ned’s face and kissed
him once more. “For years I have cried and bled for the gods. It is time they
paid their dues to me.”
Howland turned away from Ned and admired their past with determination as
fierce as dragons. He’d seen the look on his face before, and each time
resulted in more causalities than the next. Ned should have stopped him.
Instead, he stood beside Howland and indulged in the spectacle in front of him.
Pleasure coursed through his veins as his younger self lifted Howland on top of
the table and slipped his head underneath Howland’s skirt.
Though they could not see a thing, the pleasure resurfaced inside Ned and
Howland’s as if they were performing the act all over again. Howland whimpered
as Ned wrapped his arms around him and let his lover remove his top. Howland’s
chest was bare in seconds.   
On the table, the past Ned had his head between Howland's legs and his mouth
sucked on his clit. Howland’s hips jolted up as the suction released a shock
throughout his body. Ned slurped up the cum gushing out of him. Howland made
loud, mewing cries as Ned continued to stroke his insides with his tongue.
Howland tightened his thighs around Ned’s face and started grinding against
Ned’s mouth. His cunt was throbbing.
“Ah!” The younger Howland moaned. He could not stand the heat. He tore open his
blouse and massaged his nipples while Ned ate his cunt.  
In the present, Howland writhed underneath Ned’s thorough hands. The Lord of
Winterfell had two coarse fingers lodged inside Howland’s cunt while his other
hand was groping his barely present chest. When the stirring of a release drew
near for both Howlands, a groan erupted from the sidelines.
“Fucking hells,” the golden hair boy muttered. Jaime Lannister stood on the
sidelines. Ned narrowed his eyes as the younger man palmed his trousers in the
shadows, watching the scene in the darkness.
Despite his arousal, Howland laughed at the mortified expression on his lover’s
face. He placed his hand on Ned’s and pushed his fingers further up his cunt.
“Don’t be embarrassed. This is all in the past. He cannot see us.”
“He did see us,” Ned growled.
“Yes, he did,” Howland giggled. “But he was not the only one.”  
Before Ned could ask him what he meat, the ripples of an upcoming orgasm surged
inside both of them. The younger Howland’s body began to shake. He clutched
onto his lover’s hair as he came, dripping honey all over Ned’s chapped mouth
as he did so. When Ned left his lover’s skirts, Howland was not yet satisfied.
He pulled the father of his child into a kiss before pushing him away with a
playful twinkle in his eyes.
The real Howland Reed sunk into Ned’s arms in pleasure. He leaned in and kissed
Ned before murmuring if he remembered what happened next.
Ned did not have to recall. At once, Howland got on his coltish legs,
staggering towards King Baratheon and grabbed his crown.
“Howland!” Ned hissed. “What are you doing?”
Howland did not listen. He skipped over to Ned and dropped the band of gold
onto the Northern lord’s head. Before Ned could remove it, Howland dragged him
outside the room. “I am going to fuck a king tonight. A true king. In a king’s
bed.” Howland was still drunk and had every intention of taking advantage of
his inebriation to convince Ned to do the most horrible things to him. The
current Ned turned red with shame for fucking in the sheets his closest friend
would later sleep on.
With the two lords out of the room, Ned sought a different vision. Howland
stopped him, forcing the memory to stay intact. “Did I say the show was over?
You should watch this one.”
Ser Jaime Lannister walked out of the shadows. Ned narrowed his eyes at the
Kingslayer, but Howland's expression was far more amused. He revealed that the
Lannister had watched them the entire time. “His eyes never left us. Such a
poor boy,” Howland teased. “His cock was getting harder with every thrust yet
he never touched his bare cock once.”
“What is the point in this, Howland?”
"‘Everything is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.’” Howland hummed.
"Power is in our allies."
"Is this about your plans?" Ned asked. "Howland, whatever you have planned is
madness."
"You doubt me," Howland pointed out, but he was not angry. "But I don't blame
you. I want to show you how easy it is to gain power.”
The two of them turned their attention to the throbbing Lannister.
 
With no small amount of shame, Jaime surveyed the room for onlookers before
opening the laces of his trousers. His cock was hard, and while he intended to
leave the rooms for a good, long wank, the heaviness in his balls soon became
unbearable. His right hand was weighing his cock when he was interrupted.  
“Did you have fun watching them?” The other presence asked, delight tickling
his tone. For the first time in a long time, Jaime jumped. His face was dusted
with pink as he turned towards the voice.
Ned’s eyes widened.
Benjen Stark clutched onto his glass of wine. He had more tolerance than his
wife or at least had the hindsight to sip the goblet rather than swallow the
contents whole. Jaime noticed his resemblance to his older brother immediately.
They had the same sharp features and jawline but contrasted through Benjen’s
blue eyes.
Despite being a teenager, Benjen was already the father of two. He fought well,
not only for a boy his age but as a brother in arms. Jaime remembered being
impressed by his skill. They fought several battles together but never spoke.
Like his blood, he shared no fondness for the Lannister knight. Jaime liked to
think it was a result of his brother’s influence but he knew better. No
honorable man cared for a Lannister and even less of a Kingslayer. Unlike his
brother, however, Benjen had no problems being in his presence. He strolled
over to Jaime’s side and licked his lips when he noticed Jaime's engorged
erection.
Jaime tucked it in at once.
Benjen chuckled. “I suppose I interrupted something?” He glanced over at
Jaime’s covered erection. “Would you like me to come back?”
“On the contrary, you should have come sooner,” Jaime replied, smooth like the
butter on his father’s ass when the sycophants came. “You missed your wife.”
“Did I? I’ll apologize to him in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Your brother took good care of him in your stead.”
“He always does,” Benjen said. His lips twitched into a smile. He stared at
Jaime with amusement; as if the older man was an entertainer ready to perform.
 His nonchalance unnerved Jaime, who was used to the squirming and glares of
men not ready to face their weaknesses. Benjen wasn’t like those men, or more
aptly, Jaime read his weakness wrong.
“Doesn't it bother you?" He tried again.
“What?”
"That your wife and brother have cuckolded you like some crippled fool?” Jaime
took a step forward. “That your men mock you within ear’s reach?”
Benjen chuckled and waved his hand over the pissed bodies of victorious
soldiers. “These are not my men, Ser Jaime. And you care far too much about
what people think.”
“And you don’t care?” Jaime asked, his voice verging on annoyance. “That your
brother fucks your wife?”
“Someone has to.”
Jaime remained stunned. Benjen smiled at him as clutched onto Jaime’s white
cloak, now painted with splotches of red and brown and gray. He tilted his
head, contemplated an unknown matter,  asked the Lannister for assistance.
"Help me to my room; as you’ve stated before, it will empty without my wife,
and I am drunk.”
Jaime had never met a more sober man. He had every mind to refuse, citing his
duty to his king, but the alternative was to watch his brother in law drool
over the table with his britches down and his ass bare.
The White Cloak led the Stark outside the dining quarters and allowed himself
to be directed to the proper cabin. He clutched onto Jaime’s cloak the entire
time.   
“You know I wasn’t supposed to fight in this war. If my brother had married
Howland as he promised, I would be at the Night’s Watch.”  
Jaime scoffed. “Yes, you are so misfortunate to escape a life shoveling shit
onto snow and living on horse feed.” 
It was surprising to see the teenage boy reacted to the provocation. “And you
think you’re so noble? Guarding a man who plans to drink and whore his way to
an early grave? Guarding a mad king who you later stabbed in the back like a
coward?” Benjen stopped in his tracks; he maneuvered in front of Jaime,
snarling like the wolf he is; like the wolf his entire family represented. "If
King Robert had married my sister and done half the things to her that he does
to the Queen, he wouldn't be the king any longer."
"If he had married your sister, he wouldn't be king. The whole realm would have
benefitted from that."
"And who should be king? You?"
 Like a tempestuous beast, Benjen drew closer. Jaime did not know why, but the
urge to place a hand on his sword grew stronger. He resisted, he wouldn’t deem
this green boy a threat.
"Perhaps you should save your ferocity for battling wildlings, Lord Benjen."
Benign glared at him. Finally, his anger disappeared without a trace. "The Men
of the Night's Watch have guarded this kingdom for over eight thousand years.
They are a brotherhood.” Benjen was bolder than his brother; he moved the hand
on Jaime’s cloak to his sword hand and became one of the first alphas that made
his breath hitch like a hill. Jaime wondered if it was his wife’s influence
that made Benjen body so sinuous; that made his blue eyes pop like the ocean
hit by lightning. 
Before Jaime could correct his thinking, Benjen asked him when he joined the
Kingsguard.
“Fifteen,” Jaime muttered before he could come up with some clever retort.
Tyrion would be so ashamed of his big brother.
“Fifteen,” Benjen whistled out. “Barely rutted and already you want to swear
off cunts for the rest of your life.”
"The Night Watch is no better." reminded.  
“Oh, but for a man of my tastes, it might as well be a brothel.” Benjen watched
his companion’s eyes widened. The Lannister took a step back to collect his
thoughts, but Benjen followed, never letting him have a breath without his
knowledge. "Have you ever fucked an omega, Ser Jaime?"
Benjen removed his hand and used his other to come together to caress his soft
cock. "Have you ever tasted their honey in their mouth and drowned in it?"
“Yes,” Jaime breathed out.  
“How many?” Benjen asked.
“One, just one.” His sister, the Queen. His beautiful, volatile Cersei who
would rather claw apart his face than allow him happiness with another. He
loved her dearly and madly; a love that was all-consuming and dangerous to him,
her, and their golden-haired children. Love that was meant to defy the gods.
“Did you love them?”
Jaime swallowed. “I do.”
Benjen raised an eyebrow at the tense. They reached his door and Benjen asked
if he wanted to come in. Jaime did not, but he allowed himself to be dragged
inside regardless. Jaime sat down and after some contemplation, removed his
sword and placed it at his side. Benjen did the same and in either a
competition of fearlessness or an act of neutrality, left his blade on top of
his trunk. Even without the sword, Jaime held the advantage of strength, but
Benjen was going out of his way to make it clear he wasn’t a threat.
“Would you like some wine?” Benjen poured two cups. He took a sip of his first
before handing it back to Jaime. Jaime took it despite his reluctance to drink.
Alcohol made men sloppy and he had too many secrets to risk spilling over wine.
“You are a beautiful man,” Benjen praised out of nowhere. “Howland told me you
were but I wanted to see you for myself.”
“The maidens of the West cried when I took my vows,” Jaime announced with no
small amount of mockery. He remembered Tyrion making such a jest a few years
ago. He’d been told tirelessly of his handsome face, but never from another
alpha. This Stark was a peculiar one, and Jaime’s intrigue forbade him from
leaving the room.
“If you weren’t as handsome as you are, I wouldn’t have even glanced at you.
We’re not fond of Lannisters in my family.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
Benjen gave him another smile. Jaime wondered if there was something in the
wine that turned his body warm whenever the teenager did so. “The people of the
Neck told me it didn’t matter how much I despise you or your family. That what
I wanted didn’t have anything to do with love or respect.”
Jaime snorted at his declaration. “And what do you plan to do with me?” Even
with the wine, Jaime would have no problem cutting this child in half. Benjen
was thin enough to snap in half.
“Have you ever fucked an alpha?”
Jaime choked. He was coughing out grape spittle when he snapped. “I’m not a
degenerate." Benjen did not answer his claim with words. He got on his knees.
Benjen turned his skilled hands to Jaime’s pants, and undid the laces slowly,
offering a chance to escape whenever he paused to admire how the ties fell upon
his thighs.
“What are you doing?” He asked, not yet moving to leave. His sword was still at
his side. He could easily have walked out.
Benjen chuckled. “I supposed it’s true what they say; the gods only give a man
so many gifts. That face must be yours because they certainly didn’t bless you
with a brain.”  
Jaime snarled. His response was halted when Benjen grabbed his cock and started
rubbing it to full harness. He licked the tip, making Jaime’s head throw back.
“You have a great cock,” Benjen admired as he wrapped his lips around the head,
suckling more enthusiastically as pre-cum built up from the top. Jaime’s cock
was nestled between a bush of golden curls and the thickness of his shaft
predicted a gorgeous, rounded knot. It had been a while since someone knotted
his throat.  
When Benjen removed his mouth completely, Jaime reached out to keep him there,
only to retract his hand in shame. Benjen caught his embarrassment but had the
sense not to laugh. He got up and undid Jaime’s cloak. The fabric fell to the
bed. Jaime felt the world lifted from his shoulders with its absence. He was a
boy again, a young knight, a man in bed with another man. It was freeing.
Benjen furthered their sinful act when he started to unbuckle Jaime’s armor.
Jaime should have stopped him, but he considered the possibility too late.
Benjen was back on his knees again and his mouth was wrapped around Jaime’s
rigid cock. Jaime grabbed a handful of Benjen’s long hair and pushed his face
against his balls.
"Oh, fucking hells," Jaime moaned. It seemed that where Starks lacked in
conversation, their mouths made up in other pleasures. Jaime picked up a quick
rhythm as he started to thrust forward. The sight of his manhood disappearing
into the alpha’s throat—the very fucking honorable Ned Stark’s little brother
no less, was empowering. Jaime Lannister had been through two wars; he’d seen
alphas get degraded and fucked and pissed upon in an attempt to break their
spirit. He’d never seen one willingly offer up their mouths for fucking.
Benjen kept his lips wrapped around Jaime's cock, and his throat relaxed,
clearly used to having an alpha’s growing knot inside him. The thought made
Jaime moaned. How many stable boys and bannermen’s children have had their way
with the young wolf? It must have been so easy for him to partake in
depravities; no would suspect an alpha of the Stark lineage to be a sword
swallower.
“You have a mouth fit for an omega, one made to fuck.” Jaime wouldn’t know; the
only mouth he’s ever been in is Cersei’s and even she refused to get her throat
knotted. Few “self-respecting” omegas did. Jealously, Jaime thought of Howland
Reed and his always wet, open mouth. Jaime dreamed of the day he would be able
to bulge inside someone’s throat. He never thought it would be in an alpha nor
a Stark, but he wasn’t complaining. Benjen may not be a beauty like his sister,
but in Jaime’s opinion, he was far more appealing. Cersei would kill any omega
who caught his attention which made Benjen Stark perfect. A fighter with
scandalous inclinations and a gorgeous mouth. Someone like him was wasted on
the filth of the Night’s Watch. If he were a southerner, Jaime might have been
able to convince him to join the White Cloaks instead and have fun in his
quarters on occasion.
Benjen’s throat choked on Jaime’s almost fully formed knot and tightened around
his cock. “Fuck!” Jaime groaned. He left his distracted thoughts to focus on
the Stark in front of him.  If Benjen Stark wanted to be a whore for any alpha
with a sword, then Jaime was going to comply to his wishes. “Can’t wait to see
those lips of yours stretched around my knot,” he gritted out. He snapped his
hips forward faster.
Jaime pushed his cock all the way in until his balls were pushed against
Benjen’ cheeks. His knot swelled and caught inside of Benjen, stretching his
throat wide open while hot semen started to shoot down Benjen’s throat.
It was the best blowjob of his life, and possibly the greatest orgasm he ever
had. Following his release, Jaime's sense of reason returned to him. Once he
deflated enough, Jaime slipped out of Benjen Stark's goddamn perfect mouth and
made an attempt to tie up his pants.
“I need to go,” Jaime muttered. “Tell no one of this, or I will…”
“What? Tell my brother?” Benjen licked the leftover essence on his lips. t a
possibility. Jaime swallowed as more of his cum found its way down Benjen’s
throat. "Kill me?" They both knew it wasn't a possibility. The Stark’s mouth
was swollen and pink, like the plush lips of an omega’s cunt—only better. No
god gave Benjen’s his sluttish body. Jaime did that to him.
Benjen got off his knees and straddled Jaime’s lap. “This is our secret. I do
not take pride in bedding a Lannister.” He pressed his lips against Jaime’s
ear. “But since you’ve already used my mouth, why not indulge in the rest of
me?”
Benjen grinded his hips onto Jaime’s soft cock. Jaime growled. He would not
stay tender for much longer—not with Benjen’s hips moving the way they are.  
Jaime pulled Benjen’s pants down. He grabbed Benjen’s pale ass and pushed his
finger into the hole soaked in artificial slick—a combination of strawberry oil
and something herbal.  
“You came prepared,” Jaime said dryly.
“I planned to get fucked tonight—with or without you.”
Jaime jammed his thumbs up the boy's ass. When he wailed, it sparked some
sensibility in Jaime and he made a motion to leave. He threw Benjen to the side
and tried to pick up his clothing. To his surprise, Benjen laughed at his
disarray.
“My brother was right about you.”
                                                           
The notion made him hesitated to put on his armor. He should have known better
to respond but he could not let another Stark gain the last word. “About what?”
“That all you know how to do is kill and break vows.” Benjen removed his pants
and dropped them to the floor. "There was no way a traitor like you would be
able to fuck me the way I want." Jaime turned around and saw that Benjen's
shirt was gone. There was nothing soft about Benjen aside from his youth. Fully
nude, Jaime could see this was an alpha, through and through. He had a pair of
heavy balls and a cock suited to please any omega.
 Benjen got off the bed. He caressed Jaime’s face—the boy was quite infatuated
with his face. “My brother says you’re a dishonorable coward who doesn’t
deserve his cock and I think he’s right.”
“Do you?” Jaime snarled. His fists clenched.
Benjen nodded. “Yes, unless you like to prove me wrong—Kingslayer.”
Jaime could no longer listen to this brat. This green boy knew nothing of the
mad king’s tyranny, how Jaime, then a boy of fifteen, spent hours listening to
the man rape his wife and burn his subjects alive.
Jaime pushed Benjen’s thin form onto the bed and dragged his bare ass towards
him. With a swallow, Jaime mounted the boy from behind. He was not the first
alpha to have had Benjen, maybe not the second or the third or even the fourth.
He used his thumbs to pry Benjen’s entrance wide open, noticing as he did so
that the slick increased. He supposed that even whores had to be
cautious—Benjen must have cleaned himself raw to prepare his ass and shoved
whole bottles to get the same amount of slickness as an omega. When Jaime
shoved the head of his cock inside, the rest of his shaft followed.
Jaime released the thumbs holding the hole apart, and the boy's ass clamped
down on him, brutally tight. With a groan, Jaime shoved himself forward in
short, shallow bursts that each took him another inch deeper until he had
buried his full length inside. Jaime paused to catch the moment. Fuck, it was
amazing. A follow-up thought left him horrified.
“Best hole I ever had,” he muttered without thinking.
Benjen didn’t see the horror on his face. His own head was buried into his bed
and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically in the bedsheets.
Jaime pulled out and then slammed back home. He shut himself from reality. The
knight no longer wanted to think or feel or live; all he wanted to do was
thrust into the offering before him. Benjen’s insides were blissful—he saw
stars as rammed in, feeling the way the muscles tightened around him, as though
he was trying to suck him in deeper.
Completely lost to his alpha instincts, Jaime pulled out of the boy and sat on
the bed, grabbing the teenager and spinning him around so that they were facing
each other. He dropped the Stark onto his cock, feeling himself rub against the
boy’s walls.  
Jaime grabbed Benjen’s hips with his fingers, pressing in bruises and started
lifting the boy up before dropping him down. "You feel so fucking good," Jaime
muttered. He felt better than any other omega, better than the one he loved,
and Jaime told him so. Benjen practically purred from the praise. He rewarded
Jaime's compliment by fucking himself on the lion's cock of his own accord.
Jaime watched with a gaping mouth as the gorgeous teen slammed himself up and
down. His face lost in the pleasure Jaime was giving him. 
Without thinking, Jaime pulled him into a kiss. He justified his actions by
saying that he wanted to stifle his moans so that no one would hear them, but
he couldn’t deny that the whimper that escaped Benjen’s lips helped form the
biggest knot of Jaime’s life, even putting Benjen’s impromptu blowjob out of
yard.
Moments later, Jaime’s orgasm ripped out of him, his balls shook as he added
his juices into the liberal lubrication the Stark had prepared himself with.
When he was done pouring his cum into Benjen’s ass, he collapsed on top of the
bed with his knot still buried inside him. His breath came back to him in
pants. Minutes later, even with his soften penis, Jaime did not leave.
“Not bad,” Benjen muttered. His eyes were flickering with fatigue. It won’t be
long until he was resting in Jaime’s arms. The Lannister hoped he recovered in
time to make sure the boy woke up alone.
Benjen Stark was a whore, and despite his earlier indignation, gratification
boiled inside Jaime when he thought of the day Ned Stark found out his little
brother was nothing more than a cockslut.
***
Ned’s alarm was identical to Howland’s bell-like laughter. Following his
awakening, he regurgitated his dinner in his chamber pot and struggled to leave
his bed. The thought of his brother being mounted like a dog by the Kingslayer
turned him ill. He considered abandoning his morning meal altogether but the
thought of Jon’s brightness made the journey worth it. He sat disappointed when
he saw that the table was empty of his eldest boys.
“Where are my sons?” Ned asked, a growl accompanying his request. The entire
table fell silent. Finally, the oldest of the serving women shook her head. “We
received no answer from them when we checked their rooms, m’lord.” She
hesitated. “We believe they overslept from the tiredness of a long journey.”
Something heavy sunk to the bottom of his stomach. He pushed it aside as nausea
from the memory. He never felt well after taking the moss, and his mood never
failed to falter at the loss of Howland’s touch.
“It’s morning already and they skipped dinner last night.” Ned stood up. “Jon's
stomach must be eating itself out from the lack of nourishment. Fix him a plate
and have it sent to his bedroom.”
“Yes, m’lord. Would you like us to prepare a meal for Lord Robb as well?”
Ned nodded. “I won’t have him using exhaustion as an excuse for idleness.”
The maids scurried away. Ned was about to storm off when Catelyn cleared her
throat. Ned was in no mood to argue; irritation creeped at his sides as bug-
like omens prickled his skin. “Yes, Catelyn?”  
Catelyn took a bite of harm. “The serving girls can be trusted to do the work
you assigned. While Jon may not be present at this table, your other children
are. Surely, you can spare them your time.”
Ned frowned. He glanced over at his children who have conveniently decided to
look away. He turned back to Catelyn. “I want to see my boys.”
There was an ill-placed retort resting on the thin line of Catelyn’s lips. The
children looked at each other in a circle of concern and apprehension as they
bowed their heads above their plate and waited to see if the conversation would
contort into a fight or a surrender.
“Fine,” Catelyn said at last. “Hopefully, we can have a fine lunch together as
long as your boy isn’t inconvenienced.”
The tension was palpable. “Catelyn, we spoke about using such language in front
of the children.”
“I am not using any language,” Catelyn told him. “Go after your son. I, too, am
concerned about Robb’s disappearance as I would be for all out children.”
Ned was about to respond when a frightful “m’lord!” was heard at the doorway.
It was the serving girl sent to wake the boys. She was panting as if she had a
run in with a beast.
Both Starks stood up and the children followed. Ned stormed towards her. “What
is the matter?”
The girl shuddered at the intensity in her lord’s voice. “We were…at Jon’s room
and tried to wake him but he wouldn’t answer so we tried to open the door but
it was locked. And then we heard this scream and Jon’s voice—he was shouting
‘Robb!’ over and over again. He—”
Ned did not wait to hear another word. He dashed down the halls and shouted at
his guards to come with him. When they arrived at Jon’s door, several men were
already there, having been told the story by the girls on their way to their
lord. Two of them were throwing their bodies against the door, loosening the
hinges with each tackle.
 “It’s barricaded!” 
“We can see that!” Jory yelled. The guardsman moved over to help and Ned
followed. The four of them tackled the doorway and the force of their strength
turned the blockade of wardrobes and desks into splinters. The sight of Robb’s
knot moving through his brother’s slick ass made everyone speechless.
***
The last thing either brother remembered before the world turned to black was a
surge of divine pleasure and a godly released. When Jon awoke in Luwin’s study,
lucidity was resting while his instincts were running amuck in his body. They
urged him to display his neck while making high-pitched whines, hoping that his
submissiveness would appease the wrathful alpha in front of him.
Ned Stark was on a tirade of fury. “How could this have happened?” Ned shouted.
Jon winced; he pulled himself underneath the covers.
Luwin caught his reaction and moved towards his student. He wrapped the child
up in a ball of wool and fur. “You must be hungry,” he soothed.
Jon whimpered and nodded. His tongue wasn’t working properly and there was
nothing but sand in his mouth. Luwin glanced over at Lord Stark and handed him
a cup of milk. “He needs nourishment,” Luwin whispered. “If you continue to let
your emotions blind you, it will cause his mind to regress further. We can’t
afford that—especially not after you ripped him away mid-mating.”  
“I had no choice!” Ned growled. “Robb was—”
“— Responding to the call of an omega's heat,” Luwin clarified. "That is no
excuse. You know better."
“Are you saying I should have let him continue to rape his little brother?”
“I’m saying that acting rashly has consequences of its own.” Luwin sighed when
he saw Jon bury himself further. “We need to keep Jon stable until his heat is
gone. Since he has already copulated with an alpha, his heat will be extended
without continued relations." Luwin tried to be cautious with his words. They
were stepping into a field of wildfire, and any wrong move could have a barrel
tumbling into their path.
Ned clenched his fist. He sat down beside his son but the omega turned away
from him.
“Calm,” Luwin hissed. “He can smell your anger.”
Ned growled. He took a deep breath and eased his babe into his arms. Jon felt
his sire’s touch on his cheek and the familiar woodiness of his sweat caused
him to lower his defenses. Jon purred into his arms. He may not be Robb, but he
was a decent distraction. Ned took the milk and started to feed him with small
sips. Things were well until the doors slammed open to reveal Catelyn Stark’s
wild expression.  
Jon gasped and retreated to his father's arms. Ned tightened his grip around
his son. He glared at his wife.  
“The dungeons?” Venom spewed out of her mouth as her body flowed red with rage.
“You sent our son to sit in the cages of rapists and thieves?” When she saw Jon
trembling, her snarling grew louder.
Ned did not dare separate from his beloved child. He held onto him as he
explained, hoping the fury coursing through his veins would not upset his
fragile child. “I sent our son to the dungeons because he was feral,” Ned
growled. “He attacked his brother in heat! He violated their trust and
barricaded the room to keep us from interfering!”
“He was seduced!” Catelyn yelled. “Tempted by your whore of a son!”
“Jon is the victim in this! He was innocent until Robb laid his hands on him!”
“He was never innocent,” Catelyn hissed. “Jon knows that Robb could never
resist him. He’s been waiting for this moment; the moment we all let our guards
down so that he can lure Robb into his cunt. Robb is a good, honorable man. He
would never forgive himself for deflowering his brother and now he is trapped
by your whore son’s folds. Think what you want but no matter how you look at
it, this is the act of a wicked omega!”  
Ned released Jon from his hold, resulting in the most heart wrenching wail that
either parties have ever heard. Luwin slammed his fist on the ground; the
abnormal display of aggression from the omega stunned the Starks silent.
“Making accusations on your children’s behalf does nothing for the problem at
hand. Jon and Robb have consummated, but until the heat is over, we know
nothing of the circumstances. For now, we don’t know which son is to blame or
if there is anyone to blame at all.” Both Starks humbled themselves. Though
their theories rumbled maliciously in their heads, both carried the wisdom to
listen to Luwin’s explanation. “I’ve checked my calendars; Jon’s heat was
supposed to arrive in two months. The most reasonable explanation is that the
stress from the travel and prolonged exposure to unfamiliar alphas has caused
his cycle to change, perhaps even strengthen his heat. If this is the case,
neither child can be blamed for their involvement.”
“Innocent until guilty,” Catelyn whispered. She shook her head, laughing in
both horror and forced amusement. She turned to her husband. "My son is
innocent. Our son is innocent."
Ned turned back to Jon whose shudders have diminished to a light shiver. "My
son will never be innocent again."
Luwin winced. "Think about this rationally, my lord. Wait for a conviction.
Keep Robb as your heir, until absolute guilt can be proven?”
Luwin stared at Lord Stark, who he had known since he was a boy. The man did
not say anything; he looked more distant than ever as if he was no longer
connected to this plane. The world grew deaf as he turned his heel. He did not
look at either of them for the rest of the night. Ned grabbed his bundle of a
boy and cradled his beloved son in his arms. The milk was lukewarm, but Jon
slurped it up happily. He will need food; Ned thought while Catelyn's pleas of
‘Ned' and ‘please' chanted in the background. He picked up his child and
carried him to the door. 
It was this conversation that Ned Stark realized the others were right; he did
favor Jon over his other children. Jon and his sweet curls and gray eyes and
his mother's perfect smile and form. Jon, who talked like Howland at his
happiest, which has always been when the two of them were together as Ned and
Howland, not Lord Stark and Lord Reed. He saw Howland in Jon and the thought of
losing his sole connection to another alpha, any alpha, even his son, was
unforgivable.
At the doorway, with his son’s head on his shoulder and his eyes on the
hallway, he spoke.
“Robb is my oldest son; Winterfell is his birthright. I will not take it from
him.”
Catelyn could have cried in relief.  Before she could thank her husband, he
spoke.
“But from this day forward, do not waste a moment believing Jon is second to
any of your children.” At that moment, Jon’s arms escaped his pillowy prison
and latched around his father’s neck. Ned's tightened his hold on his babe.
"When this heat is over, I will send a raven to King’s Landing and Jon will be
a Stark in more than just blood.”   
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. I am the first person to ever publish Jamie Lannister and Benjen
     Stark smut. Lesson? Never underestimate Rule 34.
     I remember watching the GoT scene between Jaime and Jon and thought
     it hilarious that Jaime went out of his way to mock Jon—which made me
     theorize that there was some underlying issue there which made me
     think, yeah, he had a thing with Benjen Stark. Obviously. White
     Cloaks vs. Black Cloaks, baby.
     2. Originally, this was supposed to have Asha and Theon but as I was
     editing the chapter, the storylines did not mesh well with the Starks
     nor did they follow the theme I was going for. I had to cut that
     scene out (again) but this time I actually wrote it and hopefully it
     will find a place in the next chapter. Faulkner was right, sometimes
     you just got to kill your darlings.
     3. Next chapter will involve King’s Landing (and STANISXDAVOS, one of
     my many OTPs). In this chapter, we get to see how far Howland’s
     influence has stretched. Remember that he’s been planning this
     upheaval since Jon. Was. Born.
     4. Howland’s been planting and it is time to harvest.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
     The entire flashback, in the beginning, is pure StannisxDavos
     fanservice and is almost completely unimportant to the plot. I
     honestly wrote it for me because I love Stannis and Davos together.
     They are ranked in my top 5 GoT pairings.
     It doesn’t get important until the sex scene.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stannis was a traditionalist in regards to marriage. He had no skill for
natural courtesies and from the start of his childhood to the age of adulthood,
remained friendless and unpopular. He was never beautiful like Renly, nor
charismatic like Robert, yet like all omegas, he imagined marriage. He wanted
to find a husband who was honest and good and kind; the type of alpha Maester
Cressen promised for him. When he blossomed, alphas from all over the continent
came for his ceremony, but none of them met his standards. They were old and
cruel, with greedy hands grasping for his dowry. Maester Cressen turned them
all away, and Stannis endured another year of his brother’s mockery, followed
by more years of being the “old maid of the Baratheon family.”
Before long, Stannis understood that he was not destined for a happy marriage
if any at all. He ventured into more fitting pursuits and became a skilled
warrior, an accomplished commander, and sailor, and worked so that the
Baratheon name would never be short of pride. He protected his homeland and
maintained leadership throughout the Rebellion. He never complained, not when
Ned Stark was praised for lifting the siege—even though it was Stannis who
spent months at Storm’s End, toiling for survival, or when his rightful
inheritance was stripped away from him and given to Renly.
Stannis remained the dutiful omega, who followed his alpha’s command at every
turn. It didn’t matter that his family alpha was an incompetent whoremonger
whose policies were controlled by an old man with a senile wife. All that
matter was that Stannis was silent when Robert arranged a marriage between him
and Ser Imry Florent of House Florent, a man who was willing to forgo the dowry
to marry a lord of standing, Stannis settled his fuming innards with scriptures
of obedience. Only maester Cressen dare defy Robert; with his brittle voice, he
asked that they wait for a better offer. Neither the king nor his Hand would
allow further discussion. The marriage was almost immediate.
On the night of his wedding, Stannis wore the finest cloak he ever owned: gold
jacquard with embroideries of black stags—the colors and sigil of his house.
Just the cost alone was enough to make him cringe. He preferred more practical
ensembles, but no man of the Reach would allow his bride to wear something so
drab. The entire wedding was an extravagance and Stannis already feared for
their purse strings in the future. It was just his luck that Robert would marry
him off to a spendthrift.
When he finished dressing, Stannis requested solitude from his helpers. The
omegas scurried off in relief. Stannis was a joyless bride; his apathy for the
upcoming nuptials made the festivities in the other room downright depressing.
While they were leaving, another presence snuck his way through the open door.
“Am I interrupting, M'lord?”
Stannis sighed in relief. “No, Ser Davos. I am pleased by your presence.” The
man had disappeared for the entire day; his lack of company turned the gut-
wrenching sensation in Stannis’ stomach to a stabbing. Seeing him now was a
blessing; Stannis was too relieved to be upset. Ser Davos was the only man who
could bring him reprieve on this dismal day. Renly and Robert may have their
friends and followers, but none of them would ever match Davos—the roguish
smuggler turned knight who saved Stannis and his people at Storm’s End; the man
who complimented Stannis’ aim after he sliced off his fingers in penance, who
almost made him smile when he kissed his hand the night they met.
“Where were you today?” Stannis asked. He stood up to confront him. Davos’ eyes
widened, and for a second, Stannis wondered if he looked as revolting as he
felt.
“You look beautiful, M'lord,” Davos declared. He spoke with such reverence and
heat that it burnt Stannis' cheeks red. The young lord turned away.
“Do not lie,” Stannis told him. “I look ridiculous.”
“If that’s the word young men are using to describe beauty than I am inclined
to agree.”
If he were anyone else, Stannis would have deemed him a liar and a sycophant
and send him on his way. But this was Davos, and he was nothing if not
ungarnished in his honesty. When Stannis got closer, he noticed another oddity
that had him furrowing his brow.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Stannis asked. “I bought you robes for the
ceremony. Did you not get them?” He knew he should have delivered the goods
himself. All these Reach maids seemed more focus on giggles and gossip than
doing actual work.  
“I got them, M'lord. You are too kind.” Davos sighed. “But they are wasted on
me. I will not be attending the ceremony.”
“Why not?” Stannis gave Davos a once over. He watched as the older man’s eyes
sink in with guilt. “Why are you dressed like you’re going to sea?”
“Because I am, M'lord. I have a ship ready. I merely came to tell you.”
Stannis’ heart tightened. “I don’t understand. What is so urgent that you
cannot wait until after my wedding?”  
“It is hard to explain.”
“Then make it easy.”
Davos chuckled. “You’re bloody relentless, M'lord. Have I ever told you that?”
Stannis’ heart leaped in his chest. Davos was the only man who ever laughed at
Stannis in good humor; not like the mocking snickers towards the “old maid" or
the “lobster lord.”
Stannis took a deep breath. He tried to sound annoyed rather than anxious.
“Davos, I will not tolerate frivolities on my wedding day. If you do not wear
proper robes, then you will attend as is but you are coming.”
“I do not have the strength to attend.”
“Are you ill?” Stannis snapped.
“A most treacherous disease,” Davos answered with a wry smile. “The worst in
history.”  
Stannis’ heart stopped. He grabbed Davos’ arm. “All the more reason not to go
to sea! You must see a maester at once. Have you spoken to Maester Cressen?”
“It is not a physical illness, M'lord.”
Stannis frowned. “I am growing tired of this,” he huffed. “Tell me in plain
words what is wrong, and I will fix it.”  
“You can’t.” Davos took Stannis’ hand and the pleasant warmth from their first
meeting, the same warmth that resurfaces whenever Davos used his name or
brushed his stubbed fingers against his skin or just looked at him, came back.
“When I first heard of your engagement, I told myself I would abandon all
desire as long as the alpha you married was worthy of you. I have met Ser Imry,
and I cannot serve you while that fool is your husband.”  
“Ser Davos, you are out of line—”
Davos cut his lord off by pulling him close. He stared deep into his Stannis'
eyes. “I drank myself nearly to death yesterday,” Davos confessed. “I wanted my
heart to stop because it was preferable to the pain of losing you. I am not
strong enough to watch you be taken away and do nothing. If that septon speaks
so much as a word of an eternal bond, not even the Kingsguard will stop me from
following my heart, and I know that is wrong. To salvage my sanity, I will
leave. I will return to sea and never see you again. It is the honorable thing
to do.”
“What honor? You made a vow to me, and now you are breaking it,” Stannis
reminded. He tried not to shout, to showcase his desperation like some
forgotten mistress. “You promised to stay by my side.”   
“I made a stronger vow for your happiness.” Stannis frowned. Davos shook his
head. “I know it is your dream to marry, Lord Stannis. To have children, to be
a wife. I won’t take away that dream from you.”
“You don’t have to,” Stannis whispered. “Just stay.”
Davos shook his head. “If he were a better man, I may have stayed. But he
isn’t. I know the truth, Lord Stannis. You are better than him. You are fierce,
and you are honorable, and you are good, and if you marry that man, he will
murder that part of you that is free.” Davos kissed his hand, and his lips
lingered on Stannis’ skin. “Stannis Baratheon, I love you.”
Stannis froze, and instead of excruciating horror, all he could feel was bliss
and delight. The ropes of lucidity were sinking with the anchors and Stannis
made no moves to haul them up.
“You have a wife,” Stannis whispered. “You have children.”
“Aye,” Davos acknowledge. “A wife whom I have not shared a wedding bed in
years. A woman who has seen the way I look at you.” Davos chuckled. “She told
me to tell you before I left. Said it was cowardly of me to abandon you after
all you’ve done for us.”
Stannis did not move when Davos leaned in and will deny ever shivering when his
lips brushed against Stannis’ forehead. “If I were half the man you deserved, I
would have kissed you.”
Davos walked away, but Stannis was stubborn to a fault. He turned his heel and
grabbed his arm.
“You are a coward,” Stannis breathed out angrily. “To let the omega he claims
to love marry another alpha. You are a criminal and a fool and worse of all;
you are an oathbreaker to leave me when I need you the most.”  
Davos stood in his spot. “I am all of those things,” Davos admitted, much to
Stannis’ dread. “I have nothing to offer you, Lord Stannis.”
“How would you know?” Stannis shouted. “If you love me, you would fight for me.
If my betrothed were as unworthy as you claim, it would be your duty as an
alpha to keep me from marrying him!” Stannis covered his mouth at the outburst.
He had never been so ashamed. Ser Davos took a step forward to comfort him
before pulling back. It was that action that caused Stannis to turn away. His
eyes were wet, but he refused to let a drop fall. “Am I so hard to love?”  
“No, you—” The words died on Davos’ lips. For the longest time, there was no
movement or sound. Stannis was not sure when Davos slipped out of the bedroom,
but it took a chambermaid to declare that it was time for the ceremony to
realize he was alone. Ser Davos Seaworth was gone, and until the hour he
stepped on the sept, Stannis believed it would have been the last he saw of his
Onion Knight.
***
No amount of candles or glass windows could lighten the darkness of the hour.
Stannis did not smile, but no one saw the difference in his mood. He was the
most solemn bride they ever saw, and some of the attendees were at Lysa Tully’s
wedding. The only person as visibly upset was Maester Cressen, who hesitated to
take off Stannis’ maiden’s cloak, and perhaps Jon Arryn, who was attending the
wedding alone. When the ceremony started, Cressen’s chilling stare fixated on
the groom. His disapproval was well noted throughout the court. The service
went on both too fast and too slow. Stannis grinded his teeth the entire time,
hoping the torture stopped prolonging itself. When Stannis was deigned to
receive the Florent’s house colors, the doors flung open.
Davos Seaworth was a smuggler, but he made an entrance like a pirate. The man
was wearing the robes Stannis bought him, and it looked as ill-fitting as
anyone could expect. He was huffing and wet as if he swam to the shores to get
back to him. Stannis got on his feet.
“What madness is this?” Ser Imry yelled. He turned to his guards. “Seize him!”
“Do not move,” Stannis said immediately in response. The Florent lord watched
in horror as his men obeyed. While they were in the Reach, Stannis was still
the king’s brother and a higher lord. His commands held more weight.
Davos did not waste his opportunity. He marched up to the sept and pulled
Stannis into a kiss. The entire audience gasped in shock and scandalous
delight. Stannis was gasping when he turned away.  
“You were right,” Davos breathed out. “I should fight for you.” He bent down on
one knee and took off his gloves. Grotesque murmurs spread throughout the sept
as the sight of his stubbed fingers made their way into their visions. Davos
grabbed both of Stannis hands and caressed them lovingly.
“What are you doing?” Stannis asked.
“In the customs of war, bending the knee means to pledge one’s fealty and
devotion. I bend my knee to you, Stannis Baratheon, because I could think of no
other, I could give my life to.” Davos gave him a chagrined smile. “I have no
money, no lands, no power or glory; I have no name, and even if I did, I
couldn’t write it. I am an old man with three sons and a living wife—” Oh the
lords and ladies thrilled in that shameful piece of information. Stannis glared
at them to keep silent. Davos continued his speech. “But I love you, and I will
devote my life to making you happy.” Davos kissed Stannis hands—the same hands
that held the sword sliced off his fingers. “Stannis Baratheon, Lord of
Dragonstone, Master of ships, and the love of my life, will you marry me?”
Stannis made a strange, guttural noise in his throat that blocked his answer.
Ser Irmy was throwing a fit, yelling at the audacity of the request.
“How dare you interrupt my wedding with this inane request?” He yelled. “I am a
knight!”
“We’re all knights,” Davos told him rather pointedly. “The king and lords give
knighthoods like pox when they've enough to drink." 
Irmy sputtered out a storm of outrage. Eventually, he turned to the septon.
“His wife still lives,” Irmy stressed. “Any marriage he has is invalid.” His
triumph threatened to ruin Stannis’ hope. He was right. Davos could not marry
him while Marya lived.
“That’s not true.”
All members of the party turned to Maester Cressen. The lame man stumbled
forward, with Stannis lending his arm for support and Davos getting up to help
him stand.
Maester Cressen turned to the septon. “If an annulment is approved, then the
two can marry without issue.”
“An annulment?” Stannis question.
The Florent refused to indulge the possibility. “There are no grounds for
annulment. He is grasping at straws!”
Maester Cressen took a moment to deter from the drama and speak to Stannis. Out
of all the Baratheon children, Stannis was his favorite; he was the son he
never had and would continue to be so until the day he died. “Do you love this
man?”
Stannis gaped. Throughout the entire confrontation, with Davos confessing in
his private quarters and this travesty of a wedding, he had never admitted his
feelings. His tongue felt bitter and hard, and his body grew hot. After a long,
internal confliction, he turned to Davos and saw his answer in a second.
“I do,” Stannis whispered.
Cressen nodded. He turned to Davos. “And do you swear, on your life, that you
will do whatever it takes to make him happy?”
Davos nodded without hesitation. “I do.”
The maester believed him. He turned to the septon. “Am I correct to say that
the grounds for an annulment are: misrepresentation or fraud of character,
concealment of fact, inability to consummate the marriage, and the existence of
a significant misunderstanding?”
The septon, unsure of how to handle the matter, reluctantly nodded. “Yes, my
lord.”
Cressen was too focused on the issue at hand to correct his title. “Davos was a
smuggler before his knighthood. If Davos’ wife was unaware of his profession
when they married, would it count as a concealment of fact or even, a fraud of
character?”  
The septon coughed. “I suppose so.” The heat from the Florent knight made him
correct his assessment. He blanched in fright. “But we would need a statement
from his wife, claiming she was unaware of his history when they married!”
“You will get one,” Davos promised at once. Stannis turned to him in surprise.
Davos kissed his hand again. “I would never lie to you, M'lord. I assure you of
my Marya's accommodation.”
Stannis almost smiled, but could not bear the thought of revealing too much of
himself. He was used to his dreams being taken away.
Ser Irmy’s lower lip trembled. “I made a pact with the king! You still need the
approval from your family’s alpha.” He sneered. “Surely, his grace would never
allow his younger brother to wed a pirate.”
“I was a smuggler,” Davos corrected.   
Stannis reluctantly turned to his older brother and cringed. Robert has only
ever not disappointed him in the aspect of constantly disappointing him. It
seemed like fate that his happiness would be left in his hands. His older
brother walked up to the sept. Maester Cressen made a move to intercede and was
mimicked by Jon Arryn’s footwork. Robert turned them both away. He stared at
Stannis before turning to Davos.
“You want to marry him?” Robert narrowed his eyes. “He has no tits, no ass, no
sense of humor. If death by boredom werepossible, the entire sept would be
massacred by now.”
Stannis glared at his older brother. Davos’ resolve, however, did not falter.
“He has strength and courage and every word he utters is gospel to me,” Davos
countered. “I am unworthy of him, but I will do everything in my power to make
him happy.”  
Stannis held onto Davos’ hand. “Your grace,” Stannis intervened. “Robert—I have
never asked you for anything. I have fought for you, and I have followed your
command. I will continue to do so until the end of your days. You owe me this
much.”
There was a moment of silence that passed between them. The two stared at each
other, and Stannis wondered if this was the first time his brother ever truly
looked at him. Jon Arryn attempted to get a word in. “Perhaps we should
postpone the ceremony…” he suggested. 
“No,” Robert spoke. “That won’t be necessary.”
Stannis grinded his teeth.
“There will be no ceremony.”
Thunderous whispers and murmurs pulsed throughout the room in an instant.
Stannis stared at Robert in surprise.
Robert nodded at Davos. “If your wife agrees to the annulment, you will receive
my blessing.”
 “Your grace—!” The Florent groom protested. “We had a deal!”
Robert snorted. “My brother is in charge of the country’s naval fleet. If you
want to discuss nuptials, have at it, but it won’t be with me.” Robert turned
to his guests. “Let’s not let a good party go to waste. I already paid for the
wine, after all.” He raised his glass and drank.
“Robert?” Stannis asked. “I—”
Robert waved him off. He glanced over at Stannis, and for the longest second,
Stannis was worried he would change his mind. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you
smile,” Robert confessed. “You almost did, when this smuggler barged in the
sept, offering to throw you over his shoulder and whisk you away. Thought it
looked odd.” Robert paused. “But I didn’t hate it.”
Robert shook his head and walked off. More people stood on their feet,
staggering out with shocked whispers and exaggerated scandals for tomorrow. Ser
Irmy Florent stormed off, and though he continued his knightly duties, he never
spoke to the royal family again.
Stories of the wedding spread throughout the kingdom and were well-received of
the smallfolk, who found themselves rejuvenated with new passion and fantasies.
They began to adopt a similar method of proposal, bending the knee when they
wished to spend eternity with a loved one. It had been awhile since they’ve
heard such a passionate tale—not since Duncan Targaryen abdicated his throne
for the sake of marrying Jenny of Oldstones.
The act was the kindest gift Robert had ever given Stannis, and it was to be
the start of an alternative future for Stannis. Had he married a Florent, he
would have discovered that the two of them were incompatible, both personally
and biologically. Their children would have been weak and sickly, and most
would never make it to term. They might have had a daughter, and she would have
been a sweet but sullen child, without friends and fearful of perception.
On the contrary, Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworth proved to be highly
compatible. And when Stannis’ heat came at the inopportune time of his wedding
day, the two of them had no choice but to postpone it. On their next available
date, there was an issue with Stannis' health and the wedding was held off
again. And again. And again. By the time they were at the altar, Stannis was
unable to kneel because of his bulging belly.
***
As a wife, Stannis Baratheon understood that true pleasure came from serving
one’s husband and bearing his children. Submission was essential for a happy
marriage, and one should never refuse their husband his desires if he were so
kind to come to him for relief. Stannis made sure to be prepped and ready at
all times—going so far as to prepare himself before attending the small council
meetings. Davos often surprised him after the room cleared and Stannis never
denied him when he bent over their large table.
“Do you like this?” Davos grunted. His hands were clutching onto Stannis’ hips
as he picked up the pace and continued slamming into his lord. Stannis’ body
was moving the small council’s table forward; the wood was wet from Stannis’
honey, and his knees buckled underneath Davos’ weight. Pleasure swirled inside
of Stannis’ belly with each powerful snap of Davos’ hips. He, like a good wife,
made sure to clench his ass around that thick cock pushing through his insides.
Posterior intercourse was disapproved by The Seven, as such a position could
not possibly result in children. Nonetheless, as a wife, Stannis was obligated
to please Davos’ needs. In fact, he was so devoted to his husband’s pleasure
that he begged his spouse to go harder, and perhaps, even told him to use “that
thick cock and pound him into the floor.”
Davos said something comforting, kissed him on the neck where he was bitten,
nice and deep for everyone to see. The act was archaic, marking and binding
one’s omega like property, but Stannis felt some values needed to upheld even
in these times of debauchery. An omega should be proud to be his alpha’s
property. Stannis uttered Davos’ name in rough gasps and desperate moans,
before pushing back his hips to get the cock deeper inside. There was nothing
better than being balls deep inside an omega’s ass, and if Davos wasn’t going
to take the initiative, Stannis had a duty to do it for him. He wanted to make
sure Davos was buried inside, with the head of his cock snugly placed against
his prostate. Davos’ deformed hand grabbed his throat and pulled him backward
so that they could kiss. Stannis loved feeling the stubs against his skin. The
deformity slipped inside his mouth when they were done kissing, and Stannis
sucked obediently. 
“Stannis, are you ready?” Davos grunted out. “I’m going to come inside. That
alright?”
Oh, Davos was far too considerate of a husband. It was his right to spill his
seed in his wife whenever he wished, but he insisted on asking. Stannis did not
blame him for being cautious. Even without a knot, Davos’ seed was almost
impossibly voluminous. During their first heat, Stannis remained dripping for
days.
“Yes,” Stannis gritted out. “Just…” Stannis groaned as Davos jabbed against his
prostate. “Go all the way inside.”
Davos groaned. The table started to creak as he began to thrust more wildly
inside of Stannis’ ass. The Lord of Dragonstone was driven mad by his husband’s
hammering. All his pleasure spots were getting abused by his spouse’s thick
cock, and it wasn’t soon before he was lost in pleasure. His eyes diluted in
delight and he started focusing on his other fantasies—the most memorable
caused him to lock eyes on the doorknob.
The small council room was a scandalous place to make love, but who was he to
deny his husband’s voracious appetite? Stannis was a proper omega—he would
never confess to the twisted pleasure that churned within him whenever the
thought of someone, perhaps his brother or even a wandering maid, were to come
into the room and catch him and Stannis in the act.
Davos made a few final thrusts before pushing in deep. Stannis moaned as a huge
amount of warm, thick liquid rushed into his ass.
When the two finished, Davos assisted his lover’s footing and waited for him to
finish cleaning up. The two left the room without making eye contact with any
of the serving staff. They visited the septa’s lessons, where they picked up
their eldest son, Devan, and ordered one of the serving girls to inform Maester
Cressen to bring forth the youngest children and meet them at the beach where
the ships were arriving. They made their way to the courtyard where Stannis’
heir, Shireen was practicing her archery. The master-of-arms bowed to Lord
Stannis respectfully but made no such gesture towards Davos. She was doing well
for a girl of eight, and her aim was superior to her peers, male and female
alphas alike.
“The private lessons you’ve given her are paying off,” Davos noted.
Stannis tactfully disagreed—all under the guise of obedience. “Shireen wants to
exceed expectations; it cannot be helped that her fellow pure blooded nobles
aren’t willing to put in the same effort.”
Davos smiled and kissed his lord’s lips, ignoring the embarrassed flush on
Stannis’ face when he did so. It was considered  uncouth to show public
affection. Stannis never corrected Davos; it was not Davos' fault that he was
unaware of the proper behavior. What kind of wife would he be to embarass him
with the revelation? No, it was much more respectful to let Davos continue
fondling him as he pleased. 
While Stannis mulled over the lingering kiss on his cheek, Davos scooped up his
daughter in his arms. “Papa!” She greeted, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Have the ships arrived?”
“They have indeed,” Davos agreed. “Come along; your brothers are waiting.”
Shireen nodded. The family of three became a pack of six when arrived at the
shore. The serving maids and septa handed off their children to the mixed-match
pair. Stannis picked up his youngest son, Steffon, into his arms. They were
waiting for Davos’ alpha sons to arrive back from their travels. As young men
unaccustomed to fortune, the four boys took no joy in the frivolities of court.
They preferred to spend their freedom at sea, traveling on thrilling Northern
trails and roughing the storms of the eastern waters.
Fortunately, they did not have to wait long. The boat was prompt, and the sails
with an onion sigil flowed proudly in the wind. Davos let out a long, heavy
sigh of relief. Davos hid his terror well, but Stannis knew how deeply he
feared the sight of a funeral rite. When they arrived, Davos’ four sons were as
dashing as always, with Dale and Matthos being the spitting image of Davos.
Maris, Matthos, and Allard hugged their sire before turning to kiss their good
mother with polite fondness.
“Mother sends her warm regards,” Matthos declared.
Stannis tensed. The Lord of Dragonstone could never get used to Marya’s
kindness. Upon his petition for an annulment, she only asked to be given the
keep Davos was promised and that her eldest son is named Lord of House
Seaworth.
Sensing his apprehension, Allard quickly elbowed his little brother in the
ribs. “But we are glad to be back in King’s Landing! And to see our brothers
and sister again! Have you and father been well?”
Stannis tried not to feel relief, though he knew it was unnecessary. “We have.
Thank you, Allard.” Stannis could never understand how readily they accepted
him into his family but his brothers could not. The world was odd that way.
“Was your journey satisfactory?”
Maric grinned as he swung his arm over his brother. “It was great! We managed
to receive passage all the way to the Bite. Warmer than we thought it would
be.”
“It is summer,” Stannis pointed out.   
Maric chuckled. “Well, Dale was too busy to take note.”
Speaking of the eldest son, Stannis glanced over at Dale Seaworth. Dale was too
busy fondling his wife to greet them upon arriving at shore. Stannis’ frowned
at their exhibition; it was like watching a bear maul a salmon. Dale’s wife,
Calen, was an enchanting beauty with a notably round bottom and a short
stature. Stannis would not mind the young man if he weren't so intent on his
erotic showings. His hips were wrapped around Dale’s waist and did not retract
when they stepped onto the sandy shores. The sight was disgraceful—and a tad
bit arousing.
Stannis cleared his throat to get their attention. When that didn’t work, Davos
stepped in.
“Dale, unless you wish me to see the conception of my grandchild, I suggest you
take a break.”
Dale chuckled out of the kiss. He placed his wife on the ground and hugged his
father. “Good to see you, father.” He bowed to Stannis. “Lord Stannis, you look
well.” He kissed his cheek.
As an omega, he was instinctively drawn the pheromones of his mate. Dale was
his mate’s son, and Stannis found his previous irritation stifled by Dale’s
aroma. His good son was soon swarmed by Stannis' children dashing over to their
half-brother’s side.
Calen greeted Stannis with the natural bubbliness the Baratheon had come to
associate him with. Dale had met the omega on one of his travels, and since
their mating, Calen never failed to join his husband on an adventure. It seemed
that Seaworth men had a taste for naval-orientated omegas.
“How are you, Lord Stannis? It is a shame you could not join us! Please, you
and Davos must come with us on our next exploration. Dale and I have plans to
travel to Essos soon.”
His youth was tiresome by itself. Stannis denied his requests. “I have my
duties here.”
Calen pouted. “Oh.” The omega brightened up at once. “Oh, well whenever you
change your mind, you must tell us! And it must be soon. Travel during autumn
is absolutely hellish!”
As a stormland boy, Stannis understood the treacherous storms that occurred
during the autumn and winter. He told Calen that the temptation never occurred
to him. While he was an experienced naval officer, Stannis never acquired a
desire to explore foreign and distant lands. He much preferred the home front.
Davos shared a similar regard for staying still, having spent so much of his
youth moving from bay to shore and shore to sea.
Davos ended their conversation by claiming he and his sons planned to head to a
tavern to celebrate their safe return. Stannis frowned upon such crude
celebrations, but he could not refuse his husband’s request. Davos gave him
another unsolicited kiss, which Stannis denied ever gleefully indulging in.
Davos promised his fidelity, as he always did when he would be in the company
of omegas without Stannis—truth be told, Stannis understood that his honorable
husband would never stray from their marriage bed, but the assurance was
appreciated.
With the alpha men making their departure to the city, Stannis took his
children back to the castle for their lessons. Devan complained about being
left out of their festivities.
“Is it because I’m an omega?” He asked.
Shireen smiled soothingly. “That is not the case. If it were, wouldn’t I have
gone with them?”
Devan scowled. “You’re too young!”
“As are you,” Stannis replied. 
Shireen frowned at his aggression. Stannis had seen a similar expression on his
brother’s face whenever he disobeyed him—discretely. As the only alpha in her
litter, Shireen had grown accustomed to her younger brothers’ submission; in
return, she provided a solace for their moods and instructions for their
uncertainty. She was rarely met with disobedience, but with Devan’s adulthood
approaching, there would be disagreements in the future. Stannis will have
Davos lecture her later on the matter. The Baratheon couldn’t risk her misusing
her alpha’s order on her siblings.
“Those establishments are no place for a proper omega,” Stannis explained. They
were filled with whores and gold-hunters. He had enough trouble keeping his
children from the poor influences of the castle—a tavern would ruin Devan’s
innocence.  
“Calen can join them,” Devan protested.
“Calen is not a proper omega.” Stannis paused after he realized the implication
of his words. “His presence is an abnormality, one you should not be concerned
with,” Stannis scolded. “We will have dinner tomorrow, and it will be a private
affair. For now, you have your etiquette lessons. The septa is waiting.”
Devan grumbled. “Why must I attend those lessons? I would rather be holding a
sword.”
“Your swords lessons are tomorrow,” Stannis reminded. “And it is important for
an omega to take those lessons to secure a proper husband. You must be the
partner you hope to attain,” Stannis instructed. “How is your husband supposed
to behave righteously if you do not display a flattering example?”
“Mama,” Steffon murmured. The five-year-old was clinging to Stannis’ shirt.
“What is a ‘proper’ husband?”
Stannis turned serious. “A proper husband is someone who is honorable and
reliable, who will protect and defend his family at any cost, and most
important of all, he or she is dedicated to their duty. You should never aspire
for anything less.”
“That removes Joffrey from the running,” Shireen quipped.
The children erupted into giggles.
Stannis’ thin lips twitched. He opened the door and ushered Devan in. While
holding onto Steffon and clutching the young Stannis’ hand, he led Shireen to
her lessons with maester Pylos. Unlike her brother, she practically skipped to
the room. Stannis requested an assistant for Cressen after the maester was
downridden with illness a month ago. It hurt Stannis’ heart to think so, but
his surrogate father was aware that Pylos was to be his replacement upon death.
He bared little ill-will towards the young man, though there were incidents
where he could not hide his distraught. 
Shireen has been particularly welcoming towards the newest member of their
household, finding the smart and diligent omega charming. She developed a
crush, and even Stannis, who was normally so blind to such dealings, was not
surprised when she asked if a ‘proper’ spouse needed to be noble.
“Father was a crabber’s son,” Shireen reminded.
“He is,” Stannis agreed. He answered honestly. “No, a proper husband does not
need to be noble.” He rested his hand on her head and stroked her hair. Davos
told him that touch tended to soothe children. Stannis wondered about the
legitimacy of the statement—having been physically neglected for most of his
childhood. He realized his husband was right soon after Devan was born.
“Shireen, no child of mine will ever have to marry someone they do not love.”
Shireen grinned. Their moment was ruined by an unwelcomed eavesdropper. 
“How touching,” a voice behind them noted. “If only all mothers shared your
sentiment.”
The four Baratheons turned to see the queen walking down the halls with her
vibrant robes and long, golden hair. Few omegas could match the beauty of
Cersei Lannister. For the longest time, Stannis remembered being envious of his
brother’s wife. She was a sight no matter what scowl made its way to her face,
and so many were frequent travelers.
“My queen,” Stannis addressed.
Cersei smiled with sharp teeth and a degree of smugness Stannis only a
Lannister could possess. “I overheard your conversation. I trust your husband
shares the same sentiment?”
“He does,” Stannis answered, though they never discussed the issue.
 “How fortunate you are to have married so far below your station. You never
have to worry about the same things us well-wedded omegas do.”
“My queen, I cannot demand anything of my children that I have avoided.”
Cersei chuckled. “Yes, and your children must learn from your example.” She
glanced over at Steffon and young Stannis while overlooking Shireen. Stannis
remembered how Davos had commented on the antipathy Cersei directed towards
female alphas. “He cannot leave you, he cannot disobey you, not with your title
or wealth. I doubt I’ve ever looked at an omega that was freer.”
Stannis hated this—the games, the double-speak. He tightened his grip on his
son. The Master of ships had no patience for quips or subtext, and he had less
tolerance for the Queen's manure-soaked tongue.
“My queen,” Stannis explained. “You misunderstand. My husband may be lowborn,
but his position in my life is beyond earthly constraints. When we married, I
made an oath to serve him—an oath that transcends the vow he made for me. While
my standing may be greater than his by law, he is without a doubt the leader of
my heart and hearth, the sire of my children, and my king. I will follow his
rule as the doctrine of wifely duties command, and in turn, he shall reward me
with his diligence and devotion. There is no greater joy a wife can receive.”
Cersei pursed her lips in dissatisfaction. Stannis took great pride in
expunging her haughtiness from the conversation. “You seem to be busy,” Cersei
noted. “I’ll leave you to your children.”
“I will, my queen.”
Not one to leave without the last word, Cersei offered a lingering comment.
“And do not hesitate to use our ravens to send towards Cape Wrath. I’m sure
their mother will be happy to hear her children have made it back to shore
safely. It is the least you can do for her.”
The comment stung, but Stannis continued to walk without turning back. When
they were out of hearing distance, Shireen made her feelings known.
“I don’t like her.”
 “No one likes her.” Stannis knocked on the door to Maester Pylos’ quarters.
Before he let her inside, Stannis turned to his only daughter. “Take her as a
tale of caution. Alphas who allow their brains to rot have no sense to turn
down omegas like her.”  
Shireen blanched, and her greyscale became more noticeable with her horror. She
ran into the room with a mind burning for fact. With Shireen and Devan at their
lessons, Stannis figured he could afford a short snack and a reading with his
two youngest sons. They tended to fall asleep with the sound of his voice.
Stannis plans were cut short as soon as he opened his book. A  chambermaid came
bursting in, declaring there was a scandal involving his little brother.
***
Renly Baratheon spent a good portion of his time listening to his older yell
about his disgraceful activitiesand how he behavior was “worthy of one-legged
harlot desperate for coin.”
“Do not roll your eyes at me, Renly.”
Renly rolled his eyes. “Since when have you developed a taste for theatrics?”
“I am not theatrical,” Stannis hissed. “Not when you’re caught sucking cock in
a sept! Have you no shame?”
“I was not sucking cock,” Renly defended. “Not yet, at least.”
“Renly, do not play with me!”
Renly crossed his arms and legs in petulance. “Brother, my liaisons with my
betrothed should be no concern to you. Besides, you cannot say you’ve never
fucked in a sept before?”
Stannis sputtered out his response with a beet-red face. “I am a married omega!
The relations I share with my husband are private—kept sacred between the
bounds of our marriage.”
Renly giggled childishly. “Ah, so you have engaged there. How daring! I guess
it’s true what they say of proper omegas.”
Stannis slammed his fist on the table. “Renly, I am at my wit’s end! It is time
you stop this farce and wed Ser Loras as intended!”
“I refuse,” Renly told him. He spoke with the stubbornness only a stag could
muster.
“Renly,” Stannis warned. “I am warning you. You have gotten out of control
since your blossoming, and half the city is already expunging tales of you
fucking your way through the kingdom.”
“Why, I never thought I would ever hear you use such coarse language. It seems
like Ser Davos has quite the effect on you.” Renly had the audacity to grin.
“Rest assured, those rumors hold no truth. I have only allowed Ser Loras to
knot me and trust me, once you’ve tasted an actual knight’s cock, nothing ever
compares.”
“Stop acting like some bare-titted tart!” Stannis burned furiously with anger
and embarrassment. Renly found the look entirely familiar, but amusing
nonetheless. “I have been good to you, Renly. Robert and I have never demanded
you marry someone you did not care for no matter how many offers that have been
extended. You have chosen Ser Loras. We have approved. It is time for you to
set a date and go through with the ceremony, once and for all!”
Renly wanted to retort that Robert cared nothing for him, so his approval meant
nothing for him. He also wanted to point out that no matter how many offers he
received, being pursued by a member of the Tyrell family, a lauded knight and
arguably the most handsome man in the kingdom, was far better than anything the
two of them could have mustered.
“Ser Loras and I will wed when we are ready and not a moment earlier. For now,
we intend to thoroughly enjoy our engagement.”
Stannis glared. “You are almost twenty, Renly. Why are you so opposed to
marriage? Have you not proclaimed your love for the Tyrell? Is there something
amidst I should be aware of?”
Stannis waited for a response. This time, it was Renly’s turn to frown. The
question catalyzed a moment of candidness within the youngest Baratheon lord.
“I love Loras,” Renly admitted. “I want to continue loving him. Marriage is a
disease. It turns alphas into fat slobs and omegas into prattling crones who
act more like their husbands’ guards than their lovers. I don’t want us to
become like those alphas and omegas, waiting for their partners to die so that
they can taste the edge of freedom again.”
“Marriage is not a cage, it is a house,” Stannis defended. “Davos—”
“Weren’t you the one who taught me to never value an exception as a rule?”
Renly mocked. “You and Davos are happy, yes. But what about Cersei and Robert?
Prince Doran and his wife? Lord Stark and Lady Tully? He is the most honorable
man in the kingdom, and even he is capable of betrayal. I can list hundreds of
doomed unions, ranging all the way from the flaming desserts of Dorne to the
winters of the North. Marriages made for politics, gold, love—that have dried
up like seasonings and scents.” Renly stood up. “I won’t let that happen to
Loras and me.”
“Marriage takes effort,” Stannis stressed. “You are taking the coward’s way
out.”
Renly glared back. “Why are you so insistent on our union? Don’t you have your
children to mind?”
“It is because of my children that I must correct your behavior!” Stannis
shouted. “I have three omega boys, all of whom look up to their uncle. Devan
will enter his heat in a few years, and I intend for him to marry a man of
worth.” By some twisted fortune, his eldest son seemed to have inherited Davos’
charm and the unnatural prettiness of his deceased great-grandmother. “I do not
need your influence affecting them.”
“You don’t want them to become whores,” Renly sneered. “Because that’s what you
think of me, isn’t it?” Renly took a step forward so that his nose was almost
rubbing against his brother’s. “Let me remind you that by the time you and
Davos were at the sept, your white shirt was stained and snapping open around
your belly!”
Stannis pushed his little brother away, causing the omega to lose his footing
and stumble. Stannis turned his heel and walked away. He was too hot to think
properly.
Renly glared; he could never stand his older brother’s righteous jabbering. As
the middle Baratheon stormed out of the room, he yelled at him how shocking it
was to find Stannis happy. “It was a trial and a half finding someone to marry
you. Even now, we count the days where Ser Davos regains sense and tires of
your solemnity!”
Stannis stormed out of the room before Renly could see how deep his words cut.
Guilt washed over the Lord of Storm’s End when his older brother left. He sunk
to his seat. Like a child, he tried to justify his cruelty. Stannis had no
right to judge him. He told himself that his brother deserved it for his
hypocrisy. At least he never went so far as to test fate with a bastard—it was
only luck that they managed to birth Devan a month after the wedding.
***
Stannis’ mood remained sullen all throughout the night, affecting his
children’s sleep dearly. It got to the point where he requested Maester Cressen
take over his parental duties while he retired to bed. He woke up from slumber
hours past midnight by his husband’s drunk stagger into their bed. Stannis
snapped at his pissed presence and scolded himself on his disrespect. To
recover from his moment of weakness, he begrudgingly got up and helped Davos to
bed. As he was undressing him, Davos clutched onto his hands.
“Young man, I am flattered,” he slurred. Stannis winced at the smell. Davos
reeked of a brewery. “But I cannot buy your cunt for the night.”
“Davos—”
“No!” Davos shook his head, adding to his nausea. He groaned miserably. "I must
leave." Stannis helped lay him on the bed. “ I must return to my wife…He is…He
is…waiting for me…”
Stannis looked at his husband. Finally, after a few more seconds of staring,
the room was empty except for the echoing of his snores. Stannis, finding the
environment freeing, offered a small, unseen smile in the night. He kissed his
husband and delighted how the shroud of darkness kept them safe. He pulled the
covers over his form and went to sleep.
***
The next day was a day of promise—Shireen foreshadowed goodness with the bright
skies and blinding sun. Her brothers and father were nursing a tumultuous
hangover, which usually resulted in her mother’s absence from the table. The
morning was different; her mother was present and seemed more accommodating
than usual. He dropped Shireen off at her archery lessons and agreed to a trial
period where Devan was allowed to train with the alphas his age. Stannis
claimed it was time he learned how to spar with them—death did not check for
sex when he arrived.
Shireen continued to score splendidly with her arrow and made sure to keep an
eye on her older brother as she did so. When their mother announced the change
in policy, she considered protesting but found it more prudent to keep silent.
Devan was doing well, but many of his peers were on the cusp of a rut. Their
tutors, knights from around the continent, were present for instruction. It was
an extravagance, but one that was expected since the prince was included in the
group. Shireen would have no problem with them if it weren’t for how
frustratingly fixated they were on her older brother. Shireen noticed how all
Devan’s peers touched him for a second longer than necessary, petted his hair
and smiled at him with their teeth bared. Joffrey was especially physical. He
bragged about his skill, all while swinging his sword sloppily.
Shireen clutched onto her bow with a little more force than necessary when she
saw the prince press his palm against Devan’s cheek. Her hand moved to grab an
arrow without her knowledge and somehow was strung on its own. It wasn’t until
Ser Aron Santagar, master-at-arms of the Red Keep, grabbed her wrist did she
realize what she was doing.
“Where were you planning on aiming that, stone girl?”
Shireen flushed with embarrassment. She bowed her head respectfully. “Nothing,
Ser Aron. I was stretching my fingers.”
Aron pursed his lips. He glanced over at the direction Shireen was staring at,
and without warning, his eyes widened, and he marched over without a word.
Shireen was surprised by the sudden shift in persona. She turned around, and
the sight had her following her master-at-arms furiously.
Joffrey had his hands all over her brother, groping him without permission and
laughing as his band of sycophants circled him like sharks in the water. 
“Let go of me!” Her brother shouted. “You self-entitled twat!”
Joffrey cackled as the knights watched from a distance. They were reluctant to
stop the prince. If questioned, they could always claim ignorance. He’s an
omega, one would say. He needs to learn to defend himself. Another would claim
that it was all in good fun, that a pretty omega couldn’t be surrounded by
alphas and not expect to be played with.
Aron grabbed Devan from the folds of molestation and pushed him behind his back
for safe keeping. Before Joffrey could protest his loss of a toy, Shireen
acted. She punched him square in the jaw.
“You stupid bitch!” He hissed. “I will kill you! You—”
Shireen head-butted him before another cuss could be uttered. A benefit of her
Greyscale was the stony dexterity—half of her face was as hard as rock. The
roughness broke flesh and sent Joffrey tumbling to the ground with a torn face.
Being half a decade younger than Joffrey and female meant that Shireen would
always be at a physical disadvantage with male alphas. Being a Baratheon and a
Seaworth meant she was willing to take the risk.
Before the two came to actual blows, several knights came to Joffrey’s defense
while Ser Aron pulled Shireen aside and nestled her to her brother’s side. She
ushered the omega away, ignoring how Joffrey screamed vile promises in her
direction. Aron was throwing a fit at the other knights—while he was loyal to
the royal family, he was also an honest man and did approve of the blindness in
cowardice.
***
The news traveled immediately to the small council meeting, where Stannis was
discussing issues with their naval budget and the possibility of expanding
their force to include a trading sector. The dull matter did not interest the
king, resulting in his frequent absence. Just as they were about to put the
deal to a vote, a messenger stormed in. He walked over to Lord Stannis in a
hurry, whispering about the matter in loud, hushed whispers.
Stannis pardoned himself calmly and as soon as he left the room, dashed over to
the throne room where the verdict would be made. Jon Arryn followed as his
presence was recommended with trials revolving the royal family. Stannis paid
him no mind. His children were waiting, and so was his husband.  When he
arrived, Shireen and Devan offered an explanation with great speed. For
clarification, he turned to Davos, who explained the matter with great
solemnity. His fists were tight and placed protectively on their son. After
several minutes of anticipation, the royal family followed with equal strife.
Cersei was no less happy about the incident.
“You beastly girl!” Cersei shouted at Shireen upon sight. “How dare you attack
my son like some vicious mongrel!” She marched over to the former Greyscale
victim. Shireen flinched and huddled away in defense. Cersei never made it
within an arm’s distance as Stannis stepped in her way.
“My daughter’s crime falls short of your son’s actions. If you touch her
without a verdict, we will have an issue that mirrors them.”
Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “No one would think of touching your daughter.”
“Yet everyone dreams of striking your son,” Davos countered. He stood up and
faced Cersei, much to her revulsion. No one else would dare to face the queen
with such disrespect, but Davos was incensed by the circumstances. “Did you
hear what your son did? How he touched my child?”
Cersei snarled. “How dare you speak to me that way? I am the queen!”
“And no one displays outrage quite like yourself,” Davos mock praised. “That
does not change the fact that a crime was committed against my son and my
daughter protected him the only way she could.”
“She struck him without provocation. He did nothing wrong!”
“That is a lie,” Stannis declared. “My daughter would never do such a thing!”
“What is going on here?” The king arrived with a stumble made from drink.
Stannis groaned at his state, knowing only his brother could be drunk before
midday.
“Your grace—”
“Your niece tried to disfigure Joffrey,” Cersei seethed out. “If you speak with
the knights, they would declare that the attack was unprovoked. A moment of
madness caused by the lingering Greyscale.” 
“Your knights allowed such an incident to occur out of fear and greed,” Davos
hissed. “I may be lowborn, but I know corruption transcends titles.”
Jon Arryn stepped in. “Please, Ser Davos, we must hear both stories.”
“There are no stories, only one truth. My daughter,” Stannis clarified.
“Witnessed your son assaulting my eldest child and acted accordingly. There was
no madness in it. Ser Aron will testify on my behalf if you need a witness.”
The king took a swig of his wine. “So we have a dozen fucking witnesses, two
angry mothers,” Robert turned to Joffrey, who was whimpering next to his
mother’s skirts. “And a beaten prince who couldn’t even defend himself against
a little girl.”
Joffrey avoided his eyes.
Robert scoffed at his weakness. He turned to his Hand. “What do you propose?”
“You refuse to take the word of a prince over the child of a pirate?” Cersei
hissed.
 “Smuggler,” Davos pointed out.
Robert nodded, almost amused by the correction, and returned his attention to
the Lord of the Vale.
Jon frowned. “If what they are saying is true and all the witnesses give
contradictory statements, it would be best to settle the matter here rather
than make the issue public. We know nothing, except that the prince was
attacked.”
Stannis’s teeth made a horrid gashing sound. Doom trickled in his empty belly.
“Shireen will be disciplined for her aggression,” he promised. “She will be
taught to control her anger, but I will not have her punished for a crime your
son committed.”
“A supposed crime that you cannot prove,” Cersei sneered.
“Quiet, woman!” Robert snapped. He transferred his attention to his brother.
“What was your son doing training with alphas?”
Stannis glared at his brother. “He was learning swordsmanship with the knights.
He’s gotten to the appropriate age.”
“He is an omega.”
“So am I,” Stannis reminded. “And I trained with Ser Gawen, same as you.”
Stannis took a step forward. “I was the one who beat him and incarcerated him
when you needed me to hold Storm’s End. I was the one who controlled your naval
fleet when the Greyjoys rebel. My son is an omega, and like all my sons, they
will learn how to use a sword.”
“Stubborn broad you are.” Robert’s lips twitched. “But omegas don’t always turn
out like you.”
If it was meant to be a joke, Davos did not appreciate it. The lowborn lord
succumbed to his temper and stomped towards the prince. He grabbed the golden
lion by the collar and pulled him forward.
“What are you doing?” Cersei screeched. Everyone stood up to stop him, but
Davos threw him to the ground before he was guilty of treason.
“Listen here, M'lord,” Davos growled out. “I would rather be hanged with my
balls blue and my pants mired in shit than let you lay a finger on my son. If
you touch any of my children again, I will drown you with the rest of the
sewage, prince or not.”
“How dare you?” Cersei screeched.
The aggression was the final straw. Robert stood on his feet and ordered
everyone to leave the room except for his brother. Jon Arryn protested against
letting the matter leave unsettled, but Robert made it clear there was no issue
to bury. “Leave,” he ordered. “This is an issue I’ll take care of with my
brother.”
Cersei hissed in disapproval. “He is my son, and I intend to be present—!”
“You want to have an opinion. Then fucking do something of worth. Like, give me
a child with the balls to fight a little girl. At least, my brother has
accomplished that much.”  
The comment took Cersei by surprise before turning her into a foaming harpy.
She grabbed Joffrey and escaped her husband’s guidance. Davos followed with his
kids, but not before sending Stannis a look of concern. Stannis nodded him off.
When they were alone, the mood transformed from a blistering battlefield to a
chilling tundra. Robert was pouring another glass of wine in his goblet. He
offered one to Stannis, who turned down the offer.
“Bad manners to refuse a king.” Robert handed him a cup regardless.
“It is still day,” Stannis scolded. He stared at the wine without taking a sip.
“Joffrey is guilty.”
“Strong accusation. Were you there?” Robert chuckled.
Stannis frowned. “No,” he admitted. “But they’re Davos’ children. I know any
son or daughter of his could never be cruel or vicious.”
With a heavy sigh, Robert spoke. “You honorable men and your children.”  He sat
down and drank his wine. “I got a letter from Winterfell today.”
Stannis sighed. “What did Lord Stark want?” He asked. Stannis felt compelled to
drink the wine now. He hated hearing stories about Ned Stark, the man Robert
always wanted as a brother. Instead, he got Stannis. Boring, dull, omega
Stannis.
“He asked me to legitimize his bastard—you’ve heard him? Jon Snow.” Robert
chuckled. “He requested I keep it a secret until the creed was drawn.”
Stannis frowned. “Why? Does he expect Lady Stark to protest?”  
Robert shook his head. “Worried about his lovely little crannogman throwing a
fit. Lord Reed was never fond of me.”
“Shocking,” Stannis muttered dryly. 
Robert laughed as loud as his battle cry.
“He doesn’t think I have a right to give his child a name.” Robert poured
another glass. “Still doesn’t think I’m king. Then, there’s the matter of which
family he’ll be a part of. Ned will request he be turned into a Stark and
Howland will have none of that. He'll insist he's a Reed. I'll say he's a Stark
and my balls wil shrivel up the next day. Never fuck with a crannogman,
Stannis. It’s a messy situation.”
“And how is relevant to me?”
Robert paused. He poured more wine into Stannis’ cup despite his protests.
“There’s a way he speaks of his bastard that is different from his other
children. Ned has never been a delicate man but he loves that child more than
anything in the world. I thought it odd—until I see the way you look at your
sons and daughter.” Robert sat beside Stannis this time. “The children of
someone you love. I wonder if I could muster the same warmth had Lyanna bore
our children as intended. I wonder,” he stressed. “If it was possible to love
my son instead of being repulsed by the sight of him.”
“Robert—”
The king wrapped his arm around Stannis and rested his hand on his brother’s
waist. Stannis remained still. “I remember how sweet you smelled during your
heat. No one would suspect the truth.” Robert leaned in. “How I beat your guard
bloody while your cunt dripped for every alpha in sight? Father nearly knocked
my nose off when I grabbed you, pushed you down like a bitch. You fought hard.
Always have when your hole was on the line. Does your husband know?”
Stannis tried to push him away. “I don’t keep secrets from Davos.”
Robert was drunk. His hand stroked Stannis’ ribs. “Good thing mother and father
sent me away, less we return to our filthy Targaryen roots.” He drew closer. “I
should have married you. Your daughter has our mother’s face—half of it at
least. A pretty, strong jaw. And those eyes, our father’s eyes—if I could see
our father’s eyes, I might have tried to love our sons and daughters.”
Robert was an alpha who took as he pleased. He used his free hand to grab
Stannis’ face and push their lips together. Stannis fought him off without
hesitation. It was struggle, for even ailed by ale and weight, he was a
dominant alpha and one whose strength was reserved for the hunt. Yet, Stannis
was well-trained and kept his body prepared for assault. When he escaped from
Robert’s arms, he hit his brother with great force. Stannis was neither
surprised nor frightened when Robert struck back. The red print glowed on his
skin—he would bruise without a doubt.
Robert’s sobriety came back to him in a flash but soon disappeared as the drink
overpowered his senses again. Stannis glared hatefully at his brother. “You are
the worse of men!” Stannis growled. “You, your son, your wife—the lot of you
are sickened with immorality.” Stannis stormed off to the door. Before he left,
he told Robert his plans. “I will take my family to Dragonstone—the land you
awarded me after I held Storm’s End for you. We will settle there and return
when the heat of this day is gone.”
***
When Stannis returned to his quarters, he did not hesitate to tell his family
of their move. He made it clear it was temporary but neither his good children
nor his blood ones complained. Calen assisted in their packing, running around
like a monkey, throwing clothes into trunks and dancing as he placed their toys
inside. They were interrupted an hour in by a knock on the door. Stannis
doubted it was his brother, but it was bad manners not to greet whatever
foolish guest he received.
The worn and wearied Lord Arryn stood at the door. He seemed almost surprised
to have Stannis greet him. “May I come in?” He asked.
Stannis hesitated for a moment before paying the Hand his due respects. “Of
course.”
Stannis let his brother’s foster father inside and asked for Calen and Dale to
shuffle their children elsewhere. The kids were obedient. Bowing at the sight
of the Hand before making their way outside the room. Davos made them tea while
they left.
“I heard you are leaving for Dragonstone. Any thoughts on a date?”
“As soon as possible,” Stannis revealed. “I want to distance myself from the
royal family.”
Jon sighed. “I heard you got into another row with the king.”   
Stannis’ lips became a little more than a line at reminder.
“The king’s behavior is one of the many factors resulting in my leave,” Stannis
answered. “His inability to raise his children properly is another.”
There was pause and overall look of approval on Lord Arryn’s face. “Ah, yes,
well your daughter is a courageous girl—specially to attack the prince so
boldly.”
“Our daughter defended our son,” Davos clarified. He placed the tea on the
table, one in front Lord Arryn and two side by side from each other for him and
his wife. “Had Devan not been outnumbered; he would have held his own quite
well.”
Jon nodded. “I heard of your children’s accomplishments in detail. It is
impressive.” He glanced over at where Stannis’ sons and daughter retreated. “Do
they all intend to hold a sword?”
“They will be taught the bare minimum,” Stannis answered. “And if it is what
they desire, they may further their studies in the future.”
“Devan wishes to be a knight,” Davos mentioned fondly. “I think he will look
splendid in armor.”
“An omega knight is a rarity, is it not?”
“But they exist,” Davos countered. “And are as fierce as any alpha.”
“Have you found a lord for him to squire for?” Jon asked his fellow lord. He
never failed to be cordial to Stannis, but he rarely addressed Davos
personally.
“We would like to keep him close,” Stannis revealed. “But with our changing
locations, it is unknown whether that means a house from Dragonstone or a lord
from the crownlands.”
Jon nodded. “And what of fostering? Have you considered your options in that
regard?”
“Shireen remains content within our house,” Stannis answered. “When she is old
enough, her brothers intend to bring her on their travels.”
Jon was surprised by the proposal. “You don’t find such plans threatening? She
is your heir!”
“Shireen can handle herself,” Davos told him proudly. “We believe the strength
of character can only exercise through tribulations.”  
Jon was visibly impressed. “May I be blunt with you, Lord Stannis?”
“I’d prefer it.”
Jon glanced around the room. “You must keep this a secret from my wife.”
“That seems to be a custom in the Vale.”
Jon gave him a bewildered expression.
“I heard from the king that Lord Stark intends to legitimize his bastard—all
without the knowledge of Lord Reed.”
Jon grimaced. “It is a private matter that requires further discussion.”
“I do wonder why the boy’s mother is not being included in that discussion,”
Davos quipped. “Surely he should have a say in his child’s future.”
Jon glanced between the Seaworth-Baratheon duo. “Sometimes secrecy is necessary
for the good of our children.”
“We do not keep secrets from each other,” Davos disagreed. “Especially in
regards to our children.”
“No,” Stannis agreed. Before they could shame Jon further, Stannis returned to
the point of debate. “But for the sake of time, continue your request. We will
not speak a word to your wife.”
Jon sighed, though his relief was significantly lessened. “It is in regards to
my son, Robert. As you’ve noticed, he is a sickly child and many maesters have
agreed that unless a change is made to his upbringing, he will not live to
adulthood. I have discussed this in depth with my maester—”
“But not your wife?” Davos asked.
“And they’ve told me that my wife may be responsible for his stunted growth,”
Jon defended. “He is not yet weaned from the breast.  He is plagued with
seizures and has leeches as a second skin. The medicine he uses are toxic. If
he is to be my heir, I need him to be beyond a ghost of a child. I need him
strong.” Jon stared at Stannis’ eyes. Davos took his wife’s hand at once and
intertwined their fingers.
Davos had seen that look before and it is the look of adoration.
“Your daughter was once doomed to die. I saw how hard you fought for her. How
adamant you were against sending her to live with stone men. You ordered all
the maesters in the country, the apothecaries, and even called upon a hedge
witch or two for assistance. She lives now, a fierce heiress to your lands,
because of your hands. I want you to do the same for my son.” Jon reached out
to touch Stannis’ hands but were quickly swatted away by Davos. His husband’s
touch reminded Stannis of his situation.
“I am not opposed to fostering Robert in my home,” Stannis agreed. “But I will
not tolerate weakness in my house. All of our children adhere to strict
guidelines. I will not tolerate tantrums or foolishness, nor will I give him
ease for his condition.” He remembered the boy’s rambunctious behavior in court
and how the child once attempted to attack his maester during a difficult
lesson.
Jon agreed readily. “I trust you, Lord Stannis, and the children you’ve raised
are proof of your skill in childrearing.”
“You have my husband to thank for that,” Stannis stated without shame. For
some, it was a comment of fealty people would expect from a proper wife. For
Stannis, it was both a customary note and the truth. He doubted he could raise
such beautiful children if they did not come from Davos’ seed.
Davos chuckled. “My wife gives me too much credit. He thinks the only things he
gave our children is their coloring and title.”
Davos kissed his wife then, and when they turned to look at the Lord of the
Vale, they’ve noticed that Jon’s face was plastered with a frown. 
“Lord Stannis, do all your children have dark hair and blue eyes?”
The question was odd, but Stannis found no reason to stay silent. “They do.”
“And you, Lord Davos? Do they all share your dark hair?”
Davos shook his head. “Two of my boys have their mother’s coloring. My first
wife has auburn hair.” He smiled at Stannis. “Though I cannot complain. I’ve
always been fond of blue—it’s like I’ve never left the sea.”   
Like a man in a trance, Jon stood up. “Yes, well I thank you for your time. We
can discuss the details of Robert’s fostering when you return. I trust there
will be plenty to unravel by then.”
***  
By morning, half of the stuff was packed and ready to return to Dragonstone.
The children were sent to their lessons regardless of the move, while Davos was
at the harbor preparing a ship and securing ration. They would be able to leave
at the end of the week. Calen assisted Stannis in finalizing the last of the
details, such as securing someone to act as Master of ships in his stead and
increasing the number of ravens that can fly to Dragonstone. Calen was
surprisingly efficient in managing his affairs—but what was most surprising was
his reading capabilities.
“I never knew you were literate,” Stannis noted. “How did you learn to read?”
Stannis did not mean it as an insult, but as a noteworthy observation.
Calen laughed. “All the people in my land are taught words, my lord. It’s a
useful ability.”
Stannis agreed. “I’ve considered having Maester Pylos teach my husband the
skill.”
“A wonderful idea!” Calen cooed. Stannis had never seen the boy upset; his
cheeriness was almost terrifying. “Dale has told me how grateful he was when
you asked Maester Cressen to teach him letters.”
“He was a fast learner,” Stannis remembered. “And hopefully it will help him in
the future.”
“As Master of ships?” Calen suggested. He giggled at Stannis’ surprised
expression. “I heard from Dale about the king’s reaction of his presence. At
first, I assumed he was infuriated over your disregard, but after last night, I
realized that was not the case.”
Stannis paused. A moment of silence swept the room. “What do you mean?”
Calen had decency to appear apologetic. “You don’t keep secrets from your
spouse and neither does mine. He told me about the kiss, between you and the
king.” 
Stannis’ face burned with shame but Calen was certainly more at ease. “It makes
sense, doesn’t it? His behavior towards you this entire time.”
“What?”
Calen giggled. “All these years of neglect and ignorance, when he really could
not stand the sight of you bearing the mark of an alpha that wasn’t him.”
Stannis swallowed a knot in his throat. “Last night was a moment of madness. He
allowed my marriage from the start.”  
“But did he think you would be happy? The wife of a crabber’s son? The most
righteous omega in the kingdom wedded to a smuggler?” Calen’s voice was laced
with sugary suggestions. “He wanted you as miserable as him, perhaps even to
strengthen his hold on you.” Calen closed the trunk and lifted it on the floor.
It was a surprising show of strength for one so small. “Seeing how much you
doted on Dale despite not birthing him must have made him incensed. After all,
if you care for a child that is not your own simply because he shared the blood
of your husband, it must be true love. Love the king will never receive.”  
Stannis tried to dismiss Calen’s insinuations. “You are a child, what do you
know?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Calen was not insulted by the remark. “I am merely an
observer. I know the king is not an honorable man; he may be friends with Lord
Stark but opposite forces tend to attract.”
Stannis scoffed. Lord Stark’s name never failed to rile him up. “Lord Stark is
not as honorable as he claims.”
Calen chuckled. “Do you speak of his bastard, Lord Stannis?”
“His bastard,” Stannis agreed. “And his lies. He keeps things from the man he
loves. I would never disregard Davos’ counsel the way he has.”
 “What are you talking about?”
Stannis should not reveal such private details, but he was tired of listening
to the praise for Winterfell’s lord. If the man would be so devious to go
behind his lover’s back, then a little gossip is a rather weak punishment.
“Lord Stark plans to legitimize his bastard’s son without the knowledge of the
boy’s mother.”
The blow was visible on Calen’s face. “Is that true?”
“He sent a letter to the king yesterday,” Stannis revealed. “Lord Reed has
 opposed the action for numerous reasons. That’s why Lord Stark wishes to keep
it a secret.”
“Oh? Is that so? Keeping a secret from a crannogman is notoriously difficult.”
Dale’s wife became oddly calm—a contrast to his normally upbeat mood. His smile
remained but there was mystery to his grin.  
Stannis nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
"Anyways," Calen changed the subject at once. He stopped working on his next
activity to suggest another alternative action. “Since Robert is intent on
abusing your loyalty, why do you not take advantage of your rights?”
Stannis made his confusion known. “I don’t understand.”
“You were training Dale to act as Master of ships in your stead; surely he can
take your place while you are at Dragonstone.”
Stannis frowned. “The king disapproved of that option.”
“The king is indebted to you—after your silence on last night’s violation,”
Calen insisted. “Dale is an accomplished captain who fought against a legendary
fleet in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Surely a naval officer of his skill is
favorable choice as your stand in.” He licked his lips. “He is far more suited
for the role than your brother is as Master of laws.”
The last line lubricated the suggestion into Stannis’ head. “I will talk to the
king and Davos before I leave.” He reminded Calen of an important detail. “This
will put your travel plans to halt.”
“Temporarily,” Calen denied. “We will be back to our seafaring ways upon your
return. It’ll make our hearts grow fonder.” Calen bowed respectfully. “I will
see how my husband takes the news.”  
Stannis excused him.
As soon as the door closed, Calen sped up his steps towards Maester Pycelle’s
quarters. The old man was performing his duties, leaving his ravens unattended
for. Calen took the one that traveled to White Harbor out its cage and wrote
his message to House Manderly. He made sure to cast an enchantment declaring
the only receiver meant for the letter could see its contents. When the raven
arrived to their castle, Lord Manderly would send a messenger to the Neck and
Howland would find out about his lover’s deviousness. Meanwhile, he would keep
an eye out in King’s Landing.
Calen sent the raven out of the window. Lord Pycelle would no doubt be aware of
the missing bird but Calen was a relatively unimportant actor in the game of
thrones. No one would suspect him. His purpose in King’s Landing was to keep
his lord informed. After today, he would retreat to the shadows as he always
had.
No one kept a secret from a crannogman. Lord Stark should have known that
before he tried.
***
The messenger came to the Neck a day after Howland returned to Greywater Watch.
When Lord Reed read the contents, he was livid. There was a reason Howland
avoided Jon’s legitimacy for so long, and it had little to do with the excuse
he gave Ned. Tearing up the letter, Howland put on his riding clothes and
stormed into his Benjen’s room. He told his husband that he will be leaving for
Winterfell at once. 
“And you are going to King’s Landing.”
Benjen raised an eyebrow. “What is this about?”
“Ned has sent a letter to the king asking for Jon’s legitimacy.”
Benjen stared at him oddly. "And what is the issue in that?"
Howland threw Benjen’s cloak at him. It was followed by a jerkin, pants, and a
shirt. The younger man caught them all with his head.  “Ned did not come to
this decision without prompting. Something happened that made him act without
my consent.”
“He could simply be fulfilling an old wish of his,” Benjen reminded. “He’s
always wanted to make Jon a Stark.”
“You legitimize an alpha for an heir. You legitimize an omega for a marriage.”
Howland clenched his fist so hard it was bleeding. “If Jon is legitimized, it
makes him the eldest omega and therefore obligated to marry first. His options
are expanded. He can marry anyone, including an heir to Great House.” Howland
snarled. “An heir that isn’t Robb.”
Howland took a step forward. He bent down onto the ground so that he could face
Benjen properly and out of nowhere, pulled his spouse further with a great feat
of strength. His fingers dug into his face. His eyes were gleaming with
madness.
“For fifteen years, I have toiled endlessly with two purposes in mind. Having
your brother as my husband again and taking vengeance on the people who tore us
apart. Fifteen fucking years I put into this plan. I have improvised and
struggled, I have made alterations that would make the unsullied tear off their
limbs in frustration. I asked the gods what they wanted to provide me with the
strength and their answer was unanimous.” Howland let go of Benjen. “My son is
the key to victory, anyone who has him will gain the throne. The Kings in the
North have always been Starks; if they intend to rule, then Robb must marry
Jon.”
“My brother will never betray the king.”
“He won’t be king for much longer.”
“Howland,” Benjen snapped. “I’ve warn you about saying that.”  
“Secession begins with tragedy and one is already in the works. The cranks on
the clocks are spinning and the sundial is marking the start of a new day,”
Howland whispered. “The falcons are ready to swarm the skies and once they are
in the open air, it is only a matter of time before I unleash the arrows.”
Howland shook his head in grim amusement. “The beasts that stole my love away
from me will punish; they will tear each other apart in the upcoming war while
my home remains under the protection of an ice shield. We will strike when they
are weak. My son will rule the North. My enemies will fall.” Howland turned to
Benjen. “And Ned and I will finally be together.”   
“You started a war for love?”
“You fucking bet I did.” Howland threw him a cannister of oil. "Prepare
yourself. I want you slicker than a whore in heat when you arrive at King's
Landing." 
 
Chapter End Notes
     1. Ser Irmy Florent is the canon brother of Selyse Florent, Stannis’
     wife in the series. Furthermore, I based Shireen more off the
     television series than the books because I thought her more cheerful
     personality worked better with her new circumstances.
     2. My favorite part of this chapter is writing about how Stannis is
     relatively an unattractive omega yet so many alphas would rather have
     him as their bride rather than their own.
     3. Some of you may have noticed that this chapter is predating the
     events of the show and you are correct. I originally planned this
     series out into 3 parts (Part 1: HowlandxNed, Part 2: JonxRobb, Part
     3: BranxJojen) but have decided to extend it and give an extra
     series.
     4. So yeah, I’ve had some questions asking about this and here is my
     answer: After this part ends, there will be a two-year time skip
     which will begin with Jon Arryn’s death (*I originally wrote “Jon’s
     death” before I realized some people might get confused by that,
     haha) and will follow the canon series—with a twist. Wink.
     5. Fuck, that Theon/Asha interaction is never going to find a home.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jon regained consciousness on a cloud of content. He was warm—rolled up like a
butter bun in furs and wools. His father’s familiar iced pines and soaked ouds
fogged up his nostrils and made his mind floaty. He wondered if he slept with
his father recently until he realized that underneath his confinements, he was
naked. The memories of his heat returned in flashes; his holes started to drip
as heavy grunts and moans echoed in his ear. He stumbled out of his protective
wrap and fell off the bed in a panic. His hand trembled towards his cunt and
his fingertips touched clit and pressed. The sensation brought him close to a
faint. The only thing keeping him from pleasure was the internal wail he heard.
Robb!
Jon's vision was cloudy, but he remembered Robb’s cock inside him; his
brother’s swollen knot spreading out his insides and breeding him until the
door slammed open and revealed—Jon covered his mouth in horror. The bastard got
up at once. His legs stumbled like a newborn calf, but he continued his shaken
journey. He needed to get to the door. He needed to find Robb.
Before Jon could reach the knob, an underworldly beast barricaded him.
Ned Stark, his father, the Lord of Winterfell and his master in title, walked
into the room. His steps were heavy. Jon said nothing; the silence amplified
his steps. The situation was as delicate as the first sheet of ice on a
riverbed and Jon did not dare to tread. His nerves were teetering on edge so
recklessly that when he put down his tray, Jon jumped so high, he bruised his
head on the ceiling. His father caught his flinch. Ned reached out with his
hand and much to Jon’s relief, pulled him into an embrace. 
“Are you lucid?” Ned asked; his tone was thick with distress. Jon shakily
raised up his arms to return the hug. When he did so, Ned gripped Jon even
tighter before asking if he was well.
“I am, father. What is the matter? What happened?” At the moment, ignorance was
his only option. He could not afford to let the length of his and Robb’s affair
become known.
“Your heat came early,” Ned explained. He pulled away enough so that they were
facing each other but refused to let go. “You weren’t…you weren’t yourself. It
was like you were a babe again.” Ned pressed his lips on top of Jon’s curls. “I
wanted to be here when you were awake. I never wanted to leave you alone,” he
confessed.
Jon whimpered. His father smelled so good—so much like Robb that it was
impossible not find comfort in their reunion, no matter how awkward the
circumstances.
“Father, how long has it been? I feel…strange. It doesn’t feel like my normal
heat. And where is Robb? He’s usually here when I wake.”
His father tensed like a golden lyre. Jon was helpless when his sire lifted him
up and brought him back to bed. He grabbed the blankets and began to wrap Jon
once more. Jon made a throaty noise of discontent.  "Father!"
Ned ignored him. He brought the tray to Jon and revealed milk, bread, cheeses
and chestnuts. There was also a box on the side implying a gift. “I bought you
some nourishment. You woke at an auspicious time. A vendor came earlier today
from the Sothoryos. I bought something I thought you would like.”
Jon tried to escape from his binds. His efforts were countered by a swift piece
of bread entering his mouth. Right after he swallowed, a second, incoming piece
assaulted his mouth. When the third one came, he turned his cheek to protest.
“Father, please stop. I need to know where Robb is. I think…we—”
“That’s not important,” Ned snapped. His gruff interaction was followed by more
food. Jon was helpless; he accepted the chestnut without protest. “We won’t
speak of what happen until you are well.”
“I am well,” Jon begged. “Please, I need to find my brother.”
“Robb has behaved in a manner that has stripped him of the right to call you
brother. He should be fortunate that is the only title he lost.”
Jon’s blood chilled. He clung to his father. “Father, please do not do anything
you will regret. Let me speak to him.”
Ned remained unmoved. “You will not leave this room until your heat has fully
subsided.”
“My heat is gone.”
“Luwin predicted that the…forceful interruption will cause it to last a
fortnight. You will have to wait a day or two more before I am satisfied.”
“Father, my mind is clear,” Jon insisted.
“For now,” Ned dismissed. “Your mind has been wandering in and out for days. We
will discuss this overmorrow.” When he saw Jon’s subsequent protest, he grabbed
the box from the tray. When his father opened it, he revealed a new bracelet—a
silver cuff with a smooth stone resembling the ocean’s waves, water and foam
and all.
“The stone is called an opal. They’re from Naath.”
Jon watched him put it on his bare wrist. “It is beautiful,” Jon muttered
softly. “Thank you, father. I will treasure it.” It was then he realized that
Robb’s bracelet was gone. Lost during their lovemaking, no doubt; but its
absence made him long for its master. “But it is too precious for me to wear
without occasion. I have another one that I believe is more fitting for daily
use. Robb bought it for me. I must have misplaced it.” Jon attempted to leave
the bed. “I should ask him where it is.”
This time, Ned did not stop him. When Jon opened the door, two guards were
standing at attention. He asked them to move only to be met with severe faces.
He tried again, this time with a struggle, but the fortress of man would not
open.  
“They’ve been given orders not to let you leave until you’ve recovered from the
heat,” Ned explained.
Jon clenched his fists. “And I suppose you’ll tell them when that is?”
“I will.” Ned stood up. He took Jon into his arms again. “You are such a tender
child; sweet as honey. You have been dishonored and made to bear a terrible
burden.”
“Father, you are mistaken. Robb did not…he did not force me to do anything
against my will.”
Ned sighed, suddenly a thousand years older. “Your memory is murky from the
heat,” his father told him. “We should wait for clarity before having this
conversation.”
“Father,” Jon pleaded softly. “I am fine. I…want to see Robb. Please. His
suffering must be unbearable.” Jon clung to his father’s shirt, hoping his wet
eyes would wear at his father’s stone.
The lord’s eyes soften for a moment, before returning to its hard gaze. He
pressed his lips against his son’s hair and promised him relief. “I will look
for your bracelet,” Ned offered. “But I will not let you leave without the
blessing of health.”
Jon’s shoulders dropped in distress. “Father,” Jon whispered.
Lord Stark would not hear another word. He closed the door to Jon’s quivering.
Before he went in search of a distraction, he reminded the guards to not budge
for his son’s demands.
“Do not falter no matter how moving his pleas are; Jon is his mother’s child—he
possesses great guile, especially when people lead his heart astray.”
***
Days before Jon’s awakening, Ned petitioned a cordwainer to create a pair of
shoes with blue velvet he purchased from the east. When he finished making his
payment, his eye was drawn to the blue painted dress of a ceramic doll.
Jon had a dress like that, Ned thought with the wistfulness old men tend to
have. He was in the middle of asking for a price, when his titular wife made
her appearance.  
“Toys and gifts and pretty things. I thought better of you, Ned."
Ned sighed. "Is there a problem, Cat?"
Catelyn shook her head. "Do you think these trinkets will placate your son’s
sorrow?” She brushed her fingers against one of the many dolls that had
attracted Ned’s attention. “You could buy him every dress and doll in the
kingdom and they will turn to dust before he forgets his true desire.”
Ned grunted. He walked away from the wares and headed to the castle where he
would present his gift to his son. “Do not speak as if you know his desires.”
Catelyn frowned. She changed the topic to avoid incurring her husband’s wrath.
“Jon has awoken. I heard he wishes to see Robb. He made quite a stir judging by
the whispers of the maids.”
“I thought you above such gossip.”
“Circumstances has forced me to clean my ears,” Catelyn answered. She walked
behind Ned as he attempted to escape their conversation. “I have held my end of
the bargain, Ned. I did not protest Jon’s coming nor have I been outwardly
cruel to him.”
“You bring a chill every time you enter his presence.”
“I did not promise to replace his mother,” Catelyn retorted.
Ned shuffled away to the godswoods. The place haunted Catelyn, who feared the
weirwood’s gaze whenever she entered the sacred lands. She thought it was only
a matter of time before the ground opened up and swallowed her whole.
“Lord Stark, I implore you to listen,” Catelyn petitioned. Her voice was soft
but desperate. “Jon will not benefit from becoming a trueborn son. Such a
decree will only draw forth more suspicion. They will know he is not a virgin
and they will seek out who ruined him.”   
Ned turned around to face her. His face is wrought with disgust. “As long as
Jon is a Snow, Winterfell is not safe for him. Jon will defend his brother’s
innocence. His awakening has proven that. Without a profession of guilt, I
cannot take away Robb’s title.” He glared at Catelyn’s sudden breath of relief.
“But I will be damned if I let him drag my son down further in his depravity.
As lord of Winterfell, Robb will be able to do whatever he pleases to Jon and
Jon will not refuse him. He is too gentle to send his brother away.” Ned
clenched his fists. Catelyn could see the regret in his eyes and she trembled
in fear and rage.
The little whore has seduced her child now aimed to turn father against son.
There was no limit to his wickedness.
“Once Jon is a Stark, he will be protected. Under the circumstances that the
truth is revealed, no one would continue to allow Robb to do as he pleases, not
unless he wishes to lose the loyalty of the North.”
Catelyn wanted to scoff. Robb was too far under Jon’s spell to care.
“If that is not enough,” Ned continued angrily. “Jon will have the opportunity
to marry an alpha that would rival Robb’s prestige.”
“Jon? You would marry your bastard son to a high lord to spite your trueborn
heir?” The notion turned Catelyn to ice. “Do you understand how reckless you
are being? How humiliating it would be Sansa? Arya? Br—”
“They will understand the importance of their brother’s wellbeing.”
“I have told you a hundred times, he does not need protecting!” Catelyn
shouted. She covered her mouth as soon as the declaration was made. Biting her
tongue, she swallowed her anger and collected her thoughts. Finally, she took a
deep breath. “If your concern is to protect Jon, why not marry him already?
He’s had his ceremony; you’ve made him known. No one would suspect something
amidst if you make an arrangement today. If not that, then foster him
elsewhere. Another Northern house, the Reach, or maybe Dorne. You’ve spoken
before on mending ties with them.” Catelyn listed one option after another,
hoping to find anything that would break sense to the silent wolf. All fell
short. “Send him back to the Neck if you fear your sons’ bond,” Catelyn
reasoned.
“Your solution is to exile my son for the sake of yours?”
“Gods be good; will you stop referring to Robb as my son? He is your son, too!”
Catelyn reminded angrily. “He is your blood! Your heir! Your legacy! You gave
him his first sword, you taught him to ride a horse, when he was a child, you
would carry him on your soldiers and climb the towers so that you could
overlook the lands that he was to rule!” Catelyn was in hysterics. “How is it
so easy for you to trade the life of one son for another?”
If Ned were a weaker man, he would have struck her where she stood. The
accusation burned his flesh like a hot iron. “For a decade, there was nothing
to trade.”
Catelyn took a step back as Ned came forth to corner her. “These last three
years have been my treasures—a vision of the life I could have led had your
father not interfered.”
Catelyn turned red with embarrassment.
“I would not sell those treasures for all the gold in the world,” Ned told her.
“Jon will stay here until I find a suitable match for him when Iam ready.
Before then, I will have him live as a Stark and all the blessings the name
entails.”
“Ned—”
“I am done catering to the whims of a Tully. Be grateful,” Ned warned. “That I
only succumbed to one dream.”
The cautionary note served to remind Catelyn of her place. “Gratitude,” she
told her lawful husband.
Ned nodded. “Is that all?”
Catelyn walked towards the exit, but stopped at Lord Stark’s side. “No.” She
reached into her dress pocket and handed Ned a velvet pouch.  
Ned raised an eyebrow.
“I took the liberty of visiting the apothecary.” Catelyn smiled in a way that
did not match her eyes. The poise of a queen and the poison of a viper. “One
bastard is customary; two are in bad taste.”
***
Lord Stark’s bedroom was large and comfortable, with floors radiating with
warmth and walls soothed by the rumblings of working springs. Jon was found by
his father’s scent no matter which corner he hid in; normally, such a fragrance
would leave him sheltered and safe, but today it was no better than the bars of
a cage. Jon was reminded of his father’s command to stay—all while his brother
was held prisoner for a victimless crime.
Jon glanced at the window where the sunlight. Amongst the midst of madness, Jon
vaguely considered climbing through. He was small enough fit, but they were
several stories high. The fall would kill anyone.
But I am not just anyone, Jon thought, in the sort of proud, foolish way that
many youths do. I am a crannogman. I am blessed by the gods, he insisted as
drew closer to the opening. The more he fantasized about his reunion with Robb,
the more welcoming the window became. He walked closer until he was an arm’s
length away from the wall. His treacherous trance was broken by the timely
interruption of his father’s guard. The knock startled him back to reality,
where he was forced to allow the man in to avoid suspicion.
“Has my father sent for me?” Jon asked, adding a touch of syrupiness to his
tone. Jory adored sweet things and he held a soft spot for pretty omegas with
heart-shaped mouths.
Guilt latched onto Jory’s face. The bastard did not bother to hide his
disappointment as he was normally inclined.
“He is an important man,” Jory defended. “He will join you for your day meal
but I am to ask if there was anything you wanted to eat.”   
Jon looked away. “Such a task is beneath you.”
Jory straightened up. “Not at all. I requested the honor. I…wanted to check on
your health.”
Jon wondered if the man saw his mating with Robb; if he was one of the many
that believed his defilement was forced.
“How kind of you…” Jon murmured before his eyes widened with a sudden idea. He
turned to face Jory, who was waiting for a response. Unlike his uncle, Jory
carried a certain fondness for the crannogmen. He accompanied Jon’s father on
their trips to the Neck and used to play with Jon as a babe, all for the sake
of earning one of Lord Reed’s smiles. His affection for Jon’s mother was not
unnoticed by either Reeds, and was met with teasing gestures and peeks of pale
skin. All knew that Jory was too honorable to act on his yearnings and gods
know Howland would never reciprocate, but on occasion, the Cassel’s eyes
traveled and they stayed. Jon walked towards Jory, ill-intent rushing through
his blood. He pulled at the hem of the guard’s shirt, playing up the slight of
his size.
“Jory, I don’t think I can wait for father. I’m…ravenous. Couldn’t you take me
to the kitchens yourself?” Jon begged, pulling the man closer so that his taut
little body was pressed against the guard’s armor. “I would be so grateful.”
Jon batted his eyelashes, thick and lengthy as his longing.
Jory faltered for just a moment but the opening was all Jon needed to strike.
He leaned in closer while his cunt dripped down his thighs and drenched the
room with the smell of his juices. It was a cheap ploy, one he had seen
countless omegas use to seduce hardened cocks into their mouths, mirroring the
scheming Venuses that slept in their swamps.
“Please, Jory,” Jon sung. “Father wouldn’t mind if it were you. You’d protect
me, wouldn’t you?”
Jory shivered. “Jon…I would if I could but I have orders not to—”
“Mother talks about you,” Jon interrupted, causing Jory’s interest to pique “He
tells me about how strong you are; how glad he is for the protection you
provide my father.”
“Has he?” Jory asked hopefully.
Jon’s fingers traveled up his chest like spider legs.  “He has,” Jon answered.
He tilted his head and pouted, making sure to bite his lower lip for a swollen
pout. “I bet you would take him to the kitchens if he asked. Men are always
falling over their feet to do what he wants.” Jon wetted his eyes with false
tears. “Perhaps if I was as pretty as him, you’d be so kind.”
“No!” Jory denied at once. He reached out to cradle Jon’s face. Jon tried not
to wince. He avoided the man’s touch by turning away. Jory read the move as an
attempt to hide from potential rejection. He justified his response. “You are
beautiful, Jon. The most beautiful being I’ve ever met.”  
“You are lying,” Jon retorted. “Everyone prefers my mother.”
“There is no competition,” Jory reasoned, falling over his own words as he did
so. “You both are breathtaking.”
Jon felt a flutter of flattery in his chest. Once the smile rising was
smothered and removed, he turned back to face his appointed jailer. Disbelief
was present on his face. “You don’t mean that,” Jon told him. He took ahold of
his dress and pulled it down his shoulders so that the very top of his chest
was bared.
Jory’s breath hitched.  
“Look at my shoulders. They’re so wide and bony.”
“I…” Jory lost his train of thought. “I must go.”
“Why?” Jon asked with an exemplary tilt of the head, showcasing his snow white
nape. “Am I so monstrous that I would make a strong, virile man like you flee?”
No! No, you are divine,” Jory breathed out. “You are…” Jory caught his ill-
speech before it was uttered. He tried to retreat.  
“Are you leaving because of me?”
“Yes, no, not how—” Jory never finished his sentence. He made the mistake of
glancing over at Jon, whose bodice was undone. The boy slowly slipped the
fabric from his chest to reveal a pair of firm, button-small nipples. Jory’s
mouth dropped.
“How about my breasts? They’re almost nothing. My mother says that’s normal,
but he has the prettiest bosom. Small but perky. Father loves to taste on them
whenever they are together,” Jon explained, pleased by the enchanted gaze he
received. He took a step closer. Jory was utterly distracted. With his defenses
down, Jon attacked. He gently led Jory’s hands to his backside and on instinct,
Jory’s finger latched onto the fleshy bottom. “At least I have these,” Jon
teased. When Jory regained his senses, he tried to escape but Jon held him
close.
“Does you like touching it?” Jon whispered. “I hear men talk about fucking my
mother but do you think they do the same for me?” Jon encouraged Jory to
squeeze. Jon moaned when he heard the crinkling of dried cum. The guard took a
deep breath. “Do you think about putting your cock in me?”
“Jon, you are Lord Stark’s son,’ Jory reasoned.
“I am an omega.” Jon licked his lips. “My body is bred for pleasure.”
“Do not speak that way. You are a Stark by blood—”
“That doesn’t matter to Robb,” Jon murmured. He released Jory’s hands but they
remained stuck to his backside. “He stopped looking at me as a brother the
second he touched my cunt. After that, I was nothing more than a vessel to warm
his cock.” Through his lashes, he stared coyly at Jory. The alpha’s cock was
aching; Jon wonder if it would knot without a hole. “Did you see it?”
Jory backside was less than a foot from the door. “See what?”
“How thoroughly my brother violated me.” The guard’s eyes snapped open; his
fierceness contrasted Jon’s ease. The omega spoke of smut as if he were
reciting poetry. “Spreading my legs was as easy as breathing,” Jon whispered.
“It felt natural, like we were animals and the only thing on my mind was
mating, being bred and filled with pups, having my holes stuffed with cum”
His father’s guard bit back his moan. “Jon, you are better than some whore—”
“Why?” Jon’s hands teased the cut of Jory’s armor. He enjoyed the feeling steel
against his fingers. It reminded him of the tourney, where Robb fucked him in
the stables when they were alone. “It feels so good. Why shouldn’t I feel good
again?”
“That form of pleasure is not meant for you. I’ve known you since you were a
child. You are virtuous and—”
“What is the value of virtue if I am denied my desires because of it?”
“Your honor is the greatest value,” Jory defended.
Jon stepped closer until he was cornering Jory against the door. “I don’t want
honor.” Jory’s back rested on the entrance. He was unware of the turning knob,
but the same could not be said of Jon. “I want to be touched,” he uttered,
somehow more vulgarly than all filth spewed before. “I want to be free.” All
the guards were warned about Jon. While most inwardly scoffed at Lord Stark’s
warning, some heeded his advice. Jory’s extended time in the room would be
questioned if the right people were responsible. Jon spent his whole life
watched by his father’s men but little did they know that they, too, were being
observed. He knew which guards were overly cautious. He knew as soon as Jory
came inside his room who would be waiting outside. “I want to be fucked.”
The men opened the door to check on their captain.
“And I want to be with Robb.”
Jory tumbled over as soon as the door opened. Jon was wily child. He kept out
of sight until the guards went to check on their companion. As soon as there
was an opening, he was running out the door. When they ran after him, Jon was
already out of sight.
***
The Night Watch arrived weeks ago to collect Winterfell’s prisoners; they left
the dungeons devoid of life. A sole guard watched Robb’s cell, and he was
haggard by age—an easy mark for a crannogman in lust and love. Jon disposed of
him easily enough. Nothing lulled an old man to slumber like a softly uttered
spell. Jon wished he could do more, but he was hardly his mother and by no
means, his brother.
Robb Stark raised an eyebrow when his jailer dropped to the ground, but he did
not move. He only spoke when his brother penetrated the lock with his newly
acquired keys, halting his movements with a single word. “Don’t.”
Jon froze. For the first time since his heat, he was reacquainted with his
brother’s presence and the sight made his throat dry. Robb aged a year in a
week, and the angles of his face sharpened canines. His beard was growing and
Jon could smell his masculinity on the follicles. He was washed and fed—they
would never treat the still reigning heir of Winterfell as a criminal, but
there was dirt on his skin and blood underneath his fingernails. Jon knew he
must have come undone when they were separated; growling and snarling the whole
way down; gnashing his teeth as his savaged his way back to Jon. His muscles
had more definition; there were recent scars and bruising—Jon can only assume
they were self-inflicted by the blood on the bricks. If Robb was to be trapped
like a dog, he certainly aimed to be wild one. Rather than being frightened by
his animalism, Jon wanted to drink up his body like a spring. Jon pressed his
body against the bars.
Robb got up from the floor. He skulked to the cage, eyes on Jon the entire
time. Jon longed to kiss him. The water returned to Jon’s mouth and he gushed
in excitement.
“Robb, I—”
Robb cut him off. “What are you doing here?”
Jon was at a loss for words. “I…I…wa—needed to see you,” he stuttered out at
last. “Father wouldn’t tell me where you were but I heard the guards talking. I
don’t understand how he could do this. I tried to explain but he—”
“He refused to listen.” To Jon’s amazement, Robb chuckled. His laughter made
Jon shiver in terror and delight. Jon closed his legs to be careful of any
wetness that might escape.
“Father sent me here as punishment.” Robb’s grin was cruel and carnivorous, as
if he were snacking on vermin. “He has not visited since my imprisonment.”
Jon gripped the bars so tightly he feared they would splinter and snap. “I’m
sorry,” Jon apologized with a half-sob. “I sensed my heat was coming but I…I
didn’t care. I allowed my lust to interfere with my reasoning and ruined
everything—”
“Nothing is ruined. You are my mate, and my brother second,” Robb told him. “By
the laws of gods and nature, I had every right to claim you.” His assurance
weighed heavily on Jon’s shoulders. “I have no regrets.”
Jon pressed his forehead against the bars. Robb’s bravery was swoon-worthy and
Jon’s despicable nature only made him want more of his adoration. “If father
heard you say that, he’d strip you of your titles and send you beyond the
wall.”
Robb scoffed. “He’s on his way there,” Robb informd. “I decided the moment he
caught us that I would carry the consequences.” The eldest Stark drew closer to
the cell and rested his palms on the bars. He never laid a hand on Jon.
Inwardly, he believed his lover would be too tantalizing to release once
caught. “The North is ours. Mine by divinity and blood, and yours as long as I
am. I won’t give it away so easily.”  
“You speak as if you had a fighting to chance for it,” Jon critiqued
sorrowfully. His brother’s hubris was as delicious as a drug and every bit as
dangerous. Jon struggled not to become addicted.
Demons haunted Robb’s face and Jon could feel the incoming dusk set upon them.
Robb said nothing for the longest time; he stared at Jon, ravenous, before
moving onto a contemplative expression.
“Show me your cunt.”
Like a dog to a dinner bell, Jon dripped on instinct. “Robb, you are acting
like an animal. We can play all the games you want once you are free”
Robb ignored him. He repeated the sentiment. “Show me your cunt. I want to see
how tight you’ve gotten without my cock inside it.”
Jon flushed with embarrassments. An internal war waged between Jon’s reason and
his arousal. His father’s guards would be here any moment—they had to suspect
he would seek out Robb.
“I’m waiting,” Robb told him.
Jon bit his lip. A trickle of cum sweated down his thighs and pooled on the
floor. Jon raised his skirt to show his brother the filthy mess he was
responsible for.  
“Slower,” Robb commanded when he started. “I like to watch your thighs strip.”
Jon uttered a small moan. He obeyed by raising an inch per second, following
the approval in Robb’s eyes to go higher each time. When Jon’s panties were
revealed, he took the initiative to use one free hand and pull it down to his
knees, displaying his snug, pink cunt and a sweet little cocklet—all for his
brother’s use.
Robb’s mouth watered. He wanted to sink his tongue between those lips and eat
him out until he was bursting. His cock struggled to fit inside his trousers.
It took all of his willpower not to rip apart the bars and take his brother
then and there. The sound of incoming footsteps reminded him of their
surroundings.  
Robb used all of his strength to retreat. “Leave,” Robb growled.
Jon opened his mouth to beg for more but Robb interrupted his mewing with a
declaration of his own.
“When I escape this cage—and I will leave,” Robb promised. In an instant, Robb
slammed his body against the wall and used the spaces between the bars to pull
Jon in. The younger boy dropped his hold on the skirts but not before Robb
could sneak his fingers inside his lover’s quim. Jon shrieked in shock before
his face converted to pure pleasure.
“Robb…” Jon moaned as his clit was fondled and molested.
Robb sunk his index and middle finger in deeper into Jon’s folds. It was like
sinking into clotted cream and honey—Robb was sure it would be twice as sweet.
“I’ll make you mine again,” Robb breathed out. “I’m going to fuck your cunt
until your womb is shaped around my cock and cover every single inch of you
with cum. Father will never call you his darling boy again.” Robb lowered his
gaze on Jon. “Do you understand?”
Jon whimpered.
Robb curled his fingers until he hit deep inside Jon. Jon almost screamed.
“Do you understand?” Robb growled.
Jon closed his eyes and gave in to the pleasure. He tried to grind his hips
against his brother’s hand but Robb pulled away.
“Please,” Jon gasped. He dropped to his knees as soon as Robb removed his hand.
Robb took out his sullied fingers and sucked on his brother’s flavor. He spread
the cum over his mouth so that he could taste Jon whenever he licked his lips.
Without a word, he returned to the back of the cell and left his brother a
boneless mess on the ground.
When the guards arrived to the dungeons, the only things that greeted them was
a sleeping guard and anticipating heir. He looked into Jory’s eyes and faced
the captain’s shame and disgust with pride.  
“Is there anything you need?” Robb asked, bearing his teeth in triumph. There
was a bit of Jon’s juices glossed over his lips. He did not bother to wipe the
remains off his mouth; he rather enjoyed how his father’s men narrowed their
eyes at his victory.  
***
No one dreaded Jon’s disappearance more than Lord Stark’s personal guard. Their
master broke apart the bricks of Winterfell in pursuit of his son. There was
not a guard whose pants remained unsoiled when the lord released his wrath,
threatening them with torn guts and loose cocks if his babe was not seen by
sundown.
Their savior came, not with the sword of a warrior but the hands of a healer.
The messenger trembled when he revealed Jon was resting in maester Luwin’s
quarters. Ned practically ripped the hinges off the door. Maester Luwin was not
impressed by his lord’s entrance. Jon was considerably more amused. 
“Father!” Jon shrieked when Ned scooped him up in his arms. His hold on the
omega tightened as his precious son squirmed in his arms. “Father, you are
suffocating me.”
Ned reluctantly released him. “Jon, you frightened me. I told you not to leave
the room.”
Jon wrinkled his nose; it was childish gesture—one that reminded Ned of his
boy’s innocence. “I am not a bird in a cage. You said I was not to leave until
my heat subsided. I came to maester Luwin to confirm the truth. My heat is
gone.”  
Ned ran his fingers through Jon’s hair. He turned to the maester. “Is that
true?”
The maester nodded his agreement. “Jon display no outward signs of a heat. It
is safe to assume he’s recovered completely.”
Jon’s triumphant grin contrasted his father’s reluctance. He moved to hug his
father’s chest. “I told you,” he reminded.
Ned’s fury settled into a low-boiling disappointment. He crouched down to the
floor to face his son. “I understand, but that is no excuse to go against my
wishes. You frightened me,” Ned confessed. He cradled Jon’s cheek. “I could not
bear it if you were harmed again.”
Jon nodded but then returned his father’s gaze with confidence. “I was not hurt
to begin with. Father, Robb was not in the wrong. If I could just explain—”
Ned turned to maester Luwin. “Since Jon is well, I’ll take him to his room. I
expect a full report on his health when I return.”
Maester Luwin raised an eyebrow. “Will that be necessary, Lord Stark?”
Ned tried not to notice the insinuation in his tone. “I want to discuss
Jon’s…predicament.”
Maester Luwin looked upon his ward with disappointment. “Perhaps, I should join
you in Jon’s bedchambers instead of having this meeting in secret. It is his
body we will be discussing.”
Jon stared at his father hopefully. Ned was slow to shoot down the suggestion;
and his pause made way for a vile suggestion. “And in addition, we should send
for his brother. The dungeons are drafty this time of day. Jon has been
yearning for his presence for quite some time and I believe his presence will
do some good for health.”
Ned tightened his grip on Jon’s shoulder. “I do not see why. If anything, such
a forceful presence would only hinder his health.”
Jon opened his mouth to defend Robb but Luwin beat him to a response. “Robb may
be a forceful presence but he is also a familiar one. Jon has been asking for
him and I believe an indulgence may be soothing.”
Before Ned could refuse the proposal, a messenger arrived with a message from
the gate. “M’lord?”
“Yes,” Ned answered; desperate for a reprieve. He was at a lost on how to
respond, having been ensnared by the two enemies at his side.  Neither the
reason of his son nor his maester seemed to be aligned with his, and he would
not risk his son’s souls on their follies.
The messenger, one of the guards stationed at Winterfell’s gate, coughed. “You
have a visitor at the gate. He said the matter is urgent.”  
Ned stepped out of the room, ignoring Jon’s plea to stay.
“Who is it?”
The man swallowed.
“Lord Reed, m’lord.”  
***
Howland Reed allowed his horse to be taken to the stables while a guard was
sent for Lord Stark. Try as he might to stay true to his humble roots, he could
not deny there was some charm in luxury. He was given a cup of water for his
parched and another man offered to escort him inside Winterfell. He refused
their offers, hoping to be led by his lover.
Ned arrived promptly, but his face was so stern, Howland had thought he was
facing a foe. The lord of the crannogman walked towards his beloved. When they
faced each other, Ned gave him a customary kiss on the cheek. They would have a
more passionate reunion indoors but in the courtyard, propriety was required.
Howland chuckled when his lips brushed against his cheek. “You don’t look happy
to see me, my love.”  
Ned shook his head. “I have been unwell as of late.”
Howland raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Has a plague befallen Winterfell? I heard there
was a fever passing through. Is Jon ill?”
Howland stepped forward to enter the castle, but Ned held him in place. He
wrapped his arm around Howland’s waist and pulled him back. “Your spies have
kept you well informed,” Ned accused. He maintained a soft rumbling growl for
their conversation, and held his mouth so close to Howland’s ear, it was at
risk of being bitten off. 
Howland smiled. “Are we to discuss our private business here, Lord Stark? You
know better.” 
“Why are you here, Howland?” Ned asked, always to the point.
Howland looked at him with a gaze that did not match the amusement on his
mouth. “I refuse to discuss the matter so publically,” he whispered back. “Less
I lose my temper, I rather not lose my head in the process.” Howland nodded to
the lord’s men and how their hands rested on their sword like talons. He turned
around in his lover’s embrace and smiled.
“Kiss me.”
Ned obeyed; his suspicion was no match for the devil that was temptation and
love. Their lips met in an obscene display. Howland clutched onto his lover’s
shirt and pressed their chests against each other, inwardly arching his back
like a cream-coated cat.
When they parted, Howland brushed his thumb against Ned’s lips. He leaned in
for another, but but a question blocked his lips.
“Why are you here?” Ned repeated.
Howland grimaced; he swiftly replaced his frown with a smile. “I missed you.”
  
“You lie.”
 “About my yearning for you? Never,” Howland told him halfheartedly. “I would
have arrived earlier but there was business to attend.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind that requires a private invitation.” Howland tightened his shawl
around his shoulders. “Can we continue within warmer accommodations? I am
catching a chill.”
Ned grunted in lieu of a yes. He led the way inside, but headed in the opposite
direction of maester Luwin’s quarters. Howland caught the misdirection at once.
“Is Jon in the dining hall?”  
“He is resting.” Ned was not a man for bluffing. “We will eat first.”
“You wish to break bread? With me?” Howland made it clear his offense was said
in jest, but there was an edge to his tone that indicated his disbelief.
“I mean no offense. I thought you would be hungry after such a long journey.”
Ned was a bad liar and in any other situation, Howland would have found his
attempt at deceit amusing. “I am famished,” Howland agreed. He turned his heel
and headed to towards a maid. “For the affection and love of my eldest child.
Do not be so cruel as to starve me.”
Ned grabbed his wrist. “I have much to discuss with you.” The suggestion
masqueraded as a threat, and to many. Ned was not a gambler, but Howland was
accustomed to a risky hand. He did not retreat nor did he restrained himself.
He faced his lover, and spoke freely to the most powerful man in the North.
“The two of us would make time lose patience,” Howland declared. He touched
Ned’s arm and looked into his eyes. “Take me to our son. Once I am satisfied,
we can discuss our more…prevalent concerns. I am sure you have a lot of
questions.”
“And I am sure you will seek a way around answering them.”
Howland paused. “Have I upset you, my lord?”
For the briefest moment, a flare of indignation rose in Lord Stark’s chest. He
was reminded of the bracelet he found—the obvious mark of an unknown suitor,
and the looming presence of spies within his castle, and a hysterical part of
him believed their company was an indication of faithlessness towards his
childrearing abilities. More madness tumbled through his mind, pulled by the
knowledge that Howland Reed—his beloved, the mother of his child, was scheming
within his country, without a care to his consent, on treasonous grounds. Ned
was frightened for his lover and terrified for his child, of the consequences
of the crime he had no knowledge.
Without warning, the Lord of Winterfell grabbed his lover and threw him against
the wall. Fear flashed through Howland’s eyes like lightning in a storm and in
order to blind himself to the sight, Ned attacked the crannogman’s lips. The
kiss was so hard, it left the omega’s mouth bruised and bloody. Howland
whimpered but he kissed back. The kiss went on for an eternity; Howland could
not resist wrapping his leg around his lord’s waist for stability. Everything
was cruel and harsh but it was Ned and that made Howland want more than he
could handle. When they parted, Howland could not control his breathing.
“Jon is resting in maester Luwin’s office,” Ned breathed out as he focused on
marking Howland’s neck. His teeth sunk into the Reed’s skin and it was
bleeding—Howland knew it was impossible not to. He gasped and moan and was
delectably submissive for his alpha.
Ned did not bother to listen. When he was finally finished, he released Howland
and left the man grasping for his neck.
“Ned, what was—”
Ned looked away. “I have other matters to attend to, but I will meet you in my
quarters when I am finished.” He glanced over at Howland’s recovering body.
“Wait for me,” he ordered.  
Still gripping his bruised nape, Howland stared at him. The two of them shared
one last look, all in silence, before Ned turned his back and abandoned him.
Howland retracted his hand and saw the blood on the fingers. Instead of letting
out a gasp or a scream, he wiped the mess on the inside of his clothes so that
they would not alarm the populace of the castle.  
***
Howland covered his neck with a fur shawl before entering the room. His lips
were moistened with water he grabbed from a maid and made sure to hide any
signs of an assault from his son. He refused to dwell on his lover’s
peculiarity and pushed his concern down a hole.
“Mother!” Jon exclaimed. With unrestrainable delight, Jon jumped off the
sickbed and into Howland’s arms. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Howland told him while planting kisses all over his son’s
face. “I heard you and Robb had quite an adventure.”
Jon flushed like a mortified tomato and it would have been endearing if their
circumstances were not so dire. Howland stroked his cheek, gentle as a lamb,
and was about to reassure his son of his support when Maester Luwin scoffed
from his desk, breaking his façade of nonchalance and alerting both crannogmen
to his presence. With a chagrinned smile, Howland turned to the elder and
requested privacy.
“You would kick an old man out of his home?”
“It will only be a moment,” Howland promised playfully. “I would never dream of
exiling you.”  
Maester Luwin shook his head and gathered his books. “Be swift. I have
important documents to look over.” 
Howland nodded. Once the maester was safely out of proximity, Howland faced his
son with all the gravity the situation called for.
“Tell me everything that happened.”
***
While his lover interrogated their son for answers, Ned found himself making
excuses as to why he would not join his family. All of them were odes to his
selflessness and all were as fictional as the lies of the court ladies. He
could not bear to face either of them after his actions. His refusal to rectify
the relationship between his son was an act against Jon and his assault on
Howland was the act of a madman. He feared if he were alone again with either
of them, he would transform into a liar or a beast.
To regain his honor, Ned treaded heavy steps towards the dungeons. He could not
describe his relief when he heard the soft pattering of his youngest omega.
“Bran,” Ned addressed. He lifted the boy in his arms. The child was both an
admirer and competitor to his older brother—he demanded almost as many embraces
as Jon.   
Bran nuzzled his nose into his father’s neck. He was scenting him, and Ned
could not stifle down his guilt. He had been distant towards his children since
Jon’s heat, and Bran’s affection was a sign of his incompetence.
“Where is Lord Reed?” Bran asked after he was finished.
Ned sighed. He had to keep the maids from gossiping. There was not a stone in
Winterfell that Bran was not aware of, and no guest could arrive unnoticed by
his curious eye.
 “Lord Reed is with Jon. They wanted to be alone for their reunion.”
“Is Jojen with him?” Bran asked hopefully. He sloshed his head back and forth.
“I could not see him but sometimes he hides.” The little omega blushed. “He
likes to surprise me.”
Ned shook his head; he chose not to dwell on Bran’s questionable affection for
Howland’s son, nor would he fuss over the fact that more and more familial
alphas were encroaching on his territory. He had enough headaches. “He came
alone.”
Bran’s disappointment was tangible and the emotional weight dropped from his
head to his chest. Bran embraced him again and Ned was compelled to tighten his
hug.
“Is Jon going to leave us?” Bran whispered while his fingers clenched his
father’s shirt.
Ned’s jaw slacked in surprise. “Where did you hear that?”
Bran turned away, ashamed of his own intrusiveness. “No one,” he muttered.
“Did you mother say that?”
Bran shook his head. “No,” he answered.
Ned did not believe him. “Do not lie to me, Bran.”
“I am not lying!” Bran protested.
Ned cursed his wife’s meddling. Barely a day in Jon’s sobriety and she was
already prepping their children for farewells. “Jon will not be going
anywhere.”
To his surprise, Bran was not relieved. “Then, it will be Robb who goes.”
Bran’s eyes glossed over with tears.    
More questions sprouted in his mind like the insufferable weeds growing in
Howland’s swamps. He reconsidered sending his youngest omega to the Reeds—there
were already too many secrets in his family. Ned opted to exit from the
conversation by leaving the halls. He carried his son to the boy’s room where
he laid him in his bed. Bran let out a quiet sob.
“Do not cry without occasion,” Ned commanded. “Neither of your brothers face
banishment.” Not yet, at least. He was stalling against his reunion with Robb,
and for good reason. The boy was incorrigible with dignity—no amount of sense,
from the guards or his mother, have chiseled a shape of shame into him. He was
proud of his brother’s violation and Ned feared the worse if he were left alone
with his eldest son.
Bran sniffled like a rabbit caught in dust ball. “Why can they not all stay?”
Ned sighed. “Bran, I have spoken clearly. No one is at risk of leave—”
“No!” Bran denied. He shook his head violently, as if he were having a fierce
fit. “I do not want Jon or Robb to leave again, not for the tourneys in the
south or the wall in the north. I want them here! In Winterfell. With us. I
want Jojen. I want Meera. I want Lord Reed to stay!” Bran shouted.
“Bran, stop this behavior—”
“You are never happy unless he is here,” Bran accused. “You do not love mother;
you love Lord Reed. So you will leave Winterfell.”
“Bran, I will not leave Winterfell,” Ned reasoned. “I am its lord and it is my
duty to rule the North.”
Bran all but called him a liar. “You will leave Winterfell because if Lord Reed
is not here, then no other place matters. You hate it here. You hate being a
lord. You hate anything to do with power. You fight in wars you do not care
about and follow commands you do not believe in because it’s your duty when all
you want is to be with Lord Reed.” Bran frowned.
Ned could not get to his feet fast enough. “Where have you been hearing these
things?” Who had the audacity to poison his son with this knowledge?
“The weeds tell me,” Bran told him. He gave no further explanation. A shadow
fell upon his eyes. “I hear Lord Reed all the time and he says the same thing,
and that’s your name.” 
“Lord Reed and I have a bond that you are not prepared to experience,” Ned
instructed. “You are a child.”
“Lord Reed says that honor should never conquer over love.” Bran ignored his
advice, desperate to prove his point. “He says that there is no passion that
can match even the shallowest depths of infatuation.” Bran spoke every detail
as if he were reciting a fairy tale. He did so loved stories of gallantry and
wonder. “He says that true love will allow men to conquer armies and bury
kings. That’s why Robb deserves the North. Because he understands love is
something to be valued over honor.”
Howland’s duplicitous comments echo in Ned’s head. He was beginning to see how
the seething towards King Robert could evolve beyond half-hearted threats and
casual insults.
“Bran, do not speak another word of this.” Ned grabbed his son by the shoulders
and looked him in the eye. “You must never tell anyone of what you heard.”
For once, Bran appeared ashamed. He looked into Ned’s eyes, an indicator of
unveiling honesty. “I don’t want anyone to leave,” Bran proclaimed, more
childishly than before. “I want all the people who love each other to stay with
each other. Forever. I want Jon and Robb and you and Lord Reed and everyone to
juststay.”
Ned stroked his son’s hair. He opened his mouth for comfort, but then snapped
it shut as Bran’s final words dawned on him. “Did you say Robb?”
Bran froze. “Father?”
“Bran, what has Howland said about Robb?” Ned paused and tried to hold onto his
control. “What has he have planned for your brother?”
Recognizing his blunder, Bran began to cry again. “N-nothing!” He lied, looking
at his feet as if they were accomplices. Ned held onto his son in a hold that
was almost bruising. He forced their gazes to meet. “Bran, if you care about
your brothers, you will tell me everything.”
Bran shook his head. “You will get angry and you will send him away.”
“I will not,” and it was the closest he ever came to lying to his son. “But you
must tell me so I can protect the people we love.”
Bran wanted to be strong, but submission was second nature to him and he
relinquished control over to his father, the soft-spoken but ever domineering
alpha of the North. With soft, hiccupping sobs, Bran ceded to his request. He
asked his father not to get angry as he recited the songs he heard from the
earth.
***
There was not enough broken bedframes and shattered glass in the world to
intrigue an outsider into Jon’s room. Ned left his son’s sanctuary a war zone.
His vision was blinded by rage. He searched for the truth in the debris,
picking up broken dolls and tearing apart pillows like paper. Feathers flew
into the air like hooves on dirt and the tear of bedsheets rumbled like
thunder. He was lost in madness, until an unearthly calm led him astray. He
pressed his hand against the wall and breathed. More toxins filled his lungs,
but they tasted sweet compared to his bitter findings. The first was a silver
cuff resting on the bedsheets. The second was a burlap bag.
Ned was familiar with the contents of the pouch; Howland revealed its purpose
ages ago, following the birth of his youngest child.  
***
Robb thanked the gods when his visitor came.
“I was wondering how much longer I would have to wait,” Robb mused.
Ned did not share his entertainment. He commanded the guards to wait outside.
When they were out of earshot, he threw the bag between the wooden bars. The
powder incriminated the ground like the dust of a corpse. Robb glanced over at
the spill but did not let his gaze linger.
“Is that my meal for tonight?” Robb asked innocently. “Should I lick it, seeing
as how I am no better than a dog in your eyes?”
“Do not feign ignorance,” Ned accused. “You know what it is.”
 “Only if you tell me. I have no talent for medicine; maester Luwin has said as
such.” Robb’s lips twitched. “You should ask Jon. He has a skill for those
things, undoubtedly inherited from his lovely mother.”   
Ned slammed his fist against the bars and the wood snapped like roots cracking
the earth. He went straight through the wood. His hands were bloodied beyond
recognition.
Robb remained remorseless.
“How long?” Ned asked.
Robb paused, but he made no attempts to hide. He pressed his foot on top of the
pouch and smothered it with his sole. His composure edged Ned’s nerves. “Not
long enough.”
Ned tightened his fist. “Do you confess to violating your brother?” He pushed,
ever unwavering.
“I confess to loving him, and the acts that follow with such love,” Robb
replied. “Are we trading an answer for another?”
Ned glared. “You are in no position to make demands.”
“You cannot expect to leave here empty-minded.” By the gods, when had his son’s
voice gotten so deep? “I am not inclined to lie, but it would not work entirely
in my favor if I told the truth.” Robb stared at the dirty pouch. “You once
told me that no good man allows kindness to go unacknowledged. So I ask you;
will you offer the truth in exchange for mine?”
The indignation Ned felt was neither righteous nor unprecedented. He wanted to
call his son a snake but he knew the young man was right. With grave reluctant,
he agreed.
“Yes,” Ned gritted out. “We have a deal.”  
“Like real men,” Robb noted. Much to his chagrin, he took comfort in Robb’s
pleased tone. Despite the circumstances, his son was happy to be treated like a
man instead of a boy. “Was that the only bag you found?”  
 “It was.”
“Good.” Robb gave a small smile, satisfied by the response. “That was Jon’s
only supply.”
The bars shook from the ferocity of Ned’s grip. “Do you understand what you
have done?” His frustration reopened the wounds of his bleeding hands. Their
lack of knowledge made it so that no one interfered with Jon’s feedings. No
tansy, none of Howland’s herbal concoctions. Jon was as susceptible to seed as
any omega was during their heat.
The thought of his babe, swollen with a pup of his own summoned a strand of his
long suppressed madness. He imagined his sweet boy cradling his babe, singing
the nursery rhymes Howland loved and Ned loathed for their vivid darkness.
Crannogmen were natural mothers, always aching to breed and nurse. The latter
thought lingered in his mind and grew to a terrible image of his grandchild
suckling on his babe’s teats. Would he lose his father and become more like
Howland then? Would Ned finally be able to keep someone he love inside these
halls for good?
“Jon would make a beautiful mother,” Robb said, reading his thoughts like they
were words on a sheet. “He will never leave Winterfell if it’s true.”
“What?” Ned whispered. 
Robb stood up, taller than he had ever been. He did not tremble; he did not
falter. He spoke with such hardness; it could have broken bridges.
“Jon will stay to raise him. With me. With our family. Here in Winterfell where
he belongs.” Robb declared. “Our child will sit on the throne of the North. Our
children are the only children I will have. I will not marry unless it is to
Jon, and I won’t bed another for as long as I live. If you force Jon’s hand to
someone else, I will announce to the whole world that Jon has been defiled by
me. His child is mine and every single childafter will be mine as well. No
alpha worth their steel will accept a place in a cuckold’s nest.”
“I can make Rickon my heir,” Ned threatened. “Your words hold no value if that
is the case.”
“Then I will take Jon from Winterfell,” Robb replied. “There will be no
struggle. Jon will stay by my side.”
“I will hunt you down,” Ned growled. “And skin you like the beast you are if
you dare!”
“Jon will never forgive you if you do. Will you force him to choose between the
two men he loves the most?” Robb paused. “Will you accept his answer if he
does?”
Jon’s exterior, from the walls of his snow skin and silver eyes, to the curly
vines on top of his head, was all Stark. Everyone knew who was his sire from
first sight. But that love—that devotion, that obsession to one’s heart—that
was his mother’s doing.
Jon would choose Robb. He would cry and plead and beg for Ned to swallow his
words as if they were never spoken but the answer was known.
The misery wrapped around his heart, mimicking the hold of vines. Each breath
was like a god tying the thorns into his organ’s flesh. The sensation
overwhelmed his entire body and forced him onto his knees. Ned heaved and
screamed as the pain overtook. Robb ran to the bars but he was not strong
enough to break the cage.
“Guards!” Ned heard Robb yell. “Guards! My father—Lord Stark is hurt!”
The commotion was enough to catch their attention. The men came tumbling down
the stairs. Ned’s vision faded into the darkness. The last thing he saw was his
son’s eyes as he slipped into unconsciousness, and it was the first time he saw
fear present.
***
Following his attack, Lord Stark fell into a thrashing slumber. He twisted like
a fish in a whirlpool and when he was done fighting, his sleep turned serene.
Luwin was unsure of what plagued his master, but after the harm was done, Ned’s
breathing was sound and his heart sung a healthy song. Maester Luwin was
inclined to say there was no ailment and that attack was nothing more than a
fit of age. He knew better, and Howland did as well. But neither of the two
dared to make an alternative suggestion, and so Luwin continued his duties as
not to alarm suspicion and Howland stayed by his lover’s side. 
The Lord of the Neck was in the middle of pouring tea when he heard a grumble.
He dropped the cup at once, ignoring the background shatter as he ran to his
love. “Ned!” Howland gasped.
Ned’s eyes snapped open. Before he saw the light, his vision was overwhelmed
with love. Howland climbed on top of him and kissed him as if he were
transferring life to his body. 
“What happened?” Ned asked when they separated.
In between his answers, Howland continued to mark his skin with his lips. “You
had an attack. During your argument with Robb.” Howland could not help himself.
He kissed Ned again. He threw his arms around Ned’s neck and held him close.
“No one knows the cause.” Howland wanted to cover the man with his sweat, scent
him as his possession. The madness was contagious and it was more damning than
the pox. “You terrified me.”
“I am alright,” Ned told him. His tone was soft—oddly calm despite his
experience.
“I thought I was going to die.”
Ned grabbed the small of Howland’s waist and pulled him down on top of his
cock. Hard as a tree and virile with fruit.
Howland chuckled and choked in delayed delight. This was nothing to fret over,
Howland thought. His lord was already recovering.
“We have to see maester Luwin,” Howland suggested. He kissed underneath Ned’s
ear. “You hit your head when you fell. We must—” Howland was cut off.
Ned did not bother to humor the heed.
Lord Stark, in an unusual display of dexterity, slammed Howland against the
sheets. His lover did not bother with frivolities. Ned’s fingers snuck inside
his quim and let his callous blisters rub against Howland’s insides and fuck
him open like a rubber toy. Howland yelped like a wounded beast gnawed at his
side. When he tried to stop Ned, the lord of all things northern quickly
retracted his hand. Ned ripped off Howland’s lower garments and spread his legs
to both sides. As an attest to his flexibility, Howland did not hesitate to
split.
“Ned, please, stop…ah!” Howland threw his head back. His snatched opened up to
let in Ned’s tongue. The older man devoured his companion, licking the residue
off his pulsing clit and thrusting his tongue within the insides of his folds.
While Howland throbbed for more, Ned released his mouth and swallowed Howland’s
delicious cock whole. The stimulation of both organs had Howland screaming till
his throat was hoarse. Just as Howland reached over to grab Ned’s head to
further the finale, Ned released him from his mouth. The liege lord took out
his cock. Howland glimpsed at the pulsing erection, too large and red and ready
to split him open, and he whimpered. He needed to stop this, for Ned was not
himself. The animalism he was displaying was surely the act of witchcraft.
While made plans to halt their affair, Ned would have nothing of it. He entered
Howland forcibly, causing Howland’s throat to become as sore as a whore’s
throat from all the begging. “Gods, gods, gods…” Howland choked out in
pleasure. His eyes diluted in bliss as Ned fucked him into the mattress. It
felt so good. It was nothing like a heat—nowhere near as intense and yet more
so because for the first time, he was aware of the intensity. Unsatisfied with
Howland’s remaining reluctance, Ned flipped over his mate and had him on his
hands and knees like a dog. Howland whimpered. He loved and hated being taken
this way. Every thrust hit deep into womb; it made him aware that they were not
making love but he was being bred. Howland let out his tongue and panted in
pleasure as his sanity slipped. Ned in, response, continued to pistol in and
out of him without stopping. He painted bruises onto Howland’s back and printed
marks with his fangs. During the end, when Howland was sure he was close, he
forced Howland’s face onto the pillow and began to plow him with abandoned.
Howland was too weak to even clenched onto the sheets. On his final fucking,
Ned dove in deep and bellowed out what seemed to be lifetime worth of cum.  He
could feel his body adjust and accept the on slot of seed pouring into his
womb.
Ned slumped on top of him, cock still lodged inside his cunt, stuffing him
full. Howland whimpered, but instead of protesting, he accepted the gesture
with ideal submission. His eyelids sunk but he fought the veil of sleep. He
needed to address the prickling sensation that nagged at him like a tick
plotting holes onto his skin.
“Ned…” He whispered softly. Howland winced from the scratching of his throat;
one would think a man had used a glove made of sand to scrape at his insides.
“Ned… look at me.”
To his surprise, Ned got up, cock softened from use but still hung proudly.
Howland’s cunt throbbed at the sight.
Such a whore I am, Howland thought, to be so easily distracted. He nonetheless
prevailed in his pursuit. “Ned,” Howland addressed again. This time, he
motioned to grab Ned’s arm. When his lover turned, Howland stiffened like a new
corpse.
To Howland’s credit, he did not falter with the revelation nor was he happy to
find that his suspicions were confirmed.
Ned was bewitched.
“Ned, are you alright?” Howland asked, caution following every word.
Howland doubted anyone who could sing the songs of earth would act against a
Stark and they would be less likely to fight a crannogman whose blood was as
rich as his own. The perpetrators must be human, but that only enriched the
mystery. There were few humans on earth that could outmaneuver his trickery.
Howland had the wisdom to place wards on the entire castle, and then some on
the Starks to keep them from the harmful ways of false gods and their
blessings.
Ned did not answer. He escaped from Howland’s hold and made a move towards his
desk. Howland watched silently as he uncorked a container of wine and poured
him a goblet full. He returned to his lover and held it to Howland’s lips.
“Drink,” Ned commanded.
If Ned wished to harm him, there were superior methods than poison. Howland was
immune to most either way. It would serve him well to play along so Howland
took the cup.
Howland drank greedily; he found himself parched by the thickened plot. The
illusion of bliss casted by alcohol made his head spin. He could never hold his
liquor.
Ned, satisfied by the motion, returned to his desk. He pulled out a pouch and
rested it on the desk. Howland watched the scene with the morbid curiosity of a
prisoner on death row.
“Catelyn gave me tansy for Jon.”
Howland choked on his drink.
“You cannot give that to him!” Howland protested angrily. He tightened his
fist. If that woman planned a repeat performance of her father’s show, he would
kill her where she stood. “If circumstances arise where that is needed, I have
my own methods, safe methods.”
“No, you do not,” Ned interrupted, causing Howland to pull back. Ned sounded
abnormally calm. If anything, there was pride and such a tone was reserved for
his children alone. “Jon will not require your assistance. Or anyone else for
that matter. I will be ridding Winterfell of your medication.”
Howland struggled to leave the bed. He was dripping down his thighs, but
ignored the mess to question is lover. He touched his cheek. “Ned, what is
going on?”
“Robb is right,” Ned declared as he leaned into the touch. Despite his resigned
tone, Howland could hear the desperation seeded into his words. “Jon cannot
leave Winterfell if he carries his brother’s child. The shame would be great to
bear otherwise.” Ned’s gaze met Howland’s and Howland watched as the last of
the dawn left his lover’s eyes and then entered the darkness. “I will have the
family I desire. All the people I love within the walls of Winterfell,
protected by the bricks of my ancestor. This is where they belong.”
Howland shook his head. “That is beautiful picture, but one you cannot bring to
canvas.” Howland pressed the foreheads together, hoping that he could wear off
the enchantment through skin contact. “That is not your destiny,” Howland
soothed. “Ned, let me help you.”
Just as Ned was lulled into Howland’s comforting spell, a spark reignited in
his eyes and deafened him to Howland’s pleas. He threw Howland onto the desk.
His breath became ragged as the rocks of the Widow’s Peak and his hands burned
like the Dornish sun.  
“Ned!” Howland shouted. He reached out to stable him, but Ned trapped his hands
against the wood.
“There’s only one way you can help me,” Ned growled. He ripped opened Howland’s
shirt, the last remaining dignity Howland had on him. Ned climbed on top of
Howland. Howland clutched onto Ned’s shirt, using his arm as a bridge and a
wall to keep Ned with him. “Ned, stop this. You are bewitched. You are not
yourself—”
“I will not lose you again!” Ned roared with enough ferocity to shake the room.
A moment of silence passed through the room. Howland could not will himself to
speak as Ned regained his composure. For a moment, Howland saw the truth in his
eyes and almost as soon as it was there, his Ned, his honorable, foolish,
loving Ned, left and came back with black eyes. This Ned pulled him up and
carried him to his bed. This Ned made Howland hesitant and weak. This Ned
compelled Howland to offer him everything, even when he could not perform his
promises.
“Jon will stay for Robb, but you, you are the Lord of the Neck. You need
another reason to stay by my side,” Ned mumbled.
Dread and lust twisted into Howland’s like roses and moss, entangled in their
own war, they eventually kill themselves in the process. Howland’s breath
hitched when Ned reentered him.  He was still so sore and full, but Howland
knew that Ned would not stop until he was bursting with his seed.
Another reason to stay, Howland thought before he succumbed.
***                                                                                                                  
In his dreams, Bran watched Jon run into Robb’s embrace. The sight made him
turn pink with delight. He reasoned it was only a matter of time before he and
Jojen were so affectionate. Then, Jojen could kiss and hug him all he wanted
and no one could stop them. The thought reassured his smile until the next
morning, when he realized he’d forgotten to put away his Box of Eyes, from the
little spell he casted last night. He hoped his mother didn’t visit. She hated
when he left a mess, and was especially testy when she saw him playing with
Howland’s gift.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for not updating until now. With school and work and grad
     school applications, I've been in a bit of a writing rut. Thankfully,
     I'll have more time next year to write and hopefully post even more
     stories. :) Thanks to all the people who stuck by me despite the long
     updates. I will be posting a new schedule once I have pre-written
     some chapters for all my stories. For now, this will be my last
     update for next year (January). I would like to start updating again
     by the 1st but realistically, it'll be sometime after the 15th.
     Thank you and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
     *Also really sorry for the typos. I'm really tired (and just got off
     the plane). I really rather post this with a few mess ups and sleeps
     then sleep and have you guys wait another day.
End Notes
     1. I fear this story will take 2 weeks to update given how long each
     chapter is, and that I haven't got a head start on the other chapters
     yet. Nonetheless, I aim to update this one consistently.
     2. This story, especially in the next chapter, will have some
     disturbing themes and actions. The first 1-3 chapters (no more than
     five) will focus on Jon's adaption to Winterfell when he is eleven
     and Robb is twelve. There will be no actual penetration but we get to
     see child!Robb becoming possessive and dark!Robb very soon.
     3. Betas don't exist in this story.
     4. if you have any tag suggestions, please give them to me because I
     have no clue what to put on.
     5. I aim to add a lot of sex and a lot of plot in this story.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!