#got oneshot

Sansa stares at him. Judgmental, maybe a little inquisitive, like she knows something he doesn’t and thinks him a fool for it.

“Why?”

And in truth he doesn’t know why. It’s not really about saving time, nothing much will change if he and Sansa visit her together before moving on to the next house, but he can’t picture this reunion with such a grand entourage.

When he speaks with her for the first time since that day in Winterfell, where she bit back tears and he pretended not to notice because there was nothing he could give her that would make staying worthwhile, he wants to do it as Jon Snow. Not whatever he is to the Night’s Watch– his watch is over but he can feel that things won’t be as easy as leaving Winterfell– and not as whatever Sansa and Stannis think he means to the Stark legacy.

Just Jon. Just the boy she’d watch train with Robb and Theon. Just the boy who’s drifting through life searching for a purpose. Just the boy she watched the stars with before everything drowned in blood.

“She’s my friend, I don’t think I’ll need to use the Stark name to convince her to help us. You said it yourself, her bannermen followed Robb against the Lannisters.”

Sansa’s expression doesn’t shift.

“You’re a fool,” she sighs. “Alright. We’ll meet in two days then?”

They’re losing light, so Jon doesn’t push her initial comment and instead nods.

“Two days.”

—

The Boltons are a hot topic across the North, and nowhere quite as much as the houses still pledged to house Stark.

She’s one of them, head of her house after her father’s death at the Red Wedding. She stares at the slip of paper the raven carried in. A request of allegiance to the new warden of the North. A notice of the death of Roose Bolton. 

Ramsay Bolton doesn’t make requests. It’s a thinly veiled threat.

Her eyes glaze over the words, focusing only on the worn parchment center view and letting the words blur together. House Karstark, the traitors, have joined them along with the larger Northern houses.

Going to war for Winterfell would be futile, and yet she may just be able to save Sansa. That thought is the only reason she’s yet to turn the paper to ash and continues to turn it over in her fingers and mind.

A knock pulls her from her vengeful haze.

“Enter.”

She sets the paper down and folds her hands on her desk– once her father’s.

“My Lady, Jon Snow is here to speak with you.” She blinks slowly as she processes the information. Words that should not be laid together strung like some kind of noose for her heart. “He says it’s urgent but won’t say why.”

She sighs.

“Send him up, and have the kitchen send dinner and ale up. We’ll eat here.”

The guard nods and closes the door behind him.

She rises from her seat and glides, with all the grace Lady catelyn had instilled in her, towards the window. Jon stands with two guards by the gate, dismounted from his horse as though he knew she wouldn’t turn him away and she scowls at her own predictability. A patch of snow next to Jon moves as Ghost reveals himself, then the guards part and Jon and Ghost head through towards the keep.

She continues to watch the snow fall in the courtyard until there’s another knock at her door. Firmer. Familiar in a way that feels like a distant dream.

“Enter.”

The door seems to creak louder than ever, echoing through the room and disturbed only by heavy footsteps and her own pounding heart. It closes with a resounding thud.

“My Lady,” Jon greets.

“Lord Commander,” she greets in return, a smile creeping across her face and into her voice despite her lingering anger over his departure.

She turns and the air is knocked from her lungs because from this close she can see the scars. New and harsh against his once soft and unblemished face. Then there's his hair, tied back instead of loose and soft. It makes him look so much like Robb, and she feels her eyes burn. His cloak looks like Eddard’s too, and it feels like everything she’d thought she’d lost was returned all at once.

“Not anymore,” he shakes his head, the somberness he’s always seemed to carry holding strong. “You look well.”

“You look like you’ve seen death.”

Jon’s face twists slightly, and she feels her heart drop. She can see this wall between them, the one she hoped would disperse a little once Jon found his place. But it hasn’t. It still looms tall and icy like the wall he set off to defend.

She clears her throat and moves to her desk. “So,” she sits down, “I’ve been told you’re being secretive. That explains the in-person visit. What can I do for you, Jon?”

That seems to lighten his mood a bit.

“Sansa wants to retake Winterfell.” He’s not sure what he expects, but her boisterous laughter isn’t quite it. Head thrown back until it hits her chair, she laughs and laughs until Jon finds himself chuckling along. “She’s serious, Y/n.”

Y/n lets out a long sigh as her laughter tapers off. “My bannermen will follow you.”

“What?”

“They’ll follow you, Jon. House L/n is loyal to house Stark until the end, as they followed Robb against the Lannisters they’ll follow you and Sansa against house Bolton.”

His brows furrow, face pinching in concern and Y/n’s expression sombers slightly.

“You think I kept those traitors around? If they knew what was good for them they ran, those that did not will not have a chance to turn sides again.” There’s another knock at the door and Y/n’s grin returns. “Enter.” She turns back to Jon. “Now, join me for dinner.”

She waves at the seat across her desk and Jon smiles, small but real, as he pulls out the chair and sits while the servant sets out their food.

They barely start eating before Jon asks the question that’s been burning in his mind for a while now. Since he learned she was the head of her house, really.

“So, still Lady L/n?”

She nods, taking a sip of ale. “Nothing politically worthy, been too busy to really look into anything not war related.” She looks down into her ale and chuckles. “Robb and I did almost get married but figured it was a redundant move. Nothing could take me away from him.”

Jon chalks the burn in his chest up to the ale and chuckles at her finishing statement.

“Still a maiden then?” He teases, only realizing what he’d said when Y/n stares at him agape. 

Clearly only being surrounded by the men of the Night’s Watch and the Wildlings had worn down some of his noble upbringing.

He coughs and quickly takes a gulp of ale.

“Oh because that’s such an embarrassment for me. How’d your brothers take it when they found it you’ve never bed a woman?” She snickers.

Jon’s gaze drifts to the window and once again, his expression falls and it kills Y/n how much she feels like an outsider. She doesn’t know the bounds of his humor anymore, the things he’s been through.

“They were vicious… but I’m not- I mean I have- I…” he splutters, unsure how to word it because he’s keenly aware now that she’s a Lady.

Y/n’s face drops. “I’m sorry to hear-”

“No!” Jon’s eyes widen as he realizes what it likely sounded like to Y/n. “No, no, it’s not like that.”

“Oh…” Y/n’s face twists slightly, but not in confusion.

“Is something wrong?”

“I thought the Night’s Watch took a vow of celibacy,” her voice is oddly cool and bitter, no longer laced with the familiar warmth that kept him company in Winterfell. A part of her wants to bite her tongue, but the part that sees all of Winterfell staring back at her keeps pushing. “How is it that the one who took a vow of celibacy has had sex and the one who didn’t is still a maiden?”

“Well technically the vow doesn’t say anything about-”

Y/n’s face scrunches further.

“Jon.” She cuts him off. “I seem to be more worn than I thought. Unless you have other business please take your dinner and leave.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I said I’m tired.”

“Why does me having sex bother you? I told you, it’s not like I broke my vows.”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s none of my business what you do. It’s been none of my business since you left. You asked for my bannermen and you have them, now take your dinner and leave.”

“Well I want it to be your business,” Jon snaps. His mouth hangs open and Y/n can see a war in his eyes before he spits. “I died. I was betrayed by my brothers. My watch is over and once this business with the Boltons is over I don’t know what I’ll do but I know I- I have no one left but you.”

Y/n’s anger softens slightly, but her edges remain sharp.

“You left me. I thought we had something, that there was meaning in our friendship that-that- I don’t know.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to know, what Robb said to me when I asked if we should get married? He said there was no point, and then he said he would rather not hear your name every time he bed me.”

Jon chokes on his spit.

“Jon Snow, I have been in love with you from the day we met and you just told me that you went off because you felt there was nothing worth staying for, found some woman who meant more to you than me,” she gestures wildly as she rants, voice raising and cracking as emotions boil over, “and now you’ve come back like it’s nothing! If you’d asked, I would have done anything for you! If Winterfell truly had nothing left for you I would have gone anywhere with you, fought my father to marry you even.”

Her chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath before a choked sob escapes.

“I thought… before you left for the- wall, that night under th-the stars. I thought y-you might love me too.”

Jon’s ears turn red as his brain struggles to process her words.

“Leave.”

“Y/-”

“Leave!” Jon stands, but instead of walking towards the door he rounds the desk. “J-Jon, I s-said leave. G-Get out! D-Don-”

His body’s warm, arms wrapped around her as she sobs into his chest. The furs of his cloak soak up her tears. Her fingers dig into the chest of his armor.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers, hiccuping. “When you went to the w-wall I thought I’ll never get a chance but I found solace in knowing that I hadn’t lost you to anyone else.”

“I-”

“Don’t say anything, please. It doesn’t matter if you loved me then or love me now just,” she takes a deep breath, “I need time.”

She feels Jon nod above her.

“Can I speak?”

“Not now.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t know.”

He smooths his hand down the back of her head and presses his nose into the top in a semblance of a kiss he knows it isn’t the time to leave.

They don’t move for a long moment, until their food turns cold and the sun dips below the horizon. At some point they move, Jon sits in her desk chair and she sits with her legs across his lap, head resting on his chest. Jon turns to look out the dark window.

“Y/n?”

“Mhm.”

“I loved you but… you could have such a better life with anyone else. A husband with a name, a husband with land or a title.” His grip tightens on her as she shifts, urging her to let him continue. He can feel her gaze on him from below. “I didn’t have to prove anything to her or anyone else.”

“And that’s why I need time,” she whispers, voice rough from disuse and crying. “I need time to come to terms with the fact that,” her voice breaks a bit, “I couldn’t help you. That I made it worse.”

“Whatever you decide… know that I still love you. That I spent my last moments, laying in the snow in a pool of my own blood thinking of you and all those days we spent together in Winterfell. I wondered if you had a family of your own now.” He looks down at her. “I just thought you might appreciate honesty in return for honesty.”

“Answer me one last thing?”

“Anything.”

“Do you still love her?”

Jon’s gaze drifts back to the window, and Y/n’s gaze follows to watch the snow drift by in the dark.

The journey north had felt like a slow, ceremonial death. With every league, the air grew cooler, the colors of the landscape duller, leaching the warmth from Elora’s soul. Now, the Dornish procession, a defiant river of vibrant orange, gold, and scarlet, snaked through the grim, grey streets of King’s Landing. The stench of the city hit her first—a thick, oppressive mélange of fish, waste, and unwashed humanity that made her yearn for the clean, dry scents of the desert.

From within her enclosed litter, Elora watched the sea of pale, staring faces through the silk curtains. Their mouths were open in cheers, but to her, it sounded like the roaring of beasts. They see a prize, she thought, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her nails left half-moon indents in her palms. A exotic creature from the south, brought to heel by their dragons. Her entire life—the years of study, the grueling combat training, the hard-won respect on her father's council—had been neatly packaged and sold. She was not a person; she was a transaction.

Her younger sister, Loreza, seated beside her, tried to offer comfort, her voice a timid whisper. “They are so excited to see you, sister. Look at them all!”

“They are excited to see a spectacle,” Elora corrected, her voice flat and cold, devoid of its usual musical lilt. “Do not mistake their curiosity for affection. We are the afternoon’s entertainment.” The bitterness was a familiar poison, one she had swallowed the day her father told her she was to be Aemond Targaryen’s wife.

But as the Red Keep loomed larger, a monstrous fist of black stone gripping the sky, her training overrode her resentment. She was a diplomat before she was a warrior, and a princess before she was a woman. As her litter neared the great gate, she signaled for a halt. Ignoring her sister’s confused look, she drew back the curtain and stepped out into the evening air.

A hush fell over the crowd. She was a vision, a desert flower blooming in a field of mud. Her gown was deep sun-yellow, a color that seemed to hold the last of the day’s light, and her dark hair fell in loose waves around a face of such striking beauty it seemed carved from olive wood and polished by the sun. But it was her eyes—proud, intelligent, and utterly fearless—that held them.

She raised her voice, clear and carrying, a bell tolling in the squalor. “People of King’s Landing!” she began, her gaze sweeping over them. “I am Princess Elora of Dorne. I thank you for this warm welcome. In these dark days of war, your joy is a beacon of hope. It reminds us all what we fight for: peace, and the prosperity of all our people, from the deserts of Dorne to the shores of the Blackwater!”

It was a perfect, diplomatic lie, delivered with a grace that belied the storm in her heart. The crowd erupted in genuine, thunderous applause this time. She offered a final, regal nod before turning her back on them and re-entering the litter, the smile vanishing from her face the moment the curtain fell.

King Aegon II stood at a high window in the Red Keep, looking down at the scene. He’d been dragged from his cups for this, annoyed at the disruption. But the sight of the Dornish princess stepping from her litter, so utterly unafraid, had sobered him slightly.

“Well, well,” he muttered to himself, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “She’s got a spine, this one.” He watched her command the rabble with a few pretty words. It was a performance, but a masterful one. A flicker of something—interest, perhaps—stirred in his chest. He thought of his brother, Aemond, the relentless, disciplined warrior who was to be gifted this fiery, clever creature. The familiar, bitter tang of jealousy coated his tongue. Aemond got the discipline, the loyalty of the armies, and now, it seemed, he would get a queen who looked like a goddess and spoke like a Hand. What did Aegon get? A crown that felt like a millstone and a brother who despised him.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavern of intimidating power. Torches flickered, their light dancing over the skulls of long-dead dragons, their grins a permanent reminder of Targaryen supremacy. At the far end, on the Iron Throne itself, sat King Aegon, trying and failing to look regal. To his right stood his mother, Queen Alicent, her posture rigid in her green gown, her hands clasped tightly. To his left stood the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, his face an unreadable mask of political calculation. Elora’s father, Prince Cyrus, stepped forward.

“Your Grace,” he announced, his voice echoing. “May I present my daughter, Princess Elora of Dorne.”

Elora moved forward, her head high, the yellow silk of her gown whispering against the stone floor. She curtseyed with perfect, practiced grace. “Your Grace. Queen Alicent. Lord Hand. The Sun of Dorne is honored to stand before the Dragon.”

Aegon leaned forward on the throne, the jagged blades of steel seeming to cage him. “The Dragon is pleased to have you, Princess. We apologize that the hour denies you a proper feast. The rigors of travel, and of war, dictate a… subdued welcome.” His eyes, however, were anything but subdued. They roamed over her with a frank appreciation that was just shy of an insult.

Elora met his gaze evenly, seeing the lazy entitlement, the attempt at a sly flirtation hidden beneath a king’s courtesy. She offered a cool, diplomatic smile. “Your consideration for our comfort is thanks enough, Your Grace. A quiet evening is most welcome after the long road.”

She was dismissing his flirtation without even acknowledging it, and Aegon felt a spark of both irritation and greater interest. She was not easily flattered.

It was Alicent who spoke next, her voice as crisp and sharp as the throne itself. “We are glad you are here, Princess Elora. You will find that life in the Red Keep has a certain… structure. There are duties and decorum to be observed. We shall ensure you are instructed in all that is required of a lady of the court.”

The condescension was a finely honed blade. Elora turned her gaze to the Queen. “You are most kind, Queen Alicent. Though I am well-versed in the history, laws, and customs of the Seven Kingdoms, I am certain there is much to learn about the day-to-day rhythms of your specific court.” She let the implication hang—that she was already an educated woman, not a blank slate to be molded. “As for a lady’s duties, I have found that the ability to defend one’s home and counsel one’s leaders are among the most vital. I look forward to offering my perspectives where they may be of use.”

Alicent’s smile was brittle. The girl had just refused to be patronized and had positioned herself as a potential advisor in the same breath. This was no simpering maiden. This was a political player. A threat. “A… unique perspective, to be sure,” Alicent replied, her tone frosting over. “We shall see what use the Crown has for a lady’s… martial opinions.”

The tension in the hall was palpable. Elora’s father looked deeply uncomfortable. Otto Hightower watched with the keen, analytical eyes of a spider feeling a new, unpredictable thread vibrate in its web.

Finally, the agonizing audience was over. Elora and Loreza were shown to their chambers—a lavish set of rooms that felt more like a gilded prison. The moment the heavy oak door closed behind them, Elora’s shoulders slumped, the mask of composure finally cracking.

Loreza rushed to a window, looking out at the alien cityscape. “Gods, it’s so big. And so grey.” She turned, her eyes wide with worry. “Elora, the Queen… she hated you on sight.”

Elora walked to the hearth, where a fire struggled to push back the damp chill of the keep. She stared into the flames, seeing not logs, but the life she had left behind—the training yards, the council chambers, the lemon groves, a pair of kind, sun-lit eyes.

“She doesn’t hate me, little sister,” Elora said, her voice quiet and tired. “She fears me. And a fearful enemy is far more dangerous than a hateful one.” She wrapped her arms around herself, the silks of her gown feeling like a shroud. “Welcome to our new home.”

• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧

The lavish chambers allotted to them were a cage of silk and stone. The last of the evening’s light had fled, leaving only the faint, smoky glow of King’s Landing’s countless fires visible through the tall windows. The moment the heavy oak door had closed, sealing them in, the impeccable composure Princess Elora had worn like armor all day shattered.

She stood at the window, her back to the room, her hands braced on the cold stone sill. The vibrant yellow of her gown seemed to mock her in the dimness.

“I cannot do it, Loreza,” she stated, her voice low and raw, stripped of all its diplomatic grace. She wasn’t speaking to a subject or a rival, but to her sister. “I will not be led to the altar like a lamb to the slaughter for a man I have never even laid eyes upon.”

Behind her, Loreza, who had been nervously arranging a brush set on a vanity, froze. Her delicate features, so perfectly suited to the role of the placid, beautiful lady, crumpled with alarm. “Elara, you must!” she whispered, her voice hushed and frantic. “The agreements are signed, the seals are set. Father would never forgive—the honor of all Dorne rests on this!”

“The honor of Dorne is the very chain around my neck!” Elora whirled around, her eyes blazing in the twilight. The fire in her was a Dornish sun, trapped and seeking to burn its way out. “But my own honor—the honor of the woman I am—demands I look my jailer in the eye before he turns the key.”

She moved with a sudden, decisive energy, striding to the large, intricately carved trunk that held her personal effects. She threw back the lid, bypassing silks and jewels, and pulled out a garment of plain, dark, unadorned wool—a practical, hooded cloak, the kind she wore when riding through the dunes or walking the battlements of Sunspear unseen.

Loreza watched, her hand flying to her mouth. “What are you doing?”

“I am going to find him,” Elora said, her voice steady now, the plan crystallizing. “I need to see the man they have sold me to. Not the Prince on a dais, but the man in his own halls.”

“You’ll be caught! The guards, the courtiers…”

“Then you will make sure I am not.” Elora turned, clutching the cloak to her chest. Her gaze pinned her younger sister, not with command, but with a desperate, sisterly plea. “You will tell the guards at our door that I am unwell, overcome by the journey. That you are sitting with me to ensure I rest and that we are not to be disturbed under any circumstances. You must do this for me, Loreza.”

The four Martell siblings had always been a sun and its orbiting planets. Doran, the eldest, the future Prince of Dorne, was the steady, burning center. Elora, only a year his junior, had been his shadow and his sharpest counsel, their minds two blades sharpened on the same whetstone. Then came Oberyn, two years younger, all fiery passion and prodigious skill with a spear, her partner in mischief and martial training. And Loreza, the youngest by another two years, was their collective treasure, the embodiment of everything soft and graceful, the sister they had all instinctively protected.

Elora and Loreza loved each other fiercely, but theirs was not the easy, conspiratorial bond Elora shared with Oberyn, or the deep, intellectual partnership she had with Doran. Elora was the storm; Loreza was the garden that needed sheltering from it. But in this moment, in this foreign, hostile castle, the hierarchy of their childhood fell away. They were just two sisters, and one was begging the other for her help.

Loreza saw the desperate fire in Elora’s eyes—the same fire that had led her to sneak into war councils and onto a battlefield. She saw not a rebellious princess, but her sister, drowning in a fate not of her making. The fear in her own heart was a cold knot, but the love was warmer and stronger.

With a terrified, yet resolute nod, Loreza reached out and squeezed Elora’s hand. “Go,” she whispered, her voice trembling but clear. “I will hold the door.”

A look of profound gratitude passed between them. In that moment, they were not the political pawn and the perfect lady. They were simply Elora and Loreza, and the bond of sisterhood was the only shield they had.

• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧

Elara moved through the torch-lit corridors like a ghost. She found the door to the Prince’s chambers, guarded by two Targaryen men-at-arms. She did not plead or hesitate. She threw back her hood.

“I am Princess Elara,” she announced, her voice cutting the silence. “I am here to see Prince Aemond.”

Stunned by her audacity, the guards faltered. A moment later, she was inside.

The room was a reflection of the man she had heard of: severe, ordered, and powerful. A large table was strewn with maps, a stand held his armor, and a fire roared in the hearth. He stood before it, having just been informed of her presence. He turned, and she finally saw him. Tall, lean, his face a sharp, handsome mask of control, dominated by that single, piercing blue eye.

“Princess,” he said, his voice a low, measured baritone. It was not a greeting, but an assessment. His eye traveled over her, from the loose, dark curls cascading over her shoulders to the simple, elegant nightgown visible beneath her cloak. “This is a breach of every protocol.”

“I find protocols are often designed to keep people in the dark,” she replied, holding his gaze without flinching. “I prefer the light.”

Aemond was intrigued. She was even more striking than the rumors suggested, but it was the fire in her eyes that captivated him. This was no frightened girl.

He began a slow circle around her. “And now that you are here, in the light? What do you see?”

“I see a man who does not ask. He takes,” she said, her heart a frantic drum. “Even when a kingdom and a queen mother tell him no.”

He stopped directly in front of her, invading her space, using his height and presence as a weapon. He leaned in, his face close to hers. “And you?” he murmured, his breath a warm ghost on her skin. “Are you the formidable mind I bargained for? Or are you just a beautiful piece of property, resentful of your new owner?”

Elara’s blood boiled. Owner? The word confirmed her worst fears. But anger made her sharp, not reckless.

Still invading her space, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And whose side does Dorne play on? My drunken brother’s? The one who would rather toast his own ruin than secure his dynasty?” He searched her face for any flicker of hesitation, any loyalty to the crown as it stood. This was his test. “Or do they serve a stronger, more… dedicated cause?”

Elara did not flinch. The question was not an insult; it was an invitation. And the fire of ambition in his gaze was a mirror to the one she had long banked in her own heart. He was not the spoiled second son she had feared, but a man of formidable will. The realization was a key turning in a lock.

“Dorne serves its own interests,” she stated, her voice steady and clear. “And its interest is in strength. In a ruler who does not see our deserts as the edge of the world, but as the foundation of a new empire.” She tilted her head, a subtle, challenging gesture. “You did not demand my sister, the placid lady. You demanded me. The one who fights. So, do not question my loyalty to a cause I have not yet been offered. Show me the cause, my prince. Prove it is worthy of my dagger.”

Aemond’s breath caught. She had not just passed his test; she had redefined it. She was not a subject to be commanded, but a potential architect to be convinced. The respect that washed over him was so profound it felt like a physical blow.

“You wanted a weapon,” she whispered, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. “Allow me to demonstrate my edge.”

It happened in a blur. She used his proximity, stepping into him, her foot hooking behind his ankle as her body became a lever. With a sharp, efficient motion, she broke his balance, driving him back until his shoulders hit the stone wall with a solid thud. Before the shock could even register on his face, the cold, deadly point of her dagger was pressed against the pulse point of his throat.

Aemond was frozen. Not by fear, but by sheer, unadulterated shock. And then, a wave of pure, hot admiration washed over him. She had not just challenged him; she had beaten him. In his own chambers. This was no simpering lady. This was a queen.

Her face was inches from his, her beautiful features transformed by a look of fierce triumph. “In Dorne,” she whispered, her voice dangerously soft, “we learn that the smallest scorpion can bring down the largest foe. It is not about size. It is about precision, and the will to strike. My will is iron. The question is, is yours?”

He stared at her, utterly captivated. The shock gave way to a wave of pure, incandescent triumph. She was perfect. Not just a partner in bed, but a partner in conquest. He saw the same ruthless ambition in her eyes that fueled his own, and he knew, with unshakable certainty, that he could trust her with his most dangerous secret because it would become hers, too.

He made no move to shove her away. He simply looked at her, his single eye wide, a slow, genuine smile of profound respect spreading across his face. “By the gods,” he breathed. “You are perfect.”

A slow, genuine smile, the first true one she had seen, spread across his face. “My will is fire and blood,” he breathed, his voice thick with promise. “And with you, it will be enough to forge a new throne.”

She held his gaze for a long, charged moment before sheathing her dagger with a fluid motion and stepping back into a posture of serene grace. The pact sealed in the language of violence and ambition, before hidikg her dagger.

“I will see you on the morrow, my prince.”

“I will be counting the moments, my wife.”

• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧

The Great Hall was a symphony of power and pretense. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, glinting off silver goblets and the elaborate jewels of the court. Elora was the central note in this symphony, a vision of controlled elegance in a gown of deep emerald silk that made her olive skin glow. She was the picture of Dornish grace, but beneath the surface, every sense was alert, cataloging faces, weighing loyalties.

When she was presented to Prince Aemond, the air around them seemed to still. He was exactly as she remembered from her clandestine glimpse—tall, severe, a sculpture of pale marble and contained violence. He took her offered hand, his grip cool and firm, and bowed over it with a chilling, perfect courtesy.

“Princess Elora,” he said, his voice carrying, ensuring the entire court witnessed his acknowledgment. “Welcome to King’s Landing. The honor is mine.” His words were for the crowd, but his single eye, a shard of sapphire, held a private, smoldering message that seared into her. I remember. And I am pleased with what I have claimed.

She dipped into a curtsy, a fluid, graceful movement that was both submission and performance. “The honor is mine, Prince Aemond,” she replied, her voice a clear, carrying melody. “I look forward to our union, and the strength it will bring to both our houses.” Her smile was a masterpiece of political art, giving away nothing.

Before the first course could be served, Queen Alicent descended, a heavy ledger clutched in her hands like a shield. Her smile was a thin, tight line. “Now, we must begin the practical planning,” she announced, her tone brooking no argument. “The Sept of Baelor has been reserved. It is the only fitting venue. The High Septon himself will perform the rites. We shall have a choir of the Most Devout, and the feast will feature the traditional boar and swan, prepared in the classic Crownlands fashion.”

Elora’s smile remained sweet, but a new light entered her eyes—the keen focus of a strategist. She saw the rigid set of Alicent’s jaw, the unyielding devotion to the Faith. To attack this front directly would be to lose. So, she would flank it.

“Your Grace is too kind,” Elora began, her voice filled with apparent deference. “And you are, of course, absolutely right. The sanctity of the ceremony in the eyes of the Gods and the realm is paramount. The Sept of Baelor is the only suitable choice.”

Alicent blinked, momentarily disarmed by the easy capitulation. A flicker of triumph crossed her face.

King Aegon, picking at a plate of fruit, watched over the rim of his wine cup. He saw the clever retreat and leaned forward, knowing a counter-strike was coming. She’s not surrendering; she’s repositioning her forces.

“However,” Elora continued, her tone becoming gently persuasive, “while the ceremony is for the Gods, the celebration that follows is for the people. It is a symbol of unity. Would it not be a powerful message of solidarity if, after the holy rites, the entire city could share in our joy?” She let the question hang before offering her solution. “The reception could be held in the Dragonpit, so that thousands may witness the strength of this new alliance. And to truly honor the union of Sun and Dragon, the feast could feature the finest dishes of both our lands—spiced Dornish lamb and flatbreads alongside the traditional boar. Our pomegranate wine is celebrated across the continent, and our musicians… well, their melodies tell the story of my home. It would make the celebration uniquely ours.”

It was a masterstroke. She had given Alicent the solemnity of the Sept, the bedrock of tradition, and in return, asked for the soul of the party itself.

Alicent hesitated, the ledger feeling heavier in her hands. The girl had ceded the most important point. To deny her the rest would seem churlish, ungracious. “The Dragonpit… for the feast? And Dornish music?” she said, struggling to find a objection that didn’t make her sound petty. “Such… vigorous food and foreign sounds…”

Aemond watched, his initial surprise hardening into a complex brew of admiration and suspicion. She had just outmaneuvered his mother without raising her voice. She had identified what Alicent valued most, let her have it, and in exchange, taken everything else. It was a more brilliant tactic than flatly refusing the Sept. He saw the calculation in her eyes, and the part of him that valued cunning above all else was deeply impressed.

“The Princess’s compromise is more than reasonable,” Aemond declared, his voice cool and final. “The ceremony will be in the Sept. The celebration thereafter will be in the Dragonpit, with Dornish traditions fully embraced. The matter is settled.” He then stood, the movement abrupt and commanding. He offered his arm to Elora, a public, decisive gesture that sealed the bargain. “Come. Let us take the air.”

It was Aegon who spoke, his voice loud and jovial. “A splendid negotiation! You secured the piety my mother desired and the spirit your people require, Princess. A talent indeed.” He raised his cup to her. “Such a mind should not be confined to party planning. You should join us in a council meeting. Unofficially. To offer the Dornish perspective on weightier matters.”

The offer hung in the air. Alicent looked aghast. Aemond’s grip on Elora’s arm tightened, his suspicion flaring at his brother's blatant move.

Elora met Aegon’s gaze, then glanced at Alicent’s stunned face and Aemond’s tense profile. She had won a significant cultural victory and was now being offered a seat at the table of power. “The King is too generous,” she said, her voice steady. “I would be honored to observe and learn, Your Grace.” She accepted, having turned a discussion about swans and choirs into a major political advancement.

The gesture was so public, so deliberate. A murmur ran through the hall as the betrothed pair walked out, leaving a speechless Alicent at the head table; the victor of a battle she had already lost the war for. She had her Sept, but the wedding would now be indelibly marked as Dornish.

Alicent Hightower stood frozen at the high table, the heavy ledger in her hands feeling less like a tool of organization and more like a relic of a world that was slipping through her fingers. The murmur of the court was a hive of excitement, buzzing not about the holy sanctity of the Sept of Baelor, but about the exotic prospect of a Dornish feast in the Dragonpit. They were already speaking of spiced lamb and foreign music.

She had won. She had her Sept. The High Septon would preside. The rites would be performed with all the solemn tradition she held dear. And yet, the victory was ashen in her mouth.

Her eyes, hard and unblinking, followed the retreating forms of her son and the Dornish princess until they disappeared through the great doors. Aemond’s arm, linked with Elora’s, was not just a courtesy; it was an alliance. A public declaration that he had chosen his bride’s counsel over his mother’s.

She is not like the others, Alicent thought, the realization a cold knot in her stomach. This was not some malleable girl to be shaped and guided. This was not even a simple, proud warrior. Elora Martell was something far more dangerous: a politician.

Alicent saw it all with terrifying clarity. The initial deference, the seemingly gracious concession on the Sept—it had not been submission. It had been a feint. The girl had assessed the battlefield, identified the hill Alicent was willing to die on, and had simply ceded it, knowing the rest of the territory was now undefended. She had given Alicent the stone walls of the Sept while claiming the fertile fields, the trade routes, and the loyalty of the people for herself.

And Aegon. Her firstborn, her disappointment, had seen it too. He had not just seen it; he had applauded it. He had been… intrigued. The way he looked at Elora was not merely the lecherous gaze he usually reserved for pretty serving girls. It was the look of a king recognizing a new, unexpected piece on the cyvasse board—a piece with the power to change the entire game. His offer to bring her into the council chambers was a catastrophe in the making. It would give her access, influence, a platform from which to weave her Dornish ambitions into the very fabric of their rule.

Alicent’s knuckles were white where she gripped the ledger. She saw the future unfolding with the grim certainty of a seer. Elora would not be content to be Aemond’s consort. She would be his partner, his advisor, the sharp mind behind his ruthless ambition. Together, they would be unstoppable. And in that partnership, where would that leave Alicent? The Queen Dowager, pushed to the sidelines, her counsel rendered obsolete by a younger, cleverer, more captivating woman.

She saw Rhaenyra in Elora’s defiant grace. She saw Otto Hightower in her calculating eyes. This princess was a blend of everything Alicent had ever feared and fought against: the wanton disregard for tradition mixed with the cold, patient cunning of a master strategist.

I have welcomed a viper into the nest, she thought, a fresh wave of bitter resentment washing over her. And my own sons are fighting over who gets to hold it.

Slowly, deliberately, she placed the ledger down on the table. The sound was a dull thud, a final period at the end of her defeat. She had secured the blessing of the Gods, but Elora Martell had just stolen the heart of the court, the ear of the King, and the allegiance of her intended husband. The war for the Iron Throne was still raging, but Alicent Hightower knew, with a mother’s terrifying instinct, that a new, more subtle war had just begun within the walls of the Red Keep. And she was no longer sure she had the weapons to win it.

• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧

In the gardens, all eyes were on them. It was a strange, walking spectacle. Aemond felt the stares, the whispers. He saw lords and ladies watching the fearsome One-Eye play the courteous suitor to his beautiful, foreign bride. It should have felt false, a performance. But with her hand on his arm, it felt… right. A possessiveness, different from the cold need for control, warmed his blood. He wanted them all to see. He wanted them to know she was his.

“You handle my mother with impressive deftness,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer to her than strictly necessary.

“I have spent my life navigating councils of proud men,” she replied, her voice low. “A queen who believes her will is law is a familiar challenge.”

He stopped, turning to face her, blocking the view of the staring courtiers with his body. “Let them look,” he said, his voice for her alone. “Let them see the future.”

Later, as they returned to the hall, they crossed paths with King Aegon. He was already unsteady, a goblet in hand.

“Brother! And my radiant good-sister-to-be!” he slurred, his gaze dragging over Elara. “I see you’ve been inspecting the merchandise. Fine purchase. Though I wonder if you have the coin to keep her.” He let out a drunken laugh.

Elara’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes cooled. “I am a gift from Dorne to the Crown, Your Grace. Not a transaction. Though I am flattered you find me so valuable.”

Aegon’s laugh died. He liked her fire, the way she didn’t cower before Alicent or simper before him. It was a frustrating, alluring novelty. He was deeply, irritatingly jealous that his serious, one-eyed brother had landed this particular prize. “Valuable indeed,” he muttered, his eyes lingering on her. “See that you don’t lose your edge in this soft court.”

“I can assure you, Your Grace,” she said, her tone polite yet final, “my edge is unbreakable.” She gave a slight, dismissive nod and allowed Aemond to lead her away.

Aemond watched the exchange, a dark satisfaction settling in his chest. His brother’s jealousy was a petty, useless emotion, but it pleased him nonetheless. Everything about her pleased him.

That night, in the solitude of his chambers, Aemond stared at the map of Westeros on his wall. The political marriage was a strategic masterstroke. But the woman… the woman was a revelation. He thought of her in the gardens, the sun on her skin, the sharp wit in her eyes. The wedding was weeks away. It was too long.

A courtship, he decided. Not the stilted, chaperoned affairs of the court. His courtship. He would show her the power he wielded, the city he would one day give her. He would take her flying on Vhagar, let her feel the true meaning of his strength. He would walk with her through the Street of Silk, let her see the wealth of his capital. He would have private dinners, where they could speak of history and strategy without the poisonous ears of his family.

He would court his future queen not just as a prince, but as a man. And in doing so, he would bind her to him long before they ever spoke their vows. The game for the throne was everything, but the game for her heart had just become infinitely more compelling.

After a long tiring day, Theon loves to settle in a bath behind you, consumed with the warmth of the bath and the various oils and armours waiting in the air.

As you rest against his chest, you make patterns in the water casually with your fingertips. Theon wraps his arms around your waist casually as he presses kisses in the curve of your neck. 

Theon's kisses are slow and sensual as he explores the curve of your neck. Theon asks how your day went.

Slowly and surely, you explain the details of your day. You talk about anything that particularly interesting happened or something that happened that bothered you. 

All the while, Theon's listening to you intently, occasionally making commentary about your day. However, his ears particularly perk up whenever something negative is mentioned, to which he'll gladly and deal with anyone who upset you. 

Once you're finished, you ask about Theon's day. Theon begins to talk about everything that he's been up to throughout the day. Theon gets excited whenever he's done something new or been able to show any authority. 

You admire how determined and passionate he becomes, while he speaks animatedly about different subjects. Slowly Theon runs his hands all over your shoulders gently removing the knots out of your tight shoulders. 

It is usually at this time you and Theon talk about your plans for the future. The adventures you're going to take, the plans to have a home that you can call your own. 

Cleaning yourselves is normally a deliberately slow activity. Theon begins to rub and clean the dirt off of your body. Theon spends time memorising every inch and crevice of your body. You deserve to be looked after. Especially with everything you do for him. 

Theon's favourite part is washing your hair. It's the way you lean into his touch as he massages your scalp, while Theon adds in mixtures of oils and mixtures that provide you with your signature scent. 

When it's Theon's turn he exchanges positions with you, suddenly he's resting against your chest relaxing into your touch. Slowly and precisely. You massage and clan his tense muscles while whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

Yes - you were sailing with Daenerys, and the weight of all of her other titles. She surprisingly liked you, admired your lack of servitude towards men, that you didn’t put up with any sexism, that you were even tougher than some of the men in your own army. That you refused to slink back and act like a helpless woman when things got tough. When she wasn’t demanding people bend the knee or going on her ten minute rant of all of the names that she had, she wasn’t all that bad. But she had done something tonight which had pinched a nerve in you, and made you think of her as an entitled brat - not for the last time either.

During dinner, which she had invited you two to have in her cabin, she had been giving Jon some looks. Now, she could definitely not say that she did not know about the two of you since you were always together. Just because there was no wedding doesn’t mean that you two weren’t practically married already. Everyone knew that - even your father, though he didn’t fully appreciate that you two hadn’t had the ceremony yet. And yet, she had rested her hand upon Jon’s arm, and probably more under the table that you could not see.

You kept your calm during dinner, keeping your eyes on the plate to avoid shooting dirty looks at the ‘Queen’. You didn’t trust anyone with that title these days. Cersei was bad enough. Now you had this to contend with up close and personal. After the meal, once you and Jon were back in your own shared cabin, you were really able to let loose with your thoughts.

“Yes, I’m grateful that she had brought her dragons to fight our cause, and yes, I think it’s great that she has a whole army of people who are obviously devoted to her but my god, do I have to lose you to her in order for us to have a chance to live another a couple of years?” You asked, pacing the floor with your arms crossed in front of you. Jon was sitting on the bed, undoing his boots, saying nothing. He’d learned the value of silence when it came to your anger since arguing back had disastrous consequences. “And you just let her!”

“What do you think I should have done then?” He asked when there was a lull between your words.

“Not look at her like you were going to pick up your fork and feed her!” You said, opening up the window just to have something to do with your hands. You were feeling hot, your blood boiling. “I know we are not wed and your life is still your own but I never want to see another woman put her hand on you like that.”

“Some might say that you’re jealous,” He said, attempting to hide a little smile but you had caught sight of it. It just made you feel all the more passionate about the situation.

“Jealous?” You asked, turning on him, your whole body standing over him now. “You think that I am jealous of that white-haired woman? I would not trade places with her for any ship in the sea. Jealous - as if.”

“She was just trying to be friendly, and gain our trust.” Jon insisted, looking at you, completely undaunted.

“Well, she lost some of mine,” You scowled. “Are you trying to make me seem like the bad guy here? Because if that’s really what you want, I can become that.”

“I don’t know if you can,” He said. His words had flipped a switch in your mind. You were angry before, but now - now you were downright possessive. You had to make sure that he knew that it was you who would be there for him, you who would fight at his side, you who would love him until death. With the war coming, the two of you had not wasted much time. The relationship had developed quickly, and feeling that your time was coming near, you’d been making the most of it. There was not an inch in this cabin that had not been explored by the two of you during sex, nor were the kitchens or the deck truly clean. It would make your father disgusted to know that ships had been used this way by you. But you didn’t care if he knew - you were in love.

“You really think,” You asked, hopping yourself on his lap, wrapping your legs around his abdomen while he sat up straight. “-that you’re going to be able to distract me from that with sex?”

“I don’t have another choice,” He said, leaning forward to press a kiss on your chin. “I can’t have you killing her before we fight the war.”

“I guess that’s a fair point,” You sighed, tangling your fingers up in the curls of his hair. It was a sweet spot for him, causing his eyes to close and a mouth come out of his slightly parted lips. It was a beautiful sight. You wouldn’t trade him for any ship in the world either.

The playing with his hair went on for another moment before you yanked your hand away, causing him to groan rather than moan. His eyes shot open and he looked at you pleadingly to continue but you tutted and shook your head. “I’m the bad guy, Snow, you’re not always going to get exactly what you want.”

You hopped back to your feet and turned your back towards him, knowing that it would only tease him more. You lifted your tunic up from over your head and let it land on the floor near him. Your back was exposed to him, and you knew how much he loved it. Many a night he had fallen asleep while running his fingers up and down your spine. You turned your head over your shoulder and blew him a kiss, your hair falling over your shoulders to cover whatever might have been in view.

You abandoned wearing dresses whenever you were on a ship. Such a little thing as tripping on one’s long skirts could easily mean death when you could fall overboard and into the freezing water of the Narrow Sea. As well, you were rather proactive in the upkeep of the ship, even ascending the nets to get to the Crows Nest and take a turn looking out for land. That sort of climbing was not something that you could do in a dress. So now, in front of Jon, you were attired only in your trousers, your stockings to keep the cool air out, and your shoes.

A benefit of being a part of the ship was the muscle tone that you had, that you were proud of. You could arm-wrestle with the best of them, even beating Tormund once. The same arm that you used untied the laces of your shoes so you could kick them off - always the least sexy of the undressing processes. But then you were at your trousers, tied up with a corset-like front with a strong knot. Your fingers worked nimbly with it, undoing it slightly, pulling the thin piece of rope out so that Jon could tell what you were doing.

“You’re not being bad, you’re just being a tease,” Jon said, leaning backwards, balancing himself on his elbows. He was taking in the show, though. He would be crazy not to be enjoying it. He longed to kiss your shoulders, work his way down your back, down down down until he reached where your pants lingered -

But those soon disappeared, much like the top that you had thrown away. You had taken the stockings with you, stepping out of them with care. Now you were nude in front of him, but still with your back towards him. His eyes took in the most prevalent thing he could see - your ass, which was just the perfect size for him. He never cared much for looks - not caring about the whores the way that Theon did. But you - you were blessed with both looks and a personality that he had fallen for so quickly it nearly gave him whiplash.

You ran your fingers through your own hair now, cocking one hip up and then another in a dance that seemed very much like it was Dornish in origin. You hummed a song that you recalled from one of the ports you had stopped in many moons ago when you were helping your father with smuggling, and danced to it. “I don’t think you’re much of a good guy yourself, Jon. Letting her touch you like that in front of me. Putting me into this rage just to get a reaction out of me. I think you deserve to be teased.”

“Is that how it’s going to be?” He asked. You turned to the side, still rotating your hips, back to humming, and nodded. “The Queen is very beautiful, isn’t she?”

You avoided looking at him, knowing that he had a smug expression on his face. He enjoyed testing you, getting your mood up. Things always got rather heated that way. You slowed your dance down to a tantalizing pace, spinning around so that he could see your full front, a scene that always took his breath away. “Do you want to say that again?” You asked. He shook his head quickly, eyes transfixed on your chest.

“Didn’t think so,” You said. You leaned forward, moving in closer and closer to him, before tugging violently at his trousers. He lost his balance due to the force that you used and fell back upon the bed. Good - that was a good place to have him. You undid those trousers and pushed them down over his feet until they fell on the floor beside yours. This room was infamous for having discarded clothing all over the place.

His cock sprung out, freed from the fabric cage that they had been locked into all day. It was already as hard as a rock. You teased him further by licking the tip, making him grab onto your shoulders. His hastily trimmed nails dug into the skin, leaving little pink crescent marks. You would be sure to return the favor later. You kissed the tip, then licked up and down the sides in the same painfully slow pace you had taken with your dancing.

“Do you think that the Queen would do this?” You asked, sucking about half of his cock down your throat. Now, he wasn’t a giant in that department, but he was a nice size. Still, you were able to get all the way down if you wanted to, but right now he didn’t deserve that. He moaned at that, but didn’t give you an answer. Instead he just squeezed you once more, lightly attempting to push you down but you didn’t budge. Your tongue played against his split, then licked the underside of his cock before you released, the cold air bringing goosebumps to his pelvic region after being in your warm mouth.

“You’re thinking about her way more than I am,” Jon said, raising his head up to look at you. You shook your head, resenting the idea of that. Before you could make another move, Jon grabbed onto you and pulled you onto the bed. He was strong, and able to move you like you were a child’s doll made of fabric and sheep’s wool. His face was now buried in between your legs, and he started to lick at you as if your pussy was the fountain of youth.

“You’re so focused on thinking about her face that you can’t even remember her name?” You asked, biting down on your lower lip to keep from squealing. His beard always ended up tickling you, making you squirm. You didn’t grab at his shoulders like he did, but rather, grabbed onto the sheets for support. Your head was so close to knocking against the headboard but that was the least of your concerns at this moment. He was sucking on your clit, bringing you to a high far more quickly than you had anticipated. You struggled against him, then raised your feet under him to push him off. He looked up at you, lips moist and glistening, caught your eye then rolled his.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” He said, looking exasperated. He tried to grab at you again so that he could return to his feast but you kicked him off of the bed, making him land on the floor. You smirked as he got up onto his feet, but that didn’t stay for very long. He picked you right up off of the bed before you could protest, slamming you down onto the desk, which was covered in maps and letters from ravens.

“I just think you liked the attention, Jon. Do you like her more than me? Do you think she’s better than me?” As you were asking these questions, you were trying to get off the desk. There were little figures on the map to help with strategy and they were digging into your bare back. As you flailed, Jon took the opportunity to step between your open legs and thrust his hard cock right into you. It was so quick that it hurt, causing an immediate discomfort but it slowly eased into pleasure. That didn’t mean, though, that you were done being irritated.

Jon held onto the back of your neck, forcing your head up to look at him as he thrust in and out, keeping eye contact the entire time. “Does it seem like I think she’s better than you?” He asked in disbelief.

“Can’t tell with you sometimes,” You muttered, pushing his hand away from you and leaned your head back against the wall. He instead grabbed onto your ankle and your thigh, keeping your legs spread as you struggled to find a way to keep yourself from being shaken too much. “Are you thinking of her right now?”

“I’m trying not to, but you keep bringing her up!” He growled. “Are you done with your jealous fit?”

You thought for a moment, which was hard because you could nearly feel yourself reaching a climax. You didn’t want to - that would mean that Jon won the argument. But you had a plan. Finally getting your arms underneath you, you pushed yourself up off of the desk, quite a few of the little figures sticking into your back but you didn’t care, and wrapped your arms around Jon’s shoulders. He was in a standing position while you were holding onto him like a reverse piggy back. Using your strength, you raised yourself up so only his tip was inside of you, then clenched your inner muscles to tease him all the more. Milk him.

“Almost,” You told him, resisting when he tried to drop you down little by little. “Who is your Queen?”

Jon froze entirely at that question. “What?”

“Not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not the Queen of Slave-Freeing, none of that. Your Queen. Whisper it if you are afraid of treason, but if you do not give me the answer that I want, I’m walking out that door.”

Jon didn’t hesitate after that. “You are,” He said softly, whispering it into your ear. “My Queen.”

You released your hold on him, sinking down onto him until he was fully inside you. He carried you back to the bed, where instead of throwing each other around, you made what you would call love. However, you still felt the need to be in control of him. To make sure that you were the only one that he was thinking about during these pleasurable moments.

You went on top, straddling him, bouncing yourself up and down in a quick pace. That didn’t however, mean that he could slack off. He thrust upward to meet with your bounces, and his hand went to your clit where he started to rub it slowly at first, then picking up speed. Since he only had experience with one other woman before you, you had to teach him some things. The value of pleasure in that little bundle of nerves was lesson number one and oh how he had learned. His other hand went to your breast, holding it in place rather than letting it go up and down with you, your nipple getting caught between his thumb and his index finger.

You looked down at him throughout, keeping up the eye contact. “I love you, Jon Snow. My true King.”

“I love you, y/n,” He said in return. The words seemed to have a physical effect because before he could even warn you, he cum up inside of you, thrusting hard against his own control.

You rode him out, only slightly disappointed that you weren’t able to finish at the same time. After his moment of pleasure had past, and the sensitivity began did you roll off of him and lay down on the bed, sweaty and tired. “I take that back,” You groaned. “A King would be a gentleman and let their Queen finish.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon breathed, rolling over on his side to kiss your shoulder. “I’ll just make you finish twice next time.”