some nights i always win
asoiaf/game of thrones PWP: dany/robb/jon
written for this http://cassiehayes.livejournal.com/40594.html
if her brother had ever taken the iron throne, dany expects he would
have taken her for his bride and had every member of every rival
house with more than a dozen knights or a few pounds of gold to
their name executed.
as it is, she's on the throne now, three full-grown dragons her only
children and no husband to warm her bed and hear her troubles in
the night.
so she summons the young wolf and his brother the bastard from
the oft-cursed north to her court. not exactly in secret, but not
proudly either. she has them placed in a room in one of the towers
and leaves them there for a day or two with ample food and other
amenities to let them be reacquainted. she knows that if there were
any family left for her to be reunited with she would appreciate the
time alone.
when she enters the chamber, though, they seem more wary than
grateful. nonetheless she is the queen and so when she directs
them to quit their shirts and breeches they oblige with little care for
modesty. dany examines them with interest. they are nowhere near
the size and prowess of her drogo, but she must acknowledge that
that strength and comfort shall never return. like her, they are no
longer in the prime of youth, but old age has not yet stripped the
essential vitality from the muscles rippling under the pale skin. she
sees that they have availed themselves of the water and razors left
in the room, though, as their cheeks are as smooth as her own.
only half brothers, but they still favor each other, all messy curls
and furrowed brows. she wonders if that's the face of the infamous
ned stark showing.
before her poised restraint starts to look like hesitation, dany steps
forward till the bastard's chest is just inches away. she has to tilt
her head up a fair distance to make her mouth reach his. she asks
for something, not knowing what, with her mouth, and he complies.
his kiss is tenderness and a sadness that mirrors hers and also a
little steel underneath. without realizing her hand reaches out and
the young wolf takes it and squeezes, and here they are, not just
strangers but enemies, but his chest is at her back now and his
hands on her hips and it's such a relief to finally feel contained.
she was only wearing a nightgown when she came in, shedding
her robe in the doorway. it's more of a shift really, linen or
something else flimsy, and the wolf's determined hand has it out of
the way in a moment, his hand just resting over her cunt, not
stroking or entering, just holding her, and the bastard is still kissing
her, biting at her lips and sucking her tongue, and now there's a
mouth at her neck and hands stroking through her long hair and
she's grinding down into robb stark's palm.
the bastard, snow, pulls back then and looks into her eyes, and
something in the darkness she looks back into is a warmth that
belies what common wisdom would say about cold, gruff,
musicless northerners, this one who calls the iciness beyond the
wall home, and his brother, the fallen lord of winterfell. but for all that
there's something more like fire in the civilized bearage of these
lords' sons than in all the fury and rage of the targaryen house.
dany never shared as heated a glance with viserys as these two
brothers do now, for all the fondling he did behind chilled green
eyes.
suddenly dany's lifted up, her legs on robb stark's shoulders, and
her cunt suddenly enveloped in such warm-water sweetness like
that first bath in qarth and she remembers doreah's mouth then,
but this is different somehow. perhaps because she's still looking
into the eyes of nedd stark's bastard as he holds her up by the
waist, and she rests her arms on his shoulders and then, feeling
less in control than befits a khaleesi, reaches down to grab his
cock with her right hand. he's big enough to make her hand seem
tinier than it is, not as ridiculous as drogo but that makes it easier
to try to match her strokes with the throbs that are now pulsing
through her whole body, until finally she's just too hot even for the
dragon blood, sweating like a fever and shaking and she only
realizes after she stops that she's been screaming with all the
targaryen fury that won her this, this moment.
still dizzy with the force of it, she lets them lay her down on the
feather pallet, and she places her bare feet on the stone floor to try
to cool down as she lazily watches robb stark take the mouth full of
her and take his bastard brother's cock all the way down into that
pale throat of his, and then the two of them back up a foot or two
into the chamber wall and it's only a minute or so before the
bastard comes, grunting and frowning, and then slides to the floor
shaking his head in seeming disbelief and maybe a bit of rebellion.
for his part, the king in the north actually crawls across the floor to
smile up at her from between her knees.
"milady?"
"don't... if you please, call me khaleesi," dany says. she tries for a
tone of command but somehow the foreign word sounds silly or
make-believe here in westeros, the land she now calls (has always
called?) home, and she would flush if she wasn't already red all
over.
"call-eesy?" he tries, not quite fitting the hot desert word into his
northern accent.
"that... will do," she says, feeling too satisfied to mind.
"how are you, call-eese-ie," he whispers as he crawls up onto the
pallet until his sizeable, callused hands are on either side of her
head, holding his broad torso up in the air above her.
then he bucks his hips forward, just once, but she's still soaking
wet and he's so painfully hard and they both hiss. he just looks at
her, that strange northern warmth again but this time interlaced
with desire verging on desperation, and he doesn't have to say
you're so beautiful i'll die if i can't for her to feel empty all over
again.
"it's all right. you... you may," dany allows, and somehow the formal
tone seems so out of place, this all does, three enemies in an
abandoned chamber of the castle at king's landing and not one of
them a lannister. and not one of them wielding a sword. and now
he's pulled the shift up over her arms and now they're three naked
enemies, but before she can think any further his hot mouth is
sucking on her breasts and his cock slips inside her and she
watches his face as he struggles not to come just from that first
thrust.
dany hears something, and looking to her right, remembers that
they aren't alone. the stark bastard is hard again, stroking himself
as he watches them. the queen of the seven kingdoms probably
ought to be infuriated, or at the least ashamed. but dany grins at
him, and he smirks back as his brother comes inside her.
is it so wrong to think they've all won the war, at least for tonight?
written for this http://cassiehayes.livejournal.com/40594.html
if her brother had ever taken the iron throne, dany expects he would
have taken her for his bride and had every member of every rival
house with more than a dozen knights or a few pounds of gold to
their name executed.
as it is, she's on the throne now, three full-grown dragons her only
children and no husband to warm her bed and hear her troubles in
the night.
so she summons the young wolf and his brother the bastard from
the oft-cursed north to her court. not exactly in secret, but not
proudly either. she has them placed in a room in one of the towers
and leaves them there for a day or two with ample food and other
amenities to let them be reacquainted. she knows that if there were
any family left for her to be reunited with she would appreciate the
time alone.
when she enters the chamber, though, they seem more wary than
grateful. nonetheless she is the queen and so when she directs
them to quit their shirts and breeches they oblige with little care for
modesty. dany examines them with interest. they are nowhere near
the size and prowess of her drogo, but she must acknowledge that
that strength and comfort shall never return. like her, they are no
longer in the prime of youth, but old age has not yet stripped the
essential vitality from the muscles rippling under the pale skin. she
sees that they have availed themselves of the water and razors left
in the room, though, as their cheeks are as smooth as her own.
only half brothers, but they still favor each other, all messy curls
and furrowed brows. she wonders if that's the face of the infamous
ned stark showing.
before her poised restraint starts to look like hesitation, dany steps
forward till the bastard's chest is just inches away. she has to tilt
her head up a fair distance to make her mouth reach his. she asks
for something, not knowing what, with her mouth, and he complies.
his kiss is tenderness and a sadness that mirrors hers and also a
little steel underneath. without realizing her hand reaches out and
the young wolf takes it and squeezes, and here they are, not just
strangers but enemies, but his chest is at her back now and his
hands on her hips and it's such a relief to finally feel contained.
she was only wearing a nightgown when she came in, shedding
her robe in the doorway. it's more of a shift really, linen or
something else flimsy, and the wolf's determined hand has it out of
the way in a moment, his hand just resting over her cunt, not
stroking or entering, just holding her, and the bastard is still kissing
her, biting at her lips and sucking her tongue, and now there's a
mouth at her neck and hands stroking through her long hair and
she's grinding down into robb stark's palm.
the bastard, snow, pulls back then and looks into her eyes, and
something in the darkness she looks back into is a warmth that
belies what common wisdom would say about cold, gruff,
musicless northerners, this one who calls the iciness beyond the
wall home, and his brother, the fallen lord of winterfell. but for all that
there's something more like fire in the civilized bearage of these
lords' sons than in all the fury and rage of the targaryen house.
dany never shared as heated a glance with viserys as these two
brothers do now, for all the fondling he did behind chilled green
eyes.
suddenly dany's lifted up, her legs on robb stark's shoulders, and
her cunt suddenly enveloped in such warm-water sweetness like
that first bath in qarth and she remembers doreah's mouth then,
but this is different somehow. perhaps because she's still looking
into the eyes of nedd stark's bastard as he holds her up by the
waist, and she rests her arms on his shoulders and then, feeling
less in control than befits a khaleesi, reaches down to grab his
cock with her right hand. he's big enough to make her hand seem
tinier than it is, not as ridiculous as drogo but that makes it easier
to try to match her strokes with the throbs that are now pulsing
through her whole body, until finally she's just too hot even for the
dragon blood, sweating like a fever and shaking and she only
realizes after she stops that she's been screaming with all the
targaryen fury that won her this, this moment.
still dizzy with the force of it, she lets them lay her down on the
feather pallet, and she places her bare feet on the stone floor to try
to cool down as she lazily watches robb stark take the mouth full of
her and take his bastard brother's cock all the way down into that
pale throat of his, and then the two of them back up a foot or two
into the chamber wall and it's only a minute or so before the
bastard comes, grunting and frowning, and then slides to the floor
shaking his head in seeming disbelief and maybe a bit of rebellion.
for his part, the king in the north actually crawls across the floor to
smile up at her from between her knees.
"milady?"
"don't... if you please, call me khaleesi," dany says. she tries for a
tone of command but somehow the foreign word sounds silly or
make-believe here in westeros, the land she now calls (has always
called?) home, and she would flush if she wasn't already red all
over.
"call-eesy?" he tries, not quite fitting the hot desert word into his
northern accent.
"that... will do," she says, feeling too satisfied to mind.
"how are you, call-eese-ie," he whispers as he crawls up onto the
pallet until his sizeable, callused hands are on either side of her
head, holding his broad torso up in the air above her.
then he bucks his hips forward, just once, but she's still soaking
wet and he's so painfully hard and they both hiss. he just looks at
her, that strange northern warmth again but this time interlaced
with desire verging on desperation, and he doesn't have to say
you're so beautiful i'll die if i can't for her to feel empty all over
again.
"it's all right. you... you may," dany allows, and somehow the formal
tone seems so out of place, this all does, three enemies in an
abandoned chamber of the castle at king's landing and not one of
them a lannister. and not one of them wielding a sword. and now
he's pulled the shift up over her arms and now they're three naked
enemies, but before she can think any further his hot mouth is
sucking on her breasts and his cock slips inside her and she
watches his face as he struggles not to come just from that first
thrust.
dany hears something, and looking to her right, remembers that
they aren't alone. the stark bastard is hard again, stroking himself
as he watches them. the queen of the seven kingdoms probably
ought to be infuriated, or at the least ashamed. but dany grins at
him, and he smirks back as his brother comes inside her.
is it so wrong to think they've all won the war, at least for tonight?