Archive of Our Own

The boardroom on the sixty-first floor smelled of fresh coffee and the lilies Rhaella had flown in every Monday, and the long table of black Valyrian marble held seven chairs and six people. The seventh chair, at the table's far end, sat empty with a leather folio nobody had touched in four months.

Rhaella took her place at the head. Her suit was cream wool, cut in Paris, with the three-headed dragon worked in red thread at the cuff, and she still moved like the runway model she'd been thirty years ago. She set down her glasses and did not put them on.

"Good morning, my darlings. Let's begin before Viserys finds something to complain about."

"I haven't said a word." Viserys dropped into his chair and tugged at a watch worth more than the floor below them.

"You will." Rhaella opened the folder in front of her. "The year-end numbers. Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar stood. He wore charcoal, no tie, the collar of his shirt open at the throat, and when he spoke the room went quiet the way it always did, like a tide pulling back.

"Fifty point two billion, consolidated, after tax. Energy carried the first half. Media carried the third quarter." He turned a page. "We can fund the full bonus pool, every employee, every region, and still expand the Pentos acquisition. I move we approve both."

"Seconded." Elia's voice was warm, low, Dornish honey over steel. She wore burnt-orange silk and a sun-and-spear brooch beside the company pin, and her pen was already moving. "The staff earned it. Turnover in logistics is the lowest it's been in a decade."

"All in favour?" Rhaella looked around the table. Hands rose. "Carried. Lovely. See, that wasn't painful at all."

"It will be." Viserys leaned forward, elbows on the marble. "Because nobody at this table wants to say the obvious. Fifty billion, wonderful, applaud, and the fashion and jewelry division is down nine percent year on year. Nine percent. You know why."

Rhaenys didn't look up from her tablet. "Here we go."

"Daenerys is in Lys." Viserys said the city like a curse. "Four months. A yearlong holiday, her assistant called it, which is a polite way of saying she's drinking her way through the Free Cities on the company card while her division rots. No campaigns. No launches. The spring line shipped without a face on it. She is the face. The brand is her, and she's on a beach."

"The division did two point one billion without her in the building," Elia said.

"It did two point six with her. Last year. With her modelling the intimates line herself and putting our jewelry on every red carpet in Westeros for free." Viserys spread his hands. "I'm the only one doing arithmetic? Mother. The flagship in King's Landing has her face six metres tall in the window and she hasn't been photographed in our pieces since the Braavos gala."

Rhaella turned a page without hurry. "She was photographed last week, darling. The tabloids were quite thorough."

"In a competitor's dress."

"In a Lyseni nothing of a dress," Rhaenys said, "that sold out in eleven minutes after she wore it, which should tell you the asset is intact. The asset is just angry."

"The asset." Viserys laughed, short and ugly. "Listen to you. Fine. The asset is sulking, and we all know why she's sulking, and we all know whose fault it is, and it isn't mine."

Rhaenys finally set the tablet down. She had her mother's brooch and her father's stare, and she aimed both down the table at her uncle.

"Isn't it? Walk me through it, Uncle. Dany asks the family for one thing. One. The family says no, and you, specifically you, spent two years lobbying everyone in this room that the spreadsheet should have your name in it. You pushed the merger-by-marriage. You pushed yourself. And now you sit here doing arithmetic about why she fled the continent."

"That's a gross simplification."

"It's the whole point. She's not on holiday, she's on strike. Against this table. Against you."

Aegon, who had been silent at his sister's left in a midnight-blue suit with no jewelry at all, turned his coffee cup a slow quarter turn on its saucer.

"To be fair," he said, "Viserys isn't wrong about the numbers. Whatever the cause, nine percent is nine percent, and the board will ask."

"Thank you." Viserys jabbed a finger at the table. "Thank you. The cause doesn't matter. The cure does, and the cure is simple, and everyone here is too sentimental to say it. She comes home. She does her job. And the marriage question gets settled the way it was always going to be settled, the way this family has always settled it. We're Targaryens. We don't marry for feelings, we marry for the house, and she'll do the same as every Targaryen woman before her. Mother did. Elia and Rhaegar did, and look at the result, two heirs and a media empire. Daenerys doesn't get to be special because she's the youngest and pretty and used to getting what she..."

"Choose your next words with great care," Rhaella said. She still hadn't raised her voice. The pen in her hand had stopped moving.

"...wants. She falls in line. That's all. She falls in line like the rest of us did, and if she won't come back for the brand, you cut the cards and the allowance and the jet, and I promise you Lys loses its charm by Thursday. She's thirty years old and she's throwing a tantrum over a boy she can't have, that boy, of all the boys in the world, the Stark bastard's son, and the sooner someone in this family has the spine to drag her home and put a ring on her..."

Rhaegar crossed the room in four steps. Nobody saw him decide to do it. He was a tall man and he came around the table without a sound on the carpet, and Viserys was still talking when his brother's hand caught him open-palmed across the face.

Slap.

The crack of it bounced off the glass wall. Viserys's head snapped sideways and his watch hand flew up too late, and his chair rolled half a metre back on its casters with him in it. A thin line of red showed at the corner of his mouth where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.

Aegon had opened his mouth somewhere in the last ten seconds, leaning forward, a finger lifted, the shape of "he has a point" already in his posture. He closed it. He sat back. He turned his coffee cup another quarter turn and looked very hard at the lilies.

Rhaegar stood over his brother. He had not raised his voice in this building in fifteen years and he did not raise it now.

"Drag her. Ring on her. Say either of those again."

"You hit me." Viserys touched his lip and stared at the red on his fingers. "In a board meeting. You hit me in front of..."

"In front of family. Yes." Rhaegar straightened his cuff. "She is our sister. Not a clause. Not nine percent. You will not speak about our sister's body, her marriage, or her spine again at this table. Are we clear?"

Elia had not moved. Rhaenys watched her uncle bleed with her chin on her hand and the faint beginnings of a smile she didn't bother to hide.

Rhaella set down her pen, folded her hands, and let the room hear her exhale.

"Sit up, Viserys," Rhaella said. "You're bleeding on Valyrian marble and it's seen better blood than yours."

Viserys pulled himself back to the table, one hand cupped at his jaw. "Mother, he..."

"Your brother said it plainly, so I'll only say it once more, and then we are done with it forever." She put her glasses on at last, which everyone at the table knew was worse than her not wearing them. "Daenerys is your sister. And the way you talk about her, darling, the ring, the dragging, the falling in line, you talk about her the way a man talks about a woman he wants in his bed. It is beneath you. It is beneath this table. It will stop."

"That's obscene. I never..."

"You lobbied this board for two years to be the groom yourself. We all sat here for it. Don't make me read the minutes aloud."

Rhaenys made a small sound into her hand. "Mmph."

"And while we're doing arithmetic," Rhaella went on, turning a page in her folder with one manicured finger, "since you're so fond of it. Your branch. Mining. Remind me of the number."

Viserys's jaw worked. "The sector had headwinds. Everyone knows the sector had..."

"One point one billion. Barely. And do tell the table how you barely got there, darling, because I have it in front of me and it makes wonderful reading. You pushed your crews to sixty-hour weeks for two quarters until they walked off three sites at once. The strike cost us eleven days of output and a front page. And to end it you gave them, let me find it, yes. An eleven percent salary bump, expanded medical, and a pension match."

"Which was responsible management of a..."

"Which was a ransom, paid at gunpoint, because the alternative was watching them cross the road to Stark Mining. Who, I will note for the record, cleared their second hundred billion this year and are hiring anyone who can hold a shovel." Rhaella looked at him over the glasses. "So when you stand on Daenerys's nine percent, you are standing in a very deep hole of your own digging, and the view from down there is poor."

Elia turned her pen over once. "Lyanna Stark sent a fruit basket to our HR floor after the strike settled. With a card."

"She did not." Viserys went pale.

"She did. The card said thank you for the referrals." Elia's mouth curved. "I framed it. It's in my office."

"And one more number, since we're sharing," Rhaella said. "Jon's branch."

"Oh, here it comes," Viserys muttered.

"Interactive entertainment. Which this family handed him as an afterthought, a studio and a half and a licensing desk, because Aerys thought games were toys, video games were broing and nobody else wanted it." She tapped the page. "One point four billion. He beat you, darling. With the toy division. And he's paid out bonuses to his people three times in eighteen months, and his turnover is functionally zero, and his glassdoor reviews read like love letters."

"His people would walk into a fire for him," Rhaenys said. "I've been to their offices. There's a mural of a direwolf in the lobby that the staff painted themselves. On a weekend. Unpaid."

"It's a cult," Viserys snapped.

"It's management," Rhaegar said quietly, from where he still stood. He hadn't gone back to his chair. "You should try it."

"He shouldn't have a branch at all. He shouldn't have anything from this family. He's a bas..."

His eyes found Rhaegar.

Rhaegar had not moved. That was the trouble. He stood with one hand resting flat on the marble, perfectly still, his collar open and his face calm in a way that had nothing calm underneath it, and he looked at his brother the way a man looks at a nail he's about to hammer.

Viserys closed his mouth. He picked up his water glass and drank from it and looked out the window at the harbour.

"Wise," Elia murmured.

"Right." Rhaella took her glasses off again. "The actual problem. The division is down because its face is on the other side of the Narrow Sea and intends to stay there. Solutions. Real ones, please."

Elia leaned back in her chair, the burnt-orange silk catching the light at her shoulder. "Honest suggestion. We have a face in the building right now. You."

"Me?"

"You. The campaign archives are half you anyway, the seventies retrospective did enormous numbers. And let's be honest, Rhaella, the Targaryen genes are a public scandal. You're what, officially?"

"Officially I stopped counting at fifty."

"And you photograph like you're thirty-five. The skin alone. My makeup girl asked me once if you'd had work done and I laughed at her for ten minutes." Elia spread her hands. "Put you in the spring jewelry, shoot it in black and white, run it as a legacy line. The House Endures. I'd buy it. I'd buy two."

"Hm." Rhaella touched the dragon thread at her cuff and, for one unguarded second, looked pleased. Then she shook her head. "It's flattering, darling, and don't think I didn't notice that you priced my vanity at exactly the right number. But no. I can fill a campaign. I cannot fill her. The intimates line is hers, the parties are hers, the paparazzi follow her to the gym, for heaven's sake. The brand isn't a face. It's a girl behaving badly in expensive jewelry, and I am far too old to behave badly on schedule."

"Then we stop pretending there's a clever marketing answer," Rhaenys said. "There's one answer. She comes home. And there's exactly one phone call on this planet that gets her on a plane, and every single person at this table knows whose number it is, so can we please stop dancing?"

Nobody spoke. Aegon turned his coffee cup. Viserys glared at the harbour. Elia looked at Rhaegar, and Rhaegar looked at his mother, and something passed down the table that none of them put words to because the words had been forbidden in this room for two years.

"He'll go if she asks," Rhaegar said at last. "He always answers her. But she won't ask. She's too proud, and she thinks we'll read it as surrender."

"So he goes because we ask," Rhaenys said. "Which means somebody calls him. And it can't be you, Father, he respects you but he braces around you. It can't be Viserys for reasons we've all just watched bleed. It has to be..."

"Yes, thank you, darling, I can follow a corridor to its only door." Rhaella sat for a moment with her hands folded on the closed folder. The lilies stood in their vase. Somewhere below them, sixty floors of her family's empire hummed along without its loudest heir.

"For the record," Viserys said, sullen, dabbing his lip with a monogrammed handkerchief, "if we send the boy to Lys and they come back together, we are pouring petrol on the exact fire we..."

"The meeting," Rhaella said, "is adjourned."

She rose. Chairs slid back, papers gathered, and Rhaegar caught his mother's eye on his way past the empty seventh chair and its untouched folio. He didn't say anything. He squeezed her shoulder once and walked out with Elia's hand finding his arm at the door.

Rhaella waited until the room was empty and the glass door had sighed shut. Then she sat back down in her chair at the head of the table, alone with the lilies and the harbour light, and took her phone from her bag.

She scrolled. Past Daenerys, whose last six calls had rung through to a cheerful Lyseni voicemail greeting recorded, Rhaella was certain, while drunk.

She found the name below it. Pressed it. Lifted the phone to her ear and listened to it ring with her eyes closed.

Jon's number.

The third load had landed heavier than the first two, thick ropes across Ros's cheek and through her red hair, and she hadn't wiped any of it off. She wore it like she wore the family jewels she'd stolen, openly, daring comment. Now she knelt between his thighs on the wrecked silk and worked his balls with her mouth, one and then both, sucking slow and wet while cum dripped out of her pussy in a sluggish white thread onto the sheets.

Jon lay back and groaned at the ceiling. The room smelled of rose and sweat and sex, and her tongue rolled under his sack with the patience of a woman billing by the hour who'd stopped billing honestly a year ago.

"Fuck. Ros."

"Mm-hm." She hummed it around him, deliberate, and the vibration crawled up his spine.

His phone lit up on the nightstand. He turned his head, read the name, and exhaled through his teeth. There were calls a man could ignore. This wasn't one of them. He thumbed the speaker icon and let the phone lie flat beside the pillow.

"Hello."

"Jon, darling." Rhaella's voice filled the room, warm as the cream in her suits. "You sound out of breath. Don't tell me you're at a gym at this hour, I'll worry you've become boring."

"Grandmother." He shoved his free hand into his hair, the silver wolf ring cool against his scalp. "Good to hear you."

"Grandmother. God. Say it again and I'll come up there and prove how old I'm not. Come visit me and I'll prove it properly, darling, I've outlasted three personal trainers."

Heat went up Jon's neck. Below him, Ros pulled half off his balls, looked up at him through cum-streaked lashes, and mouthed the words with exaggerated care. Incest baby. Then she sealed her lips back down and sucked hard enough to pull a grunt out of him.

He rolled his eyes at her. She winked.

Rhaella had never once flinched at what he was. The rest of the table, well mostly Aegon and Viserys, had spent twelve years saying bastard with their eyebrows; she'd put him at her right hand at his first family dinner and dared anyone to mention it. He'd take her calls from a burning building.

"Tell me, darling, are you alone? This is family business and I'd rather not perform it for an audience."

"I'm..."

Ros chose that exact second. She sucked his balls hard, dragged off them with a wet pop, hooked his thighs up with both hands, and sealed her mouth over his asshole. Her tongue pushed in deep, hot and shameless.

"...fuck..." Jon's head went back into the pillow. "Christ. No. I'm with Ros."

A pause on the line, exactly long enough to be amused.

Ros lifted her face, cum shining on her chin, and pitched her voice toward the phone, finishing-school crisp.

"Good evening, Rhaella. You're on speaker and you've caught me with my mouth full, which I imagine surprises you not at all."

"Ros Redwyne." Rhaella sounded delighted. "Still earning your living with your legs in the air at thirty-eight? Darling, even racehorses retire."

"Racehorses don't gross seven figures, love. And I'll have you know I make more in a quarter modelling lingerie and taking cock on camera than your entire family made selling wine the year I left. I checked. I had my accountant pull the Redwyne filings specifically so I could say that at dinner parties."

"Hahaha!" It came down the line full and unguarded, a laugh nobody on the sixty-first floor ever got. "Oh, I've missed you. You know just how dull the high society is. You should visit, darling."

"Don't tempt me." Ros dragged a thumb through the cum on her cheek and licked it clean, slow, watching Jon while she spoke to his grandmother. "We should do a premium video together, you and I. The disgraced heiress and the Targaryen matriarch. We'd make millions by Friday and give your Viserys an aneurysm by Saturday, which frankly doubles the value. I have a horse dildo in my prop cabinet with your name on it, love. Engraved. I was saving it for your birthday."

"Kiss my ass, darling."

"Can't. I'm rather busy eating your grandson's."

She dropped back down and made good on it, lips sealing over his hole, tongue driving in deep and unhurried while her nails bit into the backs of his thighs. Jon's hips jerked. His hand fisted in the silk.

"Nghh...gods..." He dragged a breath in through his nose and got his voice level, more or less, the Northern flat coming apart at the edges. "Rhaella. What do you need?"

Rhaella let the silence hold for exactly two beats. Jon could hear her breathing, slow and measured, the way she breathed before she spent money or made someone cry.

"I need you to go to Lys, darling. Bring her home."

Jon stared at the ceiling. Ros's tongue was doing something obscene and thorough, and the words landed on him like cold water poured through hot.

"You're asking me."

"I'm asking you. Nobody else can. She won't take my calls. She won't take Rhaegar's. She certainly won't take Viserys's, and after what I just watched him do in my boardroom, I wouldn't let him within a thousand miles of her. You're the only voice she'll hear, Jon. You know that."

"Aye." He swallowed. Ros's nails scored lines down his inner thighs and he had to breathe through it. "I know that. And I respected the family's decision. I told her we couldn't. I looked her in the eye and I said the words, and she went to Lys because I said them, and now you want me to walk into whatever bar she's drinking in and say what, exactly? Changed our minds?"

"Yes."

"It's not that simple."

"It's exactly that simple, darling, and the only complicated thing about it is you."

He pushed up on one elbow. Ros pulled back just enough to let him move, her chin slick, her eyes steady on his face. She could read a room through a wall, and right now she read this one and went still, her hand resting warm on his thigh, waiting.

"The family voted. Your husband cast the deciding vote. I'm not going to..."

"My husband." Rhaella's voice went quiet. Not soft. Quiet. "Aerys cast that vote eighteen months before he dropped dead in his study with a glass of Arbor gold in his hand and three mistresses in his will. That was his decision, Jon. His obsession with bloodlines and mergers and treating my daughter like a shipping contract. The old bastard is dead and buried and the worms are welcome to his opinions."

Jon said nothing. Ros looked up at him. Her thumb traced a slow circle on his thigh.

"If Daenerys wants you," Rhaella said, "and she does, darling, she's wanted you since she was old enough to know what wanting was. And if you want her. Which you do. Which everyone at my table knows, including the ones who pretend they don't."

"Rhaella..."

"Then you can have her. I'm telling you. As the head of this family and the woman who signs every cheque in it, I am telling you. Go to Lys. Bring my girl home. Marry her if she'll have you, and I suspect she will once she's finished throwing a drink in your face. And then the two of you can give me a nursery full of beautiful great-grandbabies with those ridiculous cheekbones, and I will die a happy woman."

Something moved across his face. Ros watched it, the crack in the Northern mask, the way his jaw worked once before he locked it down.

"You already have them," he said. Low. Almost too quiet for the phone.

The line went still. Then Rhaella laughed, a single sharp breath.

"The three beautiful bastards you fucked into Catelyn Stark? Yes, darling. I'm aware."

Jon's hand tightened on the sheets. Ros's eyebrows went up, slow, appreciative, the look of a woman watching a card she'd suspected get flipped face-up.

"Lovely children, every one of them. That Catelyn has good hips, I'll give her that. The woman breeds like a Reach mare. Three pregnancies, three healthy babies, no fuss, carried them all to term and stood in the sept looking like butter wouldn't melt. She earned my respect, if not my approval. Your uncle is a sweet fool and those babies have your mouth and your mother's blood and Ned Stark doesn't see what he puts on the table every morning."

Jon's throat worked. No sound came out.

"Your seed, darling." Rhaella said it plainly, the way she said everything. "Stark blood and Targaryen blood. Your grandfather, for all his sins, was right about one thing. The combination is potent. Three for three, and Catelyn isn't a young woman. Whatever you're putting in her, it takes."

Ros lifted her head, chin dripping. She dragged her tongue flat across her lower lip and grinned at him, wicked and fond.

"She's not wrong, love. If it wasn't for plan B, you'd have put one in me six months ago. That night after the gala? The second round?" She shook her head. "I felt that load for two days. Took the pill in the car park at four in the morning in my heels and no knickers, and I still wasn't sure it'd be enough."

She kissed the inside of his thigh, one slow press of her open mouth against the muscle, then dropped back down. Her tongue found his hole again and pressed in deep, unhurried, the flat of it dragging wet and filthy while she hummed against him.

Jon's head fell back. "Ros...Jesus..."

The shower door opened.

Steam rolled out in a thin cloud, carrying lavender soap and clean heat, and Catelyn stepped through it in a towel knotted at her chest. Her auburn hair hung dark and wet to her waist, heavy with water, and she worked a brush through it with long careful strokes, the way she'd done every night for forty years. The towel covered her from collarbone to mid-thigh, and every square inch of what it hid was visible in the way the damp cotton clung. The swell of her tits pushed the fabric forward. The width of her hips pulled it sideways. Water beaded at her throat and ran in a single line down into the shadow between her tits, and she didn't adjust a thing.

She paused in the doorway. Tilted her head. The phone on the pillow, the tinny presence of Rhaella's breath in the room.

"Is that Rhaella on the line?"

"Catelyn." Rhaella's voice warmed three degrees. "The whore of Winterfell herself. Are you hoping for another baby from my grandson, or have you come to return the three you've already stolen?"

Catelyn set the brush down on the vanity. She met Jon's eyes and held them while she answered, and her voice was the same warm, unhurried river it always was, the voice that read aloud to children, the voice that balanced books to the penny, the voice that begged him in locked rooms.

"Your grandson fucked me and Ros for the better part of three hours before you called, Rhaella. I lost count somewhere after the second time he finished inside me." She crossed to the bed, bare feet silent on the carpet. "So yes. I'm hoping. Twins this time, gods willing. Ned's away until Thursday and I've still got Jon's cum in me from before my shower, and I plan to have more before midnight."

"Hahaha! Gods, woman. You're shameless."

"I'm a Tully. We're patient, not modest."

She stood at the edge of the bed. Jon looked up at her. Ros pulled off his hole with a wet sound and turned her head to watch, chin glistening, and her pale green eyes tracked what came next with professional and personal interest.

Catelyn unknotted the towel. It fell.

Her body was everything the towel had promised and the modest skirts spent their lives containing. Full heavy tits hung with their own warm weight, the nipples dark and stiff from the shower's heat. Wide hips. Thick thighs still flushed pink from the water. The soft curve of her belly carried faint silver stretch marks low, three sets of them, and she'd told Jon once on her knees that every line was his signature on her. The neat triangle of auburn between her thighs was darker wet, and a slow thread of white, his, from earlier, traced the inside of her left thigh.

She climbed onto the bed. Ros shifted to give her room without being asked, an arrangement they'd negotiated somewhere in the last year with the efficiency of two women who'd stopped pretending they were competing. Catelyn settled between his thighs, her damp hair falling across his stomach. Her hand wrapped his cock. He was still hard, thick and pulsing, slick with Ros's spit and the mess of the evening.

"Oh, sweetling." She breathed it against the head. "You're still throbbing."

She kissed the tip. Then she opened her mouth and took him in, slow, her lips stretching around the shaft, and the wet seal of her mouth was loud in the quiet room. She didn't tease. She sucked hard and deep, her cheeks hollowing, her blue eyes closing as she worked down him with the unhurried patience of a woman who'd learned this cock over seven years and knew every vein by touch.

"Mmmmph." The sound vibrated through him.

"Oh, is that Catelyn getting to work?" Rhaella's voice came dry and fond through the speaker. "I can hear her from here, darling. Terrible manners. Wonderful enthusiasm. She takes after her mother-in-law, and I don't mean that as a compliment to the Starks."

Catelyn pulled off just long enough to speak, her lips brushing the head, a string of spit connecting them.

"Tell your grandmother I said thank you for the genes, Jon. Whatever she and Lyanna put in this family's blood, it keeps."

She swallowed him again. Deeper this time, her throat working, and the sound was obscene and slick and filled the room.

"Well, darling?" Rhaella's voice carried down the line, patient as a banker. "I've made my case. Do you agree? Will you go and fetch her?"

Jon opened his mouth. Catelyn chose that moment to take him to the root, her nose pressing into the dark hair at his base, her throat fluttering around the head, and Ros's tongue drove back into his asshole at the same time.

"Nnghh...fuck..."

"I'll take that as deliberation."

"He's deliberating very hard," Ros said, lifting her mouth just long enough. "I can feel it against my tongue."

"Jon." Rhaella again, and now her voice shifted, dropped, went smooth and slow as cream poured over the back of a spoon. "Darling. Must I come up there and convince you personally?"

He grunted. Catelyn's hand worked the base of his shaft where her mouth couldn't reach, slow twisting strokes, and his hips had started moving on their own.

"Because I could, you know. I've been told I'm very persuasive in person." A pause, and he could hear the smile in it. "I know about the photographs, darling."

Jon went still. Even with two mouths on him, he went still.

"Mm. There it is." Rhaella laughed, low and unhurried. "My modelling years. The lingerie campaigns from the seventies, and the nude editorial I did in Lys when I was twenty-three, the one Aerys tried to buy every copy of. You had them, darling. A whole folder of them, hidden in your room like contraband. I found them when you moved out."

"Rhaella..." His voice came out wrecked.

"Absolutely covered, darling. Layer on layer, dried stiff, months of it. Years, possibly. You wore my photographs out, you filthy boy." Her voice sank lower still, a purr against his ear from sixty floors and half a city away. "And the nude one. The Lyseni one. That one was still fresh when I found it. Still warm, I'd wager, you must have finished on it that very morning before the movers came. A great thick rope of it, right across my tits."

Jon's breath punched out of him. "Christ..."

"Do you know what I did, darling?" A beat. "I licked it clean. Every drop. Stood in your empty bedroom in my Chanel and licked my grandson's cum off my own twenty-three-year-old tits, and it was the best thing I'd tasted in a decade."

"Ohh...fuck...fuck..." The groan tore up out of his chest. His hand fisted in Catelyn's wet hair.

Ros's eyes went bright. She hooked his thighs higher and pushed her tongue deeper into his hole, fucking it in with slow filthy strokes, humming against him.

Catelyn pulled off his cock with a gasp, spit stringing from her lips, and aimed her voice at the phone while her fist kept pumping him, fast now, slick and tight.

"Keep talking, Rhaella. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. He's swelling in my hand, he's close, he's about to blow."

"Is he?" Pure delight. "Then listen to me, Jon, my darling boy. Forget the photographs. I could simply come over. Tonight, if you like. I'd let you have the real thing. Let you bend your grandmother over and pound my pussy the way you pounded that picture all those years, give me one of those hot thick loads Catelyn brags about." Her voice dropped to almost nothing, silk and smoke. "And who knows, darling. Targaryen-Stark seed in a Targaryen womb. You might just leave a baby in me. Imagine Viserys's face. Imagine handing him a baby brother and telling him his own nephew fucked it into his mother..."

"RAAAGH!" The roar came up from somewhere below his lungs, raw and Northern. His back arched off the bed. His balls drew up tight against Ros's chin and his cock jerked hard in Catelyn's grip.

Catelyn dove down. She sealed her mouth over the head and sucked as the first spurt hit, thick and heavy, the fourth load of the night and still a flood, rope after rope pumping across her tongue. She didn't swallow. She held it, cheeks slowly filling, her blue eyes rolling up to watch his face come apart while her hand milked the shaft and the wet sounds of it filled the room.

"Nngh...take it...take it..." His voice was gravel. "All of it...aye...good...good girl..."

Ros pulled her face out from under him, dragged the back of her hand across her shining chin, and sat up on her heels to watch with a connoisseur's eye.

"God, look at her. Four rounds deep and he's still giving her a mouthful. The man's a utility, Rhaella, they should pipe him into homes."

"I can hear it from here," Rhaella said warmly. "Wonderful. Just wonderful."

Catelyn worked him through the last pulses, suckling soft at the head, then drew off him with one long final suck and a kiss pressed to the tip. She knelt up, cheeks heavy, lips pressed together, and looked at Ros.

Then she opened her mouth.

A pool of thick cum sat on her tongue, yellowish-white and heavy, strings of it webbing her teeth, and she tilted her head and showed it to the room like a communion offering. Water from her wet hair ran down between her tits. The silver star at her throat caught the lamplight.

"Oh, you darling," Ros breathed.

Ros leaned in. Catelyn met her halfway and their mouths sealed together, open and slow, and they kissed deep and filthy, tongues pushing the load back and forth between them, a wet obscene sound, cum smearing both their chins. Ros moaned into it. Catelyn's hand came up and cradled the back of Ros's head, gentle as anything, maternal even now.

They broke apart. Each woman tipped her head back. Two loud, deliberate swallows, one after the other.

Gulp.

"Mmm." Ros licked her lips clean, slow, and sighed like a woman finishing a vintage. "Cum and ass musk. My favourite flavour pairing in the world, love, and I've eaten at every starred restaurant in the capital. His cock came straight off my tongue work and you can taste it underneath. Earthy. Honest."

"Mm-hm." Catelyn dabbed at the corner of her mouth with one finger and sucked it clean, prim as a woman testing frosting. "I agree completely. The gods are good." She caught the smear on her chin too, and that finger went into her mouth as well. "Waste not."

"You two are degenerates," Jon managed. He lay flattened into the wrecked silk, chest heaving, one arm thrown over his eyes, his softening cock lying heavy and spent against his thigh.

"Says the man who came roaring at the thought of his grandmother," Ros said sweetly.

"Jon?" Rhaella's voice, light and expectant. "Darling? Are you still with us?"

He dragged the arm off his face. He breathed, in and out, twice, and stared at the ceiling.

"Aye." Another breath. "Aye. I'll go. I'll get her. I'll bring Dany home."

"Oh, darling." And the warmth that came down the line then was the real thing, no performance in it at all, the voice of a woman getting her daughter back. "Thank you. Thank you, Jon. You're the best of this whole ridiculous family and I've said so for years. I'll have the jet fuelled by morning. Flight plan to Lys, the good crew, the one that doesn't gossip."

"Don't thank me yet. She'll throw a drink at me first."

"She'll throw two. Catch the second one, it'll be the expensive one." Papers shuffled faintly on her end, the sound of a woman already in motion. "I'll send the details to your phone within the hour. Passport, the villa address, the name of the bar she's been disgracing. Everything."

"Fine."

"And Jon." Her voice dropped again. Down into that purr, soft as fur, just for him. "Since you're being such a good boy about all this. I'll send you something else with the details. I had a little shoot done last month, darling. Private photographer, very discreet. New pictures. Me, in some Lyseni lingerie I bought specifically because it's barely lingerie at all." A pause, perfectly weighted. "Something for the flight. So you don't forget what's waiting in the family if Lys doesn't work out."

"Hnngh." The groan came out of him before he could stop it, helpless, his spent cock twitching visibly against his thigh.

Ros saw it. Her whole face lit up.

"Oh my god, look at it. He's done four rounds and it's still trying to stand for grandma. Love, that's not arousal, that's breeding instinct, that's a medical condition."

"It moved," Catelyn said, mock-wondering, trailing one fingertip up the underside of his shaft and watching it jump. "Rhaella, sweetling, you should hear what your voice does to him. I've known this cock seven years and I've never seen it answer the phone before."

"Stop it," Jon said. "Both of you."

"Send the pictures to me as well, Rhaella," Ros said, leaning over him toward the phone, her heavy tits swaying against his chest. "Professional courtesy. I'll tell you honestly if the photographer earned his rate, and then I'll watch your grandson destroy them the traditional way."

"Behave, the lot of you," Rhaella said, laughing. "Goodnight, darlings. Jon. Bring my girl home."

Lys hit Jon at the jet door like a warm wet hand. Salt air, jasmine, frying garlic from the harbour stalls, and under all of it the sweet oiled smell of a city that had sold pleasure for two thousand years and kept immaculate books on it.

He came down the steps in a dark sweater and work boots, the most overdressed and underdressed man on the tarmac at once, and the ground crew watched him pass with open professional appraisal. A woman in airport livery, silver-gold hair braided down to her hips, tracked him from the fuel truck and said something to her colleague that made them both laugh, low and friendly.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out walking.

[14:02] Rhaella: Landed safely, darling? The villa address is in the folder I sent. The bar is called The Weeping Lady. Ask for the terrace.

[14:02] Rhaella: The other folder is also there. For later. Don't open it walking through arrivals, you'll frighten the customs officers. 😘

[14:03] Jon: Landed. Not opening anything. Working.

[14:03] Rhaella: Good boy.

He shoved the phone away with his ears hot and walked into the terminal.

The old stories said the Lyseni were the last pure blood of the fallen Valyrian empire, the freehold that had broken itself against the Roman legions a thousand years before either side's gods went quiet, and walking the arrivals hall Jon believed every word. Silver-gold hair, copper hair, black, honey-blonde, and not a plain face among them. The customs officer who stamped his passport had violet eyes and a uniform shirt fighting a losing war across her chest, the buttons straining in a neat diagonal line, and she smiled at him like she'd already read his file and approved of it.

"Business or pleasure, ser?"

"Family."

"Mm." The stamp came down. "In Lys, that is usually both."

He didn't bother arguing. The city had a reputation and wore it without shame, courtesans on billboards the way other cities put up bankers, and the truth he'd learned on two prior visits was that the reputation undersold the place. The courtesan houses ran schools, clinics, pension funds. Half the politicians in the Free Cities had Lyseni mothers and were better for it. People came here to buy an evening and left married. It wasn't a city of vice. It was a city that had stopped lying about what people wanted, which made it the single worst place on the planet to retrieve a heartbroken Targaryen.

Outside, the heat lay on the boulevard like a blanket, and every second person walking past it looked carved. He counted abs through linen shirts and gave up at a dozen. A jogger went by in a sports bra doing heroic work, and the man selling oranges beside the taxi rank applauded her without irony, and she blew him a kiss without breaking stride.

A driver stood at the rank holding a tablet that read STARK in red letters. Sixty if he was a day, brown as old leather, a white moustache waxed to points, a loose cream shirt open three buttons down a chest that still had definition under the grey hair. He saw Jon and his whole face folded into a grin.

"Ser Stark! Yes-yes, here, here. Ormo. The Targaryen office books me always, twenty years, yes-yes, I drive the family whenever they come to disgrace themselves." He took Jon's bag out of his hand before Jon could object and swung it into the boot of a black Mercedes older than Jon and polished like a coffin. "In, in. The seats are leather and the air conditioning is the finest argument for civilisation you will hear today."

Jon got in. The car smelled of orange peel and pipe tobacco. Ormo dropped behind the wheel, pulled into traffic with terrifying confidence, and met Jon's eyes in the mirror.

"So. You are here for the small loud one."

"Daenerys."

"Yes-yes. The whole hill knows her. Four months she has been here and the bar owners light candles for her in the temples, I am not joking, ser, I have seen it. A candle. With her name on it. Saint Daenerys of the bar tab." He swung around a scooter carrying three people and a dog. "You will bring her home?"

"That's the plan." Jon watched the harbour slide past, white sails and gold water. "Have you seen her? Recently. Today."

"Ah." Ormo's moustache drooped a degree. "No. And this I will tell you honestly because the family pays me for honesty and also very well. Three days, maybe four, nobody has seen her. Not at the Weeping Lady, not at the bathhouse on Perfume Street, not at the casino where she made the manager cry. Some say she went to the islands. Some say she is in a courtesan house drinking her way through the staff. With that one, both could be true on the same afternoon, yes-yes?"

"Aye." Jon rubbed his jaw. Four months of headlines and now silence, and silence from Dany was the only thing that ever actually worried him. Loud meant alive. "Nobody. You're sure."

"I am sure of nothing in this city except the tide and my wife's temper, ser." Ormo held up one finger off the wheel. "But. This morning, my cousin Loreza, she works the desk at the Naathiri hotel on the high terrace, the white one, very beautiful, very expensive, the towels alone cost more than my car. This morning Loreza sees the Naathiri girl herself. The diplomat's daughter. The curly hair, the gold jewelry, the walk like she owns the floor and is deciding whether to keep it."

Jon sat forward. "Missandei."

"Yes-yes, that one! Missandei Naathiri. Checked in two days ago under the family name, took the whole top floor, paid cash for the staff's silence, which Loreza tells me about anyway because she is my cousin and silence has exceptions." Ormo grinned at him in the mirror, all teeth and triumph. "And here is the thinking, ser, and you do not need to be a maester for it. Where the quiet one goes, the loud one is. Always. Twenty years I drive this family. The Naathiri girl does not come to Lys for the architecture."

"No," Jon said. "She doesn't."

"So. Your aunt is on that hill, or near it, or the quiet one is sitting in that hotel waiting for someone to come ask her where. Either way." Ormo shrugged with his whole body, the car drifting a lane and back. "You find Missandei, you find Daenerys. This is known. This is physics."

Jon looked out at the city climbing its hills in white and gold, terraced gardens and bell towers, somewhere in it a silver head he'd flown across the world to argue with and a calm brown-eyed fixer who had probably already booked the room the argument would happen in.

"The Naathiri hotel, then."

"Yes-yes." Ormo swung the wheel and the Mercedes climbed toward the terraces. "I will drive slow past the fountain district, ser, you should see it once before the shouting starts. And ser, free advice, old man to young one." He caught Jon's eye in the mirror, suddenly serious under the waxed moustache. "When you find her. Whatever she throws first, you let it hit you. Lyseni wisdom. A woman only throws things at a man she is still deciding to keep."

Jon almost smiled. "Her grandmother said to catch the second one."

"Hah! A wise house." Ormo slapped the wheel. "Yes-yes. Catch the second one. The second one is always the expensive one."

The lobby of the Naathiri hotel was white marble and moving air, ceiling fans turning slow overhead, and it smelled of lemon oil and cold stone. The girl at the desk had Ormo's nose and a name tag that read LOREZA, and she took Jon's passport with both hands like it was made of sugar.

"Ser Stark. We have you in the terrace suite, fourth floor." Her eyes flicked up. "Compliments of the top floor. The instruction came down an hour ago."

"Course it did."

"She said, and I quote exactly because she made me write it down, put him somewhere with a good shower and tell him the pool is to the left."

Jon took the key card. "Anything else in the quote?"

"She said you would ask that." Loreza consulted a sticky note with visible enjoyment. "Tell him no."

The pool was to the left.

It sat on a terrace cut into the hillside, blue tile and white loungers, the whole of Lys spread out below it in gold and haze. Two loungers were occupied by sleeping tourists. The third, in the best corner, in the only patch of shade worth having, held Missandei.

She lay on her front with a paperback face-down beside her hip, and the bikini was a crime in progress. Deep green, two triangles and some string, and the string was losing. The bottoms had surrendered entirely, fabric swallowed between her asscheeks so the full soft weight of her ass sat out in the sun, oiled and gleaming. The top's knot strained at her spine. When she pushed up on her elbows at the sound of his boots, her tits swung forward into the cups and the cups gave up about forty percent of the job, dark cleavage pressing out over green fabric gone taut as a drumhead.

She looked at him over her sunglasses. Gold hoops. The butterfly pendant at her throat. The smell of shea and vanilla and warm oil carried to him on the breeze.

"Well." She let the word sit there. "The architecture of the North, come south for the winter."

"Missandei."

"Jon Stark." She lowered the sunglasses fully and gave him the slow vertical survey, boots to hair, unhurried as an auction house appraisal. "You're wearing a sweater. In Lys. In summer. I want you to know that I find that genuinely erotic, the sheer stubbornness of it."

"It's a thin sweater."

"It's a wool statement." She rolled onto her side, propped her head on her hand, and the movement did appalling things to the top. One cup slid a half-inch. She didn't fix it. "Four years since the Braavos gala, and you arrive at my pool unannounced looking like a search and rescue operation. Sit. You're blocking my sun, which I'll allow, because the view improved."

He took the edge of the next lounger. "You knew I was coming. You comped my room."

"Loreza called me the moment a tall grim handsome Northerner showed his passport. I'd already paid for the floor, the room was nothing." She reached for a sweating glass of something pale on the side table and drank, watching him over the rim. "You look good, Jon. Indecently good. It's rude to age like that at other people."

"You're one to talk. That swimsuit's filing for hazard pay."

"Mm." She glanced down at herself with zero embarrassment. "It fit when I bought it. Then I spent four months eating my feelings about your family alongside Dany, and now it negotiates. You should see the cream one. The cream one has stopped negotiating entirely."

"Careful. Country like this, dressed like that, you'll go home pregnant."

It came out of him dry and flat, the Northern deadpan, and Missandei's eyebrows went up by a full paragraph. Then she laughed, low and real, head tipping back.

"Hah! There he is. Everyone tells me you don't flirt, and I keep telling them, no, he flirts like a tax audit, you simply have to listen." She set the glass down and looked at him, and the amusement in her eyes warmed into something more deliberate. "Forgive me, but...if it were you doing it, I don't think I'd mind."

The breeze moved the water. Jon held her gaze a second longer than was safe, then he chuckled, shook his head, and looked out at the harbour.

"Heh. Aye. Noted."

"Filed?"

"Filed."

"Good." She rolled onto her back, laced her fingers over her stomach, and the top resumed its losing war from a new angle. "Now ask me the question you flew here to ask, so we can be disappointed together."

"Where's Dany?"

"I don't know."

Jon turned his head slowly and looked at her. The flat grey stare, the one that made site foremen recheck their numbers.

"Missandei."

"I'm aware of how it sounds." She didn't move. "You think I have her in a drawer upstairs, labelled. I usually would. Jon, I'm telling you the truth. She vanishes in the mornings. Every morning. Gone before the staff bring coffee, phone off, no driver, no card activity, and I check the card activity, it's how I've tracked her since school. Then somewhere around ten at night I get a text, one line, the name of whatever pleasure house or club has caught her eye, and I go, and she's there, lit up like a festival, and we drink until four and she tells me nothing." She exhaled at the sky. "Eleven days of it now. I came down here to manage her and I've been reduced to a nightlife appointment."

"That's not like her."

"No. Loud, I can manage. Reckless, I have a whole system for. Private is new, and I'll confess it's making my eye twitch."

Jon was quiet a moment. Then, careful, level: "Is she seeing anyone? Sleeping with anyone." He raised a hand before she could answer. "Not judging. Four months. She's a grown woman and I'm the one who told her no. I just want to know the terrain."

Missandei turned her head on the lounger and smirked at him, slow and feline.

"The terrain. Listen to you." She pushed her sunglasses up into her curls. "One incident worth reporting. A Westerosi boy, some fraternity creature from the Iron Islands, family money, Harlaw or Hoare or one of those drowned names. Saw the silver hair and the jewelry at the Velvet Door and decided she was a courtesan on offer. Put his hand on her ass and quoted her a price."

Jon's jaw set. "And?"

"And he is currently in a Lyseni holding cell with his arm broken in two places, waiting for extradition paperwork that I have personally ensured will take a very long time." She examined her nails. "The bouncers didn't touch him, for the record. She did it herself with a champagne bottle and the bar applauded. The club framed the bottle. It's on the wall. She signed it."

"Heh." It escaped him before he could stop it. "Aye. That's her."

"That's her. So no, Jon, she isn't sleeping with anyone, she's breaking the arms of anyone who suggests it, which I'd encourage you to interpret at your leisure on the flight home." She sat up, unhurried, and the top performed a small miracle of engineering by holding. "She'll text me tonight. She always does. You'll come with me, and we'll see if she throws the first drink or the second."

"Her grandmother says catch the second one." Jon stood, rolled the stiffness of the flight out of his shoulders. "I'll go up. Rest. Wait for the text."

"Sensible." Missandei looked up at him from the lounger, and her voice came out even and measured and completely matter-of-fact. "Would you like a sloppy blowjob first? For the jet lag. I'm told I'm exceptional, and you have the look of a man carrying four months of someone else's family tension in his balls."

Jon stopped. Laughed, a real one, short and surprised out of him.

"Hah. Christ. Dany would actually disown you. Ten years of friendship, gone, over a blowjob."

"Mm. Probably." She retrieved her paperback, entirely serene. "Then I'll wait and share. Lys has been very educational on the subject." She opened the book to her page and didn't look up. "You're a terrible cocktease, Jon Stark. The room is to the right of the lift. Go away."

The text came at nine exactly, while Missandei stood at the lobby mirror fixing an earring and Jon watched the ceiling fans turn.

Her phone buzzed on the marble desk. She read it and turned the screen toward him.

[21:00] Dany 🐉: the silk veil. red lantern district, the alley behind the fish fountain. wear something fun

[21:00] Dany 🐉: tell the bartender ur with me. the one with the eyebrow. not the other one, the other one is dead to me

"Eleven days," Missandei said, pocketing the phone. "Eleven days and I could set a clock by her. Come. We're taking my car, I refuse to put this dress in a taxi."

The car waited under the porte cochère, low and dark blue and growling at idle, the silver wolf's head badge catching the lantern light on its nose.

Jon stopped dead. "That's a Blue Wolf."

"It is."

"That's our Blue Wolf. Stark Automotive. The new line. They're not even on the road yet, the launch is in March."

"Mm." Missandei walked around to the driver's side, heels clicking on the stone. "Your mum and I have an arrangement. I solve a hotel problem for her in White Harbor, she sends me interesting things early. This one arrived by ship last month with a bow on it and a note that said break it in properly." She opened the door. "I'm doing my best."

Jon ran a hand along the rear quarter panel, the paint deep as water, and got in. The interior smelled of new leather and her oils, shea and vanilla over hide.

Then he actually looked at her, and his jaw tightened.

The dress was gold, what there was of it. It hung from two thin straps and gave up entirely by mid-thigh, the silk so fine it moved when she breathed, and it had been cut by someone with strong opinions about her tits and no opinions at all about a bra. When she reached for the gearstick the neckline swung open to her sternum and stayed there.

"Is that..." He looked back at the road that wasn't moving yet. "Is that appropriate? For where we're going."

Missandei pulled out of the drive and laughed, low.

"Jon. Sweet Northern Jon." She took the corner onto the boulevard one-handed. "Do you know what the lady three villas down from my hotel does every night in summer? She sleeps on her roof. Naked. On purpose. Her neighbours wave. Half this city makes love on their terraces with the doors open, loud as festival drums, and when they're enjoying themselves particularly, they lean over the railing and call down to the street. You there. The tall one. Come up, the water's warm. Men, women, couples, it's considered hospitable. There's a word for it that doesn't translate. The closest is sharing the evening."

"You're making that up."

"I have personally been called up to three rooftops in four months. I went to one." She changed gears, and the dress did something he refused to track in his peripheral vision. "By Lyseni standards, this dress is conservative. The doorman will assume I'm a diplomat's wife or in mourning."

"Aye. Mourning." He looked out the window. "For the rest of the fabric."

"Hah!"

The boulevards gave way to older streets, the buildings leaning closer, lanterns strung between balconies. Music thumped from somewhere below the pavement. She turned down an alley barely wider than the car, and the headlights swept across walls crowded with neon, pink and violet and a red so saturated it stained the cobbles.

Jon read the signs as they crawled past. SEX TAPED HERE, TONIGHT, YOU KEEP THE COPY. LIVE COUPLES, REAL, NO ACTORS. And above a narrow green door, in cheerful buzzing yellow capitals, FREE SEX, with an arrow pointing down at the door handle.

"Missandei."

"Mm?"

"This is the way to a club, is it. Truly. Down a murder alley past a sign offering home video services."

She slotted the car into a space that didn't exist until she made it exist, and killed the engine.

"The clubs you can see, Jon, the ones on the harbour front with the queues and the photographers? Those are for diplomats. Rich kids. Billionaires' sons buying bottles to impress girls who are paid to be impressed. The drinks are watered, the music is two years old, and the courtesans working those floors are the trainees." She got out, and he followed her into the warm noise of the alley, frying garlic and perfume and bass coming through the stones underfoot. "The real clubs, the rowdy ones, the ones with the best drinks in the Free Cities and courtesans so skilled there are waiting lists, those are down alleys like this one. The Silk Veil doesn't advertise. It doesn't need to. Dany found it in week two, which honestly is slower than I expected of her."

Jon stopped under the yellow sign. He pointed at it.

"And that? The free sex door. Next to the club. Separate door. What's that, a joke for tourists?"

"Oh, those are real, actually."

He stared at her.

"They're real." She said it the way she said room rates. "Volunteer houses. People who simply like it and can't be bothered with the social part. You walk in, you register at the desk, health card, preferences, and you're matched within the hour. No money changes hands, the temples subsidise the buildings. It's considered a public good, like libraries." She started toward the club door. "My younger brother met his fiancée in one."

"He what?"

"Marselen. Two years ago. Walked into one of those doors on a dare from his university friends, terrified, twenty-three years old, and got matched with a Dornish-Lyseni woman fifteen years older than him." Missandei's voice went warm and dry at once, family fondness fighting family exasperation. "And I want to be fair to him, because I've met her many times now. The face of a model. I mean that literally, she modelled in Sunspear in her twenties, I've seen the magazines. A body that simply will not quit, hips like a harbour, and tits, his words at the family dinner table, tits a man could bury himself in and be mourned as lost at sea. My mother put down her fork. My father asked for the woman's number for, quote, diplomatic reasons, and slept on the terrace for a week."

"Hah!"

"They went back to that same room four nights running. Then he took her to breakfast, which apparently is the scandalous part by local custom, and now they're engaged, and she is currently pregnant with their fourth." She held up four fingers. "Four, Jon. In two years. Twins in the middle. And at the engagement party she patted her belly and told my grandmother, to her face, I'm not done, the Naathiri stock is too good to stop at four. My grandmother has never recovered. She lights candles for the woman now. Actual candles."

Jon was laughing properly by the time they reached the door, head back, the sound rolling off the alley walls, and the doorman, a slab of a Lyseni with silver hair and a tailor's smile, looked up at the noise.

"Christ. Free door, four kids. Your brother walked in on a dare and came out with a dynasty."

"He came out with a mortgage, the dynasty followed." Missandei nodded to the doorman, said something liquid in Lyseni Valyrian, and the slab stepped aside with a bow. Heat and bass and the smell of citrus and sweat rolled out of the opening door. "She's a lovely woman. Terrifying. My mother adores her now, which is its own diplomatic incident."

"Aye, well." Jon ducked under the lintel after her, still grinning, the music swallowing his voice as they stepped through. "Remind me not to take any dares tonight."

"No promises, darling. We're in Lys."

The Silk Veil opened up past a velvet curtain into a long sunken room of warm brass and red lacquer, and the first thing Jon noticed was that he could hear himself think. The music came up through the floor, deep and loose-hipped, loud enough to dance to and quiet enough to talk over, which struck him as a feat of engineering on par with anything his branch shipped.

The second thing he noticed was everyone else.

The dance floor heaved with Lyseni bodies, silver and copper and honey-gold heads catching the lantern light, and there did not appear to be a slim person in the building. Hips everywhere. A woman in a backless white dress rolled her ass against her partner in a slow, lazy figure eight, and the ass in question moved with the weight and bounce of a thing with its own postcode. Across the floor a shirtless man drummed on the bar top, broad-chested, and three women in harness tops danced in front of him, heavy tits bouncing in counterpoint to the bass.

"I swear there is something in the water." Missandei put her mouth near his ear to be heard, and her breath smelled of mint and the gin she hadn't ordered yet. "Four months, Jon. Four months in this city and I have not seen a single lithe Lyseni. Not one. No willowy girls, no slim boys. It's tits and ass to the horizon, every direction, every venue. I have watched grandmothers cross the fish market with figures that would shame the most skilled Westerosi pornstar."

"Aye." Jon kept his eyes moving, the old discipline, never letting them settle. "Starting to see why the tourism numbers don't dip in winter."

"There is no winter. There's just slightly cooler tits."

"Pfft."

"I'm serious. I asked a doctor about it at a dinner party. She said, and I quote, two thousand years of selective enthusiasm. Then she winked at me and put her hand on my thigh, which I believe was the citation."

The bar ran the length of the far wall, brass and dark wood, bottles glowing on backlit shelves. Two bartenders worked it. One was a young man with a shaved head; the other was older, silver hair tied back, and a single eyebrow split by a scar that lifted when Missandei approached, like he'd been expecting them since lunch.

"You're the eyebrow," Missandei said.

"I am the eyebrow." His Common was accented and amused, and his hands never stopped moving, citrus peel curling off a knife in one long ribbon. The smell of cut orange cut through the perfume and sweat. "Which makes you the friend. She described you. Curls, gold, terrifying, will check the receipts."

"Accurate on all counts. We're with Daenerys."

"Yes-yes. And the big one?" The scarred brow climbed as he took Jon in, the sweater, the boots, the shoulders. He set down the knife. "Ahh. Ahh. You're the wolf."

"The what?"

"The wolf. The one in the north. The one she toasts at the end of the night when she thinks nobody is listening." He picked up a glass and polished it, entirely unrepentant. "Everybody is listening, ser. It's a bar. Listening is the floor plan."

Jon's jaw did something complicated. "Where is she?"

The bartender pointed with the glass, past the floor, to the far corner where the lanterns burned reddest.

"There. Where she always is. Where the music is best and the sightlines are worst. Good luck, wolf. Catch the second one."

"Why does everyone say that?"

"It's Lys, ser. We invented the second one."

Jon turned, and the crowd shifted, and he saw her.

Dany danced in the corner with her eyes half closed, alone in a ring of space the floor had granted her the way floors did. Sharp heels, black and expensive, the kind she could dance in until four and had. A diamond choker sat tight at her throat and a longer necklace swung loose below it, stones the size of thumbnails throwing red lantern light in splinters, a few million gold dragons of the family catalogue worn to a basement club down a murder alley. Gold bracelets stacked both wrists and chimed when she moved. Her silver-blonde hair was twisted up in a claw clip crusted with diamonds and sapphires, loose strands stuck to her neck with sweat.

The dress was a rumour. A micro harness of black straps that crossed her chest and barely managed the front of her tits, the heavy swell of them shifting against the bands with every roll of her hips, nipples a bass-drop away from freedom. No back at all. Below, the straps converged into a strip of fabric that had given up on her ass entirely; both cheeks were out, full and round and bouncing to the beat, the dragon tattoo on her hip in plain view of the room. Her lips were painted dark red and parted, and she moved like the music was being played at her personally.

Jon stopped walking. His mouth had gone dry somewhere around the choker.

"Breathe," Missandei said beside him, delighted. "In through the nose."

Dany turned with the beat, hips first, and her eyes opened and found Missandei, and her whole face lit.

"There she is! Darling, you will not believe the night I've..."

She saw Jon.

The sentence died. The dancing died. For one full bar of music she stood absolutely still in the red light, lips parted, violet eyes going wide and then dark, and Jon got as far as opening his mouth.

"Dany, I..."

She hit him at a run.

Two strides and she launched, heels and diamonds and all, and his arms came up on pure reflex as her legs locked around his waist and her arms wound his neck and her mouth crashed into his. The kiss had no preamble. It was deep and open and four months long, her tongue against his, her fingers fisting in his hair, the diamond necklace crushed cold between her chest and his sweater. She made a sound into his mouth, low and cracked, half moan and half grievance.

"Mmmh...mmh..."

The floor around them erupted. Glasses went up, a whistle split the air, somebody shouted something in Lyseni Valyrian that made the nearest dancers howl, and the whole corner of the club toasted them and then, being Lys, simply went back to dancing, because two beautiful people devouring each other was Tuesday.

Jon's hands found her thighs and held her up without thinking, bare warm skin under his palms, and for three long seconds he kissed her back exactly the way he'd spent four months not doing. Then she broke off, gasping, forehead pressed to his, dark red lipstick smeared across both their mouths.

"You bastard," she breathed.

"Aye."

"You absolute...you flew here. You're here. In my club. In a sweater." She pulled back far enough to look at him, legs still locked around his waist, and her eyes were too bright and her voice came out younger than she'd allow anywhere else. "Say something Northern and stupid so I know it's really you."

"You're getting lipstick on my collar."

"Hah!" It tore out of her, half laugh and half sob, and she kissed him again, short and fierce. "It's you. God. It's you."

At the bar, Missandei watched the whole production with her chin propped on her hand. She shook her head slowly, laughing into her knuckles.

"Eleven days of detective work," she said to the bartender. "Eleven days. He's been in the city six hours."

"The wolf has advantages." The scarred eyebrow lifted. "What can I get you while they remember they're in public?"

"They won't remember. Something cold. Tall, gin, whatever citrus you just murdered, and make it strong enough that I stop counting how high her dress has ridden up." Missandei slid onto a stool, gold silk pooling, and didn't take her eyes off the corner where Dany still hung off Jon like jewelry. "Actually, make two. She'll throw the first one at him eventually. It's tradition."

"Yes-yes." The bartender reached for the gin. "The second one's on the house."

They got a booth in the corner, and the booth got Jon, and Jon got Dany.

She refused the seat beside him. She refused the seat opposite. She climbed onto his lap the moment he sat down, knees bracketing his thighs, ass settling onto him with deliberate weight, and buried her face in his neck like she planned to live there.

"Dany. There's a whole bench."

"Mm-mm." Her lips moved against his throat. The diamond choker pressed cold under his jaw while her mouth worked warm above his collar, slow open kisses, the tip of her tongue tracing where his pulse hammered. "The bench doesn't smell like cedar. Shut up."

Missandei slid into the seat opposite with her gin and the spare, arranging the gold silk of her dress with the serenity of a woman who'd chaperoned worse. "For the record, this is restrained. You should have seen Braavos."

"Mmmh." Dany's hips shifted. Jon's hand clamped on her waist, holding her still, which did exactly nothing.

"Dany." He cleared his throat. "I came for a reason."

"You came because you missed me."

"That too. Rhaella sent me." He felt her go still against his neck, the kisses stopping mid-press. "She's calling you home. The family wants you back. She wants you back."

A long pause. Then her face burrowed deeper into the join of his neck and shoulder, and her teeth found him.

"Ow. Did you just..."

"I don't want to go." She said it into his skin, muffled and mutinous, and nibbled again, sharper, a slow drag of teeth that was half punishment and half something else entirely. Her bracelets chimed as her arms tightened around him.

"Hah." The laugh moved through his chest and she felt it and bit him a third time for it. "You have to. You know you have to. The division's bleeding, your mother's running out of patience, and Viserys is doing arithmetic about you at the table."

"Viserys can drown."

"Your brot…..dad slapped him. Open hand. In the boardroom, in front of everyone, for talking about you like a line item."

That got her head up. Her eyes were wide and delighted, lipstick wrecked, strands of silver hair escaping the diamond clip. "He didn't."

"He did. Rhaenys nearly applauded."

"Gods." She pressed her forehead to his. "I missed one good board meeting in thirty years and it's because I was here drinking." Then the mutiny came back into her face and she dropped her head to his shoulder again. "Still not going."

"Dany." Missandei set her glass down with a soft click on the lacquered table. The citrus came off it sharp over the club's perfume. "Darling. You can't stay in Lys forever. I say this with love and four months of receipts. Rhaella has been patient, but the woman signs every cheque in the family, and patience has a renewal date. She could cut the cards. The allowance. The jet. The villa goes first, it's on the corporate account."

"Let her." Dany lifted her head, chin coming up, and the diamonds at her throat flashed red in the lantern light. "Let her cut everything. You know what I'd do?"

"Cry into very expensive wine?"

"I'd become a courtesan." She said it loud enough that a passing waitress smiled at her with professional approval. "I'm in the right city for it. I'd be spectacular at it. Best body on the continent, a face that sells jewelry to billionaires, and I already know how to make rich men miserable, I'd simply add a fee structure." Her hand slid up Jon's chest, fingers spreading over his sweater. "Except I'd spread my legs only for the ones I wanted. Very exclusive. A waiting list of one."

She turned on his lap, slow, until she was facing him fully, and her voice dropped into the low register, the one that made people lean in.

"Would you like that, Jon? Hm?" Her hips rolled once, deliberate, grinding down on the hard line of him through his trousers, and her breath caught on what she found there. "Fucking your aunt for coin. Making me your whore. Your personal whore, bought and kept." Her lips brushed his ear. "You could pay me in babies. I'd waive every other fee. Put one in me and call it a tip."

Jon gulped. The sound was audible. Across the table Missandei raised her gin to hide her mouth and failed completely.

"Dany." His voice came out rough, gravel under the Northern flat. He took a breath and rebuilt it. "Rhaella said. Before I flew out. She said she didn't mind if...ehhm." His ears went hot. "If you...dated me."

Dany went absolutely still on his lap.

Her eyes widened, violet and enormous, fixed on his face like she was checking it for forgery. "She what? Say it again. Slowly. In Common."

"She said the family decision died with Aerys. She said if you want me, and I want you, then..." He pushed a hand through his hair. "Then we can. Date. Or."

"Or?"

"Or wouldn't mind if you married me. She said marry. She used the word marry."

Dany's eyes shone. Wet and bright and dangerous, the polish gone entirely, and her hands fisted in his sweater like she was deciding whether to shake him or never let go.

Missandei leaned back, lifted three fingers, and began folding them down one at a time. "Three. Two."

"Or," Jon said, ears burning, "fucked..."

"BARTENDER!" Dany's arm shot up over the booth, bracelets ringing like an alarm, and her voice carried across the floor with full Targaryen boardroom projection. "The eyebrow! Yes, you! The key! The best room you have, the good one, the one with the big bed and the soundproofing that doesn't work!"

The scarred bartender was already reaching under the bar, unhurried, like he'd had it polished since sunset. "The Red Room, Lady Daenerys?"

"The Red Room!" She stood up off Jon's lap, hauled him up by the sweater with both hands, and announced it to the entire club like a quarterly result. "I am taking my nephew upstairs and I am fucking him until he puts a baby in me! Four months overdue! Family business! Nobody disturb us unless the building is on fire, and even then, knock first!"

The floor went up like a festival. Glasses raised, whistles, a roar of approval rolling through the dancers, and somebody shouted a Lyseni blessing that made the waitresses laugh and echo it. An old man at the bar stood and applauded with his whole arms. The bartender slid the key across the brass, a heavy thing on a red silk tassel, and bowed over it like he was conferring a title.

"Third floor, end of the hall. The wine in the room is included. The headboard is reinforced. We learned."

"Perfect man. Perfect city." Dany snatched the key, grabbed Jon's hand, and dragged all six feet of him toward the stairs through a corridor of cheering Lyseni, her bare ass bouncing with every furious stride, the dragon tattoo flashing under the red lanterns. Jon went, laughing, helpless, his free hand raised in something between a wave and a surrender.

"Dany...the drinks, I haven't even..."

"You'll drink after. Hydration is for survivors!"

They vanished up the stairwell. A heartbeat later her voice floated back down over the music, already breathless. "And take the sweater off, it's Lys..."

Missandei sat alone in the booth with two gins and the wreckage of the evening's agenda. She picked up the spare glass, considered it, and started laughing into it, shoulders shaking, the giggle escaping her finishing-school posture in bright helpless bursts.

"Hahaha...oh dear."

The bartender appeared and wiped the table where Dany's bracelets had scratched it, entirely content.

"That was Lys, alright," Missandei said, and toasted the empty stairs.

"Yes-yes." He took the first glass away. "It usually is."

The Red Room earned its name. Red lacquer walls, red silk on a bed the size of a small barge, lanterns burning low behind red glass, and the music from below coming up through the floor as a heartbeat. The air smelled of beeswax and orange oil and faintly of every couple who'd ever rented the key.

Dany had his sweater off before the door finished locking. The dress went next, what there was of it, the black straps peeled down and kicked across the room, and then she was on the bed and on him in nothing at all except the heels and the diamonds, the choker tight at her throat and the long necklace swinging cold against his bare chest as she straddled him and kissed him like a hostile takeover.

"Mmh...four months..." She bit his lower lip and dragged it. "Four months, Jon."

"Aye." His hands ran up her thighs, over the full warm curve of her ass, and she shivered the whole length of her spine. "I know."

"Do you know what today is?" She pulled back just far enough to look at him, lipstick destroyed, silver hair coming loose from the diamond clip strand by strand. Her voice dropped into the purr, the boardroom register turned all the way down. "Today is the day you fuck me. No noble speech. No Dany, we can't. No leaving me wet and furious in a coat room in Braavos." She rolled her hips against the hard ridge of him through his trousers, slow and mean. "Today you fuck your aunt, darling. Properly. Repeatedly. Until neither of us can spell our own surnames, which, conveniently, is the same surname when you're not calling yourself stark."

"Ngh." His head pressed back into the silk. "You're a temptress. You know that. You've always known that."

"I'm a Targaryen. Temptation is the family product line." She kissed down his jaw, his throat, her tits dragging heavy and soft against his chest, nipples stiff points against his skin. "And you should know, before you get any credit for flying here. I had a plan. If you hadn't come."

"Course you did."

"A good one." Her mouth moved against his collarbone between words. "I was going to wait. Another month, maybe two, long enough that the family relaxed. Then I was going to fly home quietly, no press, and I was going to put on the sluttiest dress I own. And I own some criminal dresses, Jon, things the spring line rejected for being too honest. The red one. Backless, frontless, hipless."

"The one you were wearing was already slutty."

"Exactly. Worse than that." She lifted her head and her violet eyes glittered. "And I was going to show up at your door in the North, in the snow, in that dress and nothing else, and when you opened the door I wasn't going to say a single word. I was going to push you onto the nearest flat surface and ride you until you put a baby in me. However long it took. Hours. Days. I'd have brought snacks." Her hips ground down again, deliberate. "And once I was pregnant, properly, undeniably, family-scandal pregnant, we'd marry. Fast. Some little sept or registry, Missandei as witness, and then we run. Yi Ti, darling. The far side of the world. They have a Targaryen trade office in Yin nobody's visited in twenty years, beaches like powdered gold, and absolutely no extradition treaty for runaway heiresses. We'd be untouchable. Rich, married, breeding, and gone."

Jon laughed, low, his hands flexing on her ass. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

"You'd miss the company inside a month. The launches. Terrorising the board. You wouldn't."

She went still. Her eyes met his, level and violet and not laughing at all, and the silence stretched until he heard the bass through the floor and his own pulse over it.

He gulped.

Dany leaned down, slow, and kissed him. Deep and unhurried, her tongue sliding against his, the long necklace pooling cold on his chest between them, and when she finally broke it her lips stayed against his mouth.

"I am very serious, Jon Stark." Quiet. Younger than she ever sounded in public, blunt as a child. "The plane was shortlisted. Missandei doesn't know, which means it was real, because she knows everything that isn't. I'd have burned all of it for you. The house, the brand, the name." She kissed him again, soft. "Still would. Try me sometime."

"Gods, Dany."

"Mm. But you came." She smiled against his mouth, and the wickedness flooded back into it like a tide. "So we'll do it in the right order instead. Baby first, wedding second, Yi Ti optional." She sat up on him, reached back, and her hands found his belt. "Which brings us to the agenda."

"There's an agenda."

"There's always an agenda, darling, I run a two-billion division." The belt came free with a hiss of leather. She popped the button, dragged the zip, and worked his trousers down his hips with the focus of a woman unwrapping a quarterly bonus. "Item one. Item one is the thing I've been hearing about for two years from sources I will never reveal under any torture. Item one had better live up to its...."

The trousers cleared his cock and it sprang free, slapping up against his stomach, and Dany stopped talking.

Her eyes went wide. Genuinely wide, the assessing amusement wiped clean off her face, and for a moment she just stared at it, ten inches of thick veined cock lying hard and heavy against his abs, the head fat and flushed, a clear bead of pre-cum already welling at the slit and rolling down. Beneath it his balls sat full and round and aching, drawn tight, four months of nothing and a transcontinental flight behind them.

"Oh," she said. Small. Reverent.

"Dany..."

"Shut up. Shut up, I'm having a religious experience." She yanked the trousers the rest of the way off his legs and threw them somewhere behind her, heels and all still on, and crawled back up between his thighs to look at it from close range. Her breath touched the wet head and his whole cock throbbed, visibly, bouncing once against his stomach, and another thick bead leaked out and ran.

"Gods." She wrapped her hand around the shaft and her fingers didn't meet. "Gods. Look at it. It's leaking for me, it's...Jon, it's throbbing in my hand..." Her voice cracked between fury and awe. "Two years of secondhand reports and they undersold it. I am surrounded by liars and cowards."

"Hahh..." His hips twitched up into her grip. "Dany..."

"No, I'm angry now. I'm aroused and angry, it's my best state." She stroked him once, root to head, slow, smearing the pre-cum down the shaft with her palm, and watched his balls tense. "I curse the gods. All seven, plus whatever they worship in this city, the friendly ones. And I curse Aerys specifically, that dead obsessive old bastard, rotting in his study with his Arbor gold and his bloodline spreadsheets. This is what his vote kept out of my cunt for years. This. I could have been sitting on this since Braavos. I could have had three of your babies by now, Catelyn-numbers, and instead I've been breaking arms in nightclubs like an animal."

"You know about..."

"Darling, everyone knows about Catelyn except her husband, we'll fight about it later, it's item four." She kissed the leaking head, open-mouthed, and the groan that pulled out of him made the necklace shiver against her tits. Her hand slid down to cup his balls, weighing them, full and heavy in her palm. "Poor things. Four months. Aching and full and wasted on tissues and Northern cunts"

She looked up the length of him, violet eyes dark, lipstick smeared, diamonds at her throat throwing red lantern light.

"Don't worry, darling. I'm going to take care of you now. All of it. Every drop you've been hoarding." Her lips brushed the head as she spoke. "Auntie's got you."

Dany sank her mouth over the head and sucked, slow and tight, and when she pulled off a perfect ring of dark red lipstick sat printed below the crown like a brand.

"Look at that." She tilted the shaft toward the lantern light, admiring her own work. "Marked. That's mine now, darling. I should have it notarised."

"You're insane."

"I'm thorough." She kissed the tip, open-mouthed, then sucked it again, harder, cheeks hollowing, and left a second ring an inch below the first. "There. A ruler. I'm going to measure you in lipstick, Jon, all ten inches, and then I'm going to ruin the markings with my throat."

"Hahh...gods..."

She worked down him in stages, sucking, printing, her fist following her mouth, and the wet sounds of it filled the red room over the bass coming up through the floor. Spit ran down the shaft and over her knuckles. She moaned around him like the cock was doing her a favour, low greedy sounds vibrating up his spine, and when she pulled off at the halfway mark she pressed her cheek against it, the whole hot length of it lying across her face from chin to hairline.

"Do you see this?" Her voice came out wrecked and delighted. "It's bigger than my face. The most beautiful cock on two continents and it spent four months in the North being wasted." She turned her head and dragged a long lick up the underside, root to tip, flat-tongued. "Never again. You hear me, gorgeous? Auntie's keeping you."

"Are you talking to me or to it?"

"To it. You can listen." She kissed the head, tender as a vow. "Mine. Say it."

"Yours." It came out of him rough, no fight in it at all.

"Mmm. Good." She slid back down and took him deep, deeper, her throat fluttering around the crown, eyes watering, and held there for three long seconds before pulling off with a gasp and a thick string of spit. "God. Okay. Okay, item two."

She moved lower. Her mouth found his balls and she nuzzled into them, breathing deep, and the moan that came out of her was obscene.

"Four months, you can smell it. Musk and cedar and..." She licked up the seam of his sack, slow. "You're too full, darling. These poor things are swollen with it, they're heavy, that can't be comfortable. Carrying all that thick cum around like luggage." She kissed one, then the other, lips lingering. "Don't worry. I'm going to have you empty by morning. Drained. Sated. Every load you've got in here is going in my cunt, my belly, or my ass, and I'll let you pick the order on exactly one of them."

"Christ, Dany..."

"I'm being generous. This is me delegating."

She opened her mouth and sucked one heavy ball inside, whole, rolling it on her tongue, tasting it, humming around it. Jon's hands fisted in the red silk and his hips lifted off the bed.

"Nghh...fuck..."

She pulled back slow, stretching the sack, lips dragging, and let it go.

Pop.

The second ball got the same worship, sucked in deep, tongued, savoured, her violet eyes on his face the whole time, watching him come apart. She drew off it with another wet pop and a pull that made him grunt, then cupped both in her palm and pressed her lips to the sack, whispering against the skin like a prayer over an altar.

"Listen to me, you two. You've got work tonight. Brew auntie a nice thick load. The thickest one. The four-month one, the one with my name on it." She kissed each ball deep, open-mouthed, her tongue laving the skin. "I want it so thick it stays where he puts it. I want to feel it tomorrow on the plane. Do that for me and I'll keep you drained and happy for the rest of your natural lives. It's a good contract. Catelyn will give you a reference."

"You're negotiating with my balls."

"I negotiate with everyone, darling, and they're more reasonable than the board." One last kiss, lingering. "We have a deal. I can feel it. They tightened."

"That's not what...nghh..."

She was already moving. She crawled up his body, diamonds swinging, and rose onto her feet on the mattress, heels and all, planting them either side of his hips. She stood over him for a moment in nothing at all, jewels at her throat, the dragon tattoo on her hip catching red light, and looked down the length of him like a conqueror surveying terrain.

"Look at you." Her voice had gone low and dark. "Twelve years I've wanted this exact view."

Then she squatted.

She came down slow, knees spreading, one hand braced on his chest and the other reaching back to grip his cock and aim it, and when the fat head touched her pussy they both felt how wet she was. Soaked. Dripping. Her arousal had run down her inner thighs and the first press of him through it made a sound, slick and filthy.

"Oh." Her breath shook. "Oh, that's...you feel that? That's four months, darling, that's all yours..."

She notched the head against her hole and sank.

The crown stretched her open and her whole body bowed, head falling back, a long broken moan climbing out of her throat as inch after thick inch split her wide.

"Ahhh...AH...gods...it's...Jon..."

"Easy...easy, Dany, take your..."

"No."

She slammed down.

Her ass hit his thighs with a wet crack and the scream tore out of her, raw and enormous, straight up at the lacquered ceiling, loud enough that somewhere below the bass seemed to falter and recover.

"AAAHHHN! FUCK...! Oh FUCK, it's in...it's ALL...I can feel it in my stomach...!"

"Dany...fuck...you're tight, you're..."

"YEARS, darling...nnngh...of course I'm...oh god...oh god it's throbbing, I can feel your heartbeat in my cunt..."

She held there a moment, impaled, trembling, her thighs shaking in the heels, the diamond choker rising and falling hard at her throat. Then she planted both hands flat on his chest, set her jaw, and began to ride.

She bounced hard from the first stroke. No warm-up, no mercy, lifting until only the head held her open and slamming back down to the root, and her fat ass clapped against his thighs on every drop, a wet rhythmic smack-smack-smack that filled the room and probably the hallway. Her tits bounced heavy and out of time with it. The long necklace whipped and chimed. Strands of silver hair tore loose from the diamond clip and stuck to her sweat-shining face, and she rode through it all with her eyes rolled back and her mouth running.

"Yes...YES...like that...gods, you're stretching me, you're...AH...I'm going to feel you for a week..."

"Dany..." His hands found her hips, gripped, and he thrust up to meet her drop. The slap of it cracked off the walls.

"AHHN! Do that...do that AGAIN...!"

He did. Again, and again, driving up into her as she came down, and her pace went ragged and frantic, the clapping of her ass losing its rhythm and finding a faster one. The wet sounds of her pussy around him got louder, sloppier, her arousal running down his shaft and pooling on his balls.

"Jon...Jon, I'm...oh god, already, I'm...it's too good, it's...say my name...say it like you mean it...!"

"Dany." Rough. Northern. The dam going.

"AGAIN!"

"Dany."

"I'm...I'M CUMMING...I'm cumming on your cock, I'm.....AAAHHHN.....!"

She broke over him, screaming, her cunt clamping down in rolling spasms, and she kept bouncing straight through it, hips slamming, riding her own orgasm like it owed her money, the diamonds at her throat flashing red with every drop.

She was still shaking through the aftershocks when Jon sat up under her, one arm banding her lower back, and caught a bouncing tit in his mouth.

"AH...! Oh...oh, darling..."

He sucked hard, the stiff nipple dragged between his lips, her heavy tit filling his mouth with sweat-salt and the ghost of her perfume, amber and smoke. She kept riding. She couldn't have stopped if the building flooded. Her hands flew up and fisted in his black curls and crushed him against her chest, her hips still working him in deep wet drops.

"Yes...suck them...they're yours, they've been yours for...nngh...years..."

He switched tits, mouthing across her sternum, the cold diamond necklace dragging over his cheek on the way, and latched onto the other nipple with a groan she felt in her cunt.

"Mmmh...greedy..." Her laugh came out broken, riding the bounce of her own body. "You want milk, darling? Hm? Is that what you're hunting for in there?"

He sucked harder in answer. Her head fell back.

"Then you'd...ah...you'd better get me knocked up if you want milk soon...nngh...that's the deal...you suck and you breed...a fucking and a meal, Jon, that's...that's the package..."

His teeth closed on her nipple and chewed, slow and deliberate, tugging the stiff bud until her whole tit stretched, and the sound that ripped out of her was nothing the boardroom had ever heard.

"AAHN! Oh GOD...do that...keep...keep doing that...!"

He growled around her flesh and bit again, worrying the nipple, his stubble scraping the soft underside of her tit, and she rode him faster, her ass clapping down on his thighs, bracelets ringing like alarm bells.

"I'll get them pierced," she gasped. The words tumbled out of her in pieces, frantic, sincere as a contract. "For you...I swear it...little gold rings...so you can pull...nngh...pull them while I ride you...and when the babies come...oh god...our babies can taste luxury with their meal, darling...gold and milk...Targaryen catering..."

"Christ, Dany." It came out muffled against her tit, rough, half a laugh and all hunger.

"I'm SERIOUS...I'll call the jeweller from the plane...AH...!"

He thrust up harder. His hips drove into her drop and met it mid-air, the smack of it cracking off the red lacquer, and then his hand left her waist and came down across her bouncing ass.

Slap.

"AHHN! Yes...!"

He did it again, the same cheek, harder, and the flesh shook under his palm and a pink handprint bloomed on it. She arched into the sting and her cunt clenched around him hard enough to make him grunt into her chest.

"More," she demanded, breathless, dragging his head up by the curls so she could look at him, violet eyes blown dark, lipstick destroyed, silver hair stuck to her face. "More, darling. Don't be polite now. Fuck me. Punish your naughty aunt...I've earned it...four months of arms broken and bar tabs and...nngh...punish me..."

Something shifted in his face. The Stark grey went flat and dark, the last of the careful man burning off, and she saw it happen and her whole body shivered.

"Oh," she breathed. "There he is."

Jon pulled out with a grunt, his cock leaving her with a wet obscene sound, and flipped her. She landed on hands and knees on the red silk, heels still on, jewels swinging, and before he could grab her hips she looked back at him over her shoulder with the wickedest smile on the continent.

"Wait. Watch first."

She arched her back, dropped her shoulders to the mattress, and twerked.

Her fat ass rolled and clapped, cheek against cheek, clap-clap-clap, slow and showy and shameless, the handprint flushing pink on one side, her soaked pussy flashing between her thighs with every bounce, wet and swollen and dripping onto the sheets. The dragon tattoo rippled on her hip. She watched him over her shoulder the entire time, watching him watch, and her voice came out low and filthy and delighted.

"You see this? This is what the magazines pay for and never get. This is what those Iron Islands idiots get their arms broken over." Her ass clapped again, deliberate, taunting. "And it's yours, darling. Bought and paid for in airfare. So come here..." She reached back and slapped her own cheek, hard, and watched it jiggle. "...and beat this pussy like it owes you money. Because it does. Four months of interest, compounding daily. Collect."

Jon moved.

He gripped her hips with both hands, lined up, and drove into her in one long brutal stroke that buried him to the root, his balls slapping up against her clit.

"AAHHN! FUCK...!"

"Aye." Low. Gravel. His hand cracked across her ass. Slap. The cheek shook and kept shaking. "Collecting."

He set a pace that had nothing kind in it. Deep, fast, merciless, his hips hammering into her ass with a relentless wet clap-clap-clap that swallowed the bass from below, and his hand came down again and again between strokes, alternating cheeks, until both were flushed red and jiggling with every impact and her whole ass quivered like struck water.

"YES...yes yes YES...like that...oh god...oh GOD, Jon...harder...you won't break me, I'm a...NNGH...I'm a dragon, you can't..."

Slap.

"AHH! Okay...okay maybe...maybe a LITTLE...don't stop...!"

"You ran." His voice came out of him in pieces between thrusts, rough and Northern and finally saying it. "Four months. You ran across the world...and made me chase you..."

"Wo...worked though...didn't it...AH...!"

"Aye." He grabbed a fistful of her hair, the diamond clip surrendering at last and clattering to the floor, silver hair spilling loose down her back, and he pulled her head up and fucked her harder. "It worked."

The headboard had found the wall now and was keeping time. Her arms gave out and she dropped to her elbows, face half in the silk, drool and lipstick smearing the red, and her words came apart entirely.

"It's...you're so DEEP...I can't...darling I can't...think...words...I had...nngh...I run a COMPANY...!"

"Not tonight."

"NOT...AHH...not tonight...oh god...oh god something's...Jon...JON, something's coming, it's...it feels different, it's...I'm gonna...I think I'm gonna...!"

"Then do it." He drove into her harder, faster, his hand cracking down on her ass one final time. "Let go, Dany. All of it. Now."

"I'M...AAHHHN...I'M CUMMING...I'M...OH GOD...OH GOD I'M.....!"

She broke.

Her whole body seized, back bowing, and she squirted hard around his cock, a hot gush that sprayed his thighs and soaked the red silk beneath them in a spreading dark stain, her cunt clamping and fluttering in violent waves while she screamed into the mattress, wordless and enormous, fingers tearing at the sheets.

"AAAAHHN...! It's...I'm...I CAN'T...it won't STOP...!"

He fucked her through it, slower now, deep grinding strokes that pulled fresh spasms out of her, fresh spurts wetting the bed, and she shook and gushed and sobbed his name into the silk until the wave finally let her down.

"Jon...Jon...oh my god..." She lay trembling, ass still up, thighs soaked and quivering, her voice wrecked down to a rasp. "I squirted...I've never...not like...look what you did to the bed..."

He looked at the dark soaked sprawl of it, his cock still buried in her, throbbing, nowhere near done.

"Aye." Flat. Dark. Pleased. "Reinforced headboard. They learned. So will you."

Jon pulled out of her with a slick wet sound, and before she'd finished groaning at the loss he had her on her back, both hands behind her knees, folding her legs up and wide until her soaked pussy tilted open to the lantern light.

"Wha...darling, what are you..."

He dove down and feasted.

His mouth sealed over her cunt and his tongue dragged through her, broad and hot, lapping up her own mess and the slick he'd fucked out of her, and Dany's spine left the mattress.

"OH...! Oh you...ohh..." Her hands flew to his hair and fisted. "That's...gods, that's...you're too good at this, nobody's allowed to be...where did you...."

He hummed against her and licked deeper. Her heels, still on, kicked once at the air.

"Catelyn," she gasped, accusing the ceiling. "It was Catelyn...seven years of...nngh...practice on that pious cow...I should...oh...I should thank her..."

"Should you." His voice buzzed against her clit.

"After." Dany's head rolled on the wrecked silk, silver hair everywhere, her words coming out between hitches of breath. "After I fuck her with a horse-shaped dildo for having your babies before me. Three, Jon. Three. She queue-jumped me by an entire...AH...an entire litter..."

Jon lifted his face an inch, chin shining with her, grey eyes dark and amused. "Jealous."

"Vindictive and petty, darling, they're different line items..." Her grip in his hair dragged him back down and he went, tongue sliding into her hole, and her sentence dissolved into a moan. "Mmmh...I'll have it studded...gold studs, freshwater pearls down the shaft, bespoke, I own a jewelry house, it'll be...nngh...tasteful...and I'll bend that sweet sept-going whore over her own immaculate ledgers and fuck her with it until she squirts and pisses herself on the quarterly accounts...and then we'll be even..."

"Christ, Dany."

"She'll thank me, she's exactly the type...AHHN...!"

His tongue had gone deeper, curling, working into her with slow filthy patience, and the threat collapsed into mewling. Her thighs trembled against his ears. Her bracelets rang where her hands tore at his hair.

"Jon...Jon, listen...I'm negotiating...I'll drain your cock every morning, I swear it...before coffee...before the markets open...on my knees, every single morning of your life, if you just...if you'll just....."

His lips closed over her clit and sucked.

"AAAHHHN....!"

She broke all at once. Her back arched off the bed and she squirted hard against his mouth and chin, a hot gushing spray that soaked his stubble and ran down to join the ruin of the sheets, her cunt pulsing under his tongue while she screamed straight up at the red lacquer ceiling.

"JAEHOSSI VALYRIO....! Issa....ISSA....kostilus....KOSTILUS....!"

The old tongue tore out of her without permission, gods dead two thousand years summoned to a rented bed in Lys, and Jon worked her through it, suckling soft, until her hands found his face and hauled him up her body by the jaw.

She kissed him hard, open-mouthed, tasting herself all over his lips and chin, moaning into it, licking her own squirt off his stubble like it was something her house had vintaged.

"You," she said against his mouth, wrecked, eyes glassy. "You. I'm keeping you. It's decided. It's minuted."

"Noted."

"Don't be dry with me now, I just spoke a dead language..."

He sat back on his heels, caught her, and turned her. Before she could ask, his arms slid under her knees from behind, hooking her legs up and out, his hands locking behind her neck, and he lifted her bodily off the bed into a full nelson, her back against his chest, folded open and helpless, her soaked pussy spread wide over the thick head of his cock with her toes pointing at opposite walls.

"Oh." Her breath went thin. "Oh. This is...darling, this is a crime in four nations..."

"Ready?"

"Mm. I don't know." Even pinned, even dripping onto his cock, she found the bored-rich-girl drawl from somewhere and draped it on. "Convince me. Pitch it. What's the projected return on...."

He thrust up.

The full length of him drove into her in one stroke, her own weight sinking her down to meet it, and the scream that came out of her shook the lanterns.

"AAAHHHN....! JAEHOSSI....! Oh f....FUCK....!"

There was nowhere for her to go. His hands locked behind her neck, her legs hooked high over his forearms, and he fucked up into her from below, hard and relentless, her whole body bouncing on his cock with every brutal stroke, ass clapping down against his thighs, tits bouncing wild, the diamond choker the only thing on her holding its position.

"Jon....JON....it's....you're....I can't....I can't MOVE....!"

"That's the point."

"It's....nngh....SO DEEP....Iksā ñuhon....iksā ÑUHON....!" The Valyrian spilled out of her broken and ragged, syllables shaking apart on every thrust. "Kostilus....lykirī....DAOR, daor lykirī....kostōba....KOSTŌBA....!"

Jon's mouth found her ear, his breath rough, his pace never breaking. The wet clap-clap-clap of her ass on his thighs ran under every word.

"Listen to you." He drove up harder and she wailed. "Aunt Rhaenyra wouldn't believe what's coming out of that mouth. Her polished little board-meeting niece, screaming the old tongue, bouncing on her nephew's cock..."

"Rhaenyra...." Dany's laugh came out shattered, three pieces of it between moans. "Darling....I'd invite her....I'd call her right now....come feel it yourself, auntie....come put a hand on my belly and feel his cock from the OUTSIDE....she'd approve, she'd....AH....she'd take notes, that woman had her own nephew before it was....nngh....before it was FASHIONABLE, we're a LEGACY brand....!"

"Hah."

"Don't LAUGH while you're....it moves DIFFERENTLY when you....AAHN....!"

He adjusted his grip, tilted her hips a degree, and his next thrust drove the fat head of his cock square against her cervix.

The sound she made wasn't language in any tongue. A wail ripped out of her, raw and climbing, her whole body going rigid in the cage of his arms.

"AAAAHHHN....! THERE....you're AGAINST it....you're knocking on the....oh god....oh god oh god....I'm....JON....!"

"Aye. Go on."

"I'M....I'M CUMMING....I'M....*ISSA....ISSA....NYKE....*AAAAHHHN....!"

She came apart on his cock, screaming, her cunt clamping down in violent rolling waves, her legs shaking so hard in his arms that her heels rattled against each other, toes curling, the long necklace whipping against her bouncing tits. He held her through it, still buried to the root, grinding slow against her cervix while the spasms wrung her out, and she sobbed and shook and dripped down his balls onto the soaked silk.

"Oh....oh my god...." Her head lolled back against his shoulder, boneless, sweat-slick, silver hair plastered across both their faces. Her voice came out in a ruined rasp, and even ruined it found its way back to the drawl, draped over him like a medal. "Good boy....good boy, darling....look at you....fucking your aunt like that....fucking her so good she forgot Common existed...."

Her hand groped blindly up and back and patted his cheek, clumsy and adoring.

"Best....nephew....on the continent. I'm putting it....in the annual report...."

He turned his head and caught her mouth.

The kiss came slow after all the violence, deep and unhurried, his arms still caging her, his cock still buried and throbbing inside her while the aftershocks rolled through. She whimpered into it. He kissed her until the whimpers softened, until the trembling in her thighs ran down to a shiver, until her heels stopped knocking together and hung still over his forearms.

He lowered her to the wrecked silk, gentle as setting down glassware, and slid out of her with a slick sound that made them both groan. She lay sprawled in the soaked sheets, diamonds askew, chest heaving, and looked up at him through wet lashes.

"Stars," she said.

"What?"

"I saw stars, darling. Actual constellations. Behind my eyes, mid-orgasm, a full Lyseni night sky." She lifted one limp hand and traced a shape in the air. "There was a dragon in it. Possibly a wolf. I was busy."

"You're delirious."

"I'm appraised. Different thing entirely." She caught his wrist and tugged him down beside her, curling into his chest, sweat-slick skin on skin. Her laugh came out low and broken. "God. Can you imagine my brother walking in right now? Rhaegar. The door opens, and there's his bastard son, balls deep in his baby sister, fucking the actual brains out of her in a rented sex club bed."

"He'd slap me."

"He'd slap Viserys, on principle, for being slappable. Then he'd close the door and bill the family therapist." She giggled into his collarbone, helpless. "He'd say something noble and devastated. Jon. Daenerys. We will speak of this at the appropriate time. And then he'd go home and tell Elia and Elia would laugh for an hour."

"Aye, she would."

"Or." Dany propped her chin on his chest, violet eyes glinting through the wreckage of her makeup. "Or Elia would join in. Don't make that face, darling, I know that woman. Dornish to the marrow. Twenty-five years of marriage and that body has needs Rhaegar's poetry doesn't cover. Have you seen her at the summer house? Burnt-orange bikini, hips like a cello, that ass at 39?" She bit his pectoral, light. "She needs a good fucking. A proper one. A Northern one. She'd take one look at what you just did to me and start unhooking things."

"Gods, Dany."

"I'm saying it as her loving niece-in-law. Family wellness." Her hand had drifted down between them while she talked, and it found him half hard and rising, and her whole face changed. "Oh. Oh, hello. Look who agrees with me about Elia."

"That's not about..."

"It twitched at her name, darling, I felt it. We'll workshop it later." She stroked him slowly, root to head, watching him thicken in her fist. "Right now I have a contract to enforce. Your balls and I have a deal."

He rolled her onto her back.

She went willingly, laughing, and then the laugh cut off because he grabbed her ankles, heels and all, and folded her. Knees driven up beside her ears, calves over his shoulders, her ass tilted off the bed and her soaked pussy aimed at the ceiling, pinned and bent and open with his full weight settling over her.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, you brilliant man."

"You said breed."

"I said breed." Her hands clawed at his shoulders, pulling him down, eyes huge and dark and dead serious under all the ruin. "So breed me, Jon. Right now. Like this. Put a baby in me, put twins in me, knock your aunt up so deep the test comes back before the flight lands. I want to be heavy with them. I want to waddle into the boardroom in eight months in couture maternity and watch Viserys have a stroke." She dragged his face an inch from hers. "Make me a mother, darling jon. That's the agenda. That's the whole agenda. Fill me."

He drove in to the root.

"AAAHHHN....!" Her scream went straight up into his face. Folded like this there was nowhere for the depth to go except into her, and every inch landed. "Oh GOD....it's....you're in my THROAT, you're....!"

"Take it."

"I'M TAKING IT....I'm....AH....AH....AH....!"

He fucked her without mercy. Full weight, full length, his hips pistoning down into the fold of her body, balls slapping heavy against her upturned ass, and the bed had given up complaining and simply moved with them, the headboard counting strokes against the wall. Her heels bounced in the air over his shoulders. Her voice came apart on every impact.

"Yes....YES....right there, you're hitting....you're HITTING it....don't stop....don't you DARE....nngh....harder....HARDER, I can take....AAHN....!"

"You'll take all of it." His voice came out of his chest, gravel and breath. "Every drop. Four months, Dany. You're getting four months."

"GIVE it to me....give me....oh god....oh god it's so DEEP....I can feel you in my....in my WOMB, darling, you're knocking on the....KNOCK....KEEP KNOCKING....!"

The fat head of his cock battered her cervix on every stroke now, blunt and relentless, and each hit punched a higher sound out of her, words shaking apart into syllables, syllables into wails.

"It's....I'm....JON....something's....OPENING....I can feel it OPENING....!"

"Aye." Through his teeth. "Almost."

"DO IT....breed me....BREED ME....put it IN me....I'm....I'M CUMMING....I'M....!"

He slammed down one final time, everything behind it, and her cervix yielded. The head of his cock pushed through and seated inside her womb itself, kissed and swallowed, locked, and Dany's scream cracked into pure sound.

"AAAAAAHHHN....!"

He came.

It tore out of him with a roar buried in her neck, and the first rope hit the inside of her womb directly, thick and scalding, then another, then another, days of hoarded load pumping out of him in heavy sluggish spurts, white sludge thick as cream, copious, endless, flooding the small space until she felt it, actually felt the heat spreading behind her navel, pooling where nothing had ever reached.

"Oh....oh my GOD....I feel it....I FEEL it, it's HOT....it's filling me....don't pull out....don't you EVER pull out....!"

"Not...moving..." His hips still ground, slow, milking himself into her. "Taking it all...aye...there's my girl..."

Her legs unhooked from his shoulders and wrapped his waist instead, ankles locking behind him, heels digging into his ass to pin him deep, and her hand came up and fisted in his sweat-damp curls and dragged his mouth down to hers. The kiss was long and slow and smug, and she hummed into it while his cock kept pulsing inside her.

"Mmm." She broke off just far enough to speak against his lips, wrecked voice gone warm and drawling. "There it is. The famous load. Catelyn wasn't exaggerating, the woman should write reviews." She squeezed him with her cunt and felt him jerk and spill another thick pulse, and grinned. "Still going. Darling. You're still going. My eggs don't stand a chance, they're being absolutely swarmed down there. It's a hostile takeover. They'll capitulate by morning, they're Targaryen, they respect aggression."

"You're insane," he breathed.

"I'm pregnant, probably. Different thing." She kissed the scar through his eyebrow, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, small drowsy presses, her body going soft and heavy under his. "Stay in. All night. Every twitch is mine, we agreed."

"Aye." His weight settled. His breathing slowed against her throat.

"Good boy." Her eyes were already closing, her fingers still loose in his hair, her legs still locked around him. "Best...nephew...on the..."

She was asleep before she finished it. He followed her down a minute later, face in her silver hair, his cock still buried through her cervix and pulsing the last thick spurts of cum into her womb in the dark.

The bed by the pool was Lyseni-built, wide as a barge and canopied in white gauze, and Missandei had cleared the entire terrace of guests with one phone call and a phrase that didn't translate. The afternoon smelled of chlorine, warm stone, and sex.

Jon lay flat on his back in the sun, naked, one arm behind his head, and Dany knelt over his lap working his cock with slow, loving devotion. Her silver hair was twisted up in a claw clip, the loose strands falling soft around a face striped with thick drying ropes of cum, two across her cheek, one through her eyebrow, a fat line down her chin. More of it painted her tits, pearly trails over both nipples. Between her thighs, a sluggish white thread of his last load leaked steadily out of her pussy onto the cushion.

Behind her, Missandei had her face buried in Dany's ass.

She knelt with her cheeks spread in both hands and her tongue working deep, unhurried, eyes closed, humming. Her curls hung heavy with cum, her face glazed with it, and her own cunt dripped a slow flow of what Jon had pounded into her an hour earlier, running down her inner thighs in the heat.

"Mmm." Dany pulled off the head with a wet sound, kissed it, and sank back down. The slurp of her mouth and the soft obscene noise of Missandei's tongue were the only sounds over the pool filter.

The phone, propped against the ice bucket on speaker, rang twice.

"Darlings." Rhaella's voice came out into the sunlight, dry as good sherry. "It's been a week. The board is asking. I'm asking. When are you coming home?"

Dany lifted her mouth off Jon's cock just far enough to answer, her fist still stroking him, slow and slick.

"When I'm good and pregnant, mother. Not a day before. I'm being thorough about it."

"Ngh." Jon's head came up off the cushion. "She's joking. We'll be back Monday. Next Monday."

"I'm half joking," Dany said, and licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft. "The bottom half is dead serious."

"Mm-hm." Rhaella sounded entirely unsurprised. "And what is that sound, may I ask? It's like someone eating a peach in a library."

"That's Missandei," Dany said sweetly. "She's eating my ass. She's been at it for twenty minutes, she's very dedicated, her family does hospitality."

"Of course she is. Well. Do give her my regards." A pause, and the smile came down the line plain as print. "And Jon, darling, a word of caution from an old woman. If you're not careful with where you've been putting things this week, you may find yourself standing in a Naathiri drawing room explaining to a career diplomat why you've knocked up his daughter."

Missandei lifted her face out of Dany's ass. Her chin was shining, her voice came out perfectly measured, finishing-school crisp under a glaze of cum.

"Forgive me, Rhaella, but you misjudge my father entirely. He wouldn't want an explanation." She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, unhurried. "He'd want a merger. Hotel group, entertainment division, cross-listed by the quarter. Then a high position for himself, something with Director in the title and no actual hours. And then he'd pour Jon a very old brandy and ask him, diplomatically, to do it again. My family has wanted into the Targaryen portfolio for two generations, and frankly a grandchild is cheaper than the lawyers."

"Hahaha!" The laugh came down the line full and real. "Oh, I like her. Keep her, both of you, that's an order." Papers shuffled faintly on Rhaella's end. "Now. The actual reason I called. Daenerys. The wedding. When do you want it? I need a date, darling, venues book and I'm not getting younger no matter what Elia says."

Dany looked up the length of Jon's body and raised one eyebrow.

"A year," Jon said.

The pool filter hummed. Dany said nothing at all.

She released his cock, slid down, hooked his thighs up with both hands, and sealed her mouth over his asshole.

"Hahh...Christ..." His back arched off the bed. Her tongue pushed in deep, slow and merciless, and his hands fisted in the cushions. "Dany...nngh...okay. Okay. Two months. Two months."

"That's my girl," Rhaella said warmly. "Negotiating with the assets. Go deeper, darling."

Dany went deeper.

Her tongue drove in and her hand wrapped his cock at the same time, massaging the shaft in long rolling squeezes, and Jon's whole body bowed, his cock throbbing visibly in her fist, a fat bead of pre-cum welling out and running over her knuckles.

"NGH...gods...fuck...a month and a half. A month and a half, then..."

"Better," said Rhaella. "Keep going, I want six weeks confirmed in writing."

Dany hummed against his hole, filthy and pleased, and her thumb slid up and circled the leaking tip, slow firm strokes right over the slit, milking him while her tongue worked.

"Dany...Dany, I'm...wait, I'm gonna...I'M..."

He came hard.

The first rope went up his own stomach, thick and heavy, and Dany was already moving, mouth off his ass and onto his cock in one fluid motion, sealing her lips over the head and sucking down the rest as it pumped, spurt after spurt, her cheeks working, her eyes rolling up to watch his face break apart. She swallowed twice, loud, and held the last mouthful.

"Is that what I think it is?" Rhaella asked the air. "It is, isn't it. I can hear it."

Dany sat up, cheeks full, and crooked a finger at Missandei. Missandei crawled up beside her without a word, and Dany took her face in both hands and kissed her, open and deep, pushing the warm load between them while Jon lay wrecked and watching, chest heaving, his softening cock twitching against his stomach at the sight. The two of them traded it back and forth, slow and obscene, cum smearing both chins, and then swallowed in turn.

Gulp.

"Mm." Missandei licked her lips and settled back on her heels, composed as a press release. "Thick today. He's eating better."

"It's the Lyseni diet," Dany said, wiping her chin with one finger and sucking it clean. "Fish, citrus, and me."

"Six weeks, then." Rhaella's pen scratched audibly, brisk and final. "Confirmed under duress, witnessed by a Naathiri, which makes it diplomatically binding. Lovely. I'll start writing the invitations tonight, darlings, the good cardstock, the one Viserys says is a waste of money, which is how I know it's right." A pause, and her voice went warm, the real warmth, just for a second. "Bring my girl home Monday, Jon. Both my girls. All three of you, honestly, I've stopped keeping track."

"Aye," Jon managed, from flat on his back. "Monday."

"Good boy. Kisses, darlings."

The line clicked dead.