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got fic: faithless
Title: faithless
Pairing: Aegon/Sansa, Jon/Sansa
Rating: R
Words:
Summary: She wonders if her aunt had forgotten her duty this easily, if Lyanna had been swept away by girlish dreams and the dark curl of violet eyes.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jal80 and Your Cheatin' Heart - a love affair ficathon. The prompt was Aegon/Sansa, Jon/Sansa - She was once Jon's sister; he is now Jon's brother. Somehow, this feels like betraying both those bonds. Originally posted here.
faithless
"Marry me," Aegon murmurs, his mouth sliding over the curve of her neck, his hands clutching at the heavy spill of her skirts, twisting as he pushes her back against the wall. His words do not surprise her, for it's no secret that his marriage to Daenerys is a political fiction, that the queen herself has asked him to take a second wife, one who can bear the new Targaryen dynasty an heir, but they send a delicious shock fluttering into the low of her belly, a spark of guilty arousal that flares darkly underneath her skin. He presses a wet kiss to the point of her chin, then drags his lips up to the corner of her jaw, and she trembles in his arms, her head tipped back against the wall, the jut of the lintel a sharp bite between her shoulders.
"I am a woman wed," she says weakly, breathlessly, her fingers twining in Aegon's hair as she tries and fails to remember Jon -- Jon, who treats her kindly, who loves her as dearly as a husband as ever loved a wife. He fought a war to bring her home from Petyr and the Eyrie, has done nothing to deserve this terrible betrayal. "I am a woman wed to your own brother."
Aegon kisses her then, his tongue hot and sweet as it pushes into her mouth, his large hand framing the hollow of her throat, then slipping down to nudge past the neck of her gown, his fingers stroking the skin between her teats, hooking as he tugs on the laces of her bodice, and she closes her eyes, biting her lip before she leans closer to him, before she moans and arches into his touch. She has begged him not to come here anymore, not to ride Rhaegal up the long road between King's Landing and Winterfell, but he makes the journey as often as his duties allow, sometimes five or six times a year, paying careful attention to his relationship with Jon, looking for all the world like a man wishing to befriend the kinsman he never knew as a child.
"I'll command him to set you aside."
Sansa shivers at the thought of it, at the grim idea of another war, so soon after the last and so frivolously fought. Jon would fight for her, even if it would mean his death, because he loves her, and because there is still bad blood between the North and the Iron Throne, between Jon and the queen, Daenerys angry that Jon first declared Winterfell for Stannis and Jon bitter that Daenerys beheaded Stannis as a traitor. It is Aegon that keeps Jon from declaring the North a sovereign land -- Aegon's friendship, and Jon's wistful desire to replace some of what he has lost, to fill the spaces left behind by Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon.
Jon would fight for her, and he would die against Daenerys' dragons, and Sansa would be taken south to King's Landing, where her father died and where Arya disappeared, where Joffrey had her beaten and where she was forced to marry Tyrion Lannister. She would become a second, unloved queen, the woman who betrayed good Jon Stark, the man who risked his life to protect the realm, fighting Others beyond the Wall while Aegon was still idling in the south, biding his time until he could claim his throne.
"No," she whispers, even though his mouth is at her teats, his lips soft as he sucks at one nipple and then the other. The word sticks in her throat, her tongue turning clumsy and thick as his cock rubs against her hip, and she wonders if her aunt had forgotten her duty this easily, if Lyanna had been swept away by girlish dreams and the dark curl of violet eyes.
His hand slips under her skirts, his wrist twisting as his fingers push inside her, as his thumb brushes lightly over her nub, and she does arch into him then, her back bowing away from the wall in a long, quivering wave. He kisses her soft and slow, swallowing her moan, then mouths a wet trail from the slope of her cheek to the shell of her ear, murmuring softly against her skin, telling her how sweet she sounds, how beautiful she looks, how badly he wishes to have his cock inside her. She has never allowed him that, too terrified of bearing Jon a child not truly his, but she wants it now, her fingers digging bruises into his shoulders and arms, her knees weakening as he draws her closer and closer to her peak.
Aegon takes her against the wall, her leg hooked around his thigh and her skirts twisted around her waist, his face buried in her hair and his hand still hidden between her legs, his thumb still teasing her nub, his touches soft and fleeting, slower than the steady push and slide of his cock. Her heart hammers in her chest, loud enough that she fears Aegon's guards will hear it outside the door, and she closes her eyes against the sudden and shameful familiarity of her solar -- the new drapes hanging at the windows, the unfinished direwolf doublet waiting on her sewing chair, the shadowcat pelt stretched across the foot of her bed, a gift from Jon's last hunting trip into the Wolfswood. Jon is a good man, deserves to have a far better woman for a wife. Sansa has tried to love him as she should, but she cannot turn the muted affection in her heart into proper desire, perhaps because there is a part of her that still sees him as her half-brother.
Sansa peaks in a bright and furious rush, her thighs shaking and her breath catching in her throat, her fingers twisting in Aegon's hair as her cunt flutters around his cock. He makes a rough and desperate noise, half hidden against the skin below her ear, and she bites her lip as he thrusts into her harder, as she feels his seed filling her, a warm and dangerous rush inside her. He holds her after he spends, his arms tight around her waist and his face against her throat, sighing as he leans up to kiss her, as he palms the back of her neck, the curve of her cheek.
"Marry me," he says again, but she just shakes her head, covering her face with her hands.
He leaves a mess behind when he slips out the door, the way men always do, seed sticky between her thighs and sweat cooling between her teats, her gown rumpled and disarrayed, the skirts wrinkled and the bodice unlaced to the navel. She straightens herself out as best she can unaided, unwilling to call on her maids in the middle of the day, then walks out to the newly rebuilt sept, kneeling first before the Mother and then before the Warrior, praying that she will still bleed when the moon turns, hoping that this time, when Aegon returns to King's Landing, he stays there with Daenerys and does not come back.
Pairing: Aegon/Sansa, Jon/Sansa
Rating: R
Words:
Summary: She wonders if her aunt had forgotten her duty this easily, if Lyanna had been swept away by girlish dreams and the dark curl of violet eyes.
Notes: Written for
jal80 and Your Cheatin' Heart - a love affair ficathon. The prompt was Aegon/Sansa, Jon/Sansa - She was once Jon's sister; he is now Jon's brother. Somehow, this feels like betraying both those bonds. Originally posted here. "Marry me," Aegon murmurs, his mouth sliding over the curve of her neck, his hands clutching at the heavy spill of her skirts, twisting as he pushes her back against the wall. His words do not surprise her, for it's no secret that his marriage to Daenerys is a political fiction, that the queen herself has asked him to take a second wife, one who can bear the new Targaryen dynasty an heir, but they send a delicious shock fluttering into the low of her belly, a spark of guilty arousal that flares darkly underneath her skin. He presses a wet kiss to the point of her chin, then drags his lips up to the corner of her jaw, and she trembles in his arms, her head tipped back against the wall, the jut of the lintel a sharp bite between her shoulders.
"I am a woman wed," she says weakly, breathlessly, her fingers twining in Aegon's hair as she tries and fails to remember Jon -- Jon, who treats her kindly, who loves her as dearly as a husband as ever loved a wife. He fought a war to bring her home from Petyr and the Eyrie, has done nothing to deserve this terrible betrayal. "I am a woman wed to your own brother."
Aegon kisses her then, his tongue hot and sweet as it pushes into her mouth, his large hand framing the hollow of her throat, then slipping down to nudge past the neck of her gown, his fingers stroking the skin between her teats, hooking as he tugs on the laces of her bodice, and she closes her eyes, biting her lip before she leans closer to him, before she moans and arches into his touch. She has begged him not to come here anymore, not to ride Rhaegal up the long road between King's Landing and Winterfell, but he makes the journey as often as his duties allow, sometimes five or six times a year, paying careful attention to his relationship with Jon, looking for all the world like a man wishing to befriend the kinsman he never knew as a child.
"I'll command him to set you aside."
Sansa shivers at the thought of it, at the grim idea of another war, so soon after the last and so frivolously fought. Jon would fight for her, even if it would mean his death, because he loves her, and because there is still bad blood between the North and the Iron Throne, between Jon and the queen, Daenerys angry that Jon first declared Winterfell for Stannis and Jon bitter that Daenerys beheaded Stannis as a traitor. It is Aegon that keeps Jon from declaring the North a sovereign land -- Aegon's friendship, and Jon's wistful desire to replace some of what he has lost, to fill the spaces left behind by Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon.
Jon would fight for her, and he would die against Daenerys' dragons, and Sansa would be taken south to King's Landing, where her father died and where Arya disappeared, where Joffrey had her beaten and where she was forced to marry Tyrion Lannister. She would become a second, unloved queen, the woman who betrayed good Jon Stark, the man who risked his life to protect the realm, fighting Others beyond the Wall while Aegon was still idling in the south, biding his time until he could claim his throne.
"No," she whispers, even though his mouth is at her teats, his lips soft as he sucks at one nipple and then the other. The word sticks in her throat, her tongue turning clumsy and thick as his cock rubs against her hip, and she wonders if her aunt had forgotten her duty this easily, if Lyanna had been swept away by girlish dreams and the dark curl of violet eyes.
His hand slips under her skirts, his wrist twisting as his fingers push inside her, as his thumb brushes lightly over her nub, and she does arch into him then, her back bowing away from the wall in a long, quivering wave. He kisses her soft and slow, swallowing her moan, then mouths a wet trail from the slope of her cheek to the shell of her ear, murmuring softly against her skin, telling her how sweet she sounds, how beautiful she looks, how badly he wishes to have his cock inside her. She has never allowed him that, too terrified of bearing Jon a child not truly his, but she wants it now, her fingers digging bruises into his shoulders and arms, her knees weakening as he draws her closer and closer to her peak.
Aegon takes her against the wall, her leg hooked around his thigh and her skirts twisted around her waist, his face buried in her hair and his hand still hidden between her legs, his thumb still teasing her nub, his touches soft and fleeting, slower than the steady push and slide of his cock. Her heart hammers in her chest, loud enough that she fears Aegon's guards will hear it outside the door, and she closes her eyes against the sudden and shameful familiarity of her solar -- the new drapes hanging at the windows, the unfinished direwolf doublet waiting on her sewing chair, the shadowcat pelt stretched across the foot of her bed, a gift from Jon's last hunting trip into the Wolfswood. Jon is a good man, deserves to have a far better woman for a wife. Sansa has tried to love him as she should, but she cannot turn the muted affection in her heart into proper desire, perhaps because there is a part of her that still sees him as her half-brother.
Sansa peaks in a bright and furious rush, her thighs shaking and her breath catching in her throat, her fingers twisting in Aegon's hair as her cunt flutters around his cock. He makes a rough and desperate noise, half hidden against the skin below her ear, and she bites her lip as he thrusts into her harder, as she feels his seed filling her, a warm and dangerous rush inside her. He holds her after he spends, his arms tight around her waist and his face against her throat, sighing as he leans up to kiss her, as he palms the back of her neck, the curve of her cheek.
"Marry me," he says again, but she just shakes her head, covering her face with her hands.
He leaves a mess behind when he slips out the door, the way men always do, seed sticky between her thighs and sweat cooling between her teats, her gown rumpled and disarrayed, the skirts wrinkled and the bodice unlaced to the navel. She straightens herself out as best she can unaided, unwilling to call on her maids in the middle of the day, then walks out to the newly rebuilt sept, kneeling first before the Mother and then before the Warrior, praying that she will still bleed when the moon turns, hoping that this time, when Aegon returns to King's Landing, he stays there with Daenerys and does not come back.