oncefuturequeen | for jon snow (tooktheblack)

for jon snow (tooktheblack)

Ravens had been dispatched, messages sent, and replies received. The Princess of Carhaise, one Guinevere of House Leodegrance, had been offered as bride to the new King in the North, Jon Snow of House Stark. Bastard though he might have been by birth, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had seemingly done the impossible: he'd rallied all of the northern lords and the Wildlings from beyond the Wall to his banner, earned their support despite his lowborn heritage, and even now prepared the North for the Long Night hovering just beyond the horizon.

And Guinevere, only daughter of King Leodegrance and thus far bystander to the turmoil that had plagued Westeros these past several years, was to be his Queen. She'd been bitterly pleased to note, however, that this "marriage", such as it was, was costing her horrible father five thousand of his best cavalrymen, their horses and weapons, as well as several tons of wheat and grain, for the King in the North had to feed his people during the coming winter, did he not? Seemed a fair compensation for a wife he undoubtedly neither needed nor wanted.

Guinevere certainly felt the Northmen were getting the better part of the bargain, herself.

Regardless of her thoughts on the matter - her father had been adamant, as he despised both Cersei and this foolish Targaryan upstart - that when Carhaise could no longer remain neutral in the Westerosi disasters, old Leo had made the surprising choice to side with Jon Snow and the Northmen. Mainly, as far as Guinevere remembered, out of some lingering fond memory for the Stark family; Eddard, Benjen, and their poor father, slain by the Mad King not long enough to fade into memory. So it was that Carhaise packed up its Princess and her crotchety father and spent several weeks on the road, traveling with the promised dowries towards Winterfell.

The main entourage arrived one fine wintry morning, the King's carriage rolling beneath Winterfell's portcullis on the heels of four splendid horses, all stamping and steaming their breath in the chill air. Not waiting for the door to be opened, Leodegrance flung it open himself, still spry at the ripe age of sixty, but already a hard youth and old war wounds had begun to take their toll. Nevertheless, the old man's eyes were sharp and bright as he surveyed the courtyard, waving away porters and courtiers alike.

"Find my daughter," was all he commanded, and his servants bowed away to do just that, but before any of them could send the word down the line, the Princess cantered into Winterfell's courtyard, her grey gelding prancing prettily beneath her skilled hand. She'd left her long locks unbound and unbraided; they streamed over her dark cloak in a scarlet river. Rather than be gowned as a southern highborn lady, she instead wore a comfortable riding dress of thick wool and cashmere, adorned with only a jewel or two. Leo sniffed as he appraised his only child and bartering chip, but knew better than to bother; she'd inherited her bold way of speaking from him, and her temper from her mother.

She knew his disapproval; it was evident in her own sly smirk as she dismounted and joined her patron, ironically dipping a small curtsy as she approached, but he only huffed and rolled his eyes, thanking all the Old Gods and the New that she'd soon be someone else's headache!

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It was a little dizzying, all of the revelry, and Guinevere did feel a bit overwhelmed with the boisterousness of it all, but she rallied well, calling upon all of her Southern diplomacy and charm to keep from running out of the Hall in a panic. Her sister-by-law was a welcome balm, sprinkling subtle hints throughout the conversations to assist the new Queen in the North, and Guinevere was silently grateful for her assistance.

Though most present were swilling ale by the tankard, Guinevere only allowed herself a few sips of wine, knowing that all eyes were definitely upon her, even more than the man beside her, and falling over in a drunken faint simply wouldn't paint the best picture, would it? Her father, she noted with a bitter twist to her lips, was so deep in his cups that he was laughing and pounding Northern lords on the back as if they were his own bannermen; she supposed he was profoundly relieved to be leaving for Carhaise minus his troublesome daughter.

But then Jon was turning towards her, a silly little smile on his face, and holding out a bit of sweet cake for her to taste. A little nonplussed by this uncharacteristic boldness, she nevertheless obediently leaned in to let him feed her the morsel, a bit surprised by its rich sweetness. "Mmmm," she had to respond, "it's delicious." The blatant compliment had color dusting her cheeks, and she lowered her lashes demurely, ducking her head a bit modestly. "You flatter me, Your Grace."

"I think you should be allowed to flatter your own wife," Jon says, laughing softly. As he does, he dips his head toward her, quite close, and whispers against the soft skin of her cheek. It feels strange to be this open with his affections in front of everyone but he's just enough in his cups to not be embarrassed and he's rapidly becoming smitten with his new wife and queen.

"I cannot wait to flatter you more when we're alone," he says, voice low and husky. He wants to bed her desperately; Jon has only ever been with a woman he's loved and while he's not in love with Guinevere just yet, he feels it will not take long. She seems to be well-matched with him, more than he'd expected, and he's glad that Sansa had taken the initiative to broker the marriage and speak with Leodegrance on his behalf.

"I want to see and touch every inch of you, wife."

Now, she definitely colored, grateful that the loose locks of her hair managed to conceal the blush on her cheek, tantalized even further by the soft rasp of her husband's scruff. "Your Grace," Guinevere admonished him with a small smile, glancing about just in case anyone was paying the monarchs a little too much attention just then. "I didn't realize my husband was so bold in front of his own bannermen."

But it was a gentle tease; truly, he was within his rights to take her right here atop the high table, if he wished. And wouldn't that just be quite a show. But Sansa was smiling at them from a little ways down the table, Jon's younger brother Bran, beside her, doing the same, albeit a bit distantly, and the others in the Hall were laughing and carrying on as if they were all the best of old friends.

While she wasn't entirely sure how things were done here in the North, Guinevere was nevertheless determined to Do Her Duty, as her septa had insisted upon calling it, and gently touched her husband's cheek with light fingertips. "The food is all but done," she told him, leaning back just enough to gaze into Jon's dark eyes. "And everyone will be deep into the ale barrels before long." A moment's hesitation, then she inquired, "...shall I retire to your chambers to await you?"

"I'll bring you. They know not to call for a bedding," Jon says, having rejected that and made his feelings known on the subject before Guinevere had even arrived at Winterfell. The status of his wife's virginity is no one's business but his and Guinevere's. Jon intends to bed her tonight, as he feels they like one another well enough and he burns hot for her, but he doesn't need the rest of the castle poking their noses in it.

"If we slip away now, perhaps Tormund won't notice me," Jon says, laughing softly. He loved the big Wildling, he did, but sometimes he got a bit too enthusiastic on the subject of Jon and bedding a woman. Considering Tormund likely heard he and Ygritte more than once, Jon supposes his jokes are warranted, but they still embarrass him and aren't fit for a lady to hear. He squeezes Guinevere's hand before helping her stand.

"Come on, let's go before they notice us." It feels like something he might have done as a boy, sneaking along corridors, and his eyes are bright with it.

The crude tradition of a "bedding" was something she'd been dreading ever since she'd learned of this arrangement, if Guinevere were honest. To stand by and have men chortle and guffaw over such a thing - even if it were to cement alliances between great Houses - was, frankly, horrifying. Yet she was aware that some bannermen still insisted on such things, particularly from a high ranking marriage. To hear Jon say that that particular tradition wouldn't come to pass lifted a great weight from the new Queen's shoulders, and she exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

But she still held a little bit of a maiden's fear, although she had to admit to a burning curiosity about the entire thing. Her septa had schooled her with the brutal facts, of course, and Guinevere had finally resigned herself to the fact that she'd have to suffer through her wedding night, no matter what, but she hadn't anticipated this strange...desire towards her new husband. It was puzzling. But she supposed the only way to understand was to do it, so to speak, so her hand only trembled lightly when she nodded to Jon and let him pull her out of her chair and quickly lead her from the Hall, leaving behind the noise, the revelers, and the remnants of her old life.

Guinevere thought she might have heard a cheer as they rounded the corner near the stairwell, but perhaps that had been only the thudding of her heart, now racing a bit wildly. Jon seemed enthusiastic as a boy; his eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and smile ever present, so it wasn't surprising that he didn't seem aware of his wife's growing trepidation. But when they finally reached the King's quarters, fire already crackling in large hearth, warming the room comfortably, Guinevere froze, sidling over to the fireplace and rubbing her chilly arms, all too aware of the large bed in the corner of her eye, and what she was required to do in it.

Jon is slightly in his cups, yes, but it still doesn't escape his notice that Guinevere looks different than the gay, charming queen she'd been at the feast. She looks apprehensive, eyes darting toward the bed and hands rubbing her arms. Jon draws close to her and cups her face in his hands. They're the same height, more or less, and he brushes a thumb against her high cheekbone.

"Naught will happen to you in that bed that you don't wish to happen. You have nothing to fear from me, Guinevere. I'm not a barbarian who'd take you against your will. You may be my wife but you have no duty in that bed save to find pleasure and happiness."

He kisses her forehead softly, wanting to assure her he doesn't mean to hurt her, and looks back into her eyes.

"Would you like to sit and talk for a while? I know we've had a little while to come to know one another but we're still strangers in many ways. I'd love to learn you, wife, and let you learn me as well."

Involuntarily tensing when Jon came close, Guinevere forced herself to relax, to calm down, when he only placed his hands against her cheeks and rose up to kiss her forehead, and a bit of her chilly trepidation eased at the tender gesture. She circled his wrists with her fingers, forcing a small, shaky laugh, and shook her head.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I..." Then he was reassuring her again, and Guinevere gripped his hands in hers, meeting his gaze with soft eyes and a small girlish smile. "Gwen," she told him gently. "You may call me Gwen, Your Grace, if it pleases you." Only one other person had ever used that shortened form of her name, and it still brought the slight gleam of tears to the corner of her eyes.

"My mother used to use it for me," she confessed, taking his offer and slowly folding down atop one of the small divans near the fire. "'Little Gwen', she used to say, sitting with her sewing in her tower at Carhaise, 'you'll be Queen someday, I know you will'." Still holding Jon's hand, Guinevere stared into the fire, trying to remember. "She died when I was so young, I can hardly remember her face. Her voice I can recall, but not her face, her eyes, or her mouth." A melancholy smile. "I do remember that she too was 'kissed by fire', as your Free Folk say."

Then she blinked out of the brief trance, shaking her head with a rueful chuckle. "Forgive me," she said again. "This is our wedding night and here I am speaking of childhood memories and nicknames..."

"No, it's fine. And I have to insist you call me Jon," he says, sliding his hands along her arms to help warm her. "I am your husband now, before the eyes of gods and men, and I'm your equal in this room. If you are to be my Gwen, I insist on being Jon."

Jon takes her hand and leads her to sit on a couch that's close to the fire. It's not exactly the bed but he thinks it might put her more at ease to know that he doesn't intend to rip her dress off and have his way with her. He wants to talk to her and know her. If bedding doesn't happen tonight, so be it. There's many more nights other than this one to get to that.

"I would hear more about where you grew up. For all that we're married, we do barely know one another. I want to know you and have you know me so that we've no secrets between us."

She nodded acquiescence. "Very well." Guinevere made room for him to sit beside her, grateful for his both his support and his warmth. She let herself nestle against Jon's side, pulling up a fold of his cloak for cover. "Have you ever been South?" Before he could answer yea or nay, she continued on.

"The southern kingdoms are far different from those in the North. They are smaller, for one, and more densely populated. The nobility there is much concerned with appearances, and even the slightest insult can result in hostilities." She sighed, not for the first time realizing how stupid most southern customs actually were.

But Guinevere went on to speak about her home, the high castle on the hill overlooking a sea of grass, with very little trees or hills breaking the line of the horizon. Of how her father's cavalrymen had kept Carhaise safe for many, many years, and were considered to be paramount to even the Dothraki hordes of the east. She spoke briefly of the castle, a soaring structure of pearl, stone, and marble, of the gilded halls where she'd grown up, motherless, a scion of a dwindling House, but groomed to become Queen, regardless of her own wishes. It was a daughter's duty to obey her father, after all.

"We've never been close," she admitted, Jon's fingers gently laced with hers, resting in her lap. "He's an old, vain man, far more concerned with his status than his family or his people. Thank the Gods for our steward, who handles everything from feeding the peasantry to arming the soldiers." She gave a small, tight smile. "And he taught me well, I am glad to say."

Jon lifts their joined hands so he might kiss hers, paying close attention to her story. The description of a high hill and grass where horses might graze and run is beautiful to him. Even in the spring and summer, there's a harshness to Winterfell that makes it much different from the stories he's heard of the South. Their trees are weirwood, their grass bitter roots that grow through snow and rock and their harvests hard-won.

"He seems to have taught you very well, Gwen," Jon agrees. "So much so that you'll dance circles around me in this marriage. I was raised to not expect a marriage or children, being a bastard, and going to the Wall was the best I could hope for as a bastard. As they say, a bastard might rise high in the Night's Watch. I ended up as a spy among the Free Folk for a year or so, trying to get a bead on Mance Rayder, but I eventually came back to the Watch and was elected Lord Commander."

Jon pauses for a moment, unsure. Should he tell her how he'd been murdered by his own brothers for allying with the Free Folk against the dead? Should he tell her how he was raised from that blank, nothingness back to life by the Red Woman and her queer magic? Jon isn't sure. The last thing he wants is to frighten Gwen on their wedding night.

"I ended my Watch when my sister fled from Ramsay Bolton. We took back the castle and we're still building our numbers but there's a Stark in Winterfell again. Truthfully, I thought they'd make Sansa Queen in the North. She's trueborn. I'm not."

"You've seen many adventures, Jon," Guinevere remarked, listening with growing fascination. "And have risen high indeed, given your linage. Although as Eddard Stark's son, why does that surprise you? Even in the South, the honor of House Stark is legendary. And to have his blood in your veins, surely that is a wondrous thing." Although she realized that Jon might not believe it so, given the sadness she'd heard in his voice when he spoke about his childhood here.

"Truebirth doesn't seem to matter much, when it comes to ruling," she mused, staring back into the fire. "Look at Joffery Baratheon, and then look at you. Both of you bastards, but he was a sadistic tyrant, or so the stories insist, while you have proved your worth more than once." She squeezed his hand. "And have been elected, no less, to kingship by some of the hardest-bitten men in all of Westeros." Guinevere met his eye, plaintive. "Surely that is worth something, is it not?"

Her words have the ring of truth to them, much like when Sansa says these things of him. Sansa is swift to express her disagreement and to correct him if she feels it necessary but she believes him to be a good king and able commander. Sansa loves him, without conditions, and it's something Jon's never experienced in his life. It's always been that he's the bastard son, he's the lord's ill-gotten get, and to be looked at as something else is so new that he cannot wear the mantle of it easily.

Gwen is different. She's never known him as anything but the King in the North and it's clear she admires him and thinks him good at his job. And, as she says, he'd been chosen by the lords of the North and had not inherited this seat. He'd won it on his own merit and not his birth.

"Nobody has really pointed out the elected bit," he says, laughing softly. He's slightly embarrassed at the praise but mostly because it comes from his own wife. "Gwen? May I kiss you?"

They've kissed before, most notably in the corridor when everyone was feasting her arrival, but this will be a kiss as husband and wife. It's different, especially behind closed doors.

"Only if you wish it, though."

"Well," she replied, a bit firmly, but a smile hovered about her mouth, "perhaps someone should have. For it's nearly an unheard of thing, when dealing with the headaches of succession." Although she knew that Cersei Lannister would see it as rebellion, and the Northern secession could only succeed if it was to completely cut ties with the South, and that meant beheading the red and gold lion. Then there was the added Targaryan threat from the east, a mad girl intent on taking what was "hers" and liberating all of Westeros from the yoke of nobility, although Guinevere had her doubts along those lines.

No, not a very fruitful discussion for a wedding night, was it.

But then her husband was asking permission to kiss her, and Guinevere stared at him a moment before slowly nodding, and even leaning towards him so that their lips might easier meet. She enjoyed his kisses, and the touch of his hands, and with the fire at her back and Jon at her side, she was warm and more comfortable than she'd been before. Of its own accord, one of her hands stroked his cheek then slipped into his dark hair, feeling the curls wind around her fingers eagerly.

"...I wish it..." she whispered into the growing heat between them, eager to taste him again.

Jon has never enjoyed kissing so much as he does with Gwen. He tugs lightly at her lower lip with his teeth and cups the back of her head in hopes that he can coax her to part her lips for him. They've had kisses that were less than polite but this time they'll have no reason to stop; he's been thinking about this since they kissed in the corridor on the day they met and now he can finally have without worrying about propriety.

He'd only asked for a kiss but Jon slips a hand down to cup her breast through her gown. He has to imagine the feel of her more than feel it since the dress is stiffer than a day dress but he supposes that's the lot of wedding gowns. They're meant to be ornate and tell a story, in a way, and he wouldn't have denied his bride this particular confection of white and lace.

It does get in the way of what he wants, though, so he breaks the kiss after a few long moments and looks at her with dark eyes. He wants her, however she's willing to offer it, and he thinks as the man and the experienced one, he ought to broach the subject first.

"I want you," he says thickly. "What may I have?"

This nibbling was an entirely new experience for Carhaise's former princess, and it tickled just enough to make her giggle, which resulted in the smooth slide of Jon's tongue between her lips, and this time, Guinevere moaned instead of laughed, for he tasted so very sweet, and her free hand fisted in his tunic, all the better not to topple off of the couch right onto the floor. She'd just touched his tongue with hers when she felt the weight of his hand against her breast, and that made her startle slightly, gasping when he pulled away to stare at her with heat in dark eyes, searching hers earnestly.

It was rote for her to reply that it was his right to have everything; she belonged to him and no other, she was his to do with as he wished. But she sensed that Jon wasn't that sort of man, and he'd proved it, had he not? In that she was still fully clothed and not face-down on yon bed while her lord and husband pillaged her like a smuggler's treasure trove. But a lifetime of curiosity was actually working in Jon's favor, that and the reverse expectations he seemed to have washing over her like a warm wave.

So she let her hand cup his cheek, leaned her forehead against his, and sighed softly. "I don't want to be afraid," she whispered, speaking her heart's truth. "But I...out of all the men I have met, Jon Snow, I would, truly, give myself to you, and you alone." She touched her nose to his, sincere. "I trust you."

Then Guinevere pulled out of his embrace and stood, giving him her back and pulling aside the long, thick rope of scarlet hair to reveal the dress's fastenings. "Untie them, my lord, if you please."

Jon almost asks her if she truly wants this but Gwen has said the same, that she'd give herself to him and that she trusts him. It's enough for him, he thinks, and when she turns to show him the lacings of her gown, his fingers are more nimble against them than he expects. It's a clever puzzle, this dress, and he's tempted to ask her if the dressmakers in the South have started taking lessons from Sansa.

As he parts her gown, he presses soft kisses against the back of her neck and along the smooth, pale skin that's revealed. Once he's gotten it all untied, he slips an arm around her and tugs her against his chest, lips hot at her ear.

"I think I've managed to get the laces undone," he murmurs before trailing a line of kisses down the column of her neck to her shoulder. "Is there aught else my wife wants of me right this moment?"

Even though Jon's fingers were surprisingly delicate with the laces, tender where they touched her skin beyond her sheer shift beneath the gown, it was still a little, but only a little, unnerving. Her septa and ladies in waiting had been the only ones to ever touch her so...intimately, but as foreign a sensation as it was, Guinevere realized that it wasn't at all unpleasant. She felt the dress loosen, and after removing all of the pins and braids from her long hair, let it slip down over her arms, a brief chill washing over her pale skin as the garment rustled away. Then her husband was pulling her back against his solid warmth, and when she shivered this time, it wasn't from the cold.

His kisses seemed to burn against her skin where they touched, and Guinevere obligingly tilted her head to offer him more, beginning to feel warmer than she had a few minutes ago, seated right near the fire. Her wedding gown was caught at her waist, but a brief shove and it slithered to pool at her feet, leaving the Queen of the North covered only in a sheer pale shift, a delicate barrier between her skin and the dress's rougher interior. Gauzy and light, it left hardly anything to the imagination, and turned her head just enough to catch her lips against Jon's grizzled cheek.

"Touch me again," she murmured as they stood together in the fire's light. "As you did before.."

The shift leaves nothing to his imagination and with the fire beside them, Jon can see through the gauzy material and make out the lines of her body, the curves of her breasts and hips. He pulls her close once more and cups her breast as he kisses her. This time, however, he can feel her nipple pebble up beneath the thin cloth and know what he's done to her. He longs to have her naked on the bed so he can kiss her everywhere but for now, this must do.

He buries his other hand in her hair, winding it such that he can keep her close for a long string of kisses that feel more like sharing breath than anything else. He's never lain with a virgin before but he has the idea if he takes his time and ensures she's found her pleasure at least once if not more, she'll be slick enough to take him without pain. The last thing he wants is to cause her pain, after all, and he wants her to know nothing but care and tenderness in his bed.

"I'll touch you everywhere you'll let me," he says, voice low and rough with arousal. "But only if you want it."

This was hardly going according to script. Guinevere had had her expectations of this occasion, and thus far, her new King and husband hadn't fulfilled a single one. Not that she minded; she enjoyed the touch of his hands and the taste of his kisses, but she was woefully out of her depth when it came to voicing her wants. Because she honestly had not the slightest clue what to ask for.

Other than more of that roughened touch against her skin, still barely covered by her whisper-thin shift, and Guinevere felt something low in her stomach suddenly start to ache the second Jon's hand settled back over her breast. A whimper fluttered from her mouth to his, and she felt herself instinctively pressing back against him, suddenly needing to know what his own skin felt like beneath her hands.

So she abruptly turned in his arms, hands flying to the laces of his cloak and giving them a sharp yank, letting it slither free of his tunic bracings. They were face to face, Guinevere's cheeks flushed and heated, but she kissed him without qualm, murmuring against his mouth, "...your tunic, Your Grace. 'tis only fair, no?"

"Aye, it's a fair request," Jon agrees. He laughs softly at her insistence but he's glad for it too; if she wants to undress him, then she's clearly enjoying herself with this bit. There's other parts to it, yes, but this is the first hurdle to get over. Jon has the idea that they might be close to one another the way he was with Ygritte only different - being with one's wife has other, innumerable charms.

Jon leans in and steals another kiss from her before tugging her hands down to the hem of his tunic in an invitation for her to take it off. He's scarred, yes, but he isn't ashamed of his body. He only hopes it's pleasing to her.

"Please undress me, Gwen?"

She had to smile at the entreaty in his voice. "But of course, Sire." It took her a moment or two; men's clothing was henceforth unfamiliar and she had a bit of difficulty in locating the requisite laces, but her fingers were quick, and it wasn't long at all before she was pulling the layers aside and sliding the heavy fabric over Jon's shoulders, but hissed a soft breath at what they revealed.

"By the gods, Jon..." Deep, angry scars littered his torso, looking suspiciously like...stab wounds. Her fingers carefully drifted over them, one at the time, then she looked back up at her husband, brow furrowed and gaze soft. "You've suffered so much," she heard herself say, heart breaking for this good man she'd just wed. She let her hands wander further, not wanting to focus on the scars themselves. "But you are still beautiful to look upon, Jon Snow." Though she was hardly an expert judge; she simply knew that she wanted to learn his body both with her hands and lips, however she could.

"It may be easier if we..." she bit her lip, but forged on regardless, "...if we...if we lie down, yes?" Because her knees were definitely starting to get a little wobbly and unsteady.

"Aye, it would be. Don't worry about the scars, Gwen." Jon isn't necessarily self-conscious but he knows the scars look wicked and it might distract from what they intend to do. He doesn't want her to think they pain him still. If anything, he has places that don't have feeling any longer due to the thick scarring but there's plenty on his body still sensitive to her touch.

Jon reaches for his hand to tug her to bed and moves to lay down first, shifting toward the middle of the bed so that Gwen might pick a side that's most comfortable to her. Once she settles, he moves close and props on one elbow so that he's alongside her but not fully covering her.

"If there's anything I do you mislike, please tell me. I've never been with you and you've never been with me. We don't know one another just yet and tonight is going to be about learning more than doing. Don't feel as if you're doing anything wrong - just think of it as being taught."

Guinevere joined him in the bed after only a moment's hesitation - even though it'd been her suggestion in the first place. Nevertheless, she made herself lie down beside her husband, turning into him as he settled beside her, propped up on an elbow. She touched his cheek as he spoke, letting her fingertips drift over his jaw, down to his shoulder, then further along his arm, truly touched by his insistent sincerity.

"I've never been with anyone, Your Grace--Jon," she reminded him with a small smile. "You'll be my first...and my only," she added, then with a twinkle in her eye, "as long as you don't become too exasperated with my sharp tongue and stubbornness." Guinevere smiled up at him, it fading somewhat as her eyes drifted back to his mouth, and she lightly smoothed her arm around his torso and leaned up to kiss him again, instinctively softening as her body sought to mold itself to his.

"I've never lain with a virgin," Jon confesses. "So I want to be careful for you both because you're my wife but also because I don't want to spoil the bed for you. I want you to enjoy yourself here, always, and I'll do anything within my power to make that happen. I don't mind if your tongue is sharp, though. I could do with a bit of sharpness - it motivates me."

Gwen moves to kiss him again, though, and he's lost. Her mouth is so soft and he can feel so much more of her body through the thin shift she's wearing. As her mouth is parted for him, he skims his hand along the length of her body before slipping beneath her him to cup her bare hip beneath.

"I would touch you now, if you'd allow it."

It was pure instinct to slowly arch into the touch of his hand, even if there was nothing separating skin from skin this time. Her shift had ridden up along Jon's arm, leaving her bare from the waist, but Guinevere felt no trepidation, no modesty, only warmth and a rising, unfamiliar want coiling low in her belly as they kissed and touched. Slow, unhurried, thorough.

She had the first inklings that this was only the beginning, that there was so much more to explore with her new husband, if she'd only let him, and as she broke her lips from his, Guinevere finally made up her mind. Reclining on the pillows beneath her, she gazed up at her husband - and now her lover - with calm, clear eyes. "Yes," she replied simply, reaching upwards to drape both arms around his neck and coax him over her.

"I'm your wife," she said softly into the heat between them. "Yours. Now, show me what that means to you, Jon Snow. Please.."

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tooktheblack - 2019-09-14 01:48 (UTC) - Expand

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