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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Guinevere gave him a little pinch for that first comment. "Aye," she told him, mock-sternly, "your wife would have much to say about that, and absolutely none of it good." Then she smiled and pushed the outer armor off, letting the heavy leather hit the cold stone without care.

"Come to bed," she invited, gently coaxing him back towards the soft furs. "We'll be leaving soon, and quarters will be close for weeks. You'll go without your nightly frolic, my King, so you'd do well to make this night one to tide you over on the empty nights to come."

Gwen doubted they'd have all that much time for lovemaking while in the South, and stuffed aboard a ship scarcely offered much in the way of privacy.

"My nightly frolic? Are we really nightly?"

Jon colors a little at that. They do lay together often and as they're trying for an heir, they need to, but he was hardly aware that it was absolutely nightly. Still, if it's enjoyable for both of them it's nothing to be ashamed of and he shakes that off, slipping between the furs with his wife. That's far more inviting than musing over his bedding habits.

"I'll miss this when we're on a boat, sweetling. You know that, right?" He tugs her into his arms and just holds her for a moment, enjoys the feel of her up against his chest.

Six nights out of seven, at least. Not that Guinevere minded. Her husband was a gentle, attentive lover, always making sure of her pleasure before even considering his own. She knew she was blessed, in that regard. Her septa had educated her on tales of men who were the exact opposite, and she'd grown up believing that a woman's duty was just that; a duty to be done so ensure an heir for the family name.

She'd divested her gown on the way to the bed, and allowed Jon to tug her between the furs, nestling against him comfortably as they lay together. Soft fingers stroked his scruffy cheek, slipped into his hair, trailed down over one shoulder and kept going as he spoke, Gwen nodding her agreement with a soft smile.

"Indeed, I do," she replied in a soft voice, sighing a little and enjoying the feel of him in her arms. "But, come to think of it, we will have a cabin to ourselves, as long as you don't mind everyone else aboard hearing us." Her eyes twinkled at the thought and she gave a soft giggle, imagining the looks on a few faces.

"You could be quiet," Jon says, giving her a slow curve of a smile. He thinks he likes these moments of marriage the most of all. He likes having attention all to himself and he likes having someone who cares about him, who wants him just for himself. He likes being able to give that attention to someone he loves.

"I'm sure I could find a way to muffle all those noises you make. And the rocking of the boat could cover up anything that gets knocked over, yes? I think we could figure it all out."

Jon tugs her atop him, having a nice look. "What do you think?"

Gwen h'mphed, giving Jon a small pinch for his horrible suggestion. "You'd hate it if I were quiet, Jon Snow," she teased. "You'd immediately wonder if something were wrong, if I were hurt, or if you weren't doing something right." A little harsh maybe, but he had thick skin. And play between them did sometimes have a little bite.

Evidenced when he swung her over him, and the Guinevere's fingernails bit into his shoulders, imperiously pulling him up to meet her. "I think we could do," she breathed with a sly little smile, taking his mouth in a long, deep kiss, the fall of her long hair providing a fiery curtain between their faces and the glow of the fire.

She'd worn nothing beneath her shift, and even it was now bunched up around her hips, the Queen's lush body silhouetted beneath the fall of fabric. "Work is done for the day," she reminded him between slow, thorough kisses. "And we've an heir to make, have we not?"

"We do have an heir to make. As far as I know, you have to keep trying until it happens and then some more just to make sure," Jon says, grinning as Guinevere swings atop him. He loves her long, red hair and he plays in it for a moment before working his hands under her shift to push it up and over her head.

"Lift your arms so I can get rid of this," he says, eyes warm as he looks over her. "I've a mind to have a look at my wife before we have to travel south and this is getting in the way."

A look and then a nice, long touch. Many touches.

She no longer carried any trepidation about being naked in a man's gaze. She and Jon had learned together how to please each other, to take the time to enjoy themselves behind their closed chamber doors. So she didn't hesitate to lift her arms and let her husband skim away her last layer, shivering lightly when the cool air kissed over her skin.

"Are you just going to look?" Guinevere asked him, a little tartly. But she smirked anyway, running her fingers through her long hair, the movement "incidentally" lifting her breasts as she did so. "That'd be a shame, if that's all my King could manage..."

"I like to see what's mine," Jon says, looking for a long while before skimming his hands up along the curve of Gwen's waist. He brushes his thumbs against the curves of her breasts and shifts a little under her, getting himself more comfortable for a longer look.

"Is that correct, to say it's mine? More that I'm blessed that my wife decides to sleep in the same bed as me," he teases. "Because if I go about acting like I expect it, she might go find her own bed to sleep in and leave mine cold and lonely."

Guinevere giggled, hissing a soft breath to the rough touch of her husband's hands. "Yes," she indulged him, "you may say it's yours, you may even crow it from atop the parapet, if you like." It was an impish tease, as she knew he'd do no such thing; Jon's cheeks still flamed hot whenever anyone said anything at all raucous in public. It was adorable, really. Even a Southron girl such as she, unused to such rough bawdry as these Northmen shared, didn't blush as much as Jon Snow.

The Queen gently trailed her hands over her husband's chest, gentle over the scars that decorated his torso. Harsh marks, but he was a stronger man because of them. She rocked atop him slow and sensuous, simply enjoying their closeness, their tender, true affection. And a naught glint of her own sparkled in her eye when she told him, "Your wife wouldn't leave your bed, Your Grace. It's far too comfortable to ever give up." A siren's smile curved her lips. "...especially with you in it."

Jon smiles up at her, one of his truly warm and quite rare smiles. He's a dour person and he knows it but it's hard to be that way when his wife is above him and rocking just like this. He knows his eyes are soft, too, and perhaps he's a little too soft where Gwen is concerned. Perhaps that's no one's business but his.

He moves his hands to spread her a bit with his thumbs and watches as her body takes him and draws away for a few moments before touching her just in the spot she likes. He wants her to come just like this, riding his cock, and then he wants to plow her under him and make her come again.

They'd learned pleasure together; she'd been virgin when they wed and Jon almost nearly so. But at least in this they were perfect, Guinevere adoring her husband's body and the attention he gave her whenever they were abed together. Nor did she mind his other, less tactile affection: his smiles to her while feasting in the Hall, the quick little kisses while heading from one part of the keep to another, the soft touches and caresses in corners where no one could see.

But this was perfect, this was sublime. Guinevere gave a soft moan of pure approval when Jon situated her how he liked, feeling him slide inside her all the way to the hilt. They needed a child, yes, but she'd never imagined that creating one could ever feel so good. Raised to believe that a woman only suffered through such experiences, Carhaise's marble maiden had been delighted indeed to learn that the exact opposite was true.

Then she felt Jon's fingers slipping between her parted thighs, and Guinevere bit her lip softly, head tipping back and her unbound hair brushing against the top of her husband's legs as she arched a little, gently begging with her body.

"Come on, then," Jon coaxes gently, his own head lolling back against the pillow. He never lasts long when he's being ridden, too stimulated by everything he can just see, and he wants Gwen to come before he does so they can do it more or less together. He likes when they share it best of all.

"Come on, don't be shy with me," he says, thumb messier now that his own breath is coming quicker and his hips are haphazardly rocking up against her. He'd have more control if she were under him, yes, but he wouldn't have this divine view and frankly he likes being out of control every once in a while. It's good for him.

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