Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish Another Chapter of The Son Will Do Just Fine
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch
Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, and Chapter 13 are already available for Patrons, so go to my Patreon to gain Early Access.
Jon's boots sank into the muddy ground outside the royal pavilion, its crimson silk walls emblazoned with the golden lion of House Lannister. Two guards flanked the entrance, their expressions as immobile as their armor. The taller one nodded curtly before announcing Jon's arrival.
"The bastard of Winterfell is here, Your Grace."
Jon winced at the designation but kept his composure. He'd been expecting this summons since the incident at the Trident. The question was whether he'd be facing Cersei's fury or her calculation.
The flap of the tent parted, revealing a lavish interior that seemed absurdly opulent for a temporary camp. Lantern light gleamed off golden fixtures and crimson drapery. The Queen sat behind a small writing desk, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, while Ser Jaime Lannister lounged nearby, polishing his sword, but not really paying attention to it, he seemed like he wanted to seem like he was doing something.
"Ah, Snow," Jaime drawled, not looking up from his blade. "Come to explain why you stood by while a direwolf savaged the crown prince?"
Before Jon could respond, Cersei raised one elegant hand. "That will be enough, Jaime." Her voice carried the chill of a northern winter. "I wish to speak with Lord Snow alone."
Jaime's head snapped up, his green eyes narrowing as they darted between his sister and Jon. "Is that wise, sweet sister? This one seems to have a habit of being present when royals find themselves in danger."
"I can handle a northern bastard," Cersei replied coldly. "Wait outside. Make sure no one disturbs us."
Jaime sheathed his sword with a decisive click and strode toward the exit, pausing beside Jon. His gaze lingered on Jon's face, particularly his eyes. Something like recognition flickered across the Kingslayer's features.
"As you wish, Your Grace." Jaime's voice dropped to a near-whisper as he added, "Those are unusual eyes for a northerner." With that cryptic comment, he ducked through the tent flap, leaving Jon alone with the Queen.
Cersei waited until the sound of Jaime's footsteps faded before speaking. "Well? Have you anything to say for yourself?"
For the first time since their relationship began, Jon met her gaze without deference. His voice emerged steady and clear. "I prevented a tragedy, Your Grace."
"A tragedy?" Cersei's eyebrow arched elegantly. "My son lies wounded, his arm mangled by that beast, and you call preventing his justice a prevention of tragedy?"
Jon remained standing tall, his hands clasped behind his back. "Prince Joffrey drew live steel on my sister, a girl of one-and-ten. He had already cut the butcher's boy badly enough to leave a scar. Had Nymeria not intervened, your son might have killed Lady Arya in his rage."
"Watch your tongue," Cersei hissed, rising from her chair. "You speak of your prince and future king. His actions are not for you to question or judge."
"They are when he threatens the daughter of the Warden of the North," Jon countered, surprising himself with his boldness. "My sister."
"Half-sister," Cersei corrected venomously. "Don't forget your place, bastard. You stand in my presence because I allow it, not by any right."
Jon nodded, tempering his approach. "The butcher's boy means nothing to me, Your Grace. As you say, he is beneath Prince Joffrey's concern."
A small smile of satisfaction curved Cersei's lips.
"But Arya Stark is another matter," Jon continued carefully. "Had your son accidentally killed her in his anger, consider what might have followed. King Robert, who loves Lord Stark like a brother, would have been forced to choose between his closest friend and his heir."
The color drained from Cersei's face. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk. "Are you threatening my son, bastard?"
"Not at all, Your Grace," Jon replied softly. "I'm simply pointing out that Nymeria's intervention may have saved Prince Joffrey from a far worse fate than a wounded arm."
Cersei studied him for a long moment, her green eyes calculating. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "My brother once told me that Northerners are too honest to play the game of thrones. Yet here you stand, making political arguments worthy of a small council member."
She circled around the desk, her crimson skirts whispering against the carpeted floor. "You surprise me, Jon Snow. There's more to you than I first thought."
"I'm just a bastard who knows his place, Your Grace," Jon replied, the irony thick in his voice.
"Indeed." Cersei stepped closer, close enough that Jon could smell her perfume—exotic spices and something distinctly southern. "And what place might that be? The Night's Watch? King's Landing? Or perhaps..." Her finger traced a line down his chest. "My bed?"
Jon held her gaze without flinching. "Wherever I can serve best."
"And who do you serve, Jon Snow? The Starks? The crown?" Her voice dropped to a silken whisper. "Or me?"
The tent suddenly felt too warm, too close. Jon forced himself to remember Arya's tearful face as she'd fled into the woods. "I serve the realm, Your Grace."
Cersei's smile vanished. "Pretty words. But when my son stands before the king tomorrow and tells his version of events, you will confirm it. Every word, without hesitation."
Jon's stomach twisted. "And what version might that be?"
"That Arya Stark and the butcher's boy attacked Prince Joffrey without provocation. That the wolf was set upon him deliberately. That his actions were purely defensive."
"Your Grace, I was there. I saw—"
"I don't care what you saw," Cersei snapped. "You will say what needs to be said. Consider it..." She softened her tone again, her hand coming to rest on his chest. "Consider it the first test of your loyalty."
Jon stepped back from her touch. "You're asking me to lie before the king. To condemn my own sister."
"I'm not asking." All pretense of warmth vanished from Cersei's voice. "I am commanding. Or have you forgotten our arrangement? The future I promised you in King's Landing?"
"I haven't forgotten."
"Good." Cersei's smile returned, predatory and cold. "Because all of that can disappear as quickly as it came. One word from me, and Robert will happily send you to the Wall, where you can freeze with the other forgotten bastards."
Jon's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "And if I refuse?"
Cersei's laugh was like winter sunshine—bright but without warmth. "Oh, my dear Jon. You won't refuse. Because it's not just your future at stake." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "How do you think Robert would react if he learned you had been sneaking into his wife's chambers at night? What punishment do you imagine for someone who dared touch his queen?"
Jon's blood ran cold. "You wouldn't."
"I would," Cersei confirmed, stepping back to study his reaction. "And not just you. Your dear father's reputation would be shattered. The honorable Ned Stark, raising a son who betrayed his king in the most intimate way possible?" She shook her head in mock sadness. "It would destroy him." She pressed herself against him, her body molding to his. "Defy me, and you lose everything—including your head."
Jon felt trapped between competing loyalties: to Arya, to his father, to whatever was growing between him and Cersei. The weight of the dragon eggs hidden in his belongings seemed to press on his conscience, too.
"Do we understand each other?" Cersei purred, her fingers trailing down his chest.
Jon nodded stiffly. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Good boy." She rewarded him with a kiss that tasted of wine and threats. "I knew you were smarter than your father. Tomorrow, remember whose side you're on."
As Jon left the royal pavilion, the evening air felt unusually cold against his flushed skin. Outside, Jaime Lannister leaned against a nearby tree, his green eyes following Jon with open suspicion.
"Enjoy your... conversation with the Queen?" Jaime called out, his tone deceptively casual.
Jon didn't answer, striding past the Kingslayer with his thoughts in turmoil. He had until tomorrow to decide: betray Arya or betray Cersei. Neither choice promised anything but pain.
Ghost materialized from the shadows, pressing against Jon's leg. The direwolf's silent presence offered no answers, but as Jon buried his fingers in Ghost's white fur, he found himself wondering what his father would say if he knew the impossible choice his bastard son now faced.
Later
The camp's fires had dwindled to glowing embers, casting Jon's face in a ruddy half-light as he sat cross-legged outside his tent. Ghost lay beside him, red eyes reflecting the dying flames like twin blood moons. The direwolf's head rested on Jon's knee, a comforting weight anchoring him while his thoughts spun like autumn leaves in a gale.
"What would you do, boy?" Jon whispered, scratching behind Ghost's ear. "Lie to a king or betray your pack?"
Ghost offered no answer beyond a soft exhale that misted in the night air. Around them, the royal camp had settled into uneasy slumber, punctuated by occasional shouts from searching parties still combing the woods for Arya.
I should be out there looking for her too, Jon thought. But he knew Arya wouldn't be found until she wanted to be. She was too clever, too quick—especially with Nymeria at her side. Jon had made sure of that, pointing her toward a stream that would mask their scent before the search began.
"She's better off hiding until this blows over," he murmured to Ghost. "Better than facing Cersei's justice."
The memory of Cersei's threats coiled in his stomach like a venomous snake. She'd destroy Father's reputation. She'd have me executed. But the alternative—condemning Arya to punishment for defending herself—seemed equally impossible.
"I want to know what you're brooding about this time."
Jon looked up, startled. Lord Eddard Stark stood before him, his lined face haggard with exhaustion. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his shoulders bowed under invisible weight.
"Father." Jon rose quickly, Ghost following suit. "Any sign of Arya?"
Ned shook his head, lowering himself onto the log beside Jon with a weary sigh. "Nothing. It's as if she vanished into the mist." He fixed Jon with a penetrating stare. "Unless you know something I don't."
Jon hesitated. His father had always taught him that lies were a poor foundation for anything worth building. Yet he'd been building quite a collection of them lately.
"I helped her escape," he admitted finally. "After the incident."
Ned's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. "I thought as much. Where is she?"
"I don't know exactly," Jon replied truthfully. "I told her to follow the stream northward until she found a giant oak with three trunks. There's a hollow large enough for her and Nymeria to hide in. I left food there before we broke camp yesterday."
"Clever," Ned acknowledged with the ghost of a smile. "You always did think ahead when protecting your siblings."
"Half-siblings," Jon corrected automatically, the way Lady Catelyn always had.
"No," Ned said firmly. "Just siblings." He turned his gaze to the distant trees. "She'll need to return soon. Robert's patience wears thin, and the Lannisters..."
"The Lannisters want blood," Jon finished. "But not Joffrey's."
A tense silence stretched between them. Jon gathered his courage, sensing an opening he might not get again.
"Father, I need to ask you something."
Ned's shoulders tensed slightly. "About Arya?"
"About my mother." The words hung in the cold night air like frost crystals, delicate and sharp.
"Jon..."
"Please," Jon pressed, his voice low and urgent. "The things I'm hearing, the way people look at me sometimes... I need to know where I come from. Who I come from."
For one breathtaking moment, Jon thought Ned might actually answer. Something like resolution flickered across his father's face, followed by a bone-deep weariness.
"When we reach the capital," Ned said finally, his voice thick with some emotion Jon couldn't name. "I promise, Jon. We'll speak of her then, when we have true privacy." He clasped Jon's shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong. "You have my word."
The familiar evasion stung, but the promise felt different this time.
"I've heard things about you," Ned continued, changing the subject with deliberate care. "About your... associations in camp."
Jon's heart skipped a beat. He knows about Cersei. Seven hells, he knows.
"The Kingslayer has taken interest in you," Ned continued, and Jon nearly collapsed with relief. "The queen watches you as well."
"I beat Ser Jaime in the yard," Jon explained, the partial truth coming easily. "It seems to have made an impression."
"Be careful with Lannisters, Jon." Ned's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "They aren't like us. They don't think like Northerners. Everything is a game to them, every person a piece to be moved or sacrificed."
"I can handle myself."
"Can you?" Ned's gray eyes seemed to look straight through Jon's carefully constructed façade. "Court is not like Winterfell. In King's Landing, a man can drown in whispers. One misstep, one wrong word..."
"What are you trying to say?" Jon asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
Ned glanced around the sleeping camp before answering. "When you go south, the only one you can truly trust is another Northerner. Remember who you are, Jon. Remember where you come from." His voice grew solemn. "Remember what I taught you. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
The words settled over Jon like a familiar cloak, warming him even as they weighed him down.
"I should continue searching," Ned said, rising stiffly. "Tell Arya, when you see her, that it's time to come home."
Jon looked up sharply. "I never said I would see her."
A rare smile touched Ned's lips. "You didn't have to." He turned to leave, then paused. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Jon, remember that you're my blood. Nothing changes that."
Tomorrow
Dawn broke over the Trident with a murky grayness that matched Ned Stark's mood. His joints ached from a night spent combing the riverside woodlands, calling his youngest daughter's name until his voice grew hoarse. Somewhere out there, Arya was hiding—frightened, possibly hurt, definitely alone.
No, not alone, he corrected himself. She has her wolf. And Jon made sure of that.
The thought of Jon brought a fresh wave of concern. Ned had seen the way the queen looked at his son—with calculation that went beyond mere curiosity. Every protective instinct in his body screamed warnings, but he'd stayed silent for sixteen years. What difference would a few more weeks make?
All the difference in the world, a voice whispered in his mind. You're taking him to the viper's nest. To the place where every secret comes to light eventually.
"My lord!" Jory Cassel's voice cut through his thoughts. The captain of his household guard approached at a quick trot, his expression caught between relief and concern. "They've found her."
Ned's heart leapt. "Where? Is she hurt?"
"She seems unharmed, but..." Jory hesitated. "Lannister men found her, my lord. They've taken her directly to the king's pavilion."
Cold dread replaced Ned's relief. "Cersei," he muttered darkly. Of course, the queen would ensure Arya faced Robert's judgment before her father could intervene.
"Gather our men," Ned commanded, already striding toward the royal pavilion at the camp's center. "I want a northern presence when I arrive."
The king's massive tent stood on a slight rise, crimson and gold banners snapping in the morning breeze. A crowd had already gathered—soldiers, servants, and nobility alike, drawn by the scent of conflict like vultures to carrion. Ned pushed through them without ceremony, his lordly status parting the throng more effectively than any blade.
The scene that greeted him inside the clearing before the king's tent froze the blood in his veins. Arya stood in the center, her wild hair matted with leaves and dirt, clothes torn from her woodland flight. Beside her stood Jon, his hand protectively on her shoulder as he bent to whisper in her ear. Robert occupied a makeshift throne, his face a thundercloud of frustration, while Queen Cersei hovered nearby, her emerald eyes cold with fury.
Prince Joffrey stood at his mother's side, arm wrapped in elaborate silk bandages. He wore the injury like a badge of honor, his petulant face twisted into a sneer directed at Arya. Behind him loomed Sandor Clegane, the Hound's burned face impassive, but his stance suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Father!" Arya spotted him and broke free from Jon's grip. She flew across the space between them and collided with Ned's chest, her small arms wrapping around his waist as sobs wracked her thin frame. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Hush now," Ned murmured, dropping to one knee and taking her shoulders in his hands. He quickly examined her for injuries, finding only minor scratches and the hollow-eyed exhaustion of a night spent in hiding. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, her voice barely audible. "Nymeria's gone. I made her run away."
"Smart girl," Ned murmured. Relief flooded through him, quickly replaced by anger as he stood to face the assembled royals.
"Why," he demanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd, "was my daughter not brought to me immediately upon being found?"
Queen Cersei's perfect features remained impassive, but her eyes glittered with something like satisfaction. She wanted this public spectacle, Ned realized. She wanted Arya brought before Robert with no preparation, no counsel.
Robert shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet his old friend's gaze. "Don't start, Ned. We'll be done with this mess quickly enough, and then she's all yours." He gestured dismissively, as if the entire matter were a minor inconvenience. "Just need to sort out what actually happened yesterday."
"There's nothing to sort out," Cersei interjected smoothly. She stood beside her son, one protective hand resting on his shoulder. "The girl and that butcher's boy attacked my Joffrey without provocation. The beast would have torn his arm off if not for the Hound's intervention."
Joffrey nodded vigorously, his bandaged arm held prominently before him like a battle trophy. "She set that monster on me!" he shouted, pointing dramatically at Arya with his good hand. "The little whore tried to kill me!"
The slap echoed through the pavilion like a thunderclap. Robert moved with surprising speed for a man of his size, his open palm connecting with Joffrey's face hard enough to rock the boy backward. Blood welled immediately from the prince's split lip, his eyes widening in shock and humiliation.
"Call her that again," Robert growled, looming over his son like the war hammer he'd once wielded, "and you'll be walking with crutches for the rest of your miserable life. Understand me, boy?"
Seven hells, Robert, Ned thought with a mixture of approval and concern.
Robert turned away from his son, addressing Arya with gruff gentleness. "Now then, girl. Tell me what happened. And remember, lying to your king is a serious offense."
Ned placed a steadying hand on Arya's shoulder. She straightened beneath his touch, lifting her chin in that stubborn way that had always reminded him painfully of Lyanna.
The king focused on Arya's words as she recounted the events by the Trident—Jon training her and Mycah with wooden swords, Joffrey and Sansa's arrival, the prince's mockery, his attack on the butcher's boy with live steel. When she described how she'd defended Mycah with her practice sword, Ned felt a surge of pride. When she spoke of Joffrey turning his blade on her and Nymeria's intervention, he had to suppress the urge to draw Ice and end this charade immediately.
"Lies!" Joffrey's face had turned an alarming shade of crimson, his bandaged arm trembling with rage. "Filthy northern lies! She and that peasant attacked me first! Tell them, Dog!"
The Hound stepped forward, his burned face impassive as always. "I saw the wolf attack my prince," he rasped. "Savage creature went straight for his throat."
Of course he'd say that, Ned thought. The Hound's loyalty is purchased, not earned.
Robert snorted, apparently sharing Ned's assessment. "And I'm sure you saw everything that happened before, completely impartially." He turned to scan the crowd. "Where's your other daughter? Where's Lady Sansa?"
"She's resting," Ned began, but Cersei's voice sliced through his.
"You are mistaken, Lord Stark. Sansa is right here." The queen gestured imperiously toward the edge of the gathering.
The crowd parted, and Ned's heart sank as Sansa emerged, looking every inch a southron lady. Her auburn hair was perfectly arranged, her blue dress immaculate, not a trace of the previous night's tears visible on her composed face.
"Sweet child," Cersei cooed. "Tell us what you saw. Tell your king the truth of what happened by the river."
Sansa's eyes darted between Joffrey's furious glare and Arya's desperate face. Her hands twisted nervously in her skirts. "It all happened so fast..." she began, her voice thin and uncertain. "I didn't see exactly..."
Yesterday, in the privacy of his tent, she had admitted that Joffrey had drawn his sword first, though she'd insisted he was only trying to scare Arya, not harm her.
Arya bristled beside him, poised to launch herself at her sister, but Jon's hand closed firmly around her shoulder.
Robert's face darkened with impatience as Sansa continued to stammer without providing any useful testimony. Finally, his gaze landed on Jon as if noticing him for the first time.
"You," Robert pointed at Jon. "Snow, isn't it? Ned's bastard?"
Jon straightened, his face carefully composed. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Were you there? Did you see what happened?"
The pavilion fell silent. Ned felt his chest tighten as Jon stood at the center of attention, Cersei's venomous gaze fixed upon him. This was precisely what Ned had feared from the moment he'd agreed to bring Jon south—scrutiny, exposure, danger.
But the time for shielding had passed. Jon was a man grown now, making his own choices, facing his own consequences. And in his purple eyes—Rhaegar's eyes, gods help us all...
"I was there, Your Grace," Jon confirmed, his voice steady. "I saw everything."
"Prince Joffrey came upon us while I was training Lady Arya and Mycah with practice swords," Jon continued, his gaze fixed respectfully on Robert. "The prince mocked Mycah for his low birth, then drew live steel and cut the boy's face without provocation."
Joffrey's face contorted with rage. "You lying bas—"
"Quiet," Robert snapped. "Go on, Snow."
"When Lady Arya defended Mycah with her wooden sword, Prince Joffrey turned his blade on her. He would have harmed her grievously had Nymeria not intervened." Jon's voice remained measured. "The direwolf bit his arm to disarm him, not to kill. Once the prince dropped his sword, Nymeria released him immediately."
Ned watched Robert absorb this information, watched the king's eyes narrow as he assessed Jon's demeanor. Robert had always been a better judge of men than most gave him credit for, when he bothered to pay attention.
"You'd swear to this?" Robert demanded. "On your honor as Ned Stark's son?"
"I swear it, Your Grace. By the old gods and the new."
Robert exhaled heavily, running a hand through his beard. "Seven hells. Well, that settles it then." He stood, towering over the gathering. "The matter is closed. Children fighting, nothing more."
"Robert!" Cersei's voice cracked like a whip. "You cannot—"
"I said, it's done!" Robert roared, silencing her. He turned to Ned. "Discipline your daughter as you see fit. I'll do the same for my son." His expression suggested that Joffrey's discipline had already begun with that slap.
Cersei's composure crumbled, her beautiful face contorting with thwarted rage. "That beast savaged the crown prince! My son will carry these scars for the rest of his life!"
"Yes, he will," Robert agreed bluntly. "Maybe they'll remind him to think before drawing steel on a highborn girl."
"I want that wolf," Cersei hissed, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Justice demands it."
The Lannister captain stepped forward. "Your Grace, we haven't found the direwolf from yesterday."
A cold smile curved Cersei's lips. "Then we shall take the others. There are two more in camp."
Ned's blood ran cold as her meaning became clear. Ghost and Lady.
"No!" Sansa's cry broke through her earlier hesitation as she realised what the Queen was demanding. "Lady is good! She wasn't even there! She didn't do anything!" Her composure cracked entirely, tears welling in her eyes.
Beside her, Jon stood rigid with anger, his hand instinctively moving to where his sword would hang if he were permitted to wear one in the royal presence. The thought of Ghost's death had transformed him, and for one alarming moment, Ned saw not Lyanna's son but Rhaegar's son—a dragon roused to fury.
Gods, Robert, don't look at him now, Ned prayed silently. Don't see what I see.
But Robert was focused on Cersei, his expression hard as he considered her demand. He glanced at Ned, then back at his wife, his decision forming visibly on his face.
"No," Robert said firmly. "You will not have the wolves' hides, woman. The matter is settled."
"They are dangerous beasts," Cersei insisted, her voice rising. "They threaten—"
"If that direwolf hadn't stopped Joffrey yesterday," Robert cut across her, "yo-our precious son might have killed Ned's daughter with that sword of his. Then where would we be?" He leaned closer to her, lowering his voice, though Ned could still hear him. "Be thankful the beast only took his arm and not his life. Even I couldn't protect him if he'd murdered Lyanna's niece."
Cersei recoiled as if slapped, and Ned felt a chill run through him at Robert's words. Lyanna's niece.
"The wolves stay," Robert declared loudly, ending the discussion. "Go back to your tents, all of you. We've wasted enough time on this nonsense."
Jon Snow
The crackle of firelight cast dancing shadows across the unfamiliar chamber walls. Jon blinked, disoriented. This wasn't his tent on the kingsroad, nor his quarters at Winterfell. Something about this room felt hauntingly familiar yet completely foreign, like remembering something he had forgotten.
He found himself seated in an ornately carved chair, its dark wood polished to a gleam. The room was warm, warmer than any northern chamber had a right to be, and scented with unfamiliar spices that made his head swim. Jon shifted, feeling the weight of fine clothes against his skin rather than his usual rough-spun wool.
The heavy wooden door swung open with a soft creak, and Jon's breath caught in his throat.
She entered like living poetry—a vision so beautiful it made his chest ache. Her hair fell in waves of midnight silk around her shoulders, framing a face of such exquisite loveliness that Jon wondered if he'd somehow slipped into one of the songs Old Nan used to sing. High cheekbones, full lips curved into a sultry smile, and beautiful olive skin—but it was her eyes that transfixed him. Deep purple like his.
"Daemon," she called him, her voice rich and melodious, carrying an accent he couldn't place. Jon didn't know why she used that name.
Her gown was the color of midnight, clinging to curves that made Jon's mouth go dry. The neckline plunged daringly low, revealing the generous swell of her breasts, full and perfect. Around her neck hung a simple silver pendant—a falling star.
The scent of her perfume reached him—exotic blooms. Her hips swayed hypnotically as she closed the distance between them, and Jon felt his cock stir beneath his breeches.
"I've waited for this moment," she murmured, reaching out to trace her fingertips along his jaw. Her touch sent lightning racing across his skin. "To see those eyes again..."
Jon's heart hammered against his ribs as she sank gracefully to her knees before him, her purple eyes never leaving his. She seemed near Lady Stark's age—perhaps two-and-thirty.
"My lady," Jon finally managed to choke out, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. "What are you—?"
"Shhh," she soothed, her long fingers moving to his belt. "Let me worship you properly, as you deserve."
Before Jon could protest further, she freed him from his breeches, and he gasped as his cock sprang free—fully erect and straining upward. She hummed appreciatively, licking her full lips as she gazed hungrily at his impressive length.
"Always so magnificently made," she whispered, her warm breath teasing against his sensitive flesh. "Don't worry, my prince. This is our secret."
The first touch of her tongue against the swollen head of his cock drew a startled moan from Jon's throat. His fingers clutched the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. The sensation was overwhelming—wet heat and skilled pressure that made his toes curl inside his boots.
"Who—" Jon gasped, struggling to maintain coherence as pleasure surged through him. "Who are you?"
She didn't answer with words. Instead, she took him deeper into her mouth, her lips stretched around his considerable girth. Her eyes—those haunting purple eyes—stayed locked on his as she slowly descended, taking more of him than Jon would have thought possible. The sight was the most erotic thing he'd ever witnessed—this regal, beautiful woman on her knees before him, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked with maddening skill.
Her hands weren't idle, one cupping and massaging his balls with gentle pressure, the other gripping the base of his shaft where her mouth couldn't reach. The dual sensation had Jon panting, his head falling back against the chair as pleasure coursed through his veins like wildfire.
She worked him with a rhythm that seemed to anticipate his every need—fast when he needed friction, slow and teasing when he approached the edge too quickly.
Jon's hands moved of their own accord, tangling in her silken hair. The strands felt like cool water flowing between his fingers. She moaned around his cock when he gripped harder, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure up his spine.
"Gods," Jon groaned, his hips beginning to thrust upward involuntarily. "Your mouth... it's perfect..."
She pulled back slightly, her lips making an obscene wet pop as they released his glistening head. "I've dreamed of tasting you again," she said, her voice husky with desire. "Of feeling you spend yourself on my tongue." Without waiting for a response, she descended again, taking him even deeper, her throat working around him as she swallowed.
The sight of his cock disappearing into her beautiful mouth, those purple eyes watering slightly as she took him to the root, was too much for Jon's restraint. He felt the familiar tightening in his balls, the building pressure at the base of his spine that signaled his approaching climax.
"I'm going to—" he tried to warn her, his voice strained and desperate.
She only increased her efforts, her head bobbing faster, a muffled moan escaping around his thickness. One of her hands slipped inside her gown, and Jon realized with a jolt of renewed arousal that she was touching herself as she pleasured him.
His release hit him with the force of a thunderbolt. Jon's back arched, his hands tightening in her hair as his cock pulsed, shooting thick ropes of cum down her eager throat. She swallowed every drop, her throat working rhythmically, moaning as if his seed were the sweetest nectar.
When the last spasm subsided, she slowly released him, pressing one final kiss to his sensitive head before looking up. A single drop of white clung to her lower lip, and she licked it away with deliberate sensuality, her eyes never leaving his.
"Perfect," she whispered, rising to her feet. "Just as I remembered."
As she stood, the firelight caught her face at a new angle, and Jon was struck by a sudden sense of recognition. He'd seen her before—no, not her exactly, but perhaps her likeness. In a painting? A story?
"Who are you?" Jon asked again, desperation giving his voice an edge as the room around them began to blur at the edges.
She smiled, a touch of sadness in her expression as she leaned forward to press her lips against his forehead. "Someone that loves you dearly."
Jon awoke with a gasp, his body slick with sweat. Ghost raised his head from the tent floor, red eyes gleaming in the pre-dawn darkness.
"Who was that?"
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch