Cersei’s Victory (bdsm, slavery, multi)

The Walk of Shame.

Jon Snow shivered at the cracking of a whip overhead. There was a thud as the lash struck flesh, then a female groan somewhere in the coffle behind him. He had been spared the stroke, this time at least. Along his bare back, thighs and buttocks he knew he bore many other welts from this ghastly procession of slaves and captives.

It had been like this ever since Winterfell had fallen in the Great Thaw. The sun had shone bright over the crimson Lannister pennants and shields as the walls had crumbled and a white flag flown high above the Broken Tower. That had been Sansa’s doing; Jon and Arya would have fought to the last if every Stark bannerman hadn’t thrown down their arms.

That wretched day had been the last time Jon had seen his sisters. Here in King’s Landing, stripped bare and chained to all the other prisoners of war, he was not even sure if they were alive.

For all he knew, that could be a blessing. He had been unfortunate enough to witness the others’ fates and punishments, seeing lions in chainmail break down Daenerys’ door and strip all their prisoners right there in the Winterfell Keep. For the entire march down the King’s Road from the North, neither Jon nor any of his subjects had been permitted a single stitch of clothing.

They only thing any of them had to wear were iron collars and the stains of seed from their red-garbed tormentors.

Jon had mastered the ability to cut himself off from the atrocities of the present, to look without seeing and hear nothing but his past regrets. Still, the sound of another whip-crack broke him out from a reverie as the entire procession came to a halt.

They had arrived at a crossroads. Here, lines of Lannister guards kept back the baying crowds, while right in the centre of the fork a platform had been erected.

“Fucking hell,” Ygritte breathed from behind him.

It appeared that Cersei Lannister wanted to display her victory for all to see. A gigantic red flag, thirty foot high, was draped as a backdrop to the depravities being committed in the Lannister name. A woman with short black hair and a simple tunic emblazoned with a golden lion was reading out names of attainted traitors to the tune of blaring trumpets from each side of the dais.

Behind the announcer were the pillories. Some of the low-born or simply overlooked prisoners had already been imprisoned for quite some time by the looks of it. Jon looked away from one of the stocks where Karsi, one of the Wildlings from Hardhome, was being fucked in both her holes. The worm, Qyburn, appeared to have created stockades which encased both both the arms and legs of an unfortunate soul. One plank had holes for the head and arms, while a single plank lifted up the legs so that the victim could be easily tormented from either end. Karsi’s brunette face already seemed to be glazed white and sticky with loads of semen, while Jon could see her petite tits jiggling from underneath her.

There were even worse sights further along the platform. Side-by-side were Osha and Meera Reed; the two brave warriors had both fought to protect Bran and now they were suffering for it. Like Karsi and other prisoners, Meera had been locked into the stocks face down and Jon was surprised to see that the highborn girl was fairly thick, with heavy breasts, wide hips and a round arse that was being penetrated.

Conversely, Osha had been placed into the stocks as if she was lying on her back, so that her tits were facing up towards the heavens and the pitiless gods. Jon winced at the sight of another soldier pumping between the slender wildling’s legs. Then he looked away altogether as a second soldier put both hands on the side of her messy hair and started facefucking her while his balls bounced against her eyes and nose. This must not have been the first time Osha had endured such treatment: one eye was glued shut by sticky strings from where cum had dripped down from her mouth over her upside-down face and scalp.

“Halt!” a seargeant called ahead of them, making the prisoners in front of Jon shuffle to a stop.

They had all been tied together in a line, single-file. Jon’s hands were tied to the collar of Melisendre, the red witch who had not spoken a word since his defeat. Everytime they stopped Jon winced at how his cock would bounce off her ample buttcheeks and sometimes soldiers pushed him into her just out of boredom when they were on the march (at night there was an abudance of entertainment from the buxom priestess being gangbanged, covered in cum and used in every hole).

While Jon’s hands were tied to Melisendre’s collar, Ygritte’s hand were tied to his neck, to jokes about him being sandwiched between redheads. The spearwife must have been in her own reverie, as she suddenly stopped so close to him that he felt her little pink nipples poke into her back even as her tousled hair tickled his shoulders. He was almost sure he could feel her breath on the back of his neck, she was so close. His cock twitched from their proximity.

Jon had tried to hide his connection to the spearwife from his captors for as long as he could. Every night that Ygritte was chained away from him was a night that he slept better for knowing that she would not be used against him. But eventually, when they were still seven days out from King’s Landing, a dissatisfied Night’s Watchman tattled to the guards in exchange for a reprieve.

That endless night, they had tied Jon to a stake with an ivory phallus up his arse and made him watch as Ygritte was buggered again and again. “Don’t worry, Jon,” she had said. “They won’t get any satisfaction from me.”

Yet by the time the fifth man was pounding into her, the girl who was kissed by fire was screaming in pleasure as loud as any harlot. Eventually, the train they ran on her had left her such a creampie that they had decided that a clean-up was required: they wanted Jon to eat her out.

Apart from when they were chained together in coffles or bound in the same ropes to trees, he had not laid hand on any woman since his capture and his cock and stones were aching for release. Jon still refused to humiliate himself until he was given an ultimatum: either he sucked all their seed out of Ygritte’s asshole or he would “have a red-hot poker rammed so hard up his arse that he breathed dragonflame.”

It made him wretch and gag more times than he could count, and he could have sworn Ygritte came at one point, but finally Jon had rimmed his lover so much that her rosebud was completely clean. He had been instructed to keep it in his mouth, then let it pour out all over Ygritte’s face. That had been the last time he had kissed his spearwife. She had spent the rest of that night, and most of the nights since, being spitroasted and sodomised by an endless procession of soldiers.

Back in the present, Jon looked up as he heard the clinking of keys. Then strong hands were pushing him forward, sending him stumbling into Melisendre. Ygritte had been untied from his yoke.

They were walking his lover, his spearwife, up onto the palisade. Ygritte’s jaw was clenched and she trembled as a soldier crudely gripped her tits to cheers from the crowd; the redhead would give them no satisfaction if they wanted to humiliate her. She made not a sound, even when she was turned around and spanked, even as she was put into a pair of empty stocks for another rough ganbang.

Jon groaned as a lash tore against his arse. His body convulsed as the line of red fire ripped through his sore and battered body. Such was his pain that he did not even notice his crown and jewels rubbing repeatedly against Melisendre.

Then they were all moving again, stumbling through the dusty streets and jeering crowds. Jon felt his shoulders droop as he realised how many of his followers and subjects he was living behind to torment and humiliation.

Ahead of them lay the Red Keep. Ahead of him, Jon knew he would find out what had happened to his sisters, to his queen.

As well as what his own fate would be.