In the Light of the Seven

Jon tasted the desperation on her tongue, felt the tremor in her fingers as they fumbled with the laces of her gown. The heart tree’s carved eyes stared down, red sap dripping like blood.

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice rough.

“Not here,” he said. “The sept. Before the Seven you served so faithfully.”

A soft, hungry cry spilled from her throat (half sob, half moan of pure longing) and she surged forward, pressing the new, lush curves of her body against him as if she could crawl inside his skin.

“Yes,” she breathed, the word trembling with frantic joy, lips brushing his jaw in feverish little kisses. “The sept, the sept, before the Seven themselves. Take me there, Jon, please, I’m burning for you, I’ll go to my knees on the altar if you let me, only take me now.”

Jon caught her wrist, steadying her. “No one will notice us leaving the godswood,” he commanded, the power slipping out like silk over steel. “No one will see us cross the castle. No one will mark our passing, no matter who we walk past. When we reach the sept, the doors will open for us and close behind us, and no living soul will disturb what happens within.”

The words settled over the grove like frost.

He drew her after him. They left the heart tree behind (number 6 on the castle map), slipping out through the ironwood gate, past the hot pools and sentinel trees. Servants hurried by with trays of bread and flagons; guards laughed at their posts; the yard was empty; none spared them a glance. Jon led her along the covered bridge that spanned the inner moat, then south-east past the glass gardens and the armoury, past the bustle of the first keep and the great hall. Her hand clung to his, velvet skirts brushing his boots, breath coming in soft, eager gasps that no one heard.

They reached the small sept tucked against the inner wall (number 20), its seven-sided tower modest beside the ancient stones of Winterfell. The oaken doors swung inward at their approach, silent on well-oiled hinges, and closed behind them with a heavy thud that echoed beneath the vaulted roof.

Inside, late-afternoon light slanted through high windows of coloured glass: the Father’s stern face, the Mother’s gentle smile, the Warrior’s raised sword, the Maiden’s downcast eyes. Seven crystal facets glittered on the altar.

Septa Mordane (still wearing the seven-pointed star nestled now between the swell of her breasts) sank to her knees on the cold stone floor, looking up at him with dark, adoring eyes.

“Before the Seven,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence and hunger. “Take me before the gods I once thought judged you.”

Jon stood over her, the power thrumming hot in his blood, and considered exactly how much blasphemy he intended to commit beneath those painted stares.

He reached down, fingers threading through her midnight hair, and drew her up to her feet. She rose eagerly, pressing the length of her new body against him (full breasts crushed to his chest, hips rolling forward in helpless invitation). Her mouth found his again, hungrier now, tongue sliding against his with a desperation that tasted of incense and sin.

He walked her backward until her spine met the altar rail. The seven-pointed star at her throat caught the light as her breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath.

“On the altar,” he said, voice low. “I want you spread beneath the Seven you once served.”

A broken moan tore from her throat (half prayer, half surrender). She turned at once, hands already gathering the heavy velvet of her skirts, lifting them to her waist as she bent forward over the polished oak. The crimson lace of her smallclothes followed, tugged down and kicked aside, revealing the slick, glistening heat between her thighs.

Jon’s palm slid down the warm velvet covering the small of her back, fingers spreading wide, feeling the tremor that rippled through her as he pressed her gently but firmly against the altar rail.

The other hand worked fast (laced breeches loosened, wool shoved down just enough) until his cock sprang free, thick and aching, the cool sept air kissing the slick head.

He guided himself between her thighs.

The first touch of her (hot, wet, impossibly ready) drew a low hiss from his teeth.

She was drenched; the lips of her cunt parted eagerly around the crown as he pushed forward, slow, deliberate, watching every inch disappear into her.

Her inner walls fluttered, clenching greedily, trying to pull him deeper even before he was fully seated.

When his hips finally met the plush curve of her arse, he paused, letting her feel the stretch, the throb of him buried to the hilt.

A broken whimper escaped her (half prayer, half curse) as her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the altar cloth, nails catching in the golden flames stitched there, dragging the heavy fabric askew.

He drew back until only the head remained inside, then drove forward again, harder this time.

The slap of skin on skin rang sharp beneath the vaulted roof; her back arched, breasts straining against the low neckline of her gown, nipples stiff and visible through crimson lace.

Each thrust dragged a new sound from her throat: soft, **** “Jon—”s tangled with breathless invocations of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, until the names blurred into one long, keening moan.

Jon leaned over her, chest to her back, one hand sliding up to fist gently in that river of midnight hair.

He tugged her head up, forcing her to face the coloured windows.

“Look at them,” he growled against her ear, hips never slowing. “Look at your Seven while I fuck you on their altar.”

Her body answered before her mind could: a violent clench around his cock, a fresh rush of wetness that coated his shaft and dripped down her thighs.

Tears spilled from the corners of her dark, kohl-lined eyes, streaking perfect cheeks, but her hips shoved back to meet every thrust, greedy, shameless, the velvet of her skirts bunched high around her waist.

He slipped his free hand beneath her, fingers finding the swollen pearl at the apex of her sex.

One rough circle, two, and she shattered (walls spasming, back bowing, a raw, guttural cry tearing from her throat as she came hard around him, soaking the altar cloth, her thighs, his fingers).

The sight of her undone (pious septa reduced to a trembling, tear-streaked creature impaled on his cock beneath the painted gods) snapped the last of his restraint.

He slammed home once, twice, and spilled deep inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking as pulse after pulse flooded her, marking her in the most profane way possible beneath the watching eyes of the Seven.

She sagged against the altar, breath hitching, body still fluttering around him in aftershocks.

Jon stayed buried inside her, chest heaving, feeling the warmth of his own release trickle down the inside of her thigh and stain the sacred cloth beneath them a darker shade of crimson.

Then Mordane turned in his arms, face flushed and tear-streaked, eyes shining with something that looked disturbingly like worship. She pressed her forehead to his, lips trembling.

“Again,” she whispered. “Anytime. Anywhere. I am yours, Jon Snow. Before every god, new and old.”

Jon looked past her to the coloured light falling across the defiled altar (red, gold, violet, and the pale, accusing gaze of the Maiden) and felt the last thin thread of the boy he had been snap inside him.

Mordane’s plea still hung in the air, soft, trembling, utterly surrendered.

Jon’s pulse had barely slowed. He looked at the ruined altar (the crumpled cloth, the glistening streaks of their joining, the seven crystal facets now catching stray flecks of light like accusing eyes), and felt something dark and hungry uncoil inside him.

He didn’t speak. He simply caught her by the waist, spun her, and lifted her bodily onto the altar itself.

Velvet skirts bunched higher; the bronze bodice gaped as he tugged laces loose with impatient fingers. Her breasts spilled free (full, heavy, nipples dark and peaked from cold air and lingering arousal). He bent his head and took one into his mouth, teeth grazing, tongue swirling until she cried out and arched into him, hands clawing at his shoulders.

Her legs parted wide on instinct, thighs trembling as he stepped between them. He was already hard again, aching, the taste of her still on his tongue and the scent of their earlier coupling thick in the air. He dragged the head of his cock through her slick folds (once, twice), coating himself in the mess he’d left inside her, then pushed back in with a single, brutal thrust that rocked the altar on its pedestal.

Mordane’s head fell back, throat bared to the coloured light, a broken moan echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him deeper, faster. He obliged, hips snapping forward, the slap of flesh loud and obscene beneath the painted gods.

One of his hands pinned both her wrists above her head against the altar cloth; the other slid down to grip her thigh, hitching her leg higher so he could drive even deeper. Every thrust dragged a new sound from her (gasps that turned to sobs, sobs that turned to breathless prayers offered not to the Seven but to him).

“Look at me,” he growled.

Her eyes snapped open (dark, wet, utterly devoted) and locked on his. He fucked her harder, watching her pupils blow wide, watching tears spill anew as another climax built behind those beautiful, corrupted eyes.

When she came the second time it was with his name on her tongue like a hymn, her body clenching so tight around him that he followed her over the edge almost instantly, spilling deep inside her again with a guttural curse that belonged to no god at all.

They stayed locked together, trembling, sweat-slick, the altar beneath them now thoroughly defiled (stained with seed and tears and the crimson of crushed velvet).

Mordane’s lips brushed his ear, barely a breath.

“I want it,” she breathed, half-sobbing. “I want your babe in my belly, want everyone to know I belong to House Stark’s bastard no matter how they scorn the name.”

Jon drew back just enough to meet her eyes (dark, wet, fever-bright with devotion). He brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair from her cheek and spoke, low and certain, the power thrumming beneath every word.

“If a child comes of this, no one will ever think it strange. The whole of Winterfell will remember you as a virtuous widow who kept to her vows until a respectful mourning had passed, then married quietly, honourably, to a man of good Northern blood. No one will whisper. No one will question. And no son or daughter of mine will ever be born a bastard. They will bear a true name, my name, and the world will call them legitimate from the moment they draw breath.”

A shudder ran through her (relief, worship, hunger all at once). She pulled him down into a ****, grateful kiss, thighs tightening around his hips.

“Then give me that child,” she pleaded against his mouth. “Here. Now. Let the Seven watch you make me yours in every way.”

Jon’s hands slid to her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise. He pulled out slowly (just far enough that she whimpered at the loss), then drove back in with a single, punishing thrust that rocked the altar and tore a raw cry from her throat.

“This time,” he growled against her ear, voice rough as gravel, “you will take every drop. You will carry my child, Mordane. You will swell with the proof that the septa who once called me filth now belongs to the bastard she despised.”

He set a brutal rhythm (deep, relentless strokes that slammed her hips against the edge of the altar, the wet slap of their bodies loud beneath the vaulted roof). Her legs locked around his waist; her nails raked down his back through wool037, drawing blood. Every thrust dragged a new sound from her (broken prayers, **** pleas, his name chanted like a litany).

He shifted his grip, one arm hooking under her knee to spread her wider, opening her fully to him. The new angle let him sink even deeper; the head of his cock dragged across that spot inside her that made her sob and clench around him like a fist.

“You feel that?” he rasped, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. “That’s my seed taking root. You’re going to grow round with my babe, Mordane. Every lord and lady in the North will see your belly and know (without ever daring to speak it) that Jon Snow bred the pious septa on the Seven’s own altar.”

Her back arched; tears streaked the kohl at her temples. “Yes, yes, gods, yes, Jon, give it to me—”

He slammed home one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his release tore through him. He spilled hot and thick inside her, pulse after pulse, hips jerking with every spurt until he was emptied and she was trembling, overflowing, the evidence of his claim already seeping down her thighs and staining the sacred cloth beneath her a darker crimson.

He stayed inside her, chest heaving, feeling the last fluttering aftershocks of her own climax milk him dry.

When he finally pulled back, he cupped her flushed, tear-streaked face and met her dazed, worshipful eyes.

“It is done,” he said quietly. “You will carry my child. And the world will call it legitimate.”

Mordane’s only answer was to pull him down into a slow, reverent kiss, her body still trembling around the seed he had planted beneath the painted gaze of the Seven.