Of Course he will

The oak still held Alayne's warmth. She had not moved from where he left her, bent and laughing into the scarred wood, his seed painting slow paths down the insides of her thighs. Her hand cupped the hollow of her belly as if she could already feel the life taking root there.

A shadow peeled itself from the furs.

Karstark blue silk sighed against itself, falling open to reveal shoulders that had borne the weight of siege and starvation. Black hair swung loose, unbound, a dark banner as Alys crossed the solar with the same long stride she used in the saddle. No hesitation. No grace wasted on hesitation. Her palms struck his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, driving him back until his spine found the table's edge beside the woman still trembling from his last spend.

"My turn." The northern vowels came blunt and bright, thick with something that made his pulse hammer in his throat. "Karhold gave you its banners. I'll give you its blood."

She kissed him like battle. Teeth caught his lower lip, drew the sharp breath from his lungs, then she turned and braced herself against the same oak where Alayne's cheek had rested only moments before. The shift rucked to her waist revealed thighs pale and powerful, mapped with the calluses of a lifetime in stirrups. She glanced back over her shoulder. Grey eyes caught the firelight like steel drawn from scabbard.

"Don't be gentle," Alys said, and the words came as a command rather than request, her voice steady despite the trembling in her thighs. "I'm not glass."

Jon took her at her word.

The first stroke filled Alys completely and tore a grunt from somewhere deep in her throat where pleasure and pain had begun to blur together, and she was wet and ready but impossibly tight, muscles fluttering around him in protest and welcome as he stretched her open while her back arched not in yielding but in hunger, spine curving like a drawn bow as she pushed back to meet him and the table joints screamed beneath them, oak protesting the violence of their collision.

She surrounded him like a fist gloved in silk, hot and slick and tight enough to blur his vision at the edges, every roll of her hips shifting her around him so her inner walls gripped and released in waves, and when she pushed back she took him to the root, her body opening to accept all of him until the soft swell of Alys's arse pressed flush against his hips with a sound like a slap.

He withdrew slowly so he felt every ridge of her, every fluttering pulse of her arousal, and she hissed "again" through her teeth, so he drove forward hard enough to shove her palms several inches across the oak, and her laughter came breathless and wild, vibrating through her body into his in a resonance that traveled up his spine to settle heavy in his balls.

Lost in the rhythm they were building, she barely noticed Sansa drifting in beside her, her head dropping between her shoulders so black hair swung like a banner with each impact, obscuring her face while low bitten-off sounds escaped her, more animal than woman, growls of pleasure torn from her chest with every deep stroke.

Burning around Jon furnace hot, Alys arousal slicked every thrust until he slid through her grip with obscene ease, her thighs trembling with muscles standing out in sharp relief as she held her position and refused collapse even as her body began to climb, and he felt it building in her, the fluttering becoming rhythmic clenches, walls tightening in spasms that milked him with increasing urgency until Alys gasped "harder" in a voice that was pure demand, saying "Gods, harder" in the same breath.

Jon gave Alys everything and the table skidded across stone, groaning in time with her, each thrust bottoming out inside her so the head of his cock kissed the entrance to her womb, and every time he hit that depth she made a sound like dying and being reborn while her nails clawed at the oak and dug crescents into ancient wood.

When Sansa murmured against her ear, Alys's laugh broke into a moan, the vibration traveling through her spine and into her core to make her flutter around him in new patterns, and Myranda's mouth found the nape of her neck, sucking dark marks into pale skin, so her head fell back to expose her throat and her body opened even further around him in surrender that was not surrender at all.

Broad hands settled on Jon's hips, Brienne guiding his rhythm and pressing him deeper when he would have pulled back, holding him steady when he would have rushed, her gold hair brushing his shoulder and her breath warm and trembling against his ear, but his focus narrowed to the heat and wet grip, the way she met every thrust with a roll of her hips that drove him mad.

The orgasm took her like a seizure, moving with him one moment and meeting him stroke for stroke before her whole body went rigid, spine locking and head thrown back in a silent scream lasting two heartbeats until the sound tore out sharp and sudden, a cry like a blade drawn from flesh.

Walls clamped down so hard he saw stars, rhythmic pulses gripping him in waves that tried to pull the seed from his body by force, each spasm milking him while inner muscles fluttered and clenched around his length and her body shuddered with the violence of release, and he gritted his teeth against sweat sliding down his spine in slow rivers to fight the urge following her over the edge.

She did not soften or go limp but caught his wrist with surprising strength to yank him deeper, holding him buried to the hilt inside her fluttering heat while aftershocks continued to ripple through her and made her gasp with every wave.

"Finish it." The voice came guttural and desperate and triumphant, and she turned her head enough to show her face flushed and fierce with grey eyes bright with tears of pleasure. "Put a Karstark in me if the gods are listening. If not, we'll try again at dawn."

He spilled inside her with a rough groan torn from his soul, hips locked to hers in pulse after pulse flooding her depths while she took it all with a satisfied exhale, her body continuing to gently flutter around him and milk him dry, her forehead pressed to scarred oak with ragged gasps shaking her and inner walls still spasming weakly around his softening length.

When Jon finally eased free she straightened slowly and winced slightly, her thighs slick with their mingled spend, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she smiled like a woman who had just unhorsed a champion.

"Well ridden, husband."

Green silk flashed at the edge of his vision before he had fully caught his breath. Wylla moved like water between window seat and hearth, having shed the Manderly colors somewhere in that crossing, sixteen and clever and utterly without shame. She climbed into his lap before he had fully settled, thighs spreading over his, sea-green eyes bright with mischief and something softer swimming underneath.

"White Harbor next," she breathed against his mouth, kissing him sweet and almost innocent while her small hand found him still slick from Alys and guided him back into furnace heat that gripped him tighter, hotter, the head of his cock kissing her entrance before she sank down to take him to the root in a single smooth descent that tore a gasp from her throat. She was slicker than Alys had been, somehow hotter, her walls fluttering around him in quick spasms as she adjusted to his thickness, and she began to move with arms looped around his neck and breasts pressed flush to his chest, lifting and sinking in a rhythm that made his head spin.

Little gasps melted into giggles whenever he thrust up to meet her, the sound bright and wild, and Alayne knelt behind with palms cupping Wylla's breasts, thumbs circling until that laughter broke apart into raw begging. Alys watched from the furs through heavy lids with one hand moving idly between her thighs, offering lazy approval as Wylla's pace grew frantic, her body gripping him in quick fluttering pulses, walls tightening around Jon with each descent until she surrounded him like a slick fist that rippled and gripped with increasing urgency.

She was climbing fast and he felt it in the rhythm of her hips, the way she began to grind down against him rather than lift, seeking friction against her pearl while he filled her completely, and her walls began to spasm in earnest, fluttering around him in waves that grew stronger with each pass until she froze with him buried to the hilt and her body locked down hard, a cry tearing from her as she spasmed around his length in rhythmic contractions that milked him with irresistible pressure.

Following a heartbeat after, Jon pulsed inside Wylla while she kissed his jaw and whispered about ships and gold, staying seated until the last tremor faded and she had drawn everything from him with subtle shifts of her hips, then slipping free with a kiss and a curtsey that made Myranda snort into her goblet.

The solar had gone quieter, the fire burning low and golden, and Brienne had not moved from the furs' edge where she knelt with her golden hair finally loosed from its bonds, the thin shift clinging to the body he had spoken into being with words and want, full breasts and wide hips and skin like sunlight on fresh snow with freckles scattered across her nose like constellations. Her hands folded in her lap looked small, though they were not, and her eyes, wet and shining, never left his face even as she made herself smaller than she was, shoulders hunched inward as if she could fold her towering frame into something manageable, something that would not frighten.

"If you still want me," she said, and her voice came rough, barely above a whisper, trembling though her hands did not. "I'm yours. I've been yours since the road. I only, I don't know how to ask for what they asked."

Reaching up to cup her face the way he had beneath the heart tree, he had to stretch to meet her even on his knees, thumbs brushing tears already gathering at the corners of her eyes while he kissed her slowly, nothing like the violence he had spent on Alayne, nothing like the hard claiming he had given Alys. She made a broken sound against his mouth and opened for him, long arms coming around his shoulders with the desperation of a drowning woman clutching salvation, her body folding around him even as her height made her loom above him in supplication.

On the furs she unfolded, all long limbs and powerful lines that took up more space than the others had, her legs seeming to go on forever, shoulders broad enough to block the firelight. The others drew close without speaking, Sansa at Brienne's head with fingers combing through pale-gold hair with infinite tenderness, Wylla and Alys at her sides with hands stroking the long powerful lines of thighs that could have snapped a man's neck but lay open and trembling instead, Myranda and Alayne lower with clever fingers finding the places that made her gasp and arch that great spine off the furs.

Trembling under all of it, with tears sliding into her hair, she never looked away from him even as her size made her vulnerability more terrible, all that strength laid bare and waiting.

Carefully he entered her, feeling her stretch around him, tight despite her size, muscles fluttering and yielding as he sank into furnace heat that gripped him differently than the others had, not the relentless milking of Alys or the quick fluttering of Wylla but something deeper, a slow clench that rippled up his length as she adjusted to his thickness. She gasped with hands flying to his back, long fingers spanning almost his entire shoulder width, holding him as though Tarth itself might crumble if she let go, and he felt her trembling around him, her walls spasming in quick nervous pulses that gradually slowed as he stilled inside her, letting her feel the fullness, the weight of him pressed against her womb.

Moving slowly inside her, he felt her meet him anyway, those long hips lifting to meet each gentle thrust with a roll that spoke of her strength even in surrender, soft wondering moans breaking against his shoulder while the circle of queens touched her everywhere. Sansa kissed her brow with infinite tenderness and Alayne's fingers found the sensitive peak above where he joined her, circling until Brienne cried out in a voice too large for the quiet room, the sound vibrating through her chest into his where they pressed together. Myranda murmured that she was magnificent, perfect, enough, and Wylla laughed softly against her shoulder, saying yes, yes, this, while Alys watched with heavy satisfied eyes from the furs.

She was burning around him, slick and impossibly tight, her arousal coating every thrust until he slid through her grip with silken ease, and he could feel her climbing in the way her thighs began to tremble against his flanks, the way her heels dug into the small of his back, the way her breath came in ragged gasps that stirred the hair at his temple. Her body surrounded him like a glove of heated velvet, rippling with each stroke, and when he shifted his angle slightly she gasped, head falling back to expose the long column of her throat, her walls clamping down hard around him in response.

"Please," she whispered, though she did not know what she was asking for, and he gave her everything, sinking deep and grinding against her with slow rolls of his hips that made her sob and clutch at him harder, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders through the tunic he still wore.

The orgasm took her quiet and shattering, her whole body locking around him with such strength he could barely breathe, walls gripping him in rhythmic waves that felt like she was trying to pull him deeper still, a sob caught in her throat that sounded like joy finally allowed to exist. She came for long moments, shuddering beneath him, her body milking him with each spasm, and he followed her down into it, spilling deep with his forehead pressed to hers, her name the only language he had left, pulse after pulse flooding her while she took it all with broken whispers against his mouth.

After, she would not let him go. She kept him inside her, arms and legs wrapped around him like armor, golden hair spread across the furs like captured sunlight, tears drying on her cheeks while five other hands rested on her belly and her hair and her heart, claiming her and claiming this and planting dynasty in the dark.

"My king," she said, barely a breath against his mouth. "My husband."

Before Brienne's whisper could fade, movement stirred at the edge of the furs. Sansa rose from where she had knelt beside the golden-haired woman, her spine straightening with the slow deliberation of a queen ascending her throne, and she stood there a moment with the firelight gilding the curves of her body through the heavy cloak she wore. Then her hands went to the clasp at her throat and the furs fell.

They pooled around her feet in a pelt of shadow, leaving her naked and pale and perfect in the dying firelight, breasts lifted with each breath, the thatch of dark hair between her thighs catching the glow like embers, her body the culmination of all the North's beauty and cruelty. She took a step toward him, hips swaying with the confidence of a woman who had survived everything the world had thrown at her and emerged more terrible, more magnificent, more his.

She stopped before him, looking down at where he still lay tangled with Brienne, and her smile was slow and sharp and triumphant, the smile of a woman who had arranged all the pieces and now claimed her reward.

"Well, Jon," she purred, and her voice carried the weight of Winterfell and the Eyrie and every stone between, rich with victory and hunger and something that looked very much like love. "It seems I am the only one left."

She held out her hand to him, palm up, an invitation and a command, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Come," she said. "Make me your queen in truth."