Family Reunion

The host crossed the Trident under crimson skies, Melisandre’s flames guiding the way at night. Word of the sack of the Twins had spread like wildfire. Castles opened their gates without fight. Lords bent the knee and offered daughters. You took a few - quickly, savagely, in their own halls - but none truly satisfied the growing hunger.

Then the raven arrived.

Sansa had escaped the Vale. Littlefinger’s schemes had unraveled, and she was riding hard north with a small escort to find you. She reached your camp two days later, just as the army made camp near the ruins of Harrenhal.

She looked every inch the lady - tall, elegant, Tully auburn hair braided with silver, wearing a gown of grey and blue. But her eyes carried the weight of what Ramsay and the Lannisters had done to her. When she saw you on the makeshift throne in the largest pavilion, flanked by your swollen Melisandre and the other women of your harem, something fractured in her expression.

“Jon,” she whispered, voice trembling.

You rose slowly. The entire command tent watched - lords, wildlings, your women.

Melisandre placed a hand on her massive belly and smiled. “The blood of Winterfell returns. How fitting.”

You dismissed everyone except your inner circle. Once the tent flaps closed, you crossed to Sansa and pulled her into a rough embrace. She stiffened at first, then melted against you, tears soaking your tunic.

“I thought you dead,” she breathed. “Twice.”

“I came back,” you growled against her hair. “And I’m not the same boy who left for the Wall.”

That night, after the feast where Sansa sat at your right hand, you took her.

Not privately.

You wanted the camp, and through them, the realm, to understand that House Stark was yours in every way.

-----

In the center of the largest clearing, a great bonfire roared under Melisandre’s command. Hundreds gathered: your soldiers, wildlings, northern bannermen, and the small party that had brought Sansa. Torches lit the circle. Melisandre stood prominently, belly glowing, chanting softly so her voice carried on the wind.

Sansa stood before you in only a thin white shift, cheeks burning with shame and something hotter. You could see the conflict in her eyes; the proper lady who had suffered so much versus the girl who had once dreamed of knights and kings.

You stepped close, voice low enough for only her to hear. “You’re mine now, Sansa. Not a pawn. Not a bargaining chip. Mine to protect. Mine to claim.”

She shivered as you tore the shift from her body in one pull. Gasps rippled through the crowd at the sight of her pale, freckled skin, full breasts, and the soft curve of her hips. The scars Ramsay left were still visible - faint lines across her back - and they only made the hunger inside you sharper.

You pushed her down onto a thick pile of furs laid out before the fire. Sansa gasped as you spread her legs wide, exposing her to the entire gathering. Her cunt was already glistening despite her humiliation.

“Look at them,” you ordered, gripping her chin. “Let them see their Lady of Winterfell give herself to the King in the North.”

You knelt between her thighs and thrust into her in one long, claiming stroke. Sansa cried out sharply - half pain, half relief - as her tight walls stretched around your thick cock. She was wetter than expected, hot and silky, clenching desperately as you bottomed out against her cervix.

Then you fucked her.

Not gently. You took her with deep, powerful strokes that made her breasts bounce and her back arch off the furs. The wet slap of your hips against her ass echoed over the crackling fire. Sansa’s hands clutched at your shoulders, nails digging in as broken moans spilled from her lips.

“Jon, gods - Jon!” she sobbed, legs wrapping around your waist despite herself.

Melisandre’s voice rose. “See how even the daughters of Winterfell open for him. See how the wolf claims his own.”

You flipped Sansa onto her hands and knees, facing the crowd, and mounted her from behind like a beast. One hand fisted in her long auburn hair, the other gripping her hip as you pounded her mercilessly. Her full tits swayed with every brutal thrust. Her moans grew louder, shame burning away under raw pleasure.

You reached around and rubbed her clit hard. Sansa shattered with a wail that carried across the camp, her cunt spasming wildly around your cock as she came for all to see. The sight and feel of your highborn “sister” coming undone pushed you over the edge.

With a savage growl you buried yourself deep and flooded her. Thick, heavy ropes of cum pumped straight into her womb, so much that it spurted out around your shaft and ran down her thighs. You kept grinding through the orgasm, marking her completely.

When you finally pulled out, Sansa collapsed onto the furs, thoroughly fucked, legs spread, your seed leaking freely from her well-used cunt. The crowd roared in approval.

You stood over her, cock still hard and shining, and looked out at the army.

“House Stark endures,” you proclaimed. “But it obeys me. Any who wish to challenge that may step forward now.”

No one moved.

Melisandre stepped forward, glowing with pride and lust. She helped Sansa to her feet and kissed her softly on the lips, tasting her pleasure. “Welcome home, Lady Sansa. There is a place in our king’s bed for you… if you earn it every night.”

Later, in the royal pavilion, you claimed Sansa again - slower this time - while Melisandre and Val watched and touched themselves. Sansa rode you with trembling thighs, learning how to please her king, her moans mixing with the crackle of the brazier.

The road to King’s Landing grew shorter with every league.

And your legend - the king who fucked his way to the Iron Throne - grew louder with every conquered, dripping cunt left in his wake.