The New Septa takes matters into her own hands

The spell snapped like a bowstring released.

Septa Mordane’s first breath came in a shuddering gasp. Her new body swayed; the crimson lace at her throat rose and fell with sudden, frantic speed. Dark eyes (once cold with judgement, now molten with something ****) fixed on Jon.

“Jon…” The name left her lips like a prayer she had never meant to utter.

She moved before he could step back. One stride closed the distance between them; velvet skirts brushed his legs, and her hands (soft, trembling, yet certain) rose to cradle his face. Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones with reverence, as though touching something holy.

“I was wrong,” she whispered, voice low and husky, nothing like the sharp septa’s tongue of minutes ago. “So wrong. All these years… I never saw you.”

She rose on her toes, the sudden, impossible lushness of her new body pressing itself up against him as though the velvet and lace had been sewn for this single purpose. Full breasts crushed against his chest, nipples already peaked and straining through the thin crimson lace; the soft weight of them rose and fell with each ragged breath. Her hips rolled forward instinctively, pressing the warm cradle between her thighs to the growing hardness in his breeches, a slow, deliberate friction that tore a low sound from his throat.

Then she kissed him.

Her mouth was fever-hot, lips plush and wine-soft, parting on the first touch so her tongue could slip past his in one slick, **** glide. She tasted of rosewater and something darker (honeyed sin, years of repressed want suddenly unleashed). She kissed like a woman drowning: open-mouthed, greedy, small whimpering noises vibrating against his tongue as she licked deeper, chasing the flavour of him as though it were the only thing that could save her.

One hand plunged into his hair, nails scraping his scalp before her fingers twisted tight, anchoring his head exactly where she needed it. The other hand roamed (restless, possessive): sliding down the column of his throat, tracing the frantic beat of his pulse, then splaying over his chest as if she could press her palm straight through wool and skin to hold his heart. Lower still, fingertips brushing the laces of his tunic, tugging impatiently, already seeking skin.

Every roll of her hips dragged the slick heat between her thighs along his length, the velvet of her skirts whispering against leather and wool. The scent of her (rosewater, warm skin, and the faint, unmistakable musk of sudden arousal) flooded his senses until the godswood itself seemed to spin.

When at last she broke the kiss, it was only to breathe. She did not pull away. Her forehead rested against his, damp with sweat; her lips, swollen and glistening, hovered a hair’s breadth from his own. Dark lashes trembled; tears of raw, helpless want clung to them like dew.

“Jon,” she whispered, the name cracking open like a confession, raw and husky, trembling on the edge of a sob. “Please…”

Her breath shuddered against his lips; her body trembled in his arms, every lush curve pressed so tightly he could feel the frantic hammer of her heart against his own.

“Take me,” she breathed, the words spilling out fever-hot, ****. “Here, beneath the heart tree, where the old gods can watch… or carry me to the sept and claim me before the Seven who once blinded me. I am yours, Jon Snow. Wherever you want me, however you want me. Only say the word.”

Her fingers found his, guiding them to the laces at her throat, already tugging them loose.

Jon stood frozen beneath the weirwood’s bleeding face, the power still thrumming in his veins, tasting her mouth on his, feeling the heat of her body through velvet and lace.

Old gods or new.

Heart tree or sept.