It is a moment of Weakness

It is a moment of weakness, but at hearing those words of the Princess, the power stirred in Jon's chest, eager and insistent, coiling around the words she had offered like a key turning in a lock.

He had already taken so much—her love, her future, her body—and the guilt that had held him back moments ago felt thinner now, worn down by the heat of her gaze, the way she clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in her world.

Closing his eyes and cursing his weakness, Jon let out a breathe.

"Then, I am your husband," he said, voice low and deliberate, the power surging forward in a warm rush that wrapped around them both. "Jocelyn Baratheon, you are married to me, Jon Snow, your consort, in the sight of gods old and new. The world knows our union as recent truth—no questions, no doubts, no barriers. We were wed lawfully, celebrated, unbreakable."

The air shimmered faintly, reality bending like light through water.

Memories rewrote themselves across the realm in an instant—histories shifted, records adjusted, every mind accepting the new truth without a ripple of surprise.

Jocelyn Baratheon had recently taken Jon Snow as her consort, bound to him by law and love in a quiet but acknowledged ceremony, her status as princess unchanged but her heart irrevocably tied to his.

She blinked once, her expression softening into quiet wonder, as though a long-held wish had finally taken solid form.

"Jon..." she breathed, voice trembling with joy she had always known. "My husband."

Jon tilted his head into her touch, letting Jocelyn guide the angle as her lips found his again.

This kiss unfolded slower, lips brushing once, twice, then parting on a shared exhale.

Her tongue slipped past his in a languid sweep, curling against his own with deliberate care, tasting the faint copper of earlier bites and the lingering sweetness of wine from the feast.

One hand cupped the back of his skull, fingers threading through dark curls to hold him steady; the other slid down to rest over his heart, palm flat and warm, as though she needed to feel the rhythm beneath skin and bone.

Her body shifted closer still, breasts flattening softly against his chest with every inhale, nipples dragging in slow circles as she breathed him in.

Both their thighs flexed, muscles tightening in a slow, deliberate squeeze that drew him deeper inside her, the slick heat of her walls fluttering once, twice, in quiet invitation rather than demand.

A small sound escaped her—half sigh, half moan—vibrating against his mouth as she rocked forward in a gentle roll, hips circling just enough to remind him how perfectly they fit together.

When she drew back, her smile was radiant, fingers threading through his dark curls.

"My husband," she murmured, voice warm with the ease of something long established. She rocked her hips once, slow and deliberate, her slick heat still wrapped around him, drawing a low groan from his throat. "...I want to feel you inside me again."

Jon pressed Jocelyn higher against the weirwood's trunk, rough bark biting into her back as he lifted her thighs, spreading her wider.

Her legs hooked tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in until there was no space left between them.

He rolled his hips forward in one long, unhurried thrust—slow enough that she felt every inch sliding through her slick heat, stretching her open again.

Jocelyn's breath caught on a soft, trembling gasp, her inner walls fluttering around him in quick, eager pulses, clinging as though trying to keep him buried deep.

Tipping her head back against the pale wood, Jocelyn's golden curls caught on the red leaves, lips parting as another low moan slipped free, it was reverent, almost prayer-like.

Jon drew back just as slowly, letting her feel the drag of him leaving her almost entirely before pushing in again, deeper this time, grinding at the end so the base of his cock pressed hard against her swollen pearl.

This caused The Princess to whimper, fingers knotting in the hair at his nape, nails scraping scalp as her hips tilted up to meet him, chasing that pressure.

Her breasts rose and fell against his chest with every shared breath, nipples stiff and dragging across his skin in tiny sparks with each slow roll.

No frantic rhythm, no bruising ****—only this deliberate slide and retreat, the wet sound of their bodies meeting soft and obscene in the godswood's hush.

Jocelyn's thighs trembled around him, muscles flexing as she tried to pull him closer still, her slickness coating him thicker with every measured thrust, dripping down to slick the crease where thigh met groin.

She rocked with him, small circles of her hips grinding her clit against his pubic bone on every downstroke, drawing out breathy sighs that grew longer, softer, until they blurred into one continuous sound of surrender.

Her arms tightened around his neck, forehead dropping to rest against his again, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

Each inhale pressed her breasts fuller against him; each exhale carried a quiet, reverent moan that vibrated through his chest.

The weirwood's red leaves stirred overhead, a faint rustle like breathing, as though the old tree itself witnessed the slow, sacred rhythm of husband and wife claiming what had always been theirs.

Jon kept the pace steady, deep, each measured thrust letting Jocelyn feel every inch of him sliding through her slick heat, filling her completely before he eased back just far enough to draw a soft, protesting flutter from her walls.

Jon sank in again, slow and deliberate, then again. The unhurried rhythm stayed relentless in its patience, each deep roll of his hips stoking a quiet fire that coiled tighter between them.

Pleasure mounted in Jocelyn's body like a slow-rising tide, her thighs trembling around his waist, soft cries muffled against his shoulder sharpening into ****, fractured gasps as the tension finally broke.

Her climax rolled through her like a slow-breaking tide, inner walls clenching in rhythmic spasms that gripped him fiercely, pulsing in warm, greedy waves that milked him deeper with every shudder.

Jocelyn’s back arched against the weirwood’s pale bark, spine bowing as the sensation flooded her—her breath catching in fractured gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders until the skin dimpled white beneath her nails, golden curls spilling across red leaves as her head tipped back.

A low, keening sound escaped her throat, rising into something almost reverent, her entire frame quaking as the pleasure crested and crashed, slickness flooding around him in hot pulses that coated his length and dripped down their joined thighs.

The sudden rhythmic squeeze of her release gripped him fiercely, tight and fluttering and utterly insistent. It dragged Jon over the edge in the same breath, pleasure spiking sharp and unstoppable through every nerve as he spilled into her with a low, broken groan.

Heat surged low in his belly, coiling into a sharp, white-hot spike that raced up his spine and exploded outward; his hips jerked forward in one final, deep grind, burying himself to the root as thick ropes of his seed erupted inside her, flooding her in heavy, pulsing waves.

Each spurt sent a fresh tremor through Jocelyn’s already-shaking body, her walls fluttering wildly in response, drawing out every drop with greedy contractions that made her gasp his name against his neck, voice breaking on the syllables.

The sensation of him spilling so deep, so completely, pushed her into a second, softer crest—her thighs clamping tighter, hips circling in helpless little rolls as aftershocks rippled through her core, milking him until he was spent, shuddering against her with low, ragged groans muffled in her hair.

They stayed locked together, breaths heaving in shared rhythm, the godswood’s hush broken only by the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the slow drip of their mingled release down her thighs.

Jocelyn’s arms tightened around his neck, holding him close as though afraid the moment might slip away, her body still trembling faintly with the lingering echoes of pleasure while Jon rested his forehead against hers, both of them quiet in the aftermath, wrapped in the strange, sacred stillness of the grove.