Myranda first as she is the eldest

The solar had already shed its last pretence of formality.

Heavy furs lay heaped across the flagstones, swallowing every footfall. Flames clawed up the chimney, throwing raw orange light over bare stone and six women who no longer bothered with ceremony.

Myranda crossed the room in three strides. The bronze gown slipped from her arms and pooled at her feet like spent armour. What remained (a sleeveless linen shift) caught the fire’s glow, turning damp skin translucent, outlining the hard sweep of her back, the sudden flare where waist met hip.

She pushed Jon back onto the wide bench before the hearth, bronze velvet already sliding from her shoulders. The shift beneath was thin, almost translucent in the firelight, clinging to the strong curve of her back and the flare of her hips.

Jon had barely risen from the bench when her palms hit his chest. She shoved. He sat hard, the air leaving his lungs in a rough exhale. Myranda followed, knees bracketing his thighs, the shift riding high enough to bare the long muscles of her legs.

Behind her, Sansa sank down. A fistful of dark hair twisted around her knuckles; one sharp tug and Myranda’s head snapped back, throat bared, mouth parted on a sound Jon caught with his own.

Black hair grazed his jaw as Alayne leaned in from the left. Two fingers hooked his collar, tugged laces free one deliberate eyelet at a time. Each time his ribs jerked for air her lips followed, open-mouthed along the straining line of his neck.

Firelight slid across loosened gold when Brienne folded to her knees on his right. The buckle at his waist gave a low metallic rasp under broad, calloused hands that barely trembled.

Wylla dropped flat onto the furs, elbow propped, cheek in palm, green stare locked and unblinking. Alys mirrored the motion opposite her, knees pulled to chest, dark eyes never leaving the place where Myranda’s hips rolled slow and deliberate against Jon’s.

No one spoke.

The only sounds were the wet slide of mouths, the soft clink of a belt hitting stone, the fire eating logs, and the low, rough rhythm of six women breathing in the same cadence.

Myranda straightened, gripped the hem of her shift, and peeled it upward in one smooth motion. The linen cleared her head and dropped to the furs. Firelight licked across bare bronze skin, over heavy breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the sharp cut of hipbones earned from years in the saddle.

She lowered herself again. One hand braced on Jon’s shoulder; the other reached between them. A single roll of her hips took him deep; the sound that tore out of him scraped raw against the rafters.

Sweat beaded along Myranda’s stomach. Sansa’s hands followed the trail downward, palms flattening just above the dark curls, fingers spread wide over skin that would stretch taut around Jon’s child before the next winter.

A sharp breathe tore from Jon’s throat. Alayne caught it, leaning in hard, mouth slamming over his, teeth scraping his lower lip on the next ragged exhale.

Inside his thigh, muscle jumped under Brienne’s lips. She pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along the line, tongue flicking once, twice, each contact deliberate as a sworn oath.

Not even once never blinking. Myranda drew herself up until only the tip of him remained inside, held there a heartbeat, then crashed down. Skin struck skin with a sharp crack that rang off the rafters. Another lift, another drop, harder, faster, thighs flexing, cunt gripping tight on every upward pull.

A sudden yank at the roots of Jon’s hair jerked his head back, throat bared to the heat. Nails scored four burning lines down Myranda’s spine, raising pale tracks that flushed crimson in their wake. From below, Brienne’s calloused palm cupped his balls, rolling them slow and firm while her tongue traced the crease where leg met groin. Teeth sank into the muscle of his shoulder (sharp, deliberate) followed by the wet drag of a tongue that tasted blood.

Jon’s hips snapped upward without warning. Myranda met the thrust, ground down in a vicious circle, sweat dripping from her breasts to spatter across his stomach and slide along old scars. The bench groaned, wood protesting the pounding rhythm.

Alayne released the bite only to lick the fresh bruise. Sansa’s hands clamped Myranda’s hips, nails digging in, forcing the pace faster, breath hot against the older woman’s ear.

The rhythm cracked. Thighs shook. Myranda slammed down once more and stayed there, inner walls fluttering hard. Jon’s fingers bruised her hips as he drove up, buried himself to the root, and let go. Heat pulsed deep inside her in thick, endless waves. A raw cry tore from her throat, arching her spine until her head knocked back against Sansa’s shoulder.

Sansa locked arms around her waist, holding her impaled and shuddering while the last spasms ripped through them both. Jon collapsed against the bench, chest heaving. Myranda refused to rise, thighs clenched, keeping every drop sealed inside.

Logs shifted in the hearth. Fresh flames roared up, bathing six slick bodies in sudden gold before the sparks died against the stone.

Jon’s hand slid down Myranda’s sweat-damp stomach and stopped just below her navel, palm flat, fingers spread wide.

“You’re carrying my child now,” he said, voice rough from the shouting. “This night took.”

The words settled over her like warm iron.

Myranda’s breath caught hard. Her eyes snapped open, locked on his, pupils blown wide. A tremor ran through her thighs where they still straddled him; the muscles that had clenched so fiercely around him moments ago fluttered again, weaker, stunned. She pressed her own hand on top of his, fingers digging into his knuckles as if to trap the certainty there.

Myranda’s chest jerked with a short, ragged laugh. The sound cracked halfway out, turned into something raw.

“Already?”

The single word scraped her throat. She swallowed once, hard, eyes searching his face.

Jon dipped his chin, slow, deliberate.

The laugh turned into something rawer. Myranda dropped her forehead to his shoulder, hair sticking to both their skin, and let out a sound that was almost a sob. Her hips gave one last involuntary roll, milking the last of him inside her, then stilled.

When she lifted her head her eyes were wet, but the smile that cut across her face was sharp enough to draw blood.

“Good,” she rasped. “Let the Vale know its next lord is already growing under my heart.”