A Peasant's Revenge (Game of Thrones)

The Great Hall of Winterfell is a roaring furnace of noise, heat, and the heavy scent of roasted boar. High above, the banners of the direwolf and the crowned stag ripple in the drafts, but all eyes are fixed on the raised dais.

King Robert Baratheon stands, his massive, bloated frame towering over his cup, his face flushed a deep, violent crimson from the northern ale. Beside him, Lord Eddard Stark looks as grim and unyielding as the stone walls of his ancestors.

The King raises his tankard, sloshing ale over the rim, his voice booming over the din. "To the future! To my boy Joffrey, and the beautiful Sansa Stark! May they unite our houses the way they were always meant to be!"

The hall erupts. Men slam their fists against the heavy oak tables, trenchers rattle, and a wave of thunderous applause crashes against the rafters. The roar reaches a fever pitch as the golden-haired Prince Joffrey rises, offering a slender hand to his betrothed. Sansa takes it, her cheeks flushed a delectable pink as they turn to face the cheering room.

You stand near the back wall, your serving pitcher resting on the table, your hands clapping alongside the crowd while your eyes feast on her. At twenty, Sansa is a vision of pure, untouched highborn perfection—the rich auburn locks cascade down her shoulders, a voluptuous body wrapped in a black and grey dress contrasts beautifully with her pale, flawless skin. Her smile is radiant, spun from pure gold.

She is looking out at the hall, but she is seeing a fairy tale. She thinks she is looking at her future subjects. She thinks she is going to breed a line of kings.

Your mind pulses. A sharp, deliberate spike of focus shoots through your temples.

The roar of the crowd dies instantly. The crackle of the great hearth vanishes. The laughter, the clinking of horn cups, the rustle of heavy furs—all of it is sucked out of the room, leaving a suffocating silence.

Only you can keep moving. You are still clapping, palms striking one another other in a slow, mocking rhythm, as you weave through the crowd of frozen lords and guards. A predatory grin stretches across your face as you ascend the steps of the dais. You glide right past Lord Stark, who is locked mid-nod, and step directly behind Sansa.

Because she rose to present herself to the crowd, her body is already perfectly positioned for what you're going to do next. You slide your hands onto her hips, fingers digging into the southern lace-style gown to anchor her in place. Slowly, deliberately, you press yourself against her, grinding your hard length into the soft, heavy curve of her ass

"Isn't it funny how life turns out, Sansa?" you murmur against her ear, your hot breath stirring a loose strand of auburn hair. "You were my next target anyway, even before this announcement."

You lean down, pressing a slow, heavy kiss against the pulse point on her neck. Her skin is flawless, tasting of sweet oils and fresh winter air.

"You remember Jeyne Poole, don't you? Of course you do. She was your best friend. Just as highborn, just as much a perfect lady."

Your hands slide up from her hips, hooking beneath her arms and up to cup her generous breasts. They are full and round beneath the fine embroidery of her gown—the best pair in Winterfell before the southern Queen arrived—and you squeeze the soft, trapped flesh tightly. She had dressed in her absolute finest tonight for her prince, completely unaware she was wrapping a prize for you.

"Jeyne was just as careful as you," you say conversationally, your fingers teasing her nipples through the fabric. With a thought, you unfreeze her body, letting her feel—react to and get aroused by—your ministrations while leaving the rest of her body, and the world, suspended. "She locked the heavy iron door to her bedchambers every single night. Too bad her father kept the spare key on his belt."

You lean your forehead against the back of her neck, inhaling her scent of lemon cakes.

"Every night, while Vayon Poole sat hunched over his castle ledgers, I froze the world. I’d slip the key right off his belt, unlock her door, and slide into her bed. I used her until I was full, taking my time with every single inch of her pristine flesh while she lay completely helpless, frozen solid beneath my weight. When I was finished, I’d lock her back in, return the key, and let the world turn again. I did this over and over, for... what? Four moons? Five?"

You laugh, remembering the day it became impossible to pass off Jeyne's swelling belly as her eating too many cakes or her morning sickness as her catching the flu. Vayon Poole had dragged his daughter into the Great Hall, iron grip clasped around her wrist, to demand she confess the name of her lover to Lord Stark.

Your hands leave the warm, full weight of Sansa’s breasts. You grip the hem of her gown, fine southern lace bunching in your fists, and draw it up. The fabric whispers past her knees, her thighs, until it’s gathered at her waist. Her smallclothes are a boring, pious white, the kind Septa Mordane approves of. But they are transformed by the dark, telling damp patch that has soaked through the cotton. She is almost ready for you.

You circle around to face her, boots scraping against the stone of the dais in a silence so absolute it feels like being underwater. Three hundred souls frozen at their revelry behind you—the King with his mouth still open mid-roar, Joffrey's pale fingers locked around her hand like a dead man's grip.

You step into the space between Sansa and the crowd. She stares forward, those deep Tully-blue eyes fixed on nothing, on a point somewhere in the middle of your chest. You hook a rough finger beneath her chin—your skin callused from years of mucking stalls and hauling firewood—and tilt her face upward. The contrast is obscene: her jaw like carved ivory beneath your cracked, work-blackened nail.

Her lips are slightly parted. Pink as summer roses. Waiting.

You lean down and press your mouth against hers. The kiss is slow, deliberate, your tongue pushing past teeth that cannot clench to stop you. She tastes of honeyed wine and lemon cake frosting, and you take your time, sucking on her lower lip until your cock throbs against the bunched fabric at her waist.

"When Jeyne started to swell," you breathe against her mouth, your words landing on frozen lips, "she wept before the heart tree. Swore on the Old Gods she was still a maiden. That no man had ever touched her." You pull back an inch, studying those vacant blue eyes. "Nobody believed her. Not her father. Not the Septa. Not your mother. They packed her off to the Silent Sisters because she wouldn't confess a lover who didn't exist."

Your hands find the neckline of her gown—fine Myrish lace overlaid on northern wool, probably cost more coin than you'll earn in a lifetime—and you drag it downward, slipping it off her shoulders. Her breasts spill free into the cold hall air, full and pale, nipples already stiffened to hard pink points from your earlier attention. The sight of them exposed while the frozen court gapes blindly behind you, sends a hot pulse of satisfaction through your gut.

"Did you know her tits swelled near the end?" You cup the left breast, feeling its weight settle heavy and warm into your palm. "Nice and milky. I had a good long drink the morning they shipped her off. Fucked her one last time for the road." You squeeze, watching the flesh dimple around your fingers. "They were almost as good as yours."

You dip your head and take her right nipple into your mouth. The taste is clean skin and faint perfume, and you suck hard enough to leave a mark, your teeth grazing the sensitive bud. You pull off with a wet pop. "Feel that, Sansa?" The question hangs in dead air. You bring both hands up and smack her tits together from the sides—the clap of flesh on flesh echoes obscenely through the silent hall, her breasts bouncing and jiggling violently before settling. You latch on again, suckling with brutal force, your tongue flicking the hardened peak.

"Do you think my bastard will drink from these the way I am now?"

You straighten, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and slide your fingers down between her thighs. Her smallclothes are soaked through—the cotton practically transparent with wetness where her body has responded without her mind's consent. You push the fabric aside and press two fingers into her cunt. Tight. Impossibly tight. The slick heat grips your knuckles as you work deeper, feeling the resistance of her maidenhead, intact and fragile as parchment. She is ready.

You unlace your breeches with your free hand, shoving them down past your hips. Your cock springs free, thick and hard, the cold air a shock against the heated skin. You withdraw your fingers—glistening, obscene—and grip yourself, lining the swollen head against her entrance.

You grip the base of your cock and press the swollen head against her entrance. The heat is immediate—shocking, even after having your fingers inside her—slick flesh parting around you like wet silk tearing along its grain. You push forward, just the tip at first, feeling the tight ring of muscle resist and then yield, a fraction of an inch at a time. Her cunt grips you with an almost painful pressure, the walls clenching involuntarily around the intrusion despite the absolute emptiness behind those Tully-blue eyes.

Then you hit it. The maidenhead. A thin, fragile barrier stretched taut against your cockhead, delicate as frost on a windowpane. You can feel it—that slight, stubborn resistance that represents everything the highborn obsess over. Bloodlines. Purity. The sacred covenant between houses sealed in a smear of virgin blood on wedding sheets. You hold yourself there, cock throbbing against that membrane, and let the anticipation build in your chest like a bellows filling.

"How long before the wedding, Sansa?"

You roll your hips forward. One slow, steady thrust. The membrane tears with a sensation like pushing through damp parchment—a slight catch, a moment of increased resistance, then nothing but the sudden give of flesh surrendering. You slide deeper, burying yourself inch by thick inch into the tightest cunt you've ever felt. The heat is extraordinary, molten and gripping, her inner walls fluttering and clenching around your shaft in mindless, reflexive spasms that have nothing to do with desire and everything to do with raw, involuntary biology. A thin trickle of blood—warm, aristocratic blood, the blood of the First Men and the Riverlands both—runs down your length and drips onto the cold stone of the dais between her feet.

"How long before your husband tries to claim this and finds you don't bleed? Before he starts getting suspicious?"

You bottom ou, your balls pressed tight against the soaked cotton of her displaced smallclothes. The full length of you throbs inside her, surrounded by that impossible virginal tightness—a grip so snug it borders on pain, the kind that makes your vision narrow to a point. You hold there, not moving, just feeling the pulse of your own heartbeat reflected back at you through the clutch of her body. Your hands grip her waist hard enough to leave red crescents in the pale skin beneath your rough, stable-hand fingers.

"That's assuming there even is a wedding." You wrap one hand around the back of her neck—the fine hairs there standing on end from the cold—and pull her frozen face toward yours. You kiss her, tasting honeyed wine on unresponsive lips. "I'm going to fuck you—" another kiss, harder, your teeth catching her lower lip, "—and pump my seed into this pretty royal cunt—" you thrust once, shallow, feeling that exquisite drag of her walls along your shaft, "—night after night after night."

You pull back, study her vacant face, and smile.

"If you quicken before the wedding, they'll call the whole thing off. The scandal will burn through King's Landing like wildfire. But imagine—" you begin to move now, slow rolling thrusts that make obscene wet sounds in the dead silence of the hall, "—imagine the wedding happens first. Imagine the joy. The feasts. The ravens carrying the happy news that the future Queen is with child. The heir to the Seven Kingdoms, growing in Sansa Stark's belly."

You grunt, driving deeper, harder, feeling her body yield and grip and yield again.

"And then the babe comes out with black hair and brown eyes. Features neither you nor your golden prince share."

You find your rhythm. Slow at first—a grinding, deliberate roll of your hips that drags your full length through that impossibly tight channel before burying yourself to the root again. Each thrust draws a wet, obscene sound from between her thighs that echoes through the dead silence of the Great Hall like water dripping in a cave. You can feel every ridge of her inner walls—the way they grip and resist and then surrender, the involuntary flutter of muscle around your shaft as her unfrozen body reacts to the intrusion with mindless, biological urgency.

You wrap both arms around her waist, pulling her frozen frame tight against your chest. The angle shifts, and suddenly you're deeper—so deep you can feel the blunt head of your cock pressing against something firm and yielding at her very core. The sensation is exquisite. You groan through clenched teeth, your forehead pressed against her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair—rosewater and clean wool and beneath it, the faint salt-musk of arousal her body produces without her knowledge or consent.

Your pace quickens. The slap of your hips against the soft flesh of her arse fills the frozen hall with a steady, metronomic percussion. You watch her breasts bounce with each impact—still exposed above the ruined bodice, the left nipple reddened and swollen where you sucked it raw. A thin strand of her virgin blood has traced a line down her inner thigh, dark against the pale skin, already beginning to dry.

"I remember the derision on your mother's face when she looked at Jeyne," you grunt between thrusts, your voice ragged now. "Do you think she will look at you that way?" You thrust harder, feeling your balls tighten, the pressure building at the base of your spine like a coiled spring. "Do you think she will believe you when you say you didn't do it?"

You drive into her with everything you have—one, two, three brutal strokes that lift her onto her toes with each impact. The friction is maddening, the slick heat gripping you like a fist, and you feel the edge approaching—that white-hot precipice where thought dissolves into pure animal sensation.

"I want you to know she won't," you snarl against her ear. "I hope you enjoy this while it lasts, your grace, because once you swell with my bastard, you are going to lose it all. Your crown, your reputation, even your family will abandon you."

You don't fight the rising orgasm. Your hips slam forward one final time, burying yourself as deep as her body will allow, and you hold there—every muscle locked, your fingers digging bruises into her hips—as your cock pulses and jerks inside her. You can feel each hot rope of seed flooding her womb, filling her, marking her in the only way that matters. The pleasure is so intense it's almost pain, radiating outward from your groin in thick, rolling waves that make your knees buckle. You grunt through it, teeth bared against the nape of her neck, riding each spasm until the last weak throb empties you completely.

You stay inside her for a long moment afterward, softening slowly in that wet, ruined warmth. Your breath comes in ragged gasps.