theladyofwinterfell | a storm from the east

a storm from the east

The combined might of the Northern army and the sellswords rallied behind Daemon Storm (Baratheon now, in truth, as who is going to let a king have a bastard name?) had easily trumped the Lannister and Tyrell forces, the latter of which had turned toward the end of the battle when they knew they'd lost. The North won its independence by backing Daemon's claim and Stannis had withdrawn to Gods known where with his army and his Red Priestess. Sansa had no idea and she had the sneaking suspicion that everyone was fairly relieved about it; he would have been a poor king.

Daemon, however, seems a fine king thus far and he is enough of a swordsman and a charmer that every house rallies for him. He's what Robert had been when he was younger, the people whisper, and is popular in that regard. Sansa herself has a more or less positive opinion of him - he'd liberated her from the Lannisters and while he'd taken the Red Keep for himself, there'd been no raping of the women there and it seemed his men were sticking by that order. They weren't out to hurt the people of King's Landing and after years of Lannister rule, it seems it's turning for the better.

For Sansa's part, the alliance to make Robb King in the North had come with the price of Sansa's betrothal to Daemon. He's no Joffrey, she thinks and he's not Tyrion Lannister. The latter had been kind to her, though, and she'd been quick to vouch for him when the Lannisters were put to the sword. Still, the marriage hadn't been binding because it hadn't been consummated and Tyrion graciously hadn't pressed the issue, wanting Sansa free to make her own choices. She's not free, exactly, but the man she's betrothed to doesn't seem to be a bad one even if he's rough around the edges.

Sansa had been moved to nicer rooms since the coup and they're close to the offices where the King and the Hand work on the business of the day. She has none, really, but her curiosity does cause her to linger around when she ought to be making a wedding dress or walking in the Godswood or doing anything with her newfound freedom. She slips into the king's office and gives him a quick curtsy.

"Robb's with his men and I'm tired of sewing. Is the business of running this place harder than winning it, Your Grace?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

Daemon rolled his shoulder to slide her leg over it, to rest against his back, and he slid further forward in his chair, the better to reach more of her skin. Rumbling approval to the widening of her long legs, the King of the Andals traveled higher still, finally reaching the apex of his intended's thighs. And Daemon didn't falter.

He brazenly licked a slow, wet line over virgin folds, retreating only to do it again, and again, and again. Firm hands at her hips held her still, and Daemon patiently kept up his devilish ministrations, determined to give her the first orgasm of her entire life right here on the dinner table.

What is he doing? Sansa whimpers a little under her breath and squirms even though she doesn't get anywhere with the way Daemon is holding her hips tight. She inhales sharply when his tongue touches her folds, though, because no one has ever touched her there besides herself and then only to watch. No one has ever done anything filthy like this.

There's a dim fear in the back of her head that someone is going to walk in on them and what's going to happen if that happens? What would Daemon do if someone interrupted him? Would she recover? Those thoughts are held in her head but for a moment and then she feels everything start to shake a bit. Is that normal?

"Oh!" she cries out sharply, sliding a hand into his hair and tightening it. "What..."

He hissed slightly when she pulled on his hair, but Daemon let her hand remain, although he'd do something about it if she started yanking too harshly. He knew this was her very first taste of true pleasure. He didn't let up, either, situating both of his shoulders beneath Sansa's knees, the better to splay her further backwards over the table and work at her a little firmer, a little deeper.

While his tongue worked its serpentine way between slick lips, he made sure to keep his nose bumping against the little nub above, even bringing a calloused thumb over her thigh to give it a few rough flicks as he worked her over with his mouth. It was a heady thing, being a woman's first, and he gave no though to being interrupted, as no one in the entire castle would dare.

Everything seems to pile upon her at once and the feeling she'd felt tickling at her since Daemon started touching her has finally come to a peak and she doesn't know if she will survive feeling any more. Then it happens and she starts cresting down over a wave she didn't know existed and, in spite of her desire to be quiet, a high pitched noise passes her lips even as she's lifting a hand to cover them.

If she'd been standing, she'd have collapsed and she's grateful she's on the table just now. Is this what he'd intended to do in the woods early? Or something else? Sansa had no idea this even existed so she has no idea what else exists either. All she knows is that this is the only time she's felt it and she'd like to feel it again.

"Daemon? What was that?"

"That's a woman's pleasure," was the quiet drawl as Daemon lifted his head and slowly sat back in his chair, sliding Sansa's bare legs down over his arms. "It's a man's responsibility to give it, as often and as many times as she wants."

He drew the back of his hand over his mouth, chuckling lightly. "And this, my little wolf, is only the beginning." The King's smirk became wolfish, itself. "There's so much more I'm going to teach you, after this."

Sansa's brow furrows a bit and her lips pout as she tries to work through the logic of that. Nothing of what they did gets her with child and she knows that men go to whores without that intention but men go to wives with that intention too? It seems odd to her and against everything she's ever known.

"I thought...well, clearly what I thought was wrong. I just didn't think men went to their wives with anything but the intent to make children. Or, I guess, if they loved one another but you hardly know me."

She smiles then and tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. "You said you were jealous of what's yours. Can I be jealous of what's mine too?"

His grin tilted, blue eyes glinted. "If you aren't, then I think I'd be offended." He took great pride in pleasing his women, or woman, now. For all that he was a debauched lecher and unapologetic, uncouth brigand, Daemon Storm wasn't, ironically, a whoremonger. He'd witnessed the ruination of a man's unchecked lust more than once, with his own bloody father being the prime example.

No. He'd not sully his name or inflict such an indignity on whatever woman he'd been given as a wife. It wasn't only his pride at stake, after all.

Daemon let his hands slowly coast up and down Sansa's thighs, just feeling her soft skin under his fingertips. "Want more?"

"Yes," Sansa says, smiling at him. "But perhaps you should leave some surprises for the wedding night. Otherwise, you'll know all of me and there will be nothing new left for either of us."

It's a more encouraging way of trying to preserve her maidenhood and she hopes it works better than getting upset and screaming as she'd done in the forest. She's trying and it seems to make him happier with her and she's been happier as well.

"So you have to wait."

The wedding was a moderately solemn affair, what with the presence of Robb Stark and all of the current nobility of the Seven Kingdoms. Daemon didn't exactly have to offer the High Septon violence, but there were a few hard looks exchanged between the men during the ceremony, but eventually it was done and the King of the Andals cloaked his bride in the Baratheon colors, cementing their vows and placing a crown on Sansa's head.

The wedding feast was definitely a lively one; considering that it was a public affair, with enough food to go around, at least once. Scores of armed guards patrolled, ensuring no shenanigans interrupted the festivities, and the entire city shared in the party, with wine and ale flowing like water. Daemon, for his part, sat at the high table, his crown somewhat haphazardly hanging off the back of it, and though his raiment was somewhat more well made than his usual attire - he'd absolutely refused to be dressed in any of that uncomfortable finery as other nobles wore, and the royal tailor had nearly swallowed his tongue when the king informed him so - he was visibly armed, as well as invisibly, too.

He'd left most of the details to his betrothed and to Tyrion, trusting them both not to bankrupt the city or burn it down in the event, and just now he sat absently chewing on a chicken leg and drinking ale by the cupful, idly talking shop with his new brother-by-law, all the while keeping a close eye on the revelries, "just in case".

Sansa, for her part, is eating very little owing to a bit of nerves and very tight laces. Everything is delicious, of course, but she doesn't want to be sick at her stomach on this night of all nights and she knows how to eat when she's laced into something tight like this wedding gown.

The gown is Stark, through and through, but there's hints of stag horns here and there. Concession to southern dressing styles, it isn't high necked, and she feels a little exposed with bare arms for everyone to see.

Daemon seems perfectly at home while she isn't quite and Tyrion has reminded her more than once that it's all right to relax and enjoy herself. He whispers advice to her. "The marriage is wanted. You can be happy, even in front of everyone. The people like it. Hold his hand, Sansa."

So Sansa reaches next to her and touches Daemon's hand, giving him a brilliant smile. "You look happy," she says. "Are you as happy as I am?"

It wasn't much of an effort to lace his fingers with his wife's, and Daemon even lifted it to his hips for a casual kiss. "Mmm, for the moment," was his grinned response, followed by, "...although once I see the bill for all of this revelry, I'll probably have a heart attack." To his left, Robb snorted into his cup, and Daemon laughed at his own small joke, but nodded.

"Aye. I have a wife, and a kingdom. A family and a name. All's well with me, my Queen, and whatever gods willing, life will settle for a while and the realm can recover." He had no doubt something would intrude upon that peace before too long, but he'd deal with it when it did. And not a moment before.

"We were frugal," Sansa says, laughing when he mentions how much the wedding cost the Crown. "And part of the gold came from the North's own coffers, as it should, because I have a dowry. Since I am becoming Queen, the question of my upkeep is taken care of but I used what would be my dowry to help pay for the wedding. I only thought it fair."

Practical, just as she is, and she hopes it's something he can appreciate.

"They'll like if you made a show of it when you take me off," she says, laughing nervously. "Since we're not having a bedding, they need something to be bawdy about and I imagine that's going to be the only appropriate thing to do. They'll want to shout cheers at you."

The concept of a "bedding" wasn't an unfamiliar one; he'd been born in Westeros, after all. But there was no way in all hells Daemon Baratheon was going to allow a mob of leering less-than-noble aristocrats to gawk and jeer while he fucked his wife for the first time. Coarse and barbaric he might have been, but he also had his dignity, and so did his new Queen.

"Do you want me to haul you over a shoulder and carry you off to be like some trussed prize, Sansa?" he inquired a little dryly, eyebrow arching in wry amusement over his ale tankard. "Seems a little undignified to me, but if that's what you want..." He trailed off, shrugging one shoulder, but a spark of mischief glinted in his eye.

"Well, if it's only the once, I suppose I could allow it," Sansa says, laughing a little in response. "I don't want to disappoint them and I do want them to know we consummated it. It seems like a reasonable enough compromise to me."

She traces the back of his hand with the fingertips of her free one, willing to do this much touch right here in public. Perhaps she'll eventually be more free with affection in front of others but for now, this is enough.

"Would you like to do it?"

Daemon obligingly turned his hand over, letting his fingers thread with those of his wife, and set down his tankard. Leaning forward in his chair, he propped one arm on its edge and said seriously, "I'd rather escort you off to our bedchamber, as befitting your station, Your Grace." Then his grin flashed and his eyebrow went up.

"But if you'd rather be tossed over my shoulder like a barbarian strumpet and carried off to the cave, I suppose I can oblige that." On his other side, he heard Robb Stark choke on his ale and start to splutter. Before his brother-by-law could recover enough to start spouting indignant, Daemon stood up, the entire assemblage tapering off into quiet.

And rather than haul his Northern wife up and over his shoulder, he instead politely held her hand for her to stand from her chair. "Well," he then said to the partygoers, "enjoy the rest of the food, and drink the remainder of the ale. The time's come for me to do my duty and fuck my wife until she's screaming her pleasure loud enough for the Night's Watch to hear her noise and wish they'd led more exemplary lives."

A rousing cheer and bawdry laughter echoed across the hall. Daemon smirked down at Sansa, bedevilment writ across his face. "Come, my lovely Queen. To bed, and not the first protest out of you." With that, the King of the Seven Kingdoms led his queen down from the raised table and through the feasting hall amid more revelry and delighted cheers.

It was a healthy compromise between carrying her off and leaving quietly, Sansa guesses, and it's enough to rile the crowd into cheering their king again. For her part, she's red as her hair, but she manages to keep her back straight and her head high. It's part of the tradition, after all, and words are wind. What happens behind closed doors is bound to be different than what they say is going to happen.

Sansa smiles at everyone and squeezes Daemon's hand before they get out into the corridor which is empty and much quieter than where they're all feasting in the hall.

"Well done, husband. I think it was just enough to please them, as much as we care about that. Now we can be about the rest of our night."

He laughed along with her and led the rest of the way to the king's quarters, ushering Sansa inside and releasing her to close and bolt the door after. Then Daemon ambled over to the sideboard, pouring a healthy tankard of ale and taking a deep swallow before slouching down in a chair nearby.

"Well," he mused, swirling the liquid around in his glass, "here we are." Blue eyes found and appraised his new queen, speculative. "So. What now?" He wasn't, despite her expectations, going to just leap on her; nor was he going to demand her submit to him in the raised bed nearby.

Sansa wishes her hair was loose so she could fiddle with it but she guesses it's just as well that it isn't so she looks less nervous than she feels. Daemon's made it clear he won't hurt her, she's liked everything he's done so far, but this act is something that has always scared her and she thinks that's the point for women. It's not supposed to be appealing - or otherwise everyone would get with child regardless of marriage.

"I should undress, I think," she says, teeth catching her lower lip a bit. She does look at him though, trying to be bolder than she has been.

"It'll take a while. The dress is complicated."

Since he knew that Sansa had made the dress with her own hands, Daemon didn't offer to assist since his patience with laces was more or less nil. So he settled to watch, not judging, not expecting. This was only the first hurdle, and she'd have to get over it, one way or the other.

"Get out of it and come to me." It was a low command, purred in Daemon's smooth baritone. Time to see if she remembered her lessons.

Sansa knows she's blushing from that tone of voice but at least she has the dress to focus on for the time being. It laces and buttons in the front because she knew she'd be taking this off herself or he would and Daemon doesn't...have patience with women's clothing. She's never going to wear this dress again so it doesn't really matter but it is beautifully made and it would be a shame to ruin it.

When she finishes with the dress, she lays it over the dressing screen before touching the hem of her shift. She knows that's going to have to come off as well but she leaves it on for now and comes to sit beside Daemon on the couch.

"Could you unpin my hair for me? Or should I do it?"

"Mmhmm." But rather than let her sit on her own, Daemon shifted and hauled his wife into his lap, seated snugly between his spread thighs. The pins and braids in her hair presented him with a challenge like the dress would have been, but he stifled his customary impatience and began undoing them all, letting the red tress tumble down as they came free of their bindings.

While he worked, Daemon began placing slow, soft kisses along Sansa's shoulders and neck, adding nips of teeth and swipes of tongue here and there, just to sate himself and tantalize her. By the time all of her braids were undone, he'd coaxed her back to lean against him, and his hands left her hair to firmly cup her breasts, rolling the nipples against his rough palm through the thin material of her shift.

Unlike the last time they'd kissed like this in the forest, not only is Sansa not afraid of Daemon, this is allowed now by law. Sansa sighs a little and squirms in Daemon's lap, too overwhelmed by the sensations to make any words. She likes it when he touches her breasts and it's better when she goes with what he wants than fight against it.

There's a little tie that holds the neck of her shift taut and Sansa reaches between them to undo it, pulling it loose so that can be stretched out and Daemon can touch her bare skin instead of touch her through fabric.

"You can pull it loose now," she whispers, turning her head so she can kiss his temple. "If you want to, anyway."

"Shhh," he told her, just as he had days ago in the royal dining room. "Don't talk. You're only allowed one word, and that's my name. Speak it, moan it, or scream it, I don't care. But nothing else." That said, Sansa's shift suddenly ripped down the back seam, and he pushed it over her shoulders and down to her waist, then his hands settled beneath her breasts in full, cupping and hefting the heavy flesh as he nipped at her neck.

"I know you like this," Daemon purred beneath her ear. "Sitting in my lap, with me fondling you this way. Feels good, doesn't it, Sansa?" His grin slanted, though she couldn't see. "Nod your head, wife. And relax, this is just the beginning."

Sansa thinks she should have expected him to rip it but she still doesn't and gasps a little when he does. It isn't from fear though, not at all, and when Daemon tells her not to speak she has no idea how she's supposed to tell him what she likes if she can't speak.

She nods her head when he asks about being touched while in his lap. She does like it, quite a lot, and she squirms a little on his lap so she can try and get more comfortable while he touches her. Hmm. If she can't say anything but his name perhaps she has to get creative.

"Daemon," she says quietly, encouragingly.

"That's a good girl." It was whispered at her ear, followed by a series of light, gentle kisses down her throat and shoulder. His hands were rough, calloused, and expertly fondled her breasts, first one then the other.

Daemon carefully wedged a knee between his wife's thighs, pushing her legs apart so that she sprawled, rather unceremoniously, more in his lap; he wanted her used to looking a little whorish and needy. No need to be so prim and proper all the time. "Spread them wide," he ordered lowly, voice a rough growl. "Show yourself to the room, Sansa."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject