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 The North won its independence by backing Daemon's claim and Stannis had withdrawn to Gods known where with his army and his Red Priestess.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

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."

Show herself to the room? Who is she even showing herself to? She's alone with him! She swallows down her indignance and spreads her legs wider. Her head lolls back against his shoulder so he can keep kissing her and she bites her lip to keep from saying something yet again.

It's very difficult to not talk when she's been ordered not to talk; it's a situation that she probably wouldn't have said much anyway but now she's been told she can't and it's maddening.

One bold hand left her breast and slithered down her belly between her thighs, delving beneath all the cumbersome layers that women insisted upon wearing. She was warm there, but not yet slick enough for him to just take her. Thankfully, the King of the Seven Kingdoms didn't mind doing a little, or a lot, of preparatory work, which was why his coarse fingers delved deep, the middle slipping between hot folds and teasing just enough.

The heel of his hand pressed higher, nudging against her clit with measured rhythm, and Daemon was even cheeky enough to hum along the back of his wife's neck as he worked her with his hands, nonplussed that his own trousers were growing pleasantly tight.

Sansa wants to speak so so much but he told her not to and she's nothing if not obedient. She wants to tell him she feels a little shy doing this here and not in the bed but more than that she wants to tell him not to stop. The way he's touching her is riling her up the way he had on the table after their private supper and she wants more of it, so much more, but she has no idea how to even ask for it if she's only allowed to say his name.

"I want...in bed, Daemon, in bed."

There, she's told him what she wants in as few words as she can and hopefully it only breaks his rule a little bit and he won't get cross with her about it. Her own hands are resting lightly atop of her thighs but her fingers curl because she has no idea what to do with them.

"No," was the quiet response, even as he kept at his ministrations, only pausing briefly in his humming to voice the negation. "Right here, little wolf. Right here until you come all over me, that's what I want from you, Sansa Baratheon..." He bit the lobe of her ear after mouthing the filth against her neck, and a thick forefinger slipped deeper into her folds, hissing delight at the squeeze of the soaked flesh.

"You're gonna stay right here, my sweet, virginal wife, until I've debauched you enough to have you screaming for me." His finger began to slowly move in and out, a heady mimicry of what more was to come. "Until they hear your desperate cries all the way down in the banquet hall..."

He has the right to command her to do anything and commanding her to enjoy this is hardly a command but Sansa doesn't want to embarrass herself. She certainly doesn't want anyone hearing outside the doors what she's done even if everyone knows what's happening right now; everyone knows what bedding is, honestly, and it's the point of a wedding.

She's too close to tell him to stop or that she doesn't want to be heard so instead she turns her head to try and muffle the sound against his shoulder and neck. It doesn't work terribly well, not really, but the little "oh" she she cries out and the way her body clamps down on his fingers ought to tell him exactly that she's come.

There's another wave of it, though, and that's when she squeals a little and says his name loud enough to be heard across the chamber, at least.

He chuckled behind her, feeling her clench down over his hand as she rode out her climax. Good, for a start, but her King wasn't nearly finished with her yet. Daemon kept his hand where it was, letting her milk as much pleasure as she wanted from it, and when she eased, he covered one of her hands with his and drew it down between her thighs, pressing her own fingers against her heated wetness.

"Feel," was his low command, guiding her fingers up and down. "Soft and warm, isn't it? That's very good, Sansa...very, very good, sweetling." He had little qualm about denying his own pleasure to give her hers; it was so much sweeter that way. Her other hand Daemon guided to her breast, teaching her how to cup the heavy flesh, how to stimulate the hard nipple all while gracing her flushed shoulders and neck with nipped kisses and amused little huffs of breath.

"It doesn't bother you? That I'm doing it?"

It breaks the no talking rule but Sansa thinks since she's been good this long and she hasn't said one word to stop him, he might let it pass. Besides, it's a genuine question. It doesn't feel nearly as good when she touches her own breast or when she passes her fingers between her legs but she suspects it's because she's clumsy at it and he has far more practice. Still, her breath comes short and she's starting to feel warm all over again.

It's taking longer, yes, but it's still working.

"Never," he assured her, keeping his hands over hers light, just bare touches. "It's a heady thing, Your Grace, watching a woman pleasure herself. Bespeaks that she's bold, she's sure, that she wants." She'd learn. "Does it feel good? Your hands on your own body?"

Daemon knew that it had to, and he also knew that she'd never pleasured herself before. Which was why he was taking his time, teaching her that she had nothing to fear. Had he been any other man, any other King, she'd have been ploughed in that bed across the room, no care given to her well-being or her own pleasure.

Moving his hands to her hips, he deliberately pressed her ass into his groin, giving a soft, stilted little moan as his cock responded eagerly. "I'll give you that a little later," he promised. "For now, just move a little in my lap. Just enough to tease. Just enough to drive me mad, slowly..."

"It feels nice," Sansa says, brow wrinkling a little as she assesses it. She does feel good, wet and warm, but it doesn't make her burn the way it does when Daemon touches her. She doesn't think it's something she'll want as often as she'll want him to touch her, that's for certain. "It feels better when it's your hands."

She loses herself in touching until he presses her down into his groin and he feels her hard beneath her. That puts her off balance for a moment and she cries out before regaining her rhythm and rocking in his lap the way he'd asked.

Sansa turns her head a little and whispers up against his jaw. "I want to kiss you. Please?"

"Turn around then." Daemon allowed her to leave his lap only to turn about and slide right back into it, ripping the rest of her shift away and tossing it aside. Now, she was naked atop him, and he grinned like a cat up at her, blue eyes twinkling.

"Kiss me, Sansa," he ordered, tilting back his head and parting his lips just enough. His mouth slanted slightly, amusement mingling with slow-burning desire, and Daemon returned his hands to his wife's body, sliding around her waist and down further to grip her cheeks, squeezing the soft flesh a little lecherously.

Kissing is something she truly enjoys (not that she doesn't enjoy the rest of it, not at all) and she doesn't feel shy about kissing the way she feels about other things. Sansa kisses him deeply and when Daemon's hands go down to cup her bottom, she rolls her hips against him in approval. Yes, that was very nice.

Her own hands she slides into his hair and slips one down to cup the back of his neck both for balance and just to touch him.

Daemon kissed her back, letting her explore his mouth and vice versa, and passion was a soft cloud between them. He was content to take things at her pace; he knew she feared, but there was no reason for it. Not with him. He was also willing to guide her atop him, letting her body become acquainted with his, and when she lifted her head a long moment later, he couldn't help but smirk.

"You've been a little remiss, Majesty," he glinted, corner of his mouth tilting upwards. "Your king is still dressed, and that simply will not do."

Sansa reaches between them and pulls at the hem of his fine shirt, pulling it up and off so that she can bare his chest. He has all the scars she'd seen the day that they kissed in the woods and she touches a few lightly before squeezing his shoulders. She likes that he has scars, that he's a king that will go to the front of the fighting and fight for his people instead of stay back behind the lines and not mount a horse.

"Am I allowed to move to take your trousers off?"

Again, more words than just his name but Sansa has never been very good at following rules exactly as proscribed. She stays within the bounds, yes, but keeps her own self true beneath the constraints of them. It's survival that's served her well.

A sharp eyebrow arched. "Do you want me fucking you right here on this couch?" Because if his breeches came off, that was what was going to happen. There was only so much a man could take, after all. "If so, then yes. If you'd rather wait, play a little, and explore further, then no."

His hand at the small of her back pressed her closer, and the other casually cupped a soft breast in its palm, teasing the nipple with the heel of his hand. "...or I can touch you a little more. Bring you more pleasure and teach you how to both take and give it back."

Sansa sputters, shocked by how crude his words are when he's her husband and she's his wife. He hasn't done anything she's misliked, of course, and she very much likes what he's doing with his hand just now but the idea of losing her maidenhead on a couch has her a little panicked.

"It's not supposed...I don't want it that way!" Sansa insists. "I want it to happen in the bed. It's how it's supposed to be with a maiden." Or she thinks it is, anyway, and she's distracted now.

She closes her eyes, embarrassed at the outburst. "Don't...be angry. I didn't mean...let's just continue."

Rather than explode all over the room, Daemon simply took a deep breath, never pausing in his work. Though his nostrils did flare with the effort to keep his temper, because really. "The Dothraki fuck right in the dirt," he told her casually. "In the middle of the entire clan, because why not? And you're not a maiden, you're a woman, and I'm going to treat you like one."

Daemon took Sansa's chin in a light grip, mouth tilted but eyes serious. "Those days of shame and embarrassment are over, Sansa. The old traditions are nothing but memories. This is my kingdom, and you are my wife. And I won't have you thinking that I hold any of those idiotic customs dear, because you'll quickly find that I don't."

He made her look down at him, never raising his voice or his gentle tone. "Understand? Good. Now, kiss me again."

Sansa wonders if she ought to say "yes, Your Grace," and decides that's probably hearkening back to the old traditions that he's trying to tell her to leave behind. She does hope he doesn't intend to fuck her in the dirt like a Dothraki any time soon because being a woman or not, she's not going to do that. Not ever.

Instead, she kisses him again and tries to get back to the place she'd been before their little misunderstanding. It doesn't take long before she's rocking in his lap again, trying to get relief for her own arousal by rubbing up against his. Gods, but he feels good.

Her fingertips are light against the skin of his shoulders and neck and she slips a hand back in his hair before leaning down to kiss along the length of his neck to the crook of his shoulder as he'd done to her before.

Daemon held still and let her explore, obligingly tipping back his head when she began running her lips along his neck and shoulder. He exhaled a low rumble, encouraging, and dropped his hands to her hips to guide her further. He wanted her shaking with need before he'd take her completely, because she was going to learn that he meant what he said, and she was going to learn that there was nothing to fear between men and women. Ever.

Calloused fingers squeezed handfuls of Sansa's ass, providing another delicious distraction even as he ground her down over his still-clothed cock with every other roll of her body over his. And he enjoyed it, this tactile teasing, determining how long he could last before he lost all shreds of control completely.

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