As she doles out advice, it strikes him just how well-suited they truly are; he has no training, and more, no patience, for the subtler points of politics. A court like King's Landing was something he'd never truly been prepared for. His Lord Father had no taste for politics of that sort and Jon doesn't either. It's just his luck that Margaery, though, is extraordinarily skilled in just that area; he can lead men to war, bind together the Northern houses, negotiate loans and weddings, but these subtler, shadier aspects are something he can't do... and she can. She may never be his wife, may never be able to call herself Lady Stark, but to Jon, she's the very beating of his heart, a part of him that can not be separated, regardless of how hard anyone may try. To do so would be to shatter him into a hundred pieces, each one as sharp and brittle as a shard of glass.
"You do." His hand covers hers, pinning it to his chest, fingers curling into the gaps between her own. "You make me sing, Margaery. Every inch of me, blood and bone, heart and cock, body and soul itself, sings for you. When you're near, it's a song of desire and contentment; when you're far, it's a song of long and need." What they share is so much more than love or lust; they are mere parts of it, fractions of a whole that goes beyond understanding or words. There is no word for it. There is no concept to describe it. It simply is. "As much as a man can, I do." Hand tugging on hers, Jon presses a kiss to the palm of her hand. "You are mine. And I live for you. That is all anyone else every need know."
Not that they would share it with everyone. Or most people. The court would know that she shared his bed before long, but they wouldn't know the truth of their relationship. If their enemies knew the depths of their bond, Margaery might very well become more of a target than she would be once knowledge of her survival became commonplace.
"Most likely so." Jon's laughter is soft and most certainly amused. "Give him time. A man doesn't go from smuggler to hand of the king unless he's capable. He gives sound advise." Sounder than many of his lords, truth be told. Stannis had been an ally, and a grudging one, at best, but at the very least, he can claim to understand why the man kept Davos so close at hand.
"I can still hope it doesn't come to that, can I not? Marriages bind houses together, true enough, but there are other ways as well." The words feel feeble as he speaks them. They are. The chances of a solid alliance coming from anything but marriage are slim and he knows it. Jon knows he has many flaws, but he's never been one to deny the truth when it's clear to him. He shakes his head, dispelling the momentary self-deception with a quiet sigh, and nods, mind mulling over her words while his fingers trace the curve of her lips and the shape of her cheek. They talk politics, but he wants to keep touching her as they do. It's a need, just like breathing, and inside him, his desire for her is waking from it's slumber at a rate that approaches the impossible. "No, you're right, Margaery. If it comes to that, I shall journey to Dorne and make the offer myself. I will not make them beg." In truth, Dorne may very well be their best chance for a marriage that will accommodate their particular... arrangement.
Even thoughts of Dorne and the quagmire of politics that would necessitate such a marriage weren't enough to dampen his ardor. Like oil being lit by a candle, his lust roared through him, filling him with those very same instincts that left him marking her skin with his seed just moments prior, and left him wanting to do just that. "Good." The grin that spreads across his face is the very mirror of wolf's and the darkness that gathers in his eyes is reminiscent of those ancient, dark pools of steaming water in the heart of Winterfell's godswood. "You had best do so. We do not speak in hypothetical. I have no qualms about letting others see just what sort of claim we have on one another." Jon had never been quite so bold, quite so shameless when he'd been a man, but it's different now; if his body cried out for hers, if his cock throbbed for release and her cunt clenched with a need to be filled while they dined among his bannerman, he would find nothing abhorrent with lifting her from her place and onto his shaft instead. He would play their political games, but, with Margaery, he would satisfy his desires and instincts and needs while doing it.
For all that, though, he was still capable of patience and restraint if it suited his whims. Playing this game of hers, intriguing as it was, certainly counted as one of those whims he would follow... for the moment. If the rules of this game had been up to him, he would be touching himself while watching her, but he's agreed to her terms. The way she cleans herself becomes a show, deliberately designed to ensnare him, to make his arousal swell larger while preventing him from doing anything about it. His fingers clench at the arms of the chair, cock straining between his legs, twitching as it tries to grow harder and can't, all while he watches her with hot, dark eyes that promise that when she's done having her fun, the way he fucks her will leave her screaming and howling with pleasure. "You are. It is not a bite mark and traces of my seed that makes you mine, Margaery." They both know it to be true. "If it pleases you, once you are cleaned, I shall make some marks that you can't easily wipe away. The kind all of court will see."
This game she's playing will end only one way and the both know it. As she moves closer, the distance shrinking between them as quickly as a setting sun dipping beneath the horizon, Jon can feel instinct straining against restraint, desire warring with his control; it's a wrestling match of a different kind and all he can do is nod when she presents her instructions. He takes the cloth, of course, and starts high, cleaning the skin between her shoulders with surprising gentleness. Slowly, purposefully, he works his way down her back with broad strokes, cleaning each swathe of skin, from the back of her neck down to the small of her back and beyond, all the while leaning forward, hot breath blowing against her spine. Each moment that passes is one more without relief; each moment is one that leaves him a little less of a man, a little more a raging whirl of primal need and other, older things.
In the end, it's when he reaches that boundary where torso ends and her rear begins. One glance of her ass and the game is done. He casts the cloth aside and takes her by the hips, hissing softly, "We're done. Your game is over, Margaery. Get on you hands and knees. Now."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-12-18 03:06 am (UTC)"You do." His hand covers hers, pinning it to his chest, fingers curling into the gaps between her own. "You make me sing, Margaery. Every inch of me, blood and bone, heart and cock, body and soul itself, sings for you. When you're near, it's a song of desire and contentment; when you're far, it's a song of long and need." What they share is so much more than love or lust; they are mere parts of it, fractions of a whole that goes beyond understanding or words. There is no word for it. There is no concept to describe it. It simply is. "As much as a man can, I do." Hand tugging on hers, Jon presses a kiss to the palm of her hand. "You are mine. And I live for you. That is all anyone else every need know."
Not that they would share it with everyone. Or most people. The court would know that she shared his bed before long, but they wouldn't know the truth of their relationship. If their enemies knew the depths of their bond, Margaery might very well become more of a target than she would be once knowledge of her survival became commonplace.
"Most likely so." Jon's laughter is soft and most certainly amused. "Give him time. A man doesn't go from smuggler to hand of the king unless he's capable. He gives sound advise." Sounder than many of his lords, truth be told. Stannis had been an ally, and a grudging one, at best, but at the very least, he can claim to understand why the man kept Davos so close at hand.
"I can still hope it doesn't come to that, can I not? Marriages bind houses together, true enough, but there are other ways as well." The words feel feeble as he speaks them. They are. The chances of a solid alliance coming from anything but marriage are slim and he knows it. Jon knows he has many flaws, but he's never been one to deny the truth when it's clear to him. He shakes his head, dispelling the momentary self-deception with a quiet sigh, and nods, mind mulling over her words while his fingers trace the curve of her lips and the shape of her cheek. They talk politics, but he wants to keep touching her as they do. It's a need, just like breathing, and inside him, his desire for her is waking from it's slumber at a rate that approaches the impossible. "No, you're right, Margaery. If it comes to that, I shall journey to Dorne and make the offer myself. I will not make them beg." In truth, Dorne may very well be their best chance for a marriage that will accommodate their particular... arrangement.
Even thoughts of Dorne and the quagmire of politics that would necessitate such a marriage weren't enough to dampen his ardor. Like oil being lit by a candle, his lust roared through him, filling him with those very same instincts that left him marking her skin with his seed just moments prior, and left him wanting to do just that. "Good." The grin that spreads across his face is the very mirror of wolf's and the darkness that gathers in his eyes is reminiscent of those ancient, dark pools of steaming water in the heart of Winterfell's godswood. "You had best do so. We do not speak in hypothetical. I have no qualms about letting others see just what sort of claim we have on one another." Jon had never been quite so bold, quite so shameless when he'd been a man, but it's different now; if his body cried out for hers, if his cock throbbed for release and her cunt clenched with a need to be filled while they dined among his bannerman, he would find nothing abhorrent with lifting her from her place and onto his shaft instead. He would play their political games, but, with Margaery, he would satisfy his desires and instincts and needs while doing it.
For all that, though, he was still capable of patience and restraint if it suited his whims. Playing this game of hers, intriguing as it was, certainly counted as one of those whims he would follow... for the moment. If the rules of this game had been up to him, he would be touching himself while watching her, but he's agreed to her terms. The way she cleans herself becomes a show, deliberately designed to ensnare him, to make his arousal swell larger while preventing him from doing anything about it. His fingers clench at the arms of the chair, cock straining between his legs, twitching as it tries to grow harder and can't, all while he watches her with hot, dark eyes that promise that when she's done having her fun, the way he fucks her will leave her screaming and howling with pleasure. "You are. It is not a bite mark and traces of my seed that makes you mine, Margaery." They both know it to be true. "If it pleases you, once you are cleaned, I shall make some marks that you can't easily wipe away. The kind all of court will see."
This game she's playing will end only one way and the both know it. As she moves closer, the distance shrinking between them as quickly as a setting sun dipping beneath the horizon, Jon can feel instinct straining against restraint, desire warring with his control; it's a wrestling match of a different kind and all he can do is nod when she presents her instructions. He takes the cloth, of course, and starts high, cleaning the skin between her shoulders with surprising gentleness. Slowly, purposefully, he works his way down her back with broad strokes, cleaning each swathe of skin, from the back of her neck down to the small of her back and beyond, all the while leaning forward, hot breath blowing against her spine. Each moment that passes is one more without relief; each moment is one that leaves him a little less of a man, a little more a raging whirl of primal need and other, older things.
In the end, it's when he reaches that boundary where torso ends and her rear begins. One glance of her ass and the game is done. He casts the cloth aside and takes her by the hips, hissing softly, "We're done. Your game is over, Margaery. Get on you hands and knees. Now."