ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 35: The Frost's Apprentice
POV: Princess Sansa Stark (300 AC)
Practically a year has passed since the North was formally elevated to the status of an Empire, but, if anyone were to ask me about the practical changes in the daily life of Winterfell, I would say that almost nothing has changed on the surface. The snow continues to fall at its relentless pace, the lords still argue over taxes and provisions, and the cold remains the sole absolute sovereign of our lands. However, what truly brought the real tide of change into our halls was the inevitable advance of time.
Whether a crowned king or not, my brother Robb was already of age to marry and secure the continuity of his lineage over the Neck. I, having just turned sixteen, would also already be betrothed to some heir of a great house or boasting an aristocratic fiancé if it weren't for the immense and destructive elemental magic I carry in my blood.
The preparations for Robb's marriage to Wylla Manderly are already advancing at a rapid pace, with the wedding scheduled to take place later this year. Meanwhile, behind the scenes of political power, my mother Cersei and Lady Elia Martell have arranged a strategic betrothal between my twin sister, Myrcella, and Prince Aegon Targaryen—even with all the secrets and the particular "problem" that Aegon carries with him.
All of this, of course, is part of my mother's quiet and ambitious machinations. Cersei thinks grandly. She knows that Aegon could, at some point in the future, claim the Iron Throne with the support of the Southern factions; and she is fully aware that, with the fire magic he possesses, there would be absolutely no one in the world capable of stopping him if he truly decided to march to war. In the plans drawn in my mother's mind, she will, one way or another, have a daughter crowned as queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
At the same time, my grandfather Tywin Lannister insists on trying to marry our sister Arya to Robert Baratheon's heir, to the horror and complete fury of my youngest sister, whose only true desire in life was to become a warrior of the Emperor's Black Guard.
Cersei drew our family's destiny like a tapestry of crowns: she wanted a King of the Lands Above the Neck in Robb, a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in Myrcella, and an Empress of Winter in me. She prepared me exhaustively since my very first bleeding to assume this role alongside Arawyn. Not that I do not want this imperial crown or the weight it carries; though I do not make it the center of my daily efforts, the reality is very simple in my mind: if I am not to be Arawyn's woman, I will not belong to anyone else in this world, and I will remain single forever.
But the present moment demands absolute focus on my part. My dear twin, Myrcella, is a sweet girl, extremely timid and too reserved to express aloud what she truly desires. Being the older twin and possessing a much more dominant and firm personality, I assumed the responsibility of doing things for her, guiding her, and pushing her in the direction of what I know she wants, even if she herself is afraid to admit it.
At this very moment, the two of us find ourselves in the Emperor's private solar. We are kneeling on the soft fur rug directly in front of Arawyn himself, who remains relaxed in his chair of mystical oak.
My dear twin sister tries to deny her deepest desires to maintain a posture of an innocent lady, but she cannot fool me. I know her better than anyone else in the world; I see her touching herself at night in the privacy of our blankets, whispering our Emperor's name amidst feverish sighs while she sleeps.
Holding Myrcella's golden hair firmly in my left hand, I guide her head along Arawyn's colossal member. My sister's face is completely disheveled, soiled by the gleam of both their fluids, her breath coming in short, needy gasps. When I feel the Emperor reach his limit and release the first wave of his seed directly into her throat, I ensure she receives every drop, keeping her head firmly pressed against his hip.
"— Very well, sister, —" I whisper close to her ear, releasing her hair while she coughs lightly, catching her breath. "— Now it's my turn. Take care of his balls."
Myrcella blinks her tearful eyes, still trying to restore the air in her lungs, but a single firm and dominant look on my part is enough to make her act quickly, lowering her delicate hands to caress the Emperor where I commanded.
The fact that I have not formally married him yet does not mean, by any means, that I cannot enjoy every ounce of pleasure his monstrous body offers. I masterfully utilize the techniques of seduction and handling that my own mother taught me—techniques she unfortunately detailed by giving examples of how she acted with my father during the nights in Moat Cailin, to my internal repulsion, but which proved extremely useful now.
I feel Arawyn's immense hands close tightly around my own blonde hair, pulling me up as he begins to face-fuck me with a raw and relentless intensity. Due to the physical density that my elemental ice magic bestows upon my own body, my flesh is infinitely more resistant than that of any ordinary woman. This colossal physical force that would destroy or injure any other lady is translated only as an overwhelming and indescribable pleasure for me.
After a few minutes of a suffocating rhythm, Arawyn pulls away from my mouth. Already knowing perfectly what he plans to do next, I pull Myrcella close to me by the nape of her neck. I join our faces, pressing our cheeks and foreheads together, and it is at this moment that the Emperor releases his seed with absurd intensity over us, covering both our features and our hair with his warm, viscous trail.
"— Right... —" Arawyn says, his voice hoarse as he catches his breath. He looks directly at Myrcella. "— Go to the large table in the center of the room and lean over it."
My sister obeys immediately, her legs still trembling. She walks to the ancient oak table and leans face down over the polished wooden surface. I sit elegantly beside her body, on the edge of the table, and pull Myrcella's head so she rests her face directly on my clothed thigh.
I see Arawyn position himself right behind my sister. The massive body of our Emperor, shaped by the marks of power and his own titanic nature, surpasses ours in almost unbelievable dimensions. Myrcella tries to turn her face to look back, frightened by the immensity of the man who will dominate her, but I hold her chin firmly, forcing her to keep her eyes locked directly on mine so she finds an anchor and does not feel afraid.
Our Emperor teases my twin sister's virgin entrance with the tip of his member, sliding slowly before beginning the penetration. I cannot help but think, with a mix of irony and excitement, that on my first time he was not gentle with me at all, calling me "naughty" and "dirty" in the heat of the moment—terms with which I clearly disagree in public, though in bed they prove true.
Arawyn enters her slowly. With each new penetration, he introduces himself a bit deeper, allowing Myrcella's body to adapt to his monumental thickness. His left hand firmly grips my sister's slender waist, while his right hand rests on her buttocks, playing with and stimulating the other entrance with his fingers. I continue staring fixedly into my twin's eyes, offering her all the support and strength she needs to endure the impact.
After a few minutes, Arawyn's pace accelerates drastically. He begins to thrust with force and imperial vigor. Myrcella breaks eye contact with me for a moment, closing her eyes tightly and arching her back as she concentrates only on moaning and absorbing the overwhelming sensations invading her. Shortly after, she reaches her first orgasm. I caress her sweaty face with tenderness, but my thumb ends up entering her mouth by accident; afraid of hurting me or interrupting the flow, Myrcella simply keeps it there, sucking and biting my finger with each new orgasm the Emperor wrenches from her.
When Arawyn finally reaches his climax inside her, he releases completely, filling my sister's interior with his seed until it overflows. Without giving us time to rest, he abruptly pulls me by the hips, laying my body face down directly on Myrcella's back, who continues lying on the table.
He positions himself behind me and, without any warning, penetrates me all at once from behind. I cannot contain a loud groan of pleasure, even with my mouth pressed very close to Myrcella's ear, ending up biting her ear by accident when his thrusts become too intense. Arawyn delivers violent slaps against my buttocks—blows that would have enough force to kill an ordinary giant, but which my flesh strengthened by ice magic absorbs with extreme ease, turning the pain into pure fuel for my climax.
I feel him finish inside me, filling me completely. The excess of his seed begins to slowly leak from my slit, dripping down my thighs and onto the back and hip of my sister beneath me.
After recovering our breath and minimal composure, I get up from the table and help Myrcella stand. Holding her hand firmly, I pull her toward Arawyn's desk, where he has already sat down again to review some imperial documents as if nothing had happened.
I pull Myrcella down beneath the large oak desk, positioning ourselves on our knees exactly between the Emperor's legs. We immediately return to our service on his imperial member, working in tandem with our mouths and hands.
In the middle of the process, I hear the sharp snap of Arawyn's fingers against the desk above us. In the next second, the sound of the solar door opening echoes through the room.
"— My Emperor, —" the solemn voice of our father, Eddard Stark, fills the room.
Myrcella's face instantly turns pale as the snow outside. She tries to back away from the Emperor's member out of sheer dread of being discovered by our father, but my hand closes tightly around her nape, preventing her from moving and forcing her to continue the oral work. I look deep into her eyes, transmitting a silent authority.
Myrcella continues to suck Arawyn desperately and silently under the desk, while her own fingers begin to work frantically on her own intimacy under her skirt. The involuntary tremor in her legs shows me she reached an intense, silent orgasm right there, hidden just inches from our father's boots, who continues talking calmly to the Emperor about the logistics and the amount of iron armors that need to receive new magical enchantments before winter.
After Ned Stark finishes the report and leaves the solar, we crawl out from under the desk. Arawyn reaches his limit once more, dividing the release of his seed equally between my mouth and Myrcella's.
"— It's time for your commitments, girls, —" the Emperor declares, adjusting his clothes with a corner smirk.
Myrcella has an appointment scheduled with Aegon Targaryen right after this afternoon. I dragged her to Arawyn's solar precisely so she could relax her body and mind before facing her southern suitor.
As we walk through the stone corridors of Winterfell back to our chambers, I try to convince Myrcella to give Aegon a real kiss after the meeting, mentioning how aroused she was just a few minutes ago.
"— That would be completely wrong, Sansa! —" she whispers, her cheeks flushed. "— We just did that with the Emperor... I can't simply kiss my fiancé with the taste of another man in my mouth!"
I shake my head in disdain at her moralism. Myrcella does not realize that I am only trying to help her in every way possible. Aegon likes men—that is the secret and the major "problem" my mother tries to mask at all costs to secure the alliance. Perhaps the taste of a man as virile and dominant as Arawyn in my sister's mouth would make her minimally attractive or interesting to him in some mystical way, or something of the sort. But she is too naive to comprehend the nuances of power and desire.
I leave Myrcella in her chambers and head toward Arawyn's laboratory. The immense dark steel doors are already open, awaiting my entrance.
Upon crossing the threshold, I find myself looking at Ros and the mysterious woman with dark hair and an ancient gaze, Shiera Seastar, who recently returned from her mysterious journey in Essos. Alongside them, leaning against one of the stone workbenches, is my cousin Aemon Targaryen, the newly crowned King Beyond the Wall.
Today will be the day we perform the replacement of my elemental power marks. The old marks I carried had begun to limit the amount of energy my body can channel; this will be the second time I undergo this process of mystical transition.
Shortly after, the Emperor enters the room with heavy steps, emanating a natural authority.
"— Go to the center of the containment circle, Sansa, —" he orders directly.
Without hesitating, I remove my garments completely, letting the clothes fall to the stone floor until I am completely naked. It is a strange and slightly uncomfortable feeling to be exposed this way in front of Aemon, but it is not the first time we have undergone mystical procedures together and both of us should already be used to the dynamic. Even so, I see my cousin's cheeks instantly flush, and I feel my own face warm up at the glimpse of his reaction.
Arawyn positions himself at the edge of the circle and snaps his fingers. In the same instant, the old magical marks that were adhered to my skin lose their spiritual anchoring and begin to detach from my body, falling to the floor like pieces of old, dry skin.
The four—Arawyn, Ros, Shiera, and Aemon—immediately surround me inside the circle, beginning the process of engraving and carving the new magical glyphs across the entirety of my naked skin. Being surrounded by so many people, whose hands touch and manipulate my sensitive body from all sides, causes my core of power—which was still extremely sensitive due to the recent events in the solar—to begin warming up in a dangerous way. However, I concentrate my mind to maintain focus.
Soon, any remnant of excitement or carnal heat disappears completely, replaced by a sharp, excruciating, and cold pain. It is an interesting and curious fact that the application of new ice elemental magic matrices has only proven painful on me, or at least that is the impression I get from seeing the ease with which others undergo the process. Arawyn mentioned once that the carving on his own body was also extremely painful at first, but he never showed a single fraction of discomfort on his face, which only serves to illustrate his absurd level of determination... or sheer madness.
After all the new marks are properly positioned and finalized on my skin, I put my clothes on again, feeling the chill of the new matrices pulse beneath the fabric.
I am led to the training room adjacent to the laboratory, where I will spend the afternoon practicing the control of my elemental magic alongside Aemon, who is training his attunement with his new magical sword, Lightbringer—an extremely imposing name for a weapon that seems to have come straight out of the legends of the ancient heroes of the First Men, if anyone were to ask me.
The two of us position ourselves in a combat stance to challenge Arawyn in a practical training session. The Emperor positions himself in the center of the stone courtyard and, audaciously, warns us that he will not take a single step back or to the sides during the entire confrontation. He moves only his arms—not out of physical necessity to channel power, but rather deliberately so we can anticipate and know where his attacks are coming from.
Arawyn defends himself from our combined onslaughts using blasts of compressed wind, blocks of solid ice, or barriers of compact earth that sprout from the ground under his command. He counter-attacks using these very elements in a strictly cyclical and predictable order: ice, air, earth, and fire—with fire being used exclusively for his direct offensive attacks.
However, even knowing perfectly well which element he will use next due to his predictable order, we cannot gain absolutely any tactical advantage over him. No matter how fast I conjure my magical blazes—which represent my strongest and most developed element—my fire never manages to breach his physical barriers or touch his skin. At the same time, Aemon advances with superhuman speed, delivering rapid thrusts and ranged energy slashes with his sword enveloped in blood flames, but all of his attacks are repelled with a humiliating ease by the minimal movements of the Emperor's arms.
After an exhausting and grueling training session, where we were unable to make him retreat even a single millimeter from his initial position, Arawyn ends the combat. He glares at us with that irritating sneer he always displays when demonstrating his physical and mystical superiority.
Aemon approaches me, panting, extending his hand to help me stand up from the stone floor.
"— Well... today's training was productive, cousin, —" he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he sheathes Lightbringer. "— But now I really must go. I have many matters to resolve before returning north of the Wall."
With the support of Mag the Mighty's giants and the wisdom of the Children of the Forest working in tandem with our own imperial builders, nearly all of the new outposts and castles on the border are completely finalized. Aemon's castle is the only one that is not yet fully completed, but it is already very close to finished.
Erecting five great fortresses of stone and magical wood—one of them worthy of a true king—in the span of just one year was a task considered absolutely impossible by the laws of ordinary Westerosi engineering. But with the physical strength of the giants and soil-molding magic, the impossible became reality under our empire. Aemon's royal castle, located at the top of the Fist of the First Men, is one of the most beautiful and imposing structures I have ever seen when I visited it during the works.
Saying goodbye to my cousin, I leave the premises of the laboratory and begin to cross Winterfell's main courtyard. In the same instant, my direwolf, Lady, who was walking by my side, stops abruptly. She raises her head toward the grey sky and lets out a low, deep, and aggressive growl.
I look up and see a messenger raven descending toward the castle. By the considerably smaller size of the bird compared to the robust ravens we use in the North, I instantly recognize it as a bird coming from King's Landing.
I close my eyes and subtly expand my mind, briefly and superficially scouring the bird's simple mind to capture the origin and energy of the message it carries on its leg.
Observing the reaction of pure hostility from Lady beside me, I don't need much effort to comprehend what that message means: that raven definitely does not bring good news for the Empire of Winter.