ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 55: The Imperial Council
POV: Emperor Arawyn Stark (303 AC)
Unlike what most of the lords, nobles, and commoners of Westeros imagine, I consider myself a true idiot at times. And why would an emperor endowed with divine powers arrive at such a humiliating conclusion about himself? The answer is simple: because, even as a greenseer capable of contemplating multiple threads of fate, navigating overlapping timelines, and foreseeing the unfoldings of the future centuries in advance, my mind insists on making the exact same crude mistake. I catch myself thinking, in my infinite and naive rational benevolence: "No... that lord wouldn't be that stupid. That king wouldn't commit such a shamefully suicidal act." And then, the real world makes a point of slapping me in the face to remind me of a universal and immutable truth: yes, they are exactly stupid enough.
I summoned this great Imperial Council in Winterfell to align our objectives, tune our war machine, and detail meticulously how we will act in the face of the new circus unfolding in the South. I know perfectly well that, once again, we will be forced to march below the Neck to bring order to that feudal pigsty. And this time, the situation will require me to personally go down there to tear out the problem by its roots.
Fortunately, before facing the stressful chatter of dozens of nobles and generals in the main hall, I possess a privilege that no other ruler in the history of the known world has ever enjoyed: two beautiful empresses ready to help me relax, discharge the tension, and soothe my spirit.
I was lying comfortably in our immense imperial bed, my head resting on dark velvet pillows, watching the spectacle of my two wives dedicating themselves with mastery to my body. The two worked in perfect synergy and harmony on my shaft. My dear Margaery Tyrell, the Empress of Spring, was in charge of the head, while Val, my wild and fierce Empress of Autumn, took care of the length of the shaft. Even if it causes a spark of playful jealousy in my wild wife, it is impossible to deny an absolute fact: Margaery possesses a truly unique, supernatural, and celestial gift for sucking dick.
And I am not exaggerating or resorting to poetic hyperbole. Margaery's skill with her mouth and throat is so overwhelming that I am forced to actively use my vascular and circulatory control magic just so I don't look like a virgin boy suffering from premature ejaculation beneath her lips. However, not even sorcery and absolute mental control can compete against the perfect technique and precise pressure of Margaery's tongue on my glans. In a matter of a few short minutes, the climax hit me with the force of a lightning bolt. I spilled my seed directly into the mouth of my Empress of Spring, who—with a skill that would make any whore in Essos green with envy and a purely incomparable natural talent—accommodated my entire twenty-five centimeters in a flawless deep throat, swallowing every single drop without gagging or coughing once.
Without losing a single second, Val, the Empress of Autumn, took the lead. She positioned herself over my hips, displaying all her riding skills in a frenetic reverse cowgirl. Val activated her own corporal runic arrays, intensifying the strength of her thighs and the movement of her pelvis in such a way that, if I didn't possess a superhuman physique strengthened by ancient sorcery, she would have ground my pelvis into bone dust.
The sight of Val riding me with her back turned was one of wild eroticism, but my attention was partially stolen by an equally breathtaking image: Margaery knelt down and sat directly onto my face. I wasted no time. I gripped the plump thighs of my southern empress and began exploring her terribly wet interior with my tongue, savoring her fluids as I listened to her muffled moans echo through the bedchamber. After minutes of this intense, frenindex dynamic, I reached a new orgasm alongside Val, filling the womb of my Autumn wife with a massive load of seed, while Margaery reached her own climax directly on my mouth, shuddering against my lips.
Val fell to the side of the bed, panting heavily, exhausted from attempting to give me a genuine "death by snu-snu" and failing gloriously. I leaned over and gave her a deep, passionate kiss on the mouth, appreciating her satisfied smile.
It was then that my gaze shifted toward Margaery. She had walked over to the side table and was pouring herself a goblet of my secret wine. That wine was a special reserve that I had synthesized and enchanted for my personal consumption, since any ordinary alcoholic drink in the world had absolutely zero effect on my accelerated metabolism. It is worth noting that Northern wine was already, on its own, considerably stronger than any drink in the rest of the world, since imperial runes granted our citizens a tougher physique and a very high alcohol tolerance. Margaery could drink my secret reserve because, ever since the magical heritage of the legendary Gardener line awakened in her veins, she had effectively become the equivalent of a hot, non-redheaded poison ivy—though calling a poison ivy hot is an absolute redundancy, after all.
My philosophical reverie about how attractive and dangerous my Empress of Spring could be was interrupted by Margaery herself. She had positioned herself before the large stone window of our chamber, her back to me. Her perfect ass was slightly tilted backward in a highly suggestive manner, and with her delicate fingers, she spread one of her buttocks, revealing her intent without having to utter a single word.
Obviously, in the face of my sacred duties as a husband, which I swore before the old gods and men to fulfill with fervor, I found myself under the inescapable obligation to please my beautiful wife and engage in this corporal battle that I—clearly—did not want to face.
I walked over to her and pressed her against the stone wall beside the window. I slid my fingers to the entrance of her rear hole and carefully pulled out a simple anal plug, made entirely of polished diamond with a large ruby set into the base—a simple, cheap, everyday ornament that any emperor can buy in bulk for his court's delight. I touched the tip of my thumb to the runic array carved into the soft skin of that region: the "Good Girl's Rune." Yes, that was the highly appropriate name I gave to the elasticity and muscle relaxation rune I created to allow anal sex without any pain or physiological complications. And let's be honest, the name fit Margaery's posture perfectly.
I aligned my shaft with her entrance and began fucking my empress's ass with brute strength and cadence. I pulled her against my chest by holding her delicate chin from behind. The violence and impact of the movement caused the wine in the goblet she was still holding to slosh over, spilling the crimson liquid over her heavy breasts. Seeing that, I turned her body sideways and began licking the wine directly off her soft skin—after all, that wine was bloody expensive and a conscious emperor cannot allow the waste of resources.
I continued penetrating her anal entrance for long, intense minutes until Margaery began moaning breathlessly, declaring she couldn't take that overwhelming stimulation any longer. Answering her playful plea, I reached the peak and released a massive load of seed deep inside her rear hole.
I scooped Margaery up in my arms and carried her from the window to the bed. From the parapet all the way to the feather mattress, a continuous trail formed from my seed leaking out of her ass and dripping onto the wooden floor. I laid her beside Val, used a quick runic purification array to clean myself up, and dressed in an impeccable imperial tunic of black and gray wool, bearing the emblem of the Silent Wolf intertwined with gold runic arrays on the chest. It was time to work.
Upon leaving the private quarters and descending to the great banquet hall of Winterfell, I realized that the Empire's retinue was practically complete. The high lords, generals, rune-smiths, and clan chiefs occupied the dozens of long tables. The speed with which that crowd of lords had managed to gather in Winterfell in record time was not due to any kind of runic transport system or magical portals. No such shortcuts existed. The speed of travel in the North was the result of the Empire's monumental infrastructure: impeccably paved roads, cleared of snow and enchanted with preservation runes, combined with the superhuman physique and metabolic endurance that runic magic granted to every man, woman, and mount in the North. Marching or riding hundreds of leagues without bodily fatigue had transformed the continent into a connected, dynamic territory.
The only notable absences in the hall were the chiefs of the Thenns and Ygritte, whose lands lay further north, but who were also nearing the gates thanks to the enchanted roads.
I walked along the high dais under the respectful, reverent gazes of those present. I settled at the head of the imperial table and served myself a plate of roasted meat. It didn't take long before Aemon—displaying his straight black hair and the striking gray eyes of the Stark bloodline—and Aegon Targaryen—sporting his classic Valyrian features of silver hair and violet eyes—approached the dais.
I looked at the two young men with a smirk.
"— What do you boys want from this small and humble emperor today? —" I asked, bringing a piece of meat to my mouth.
Aemon stepped forward, his posture erect and his gaze holding the firm look of a Northern Stark.
"— It's about this fraud in the South, cousin, —" Aemon declared sternly. "— We cannot allow some random impostor to use the name and crest of House Targaryen to spread chaos and discord across the continent."
"— Yes, my emperor, —" Aegon agreed, fury flashing in his Valyrian eyes. "— It is a direct insult to my father's memory and to my very existence."
I let out a sigh and took a sip of mead.
"— Yes, boys... and unfortunately, this lad will cause quite a stir in the South, —" I answered calmly. "— But don't worry. I already had all of this mapped out and calculated in my visions."
A few minutes later, the heavy thud of the doors announced the arrival of Sigorn Thenn and Ygritte, completing the council's quorum. With all the high lords present—including my cousin, King Robb Stark of the Neck, Prince Ned, the experienced Maester Luwin, the sharp Olenna Tyrell, and the council of rune-smiths—I stood up. The hall of Winterfell plummeted into instant, sepulchral silence.
"— I will be extremely quick and get straight to the point, my lords and generals, —" I began, my voice booming with power through the hall's runic amplifications. "— Unfortunately, the South is heading into a new civil war of grand proportions. And once again, we will be dragged into the middle of that conflict. The difference is that this time, I myself will personally join our march below the Neck at some point."
A wave of whispers rippled through the hall. I let out a low, playful chuckle before continuing:
"— Honestly... sometimes the temptation to use my magic to freeze absolutely everything from the Red Fork down and turn the South into a permanent block of ice is enormous, but we still have business to conduct down there now that our dear Arya is queen there."
I looked around, observing the curious and apprehensive expressions of the nobles.
"— I see that many of you lords are anxious to understand who this alleged 'Aegon Targaryen' is who landed in the Stormlands. I didn't think I would need to explain the obvious to experienced men—after all, the simple fact that he is leading the Golden Company already gives away the entire farsa, —" I declared, sweeping my gaze over the hall.
Aegon took a step forward on the dais and said firmly:
"— My emperor... the people and the lords of the South will see the truth! They will know he is a fraud!"
Turning to the young Targaryen, I replied with a tone of pedagogical patience:
"— Ah, about that... don't be so sure, lad. Never forget a fundamental rule of politics: people only see what they desperately want to see, and often, not even that. Desperation makes men embrace whichever lie is most convenient."
King Robb Stark, my cousin, sitting at the table of kings, raised his hand and asked:
"— And where is this fake Aegon now, Arawyn? Is the information in his letter regarding events in the South true?"
"— Yes, Robb. The information in the manifesto is accurate, —" I answered. "— He truly took Storm's End through an infiltration and captured Lord Renly Baratheon. Renly's imprisonment will leave the armies and forces of the South in an absolute political stalemate. And at this very moment, the lad has already boarded a fast ship and is sailing toward Meereen, in the East."
Aemon frowned, adjusting his posture while his gray eyes gleamed, grasping the strategic move immediately.
"— He went after my aunt Daenerys... and her dragons, —" Aemon deduced out loud.
"— Exactly, —" I confirmed. "— Word reached the Golden Company that Daenerys Targaryen tamed and rode the great black dragon in the pits of Meereen."
The mention of a ridden dragon caused a murmur of unease to spread through the tables of the lesser southern and western lords present. After all, in the traditional mindset of Westeros, an unriderless dragon is already a terrifying force of nature, but a dragon guided by a rider of royal blood is a weapon of mass destruction capable of bending whole kingdoms.
The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Tyrell, adjusted her silk headpiece and fixed her sharp, wrinkled eyes on me.
"— And will the lad from Essos manage to convince Rhaegar's niece to give him a dragon, my emperor? Or will he return empty-handed? —" Olenna questioned, her tone dripping with venom and pragmatism.
"— He will hardly convince her through simple diplomacy, Lady Olenna, —" I replied. "— Daenerys has extremely capable and dangerous advisors by her side in Meereen."
Olenna tilted her head slightly, offering a small, dangerous smile.
"— Ah, yes... are you referring to your former leader of the rune-smiths? The masked woman who vanished from the North and mysteriously reappeared as the main advisor to the exiled princess in the East? —" Olenna provoked, her sharp tongue testing my boundaries before the entire court. "— Do you not fear she will hand over the secrets and the power you yourself created into the hands of our enemies, Emperor?"
As always, Olenna Tyrell did not hesitate to use her pleasant, charitable tongue. However, my response did not stem from irritation at being contradicted, but rather from the need to establish an absolute and dogmatic truth before the council.
I stared at the old lady of Highgarden with an icy glare that made the nearest candles flicker.
"— Lady Advisor... let me clarify a fundamental fact for you, —" I declared, my voice echoing heavy like a hammer hitting an anvil. "— The power of runes was granted to this world solely and exclusively by my hands and my will. And that same imperial will can strip and obliterate that power from anyone, at any moment, in any corner of the known world."
Lady Olenna took no offense at the reprimand. On the contrary: she merely nodded in respect and withdrew back into her chair. Some of the newly arrived nobles found that harsh exchange strange, but the older members of the council knew perfectly well that the dynamic with my leadership had always been like this. If I wanted to surround myself with flatterers who never questioned my decisions, I wouldn't need a council. Holding so much mystical power sometimes makes it hard to see problems from the perspective of an ordinary man, and having sharp voices around me was a strategic necessity for good governance.
I turned my attention back to the matter of the dragons.
"— Whether the fake Aegon manages to claim a dragon in Meereen or not is an irrelevant detail in the grand scheme of things, —" I continued.
Aegon Targaryen raised his chin and declared proudly:
"— A bastard or an impostor from the Golden Company is not worthy of riding a dragon!"
I let out a short laugh at the lad's idealism.
"— Dragons don't care about your moral definition of 'worthiness', boy, —" I corrected him gently. "— The beasts of Valyria choose their riders based on wild instincts and blood connections. And a bastard of the Blackfyre line possesses enough Valyrian Targaryen blood in his veins to take his chances with one of the beasts. Furthermore, Daenerys is also reorganizing her forces to march toward the South with an army of one hundred thousand Dothraki and ten thousand Unsullied."
I noticed that the mention of the Eastern army and multiple dragons made some lords swallow hard. However, at the tables of the Black Guard and the master rune-smiths, the atmosphere was one of absolute tranquility and even a certain restrained amusement. Those men had accompanied me to the Second Wall; they saw me fight against the colossal Ancestral Ice Dragon that the Others sent against our positions in the Lands of Always Winter. To those veteran warriors, a dragon of flesh and blood the size of Daenerys's was little more than a large target for this Emperor's sorcery.
"— At any rate, —" I declared with authority, "— if this boy or Daenerys brings dragons to Westeros, I will personally deal with the beasts in the skies."
The statement drew shouts of enthusiasm from the Black Guard, while the southern nobles merely nodded, reminded of the scale of power I commanded.
Aegon Targaryen stepped forward on the dais, beating his hand against his chest.
"— My emperor! I ask permission to march in the vanguard to the South! I cannot and will not allow an impostor to use my name to spread war and tarnish my family's history!"
"— Permission granted, Aegon, —" I replied calmly. "— After all, it is the honor and name of your House being trampled in the South. You have the right and the duty to defend your lineage."
Beside him, my cousin Aemon stepped forward, adjusting his posture.
"— I will go with him too, cousin, —" Aemon announced, his gaze firm.
I looked at my young cousin from the northern lands with an arched eyebrow.
"— And have you mastered Luminifera yet, Aemon? —" I asked with a challenging tone.
Aemon didn't answer with words. Instead, he brought his hand to the hilt of the magical sword I myself had gifted him. The second the steel cleared the scabbard, the blade of runic metal erupted into a living, golden flame. Aemon's magic was so refined that the fire didn't remain bound to the metal: the flame contorted like a fiery serpent, plunged beneath the tables of the imperial hall, slithered across the floor without scorching a single stone or garment, and rose majestically just inches from my face.
I smiled inwardly. Good... at least my cousin's colossal mystical talent hasn't been wasted.
Without changing my expression, I reached out my hand and touched the exact tip of Aemon's runic flame with the tip of my index finger. The instant contact was made, my imperial will suppressed the sorcery, and the fire dissipated into the air as if it had never existed. Aemon's eyes widened in an initial mixture of pure shock, followed immediately by a bow heavy with deep respect.
He understood the silent lesson: there is absolutely nothing granted by my hands that I cannot take back in the blink of an eye.
With our objectives outlined, the organization of the Southern campaign was set. Most of the lords of the North would remain to ensure agricultural production and the security of the Second Wall. However, Lord Greatjon Umber demanded to march alongside Aegon and Aemon—after all, that old giant of a man seemed physically incapable of sitting out a good war, not to mention his deep connection and respect for Rhaenys Targaryen.
Alongside the Umbers, the ex wildling chiefs Tormund and Ygritte also offered their axes. However, due to the recent marriage between Sigorn Thenn and Alys Karstark—a union orchestrated by Aemon to seal the peace between the peoples—I ordered the Thenns to remain in the borderlands. With Ygritte marching South, I couldn't afford to leave the two main leaders of the lands bordering the Second Wall away from their territories at the same time.
At the end of the meeting, I retired to my private solar in Winterfell to review the supply maps. I settled comfortably into my immense leather chair behind the heavy weirwood desk. The heavy oak door opened, and my cousin, King Robb Stark, entered the room.
I looked at the young ruler of the Neck with an amused smile.
"— Well, well... the King of the Neck in person, —" I greeted playfully, remaining completely still and relaxed in my chair. "— How can I help you today, my dear cousin?"
Robb let out a low laugh, walking across the room and settling into one of the leather chairs across from my desk.
"— Can't one cousin visit another without needing a favor, Arawyn? —" Robb countered, good-humored.
"— Of course not, Robb, —" I cracked up, shaking my head without moving an inch. "— We're Starks. If you came to my private solar, it's because there's something picking at that redhead brain of yours."
Robb laughed, relaxing his shoulders.
"— Alright, you caught me. And what does my emperor have to offer in terms of a drink for a cousin who theoretically wants nothing? —" Robb teased.
"— Well... as you like to say, I'll give you the 'chef's suggestion', —" I replied.
Without lifting a single muscle in my body or leaving my relaxed position, I activated my invisible magic. From across the office, a bottle of thick, clear glass containing a crystal liquid floated smoothly off the shelf. The bottle navigated through the air, accompanied by a polished stone glass. Mid-air, the bottle tilted gracefully, pouring a generous measure of the liquid before gently placing the glass directly into Robb's hand, while the bottle floated back to its place of origin.
Robb watched the casual demonstration of magical telekinesis with a wry smile.
"— Chef is for food, Arawyn. For drinks, there's another term, —" Robb corrected, looking at the clear glass.
"— Don't come at me with alcoholic pedantry, Robb, —" I teased, watching his reaction. "— There's nothing in the world quite like this secret drink right here. I call it Vodka."
Robb looked at the transparent glass with deep suspicion, staring at the liquid as if I were offering him a simple cup of plain water. He brought the glass to his nose, sniffed the strong, overwhelming aroma of the spirit, and with typical Stark courage, downed the contents in one go.
The result was immediate. Robb's face turned as red as a pepper. He coughed violently once, holding his breath to keep from spitting out the drink, while his eyes watered from the absurd alcoholic proof of the liquid.
"— By the gods... —" Robb managed to whisper, his voice raspy. "— That stuff burns worse than swallowing molten lava!"
"— And you handled it surprisingly well, I must admit, —" I praised, laughing at his expression. "— That reserve of vodka was distilled and enchanted specifically for my metabolism. An ordinary man would have had his stomach burned through by that glass."
Robb caught his breath, placed the glass on the table, and sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the clear crystal with a lost look in his thoughts.
"— You can ask whatever is circling in your mind, Robb, —" I ordered gently, maintaining my relaxed posture in the chair.
Robb sighed, looking directly into my eyes.
"— Daenerys Targaryen has three full-grown dragons in the East, Arawyn... —" Robb began, his voice serious. "— Which of the two remaining do you think this fake Aegon will try to claim if he manages to reach Meereen?"
I raised an eyebrow, amused by my cousin's train of thought.
"— And why are you so sure he will manage to get a dragon, Robb? —" I asked.
Robb offered an ironic smile and shrugged.
"— Well, because you said back in the hall that if he managed to get a dragon, you would personally handle the problem, —" Robb explained. "— And before that, you mentioned that the situation in the South would require you to march in person this time. Putting the pieces together... I know how your mind works, cousin."
Using my magic again without moving my hands, I made a wide glass of the same vodka float up to my mouth. I took a deep gulp of the liquid as if it were fresh water and rested the glass on the desk.
"— Smart as always, my dear Robb, —" I praised, tilting my head.
Robb lowered his tone of voice, his expression turning genuinely concerned.
"— I don't want to doubt your power, Arawyn... not at all. But... can you really defeat a dragon of flesh and fire in the air? By yourself?"
Instead of answering with words and academic theories, I simply extended my mental power. With a light touch of my magic, I projected the real, vivid memories of my battle against the Ancestral Ice Dragon beyond the Second Wall directly into Robb's brain.
For three short seconds, Robb experienced the sensation of standing before a mountain-sized beast of ice, felt the absolute cold that froze the very soul, and witnessed the overwhelming violence of sorcery and my fists as I crushed and pulverized the monster in the skies of the far north.
When I disconnected the mental projection, Robb jolted back in his chair, gasping heavily and wiping the cold sweat that had instantly broken out on his forehead. He looked at me with wide eyes of pure astonishment, letting out a nervous laugh before reaching out to grab the glass and pouring himself another shot to steady his nerves.
"— Yeah... and here I was worrying like a fool over nothing, —" Robb muttered.
"— And if pure magic wasn't enough, I'd still have this, —" I declared with a smirk.
With a simple spatial summoning command, I made the legendary War Hammer that I discovered and retrieved from the sealed depths of Brandon the Builder's tomb appear suspended in the air, right in the center of the room.
The weapon was a masterpiece of dark metal and ancient runes pulsing with a power designed to deny the mystical, so dense that the air in the solar seemed to grow instantly heavier. The second the hammer materialized, Robb took a sharp step back. His sharp skinchanger senses, deeply attuned to the instincts of his direwolf Grey Wind, made his body react with primitive, visceral dread in the presence of that divine weapon.
"— By the gods... what is that thing?! —" Robb asked, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at the hammer with eyes shining in a mix of terror and fascination.
I quickly explained where I had found the ancestral relic of our forefather and the anti-magic purpose for which the hammer was forged. Robb circled the table at a safe distance, admiring the details of the legendary weapon with stars of pure awe in his eyes, like a boy before a toy of the gods.
I made the hammer dematerialize back into its mystical storage plane and remained reclined in my chair.
"— Alright, Robb... now that you've satisfied all your curiosity about wars, dragons, and divine weapons, go find your wife, —" I ordered, amused.
"— Alright, cousin... thanks for the drink, —" Robb said, standing up and walking toward the solar's door.
"— Hold on a second, Robb, —" I interrupted before he crossed the threshold. "— Clear up a personal question for me before you go... why exactly is Princess Shireen Baratheon still a virgin?"
Robb froze on the spot as if struck by an arrow. His face instantly flushed a deep, bright red of intense embarrassment. He turned around slowly, stammering:
"— I-I... I don't know what you're talking about, Arawyn!"
"— Don't be dense, Robb, —" I cracked up, shaking my head. "— Even you have realized that I know absolutely everything that happens in this Empire. You're a Stark and a King, man! Stop asking for so much permission or acting with so much hesitation in the bedchamber!"
"— She... she's a hostage, Arawyn! —" Robb defended himself, on the defensive. "— I want to respect her!"
"— She's a hostage, not a septa, Robb! —" I shot back, laughing at my cousin's shyness. "— We Starks have a reputation for vigor and honor to uphold. Look at Aemon... the lad isn't even married yet, and there isn't a single day his bed wakes up empty or without at least two ladies sharing his sleep! Don't waste any more time. If both of you want it, then there's no problem at all. Go give some relief to the poor Baratheon princess's fingers."
Robb covered his face with his hand, letting out an embarrassed laugh, gave a quick nod, and left my solar in a hurry, eager to escape my marital teasing. The heavy oak door closed with a dry click, sealing the office's privacy.
I was left alone in the dim light of my private cabinet. I took another sip of my special vodka and couldn't help but smile at the irony of my existence. I had started that day planning war strategies against dragon riders and geopolitical traps in the South, and ended the night giving sexual advice and marital encouragement to my king cousin. Truly... life is an eternal and fascinating surprise, even for an Emperor capable of contemplating the future.
I leaned back in my seat and nudged my chair slightly away from the heavy weirwood desk.
With the desk pushed back, the shadow beneath the furniture was revealed. Emerging from down there, rising to her knees from between the shadows of my desk, was none other than my cousin, Sansa Stark.
The Princess of Winter raised her head slowly. Her beautiful, aristocratic face was a complete mess of fluids and smudged makeup. There were involuntary tears in the corners of her blue eyes, saliva running down her chin, and a mixture of flush and shock stamped across her skin.
Sansa had been kneeling down there, hidden beneath the desk, sucking my dick through the entire conversation I had with Robb.
My twenty-five-centimeter shaft had been buried entirely down her throat from the very first to the very last second of her brother's visit. Sansa's conventional airway had been completely blocked and suffocated by my length the entire time. The only reason she hadn't passed out or suffocated to death under the desk was her absolute mastery over elemental magic: Sansa had utilized her air sorcery to force the absorption of oxygen directly through the pores of her skin, pulling air through her skin tissues directly into her lungs without needing to use her nostrils or mouth.
Sansa let out a noisy, deep breath through her mouth the moment she was freed, coughing lightly as she wiped her chin with the sleeve of her silk tunic. She stared up at me with a look that blended exhaustion, shame, and an almost primitive intensity of pleasure and complicity.
I set my glass of vodka on the desk, looked at the adorable mess on my dear cousin's face, and let out a low, satisfied laugh, ready to reward the mystical efforts of a true Princess of Winter.
Alright everyone, this arc/saga ends here. The next one is basically all about the massive war that's coming—and well, maybe a certain wrinkled-faced guy will start making his move. Also, I've posted the first two chapters of my new story, and later today—or at least today for me—I'll post the third; and if the hype is real, maybe the fourth, though don't count on it. Either way, the third chapter is going to be good. You can find the story on my profile, or if you want to search for the title, it's: *A Song of Ice and Fire: The Pale Wolf-Dragon*.