A Life in Westeros
Chapter 12 - Part 2
Inside the great hall, the long oak table had been laid out properly. Platters of smoked eel glistened beside thick slices of black bread, wheels of sharp cheese, and several pitchers of strong ale. A big fire roared in the hearth, driving back the damp chill that always clung to the stone. Banners of grey towers circled by reeds hung proudly beside the older Dustin and Ryswell standards—a clear statement.
Barbrey sat at Adian's right hand, posture straight despite the lingering soreness from the birth. Walder was cradled against her chest, the front of her grey wool gown unlaced just enough for easy access. The baby nursed openly while everyone settled in, loud wet sucking noises cutting clearly through the low murmur of conversation about tolls and river traffic. Milk occasionally beaded at the corner of his mouth and dripped onto the linen covering her lap.
Lord Wyman Manderly's small eyes kept flicking to the scene, his massive frame shifting uncomfortably in the reinforced chair brought out specially for him. He kept his mouth shut for now, but the fascination—and mild discomfort—was obvious on his broad face. Harwood Dustin, Barbrey's uncle, leaned back with a faint smirk, tankard already in hand, looking proud as a rooster. Roger Ryswell sat with his arms crossed tightly, half impressed and half like he'd swallowed something sour.
The room settled. Servants poured more ale. The fire crackled.
Adian spoke first, voice calm and flat, cutting straight to business.
"New toll rates on the eastern fork stand," he said. "Merchants pay at the Twins or they pay double here. No exceptions. No haggling. No special friends."
One of the Ryswell captains, a burly man with a scarred cheek, shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. "And those black skiffs slipping through the reeds at night? The ones carrying the fancy shit from Braavos—silks, glass, dreamwine. What's the cut on those?"
"Same as before," Adian said without hesitation. "You move your wool south through our routes, we move the silk and glass north. Everyone eats fatter. Simple arrangement. You already know the numbers."
Barbrey adjusted Walder to the other breast without missing a beat. As she did, milk beaded at the first nipple and a thin white drop rolled slowly down the heavy curve of her tit before soaking into her gown. She didn't bother covering up. "The Bolton scout boat last month," she said, voice even and strong. "That was their mistake. Roose sent a letter." She nodded toward the parchment lying on the table near Adian. "Polite words on the surface. Cold as a grave underneath. Wants assurances we won't step on his toes again."
Adian picked up the letter, glanced at it once more, then tossed it back down casually. "We gift him ten percent of the dreamwine route through the Neck. No questions from him, no interference from us. He stays quiet, we all stay rich. He knows exactly how this works. Greed over old grudges."
Harwood snorted into his ale, smirking wider. "Roose Bolton taking a cut from a Frey? That's something I never thought I'd see. The man's prouder than a rooster on a dung heap."
"He'll take it," Barbrey said firmly. She stroked Walder's back with slow circles while the baby nursed louder, making wet smacking sounds. "He counts every coin before he counts bodies. Greed beats grudges every single time up here. We offer him easy silver with no risk to his precious Dreadfort name. He'd be a fool to refuse."
Roger Ryswell leaned forward, forearms planted heavily on the table. His eyes flicked to the nursing baby again before returning to Adian. "And the Starks? They hear whispers about extra barges and hidden cargoes moving through the Neck. What then? Eddard's not blind, and the young wolves have sharp ears."
Adian shrugged, completely unbothered. "They hear what we let them hear. Winter is coming. Their granaries are already running low—we all know it. We can move extra grain north cheaper and faster than anyone else. They get fed through the cold months, we get paid, and nobody needs to know the full cargo list on every skiff. Honor keeps them warm at night, but it doesn't fill bellies."
Wyman Manderly finally spoke up, his deep voice a low rumble that carried easily over the fire. He wiped grease from his fingers on his tunic. "You're asking us to trust a Frey with half our hidden trade. That's no small thing, lad. Freys have a reputation for… flexible loyalties."
Adian met his gaze steadily. "I'm not asking, Lord Manderly. I'm offering. Your wool gets south faster and safer than it ever has. Your daughters get Myrish silk for their weddings instead of roughspun. Your purses get heavier every season. The only thing I want in return is quiet. No Bolton raids on my skiffs. No Stark questions about extra tolls or mysterious cargoes. Everyone wins. Everyone eats. Everyone gets rich."
Barbrey looked slowly around the table, Walder still latched on tight, making steady wet sucking noises. Milk occasionally dripped from her exposed nipple onto the linen. "This child makes it blood," she said, voice carrying clear authority. "Dustin blood mixed with Frey routes and coin. You want to keep bleeding for honor while your stores run empty and your children go hungry through winter? Or do you want to eat well, keep your halls warm, and build something that lasts?"
The room went quiet except for the wet, rhythmic nursing sounds from Walder and the steady crackle of the fire. For a long moment, no one spoke. The lords exchanged glances across the long oak table—some thoughtful, some wary, a few already counting coins in their heads.
Lord Wyman Manderly stroked his chins slowly, small eyes flicking once more to Barbrey's openly nursing breast before settling on Adian. "You've built something here," he rumbled at last. "Something real. I've seen the new docks, the barges, the skiffs hidden in the reeds. Not many men could turn a bog tower into a proper hub in two years."
Harwood Dustin grinned openly now, raising his tankard. "My niece didn't marry a weakling, that's plain. Dustin blood and Frey routes. I like the sound of it. My men will ride with the new terms."
Roger Ryswell uncrossed his arms, still looking like he'd bitten into something sour but nodding anyway. "Ten percent to Bolton to keep him quiet is a small price. My captains will spread the word along the Ryswell lands. Wool goes south clean. No questions asked. But if the Starks come sniffing…"
"They won't get answers," Barbrey said calmly. She stroked Walder's back with slow circles while the baby continued suckling loudly. A thin drop of milk rolled down her exposed tit and disappeared into the folds of her gown. "We feed them grain through winter. They stay warm and fed. That's all they need to know."
One by one the lords gave short nods or low grunts of agreement. Garret, the scarred Ryswell captain, lifted his tankard. "To full bellies and heavier purses, then." The others echoed the toast. Ale flowed again. The deal was done over tankards and the open, unashamed sight of the Frey-Dustin heir feeding at his mother's tit while his parents laid out the future of the Neck's trade.
That same afternoon a heavy barge tied up at the new stone piers.
Genna Lannister stepped off the deck with the confidence of a woman who had traveled half the realm and still expected the world to bend for her. She wore a deep wine-colored traveling cloak lined with fur, the hood thrown back so her golden hair caught the weak northern light. A small locked chest rested under one arm—thirty thousand dragons disguised as winter wheat payments from Casterly Rock. A sealed letter from Cersei lay tucked warm against the skin of her cleavage.
The journey up the Trident and through the Neck had been an education. Genna had watched the changes with sharp, appreciative eyes. What she remembered as little more than a damp ruin was now a thriving hub. New granite walls rose strong and straight. Fresh thatch gleamed on the roofs. Busy docks jutted into the water, stevedores shouting as they loaded barges with salted fish, peat bricks, and sealed crates. Black skiffs lurked low in the reeds like predators. Crannogmen watched silently from hidden platforms. The air smelled of smoke, tar, wet timber, and coin.
Not bad, river rat, she thought with a private smile. Not bad at all.
She found Adian and Barbrey in the solar. Barbrey was just finishing feeding Walder, the baby making soft contented noises against her breast. Adian sat nearby, going over the latest ledger numbers by the light of a narrow window. Genna didn't waste time on pretty greetings. She crossed the room and dropped the heavy chest onto the table with a solid clink of gold.
"Thirty thousand dragons," she announced, voice rich with satisfaction. "Disguised as winter wheat shipments from Casterly Rock, just like Cersei promised. She's showing now—six months along. Looks fucking good on her, all round and glowing. The queen's tits are getting heavier by the day too." Genna's eyes moved slowly and deliberately over Barbrey's still-full breasts and the way her gown hung open. "And I can see you've been busy as well, Lady Frey. That boy looks strong. And those tits… still leaking like a proper broodmare, I see."
Barbrey gave a short, tired but genuine laugh. She gently detached Walder from her nipple and handed him to a waiting maid who slipped out quietly. "Busy enough. The birth went clean. The boy's healthy and loud. The North is finally starting to listen instead of just grumbling. You bring any news besides gold and compliments on my leaking tits?"
Genna pulled Cersei's sealed letter free from inside her bodice and tossed it onto the table with a smirk. "She wrote it herself. Very explicit. Wants you both to know the stag is still completely useless in bed—can't even get it up half the time—and she's been fingering herself raw every night remembering exactly how Adian bred her while Robert snored two rooms away like the drunken boar he is."
Adian stood up slowly, closed the ledger with a soft thud, and looked between the two women. The air in the solar changed instantly—thick, hot, charged.
"Lock the door," he told Genna, voice low.
She turned the heavy iron key with a soft, final click. The sound seemed to echo.
The three of them moved to the wide bed without another word. Adian sat on the edge first, legs spread wide. Barbrey came forward and knelt between his thighs, her grey gown still hanging open, heavy tits swaying as she settled. Genna knelt right beside her a moment later, shoulder brushing Barbrey's. Both women looked up at him, eyes already dark with heat and hunger.
Adian pulled Cersei's letter from Genna's hand and unfolded it. "Read it out loud," he said, voice low and commanding. "While you two work."
Barbrey leaned in first. She brushed her soft lips against the thick
{R-18 Scene Adian x Barbrey x Genna Lannister 2693 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
They collapsed together on the bed—sweaty, breathing hard, bodies sticky with milk, cum, and spit. Barbrey laughed breathlessly, leaning over to lick a stray drop of cum from Genna's cheek.
"Cersei's going to love hearing about this," she said, voice hoarse and satisfied.
Genna grinned, still panting, one hand lazily cupping her own leaking, cum-filled cunt. Thick white strands of Adian's seed oozed slowly between her fingers as she idly rubbed it into her swollen folds, savoring the warm, sticky mess. "I'll write her every filthy detail," she said, voice hoarse and satisfied. "How Barbrey's tits were spraying milk while you fucked her. How I came so hard on her face I nearly drowned her. How you switched between our cunts like we were made for it. Cersei's going to be fingering herself raw for weeks reading it. She'll be soaked through her gowns just thinking about it."
Barbrey laughed breathlessly beside her, still on her back with her legs slightly spread. Cum leaked steadily from her own well-fucked cunt, mixing with the milk that continued to drip from her heavy tits onto the ruined sheets. "Good. Let her remember who keeps her secret husband hard and ready. Tell her the northern lioness is doing her part—keeping this cock busy and happy while she sits on that iron chair."
Adian lay between them for a while, one arm draped lazily over Barbrey's waist, the other hand idly stroking Genna's thigh. The room smelled strongly of sex—sweat, milk, cum, and the faint musk of three spent bodies. None of them moved to clean up right away. They simply breathed together, enjoying the heavy, sated silence.
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