Chapter 1

James reclined in one of the chairs within the Lord Commander’s office at the Wall, his mind consumed by thoughts of retaking Winterfell. The crackling flames of the hearth danced in Jon’s pensive eyes as he sat beside James, deep in contemplation. Near the window, Sansa stood silently, her gaze fixed upon the falling snow outside.

As James’s eyes wandered over Sansa’s lithe frame, he couldn’t help but appreciate her nubile form. Her slender figure was accentuated by the soft fabric clinging to her firm, modest breasts, the erect nipples straining against the warm material. He silently wondered if her arousal was sparked by desire or merely a reaction to the biting cold.

The journey to this moment had been arduous. Sansa had endured the horrors of King’s Landing, witnessed her father’s execution, and suffered the cruelty of Joffrey’s rule. She had been a pawn, passed from Littlefinger’s scheming hands to the sadistic grip of the Boltons. James knew her innocence had long been stripped away, a precious flower plucked too soon. Though he mourned the lost opportunity to be her first, he acknowledged that the past could not be undone.

In spite of the tribulations she had faced, Sansa’s beauty remained undiminished. The trials had sculpted her into a woman of strength and resilience, her once innocent allure transformed into a magnetic and wanton sensuality. James found himself inexorably drawn to her, his thoughts straying to forbidden fantasies of exploring her nubile body, of bringing her to the heights of ecstasy.

He imagined trailing his fingers along her creamy skin, caressing every curve and valley, worshipping her with his touch. In his mind’s eye, he saw her writhing beneath him, her red hair splayed across the furs, her lips parted in wanton moans of pleasure. The intensity of his desire was almost painful, a throbbing ache that demanded satisfaction.

Jon was the first one to break the stony silence.

“We need to retake Winterfell before winter hits.”

“Yes,” James agreed heartily. “But how?”

“I was hoping you might have an idea about that?”

“Kill them all.”

“Not very helpful,” Jon smiled.

“There is perhaps a way we could.”

“Oh?”

“Daenerys Targaryen.”

“James?”

James shrugged, “Think about it. She’ll want to have allies in the North to help her take the Seven Kingdoms. If anything, she can be useful to us.”

Jon nodded.

“Makes sense. Okay, send a raven.”

Sansa smiled, turning to James, and finally said, “You just want to fuck the Queen.”

James grinned, blushing slightly under her pensive stare, wondering if she’d read his thoughts concerning her body and sighed, “I won’t deny it.”

The trio fell into a contemplative silence, each pondering the implications of seeking an alliance with the Mother of Dragons. James’s mind, however, couldn’t help but wander back to Sansa’s nubile form, her erect nipples still prominently displayed beneath the warm fabric of her dress. The thought of her supple breasts and the curve of her hips sent a surge of desire coursing through his veins, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Sansa, as if sensing his wanton thoughts, cast a knowing glance in his direction, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. The unspoken tension between them was palpable, a simmering heat that threatened to ignite at any moment. James wondered if she too felt the same primal urge, the need to surrender to their carnal desires and lose themselves in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and passionate moans.

“Okay,” Jon nodded. “Set it up.”

James blinked, “Really?”

Jon snorted, “if you fucking the Queen, helps our cause, I’m all for it, but it means you have to step into the dragons den?”

James nodded, “Certain death or certain pussy.”

“Fifty, fifty chance,” Jon smiled, eyes dancing in amusement.

“True, fuck it, live or die that’s how we roll.”

They did and it wasn’t long before James got the request back to meet.

They got the ship ready and headed out. The ship entered the cove and James took a moment to observe the large intimidating structure of Dragonstone. It was a piece of work, all right - forged by dragon fire many centuries ago.

At the docks, James stood between Jon and Sansa, she turned and looked at him, cocking a red eyebrow, looking him up and down.

“Don’t die.”

With that she turned and walked off, James chuckled and walked up the ramp, he’d sure as shit try his best.

James couldn’t shake the feeling that Sansa’s parting words held a deeper meaning, a hidden layer of intention that he had yet to fully grasp. As he watched her nubile form saunter away, her hips swaying with an almost hypnotic rhythm, he wondered if her comment was not merely a challenge, but an invitation, a subtle opening of a door he had long desired to step through.

Sansa had endured the machinations of the most cunning and ruthless minds in the Seven Kingdoms, emerging stronger, wiser, and infinitely more dangerous. From the viper’s nest of King’s Landing to Ramsay Bolton’s sadistic clutches, she had survived and evolved.

James realized just how much she had evolved; while others played checkers, Sansa engaged in 4D chess, always several moves ahead. The thing was, she didn’t boast about it. Ned had once said, “Beware the silent man.” In Sansa’s case, it was the silent woman who posed the greatest threat, her cunning mind concealed behind a façade of gentle smiles and courtly graces. He paused, watching as she looked back at him, catching his stare. If she had already contemplated his every move, she must have considered the possibility that he wanted to fuck her. James grinned; Sansa smiled before turning and carrying on, her form heavenly to behold.

Now, James hesitated to leave, yearning to hurry back. Perhaps her offer was an incentive to return swiftly and bed her. It gave him a reason to come back.

The thought was tantalizing.

Grinning, James adjusted his cock and headed to the cabin as the ship pushed off. The prospect of unraveling Sansa’s intentions and potentially claiming his reward upon his return filled him with anticipation. He knew he must navigate the challenges ahead with skill and haste, driven by the promise of exploring the depths of their shared desire, should he prove himself worthy in her eyes.

It took a week to reach Dragonstone, and throughout the journey, James, more accustomed to horses than boats, found himself constantly leaning over the side, retching and heaving as the vessel swayed and rocked on the turbulent waves. As they drew closer to their destination, the churning of the sea intensified, and so too did the frequency and violence of James’s vomiting.

The men around him, including Davos, could only smile and watch, knowing that there was little to be done until James found his sea legs. They offered words of encouragement and sympathy, but the relentless nausea that gripped James’s stomach refused to abate.

Finally, mercifully, they arrived on relatively calm waters, the ship gliding smoothly into the harbor of Dragonstone. The shoreboat was lowered, and as they descended, James noticed a small welcoming party awaiting their arrival, though the Queen herself was conspicuously absent. He mused on this fact as the boat was pushed ashore, and they stepped out into the cold, briny water that lapped at their ankles.

As they approached the shore, James’s eyes were drawn to a tall, dark-skinned woman whose ample breasts strained against the confines of her top. He grinned at her, a flash of appreciation in his eyes, and she returned his smile with a knowing look. However, his attention was quickly diverted to the diminutive figure standing beside her.

“James,” Tyrion grinned, his mismatched eyes twinkling with amusement.

James held up a finger, his stomach churning violently. He turned and ran back to the sea, falling to his knees in the shallow water as he retched and heaved, his body convulsing with the force of his nausea. Tyrion watched, a smile playing on his lips, as James knelt there, the cold water soaking through his clothes.

“Not one for boats?”

“No m’lord,” Ser Davos said with a nod, “Prefers horses, less rocking.”

Tyrion snorted in amusement as James remained in the water, dry heaving, his body slumped forward in exhaustion. He groaned, the sound a mixture of frustration and misery.

Fuck...

With a determined effort, James pushed himself off the ground and staggered forward, his hands fumbling with the straps of his sword belt. He turned to Davos, and the others frowned but followed suit, removing their own weapons.

“Lord Tyrion,” James groaned, his voice weak and strained. “I need a bed.”

“Sure,” Tyrion replied, taking note of James’s pallid complexion. They relinquished their swords without question, James too tired and sick to care. The dark-skinned woman stepped forward, her lips parting to speak, but James held up his hand, cutting her off.

“My lady, with all due respect, any conversation from me is going to make me puke through my britches. I need a bed. You can give me the speech later.”

“Of course,” she replied, bowing her head in understanding.

James took a step forward, but the world suddenly tilted and spun around him. His vision blurred, and he felt his knees buckle beneath him. In the next instant, he found himself face down on the ground, the cold, wet sand pressing against his cheek.

The Dothraki exchanged amused glances and looked to Tyrion for guidance. The dwarf sighed, shaking his head.

“Well I did have this big speech planned.”

Davos smiled, “I’m sure it was a very nice speech m’lord.”

“Yes,” Tyrion sighed, “Well don’t look at me, I’m not picking him up.”

One of the burly Dothraki warriors stepped forward, his muscular arms rippling as he effortlessly scooped James off the ground. The group then proceeded inside, James’s limp form draped over the warrior’s shoulder, a testament to the toll the sea had taken on his body and spirit.

As they made their way through the winding corridors of Dragonstone, James drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind a haze of nausea and exhaustion. The Dothraki warrior carried him with ease, his powerful strides eating up the distance as they navigated the ancient fortress.

At last, they reached a spacious bedchamber, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the conquests of the Targaryen dynasty. The warrior deposited James onto the soft, feather-stuffed mattress, the bed frame creaking slightly under his weight.

Missandei, the dark-skinned woman who had greeted them upon their arrival, stepped forward, her eyes filled with concern as she studied James’s prone form. She turned to one of the attending servants and issued a series of commands in High Valyrian, her voice soft yet authoritative.

Within moments, the servant returned with a basin of cool water and a stack of fresh linens. Missandei dipped a cloth into the water and gently wiped the sweat and grime from James’s brow, her touch soothing and tender.

Tyrion watched the scene unfold, a pensive expression etched upon his face. The gravity of this meeting weighed heavily on his mind, the delicate balance of power hanging precariously in the air. James’s unfortunate condition posed an unexpected complication, one that could potentially derail their meticulously laid plans.

“Ser Davos,” Davos said to Tyrion, breaking the tense silence.

Tyrion blinked in surprise, his mismatched eyes widening as recognition dawned upon him. “The Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides at Blackwater Bay.”

“Unluckily for me,” Davos nodded, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“And now, here we are, on the same side,” Tyrion mused, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

“Times change,” Davos replied, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.

“Yup,” Tyrion agreed, a single word conveying a wealth of meaning.

As the hours ticked by, the sun’s rays slowly shifted across the bedchamber, casting elongated shadows upon the stone walls. In the late afternoon, James’s eyes fluttered open, a low groan escaping his lips as he shifted uncomfortably on the bed. His stomach rumbled, a demanding reminder of his hunger, while his bladder screamed for relief. Blinking blearily, he took in his surroundings, his mind still foggy from the lingering effects of his seasickness.

A wave of embarrassment washed over him as he realized the less-than-stellar impression he must have made on the Queen and her court. How could she possibly respect him after witnessing such a display of weakness? He sighed heavily, the weight of his perceived failure settling upon his shoulders like a leaden cloak.

With a determined effort, James slid off the bed, his bare feet making contact with the cool stone floor. As he staggered forward, his hand shot out instinctively, gripping the back of a nearby chair to steady himself. Another groan escaped his lips, a mixture of frustration and lingering discomfort.

Fucking sea, he thought bitterly, cursing the vast expanse of water that had so thoroughly bested him. As he stood there, swaying slightly, James noticed that his clothing had been changed, his sweat-soaked garments replaced with fresh, clean attire. He grimaced at the thought of complete strangers stripping him down, his sense of vulnerability heightened by the unfamiliar surroundings and the knowledge of the critical task that lay ahead.

James shuffled over to the bed and reached beneath it, pulling out the chamber pot. He lowered his breeches and settled onto the seat, a deep groan escaping his lips as he finally relieved himself. The sensation of emptying his bladder was pure bliss, a much-needed respite from the discomfort that had plagued him for so long. As he finished, he gave himself a quick shake and then slumped back onto the seat, his body still weak from the ordeal.

Just then, the door to his chambers opened, revealing the dark-skinned beauty he had encountered earlier. She bowed gracefully, her movements fluid and precise, before addressing him in a soft, well-mannered tone.

“My Lord, how are you feeling?” she inquired, genuine concern evident in her voice.

James inclined his head, appreciating her polite demeanor despite his less-than-dignified state. “Truthfully, like shit,” he admitted, his voice rough and tired. “Please send my apologies to the Queen. I’ll be heading back home in a moment.”

The woman frowned, a delicate crease appearing between her brows. “The Queen desires an audience,” she stated, her tone firm yet respectful.

James couldn’t help but snort, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “I mean no disrespect, my lady, but I doubt she’ll want to see the man who turned up at her shores, vomited his guts up, and then pissed and shit himself.”

“With all due respect, my lord, Her Grace disagrees,” the woman replied, her gaze unwavering.

James raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite his exhaustion. “How so?”

“The Queen does not see it as weakness to travel so far from home, to endure such hardships for the sake of your people,” the woman explained, her voice filled with a quiet conviction. “She understands the toll that the journey has taken on you, both physically and mentally. Your determination and commitment to your cause have not gone unnoticed.”

James listened intently, surprised by the woman’s words. He had expected scorn or dismissal, not understanding and respect. The Queen’s perspective on his situation was unexpected, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak situation.

James listened intently, surprised by the woman’s words. He had expected scorn or dismissal, not understanding and respect. The Queen’s perspective on his situation was unexpected, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak situation.

“Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night,” James murmured, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. James’s mind wandered, the woman’s words echoing in his thoughts. As he pondered the Queen’s unexpected understanding, a distant memory surfaced, and he could almost hear the sarcastic bark of Queen Calanthe echoing through the hallways of Cintra.

The woman paused, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Excuse me?” she asked, not quite understanding the meaning behind his words.

James smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across his features. “Just something I heard once,” he explained, his tone light and introspective. “Perhaps Her Grace is wiser than I give her credit for.”

The woman nodded, a flicker of pride shining in her eyes. “Many have underestimated her,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet conviction. “They have seen her youth and her gender as weaknesses, failing to recognize the strength and intelligence that lie beneath.”

“I’ll bet,” James replied, a hint of admiration creeping into his voice. He had heard tales of the Dragon Queen’s exploits, of the way she had risen from the ashes of her family’s downfall to become a force to be reckoned with. But hearing it from someone who knew her personally, who had witnessed her leadership firsthand, made it all the more real.

“Her Grace has faced countless challenges on her journey,” the woman continued, her gaze distant as if lost in memory. “She has endured betrayal, loss, and hardship, yet she has never lost sight of her purpose. She fights not for herself, but for the people she seeks to liberate, for the better world she dreams of building.”