The Restoration of House Targaryen Chapter 23 (Patreon)

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Pain—that was all she had felt these past few days as she remained locked in her room ever since her daughters had confessed to her what she had become. And what she had to do if she wanted to go on living.

There was no way she was going to have sex with the bastard and sully her husband’s honor and memory. She’d rather keep her dignity and die as a respectable Lady than live and become the bastard’s whore.

But as the days went by and her hunger and pain grew, it became increasingly difficult to hold onto that resolve. She had tried once again to satisfy her hunger with ordinary food, but just as before, no matter how much she ate or drank, she couldn’t manage to quench the hunger and thirst she felt. And that wasn’t the worst of it—with each passing day, she felt increasingly tempted to run to that bastard and feed on him. It was as if her own body were betraying her, planting these visions and dreams in her mind, screaming for her to run after that man, kneel before him, and beg him to let her suck and worship his cock until he rewarded her with a big, thick load of his delicious seed. Only to then be bent in half and fucked like a whore by the bastard while she begged him to come inside her.

But despite constantly dreaming of that, she managed to remain steadfast in her beliefs and not succumb to such depravity. She was the Lady of Winterfell; she would not kneel before a bastard, much less beg him for help. Unfortunately, her daughters did not share her beliefs, and they had not hesitated to make that very clear to her every time they came to see her. Sansa, her sweet little girl, was the one who came to visit her most often, and she was the one who begged her the most to feed on the bastard—all under the pretext that it was for her “own good.”

“Please, Mother. You have to sleep with Jon, or you’ll die,” Sansa said in a pleading tone. “We didn’t bring you back just to lose you again.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually asking this of me, Sansa. You’re asking your own mother to sleep with your father’s bastard,” Catelyn retorted furiously.

“By the gods, Mother. You have to accept that Jon isn’t Father’s son—much less a bastard,” Sansa said desperately. “He’s the son of Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar. He’s a Targaryen prince.”

“Even if what you say is true, I cannot disgrace your father’s memory by sleeping with a man he raised as his own son,” Catelyn pointed out.

“Father is dead. You respected and honored him while he was alive, but years have passed since he left us. And you have the right to move on with your life—we want you to move on. With us, with your family,” Sansa said softly, sounding very pleading.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. But I won’t do it—I can’t,” Catelyn said heavily.

“Even if it means your death?” Sansa asked painfully.

“I died alongside my son a long time ago. I’m grateful that you’ve gone to such lengths to help me, and it’s made me very happy that you, your sister, and Bran are all well and have managed to survive, but this isn’t right. That’s why the gods have cursed me, turning me into this bloodthirsty creature.”

Feeling completely resigned and defeated, Sansa left, but not before saying to her:

“The Seven weren’t the ones who brought you back, Mother, much less did they curse you. You’ve been given a new chance—they gave you your life back; they gave your youth and beauty back. But you’d rather go back to being a rotting corpse—what a waste.”

After that last visit, Sansa hadn’t come to see her again. But the one who surprisingly did show up was Arya. Unlike her older sister, she was more blunt with her words.

“So, this is your plan? To starve yourself to death? I remember you being smarter than this.”

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