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Fleur Delacour, Great Hall – Hogwarts.

“Hogwarts has felt more tense since the selection,” confessed the French witch with her characteristic elegance.

She was walking through the castle corridors accompanied by Lucrecia and Gabrielle. Both Delacour sisters were being given a tour of the ancient castle courtesy of Lucrecia.

“It is quite evident. A large part of the castle believes that Harry put his own name into the Goblet. Sheep, all of them. Lord Potter has far more important matters to deal with than such nonsense,” said the young Malfoy frankly, as they walked toward the Slytherin table.

Fleur nodded, remembering the insults and whispers that the Hogwarts students directed toward the young champion.

Although Harry seemed truly impassive, completely indifferent to the students of the school, he was surrounded by his personal circle, having breakfast with complete calm, surrounded by young witches.

So similar to Jon, Fleur thought with amusement, and she laughed softly as she saw how Gabrielle’s cerulean eyes lit up the moment they landed on Harry.

“Go and greet him,” Fleur said with a smile, and her little sister wasted no time and practically ran toward where the young Gryffindor was, who received her with a small smile, quickly making space for her within his sphere of influence.

Fleur walked with Lucrecia directly toward the Slytherin table, taking a seat in the part of the table reserved for the “queen” of Slytherin, as everyone knew Lucrecia in this place.

There, the entire table was already prepared, so Lucrecia and Fleur simply sat down with total naturalness.

Around them, the Carrow twins, Clarissa and Maria, who had come with the Durmstrang delegation, were chatting with great interest.

The topic of conversation?

Lord Potter.

“A group of seventh-year Hufflepuffs ended up in the infirmary. Apparently, they took Lord Potter’s nomination to the tournament as an offense and thought it would be a good idea to ambush him in the corridors. No one really knows what happened, but all the badgers will be in the infirmary for at least a week,” Hestia said in a low whisper.

The no-longer-so-little Clarissa simply snorted and said:

“They should be grateful for the benevolence my brother showed. If they had tried something that cowardly with Jon in the castle, the matter would have been far uglier,” said the young Black girl while eating breakfast, completely indifferent to the rumors around.

Since the incident, as well as Harry’s swift and severe retaliation against the seventh-year badgers, the sheep of the school had remained tense. Everyone spoke badly of Harry behind his back, but no one had the courage to do it to his face, even less this year, when the training in Wolf’s Den had been doing wonders for his physique.

“I have news from home. Aemon has returned, with the third head of the dragon,” said Maria, while showing the parchment she had received.

Fleur froze at those words.

Her breath faltered, and an inner fire threatened to emerge from her body.

With the ring complete, all Targaryen secrets were at her beloved dragon’s full disposal, including the master control of Topaz Island.

They were getting closer and closer to the ritual and the exodus. Her beloved Aemon would have much work ahead; he could not waste time playing student at Hogwarts.

At her side, Lucrecia nodded with evident pleasure.

“Perfect. Time is pressing, and preparations must be meticulous. I do not think we will see Aemon until the day of the first trial,” said the young Malfoy with a sigh of annoyance in her voice, which both Alexandra and Fleur shared.

The three of them missed Aemon, and during the school year, only Rossana, Tonks, and Penny had access to him.

Something the young Vallens did not hesitate to emphasize in the letters they regularly shared, describing in extreme detail the passionate nights she spent “riding the dragon,” as she called it.

Fleur would show her what it truly meant to ride your man when she returned to Wolf’s Den.

Not as a game… but as a claim. As something earned.

“My mother sent a letter. Bill Weasley has finished preparing the wards and is now focusing all his efforts on the runic clusters for the translocation ritual. The Ministry is beginning to grow suspicious. My father reported that Fudge wants to accelerate the decree for the incursion into Stark lands, although he is encountering fierce resistance. We must not waste time,” said Lucrecia firmly, making everyone around nod softly.

After discussing trivial matters and beginning breakfast, something unexpected demanded the attention of all the ladies present.

The doors of the Great Hall opened, revealing none other than the man of the moment.

HER man, Fleur thought with intense pleasure.

Aemon Targaryen.

Or Jon Stark, as he was known on this island, thought the veela maiden.

Aemon looked impeccable. His hair had grown since the last time she had seen him, and its color had returned to its characteristic black, which contrasted exquisitely with his striking amethyst eyes, which shone with barely contained magical power, dressed in an exquisite, tailored robe of black with white and red accents.

His face was serious, and he arrived with Headmaster Dumbledore. Both were speaking with courtesy and education, but their body language was more than obvious.

Two alphas. Two men accustomed to having their orders obeyed without question.

The most powerful wizard in history against the most powerful wizard of the present.

Fleur was too far away to hear the conversation, but it was evident that it was something truly serious. In the end, Dumbledore and Aemon nodded to each other, clearly having reached some form of agreement, and separated without a single word. The Headmaster headed toward the central table, while Aemon made his way toward them.

And upon seeing him approach, the entire Slytherin table stood up, bowing their heads in respect, much to the confusion of the Durmstrang students.

Aemon raised a hand calmly, causing the entire house of the serpent to sit again and resume eating with their usual sophistication and calm.

“Merlin, the prince looks even better than before,” said Flora, completely dazzled, while her sister beside her nodded, equally mesmerized, staring without any restraint.

Aemon approached the table and took a seat between Fleur and Lucrecia, to the evident pleasure of both.

“My Ladies,” he said with that masculine, rough voice that wreaked havoc in the womanhood of the young veela.

“Your Grace,” Fleur whispered softly, her delicate hand caressing Aemon’s thigh with unmistakable pleading.

Aemon simply placed his hand—rough and heavy—on Fleur’s delicate leg, making her shudder instantly.

“You will sleep with me tonight,” he said, making it clear that it was not a question.

But a command.

Fleur trembled with excitement and smiled playfully before responding with a soft purr.

“As my dragon orders”

Aemon smiled with amusement and channeled magic through his hand, forcing Fleur to stifle a moan as her eyes looked at her wizard with hunger.

Not request… not invitation… possession of her body, already assumed.

And she love it!.

“I did not expect you to return to Hogwarts, dear,” said Lucrecia with curiosity in her voice.

Aemon took a bite of his meal before responding.

“I had a conversation with Dumbledore regarding the investigation of the Goblet of Fire. Bill will come to examine it discreetly, but we have a pending conversation with Harry, about… you know what. It will be tomorrow morning,” he said with discretion, making Lucrecia nod softly.

The rest of the evening passed with pleasant conversation. Aemon asked about classes, the spells they were learning, and each of their personal projects.

All while his hand never left Fleur’s leg, slowly caressing her thigh, driving her mad with desire. The veela within her screamed for them to leave the dinner and move on to what truly mattered.

Riding the dragon.

Far too slow for her liking, the dinner came to an end, and little by little the students began to leave the hall. Aemon’s hand was firm on her hip, to the evident pleasure of the young veela.

Around them, the rest of the pathetic students watched them, all with the same expression of frustration and envy that did wonders for the veela’s ego, even more so as she felt Aemon’s strong hand on her hip, marking her as his territory.

Yes, pathetic fools. I belong to the dragon prince, thought the veela with excitement, as Aemon guided them toward the dungeons.

“I will have one of my elves bring your clothes in the morning,” he said with complete control of the situation, making Fleur nod with a soft smile, simply enjoying the moment as they entered the Slytherin common room with total naturalness.

“Hestia, Flora, prepare our Lord’s chambers,” ordered Lucrecia, making both twins nod and slip away toward the Head Boy’s room to prepare everything.

However, Fleur’s attention shifted quickly from the twins to her beloved, as Aemon walked toward the center of the common room and, with natural leadership, declared:

“SLYTHERIN, TO ME!”

At once, every single member of the house of the serpent obeyed, surrounding Aemon, Lucrecia, and Fleur, awaiting the young Lord’s words.

“Tomorrow we will have an urgent meeting. Certain matters regarding the tournament will be addressed, and what I expect from you from now on. We will also discuss who will be my successor next year, once Lucrecia and I are no longer at the school.”

Those words caused all members of the serpent house to begin murmuring with excitement.

“You will present nominations, and we will evaluate the candidates. That is all for now. Dismissed,” said Aemon, dispersing the crowd and beginning his path toward his chambers, with Fleur and Lucrecia following him in complete silence.

Neither of them wished to speak much at the moment. Both blondes trembled at the thought of being in their man’s arms.

Not anticipation alone… hunger, sharpened by power and claim.

And when Aemon took both of them, one in each arm, and opened the doors of the room with his magic, Fleur could no longer endure it.

“Mon amour, please… your little veela needs your attention,” Fleur begged, completely forgetting about Lucrecia or the twins.

At this moment, the fire in her veins demanded to be taken by her alpha.

By her dragon.

And judging by Aemon’s lust-clouded gaze, he desired her just as much.

“Lucrecia, entertain yourself with our toys. I will take care of disciplining this little veela,” her beloved ordered, his rough and coarse voice compelling instant obedience.

Fleur glanced sideways as Lucrecia ordered the pair of sluts to begin undressing her, but she did not care.

The veela within her was burning with desire.

Aemon’s magic roared, and Fleur felt her dress slowly burn away. Truthfully, she did not care about the loss of the uniform.

It was completely forgotten the moment her man’s hands took her by the ass and lifted her with extreme ease. Fleur wrapped her legs around his waist and continued kissing him, now delivering sensual licks and bites along his neck.

Fleur moaned completely out of control as she felt Aemon’s mischievous finger begin to trace the edge of her rear, making her shudder.

“Let me see it…” the veela pleaded, her face flushed with desire, pupils dilated, her womanhood grinding against Aemon’s virility with need.

Aemon’s response?

He raised his right hand and calmly showed her the ring—made of Valyrian steel, bearing the sigil of the three-headed dragon. Each head moved as if alive, roaring like miniature dragons.

And the power…

Merlin, the power Fleur felt overwhelmed her completely. Her blood sang, demanding submission, demanding her complete surrender in body and soul to the house of the dragon.

Just feeling that magic so close, the young veela lost control of her body and reached a powerful orgasm, soaking her beloved with her juices and leaving herself trembling in his arms.

At least… until she felt a familiar touch.

The head of Aemon’s member, hard as Valyrian steel and more than eager to sheath itself inside her.

With extreme slowness, yet steadily, Aemon claimed her.

Fleur moaned uncontrollably as her petals yielded instantly to the invasion, filling her with a staggering pleasure that made her see stars.

“Aemon… AEMON!!!” she cried, completely out of herself, as veela magic began to manifest in her voice. Elegant and dangerous flames emerged from her body, granting Fleur a surge of vigor and lust that overwhelmed her mind.

But what is the fire of a veela to a dragon?

“Congratulations on being selected as your school’s champion, my love,” Aemon whispered sincerely in his rough voice.

But Fleur was in no condition to respond. She simply clung to her man’s neck and tightened around him, massaging his virility with all her strength.

“I expect exemplary performance. A victory. I expect nothing less from one of my women,” the young dragon said firmly.

Fleur, in truth, was not listening—far too consumed by chained orgasms and the desperate need to milk her beloved wizard dry.

“I will win for you, mon amour,” the witch said with determination, her entire being focused on pleasing Aemon.

The young dragon smiled, satisfied.

“That is the voice I wanted to hear. I will offer you a deal, my dear… if you defeat Harry in the tournament…” Aemon began, as he leaned toward her ear and placed his finger against her rear.

“You will have the honor of becoming the Veela Princess. I will give you my seed, and you will carry my princess and future veela queen within you.”

And as those alluring, intoxicating words left Aemon’s lips, the dragon prince channeled pure Targaryen magic directly into the tightest part of the young veela, overwhelming her with draconic power and pushing her to the brink of delirium.

Fleur screamed like never before. Her body trembled completely as she lost all control of her motor functions, overwhelmed by the most powerful orgasm of her life. Her muscles tightened around Aemon like a serpent constricting its prey. The young veela was drowning in pleasure.

“OUI! OUI! IT WILL BE THE GREATEST HONOR, MON AMOUR!!” she cried, lost in the fantasy Aemon had planted within her.

Fleur Delacour, who held no particularly high status within the Veela enclave, becoming the mother of the Liberator’s heir…

She would win that cup.

No matter the cost.

An instant later, she felt Aemon’s virility pulse, depositing his potent seed deep inside her, making her moan like the cheapest of whores. The orgasm had done wonders to her body…

But she wanted more.

Much more.

More pleasure, more passion, more lust.

The veela was unleashed.

And eager for the alpha of alphas to claim her again and again.

And it seemed Aemon was more than willing.

Using his magic, Aemon withdrew himself from her, releasing a large amount of seed from within Fleur, making her shudder completely as she felt the thick liquid spill from her body.

Then, he positioned her on her hands and knees, gripping her beautiful hair firmly, yet with a certain care.

A sensation that drove her insane.

As a veela, her hair was her pride—her most sensitive part—and Aemon was making her experience a mixture of soft pain and intense pleasure that made her pant like a bitch in heat.

Those pants turned into loud moans as she felt Aemon’s magic cleaning and relaxing her rear, while positioning the tip of his virility at her defenseless entrance.

“Now… sing for me, my love,” her dragon ordered, as he entered her in a single thrust, tearing a guttural moan from her, accompanied by another overwhelming orgasm that soaked the bed.

“OOOOOHHHHMM” the French witch moaned, completely delirious and shivering, smiling in pure pleasure. The distant sounds of the Carrow twins and Lucrecia faded away.

At this moment…

Only Aemon existed.

And her burning need to please him.

Soon, Aemon’s thrusts increased in speed and strength, turning Fleur’s tight body into his personal cocksleeve, molding it perfectly to the size of his massive length.

“Just beginning, my little veela whore. Tomorrow I have important matters. I will leave the castle, and we will not see each other until the first task. But for now… scream for me,” Aemon demanded, thrusting deeply into her.

And the blonde obeyed.

Completely lost.

Broken.

Claimed.

The night was only just beginning.

“AHHHHHHHG—”

Eddard Stark, Lord’s quarters – Winterfell.

“AHHHHHHHG—”

Eddard growled like a wolf as he continued fucking his wife, Catelyn.

“Yes, my lord! Like that, like that! Fuck me and breed me again! Put another pup inside me!!” the redhead screamed, completely out of herself.

Eddard only roared, grabbing Catelyn’s hair with one hand while the other kneaded her large breasts, the ones he had lost himself in so many times. The small brown nipples were as hard as Valyrian steel, revealing that his beloved wife was also enjoying the rough treatment she was being subjected to.

Lately, very strange things had been happening to him.

And it had all started since Aemon gave him that ring.

“Moan for your Lord Husband, scream like the bitch you are for me, my Lady! Let all of Winterfell know that its Lord puts his Lady in her place!” Ned spat, his blood roaring, demanding the constant submission of his wife, who was more than pleased with this new Eddard.

“I AM LORD STARK’S BITCH!! CONQUER ME AND BREED ME AGAIN! LET US BRING MORE PUPS SO ALL OF WINTERFELL KNOWS HOW VIRILE AND POWERFUL ITS LORD IS!” Catelyn shouted, her face twisted in a blissful smile, her body drenched in sweat, her large breasts bouncing with each of Ned’s thrusts.

Something inside Ned—something wild—was screaming to come out.

Lately, his senses felt far sharper. He could feel danger, hear more acutely, move with a dexterity that had left everyone in the castle surprised.

And Lord Stark knew it was because of the ring Jon had given him.

Something within him had awakened that afternoon.

And he had to find out what it was.

But for now—

“SCREAM FOR ME, MY LADY! WHO IS YOUR MASTER?” the Wolf barked, slapping his wife’s ass, which reddened instantly, moving in a hypnotic way.

Catelyn shuddered, but simply raised her hips to meet him better and screamed with complete submission:

“I AM THE WHORE LADY OF LORD EDDARD STARK! I EXIST TO SERVE HIM, TO GIVE HIM A PACK OF PUPS!” Catelyn cried out, exhausted, before reaching her peak one last time and, to Eddard’s amusement, collapsing unconscious with a wide smile on her face.

Again.

Eddard smiled as he exhaled, pulling his still erect member from Catelyn’s well-fucked cunt.

His wife would not wake for several hours, perhaps until morning.

And he still had that almost sick need to fuck.

As if something inside him pushed him to breed as many Starks as possible.

With a sigh, knowing he would not find sleep anytime soon, Lord Stark stood up, covered his exhausted but smiling wife, and walked toward his solar.

The news from King’s Landing had the castle on alert. Jon Arryn dead, and the king marching to Winterfell, undoubtedly to name Ned Hand of the King.

Something he hated, but also something that gave him a great opportunity, if he was honest.

He had at least three months to think about his next move. Most likely, he would accept the position, but he was sure Robert would not settle for that.

The damned stag would want something more.

Most likely to bind one of his beloved daughters to the small, stupid demon he called a son.

Oh, Howland’s reports about Joffrey Baratheon left much to be desired.

A cruel creature, more Lannister than Baratheon.

Though, to be honest, there was not much difference.

Upon reaching his solar, Eddard began reviewing the latest reports. The secret fleet in The Reach was proceeding normally. The Queen of Thorns insisted that Margaery meet Aemon. Princess Elia, as usual, sent concise and short letters, with only the minimum information required—a woman of few words.

It was too much.

But it was his duty.

So Eddard prepared to work for a couple of hours before returning to his chambers, he has to prepare a lot of things for the royal visit.

However…

All intention to work vanished the moment his gaze fell upon a particular letter, bearing a very familiar seal.

The seal of House Dayne.

And upon seeing the sender’s handwriting, Lord Stark hurried to open it.

A letter from Ashara would always take priority above all else.

Always.

For a brief moment, Eddard allowed himself to fantasize about returning south, spending another pair of incredible nights with the beautiful maiden.

By the gods… the things they had done would make a devout septa die of shock.

However, the moment he read the words Ashara had sent him, everything changed.

My Lord Stark,

It pleases me to inform you of the birth of our beloved daughter, Elia Sand. Do not worry, I will not require anything from you. The Daynes will take care of her without any problem.

However, if you ever wish to visit her, rest assured you will be received and welcomed in the halls of Starfall.

With affection, and always yours,Ashara Dayne.

At those words, Ned froze for a moment.

But not out of fear or horror.

But… joy.

The wolf within him howled in triumph and delight at the knowledge that another Stark pup had been born, and the ring vibrated with satisfaction on his finger, urging him to create ten more princes and princesses of winter.

No…

He did not understand what was happening.

These impulses, these surges of power.

He was certain it was magic but he did not understand it and he could not afford to make a mistake with Robert on the way.

He needed help.

From those who remembered the old ways, those who, though loyal, remained somewhat distant when it came to customs.

He needed Howland and his arcane knowledge.

But more importantly…

He needed that woman who, for years, had been surrounded by rumors of bears and ancient rituals of the First Men.

He needed Maege Mormont.

As soon as possible.

Without wasting a second, Eddard sat down again at his desk and prepared the two necessary letters.

Something was happening.

Something was awakening in Winterfell.

Something old… something patient… something that had waited far too long.

And he would find out what it was.

One way or another.