Song of The Blessed - 15 (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners (in this case, George R.R. Martin). Enjoy.

Song of The Blessed

Chapter 15 – Northern Treasures

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

The Feast of Winterfell had finally succumbed to the lateness of the hour. The Great Hall, which had only recently been an orchestra of roaring laughter, loud music, and the bawdy shouts of Robert Baratheon, was now settling into a heavy, drunken slumber. The torches were guttering low in their iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the solemn stone wolves carved into the architecture.Draedon Baratheon, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, moved through the chilled corridors of the castle of Winterfell with the silence of a predator stalking through tall grass. His blood was still humming, not from the wine—though he had consumed enough to fell a lesser man—but from the thrill of the hunt. And tonight, the hunt had been... varied.

There had been the verbal sparring with the Northern men, the silent assessment of threats, and, most deliciously, the breaking of the Stark girl. Sansa.A smirk curled Draedon’s lips as he recalled the dinner. He had played her like a fine harp. Every word he spoke to her had been a drop of honey laced with poison, sweet lines whispered under the roar of the feast that charmed her. But it was what the court didn’t see that had truly ignited the fire in his veins. His hand, hidden beneath the heavy oak of the high table, resting high on her thigh, stroking up and down her milky thickness. The way her breath had hitched, a tiny, fractured sound that was lost to the din of the room but rang like a bell in his ears. He had felt the heat radiating through the silk of her dress, felt the tremor in her leg as his thumb traced maddening circles near the juncture of her hips. She hadn't pulled away. Terrified, perhaps. Scandalized, certainly. But she hadn’t pulled away. She had leaned into him, her eyes wide and glassy, caught in the gravity of a star that threatened to burn her alive.The other two, Beth and Jeyne, were enthralled by his boldness as well.

But the three of them were prizes for another day. Fruit ripening on the vine, waiting to be plucked. Tonight, Draedon had a different hunger to sate.He did not head toward his chambers immediately. Instead, he pulled his heavy fur cloak tighter around his broad shoulders and slipped out a side door, stepping into the biting cold of the Wolfswood wind. The courtyard was empty, save for a few guards huddled by braziers, too concerned with warming their hands to notice the shadow slipping toward the oldest part of the castle.The Crypts of Winterfell.

Draedon paused before the heavy ironwood door. He could feel it already—the pull. It was a sensation unique to him, a gift from a lineage far older than the Great Houses of this world. A gift from Hades. It was a low, resonant thrum in the back of his mind, a magnetic pull that tugged at his very soul, guiding him toward riches, toward the buried secrets of the earth.And here, in the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter, the thrum was a deafening roar.He pushed the door open with as much caution as he could. It groaned in the dead of the night, a quiet muffle like a dying man, but he slipped inside before the noise could carry. He lit a torch from a sconce near the entrance, the flame sputtering to life, casting an orange glow that illuminated the blinding darkness.He began to descend.The air grew colder with every step, a dry, dusty cold that tasted of granite and old bones. The steps were worn smooth by thousands of years of feet. On either side, the statues of the Stark lords sat on their thrones, their names and accolades resting on a plaque by their feet, rusty iron swords across their laps to keep their vengeful spirits at rest.Draedon walked past them with a casual arrogance. The dead did not frighten him. After all, he was the only one who had walked out of Death's cold clutches.

He walked past the recent dead—Lyanna, Rickard and Brandon—and past the Kings of old. The deeper he went, the louder the thrum of the treasure became. It wasn't a song of melody, but of vibration, a heavy bass note that rattled his teeth.The crypts of Winterfell were said to be vast, but few knew the truth of it. They went down, level after level, deeper than the castle above was high. Draedon descended past the point where even the Lords had dared to go, past the point where the statues were recognizable faces and became eroded, faceless monoliths of a forgotten age.At this level, the air was still as a tomb, heavy with the weight of millennia.Here, the gravelly, ancient voice  of the old god in his mind whispered.Draedon stopped at a section of the wall that looked no different from the rest. But to him, it glowed with an ethereal energy. He ran his hand over the rough stone, feeling the vibration peak. There was no handle, no keyhole. But he didn't need one. He pressed his shoulder against the stone, channeling his strength, and pushed. With a grinding screech of rock on rock, a hidden mechanism, balanced perfectly by ancient builders, gave way. The wall swung inward.Draedon stepped through the breach and raised his torch.The light spilled into a chamber that had not seen the eyes of men since the days of the First Men. The reflection that bounced back was blinding."Seven Hells," Draedon breathed, a rare look of genuine awe crossing his features.It was a hoard that would make the wealth amassed in King's Landing look like a pauper’s purse. Piles of gold coins, minted with faces of kings whose names were lost to history, lay in heaps like drifted snow. There were chests of Weirwood, preserved by the dry cold, overflowing with gemstones the size of goose eggs—rubies as dark as blood, emeralds green as the Neck, and sapphires that held the blue of the deep ice.But it wasn't just raw wealth. It was history.In the center of the room sat a throne. It was not the uncomfortable monstrosity of the Iron Throne in the south. This was carved from a single block of black stone, oily and absorbing the light, inlaid with veins of white silver that formed the shapes of running direwolves. Resting upon the seat of the throne was a crown. It was an open circlet of hammered bronze, incised with runes of the First Men, surmounted by nine iron spikes in the shape of longswords.'The Throne of Winter,' Draedon realized.

With it, the crown Torrhen Stark had removed when he knelt to Aegon. The Starks thought it lost, or melted down by the Targaryens. But the Wolves had been cunning. They had buried their pride here, deep in the dark.His eyes scanned the room, the gift of Hades guiding him to the source of the most intense energy. It wasn't the gold, nor the crown.It was tucked away in a niche in the back wall, resting on a pillow of decayed velvet.He walked over to it. It was heavy, spherical, and cold to the touch. The scales were rough, gleaming with a pearlescent white sheen that shifted to pale blue in the torchlight.A dragon egg.But not like the ones the Targaryens had sought to hatch in fires. This one radiated cold. It sucked the heat from his fingertips. An egg of an Ice Dragon? A relic of a time before the existence of the Citadel and its history? Its value was incalculable. It was power. True, absolute power. Draedon let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound bounced off the walls of the treasure chamber."Ned Stark," he whispered to the silence. "You sit on a mountain of power, shivering in your furs, worrying about the cost of grain for the winter."The irony was delicious. The Starks prided themselves on their austerity, their honor, their hard lives. Yet beneath their very feet, they hoarded enough wealth to buy the Iron Throne three times over. If Ned knew this was here, he would likely leave it, terrified of the 'dishonor' of using the dead's gold.But Draedon was not a Stark. He was a man who understood that power was a tool, and wealth was the whetstone that kept it sharp.He resisted the urge to fill his pockets with gold. That was the thinking of a common thief. He was a Prince. He was playing the long game. This hoard was his bank, safe and secure in the bowels of the earth where no one else could find it."I will be back for you," he murmured to the rest of the room.He turned his attention to a smaller chest. He flipped the lid. Inside were jewels of exquisite craftsmanship. He selected a few pieces with a discerning eye. A necklace of silver webwork holding a sapphire teardrop—perfect for the Queen, it would surely make his mother happy. An exotic gold ring set with a ruby—a gift for Myrcella. And a brooch, a delicate thing of silver and diamonds in the shape of a snowflake.He held the snowflake brooch up to the light. It caught the fire and fractured it into a thousand rainbows.'For Sansa,' he thought. 'A collar for the little wolf.'He pocketed the jewels, arranging them so they wouldn't clink. He swept his gaze over the room one last time, memorizing the layout, the riches, the potential. This was his foothold. With this, he could fund armies. He could bribe lords. He could buy the loyalty of the North out from under the Starks if he had to. He could have a tunnel dug from the Wolfswood, bypass the castle entirely, and drain this vein dry over a few months.With a grunt of effort, he pushed the hidden door closed. The grinding stone sealed the secret away once more.The ascent back to the surface was long, but Draedon moved with the energy of a man who had just won a war before the first battle was fought. When he finally emerged from the crypts, the cold night air felt bracing, cleansing. He slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, dodging the patrols with practiced ease, and made his way back to the Great Keep where the royal family was housed.He entered his guest chambers quietly. The room was large, draped in heavy furs and tapestries to keep out the draft, a fire crackling low in the hearth. It was luxurious by Northern standards, rustic by Southern ones.He moved to his travel chest, a heavy, iron-bound box with a complex lock from Braavos. He opened it and placed the stolen jewels and the dragon egg inside, wrapping them in a tunic to hide them. He locked the box and pocketed the key.Satisfied, Draedon exhaled, a long plume of white breath in the cool room. He began to unbutton his doublet, his fingers working the stiff fabric. The adrenaline of the heist was fading, replaced by a different kind of tension. The physical need. The image of Sansa’s flushed face, the feel of her thigh, the sheer intoxicating power of the secret he now held—it all coalesced into a hard, demanding lust in his groin.He stripped off his doublet, tossing it onto a chair, revealing the white linen shirt beneath, which clung to the hard muscles of his chest and arms. He poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the table, drinking it down in one long swallow.Knock. Knock.The sound was soft, tentative, yet distinct against the silence of the room.Draedon paused, the empty cup still in his hand. He frowned. It was well past the hour of ghosts. No servant would disturb him now. A guard? An assassin?He set the cup down and moved toward the door, his hand instinctively drifting toward the dagger on his belt. He unlatched the heavy oak door and pulled it open.His eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.Standing in the hallway, illuminated by the flickering torchlight from the corridor, was a woman. And not just any woman.She was a vision of carnal promise amidst the monotonous grey of Winterfell. A redhead, her hair a waterfall of curls that tumbled over her shoulders, catching the light like fire. She wore a robe of deep crimson velvet—likely stolen or gifted from a southern wardrobe—that was tied loosely at the waist. The fabric gaped slightly, offering a teasing glimpse of pale, creamy skin and the swell of ample breasts.She looked up at him through lowered lashes, her green eyes shimmering with a mix of fear and practiced seduction."Your Grace," she murmured, dipping into a curtsy that was low enough to show him exactly what she wasn't wearing underneath the robe.Draedon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He recognized the scent of this. It smelled of wine, perfume, and his uncle."You are not a servant of Winterfell," Draedon stated, his voice a low rumble. "They wear boring grey robes and smell stale. You smell of rosewater and a good time."The woman straightened, offering him a bold, inviting smile. "I am Ros, Your Grace.""Ros," Draedon repeated, testing the name. "And what is Ros doing at my door in the middle of the night, looking like a feast I haven't yet tasted?"She stepped closer, invading his personal space. Her hand reached out, fingers trailing lightly down the front of his shirt, tracing the muscles of his abdomen."Lord Tyrion sent me, Your Grace," she purred, her voice a husky whisper that vibrated in the quiet hallway.Draedon let out a short laugh. Of course. The Imp. Tyrion knew him too well. He knew that after a night of diplomacy and restraint, Draedon would be prowling the room like a caged lion."My uncle is generous," Draedon said, his eyes darkening as they raked over her form. "But I suspect there is more to the message than just your name."He looked her in the eye, his gaze intense, demanding. He needed her to say it. He needed the submission, the acknowledgement of his status and her purpose."Why were you sent, Ros?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming hard and commanding.Ros shivered, and it wasn't from the cold. She saw the hunger in the Prince's eyes—a blue fire that was far more dangerous than the Imp’s playful lust. This was a man who took.She licked her lips, her breath hitching. She stepped into the room, forcing him to step back, and kicked the door shut behind her with her heel."To please you," she whispered, looking up at him with hope and a raw, exposed desire. She paused, letting the silence hang heavy and thick between them. "Forever."The word hung in the air. Forever. A promise of total surrender.Draedon didn't hesitate.He reached out, his hand tangling into the thick mass of her red hair, gripping tight. He didn't pull painfully, but with a firmness that established immediate dominance. He yanked her forward, crashing his lips onto hers.Ros gasped into his mouth, a sound that was immediately swallowed by his tongue sweeping into her, tasting the wine she had drunk, claiming her breath. He tasted of the cold outside and the heat of a fire.Draedon spun her around, slamming her back against the heavy wooden door. The thud echoed through the room. His hands were everywhere at once—roaming over the velvet of her robe, finding the curves of her waist, the generous flare of her hips."Tyrion chose well," Draedon growled against her neck, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle there.Ros threw her head back, exposing her throat to him, a moan escaping her lips. "Yes... Your Grace... please..."He didn't need to be asked twice. The lust that had been building all day—the frustration of the road, the political dancing, the teasing of the Stark girl—it all came rushing to the surface like a breaking dam.He tore the sash of her robe open. The red velvet parting, revealing her fully. She was magnificent—lush, soft, and undeniably feminine, a stark contrast to the hard lines of the North. Her skin was pale as milk, her breasts heavy and tipped with pink, her hips wide and inviting.Draedon groaned, a primal sound deep in his chest. He lifted her, his hands gripping her thighs. Ros instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, the robe bunching up around her."You wanted to please me?" Draedon rasped, walking her backward toward the large four-poster bed. "Then show me."He threw her onto the mattress. The furs cushioned her fall, but the bounce of the bed made the frame creak loudly. Draedon loomed over her, stripping off his shirt, revealing a torso scarred from training and rippling with power. He shucked off his breeches with impatient hands.Ros watched him, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. She had been with many men, but this... this was different. He was royalty, yes, but he was also a force of nature.He climbed over her, settling between her spread legs. He didn't offer gentle words or soft caresses. He grabbed her hips, lifting her to meet him."You belong to me tonight, Ros," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "You are not a whore of the North tonight. You are mine.""Yours," she breathless agreed. "I am yours."He entered her with one long, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt, the tip brushing against the entrance of her womb.Ros cried out, a loud, sharp sound of shock and immense pleasure that she couldn't stifle. Her back arched off the mattress, her fingers digging into his shoulders, scoring lines into his skin.Draedon gritted his teeth, the sensation nearly overwhelming. She was tight, wet, and incredibly warm. He began to move, setting a rhythm that was hard and fast, punishing the mattress springs.The room filled with the sounds of their union—the slap of skin against skin, the creaking of the wood, the heavy, ragged breathing of two people whose world revolved around the four walls of the room. Draedon took her with a possessive intensity, marking her with his grip, his teeth grazing her neck, his hands molding her flesh. He treated her not as a delicate flower, but as a vessel for his pleasure, and in doing so, drove her to heights she hadn't known existed."Your Grace!" Ros wailed, her head thrashing against the furs, her red hair fanning out like a halo of blood. "Your Grace! Oh gods!"He didn't slow down. He drove into her harder, chasing his own release, the image of the treasure in the dark and the girl in the hall mixing in his mind until the world narrowed down to this single point of friction and heat.~ Sansa Stark ~The guest wing of Winterfell was usually the quietest part of the castle. It was located in the Great Keep, insulated by thick stone walls and separate from the noisy barracks or the servants' quarters.Sansa Stark lay in her bed, the heavy wool blankets pulled up to her chin. The room was dark, save for the dying embers in her own hearth, which cast a faint, reddish glow on the ceiling.She should have been asleep hours ago. The feast had been exhausting, a whirlwind of emotions that left her feeling drained yet wired. But sleep would not come.Her mind was a traitor. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.Prince Draedon.She replayed the dinner over and over again in her head, like a mummer’s show she couldn't stop watching. The way he had looked at her when she entered the hall in her red dress. The way the air seemed to vanish from the room when he stood up. The way he smelled—of expensive clothing, spiced wine, and something sharp and metallic, like cold steel.But mostly, she thought about his hand.Sansa shifted her legs under the covers, a restless heat blooming in her belly. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his large, calloused hand on her thigh. It had been improper. It had been scandalous. If her mother had seen it, she would have fainted. If her father had seen it, swords would have been drawn.But no one had seen. It was a secret. A secret between her and the Prince.He had touched her with such confidence, such ownership. He hadn't asked permission; he had simply taken it. And the way his thumb had moved... just thinking about it made her breath hitch in the darkness.She turned onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. Why did she feel like this? She was a lady. She was meant to be pure, to wait for marriage. But the heat inside her felt like it was melting her bones.Suddenly, a sound cut through the silence of the night.It was a thud. Muffled, but distinct. It came from the wall beside her bed.Sansa froze.Her mother, in her infinite wisdom and desire to keep a close watch on the royal party, had assigned the Prince the finest guest chambers. The chambers that shared a wall with Sansa’s own room.The thud came again. Rhythmic. Thump. Thump. Thump.It was the sound of a headboard hitting the stone wall.Sansa’s eyes widened in the dark. She stopped breathing, listening.Then came the voice. It was faint, muffled by the stone, but the silence of the night carried it. A woman’s voice.“Oh... oh gods... harder...”Sansa’s face burned so hot she thought she might catch fire. She knew what that was. She wasn't a child anymore; she had heard the maids whispering, had heard the sounds from the stables when the men thought no one was around.The Prince was bedding someone.A sharp pang of jealousy, cold and jagged, pierced through her chest. Who was she? Was it a lady of the court? One of the Queen’s ladies? Or perhaps a servant?The sounds grew louder. The rhythm increased. The headboard banged against the wall with a violence that made Sansa’s own bed frame vibrate slightly.Thump-thump-thump-thump.The woman cried out again, a high, keening wail of pleasure that sounded almost like pain. "Your Grace! Yes! Yes!"Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out. But she couldn't. The image invaded her mind. She imagined Draedon, his shirt off, his muscles straining in the firelight. She imagined his face, twisted in passion, the same intense look he had given her in the hall, but magnified a thousand times.And then, the jealousy twisted into something else. Something darker. Something more primal.The sounds of the woman’s pleasure weren't pushing Sansa away. They were pulling her in.Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her nipples hardened against the fabric of her nightgown, aching with sensitivity. The moisture between her legs, which had been a subtle discomfort all night, suddenly felt overwhelming.Sansa bit her lip, a whimper escaping her own throat.She imagined it wasn't a stranger in that room. She imagined the wall was gone. She imagined she was the one in that bed.In her mind, she was Draedon’s wife. She was the Princess. And he was claiming her on their wedding night.Her hand moved of its own accord. It slid down her stomach, over the soft silk of her clothes. She hesitated for a moment, the teachings of the Septa ringing in her ears—improper, sinful, unmaidenly.But then the woman next door screamed, a raw, guttural sound of ecstasy.“Draedon!”The sound of his name shattered Sansa’s resistance.Her hand slipped between her legs.She gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily as her fingers found the slick, wet heat of her sex. It felt shocking, electric. She had touched herself before, innocent explorations in the bath, but never like this. Never with this urgency. Never with this hunger.She began to rub, tentatively at first, circling the sensitive nub that throbbed with her heartbeat.Thump. Thump. Thump.She matched her rhythm to the sound coming through the wall. She used the passion from their act to fuel her own.She closed her eyes and let the fantasy consume her. She wasn't Sansa Stark, the little girl who liked lemon cakes. She was a woman. She was naked on the furs. Draedon was looming over her, his blue eyes blazing. He wasn't gentle. He didn't treat her like a porcelain doll. He grabbed her hips. He pinned her wrists."You are mine," Imaginary Draedon growled in her ear."Yes," Sansa whispered into her pillow, her fingers moving faster now, slick with her own fluids. "Yours."She spread her legs wider, arching her back. She imagined his weight pressing her down. She imagined the invasion, the stretching, the fullness that woman in his bed was moaning about. She wanted it. She wanted him to break her open and remake her.The sounds from the next room reached a crescendo. The bed was slamming against the wall now, a frantic, animalistic beat. The woman was sobbing with pleasure. Draedon let out a roar, a deep, guttural sound of sweet release.Sansa’s breath came in short, sharp pants. Her entire body tensed. She pressed her fingers hard against herself, rubbing frantically.The pleasure coiled tight in her belly, a hot, golden knot that pulled tighter and tighter until it was unbearable."Draedon," she breathed, the name a prayer and a plea.And then she shattered.A wave of intense, pulsating pleasure washed over her, starting from her core and radiating out to her fingertips and toes. Her toes curled, cramping. Her back arched off the mattress. She bit down hard on her pillow to stifle the cry, the name, that threatened to tear from her throat.She rode the wave, her hips jerking in time with the spasms, until finally, slowly, the sensation faded away, leaving her floating in a warm, blissful state of her own pleasure.Silence returned to the room next door. The thumping had stopped.Sansa lay there in the dark, her chest heaving, her skin damp with sweat. Her hand rested limply between her legs.She stared up at the canopy of her bed, feeling a mix of profound shame and incredible, victorious satisfaction. Her mother had put her here to protect her virtue.Sansa smiled, a small, secret smile in the darkness.She rolled onto her side, pulling the blankets tight around her, inhaling the scent of the lavender sachets, but wishing it smelled of him.As she endeavoured to allow her body to finally find some rest, the thumping resumed again, the moans returned, the cries now more sensitive. And with that, the heat between her legs returned with a vengeance.

Her thoughts about sleeping ebbed away, as her fingers descended down to her core once more. 

A long night awaited the redhead from Wintertown, and the princess who had fallen for the Champion of the Gods. 

Author’s Note

Leave reviews down below.