A New Queen For Westeros I(Jon to Sansa Tg) (Patreon)

Daenerys should have been celebrating her victory over the Night King, yet all she could feel was bitterness in her drink, her wine sour as she mulled over what had transpired. She had risked life and limb, sacrificed large swaths of her host to save humanity and defeat the existential threat that was the Night King, an act of selflessness and an event that should have solidified her as the queen of the realm. And yet her lover was getting all the attention, his naïveté allowing his birthright to be used as a knife against her throat, the fact that he had a better claim to the throne than she did world shaking to her. All her life she had been at the top and now to find out that she was less than the hand of a king while his vindictive family conspired behind her left her victory feeling meaningless. But it didn't have to be...

In one hand was the bitter wine, but in the other lay a very different drink, the potion brewed and treated as Melisandre's parting gift. Apparently she was equally annoyed at having her prophecy turning out wrong with Stannis, and in case R'hllor had played another ambiguous joke on her, she had prepared something for Daenerys, a spell built for removing her largest political obstacle if the time came where she no longer held full sway over her people. She had dismissed it, but given the red priestess's abilities at clairvoyance, she should have realized it would be a necessity even if the workings of it were convoluted. The issue came with fate, one's destiny nearly impossible to pervert or shift, the strings of the future pulling each person to their destined outcome. The larger the fate, the harder it was to wrench free, an adage nearly proven by how Jon's ascension to the throne seemed more like an inevitability even with his reluctance to it. But this potion was a solution to that inevitability, able to dilute one's fate with other's essences, and since Jon had already sworn fealty to her, she considered it a fair route to pursue.

She called him in, their former comfort replaced with visible distance, Jon always forced into power than a willing participant in his upwards progression. She had already done her half, the potion in two parts, the first a clear golden trickle that had gone down sweetly, the second thicker like an arbor wine and equally as strong.

"What does my queen command of me?"

"Your queen commands you to drink and comfort me."

The latter half was a lie, just there to ease him slightly even if it angered her how stiff and formal he had become. He set to the task gravely as if he were commanding the drink on a battlefield, but whether he enjoyed it or not didn't matter so long as he downed the brew. Jon seemed surprised at the strength, gasping after the first gulp, but he passed it off as wildling spirits, their own mangy drinks meant to drive a fire through your body and leave you feeling hot even in the heart of winter.

"Is that KFF all my queen?"

There was one extra step, contact, and given how she still held feelings for him despite his birthright, she figured it wouldn't be all that bad to give him a last chance.

"Kiss your queen. In fact, lets drop the formalities and be like the start again. You are mine and I am yours. Can't we return to how it was before you knew?"

She knew it was hopeless from his posture, though he gave a dutiful, if awkward attempt at passion, the charge running through them definitely not a sign of love as Daenerys sighed.

"Leave."

"Apologies I didn't-"

"Just go!"

He plodded out, missing Daenerys's smirk as she saw the sweat pooling on his brow, the start of the potion's effects kicking in. She would delay her assault on King's Landing for a week or two, allowing it to settle and for the changes to run their course, all the while he would be prepared like a piece of meat, changing and turning to her designs and when he was prepared, she would feast on his destiny and rise as the ruler the land needed.

Jon was feeling strange, that drink from earlier churning inside him, filling him with heat like he was in the chambers of the underground hot springs. It wasn't completely uncomfortable, yet he felt drawn to something, sweat pooling from every inch of his body. The festivities were going on downstairs but he was walking in a daze, his skin slick and sodden, dark hairs sliding down his body. Before he knew it, he was in a lushly packed room, perfumed and filled with clothing and powders, Jon confused at why he'd enter Sansa's room of all places in the castle when it was one of the few occupied areas of the castle and definitely a breach of her privacy. And yet he did not leave, something drawing him in, his nose twitching at the lavish perfume, its blunt shape softening as he groaned, his eyes watering as green sprouted from his dark irises.

Something was whispering to him, softer than the echoed murmurs of revelry, yet coming through over them all. She had a large mirror, shining in the moonlight, attracting his eyes as he stared, suddenly conscious of his appearance. Was his beard always this scraggly? Patches of it seemed thinner and as he rubbed it, more strands fluttered down, the chiseled jut softening with a pop and a moan, his cheeks not this smooth since he was a small boy, and yet he didn't question it in the slightest. He felt dizzy, leaning against Sansa's dressing table as his fingers spasmed against the the smooth wood, nails digging in as each finger shed callus and muscle for slender refinement. It was like his body was being drained of its martial ability just by touching such a feminine artifact, the ache of sweet weakness filling him as his palms pulled tighter, invasive bliss burning through his muscle to leave slender, ladylike arms without a hint of fight left in them, the whispering growing louder.

Somehow a brush had ended up in his hand, the sight of it sending confirming surges of pleasure, the good sensations amplifying as he moved it closer and closer to his hair. When the teeth of it slid into the folds of his locks, scraping against his scalp, a pleased groan leaked out as he began to run it through the full length, the strands unkinking and growing with every tug against their knots and tangles. His free hand traced his eyebrows, shaping them with little more than a press of his nails as they turned to slender arches, both eyes angling as they shone brightly in the glass. Each stroke sent his cock hardening, the silky touch of his lengthening hair arousing as inky waves of perfections tendriled down past his shoulders to his mid-back, the broadness of them trembling as minute pops wore them down to sloped curves.

At first his strokes were rough and brutish, his lack of grooming skills quite evident in the manner he moved, yet the whispering helped, the rough movements not half as fulfilling as slow, deliberate brushes. He couldn't get enough of it, making his movements all the more delicate, cultured, his heart racing as he crushed his own nose to a gentle shape, the now free hand racing towards a poultice of fat and dye from the leaves of a weirwood. The first pass slathered it onto his lips, the chapped ridges and skinniness of them bristling against his finger, the torn flesh shivering as if in protest before a smack sent a hot shiver through his body. He could hear his moans rising, his pinkies brushing against the receding lump of his throat while his index traced the growing borders of his lips, a sensual pout finishing off his face as the rough grunts became elegant and southernly. If his hair had been red he would have been identical to his sister Sansa, her beauty spreading as he swallowed the last of his old voice, her brattiness ringing out as he pulled at his collar the heat taking on a whole other magnitude now.

Jon was such a stick in the mud, so easy to manipulate, chunks of his brain taken over by the growing inner Sansa, soaking in his worries and outtalking them, tempting him with the pleasures of intrigue, the dulling of his honor, things that he took no joy in becoming intensely interesting to imagine. Sansa was the temptress, reveling him in beautiful fairy tales, the joys of making yourself prettier, a part of him even giggling at his poor attempts to undo the lacing to his breeches, to try and quell the fire in his cock. The one part that refused to budge though was his loyalty to Daenerys, his attraction and honor mixing with Sansa's conniving as the image of the two of them going at it fueled the burning inside.

His sleeves had already succumbed to the magic, blooming out from battle gear to regality, silks replacing boiled leather, straps thinning to stitching and doily add ons which served no purpose. The roughness of his chest plate was getting uncomfortable amidst the changes, his nipples swollen and pink in their tight confines, the flush neckline thankfully starting to give as he tore at it with his nails, tugging it down. Iron and leather melted down, reforming and aerating as the neckline dipped down further, first a v, then curving into a deep u shape that let the cool winter air flow into the forming bodice, myrish silks caressing his already sensitized nipples, adding to the ecstasy as they swelled to ripe lumps in the black, just begging to be tweaked. They were beckoning him, his fingers moving around them without thought, Sansa's voice encouraging him to taste a real woman's pleasure, to succumb to the pleasure. There was still some reluctance, a small piece of him recognizing this was wrong, but at that thought his eyes rolled, a spasm running down from his eyes to his fingers as he pinched them and began to squeal in shocked ecstasy.

His chilly northern exterior was melting into the fertile mounds of the south, fatty streams flowing into the space under his nipples as his breeches grew sticky with cum. He had never felt a pleasure half as good as this, each new flow amping the pleasure as tiny bumps swelled under his fingers to pliable lumps. Despite the urge to ravage them, even his self groping was slowed to an elegant pattern, his nails tweaking and flitting about the breasts, teasing a nipple in one second while the other merely circled the bumpy flesh, each squeeze a slow affair that dragged out maximum pleasure from them.

A deep ache filled the pit of his stomach, spreading to the sides as he played with his breasts, moaning as the stitching of the forming dress was tightening, squeezing his waist like a blacksmith's vice, his muscled body trying to resist the advance of femininity. It rebuffed the first few waves, only slight puckering to his sides, his back muscles worn down from Sansa's growing purchase. Right as it seemed like the changes would halt, the fabric reached his undergarments, breeches tightening to black panties, cum oozing from the tip as he could finally stroke himself and at the first touch of his hands to his throbbing cock, a great exodus of strength and muscle spilled from his cock.

It really was like the opening of flood gates, his spine arching with a pleased shriek, his sides, siphoning out their mass as the trembling frontiers finally buckled under feminine glory. Soon the only hard part about him was his cock, every muscle drained and softened, his tummy tucked in and smooth, every ridge curved expertly as if it were the buffeted arcs of a cave beyond the wall. Any will to fight back was similarly weakened, such supple, fatty wonders sparking joy, even the act of caressing his skin erotic as his breasts surged to their full roundness, a low moan trembling out as he swayed, needing companionship, needing his liege. He had to find Daenerys.

It was a burning need now, all that loyalty mixing with horniness, his cock no longer cumming in a satisfying manner, the large bump denting the fabrics as he began rushing towards his liege. The festivities were still going on downstairs, no one there to see the sight as his pants began merging into the folds of a dress skirt, his gait changing to a dainty patter as first one hip popped outwards, then the next. Soon his wide hips were swaying, uncontrolled moans accompanying the fat now residing in his buxom bottom, each cheek stretching the tight outfit to its limits as his cock was buffeted by changing thighs, the flow of fat not planning on stopping until every inch of strength was replaced with her charms. For a second he even gained height from the growing gams.

His gait stumbled as his moleskin boots clacked, the hells stretching awkwardly to raise him up an inch, unforgiving luxury clamping down on his feet, meaty squelches mixing in with the harsh rap of his feminine footwear as his toes were crushed into slender points, his arches overly exaggerated. One hand pulled the hem of the dress up with the flowing movements of a dance, only ruined by the other hand furiously stroking his cock like he was a whore hiking up a dress for a quick fuck in Mole's Town. He needed release, his mind growing fuzzier as Sansa's voice overtook his own mentally, tactics, stratagem, influence and betrayal blanketing the folds of his charge mind, his chest heaving as he wailed with need. Finally he saw Daenerys's room, the queen looking radiant as she stood expectant, smirking at the nearly finished Queen of the North, that condescension driving his heart to rush into a gallop as he planned  to take her in his arms and fuck away this impossible need between his-

"Stop there Sansa, I want you to have a seat on my bed first."

The command filled him with subservience, and though it ached him to not satisfy this building lust, he sat down like a good little liege, hungry to follow her every word.

"I can see you've become much more agreeable, though I'll need to test this loyalty. After all, petty rivalry and deceit were your colors before this change. I want you to tell me everything. Every plot, every thought you had in undermining me. Your queen demands it."

For a second the Sansa inside resented the idea of following another woman's orders, flashes of Cersei flashing through as she stared at the mocking smile of her enemy. Daenerys must have noticed the flash of resistance as well, surprising the almost queen as she slid a hand under her skirts, his cock trembling at just a touch, quivering as she stroked it and quaking as she pressed down on the left jewel  of his sack, her lilac eyes glinting invitingly as she added pressure.

"Remember this feeling, I won't finish it till you've told me everything, and I know that the need will only grow until I've delivered you from it."

There was a wet popping sound, Jonsa screaming as he felt Daenerys's fingers slip inside him, his scrotum half collapsed as he thrusted against her only for her to remove her hand. It all came flowing out his lips then, every single plan the real Sansa had in undermining her, the rumors, the toxic words the trickery, all of it laid bare as the hole below his cock throbbed with need, his body grinding against his queen's until every facet of her publicity assassination was excruciatingly revealed. Even then Daenerys wasn't satisfied until she forced her to beg for it, making the Sansa clone grovel and beg to be finished, taking out two different sets of frustration out at once as she flipped his skirt up, tearing the panties off as Jansa moaned in utter bliss as her cock was swallowed by her queen's folds.

The fucking was fast and messy, clear fluids steaming out the tip as his frantic thrusts shrunk his testicle with every slap, an eruption of slick cum pouring out as the lump was swallowed into her body. Eventually the rest of his cock followed in, Daenerys's dripping cunt tight and draining, milking it for all it was worth as centimeters were forced to slide inside, Jon's cock playing double duty as two sets of pussies were fucked. What remained of his seed was absorbed into Daenerys, spilling along her walls and turning into his essence, a small piece of his destiny stolen as a moist tearing sound sent Sansa into an orgasmic frenzy, her cock inverting as the two queens parleyed till dawn, Daenerys domming her political opponent until-

Jon awoke with a start, gasping from his own room, his sheets soiled with seed, his body aching. There was something important he felt he was forgetting as the haze of the dream faded, only remembering an otherworldly pleasure that sent his morning need quivering. Despite the clearly heavy rest he must have had, he felt oddly exhausted, his muscle aching from effort he didn't remember. Ultimately he decided it didn't matter, a dream of little consequence to him as he began arranging his things, not noticing the oddly gentle mannerisms in his movement, his usual walk gaining a feminine sway he had to fight as he sauntered down the hall.

Daenerys smiled from a few doors down, feeling the piece of Jon she had stolen running through her, a bit of stubble growing when she let it ride, but with a small bit of effort her appearance regained its usual smoothness. This would be the first week she could call fun since she landed on Westeros she could already tell, already enjoying the nervousness on the real Sansa's face as counter rumors were already fluttering into her radar. She looked forward to sundown, already knowing who he'd become next, happy to know he'd soon be looking up rather than down by this time tomorrow…