He rose from the bed, his shadow stretching long and imposing across her. There was a terrifying efficiency to his movements as he stripped. The leather jerkin hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, followed by the rustle of his tunic. When he finally unbuckled his breeches and cast them aside, he stood before her fully bared—his frame thick, powerful, and radiating a heavy, rhythmic heat that seemed to pulse in the small space between them.
Sansa, still dazed and drawing jagged breaths behind her gag, let her gaze flicker downward. Her blue eyes widened in a flash of white, her pupils needle-thin with a sudden, mounting apprehension. She looked at the sheer, daunting scale of him, then back at her own trembling form, her head thrashing frantically against the pillow.
"H-Hmmph?! Mmm-hnnn-mmm!"
The muffled sound was a frantic vibration of disbelief; it was a desperate, rising protest that asked the impossible question of how they could ever fit together.
Alaric offered no verbal comfort. He moved, climbing back onto the bed to hover over her. He caught her ankles, his grip firm as he drew her toward the edge of the mattress, positioning her ease. Taking his length in hand, he began a slow, deliberate torture—tracing the broad, velvet head against her, dragging it through her humid heat from top to bottom.
The contact was electric. Even through the silk gag, Sansa's moan was a low-frequency hum that vibrated deep in her throat. Her hands flew to his hips, fingers digging into his muscle as he slicked himself with her own heat. She was caught in a frantic tug-of-war between the primal fear of the stretch and an agonizing need to be filled; her hips stuttered upward, searching instinctively for friction.
Alaric felt the scorching heat of her, but the physical reality was undeniable. As he tried to settle against her entrance, the disparity in their size was glaring. She was far too narrow, her body still unyielding despite her arousal. If he pressed now, he would cause a lot of pain to her.
Leaning forward, he braced his weight on his elbows. With a deft flick of his wrist, he untied the silk knot. Sansa gasped as the gag fell away, her mouth hanging open as she drew in deep, frantic gulps of the cool chamber air.
"Alaric..." she whimpered, the name raspy and raw.
"Shh," he soothed, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You're too tight, Little Dove. If I force this now, You'd be limping all the way to King's Landing. We have to take our time."
He slid his hand down, his fingers working to massage her entrance, kneading her own slickness into the folds to coax her body into giving way. Sansa looked up at him, her face a mask of flushed desire and mounting frustration. She glanced down at where they joined, then met his dark, intense gaze. A bold, scandalous thought took root— something similar one time she heard from the handmaidens.
"Is it..." she started, her voice trembling but certain. She swallowed hard, a regal spark of resolve flickering in her blue eyes. "If I... if I use my mouth, would it help? Would it make it slip in easier?"
Alaric's eyebrows shot up. The suggestion, coming from the "Perfect Lady of Winterfell," was a shock—a testament to how far she was willing to go to bridge the gap between them.
"You'd do that?" Alaric rasped, his hand stilling against her heat.
Sansa didn't answer with words at first. She shifted, her copper hair spilling like liquid silk across the furs as she sat up just enough to look him in the eye. Reaching out, her small, trembling hand wrapped around the base of his thick, pulsing length, her grip surprisingly firm.
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, replacing the fear with a sudden, sharp confidence.
"Of course," she whispered, her voice regaining its ladylike poise even as she grew bolder. "Why not? You dumb men always think you have to do all the work. If you're too large to fit, then it is my task to make you fit, isn't it?"
Alaric let out a choked breath, his muscles locking at the sensation of her skin against him.
"Sansa—"
"Shh," she mimicked his earlier tone, her blue eyes flashing with a regal, predatory light. "You said we need to take our time. I'm simply making sure the time is well spent."
She leaned forward, her lips parting as she moved closer to the daunting heat of him. She didn't hesitate this time. She let her breath hitch once before she swiped the tip of her tongue along the velvet ridge, watching his eyes blow wide with shock.
Alaric sat back on his heels, his breath hitching as Sansa moved with a grace that was no longer purely courtly. Her face was illuminated by the dying embers of the hearth, her blue eyes dark with resolve as she leaned down to close the distance.
As her lips first brushed the broad, velvet head of his length, Alaric let out a low, guttural groan that seemed to rattle the heavy oak bedposts. She was hesitant at first, her tongue flickering out to taste the salt and heat of him, but as she felt the tremors in his thighs, her confidence flared.
She opened her mouth wider, taking him in. Because of his size, it was an immediate, daunting struggle; her jaw stretched to its limit, and the thick girth of him reached the back of her throat in a heartbeat. Her body's natural reflex kicked in—she began to gag, her eyes watering—but she refused to recoil. Instead, she gripped his thighs, her knuckles turning white, and forced herself to stay. She used her tongue to swirl around him in a desperate, clumsy attempt to be the "perfect" match for him.
"Sansa... slow down," Alaric rasped, his hands finding her hair, fingers threading through the copper silk to guide her.
She ignored the warning, driven by a primal need to prove her devotion. She pushed further, her face flushing a deep, bruised crimson as she nearly choked on his depth. The silence of the room was shattered by the sound of her muffled, wet struggles.
When she finally pulled back, her chest was heaving. She gasped for air, her lips swollen and glistening, her face a feverish mask. But the hunger in her eyes hadn't faded. Driven by a newfound, desperate need to please the man who had claimed her, she leaned back in, her hair cascading over his lap like a silken curtain.
She began to lick him with a slow, worshipful intensity, her tongue sweeping from the base of his pulsing length to the very crest. She moved with a rhythmic, feline grace, her eyes never leaving his—watching the way his jaw tightened and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the furs of the bed.
"Sansa... gods," Alaric groaned, his head falling back as his control finally began to fracture.