JON SNOW

The darkness of your room was broken not by a sound, but by a presence. Before you could even sit up in bed, a shadow emerged from the deepest corners of the room. Strong hands, calloused by the sword and ice, grabbed you with a brutality that took your breath away. An arm wrapped around your torso like a steel snake, and a rough palm covered your mouth, muffling the scream that didn't even have time to form.

His scent invaded your senses, sweat, leather, and the piercing cold of the North that always seemed to accompany him. Jon. Just Jon. The bastard you had despised since the first day he arrived at Winterfell, a walking reminder of your husband's alleged infidelity. The boy you had denied even the smallest crumb of affection, whom you had called "little snow wolf" with a venom that would make a viper blush.

Your mind, clouded by panic, flew to dinner that same night. He had been there, sitting far from the main table, as always. His dark eyes, Ned's eyes, a blow you had always felt, were downcast. The next morning, he would leave for the Night's Watch. You had almost smiled then. A fitting end for a bastard: to rot at the edge of the world, frozen and forgotten. You wondered if Ned had cried for him in private. The old anger boiled inside you, even now, as he pinned you against the mattress.

Your own cruelty came back to haunt you in sharp fragments. You remembered the winter he fell ill, still a boy, and you forbade the servants from bringing extra firewood to his freezing room. You remembered saying, with a false sweetness dripping with acid, that snow wolf blood was warmer, that he would endure it. You remembered his gaze, not of anger, but of a deep and bitter understanding of your nature.

Now, that same cold you had imposed on him was on your skin. His hands tore the thin fabric of your nightgown with a sharp crack. The cold night air hit your breasts, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his body, heavy and relentless on top of you. You fought, of course. You scratched, you struggled, you tried to scream for Ned, for Robb, for anyone. But he was a grown man, trained by the masters-at-arms of Winterfell, and you were just a woman, trapped in the silence and darkness of your own fortress.

He didn't say a word. There was no speech of revenge, no "remember what you did to me." His violence was silent, methodical, as cold as your own heart had been toward him. When he entered you, it was with a force that wrenched a muffled sob from your throat. There was no pleasure, only the searing pain of a brutal invasion, the final act of domination over the woman who had always treated him like trash.

Now, you felt it. You felt every inch of him inside you, a strange, violent, and inexorable presence that tore your apart from within. Each deep thrust was a desecration, a mark of fire on your womb, a physical reminder that the bastard had invaded the last bastion of your purity. The pain mingled with a feeling of brutal fulfillment, and your treacherous body began to yield to the relentless rhythm, a humiliating biological response to the violence that assaulted her.

Your eyes, accustomed to the darkness, met his. And what you saw was not the fire of lust, nor the uncontrolled fury of a young man. It was something much worse: a quiet, resolute darkness. It was the look of a man who had nothing left to lose. Winterfell was no longer his home. The North was no longer his home. The Night's Watch was a death sentence. And he had decided that before facing the ice, he would leave a mark of fire on you.

Each clash of his body against yours was an echo of every word of contempt you had ever spoken to him. Each grip of his hands on your wrists was a reminder of every time you had pushed him away from Robb, every time you had made him feel like an intruder in his own family. He was giving you back all the hatred, all the coldness, multiplied by a decade of silent humiliation.

And as the pain and the overwhelming sensation of his invasion merged into a single torment, silent tears streamed down your face. It was then, at the height of that violation, that he bent down. His hot breath hit her ear, and his voice, hoarse and low, broke the silence for the first time, each word a final blow as his body continued its brutal movement:

"The blood of the Snow Wolf is warm, isn't it, my lady? You will remember the bastard's warmth when winter comes. You will remember me inside you. It is my inheritance. The only one you left me."