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Snow begins to fall in Winterfell.
Shireen absolutely loves snow. She loves the way the cold winds bite at her cheeks when she’s outside, and the way her skin tingles when it heats up afterwards. She loves seeing Rickon in the snow, too; loves the way the little flakes decorate his unkempt curls. It’s not at all like the humid, salty air of Dragonstone, and although she misses it, she feels at home here as well.
Rickon has just turned nine-and-ten, and she has been the Queen in the North for two years now. Sometimes she doesn’t immediately turn to being called "your grace". Sometimes she feels that she is still Shireen Baratheon, Stannis’ sad little daughter that everyone pitied. But now…now she is Shireen Stark, the Queen in the North—the Stone Queen—the wife of the Wild King.
Lately, though, Rickon has been preoccupied with many of his kingly duties. He is passionate, she knows, but grows bored easily, and she must force herself to suppress her laughs when she sees him in the evenings, slumped gracelessly on his throne.
With all his duties, they have not lain together in a week. He often returns to their chambers late in the night, when she is already asleep, and is gone in the mornings. They break their fasts together if they’re lucky, and later sup together in the evenings, and he stares longingly at her, she knows. Yet every attempt at having her is often interrupted or at an inconvenient time. Bran and Meera are preoccupied with their children, and Shireen bears no interest in spending her time around parents (for she cannot relate), and Arya, who had been recently keeping her company by teaching her how to fight in secret, has been in Dorne with Gendry for two moons. So she spends her days with Shaggydog to get away from her nosy handmaidens.
Soon, Jon Snow arrives from the Wall.
She hasn’t seen him since her and Rickon’s wedding. She’s the first to greet him when he arrives, and every time he smiles at her she blushes and remembers her attraction to him when she was just a girl. He’s in Winterfell to negotiate with Rickon on business with the Watch, and sups with them the night he arrives. Every time he catches her eye at supper, she reddens, recalling her thoughts—some innocent, and some dirty thoughts, how could she even think such things—many years ago. She immerses herself in her stew, hides her face in her goblet of spiced wine and gods, after everything she’s done to compose herself to become the perfect queen, she feels that she is two-and-ten once again.
Rickon’s absence leaves her constantly bored, and Jon is out in the courtyard when she is strolling back from the godswood (she loves it there and sometimes she prays, even if they aren’t her gods). He’s shooting arrows from a bow, smiling, and he nods in greeting when he sees her.
“We used to do this together.” He says quietly. “Robb and I would teach Bran. He was never very good at it. Arya was the best; there was no doubt about that. Sansa would tell Arya to be more ladylike and Rickon…little Rickon would sit on the post and watch and laugh. Father and Lady Catelyn would watch, sometimes. ”
Jon’s smile was sad, but he shook his head and looked at her. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to sadden your presence, your grace.”
“Please, Jon,” Shireen replies. “You and I are past titles, I’m sure.”
Jon nods. He holds out the bow to her and raises an eyebrow. “Do you know how to shoot?”
She does, of course. Arya’s taught her a great deal about bows and arrows. She shrugs off her fur cloak and accepts the bow, grabbing an arrow from the bucket at her feet and positioning herself correctly. She holds her arm back and releases the tension in her muscles. When the arrow hits the center of the target, Jon laughs.
“That was brilliant.” He says.
She courtesies mockingly and hands him the bow.
---
She’s just taken a bath and is headed down to the kitchens when she feels a tight grip on her upper arm.
She squeals momentarily before a hand covers her mouth and pulls her into an empty corridor, and she kicks hard before she turns at her attacker.
She removes the hand. “Rickon. What are you doing? You’ve frightened me!”
He rolls his eyes. He seems exhausted, she notices. She also notices that his hand still grips her arm.
“I saw you with Jon today.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Alright?”
“You two are quite friendly, aren’t you?” He grits his teeth.
Shireen scoffs. “What are you talking about? I’ve known him since I was a girl; he had political relations with my father. You’re not around anymore and I was talking to him.”
“Flirting with him.” Rickon corrects.
She pulls her arm away. “You’re speaking nonsense, Rickon.”
He imitates her voice. “Please, Jon, you and I are past titles,”
“You were watching us?”
“I have the right to, I’m the king.”
“You’re being ridiculously childish, Rickon.”
“Right, childish. Well maybe you should just stay with Jon; he’s an older man after all.”
She wants to laugh; instead she smirks. “Are…are you jealous?”
He clenches his jaw. “No.”
She giggles. “You are! You’re jealous. Of your own brother! Rickon…I’m your wife!”
He says nothing, looking down at his boots, and she puts a hand over her own mouth to cease her laughter.
“Stop laughing.” He growls. “It’s not funny.”
Shireen chuckles. “It is, and it’s rather adorable.” She takes a breath. “It’s been twelve years since I felt any real attraction to Jon, Rickon. It’s nothing.”
“Does he know that?”
“No. Does it matter?”
He grunts unhappily. “I’ll kill him if he does anything.”
“Your own kin!” She exclaims. “Honestly, Rickon.”
He grumbles, and she moves to leave. “I have things to do.” She ignores his disapproving look. “I’m meeting with Jon before supper.”
He yells out her name after her as she walks down the corridor. With a smirk on her face, she doesn’t look back.
---
As she dresses for supper, Shireen purposefully dons her favorite gown—a deep blue silk that puffs at the shoulders and leaves her neck bare. It’s a gown that Rickon favors as well, she knows, and as she braids back her dark hair she smiles in anticipation.
She barely looks at her husband at dinner. Instead, she makes conversation with Jon, smiling and giggling, picking lightly at her lamb. From the corner of her eye she sees Rickon shifting in his seat uneasily, she knows that he’s staring at her neck, her breasts, but she pays him no mind. She even places her fingertips on Jon’s forearm for a moment, and when she hears Rickon’s low, deep growl she needs to suppress a shudder.
Dessert arrives soon after, and Shireen licks her fingers clean of the sweet sugary glaze of a honey-cake when Rickon stands abruptly, dismissing everyone from the dining hall and mentioning something about how he and his queen need to reside to bed. She rolls her eyes and follows him out.
He walks ahead of her the whole way to their chambers. He traps her against the wall once she steps into the room. She hears the click as he locks the door, and his breath is warm against her face. She looks up at him and sees the ice in his eyes, can count the little freckles on his nose. She looks at him questioningly.
He buries his face in her neck and breathes and kisses her skin. “I’m convinced that you’re trying to kill me.”
She laughs breathlessly. “And why would I do that?”
His left hand is digging painfully into her hip, and he nips at the skin under her jaw with his teeth. Groaning, he says, “Why did you wear this gown?”
“You love it,” She replies.
“And you know it.”
He begins to lead her towards the featherbed, pulling at the back of her gown. “Don’t do that,” She whispers. “You’ll tear it.”
He looks up at her incredulously and loosens the strings of her gown swiftly. It falls around her and she steps out of it, and his lips are on hers; rough, needy, demanding. He bites at her lips and licks and wraps his arms tightly around her—arms so long and hands so wide—and she begins to remove his doublet and tears at the thin shirt under it. When his chest is bare he leans her back against the bed, and she digs her sharp nails into his shoulders, likely drawing blood. She hopes she’s drawn blood.
Most are often gentle with Shireen—her greyscale makes her appear fragile, and she despises it—but Rickon sees past it, knows that she wants more, and he gives it to her; gives her everything. He presses her deep into the mattress (it’s slightly painful but she shan’t complain) as he begins to pull down her smallclothes, and simultaneously she is unlacing his wool breeches and he only pulls back slightly to remove his boots and his smallclothes, then slipping a finger into her—and then another, and another—he brings his lips to her breasts, alternating between them, sucking and licking and biting and oh, how good it feels to be with him after being apart for so long.
Brazenly, she pushes at his shoulders and flips them both, straddling him and tightening the grip of her thighs around his waist. He’s surprised, she notices his wide eyes, but neither of them says anything. She sinks herself onto him—slowly, teasingly—until he pushes himself up and she groans, adjusting to him briefly before rising and falling steadily, creating a rhythm that had him panting and growling. His large hands gripped her hips so roughly that she knew she’d see black bruises in the shape of his fingers by the morning, but she cared not.
When she’s close, he flips them again, moving himself onto his knees and putting her legs around his waist. He grips her hips once more and thrusts roughly with a groan, and she’s crying and whimpering and moaning and suddenly she clenches around him. His final thrust is out of rhythm and he’s shaking when he empties himself inside of her.
Rickon puts his forehead to hers as he slips out of her, biting her bottom lip, and she pulls at his curls lazily, humming in satisfaction. He rolls over to lie next to her and pulls up the furs.
After a few moments of catching her breath, Shireen speaks.
“Are you still convinced that I’m obsessed with Jon?”
He bites her shoulder and then licks over it. “Please, don’t.”
She rolls onto her stomach and strokes his cheek. “I like when you’re jealous.”
“You’re mine.” He says seriously.
She nods. “I am. And you’re mine. But you don’t think you took it too far?”
“Of course not.”
“Rickon, if I gave myself the right to despise every single lady, handmaiden, common-girl, or whore that spent their time flirting with you, I’d be a prisoner in the black cells.” She replies.
He shrugs. “This is different.”
“He’s your brother.”
“You touched him at supper.” He states.
“On purpose.” She points out. “I knew you’d get riled up.”
He pinches her side playfully, and she yelps. He kisses her cheek and strokes her spine. “My queen…my shrewd little queen,”
She sighs. “My persistent king; please don’t give Jon a hard time. Don’t do anything stupid.”
With sleep consuming him, he mumbles, “Yeah, yeah.”
---
“So you’re telling me that Shireen is…attracted to me?”
“Was,” Rickon growled. “Was. And I’m not telling you this for your own amusement, I’m telling you this so that you know to be careful around my woman.”
Jon laughs nervously. “Well…how long ago was it?”
Rickon punches his arm. “Apparently, it hasn’t been long enough! Shut up about it Jon. I’ll send Shaggy on you.”
“You wouldn’t, baby brother, not ever.”
“I most certainly would.” Rickon says stubbornly. “And don’t call me that, I’m nine-and-ten; and the king.”
“You can’t keep using that line to excuse your actions, Rickon.” Jon says.
“You say that as if you don’t use your power as Lord Commander to your personal advantage.”
Jon grimaces. “I don’t.”
“For true? I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
The two brothers sit in the godswood silently, watching the snow fall.
“Stay away from my woman.”
“Got it.”