The chamber was dimly lit by a cluster of flickering candles, their wax dripping slowly onto the rough stone table like tears from weary eyes. Severus Snape leaned back in his cushioned chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he let out a deep, guttural moan. Melisandre, her red hair cascading like flames down her back, had just taken his cockhead deep into her throat, her lips stretching around him in a way that sent shivers up his spine. She held him there for a moment, her tongue pressing flat against the underside, before pulling back with a wet pop that echoed softly in the room.
"Good girl," he praised her lovingly, his voice low and rough, laced with that familiar edge of command. She looked up at him with those striking red eyes, full of devotion and hunger, and then she bobbed her mouth down again on his huge length. Up and down she went, her movements rhythmic and eager, saliva coating him as she worked him with practiced skill. Her hands rested on his thighs, fingers digging in just enough to feel the muscle beneath his skin. Severus threaded his fingers through her hair, not pulling yet, just guiding her gently as he watched her lips slide over him.
The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of incense and something more primal, the kind of musk that came from bodies entwined in passion. Outside, the winds of Skagos howled against the stone walls of his keep, a constant reminder of the frozen wilderness he'd claimed as his own. But in here, it was warm, almost stifling, thanks to the roaring fire in the hearth. Melisandre's robes lay discarded on the floor, pooling like spilled blood, leaving her bare from the waist up. Her full breasts rose and fell with each breath, nipples hardened by the cool draft that snuck in through the cracks.
Severus closed his eyes for a second, savoring the sensation of her mouth enveloping him, the way her throat tightened around the tip when she went deep. She was relentless, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked, her tongue swirling in patterns that made his toes curl. He could feel the build-up already, that familiar tension coiling in his gut, but he pushed it down. There was no rush. Not yet.
A sudden knock on the heavy oak door shattered the intimacy. Severus's eyes snapped open, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he called out in a steady voice, "Come inside."
The door creaked open, and Kinvara stepped in, her young face flushed from the cold corridors outside. She was sixteen, with the same fiery red hair as Melisandre, though hers was tied back in a simple braid. Her robes were modest, clinging to her slight frame, but her eyes widened just a little at the sight before her. Melisandre didn't stop; she kept bobbing her head, her mouth full of Severus's cock, slurping softly as if the interruption meant nothing. Severus sat there, unashamed, his silvery gold hair catching the candlelight like strands of moonlight. He met Kinvara's gaze without flinching.
"My lord," Kinvara said, her voice steady despite the scene. She averted her eyes slightly, focusing on the floor near his feet. "The Maester has received a raven. We have been invited to the Tourney at Harrenhal by Lord Whent."
Severus nodded slowly, his hand still resting on Melisandre's head as she continued her work. He glanced down at her, catching the amusement sparkling in her red eyes as she looked up at him mid-motion. Her throat vibrated around him with a soft hum, sending a jolt through his body. He smirked faintly, then turned back to Kinvara. "Tell him to pen a reply of acceptance. We shall go to the Tourney at Harrenhal."
Kinvara nodded obediently, her braid swinging with the motion. She turned on her heel, shutting the door behind her with a soft click that left the chamber in its previous hush. The wind outside picked up again, rattling the shutters, but inside, the only sounds were the wet noises of Melisandre's mouth and Severus's occasional sigh of pleasure.
Melisandre finally popped his cock out of her mouth, a string of spit connecting her lips to the glistening tip for a moment before it broke. His length stood proud, fully coated in her saliva, throbbing in the cool air. She gazed up at him, her lips swollen and red, her breath coming in soft pants. "What are you thinking, my lord?" she asked with reverence, her voice husky from the effort.
Severus looked down at his devoted lover, her face framed by that wild red hair, her eyes burning with the same fanaticism that had drawn him in from the start. For a moment, his mind drifted back, pulling him into the whirlwind of memories that had brought him here. It all started with his death. That final, agonizing moment in the Shrieking Shack, the snake's venom burning through his veins like liquid fire. He had welcomed the end, the peace that came with it. But then, there was Death itself, an entity cloaked in shadows, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
"You can have a second chance," it had said, not as an offer, but as a command wrapped in choice. "In a different world. But you must help stop a problem for me."
He had wanted to decline, to embrace the eternal rest he so craved after a life of betrayal and pain. Yet something inside him, some stubborn spark, nudged him forward. It wasn't truly an offer; it was a disclosed order from Death, and he knew better than to refuse. So he accepted. He woke up in the smoking wastelands of volcanoes, the air thick with ash and sulfur, his body aching but alive. He had flown away from there on instinct, magic coursing through him in ways it never had before.
It didn't take long to realize this world was a fucking medieval nightmare, full of kings and knights, swords and superstitions. No electricity, no potions labs as he knew them, just endless cold and barbarity. The problem Death mentioned became clear soon enough: the White Walkers, those undead horrors marching from the frozen north, disrupting the natural order of life and death. They were a threat, sure, but not as immediate as his own appearance. Silvery gold hair like a true Valyrian, deep purple eyes that marked him as something otherworldly. He missed his raven-black hair and obsidian eyes; they had suited his shadows better.
And then Melisandre had found him, her fanatic group trailing behind like moths to a flame. They proclaimed him Azor Ahai, the promised prince, reborn under a smoking sea. He saw through her glamour immediately, the illusion of youth hiding an old crone beneath. Wrinkled skin, sagging flesh, eyes dimmed by centuries. But he offered her a way back: a dark ritual, one that required sacrifices. This world had plenty to spare. A slaver or two vanished in the night, their screams muffled by spells, their blood fueling the magic. Melisandre emerged from the flames renewed, her body restored to the prime of a twenty-year-old woman. Heart-shaped face, full bosom and bust, narrow waist flaring into hips that swayed like temptation itself. She was a sin made flesh, and her fanaticism rivaled Bellatrix's devotion to the Dark Lord.
To be fair, he would be lying if he said he didn't find her enticing. Beautiful, yes, but more than that: useful. She warmed his bed in the frigid nights of the North, her body a furnace against the cold that seeped into his bones. He would have settled in Essos, with its warmer climes and exotic dangers, if not for the White Walkers looming like a storm on the horizon. Instead, he bartered with Lord Stark for the lordship of Skagos, that wild island of cannibals and unicorns. He turned it into his haven, bending the savage folk to his will with potions and spells, importing mammoths from beyond the Wall and even taming a few giants as guardians. The island bowed to him now, a fortress against the coming winter.
"Should we go?" he asked her, pulling himself from the reverie. Melisandre's eyes lit up at the question, thrilled that he valued her opinion. Severus could read her thoughts as easily as an open book; her mind was an altar to him, every corner devoted.
"I think it is time you show your strength, my lord," she replied, her voice laced with excitement. "It will be a sight to see them gape at your mammoths and giants." As she spoke of giants, she leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his cockhead, her lips brushing the sensitive skin, making him twitch.
Severus smirked, the expression pulling at his sharp features. "Then we shall go," he said, his decision made. The Tourney at Harrenhal would be the perfect stage to reveal himself, to weave his influence into the tangled web of Westerosi politics. Let them see the power from Skagos, the man with Valyrian looks and forbidden magic. There would be blood there, no doubt: jousts turning deadly, whispers of treason, perhaps even a murder or two in the shadows. This world thrived on gore and betrayal, knights skewered on lances, heads rolling from blocks, bodies rotting in ditches after battles. He had seen enough in his short time here to know the evil that festered in every corner, from the slave pits of Essos to the frozen wastes beyond the Wall.
But for now, those thoughts faded as he reached down and gathered her red hair into a ponytail, his fingers wrapping around the silky strands. He tugged gently, eliciting a moan from her that vibrated through him. "Now, where were we, my priestess?"
Melisandre's eyes darkened with desire as she felt the pull. "Worshipping you," she replied breathlessly, her voice a whisper of submission. She leaned forward again, parting her lips to take his huge length back into her mouth. Severus moaned at the familiar warmth, the way her tongue welcomed him as she slid down, inch by inch. The girl knew exactly what he liked, her movements slow and deliberate, building that exquisite pressure without rushing. But then again, she had been his daily shag for the past six months, learning every curve and response of his body. This world was shit, full of endless winters and senseless violence, but at least it was tolerable as he looked down at his beautiful redhead devotee, her head moving steadily in his lap.