Winter had come early to the North. Snow lashed the battlements of Highcrag Keep, a fortress carved into the black cliffs above the Shivering Sea.
Lord Harlan Voss rode at the head of a column draped in wolf-fur and crimson silk, his banner snapping in the gale: a golden cock rampant on a field of black. Behind him rolled three covered wagons, gifts for the lady of the keep, or so the heralds claimed.
Lady Sigrún Iron-Breast ruled Highcrag alone. Forty-two winters, twice widowed, mother of four warrior sons now scattered across the world. The North called her the Frost-Widow, for no man had thawed the ice around her heart since her second husband fell to a berserker's axe.
But Harlan had heard other tales in the mead-halls: tales of milk-heavy breasts that could drown a man, hips wide enough to birth giants, and an ass so thick that thralls wept when she bent to stoke the hearth-fire. Most delicious of all, they said when the mood took her, Lady Sigrún's cunt wept rivers of honey that steamed in the cold.
He wanted her broken and dripping beneath him before the moon waned.
The great hall smelled of pine-smoke and seal-oil. Sigrún sat the high seat in a gown of silver wolf-pelt, the fur parted just enough to reveal the upper slopes of breasts like fresh-fallen snowdrifts. A single iron torque circled her throat, the only jewel she wore.
Harlan strode forward, snow melting from his boots.
"I bring gifts, my lady," he said, voice warm as southern wine. "Silks from Lys, pearls from the Jade Sea… and something rarer still."
He snapped his fingers. The wagons were opened. Out stepped Elara, Mira, and Queen Isolde herself, cloaks thrown back, gowns cut scandalously low. Their nipples stood proud in the freezing air, and between their thighs the firelight glittered on slick, bare skin.
Sigrún's breath caught. The hall fell silent.
Harlan smiled. "I bring proof that even the coldest keep can be warmed."
That night the Frost-Widow issued a challenge, an ancient northern custom.
"Any man who can make me yield in the sauna may claim my keep and my body. But know this: every suitor before you has fled with frostbite on his cock."
Harlan laughed. "Then I'll be the first to leave frostbite on your heart."
The sauna was a stone hut behind the keep, heated by rocks the size of a warrior's shield. Steam rolled like dragon's breath. Sigrún entered naked, skin glowing, breasts swaying heavy as war-hammers, ass cheeks clapping softly as she walked. She carried a birch switch in one hand and a horn of strong mead in the other.
Harlan followed, stripping slowly. When his breeches fell, the steam itself seemed to part. His cock sprang free, thick as a ship's mast, veins pulsing, the head already slick. Sigrún's eyes widened; the birch switch trembled in her grip.
They sat on opposite benches, sweat pouring.
Minutes passed. The heat was brutal. Lesser men would have fainted.
Sigrún's thighs slid apart. A bead of sweat rolled down her belly, over the silver bush, and vanished between folds that glistened like melted butter. Her scent, musk and pine and hot woman, filled the air.
Harlan rose. His cock swayed like a battering ram.
"Yield," he commanded.
"Never," she hissed, but her voice cracked.
He crossed the space in two strides, seized her by the hips, and flipped her onto the upper bench. Her massive ass rose like twin moons. He brought one hand down, crack!, across both cheeks. The sound echoed like a war-drum. Red handprints bloomed on pale flesh.
Sigrún moaned, a sound torn between rage and relief.
He spread her. Her pussy was indeed dripping, long silver threads stretching from clit to thigh. The lips were swollen, flushed dark rose. He dragged the head of his cock through her folds once, twice, coating himself in her honey.
"Beg, Frost-Widow."
She snarled, pushed back, tried to impale herself. He held her still.
"Beg."
"Please…" The word broke from her like ice cracking on a lake. "Please, fuck your northern whore."
He drove in to the root.
The sauna shook with her scream. Her cunt clamped down so hard his vision blurred. He pulled back and slammed home again, balls slapping her clit. Her breasts swung like pendulums, sweat flying. He gripped her braid like reins and rode her, each thrust sending ripples through that magnificent ass.
When she came, it was cataclysmic. She squirted in hot pulses that hissed against the stones. Her whole body seized, cunt milking him in rhythmic spasms. Harlan roared, flooding her with thick ropes of seed until it leaked down her thighs in creamy rivers.
He did not stop. He fucked her through three more orgasms, until she collapsed, forehead pressed to the bench, babbling thanks to gods she'd never believed in.
By dawn Highcrag belonged to Harlan.
Lady Sigrún knelt naked in the snow before the assembled household, iron torque replaced by a collar of southern gold. Her nipples were clamped with ruby studs, her ass still red from his palm. Between her legs, his seed glistened on frost-kissed skin.
She looked up at him, eyes no longer icy.
"Command me, my lord."
Harlan smiled down at his newest conquest, cock already hardening again beneath his cloak.
"Welcome to the harem, my Frost-Queen. Tonight you'll meet the others. They'll teach you how to serve."
That night the great hall became a temple of flesh.
Furs were piled three deep. Braziers roared. Mead flowed like rivers.
Harlan reclined on a throne of antlers. Around him his women knelt or sprawled:
- Elara on her back, legs spread, Sigrún's face buried between her thighs, licking southern seed from a well-fucked cunt.
- Mira riding Isolde reverse-cowgirl, both women's massive tits bouncing in opposite rhythm while they kissed hungrily.
- And Sigrún herself, now on all fours, Harlan's cock buried in her throat while he idly twisted the ruby clamps on her nipples.
Later he took them all at once.
He laid Sigrún on her back atop Mira, two thick asses stacked like offerings. He alternated between their dripping holes, cock slick with combined juices, until both milfs were sobbing with pleasure. Elara and Isolde took turns licking his shaft clean between thrusts, their tongues dueling over the taste of northern and southern cunt.
When he finally spent, it was across four pairs of heaving breasts. The women fell on each other, licking him clean, smearing his seed across nipples and lips until every inch of skin glistened.
Spring would come eventually, but Harlan had no intention of leaving the North.
Highcrag's mines yielded rubies the size of a man's thumb. Its ships brought furs and amber. And every moon, new widows arrived, tales of the southern duke with the god-cock who turned ice to fire.
His harem grew:
- A red-haired shield-maiden with milk-heavy tits who begged to be bred.
- A septa from the Silent Isles whose pious mouth hid a sinful throat.
- Twin blacksmith's wives, both broad-hipped and insatiable.
Harlan's life was a blur of silk sheets, dripping cunts, and the slap of flesh on flesh.
He feasted on roasted walrus while Sigrún suckled him beneath the table. He bathed in hot springs while four milfs fought to ride him first. He slept buried inside whichever woman had pleased him most that day.
And in the great hall, above the hearth, hung a new tapestry:
Lord Harlan Voss, cock rampant, surrounded by his conquered queens, each one marked with his seed, eyes rolled back in eternal bliss.
The North was his.
The South was his.
Soon the East would send its silk-clad matrons, and the West its sun-bronzed amazons.
For Harlan Voss, Duke of Endless Pleasure, had only one law:
**More milfs. Always more.**