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Generally, I’m not the biggest supporter of fanfictions. They often assume that the reader already knows the protagonists, and most of them lack detailed introductions and character development. And as a writer, you are limited to the personality of the cast, which takes some of the creative fun away. Over the years, I have received some requests to write a fanfiction, but I could never bring myself to do one - until now.
 
After reading a passage in the book “Game of Thrones”, a simple but effective idea popped into my head, and I finished my first ever fanfiction - you can find the result below. After a short description of the characters from various wiki’s on the web, the story starts with a prologue, both in spoiler tags. The prologue is copied straight away from George R. R. Martin’s novel, and my story starts right after that passage.
 
This is also my “goodbye gift” to omorashi.org, and to the omorashi writing scene in general, since this will be my last story. I’ll probably stick around, so I’m not gone indefinitely; but this will most positively be my last creative effort. I hope you will all enjoy it.

 

Disclaimer: This story contains female desperation, holding and wetting.

 

 

- - A GAME OF THRONES FANFICTION - -

 

CHARACTERS

The story takes place in the Seven Kingdoms, ruled by the king Robert I Baratheon.

 
****
 
Eddard Stark, also called "Ned", is the head of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and The Hand of the king, the most powerful appointed position in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to the king in authority and responsibility. The Hand is the king's closest advisor, appointed and authorized to make decisions in the king's name.
 
Eddard is in his mid-thirties. He has a long face, dark hair and grey eyes. His closely-trimmed beard is beginning to grey, making him look older than his years. Eddard is known for his unwavering sense of honor and justice and his family finds him kind, although some consider his reserved personality a sign of coldness and disdain.
 
****
 
Sansa Stark is a member of House Stark and is the elder daughter of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark. She has three brothers and a younger sister, Arya.
 
Sansa is traditionally beautiful, taking after her mother's family with her high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes and thick auburn hair. As she has grown up, her figure has been described as tall, graceful and womanly.
 
Sansa was raised a lady, and possesses the traditional feminine graces of her milieu, with a keen interest in music, poetry, singing, dancing, embroidery, and other traditional feminine activities. Like many girls her age, Sansa is enthralled by songs and stories of romance and adventure, particularly those depicting handsome princes, honorable knights, chivalry, and love.
 
Sansa's relationship with her sister Arya is often strained, and the two are opposites in most respects. She is fond of lemon cakes.
 
****
 
Jeyne Poole is the daughter of the steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole. She is the best friend of Sansa Stark, and enjoys the same tutelage as the nobles in Winterfell, although she is not highborn.
 
Jeyne is described as very pretty. She has brown eyes and dark hair.
 
****
 
Prince Joffrey Baratheon is known to the Seven Kingdoms as the eldest son and heir of King Robert I Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister, first in line to become king after his father.
 
He has little sense of right or wrong, which often leads him to trouble, especially when he loses his temper. Despite being willful he is reckless, vicious, cruel and not very intelligent, all of which combine to make him prone to irrational and bad judgements.
 
Sansa Stark has a crush on him, and it is assumed that she will be marrying Joffrey to become the queen in the future.
 
****
 
Septa Mordane is the septa at Winterfell and tutor to the daughters of House Stark. She accompanies the household to continue the girls's studies.

 

PROLOGUE

Her father had been fighting with the council again. Arya could see it on his face when he came to table, late again, as he had been so often. The first course, a thick sweet soup made with pumpkins, had already been taken away when Ned Stark strode into the Small Hall. They called it that to set it apart from the Great Hall, where the king could feast a thousand, but it was a long room with a high vaulted ceiling and bench space for two hundred at its trestle tables.

“My lord,” Jory said when Father entered. He rose to his feet, and the rest of the guard rose with him. Each man wore a new cloak, heavy grey wool with a white satin border. A hand of beaten silver clutched the woolen folds of each cloak and marked their wearers as men of the Hand’s household guard. There were only fifty of them, so most of the benches were empty. “Be seated,” Eddard Stark said. “I see you have started without me. I am pleased to know there are still some men of sense in this city.” He signaled for the meal to resume. The servants began bringing out platters of ribs, roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs.
 “The talk in the yard is we shall have a tourney, my lord,” Jory said as he resumed his seat.
“They say that knights will come from all over the realm to joust and feast in honor of your appointment as Hand of the King.”
 Arya could see that her father was not very happy about that. “Do they also say this is the last thing in the world I would have wished?”
 Sansa’s eyes had grown wide as the plates. “A tourney,” she breathed. She was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, as far from Arya as she could get without drawing a reproach from Father. “Will we be permitted to go, Father?”
 “You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange Robert’s games and pretend to be honored for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my daughters to this folly.”
 “Oh, please,” Sansa said. “I want to see.”
 Septa Mordane spoke up. “Princess Myrcella will be there, my lord, and her younger than Lady Sansa. All the ladies of the court will be expected at a grand event like this, and as the tourney is in your honor, it would look queer if your family did not attend.”
 Father looked pained. “I suppose so. Very well, I shall arrange a place for you, Sansa.” He saw Arya. “For both of you.”
 “I don’t care about their stupid tourney,” Arya said. She knew Prince Joffrey would be there, and she hated Prince Joffrey.
 Sansa lifted her head. “It will be a splendid event. You shan’t be wanted.”
 Anger flashed across Father’s face. “Enough, Sansa. More of that and you will change my mind. I am weary unto death of this endless war you two are fighting. You are sisters. I expect you to behave like sisters, is that understood?”
 Sansa bit her lip and nodded. Arya lowered her face to stare sullenly at her plate. She could feel tears stinging her eyes. She rubbed them away angrily, determined not to cry.

 

 “You look amazing, Sansa. Today, all the women of Westeros will look at you in envy,” Jeyne Poole spoke as Sansa’s handmaiden pinned the last flower onto the Stark’s green dress, in preparation to the tourney.
 “Not including you, I might hope,” Sansa replied while staring into her mirror, “I wouldn’t want to lose my best friend over my looks.” She turned around and faced Jeyne, smiling, her face glowing. Sansa had impatiently counted the days until the day of the Hand’s tourney, and it had finally arrived. It was the first large event after they had reached King's Landing, and more importantly, Prince Joffrey would be there. Sansa couldn’t care less about all the women in Westeros, as long as Joffrey admired her, she would reach her goal for today.
 Jeyne’s lips moved upwards. “I could be jealous over your appearance, but it won’t ever break our friendship, I promise. After all, you are to wed Prince Joffrey, and I’m in love with Lord Beric. Our paths won’t cross; there will be no reason hold a grudge against another.”
 Sansa thought Jeyne Poole was being silly; she was only a steward’s daughter, after all, and no matter how much she mooned after him, Lord Beric would never look at someone so far beneath him, even if she hadn’t been half his age. But she was in a festive mood today, and she let the thought easily slip of her drunken mind. She hardly noticed how Septa Mordane entered her tent to take Sansa’s handmaiden with her.
 
 “There’s a knight outside your tent to escort you to the tourney, my lady. Make sure to use your chamber pot before you leave, these events can be quite long and unwinding”, the Septa instructed her.
 Sansa threw an annoyed look at her tutor, her cheeks flushing. “That will be all, thank you,” she spoke firmly; she didn’t not want the woman to embarrass her any further in front of her friend Jeyne. She had grown more than tired of her Septa always telling her what to do, especially when it came to her bathroom habits; she was slowly becoming a woman now, and she could very well decide for herself when she needed her chamber pot, or not.
 “So who are you rooting for today, Jeyne?”, Sansa tried to change the subject quickly.
 “I honestly don’t know, my lady, what about you?”
 “Well, as you know, there’s not a man or woman in Westeros that hasn’t heard of the sublime swordsmanship of the Kingslayer, so I suspect that he will be of great significance today.” Jeyne Poole simply nodded, listening carefully to her friends’ analysis. She wasn’t highborn by any means, and while she was lucky to enjoy the same tutelage as Sansa, she hardly knew anything about her friends’ world. 
 “Let’s see... there’s also Ser Barriston, Lord Yohn Royce, and the sons and grandsons of Walder Frey, Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard; oh Jeyne, there’s so many great warriors that will ride today, I can’t possibly name them all.”
 “So, should I root for the Kingslayer, then?”
 “It’s your call, Jeyne, that’s the beauty of it, anyone can have their favourite. A shame Joffrey doesn’t compete though, I bet he could take them all.”
 Jeyne laughed. “Are you serious? That small young boy?”
 Sansa sternly looked at her friend, before softly punching her on the shoulder, grinning. “Don’t tease me like that!”
 “Now you have dishonored me, Sansa Stark,” Jeyne impersonated her most masculine voice, and “I am Ser Jeyne Poole, and I challenge you to a duel,” after which Jeyne punched her friend as a repayment, and then ran away to the other side of the tent, raising her skirt so she wouldn’t trip over it. Sansa pursued her, and pushed her friend onto the bed in the corner, falling onto the mattress herself. Both girls kept on giggling for a while, until they heard the sound of a horn blowing three times.
 
 “The horn... the tourney is about to start! Come on Jeyne, we have to go, we can’t be late”, Sansa exclaimed, unable to temper her youthful enthusiasm. Her heart was beating in her chest, and she pulled her friend of the bed, dragging her towards the tent opening.
 “Wait, Sansa,” Jeyne remembered the words of Septa Mordane, “I would like to use the chamber pot before we attend the tourney,” and she raised her gown, showing her undergarments to Sansa while walking over to the cabinet where they kept the urns.
 “Quickly then”, Sansa complied impatiently, and she hiked her own clothing, realising that Jeyne’s idea was not such a bad one, “hurry up, hand me a one too!”
 “I would love to, my lady, but I can’t seem to find them...”
 “What do you mean? I put them right there in the cabinet on the top shelf, just this very morning!” Sansa sighed deeply and dropped her dress, unwilling to wait for Jeyne any longer, and she walked over to the piece of furniture, only to observe that her friend was right; the top shelf was dead empty, and the chamber pots were nowhere to be found. Sansa tried to list all the people that had entered her tent since this morning who could have displaced them; her handmaiden, Septa Mordane, and her sister Ayra. Not that it really mattered anyway; all three weren’t here at the moment, so she couldn’t ask them anyway. Then, outside the horn blowed once again, calling out to Sansa’s inner eagerness, and she made a decision.
 “We can use our pots after the tourney, I don’t really need to go anyway,” she simply stated, looking Jeyne in the eye. “What about you?”
 “Yeah, me neither,” Jeyne replied, hesitant to ignore the Septa’s advice.
 “Are you sure?”
 Jeyne Poole nodded, and they were greeted by the shouts of the crowd, the banners lurching in the wind, the sun reflecting in the armor of the knights as they left the tent. It was nothing like the girls had ever seen; it all seemed so glorious to them compared to the bareness of Winterfell.
 
 
****
 
 
Sansa and Jeyne watched the spectacle in amazement, one knight riding after another, each one more fabulous than the last. They screamed in in harmony with the crowd as their lances and armor crashed together, over and over again, until one of them would fall off his warhorse. Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a knight smashed against the surface of sand and stones, most of them barely moving, their squires dragging the defeated off the field. Sansa, however, found the whole scene fascinating. She had never seen knights fighting like this before, risking their lives for fame and honour. She tried to grasp all of their names, imagining that someday they would sing songs about some of them, their stardom dawning on this glorious day.
 
Nevertheless, as the battles went on for a very long time, Sansa and her friend grew a bit tired of all the extravaganza, and started chatting along, enjoying their day in the cool shadow of the tent shed. They were given places of high honor, on the first row of the stand, a few places apart from Sansa’s father Eddard Stark; they had the best look over the field, at a prominent place so that the commoners could marvel at them. Prince Joffrey was sitting on the top row, only a few feet apart from them, and Sansa could notice his occasional glimpse at her.
Servants were rushing back and forth, bringing delicious treats from all over the kingdom to all nobles; citrus fruits and spicy treats from Dorne, grapes from the Island of the Arbor, pigeon pie and lemon cake, produced by the best chefs in King’s Landing, and of course the wines; sweet and bitter, ripe and undeveloped. Septa Mordane had instructed Sansa to abstain her from drinking alcoholic refreshments, but since she was sitting on the other side of the Hand of the King, she couldn’t supervise her pupil very well. The eldest Stark daughter and Jeyne had seized the occasion, and had gotten a hold of a large cup of wine, which they mixed with their grape juice. There was not much to do at the tourney except to watch the knights, eat and drink, so Sansa and Jeyne, much like the rest of the nobles, didn’t hold back at all.
 
 
****
 
 
The radiant heat of the mid-day sun had diminished, and while the next group of knights prepared themselves for combat, the king’s own fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, performed a lively act in front of the grandstand. All the noble man and woman, or at least the ones that hadn’t passed out already from drinking too much, roared at his comical undertakings on the stilts. Including Sansa and Jeyne, who were feeding each other's’ hilarity by contagious laughter. Tears had sprung into Sansa’s eyes, while Jeyne was writhing on the bench, her legs crossed under her robe, unable to control herself. She could hear how lady Sansa was deeply breathing in and out in an attempt to stop her own laughter attack, and for a second, they succeeded. Jeyne repositioned herself, but when she looked into her friend’s eyes, their giggling ensued again, fiercer than the first time.
 
 “Stop, stop, Sansa, please stop, or I’ll piss my undergarments!”, Jeyne hissed at her friend, still giggling, but with clear sincerity in her voice. Sansa turned to her, and almost as if Jeyne had cast a magic spell, her laughter subdued, and she gave the Poole girl an educational slap on her thigh. 
 “Not so loud, someone might overhear us!” Sansa looked sternly at her friend.
 “I’m sorry, my lady,” Jeyne excused herself, her own giggle fading away, “but it’s true, my bladder is so full, that I feel as I am pregnant with piss.” She uncrossed her legs and griped the bench firmly, straining all the muscles in her body; the continuous laughter had reduced her resistance, and her desire to use a chamber pot had never been stronger.
 “Yeah, I really could use a break, too,” Sansa confessed to Jeyne, and it was far from a lie; constant waves of discomfort were running right through her, and she wished she had followed her Septa’s advice more carefully.
 “So, um, what do we do?” Jeyne asked her highborn friend for advice, hoping that they could sneak off soon, not knowing whether she could hold her waters for much longer, the juice that she drank travelling towards her already bloated bladder.
 “We sit, we enjoy the tourney, and we hold back until we are excused,” Sansa painfully declared with a straight face, and she crossed her legs under her dress.
 
 
****
 
 
 “How much longer do you think the tourney will last?”
The knights had resumed their combat for glory, but Jeyne was battling with a whole different burden. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had to go so bad. Urine was rushing against her sphincter, each wave stronger than the last; Jeyne anxiously started worrying that she would not make it to the nearest chamber pot, if she didn’t act soon. Despite of it all, she found comfort in the fact that she wasn’t alone in her struggle; her friend Sansa was clearly reaching an alarming level of desperation, too. 
 “I don’t know”, the Stark girl simply replied, “I should ask my father about it.”
 “Could you?” Jeyne’s voice was rushed and as restless as herself. She bit her lip and leaned forward, her buttocks persistently moving back and forth under her dress, sweating from the activeness in her panties. She had to pee so bad, but she had to hold on just a little longer; it was all Jeyne could think about at the moment.
 “I will”, Sansa stated, and she rose from her seat; she wanted to know the answer to Jeyne’s question herself, hoping that that the tourney would be over soon, so she could excuse herself. Her full bladder was vigorously asking for her attention, and her kidneys were processing even more wine into urine; Sansa estimated that she could easily fill three quarters of a chamber pot with her own waters if she had the chance. Standing up and moving around while making way towards her father helped her personal struggle a bit, but not by much.
 
 “Father”, Sansa softly announced her presence, and Ned welcomed her with a warm smile.
 “Sansa, how nice of you to see your father, you must be growing rather bored of these knights tediously running back and forth, no?”
 “Oh no father, I love the knights, the battles, the food; I hope the spectacle lasts until sundown and beyond”, she lied to some extent, hiding her discomfort to her father and Septa Mordane, who was sitting next to him. Sansa pressed her legs together while her bladder stirred inside her; standing still didn’t help her at all.
 “The sooner this is over the better, as far as I’m concerned; but I’m afraid that it is up to the king to call an end to this dreadful day”, and Ned pointed at Robert, who was lying back in his chair, clearly full of wine, drunkenly roaring as another two riders clashed together.
 “Knowing him, I don’t think it will last much longer”, he continued, “he seems to be growing rather tired. I give it another twenty minutes or so; why don’t you join us here?”
 “Thank you, father, but I’ll see you after, I promised Jeyne I wouldn’t keep her alone for long”, Sansa lied again; trying to sit motionless beside her father and her Septa would be torture for her. At least at her place, she could freely move her legs around, maybe even sit on her heel.
 
Sansa smiled and left her father, and as she looked up, she noticed Joffrey gesturing at her to come over. Sansa felt her throat tighten; he had not spoken a word to her since the incident with Ayra and the butcher’s boy, and she had not dared to speak to him. Her aching bladder urged her to return to Jeyne, but her adolescent heart declined; Sansa contentedly made way to the prince, carefully pressing her thighs closely together. Joffrey nodded and kissed her hand, gallant as the knights in her dreams, and said,
 “Are you enjoying the tourney, my sweet lady?”
 “Yes, very much, my prince”, she pondered, trying to remain as calm as possible.
 “As you should”, Joffrey cheered after sipping his wine, “you will have to attend plenty of them when you become queen. And one day, when I am old enough to enter the lists, I will conquer them all. As for now, my dog will do for them”, and Joffrey pointed to Sandor Clegane, who was standing next to him.
 “That would be a glorious day”, Sansa replied in unison, as her bladder stirred inside her. Uncomfortably, she stared at her friend Jeyne, hoping that she could soon return to her seat herself; Sansa wasn’t entirely confident that her kegel muscles alone could keep the massive amount of piss inside her, but she had to stand still for now. The last thing that she wanted to do was share her embarrassing predicament with Joffrey by dancing around in front of him. Thankfully, the prince intervened by nodding at Sansa’s praise, smiling genially.
 “I will save you a seat at the feast tonight, my sweet lady, and I hope you look as lovely as you do now.”
 
Sansa blushed and bent her knees in a curtsy to the prince; Joffrey was too kind. She crossed her legs, took a deep breath, uncrossed them and then walked away, feeling the weight of Joffrey’s stare on her shoulders. 
 
Upon her return, she found Jeyne sitting in a yoga-like position, her right foot tucked under her dress, pressing her heel between her legs with her hands, squirming uncontrollably; she was in great difficulty. So far, she miraculously hadn’t leaked yet, but she felt so unbearably close to release. Her loins were burning, her legs were shaking; Jeyne had to pee, now, but she couldn’t leave without her friend. Immediately when the Stark girl showed, she jumped up, ready to storm off towards the nearest chamber pot, but Sansa gently pushed her down on her shoulder. “Just a few more minutes, Jeyne; my father assured me that the tourney is almost over.”
 Jeyne wanted to protest, but a sequence of pain waves took her breath away, and she landed onto her seat again, bending over, biting her lip so she would not scream. She knew she had to escape the stand as she really couldn’t hold on any longer, but her basic manners refrained her from disobeying her highborn friend - as her guest, she had to ask for her authorization. Jeyne looked her friend in the eye, and whispered to her, careful not to make a scene.
 “Can we please go? I really don’t care that the competition’s nearly over, I just want to release my piss into the pot, onto the grass, against a tree, anywhere, I couldn’t care less; if I don’t leave soon, I’ll do it in my panties anyway”, she anxiously pleaded, her hands kneading her womanhood. “I know you want it too, Sansa, please?”
 
Jeyne was right; Sansa really wanted to, and the more her friend talked about it, the more desperate she got. The Stark girl painfully crossed her legs and turned her head, to see that her prince was still staring at her, and she groaned; she couldn’t leave now. Not after the prince had praised her for her presence. She couldn’t possibly risk that he would mistake her disappearance for cowardice. 
 “A lady must endure, Jeyne.” Sansa’s voice was stern, her face straight. Her throbbing bladder complained heavily, but she persistently followed through. She could only hope that the king would soon call it a day. She had to hold on just a little longer. Jeyne had to hold on just a little longer.
 
But Jeyne almost couldn’t; Sansa had no idea how terrifyingly close her friend was to uncontrollable eruption, but she absolutely was. She needed to pee badly, she needed to pee oh so badly. The membranes in her bladder were stretching out to unexplored levels, the fluid dynamics of the contents putting so much pressure on her strained muscles that she was hurting herself. She wanted to cry out loud in despair, but she couldn’t embarrass Sansa, so she tried to repress her instinctive utterance, and silently squealed instead. The sound was shrill and lasted a couple of seconds, but only travelled short, as the noise of two riders clashing together dominated the scene. Jeyne closed her eyes, as the surroundings became just a blur to her; she could only think of how desperately she needed to go.
 
Only Sansa had overheard the cry of her friend, but it left her mind rather quickly; she had problems on her own. She needed a chamber pot more than ever, fighting wave after wave in her abdomen, relying on the strength of her sphincter alone. It was so incredibly tempting to press her hands between her legs and simply hold herself like Jeyne did, but Sansa could not do it, not with the prince watching over her. She tried to press her firm thighs even closer together, but she had already reached the limits of her own flexibility. Leaning forward, breathing loudly, she firmly held on to her upper knee with both hands; it was certainly not the same as grasping her crotch, but it was the next best thing. While Jeyne was in a world of her own, Sansa actively tried to take her mind of her full bladder, and focused her eyes onto the tourney again.
 
Ser Gregor Clegane, riding brilliantly all day, had just unhorsed another knight, and the crowd of commoners scanted his name all over the valley. While he bowed before the king, his large black stallion was standing right in front of Sansa and Jeyne, and Sansa studied the animal, the sweat drops on his dark skin glistening in the sunlight. The horse was restless, and Ser Clegane had to hold on the leash firmly; it reminded Sansa of Ayra’s mare, who was her stubborn as her sister herself. Suddenly, the animal stood still, and Sansa could see his member swell; the horse had decided to relieve himself, and a thick yellow stream emerged, splashing onto the dusty surface. Unfortunately, this was a highly suggestive picture for both desperate girls, and while Sansa hastily pressed her hands into her lap, Jeyne’s eyes widened.
 
The crowd suddenly went silent, and Sansa looked up with everybody else; the king was on his feet, his face red, a cup of wine in his hand. “Bloody hell,” he shouted so that anyone could hear, “enough of this horse piss - one more rider, and we’ll call it a day!”
 
But it was just too much for Jeyne to take. In a faint moment of clarity, she felt aware of every single muscle in her body, and realized that she could not hold it any second longer. The Poole girl slowly rose from her seat, trembling, her vision clouded. She had to pee so badly that her bladder almost instantly voided itself at the prospect of finding a secluded place to let it all go. She couldn't delude herself; reaching the chamber pot in their tent was no longer an option. Jeyne went mad with excitement, only thinking about the possibility to squat behind the first bush in the vicinity of the stand. But as soon as she placed her right foot onto the wooden deck, a hand grasped her slender thigh, and pushed Jeyne down to her seat again. Too weak to oppose that kind of force, her buttocks violently landed onto the bench. Tears sprung in her eyes, disillusioned when she realized that her best friend Sansa was holding her back.
 
“Just a little longer, Jeyne, it’s only one more battle!”
 
Her bladder spasmed, being denied the enjoyment that it so badly needed; the torturing sensations in her abdomen were so immense that Jeyne started hallucinating. Electrified with impulses, she visualised the thick yellow stream of Gregor Clegane’s horse, roping on the sand, the disturbing sound slicing through her soul, the common crowds in the back thunderingly roaring. Jeyne gasped for air as the waterworks in her eyes continued; the imagined civilians in her head now laughing at her while she jammed her legs between her legs in an effort to hold back the inevitable. The pain was excruciating, her muscles were stretched for far too long now. She could no longer deny herself relief, her own mind didn’t simply didn’t allow her. She had to ease some of the pressure. What if I just let a little bit go?
 
It was a minor theory in a sea of thoughts, but an entrancing one. And before Jeyne even realised it, the signals were sent; she loosened the stress in her sphincter just a little bit, and a trickle immediately ran down her urethra and into her panties. The feeling took her breath away, her bladder compelling her to completely lose control, but Jeyne endured, still clenching her muscles, regulating the flow rate, while wetness pooled in the silk fabric around her. With her eyes shut and her ears blocking the sound of the crowds, Jeyne analyzed the sensations on her skin, so carefully that she perceived the very first drop of urine running down her thigh, her panties only just saturated. Without doubt, she closed her sphincter again, and abruptly opened her eyes; the final two knights of the day were at their end of the field, waiting for the signal to make their rush. So was Sansa, with her both hands now deep in her lap, having lost the luxury of keeping her decency, albeit for a whole other signal.
 
Jeyne just sat still and locked her knees together; she had gotten away with her untested experiment, the flow stopped, only the smallest amount of wetness visible on the back of her dress, which she could play off as just sweat. 
 
She felt like a different person, too; the pain was gone, her abdomen felt frozen, as if time stood still. Jeyne smiled, until her bladder suddenly spasmed, and without a warning, the dam beneath bursted. She panicked, but could not help it; the control of her paralyzed bladder was finally gone, and the sheer force of the torrent widened her urethra instantly. A waterfall of urine violently trashed into her panties, the fabric already saturated from her deliberate leak, and wetness quickly pooled around her buttocks. Jeyne sat motionless, desperately trying to stop the stream somehow before it would escape from her dress, but the flow coming from her exhausted bladder only increased in size. Tears sprung in her eyes as she felt the first rivulets running along her thighs, but her body language wasn’t giving away her accident just yet. She remained in her static position, while warm piss filled her panties, filling Jeyne with shame at the same time. A trickle ran down the inside of her knee, and she held her breath, closing her eyes and listening to the sounds around her, waiting to what would come next. She tried so hard to keep her emotions under control, in order not to draw any attention to her.
 
Tac… tac… tac tac tac...
 
The faint sound got lost into the roaring of the crowds; Jeyne was sure that she was the only one who heard it, observing it so carefully, but it pushed her over the edge nevertheless. Thick drops of pee hit the stand under her feet, drumming faster and faster on the wooden plank, until Jeyne could no longer distinguish the drops from the uninterrupted splattering. She started sobbing; the humiliation was just too much for her to take. She was only a steward's daughter, lucky enough to attend this event between princes and princesses, and she had wet herself like a little girl, with no chance to hide the public embarrassment from everyone. This was supposed to be a glorious day for her, but instead, transparent pee pooled on the plank under her feet, overflowing and falling a few feet down into the sand. 
She swore she noticed a few commoners from across the field pointing and laughing at her, and silently howled, looking up to her friend for sympathy, as she continued peeing.
 
Sansa Stark, however, was frantically trying to hold her own waters back, the accident of her friend not helping her in the least. She turned herself away from Jeyne, and pressed her hands deeper into her lap, her fingers searching for the best place to hold herself. The tourney was almost over, but she was on the verge of wetting herself, just like Jeyne did, and she honestly didn’t know whether she could escape the fate of her friend, but she had to try. Sitting in the front of her seat, bouncing around on the edge, she pleadingly looked at the king, and the man holding the horn next to him. Her bladder was throbbing, the painful feeling in her abdomen now a constant, the tension was almost unbearable for her.
Sansa didn’t even try to conceal her desperate need anymore, she only tried to hold back the pressing ocean inside her. She could not possibly pee her pants in front of this company, especially Joffrey. But she could almost no longer hold on either. She tried every trick she knew, but the truth was that none of them worked anymore. Her bladder was simply overfilled, and if she had drunk only half a cup of wine more, her panties would have been wet by now.
 
Seconds ticked away. Sansa anxiously stared into the distance; her fate was in the kings hands. With only a simple gesture, he could end the tourney, any second now. Then the masses could commence their long journeys towards their hometowns, and the nobles could return to their tents. But none of them seemed to be in a hurry, apart from Sansa, her twitching buttocks barely touching her seat, her body in a limbo between standing up and sitting down. Her knees were bent, and her leg muscles strained; one foot was placed in front of the other one, ready to make a run for it. She had never been so eager to do anything in her life, her desire corresponding with the ultimate urgency to relieve herself.
Thousands of pee drops were sitting at the verge of her pee hole, and Sansa could feel the weight of every single one of them. Tears were welling up in her eyes; the waiting game was SO much for her to handle, that she almost couldn’t take it anymore. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and when she opened them again, the man next to the king lifted his horn.
 
Not awaiting the actual signal coming from the instrument, Sansa veered of her seat instantly, misestimating the impact of gravity on her bladder muscles; she almost filled her panties in the process. Frightened by the sudden rush, she quickly pressed her hand between her legs again, and swiftly pulled it back at the same time, terrified that Joffrey would notice the predicament that she was in. Taking small steps, Sansa walked down the steps of the stand, and sighed when she went around the corner, leaving the eye range of the other nobles. Her body screamed for relief once again, and she couldn’t help thinking about squatting behind the stand, but realized that was too much of a risk; as daughter of the Hand, almost everyone here knew who she was. and tales would travel quickly, especially during the tournament and the feasts that accompanied the event. No matter how badly the Stark girl needed to pee, she had to hold on until she reached her tent, somehow; it was the nearest place where she would be safe. Pressing her right hand on her dress, she pressed her thighs carefully together, and danced along the way, her bladder throbbing heavily inside her. The sensations were so strong, that she had trouble breathing, and when she finally reached the tent, she was practically breathless.
 
A tear of joy ran down her face as Sansa rushed inside, her eyes on the hardwood cabinet. Her mind went blank, calculating the amount of seconds she would need to take hold of one of the chamber pots, plotting the events of the next crucial moment. As if she had practiced the scene one hundred times before, Sansa squirmed forward, her hand reaching for the underside of her dress, brushing her thigh as she pulled the fabric up. The tension in her body rose, and she gasped, as her bladder wanted to give away entirely now that she had reached a private spot. But she was so close, and so determined to hold on, that Sansa fought every wave - the sensations were so intense, and she started bargaining with her own body. While her fingers worked their way up her panties, she calculated that she would do minimal damage when she would let go one she had eyes on the chamber pot. She would let her urethra fill with warm urine as she would place the pot on the floor between her legs, and squat down while her fingers would pull her moist panties aside. She knew that the first drops would land into her underwear, but she didn’t care; the pain was just too much to take for even a nanosecond longer.
 
Voluntarily, she weakened the stress in her bladder muscles, and her body shuddered as she finally planted her fingertips between on her panties, in the sweet spot between her lips. The cabinet was just four feet away now, but Sansa froze; she had never felt a sensation like this before. For a second, she sensed every muscle in her body, from her curled up toes to her bulging bladder, as some kind of warmth spread all over her. She moaned, loudly, as she pushed her finger further and further in between her thighs, towards her pee hole; holding herself after so long felt so good that she almost collapsed. 
 
Then, a sharp jolt pulled her out of her trance, as the unbearable need to pee took her over again, and she shuffled towards the cabinet, ready to give her body the relief that it so badly needed. Without her deliberate permission, her bladder weakened and Sansa quickly felt that she had hit her point of no return - she simply couldn’t hold it back any longer; it would only be a matter of seconds. Eagerly, she removed her hand from her privates, reaching for one of the chamber pots on the top shelf…
 
Sansa’s heartbeat stalled, as she quickly came to realize that the cabinet was still dead empty; there was not a single chamber pot, and thus no relief for her. The poor girl gasped, and turned her head around, hoping to find an alternate solution, but felt her urethra filling with warmth instead, and not the kind of warmth that she had felt before. Helplessly, she jammed her thighs together, while a thick burst of pee immediately drenched her fragile panties. In a last effort to save her dress, Sansa squatted down, but the green layered fabric draped under her buttocks, making the clothing act as some kind of water slide. Now that her thighs were spread, there was no holding back at all, and a massive jet of pee sprung from her tortured pee hole without a single pause. Some of it welled up inside her panties, but most of the wetness ran down her buttocks and onto the back of her dress, quickly forming a puddle around her feet. The pure feeling was glorious, but Sansa could not enjoy it; she felt so empty, so humiliated, that she started to cry. She had simply wet herself like a little girl; soon her Septa would find her soaked dress, and most certainly reprimand her for acting improperly. Today was the day where she hoped to become a real lady, but she had truly ruined the occasion, and she would remember this shameful event forever.
 
Exhausted from the long struggle, Sansa fell onto her knees, rivulets of pee still running out of her abused body, and finally collapsed onto the floor. She closed her eyes, and laid still for a while, listening to the clamor outside the tent. She thought about Jeyne, who had also disgraced herself because of her, probably on her way to the tent right now, attracting looks from anyone who could see her soaked clothing. She thought about her father, hoping that he wouldn’t find out about any of this. She thought about Joffrey. She thought about Lady. She thought about everything, then she thought about nothing.
 
When Sansa finally opened her eyes, she saw the chamber pots - hidden below Ayra’s bed.
 
 
THE END
Edited by Flush (see edit history)
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I have so much to say about this. 

First, thank you so much for writing this wonderful piece of omorashi for us all. Game of Thrones is my favorite TV show and a fan-fiction based on it is all I could wish for.

Second, I had been planning to write a story with the same plot where Sansa gets desperate during the Hand’s Tourney and then wets herself after waiting for too long. You did it so beautifully that I feel as if all my fantasies have come true with this. Marvelous!

 

Plus, it is really sad to know you won't be posting more. I'm a huge fan of your work and I really wish you wrote more but I can't blame you for it.

 

I fully understand if you don't feel like writing omorashi anymore, I've been going through the same phase for a long time now and I too have just a couple of more stories left in me. Writing is a mentally exhausting job and I totally understand if you don't want to write. 

 

All I want to say at last, is that, I've enjoyed your works over the years here on omo.org and you are one great writer who has inspired me to push my own limits. Thank you so much for giving us all such a wonderful time.
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@Minervafan110, omoking: Thanks for the kind words. I suppose Ayra is indeed sneaky, such a lovable character on the show too.

 

@Pain: Really? Well, I'm actually not that surprised. I thought about it when I started writing this story, and there are not a lot of occasions in the television show (I don't know about the books) where you could mix public omorashi without disrupting the storylines too much. As I stated, this was just such a perfect fit that I couldn't resist it.

Also, thanks a lot for your praise. I enjoyed many of your stories here too, and it would be sad to see all the good writers go. Thankfully, there are so many great talents on this site.

Personally, I think it's still fun to write, but I am getting into a stage of my life where it just takes a little too much time. It doesn't help at all that I'm a non-English speaker, writing in English takes three or four times longer than writing in my native language (I have to research sayings, translate words, use a thesaurus,...).

 

Since we're getting a bit melodramatic here, I might as well continue; I really appreciate all your replies here and to my other stories. We all write for fun and it's mainly for ourselves, but it feels great to know that someone else can enjoy your stories too. It's so amazing to have a wonderful community here. I've been a member on many pee fetish boards (wetset, wetbbs, animegirldesp,...) but none of them had the friendly atmosphere that omorashi.org has. So many constructive comments. It's a rarity, especially on the internet. I think many of us will grow older, and fondly remember omorashi.org even after it is long gone. 

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Yeah, there's not a lot of omorashi-related GoT fanfiction. Maybe it's because most female characters in the show are portrayed as mentally strong, instead of "cute"? I can hardly imagine characters like Cersei getting themselves into humiliating scenario's, for example. Although a deliberate holding session/competition would be an option, I guess...

 

I'm especially glad to read that someone who wasn't seen the show or read the books liked it, thanks a lot! Because that's usually my biggest gripe with fanfiction - there are so many stories on the web that skip the character development part. They might be good, but I find them some of them almost impossible, and less enjoyable to read, when you don't know the characters beforehand. Yay!

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Yeah, there's not a lot of omorashi-related GoT fanfiction. Maybe it's because most female characters in the show are portrayed as mentally strong, instead of "cute"? I can hardly imagine characters like Cersei getting themselves into humiliating scenario's, for example. Although a deliberate holding session/competition would be an option, I guess...

 

I'm especially glad to read that someone who wasn't seen the show or read the books liked it, thanks a lot! Because that's usually my biggest gripe with fanfiction - there are so many stories on the web that skip the character development part. They might be good, but I find them some of them almost impossible, and less enjoyable to read, when you don't know the characters beforehand. Yay!

 

I think you did well with fleshing the characters out, there was enough information for those that are not familiar with them to understand what is going on and yet not so much as to bore those of us who have either read the books or seen the TV series :)

 

I do hope you decide to write more fiction at some point, this was very enjoyable (and somewhat arousing) to read! Though I do respect that it must take a long time to write these

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