Heaven help me I've done it, I've fallen in love with Jonerys. I finished binge watching GoT and I was gifted with that gorgeous scene of Jon and Daenerys and well, now here I am. This fic follows on from that scene for timeline references. A massive, massive thank you to wallflow3r who pumped me with praise for this fic when I was so nervous about venturing out of my Bethyl comforts. Don't worry Bethyl fans, I've not abandoned you but this just had to be written ❤️
Daenerys's slim, white fingers play through the flickering candle flame luxuriously, as if she's doing no more than stroking the tips of her fingers across the softest grass in the lands.
She's felt all kinds of fine things, at one time or another believing she had found her favourite until she found something better.
Buttery leather saddles, coarse horse hair leggings, silk dresses; heaps of fur blankets: boar and bear and fox and even wolf, soft grass and wet sand.
All these things she's felt as she's moved from place to place, travelled far and wide. Yet compared to all these things she has never found something more satisfying than fire.
She feels the heat but she does not burn and nor will she ever. She is the blood of the dragon, the mother of dragons. The fire is her blood, is her children's breath; is the bringer of life and so equally the bringer of death. Mirri Maz Durr's death and her children's life.
Only death can pay for life.
"Did I not tire you, Your Grace?"
Daenerys smiles at the candle before she turns her head over her shoulder to her bed companion. "Do you think so highly of yourself, Jon Snow?"
A lazy curl of his lips has her own parting and her blue eyes flick to the muscles of his arms as they tense and relax, his large palm nestled behind his head. "No…" he pauses teasingly, his free hand stretching across the sheet to her free hand where it rests beside his chest. "But you did scream. Often."
Her mouth parts further incredulously and equally a laugh of surprise bursts forth as she bats his hand away. "I do believe you will never hear me scream again if you continue with crass comments such as those!"
Jon laughs before his smile settles and his face flows into his usual frown. "Doesn't it hurt? When you touch fire?"
"Have you not heard my name?" She questions softly as she removes her hand from the flame. "Unburnt crops up somewhere in that long string of titles."
He swallows softly and strokes her fingers. "What does it feel like?"
She rolls her shoulder slowly. It's not something easily translated into words. The fire is everything. Her life and her children's; the pyre that burnt her husband Drogo and the justice that killed his and her unborn son's killer.
"It's everything," is what she manages. "It's power and life and blood and breath. Dragon breath."
"And death."
"And death," she agrees, once more thinking of Mirri Maz Durr and now the Night King and his army of dead. "But not for me. I will not die by fire if that is what puts those lines on your forehead."
Jon laughs and purposefully smooths them out. "Arya always said I was a brooder."
"Arya?" She questions, flavouring the unfamiliar name on her tongue, finding the beginning of the name naturally lifts in a lilt. "An' old lover?"
He laughs again. "A sister. My half-sister."
"Ah," she murmurs as she trails her fingers back through the candle flame as it begins to die. After a moments silence she adds, "She's right."
"Well, I would say I've laughed more tonight that all my name days combined."
"You say that like it scares you."
"It does scare me."
Daenerys turns her head sharply back to him. "You fear me?"
"No," he answers immediately, his mouth quirking; his lips so enticing she stares openly and watches them form words. "I fear how quickly I've come to feel for you."
"Isn't love always quick?" She responds, thinking of her Khal; her Drogo.
A look passes across his face like he has someone's face in his mind, much as she has Drogo's. "Yes," he finally agrees before he swallows, re-arranging his head so his thick nest of black hair scrapes across his palm. "What scares you, Daenerys Targaryen?"
"Nothing," she answers without hesitation.
"Nothing?" He repeats carefully.
What scares you Daenerys Targaryen?
She swallows, looking back into the flame and away from its golden cast on her lover's skin. "I'm scared of…"
Why is she so willing to spill her fears to Jon Snow? How quickly does love work in truth? How long has she known the self-proclaimed King in the North? Long enough to share her woes and her fears?
She clears her throat. "I'm terrified of those titles that I bear with my name. Stormborn. Unburnt. Mother of Dragons. Breaker of Chains. They're expectations. All of them. My brother had expectations of me and that saw me sold to the Dothraki like a brood mare."
When he shifts and ripples the sheets, Daenerys turns to face him and his intense dark eyes as he presses closer, his chest to her shoulders and back, his mouth to the flesh of her throat. "Now you command the Dothraki. Now you command the Unsullied. Now you have Dragons. The expectations of other men and women do not matter. What you want matters."
She allows a smile to play at her lips. "And if I wanted Jon Snow to bend the knee and service me with his mouth?"
Jon pulls his face from her shoulder as she turns her head to face him, her silver hair moving like a rippling curtain down her spine, watching his reaction. "I would say you're bold for a woman but I knew what I was getting myself into."
"Oh, did you?" She smiles. "Planned it all I imagine."
"Aye, something like that," he concedes as he places his bristly mouth back at her throat, his soft, wet lips parting and breathing hot air against her sensitive skin, raising goose prickles.
"I notice you evaded my question," she presses as her pulse quickens and her nipples tighten. "Have you ever pleasured a woman with your mouth?"
"Yes," he answers her as his teeth press into her flesh. "Once."
"Was she beautiful?"
She half expects him to say not as beautiful as you because that's what everyone says about Daenerys. Beautiful child. Beautiful slut. Beautiful wife. Beautiful slave. No matter where she is or what she's doing, who she has become to someone: usurper, conqueror, Queen, saviour, they always call her beautiful.
So when Jon Snow simply answers, "yes," her laughter is real and merry. "What did she look like?"
"Why? Do you find pleasure in multiple lovers?" He asks as he works towards the shell of her ear.
Her eyes slip closed as she leans into him, letting him take her weight. "I have never had multiple lovers nor do I find pleasure in talking of them. I am simply curious."
"Would you be so curious if I turned your questions against you, Your Grace?" He murmurs against her ear, his teeth worrying at the lobe.
A shiver racks her shoulders as she lays her hands over his resting on her hips, his calloused and rough thumbs pressing into her thighs. "You can try."
"I can try," he repeats with a chuckle as his mouth pauses and his hands continue their journey.
She lies breathlessly in the cradle of his chest, letting his hands explore her thighs and belly, his strong, sure fingers so beautifully dark against her lighter skin. She watches in the glow of the candles with anticipation winding her chest and wetness building between her thighs. He's silent above her as he touches her skin, mapping it; spanning it.
When her shoulder moves against his chest it brushes the raised scar there, right above his heart. Her throat catches. Jon Snow may be a powerless bastard to some and a powerful King in the North to others but to her, he's simply… something. Something bigger than her or the Iron Throne or oaths, loyalty, house names.
He's something akin to her Dragons. Something full of magic and splendour and things she can't name. The Dragons… they're her children. They awe her but not in the manner they awe other people. They fill her with pride and hope and love, even as she witnessed one of them die.
For other people, her Dragons are another world entirely brought before their eyes, a legend lost through time; things that once were powerful and beastly before they were locked up in Kings Landing and wasted away to the size of mere cats. Jon Snow invokes that awe. Whoever meets him, knows him, they all believe in him.
They proclaimed him King in the North after all.
He awes everyone… even her and what is she compared to that? Who is Daenerys Targaryen without her Dragons? Without her Unsullied and her Dothraki? They are her strength, her weakness, her children, her blood, her love, her life. They are everything to her, every one of them.
Jon Snow, bastard or King or man of the Nights Watch, he has always been destined for the war they are due to fight, has always been special, chosen. She's not sure how she feels on Dothraki Gods or Kings Landing Gods or any of the other Gods, or even the trees Jon speaks of nor the Lord of Light.
She does know one thing: something, someone brought Jon Snow back from the dead because he was not done in this world. Would that same something bring Daenerys back from the dead? Does some grand destiny or fate or chance await her? She did not think so.
What scares you, Daenerys Targaryen?
"You're very quiet," Jon murmurs after an age, his hands gone still on her skin as she pulled into her own mind.
"I am waiting for your questions, Jon Snow."
He hums as his hands trail back up her belly where silvery marks are woven from the baby she accommodated but did not birth. His fingers are soft and revenant here as if he means to honour the memory of the child she was once round with. "Did you love your Khal?"
"I did," she answers quietly, her heart heavy and sore. "I loved him very much and the child he gave me."
Jon presses his cheek to hers; his scratchy and rough and hers soft and dry. "Forgive me but… you… you did not meet in a manner… I've heard…"
"That I was sold to him?" She provides his mercy. "I was. By my brother, Viserys." He does not answer but to reach his fingertips for her nipples. She pushes his hands away. Viserys used to twist her nipples painfully when she did something he disliked and she has never been able to bare a man touching them since, not even her Khal.
"I did not mean-" Jon begins before Daenerys cuts him off with, "you did not offend me."
Despite his game of questions, he does not ask her the one he wants to but instead moves away from her puckered nipples to the soft skin of her belly again. "I loved a woman once. A wildling."
"The woman you pleasured with your mouth?" She ventures as she rolls her head to look up at his chin.
A smile twitches his mouth. "Yes. She spoke of it as often as you do. Seems a fascination to women, wildlings and Queens alike."
She smiles to herself and takes his right hand to place it between her legs. "Ask me another question."
"Like this game do you?" He asks against the crown of her head, his left hand taking a loose strand of her silver hair and dragging it across her ribs and quivering belly.
She bites back a shudder. "Is that one of your questions?"
"Am I limited in how many I can ask?" He whispers in her ear, his fingers pressing into her inner thighs.
Daenerys parts them with a stuttered gasp. "No. Ask what you will."
"No limits? Are you so brave, Dany?" He rumbles softly, his large fingertip pressing down on the raised nub he finds.
She gasps, her cheeks, neck and chest hot and flushed as she tips her head further back, sinking it nearer to his waist and the hardness that lies there. "Have we abandoned Your Grace now, Jon?"
Twirling his fingertip until she keens between her teeth, he hunches closer. "Have we abandoned, Jon Snow now, Dany?"
"You have stripped us of formalities it would seem," she gasps, her legs falling open ungracefully so his tattered knuckles can nuzzle deeper to where she's leaking wetness.
"So it would seem," Jon agrees huskily, his own breathing ragged and his cock hard against her spine. "My first question… do you enjoy having me inside you?"
"That is your," she pauses to gasp raggedly as he enters a finger inside her, stretching her slick walls and the seed he buried there earlier. "First question?" She forces the rest out.
He hums, ruffling strands on her head with his breath. "No limits."
"Yes," she grunts, though if she's answering his question or simply groaning out her pleasure she can't be sure.
"I thought so. You tighten when I drag my finger just… here."
"Jon!" She exclaims loudly, her throat choked as her nail beds dig into his forearms.
He groans raggedly and removes his finger, bringing his hands to her hips so he can drag her up his body. Like a small doll, he easily manoeuvres her onto her back, his legs settling between hers. Daenerys pants up at him, between her legs fluttering obscenely, as if calling him back inside her.
"Do you mean to make a Queen beg?" She gasps brokenly.
He smiles crookedly, leaning on one forearm as his other hand drags through her wild, silver hair. "No. I mean to know you, Daenerys Stormborn."
She tilts her head at a crook, taking him in so close. His eyes are truly magical. They do magical things to her. Her hands drag across his shoulders, his hardness pressing close to her weeping entrance. "Know me how? By questioning me? You can know me like this." She tilts her chin for a kiss and her hips for his.
He pulls away, though she notes he allows their bottom lips to glide together slow and slick. "I want to know more than that. No matter the beauty of your body."
"You find my body beautiful?" She giggles softly. "How so?"
"Do you find mine beautiful?"
"Is this another question?"
"I'm done with questions," he whispers hoarsely, dragging his cock against her. "Gods be good, I want you."
"Then your Gods are good, Jon Snow," she whispers as she spreads her legs and lifts them.
His hands reach down and grip her ankles, pushing them higher and rearing up on his knees. He takes her brutally, his way paved by her excitement and his seed. "The Gods are cruel, to make a jewel as stunning as the one between your legs, Khalessi."
The Dothraki language surprises her and with it she expects to think of Drogo, to hurt but Drogo did not call her Khalessi in bed. He loved her but he did not worship her as Jon Snow does, the scars on his chest and belly stark and red and so taunt they look as if they might tear right then and there.
He is but a savage beast to her as the Dothraki are to Westeros, as she is to them also and as Drogo once was to her. The thrust he spears between her legs has her crying out and then she is nothing but absorbed. In him and them, in the candle light and her silver hair across her breasts, in the dark thatch of curls decorating Jon Snow's pubic bone and his wild, dark eyes.
He takes her like a beast, fucking deep and sure, sure in the pleasure he wants to give and receive. Her belly winds so tight she's breathless and she grips his forearms for support, her feet high and resting not too far from her hands in the air. All of his weight falls into her, flows from his hands clenching her thighs and his cock ploughing between her legs.
He grunts brokenly, his fingers squeezing and fingernails digging into her flesh, gouging it with his fevered desire. It's powerful to be so wanted and to want so deeply, both of them ensnared in their need for each other and the wants they seek in each other's forbidden flesh.
She's so close to cresting the mountain she's riding that she is soaking the sheet between them and their laps, their flesh meeting loudly and repeatedly, slapping together over and over again. The sound is heady, as is Jon's groans and trembling moans, edging onto sobs fit only to escape from a woman's lips.
She undoes him like she's never undone any other man and it is that thought that sends her spiralling into oblivion, her own nails now gouging out his skin as she moans thick and long. Jon falls down over her, his chest slick with sweat as her lashes tremble apart to look at him. His beauty steals her breath and everything grows so tight she may never breathe again.
She can feel him lengthening inside her, swelling and stretching her achingly slow. She groans with utter frustration of not being able to crest that hill again so soon. Taking her frustration out on him, she reaches around and tears her nails into his back as he hammers his cock into her, ragging noises out of her chest and shaking her thighs.
By the time her nails reach the knob of his spine, he collapses into her, burying his face into her shoulder and emptying inside her, the mess warm and slick. "Dany," he gasps brokenly.
"Shh, I'm here," she comforts, wrapping her legs and arms around him.
He cradles her close, his hands shoving beneath her back to squeeze her hips, his soft cock still inside her and slowly sliding out. "I have one more question."
She laughs into his ear. "Now?"
"Now."
"Okay, ask it, Jon Snow. I will permit one more."
"Do you feel as I do for you?"
"And how do you feel?" She asks back with a rabbiting heart.
"I feel… I fancy that I am in love with you, Daenerys Targaryen."
"And I fancy… that I am in love with you too, Jon Snow."
His trembling ceases and he barks out a relieved noise. "We will win this war and we will avenge your child and your other children, for the murder of their brother. When we are done, we will march South and you will sit the Iron Throne, Your Grace, as is your right. Not by birth right but by the right of your kind soul and the people you saved, that you unchained, will help put you there."
Her throat is closed so tight she can barely speak. "And when the war is won both in the North and the South, you will return to Winterfell as King in the North."
He rears his head back in surprise. "You would allow me a crown?"
"You have earned a crown," she argues. "As have I."
"And after?" He presses, searching her gaze. "After you sit the Iron Throne?"
"Did I not permit you but one more question, Jon? I believe you used it." She smiles, stroking his shoulder.
"Please," he whispers with a tilt of his head.
Her belly flutters but she speaks. "Then the Queen in the South will think of who best to marry. A King in the North seems a noble and loyal man, don't you agree?"
"I am but a bastard. I am no man fit to marry a Queen or a Targaryen at that. The people will not allow it." He argues but there is hope in his eyes.
"The people will bow before their Queen and follow her rule. You speak of bastards not being fit for Queens, what of women who cannot bare men heirs?"
"I don't need an heir. I need you."
Daenerys curls her arms around his shoulders and hugs him tight. "I am yours and you are mine. Is that not how it goes?"
"We are not married yet, Dany, if ever," he grumbles in her ear.
She squeezes him tighter. "Am I not the Queen? I say we are married then we are married."
He laughs. "Okay, Your Grace. We are married. I am yours and you are mine."
"I am yours and you are mine," she repeats softly.
What scares you, Daenerys Targaryen?
Losing her Dragons and not meeting expectations, of being the disappointment that Viserys thought her and a disgrace to the Targaryen name. All of these things frighten her and so does the thought of losing Jon Snow.