Daenerys wakes up to the sound of waves and the feeling of a warm body tangled with her own. It takes her only a moment to remember where she is and who she's with. Jon. She gazes up at the northern king, his sleeping face calm and peaceful, and silently wishes they could stay like this forever. Ever since that first night, things between them have been gloriously intimate. Each evening, after the rest of the ship has gone to sleep, Jon comes to her cabin. They make love and kiss and talk until they're both too tired to continue. In the morning, they wake up in each other's arms and do it all over again.
Sometimes, when the light of day is just breaking through the ocean mist like it is right now, she can imagine a life in which she and Jon are safe, a world in which the Night King is not fast approaching everyone they hold dear and Cersei Lannister is not trying to deceive them into getting themselves killed. There is no more fighting, no more feuds between the Great Houses. Only happiness and peace. But she knows it is an impossible world, a fruitless dream, even as she dreams it.
While he sleeps, Daenerys traces Jon's scars, remembering the story of their origin from the previous night. It took the king a while to open up about them, but she's glad that he did. She understands why he does not wear them proudly as many other men would. The scars remind him of betrayal; they remind him of darkness and pain. He died, and a part of him will always be cold. He told her this as he ran his fingers lightly through her hair, his voice dripping with sorrow and anger.
Her own anger flared at his story, at the thought of someone, anyone, hurting Jon, killing him. No one will ever hurt him again, she had thought. Not my Jon. Her rage surprised her, though it shouldn't have. Her heart had belonged to him even before she had begun to think of him as her Jon. It was all over her, had been ever since that first meeting at Dragonstone: the longing stares they had shared, her breath catching in her throat each time he entered a room, the telltale cracking of her heart when she had believed him dead. Now, she cannot imagine waking up without him beside her, and the thought of her attachment to him is as scary as it is thrilling.
"My Queen," Jon mumbles, his voice groggy from sleep. She smiles up at him, feeling his hardened form against her stomach. Her dream comes back to her, the feeling of contented happiness lingering in her mind as his head bends down towards her.
"My King," she responds, his lips brushing hers gently. She allows the dream to remain in her mind a bit longer, kissing a trail up his torso. He moans, running his calloused hands down the length of her. His touch makes her whole body come to life, and her lips are on his before she allows herself to say everything that she feels for him. She feeds off of his breath, off of the eagerness of his lips. Bringing her knee up to his side, she moves her kisses down his neck, causing him to tighten his grip on her back. They are so close that they could be one person.
Just as Daenerys is about to bring her other leg up, Jon rolls them over so that he is on top, kissing her all the while. She laughs against his mouth, and feels his lips form a smile. It's strange how quickly they have become this comfortable with one another. He feels tied to her somehow, as if they fit together perfectly. There is a certain familiarity to him, though he couldn't be further from her previous lovers. Letting her hands roam down his body, Daenerys allows Jon to position himself above her. The colors of sunrise over the sea flash behind her eyelids, but she barely notices. All that matters is this.
"Jon. My Jon," she sighs into his mouth, lost in the feel of him rubbing up against her. But then he stills, and she opens her eyes to see him staring at her with that same sense of wonder she has only seen once before, the first night they spent together. That night, he had pulled back suddenly, and, for a moment, she had been afraid that he was having second thoughts, but that wasn't it. Jon had cradled her head and gazed at her like she was the most precious thing in this world. His eyes hold the same expression now, one of awe and disbelief. She looks up at him questioningly.
"Your Jon?" She knows what he's asking. Of course she has called him her king before, but this is a different matter entirely. He wants to know that he is more than a political alliance, more than just a convenient lover.
"Yes," Daenerys tells him, stroking the side of his face reverently, wondering how he could possibly not know how much he means to her. "You are mine, Jon Snow."
He studies her for a moment before saying, "And you are mine, Daenerys Targaryen." Her heart swells, and, for a moment, she wants to say more, wants to tell him that she loves him, that she never thought it possible for her heart to be this full, that he is the embodiment of every dream she has ever had and every wish she has yet to make. But this is not her dream world; there are so many obstacles in their way, so many problems that need fixing. This small confession will have to do for now.
Jon moves against her with even more passion than before, his body rocking along with the boat. His confession tastes sweet on his lips, and Daenerys can't help but feel that her own words have been sealed into her skin, the love she feels for him radiating from the deepest parts of her bones. As he kisses her, Jon expertly slides her body up, and, with one deft move, he is inside of her. Their cries of pleasure come simultaneously as their hips move in sync. Daenerys remembers how she had thought their first night together had been a fluke: surely his touch could not light a fire within her every time he brushed his fingers against her breast; surely the feeling of him inside of her could not completely undo her each and every night. But she had been wrong.
So gloriously wrong.
Jon tries not to hope for more than this. He should be good at it since he's been expecting nothing his whole life. With almost anything else, he can just be glad to have what he's been given, grateful that a bastard like him could be given anything at all. But with Daenerys, he wants everything.
He wants to give her the world, though it is not his to give. He wants to demand that she have everything she desires, but he cannot do such without revealing far too much. He has even caught himself wanting things he never wanted before, foolish things like marriage and children, both of which are impossible for more reasons than he can count. He desires them all the same, his heart refusing to acknowledge the logic of his mind.
"How long until we reach Winterfell?" he hears Dany ask from across the room. She has gotten up to look out of the porthole for her dragons, probably wishing that she could be riding them. Jon watches as she turns her head to look at him lying on the bed, her eyes clouded with eagerness and concern. He wishes that he could tell her that there's nothing to worry about, wishes he could find a way to smooth the crease traveling across her pale forehead. But he knows it would all be falsehoods, and Jon Snow is not a liar.
"We should reach shore by nightfall, and Winterfell isn't more than a few days trek on the King's Road from there." Dany glances outside once more before turning towards him fully. She is a vision surrounded by the light of sunrise, her thin robe hanging from her delicate skin like crystals from expensive jewelry. Her hair is a silver halo, braids coming undone like leaves falling from trees in autumn. She returns to the bed, sitting comfortably on Jon's right side and taking his hand in hers.
"Have you heard anything else from Sansa?" Dany asks him, and he smiles at the fond manner in which she speaks his sister's name. Jon knows that she has never truly had a family, not in the way that he has one. One night, he asked her about her brother Viserys, the one who had survived with her all those years in exile. So she had told him. She had explained that her brother had sold her to her husband, Drogo, for the Dothraki army, that he had been awful and foolish and cruel, and that he had died a painful death at the hands of her husband as she watched on.
But she didn't stop there. She admitted to him that she has always wondered about her mother, the woman who brought her into this world. She told him that she wishes to have known her eldest brother, Rhaegar, because she heard from one of her most trusted advisors that he was a kind and noble man. She explained how she freed a slave translator who would later become more like family to her than the many faceless names of corpses with whom she shares blood. She made her own family, gave life to three dragons and a whole nation of slaves, because her real family failed and abandoned her. After hearing this, Jon cursed his younger self for brooding about his own familial misfortunes.
"Not since she sent the raven about Littlefinger's execution," Jon responds, hoping that she cannot sense the note of worry in his voice.
"Yes," Dany responds, smiling. "Your sisters sound wonderful." He knows that she is eager to meet them, and Jon is hopeful that he can convince them to understand why he bent the knee to this Targaryen queen.
"Well, I haven't seen Arya in years," Jon says, sitting up and brushing a stray hair from Dany's face. "Sansa hasn't mentioned her other than to say that she was the one to carry out the execution."
"And you're worried she's changed into someone you won't recognize," Dany suggests, echoing the thoughts that have been running around in his mind since he received the scroll. He can still so clearly picture his little sister running around the grounds of Winterfell, getting into all sorts of trouble. She was so young, so innocent. "You're afraid that the world has twisted her into something horrible, and you weren't there to protect her." Dany rubs her thumb against his skin where their hands intertwine.
"When we were younger, Arya was the only one in the family that never treated me like an outsider. All of my siblings, spare Sansa when she was feeling especially bratty, often regarded me kindly, but like I was a cousin or a family friend, not that they loved me any less or treated me poorly. I think they feared upsetting their mother more than anything, especially Robb." Jon breathes deeply, thinking back to his childhood with his family. What he wouldn't give to go back and stop himself from taking it for granted. "But Arya...Arya always chose me over anyone else. I suppose it was in her nature, going against the grain. Everyone told her that girls shouldn't learn to fight, so she did. Everyone told her that I wasn't really her brother, so she loved me more fiercely than anyone else." Jon couldn't help but notice Dany's smile at that.
"No matter how much the world has changed her, she will always be your sister, Jon," she assures him. "And don't forget that you have changed, too." He just nods, knowing that it's true. Dany reaches a hand up to cradle his face, and he leans into her touch. "She is alive. That's what matters." And just like that, his fear evaporates. He doesn't understand how she does it, but Dany always knows how to make sense of his fears. He kisses her softly, feeling the tender skin of her lips against his own.
"You should really go back to your room," Dany whispers, not at all sounding like she wants him to leave. He shakes his head as he brushes his lips against her jaw. Just as he's reaching to untie her robe, there is a knock at the door.
"I've come to dress you, Your Grace." Missandei's muffled voice causes Dany to pull back. Jon sighs as they rest their foreheads together. "Tyrion is requesting a meeting with you, my Queen." There is a pause before she continues. "And you, Lord Snow."
Tyrion has grown tired of drinking on the high seas. It reminds him too much of his time in a crate on the way to Essos, a particularly dark period of his life of which he would rather not be reminded. So here he stands, more sober than he would like to be, freezing his ass off on the deck of the ship. The clouds hover on the surface of the sea, masking the ship's approach of Winterfell. Every few minutes he'll catch a glimpse of one of Daenerys's dragons or hear their roars. He wonders if others can hear them, too. Perhaps there is a young boy lost on land somewhere, listening to the echoes of the dragons and beginning to believe in something extraordinary and impossible. He smiles at the thought of it.
"Tyrion," he hears Daenerys call from behind him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turns to find his Queen standing in front of him, the King of the North alongside her. He has to admit, they make a striking couple. Her pale, Targaryen features compliment his dark, northern ones perfectly. They are both wearing northern attire, but the flush of their cheeks indicates that neither of them feel the cold. They have been wrapped up in each other far too long to notice it.
"You requested to meet with us," Jon Snow says, his tone formal but not unkind. Though Jon attempts to keep his voice neutral, Tyrion hears the slight tenderness with which he says the word "us" in reference to himself and Daenerys. This is going to be more uncomfortable than he previously imagined.
"Yes," he starts, taking a seat and gesturing for them to do the same. "Well, with our arrival in Winterfell growing closer, I thought we might discuss some specifics about...the portrayal of our alliance." They look at each other and then back at Tyrion.
"Alright," Daenerys says, motioning for him to continue. Tyrion clears his throat.
"Well, this alliance is quite fragile, as I'm sure you both know." They nod. "The northern lords are a loyal bunch, I've heard, but they are also tired of southern rulers. They named you, Jon Snow, as their King because of this. Now, you have bent the knee to our Queen, which could present a problem if illustrated in the wrong light."
"Aye," Jon agrees. "They'll take some convincing, but once I tell them about Dany-"
"I have no doubt that you will speak high praises of our Queen," Tyrion interrupts, noticing the use of Daenerys's nickname. "That's actually what I'm worried about."
"Do you not want him to vouch for me with his people?" Daenerys asks in a tone that implies that she hopes he's joking.
"That's not what I'm saying."
"What are you saying, then?" Daenerys asks. He hears a hint of wariness in her voice that leads him to believe she's already guessed what this is about.
"We must be careful with how they perceive your...working relationship." At this, Tyrion notices Jon tense up.
"Tyrion…" Jon warns.
"Look, it is none of my concern what either of you do with your nights, and if it were possible, a marriage alliance between the two of you would be ideal, but we have higher concerns when it comes to the northern lords."
"Tyrion, we've been as discreet as possible with this, and it's not as if we were planning on announcing our...intimacy to the lords as soon as we got to Winterfell," Daenerys says. "Do you think us fools?"
"No, Your Grace," Tyrion admits. "Forgive me, I meant no offence. But being discreet may not be enough. If they sense that your feelings for each other go beyond a military alliance or mutual respect, they may shift their allegiance."
"My people are loyal-" Jon begins, but Tyrion doesn't let him finish.
"That may be true, but they also remember the losses they suffered when they were loyal to your brother Robb, the last King of the North."
"What does Robb have to do with this?" Jonn asks, sounding irritated. Tyrion sighs.
"Many of the northern lords believe that Robb Stark's marriage to a foreign woman was the turning point in the war. They still hold animosity towards outsiders, and it will be hard enough to get them to accept Daenerys as Queen. If they think that your choice was in any way influenced by desire or emotions and not strategy, they will feel like you are betraying the North." Tyrion pauses, hoping to catch some change in either of their expressions, but nothing happens. "We cannot afford to lose the northern lords."
They gaze at each other, and Tyrion is struck by how young they are. It's easy to forget, since they are both such powerful leaders. The unfortunate hands both of them have been dealt by life have hardened them in different ways, made them become wise and formidable without allowing them time to be young and free. They are just barely adults. At their age, Tyrion can't even remember what, or who, he was doing. Forces have continually conspired to harm them. Yet the same forces of their lives, whether it be destiny or hardship, have brought them here, to each other. After all they have suffered, he wishes that they could have that small happiness. He just doesn't know how it could be possible.
"You're wrong. We won't lose them," Jon says, reaching over and placing his hand on Daenerys's. "We just have to get them to see you for the Queen you are." He turns his gaze to Tyrion, his eyes determined. "I will not ever speak ill of Robb. My brother was an honorable and good man. But he let his love for a titleless foreign woman cloud his judgement, and he paid for it with his life, along with the lives of his mother, wife, and unborn child. The northern lords will surely see that this alliance is nothing like that. For one, Daenerys is not a random woman; she is a Queen with an army to aid us in our fight. Also, I am breaking no marriage agreement by fraternizing with her. Any relationship between us, whether it be platonic or romantic, can only be beneficial to both of our people."
"But if they think your decision is because of your fondness for the Queen-" Tyrion starts, but Jon cuts him off.
"It wasn't," he says, locking his eyes with Tyrion. "My feelings for Dany have nothing to do with it. She's a great leader, she's an important ally, and as soon as I can convince the northern lords that she isn't here to conquer us, they'll begin to see it, too."
"We understand the danger, Tyrion," Daenerys tells him. "But what is between us only strengthens the bond between our people, and, as far as they know, we're only allies."
"Are you sure that-" Tyrion begins to ask, but his Queen stops him.
"Tyrion, you are my Hand as well as my friend," she says, "but you cannot manage the affairs of my heart anymore than I can." She reaches over to cover his hand with her own. "Thank you for your counsel on this matter, but Jon and I can handle it." She gazes over at the King of the North, causing him to flush a bright red.
Tyrion looks between them, understanding the choice each of them has made. He should have expected it, really. These are the two fiercest, most loyal people he knows; of course they would choose to stand by one another. Maybe it's the cynic in him that can't help but feel that this can only in in heartbreak. Or maybe it's his own experience with love.
Still, as he watches them make their way to the bow of the ship, he catches a glimpse of what they could be, if the world would permit it: two young, beautiful monarchs raising a nation together from the broken pieces of the Seven Kingdoms. He can imagine a future in which they have defeated the Night King and taken back the nation from his evil sister. But he strikes it down as soon as the thought enters his mind; it has been Tyrion's experience that the world does not allow such happiness to those who are so ready and willing to claim it. It seems that fate always has a cruel end in store.
And as cruel as the world or fate can be, his sister is worse.