She isn't exactly surprised to find Jon Snow outside her door, his firm knock a poorly veiled cover for the uncertainty gracing his finely wrought features bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. But that's been the puzzle of him all along, hasn't it? This King of the North, with all of his father's loyalty and honor, softness in his eyes that belies his often harsh words.
He is not a politician. He speaks plainly. Oh, how she wanted to laugh sitting on the hard stone of Dragonstone's throne when he hadn't given a damn about any of her titles or the imposing gloom of the place – when he hadn't paused to consider all the terrible things she might visit upon him for speaking to her as he had.
Demanding things. Refusing, respectfully, your Grace, to bend the knee.
Except he had, eventually. First after nearly dying, after making her watch as he nearly died being brave and idiotic, and then again in King's Landing, his bloody stupid honor nearly ruining everything. She'd wanted to murder him as much as she'd wanted things she really had no business wanting.
After all, when has a romantic entanglement ever done her any good? Her husband died. Jorah fell in love with her and nearly died trying to prove himself. Daario had been more trouble than he was worth, and in the end she'd felt nothing as she'd sailed away from him.
Daenerys Stormborn doesn't have time for Jon Snow – doesn't have time for the distraction, the political complication, the potential of him burrowing into her already fractured and clumsily patched heart.
She is the dragon. She doesn't concern herself with wolves.
She opens the door wider to allow him to pass.
He doesn't speak, even as the door closes and she backs up against it, letting him cage her in as his hands come to rest on the intricately carved wood. He isn't wearing the heavy furs tonight, despite the chill in the air, his shoulders less kingly. Oh, he's still the proud northern – she can practically see him battling his damned honor as he stares at her, hesitating even now with the inevitability of it all crashing down around them.
They shouldn't be doing this. They both know it. No good will come of it.
But there's no denying how desperately they want this. Both of them. Whether they should or shouldn't. Whether their allies and supporters and advisors would (will) curse them for it. Whether he makes her say things, talk about things, she swore to herself were in the past.
Whether he makes her question a fundamental fact about herself as a woman she's long known in her heart to be true with that hint of a smirk and far too casual question.
It doesn't matter. She's already opened the door, and he closes it.
A low, tortured groan leaves Jon's lips, and she thinks he's going to leave, thinks that after all the lingering glances and soft, intimate comments she never should have allowed him, Jon Snow will go back to his cabin and they will pretend this never happened.
He kisses her.
It isn't a soft or tentative thing. It is the wolf that lives in his blood surging forward with snapping teeth, the carefully banked and rigidly controlled passions of a man long used to keeping himself in line let loose in a torrent of demanding, urgent kisses. One of his hands falls to her waist, the other tangles in the long, silvery strands of her hair. Flame licks her skin as his hips press into hers, all the wool and leather and fur between them doing little to hide either of their desires.
It's a delicious torture, Jon's mouth on hers as he finds the complicated lacings of her dress. For a moment, she longs for the slippery silks and barely-there garments of the desert cities, but maybe this is better, here, now, with this man. The bruising force of that first kiss fades into something gentler but no less urgent, his bread scraping against her cheeks as his breath fans across her skin.
His eyes meet hers as he pushes open the dress, revealing nothing but bare skin beneath the soft fur lining. She wants to tease him for the catch in his breath, but no man has ever looked at her quite like this one. She was a prize for Khal Drogo. She was Jorah's queen to be worshipped. Daario wanted her body almost as much as he wanted the power that came with it.
Jon Snow, the bastard king, he looks at her like he knows she'll burn him alive and he's happy for it.
There's a slight tremble in his callused fingers as he eases her dress over her shoulders, the heavy material falling quickly to the floor with a soft rustle of fabric. He blinks as he takes her in, the struggle in his thoughts plain all over his face as his breaths race unsteadily on.
Perhaps she should wait, let him decide, but Daenerys no longer cares for honor in that moment. Maybe they'll regret this later. Maybe they're making a mistake that will cost them the war with the Night King. Maybe this entanglement will cost her the Iron Throne. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Jon can be the honorable one. He has enough for them both.
She steps forward, pressing into his body as she kisses him, her hands moving easily over the leather and wool he remains proudly wrapped in. He isn't wearing his sword, but there are still small knives and daggers strapped into the leathers, her fingers working to unfasten belts and straps. All the trappings of a northern warrior, one by one stripped off to reveal the man beneath. She isn't in a hurry now, taking her time removing layer after layer until he's standing naked in the lantern light, pale skin gleaming.
The ship rocking beneath their feet only highlights his attractiveness, muscles making barely perceivable adjustments to his balance, sliding smoothly under his skin as she drinks him in. His eyes scrape over every bit of her in return, the hint of a smile tugging at his oh so serious expression. She isn't a modest woman, but something in his appraisal leaves a flush in her cheeks.
Stepping out of the pile of his clothes, Jon draws her back into his arms, his hands making a leisurely exploration of her body. She might call it lazy, but it's too intentional. Pressure there, a whisper of a touch there, all of it slowly driving her mad, her body aching for more as they move toward her bed in drunken, stumbling steps.
He breathes out her name as they fall into the furs together, his palm on her cheek as she stretches her body over his, her skin feverish. She's told him not call her Dany, told him it's what her brother once called her, but somehow she's come to crave it from his lips. Maybe it's the sneaking suspicion that he's thought of her so often privately that in his own mind, he knows her so intimately as to adopt the nickname as his own, or maybe it's just the way his lips caress the syllables, his voice low and on the verge of shattering.
It's quiet around them, the creak of the ship and the splash of the waves barely audible over the thrum of her blood in her ears. Under her palm, Jon's heart is racing, the still-healing scar livid and red in the lantern light. He tenses as she dips her head, her lips brushing over the harsh scars, and his hand comes to settle on the small of her back, fingers splayed wide to keep her pressed tight. He doesn't like this reminder of his vulnerability or the betrayal of his men – he's still never admitted the truth of it, despite her questions, despite her seeing the scars.
She won't ask again, but she does kiss them all, a silent sign of respect he'll just have to accept. There aren't many men she actually respects, never have been, but Jon Snow has earned that place, and she'll be damned if he doesn't know it, no matter how things play out between them after this – no matter how much she meant it when she told Tyrion she didn't want a hero.
Heroes do stupid things and die. Jon Snow does especially stupid things.
After so much loss, she doesn't know how she'll bear it if he dies too. What they're doing here, now, in her bed, that can only make it worse, but she doesn't care. It's too late. She might as well enjoy the pleasurable moments where she can.
He doesn't rush her, even as her lips travel lower, his breathing turning increasingly erratic. The hand on her back stays there, as though he's desperately trying to anchor himself to her, to whatever vestige of his control he's still grappling with, but the other wanders over the curves of her body, unraveling braids and tracing the swell of her breast down to her ribs.
But when she's finished, when she finally brings her mouth back to his, his arms band around her, all that hard muscle tensed against her soft skin. Desire flashes in his eyes before they slip closed, and his hand is in her hair as he kisses her again, his control faltering. She relishes that moment, pulling her head back just slightly for the pleasure of having him chase her.
His legs shift, his thigh slipping between hers, and his eyes snap open as she loses the rhythm of their kiss, all that hard muscle providing tantalizing friction and pleasure as she rocks against him. The hand on her hip tightens, his whole body tensing, but before he can move, before he can flip them over, she pushes against his ribs to keep him in place and kisses him again.
Daenerys isn't ready to give up her control just yet, isn't quite ready to end this cat and mouse game they've been playing. There's a heady pleasure in what they've doing now, the building lust and tightly coiled man beneath her. He doesn't seek power like so many of the other men she's known – he doesn't want her power. He doesn't want to control her. He doesn't want to leash her. Even now, even when he's trembling with restraint, and each touch betrays how badly he wants her, he lets her lead. Lets her decide.
But the moment she lessens the pressure on his side, the moment she pulls her weight just slightly off him, he flips her smoothly on her back. Whatever uncertainties he's struggled with, he's banished them, slipping between her parted thighs and burying himself deep in one thrust with such intensity it pushes them both up into the pillows.
It's all she can do to grab onto his arm, her palm sliding up onto his shoulder, fingers flexing as she moves with him, meeting each deep stroke, her back arching with the sheer pleasure of him. She can feel the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunch and stretch, every inch of his body honed for war and destruction he doesn't want but hurtles toward anyway.
It's as her eyes are slipping closed to banish the thoughts of blood and destruction that he pauses, waiting until her eyes meet his. This is the man who won't lie to save an alliance, and he won't even lie to himself. He looks down at her, their hips pressed tightly together, and everything he's thinking and feeling is on his face, plain as day – but among all the uncertainty, among that flicker of loathing for giving into this, she sees what Tyrion has been trying to tell her.
Jon Snow is in love with her.
It's almost as if he realizes it in the same moment she does, his eyes widening ever so slightly, but then he bends his mouth to hers without saying a word. Whatever lives in the deep brown of his eyes, whatever truths are carved into the line of his jaw, she doesn't see them as his teeth nip at her bottom lip, one palm rising to caress her breast as he resumes the slow, intense thrusts she feels in the tips of her toes.
He curses into her neck as she shifts beneath him, the angle driving him deeper. The rumble of his voice scrapes over her skin, and she reaches blindly for the bit of leather holding his hair back. This is what she wants, the epitome of what it is about Jon Snow that has intrigued her from the first – the honesty. The utter lack of artifice. The last layer of this man – the steel of his resolve, his mastery over himself, she wants it gone. She wants to see him as he sees her, nothing between them, wild and free as the creatures in their sigils.
His hair brushes against her cheek, his lips moving against the delicate skin of her throat as she arches back, exposing the column of her neck to his tongue and teeth. Everything around them tunnels down to her bed, the calluses on his fingers as he trails them over her, the liquid heat of his mouth on her skin, the drag and slide of him inside her until fire explodes in her veins.
They collapse into each other, a panting, sweaty mass of limbs. Jon's eyes are still closed as she pushes onto her elbow, her palm light on his chest for balance as she leans over him, an inexplicable urge to kiss him driving her forward. Not the kisses they've just shared, filled with urgency and desire sharp enough to cut, but something else. Something sweeter, slower. Something just for them and this quiet moment with most of the ship around them asleep, insulated from the troubles of war and kingdoms, her hair spilling over her shoulders and his chest.
He drags his thumb lazily down the curve of her spine as he returns her kiss, his palm flattening as he reaches the curve of her bottom, tucking her into his side with an almost possessive hold. She's surprised by that – she thought for sure he would close himself back off in the aftermath, that it wouldn't take long for him to fall into a brooding misery over giving into this. Instead he lets out a long, slow breath, muscles loose with contentment.
"I'll go if you like," he says quietly, his voice still rough. A measure of tension comes back into him as he says it, despite the soft drift of his thumb across her hip. "I can avoid being seen."
"Is that what you want?" It's an odd question for her to ask, but it comes easily enough off her lips. It would make things easier, she supposes, if they kept this to themselves, but Daenerys has long since stopped caring what other people have to say about what goes on in her bedroom. There are very few opinions that matter to her, but Jon's is one of them, so rather than simply inform him he'll be staying, she waits.
"Fuck no." The crass answer makes her smile, and one corner of his mouth curves in answer, his grip on her hip tightening. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't have to, as she curls into his side and he uses his free hand to pull the furs up around them.
It's only later, after they've slept, and woken, and tangled themselves together again that she swears she hears him mutter under his breath, an inexplicable admonishment to himself that sends a shiver down her spine for reasons she can't place.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.