Assumes you're caught up with GoT 7x05 ...just a one-shot that wouldn't leave the brain. Enjoy!
"Out." As soon as the word left her mouth, a scraping of heavy, wooden chairs could be heard moving across the stone floor.
She was angry – enraged, really- and it was no secret to any of the counsel members who had begun filing out with hurried steps and panicked, but knowing, glances. Even Tyrion, who was now accustomed to dealing with his Queen's occasional Targaryen fury, seemed to bolt for the door as if he'd just been told a ship full of Dornish wine had anchored at shore this very moment. He had no need to stay; for as much as he enjoyed the Northern bastard king's company, Tyrion would not intercede this time on Jon Snow's behalf. The queen would not incinerate him. Not this evening, at least. And such a thought freed Tyrion from all guilt for leaving the poor lad standing in Daenerys's wake.
"You…especially you." Her back was turned to him, but he could hear the strain in her voice, raw. Like it was trying to claw its way through her breath and into the space that filled them. She stood, with the splay of the elaborate, carved, map between them, her back as tall and rigid as the stone that enclosed them.
"Your grace," Jon tried, "you know there is no better-"
"Enough!" Daenerys turned to him abruptly, almost startling him. He had never heard her voice raise to such a height. The fire in the hearth seemed to come alive, roaring loader, echoing in the vast, dark room, as he looked at her. "You have already expressed your opinion on the matter. Now leave." Her usual, soft features appeared hard, unmoving, solidified with a resolution Jon Snow knew he could not break through with his reason, nay, pleading now.
He let his eyes sweep over her frame, her usual military riding garb replaced by a warmer, woolen navy blue gown with light-colored fur sewn onto its sleeves and plunging neckline. As always, she was a vision. Jon had long-since realized that he could no longer tell if it were the flames warming a room or the fire her presence radiated that made his skin feel as if it were being licked by heat itself. She had the same effect on everyone, Tyrion had once said. It was what brought those in her way to their knees, cowering as a child who knows they've done wrong. Tamping down the warmth, Jon curled his lip, gave a sharp nod and a slight, almost mocking, bow then turned on his heel and left…..just as his grace had asked. He let the door remain ajar, too riled himself to succumb to anymore of the Queen's requests.
Jon's pace was hurried, determined. With his brow furrowed and a clenched hand on the Longclaw's pommel, he briskly strode down the shadowy halls of Dragonstone, anxious to be outside, in the air, where he could fucking breathe. Where he could be alone with his thoughts, which he knew could never be disconnected from his duty, from his honor, from his sheer need to protect his people, even now his Queen still falling into the category of those he had sworn to defend. And what a shite job he had done.
As he descended the wearing steps, snow beginning to dust their growing cracks, his frustration only intensified. She was wrong, Daenerys, wrong for more ways than one, but wrong for telling him no. For not even considering his request. For believing he had some sick desire to play hero. That he wanted to be as her other….toadies, he would call them. Jorah. Daario. This, great Khal, who Jon honestly believed was horseshite if he died in the way rumor had said. No, regardless of what anyone in that room had thought, most of all her, Jon saw realities. And he was the only one able to even have the slightest chance of both navigating and surviving a trek North of the Wall. How could she not understand? It was the only way to recruit help in the war to come. The only way to halt the battles between her and Cersei. The only way to keep her safe from whatever was to be – from the North or the South. And the fact that she had immediately shut his proposal down had boiled his blood. Too dangerous, she had said in explanation. We cannot risk our alliance with the North, she had quipped, so you will stay, not even looking at him.
Fuck that. He had once thought…..He sighed. What he once thought didn't matter now. He stood overlooking the rolling hills of Dragonstone and let the salty air invade his lungs. He felt an unfamiliar chill and allowed himself to shiver. Damnit. He'd forgotten his furs at the counsel.
Daenerys kept her breathing even as she watched Lord Snow take his leave. And when he rounded the corner of her vision and she could hear his step no more, she huffed to the double oak doors of the counsel chamber and shut them with a thud that rattled the dimmed sconces on the walls and sent a vibration up her spine. It was late, the sun having set over the sea more than an hour before their previous gathering had adjourned. But what was necessary was necessary, and a plan needed to be devised more than sleep needed to be had.
Dany had dismissed her Dothraki guards, giving them the rest from a long evening she knew they desired; Missandei and Grey Worm had not needed to ask if she required their company. They had known by her voice she wished to be left to think alone. She allowed herself to rest her forehead on the wooden doors and draw a shuddering breath in, tasting the burning embers and smoke barely leeching from the dying fire. It comforted her. And stirred her. She tentatively made her way to stare at the mighty table before her, Westeros's great houses splayed out for her to see. So much to conquer. So much to fear. So much at stake….
She ran her fingers over the detailed, hand-carved pieces of the serpent, its bared fangs tickling her skin, the lion, its polished mane gleaming in the moon now peaking through, the wolf – Dany batted at the figure with her hand, knocking it on its side, the snout of it facing upwards in a posed howl. The queen leaned onto the edge of the table, embracing herself. What a stupid man, she thought. Just like the others she had come to respect, admire even. Jon Snow was no less, as foreign and odd to her as he seemed. She knew he was honorable. She knew he would die for the well-being of those he cared for. And that's why she loathed his self-sacrificing stupidity. What about the others? What about those that….wished him well? It was selfish and reckless and nonsensical. And she would play no part in it. She needed him at Dragonstone. With her. For only the gods knew why, but she trusted him, practically ached for his counsel, his advice. And perhaps other things that were not so queenly to admit, to him or anyone else, and least of all herself. But he was so good, but so stupid, gods! He came to life in her mind's eye, his dark, coarse hair tied so she could see the his chiseled face, his brooding but decisive eyes, the stubble lining his strong jaw.
Dany's breathing shallowed, the only sound backing the crackling embers. The image of when he first arrived, his steps sure, his winter cloak billowing behind him as he strode into the hall….how his fingers had danced across Drogon's glittering scales, his expression twisted into a mix of awe and terror.
Daenerys's eyes turned upward as she came to terms with the tingles coursing through her limbs, an old but familiar knot clenching within her, squeezing, twisting, and forcing her hand to glide across the front of her gown, the fur trim ghosting her skin. Biting her lip and glancing at the door, she allowed herself to delve into the front of her dress, its deep, open neck, granting easy access to her underthings, so that she could cup one of her breasts, her fingers deftly finding their way under her bondings. She sighed. Was it in shame? Or in her own permission? She was beginning not to care. When she let her thumb pass over one of her hardened nipples and imagined the rougher, calloused fingers of a certain Northerner instead, she actually trembled, and all resolution went out the window.
Dany pawed at her rounded breasts for a few moments longer, the remaining heat of the room and her new woolen dress initiating beads of sweat amidst her hairline. But the more she played, the stronger her visions became, and now Jon Snow had divested himself of his sword, his jerkin, his linens, and as he moved lower upon Daenerys in her mind, so her own hands did on her body. She sat atop Westeros, her thighs unconsciously spreading wider with each trail of her hand, until she gathered the wool of her skirt in her fists, inching it up until the warmth of her fingers met the warmth and dampness of her underthings. She thought she could smell Jon, her imaginations were so vivid, the natural musk of him laced with soap and pine and wolf. She moaned aloud. Her linen was pushed aside and her fingers were immediately coated with her own nectar, sticky and slick and oh, she thought. She sunk in one digit, then two, using her dainty thumb to strum her clit, her whimpers beginning to fill the room around her. Dany's eyes rolled into the back of her head and her eyelids began to flutter.
Metal on metal roared into the space as the hinges of the counsel room door cracked open, and Jon stepped into the room, out of breath from his hasty ascent back to retrieve his beloved cloak, the only one Sansa had sewn for him. His sight, prepared to quickly scan the room for the seat he had taken at the meeting, was captured by none other than the queen herself, balanced on the middle of the table, the tips of her boot-clad toes barely touching the stone. He was floored, the breath knocked out of him as if he had taken a swift kick to the gut.
Her dress was bunched up at her cinched waist, clenched in her left fist; the creaminess of her smooth, pale thighs seemed to glow in what little light was cast, and her right hand had come to stillness between those thighs, her body rigid.
Her head had whipped around the moment she'd heard him enter, her white blonde hair partially sticking to her neck yet still flowing down her elegant back. He couldn't tell if she was embarrassed, or ashamed, to be caught in this….intimate….act of self-pleasure. To be frigging herself. To be exposed to him, to only him. He felt himself harden, painfully. She looked good enough to eat.
It was only then that Jon allowed himself to lift his gaze to her face.
Her eyes told him all he needed to know.
Jon stalked toward the center of the room, unbuckling the belt that carried his sword and sheath, tossing it onto the ground as he rounded on her, gripping her spread thighs none to gently as she reached for his neck, mashing his lips upon hers and forcing her tongue to dance with his, both panting in this sudden discovery, this sudden need to be connected, to be right. Daenerys's hands fisted his hair, pulling at the strands, as his pried her legs open even wider, coming to stand between them. She could feel his hardness straining against his leather, and it made her ache. He guided her back to lay across the table, his rough hands rubbing up and down her inner thighs, groaning at the sheen there. There was a puddle of her nectar pooled on Storm's End and he growled, bending over her form to kiss, nip, devour her neck and chest as two of his fingers entered her, pressing into the sweetest, most delicious spot that made her call out.
"How….ungh, you're so wet, Dany…" Jon whispered, frantically, into her neck, his fingers moving faster within her as she arched her back.
"Yes…hurry….oh, oh!" She was no longer of this earth – she couldn't be. The way he was whispering to her, making the most animalistic sounds, bringing her to the brink of her existence – she didn't think she could –
And then he pulled away. Completely. She mewled, coming up on her elbows to confront his disobedience once more, only to have her arms quake and turn to jelly when she saw him on his knees, then his nose pressing into her curls there, breathing her in and beginning to lap at her juices like a thirsty hound. His tongue dove deep into her, coming back out to circle around her clit before he wrapped his lips around her bud and sucked.
"Ah!" she called, bucking her hips in pleasure, pressing his head down harder so that he was drowning in her. All Jon could breathe was Dany. Her scent. Gods. And the way she tasted. He kept kissing her soaking cunt, eating her, sparing one hand to take his cock out and give himself a solid stroke, rocking into his palm. He moaned at the feeling, and Dany let out one of her own from watching him.
"Now…take me!….J-Jon, take me…please," She was begging. And she hated herself for it. But she needed it, needed his cock inside of her, needed him. Just him.
He stood quickly and gave her a long, slow kiss. Dany shivered. She could taste herself on his tongue, and she felt more moisture gather where he had just been. His beard was wet with her. A noise came forth from the back of her throat, and Jon pushed away from the Painted Table once again.
"Turn over," he commanded, his hands on her hips, urging her.
"Are you giving me an order?" she asked, breathless, quirking an eyebrow, testing him.
"Turn over, your grace," he smirked as he spoke into her hair, leaning over her as he flipped her so that her stomach was now on parts of Westeros, her bum in the air. Jon gathered up her dress once more, smoothing a hand over her ass and then spreading her, open to him, to whomever walked in. "Gods, look at you," he groaned. It sounded as if he were being tortured.
"Jon…" was all she needed to say before he buried his cock inside her to the hilt, causing them both to let out a yell in earnest. He slowly withdrew, shaking from restraint, and then entered her again, grunting when Dany said his name once more. He began to pump in and out of her cunt, grabbing her dress, her hips, her arms, hair, anything to get further inside her. As Jon's thrusts became faster, harder, the pieces on the table began to rattle, some vibrating on the map's surface, some falling off and rolling into the dark corners of the room. Daenerys's screams grew louder, calling for Jon, for him to fuck her, harder, that she was going to cum.
And she did. Dany began sobbing, clawing at the varnished table beneath her, at his leather trousers that he had never taken off, wailing and moaning and then shaking. Jon gripped her hips and spent himself as well, snapping his hips still forward within her, letting Dany milk every bit of his seed that she could. They were both panting, and as Jon pulled out of her, Dany rolled back over to face him, her legs wrapping around his waist to bring him close. Jon let out a tired laugh.
"You infuriate me so. And still….." She gestured to the two of them, not know what to say, but not regretful. "I thought I asked for privacy," she said coyly, arching a brow.
"Aye," Jon mumbled as he dipped his head to kiss her jaw, "you did, your grace. It looks like I need to disregard your commands more often," he said with a smile. His smile. She could not be angry when he smiled like that, at her. They would come to an agreement, she knew it, so long as she watched her temper and he thought of those who cared for him too. They would figure out….this…..when the day began again.
Together, Jon and Dany righted their clothes and bid each other a good night with a shared smile and forgiving glance then retired to their separate chambers. The war to come was just that….to come. And while it lay in wait, so could they.
A knock sounded at Jon Snow's private chambers for his stay in Dragonstone, growing louder with each thud. Hobbling out of bed and to the lock, Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes and saw the sun beaming through his drapery across the room. Reaching the handle, he yanked open his door to find Lord Varys facing him, his fur cloak neatly draped across the Spider's arm. Damnit! He still had forgotten it, though he could not blame his forgetfulness this time.
"Apologies, my King, but I believe this is in need of returning to you," Varys said, brandishing his furs for Jon to take.
"Thank you, Lord Varys," Jon said simply in response, grabbing the garment and making to retreat to his warm bed again.
"It is not I you have to thank, my king," Varys said, raising his brows in an innocent expression. "Lord Tyrion seemed to have noticed it when he went back to the counsel chambers. Went to steal the Lion piece with some malicious, though probably warranted, attempt to maul its form and send it to his sister – a bit plebian, infantile, if you ask me, your grace – but, alas. Said he noticed you'd left that….I'm not sure why he returned empty-handed…and couldn't have given this to you himself, " Varys shrugged. "Curious," he said, smiling with a bow to leave. "Your grace."
Feel free to leave critiques! Was my first GoT (and fanfic period, actually) story, so let me know if the format, etc. is off or could be improved upon. Thanks for reading, happy GoT Sunday!