Title: The World's a Beast of a Burden
Summary: With a quest for the throne and a fool's war against the Army of the Dead, Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow have no time for each other. And yet.
Timeframe: Begins after their meeting in 7x03.
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: Much like Jon Snow, I own nothing.
"Oh, poor Atlas,
the world's a beast of a burden,
you've been holding on a long time."
— Florence + the Machine, What the Water Gave Me
I.
She summons him late the first night, long after he and Ser Davos have ended their strategy discussions and turned in for bed. The Dorthraki who comes to fetch him is silent and intimidating, with his strange clothes and scowling, strong features. The warrior says nothing—perhaps doesn't know how. He simply leads Jon down a maze of tunnels, past more foreign guards, and to the door of a chamber.
The Dorthraki roughly searches Jon for weapons, and Jon doesn't resist—he has none on him. Once that is confirmed, the imposing man retreats into the darkness of the hallway. Out of sight, but not out of hearing distance. If the queen were to give word, all of the men lining the hallways could be at her side in an instant.
Well, then.
Jon pushes open the door and reveals a spacious chamber, lit by the flickering flames of a large hearth. There's a lavish canopied bed, its heavy curtains pulled back and tied neatly with silk. The heat of the room is impressive. Dragonstone is far south, of course—but not far enough to avoid the biting cold of a Winter that has come.
But in here, the heat causes sweat to bead on his skin.
She stands by the fire, bathed in its light, her silver-blonde hair reflecting the flames. She wears a simple white dress, the silky fabric cascading down her figure and pillowing on the floor. It's too thin, inappropriate to his Northman's sensibilities—but she's a foreign queen, having spent her life in a hotter land.
"Lord Snow," she says, without turning away from the flames.
"Your Grace," he answers, bowing his head though she can't see him.
She seems transfixed by the flames. Her hand stretches out, fingers yearning toward the yellow-orange twisting shapes. He expects her to stop—to draw back when the heat becomes unbearable. But she doesn't. She pushes her hand fully into the flames, enveloping it up to her elbow.
"Your Grace—" he exclaims, leaping forward to pull her back. Is she mad after all?
She looks at him, and her expression halts him. As she removes her hand from the flames, he sees that it's unmarred, not even pink from the white-hot heat. She flexes and turns it—displaying it for him.
"Now you understand why they call me The Unburnt," she says, straightening and shifting to face him.
He tries to calm his hammering heart. "Why am I here?"
"I thought we should talk." She takes two measured steps toward him, and a knot of tension forms in his throat.
"But why—here?" The impropriety of being in her bed chamber sends unease jolting down his spine.
She stares at him, a faint smile forming on her lips. The way she stands, straight-backed and proud, her hands clasped together in front of her—it speaks to the royalty in her blood. The royalty she believes she possesses, no matter the Mad King's crimes or the conquering of the throne by Robert Baratheon.
And she is so beautiful. He tries not to notice—there are a thousand things more important than the beauty of an exiled queen. And yet.
"You won't bow to me," she says. "But I wonder—will you obey my orders?"
"You have two thousand men who can make certain I do," he says carefully. "I have—Ser Davos."
"A worthy companion, to be sure." She seems to mean it. "But none of them are in here."
"No," he agrees.
"Strip."
His mouth goes dry. The shock of it blanks his mind, and it takes him a few moments to reply. "Your Grace—I don't think—"
She steps closer, and he takes a step back, toward the door. Are there Dorthraki behind it? Is he trapped here with her?
Would he mind if he were?
He can't resist it—his eyes trail her, over her body beneath the thin white dress, her long silver-blonde curls, her lovely face.
Then he looks away, jaw clenching. "This is not why I came here."
"You want my help," she answers, moving closer still—crowding him. "What if this is the price?"
"I think you underestimate your bargaining power."
She raises a pale eyebrow. "You think you're worth so little?"
"I think you're worth a great deal more."
She pauses, so close he can feel her breath on his throat. His moves away until he hits the rough stone of the door, the wrought-iron handle digging into the small of his back.
"Do you know how many men want to own women?" she asks finally.
He thinks of Sansa—of that monster she was forced to marry, and of the man who even now circles her like a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
When he answers, his voice is hard. "Too many."
"They want to own a queen most of all. They come from near and far—did you know? Promising anything. Everything. They mean none of it." She looks him over. "Sometimes they tell extraordinary tales."
"I don't want to own you, Your Grace. I don't own anything."
"Perhaps I will own you instead, my King in the North."
The air seems to still around them, the only noise the crackle and roar of the flames. He may be imagining it, but he thinks he can feel heat coming from her, too, as though the fire burned inside her. After a long moment, he steps toward her, pulling at his cloak as he goes.
"If it means you will help me," he says, eyes searching hers. His heart thunders against his chest.
She stands still, her expression unreadable as his fingers fumble at the ties of his cloak. He pushes the heavy furs off his shoulders and they hit the floor with a gentle thump. The heavy metal gorget carved with his family's sigil comes next, landing with a metallic ring. Then he starts on his leather jerkin, not entirely graceful in removing it, but he thinks he hears her intake of breath when he finally pulls it free. His wool undershirt comes easily, and he feels the heated air hit his skin as he pulls the shirt over his head.
"Stop," she orders suddenly.
His hands freeze around the buckle of his trousers. He can barely hear her over the roaring in his ears—a roaring that gets louder when she reaches out for him.
"Hold still."
He obeys, but can't help his jump of surprise when she touches the bare skin of his chest. Her fingers are light and warm, and a shudder works through him.
It takes him a moment to realize she's touching the center of his chest—over his heart. Tracing the ugly red scars there.
Her intentions snap into clarity, and he curses his clouded brain. Stupid to let her distract him so completely.
"Sir Davos said you took a knife to the heart for your people," she says quietly, and he finally looks at her. He feels flushed and riled, his body burning, but she still looks frustratingly calm. Controlled. "Tyrion insisted it was a flight of fancy from men living in the dreary North. I thought differently. I shall tell him I've won our wager."
"The north isn't as miserable as that." His voice is hoarse.
"Turn around."
He does, and again he feels her fingers on his skin. There's something dreadfully addicting about her touch, like he could experience it once and go to bed craving it for a hundred years.
"These are mortal wounds," she says. "So I ask you: How are you able to stand here in front of me, Lord Snow?"
He turns back to her. The question cools the fire inside of him.
"The Red Priestess Milisandre."
Her eyes scan his face, looking for honesty and finding it. For the first time since he met her, she seems shaken. "You're—you've been resurrected? She chose you?"
He shrugs his undershirt back on, unwilling to show his scars any longer. Despite its cover, he still feel exposed. "I don't know about chosen. All I know is she brought me back."
"Lord Snow, this is—" she breaks off, her voice trembling. Then she swallows and collects herself. "This is significant information. You might have mentioned it earlier."
"And miss my chance to be called to your bed chamber?"
She has the grace to look sheepish. "Men are untrustworthy. They require tests."
"Did I pass?"
She eyes him appraisingly. He's aware of his state of undress, of the flush staining his face. "I have not yet decided."
"So you don't—you don't want—" he stutters and regrets the question, feeling like a young boy asking for his first romp.
"I do not make slaves of anyone, Jon Snow." Her voice is hard. "Not even men who rebel against me."
The disappointment is hot, slippery, and unexpected. Damn the gods. What has she done to him?
A voice inside him whispers that her commands and shows of strength are unnecessary. She can have him. Anywhere and any way she wants.
He viciously silences that voice.
Your people. The Night King. The safety of Westeros. By the gods, Jon Snow, collect yourself.
But as he looks at her, everything in him yearns to touch her soft skin, run his fingers through her pale hair, kiss her curved lips. She smiles at him, flashing white teeth, and he wonders if she can see it on his face, in the coiled tension of his body.
She's caught him.
She intended to.
"You may go, Lord Snow."
He notices the way she shifts between his titles, only calling him "king" when she means it mockingly. Unlike Ser Davos, it doesn't bother him.
He puts the rest of his clothing on again and pushes open the door. Dorthraki stand on the other side, weapons drawn. His jaw ticks as he pushes past them, but they let him go without a word.
When he reaches his room, he undresses quickly, hunger pooling in his belly. He strokes himself, and it does nothing to soothe the fire she started in him, but eventually he groans his release and collapses, exhausted, into sleep.
Daenerys Targaryen listens as Jon Snow's footsteps fade down the long stone hallway. When he's gone, Missandei opens the door.
"Your Grace?" she says, her voice tentative. "Did you accomplish what you hoped with Lord Snow?"
No. Dany thinks. I wanted to watch him come undone beneath me. Even now, heat lights her skin as she imagines it—as she remembers how he looked at her while he pulled his clothes away.
"Yes," she answers instead, her voice steely. A queen has no time for such fancies. Least of all with a man who could destroy her quest for the Iron Throne. "It was—enlightening."
"Do you need anything?"
"No." Dany shakes from her thoughts enough to smile at her right-hand woman. "Please get some sleep, Missandei. I will see you tomorrow."
The other woman nods and exits the room, closing the door behind her. The guards will stay there throughout the night, alert and ready to defend despite the late hour.
She slips into bed and pulls the thick furs around her. In the darkness, her fingers find the tenderness between her legs, circling until she cries out into the night, Jon Snow's gentle face in her thoughts.