Notes:

Written for Mount_Seleya (seleya on Tumblr) as part of the Jonerys Secret Santa 2018 event. She asked for a gift involving Dany caring for Jon after being wounded, and a Jon/Dany/Jaime relationship. I was delighted to oblige both requests.

This fic features the development of a mutually supportive and caring relationship between Jon, Dany, and Jaime, and takes place in the same universe as The Executioner's Flame (available on AO3), which lays out the Jaime/Dany backstory.

Every animal can be wounded.

Creatures of fire and flesh.

Beasts of sigil and stone.

Truth and trust.

~o~

Of wounds—there are three.

The first are not hers.

Red staining skin and pelt.

~o~

Winter is not such a creature of instinct, but a woman speaking in snowfall, each syllable a flake slashing with an icy tongue. The sky is her skin and the clouds her bones, cold crushing flesh black between them.

But there are warm words in Winterfell. Laughter and songs press against ice-rimed windows; embraces are voices crafted from fire.

Light: feverish and desperate and tender.

~o~

Reaching out from sigil and stone with three bright fingers, a coal blazes in the depths of Jon's eyes, ringing the glittering black depths of his pupils with dark hazel. The flame that has come to life within the wolf's heart fires Jon's goodness to points of light; each claw a burning swordslash.

If Jon holds the pommel of Longclaw more tightly, if his black-gloved hands tighten around his fur cloak as he pulls it around him, Daenerys does not mention it.

Some truths are blazing hungers turning snow to steam.

Some truths are quiet longings infusing ice with warmth.

In Winterfell's main hall, truths burn in candles and echo in murmurs; their hopefulness softens the jangle of Jon's sword and the thump of his boots, the hiss of leather against wood as he joins Daenerys to speak of the truths of their day.

"What business, Daenerys?" Melting snow darkens his hairline; battle has infused the sweat of his body with the musk of smoke and blood, though travel has washed him clean of the smell of the dead.

"The Lady of Winterfell and I have spoken about supply rationing. She has made several suggestions."

The frost-weary joints of Daenerys' hands ache as she reaches for the pile of parchments, their edges abrading her fingertips. "Sansa has also made a list of necessary repairs. Since she has far more knowledge than I of these matters, I defer to her counsel. You are also of the North, and as such, your input is valuable."

Ink from the parchment smudges onto Dany's hands, and as she passes it to Jon, whorls of black press into his skin.

The banality of truth.

~o~

Gritty ash still warm from battle streaks across Dany's face as she pushes her hair out of her eyes. The leathers of her battle dress chafe against her skin, and as she kneels, she works her fingers beneath the material, loosening it to soothe the redness it has left behind. Her boots, crusted with snow and ice, steam with the heat from Drogon's skin.

Drogon splashes into the hot pool, and Dany fills the bucket beside her. Steam rises up from the water, bathing them both in warmth; Drogon rumbles with satisfaction. The soap is harsh on Dany's skin and slippery on her hands, but it cleans Drogon all the same, lather sparkling with the reflection from his iridescent skin. Bucketfuls to rinse, and then Daenerys applies the oil that makes his scales glisten.

A sparkling sliver burning hope's truth into the dark.

"Your Grace."

Every line of Jaime's body draws towards an end of elegant detachment.

He walks with brisk and careful steps to leave the barest lines in the snow, the line of his back a delicate blade, newly-forged; his hand rests with easy precision on the hilt of his sword.

But he cannot not hide his eyes from her, no more than he had hidden his throat from her blade.

In that truth between hunger and longing: the lion's lament.

A golden echo gleaming in the peace between them.

Daenerys nods. "Lannister."

"Drogon fought well."

"Indeed."

"I'm glad they weren't my men." Jaime's mouth twists.

"As am I."

~o~

"Not as many today."

Jon's muscles flex under Daenerys' fingers, fragrant with Rhaegal's spicy-smoke, Jon's inner flame, and the sweet smell of his sweat. On the curve of his shoulders, drops of ointment glitter against the dark hair feathering across his skin. Scratches spread like pale pink spiderwebs across his skin.

"No," Jon says.

He reaches to push an errant curl out of his eyes, and Daenerys stops him. The inner tendon of his wrist beats against her skin, warm as a dragon's belly and soft as a wolf's ear.

"I need to wrap your hands."

Even his palms are marked with scratches from Rhaegal's spines. Daenerys' first rides with Drogon were marked with the same uncertainty she sees in Jon's eyes. But Jon's uncertainty is not fear; Dany knows this as well as she knew the truth of her own. The desire to strike at a moment hard and true with all the strength and will of his goodness. That is Jon's truth: a warm darkness. The quiet will that drives him on.

The wolf's will and the dragon's flame.

Dany draws his hand down to her lap, and his fingers press their warmth into her thighs, the soft dark hair on his knuckles brushing warmth into her. Jon's palm is pocked with tiny red cuts that fade to pink as Dany rubs the ointment into his skin; the only sign of his trembling is the gentlest brush of his hair against her face. Deepest black, yet smelling of the sun at its height in summer, white and warm.

"I'd suggest you wear padded leathers, but I never did, not at first."

"No," Jon says. "It's easier to feel Rhaegal this way."

"Your skin will learn to accommodate Rhaegal's movements."

"Like learning how to lead; by listening." Jon smiles, a flame that whispers its heat.

"Yes. Like learning how to lead. By listening."

Dragonglass sharp and solid and still, his touch gently warming.

~o~

When Dany is not in battle, she watches other, smaller battles.

In the training yard, Jaime always seems to choose Jon.

"Arya's busy assassinating the dead," Jaime says, grinning, as sweat and snow wet his locks to shimmering golden brown and run in rivulets down his face and neck, soaking his eyelashes and the hairs on his neck and arms to brownish-gold.

Jon's curls have flown free, and at the tips they crust with ice, frozen stars in a sky rippling with waves of black.

"Only one Stark free to swing the sword."

~o~

Tyrion is in Daenerys' chamber with a goblet full of wine.

Red warmth the sap of an eternal summer.

"Jaime opposes my battle strategies at every turn."

"That explains why he's so happy." Tyrion grins. "Is that not what a good advisor is meant to do? Question?"

Dany rolls her thumb and forefinger over the stem of her goblet. "Your brother opposes me at every turn."

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. "Jon Snow is more pliable, is that it?"

"No. Jon Snow is as stubborn as his Stark mother must've been, with the wilfulness of fire. On dragonback, he'll be even more of an asset in this war. "

"You have been spending quite a lot of time with Winterfell's newest Targaryen."

Dany sighs. "Do you mean to advise me, Tyrion?"

"I was getting to that." Tyrion drains the last of his wine, setting the empty goblet on the table. "There are lulls in battle. Every lull means a possibility of tension between otherwise weakly alligned parties. Give those tensions outlets before they build. Strengthen their alliances. Make an example of our two strongest military leaders by sending Jon and Jaime out to scout."

The woman of winter would drape herself in a wolf-pelt stole and stand proud before a great golden lion speared and sprawling on the snow. She would lay their broken truths before Daenerys, their trust in her scalped like the fur from their bodies, pelts for the Night King.

Daenerys draws strength from the black of her banner, the black truth of stone and solidity, the red flame of the dragon.

"Jaime has already sworn fealty, not just to me."

"Formal alliances are never as strong as those forged in suffering."

"We've seen enough pain, and there'll always be more."

"Give Jaime this. Let him show he can be trusted."

~o~

It is Jon's truth and his trust that have their time.

What moon there is exists wholly in the seriousness of his face. It cannot be killed by winter's dark, for it is fed by the warmth of his wolf's blood and the unerring fire of the dragon dreamt within him.

In the moon's light of his face falls another dark: Jaime's blood-wet tunic, Jon's black-gloved hands, black with blood that grip to steady Jaime's limping form.

The woman of winter has stolen the golden sun of Jaime's hair and skin, and left only frost behind.

~o~

Jaime's wound cuts Daenerys as Jaime was cut, a stabbing pain in her left side.

His blood is as gold as hers is silver.

Warm; stilling.

The lion's claws dig into Dany's palm, and Jon holds him down as Dany washes his wound.

"You needn't have protected me so well."

It is not the dragon's strength that Dany sees flaring from Jon, the fire and fury, but the quiet shadow of the wolf.

This courage needs no flame.

Only silence.

The threat of a song that can shatter sun and moon.

The soft padding of paws.

"They won't take your left side again."

Jaime laughs, his lungs wet and wheezing. "Do you plan to follow me around on Rhaegal for the rest of this war? Not a very good strategy."

"Jon's nearly done with training," Dany says. "He'll train his off-hand with you, and you'll train your left."

~o~

The frost in Jon's cuts melts at Dany's touch.

The lines scoring Jon's fragile strength fade under the press of Dany's hand.

Her fingertips aching.

~o~

Daenerys watches them spar.

Black and gold.

And then Jon has Jaime on his back, and offers his hand, and they rise.

"Maybe by the end of this godsdamned war I'll be of some use," says Jaime, and there's a light in his eyes.

~o~

It is not Jaime's eyes that meet Dany's, but Jon's, sunken in hollows bruised blue and purple. "He means to divide us. Our forces will be made too vulnerable."

She takes heart from Jon's warmth and quiet solidity, his flame the dark complement to her own, bright and hot. It blazes in her now as she reaches within.

"He will not divide us." Dany's voice is a thin flame in search of ice to pierce. "We may not yet be able to strike at the root, but we can burn the closest branches."

"That would be unwise, Your Grace."

Jaime's eyes hold the gold of their night.

Now buried beneath war-driven snow.

~o~

Dany's second wound wraps around her throat with hands of blood, filling her lungs with thick red salt.

Rippling waves pulse across Jon's skin.

With every heartbeat, another sea streams red—

—and Drogo is in her arms, and she is begging a witch for his life

—and her child is aching inside her, unborn and dying

—and Viserion is an arc of white and gold, falling

—and Dany's consciousness narrows, then expands with the drumbeat of boots on wood.

"I saw Jon fall."

Jaime's shadow on the wall flickers as he trembles, then snaps again to attention, his eyes resting only on Jon's waxen face, a pale moon dark with a shadow of blood.

"If you would permit me to save his life, my Queen."

The golden length of his hair shimmers in the light.

Jaime swipes the wet cloth through the hot wine, and it sloshes over his hand.

The only sounds in the room the scrape of the cloth against Jon's wound, Jon's thin breaths, the swish of leathers against table and flesh.

The smallest flex in Jaime's jaw; the sound of his swallow.

Dany snatches needle and thread thread from him. "Sansa taught me well."

Only a few moments to thread the needle.

The sibilant slip of silk, the clank of Jaime's golden hand with every pull of the thread through Jon's flesh.

The blood that dizzies Dany with drowning, the music of her wounding in her ears.

The blood-soaked black of Jon's hair.

The green-gold crackle in Jaime's eyes.

~o~

Each step on the stone is a metallic scrape echoing through the halls, and the knock on her door is three taps stabbing into her aching head.

She swings her door open and Jaime stands before her, his face a mask of golden frost.

His shoulders stones.

His back a blade.

Eyes still in a clarity that brings all the room's light and shadow to bear for his purpose.

"Jon Snow lives."

"You have done well, Lannister. You shall be lauded for your service."

"And you," Jaime says, "shall not."

His hand is a fist at his side.

"It is not usual," he says, "to ignore advice given by a military commander of my experience."

Daenerys draws herself up. "We got closer to the Night King than ever before."

Jaime's knuckles pale. "It was unfortunate that ground was gained by such intemperate means, Your Grace."

"Affairs which are not of your concern seem to greatly concern you."

"Our armies are of my concern, my Queen."

"What would you rather I have done?"

"What I advised!"

"At what cost?"

"Not your life, Daenerys, and not Jon's." His voice holds the heaviness of unmelted snow. "You are both meant to rule."

"And you will be at my side."

"He is better suited to you. And you deserve that."

"You do not decree what I deserve. You are both suited to me."

~o~

Daenerys' third wound is her own.

White shreds the black sky around her, and she falls from Drogon's back.

Her veins are snow-suffocated trees, branches reaching for icy air.

Blinded by blue, every breath is a shard of ice sliding between her ribs and biting with its frozen teeth sinking into frozen flesh to crack her heart apart with cold—

—fingers pull her free, bearing her up and away

—warm skin and earthy horse-scent

—gold and silver, coarse and soft

—wolf and lion, dragonscale and dragonstone.

~o~

Voices weave threads gold and dark into the blood-red tapestry of Dany's consciousness.

"You saw them before Daenerys did, and you did nothing." Ferocity, piercing.

"There was no way to reach them. We were surrounded." Solidity, dark and unmoving.

Lashing tail, swiping claw. "You did not think to call on Rhaegal."

"And you did not plan for this, after you chastised Daenerys for the same." Molten glass beneath soil and stone.

"There was no time to plan." A long, shuddering sigh. "I would not lose you both."

~o~

Daenerys dreams.

A dragon's tail curling warm around her, scales shimmering hazel.

Paws of wolf and lion, grey-black grace and yellow-gold strength.

Pressing warmth into her heart.

~o~

When Daenerys wakes, Jon's hand is soft on hers.

Jaime brings a cup of water to her mouth, and follows the movements of her throat as she swallows.

~o~

"Seven hells, Daenerys." Jaime's eyes are the cutting green of new leaves longing for a warmer spring. "You rode too soon."

Jaime's face is as focused as the needle's point, and as pointed in its power to pierce her. She grips the edge of her bed and closes her eyes. Now she is the eye of the needle, the slide of silk thread, the red rhythm pulling at her wound.

"And too hard." Jon's at her side, pulling up the long sleeve of her woollen dress to expose her arm and shoulder.

Dany's nostrils fill with the sour steam of boiling wine. Crisp camphor, cool mint, sweet lavender. "I can't win this war from my bed," Dany says.

The pads of Jon's fingers are soft and gentle where they press the ointment into her skin. His eyes are not, the glass in them dark as spring soil wet with snowmelt, their paler rings volcanic fire. "What kind of ride leaves bruises like this?"

"I needed to scout quickly."

"Our scouting nearly got Jaime killed." Jon's voice is low, and though his touch is still gentle, his dark beard glitters with the shifting of the light as his neck and jaw tense.

Dany lifts her head to look directly at him, the pain of her wound a brightness that kindles her inner flame."Try to corral a dragon," she says, her voice fierce. Beside her, Jaime presses his arms against her side.

The quickness of a smile bright with fondness flashes over Jon's face, and the obsidian in his eyes warms. "You might find an interesting battle in a wolf with dragon's blood, Daenerys Stormborn," Jon says, his voice teasing, "or a dragon with wolf's blood."

"We're not asking you to stifle yourself, Daenerys," Jaime says. "Just—"

"I would remind you that you are in my service."

"There are other ways to serve," Jon says.

"Seeing one's queen nearly die has a bit of an effect on one's perspective," Jaime says, stroking Dany's side.

Jon sighs. "You certainly don't appreciate the seriousness of this matter."

Jaime grins. "I'd say we were both pretty damned serious about it, wouldn't you?"

"Kingslayer."

"Bastard."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "Which one is actually true?"

"I concede."

Jaime's tying off the thread Dany's wound, and Jon passes him pots of ointment. Jaime's fingertips are gentle as he washes the wound with a wine-soaked cloth and rubs the ointment in.

"Responsibility is lonely." Jon's hand intertwines with hers.

Jaime continues rubbing ointment into her wound as he says, "It doesn't have to be."

"What happened to Jon being better suited to me?"

"Seeing one's queen nearly die has a bit of an effect on one's perspective," Jaime replies.

"I see you've made plans without my consent."

Jaime rolls his eyes. "While you were busy dying, we had time to discuss these things."

"I'll be the judge of whether the conclusion is favourable."

"You will." Jon's voice is soft. His fingers brush over her knuckles, gently. "I'll rule by your side, if you'll have me."

"And Jaime will be—"

"The same as I've ever been, Daenerys." Jaime grins. "With additional duties, if it please my Queen."

~o~

Of wounds—there are three.

Bruises soft on silk-dressed wrists, pale and gold.

The sweet tangling pull of hands in black curls and golden strands.

Pink crescents of fingernails and teeth, sharp and wet and warm.

~o~

Every animal can be healed.

Creatures of fire need creatures of flesh.

Stones for homes; sigils for hearts.

In trust and in truth.