Too Familiar
The sweltering press of Qarth's turbid air wrapped around Daenerys like a sodden cloak. Her dragons' empty cages yawned, an abyss under her feet, a gaping hole beneath her breastbone. Gone. Stolen. Her heart ached, imagining all too easily how afraid they were without her. Xaro Xohan Daxos's home was indeed very beautiful, nestled abreast to the gardens; she could hear the faint call of their pet birds of paradise. But for all its beauty, it hid a danger every bit as harsh as the Red Waste. Irri's blood on that pristine marble would be forever inscribed in her memory.
Daenerys wrapped her arms around herself, in a vain effort to hold herself together. The sound of boots on the stair made her turn. Jorah. Despite herself, relief loosened her joints. Jorah was here. He would take care of her. He always had. He looked exhausted, panting from a long climb and a longer ride underneath the weight of his armor. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his neck, over the scar Quotho had left with his arakh. Daenerys checked the absurd impulse to lick it away.
Quickly they exchanged news, of Irri's loss and Doreah's absence. Another burden on her soul. Her dragons, her people . . . they were slipping through her fingers.
"I should have been here," he said, bowing his head. Daenerys's throat closed. He had left, on her orders, to find her a ship. Her faithful knight. A rush of pained affection flooded her.
"My place is by your side. I should not have left you alone with these people." These people? There were enemies on all sides, no friends anywhere. No friends for the orphaned Targaryen, the widowed khaleesi, the throneless Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Gods, there it was again. That look in his blue eyes. That look of such pained hope and such wild, hungry love that it hurt to hold his gaze.
Sometimes I look at you and I still can't believe you're real.
"You are not your brother. Trust me, khaleesi." Daenerys shivered as the low, husky drawl of Jorah's voice poured over her. Her heart shuddered. There it was. The heart of his disagreement, borne from the same avarice as Viserys. He wanted her, but could not have her. And he didn't want anyone else to have her either. Her heart, her body, her trust. Every man in the world wanted a piece of her. Only her dragons loved her for herself. Daenerys clutched her elbows, trying to stifle the wind blowing through the hole in her chest.
"There it is. Trust me. And it's you I should trust, Ser Jorah? Only you. I don't need trust any longer. I don't want it and I don't have room for it."
"You are too young to be so-" his rough, sword-scarred hand rested on her shoulder for a brief moment. Daenerys shuddered away from it.
"And you are too familiar," she snapped, glaring at him.
The knight seemed to flinch, as if struck with a mortal blow. His hand fell and his head bowed. The years weighed heavily on his features, silver glinted amongst the rusty gold of his hair and beard. Daenerys loathed herself for hurting him. Her dear, loyal knight. She turned, contemplating the empty cages to distract herself from the nagging pain in her chest.
"Forgive me, khaleesi." She heard him swallow.
"No one can survive in this world without help. Let me help you." His voice softened, shaping the words with such tender care that the angry, snarling dragon in Daenerys quieted. Instead it birthed an ache, a deep loneliness for touch and comfort that hadn't been sated since before Drogo died.
"Please. Tell me how," he pleaded, radiating stalwart warmth behind her. Lust caught fire as surely as her anger. Daenerys whirled around, taking in the tall, sinewy strength in his frame.
"You can help me by being silent," Daenerys said, closing the distance between them and seizing fistfuls of his sweaty tunic. She yanked his mouth down for a kiss. His lips were chapped and tasted of sweat and the dust of the road. But beneath that was Jorah. Daenerys snaked her tongue into the warm cavern of his mouth to capture more of that elusive, delicious flavor.
A sound caught in his throat, lean arms snapping closed around her. Daenerys sank her fingers into the soft golden hair at the nape of his neck, holding him still as she took, and took. His hands were tentative and oh, so gentle as they cupped her face, threaded in her hair, slid over her back and breasts. She tilted his head and licked that tantalizing drop of sweat, tasting him as her fingers clawed at the laces of his shirt. He tasted good; the tautness of his frame pleased her.
"Khaleesi," he groaned. She bit the sinewy bit of muscle where his neck met his shoulder, hard. He made a soft sound. Almost a whimper. A wild, almost drunken joy raced through her. She could forget. This could feel good and she could forget for a time.
"Silence, Ser," she said, her voice a low and raspy croon as she cupped his stubbled cheek. She looked up at him and saw a dazed sort of wonder, that painful look of love and . . . gods, yes there was lust there too. As hot and urgent as hers. Daenerys meant the words to be playful, cajoling, but perhaps dragons did not know how to tease, for Jorah pressed a cloud-soft kiss to the hand that cradled his face.
"As you command, khaleesi," he whispered, bending to take her mouth again in a ravaging kiss. She felt the proof of his lust against her belly through his trousers. Nimble fingers relieved him of their encumbrance, his sword belt making a loud thud as it hit the floor. Mm, he was red and hard. She was wet and aching. He breathed a curse as her hand closed around him, caressing the throbbing heat of him in wet, sinuous strokes. Jorah caught her up and pressed her against the nearest wall, skirts rucked up over her hips.
"Yes. Yes," she purred, arching into his touch.
It was cruelty and selfishness she wrought now, but he was right. She needed him. Jorah thrust up into her and Daenerys cried out, head thrown back against the wall as he pumped in and out of her in taut silence. So good, he felt so good reaching the mouth of her womb with each powerful stroke. Pleasure shivered and raced through her taut, tired body. Their tongues tangled in a sloppy kiss as he labored inside her, arms as hard as stone around her and weary eyes wide and worshipful. It was the urgency of his eyes that finished her. Soon she was growling to his mouth, stars dancing behind her eyes as pleasure burst within her. Her fingernails savaged his back, thighs clenched tight around his lean waist. Even limp and panting in his grip, she pressed her palm against his quivering belly.
"Not inside me," she warned. Anguish twisted his face, tendons standing out on his neck. Jorah pressed his forehead to hers, his harsh breaths fluttering on her face. He thrust once, twice more, then wrenched himself free from her and spilled his seed on her belly in sticky white ropes. She held him through the shuddering throes of it, kissing his temple, his cheek, his brow in silent apology.
As desperately as she needed him, as fiercely as he loved her, they could not be together. If she was to take the Iron Throne, she needed a higher family than the Mormonts of Bear Island. He set her down gently, then sank to his knees, limp and trembling. No words could comfort him, she knew. She could not promise love, or even the comfort of her body again. So her heart in her throat, aching with unshed tears, Daenerys rested her hand on his head. Jorah pressed his face against her knee and wept.
There were no words. So they stayed silent.
A/N: What do we think? I do so love angsty smut.