A Queen of Fire and Mercy
Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF, I simply put the characters in weird situations.
Author's Note: Originally written for ASOIAF Kink Meme. That should tell you enough. Story contains dub/noncon, incest, and somewhat graphic sexy times. If those don't make you slam the Back key, I hope you enjoy the one-shot.
Daenerys considers it a merciful trade. She could have devoured them all, their lovers, their families. But she will not be a tyrant. All she asks is their service, service to a queen of fire, blood, and beauty.
Keeping a sliver of Essos, Cinnamon and rose oils burn in the corner. The queen sits against the pillows of her sumptuous bed, her monstrous thing with four posters, goose down, and enough expanse to entertain half her court. Her court grows by the day, even as she tempers mercy with justice. Drogon sprawls beside the Iron Throne these days, his sinuous neck separating her from the traitorous fools who smile their way into her good graces only to draw steel. But most have bent the knee. They do not want to die.
Her chamber is her refuge. When her head aches from court and her advisers drive her mad, she can return to her warm cave with its royal bed covered in white sheets and pillows. The rest of the room she decorates in reds and blacks, her House's colors, and she invites only who she pleases.
Jon Snow kneels beside her bed, eyes distant and wintry as a wolf's. She keeps him in black as well, more for aesthetics than family ties. His close-fitting black doublet and jerkin would not serve in the North but those days are over. Her solemn nephew willingly came south with her, in exchange for Winterfell.
Dany grins, not caring if he sees. When Drogon crashed onto Winterfell's battlements, shrieking like a creature from the blackest hell, she knows he loved her for a moment.
Her dragon's sinews twitched with amusement at the pale-eyed man standing there, his falchion dripping wolf's blood. Drogon was amused the man held his ground, even as the icy air steamed over his onyx hide.
Jon reached her moments later, staggering through a limp, but the man already gagged in Drogon's jaws. Blood mottled the frigid stone as his ribs crunched, flesh blackened where the teeth bit through. Only an iron will kept Jon from collapsing beside the dead wolf. Perhaps later he blames her for being moments too late, but she saw only love when he looked at her then. Then the raw-boned man, charred and pierced, slurred for mercy.
"I did not pass your sentence," Jon said in a voice as cold as the Long Night.
A dragon knows little of mercy.
Dany slid from Drogon's shoulders, warm in her silks and leathers. "You will honor our bargain, nephew?"
He nodded, though she did not miss the steely flash in his eyes. A fight that will never leave, a half-breed wolf that never bows to the dragon.
"Yes, your Grace." His voice was low, past pain and loathing. "My sis—my cousin—will rule Winterfell. And I will go with you." Go with, she laughed to herself. If he does not wish to say serve, she will let him.
A knock sounds at her door, and Dany bids them enter. Wary, Jon glances up, his skin burnished in the light from her braziers. She does not make him kneel beside her this long without reason, though her lush carpets are more than comfortable—comfortable enough for bedding, as she has shown him. She can smell the vineyard on his breath from when she treated him to her Arbor wine. Moving away from her pillows, Dany straightens her back and smiles at Jon.
"Nephew, I have a surprise for you."
His wariness remains. She wears only a gossamer nightdress, her curves and lines entirely visible. There is little else she cares about when dressed as such. The doors open and guards enter with a single man, his scruffy jaw two shades darker than his russet hair. Ah, affected indifference—he wears it well, halfway a king again. Having escorted him safely from the Vale, her guards depart.
Jon's head has jerked up, every nerve taut like a bowstring. "Robb?"
"Jon?"
They gawk a brief moment before throwing themselves into an embrace. Were her heart not guarded by scales and dragonfire, she would coo at how their necks and jaws tucked against each other, their shared loss too great for tears, their kinship too strong for words.
She had told Jon the eldest Stark lived, but he did not seem to believe her. But Dany never said he survived unscathed. He was captured at his uncle's wedding, his bannermen slaughtered as the weasel lords drove him to his knees and forced him to watch. The scar across his left cheek came when he broke a lord's jaw, after they beheaded his direwolf.
His sister saved him. Like as not he would have died, forgotten in a dungeon, when Daenerys flew to the Vale. Lady Sansa had discovered the Aerie's secret prisoner, filched from the Twins for safekeeping and leverage. Somehow still proud, even on her knees, she begged for his life. Dany is not moved by pity, but the trace of herself she saw in the Stark girl's blue eyes made her spare the offspring of the Usurper's closest friend.
Robb was starved, shaking from fever when she met him. She saw the desperation in his feverish eyes and so she struck a deal. For a man otherwise dead, by her hand or his enemies, she showed him mercy. He avenged his mother's murder and the queenguard escorted his wife to Winterfell. As for the Freys, Lord Walder watched as her children devoured his. Every Frey who had the luck of being at the Twins that morning ensured her dragons did not eat for a month. She let Robb cut Lord Walder's throat, though by that time the ancient man was in convulsions. In return, she has his soldiers at her call and the Young Wolf in her service. He recovered in the Vale until Lady Sansa reached her birthright.
To her courtiers he is a hostage at worst, an adviser at best. They don't realize he is hers. His pale skin and cobalt eyes are so different from her nephew's dark features. They more than suit her wants.
"Well done," she says to the boys. "You understand the concept."
They break apart as if burned. Is it disquieting, for the young queen to sit here drinking in their every move? She learned in Essos why a queen cannot give her heart away. And yet, as a queen, she can indulge her most wanton desires. The exchange is a mercy.
Dany leans back with languor, arms bearing her weight, hair grazing her hands. "Do continue." She can still sound like a young girl when she wishes. "But don't take all night."
Jon's mind works faster—she sees him twitch, his fists tightening. Robb senses, but does not want to understand.
"Your Grace…?"
She flashes them her dragon's grin, wide and toothy, her lips barely pulled over her teeth. Her smile reserved for dangerous friendships, potential enemies, and a possible meal for Drogon. "Have you never been to a pleasure house? My Essosi handmaidens could have shown you." She misses her beautiful girls.
The Stark's proud breath rushes through his teeth. He understands.
They do not want to verbally say no. Robb from rumor, Jon from seeing. He was there when the mercenary captain, her friend-turned-traitor-turned-ally, refused to lead a long odd's charge. Did he think she forgave his earlier treachery? She is a merciful queen, but a dragon knows little of mercy. She tore him apart, Drogon's jaws surprisingly deft for a head so large.
Still the cousins remain apart. Her eyes narrow. Few see her glare without also hearing dragon wings.
"I have no wish to fly north over a dishonored bargain." Do you? she hisses to herself. She asks for so little.
Dany is a conqueror—she cannot help but imagine flying to Winterfell, its pride slowly healing from the Boltons. Drogon's wings would shadow its walls until her fire reaved the night. Bearing sympathy for Sansa Stark does not mitigate justice. Her own fire simmers in her belly, sparked whenever her lone wolf shows his teeth. She wavers between want and impatience, threats and felicity.
The rumors started when Drogon devoured the Usurper's wife. Dany thanks the Lannister woman for her insanity—her screeches and howls made the fire seem purifying to her court. But those outside of court were quick to deem her a tyrant. As it is, she seldom burns people now. Drogon will not eat meat without a layer of char, but he will kill anyone she bids.
Perhaps the guarded wolves see the fire in her eyes, the glint of her teeth. In their minds, they hear the fluttering membranes of dragon wings. She sees the moment their fight ebbs. But it does not vanish. That is why she threatens gently; to lose all their fight would make them boring. All she asks is some pliancy.
Sliding off the bed, she slips behind the Stark, arms wrapping around his chest. He stiffens—not the part of him she wants—as she pulls him closer. His leather jerkin smells of horse, making her smile and nuzzle closer. She could close her eyes and imagine her yesteryears but she knows it's pointless. She cannot see her Sun-and-Star's face clearly now, but her body never forgets his shape. He stood taller and had more muscle than her wolves, but he was not so pliant.
Dropping one hand to his waist, her other trails to his hips and the manhood that has yet to wake. He groans from her fingers. The Stark is only a couple of years older than her; it should take little time for him to stir. She knows from the times she bedded him in the Vale.
"First, you have to get closer," she says, half whisper and half hiss. She walks him toward Jon, who remains silent and surly. Her nails dig into Robb's taut stomach so he listens. "You will make our cold wolf cry out."
Jon retreats on instinct, but traps himself when he backs into her bedpost. Dany gives Robb a last shove into him and steps away.
Sitting back on her bed, she meets Jon's steely gaze as he twists to look at her. "I thought the North remembers?" He scowls, openly, and she smiles. She encourages a dash of candor.
The cousins share a look, and Dany's stomach tightens in excitement. Traveling with khalasars—both Drogo's and Jhaqo's—has taught her to read the looks that lead to a fucking. That she must poke and prod a bit is all the better. These boys have never tamed a dragon; she does not lose a battle of wills.
They are not kissing cousins, but they will sacrifice themselves to save their loved ones. To protect the Stark girl and her unborn heirs. That is why Daenerys rules Westeros, and not her nephew or the Young Wolf. In the end, they cannot refuse her.
Jon closes his eyes and ducks his head, his mouth pressing hard on Robb's, his hands tight on his shoulders. It is not a kiss he gives his cousin, but someone he once desired, who he sees with his closed eyes. Certainly not her. She has taken him before, and each time she could have choked on her own lust from knowing he half-wanted to strangle her.
At last the Young Wolf moves his jaw, kissing him back, tentatively, no doubt tasting wine. He did not imagine this as the reunion he would have with his one-time brother, but at least they meet at all. Another moment of this meek mouthing and the queen edges toward annoyance.
She slides closer to the bedpost. "Is this how you would kiss your lady wife, Young Wolf?"
As she wanted, his back tenses, his eyes open in a sideways glare. Dany grants his life and protects his family; now he's angry his wife lives a thousand leagues away. But he cannot take his anger out on her. Instead, he drags Jon's head down, half-kissing, half-biting. Her nephew jerks back and Dany all but purrs in approval. All siblings have an angry nerve with each other. She knows how close the fires of anger and desire burn.
Grabbing at his hips, Jon retaliates, mouth opening, groaning far down in his throat. Robb breaks for air, their foreheads pressed together and breath hoarse. Jon's dark hair falls against his cousin's red. They have not seen each other in years. In lifetimes, really. Their mouths return, open and searching.
Dany toys with her breast, teasing her own hardness. She must guard her heart, but her body is free to reap its joy.
The dragon knows its desires. She stands and slinks back to the post behind Jon. Her bed affords her the height to lean her forearms on his shoulders. Bearing down, she lowers her mouth to his ear, her hair falling over his chest.
"If I just wanted innocent kissing, I would summon my handmaidens."
Slowly he sinks to his knees, his own height forcing Robb to follow. Dany laughs low in her throat, nips his ear, and settles back to watch.
The Young Wolf knows she only gives orders she expects fulfilled. Carefully, probably cursing her name, he reaches between Jon's thighs. His hand rubs and strokes, likely remembering a time he was too young for girls to give more than kisses and such desires were self-sated. Perhaps against his own wishes, Jon responds, his hands moving into his cousin's hair like he savors the color. She was a redhead, I take it? Jon groans into Robb's mouth.
Dany sullies them, but that brings its own perverse abandon. Her body is more jaded than theirs and she can still feel tremulous and unbridled. She remembers when she was younger, when her Sun-and-Stars could make her cry to the moon—
"Stop," she snaps. They do—she feels surprise from the Stark, wariness from Jon. "Undress." She will see her wolves without their coats.
Wherever their minds have fled, their bodies remain here, cozened by wine and the heady scent of rose and cinnamon. Jon tears off his blacks, then his white undershirt. Dany smirks. His skin is darker than his cousin's, likely from the bright snow under the North's chilly sun. The former Lord Commander grabs the Young Wolf, dragging him closer by his collar.
Shying like a horse expecting a whip, Robb shoves him away. He removes his own jerkin and tunic and Jon, so proudly taciturn, sucks in a breath. Dany remembers these scars. Torture's first mark is red, but its leavings are white, pink, and brown. Robb's chest is scourged from a lash's cruel kiss, his back likewise. The most recent weals are pink. Several are dark, suggesting a blade straight to the bone. There is a small knot on his side, where a broken rib healed poorly. Still, he is not a quarter as sundered as those she saw in Winterfell's dungeons. The pale-eyed man stayed alive for a long time; dragons are closer to cats than dogs.
Jon pokes a scar. Dany snorts; she will never understand boys. His touch gentles at Robb's scowl, the first time she remembers he once had a crown. They take each other in, their bodies a chronicle of the last three years. Jon has fewer scars but they are dark and vivid. When she first saw him, she wondered how he survived some of the gashes in his back and kidneys. His cheek also bears two white-brown gashes he says were made by an eagle.
Patiently she gives them time to reacquaint, before she rolls onto her stomach and clears her throat. Her order has gone unfinished.
Finally they divest themselves of their breeches. Though neither has the wild pelt of her bear knight, Westerosi men have too much hair. It gives them a rugged look, but the queen plans on grooming them better, now that they live in King's Landing.
Dany looks, long and deep. She is the blood of the dragon, and dragons hoard. She can sup on their grief and loss. It belongs to her now. But her satisfaction remains wanting.
"Is everyone so reserved in Winterfell?" The queen purrs enough steel into her voice she does not need to say more.
Robb surges forward, pinning her nephew with his hands and mouth. Perhaps he feels a flicker of anger imagining Jon has suffered less. Keeping one knee beneath him, his hand returns to its former charge. Jon hisses; his hips buck. They are younger than either will admit. When Robb at last feels him stiffen, his hand takes on a smoother rhythm along his shaft. Her nephew's arm curls over the Young Wolf's back, fingers softly trailing a year of captivity.
It took them long enough. Her eyes grow lidded and Dany reaches between her legs, sinking into herself. Drinking in their disquiet whets her lust, but their unsought, bittersweet pleasure makes her hips grind against the bed. She says something but her words collapse into a moan. She does not go unheard.
With a jolting whine, Jon spends himself, and Robb's head drops to the hollow of his shoulder, sweat beading along his back. A new scent has mingled with the rose and cinnamon, one the queen remembers well. Her hand stills and she wriggles closer to the edge of the bed, pushing her hair behind her back.
"Jon." His head lolls to her, a rare time she uses his true name. She speaks like the queen who orders him into her bedchamber, not the iniquitous girl who sometimes beds him. "You can do better."
Wine and release has loosened him the slightest bit. Something shifts in his eyes. A memory, or a future never to be, she knows not which. His arm tightens around his cousin's ribs and he rolls him off, settling on top of him. Perhaps they remember wrestling, Dany thinks lazily, pillowing her chin on a forearm. She watches like a waiting predator.
Jon kisses him once, almost tenderly, and eases down his body. Robb's cobalt eyes tweak in confusion, then raw nerves.
"Jon—" he breaks off in a yip.
Dany resumes her ministrations, slick and cheerful. It's almost charming, the way he kneels between the Young Wolf's legs, his hand caressing where his mouth cannot reach. She supposes an unexpected reunion is better than none. Her mind strays in her mounting pleasure.
When Jon returned with her, she had no time to wait for his horse to follow. Thus he rode Drogon, his heart hammering against her back, wrapped around her like a drowning man. It was a near-windless day and finally she decided to distract him. He was close enough she did not have to shout.
"Who in your family were you closest to?" She envied him for having so many to choose from. Though, if she must be honest, sometimes she missed her poor mad brother. Still, a dragon knows little of pity.
His chin grazed her shoulder and she smirked. Though his arms and chest were intimate by necessity and fear rather than choice, he's far taller than she.
"My sister Arya, and my brother Robb." His thoughts were too distracted by the endless sky around them to remember their true relation.
"Of the two?"
He scowled in her peripheral sight. He did not want to choose. "Robb and I grew up together, trained together. Everything."
Gasping, Daenerys rolls onto her back as her release shudders through her. She watches the wolves, upside down, and devours the sight of the Stark's neck rigid with nerves, breath shallow, eyes slitted. Her braziers keep the room warm, embraced by fire, and now the three of them have sweat running from their temples. She twists onto her stomach, languorous once more.
Perhaps this is not how they wanted to meet again, writhing on a floor in King's Landing. At least they can at all. She is a merciful queen.
Dany sighs when the Stark yelps, his bones going soft as he sinks into himself. Too warm, she goes to her balcony door and affixes it half-open. The cold air nips and tingles. Though it's little more than a scrap of fabric, she tosses her nightdress at nearby chair. A rare time or two, the cold comforts her more than fire.
She returns to the bed and sprawls along the side, her cheek resting on the edge and her hair spilling over, away from her dampened neck. The queen drapes like a cat, eyes on her boys. Jon sits back on his knees, sweating, flushed, and breathless, while Robb pulls himself back together. For a moment, they can forget how their wolves have died and their wars have failed. Is she not merciful?
They will go further if she commands, further if she threatens. They will spend and take, spinning more and more from how they ever dreamed their reunion. But Dany tires of watching. Gracefully, she rises and slinks to Jon. He balances upright on his knees to stretch his back. His forehead comes level with her chest. Grinning, she clamps a hand in his dark, damp hair, curling her fingers just enough to arrest his attention.
"Nephew?"
With a growl so low she hardly hears it, he grabs her hips and twists her around. One arm fastened around her waist, the other hooking around her slender legs, he pulls her down until her back rests against his chest and he rests on his calves, chin grazing her clavicle. He kisses the spot between her neck and shoulder and she hisses as nerves tingle down her spine. He nips the same spot. Her arm snakes back around his neck as she quivers with want. From time to rare time, Dany hungers for a moment when she is not a conqueror.
The queen does not miss his desirous vitriol, the way his corded arm binds her against him and his manhood hardens against her back. Her free hand bends behind her, stroking him. If he wishes to think he still has a trace of power, she will let him. Her nails dig into his back as he nips at her shoulder. She should trim them soon, but she likes their uses. His teeth press harder and she pricks her claws deeper. He flinches, lips replacing teeth, nibbling gently. A trace of power she allows, nothing more. He knows where her claws will tighten next if he presumes too much. But she is not cruel. They can stay in her bed tonight; she will sleep soundly between the paws of two tender wolves.
The queen can tell he's looking at Robb, saying something in their wordless brother-tongue. Crawling to her, the Young Wolf crawls to her, reaches for her legs. Dany sighs as his fingers slip inside her, his thumb against her most sensitive place, clearly more practised with a female body. She bares her dragon grin. Of the two, Robb is easier to bring to heel. Her nephew remains ever a lone wolf, but he loved her for a moment, when she crashed from the skies and rent his enemies asunder.
Daenerys is a merciful queen.