Lost names spill out.
Children engraved
in ash. A sea of blood.
Only you, tenderness,
stillborn, beneath
the skin of sleep.

- Myra Sklarew, The Skin of Sleep


iv.


It is when she touches him he feels most vulnerable.

He isn't sure when he decides that, but it is one of the things that appear to just happen and then stump him and leave him with more questions than answers.

They had been discussing the training regime for new recruits for the Watch when she had placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was so sudden and so there that he had almost jerked. Somehow, he could feel her heat even through his layers and layers of clothing.

"You've done well, Lord Snow," Daenerys had said. "I hope them all to be of fighting caliber soon."

"As do I, Your Grace," he had hastily responded. She removed her hand, and for the briefest of moments, he had felt himself yearning for it have to have stayed a while longer.

But now; now is a completely different matter.

He lies sprawled on the wooden floor, chest bare and bloodied. A maester kneels over him, trying what he can to stem the blood; piling on cloth after cloth. The colors in front of his eyes blur into one, and the pain...

"M – m'lord..." the maester splutters out. "There is too much... t – too much b – b – blood. I need to... I need..."

He receives a grunt in response. Jon has long since bitten his tongue, and the taste of copper fills him. So stupid, he thinks to himself. Not again. I should've known. After the first mutiny, of course there would have been tensions brewing. Of course some of them would object the queen taking up quarters here; most of them still had the bitter aftertaste of Stannis Baratheon's stay. And some bloody whoreson would always have a drink too many and decide to stage Robert's Rebellion come again. Of course, of course, of course.

A black brother, four of the six would-be mutineers, and two of the queen's men are the final count. Jon does not intend to be added to that list.

"Do," he manages to spit out, "what you – seven hells – need t— ahhh." The words melt in his mouth, red spots dancing in front of his eyes. Every pore of him is alive with flame.

"Do what you must, maester," Daenerys Targaryen finishes for him. She kneels beside the maester, and through half-closed eyes, Jon can see concern etched on her face. Her purple eyes bore into him, and he feels so exposed; like a naked man in battle, armed with only a rusting sword and shield. Ser Barristan is not with her this time; he had been assigned with the task of dealing with the mutineers. For some reason, it gives him the slightest of comforts.

"I'm afraid I will n – need to use fire." The maester's fingers have become slick red snakes and shake, gods damn him, as he presses down on the wounds. "I need to cl – close the wound. M'lord, it will—"

"Do it," the Lord Commander all but hisses. He makes the mistake of looking down at his torso: all he sees is ravaged skin and cloth, crimson and white, akin to aged metal. Bile rises in his throat.

"There will great pa—"

"Do as he says," the queen cuts him off sharply. She leans forward and places her hand on his bare arm, almost soothingly. That alone sends another jolt through him; how can one be so warm?

"Y-yes, Your Grace. Satin, get a b – blade and wine. I need to – to . . . fire. The blade. I— Someone will need to press d – down, pr- pressure... lest the blood—" His voice dies. How did this one ever earn his chain? Jon feels the maester's hands leave his wounds, and suddenly he cannot breathe. Lines of white cut through his vision and he can feel the snow again, he can see tears streaming down Bowen Marsh's face, he can feel the blades. For the Watch.

More hands replace his; these are stronger, firmer, and much more effective than the man's soft things. Jon can almost feel the brush of hair – white-gold hair that glisters in the light, he sees – on his torso. He vaguely hears the maester attempting to argue but only to be brusquely cut off by the Targaryen queen. The hands press down harder. Oh.

Suddenly, she is speaking to him. Her words are as clear as they were the first day they met, yet equally as soft.

"Lord Snow," she says – or at least, he thinks she does, "stay with us; it will all be over soon."

"I . . ." his words become grunts, but she plows on anyway.

"You were very brave out there," her voice is soft, "the men are very fortunate to have someone like you. If it were me, I would not have been so merciful."

He knows, of course; even some whispers cannot be ignored. The son of Jeor Mormont, the fabled suitor of the queen, doomed to exile by both Stark and Targaryen. I wear his sword and carry his legacy. Gods forbid I share his fate.

She keeps talking. He tries to drown out everything but her voice. Somewhere along the line, he absent-mindedly realizes that she indeed could be one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen.

Minutes that feel like hours trickle by. Every sound becomes a drum beat, every voice a war horn. He becomes more and more aware of Daenerys' hands on him, on his body, touching him, feeling him. A groan escapes him that almost has nothing to do with pain.

The maester returns at one point. Jon only catches a few choice phrases: "the wine", "immense pain", and "only the Seven." He feels Daenerys' hands slip from his torso, only to reach and grab his own. Gentle as ever; her fingers are wet with his blood.

"I apologize for this, Lord Snow," the maester mutters. "The wine, if you will."

It hurts more than he expected it to, and he screams when the liquid comes in contact with his tender flesh. He grips Daenerys' hand so hard, he fears he might break it.

"And now, the b – blade, Satin." Hazily, Jon can see the steward, in his hand a thing of red and orange. He gives it to the maester, who mutters a fervent "This is will hurt" before bringing it down.

And how it does.

Jon has felt pain many a time. He has lived and died, he has loved and lost, he has feared and hoped—but nothing, not even the feeling of coming back to life could have compared to this.

He howls, oh, yes. He howls and yells and jerks, but somehow, Daenerys only holds on tighter. It burns; so much worse than the dragonfire in his dreams, worse than being thrown into flames, it gnaws and claws at his insides and plunges every pore and crevice of him into a pool of fiery hot pain. Soon, the only thing he feels are the slick fingers holding onto his own.

It is just as the world goes white does he vaguely register her saying his name.


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