Author's Note: Thanks for your kind reviews :)

Dany III

No sooner had Dany and Jon finished signing the marriage certificate than they were surrounded by Starks. Jon's youngest sister shouldered Dany out of the way to fling herself at him, and his brother soon followed, wringing Jon's hand in both of his own. Sansa behaved with more decorum, however, waiting until the other two had calmed before kissing her brother's cheek and smiling.

"I felt like I'd faint, when Brienne said Mr. Lannister's name, instead of yours," Sansa told them, still wide-eyed from the shock of it.

"Me, too," said Robb with a grin. "Arya would have had to catch me."

"Pfft," said Arya. "I'd have been too busy killing Brienne. It's only because Miss Daenerys stepped up that I haven't." She squinted while craning her neck to look over the crowd for some glimpse of that woman and Jaime Lannister, her expression boding ill for Brienne when next they met. "Yet."

Sansa offered a wobbly smile to Dany. "Arya is the bloodthirsty one among us," she said. "She doesn't forgive easily."

"Neither do I," said Dany, smiling at Arya with approval, which seemed to startle all four Starks, Arya included. "Though Miss Brienne seems to have a solid reason for her choice of Mr. Lannister."

"I just wish she had mentioned it to us before hand," said Sansa, looking sad. "I hate to think she was afraid to say anything to us, in case we were angry." She glanced at her siblings. "Surely she knows we wouldn't be upset with her…?"

Robb and Arya averted their eyes, not answering. Sansa blinked appealingly at Jon.

"Jon, I know you agree with me," she said. "I heard you, you told her you understood."

"Yes, I understood." He gave her a fond, exasperated little smile. "But if things hadn't worked out as they have, I'm certain I'd feel less forgiving." He glanced at Dany and raked a hand through his dark curls. She liked how they tumbled around his face. Though she also liked how it looked when he tied them back. She suspected she'd find him appealing if he were as bald as an egg. "As it is… all's well that ends well. No reason to hold a grudge. I'm alive, Lannister's children still have a father…"

Jon gave Arya's cheek a poke. "So just let it go, you hear? No grudges."

She shot him a cranky look, but nodded. "Fine," she agreed, a touch sullenly.

Sansa nudged Robb. He rolled his eyes, but said, "No grudges." Then he grinned at Dany, and said, "Welcome to our family. You'll have noticed that we're all crazy."

"So is my family," she replied, though she suspected their 'crazy' had nothing on Targaryen 'crazy'. "I'm quite used to it."

"It is unexpected to have you for our goodsister, instead of Brienne, but no less welcome," added Sansa.

"Will you still live with us, as you'd planned to do with Brienne?" Arya asked Jon, clearly hopeful of an affirmative answer.

He glanced at Dany; she gave him a tiny shake of the head in the negative. She could not leave Viserys by himself. No telling what he'd get up to, without her there to ensure he was stable. And how was Jon supposed to give her a baby if he were living on the Northpoint when she was on the Triple D?

"No," he replied to his sister, "but I'll be there every day. Just because I'm married and living elsewhere doesn't mean I won't still work on the ranch together with the rest of you."

Jon shot Dany a rebellious look, then, daring her to disagree with him. She gave him a bland smile.

"Of course you must fulfill your obligations to your family," she agreed. "I would expect nothing less."

"Will you join us for supper tonight?" asked Sansa. "You should meet our other two brothers, Bran and Rickon."

Dany noted she did not include her mother— Jon's stepmother— in the list of people who would like to make her acquaintance. Dany was not sure what she had expected, but this… pleasant overture, this warm inclusion, was not it. It had never occurred to her that marriage meant she was gaining a family as well as a husband. A very nice family, it would appear. Again she mourned Ned's loss, for she thought he would have been a wonderful goodfather.

"Perhaps not tonight," Dany replied. "It sounds lovely, but Jon and I must talk, first, about what we will do."

"I'll come back to get my things, but I won't stay long," he added, and smiled. "I'll be there early in the morning for chores, don't worry."

Arya looked inclined to argue, but only grimaced before giving Jon another rib-cracking hug.

"I'm so glad you're safe," she whispered, eyes squeezed tight, her lashes damp. Then she shocked Dany by embracing her, as well, though fortunately with less fervor. "Thank you for saving him."

Dany felt uncomfortable with being thanked for something any decent person should have done. "I don't think I could have lived with myself if I hadn't," she said. "So you see, it was really for myself, so I didn't get hounded the rest of my life by my conscience."

They all gave a polite laugh, as if she had been joking. She sighed, resigned to being misunderstood yet again.

"I will see you in a few hours," Jon told them, nodding toward the doors, finally able to be approached as the crowd thinned. Sansa kissed his cheek, then Dany's, and Robb shook their hands, and then the Starks were gone.

Once it was just he and Dany, he stared at her for a long moment, and she felt struck by the intensity of his gaze. It made her feel very aware of herself, and of him, and seemed to make everyone else feel far away. A strange sensation. She was not ignorant of what went on between men and women; there were far too many of Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's naughty books in the Targaryen library, books with salacious descriptions and explicit artwork, for that. She had worked her way through them as she had any other matter she had decided to study: doggedly, with acute attention to detail, and a conviction that the knowledge would one day benefit her.

Thus she was not surprised, exactly, at how the wedding kiss had felt, or the reactions it stirred in her. All the adjectives that had been used in Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books— slick, exciting, hot, arousing, fierce, ticklish, intimate, frustrating— were dead-on accurate in describing it. But as they left the hotel, the eyes of the town fixed upon them, Dany was trembling as the vestiges of the experience lingered, seeming to coalesce on the small of her back, where her new husband had placed his hand as they walked out together. Even through her basque and corset, it felt like a brand laying directly on her skin.

She had not expected that.

She could not find any regret in her for her impulsive choice to marry him. It was the right thing to do, for several reasons: in recognition of Ned Stark's kindness, because justice was not being served, and because she needed a husband to father her children. And the passion inherent in that kiss boded well, also. For years, she'd been burning with curiosity to understand, to know personally, the delights spoken of in Great-Great-Aunt Rhae's books. She was thrilled with that kiss, because it meant that those delights might actually be within her grasp. If she had to marry, let it be to a man who would bring more to their union than just his fertility, something for her as well as for her family and its legacy.

Dany found Jon pleasing to look at, and always had, but she was not one to be overly impressed by looks. He had a reputation for being quiet, and she had overheard him spoken of as dull and stodgy. In the two interactions she had had with him so far, however, he had seemed anything but dull or boring; he struck her as a volcano, usually peaceful and quiescent, but when roused… explosive and fiery, scorching everything in its path.

Or at least that was how it felt to her— that kiss! Her head was still reeling from it. She had felt the prod of him against her belly, and an answering prod of desire for him tightening her insides. The memory of it, the knowledge that he wanted her, made that twist happen again, and she could not suppress a little gasp.

Jon, walking beside her in grim silence, stopped. Turned to look at her. She stopped, too, and looked back.

"Only just realize what a bum deal you got?" he asked, derisive.

"No," she said, surprised. "I was thinking how well this has turned out for me. I knew I had to marry someone, and am glad it ended up being you. I liked your father, you know. I just hope you feel, or at least come to feel, that it has turned out well for you, too."

He said nothing, just frowned, looking like he was concentrating very hard on understanding what she was saying. She decided to plunge ahead, feeling she had nothing to lose by being honest.

"Also, I have always hoped I would be able to desire my husband, instead of just having to endure the marital act with him." She thought, again, of the velvet brush of his tongue against her own. "That was a very good kiss."

He blinked. Stared. Opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Swallowed. Blushed a little, adorably.

"Yes," he said at last, putting his hand through his hair and looking everywhere but at her. "It was."

"Do you want to consummate our marriage today?" Dany asked him, hoping she did not sound too eager, afraid she was failing miserably. "Tonight, I mean. Or today, if you don't want to wait— I know I said 'whenever you wish', so—"

"You really meant that?" His voice was a rasp, and his eyes glittered like obsidian when he fixed them on her. Dany's breath went funny in her chest.

"Of course I did," she replied, sounding a bit raspy, herself. "I always mean everything I say."

"So if we go to your ranch—"

"It's more of an estate, really, and it's yours, now, too—"

"—and I want you right away, immediately, you'll let me have you?"

Heat streaked through her, starting in a flush at her throat and arrowing straight down between her legs.

"Yes," she replied hoarsely. "Have me."

He inhaled deeply. His hands, at his sides, flexed open and closed. He looked like was considering having her right there in the street, and in that moment, Dany was not sure she'd object.

"What's this?" asked Oberyn Martell in Spanish, approaching them from across the street. "Arguing already?"

His keen gaze was assessing as it roamed over them. He knew they were not arguing.

"No," Dany replied, and continued in the same tongue, "just coming to an understanding about what we expect of each other, so there are no surprises later on." The sinuousness of the language made her breathless words sound even more suggestive.

Awareness flared in Oberyn's dark eyes. He gave her a slow, leisurely evaluation from the tips of her boots to the crown of her head and down again, coming to a rest at her mouth, and she rather felt as if a hot wind had just raked over her body.

"But sometimes it is good to be surprised, don't you agree?" he asked her. "It is so sad when a marriage sinks into boredom."

"I will make it the focal point of my existence to keep my husband from becoming bored with me," she replied pertly. "Perhaps I will learn a variety of tap-dance routines to keep his interest."

It made him laugh. Jon, too, smiled, though he looked as if it were against his will.

"I doubt there will be need for tap-dancing," Oberyn allowed. "Just your words will keep him alert and interested, I believe. But if not…" He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "They would keep me alert and interested, señorita—"

"Señora," Jon snapped in correction, his good humor gone in an instant at the insinuation plain in the other man's tone.

"—so if you find yourself neglected by an inattentive husband—"

"She won't."

"—you know where to find me."

"Where I would find myself is carrying the fifth of your children, Señor Martell, if I were to take you up on your offer." Dany gently pulled back on her hand, the soft brush of his moustache ticklish. She found herself irritated by his words; he was only teasing, but it was in poor taste. "Sadly— for you— the prospect is not alluring enough to tempt me to break my vow of fidelity."

Oberyn smiled again, and this time it was much friendlier, and far less lascivious. "I am glad you intend to be a faithful wife to our Jon. He deserves nothing but the best."

He recaptured her hand, and his kiss on it, this time, was nothing but respectful. She realized he'd been testing her. With a tug of his hat-brim to Jon, who was still glowering at him, Oberyn sauntered off, still chuckling.

What a horrible man, Dany thought, piqued.

"He is a horrible man," she announced to her husband, and resumed her walk toward her buggy.

Jon exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders as he followed after her. "No, he's… just trying to look out for me. Always has. He feels a kinship with me, because I'm half-Mexican."

"Are you?" she asked, inspecting him. "Yes, I can see the look of it in you, now that I pay attention."

He looked startled. "You didn't know?"

"No, I just thought you knew how to speak Spanish," she said absently. Her matched pair of cremellos stood patiently, and she petted their noses while untying them. "I speak it, and my family is pure British Isles back to before the Norman invasion. Some of the family is still upset that the Normans besmirched our purity, in fact."

"Now that you know, do you care?" he asked.

There was a note to his voice that sounded unsure. She studied him a moment.

"Does it have anything to do with how good a husband you'll be?"

"No."

"Then I don't care." Dany grasped the buggy's handle, intending to hoist herself up, but he took her arm and turned her back to him. "Jon—?"

His mouth came down on hers with the same force as before, shocking her for a moment before she could respond. Her hands were not caught between them, this time, and she slid them up and around his shoulders. This time she could press herself all along him. This time she was not so shocked she just stood there, but could enjoy it, and enjoy it she did, until something dug into her back. She realized Jon had pressed her up against the buggy, and the handle was about to skewer one of her kidneys.

"We're making a spectacle of ourselves," she said when he released her, because there were at least a half-dozen people watching, whispering back and forth. "If you're going to kiss me like that, at least let's get out of town, first."

He lifted her into the buggy and climbed up next to her. As soon as he was in the seat, she gave her team a light slap of the ribbons and directed them to the nearest road out of town. Dany gave the team their heads, not particularly caring where they went, and they rode in silence for several minutes.

"When I went into the courtroom, I expected to be marrying Brienne," Jon said at last. "Our arrangement was that I would keep living at the Northpoint, and help her whenever she needed me at the E-Star. We'd take our time, get used to thinking about each other as husband and wife. Decide about children in a few years. No pressure, no rushing." He looked sideways at her. "I take it there's a bit of a hurry on what you need me for?"

She felt her face heat. "Yes. I've been told by the rest of my family that I must marry and have children as soon as possible, so they can take over for me when I am no longer able to manage the family's business matters."

He frowned. "Business matters?"

She nodded. "I manage the ranch, the stock investments, the real estate portfolio, and various enterprises around the continent."

His eyebrows went up. "Continent?"

She nodded again. "I have controlling interest in various mines up and down the West Coast, from Alaska to San Francisco, and was able to buy several plantations around the Caribbean recently— sugar and tobacco. One even has a rum distillery attached. And I plan on building a cigar factory in the next year or two. I anticipate excellent profits." She paused, sure she was forgetting something. "Oh, and the fleet."

"Fleet?" he repeated, his voice faint.

"I felt it was impractical and wasteful, paying other companies to ship our products around the world, so I bought out a company with several dozen vessels, and now we do it all ourselves."

"And you run all of this alone?"

"Oh, of course not! I have several very competent vice-presidents who assist me. Oh, and I run the ranch, now, though I do have a foreman to assist. After that last disaster, I learned not to rely on someone else without understanding how they do their job. If not for your father, I would have been in dire straits."

"My father?" Jon said, startled.

"He and I agreed never to speak of it." But she was married to Ned's son, now. He should know, and so she told him all about how she and his father had helped each other in their times of need. When she was done, he sat back in the buggy seat and exhaled.

"Robb and I wondered where Father got the money for all those cattle," he said. "And that was you, the whole time."

"It was the least I could do." And she meant it; after her parents had died, there had been no one who could be bothered to teach her to run Targaryen Industries, and of course Viserys was no help at all. She'd been all of fifteen years old, and had to figure it out for herself, knowing how many people were depending on her. One very kind man had learned she was struggling, and offered assistance, for no other reason than because he felt it was the right thing to do.

He was silent another few minutes before saying, "You run this… business empire… so a few dozen slackers in New York—"

"Boston."

"—can live the good life, and they expect your children to inherit this burden from you? And you're agreeing to it?"

The skepticism in Jon's voice made her bristle, but she was careful to control the tone of her voice when she answered.

"Everything is shared equally among all of us, including the estate where I live, the funds I use to support myself and my brother. If I don't comply with their demands, they will withdraw their contributions and leave only whatever shares my brother and I own. And that's not enough to keep us. I might be able to get by, but Viserys…"

She trailed off for a moment, trying to think how to phrase it.

"You should know this from the beginning." She sighed. "He is… troubled. Harmless— mostly— but obsessed with the past. He sometimes fancies that he is one of the historical figures he is studying at the moment. I have put him in his own wing of the estate."

His expression was amazed.

"Are you actually telling me that you have your brother locked away in a remote part of the house?"

"Not… locked away, per se," Dany hedged. "Locked, yes, but he has a key to all the doors, and can get out, if he wishes. He just…" She sighed. "Doesn't usually wish. I think it makes him feel safe if he pretends he's a prisoner and cannot leave. And it's probably more comfortable for everyone else, if he doesn't leave, too."

She avoided his gaze, knowing he was staring at her, but when he didn't speak, she peeped up at him.

Jon raked his hand through his hair. "I feel like Jane Eyre."

"Does that make me Mr. Rochester?" she asked in reply, secretly delighted that he could make such a literary reference. Wasn't he supposed to be a bastard? She thought they received paltry educations, if any at all. It appeared there was more to her new husband than she had thought. "No," she said, feigning deep thought, a finger on her chin, "my eyebrows aren't bushy enough. They haven't enough thicketry."

He blinked at her and a hint of amusement curled his lips in a way Dany found very distracting.

"Is that even a word? I don't think that's a word."

"It is now," she told him airily. "How is it you know of Jane Eyre? Have you read it?"

"Sansa," he replied. "She loves it. Reads it to us at night, quotes it, talks about how romantic Mr. Rochester is. How is it romantic, to seduce a governess while your mad wife is imprisoned in the attic?" He looked to her as if seriously asking for her input. She hoped he wasn't looking to argue with her, because she shared his opinion: Mr. Rochester was in no way romantic to her. "Mad or not, she's still his wife. He has no business seducing a governess or anyone else."

"Does this mean I can rely upon your fidelity, Jon Snow?" she asked, her tone light, but she really, really wanted to know.

"Of course you can!" he said, his face outraged at the very idea. "I know we haven't married for love, but I promised. That means something to me, Dany."

His dark eyes were glowing, passionate. She believed him.

This man, she thought, is dangerous to me. This man could break my heart.

"To me as well," she said, very quietly. "I am glad we've nothing to worry about, in that regard." Then, more amused, " 'Dany'?"

He looked a little bashful. "Ah. Sorry. I won't use it, if you don't like. It's just that 'Daenerys' is such a mouthful… we Starks prefer short names."

"Jon," Dany said thoughtfully. "Robb. Bran." Pause. "Ned."

He sobered. "Ned," he repeated, and his shoulders slumped a little. "I can't believe it was only a week ago."

As she had at the funeral, she placed her hand over his. "Shall we name our first son after him?"

He had been looking down at their hands on his knee; at her words, he looked up at her. "You wouldn't mind?"

"I'd be honored."

He gazed at her, eyes studying her features. She wondered what he saw, what he thought of her. If she pleased him. She hoped so. He certainly pleased her, so far.

"You know I still have responsibilities at the Northpoint," he said eventually. "I don't know what you have in mind for me at your place, but—"

"I meant exactly what I said," she told him. "You can do whatever you like. If you want to be involved in the ranch, I would welcome your experience and knowledge. If you don't want to do that, however, I can fund a new venture you might like to start. Or you can just work your way through all the books in the library. All I ask is that you make reasonable attempts to fulfill your end of our bargain."

"I could spend half my time at the Northpoint, and the other half at the Triple D."

She smiled. "A modern day Persephone."

"That would make you Hades," he laughed, then surprised her by running a fingertip over one of her eyebrows. "I don't think you have the thicketry for that role, either."

Dany's smile faded; his touch felt like a lick of flame and, just like that, her excitement from earlier— never completely extinguished— flared up again. He seemed to sense it, or perhaps his own excitement was a volatile thing as well, because he sobered and did that thing he had done before, that made her breath feel thick and heavy: he slid his hand into her hair and held her still for his kiss.

Any worries she might have had about their first two kisses being flukes were put to rest with the third; it was just as affecting to her sensibilities, just as damaging to her composure, as the others had been. His lips were plush against hers, insistent as they slid and rubbed and caressed. His tongue was sleek velvet, and each stroke of it made desire lance through her until she was gasping into his mouth, hands scrabbling on his shoulders for purchase to hold him closer.

When they finally pulled back, they were both panting, mouths swollen and damp, eyes glowing with desire.

"Yes," Jon said. "Tonight. Or whenever I get back. As soon as I get back from the Northpoint with Ghost," he replied.

"Ghost?"

"My horse."

"Ah, of course."

"And you will have to explain… things… to your people," he added, and gestured around them. Dany glanced at their surroundings for the first time in a while, and realized that her well-trained horses, without her direction, had carried them back home and were patiently standing right before the house's front door.

For ranching purposes it was known as the Triple D, but a great-grandmother had cultivated an obsession with the manicured gardens of various Loire Valley castles and palaces, and dedicated a considerable amount of the property (and finances) to such fancies. Her son, Dany's grandfather, was equally inspired by Versailles, and had renovated the main house to be a full-scale replica of Marie Antoinette's Le Hameau. It looked bizarrely idyllic in the middle of a Texas meadow, surrounded by bluebonnets. She had always felt it ironic that a place of such harmonious beauty would be the home of so many people for whom 'harmony' had very little meaning. Targaryens were a passionate lot— usually overly so, to their detriment.

To her combined mortification and amusement, every window in the front of the house had a servant pressed against it, watching avidly as their mistress did improper things with a strange man while still seated in her buggy. Jon helped her down, and together they entered the house. She tried to view the frescoed plaster and elegant French tiles and muted colors from his eyes, and wondered if he felt contempt for her and her clearly-mad relatives. She hoped not, because it wasn't as if she could change it.

Her housekeeper, Missandei, appeared at once. Missandei was a little on the young side, but she had proven herself time and again as reliable and efficient after her predecessor had been run off by Viserys thinking she was Henry VIII when he was in the throes of believing himself to be both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. She had not been able to withstand his braying accusations of plotting to behead him. Fortunately, Missandei had stepped into the breach, undeterred by Viserys' conviction that she was Joan of Arc, and everything had run beautifully ever since.

A few other servants crept closer, obvious in their curiosity, because Dany never brought anyone home. The idea was unthinkable, and yet… there she was. With him. With a deep breath, she faced them with a big smile that, she hoped, disguised her apprehension, and spoke.

"Mr. Jon Snow has done me the honor of becoming my husband…"