Jon IX

Jon finished pounding the last fence post into the ground, then tossed his mallet in the vague direction of the canvas tool sack sprawled on the nearby grass. He swiped a shirt sleeve over his sweaty forehead and then stood back, hands on hips, to survey his work.

It was done. The stupid damned fence repairs, which his father and Jory had begun and been killed in the course of doing, which the sheriff had accosted him in the middle of, was done at last. He'd rather have been working with the cattle, but it had needed doing and Robb was still overwhelmed by the business-side of ranching.

Robb was also overwhelmed by his mother, who seemed to kick up a fuss about the stupidest things every damned day. As if that weren't enough, in recent weeks Jeyne Westerling had become far more eager to keep company with him, almost to the point of aggression in her less-and-less-subtle hints that they get married. Jon had warned Robb not to be alone with her, suspecting she might be so keen to become the next lady of the Northpoint that she'd coax him into a compromising situation.

He wanted to help his brother, but didn't know how much he'd be able to do— not with Miz Catelyn as eager to find fault with him, as prompt to assume he was bucking for her son's inheritance. And not with a baby on the way– more of his time would be spent at the Triple D when that day came.

A baby. He'd permitted himself to think about having childrensometimes, on rare occasions when he'd wait to fall asleep in his bunk, or while laying out under the stars while on a drive, wondering if that were all life had in store for him. If that were all he could expect. If, as Miz Catelyn seemed to believe, that were all he deserved, as someone with such tainted origins.

And then everything had changed, everything, and he was caught between gladness and guilt, for how could he be glad to have Dany, and their baby, when it was only due to his father's death that he did? There was no doubt in his mind that, had things gone another way and Joffrey had not killed Ned and Jory, Jon would never have had any reason to marry her, nor even talk to her, outside of the occasional brush-by in town.

He gathered up the tools and leftover materials, tossing them all in the canvas sack that he secured to Ghost's saddle before heaving himself up. Loathing scalded him as he returned to the main house, for his weakness and selfishness, because now that he'd had Dany, now that their baby was coming, he could not say with certainty that he wouldn't make that trade, if the choice were his.

He wanted to be able to say he'd keep his father alive, of course he would, even if it meant he'd live his life alone: the solitary bastard, no family of his own, always just a hanger-on of Ned's real children. And he couldn't, and it ate at him.

Back at the barn, he deposited the sack of tools at the workbench and made his way to the house. Inside was a-bustle as preparations were made for dinner, Claudia setting the table while glancing through the arched doorway down the hall toward the source of a ruckus. From afar, Jon could hear Miz Catelyn's sharp voice ringing off the walls as she reprimanded Sansa for returning so late from her afternoon ride to town for the mail.

"Either you won't be able to change," Miz Catelyn was saying, "or we'll have to hold dinner until you do!"

"Mother," Sansa replied with admirable patience, "there is nothing wrong with my dress. It was only the slightest bit dusty, and I can go back outside and brush more off of it if you think it needs it. But there's no need for me to change or to hold dinner."

Then boot-heels clicked down the hallway and Sansa appeared in the foyer.

"Jon!" she exclaimed, and despite the sour disappointment in himself that had curdled in his belly, there was a warm little burst of pleasure that she'd welcome him so. She came to him and kissed his cheek.

"You look like you were busy today," she commented with a smile, looking him up and down. Doubtless he was far dustier than she'd been, dirty too, and he thought with longing of a nice soak in Dany's big tub once he'd gone home.

"Finished the fence," he told her, and she nodded, though the animation went from her face. She, too, was clearly thinking about their father and Jory.

"You're welcome to stay for dinner," she said, "though I'm sure you want to get home."

Miz Catelyn appeared then, shooting Jon a venomous look and ignoring her daughter completely before vanishing through the door to the kitchen.

"She's not gotten any better, then?" Jon asked.

"No," said Sansa, her pretty head turned downward. "She's worse every day, in fact."

Jon had a thought, probably an unwise one, and was unsure if it were his place to speak of it, but…

"If you want," he said, "if you want to get away— only for a while— you can come stay with us?"

The gods knew there was enough room. She could have an entire floor to herself, could spend the day in peace and change for dinner— or not— as she wished. Perhaps, if she were bored, she could help Dany with some of her endless paperwork. She was far smarter than Jon was, far cannier when it came to business, had helped their father many times when it came to finding the right wording for sensitive letters to important people. She might even find it interesting work.

Sansa's face lit up with pleasure. "What a lovely idea," she breathed. "And— I can't— perhaps not just now. It's so soon after losing Father, it would be so unkind, and to leave her with Arya and the boys, that wouldn't be right, but… maybe? In a few more weeks?"

Jon nodded. "Whenever you like."

She pulled him into a hug, soon releasing him with a wrinkled nose when she caught a whiff of him after a hard workday. "Go home and bathe before you kiss your wife," she admonished, and he grinned, happy she felt able to tease him after so many years of tension. "And tell her I sent my regards."

"I will," Jon promised. She followed her mother to the kitchen and he went to the study, where Robb was squinting down at an account book.

"I have to hire a manager," his brother said solemnly, looking weary and frustrated. "I hate being cooped up in here all day. I don't like reducing the cattle to number of head, and I don't know what's happening out there anymore. It's all just other people reporting to me, and…"

He tossed the ledger onto the desk, where it landed with a thump on the untidy sprawl of papers and a pen that was steadily leaking into the leather blotter. Jon approached and stuck the pen in its stand before it could drench everything around it.

"What are you doing here?" Robb continued. His fingers raked through his auburn curls, displacing them so they danced wildly around his head. "Come to say goodbye for the day?"

"That, and give you a report," said Jon, grinning at the sour frown Robb gave in response. "Fence is mended."

Robb exhaled. "Thanks. Wish you'd stay for dinner, sometimes. I almost never see you anymore."

"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I'll have Dany meet me here." He paused. "If that wouldn't be a problem. With your mother."

"If my mother has a problem, it's her problem," said Robb. "She's been… I know she's suffered a terrible loss. We all have. But she's making us all miserable, lately. I find myself envious of you, more and more each day. You get to go home to a pretty little wife, instead of spending your evening listening to Mother criticize all of us, tell us how we need to be different, how we're failing Father by not listening to her…"

"She'd be criticizing me even more than the rest of you, if I did stay," Jon reminded him, irritation flaring. 'Pretty little wife' aside, he'd had a lifetime of being only one step up in status from the cows in the eyes of everyone but his father and most of his siblings. Envious of what? Being a bastard? Being viewed as no better than any ranch hand? His brothers and sisters had lived in luxury, eating fine meals while he'd been relegated to the bunkhouse and scooping beans from a can with a tin spoon.

Robb's shoulders slumped in resignation before he slapped his hands down on the desk— one right on top of the damp ink patch, how had he not seen it?— before pushing himself to stand.

"Well, get going. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can give Daenerys a kiss from her goodbrother." He made to slap Jon playfully on the shoulder, but Jon dodged away; he didn't have many shirts, and still didn't know how he felt about Dany buying him clothing. He couldn't spare this one to an inky handprint.

The fondness on Robb's face chipped away at his resentment, leaving him ashamed for it. Oblivious his brother might be to what Jon had endured, but he'd never thrown it in Jon's face or made him feel less than welcome and loved.

"Go wash up," he advised his brother, forcing a jovial tone and grinning at Robb's misfortune when he looked down and saw the huge blue splotch across his palm. "Good luck with it."

It was a peaceful ride home, a long slow sunset over the hills just ending in a red sun hovering on the horizon as twilight waited to fall as he arrived at the Triple D. A carriage was there as he approached, looking familiar, and then Jon recalled how the Lannisters preferred dark red leather for the folding hoods of their vehicles. Jaime was with Brienne now and using her wagon, so that ruled him out, but… for a moment, Jon thought perhaps Cersei Baratheon was back. Why would she be paying a call on Dany, though?

Missandei took his hat and directed him to the library where Dany was with their guest, and within he found Tyrion Lannister gazing with avid eyes at one of her dirty books. He glanced over at his wife; she only smirked as she rose from behind her huge old desk.

They exchanged greetings and then he went up to wash. No time for a bath, so he only lathered up a cloth and scrubbed down, then pulled on fresh clothes. Downstairs, they sat around the ornately carved table. A nearby buffet almost groaned beneath the weight of dinner, and his stomach growled, surprising him with how famished he was. Missandei watched, eagle-eyed, from the corner nearest the kitchen as a new servant— Dany called him a footman— began to carve thick slabs of a roast onto each of their plates.

They spent a few minutes dedicating themselves to their meal. Dany ate sparingly, as was her habit now that she was expecting, but Jon and Tyrion both did considerable damage to the roast.

"We'll take dessert on the veranda," Dany told Missandei when they were done, and led them through the Lyseni doors to the deep porch. Dusk encompassed the sky in shades of cobalt and violet, almost distracting Jon entirely from the point of Tyrion's visit with its resemblance to Dany's eyes and wondering if their baby would share their color.

"Not that it's bad to see you again," Jon said as they all seated themselves in the leather-padded rocking chairs that furnished the veranda, "but we were never exactly close, before you left, so…"

"If you would repeat to my husband what you revealed to me earlier?" Dany prompted Tyrion, interrupting Jon's musings as he turned his chair to face the other two more easily.

"Why, Jon, are you not delighted by my presence?" Tyrion said with a feigned gasp of shock, one stubby hand to his chest as if mortally wounded. Jon only propped an ankle on the opposite knee, his curiosity whetted by the other man's facetious response. Tyrion shot him a fake scowl. "Yes, fine. I'm here because I'll be looking into exonerating my brother, and thought you might also be interested in pursuing it for yourself. From what I've heard about your case, it doesn't hold water."

"A sieve holds more water," Jon growled, his mood taking an abrupt shift for the worse at the idea of the injustice he and Jaime had suffered. He had no love for the man, hardly knowing him, but he knew Jaime hadn't done it, no more than he himself had killed Joffrey, and it galled him that two people could be summarily convicted on such spurious 'evidence'. "They weren't bothered to try to find us guilty, they made us have to prove our innocence. That's not how it should be."

"You're not alone in that opinion," agreed Tyrion, a keen intellect shining in his mismatched eyes. "Some think that there needs to be some legislation established where we presume one is innocent until convinced otherwise with evidence, with the burden of proof on the prosecution rather than the defense, but until there's case law on the subject, at the federal level…" He spread out his hands in the universal gesture of futility. "It is as it is."

"What can be done?" asked Jon. "Anything? Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life known as a killer, convicted and sentenced."

"I don't know yet. Won't until I get a chance to look at the judgment of conviction, the discovery— such as it is— I need to look at what Judge Baelish wrote to justify his verdict." Tyrion's eyebrow twitched and he tilted his head as he contemplated Jon, making him feel like he was being dissected rather than merely observed. "So, for the sake of your reputation? Not to—" here, he gave a delicate cough "—make a moot point of Mrs. Snow's kind sacrifice for your sake?"

Jon glanced at Dany; she met his eyes, but her face had that cool façade that obstructed any inkling to her thoughts. Jon had a wild impulse to shout at her, or shake her, to do something to make that façade crumble and permit him a glimpse to what she was thinking.

"Thank you, but no," he told Tyrion at last, though the words were for Dany. "We're expecting a baby, so there will be no dissolving of our marriage."

"My goodness," Tyrion murmured. "You work quickly, ser."

"I find the threat of death to be quite a motivator," he replied, tone a bit sharp. It was not Tyrion's place, or anyone else's, to comment on the speed with which he'd managed to get his wife with child.

"Indeed, indeed," said Tyrion, a note of appeasement to his tone. "My brother will positively seethe with jealousy, that you're outdoing him in that regard."

"I wasn't aware it was a race," said Dany. Her tone was chilly, with an odd note to it. He peered at her; it was hard to tell, with only the lantern light now that dark had fallen, but he could have sworn she looked… hurt. But why? Jon frowned at her, but her attention was wholly on Tyrion.

"So, for the sake of your reputation, if not a wish for liberation from your marriage," Tyrion said with care, "shall I work on your behalf? Or only on my brother's?"

It was on Jon's lips to refuse, reiterating the pointlessness of it, but also… he had nowhere near enough money to afford an attorney, especially at the rates a Lannister would charge, and felt no better about having his wife pay for his lawyer than for his shirts.

"Yes," said Dany, to his surprise. "I think that would be beneficial."

Surprised, he looked from Tyrion to her and found her watching him, the way she used to before they married. It made Jon feel like they were in the mercantile doorway again, him no more than an obstacle in her path and her asking in that haughty little voice if he'd be so kind to move.

"I'm tired," he said abruptly and stood. "Been a long day, and another one tomorrow. Dany will show you out."

He was aware of Tyrion's startled gaze on him as he passed through the doors into the dining room, where the footman was just carrying in a silver tray laden with a tea service and slivers of cake on wafer-thin china plates. The footman's eyes widened but, wisely, he said nothing as Jon brushed by him. Through the foyer, up the grand, arching staircase to their bedroom, where he shed the clothing he'd put on only an hour earlier and fell into the bed.

Fatigued though he was, sleep eluded him. First it was the noise created when Tyrion's carriage ambled down the drive on its way out, stone crunching under its wheels and the horses' tack clinking and jangling with each trot.

Then he blamed it on the moon, rising huge and bright in the clear Texas sky; he flung back the covers and stomped to the window, yanking closed the drapes until they shrouded the room in darkness but for twin slivers of light persisting at the edges of the fabric.

It was too hot. Why would there be quilts on the bed this early in the autumn? He peeled them off until only the thin coverlet and sheet remained. And there weren't enough pillows. He stacked his own under his head, then took Dany's and piled them up as well, until he found himself propped into a seated position rather than laying down, and then there were too many.

At last he was forced to admit to himself that he was angry, and had been all day. Fixing the fence had been an endless reminder of his father's death, and then Catelyn being her superior, demeaning self, and now Dany with that cool expression and wanting to hire Tyrion. Why? To get rid of him, now that he'd served his purpose as a stud bull?

When the slivers of light disappeared and the room went fully dark, Jon realized that the moon had shifted and no longer beamed right toward the window. Hours had passed and Dany had not yet joined him. Had she returned to the library to work, despite the doctor's admonition she rest more?

Jon bounded from the bed to where he'd discarded his clothes on the chair and pulled on his trousers once more, then tugged on his shirt before padding out to the corridor in his bare feet. Downstairs, the dining room was cleared and tidied; the veranda was devoid of activity or sign anyone had been there at all. The study was dark and silent, the lamps long since snuffed.

In the kitchen, the cook was just hanging up her apron.

"Ask Missandei to come see me," he told the woman, who nodded and departed for locations unknown, as Jon had yet to visit the servants' quarters. He thought they might be behind Viserys' wing.

He waited in the hall outside the kitchen, and soon Missandei arrived, so soundlessly that he startled when she appeared before him.

"Where is my wife?" he asked.

Her gaze flicked over his disarray. "Will you beat her?" she asked without expression. "If you will, I won't tell you."

Jon flinched back, stunned. "No!" he said, too confused to be angry at such an offensive question. "I'd never— she's—"

A woman— my wife— carrying my child— there were so many reasons the question was insane, he found himself unable to mention any of them, only staring in astonishment at the housekeeper.

Apparently the horror of his reaction convinced Missandei, because she nodded. "Follow me," she said, and led him into Viserys' wing. Jon had never been there before, either, and was amazed at how different it was from Dany's.

Hers was all clean lines and grace, while Viserys' was as labyrinthine and convoluted as his mind. They followed a short corridor, then up three stairs; took another few steps, made a sharp turn, then down five stairs. Along a deep-curved wall and through a door so short even little Missandei had to stoop to fit through it— Jon nearly bent in half to accomplish it— and then up eight stairs.

At the end of a broad hallway, she tossed up the sash of a window and climbed through it, making a shout freeze in Jon's throat until he realized she hadn't just flung herself to her death, merely passed through to a room on the other side. He followed, his knees almost to his nose as he folded himself small enough to fit. When he straightened, found himself in a room a pasha would not turn up his nose at.

Windowless, it was draped all around in lavender charmeuse, deep ruching all along the walls and gathered in pleats up the conical ceiling, at the center of which was an actual crown, lined in plum velvet and glinting with amethysts. Plush carpets covered the floors with exotic patterns in ivory and heliotrope, and in place of furniture were enormous cushions in lilac satin, against which reclined his wife.

She had exchanged her frock for a shift of utter simplicity in lustrous, ink-dark aubergine silk embroidered in silver around the neck, cuffs, and hem. Her unbound hair was startling in its paleness against the silk.

Jon scarcely noticed when Missandei left, but as soon as he realized they were alone, he took a step closer.

"She thought I was going to beat you."

Dany stood and approached. She looked like a being from fantasy, impossible in her beauty, encompassing in her allure. How could she let a bastard touch her?

"My father beat my mother any time she displeased him," she replied, voice quiet. "She must have thought you were angry at me."

"I was. I am." He licked his lips and stared down at her, confused and aroused and vexed, all at once. "But I'd never hurt you."

She nodded soberly, and his muscles uncoiled a fraction, not realizing until just then how important it was to him that she know he'd die before harming her.

"I'm angry at you, too," she said. "I did not like you speaking for me about our marriage. And not in front of another person. Nor that you revealed we were expecting to him."

Jon was astonished that she'd be upset by something inevitable, and angersplintered through him.

"We are expecting," he said tightly, "and it's only a matter of time before the whole town knows. You fainted and the sheriff carried you down Main Street, and if that weren't enough, Doc Pycelle is the biggest gossip in Central Texas. You'd have done better to put an ad in the Austin Herald; fewer people'd know about it by now."

Not a flicker of reaction showed on her face; butter could not have melted in her mouth.

"You are trying to pick a fight with me," she said at last, and took another step closer, until she was near enough to reach out and run a fingertip down the row of buttons on his open shirt. "But I don't feel like a fight."

"What do you feel like?" Jon's voice came out deeper, harsher than he'd intended, but he'd caught a glimpse of the desire welling in her eyes. He knew what she felt like doing. His hands came to her arms, encircling their fragile slimness, the heat of her permeating the skim of silk over her flesh. "Is it safe?" He'd not do anything to harm their baby. His anger began to fade, thrust aside by burgeoning desire, and he bent to kiss her.

She opened to him, tongue toying with his until his heart thundered in his chest and his breath came in gasps.

"Are you sure you want to?" she asked when they parted for air, her tone goading. "Without the threat of death motivating you, there's no need to continue with a farce—"

Anger sparked within Jon at her words; she was going to punish him for things he'd said in irritation at someone else? He kissed her again, so passionately that she sagged against him and he had to grab her, lower her to the cushions before she fell to them.

Her shift was easily peeled off, as were his shirt and trousers, and then they were bare against each other. Dany pushed at his shoulders until he rolled to his back. His chest was heaving like a bellows, and when she raked her fingernails down his chest to his groin— lightly, lightly— he groaned, eyes rolling back in his head.

She took Jon in her mouth, and his body arched as if in pain at her delicate suction of only the purpling head of his erection. He shouted, writhing. She showed mercy and knelt on the bed at his waist, one leg slinging itself over his hips. She took him in hand, stroking him through her damp cleft and watching, eyes heavy-lidded in satisfaction, as he panted quick and shallow in response.

At last Dany sank down over him, taking him deep. The slow, wet drag of her flesh had Jon surging up, thrusting to meet every downward glide. Each time made a slick, sleek noise, and the scent of her hot, fresh juices teased his nose ruthlessly.

Their gazes locking, she cupped her breasts, pinching the rosy nipples, pulling them until they stood out, delicate points stiff and reaching for him. One hand drifted, languorous and lazy, southward until it curved around her mons. Her middle finger pressed inward, eliciting a gasp of her own as it found the hard bud at her center. Then she reached lower with two fingers, sliding them to either side of the wet prick sinking so eagerly into the swollen folds.

Jon twitched at this added stimulus, the tendons of his neck standing out in high, tense relief. He threw his head back, throat exposed and vulnerable, offering himself to her as he poured himself out into her body with a guttural, muffled cry. He could see nothing but light, hear nothing but the rush of blood in his veins, and pleasure crashed like waves, like waves…

Slowly, she lowered herself to lay on him, ear pressed to his thundering heartbeat. He lay there in a daze for endless moments. His thoughts were a fog in gray and charcoal, tangled like a skein of wool. What had happened? Why had they argued?

She was furious that he'd told a stranger that he'd only wed her because of their agreement: she would save him and he'd father her children. But it was the truth; he would not have married her, would not have laid a finger on her, had that not been the case. It might have been indelicate, to speak of it to Tyrion, but where was the lie? Surely her pride was not so delicate that she could not tolerate speaking the truth when it showed her in less-than-favorable light?

But he was furious, as well; her choosing to hire Tyrion to clear his name was not what he had wanted, and she had agreed without consulting him. He had some pride, too, and it did not like the idea that now that she had what she required from him, he was no longer needful to her.

Despite his fulminating resentment, Jon fell asleep. When he woke, Dany was gone and he was alone in the lush opulence of the room. It was close and airless without any windows, his cock was stuck to his thigh, and he was parched enough to drink from a horse trough. He had no idea how to find his way out of Viserys' twisted madhouse.

With a sigh, he collapsed back onto the cushions and closed his eyes.