A/N: Additional tags-light bondage; light angst.
2. Ad Interim
There's a feverish light in Daenerys' eyes this night when he comes to her. The Unsullied soldier on duty nods at him when he passes, then takes his leave; they've come to learn that there's no reason for them to linger when Ser Jorah Mormont arrives.
He is conflicted about the nature of their relationship being out in the open. Whilst it's been reassuring to see Daenerys not shying away from the truth at all, he knows that many whisper and snigger about it behind his back.
No one irritates him more than Tyrion Lannister, who never fails to pass up the opportunity to make ribald jokes out of the queen's earshot.
All of that melts away the moment he's back in her presence. Daenerys turns away from the window, eyes shining like Drogon's might when faced with a tasty meal, and he swallows hard. It's a look he's now well-familiar with. His queen is in a rare mood.
"Ser Jorah," she says, the formality making his breeches tighten treacherously. "You've kept me waiting."
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he responds, playing along, clasping his hands deferentially in front of him, bowing his head in subservience.
"You know I hate to be kept waiting."
"I know."
"Well? What could possibly have been important enough to keep you away?"
Tyrion, of course, with his incessant pressing about their relationship, because he knows exactly how much it gets under his skin. He will not admit that to her, though; his pride would not take it. And Daenerys would find it more amusing than anything else. She is a woman confident in her sexuality and what she wants.
There's something she wants now, he can tell by that glint.
"Well?" she demands.
"I'm sorry," he apologises again.
"I'm afraid that that isn't good enough," she tells him.
"I will make it up to you, my queen."
"You will. I shall take up your punishment myself."
Punishment. The word sends a hot chill flaring up his spine. His cock twitches.
She must sense his reaction, for she raises one of those expressive eyebrows at him, a smirk broad across her lips. She is a woman and a queen who knows exactly what to expect from her most faithful knight. Others might be emasculated, but not he. He knows what a miracle stands before him, and how lucky he is to be the one sharing her journey from beginning to end, in capacity of lover now as well as advisor. He will never take that for granted.
Daenerys does not seem in the mood for such deep issues tonight, however. Her eyes rove without shame over his form. She crosses the room to the four poster bed which dominates most of the space and sits back on her hands as if she is watching a performance at a feast.
"Remove everything but your breeches," she informs him.
Jorah's pulse quickens, and he moves his hands to his sword belt at once. The atmosphere thickens as he loosens the Valyrian steel from his side—her gift to him, forged with Drogon's breath and his most prized possession—and rears it against the side of her drawers. He makes quick work of his lord commander's armour, deconstructing himself piece by piece until he is no longer a knight and only a man. She sweeps her gaze over his bare chest with calculated deliberation, humming her appreciation. It's not something he understands, her attraction to him, but there can be no misconstruing the desire in her gaze. He isn't sure how she can find his body arousing when she has been accustomed to the kinds of men that she has been with in the past, none mangled like him, but the gods have seen fit to bless him with this gift and he isn't fool enough to question it. He stands to attention before her, instructions followed to the letter, meeting her gaze with pride a she drinks all of him in. His cock presses uncomfortably against the front of his breeches; there's no hiding the beast that stirs in its lair.
"Join me," says Daenerys, beckoning him forward. He moves at once, following her as she shuffles backwards to create more room for him. His instincts are sharp; they share one mind. Daenerys wants him to lie back on the bed and he follows her unspoken command at once, reclining against her plush pillows.
Breathing speeding up in anticipation.
Tension crackles.
Idly, Daenerys reaches out to run her nails down his bare chest, taking great pains to catch his nipples in the process. Jorah can't swallow back his groan. Since the removal of the greyscale, the scar tissue left behind is particularly sensitive to the touch, and Daenerys uses that to her advantage each and every time. She traces one of them now with her tongue, from sternum to stomach, veering off on the jagged story it tells, never taking her eyes from his. He sucks in a sharp breath when her tongue laves around the bud of his nipple, sucking and kissing until it's a hard little peak, wet with her saliva. His cock rubs urgently against his breeches and he tries to alleviate some of that by pressing himself up against her, finding the warm crevice between her thighs, burning even now through the thin layers of her own clothes. But the relief lasts mere seconds before she shifts further down, pressing her weight over his knees. Jorah grunts, reaching out for her hips, but she catches his hands and pushes them back to the mattress, the odd gleam reappearing anew. He pauses.
"Khaleesi?" he says, mouth drying. It's a term of endearment he can't stop, and her grin widens.
"Ser Jorah," she mimics, scratching her nails against the taut skin of his stomach. The tingles arrow straight down to his cock, and he huffs in a mix of frustration and yearning, reaching out for her once more. She pushes his hands back down with firm regality.
"What did I say earlier?" she says.
"What?" he pants, addled as she continues to run her fingers over his torso, leaving fire in their wake.
"You kept me waiting," she explains again, the formality of her voice making him arch up unbidden. "And now you need to serve your punishment."
"Yes, Khaleesi," he moans, running through with liquid flame. "I am yours to command."
Smirking, she rummages behind her, dangling leather straps from her fingertips. He furrows his brows at her, not quite comprehending, although the pulse of his cock lets him know that whatever she might have planned for him, he's going to enjoy. A whipping, perhaps? Gods, it's the kind of thing Tyrion would tell him about LIttlefinger's brothels in the past after the wine has made him even more lecherous than usual, but he's never given it any thought himself, certainly not something he would ordinarily have said he was interested in for himself…
Before he can think about those confusing, conflicting feeling any further, Daenerys has grabbed hold of one of his wrists, looping the smooth leather around it.
Now he understands, and he swallows hard. He's too surprised to say anything as she secure his first wrist to the bed post and makes a start on the second.
"There," she says triumphantly. "For your crimes, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, I sentence you to the punishment of watching and waiting yourself."
Her hands move to his breeches. And there's nothing he can do to stop her.
Daenerys is the most extraordinary woman he has ever met for more reasons than one. Not just for the magic and myth of her, the Mother of Dragons, the woman destined to break the wheel. She is extraordinary for her gentle heart, her empathy, her quick wit, her grit and determination. The people of Bear Island have the strength of ten mainlanders, and Daenerys Targaryen would fit in with them handsomely.
Dragons and bears are not so dissimilar, Lyanna Mormont will tell them one day, and he'll know the grudging respect of a hard-faced northern lady—and a lady from his homeland at that—means a great deal to Daenerys.
That determination is on display now, but it is being used against him. She eases his breeches down his hips and tugs them off entirely, leaving him completely exposed. His cock stands to attention, red and already beginning to weep. He simply cannot help his reaction to her. Years of wanting her have made him embarrassingly susceptible to her every touch, and she knows it; she runs her index finger down the side of his glands with another quirk of the eyebrow. He grunts, hips surging forward helplessly, but she stops as soon as he moves.
He should have known her threat to punish him was sincere.
Daenerys shuffles away from him, rising up on her knees and drawing her thin nightgown up over her head and casting it aside. He groans again at the sight of her full breasts, dusky rose nipples hardening in the air. She crawls towards him on hands and knees, bending down to run the top of her nose down his, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. She's gone before he can respond, moving her attention to the shell of his ear instead. Her tongue is warm and wet and maddening.
"Daenerys," he breathes; instinctively, he tugs against his bindings, yearning to reach out and wrap her in his arms. There's nothing in the world he enjoys more than that, running his hands over her curves, touching her wherever he can. As long as he lives he will never forget the ice in her tone when she told him never to touch her again. He will never take for granted the privilege of touching her, but it's even more exasperating now that he can't touch her for himself.
The ends of her hair tickle his skin, and he feels the curve of her smile against his neck as she trails her lips over the sinew. He squirms away from her nails as they run down his sides. Her mouth follows the path, blessing each inch of skin she comes across. It's a gloriously erotic feeling, and a rare one too; it's not often that he's completely at her mercy in this manner. He prefers to be the one serving her, for she is the kind of woman who deserves to be blessed over and over again.
And yet, somehow, Daenerys enjoys doing this to him too. Enjoys touching him, kissing him, learning every crevice of his body. Taking advantage of her opportunity to touch him freely.
Touches him with a tenderness he's never experienced before. Mouths the jut of his hip bones, runs her tongue along the ridge of his pelvis, down, down…
He can't suppress his groan as her hot breath blows against the tip of his straining cock, his hips arching forward involuntarily, desperate for any kind of stimulation.
"What's wrong?" she asks him innocently. She presses her palm against his thigh, and the muscles tense up unbidden.
"Nothing, my queen," he murmurs. He knows how this playful game works. If he wants to be rewarded—and he will be rewarded—then he needs to play by her rules.
Even if it leaves him squirming and on the verge of finishing like a green boy.
Daenerys is pleased with him; she shifts further down the bed, pushing his willing knees open so that she can lay between them. Jorah cranes his head a little to peer down into those smoky violet eyes, almost royal purple in hue, coloured so with her lust.
Her mouth moves to the inside of his thigh, and he bites his tongue so hard he almost tastes blood. The dragon toys with her bear, and the bear is unable to resist the promise of honey. He tightens the muscles in his arse in an attempt to keep his hips cemented to the bed, but that only heightens the feelings as her mouth explores the sensitive area, so close to where he needs her to be.
The leather straps around his wrist which strain as he pulls against them mock him.
"Ser? Is there something you wish to say?"
He grits his teeth and shakes his head.
"That's good," she says…and runs her nose down the thick vein on the side of his cock.
"Fuck." The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it, but Daenerys simply encourages him with her lips brushing against the crown of his head. Gods, he wants her so very much…
There's no mistaking what she's going to do, and he quivers in anticipation. He enjoys having a woman's mouth on him, of course he does. He'd just not expected it from his queen.
Every nerve in his body longs for it, but he is still a knight, and she is his whole world.
"My queen," he gasps. "You don't—"
He stops short when her tongue slips out to tickle him, choking on whatever else he might have been about to say.
"I don't what?" she challenges him. Her fingernails press into his thighs just slightly, reminding him that dragons have claws as well as teeth and fire in their bellies.
Respect for his queen compels him to continue. "You don't need to do that, Daenerys."
"Do what?" She's all faux-innocence, her mouth so unbearably close to where he craves her. "Speak plain, Ser Jorah."
He squeezes his eyes closed, stubborn as anyone from Bear Island. "You are a queen. You don't need to sully yourself so."
Silence. Daenerys shifts back, and he forces his eyes open at the movement. Gone is the playfulness; she's frowning now.
"Is that what you think?" she demands. "That I shouldn't do this? That it's an act for whores?"
"No, of course not!" he says, pulling against the ties as he forgets his vulnerable state. The last thing he ever wishes to do is offend her.
"Then why object? I told you, I am not a queen here. I am simply a woman, and as a woman I am entitled to explore the things that make me curious."
There is some of that old naivety there, the young girl behind the woman. It will never be as simple as that; no matter what, she will always be the queen. She might want to push it aside, but it is an inescapable fact. Her duty will always come first, even if she thinks that it's something that can be forgotten for a time.
He won't forget. Because as she is queen first and woman second, so too is he Lord Commander first and man second. His duty will always be to protect her, whether that's from outside forces, herself, him.
"Khaleesi—" he tries.
"No," she stops him forcefully. "Not Khaleesi, not Your Grace, not now. Right now I am Daenerys."
"Daenerys—"
But she overrides him again, amethyst eyes flashing. "Do you need reminding of your place, ser?"
Shame floods him. Yes, his place in her household, in the world she is building…
"I love you." Her words stop his heart. "I love you, Jorah. That's the only thing that matters."
It's not, he knows that. In reality, it's the least important thing. Her feelings, his feelings, mean nothing in the wake of politics. But Daenerys seems determined to disprove that, and he does not wish to argue with her. Not now. So he inclines his head.
Daenerys lips tug upwards slightly, her silent agreement that they should put the subject to one side for the time being. When he remains still, she takes it as his assent to continue, and she slides back down his body, the ends of her silken moonlit-kissed hair tickling his thighs. Now he can't bite back a groan.
And nothing on earth would give him the strength to pull away as her questing mouth finds the tip of his cock. He shudders, his hips arching instinctively.
"Gods," he groans. His voice seems to be the last encouragement she needs. Her mouth descends on him with greedy need.
There is no woman alive who knows his body as well as Daenerys Targaryen does. He has bared himself to her in all ways, shared heart and body and soul. Over the months she has learned him well, trailed her fingers and mouth over every inch of him, and he is but a helpless instrument at her command, responding to every touch until she knows the places and motions that affect him the most.
And so she uses her knowledge to her advantage now: her tongue teases the ridge of his fleshy head, then sweeps over the fullness of its bulb. He's weeping for her already, and she maintains eye contact as she circles it slowly, drinking him in.
And his wrists burn painfully against the leather straps as she descends down on him fully, her tongue sly and swirling, one hand moving to grasp the part of him that she can't fit in her mouth, the other moving to rake her nails over the inside of his thigh; he tugs against his restraints, a man driven to the edge of madness.
He feels her smile around his cock, and somehow that's even more sinful. She rewards him with a few concise laps, her head bobbing back and forth as she hollows her throat to take as much of him in as she can. He tenses, feeling the knot at the base of his cock. Gods, if she carries on like that he'll spill down her throat—
"Khaleesi," he pleads, his fingers flexing uselessly, trying to make her understand as his hips strain forward of their own volition.
Thankfully, she seems able to read the hitch in his breathing, for she pulls away from him with one last languid lick to the crown of his cock. She makes sure she has his full attention as she runs that tongue over her teeth, a lewd savouring of his taste. The blood in his veins is far too hot, sizzling like dragonfire beneath his skin. Daenerys shifts up his body to kiss him fiercely, her tongue plundering his mouth. He tastes himself on her tongue, and he moans into her mouth at the wickedness of it.
"You are mine and I am yours," she tells him, trapping his head between her arms. "No matter what anyone says. They can't take this away from us."
It could all be taken away in a single moment. A misplaced sword, sudden fever, a rebellion. The Long Night had proven that to them both. Death could have snatched him at any moment, and it was sheer luck alone that had got him here.
But above all Daenerys is an idealist, a dreamer, still a young woman in a world that had been cruel to her all of her life.
In the day, when they are in their roles, it's his duty to counsel her, to show her different sides to arguments which she might not have thought of, to temper some of her impulsiveness and to protect her no matter what.
But here, for the moment at least, he can indulge her. He does not want to quarrel. And the words he spoke to Ser Barristan all those years ago across the Narrow Sea are as true now as they've ever been: he believes in her with all his heart.
"I am yours," he echoes, the oath of fealty he'll swear for the rest of his days. Daenerys relaxes atop him; he feels the tension in her muscles leech away and knows that this particular storm has passed without incident. It's one that is sure to revisit, but that's for another time. A more formal setting. Not these quarters, not this night, not when they are man and woman.
Tenderly she runs her fingertips up the sensitive skin of his inner arms, and he jerks forwards in his restraints, grunting. It seems to be the last sign she needs, for in the next moment she's easing herself over him. Jorah swears aloud as her she slides over the ridge of his cock. She's as aroused as he is, and he hasn't even touched her. That's his dragon queen—someone born to rule. She will rule him for the rest of her days.
She sets up a rapid pace against him, evidently too aroused to try for any of the seductive teasing she is infamous for. He thanks the gods aloud in guttural grunts and half-nonsensical words as she undulates against him, the wet heat of her enough to drive him to madness. His wrists will be covered in angry sores from the way he is straining against his binds, and they are unyielding; he will not be getting his hands on her today. Somehow, that's even more erotic, being at her mercy in every single way. As he always will be. His hips arch up into her of their own accord, a primal call he cannot ignore. This is what she reduces him to—a collection of organs longing for nothing but the end with her.
She sits up on him, strong thighs gripping his hips like she would the flanks of her mare, breasts bouncing as she rocks against him, and he groans, frantic with the urge to touch them, to cup their soft firmness in his palms and to rub the pad of his thumb over the rough ridge of her nipple. Better still, to suck those peaks into his mouth, to nibble at them with his teeth and feel their seductive hardness against the roll of his tongue, her body arching closer to his because he knows just what she likes.
Daenerys isn't giving up one inch of her control tonight. The dragon queen is too accustomed to getting her own way. She submits to him sometimes, on rare occasions, but tonight he is her prey. He swallows hard as he takes in the sight of all of her, skin silvered by the moonlight and shadowed by the flicker of candles, watches as she sits there upon him as she sits upon her throne, straight-backed and proud…her hand snaking its way between her thighs to her slick pearl. And there she sits, his queen of love and beauty, touching herself, playing the familiar strings that he has played upon her body a hundred times before, her soft moans growing in pitch, eyes a deep shade of velvet, the cadence of her rolling hips becoming more like the violent waves at sea as the eye of the storm approaches. Unpredictable, fierce, rising, rising…
Cresting. Daenerys makes a soft, guttural sound in the back of her throat, and Jorah feels the fluttering of her walls around him.
It's too much. His arms jerk reflexively, and the majestic headboard groans threateningly as he strains against his bonds. Thick, warm pleasure fizzes through his head, and the tight ball low down in his belly explodes, his whole body trembling with the sheer pleasure of it.
"Khaleesi," he incants, "Khaleesi." Over and over and over, a prayer he will say every day for her. Gods don't exist. There is just one goddess.
She sinks down against him, skin sticky with sweat. He can't bring himself to care that it's a little bit uncomfortable. She is all he's wanted for so long now; any discomfort is worth it to be in her presence this way. She presses a kiss against his clavicle, and he nuzzles his nose against the damp hair at her temple.
It's only when his arms drop rather unceremoniously back to his sides that he realises he's free once more. He huffs. His arms tingle, the blood rushing back into his limbs. The tips of his fingers have gone numb, and there are angry red welts where he strained against the bindings. Daenerys' own fingers are on him at once, her fingertips smoothing over those harsh indentations.
"Are you all right?" she asks, voice softer than the incantations offered by the red priests. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
The idea of this beautiful, slight woman physically harming him brings a reluctant smile to his face. Oh, Daenerys Targaryen isn't innocent. She's hurt him a thousand times over in the past, and though he hates to think about it, doubtless she will hurt him a thousand times more before he dies. The harsh words she'd spat like fire have charred his soul, never to fully heal because he won't allow them to, picking at the scabs over and over to bleed anew. But physically?
"I've had worse," he tells her, moving his left arm with great difficulty so he can drape it over the small of her back. She is not to be deterred, pushing herself up against his chest so she can peer down into his face. The shadows have come to dance, right there across her features.
"Would you tell me?" she insists. "If I hurt you?"
"Aye," he says, a lie he has to tell them both. Daenerys' choices mean that she will forever be bound by duty, just the same as him. Queen and knight, never to be truly together.
One day she will be forced to make a match with a noble lord, for the satisfaction of her council, the people of King's Landing, the realm. She says that she loves him and he believes her when she says it, for Daenerys has never spoken mistruly to him, as she might have to other men, but this is not a song. True love does not conquer all, even at the command of a queen with the strength and grace and fire of a dragon.
What Daenerys decides to do is not something he should trouble himself with. Perhaps she will want a political marriage. Perhaps he will still be permitted to share her bed whilst the rest of her followers turned a blind eye to their transgressions.
Perhaps she will find a worthy match and find a man better at loving her and more deserving of that love in turn. If that happens, he will need to find the strength to stand aside.
Will he be able to do it, now that he's had a taste of what it's like to be loved by her? Now that he's been swallowed by the tempest? No matter the hurt, no matter the jealousy, no matter the bitterness?
And he knows the answer is yes. No matter the cost. She might not always be his, but he will always be hers.
They're worries for another day. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps a year from now. The here and now is what is important, and the here and now has Daenerys cupping his cheek in her palm and scuffing her thumb over the rise of his cheekbone. He turns into her touch, managing to press a kiss to the meat of her palm. She smiles in response, finally sliding from his body to the mattress beside him. She doesn't stay away from him for long, rolling onto her side and looping her arm through his. She presses a kiss against the raised scar near his armpit, one of the many blades he took for her on the Long Night.
"I'm going to doze for a bit now," she mumbles.
"As is your right as queen," he says, moving to rest his cheek against the crown of her head as she rests her head against him.
"I told you, here I'm just Daenerys," she says. "A woman with a simple life with the man she loves. The rest of the kingdom waits at the door when I cross this threshold, Jorah. Now it's just me and you. There's no need to talk politics." Her fingers walk across his chest, clasping him to her tighter. He likes that, that she enjoys being so close to him, touching him. He certainly treasures being able to hold her.
And if she wants to simply forget about Westeros for a time, he would be a fool to deny her. So he vows to serve her always in these moments too, to hold on to the happiness she ignites within him, to love her best for the rest of his days.
Whatever may come.
