The next morning, Jon was up with the sun, more invigorated than he had been in a very long time. He wolfed down an informal breakfast with Davos in his chambers, donning his leathers and waffling between wearing his heavier armor or doing without.
He wasn't exactly sure what one should wear, when introduced to dragons.
His mind raced with curious questions. How large were they, exactly? Were they wild and untamed, barely brought to heel by their masters? Or was it, between the Targaryens and their dragons, as it was between he and Ghost? For with his wolf, there was a convergence of souls, an area where man and beast coexisted, their minds shared, their fates helplessly intertwined.
Jon decided to put on his gorget, on the off chance it might afford him a measure of protection, when there came an exceedingly quiet knock at the door.
Ghost was already at the barrier, pacing and swishing his tail impatiently, until Jon pulled it open.
He was greeted with a bright smile, Naerys standing with the Lady Missandei, and a small curtsy.
"Prince Jon!" The girl nearly trembled with excitement, and she thrust her head just across the threshold, to whisper loudly to him, dodging Ghost's lick to her cheek and taking it on her forehead instead. "Are you ready to see them?"
She was wearing black, just as he, though it was only Jon who tended to do so as a matter of practical choice. Many battles had taught him it was best for hiding blood, both his enemies, and his own, but this little girl was a Targaryen. She was even outfitted in her own leathers, comically at odds on the whole, this little princess dressed as a tiny warrior. Although, Jon mused, as he nodded agreeably, he supposed it was rather easier to ride a dragon without bothersome skirts in the way.
To his surprise, the girl slid her small, warm hand into his much larger one, and grasped it firmly. "C'mon, Ghost," she called out, waiting until the white direwolf took his place beside her, and began to pull Jon along in her wake.
Jon gave Missandei a small wave with his free hand, as she hurried to catch up, the Princess blazing a speedy path through the Keep. When she looked back briefly to reward him with another wide grin, he chuckled, amused by her enthusiasm.
"I do hope you are speaking the common tongue today, Princess, or I fear I shall be rather lost."
There was a childish charm to the way the girl now smiled freely in his presence, the gap of her missing tooth calling back memories of Sansa and Arya at her age, and in the face of the girl's growing ease in his presence he had found a level of acceptance in this odd new position he'd found himself in.
Out they went, clear of the dark, stony Keep, down the endless carved stairways, until they had reached the shore. Jon twisted to see Davos and Missandei trailing a bit behind them, conversing quietly with each other. He had no doubt that the old man had managed to sweet talk even the stoic tutor, as Davos had an easy way about him, with everyone, getting carried away often with his tales of his time at sea.
A hand squeezed his, and his focus returned to the girl who now hauled him across the sand, along a rocky outcropping and around, until they came to a place Jon had no seen before, in his explorations of the island.
It was a cave, he saw, a wide hole gouged into the cliff, and at its entrance, torches in hand, stood King Rhaegar and Ser Arthur. The two men appeared engaged in a serious discussion of their own, but both broke into glad smiles when they saw Naerys dragging him along, Ghost now ahead and sniffing intensely along the path they followed.
Jon wondered if he could smell them.
The dragons.
"Good morning," Rhaegar called, and Jon glanced around out of habit, surprised to see no guards in attendance. His own remained at the Keep; this occasion seemed one that was best suited to privacy.
"Uncle!" Naerys released Jon, running to where Rhaegar waited and wrapping her skinny arms around the Dragon King's waist, twisting away and laughing when the usually somber man chuckled and ruffled a hand across the tight silver braids that wound around the girl's head.
Rhaegar knelt. "I see someone is very excited today." He was trying to sound solemn, Jon could tell, but he was fighting a smile as he glanced up to Jon and Ghost. "Do you suppose they shall be frightened, by what they see inside, Princess?"
Jon couldn't deny that there was a decided sense of trepidation within him. Dragons were creatures of myth, of legend, and while the same might be said about Ghost, it was well beyond his wolf to lay waste to a Keep with one fiery breath.
One wrong move, he'd thought the night prior, and he might find himself a pile of ash.
Naerys turned to Jon, her lips pursed and forehead wrinkled as she stared at him, the deep purple of her eyes arresting in the morning sun. Finally, she shook her head to the negative. "No, I think Prince Jon is brave enough to see."
Rheagar let a laugh escape, one his Uncle echoed. "And what of the Prince's wolf? Shall we leave him to wait for us? He might be very frightened, you know."
Naerys almost seemed offended, which amused Jon greatly, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. "Uncle!" She was positively aghast, stepping to where Ghost stood panting and thrusting a hand into the fur at the wolf's side. "Ghost is very, very brave. He wants to see."
The King's silver head tipped to the side, considering. "How do you know that, sweetling?"
"He told me." She said it so matter-of-factly that Jon began to wonder, wildly, whether it might be true. Since the first day the Princess had taken the wolf to her lessons, she spent time every day with the beast, and it had not escaped his notice that much of it was occupied with the girl whispering in the wolf's ear, carrying on hushed, pretend conversations, as though Ghost was her dearest friend and keeper of all her secrets.
It had warmed something in his heart, at the time, that they'd taken to each other so swiftly, but he knew enough about the relationship he shared with his wolf that it stood to reason these Targaryens shared something similar with their own creatures. Jon was a warg, after all, his old, cold blood allowing his soul to be shared with his wolf. Surely, the fire-blooded Valyrians were much the same.
"Is that right, Ghost? You want to come inside?" At Jon's question the wolf whined, shifting his feet in the sand and looking to the cave entrance, as though he couldn't quite fathom what all these two-legged fools were standing about for, when there were dragons to be seen.
He sighed and held his hands up, bemused, as he looked to Arthur and Rhaegar. "It seems the Princess is right. I believe Ghost would like to get on with our business."
Naerys nodded decisively. "He does. He wants to see Silverwing." She took a step closer to Jon. "That's my dragon, Prince Jon," she whispered loudly, cupping her hand to her mouth, though everyone could hear. "Don't be afraid, she won't harm you, or Ghost."
Jon grimaced slightly, breath hissing through his teeth. "Well, Princess, we must count on you to protect us, mustn't we?"
It came again, that charming smile, that reached the girl's eyes as she took his hand firmly in her own. "I hope you like them," she said, nodding, and looked to Rhaegar expectantly.
"It is decided, then." Rhaegar's warm declaration was decisive, and he shared a look with Arthur before addressing Davos. "Ser Davos, I fear I must ask that you await our return. There are some secrets I would not reveal to you just yet, if you please."
Davos dipped his chin, courteously, though he still looked to Jon for his assent. Jon gave a firm nod, an assurance that he agreed, and the man let out a sigh of relief. "With respect, Your Grace," he replied, stroking his grizzled chin, "I think I shall keep a safe distance away from anything that breaths fire, for my health."
"I will keep him company, Your Grace, if it pleases you." Missandei's offer was well received, as Rhaegar gestured for Jon to step into the cave.
"Many thanks, Missandei. We shall return shortly and," the man said with a surprisingly wicked grin, "hopefully intact."
Jon swallowed, and let the Princess pull him once more, into the cave, into the unknown.
Rhaegar and Arthur led the way, down a narrow hollow that had been carved through the stone, the path lined with guttering torches. Soon enough, as they wound their way along, a sound greeted Jon's ears, one that ricocheted and echoed, but one that was very familiar.
It was the sound of a hammer striking an anvil.
The stone corridor gave way, suddenly, to a great, cavernous room, one that seemed to glow with the light of a thousand flames.
Jon drew in a breath, stumbling to a halt, amazement sweeping through him.
"Welcome to the forges, Prince Jon." He was only able to hear the Dragon King's quiet words because of the man's close proximity, as they surely would have been lost to the din of not one hammer, but several. At least ten smiths, that he could see, at least, pound away, metal glowing red and hot under their implements.
"Is that," his voice trailed off as he realized exactly what they were worked, even as the activity tapered off and finally stopped, with the notice of their arrival.
"Valyrian steel," Arthur supplied helpfully, his eyes dancing with mirth as he took in the way Jon's mouth fell open. "The only Valyrian steel still forged in the world, in fact."
The cacophony of sound resumed as Rhaegar left Jon's uncle to explain, the King crossing to speak to a man nearby who was about to return to working the bellows, stoking the forge fire, clearly preparing to work more molten steel. He was shocked anew when, after a quick conversation, Rhaegar nodded and approached the liquid steel, drawing a dagger from his side and pricking his own finger, methodically watching as several drops of red blood fell into the metal.
"That's the secret," Arthur whispered. "It is their own blood that is required, for such mighty steel. The blood of the dragon, you see."
Jon didn't know what to say, his mind and sword hand flying to Longclaw, his own Valyrian steel, strapped at his waist. It had been a gift from one of his father's banners, Lord Mormont, on Jon's fifteenth name day. None knew the lost secrets to forging such blades, save the Targaryens, and their domination of the market had led to a tidy sum of riches for the last Valyrians who had inhabited this island after the Doom of Valyria had claimed their kinsman.
He watched, speechless, as Rhaegar did the same, until he had visited all four forges that lined the chipped, dark, glassy walls of the cavern. Looking up, he realized he couldn't see the ceiling of this space, wondered how it could be that it had come about at all. Perhaps it was those first Targaryens who had come, in search of safety, who had carved this space.
So entranced he was, by his own musings, that he did not notice when Rhaegar returned, not looking back down until Naerys gave his hand a solid squeeze.
"It goes without saying, Prince Jon, that you will not speak of what you have seen. I show you this, because you will be family, soon enough. And I believe, as does your Uncle, that I may place my trust in you." There was a ribbon of iron in the King's normally dulcet tone, more command than question, but Jon could not find any offense within him at the man's words.
"Of course," he promised, with a heavy exhale.
Rhaegar clapped a strong hand on Jon's shoulder. "Good. Come with me."
He walked briskly away, crossing the tightly packed dirt floor, and Naerys and Jon hurried to keep up. Along one wall stood several armor stands, and on those stands stood items that truly took Jon's breath away. There were suits of armor, upon those stands, glittering in the torchlight, and his heart stammered and stuttered when he spied the one nearest. The other suits, he saw, held gleaming sigils of House Targaryen stamped upon the breastplate, the circling three heads of the dragon. But one held a wolf, his sigil, of *his* house.
"I have had this made for you, Prince Jon. For we mean to make a great and mighty war, and no goodbrother of mine will ride into battle without the finest armor that can be provided." He clicked his teeth together and gave an amused shrug. "I also swore to your father that you would be well-protected. And between Eddard and I, there can be no false promises."
He fought the urge to push back, to beg off from such a priceless gift; He had never seen Valyrian armor, in person, though it was widely coveted across Westeros. And now, to be presented with a complete set…it stole the breath from his chest.
Rhaegar seemed to sense such, and gave him a small, understanding smile. "Consider it a wedding gift, on behalf of House Targaryen, will you?"
Jon gulped down his reticence, and nodded. "Aye, Your Grace. I fear I am simply overwhelmed at your generosity."
The King just smiled more widely, another silent, communicating glance shared with Arthur as he locked his hands together before him. "Let us go further, before you bestow your thanks. I wonder if you will find our greatest weapons as," he paused, eyes flitting away briefly before meeting his again, "agreeable."
There came another tremble of fear, twisting in his gut, but then little Naerys, who had held her tongue since they'd entered the cavern, squeezed her wee fingers against his, giving him a reassuring twitch of her lips. "He will think they are wonderful, won't you, Prince Jon?" Jon looked to Ghost, who stood just over the girl's shoulder, resigned to whatever came next.
"Let us go and see then," he said, and the party continued onward, through a narrow archway set in the back of the cavern.
It seemed to Jon as though they walked forever, this path less trod, the space here much smaller, barely wide enough for one man to walk through alone. They formed a line, with Rhaegar at the head, then Arthur; Naerys still clutched at his hand, her excitement rather contagious, and at his back, Ghost loped behind, bringing up the end. Sometimes he thought they travelled upward, other down into the bowels of the very island itself, but eventually, he began to see their darkened path growing brighter.
They came upon another cavern, this one even brighter, but no torches hung on these walls. There was no roof at all, over this chamber, if it could even be called that. It was a giant, concentric room, and sunlight streamed in over their heads, light and full, leaving no dark, hidden spaces.
It was amazing enough, on its own, because it seemed to Jon as though the Gods must have reached down and carved away this huge pit in the cliffs of Dragonstone. There were no exits, that he saw, save the place in the rock they had emerged from.
But it was the sight that greeted them in the center of the place that threatened to unmoor him from reality completely.
Dragons.
He was shaken, down to his very bones, the girl holding on to him, pulling with all her might until eventually his heels dug in, and he stood, numb, gaping in wonder and awe at the presence of such fantastic beasts.
They were massive.
He could be forgiven, in his addled state, for thinking them as big as mountains themselves. And they were, it seemed. Great, scaly mountains of steaming hide, with heads as big as carriage carts and jaws so great that he fancied he might be able to walk into in great, open mouth fully upright and still have room.
They were daunting, these beasts.
They were terrifying.
They were, without a doubt, absolutely magnificent.
The pair of them were quite different, apart from their size. On his right sat an emerald colored creature, with great bronze spikes and frills, and amber eyes that seemed to immediately focus on Jon and take the measure of him. Intelligent, he thought. These were no mindless beasts. He felt as though he were being examined, his blood and flesh, his heart and soul, and the green dragon did not falter in his stare, even as Rhaegar crossed and stroked a loving hand against the dragon's snout.
"This is Vermithor." Finally, the dragon's attention was stolen, its eyes closing in bliss as his master scratched along the underside of his jaw. It was staggering, how very small the King looked next to his dragon, for King Rhaegar was a tall, slender man indeed, near a head taller than Jon himself, but now he looked dwarfish in comparison. "He is mine, and I am his. That is the way of these things, you understand?"
Jon felt Ghost nudge at his side, turned slightly to find the beast pressing himself closely against Jon's shoulder and legs. Not afraid, Jon realized, but certainly wary. Oh, yes, he understood well enough. That was the nature of things, truly, between man and beast. A bond; not of ownership, but of companionship, of two souls joined in singular purpose.
"Aye," he said, his voice rasping, and he cleared his throat. "I do understand."
Rhaegar spoke to his dragon, in words Jon did not understand, but he had heard the Princess spend entire days speaking this tongue. He recognized Valyrian when he heard it, now. Naerys tugged at his hand, releasing it when she saw she had his attention. "He tells Vermithor that you are a friend."
Jon released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his eyes widening with relief. "That's good to hear, I should hate to think on being considered his enemy."
Naerys shook her head and giggled, as though he were being awfully ridiculous, and began to walk away. She turned her head, after a few steps, and waved a hand to him, gesturing for him to follow. "Silverwing wants to meet you, Prince Jon. I have been telling her tales of you, and your wolf. She is most happy to make your acquaintance." She struggled slightly, as she did with larger words, but she was learning, and it made him smile, so he obeyed.
The other dragon, this Silverwing that Naerys spoke of, was true to her name. She was, in truth, a gorgeous beast, her scales gleaming like coins as the sun danced on the surface. He might've been convinced she had been smithed from the metal itself, but then the dragon's great head turned, golden eyes trained on the little child who approached fearlessly, the Prince and wolf in tow. There came a soft, soothing purr, from deep in the dragon's chest, and the Princess lay her head on the stretch of hide just behind the dragon's enormous, steaming nostril. Hands patted upon scales, in greeting, and again the girl laughed, merrily.
"Come close," the girl entreated, and Jon swallowed heavily, focusing on placing one boot in front of the other, not daring to meet the dragon's eyes until he stood beside her mistress.
Again, that sensation swept over him, of being searched, being *seen*. It was not palpable, really; it was more like the invisible winds that swept in from the sea, that eddied and flowed though they could not be detected by the eye. He felt it, all the same, and he prayed he passed inspection.
Naerys set about much the same as Rhaegar had, speaking Valyrian to the dragon, though that heavy stare did not stray from Jon, but it seemed eventually, as though dragon and girl reached an accord. A heavy gust of hot air suddenly erupted from that great nostril, strong enough to blow him back a step, to sweep against Ghost's fur in a mighty wave.
Several deep inhalations came, as though the dragon were scenting him, and then, happily, Naerys stepped to his side and took his left hand. "She will let you touch her now."
Jon felt every muscle seize, panic washing over him as his heart raced at the notion. "I do not think—"
"Just here," the girl said firmly, as though he had not spoken at all, then placed his hand against the dragon's snout, holding it there with her own.
He was frozen in place, incapable of moving now even if he wished it, as his hand touched the rough, hot scales of the silver dragon. His heart was pounding in his ears as the seconds ticked by, and he found he could look nowhere but into the one amber eye he could still see, in this position. Lungs full to bursting, he finally felt the air escape him in a loud, whistling rush of air, chest heaving as he stood eye to eye with the truest, rawest power he'd ever encountered in all his years.
This was how wars were won, truly. It would almost be too easy, now that he knew the truth of them, to send these dragons now and destroy the Lannisters completely, to remove that bloodline from the annals of history altogether.
And he was touching one.
A small voice piped up from beside him. "She likes you," Naerys trilled happily.
Jon had a healthy measure of doubt that the dragon cared much about him one way or another, but he humored the girl. "How do you know?"
She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated groan, reminding him so much of Arya in that instant that he was stymied by it. "She told me, of course." A child's fancy, perhaps, but he could not discount that the girl was just as tuned to the dragon's feelings as he was to Ghost's. And right now, Ghost was feeling cautiously optimistic that they would make it out alive.
Jon grinned down at the girl, retrieving his hand, and stepping back to give a proper, formal bow to the dragon, Ghost sitting handsomely on his haunches at his side. "A pleasure to meet you, Silverwing."
Naerys clapped her hands and did a silly, wiggling dance, skipping from one foot to another in glee. "Now we're all very dear friends," she sang out, and Jon found himself glad to agree.
Hours later, in the darkness of his chambers, Ghost snoring beside his chair, Jon stared into the flames. There was potential, here, real potential. The ring around his neck lay heavy, this night, pulling him down though his imagination ran wild with possibilities.
These dragons would make them formidable, almost unstoppable.
This war would be won, of that he was now certain.
But what would come next?
He was beginning to think there was more at play here, than simply the elimination of the threat that seemed poised to pull all the Kingdoms of Westeros into an era of fearful forced rule.
True, their combined men would probably be enough to deal the death blow to the Lannisters, but the warrior in his heart yearned to see a field of fire, to see his enemies brought low and crumbled to dust at the hands of his Targaryen allies.
Including, he thought, gut twisting with nerves, his new wife-to-be.
He wondered about her, moreso tonight than he had before. What sort of woman must she be, to have done the thing she had, withstood the things she had?
No simpering maid, no soft lady, that much Rhaegar had warned him of. Surely, this Daenerys Targaryen would be made of sterner stuff, unbreakable, probably hardened by life, just as he was. Perhaps he would find they were well-suited.
Perhaps, at her side, in her arms, in her bed, he might finally be able to let go.
His hand crept up, as usual, sliding down the silver chain, tucked under his tunic, and pulled the ring free.
Dany's ring.
There had come a foolish little inkling, in his mind, about this Daenerys Targaryen. He wondered if anyone ever called her Dany. He had allowed himself, here and there, to wonder if the impossible was finally possible.
He wondered if she'd ever been to Lys.
But then he would remember the fire, the smell of charred wood and flesh, the smoking debris he'd waded through, to pull this same ring from the ashes.
It was a fool's hope, truly.
Dany was dead, and dead she would stay, no matter how similar the names might be.
It didn't mean they were the same.
He sighed, and fisted his hand around the ring, giving himself over to the hypnotic flickering of the flames, and his remembrances.
Davos came, intermittently, only to take his leave again on some secret errand or another. Jon did not know if the man was still on a mission for his father, the King, or if he was off to smuggle once more. He didn't really care, inwardly glad when Davos would linger only for a day or two before disappearing again.
Dany did not come when he was there, by unspoken agreement between the two of them. The moment the ship would appear on the horizon, she would be off, only returning to the beachside hut when the ship was well away from the shore.
By his fourth month there, he cared little for the reasons.
He was starved for her.
She had become an addiction, everything seeming wrong and off-kilter until he saw her again, felt her hand in his, tugging him along on another adventure she'd dreamed up.
Once, they tried to make a raft, to traverse the tip of the island, but each attempt left them in knee deep water, driftwood logs splitting away and coming undone, collapsing into helpless laughter when one or the other got a face full of seawater as a reward for shoddy craftsmanship.
It was probably the rum, that's what Dany said, and Jon knew she was probably right.
They liked to sit under the swaying palms, listening to the waves crash, her fingers laced through his as naturally as if they had been made to fit there, sharing a bottle amongst themselves and nibbling on fruit.
On the very best days, they kissed, unplanned and irrationally. He would be in the middle of strapping new burlap to the practice dummy he'd fashioned together, complaining at the shit material, and then she would strike, kissing him so soundly and sweetly that he'd drop what his was doing. His hands would rise to cup her cheeks, or, if he felt particularly daring, her hips.
Closer and closer they wandered towards more, hands beginning to roam when their tongues would glide and stroke, but they did not dare go further.
But oh, how Jon ached to. Perhaps he had been terrible at kissing, before, there was no way to know, really. But now, moons of practice had made him an expert, he thought. At least, when it came to kissing Dany. Each moan and gasp he earned was an achievement, his blood pumping for more.
It was the same for her, he knew. Sometimes, when he would pull back, knowing he must, knowing he was seconds from stripping her thin, gauzy shift off her body, and seeing in the daylight what the shadows barely hid, he could see the hunger in her cerulean eyes.
That was the color. That's what Davos had told him, his last visit, when he asked what color the ocean was here. That was the color of Dany's eyes, so different from the churning gray seas off White Harbor.
'Cerulean blue' had been the answer.
In her eyes was every desire that stirred Jon's young soul, the companion of the aching want that tightened his chest like a vise.
He was not sure how much longer he could hold off. He wondered if she was playing a similar game, if they were both waiting to see who would finally break first, to cross a line that had not been yet crossed.
He yearned to cross that line with her.
He hoped, desperately, that he would become as proficient in other acts as he'd become in kissing her. He indulged in daydreams, on the instances she did not visit, of taking her away with him, from whatever circumstances often made her stare off into the distance, sadly. He wanted to sweep her away, take her back to Winterfell, make her his Princess. One day, he would muse wistfully, he would make her his Queen, and always keep her safe.
He was in love with her, and there was little he could do to change that.
By his fifth moon there, she crossed the line for both of them.
She came to him, later than usual, midday, when the sun was already burning a path across the sky. He had given up hope that he would see her that day, resigning himself to sharpening his sword in the shaded interior of the shack, sweat already beading and pooling at his brow and trickling down his back, despite the thin layers he wore.
The knock came, and he rose quickly to open it, surprised to see her there, on the verge of tears. The sorrow on her face was almost enough to distract from the lovely, delicate dress she wore, a light lavender concoction that hung from her shoulders in thin straps, so sheer he knew if the sun hit the fabric just right he would be able to see right through it. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide and shadowed, heavy with sadness. He hated that sight, more than anything, and he pulled her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her, his face in her hair before he finally spoke. "What's wrong?" His quiet question was muffled against her hair, but she heard him well enough.
She pulled away, slowly, silver strands clinging to his face and lips as she sighed and eventually brought her eyes to his. "I am to be married," she whispered morosely, eyes filling with a fear that frightened him, at the anger it spilled in him, at the way he wanted to rage at it.
And then he processed the rest of her statement. "Married," he echoed, his voice breaking on the word. Her face twisted, a tear sliding down her cheek, and before he could think his hand was at her jaw, his thumb catching the drop before it could fall. "I take it this does not please you."
Dany shook her head forcefully. "No. It does not." Her hands reached for the purple fabric, twisting in the material of her dress, as she struggled to find the right words. "I do not wish this, but I must do it. I have *obligations*," she spit out, as though the word were distasteful. "And I must do my duty."
Ice settled in the pit of his stomach, in the very core of his heart. This, he understood. He wondered again who she was, who she really was, if Dany of Lys was her true identity. He did not press on this, he never did. How could he, when he kept his own secrets?
Jon said nothing, just took her hand and let her to sit upon one of the wooden stools at the small table. He remained quiet as he rummaged for a bottle of rum, finding two small cups in his stash and returning to place one before him, the other before her. Her eyes followed his actions closely, but when he poured a healthy measure for them both and raised his glass, she managed a small smile and raised her own.
"Fuck duty," Jon declared forcefully, finally earning a sharp, surprised laugh.
"Fuck duty," she repeated, clinking her tumbler against his.
They finished their drinks in relative silence, but finally he felt the weight of his many questions upon his tongue. "What will you do?" He didn't want to know the answer, just as equally as he burned for it.
She rested an elbow on the table, resting her head in her hand as she held his eyes. "What I must," she whispered. "I fear the choice is not mine to make."
Don't say it, he urged himself. Don't tell her what you wish for, for it cannot be. But Jon was a fool in love, and he could not help himself. "You could come away with me," he said urgently, lowering his voice as though he might be overheard. "Hide here. When Davos comes again, we can stow away, begone from the shores. I can hide you, keep you safe."
She smiled at him sweetly, even as she began to cry. "No one can keep me safe, Jon. No one." Her free hand slid across the table to catch his, their fingers joining. "But if I could, I would."
He gulped at the admission, his heart swelling. "You would?"
Dany peered at him, the dim light of the shack, her hand squeezing his as she finally nodded. "I would." She stood, before he could react, and came around the table, her hand still joined with his. "Jon," she whispered, sniffling delicately, nudging his knees apart with her own and coming to stand between his spread legs. She wrapped her arms around his neck, the sweet smell of her skin creeping in and fogging his senses, everything growing hazy as she pushed herself closer still.
He kept his chin tipped up to keep his eyes locked on hers, a test of his already fading willpower as her chest was level with his head, now. "Jon," she repeated, her voice growing soft, "can I ask you a personal question?"
Jon's heart began to pound, his mouth going dry, as the pads of her fingers teased at the nape of his neck.
"Alright," he whispered, taking a chance and letting his own palms cup her hips, the material of her dress barely able to hide the heat of her skin.
Leaning in, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, then drew away, just barely, her own breath quickening. "Have you ever bedded a woman?"
He made an embarrassing choking noise, his throat closing as his face surely flushed red. He knew what she was going to ask of him, knew it was what he wanted, but the desperation in her gaze gave him pause. "No," he answered quietly, frowning. "Why are you asking me this?" If he did this, he knew, it would mean something to him, it would mean everything, and his heart protested at the thought that she might not feel the same.
Her index finger began to toy with a black curl; he could feel the slight tug, the teasing touch, as he watched her bite her lip. "It's supposed to hurt, for a woman. If she is untried, I mean." She seemed unsure, stammering as her eyes darted around the room, trying to look at anything but him. "Do you think that is true?"
Jon desperately tried to scrape together what he knew about bedding, though his knowledge was woefully limited to what he'd heard from his father's men and banners, drunken tales in the Great Hall of Winterfell, and Theon's overindulgence in the local brothels in Winter Town. That had not been his lot; His father had made sure to drill into him such, that he was a Prince, and his seed was meant for his bride, his Queen, not some common girl at a house of ill repute.
But Dany was no common girl.
She was everything.
He shrugged, his face twisted with apology, nibbling at the inside of his cheek as he fought to keep his eyes glued to hers. "I wish I could tell you, Dany. But all I know is second-hand knowledge. I believe," he said, hesitantly, "that perhaps it might hurt, at first. But it must get better, else why would people go about it as they do?"
She gave a mirthless laugh, eyes cast downward to a spot below his chin, shifting so that her legs rubbed against his inner thighs as she pressed ever closer. "Perhaps." She let out a huff, and when she raised her head again, the fear he'd seen was gone, replaced only by certainty.
And hunger.
"Jon," she whispered, and shifted again in his grasp, one hand still toying with his loose curls, the other cupping his chin, keeping it tipped up, so that he could not look away. He felt his gut tighten, awareness trickling through him, every nerve flaring to life. "May I ask a favor of you? If you don't wish to, I understand. But I hope you wish to, as I do."
His cock had deduced what was coming in very short order, his brain struggling to catch up, because surely this must be some rum-soaked dream, brought on by too much salt air and too much sun.
This was his dream, every night the same, that she would come to him, and they would strip each other bare, and finally indulge in the want they had been circling for what felt like ages. He shouldn't, he knew that. His father would surely not approve.
But his father had sent him here, and Davos had left him, and she had found him. And for the first time, since his life had nearly ended, he felt real again, not like some dead man walking.
It was unwise.
But he loved her, and he could not tell her no.
"You want to lay with me," he said, no question in his voice. She nodded, her own cheeks pinking prettily, and looked away as though she was embarrassed. Impossibly, he wondered if she thought he would deny her, as if he was capable of it. Now it was Jon who had difficulty meeting her eyes, starting to feel rather light-headed as the blood in his body seemed to rush, all at once, to the one area of his body that was clamoring for such delicious contact.
She captured his head between her hands, serious, determined even when she spoke again. "I cannot change what is to come. There is no choice given me, but," her face twisted again, as she fought back fresh tears, "in this, I can choose. I want to choose. You."
How could he refuse? How could any man, when presented with such?
His own time here was drawing to a close, and he felt the encroaching creep of time more with each passing day. If they were destined to part, and they were, it seemed, he lacked the willpower to send her away.
"Alright," he said on an exhale. "If you're sure."
Dany leaned over him, her hair curtained around them both like waves of moonlight, hiding them from the world when she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, her grip on his face firming. "Thank you," she whispered as she pulled away, only far enough for her enchanting eyes to search his. A veil of shyness seemed to fall over her, a nervous little laugh trickling out as she let one hand sweep up his cheek to caress his unbound hair. Though he still kept his face as smooth as he could with soap and a sharpened blade, he hadn't minded his hair much since he'd arrived, and it was far longer and more bothersome than he generally kept it.
He didn't mind, in this moment, as she seemed utterly enthralled with it, and he couldn't deny the pleasure in feeling her nails scrape lightly against his scalp as she ran her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor the sensation as he tried to gather himself, to throttle the overwhelming desire that was coursing through him.
When she pulled away, he opened his eyes, to find her standing a foot away, her hands flying to the back of her neck, fingers struggling to pull free the tie that held her dress to her body.
She looked unreal, plucked from his most secret fantasies, her back to the square windows, sunlight setting her aglow as she gave him a tentative smile. He stood, breath a little unsteady, but steps sure as he crossed to stand behind her, tucking a wavy swathe of hair over her shoulder and gently batting her hands away. "I'll do it," he said, his lips near the skin of her nape, pleased at the way she shivered.
He heard her breath catch and release as he untied the knot, the bodice sagging forward and her shoulders now bare as thin lavender straps slid down the smooth, tanned skin of her arms.
Calm yourself, he thought fervently. Slowly.
Jon placed his hands on the soft skin of her shoulders, turning her around slowly until she faced him. There came a buzzing in his ears, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, frantically racing as he licked at dry lips. "You're really sure?"
If she had harbored any more hesitancy, about what they were going to engage in, his breathless question seemed to rid her of it, for a saucy smirk grew upon her lips as she tipped her head sideways, curiously. "You ask far too many questions, Jon. If I wasn't sure I wouldn't be here. Are *you* sure?"
Was he sure? Bloody hells, of course he was. That didn't stop the wild thrumming of his pulse when he considered that, while he had a general idea of what to do, he was about to venture into lands that were very much unexplored, in practice.
However, he had several ideas.
"Aye," he said, gripping her hips again and pulling her close, as she held the bodice of her dress against her chest and peeked up at him from under sooty lashes. "Though there is the chance I might be absolutely rotten at it."
She gave him a cheeky little smirk, shaking her head slightly, hair trailing across her shoulders, invitation clear in her eyes. "That's what you said about kissing, and I have to say," she purred, her arms just brushing against the thin tunic he worse as she pressed closer, "you turned out to be most excellent at that."
Each breath was a puff of sweet heat across his lips, and he could do nothing, then, but give in to the urge to kiss her. Before, unspoken between them, had existed a point at which they might pull back, to gather themselves, to cool the ardor that had built between them.
But not, that point had ceased to exist, and it was only seconds into that sweet press of his mouth against hers, that he was spearing his tongue between her instantly parted lips, swallowing her moan as his hands began to travel the soft length of her body.
Her own hands began to wander, as well, her shift falling between them as she raised one to tangle in the hair at his nape, the other finding its way under the hem of his shirt and skirting along his abdomen in a way that made him gasp.
He drew back, eyes widening with wonder at the skin now revealed, her purple gown now dropped to pool just above her hips, stopped from falling completely only by the press of their bodies. She was beautiful, too beautiful for him to comprehend, really. He knew he ought to do something, to say something, instead of gaping at her uncovered breasts like a damned simpleton. He had tried, had dug deep into the well of propriety that his father and his Maester and even the unkind Lady Stark had tried to drill into him, not to gape when he had been privy to mere glimpses of her chest covered in her usual flimsy, filmy gowns.
But this, now, was like a feast after weeks in the wilderness, and he could only gape like the green boy he was at the gentle slope of her tits, the curves and the valley between them, torn between taking the tips of her rosy, pebbled nipples between his lips or grasping each in his hands.
She solved his internal struggle for him, as she took his hands in hers, and placed each atop a breast. Jon finally managed to bring his gaze back to her face, groaning lowly at the contact of her flesh against his palms, while she smiled at him. "You can touch me, Jon."
It was all he needed, apparently, as he tried to keep his touch soft, gentle, not knowing how much pressure would feel good, or would hurt her. His fingers molded to each, her skin unimaginably soft as he traced and committed the feel of her to memory. His thumbs traced the skin between each plump curve, before testing her reaction by circling them around each stiff, pink peak.
Now, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her face, the way her face contorted with pleasure, the way her lips parted, and she mewled like a kitten at his touch, making him far drunker than Davos's rum stash could ever have managed.
He dipped his head, his eyes still trained on her face, as he let his lips circle one hard nipple, the husky moan he earned making his own eyes slam shut in pleasure. Her hands came immediately to his head, holding him in place, and he spent glorious minutes learning the shape of her with his tongue, flicking the tip against her skin, glorying in the way she clutched at him and gasped his name as he teased and suckled her tender flesh.
"Jon," she finally breathed, after he had switched sides and given her left breast similar treatment as the right, "haven't you got a bed?"
His cock began to throb against the lacing of his breeches in heady agony at her question, the image of splaying her out on that bed and exploring the rest of her threatening to make him spill before he'd even been touched.
"Aye," he rasped out, slightly distracted at the way his saliva painted her flesh, straightening and pulling her flush against him, knowing she would be fully aware of how great his desire was when she felt the proof against her stomach. "Just there." He nodded in the general direction of his narrow bed, sparing at thought for how he might manage to fit both of them on it, dismissing the concern and reasoning that he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. Jon let her free only long enough to pull his tunic off, tossing it over his shoulder haphazardly, chuckling when she giggled at his haste.
"Here," she said, taking hold of her dress and pulling it over her head, seeming oblivious to the way he stopped breathing completely when she was truly bare to him at last.
He didn't know where to look, where to let his eyes settle, because he wanted to see everything, all at once. She was so pleasingly formed, hips flaring out just below a trim waist, the hollow of her navel leading his eyes lower, to the thatch of silver curls that shielded her sex, his fingers itching to test her there, to see if she was as consumed by hunger as he was.
She handed him her gown, smiling shyly. "Can you place this on the table? I must take care it isn't ruined."
Jon nodded mutely, shaking it out and laying it on the tabletop, using up what remained of his self-restraint as he obeyed. Then he turned, his eyes devouring her as his hands craved to do, and claimed her lips, trying to ignore the protest of his cock as he kept his touch almost chaste, not yet daring to go farther than savoring the feel of her breasts pressed against his bare chest, his hands just playing about the skin of her waist.
Dany allowed it, for several moments, but her own kisses became ever more heated, her tongue tangling with his, until she finally captured his tongue when it delved into the cavern of her own mouth, suckling it in a manner that made him think he might just burst into flame where he stood.
She drew back, her eyes hooded and dark, a slim sliver of blue-green there around the inky black of her pupils, and took his hands in hers. She didn't stop until the backs of her knees hit the straw-stuffed mattress, and she climbed up blindly, kneeling on the narrow bed and letting her hands fall to his breeches.
She held him with her stare, even as her wicked fingers went to work, unlacing his trousers and finally, blessedly circling his stiff cock with a gentle caress. His chest heaved, and he grasped her wrist, trying to smile and barely managing a grimace.
"You're going to embarrass me if you don't stop that," he warned, but she only smiled, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she stroked him slowly.
"I want to touch you," she replied, her own voice husky with want, and she dropped her eyes to watch the motion of her hand, licking her lips. "I want to know you, Jon. Like this."
He swallowed hard, the world narrowing to just the feel of her palm around him, the movement of her fist as she began to work him, the pleasure almost overwhelming. Finally, he tightened his hold and halted her movements, pulling her hand to his lips to kiss her palm. "I want to touch you, too. Let me touch you first, then you can do whatever you wish."
Jon could hear the pleading in his own voice, and she gave him a sweet smile, seeming to understand. Slowly, she sat back, hair slipping over her shoulders in riotous waves, and settled back against his lumpy feather pillow. Raising a hand, she beckoned him closer, sighing happily and spreading her thighs open for him as he knelt between them.
"Then touch me," she whispered, and so he did.
Fighting to stem the racing of his breath and his pounding heart, he tried to ignore the call of his own desire, to bury himself inside her, and let his hands blaze a path along her skin, starting at the hollow of her throat, then down along her delicate collarbone. His mouth followed behind, her skin sweet and fragrant under his tongue, hands forging ahead to the mounds of his breasts while he nosed and licked at the valley between, his ears listening closely as he worked, trying to determine what pleased her most. He twisted gently at her stiff, eager nipples, smiling wickedly against the underside of one tit as she moaned his name.
And still his palms traveled, while he replaced his fingers with his mouth, testing her reaction as he gently scraped his teeth against a hard tip, her hands digging into his hair, nails piercing his scalp when she cried out.
Finally, he slid one hand along her stomach, leaning back to watch as her breasts shook with each panting breath she took, feeling the trembling of the muscles in her stomach as he moved lower still. Both groaned when he finally reached the slick heat of her center, and his head dropped as his fingers slid against the stiff nub at the apex.
He had imagined this moment countless times, but his fantasies had not been able to approach the burning wetness he encountered, so damp her thighs were slick with her want, and it was all he could do to keep control of himself. The last thing he wished to do was hurt her, and he had no doubt it likely would, when he finally thrust inside her. If he could bring her pleasure first, he thought, perhaps it would not be so very bad.
Untried as he was, there were some things he'd heard of, one in particular that he thought might be worth a go. He scooted back as far as he could, till he could slide her legs atop his shoulders. Dany's head rose from the pillow as she sucked in a breath, her eyes curious and more than a little nervous as she looked down her body to find him watching her, his mouth hovering just above her cunt.
"What are you doing?" She propped herself up on her elbows, her lips parted and wet as she stared at him, breathing heavily.
"I want to kiss you here, as well," he answered, his own breath puffing out against her wet, pink flesh. She was so beautiful, all of her, but especially here, and though he had little to compare to, Jon thought she might have the most beautiful cunt in the world. Davos had told him that of all the treasures in the world, the greatest lay between a woman's legs, and he thought now he might understand. His mouth watered, the smell of her enchanting him, and he was seconds away from allowing his tongue to swipe along the length of her, to satisfy his own desire and curiosity. "Can I?"
She said nothing, for a heartbeat, catching her lower lip between her teeth, before finally nodding. "If you wish," she said, and it was all he needed to hear. He buried his face in her folds, licking at the salty-sweet taste of her, instantly addicted as he tried to find his bearings. He didn't know exactly what he ought to do, so he tried several things, his lips capturing her lower ones and pulling gently, his tongue teasing at her entrance as even more wetness flowed from her, trying to discern from her every cry and writhing twist of her hips what she liked. When he took her swollen nub between her lips she started to shake, keening and whining loudly as her back arched sharply, and he knew he'd found somewhere to linger.
He pried his eyes apart, groaning against her slick flesh when he found her watching him still, her eyes narrowed and her chest heaving, lovely tits swaying as she grabbed at the back of his head to hold him there. Gods, no one had ever looked at him with such heated desire, and he thought he never wanted anyone to look at him again like that, only her, forever. When he flicked at the bud with his tongue she called his name even louder, her eyes shutting in helpless pleasure, and he varied between the two, a gentling suckling and the flicking of his tongue, until she could do little but quiver and shaking against him, her thighs trapping him on either side of his head as her hand finally fell away. She was twisting his bed coverings in both fists, so close he could feel it under his tongue.
Purely on instinct, he slid his hand just below his lips, slipping one finger, then a second inside her tight sheath, cock aching at how tight she was, wondering if he would survive actually being inside her. He slid his fingers in and out as she began to chant his name, hips circling mindlessly, his mouth never relenting, and then suddenly she was there, her clasp clutching in a rippling rhythm against the digit, wetness spilling out as she arched and moaned and gripped him in waves that seemed to go on forever.
Finally, she fell back against the bedding, her walls still twitching against his finger, but more slowly now, as she came down from the high of her release.
"Oh," she managed to gasp out. "Oh, Jon." Her legs fell from his shoulders, and she pulled at his head, trying with weak, trembling hands to pull her atop him. He let loose a loud, guttural moan at the feel of her against his cock, his hips thrusting of their own accord at the wet heat of her center as she kissed him breathlessly.
"Where did you learn that?" She asked the question between kisses rained upon his face, something like wonder in her eyes as she looked at him in awe.
Jon shrugged, giving her a bashful smile. "I've only heard about it, really." His attention was divided, half on the sweet smile that danced across her lips, half on the feel of his aching cock sliding steadily against her now, dangerously close to where he really wished to be. "Was it alright?"
"Alright?" She huffed out a laugh, then wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his whole weight upon her as she kissed him senseless. When he pulled back, trying to catch his breath, she smirked at him, nails scraping teasingly at his neck. "Very, very alright." On either side of his hips, her knees drew up, giving his questing cock greater access to her slippery center. "Are you ready?"
Jon let out an unsteady breath, letting his elbows bracket her head, taking care not to trap her hair. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered, even as he rolled his hips against her with more force, his cock bumping against her entrance.
He closed his eyes at the sensation, feeling her hands sweep along his forehead and smooth sweaty curls back from his face. "I want you inside me, Jon. Just be gentle, yes?"
She stiffened slightly, in anticipation, and he nodded. Leaning on one elbow, he reached down, aligning the head of his cock, eyes trained on her face as he slowly pushed his way inside her.
It was painstaking, the urge to thrust inside her strong, his desire to not cause her undue pain barely stronger. Inch by inch, he pressed onward, his eyes threatening to cross from the tight grip of her walls as deeper and deeper he went. He felt resistance, realizing it was her maidenhead, felt her tense at the pressure, and set his free hand to play against the little bud there, knowing it might bring her pleasure in spite of the sting this intrusion would surely cause.
Dany was gasping for air now, lips parted, clutching at his shoulders. "Do it," she urged, and he complied, a swifter roll of his hips seating him fully inside her. She gave another cry, this one not nearly so pleased, and he was all too eager to wait, to let her adjust to the feel of him seated deep within her, not just to let the discomfort subside but to give him time to regain his bearings. Nothing he was certain of it, had ever felt as good as this, the squeeze of her like a vise, so slick and hot he could do nothing in the moment but moan as his head dropped against her neck.
"Dany," he panted brokenly, as he fought to remain motionless. "Are you alright?"
He felt the motion her nod, felt her grip grow tighter, and then she brought her calves up to notch above his hips, ankles locking at the small of his back. He shuddered, shaking, when he felt her walls clench against him, as she squeezed his cock purposefully.
"Move," she urged, holding him tight. "It's alright."
With effort, he brought his head up, eyes searching hers, taking several deep breaths at what he saw in those cerulean depths.
It had to be what she would find in his own, nothing short of love, something real, almost tangible, making the air shimmer between them. He tentatively withdrew, thrusting in again gently, watching her tremble and smile at him. "Again," she said, digging her heels into his back as he obeyed, thrusting more firmly this time.
He had to grit his teeth and close his eyes, because no matter how many times he'd sought release with his own hand it had never felt like this. Nothing in all his life had ever felt like this, this hot, this perfect, and he had the horrible notion that he was not going to last very long at all. Still, he tried, struggling to keep his pace slowly, not daring to speed up or increase the force of his thrusts until she began to circle her hips up against him, her head tossing as he circled that little nub, flicking with his thumb as he had with his tongue, keeping time with the slide of his cock inside her.
He felt the pressure building, the knot of pleasure inside him coalescing, that burning itch finally building beyond his control, and his movements became jerking and uncontrolled. "I can't-," he tried to warn her, finding words a near impossibility, "I'm, I can't, I need to—"
"Let go," she whispered, and raised her head to latch her mouth to the damp column of his throat, sucking hard against his skin, surely marking him as hers. "I want you to."
His own release thundered through him, his seed spilling from him in burning bursts that he felt down to the tips of his toes. He groaned her name, pleasure overwhelming him, the feel of her penetrating everything, searing itself into his memory as he let it overtake him. It was all he could do to keep himself propped up on his arm, his other hand gripping her thigh tight as he let each wave roll through him with the rocking of his hips.
Finally, it was done, everything growing fuzzy in the aftermath, the only thing in existence being Dany, under him, around him, swamping his every sense.
His mouth was dry, his skin heated and dewed with sweat, and when he finally found the strength to raise his head, he wanted to weep at the way she was smiling up at him.
"I love you," she whispered, and he knew those words would never sound as sweet from another.