Author's Note:
We now begin Act 2 in what is a trilogy of stories. This section will be broken into four separate chapters, mostly because this act is considerably longer than the first.
Act 2 is told from Jon's POV, and takes us through the events of the Dragon Pit and immediately after. Thank you so much for the kind feedback on Act 1!
As with Act 1, Act 2 is already complete, and I will be posting (probably) a section a day until we're caught up. Thank you for reading!
The tip of Jon's nose was exceedingly cold.
This was not, as a general rule, an odd occurrence. Such was a natural state, he'd found, an annoyance that must be accepted, embraced, even; Life in the North, and beyond the barrier of the Wall, had made this a requirement. Truth be told, the bone-aching cold hadn't bothered him much at all since his return from death.
But the rest of Jon was exceedingly warm, and it was this convergence of extremes that left him puzzled as he cracked open his tired eyes, peering curiously around the room as it slowly came into focus.
First, he remembered this was Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, after one heart-stopping moment of thinking he'd awoken once more in Castle Black, everything that had happened since his resurrection nothing more than the dying dreams of a man even death would not keep.
Then, he remembered precisely why he was there. The Army of the Dead. The Night King. She had come with him, she had seen, she was going to help him. A true warrior Queen, no prim Lady lurking beneath the surface of her soft skin, that's what she was, underneath the beauty and the cleverness and the unyielding stubbornness; He chanced a look to his side, where she had curled herself against him, her feet helplessly tangled with his under the furs and roughspun linens.
Daenerys.
Her name, in his head, had become something of a prayer. It was his secret, whispered talisman against the cold, each syllable full of fire, the thought of her a furnace that heated him from the inside out.
Jon had tried to fight it.
He really, truly had.
He had tried to fight what his heart urged, tried to ignore the truth of what his mind spoke to him in the dark stone walls of her Keep. Those traitorous thoughts, those mutinous urges were a fool's folly, things that could only hurt him once he'd fixed them in his heart. He'd brushed aside Davos and his pointed innuendo, tried to focus himself solely on the task he had come for, to secure her aid in the fight against the Army of the Dead.
But then she had kissed him, down there in the caves, and that had just about been the end of that.
Perhaps he ought to have been embarrassed, he thought, at how swiftly and completely she had disarmed him. Perhaps he really was a Northern fool, and that's what his people would call him when he brought her back to Winterfell with him. Perhaps his sisters would see her and accuse him of being no better than any other weak-willed man, felled and bewitched by her the moment he'd laid eyes on her.
Jon brought a hand up, his palm just grazing the angle of her cheek, her breath puffing out between parted pink lips and teasing the skin of his chest, which had served as a makeshift pillow since their last coupling mere hours before.
Gods, he'd lost track of how many times he'd had her since she'd knocked on his door the prior night, had stopped counting each time her cunt had clenched and spasmed around his fingers and tongue and cock.
She was a greedy lass, which was not unexpected.
Daenerys Targaryen commanded dragons, after all. A woman in complete command of not one, but three fully-grown dragons could not be faulted for having such appetites.
He found himself just as greedy, just as hungry, each touch only making him long for another, each release only a brief respite before that clawing need would grow within him, each of them only briefly sleeping before one would awaken and hands would wander anew.
Now, as he watched her lashes flutter, as he caught sight once more of her lovely gaze, he understood only one truth. She had been fashioned for him, as surely as the Gods had fashioned the sun to dance across the sky, and if she had truly meant her words from the night before he could imagine no other destiny for him now but that of her husband. Her King.
Jon was not immune to one other truth. Beyond this icy wall lay certain death, and he was not fool enough to believe he might cheat it twice.
His whole life he had denied himself, consigned himself to the shadows, made himself content with half-measures, and whatever scraps his Lord Father might throw his way.
But now his father was gone, and Robb, and Rickon. Now Jon was King in the North, bastard though he may be, and for once he would take the things he wanted. If it was his fate to die in this battle for the living there was no more time for *almost*. There could be no quarter given to *possibly* or *one day* or *perhaps if we prevail*.
If these were his final days, he would put to action the lessons the past had well taught him.
Jon meant to live, if he was bound for the bitter darkness of death once more.
He was stirred from his dark reverie by her sweet voice, husky and well-worn from her rather vocal appreciation of his earlier attentions.
"Jon." His name upon her lips was the sweetest song he'd ever heard. Her tentative, unsure smile, such a departure from the wanton creature he had devoured and been consumed by in turn, served only to enchant him further. He was helpless to the need to embrace her, to draw her closer, reveling in the press of her lips to his neck as she buried her face against his skin.
"Have you not had your fill?" His own voice sounded raspy and raw, and he could not stop his chuckle at the remembrance of his own enthusiastic appreciation of the Queen who now clung to him.
A rather unladylike snort reverberated against his skin, and she pulled away in a sweep of soft, silver hair, her eyes full of endless enthusiasm as she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes.
"Not nearly, Jon Snow."
The twist of joy in his dead heart did not escape him, nor did the bite of her teeth against his collarbone, gentle but possessive. "Well," he muttered, his hand creeping up to trace along the length of her spine, "I must confess that is a relief."
Daenerys drew herself up at his words, a knowing smile dancing upon her lips as she peered down at him. He tried, with most valiant effort, to ignore the sway of her lovely breasts as she rose above him, allowing himself only a stolen glance. Or two.
"I daresay, Jon Snow, that perhaps I shall never have my fill of you." Jon did not bother to hide the thrill that rocked him at her words, choosing instead to grasp the back of her neck and pull him to her, claiming her mouth with all the possession he could muster on so little sleep.
When she pulled back again, her warm gaze falling away, her face setting in absolute despair, Jon could not stop the worry that arced through him. Perhaps in the harsh morning light she regretted the promises made in the dark.
"Jon," she whispered, her face such a mask of regret that he could not help the pang of hurt that shot through him. It was to be expected, he thought, his eyelids falling closed as he braced himself for the inevitable. A woman, a Queen like Daenerys of House Targaryen had surely seen the foolishness in wedding herself to a Bastard King such as him.
"I must tell you something." Her following whisper, just as agonized, seized his full attention, his eyes snapping open to find her the picture of misery. Jon could not help himself, in the face of such sadness, his hand cupping her cheek even as tears gathered in her eyes. "I fear I must beg your forgiveness for not mentioning it sooner."
He could feel his brow crease, could feel his eyes narrow in confusion at her sorrowful tone. "You ought to seek no forgiveness from me." He slid his thumb along the apple of her cheek.
Jon felt his heart sink as her face twisted, her face a mask of grief. "If we are to wed you must know the truth." He could not imagine what she meant, and so he waited, a stupid and baseless hope rising in his chest that it was not regret in laying with a Northern bastard that worried her so.
"Jon," she whispered once more, closing her eyes tightly as though she meant to gather her courage. "I must be sure that you understand that I will not make marriage a requirement for my aid. After I tell you what I must tell you, if you should not wish to wed yourself to me…"
"Stop."
Her gaze snapped to his, apprehension visible in her eyes at the sound of his voice. He sat up, leaning his face to closer to hers, not allowing her to look anywhere but him.
"Whatever it is, Daenerys, I can assure you I am no man fool enough to…" His words were suddenly muffled by her palm, and a rushing flow of words as her confession finally spilled forth in a pained voice.
"I cannot bear you children, Jon Snow. I cannot bear you heirs." She pulled away, withdrawing into herself, still beside him but leaving naught facing him but her bare back as she wrapped her arms around her bent knees and bowed her head.
Jon waited a beat, then two, hating the hint of a sob that reached his ears. Running his hand up her spine, he leaned in, the fall of her hair brushing against his lips.
"Is that all?"
She stiffened, her eyes shocked and marginally offended as her head snapped up and she turned to face him.
"It is everything!" Her stare was glassy, unshed tears gathering. "Do not mock me so. Every man wishes for heirs, Jon. Especially Kings." She shook her head, refusing the rebuttal she saw coming as he parted his lips to respond. "If not now, then one day…"
Daenerys trailed off as he rose, tugging on breeches but not bother to lace them, coming to stand before her and grasping her hand in his.
"Look at me." Slowly she raised her head, her eyes haunted and despairing. "*Look* at me!" With her hand still held in his he brought it up to trace along the scars that marred his chest, not ceasing until her sadness changed to confusion. He could not blame her for such puzzlement. A child of his own was a whimsy long dead to him, as dead as his body had been upon that cold stone slab in Castle Black, in a place very much like where they found themselves now.
He would make her understand, though.
"You know the truth of these wounds." She nodded, hesitating, her brow creased as she studied each one in turn. "You know what happened to me." Again, she gave a quick, stilted nod. He flattened both their palms, holding them together over his pounding heart.
"My heart beats within my chest, it is true. And I may stand before you, and draw breath, and speak." Now he took a deep breath, his own wits threatening to flee him at the weight of her eyes upon him now, mutely listening though comprehension seemed to begin to dawn in those violet depths. "But make no mistake, Daenerys, I am a dead man all the same. And I know no dead men who may father children."
One tear tracked down her cheek, but whether it was shed for him or for her he could not say. Deep down he suspected it to be for the child they would never create, but to let his thoughts wander down that road was a dark and desolate choice. He could only continue, now, and hope that in this absence of possibility they might find further strength, together. "So, you see, Your Grace, you do me no disservice in the offer of your hand in marriage. I am an abomination, an unnatural thing, and a bastard besides."
Jon hung his head, no stranger to the truth of what he was, even if he did not completely understand it. He closed his eyes, waiting, until the warmth of her fingers against his jaw brought her back into his line of sight.
"No, Jon. That is not what you are." She sounded angry, but Daenerys placed both hands on his chest, shedding the weight of the bed covering to slide completely free of them and coming to stand before him without a stitch of clothing. Focusing his attention on her face and not the body now bared to him was a test of his mental fortitude, to be certain, but he managed it all the same.
"Not a man." She pressed her lips to the notch in his collarbone, whispering against his skin. "Not a God." Now a kiss above his heart. "But something in between. Just like me."
He chuckled, prompting a raised brow and slight smile from her in response. "Forgive me, Daenerys, but," he pulled away, letting his gaze sweep her gloriously uncovered curves, "you are no man. Of that I am certain."
When she wrinkled her nose at him, a giggle escaping despite her attempts to remain serious, he considered it a victory. "Now you're simply being ridiculous."
Jon gave her an affronted look, letting his hands travel to the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. "Not at all." He looked between them, where the fullness of her breasts pushed against his bare chest. "Simply stating an obvious truth."
Her smile fell away, just slightly, when he brought his eyes back to hers. "Are you certain this is what you want, Jon? What we do now should not be done solely because of what we feel. You must be sure."
His Queen was right, he knew that. He understood the weight of her words, the gravity of what this would mean. This was not a decision that could be undone. But the choice, he was sure, was the easiest he'd ever pondered.
Jon rested his forehead against hers, his lips hovering just above her mouth. "Am I certain," he intoned softly, "that I wish to be your husband? Aye." He kissed her, gently, just letting his tongue graze her bottom lip, reveling in the way she chased his mouth with hers when he pulled back. "There could be no higher honor afforded me."
That made her smile anew, and fondly, and she brushed the tip of her nose against his. "I shall give you every honor. I shall set you above all others, trust you above all others," she whispered, pressing a rather chaste kiss to his lips considering her current state of undress. "I shall love you above all others."
An errant, worrying thought entered his mind, and in one last flicker of self-doubt he gave voice to it. "And if your wise advisors do not agree? If they wish you to wed someone more befitting your station?"
Her plump lips upturned slowly, slyly. "Never again shall I marry a man I do not wish to marry. If they find the idea so bothersome they can, with much haste, find themselves another to serve who will obey their every complaint and command." Slender fingers traced a line down the center of his chest, to his abdomen, just above the spot where skin met breeches. "I wish to marry you and so I will."
Daenerys hooked her fingers in the fabric, tugging them down swiftly, their eyes locked together as he kicked them blindly behind him. "But now, I would have you once more. We must depart soon, and I am not certain I could bear such long hours without something to appease my hunger."
It was not Tormund's knowing grin that made him uncomfortable. It wasn't the way he kept glancing over his shoulder at Jon, as they walked together atop the Wall, that made him shift nervously.
No, it was the way he kept chuckling to himself and shaking his head, in combination with the other two actions, that really set his teeth on edge.
"Go on, then." Tormund stopped when Jon spoke, giving him a curious squint. "Get it out of your system."
The ginger-bearded man gave a hearty laugh and clapped Jon on the back with one hand, hard enough that the King in the North had to brace himself against the icy-slicked, wooden railing.
"Sounds like you remembered what I told you, King Crow." He laughed harder when Jon frowned and crossed his arms, staring down at the white, barren wasteland in the distance, only broken by snow covered forests and the mountains beyond. "Slick as a baby seal, eh?"
Jon couldn't help but chuckle in agreement. He wouldn't begrudge the man his amusement, not in this. "Good advice after all, my friend."
Tormund nodded sagely. "Certainly sounded that way." Jon's eyes widened at the man's accompanying elbow to the ribs, his thoughts confirmed when his friend continued. "Some of the men thought you might be killing her in there."
Jon just rolled his eyes, shaking his head, smiling slightly in spite of himself. "'Course not."
"Though I might have mentioned that you were stabbin' her in there." The older man gave a low chuckle at Jon's answering sigh, his exasperation clear. "Hard to say, though, we were all fucking drunk."
At that both men laughed, the sound dying away as Drogon appeared above them, far and away and high in the clouds, flying in a tight circle in the gray skies above Eastwatch.
"You will go South today." As he often tended to, Tormund stated instead of asking, his eyes closely tracking the black dragon as he twisted and turned.
"Aye." Jon braced his gloved hands against the railing, grateful he'd slipped into several layers before he'd left Daenerys to her own preparations, though the whistling cold wind only made him long to be back under mounds of blankets and furs and hopefully fucking her into the straw mattress. "The Dragon Queen has sworn her armies and her dragons to our cause. We will return to Dragonstone and make our plans from there."
Tormund grunted, still watching Drogon as he came closer, now, dipping and swooping and wheeling in continuous loops. He was watching for Daenerys, Jon realized, the connection his Queen and her dragon shared reminding him once more of the ties between himself and his wolf. "How many men?"
Jon scratched at his chin, trying to extract the answer from a mind that was remarkably addled by the silver-haired beauty still somewhere within the fortress below his feet. "Near as I can recall, about forty-thousand of her horse lords, and another eight thousand of her Unsullied soldiers."
The large man let out an appreciative whistle between his teeth. "And three dragons?"
Jon nodded. "And three dragons."
Tormund smile, a real smile, one that made its' way to his eyes this time. "Maybe we've got a fucking chance after all." The man's gaze tracked to Jon, his voice dropping to a more serious tone as he addressed the young King. "Reckon you ought to marry that Dragon Queen. The only way you're going to stay alive is with three dragons around to save your scrawny neck."
He figured that was even closer to the truth that Tormund could possibly know, but he was in no mood for lengthy discussion, not now.
An idea had struck him; A foolish, stupid idea, really.
"Aye, I mean to marry her straightaway." He answered almost absently, his mind beginning to race, to piece together what he might do, if she might be agreeable, if it was even the wisest course of action.
He thought back to earlier in the morning, the look in her eyes as she had told him she wished to wed herself to him, even with his scars and his bastard surname and his cold, dead heart, though it beat still.
Yes. He could do this.
It was impertinent, at the very least. Presumptive.
She might say no.
But she might say yes, and Jon thought it likely that she would, and for once it seemed to him that he ought to stop brooding on it and just do it, for at least in this desolate, near-empty outpost his embarrassment would be limited if she refused, wanted something different, something grander.
He hoped she would agree.
"Tormund?" The man raised his eyebrows, silently telling him to continue. "I need a favor."
Jon's stomach had twisted itself into knots upon knots, his guts hopelessly tangled as he made his way to the room given to the Queen, after finding his own empty and free of any occupants. Her warm, gentle smile as she opened the door tempted him to shut them both inside together once more, her presence having its' now familiar effect on him as she stood aside to let him enter.
"Have you eaten?" He sounded more nervous than he cared to admit, but she did not seem to notice, turning back to gesture at the remnants of her meal, only streaks of boiled oats remaining. Such bland offerings were things he'd grown used to, but he would see to it that she had a more substantial meal once they returned to Dragonstone. He had plans, after all, and given her wild abandon and seemingly limitless desires of the night before he anticipated they might each need a fair bit of energy.
"Shall we be off?" Daenerys scooped up the only belonging she'd brought for the journey, a small leather satchel that fitted close to her body when strapped over her shoulder, and leaned in to kiss him forcefully, if briefly, giving a playful nip to his bottom lip as she pulled away. "There is much to plan."
He looked down at her, wondering at this pull to her, this need for her nearness, for her company. Sharing her bed had been something best thought of in the darkness of his quarters on Dragonstone, something he had refused to believe might actually happen until she had knocked upon his door last night. Setting his heart on such, even if she had seemed to return his growing affections, was an option that he had assumed would only lead to more pain.
He was happy he had been wrong. He genuinely liked her, he enjoyed spending time with her, and she had crashed through his rather substantial defenses like a roaring river, wearing him down, eroding away any part of him that thought to refuse this, to walk away.
The Gods had taken their pound of flesh and more from him, and it was far past time for him to take something for himself.
Jon smiled, raising a finger to tug gently at the end of a braid, her hair tumbling in a silver fall of curls and plaits down her back.
"There is something I would very much like to show you first, Your Grace, if you are willing." He clenched his fist as he dropped his hand down to his side, hoping to hide the tremble, but again she did not notice, her focus solely on his face, watching his expression closely.
Slipping her bag over her shoulder, and her gloved hand into his, she grinned, biting at her bottom lip for a moment before answering. "I am intrigued, Your Grace." She gave him a wink then tipped her head towards the open door. "Shall we?"
"I was ten and seven when I joined the Night's Watch." Jon glanced in her direction, fixing in his mind how she looked right now, her cheeks and the tip of her nose pink from the cold wind that whipped around them, thankful he'd tied his blasted hair back so that he may look upon her with no distraction or obstruction, nothing to mar the sight of her, still sometimes unsure that she was really there and not some impossible dream meant to torture him. "Did you know that?"
They were riding the lift down to the base of the Wall, and though she had been gazing around, taking in the loud clicking of the pulleys, the groaning wood as they travelled ever downward, she gifted him with a tiny smile and shake of her head.
"It was nothing like I thought it would be." Some hurts had dulled with time, this chiefly among them. "But then things rarely are."
Now she smirked, squeezing his hand where she still held it within her grasp. "Present company included."
Jon gave a quiet laugh, squeezing back as gears screeched and slowed them to a halt before tucking her hand into his waiting arm and beginning to walk. "Aye, that is certainly true. Although," he said, nudging her shoulder with his gamely, "not all surprises are dreadful ones."
"No," she responded, nudging back and arching a brow suggestively, "some are most welcome indeed."
They fell silent for several moments, their shoulders brushing as they walked closely together, his target in the distance, though she could not yet know it. "Have you ever beheld a weirwood tree?"
The Queen frowned in consideration, her pretty brow creasing as she thought. "Not that I can recall." She tipped her chin curiously at him. "Why?"
Jon gave a controlled exhalation, knowing the moment was swiftly approaching, his nerves making him ramble as he slowed their pace slightly. "They are sacred to the Old Gods. I swore my oaths before such a tree at Castle Black. Few remain to the South, but here, in the North, they may still be found."
"Oh!" He was pleasantly surprised to see genuine interest in her eyes. "Is that what you mean to show me?"
The King in the North hesitated a second before answering. "Yes." It was true, though not the entire truth. It mattered little, now, this small omission. She would learn his intent shortly. "It's just ahead, that way." He raised his free hand, pointing to the copse of trees a small distance away that gave way to a larger forest of snow-covered trees. Rising just above them all, in the heart of the clearing he knew lay deeper still, were the blood red leaves his eyes had sore-missed.
"Are those…people?" She was squinting as she spoke straining to make sense of the fur-covered Free Folk who waited for them in the snow, torches in hand.
"Aye." He took a deep breath, halting them both and turning to look down at her. "The Free Folk. And, the few brothers of the Night's Watch who remain at this castle." Jon gave a shuddering breath, taking her hands in his.
Daenerys, for her part, seemed stymied but not overly suspicious, her eyes darting from the people in the distance and back to Jon several times before she asked the question aloud that lingered in her stare. "What are they doing?"
"Waiting." Jon swallowed, watching as her she remained quiet, clearly expecting some sort of further clarification. He was very glad, privately, that his hands remained gloved, for they were sweating something terrible. "If we were to walk further in, Your Grace, we would find ourselves before the closest Heart Tree for many miles. And if we were to go and swear ourselves to each other before that tree, we would be wed in the eyes of the Old Gods, the Gods of the North."
Daenerys Targaryen smiled at him and the world around him stopped. It was a small, subtle motion at first, the corners of lips he had tasted endlessly the prior eve just barely curling up. It was her eyes, though, that made his heart begin to pound in his chest; They filled with such heat that for a heartbeat he thought he might burst into flame right there in the cold snows, and be glad of it.
But when her lips parted, and her breath steamed the air between them, he spoke on, needing her to know what he meant to forge between them now.
"I have no gold for your coffers. In the North, we grow no crops such as they do in the Reach. I have no ships for your fleets." She was shaking her head in disagreement already, but he pushed on. "All I have to offer is a few thousand fighting men, and a people who are far more stubborn, and suspicious, and hard-headed than I am. We only grow fighters in the North." He stepped closer, bringing an arm around her, his other still holding to hers as he brought his face near hers.
"You are the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but for now you hold none." Jon dropped her hand, cupping her neck with his hand, sliding his thumb along the graceful line of her jaw gently. "I will give you a kingdom. If we continue on," he tipped his head towards the trees, "I will make you Queen in the North. I will be your sword, and your shield. I will protect you in every way I am capable. And if we survive this fight against the dead, Dany, I shall see you sat upon the Iron Throne if that is your wish."
Her breath was coming ragged and short, her own hands trembling as she cupped his cheeks between her deceptively delicate fingers. He had not meant to call her Dany, not aloud, but in the face of proposing that Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen marry him, at the end of the world, amongst strangers, he supposed it was the least presumptuous thing he'd done this day.
"Dany." The name was a whisper, her eyes faraway as she spoke. "My brother was the last to call me such." She returned her gaze to his, shushing his forthcoming apology with gentle fingers against his lips. "It is a far sweeter name to hear from your lips. I think I should like for my Lord Husband to call me such."
He realized what she meant, fully, after a few beats, his eyes widening and his own breathing coming faster. "You will wed me here?"
"I will." She pressed her lips together tight, eyes shining, her chin trembling as though she fought back tears, though it was his deepest hope that it was gladness, not sadness, that had brought such a struggle on. She looked again towards the forest, stepping back so that they could walk together again, her hand seeking the bend of his arm as naturally as his move to offer it, as though it were made to fit precisely there.
Jon could not stop the wide smile that made his cheeks ache, peeking over at her every now and again as they approached the tree line to find her doing the same, but they did not speak until they came upon Tormund, who stood, torch in hand, just along the path that would lead them to the weirwood.
"You sure you want to marry this one, Dragon Queen?" Tormund's rough voice scraped against his ears through the windy chill, and Jon frowned at his friend even as Daenerys gave the man a look of such confused disbelief that the large man chuckled at the sight.
"Quite sure, thank you." With a prim nod and a raised brow she assessed the red-haired wildling, who only laughed louder and clapped her mightily on her slender shoulder.
"Good," Tormund muttered, shooting Jon a jesting glare, before facing the silver-haired beauty again. "The more folks tryin' to talk this one out of his stupid fucking ideas, the better, I say."
Jon could see where this was headed, knew from the twinkle in Tormund's eyes that he was well on his way to trying to take the piss out of him yet again, and so he cut the man off before he could share some of the more embarrassing things he knew about Jon with the Queen he would wed.
"Daylight's burning," Jon interjected, throwing Tormund a good-natured look undercut with warning, "so we'd best get on with things." He leaned in, pressing a rather innocent kiss to Daenerys's cheek, as if he hadn't spent the entirety of the prior night desperately trying to etch the memory of every inch of her into his mind. "I'll be waiting down there," he whispered against her ear, still close enough to delight at the little shiver that claimed her at the sensation of his breath against the sensitive skin.
His silver Queen smiled sweetly, and not for the first time he wished he had the ability to stop time altogether, to freeze this very moment and forget everything else, that the only thing he need concern himself was only her.
"Then we shall see you there," she said gamely, taking Tormund's elbow, and shooing him away with her free hand.
Jon realized he might have made an awful miscalculation, at least where his limited vanity might be concerned, when he saw the way Tormund was gesturing and leaning in to speak to Daenerys as he led her to the Heart Tree, not at all caring for the way her merry, low laugh carried on the wind.
He fought a groan as the pair grew closer, down the path lined with as many people as he'd managed to muster together, an odd mix of fur-covered Free Folk with a scattered black brother here and there, all holding torches and watching as the enormous red-bearded man walked the much smaller, and definitively easier to look upon, Queen ever nearer.
Jon spared a look at the man who stood beside him, one of the few remaining Brothers at Eastwatch, and rarer still, one who could read. He bit his lip to fight a chuckle when he heard the "bloody hells" the black-clad man let loose when Tormund and his Queen, clad in her white fur, came to a stop before them.
When the man still said nothing, Jon cleared his throat, and he couldn't help the quick smirk he gave Daenerys when their eyes met. He couldn't really blame the poor man; he'd been nearly dumbstruck at just the sight of her, that first meeting in her throne room upon Dragonstone, as hers was the sort of beauty that might steal a man's breath from his chest. Still, they needed to be on about their business.
"Sorry," the Night's Watchman whispered to Jon, who merely waved a hand to dismiss the apology. With a voice slightly shaking from the cold, he finally began, turning his head to address Tormund. "Who comes? Who comes before the Old Gods?"
Tormund grinned, gesturing to the Queen. "It's Daenerys the Dragon Queen that's come, to beg the blessings of the Old Ones!" Jon hadn't bothered trying to get Tormund to remember the entire bit that was meant to be said, and it wasn't in him now to reckon the Old Gods would care too much for proper ceremony right now, anyway. It was close enough to be getting on with, and that was what counted. "Who comes to claim her?"
The King rolled his eyes when his friend waggled his bushy red brows up and down, as though he thought Jon required prompting in this. "Me, Jon Snow of House Stark, the King in the North. I claim her." Though Dany appeared to be attempting a mask of propriety for the occasion, he saw the way her lips turned up at his words, and it pleased him all the more that she was pleased. "Who gives her?"
"Me, Tormund Giantsbane." He tipped his head and looked down at Daenerys, considering. "For whatever that's worth. I reckon a woman that commands dragons gives herself, King Crow."
Daenerys snorted and dipped her chin at Tormund in acknowledgement, before gazing back at Jon with amusement. "That's true enough," she said dryly.
Tormund nodded in agreement. "So," he continued, "will you take him off our hands, Dragon Queen?"
When everyone stared at her expectantly, her face flickered with uncertainty, and Jon's heart thundered so loudly in his chest that he thought it would burst, 'til she leaned in and whispered, "Can I just say 'Yes', or am I meant to say something in particular?"
Jon sagged with relief, extending his hand and smiling so widely it made his cheeks ache. "You can just say 'Yes', though the proper bit is 'I take this man', if that's your wish."
"I see," she answered, drawing herself up to her full height, still only barely taller than his shoulder. "I will take this man," she proclaimed loudly enough for the gathered folk to hear, and she took his hand tightly in hers, letting him tug her gently up to stand beside him.
Hands joined, Jon brought her to stand before the weeping tree, waiting for her to drink in the sight of it, enjoying the way her eyes widened and traced every detail, the way her lips parted in surprise at something that was surely foreign to her, before those lilac eyes were upon his again.
Jon knelt, nodding in the Queen's direction to indicate that she might do the same, waiting until they were knee deep in the snow, together, before he leaned close to whisper once more in her ear.
"Now we pray to the Old Gods, and ask their blessings up us."
She stared at him, solemn and silent for several seconds, before she replied. "That seems wise," she intoned, her lips quirking as she squeezed his hand. "I suspect we shall need all the help we can muster."
Jon closed his eyes and prayed, for the first time in a very long time, and hoped with all his heart that in this perhaps the Old Ones still had some mercy to give him. He prayed, above all other things, that they might prevail on the path now set before him, that together they might be triumphant in the fight against the dead that came closer by the day.
And he prayed for one other thing, one selfish wish that he thought he might have finally earned; That he would be able to keep her, that he could have just this one thing, and to hell with the rest of it. For as long as he continued to draw breath he prayed she might be his and his alone, the one thing he'd ever truly had for himself, and that he would be hers in turn. He prayed that what they forged now could withstand the tests that would be set against them from within and without, and that maybe, just maybe, he might actually make her happy, for whatever time was left to them.
She was the finest thing he'd ever known, and he begged the Old Gods might understand this, might spare her; He hoped they understood the wrath that would be unleashed in him if she was lost.
There came another squeeze of her fingers against his, and when he opened his eyes, and peered over at her, it was to find her beaming at him, and it occurred to him at that very moment that this was what it felt like to be alive, to be really alive, to feel so full of love for another that it seemed as though he might burst with it.
"What next?"
The black brother didn't miss her quiet question, standing at Jon's side, and he tucked the scroll with his part to speak into his leathers and clapped his hands together. "No cloaks to exchange," the man said, looking between the two, "so I reckon that's it."
Daenerys seemed surprised as the pair stood. "That's all? We are wed?"
Jon gave her a cheeky grin and wrapped his arms around her, his gloved hands settling at the base of her spine as he pulled her in close. "Not quite," he said against her lips, and then he claimed them, near moaning at the relief of tasting her sweet mouth again, dedicating several endless moments to reacquainting himself with their softness and shape, his tongue darting out to tease against hers just barely before he drew back.
"There," he said, satisfied with the way her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had gone slightly glassy. "Now we're done."
Tormund hooted and gave a cheer, a hearty call echoed by the folk around them in the clearing.
"Now, get on your way, before one of you gets frostbit tryin' to fuck in the snow." Jon grimaced at Tormund's rather coarse declaration, but Daenerys only laughed and winked at Jon in the cheeky manner he'd grown extremely accustomed to as of late.
"Tormund Gianstbane speaks truly, husband." Jon decided he very much liked the way that sounded, brushing one more glancing caress of his lips on hers after she spoke, savoring the feel of her in his arms. "We'd best be off."
Drogon had been all too ready to be off, stamping himself about in the ice, talons leaving long scored lines in the snow as he fretted, restless until Jon and Daenerys had clambered aboard. Dany made it look like an effortless climb, scaling the back of the great black dragon, and from the way she clapped a hand over her mouth as he scrambled up, he had to assume he made it look a bit more difficult.
Gods, but this was a different flight than his prior one had been; Before, Jon had spent the long hours pointing out different landmarks as they passed, glad to tell her things she did not know, to see her as she took in sights that she had only ever read about, according to her.
And he had spent every last spare bit of willpower, on the journey to Eastwatch, making sure that while he held on close he did not hold her *too* closely. It was true they had been drawing ever closer to each other; Hells, he'd been achingly close to bedding her the night prior, there in her chambers at Dragonstone, but even so, he'd dug deep and fought to preserve at least a bit of his honor.
Jon smiled against her silver hair, now, closing his eyes and listening as the wind whistled past his ears. There was no spare inch of space between her back and his chest, now, his hips fitted tight against hers and his arms around her waist firmly as she gripped at the sharp, horned growths that sprung from Drogon's back.
Up here, far above it all, with the horrors that haunted him receding by the minute, there was only the solid warmth of her in his arms. Up here, Jon felt as though anything were possible. He had never felt such raw power, the dragon's body shuddering beneath them as his mighty wings beat and propelled them through the clouds, until they were up above the storm.
He was also more than a little aroused by it all, a situation only worsened when, every now and then, his newly-wedded wife would wiggle against him in a manner that suggested she knew exactly how much he was enjoying the journey. And just as soon as he would slide a hand to the curve of her hip, or begin to sneak a palm up to cup at the mound of her breast, Dany's dragon would let loose with a low, warning grumble. She would turn, and give him a wicked little smile before turning her attention towards home, and he would let his own gaze wander to the ground far below, when it would peek through the hazy clouds.
He reckoned he ought to be afraid, at least a little, but he was not. Death had left him with a peculiar bent towards danger, and daring, and all he could feel atop this dragon's back was an exhilarated joy.
Up here, mounted atop this magical creature, it was just the two of them and the wind and the sun, and they were free.
Night had fallen when they landed upon the cliffs at Dragonstone, Dany's other scaled children calling out into the dark as though they had sensed their mother's approach.
Jon supposed they had, for why should they not? Ghost had surely sensed that he came near, for as soon as he had climbed down from Drogon's back there came a white streak heading straight for him, and it was all he could do to stay upright when his wolf finally set upon him, large paws draped upon Jon's shoulders, bathing his face in frantic licks before the beast finally calmed himself.
He couldn't help but scoff when Ghost approached the Queen with a much greater sense of decorum, but that might very well have been due to the way that Drogon stared at the smaller creature in most menacing fashion as the wolf licked gently at Dany's outstretched fingers.
It certainly wasn't the first time that Ghost's sense of self-preservation had outweighed his own.
Daenerys paid no heed to her white furs as she knelt in the grass and set about to scratching at the wolf's jaw, giggling when his leg began to thump rapidly, like some common hunting hound. "Greetings, my Lord," the Queen trilled sweetly. "Have you been terribly lonesome since we have been gone?"
Ghost whined pitifully and Jon rolled his eyes. "Honestly, lad." His wolf looked as though he might glare if he could, chuffing low before turning his red gaze back to Daenerys. "Get ahold of yourself."
His new wife's laughter dulled the tinge of embarrassment that crept upon him every time Ghost came near her and made it obvious as to Jon's true feelings where she was concerned. Smiling broadly, her cheeks still rosy from the wind, she looped her arm through his and turned her eyes towards the darkened Keep, leaning her head against his shoulder briefly as they slowly walked together.
"I should think everyone has turned in for the night." She sounded breathy and anticipatory, her gloved hand creeping down to lace their fingers together, leaning back just enough to swing their joined hands. "It would be a terrible inconvenience to wake our at advisors at such a late hour. We ought to wait until morning."
When Jon looked down, she was biting her lip to keep from laughing, though she'd somehow managed a tone full of regret. "Yes," he nodded in agreement, "it would be tremendously rude. Besides, we have other business to be attending to, this night."
He tried not to sound to over-eager, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps some sense of self-doubt still lingered; though she had enthusiastically lain with him the night prior he still couldn't shake this need to hold back, just a small bit. His heart had been lost to her at a pace that was terrifically unnerving, and years of preparing himself for rejection had left him on high alert for the merest hint of it now.
They began to ascend the stone steps, some of the Queen's horselords heading their way, lit torches in hand, when she squeezed his hand, something very soft lurking in her eyes when she stopped him with a tug. "You ought to stop at your chambers, Jon." She dropped his hand only to loop both arms around his neck and kissed him with an ardor that shook him, her teeth nipping at his lower lip before her tongue swept into his mouth to tangle with his. "We shall have your things brought to my rooms."
A helpless laugh shook his chest as he let his hands fall to her back, his fingers rubbing a slow circle over the white fur, enchanted at the way she arched into his touch. "I've only got a trunk."
"Good." She leaned in close, rubbing the tip of her nose against his. "Then I shall see you soon, husband."
Jon had nearly made it to his quarters when he realized he was being followed.
It was one of the Dothraki that was always near Daenerys, and while he had initially wondered at their dedication to her protection, he welcomed such efforts now, not even wanting to glance upon the idea of her being harmed lest he get himself and the great wolf at his side riled up at the very notion.
So it was puzzling, really, that the man mirrored Jon's steps, though he kept a healthy distance between himself and the pair that led the way. He let himself wonder, as he approached his door, whether he feared Ghost, Dany having already alluded to the somewhat superstitious nature of those that had followed her across the Narrow Sea.
He had worked amongst her men enough, down deep in the dragonglass caves, to pick up a somewhat rudimentary understanding of their language, but it certainly wasn't enough to make him confident in starting a conversation with the stone-faced man, so he simply turned aside at the door and watched as the Dothraki warrior followed him in, barely smiling when the man gave his wolf a very wide berth.
The man said nothing, just stared at Jon, and after several beats the King realized Daenerys must have sent him to help with the gathering of his belongings, paltry as they were. He scanned the room, gathering up the scrolls littering the desk in the corner, and tossed them haphazardly into the trunk that contained the only clothes and personal possessions he'd brought to Dragonstone.
There was nothing else to take, save for the cloak he'd left behind, knowing it would be more trouble than it was worth high in the skies on the back of the Queen's dragon, and he threw it over his shoulder, nodding down at the trunk and grasping one side, then looking to the silent man who stood, watching.
"Khaleesi," Jon said, pointing with his free hand out the door, and the Dothraki nodded slightly, coming to the other side and taking up the grip on the other side of the wooden trunk.
Jon glanced back to make sure Ghost was following, and he didn't miss the way the man's eyes rested on him, examining him, the corners of his lips curling up knowingly as they labored. "Khaleesi waiting for you."
"Aye," Jon said, facing forward as an involuntarily smile claimed his own mouth, letting his feet carry him faster, towards his wife. It wouldn't do to keep the Queen waiting.
Missandei stood waiting by the door to the Queen's chambers, a room Jon had only been inside but twice, in search of the increasingly disappearing Ghost. He had not, since the wolf had come into his life, ever had occasion to be envious of the animal, save for wishing he could run as free as Ghost was able to, unencumbered by the burden and responsibilities that seemed to find Jon no matter where he found himself.
But when he'd happened upon his wolf sprawled happily at Dany's side, her hands in his fur; When he'd entered the other night to find the wolf splayed upon her *bed*, of all places, he'd experienced an embarrassingly hot flush of jealousy that had strangely subsided once he'd had her in his arms, in the Keep at Eastwatch.
Now, looking askance at Ghost who stood panting in the hallway, he realized he'd been foolish.
But he also had no intention of sharing his Queen's bed with the beast, so he pinned the wolf with a serious look, muttering, "You're on the door tonight, lad," before entering the chambers with the Dothraki man still trailing behind at the other end of his trunk.
Jon looked around as the two men set the trunk down against a far wall, near the wide windows carved out of the stone walls, open to the elements. He did not miss the man's low exchange with Missandei as he made to leave, nor the way he looked Jon up and down once more before he turned to leave.
On a low table nearby there were several plates heaped with food, fruits and meats and cheeses that must have been hastily prepared once notice had been given of their arrival, and his stomach growled angrily as Jon tore his eyes away from the offerings to look back to the Queen's lady.
"Her Grace is in her bathing chambers, just through there." Missandei looked as solemn as she always did, but with every other word they would twitch as though she fought back a smile. "She asks that you join her."
Jon nodded, turning in the direction Missandei had pointed and beginning to wonder if he ought to rid himself of his clothes first, wondering just when it was his luck had turned so dramatically, when the woman spoke again.
"I understand congratulations are in order, King in the North." This time she smiled widely, golden eyes warm and kind as she spoke, and Jon could not help but return the gesture as he dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "My Queen is most pleased with this turn of events, and so I am pleased for you both." Now, she made to leave, pulling the door closed behind her firmly, and Jon was finally alone.
He blew out a breath, looking down at himself and starting to unlace his jerkin as he tossed his cloak onto the trunk, his fingers making quick work of the bindings as he wandered to the food. Absently, he snagged several grapes, chewing as he pondered his next move.
Jon tugged his jerkin free, laying it atop his cloak, and slid out of his boots, leaving him in just his rather threadbare tunic and trousers. He neatly set the boots by his trunk, a wave of sudden nerves making his hands clench and his jaw tighten.
Ought he walk in there naked as his nameday? She wished for him to join her, that's what Missandei had said, but whereas last night had been a flurry of finally-sated need, tonight was something different. Tonight he was meant to have her as his wife, and he couldn't shake the notion that he was ever and always on a razor's edge of fucking it all up.
He realized what it was, as he spied himself in her looking glass, his face a mask of tension. This was too many good things, happening in rapid succession, and his bastard's mind had been long-conditioned to seeing his dreams and wants crushed beneath the bootheel of misery.
"Get yourself together," he whispered to his reflection.
This would be different.
She had chosen him, just as he had chosen her, and he couldn't allow his fear of what might happen destroy whatever happiness he could catch between his hands in the here and now.
He closed the distance to the door in several quick steps, and pushed it open.
When those first enterprising Targaryens had fled to Westeros, and built this Keep, it seemed to Jon that they'd saved a few tricks for chambers such as these.
He'd never seen the like, certainly not in Winterfell. In Winterfell, if one desired a hot bath, it was in a copper tub, or a trip to the hot springs 'neath the old castle.
But here, in this room, were porcelain basins set into stone, and mirrors hung along the same stretch of wall. Here, in this room, there were no cold metal tubs to be climbed into, for the Targaryens had carved themselves a square bathing pool near-larger than the grand, stately bed that awaited them.
Here, in this room, was Daenerys of House Targaryen, lounging in that bathing pool, steam rising and curling the loose hair around her face into silver tendrils, the rest of the silky length gathered and twisted atop her head, not a braid to be seen this night.
Her eyes were closed, but at the sound of him drawing near she opened them, lazily, her eyes gleaming with reflected lamplight, several of them spread out onto various surfaces and making the room glow orange save for the shafts of moonlight that filtered in through the narrow, slotted windows along one wall.
Rolling her head slowly to the side, her eyes tracked him, and there was no mistaking the hunger he saw there.
"Are you going to keep your eyes open this time?"
That was all it took, miraculously, to loosen the tightness in his chest, to let his worries slip away, to leave everything behind but this, and her, and what they might become together.
He laughed, full and loud, grinning with just a hint of cheek as he sauntered to the bath, enjoying the way she made no attempt to hide herself from him. She merely watched, pressing her lips together to fight her own laugh, attempting to look stern and failing miserably. "I am not sure my pride could recover from such treatment a second time, King in the North."
Jon shucked off his shirt quickly, dropping a hand to the lacing of his trousers. "No," he drawled, desire making his heart begin to pound in his ears, the hunger in the pit of his stomach eclipsed by the need to have her, now, especially after the hours of torturous teasing she'd embarked upon atop her dragon's back. "I shall be keeping them wide open this evening, Dany."
He gave himself over to the sheer delight of watching her as she didn't bother to even meet his eyes, her lips quirking in a small smile before her tongue snaked out to wet them, her gaze trained solely on the progress of his hand as he finally worked the lacings loose..
"Good," she whispered, raising her brows as she pushed away from the wall, water dripping from every curve as she came to a stop before him, rising to her knees in the tub, her wet hands rising to his hips and tugging at the fabric. His breath stuttered in his chest when she leaned forward suddenly and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin just below his navel, his blood rushing so swiftly to his cock that for a moment he worried he might truly embarrass himself and pass out there on the cold stone floor.
He wasn't able to stop the full-throated moan that escaped when the silken skin of her cheek brushed against his stiff length, and he stepped back just far enough to give himself a moment to breathe and step out of his trousers before he let his hungry gaze return to his Queen.
*His* Queen, that's what she was now, his lady wife, and perhaps in the morrow there would be many in her service who would say that a bastard King such as him had no right to wed himself to her.
But tonight, as he watched her push away, floating on the surface, every curve of her body wet and glistening, painted golden in candlelight, he couldn't find it in him to care.
She was his, and he was going to take what was his.
He stepped into the water, wincing at the heat, returning her wicked smile as he settled below the surface, until just his head and shoulders remained above the gentle lapping.
Daenerys eyed him with heady desire, returning to her prior position, her back against the pool, one hand reaching to where a goblet of wine sat perched on the edge of the stone. Taking a sip, she gave him a heavy-lidded look, steam rising between them, and let her feet float to the surface. She stroke a foot up his chest, giggling when he caught it with his hands and placed a kiss to the tip of her toes.
"I must say, Jon Snow, you have a particular look in your eyes, this evening." She licked the wine from her lips as he slid a hand up the wet skin of her calf, creeping nearer as his hands wandered up the length of her leg. "Am I to assume that unlike the last time we found ourselves in this position, you intend to do more than sit near me with your eyes on the ceiling?"
Her light laugh become full and hearty when he gripped a strong thigh in each hand and pulled her forward, water sloshing as she wrapped her arms around his neck, their bodies now flush together.
"I think," he drawled, hands sliding up her spine as he dipped his head to sample the skin of her neck, "I shall be doing the things I wished to do, the last time we found ourselves in this position." He punctuated the remark by suckling at the tender flesh at the hollow of her throat, eyes closing as she let out a lusty moan. "Before, I had my honor to think of, after all."
"Mmmm." Her own hands began to wander, one stroking at his shoulder and down his chest as the other slid down to clutch at his arse, nails digging into his flesh and making him groan as his cock began to throb, nestled against her cleft. "I certainly hope your honor has been tossed aside as your clothes have, *husband*."
She rocked her hips against him, the slickness at her core not disguised by the heated waters swirling around them. "Again," he growled, mouthing the lobe of her ear as his hands dropped to her hips to hold her still, thrusting against her in a poor imitation of what he truly wanted. Now that he'd had her, there was no going back, no possibility of living without the absolute bliss of being buried deep inside her, until they were nothing but writhing flesh in constant pursuit of pleasure.
But tonight, he would lay with her as her husband, and he wanted to draw it out, at least as long as he could.
And so, he relaxed his grip, hands on her shoulders urging her to turn around, and together he moved them until his back hit the stone, urging her to recline against him as she settled between his thighs, letting out a soft sigh as her head dropped back against his shoulder so she could peer up at him in the flickering light.
He could see the question there, but just winked, giving her another slow smile as he reached a hand up for the bar of soap and the linen cloth that sat upon a small dish within arm's reach. As they both watched, he worked up a lather, until the cloth was thick with it, discarding the bar of soap and beginning to swipe the linen along her delicate collar bone.
"I told you," he whispered, "I shall be doing all the things I wished to do before, *wife*." She smiled indulgently as she realized what he meant to do, relaxing further against him as he soaped first one arm, then the other, lifting each limb to allow him easy access, occasionally nuzzling her nose against his throat and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the flesh there.
"Considerate," she breathed against him, her humid breath taunting his sensitive flesh, then nipping him with her teeth as he let his soapy hands skate across her chest, just above her breasts, the linen creating a teasing barrier between his skin and hers.
He chuckled, low in his throat, working his way along the upper curves of her breasts as they bobbed enticingly in the water, pink, dusky nipples already stiff and begging for attention as he moved slowly lower. "Actually, it's rather selfish, to be honest." She raised her head to look at him, brows raised. "I thought an awful lot about this, you know. Alone, in my rooms. Probably too much, if I'm being especially forthright."
Her gaze darkened, and she licked her lips again, tongue lingering before she turned her head back to watch his hands work, the linen cloth snagging on one hard, rosy point and making her sigh hungrily. "As did I," she finally exhaled, her hands dipping down into the water to grip at his thighs, as though she meant to brace herself against the expected onslaught of his hands on her skin.
Jon ignored the burning want that threatened to consume him, that begged him to pull her from this bathing pool and drag her to that stately bed of hers and thrust his aching cock inside her, but only barely. He was not jesting; Ever since that night that seemed like forever ago, he'd tortured himself with fantasies of the most improper sort, of tossing aside whatever virtue he possessed and taking full advantage of the opportunity presented, usually working himself with his own hand frantically until he sat, panting and slightly ashamed, in his silent chambers.
The reality of her was so much better than his feeble imagination had been able to conjure up, and he tossed aside the cloth, tiring of teasing them both, wanting to feel her slippery flesh beneath his rough palms. He cupped one full, firm teat in each hand, kneading and learning the shape of her with a patience he hadn't possessed the prior night, in his cold room at Eastwatch. It was only seconds until her head was thrown back, eyes pressed shut and white teeth worrying the full contour of her low lip as he began to lightly pinch and play and tug at the stiff peaks of her nipples.
"Jon," she moaned, her hips beginning to twist and writhe against him, her nails pricking against his skin where she gripped him. "Don't tease me."
He leaned down, twisting his head to capture her lips, tongue stroking against hers, before sucking firmly on her plump lower lip. "I would never do that, my Queen." Her only response to his heated, panting promise was to groan, as he plucked more firmly at her. "Have another sip of your wine."
She cracked open her lids as his hand stilled, but complied, reaching for her goblet and taking a hearty swallow before she offered it to him.
Jon rinsed his hands, taking the proffered drink and letting the wine linger in his mouth before he swallowed. He was a man who enjoyed a nice, stout ale, to be sure, but he supposed there was something to be said for Arbor Gold, a much finer vintage than the wines they kept up North. When she returned her drink to it's perch, she didn't take up her previous position, instead sliding into his lap easily, a naughty smile twisting her lips as she let her cunt drag along the length of his near-throbbing cock.
"I think you have the right idea." She reached for the soap herself, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she coated her hands in it, tracing her sudsy hands across his chest and along the length of his scars as she circled her hips slowly against his beneath the water's surface. "There are several things I wanted to do, as well."
Without warning, she reached between them, fisting him tightly, stroking him so achingly slowly that he thought his eyes would cross. "Dany," he ground out, thrusting into her hand instinctually, each smooth slide aided by the water and the dissipating soap that coated her palm. "Now who's teasing?"
She laughed, watching his face closely. "Not me," she said, voice laden with promise. "Stand up, Jon."
He checked his gaze to hers, wondering at the lustful amusement that flitted across her face as he eyed her suspiciously. "What are you up to?"
Daenerys grinned, blinking slowly, settling on her knees in the water as she gave him room to stand. "What I wish, Jon."
He had his suspicions, and had no doubt they would run counter to his desire to take his time, but he complied, unable to resist giving her what she asked. He couldn't fathom any man could deny her anything, especially the sight of her wet and willing, eyes tracking him hungrily as he finally stood, water coursing down his body it was revealed to her.
She lathered her hands again, her eyes solely on his cock as it bobbed between them, so close to her face her felt his face heat at the images that flashed into his mind.
Daenerys reached for him, with obvious intent, hands brushing against his hip bones and the dark line of hair that arrowed down towards where he was hard and yearning, her smile growing as she circled nearer and nearer to where he wanted her touch the most, eyes almost black as her own breath began to come more rapidly.
When she finally took him in her hand again, he moaned her name in relief, his hands falling to her shoulders to keep himself upright as he knees threatened to buckle. There was something intoxicating about it, about the sight of this Dragon Queen on her knees before him, her slick hand slipping along his length more teasingly now, her touch light and torturous as she worked him.
"If you don't stop," he began, a note of warning entering his pleading voice, but she only increased her pace, her focus narrowed between the sliding of his flushed cock in her hand and the way his face twisted in pleasure.
"Why?" She sounded so deceptively innocent, eyes wide, a slight pout on her lips.
He let out a harsh breath, trying to stop the way his hips forced his length more quickly into her slick grip, breath escaping him completely when her other hand raised and began to cup his stones.
"I want to be inside you," he managed to stutter out, eyes slamming shut in pleasure as she began to trace slippery circles along his sensitive skin as she stroked him.
Her motions slowed, and she considered him for several ponderous seconds. "Yes," she agreed, and she released him, dipping her hands into the water and cupping them, letting water sluice over him to wash the soap from his skin.
It was either the best suggestion he'd ever made, or the worst, because then, with no warning at all, she leaned forward, her full lips parting as she took his cock into her mouth.
Was he going to pass out? It was possible, he realized, and he fought to stay upright as he experienced the burning, wet bliss of an act he had not expected in the slightest. He felt her tongue stiffen and trail along the underside of his cock as she began to work more and more of his length with each bob of her head, and wondered how he'd gone his entire life without knowing something could feel as deliriously delicious as this.
In his rather limited experience, this was the sort of thing fine ladies did not do, and the sliver of propriety left inside him wanted to protest, that a woman like Daenerys need not perform such a task. But that protest was quickly swept away at the sight of his ruddy cock sliding from her lips, only to disappear again. His hands tightened on her shoulders, allowing her to do as she would, each suckling pull of her mouth on him only causing that burning, tingling need that settled in his groin and began to creep up his spine to begin to spiral out of control.
She began to couple her movements with her hand, sealing her lips to her closed fist as he groaned and keened, unable to stop the movements of his hips as he started to keep pace with her lovely mouth. "Fuck," he groaned, back tightening and beginning to curve when she rolled her eyes upwards, watching him as she pleasured him, and it was almost too much to bear.
She released him with a loud, wet pop from her mouth, and he thought it a small mercy even as he mourned the loss of sensation, but she kept up the movement of her hand, stroking him from root to tip, bending to let her tongue take up her prior ministrations, licking and tracing her tongue along his stones, and he knew he was done for.
There was no fighting the crawling, itching blaze, his cock twitching in her hand as his stones began to tighten, and when she pulled one into the wet cavern of her mouth he let out a needy yelp, his heart racing and his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Dany," he said forcefully, "I'm going to—"
Again, he was released from her mouth, and he saw her swollen, wet lips curve upwards as she gave him the most lascivious look he'd ever received, her tongue escaping to lick lewdly at the rounded head of his cock as her hand kept up the pace. "I want to taste you."
He had no resolve left, not after those words fell upon his ears, and she gave him no opportunity to protest, taking him back into her mouth deeply, as though she meant to swallow him whole. He hung on, as best he could, wanting to savor each second of her ministrations, but then he was greeted by a sight that caused him to come completely undone.
The hand not circled around him crawled down her own body, until she reached the juncture of her thighs, and by the way he saw it begin to flex he knew precisely what she was doing. There was no holding back his release, and he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, as his hips began to jerk, as his seed began to spill into her mouth in hot bursts that made him see stars.
"Fuck," he grunted, hands now grabbing onto her for dear life, as she swallowed him down, her every pleased moan vibrating against his shaft as she continued to work him, slowing and milking every drop from him before she finally set him free, her cheeks flushed and eyes full of an endless and depthless want that shook him to the marrow of his bones.
For a few moments there was only the chorus of their loud, rough exhalations, but as strength returned to his limbs he used his grasp on her to pull her up his body, taking the hand she'd used to toy with herself and slipping her fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of her clean from each digit as her cheeks flushed darker and her mouth hung open in want.
He didn't bother with attempting to dry them off, the need to see her writhing in pleasure too great, and he stepped purposefully from the tub, picking her up at the waist and encouraging her to wrap her legs around his own as he took them both into her bedchambers.
She laughed as he tossed her onto the bed, crawling up after her as she lay back breathlessly on her feather pillows. "We're going to get the bed all wet," she chided playfully, even as she parted her smooth thighs for him, allowing him to slide her limbs over his shoulders.
"I'm sure we will," he agreed meaningfully, quirking his brows at her before dropping his gaze to her glistening cunt, his thumbs parting her folds as he prepared to feast. "I wonder if you will scream for me tonight," he mused aloud, looking up her body, past her flat stomach and the heaving peaks of her breasts, to find her raised up on her elbows and watching him with illicit challenge in her eyes.
"Do you worst," she ordered, and he set to work.