The coming of the sun found them both exhausted, almost boneless, limbs tangled together and hair hopelessly disheveled. He had taken her as often as he could, finding an hour or two of sleep jointly before bodies would brush again, and they would take to claim each other with desperate hands and devouring mouths.
It was the calm before the storm, he knew, because her council awaited, and they brought far more news than would be expected.
Still, he thought, watching her as she slept, grinning at the light snore that escaped her parted lips, it was worth it. He couldn't care about what would come next; There was too much that lay ahead, too many unknowns to fixate on, and he was well aware of his own capacity to brood himself into oblivion.
He had to change. He had to live, now, in the moment, and take what he could in both hands, grab onto the memories he could make with her in whatever time was left to them, or he would be the greatest fool that ever lived.
Jon ticked a finger along one sharp cheek bone, marveling at how delicately beautiful she was when she slumbered, knowing the power she commanded while she was awake.
But that wasn't all she was. She had shown him the truth of her. She was strong, of that there was no doubt, and he found it made her all the more alluring to him. She didn't require his protection, or constant vigilance, did not look to him as her savior, as so many did in the North. She had dragons, Old Gods preserve him. But he was hers, all the same, knew he would cast himself before a thousand swords to shield her from the blows.
It was a strange thing, to be wanted for himself, and it was something he reckoned might take some getting used to.
A knock sounded at the door, coupled with a feminine voice he knew belonged to Missandei. "Your Grace?"
Daenerys shifted, moaning sleepily as her hand searched blindly for him, even before her eyes opened. "Yes?" Her voice was groggy, still thick with sleep.
"Your advisors request your presence, at your leisure of course." The Queen's eyes flickered open, and she gave him the sweetest smile he'd ever seen, leaning up to kiss him gently before responding.
"Let them know we will be there within the hour, Missandei." He hated the way her lips twisted down regretfully, no doubt the reality that the world they'd created last night, in which only they existed, had been shattered, and the harsh morning light had brought with it the tasks that lay ahead.
They made their way to her council chamber together, crossing the throne room with Ghost loping behind them, unsurprised to find everyone already gathered and awaiting their arrival.
A quick glance showed Jon their rather noisy activities of the night before had not gone unnoticed, as he took in Tyrion's sour frown, Jorah Mormont's rather angry glower, and the sharply curious gaze as Varys, in turn.
However, it was the way Davos was barely suppressing a happy grin that brought forth his own small smile. He shook his head slightly at the man, however, hoping he would take the hint and contain himself. Jon led Daenerys to her customary spot, missing her touch the moment she unlinked her arm from his, her woolen overcoat buttoned to the her throat this day in an attempt to hide the scattered bites he'd left on her neck and chest.
Of course, she'd delivered the same, his shoulder was deliciously sore at the place where she'd bitten down, hard, in the dark of night, as he'd fucked her with all his might. He shook away the memory, warning himself to focus on this meeting and not what he wanted to do to her, again and again.
He crossed to stand beside Davos, giving a dip of his chin to his Queen as she looked imperiously around the room, head held high, chin tipped up as she gazed at her advisors.
"Welcome back, Your Grace," Tyrion said, something darker lurking beneath his deceptively placid tone. "We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival, and whatever news you bring." His eyes travelled between Jon and Daenerys quickly, as though trying to pin down what had changed between the young rulers.
All eyes were on his Queen, and she let out a short, quick breath, spreading her hands on the table before her. "There is much to tell," she said gravely. "Let us begin."
Varys piped up, hands hidden beneath his voluminous robes. "What news from Eastwatch, Your Grace?"
Jon watched as her throat bobbed, as she closed her eyes, shoulder sagging for a moment before she straightened. "The King in the North has spoken truly, my Lords. The threat that faces us," she shuddered visibly, eyes opened now and laced with fear, "it is real. And it is coming."
The assemblage, as a whole, shifted uncomfortably, clearly displeased to hear these tidings.
"Does the Wall still stand?" This time it was Jorah, who continued to stare daggers at Jon.
"Aye," Jon bit out, nodding. "For now. But I can make no promise that it will remain so, if we do not face what comes for us all." He saw the man's jaw work, as he mulled over Jon's words.
"What did you see?" Tyrion's more subdued question pulled all their gaze towards him, and Jon bit his tongue, knowing they were all far more likely to believe what Daenerys would say than anything that might fall from his tongue.
And as she explained, as she described what they had witnessed from the back of her dragon, her hushed tones only making the tale sound ever more sinister, he saw face after face become drawn and pale. The marching hordes of dead men, who did not sleep, or eat, led ever onward by the Night King, who meant to kill them all, somehow sounded far less fantastical when spoken by the one who had hatched dragons from stone.
"How many?" It was Jorah, again, who looked rather wan, despite the golden daylight streaming in.
"A hundred thousand, at least," Daenerys answered, looking to him as though his stare alone might give her strength. "Perhaps more." Jon nodded in agreement, trying to tell her with his eyes how much he loved her, how much he believed in her, that she alone could save them all.
She was trying so hard to be brave, he saw, but the slight tremble of her mouth did not escape him.
"So that's it, then?" Tyrion rose, beginning to pace and sounding fully aggrieved. "We take all our forces North? Leave the South in my sister's hands? What of your throne?"
Her eyes sharpened, and she frowned as she watched her Hand. "The only way to take the throne, in this face of this threat, would be to burn the Red Keep to the ground, Lord Hand." She gave the man a humorless smile. "And if I recall, you have warned me against how such actions might be taken. If it is so important that the Iron Throne be claimed first, my Lord, I will rule over first ashes, then a graveyard." She sniffed, delicately. "I would prefer neither."
Tyrion's eyes fell on him, then, heavy with accusation. "We cannot fight a war on two fronts. You understand, I hope, that even if we are to go North, my sister's armies will simply attack us at our backs." The small man made a disgusted sound, taking a wine skin from a low table and pulling heartily at it before he continued. "This will not do. There is still time to talk sense into Cersei, make her see reason, to take the Throne first."
A flare of anger sparked, deep in his chest, and he strode forward before he could stop himself, only halting when he stood towering over Tyrion. "You understand, I hope," he said, no small amount of menace in his voice, "that even if the throne is taken, I will not see your sister spared."
It was surprise, then affront, that flickered across Tyrion's face, and Jon wondered, not for the first time, where this man's loyalties truly lay. Because Tyrion was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He had to know, as surely as Jon did, that so long as Cersei Lannister remained alive, she would be a threat to the Silver Queen they both served.
"Then I suppose," Tyrion said slowly, "that it is a blessing I did not ask your opinion, King in the North. Matters to the South are not yours to decide."
Jon gave him a hard stare, as the man smirked, taking another swig of wine.
"Watch yourself, Lord Hand," came a deceptively soft voice. "You speak to my Husband, and I do not think I appreciate the tone you are taking."
He saw it, then, in the way the man's eyes bulged, the way he shifted from disbelief, to shock, to a flash of heartbroken rage. He'd suspected it, of course. He wasn't sure there was a man in the room, at least any inclined toward the female form, that wasn't in love with his Queen to some small degree. It was easy to see, in Ser Jorah, but he rather thought Tyrion fancied that he hid his own secret desires well.
But Jon saw, and he knew, that this might be a very dangerous situation, depending on what Tyrion chose now.
A broken heart could lead a man down a treacherous path, indeed.
"I see," Tyrion finally said, flatly, saluting Jon half-heartedly with his wine skin. "I suppose congratulations are in order." His eyes were like empty, cold, stone, flat and emotionless as he turned, with effort, to Daenerys. "And when did this happy event occur?"
"We were wed before the Old Gods, at the Heart Tree at Eastwatch," Jon bit out, looking around the room and daring a soul to challenge him, or their Queen. Davos, at his side, let out a delighted laugh, clapping a hand heavily on Jon's shoulder and squeezing heartily.
"Ah, well done, lad." He, too, looked around the room, no doubting noting the lack of excitement from many of the other parties. "Never let it be said that the King in the North is not a man of action." When the smuggler's gaze landed on the Queen, he beamed. "And congratulations to you, my Queen. The North is all the better for it, Your Grace." Davos bowed to her, as deeply as his old knees would allow, and Daenerys spared his Hand a genuine smile.
"Thank you, Ser Davos." She spared Jon a long, lingering look, before turning her attention back to Tyrion. "The King in the North is correct, Tyrion. Your sister must answer for her crimes, and face justice for the horror she has inflicted on the people of Westeros."
Tyrion's face shuttered, and Jon saw him stare lingeringly at Varys, who remained blandly unaffected. "And is that your final word?" Tyrion swayed on his feet, and Jon wondered if the man was already drunk. "You've wed yourself off to a bastard King and now you will hear no other advice? You will make no effort to rise above such bloodshed? You do not have to sink to my sister's level. You must be better than her, show the people that you are not the same as all those who have come before."
Daenerys narrowed her eyes, staring intently at her Hand, nostrils flaring slightly. "I am better than her, Tyrion. If I were not," she said, in a voice of such deadly calm that even Jon could sense the barely concealed anger that surely coursed through her, "I would have already burned the Red Keep to the ground, with her inside. It would be a fitting end, after all the lives she took in the Sept of Baelor. And as for those who have come before me, I can assure you, that if Aegon and his sisters were here, now, they would not hesitate to use every weapon at their disposal. Need we run through the list of the Kingdoms they conquered, long ago, and just how they did so?"
She rounded the table, stalking to her Hand and ripping the wineskin from his hand. "See Lord Tyrion to his rooms," she ordered sharply to the Dothraki guard at the door. "And see to it he sobers up before he rejoins us." She repeated herself in the harsh Dothraki tongue, and Tyrion was swept out, flanked by guards, before he could so much as utter a peep in protest.
She turned on her heel, resuming her spot, eyes falling on Varys. "Watch him, Spider, for I do not trust that Lord Tyrion has the best interests of the people at heart." She tilted her head, studying the man as he twisted his head to face her. "Do you?"
"As you command, Your Grace," he smoothly replied, not answering her query, but neither did he disagree. He exited in a flurry of fabric, sparing a long, searching look at Jon before the door was closed behind him soundly.
"Now," his wife said, the corners of her lips turning up just slightly as she glanced around the room. "Where were we?"
It was three days later, as he stood on the cliffs above the shore, alone after Daenerys had flown off on Drogon to make a pass around the island, that Varys approached him.
"I have had an idea, Your Grace," the Spider said, surprisingly respectful has he dipped his chin towards Jon. "And I wonder if you might give me your thoughts on it."
Jon eyed the man, wondering why he would bring such to the King in the North and not the Queen he had sworn to serve. "Have you brought this to the Queen's attention?"
Varys stared out at the sea, his face a mask of calm. "Not yet." He looked askance at Jon, then cleared his throat. "I suspect she will be more agreeable to it than you are, and so I thought it best to ask the one who might protest the most."
It made an odd sort of sense, he mused, and so he nodded, reluctantly, for the man to continue. "What sort of idea did you have in mind?"
Varys smiled serenely, his eyes on the horizon. "A way in which the Throne might be taken, before we wage war in the North. A way to spare the people of Westeros more suffering, a way to bring more people to your cause, with minimal bloodshed."
His interest had been claimed, and he turned fully, facing the man. "Is that so? And does this plan involve sparing the one who currently sits that throne?"
Varys pivoted slowly as well, his hands escaping his robes to clasp together in front of him. "No, Your Grace. It certainly does not. In fact," he said, airily, "I'm afraid for this plan to succeed Cersei must die. Probably Jaime Lannister as well," he continued, gesturing in the air with a flick of his hands, "but those are the costs of peace, I should think."
Jon had no inkling that he ought to trust this man, no more than he trusted Tyrion, or Jorah, or any of the other Westerosi who sat on the Queen' council, ostensibly to advise her, but who seemed more set on telling a woman who commanded three grown dragons on what she should be doing. It made him grind his teeth angrily, whenever it occurred, but at the very least, he could say Varys engaged in such behavior less blatantly than the others.
Still, he was fully skeptical as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck, his cloak flapping in the wind. "And what, my Lord, are the other costs of peace, in your estimation?"
Varys gave him an examining stare, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "Six moons, Your Grace. I believe what I envision shall cost six moons, and no more." He pursed his lips, hands disappearing again. "Can your Wall of ice hold until then? Can the North?"
Jon huffed out an aggravated breath. "I don't know, Varys. We'd be wise to hope it does."
He wasn't sure, not really. He'd already been gone from the North for nearly four moons, but then he'd allotted himself twelve at most, at least to secure as much dragon glass as he could, for his people. The distance between the Army of the Dead and the Wall was negligible, but even at their steady pace they were slow, and shambling. Perhaps it could be done, but he wouldn't speak of it, not yet at least.
"Is it true, what they say about you?" There was a peculiar glint in the Spider's eyes, as he asked his question.
"Many things are said of me, Spider, and most of them unkind. You'll have to be more specific, I fear."
That earned a slight chuckle, and the man's eyes fell to his chest, his gambeson and the tunic below shielding his scars from curious stares. "That you died, Jon Snow, son of Eddard. That you died in the snows at Castle Black, and yet here you are, living and breathing, before me?"
He felt the piercing stare that accompanied the question as he cast his own eyes out to the sea, echoed shouts of betrayal ringing in his ears before he finally answered. "Aye." He glanced over, to check the man's reaction to his quiet admission, expecting disbelief but finding only quiet assurance, as though the Spider merely sought to confirm what he already knew. "It's true. And how did you discover this? Your little birds?" He had heard enough tales of the spymaster to know his web was flung far and wide, ears around every corner.
Varys laughed at that, and shook his head. "I fear your Hand has a rather loose tongue when he is well into his cups." His laughter died away, his face falling serious again. "Good," he said, nodding. "That will help."
Jon felt his brow furrow, his curiosity overriding his natural suspicion. "Help with what?"
Varys let out a slow, measured breath. "If it is the Seven Kingdoms you wish to win, and you wish to hold them, then it is not the Great Houses that must be won." He shook his head, grimacing. "Those you must force to your will, by sword or dragonfire, whichever you prefer. For there is where the power resides, and they will not give it up easily." He sighed. "They never do."
That much, they could agree on, Jon supposed, and he nodded in assent. "If they're smart, they'll bend the knee."
Varys rolled his eyes. "I think you know how desperately stupid most of them are. But no," he continued, a hand emerging from his robes, a finger wagging in the air, "they can be subdued easily enough, through a variety of means. It is the people you must draw to your side. With their support, the nobility will have little choice but to obey. It is the people you must win, and quickly. And more than anything, King in the North, the people love a grand tale, to cast their lot behind. They want to be a part of history, to say they lived in an age of greatness. They want to be on the right side of it. Dragons might be enough to woo them, or perhaps a great white wolf," he said dryly, "but I had something a bit more fantastical in mind."
Jon had never been the best pupil, and had given the Maester at Winterfell enough trouble in his earlier years to be getting on with, but he wasn't thick-headed, and he wasn't a fool. He could see, in an instant, where this was headed, an odd, accepting dread settling in the pit of his gut.
"Perhaps," he said with consternation, "you want to spin them a tale of the girl who walked through fire, and hatched dragons from stone, and the man who was returned from the dead. Do I have the measure of it?"
Varys seemed oddly pleased, giving him what looked, on the surface at least, to be a genuine smile. "You know," he drawled, "I suspect a great many people have underestimated you. You aren't nearly so dull-minded as you look." With a sidelong look, he muttered, "I do plan on throwing in the dragons and the direwolf, as well. People love that sort of thing, as well, especially the children."
Jon clucked a tongue under his breath, looking away in irritation. "Be that as it may, it still doesn't explain how you intend to depose Cersei, in six moons time. Enchanting the people of the Crownlands will not be enough to see her removed."
Varys just stared at him, shifting on his feet. "The tales are to inspire them, to make them wish to be part of something greater than themselves, to yearn to follow a King and Queen who are more than the ones they've suffered under for far too long." He squinted at Jon, in the midday sun. "We will arm them, and feed them, make them understand that they are being cared for by rulers who wish them to suffer no more. In secret, of course. Anything discovered will be immediately seized by the Crown. Cersei will not suffer her people to prosper when she does not."
It wasn't, Jon could admit, the worst plan he'd ever heard, though the logistics of such an undertaking were rather staggering. "How do you see us accomplishing this? It sounds nearly impossible."
"I shall need your Hand's assistance, I think, for we shall be doing quite a bit of smuggling in the very near future. We can obtain supplies from Meereen, of course, where our Queen is still the acknowledged ruler, and with what we have salvaged from what remains of Highgarden." There was a pause, a tension rising, before Varys spoke again. "Tyrion must accompany us to the Red Keep. He must convince Jaime to allow us an audience with Cersei, under the guise of persuading her to set aside this war for a greater cause. The War to the North, against the Army of the Dead."
Jon remembered this part; Tyrion had proposed just such a thing, suggesting they bring a white walker to the Red Keep as proof. "We haven't got anything to offer as proof, though."
Varys cocked his head. "We aren't going to convince Cersei of anything. We propose a meeting, between the Lannisters and Your Graces, in six moon's time. By then, I will be have been able to ensure the people are being fed, and clothed, instead of starved and dying in the streets, as they are now. And we will arm them, with whatever we can manage. Do you see, now? You will inspire them, yes, but not just to serve you. The exiled Queen and the bastard King, who have known their own suffering, coming to deliver them, it is true. But you will be coming to show them that they may fight for themselves, at last. You cannot take the city without her Graces's forces inside those walls, and even I cannot manage to bring in the number necessary. The only way to take it, once and for all, is for the people themselves to do it."
Jon rolled it around in his head. It was true, he preferred not to lie, but those were the misgivings of a green boy who still labored under the impression that the world would adhere to his sense of honor.
And that boy had died, his blood staining the snow red.
It might work, this half-baked scheme of the Spider's. It was possible, he thought, if he were to agree to halt the journey North, to allow a bit more time.
And, he realized, those who could fight, those who were willing to fight, were sorely needed. His own forces had been greatly decreased in the fight to take Winterfell. He would need every able-bodied hand with a sword or dagger firmly in it, in the fight to come.
All it would cost, he thought, was a bit more time. That, and the sort of tall tale that Davos loved but made him duck his head, embarrassed. The days in which his life was his own were gone, along with his privacy.
He thought of Daenerys, no doubt searching the waters high above them on the back of her dragon, of all that she had suffered, to come this far. As he did, he realized it was a rather easy decision to make.
He nodded, haltingly. "Firm up these plans, my Lord. Real numbers, and a real timetable, along with everything we shall need. And," he cautioned, as the man's eyes met his, "tell Tyrion only what he needs to know to complete his task, when the times comes. I do not trust that he will still his tongue, if it means his brother and sister might be spared. It is a chance we cannot take, if we are to see this through."
Varys seemed rather tickled, smiling widely at him now. "Do you know, Jon Snow, I rather think I like you."
Jon frowned. "I'm afraid I cannot say the same, my Lord." He heard a screech above, and craned his neck to see Drogon, little more than a black speck in the sky but approaching fast. "Be ready to present this to the Queen tomorrow."
"Yes, Your Grace," the man replied, and with a smooth bow he was gone, scurrying back to the Keep, pale yellow robes flapping in the breeze.
The three of them sat, a day later, around her Painted Table, Daenerys looking completely flummoxed as she cast wide eyes between the two men. He could've knocked her over with a feather, he thought, a little amused that she seemed so surprised.
Her gaze landed solidly on him, and he just stared back, until she finally responded. "Jon…," she started, then stopped, elegant brows creased in consternation, "I swore my forces to fight the greater threat in the North. I would keep my word, Husband. This is not necessary." She frowned slightly at him, and he couldn't shake the notion that she was chastising him. "The Iron Throne can wait."
It didn't sit well with him, and it hadn't for some time, what he was really asking of her. His focus had been so singular, when he'd first come to ask for her help. Convince her of the threat, secure her aid, those had been his only goals.
But the more he'd come to know her, the more he'd realized how very narrow his world had been. The threat was still there, of course. But what he was asking seemed all the more monumental, now that he knew all that she had suffered, and sacrificed, for her own goals. She wanted what had been taken from her family, wanted to create something new from the wreckage of her House, and this he understood. Had he not done the same? He was not even a Stark, at least in name, but the reclamation of Winterfell had been important to him, outside of the need to unite the North against the fight to come.
He knew she longed for home, a true home, just as he had. And that dream would not be fully realized until she had taken back what had been lost.
Jon sighed, reaching for her hand, folding their fingers together and raising her palm to his lips. "Your Hand made a good point, my Queen. Tyrion is right; We cannot fight a war on two fronts. And while I would prefer to move now, there is merit to the plan that Varys presents. In six moons, my men and yours can secure enough dragon glass to outfit all our forces." He held her eyes with his, marveling as ever at the way the light played in those amethyst depths. "I am asking everything of you. I know this." His lips flattened, fear stirring his gut at the thought of the risks they would take, when they did finally move to the North. "I want this for you. You deserve it. And so do all those who suffer under Cersei's rule. They deserve to be free."
Her eyes searched his for a very long time, fingers flexing in his grasp. "And, no doubt, those who can fight will be free to aid our more pressing cause, beyond your ice Wall."
Jon nodded, unabashedly. "Yes."
Her gaze shifted to Varys, and her visage did as well, becoming cool and calculated. "In your assessment, what are the odds that this plan of yours will succeed?"
Varys was unfazed as her assessing stare. "Barring any unforeseen complications," he imparted confidently, flicking away an invisible fleck of dust from his sleeve, "I am confident of our complete success."
Daenerys looked then to the Painted Table, eyes travelling every hill and valley, every mountain peak and ambling river. "I cannot forget what I have seen. I cannot forget what is coming for us, all of us." She let out a shuddering breath, reaching a hand to trace lovingly along the shape of Dragonstone's shores. "But we do need every able-bodied fighter, we need the people of Westeros to fight for themselves. I suppose, Varys, that we shall see if they are willing to." Her lips pressed tight together for a moment, and then she heaved out a heavy breath. "Begin your preparations. Discreetly."
Varys smiled thinly. "Naturally, Your Grace."
The man rose to leave, gliding silently across the floor, but paused by the door when Daenerys called out to him.
"Varys." He turned, facing the King and Queen again. "Remember my warning to you."
Something flickered in the man's eyes, and he bowed. "Yes, Your Grace. I will keep my promise."
Silence fell, after the Spider's departure, until Jon's curiosity finally got the better of him. "What was your warning?"
His new wife leaned back in her seat, suddenly looking drained and exhausted. "So many in my host have betrayed me, Jon. And I have forgiven those slights, as best I can. But Varys has already tried to end my life, once. I told him," she continued, eyes closing as she slumped in her seat, "that if he betrayed me again, I would burn him alive." Her eyes cracked open, slightly, and she peered at him. "I saw it, then, in all their faces: I suspect they are merely waiting for madness to rise within me, just like my father."
A part of Jon wished no more than to summon Varys back before them, and take his head with one great swing of the sword strapped to his waist. The other, the winning desire, won out, and he took her hand again, wondering at her trust in him. She looked so vulnerable, just then, perhaps awaiting his judgment at the threat she'd made, probably wondering if he shared the thoughts of the others.
"We are not guilty of our father's sins, Dany. Neither of us." He stood, not releasing her hand, coming to stand beside her and cupping her jaw with his palm. "And even now my hand itches to skin my steel and take the Spider's life before he can betray you again."
She craned her head to look at him, so delicate and sad that he wanted to take her away, from all of it, to escape from the burdens that weighed them down and run to the farthest corner of the world, where none could ever harm her again. "I'm so weary of fighting, Jon." She nuzzled into his hand, leaning her cheek into his light caress and closing her eyes. "Do you ever tire of it? Always ready for the next betrayal? Always wondering who you can truly trust?"
Jon knelt, his leathers groaning as he settled at her side, their faces level. "Every bloody day. I feel like it's all I've done, my whole life." His lips drifted to her forehead, then to the each of her closed lids, then the tip of her nose, which made her smile in spite of herself. Lashes fluttered and then he was held captive by her stare, inwardly pleased to see her sadness beginning to fade, replaced by love that grew deeper by the day. "But I will fight for you, forever, and be glad to do it. You are mine." He whispered, now, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "And I will not lose you." Steel laced his voice, full of deadly promise. "I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me."
It was so baldly honest that for a moment he felt a flicker of shame. But he understood, as he never had before, how powerfully he had come to feel for her. The thought of being without her filled him with such fury that he wondered what atrocities he might be capable of, if the beast within him were to ever be unleashed. He wondered if he ought to have held his tongue, if the violent declaration would make her shy away from him.
But she smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds, the last of her weariness falling away as her eyes shined at him. "I love you, too," she whispered, and leaned forward, kissing him in a far less chaste manner than his had been. She kissed him again, and again, small hands gripping the neck of his gambeson to pull him ever closer, her tongue slipping between his lips to taste him, and making him groan, despite the way his knees began to ache from the hard stone.
When she finally pulled back, breathless, cheeks ruddy with excitement, she looked to the Painted Table before her. "Pick one," she said, pushing back, her chair scraping the floor as she stood. She crossed to the door before he could respond, giving a command to her Dothraki guards before shutting them away and throwing the bolt.
"Pick one what?" Desire had clouded his mind, which continued to amaze him, how quickly she could rouse this hunger in him, no matter how many times he'd had her. It was like a spark to kindling, igniting him quickly and furiously.
She laughed under her breath, fingers already unfastening her coat. "A Kingdom."
Jon looked from the Table to his wife. "Why?" She shrugged out of her coat, now just in a thin tunic and woolen trousers, nimbly stepping out of her boots and hopping up easily onto the tabletop, gesturing grandly to the assorted representations of each Kingdom.
"To fuck me on, of course." His brows shot up, but his hands knew what to do, before she was even done speaking. He hastily removed his outer layers, fully hard now as he stepped up to the table, smiling a bit deviously as she spread her thighs to accommodate him.
He remembered being in a similar situation with her, before she set out to ambush the Lannister wagons laden with loot from her allies in Highgarden. He had not dared to be so bold then, but he had not been able to stop himself from playing their little game, from stealing the sort of kiss he'd wanted from her, in case the worst should happen.
He'd be the worst sort of liar if he tried to pretend he hadn't imagined taking things much, much further that night, in his chamber. He already had an answer to her question, had already considered it, when he'd pictured doing just what she was asking, on several distinct occasions.
Now, he could have that and more, and he put his hands on the table, just brushing against her hips, boxing her in as he brought his lips to hover just above hers. "I think," he whispered, his mouth brushing against hers, their breath mingling as their eyes locked together, "I want to fuck you on the Riverlands."
She smiled against his lips. "Excellent choice." She pulled away from him, just far enough to strip off her tunic, almost preening under his hungry stare as she leaned back, gesturing to the trousers she still wore. "But if you meant to conquer me, you'll have to work for it."
Jon had never really thought of himself, that way, but he reckoned there was a part of him that liked it, perhaps more than he'd ever admit out loud. He tugged at her breeches, pulling off her boots and throwing them to the floor as she lifted her hips so that he might lay her bare.
Nothing else mattered, right now, than conquering and being conquered in turn. He gave her a wolfish grin, and stripped his own tunic off, only to pull her fully upright and flush to him, his still covered erection brushing against folds so slick he could feel her dampening his trousers. "As you wish, my Queen."
A fortnight later, their plans were fully underway, and Jon stood beside his Queen as their advisors readied themselves to depart.
Davos would take one of the Targaryen ships, a smaller vessel which would fly a different set of sails, and smuggle their party into the capitol, while seeing to several tasks that had been set before him. Varys and Tyrion, as well, would each see to their assigned duty, though only Tyrion remained ignorant to the full scale of what they had planned.
An uneasy truce had been called, the animosity of his Queen's Hand diminishing as planning had become priority, and Tyrion had managed to return to his usual, caustic humor, restraining whatever turmoil roiled within him when it came to Jon and the marriage accord that had been reached between the Northern King and the Targaryen Heir.
"Well," Tyrion said, standing before them, palpably nervous. "Do wish me luck. If the Gods smile upon us all," he continued dramatically, a somber smile on his face, "then I shall return in full possession of all my limbs. If not, well, send my regards to the King's Landing brothels, won't you?"
Daenerys smiled. "Let us all hope you keep your head, Lord Hand." She accepted his bow with a gracious dip of her chin.
Jon extended his hand, grasping the man's forearm and waiting for him to do the same. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Tyrion."
Tyrion swallowed thickly, eyes shuttering at Jon's words. "You as well," he said, seriously, his earlier jesting tone falling away. "We cannot afford to lose you," he said, more to Daenerys than to Jon, but the King in the North took little offense. "Take care beyond the Wall. I shall pray for your success."
A yell sounded, and Tyrion turned seeing that those departing were ready to board the small dinghies that sat upon the sandy shore. "Until we meet again, Your Graces." He bowed, once more, quickly, and was off, leaving Jon and Daenerys to watch quietly until they could no longer make out the faces of the men rowing their way to the ship that lay in wait.
"Do you regret our deception?" She asked it as easily as she might ask what he wanted when breaking their fast, but he could hear the doubt in her voice, the reassurance she sought that they were doing the right thing.
They weren't going beyond the Wall.
They were going to Meereen, on Dany's dragon, by the time the moon turned again, but it was a truth Tyrion did not need to know. He needed to believe they were delivering proof for the summit of warring rulers, if he was going to convince his brother and sister to agree to their terms.
"No," Jon said firmly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. "We must be careful now, with who we trust. Perhaps Tyrion shall prove he deserves it, but not yet."
She gave him a half-smile, her eyes still on the crashing waves, but he felt her arm snake around his waist to return his embrace. "I trust you," she said quietly, but she did not look at him. "My mind tells me how foolish it is, that our time together has been so short, really, and yet," she shrugged against him, "I fear there is little to be done for it. The heart wants what it wants."
"I would rather fling myself off that cliff yonder," he poked his head to the craggy stone edge high above, "a thousand times over, than betray you. I swore an oath to you, before my Gods, Dany. And I keep my oats, no matter the cost."
Her other hand came to rest on his chest, just above the scars that covered his heart. "I know," she said simply, and lay her head against his shoulder. "I'm just afraid."
Jon frowned slightly, studying her profile as she kept her head turned forward. "Why?"
There were many reasons to fear, he knew, but it consumed him, this desire to know what troubled her.
"I have given you such power over me. I have never loved another as I love you." Ghost came trotting up to their side, and finally she looked away from the sea, scratching fondly at his wolf's muzzle. "Good morning, sweet boy." Ghost whined and pushed his head further into his hand, making Jon chuckle.
"He is not very subtle, is he?" He watched her with his wolf, wondering how he'd ever lived without her, without this feeling of wholeness that he'd so recently discovered. He'd been so alone, his whole life, that it was a precious thing, what they were forging together.
"Just like his master," she jested, finally meeting his eyes with a tiny grin.
Jon pretended to pout, just for a moment, watching her smile grow in response. Then he took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him fully, and tucked his finger under her chin. "You are mine, and I am yours, and that's just all there is to it," he said firmly. "Fuck everyone else." He saw her eyes grow wet, but he pressed on, hoping that for all his lack of flowery language, she would know he spoke true. "You have me, now and always. No matter what happens after this."
Lip caught with her teeth, she stared up at him, a tear escaping as she let out a watery sigh. "I'm glad you came to Dragonstone, Jon Snow."
He grinned. "Aye, me too." He sidled closer as he wrapped his arms around her loosely, swaying a bit in the sand. "All those years of celibacy were really starting to set my teeth on edge."
Finally, she laughed, with her whole chest, face scrunching in a manner he found absolutely enchanting, her head tossed back at his jape. "You have truly fooled everyone, husband." She pressed closer, the chain slung across her chest digging into the leather across his. "They think you are so serious and brooding," she whispered loudly, as though imparting some great secret, "but I know better. You are a very silly man, all things considered."
He smirked, his eyes shooting to the sea, an idea forming as he saw the sails rise in the distance. "Do you suppose they're far enough away that they wouldn't notice, if I took you right here?"
At his salacious suggestion her brows raised, desire flaring to life in her eyes. She made a show of considering, looking between him and the ship in the distance. "Only one way to find out."
It was hardly a week later that her Unsullied forces returned from Casterly Rock, which Jon soon realized was a cause for great celebration, most especially for Missandei of Naath.
He hadn't realized the extent of the woman's attachment to the Unsullied Captain, Grey Worm, though Daenerys had attempted to explain it several times.
But he could see, the moment he saw them together, what it was that bound them so tightly to each other.
He knew enough to love to know it when he saw it.
A great feast was held, a loud and boisterous affair, the first Jon could remember in which he ever had a place of honor, at the head table. It was perhaps the first time, since his people had placed the heavy burden upon him, that he felt like a King.
He was mindful not to drink to excess, the keen stares of the soldiers who had newly arrived trained on him as he sat beside their Queen, who was in excellent spirits at the return of her forces. She gripped his hand, under the table, and placed a resounding kiss on his cheek, grinning at the cheer that rose up from the tables below.
"Today is a very happy day, Jon Snow. Even you have managed to keep your frowning to a minimum."
He scoffed lightly, holding her hand tight to his thigh, just above his knee, knowing she was far enough into her cups that her hand would soon grow idle and start exploring.
He didn't think ordering everyone from the room and having his way with her on this grand table was the first impression he ought to make.
"Indeed, I have. Perhaps you have been a good influence on me." He returned her smile with one of his own, letting his gaze travel around the room, his gladness ebbing as he spied Theon standing at the perimeter.
She must've seen the direction of his stare, for she nudged him with her shoulder, lips drifting to his ear. "You should make your peace with him, my love." He knew she was not ordering him. He had come to realize, with each day that passed, that she simply did not like to see him troubled, just as he disliked any sign of unhappiness in her. "We must share the field of battle, after all."
Jon sighed, reaching for his wine, belly full and mind weary at the prospect. "I know." He peered at her from the corner of his eye. "His betrayal cuts especially deep. It is hard to look upon him without remembering what he did."
Daenerys caught his chin with her hand, her fingers gentle as she turned his face towards hers. "I know," she echoed, "I understand." She tilted her head at him, eyes full of compassion. "But we cannot change the past."
For several beats, they just looked upon each other, in silence, and then he leaned in an pecked a kiss to the tip of her nose. "You're right. I shall speak with him before we depart for Meereen."
With a winsome smile, she relaxed against the seat back. "Are you ready to be on dragonback again?"
Jon nodded heartily, the notion causing excitement to stir within him. It was the stuff of dreams, really, his greatest childhood fantasies realized, and he feared she had ruined horseback for him completely, now that he knew what it was to fly. "Very."
With a look over the back of his seat, he let out a playful groan, seeing Ghost's massive body pressed right behind the legs of their chairs. His wolf's attachment had only grown, when it came to Daenerys, just as Jon's did, and it was more likely, now, that the beast would trail after his bride than be seen shadowing his master.
Jon didn't mind in the least. It gave him a sense of peace, that his wolf would guard her when he must be away from her.
"That poor animal is going to be beside himself, while we're gone." Daenerys let out a sad noise, a little coo that perked Ghost's ears and brought that red stare upon them both.
"Oh, my poor sweetling." She rose as best she could, not able to stand clear until Ghost shifted away a bit, and knelt there on the floor, stroking along his ears. "Missandei shall give you all the treats you wish, while I am gone."
Jon grunted into his wine. "You're going to make him fat and lazy."
"Jon!" She looked at him, aghast, trying to cover the furry triangles of the wolf's ears with her hands. "He can hear you!" She cooed lovingly as Ghost gave a low whine. "Don't you listen to him, my darling. I'm sure you shall be quite deadly when it is time to make war. Won't you?"
Ghost licked at her face in answer, giving Jon a look so offended that he wondered again, for the millionth time, just how much the beast really understood. He was no mere wolf, after all. They were joined, bonded, by some old magic he didn't quite understand, but in the moment he seemed to be doing his bloody best to make a fool of himself over Jon's new wife.
He didn't care, in truth. It made her so endlessly happy, that he had no desire to correct his beast, to send him out to hunt for sea birds instead of lolling around and showing the Dragon Queen his stomach like a house hound.
"Aye, he'll be right there in the thick of it, with me, won't you boy?"
Ghost panted, his tongue lolling out, affection returning to his ruby eyes as he looked at Jon.
"Good boy," Dany whispered, then straightened, smoothing out the skirts of the gown she'd worn this night and extending a hand to him. "Let us leave them to their celebrations. I am feeling rather tired," she said, louder, feigning a yawn as she gave him a pointed stare.
He scrambled to his feet, knowing where the night would end, ready to strip that blue sapphire silk from her lovely body, to make another memory he might cling to when these peaceful days had left them.
Meereen was bloody hot.
If the Seven Hells existed, Jon thought this must be one of them, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he climbed down Drogon's scaled body.
They'd landed atop a building, in the heart of the city, that Daenerys had called a pyramid. Jon had never seen it's like before, staring about in wonder at the view such lofty, still heights provided. It was almost as though they were still mounted on the great black dragon, who took off with a screech, no doubt to scrounge up something to dine on out at sea.
He was glad he'd left his furs behind, but now wished he'd left his many layers as well, and his face grew pinched when Daenerys pinned him with a knowing look.
"I told you a tunic would suffice, husband."
He tugged at his collar, giving in and beginning to unlace the gambeson. "That you did. Perhaps if you'd told me Meereen was *extremely fucking hot*," she giggled her eyes on him as he shed his outer layer, "I'd have been better prepared."
"Oh, Jon," she said, her eyes wide and innocent, "I would never use such coarse language."
He snorted, laying the leather aside and stretching his limbs in the sweltering heat. "You are a terrible liar." He grinned as she crept close, her wicked fingers scratching through his beard and trailing down his neck. "Looking to shed some more clothing?" He dipped the tip of one finger along the neckline of her gown, a sinful creation of white silk that had made his eyes bulge ridiculously when he'd first seen it that morning. He understood, now, the need for bare shoulders, but Gods help him, a small part of the greedy beast inside him wanted to hide her away, so that none could look upon her beauty. When he reached the place where the material crossed itself, just between her breasts, she shuddered. "I've several ideas on where to start."
She laughed, swatting at his hand, at odds with the hungry promise in her eyes. "Later," she breathed, folding her fingers around his, "I shall have you in this very room, and the entire city will hear how well you please me."
He pushed his hips against hers, grabbing her and holding her close as he dropped his lips to hers. "Aye, that they will," he growled, letting his mouth roam to her neck and biting gently as she shrieked and laughed.
"You beast," she moaned, and he was very close to ripping that dress from her body when a voice sounded near the open doorway.
"The Dragon Queen has returned!" His wife started in his arms, head twisting away from him to find the source of the proclamation, and so Jon did as well, taking in the sight of an armed man who swaggered in, watching the pair with keen, interested eyes.
Jon hated him immediately.
He hated the way the man's eyes roamed Dany's body, he hated the little smirk that danced upon the man's lips, and he especially hated the dismissive glance the man tossed his way.
"Daario," Daenerys drawled, looking back to Jon for a moment to roll her eyes and give him a regretful smile. "We'll continue this later, my love," she whispered to Jon, before pulling free and turning fully to face their guest.
"My Queen," Daario said, sweeping low in such a dramatic, silly bow that Jon wanted to know the feel of the man's face against his fist. He knew exactly who this man was, now, and there was a petty part of him that wanted to pull Longclaw free and take the man's head merely for existing. "And I see you have brought company."
His eyes flicked over Jon with distaste, the man's jealousy suddenly clear, and Jon gave their visitor a slow, menacing smile.
"This is my husband," Dany said smoothly, a hand on Jon's shoulder as introductions were made, "The King in the North, Jon Snow." It came again, that look of all-consuming spite that crossed the man's features as he looked at Jon, a vengeful glint in his eye as he nodded slowly and studied Jon with new eyes.
"Snow?" He tilted his head, face twisting in a pretend confusion that told Jon what would follow next. "Isn't that a bastard's name?"
That old slight, that familiar sting that Jon was waiting for, never came. This was something to ponder, later, he thought, but for now he gave in to the amusement that rose within him, and chuckled, taking Dany's hand from his shoulder and kissing her open palm before addressing the sellsword.
"Oh, aye," he agreed, "A bastard's name, but a King all the same." He raised a brow and made a show of giving the man a thorough sizing up, then smirked. He had seen plenty of fools like this man, drunk on their own imagined greatness, and had killed a fair few, as well. But there were not here for bloodshed, and so, with a calming breath, he dug deep for the properness that he hoped lived somewhere within.
With a dip of his chin, he nodded towards the man. "You are Daario Naharis."
"Ah," the man replied, smiling a bit smugly towards the Queen, "I see my reputation proceeds me. So," he continued, clearly speaking more towards Daenerys than Jon, "You have told this young husband of yours of my prowess." He let the words hang in the air, then smirked. "On the battlefield, of course."
Jon could only see his wife's face in profile, but her censorious scowl was clear enough. "My husband has indeed been informed that I have placed my trust in you, that I have given you a place of great honor, in tending to my affair in this city." When she turned her head, and looked Jon fully in the face, he saw something startling in those liquid depths: anger. He realized, at once, that she hadn't cared for the way the man had attempted to insult Jon, clearly unaware that it was an old taunt, one that carried little hurt for him anymore, most especially not now that the most beautiful, powerful woman in the world stood at his side, shared his life, his wars, his bed.
But oh, she was a marvel in her displeasure, eyes glowing as she looked back to the sellsword. "As for your prowess in *other* areas, Daario Naharis, I fear I have not spoken at all. Best not to ruin a man's reputation before introductions can be made, wouldn't you say?"
The insult landed squarely, and the man straightened, his braggadocious manner falling away. "Oh," he winced, "You wound me, your Grace."
Daenerys frowned. "Gather my council, for I have much to plan for and very little time to do it in."
Her tone brooked no disagreement, and though the man's face soured, as though he'd bitten into a bitter lemon, he complied, giving a jerking nod of hid head and sweeping out of the room without another word.
His new wife sighed, turning on her heel to press against his chest and wrap her arms around his neck.
Jon settled into her embrace, hands sweeping down the warm skin of her bare back as he chuckled. "Do you know, I believe you've injured his pride."
She clucked her tongue, toying with the hair at his nape that had escaped the leather that bound it, no doubt tugged free by the winds that had assailed them both atop her dragon. "I'm quite certain he will survive." She let out a breath, staring up at him beguilingly. "He his a wicked tongue, and he insults me by speaking to my husband in such a manner."
Jon let out a bark of laughter. "I fear you have accused me of the same."
One slender brow raised, and hunger flared to life anew in her gaze. "Yes," she agreed readily, then leaned in close, capturing the swell of his lower lip between her own and suckling lightly. She knew it drove him mad, when she did that, and a small groan escaped him before it could be stopped. "But your wicked tongue is put to much greater use."
The images she conjured enflamed him, despite the knowledge that they might be interrupted at any moment, and he brought his mouth to hers forcefully, spearing his tongue between her lips, thrusting it between her soft flesh, reveling in the way she dug her nails into his shoulders and whined. "How much time have we, before this council of yours convenes?"
Her breath was hot and humid, as it escaped in harsh puffs of air, and she pouted. "Not enough for everything I wish to do to you."
Jon took a step back, though he ached, putting a foot of space between them as he stroked his thumb across the full curve of her lips. "That's always the case." He cleared his throat, adjusting his tunic, and trying to adopt a stern, proper visage. "What I wish to do will take hours, so I suppose we shall have to wait."
Daenerys returned this promise of pleasure with a look of carnal consideration. "Hours?" Her lips twitched, and she ran a finger down his chest to tease the fabric just above his breeches. "I shall hold you to that."
Arrangements were made, over the course of the afternoon, and though her sellsword spared him nothing but dour looks, he was agreeable enough to overseeing the fleets that would sail, the supplies that would be smuggled into King's Landing under the Queen's orders.
Later, when they were finally, blessedly alone, he took her atop her great pyramid, in the open air, under a black, starry sky, bringing her to release until her voice was hoarse from her delighted cries. He was mindless for her, something stirred within him, uncaring as to who might hear them as they pleasured each other until nearly dawn.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered, in his heart, but her.
Though they were rather weary, when they were roused awake, Jon and Daenerys rose agreeably enough, and she had left him to be sure everything was finalized when Daario Naharis appeared, scowling when he saw only Jon sat, breaking his fast at a table near the doorway.
"Bastard," he said sourly, looking about as Jon continued to eat.
"Sellsword," Jon acknowledged. "If you seek my Queen, she is seeing to a few details before we depart."
The man just stared at him, for a moment, hooking a thumb in his sword belt and walking to the sideboard, pouring himself a measure of wine while he continued to examine Jon.
"I have to say," he finally huffed out, "I'm not sure what it is she sees in you, besides your title, of course." It appeared Jon had been right; the man's ego had surely been bruised, the day before. Intellectually, Jon couldn't blame the man for having his back up. This Daario Naharis had held the world in his hands, had shared Dany's bed, and then she'd left him behind. He'd had her, and lost her, and it was understandable, that he would look down upon the one who had taken his place.
But his mistake, Jon mused, smiling darkly as he finished off a sausage, was that he seemed to think Jon was some pampered Westerosi lord, with soft hands and a weak will. He stood, idly wiping his hands on his trousers, and sauntered up to the man, hand resting on Longclaw's pommel out of habit.
He bared his teeth in a rough approximation of a smile. The man might have an inch or two on him on height, but his oversized ego was no doubt his weakness. "No, I don't expect you would. No man who fights for gold alone would understand."
Daario narrowed his eyes, scoffing under his breath. "And you are so virtuous? No, I do not think so. Pretend all you want, Bastard King, but you know what you fight for, just as I do. Not honor, or some noble cause. You fight to keep yourself between those smooth thighs of hers. Not that I blame you."
It wasn't his words, that caused the sudden rage to bloom in his chest. It was the way he tipped a brow at Jon, as though they were kindred spirits. He knocked the goblet from the man's hand before he could react, and grabbed at his throat, hoisting him up against the wall and off his feet, some base, animal part of himself enjoying the sight of the way the man began to twist in his grasp, clearly not expecting that Jon would manhandle him in such a manner.
"You clearly know little of me, sellsword, so allow me to educate you." Jon's words were little more than a growl, the man's hands fighting at his throat to free himself from Jon's grip. "I care nothing for you. I would slit your throat right here and now, and be glad to see this room painted red with your blood. Do the task set before you, and save your vile words for another. Betray her, and I will set my blade upon whatever remains when my Queen has finished with you."
The man's breath gurgled out, and Jon tightened his fist around the other man's neck, just barely, before he released him, watching as Daario slid down the wall before righting himself.
"Husband." Dany entered, intently looking between two men before sidling up to Jon's side and leaning in, brushing her lips against his cheek. "Is everything alright?"
Daario coughed, and Jon smiled fondly down at his Queen. "Of course. We were just coming to an understanding, the two of us. Weren't we?" The sellsword's answering glare belied the false politeness of his response.
"Yes," he managed, bowing to Daenerys and turning to leave. "We understand each other quite well."
Jon studiously avoided Dany's gaze for several seconds, wondering he was managing the innocent look he strived for, when his wife began to chuckle.
Hands slide across his chest, and then her tongue was licking a hot, wet path to the lobe of his ear. "Jealousy becomes you."
He brushed his own hand town, to tighten against her hip. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Daenerys just shook her head, amused, and pulled away, heading for the balcony and no doubt summoning her son. "I think you do." With a purposeful look, she beckoned him. As Jon approached, wrapping his arms around her from behind, she tipped her head to the side and smirked. "I hate to disappoint you," she whispered playfully, "but if he betrays me, there'll be nothing left of him at all."
Jon let out a disappointed noise. "You needn't spoil all the fun." She reached a hand to scrape her nails lightly through the bristled hair at his jaw, something he'd come to enjoy quite and bit, and he closed his eyes, soaking in one last bit of the full Meereenese sun. Drogon screeched, signalling his approach, and he sighed against her temple. "Just leave me a piece or two."
At Dragonstone, back on the shores of her ancestral home, there was little left for them to do but wait.
And so, they indulged themselves, in whatever their heart's desired, each seeming to know that each day that passed brought them closer to the time that they would have little peace between them.
The wars to come approached, and the fear inside him had changed, had morphed into something else. Losing her was an unthinkable, unacceptable outcome. But he knew, all the same, that it was not an impossibility.
So, he committed himself wholly to treasuring each moment that was given them, as they dwelled and lingered. They rode to the southern tip of the island, a desolate, beautiful spot, where the seas were calmer, lapping upon the sandy beaches instead of crashing. They swam in the sea, naked as their namedays, splashing at each other and twisting through the waves, together, until they were exhausted.
He took her, as the waves kissed their feet, the sun shining above, only realizing as they lay limp on the shore that sand had some rather rotten drawbacks. He was still shaking it from his hair, hours later, as they walked her Keep, feeling the grit in places he'd rather not.
"Bloody sand," he grumbled, and she looked askance at him, then stifled a laugh behind her hand.
"I tried to warn you," she teased, "but no, you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"
He frowned, though she certainly grasped it was not true displeasure, and reached out to tweak her nose. "As though I am meant to resist you," he scoffed, "as though such a thing were possible."
She just smiled, endlessly pleased, and leaned up to peck his cheek. "Hmmm," she hummed, grinning merrily as he gave her a playful scowl. "You know, you really are very sweet sometimes."
He tried to glare, but assumed he was unsuccessful when she laughed and leaned her shoulder into him at his side, their arms linked tightly. "Don't let word spread," he grouched, finally, snorting when she rolled her eyes at him, "you'll ruin my reputation as a sour old tosspot."
For weeks, they wandered the grounds, examining the libraries and gardens, spending long hours at her Painted Table, trying between bouts of lazy, heady lovemaking to prepare for their advisors' return. Jon sent several ravens, to Winterfell, and to Eastwatch, and to Castle Black as well. His Brothers in Black and the Wildlings were to stay on alert, and send word if those undead fuckers made an appearance. His family, he informed of what had occurred, and that when he returned to his icy Northern home, he would bring his wife, and her armies, and her dragons to boot. They were, he warned, to treat the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with all the respect she was due, or they would answer to her husband.
One night, as they lounged on the furs before the hearth in her chambers, nibbling from the food that had been brought for them, she showed him something miraculous.
Ghost was sleeping in the corner, in the shadows, no doubt glad that for once they were not shouting and yelling and keeping him awake, but Jon noticed his ears perk up when Dany knelt before the flames, tossing him a challenging look over her shoulder. "Would you like to see something impossible?"
Jon popped a grape into his mouth, rolling onto his stomach and pillowing his head on folded arms. "Aye," he said, after he swallowed, "take off your shift and let's have a look."
She tossed back her head and laughed, squinting at him in the golden, dancing light. "You're ridiculous," she said, shaking her head. "Come closer."
Jon obliged, crawling forward on his hands and knees until they were even.
"Look," she commanded, then thrust her open hands into the flames.
He was reaching for her before he could stop himself, a panicked cry escaping. "Dany!" His heart hammered in his chest, but when he pulled her free of the fire, and her skin was unblemished, not even pink from the heat, he rocked back on his heels, astonished.
It was one thing to hear tales of it, he thought numbly, eyes straying from her hands to her face for several long moments before he felt air begin to enter his lungs again.
It was another to see it.
He reached for her hands, petting them with his tenderly as he turned her palms over, searching for any sign of injury.
"Dany," he choked out, echoed by a low whine from Ghost, who now stood at attention, watching them warily. "Bloody hells."
"Unburnt," she murmured, looking at their joined hands. "I told you."
He took several shuddering breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse, bringing her fingers to his lips and kissing each with reverence. "You are magic," he said, feeling so humbled by what he had seen that he struggled to meet her eyes.
His wife would have none of it, though, nudging him to sit fully upon the floor, then climbing into his lap, letting her hot palm rest above his frantic heart. That same awe was there, in her eyes, as she looked at him, tracing the raised line of the scar there, the wound that had killed him. "*We* are magic." A hint of sorrow flashed bright, and then tucked her head under his chin. "That is why we will win, Jon."
"Almost Gods," he murmured against her hair, breathing out in a slow exhale. "But not quite."
She kissed the line of his collar bone, then pulled back, and he knew, when their eyes met again, that she was afraid, just as he was. "Not quite," she agreed, her hand still over his heart, "but close enough, I think." She kissed him, gently, and he stroked a hand through the loose silver curtain of her hair. "Close enough to do what must be done."
He closed his eyes, fingers curling around her neck and pulling her close, holding her tight with all the might he had. "I pray you are right."