Author's Note: So here we are, our last installment of Act 2! From here we head into extreme canon divergence (as if we haven't already). And for the Guest who keeps leaving those bomb ass comments and wants to know about parentage reveals and Jon/Rhaegal interactions - we are treading into that territory, finally, as you'll see towards the end of this chapter, but Act 3 will begin with a parentage reveal. And I will be deferring to BookJon's pretty unaffected attitude towards the tendency of highborns to intermarry. Avuncular marriage wasn't all that uncommon, even in the North, and so that's the attitude you'll get from this version of Jon in the chapters to come. Because I've always thought his strongest reaction would be to finding out everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie, and since I'm writing it, that's where we're heading! I hope you enjoy this final update and look forward to what you think about Act 3 (currently in progress on my end)!
They found the Dothraki encampment, half a day's ride from the capital, though from above, in Jon's opinion, each rider appeared to be little more than a moving speck on the ground below. They'd waited until they knew they must go, and his throat had closed tightly as he'd watched her bid farewell to the place that had become a home to her, in world where she'd had none.
He understood.
Dragonstone had begun to feel as such to him, as well, and the part of his mind not focused on the battle ahead, or the Army of the Dead, wondered at himself. Winterfell had been his home. The North was in his blood, it had given him life, sustained him, rebirthed him in its' icy snows.
And yet…
He had come to know the grassy cliffs of Dragonstone, as well. He'd grown fond of the crashing waves upon the shore, of the carved stone walls and reliefs, the endless stairways.
He was especially keen on the baths, he thought, as the wind whipped against his ears. Dany circled, finding a clear, open spot to land, and he braced himself for the teeth-rattling contact when Drogon thundered aground. His arms were wrapped tight around her waist, a hand one where his babe swelled and grew, and he found he was hesitant to climb down, hesitant to let her go.
But he must, and so he did, climbing down a bit more nimbly than he first had, after that first flight to the Wall.
And once his boots kissed the grass, he turned, extending a hand as his bride gracefully stepped free from Drogon's hulking black form. She took it, but pursed her lips, exasperated though her eyes betrayed her amusement, crinkling in the corners.
"I am fully capable of climbing down on my own, you know." She raised a brow at him, even as she took his proffered arm, and he felt more at ease, now that she was tucked up against him again. She looked about, raising a hand in greeting at her horselords as they noticed their Khaleesi was amongst them. "Dothraki women ride until they give birth. Did you know that?"
Jon clucked his tongue, gloved hand coming to lay atop hers on his arm. "I've no doubt they do, Dany. Do you intend to birth this babe atop your dragon, then?" Their heads huddled close, as he whispered, and her shoulders shook in silent laughter, her eyes warm on his.
"Don't be silly. I very much doubt Drogon would appreciate that."
He rolled his eyes, pulling her closer. "I know you don't need my assistance, but I'm going to offer it anyway. You are free not to take it." They ambled about the camp, through a sea of tents, and she led him to the largest, one that was surely meant for her. The promise of freedom from the swarming bodies around them had him ducking into the canvas behind her, only to find they were not alone.
Varys and Tyrion sat together, the Queen's Hand drinking from a wineskin as the Spider sat as he normally did, his face placid and calm, despite the harried workings of his cunning mind. Tyrion rose immediately, with Varys following suit, each giving a courteous nod of their heads to the couple as they entered.
"How do we fare, Lord Hand? Are we prepared for this meeting, on the morrow?" The softness in his Queen's voice was gone, replaced by a clipped, tense tone, her spine straightening as she set to work. That mask she wore slid completely into place, his soft Dany hiding away until later, when it was just the two of them.
"All proceeds as planned, My Queen. The Dothraki know what is expected. Ser Jorah shall lead their approach to the city, then meet us at the gates to venture inside and," he took a gulp of wine, smacking his lips, "determine our fates."
Jon felt her tense, wondered just how much the small man had drunk already, but he seemed clear-eyed enough, for now.
"Very well, my Lord." Dany glanced quickly at Varys, then looked away, considering. "Have you spoken with Grey Worm today?" They'd seen the Unsullied camp a short distance away, the two groups near enough that it was a quick ride between, Jon thought.
Tyrion shook his head. "No, Your Grace. Shall I make sure they are prepared, as well?" This was Tyrion's plan, this show of force they would demonstrate outside the stone city walls, and even Jon could see the man wished for flawless execution of his idea, hoping to elevate himself once more in the Queen's eyes.
Daenerys nodded, giving her Hand a slight smile. "Please do, my Lord, with my thanks. We shall meet again at dawn, you and I, for our final preparations." Her meaning was clear, and Jon fought his own smile at her strong suggestion that they would not be interrupted this evening, the King and Queen.
Tyrion tucked away his wineskin, adjusting his leathers and giving a brusque nod. "Of course, Your Grace. Sleep well." He was gone, in a rustle of thick canvas, and both Jon and Dany turned to Varys, whose inscrutable expression began to relax, bit by bit. Jon wondered how it was that the eunuch managed to keep his robes so immaculate, no matter their location, glad to see the man had chosen a dark gray. Perhaps if it came to bloodshed tomorrow, in the Dragon Pit, it would hide the stains.
"Varys," Daenerys began, coming to sit and gesturing for the Spider to, as well, "what word from the city?"
Jon felt his breath stall in his chest, when the man looked between them, until, finally, the corners of the Spider's lips curved upwards. "Most promising news, Your Grace, although I fear we will not have the full measure of our," he paused, head wobbling back and forth as he searched for the word he wanted, "*support*, until we enter the gates and see for ourselves."
Dany studied her Master of Whispers for several long moments, lips pressed tight, jaw working, eyes narrowed. "And how," she finally said, "will we know for certain?"
There came a glint in the eunuch's eyes, and he stood, stepping towards them 'til he was a mere foot away, his voice lowered when he answered.
"A rather ingenious plan, really. It was Ser Davos's idea. You see, many of the Lannister soldiers have been using wagon carts to haul away the wreckage of the Sept. And, as we have won more over to our side, we've used those carts to distribute supplies to the people, as you requested, Your Grace. Meereen has provided much and more." He sighed, rocking back on his heels. "So much destruction, paraded past the people of King's Landing, a daily reminder of what their current Queen has done to them." Varys began to smile, a devious edge to the man's voice now. "And so it seems that tomorrow, in recognition of their loss, the people wish to fly black banners from their little hovels, to tie black fabric 'round their arms, when they walk the streets, to mourn their dead, together."
Jon cocked his head. "But that's not really why, is it?"
Varys shook his head, his smile growing. "Oh, no. For tomorrow, all those who wish to see Cersei Lannister cast down, shall make their intentions known. Where you see black, you shall see an ally." He flicked a finger towards the Targaryen banner set in the corner of the tent, then to Jon's own leathers, a fine new set, that his Queen had commissioned for him, still topped by his battered gorget. "I thought it rather fitting, you see, as did Davos."
There was still a part of Jon that was reluctant to trust this man, but his increasing desire to see this done, to protect his wife and unborn babe, told him there were precious few other options, now. Still, he felt the need to voice his concerns. "And how certain are you, that when we march into this city, when we make *our* intentions very clear, that we will have their support?"
Varys finally slipped his placid mask, a scowl forming. "It will be very clear, the moment those gates open. They have been fed, and clothed, medicines given to their sick and dying, and each and every soul knows who has delivered such unto them. And with these gifts, they have been given stories, tales they can scarcely believe, but which they yearn to. They will know the truth of this, the moment those dragons fly over the city." His eyes flew to Daenerys then. "And when it is done, you shall have your Throne."
He felt Dany's hand tighten on his arm. "Thank you, Varys," she said, dismissing him with a regal nod, and when they were finally, blissfully alone she turned and threaded her arms around his waist. "What do you think?"
Jon gritted his teeth. "I think it might work," he managed, the words more growl than speech, "or it might be a trap."
She kissed along his jaw softly, then leaned back, to look up at him. "And if it is a trap? If this is all just an elaborate ruse to deliver us to Cersei?"
He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers, letting his hands wrap around her waist and pull her flush. There was only one answer to that question. "Then the city falls. Burn it to the ground." Her lovely eyes widened in surprise, but he shook his head, insistent. "IF they turn on us, and the Night King breaches the Wall, they're all as good as dead, anyway. I won't risk our safety for those who prove they don't deserve it." He pressed his lips to hers, finally, wanting to forget, for just a little while longer. "The choice is theirs."
He was up as the sun rose, the following morning, an odd excitement stirring his gut, forcing him up from the furs and the warmth of Dany cradled against him to scrub at his eyes.
Jon stood, glancing back at the slight woman still sleeping, the realization nearly knocking him to his knees, for what seemed the hundredth time since that very first morning with her, in Eastwatch, that he would not hesitate to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe.
And now, more than ever, it washed over him with a cold, startling clarity. There were few things Jon really fancied himself as being particularly good at. He could stir the hearts of men, lead them to war, if he had the notion to, the will to see it done. He could drive his sword into his enemy's heart, swing until the breath left him if he must, a deep well of resolve existing somewhere inside his chest that could be tapped, in his darkest hours.
Before now, in all honesty, it had been a bittersweet thrill. In the end, had it mattered how many men he'd slain, when it never seemed to matter? The battles before now, at least a fair few of them, had been fights in which he'd been prepared to die.
But now, more than anything he longed to live, past this war, past the next, to look upon his child's face, to know what it was like, to have all these things he'd so long been convinced would never be his. Jon had been raised to believe that he would never deserve them, by virtue of his birth, of his standing. Son of the noble Eddard Stark, yes, but the proof of his greatest sin, no doubt the walking embodiment of his father's lusts and vice.
But his father was dead, and Lady Stark was, as well. He was no longer a man of the Night's Watch. He was a King. He didn't need to listen to those voices, anymore, those whispers of doubt. He could prove he was worthy of the life he wanted, even if it was to no one but himself. If he wanted to *keep* it, though, he must fight for it, and that would start this day.
He sat beside his wife, let his hand brush up her arm, across the sharp relief of her cheek, smiling as her lashes fluttered and she took a deep, slow breath.
"Morning already?" Her sleep-addled voice was so soft, so unlike the woman she must become when they were with the others. Here she was just Dany, soft, and sweet, eyes so full of love for him that for a moment he thought perhaps he still dreamed.
"Aye," he said quietly. Her hand gripped his, and she sat up, still bare beneath the furs, clutching them to her chest as she studied him.
"You have the loudest mind of anyone I've ever met. I can hear it spinning away in there," she said, releasing the bed covers to tap at his temple. "Like a wagon wheel." She laughed, low and husky, when he squinted at her, unsure.
"I'm not certain if that's a compliment," he said, finally smiling when she swatted at him.
She didn't answer, just crawled into his lap, up onto his thighs, bare as her nameday, the only thing separating them the thin breeches he'd tugged on. Dany's arms went around his neck, face tucked against his throat, and he felt her next words more than heard them, her lips brushing against his skin.
"Everything will be fine. You'll see." She pulled back only enough to brush her lips against his softly. "Have a little faith."
Jon gazed at her somberly. "In what? That Cersei Lannister will see the wisest course of action is to step aside? That the people of this city will choose just as wisely? That's always been my problem, I've realized. I've put too much stock in the ability of others to do what is right, and all it's gotten me 'til now are these." He gestured between them, at the scars on his chest.
Dany considered him, just as solemnly. "In me, then. Have some faith in me. We will be done with this task, one way or another. How much blood is paid will be their choice to make."
Jon closed his eyes, letting his forehead bump against hers, letting his hand rise up to cup the soft skin of her cheek, his thumb tracing slowly against the shape of it. "You're the only thing I have faith in, anymore."
When she didn't say anything, he peered between his lids, to find her damp eyed, a sad smile flitting across her lips. "That's enough for me, Jon. As long as you have faith me in, I care little for what anyone else thinks." She let out a shaky sigh, her fingers slipping to his shoulders. "I hope I deserve it."
Jon nodded, never more certain in his entire life when he responded. "You do."
His heart remained lodged in his throat, as they approached the gates that guarded King's Landing, Davos to his right, his Queen at his left, gathered close, with Tyrion trailing at her side. With a mighty creak, the massive doors parted, soldiers clad in Lannister red lining the cobblestone path just inside.
That, however, was not what threated the steal the air from Jon's chest.
As his eyes took in the sight before him, he felt Dany's fingers dig into his arm, felt her body tense beside him, knew she realized exactly what he did.
It was a sea of black, in every corner he glanced at.
Tyrion intoned, from his far left, "They mourn the dead of the 'incident' at the Sept, today. I suppose my sister decided to allow it. I've heard whispers that she has become paranoid, with every day that passes, convinced that she will lose what power remains to her if she allows you to come. We are lucky Jaime was able to convince her."
Daenerys exhaled, the slowest he'd ever heard, but unlike Tyrion he knew precisely what it was that pushed that slow release from her lungs.
Relief.
Behind each soldier were smallfolk, packed into lines, spilling into the alleys, peering from the windows.
Their tunics and roughspun dresses were dirty, caked with mud and grime and filth, but under such decay, one thing was clear.
They were all clad in black, each and every one of them.
From the windows, hung strips of black cloth, the faces that stared down from above all set, determined.
There were no smiles, only the barest nods, as Jon and Daenerys began to slowly step forward, as if they understood. As if to tell this King and Queen, who had been little more than tales, until now, that they were ready to fight, for themselves.
Right on cue, the moment they were past the first row of hovels, a great screech sounded overhead, and Jon could hear the gasps from the onlookers as a great shadow passed above, then another, then another.
"Dragons," came the hissed, awe-stricken whispers. Even the soldiers who escorted them began to glance at each other, and even amongst these Jon recognized that, here and there, amongst the twenty or so that were arranged in two columns, there were strips of cloth tired around a man's bicep.
One man, just to the right of Davos, met Jon's eyes, and gave him the barest smile. "Your Grace," the young man whispered.
"Jon," Davos muttered under his breath, "this is Gendry. He's been helping us."
Gendry trained his eyes forward, but slowed his pace a bit, speaking out of the side of his mouth. "You're Arya brother, aren't you?"
Jon started, so violently that Dany noticed, her head swiveling to see what was amiss.
"You know my sister?" The man didn't hear him, so Davos quietly passed the message along, at which point Gendry nodded.
"I knew her, though it's been years since I last saw her, in the Riverlands. Not sure what's become of her since then." He saw regret clearly on the man's face, wished he could speak further on just what had occurred between his sister and this lad, but there was no time or privacy for such. Later, he told himself, choosing instead to nod.
"She's in Winterfell."
Gendry heard that clearly enough, judging from the smile on his face. "Good. She finally made it home."
Jon cast his eye about again, as they continued to walk, realizing Tyrion was watching him curiously. "How many of the soldiers will lay down their weapons, when the time comes?" He tried to take a count of the ones who'd marked themselves, unable to get a good view at times, just passing flashes, as Dany's dragons distracted the people by circling above and calling out every now and then.
"More than half," came the muttered reply, and the lad's blue eyes turned hard. "The others are on their own, and they'll get what they deserve."
Jon considered this, realizing quickly that this city held far more smallfolk and far fewer soldiers than he'd originally believed, though several clusters could be spotted above on the catwalks and battlements.
"It's the Goldcloaks that'll give you the most trouble," Davos said in his ear. "And they're waiting on us in the Pit."
Jon nodded again, whispering what he'd learned quickly to Daenerys, who seemed to take it all in with a measured calmness.
Then he looked to Tyrion. "How many people live in this city, Tyrion?"
Daenerys's hand tipped his head to the side, thinking. "About a million, I'd say, give or take."
Jon let out a whistle. "That's more than the whole of the North, all packed into one place." He shook his head, giving Dany a small smile. "Can't imagine what that's like, to have no space at all."
Tyrion shrugged. "There's more work to be had, and to be fair, the brothels are far superior," he answered, by way of explanation.
Dany snorted, giving him a roll of her eyes before she focused again on what seemed to have stolen her attention: the people they passed. She seemed determine to lay sight on each and every one she could manage, occasionally looking up when Drogon let out a particularly loud scream and smiling in reassurance. She seemed radiant to him, in that moment, the sun shining down on them both, arm in arm, as they made their way through the city. This was what they were choosing, what she wanted to show them. She didn't look down on them, these people of King's Landing. No, instead she seemed determined to show them she was exactly what was promised, their savior, come to deliver them from the fearful existence they'd experienced before she'd arrived.
Jon hoped, his own lip curling up as he glanced about as well, that they believed her, that they could lay aside their own fears and fight for what they wanted, that they could learn it was possible to deliver themselves. They just needed to be shown the way, led along that path.
With a glance at Dany, he felt a fleeting flash of relief, one that made his shoulders a bit less heavy, that had his chin tipped up a bit higher. If these people were brave enough now, then perhaps, if the fates were kind, they'd be brave enough for what came next.
The Dragon Pit was a crumbling ruin, the walls of stone rotted away with time, but if he squinted, Jon thought he could picture what it had been, once.
The Last Targaryen in all the lands walked apace with him, her dragons screaming overhead, and he wondered what it must have been like, the last time dragons roamed the skies above King's Landing. He spied the way Dany's eyes moved over the architecture, no doubt similar thoughts flitting through her mind, as well. Their party came to a halt, and he was relieved to find a very familiar, large crate being carried upon a wagon, several soldiers standing on either side as it came to a stop just behind Jon and Daenerys.
One of the soldiers looked at Jon, with a scowl, and rapped the edge of his shield against the box. "What's in here, then?"
Jon studied the man, his eyes finding no trace of black on this man's person.
"Hit it one more time and you won't live long enough to find out." His answering snarl seemed to catch the man off guard, and he took a step back, the chuckles of a few of his fellows giving him pause to glare at Jon soundly before stepping clear away, a different solider shuffling forward, this one giving Jon a knowing look, black fabric tied tight around his right bicep.
At the tug on his own arm, he turned, to find Dany watching him closely, half-smiling and amused despite her own anxiety. She looked back to the crate, concerned. "Is he well in there, do you think? I've been so worried for him, the little sweetling."
Jon scoffed, earning him a little pinch from her slim fingers, and chuckled. "Oh, I can assure you, the 'little sweetling' is quite alright. He's good and angry, now. Just as he needs to be." He could feel Ghost, within those wooden slats, feel the tense anger that was knotted in the wolf's gut, a mirror to his own. When he was released, Jon didn't suppose there was much the Lannister forces could dream up to stop him should he go on a bloody rampage.
Jon was counting on it.
The doors parted for them, and on a shared exhale, Jon and Dany looked only to each other.
"Ready?" There was the barest quiver in her voice, one he meant to allay as his hand snaked down to capture hers, as his lips brushed against the back.
"Ready," he said firmly, and he let his fear become bravery, let the ice in his veins turn to fire, his heart beating like a war drum, adrenaline coursing through him, tense and alert.
They stepped, together, through the stone archway.
Cersei Lannister sat at the head of the dais, flanked on either side by an assemblage of Goldcloaks, her brother to her left, and an enormous man, completely shrouded in metal, to her right.
She looked as Jon remembered, for the most part, but harder, colder, and far more sinister than Robert Baratheon's Queen had appeared so long ago, at Winterfell.
She frowned at them, as they approached, and Jon saw immediately that two chairs had been placed directly opposite each other, separate, with a loose collection of Jon's Northern guards and Davos one on side, and Dany's Dothraki and Unsullied, with a stoic Missandei awaiting, on the other.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Varys peel off, ducking out the side entrance, and he fought the urge to smile to himself. Now, they merely had to wait, and allow themselves to distract Cersei while their plans came to fruition.
"We've been waiting some time," Cersei sniped, looking crossly between Jon and his Queen as they seated themselves.
"My apologies," Daenerys said smoothly, locking her hands in her lap and giving Jon a tiny look before returning her attention to the False Queen. "It is a long walk, through the city."
Cersei's mouth twisted sourly. "Indeed, it is," she rasped, hands clenching and unclenching fitfully on the arms of her seat. "Well, let's be on with it then. I have little patience for such an audience, but seeing as my brothers have decided this ought happen, I will be magnanimous. State your business, and be quick about it."
Dany nodded to Jon, and he stood, clearing his throat, lips parting. Before he could speak, however, those large shadows passed overhead, and now he did allow a smile to flirt across his lips as he looked up, seeing the True Queen's dragons swooping lower and lower, circling tightly and then thundering down, first Drogon, then Rhaegal, then Viserion, each landing with a force that shook against his boots along the perimeter of the Dragon Pit.
There was an odd reassurance in their presence, he found. Now that they were here, he at least had the thought that should it all go to shit, they would end any threat against their mother, more swiftly than he could ever manage.
He glanced at Dany, who gave him a coy wink.
"We come to speak to you today of a common enemy, Cersei of House Lannister." He knew that would get a rise out of her, and it worked, just as Varys had assured him it would.
"I am the Queen and you will address me as such." Her venom was dampened by the way she kept glancing at the hulking masses of scales and heat that were alternately growling and glaring her direction.
"No," Jon said firmly, "I will not." He sucked in a breath, watching closely at the reaction of those gathered beside Cersei as he continued. "I cannot serve two Queens. And I have pledged myself to Daenerys of House Targaryen, the True Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and my wife."
Jon saw Jaime Lannister shift uncomfortably and glare at Tyrion.
"The Bastard King and the Mad King's Daughter have wed?" Cersei let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "And better still, you have the temerity to stand before me and declare her the True Queen." She leaned back, clearly furious, studying Jon. "I would have expected better from Ned Stark's son. What would he say, I wonder, if he were here now."
Jon let his hand stray to his pommel, palm cupping the wolf's head engraved there, fury rising hot and fast in his chest. "I imagine he'd have quite a bit to say, if your monstrous little shit of a son hadn't set his head on a pike, now wouldn't he?"
Cersei stood, then, quickly, beginning to stalk towards Jon, only stopped by Jaime's hand on her arm, her eyes wild. "You are a trumped-up bastard, reaching for power you cannot ever wish to obtain. You dare call anyone a monster, when you have brought these here?" She waved a hand around at the dragons, who hissed at her. Then, she pointed in Dany's direction, who had been watching, stone-faced, the entire time. "You bring a monster's daughter here?"
Jon laughed, something vicious in the sound. "Oh, no. They're here to frighten you. And clearly they have, especially my Queen." His mouth twisted bitterly. "But I am here to warn you of the greater threat, to all of us, but I suspect you will be far too foolish to listen."
Jaime forced his sister back to her seat, not without a warning look in Jon's direction. "I ought to have you clapped in irons and dragged to the dungeons." When the last syllable fell, a dragon snarled viciously, not Drogon this time, but Rhaegal, whose bronze eyes seemed trained on the Lannister Queen.
Jon nodded, with a small, smug smile, in the dragon's direction. "Seems he is not fond of that idea. Instead, you shall listen." This part, he knew, was not truly for Cersei, but for those who stood in this vast arena, those who were already prepared to raise arms for Jon's Queen, and those who were, perhaps, undecided. "There is another, who is coming, who cares nothing for your station, or your blood. He cares nothing for your lands and your Keeps, or your gold and your titles. Young or old, true or baseborn, his only intent is to kill you, and me, and every other being that draws breath."
Jon nodded to Davos, and within moments, his hand was ushering in the large crate from an area below ground, all eyes on the great wooden box as it was set near Jon. He could feel Ghost's ire rising, knew the wolf was aware of the threat, was ready to fight the moment he was set free.
Cersei exchanged a look with the robed man on the raised dais, flicked her eyes to the metal monstrosity nearest her, and laughed.
"This is why you've come?" She shook her head, amused, though her eyes remained cold, calculating. "This sounds like a particularly awful joke. You are a bastard, Jon Snow, but it was not until this day I took you to be a fool."
The man in Ironborn armor beside the False Queen stood, his eyes tracking to Theon as Jon watched, the older man seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that had begun to build between the two Queens. "Theon," he called out, almost singing the name in a taunt. "Your sister will die today, no matter what happens here."
Jon watched Theon's face twist, remembered the promise he'd made to his father's charge before they'd left Dragonstone. If Euron was here, he was Theon's to kill, and no one else's. Just a dip of his chin was all that was required of Jon, as Theon returned the gesture, a mutinous glare in his eyes as he turned back to face his Uncle.
In his mind, he'd counted to two hundred, and right on cue, the bells began toll. Daenerys stood, regal, exchanging a small smile with Missandei and coming to stand beside Jon, taking his arm and giving Cersei a calm smile.
"The only fool here is you. We are here to give you a choice. The threat we face will require all of us, banded together, to fight our common enemy. However," Dany continued, eyes resting on Jon's briefly as Cersei began to look about, panicked by the sound of the bells filling the air, "we will not fight a war in two fronts. You may step aside, this day, and choose exile across the Narrow Sea, or you can die."
"What is this?" Cersei's entire company was buzzing with confusion, particularly when a louder sound filled the air. Screams filtered in, some from just beyond the doors that closed them all in, together. The sounds of battle began to rise, a clash of metal on metal, the cries of the dying.
Euron seemed rather dismissive, even of that, and looked to Jon. "What's in the box, then? Grumpkins and snarks?"
Jon favored the man with a vicious smile as another snarl rang through the air, muffled by wood but no doubt heard by those surrounded Cersei. For her part, Cersei seemed to understand that she now faced a rather significant dilemma: the sounds of struggle only grew louder from beyond the walls of the Dragon Pit, but she could not dismiss her red-clad soldiers or Goldcloaks to investigate without costing herself their protection to the dangers that stood before her.
She had grown wide-eyed, panicked, and seemed to reach a decision that would no doubt seal her fate as she grasped for the arm of the mountainous soldier at her side. "Kill them!" Her shriek pierced the air, and even Ser Jaime's cries could not stop the man as he began to skulk towards Jon and Dany.
"Choose your sides, Sons of Westeros!" Dany answered Cersei's scream with one of her own, and as thought it had been rehearsed, roughly half of the Lannister soldiers came running to stand behind the Dragon Queen as her own soldiers heeded the next command she issued, first in Dothraki tongue, then in Valyrian.
Jon skinned his steel, watching the huge armored man's progress as he struck the lock clean from the crate, seconds to spare as a flash of furious white leapt forward and set upon the man called The Mountain.
Arakhs and spears were drawn, as were swords from their scabbards, but everyone froze, then as Ghost unleashed his pent-up fury, the brute force with which he'd launched himself at the towering monster knocking the man to the ground, his helmet knocked free to reveal the true horror below. What this creature was, Jon did not know, but the look of him was so disgusting Jon fought the urge to retch.
"Take his head," Jon called to the wolf, face turning to a grimace in disturbed distaste as he saw what had lurked beneath the shroud of the helmet. "Kill the beast!"
Ghost obeyed, as Cersei let loose a helpless shriek, the man's slow, jerking movements hindered by his armor, no match for Ghost's size or ferocity, and his head was ripped clean from his body, black blood leaking out to wet the sepia dirt beneath their feet.
Ghost stood upon the body, panting, glaring, mouth painted with the same blood, retching several times on the dead man, clearly disliking the taste.
With another loud, Valyrian command, the dragons began to creep forward, triangulated around them, advancing and pinning Cersei's ever-diminishing forces as they came closer.
"This is your final chance. Surrender, or fight!" He looked to the Goldcloaks, who had begun to tremble in their plate. "Serve the Dragon Queen or die with yours!"
Drogon let out a vicious hiss, his massive teeth snapping together as a growl rumbled deep in his chest, where no doubt a great gust of fire was building. His brothers followed suit, their bestial amber eyes glowing with intent.
It was a losing battle, one Ser Jaime seemed to recognize, and he saw the panic on the man's eyes as he stood at his sister's side, no doubt taking stock of the impossible odds now against the Lannisters. He saw the hopeless twist of the man's lips, the way his shoulders began to slump, and for a moment the man's good hand flew to his sword belt, as though he meant to set it before them, to surrender.
But Cersei would not have it, that much was clear. For as much as her brother had an air of grim acceptance, the woman on the dais, in her gold circlet, was incensed, even as her own men began to stray closer to Jon and Daenerys, to join their kinsmen at the Dragon Queen's back.
Now it was only the Greyjoy man, a thin man in dirty Maester's robes, and Jaime who stood near Cersei, as the thudding of swords dropping into the dirt resonated from her gold-clad soldiers.
"Traitors!" Her shriek rent the air, her eyes wide and crazed, and when she chanced a look at her brother, only to find something she clearly disagreed with on Ser Jaime's face, she snarled.
"Go to Drogon, Dany," Jon uttered, squeezing her hand tight. Theon was sidling up beside him, with eyes trained on his Uncle, it was Cersei that drew Jon's full attention now. She was going to do something very ill-advised, he was sure of it, and her fury was saved solely for Jon's silver-haired Queen. "Get up on his bloody back and use your weapon, my love."
He could feel Dany's eyes on his face, could see her nod, finally, in his periphery. "Be careful, Jon," she urged, with one last stroke of her hand against his, the sounds of battle only intensifying from beyond the pit, even as everything inside these walls seemed to grow ever more quiet.
But as he watched, time seemed to slow, as well, as Cersei Lannister reached to her brother's sword belt, and skinned his steel, the blade glinting in the midday sun as she pulled it free, her eyes surely on Dany's back as his wife scrambled atop her black beast.
The hair rose on the back of his neck.
No, he thought.
No, this is not going to happen.
Bile seemed to rise in his throat, and the sound of Ghost growling narrowed his focus, to the golden- haired woman who meant, in that moment, to kill his wife, and his babe besides.
No, he screamed, inside his heart, his mind, his soul. His blood pumped furiously, a curious sensation rising within him. Fury, such as he had never known before, took over, and he did not know it came about, what happened next. One moment, he gripped Longclaw tight, ready to charge her, to cut her down where she stood, for his father, for his love, for his little one.
Then, as each second seemed as slow and sticky as molasses, an unnatural series of events on unfolded. For in the next moment, there was a great weight pressed against him, a sudden and heavy push, white fur almost choking his open mouth as he screamed, Ghost knocking him to the ground, surely, preventing him from moving ahead.
And then, overhead, a long green neck, covered in scales, extended, and the dragon scream furiously, just as furious in his anger as Jon himself was, and then it was all heat and flame, as far as he could see.
At his back was the dragon's massive chest, and Ghost kept him pinned there, panting, for once ignoring Jon's forceful urgings, refusing to budge until the green dragon had expended his fiery breath upon everyone who'd stood on that dais.
He heard still more screams, and then nothing, an abrupt silence as slowly, carefully, the dragon withdrew, and Ghost removed himself from Jon's chest and legs, until he was panting in the dirt, choking on mouthfuls of dust and smoke as he climbed to his feet, his sword still in hand.
"Dany!" His scream was met by an answering call, but he could not see her, for a heart-stopping moment, could only see the billows of smoke and smell the charred, scorching stench of roasted flesh.
"Jon! Jon!" She was frantic, his Queen, her call from above echoed by a screech he knew to be Drogon's. "Are you hurt?"
He heaved several breaths before he answered, checking himself for wounds, finding himself unharmed. "No," he shouted back. "Is everyone alright?"
There came a slow chorus of voices he knew; Davos, and Tyrion, the Lady Missandei, and Grey Worm as well. There came others he did not know, no doubt the Westerosi who had laid down their arms, or joined their cause from the start. He heard guttural Dothraki, and the Unsullied and their Valyrian tongue, and then, through the lingering smoke, came Theon's voice, a hoarse, triumphant cry that chased after the wet sound of a sword being plunged into flesh.
He clambered over, at the sound, following Theon's voice until he saw what had occurred; Theon stood, pulling his sword free from Euron's neck, the dying man choking and gasping as he bled out onto the dirt, the life slowly leaving his eyes as Theon knelt before his Uncle's body.
"You die today," Theon said with vicious finality. He spit in his Uncle's face. "Yara will live."
He stood, silently, watching with Theon until the man lay still, laying a hand on the slight man's shoulders, watery blue eyes meeting his as Theon let loose a hoarse, rasping sob.
Theon stood, catching Jon's forearm to help him stand, sadness and a cold certainty there in the man's gaze, now. "I have to go, Jon. She needs me, now. I have to make things right."
Jon squeezed a gloved hand around Theon's arm, nodding. "Then what are you still doing here?" He cracked a small smile. "We'll manage things from here. Go."
The smoke had cleared enough that Jon could see the shapes of their soldiers, now, the Goldcloaks kneeling, daring not to look up, as Unsullied and Dothraki alike had clustered around them, arakhs and spears pointed at their throats as they laid down the remainder of their weapons.
Ghost stood, beneath the shadow of the green dragon, and it was there that Jon went first. He stared at Rhaegal, a ribbon of wonder making his knees tremble, as the dragon let loose a friendly chirp. He pulled off his glove, shaking hand trembling as well, as he dared stroke that green snout. With Daenerys at his side he had not feared to do this, knowing it was their mother's fondness that allowed it, perhaps even from the start, that day on the cliff's, with Drogon.
But she was above him, on Drogon's back, circling, no doubt casting an eye upon the state of the city below, and this was probably not the wisest thing he'd ever done, but he felt the unshakable notion that the beast wouldn't harm him. "Well done, lad," he whispered, stroking his hand fondly down the heated scales, smiling as the dragon chirped again. Ghost butted his head against Jon's side, and he twisted, casting fond eyes on the wolf. "Oh, aye, you as well. Right proper lads, the both of you."
Jon heard, then, a terrible cry, a sound of pure mourning, and loss.
He twisted, and saw Tyrion standing alone, on the dais the only thing that remained of the brother and sister he'd both hated and loved, in turn.
Jon bit back a sigh. He understood this loss, and it was for this reason, and a handful of others, that they'd known they couldn't let Tyrion know the full extent of their plans. He was prepared for the man's grief, and the anger that would surely follow, but for now, all he could do was approach, somberly.
A foot from where Tyrion stood, lay three items; a puddle of molten gold, swiftly beginning to harden as it cooled, no doubt all that remained of Ser Jaime's false hand. Beside that lay two other items, one of Jaime's, and one of Cersei's, and Jon ignored the Valyrian steel blade to grip the remnants of the circlet that had sat upon Cersei's head. It must have fallen, to avoid the same fate as Jaime's hand, for it was only blackened and melted in sections, enough remaining that the people would know precisely what it was.
Tyrion looked up, eyes heavy with accusation as he glared at Jon.
"You always meant for this to happen, didn't you?" There was a dangerous edge to Tyrion's voice, one that made Jon's jaw tighten, but he would not hold the man's anger against him, not now, not in this moment.
"Aye," Jon said, with no small measure of certainty in his voice. "It had to. It was the only way, Tyrion, to save this city, these people. She would've let them all die, to save herself."
Tyrion didn't want to agree, Jon could tell. He saw the glint in the man's eyes, as though he wished to argue, but there came a grief-stricken resignation across the man's face. But then his eyes strayed to Jaime's remains, and he looked as though he would weep. "But Jaime—"
"Made his choice," Jon said soberly. "It was his choice to make, Tyrion's, not yours. If he'd wanted to save himself, he could have."
Again, that mutinous glint, but Tyrion held his tongue, and said nothing, instead reaching for his brother's sword, raising it in his hands and watching the sun reflect against this steel.
"This blade is cursed," Tyrion finally whispered. "Do you know what it is?"
Jon had his suspicions, the Lady Knight Brienne had confessed as to the origins of the steel she wore, had disclosed enough that he thought he knew the source, the original blade this one had been forged from. But he let Tyrion answer.
"T'was your father's sword, at least in part. Everything went to shit, after that visit to Winterfell. For everyone."
Jon stood silent, considering, finally reaching a decision. "Keep it," Jon finally said, and raised his brows at Tyrion's astonished look. He shook his head, sparing a glance as their company seemed to be taking stock of their numbers and readying for the next step of their plan. "It's not Ice anymore. You may need it, in the wars to come, and I have my own." He patted a hand at Longclaw, now back at his hip, watched with Tyrion as Rhaegal and Viserion rose in the air as Drogon let out another screaming cry above their heads.
"Come, Lord Hand. We have business at the Red Keep."
With Tyrion walking ahead, and Davos and Ghost trailing just behind, they left the Pit, finding a near-army of smallfolk crowding the streets, no more struggle to be had as they watched with wide eyes. The seemed more amazed at the sight of Ghost than of Jon himself, but he saw, now, though some were spattered with blood, some clutching wounds of their own, real hope in their eyes, and he allowed himself a small measure of gladness, as they made their way along the cobbles stone.
By the time they reached the streets that led to the Keep, his Queen had already landed, and Drogon had perched himself along a tower, watching the gathered masses closely as Dany stood, waiting for him. The crowds parted for him, and Ghost, and it was only man and wolf that made the final climb up the first set of steps, to the landing where she held out a hand to him.
He turned, taking her hand in his left, raising his right aloft so that the crowd could see the ruined crown he held.
"The Queen is dead!" His shout seemed to echo off every wall, reverberating back to him, powerful and strong. The people let up a loud, resounding cheer, as he turned, trying to ensure every eye could see his meaning.
Then he tossed the crown down the steps, watching it clatter down, and he raised his Queen's arm high, their joined hands held together as he let out another cry, this one a command.
"Long Live the Queen!"
His ears threatened a mutiny as he was nearly deafened by the cries, this time, and he grinned, glancing over to find that Daenerys did not gaze out at the crowds. Her soft smile, her adoring eyes, were turned only to him, and he felt as though for a heartbeat only they existed. He grabbed her 'round the waist, and kissed her soundly, chuckling against her lips as the smallfolk cheered even more loudly at the sight.
"Are you alright, love?" He breathed the question against her soft lips, holding her tighter.
She smiled against his, kissing him once more before letting her forehead rest against his chest. "I am now," she managed, letting her hand rest above the scar that decorated his heart through his many layers. "I am now."
The Iron Throne was uglier than he'd thought it would be.
It also looked dreadfully uncomfortable, he thought, as he walked towards it, Daenerys on his arm.
They'd asked to be alone, for this first approach, and despite everything else that pushed in on his consciousness, all the other things that demanded his attention, he wouldn't deny her this, or himself, either.
He wanted to see her take it, sat upon it, see it returned to Targaryen hands.
Aegon had forged it, and Aerys had lost it, but Daenerys had reclaimed it.
"Sit," he said, pulling away, grinning as she looked between the throne and her King with wide, surprisingly hesitant eyes.
She'd changed, since their victory in the Dragon Pit. They'd borne with them various trunks, a few items they'd wanted with them if they won the day, and even as they lingered in the throne room their people set to work, ridding the city of those who refused to bend, taking down Baratheon and Lannister banners, and raising the three-headed dragon in place. In some areas, Jon had been told, they hoisted the Stark banner as well, and it never ceased to make him shake his head in surprise.
He never would have dreamed, in thousand lifetimes, that this would be his fate.
But he was here, now, and he would not trade this for anything.
With a shaky breath, Daenerys climbed the last remaining steps, letting her fingers glance of the melted heap of swords that had been fashioned into a chair, hundreds of years ago. "In my dreams," she said quietly to him, her eyes tracing each detail of the throne, "This is as far as I reach. I touch it, then I turn away, and never do I seat myself upon it." She sighed, her voice thickening with emotion. "And soon I will turn from it, surely enough." She looked at him, over her shoulder, her eyes warm despite their glassiness. "For you."
Jon nodded, a brief flash of fear shaking him, but he did not let it rise to the surface. He longed to tell her to stay behind, to let him go North and fight this war, to keep herself safe, here, to let his child be born far from the terrors that awaited them.
But she'd never do it, he knew.
She was far too bold, and far too brave.
And, he let himself accept, as he saw what was true deep in her eyes, she loved him too much to let him fight alone. It was the thing he cherished most about her, for as much as he caused him a bone-deep, mind-numbing worry.
He gestured to her, not trusting his voice, and he held his breath as she turned, drawing the skirts of her coat under her as she sat, finally, upon her family's Throne.
"Well," she said, eyeing him as she adjusted herself in the chair, "how do I look?"
Jon bit his lip, stifling a laugh, as she tipped her chin up regally, though her own amusement made her lips twitch as he came close enough to draw his hand along her cheek.
"Like the loveliest Queen in this realm or any other." He knelt, knee hitting the stone under him, and took up her hand, kissing first the back of it, then her palm. "And the most fearsome, and the kindest, and the sweetest, as well. Certainly, the most dangerous."
"Dangerous," she echoed, brows quirking as she settled against the tall back. "In what way?"
"Well," Jon said with a put-upon sigh, looking about as though he feared they might be overheard, "I'm in very grave danger of telling you the horribly inappropriate things I'd like to do to you, just seeing you seated there. Seems dangerous to me."
He heard the telltale clack of nails against stone, that told him Ghost had finished his explorations and decided to Jon them, and he purposefully gave his wife a woe-filled expression as he held out his hand, helping her to stand and tucking her tight under his arm. "I'm definitely in danger of Ghost getting rid of me once and for all if he has to see my bare arse again."
Dany laughed, this time, and he smiled as it echoed around the mostly empty room. One day, if they could win the war that still loomed, this room would be full of people, clamoring to see her, and him, the two of them together. He still wasn't sure it was the sort of life he was made for, wasn't sure he had the patience for it, but he had grown addicted to the feel of her beside him, and for that he would bear anything.
"Save that for later, then. Let us finish what must be done." She leaned her head against him, and he could tell from the faint shadows around her eyes that she was tired, but still, her desire burned bright. "Then, I can assure you, I shall spend endless hours admiring your bare arse."
They took the steps, together, and she gave him a cheeky wink as she made her steps match his own. "I think I like the sound of that," he said, and he gave one last look to the empty throne at their backs, swearing to himself, and his Gods, and anyone who dared try to prevent it, that she would return to it, and they would never have to leave.
All they had to do, he reasoned, as they stepped out into the dying daylight in search of their advisors, and hopefully a hot meal, was live.
With her, that didn't seem such and insurmountable goal. Not anymore.
A fortnight later, they were making ready to depart, and for Jon, that moment couldn't have come a moment sooner.
King's Landing, to be blunt, smelled like shit. He hoped, by the time they came back, that might be remedied. His mind whispered that he'd be lucky to come back at all, and his heart agreed.
His nose wasn't so sure that it might be a blessing, however.
He sat in the Throne Room, alone, save for Ser Jorah, who stood to his right, waiting quietly. And as he sat, upon the stone steps that led to the throne, he sharped his sword, the snick as he worked it down the blade calming him, but only slightly.
There was one last task that lay ahead of him, as he saw it, for Davos and Tyrion would remain here, in King's Landing, as they went North.
Someone must maintain the city in their absence, after all, and each man possessed a certain amount of knowledge regarding a place neither Jon nor Dany had any firsthand experience with. If anyone could act in their stead, at least for the time being, it was their Hands.
And, Jon thought, watching the stone slide against the steel, neither of them could fight for shit, in truth.
He waited, with Jorah, until his expected guests arrived, but he didn't look up until they were assembled.
"My Lords," Jon said quietly, evenly, eyes only on the motion of his hand. "Thank you for joining me. The Queen and I shall depart in the morning, and I wished to speak with you, before we leave." Now, he looked up, finding Davos, Tyrion, and Varys assembled before him. "There are a few loose ends we must see to, so to speak."
"Such as?" Tyrion spoke first, and though it had been two weeks since the death of his brother and sister, there was still a cool, angry tone laced through the man's words when he spoke to Jon. Daenerys had privately conversed with him several times, and Tyrion had seemed mollified enough, but Jon knew that Tyrion still resented his exclusion from the larger planning of what had occurred in the Dragon Pit.
No doubt he blamed Jon.
The trouble for him was that Jon truly could care less. He had no need to soothe Tyrion's bruised ego; he left that task to his Queen.
"As we travel, we shall move our armies with us. It is our hope that they grow in size, that we may inspire more people to our cause in the North. We are trusting you both to care for those who remain; The sick, the infirmed, the very old and very young. All who cannot fight will be sent to shelter here. Prepare for such, I pray of you. Expect large numbers, in the worst case." Jon eyed Tyrion baldly. "I know you are a man of ingenuity, Tyrion, and as such the Queen and I are entrusting you to oversee the coin we shall leave in your care." He glanced between both men, now. "See that it is not wasted."
Tyrion sniffed loudly, an air of offense when he replied. "I'm a bit irritated you'd even think you must say such. The Queen's gold shall be in good hands."
Davos cleared his throat at the obvious dig; It was true that the gold they had brought to fill the coffers of King's Landing came from Meereen, and clearly Tyrion was more miffed than he wished to let on, but Jon was past caring about trivial insults.
Instead, he gave Tyrion a long, slow blink, then returned to sharpening his sword. "No more games," he said plainly, to the room at large. "This is no time for politics, no time to make new enemies. You are to keep the peace. Help all that you can. Tend to the people in our stead."
"Naturally," Tyrion said, a bit snappishly. "Will that be all?"
Jon let out a humorless laugh, and glanced at Jorah, who gave him a thin smile. "No," Jon said, shaking his head, setting down his stone and rising, sword in hand. "There is one more thing." He sheathed his sword, looked the trio before him full in the face, and smiled. "The Queen is with child."
His eyes caught and held Davos's, and he could only grin as the older man let out a loud exclamation, dispensing with any notion of formality and striding forward to capture Jon in a brief, back-thumping embrace. "Oh, my word," the Onion Knight breathed. "A blessing for you both, truly."
Tyrion seemed a bit less enthused, but Jon knew full well what the man knew of Daenerys, how convinced he had been that Jon's wife did not believe she would ever bear and heir. "Then King's Landing is doubly blessed, Your Grace." He nodded dutifully, but Jon saw the flicker of despair before Tyrion's head ducked to study his boots. "Perhaps all the stories the smallfolk whisper about you both are true."
When he looked at Varys, it was to find the man studying him intently, but soon enough, the eunuch's smooth, stoic face gave way, lips twisting up as he gave Jon a small bow. "Our Queen has chosen wisely in you, Your Grace. A most dutiful husband, and effective. And how many moons must be wait, before this blessed event?"
Jon gripped the pommel of his sword, exchanging a look with Jorah. A Dothraki healer, the only Dany trusted for now, had examined her that very morning, and had declared that his wife was beginning her fourth moon of pregnancy. He was, in equal parts, elated and terrified, but he let none of that show as he answered. "Five moons or so," he said smoothly, eyeing each man again. "And so we all must hope this war is ended as swiftly as possible, mustn't we?"
A chorus of quiet agreement rose from the men, and Jon circled them, without a word, studying each, taking their measure silently, watching as they shifted under his uncomfortable perusal. "Know this, my Lords, and understand I make an oath to you now, one I will keep until my dying day." He waited until he was certain each eye was trained upon him. "If you so much as think of betraying her," he stepped forward, "if you dare do something so infuriatingly foolish as causing harm to my wife, or my babe…," he trailed off, shaking his head with a feigned sadness. "I will spend every day of my life making you regret it. You'll wish I had killed you quickly. You will beg for it. You'll wish your mothers had never carried you in their wombs. When you scream, I shall delight in it. I will carve away at you, bit by bit, and I shall laugh as the birds feast on what remains."
He raised a hand, silencing both Davos and Tyrion as they no doubt began to voice their assurances that they would never do any such thing. "Power is a tricky thing, my Lords. We are giving you much, now, because we must." He cocked his head to the side. "But it is only power borrowed, and it is not yours to keep." He swung a hand towards Varys. "Lord Varys shall be our eyes and ears, and do not doubt for a moment that we will receive a full report of everything that happens. When you so much as take a shit, I will learn of it. Let that knowledge guide your actions, in our absence."
Jon allowed them to digest his words as he sat, again, legs stretched out on the stairs, hands linked together in his lap. "That's all, my Lords. Sleep well."
Davos gave him a rather hurt look, one he would be sure to alleviate later, but he had to be sure, now, that they each understood the consequences of their actions. He and his Queen were placing a tremendous amount of trust in these men, and he could not help but worry that they would be betrayed that such a thing might be inevitable.
Varys gave him a small, knowing smile before he turned on his heel and left as well, trailing behind Tyrion and Davos, leaving only Jorah and Jon in the room.
Until Daenerys stepped out from behind a column, a strange look on her face as she came closer.
He marveled at the play of torchlight upon her fine, delicate features, the way the orange glow made her hair shine like burnished gold, and he stood, holding out a hand for her, surprised when her eyes looked towards Ser Jorah.
With a few Dothraki commands, the Northman was clearly dismissed, or so Jon surmised, as he dipped his chin, gave a respectful 'Khaleesi' in Dany's direction, then raised his brows at Jon, fighting a smile. "Good evening, King in the North," he said to Jon, then strode from the large hall, the sound of the doors swinging securely shut the only sound that hung in the air for several long moments.
Jon tugged at Dany's hand, as they watched Jorah's departure, finding her placid mask had slipped, and her eyes were narrowed and hooded, not with irritation, but with an endless, burning lust that made him want to rip her gown from her body right then and there.
He snickered as she pushed closer, hands linking behind his neck to toy with the hair that had escaped the tie holding it back, blatantly pressing her hips against his. "Was I too threatening, do you think?"
Dany shook her head, bottom lip clasped between her teeth as she studied him.
"Hmmm," Jon returned her stare, letting his hands slip up and down her side, glancing over her hips as they began to sway against him. "Not threatening enough?"
She grinned, brushing her breasts purposefully against him now, the lighter gown she'd changed in to allowing him to see the hardened points of her nipples through the fabric. "What do you suppose it says about me," she purred, "that the sound of you threatening to torture someone for years, on behalf, makes me want to strip you bare, and fuck you endlessly?"
He felt himself hardening further at her words, finishing the task her body had so easily started, and he ground his hip against her gently. "Oh, I don't know," he said, chuckling. "That you have excellent taste in husbands?"
Dany's hands slipped from his neck, shifting down to grip his arse in both hands, squeezing gently as she pushed back against him, her hips shifting and slipping against the stiff length of him. "That's true," she said on a moan, as he let his hand rise to cup and palm her breast, the other slipping around the curve of her arse. "Jon, I want you right here."
He looked around, sounding far more scandalized than he felt when he whispered, "On the floor?"
She laughed, capturing his face between her hands, kissing him until they were both breathless and panting into each other's mouths. "On the floor, against the wall, wherever you wish."
He couldn't help it, really, the way his eyes traveled to the throne of melted swords that sat several feet away. "What about there," he whispered back, knowing she could likely see the way the thought inflamed him even further reflected in his eyes.
Dany said nothing for a moment, allowing a wicked, carnal smile to flare to life, lashes fluttering as she looked between her husband and the throne of her ancestors. Then she took his hand, hips swaying as she led him to the throne. "I was hoping you'd say that," she said, then devoured his mouth in a clash of lips and teeth and tongues that told him he'd have her screaming his name in these halls for hours into the night.
And as far as last nights went, as they headed off towards a war they would likely not survive, he could think of no better way to spend this one.