Author's Note:
In the words of my lovely/awesome beta-reader, "Why Should Jon Snow Get All the Steamy Cave Action?"
Answer: He shouldn't.
#mwah
Daenerys
The sea cave, although more open to the winter air as its wide, squat mouth faced the full expanse of the frozen sea, was warm.
Daenerys noticed the change in temperature immediately, as she followed Jorah inside, stepping through a narrow space between tall, grey stones covered in frost-kissed lichen. It was an odd sensation and one she hadn't felt in months. The air in the cave was heavier than in the tunnels and it didn't burn at her lungs when she breathed it in. It was as if she was standing a few steps from a fire and she was suddenly tempted to throw off the fur coat on her shoulders and bask in the unexpected heat.
As Jorah led her into the cave's center, she found herself walking on sand. Over the course of a hundred summers, fairer winds had blown it in off the shore and it collected, like dust, everywhere in the sea cave. Small dunes smoothed out the jagged rock ledges that ringed the cave in varying levels.
Currently, the sand on the Bear Island beaches was frozen stiff and buried beneath feet of snow and crusted ice. But here, the sand was soft under her leather and fur-lined boots, as if she were walking a beach in Slaver's Bay, instead of a sea cave in the Frozen North.
She soon discarded the torch in the sand. Loose strands of gold-orange sunlight on the southern horizon, the last of the short day, were flooding the cave, illuminating its curved walls and glittering pillars, reflecting off quartz and silver flecks. The sun's rays glinted off the smooth shale of a raised dais of large flat stones and bounced off of a collection of hot springs dotted throughout. White mist steamed off the magma-heated pools of water and deposited droplets of condensation on the sparkling stalactites hanging from the cave ceiling.
The hot springs could be blamed for most of the cave's warmth. But only most…as there was also a massive, black dragon sleeping on the largest of those smooth, flat stones, each hot breath from his impressive nostrils giving off another spark of heat and red flame that further warmed the air surrounding him.
"Drogon!" Daenerys cried out his name, relief and joy coloring her tone. Her delight at seeing her last living dragon, alive and well, was palpable. With a chuckle at her unbridled excitement, Jorah released her hand and she nearly ran to the dragon's side.
"You're alive," she mused to the sleeping beast, hands stroking his scales, eyes flickering towards his shoulder and the spot where the spear had punctured his hide. He'd removed the spear himself but the wound seemed to be healing nicely. She ran her hand over the hard lump of scar tissue that was already crusting over with scale-like resilience.
"Seffius and I found him when we were checking the coast for seals," Jorah explained, joining her beside the dragon. With some pride, he added, "He's been here since we landed. He's a survivor…like his mother."
"He won't wake?" she asked, while fussing over Drogon, checking his wings, his talons, his scales and hide. She stroked his familiar face but his eyes remained closed, even while his breath was slow and steady. The dragon didn't wake to any of her touches.
Jorah shook his head, "He's hibernating.It's a deep sleep that animals fall into while winter rages on. They need less food this way and can outlast the sparseness of the season. They preserve their energy and rebuild their strength. He'll wake when he's hungry but otherwise, he'll sleep winter away and wake in the spring."
"If spring ever comes again…," Daenerys muttered, unsure.
"Spring will come, Khaleesi," Jorah promised her, his words strong and certain, his arms folded over his chest and boots planted in the sand with that firm stance that spoke of certain truth. His calm, raspy voice held no doubts and, as always, that was enough to convince her.
Though she needed little convincing. In her experience, Jorah's promises always came true. He'd promised her she would see Drogon again. And here Drogon was. In Essos, he said he'd find her a ship. He said he would never abandon her, that he would keep her safe and that he would take her home.
And he had done it all. Many times over.
Even when he didn't have to, even when she didn't deserve it. From the beginning, he gave her love and devotion freely. Not as a knight swears fealty to his queen, but as a man swears a blood oath to the woman he loves.
I am hers and she is mine.
I am his. Daenerys answered the ancient words in her head with stubborn conviction, daring any one of the gods listening to say otherwise. Those words were written on her heart, emblazoned with ink that would never rub off. The ink was renewed each time Jorah's gaze turned her way. As it did now, his handsome features creased with joy at her joy.
He lived to make her happy and give her hope. Unceasing hope…whenever her thoughts turned dark and whenever the world turned cold.
In the dead of winter, he brings me sunshine and fire.
Sudden tenderness for Jorah stirred within her breast. And then something more than tenderness. He must have seen the change in her eyes for his expression altered, his jaw moving slightly as his arms unfolded slowly. Dragon fire and that white steam rolling off the hot springs weren't the only sources of heat in the cave. Suddenly, she knew she couldn't keep the furs on any longer.
Her hands slid off Drogon's scales smoothly and she left the sleeping dragon, joining Jorah where he stood, now watching her with a heady mixture of sudden uncertainty and ever-present adoration. Her eyes didn't break from his as she took those few steps and she said nothing, not in so many words. But as she walked, she undid the clasps on her coat with nimble, seductive fingers. Jorah continued watching her movements, transfixed as always. He swallowed but couldn't manage another word as she came near, stopping directly in front of him, dropping the outer coat into the sand beside them.
She didn't stop at the furs, peeling off layer after layer of wool, leather and linen, until she stood naked before him.
"Come," she said, echoing his own command from earlier.
His furs and leather came off with little trouble. Her determined fingers helped, unbuckling the sword belt and undoing the small, metal clasps on his jerkin with insistence. His clothes soon joined hers in the sand.
She led him into the nearest pool, her bare feet slipping into the water like a hot knife through butter. With both his hands captured by hers, she drew him in with her, sinking down further, knees, thighs, breasts submerged, the heated water warming her skin straight through and coaxing the fire in her blood to flame.
For a fleeting, feckless moment, she was reminded of the pool that she'd stepped into the day Viserion and Illyrio Mopatis sold her off to the Dothraki hoard.
That day, she might have just as easily drowned herself in Illyrio's pool and let herself slip away into oblivion, giving in to all those feelings of fear and loneliness that had turned the steaming water to an ice bath—the water had been scalding that day, but she remembers feeling only frigid, cold and alone.
But this time she was not alone. And Jorah's hands over her naked flesh added an element of heat and hunger that she could not have imagined that day in Pentos. Her own hands were on his bare chest and abdomen, creeping over the contours of his muscular body with practice, water dripping from her fingertips every time her hands crested the waterline.
Jorah's kisses, laced with the tang of saltwater, filled her mouth, his tongue running against the pearly curve of her smooth teeth before tangling with her own. She gave him kisses freely, with only one condition. That he give her more. He always gave her what she wanted. Out of the water, Jorah could lift her easy. In the pool, he need only clasp his forearm around her waist and she stayed in place, her legs wrapped tightly around his hips.
The hot spring was nearly oval-shaped and shoulder deep at its center. The water was crystal clear and bathwater hot, its volcanic origins leaving their skin flushed and ruddy. Though perhaps that wasn't all the water's fault, as Daenerys's insistent hands and Jorah's lack of willpower—when it came to his dragon girl anyway—won out again. And again.
The dragon slept through it all.
When they finally emerged from the pool, the sun had nearly set. A single strand of orange-gold ringed the dark horizon, adorning the black cosmos like delicate jewelry. Above, silver stars began peeking out from their lofty perches.
Half-dressed now in her cream-colored linen shift, Daenerys brought her silver-blond hair to one side of her face, twisting and squeezing the drenched ends, water dripping into the sand at her feet. She glanced over at Jorah. He always dressed more quickly than her, already looking every inch the northern lord once again. In that outfit, all black, somber and dignified, no one would ever guess his activities of the last hour.
As she wrung out her hair, Daenerys smirked to herself, knowing better.
She pulled on her overdress before twisting the ends of her hair once again. Moving behind her, Jorah helped her do up the buttons on the back of the dress, dipping once to press a lingering kiss against her damp, bare shoulder blade. She exhaled softly at the renewed touch of his lips, dropping her hair to turn slightly, hand drifting up to cup his bearded chin lovingly, accepting yet one more kiss, this one careful and slow, their appetite for each other never quite sated.
A sudden noise at the mouth of the sea cave—a shuffling of frozen feet, a desperate, pitiful cry of despair—reached their ears at the same time, breaking them apart prematurely. Jorah, ever vigilant, stepped in front of Daenerys, swiftly taking her arm and pushing her behind him in a single motion, shielding her from the as-yet-unknown danger.
"Oh!" Daenerys cried out in recognition, as she stood on tip toe, catching sight of the intruder over Jorah's shoulder. Jorah said nothing but his features mirrored Daenerys—surprise and pity taking their turns.
The man—creature, perhaps, was the better term—who stumbled into the sea cave was wounded, half-frozen, near death and frostbitten from head to feet. He looked as if death had taken him already. His eyes were frozen over and, though he tried, he found he couldn't speak, vocal chords torn up by breathing nothing but frigid, sub-zero air for too many days in a row.
He was much altered from when they had seen him last, but they both recognized him immediately.
Theon Greyjoy, the Turncoat Ward of Winterfell, managed one last step and one last half-moan of pain, reaching out to Jorah and Daenerys as he found himself collapsing onto the sand.