A big, big, hug goes to all of you, for your dedication and reviews, dearest of readers!
I know the updates are slow and I thank you for your patience. Now, fair warning, this chapter contains some material of the citrus variety :)
As Arrowman best said it in a review, it was "time for some more bedding".
This being said, I have decided to change the overall rating of the story to M [and I'm currently keeping my fingers crossed and hoping I don't lose any of you because of this.]
PS: At the end you also get the explanation for the White Walkers crossing the Wall.
Disclaimer: This story contains elements from the books & show. I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.
The dragons flew fast and swift, both Dany and Jon scanning the earth as they cruised over what used to be a village. Most humans had fled, seeking refuge across the Wall, but a few vestiges of their old life remained - houses of unmortared stone, empty sheepsheads, wells.
Jon crouched on his mount, tightening his grip as the dragon took him higher, up the face of a neighboring mountain. Stony peaks rose to meet them, lonely and monstrous under the blue sky, but Rhaegal bypassed them, banking hard against the wind. As they cleared the highest peak, in joy or rage or for the hell of it, the dragon gripped clawfuls of snow and set them scattering behind like a trail of glittering stars.
It was a strange sort of thrill, to ride like this, with the wind pressing against him like a lover. After days of flying, Jon couldn't get enough of it, even though he spent twice as much time in the air than Daenerys. It was simply astonishing! Were it their wish, they could annihilate entire armies just by themselves. Just by commanding their dragons. Was this how the conquerors felt, hundreds of years ago? he briefly wondered, but then his mount hit the open sky and all rational thought left him.
There was nothing around them but clouds. Clouds as massive as the mountains far below, castles and temples of white and purple and blue. Clouds seen from above. Jon felt his heart swell with emotion. On Rhaegal's back he felt whole. Up in the sky the woes of this world could not touch him. Overwhelmed by the excitement, he gave a shout and Dany turned to watch him.
There was such an untamed joy in him! A happiness she knew and understood as well. It made her smile in response. We are the last dragon-riders, she realized bitersweetly. We are the last, but we are not alone. We have each other.
By the time they turned back, the smoke of countless forges was rising in the air. A first shipment of obsidian had arrived from Dragonstone and weapons were being made, weapons edged with dragonglass, able to fight off wights and Walkers. Rhaegal descended amidst the sound of pounding hammers and crackling flames, snarling at the nearest group of onlookers. Drogon followed a moment later.
Jon dismounted. Slung across his back in a black leather shoulder sheath was Longclaw, the hand-and-a-half Valyrian blade. It makes him look more warrior than king, Dany thought as she watched him come around to help her down. She didn't need the help, but the feel of his hands on her was something she enjoyed. Careful, but not too gentle, his thumbs pressing over her ribs while he looked into her eyes. She liked his eyes too - deep and dark and warm.
Sometimes, as guarded as he was, those eyes gave him away. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of yearning, of some sort of hunger that set her body tingling. Yet his hands never linger; they never stray. He kept his distance, even when his manner was most kind. It made her wonder if there was another woman he loved and took to his bed. Was he gentle with her too? Was he tender? Or unrestrained in the heat of passion? A sharp pang cut through Dany's heart and she peeled off her gloves rather nervously, as they strode together into the blacksmith's.
Around them, the men hammered and heaved, and shoveled and honed. The blacksmith was already awaiting their visit. On a table before the massively muscled man, lay an array of blades, glossy from polishing. Jon paused before the spread, picked up a sword, and weighed it in his hands.
"Lighter," he said to the blacksmith, who watched him with keen blue eyes. Another sword followed, then a dagger, Jon weighing them as well. "Our men are bearing enough weight with the armor," the king pointed out. "We need lighter weapons."
The blacksmith's eyes narrowed slightly and he picked up the sword Jon had set down. He weighed it too and cocked his head, studying it. "I could shave off some weight from the hilt," his rough voice cut through the hammers. "It won't take long," he added walking back into the maze of fire and molten ore.
The strike and clang of metal on metal was the only sound as Dany picked up one of the daggers herself. Jon eyed her curiosely, then set down his blade. Slowly, he moved around the table and positioned himself behind her. "You must hold it like this," he whispered, closing his hand over hers, folding her fingers more tightly around the hilt. "And move your weight to your front foot. Now, here," he added, turning her around and pressing the dagger's point just under his breastbone, "Here is where you strike." His face was set, determined. "Up and in, as hard as you can." Their eyes locked. "It'll go straight into the heart."
Dany went very still and her eyes dropped on their joined hands. Her mouth was dry. She could feel the pressure of his fingers and the rough scrape of his glove. They were spreading a fever inside. Gods, how she wanted him to touch her - with his hands and his mouth, like he'd done during their wedding night. And she wanted to touch him too. She wanted to taunt him and tease him and drive him mad with desire, until he ached for her. Suddenly, her eyes went back to his. What would he think of this? Him, a northerner raised at Winterfell ... Somber and stern and honorable.
Jon tensed with awareness the moment she looked up again. She was gazing at him, steadily, her eyes bright and wide. It was as if she enjoyed it. As if she found him handsome or interesting, or maybe even both. Slowly, her soft scent wafted through the air, and he had to fight the sudden urge to inhale. She always smelled good. Sweet and warm, even in the dead of winter. Unconsciously his body leaned towards her. She stood so close now, lips slightly parted for air... Beckoning. He could almost, almost—
"They should be lighter now." The blacksmith's voice rang out suddenly, and both king and queen nearly jumped away from each other. The bulky man stood with a set of blades in his powerful arms, frowning awkwardly at the scene.
"Beg pardon, your Graces," he mumbled, "Should I retur—"
"No." Jon and Dany answered at once. The crease in the blacksmith's brow grew deeper, his gaze shifting between the two.
"Let's see the blades," said Jon, trying to clear the tension in the air.
Winterfell
A cold wind rustled over the land and up the fortress' stone walls. Sansa Stark stood high on the ramparts, gripping the frozen stone of the parapet with thin, long fingers. Each day she would come up and stand for hours, looking out over the open fields, awaiting, straight and still just like a marble statue.
She's grown cold like marble too, Tyrion thought as he watched. The years of cruelty and abuse had left their mark. You could see it in her aloofness, in the inner stillness she possessed. Wounded so many times, her young heart had hardened with scar tissue. It was why Tyrion felt a sort of shame in realizing that suffering had also given a greater luster to her beauty. It had deepened her, sharpened her somehow. Sansa was like a cold, clear-cut diamond.
"My lord." She greeted without turning around. "Are you going to say something, or just stand there, looking at me?"
Shaking his head and moving forward, Tyrion replied, "I received words from the Wall. Their Highnesses are extending their stay." He stopped near the parapet too and continued in a lighter tone. "Were it not for the circumstances and setting, it could be a honeymoon." As he finished the sentence, a crooked grin began to spread on his face. Sansa turned and smiled mildly, acknowledging the insinuation. "It is my hope too, that they grow fond each other."
"Oh, I'm sure they will." Tyrion's grin got wider, "Unlike what some would claim, I think they the King and Queen complement each other rather nicely. They both have high moral standards," he explained, "but while she is overemotional and prone to rash judgements, he expresses little emotion, but plans very well, very logically."
"Yes," Sansa agreed. "My brother has a good head." An unusual pause followed. "He has a good heart too," she added, and something in her voice alerted Tyrion. She's heard about the way Daenerys dices with men's hearts, he realized. But was the girl worried for her brother's happiness, or for the fate of a northern kingdom ruled a love-struck king?
"They both have good hearts," he tried to conciliate. "It is precisely why their union will work."
Sansa remained silent and turned away again, looking out into the distance. There was a sharpness in her gaze, in her whole bearing when she spoke. "Jon is the only family I have left. I won't let anything hurt him."
This time, the warning was clear. The girl who lived off dreams and romance was gone. The fearful child had grown. Strong. How else? Had she been weak, she would have perished in King's Landing or under Ramsey's hands. Instead, she'd survived, mourned the death of her parents, the loss of her siblings, of her innocence. His mismatched eyes watched her, memorizing the long willowy gait, the way her auburn hair floated in fiery strands, strayed by wind.
Sweet, young, Sansa. If someone could manage to break through your cold exterior, would they ever find softness? Or is it too late?
Castle Black
The noise of squealing hinges woke Jon from a fitful sleep. His candle was almost gone. Less than an inch jutted from a pool of warm melted wax, casting a soft light into the room. Maps covered his table, and letters, and drafted orders. He'd been up half the night poring over them before falling asleep.
As the door creaked open he sighed. It was past midnight. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he got up, expecting to see Davos or Tormund, but as the door finished opening, neither of the men entered. Instead, before him, clothed only in a sleeping gown, stood his wife. She didn't speak, nor move and Jon stepped forward the better to see her. She stood quite still, eyes large and teary as if she were about to cry, and for Jon it was simply awful to see that sadness on her face.
"Daenerys?" he asked, getting closer. "What is it?"
Her shoulders rose and fell with a faint sob and then tears began to run down her face. Jon opened his arms. At once, she pressed herself against him, her body small and soft. He hugged her close, enfolding her, then ran his gloved fingers through her hair. "What is it?" he whispered again, but this time it wasn't a question. It was more a reassuring caress of words. He could feel her heart beating, her breath catching. The protective feeling aroused in him was quickly mixing with desire.
"I had a dream," she confessed fighting to pull herself together. "A battle. Icy swords storming around, blinding with their brightness. I heard the clash of steel and smelled the blood ... the rotting corpses. They were all around us. And you..." Her voice broke into a sob, "You were dead, Jon." Now she was crying again, face buried in his chest. "You'd died alone, far away, and we'd had so little time together," she wailed. "Too little time.."
Unable to say anything, Jon simply held her until her breathing slowed. Then, like having a revelation, she looked up and moved into kissing him - slowly, gently, as if she didn't want to do it against his will.
At first, Jon's entire body tensed. He ought to stop her. His mind knew it was the sensible thing to do. But no other part of him cared about what was sensible. One by one, each of his muscles relaxed and his mouth opened beneath the pressure of her lips. She felt fluid and pliant against him, stretching upward to twine her arms around his neck. Unbidden, his hands slid up her spine, knotted in her hair, and in a flash the kiss stopped being gentle and became fierce. Like tinder flaring into a blaze.
He kissed her, feeding on the taste of her lips, of her mouth. With his gloved hands he stroked her neck, her cheek, and Dany whimpered. She was desperate to feel him, desperate. Urgently she pulled off the gloves and pressed his hand directly to her face - strong and warm against her tear-wet skin. Eyes closed, Dany turned her cheek and kissed his opened palm.
A flare of heat coursed through Jon at the contact. Her lips were hot and moist and he needed to taste them again. Angling her mouth he kissed her. Deeper. Harder. He kissed her long and fervently, until she shuddered with need. Then, he bent and picked her up.
He carried her across the room and into his bedchambers, and there they tumbled down onto the bed. She could feel the resistance of his muscles underneath the clothes, the feverish heat that came off his body. It was wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Her hands tugged and pulled at the clothes, but these were clumsy, half-successful gestures. A soft cry came out of her and Jon understood her pain. He felt it also, the burning need to feel her naked against him. In a rage of impatience he ripped her nightgown, tore it open all the way down and then — they were one.
She arched and wrapped around him with a moan and maybe he cried out too. He didn't know. All thoughts were blown away as they took each other. Her fragile form, her tender bruisable flesh—it only incited him. Drove him mad. No imagined act he had ever committed in his secret dreams had ever been more feral than this.
He was losing control and Dany found herself reveling in it. She was writhing under him, panting and gasping, urging him on. Her hands were on his hips, her body meeting his movements with an increasing intensity. Yes, yes! The sweetest tension was coiling inside her. Tighter, tighter. She was so close now, so close, almost—
With a sharp cry she arched off the bed and Jon covered her mouth with his. He kissed her, feeling her body clench and shudder, spilling inside her with a low sound of pleasure. And only after everything he had, everything he was, was spent within her, did they finally fall apart into the sheets.
Far North
The grayness of the day was fading to black. Shadows began to steal between the trees, the long fingers of the dusk. Dark came earlier. Each day seemed shorter than the last, and where the days were cold, the nights were bitter cruel.
Meera Reed sat with her back against a tree, sharpening her dagger on a whetstone. Beside her, Bran closed his eyes. It was too cold to talk and they dare not light a fire. Who knew what the light might summon from the darkness. Bran felt tired and burdened, but for all his tiredness sleep would not come. Instead there came the doubts.
"We shouldn't have crossed" said Bran, his voice hushed and strange. "Whatever spells kept the White Walkers at bay were voided by my passing. We shouldn't hav—"
"Don't!" Meera snapped. Her lips were blue, her cheeks red with the cold. Bran's own face had gone numb. "Don't torture yourself with thoughts like that!" Seeing the sadness on his face she adjusted her voice to a softer tone. "They would have crossed anyway... It was just a matter of time, Bran. This way, you can warn them. Give them a chance. Your brother..." she faltered, realizing the mistake, then went on regardless, "Your brother needs to learn the truth."
Jon. The image of an young Eddard Stark flashed in Bran's mind "…let them grow up close as brothers, with only love between them..." Jon. Kindhearted Jon. Raised a bastard, an outsider, when he should have been—
Bran's heart ached in realization of how much had been sacrificed. All the things his father did, all the lies he told to hide the truth.
"Yes," he whispered bitterly, "Jon needs to know. He must embrace his legacy, reunite with his own blood. Otherwise we fail."
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Until next time,
XoXo Roheline
