Frostfyre

by Xebecs

The ice dragon

11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Secrets in Moonlight

Summary:

Ned Stark takes a leap of faith and conspires with Varys. Robb and Grey Wind meet an unexpected guest outside of Winterfell's walls. Jon takes to the streets of Braavos to train against the famed Water Dancers.

Beneath the moonlight of the city, Dany and Jon take a big step forward in their relationship.

Notes:

Not quite smut yet, but it's the last part of the chapter if that's not your thing.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Secrets in Moonlight

Eddard Stark had no idea what Varys wanted from him when the Spider requested a meeting. He'd been in a daze for the past week.

Robert was dead. Cersei's bastard son—and Joffrey was a bastard, he was certain—sat on the Iron Throne, and if that wasn't bad enough, he had another Greyjoy rebellion kicking off in the north. To make things even worse, Euron was after Jon, and he possessed a tool that might be able to control Frostfyre.

Nothing was more horrifying than the idea of Euron fucking Greyjoy being in possession of a fully grown dragon.

What was he supposed to do? They couldn't have Joffrey on the throne if he was illegitimate. The Iron Throne would therefore belong to Stannis Baratheon, Robert's younger brother, and Ned was more confident in his ability to rule than the boy-King who was quickly becoming drunk on his newfound power.

But Euron had declared himself King of the Isles and the North. His domain! Robb had been doing a good job running Winterfell in his father's absence, but he wasn't ready to lead a war, much less against the Crow's Eye. And Theon—gods, what was the boy thinking now? Was he eager to rebel? Or was he as afraid as everyone else now that his father was dead and his uncle was preparing for war?

He needed to be in Winterfell.

He needed to do his duty as Hand of the King.

Eddard stirred as a quiet knock sounded on his office door, and then Varys was slipping into the room. He locked the door behind him and then strode to the large desk, sitting across from Ned. For a time, they sat in silence.

"My condolences on the loss of your friend, Lord Stark," Varys began quietly. "I know you and Robert were fostered together."

"Aye," he replied slowly. "He should have been more careful, but Robert was always…too stubborn. He had not been healthy for some time."

"No," Varys agreed. He was quiet again for a few moments. His voice fell to a hush. "You are on the trail of a very dangerous secret, My Lord."

"Which one? This place is a tangled nest of secrets."

"You know which one. The King's children are not what they seem."

Ned stilled. "You know."

"I do. I have known for quite some time."

"You did nothing?"

"Without proof? With the risk of Cersei's father holding a sword over the neck of anyone who made such accusations? I need something concrete. Whispers and words are not enough, short of Cersei or Ser Jaime openly admitted to it. You know this. It is why you've been seeking out Robert's bastard children."

"Have you been following me?"

"My birds are everywhere, Lord Stark. When something happens in King's Landing, expect that I often know of it before anyone else."

"Joffrey cannot sit on the throne. He has no claim."

"No, he cannot. And no, he doesn't. But you cannot remove him now."

"Why not? He's dangerous—surely you see that!"

"You forget that I was the Master of Whispers during the reign of Aerys," Varys reminded him, his face ashen. "I know well what Joffrey will lead us to. He is cruel and arrogant in nature. He will lead the realm to ruin if he stays on the Iron Throne."

"Then why leave him there?"

"Announcing his bastardy to the realm will trigger rebellion after rebellion. We cannot afford to plunge all of Westeros into war—Euron's rebellion is already bad enough as it is. And we have no one we can replace Joffrey with that will improve our current situation."

"Stannis—"

"Stannis' claim is worth nothing without proof of Joffrey's bastardy, as well as Tommen's and Myrcella's," Varys reminded him. "As far as the realm knows, they are Robert's true born children. And you know the moment someone claims that the children were borne of incest between Cersei and Ser Jaime, Tywin will fly into a rage. He will do everything in his power to crush such rumors. Beyond that, no one would believe Jaime would abandon his children for the Dragon King. There is not enough evidence to remove them peacefully."

"Then we are meant to sit on the sidelines and do nothing? Support a bastard who has no claim to the throne, a bastard who might ruin the realm with his cruelty?"

"Not nothing. We can prepare. Act quietly in the shadows. I know you dislike such things, but Joffrey will not be a good ruler. Before long, he will sow the seeds of his own destruction. He is already not particularly endeared by the realm."

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you suggest I do?"

"Return to Winterfell."

His gaze jerked back up to the Spider, who had a crease between his brow. "Why? If I'm here, I might be able to mitigate some of the damage Joffrey will do."

"Cersei knows you are on the trail of her children's parentage," Varys told him quietly, and Ned's grew still. "She has her own spies. She knows, and she is no ally of yours. With Robert no longer here to protect you, it is only a matter of time before she moves to remove you permanently."

"The North would revolt if another Stark was murdered in King's Landing."

"She has Tywin's backing and more importantly, both of your daughters are here."

He understood immediately, gut clenching at the thought of Sansa and Arya at the Lannister's nonexistent mercy. "Hostages."

"They will neuter your Northmen," Varys said. "Your Kingdom will not win that fight, Lord Stark. You know this. Not with Euron already laying his eye on the North. You need to be in Winterfell to deal with him. You cannot die here and leave your son to deal with all of that. I have heard that he is a promising young man, but he is too inexperienced to handle a Kingdom in revolt as well as two wars."

Ned hated to admit it, but Varys was right. The North on its own simply wasn't enough to conquer the Kingdoms to the south. Robb would be overwhelmed and…well, that was really all he needed, wasn't it? His son needed him back home to help guide him through this disaster.

"I will resign then," he decided. "And leave as soon as possible."

"Not publicly," Varys urged. "Do not resign publicly. Losing your position as Hand will only give Cersei more room to have you killed."

"Then what—"

"With your permission, I can see to it that you and your daughters are smuggled out of King's Landing on a ship to White Harbor," the Spider murmured. "You may be familiar with Ser Davos Seaworth? He assisted Stannis Baratheon at the siege of Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion."

"You would have me slink out of King's Landing as a coward?"

"I would have you return home with your life intact," Varys corrected sharply, staring at Ned with surprising intensity. "You are one of the few men in the Seven Kingdoms who does not seek power for his own gain. You seek to make your home, your realm, a better place, and you are perhaps the only man in a strong position capable of doing that. You are Eddard Stark, and you mean something."

Ned's eyes narrowed. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You cannot. I know well what I am, Lord Stark. I am not the sort of man who should be trusted. But everything I do, I do for the good of the realm. To ensure its people can rest easy and look forward to good, prosperous lives, if not now then in a better future. If you must trust one thing about me, trust in that."

"…You understand that is not much for me to go on. You ask me to place much faith in you, and your arguments encouraging me to leave are sound, but you do not give me good reason to put my life and the lives of my daughters in your hands."

"I know," Varys pursed his lips for some time. He seemed to be considering something, and Ned waited to see what the Spider would say next.

"The Dragon King is in Braavos."

Ned raised an eyebrow. "You have not reported such to the Small Council."

"There is much about your nephew that I have kept quiet."

His blood froze. "What are you talking about?"

"You are better at lying than I previously assumed, Lord Stark, but Aegon Targaryen's northern traits stand out too much," Varys murmured. "The boy looks nothing like Elia Martell's son did, despite his clear Targaryen descent with the dragon at his side. When he executed Viserys, he spoke a phrase I know to be words of your House. 'He who passes the sentence should swing the sword', I believe the saying is."

Eddard said nothing. Varys continued, his voice quiet. "It wasn't hard to put the pieces together after I heard those things. You returned from Robert's Rebellion with the body of your sister, Lyanna, and a baby boy. You took him as your bastard son, did you not? You are one of the most honorable men I know, and I find it nigh impossible to believe you would betray your wife so soon after you were wed. That child was the sole stain on your honor, but it was a superficial mark all along, wasn't it? You wanted to protect your sister's child."

Still, he said nothing, but his silence was damning enough. Varys was picking the truth apart.

"He's Rhaegar's last surviving child, isn't he?"

Ned slowly, almost imperceptibly nodded. What could he say to all of that? Any denials he could come up with would not hold to Varys, not when the evidence was in his face.

"Why keep this from the Small Council?" Ned demanded quietly.

"Because you would have been killed. Your whole family would have been persecuted for hiding that boy. Even Robert's friendship with you would not have spared you from such a fate."

"What will you do with the information?"

"Nothing," Varys answered. "The time is not right. His parentage must be kept secret. But…if I have figured it out, others will do the same in time. You might have passed the boy off easily as a Stark before, but now that he's emerged as a Targaryen, the truth will be realized quickly. I know Lord Baelish is already too curious of him for my liking."

"What threat is Baelish?"

"That," Varys said sharply, startling Ned. "Is exactly what he wants you to think of him. Say what you will about me, Lord Stark, but I know Lord Baelish and this is the truth: Littlefinger is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros. Do not trust him. He is already fixated on your family."

"For what purpose?"

"He loves your wife—obsesses over her. He has since he was a boy. You remember he challenged your older brother for her hand, do you not? He has never let that go. He's been keeping tabs on Sansa already. I suspect he will approach her as soon as he is able to do so."

Ned was reeling. "Every time I think this nest of vipers couldn't grow any worse, I realize it is yet more poisonous than I feared."

"The Red Keep is where honest men go to die," Varys admitted grimly.

He was backed into a corner, Ned realized. The noose was tightening around his neck, tighter than he'd known.

He looked up at a man he found to be dishonorable, untrustworthy, and unlikable.

"What would you have me do?"

"As I said before, I will smuggle you out of King's Landing with help from Ser Davos," Varys explained. "Once you are in White Harbor, you will be safe to ride to Winterfell undeterred. If you write a letter of resignation as Hand of the King, stating that you feel your home needs you now because of the Greyjoy rebellion, I can set false trails suggesting you have taken the King's Road. It will buy you time. But you are needed in the North, alive and whole."

"What will you do?"

"What I have always done. I am the Master of Whispers. I will spread the songs of my birds as is needed. The Game of Thrones is more perilous than ever."

Ned set his jaw. "And Aegon?"

"With Robert gone and Euron in revolt, I suspect the hunt for his head will lighten, but I will endeavor to keep him one step ahead of any assassins," Varys said. "If you have raised that boy to be half the man you are, Lord Stark, then in a few years…he might be the perfect candidate to put on the Iron Throne. Daenerys would have to legitimize him once the truth of his parentage gets out, but he would be accepted under the right circumstances."

"…He is not illegitimate."

"Excuse me?"

"Rhaegar married Lyanna," Ned confessed. Varys' eyes widened. "She told me. Aegon is his true born son."

The Spider sucked in a sharp breath. "Do you have physical proof of their union?"

"I do not," he admitted.

Varys pursed his lips. "I knew Rhaegar. He would not have done such a thing carelessly…There must be a record of their marriage somewhere. I will seek it out as discreetly as possible. We will need it."

"I do not know if Aegon even desires to be on the Iron Throne. He does not seek power."

"I have not met him, but he already sounds like an improvement over the three Kings I have served in my lifetime, Lord Stark. But that is a matter some years ahead. For now…for now, let us try to keep your family and the boy alive. The world is about to plunge into madness."

Ned's heart was pounding. He could already feel that tension in his body, the dread of knowing these coming years would see the deaths of many men who loved life.

"I will write my letter of resignation," Ned said at last. "And I will leave it here, on this desk, when the time comes. When do you intend to help us escape?"

"Tomorrow night."

"So soon?"

"You do not understand how close you are to death. Any later and your head might be removed. Pack only what you need with your daughters. Do so discreetly—let no one know of your plans to leave. Business as usual."

Varys removed a piece of paper from within his robes and slid it across the desk to Ned. "You will meet Ser Davos at the Mud Gate. Follow these instructions. Throw this into the sea as soon as you meet him. If you want me to keep the vultures off your and Aegon's trail, I must be alive to continue doing so."

The Spider watched as he read the parchment over. "This will be the last we see of each other for some time, My Lord."

Ned nodded slowly. "If you speak truly, then I thank you. But I do not trust you."

"Good. Keep it that way."

Varys made a bow, then turned and exited the office. Ned leaned back in his chair, rubbed his face, and prayed that he hadn't just made a terrible mistake.

Something was going on.

Arya could tell. Her father was tense—more so than normal, though he tried to hide it. Ghost seemed anxious, and it was rubbing off on Lady and Nymeria, as though they sensed something was wrong. She had learned quickly to trust the instincts of the dire wolves, even if they were young.

That evening, when their father would normally be finishing his work for the day, he showed up at her door.

Ned stepped into her room with Ghost at his heel. "Come on. We're going on a walk through the city."

Arya blinked. "Really?"

"Really," he tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Bring Nymeria with you. You have your dagger?"

She grinned, reaching to her bedside table to grab the sheathed weapon. With a quick flip, she caught it with practiced ease. "Always."

His smile seemed more genuine then. "Come."

They stopped by Sansa's room next. She frowned at their intrusion.

"Father, I was about to prepare myself for dinner," she told him.

"We're going to take a walk first," he said.

"But—"

"No buts," Ned shut her down firmly. "Bring Lady."

Sansa huffed, but did as she was told.

With the wolves in tow, yipping playfully at each other, Arya could have believed that her father just wanted to spend time with his daughters—something he didn't get to do often these days. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was strange about her father.

"Ah, Lord Stark! What a pleasant surprise!"

Ned stopped in his tracks as Petyr Baelish turned a corner some distance ahead of them and approached with a wide smile on his face. The wolves stopped as well, watching him carefully. Arya narrowed her eyes.

She didn't like Baelish. There was just something about this man…

"Lord Baelish," Ned replied gruffly.

"And young Lady Arya," Petyr dipped his head to her and she only raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by him. Her disdain only grew when he beamed at her sister. "And the lovely Lady Sansa."

Sansa reddened prettily at the compliment and Arya resisted the urge to gag. Gods, her sister was hopeless. Petyr stepped forward to offer his hand to her, as Arya had seen him do for other ladies in the Red Keep, but he was stopped when all three dire wolves curled their lips and snarled aggressively.

"Lady! Stop that!" Sansa chastised. Her partner utterly ignored her. Lady obviously had more sense than her master, Arya thought.

Baelish pulled back, eyeing the wolves warily. "Lord Stark, have you considered putting chains on them?"

"The symbols of my House are not slaves to be caged and mocked," Ned retorted. "They are loyal to us. And they are great judges of character, I have noticed."

"On that we will have to agree to disagree," Petyr decided. "Where are you off to at such an hour?"

"I thought I would enjoy some rare time alone with my daughters to explore the city. I do not wish to neglect them, despite my duties."

"King's Landing can be a dangerous place to wander in the dark, Lord Hand," Petyr warned, looking worried for them. Arya felt something in her gut curl, and she had to resist the urge to encourage Nymeria's aggression.

"It's a good thing I have my sword, then," Ned set his hand on the hilt of Ice. "And better still that we have our wolves. I think we will be well-guarded. In any case, we will not be long. I am weary from my work, and would rest soon."

"Of course. Being Hand in such circumstances must be quite busy," Petyr said sympathetically. He bowed lowly, winking at Sansa. "Well, in that case, I do not wish to intrude any longer on your family time. Until next we meet, my Lord and Ladies."

He slipped away then down another corridor. Ned's hand did not leave the hilt of Ice until he was gone completely.

"Come, girls."

They left the Red Keep and headed south, following the wall of the city borders. The wolves took up positions around them, following some unspoken cue. Ghost trailed at the back, Lady on Sansa's flank, and Nymeria at the front.

Ned spoke to them, asking about their day and what they'd been up to. How their studies had progressed. Typical questions. And yet…Arya still couldn't shake that feeling of tension in the air.

They walked for quite some time and darkness was falling over the city, save the numerous lamps lighting the street, but the closer they got to the eastern wall of the city, the darker it became.

Sansa finally stopped, frowning. "Father, where are we going?"

"We are walking," he answered, putting a hand on her back and encouraging her to keep going.

"I am tired…there will be no hot food left if we do not return soon."

"That is not something we need concern ourselves with, Sansa."

Her sister huffed and Arya wanted to roll her eyes. She really couldn't tell that something was wrong, could she? The wolves had stopped playing altogether.

They reached one of the city gates, not yet closed, and a man slipped around it from the outside. She heard her father let out a quiet breath.

The man had a short, trimmed beard of graying hair and a mostly bald head. He was dressed in good clothes, although they weren't the clothes of a nobleman. When he spoke, it was with a Flea-Bottom accent.

"Lord Stark," the man spoke, gruff and quiet. "You made it."

"Aye. Are we ready?"

"We are."

"Ready for what? Who is this?" Sansa asked with a frown.

"No time to explain," Ned told her. "Come."

"Father! Tell me what—"

"Sansa, now is not the time."

His voice had a rare edge that shut Sansa up immediately. Their father only spoke like that to them when he was serious about something or holding his anger back. All of his children knew to silence themselves when Eddard Stark took that tone, for he so rarely put it to use.

They slipped out the Mud Gate and made their way to the shore of the river, where a pair of small boats were waiting for them. Davos took one with Arya, Nymeria, and Ghost, while Eddard took the other with Sansa and Lady.

As soon as they were on the water, Sansa glared at her father, unimpressed with this surprise. "Where are we going?"

"We are going to Ser Davos' ship," Ned answered. "And we are sailing to White Harbor."

"What?!"

She was sitting in front of her father and in an unheard-of move, Ned's hand thrust out and clamped around Sansa's mouth. His daughter watched him with huge eyes, and even Arya froze, breathless. The boats were close together, and it was not lost on her that the wolves were dead silent. Lady didn't even growl at Ned's action towards her master. Davos glanced up and down the banks warily in case someone heard Sansa's outburst.

"You will listen to me and not speak a word," Ned told his oldest daughter, voice quiet and severe. "I am your father, and this city is not safe for us any longer. If we stay, the Queen Regent will find an excuse to execute me and the two of you will be prisoners of the Lannisters. Your mother and brother are at home with the threat of the Greyjoys bearing down on them, and they need us. We. Are. Leaving."

He released Sansa after a moment, and she just stared at him, pale and shaken. Ned pulled a piece of paper from a pocket in his coat, tossed it into the river, and continued to paddle the boat towards Blackwater Bay with Ser Davos.

Robb was awoken by a whine from Grey Wind.

He frowned, looking up at the dire wolf whom had just leapt onto his bed, tail wagging and whining urgently. The boy lifted his hand to the wolf, touching him reassuringly, and yet Grey Wind did not settle.

"Easy," he hushed the wolf. Grey Wind licked his face and then leapt from the bed, padding to the door. He looked back to his master, whining again.

Robb climbed out of bed, took his coat from the dresser nearby, and opened the door so his wolf could go. Grey Wind kept glancing back at him, convincing Robb that he was meant to follow. He grabbed his boots and quickly donned them—Grey Wind was normally a patient companion, but he seemed unsettled by something. Excited.

The young Lord of Winterfell followed his wolf out of the castle interior and into the courtyard. Grey Wind led him to the gate, where his guards stood at attention when they recognized him.

"M'Lord," they said gruffly.

"Lads," Robb dipped his head to them. "Anything to report?"

"Nothing, M'Lord," one of the guards shook his head. "Oddly quiet out there, though. Seems even the wind has stopped its wailing."

"Hmm," Robb glanced at Grey Wind, who scratched at the gate with a paw, then glanced up at him. "Open the gates."

They did as he ordered, giving Robb a look of the world outside Winterfell's keep. Grey Wind padded out, but he didn't go far. He stopped some five paces outside the walls, and Robb followed him. His guards stood protectively behind their young Lord.

Grey Wind sniffed the air, the ground, and then he lifted his head and howled, long and low. Robb tilted his head, curious of the behavior. Grey Wind usually only howled as such when he was with his littermates.

He froze as he heard an answering howl, but not one he recognized. It was deep, strong, and belied a beast far larger than his companion. Robb stared out into the tree line some distance away and watched as a shadow slipped from the foliage.

"Wha's that?" One of the guards asked nervously. "A horse?"

"Do not move," Robb ordered them, watching Grey Wind's behavior carefully. His companion's tail wagged yet more furiously than before. "Do not even speak."

He heard them gripping their spears tightly behind him and Robb didn't blame them. The shadow loping towards them was as large as a horse, yes, but it was moving all wrong. The head was held low, the tail longer and more nimble. As it grew closer, he could see the shoulders rolling in a way he recognized in only one kind of beast.

From the depths of the gloom, a pair of gleaming yellow eyes locked onto them. He heard soft footfalls, unnervingly quiet for so large a creature. It slowed its gait as it neared them, and then he saw the beast in-full.

It was a dire wolf—fully grown, black as night, and bigger than he could have ever imagined. The beast stood at eye-level with Robb, and yet if it held its head higher, he thought it might be taller than him. But its muzzle was lowered to meet Grey Wind, who yipped and suddenly ran to the beast.

The huge wolf's tail wagged lazily in comparison to its smaller kin, but it seemed pleased by the sight of Grey Wind. Robb's wolf greeted the giant with a frenzy of licks to its muzzle. It made a low growl and he watched Grey Wind fall to his side and roll onto his belly—a show of submission.

Satisfied with that, the larger wolf rubbed itself against Grey Wind in a show of affection. It twisted as Grey Wind leapt to his feet and ran around the giant, and Robb wondered on it before realization struck him.

They'd only ever found the dead mother in the woods. They never had seen any sign of the litter's father.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the huge wolf stopped playing with Grey Wind and approached him. His guards shifted and the beast snarled at them, loosing a fierce growl that made Robb's spine crawl. It was the sound of the greatest natural predator the North had ever known.

"Stand down," he ordered the guards. "He means us no harm."

"But—"

"Stand down."

They did not question him again.

The black beast padded up to him slowly, even as Grey Wind ran back to Robb and sat loyally at his side. The wolf studied Grey Wind for a moment before it returned its attention to Robb.

He slowly lifted a hand, wary, but unafraid of the piercing yellow eyes. If this wolf wanted him dead, he'd be dead. And Grey Wind would never have brought him out here if the giant male meant them harm.

The wolf sniffed his offered hand, then lifted its muzzle to brush the wet nose against Robb's forehead and hair, still sniffing. He stayed still, patient and calm as he could manage. There was a thrill in his blood, but he did not show fear.

Never fear.

The wolf pulled back after a few moments, and the gleam in its eyes showed it was more intelligent than a common beast. Like Grey Wind, it recognized the bond the Starks held with its species.

The blood of the North ran in Robb's veins as much as it did the wolf's.

Seemingly satisfied with the boy, the wolf looked back down at Grey Wind, rumbling deep in its throat. Grey Wind yipped, lifted his head to lick at the muzzle of the huge male in response.

The wolf glanced at Robb one more time, turned, and then raced off southeast. With scarcely a sound, it was gone.

Robb let out a long breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Gods save me," one of his guards finally gasped.

"Where'd it go M'Lord?" The other asked hesitantly.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, kneeling to pet Grey Wind. "I suppose we'll find out when he comes back."

And the wolf would come back, he knew. It had left Grey Wind in charge of the pack—or at least, that's how it seemed to Robb. But it had every intention of returning to its pups.

"I think we've had enough excitement for tonight," Robb decided. "Back inside. Close the gates."

Jon had to admit this was probably one of his riskier endeavors, even though it had merit.

Now that they were more or less settled into Braavos, he wanted to ensure he kept his training up. Jorah was a good sparring partner, but there were problems with dueling the same man over and over again; namely, that he wouldn't get any experience with other fighters.

He knew Jorah's tricks inside and out now. He needed to be able to fight someone else.

"Your Grace, I do not think this is wise," the Knight told him.

"You're probably right," Jon admitted, feeling nervous himself.

This had actually been Dany's idea. Having grown up in Braavos, she knew the city and its people better than any of them. When Jon had talked to Jorah about the problems of constantly sparring with the same partner, she'd had a suggestion.

The Braavosi had an interesting, unspoken tradition when night fell: anyone wearing a sword could be challenged to a fight, usually to display their skills. Such men were more commonly known as bravos. They were lovers of sword fighting, and many of them congregated in the night at the Moon Pool, close to the Iron Bank.

"As long as you don't start talking about courtesans, you should be fine," she told him. "Most of the swordsmen here just enjoy a good fight. They don't kill each other unless they have a serious quarrel with one another."

"It's still risky," Jorah admonished.

"I need to learn, Ser Jorah," Jon told him. "Until Daenerys can fight properly, you and I are the only ones keeping them safe. If I do not train with other swordsmen, I will become stagnant."

"And if any of them try to kill you?"

"Then it's a good thing I'm not carrying a sparring sword tonight."

Jorah's lips thinned. "As you wish, Your Grace."

He knew Jorah didn't approve, and Jon agreed that it was a risk. But it was a calculated risk. Not all of these swordsmen would be assassins, and he doubted they would recognize him. But Dany was more noticeable, so she donned a dark cloak with a hood to cover her more prominent Targaryen features.

They needed more guards beyond Ser Jorah, but they had to make do with what they had at the moment.

Dany and Jorah stood a short distance away, at the edge of the Moon Pool, as Jon stalked out into the open square on his own. It was a huge space, with people bustling around. Musicians and bards were playing and singing, bringing the city to life even in the dark of night.

Jon's hand was resting openly on the handle of his bastard sword, and it wasn't long before a Braavosi man took notice of him. He had a sword as well, long and thinner than Jon's, but when he unsheathed the blade it was done so with an expert flourish.

"You look eager, boy," the man spoke in Valyrian, smiling. "Care to test your skills?"

Jon grinned and unsheathed his sword. "Gladly. I've never dueled a bravos before."

"You are of Westeros, aren't you? Your accent is clear," he chuckled.

"Aye. What are the rules? I confess, I am new to the traditions of your city."

"First to yield. Some aim for first blood, but I long only for a good fight."

"As do I," Jon agreed, settling himself into his usual fighting stance.

People were already clearing away from them, some watching with interest. Jon and the Braavosi man circled each other, and then the swordsman lunged in a flurry of motion.

He was fast, Jon realized, barely blocking the first few jabs from the thin blade. It was so much different than any fighting style he'd encountered—based entirely on speed rather than power. Jon wasn't slow by any means, but the light, thin sword was difficult to keep up with.

He parried what strikes he could, giving ground and only forcing the other swordsman back with a powerful swing. The bravos was undeterred, light on his feet and unafraid. Jon watched him carefully as his blood thrummed, eager for the thrill of the fight. The music around them rose into a frenzied pace.

Jon went on the offense now, rushing in and stabbing once, then moving into a series of complex moves meant to disorient a foe and put them on the defense. The Braavosi swordsman backed off, but he didn't appear to be overly perturbed by the attack.

The boy overextended and leapt to the side when the man's sword almost found its way to his throat. He barely avoided a loss by doing so, but was forced to back away in order to regain his footing as the swordsman pressed his own attack.

"You are good," the man complimented. "Slow, as most are from the West, but good."

"I have a lot to learn," he admitted, swatting the thin blade away from his body once again.

Jon yelped as the swordsman suddenly parried the end of his blade to the side and rushed into his guard, bringing the tip of his sword beneath his throat.

The man's eyes gleamed with amusement. Jon sighed, smirking. "I yield."

"A good fight," the bravos stepped away. Around them were some admiring cheers—the match seemed to be seen by the spectators as good sport. "But you do not look satisfied yet, my young friend."

"I plan on fighting a lot more before the night is up. Only way I can learn."

"You have spirit," he laughed, then turned around in a dramatic flourish. "Does anyone else wish to show our young Westerosi swordsman the beauty of a Water Dance?"

He was surprised when a few men stepped forward, all of them eager for a good fight. His first sparring partner laughed as they began to argue amongst themselves.

"You are going to be something of an interest for them, my friend," he said quietly to Jon. "Westerosi swordsmen do not often partake of our traditions here."

He scanned the swordsmen who were interested in a fight, of whom there were four. "I would like to duel them all."

"Ambitious of you. I did not ask—what is your name?"

"Jon," he answered. "And you?"

"Terro I am called."

Jon nodded, putting the name to memory, and stepped forth to confront the arguing bravos. They looked up at him as he approached.

"I do not care who fights me first," he told them. "But I wish to duel each of you."

Perhaps he sounded more audacious than he'd intended, but they all laughed and it seemed their conflict came to an end. Terro stepped to the side and called to one of the men. "Orbelo, why don't you try first?"

"First to yield?" The bravos prompted.

Jon flourished his sword, undeterred by the loss of his first match. "Aye. Shall we?"

Orbelo smirked, unsheathed his blade, and battle was joined.

In the end, Jon did better than he'd hoped.

He'd defeated Orbelo and the other bravos, quickly learning that to best them, he needed to move swift and rely less on sheer power. He dueled Terro again, but was defeated once more despite a much closer match.

By the time he was done, he was panting and covered in sweat, but he felt so alive. The thrill in his blood was a hot, eager pulse.

He sat down by the Moon Pool, not far from Dany and Jorah, who had been content to watch amidst the crowds. Terro sat next to him, grinning.

"You are a good duelist, my young friend," Terro praised. "Will you return to the Moon Pool for more fights?"

"Aye. It's been a while since I've had a good fight like that," he sucked in a breath, chest still heaving somewhat.

"I am here most nights," the bravos told him. "Meet me again whenever you so wish. Given more practice against our Water Dancers, you could find yourself with one of our famous courtesans before winter passes us by."

Jon flashed him a grin. "I'm flattered, but I am afraid I'm already spoken for."

Terro laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "I see. Is she a great beauty?"

"Aye," he admitted. "And I think I am keeping her waiting."

"There is nothing quite like a woman after a fight," Terro chuckled, standing up. He offered Jon his arm, which the boy accepted, and hauled him to his feet. He winked, his voice suggestive. "Enjoy the rest of the night with your love, my young friend."

If he blushed, it was lost beneath the flush of warmth already on his face from the fights. "And you."

He returned to Dany and Jorah in quite the fine mood.

"You did well, Your Grace," Jorah admitted, smiling at him for a moment before he became stern. "I hope you did not become too attached, however. Bravos aren't to be trusted."

"Terro will be a good sparring partner," Jon admitted, his voice quieting. "But aye, Dany's already told me about them. Most of the bravos are here to show off for courtesans of their liking."

"Indeed."

Dany's eyes were gleaming. "You made quite the show out there. They fight so much differently than you or Ser Jorah."

"It took me some time to figure out how to fight them," Jon agreed, locked onto the shining violets. "I think I will have to duel many more before I can defeat them consistently."

"I see. Shall we return home for the night, then?"

He nodded, but his eyes didn't leave hers. Jon leaned in, shifting her hood somewhat so he could kiss her. She hummed into his mouth, lifting a hand to hold his face.

Ser Jorah coughed and they broke apart, but the fire had been stoked between them. "Your Grace, we should go before someone else challenges you."

"Aye," he said, and very reluctantly pulled away from Dany. She took his hand after adjusting her hood again, and they slipped away from the Moon Pool to return home.

It felt like lightning was dancing on her skin. She and Jon periodically squeezed each others hands as they made their way to the house with the red door, exchanging short looks that belied the heat building up between them.

Watching him fight had brought the fire in her blood to a boil. She knew she was no match for a bravos yet, but it didn't stop her from wanting to join in. The dragon in her heart was snarling and excited. She had energy to burn, and she knew exactly how she wanted to handle it.

When they stepped into the house, Dany pulled Jon close to the fireplace, where the dragon eggs were still nested. Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah were likely already asleep—it was late, after all. Jorah locked the door and retired to his own room.

She removed her hood and leaned towards him, holding a finger to his lips when he moved to kiss her again. Jon blinked, watching her curiously. Dany shifted so her mouth was next to his ear.

"Bathe yourself and come to my room," she whispered. She felt him shiver and when she pulled back, his dark eyes were smoldering. "Be quick."

Dany released him and strode off to her room, leaving the door unlocked. She remained in her cloak, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her pulse was wild and it felt like ages passed before her door was opened.

Jon had changed into a thin tunic and breeches. His hair was still damp, droplets of water on his skin, and his eyes were black pits.

She stood up as he closed the door and walked to him, impatient and hungry. The door had barely closed before she took his face in her hands and kissed him roughly. Jon made a low sound in his throat and wrapped his arms around her waist, moving forward and causing her to backpedal towards the bed.

Dany pulled away from his mouth, moved her hood out of the way, and then grabbed his tunic near his belly. "Off."

Jon needed no further prompting. She watched eagerly as he almost tore it from his body, leaving his torso exposed for her eyes. Dany unclasped her cloak and tossed it aside after his tunic. She donned similar clothing to him, although she was still more covered—for the moment.

She didn't intend to remain so for long.

She was hungry for him. Her lips found his skin, bit at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Jon hissed, pulled back and then kissed her more fiercely still. He bit at her bottom lip and Dany gasped, running her hands up his stomach and chest and to the back of his neck, where she pulled and tugged at his damp, dark hair.

Dany felt the backs of her thighs touch the bed. Feeling bolder than ever, she placed her hands to Jon's chest, pushing him away a bit. Before he could speak, she reached down to her own tunic to pull it up and over her body, leaving the whole of her upper body exposed to his gaze.

His pupils were blown out, eyes wide as he took her in. "Fuck, Dany—"

She didn't want to talk. She pulled him back to her, kissing him hungrily. The feeling of his bare skin against hers was intoxicating. He held her hips, hands slipping to her back and all around wherever he could touch her. Her naked breasts were pressed close to his body. The sensation of her teats dragging against his chest made her gasp.

His fingers ran up and down her spine, making her shiver even though the heat forming between them was burning her alive. Heat pooled low in her belly as her legs hit the bed again, and then Jon's hands were sliding to her arse, squeezing and lifting her onto the mattress where he sat her down. She parted her legs and wrapped them behind him, tugging him against her with her knees.

Jon pulled away from her lips and kissed her cheek, her jaw, throat, down to her collar. He looked up at her briefly, panting and flushed, his eyes wild. Impatient, Dany brought her hands up to tangle in his dark locks and pushed his head down to her breast. He mouthed at her skin, unpracticed and sloppy, but she was too electrified to care. He gathered her up in his arms, holding her close. His teeth found her nipple and Dany let out a soft moan.

He pushed her gently onto her back to make it easier. She felt his hips grinding into her, felt the hard length of him beneath his breeches against her and shuddered. One of his hands found her untouched breast and squeezed, kneading at the soft mound. He put a little too much pressure onto her and she winced, making a low growl.

"Not so rough," she gasped, pulling his head up away from her breasts.

"Sorry," Jon sucked in a strangled breath and came back down to kiss her again. She swallowed his moans as he breathed hers in.

She could hardly blame him. He had no idea what he was doing—gods, neither did she for that matter, but she didn't care. There was only the heat, the feeling of their joined dragonfire pulsing white-hot in their veins, and the sensation of his skin against hers.

She curled her legs further around him and pulled him tighter against her body. Dany's fingers scratched at his scalp when he took her hips in his hands and made a jerky thrust against her, grinding against that searing pool between her legs.

Dany pushed at his chest, pushing him back further until he was standing before her again. She sat up and her fingers found the waistband of his breeches.

It was only now that she paused, a little nervous, and looked up at him. Jon swallowed hard, realizing what she was thinking.

"I…" Dany bit her lip. "We don't have to…"

"I want to," he whispered. "I want—I want to touch you."

She felt her whole body flush, warm and needy, and let go of his breeches. Jon blinked at her, then froze when Dany reached for her own clothes and slowly pushed them down until they pooled on the floor at her feet. She pressed her legs together self-consciously, shyly glancing up at his face as Jon stared at her.

He knelt before her, looking up at her eyes, and Dany shivered when he pressed a kiss to her knee. His hands reached for hers, intertwining their fingers and squeezing gently. She squeezed back in response, grounding herself with his touch. It helped her relax, to watch him and touch him as he slowly pressed kisses further up her leg.

He stopped before he went too far up and looked back at her face, eyes searching. "Is this alright?"

Dany nodded, pursing her lips when he kissed higher up her thigh. Her legs were still pressed together, but she started to part them as Jon stoked that flame in her belly once again. She let go of his hands and brought them back up to his head, running her fingers through his hair. Jon's hands found her hips and rubbed her skin soothingly.

Dany let out a sigh, shuddering when his mouth kissed the inside of her thigh, close to the juncture of her legs. She looked down at him, watching him edge closer to her most intimate parts. "What are you doing?"

Jon stopped and glanced at her face. "I want to kiss you."

Her lips twitched up into a breathless smile. "Haven't you been doing that?"

"I mean…I want to kiss you there."

Fuck.

Dany felt her mouth go dry. The arousal coursing through her grew more pronounced until the wetness between her thighs became too much to ignore. Jon waited for her reaction and did nothing until she made a tiny nod.

He gently pried her legs apart a little more and kissed low on her belly, dragged his lips further down. Dany whimpered and tugged at his hair in response. Her breath grew more ragged when his lips brushed against her there, and then his mouth found the wetness of her sex.

Dany fell back onto the bed, breasts heaving as she gasped for air. Jon's arms shifted around her, pulling her legs up so they were laying over his shoulders. It let him pull her closer so he could get to her more easily. She felt his tongue press flat to her womanhood, then pushed into her—

"Oh fuck, oh gods…" Dany made a strangled moan and slipped into her Valyrian mother tongue without even thinking about it. "Jon, what is this?"

He pulled away and she whined from the loss. His returning Valyrian was low and rough, and when she looked down at him, she could see his lips were shiny with her wetness. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, do not stop."

His eyes were black in the low light and he returned to lap at her wetness like a kitten with cream. Dany threw her head back and sounds she didn't even know she could make left her throat in a wordless song. She squirmed, legs clenching and hands grabbing at anything she could reach—his hair, her hair, the sheets…

She looked down at him and whimpered when she realized he was watching her. Her lover attended her dutifully, watching the way she reacted to every little thing he did to her. One of his hands shifted and she felt his fingers rub against her folds, rougher than his tongue and clumsy with his inexperience.

Dany reached down to his hand and took his fingers in hers, pulling them to that little bundle of nerves she had touched many a time before. "Like this…like—yes—"

Her breaths grew heavy and fast, the touch of his fingers and the way his tongue was sliding through her slick folds was just—

She couldn't—

Dany ground her hips against his face as she felt that coiled heat in her belly ripple tight, and then she threw her hands over her mouth because the release that ripped through her was too intense for her to stay silent. She screamed into her hands, spine arching off the bed and trying desperately to keep herself from waking up the house.

Her body shuddered with every breath. She was hot and soaked in sweat. Her legs quivered, she felt so perfectly sated…

Jon lifted himself up from between her legs and she let them slide from his shoulders, falling limply over the edge of the bed. Dany looked up at him with hooded eyes and reached for her lover.

"Come to me, love."

Jon hummed, pressing lazy kisses up her body as he climbed up onto the bed. Her muscles jumped under his touch as his lips danced over her belly, to both of her breasts and nipples, her collarbone, throat, and then finally her lips. She didn't care that she could taste herself on his tongue, for she was boneless, limp, and utterly relaxed.

He pulled both of them further onto the bed so their heads rested on the fluffy pillows. Jon nestled himself close to Dany's side, and she became aware of his own arousal pressing against her hip from inside of his breeches.

She pulled back from his lips and reached down for the waistband of his pants. Her fingers dipped past them, touching the skin above his manhood, and he breathed sharply.

"Yes?" Dany whispered for his permission, kissing his cheek. She wanted to bring him to his own release.

Jon just nodded and she pushed him onto his back, then let her hand push further down until her fingers brushed his cock. He made a low whine in his throat as she grasped him in her hand. She squeezed, not really certain how to go about this. Doreah had told her a little about this particular method of pleasuring a man, but she'd never done it before.

He reached down to join her hand with his and showed her how to stroke his manhood, the skin smooth and warm. She watched his face, mesmerized as his head fell back and his eyes fluttered closed. There was something exciting about watching Jon come undone, to see him in such a vulnerable state because of something she was doing to him.

He was panting, body quivering and arching, and it didn't take long before a strangled moan left him and Dany felt liquid heat cover their joined hands. Jon sank into the bed, gasping for air.

She sat up briefly to tug his breeches down and off, leaving him as naked as her. Dany wiped the mess of his seed from their hands on the clothing, then tossed it aside onto the floor. She couldn't bring herself to care about much else at the moment. She was tired and buzzing pleasantly.

Jon managed to pull the blankets over them and they snuggled close together, nearly purring with contentment. Dany pressed a loving kiss onto his shoulder as she curled into his side. Her heart was full, she was warm, and she was happy.

That was all she needed.