A/N: I was inspired to write this by a Kinktober prompt list. You can see how well that went when we're in November and I'm only just posting my first.

I've already got this exact fic started from Daenerys' POV, which is why I've deliberately left it light. But I've done a few 'First Time' fics for my main pairing so figured I'd try it for another. I fully intend to finish the Daenerys one which will cover all of the missing stuff.

This is set in the same universe as Veritas, Unitas, Caritas.

Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones.

Vivat Crescat Floreat

1. De Novo

One by one, the members of Daenerys' small council drift away to their beds, stifling yawns, eyelids drooping, fatigued and drained by the hard work and oppressive heat. It's no surprise. Mere months into Daenerys' reign and there is still plenty to keep them occupied. They're only a couple of weeks back from their jaunt around the more central lands in the Six Kingdoms—Daenerys' ingenious plan has done wonders for her reputation amongst the common folk, but there is still plenty to do in order to cement her place in the history books as the most beloved ruler. And no one is more dedicated to the cause than Daenerys herself is, determined to be involved in every meeting and problem and decision made.

And there is no one more determined to help her than him; he has vowed to stay by her side until the moment she may not need him anymore, and he will never break that solemn vow.

Not that Daenerys has been particularly easy these last few days. The summer in King's Landing has been almost unbearably hot for a northern man, even one such as he who has been acclimatised to the Essosi heat for so many years. Daenerys, dragon that she is, has never had a problem with the heat before, but there is something restless and frustrated about her now, and he can't work it out.

But then she catches his eyes across the table. Chews her lip. Holds his gaze.

And makes him feel as if he is surely dreaming yet another achingly soft dream that will only end in his heartbreak when he awakens.

Because she starts to reminisce about days gone by, adventures shared between them, a tender look in her eyes.

Tells him that she has been a fool for years.

He tries to protest such a ridiculous notion, but she overrides him, continues as if she hasn't heard him.

Tells him that she has been grappling with things she can no longer ignore. Things that were as dormant as those three petrified dragon eggs once were. Things that came alive inside her not from fire, but in the icy, barren snows of Winterfell.

Things that emerged with the instinct to survive as they fought death itself on the battlefield, surrounded by ice and fire, fire and blood.

He doesn't know what to say, what to think.

She doesn't give him the chance to, crossing the council room to his side.

Cranes her neck so she can look up into his face with those deep amethyst eyes.

Everything about her face is soft. Soft eyes. A soft, affectionate smile. A soft touch to his sleeve.

Soft voice as she says the words he's heard a thousand times over in his dreams but never thought he'd hear aloud, in reality.

"I want you."

She leans up on her tiptoes and catching his mouth beneath her own.

Delicate. Lingering.

Like coming home.

Jorah is frozen in pace, but it does not deter her; she is fire and he is ice, and ice cannot possibly stay frozen in the presence of such heat. Her arms move around his neck, her body nestles itself against his, her tongue teases at his lips.

He breaks. Enfolds her in his arms too, angles his head to kiss her better, swallows her soft sound of victory as he gluttons on his wildest dream.

There's no time to think. Instinct takes over.

Before he knows what's happening, she's tugging him from the council room. Her grip on his hand is the commanding grip of a queen used to getting what she wants, and he will never be anything other than her servant. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, his steps uneven as he stumbles after her, feeling as if he's been out drinking with Tyrion Lannister.

Daenerys stops him at the bend before her chambers.

"Wait here," she demands of him, pinning him against the wall with the look in her eyes. Without waiting for him to nod, she sweeps around the corner, regal and composed once more. He hears her speak in rapid Valyrian—in this dream-like state he'd forgotten all about the fact that she has Unsullied guards posted at her quarters—and there are confused voices in return. But Unsullied do not question orders, and a few seconds later, after a few more words, there are retreating footsteps.

Daenerys reappears, holding out her hand to him. He hesitates, then grasps it. She pulls him along the now-deserted corridor to her chambers. With every step closer, his core temperature rises. Gods, what is he doing?

He doesn't know, but Daenerys seems to know her mind completely.

She closes the door behind them, shutting out the rest of the world, and then she's on him again, forcing him back a couple of paces with the voracity of her enthusiasm, her mouth hot and ardent over his. Her fingers work furiously at the intricate buttons at her throat, the layers of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men and the Rhoyner, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, all of it falling away garment after garment, those layers of her protection peeled back until only Daenerys the woman remains, free from all constraints, bared to him completely.

Jorah is rooted to the spot, his mouth drier than the Red Waste. He tries to keep his eyes on her face but it is impossible; of their own volition his eyes travel down her body, over the luscious, womanly curves that have only grown more erotically pronounced since her time eating the rich food of King's Landing, those perfect, perfect breasts which would fit so well in his hands, the rosebud pink nipples that just beg to be puckered by a worshipping mouth, and—gods—the thatch of silver hair that teases her mound. His cock aches in the confines of his breeches and Daenerys' eyes flash darker. She pushes past him, perches herself on the edge of her bed.

"Undress, ser," she says.

But Jorah remains rooted, and he can't stop his voice from trembling. "Your Grace, I—"

"No," she interrupts him. "Daenerys. Here I am Daenerys. Say it."

"Daenerys," he whispers. "We shouldn't—"

"Were you not listening to what I said in the council room?"

"Yes, I was—"

"Do you think I'm not speaking truly?"

"No, of course not—"

"I want you," she repeats, her voice low and throaty. "Every time I see you I burn for you, and only you can quench the flames. Have your feelings changed? Do you no longer love me?"

I'll always love you, he swore to her once, his way of saying goodbye. He'd been certain that he would never see her again, that the greyscale would claim him—not that he'd ever let it go far enough to affect his mind.

"Always," he says now, an oath more sacred than the ones he swore upon becoming Lord Commander of her Queensguard.

"Then show me," she says. "Come here and show me."

How can he resist?

He kicks off his boots and unlaces his breeches.

She crooks an eyebrow at him. A flirty invitation.

He creeps towards the bed, the stone warm beneath the soles of his feet. The whole room is too warm, crackling with the weight of expectation. Sweat—a product of the weather or his nerves?—beads on his forehead. His pulse throbs.

Daenerys reaches out and takes his hand. Tugs. An order.

And the catalyst.

Her hands help him with the layers of his tunic, shedding them one by one. However, before she can wrest his shirt from him, he pauses.

There can be no denying that his body is a mess. Scar tissue on scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and melted. The scars cannot be escaped, for they cover every inch of his chest like a grotesque mould.

He doesn't give them much thought most days.

But most days he isn't about to bare himself to the woman he loves.

The anxiety rises up within his throat, making it difficult to breathe. But Daenerys is there with him, evidently noticing the change in his demeanour, reading his mind as she reads Drogon's.

"It's okay," she whispers. "I don't care about any of that. I'm not afraid."

She doesn't think she is, but she hasn't seen them. He's as disfigured as the Hound was, except his scars are not always on show. They're hard to look at, even for him, and he is desensitised to them now.

But her hands move with surety over him, fingers dancing over his shoulders, teasing the shirt free. What can he do but let her do what she desires? He stiffens as the warm air laps at his skin and braces himself for the surprised revulsion he expects to see on her face.

There's none. Daenerys' gaze does not waver. There she stands. Slowly, she reaches out to trace a finger over the scar over his heart. He flinches.

"Does it hurt?" she asks immediately.

"No. I'm just not used to being touched here."

"Then I shall endeavour to change that." She leans in, replaces her finger with her lips, and he trembles at the silk of her tongue against him. Of their own accord his hand moves to her jaw and eases her head up so that he can mesh his mouth against hers. She clutches at his hips, fingers a burning brand.

Time is a messy tangle of limbs after that. Daenerys twines her fingers through his hair, lays back on the bed and wraps her legs around his torso. His breath stutters as he feels the squeeze of those muscular thighs, defined again by the relentless hours she's spent on horseback recently. She rears her head up to kiss him, smothering his groan as her toes brush the back of his knees. Her hand slips down his back, fingernails teasing over one of his arse cheeks. He ruts into her involuntarily, and he feels the curve of her mouth over his. He can't help it. It's been such a long time since he was last with a woman, and he has dreamed of this moment with Daenerys for so long. She doesn't seem to mind at all—in fact, she arches up against him and he feels the warm wetness of her against his stomach.

She wants him.

He wants to be slow but it's impossible; nor is it what Daenerys seems to want. This oppressive weather has made a monster out of her, and there is nothing but primal desperation in her every move as she slips her hand between them and strokes his cock from root to tip, her thumb teasing the fleshy head. Jorah can't stop his breathless grunt; hot pleasure blooms in his stomach and explodes outwards, manifesting itself in the sticky wetness that weeps from the head of his cock. She massages it into the rest of his length, her movements sure and slight, but nor does she seem to be in the mood for teasing.

"I want you inside me," she whispers, silky sin dripping from her tongue. She wants him to think of her as just Daenerys in this moment and he wants that too, but those little niggles are there in the back of his mind; she is the queen of Westeros and he is nothing more than a disgraced knight. What would the people of Westeros say if they knew?

Daenerys has shared herself with one of the fiercest fighters in the world in the shape of Khal Drogo; she's bedded another brave warrior and member of the most beloved house in the north in the form of Jon Snow—Jon Targaryen as he I known these days.

I want you.

She'd bedded Daario because she'd wanted him. The son of a whore, arrogant and charming and nothing like the kind of man she's expected to take.

There's something a little exciting, he supposes, about the forbidden, about being on the same level as roguish, handsome Daario in terms of suitability…though of course he cannot fool himself entirely, for the sellsword had been young and fit, and he is anything but these days.

Not that Daenerys seems to notice. She claws at him with urgency, her eyes burning coals upon him as she widens her thighs and undulates her lower half against him, the heel of her foot nudging him closer.

He knows what she wants, but he resists her. This might be his only time with her. She's bound to come to her senses. If this night is to be the only night he ever has with her, he wants to have loved her properly. To have something to commit to memory. To know that whatever else happens, he worshipped her the way she deserves to be worshipped every single day of her life.

Instead of sliding forwards and slipping into her welcoming warmth he slips free entirely, moving his body away from hers, running his mouth from her chin down her throat, her clavicle, veering off to tease at her breast. He encourages her nipple into a pink bud, stiff beneath his tongue, presses wet kisses to the swell of her breast before returning to the turgid point and taking it delicately between his teeth, pulling on it until she moans. Satisfied that she likes his ministrations, he turns his attention to her other breast, ensuring he gives it exactly the same attention as the first. Her fingers tangle in the sweaty curls at the back of his neck, and she whispers sweetly incoherent words into the heavy night air. They give him all the encouragement he needs.

He travels lower, drifts his lips over her navel, dips his tongue out to taste the hollow of her stomach. She sucks in a sharp breath, surges desperately against him. He takes the cue, running his nose further down until he's pressed against the soft curls over her sex.

His tongue darts out. Just once. Testing. Daenerys moans, her fingers scrunching tight in the bed sheets. Her thighs fall even further apart around him, giving all of herself to him.

He dives right in.

Runs his tongue over her slick nether lips, savouring the taste of her on his tongue. It's better than he'd ever thought it could be, the sweetest honey a bear could ever wish for.

She's so aroused for him. It's something he was resigned to only ever experiencing in his lonely dreams.

The reality is better than he could ever have hoped for.

"Jorah."

Her voice is thick with desire, rough and gravelly. It's a tone he's never heard from her before, and his cock pulses eagerly at the sound. Always eager to please her, that's what he is, in whatever capacity she allows.

The capacity doesn't get more intimate than this. His mouth on the most secret part of her, parting her folds, seeking out more of that wetness. Her thighs tremble around his ears, the muscles tensing, and he slips a forefinger between them. It slides inside with no resistance at all, and he can't stop himself from moaning into her sodden flesh, the vibrations no doubt reverberating through her and making her groan in turn. Her fingers are tight in his hair and she guides him where she wants him, at the little hard nub at the top of her sex. Jorah latches on to it at once, flicking his tongue with expert strokes against it, crooking his finger. Her walls flutter around him, and he rubs his finger against her deliberately, seeking out that the places that affect her the most.

He brushes one spot, and she stiffens, her fingers tightening to an almost painful degree in his hair.

"Gods," she breathes, resonant and low, "gods."

He redoubles his efforts there, needing to hear the sound again, and her breathing quickens and deepens, coming faster and faster—

He sucks her clit into his mouth.

She falls apart under his ministrations with a low whine.

In the quiet aftermath he kisses her down from her high, careful to avoid the areas which are still too sensitive. Pressing a final kiss to the inside of her thigh, he eases her legs from over his shoulders and pushes himself up to cup her cheek. Her eyes blaze, and she leans forward to catch his lips, attacking him with gusto, tongue thrusting into his mouth to taste herself. His cock throbs as her hand slides down the centre of his chest, enticingly close, and he can't stop himself from thrusting into her hand when she runs her palm along the length of him. That pleases her; she pulls away with a smile wide.

"Now," she demands of him, "I don't want to wait a second longer."

He cannot disobey an order from his queen.

He hisses an expletive as he pushes himself into her welcoming wetness, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Gods, she feels so good. She seems to concur, for her head falls back into her pillow and the fingers of one hand scrunch the bedsheets into a fist, the nails of the other raking down the trembling muscles in his shoulder blades. They leave a delicious burning sensation behind; he's been marked by the dragon.

"Daenerys," he breathes, nuzzling his nose against her temple.

"Oh," he hears her sigh against his neck, her breath hot, "Oh, you feel so good."

The words send a bolt of pleasure arrowing through him, and his hips jerk forward in response.

"Yes," she moans. "Yes, that's perfect, just like that."

Jorah wants to be slow with her, to take his time. He's a man of vast experience, is confident in his ability to please a woman. It's all about mapping her body, reading her signals, dedicating himself to the learning of her. Women can't resist it. And it's how a woman should be treated, for they are as complicated as musical instruments, hundreds of notes capable of being played.

But Daenerys doesn't seem to want it slow. She has the blood of the dragon running through her veins, and dragons do not have patience.

"More," she demands of him. "More!"

And he can't deny her anything. Breaths huff out of him in short, sharp puffs. The bed creaks under their combined weight. And Daenerys—gods, Daenerys—simply cannot keep quiet. Her moans ring out like dragon song, high and keening, and they spur him on. He's never heard a more beautiful sound. Slick flesh slaps against slick flesh, faster, faster, until he feels like he'll burst into flames. He feels the fluttering in her mound, the tell-tale sign that he's pushing her close to the edge. His cock pulses in answer. He's not going to last, not when she looks and sounds like she does. Desperately, he slips his hand between their bodies, finds the slick nub nestled at the top of her sex, rubs it in short, sharp circles that matches the pace of his pistoning hips. Daenerys cries out louder, tightening around him. He can't hold on any longer.

Thankfully, neither can she. Her body arches upwards, she spasms around him…

And he soars too, joining her with his own guttural cry, pumping his hips once, twice, thrice more to prolong the pleasure that sizzles through his body.

Ringing silence remains. Despite his best efforts the strength has leeched out of his body, and he sinks down on top of her, his head dropping into the crook of her neck. It's uncomfortable, far too hot in the unseasonable heat, but he cannot bring himself to part from her, not yet. For her part Daenerys does not seem to want to lose him either, cradling him gently between her thighs, knees pressed to his hips, fingers smoothing out the tangles in his curls. Her nails feel good against his scalp, even better against his trembling shoulder blades as she continues the journey down and back up again. It seems that this moment will last forever, freezing them in stone.

Moments never last; time is the cruellest mistress of all. As Jorah recovers his faculties enough to regain self-awareness, he is hit all over again with the insanity of the situation. Daenerys is queen, he is Lord Commander of her Queensguard. And now they have blurred lines that she has made clear on several occasions will never be blurred by the two of them together.

But dragons demand and he was foolish enough to serve. He has vowed always to serve her, but he should not have compromised his own heart. He's suffered enough heartbreak, unwitting or no, and he should never have been stupid enough to allow himself into this position, for he does not know how he will give all of himself, body and soul and heart, and only have an empty vessel in return. Could he have done it at one point? Perhaps. But he's in far too deep now to claw his way out of it, and he cannot bear the thought of this being but one fleeting moment in time, a moment of painful beauty before she withdraws and robes herself as Queen Daenerys once more.

Does she sense the melancholy of his thoughts? Her arms tighten around him. Her nose trails along the line of his temple as she moves to press a kiss to his forehead.

Speaks three words into the humid air between them, sacred as any oath a knight might swear to his queen and his queen might make to the realm in turn.

Three words which will shape the rest of her reign.

I love you.