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Chapter Text

The tip of Jon’s nose was exceedingly cold.

This was not, as a general rule, an odd occurrence. Such was a natural state, he’d found, an annoyance that must be accepted, embraced, even; Life in the North, and beyond the barrier of the Wall, had made this a requirement. Truth be told, the bone-aching cold hadn’t bothered him much at all since his return from death.

But the rest of Jon was exceedingly warm, and it was this convergence of extremes that left him puzzled as he cracked open his tired eyes, peering curiously around the room as it slowly came into focus.

First, he remembered this was Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, after one heart-stopping moment of thinking he’d awoken once more in Castle Black, everything that had happened since his resurrection nothing more than the dying dreams of a man even death would not keep.

Then, he remembered precisely why he was there. The Army of the Dead. The Night King. She had come with him, she had seen, she was going to help him. A true warrior Queen, no prim Lady lurking beneath the surface of her soft skin, that’s what she was, underneath the beauty and the cleverness and the unyielding stubbornness; He chanced a look to his side, where she had curled herself against him, her feet helplessly tangled with his under the furs and roughspun linens.

Daenerys.

Her name, in his head, had become something of a prayer. It was his secret, whispered talisman against the cold, each syllable full of fire, the thought of her a furnace that heated him from the inside out.

Jon had tried to fight it.

He really, truly had.

He had tried to fight what his heart urged, tried to ignore the truth of what his mind spoke to him in the dark stone walls of her Keep. Those traitorous thoughts, those mutinous urges were a fool’s folly, things that could only hurt him once he’d fixed them in his heart. He’d brushed aside Davos and his pointed innuendo, tried to focus himself solely on the task he had come for, to secure her aid in the fight against the Army of the Dead.

But then she had kissed him, down there in the caves, and that had just about been the end of that.

Perhaps he ought to have been embarrassed, he thought, at how swiftly and completely she had disarmed him. Perhaps he really was a Northern fool, and that’s what his people would call him when he brought her back to Winterfell with him. Perhaps his sisters would see her and accuse him of being no better than any other weak-willed man, felled and bewitched by her the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

Jon brought a hand up, his palm just grazing the angle of her cheek, her breath puffing out between parted pink lips and teasing the skin of his chest, which had served as a makeshift pillow since their last coupling mere hours before.

Gods, he’d lost track of how many times he’d had her since she’d knocked on his door the prior night, had stopped counting each time her cunt had clenched and spasmed around his fingers and tongue and cock.

She was a greedy lass, which was not unexpected.

Daenerys Targaryen commanded dragons, after all. A woman in complete command of not one, but three fully-grown dragons could not be faulted for having such appetites.

He found himself just as greedy, just as hungry, each touch only making him long for another, each release only a brief respite before that clawing need would grow within him, each of them only briefly sleeping before one would awaken and hands would wander anew.

Now, as he watched her lashes flutter, as he caught sight once more of her lovely gaze, he understood only one truth. She had been fashioned for him, as surely as the Gods had fashioned the sun to dance across the sky, and if she had truly meant her words from the night before he could imagine no other destiny for him now but that of her husband. Her King.

Jon was not immune to one other truth. Beyond this icy wall lay certain death, and he was not fool enough to believe he might cheat it twice.

His whole life he had denied himself, consigned himself to the shadows, made himself content with half-measures, and whatever scraps his Lord Father might throw his way.

But now his father was gone, and Robb, and Rickon. Now Jon was King in the North, bastard though he may be, and for once he would take the things he wanted. If it was his fate to die in this battle for the living there was no more time for *almost*. There could be no quarter given to *possibly* or *one day* or *perhaps if we prevail*.

If these were his final days, he would put to action the lessons the past had well taught him.

Jon meant to live, if he was bound for the bitter darkness of death once more.

He was stirred from his dark reverie by her sweet voice, husky and well-worn from her rather vocal appreciation of his earlier attentions.

“Jon.” His name upon her lips was the sweetest song he’d ever heard. Her tentative, unsure smile, such a departure from the wanton creature he had devoured and been consumed by in turn, served only to enchant him further. He was helpless to the need to embrace her, to draw her closer, reveling in the press of her lips to his neck as she buried her face against his skin.

“Have you not had your fill?” His own voice sounded raspy and raw, and he could not stop his chuckle at the remembrance of his own enthusiastic appreciation of the Queen who now clung to him.

A rather unladylike snort reverberated against his skin, and she pulled away in a sweep of soft, silver hair, her eyes full of endless enthusiasm as she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Not nearly, Jon Snow.”

The twist of joy in his dead heart did not escape him, nor did the bite of her teeth against his collarbone, gentle but possessive. “Well,” he muttered, his hand creeping up to trace along the length of her spine, “I must confess that is a relief.”

Daenerys drew herself up at his words, a knowing smile dancing upon her lips as she peered down at him. He tried, with most valiant effort, to ignore the sway of her lovely breasts as she rose above him, allowing himself only a stolen glance. Or two.

“I daresay, Jon Snow, that perhaps I shall never have my fill of you.” Jon did not bother to hide the thrill that rocked him at her words, choosing instead to grasp the back of her neck and pull him to her, claiming her mouth with all the possession he could muster on so little sleep.

When she pulled back again, her warm gaze falling away, her face setting in absolute despair, Jon could not stop the worry that arced through him. Perhaps in the harsh morning light she regretted the promises made in the dark.

“Jon,” she whispered, her face such a mask of regret that he could not help the pang of hurt that shot through him. It was to be expected, he thought, his eyelids falling closed as he braced himself for the inevitable. A woman, a Queen like Daenerys of House Targaryen had surely seen the foolishness in wedding herself to a Bastard King such as him.

“I must tell you something.” Her following whisper, just as agonized, seized his full attention, his eyes snapping open to find her the picture of misery. Jon could not help himself, in the face of such sadness, his hand cupping her cheek even as tears gathered in her eyes. “I fear I must beg your forgiveness for not mentioning it sooner.”

He could feel his brow crease, could feel his eyes narrow in confusion at her sorrowful tone. “You ought to seek no forgiveness from me.” He slid his thumb along the apple of her cheek.

Jon felt his heart sink as her face twisted, her face a mask of grief. “If we are to wed you must know the truth.” He could not imagine what she meant, and so he waited, a stupid and baseless hope rising in his chest that it was not regret in laying with a Northern bastard that worried her so.

“Jon,” she whispered once more, closing her eyes tightly as though she meant to gather her courage. “I must be sure that you understand that I will not make marriage a requirement for my aid. After I tell you what I must tell you, if you should not wish to wed yourself to me…”

“Stop.”

Her gaze snapped to his, apprehension visible in her eyes at the sound of his voice. He sat up, leaning his face to closer to hers, not allowing her to look anywhere but him.

“Whatever it is, Daenerys, I can assure you I am no man fool enough to…” His words were suddenly muffled by her palm, and a rushing flow of words as her confession finally spilled forth in a pained voice.

“I cannot bear you children, Jon Snow. I cannot bear you heirs.” She pulled away, withdrawing into herself, still beside him but leaving naught facing him but her bare back as she wrapped her arms around her bent knees and bowed her head.

Jon waited a beat, then two, hating the hint of a sob that reached his ears. Running his hand up her spine, he leaned in, the fall of her hair brushing against his lips.

“Is that all?”

She stiffened, her eyes shocked and marginally offended as her head snapped up and she turned to face him.

“It is everything!” Her stare was glassy, unshed tears gathering. “Do not mock me so. Every man wishes for heirs, Jon. Especially Kings.” She shook her head, refusing the rebuttal she saw coming as he parted his lips to respond. “If not now, then one day…”

Daenerys trailed off as he rose, tugging on breeches but not bother to lace them, coming to stand before her and grasping her hand in his.

“Look at me.” Slowly she raised her head, her eyes haunted and despairing. “*Look* at me!” With her hand still held in his he brought it up to trace along the scars that marred his chest, not ceasing until her sadness changed to confusion. He could not blame her for such puzzlement. A child of his own was a whimsy long dead to him, as dead as his body had been upon that cold stone slab in Castle Black, in a place very much like where they found themselves now.

He would make her understand, though.

“You know the truth of these wounds.” She nodded, hesitating, her brow creased as she studied each one in turn. “You know what happened to me.” Again, she gave a quick, stilted nod. He flattened both their palms, holding them together over his pounding heart.

“My heart beats within my chest, it is true. And I may stand before you, and draw breath, and speak.” Now he took a deep breath, his own wits threatening to flee him at the weight of her eyes upon him now, mutely listening though comprehension seemed to begin to dawn in those violet depths. “But make no mistake, Daenerys, I am a dead man all the same. And I know no dead men who may father children.”

One tear tracked down her cheek, but whether it was shed for him or for her he could not say. Deep down he suspected it to be for the child they would never create, but to let his thoughts wander down that road was a dark and desolate choice. He could only continue, now, and hope that in this absence of possibility they might find further strength, together. “So, you see, Your Grace, you do me no disservice in the offer of your hand in marriage. I am an abomination, an unnatural thing, and a bastard besides.”

Jon hung his head, no stranger to the truth of what he was, even if he did not completely understand it. He closed his eyes, waiting, until the warmth of her fingers against his jaw brought her back into his line of sight.

“No, Jon. That is not what you are.” She sounded angry, but Daenerys placed both hands on his chest, shedding the weight of the bed covering to slide completely free of them and coming to stand before him without a stitch of clothing. Focusing his attention on her face and not the body now bared to him was a test of his mental fortitude, to be certain, but he managed it all the same.

“Not a man.” She pressed her lips to the notch in his collarbone, whispering against his skin. “Not a God.” Now a kiss above his heart. “But something in between. Just like me.”

He chuckled, prompting a raised brow and slight smile from her in response. “Forgive me, Daenerys, but,” he pulled away, letting his gaze sweep her gloriously uncovered curves, “you are no man. Of that I am certain.”

When she wrinkled her nose at him, a giggle escaping despite her attempts to remain serious, he considered it a victory. “Now you’re simply being ridiculous.”

Jon gave her an affronted look, letting his hands travel to the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. “Not at all.” He looked between them, where the fullness of her breasts pushed against his bare chest. “Simply stating an obvious truth.”

Her smile fell away, just slightly, when he brought his eyes back to hers. “Are you certain this is what you want, Jon? What we do now should not be done solely because of what we feel. You must be sure.”

His Queen was right, he knew that. He understood the weight of her words, the gravity of what this would mean. This was not a decision that could be undone. But the choice, he was sure, was the easiest he’d ever pondered.

Jon rested his forehead against hers, his lips hovering just above her mouth. “Am I certain,” he intoned softly, “that I wish to be your husband? Aye.” He kissed her, gently, just letting his tongue graze her bottom lip, reveling in the way she chased his mouth with hers when he pulled back. “There could be no higher honor afforded me.”

That made her smile anew, and fondly, and she brushed the tip of her nose against his. “I shall give you every honor. I shall set you above all others, trust you above all others,” she whispered, pressing a rather chaste kiss to his lips considering her current state of undress. “I shall love you above all others.”

An errant, worrying thought entered his mind, and in one last flicker of self-doubt he gave voice to it. “And if your wise advisors do not agree? If they wish you to wed someone more befitting your station?”

Her plump lips upturned slowly, slyly. “Never again shall I marry a man I do not wish to marry. If they find the idea so bothersome they can, with much haste, find themselves another to serve who will obey their every complaint and command.” Slender fingers traced a line down the center of his chest, to his abdomen, just above the spot where skin met breeches. “I wish to marry you and so I will.”

Daenerys hooked her fingers in the fabric, tugging them down swiftly, their eyes locked together as he kicked them blindly behind him. “But now, I would have you once more. We must depart soon, and I am not certain I could bear such long hours without something to appease my hunger.”

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It was not Tormund’s knowing grin that made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t the way he kept glancing over his shoulder at Jon, as they walked together atop the Wall, that made him shift nervously.

No, it was the way he kept chuckling to himself and shaking his head, in combination with the other two actions, that really set his teeth on edge.

“Go on then.” Tormund stopped when Jon spoke, giving him a curious squint. “Get it out of your system.”

The ginger-bearded man gave a hearty laugh and clapped Jon on the back with one hand, hard enough that the King in the North had to brace himself against the icy-slicked, wooden railing.

“Sounds like you remembered what I told you, King Crow.” He laughed harder when Jon frowned and crossed his arms, staring down at the white, barren wasteland in the distance, only broken by snow covered forests and the mountains beyond. “Slick as a baby seal, eh?”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle in agreement. He wouldn’t begrudge the man his amusement, not in this. “Good advice after all, my friend.”

Tormund nodded sagely. “Certainly sounded that way.” Jon’s eyes widened at the man’s accompanying elbow to the ribs, his thoughts confirmed when his friend continued. “Some of the men thought you might be killing her in there.”

Jon just rolled his eyes, shaking his head, smiling slightly in spite of himself. “’Course not.”

“Though I might have mentioned that you were stabbin’ her in there.” The older man gave a low chuckle at Jon’s answering sigh, his exasperation clear. “Hard to say, though, we were all fucking drunk.”

At that both men laughed, the sound dying away as Drogon appeared above them, far and away and high in the clouds, flying in a tight circle in the gray skies above Eastwatch.

“You will go South today.” As he often tended to, Tormund stated instead of asking, his eyes closely tracking the black dragon as he twisted and turned.

“Aye.” Jon braced his gloved hands against the railing, grateful he’d slipped into several layers before he’d left Daenerys to her own preparations, though the whistling cold wind only made him long to be back under mounds of blankets and furs and hopefully fucking her into the straw mattress. “The Dragon Queen has sworn her armies and her dragons to our cause. We will return to Dragonstone and make our plans from there.”

Tormund grunted, still watching Drogon as he came closer, now, dipping and swooping and wheeling in continuous loops. He was watching for Daenerys, Jon realized, the connection his Queen and her dragon shared reminding him once more of the ties between himself and his wolf. “How many men?”

Jon scratched at his chin, trying to extract the answer from a mind that was remarkably addled by the silver-haired beauty still somewhere within the fortress below his feet. “Near as I can recall, about forty-thousand of her horse lords, and another eight thousand of her Unsullied soldiers.”

The large man let out an appreciative whistle between his teeth. “And three dragons?”

Jon nodded. “And three dragons.”

Tormund smile, a real smile, one that made its’ way to his eyes this time. “Maybe we’ve got a fucking chance after all.” The man’s gaze tracked to Jon, his voice dropping to a more serious tone as he addressed the young King. “Reckon you ought to marry that Dragon Queen. The only way you’re going to stay alive is with three dragons around to save your scrawny neck.”

He figured that was even closer to the truth that Tormund could possibly know, but he was in no mood for lengthy discussion, not now.

An idea had struck him; A foolish, stupid idea, really.

“Aye, I mean to marry her straightaway.” He answered almost absently, his mind beginning to race, to piece together what he might do, if she might be agreeable, if it was even the wisest course of action.

He thought back to earlier in the morning, the look in her eyes as she had told him she wished to wed herself to him, even with his scars and his bastard surname and his cold, dead heart, though it beat still.

Yes. He could do this.

It was impertinent, at the very least. Presumptive.

She might say no.

But she might say yes, and Jon thought it likely that she would, and for once it seemed to him that he ought to stop brooding on it and just do it, for at least in this desolate, near-empty outpost his embarrassment would be limited if she refused, wanted something different, something grander.

He hoped she would agree.

“Tormund?” The man raised his eyebrows, silently telling him to continue. “I need a favor.”

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Jon’s stomach had twisted itself into knots upon knots, his guts hopelessly tangled as he made his way to the room given to the Queen, after finding his own empty and free of any occupants. Her warm, gentle smile as she opened the door tempted him to shut them both inside together once more, her presence having its’ now familiar effect on him as she stood aside to let him enter.

“Have you eaten?” He sounded more nervous than he cared to admit, but she did not seem to notice, turning back to gesture at the remnants of her meal, only streaks of boiled oats remaining. Such bland offerings were things he’d grown used to, but he would see to it that she had a more substantial meal once they returned to Dragonstone. He had plans, after all, and given her wild abandon and seemingly limitless desires of the night before he anticipated they might each need a fair bit of energy.

“Shall we be off?” Daenerys scooped up the only belonging she’d brought for the journey, a small leather satchel that fitted close to her body when strapped over her shoulder, and leaned in to kiss him forcefully, if briefly, giving a playful nip to his bottom lip as she pulled away. “There is much to plan.”

He looked down at her, wondering at this pull to her, this need for her nearness, for her company. Sharing her bed had been something best thought of in the darkness of his quarters on Dragonstone, something he had refused to believe might actually happen until she had knocked upon his door last night. Setting his heart on such, even if she had seemed to return his growing affections, was an option that he had assumed would only lead to more pain.

He was happy he had been wrong. He genuinely liked her, he enjoyed spending time with her, and she had crashed through his rather substantial defenses like a roaring river, wearing him down, eroding away any part of him that thought to refuse this, to walk away.

The Gods had taken their pound of flesh and more from him, and it was far past time for him to take something for himself.

Jon smiled, raising a finger to tug gently at the end of a braid, her hair tumbling in a silver fall of curls and plaits down her back.

“There is something I would very much like to show you first, Your Grace, if you are willing.” He clenched his fist as he dropped his hand down to his side, hoping to hide the tremble, but again she did not notice, her focus solely on his face, watching his expression closely.

Slipping her bag over her shoulder, and her gloved hand into his, she grinned, biting at her bottom lip for a moment before answering. “I am intrigued, Your Grace.” She gave him a wink then tipped her head towards the open door. “Shall we?”

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“I was ten and seven when I joined the Night’s Watch.” Jon glanced in her direction, fixing in his mind how she looked right now, her cheeks and the tip of her nose pink from the cold wind that whipped around them, thankful he’d tied his blasted hair back so that he may look upon her with no distraction or obstruction, nothing to mar the sight of her, still sometimes unsure that she was really there and not some impossible dream meant to torture him. “Did you know that?”

They were riding the lift down to the base of the Wall, and though she had been gazing around, taking in the loud clicking of the pulleys, the groaning wood as they travelled ever downward, she gifted him with a tiny smile and shake of her head.

“It was nothing like I thought it would be.” Some hurts had dulled with time, this chiefly among them. “But then things rarely are.”

Now she smirked, squeezing his hand where she still held it within her grasp. “Present company included.”

Jon gave a quiet laugh, squeezing back as gears screeched and slowed them to a halt before tucking her hand into his waiting arm and beginning to walk. “Aye, that is certainly true. Although,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his gamely, “not all surprises are dreadful ones.”

“No,” she responded, nudging back and arching a brow suggestively, “some are most welcome indeed.”

They fell silent for several moments, their shoulders brushing as they walked closely together, his target in the distance, though she could not yet know it. “Have you ever beheld a weirwood tree?”

The Queen frowned in consideration, her pretty brow creasing as she thought. “Not that I can recall.” She tipped her chin curiously at him. “Why?”

Jon gave a controlled exhalation, knowing the moment was swiftly approaching, his nerves making him ramble as he slowed their pace slightly. “They are sacred to the Old Gods. I swore my oaths before such a tree at Castle Black. Few remain to the South, but here, in the North, they may still be found.”

“Oh!” He was pleasantly surprised to see genuine interest in her eyes. “Is that what you mean to show me?”

The King in the North hesitated a second before answering. “Yes.” It was true, though not the entire truth. It mattered little, now, this small omission. She would learn his intent shortly. “It’s just ahead, that way.” He raised his free hand, pointing to the copse of trees a small distance away that gave way to a larger forest of snow-covered trees. Rising just above them all, in the heart of the clearing he knew lay deeper still, were the blood red leaves his eyes had sore-missed.

“Are those…people?” She was squinting as she spoke straining to make sense of the fur-covered Free Folk who waited for them in the snow, torches in hand.

“Aye.” He took a deep breath, halting them both and turning to look down at her. “The Free Folk. And, the few brothers of the Night’s Watch who remain at this castle.” Jon gave a shuddering breath, taking her hands in his.

Daenerys, for her part, seemed stymied but not overly suspicious, her eyes darting from the people in the distance and back to Jon several times before she asked the question aloud that lingered in her stare. “What are they doing?”

“Waiting.” Jon swallowed, watching as her she remained quiet, clearly expecting some sort of further clarification. He was very glad, privately, that his hands remained gloved, for they were sweating something terrible. “If we were to walk further in, Your Grace, we would find ourselves before the closest Heart Tree for many miles. And if we were to go and swear ourselves to each other before that tree, we would be wed in the eyes of the Old Gods, the Gods of the North.”

Daenerys Targaryen smiled at him and the world around him stopped. It was a small, subtle motion at first, the corners of lips he had tasted endlessly the prior eve just barely curling up. It was her eyes, though, that made his heart begin to pound in his chest; They filled with such heat that for a heartbeat he thought he might burst into flame right there in the cold snows, and be glad of it.

But when her lips parted, and her breath steamed the air between them, he spoke on, needing her to know what he meant to forge between them now.

“I have no gold for your coffers. In the North, we grow no crops such as they do in the Reach. I have no ships for your fleets.” She was shaking her head in disagreement already, but he pushed on. “All I have to offer is a few thousand fighting men, and a people who are far more stubborn, and suspicious, and hard-headed than I am. We only grow fighters in the North.” He stepped closer, bringing an arm around her, his other still holding to hers as he brought his face near hers.

“You are the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but for now you hold none.” Jon dropped her hand, cupping her neck with his hand, sliding his thumb along the graceful line of her jaw gently. “I will give you a kingdom. If we continue on,” he tipped his head towards the trees, “I will make you Queen in the North. I will be your sword, and your shield. I will protect you in every way I am capable. And if we survive this fight against the dead, Dany, I shall see you sat upon the Iron Throne if that is your wish.”

Her breath was coming ragged and short, her own hands trembling as she cupped his cheeks between her deceptively delicate fingers. He had not meant to call her Dany, not aloud, but in the face of proposing that Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen marry him, at the end of the world, amongst strangers, he supposed it was the least presumptuous thing he’d done this day.

“Dany.” The name was a whisper, her eyes faraway as she spoke. “My brother was the last to call me such.” She returned her gaze to his, shushing his forthcoming apology with gentle fingers against his lips. “It is a far sweeter name to hear from your lips. I think I should like for my Lord Husband to call me such.”

He realized what she meant, fully, after a few beats, his eyes widening and his own breathing coming faster. “You will wed me here?”

“I will.” She pressed her lips together tight, eyes shining, her chin trembling as though she fought back tears, though it was his deepest hope that it was gladness, not sadness, that had brought such a struggle on. She looked again towards the forest, stepping back so that they could walk together again, her hand seeking the bend of his arm as naturally as his move to offer it, as though it were made to fit precisely there.

Jon could not stop the wide smile that made his cheeks ache, peeking over at her every now and again as they approached the tree line to find her doing the same, but they did not speak until they came upon Tormund, who stood, torch in hand, just along the path that would lead them to the weirwood.

“You sure you want to marry this one, Dragon Queen?” Tormund’s rough voice scraped against his ears through the windy chill, and Jon frowned at his friend even as Daenerys gave the man a look of such confused disbelief that the large man chuckled at the sight.

“Quite sure, thank you.” With a prim nod and a raised brow she assessed the red-haired wildling, who only laughed louder and clapped her mightily on her slender shoulder.

“Good,” Tormund muttered, shooting Jon a jesting glare, before facing the silver-haired beauty again. “The more folks tryin’ to talk this one out of his stupid fucking ideas, the better, I say.”

Jon could see where this was headed, knew from the twinkle in Tormund’s eyes that he was well on his way to trying to take the piss out of him yet again, and so he cut the man off before he could share some of the more embarrassing things he knew about Jon with the Queen he would wed.

“Daylight’s burning,” Jon interjected, throwing Tormund a good-natured look undercut with warning, “so we’d best get on with things.” He leaned in, pressing a rather innocent kiss to Daenerys’s cheek, as if he hadn’t spent the entirety of the prior night desperately trying to etch the memory of every inch of her into his mind. “I’ll be waiting down there,” he whispered against her ear, still close enough to delight at the little shiver that claimed her at the sensation of his breath against the sensitive skin.

His silver Queen smiled sweetly, and not for the first time he wished he had the ability to stop time altogether, to freeze this very moment and forget everything else, that the only thing he need concern himself was only her.

“Then we shall see you there,” she said gamely, taking Tormund’s elbow, and shooing him away with her free hand.

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Jon realized he might have made an awful miscalculation, at least where his limited vanity might be concerned, when he saw the way Tormund was gesturing and leaning in to speak to Daenerys as he led her to the Heart Tree, not at all caring for the way her merry, low laugh carried on the wind.

He fought a groan as the pair grew closer, down the path lined with as many people as he’d managed to muster together, an odd mix of fur-covered Free Folk with a scattered black brother here and there, all holding torches and watching as the enormous red-bearded man walked the much smaller, and definitively easier to look upon, Queen ever nearer.

Jon spared a look at the man who stood beside him, one of the few remaining Brothers at Eastwatch, and rarer still, one who could read. He bit his lip to fight a chuckle when he heard the “bloody hells” the black-clad man let loose when Tormund and his Queen, clad in her white fur, came to a stop before them.

When the man still said nothing, Jon cleared his throat, and he couldn’t help the quick smirk he gave Daenerys when their eyes met. He couldn’t really blame the poor man; he’d been nearly dumbstruck at just the sight of her, that first meeting in her throne room upon Dragonstone, as hers was the sort of beauty that might steal a man’s breath from his chest. Still, they needed to be on about their business.

“Sorry,” the Night’s Watchman whispered to Jon, who merely waved a hand to dismiss the apology. With a voice slightly shaking from the cold, he finally began, turning his head to address Tormund. “Who comes? Who comes before the Old Gods?”

Tormund grinned, gesturing to the Queen. “It’s Daenerys the Dragon Queen that’s come, to beg the blessings of the Old Ones!” Jon hadn’t bothered trying to get Tormund to remember the entire bit that was meant to be said, and it wasn’t in him now to reckon the Old Gods would care too much for proper ceremony right now, anyway. It was close enough to be getting on with, and that was what counted. “Who comes to claim her?”

The King rolled his eyes when his friend waggled his bushy red brows up and down, as though he thought Jon required prompting in this. “Me, Jon Snow of House Stark, the King in the North. I claim her.” Though Dany appeared to be attempting a mask of propriety for the occasion, he saw the way her lips turned up at his words, and it pleased him all the more that she was pleased. “Who gives her?”

“Me, Tormund Giantsbane.” He tipped his head and looked down at Daenerys, considering. “For whatever that’s worth. I reckon a woman that commands dragons gives herself, King Crow.”

Daenerys snorted and dipped her chin at Tormund in acknowledgement, before gazing back at Jon with amusement. “That’s true enough,” she said dryly.

Tormund nodded in agreement. “So,” he continued, “will you take him off our hands, Dragon Queen?”

When everyone stared at her expectantly, her face flickered with uncertainty, and Jon’s heart thundered so loudly in his chest that he thought it would burst, ‘til she leaned in and whispered, “Can I just say ‘Yes’, or am I meant to say something in particular?”

Jon sagged with relief, extending his hand and smiling so widely it made his cheeks ache. “You can just say ‘Yes’, though the proper bit is ‘I take this man’, if that’s your wish.”

“I see,” she answered, drawing herself up to her full height, still only barely taller than his shoulder. “I will take this man,” she proclaimed loudly enough for the gathered folk to hear, and she took his hand tightly in hers, letting him tug her gently up to stand beside him.

Hands joined, Jon brought her to stand before the weeping tree, waiting for her to drink in the sight of it, enjoying the way her eyes widened and traced every detail, the way her lips parted in surprise at something that was surely foreign to her, before those lilac eyes were upon his again.

Jon knelt, nodding in the Queen’s direction to indicate that she might do the same, waiting until they were knee deep in the snow, together, before he leaned close to whisper once more in her ear.

“Now we pray to the Old Gods, and ask their blessings up us.”

She stared at him, solemn and silent for several seconds, before she replied. “That seems wise,” she intoned, her lips quirking as she squeezed his hand. “I suspect we shall need all the help we can muster.”

Jon closed his eyes and prayed, for the first time in a very long time, and hoped with all his heart that in this perhaps the Old Ones still had some mercy to give him. He prayed, above all other things, that they might prevail on the path now set before him, that together they might be triumphant in the fight against the dead that came closer by the day.

And he prayed for one other thing, one selfish wish that he thought he might have finally earned; That he would be able to keep her, that he could have just this one thing, and to hell with the rest of it. For as long as he continued to draw breath he prayed she might be his and his alone, the one thing he’d ever truly had for himself, and that he would be hers in turn. He prayed that what they forged now could withstand the tests that would be set against them from within and without, and that maybe, just maybe, he might actually make her happy, for whatever time was left to them.

She was the finest thing he’d ever known, and he begged the Old Gods might understand this, might spare her; He hoped they understood the wrath that would be unleashed in him if she was lost.

There came another squeeze of her fingers against his, and when he opened his eyes, and peered over at her, it was to find her beaming at him, and it occurred to him at that very moment that this was what it felt like to be alive, to be really alive, to feel so full of love for another that it seemed as though he might burst with it.

“What next?”

The black brother didn’t miss her quiet question, standing at Jon’s side, and he tucked the scroll with his part to speak into his leathers and clapped his hands together. “No cloaks to exchange,” the man said, looking between the two, “so I reckon that’s it.”

Daenerys seemed surprised as the pair stood. “That’s all? We are wed?”

Jon gave her a cheeky grin and wrapped his arms around her, his gloved hands settling at the base of her spine as he pulled her in close. “Not quite,” he said against her lips, and then he claimed them, near moaning at the relief of tasting her sweet mouth again, dedicating several endless moments to reacquainting himself with their softness and shape, his tongue darting out to tease against hers just barely before he drew back.

“There,” he said, satisfied with the way her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had gone slightly glassy. “Now we’re done.”

Tormund hooted and gave a cheer, a hearty call echoed by the folk around them in the clearing.

“Now, get on your way, before one of you gets frostbit tryin’ to fuck in the snow.” Jon grimaced at Tormund’s rather coarse declaration, but Daenerys only laughed and winked at Jon in the cheeky manner he’d grown extremely accustomed to as of late.

“Tormund Gianstbane speaks truly, husband.” Jon decided he very much liked the way that sounded, brushing one more glancing caress of his lips on hers after she spoke, savoring the feel of her in his arms. “We’d best be off.”

----------

Drogon had been all too ready to be off, stamping himself about in the ice, talons leaving long scored lines in the snow as he fretted, restless until Jon and Daenerys had clambered aboard. Dany made it look like an effortless climb, scaling the back of the great black dragon, and from the way she clapped a hand over her mouth as he scrambled up, he had to assume he made it look a bit more difficult.

Gods, but this was a different flight than his prior one had been; Before, Jon had spent the long hours pointing out different landmarks as they passed, glad to tell her things she did not know, to see her as she took in sights that she had only ever read about, according to her.

And he had spent every last spare bit of willpower, on the journey to Eastwatch, making sure that while he held on close he did not hold her *too* closely. It was true they had been drawing ever closer to each other; Hells, he’d been achingly close to bedding her the night prior, there in her chambers at Dragonstone, but even so, he’d dug deep and fought to preserve at least a bit of his honor.

Jon smiled against her silver hair, now, closing his eyes and listening as the wind whistled past his ears. There was no spare inch of space between her back and his chest, now, his hips fitted tight against hers and his arms around her waist firmly as she gripped at the sharp, horned growths that sprung from Drogon’s back.

Up here, far above it all, with the horrors that haunted him receding by the minute, there was only the solid warmth of her in his arms. Up here, Jon felt as though anything were possible. He had never felt such raw power, the dragon’s body shuddering beneath them as his mighty wings beat and propelled them through the clouds, until they were up above the storm.

He was also more than a little aroused by it all, a situation only worsened when, every now and then, his newly-wedded wife would wiggle against him in a manner that suggested she knew exactly how much he was enjoying the journey. And just as soon as he would slide a hand to the curve of her hip, or begin to sneak a palm up to cup at the mound of her breast, Dany’s dragon would let loose with a low, warning grumble. She would turn, and give him a wicked little smile before turning her attention towards home, and he would let his own gaze wander to the ground far below, when it would peek through the hazy clouds.

He reckoned he ought to be afraid, at least a little, but he was not. Death had left him with a peculiar bent towards danger, and daring, and all he could feel atop this dragon’s back was an exhilarated joy.

Up here, mounted atop this magical creature, it was just the two of them and the wind and the sun, and they were free.

-------------

Night had fallen when they landed upon the cliffs at Dragonstone, Dany’s other scaled children calling out into the dark as though they had sensed their mother’s approach.

Jon supposed they had, for why should they not? Ghost had surely sensed that he came near, for as soon as he had climbed down from Drogon’s back there came a white streak heading straight for him, and it was all he could do to stay upright when his wolf finally set upon him, large paws draped upon Jon’s shoulders, bathing his face in frantic licks before the beast finally calmed himself.

He couldn’t help but scoff when Ghost approached the Queen with a much greater sense of decorum, but that might very well have been due to the way that Drogon stared at the smaller creature in most menacing fashion as the wolf licked gently at Dany’s outstretched fingers.

It certainly wasn’t the first time that Ghost’s sense of self-preservation had outweighed his own.

Daenerys paid no heed to her white furs as she knelt in the grass and set about to scratching at the wolf’s jaw, giggling when his leg began to thump rapidly, like some common hunting hound. “Greetings, my Lord,” the Queen trilled sweetly. “Have you been terribly lonesome since we have been gone?”

Ghost whined pitifully and Jon rolled his eyes. “Honestly, lad.” His wolf looked as though he might glare if he could, chuffing low before turning his red gaze back to Daenerys. “Get ahold of yourself.”

His new wife’s laughter dulled the tinge of embarrassment that crept upon him every time Ghost came near her and made it obvious as to Jon’s true feelings where she was concerned. Smiling broadly, her cheeks still rosy from the wind, she looped her arm through his and turned her eyes towards the darkened Keep, leaning her head against his shoulder briefly as they slowly walked together.

“I should think everyone has turned in for the night.” She sounded breathy and anticipatory, her gloved hand creeping down to lace their fingers together, leaning back just enough to swing their joined hands. “It would be a terrible inconvenience to wake our at advisors at such a late hour. We ought to wait until morning.”

When Jon looked down, she was biting her lip to keep from laughing, though she’d somehow managed a tone full of regret. “Yes,” he nodded in agreement, “it would be tremendously rude. Besides, we have other business to be attending to, this night.”

He tried not to sound to over-eager, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps some sense of self-doubt still lingered; though she had enthusiastically lain with him the night prior he still couldn’t shake this need to hold back, just a small bit. His heart had been lost to her at a pace that was terrifically unnerving, and years of preparing himself for rejection had left him on high alert for the merest hint of it now.

They began to ascend the stone steps, some of the Queen’s horselords heading their way, lit torches in hand, when she squeezed his hand, something very soft lurking in her eyes when she stopped him with a tug. “You ought to stop at your chambers, Jon.” She dropped his hand only to loop both arms around his neck and kissed him with an ardor that shook him, her teeth nipping at his lower lip before her tongue swept into his mouth to tangle with his. “We shall have your things brought to my rooms.”

A helpless laugh shook his chest as he let his hands fall to her back, his fingers rubbing a slow circle over the white fur, enchanted at the way she arched into his touch. “I’ve only got a trunk.”

“Good.” She leaned in close, rubbing the tip of her nose against his. “Then I shall see you soon, husband.”

----------

Jon had nearly made it to his quarters when he realized he was being followed.

It was one of the Dothraki that was always near Daenerys, and while he had initially wondered at their dedication to her protection, he welcomed such efforts now, not even wanting to glance upon the idea of her being harmed lest he get himself and the great wolf at his side riled up at the very notion.

So it was puzzling, really, that the man mirrored Jon’s steps, though he kept a healthy distance between himself and the pair that led the way. He let himself wonder, as he approached his door, whether he feared Ghost, Dany having already alluded to the somewhat superstitious nature of those that had followed her across the Narrow Sea.

He had worked amongst her men enough, down deep in the dragonglass caves, to pick up a somewhat rudimentary understanding of their language, but it certainly wasn’t enough to make him confident in starting a conversation with the stone-faced man, so he simply turned aside at the door and watched as the Dothraki warrior followed him in, barely smiling when the man gave his wolf a very wide berth.

The man said nothing, just stared at Jon, and after several beats the King realized Daenerys must have sent him to help with the gathering of his belongings, paltry as they were. He scanned the room, gathering up the scrolls littering the desk in the corner, and tossed them haphazardly into the trunk that contained the only clothes and personal possessions he’d brought to Dragonstone.

There was nothing else to take, save for the cloak he’d left behind, knowing it would be more trouble than it was worth high in the skies on the back of the Queen’s dragon, and he threw it over his shoulder, nodding down at the trunk and grasping one side, then looking to the silent man who stood waiting.

“Khaleesi,” Jon said, pointing with his free hand out the door, and the Dothraki nodded slightly, coming to the other side and taking up the grip on the other side of the wooden trunk.

Jon glanced back to make sure Ghost was following, and he didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes rested on him, examining him, the corners of his lips curling up knowingly as they labored. “Khaleesi waiting for you.”

“Aye,” Jon said, facing forward as an involuntarily smile claimed his own mouth, letting his feet carry him faster, towards his wife. It wouldn’t do to keep the Queen waiting.

-----------

Missandei stood waiting by the door to the Queen’s chambers, a room Jon had only been inside but twice, in search of the increasingly disappearing Ghost. He had not, since the wolf had come into his life, ever had occasion to be envious of the animal, save for wishing he could run as free as Ghost was able to, unencumbered by the burden and responsibilities that seemed to find Jon no matter where he found himself.

But when he’d happened upon his wolf sprawled happily at Dany’s side, her hands in his fur; When he’d entered the other night to find the wolf splayed upon her *bed*, of all places, he’d experienced an embarrassingly hot flush of jealousy that had strangely subsided once he’d had her in his arms, in the Keep at Eastwatch.

Now, looking askance at Ghost who stood panting in the hallway, he realized he’d been foolish.

But he also had no intention of sharing his Queen’s bed with the beast, so he pinned the wolf with a serious look, muttering, “You’re on the door tonight, lad,” before entering the chambers with the Dothraki man still trailing behind at the other end of his trunk.

Jon looked around as the two men set the trunk down against a far wall, near the wide windows carved out of the stone walls, open to the elements. He did not miss the man’s low exchange with Missandei as he made to leave, nor the way he looked Jon up and down once more before he turned to leave.

On a low table nearby there were several plates heaped with food, fruits and meats and cheeses that must have been hastily prepared once notice had been given of their arrival, and his stomach growled angrily as Jon tore his eyes away from the offerings to look back to the Queen’s lady.

“Her Grace is in her bathing chambers, just through there.” Missandei looked as solemn as she always did, but with every other word they would twitch as though she fought back a smile. “She asks that you join her.”

Jon nodded, turning in the direction Missandei had pointed and beginning to wonder if he ought to rid himself of his clothes first, wondering just when it was his luck had turned so dramatically, when the woman spoke again.

“I understand congratulations are in order, King in the North.” This time she smiled widely, golden eyes warm and kind as she spoke, and Jon could not help but return the gesture as he dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “My Queen is most pleased with this turn of events, and so I am pleased for you both.” Now, she made to leave, pulling the door closed behind her firmly, and Jon was finally alone.

He blew out a breath, looking down at himself and starting to unlace his jerkin as he tossed his cloak onto the trunk, his fingers making quick work of the bindings as he wandered to the food. Absently, he snagged several grapes, chewing as he pondered his next move.

Jon tugged his jerkin free, laying it atop his cloak, and slid out of his boots, leaving him in just his rather threadbare tunic and trousers. He neatly set the boots by his trunk, a wave of sudden nerves making his hands clench and his jaw tighten.

Ought he walk in there naked as his nameday? She wished for him to join her, that’s what Missandei had said, but whereas last night had been a flurry of finally-sated need, tonight was something different. Tonight he was meant to have her as his wife, and he couldn’t shake the notion that he was ever and always on a razor’s edge of fucking it all up.

He realized what it was, as he spied himself in her looking glass, his face a mask of tension. This was too many good things, happening in rapid succession, and his bastard’s mind had been long-conditioned to seeing his dreams and wants crushed beneath the bootheel of misery.

“Get yourself together,” he whispered to his reflection.

This would be different.

She had chosen him, just as he had chosen her, and he couldn’t allow his fear of what might happen destroy whatever happiness he could catch between his hands in the here and now.

He closed the distance to the door in several quick steps, and pushed it open.

------------

When those first enterprising Targaryens had fled to Westeros, and built this Keep, it seemed to Jon that they’d saved a few tricks for chambers such as these.

He’d never seen the like, certainly not in Winterfell. In Winterfell, if one desired a hot bath, it was in a copper tub, or a trip to the hot springs ‘neath the old castle.

But here, in this room, were porcelain basins set into stone, and mirrors hung along the same stretch of wall. Here, in this room, there were no cold metal tubs to be climbed into, for the Targaryens had carved themselves a square bathing pool near-larger than the grand, stately bed that awaited them.

Here, in this room, was Daenerys of House Targaryen, lounging in that bathing pool, steam rising and curling the loose hair around her face into silver tendrils, the rest of the silky length gathered and twisted atop her head, not a braid to be seen this night.

Her eyes were closed, but at the sound of him drawing near she opened them, lazily, her eyes gleaming with reflected lamplight, several of them spread out onto various surfaces and making the room glow orange save for the shafts of moonlight that filtered in through the narrow, slotted windows along one wall.

Rolling her head slowly to the side, her eyes tracked him, and there was no mistaking the hunger he saw there.

“Are you going to keep your eyes open this time?”

That was all it took, miraculously, to loosen the tightness in his chest, to let his worries slip away, to leave everything behind but this, and her, and what they might become together.

He laughed, full and loud, grinning with just a hint of cheek as he sauntered to the bath, enjoying the way she made no attempt to hide herself from him. She merely watched, pressing her lips together to fight her own laugh, attempting to look stern and failing miserably. “I am not sure my pride could recover from such treatment a second time, King in the North.”

Jon shucked off his shirt quickly, dropping a hand to the lacing of his trousers. “No,” he drawled, desire making his heart begin to pound in his ears, the hunger in the pit of his stomach eclipsed by the need to have her, now, especially after the hours of torturous teasing she’d embarked upon atop her dragon’s back. “I shall be keeping them wide open this evening, Dany.”

He gave himself over to the sheer delight of watching her as she didn’t bother to even meet his eyes, her lips quirking in a small smile before her tongue snaked out to wet them, her gaze trained solely on the progress of his hand as he finally worked the lacings loose..

“Good,” she whispered, raising her brows as she pushed away from the wall, water dripping from every curve as she came to a stop before him, rising to her knees in the tub, her wet hands rising to his hips and tugging at the fabric. His breath stuttered in his chest when she leaned forward suddenly and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin just below his navel, his blood rushing so swiftly to his cock that for a moment he worried he might truly embarrass himself and pass out there on the cold stone floor.

He wasn’t able to stop the full-throated moan that escaped when the silken skin of her cheek brushed against his stiff length, and he stepped back just far enough to give himself a moment to breathe and step out of his trousers before he let his hungry gaze return to his Queen.

*His* Queen, that’s what she was now, his lady wife, and perhaps in the morrow there would be many in her service who would say that a bastard King such as him had no right to wed himself to her.

But tonight, as he watched her push away, floating on the surface, every curve of her body wet and glistening, painted golden in candlelight, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

She was his, and he was going to take what was his.

He stepped into the water, wincing at the heat, returning her wicked smile as he settled below the surface, until just his head and shoulders remained above the gentle lapping.

Daenerys eyed him with heady desire, returning to her prior position, her back against the pool, one hand reaching to where a goblet of wine sat perched on the edge of the stone. Taking a sip, she gave him a heavy-lidded look, steam rising between them, and let her feet float to the surface. She stroke a foot up his chest, giggling when he caught it with his hands and placed a kiss to the tip of her toes.

“I must say, Jon Snow, you have a particular look in your eyes, this evening.” She licked the wine from her lips as he slid a hand up the wet skin of her calf, creeping nearer as his hands wandered up the length of her leg. “Am I to assume that unlike the last time we found ourselves in this position, you intend to do more than sit near me with your eyes on the ceiling?”

Her light laugh become full and hearty when he gripped a strong thigh in each hand and pulled her forward, water sloshing as she wrapped her arms around his neck, their bodies now flush together.

“I think,” he drawled, hands sliding up her spine as he dipped his head to sample the skin of her neck, “I shall be doing the things I wished to do, the last time we found ourselves in this position.” He punctuated the remark by suckling at the tender flesh at the hollow of her throat, eyes closing as she let out a lusty moan. “Before, I had my honor to think of, after all.”

“Mmmm.” Her own hands began to wander, one stroking at his shoulder and down his chest as the other slid down to clutch at his arse, nails digging into his flesh and making him groan as his cock began to throb, nestled against her cleft. “I certainly hope your honor has been tossed aside as your clothes have, *husband*.”

She rocked her hips against him, the slickness at her core not disguised by the heated waters swirling around them. “Again,” he growled, mouthing the lobe of her ear as his hands dropped to her hips to hold her still, thrusting against her in a poor imitation of what he truly wanted. Now that he’d had her, there was no going back, no possibility of living without the absolute bliss of being buried deep inside her, until they were nothing but writhing flesh in constant pursuit of pleasure.

But tonight, he would lay with her as her husband, and he wanted to draw it out, at least as long as he could.

And so, he relaxed his grip, hands on her shoulders urging her to turn around, and together he moved them until his back hit the stone, urging her to recline against him as she settled between his thighs, letting out a soft sigh as her head dropped back against his shoulder so she could peer up at him in the flickering light.

He could see the question there, but just winked, giving her another slow smile as he reached a hand up for the bar of soap and the linen cloth that sat upon a small dish within arm’s reach. As they both watched, he worked up a lather, until the cloth was thick with it, discarding the bar of soap and beginning to swipe the linen along her delicate collar bone.

“I told you,” he whispered, “I shall be doing all the things I wished to do before, *wife*.” She smiled indulgently as she realized what he meant to do, relaxing further against him as he soaped first one arm, then the other, lifting each limb to allow him easy access, occasionally nuzzling her nose against his throat and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the flesh there.

“Considerate,” she breathed against him, her humid breath taunting his sensitive flesh, then nipping him with her teeth as he let his soapy hands skate across her chest, just above her breasts, the linen creating a teasing barrier between his skin and hers.

He chuckled, low in his throat, working his way along the upper curves of her breasts as they bobbed enticingly in the water, pink, dusky nipples already stiff and begging for attention as he moved slowly lower. “Actually, it’s rather selfish, to be honest.” She raised her head to look at him, brows raised. “I thought an awful lot about this, you know. Alone, in my rooms. Probably too much, if I’m being especially forthright.”

Her gaze darkened, and she licked her lips again, tongue lingering before she turned her head back to watch his hands work, the linen cloth snagging on one hard, rosy point and making her sigh hungrily. “As did I,” she finally exhaled, her hands dipping down into the water to grip at his thighs, as though she meant to brace herself against the expected onslaught of his hands on her skin.

Jon ignored the burning want that threatened to consume him, that begged him to pull her from this bathing pool and drag her to that stately bed of hers and thrust his aching cock inside her, but only barely. He was not jesting; Ever since that night that seemed like forever ago, he’d tortured himself with fantasies of the most improper sort, of tossing aside whatever virtue he possessed and taking full advantage of the opportunity presented, usually working himself with his own hand frantically until he sat, panting and slightly ashamed, in his silent chambers.

The reality of her was so much better than his feeble imagination had been able to conjure up, and he tossed aside the cloth, tiring of teasing them both, wanting to feel her slippery flesh beneath his rough palms. He cupped one full, firm teat in each hand, kneading and learning the shape of her with a patience he hadn’t possessed the prior night, in his cold room at Eastwatch. It was only seconds until her head was thrown back, eyes pressed shut and white teeth worrying the full contour of her low lip as he began to lightly pinch and play and tug at the stiff peaks of her nipples.

“Jon,” she moaned, her hips beginning to twist and writhe against him, her nails pricking against his skin where she gripped him. “Don’t tease me.”

He leaned down, twisting his head to capture her lips, tongue stroking against hers, before sucking firmly on her plump lower lip. “I would never do that, my Queen.” Her only response to his heated, panting promise was to groan, as he plucked more firmly at her. “Have another sip of your wine.”

She cracked open her lids as his hand stilled, but complied, reaching for her goblet and taking a hearty swallow before she offered it to him.

Jon rinsed his hands, taking the proffered drink and letting the wine linger in his mouth before he swallowed. He was a man who enjoyed a nice, stout ale, to be sure, but he supposed there was something to be said for Arbor Gold, a much finer vintage than the wines they kept up North. When she returned her drink to it’s perch, she didn’t take up her previous position, instead sliding into his lap easily, a naughty smile twisting her lips as she let her cunt drag along the length of his near-throbbing cock.

“I think you have the right idea.” She reached for the soap herself, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she coated her hands in it, tracing her sudsy hands across his chest and along the length of his scars as she circled her hips slowly against his beneath the water’s surface. “There are several things I wanted to do, as well.”

Without warning, she reached between them, fisting him tightly, stroking him so achingly slowly that he thought his eyes would cross. “Dany,” he ground out, thrusting into her hand instinctually, each smooth slide aided by the water and the dissipating soap that coated her palm. “Now who’s teasing?”

She laughed, watching his face closely. “Not me,” she said, voice laden with promise. “Stand up, Jon.”

He checked his gaze to hers, wondering at the lustful amusement that flitted across her face as he eyed her suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

Daenerys grinned, blinking slowly, settling on her knees in the water as she gave him room to stand. “What I wish, Jon.”

He had his suspicions, and had no doubt they would run counter to his desire to take his time, but he complied, unable to resist giving her what she asked. He couldn’t fathom any man could deny her anything, especially the sight of her wet and willing, eyes tracking him hungrily as he finally stood, water coursing down his body it was revealed to her.

She lathered her hands again, her eyes solely on his cock as it bobbed between them, so close to her face her felt his face heat at the images that flashed into his mind.

Daenerys reached for him, with obvious intent, hands brushing against his hip bones and the dark line of hair that arrowed down towards where he was hard and yearning, her smile growing as she circled nearer and nearer to where he wanted her touch the most, eyes almost black as her own breath began to come more rapidly.

When she finally took him in her hand again, he moaned her name in relief, his hands falling to her shoulders to keep himself upright as he knees threatened to buckle. There was something intoxicating about it, about the sight of this Dragon Queen on her knees before him, her slick hand slipping along his length more teasingly now, her touch light and torturous as she worked him.

“If you don’t stop,” he began, a note of warning entering his pleading voice, but she only increased her pace, her focus narrowed between the sliding of his flushed cock in her hand and the way his face twisted in pleasure.

“Why?” She sounded so deceptively innocent, eyes wide, a slight pout on her lips.

He let out a harsh breath, trying to stop the way his hips forced his length more quickly into her slick grip, breath escaping him completely when her other hand raised and began to cup his stones.

“I want to be inside you,” he managed to stutter out, eyes slamming shut in pleasure as she began to trace slippery circles along his sensitive skin as she stroked him.

Her motions slowed, and she considered him for several ponderous seconds. “Yes,” she agreed, and she released him, dipping her hands into the water and cupping them, letting water sluice over him to wash the soap from his skin.

It was either the best suggestion he’d ever made, or the worst, because then, with no warning at all, she leaned forward, her full lips parting as she took his cock into her mouth.

Was he going to pass out? It was possible, he realized, and he fought to stay upright as he experienced the burning, wet bliss of an act he had not expected in the slightest. He felt her tongue stiffen and trail along the underside of his cock as she began to work more and more of his length with each bob of her head, and wondered how he’d gone his entire life without knowing something could feel as deliriously delicious as this.

In his rather limited experience, this was the sort of thing fine ladies did not do, and the sliver of propriety left inside him wanted to protest, that a woman like Daenerys need not perform such a task. But that protest was quickly swept away at the sight of his ruddy cock sliding from her lips, only to disappear again. His hands tightened on her shoulders, allowing her to do as she would, each suckling pull of her mouth on him only causing that burning, tingling need that settled in his groin and began to creep up his spine to begin to spiral out of control.

She began to couple her movements with her hand, sealing her lips to her closed fist as he groaned and keened, unable to stop the movements of his hips as he started to keep pace with her lovely mouth. “Fuck,” he groaned, back tightening and beginning to curve when she rolled her eyes upwards, watching him as she pleasured him, and it was almost too much to bear.

She released him with a loud, wet pop from her mouth, and he thought it a small mercy even as he mourned the loss of sensation, but she kept up the movement of her hand, stroking him from root to tip, bending to let her tongue take up her prior ministrations, licking and tracing her tongue along his stones, and he knew he was done for.

There was no fighting the crawling, itching blaze, his cock twitching in her hand as his stones began to tighten, and when she pulled one into the wet cavern of her mouth he let out a needy yelp, his heart racing and his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Dany,” he said forcefully, “I’m going to—”

Again, he was released from her mouth, and he saw her swollen, wet lips curve upwards as she gave him the most lascivious look he’d ever received, her tongue escaping to lick lewdly at the rounded head of his cock as her hand kept up the pace. “I want to taste you.”

He had no resolve left, not after those words fell upon his ears, and she gave him no opportunity to protest, taking him back into her mouth deeply, as though she meant to swallow him whole. He hung on, as best he could, wanting to savor each second of her ministrations, but then he was greeted by a sight that caused him to come completely undone.

The hand not circled around him crawled down her own body, until she reached the juncture of her thighs, and by the way he saw it begin to flex he knew precisely what she was doing. There was no holding back his release, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, as his hips began to jerk, as his seed began to spill into her mouth in hot bursts that made him see stars.

“Fuck,” he grunted, hands now grabbing onto her for dear life, as she swallowed him down, her every pleased moan vibrating against his shaft as she continued to work him, slowing and milking every drop from him before she finally set him free, her cheeks flushed and eyes full of an endless and depthless want that shook him to the marrow of his bones.

For a few moments there was only the chorus of their loud, rough exhalations, but as strength returned to his limbs he used his grasp on her to pull her up his body, taking the hand she’d used to toy with herself and slipping her fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of her clean from each digit as her cheeks flushed darker and her mouth hung open in want.

He didn’t bother with attempting to dry them off, the need to see her writhing in pleasure too great, and he stepped purposefully from the tub, picking her up at the waist and encouraging her to wrap her legs around his own as he took them both into her bedchambers.

She laughed as he tossed her onto the bed, crawling up after her as she lay back breathlessly on her feather pillows. “We’re going to get the bed all wet,” she chided playfully, even as she parted her smooth thighs for him, allowing him to slide her limbs over his shoulders.

“I’m sure we will,” he agreed meaningfully, quirking his brows at her before dropping his gaze to her glistening cunt, his thumbs parting her folds as he prepared to feast. “I wonder if you will scream for me tonight,” he mused aloud, looking up her body, past her flat stomach and the heaving peaks of her breasts, to find her raised up on her elbows and watching him with illicit challenge in her eyes.

“Do you worst,” she ordered, and he set to work.

Chapter Text

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The coming of the sun found them both exhausted, almost boneless, limbs tangled together and hair hopelessly disheveled. He had taken her as often as he could, finding an hour or two of sleep jointly before bodies would brush again, and they would take to claim each other with desperate hands and devouring mouths.

It was the calm before the storm, he knew, because her council awaited, and they brought far more news than would be expected.

Still, he thought, watching her as she slept, grinning at the light snore that escaped her parted lips, it was worth it. He couldn’t care about what would come next; There was too much that lay ahead, too many unknowns to fixate on, and he was well aware of his own capacity to brood himself into oblivion.

He had to change. He had to live, now, in the moment, and take what he could in both hands, grab onto the memories he could make with her in whatever time was left to them, or he would be the greatest fool that ever lived.

Jon ticked a finger along one sharp cheek bone, marveling at how delicately beautiful she was when she slumbered, knowing the power she commanded while she was awake.

But that wasn’t all she was. She had shown him the truth of her. She was strong, of that there was no doubt, and he found it made her all the more alluring to him. She didn’t require his protection, or constant vigilance, did not look to him as her savior, as so many did in the North. She had dragons, Old Gods preserve him. But he was hers, all the same, knew he would cast himself before a thousand swords to shield her from the blows.

It was a strange thing, to be wanted for himself, and it was something he reckoned might take some getting used to.

A knock sounded at the door, coupled with a feminine voice he knew belonged to Missandei. “Your Grace?”

Daenerys shifted, moaning sleepily as her hand searched blindly for him, even before her eyes opened. “Yes?” Her voice was groggy, still thick with sleep.

“Your advisors request your presence, at your leisure of course.” The Queen’s eyes flickered open, and she gave him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, leaning up to kiss him gently before responding.

“Let them know we will be there within the hour, Missandei.” He hated the way her lips twisted down regretfully, no doubt the reality that the world they’d created last night, in which only they existed, had been shattered, and the harsh morning light had brought with it the tasks that lay ahead.

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They made their way to her council chamber together, crossing the throne room with Ghost loping behind them, unsurprised to find everyone already gathered and awaiting their arrival.

A quick glance showed Jon their rather noisy activities of the night before had not gone unnoticed, as he took in Tyrion’s sour frown, Jorah Mormont’s rather angry glower, and the sharply curious gaze as Varys, in turn.

However, it was the way Davos was barely suppressing a happy grin that brought forth his own small smile. He shook his head slightly at the man, however, hoping he would take the hint and contain himself. Jon led Daenerys to her customary spot, missing her touch the moment she unlinked her arm from his, her woolen overcoat buttoned to the her throat this day in an attempt to hide the scattered bites he’d left on her neck and chest.

Of course, she’d delivered the same, his shoulder was deliciously sore at the place where she’d bitten down, hard, in the dark of night, as he’d fucked her with all his might. He shook away the memory, warning himself to focus on this meeting and not what he wanted to do to her, again and again.

He crossed to stand beside Davos, giving a dip of his chin to his Queen as she looked imperiously around the room, head held high, chin tipped up as she gazed at her advisors.

“Welcome back, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, something darker lurking beneath his deceptively placid tone. “We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival, and whatever news you bring.” His eyes travelled between Jon and Daenerys quickly, as though trying to pin down what had changed between the young rulers.

All eyes were on his Queen, and she let out a short, quick breath, spreading her hands on the table before her. “There is much to tell,” she said gravely. “Let us begin.”

Varys piped up, hands hidden beneath his voluminous robes. “What news from Eastwatch, Your Grace?”

Jon watched as her throat bobbed, as she closed her eyes, shoulder sagging for a moment before she straightened. “The King in the North has spoken truly, my Lords. The threat that faces us,” she shuddered visibly, eyes opened now and laced with fear, “it is real. And it is coming.”

The assemblage, as a whole, shifted uncomfortably, clearly displeased to hear these tidings.

“Does the Wall still stand?” This time it was Jorah, who continued to stare daggers at Jon.

“Aye,” Jon bit out, nodding. “For now. But I can make no promise that it will remain so, if we do not face what comes for us all.” He saw the man’s jaw work, as he mulled over Jon’s words.

“What did you see?” Tyrion’s more subdued question pulled all their gaze towards him, and Jon bit his tongue, knowing they were all far more likely to believe what Daenerys would say than anything that might fall from his tongue.

And as she explained, as she described what they had witnessed from the back of her dragon, her hushed tones only making the tale sound ever more sinister, he saw face after face become drawn and pale. The marching hordes of dead men, who did not sleep, or eat, led ever onward by the Night King, who meant to kill them all, somehow sounded far less fantastical when spoken by the one who had hatched dragons from stone.

“How many?” It was Jorah, again, who looked rather wan, despite the golden daylight streaming in.

“A hundred thousand, at least,” Daenerys answered, looking to him as though his stare alone might give her strength. “Perhaps more.” Jon nodded in agreement, trying to tell her with his eyes how much he loved her, how much he believed in her, that she alone could save them all.

She was trying so hard to be brave, he saw, but the slight tremble of her mouth did not escape him.

“So that’s it, then?” Tyrion rose, beginning to pace and sounding fully aggrieved. “We take all our forces North? Leave the South in my sister’s hands? What of your throne?”

Her eyes sharpened, and she frowned as she watched her Hand. “The only way to take the throne, in this face of this threat, would be to burn the Red Keep to the ground, Lord Hand.” She gave the man a humorless smile. “And if I recall, you have warned me against how such actions might be taken. If it is so important that the Iron Throne be claimed first, my Lord, I will rule over first ashes, then a graveyard.” She sniffed, delicately. “I would prefer neither.”

Tyrion’s eyes fell on him, then, heavy with accusation. “We cannot fight a war on two fronts. You understand, I hope, that even if we are to go North, my sister’s armies will simply attack us at our backs.” The small man made a disgusted sound, taking a wine skin from a low table and pulling heartily at it before he continued. “This will not do. There is still time to talk sense into Cersei, make her see reason, to take the Throne first.”

A flare of anger sparked, deep in his chest, and he strode forward before he could stop himself, only halting when he stood towering over Tyrion. “You understand, I hope,” he said, no small amount of menace in his voice, “that even if the throne is taken, I will not see your sister spared.”

It was surprise, then affront, that flickered across Tyrion’s face, and Jon wondered, not for the first time, where this man’s loyalties truly lay. Because Tyrion was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He had to know, as surely as Jon did, that so long as Cersei Lannister remained alive, she would be a threat to the Silver Queen they both served.

“Then I suppose,” Tyrion said slowly, “that it is a blessing I did not ask your opinion, King in the North. Matters to the South are not yours to decide.”

Jon gave him a hard stare, as the man smirked, taking another swig of wine.

“Watch yourself, Lord Hand,” came a deceptively soft voice. “You speak to my Husband, and I do not think I appreciate the tone you are taking.”

He saw it, then, in the way the man’s eyes bulged, the way he shifted from disbelief, to shock, to a flash of heartbroken rage. He’d suspected it, of course. He wasn’t sure there was a man in the room, at least any inclined toward the female form, that wasn’t in love with his Queen to some small degree. It was easy to see, in Ser Jorah, but he rather thought Tyrion fancied that he hid his own secret desires well.

But Jon saw, and he knew, that this might be a very dangerous situation, depending on what Tyrion chose now.

A broken heart could lead a man down a treacherous path, indeed.

“I see,” Tyrion finally said, flatly, saluting Jon half-heartedly with his wine skin. “I suppose congratulations are in order.” His eyes were like empty, cold, stone, flat and emotionless as he turned, with effort, to Daenerys. “And when did this happy event occur?”

“We were wed before the Old Gods, at the Heart Tree at Eastwatch,” Jon bit out, looking around the room and daring a soul to challenge him, or their Queen. Davos, at his side, let out a delighted laugh, clapping a hand heavily on Jon’s shoulder and squeezing heartily.

“Ah, well done, lad.” He, too, looked around the room, no doubting noting the lack of excitement from many of the other parties. “Never let it be said that the King in the North is not a man of action.” When the smuggler’s gaze landed on the Queen, he beamed. “And congratulations to you, my Queen. The North is all the better for it, Your Grace.” Davos bowed to her, as deeply as his old knees would allow, and Daenerys spared his Hand a genuine smile.

“Thank you, Ser Davos.” She spared Jon a long, lingering look, before turning her attention back to Tyrion. “The King in the North is correct, Tyrion. Your sister must answer for her crimes, and face justice for the horror she has inflicted on the people of Westeros.”

Tyrion’s face shuttered, and Jon saw him stare lingeringly at Varys, who remained blandly unaffected. “And is that your final word?” Tyrion swayed on his feet, and Jon wondered if the man was already drunk. “You’ve wed yourself off to a bastard King and now you will hear no other advice? You will make no effort to rise above such bloodshed?   You do not have to sink to my sister’s level. You must be better than her, show the people that you are not the same as all those who have come before.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, staring intently at her Hand, nostrils flaring slightly. “I am better than her, Tyrion. If I were not,” she said, in a voice of such deadly calm that even Jon could sense the barely concealed anger that surely coursed through her, “I would have already burned the Red Keep to the ground, with her inside. It would be a fitting end, after all the lives she took in the Sept of Baelor. And as for those who have come before me, I can assure you, that if Aegon and his sisters were here, now, they would not hesitate to use every weapon at their disposal. Need we run through the list of the Kingdoms they conquered, long ago, and just how they did so?”

She rounded the table, stalking to her Hand and ripping the wineskin from his hand. “See Lord Tyrion to his rooms,” she ordered sharply to the Dothraki guard at the door. “And see to it he sobers up before he rejoins us.” She repeated herself in the harsh Dothraki tongue, and Tyrion was swept out, flanked by guards, before he could so much as utter a peep in protest.

She turned on her heel, resuming her spot, eyes falling on Varys. “Watch him, Spider, for I do not trust that Lord Tyrion has the best interests of the people at heart.” She tilted her head, studying the man as he twisted his head to face her. “Do you?”

“As you command, Your Grace,” he smoothly replied, not answering her query, but neither did he disagree. He exited in a flurry of fabric, sparing a long, searching look at Jon before the door was closed behind him soundly.

“Now,” his wife said, the corners of her lips turning up just slightly as she glanced around the room. “Where were we?”

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It was three days later, as he stood on the cliffs above the shore, alone after Daenerys had flown off on Drogon to make a pass around the island, that Varys approached him.

“I have had an idea, Your Grace,” the Spider said, surprisingly respectful has he dipped his chin towards Jon. “And I wonder if you might give me your thoughts on it.”

Jon eyed the man, wondering why he would bring such to the King in the North and not the Queen he had sworn to serve. “Have you brought this to the Queen’s attention?”

Varys stared out at the sea, his face a mask of calm. “Not yet.” He looked askance at Jon, then cleared his throat. “I suspect she will be more agreeable to it than you are, and so I thought it best to ask the one who might protest the most.”

It made an odd sort of sense, he mused, and so he nodded, reluctantly, for the man to continue. “What sort of idea did you have in mind?”

Varys smiled serenely, his eyes on the horizon. “A way in which the Throne might be taken, before we wage war in the North. A way to spare the people of Westeros more suffering, a way to bring more people to your cause, with minimal bloodshed.”

His interest had been claimed, and he turned fully, facing the man. “Is that so? And does this plan involve sparing the one who currently sits that throne?”

Varys pivoted slowly as well, his hands escaping his robes to clasp together in front of him. “No, Your Grace. It certainly does not. In fact,” he said, airily, “I’m afraid for this plan to succeed Cersei must die. Probably Jaime Lannister as well,” he continued, gesturing in the air with a flick of his hands, “but those are the costs of peace, I should think.”

Jon had no inkling that he ought to trust this man, no more than he trusted Tyrion, or Jorah, or any of the other Westerosi who sat on the Queen’ council, ostensibly to advise her, but who seemed more set on telling a woman who commanded three grown dragons on what she should be doing. It made him grind his teeth angrily, whenever it occurred, but at the very least, he could say Varys engaged in such behavior less blatantly than the others.

Still, he was fully skeptical as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck, his cloak flapping in the wind. “And what, my Lord, are the other costs of peace, in your estimation?”

Varys gave him an examining stare, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Six moons, Your Grace. I believe what I envision shall cost six moons, and no more.” He pursed his lips, hands disappearing again. “Can your Wall of ice hold until then? Can the North?”

Jon huffed out an aggravated breath. “I don’t know, Varys. We’d be wise to hope it does.”

He wasn’t sure, not really. He’d already been gone from the North for nearly four moons, but then he’d allotted himself twelve at most, at least to secure as much dragon glass as he could, for his people. The distance between the Army of the Dead and the Wall was negligible, but even at their steady pace they were slow, and shambling. Perhaps it could be done, but he wouldn’t speak of it, not yet at least.

“Is it true, what they say about you?” There was a peculiar glint in the Spider’s eyes, as he asked his question.

“Many things are said of me, Spider, and most of them unkind. You’ll have to be more specific, I fear.”

That earned a slight chuckle, and the man’s eyes fell to his chest, his gambeson and the tunic below shielding his scars from curious stares. “That you died, Jon Snow, son of Eddard. That you died in the snows at Castle Black, and yet here you are, living and breathing, before me?”

He felt the piercing stare that accompanied the question as he cast his own eyes out to the sea, echoed shouts of betrayal ringing in his ears before he finally answered. “Aye.” He glanced over, to check the man’s reaction to his quiet admission, expecting disbelief but finding only quiet assurance, as though the Spider merely sought to confirm what he already knew. “It’s true. And how did you discover this? Your little birds?” He had heard enough tales of the spymaster to know his web was flung far and wide, ears around every corner.

Varys laughed at that, and shook his head. “I fear your Hand has a rather loose tongue when he is well into his cups.” His laughter died away, his face falling serious again. “Good,” he said, nodding. “That will help.”

Jon felt his brow furrow, his curiosity overriding his natural suspicion. “Help with what?”

Varys let out a slow, measured breath. “If it is the Seven Kingdoms you wish to win, and you wish to hold them, then it is not the Great Houses that must be won.” He shook his head, grimacing. “Those you must force to your will, by sword or dragonfire, whichever you prefer. For there is where the power resides, and they will not give it up easily.” He sighed. “They never do.”

That much, they could agree on, Jon supposed, and he nodded in assent. “If they’re smart, they’ll bend the knee.”

Varys rolled his eyes. “I think you know how desperately stupid most of them are. But no,” he continued, a hand emerging from his robes, a finger wagging in the air, “they can be subdued easily enough, through a variety of means. It is the people you must draw to your side. With their support, the nobility will have little choice but to obey. It is the people you must win, and quickly. And more than anything, King in the North, the people love a grand tale, to cast their lot behind. They want to be a part of history, to say they lived in an age of greatness. They want to be on the right side of it. Dragons might be enough to woo them, or perhaps a great white wolf,” he said dryly, “but I had something a bit more fantastical in mind.”

Jon had never been the best pupil, and had given the Maester at Winterfell enough trouble in his earlier years to be getting on with, but he wasn’t thick-headed, and he wasn’t a fool. He could see, in an instant, where this was headed, an odd, accepting dread settling in the pit of his gut.

“Perhaps,” he said with consternation, “you want to spin them a tale of the girl who walked through fire, and hatched dragons from stone, and the man who was returned from the dead. Do I have the measure of it?”

Varys seemed oddly pleased, giving him what looked, on the surface at least, to be a genuine smile. “You know,” he drawled, “I suspect a great many people have underestimated you. You aren’t nearly so dull-minded as you look.” With a sidelong look, he muttered, “I do plan on throwing in the dragons and the direwolf, as well. People love that sort of thing, as well, especially the children.”

Jon clucked a tongue under his breath, looking away in irritation. “Be that as it may, it still doesn’t explain how you intend to depose Cersei, in six moons time. Enchanting the people of the Crownlands will not be enough to see her removed.”

Varys just stared at him, shifting on his feet. “The tales are to inspire them, to make them wish to be part of something greater than themselves, to yearn to follow a King and Queen who are more than the ones they’ve suffered under for far too long.” He squinted at Jon, in the midday sun. “We will arm them, and feed them, make them understand that they are being cared for by rulers who wish them to suffer no more. In secret, of course. Anything discovered will be immediately seized by the Crown. Cersei will not suffer her people to prosper when she does not.”

It wasn’t, Jon could admit, the worst plan he’d ever heard, though the logistics of such an undertaking were rather staggering. “How do you see us accomplishing this. It sounds nearly impossible.”

“I shall need your Hand’s assistance, I think, for we shall be doing quite a bit of smuggling in the very near future. We can obtain supplies from Meereen, of course, where our Queen is still the acknowledged ruler, and with what we have salvaged from what remains of Highgarden.” There was a pause, a tension rising, before Varys spoke again. “Tyrion must accompany us to the Red Keep. He must convince Jaime to allow us an audience with Cersei, under the guise of persuading her to set aside this war for a greater cause. The War to the North, against the Army of the Dead.”

Jon remembered this part; Tyrion had proposed just such a thing, suggesting they bring a white walker to the Red Keep as proof. “We haven’t got anything to offer as proof, though.”

Varys cocked his head. “We aren’t going to convince Cersei of anything. We propose a meeting, between the Lannisters and Your Graces, in six moon’s time. By then, I will be have been able to ensure the people are being fed, and clothed, instead of starved and dying in the streets, as they are now. And we will arm them, with whatever we can manage. Do you see, now? You will inspire them, yes, but not just to serve you. The exiled Queen and the bastard King, who have known their own suffering, coming to deliver them, it is true. But you will be coming to show them that they may fight for themselves, at last. You cannot take the city without her Graces’s forces inside those walls, and even I cannot manage to bring in the number necessary. The only way to take it, once and for all, is for the people themselves to do it.”

Jon rolled it around in his head. It was true, he preferred not to lie, but those were the misgivings of a green boy who still labored under the impression that the world would adhere to his sense of honor.

And that boy had died, his blood staining the snow red.

It might work, this half-baked scheme of the Spider’s. It was possible, he thought, if he were to agree to halt the journey North, to allow a bit more time.

And, he realized, those who could fight, those who were willing to fight, were sorely needed. His own forces had been greatly decreased in the fight to take Winterfell. He would need every able-bodied hand with a sword or dagger firmly in it, in the fight to come.

All it would cost, he thought, was a bit more time. That, and the sort of tall tale that Davos loved but made him duck his head, embarrassed. The days in which his life was his own were gone, along with his privacy.

He thought of Daenerys, no doubt searching the waters high above them on the back of her dragon, of all that she had suffered, to come this far. As he did, he realized it was a rather easy decision to make.

He nodded, haltingly. “Firm up these plans, my Lord. Real numbers, and a real timetable, along with everything we shall need. And,” he cautioned, as the man’s eyes met his, “tell Tyrion only what he needs to know to complete his task, when the times comes. I do not trust that he will still his tongue, if it means his brother and sister might be spared. It is a chance we cannot take, if we are to see this through.”

Varys seemed rather tickled, smiling widely at him now. “Do you know, Jon Snow, I rather think I like you.”

Jon frowned. “I’m afraid I cannot say the same, my Lord.” He heard a screech above, and craned his neck to see Drogon, little more than a black speck in the sky but approaching fast. “Be ready to present this to the Queen tomorrow.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man replied, and with a smooth bow he was gone, scurrying back to the Keep, pale yellow robes flapping in the breeze.

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The three of them sat, a day later, around her Painted Table, Daenerys looking completely flummoxed as she cast wide eyes between the two men. He could’ve knocked her over with a feather, he thought, a little amused that she seemed so surprised.

Her gaze landed solidly on him, and he just stared back, until she finally responded. “Jon…,” she started, then stopped, elegant brows creased in consternation, “I swore my forces to fight the greater threat in the North. I would keep my word, Husband. This is not necessary.” She frowned slightly at him, and he couldn’t shake the notion that she was chastising him. “The Iron Throne can wait.”

It didn’t sit well with him, and it hadn’t for some time, what he was really asking of her. His focus had been so singular, when he’d first come to ask for her help. Convince her of the threat, secure her aid, those had been his only goals.

But the more he’d come to know her, the more he’d realized how very narrow his world had been. The threat was still there, of course. But what he was asking seemed all the more monumental, now that he knew all that she had suffered, and sacrificed, for her own goals. She wanted what had been taken from her family, wanted to create something new from the wreckage of her House, and this he understood. Had he not done the same? He was not even a Stark, at least in name, but the reclamation of Winterfell had been important to him, outside of the need to unite the North against the fight to come.

He knew she longed for home, a true home, just as he had. And that dream would not be fully realized until she had taken back what had been lost.

Jon sighed, reaching for her hand, folding their fingers together and raising her palm to his lips. “Your Hand made a good point, my Queen. Tyrion is right; We cannot fight a war on two fronts. And while I would prefer to move now, there is merit to the plan that Varys presents. In six moons, my men and yours can secure enough dragon glass to outfit all our forces.” He held her eyes with his, marveling as ever at the way the light played in those amethyst depths. “I am asking everything of you. I know this.” His lips flattened, fear stirring his gut at the thought of the risks they would take, when they did finally move to the North. “I want this for you. You deserve it. And so do all those who suffer under Cersei’s rule. They deserve to be free.”

Her eyes searched his for a very long time, fingers flexing in his grasp. “And, no doubt, those who can fight will be free to aid our more pressing cause, beyond your ice Wall.”

Jon nodded, unabashedly. “Yes.”

Her gaze shifted to Varys, and her visage did as well, becoming cool and calculated. “In your assessment, what are the odds that this plan of yours will succeed?”

Varys was unfazed as her assessing stare. “Barring any unforeseen complications,” he imparted confidently, flicking away an invisible fleck of dust from his sleeve, “I am confident of our complete success.”

Daenerys looked then to the Painted Table, eyes travelling every hill and valley, every mountain peak and ambling river. “I cannot forget what I have seen. I cannot forget what is coming for us, all of us.” She let out a shuddering breath, reaching a hand to trace lovingly along the shape of Dragonstone’s shores. “But we do need every able-bodied fighter, we need the people of Westeros to fight for themselves. I suppose, Varys, that we shall see if they are willing to.” Her lips pressed tight together for a moment, and then she heaved out a heavy breath. “Begin your preparations. Discreetly.”

Varys smiled thinly. “Naturally, Your Grace.”

The man rose to leave, gliding silently across the floor, but paused by the door when Daenerys called out to him.

“Varys.” He turned, facing the King and Queen again. “Remember my warning to you.”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes, and he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. I will keep my promise.”

Silence fell, after the Spider’s departure, until Jon’s curiosity finally got the better of him. “What was your warning?”

His new wife leaned back in her seat, suddenly looking drained and exhausted. “So many in my host have betrayed me, Jon. And I have forgiven those slights, as best I can. But Varys has already tried to end my life, once. I told him,” she continued, eyes closing as she slumped in her seat, “that if he betrayed me again, I would burn him alive.” Her eyes cracked open, slightly, and she peered at him. “I saw it, then, in all their faces: I suspect they are merely waiting for madness to rise within me, just like my father.”

A part of Jon wished no more than to summon Varys back before them, and take his head with one great swing of the sword strapped to his waist. The other, the winning desire, won out, and he took her hand again, wondering at her trust in him. She looked so vulnerable, just then, perhaps awaiting his judgment at the threat she’d made, probably wondering if he shared the thoughts of the others.

“We are not guilty of our father’s sins, Dany. Neither of us.” He stood, not releasing her hand, coming to stand beside her and cupping her jaw with his palm. “And even now my hand itches to skin my steel and take the Spider’s life before he can betray you again.”

She craned her head to look at him, so delicate and sad that he wanted to take her away, from all of it, to escape from the burdens that weighed them down and run to the farthest corner of the world, where none could ever harm her again. “I’m so weary of fighting, Jon.” She nuzzled into his hand, leaning her cheek into his light caress and closing her eyes. “Do you ever tire of it? Always ready for the next betrayal? Always wondering who you can truly trust?”

Jon knelt, his leathers groaning as he settled at her side, their faces level. “Every bloody day. I feel like it’s all I’ve done, my whole life.” His lips drifted to her forehead, then to the each of her closed lids, then the tip of her nose, which made her smile in spite of herself. Lashes fluttered and then he was held captive by her stare, inwardly pleased to see her sadness beginning to fade, replaced by love that grew deeper by the day. “But I will fight for you, forever, and be glad to do it. You are mine.” He whispered, now, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “And I will not lose you.” Steel laced his voice, full of deadly promise. “I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”

It was so baldly honest that for a moment he felt a flicker of shame. But he understood, as he never had before, how powerfully he had come to feel for her. The thought of being without her filled him with such fury that he wondered what atrocities he might be capable of, if the beast within him were to ever be unleashed. He wondered if he ought to have held his tongue, if the violent declaration would make her shy away from him.

But she smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds, the last of her weariness falling away as her eyes shined at him. “I love you, too,” she whispered, and leaned forward, kissing him in a far less chaste manner than his had been. She kissed him again, and again, small hands gripping the neck of his gambeson to pull him ever closer, her tongue slipping between his lips to taste him, and making him groan, despite the way his knees began to ache from the hard stone.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, cheeks ruddy with excitement, she looked to the Painted Table before her. “Pick one,” she said, pushing back, her chair scraping the floor as she stood. She crossed to the door before he could respond, giving a command to her Dothraki guards before shutting them away and throwing the bolt.

“Pick one what?” Desire had clouded his mind, which continued to amaze him, how quickly she could rouse this hunger in him, no matter how many times he’d had her. It was like a spark to kindling, igniting him quickly and furiously.

She laughed under her breath, fingers already unfastening her coat. “A Kingdom.”

Jon looked from the Table to his wife. “Why?” She shrugged out of her coat, now just in a thin tunic and woolen trousers, nimbly stepping out of her boots and hopping up easily onto the tabletop, gesturing grandly to the assorted representations of each Kingdom.

“To fuck me on, of course.” His brows shot up, but his hands knew what to do, before she was even done speaking. He hastily removed his outer layers, fully hard now as he stepped up to the table, smiling a bit deviously as she spread her thighs to accommodate him.

He remembered being in a similar situation with her, before she set out to ambush the Lannister wagons laden with loot from her allies in Highgarden. He had not dared to be so bold then, but he had not been able to stop himself from playing their little game, from stealing the sort of kiss he’d wanted from her, in case the worst should happen.

He’d be the worst sort of liar if he tried to pretend he hadn’t imagined taking things much, much further that night, in his chamber. He already had an answer to her question, had already considered it, when he’d pictured doing just what she was asking, on several distinct occasions.

Now, he could have that and more, and he put his hands on the table, just brushing against her hips, boxing her in as he brought his lips to hover just above hers. “I think,” he whispered, his mouth brushing against hers, their breath mingling as their eyes locked together, “I want to fuck you on the Riverlands.”

She smiled against his lips. “Excellent choice.” She pulled away from him, just far enough to strip off her tunic, almost preening under his hungry stare as she leaned back, gesturing to the trousers she still wore. “But if you meant to conquer me, you’ll have to work for it.”

Jon had never really thought of himself, that way, but he reckoned there was a part of him that liked it, perhaps more than he’d ever admit out loud. He tugged at her breeches, pulling off her boots and throwing them to the floor as she lifted her hips so that he might lay her bare.

Nothing else mattered, right now, than conquering and being conquered in turn. He gave her a wolfish grin, and stripped his own tunic off, only to pull her fully upright and flush to him, his still covered erection brushing against folds so slick he could feel her dampening his trousers. “As you wish, my Queen.”

----------

A fortnight later, their plans were fully underway, and Jon stood beside his Queen as their advisors readied themselves to depart.

Davos would take one of the Targaryen ships, a smaller vessel which would fly a different set of sails, and smuggle their party into the capitol, while seeing to several tasks that had been set before him. Varys and Tyrion, as well, would each see to their assigned duty, though only Tyrion remained ignorant to the full scale of what they had planned.

An uneasy truce had been called, the animosity of his Queen’s Hand diminishing as planning had become priority, and Tyrion had managed to return to his usual, caustic humor, restraining whatever turmoil roiled within him when it came to Jon and the marriage accord that had been reached between the Northern King and the Targaryen Heir.

“Well,” Tyrion said, standing before them, palpably nervous. “Do wish me luck. If the Gods smile upon us all,” he continued dramatically, a somber smile on his face, “then I shall return in full possession of all my limbs. If not, well, send my regards to the King’s Landing brothels, won’t you?”

Daenerys smiled. “Let us all hope you keep your head, Lord Hand.” She accepted his bow with a gracious dip of her chin.

Jon extended his hand, grasping the man’s forearm and waiting for him to do the same. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Tyrion.”

Tyrion swallowed thickly, eyes shuttering at Jon’s words. “You as well,” he said, seriously, his earlier jesting tone falling away. “We cannot afford to lose you,” he said, more to Daenerys than to Jon, but the King in the North took little offense. “Take care beyond the Wall. I shall pray for your success.”

A yell sounded, and Tyrion turned seeing that those departing were ready to board the small dinghies that sat upon the sandy shore. “Until we meet again, Your Graces.” He bowed, once more, quickly, and was off, leaving Jon and Daenerys to watch quietly until they could no longer make out the faces of the men rowing their way to the ship that lay in wait.

“Do you regret our deception?” She asked it as easily as she might ask what he wanted when breaking their fast, but he could hear the doubt in her voice, the reassurance she sought that they were doing the right thing.

They weren’t going beyond the Wall.

They were going to Meereen, on Dany’s dragon, by the time the moon turned again, but it was a truth Tyrion did not need to know. He needed to believe they were delivering proof for the summit of warring rulers, if he was going to convince his brother and sister to agree to their terms.

“No,” Jon said firmly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “We must be careful now, with who we trust. Perhaps Tyrion shall prove he deserves it, but not yet.”

She gave him a half-smile, her eyes still on the crashing waves, but he felt her arm snake around his waist to return his embrace. “I trust you,” she said quietly, but she did not look at him. “My mind tells me how foolish it is, that our time together has been so short, really, and yet,” she shrugged against him, “I fear there is little to be done for it. The heart wants what it wants.”

“I would rather fling myself off that cliff yonder,” he poked his head to the craggy stone edge high above, “a thousand times over, than betray you. I swore an oath to you, before my Gods, Dany. And I keep my oats, no matter the cost.”

Her other hand came to rest on his chest, just above the scars that covered his heart. “I know,” she said simply, and lay her head against his shoulder. “I’m just afraid.”

Jon frowned slightly, studying her profile as she kept her head turned forward. “Why?”

There were many reasons to fear, he knew, but it consumed him, this desire to know what troubled her.

“I have given you such power over me. I have never loved another as I love you.” Ghost came trotting up to their side, and finally she looked away from the sea, scratching fondly at his wolf’s muzzle. “Good morning, sweet boy.” Ghost whined and pushed his head further into his hand, making Jon chuckle.

“He is not very subtle, is he?” He watched her with his wolf, wondering how he’d ever lived without her, without this feeling of wholeness that he’d so recently discovered. He’d been so alone, his whole life, that it was a precious thing, what they were forging together.

“Just like his master,” she jested, finally meeting his eyes with a tiny grin.

Jon pretended to pout, just for a moment, watching her smile grow in response. Then he took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him fully, and tucked his finger under her chin. “You are mine, and I am yours, and that’s just all there is to it,” he said firmly. “Fuck everyone else.” He saw her eyes grow wet, but he pressed on, hoping that for all his lack of flowery language, she would know he spoke true. “You have me, now and always. No matter what happens after this.”

Lip caught with her teeth, she stared up at him, a tear escaping as she let out a watery sigh. “I’m glad you came to Dragonstone, Jon Snow.”

He grinned. “Aye, me too.” He sidled closer as he wrapped his arms around her loosely, swaying a bit in the sand. “All those years of celibacy were really starting to set my teeth on edge.”

Finally, she laughed, with her whole chest, face scrunching in a manner he found absolutely enchanting, her head tossed back at his jape. “You have truly fooled everyone, husband.” She pressed closer, the chain slung across her chest digging into the leather across his. “They think you are so serious and brooding,” she whispered loudly, as though imparting some great secret, “but I know better. You are a very silly man, all things considered.”

He smirked, his eyes shooting to the sea, an idea forming as he saw the sails rise in the distance. “Do you suppose they’re far enough away that they wouldn’t notice, if I took you right here?”

At his naughty suggestion her brows raised, desire flaring to life in her eyes. She made a show of considering, looking between him and the ship in the distance. “Only one way to find out.”

-----------

It was hardly a week later that her Unsullied forces returned from Casterly Rock, which Jon soon realized was a cause for great celebration, most especially for Missandei of Naath.

He hadn’t realized the extent of the woman’s attachment to the Unsullied Captain, Grey Worm, though Daenerys had attempted to explain it several times.

But he could see, the moment he saw them together, what it was that bound them so tightly to each other.

He knew enough to love to know it when he saw it.

A great feast was held, a loud and boisterous affair, the first Jon could remember in which he ever had a place of honor, at the head table. It was perhaps the first time, since his people had placed the heavy burden upon him, that he felt like a King.

He was mindful not to drink to excess, the keen stares of the soldiers who had newly arrived trained on him as he sat beside their Queen, who was in excellent spirits at the return of her forces. She gripped his hand, under the table, and placed a resounding kiss on his cheek, grinning at the cheer that rose up from the tables below.

“Today is a very happy day, Jon Snow. Even you have managed to keep your frowning to a minimum.”

He scoffed lightly, holding her hand tight to his thigh, just above his knee, knowing she was far enough into her cups that her hand would soon grow idle and start exploring.

He didn’t think ordering everyone from the room and having his way with her on this grand table was the first impression he ought to make.

“Indeed, I have. Perhaps you have been a good influence on me.” He returned her smile with one of his own, letting his gaze travel around the room, his gladness ebbing as he spied Theon standing at the perimeter.

She must’ve seen the direction of his stare, for she nudged him with her shoulder, lips drifting to his ear. “You should make your peace with him, my love.” He knew she was not ordering him. He had come to realize, with each day that passed, that she simply did not like to see him troubled, just as he disliked any sign of unhappiness in her. “We must share the field of battle, after all.”

Jon sighed, reaching for his wine, belly full and mind weary at the prospect. “I know.” He peered at her from the corner of his eye. “His betrayal cuts especially deep. It is hard to look upon him without remembering what he did.”

Daenerys caught his chin with her hand, her fingers gentle as she turned his face towards hers. “I know,” she echoed, “I understand.” She tilted her head at him, eyes full of compassion. “But we cannot change the past.”

For several beats, they just looked upon each other, in silence, and then he leaned in an pecked a kiss to the tip of her nose. “You’re right. I shall speak with him before we depart for Meereen.”

With a winsome smile, she relaxed against the seat back. “Are you ready to be on dragonback again?”

Jon nodded heartily, the notion causing excitement to stir within him. It was the stuff of dreams, really, his greatest childhood fantasies realized, and he feared she had ruined horseback for him completely, now that he knew what it was to fly. “Very.”

With a look over the back of his seat, he let out a playful groan, seeing Ghost’s massive body pressed right behind the legs of their chairs. His wolf’s attachment had only grown, when it came to Daenerys, just as Jon’s did, and it was more likely, now, that the beast would trail after his bride than be seen shadowing his master.

Jon didn’t mind in the least. It gave him a sense of peace, that his wolf would guard her when he must be away from her.

“That poor animal is going to be beside himself, while we’re gone.” Daenerys let out a sad noise, a little coo that perked Ghost’s ears and brought that red stare upon them both.

“Oh, my poor sweetling.” She rose as best she could, not able to stand clear until Ghost shifted away a bit, and knelt there on the floor, stroking along his ears. “Missandei shall give you all the treats you wish, while I am gone.”

Jon grunted into his wine. “You’re going to make him fat and lazy.”

“Jon!” She looked at him, aghast, trying to cover the furry triangles of the wolf’s ears with her hands. “He can hear you!” She cooed lovingly as Ghost gave a low whine. “Don’t you listen to him, my darling. I’m sure you shall be quite deadly when it is time to make war. Won’t you?”

Ghost licked at her face in answer, giving Jon a look so offended that he wondered again, for the millionth time, just how much the beast really understood. He was no mere wolf, after all. They were joined, bonded, by some old magic he didn’t quite understand, but in the moment he seemed to be doing his bloody best to make a fool of himself over Jon’s new wife.

He didn’t care, in truth. It made her so endlessly happy, that he had no desire to correct his beast, to send him out to hunt for sea birds instead of lolling around and showing the Dragon Queen his stomach like a house hound.

“Aye, he’ll be right there in the thick of it, with me, won’t you boy?”

Ghost panted, his tongue lolling out, affection returning to his ruby eyes as he looked at Jon.

“Good boy,” Dany whispered, then straightened, smoothing out the skirts of the gown she’d worn this night and extending a hand to him. “Let us leave them to their celebrations. I am feeling rather tired,” she said, louder, feigning a yawn as she gave him a pointed stare.

He scrambled to his feet, knowing where the night would end, ready to strip that blue sapphire silk from her lovely body, to make another memory he might cling to when these peaceful days had left them.

----------

Meereen was bloody hot.

If the Seven Hells existed, Jon thought this must be one of them, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he climbed down Drogon’s scaled body.

They’d landed atop a building, in the heart of the city, that Daenerys had called a pyramid. Jon had never seen it’s like before, staring about in wonder at the view such lofty, still heights provided. It was almost as though they were still mounted on the great black dragon, who took off with a screech, no doubt to scrounge up something to dine on out at sea.

He was glad he’d left his furs behind, but now wished he’d left his many layers as well, and his face grew pinched when Daenerys pinned him with a knowing look.

“I told you a tunic would suffice, husband.”

He tugged at his collar, giving in and beginning to unlace the gambeson. “That you did. Perhaps if you’d told me Meereen was *extremely fucking hot*,” she giggled her eyes on him as he shed his outer layer, “I’d have been better prepared.”

“Oh, Jon,” she said, her eyes wide and innocent, “I would never use such coarse language.”

He snorted, laying the leather aside and stretching his limbs in the sweltering heat. “You are a terrible liar.” He grinned as she crept close, her wicked fingers scratching through his beard and trailing down his neck. “Looking to shed some more clothing?” He dipped the tip of one finger along the neckline of her gown, a sinful creation of white silk that had made his eyes bulge ridiculously when he’d first seen it that morning. He understood, now, the need for bare shoulders, but Gods help him, a small part of the greedy beast inside him wanted to hide her away, so that none could look upon her beauty. When he reached the place where the material crossed itself, just between her breasts, she shuddered. “I’ve several ideas on where to start.”

She laughed, swatting at his hand, at odds with the hungry promise in her eyes. “Later,” she breathed, folding her fingers around his, “I shall have you in this very room, and the entire city will hear how well you please me.”

He pushed his hips against hers, grabbing her and holding her close as he dropped his lips to hers. “Aye, that they will,” he growled, letting his mouth roam to her neck and biting gently as she shrieked and laughed.

“You beast,” she moaned, and he was very close to ripping that dress from her body when a voice sounded near the open doorway.

“The Dragon Queen has returned!” His wife started in his arms, head twisting away from him to find the source of the proclamation, and so Jon did as well, taking in the sight of an armed man who swaggered in, watching the pair with keen, interested eyes.

Jon hated him immediately.

He hated the way the man’s eyes roamed Dany’s body, he hated the little smirk that danced upon the man’s lips, and he especially hated the dismissive glance the man tossed his way.

“Daario,” Daenerys drawled, looking back to Jon for a moment to roll her eyes and give him a regretful smile. “We’ll continue this later, my love,” she whispered to Jon, before pulling free and turning fully to face their guest.

“My Queen,” Daario said, sweeping low in such a dramatic, silly bow that Jon wanted to know the feel of the man’s face against his fist. He knew exactly who this man was, now, and there was a petty part of him that wanted to pull Longclaw free and take the man’s head merely for existing. “And I see you have brought company.”

His eyes flicked over Jon with distaste, the man’s jealousy suddenly clear, and Jon gave their visitor a slow, menacing smile.

“This is my husband,” Dany said smoothly, a hand on Jon’s shoulder as introductions were made, “The King in the North, Jon Snow.” It came again, that look of all-consuming spite that crossed the man’s features as he looked at Jon, a vengeful glint in his eye as he nodded slowly and studied Jon with new eyes.

“Snow?” He tilted his head, face twisting in a pretend confusion that told Jon what would follow next. “Isn’t that a bastard’s name?”

That old slight, that familiar sting that Jon was waiting for, never came. This was something to ponder, later, he thought, but for now he gave in to the amusement that rose within him, and chuckled, taking Dany’s hand from his shoulder and kissing her open palm before addressing the sellsword.

“Oh, aye,” he agreed, “A bastard’s name, but a King all the same.” He raised a brow and made a show of giving the man a thorough sizing up, then smirked. He had seen plenty of fools like this man, drunk on their own imagined greatness, and had killed a fair few, as well. But there were not here for bloodshed, and so, with a calming breath, he dug deep for the properness that he hoped lived somewhere within.

With a dip of his chin, he nodded towards the man. “You are Daario Naharis.”

“Ah,” the man replied, smiling a bit smugly towards the Queen, “I see my reputation proceeds me. So,” he continued, clearly speaking more towards Daenerys than Jon, “You have told this young husband of yours of my prowess.” He let the words hang in the air, then smirked. “On the battlefield, of course.”

Jon could only see his wife’s face in profile, but her censorious scowl was clear enough. “My husband has indeed been informed that I have placed my trust in you, that I have given you a place of great honor, in tending to my affair in this city.” When she turned her head, and looked Jon fully in the face, he saw something startling in those liquid depths: anger. He realized, at once, that she hadn’t cared for the way the man had attempted to insult Jon, clearly unaware that it was an old taunt, one that carried little hurt for him anymore, most especially not now that the most beautiful, powerful woman in the world stood at his side, shared his life, his wars, his bed.

But oh, she was a marvel in her displeasure, eyes glowing as she looked back to the sellsword. “As for your prowess in *other* areas, Daario Naharis, I fear I have not spoken at all. Best not to ruin a man’s reputation before introductions can be made, wouldn’t you say?”

The insult landed squarely, and the man straightened, his braggadocious manner falling away. “Oh,” he winced, “You wound me, your Grace.”

Daenerys frowned. “Gather my council, for I have much to plan for and very little time to do it in.”

Her tone brooked no disagreement, and though the man’s face soured, as though he’d bitten into a bitter lemon, he complied, giving a jerking nod of hid head and sweeping out of the room without another word.

His new wife sighed, turning on her heel to press against his chest and wrap her arms around his neck.

Jon settled into her embrace, hands sweeping down the warm skin of her bare back as he chuckled. “Do you know, I believe you’ve injured his pride.”

She clucked her tongue, toying with the hair at his nape that had escaped the leather that bound it, no doubt tugged free by the winds that had assailed them both atop her dragon. “I’m quite certain he will survive.” She let out a breath, staring up at him beguilingly. “He his a wicked tongue, and he insults me by speaking to my husband in such a manner.”

Jon let out a bark of laughter. “I fear you have accused me of the same.”

One slender brow raised, and hunger flared to life anew in her gaze. “Yes,” she agreed readily, then leaned in close, capturing the swell of his lower lip between her own and suckling lightly. She knew it drove him mad, when she did that, and a small groan escaped him before it could be stopped. “But your wicked tongue is put to much greater use.”

The images she conjured enflamed him, despite the knowledge that they might be interrupted at any moment, and he brought his mouth to hers forcefully, spearing his tongue between her lips, thrusting it between her soft flesh, reveling in the way she dug her nails into his shoulders and whined. “How much time have we, before this council of yours convenes?”

Her breath was hot and humid, as it escaped in harsh puffs of air, and she pouted. “Not enough for everything I wish to do to you.”

Jon took a step back, though he ached, putting a foot of space between them as he stroked his thumb across the full curve of her lips. “That’s always the case.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his tunic, and trying to adopt a stern, proper visage. “What I wish to do will take hours, so I suppose we shall have to wait.”

Daenerys returned this promise of pleasure with a look of carnal consideration. “Hours?” Her lips twitched, and she ran a finger down his chest to tease the fabric just above his breeches. “I shall hold you to that, my Lord.”

-----------

Arrangements were made, over the course of the afternoon, and though her sellsword spared him nothing but dour looks, he was agreeable enough to overseeing the fleets that would sail, the supplies that would be smuggled into King’s Landing under the Queen’s orders.

Later, when they were finally, blessedly alone, he took her atop her great pyramid, in the open air, under a black, starry sky, bringing her to release until her voice was hoarse from her delighted cries. He was mindless for her, something stirred within him, uncaring as to who might hear them as they pleasured each other until nearly dawn.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered, in his heart, but her.

Though they were rather weary, when they were roused awake, Jon and Daenerys rose agreeably enough, and she had left him to be sure everything was finalized when Daario Naharis appeared, scowling when he saw only Jon sat, breaking his fast at a table near the doorway.

“Bastard,” he said sourly, looking about as Jon continued to eat.

“Sellsword,” Jon acknowledged. “If you seek my Queen, she is seeing to a few details before we depart.”

The man just stared at him, for a moment, hooking a thumb in his sword belt and walking to the sideboard, pouring himself a measure of wine while he continued to examine Jon.

“I have to say,” he finally huffed out, “I’m not sure what it is she sees in you, besides your title, of course.” It appeared Jon had been right; the man’s ego had surely been bruised, the day before. Intellectually, Jon couldn’t blame the man for having his back up. This Daario Naharis had held the world in his hands, had shared Dany’s bed, and then she’d left him behind. He’d had her, and lost her, and it was understandable, that he would look down upon the one who had taken his place.

But his mistake, Jon mused, smiling darkly as he finished off a sausage, was that he seemed to think Jon was some pampered Westerosi lord, with soft hands and a weak will. He stood, idly wiping his hands on his trousers, and sauntered up to the man, hand resting on Longclaw’s pommel out of habit.

He bared his teeth in a rough approximation of a smile. The man might have an inch or two on him on height, but his oversized ego was no doubt his weakness. “No, I don’t expect you would. No man who fights for gold alone would understand.”

Daario narrowed his eyes, scoffing under his breath. “And you are so virtuous? No, I do not think so. Pretend all you want, Bastard King, but you know what you fight for, just as I do. Not honor, or some noble cause. You fight to keep yourself between those smooth thighs of hers. Not that I blame you.”

It wasn’t his words, that caused the sudden rage to bloom in his chest. It was the way he tipped a brow at Jon, as though they were kindred spirits. He knocked the goblet from the man’s hand before he could react, and grabbed at his throat, hoisting him up against the wall and off his feet, some base, animal part of himself enjoying the sight of the way the man began to twist in his grasp, clearly not expecting that Jon would manhandle him in such a manner.

“You clearly know little of me, sellsword, so allow me to educate you.” Jon’s words were little more than a growl, the man’s hands fighting at his throat to free himself from Jon’s grip. “I care nothing for you. I would slit your throat right here and now, and be glad to see this room painted red with your blood. Do the task set before you, and save your vile words for another. Betray her, and I will set my blade upon whatever remains when my Queen has finished with you.”

The man’s breath gurgled out, and Jon tightened his fist around the other man’s neck, just barely, before he released him, watching as Daario slid down the wall before righting himself.

“Husband.” Dany entered, intently looking between two men before sidling up to Jon’s side and leaning in, brushing her lips against his cheek. “Is everything alright?”

Daario coughed, and Jon smiled fondly down at his Queen. “Of course. We were just coming to an understanding, the two of us. Weren’t we?” The sellsword’s answering glare belied the false politeness of his response.

“Yes,” he managed, bowing to Daenerys and turning to leave. “We understand each other quite well.”

Jon studiously avoided Dany’s gaze for several seconds, wondering he was managing the innocent look he strived for, when his wife began to chuckle.

Hands slide across his chest, and then her tongue was licking a hot, wet path to the lobe of his ear. “Jealousy becomes you.”

He brushed his own hand town, to tighten against her hip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Daenerys just shook her head, amused, and pulled away, heading for the balcony and no doubt summoning her son. “I think you do.” With a purposeful look, she beckoned him. As Jon approached, wrapping his arms around her from behind, she tipped her head to the side and smirked. “I hate to disappoint you,” she whispered playfully, “but if he betrays me, there’ll be nothing left of him at all.”

Jon let out a disappointed noise. “You needn’t spoil all the fun.” She reached a hand to scrape her nails lightly through the bristled hair at his jaw, something he’d come to enjoy quite and bit, and he closed his eyes, soaking in one last bit of the full Meereenese sun. Drogon screeched, signalling his approach, and he sighed against her temple. “Just leave me a piece or two.”

-----------

At Dragonstone, back on the shores of her ancestral home, there was little left for them to do but wait.

And so, they indulged themselves, in whatever their heart’s desired, each seeming to know that each day that passed brought them closer to the time that they would have little peace between them.

The wars to come approached, and the fear inside him had changed, had morphed into something else. Losing her was an unthinkable, unacceptable outcome. But he knew, all the same, that it was not an impossibility.

So, he committed himself wholly to treasuring each moment that was given them, as they dwelled and lingered. They rode to the southern tip of the island, a desolate, beautiful spot, where the seas were calmer, lapping upon the sandy beaches instead of crashing. They swam in the sea, naked as their namedays, splashing at each other and twisting through the waves, together, until they were exhausted.

He took her, as the waves kissed their feet, the sun shining above, only realizing as they lay limp on the shore that sand had some rather rotten drawbacks. He was still shaking it from his hair, hours later, as they walked her Keep, feeling the grit in places he’d rather not.

“Bloody sand,” he grumbled, and she looked askance at him, then stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“I tried to warn you,” she teased, “but no, you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

He frowned, though she certainly grasped it was not true displeasure, and reached out to tweak her nose. “As though I am meant to resist you,” he scoffed, “as though such a thing were possible.”

She just smiled, endlessly pleased, and leaned up to peck his cheek. “Hmmm,” she hummed, grinning merrily as he gave her a playful scowl. “You know, you really are very sweet sometimes.”

He tried to glare, but assumed he was unsuccessful when she laughed and leaned her shoulder into him at his side, their arms linked tightly. “Don’t let word spread,” he grouched, finally, snorting when she rolled her eyes at him, “you’ll ruin my reputation as a sour old tosspot.”

----------

For weeks, they wandered the grounds, examining the libraries and gardens, spending long hours at her Painted Table, trying between bouts of lazy, heady lovemaking to prepare for their advisors’ return.  Jon sent several ravens, to Winterfell, and to Eastwatch, and to Castle Black as well.  His Brothers in Black and the Wildlings were to stay on alert, and send word if those undead fuckers made an appearance.  His family, he informed of what had occurred, and that when he returned to his icy Northern home, he would bring his wife, and her armies, and her dragons to boot.  They were, he warned, to treat the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with all the respect she was due, or they would answer to her husband.

One night, as they lounged on the furs before the hearth in her chambers, nibbling from the food that had been brought for them, she showed him something miraculous.

Ghost was sleeping in the corner, in the shadows, no doubt glad that for once they were not shouting and yelling and keeping him awake, but Jon noticed his ears perk up when Dany knelt before the flames, tossing him a challenging look over her shoulder. “Would you like to see something impossible?”

Jon popped a grape into his mouth, rolling onto his stomach and pillowing his head on folded arms. “Aye,” he said, after he swallowed, “take off your shift and let’s have a look.”

She tossed back her head and laughed, squinting at him in the golden, dancing light. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “Come closer.”

Jon obliged, crawling forward on his hands and knees until they were even.

“Look,” she commanded, then thrust her open hands into the flames.

He was reaching for her before he could stop himself, a panicked cry escaping. “Dany!” His heart hammered in his chest, but when he pulled her free of the fire, and her skin was unblemished, not even pink from the heat, he rocked back on his heels, astonished.

It was one thing to hear tales of it, he thought numbly, eyes straying from her hands to her face for several long moments before he felt air begin to enter his lungs again.

It was another to see it.

He reached for her hands, petting them with his tenderly as he turned her palms over, searching for any sign of injury.

“Dany,” he choked out, echoed by a low whine from Ghost, who now stood at attention, watching them warily. “Bloody hells.”

“Unburnt,” she murmured, looking at their joined hands. “I told you.”

He took several shuddering breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse, bringing her fingers to his lips and kissing each with reverence. “You are magic,” he said, feeling so humbled by what he had seen that he struggled to meet her eyes.

His wife would have none of it, though, nudging him to sit fully upon the floor, then climbing into his lap, letting her hot palm rest above his frantic heart. That same awe was there, in her eyes, as she looked at him, tracing the raised line of the scar there, the wound that had killed him. “*We* are magic.” A hint of sorrow flashed bright, and then tucked her head under his chin. “That is why we will win, Jon.”

“Almost Gods,” he murmured against her hair, breathing out in a slow exhale. “But not quite.”

She kissed the line of his collar bone, then pulled back, and he knew, when their eyes met again, that she was afraid, just as he was. “Not quite,” she agreed, her hand still over his heart, “but close enough, I think.” She kissed him, gently, and he stroked a hand through the loose silver curtain of her hair. “Close enough to do what must be done.”

He closed his eyes, fingers curling around her neck and pulling her close, holding her tight with all the might he had. “I pray you are right.”

Chapter Text

The day Daenerys spotted her ship en route, coursing through the seas and carrying tidings of the plans they’d made, the course they would take to first take the Seven Kingdoms, then save them, Jon knew something had to be done about Jorah Mormont.

He’d reached a tentative peace with Theon. His betrayal of Robb still burned inside Jon’s chest, but his wife had been wise in her advice. That was in the past, and when Jon looked now upon Theon’s downcast eyes, when he thought on what the man had endured already, he thought that maybe Theon had suffered enough.

He forgave Theon, as best he was able. He hoped he would not regret it.

But Jorah was a different story. Here was another, who was no doubt in love with the woman Jon had wed, the one person in the entirety of his universe that had become as imperative as air. The man avoided him most times, his words usually directed at Daenerys, but Missandei had, on several occasions, made it known to Jon that Ser Jorah was the one she trusted most, amongst this ragtag group of misfits and outcasts.

In that, Jon knew, there was an ally to be had.

And so, as Daenerys scurried about, making ready for the next steps they would take, Jon requested an audience with the man, meeting with him on the cliffs, with no one else about.

“I knew your father,” Jon finally said, feeling the urge to break the silence.

He saw the spark of interest in the man’s eyes, but it was swiftly followed by a bitter frown. “I knew yours as well. He meant to kill me, for what I did.”

“Slaving is a terrible act,” Jon said sternly, watching as the man’s eyes shuttered, as he let out a breath and nodded grimly.

“And I have paid dearly for it.” Jorah Mormont stared out at the sea.

Jon just stared at him, trying to find Jeor in there, somewhere, wondering if he’d caught a glimpse. “I’m glad my father didn’t catch you, Ser Jorah.” At the look of surprise he received, Jon smiled, bemused. “If he had, he would have killed you, for certain. And my Queen would not have had your protection. I think she would have suffered dearly, without you to guard her.”

Jorah swiped a hand down his face, but when next their eyes met, the man’s lips twitched, just barely. “I was wrong about you, Jon Snow. I thought, when you first came, you were just the next in the long line of those who would meet the Khaleesi and fall under her spell. Yet another who would make her false promises, and break her heart, if given the opportunity.” He sighed, and laughed silently. “But I should have known better I think, to expect that of Eddard Stark’s son.”

“I love her,” Jon said simply. “More than anything. More than anyone.”

Jorah tore his gaze away, his eyes tracking the sea birds as they circled above. “How could you not? But you must do more than that, King in the North.” He shook his head, his face growing grim. “You must protect her.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to chuckle. “With respect, Ser Jorah, I don’t think Daenerys needs my protection, not a woman who commands armies of Dothraki Horselords, and Unsullied, not a woman who has three grown dragons.”

Jorah pursed his lips, examining the tips of his boots before he responded. “From herself. She may pretend otherwise, at times, but she has a gentle heart, and there are those who would use it against her.” That was correct, Jon knew, for with each new tale of how she had spared so many from dreadful fates he found himself more and more in awe of her kindness, of her sweet nature hidden beneath her fire. “That responsibility is yours now, Your Grace.”

Beyond the truth that rang out in the man’s words, there was something odd, about him addressing Jon as such, and it was rather startling, on the face of it. “Don’t look so surprised,” the man continued. “I may have been exiled, that is true, but I am a Mormont of Bear Island, all the same. I am a Northman. And the North has chosen you as their King.” He waited a beat, lips pressed together tightly, before he continued. “And so has my Queen.”

Jon wasn’t sure where the urge came from, but it was upon him before it could be halted, before he could think better of it. “I was your father’s steward, in the Night’s Watch. I could have asked for no finer commander to serve under. And I swear to you, Ser Jorah,” he swallowed, quickly, the burning anger he still harbored for those traitors making his teeth grind, “the ones who betrayed him, I made them pay.” He made short work of his sword belt, and then his sword was in both hands, as an offering to the older man.

Jorah just stared, face twisted in surprise, and took the Valyrian steel from Jon’s light grip. As he pulled the sword from the sheath, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.

“I switched out the pommel,” Jon said, pointing to the wolf’s head, “but it’s still Longclaw.”

Mormont began to shake his head, but Jon pressed on.

“It was your father’s, Ser Jorah. He gave it to me, but I cannot keep it. It belongs to House Mormont. It belongs with you, now.” Jon spoke assuredly, leaving no question as to the conviction in his words, and for several seconds Jorah just stared at the blade, watching as the sun glinted off the precious steel.

Then he sheathed the sword, and placed it firmly back in Jon’s hands, something that looked suspiciously like a grudging respect growing in the man’s eyes.

“No.” He shook his head, his jaw set. “I shamed my father. I shamed my House. I am not fit to carry this sword, King in the North.”

“Ser Jorah—”

The older man stood straighter, becoming sterner, holding up his hand to halt Jon’s coming argument. “My father gave you that sword, Jon Snow.” Formalities had been set aside, it seemed, at least for now. “He meant for you to wield it. And if what you say is coming, is true, then you are going to need it.” He relaxed, slightly, and clapped his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “May it serve you well, and your children after you.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, for surely this man knew well what Daenerys believed to be true about herself. To be cautious, however, Jon voiced it, just to be sure. “My wife does not believe she can bear children. She believes herself cursed.”

But Jorah was not swayed, pressing the sword more firmly into Jon’s hand. “I know what she believes. But I also know that she has made impossible things happen before. I am certain that she can do so again.” His mouth tensed as he looked at Jon, then his lips tipped up in a half-smile. “Though I’m rather sure she’ll get willing assistance from you in regard to that particular task.”

Jon worked the sword belt back around his waist. “Aye,” he said dryly, “’Tis certainly a pleasant undertaking.”

Jorah sighed, and for a moment Jon felt a measure of pity for the man. “Then I wish you good fortune, Your Grace.” He shook his head, as though to dispel the lingering heartbreak that lingered on his face. “Now, it just so happens that I have acquired a bit of ale, of the Northern variety.”

Jon’s eyes lit up, as Jorah smiled fully. “Is that so?”

The other man nodded, cordially. “And I can think of no finer way to drink it, than with another true Northerner.”

Jon let out a hearty laugh, already looking forward to the old, familiar taste. Jeor’s son was right. No better company for a little measure of home, than one who could appreciate it the most. He gestured grandly with his hand, back towards the Keep. “Lead the way, Ser.”

-----------

It wasn’t until the following morning, long after an enormous amount of ale and a meandering journey with his wife under one arm, helping him back to their rooms, that he told Daenerys his thoughts on the matter of Jorah.

“We should tell him what we have planned.” They were laying face to face, nearly nose to nose, loose strands of silver tickling at his cheek every so often when the soft morning breeze would catch it. She wrinkled her brows, confused. “Ser Jorah.”

Dany let out a soft breath, her hand sliding slowly up and down his arm. “Thus far, only Varys knows the full extent of what we shall do. And that might be one to many, but sadly, we need his particular skillset if we mean to succeed.” She wasn’t sure, he could tell, and he could see she was biting at the inside of her cheek, worrying the skin with her teeth as she mulled over his suggestion. “Why do you trust him?”

That was a hard answer to pin down, Jon realized. He knew the man had betrayed his Queen, years ago. But it was just a sense, just something he knew, and finally he found a way to put it in to words. “Because of everyone of Westerosi blood that serves you, I think he’s the only one who would truly lay down his life for you. Aside from me, of course,” he amended quickly. “I would take part stunning acts of bravery for you. Truly staggering. Name it and I shall do it.” He shied away from her fingers when she laughed breezily and tickled his ribs, below the bed linens.

“My hero,” she murmured softly, smiling at him so warmly that he wanted to order everyone to leave them be, until they decided otherwise. He hated the fact that they would need to leave these chambers at all, but if he wanted such peace, he was all too aware that he would have to fight for it. They both would.

Ghost whined from the foot of the bed, where he’d flopped his massive body when they’d finally settled down and given the wolf some quiet the prior night. “Ghost as well,” Jon supplied. “He bids you to know he would *also* perform quite daring feats in your name.”

Dany grinned and slid a foot up his calf. “Of course, he would,” she agreed, loud enough for the wolf to hear her. “As I would for him. He is such a darling creature.”

Jon pouted mightily, and it prompted another cheeky laugh from his bride. “What about me?”

She pretended to consider it, even as she let her fingers circle his navel teasingly. “Yes,” she finally assented, “for you as well.” Then she slid her hand lower, where his cock was already fully awake and begging for her touch. “But it will cost you, of course.” She gave his stiff length a gentle squeeze, licking her lips meaningfully, and Jon rolled over, laying on his back and pulling her atop him as he kicked the bedcovers free.

“I surrender,” he said with a broken moan, feeling her center pressed against his thigh, already slick and molten. “Do with me what you will.”

With a wicked smile, she mounted him fully, tossing back her head and pinning him to the bed beneath her, his cock snug within her as she braced her hands on his shoulders. “Oh,” she purred, beginning to roll her hips in the bewitching manner she favored most, “I most certainly shall.”

-----------

Jorah sat quietly, no doubt absorbing everything they’d shared with him, then crossed to the wide windows that let in the sea air, leaving Jon and Daenerys to stand before the Painted Table.

“I think it will work,” he finally said, quiet as he watched the boat that ferried Varys, Tyrion and Davos back to Dragonstone creep closer. “But I do have one question. You didn’t capture one of these white walkers, you went to Meereen instead.”

“Aye,” Jon said, tracing his finger along the length of the Wall.

Jorah turned, facing them both, curious. “And yet you have a crate sitting empty, in which Tyrion will believe one of those creatures is held.”

Daenerys nodded, shooting Jon a quick, tight smile. “Just so, Ser Jorah.”

The older man crossed his arms, peering between the two of them now. “Obviously you wouldn’t go to all the trouble to carry an empty crate all the way into King’s Landing. So,” he said, with a loud exhale, “what *are* you going to put in there.”

Jon’s gaze shot to his wolf, who sat quietly by the door, up on his haunches and sitting at attention, as though he meant to guard them all. “Something with very sharp teeth, Ser. And very sharp claws.”

Ghost whined pitifully, and when Dany crossed the room to pet and comfort him, sneaking a piece of jerky to the wolf as she cooed at him, Jon didn’t have the heart to bother teasing her about the way she coddled the beast.

The wolf would obey, bound as he was to Jon’s wishes, and he understood well enough what was going on, but man and beast also knew another truth: that didn’t mean he was going to like it.

“Sorry, boy,” he whispered, earning a red-eyed glare in return.

----------

Jon and Daenerys made sure to heap praise upon Tyrion, for his ability to broker a meeting at all, for his masterful wordcraft in convincing his brother to convince the false Queen to this summit between enemies.

It was enough, they realized, to keep the man from asking too many questions. He believed, they were assured, by both Varys and Jorah, that the empty wooden crate being guarded ‘round the clock in the dungeons contained one of the enemies Jon had spoken of, though thanks to the Queen’s Unsullied he was never allowed closer than a yard away.

Grey Worm himself oversaw the operation, and Jon had come to find, three moons since his wedding to the Dragon Queen, that of all the Queen’s men, he was perhaps Jon’s favorite.

He was quiet, and watchful, and always on his guard. He did not fritter away the day with idle conversation. That wasn’t to say, however, that the man would not speak at all. Since his return, he and Jon had conversed on several occasions, usually when their paths crossed in the training yard, and Jon had learned much about the fighting style of the Ghiscari warriors.

In exchange, Jon had begun to show him the fighting style he had cut his teeth on, the manner of the Northern warrior, and before long they were regularly sparring, spear and shield against sword, and Jon was inordinately glad for it.

He’d worried he was getting a bit rusty.

But it was a particular day, into his fourth moon of marriage, when Grey Worm saw what had been done to Jon.

They’d been battling heatedly, and the other man had managed to snag Jon’s jerkin, and his tunic beneath as well, the layers ripping soundly as the speartip tore through.

“Nice shot,” Jon said, panting, examining the rent material and shrugging. He pulled both off without thinking on it, only regretting the choice when he realized the silence that had fallen over the yard, as the eyes that had gathered to watch the men duel saw the raw scars that lined Jon’s chest.

Grey Worm said nothing, for several beats, taking a step back as though he meant to take Jon’s measure anew.

“Snow,” the man uttered, setting aside his spear and shield and approaching cautiously. “Those wounds are sure death.” Grey Worm’s eyes lingered on the scar above his heart, and he shook his head in disbelief. “No man can survive this.”

Murmurs rose from the men who ringed the sparring yard, a mix of Unsullied and Dothraki, and he felt every gaze trained upon him. He shifted, a bit uncomfortable, but he had to face this. This was the tale they were spreading in King’s Landing, after all, at least a part of it. The Northern King, the Bastard of Winterfell, who had cheated death itself. The White Wolf who’d been resurrected, who was coming to save them, wedded to the Last Targaryen, the Dragon Queen.

It was the sort of tale the smallfolk would swoon over, Varys said, and judging by the looks of shock and muted awe that were sent his way, the Spider was likely right.

“Aye,” Jon said at last, his voice raised enough so that he could be heard throughout the yard, “I did not survive this. I died.” Grey Worm’s eyes flew to his, full of surprised confusion, “and then I lived.”

Jon heard a ruckus, at the corner of the yard, and then Ghost was there, silently stalking towards them, men parting to allow him through, until his great white head was at the fence, red eyes trained steadily on his master. Jon didn’t know precisely what had happened, when he’d bled out into the snow, but he had his suspicions. Many of them involved this very wolf, the only one who’d been in that cold gray room when Jon had taken his first panicked breaths.

Ghost whined, and Jon cuffed him lightly under his muzzle before scratching between his ears.

From his back, Grey Worm spoke again. “This one does not know what you are, King Snow.” Jon looked over his shoulder, where the man was staring at him with an indecipherable look. “But you are no man.”

Jon didn’t know why this was so difficult, to accept the man’s words. Daenerys, for her part, embraced this part of herself, the ‘otherness’ that set her apart. But, he thought wryly, perhaps it was harder to ignore such truths when one commanded massive dragons. It was true, though, no matter how uncomfortable it made him, no matter how many years he’d spent pretending to face into the background, while yearning to be so much more.

Perhaps it was time, then, for him to embrace his ‘otherness’ as well.

Almost Gods, Daenerys liked to say. And maybe, Jon thought, she was right.

“No,” Jon agreed, releasing Ghost’s fur and turning to face the Unsullied captain. “I suppose I’m not.” He crossed to the wooden fence, where Longclaw leaned, awaiting his hand. “Now,” he near-bellowed, “shall we talk, or shall we fight?”

Grey Worm smiled, and took up his weapon, his spear firmly in hand, shield raised. “Stand ready, Snow.”

----------

Later that night, he lay abed, his hand between his Queen’s delicate shoulder blades, her cheek resting above his heart. “My men are quite impressed with you, husband.”

Jon grunted, his other hand coming to thread through her unbound hair. “That’s better than the alternative.” She tilted her head to smirk at him, then kissed his chest.

“I wish we could stay here forever.” Her quiet whisper was almost inaudible, and from the way she tried to hide her face he wondered if she’d meant to say it at all. He knew what it was that made her feel that rush of shame. He’d felt it himself, had that same thought a thousand times or more. He was tired, of all of it, of the world outside and its endless demands.

It took, and took, and seemed set to give nothing in return.

He had pondered the old Maester’s words, what Aemon Targaryen had told him at Castle Black, of the divergent aims of love and duty, but he had come to a different conclusion. To hear Sam tell it, even old Aemon had loved once, but it was a love unrequited, unreturned.

Aemon had never loved like this. He’d never *been* loved like this.

And Jon was starting to think that maybe the woman in his arms had been his purpose all along. Maybe the Lord of Light, or the Old Gods, or whomever it had been that had ripped him from that dark, final rest and plunged him back into this world of living misery, had known something he did not.

Maybe she needed him, to win this war. There was no doubt, in his mind, that he needed her.

Loving her was his duty now. He had sworn an oath, and given his promise. This was his obligation, but finally, he’d stumbled upon one that did not make him feel empty, and hollow, and hopeless.

“Me too,” he whispered back, tugging her up so that they were face to face, her hair falling around them, shielding them from the world. “One day,” he breathed out, tipping up his head to brush his lips against hers, “when all these wars are done, we’ll tell everyone to fuck off and just spend our days like this.”

Her nose wrinkled as she smiled, and she sighed, nuzzling her cheek against his before relaxing atop him. “Yes, maybe one day.” She shivered, her skin still damp from their earlier exertions, and he pulled the furs over them both, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.

In two moons, they would take the Iron Throne. After that, they would fight for all Seven Kingdoms, and hope to survive. But for now, he would soak her into his skin, savor every moment spent pressed against her, for as long as was left to them.

----------

Something was wrong with Daenerys.

Jon wasn’t sure what it was, precisely.

Planning continued apace, in their fifth moon as man and wife, and every day was flurry of hectic activity. Davos had made an extensive report on the living conditions in the worst parts of the Crownlands, and Daenerys had been firm in redoubling their efforts to provide for the most helpless among the residents of King’s Landing.

They kept Tyrion occupied with overseeing the movement of the Queen’s armies, a task which the man seemed to relish, waxing philosophical to anyone who would listen about the strategic intricacies of transporting such masses of people.

The rest of their advisors were similarly busy, which Jon found a bit of a blessing as well. His own nerves felt frayed, as the day approached, though Varys assured them both that the legions of people who lived in fear of Cersei were turning towards their cause by the day.

It was the people, Varys claimed, that were the most important, and Jon tended to agree.

He had read the histories, after all.

Perhaps, in Aegon’s Conquest, there had been enduring anger amongst many of the great Houses, even his own. Torrhen Stark no doubt despised setting aside his own crown, and bending the knee to Aegon and his sisters, but he’d done it for his people’s sake.

And even Jon knew, that while the nobility may have experienced a lingering, festering resentment towards the Targaryens, in the years that followed that first uniting of the Seven Kingdoms, the smallfolk loved them.

It was the smallfolk who bore the true cost of endless wars, who were little more but grist in the mill for these constant power struggles, and for them, it must have been as though a new age had come, when they saw those dragons take to the skies.

The dragons had returned, at last, and Jon hoped that this latest war, that had spilled so much blood, could be brought to an end in much the same manner.

His fears and hopes notwithstanding, he was no so distracted that there was something troubling his Queen.

She’d grown withdrawn, in the past weeks. She was exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes a constant. Some nights, she would already have fallen into a deep slumber by the time he returned to the chambers they now shared, and he would pull her close, curled against her back, and hold her as they slept.

Something was wrong, and she wouldn’t speak on what it was.

On the day the armies prepared to sail, a month from their meeting with Cersei, he finally pulled Missandei aside. Daenerys had been avoiding him for a week’s time, falling asleep in the overstuffed chaise in their rooms, gently pushing his hands away when he would reach for her, and it was driving him mad.

“My lady,” he said, grasping her arm as they left the council chambers, “I should like a word with you.”

If he had wondered about the woman’s awareness, it was solidified in the quiet resignation that flickered in Missandei’s amber eyes.

“This way,” she said quietly, and led Jon out of the Keep altogether, walking beside him in silence until they approached the small landing on the stone stairway that Dany seemed to favor. “How may I help you, King in the North?”

He saw no point in beating about the bush, his anxiety growing by the minute. “Something’s wrong with her. She won’t tell me what it is. She pushes me away.” He could hear the desperation in his own voice, but he cared not. “I want to help her, my Lady, but I cannot if she keeps me in the dark. You know what it is, don’t you?”

With a tense, small smile, Missandei nodded. “She is in the gardens. Walk with me.” Onward they went, down the endless stone steps, their booted heals striking the surface the only noise to be heard for some time.

As they reached the perimeter of the gardens, Missandei stopped him, with a gentle hand on his forearm. “She has lost much, my Queen. And in such a short time. She tries to be so strong, but some hurts run deeply.”

Jon nodded bitterly. “Aye, I know.” And he did. He hated how she had suffered, before fate had brought him to her. Sometimes he quietly raged on it, Ghost pacing frantically as he imagined how he would gladly see those who had harmed her brought back, just as he had been, so that he could feel the satisfaction of watching them fall beneath his blade.

“She can believe the awful truths of the world so easily. She has lived them. But when the tidings are glad,” Missandei said carefully, “they can be hard for her to accept.”

His brow furrowed as he held the woman’s stare. “What are you saying?”

Missandei did not reply, at first, just gestured to the ironwork gate. “She is ready to tell you, I believe. Be patient with her,” the woman continued, a hint of cautious warning in her voice. “She can hardly understand this herself. She needed to accept it, before she could share it.”

His worry only grew, and with mounting trepidation he stepped through the gate, wandering the maze of hedges, until he reached a ring of benches, carved with intricate, fire breathing dragons.

There sat his Queen, with Ghost at her side, the wolf crouched low with his head in her lap, his muzzle pressed against her tightly. She was speaking to the beast, but in such low tones Jon could not make it out. Today, she had foregone her structured, stiff-shouldered coats, the warm air giving way to a softer gown of bright blue, that draped over her shoulders and wrapped itself about her body. Her hair hung loose, in soft silver curls that cascaded down her back.

She looked so small, so delicate, in that moment, that he felt that protective rush inside him rise like the tide.

“Dany?”

When her eyes met his, they were ringed red, and she sniffed and wiped away a stray tear as she stared at him. Then, slowly, she extended her hand to him in silent invitation, asking him to join her.

He did not sit, as she likely expected, but fell to his knees before her, heedless of the sharp crack of bone upon stone, his hands taking her face so that she was forced to look at him.

“Tell me, my love.” He was stricken with misery, at the sight of her like this. “What is it? Has someone harmed you? Hurt you in some way? Say the word and I will end them.” At his vehemence, she gave him a watery smile, and shook her head.

“No one has wronged me.” With another delicate sniffle, her mouth twisting for a moment, she cupped his bearded jaw in her small hand. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Please, Dany.” He was not a man prone to begging, but for her, he was shameless in it. “I cannot bear to see you like this. Tell me.”

Her face crumpled, tears coming anew, and she leaned forward, burying her face in his neck as she clutched at him now with both hands. “I’m so afraid, Jon. I’m so terribly afraid.”

“Shhhh.” His arms circled her, nudging Ghost aside, and he ignored the wolf’s irritated huff as he pressed closer. His hands swept up and down her back, soothingly, as her tears wet his throat. “I know, Dany, I know. I’m bloody terrified, too.”

She began to tremble, and with great effort she drew back, her cheeks damp as she blinked down at him. “I have to tell you something.”

“Dany,” he started, eyes pleading with her. “Just tell me. No matter what it is, we can manage it.” He took her hands from around his neck, bringing them together and kissing them. “Together, eh?”

Tentatively, she pulled a hand free, circling his wrist as best she could and drawing it close to her body. He was confused, certainly, at first, but when she placed it on her stomach, then slowly pushed it downward, when his fingers brushed against that small swell hidden by the loose folds of her gown, he knew.

“Dany,” He whispered, eyes widening, brows shooting up. “Gods.” He looked from his hand to her eyes. “Dany!” He didn’t know what he felt, just then, his head spinning, spots beginning to form before his eyes as he had the very real fear he might pass out.

He felt *everything*. Joy, elation, relief coursed through him, chased with a fear so sharp his dizziness quickly shifted to a dull nausea. Every heartbeat became a pounding war drum, echoing through his mind, as his breathing became ragged. “A babe,” he said, in a daze. “A babe.”

She was watching him, still crying, witnessing every emotion that flickered across his face as he tenderly cupped the gentle swell of the child that was growing inside her. His child. A babe that was him, and her.

“Oh, fuck. Fucking hells.” It was terror he felt, then. Gods, this was a horrifying fear he’d never experienced before, his mind rapidly cycling through what they were embarking upon, every step one in which he might lose her. If that were not unbearable enough, now that there was this to lose as well, the life inside her, borne of their love. “Oh, Gods, Dany.” He shivered, and let himself fall into her lap, burying his head in the folds of her skirts and struggling to breathe.

“I know,” she whispered from above, as his anguish warred with his overwhelming gladness, and though she still trembled, her shaking fingers began to stroke at the back of his neck. “I know, Jon.” He felt, piercing the numbness that washed over him, the warm press of her lips just behind her fingers, felt the drops of her tears. “What dreadful timing.”

Perhaps it was madness that had taken him, but something about her words, and the manner in which he said them, made him rear back, resting on his heels, to look at her. Then, he laughed. “Dreadful timing?” His gasping words, as he nearly choked on another, louder laugh, and she seemed worried as she just watched him, gaping at his reaction. “Oh, yes,” he nodded, “that it is.”

“Why are you laughing so?” She shook her head, brows wrinkling, mystified.

“I don’t know,” he said, not sure anymore if it really was laughter, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. “I do not know that a man is supposed to feel all these things, at the same time.” He leaned forward, capturing her lips, kissing her with everything in him, even through their tears.

A smile curved her lips upwards, as she looked down at him. “What are we going to do, Jon?” Her chin quivered, and he saw what Missandei had hinted at, how his Queen was trying so desperately to be brave. “I cannot lose another, Jon. I cannot bear it. It will break me.” She began to sob, and his laughter died away, slowly but surely replaced by a hard resolve. He tugged at her, until they were both seated on the ground, and held her as though she were a babe herself, as she wept against his chest.

“You won’t,” he swore. “Here is what we will do. Are you listening, Dany?” She nodded, as she cried, and he rocked her gently against him, as Ghost looked on. “We will take every precaution. We leave nothing to chance now. From here on out,” he whispered against her temple, “every step we take, is for this.” He laid a hand once more upon her slightly swollen belly. “This is our highest priority. This is the most important thing we will ever do. There are no crowns, nor thrones, that are greater than this.”

She calmed, little by little, until she made no sounds but small, hiccupping sighs. “We cannot abandon these fights,” she said, grim and certain. Her hand fluttered, then landed on his chest, just above his pounding heart. “But you speak truly: we must be very careful now. In what we do, and who we trust.”

“Aye,” he said, rubbing his bearded jaw against her silky hair, allowing himself the momentary indulgence of picturing, in his mind, what this child would be. This little lad or lass, who would live to draw breath, if they took great care, if they could find the will to win. “But we have each other, yes?” He felt her nod against his chest, her tense muscles slowly relaxing. “That’s enough for me. You are the only one I trust completely.”

“And I you,” she said, her voice still wobbly but growing stronger. “None above you.”

He looked down, tipping up her chin, waiting until their eyes met. “You need armor. Immediately.”

With a resigned nod, she agreed. “Yes.” Her hand fluttered to land above his, on her abdomen. “Take no chances.”

---------

Jon and Daenerys traversed the winding route to the dungeons, Ghost trailing behind, a forlorn moan escaping the white wolf every few feet.

Daenerys winced and squeezed Jon’s arm with her hand, where it curled around his bicep. “I wish this wasn’t necessary,” she said quietly, giving a piteous look over her shoulder to the beast. “My poor little sweetling. What if he grows lonesome?” It never ceased to amaze him, how quickly she had taken to Ghost.

When he’d first come, he’d wondered if the tales he’d heard could be true, had wondered if his beast would cause her fear, as he did in so many others. He ought to have known better, of course, but that innate reaction to Ghost’s odd, red eyes and large, sharp fangs was difficult to hide.

But she loved the oafish creature, perhaps almost as much as he did, and he couldn’t deny there was a panging pain in his heart, at the prospect of what they were about to do. If he had any other choice, he’d never put Ghost through this, but he could see no other way around it.

They stopped, finding Grey Worm and Davos waiting on them. Even Jon’s own Hand wasn’t privy to the entirety of their plans, but he, along with Dany’s trusted commander, would oversee the care of this very large wooden crate, and the precious cargo inside. He knew enough, and that was good enough for now.

Jon’s trust in anyone who was not himself or his Queen was diminishing by the day, as his child, and the dangers they faced, grew larger.

Dany sniffled, her hands cupping and cradling the wolf’s muzzle, Ghost’s ruby stare steady on her face. “We shall see you very soon,” she whispered, fingers stroking white fur, as his wolf let out a low, persistent whine. Ghost knew what was happening, as much as he could know, at least. He washed Dany’s face with his tongue, and Jon’s bride allowed it, with a melancholy smile and sad eyes. “I don’t want you to be afraid, in there. Be very good, and very quiet, my sweet.”

She stood back, releasing the wolf’s head, and before Jon could even begin to approach, Ghost leaned down, rubbing his furry cheek insistently against the Queen’s stomach. He heard Dany’s breath catch; Her eyes grew wide, as she glanced around furtively, and she put her lips next to the wolf’s large, fringed ear, whispering something only the pair of them knew.

But it was enough for Ghost, it seemed, to straighten, apparently satisfied with the exchange. He crossed to Jon, taking great care to rub his face up one side of Jon’s body, and down the other. Then, as if it had just crossed his mind, he returned to Dany and did the same, as she looked at Jon, bewildered.

“What’s he doing?” Grey Worm and Davos seemed similarly confused, but Jon knew what it was. Ghost turned back to him, with a panting smile, then returned to his master and laid his large head upon Jon’s shoulder.

Jon didn’t answer at first. He wrapped his arms around Ghost’s neck, and breathed deep. No matter where they were, his wolf always smelled of a winter’s forest, and he took one last scent of home before he pulled back. “You know what to do, lad. Aye?”

Ghost’s tail swished, just once.

“You going to behave for Davos?” Red eyes flicked to Jon’s hand, then back to Jon. The wolf’s tail swished again.

Now it was Jon who leaned in close, because there was something that only Jon, and his Queen, and his wolf knew. They weren’t ready to tell anyone yet. They had agreed to it, in fact. First they would take that Southron throne, then they would share their news, but not before. “You protect her,” Jon whispered, “with your life. Protect my pup. If it’s me or her, you wily old cur, you choose my Queen. You understand me?”

Ghost stared at him, not moving a muscle, a ripple of understanding passing between man and beast. His tail swished, firmly.

“That’s a good boy,” Jon said, and ruffled the wolf’s fur. “Now, in you go. When this is done, I’ll find you the fattest pig in all Seven Kingdoms, all for you.”

With a huff, Ghost obeyed, giving Jon a slightly cross look that told the King in the North his wolf was going to expect nothing less, especially for this particular indignity. He hated being caged, and trapped, a trait they shared between them.

Davos gave him a reassuring smile, as Jon’s wolf was loaded away. As soon as dawn broke, the Queen’s armies, and both of their Hands, would sail for King’s Landing.

Jon and Daenerys would follow in a sennight, but there would be no seafaring vessels, not for the King and Queen. They would arrive on dragonback, and then the trap would be sprung.

“I’ll make sure he’s fine, lad. Not to worry.”

He grabbed at Davos’s arm, squeezed, and gave a half-smile in return. “I’m entrusting him to your care, Ser Davos. Make sure no harm comes to him.” When Davos nodded, Jon held out his elbow to his Queen, his throat thick with emotion, feeling as though he were locking a piece of his soul away as they left, walking briskly, until they had put some distance between themselves and Ghost.

It wasn’t until they were in their shared chambers that he let out the panicked breaths he’d been trying to keep in, his eyes flying about wildly for a moment as he collapsed onto the bench placed at the end of their large bed, his knees threatening to give out.

“Jon!” She looked stricken, his sweet wife, he held up his hands, in surrender or reassurance, he knew not.

“I just need a moment,” he whispered. He shook his head, eyes screwing shut, as he tried to calm the racing of his heart. “It just hurts,” he said, and he felt her approach him, the warm air that seemed degrees hotter just above her skin telling him she was now standing before him. He reached out, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her closer still, until his face rested against her stomach. “I’ll be fine.”

He felt her hands slide into his hair, gently freeing it from the tie that bound it, her fingers gently combing through his curls. It was comforting, that constant motion, and he nuzzled his face against her dress as she continued, until he felt like he could breathe again. When he’d collected himself, he raised his eyes to hers, slightly ashamed at his reaction, but she was having none of it.

As if she knew what he was about to say, how he was close to apologizing for his weakness, she stopped him, laying a finger across his lips. “I understand, Jon. I know this pain. It is a terrible thing.” She shook her own head, sadly. “I’m sorry that we must do this. I truly am. I hate to ask this of you.”

“Dany.” It was an odd feeling, rising inside him, close to offense, but not quite. How could she think that he would hold her responsible for this? Had he not been the one to endorse this plan? Had he not been the one to encourage the Spider to suggest it in the first place? How could she not know what lay in his heart? He looked up at her, astonished, and slowly traced his hand down her arm, letting his fingers splay over her abdomen. It seemed to him that the little swell there grew larger by the day. Soon there would be no hiding it. He cupped the rounded shape in the palm of his hand, staring at her intently.

“Dany,” he repeated, “The blame does not lie with you. I chose this. We chose this.” He shook his head, a part of him realizing that perhaps she *didn’t* understand, that he needed to tell her, clearly, where he stood. “What lengths are there, that I will no go to, for this?” He nodded towards his hand, towards the child she carried, his little babe. “What depths will I not sink to?”

He stood, as she stared at him, lips parted in surprise. “I would watch that whole city burn,” he whispered forcefully, “if it meant that you were safe. That this babe was safe.” He let out a burst of humorless laughter, begging her to understand. “Ghost will be fine, I assure you.” He pushed closer, until his face nearly brushed hers. “But hear me well, wife. Here are my answers. There are no lengths too far, no depths to low, no limit to the blood I will shed to protect what is mine. I don’t care, anymore, what that makes me. I stopped caring the moment I swore that oath to you, before my Gods. And this?” He raised his brows, caressing her rounded stomach. “This is everything. This, I would move all Seven Hells for.”

Dany closed her eyes, and he wondered if he had gone too far, if she would think him unfit to be her King, if he had shown her the monster that would be born, that paced and raged within him, waiting to strike the moment his fury was unleashed.

But then her lashes fluttered open, and the world stopped around them, because he was certain no one had ever given him such a look as she did then, one of such utter devotion, and unyielding, unrelenting love.

Never again, he swore to himself, would he spend a day without her eyes on him, not until they were old and haggard, and even then he suspected he would be loathe to lose her.

“I love you so, Jon Snow. Take me to bed, and let us forget all this for awhile.” She kissed him once, sweetly, then held out her arms, waiting for him to hold her.

He needed no further invitation.

----------

She was cross with him.

They were alone, now, biding their time until they would depart, to meet the Queen’s armies in the Crownlands, save for the skeleton crew that had stayed behind to man the Keep.

They’d quarreled, and he hated this feeling, being at odds with her.

He’d brought it on himself, frankly, though he hadn’t meant a single word he’d said with ill intent.

Several blacksmiths remained in the Dragonstone forges, and one of them had been working steadily on armor for his Queen. He knew she was irked about it, that she feared it would make flying harder, make her less able to maneuver, thought her dragons would be protection enough.

But she had agreed to it, and he’d been best pleased to see her fitted for it that morning, knowing that no arrow might pierce her breast and stop her heart through the steel plate and chain.

The sight, though, had caused other thoughts to rise, unbidden, the bitter taste of fear heavy on his tongue when it had hit him, again, the enormity of the risks they were taking.

And so, once the blacksmith had taken his leave, he’d made a suggestion, and it had been exactly the wrong thing to say.

“Maybe I ought to go into the Dragon Pit alone. You stay aloft, on Drogon, and guard us from above.”

It had been a desperate plea, on his part, bile rising in his throat when he thought of the terrible danger to her, the moment they stepped foot into the city, a panicked suggestion borne of his desire to see her protected, and his babe as well.

And she, naturally, had been sore wroth.

He’d wanted to take it back the moment he said it. It was not in her nature, to sit back, to order others to die for her, to remain tucked away while others fought on her behalf. It was simply not who she was. She was a fighter, of that there was no doubt. It was one of the things he admired most about her, one of the things that drew him to her like a moth to a flame.

She hadn’t said a word, just stormed from the room and away from him, and now, an hour later, he found himself wandering.

She hadn’t been in the gardens, or their chambers. She wasn’t at the landing, and she wasn’t in her council chambers, either.

Unfortunately, with Ghost gone, Jon had lost his ability to find her anywhere, but on a hunch, he headed outside, for the cliffs she’d taken him to that first day, when he’d met her dragons.

It was their great, hulking bodies he saw first, all three gathered on the grassy cliff, tails twisting sinuously as they circled around a figure he could barely see.

He smiled to himself, and with just a spare moment of hesitation, pushed forward, hoping the dragons would find him a friend, and not share their mother’s current agitation with him. The cream, Viserion, wheeled around first, as he drew close, and Jon slowed his progress enough to allow the curious beast to sniff at him.

The green was next, Rhaegal, the dragon’s amber eyes holding his for a long, curious moment before he, too, extended his snout, and without knowing what possessed him, he drew off his glove. Only the black had allowed his touch, before, but he could *feel* something in the green dragon’s stare. He was curious, that was all, and though Jon could also feel Daenerys watching him, he did not look away. Slowly, he let his hand fall onto the hot scales above the dragon’s nostril, giving a slow stroke as the beast blew out a hot breath.

“Going to let me by?” The dragon blinked at him, then slowly, he backed off, the cream as well, so that it was just Jon, and Dany, and Drogon that remained.

“Traitors,” Dany muttered under her breath, but he knew she didn’t mean it, saw the same pleased surprise in her eyes that he’d witnessed that first day, when he’d dared to touch the greatest of her dragons. Said dragon was currently curled around his mother and glaring at Jon hotly, clearly mirroring his mother’s displeasure. She eyed him carefully, then slid her own hand along Drogon’s jaw. “You must be the only man in all the realms who does not fear my sons.”

Jon shook his head, glancing down at his boots for a moment and clucking his tongue. “It’s not that I don’t fear them.” Looking up, he caught her eyes with his. He took a step closer. “I respect their strength, and their ability to kill me whenever they wish.” He chanced a tiny smile, and stepped closer still, until the tips of his boots brushed hers. “Much like their mother,” he whispered, and though she tried to fight it, that earned him a real smile.

She wasn’t giving up so easily, though, his Queen, and she was soon frowning again, crossing her arms across her chest and giving him a scowl. “I’m still angry with you.”

Jon blew out a breath and nodded. “I know.” He set his hands upon her shoulders, then slid his hands down her arms, tugging her closer. “I’ve come to beg a truce of you.”

Gods, she really didn’t want to smile, but he saw her lips quivering, and then it came, a tiny laugh, and she was crumbling, her defenses pierced as she rushed into his arms. “Truce granted,” she whispered against his chest.

Jon kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes, content to just hold her for a moment, but he knew what he ought to say, and that he ought to get on with it, aware of the way Drogon still watched him closely. “I’m sorry, love. I know you can’t stay out of the fray, I know it, I just—”

“You’re afraid. You don’t want to lose me.” She already knew, saying what was in his heart as surely as if he’d spoken it himself, and when she leaned back, she was giving him a true smile, at last, though it was tempered with a certain melancholy. “I know.” She reached up, fondly stroking his cheek. “That’s why I cannot stay in the skies. We do this together, Jon. I did not marry you so that I may have a protector.”

“You don’t need a protector, I know that.” Jon covered her hand with his, trapping it in place, leaning into her touch.

“No,” she agreed. “You are my husband, my King. You do not rule over me, and you do not command me, nor I you.” She stood up on her toes, brushing a light kiss against his lips. “We are partners, Jon. Equals. We will share the battlefield together, and there can be no more argument on that front. We must be united.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, pulling her close again. “Aye,” he said, against her ear. “We are united.” Carefully, he turned her around in his arms, so that she faced the sea, and he brought his hands to his very favorite place on her body, at least currently. There were several close seconds, he thought slyly, as he cupped her stomach, but this was his greatest comfort.

He tucked his chin against her shoulder, as she stared at the sea, but he could see the smiled that played around her lips at his actions. “Drogon knows,” she whispered, and Jon thought that made a fair bit of sense. Whatever it was that bonded him to his wolf, he suspected it was much the same with Dany and the dragon she rode, likely the others to lesser degree.

“Good,” he muttered, kissing at her neck. “Then he will take extra care as well.” A rumbling growl rose, and his wife laughed.

“He agrees, I think,” she said, and let her palm cover his.

For a long while, they stared at the sea, at the horizon, at the world that lay further beyond, waiting to be taken. But closer to home, there was so much more, for him, and he needed to explain, he thought. Perhaps she didn’t require it, and she would forgive him his fear, but maybe, if he made himself plain, she would understand what had driven his earlier words.

“When I was a boy,” he began, quietly, “I knew I’d never really be a Stark. I was luckier than most bastards, you know. Most do not grow up in a great House, in a proper Keep. There are no feasts for them to dine at, and their clothes are not the cast-offs of their Lord brother’s. They have far worse lives than mine was, I know that to be true.” He sighed, his eyes on the sea. “But still, I was caught between two worlds. I grew up with Lords and Ladies, but I knew I’d never be one. It was an easy choice, to join the Night’s Watch. There, I thought, perhaps I could make my father proud, instead of being the walking, talking proof of his shame.”

He felt her take a deep, heavy breath, felt the way she tensed in his arms, and he looked askance at her, confirming the affront that was painting her features. It was endlessly amazing to him, how she seemed to want to protect *him*.

“The Night’s Watch wasn’t what I thought it was, but when I took my vows, when I swore to hold no lands, to take no wife, to father no children,” he shook his head against her shoulder, “it was an easy thing, you see? No fine lady would ever want to marry a bastard anyway, I thought, so what was I giving up, truly? I could man the Wall, find honor in my task, find a way to set myself apart from the shame of my birth.”

Her fingers were stroking across the top of his hand, and he splayed his fingers wide against the place where his child hid inside her body. “I never thought I would be a father. It was something I’d given up on, long before I met you. And now,” his voice broke, eyes growing embarrassingly wet, but there were none about to see but her and her dragons. “Now, Dany, that it is happening, there is nothing I want more in the world. Now, I know we must win these wars, all of them, to give this child all the things we did not have. We must make a world that is safe for them. And I’m afraid I’m going to die in these bloody wars, before I see this babe born. I’m afraid you will be taken from me, and most of all, I fear what I will become if I survive and you do not.”

Dany turned, her breath stuttering out, and he saw her eyes ringed with red, saw she was quietly crying, no sobs or loud cries, just silent tears that slipped down her cheeks. When she faced him fully, he grasped her face, hands gripping tight. “I used to wonder,” he whispered, “what could make a man like Ramsay Bolton capable of such cruelty, of such monstrous deeds. But I know the answer to that. I know it, I can see it, clearly. It’s right there, just beyond my fingertips, lying in wait. There is a monster inside me, and if it is freed, only death will stop it.”

She sniffed, swiping at her own tears, then raising trembling fingertips to wipe away his as well. Then, she gripped at the collar of his jerkin, tugging him down so that their faces were even. “We are not going to let that happen,” she swore, and she spoke with such assurance that he thought perhaps he could believe her. “For there is a monster inside me as well, and woe be unto any who think that they will take you from me and live to draw another breath.” Resting her forehead against his, she swallowed, still holding tight to his collar. “We are more than they are, any of them. We will see this done, together. I swear it, Jon.”

She settled back, staring up at him, gathering herself, he knew. He did the same, taking several deep breaths, lost in her eyes, in the intoxicating mixture of love and ferocity that he saw there.

“What do you think it will be, eh?” He frowned, confused, until she gestured to the swell of her stomach. “I suspect it is a boy.”

Jon hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on those suppositions, much, but he felt a playful contrariness rise within him. “Hmmm,” he mused, staring down between them. “A girl,” he declared, chuckling at the wry twist of her lips.

“You’re just being difficult.” She let her arms creep around his waist, and hugged him tightly.

“No,” he said, securing his arms around her back again. “I figure this way at least one of us will be right.”

Chapter Text

They found the Dothraki encampment, half a day’s ride from the capital, though from above, in Jon’s opinion, each rider appeared to be little more than a moving speck on the ground below. They’d waited until they knew they must go, and his throat had closed tightly as he’d watched her bid farewell to the place that had become a home to her, in world where she’d had none.

He understood.

Dragonstone had begun to feel as such to him, as well, and the part of his mind not focused on the battle ahead, or the Army of the Dead, wondered at himself. Winterfell had been his home. The North was in his blood, it had given him life, sustained him, rebirthed him in its’ icy snows.

And yet…

He had come to know the grassy cliffs of Dragonstone, as well. He’d grown fond of the crashing waves upon the shore, of the carved stone walls and reliefs, the endless stairways.

He was especially keen on the baths, he thought, as the wind whipped against his ears. Dany circled, finding a clear, open spot to land, and he braced himself for the teeth-rattling contact when Drogon thundered aground. His arms were wrapped tight around her waist, a hand one where his babe swelled and grew, and he found he was hesitant to climb down, hesitant to let her go.

But he must, and so he did, climbing down a bit more nimbly than he first had, after that first flight to the Wall.

And once his boots kissed the grass, he turned, extending a hand as his bride gracefully stepped free from Drogon’s hulking black form. She took it, but pursed her lips, exasperated though her eyes betrayed her amusement, crinkling in the corners.

“I am fully capable of climbing down on my own, you know.” She raised a brow at him, even as she took his proffered arm, and he felt more at ease, now that she was tucked up against him again. She looked about, raising a hand in greeting at her horselords as they noticed their Khaleesi was amongst them. “Dothraki women ride until they give birth. Did you know that?”

Jon clucked his tongue, gloved hand coming to lay atop hers on his arm. “I’ve no doubt they do, Dany. Do you intend to birth this babe atop your dragon, then?” Their heads huddled close, as he whispered, and her shoulders shook in silent laughter, her eyes warm on his.

“Don’t be silly. I very much doubt Drogon would appreciate that.”

He rolled his eyes, pulling her closer. “I know you don’t need my assistance, but I’m going to offer it anyway. You are free not to take it.” They ambled about the camp, through a sea of tents, and she led him to the largest, one that was surely meant for her. The promise of freedom from the swarming bodies around them had him ducking into the canvas behind her, only to find they were not alone.

Varys and Tyrion sat together, the Queen’s Hand drinking from a wineskin as the Spider sat as he normally did, his face placid and calm, despite the harried workings of his cunning mind. Tyrion rose immediately, with Varys following suit, each giving a courteous nod of their heads to the couple as they entered.

“How do we fare, Lord Hand? Are we prepared for this meeting, on the morrow?” The softness in his Queen’s voice was gone, replaced by a clipped, tense tone, her spine straightening as she set to work. That mask she wore slid completely into place, his soft Dany hiding away until later, when it was just the two of them.

“All proceeds as planned, My Queen. The Dothraki know what is expected. Ser Jorah shall lead their approach to the city, then meet us at the gates to venture inside and,” he took a gulp of wine, smacking his lips, “determine our fates.”

Jon felt her tense, wondered just how much the small man had drunk already, but he seemed clear-eyed enough, for now.

“Very well, my Lord.” Dany glanced quickly at Varys, then looked away, considering. “Have you spoken with Grey Worm today?” They’d seen the Unsullied camp a short distance away, the two groups near enough that it was a quick ride between, Jon thought.

Tyrion shook his head. “No, Your Grace. Shall I make sure they are prepared, as well?” This was Tyrion’s plan, this show of force they would demonstrate outside the stone city walls, and even Jon could see the man wished for flawless execution of his idea, hoping to elevate himself once more in the Queen’s eyes.

Daenerys nodded, giving her Hand a slight smile. “Please do, my Lord, with my thanks. We shall meet again at dawn, you and I, for our final preparations.” Her meaning was clear, and Jon fought his own smile at her strong suggestion that they would not be interrupted this evening, the King and Queen.

Tyrion tucked away his wineskin, adjusting his leathers and giving a brusque nod. “Of course, Your Grace. Sleep well.” He was gone, in a rustle of thick canvas, and both Jon and Dany turned to Varys, whose inscrutable expression began to relax, bit by bit. Jon wondered how it was that the eunuch managed to keep his robes so immaculate, no matter their location, glad to see the man had chosen a dark gray. Perhaps if it came to bloodshed tomorrow, in the Dragon Pit, it would hide the stains.

“Varys,” Daenerys began, coming to sit and gesturing for the Spider to, as well, “what word from the city?”

Jon felt his breath stall in his chest, when the man looked between them, until, finally, the corners of the Spider’s lips curved upwards. “Most promising news, Your Grace, although I fear we will not have the full measure of our,” he paused, head wobbling back and forth as he searched for the word he wanted, “*support*, until we enter the gates and see for ourselves.”

Dany studied her Master of Whispers for several long moments, lips pressed tight, jaw working, eyes narrowed. “And how,” she finally said, “will we know for certain?”

There came a glint in the eunuch’s eyes, and he stood, stepping towards them ‘til he was a mere foot away, his voice lowered when he answered.

“A rather ingenious plan, really. It was Ser Davos’s idea. You see, many of the Lannister soldiers have been using wagon carts to haul away the wreckage of the Sept. And, as we have won more over to our side, we’ve used those carts to distribute supplies to the people, as you requested, Your Grace. Meereen has provided much and more.” He sighed, rocking back on his heels. “So much destruction, paraded past the people of King’s Landing, a daily reminder of what their current Queen has done to them.” Varys began to smile, a devious edge to the man’s voice now. “And so it seems that tomorrow, in recognition of their loss, the people wish to fly black banners from their little hovels, to tie black fabric ‘round their arms, when they walk the streets, to mourn their dead, together.”

Jon cocked his head. “But that’s not really why, is it?”

Varys shook his head, his smile growing. “Oh, no. For tomorrow, all those who wish to see Cersei Lannister cast down, shall make their intentions known. Where you see black, you shall see an ally.” He flicked a finger towards the Targaryen banner set in the corner of the tent, then to Jon’s own leathers, a fine new set, that his Queen had commissioned for him, still topped by his battered gorget. “I thought it rather fitting, you see, as did Davos.”

There was still a part of Jon that was reluctant to trust this man, but his increasing desire to see this done, to protect his wife and unborn babe, told him there were precious few other options, now. Still, he felt the need to voice his concerns. “And how certain are you, that when we march into this city, when we make *our* intentions very clear, that we will have their support?”

Varys finally slipped his placid mask, a scowl forming. “It will be very clear, the moment those gates open. They have been fed, and clothed, medicines given to their sick and dying, and each and every soul knows who has delivered such unto them. And with these gifts, they have been given stories, tales they can scarcely believe, but which they yearn to. They will know the truth of this, the moment those dragons fly over the city.” His eyes flew to Daenerys then. “And when it is done, you shall have your Throne.”

He felt Dany’s hand tighten on his arm. “Thank you, Varys,” she said, dismissing him with a regal nod, and when they were finally, blissfully alone she turned and threaded her arms around his waist. “What do you think?”

Jon gritted his teeth. “I think it might work,” he managed, the words more growl than speech, “or it might be a trap.”

She kissed along his jaw softly, then leaned back, to look up at him. “And if it is a trap? If this is all just an elaborate ruse to deliver us to Cersei?”

He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers, letting his hands wrap around her waist and pull her flush. There was only one answer to that question. “Then the city falls. Burn it to the ground.” Her lovely eyes widened in surprise, but he shook his head, insistent. “IF they turn on us, and the Night King breaches the Wall, they’re all as good as dead, anyway. I won’t risk our safety for those who prove they don’t deserve it.” He pressed his lips to hers, finally, wanting to forget, for just a little while longer. “The choice is theirs.”

------------

He was up as the sun rose, the following morning, an odd excitement stirring his gut, forcing him up from the furs and the warmth of Dany cradled against him to scrub at his eyes.

Jon stood, glancing back at the slight woman still sleeping, the realization nearly knocking him to his knees, for what seemed the hundredth time since that very first morning with her, in Eastwatch, that he would not hesitate to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe.

And now, more than ever, it washed over him with a cold, startling clarity. There were few things Jon really fancied himself as being particularly good at. He could stir the hearts of men, lead them to war, if he had the notion to, the will to see it done. He could drive his sword into his enemy’s heart, swing until the breath left him if he must, a deep well of resolve existing somewhere inside his chest that could be tapped, in his darkest hours.

Before now, in all honesty, it had been a bittersweet thrill. In the end, had it mattered how many men he’d slain, when it never seemed to matter? The battles before now, at least a fair few of them, had been fights in which he’d been prepared to die.

But now, more than anything he longed to live, past this war, past the next, to look upon his child’s face, to know what it was like, to have all these things he’d so long been convinced would never be his. Jon had been raised to believe that he would never deserve them, by virtue of his birth, of his standing. Son of the noble Eddard Stark, yes, but the proof of his greatest sin, no doubt the walking embodiment of his father’s lusts and vice.

But his father was dead, and Lady Stark was, as well. He was no longer a man of the Night’s Watch. He was a King. He didn’t need to listen to those voices, anymore, those whispers of doubt. He could prove he was worthy of the life he wanted, even if it was to no one but himself. If he wanted to *keep* it, though, he must fight for it, and that would start this day.

He sat beside his wife, let his hand brush up her arm, across the sharp relief of her cheek, smiling as her lashes fluttered and she took a deep, slow breath.

“Morning already?” Her sleep-addled voice was so soft, so unlike the woman she must become when they were with the others. Here she was just Dany, soft, and sweet, eyes so full of love for him that for a moment he thought perhaps he still dreamed.

“Aye,” he said quietly. Her hand gripped his, and she sat up, still bare beneath the furs, clutching them to her chest as she studied him.

“You have the loudest mind of anyone I’ve ever met. I can hear it spinning away in there,” she said, releasing the bed covers to tap at his temple. “Like a wagon wheel.” She laughed, low and husky, when he squinted at her, unsure.

“I’m not certain if that’s a compliment,” he said, finally smiling when she swatted at him.

She didn’t answer, just crawled into his lap, up onto his thighs, bare as her nameday, the only thing separating them the thin breeches he’d tugged on. Dany’s arms went around his neck, face tucked against his throat, and he felt her next words more than heard them, her lips brushing against his skin.

“Everything will be fine. You’ll see.” She pulled back only enough to brush her lips against his softly. “Have a little faith.”

Jon gazed at her somberly. “In what? That Cersei Lannister will see the wisest course of action is to step aside? That the people of this city will choose just as wisely? That’s always been my problem, I’ve realized. I’ve put too much stock in the ability of others to do what is right, and all it’s gotten me ‘til now are these.” He gestured between them, at the scars on his chest.

Dany considered him, just as solemnly. “In me, then. Have some faith in me. We will be done with this task, one way or another. How much blood is paid will be their choice to make.”

Jon closed his eyes, letting his forehead bump against hers, letting his hand rise up to cup the soft skin of her cheek, his thumb tracing slowly against the shape of it. “You’re the only thing I have faith in, anymore.”

When she didn’t say anything, he peered between his lids, to find her damp eyed, a sad smile flitting across her lips. “That’s enough for me, Jon. As long as you have faith me in, I care little for what anyone else thinks.” She let out a shaky sigh, her fingers slipping to his shoulders. “I hope I deserve it.”

Jon nodded, never more certain in his entire life when he responded. “You do.”

----------

His heart remained lodged in his throat, as they approached the gates that guarded King’s Landing, Davos to his right, his Queen at his left, gathered close, with Tyrion trailing at her side. With a mighty creak, the massive doors parted, soldiers clad in Lannister red lining the cobblestone path just inside.

That, however, was not what threated the steal the air from Jon’s chest.

As his eyes took in the sight before him, he felt Dany’s fingers dig into his arm, felt her body tense beside him, knew she realized exactly what he did.

It was a sea of black, in every corner he glanced at.

Tyrion intoned, from his far left, “They mourn the dead of the ‘incident’ at the Sept, today. I suppose my sister decided to allow it. I’ve heard whispers that she has become paranoid, with every day that passes, convinced that she will lose what power remains to her if she allows you to come. We are lucky Jaime was able to convince her.”

Daenerys exhaled, the slowest he’d ever heard, but unlike Tyrion he knew precisely what it was that pushed that slow release from her lungs.

Relief.

Behind each soldier were smallfolk, packed into lines, spilling into the alleys, peering from the windows.

Their tunics and roughspun dresses were dirty, caked with mud and grime and filth, but under such decay, one thing was clear.

They were all clad in black, each and every one of them.

From the windows, hung strips of black cloth, the faces that stared down from above all set, determined.

There were no smiles, only the barest nods, as Jon and Daenerys began to slowly step forward, as if they understood. As if to tell this King and Queen, who had been little more than tales, until now, that they were ready to fight, for themselves.

Right on cue, the moment they were past the first row of hovels, a great screech sounded overhead, and Jon could hear the gasps from the onlookers as a great shadow passed above, then another, then another.

“Dragons,” came the hissed, awe-stricken whispers. Even the soldiers who escorted them began to glance at each other, and even amongst these Jon recognized that, here and there, amongst the twenty or so that were arranged in two columns, there were strips of cloth tired around a man’s bicep.

One man, just to the right of Davos, met Jon’s eyes, and gave him the barest smile. “Your Grace,” the young man whispered.

“Jon,” Davos muttered under his breath, “this is Gendry. He’s been helping us.”

Gendry trained his eyes forward, but slowed his pace a bit, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “You’re Arya brother, aren’t you?”

Jon started, so violently that Dany noticed, her head swiveling to see what was amiss.

“You know my sister?” The man didn’t hear him, so Davos quietly passed the message along, at which point Gendry nodded.

“I knew her, though it’s been years since I last saw her, in the Riverlands. Not sure what’s become of her since then.” He saw regret clearly on the man’s face, wished he could speak further on just what had occurred between his sister and this lad, but there was no time or privacy for such. Later, he told himself, choosing instead to nod.

“She’s in Winterfell.”

Gendry heard that clearly enough, judging from the smile on his face. “Good. She finally made it home.”

Jon cast his eye about again, as they continued to walk, realizing Tyrion was watching him curiously. “How many of the soldiers will lay down their weapons, when the time comes?” He tried to take a count of the ones who’d marked themselves, unable to get a good view at times, just passing flashes, as Dany’s dragons distracted the people by circling above and calling out every now and then.

“More than half,” came the muttered reply, and the lad’s blue eyes turned hard. “The others are on their own, and they’ll get what they deserve.”

Jon considered this, realizing quickly that this city held far more smallfolk and far fewer soldiers than he’d originally believed, though several clusters could be spotted above on the catwalks and battlements.

“It’s the Goldcloaks that’ll give you the most trouble,” Davos said in his ear. “And they’re waiting on us in the Pit.”

Jon nodded again, whispering what he’d learned quickly to Daenerys, who seemed to take it all in with a measured calmness.

Then he looked to Tyrion. “How many people live in this city, Tyrion?”

Daenerys’s hand tipped his head to the side, thinking. “About a million, I’d say, give or take.”

Jon let out a whistle. “That’s more than the whole of the North, all packed into one place.” He shook his head, giving Dany a small smile. “Can’t imagine what that’s like, to have no space at all.”

Tyrion shrugged. “There’s more work to be had, and to be fair, the brothels are far superior,” he answered, by way of explanation.

Dany snorted, giving him a roll of her eyes before she focused again on what seemed to have stolen her attention: the people they passed. She seemed determine to lay sight on each and every one she could manage, occasionally looking up when Drogon let out a particularly loud scream and smiling in reassurance. She seemed radiant to him, in that moment, the sun shining down on them both, arm in arm, as they made their way through the city. This was what they were choosing, what she wanted to show them. She didn’t look down on them, these people of King’s Landing. No, instead she seemed determined to show them she was exactly what was promised, their savior, come to deliver them from the fearful existence they’d experienced before she’d arrived.

Jon hoped, his own lip curling up as he glanced about as well, that they believed her, that they could lay aside their own fears and fight for what they wanted, that they could learn it was possible to deliver themselves. They just needed to be shown the way, led along that path.

With a glance at Dany, he felt a fleeting flash of relief, one that made his shoulders a bit less heavy, that had his chin tipped up a bit higher. If these people were brave enough now, then perhaps, if the fates were kind, they’d be brave enough for what came next.

-----------

The Dragon Pit was a crumbling ruin, the walls of stone rotted away with time, but if he squinted, Jon thought he could picture what it had been, once.

The Last Targaryen in all the lands walked apace with him, her dragons screaming overhead, and he wondered what it must have been like, the last time dragons roamed the skies above King’s Landing. He spied the way Dany’s eyes moved over the architecture, no doubt similar thoughts flitting through her mind, as well. Their party came to a halt, and he was relieved to find a very familiar, large crate being carried upon a wagon, several soldiers standing on either side as it came to a stop just behind Jon and Daenerys.

One of the soldiers looked at Jon, with a scowl, and rapped the edge of his shield against the box. “What’s in here, then?”

Jon studied the man, his eyes finding no trace of black on this man’s person.

“Hit it one more time and you won’t live long enough to find out.” His answering snarl seemed to catch the man off guard, and he took a step back, the chuckles of a few of his fellows giving him pause to glare at Jon soundly before stepping clear away, a different solider shuffling forward, this one giving Jon a knowing look, black fabric tied tight around his right bicep.

At the tug on his own arm, he turned, to find Dany watching him closely, half-smiling and amused despite her own anxiety. She looked back to the crate, concerned. “Is he well in there, do you think? I’ve been so worried for him, the little sweetling.”

Jon scoffed, earning him a little pinch from her slim fingers, and chuckled. “Oh, I can assure you, the ‘little sweetling’ is quite alright. He’s good and angry, now. Just as he needs to be.” He could feel Ghost, within those wooden slats, feel the tense anger that was knotted in the wolf’s gut, a mirror to his own. When he was released, Jon didn’t suppose there was much the Lannister forces could dream up to stop him should he go on a bloody rampage.

Jon was counting on it.

The doors parted for them, and on a shared exhale, Jon and Dany looked only to each other.

“Ready?” There was the barest quiver in her voice, one he meant to allay as his hand snaked down to capture hers, as his lips brushed against the back.

“Ready,” he said firmly, and he let his fear become bravery, let the ice in his veins turn to fire, his heart beating like a war drum, adrenaline coursing through him, tense and alert.

They stepped, together, through the stone archway.

-----------

Cersei Lannister sat at the head of the dais, flanked on either side by an assemblage of Goldcloaks, her brother to her left, and an enormous man, completely shrouded in metal, to her right.

She looked as Jon remembered, for the most part, but harder, colder, and far more sinister than Robert Baratheon’s Queen had appeared so long ago, at Winterfell.

She frowned at them, as they approached, and Jon saw immediately that two chairs had been placed directly opposite each other, separate, with a loose collection of Jon’s Northern guards and Davos one on side, and Dany’s Dothraki and Unsullied, with a stoic Missandei awaiting, on the other.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Varys peel off, ducking out the side entrance, and he fought the urge to smile to himself. Now, they merely had to wait, and allow themselves to distract Cersei while their plans came to fruition.

“We’ve been waiting some time,” Cersei sniped, looking crossly between Jon and his Queen as they seated themselves.

“My apologies,” Daenerys said smoothly, locking her hands in her lap and giving Jon a tiny look before returning her attention to the False Queen. “It is a long walk, through the city.”

Cersei’s mouth twisted sourly. “Indeed, it is,” she rasped, hands clenching and unclenching fitfully on the arms of her seat. “Well, let’s be on with it then. I have little patience for such an audience, but seeing as my brothers have decided this ought happen, I will be magnanimous. State your business, and be quick about it.”

Dany nodded to Jon, and he stood, clearing his throat, lips parting. Before he could speak, however, those large shadows passed overhead, and now he did allow a smile to flirt across his lips as he looked up, seeing the True Queen’s dragons swooping lower and lower, circling tightly and then thundering down, first Drogon, then Rhaegal, then Viserion, each landing with a force that shook against his boots along the perimeter of the Dragon Pit.

There was an odd reassurance in their presence, he found. Now that they were here, he at least had the thought that should it all go to shit, they would end any threat against their mother, more swiftly than he could ever manage.

He glanced at Dany, who gave him a coy wink.

“We come to speak to you today of a common enemy, Cersei of House Lannister.” He knew that would get a rise out of her, and it worked, just as Varys had assured him it would.

“I am the Queen and you will address me as such.” Her venom was dampened by the way she kept glancing at the hulking masses of scales and heat that were alternately growling and glaring her direction.

“No,” Jon said firmly, “I will not.” He sucked in a breath, watching closely at the reaction of those gathered beside Cersei as he continued. “I cannot serve two Queens. And I have pledged myself to Daenerys of House Targaryen, the True Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and my wife.”

Jon saw Jaime Lannister shift uncomfortably and glare at Tyrion.

“The Bastard King and the Mad King’s Daughter have wed?” Cersei let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “And better still, you have the temerity to stand before me and declare her the True Queen.” She leaned back, clearly furious, studying Jon. “I would have expected better from Ned Stark’s son. What would he say, I wonder, if he were here now.”

Jon let his hand stray to his pommel, palm cupping the wolf’s head engraved there, fury rising hot and fast in his chest. “I imagine he’d have quite a bit to say, if your monstrous little shit of a son hadn’t set his head on a pike, now wouldn’t he?”

Cersei stood, then, quickly, beginning to stalk towards Jon, only stopped by Jaime’s hand on her arm, her eyes wild. “You are a trumped-up bastard, reaching for power you cannot ever wish to obtain. You dare call anyone a monster, when you have brought these here?” She waved a hand around at the dragons, who hissed at her. Then, she pointed in Dany’s direction, who had been watching, stone-faced, the entire time. “You bring a monster’s daughter here?”

Jon laughed, something vicious in the sound. “Oh, no. They’re here to frighten you. And clearly they have, especially my Queen.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “But I am here to warn you of the greater threat, to all of us, but I suspect you will be far too foolish to listen.”

Jaime forced his sister back to her seat, not without a warning look in Jon’s direction. “I ought to have you clapped in irons and dragged to the dungeons.” When the last syllable fell, a dragon snarled viciously, not Drogon this time, but Rhaegal, whose bronze eyes seemed trained on the Lannister Queen.

Jon nodded, with a small, smug smile, in the dragon’s direction. “Seems he is not fond of that idea. Instead, you shall listen.” This part, he knew, was not truly for Cersei, but for those who stood in this vast arena, those who were already prepared to raise arms for Jon’s Queen, and those who were, perhaps, undecided. “There is another, who is coming, who cares nothing for your station, or your blood. He cares nothing for your lands and your Keeps, or your gold and your titles. Young or old, true or baseborn, his only intent is to kill you, and me, and every other being that draws breath.”

Jon nodded to Davos, and within moments, his hand was ushering in the large crate from an area below ground, all eyes on the great wooden box as it was set near Jon. He could feel Ghost’s ire rising, knew the wolf was aware of the threat, was ready to fight the moment he was set free.

Cersei exchanged a look with the robed man on the dAIs, flicked her eyes to the metal monstrosity nearest her, and laughed.

“This is why you’ve come?” She shook her head, amused, though her eyes remained cold, calculating. “This sounds like a particularly awful joke. You are a bastard, Jon Snow, but it was not until this day I took you to be a fool.”

The man in Ironborn armor beside the False Queen stood, his eyes tracking to Theon as Jon watched, the older man seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that had begun to build between the two Queens. “Theon,” he called out, almost singing the name in a taunt. “Your sister will die today, no matter what happens here.”

Jon watched Theon’s face twist, remembered the promise he’d made to his father’s charge before they’d left Dragonstone. If Euron was here, he was Theon’s to kill, and no one else’s. Just a dip of his chin was all that was required of Jon, as Theon returned the gesture, a mutinous glare in his eyes as he turned back to face his Uncle.

In his mind, he’d counted to two hundred, and right on cue, the bells began toll. Daenerys stood, regal, exchanging a small smile with Missandei and coming to stand beside Jon, taking his arm and giving Cersei a calm smile.

“The only fool here is you. We are here to give you a choice. The threat we face will require all of us, banded together, to fight our common enemy. However,” Dany continued, eyes resting on Jon’s briefly as Cersei began to look about, panicked by the sound of the bells filling the air, “we will not fight a war in two fronts. You may step aside, this day, and choose exile across the Narrow Sea, or you can die.”

“What is this?” Cersei’s entire company was buzzing with confusion, particularly when a louder sound filled the air. Screams filtered in, some from just beyond the doors that closed them all in, together. The sounds of battle began to rise, a clash of metal on metal, the cries of the dying.

Euron seemed rather dismissive, even of that, and looked to Jon. “What’s in the box, then? Grumpkins and snarks?”

Jon favored the man with a vicious smile as another snarl rang through the air, muffled by wood but no doubt heard by those surrounded Cersei. For her part, Cersei seemed to understand that she now faced a rather significant dilemma: the sounds of struggle only grew louder from beyond the walls of the Dragon Pit, but she could not dismiss her red-clad soldiers or Goldcloaks to investigate without costing herself their protection to the dangers that stood before her.

She had grown wide-eyed, panicked, and seemed to reach a decision that would no doubt seal her fate as she grasped for the arm of the mountainous soldier at her side. “Kill them!” Her shriek pierced the air, and even Ser Jaime’s cries could not stop the man as he began to skulk towards Jon and Dany.

“Choose your sides, Sons of Westeros!” Dany answered Cersei’s scream with one of her own, and as thought it had been rehearsed, roughly half of the Lannister soldiers came running to stand behind the Dragon Queen as her own soldiers heeded the next command she issued, first in Dothraki tongue, then in Valyrian.

Jon skinned his steel, watching the huge armored man’s progress as he struck the lock clean from the crate, seconds to spare as a flash of furious white leapt forward and set upon the man called The Mountain.

Arakhs and spears were drawn, as were swords from their scabbards, but everyone froze, then as Ghost unleashed his pent-up fury, the brute force with which he’d launched himself at the towering monster knocking the man to the ground, his helmet knocked free to reveal the true horror below. What this creature was, Jon did not know, but the look of him was so disgusting Jon fought the urge to retch.

“Take his head,” Jon called to the wolf, face turning to a grimace in disturbed distaste as he saw what had lurked beneath the shroud of the helmet. “Kill the beast!”

Ghost obeyed, as Cersei let loose a helpless shriek, the man’s slow, jerking movements hindered by his armor, no match for Ghost’s size or ferocity, and his head was ripped clean from his body, black blood leaking out to wet the sepia dirt beneath their feet.

Ghost stood upon the body, panting, glaring, mouth painted with the same blood, retching several times on the dead man, clearly disliking the taste.

With another loud, Valyrian command, the dragons began to creep forward, triangulated around them, advancing and pinning Cersei’s ever-diminishing forces as they came closer.

“This is your final chance. Surrender, or fight!” He looked to the Goldcloaks, who had begun to tremble in their plate. “Serve the Dragon Queen or die with yours!”

Drogon let out a vicious hiss, his massive teeth snapping together as a growl rumbled deep in his chest, where no doubt a great gust of fire was building. His brothers followed suit, their bestial amber eyes glowing with intent.

It was a losing battle, one Ser Jaime seemed to recognize, and he saw the panic on the man’s eyes as he stood at his sister’s side, no doubt taking stock of the impossible odds now against the Lannisters. He saw the hopeless twist of the man’s lips, the way his shoulders began to slump, and for a moment the man’s good hand flew to his sword belt, as though he meant to set it before them, to surrender.

But Cersei would not have it, that much was clear. For as much as her brother had an air of grim acceptance, the woman on the dais, in her gold circlet, was incensed, even as her own men began to stray closer to Jon and Daenerys, to join their kinsmen at the Dragon Queen’s back.

Now it was only the Greyjoy man, a thin man in dirty Maester’s robes, and Jaime who stood near Cersei, as the thudding of swords dropping into the dirt resonated from her gold-clad soldiers.

“Traitors!” Her shriek rent the air, her eyes wide and crazed, and when she chanced a look at her brother, only to find something she clearly disagreed with on Ser Jaime’s face, she snarled.

“Go to Drogon, Dany,” Jon uttered, squeezing her hand tight. Theon was sidling up beside him, with eyes trained on his Uncle, it was Cersei that drew Jon’s full attention now. She was going to do something very ill-advised, he was sure of it, and her fury was saved solely for Jon’s silver-haired Queen. “Get up on his bloody back and use your weapon, my love.”

He could feel Dany’s eyes on his face, could see her nod, finally, in his periphery. “Be careful, Jon,” she urged, with one last stroke of her hand against his, the sounds of battle only intensifying from beyond the pit, even as everything inside these walls seemed to grow ever more quiet.

But as he watched, time seemed to slow, as well, as Cersei Lannister reached to her brother’s sword belt, and skinned his steel, the blade glinting in the midday sun as she pulled it free, her eyes surely on Dany’s back as his wife scrambled atop her black beast.

The hair rose on the back of his neck.

No, he thought.

No, this is not going to happen.

Bile seemed to rise in his throat, and the sound of Ghost growling narrowed his focus, to the golden- haired woman who meant, in that moment, to kill his wife, and his babe besides.

No, he screamed, inside his heart, his mind, his soul. His blood pumped furiously, a curious sensation rising within him. Fury, such as he had never known before, took over, and he did not know it came about, what happened next. One moment, he gripped Longclaw tight, ready to charge her, to cut her down where she stood, for his father, for his love, for his little one.

Then, as each second seemed as slow and sticky as molasses, an unnatural series of events on unfolded. For in the next moment, there was a great weight pressed against him, a sudden and heavy push, white fur almost choking his open mouth as he screamed, Ghost knocking him to the ground, surely, preventing him from moving ahead.

And then, overhead, a long green neck, covered in scales, extended, and the dragon scream furiously, just as furious in his anger as Jon himself was, and then it was all heat and flame, as far as he could see.

At his back was the dragon’s massive chest, and Ghost kept him pinned there, panting, for once ignoring Jon’s forceful urgings, refusing to budge until the green dragon had expended his fiery breath upon everyone who’d stood on that dais.

He heard still more screams, and then nothing, an abrupt silence as slowly, carefully, the dragon withdrew, and Ghost removed himself from Jon’s chest and legs, until he was panting in the dirt, choking on mouthfuls of dust and smoke as he climbed to his feet, his sword still in hand.

“Dany!” His scream was met by an answering call, but he could not see her, for a heart-stopping moment, could only see the billows of smoke and smell the charred, scorching stench of roasted flesh.

“Jon! Jon!” She was frantic, his Queen, her call from above echoed by a screech he knew to be Drogon’s. “Are you hurt?”

He heaved several breaths before he answered, checking himself for wounds, finding himself unharmed. “No,” he shouted back. “Is everyone alright?”

There came a slow chorus of voices he knew; Davos, and Tyrion, the Lady Missandei, and Grey Worm as well. There came others he did not know, no doubt the Westerosi who had laid down their arms, or joined their cause from the start. He heard guttural Dothraki, and the Unsullied and their Valyrian tongue, and then, through the lingering smoke, came Theon’s voice, a hoarse, triumphant cry that chased after the wet sound of a sword being plunged into flesh.

He clambered over, at the sound, following Theon’s voice until he saw what had occurred; Theon stood, pulling his sword free from Euron’s neck, the dying man choking and gasping as he bled out onto the dirt, the life slowly leaving his eyes as Theon knelt before his Uncle’s body.

“You die today,” Theon said with vicious finality. He spit in his Uncle’s face. “Yara will live.”

He stood, silently, watching with Theon until the man lay still, laying a hand on the slight man’s shoulders, watery blue eyes meeting his as Theon let loose a hoarse, rasping sob.

Theon stood, catching Jon’s forearm to help him stand, sadness and a cold certainty there in the man’s gaze, now. “I have to go, Jon. She needs me, now. I have to make things right.”

Jon squeezed a gloved hand around Theon’s arm, nodding. “Then what are you still doing here?” He cracked a small smile. “We’ll manage things from here. Go.”

The smoke had cleared enough that Jon could see the shapes of their soldiers, now, the Goldcloaks kneeling, daring not to look up, as Unsullied and Dothraki alike had clustered around them, arakhs and spears pointed at their throats as they laid down the remainder of their weapons.

Ghost stood, beneath the shadow of the green dragon, and it was there that Jon went first. He stared at Rhaegal, a ribbon of wonder making his knees tremble, as the dragon let loose a friendly chirp. He pulled off his glove, shaking hand trembling as well, as he dared stroke that green snout. With Daenerys at his side he had not feared to do this, knowing it was their mother’s fondness that allowed it, perhaps even from the start, that day on the cliff’s, with Drogon.

But she was above him, on Drogon’s back, circling, no doubt casting an eye upon the state of the city below, and this was probably not the wisest thing he’d ever done, but he felt the unshakable notion that the beast wouldn’t harm him. “Well done, lad,” he whispered, stroking his hand fondly down the heated scales, smiling as the dragon chirped again. Ghost butted his head against Jon’s side, and he twisted, casting fond eyes on the wolf. “Oh, aye, you as well. Right proper lads, the both of you.”

Jon heard, then, a terrible cry, a sound of pure mourning, and loss.

He twisted, and saw Tyrion standing alone, on the dais the only thing that remained of the brother and sister he’d both hated and loved, in turn.

Jon bit back a sigh. He understood this loss, and it was for this reason, and a handful of others, that they’d known they couldn’t let Tyrion know the full extent of their plans. He was prepared for the man’s grief, and the anger that would surely follow, but for now, all he could do was approach, somberly.

A foot from where Tyrion stood, lay three items; a puddle of molten gold, swiftly beginning to harden as it cooled, no doubt all that remained of Ser Jaime’s false hand. Beside that lay two other items, one of Jaime’s, and one of Cersei’s, and Jon ignored the Valyrian steel blade to grip the remnants of the circlet that had sat upon Cersei’s head. It must have fallen, to avoid the same fate as Jaime’s hand, for it was only blackened and melted in sections, enough remaining that the people would know precisely what it was.

Tyrion looked up, eyes heavy with accusation as he glared at Jon.

“You always meant for this to happen, didn’t you?” There was a dangerous edge to Tyrion’s voice, one that made Jon’s jaw tighten, but he would not hold the man’s anger against him, not now, not in this moment.

“Aye,” Jon said, with no small measure of certainty in his voice. “It had to. It was the only way, Tyrion, to save this city, these people. She would’ve let them all die, to save herself.”

Tyrion didn’t want to agree, Jon could tell. He saw the glint in the man’s eyes, as though he wished to argue, but there came a grief-stricken resignation across the man’s face. But then his eyes strayed to Jaime’s remains, and he looked as though he would weep. “But Jaime—”

“Made his choice,” Jon said soberly. “It was his choice to make, Tyrion’s, not yours. If he’d wanted to save himself, he could have.”

Again, that mutinous glint, but Tyrion held his tongue, and said nothing, instead reaching for his brother’s sword, raising it in his hands and watching the sun reflect against this steel.

“This blade is cursed,” Tyrion finally whispered. “Do you know what it is?”

Jon had his suspicions, the Lady Knight Brienne had confessed as to the origins of the steel she wore, had disclosed enough that he thought he knew the source, the original blade this one had been forged from. But he let Tyrion answer.

“T’was your father’s sword. Everything went to shit, after that visit to Winterfell. For everyone.”

Jon stood silent, considering, finally reaching a decision. “Keep it,” Jon finally said, and raised his brows at Tyrion’s astonished look. He shook his head, sparing a glance as their company seemed to be taking stock of their numbers and readying for the next step of their plan. “It’s not Ice anymore. You may need it, in the wars to come, and I have my own.” He patted a hand at Longclaw, now back at his hip, watched with Tyrion as Rhaegal and Viserion rose in the air as Drogon let out another screaming cry above their heads.

“Come, Lord Hand. We have business at the Red Keep.”

With Tyrion walking ahead, and Davos and Ghost trailing just behind, they left the Pit, finding a near-army of smallfolk crowding the streets, no more struggle to be had as they watched with wide eyes. The seemed more amazed at the sight of Ghost than of Jon himself, but he saw, now, though some were spattered with blood, some clutching wounds of their own, real hope in their eyes, and he allowed himself a small measure of gladness, as they made their way along the cobbles stone.

By the time they reached the streets that led to the Keep, his Queen had already landed, and Drogon had perched himself along a tower, watching the gathered masses closely as Dany stood, waiting for him. The crowds parted for him, and Ghost, and it was only man and wolf that made the final climb up the first set of steps, to the landing where she held out a hand to him.

He turned, taking her hand in his left, raising his right aloft so that the crowd could see the ruined crown he held.

“The Queen is dead!” His shout seemed to echo off every wall, reverberating back to him, powerful and strong. The people let up a loud, resounding cheer, as he turned, trying to ensure every eye could see his meaning.

Then he tossed the crown down the steps, watching it clatter down, and he raised his Queen’s arm high, their joined hands held together as he let out another cry, this one a command.

“Long Live the Queen!”

His ears threatened a mutiny as he was nearly deafened by the cries, this time, and he grinned, glancing over to find that Daenerys did not gaze out at the crowds. Her soft smile, her adoring eyes, were turned only to him, and he felt as though for a heartbeat only they existed. He grabbed her ‘round the waist, and kissed her soundly, chuckling against her lips as the smallfolk cheered even more loudly at the sight.

“Are you alright, love?” He breathed the question against her soft lips, holding her tighter.

She smiled against his, kissing him once more before letting her forehead rest against his chest. “I am now,” she managed, letting her hand rest above the scar that decorated his heart through his many layers. “I am now.”

----------

The Iron Throne was uglier than he’d thought it would be.

It also looked dreadfully uncomfortable, he thought, as he walked towards it, Daenerys on his arm.

They’d asked to be alone, for this first approach, and despite everything else that pushed in on his consciousness, all the other things that demanded his attention, he wouldn’t deny her this, or himself, either.

He wanted to see her take it, sat upon it, see it returned to Targaryen hands.

Aegon had forged it, and Aerys had lost it, but Daenerys had reclaimed it.

“Sit,” he said, pulling away, grinning as she looked between the throne and her King with wide, surprisingly hesitant eyes.

She’d changed, since their victory in the Dragon Pit. They’d borne with them various trunks, a few items they’d wanted with them if they won the day, and even as they lingered in the throne room their people set to work, ridding the city of those who refused to bend, taking down Baratheon and Lannister banners, and raising the three-headed dragon in place. In some areas, Jon had been told, they hoisted the Stark banner as well, and it never ceased to make him shake his head in surprise.

He never would have dreamed, in thousand lifetimes, that this would be his fate.

But he was here, now, and he would not trade this for anything.

With a shaky breath, Daenerys climbed the last remaining steps, letting her fingers glance of the melted heap of swords that had been fashioned into a chair, hundreds of years ago. “In my dreams,” she said quietly to him, her eyes tracing each detail of the throne, “This is as far as I reach. I touch it, then I turn away, and never do I seat myself upon it.” She sighed, her voice thickening with emotion. “And soon I will turn from it, surely enough.” She looked at him, over her shoulder, her eyes warm despite their glassiness. “For you.”

Jon nodded, a brief flash of fear shaking him, but he did not let it rise to the surface. He longed to tell her to stay behind, to let him go North and fight this war, to keep herself safe, here, to let his child be born far from the terrors that awaited them.

But she’d never do it, he knew.

She was far too bold, and far too brave.

And, he let himself accept, as he saw what was true deep in her eyes, she loved him too much to let him fight alone. It was the thing he cherished most about her, for as much as he caused him a bone-deep, mind-numbing worry.

He gestured to her, not trusting his voice, and he held his breath as she turned, drawing the skirts of her coat under her as she sat, finally, upon her family’s Throne.

“Well,” she said, eyeing him as she adjusted herself in the chair, “how do I look?”

Jon bit his lip, stifling a laugh, as she tipped her chin up regally, though her own amusement made her lips twitch as he came close enough to draw his hand along her cheek.

“Like the loveliest Queen in this realm or any other.” He knelt, knee hitting the stone under him, and took up her hand, kissing first the back of it, then her palm. “And the most fearsome, and the kindest, and the sweetest, as well. Certainly, the most dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” she echoed, brows quirking as she settled against the tall back. “In what way?”

“Well,” Jon said with a put-upon sigh, looking about as though he feared they might be overheard, “I’m in very grave danger of telling you the horribly inappropriate things I’d like to do to you, just seeing you seated there. Seems dangerous to me.”

He heard the telltale clack of nails against stone, that told him Ghost had finished his explorations and decided to Jon them, and he purposefully gave his wife a woe-filled expression as he held out his hand, helping her to stand and tucking her tight under his arm. “I’m definitely in danger of Ghost getting rid of me once and for all if he has to see my bare arse again.”

Dany laughed, this time, and he smiled as it echoed around the mostly empty room. One day, if they could win the war that still loomed, this room would be full of people, clamoring to see her, and him, the two of them together. He still wasn’t sure it was the sort of life he was made for, wasn’t sure he had the patience for it, but he had grown addicted to the feel of her beside him, and for that he would bear anything.

“Save that for later, then. Let us finish what must be done.” She leaned her head against him, and he could tell from the faint shadows around her eyes that she was tired, but still, her desire burned bright. “Then, I can assure you, I shall spend endless hours admiring your bare arse.”

They took the steps, together, and she gave him a cheeky wink as she made her steps match his own. “I think I like the sound of that,” he said, and he gave one last look to the empty throne at their backs, swearing to himself, and his Gods, and anyone who dared try to prevent it, that she would return to it, and they would never have to leave.

All they had to do, he reasoned, as they stepped out into the dying daylight in search of their advisors, and hopefully a hot meal, was live.

With her, that didn’t seem such and insurmountable goal. Not anymore.

---------

A fortnight later, they were making ready to depart, and for Jon, that moment couldn’t have come a moment sooner.

King’s Landing, to be blunt, smelled like shit. He hoped, by the time they came back, that might be remedied. His mind whispered that he’d be lucky to come back at all, and his heart agreed.

His nose wasn’t so sure that it might be a blessing, however.

He sat in the Throne Room, alone, save for Ser Jorah, who stood to his right, waiting quietly. And as he sat, upon the stone steps that led to the throne, he sharped his sword, the snick as he worked it down the blade calming him, but only slightly.

There was one last task that lay ahead of him, as he saw it, for Davos and Tyrion would remain here, in King’s Landing, as they went North.

Someone must maintain the city in their absence, after all, and each man possessed a certain amount of knowledge regarding a place neither Jon nor Dany had any firsthand experience with. If anyone could act in their stead, at least for the time being, it was their Hands.

And, Jon thought, watching the stone slide against the steel, neither of them could fight for shit, in truth.

He waited, with Jorah, until his expected guests arrived, but he didn’t look up until they were assembled.

“My Lords,” Jon said quietly, evenly, eyes only on the motion of his hand. “Thank you for joining me. The Queen and I shall depart in the morning, and I wished to speak with you, before we leave.” Now, he looked up, finding Davos, Tyrion, and Varys assembled before him. “There are a few loose ends we must see to, so to speak.”

“Such as?” Tyrion spoke first, and though it had been two weeks since the death of his brother and sister, there was still a cool, angry tone laced through the man’s words when he spoke to Jon. Daenerys had privately conversed with him several times, and Tyrion had seemed mollified enough, but Jon knew that Tyrion still resented his exclusion from the larger planning of what had occurred in the Dragon Pit.

No doubt he blamed Jon.

The trouble for him was that Jon truly could care less. He had no need to soothe Tyrion’s bruised ego; he left that task to his Queen.

“As we travel, we shall move our armies with us. It is our hope that they grow in size, that we may inspire more people to our cause in the North. We are trusting you both to care for those who remain; The sick, the infirmed, the very old and very young. All who cannot fight will be sent to shelter here. Prepare for such, I pray of you. Expect large numbers, in the worst case.” Jon eyed Tyrion baldly. “I know you are a man of ingenuity, Tyrion, and as such the Queen and I are entrusting you to oversee the coin we shall leave in your care.” He glanced between both men, now. “See that it is not wasted.”

Tyrion sniffed loudly, an air of offense when he replied. “I’m a bit irritated you’d even think you must say such. The Queen’s gold shall be in good hands.”

Davos cleared his throat at the obvious dig; It was true that the gold they had brought to fill the coffers of King’s Landing came from Meereen, and clearly Tyrion was more miffed than he wished to let on, but Jon was past caring about trivial insults.

Instead, he gave Tyrion a long, slow blink, then returned to sharpening his sword. “No more games,” he said plainly, to the room at large. “This is no time for politics, no time to make new enemies. You are to keep the peace. Help all that you can. Tend to the people in our stead.”

“Naturally,” Tyrion said, a bit snappishly. “Will that be all?”

Jon let out a humorless laugh, and glanced at Jorah, who gave him a thin smile. “No,” Jon said, shaking his head, setting down his stone and rising, sword in hand. “There is one more thing.” He sheathed his sword, looked the trio before him full in the face, and smiled. “The Queen is with child.”

His eyes caught and held Davos’s, and he could only grin as the older man let out a loud exclamation, dispensing with any notion of formality and striding forward to capture Jon in a brief, back-thumping embrace. “Oh, my word,” the Onion Knight breathed. “A blessing for you both, truly.”

Tyrion seemed a bit less enthused, but Jon knew full well what the man knew of Daenerys, how convinced he had been that Jon’s wife did not believe she would ever bear and heir. “Then King’s Landing is doubly blessed, Your Grace.” He nodded dutifully, but Jon saw the flicker of despair before Tyrion’s head ducked to study his boots. “Perhaps all the stories the smallfolk whisper about you both are true.”

When he looked at Varys, it was to find the man studying him intently, but soon enough, the eunuch’s smooth, stoic face gave way, lips twisting up as he gave Jon a small bow. “Our Queen has chosen wisely in you, Your Grace. A most dutiful husband, and effective. And how many moons must be wait, before this blessed event?”

Jon gripped the pommel of his sword, exchanging a look with Jorah. A Dothraki healer, the only Dany trusted for now, had examined her that very morning, and had declared that his wife was beginning her fourth moon of pregnancy. He was, in equal parts, elated and terrified, but he let none of that show as he answered. “Five moons or so,” he said smoothly, eyeing each man again. “And so we all must hope this war is ended as swiftly as possible, mustn’t we?”

A chorus of quiet agreement rose from the men, and Jon circled them, without a word, studying each, taking their measure silently, watching as they shifted under his uncomfortable perusal. “Know this, my Lords, and understand I make an oath to you now, one I will keep until my dying day.” He waited until he was certain each eye was trained upon him. “If you so much as think of betraying her,” he stepped forward, “if you dare do something so infuriatingly foolish as causing harm to my wife, or my babe…,” he trailed off, shaking his head with a feigned sadness. “I will spend every day of my life making you regret it. You’ll wish I had killed you quickly. You will beg for it. You’ll wish your mothers had never carried you in their wombs. When you scream, I shall delight in it. I will carve away at you, bit by bit, and I shall laugh as the birds feast on what remains.”

He raised a hand, silencing both Davos and Tyrion as they no doubt began to voice their assurances that they would never do any such thing. “Power is a tricky thing, my Lords. We are giving you much, now, because we must.” He cocked his head to the side. “But it is only power borrowed, and it is not yours to keep.” He swung a hand towards Varys. “Lord Varys shall be our eyes and ears, and do not doubt for a moment that we will receive a full report of everything that happens. When you so much as take a shit, I will learn of it. Let that knowledge guide your actions, in our absence.”

Jon allowed them to digest his words as he sat, again, legs stretched out on the stairs, hands linked together in his lap. “That’s all, my Lords. Sleep well.”

Davos gave him a rather hurt look, one he would be sure to alleviate later, but he had to be sure, now, that they each understood the consequences of their actions. He and his Queen were placing a tremendous amount of trust in these men, and he could not help but worry that they would be betrayed that such a thing might be inevitable.

Varys gave him a small, knowing smile before he turned on his heel and left as well, trailing behind Tyrion and Davos, leaving only Jorah and Jon in the room.

Until Daenerys stepped out from behind a column, a strange look on her face as she came closer.

He marveled at the play of torchlight upon her fine, delicate features, the way the orange glow made her hair shine like burnished gold, and he stood, holding out a hand for her, surprised when her eyes looked towards Ser Jorah.

With a few Dothraki commands, the Northman was clearly dismissed, or so Jon surmised, as he dipped his chin, gave a respectful ‘Khaleesi’ in Dany’s direction, then raised his brows at Jon, fighting a smile. “Good evening, King in the North,” he said to Jon, then strode from the large hall, the sound of the doors swinging securely shut the only sound that hung in the air for several long moments.

Jon tugged at Dany’s hand, as they watched Jorah’s departure, finding her placid mask had slipped, and her eyes were narrowed and hooded, not with irritation, but with an endless, burning lust that made him want to rip her gown from her body right then and there.

He snickered as she pushed closer, hands linking behind his neck to toy with the hair that had escaped the tie holding it back, blatantly pressing her hips against his. “Was I too threatening, do you think?”

Dany shook her head, bottom lip clasped between her teeth as she studied him.

“Hmmm,” Jon returned her stare, letting his hands slip up and down her side, glancing over her hips as they began to sway against him. “Not threatening enough?”

She grinned, brushing her breasts purposefully against him now, the lighter gown she’d changed in to allowing him to see the hardened points of her nipples through the fabric. “What do you suppose it says about me,” she purred, “that the sound of you threatening to torture someone for years, on behalf, makes me want to strip you bare, and fuck you endlessly?”

He felt himself hardening further at her words, finishing the task her body had so easily started, and he ground his hip against her gently. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, chuckling. “That you have excellent taste in husbands?”

Dany’s hands slipped from his neck, shifting down to grip his arse in both hands, squeezing gently as she pushed back against him, her hips shifting and slipping against the stiff length of him. “That’s true,” she said on a moan, as he let his hand rise to cup and palm her breast, the other slipping around the curve of her arse. “Jon, I want you right here.”

He looked around, sounding far more scandalized than he felt when he whispered, “On the floor?”

She laughed, capturing his face between her hands, kissing him until they were both breathless and panting into each other’s mouths. “On the floor, against the wall, wherever you wish.”

He couldn’t help it, really, the way his eyes traveled to the throne of melted swords that sat several feet away. “What about there,” he whispered back, knowing she could likely see the way the thought inflamed him even further reflected in his eyes.

Dany said nothing for a moment, allowing a wicked, carnal smile to flare to life, lashes fluttering as she looked between her husband and the throne of her ancestors. Then she took his hand, hips swaying as she led him to the throne. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she said, then devoured his mouth in a clash of lips and teeth and tongues that told him he’d have her screaming his name in these halls for hours into the night.

And as far as last nights went, as they headed off towards a war they would likely not survive, he could think of no better way to spend this one.