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Jon Snow didn’t know much about Daenerys Targaryen. He knew she was roughly his age, recently returned to Westeros after she’d been on the run in Essos her whole life, and was now intent on reclaiming her family’s former seat on the Iron Throne.
That, and she had three grown dragons, of course.
When he’d set sail to Dragonstone with his men, he’d expected to greet a fearsome woman, the Mad King’s vengeful daughter, someone just as likely to laugh at his plea for help in the war against the dead as she was to throw him in a prison cell or feed him to her dragons. It’s what his bannermen and his sister warned him would happen when they urged him not to make the journey.
Nobody’d warned him that Daenerys Targaryen was bloody fucking gorgeous, though.
As he stopped at the bottom of the steps in her throne room, it was impossible not to stare. He’d never seen a Targaryen before, other than Maester Aemon who’d been an old man long weathered by time and his service on the Wall. Growing up, he had admired the dragonriders of yore, but over the years whispered tales and vicious gossip had so warped Jon’s perception of the Targaryens of today, he’d all but braced himself to come face to face with some fantastical beast.
In hindsight, it was absurd. There was nothing beastly about the woman before him, not in the slightest.
Against the dark stone of her throne, her flaxen hair was a beacon beckoning him closer, tumbling over her shoulders like the currents of a silver stream. Even at this distance, he could see her face was sweet and comely, despite the hard line of her pink-flowerbud mouth.
When she spoke, it was with a musical melody more befitting a young maiden than the Dragon Queen.
“Thank you for traveling so far, my lord. I hope the seas weren’t too rough.”
Taken back by the compassion in her words, he let slip a small smile. “The winds were kind, Your Grace.” From where he stood, he thought he saw the beginnings of her own answering smile.
And then Ser Davos spoke, and everything went to shit.
When his Hand insisted Daenerys Targaryen refer to Jon as the king he was, her demeanor chilled, all pleasantries and candied words gone. Since Sam’s letter about the trove of dragonglass on Dragonstone, Jon had prepared for the possibility that the Dragon Queen might not be so accommodating to his, admittedly, very tall request. When he’d sent the raven asking for an audience with the queen and she’d graciously accepted, he’d known he couldn’t show up to her castle empty-handed. Not when he intended to ask her for far more than he could ever offer in return.
Jon only partly listened as Daenerys launched into an impassioned history lesson, bracing himself for what he needed to do next. If she ever stopped bloody chastising him, that is.
“So, I assume, my lord, you are here to bend the knee,” Daenerys finally concluded, all but daring him to defy her.
He let out a heavy breath—and did just that. “No. I am not.”
Her mask didn’t slip, even as the last of her benevolence bled from her eyes. He hastened to continue before she could speak to admonish him further—or call for her guards. “But I am here to offer you something else in return for your help, Your Grace.”
She blinked, then lifted her eyebrow skeptically. “My help? What do you need my help with, my lord?”
Jon got right to the point. “I need your armies. I need your dragons. And I need your dragonglass.”
She frowned. “You need...my dragonglass? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Jon turned to look at Davos, who pursed his lips together and gave a imperceptible nod of his head. Facing Daenerys again, Jon pulled his mouth into a grim line. “Aye, Your Grace. Your castle sits on large deposits of dragonglass. And dragonglass is one of the only things that can defeat the White Walkers and their Army of the Dead.”
The silence that stretched on following his bold declaration was intolerable. Daenerys simply stared at him, letting him suffer. He tried not to squirm in his discomfort. Finally, she turned her head to direct her words to her Hand. “Lord Tyrion, you told me you liked this man.”
“I did tell you that, yes,” Tyrion agreed reluctantly.
“He’s asking for my dragons and my...dragonglass...and talking about an army of the dead,” she said, her voice thick with disbelief.
Indignant, Jon interjected. “I understand how absurd it sounds, Your Grace. I do. But it’s true. The Army of the Dead is real, and there are hundreds of thousands of them north of the Wall. I’ve seen them. I’ve fought them. They are coming for us all. And if you and I and all the living don’t band together to defeat them, they will kill us. And then it won’t matter who bends the knee and who sits the Iron Throne because every last one of us will be dead.”
The last notes of his speech carried through the throne room, ringing with his ardent fury. After a moment, Daenerys stood. Slowly, she descended the stairs, her long cape fluttering at her heels. He clenched his fists at his sides, not shying from her gaze as she approached.
“All right. Let’s say I believe you. I suppose I have no reason to doubt you. I have no reason to trust you, either, but I digress. You did travel a great distance to treat with me, after all.” She stopped a few feet from him and tilted her head curiously. Up close, Jon was startled to see her eyes were the color of amethysts. Had he ever seen anyone with violet-colored eyes before? “If I were to agree to help you in this...fight against the dead and—what did you call them?”
“White Walkers,” he said solemnly.
Her eyebrow quirked dubiously as she repeated him, “White Walkers. If I were to give you my dragonglass, as well as my armies and my dragons—my children—it sounds like I’d be giving up quite a lot, my lord, so you can forgive my hesitation. What would I get in return?”
The rest of your life, he wanted to say, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough to move her. She didn’t believe him. She was merely humoring him. There was really only one thing he had in his arsenal that could possibly tempt her to his side.
As he wet his lips, his eyes dropped briefly before he caught himself and forced his chin up. High, like a bloody damn king should. He was the King in the North, talking to the Dragon Queen. “I offer you an alliance with the Northern kingdom in your fight against Cersei Lannister. And...I offer you a marriage to secure that alliance.”
Her mouth parted in surprise. Clearly, she hadn’t expected that offer. “A marriage alliance? And whom should I marry, my lord?”
He swallowed thickly, swallowed the deep-seated insecurities as they rose like bile in his throat. “Me.”
Again, she regarded him in silence. From his periphery, Jon saw the surprise plain on Tyrion’s face as well as the curiosity of the queen’s other advisors, Missandei and Varys. He could imagine Davos’ reaction without having to look behind him. Daenerys’ face, however, revealed nothing more. Jon took a deep breath, prepared to argue further, to plead his case and his marriage credentials, when she finally spoke.
“I see.” She clasped her hands together before her. “You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about, my lord. I’m sure you’ll understand my needing some time to consider your proposal.”
Relieved it wasn’t an outright rejection, he agreed readily. “Of course, Your Grace.”
She considered him a moment longer and seemed to make a decision then. “Perhaps later you will join me for dinner where we can discuss this matter some more,” she said. Without letting him reply, she went on. “For now, allow my men to escort you and Ser Davos to your chambers so you may rest. You must be weary from your journey.”
At that, she turned her back to him and spoke quietly to her Dothraki guards, the words foreign and indecipherable to his ears. Then he and Ser Davos were being led away by the guards, the tall, stone doors clanging shut at their backs.
As they followed the Dothraki men, Davos shot Jon a queer look. “A marriage, is it? You might have run that one by me first, Your Grace.”
Jon let out a rough breath. “Aye. Forgive me. I figured I’d need something to offer, in case my plea about the dead fell on deaf ears,” he said wryly. Davos merely shook his head but flashed him a kind smile.
“Well, she could do a lot worse, if you ask me.”
Jon’s answering smile was grateful but self-deprecating. “We’ll let her be the judge of that.”
After a much-needed bath, Jon was led to a room in the castle by a Dothraki guard. When he was directed inside, he was astonished to find himself in the queen’s private quarters. She sat at a low table, comfortably seated on cushions. A spread of food lay before her, reaching from one end of the table to the other, and her handmaids flitted about the room, making final adjustments to the arrangements.
“Leave us,” Daenerys instructed, her eyes fixed on him. He stood dumbly by the door, watching the others walk by him. The Dothraki guard shut the door on his way out, leaving him alone with the queen.
She didn’t smile when he met her eyes but gestured to the opposite end of the table. “Thank you for joining me, my lord. Please, sit.”
Stilted, Jon walked over to the table. Sitting down in his leather armor was difficult, but he managed to crouch awkwardly on the cushions set out for him. Once he got his legs folded under the table, he looked up and found her watching him. Amusement danced in the lilac depths of her eyes. She found this humorous, clearly.
“You must not be used to eating on the floor,” she mused lightly. “I hope it’s not too disagreeable to you. I got used to taking my meals this way when I was in Essos. Sometimes, I find it comforting. And the chairs here can be so uncomfortable to sit in for extended periods of time.”
He shook his head. Even if he were uncomfortable, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to complain. “When I was on the Night’s Watch, I ate many a meal on the ground while we made camp. Didn’t have the luxury of chairs then.” Or tables, or plates. Or food, sometimes.
She looked intrigued. “The Night’s Watch.” Delicately, she plucked at a stuffed olive from a bowl and popped it in her mouth. Chewed, swallowed. “I would be interested in hearing more about that. Especially how a brother of the Night’s Watch goes on to become the King in the North. If you are to be my betrothed, we should learn more about each other, don’t you think?”
He hesitated, considering what that all entailed. “Aye.”
She stared at him down the length of the table. She looked softer here, in the low glow of candlelight playing across her face, burnishing her silver hair gold and darkening the violet of her eyes.
His chest tightened. Gods. She truly was beautiful.
Daenerys smiled. “Before we begin the inquisition, however, let us eat,” she said, picking up a flagon of red wine and tipping it into her goblet. “I hope you don’t mind pouring your own wine, my lord.”
His mouth twitched. “Jon.” When she lifted her eyes to his, he said, “You have my permission to use my given name. If you’d like.” He wasn’t a lord, anyway. But demanding she address him as king right this moment seemed impudent.
Daenerys studied him as she brought her goblet to her mouth. “We’ll see.” Then she took a sip, and they began to feast, piling their plates with food, taking bites and sups of wine in between superficial conversation. Gradually, the wine loosened both their tongues, easing the awkwardness permeating the air between them. At least, it did on Jon’s end. She seemed already at ease in her surroundings as host and queen. Even so, he was sure he saw her shoulders relax just a bit, her limbs losing their rigidity.
“So, tell me,” she said after eating a candied date. “How does Eddard Stark’s son become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”
Jon grimaced. “Bastard son,” he said simply, as if that were explanation enough. He figured it was.
She frowned. “So he sent you to the Wall?”
“No. I chose to go.” At her inquisitive look, he explained, “My father had three trueborn sons, as well as two daughters. I had no claims, never would, could never inherit any titles. At the time, I thought by going to the Wall I could at least do something useful with my life in service of the kingdom.”
Daenerys hummed thoughtfully in the back of her throat then braced her elbows on the table. The sight amused him. It wasn’t very queenly, at all, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care. “How noble of you,” she said before taking a quaff of wine. “Forgive me, I can’t say I’m very educated on the Night’s Watch, but I thought the Night’s Watch is...forever. That the vows to serve are binding. How did you then become King in the North?”
All his ease from before vanished. He went stiff, his expression blank as he figured the best way to answer her question. Unfortunately, there was no answer he could give that wouldn’t sound absolutely ludicrous. “It’s a complicated story,” he hedged.
She arched an eyebrow. “It’s a good thing I love stories, then.”
Jon shook his head and took a deep gulp of his wine. After, he licked his lips. “How did you get your dragons?” he volleyed, mostly as a deflection but also because he was genuinely curious. She had three full-grown dragons at her beck and call, though the beasts had long been thought extinct.
“I was gifted their eggs at my first wedding. After my husband’s death, I walked into a fire with the eggs, and when I emerged, unharmed and unburnt, there were three baby dragons at my breast,” she said, straight-faced. He let out a chuckle—and immediately sobered when he realized she was serious. He stared at her in amazement as she waited patiently for his comment. Eventually, he cleared his throat.
“Somehow, I believe there’s a bit more to that story,” he muttered. Perhaps she wouldn’t think him too mad, after all. He could tell her selective pieces of his own story, then, while culling out the more...fantastical elements. “After my brother, Robb, the last King in the North, was betrayed and murdered at his wedding by the Boltons and the Freys, Ramsay Bolton took Winterfell for himself. My sister was tricked into marrying him, but she eventually ran away to the Wall. I agreed to fight with her and take back Winterfell for our family. And...I did,” he finished lamely.
“And the Northerners named you King in the North for that,” she supplied. Jon tipped his chin in confirmation.
“But you should know, Winterfell is not mine. My sister, Sansa, is the Lady of Winterfell. She is a true Stark. The last. It should be hers. I hold no land, no castles,” he warned the queen. “I’m a bastard. A Snow. Truthfully, I know I can’t offer you much in a marriage, not to a Targaryen, but I can bring you the North and all my bannermen. I’ve got the Knights of the Vale as well as the free folk. If we marry, their armies, their swords, will be yours. With your armies, as well as those of Highgarden, Dorne, and Yara Greyjoy’s fleet, that would be more than half the country at your back.”
She was quiet as she contemplated this. “But, of course, that comes with a caveat. You will join your forces with mine, but we must fight this war of yours as well.”
“It’s all of ours,” he insisted, gearing up to reiterate the direness of the coming situation, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“My point being, fighting two wars would be a logistical nightmare. The casualties would be astronomical.” Jon firmed his mouth, biting his tongue, and Daenerys sighed. “Let’s hold off on military and political strategies for now. Our advisors should be present for that discussion, anyway. I meant for this dinner to be a more...intimate affair.”
The way her tongue caressed that word, intimate—Jon grew hot under the collar and finished off the dregs of his wine.
“No doubt others have married for less and under...worst circumstances.” She frowned at that, her eyes turning distant, then she shook her head, as if to dispel the thought. “But neither of us are in a weak position here. You have other options, I’m sure.”
He wanted to laugh but pursed his lips to fight the impulse. Maybe now he had options, he supposed. Not too long ago the thought had been inconceivable, however. And he couldn’t imagine another woman would have nearly as much as what Daenerys had to offer him in his quest.
“You must as well,” he said. As bloody damn gorgeous as she was, and with as much power as she’d accumulated, he couldn’t imagine suitors weren’t tripping over themselves to ask for her hand.
She shrugged. “I supposed one would think that. Alas, there appears to be a dearth of eligible bachelors in this country. You are the first to propose a marriage to me since I stepped foot in Westeros.” At his visible disbelief, amusement colored her face. “That surprises you, my lord? It shouldn’t. In my experience, men are often intimidated, if not outright repulsed, by powerful women.”
“Might have something to do with the three dragons you got flying around,” he suggested, and she smiled.
“My point is, I knew when I came here I might have to marry to secure an alliance.” Her expression turned serious again. “You and I can approach this arrangement as equals. And, setting aside other pressing needs, we have an opportunity to see if we would even get on together. That was the purpose of this dinner.”
“And do we?” he asked. “Get on together?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t had you thrown into the dungeon yet.”
His laugh slipped out, surprising them both. “ Yet .”
Her smile reappeared but vanished just as quickly, her face turning to stone. His laughter died in his throat. “There is something you should know, my lord. Before we—if we wed. It wouldn’t be fair of me to withhold any pertinent information that might change your mind.”
Alarmed, Jon held his face similarly still but clenched his fists under the table. Daenerys took a deep breath and expelled it, meeting his gaze. “I cannot give you children.”
Immediately, his mind went to a dark place. Because you’re a bastard, a voice whispered. Because you’re tainted. “Can’t—because you won’t?” he asked carefully. But she shook her head.
“Can’t because I can’t. I was pregnant once. By my first husband. I lost my son before he could be born. And…” She stopped herself, eyelashes fluttering slightly. “And I can no longer have children, my lord. I would not be able to give you heirs.”
Jon stared at her, his heart beating loudly in his ears. His mind reeled. The relief that it wasn’t his bastardy that repelled her gave way to disappointment, just a brief flutter of his heart under his ribs, in the middle of his chest.
Daenerys read into his silence, her mouth hardening. She sat up straighter. “Of course, I understand if this changes things for you. It’s every highborn man’s wish to sire children—sons, most of all—”
“No,” he hastened to interject. He swallowed, grinding his back teeth together before he forced himself to continue. “I mean, no, it doesn’t change things for me, Your Grace. There are some things more important than—” His words caught in his throat, and he shook his head to give him a chance to compose himself. “I have a duty to my people. That duty is to fight for this kingdom. For my people, and for yours. I’m only a Snow. My sister can carry on the Stark name. That’s never been my path.”
Her violet eyes watched him, unblinking. He saw her throat constrict with a small swallow, then the moment was gone as she looked away, bringing her wine up to drink. After she set her empty glass down, she faced him again. Her smile was small and false.
“I think this has been a productive dinner, my lord. We should talk more on the morrow. I’m sure we could both use some rest right now.”
She was dismissing him, he realized. Jon stifled his confusion with a curt nod. “Of course, Your Grace. Thank you for the meal. And your company.”
She only dipped her chin in response. Not sure what else to do, Jon stood up from the table and showed himself out. As he shut the door, he saw that Daenerys had not moved from her spot.
The next day, Daenerys holed herself up in the Chamber of the Painted Table with her council to discuss their plans for attacking Cersei’s armies and, presumably, what she and Jon had talked about. Not privy to the queen’s military and political maneuverings, Jon and his men were left to their own devices, which were limited, given the Dothraki men who kept a close watch on them. Jon took the time to survey the island, searching for the troves of dragonglass Sam’s letter had insisted riddled the cliffs of Dragonstone.
He found it late in the day, a cave that tunneled deep into a bluff along the beach. The walls were lined in dragonglass, black glass glimmering in the light of a dozen torches as his group of men explored the mine.
His exploration was cut short when a guard came to fetch him and Ser Davos, leading them to the queen’s war council room.
Daenerys stood at the head of the Painted Table, her advisors seated around the map of Westeros. At her back loomed large open windows that permitted a soft breeze. Jon could taste the salt in the air that wafted in from off the sea. “Thank you for coming, my lord,” she greeted him. All the familiarity from their dinner the night before was gone, replaced with cool, queenly indifference. Jon tipped his head in acknowledgment, holding his hands behind his back.
Standing straight, Daenerys pushed her shoulders back and clasped her hands in front of her. “I’ve discussed your proposal with my advisors. They agree an alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark would be critical in securing the Iron Throne.”
I’m not a Stark, he thought to correct her but held his tongue. Daenerys continued, “More than that, I believe it would be beneficial to the Seven Kingdoms as a whole, restoring centuries of peace to the lands and our people, as our ancestors once did. That is, if you are still amenable to a marriage between me and yourself, my lord.”
Jon felt the apprehension unspool in his belly. She watched him, awaiting his answer. He glanced at her advisors, at the unreadable expressions on all their faces as they anticipated his reply. He hadn’t expected such a large audience for this moment, and he felt the weight of their expectations on his shoulders. When he looked to Ser Davos, his Hand just raised his eyebrows in turn. Also awaiting his answer.
He swallowed. Meeting Daenerys’ eyes again, Jon nodded once. “Aye, Your Grace. I am.”
The tension dissipated, just a bit, as if everyone had been holding their breaths. “Smart lad,” Tyrion muttered. “Should we toast to this new alliance? Why don’t we ever have wine at these discussions?”
Jon hated to ruin the celebration, but he spoke, “However.”
All eyes returned to him at his one-word utterance, perplexed. Daenerys didn’t outwardly react, but he saw any warmth there begin to curdle. He cleared his throat.
“If I give you my armies and the North, I do so on the condition that we fight the threat to the North before we march on King’s Landing.”
Daenerys’ eyes narrowed slightly. “You do realize we are already in the middle of a war, do you not? As we speak, the Greyjoys and the Dornishmen are sailing to Sunspear. My Unsullied are on their way to Casterly Rock. The siege of King’s Landing is currently underway. I can’t call them back now. And even if I could, if I divert all my forces to the North, Cersei will march her army on the rest of the kingdom.”
She had a point, he knew, but he set his jaw stubbornly. “The war I speak of concerns us all, including Cersei. We will need her support in the fight against the dead as well. Why not ask for a truce?”
Tyrion scoffed. “You don’t know my sister. She’ll never agree to help the woman trying to unseat her from the Iron Throne.”
Jon looked to the Queen’s Hand. “We’re all on the same side right now—the side of the living. If we don’t defeat the enemy to the North, we’re all dead,” he reminded them. “You’re a Lannister. Can’t you convince your own sister to join the fight?
Tyrion chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Cersei wants to kill me more than anyone else in this room, I’ll wager. How would you suggest I convince her?”
Jon didn’t know. He didn’t even know how to convince Daenerys. “Forgive me, I’ve never had much of a head for politics. All I know how to do is fight and lead men into battle. If I could show you all what I’ve seen, you’d understand just how much danger we’re all in. You’d understand how fucked we are.”
The vulgarity of his language sent a ripple of awareness through the room. He almost apologized, mentally castigating himself for his crude tongue. Daenerys was studying him silently. When he opened his mouth to offer his remorse, Tyrion beat him to the punch.
“Perhaps you could.”
“My lord?” Jon asked, not following.
“Perhaps you could show us the danger. Our queen, as well as Cersei.” Tyrion stood from his seat and walked along the Painted Table. “Is there a way to…capture one of these dead you speak of?”
Jon hesitated. “Aye. We’d have to go beyond the Wall to do so, but it’s possible.”
“Capture a dead person?” Daenerys interjected, a scowl pursing her mouth down as she looked between him and Tyrion. “And then what? Drop it off at King’s Landing?”
“I could meet with my brother Jaime. He’ll listen to reason. He has a better chance at convincing Cersei to agree to a parlay with us where we show her the dead and ask her for a truce.”
“And how would we get our hands on one of these dead?” Daenerys demanded.
Jon spoke up solemnly, “I will go and get one. I know some men at Castle Black I can take with me who are as familiar with the dead as I am.”
His words caught everyone off guard. Davos was the first to object. “You’re the King in the North. You can’t lead a sortie by yourself.”
“I know the land beyond the Wall better than anyone here. I’ve fought these creatures. There’s no one better who can lead this mission,” Jon said.
If anyone else took issue with his statement, they didn’t voice it. When Jon met Daenerys’ eyes, she looked unhappy. She folded her hands together. “What if I don’t give you leave to go?” she posed. His patience wearing thin, he squared his shoulders.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I don’t need your permission. I am a king.”
She pressed her lips together, fighting a scowl. Her voice was low and dangerous when she spoke. “And if you go and you should get yourself killed, my lord, what then? How can I secure an alliance with the North? How can I marry a dead man?”
You’ll be marrying a dead man either way. Jon licked his lips, stalling, and after a moment he said, “We should wed before I leave, then. And should I die, Ser Davos will vouch for you. He will make sure my men know of our alliance as well as my wishes.”
Surprise flickered in her violet eyes. After a moment of contemplation, she nodded. “Very well.”
Tyrion glanced between them curiously. When no other words were exchanged, he rapped his fist on the Painted Table. “Well, then. While we’re planning this mission, I suggest we draft a marriage contract between you two. Just in case anything goes wrong.”
The night following the meeting in her war council room, Daenerys invited Jon to another private dinner in her chambers. As he sat down on his cushion, this time without his cumbersome armor, she got right to the heart of the matter.
“How would you like to get married?” she asked, pouring her standard cup of wine. “We have no godswood here on Dragonstone. After they came from Valyria, my ancestors adopted the Faith of the Seven, to adhere to the accepted religion of Westeros. Your people follow the old gods, correct?”
He hesitated, weighing his answer. “They do,” he answered, not sure how to explain he wasn’t sure what, if any, gods he believed in anymore. If Melisandre was right, R’hllor had given him new life, but Jon wasn’t yet convinced that R’hllor was any more real than the old gods. He remembered death still, and the cold, hollow nothingness that had followed. Everything he’d believed had been wrong. There’d been nothing waiting for him after death, nothing warm to welcome him in the darkness of that crypt.
But how could he tell Daenerys that?
After a moment of deliberation, Jon said, “When I took my vows for the Night’s Watch, I took them in the godswood at the Wall. At a wedding before the old gods, there is no septon. Someone gives the bride away. The groom cloaks the bride in his house’s cloak, and they exchange vows before the old gods and whoever else is there to bear witness.” He studied her as she sipped her wine mulling over the image he painted for her.
She painted quite an image for him, too, dressed in far less layers than he was used to seeing her in. Gone were her stately, long-sleeved coats and gowns. Tonight she wore a simple, bodice-hugging dress that dipped low to tease a hint of cleavage. A gold chain draped across her chest, holding a cloak over her shoulders and baring her arms.
It was an effort to not let his eyes linger on all the new and enticing peeks of flesh. He wondered if the dress was a strategic move with a strategic message, or if she merely felt more comfortable in his presence now.
Abandoning the thought, Jon asked her, “Would you prefer a ceremony by the Faith of the Seven?”
She shrugged. “I’m not very particular, I suppose. Growing up in Essos, I never followed one religion. Regardless, Stannis Baratheon destroyed the Sept and burned the statues of the Seven on Dragonstone.”
“He became a devout follower of the Lord of Light,” Jon said.
Daenerys grew quiet as she thought, fingering the stem of her goblet. Jon took the opportunity to eat a few bites of the capon plated in front of him to stifle his wanton urge to leer at her. She was too distracting. When she spoke again, he finally allowed his gaze to return to her. “The Dothraki wedding is the only tradition I’m familiar with. On the day of my wedding to Khal Drogo, there was an all-day feast. His khalasar ate and drank all day while they fought and rutted in front of us. They say a Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair.” She sipped her wine. “Afterward, when night fell, my new husband took me out in the open beneath the sky.”
Jon’s face grew hot, and he shifted uncomfortably, disquieted by the mental picture her plain words painted. She seemed amused by his discomfort. “Yes, I didn’t much care for it either,” she said drolly.
He wasn’t sure what to say and found himself offering a rambling response. “In Westeros, the nobles throw a great wedding feast as well. It’s...tame, by Dothraki standards, I suppose. At the end of the night, in anticipation of the bedding, it’s customary for the men to take the bride to their chambers and disrobe her while the women do the same for her husband,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Then the husband and wife...consummate.”
“Did you ever participate in this tradition?” she asked. He shook his head. He was a bastard, not welcome at the same table as his siblings during large feasts, not fit to lay hands on a noble woman, but regardless, he’d been too young during the handful of weddings he’d attended with the Starks.
Daenerys cocked her head to the side. “So you’ve never undressed a woman, my lord?”
She was teasing him, he could hear it in her voice, could see the gleam of humor in her eyes. Jon thought of Ygritte and the times he’d lain with her, out in the cold, buried under furs, surrounded by a band of Wildlings. It’d been too cold, too public, to strip completely. Even so, he’d never disrobed Ygritte himself, as if it would somehow save him from completely breaking his vows.
“No, I have not, Your Grace,” he said carefully.
She blinked in surprise. “You’ve never lain with a woman before?”
He felt himself blush. “I didn’t say that either,” he said, then took a long swallow of his wine.
Her mouth spread in an intrigued smile, the first real show of mirth he’d seen from her since the strained discussion in the Chamber of the Painted Table. She brought her goblet to her mouth. “So, you prefer a woman in charge then,” she declared, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. Eyes averted to his food, Jon took another bite of capon instead of answering. Smiling to herself, Daenerys drank her wine.
“I must say, my lord.” Her tone was serious again. “I’m...extremely opposed to the idea of you going on this mission beyond the Wall.” His fork halted at his lips, and he set it down to listen to her.
“Any number of things could go wrong. The main one being, you could die. And I’d rather you not. Despite your assurances, I’m not sure our alliance means anything if you’re dead.”
He couldn’t assure her otherwise, and even if he tried, she was too keen to believe him. For all her beauty, Daenerys was proving to have a very sharp and tactical mind. He admired that, more than he’d been prepared to. “I will send a raven to my sister to let her know of our intentions to wed, as well as our alliance and our plans for war,” he offered.
She frowned in thought. “Your sister. You have family back in Winterfell. Family who might wish to be present for your wedding,” she mused, seeming to consider it for the first time. “Wouldn’t you rather wait to wed in their presence?”
Jon chewed this over as he tore off a bite from a buttered roll. He swallowed and washed it down with a sip of the sweet red wine. Truthfully, it was too sweet for his taste, his palate more accustomed to the bitter ale of the North. But he thought he could grow used to it.
After the bread and wine had settled in his stomach, he shook his head. “No. I gave you my word. The raven with my seal should be enough. And if something should happen to me, Ser Davos will vouch for the validity of our marriage before my bannermen and my sister.” They wouldn’t like it, but he’d wager they’d like it even less were he to bring a Southron woman—a Targaryen one at that—to their home and wed her in their sacred godswood.
Daenerys looked unconvinced. “You’re sure?”
“Aye. We should wed here. Within the next few days.” The war against the dead couldn’t wait much longer.
Finishing off her wine, Daenerys set her goblet aside. “We shall follow the Northern tradition them, sans the godswood, if you are agreeable. No septon is best, I think. We should be discreet for now, until after we’ve secured an armistice with Cersei. And until after we’ve finished your war to the North, if possible. Tyrion warned me his sister would be even less willing to agree to a truce if she were to find out you and I had joined our forces, especially in marriage.”
Jon began to nod but caught himself and frowned. “There’s one problem, Your Grace. I don’t have a House. I don’t have a cloak to give you. And I have a bastard’s name.”
“Oh. That’s true,” she murmured, eyes going soft as she thought. She bit at her lip then lifted her gaze to his in question. “I could give you my name. You could join my family’s House.”
No, was his reflexive response, but he miraculously bit his tongue. It was a fair offer, a logical one. If he’d been a trueborn Stark, he’d likely have expected her to take his name. Why should he balk at taking hers? The Targaryen name held more power than Snow, even more than Stark.
“I...you are kind, Your Grace. I know it will sound absurd, only...it’s hard for me to imagine myself with any other name. I didn’t even change my name to Stark when I was crowned king, though I could have. I worry the Northern lords would take offense were I to show up not only with a Targaryen bride, but the Targaryen name.” Her mouth hardened, so he continued, more lightly, “I think, for now, we should break them in slowly. One drastic change at a time.”
Daenerys dipped her chin in acknowledgement of his argument, her expression still hard, but after she took a sip of her wine, the displeased curve of her mouth eased. She arched her eyebrow in challenge. “I suppose that’s acceptable, my lord. However, I think I should at least drape you in the Targaryen cloak. As a compromise.”
Jon smiled then, his mouth twisting in a humorous grimace. “Better make it a thick one, Your Grace. The North is bloody freezing.”
They were wed in Aegon’s Garden, an enclosure brimming with trees and hedged by wild rose bushes. Thrushes of cranberry vines crept along the garden, some new and green and others ripe for picking. It was an oddly serene and secluded area on the grounds, the roar of the sea muffled by the nature-made walls of pine and brush.
Jon waited under the arch of the Dragon’s Tail, his gloved hands furling and unfurling at his sides. When Daenerys finally emerged through the shrubbery, her arm hooked through Missandei’s as the Naathi woman escorted her to him, he clasped his hands behind his back to stop the nervous tic. The queen was swathed in a charcoal-colored cloak, the material rippling like scales under the low light of the setting sun. The inside was dark blood-red; he saw peeks of it as well as the white gown she wore underneath as the cloak swished around her legs. Her platinum hair was braided thickly around her head. Like a crown, he thought distantly. She was painfully beautiful, though she did not smile as she approached, her face a porcelain mask.
In that moment, he felt a flicker of doubt and panic seize him. Was this a mistake? A too-hasty decision made by two desperate people in need of something only the other had to offer?
There was no turning back now. Daenerys stopped before him, her amethyst eyes meeting his. Jon was glad Davos stood at his back to recite the vows because he couldn’t remember a damn thing of what came next.
“Who comes?” Davos asked, his Flea Bottom accent thick and lilting.
Missandei spoke, projecting her voice proudly, as if she wanted all of Westeros to hear. “Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of the Andals and the First Men, protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.”
Jon couldn’t help himself—a small smile slipped out before he caught himself. Daenerys saw, though, and for the first time since stepping foot in the garden, the faintest hint of a smile curved her lips upward. “Who comes to claim her?” Missandei asked, as rehearsed.
“Jon Snow of House Stark, King in the North,” Davos answered. “Who gives this woman?”
“This one, Missandei of Naath.”
Davos turned to Daenerys. “Queen Daenerys, will you take this man?”
She held Jon’s gaze for a moment longer, the silence stretching. He held his breath till she gave an imperceptible nod. “I take this man,” she murmured, and he exhaled slowly. Daenerys turned to Missandei and took the woman’s hands in hers, squeezing, her voice a soft, grateful whisper. “Thank you, friend.” She leaned forward and kissed Missandei’s cheek. Missandei smiled at her queen before moving aside, falling in line with Tyrion and Varys, who’d also come to bear witness to their union. Extra insurance, Jon was sure.
Daenerys stepped toward Jon and reached for the heavy fur cloak at his neck. She smelled sweet, her perfume some flowery musk that tickled his nose, overriding the pungent piney scent of the garden. He held still as she undid his cloak and slipped it off his shoulders, the thick wolfskin falling to the ground. Her smile reappeared, an amused twinkle in her eyes as Tyrion stepped forward, holding the groom’s cloak. She took it from her Hand’s arms, lifting it up. Jon had to stoop so she could reach around him and drape the symbol of House Targaryen around his shoulders. The cloak fit him perfectly, as if she’d had it specifically made for him. He was oddly touched.
Smoothing the material over his shoulders, Daenerys stepped back to admire her work. “You look good in black,” she said quietly. Jon looked down at himself.
“Well. It was always my color,” he said, thinking of his last words to Robb before joining the Night’s Watch. The thought was a sad one, but brief. He wouldn’t let the memory of the dead mar what should otherwise be a happy occasion. Even if it was strictly transactional.
With the vows and the cloak exchanged, he tucked her hand under his elbow and led her back to the castle, their advisors trailing behind them.
They feasted in the Great Hall, where some of Daenerys’ khalasar gathered, as well as the few Northern soldiers who’d sailed with Jon. Strange music played as Dothraki beat on drums and rang bells, shedding their normally rigid demeanors as the queen’s guard and embracing the celebration. Men and women ate and danced through the hall, though he knew Daenerys had stressed to her people there would be no fighting or fornicating during the festivities.
It was too loud, too raucous, to speak much with his new bride, so Jon diligently ate every new course of food that was brought before him, periodically sipping the too-sweet wine. Daenerys did the same, all the while observing the celebration before her.
He noticed Tyrion and Missandei didn’t have the same problem conversing with the queen over the din of the feast. Perhaps it was only him who was too reticent. The same old sullen and taciturn Jon Snow, he thought to himself with a frown. Too shy to talk to his own wife.
His wife, gods be good.
Finally working up the nerve, he turned to Daenerys and offered his hand.
“I believe it’s customary for the bride and groom to dance at their own wedding,” he said, raising his voice to be heard.
She looked at him strangely, her eyes darting between his hand and his face. Her cheeks turned a hue of pale pink, momentarily confusing him until she finally found her voice. “I’m afraid I wasn’t trained in the Westerosi style of dance. Or...any style, for that matter.”
“Oh.” He dropped his hand. She was embarrassed, he realized with a jolt. Oddly enough, it eased his own nerves. “If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t trained in the Westerosi style of dance very well .” He offered his hand again. “I doubt you’ll look any stupider than I will out there. It’s our wedding, though, and no one will be able to laugh at us. Not openly, anyway.”
Daenerys pressed her lips together, fighting a reluctant smile, then nodded and took his hand. Earlier, they’d taken their gloves off to eat. It was the first time he’d ever touched her, skin to skin. His body flushed at the realization, blood running hot as he remembered just how much more of her skin he would touch later that night.
Pushing the thought aside, Jon led Daenerys to the middle of the hall where trestle tables and benches had been pushed aside to allow for dancing. He pulled her against him, both their cloaks left behind in their chairs. With one hand on her waist, he clasped her hand in his other. She placed her other hand on his shoulder. Through the lambskin of her white gown, he could feel the sloping curve of her hip and the soft press of her bosom to his chest.
“Just follow my lead, Your Grace,” he said, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “I’ll try not to step on your feet.”
But the music was all wrong, a heavy pounding of percussion he didn’t know how to dance to. Daenerys followed him easily enough, light on her feet, allowing him to swing her around and guide her around the small space. But Jon couldn’t find the rhythm, couldn’t keep count like he’d been taught, more fit for dancing with a sword in hand than with a woman in his arms. He stumbled awkwardly around the hall, apologizing every time he bumped into someone.
Jon was about to end the farce and offer Daenerys his profuse apologies when she began to laugh. Every time he tripped on her gown or spun her into another guest, she burst into giggles. When he looked down at her, he saw that her eyes were bright with merriment, her cheeks flushed from the wine and the exertion. The sound of her laughter was so alien, and yet so sweet and childlike. It was infectious, despite his chagrin. Finally, Jon allowed himself a laugh, too. They gave up the rigidity of their form, and he simply held her by the waist, her hands on his chest, as he twirled them across the floor.
“I think we made enough of a spectacle of ourselves,” he said once they stopped to catch their breaths. Daenerys shook her head, stepping away from him.
“Actually, I think my khalasar is used to a bit more entertainment at a wedding than two uncoordinated fools on the dance floor. Perhaps we should retire before they start demanding blood. Or worst.”
Or worst. He remembered quite vividly what she’d told him about Dothraki weddings. Gratefully, he followed her back to their table, where they indulged in more wine and pie. Conversation flowed more freely now between them.
Well into the night, Daenerys finally rose from her seat to express her gratitude to their guests, encouraging them to continue the festivities while she and Jon retired for the night. He wasn’t sure if the cheer that followed was for the promise of continued revelry—or for what the rest of the night promised the king and queen.
The bride and groom were quiet as they retreated to the queen’s chambers. The king and queen’s chambers now, Jon supposed. This was his castle as well. He had no castle of his own, no land, to offer Daenerys; as they’d hammered out the details of their marriage contract with their advisors, it’d become pathetically apparent how little he had to give her. But she hadn’t balked over the details, and in the end he was grateful she was willing to give him so much; in return, she’d only asked that they lived here, on Dragonstone, up until they took King’s Landing, should they succeed in unseating Cersei Lannister in the future.
At present, it wasn’t a future he gave much thought to, not when he wasn’t sure he’d live long enough to see it.
Her chambers glowed with the flickering light of candles recently lit and fixed around the room. A fire burned in the hearth, the logs fresh and crackling. While Jon shut the door, Daenerys glided around the large feather bed to sit at a table before a looking glass. He hovered by the door, watching her begin to undo the heavy braids around the crown of her head, pulling out pins and unwinding the braids so they fell over her shoulders.
“You look beautiful,” he offered, realizing he hadn’t complimented her once during their wedding, not even when she’d had kind words to say about him in the garden. What a bloody, ungrateful fool he was. “Your dress is...very pretty.” And it was, but it was hard not to look at her and imagine what lay beneath the dress, considering how tightly the bodice hugged her breasts and waist. Once she’d removed her cloak during the feast, he’d had to remind himself not to stare too many times.
She glanced at him with a wan smile, unweaving her braids so her silver hair rippled freely down her back. “I think the flatteries are rather unnecessary now, don’t you?”
“Flatteries?”
Daenerys stood from her bench and faced him. “To bed me. That’s a foregone conclusion, wouldn’t you say?”
He flushed hot under the collar of his cloak. “There were no ulterior motives to my words. I only spoke the truth.”
“Thank you, then.” Her eyes went to the bed between them. Her expression was grave. Apprehensive? Uneasy? He couldn’t tell. “Well. Should we get on with it, then, my lord?”
Jon swallowed thickly. “Aye.” The one word grated in his throat like gravel turning underfoot.
She watched him expectantly. After a fitful moment of indecision, he loosened his cloak and took it off to drape on a nearby chair. Following his lead, Daenerys began to undress but abruptly stopped, her hands pressed to her sides.
“Now I understand why the ceremonial bedding normally follows a wedding.” At his curious look, she blew out a breath in annoyance. “This dress is impossible to remove by myself.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded. “I can...try to help.” He went to her side, where she gave him her back, sweeping her hair aside to present the line of hooks that started at the nape of her neck and stopped just at the bustle of the full skirt. He stared dumbly at the hooks, his blood quickening, before he managed to reach for them. Unfastening them was simple enough, he found, as he slowly unhooked each one, his fingers only fumbling slightly, likely jittery from his nerves. Soon, the back of her gown gaped open, revealing the shift underneath.
Wetting his lips, he stepped back as she shrugged out of the long sleeves and pushed the bodice down over her hips. The heavy material fell around her feet, and she stepped clear of it. When she bent over to remove her slippers and stockings, he could see her smallclothes through the gauzy fabric of her shift.
His cock hardened inside his trousers, and Jon forced his eyes away, struggling to keep them averted when she faced him. “You did that quickly enough. Perhaps you lied about having never removed a woman’s dress before,” she accused.
Indignant, he glanced back at her, but his objection faltered when he saw the amusement on her face. She was teasing him. His gaze dropped before he corrected himself—but not before he caught sight of her dark pink nipples through her gossamer shift. His face bloomed red with arousal and embarrassment..
Jon cleared his throat. “Not a lie. My...the woman...she was a wildling. The free folk women don’t wear gowns and dresses.”
“Ah. So a technicality, then.”
Stubbornly, he shook his head. “No,” he started, but the word caught in his throat. Daenerys was slipping the straps of her shift off her shoulders, down her arms, over the tips of her breasts. It fluttered freely to the floor, puddling around her feet. She was naked save her smallclothes. Her breasts were plump and full, her pink nipples budding as the air kissed them.
“Let’s not quibble.” She stepped closer to him. It was an effort to bring his gaze to her face. “You are entirely overdressed now. Luckily, I’m rather adept at removing a man’s clothing.”
She reached up to unfasten his leather jerkin with nimble fingers. Jon didn’t move as she slid her hands under and pushed it down his arms, nor when she began to work on his doublet underneath. Reaching his undertunic, she became exasperated by the number of layers he wore. She lifted her eyes to his, her brow notched with irritation.
“Do men normally wear this many clothes? And to think, women are the ones often accused of excessive frippery.”
He lifted his eyebrow. “I thought you were familiar with men’s clothing.”
Her pert little mouth turned down into a scowl. “Essosi men wear very little compared to you Northern lords. It was never this complicated—”
She was scolding him, while she stood there half-naked. It was too much.
Grabbing her by the arms, he hauled her against him and captured her open mouth in a kiss, silencing the rest of her argument. He held his lips to hers, tentative, acquainting himself with the touch of her petal-soft lips, the plump flesh smoothed with some kind of waxy balm. He wanted to feel and taste more of her, but, worried he might have overstepped, Jon began to pull back.
Daenerys’ hands on his face stopped his retreat, holding his mouth against hers while she parted his lips and slipped her tongue inside to do what he’d been too hesitant to do himself. Her fingers curled through the short bristles of his beard as her tongue brushed against his, teasing, tasting. Jon sucked in a deep breath through his nose before he fitted his mouth more perfectly to hers, boldly stroking his tongue into her mouth. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat and melted against him. Emboldened, he dropped his hands to her waist and wrapped his arms around her, hugging all her soft curves and supple flesh against the hard planes of his body.
Her tongue still tangling with his, Daenerys released his face and wiggled her hands between their torsos, down to his groin, where she began to deftly undo the strings of his trousers. His cock had grown thick and hard against his laced placket, and he trembled as her fingers grazed him through his smallclothes with every lace she plucked free. When she reached inside to fist his cock, his mouth went slack. He groaned around her tongue as she stroked him, and he lost the demanding rhythm of their kiss. In lieu of his active participation, she pressed kisses to his lips, along his jaw and down his throat, while his breathing grew erratic. He blinked his eyes open, vision swimming.
“Your Grace—Daenerys—” He struggled for coherency as she mouthed at his neck. “The bed. Perhaps…”
Faintly, she mewled in protest but pulled away regardless, disentangling herself from his embrace. Her hand slipped free of his smallclothes, but she pushed on his chest to guide him backward to her bed. The backs of his knees hit the mattress, and he buckled down on top of it with little grace. Daenerys crouched before him to assist in removing his boots and stockings, then his breeches and smallclothes.
She moved so quickly, Jon grew lightheaded trying to follow her actions, especially with all his blood rushing to fill his cock. Shimmying out of her own smallclothes, she pushed him down to the bed and crawled with him as they awkwardly bumped and wriggled together to sprawl out lengthwise on the bed. Straddling his waist, Daenerys sat atop him and tugged on his undertunic to sit him upright for another kiss. His cock was nestled in the downy thatch of hair between her legs. He was too preoccupied by the wet heat of her cunt on his erection to think anything of it when she yanked his shirt over his head, breaking their kiss.
She froze abruptly, drawing Jon’s attention. He glanced at her face to see her wide eyes fixed on his chest.
His stomach sank in realization. Fuck. His scars. How could he forget? How had he hoped to avoid this moment?
Reverently, she touched her fingers to the angry-looking scar tissue over his heart, then lifted her eyes to his. “What happened to you?”
His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as his mind raced, struggling to formulate an answer, some tale or fabrication to deter her curiosity—but no. He couldn’t deceive her. Maybe they married out of mutual need and mere convenience, but he wouldn’t begin their marriage on a lie.
Jon swallowed hard. Shook his head, then found his voice. “You asked...how a brother of the Night’s Watch could become King in the North.” She waited patiently, her gaze intent on his face. He wet his lips and continued, “When I was Lord Commander, I let the free folk through the Wall, to escape the White Walkers. To save their lives. Some of my men thought I’d betrayed the Watch by doing so. And they killed me.” The words hung in the air between them. Daenerys didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched him rapturously.
Jon blew out a breath. “Then...a red priestess brought me back.”
“A red priestess,” she echoed in a whisper, eyes sharpening.
She thought him mad. “Aye,” he answered hollowly.
She didn’t speak further, her shrewd eyes fixed on him, searching, probing. Then, just as abruptly as she’d stopped, she seized his mouth in another desperate kiss. Her lips and tongue moved against his with wet urgency, her hands grappling at his head to hold him close. Bewildered, Jon gave into the kiss much too eagerly, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, attempting to take the lead.
But she was wild, ravenous, fingers scraping over his scalp, through his beard, down his neck. He gasped when her nails dug into his shoulders, his cock twitching against her slickening sex. He thought she might take him inside her then, but she broke the kiss and pushed him down to the bed. Daenerys kissed his neck and slithered down the length of his body, sucking at his throat, his clavicle, his nipples. Her lips found every scar on his abdomen, fluttering across each one before she kissed down below his navel. Dumbstruck, he could only watch her, growing embarrassed when she reached his cock: it was darkly colored now and thickly veined from the flow of blood, sticky-wet from her cunt’s nectar, the tip weeping with a pearly teardrop of cum. He was eager for her, and it showed.
When she brushed her breasts over his cock, his lips parted soundlessly, a glottal sound catching in his throat as her stiff nipple dragged down the length of his shaft from tip to root. Her thick, silver hair draped across his thighs like a curtain, as if shielding from the rest of the world was she was about to do. Taking his cock in hand, she opened her mouth and flicked her tongue over the leaking tip, tasting him. She teased the slit of his cock, making his balls tighten below. He choked on a grunt, the sound of surprise lodging in his chest, as she sucked his cock deep into her mouth.
He reached for her, but, overcome by the sensation of her lips and tongue wrapped around him, he dropped his hands to the bed and clutched at the coverlets, hips arching upward as she drew her mouth up and down his cock. “Gods, Daenerys,” he croaked out, his abdomen clenching when she sucked at the tip, catching the tender ridge of his head with her teeth. “Fuck me—yes—take it—”
He couldn’t stop the flow of obscenities from his mouth. She watched him through her lashes, her eyes dark and lustful, as she thoroughly coated his cock in her saliva, strings dripping onto her fist as she stroked him in her hand. The wet, sucking sounds of her mouth around him were loud and illicit, and his balls tightened even further with the desperate need to release. Jon bucked upward between her lips, wanting to give into the dark, savage desire to fuck her pretty little mouth hard and fast till he was emptying down her throat. Instead, he ground out a pained groan and shook his head, finally pushing her mouth away from him.
Her lips glistened with spittle, red and raw from being stretched around his cock. Her cheeks and breasts were rosy from excitement, and his shin was damp from her cunt where she still straddled his leg. Pulling her up by her arms, Jon grabbed the back of her neck to pull her down for a kiss, sucking at her lips, her tongue, until their mouths moved together with messy, clumsy promise. He clutched her hips and flattened his palms along her back, sliding his rough hands up the silky line of her spine then down to cup her perfectly rounded arse, drawing a mewling sound from her throat.
He lifted his leg up to roll her underneath him, but Daenerys stopped him and sat up again, panting. With her thighs spread around him, her cunt open, he could smell her musky aroma. His mouth watered. He wanted to taste her, to find out how pink and sweet she was between her thighs.
Daenerys had other ideas. She reached between her legs to grab his cock, angling it toward her cunt as she lifted her hips off of him. When she dragged his head between her folds, Jon inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Then, holding his lidded gaze, Daenerys sank down onto him, working his cock inside her till she was fully mounted. Throwing her head back, she moaned, the sound wistful and thready. Jon tightened his hands on her hips as her cunt throttled him, wet and hot, so tight he felt dizzy. He couldn’t catch his breath. Closing his eyes, he reveled in the feeling of her surrounding him.
“Jon,” she murmured, and he blinked his eyes open at the sound of his name on her tongue. It was the first time she’d said it.
Daenerys leaned forward and braced her hands on his chest, fingers stretching between two scars. Then she began to rock on top of him, slowly, so slowly, like she meant to torture them both. Gradually, he eased his hold on her hips and brushed his fingers over her skin, stroking her flanks, her thighs, as if he were encouraging a horse into a canter. She moved on top of him faster, undulating her hips with a sinuous grace. He reached up to cup her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms, thumbing her nipples into hard peaks. Her eyes grew bright with pleasure, cheeks reddening with her heightening arousal.
“Jon,” she whispered again, eyes closing. This time her voice was tinged with rasping neediness. A prayer. “Husband .”
Wife, my wife, he thought with such clarity and amazement, he almost choked on it. Throat squeezing tight, Jon pulled her down to kiss her, cupping her arse to grind her down onto his cock. With a few more jerks of her hips, Daenerys went rigid and cried into his mouth as she came, her cunt tightening around him, almost to the point of pain. He swallowed the sound of her pleasure and stroked himself inside her, his rough thrusts bouncing her on his cock until he sank himself inside her to spill his seed at her womb, his groan smothered against her lips.
Her cunt rippled and fluttered around him, milking his seed from his pulsing cock as their respective climaxes ebbed and receded. He was wet where they were joined, her slickness matting his pubic hair, and sweat stuck their skin together everywhere they touched, from her thighs on his hips to their bellies and chests. Their mouths drifted apart as they breathed, and he pried his eyes open to look at her. Daenerys leaned on her arms on his chest, her nose grazing his every time she sucked in a breath. She was hazy at this proximity, but her gaze locked with his, sharp and in focus. Dazed, Jon lifted his mouth to hers for a light kiss.
Her smile was faint before she rested her head on his chest, tucked in the crook of his neck. They lay just like that for a moment, every inhale and exhale Jon took lifting her slightly.
Eventually, Daenerys murmured, “I think...I think we’re going to get on very well together.”
His mouth quirked in a small smile, widening until he let out a chuckle. He felt her smile into his neck, her hand resting on his chest, just above where his heart beat, strong and clear.
Jon prepared to set sail for White Harbor a few days later, after they’d received word that Yara Greyjoy’s fleet had been ambushed and destroyed by her uncle’s men. Daenerys had been understandably upset, having lost a large portion of her fleet as well as a crucial ally in the war. She became distant, aloof. After their wedding, after what they’d shared that night, and the nights—and mornings—since, Jon was wounded by her retreat.
But they had not been a love match, he reminded himself, and he still knew so little of his queen, his wife, so he tempered his disappointment and set his focus on his own mission.
He led the men he’d selected for the journey beyond the Wall down to the beach, where a boat awaited them to take them to his ship. The others would remain on Dragonstone to finish mining the dragonglass Daenerys had granted him as part of their marriage. As they lugged supplies into the boat, Jon bid farewell to his Hand. Ser Davos was not pleased with the mission or with the command to stay behind and oversee the dragonglass excavation, but he wished his king good fortune.
“A moment, Your Grace.”
Jon looked up at Daenerys’ voice, startled. She waited nearby, her guards a few paces behind her. Jon flexed his hand a few times. He hadn’t been sure she’d see him off. With a nod to Davos, Jon approached his wife.
“Your Grace. What can I do for you?” he asked stiffly, feeling out of sorts in his own skin when he was with her. He didn’t know how to be anymore. He didn’t know how to act now that he knew her taste, her touch, knew the hollow places of her body that he’d filled.
Daenerys stared at him, eyes moving as she searched his face. Then she released a small sigh.
“This is foolish.”
He raised his eyebrows in question, but she was no longer looking at him, her eyes turned to the sea. “So many men have left me, never to return,” she said. “You never realize till later how important saying farewell is. And then it’s often too late.”
“So you’ve come to say farewell in case I don’t return,” he said, smiling wryly, tightly.
She turned her gaze back to him. “No. I won’t say goodbye. Because you’ll come back to me,” she said simply. His chest tightened at the look in her eyes. After a moment, she placed her hand on his chest. “Come back to me, Jon.”
He swallowed against the clot of emotion in his throat, then before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed the back of her head and pulled her face close for a kiss. Just lips to lips, parting enough to taste her with his tongue, then he drew his mouth back to meet her glossy-eyed gaze. “Aye. I will,” he whispered.
She seemed shaken, her lips quivering as she drew in a breath. Her hand clutched at his gambeson, his hand still cradling her head.
“Good. Because if you don’t, I’ll come find you,” she said softly yet fiercely. “I will hunt you down to the ends of the world.”
His throat constricted with another swallow before he smiled at her, his heart in his mouth. “I expect nothing less from my wife.”