#FP37fics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fierypen37 · 1 year

Text

The Disappeared Ones: Chapter 6

moodboard by @libradoodle1

Chapter 6

In his mind’s eye, the world unfurled beneath him like a green carpet, hemmed in with roadways and railways. Not a city—or an ugly artificial light—in sight, only the wind whistling in his ears, buoying the eagle’s wide wings. Then with terrible slowness, he reverted. Naked and human and so very heavy. The wind could not hold him and he fell. The sick sensation of falling, clawing at the empty air as he plummeted toward the unforgiving ground—

Jon surged upright, gasping in terror and confusion. The wind whistled in his ears, he was naked and cold and flying?

“What the fuck?” Jon shouted, his voice raw and aching. Empty sky loomed so far beneath them. Beneath the translucent black light of Balerion’s body.

“Jon? Are you ok?” Dany asked, terror quavering in her voice. Jon flailed, orienting himself astride Balerion behind her. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Clinging fast to Dany, the panic subsided. One thing was blindingly clear: Dany had saved their asses. All Jon could remember was shifting his arm to a gorilla’s, intent on crushing that asshole’s windpipe. Then—nothing. The Syndicate must have saved something special for him. Even tranq’d, Jon was usually dimly aware of his surroundings. Jon rolled his neck. His body had adapted though. He felt fine. Good, even. Energy thrummed through him—beyond his baseline level excitement of being around Dany or flying.

“I’m good! We’re fucking flying on a dragon!” Jon said around a hoarse laugh. Jon’s hair whipped in the wind and he nestled closer to Dany. The touch of bare skin startled him—Jon realized she was wearing nothing but her bra and underwear. Fury flashed hot through his veins. Whoever he was, Jon was going to dismember that fucker slowly.

“Are you ok?” Jon whispered in her ear. Dany relaxed back against him. Gods, she was shivering. The air was frigid as this altitude. Jon scooched closer, trying not to look down. Sickening vertigo waited if he looked down through Balerion’s body to the shreds of cloud beneath them.

“I—I f—fine. Shaken, for sure,” she whispered. Rhaegal and Viserion flew with them, gliding on silent wings, gleaming white and green in the sky. Gorgeous beasts. Jon hoped at this altitude, any onlooker would mistake them for a plane.

“Where are we?” Jon asked, mustering his nerve to peer at the ground below. The Syndicate’s headquarters had been somewhere remote. Jon couldn’t see the gleam of city lights for kilometers.

“I’m not sure. I decided to fly north and west. In the opposite direction of Dorne, just in case. So they wouldn’t . . . so they wouldn’t--” Dany’s voice wobbled and broke. Jon wrapped his arms around her middle and held tight.

“Dany, you’re a fucking badass warrior. You saved us. Don’t doubt how fucking amazing you are. I trust you,” he rasped, kissing her hair. I love you. Dany half-twisted, nestling against his chest. Her tears fell cold on his skin.

“Jon, I’m so scared.”

“I am too,” Jon muttered, holding on. They flew in silence for a while, huddled close to share body heat. While their fire was no doubt hot, the dragons’ ghostly forms offered nothing in the way of warmth. Jon scanned the ground below.

“I think I know where we are. There’s the old kingsroad,” Jon said pointing to the squiggly line bisecting the green landscape.

“That means King’s Landing is that way,” Jon said, pointing south and east.

“I know where we can go. But first, let’s land. I need to get you warm.”

Jon seemed to be his usual self, even if that scowl-line between his brows was deeper than usual. His eyes were clear and bright, his hands steady, his speech normal. You’d better hurry and decide before his brains start eking out his ears. Jon didn’t look in any imminent danger of brain-leakage. Maybe that evil man was lying. No way to know, though. Balerion had killed him.

Balerion landed gently in a secluded campsite. Jon promised there were no people anywhere nearby. The darkness was complete now that her dragons were safely in her tattoos. Dany shivered in earnest now, deprived of Jon’s body heat, her exhaled breath misting. The cold hung on tenaciously to these spring nights. The moon was a waxing crescent high in the sky. Stars spangled like diamonds across the black. Gods, flying had been an incredible rush!

“Ok, wolf snuggles comin’ right up!” Jon said with a shy grin. Their mutual relative nudity hadn’t been an issue while flying. Now, Dany’s eyes didn’t know where to land. Pale skin gleamed in the moonlight; he was so beautiful.

“Wait!” Dany cried just as Jon was about to shift. He looked confused. “What? Why?”

The story tumbled out in fits and spurts. Their capture, the man and his tattoos, their escape. Jon’s expression slid through a fascinating sequence: anger, regret, rage, uncertainty, awe.

“Gods. ‘Badass warrior’ isn’t strong enough. Warrior goddess is better,” Jon whispered, kissing her knuckles reverently. Dany exhaled a frustrated breath, even as her heart did summersaults at his words.

“You’re missing the point. They shot you up with something. He said it would stop you from shifting. He said it would hurt you.”

Jon gave her a grave nod. He stood and shook himself in that wolfish way.

“I feel fine, Dany. I think the guy was bluffing. If the Syndicate had stuff to neutralize my gift, why didn’t they use it when they tried to capture us? Or when I had run-ins with them before that? I don’t buy it. Let me shift, I’ll prove it to you.”

Dany sighed, raking a hand through her tangled hair. There was only one way to know for sure.

“Ok. Quickly,” she said. Jon nodded, that look of focus sharpening his eyes. The temperature warmed, his silhouette blurred. And a huge white wolf stood in his place. Dany was weak-kneed with relief. He reverted.

“You feel ok?” Dany asked.

“No problems,” he said with a small smile.

“How do you think they found us?”

Any trace of mirth vanished from his face.

“That’s what worries me. But I don’t Davos’ network had been compromised. If so, why didn’t they take your mom and brother?” Dany remembered the man’s savage parody of a smile, all teeth and malice.

“The man said he was letting them go on purpose. He just wanted me,” she said, shuddering. Jon sat bare-arsed on the grass and patted the spot in front of him. Dany sat cross-legged and leaned back against his warm chest, relishing the press of bare skin. Any arousal was miles away, but the contact was soothing.

“Hmm, I have a hard time swallowing that pill as well. If he wanted to blackmail you to get your dragons—gods forbid—what better way to ensure your compliance than capturing your mom, stepdad and brother? Why just me?” The image Jon conjured ripped fresh wounds in her heart. The thought of Mom or Viz seizing in a chair hurt.

“It was enough,” Dany whispered. She heard the wet sound as Jon swallowed hard. A blush crept up her neck, and she was thankful he couldn’t see her face.

“Thank you, Dany. My queen,” he whispered just as softly. Dany closed her eyes, feeling two more tears eke out. She swiped them away. Gods, words sweet as honey rested on her tongue, ready to fly and offer him her heart and her body for as long as he wanted them. Dany found her equanimity with effort—now wasn’t the time.

“Anyway, if you think the man was lying, how did he find us?” Dany asked briskly. Jon cleared his throat. ,

“I’m not sure. Maybe . . . fuck!” Jon said, surging to his feet. Alarmed, Dany scrambled upright, trying in vain in look into the dark woods around them. Jon was rubbing up and down his arms, face rigid with strain.

“What? What is it? Are you hurt?” Dany asked. He ignored her, intent on his task.

“Fuck! Fuck, I’m such a fucking idiot! I didn’t even think!”

“About what?” Dany asked, torn between fury and terror. Jon grabbed her finger and dragged it over the goosepebbled skin of his upper arm. There, under the skin, was small bump, no larger than a pencil eraser.

“A tracker. They must have put one in the dart they tranq’d me with!” The blood drained away from her head until she staggered dizzily on her feet.

“That means our apartment, Mr. Saan’s house--”

Jon gave a grim nod.

“Yeah. They’re compromised. As soon as we get going, I’ll have to call Davos. But first--” Jon shifted his hand to a bear’s paw. The claws gleamed black, each as long as her index finger and wicked sharp. Around her cry of protest, he dug into the flesh of his arm and pulled.

“Gods, Jon!” Dany said, her gorge rising. Looking away, she swallowed bile. Clammy sweat slicked her skin. Through her fingers, she watched him squeeze the wound. With a shout of triumph, he plopped a hard metal thing in her hand—disconcertingly warm from heat of his body. The size of a vitamin pill, Dany could make out circuitry through the dark smear of Jon’s blood.

Warm hands wrapped around Dany’s upper arms. Jon’s eyes grey eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

“It’s ok, Dany. I heal fast. Can the Three check you? Maybe they put something on you while you were out.”

Dany’s skin crawled, thinking of the man’s hands on her while she was unconscious. Jon chafed her upper arms, murmuring comforting words.

“I’ll—I’ll try,” she said, reaching for the Three with a whisper of thought. They unfurled their wings, gliding up and down her body with a prickle of warmth. Balerion curled his long tail around the center of her back, just to the left of her spine. Her stomach dropped. Jon would have to cut it out. Jon drew her down to her knees on the grass, angling her close to his chest. Dany took in a deep breath, smelling the astringent tang of crushed grass and the warm, musky smell of Jon’s skin. The bear claw disappeared behind her shoulder, aiming for the spot.

“Ok baby. Hold onto me. It’ll be quick.” The claw bit in and pain shrieked through her nerves. A scream hissed through Dany’s clenched teeth, tears spilled down her cheeks. From the pain, and a blessed release of pent-up stress. On instinct, she parted her lips and bit down on the meat of Jon’s brawny shoulder, hard enough to break the skin. Blood for blood. The connection shuddered between them, a straining knot of tension. Breath shuddered out of Jon, a fine shiver racing through him.

“Got it,” he said. Blood pulsed sluggishly from the wound in her back, the Three curled around it, using their strength to close the skin. Jon tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, thumbing away the tear tracks. Those grey eyes shone like a stormy sky.

“Now no more arguing. Wolf-snuggles,” Jon said with a wry curl of his mouth, then shifted again. Wolf-Jon stretched out on the uneven ground and thumped his fluffy tail. Dany shifted cross-legged, leaning gingerly against his side. The plush texture of his fur felt luxurious against her skin. And so warm. Dany sank her hands wrist-deep into the thick fur at Wolf-Jon’s ruff, crawling her toes under the warm weight of his tail.

“That’s nice,” Dany whispered, huddled in the curved semi-circle of his body.

Dany must have dozed, for a shift in movement made her start. Jon rose to a seated position behind her.

“C’mon, baby. We need to get going,” Jon whispered, kissing her hair. Dany nodded muzzily, staggering upright.

“If we are where I think we are, there’s a place not far off. Forty-six kilometers—give or take—up toward the coast. Davos has a house up there. One of the stops for people coming south. A hot shower, food, and a bed waiting for us,” Jon said.

“Can you run that far?” Dany asked, with a concerned frown. Jon gave her his half-smile, half-grimace.

“I’ll manage. Let me be the one to help us now.”

Jon shifted to the horse and she swung astride. The warmth and strength of him was so immediate beneath her bare legs, and she was heartened by his strength. Dany buried her cold hands in his mane.

“Ok, let’s go,” she said, tightening her legs snugly around his sides.

Forty-six kilometers.

A grueling marathon on a good day. But today, after their hellish capture, the Three punching through layers of concrete and plaster to reach the sky, the adrenaline and then the heavy grey fatigue that followed, not to mention cutting out the trackers, had Dany nodding on Horse-Jon’s back. A long night of cold and hunger and looking over her shoulder. At first, she shivered, teeth chattering loud in her skull. As the hours wore on, cold numbness stole over her and she forgot what it was like to be warm. Monotony filled her senses. Jon cantered beneath her with a long, powerful stride, then walked to rest. White foam soaked his beautiful coat. Had Dany been the one in control, she never would have pushed her mount this hard.

Dawn broke over the horizon. A glorious conflagration of gold and pink. The sun blessedly warm on her back. It felt like a blessing. It felt like hope. Horse-Jon plodded on past a wooden sign reading ‘Seagard.’ A tiny town on the coast. The sharp smell of the sea filled her nose. Davos’ house was a red-timbered A-frame on the outskirts of town. Dany’s strength was slipping through her fingers, she listed sideways on Horse-Jon’s back. She braced herself for the hard crunch of the ground—Jon’s corded arms caught her. Jon sucked in deep breaths, his face grey with exhaustion, his skin gleaming with sweat—the two of them leaned heavily against the other and staggered like the ice zombies from the stories the last few steps to door.

Jon found the hide-a-key in a false rock and unlocked the door. The air within was maybe a hair warmer than outside—Jon cranked on the furnace to alleviate the chill. It coughed to life with a reluctant rattle. Exhaustion permeated her flogged brain and the impression of the house was lost on her, save for the dry, stale air.

“I’ll get the phone,” Jon said, riffling through the pantry until he found a burner phone in its plastic packaging. He tore it open and tossed it to her.

“I’ll call Mom, then you call Davos,” Dany said. Jon nodded, puttering around in the kitchen. With shaky fingers, she dialed. The phone rang once.

“Dany? Is that you, honey?” her mom’s voice, sharp with worry, broke through the ice zombie numbness. A knot in her throat choked her. She swallowed once, twice, before she could dislodge it.

“It’s me, Mom,” she said wetly.

“Thank the gods! When we couldn’t find you, I was frantic! Are you ok? Is Jon with you?” she asked. Dany watched the bunch of his strong shoulders as he reached for a cup off the upper shelf, muttering to himself.

“Yes. I’m ok. Jon’s with me. We’re ok.” Quickly, she relayed their capture, escape, the trackers, and the long journey. To her credit, her mother listened intently without interrupting as Vis was wont to do.

“Did you make it south?” Dany said, hedging her words by force of habit.

“Yes. Our . . . friend is quite charming. She and Vis have uh, hit it off,” Mom said, a wry note to her voice. Dany laughed, the sound rusty to her own ears. Vis and Arianne Martell? The mind boggled.

“That’s good. Do you like where you’re staying?” Dany asked.

“Yes, it’s wonderful! Some kind of resort. We’re quite spoiled,’ Mom said. Some inward tension loosened and fell away. They were safe. Davos’ network was safe. Jon looked relieved as well. After clinching promises of future calls and exhortations for rest, Mom ended the call. Jon took the phone and called Davos. Despite the bad news, it was a much less fraught conversation. Apparently, this was not the first time the Syndicate had sniffed too close to Davos’ operation.

“Saan’s a wily old bastard, tell Dany not to worry for him. You two rest up, we’ll talk more later,” Davos’ northern burr instantly set her at ease. Jon ended the call and eyed Dany.

“Now, bath. We need to get you warm.”

Dany nodded and shuffled where he indicated. Dany cranked the tap of the narrow bath and watched numbly as the water roared. Jon appeared and gave her a steaming coffee mug.

“Sip this,” he said, “the sugar will help.” She obediently sipped. Instant hot chocolate, hastily stirred. Clumps of unincorporated powder floated on the surface, but it was hot and sweet, filling her hollow belly. Dany was reminded of the day they met—gods, was that only two days ago?—Jon’s anxious gallantry in offering her comfort and protection. As stolid and unwavering as the foundation of the earth. In that moment, she knew he loved him. Intensely. Desperately.

Heedless of her revelation, Jon adjusted the tap.

“Warm is better to start,” he murmured. Dany downed half of the cocoa and gave it to Jon. He drained it. Wordless, he flicked on the room heater, gathered towels and soap and shampoo, found clothes for them. Dany peeled off the grubby panties and bra—too tired to feel self-conscious about nudity. Jon’s eyes moved over her with tender appreciation, but not for long. He coughed.

“Davos keeps the house stocked for a family of four. Secondhand clothes, but clean and warm. All kinds of toiletries,” he said, pitching his voice over the roar of the water.

“I’m dead on my feet. And you ran this whole way. How are you . . .” she trailed off, stepping into the tub. Pain shrieked through newly wakened nerves, but soon subsided into grateful relaxation as she thawed. Scrunched up on her knees, there was just enough room for Jon. He gave a bashful shrug.

“I’ve been cold and hungry and tired more than you have. Just used to it, I guess,” he said. Dany hated that.

Jon pulled the plug and added more hot water. Soon a fine mist of fragrant steam filled the room. Time dilated as they each washed, furtively watching each other. The dull yellow light and the rumble of the heater lulled her. She and Jon were the only two left in the world. Plucking up her courage, Dany swung her leg over Jon’s lap, sitting with her breasts offered up. Water-pinked, hair dripping. Water sloshing out of the tub. One part of him was definitely interested in the proceedings, rock-hard against her arse. Jon’s solemn gaze was almost black with arousal, his grip hard on his hips.

“Dany,” he whispered her name like a prayer. Her heart thudded loud in her eardrums, waiting for his verdict. Jon raked pruny fingers through his wild curls.

“Love, I don’t want our first time to be like this. Half-dead from exhaustion, groping in old bathwater,” he said gently. Warm hands framed her face between them.

“I want to take my time. Keep you there for hours,” he said with a glorious gleam of hunger in his eyes. Dany bit her lip, squirming in his lap. She wanted that too, but . . . but . . .

“Jon,” she whispered, her voice imploring, needy. Gods, she loved him. She wanted him. On her, in her. Now. Jon groaned, taking her mouth in a rough kiss. Humming her approval, Dany threaded her arms around his neck and rocked with a sinuous, water-slick glide on his lap. His cock slid through her folds, teased her clit. Pleasure shimmered and passion bloomed, so sweet she could cry. Dany dismounted abruptly, panting. Tears bubbled up and fell in warm tracks down her cheeks.

Overwrought, exhausted, she melted into the bedroom to towel off and dress.

Jon stared at the closed door, torn between arousal and bone-deep exhaustion. For all his swagger to Dany, the truth was Jon had never been this tired. Everything was hazy, dream-like. The warm immediacy of Dany’s weight had been perfect, the sweet kiss of her cunt driving him mad. He didn’t regret letting her down gently, though. He wanted their first time—and his first time ever—to be special. And he was damned sure as soon as Dany took him to her bed, he wouldn’t want to leave it. Maybe ever.

Beyond the door, he could hear her crying and that shred his heart. Jon stood and toweled off. The fleece pajama bottoms were a size too big for him, so he rolled the waistband, but the waffle-knit Henley was perfect. Jon’s nostrils twitched at the acrid scent of the furnace kicking on, but was grateful for the warmth. When Jon tiptoed out, Dany was curled in a ball on the right side of the bed. Jon stretched out behind her, feeling his muscles uncurl. At last warm. At last comfortable. Sleep took him before he could form another thought.

The mattress moving woke him. Jon cracked open one bleary eyelid to find Dany poised mid-movement easing back into bed. He sniffed. Something heavenly was cooking. His stomach gave an embarrassingly loud gurgle.

“Dany?” his voice cracked. Jon scrubbed his face with his hands. The light outside was greyish, near dawn maybe? Gods, had they slept the clock ‘round?

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just checking the casserole,” Dany said softly. A big dopey smile stretched his lips.

“Casserole? You really are a goddess. I could eat an elephant,” Jon said, rising up on one elbow. Davos took stocking his wayhouses seriously. Clothes, toiletries, burner phones and Marya’s frozen casseroles. At least half a dozen of them, with other shelf-stable things besides. Jon’s mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed thickly. Dany giggled.

“Did you sleep? How long have you been up?” he asked. A part of him was disappointed. He loved sleep-tousled and slightly grumpy Just-Woke-Up-Dany. Not that this version wasn’t delectable in her fleece pajamas and waterfall of loose silver hair, face flushed and eyes bright from rest.

“I slept like the dead. I just woke up about twenty minutes ago. I figured you’d be hungry,” she said. Jon jumped up and stretched, every vertebra popping as he did so. He shook himself and grinned at Dany.

“Let’s eat!”

The casserole was a breakfast variety. Sausage, cheese, onion, mushrooms, egg, and little bits of bread all mixed together in a gooey, savory mess. Jon sawed through a thick wedge. The first bite was perfectly hot. Jon groaned, tucking in with embarrassing relish. Dany followed suit at a more respectable pace.

“Gods, I could kiss Marya. This is delicious!” Dany said.

Jon grunted in agreement, only slowing his pace to gulp down half a gallon of sports drink. For the electrolytes, Dany had said. It was much too sweet, but he endured it for Dany’s sake. There was little he wouldn’t do for her. His heart fluttered in his chest at the homey peace of eating a meal with Dany. He imagined a little house somewhere remote with the sun streaming in through windows, Dany curled on the couch reading a book. The smile she gave him—full of years of love. Maybe with a ring of her finger. Maybe with a full pregnant belly. The thought of that future was so beautiful it hurt. Maybe it was best to make his intentions absolutely clear. Jon laid down his fork beside his cleaned plate, belched softly and wiped his mouth on a napkin.

“I love you,” Jon said. Dany flinched as if he’d shot her. She coughed around a bite of casserole. Jon pounded her back helpfully. She waved him off, sipping her own drink.

“What?” she said, violet eyes wide and startled.

“I love you,” he repeated doggedly. Jon suddenly hated the space between them and knelt by her chair, holding her hand between both of his.

“It’s true. Sorry I couldn’t say it . . . nicer. I’m not a bleedin’ poet,” Jon said, horror opening like a cesspit beneath his feet. What if she didn’t feel the same? What if his words shattered whatever sweetness lay between them?

“You’re brave and tough and sweet and sexy and . . . I want to follow you wherever you go and paint a house your favorite color and sing silly songs with you and make pancakes for dinner and make love with you every night. I--” anything else he was going to say was stoppered by her kiss. He tasted the salt of her tears and her own sweetness. In the trembling touch of her lips, the question he asked was answered.

“I love you too,” Dany whispered, and it was like the sun was rising his chest. Joy. Love. Awe. Fear. He had something to lose now. Something too precious for words.

#jonerys fanfiction #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #mutant!Jon #mutant!Dany #young love #disppeared ones #FP37fics

29 notes · View notes

fierypen37 · 2 years

Text

The Flames Just Get Higher

Enjoy!

@snowxstormworld

@libradoodle1 for the beautiful moodboard!

The Flames Just Get Higher

Guilt and desire were cruel masters. Snowflakes fell in a cold, feathery kiss on his upturned face. Even the hushed silence of Winterfell’s godswood offered no solace. Here, all he could see was the crown of winter roses in her hair, the magnificent white fur of her wedding gown, her ripe lips quivering with cold and nerves as she pledged her life to be joined with his brother’s. Neither hard labor, nor beatings on the training yard, nor prayers to the old gods could absolve him of what lived and breathed inside his heart. A bastard was devious, amoral, ruled by lust and avarice. Every day of his life, he’d tried to live by honor as his father did. But the moment Daenerys Targaryen set her delicate foot in Winterfell’s bailey, he was lost. Cold seeped through the knees of his trousers where he knelt in prayer. Even through the leather of his gloves, his woven fingers ached. The face carved in the weirwood judged him. Faithless and horrid.

“Why are you sulking? Shouldn’t you be at post with Dany?” Arya asked, crunching on an apple. Jon scowled at her over his shoulder.

“I’m praying, not sulking, little sister,” Jon grumbled, rising to his feet, “And Lady Daenerys is at the high table with your mother breaking her fast. If she isn’t safe with the inner keep of Winterfell, I know not how to make her so.”

Arya shrugged. She and Dany had become fast friends in the half year since she had wed Robb. They spoke of dragonriders and old stories, rode like hellions together through the fields, chatted and picked wildflowers. Dany had won every one of their hearts. In the bower, she would spend hours sewing and painting with Lady Catelyn, Sansa and the septas. Bran and Rickon would sit in the rushes at her feet and listen to her stories. She lit the dark corners of Winterfell with laughter, so dour and quiet in the wake of Father’s death a year ago. An apoplexy, Maester Luwin said.

Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, had trothed his younger sister to the heir of Winterfell when they were both still infants. A way to knit the kingdoms back together after Robert Baratheon’s rise, and salve to Eddard’s Stark’s wound of losing his dearest friend. A dragon’s wroth was not to be scoffed at, though. The Stormlands would never rise again. Stannis and Renly were stripped of lands and title and imprisoned in the black cells. House Buckler now wore the title of Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Jon Arryn and the Vale suffered a similar fate.

“Come, save your piety for later. There’s breakfast,” Arya said, nudging his shoulder with hers. Even Arya’s easy humor did little to lighten his mood.

“I’m not hungry,” Jon said. His belly betrayed him by letting out a loud gurgle. A double measure of guilt had been his meal, and prayers had done little to nourish him. Jon had done it again last night. Spied on them.

The first time had been an accident. On the feast night of Robb and Daenerys’ wedding, Jon had sought solitude in a supply closet. The air was musty and close, smelling of pickled turnips, but a fair sight better than the close heat, reek of sweat and raucous, drunken laughter of the great hall. Jon took a swing from his hip flask when a loud crash caught his attention. Jon peered through the aperture of the closed door. Her voice caught him.

“Ser, hic I think I’ve—hic—taken to my cups!”

“Northern ale is strong, my southron lady. And call me Robb,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble.

“Robb,” she repeated just as softly. Her words were flavored with a tinge of an accent and Jon suddenly longed for those lips to form his own name.

In the faint light of the candelabra in its sconce, Jon was struck by how beautiful they were together. Robb’s auburn hair, high sharp cheek bones, eyes blue as a summer sky. And Daenerys . . . gods, she was a goddess of moonlight with her fair skin, silver hair and violet eyes. An old familiar jealousy twisted and sickened within Jon’s heart. Robb cradled her cheek and bent to kiss her. A catch of breath, a soft half-smothered sound as their lips touched. And she melted into Robb. Jon was transfixed, and hard as brass. Like a deviant, he watched as they kissed and touched—chastely through their wedding clothes, of course, there was still the bedding ceremony to consider. Half-innocent, half-hungry. Tentative and tender and so beautiful his eyes burned looking at them. Watching. Listening. Wanting so bad, there was a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Come on, Jon. Ghost misses you,” Arya’s voice drew him back to the present, and she tugged his arm. Jon relented, though her argument did not hold water. Jon and Ghost had gone for their morning run before the sun rose. Jon steeled himself against the familiar torment of seeing her. The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall embraced them. Daenerys was laughing. The high, happy sound seemed to hang in the air. Or he was a besotted fool. Either would be accurate.

“There you two are! Come and fetch some breakfast. Jon, there’s some white cheese left, and some bacon.” His foolish heart skipped a beat. She had taken note of his preferences and saved him some of his favorite food. Did she? Could she . . . ? The sweet feeling was as fleeting as a beam of sunlight under swift-moving clouds. Lady Stark glowered at him. Those blue eyes as hard and cold as marbles. Even in the wake of Father’s passing, her hatred of Jon had not slackened. Jon wouldn’t have been surprised if she blamed him for the apoplexy in Lord Eddard’s head. Daenerys laid a gentle hand over Lady Stark’s. A keen judge of character, Robb’s wife. For her part, Lady Stark mellowed under her daughter-in-law’s regard. Jon cleared his throat. From the tail of his eye, he saw Arya take her seat on Daenerys’s other side, scratching Nymeria’s ears as she did so.

“My thanks, Lady Daenerys,” Jon murmured, taking a seat on one of the lower tables. A servant laid the plate Daenerys had made before him. Warm bread spread with butter and drizzled with honey, slabs of bacon crisp at the edges, neat parings of white cheese. She even remembered he liked to the salty rind. A better man would have abstained, but Jon could not. The food was excellent, the sweet smile he earned from her was even better. There was perhaps a metaphor to extrapolate from this, but he chose not to dwell upon it.

“Where is Robb?” Jon asked. The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North usually breakfasted with his wife before attending to his duties.

“As his guard, you should be aware of his comings and goings,” Lady Stark snipped. The words were mild compared to her usual jabs, no doubt due to present company.

“Mother, Jon is my guard. Robb has his own retinue,” Daenerys admonished gently. Jon took a long draught of his water, trying desperately to ignore what being referred to as ‘hers’ did to him. His cock had some very definite opinions.

While Lady Stark’s position as former lady and mother to the current lord was well-respected, there was no doubt of Daenerys’s authority. There was steel beneath her sunny smile and gods, it was as if she had been fashioned for him. Fashioned for him, and married to another. A cosmic fucking joke.

“Robb’s preparing for the progress as soon as the snow stops. A hard freeze tonight with help the sledges,” Arya answered, sneaking morsels of bacon to Nymeria. Jon nodded. He and Robb had poured over the map to find the best route last evening. Every five years, the progress toured all of the Stark bannermen and holdfasts. The purpose was to renew oaths of homage, field complaints, assure the bannermen and sworn swords that House Stark was strong. Houses often tried to outdo one another in feasts and entertainments.

“You needn’t worry for accommodations, my lady. The sledge is most comfortable.” Jon said. Drawn by six draft horses, the closed sledge was very warm. A painfully vivid image rose in his mind’s eye: Daenerys in her chemise with Jon’s head between her creamy white thighs.

“I have no doubt you will see to my comfort as well as my safety, Jon,” she said with a merry grin. Daenerys rose and bussed Lady Stark’s cheek, then playfully pinched Arya’s arm.

“Since I intend to ride in the sledge, perhaps we can race after the midday meal? Just to give our horses some exercise.” she challenged. Arya’s grin was fierce.

“Excellent! I’ll go groom Mara!” Arya said and bolted off with Nymeria at her heels. Jon’s mouth tipped at her antics.

There was a familiar drawing of tension within him as Daenerys approached. The ghost of her scent lingered in the air, lemon soap and clean linen.

“Walk with me?” she asked. Together, they walked out of the great hall and down one of the wending halls toward her rooms. There was still a mountain of packing left to be done. The everyday gown of green wool clung sweetly to her and her hair shone as the light knifed through the arrow slits. Jon rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and waited for her to say what was on her mind.

“Did you ride with your father on the last progress?” she asked, chewing on her lower lip in a very distracting fashion.

“I did.” He’d been eighteen and spoiling for adventure as most young men were. The shine of riding at his father’s side to survey his lands quickly soured. All the bannermen fawned after Robb and sneered at him. Most lords wouldn’t even seat him in the hall during feasts. By the time they reached Last Hearth, Jon contemplated running away north to the Wall. Uncle Benjen would welcome him. If he had, he would a brother of the Night’s Watch and wouldn’t be trapped in the sweet hell of loving Daenerys. There were days when he wished it were so.

Beside him, she plucked at the gold braiding looped at her cuff, embroidered with painstaking care.

“I suppose I am nervous about the progress.”

“About what?” he asked. She shrugged, a tight nervous gesture.

“There . . . there is little love for Targaryens so far north. Most would have happily risen against my brother with Robert Baratheon. What if—” A sudden flash of anger burned through him so hot he wondered that smoke didn’t eke out his ears. He stopped in the hall and faced her square.

“If anyone looks at you in a way that displeases you, tell me. I will take care of it,” Jon said in a fierce undertone. The leather of his gloves whined as he clenched the hilt of his sword.

“I will protect you, my lady. I swear it.” The words were a holy oath, he would protect her with every drop of his strength.

Something darkened those violet eyes and Jon tumbled into them, mesmerized by her closeness. In the half year since she had arrived in Winterfell, Jon had made a study of her habits. Daenerys had a tender and generous heart. Gifts and embraces were given freely and easily. She held Sansa’s hand as they whispered together, she embraced Lady Catelyn in greeting, she kissed her handmaiden’s cheek for fetching her correspondence. The one glaring difference: she never touched him. Not once. Jon ached for it, longed for her to pat his arm or kiss his cheek or squeeze his hand. Though he yearned for every intimate touch, he would settle for even an informal one.

“Jon . . .” Gods, the way she said his name! It hurt so sweetly. Daenerys stepped back. Jon realized with shame that he had stepped closer, invading the usual neutral space between them. Jon cleared his throat, an apology bubbling up. Daenerys cleared her throat.

“I wish Arya were coming with us,” she said, her tone warbling. Jon warmed to the topic of his favorite sister, grateful to smooth over the awkwardness of their earlier exchange.

“Her mother will have to bar the door to her rooms on the eve of our leave-taking. I’m certain she would pose as a stableboy and ride off with us.”

Daenerys chuckled. Jon opened the door to her rooms.

“Don’t give her any ideas! She might do just that,” Daenerys said. Conversation flowed easily as Daenerys flitted about the room, packing her things the travel chest. They spoke about the progress, the weather, their first visit took them south to Cerwyn. Robbard Cerwyn had been a good friend and bannerman to their father and would be a perfect beginning.

“Perhaps Mother Catelyn would let the little ones accompany us south to Cerwyn. It isn’t far. They could be home again before supper,” Daenerys said. Jon made a noncommittal sound. Lady Stark did not like many of her brood beyond the walls of Winterfell. In her mind, old grudges lingered. With those grudges, the risk of kidnappings and assassinations.

Time passed smoothly. The two of them had formed an easy rapport. Silences were comfortable. He studiously ignored the unmade bed, and ignored even harder the lingering memory of last night. Robb and Dany entwined . . . and Jon watching. Jon moved to stoke the fire. To Jon, the room was comfortably warm, though Daenerys’ warmer blood thought differently. Daenerys bent at the coffer and began sorting through the already packed clothes. The unmade bed and her plump arse lit something dark and hungry in him. A nudge of his hand would bar the door. He could bend over her and kiss that sweet smiling mouth . . .

Daenerys muttered a curse. Jon blinked back to awareness to find Daenerys clutching a bleeding finger on her left hand.

“My lady,” Jon said, crossing the room to stand at her side.

“Damned clasp snagged,” Daenerys said, blotting her finger with a linen cloth.

“Let me see,” Jon said, cradling her left hand between both of his. A ragged scratch across the pad of her fingertip. Another drop of blood welled up and Jon checked the perverse urge to lick it. Taste the salt and heat of her. Gently, Jon wound the scrap of linen around her finger.

“We must be careful, hmm? Wouldn’t want it to fester,” Jon said, his voice huskier than he intended. The words were intended as a jest. Daenerys smiled, a breathtaking crinkle of her eyes, the white gleam of her perfect teeth.

“Do you think I’ll survive, ser?” she asked.

“I shall see to it, my lady. You shall need careful tending,” Jon said. Gods, the words fell out of his mouth: coy and teasing. Daenerys pulled her hand free of his and Jon suddenly felt as bereft as if left out in a blizzard. Gooseflesh stippled his skin at the sudden chill between them.

“I—I don’t feel well. I think I shall rest my eyes a moment,” she said. Jon nodded, his scowl deepening.

“I shall see to it that you are not disturbed,” he promised, “if you have need of the maester, just ring.” Daenerys led him to the door. The ornaments tied at the end of her long silver braid chimed with each step, her slippers whispered on the rushes. The door shut with a heavy thump and Jon inwardly writhed with mingled shame and longing. Striding down the hall, he stopped the tacksman at the end of the hall.

“See that no one disturbs Lady Daenerys. She needs rest,” Jon said. The man nodded.

Jon clenched his hands so hard his fingertips went numb. Temptation lay ripe for the taking. The long vigil this morning hadn’t purged the longing. Jon shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. Guilt and desire waged a painful war within him. His body seemed to move of his own will, one foot in front of the other. The next he knew, he was in small storeroom. The room directly above the lord’s rooms. With a crack in the floorboard. On their wedding night, Jon had once again sought solitude as he paced and drank, paced and drank, sinking deeper into misery. The low murmur of Robb’s voice startled him. He looked down and found a crack in the floorboard.

Above the bed.

He crouched down on his knees and watched. Drank in the milky perfection of Daenerys’ bare skin. The half-awkward fumbling of new lovers. Shy and eager by turns. Gods, the wet little sounds of their kissing, the stifled moans. The firelight made Robb’s sweating back gleam. Jon shoved down his trousers, pumping his hard cock as Robb made love to his new wife. Jon watched Daenerys’ face. Pain made her brows pucker, her lips parted in a soundless gasp. Yes, yes he would comfort her. Kiss her sweet mouth, tease that sweet pearl of flesh between her thighs until she writhed, begging for more. It almost ruined it when his double Robb did not see to her pleasure. Then Daenerys had dragged Robb in for a kiss and Jon sped up his strokes. Yes, so beautiful. When she cried out, pleasure twisted through Jon like a cruel knife.

Spying on them became an addiction. If he could not love her himself, Jon was happy that Robb would. At least, he convinced himself he was happy. When he watched them, Jon was able to ignore Robb and focus on Daenerys. He knew what sound she made when she found her pleasure. He knew the positions she liked best. He knew she had a pink heart-shaped birthmark on her left inner hip. He dreamed of it. Wanted to trace its borders, nuzzle the tender skin there. Often, at midday, Daenerys would retreat to her rooms and rest. And before she rested . . .

Jon knelt in his customary spot; his cock already bruisingly hard. Through the crack, he watched as Daenerys shed her dress and stood in her chemise. The firelight illuminated the shape of her body through the thin fabric. She slipped under the heavy down blankets and furs. Her hair a silver spill on the pillow, her face relaxed and eyes shut. Imagining her husband no doubt. Jon’s mouth watered, following the stealthy movement of her hand beneath the coverlet. First at her breasts, a repetitive motion, first one, then the other. Plucking her nipples. Yes. He wanted to taste her skin, suck on those pert little buds.

Jon loosed the ties of his trousers and poured a bit of oil into his palm. The pleasure of his rough hand on the hot skin of his cock made him hiss through his teeth. He watched. The lump of her hand beneath the coverlets slid lower. She shifted her legs wider and a soft moan fell from her lips. Jon swallowed hard, stilling his movements. Gods, the sight of her sent him mad with lust. One little moan and he could’ve spilled. No, wait . . . wait it was better to come when she did. Jon pumped his cock, enthralled by the little movements of her fingers. Rubbing that sweet little pearl. He imagined the musky smell of her cunt, the tiny wet sounds as she slid her fingers through her honey. Mm, gods he longed to linger there, to touch her sweet cunt, fuck her with his tongue, his fingers, his cock. A slight shift, a thrusting motion. Oh gods! Daenerys thrust her fingers inside herself. Yes, yes sweetheart. A little more. I’ll make you feel so good, love. Give me more. The endearments and filthy words remained unspoken, but he willed her to keep going. He craved her pleasure more than his own. Jon sped his pace to match hers. Pleasure boiled up, a warning tingle in his balls.

“Jon!” Daenerys cried out as she came. Jon bit down hard on a howl, pleasure surging through him. White streaks of come dribbled from his fingers into a puddle on the floor. Endless spasms of pleasure, the sound of his name ricocheting through his head. Jon slumped down until his forehead touched the plank floorboard. Daenerys had said his name. What in the seven hells was he going to do now?

#daenerys targaryen #jon snow #jonerys fanfiction #smut #FP37fics #robberys #robb and dany are married #angsty pining ensues

68 notes · View notes