#fp37 fic

[fierypen37]

Good news! ASOIAFfanfiction on reddit has nominated my fic Victory is in your veins for Best AU!!! 😁😁🤗

Check out the other awesome nominees too!

Here is the voting link: https://forms.gle/hytvWVmvj5fUwmJx6

[fierypen37]

Hi, a just finished your last chapter of «for a friend » and I was wondering if you would finish it, and i wanted to tell you that your work is amazing 🫶🏻

Thanks for the comment my friend!! I'm so glad you like the fic. I'm working on more. Currently though I'm working on my submission for the Summer Lovin' Jonerys event!

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

moodboard by @libradoodle1

[fierypen37]

Victory is in Your Veins: Chapter 19

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

Chapter 19

 Day Sixty-Three: Jon

 The sky was as pale and hard as a robin’s egg. A hot sun beat down, the air humid and hot so far from the sea. Sweat dewed even in the early hour. Jon reined his dapple alongside Daenerys’ silver. Zokan had chosen a strawberry roan for his mount, a cantankerous mare he named Biter. The last of the crosses were behind them, and Meereen, the crown jewel of Slaver’s Bay rose before them. Multicolored brick composed the largest pyramids which towered over the walls. A bronze harpy squatting at the pinnacle gleamed in the sunlight. The walls were no less impressive. Fifty feet tall, at a guess, and thick.

              The north wall bordered the beaten silver gleam of the river. At intervals, the walls were studded with bronze harpy heads where the gallant defenders of the city could unleash all manner of evil on their heads. Boiling oil, pitch, stones, arrows. The armament Daenerys’ army had in answer to those high walls and vicious defenses were pitifully small. There were a handful of catapults and trebuchets looted from Astapor and Yunkai, but they could batter at those walls until winter came and they would be lucky to make a dent.

              Jon glanced at Daenerys. The march to Meereen had marked her. The horror of crucified children hurt her. Bruised marks of sleeplessness cupped her eyes, she swayed a little in the saddle. Missandei worried that she hadn’t been able to keep down much food. The red thing within growled, eager for vengeance. The masters would pay. Jon would make it so.

              “Come, Snow. We must form up this rabble,” Ser Barristan said with some asperity. Jon grinned and heeled his dapple at Ser Barristan’s stirrup. Jon glanced over his shoulder. Zokan pulled rein on his roan, cursing in bastard Valyrian.

               “Zokan! Get that nag in line!” Jon bellowed.

                The Unsullied needed little direction. They stood in perfect ranks behind the paltry gathering of siege weapons. The Stormcrows clambered into rank, Daario Naharis a flash in of blue and gold in the tail of his eye. Dothraki neither employed nor appreciated suggestions of order. Their cavalry brewed like a gathering storm at the rear. ‘The rabble’ as Ser Barristan put it, were the freedmen that followed them from the garrisons in Astapor and Yunkai. Daenerys had claimed them under her protection, and thus, they swore to fight for her.

                  “Form up!” Ser Barristan shouted in poor Valyrian, “Lines of ten! Gather your arms and armor!”

                It took the three of them harrying them like a sheepdog does its sheep before the freedmen formed a decent approximation of ranks. A shriek pierced the sky. The black dragon Drogon fell from the clouds to land on Daenerys’ dragon standard. The bronze crossbeam groaned under the burden of his weight. The freedmen cheered at the sight. Viserion and Rhaegal were still aloft. Unerring, Jon’s eye found the green dragon winking like an emerald in the sun. Beside him, Ser Barristan took a long pull from his waterskin. The seamed lines of his weathered face deepened as he squinted upward.

                “Ah, the green. She named him for Rhaegar,” he said conversationally. Jon nodded. The dragon prince who died on the Trident. Stories said he had kidnapped and raped his aunt, Lyanna Stark.                “He was a good man, though he carried a shadow with him,” Ser Barristan said.

               “A good man? A raper? Such men are sent to the Wall. I would know,” Jon said, thinking of Rast and his ilk.

              “Ned Stark’s son would have his kind of honor, I suppose. Bastard or no,” Ser Barristan retorted with a raised brow. Jon merely looked at him.

              “I have not tried to hide my parentage. I’m proud to be the son of Eddard Stark,” Jon said. It would only further sour any potential camaraderie with Ser Jorah, Jon mused. Ned Stark had called for the slaver’s head before he fled East.

              “Or you worry how being the son of ‘the Usurper’s dogs’ would mean to Daenerys, hmm? I wouldn’t fret, boy. She has a stout and gentle heart.”

              “I know,” Jon said. Despite the calm words, Jon wondered what his father’s name would mean to Daenerys. He drank from his waterskin, keeping an eye on Zokan’s progress as he circled the rear guard. Behind them, he saw the Dothraki erect a shade for Daenerys and some inner tension relaxed. Shade and water would ease her.

              “You didn’t answer my question about Rhaegar,” Jon said with a flick of eyebrow. Ser Barristan mopped his streaming face with his handkerchief before tucking it back into the ventail of his breastplate.

                “Rhaegar is a good man, a man of honor and chivalry. I do not keep with any tales of him harming women. It was not his way.”

                “Yet he carried a shadow,” Jon countered. Ser Barristan shrugged.

                “We are as the gods made us. And Rhaegar was born in grief.”

               Conversation was forestalled by a flag waved from Daenerys’ shade, summoning her captains to her side.

                “Zokan, with me!” Jon said.  

                The shade embraced him with a restoring coolness. Missandei knelt at the side of Daenerys who sat in a folding camp chair, plying her with water. Daenerys offered a wry smile, but obediently gulped. The bloodriders, Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, and Daario Naharis crowded beneath the shade. The mass of hot bodies in sun-hot armor stole away the hard-won cool. Naharis was dressed in his usual gold lace. Damned peacock.  

              “How may we proceed, Your Grace?” Jon asked. Daenerys rose from her chair, staggering a little. Jon stepped forward to steady her, but Missandei beat him to it.

                “Your Grace, the day is hot. This one begs of you to eat a little,” Missandei said, offering a tray of sliced fruit and dried venison. Daenerys plucked a dripping slice of green melon and took a hearty bite.

              As she chewed, she pointed to the crude triangular map of Meereen.

            “The Dothraki scouts report that the Meereenese forces are cloistered within the city. The slavers have decided a siege would best suit them,” Daenerys said. Violet eyes raked those gathered beneath the shade.           “I’ve studied this city. I’ve seen that hideous harpy in my dreams. I see in the eyes of my captains a question: How?”

          Silence followed her words as the captains looked at each other. Unlike in Astapor, their enemies had time to prepare. Unlike Yunkai, their enemies were wary. Meereen was the largest of the three Slaver’s Bay cities. Large and well-supplied.

          “We haven’t the supplies to starve them out. The slavers have burned every field from here to the sea,” Ser Jorah said at last. His bald pate gleamed in the shade of the tent. Dust sank into his seamed face, making him look as ancient as a withered elder. Daario Naharis looked up from cleaning his enameled blue fingernails with the point of his dagger.

            “Our siege machines would need years to batter through those walls,” Daario Naharis said.

            “Perhaps we could build rafts to capitalize on the lower waterward wall,” Ser Barristan suggested. Missandei circled the tent, offering waterskins and the tray of dried venison and melon. Jon accepted both and nodded suggestively for Zokan to do the same.

            “A wetter way to die, I suppose,” Daario Naharis sneered. Jon eyed him with naked dislike.

            “Your Unsullied can hack through the gates with axes. It matters not what the cravens throw at us,” Grey Worm said. Unspoken was how many Unsullied would die in the attempt.

              Jon turned to face the city as the meeting devolved into arguments and sniping. Jon took a long draught from his waterskin before handing it to Zokan. Though he was better adapted to the heat than Jon, he looked a mite wilted without his red-black hair teased into its usual horns.

            “Cowards hiding behind high walls,” Rakharo said, spitting into the dirt.

            “Great khals seek worthier foes, khaleesi. It is known,” Kovarro said, kicking a pebble. Jon watched it skitter across the sun-bleached ground. Emboldened, Ser Jorah again pleaded with Daenerys to leave Slaver’s Bay behind. A sharp question from Daenerys prodded Ser Barristan to reluctantly agree, to save the spears for the battles in Westeros.

            “Enough!” Daenerys snapped, rising from her chair, “I will not turn aside when faced with a few thorns on the road.”

            Jon’s eye fell to the massive gate of Meereen, flanked by twin stone harpies. Movement.

              “Your Grace, a rider!” Jon said.

                The rider astride a white charger galloped across the barren plain before the city, his disced copper armor flashing gold in the sun, his long lance painted pink and white. A crowd milled along the city walls, listening as the rider galloped back and forth. He insulted their mothers, their ancestors, their gods in increasingly virulent fashion.

           “The cockless and craven cower behind the dragon slut’s skirts, hoping for a taste of mother’s milk---”

            The leather of Longclaw’s hilt whined as Jon clenched his fist. The red thing within stirred, hungry. Behind him, the three blooriders frothed, almost coming to blows with each other in their haste to slay the rider. Every eye swiveled to measure Daenerys’ reaction.

            “I have something to say to the people of Meereen, but first I need this one to be silent,” she said in measured tones. Jon could see the flash of her eyes, and hid a smile. The Meereenese had woken the dragon, and would not have cause to rejoice in that fact. As they watched, the rider dismounted and urinated in their direction. Kovarro cursed savagely.

              “Allow me to geld his worm for you, khaleesi,” Kovarro said, stroking the hilt of his arakh with fond familiarity.

                “His shriveled manhood is of no interest to me. I need his city,” Daenerys said. Jon could see her assessing each of her captains in turn. Who should she send? Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan were anchors of her Queensguard and too aged to face duels—no matter how gallant they may be. Grey Worm was needed to command the Unsullied. Rahkharo, Kovarro and Aggo led large swathes of their cavalry and were the best scouts. Indispensable all. Even Daario Naharis was needed to command the Stormcrows’ loyalty. There were many sellswords among the Stormcrow number who would have happily followed the other captains that Naharis had slain.

            Excitement began to stir in his gut. Choose me. Let me kill this man for you. Missandei again offered him a tray arrayed with slices of melon. Jon ate one, relishing the cool sweetness.

          “Jon Snow. Will you silence this man for me?” Daenerys asked.

           “Yes, Your Grace,” Jon said. He loosened the tongue of his swordbelt. He thrust Longclaw toward Zokan. Jon bent over, shrugging off the sun-hot links of his hauberk. Snapping his fingers, he motioned for Zokan to undo the buckles of his sweat-grimed gambeson. The cooler air kissed his chest as the heavy weight fell off. The stink of trapped sweat and his own scent wafted up like a cloud.            “Will you not wear your armor, ser?” Daenerys asked, her brow puckered in a frown. Energy skittered through his veins, the anticipation of a good bloody fight.

            “I need to be quick so that damned lance of his won’t skewer me,” Jon said, half-jesting. He donned again his swordbelt, adjusting Longclaw’s hilt to an angle that pleased him. Daenerys closed the distance between them and laid her hand over his heart. Her thumb brushed the knot of scar tissue on his chest. The skin tingled from the contact.

              “Let them see a freed slave defeat a Meereenese slaver,” Daenerys said softly.

              Jon wished he could kiss her hand, or beg for her favor as the besotted knights did in the tales. Instead, he bowed and strode across the barren plain with Zokan scurrying at his heels. Where she touched seemed to glow, a blessing. The gathered army cheered as he leapt over the groundworks to approach. Zokan crouched on the lip of the groundwork, brown eyes wide and solemn.

              “I recognize his insignia. Thrace zo Pahl. He is as clever as he is cruel, Have a care,” he said, adjusting the leather strap of Jon’s wooden shield across his back. A lance that long with the weight of a mounted warrior behind it would slice through his shield like cheesecloth. He would be faster without one.

              The sun beat down, stinging on his exposed skin. Jon had Longclaw and a stiletto sheathed in his boot. The rider would be overconfident. Jon was close enough now to see the charger’s coat soaked with foam, the gold teeth set in the rider’s sneering face.

              The rider dug in his heels. The charger half-reared before lunging forward. Jon drew Longclaw, poised on the balls of his feet. Every instinct screamed to jump away, to run. He ignored it, and waited. His heartbeat thundered along with the horse’s hooves. The ground trembled beneath his boots. The lancepoint winked in the sunlight. Jon jumped left, slicing out with Longclaw. Impact jarred up his arm. The lance splintered. Jon rolled to his feet. The rider slewed to one side, drawing his longsword that winked silver in the sunlight. Howling something in that guttural Ghiscari tongue, Pahl charged again. Jon dodged again, but heard the jeers from those gathered on the wall. Long training in the arena taught him the danger of a restless crowd. I’ll give you a show.

              Jon drew the stiletto from his boot. Despite the intensity of his training, he had little experience in knife throwing. Remembering the arena in Myr, it seemed the height of folly to throw away a weapon that could save his life. Jon grasped the tip and waited. Cold fear filled his belly at the fierce warhorse barreling toward him—a mountain of angry flesh thundering.

Louder.

Closer.

So close he could see the white of that lolling brown eye.

           The knife flew from his fingertips. The horse squealed in pain and staggered. Crumpled into the cracked ground. The blade had taken him in the snout. The horse flailed, shrieking in pain. One of its legs had broken in the fall. The rider howled, half-crushed beneath the thrashing animal.

            “Rest,” Jon said, slitting the horse’s throat. Red-black blood sprayed across his chest and arms. Two ragged breaths and the beast lay still. Jon braced his boot on the dead horse and pressed down. The rider screamed in pain. Jon smiled.

            “Die like the whelp you are,” Jon said, swinging Longclaw down in an arc. A passing resistance, then Thrace zo Pahl’s head rolled across the sand. His expression looked vaguely surprised.

            Those watching on the city wall were silent as a grave. Jon flicked the blood from his sword. He sucked in a breath, raised a bloodied Longclaw over his head, and bellowed: “Death to Masters!”  With that, he left the field. The blinding sunlight off bleached ground combined with the fleeing surge of energy made a headache brew behind his eyes. His bladder was about to burst and he had an idea of what to do about it, but he decided Daenerys would frown upon any vulgar gestures in her name. Zokan clapped his back, bouncing up and down like a giddy child.

          “That was fantastic, Snow! You defeated a champion of Meereen with scarcely more than an eating knife! Will you teach me how to throw like that?” Zokan said. Jon allowed half a smile to show, pleased it had gone so well. If only the rest of Meereen would cede so easily.

          “Yes, we will practice with small arms after dusk this evening,” Jon promised, then sent Zokan to mind the horses. Saluting, Zokan loped off, Jon’s shield thudding against his back with each stride. Ducking beneath the pavilion, Jon bowed again.

          “The rider is duly silenced, Your Grace,” he said. The soft curve of her smile made all his headache and tiredness lift like fog under the eye of the sun.            “Well struck, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said with a wry flick of brow. Feigning coolness in the face of his bravado. Jon offered a brief half-smile.

            Missandei offered a bowl of water and a cloth to wash. Jon soaked the cloth and gratefully scrubbed dried blood from his face.

           “You’re going to get yourself killed trying to impress her,” Missandei whispered, golden eyes caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. The smile threatened again, but Jon contained it.

          “At least when I do dangerous things, she notices me,” he replied. He felt the weight of Daenerys’ gaze and looked up. All hint of teasing humor was gone—replaced by her dragonsteel look. Jon’s spine straightened unconsciously at the sight of it.

          The assembled army waited for Daenerys’ next move. Slaves from the city collected the headless body of Thrace zo Pahl to entomb him among his ancestors. Daenerys rode out with her Queensguard, her captains, her bloodriders and Jon. Arrows flew—a token resistance, useless at this distance. Daenerys took the field astride her silver, with her bells in her hair, resplendent in a cloth of silver tunic and crimson velvet riding trousers. He waited for the words she had for the city she aimed to conquer.

 ~

 Day Sixty-Three: Daenerys

 The bronze harpy burned in the afternoon sunlight, sneering down at her. The Meereenese people watched too. Some jeered, but most were silent. Curious. Daenerys licked her lips and stood in her stirrups. Her voice rang out, strong and clear.

          “People of Meereen: your masters have told you lies, if they told you anything at all. Never mind them. I speak only to you.”

            A touch of her heels and her silver broke into her liquid-smooth trot. Following the rider’s looping path, she sought an earnest tone. She posted along with her silver’s easy stride, keeping her limbs relaxed by force of will. She would not falter. Her voice would not crack.

           “First, I went to Astapor. Those who were slaves in Astapor now stand behind me. Free. Then I went to Yunkai. Those who were slaves in Yunkai now stand behind me. Free.”

At her second repetition, her army behind her lifted their arms and shouted “Free!” along with her. Heartened, Daenerys smiled.

          “I am not your enemy. Your enemy stands beside you. Your enemies steal and mutilate your children. Your enemies have nothing to offer but chains and suffering. I bring you a choice. And I bring what your enemies deserve. Empty collars.”

Let them stew upon those words. Perhaps in the meantime, a miracle wound occur to her.

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask: Chapter 15

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

Chapter 15

                                                           Thirteenth Day of the Fifth Month, 299 AC

Greetings, Lord Hand!

 I will not be deterred, despite your measured advice in your last letter. The island will be our home. My poor diagrams do not do it justice. There is land for a food plot and grazing, trees for shade and fruit. It is a peaceful place, and beyond that, well-protected. The issue of water is sorted out—it was Dany’s idea to place barrels to catch rainwater. We already have three barrels full. She also has read of irrigation strategies if we wish to become farmers—an amusing thought!

Daenerys is well and she sends her regards to you and Shae. Enclosed is a tincture of ginger tea Dothraki women drink to ease sickness during pregnancy. After that thrice-cursed voyage back from Pentos, the tea helped ease my mutinous belly. It is my hope it will do the same for Shae.

It does not bear repeating, but my lord father needs to know the particulars of his Hand’s business. My lord grandfather Aerys had a Hand too many, and the realm suffered for it. You are more knowledgeable of histories than I, but my advice stands. My lord father must know. On lighter news, I am deeply enjoying the passages of Dragonkin you made. I tell you Daenerys’s Drogon is Balerion reborn. Again, I wish I had an artist’s hand to capture him and my own Vyrmax on wing. It is a sight to behold. The dragons are unruly as young children, but my Dany has a way of scolding them. Like most children, they listen more to their mother.

Storms are thick on the Narrow Sea, and it has slowed the building of our house and barn. It is a slow, laborious process to haul the dressed stones up the cliff-face. I have tried to lay earthenworks to broaden a path upward, but that also is slow going. I hope to have a letter from you soon.

Jon Targaryen

                                                            Twenty-second Day of the Fifth Month, 299 AC

Most Intrepid Builder,                  

 It is quite a shame you chose to follow your wayward bride across the sea—such grit is much needed in court of late. You know well my dislike of septs and septons, and it felt much a confession to speak with your lord father, but the deed is done. He knows of Shae and the heir she carries. Even as the ink dries on those words, I can scarce believe it myself. Gods help us if court gets wind of it. I intend to keep Shae at my side, though your lord father is of a mind to send her home to Casterly Rock. Though my own bride is much too capable to be in any danger, her blunt manner of speech could be off-putting to the western vassals, who already are restless. Pass on my regards to your lady wife, the tea has worked wonders on Shae’s constitution. I am fascinated by the idea of the horselord fermented milk. I should like to sample a firkin.

Speaking of septons, there are some stirrings of revival within Baelor’s Great Sept. The High Septon has been replaced by a High Sparrow. Dried up stick of a man—he dreams more of gods than cunts and thus I cannot abide his company. Zeal is useful in small measures.

You know of my fascination with dragons and I count the days until I can see one in the flesh. Your Vyrmax is gold and white, yes? To my knowledge, that coloring is unique. Perhaps I should write to your lady wife for the details of their hatching. Gods, if your lord father had a dragon or three, these fools would keep in line!

In my humble opinion, earthenworks shall not be enough for the load you require. If you intend to ride up and down these switchbacks, they must be immune to the ravages of sea and wind. I shall ponder a solution.

Also, the Narrow Sea is called such for a reason! Quit bellyaching about your seasickness and come for a visit! On my honor as a Lannister, I shall throw you and your wife a glorious feast. Give me an excuse to pry open another barrel of Arbor Gold.

A thirsty man,

Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King      

                                                                         Seventh Day of the Sixth Month, 299 AC

 To a certain thirsty man,

 Ships shall both ways do they not? You and Shae are welcome to visit. Carafes of lamekh await you and more—Dany has a preference for sweetwines. Though the building goes painfully slow for my taste, Dany’s Dothraki have tents finer than most crofter’s huts. There are dangers in King’s Landing for my wife, and I’ll not see her in such a place, even though I sore miss my family and my lord uncle’s home in Winterfell. Daenerys has been trading ravens with my cousins, gods help us. They also demand a visit as soon as we are able. We shall visit someday soon. Perhaps bring a dragon to your heir’s christening?  

             I quite like my view of King’s Landing from across the Narrow Sea. I’ve grown used to the Dothraki fashion of things—conflict is direct and solved quickly. Though I know it does not come naturally, perhaps try this with your High Sparrow. I’ve heard my lord father say the Crown and the Faith are two of the great pillars upholding the realm. I’m certain an accord can be reached by the work of such a diligent and pious Hand. Dany has read your letter over my shoulder and says a new mother deserves a nursery. She has enclosed a fine hrakkar pelt—a white grassland lion for the babe’s crib. Appropriate for a Lannister. Whether in King’s Landing or Casterly Rock, a Lorathi like Shae will find her feet—she tolerates your bullshite, yes?

             Another roadblock in our building. While hauling one of the stones, the belayed pulleys broke. My ancestor Bran the Builder would be ashamed. Two of my men have rope burns on their hands, a third broke his leg. Thank the gods no one else was injured or killed. My Daenerys takes the safety of her people seriously. I plead for assistance and swift wind to bring your reply.

             Jon

                                                                         Twentieth Day of the Sixth Month, 299 AC

 To a certain beleaguered leader of men,

 Accidents are inevitable when you gather a certain number of men together. Although the real toll has been lost to the ages, even the great Bran the Builder most assuredly lost men building Winterfell or the Wall. Never fear, my young friend! I have your solution. Contained are plans to suit your needs. I took the liberty of consulting the First Builder of the Night’s Watch. Your Uncle Benjen and your lady’s great-uncle Maester Aemon have also enclosed missives for each of you. Both send their warmest regards—a dear thing for a man-shaped icicle from the Wall.

             I shall take your advice in stride. I have a meeting set with this High Sparrow and we shall see how we can continue to uphold the king’s peace. An heir to Maegor you are! You mustn’t dangle the thought of seeing your lady wife’s dragons! It is too fine a thought. As is your lovely wife’s generosity! How kind of her to lavish gifts on us. I am eager to renew our acquaintance.

             Your savior,

             Tyrion

                                                                         First Day of the Seventh Month, 299 AC

             My savior indeed!

 A lift! Like the one scaling the Wall. An elegant solution. Not only can we fashion it stable enough to bear supplies and horses, but it shall act as our drawbridge if we wish to have visitors. There are many children and old women in Daenerys’ camp who lamented the thought of traversing the cliff. At last, Daenerys and I shall have our Dragonstone.  

             My Dany is quite a wonder, isn’t she? Now there is scarce a day that has passed without receiving some sort of correspondence. My cousins mostly. They seem determined to bombard her with questions and outdo each other with gifts. Daenerys mentioned how poor her skill at sewing was, and young cousin Sansa has sent her samplers. Arya has sent pressed flowers and carvings. We await another parcel from Uncle and Aunt Catelyn  

 Jon rubbed a cramp from his writing hand, leaning back in his wicker chair. Rain pattered on the leather roof. Unbothered by the rain, the music of camp surrounded him. Dothraki voices, the clop of horses, the smell of cookfires. He shook sand on the parchment to dry the ink and stood from the writing table. It was near midday, and he tired of writing. A lift! Excellent! The master mason and woodworker hired from Pentos would have enough to work with. Jon folded Tyrion’s plans and tucked them in his pocket. Shadow stood tethered outside the tent, tail whisking away flies.

With a quick hop, Jon hauled himself up bareback and clicked his tongue to urge the stallion on. The smell of wet horse filled his nose, a faint halo of steam hovering over Shadow’s sable coat. The rain had mellowed to a faint drizzle. Jon tilted his head back, letting the cool water patter on his face. Dany said she would be on the ridge with the dragons. Jon touched his heels to Shadow sides and set off at a trot, posting in time with the stallion’s long, smooth strides. Several voices called out greetings and Jon waved and shouted back.

“When shall we dance again, Khal Ahesh?” a new recruit said from where he groomed his white’s tail. Aggo had done his work well, and returned from the depths of the Sea with over two score fresh men—more than half of them mounted. Jon and Daenerys’ bloodriders had begun the frustrating process of drilling the riders into the semblance of a cavalry. The men called it ‘dancing.’

“On the morrow, rider. After dawn breaks. I’d like to beat the heat this time,” Jon said drily. It was his command that they did not stop until the group performed a maneuver perfectly. Often, it was well past midday before that happened.

As he cleared the avenue between the forest of tents, he heeled Shadow into a canter. Wet grasses hissed under the power of his hooves. Jon spied Drogon and Vyrmax on wing and frowned. Where was their brother? Jon peered over the crest of the ridge and saw the green dragon’s sinuous form sprawled on the summit. Jon swung his leg over to dismount. A brave mount he was, but even Shadow could not stand eye to eye with a dragon. Jon’s eye slid over his wife kneeling at Tessarion’s side. Gods, the dragons were growing fast. Tessarion’s long form was about the size of a foal now. Perhaps within another year they would be large enough to ride. An exhilarating mix of fear and joy filled him at the thought.

“—you shouldn’t pester him so,” Daenerys chided Tessarion. The bronze-gold eye the size of a Dothraki medallion flitted from Dany to watch Jon’s approach. It was a credit to their growing comfort with him that Tessarion didn’t take to the sky. Dany hadn’t noticed him yet as she gently dabbed at the steaming hot blood oozing from a shallow gash in his forest-green scales. A deep rumble emanated from Tessarion’s chest, almost a purr. The rain evaporated to steam on Tessarion’s scales—approaching him was like approaching an open fire. Sweat gathered on Jon’s brow. The smell was the hardest to put his finger on. Something sharp and animal, along with smoke and old blood.

“There, that’s better isn’t it?” Dany said.

“Another tussle?” Jon asked, nudging Dany’s arm with his own. Daenerys sucked in a gasp. She laid a hand on her bosom, thumping Jon with the clean end of her rag. Jon laughed.

“You startled me!” she said, the sharpness of her tone belayed by her dancing eyes and toothy grin. Damp silver hair curled out in wild spirals, her face gleamed with rain and perspiration. How is this gorgeous creature my wife? Jon still woke in the dark, fearing that the past year had been a dream. Often, even in sleep Daenerys would sense his distress and nestle closer to him.

“Apologies, Dany.”

“To answer your question, yes. Drogon strafed his brother.”

“Poor lad,” Jon said. Daenerys cooed in sympathy. The green dragon nuzzled into Dany’s caressing hands. The gash had already stopped bleeding. Dragons healed fast. Though they grew more independent as they matured, all three hurried back to Dany for comfort. Mother of Dragons.

“I worry he’ll be left out. Drogon will be my mount and Vyrmax will be yours. What shall become of Tessarion?” Daenerys’ eyebrows puckered together in worry and Jon kissed the space between them. The dragon tired of his mother’s fussing and lifted his horn-crowned head to curl on the wilted grasses for a nap. Daenerys stood, brushing stray bits of wet grass from the front of her beaded skirt.  

“I wouldn’t worry, Dany. Tessarion will always have us and his brothers. And who knows? Perhaps one day we will find a third dragonrider.”

Jon’s thoughts turned to his family across the Narrow Sea. Would Aegon or Rhaenys have bonded with Tessarion? Were the half-siblings who looked down their noses at him one day join him astride a dragon? Given everything that Dany had had to suffer for? That was neither fair nor just. Another tormenting thought: a babe. Their own child riding a dragon as they were born to do. It pressed on a deep wound, and Jon dared not voice his musings. They would choose an heir, but not now. Not yet. Dany slid her hand into his and gave him a comforting squeeze. Jon happily basked in the warmth of her regard.

“Perhaps we will not need another. Tomorrow has its own worries. Let us leave them there,” she said. Jon nodded, and they walked hand in hand down the ridge to where Shadow grazed.

“Speaking of tomorrow’s worries, I have a letter from Tyrion. He has sent plans for a lift.” Dany’s eyes brightened. Jon contemplated showing her the plans in his pocket, but didn’t want the rain to sully the designs.

“A lift! That will do splendidly.”

“Aye. Once the rain lets up, I’ll ride to the coast and give the foremen the plans,” Jon said, cupping his hands to guide Dany astride Shadow. She gave him a narrow look and vaulted smoothly astride Shadow’s back. Jon chuckled and swung up behind her. Shadow sidled; ears flattened at the unaccustomed burden. Jon murmured to him, patting his neck. Dany nestled back against him and tossed him a look through her lashes. Heat pooled in his groin. Gods, what she could do to him with just a look!  

“Whatever shall we do on a lazy, rainy afternoon?” she said with a sultry smile.

“I have an idea,” Jon said, heeling Shadow back to camp.

 ~

 Dany loosed the leather tie from her hair, unwinding the blue ribbon from her braid and shaking her hair loose until it fell in a damp silver wave. After she lost their wedding ribbon on the voyage to Pentos, Jon gave her his solemn promise to give her all the ribbons she desired. There was a small chest full—Yi Tish silk, Myrish lace, Westerosi linen in a rainbow of colors. Her favorite was still the white silk, to replace the one that bound their hands when they were wed. Jon also promised to wed her again underneath the protection of a heart tree when they visited Winterfell. Twice wed? It was ridiculous, but so sweet it made her chest ache.

             Her husband had matured in the year since they met. His young beard had thickened to a plusher shape, his wild curls now falling past his chin. The breadth of muscle that so thrilled her had seemed to settle and tauten, as if he was a god sculpted in clay and now had been baked to a hard finish. Gone too was his virginal shyness—though Dany had adored it. Her khal’s dark grey eyes devoured her as Dany toed out of her boots, shucked off her rain-damp tunic, unwound her skirt and let it fall. His gaze was as warm and focused as a touch on her naked body, and Dany shivered in arousal. It was near enough to call it the anniversary of their wedding. Gods, he'd been such a glowering prig then. Awkward and gallant and charming. A dragon’s passion lurked beneath that cold northern reserve. Dany smiled at the memory. Jon answered the expression with a curving of his full mouth, looming close enough for Dany to feel his heat. My love, my dragon. One callused fingertip gently traced the curve of her lower lip. The ticklish touch worsened the hot glow between her thighs.  

“What makes you smile, my wonder?” he said. Dany traced meaningless patterns on his hard chest, so warm through the linen of his damp tunic.  

“I was thinking of how irritated you were with me when we met,” she said. Jon smiled, his white teeth offset by his dark beard.

“I stepped out to get some air and am greeted by a little pest,” Jon said, one hand creeping down to pinch her arse. Dany giggled, swatting him.

“Rather, you lost your wits surrounded by your family,” she said. Jon leaned his forehead down to touch hers in a tender gesture.

“You saved me,” Jon whispered, his grip tight on her hips. A knot rose in her throat. The light tone belayed a deep well of feeling.

“If I saved you, then you saved me too,” Dany said, tilting her head to capture his lips in a kiss.

The world blurred and softened as she sank into the give and take of the kiss. Tangling tongues, the tickle of his beard, his rough hands moving possessively over her back and hips and buttocks. She loved it. Every inch of her skin seemed to shimmer under his touch. Dany’s hands undid his belt and tugged his tunic free of his trousers. Underneath, his belly quivered under her touch. Jon strung a chain of open-mouthed kisses down her neck. Dany retaliated by shoving down his horsehair trousers. Stepping out of his trousers and boots, he reached for her. His cock was hot and hard in her hand. Sleek skin throbbing with the echo of his heartbeat. Jon moaned, kissing his way down to take her nipple his mouth. Smooth, hard pulls just like she liked. Breath soft and fast with arousal, she pumped his cock, spreading around that silky clear fluid. Dany’s mouth filled with water. Let me taste you, love you. She slid to her knees on the heap of their discarded clothes.

“Yes. Oh Dany, oh my love, yes,” Jon whispered, petting her hair. Dany gripped the base, lapping him from root to tip. Jon tilted his head back, exposing his corded throat. Daenerys set a swift rhythm, wanting to coax him to a fever pitch. She loved it when he lost control. Jon gasped and cursed, rocking into her mouth. Wet slurping sounds filled the space between them. Dany’s hand slipped down to part her slick folds and knead her throbbing pearl. The pleasure made her hum around his cock. Jon’s fists tightened in handfuls of her hair.

“Fuck, Dany. Yes! Do that again,” he begged. Dany held his gaze and hummed again. Jon groaned, lost in bliss. The sight of him sent her spiraling into climax.

As she recovered, Jon hauled her up to kiss her dazed lips thoroughly. He drew her down on her side and spooned behind her, his cock hard and throbbing against her back. One arm pillowed her head. Jon nosed aside the screen of her hair to kiss and lip at the back of her neck. Dany mewled, grinding back against him. The smell of him filled her nose, clean and masculine. She clenched her thighs together around a sweet longing.

“Touch me,” she demanded, drawing the hand teasing her peaked nipples between her thighs. Jon’s chuckle rumbled against her neck.  

“Yes, my queen. Gods you are perfection,” he said. Warm rough hands kneaded her breasts, smoothing unhurriedly down her side, her hip. At last, he petted her silver curls, teasing her folds open to strum that eager nub of pleasure. She cried out, half in relief, half in agony as he let the pleasure build again. Steadily, murmuring praise in Valyrian. The musical cadence filled her senses.

“Jon!” Dany sobbed as pleasure washed over her. Jon snarled, lifting and bending her leg to sheathe himself in her. Slow, heavy thrusts, the blunt head rubbing that glowing spot inside her. Dany’s fingernails bit into fistfuls of the linen bedclothes.

“Mmh, gods yes. So good. We were fashioned for each other,” she moaned, the breath stuttering out of her with each delicious thrust. She felt him growing thicker inside her. Yes, that glorious moment poised between tension and pleasure--

“Dany!” Jon cried out, filling her with hot come. His release brought on her own with absolute certainty. In the dewy aftermath, she felt him shift behind her, rearrange their limbs so she lay pillowed on his hard chest. The even beat of his heart was music to her.

“I love you,” Dany said. Jon hummed and kissed her hair.

“And I you, my wonder.”

The rain pattered on the roof of the tent, a fire crackled in the pit. Dreamy lassitude filled her, the drowsy pleasure of knowing there was nothing that needed to be done at the moment.    

“You’re happy here with me?” the words emerged half a whisper, afraid to hear a negative answer. Jon tilted her chin up to meet her gaze. Jon’s beautiful grey eyes swam with mingled adoration and tenderness.

“Happier than I ever thought possible.” Almost dizzy with pleasure and joy, she laughed and drew him down for a lingering kiss.

[fierypen37]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

moodboard by @libradoodle1​

[fierypen37]

First Blush

moodboard by the amazing @libradoodle1

First Blush

 Jon squinted at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Marks of sleeplessness under the eyes, a blemish on his left cheekbone. The beard had long passed fashionable scruff to a thicker, bushier growth. His greasy hair was tied up in man bun. Today, on the second Tuesday of the month, his deliveries arrived, one after the other. New kegs. Shipments of wine, liquor, new cooking oil. The Night’s Watch boasted decent finger food, excellent sandwiches, but not much else. Jon and his sometimes-barback-fulltime-Arya-facesucker-Gendry had spent the majority of the day hauling in the new product. Jon was assiduous about cleanliness, and had spent the rest of the time before open scrubbing the place. Thank the gods, Edd and Tormund wound be working the bar tonight.

After working a shift last night and Delivery Day today, Jon was dead on his feet. Jon scooped cold water from the sink and splashed his face once, twice, three times. At last, time to head home.

“Headed out, Boss?” Gendry asked, expertly quartering lime wedges.

“Yeah. Thanks, Gendry.”

The hinges screeched as Jon shoved the door open. He made a mental note to oil the hinges tomorrow night. The damp cold of a Winterfell autumn was hell on cast iron. The brilliance of a sunlit day stabbed his eyes. Weariness made everything on his periphery seem blurred. Jon whistled.

“Ghost, to me!” he said. The wolf-dog barreled toward him a full speed from the direction of the house, his tail wagging madly. Jon’s exhaustion lightened a little. Ghost always had a way of making him feel better. Together they meandered through the woods for a while so Ghost could exercise. He yapped and chased after squirrels.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

The walk was a short one. The bar stood on the edge of town, and his house on the edge of that. Beyond it was miles and miles of woodland with the occasional house or barn. It gave an air of isolation that suited Jon just fine. He had his fill of dealing with people at the bar. He wanted quiet at home. His porch steps creaked as he scaled them. He made a mental note to replace the plank on the second step, it sounded half-rotted. Jon set his keys in the bowl, fed Ghost, and nuked his own supper in the microwave. He wasn’t a bad cook, but half the time he was too damned tired to bother. He chewed without enthusiasm, already longing for his bed. Without bothering to shower, Jon shucked off his clothes and collapsed face-first in bed. He was asleep in seconds.

Buzzzz----buzzzzz----buzzzz---BUZZZZ  

Blearily, Jon cracked an eye open to see his cellphone dancing on the nightstand like a dying fly. He groped for it, thumbed it open. Half past midnight. What could possibly be wrong?

“Yeah?”              

“Crow, she’s here,” Tormund’s rough voice whispered, breathing noisily into the phone. Jon lurched upright as if zapped with electricity.

“She is?”

“Just walked in. I see why you’re hung up on her, she a fine young thing. Too skinny for my liking though,” he said with a chuckle.

“Don’t leer at her, Tormund. I mean it. You’ll scare her off,” Jon said, cradling his phone to his ear with shoulder and shouldering into the bathroom to wrench the shower on. Tormund snickered again.

“You’ve got it bad, little crow. Never you mind. I’ll be a gentleman,” he said, hanging up. Tormund, being free folk himself, enjoyed ribbing him on the Night’s Watch theme.

Nervous energy skittered through him as he showered and dressed. He didn’t know her name, but she lit up the Night’s Watch like the sun lit up the sky. Poised and graceful. That was the first thing he noticed about her—the impeccable posture, effortless composure. Well, maybe not the first thing. It was an intense feeling being under her scrutiny. This woman was in the highest echelon of beauty. Otherworldly moonlight colors. Silver and amethyst. Full pink lips, tilted cheekbones, thick eyebrows. Fit and sleek, gorgeous breasts . . . Jon derailed the thought as his cock took interest. That was another compounded problem. It had been too damn long. A venomous ex-fiancée was to blame for his long spell of self-imposed celibacy. Jon didn’t even know her name. He’d only really spoken a handful of words to her.

Some reconnaissance had been done. A major night-owl. She usually showed up between 11 PM and 1 AM, just before last call—she must work nights. A bit of a loner—Jon had never seen her with anyone. The regulars like Theon and his brothers and Tormund’s rugby mates would try to chat her up, but she would politely decline their invitations. Mostly she sat at the bar, drank one or two glasses of Arbor gold, with her nose in a book. A different book each time. One time it was Watcher on the Wall: A History of the Night’s Watch. He recognized the cover from his own copy on the shelf in his living room. Another time it was a biography on one of the first female prime ministers of Westeros. Last time it was fiction, but Jon hadn’t been able to nail the title in his stealthy reconnaissance. His co-workers were quick to notice his salivating, and teased him mercilessly. Tormund was running a pool on how quickly and spectacularly he crashed and burned. The total was somewhere in the mid 200’s now.

Jon scrutinized his reflection. The same defects as this morning stood out to him. Marks of sleeplessness under the eyes, a blemish on his left cheekbone. He trimmed the beard into a neater length, dabbed on a touch of cologne. The hair . . . Unmanageable on the best of days, his curly black hair hung in dripping tendrils. A hairdryer—if he owned one—was out of the question. When dried, he looked like a poodle sentenced to the electric chair. Jon squeezed out the excess water, combed some ‘calming’ product through it, and let it hang. A short-sleeved black Night’s Watch t-shirt, skinny jeans, and his black work boots. The best he could do in under twenty minutes. He was on the clock. He never knew how long she would stay or how often, and wanted to capitalize on the opportunity.

“Be good Ghost! I’ll be back,” Jon said, yanking the door shut behind him.

The cold air hit him like a punch, but he crunched through frost-stiffened grass up the faint path to the bar. His breath misted, the chill from his wet hair made him shiver. It didn’t matter, it was less than a ten-minute walk to get from the bar to his front door. The car park was about half-full, unusual for so late on a weekday. Was there a rerun of rugby match on?

Jon shoved open the door. Warm air swirled around him, air that smelled of chips and beer. A second home. For all the bullshit he dealt with, Jon loved this bar. From the shingles—damn, he needed to schedule a roof inspection—all the way down to his refinished hardwood floors gleaming with loving polish, it was his. Every glass, every nail. Lock, stock, and barrel. There was a dull roar of voices: customers chatting, TV’s droning. The clack of billiard balls, a burst of laughter, the chime of ice in a glass. There she was. Middle of the bar, a full glass of Arbor gold at her elbow. Ok, he was here. Now what?

Tormund caught his eye and waggled his beetled red eyebrows. Discreetly, Jon checked his breath in his cupped palm. Fuck. He’d forgotten to brush his teeth. He groped in his pocket and blessedly found a dinner mint. Gods, even in the best of circumstances, he was shite at this. Ygritte had been the bold one, had cajoled and bullied him into a relationship.

Jon slid onto a stool one away from her. A buffer in case she wasn’t interested.

“What you want?” Tormund asked, a grin dancing beneath his beard. His awareness was heightened, focused on the left side. From the tail of his eye, he caught her regal profile. The silver hair was loose tonight. A cascade of wavy silver falling almost to the small of her back. Irritation wormed its way in.

“Shit, Tormund, is that how you greet customers? We just had hospitality training,” Jon said.

“You’re not a customer, you’re the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, hmm? Now what beverage would you enjoy, my lord?” Lord Commander, my arse. That’s what I get for naming the bar Night’s Watch.

“Motte’s black lager,” Jon answered.

“Comin’ up,” Tormund said, disappearing around the bar to where the kegs were kept.

“I wouldn’t worry,” she said. The notes of her voice were even, mellow and softly accented. He liked it.

“What’s that?” Jon asked, confused and jubilant at once.

The shadow of a smile curved her pink lips, glistening with some devious gloss that turned men into panting idiots. She wore a thick-knit cream sweater that left one shoulder bare. Black denims and high black boots. Sexy. She leaned closer and Jon caught a whiff of her perfume. Something delicate and floral, with deeper rich note he couldn’t place. Her finger held her place in her book: A Song of Ice and Fire. An unfinished fictional take on Westerosi history. The original author had abandoned it to pursue other projects and the two that took his place were woefully outmatched. Tits and dragons, from what Arya said. She had bemoaned the downfall of her heroine to him. Out of curiosity, he’d read them.  

“Tormund is just giving you grief, Lord Commander. He’s always been very polite,” she said. That hint of teasing on his ‘title’ made his mouth go dry. He found a smile.

“That’s a relief. He can be a mouthy arse, but he’s harmless. To the fairer sex anyway,” he said with a wince. More than once, the police had been by to break up a brawl between Tormund and his rugby rivals.

“I’m Jon, by the way. Jon Snow,” he said, offering his hand. She took it and a jolt arced up his arm. The cool, soft grip of her hand made him shiver. Wow. Those eyes. There were flecks of blue and gold in the purple of her iris. Too beautiful for words. Jon realized he was still holding her hand and dropped it before the moment stretched any longer.

“A pleasure, Jon,” she said, “I’m Daenerys. Daenerys Targaryen.”

“That’s a mouthful,” he said. Her smile turned ironic.

“Some of us have more than seven letters in our names, Jon Snow.”

Jon laughed.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. Tormund set his lager down on a black paper napkin. Jon determinedly ignored any prompting looks. Jon took a long draught, relishing the sharp, bitter taste.  

“How’d you like the series so far?” Jon said, nodding toward the book. Daenerys wrinkled her nose.

“The prose and worldbuilding are lovely, but after the first three books . . .”

“It feels a bit hollow? Meandering?” Jon prompted.

“Yes, exactly,” she said.                                                                                                                                        

“My cousin Arya used to be obsessed with it. But guys who took over are pants at writing. Who’s your favorite?”

“Calliope Alintaaviva, of course. A magnificent character,” Daenerys said, “who’s yours? No, let me guess: Tom Eis.”

“Eis? Such a brooding grump,” Jon said. Daenerys’ burst of laughter was magical.

The conversation meandered through books and media, to the weather and the North in general, then landed on the bar. The rest of world fell away. Jon forgot Tormund hovering. The raucous laughter of increasingly inebriated patrons. The heavy smell of sweat and cleaning solvent. There was only Daenerys. Like a rare flower growing in a crack of concrete.

“You seem young to own your own business,” she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. The long delicate line of her pale throat, the arch of her collarbone, so smooth and close . . . damn, he needed to get laid.

“When we were teenagers, cousin Robb and I would sneak out to an old pub and pool hall: The Broken Tower. Just dumb kids messing around. Thought we were hot stuff. I liked the atmosphere, the people. So when my uncle died, I had just enough to get a place of my own. It was a shithole when I bought it. I rebuilt it myself.”

“Willed into solid reality,” Daenerys said, white fingers stroking the polished bar. Jon nodded. There were holes in the story, pits really, where Jon didn’t want to be mired in during a stimulating conversation with a beautiful woman. Thankfully, she didn’t press. There was something so concentrated, so focused about her attention. Jon loved it. He felt thrilled, energized. Daenerys was easy to talk to. A lull in a conversation had Jon plucking up his courage.

“Are you hungry? Would like to grab a bite with me?” he asked. His heartbeat was surely loud enough to be audible. Not smooth at all. Fuck, he was blowing it. There was some note to her distant expression Jon couldn’t place.

“I already ate, thank you.” The words weren’t subtle. It wasn’t a ‘fuck off,’ but it was certainly ‘don’t press for more.’

“Fair enough. Can I walk you to your car? It’s almost closing time,” Jon said, almost startled by the time on the clock. They’d been talking for almost two hours.

“Yes, please,” Daenerys said, with a mysterious smile. She reached for her wallet. Jon stood and laid his hand over hers, so smooth and cool.

“It’s on the house,” he said.

“Many thanks, Lord Commander,” she whispered, looking up at him with veiled eyes. Not unaffected then. In fact, downright flirtatious. Jon didn’t realize how close he was, close enough to drink in that dizzying smell of her. Her hair tickled the back of his arm, glossy, silky. He wanted to touch it, tug it.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice emerging rougher than he intended. Daenerys stood and Jon helped her with her puffy black coat.

“Where’s your coat?” she asked as they stepped outside. The temperature had dropped, and a few flurries danced on the wind. Gooseflesh stippled his bare arms and Jon regretted not bringing his coat. Her thick brows knitted together in a concerned frown.

“I left it at home. No worries,” Jon said. He could be tough for a few minutes. You could come keep your commander warm.

“That’s me,” Daenerys said, pointing to a small red SUV. The keyfob clicked and the parking lights flashed.

“I’m glad I got the chance to meet you, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said. Jon’s heart thundered. She hadn’t told him to fuck off yet. An encouraging sign. Maybe she would let him kiss her goodnight. That would warm him right up.

“Me too, Daenerys. I hope to see you around sometime. Can I call you?” he asked.

“I’d like that,” she said, offering her phone. Jon plugged his number in under new contacts. Daenerys tapped out a text and Jon felt his phone chirp in his pocket. Jon was close, maybe too close. Couldn’t help it though. He wanted to kiss her badly.

“Goodnight, Jon,” she said. Had she leaned closer? Fuck it. Jon laid a gentle hand on her cheek, tilting her chin up. He waited, searching her face. Those luminous eyes watched him with something like wonder. The first press of her lips to his was soft, so soft. Warm and plush and glorious. Lips parted. Jon kissed her, widening the aperture of her mouth gently. Heat and hunger pounded through him and he eased off before he did something embarrassing. Looking into her eyes as they pulled back, Jon saw his hunger mirrored and rejoiced. Something else flared to life in her twilight eyes. Something that made the fine hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was exciting.

“On second thought: how about dessert?” she said huskily.

No bakeries or ice cream shops worth their salt were open at 1 AM on a Wednesday morning, but Jon had one move up his sleeve. One move that worked with every girlfriend he’d had—a sum total of three. Jon could make the best brownies in the world. The secret was fresh-ground cocoa powder he bought from a little shop in Winterfell. Add a squeeze of salted caramel into the pan and bam—the lady was putty in his hands. Daenerys for all of her airs of sophistication, looked perfect sitting on the counter in his messy kitchen at 1:30 in the morning. Jon couldn’t believe his luck. The universe had smiled on him. But his brain ran miles ahead, thinking of how shabby and messy his house looked. Jon stirred the lumps from the batter with perhaps more force than necessary, worrying. Ghost brushed past him.  

“Ghost, heel!” Jon snapped. The dog had his front paws on the counter and was trying his damndest to lick Daenerys’ mouth. Her laugh was rich and real, her smile so wide her eyes nearly disappeared.

“Oh don’t listen to him. Who’s a good boy?” she cooed, scrubbing Ghost’s ruff. The wolf nuzzled her chin, a needy little pup. White tufts of hair were already stuck to her immaculate black denims.

“I didn’t want him to muss up your pretty outfit,” Jon grumbled, pouring the ribbon of brown batter into the greased pan. He squeezed out the caramel sauce and dragged it through the batter with a butter knife.

“It’s fine,” she said, nudging Ghost aside. She slid down from the counter and closed her eyes in beatific contentment. The look struck him in the gut.

“That smells fantastic,” she drawled.

“Twenty minutes and you’ll have a piping hot brownie with salted caramel sauce. I even have vanilla ice cream,” Jon said in his best sultry purr.

“Mm, you know how to treat a girl right,” Daenerys said with a slit-eyed grin. She grabbed his hand and held his gaze, her pink tongue darting out to slowly lick a smudge of batter from the pad of his thumb. She nipped his thumb with her sharp startlingly white teeth. His cock surged to full salute in seconds. Wickedly sexy, smart and sophisticated---Daenerys was a total package.

“Mm,” Jon hummed, bending to kiss her. The hint of chocolate tantalized him and he slid his tongue into her mouth to chase it. At first polite and careful, it soon devolved into a passionate clinch. Her hands slid over his chest and belly, light. Almost shy. The thought stirred tenderness as well as passion and Jon cradled her cheek, tangling his hand in her glorious hair. The other crept lower to splay on her hip, tugging her flush with him. Even the denims couldn’t hide his excitement and she hummed low in approval.

“Twenty minutes, hmm?” she purred against his lips. Jon grinned against her mouth. Not enough time for what he wanted. He’d admired her for so long, he wanted to take his time. Draw it out. Jon wanted to undress her slowly. Take his time. Lick her pussy until she was soft and wet and begging for his cock. Then the long, hot ride for the finish. Still, there was time for some fun.  

“My dessert first,” Jon said, popping the button of her jeans with his thumb.

“Yes,” Daenerys gasped in approval as Jon dipped his hand over her mound. No underwear, pubic hair waxed smooth fuck fuck fuck. So sexy she melted his mind to hot mush. He parted her lower lips with one blunt finger, finding her hot and slick. Blood pounded loud in his eardrums. So fucking sexy.

“Daenerys,” he hissed against her lips, teasing her clit gently with one finger. Sharp fingernails bit into his shoulders, her groan reverberated through him. She sucked at the side of his neck, teasing him with a delicate scrape of teeth. She muttered something in his ear, her breath warm and ticklish. The words were a foreign language he couldn’t place, full of liquid syllables and odd emphases. A hot jolt raced through him. He liked that hint of roughness—it meant he done his job in arousing her.

Jon kissed down the warm column of her throat to the delicate arch of her collarbone that tempted him. He traced it with his tongue. He lipped the side of her neck and his fingers stroked and stroked. Daenerys tipped her head back, exposing the lovely line of her throat, her silver hair a mussed cascade down her back. The tempo of her breathing was sharp, quick. Close. So close. He felt the tension coil, felt her body strive for pleasure with flattering swiftness.

“Jon!” she gasped as she came. Jon relaxed, leaning into the crook of her shoulder, scattering soft kisses on her neck and murmuring praise. Arousal twisted his gut into knots. His cock was uncomfortably stifled in his denims. He wished he had the angle right and could fuck her with his fingers. He wanted to feel those sweet little flutters of her cunt as she came. Still, that was awesome. A kiss, a little touching and she went off like a firework. The brightness and color danced behind his eyes. Jon eased his fingers away from her sensitive clit and licked them clean. The rich taste of her musk made his stones ache.

“That was fantastic. Can I have another taste?” Jon whispered, kissing the shell of her ear. He hadn’t noticed her earrings. Little silver studs in the shape of dragons. Cute. Daenerys clung to him with a sexy, breathless laugh.

“Fuck, Jon. You’re incredible. Yes. I want more.”

Jon hummed happily, sweeping junk off his kitchen table to spread her knees open. By the time the timer dinged for their dessert, Jon was already enjoying his.