The Flames Just Get Higher
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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?