#prince!jon

[mikasnazz]

Be the change you want to see in the world (draw your podcast ship)

[magalidragon]

the prince and me | a modern Jonerys fic

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 4/4

Summary: Dany is focused on studying for her graduate degree at Queen Alysanne's University in the North when she meets her attractive neighbor and fellow student Jon and his sweet dog Ghost in her apartment building, striking up a friendship and maybe something more. Dany's not one for gossip rags so she knows nothing about the North's royal family or even Jon's association...which he is keen not to share, and looking back, there were signs...

Tease:

Dany knew that there were royals in the world, particularly in Westeros, where among the Six Kingdoms there were lords and ladies, highborn houses part of the House of Lords in their Parliament, but it was the mysterious North, walled off after a bitter war ages before that maintained its monarchy, led by the King of Winter, they called him, Eddard Stark. They had a ruling council who oversaw the day-to-day responsibilities of running the kingdom, but there was the Stark family and its extended branches, some married into other noble families of Westeros.

Dany never paid attention to them. She never entertained gossip rags going on about Prince Robb Stark and his penchant for fast cars and beautiful model women, before he married Lady Margaery Tyrell, who was the granddaughter of the Dowager Duchess of Highgarden. Or Princess Sansa Stark and her arcane beliefs on the Northern rule and isolationist politics, even though it was her designer fashion that got her most noticed Even the blogs and the gossip sites managed to follow Prince Brandon and Prince Rickon, the two youngest of King Eddard’s children and naturally all eyes were on his wife, the Queen Consort Catelyn Stark, who was formerly Lady Catelyn Tully, Countess of Riverrun.

She knew most girls fancied becoming the likes of Margaery or Catelyn, marrying into a royal family. Except that was all fantasy, best suited for romance novels and movies of the week. A nice little film to stream with a bowl of popcorn and her best friend on a Saturday night. Not life, no, certainly not life, especially not Dany’s life. She had to work hard for everything she wanted, nothing was ever given to her.

Except there were love stories, love stories of the common girl meeting the prince, falling in love, and becoming a princess. Things little girls dream of. Just not Dany.

So it certainly surprised her when she met a real-life prince.

And he was nothing at all like a prince.

No, nothing like that at all.

She looked back on it with affection, wondering how she hadn’t realized it. There were signs of course, signs that there was something just a bit off, except she always thought it was just, well, him.

Looking back, Dany laughed now, she really should have seen it.

Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188822/chapters/55508734

Note: this one was fun to write at beginning of my quarantine in March, haha. It also managed to drive away an annoying passive aggressive Jon obsessive commenter with something in chapter three so bonus for that. Sometimes I think of returning to this universe. Enjoy!

[fierypen37]

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

[mikasnazz]

WIP Wednesday [it is Saturday.]

[fierypen37]

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

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 Jon floated up toward wakefulness, muddled by sleepy confusion. Where . . . ? This was not his room in the Red Keep, and—he breathed deeply of the musky-sweet smell of her. Daenerys. He rolled over, finding her sprawled on her belly. Her tangled braids coming undone, pale hair gleamed in the dull orange pulse of a dying fire. Jon watched her chest rise and fall, limbs loose and relaxed in sleep. A band tightened around his heart. Love had ambushed him. Here he was, smote by it, drowning in it. Only a few days in her presence and he knew he would kill or die for her. Follow her anywhere.

A kernel of hope wished to point their horses north, show her the Riverlands and his lady aunt’s home of Riverrun, then north again until Winterfell. Home. Uncle and Lady Catelyn would give them a prince’s welcome. Cousin Sansa would twitter around Daenerys happily, flatter her with her fine manners, offer to braid flowers in her hair. Cousin Arya would pilfer honeycakes from the kitchens and chatter about the goings-on in the castle—she always had a talent for making swift friends. Jon had loved her immediately. Once he heard word of dragons, Cousin Bran would pounce. Little Rickon would be too shy at first, and Robb . . . Jon breathed a sigh. Jon and Robb were natural good-natured rivals. Both could ride and fight and hunt as well as the other, though Robb could jest and sing. More like Rhaegar than Jon himself was. He hated the jealous weed in his heart, but it remained, clinging by stubborn roots. A nagging whisper wondered if Daenerys would take more to his handsome, erudite cousin.

Jon nestled closer, draping his arm around her. Mm, so warm and she smelled so good. He twined his finger around the white silk ribbon threaded in one of her unraveling braids. Their wedding ribbon. It touched him that she wore it in her hair. No, Daenerys loved him, pledged herself to him.

“I love you,” Jon whispered into the stillness. With a snuffle, she rolled over. Nestled into his chest with a sound of contentment. Jon’s heart melted, hands combing the snarls from her wild hair. Like silver-gold silk between his fingers, warm and wavy. The press of her naked skin was a thrill, though without the usual urgency of arousal. Her warm, solid weight was a comfort. The cadence of her snores soothed him, and Jon whiled away a pleasant hour drifting in and out of sleep. His mysterious aunt, watching her blather in Dothraki astride her silver mount was startling. There was so much of her life that he didn’t know. We have time to learn. I’ll tell her about Winterfell and the Wall and the godswood, King’s Landing and Blackwater Bay. The idea of crossing the sea appealed to him. Adventures they could make together. And dragons! Gods, to see a living dragon!

Jon dreamed of dragons. Gliding through the sky on powerful wings. Gleaming scales in half a hundred colors. Red and black like the Targaryen sigil, pale blue like Rhaena’s Dreamfyre, silver and green and bronze. Beautiful and terrible as the skulls in the Red Keep, cloaked in flesh once more. Fire and Blood. Welcome, they said in voices like thunder. Welcome, cousin. Daenerys appeared in his mind’s eye, moonspun colors soft against the vivid scales of their brethren. She should have looked small, frail in the face of their might, but she did not. She shone. Daughter of dragons, bride of fire. Mine. Fire was in their blood, tracing all the way back to the dragonlords of Old Valyria. He woke slicked with sweat and hard as iron. The fire had died, leaving the room in complete darkness. Daenerys slept on, draped on his chest. The need for her was a fever inside him. Jon eased her onto her back, peeling his trapped arm from beneath her head.

“Dany,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, “nyke jorrāela ao.” {I need you.} Jon peeled back sheet and coverlet. He would rouse her. Slow and gentle, until she was drenched in honey and whimpering for him. Jon adored the strength and steel in her, but loved the taste of her surrender even more. Jon lay on his side, his cock throbbing against her hip. He leaned close, nuzzling the soft skin of her upper chest. One hand cupped the ripe weight of her breast, teasing the nipple with his thumb. Feeling it pebble under his touch delighted him. Gods, her skin was so soft, so warm. His hand smoothed down, stroking her belly, tracing her hipbones, petting the coarse hair of her sex. Jon’s mouth filled with water. So wet already. Slick from their earlier loving. One finger gently parted her folds. The softness and heat of her stirred an ache deep in his gut. A whimper answered him as his finger grazed her pearl.

“Jon?” He loved the sound of his name spoken in her sleep-slurred voice.

“Dany. Come here to me, love.”

Jon groped for her chin and tilted her head toward him with his free hand. He kissed her as his fingers delved and stroked in a rhythm. That soft mouth was pliant beneath his, though not for long. Her thighs clenched around his hand, her own grasping his cock. Jon growled against the seal of her mouth. Gods, would it always be like this? Passion sweetened by a knowing touch? Craving her more than the breath in his lungs? Jon persisted, teasing her pearl with his fingers despite the near-overwhelming twin pleasures of her hand milking his cock, her tongue plunging into his mouth. She would fall first. Soft little cries vibrated against his lips, her hips bucked and squirmed and—yessss Daenerys broke the kiss to moan as her pleasure washed over her. Jon breathed deep of her scent, wishing for even the faintest hint of light. He wanted to look into her violet eyes, delight in her kiss-puffed lips. Jon sucked her honey from his fingers. Gods, he loved how she tasted!

Daenerys reached for him, groping for his face. A squeak of the bed-ropes and she fumbled astride him. Jon hummed in approval, kneading ripe handfuls of her arse. His cock lay heavy against his belly, hard and leaking.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Daenerys asked with a hint of laughter in her voice. Jon chuckled, adjusting her weight with a shift of his hips. She slid down to press a string of hot, open-mouthed kisses on his chest. Jon gasped at the suction of her mouth on his nipple. Sensation swamped him, her mouth, the press of her weight, the wet kiss of her cunt on his thigh.

“D—Dreamed of dragons. And you. I woke hungry for you.”

“Jon,” she whispered. Jon pumped his cock, shuddering a little at the pleasure of it. He held it up, offering it to her. Daenerys’ hand covered his and she teased him, rubbing the slick head with her thumb. Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. With a soft cry, Daenerys sheathed herself on him. Jon’s head thumped back on the mattress. Sweat dewed on his skin. Fire surged to life between them, heat and bottomless hunger.

“So sweet. Oh fuck . . .” he said. Deprived of his sight, the feel of her was so vivid and vibrant. Slick and hot and soft . . . Jon’s hands smoothed greedily over the sleek shape of her body. My wife, my blood, my dragon.

Daenerys rocked above him, sinuous and slow, her nipples taut against his palms. Eager for her mouth, Jon rose on his elbows and drew her down to him. The kiss was deep and messy, their tongues tangling. Jon took her lower lip in his mouth and nipped it. Daenerys hummed, rocking faster.

“Oh yes,” Jon hissed against her mouth, “Ride me, love. Fuck me.” Daenerys moaned at the words, taking him deeper. Jon matched her rhythm with upward thrusts of his hips. The pleasure built in his chest, his gut, his balls. The bed squeaked beneath them. The sounds of wet flesh slapping together was almost obscene. The smell of her filled his nose. He felt the tension building, heard the shakiness of her cries. She was close.      

“W—When my dragons are grown, we will ride together. And no one in this world will stand in—in our way,” she said. Jon couldn’t hold it back. His spine arched, pleasure burst behind his eyes and he was spilling his seed inside her. Another couple strokes and she followed him with a thin cry. They writhed together, mindless in the throes of it. Daenerys slid off him, crawling close to lay her head on his chest, panting against his neck. Blindly, he sought her mouth. This kiss was sweeter. Pleasure unfurled and meandered through his veins as they rocked, sweaty and sated. Jon gathered her to his side as the sweat cooled and the thunder of his heartbeat mellowed. Jon breathed deep of her scent, petting her hopelessly tangled hair.  

“Truly? Do you mean it?” he asked.

“Hmm? What, Jon?” Daenerys said, pressing a glancing kiss to his collarbone. “About me and your dragons.” Despite the dark, he could feel the press of her gaze.

“Of course. You are Targaryen. My blood, my husband. I’m sure one of my children will take to you. And we will be unstoppable.” Jon remembered the sheer power of the dragons of his dream, and thought uncomfortably of his father and kin in the Red Keep.

“But--” he said. Daenerys cut him off with a swift kiss. Daenerys bumped her forehead to his, pressed so close he felt the ghosting tickle of her eyelashes.

“Husband, I have no desire for a throne, especially your father’s. Rhaegar can keep his Seven Kingdoms, and give them to that pretty Dornish son of his. I will never make war with him, I swear that to you.” Some secret tension in him dissolved and fell away in relief. Jon tilted his chin to kiss her.

“Thank you, my wonder.” Daenerys nuzzled his cheek with her nose.

“I only meant that once my dragons are grown, we can do as we please. Neither magister nor king nor god can tell us otherwise.”

“’Like their dragons, Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men,’” Jon quoted.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked. There was a certain smugness in her tone that made him smile.

“Some dusty book of Lord Tyrion’s at the Red Keep. He has a particular fascination with dragons.”

“I knew he was a clever man,” Daenerys said, curling beside him. Jon chuckled.

“Don’t say that within his hearing. His head will swell.” Daenerys’ finger traced the shapes of his chest and belly with ticklish lightness. A ghosting touch along his ribs made him stifle a giggle.  

“How is it that your lord father named him Hand? Men of his stature are not well regarded in Essos.” Jon bristled a bit; Lord Tyrion was a good friend. The delicate curiosity in her tone mellowed him.

“Tyrion is the son of a great Western house, the Lannisters. His father Tywin was Hand to your lord father King Aerys. Tyrion held the position on the small council of Master of Coin at his father’s decree. After my lord father quelled the Baratheon rebellion, and after Lord Tywin died, there was some upheaval on the small council. My lord father admired how Tyrion managed the chaos in King’s Landing after Renly Baratheon raised the treacherous Reacher lords and marched on the city. The post of Hand seemed a natural fit.”

Daenerys made a sound low in her throat.

“There is much of Westeros’ politics I don’t know. Perhaps my lord husband would educate me?” Jon grinned at the indulgent affection in her tone.

“And my brother the king knows about his Lorathi wife?”

“Yes. Shae was handmaiden to my lady stepmother during the Baratheon rebellion. She was . . . memorable.”

“Memorable?”

“Aye,” Jon said, grinning, “she is a deft hand with a dagger.” Daenerys giggled. Such a bright, merry sound, he thought. Gods, he was besotted. Jon rubbed his cheek against the crown of her head, feeling the ticklish slide of her hair, and considered himself supremely content.

“Were they attacked?”

“Aye. It was a group of thieves coming to take what they could during the unrest in the castle—Her Grace Lady Elia and my half-sister Rhaenys were at the Sept of Baelor at the time. The thieves wanted their jewels. Shae quickly disabused them of such a notion.”

“I imagine Her Grace was grateful.”

“She was. The Dornish are an intemperate lot as a rule, though generous to fault. Martells, especially.”

“‘Intemperate?’ You’re such a priggish northerner, my love!” Daenerys said, with a light, playful slap to his chest. Jon rubbed the spot, caught between amusement and affront.  

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” he said, sitting up. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could only make out the shape her, the faint pale gleam of her hair. He could feel the glow of her smile despite that. His Winterfell cousins were boisterous, but respectful. His half-siblings tended to snipe, and Tyrion quipped. Though he prickled at the being the butt of a joke, he found he liked the taste of Daenerys’ gentle brand of teasing.  

“I said you’re priggish.”

“That’s what I thought!” Jon said, pouncing on top of her. Daenerys squealed as he tickled her ribs, under her arms. Her laughter was heady as they thrashed and wrestled. Before long they were both breathless and wheezing with mirth. After a moment of rest, Daenerys retaliated, devilish fingers finding a ticklish spot on the bottom of his foot.

“No, no no, stop that!” Jon said, wiggling back and finding only empty air. He fell off the bed and landed with a hard thump on his rear. That made them laugh even harder. Jon clutched his sore sides.

The door burst open with a halo of gold lamplight and Grey Worm shouldered in with his spear. Jon leapt to his feet, one arm flung back to protect Daenerys. He squinted into the light, wishing for his sword.

“Jelmazmo, this one heard--” Grey Worm’s stony face revealed only the slightest hint of surprise in the widening of his black eyes. Jon stood straight, unconcerned with his nakedness. A quick flash of anger banished the lingering euphoria of laughter.

“You heard what, soldier? You thought I was abusing my wife? You came to skewer me with your spear? Shall we settle this on the training yard?” Jon said, fists balled. Grey Worm did not so much as blink or lower his spear.  

“Gods save me from bull-headed men!” Daenerys said, shoving past his protecting arm.

“Grey Worm, you do me honor by seeking to protect me, but I need no protection from Jon. Go back to your bed. Now.”

“But Jel--”

“I said: Now.” The steel in her tone was as cold as Uncle’s sword Ice. Grey Worm set the lamp on the hook and shut the door behind him with an emphatic thud.

“And you! You want to duel my bodyguards? Anyone at all who looks at you squint-eyed?” Daenerys said, poking his chest hard. Naked, flushed pink with her hair in glorious disarray. His cock twitched in interest. Jon clenched his jaw, his ire climbing.

“Yes! If I must. I would never hurt you.” The hard glint in her violet eyes softened. She cupped his cheek, stroking his beard with her thumb.

“I . . . I have suffered at the hands of men in the past. After Ser Darry died, I was a wayward princess alone in the world. My people wish to protect me.” Jon swallowed down hot choler in his throat. ‘Suffered’ she said. Every manner of horror rose in his mind’s eye. His beautiful wonder, abandoned. How he wished to embrace her. No, no. He wouldn’t trigger any harsh memories by rough gestures. Jon fell to one knee and cradled her hand between his.

“I will never hurt you.” The words felt so small, so ineffectual. Daenerys smiled.

“I know that. Do you think I would marry you if I didn’t?” she said with an arched brow. Jon turned her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, closing her fingers as if to cherish the touch.

“What can I do to put you at ease? To earn the respect of your people?” he asked. Daenerys tugged his hand, drawing him up to his feet. She nestled into Jon’s arms. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and kissed her forehead.  

“I trust you already, husband. As for my people, all it will take is time,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him. Jon twined their wedding ribbon around his finger and tugged gently.

“Time we’ll have when we sail for Pentos. I’ll look for a ship in the morning. Come. Let’s get some sleep.”

 Daenerys was not an early riser. Jon enjoyed waking at dawn, watching the sun rise with a hot cup of tea. There was a sort of peace in those quiet minutes, suspended between day and night, sleeping and waking. Jon wiggled from bed in the grey predawn. At the ewer stand he washed with cold water and a bar of lye soap. He combed and tied his hair, dressed and armed. He even dispatched a kitchen lad to fetch their breakfast. All this while his wife lingered in bed, going so far as to bury her head beneath the bolster to blot out the light peeking through the shutters.

In her sleep, she’d kicked off the coverlet. Jon chuckled. He quite liked the view of her bare-arsed in the morning.

“Daenerys. Dany, love. Wake up,” Jon whispered, stroking the small of her back. She mumbled something and rolled away from him, curling into a tight ball.

“Dany. Wake up,” Jon said, louder.

“Unngh,” she groaned. One bleary violet eye glared at him from beneath the bolster. Jon schooled his expression to neutrality. In her current mood, she might not appreciate his amusement.

“It’s after dawn. We need to get moving.” Daenerys grumbled as she swung her legs to the edge of the bed, dragging the coverlet with her. Silver hair hung in a messy snarl. That, plus her sleep-flushed cheeks and owlish blinking eyes made for a fetching sight.  

“Good morning,” he said.

“’Morning,” she said, yawning, “I need Missandei.”

“I’ll fetch her.”

“And tea. Hot. With lemon.”

“As you say, my lady,” he said, layered with sarcasm. Was he her body servant? They shared the same royal blood! Daenerys’ scowl relaxed into an expression of half-chagrined contrition.  

“Please,” she added. Jon grunted. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Part of learning each other’s’ rhythms, husband. I dislike waking, on any circumstance.” Jon kissed the back of her captive hand.

“You’re right, of course. We will learn more about each other. We have time. First, Missandei. I’ll ready the horses.”

Missandei shared a room with Grey Worm. It was the Unsullied guard who opened the door, already dressed and armored. Immaculate down to the laces of his boots. An air of mutual dislike chilled between them.

“My lord,” he said with the barest incline of his chin. Jon’s temper rankled at the casual address.

“Daenerys is asking for Missandei.”

“I am here, my lord,” she said, slipping past Grey Worm with a murmured word in Valyrian.

Unblinking, Grey Worm said: “Bisa mittys iksis tolī iā rīza et iā zaldrīzes.” {This fool is more a lizard than a dragon.} It took considerable effort not to react to such slander, especially said in that atrocious bastard Valyrian. The words lilted and lurched like a drunkard. Missandei was quick to admonish him.

“Ilva dāria pāsaga zirȳla. Lyks, jorrāelo.” {Our queen trusts him. Peace, love.} Jon studied the translator. Her hair was a soft black cloud around her head, bound away from her face with a silver headband. The black leather trousers and deep green tunic were of a fashion of Daenerys’. It was a subtle remark of how highly his wife esteemed the slender young Summer Islander, to garb her in the same clothing. Like family. Jon found a smile for Missandei, heartfelt and easy.

“Her first intelligible words this morning were that she needed you,” he said. Missandei’s answering smile was wary, but warm.

“She is a dragon upon waking. The easiest way to soften her is with tea and bread with honey,” she said.

“Good to know,” he replied. Missandei made her way down the hall to their room. Seconds ticked by as Jon held Grey Worm’s hard black gaze. Jon rested his hand casually on the pommel of his sword, his thumb worrying the dragon tail etching.

“Shall we ready the horses?” Jon asked at last. Grey Worm gave a bare nod. Rakharo and the other big Dothraki—whose name Jon could not place—were shoveling down bacon and bread in the taproom.

“Daenerys Jelmazmo is breaking her fast. We ready the horses and find a ship.”

“At last! Leaving the cold, miserable sunset land for home!” Rakharo said, swiping grease from his mustache. Jon chuckled. For his part, he was eager to begin their journey as well.

“Come, let’s find a ship.”