**Warning: this chapter contains mature content**

~ Dany ~

The maid who opens the door into the chamber curtseys low and avoids my eye, as though frightened I might breathe fire and turn her to ash where she stands.

Drogon's appearance in Winterfell's Godswood had reached the ears of every serving maid, groom, and cook in the castle. Before morning it would likely reach all the way to Castle Black; where they would talk of how their former Lord Commander had married the Dragon Queen. Of how after the vows had been spoken she'd carried him off somewhere to roast and eat him. I bite back a small smile of amusement at the thought.

In Jon's chamber candles flicker on tall stands, arrangements of snowflowers sit atop the fireplace and dresser, and the fire crackles softly in the hearth. On the bed where he had almost taken me — had that really only been this morning? — my silk nightgown lies on a rich blanket of furs. The air is sweet and heavy from the soft burning of wax and snowflower, but beneath it Jon's scent lingered still. Male and comforting. Tempting.

Turning, I catch Lady Sansa's eye drift over the room, her back straight as a rod and her expression cold and hard like ice. She forces a stiff smile at me which does not reach her eyes. It makes me doubt my invitation altogether. I had hoped to create some sort of bond between us, some idea of sisterly connection that might be nurtured and built upon as she helped me ready myself for my husband. Though looking at her now, it was likely a foolish notion. Mistrust and enmity seep from her in waves. I take a deep breath.

'We have not had the chance to speak alone since my arrival,' I begin, smiling warmly, 'but I want to assure you that you will always be welcome to visit with us either at Dragonstone or Kings landing, whenever you have cause or desire to see your brother.'

She nods. 'I have never been to Dragonstone. Though I do not think I should ever like to go South again. When I left it I vowed to never set foot upon its treacherous soil again.' Her voice is so very calm but beneath it lies a storm of rage and pain. I recognise it for I too had been nurtured by it, forged from it.

'You will find my court empty of treachery, Lady Sansa, I assure you. My rule will be nothing like that which you knew before.' She does not react to this, merely meets my gaze direct and unflinching.

Missandei reaches up to remove the crown from my head, which she places carefully in the chest I'd had sent ahead earlier.

Returning to my side she begins to loosen out my braid. Sansa moves hesitantly toward me, looking over my gown and hair as she tries to decide what to help me with. I reach out my left arm to her and turn it wrist up to reveal the row of small buttons which stretch up from the cuff. She takes up the task without words, her eyes focussed upon it and not on me.

This close and with her gaze lowered, I take a moment to observe her. She is exceptionally beautiful, almost painfully so. Taller than I, her neck is long and graceful, her nose straight and her mouth shapely and refined. Skin as pale as snow and eyes blue like a frozen lake, though some dark shadows linger around them.

Tonight she wears a rather mournful black velvet gown which reaches to the base of her throat where the Stark sigil — a roaring direwolf of polished silver — is pinned in the form of a brooch. She moves to the next sleeve, repeating the same steady action on the buttons there, wordless and diligent. Behind me, Missandei unclips the weighty beaded cloak from my shoulders and moves to place that too in the large wooden chest before returning to begin unlacing my gown from the back.

Finished her task, Sansa moves to the bed and gathers up the soft Pentoshi silk nightgown and comes to stand before me, holding it in her arms like a babe. There's no emotion on her face at all, her mouth and eyes are empty of all feeling. It's as though her soul is somewhere else entirely and only her body remains here in Jon's chamber with us. Stepping out of my gown, Missandei gathers it up and carries it away.

When I slide the undergarment from my body and stand naked before her she stiffens slightly, seeming to re-awaken, before taking great care not to meet my eyes as she cursorily reviews my figure. As I raise my hands over my head, she moves to pull the nightgown smoothly over my body, finally meeting my eye as it drops down to the floor. Missandei, with a small pot of jasmine oil in her hands, comes to my side and begins massaging it into my fingers, my wrists, and upwards over my arms.

When Sansa steps back to observe me I notice a glint of sadness cut into her ice-blue stare, a pain so deep that I see it flutter beneath her skin.

'I also spent my wedding night in this chamber,' Sansa says, breaking the oppressive silence. A quiet rage flares her nostrils and hardens her eyes though they still glimmer tearfully. I'd heard much about her Bolton husband's cruelty from Lord Greyjoy, and the haunted look in his eyes had told me far more than his words could. Sansa's eyes tell the same story now.

'I am sorry for what you have endured,' I say.

'Do not be,' she replies, sharp. 'For without it, I would still be the same spoiled girl who dreamed of marrying a prince and becoming a queen.' The look that flitters over her eyes feels like an accusation.

I turn to Missandei and give her a look she understands, and she moves to place the pot of Jasmine oil back in the chest and slips quietly from the chamber leaving Sansa and I alone

I take a small step closer to her. 'I am a stranger to you, Lady Sansa and it is smart to view strangers with a wary eye. But I mean you no harm. There need not be mistrust between us — I would have us be friends. For we have much in common, aside from Jon.'

She raises an eyebrow, sceptical.

'I too was sold to men for the advancement of other men. I was chained and betrayed, raped and defiled.' Her eyes light with surprise. 'So many men have tried to kill me — I don't remember all their names — but I survived their attempts, just as you did. I know what it is like to live with the memory of powerlessness and the determination to never feel such a way again.'

Her mask of cold detachment slips then, her features softening, trembling, as tears spring to her eyes. Reaching out, I take one of her hands and squeeze it tight inside mine.

'Women must protect other women — we must be each other's allies — for so many men would see us fail and ruined. Would see us cowed and beaten,' I tell her.  It appears as though she nods imperceptibly.  'I have not known him long, but I am certain that your brother is not one of those men.' She does not speak but I see the agreement in her eyes and so I decide to go on. 'I intend to care for him; to respect his counsel and his opinion, and I shall try my best to see him happy. I intend for this marriage to be a success, for mine and Jon's rule to be a success. So I would very much like us to reach a place of accord, Sansa, as sisters. I have so longed for a sister.' I smile warmly.

Sansa does not return it.

In fact almost in a flash, all trace of softness is gone from her. In a single instant, that same icy coldness I was coming to know well returns again with fervour. She slips her hand out of mine.

'I have a sister, perhaps you did not know?'

'Of course I knew. Forgive me, I did not mean —.'

'You speak well, your grace,' she says, cutting off my apology. 'Your tongue and its ability to stir passion in the hearts of men has served you well in your journey to take the Iron Throne — I am sure my brother will be well served by it too. But I have been fooled by promises of friendship and sisterhood before. I am no longer guileless enough to believe them. For women as much as men will crush others for their own gain. I know you are not naive enough to think otherwise.'

I blink in shock, fury simmering in my veins at the insinuation.

She turns from me, her skirts swishing across the stone. Something, naivety perhaps, compels me not to let her leave under such a cloud. How can I be so at odds with Jon's family? His last remaining sister.

'Lady Sansa, wait,' I call. She stops a few steps from the door and turns to face me. There's impatience in her gaze.

'I understand your anger. I am taking him from you — your family — the last of it. But it is not so. Jon cares deeply for you, just as you care for him. And I promise you I do not seek to come between it. He shall never be prevented from returning home to Winterfell whenever you need him. And despite these... words... you will always be welcome in our court.'

'You understand my anger? She tilts her head then, curious like a bird. 'Oh, your grace, no one will ever understand my anger. You say you wish to see him happy, yet it seems to me that if you did then you would not seek to take him thousands of miles from me to the place that killed our father, to the place that almost destroyed our name. It seems to me that you would not force him from his home and from the only family he has left, to live with you in a place he has never even seen. It seems to me that if you truly desired an accord between us then there are a great many things you might have done but this. But it appears that you need only desire a thing for it to be yours. A throne, a kingdom, a king, an accord between sisters. And so since you desire it, then I suppose it is yours — consider us at an accord, your grace.' The smirk lifts one side of her pretty mouth.

Sharp cold words hang in the air a moment while I stare back at her, half stunned. There would be no thawing this. No nurturing of a sisterly bond. There would be this, always this.

'Very well,' I say after some moments. 'You have made your feelings quite plain. I hope you are as forthright and steadfast in your role as Warden of the North.'

'I shall serve the north as devotedly as my family have done before me.' She holds my stare a moment longer before lowering into a deep curtsey. Rising, she turns swiftly for the door and pulls it open to reveal Jon standing behind it, his hand is raised as though about to knock upon it.

As his eyes meet his sister's a look passes between them — one I don't understand — before he looks across the chamber at me. Dressed now in a stark white tunic, the loose collar hangs open to reveal an expanse of pale skin and a hard chest.

With her head held high, Sansa glides past him and down the corridor, her light footsteps echoing as she goes. Jon throws a final glance in her direction before stepping over the threshold into the chamber and closing the door behind him.

When he turns to me the chill from Sansa's words dissipates and I feel my body begin to heat and soften under his gaze. There's a cut of uncertainty on his face, worry maybe as he searches my own, before he moves toward me.

'I fear there will ever be discord and acrimony between us.' I say, hopeless.

'Her anger is not with you,' he says quietly. 'It is with me.'

'But her anger with you is because of me.'

'Some of it maybe, aye. But she still thinks like a girl.' He looks down away from me.

'She did not take the news well?'

The way he avoids my eyes tells me all I need to know. 'There were words spoken between us: she did not like mine and I did not like hers.'

I sigh. 'Still, I would not have you quarrel with her over me.'

He brings his eyes back to mine. They're heavy and dark but so warm. The triangular patch of skin at his throat draws my eyes to it and a slow heat spreads out from my stomach and down, curling around my thighs. Under the loose fabric of his tunic, I can see the outline of his body, lit by the glow of the fire behind him.

Not dressed in his cloak and fur he appears less like a rough northern soldier and more like some dashing lord. One whom ladies and girls might soften or fawn over; a dark-eyed beauty who could steal a heart with a single look. There is an intensity about him that most other men do not possess. The scar across his face suggesting a wildness beneath.

'Well, when I'm gone from here it will no longer be an issue...' he mutters, moving past me toward the bed where he takes a seat.

'Except I have little desire to take you from your home, Jon.' As much as I was loathe to admit it, Sansa's words had burrowed into me, little spots of cold seeping in. 'Perhaps she has every right to hate me for separating you from each other. I had not considered that this marriage would take you from your home and your family.'

'Daenerys,' he says, firm. It's same tone he used in the great hall, one that demands my obedience. It had been a long time since a man dared address me such and it had a strange effect on me. When I turn to him I find his eyes are not as hard as his tone. 'We spoke vows before the Old Gods and I claimed you as my own. My place is with you now.'

I blink, surprised by his directness.

'But she is the only family you have left?'

'Aye, and you are my queen and my wife,' he says, simply. 'Sansa belongs here, at Winterfell, and I belong with you. I do not want to talk about this again.' He sounds dreadfully tired as he reaches down to pull off his boots.

'Very well,' I say, a strange breathlessness taking over me at his words. At the idea that he now saw his place as by my side. 'We won't talk of it again.'

He makes a satisfied noise. When he's finished pulling off his boots he tucks them neatly under the bed, ensuring the fronts are lined up. A soldier's habit? When he lifts his head the tired expression quickly changes, replaced by something more intense, something expectant. The blush creeps to my cheeks, stealing my breath and softening my bones.

How different this felt to the night I became Drogo's wife. How frightened I was then. How bold I feel now.

There is a degree of powerless now, just as there was then, but this time it is borne from desire not fear. For I cannot recall wanting a man as much as I wanted Jon. I cannot recall a longing like this except perhaps that which I'd had for my home; for the house with the red door and the lemon tree. My desire for him felt long known, like an old song I had forgotten the words to, yet the melody sang and whispered through my blood whenever I looked at him.

He rises slowly and comes to where I stand by the foot of the bed. Immediately the scent of him envelopes me, flooding up my nose,  loosening bone and heating blood. My thighs and breasts tingle with need; at the memory of how his lips and tongue felt upon mine, the memory of his warmth pressed against my body, the memory of his fingers seeking out my secret flesh.

'Thank you for your words in the hall,' I whisper. My breathing feels quick and wild. 'I had not dared dream of the people of the north cheering my name.'

Wordless, he brings a tentative hand up to my cheek, rough calloused fingers gentle and soft as they brush against my temple. Then, the barest touch of his thumb upon my lips.

'You are their queen. The sooner they learn it the better.' His voice is low and tender and it brushes warmly over me.

His dark eyes hold mine for many moments, his gaze heavy with longing. Then, in a quick move he brings his mouth to mine and kisses me hard. A hand curls around my neck as his other finds my waist and he pulls me tight against him. A low moan escapes his mouth as I move my body against his.

Eager to feel the touch of his skin beneath my fingers, I slide my hand under the fabric of his shirt and caress the hard lines and ridged muscle of his stomach. He is white-hot to the touch, wolf's blood coursing hot like dragon fire beneath the flesh. The puckered and gnarled skin of old scars rise and fall under my fingertips. Evidence of his warrior's body. Jon stiffens slightly, but he does not break away from my mouth, instead pulling me tighter into him.

As I move my hand lower, skimming it over the weight between his legs, it causes him to bite down on my lip and hiss out a quiet curse. He's hot and thick and undeniably large beneath the soft leather, and the space between my own thighs aches for it, for the raw feel of him inside me, for the act itself. How long had it been? How long since I'd welcomed a man into my body? Since I'd not been consumed by my enemies and what they had taken from me. War had turned me into a warrior, had dealt me nothing but death and destruction for so long. Naught but fire and blood.

Tonight I longed to be a woman. To be a wife standing before her husband. A queen standing before her king.

When I reach for the laces this time he does not stop me, and with small nimble fingers, I pull them free to release him from their binds. He breaks away from my mouth for the first time, panting hard as he pushes the leather down over his hips and steps out of them. Then, with a moment's visible hesitation, he grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

The gasp escapes from my mouth, unbidden.

I had known they were there but the sight of them still shocks me. Six deep scars are slashed across his stomach and chest; small but well placed across the otherwise pale, flawless skin. I study them trying to understand why they look so strange.

Then I know.

They look no more than a day old. Red and angry and still painfully raw. But they're not fresh or raw. They don't weep with the sign of recent healing as new scars should. They look almost as though they've iced over. Like frozen flesh.

The one over his heart is the most difficult to behold, a small but deep gash that he should not have survived. When my hand reaches out to touch it, he captures it swiftly, curling his fingers tight around mine. There's a desperate plea in his eyes, a terrible sadness that twists my heart painfully.

Please, the looks says. Please don't.

Perhaps tomorrow he would tell me of this thing, this awful grief which haunts him still, perhaps not. But I would not ask him to speak of it. Not tonight.

Altering his grip on my hand, I pull it toward me, settling his fingers flat over the rise of my left breast, above where my heart beats wildly for him. As I take a step towards him and press my body against his once more, a violent tremor moves through him.

Caught in the dark heat of his gaze I reach up to slide my fingers into the thick curls of his hair, where I pull and tug softly at the lengths at the nape of his neck. His head tilts and moves under my ministration but he keeps his eyes fixed firm on mine.

Moving his hand to curve it around my breast, he gently, deftly, begins to massage and caress it. When he flicks his thumb languidly over the hard nipple I let out a soft moan and bite down on my lip.

Pulling me against him again his mouth finds mine as he moves me against his arousal. His breathing is fast and hard as he moves his lips down to my throat where he kisses his way across the skin there. Still holding me against him, he walks us backward until the bed hits my thighs and I pull him down between my legs onto the soft furs.

My hands pull urgently at his hair as he continues to kiss and lick and nip at my neck, so rough now that I'm sure he will mark or break the skin. When he moves his head down to the neckline of my gown he pulls on the fabric so hard that it tears in his grip. He does not seem to notice as he takes my breast into his mouth and sucks hard on the nipple, his tongue circling it deliciously.  I twist and move beneath him as he shoves the silk up my legs, his length pressing hot and thick against my thigh.

Then, without warning or words, the King in the North thrusts himself inside me.

He curses low as I cry out, the sheer heat and size overwhelming to my body. At the sound, Jon pulls his head up, his body stilling completely as a look of worry cuts across his face.

'Daenerys? I... I did not hurt you?'

'No,' I shake my head, 'you did not hurt me.' I'm panting hard, my cheeks burning from him.

The words do not convince him and he holds his body still as he searches my eyes for the confirmation. Deep inside he throbs and pulses with need, his control tethered by the thinnest ribbon of lace. To convince him, I roll my hips upward, causing him to let out a low moan of pleasure.

'Please, Jon. Do not stop.'

He begins to move again, staying slow and deep, his eyes not leaving mine as he does. There's a wildness behind them now.  A dark hunger so singular, so sinful, that it makes him look almost like a stranger. So at odds with the quiet contained man he showed to the world. I had seen hints of it before, of the great and powerful fire that simmered just beneath the surface of him, now it consumed him.

When he bends to kiss me I catch his lower lip in my teeth and bite down softly, causing him to moan quietly.

"Fuck..." he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut and lowering his forehead to mine. Hooking my feet around the backs of his thighs I pull him deeper and deeper inside and his thrusts begin to quicken. As he pins me beneath him with rough forceful drives of his body I cry out louder, each breath a cry of pleasure.

It does not matter that Grey Worm stands guard outside. It does not matter that through the walls or window our coupling might be heard by any other.  There is no sense of anything but him. His smell, his mouth, his cock, his heat. There is no end to him, no beginning of me. There is only the place where our bodies meet each other in the dark. There is only us. My fire. His.

Between deep male groans he whispers my name, touching his lips to my thin skin, skin that I'm certain will be stripped from my bones by the fire raging beneath it. His teeth and tongue scrape against my neck, my breast, my lips. Broken guttural curses swollen with his pleasure. As his climax nears it does not matter that my own is not ready to meet it, for there would be plenty time for that. What matters is that within me I feel something loosen and melt away. Something cold and dead and dark, something which had turned to blackened stone in the ashes of Drogo's pyre.

As the sound of his climax rips from his throat and the hot warmth of his pleasure spills into me, Jon finds my hand and entwines his fingers with mine.

'Daenerys,' he whispers against my ear, tender and soft. 'Dany...'