~Dany~

I'm writing at my desk when I hear the chamber door open, closing again gently.

My hand stills, my heart speeding as it does now when he nears, my body tensing warmly in anticipation. Since he left, storming from the room wordless in his anger, I had tried not to let my own needs and weaknesses stir me to the same.

I often give myself too quickly to it, I know this. Too quick to judgement and assumptions which rarely serve me well.

I had made a mistake in forgetting to tell Jon of Theon Greyjoy's presence here— of his sworn loyalty to me. Which was why I had admitted to the fault without delay, but if I'd thought to find him forgiving of it I had been mistaken.

Theon's crimes against the Starks, and Jon's deep mistrust of him, were greater and more difficult to contest than I had imagined them to be. Had I been so quick to forgive those who'd harmed my own family?

Of course I had not. I'd watched Cersei Lannister burn alive by Drogon's fire without feeling or regret.

I'd longed to do the same to Tyrion once too.

And I'd do the same to the Kingslayer when he was found and brought before me.

No, I could not judge Jon for holding onto the same fire for those who'd harmed his family.

But of course it was not this which troubled me. It was his denial of me, his words, his warning.

You know little about the sort of man I am, Daenerys.

It had been a sharp cold blade through my chest. The ache of it yet another reminder that I had already given to much of myself. My heart was now a soft, meek thing prone to pain and injury.

The sound of him crossing the chamber, his footsteps silencing as he crosses the rug, then the sound of him sitting down in the chair by the fire. 

I move to continue the letter, one which would be carried across the narrow sea to the Iron Bank. A promise. Not a threat. The inheritance of Cersei's debt — money borrowed to destroy me — had been a matter of some thought and deliberation. The Iron Bank had, of course, argued that it belonged not the queen which had borrowed it but to the crown which had put its name to it.

Tyrion, to my initial distaste, had considered it in much the same light.

While my own thoughts were that I should have nothing of my enemies rule in mine. Not their castles, or their soldiers, or their debt. I would have nought but their gold, I'd told my Hand, Lannister gold.

And it was in this point Tyrion found his solution. Lannister gold would pay for Lannister debt, and the Iron Bank would not turn their favour from this new Targaryen queen. For, he argued, we would need to borrow to invest in the realm, and no new ruler could ill-afford to fall from the gilded consideration of the Iron Bank.

As I sign my name to the bottom of the paper, I hear the sound of Jon removing his boots, then the sound of clothing being loosened, shorn. When he moves closer it is almost soundless, his bare footsteps a smooth whisper across the stone. 

I only know he is close when I feel the heat of his body against my back, and once more my breathing changes speed, the longing like a touch upon my neck, between my thighs. What power he has over me. Is he aware of it, I wonder? I welcome and cower before it at the same time.

I lower my hand, still holding the scribe, to settle it over the letter and wait for him to speak.

'Theon has agreed to go North to serve Sansa,' he says. His voice is even, emotionless, yet I know it cannot be so. His hate for Theon, his love for his sister, her denial of him in the crypt. What wars he must fight inside his mind over this.

'I am pleased you have found it within you to trust him with this.' I move to set the pen into it's holder and scan my eyes once more over the letter

'It will be a chance for him to make amends for what he has done.'

I nod. 'Then I truly hope he is able to.'

'About the words... I spoke to you earlier.' He sounds quite grave, and so I turn to face him on the stool.

He's wearing his white undershirt, open at the neck to reveal the soft white skin of his throat and the small dark patch of hair on his chest. His eyes are heavy with some mixture of emotion I cannot entirely identify; guilt certainly, but something else too. Something painfully raw.

I keep my gaze soft and open as I look up at him, waiting.

'When I said that... that you knew nothing of the sort of man I was...' He looks down away from my eyes and shakes his head a little helplessly. 'I did not mean that you... that I don't...,' he let's out a frustrated sigh, 'Gods, why can't I find the words I need now?'

At the sight of his struggle I stand so that I'm close, pressed against him, no space between our hearts now except the words spoken earlier.

'You were right,' I say, soft. His head lifts, faint surprise smoothing away the frown. 'We are but strangers, Jon. You to me and I to you. Perhaps we have learned each others bodies —as a wife and husband are bound to—but I am not fool enough to think it is all that you are. I hope to one day know you, all of you, and I offer the same to you, but you were right. I do not know you, I was too presumptuous, have ever been too presumptuous.'

He reaches down suddenly and grabs hold of my hand, a sharp focus in him now as he lifts it to the ragged scar over his heart. His fingers, hot and strong as they curl around my own. He shifts open his shirt and settles the tips of my fingers against the ruined flesh.

'Dany, I have never longed for any soul to know me. Gods, I don't think I've truly known myself. Not beyond the bastard son of Ned Stark, or soldier of the Nightswatch, or Lord Commander...' A look comes into his eyes then, a light almost, flickering in the deep darkness. 'But I want you to know who I am. What I've done, where I've been.'

'Then tell me,' I whisper.

Gently, his grip tightens and he circles the scar with my hand, pressing my touch tenderly against it. It feels like a message.

This is who he is?

What he's done and where he's been?

Confused, I lower my gaze to where my fingers rest over his heart, over the twisted gnarled flesh, red and raw and as if newly made. It feels so cold against the rest of his body, which burns with the touch of a hungry fire.

'Who did this to you?' I ask.

Jon swallows, his throat, dusted with the makings of a dark beard heavier than I've ever seen it.

'Men I considered my brothers.'

My eyes go wide. His brothers did this to him? The Starks? I shake my head, confused.

'The Nightswatch,' he clarifies.

Sudden and white hot, the surge of rage and fury fires beneath my trembling skin. Not just at the terrible act of violence committed upon him, but that it was done by those he'd sworn to fight along side, his brothers. They were nothing of the sort, they were traitors of brotherhood.

I let the image of my revenge fill my mind. The roasting of their flesh from their bones, the thick potent scent of their demise. I imagine watching them turn to a pile of blackened ash at my feet. It soothes me. A shallow happy comfort which is short-lived. For another chilling thought slices through me: the notion that he might have been taken from this world before I'd had the chance to look upon him, to know him, to love him. It is perhaps the greatest loss I can imagine.

'Why? Why would they do this to you?'

'They saw me as a traitor.' His voice aches with sadness. 'I broke my vows.'

'Your wildling woman.'

Another sharp pain pierces my chest, small and needle-like this time.

A glimmer of emotion flits across his dark eyes, before he shakes his head softly. 'No, not that. The Wildlings. I let them south of The Wall. Some in the Nightswatch saw it as treachery.'

'And you let them south because you loved her?'

Another shake of his head. 'I let them south because it was the right thing to do. Because as children we were taught to fear the wrong things, because there are far worse things beyond the Wall than Wildlings. They deserved a chance at living too,' he explains, passionate in his conviction even now.

'Then you did the right thing, for the right reasons.'

He nods. 'I know, and I was killed for it.'

My heart trips over, a cold wind blowing through me. Killed for it.

When he meets my eye again I see his surprise, as though he had not meant to speak the words aloud. I feel his terrible sense of unease at having done so. His reluctance to speak further of it. His fear that if he does I will never look at him the same again.

What he does not know is that there is nothing he might tell me, no knowledge I might possess or truth he might admit, that could turn my heart from his now.

I find his hand with my free one and thread my fingers through his, my other over his heart still.

'Then how is it you stand before me now? So gloriously alive, Jon Snow?' My voice is gentle, awe-filled.

There is another moment's hesitation before he speaks. 'A Red Witch,' he says. 'She brought me back. From where I don't know. She told me there was some role I'd yet to play, some notion that I was of some importance to her Lord of Light.'

He says something more but I don't hear it over the sound of my heart in my ears, my breath turned to frozen fire in my chest.

A Red Witch.

From ice does the Dragon's fire burn.
Your allies will be found in flowers sand and snow.
You will sit upon the Iron throne in three days, your enemies turned to ash in four.

It had to be the same priestess. There were not many red priestess of Asshai here in the Seven Kingdoms. What did it mean that Jon had been brought back from death by the same priestess who'd foreseen my victory? The same God?

If I told him now would he see it as our great linked fortune? Or would he decide my proposal and alliance had been somehow devised by the red witch? I am convinced it would be the latter. No, I cannot speak of it, not yet.

But I must find her. Even if it means scouring the Seven Kingdoms and across the narrow sea. She had much and more to explain.

'Then I am thankful to her,' I say carefully.

'She is not deserving of your gratitude,' he replies darkly. 'Her lord moved her to acts too awful to contemplate.'

'Really?' I frown. 'For as I see it, without her you would not be standing here with me now. Without her your home would still be in the hands of your enemies. Without her Sansa would be alone in the world. Surely you can reason that?'

He considers it only a moment. 'Then perhaps that is what the Gods intended. Who are we to play with such things as life and death?'

Very gently I loosen my hands from him and move across the chamber to where the fire crackles softly in the hearth. It's many moments before I can find the words I require.

'I would have given anything to be able to hold my son in my arms. To have been able to hear him cry out for me, to feel his mouth nurse at my breast. If I had been offered such a gift as you have been given then I would have snatched it from her grasp without thought or care for any gods.' I shake my head, tears clouding my vision as I turn to him. Silence stretches across the chamber between us, heavy and thick. 'Perhaps we are so very different you and I.' It hurts to admit it.

It will hurt more to hear him agree.

'No. We're not,' he says with a shake of his head. 'I had not thought of it as such. That there could be others I'd be able to have back. My father, my brothers, my sister. Perhaps it's that I don't feel I was worth bringing back, that's all.' He shrugs softly and looks at the floor.

'Well, I happen to disagree with you most vigorously.'

When he lifts his head a small smile hints at the side of his mouth. 'Well, this marriage would be dull if you agreed with me on things, Daenerys.' He moves to pull the shirt over his head with a casual easy movement, then goes to the bed and pulls back the coverlet.  When his eyes lift to mine I see an almost playful look in them now, before he slowly grazes his tongue across his mouth.

'Come to bed,' he says invitingly.

I want to. I ache to obey him. My body humming with need to close the distance between us and have him soothe and hold me, but there is still some part of me, some dark vengeful part, that must be satisfied first.

'What happened to the men who tried to take you from this life, your brothers?'

Whether he sees the intent in my eye and knows what fate awaits them do they live still, I know not. Roasting flesh. Charred bone. Blackened ash. Jon lets out a long tired-sounding breath and climbs into bed.

'They're long dead. By my own hand.'

A cooling of rage, the unbinding of a promise. 'Then I am glad of it.' I move toward him and climb up onto the bed beside him.

'One of them was a boy,' he says quietly. 'A young boy who'd lost everything to the Wildlings I'd let walk freely into our home.' He looks at me, that terrible sadness in his eyes once more. 'I killed him, Daenerys. I watched him swing from a rope and the life leave his eyes. I did that.'

'He was a traitor who killed his own brother.'

'He was a child.'

'Then perhaps you should have let him live, let him spread his hate and treachery further? Perhaps he would have killed an innocent wildling, would that have been preferable?'

'No but perhaps I could have changed his mind - made him see there was another way? Isn't that what leaders do? Make their men believe in a cause?'

'Perhaps... but being a leader also means making choices which are difficult. You know this because being a king is much the same.'

He looks at me pleadingly.

'What if what came back, what she brought back...isn't right? How can it be? How can I be?' he asks. 'Sometimes I feel as though I don't belong here. Not, here,' he looks around the chamber, back at me, 'but in this body... in this life. Sometimes I feel like a stranger.'

His voice sounds torn around the edges and the pain in his eyes is unbearable to look at. I move across the bed so that I'm perched on his lap and then I slide my arms around his neck and bring my mouth to his. His lips are hesitant at first before that familiar strength comes into him and he wraps his arms tight around me, pulling me on top of him.

'You are right,' I whisper against his mouth. 'Believe me, you are right.'  He looks unconvinced. It will take more than just saying the words. 'Jon, for my entire life I longed for home. Of course I couldn't remember what home looked like, or felt like —I knew nothing of what it felt like to be home. In each new place I went I was looked at in fear or in worship or with mistrust. When all I wanted was to be looked at as though I belonged there. Home to me wasn't an iron throne or a red castle, it was just... a feeling. Like flying across the sky on the back of a dragon.' It frightens me to be so exposed. So open and bare, yet I cannot stop myself speaking the words. 'From the moment I first looked at you, I felt the same feeling. It felt like coming home.'

The look in his eye dissipates and into it swims something warmer, something which moves over his mouth and trembles over his scarred chest. Between my legs, I feel the whisper of longing grow loud once more.

Jon's eyes don't leave mine as his hands move to the knotted straps of my gown where he slowly loosens one, then the other, steady sure fingers pulling the fabric from my body.

As it drops to my hips he lowers his mouth to my breast and covers my nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth. It causes my head to drop back and a moan to fall from my lips as my hands dive into his hair. Shifting so that I'm kneeling over him with the heat of my sex pressed against his own, I begin to rock slightly, enjoying the sound of his breath quickening and the feel of the slickness between our bodies.

As he kisses his way up my neck to my mouth, I angle my body so that the very tip of his arousal nudges inside me, before very slowly lowering myself onto him. He releases a curse, and then a low moan against my mouth as I take him fully, the sound of his pleasure a hot whisper against my lips.

When he pulls his head back to stare into my eyes I can feel his body tremble beneath me; powerful arms wrapped tight around me, thighs shuddering under me, heart beating wildly against my own.

'As long as I live you will have a home in me, Daenerys Targaryen...' he whispers. 'I vow it.'