Chapter Text
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The crypt was pitch-dark. As a boy, this would have sent him running back to the ironwood door, but as he was now, he felt quite at home. Mortals needed light to see in dark places; Jon Snow did not. Ghosts of his childhood memories were the only things he needed to fear. The kings and Lords of Winter waited for him below the winding steps, and he took the familiar path to greet them as old friends.
How long had it been since his last visit? The years rushed by like hours, but he could recall the snow in Robb’s hair the first time they’d bid each other farewell. The young Robb Jon held in his memory was much different from the Lord of Winter who’d been laid to rest a few short hours ago.
Over the years, Jon had watched Robb’s hair change from auburn to faded copper, and finally white. Suddenly the brother he’d loved had become an old man while Jon didn’t look a day over four and twenty.
He stopped for a moment to pay his respects to the father who raised him, and to leave a winter rose in the outstretched stone hands of the mother he’d never met. One of two roses he’d helped himself to in the glass gardens.
Beside his mother was his least favorite sepulcher: his own. He scrutinized his stone features as he did every visit, wondering if he still looked the same as he did when he was human. Dany never approved of the likeness; she complained they didn’t get his nose right or the cut of his jaw.
Jon had been five and twenty when this grave marker was made. Fifty years ago, when his family turned him into the shadow of a memory. A quiet rage burned in his belly even after all these years. Part of him understood his family’s need for closure, and another part hated the confirmation that he’d always been an outsider.
But nothing pained him more than the direwolf sepulcher beside his own. Jon knelt down and patted the wolf’s head just as he would have in life. He stared into the red garnet eyes as he remembered his faithful companion. Three decades had passed since Ghost had succumbed to old age, and Jon had made the trip to Winterfell to lay his bones to rest here. He belonged in the North.
Leaving his tomb behind, he came upon the most recently disturbed pile of earth. The dull ache in his chest deepened. It would be some time before Robb’s own likeness was carved, but Jon knew it’d look nothing like the Robb he knew.
Jon had watched the funeral from afar; all of his siblings unrecognizable from the time when he was human. In the early years, he visited them all from time to time, but as they aged and he did not, he felt how unsettled his presence made them. It was only Robb and Arya he made contact with anymore.
Arya, his little sister, was now an old woman asleep in her bed. He’d wake her tonight before returning to the crypt to wait out the sun.
Jon’s ears perked up as the ironwood door of the crypt opened. He could feel the heat of a single torch and hear the muffled steps of a man descending the stairs even a few levels up. He stood beside Robb’s grave and waited.
It was Robb’s son, Edric, the newly appointed Lord Stark. Jon saw his nephew far before he reached his father’s grave. Edric too was growing old, hair the same faded copper Robb’s had been two decades before. They’d met each other once when he’d been a small boy, and Jon had been delighted to see how much he’d looked like his father.
Jon cleared his throat as loudly as a mortal in an effort to announce his presence.
The new Lord Stark whipped around. “Who’s there?”
Quietly, Jon emerged from the shadows. “Don’t be afraid.”
Edric hollered, jumping out of his skin as the torch was thrown to the dirt floor. Jon wondered why he ever bothered saying that to humans. It never helped. His nephew was still struggling for air as Jon collected the torch from the floor and helped him to his feet.
Edric groped at his belt for a sword that wasn’t there. “Who are you?”
“I’m your uncle, Jon Snow.”
His nephew gave him an incredulous look. “You’re a boy, and my uncle lives across the Narrow Sea.”
He couldn’t be blamed for his confusion, Jon looked less than half his age. “Things aren’t always what they seem,” he told his nephew. “I came to say goodbye to my brother, and to introduce myself to the new Lord of Winterfell.”
Edric gave a quick nod, and then his eyes were darting around the tunnel. “Did you come alone?”
“No,” Jon answered, feeling himself smile. “My wife always travels with me.”
“Is she down here too?”
“No, she’s elsewhere on the castle grounds. Enjoying a late supper.” Dany kept him company on his trips North, but she kept her distance where his family was concerned. “I won’t harm you, Lord Stark. I promised your father, and your grandfather before him, that I’d always protect my family. Now sit. I have much to tell you, and little time to do it.”
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Barren trees bordered the snow covered road and the moon provided a gentle light. Jon Snow rode horseback beside his father as the high walls of the Dreadfort came into view. The triangular merlons which lined the walls looked like the teeth of a harvest-day pumpkin, but nothing about the fortress felt festive.
They’d set out from Winterfell early that morning with a complement of guards, Jory Cassel included. By their somber moods and dour expressions, one would never know they were on their way to a wedding.
Jon dipped his chin as a biting wind cut across their path. As a man of the North, he could handle the bitter cold, but the chill that came when winter arrived a moon ago was something new to him. Winter came like a shroud, blocking out the sun and leaving them in total darkness throughout both day and night.
This wasn’t Jon’s first winter, but he’d never lived a day where the sun didn’t rise.
“It could last weeks or moons; possibly a year or more,” Maester Luwin had said.
Bran had been sullen and Rickon cried. Arya was thrilled by it and Sansa wondered if it would affect the winter festival. Like himself, Robb didn’t know what to make of it, and neither of them liked it.
Lord Eddard Stark broke the silence as they rode on toward the gate. “Do you know why we’re here?”
Jon considered his words. “You thought it best for the North to accept Ramsay Bolton’s invitation. The Bolton fortress is strong and well provisioned, and their House has created problems for the Starks in the past.”
Ned grimaced. “I never much trusted Roose Bolton, and from what I’ve heard of his bastard son, I like him less. I accepted this invitation to his wedding to maintain peace, and to meet this new Lord Bolton. Do you know why I brought you instead of your brother?”
You wouldn’t risk your heir, Jon thought. He kept his face straight while his body tensed. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”
His father kept a steady gaze on the Dreadfort like one would an opponent in the training yard. “Aye,” he answered. “It would have been an insult not to bring one of my sons, and your other siblings are too young. The man would be a fool to try anything, but by all accounts, Ramsay Bolton is as foolish as he is cruel. Be on guard while we’re within those walls, and even more so when we’re on the hunt tomorrow. Jory will stay close, and I plan to keep this visit as short as possible. Best keep Ghost with you too.”
Jon looked down to see Ghost’s red eyes glowing in the dark from where he loped alongside them. “Yes, father.”
The foul banners of the flayed man came into view and Jon suppressed a shiver.
“I’m glad it’s you going and not me,” Robb had told him. “I’d rather not visit a hall where they hang human skin on their walls like animal pelts.”
The sickening image would not leave Jon’s mind as they dismounted, and he wished they could turn around and return to the warmth of Winterfell.
A group of men stood before the gate to greet them as Jon walked beside his father. Snow crunched beneath their feet, and as they approached, Jon found his worry replaced by curiosity.
He knew Ramsay at once by the pale pink cloak of House Bolton, and deathly pale eyes. Roose Bolton’s eyes. He wore a cheerful expression that rang false as he greeted the Warden of the North. “Lord Stark,” he said with a bow, “you honor me with your audience for my wedding. The Dreadfort is yours.”
In an instant Jon knew he didn’t like the man. He stood straighter as his shoulders tensed. The Bolton men were no better, and Jon sized each of them up as they exchanged pleasantries.
There was Ben Bones, an old man and the kennel master; Yellow Dick, thickset and diseased; Damon Dance-for-Me, a boyish looking man with a greased whip coiled at his belt; Sour Alyn with a decayed mouth and foul breath; and finally Skinner, the most normal looking one of the lot - and the one that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
The grave expression never left Ned’s face. “I was sorry to hear of your father’s untimely passing,” he said to Ramsay. “And so soon after your brother’s.”
Ramsay’s features turned down. “My family has been met with much misfortune this winter - a fact I hope to remedy with my beautiful bride.”
“Your bride is a girl from Essos I’m told.”
A queer smile spread on Ramsay’s lips. “A lady from Lys. Daenerys of House Maar.”
The name caught Jon’s attention. The bride shared a name with the unfortunate Targaryen Princess lost across the Narrow Sea.
Ned gave a tight smile, the first since they’d left home. “I wonder how such a lady found herself so far North.”
Lovely Lys, Jon thought. The island’s name brought to mind beautiful women with golden hair and sunny shores. How could any lady, let alone a lady from the Free Cities, find happiness in this ill omened place?
Ramsay was unbothered by the Lord of Winterfell’s question. “A chance meeting in White Harbor,” he said, “and a happy one. I’ll be glad to tell you all about it during the wedding feast.” His cold eyes fell on Jon and he felt himself bristle. “This must be your bastard. Jon Snow is it?”
“The hour is growing late,” Ned cut in. “We would not wish to delay the ceremony.”
“Of course,” Ramsay answered, clasping his hands together. “Ben, show them to their chambers.” Jon’s stomach turned when the man’s eyes met his again. “My bride is being readied as we speak.”
Ben Bone’s eyes grew wide when he saw Ghost. “That’s a real direwolf. A man doesn’t see them often. Lord Bolton had me train his girls to kill wolves. They’d have their work cut out for them with this one.”
Jon narrowed his eyes at the man. “His girls?”
“His hounds,” Ben answered, “mean tempered bitches. Your wolf would be good sport for them.”
The white direwolf bared his teeth in a silent snarl, and Jon rested his hand in his white fur. “Won’t be much of an exercise when all his hounds are dead.”
Ghost stuck close beside Jon as they walked behind Ned and Jory. Ben led them through the strange halls, and Jon clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. His heart beat faster with every step they took from the door, and he tried to remember each turn they made in the unfamiliar fortress.
He nearly stumbled when he noticed the torches. “Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath. Skeletal hands protruded from the walls to hold them in place. It’s all true, he realized. Every grisly rumor.
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Jon’s attention was focused on the red leaves of the weirwood of the Bolton godswood. It was a small eerie place within the walls, and Jon couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The weirwood was plain, untouched by the Children, and much smaller than the one at Winterfell. Jon never planned to marry, but if he did, he’d want to say his vows before a true heart tree.
The moon shone brightly overhead making the ceremony more beautiful than it had right to be. Lanterns lit up the path the mysterious lady from Lys would be taking. What sort of father would arrange a marriage to a man like Ramsay?
Rumors of House Bolton’s depravity probably didn’t reach the Free Cities. Stories of the Boltons hunting women in their woods, and of the torture chamber in their dungeon. What had she made of the skeletal torches when she arrived?
Ramsay Bolton stood beneath the tree waiting for his bride, and his men stood beside Jon, his father, and the other Stark men. The bastard’s boys he’d heard they were called. Occasionally he cast wary glances in their direction, and wished he didn’t have to overhear the conversation they were having.
“Ramsay is a lucky man,” Sour Alyn gloated to his comrades. “His bride’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. Skin white and pure as snow.”
Yellow Dick wheezed. “Won’t be so pure after tonight.”
Damon Dance-for-Me rested a hand on his whip. “Just wait until he has her again after tonight’s midnight hunt.”
Jon furrowed his brow. “I thought the hunt was on the morrow.”
He regretted speaking when Sour Alyn gave him a black grin. “This hunt isn’t for you, bastard.”
“Too bad,” Skinner interjected, eyeing Ghost. “I’d like to see what his wolf can do.”
Sour Alyn flapped a hand in dismissal. “He’s much too soft for it. He’s almost as pretty as the bride.”
“How long before Ramsay introduces you to his new wife, Skinner?” Damon Dance-for-Me asked with a wide grin.
Skinner smirked. “It will be a long while if she has any sense.”
Jon exchanged a look with Jory, as his stomach turned. He was about to say something when the captain’s expression went slack. Following his gaze down the path, he saw the bride come into view.
She burned in the darkness like a star in the sky, and the rudeness of the men was forgotten. Jon’s mouth fell open, and the gathered crowd went silent. The silver silk of her gown was adorned in dragon scales and it hugged her slender figure in a style he was sure the North had never seen. Moonlight was caught in the waves of her silver hair, and she floated toward the weirwood, the embodiment of grace.
The girl was without an escort, an oddity Jon had never seen, and she wore no coat to protect her from the bitter cold. Nor did she wear a cloak to signify her House. Jon pushed down a sudden urge to cover her in his own.
Maester Luwin had taught them that some descendants of the Targaryen bloodline lived in Lys, and this bride was everything he imagined a princess should be.
She locked eyes with him without warning.
Jon’s pulse jumped and he sucked in a breath. Her eyes were violet like the color of the sky in the twilight hour. He was invaded by the scent of lavender and a sweetness he couldn’t name, and he felt a pang near his heart.
Ramsay’s henchmen were gone and all his father’s men. The only thing remaining in the godswood was the silver bride framed by the golden glow of the lanterns. The world seemed to slow, and every step she took down the path stretched out forever.
A smile graced her pink lips, and the mad notion that it was for him entered his thoughts. Jon licked his lips as his body flushed. It took every ounce of his sanity to keep himself from moving closer.
A gentle voice kissed his ears, but the lady’s lips did not move. “At last we meet, Jon Snow.”
Jon gasped and at that her smile grew wider. He shook his head to regain his senses. Tearing his eyes away from the violet eyed beauty, he looked to his side to find his father and Jory unmoving, as though frozen. Ramsay’s men were just as still; their ugly mouths twisted in laughter over their crude jests. No one moved but him and the mystery lady.
She kept her eyes on him as she slowly passed.
“We shall speak again soon,” the disembodied voice spoke again.
In an instance, the world came back to life. The laughter of the crowd restarted as if it had never been interrupted and then died again as all eyes turned to the weirwood tree. The silver girl stood there now, her long hair falling behind her in soft curls.
Jon’s chest burned to see Ramsay, in all his unworthiness, take her hands as they said their vows. He stared intently at the bride, willing her to look at him again. Maybe time would still once more and this time he’d find the courage to speak.
But she didn’t look at him again.
It wasn’t real, fool.
Real or not, he didn’t stop himself from scowling as he watched the new Lord Bolton kiss her. Nor did it leave his face as the groom carried his bride down the path and to the wedding feast.
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The great hall was alive with the sounds of laughter and music when Jon entered with his father and Jory beside him. He stopped to admire one of the tapestries hung beside the doors as Robb had told him the Boltons made them from human skin. Cautiously, he reached his hand out and brushed his fingertips along the surface and breathed a sigh of relief when he only felt fabric and thread.
“Jon,” his father called. He turned to find Ned with his brow furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line. “Do not linger around these halls,” he warned. “Come, Jory has found a table for us,” his father said, gesturing to a spot below the dais where Ramsay and Daenerys sat.
“Yes, Father,” he said. Jory greeted them with horns of ale, and though Ned permitted Jon to accept the cup, the look he gave him told him that he should not indulge himself too much.
Jon hadn't realized how famished he was from travel and the ceremony until the first course. He greedily dug into the creamy soup with bacon and potatoes, all the while stealing glances at Daenerys.
Next came the honeyed chicken with roasted carrots and parsnips; though the chicken was moist and well seasoned, Jon considered Winterfell’s version of the dish superior. As he stuffed a bite of chicken in his mouth Jon noticed that Daenerys barely ate, taking only small bites between sips of her drink, pushing the food around her plate until a servant came to clear the tables.
Last came the desert of baked apples with cinnamon and a dollop of sweet cream. Ramsay had barely acknowledged Daenerys during the meal, as he was deep into his cups, filling his mouth with food and engaged in what Jon suspected was obscene conversation with his boys.
Daenerys looked sullen; her eyes lacking the joy of a woman in love on her wedding day. However, Jon knew most marriages were not born of love but rather duty and security. Though Jon knew little of the Lyseni woman, she seemed kind and the thought that her kindness and light might be extinguished by the likes of Ramsay made him sad.
Just as Jon took the last bite of an apple, Ramsay stood and motioned for the band to stop their rendition of “My Lady Wife.” The hall grew quiet as they all waited to hear Ramsay’s speech.
“Good evening. I hope you’ve enjoyed the fine drink and food tonight,” he said as he raised his glass in salute. “Lord Stark, you have honored me with your presence to celebrate my marriage to Lady Daenerys,” he turned, smiling down at her. “Though my father is not here to celebrate this momentous occasion, I’ll do my best as the new Lord of the Dreadfort to honor his name.”
The hall rang out in a clamor of cheers and cups banging on the tables. Jealousy burned in Jon’s chest. Ramsay, a former bastard, now had a trueborn name and a keep and land of his own. And Daenerys, the poor gorgeous creature. It was everything that Jon had ever wanted but never dared dream of.
As Ned and Jory were deep in conversation, Jon stood and walked along the perimeter of the room, observing the art and tapestries that hung along the walls. He wished Robb had traveled with them so he wouldn’t feel so alone in this strange and dreadful place.
“Would you like to dance?” Daenerys’ soft voice asked. Jon flinched; she had been so quiet he hadn't seen or heard her approach."
Jon stared at her dazedly, his mouth opening and closing before finding the courage to speak. “I don’t dance very well.”
“Well, I’m an excellent dancer, and I can teach you,” she countered as she grabbed his cup and placed it on a nearby table along with her own. She took his hand in hers and tugged, “come.”
Jon looked between their joined hands and Ramsay who was still sitting on the dais. “I’m not sure your husband would approve, My Lady.” The narrowed glare that Ramsay directed toward him confirmed this suspicion.
Daenerys glanced over her shoulder at Ramsay, who was now speaking with Damon-Dance-for-Me. “My husband won’t mind,” she assured him. Before he could think of another excuse to decline her invitation, she was pulling him onto the small dance floor.
A new song began to fill the room: “Two Hearts That Beat as One.” Daenerys raised one hand and placed the other on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon mirrored her, grasping her hand and placing the other on her hip. He felt his cheeks redden and his palms moisten, and he hoped she could not tell.
Slowly, they began to turn and twirl, Jon following Daenerys’ lead. “See you’re a natural dancer,” she laughed. He knew she was only being polite as he’d stepped on her feet at least twice already.
“You’re an excellent teacher,” he said. Despite his own ineptitude, she glided across the floor with ease.
A mischievous glint flashed in her eyes, and she leaned in and whispered, “I can teach you many things, Jon Snow."
Heat coursed through his body at the suggestiveness of her tone. When he pulled back he saw that the room was still, save for him and Daenerys.
“It’s much better this way, isn’t it?” her voice echoed in his mind though her lips did not move.
Jon felt a shiver run up his spine. “This is just like at the ceremony. You’ve frozen time.”
Daenerys circled around him, like an animal stalking its prey. “Yes, it’s one of the many tricks that I know.”
When he looked over at his father, Ned’s face was in grimace, his eyes clearly trained on him and Daenerys. “Fucking hells.”
Daenerys followed his gaze, “You needn’t worry about your father. He won’t remember what happened tonight.”
She resumed her dancing position and once again they twisted and twirled on the dance floor. Jon’s head spun and his stomach turned, the mixture of stillness and movement disorienting to his senses. “Please stop this.”
“Don’t be frightened,” she closed the space between them, her chest flush with his. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear even though she didn’t need her lips to speak, “we can be alone here.”
He could smell the sweetness of her skin. It was almost as if she smelled of sunlight, though the sun hadn’t shone for weeks. “No, this is wrong.” He pushed away from her.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll find you again soon, Jon Snow.” The room was alive once more, the laughter and music suddenly seeming overwhelming to the quiet of only a few seconds ago. He looked up at the dais to find Daenerys whispering in Ramsay’s ear, a leering smile crossing his face. Bitterness burned in Jon’s belly at the sight of them together, overwhelming the confusion of only a few moments before. Jon hurried back to his father and Jory, unsure of what to make of this encounter.
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Jon knelt before the hearth, his eyes trained on the flickering flames and his mind occupied with thoughts of Daenerys. Ghost was curled up and asleep beside him. Over the last few hours he’d determined that she was as mysterious as she was beautiful. He had no logical explanation for what transpired between them at the ceremony and feast: how they could communicate through their thoughts and how she seemed to stop time. I must have been tired from the trip and too deep into my cups. I barely finished my horn of ale, though.
He threw another log into the fire and then extinguished the candles around the room, leaving the one by his bedside for last. As he lay in bed, unbidden he thought of Daenerys’ own marriage bed that she would share with Ramsay. She’s not yours, he reminded himself, though jealousy burned in his chest all the same. He turned and buried his face into his pillow and prayed that sleep would take him soon.
“Jon,” he heard, a soft whisper pulling him from his dreams of violet eyes and silver hair. As he blinked sleep from his eyes he noticed that the candle beside his bed was lit. That's odd. One of the servants must have re-lit it when replenishing the firewood.
Just as he was resettling himself he noticed a silhouette beside the door. “Who's there?” he called, his hand clenched and he wondered if he had time to reach for his sword that rested on the wall beneath the window.
“It’s only me,” the voice announced, revealing herself as Daenerys when she stepped further into the room, her hands raised beside her face.
“Careful, Ghost is by the fire. He doesn’t take kindly to intruders.”
“Ghost isn’t here,” she said, motioning toward the now empty carpet by the fire. “He wanted to hunt, so we’re all alone.”
Jon’s pulse quickened in his chest. “Daenerys you cannot be here. Ramsay….”
“Is sleeping and you needn't worry about my husband.” Her hair cascaded in soft waves down her shoulders and she was dressed in a sheer, sleeveless nightgown. When she stepped in front of the hearth he could see the outline of her nipples.
Gods, she’s an angel, he thought, unable to tear his eyes away.
She smiled, her tongue running across her teeth, “I promise you I’m no angel, Jon.”
“How is it that you can read my thoughts?”
Daenerys smiled coyly, “Just another trick.”
“That’s not possible.” He glanced around the room, “this is a dream. I’m only seeing what I want.”
Daenerys got on the bed and slunk toward him on her hands and knees. He pressed himself back against the headboard, a poor effort to put distance between them. When she reached him she straddled him. Instinctually his hands moved to her hips; the silk of the nightgown felt so soft against his coarse fingertips. He wondered if her bare skin would feel the same.
Her hand softly stroked his bearded cheek, then she moved lower, and skimmed it across his bare chest. Daenerys’ skin was cold to the touch but it contrasted to the heat of his flesh. “What do you want?” she asked through their secret connection. As a bastard with no hope of a future or House name to carry on, Jon had never allowed himself to want. Yet in the moment, having Daenerys in his arms, he surrendered to his desires.
Jon reached out and brushed his thumb across her lip. “You,” he said aloud. He needed to feel her and to hear his own voice in order to hold on to some semblance of sanity. However, everything sounded and felt real in dreams so what did it matter?
She leaned in. “Then have me,” she whispered against his lips as she ground down on him. He groaned, feeling the heat of her center on his hardening cock through his breeches.
His hands gripped her hips to stop her movements. “We can’t…you’re married… Ramsay is my father’s vassal.”
“No one will know,” she countered, returning to their connection. “No one can hear us. The only man I want inside me is you.”
At her confession, Jon’s restraint snapped and he captured her lips in a kiss. There was a part of him that urged him to stop and tell her to leave. This is wrong, you cannot bed another man’s bride. On his wedding night. In his own castle. This isn’t real, it’s only a dream, Jon reminded himself, giving in to this fantasy.
The faint taste of the Arbor Gold she'd sipped at the feast still lingered on her tongue. Jon kissed along her neck and chest as his hands pushed her nightgown straps down to reveal her breasts. She arched her back, guiding him toward her teats. He sucked a pert nipple into his mouth, laving the tip before pulling it between his teeth. He paid the same attention to her other breast before he reclaimed her mouth.
Jon flipped them so she lay beneath him. He pulled away, once again still uncertain that this was not just a dream. She looked ethereal: her silver hair splayed across his pillow like silk, her amethyst eyes nearly blown black from lust, her cheeks and chest flushed a rosy red.
He peppered kisses along her neck and stomach as he moved down her body, removing her dress until she was bare before him. He settled between her thighs, and brushed his nose against the silver patch of hair on her mound, his senses flooded by the smell of her arousal. He looked up to find her staring at him. “Is this all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. Though her lips didn’t move, her face was contorted in pleasure: eyes closed, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth.
At her consent, he dipped his head and swiped his tongue along her slit. “Oh Jon,” she moaned, her hands threaded through his hair. He wished they didn’t need to stay quiet; he wanted to hear all her sweet sounds. Though hearing her through their bond almost felt more, like she was a part of him and he was a part of her. He alternated between lapping and sucking on her nub, letting her guide him through her affirming words and tugs on his curls. “Yes, that’s right. So good,” her praise spurred him on as he delved deeper into her core. She came with his name on her tongue, uttered like a prayer. He continued to lap up her juices, working her through her climax.
Jon rested his head against her stomach and tried to still his beating heart. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and their labored breaths.
“Come here,” she commanded, as she pulled him toward her. Jon slipped out of his breeches and then settled over her, his weight braced on his arms beside her head, his cock nestled in the wetness of her cunt.
He reached between them, aligning himself with her center, and slowly pushed in until he was fully seated. “Fuck.” She was so tight around his cock he felt as though he could have come right then.
He began to thrust in and out, and she moved her hands to his hips, to stabilize and guide his movements. Daenerys began to plant kisses along his jaw and neck, her tongue darting out to suck on his pulse point.
Then, he felt her teeth graze his skin. "Careful," he warned. The pressure continued to build, and he felt a sharp pain as her teeth broke through flesh. He tried to pull away at first, unsure what to make of her affections, however, that only caused her to tighten her hold on him. Jon felt wetness along his neck, and when Daenerys sucked, it sent a jolt straight to his cock. The simultaneous push and pull between their bodies transformed the pain into euphoric pleasure.
Tension built at the base of his spine, taut like a string ready to snap. “I’m close,” he groaned.
Daenerys didn’t answer, her mouth still sucking at his neck. His hips snapped into her with quick strokes, and he reached his hand between their bodies to stroke her nub. Her cunt clenched around him, and her nails dug into his shoulders. He followed right behind her, spending his seed.
Fuck. A wave of regret washed over Jon as he came down from his high. He shouldn't have spilled inside her. It’s only a dream, she cannot become with child, he reminded himself.
Jon nestled his head in the crook of her neck, his breath coming out in hot puffs against her sweat slicked skin. Daenerys was still lazily lapping at his neck, her hands soothingly running up and down his spine.
After a moment, he rolled off of her and pulled her against his side. She propped herself on one arm, and looked down on him, her fingers lightly brushing against his lips. “You’re mine now, Jon Snow,” she said as she leaned down and kissed him, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood on his lips. He should be frightened and wary of her, yet he wasn’t. “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. Jon knew that he wanted this beautiful creature more than he’d wanted for anything in his life, no matter the consequences that awaited him at daylight.
“Sleep now, my love,” she murmured and he felt himself slowly pulled into the darkness.