Title: A Moth To A Flame (1/1)
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones
Pairing: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: When the Queen summons, the Lord Commander obeys. When Daenerys asks, Jon can only give.
Author's Notes: Set at an undetermined time in the future.
Jon Snow lay comfortably in the wide, luxurious bed belonging to the Queen's chambers, light crimson covers pulled up to his bare chest. He watched the sheer gauzy curtains drawn open around the bed flutter in the breeze wafting in through the open window, warm and damp to bring in the rich, earthen scents of the season and the wet musk of the rain.
The decade that had passed since Daenerys had taken the throne had been good to Westeros and her people, full of bounty and peace, but there was something about the Southron warmth that Jon could never adjust to. He was of the North and it was the North he belonged to, no matter how Daenerys tried to persuade him otherwise. Ice and snow flowed through his veins, and the Wall called to him every time, overcoming the siren's song that was Dany's sweet pleas to stay.
She truly was beautiful, this siren of his, he mused as he lay quietly as to not disturb her, watching her sleep. He let his eyes linger over her with silent appreciation, drinking in the familiar but still awe-inspiring sight of her form. Her face was serene in sleep, undisturbed, mostly free now from the nightmares that haunted her when he began sharing her bed years before. She truly did take his breath away every time he saw her, and that had not changed in the twelve years of their acquaintance.
She enchanted him in ways Ygritte and Val could have never hoped to accomplish, and no woman had since. Daenerys Targaryen was like the living embodiment of a flame and Jon Snow was the hapless moth helplessly drawn to her light.
He could still remember the first time he saw her, descending with her draconic children over the Wall, taking on the White Walkers in a storm of fire and smoke. She was power, grace and beauty personified, ethereal with her hair falling like liquid silver, her skin pale as snow and her eyes the color of amethyst stones.
He had immediately fallen to his knees and Ghost had sat silently at his side, shocking Jon when the direwolf allowed a slender ivory hand to stroke his head. Jon watched, slack-jawed, as the wolf leaned into the mysterious woman's caresses, and was startled again when warm fingers tipped up his chin, bringing his eyes to hers. Lilac eyes shone with amusement, her rosebud lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile.
"The Wall is yours, Your Grace," Jon rasped out, swallowing against the lump in his throat, voice rough with unspoken emotions he couldn't decipher.
Her smile only grew and her hand moved to cup his scruffy cheek. "And you, Jon Snow, are now mine."
It was a startling, presumptuous statement, but not one Jon could bring himself to refute, especially when it took Daenerys less than a week to coax him into her bed.
Daenerys was a born queen, regal and charismatic, and she showed it from the moment she sat upon the Iron Throne, the Imp wearing the ring of the Hand and Barristan Selmy once more cloaked in white. Jon had responded to her summons to swear his fealty as Lord Commander of the Wall. That night, at the great feast held, he watched her be courted and flattered, laughing at Tyrion's jokes and dancing with lords and ladies alike. Later, he served the queen in different ways, as a man and not soldier, rutting atop the golden and crimson tapestries Dany took great pleasure in tearing from the walls of her chambers.
Among the public, there were some whispers vilifying Daenerys for her independent image, the pure femininity and power of her, for Dany was no subservient, would look at no man as master ever again after what her bastard of a brother had put her through. To appease the masses, she looked to marry. It had taken all of Jon's willpower to deny Dany's request to stay, to be at her side. Robb had declared him a Stark before his death, a noble name and legitimacy to allow him to be Dany's consort, but Jon hesitated.
He knew what she was offering him, to be her compliment, her partner and mate. But Ned Stark's teachings of duty echoed through him and the Wall was where he returned. He would receive a raven weeks later declaring her marriage to one of the Tyrells, a gentle, soft-spoken man who would help secure the family's loyalty, now headed by the sensible Willas.
It was followed a few months later by another raven declaring the birth of Prince Aemon Targaryen, detailed in the family histories as a strong, hearty babe, violet-eyed and black of hair.
Making love with Dany was like being enveloped by fire, as he lay back and let his queen take her pleasure from him. He let himself be ridden, wanted to be ridden, taken, giving everything he was to her as she overtook him in a fever for which there was no cure. Outside the bedroom was the obedience and loyalty of the Lord Commander. Here in her bed was the submission, the compliance of Jon the man, letting her take control of his pleasure, his touch and his sensation.
Dany gave as much as she took, a partnership that Jon's choice would never allow them to establish outside of these moments. Their rhythm, their simultaneous give and take, rising and falling until they could take nothing more.
Lying together in the aftermath of their lovemaking, bordering on the brink of sleep and consciousness, Dany pressed a kiss to his chest, tracing a furrowed scar she found there. "I was thinking I want a daughter," she softly declared.
Jon hummed thoughtfully, stroking her long platinum hair. "Something to discuss with your husband, I think."
Dany lifted her head from his shoulder to give him the look Jon had always interpreted as saying, silly man, you're a fool if you think you won't do as I ask . Jon sighed, leaning down to kiss her in silent acquiesce.
A few years later, when Bran and Meera Stark came south to present their new son, Eddard, to the queen, their daughter Catelyn found a playmate in little Princess Rhaella. If Catelyn had more North in her than her father, and that same northern blood showed in her new friend, there wasn't a soul who would dare to openly say so.
Jon was shaken from his thoughts as Dany began to stir under his watchful gaze, eyes fluttering open to meet his with a soft, open look to their lilac irises. She languidly stretched, blankets falling away and baring her torso to Jon's appreciative stare.
Daenerys took gratification in the hunger and appreciation that filled his eyes despite the fullness to her curves the years had seen added on, the silver, spidery lines against her skin from where her body had grown to accommodate each of her children. With a wistful smile, she thought of earlier that afternoon, when the court had seen eleven-year-old Aemon off to be fostered at Sunspear.
She remembered her son at the docks, tall and lean, long of face and limb, his raven hair offsetting pale skin certain to burn under the Dornish sun. She had promised her firstborn to a Martell years before to secure Dorne's support, and it was to Arianne's daughter that Aemon would one day marry. Rhaella, soft-hearted and close to her brother despite being his junior by five years, had been in tears as they watched the ship sail away and Daenerys had spent most of the day consoling her.
While he would never admit it, it was Aemon's departure that had brought Jon to King's Landing, not to discuss sending supplies northward as he would maintain. The thought brought her back to the present, as Jon skimmed his hand up from her hip to cup a breast, lowering his mouth to the other.
Dany stroked his dark hair as he circled his tongue around the areole, eliciting from her a breathy, laughing moan. "Looking for a meal, my lord commander? I'm afraid Visenya's already had what there was for the taking."
Jon chuckled against her skin, pressing another kiss to the puckered nipple, and remembered with a bittersweet smile the babe that had been nestled against her breast a candlemark before, pure Targaryen with wide violet eyes and soft silver hair. She was the first of Daenerys' children he had met still on the teat, still under a year old, and it was a strange, poignant experience to watch the feeding. "I'm a bit old for milk, Your Grace. But I admit I've only whet my hunger for other appetites."
Daenerys' eyes darkened with interest as Jon moved over her, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck. "Far be it for me to neglect my hungry love."
"Dany," he whispered against her lips before capturing them with his own, Dany wrapping around him, soft and warm, as they became lost in each other once again.
Though the Wall would always call him home, Dany's fire melted the ice in his blood and left him victim to a sweet, slow burn, if only for a short time, until he disappeared again into the snows of the North.
literary devices of the insane mind
...the cuddly kind of lunatic...
- A Moth To A Flame (1/1)