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Jon caught her before she could disappear into her room. His hands hit the wood and slammed the half-open door shut, caging her within his arms. She wanted to escape. She wanted to stay there forever. For many seconds they stood like that, her smaller form enveloped by his body, yet no part of them touched. The only sound was their breaths, his coming hard and painful, hers intermingled with near silent sobs. Daenerys could sense his uncertainty, could see the slight trembling in his fingers as they dug into the wood.
She closed her eyes, tears falling. This wasn’t right; this wasn’t how it was supposed to be! She felt the need to turn, to embrace him, to hold him tightly and never let go. Nothing was ever supposed to come between them. She’d wanted him since she was eight years old; he’d been hers, she his. Through years apart, through torment after torment, only he’d ever understood her perfectly. Only he’d ever stopped the loneliness inside her. They’d always been together, even when they’d only been shadows formed from letters.
But those terrible words kept echoing in her mind.
“Dany, please,” he said, voice rough, uncertain, bordering on desperate. “Please, I don’t—why? I—I know it’s hard to—” he broke off, swallowing hard. Taking a fortifying breath, he stepped closer, carefully, hesitantly.
He hadn’t been hesitant with her since they’d returned. But now his confidence was gone again, taken by uncertainty, by confusion. “It doesn’t change anything. I—I don’t want—"
He pressed himself against her back, his body molding to hers, seeking comfort, reassurance. She sought the same, she wanted to turn, to grab him, and not care about anything else. Future be damned.
But that echo wouldn’t stop. The memories sized her, and she almost couldn’t breathe. How could she let that happen again? It wasn’t fair; not to him, not to her. Because despite his assertions, Daenerys Targaryen knew Jon Snow; she knew what he wanted more than anything.
But she couldn’t give it to him.
So she remained tense, cold; she didn’t soften against him. A clean break; that was the solution.
Part of her was shrieking. She wanted to turn around, to explain, to reason with him! He would understand, they could part as—as something!
But she knew him; he would argue, he would be stubborn, he wouldn’t ever stop trying to persuade her. And eventually, she would give in.
He would sacrifice what he wanted for her, her foolish love. She couldn’t be that selfish!
“It changes everything,” she made herself say, voice cold, distant. She let disgust bleed into her tone. “Let me go.”
His flinch was echoed in her soul. Her heart screamed. She remained cold.
His arms slackened, and he began to retreat. She’d known what her tone would do to him; Jon Snow was vulnerable to her in a way he’d never been vulnerable to another, and it tore at her to use it against him. She could almost feel the old pain that her rejection awoke within him.
Yes. Go. Please.
But he didn’t. Instead, his arms tensed, and he pressed himself closer. The hesitancy was gone from his voice, replaced by something new; a steely resolve; a wolf on the hunt. His lips pressed against her ear, and his voice was one she’d never heard before: a man spoke through her love's lips.
“Never.”
Her heart nearly stopped.
“I have loved you since I was nine years old. Across continents, and deaths, and enemy plots. If you think I don’t know you well enough to see through this act, Daenerys Stormborn, then you don’t know me at all,” his gritted out. “Games, schemes, lies—those are not a part of us. Honesty—now and always.”
Daenerys wanted to slap him.
Nearly as much as she wanted to kiss him.