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Hysteriatum
If anyone deserved a bit of arse-kissing, it was Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Not only had she overthrown the cruel and useless Cersei Lannister, but she had funded the Night’s Watch as no monarch had before her since Queen Alysanne. The brotherhood was flooded with stonemasons, apprentices, farm boys and even several Free folk. Hammers rang and workers cursed as they repaired and rebuilt Castle Black. Now almost every castle save the Nightfort had some sort of garrison. The air of his chambers smelled of the light, resinous scent of fresh timber, fresh quarried stone gleamed in the firelight.
There were worse things to complain about, Jon consoled himself. Queen Daenerys and her retinue were concluding their progress of her realm at Castle Black. The compound buzzed with activity. Horns blew announcing their approach. Jon had stood on the rampart and saw the black and crimson three-headed dragon flying himself. The queen’s dragons were busy hunting and Jon relished the thought of seeing living dragons on wing.
Satin Flowers helped him don his Lord’s Commander’s cloak. Inky black wool lined and collared with silken black ermine. Silver fastenings crowned with lozenges of onyx. A beautiful thing, a gift sent to him by the queen herself.
“What do you think she’ll be like, ser?” Satin asked. Jon scrutinized his appearance in the tin shaving mirror. The beard was acceptably neat. His hair was a bit long, hanging to collarbone length, the strands tied back from his face with a leather thong. Too late for Satin to trim it. Nothing to do about the scars. Despite himself, nerves leapt in his belly. It wasn’t often bastards met with queens.
“From all accounts, Queen Daenerys is a kind woman.”
“But what about the eunuchs she has in her service? And Dothraki barbarians? Isn’t the Imp her Hand?”
Jon gave him a hard look over his shoulder. The younger man had the grace to blush.
“You best not say that name in his hearing. Tyrion is a good man, despite his family,” Jon said, remembering their journey north from Winterfell.
“As to the rest, they shed blood to free Westeros. That is good enough for me,” he said.
Flurries of snow danced in the wind as they descended the stairs to the bailey. To a man, they all knelt as Queen Daenerys dismounted from her silver horse. His first thought was she defied his expectations. She was smaller than he thought she would be. The crown of her head would only reach his chin. Instead of mincing out of a carriage in velvets and satin, she swung off her horse in riding leathers and windblown silver braids, flanked by armored knights and fur-clad riders with swinging braids. Thick, mobile brows, the famed purple eyes of Targaryens, full lips parted in a genuine smile. The apples of her cheeks were rosy with cold. With an irritated huff, Jon realized his mouth was hanging open. He found his voice and his composure, rising at her gesture.
“Welcome to Castle Black, Your Grace. The Wall is yours,” Jon said.
“Thank you, Lord Commander. Castle Black is a welcome sight after such a long ride,” Daenerys said, greeting the First Ranger Benjen, First Steward Bowen, and First Builder Othell. Maester Aemon was there too, supported by two aides in his best black robes, his chain swinging around his neck. Cottony wisps of hair peeking from his snug woolen cap fluttered in the wind. Jon was struck by how very frail he looked. Queen Daenerys greeted him warmly in Valyrian, peeling off her gloves to clasp his gnarled hands between hers.
“Niece! Oh, you do a blind old man great honor.”
“I thought I was the last Targaryen in the world. I’m so happy to see you, Uncle.” Her voice broke with emotion. Jon averted his gaze from the tender reunion, but not before he glimpsed Maester Aemon smooth his dry, weathered hands over Daenerys’ face to drink in her shape as his eyes could not. Daenerys kissed Maester Aemon’s hands and bade him to seek warmth within, they would talk more later.
The line of her gaze rose over the castle to the breadth of the Wall, blue and white above them. The awe in her gaze filled him with obscure pride. Others of her retinue gathered around, exchanging greetings and marveling at the castle and the Wall.
“Come within, we’ve prepared a fine meal. Perhaps not like the feasts of King’s Landing, but hearty fare,” Jon said.
“Any respite is appreciated. Hard riding is hungry work,” Queen Daenerys said.
After Daenerys and her retinue had time to refresh themselves, the group gathered in the newly refurbished great hall. Bowen Marsh and his stewards had lavished particular care on the meal. Roast pig basted with butter and herbs, strips of venison, fried eggs, brown bread, mushrooms, onion soup and apple tarts for dessert. The meal passed pleasantly, which surprised Jon. Seated at the queen’s left side during dinner at the high table, Jon found she was an active listener and eager to learn the intricacies of the Night’s Watch.
“Would you like to see the top of the Wall, Your Grace? The lift makes it a simple matter,” Jon said, sipping his ale. Interest lit those strange twilight eyes, an easy smile stretching her full lips.
“I would, Lord Commander. I have need of a space to take care of some correspondence first, but then I would love to! The haunted forest is a sight to behold, I’m told.”
“My solar has what you would need, and my steward can fetch ravens for you,” Jon said.
The thought of her seeing his solar and his rooms filled him with a strange excitement. Little wonder, that. The hired workers outside the order came north with their families, so women and children were not as an unusual sight as before, but still. It wasn’t often a gorgeous woman of an age of himself appeared on his doorstep. A sparkling in his attention, a pull in his gut said he was attracted to her. Awed by her beauty, curious about her workings of her mind and how they would affect the Night’s Watch.
“We passed through Winterfell on our way here. There are parcels and letters for you. From Lord and Lady Stark,” she said.
“It’s not often a queen plays courier for you,” Jon said drily. Daenerys gave a polite laugh.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I hope my cousins did not pester you too much,” he said in a lower voice. Daenerys covered his hand with her own in a brief squeeze. Perhaps it was the ale, but Jon felt a tingling where she touched.
“They were most kind. Your cousin Arya demanded an update from you or Uncle Benjen on the direwolf pups,” she said. Jon released a beleaguered sigh.
“Gods. Uncle Benjen mentioned seeing a pregnant direwolf bitch while ranging north of the Wall. Now Arya has it in her head to adopt a direwolf pup.”
“Sheep of the North, beware!” Daenerys said. Jon’s laugh sounded rusty.
The feast was winding down, tacksmen and serving staff flitting in and out, eager to find a warm bed after a long, cold ride. Jon rose from his chair and swept on the warm, heavy weight of his cloak. It rested on his tongue to thank her for such a princely gift, but the words tasted foolish.
“Indeed. Come, let me show you my solar,” Jon said. Her guards and handmaidens fell in step behind them. A couple cursed as the frigid wind blasted them in the covered causeway lined with torches. Night had fallen. Even in summer, night fell suddenly here. The queen herself bravely firmed her lips to keep them from trembling.
“It takes some getting used to,” Jon said. At the door of the Lord Commander’s tower, Daenerys faced her retinue.
“Seek your beds, my friends. All I have ahead of me is parchment and raven scrolls. We shall have to wait until dawn to take up Lord Commander Snow’s kind offer,” she said. All but two of the guards thanked the queen and hurried to find their quarters in the King’s Tower. The guards—freed eunuch soldiers called Unsullied—seemed unbothered by the weather and took their post outside the Lord Commander’s tower.
Satin had banked the fire and the brazier, which lit the solar in a dull orange glow. Jon moved to the desk and found the striker to light the taper.
“Gods, how do you deal with the cold? It’s freezing in here!” Daenerys said.
“Thin southron blood,” Jon said, squatting to coax the fire to a merry golden blaze. Daenerys worked the bellows over the brazier until the bed of coals glowed a cherry red. The air soon felt much warmer.
Jon plucked his accounting book from the desk and sat on a three-legged stool. He and Queen Daenerys passed a comfortable half hour with only the murmur of the fire and the scratch of quills to fill the silence. Daenerys moved her lips as she read, a trait Jon found incredibly charming. The queen was like a rare bird that landed on his windowsill, filling his drab little room with color. When she rode south, Castle Black would be a dimmer, duller place.
“That’s strange. I didn’t see this here before,” Daenerys said. Jon looked up from the line of accounts he was balancing to find the queen holding a square box lacquered to a shiny black finish. As smooth and black as a venomous spider. She cracked open the case. A thick cloud of reddish vapor filled the air. Jon choked, coughed. The smell was like pepper and something sour and oily. His nostrils burned, his lungs heaved. Eyes streaming, Jon staggered blindly for the window, throwing it open. The taper was out, the firelight too dim to make out her face. Through the dim red fog, he saw the queen slumped, hacking and gasping.
“Yo—Your Grace? Are you all right?” Jon asked.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” she said, her voice a dry croak. Each breath burned. Jon hammered on the door.
“Fetch the maester! The queen needs assistance!” he bellowed. Jon threw open the door to clear the last of the evil vapor. Cold, clean air smelling of snow and woodsmoke poured in. Outside, he heard the din of the alarm the guards raised. Booted feet and indistinct shouting. Heart in his throat, Jon closed the door again. Whatever contagion was in the case, he couldn’t risk tainting anyone else. By the time he turned back, Daenerys relit the candle. Jon braced his hands on her shoulders, peering at her face. He imagined they looked much the same, flushed, wide-eyed, mopping their streaming eyes.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked gently. Through her fur coat, her shoulders were warm and solid under his hands. An urge whispered to tangle his fingers in that silky silver hair at her nape, drag her close and . . . Jon stepped back, alarmed by the sudden surge of lust. The queen shivered.
“I’m fine. Is there water? I want to wash,” she said.
“It’s cold,” Jon said, already moving to the sideboard to pour water from the ewer.
“Not surprising in this ice castle,” she teased with a wobbly hint of a smile. The string of curses that left her lips when she splashed water on her face and hands would have made an Ibbenese sailor blush. Despite his worry, Jon felt a flicker of amusement. Once she had washed, Jon tossed the water from the window and performed his own ablutions. The burning and stinging had subsided, though the tender tissues of his mouth and nose felt raw. Jon poured watered wine and handed Daenerys a horn cup. She sipped gratefully. Jon was transfixed by the way her throat flexed as she swallowed, the soft pink curve of her lower lip. A pounding knock startled him.
“Niece, are you well? What happened?” Maester Aemon’s voice was sharp with worry. Jon slid open the view slit in his door and stepped aside.
“I’m fine, Uncle. There was a black lacquered case amongst my correspondence. I opened it and this horrid vapor poured out. Do you think it’s poison?” The sharp edge of fear made Jon’s own anxiety flare. Gods, the queen poisoned under his watch? Disastrous if she fell ill. Potentially apocalyptic if she died.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t heard of any vaporized poisons. How do you feel?” he asked.
“Flushed. Itchy. Scared,” she said with a wary glance at Jon. White teeth worried that full pink lower lip. His cock lengthened in his trousers, imaging what those lips could do. Horrified, Jon clenched his fists and took a step back.
“Was anyone else effected?” Maester Aemon asked.
“Lord Commander Snow was in the room with me. He also inhaled the vapor.”
“Hmm. No one else has complained of illness. For now, to contain any contagion, I suggest you and Lord Snow sequester in his rooms. I will have young Samwell assist in searching the library.”
“Thank you, Uncle. Consult with Tyrion. He is quite well-read. Perhaps he could help,” Daenerys said. Maester Aemon pressed his gnarled hand flat against the door.
“I will. Courage, Niece. I will discover what to do.” Jon saw Daenerys’ lower lip quiver and pressed her hand match Maester Aemon’s through the door.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with tears. Jon gently brushed her shoulder with his, intending a subtle, comforting reassurance. Touching her in any other capacity was out of the question, given the disconcerting surges of lust in her presence. Was it bubbling up from within, or did the vapor have something to do with it?
Maester Aemon’s aides helped him to his wheeled chair to usher him quickly to the library.
“Satin? Are you out there?” Jon said.
“Here, my lord.”
“Fetch the barrel tub and hot water. The queen would like to bathe. Send one of her women with clean clothes and bathing things. Leave them at the door and I will attend to it,” Jon said.
“Thank you, Lord Snow,” Daenerys said. Even the sting of Alister Thorne’s old jab sounded sweet on the queen’s lips. He gave a grave nod in reply.
The burning in his nose and throat had subsided by the time Satin and Daenerys’ maid Missandei returned with what he asked for. Instead, there was a diffuse itching on his skin, as if wearing hair shirt and trousers. Mild enough, but irritating. A man cannot die from itching. Perhaps whatever her enemies intended had failed. A kindling ember of hope flared in his gut. Poor Missandei had been distraught at the news, tearful. Daenerys whispered reassurances through the door. Though there were disastrous implications for the Night’s Watch and Westeros as a whole if Queen Daenerys fell, Jon also worried for Daenerys herself. Not only was she a kind and lovely woman, but her people genuinely loved her. A person that commanded such loyalty was worth following.
Jon heaved the barrel tub into the center of the solar. In deference to the queen’s thin southron blood, he stoked the fire and brazier high and was thus sweating beneath his jerkin.
“There,” he said, with an approximation of a courtly gesture, “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a bath.”
Those violet eyes seemed to swallow her face; her worry clear on her features. To her credit, she didn’t blather or weep for which Jon was thankful—he wasn’t sure how to handle tears.
“Thank you.”
“I shall be in my rooms with the door barred. Knock when you’re finished.”
The Lord Commander’s suite of rooms was blessedly cool and dark. After barring the door, Jon peeled off his sweaty clothes and lay naked on his made bed. He closed his eyes, seeking a calm, empty space within his mind. Gods, it had been a courtly gesture, to offer the hospitality of a bath to his guest. He hadn’t meant to picture her gleaming and naked, flushed with heat, pulling him toward her . . .
Jon’s hands moved over his face. His skin felt strange. Sensitized. The rasp of his beard made the pads of his fingertips tingle. His lips felt swollen. Jon’s breathing quickened. The itching sensation was there, but also a deep and powerful lust unfurled in his belly. An ache, a hunger. His cock throbbed against his belly, his stones heavy. Jon’s scowl deepened, struggling to keep his mind blank. Don’t think of Daenerys. Don’t think of her. Don’t . . . the thoughts were as gossamer as spider’s silk, torn by a breath of wind. Daenerys’ colors filled his mind. Rosy cheeks, smooth pale skin, glossy silver hair, long lashed violet eyes. The hint of her shape beneath her furs. The plump curve of her lower lip, that faint scent of rose oil teasing his nose.
Jon bit his lip hard enough to taste blood to contain a moan. His hand moved over his sweat-damp throat, down his chest. His nipples were tightly furled, though he didn’t feel cold. Jon brushed one, his breathing quickening at the pleasurable sensation. He tugged and pinched first one nipple, then the other with one hand, his other hand pumping his cock. Gods, had he ever been so hard? Pleasure made him suck in a breath through his teeth.
With a wordless apology, he sank into a fantasy of bedding Daenerys. Imagining the noises she would make, that maddening scent, the hot clutch of her cunt. Fluid leaked from the slit, lubricating his cock as he pumped. Jon panted, trying to be as stealthy and quiet as possible. A quick release and he could face her without making a fool of himself. Jon strove for the promise of release, pumping faster and faster. Almost . . . almost . . . It shimmered just out of reach.
Jon cursed, flopping back on the bed, slick with sweat. The itching sensation intensified. Thwarted pleasure and unfulfilled lust made him writhe in his discomfort. The vapor. Whatever was in it had roused a powerful lust. Was Daenerys likewise affected? His reddened cock jumped at the thought. Perhaps she fared better after bathing. Unable to bear waiting to use the tepid water in the barrel tub once Daenerys was finished, Jon stalked to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face and chest. With a bar of soap, he scrubbed his hair and skin raw before rinsing with a cloth. The erection remained, indefatigable. With a harsh sigh, Jon dressed in fresh pair trousers and a jerkin—black of course. As he tied the closure of his jerkin up to his chin, he heard the knock.
“Coming,” Jon said, steeling himself for the sight that met his eyes. A good thing he did, for Daenerys possessed a loveliness that would melt the coldest heart. Her hair in sleek blond ropes around her face, skin flushed from the bath, she looked smaller somehow in woolen sleeping clothes. Those violet eyes widened.
“Did you wash in cold water, my lord?” she asked.
“I did,” Jon said.
Conversation stalled when a knock at the door saved them. Beyond the view slit, Jon saw Maester Aemon’s aide Samwell and Tyrion Lannister bundled against the bite of the wind.
“Lord Hand! Do you have news?” Daenerys said.
“Perhaps, Your Grace. First, how do you feel?”
“I feel fine. There is an itching sensation and . . .” her gaze flicked to Jon and color flooded her cheeks. Jon felt an answering heat color his cheeks. The lust was mutual, apparently.
“And?” Tyrion prompted.
“A . . . a ah, lustful sensation,” she whispered.
“Ah,” Tyrion said delicately, rubbing the back of his neck, “it is what we feared then.”
“What?” Jon and Daenerys said at once.
“In our research, Maester Aemon found a substance called Hysteriatum. It was used among political rivals in Essos after the fall of Valyria. Described as ‘a red vapor, with a foul taste and a burning sensation.’” Leaden silence followed Tyrion’s words.
“What--” Daenerys said hoarsely, then coughed and started again, “What will happen to me? Is it . . .”
“No! Gods no, Your Grace, by what we’ve read, it’s not fatal. The intent seems to be more insidious than assassination.”
“What purpose does it serve?” Jon asked. Tyrion’s mismatched eyes pierced Jon’s own in a sharp stare.
“It is said to incite a lust akin to madness,” Samwell Tarly said.
“I believe the intent was for Your Grace to open the case during the feast, and effect the good men of the Night’s Watch. The intent was to overwhelm the queen’s guards,” Tyrion said.
“Raped to death? That’s a new one,” Daenerys said in a flat, dead tone. Jon’s heart twisted in his chest. As heir to the Iron Throne, and the last Targaryen, Jon had an abstract knowledge that assassins would seek to attack her. To hear her so unsurprised that her enemies would attempt again filled him with a towering rage.
“How long does it last?” Jon asked. Tyrion’s mouth twisted into a frown.
“It’s difficult to say.”
“Can we pass the madness on to anyone else?” she asked.
“It is unclear,” Samwell said. Daenerys heaved a harsh sigh.
“We will endure it,” Daenerys said, and Jon heard the dragonsteel that lived in her.
An awkward silence fell.
“Shall I summon your guards, Your Grace?” Tyrion said, with a half-apologetic glance at Jon. For his part, he took no offense. The purpose of this poison was to incite men to a rapine madness.
Daenerys faced Jon square. Unconsciously, he straightened his posture. Once, he might have hated her for peering at him, comparing him to some unseen and unknowable measure. Bastards were lustful and avaricious by nature, they said. Now, he understood part of the violence that had chased her since she was in the cradle.
“I am a man of honor, though bastard-born. Your virtue is safe with me, I swear it,” he said.
“I believe you,” she said. Standing on tiptoe to meet Tyrion’s eye, she said: “Lord Commander Snow and I shall wait out this storm. If the strain becomes too much, I can sequester in his rooms until it passes.”
“Very well.”
The conversation with Tyrion had been distraction enough for Jon to forget his bodily ills. When they were left alone again, the itch returned with greater intensity. Jon rolled his shoulders to adjust his shirt and scratch his back. Too restless to sit, Jon paced back and forth across the solar in attempt to distract himself. Daenerys gave a half-hearted laugh of sympathy, gracefully sitting on the stool by the fire.
“The itch is maddening, isn’t it?” she said.
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
“I think being cursed together means we may set aside formality. Wouldn’t you say, Jon?” Daenerys said.
“As you wish, Your Grace. I mean, Daenerys.”
The smile she gifted him with was full of sweetness and his heartbeat quickened. Tension sang through his muscles, his hard cock pressing painfully against the seam of his trousers. Gods, would the chafe of his clothes become unbearable as the night wore on? Those lovely twilight eyes took him in. The quick glance down and away made shame twist in his gut.
“I meant what I said, You—Daenerys. If you wish to go into my room and bar the door, do so. I would rather sit out the night in an ice cell than make you fear I will violate you.”
Daenerys rose and closed the distance between them. Some invisible string behind his navel drew tighter as she drew closer. An almost pleasant tension. Even though there was plenty of space between them, the ghost of her heat and her scent rose up in delicious tendrils. Rose oil and a hint of womanly musk. His mouth filled with water.
“Even though I don’t know you well, I believe you.”
“We may remedy that,” Jon said, “we have time to spare.” The corners of Daenerys’ eyes crinkled.
“I would like that,” she said.
Jon poured more watered wine and sawed off hunks of brown bread and wedges of white cheese. Talk meandered about the repairs on the Wall, how Jon rose through the ranks with the previous Lord Commander Jeor Mormont while they scoured the haunted forest to find and rescue his Uncle Benjen from free folk. The skirmishes with the free folk led by Mance Rayder. Daenerys described the sorry state Cersei Lannister had left the capital. Most of her life seemed to be something from a song. Waking dragons from stone, wedding a Dothraki khal, freeing slaves and battling slavers. Talk flowed easily, though spasms of pain ricocheted between the two of them. By the time Jon looked up, they had burned through three dark rings on the hour candle.
“I think it was the slavers who sent this. They loathe the very air in my lungs,” she said.
“I am surprised your sons left them a spit of uncharred land to live on,” Jon said. Daenerys grinned.
“Yes, they are protective of me. I’m sure you will meet them once they return from their hunt.”
“I would--”
A spasm twisted through his gut, worse than before. The ache rising and growing, a ceaseless chattering noise of want, want, want. His skin felt tight, shrunken. Jon clenched his eyes tight shut, hoping she wouldn’t recoil in fear. The ordeal was easier with company. And hers was an easy and enjoyable company. When the spasm passed, he was half-curled on the rushes.
“Jon, are you all right?” Daenerys asked, hands fluttering near him like anxious white birds, unsure of where to land. At last, they did land, her fingertips brushing his sweat-damp forehead with a feather light touch, brushing aside his black curls. There was a tremor in her touch, a hitch in her breathing. She was no less effected than he. Jon drank her in. The halo of her now-dry silver hair, how wide and dark her pupils were, those moist pink lips, the drape of her woolen shirt over her breasts. Her nipples jutted against the fabric. He wondered if the inner seam of her sleeping trousers was damp . . .
“I’m fine. Hurts some.”
“Yes. Gods, it feels like my skin is on fire,” she whispered. Jon straightened and sat back on the stool, brushing off clinging bits of straw. Daenerys scooted the chair closer until their knees brushed.
“A shame we couldn’t take care of matters ourselves,” Jon said wryly.
“Indeed. There was no relief,” she agreed.
Jon’s mind stumbled and fell into the delicious images of Daenerys with her hand between her legs, seeking to soothe the awful ache. His cock throbbed, his balls ached. Longing twisted in his chest, his belly. He gritted his teeth to contain a cry. Or worse, begging her to ease him. An idea struck him. perhaps he could ease her. There was no reason for her to suffer.
“Daenerys, I want you to know I’m not trying to wheedle for more than you want, or take advantage, or anything else, but . . . but . . .” Jon forced his jaw shut around any more babbling words. Heat flooded his cheeks. Idiot! He sounded like a blathering idiot. Daenerys’ face was set in an expression somewhere between amusement and confusion.
“Speak plainly, Jon.”
“I want to touch you.” The words emerged almost guttural with the force of his longing.
“Just touching, I swear. Just to see if it can ease this horrible feeling.”
A spasm passed through Daenerys face. Curling into herself, arms crossed over her abdomen. When it passed, tears eked from the corners of her eyes.
“I want that too. But . . . what of your vow? Are the men of the Night’s Watch not sworn to celibacy?”
“The words of our vow are ‘take no wife, father no child.’ If the Night’s Watch executed every man who snuck off to a brothel, only ghosts would guard the Wall.”
Jon himself had considered such an action dishonorable, but circumstances challenged his honor. Until Daenerys, he had never been tempted to break his vows.
“Very well. But not in the bedroom. I fear it may go too far,” Daenerys said.
“Of course.” Anything you want, anywhere you want, I will follow you forever, anything you want, just let me touch you, just let me touch you—the thoughts flooded his mind. Jon couldn’t think beyond its yammering. Unsure of where to start, Jon stood awkwardly. Daenerys helped him by standing on tiptoe to seek a kiss. The touch of her lips against his was softer than he expected. A spark seemed to jump between them, then relief. The itching and aching vanished, leaving only pleasure. The absence of that sensation was so euphoric that Jon felt he could float up into the sky. Dany’s little moan said she was no less effected. Jon sank into the kiss, marveling at the dance of breath and lips and tongue. The secret wet tangle of tongues, the lingering taste of wine in the corners of her mouth. He chased it, was intoxicated by it. No, it was Daenerys he was intoxicated by. That rich musky smell was stronger. Jon cupped the back of her head, fingers at last sank into the sleek warm fall of her hair. His heartbeat thudded loud and fast in his ears.
Her hands moved over his body over his clothes. Jon almost cried out when her fingers teased his nipples through his jerkin. Instead, he returned the favor, cupping the soft weight of her breast. Dany’s hand guided him, plucking and pinching at her nipple. First one, then the other. Her moan vibrated against his lips and though he was loathe to give up the delights of the kiss, he wanted to taste more of her. He kissed along her jaw, her throat. Gods, he loved her smooth white skin, the texture of her body hair, downy against his lips. Dany’s hands clutched at his back, his arse, grinding his clothed cock against her belly. Jon hissed at the wonderful sensation. Yes, yes, he wanted to rut against her, chase a rhythm. He fought the urge, resting his hand at the drawstring of her trousers.
“May I . . .” he rasped. Daenerys loosed the knot, guided his hand to where she wanted him. Jon was thankful for the guidance. A man of the Night’s Watch since he was six-and-ten, he had never touched a woman before. He petted the puff of coarse pubic hair, the skin so incredibly soft between her thighs. His callused fingers seemed big and brutish among the delicate flower folds of her sex. Daenerys’ neat fingernails bit into his forearm, guiding him. A string of half-coherent liquid words fell from her lips. Valyrian, he guessed. He could feel his heartbeat in his cock, hot and throbbing. Dany guided him to parting her folds, finding plush flesh and a sleek wetness. So hot. So wet.
“Mmmm,” it emerged almost a growl. A swollen little nub of flesh at the apex of her sex made her suck in a gasp.
“Yes, Jon. There. Touch me there,” she gasped, her breath blooming soft and warm against the side of his neck. She worried a muscle there with a delicate rasp of teeth. Jon rubbed the little nub, back and forth, back and forth. In a handful of heartbeats, Daenerys arched into his arms with a stifled scream, her knees giving way. Release. Fuck! Men complained how long it took to rouse a woman, if she did so at all. The vapor had roused her hunger. Jon held her tight against his chest. More, more, more. He wanted more. He twisted her in his grip so her back was pressed to his front and delved between her thighs again. He sank one finger into the slick well of her cunt, the flesh hot and clinging. His thumb worried her nub back and forth. Daenerys thrashed and shuddered in his arms.
“Yes! Yes, Jon! Please! Please, don’t stop!” she wept, hips thrusting up into his grip. The second release was more powerful, he felt the sticky juices trickling down his fingers, the flutter of inner muscle. Gods, how would that feel on his cock? He felt close to release himself just with his finger inside her. Jon kissed the curve of her neck, slowing his strokes as the spasm passed. Regretfully, Jon removed his hand. The musky sweetness filled his nose, his fingers gleaming in the low light. He sucked his fingers, tasting the richness of her. A bottomless hunger opened inside him. Gods, he wanted to taste her. Lick that sweet little cunt until she fell apart. Daenerys watched him, her violet eyes blown black with lust.
“Your turn,” she said, reaching for the ties of his trousers. Jon groaned as his cock sprang free of his trousers, flushed so deep a red it was almost purple. Fluid gleamed on the head, leaking in the cooler air. Daenerys’ hand closed around his shaft and he bit down on a scream. She pumped him in a loose fist, slicking him with the fluid leaking from the slit. Pleasure pounded in his ears. Gods, it was too much. Too good, too much. Pressed forehead to forehead, Jon watched in fascination as she stroked him, the strokes tight and perfect. Jon groaned and cursed with each breath, fucking into her sinfully wonderful clasp. A warning tingle began at the base of his spine, in his balls.
“D—Dany! I’m . . . I’m coming!” he warned her. The pleasure crested. He threw back his head, mindless in the throes of release. Her warm voice murmured sweet nothings to him, praising him through the last sweet dregs. Jon leaned against her, raining little kisses on her face. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“You’re very welcome,” she said with a sunny smile. Dimly, he realized he had said his thanks out loud. He was too tired to feel embarrassment about it. Daenerys removed her hand and Jon was aware of an unpleasant stickiness. He was shocked how much of his seed there was. On her hand, on his trousers, his belly. Jon cleaned himself and tied his trousers. Daenerys sank boneless into the chair, panting. As the spell was broken, their eyes met in matching horror. The horrid itch, the skin-shrunken tightness, the cramping agony of lust was still there.
Daenerys buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Jon bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, tempted to join her. It had been hours since their exposure to the vapor. How long would it last? His cock, even after the best release of his life, was still hard and red. Sweat broke on his brow, his skin feverish hot and sticky with the leavings of sex. Jon knelt before her, clasping her hands between his.
“Dany, we’ll be all right. We will get through this.” As she fell into his arms, he hoped it was true.
Exhaustion won out as the tears ebbed. How could he blame her? Surely she had ridden since dawn, then the feast, and the madness with vapor. Now the hour was sometime in the small hours of the night, perhaps the hour of the wolf. Daenerys sagged in his arms. Jon scooped her up, carrying her into his bedroom. The room was cold, and she scurried under the blankets and furs. Jon stoked the brazier in this room, coaxing the coals into a dull red glow.
“Rest, Dany. I’ll be just beyond the door,” Jon whispered. Skin blotchy and eyes reddened from fatigue and weeping, Daenerys grasped his wrist as he moved to rise.
“Where will you sleep?” she asked. Jon gestured to the floor beyond the door. His cloak and the rushes were cushion enough. With the fire, he would be quite cozy.
“No! It’s freezing out there, Jon! At least sleep in here by the brazier.”
Jon cupped her cheek with one hand.
“I don’t trust myself not to climb into bed with you, Dany. You tempt me sorely.” Some of the black hunger coated his tone. Daenerys shuddered.
“Perhaps there would be relief in it,” she said. Jon’s cock throbbed hopefully. He shook his head.
“Perhaps not. Earlier, you did not want to ‘go too far.’ I will not pressure you. Close your eyes. Rest. Perhaps it will have faded by dawn.”
Daenerys nodded, lying back on his pillow. His linens would smell like her. Jon saw himself curling around his pillow, drinking in her smell as she rode away south, never to be seen again north of the Neck. Jon closed the door behind him. Despite the gnawing discomfort, the itch, the tightness, and the howling lust, Jon fell into an uneasy sleep. A sound woke him. The fire was nothing but a heap of red-black embers, the room black as pitch. The sound . . . Dany weeping. Heart and gut both lurched. Blearily, he staggered upright and knocked on the door.
“Dany?” he said, trying the handle. The door swung inward. Gods, she hadn’t barred the door. A lone taper cast a pool of gold light across the bed. Dany writhed beneath the blankets and furs, hair a snarled tangle. Imploring eyes met his.
“Jon. It hurts. Please. Help me,” she whispered.
Acceptance settled in his gut. Vow or no vow, Daenerys did not deserve to suffer. Jon nodded and stripped with quick, efficient movements. His boots, his socks, loosening the neck of his jerkin enough to yank it over his head, his belt, his trousers unlaced and shoved to the floor. His cock bobbed before him, his nipples tight against the chill. Jon clenched his fists at his sides, caught between excitement and embarrassment. Daenerys threw the blankets aside, revealing her own nakedness beneath.
“Jon, you’re beautiful. Come here,” she said.
Jon stretched out beside her, thrilled by her warmth and the sleek touch of naked skin. Again, that breathless euphoric relief. Dany rolled astride him, bending to kiss him. Jon’s eyes rolled back, awash in sensation. A bounty of smooth naked skin, her tight nipples rubbing against his chest, the wet kiss of her cunt against his trapped cock. Jon moaned against the caress of her tongue. His hands smoothed down her back to cup her hips.
“Take me, take me, Dany,” Jon hissed against the seal of her lips. A fierce grin stretched her lips.
“Gods, yes!”
A shift of her hips and she slid down on his cock. A choked sound left him. Muscles strung taut. Pleasure roared through his body. Too much, too much sensation. Hot, sleek, wet, tight, perfect. Gods. No wonder people were mad for sex. One taste of Daenerys and Jon wanted to forsake any vow or honor and follow her. The sweet-musky scent of her rose up between them, along with the sharper salty scent of sweat. Glowing in the light of the candle, her hair shone, her lips swollen and red, her eyes black with lust. Dany rose and fell in a slow, heavy rhythm.
“Gods, yes. Jon! Gods, you feel so good in me. I love your thick cock in me,” she moaned. Jon was beyond words. Eyes rolled back, delighting in every push of her hips. The pleasure boiled up, hot and bottomless. A moan thudded out of her as she bottomed out with each delicious stroke. Jon gripped her hips, pushing her down harder, grinding to perhaps rub that little nub that gave her so much pleasure. Her cries were sharper, breathier. Jon’s own release brewed.
“Dany!” he cried out as the pleasure pierced him. An endless shuddering eternity followed, his vision whited out. He felt boundless, suspended in a warm, inner space, aware of only her. The shine of her spirit, the beauty and courage that rang like dragonsteel within her.
A kind of madness followed, where sanity sank into the horizon like a setting sun.
There was only his body and hers, their souls desperate to join. She soared to the peak of a climax, Jon flipped her on her back to fuck her hard, snarling and growling. Her hands sank into fistfuls of his hair, dragging him down for a rough kiss as her hips thrusted up to meet each stroke. The headboard slammed rhythmically into the wall. Blankets were a snarled tangle around their knees. Sweat gleamed in the low light. The air reeked of sex. Jon worried her neck with his teeth, sweat stinging in his eyes. Dany savaged his back with her nails, spurring him on.
Her riding him, him mounting her. Twisting and writhing together in glorious passionate madness. Her mouth left a string of stipled purple love bites on his neck and chest. Jon buried his face between her thighs, licking and sucking until she sobbed. Jon took her again, holding her face between his hands. In her eyes, he saw acceptance of all that he was. The release built between them, a towering pleasure. Mine, her soul said. Mine, his answered. In the aftermath, oblivion dragged him under.
When he was aware of himself again, he woke to Dany crooning soft words in Valyrian, petting his hair, kissing him. Jon craned his neck to follow her kiss before flopping back on the bed. Dimly, he realized his eyelashes were wet with tears. He swiped them away.
“Fuck,” Jon said, stretching out a cramp in his right thigh. Every inch of his body felt sore, as if after strenuous exercise. Whatever that had been, it felt like more than just scratching an itch so to speak. Jon reached down and found his cock, slick and sticky with their combined fluids, still hard. He wondered at it. After all that thrashing, he was still hard. Would he be that way forever? Draped on his chest, Dany grinned.
“Agreed. I quite like that, by the way.”
“The bedding?” he asked, half-shy.
“That, of course. But also the name. ‘Dany.’ No one calls me that. I like it,” she said, her voice hoarse and husky, another caress in itself.
“I like saying it. How are you feeling?” Jon asked.
“Wonderful,” she said, kissing the tip of his nose. A frown puckered her brow.
“Though I dislike the idea of taking advantage of you, no matter the circumstances.”
Jon patted her hip, and they adjusted until she was lying beside him. He rolled onto his elbow. Inwardly, he tensed, waiting for the itch to return. It did not.
“Taking advantage of me? I thought I was taking advantage of you.”
Dany waved a hand.
“Regardless. I believe I shall need a bit more . . . if you want to.”
Jon arched a brow, fighting a smile.
“Are you sore?” he asked. The smile stretched wider, catlike and satisfied.
“Yes.”
Jon watched her face as he rolled her beneath him. Gods, there wasn’t a woman to match her in all the world. The way she looked at him struck his heart. Jon framed her face between his hands, fingers tangled in her silky hair and kissed her. Thrust his tongue in to taste her, drinking in her taste. It could be slower this time. Jon was determined to memorize her body. That spot on her neck that made her gasp when he nibbled at it. The collection of freckles spangled across her upper chest. The soft heft of her breasts. Dany’s fingers carded through his hair, guiding him to the peak of her nipple. He rolled her nipple with his tongue, then sucked, mimicking the pinches she seemed to like. First one breast, then the other. Dany squirmed beneath him, hands busily exploring the terrain of his shoulders, his back, his arse. He shivered a little as one finger teased the crease. It was a surprisingly pleasurable sensation. Jon nuzzled her the soft bulge of her belly with his cheek, kissing her navel.
Jon loved the delicate skin of her thighs, the texture of her pubic hair as he licked. Gods, the hunger demanded to be slaked. That taste! He loved it. Musky-sweet, coating his tongue like honey. Another sharper taste lingered, his own seed. That taut little nub was swollen and red, he licked and lapped at it. Dany writhed beneath him, squirming. Jon pushed, using his weight to pin down her thighs wide and open so he could feast. He loved the incoherent chorus of his name mingled with begging and curses. Dany loved this. He felt the clenching, reaching as she neared her peak. He climbed up her body and sank in to the hilt. Dany arched up into him with a breathless scream. Fuck, fuck, fuck it was so good. Sweet little flutters of muscle kissing his cock. Jon was lost in the storm of it. The delicious rhythm of thrusting inside her, feeling her thrash and curse and kiss him, all the while begging for more. My greedy love. His own release rocked through him in endless spurts of come.
Jon rolled back, kicking off the furs to cool the sweat. He reached out to gather Dany to his side.
“Fuck,” Dany whispered. Jon laughed, more than half delirious with pleasure. He felt like he was floating, giddy. Jon was jolted from a doze to find Dany returning to bed with two horn cups of water and the last of his bread and cheese.
“Bless you, Your Grace,” he said fervently, draining the cup in one pass. Dany giggled. As he chewed, he realized the urge was gone. With that thought came disquiet. The excuse for bedding was gone. In a few days, maybe a week, she would be riding south and he would never see her again. Jon clung tighter to her as they talked about meaningless things. Horses and books and their favorite hot drink. For now, she was his.
~
The world felt strangely muted with fatigue. Her ears stuffed with cotton; her wits felt slow. The one thing that stood vibrant against the fog was Jon Snow. So beautiful, it hurt to look at him. His face was different in sleep. Younger, gentler. Daenerys made a study of him, wishing she had talent with ink or charcoal to capture his image. Those beautiful curls, black and glossy, fanned across the pillow. Dany wound one strand around her finger, gently tugging it straight and watching it recoil. Such hair was wasted on a man. Her finger grazed the lines carved between his brows. Jon was a man who did not smile often. Thick brows over those piercing dark grey eyes. More storm-cloud than steel. Scars cut through the turf of his eyebrows. One diagonal over his left eye, the other curved around his right eye to angle across his cheekbone. His nose had been broken before: the base was thicker, though it had healed straight. The high, broad cheekbones, the hard angle of his jaw, his thick black beard. And that mouth! Such full lips should have looked incongruous on such a severe face, but it suited him. Everything about him suited her: his body sculpted to perfection, his quick mind, the hidden generosity of his soul.
Daenerys longed to curl into his eager embrace and sleep for a week. Perhaps she could, given the unusual nature of Hysteriatum vapor. Still, her people needed to know she was not on death’s door or driven mad. Besides, they had eaten the last of the food somewhere in the night, and she was ravenous after such fierce lovemaking. As luck would have it, as she swathed herself in Jon’s shirt and trousers and crept across the frigid floor, a raven sat on his perch. Daenerys quickly penned a message and sent it to Maester Aemon. In all of history had a Lord Commander ever stepped down from his post? Likely not. But neither had dragon awakened from petrified eggs before she laid them on her husband’s pyre. Such a thing was not insurmountable, as long as Jon was agreeable. After such a night, there was much to talk about.