song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

He is a bit surprised to hear the question, as he never really thought of what he wanted, though he suspected the answer long before this moment. "Fire? A warrior princess, maybe? Not a lady that sits in her tower brushing her hair." Daintiness had its place, but he wanted a woman who could argue with him or felt she had enough strength that she could face whatever threats they might come across.

He didn't need to be knocked over the head and carried off, but he wanted someone that would argue with him and maybe get their opinion through his thick head. He didn't mind the bickering with Daenerys, only when it dissolved as it had on the cruise.

"Ygritte was a Free woman. She was good with a bow and was said to be kissed by fire because her hair was so red." Dany told him of Drogo, it seemed fair to give something back about the woman he had loved before. "She died when the Freefolk tried to breach the Wall."

The pain is less evident in his voice. Enough time had passed to let him digest the loss, but the traces were still buried deep in his heart. "I freed you from the elevator. I think I earned your stitching." He returned, just as dry and with just as dry a smile.

"Do warrior princesses even exist?" A woman with fire. She's not turning to look at him now, but there's no mistaking the way her heart seems to jump to her throat. "Perhaps you'd been born centuries too late. One of Aegon's sisterwives might've been more to your liking."

Thread retrieved, with a needle as well, she's across the room again. This reminds her of the last time he'd been here, when she'd fetched wine and rode him on her couch. She doesn't get him wine this time, but whiskey. Something she'd tried at the bar and hated, but others seemed to enjoy. He'll get a healthy dose of it in a glass. The last thing she does is light a candle, rolling the needle in the flame.

The skirts of her dress part, revealing dark grey pants as she settles beside him again, pushing the glass into his good hand. She's threading the needle next, holding it between her lips as she returns to his hand, pulling the towel away to clean it up again and wipe any new blood seeping from the wound.

And then it's to work, threading his hand with an intense concentration, as careful with her stitches as she might've been on an outfit she created.

"Seems you like the fire. When did you meet her?" More careful dabbing at blood. There's the hint of a smile dancing on her lips. "Just me? If I remember things correctly, you took that freedom for yourself, as well."

"Among the Freefolk and maybe across the Narrow Sea?" But no, he hadn't really met any women like Ygritte or Daenerys before, not until he came here. The different worlds allowed him to learn more than he might have if he had stayed in Westeros, not simply about women but himself and the way others lived. "I'm not Targaryen. I wouldn't have been enough for them." Dragons lay with dragons. He knew the stories well enough to know there was something mystical about it.

"What does a dragon queen prefer?" Her, Aegon's sister-wives, they likely needed more than a swordsman and obstinate Northern king. He was less concerned what Visenya and Rhaenys might have wanted, but Daenerys? It was difficult to predict her.

It is hard to forget his last visit to her apartment. He feels less out of place than before, but there is no removing his heightened senses at being close to her again, sitting in a place where they had ridden each other to the heights of pleasure. Even with the sting of his hand, he could still remember how the couch had scratched against his buttocks and the waist band of his pants cut into his waist.

She's beautiful, her style reminding him of what she wore when they met on Dragonstone. The red suited her, though he had always preferred the black tunics she had worn. He flinches at the taste of whiskey, giving an obvious look of distaste. It was worse than the ale at the Wall.

He watches her face rather than her work with the needle, letting his tired eyes scan over her features. She was softer, thoughtful. He liked her best this way, he thought. It was somewhere quiet to rest, something to help soothe away the sting on his palm.

"I went beyond the Wall with Lord Commander Mormont to learn what we could about the army of the dead. I joined a scouting team and we caught a few Wildlings, Ygritte was among them. I spared her life and when she later escaped, she and her men captured me in turn. I stayed in the Freefolk camp to gather information about their coming attack on the Wall." It was...complicated. "I did, but I don't need to repay myself for anything."

Edited 2018-11-02 05:49 (UTC)

"I'd not seen any." That wasn't to discount the women she did meet, though. Kinvara might've been warrior-like, were she not a priestess. Missandei is quiet,
and it was not to be confused with weakness as her Master once mistook it for. "Not outwardly, but many hold that strength within. I think that counts more."

Not for her, not a queen. She needed to be strong and loud when warranted--not necessarily verbally, but through her actions as well. It all banked on her peoples' survival.

She doesn't expect him to turn the question back on her. What does she prefer? Not something she's entertained. Not when she conquered the slaver cities, and certainly not when she'd struggled to rule. So what does she want? No man like Drogo, who believed another person was his property. No man like Daario either, who loved the idea of a lover with so much power. Drogo's strength and willingness to protect his family were traits she'd want--same as Daario's loyalty and playfulness.

"Someone who sees me." For all her faults and strengths, seeing beyond her status as a queen and the Mother of Dragons. A companion, her equal. Quietly, she snorts, lips twisting. It's not amusement, not bitterness either. There was simply no time for considering these things, let alone look for someone like that. "There are no more dragons in the world for them, were they still alive. Keep drinking that."

There's no need to see his expression to know he dislikes the whiskey. The smell of it's enough of a threat to make her eyes water in commiseration.

But what's this talk about the dead again? Before she's forced to comment, he continues on about Ygritte, his girl kissed by fire.

Kind of him to spare her. Not so kind to spy. Funny that he mentions spying and Mormont and spies... She looks up. Something flickers in her eyes; a moment of missing a man so familiar, so loyal. "Ser Jorah's father?"

"Neither have I." Not really. He liked the idea of women like Rhaenys or Visenya, but there were none left in the world, save for Daenerys. There weren't many women like her in Westeros. He knew that, even at her most infuriating. He didn't need to see her charge into battle or wield a sword, every time she faced a threat, she met it like it was a life or death battle...which sometimes it was.

Maybe that was why his heart had been so closed off for so long? He hadn't seen what he was looking for or bothered to look. Ygritte had been a rare glimpse of happiness that came unexpectedly into his life. There were not many chances for such things to happen again.

Someone who sees her. He could understand that, not simply because he wished to be seen as well, but with how she presented herself to others, it must be rare for others to see her beyond the title. He had hoped to offer her that, even if only as a friend, but it seemed like such a difficult wall to climb. "None have so far?" Not here either? Somehow it tightened his throat to think about others who might have fulfilled that wish.

He scrunches his nose at the whiskey again, but dutifully continues drinking it.

Jon glanced up at her as she approached again. He had heard of Jorah, first from Lord Stark and then from the Lord Commander. The sword that was meant for the son was resting in his room, set aside as a blade was not needed here. Jorah Mormont was a distant figure, but it seemed that he had found his way across the sea and into the Dragon Queen's court.

"Aye. He was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I was his steward before he died."

"That's a shame." They've wars aplenty in their world. Enough to raise women fierce and kind. Not like a lioness who would be so foolhardy to get each of her children killed. Three times separately. "Maybe she's hidden."

She's nearly finished with his hand, taking her time with it. It leaves his hand in hers as she works, and it's not a terrible thing.

"None have," she concedes, not looking up. It's easier to speak of this when she's not looking at him, because she feels his gaze lingering on her. And with his eyes on her, she feels... fidgety. Like he's looking for something, and she's not sure what. "Some have thought, but it's an idea they'd created."

Jorah and Daario both claimed they loved her, but it was the idea of a wife come back, and a conquering queen who would leave a trail of ash and bone in her wake. It wasn't fair to either of them; more importantly, it wasn't fair to her.

These people here continue to fall into line with their ideas of her. Imaginings of a queen who could do something for them. One who was as unbreakable as Valyrian steel.

"Tyrion told me," she murmurs. Now she glances up. Meets his gaze. "What was he like?"

He doesn't move as she holds his hand, his heart thundering in his ears. He struggled to keep his breath steady, even as her touch whispered over his palm. He couldn't pull his gaze away from her, enjoying the softness of her features and the comfort in her touch. He had been tended to before when he was injured, but that had been by maesters. This was the first time a woman, outside of Old Nan, cared for him in this way. There had been an ache in his heart for this, though he never had the words for it until now. A need that had been born along with him, manifesting more and more as his years became emptier.

"I understand." Perhaps not as exactly as Daenerys did, but there was something of himself that he had been shielding from the world. Even if he revealed it, he couldn't be certain that the weight and meaning would be seen. That he would be seen. He hesitated, thinking of what to offer her, some small thing to build on this connection. "I heard of you before I left the Night's Watch."

It seemed like she was always connected to his life, before he had even thought of her as a person rather than a mythical figure. Maybe it had always been leading them together? In thinking about the Others and leaving for the Night's Watch, that road had always been connected to her. The more he considered it, the more clear the world became.

He finally broke his gaze on Daenerys, looking down at the work she was doing on his hand. "He was a good man, honorable and proud. He didn't treat me like a bastard. He was grooming me for command. I think he saw something in me that others didn't." He cleared his throat, pushing back emotions. "I should have been with him when he died, but I was still a captive of the Freefolk."

Do you? Because so very few do understand these things. There's something near comical about Ned Stark's son understanding that struggle, especially when one considers the role the dead Stark played in wiping out her family.

He'd never been spoken of as a liar, though... and something in her believes him. Perhaps because he calls himself a bastard. It must be just as lonely a thing as being an orphan and exile. Perhaps even more, knowing one's family still lives. It was lonelier when Viserys was alive, sometimes.

"Did you?" she asks, instead. Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising that word would travel as far north as the Wall. "I wonder which rumor it was."

Jorah wasn't with her upon her learning of his father's death. He'd been banished a second time for another betrayal. One against his family, one against his queen. But her old bear wasn't disloyal, not when it counted.

"He raised a good man." She returns to the last of her stitches, leaning forward to break the thread with her teeth once she's done. "Keep it up," she tells him, dropping the needle on the table, fetching the empty glass from his hand, and dropping the towel in the bowl.

She's back across the room, dumping the water and rinsing the bowl, the towel, the glass. There's nothing to use save another towel to wrap his hand--she should purchase linen for injuries, especially if she's planning on rebellion--so she wrings out the old towel and returns back to him a moment later.

"In any case, we all should have been somewhere, at some time. Regretting not being there won't change that he's gone."

He did understand. Much of his life had been that of an outsider, surrounded by family but feeling separate from them. His life hadn't be uncomfortable in terms of living, as Melisandre had pointed out, but it was still void of complete acceptance, a home to call his. He was always on the outside, kept away from the table his siblings were allowed to sit at. These small details stayed with him, making him feel out of place no matter where he was.

Whether she believed or not, he still offered it to her. Two outsiders, lost and seeking a home. It wasn't a simple thing, but there was a chance that Daenerys would at least find it. He could only hope that the throne would bring her comfort. His hadn't, but it was never meant to be his to begin with.

"Only that you returned dragons to the world and were conquering cities across Essos. Maester Aemon received the raven." And Sam had told him what Aemon said later, briefly about the woman and the longing to see family again. "He hoped to meet you."

He couldn't answer that, uncertain about the man that Jorah had become. The way that Lord Commander Mormont had spoken of him, it was clear that his heart had been broken by his son's actions.

He lifted his arm, looking at the intricate stitching. "You did good work."

"That was early," she says with a quiet chuckle, feeling warmer towards him for the first time outside of lust. Maybe it was a touch of camaraderie. She doesn't fully know; he's not the same as her people: slaves, savages, and eunuchs. She doesn't view a bastard in the same way that Westeros clearly does. "I freed them. They were slaver cities."

But this maester--she's not heard of him. Why would he wish to meet her, lest it was to meet the Mother of Dragons? "Who is he?"

She takes his hand again and wipes it clean, dabbing at the newly stitched wound before she wraps the dry and clean towel around it. His compliment earns him a hum, distracted; her focus is on a bloody shirt, which she reaches out to pick at.

"You bled out a bit, didn't you? We should find you something clean."

"It was when I was named Lord Commander." It was strange to consider. When he was at the height of his triumphs, she was at the height of hers. She rose to become queen of cities and he was a leader of the Night's Watch. It was strange to step back and consider, how often their lives ran parallel to each other. Loneliness, wandering, lost loves. How deep did it run?

"Maester Aemon was Aemon Targaryen." Was. They were all different men when they joined the Night's Watch. He had tried to hold firm to that oath, but in the end, he couldn't be nothing or a simple brother. He was a man of the North and one of the last protectors of House Stark.

He flexed his hand, testing the strength of the thread, and seeking the excuse to curl his fingers around her hand. He glanced down at his shirt. Blood wasn't so easy to see on black, but it was obvious from how it was sticking to him that he had bled quite a bit.

"It should be fine." He wasn't eager to leave, but there was nothing else for him to wear.

Aemon Targaryen. Her smile slips away. "...What?"

There's a waiver to her voice. Not quite tumultuous emotion--not yet--but of something more disbelieving, incredulous. That he suggests there was one last living Targaryen still walking the lands of their world, on the opposite side of the sea... all whilst she and Viserys had suffered. If. If Aemon Targaryen lived, as Jon suggested, he'd allowed his blood to suffer. To be taken advantage of in Essos by lord after lord. Her great-uncle had left her to fend for herself, thinking she was the last of her line.

Her hand is slack in his as she stares at nothing, mind racing. But he speaks and it tugs her focus back to him, her eyes back to him.

"I can assure you I won't faint. I've seen many a bare chest in my life." Of course she would think that's the reason he hesitates; aren't they beyond hesitance to walk about naked? She'd been naked in this very spot, riding him. And yet he'd been so wary of removing his shirt, she recalls. "Take it off, there's clothing here you can wear in place of it."

He has an idea what she is thinking. It is what he feared Robb might have thought after their father died or how Sansa might have felt when she was alone with Ramsay Bolton. He had been so close to them, but remained at the Wall, rather than riding out to them when they needed him. It made him feel like a traitor to their bond.

But these things weren't so simple. "He made a vow." He told her gently, looking at her with a sad expression. "If he left the Wall, he would have been killed, but he suffered at not being able to be with you or with the rest of your family during the Rebellion. He told me when my father was imprisoned by the Lannisters. If he were younger, if he weren't blind..." but that was speculation and honestly he didn't know. The advice he had given Jon was to choose between love and duty. What could a man truly do? Any decision he made would have consequences he would carry for the rest of his days.

He blanches, looking away with dark expression.

"There's no need. It has already started to dry and I can clean it when I return." He told her, his hand squeezing hers as he tested his grip once again, already becoming an anxious habit.

"He suffered," she says, voice flat. Viserys hardly spoke of Aemon Targaryen, and while she didn't believe all he said when he did mention their great-uncle, there was perhaps some truth to his opinion. She didn't know him, though. How could she judge someone she'd only heard about? "When did he die?"

Did he hear of Viserys' death? What would he have advised her of, if he'd been there with her?

If he'd been there, though, she'd have no dragons. No armies. No wars to fight to make right by her family.

"All the more reason to remove it. I'll not have my guest sitting in dried blood." There's no attempt to force it off him, however strange he's being about removing a shirt. Why such a look? He's dodging in a strange way that makes her hackles rise and withdrawing from his hold on her hand.

She might not rip the shirt off, but she will, however, push up to her feet and venture into Clark's room, fetching another shirt.

"Quit clenching your hand, it's only just been stitched."

"Not long before I left the Watch." It had been a bitter loss, worse still as his enemies had begun gathering, becoming bolder. Had Aemon still lived, would they have tried to kill him? Or would they have continued their plan, killing the old man as well? From the sound of it, Edd and his friends had narrowly escaped, only through the aid of the Freefolk. But all of this was speculation and it didn't remove the loss of a friend and mentor.

He could understand her anger and frustration, but it was difficult for someone to understand unless they had given their life to the Night's Watch. Even with his Watch ended, he still knew that pull of loyalty and the struggle between family and duty.

It was becoming obvious that either he would have to be brutally honesty about why he didn't want to remove his shirt or simply do as she bid. Either way, he couldn't keep hiding from this from her. One way or another, she would find out. It was embarrassing and frustrating, all of it out of his control and happening before he was ready.

This wasn't a side of him he had wanted her to see.

He frowned as she brought out his shirt and shook his head. "Not his, your grace." It would be the equivalent of him offering one of Anya's dresses to Daenerys. He couldn't and wouldn't wear something belonging to her sub.

There was a deep sigh of defeat before he got up from the couch and pulled off the sticky shirt. His back was turned to her as he offered out the soiled clothing, waiting for her to take it.

However long he was in the Watch for... the timing of it means little, save that whilst she sacked the slaver cities, he'd been rising in the ranks of his brothers. That's what they called each other, if she recalls Tyrion's words. It must've been some time. Was his death the reason Jon ultimately left the Watch?

Come to think of it, what made him finally leave? He speaks of love and duty, and he's stepped up as a supposed king for his people. The opposite of her great-uncle.

She's still wondering that as he refuses Clark's shirt. Something that has her steps stilling as she holds the fabric in one hand, watching him with a marked silence. An understanding one. "I have nothing else to offer you."

And if he doesn't wish to take his shirt of, for whatever the reason...

Except he is pulling it off. Back to her whilst he does so, which is equally as strange. He's like a prude woman too scared of showing her breasts to her lover, which is absolutely ridiculous. He'd had no problem showing his cock.

"We'll rinse it off, then, and hang it to dry," she says after a too long silence. Stepping closer and taking his shirt, she walks back over to the sink, sparing him one last, curious look. "Do you need to wipe yourself down?"

He is behaving strangely and he knows it, putting off the inevitable. Davos had nearly spelled it out for her on Dragonstone, but he had put a stop to the subject, not wishing to reveal something so personal to a complete stranger.

But they weren't strangers now. He had been inside her more than once, he had seen her bare and naked, something that was vulnerable for most women, but seemed perfectly natural to Daenerys. He was being unfair to her, keeping a shield up even after all they had shared here.

But was it enough for him to show her his scars now? This was all of him, nothing left to hide or mask. He was stripping away the layers and baring his soul to her. He had danced on the subject during their first days, during that orientation, but kept back. What was he afraid of? He trusted her enough to become her lover, there was no point in hiding this any longer.

He let out another sigh, steadying his nerves as he turned towards the sink, unable to fully look at her reaction or how she would digest this moment. "Aye. Some water and towel, maybe?"

She's already occupied with her task of scrubbing his shirt clean that she doesn't look up at him immediately. It's another thing she'd learned with the Dothraki; handmaidens for her, but she'd preferred tending to Drogo for the little things, like braiding his hair. It brought about more of an intimacy between them. (It doesn't occur to her that she might be trying to encourage an intimacy between she and Jon--what with stitching his hand and nagging him to clean his shirt...)

Humming in answer, she inclines her head toward the closet to her right. "There's more in there. Seems they like Drogon and left plenty in case he burns some."

By chance, she looks over to him, faint amusement manifesting in a smile. One which slips when she realizes he's not looking at her, but facing her, and--

--gods, she wishes she didn't push. His chest is littered in scars. Not like the ones on his face or hands, but far uglier. Violent and angry looking. She forgets to shut the faucet off, his shirt flopping to the bottom of the sink as she steps closer to him. Her lips are parted just slightly, her eyes wide, and she's just barely shaking her head.

Another moment of looking at those scars. With each passing second, her heart gallops into a faster, pounding, unforgiving rate. So by the time she's standing in front of him, the tips of wet fingers lightly pressing to his jaw to coax him to look at her, she can't hear much over the roar in her ears.

"Ser Davos--he wasn't lying."

He can feel her eyes on him and it's almost as though he were completely naked, standing in the middle of the street and walking before everyone in the city. It wasn't exhilarating but frightening, making him feel the cold of the Wall again, the hard slab of the desk beneath his desk. All of it was taking him back, the confusion of where he was, the sting of his wounds, still not fully healed. She had the same look of Ser Davos when he came back to the room, just as horrified and amazed.

Her fingers against his jaw, slowly turning him towards her. His heart stalled in his chest, his face stricken with fear as his eyes met hers. She was tender, something he expected from her, but everything else was out of his control. He was drowning, struggling to keep breathing as she regarded him with those soft eyes.

"No." He answered, clenching his hand again. "No he wasn't."

It's a careful game of not allowing her gaze to drop beneath his throat again. To not call attention to something that is a part of him, but doesn't define him. Easy enough, when he's meeting her eyes. More than easy, if she's honest, because there's so much of him she prefers looking at.

She wants to ask him other questions, to discover who did this, to insist on it. Is the one who did this still alive? (If the gods are kind, they're already dead... because she would not be merciful.) How recent was it? How is he alive with scars that bad? A knife to the heart, ser Davos said.

This wasn't something freely offered by him, not something she has a place to press on. It's in his eyes, his features. So much of his talk about nothingness on the ship and when they first arrived seems to click into place, giving her a new understanding. This isn't the King in the North she's danced with time and time again, but Jon Snow. Riddled with his own miseries in life.

I think I'm beginning to see you.

With a quiet noise, she lightly thwacks his lower belly with the back of her hand, still wet from the sink.

"I told you not to clench your hand," she says, voice gentler, almost like a mother's chiding. She returns to the sink, going back to the t-shirt. But not before she flicks some little water droplets on her fingers at him. "I'll dunk you in the shower next if you keep abusing my work."

Edited 2018-11-03 21:09 (UTC)

He expects questions, incredulity but instead there is nothing but silence drifting between them. Instead of staring at his chest, she keeps her eyes firmly locked on him. It's an odd sort of comfort, one that wasn't clear at first whether or not this made it all easier. Being unable to look away allowed her to see all his vulnerability, but at the same time, he felt safe under her scrutiny.

He may tell her in time. Of Thorne and his men, of how it was to hang all of them, including a boy no older than Bran. It haunted him, Olly's face blue and purple from asphyxiation. But this wasn't the time to discuss it or break down at the weight of his actions. They had burdened him too long and he had no desire to be fully steeped in misery before her.

The sudden hit to his belly jars him from the moment. In a swift motion, she dismissed the tension in the air and offered him a graceful exit from his secrets. His lungs loosen and he can breathe again.

"It itches." It doesn't really, but it seemed like the best response to further draw them away from his chest.

"Baby," she shoots back. She doubts it itches so much as hurts, but she leaves it be. "Do it again and you'll regret it. Especially if you break my stitchings."

With a mock-disgruntled huff at him, she shuts the sink off and begins wringing out his shirt. It takes a bit of muscle to do, but she's happy to see the water's clear as she does it. Not entirely ruined, at least. Good thing he wore black.

"Do you need more whiskey?" she asks, slipping past him to hang his shirt on one of the empty hangers by a row of dresses. "I think it tastes terrible, but it's strong enough to take away from the pain, I imagine."

"Gods no." It's said too quickly, making his distaste clear. He had managed vodka, champagne and so much else, but it was whiskey that made him feel sick. It could likely match the swill they produced at the Wall, close enough to rotting horse meat. "The pain doesn't bother me."

Perhaps it was better that he had been shot with arrows, stabbed and attacked by a bird. Those injuries had prepared him to suffer through cuts and gashes, feeling little save for the initial pain. It passed quickly, so long as there was something else to focus on.

More and more, the blood was cleaned away, revealing the ugly wounds for what they were. There was no mask, nothing to obscure how deep the knives had been driven in him. As much as he hesitated to draw her back to his side, he held out the towel. "I need some help cleaning my side and near my back. The blood soaked everywhere."

"Mn. Forget the shower, I'll pin you down and make you drink more whiskey."

He could easily shove her off, but she doubts he would. Taking the towel from him once she's closer, stepping into his space, she begins wiping away both damp and dry blood.

This is far more intimate, she belatedly thinks. Less so than a bath, but he's asking for her help. Not suffering through blood in unreachable spots until he can find one of his Submissives to do it.

The thought has her gritting her teeth.

He wasn't about to show this to Anya or anyone else. It would raise more questions, not simply about his scars but how he had injured himself and why. Too many factors that would lead back to Dany and...he had no wish for anyone else to intrude on his time with her. These were just his and his alone. Speaking of it with anyone else would tarnish it, almost.

He watched her hands as they moved over his side and towards his back. Already the stickiness was disappearing and he was feeling much cleaner. It might have been better with a shower, but she could see what he couldn't. And perhaps, now that she had seen this side of him, he wasn't as eager to cover it up again.

"Thank you." His eyes followed her, hoping that she would meet his gaze again, uncertain what she thought of his body as a whole. Between what they shared and the arguments they seemed to fall into, they had never discussed their opinions about these simple things.

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