song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

"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.

His gratitude does have her looking up, pausing in her task to meet his eyes. There's no need to be so guarded; it would be a cruel thing, when she'd unintentionally forced him to show this part of himself to her. Not guilty about it, certainly willing to help, she shakes her head.

"You got us out," she says. Simple and true. It's a hassle he'd been injured, but not to her; at least she knows he'll heal properly with it being cleaned and tended to... so long as he doesn't break the stitchings. "There's nothing to thank me for."

She returns back to wiping him down, trying hard to ignore what seems like endless muscle. His armor covered this up. So did his clothing here. If she thinks on it too hard, her mouth'll go dry.

"Thank you for getting us out."

"I did what I had to. There is nothing to thank for it." It was strange that they were both brushing aside the gratitude of the other, but it fit in his mind for what he had come to learn of her. They both had relied on themselves for the whole of their lives. There were friends and support as time went on, but the core of their strength, the tenacity that kept them alive manifested in them.

Needing someone like this, it was another vulnerability exposed and even more difficult as they were placing themselves in someone else's hands. She had trusted him to help her get free and he believed that she would help tend to him. Whatever their arguments and ire, it all seemed to be a wall, meant to keep them from this situation.

Was there any reason though? Maybe they needed this to finally see each other for who they really were?

She's so close to him now and he cannot think of a time when he has felt so at ease. Having her care for him is such a relief that he simply wants to rest and shrug off the burdens in his mind. She was safety and comfort manifested in a small woman. It shouldn't be possible but here she was.

"Will we be alone for awhile?"

His answer makes her snort. So they were both the sort to brush off gratitude? Seems fitting, from what she's seen of him thus far; if they were allies, they would be fiercest together. Not like her alliances with the Ironborn, Dorne, or Tyrells. Those were out of necessity, but also to seek out vengeance. Anything with him would be deadly for their enemies, with them both so stubborn.

Fighting back an amused smile, she presses the towel back into his hand.

"We will." Clark was out. Where, she doesn't know. Rare are the days where either hovers, poking into one another's business. It was a comfortable arrangement with no expectations involved. "You should go sit, even if you feel fine, you still lost a lot of blood."

There was at least no chance that her submissive would enter the room and dispel the intimacy that they both were trying to clumsily build. While they were still trying to sort out how to speak with each other, there were at least no barriers or niceties to hide behind. The moment another intruded, he could sense that it would return to that familiar ground.

While her mind was on alliances, his was on simply on her. Beyond the queen, beyond the Mother of Dragons, who this complicated woman was and how she responded to this scene of solitude. Stripping away that mask, she could be maternal and tender. He had never known care like this before and was loathe to let it go so soon. Just the simple brush of her hand against his side made him shiver.

It didn't matter if she were this way with others or not, he simply wanted more of it. He didn't object to her suggestion, grateful to sit down again and let his head stop spinning. If it was blood loss or something else, he couldn't say.

"Join me."

She arches her brow. That sounded less like a request and more a demand. The only reason she steps closer and settles beside him is because she'd bossed him around whilst he'd suffered through her stitchings. Seems fair to receive this, but her look (while not distant) suggests she won't continue following commands.

Does he want her to join him because he wishes to fuck? It would make sense when he's inquiring about Clark's return. Seems too soon for that when he'd been injured, and especially after him showing her his scars. Scars she'd forgotten about until she recalled why she was pointedly ignoring his chest.

With a long sigh, she sinks into the cushions and goes to lazily try and kick her boots off. If nothing more, this was a distraction she needed from her own mind. Even if they're not speaking, just sitting by him banishes the thoughts that made her so restless this morning.

Even this little bit of control, she still latches onto. He found it exhausting before, but it only elicits a small smile from him now. Ever the queen, even in her more quiet moments. It was something she was clearly born for while his title came from necessity. Above all else, he was Jon Snow. King was secondary to his nature. She embodied the throne at all times.

He keeps his hands folded in his lap, though the idle thought of reaching for her fingers occurs to him. It was hard to say if the moment had passed. With so much now shared between them, it didn't feel like a breach of boundary, but it was better not to risk. Not yet, at least.

"There are only a few who know." The words are shared before he realizes he is broaching the subject of his scars. He hadn't thought about when he'd share or what he'd say, but it seemed that instinct decided for him. The silence in the room was too much to ignore and they could only dance around the subject for so long.

Kicking her boots off is a foolhardy endeavor. Moments after she reclines, she's sitting up, crossing one leg over the other to unfasten the buckles to tug them off. If they're going to sit in her apartment, she'd rather be comfortable, and comfortable meant not being prepared to flee at a moment's notice.

Something... that seems to be a point that ignores him. He's beside her and she's not so worried about appearances and regality. She's in the process of tugging off her other boot when he speaks, and she's looking at him over her shoulder.

"You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not." Sincerity in her eyes. "I shouldn't have pushed about your shirt."

"You didn't know." And strangely, he doesn't mind telling her. It was the approach of the subject, the revelation itself. Much like falling into an icy lake, the anticipation was far worse than the actual collision. Now that he was in the waters and his body adjusted to her notice, it wasn't such a difficult thing to swim towards the heart of it all.

He leaned back the couch, not realizing that he had chosen the spot he had been in before when she had taken him on his lap. There was a comfort on her couch and in her presence. A sweet peace that seemed only available when he slept, and even then, it never lasted long. His dreams were always a nuisance. It made him idly wonder how it would be to sleep in her arms? Would that night pass without nightmares or fears? Would he actually rest?

"I know there are questions about it."

No, she hadn't known, but the sudden change in his behavior had spoken to something. She'd merely pushed until she figured out why... and now that she knows, she doesn't regret, but she doesn't want to force him into speaking about it. Not unless he wishes to.

Even if he does speak of it, does she want to know his stories? To learn more about this man she should view as a political barrier? The more she learns about him, the less she views him as an enemy in the north who stubbornly stands between what she needs to obtain her birthright.

"The questions don't matter." She drops her shoes to the floor and settles back on the couch. Tucking her legs to her side, facing him, sinking into the soft cushion he's leaning into. Finally settling, the exhaustion from earlier makes her limbs feel heavy. "Those are your stories to tell when you want to."

He nodded softly, considering what parts to tell. There were certain things that would be difficult to explain and likely hard for her to believe. Though...in looking at his chest, what other explanation could there be but the truth? He wasn't pushed or prompted, it was the time to tell her. No more vague statements or half truths, he wanted it out in the open. No secrets and no lies.

"Ser Davos told you that I let the Freefolk south of the Wall. I'm not sure what Jorah Mormont has said about the hostilities between the North and the Wildlings, but it has been going on for centuries. The dead were marching closer and the Freefolk were in their path. If I didn't let them south and ally with them, thousands of lives were going to be lost." And even then, so many had been killed at Hardhome.

His eyes remained locked on his palm, following the intricate threading and tight stitching. She was skilled at her craft, perhaps as good as Sansa. That thought offering a small glimpse of home and a touch of comfort. "The Night's Watch didn't agree with my decision and my first ranger lead a group of men in mutiny."

Mutiny. He took a knife to the heart because men were unhappy about him saving a group of people. Saving lives. Whether the dead were indeed a real threat didn't matter, but he'd tried to bridge a huge gap between two groups and paid the consequences for that.

Selfish. The whole lot of them. This is the problem with people like that in Westeros. They're the rulers, the leaders, and they're failing their people because of their biases and grudges. This is what's splintering the kingdom, which likely worsened during her father's rule, only to be stoked to a boiling point with the Usurper's rule.

She reaches for his hand, cupping the top of his palm, so very careful not to touch his new wound. Her fingers curl around his.

"You're here. Where is he?"

His eyes close as her hand folds around his. Unconsciously, he leans closer to her, resting his head to hers. A small removal of space and the air in the room feels lighter and clean. The dark of that night is replaced by the gentleness of her eyes. Even the snow that he felt at his back was replaced by silver tendrils brushing against his skin. No dark memories, only her seeping in to his every sense and being.

"Dead." It was a simple fact, but there was no mistaking the regret and pain in his voice. He had never liked Thorne, but he did not enjoy his rival's death. There was no satisfaction in it, no sense of justice. Only that emptiness that shadowed his steps until the battle for Winterfell. "He was hanged along with the other men that helped him."

He shook his head, brown curls tangling with her own. With a free hand, he eased hers against his heart, letting her fingers brush over the deepest and ugliest wound. "There was no surviving this. So the Red Woman, Melisandre, brought me back."

Closeness becomes a sudden thing. The press of his head to hers. The warmth of his hand in her even warmer hand. So close, they could share breaths if they shifted. It leaves her suddenly feeling antsy. Like she needs to stand up and pace the room, pace the stairwells until she collapsed in an exhausted heap... but even then, if he leaned closer like he is now, she thinks she'd still feel that way.

Against better judgment, she stretches her legs out, draping them over his lap. Her silence stretches long after he tells her he'd died. That magic brought him back. How could it possibly bring someone back when it'd taken Drogo and Rhaego's lives?

And Melisandre... she'd urged Dany to summon Jon because of the things he'd seen.

Gently, oh so carefully, she traces the puckered skin of the worst scar.

"You shouldn't regret his death." There's a note of ferocity in her tone, layered neatly beneath understanding. She regrets having Mossador killed, but he'd broken the law. And the Sons of the Harpy... no there was no regret in that--never when they fought to murder her and hers. "They deserve far worse for their betrayal."

If there was a need to move in her, it was absent in Jon. Since coming back from death, he had wanted a bit of peace, a moment where he wasn't constantly fighting or thinking about the war ahead. Something warm and something that could feel like home. So long as she didn't pull away, he would keep close to her. It was the cave manifested, his brotherhood and family all brought together in one person.

He had never believed he had a home before, but clearly it was never a place but a person he didn't imagine he would meet.

The more she stretches against him, the more he pulls her in. His bare chest enfolded her, no longer shying away from her proximity to his scars. There was heat in the room, seeping into his blood and letting him feel ease for the first time in a long while. He could almost forget how the Wall felt next to her or how the world looked with only snow as its backdrop. She was moonlight on an open field, guiding him along a path he didn't know he was lost on.

He watched her delicate fingers trace over him, goosebumps rising across his skin. Strangely, his member twitched to life, hardening at such gentleness against something so brutal and violent.

"One of them was just a boy. He had seen his family slaughtered by Wildlings before he came to the Wall. He was frightened and didn't understand what needed to be done. I can't feel just in killing him. He was a good lad."

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