song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

He wasn't concerned about Anya's arrival. Despite some of her things being left in his flat, she hadn't moved in exactly. She spent her nights elsewhere. That would change eventually, but it wasn't tonight. Whether or not they would be discovered never crossed his mind. It was dangerous and he knew that they were breaking the rules by being like this. But his life was nothing but danger and the ever present knowledge of death. The threat of this city was nothing compared to that, at least not for himself. For her...he didn't want to consider it.

But the world and city weren't present in this room, only the two of them and the sweet sensation of being fully satisfied. Once his muscles let him, he would return the favor to her and see she came twice over. Beyond that, he didn't pay anything else much thought.

He hadn't told anyone about that experience, no Sansa and not his friends. That certainty of death, that feeling that he could let himself go and give up, resting again. No one else seemed like they would understand. It's hard to put it all to words and he had no energy for it before. "I almost let myself die, just so I could rest and stop fighting. It was all I had done since I left Winterfell. I don't know what changed, but the further I was pushed down, the less I could breathe, I...realized I wanted to live."

The more he tells her, the more she marvels over this change between them. Weeks ago found them fucking angrily in a park, a contest of will and power. That and their meeting in her throne room feel like distant wisps of memory. Did it even occur?

Slowly, hesitantly, she settles beside him again. There's little need for fidgeting until she finds a comfortable position--once her cheek is pressed to that spot where shoulder meets chest, as if it were made for her, she's settled. Perhaps not fully at least, but it's a start. She still doesn't reach for a scar. Not yet.

"There's no rest until the wars are fought." And then there still would be no rest, for the people required ruling. That was a different battle, just as exhausting, more rewarding. "This came after a huge betrayal. It takes time to recover."

She curls against him as though she was made to fit him perfectly. There was never a sense of home in his life, even in the warmer days of Winterfell. He had been a key without a lock, now nestled firmly in the space that was meant specifically for him. He had wanted to go south to get warm, but maybe he had sensed what was waiting for him? His home, his place in the world, all wrapped up in the figure of a small woman with hair like the pale full moon.

It is easy to tell her these things, easier than he thought it would be. Now that the initial hurdle has been passed, there is no more wall for him to scale, no foot hold to lose. He was on solid ground with her.

"I never had that time." Hence why he was hesitant to start another war here. "The next day, Sansa arrived at the Wall. She wanted to go return to Winterfell and reclaim it from the Boltons. He had our brother..." the only reason he fought again. "Another war, another battle. I never had the chance to rest."

Not until now. There were no words to tell her how much she gave him, how much relief and peace. He needed this, he needed her. "Even when I came to Dragonstone, I wasn't expecting anything after the war with the Others. I thought that would be the end for me." One way or another.

They're more alike than she'd initially believed. Of course there were similarities between them. He wasn't the sort of ruler who basked in his power and abused it. He used it to protect people. Just like how I fight monsters. Still difficult to believe Tyrion said that about her.

She doesn't comment on the Others, because that's still a subject that would cause strife between them. Old arguments, old demands. The dragon glass means little to her, but she needed him as an ally both here and at home. And once again, he's hesitant to become one.

"When there's war to be had, a person's lucky for even a moment's peace." She couldn't mourn those she's lost, or the girl she'd been. Not her family, her people. She doesn't have time here to mourn her fate. "Sometimes not having that moment to rest is more important. It keeps you moving, instead of looking back."

She knows that fact all too well.

It's easy to understand that she is speaking from experience. From the way Tyrion spoke of her, he could imagine that she knew what it was to have no rest. It was difficult to imagine that pressing for her family's claim was the same as needing to survive against a mythical force. But...even then, what was her claim but a need to survive? To make a place for herself in a harsh world. He could understand needing to find a niche, however much comfort it offered.

If given the chance, he wouldn't look back either. There were too many mistakes that he made, too much guilt to carry. If he stopped to face them, what would it solve or give him in the end? "What happens when the war is finished?" If it was ever finished. So far, he had never seen an end to the fighting. "Have you ever thought of it?"

She would be queen supposedly, but what sort of world would she rule over?

"Peace," she simply says. There's no hesitation in her answer, it's what she knows deep in her bones. "It won't be perfect--ruling never is. Meereen taught me that. But we take that time to rebuild and restore the kingdoms. To fix the wrongs of our parents and make a better world for the children who follow."

She doesn't say 'ours', because she cannot have children. His children would be safe... and any others who so choose to make a family. That had to be enough.

"I came to Westeros with the intention of breaking the wheel. No more of the Great Houses trampling on those beneath them. The smallfolk are the ones who suffer the most from that, and they're no less important than a king or queen."

It was more than he had considered since being named king. He didn't even believe that he would live beyond the war, that the title would pass to someone else, likely Sansa. The idea of children, marriage, anything of that sort had never existed in his mind. It was Sansa's future and the future of the people.

There was a future in her mind, which meant that she was better suited to be queen. He was a wartime ruler, she was a dynasty maker. There were things he could ask, he could point out there might not be great houses left, but he didn't want to bicker or go back to the conversation that often lead to them butting heads.

He kissed the top of her head, not wanting to break this moment. "It must be why your people follow you."

His kiss catches her off guard.

"What would those of Essos care of Westeros?" Her righting the wrongs of their fathers isn't a battle that her people care much for. The squabbles of lords and kings isn't much a thing she cares for either--particularly when those individuals are dead. "They all have their reasons for choosing me. The fact that they've placed their trust in me means there's no room for failure. I refuse to fail them."

She's never told anyone that line of thinking before, not even Missandei. It went without saying that she couldn't lose. If each and every battle was a question to her resolve, then she would step away the victor. The first time her faith wavered would be the moment enemies struck, and if she fell, there would be none to protect those under her care.

"You've an odd choice of pillow talk."

"Pillow talk?"

He has an idea of what that means, given that they were laying together, curled around each other after his climax. Thinking back to his first time with Ygritte, they had drifted back to the outside world as well, at least briefly. Too often the world followed him, his burdens and duty forever seizing control of his thoughts. It happened to often with Ygritte, he wouldn't let it consume him with Dany.

For once, he wanted something that was simply his, no matter the danger.

"What do people usually talk about after?" He asked her, trying to consider what he could say. He wasn't much of a poet, so he couldn't go on and one about his feelings. Their lives were too dark to reflect on with each other in these moments. He considered for a moment, letting his hand drift over her curves. "Do you think this would have happened in Westeros? This?"

"The others--the ones who claim themselves modern--they use it. It's the subject of conversation after sex. As for what they speak of, I don't know." It's not as if she's had countless lovers to compare between. Drogo usually fell asleep, and Daario spoke of many things. "Things, I suppose."

Not at all helpful.

The tension in her eases a bit with his hand trailing along her side. The fabric she wears is soft and cool, stretching easily. With his hand on her, it creeps up her thigh the higher his hand travels; she's more focused on the warmth of him in that one touch.

"When would we have the time?" A quiet chuckle. "Lest you suddenly became a Bodem, I can't imagine this happening between us. Not immediately."

Given the chance to speak with him normally, without the butting of heads, and it was possible. Even she could admit that.

"We haven't exactly seen to you yet." He shifted a little, maneuvering so that he could press his hips against hers. "I don't know if this really counts for pillow talk." He was the only one satisfied. That didn't offer her very much room to bask in the glow of it all.

"The mining will keep me busy, but I won't be leaving Dragonstone for some time." Which meant they would always be close in proximity. That was a frustrating thought before, but now seemed like a blessing. Having her to himself, he would do a great deal for that.

"But you think it would happen?" He pressed, glancing down at her again with a suggestive grin. It was a strange thing to be so consumed by a woman again. To feel this excitement and longing to always be with her. The wars could wait for a time, there was just this.

He disarms her by saying that. So many wouldn't bother to worry of returning the favor. Once they'd fallen into bed tonight, she hadn't expected much else. It was enough to do this. To bring him to such a state.

That's exactly why her smile's a little unguarded, and she's reaching up to cup his cheek. She tilts her hips, pressing their bodies closer. He's a surprising man, once his hackles are lowered. "What would it count as?"

Though it's not in her memory, she did intend to grant him permission to mine for dragonglass. It was a simple enough gesture of goodwill, she'd figured at first, after speaking with Tyrion. That would keep Jon busy, remaining at Dragonstone for the foreseeable future. He would be treated as a guest, not a prisoner, which means they would be speaking.

His grin is wolfy, boyish. She lifts her chin, playing at aloof like a dragon would. "It might. Depends on how well you 'see to me.'"

It was said without intention of disarming or chipping away at defenses, a simple observation o the facts. What they did, they shared together, never one above the other. It didn't occur to him that not all men would respond the same way. He simply thought this was a basic fact, he had his turn and soon she would have hers.

Her touch makes his heart skip a beat. He leans into her palm, turning his face so he could press a kiss into it. "I don't know. Seeing each other?" So much was unguarded now, bare and naked between them. "You said yourself, it's not the talk others have. Maybe it is just ours?"

And in the end, it was what he wanted. Neither of them were accustomed to living as others might. They had to be more than Jon or Daenerys, they had to bear many facets and lead, carrying a greater burden than most. There was no joy in their command, as Aemon had once remarked. To have something like this, whether it was bleak talk or not, it was honest, a piece of themselves shown. It counted for a lot more than simple lover's words.

He nips at her lips, enjoying that air of superiority she gives off. "You have the night to find out." Not even the night. He was stirring at the proximity of their bodies and wanted to press himself between her legs.

And again, he catches her off guard. This time, it's not a charmed little smile that appears--no, that slips away. That sudden need to move comes back, and with it, something unreadable in her eyes as she stares at him.

The idea that he sees her is both thrilling and terrifying. She knows he's seen more of her than she would allow most; attachment's made her careless in keeping him at a distance. What's worse (or better?) is that these little moments only strengthen whatever it is between them. It makes her like him. Makes her want more of him. She wants these talks to be 'just theirs.'

"You shouldn't say that," she forces herself to say, resisting the urge to chase after his mouth when he nips her lips. Instead, she's rolling onto her back and sitting up... looking ahead at nothing, mind racing, a frown in place. "Not here."

Because if he says it here, if she grows more attached, he'll inevitably be drawn into a war she's ready to start. She would not be held captive, subject to the whims of their captors. Her one weakness was Drogon being so little; she didn't need another in Jon. They would use him against her if they found out.

He sees the shadow that passes over her and understands that he had either said something wrong or scared her. Perhaps both. Whatever the reason, it's broken the sweet intimacy and replaced the room with a cold tension. Was it fear? There wasn't a feeling quite like this before. He had broken his vows and loved when he shouldn't before, but it didn't match this.

"Why not?" He asked, sitting up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He rested his head on her shoulder, not willing to break the moment yet or to allow fear to intrude. There was danger, but it was such a common facet of his life that it was no different than what he faced at home. There at least wasn't a certainty of death.

This was inevitable and undeniable between them. Whether there was a war coming or not, it wasn't enough to keep everything between them coming to culmination. "We kept away for two weeks." And see how it ended? She was back in his arms and now in his bed. "Whatever we try to do, we're fucked."

Because this was already too far gone to stop now. Whether he said the words or not, they were attached more than they should be. It didn't matter if she was going to start a war or not. This was their fate.

He wraps around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. It's such a seamless thing, the way he tucks around her, wrapping her in his body heat. She glances down at the arms around her middle, thinking red's much too harsh a color against his skin.

So would blood.

"Because you'll be dragged into something you've no business being involved in." He doesn't want to be, and she'll respect that. His beard tickles, but she doesn't move. Lightly snorts, yes, when he tells her they're fucked, because they are. "I'm going home, no matter what it takes."

He may wish his time for rest, to face and come to terms with his shadows; she doesn't. If she stops, if she looks back, she's lost. There's too much of a crippling past for her to slow down when there's still so much left to do.

"I'm a conqueror, Jon. I won't be conquered. Not here. And I won't leave my people and dragons vulnerable in Westeros in my absence."

"Is that why you came here tonight? To conqueror?" It's such a simple thing to classify herself as nothing more than a queen, but he's seen more than that. "Who told you that?" It wasn't simple to emulate a legend and it was clear she was trying to live up to her ancestors, but she was as much a woman as a Targaryen and try as they might, they couldn't be their family long deceased.

He didn't want to dash her dreams of war or rebellion in this place. Even if he objected and pointed out the obvious, it wouldn't do much good. She would always fight if she was put under shackles. He had faced an unstoppable force before without knowledge of how to fight them and lost thousands of men because of it. Hardhome was a bitter reminder what could be waiting for them here.

"You think I don't want to go home either? If there is a way, I have to take it." He has people relying on him and a threat that wasn't about to wait. He wouldn't leave the North to get slaughtered.

"Aegon was a conqueror, but he didn't do it alone. He loved."

"You know that's not why," she snaps. She's more patience for him, but not for him misinterpreting her reasons for coming. All of this is a confusing mess, made worse by feelings muddying the waters. Complications... where's the time for it? Why did she come up here, when she could instead be planning? What, she doesn't know, but at least there wouldn't be discussions about love.

She reaches up to scrub at her face. No longer relaxed, there a tension thrumming through her body. It has her squirming out of his hold and on her feet as she paces. Like her dragons in the crypt, she feels.

This was a mistake, she should tell him, but the words won't come out. She may be a lot of things, might twist the truth sometimes, but she's not a liar.

"Aegon had Balerion. He had armies, sisterwives with dragons of their own. This is not the time for love." That much, she can say. The mere thought of love makes her want to recoil, and she doesn't because she's not a coward. So she stops and looks at him, her voice eerily steady. It's not asked in challenge, but a genuine question--despite the wildness in her eyes. "What are you doing to try and get home?"

Exhaustion fills him as the scene shifts from something new and real back to the familiar routine between them. After everything he bared to her, he was not eager to return to arguing or the barriers they threw between each other. He was seated before her, naked. His scars displayed without hesitation or fear, yet they were returning to how they were before. It was a cycle that was beginning to make him feel unsteady, as though he'd always be yanked backwards by some unseen leash.

He lets her pulls away, doesn't fight it as she begins to pace around the room. The queen had returned. Never mind that she was barely dressed, never mind that he could see her body under the fabric of her gown and how little she wore. She commanded presence and when the mask returned, his mind drifted away from lust.

He braced himself for the words 'this was a mistake', but she didn't throw them at him. She didn't object or fight, it seemed. Only challenged him in an attempt that read to him like an effort to start a fight. It rankled him that she would assert because he had done nothing yet, he didn't want to return home.

Jon sighed, reaching for his clothes as he tugged on his trousers. "Aye, you're right. I'm not starting a rebellion as you are and I am not enlisting soldiers to fight our unseen army. I'm not a conqueror." It's said with a measure of defeat and fatigue. After all this, he wasn't going to fight her or take the bait. If she wanted to win (as it seemed to him), he'd let her in this case.

Edited 2018-11-11 16:57 (UTC)

A sense of victory doesn't come in the face of his yielding. It should, but she's devoid of much, save a disappointing numbness, a distant relief in knowing he wouldn't be dragged into whatever she may stir.

It makes the sudden chill much worse, like that one glimpse of heat was nothing more than a tease. Something she's imagined. An idea woven together, birthed by a need she doesn't have (or so she tells herself).

The silence as he pulls on his pants is nearly suffocating, broken only by what he says, and what he says has her lips thinning as she looks away. "I asked you a simple question, and you act as if I've kicked you in the groin."

Edited 2018-11-11 17:18 (UTC)

"I don't want to fight with you." There were enough arguments between them that made some conversations difficult to navigate. Speaking about the Others, his kingship, and now what the city expected of them. He didn't intend to further add to the list, but it seemed their feelings were not so easily sorted after all. "I'm tired of fighting."

Both with her and with the world itself. One he might have no choice with, but it would never be the same with Daenerys. However frustrating she could be, he was never going to carry the same sort of conflict with her that he might with this city.

"You had said you weren't going to go again, but you've blocked me out like before. I don't know why you keep pushing me away, but I am not going to force anything on you." And he wasn't going to argue with her because he was frustrated and lonely for the woman he only briefly got to find some tranquility with.

So am I, she tiredly thinks.

What's this about blocking him out like before? Is she? Why would he want to be let in, in the first place?

There was a fine line to walk with this: she could either let him in and risk him being caught in whatever may come, or she could push him away. If she chooses the latter, it's breaking her word from before. If she goes with the former, she's breaking her word about how she wouldn't allow another person she cares about being harmed.

After a long, suffocating silence where she toes the line between the two, she sighs. "I don't want you to get hurt."

You silly girl. Might as well seal his fate.

He almost didn't know what to think of the statement. Her concern was flattering and surprising, as he never really had anyone express that to him before, well aware of the dangers ahead of them. But at the same time, being hurt seemed inevitable. He was a soldier. He'd been shot with arrows, attacked by a hawk, beaten down by several different opponents, acquiring a large collection of scars (though they were not the most prominent.)

He couldn't exactly reassure her. If a battle came, he would be back at the front again, charging ahead as he always did, often without consideration or thought. If he told her that he'd be careful, it would be a lie. But somehow, he didn't think that this had to do with warfare.

This was about the city and what would happen if she did commit a rebellion. Did she think that they would capture him?

"There is nothing they can do to me that hasn't happened before." He wouldn't make light of dying, but he couldn't view them as a personal threat.

She feels silly standing in the middle of his bedroom in this attire. Not something she favors sleeping in, as naked was always more comfortable, but something to try. Something to add to her clothing she'll sell, since these scraps of fabric do seem popular.

She feels silly and stupid standing in front of him, her expression stony. Her eyes speak novels, betraying her when he speaks of what been done to him. "I won't be the reason for that."

It should be fine to leave it at that, but now that she's chosen a side on that line, she's taking a step closer to him. It's as if she comes back alive from that stony state.

"You don't want to approach this the same way as I. If they see us together and something goes wrong, who do you think they'll look for? I've no reason to talk. I've seen how these things are done enough times, Jon."

"You think they would view me as the easier target?" It seems almost laughable, given what they had placed as defining trait. Perhaps it should be flattering that she views him as her primary weakness, but it's hard to imagine himself being used as bait or anything else for anyone.

"If something goes wrong, they will punish us both." Quite likely, the pair of them would have the same reaction to it. It certainly seemed that way, given her first thought was for him and his was for her. It would be safer to simply not risk it, but that was no longer an option for him.

He shook his head, trying not to laugh at the idea or dismiss her concerns. They were valid, even if he thought them unlikely. "I'm not going to die, Daenerys." Not here, at least. "I know how to protect myself if I need to." He nodded over to his sword, leaning against the side table. He would live and die with that sword.

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