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The rain had just stopped, leaving the air of Dragonstone thick with salt and silence. Torches along the hallways cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, while the sea continued its steady crash against the rocks. He wasn't used to accepting late summonses from foreigners, not that he had received any of them, but that evening, when Missandei brought him the Queen's note, he sensed that this encounter was something more than a simple political meeting.
As he crossed the threshold of the painted table room, where, to his surprise, there were no guards, Jon found her there. Not in the regal robes he was used to seeing her wear during the day, but in a dress that looked like a caress of silk and shadows. A half-unlaced corset held her breath with studied grace, revealing the vulnerability behind her strength. On the table beside her were two glasses of red wine, one of which had been knocked over, the dark liquid forming a small ruby river on the carved wood right by the Trident.
"I'm not good at pouring wine," the young woman said lightly. "My servants would have hidden this mess. But I wanted you to see it."
Jon raised an eyebrow, not knowing if she was playing with him or was honest. But if she was playing, he decided to play along. “A Queen who admits she can't pour wine. The taletellers of the North would make a ballad of that.”
She chuckled softly, a chuckle that had none of the hardness she showed in public, as she turned around, crossing her arms.
“I fear the singers have already sung too much of me, Jon Snow. Tales of fire and blood, tales of dragons and madness, of lovers and broken passions. I am what your Septons would call a whore. I don’t believe they ever sang of spilled glasses.”
“I don’t follow the Seven.” He approached, took the jug, and filled it to the brim. “Beside, that’s not what I’ve heard. What I have heard of you was something different.” Picking up the other, he did the same, adding as he did so. "Your brother Rhaegar...your father, the Mad King. They say the blood of the Targaryens burns with flames that devour all. That destroys all.” Shaking his head, he looked up at her as he gave her the glass, and for a split second, their hands touched. “But you are not like the stories tell."
Her violet eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she took a sip, and her eyes immediately fell on the rim where her lips had touched and the liquid she had swallowed.
“And you are not the silent bastard I imagined.” Moving towards one of the chairs by the fireplace, she said, “They say the North knows no warmth. Yet, within you, I see a fire burning powerfully.”
He did not answer, following her and sitting down on the empty chair beside her. The silence fell upon them, broken only by the grumbling of the sky and the creaking of the logs in the heart. Then suddenly, he heard her speak softly. “May I tell you a secret, my lord?” and he nodded, taking a sip. “I never had anyone to laugh with. Not really. As a child, I was on the run, in hiding, humiliated. My brother... he was not a man who knew kindness.” A pause. “He once told me that I should thank him for every crumb. And I believed him. For years.”
Jon shifted. Her voice was no longer velvet but cracked stone. There was pain in her words. Pain for a love she had never known. A brother's love for his sister.
“Yet,” Daenerys continued, "I survived. I found strength in things I never thought possible. In dragons, of course. But also, in myself.” Then, looking him straight in the eye, she added, “You know loneliness, Jon. I see it in your eyes. The cold you carry inside you... It's no different from the fire that burns within me."
Jon's heart pounded. He remembered the voices he had heard in the hallways, the whispers about the cursed Targaryen blood. Mad, cruel, divine, and terrible. But the woman before him was neither mad nor cruel. She was an enigma of strength and vulnerability, speaking with candour by candlelight.
He soon realised that their faces were much closer than he had expected, and he found himself whispering in a hoarse voice, “You're not as the tales describe you, your grace.”
“Neither you,” she replied. “You're not just Ned Stark's bastard. You're a man who knows how to listen and how to talk.”
A chuckle escaped him before a heavy silence fell over them, with only the sea and the candles bearing witness to the moment. Then, leaning back in her chair, the young woman took a sip. “Since the night is full of honesty, I want to reveal one more secret, Jon."
For the first time, he heard her whisper his name differently than usual, and a shiver ran down his back.
“I've never met a man like you... the White Wolf of Winterfell.” She added the last part with a chuckle. Her gaze grew darker, but also more sincere. "I have been in love with different men in my lifetime... or rather, two to be precise. Daario Naaharis, with his cocky smile and ever-ready dagger, made me feel desired, bold, and alive. There was... lightness. Passion without roots. But he never listened to me. He did what everyone wants to do when they see me. Fuck me.”
He shifted in his seat at hearing the word, and for a moment wondered if that was a hint to the reasons why he was there. Of what he wanted. She stopped, and her gaze fell on the dancing flames, lost in the fire.
“Before him, Khal Drogo, my late husband. He was a wild, untamed fire. He taught me not to be afraid. But he didn't speak my tongue, he didn't understand my silences. He saw in me only the one who would give birth to the Stallion who would ride the world.”
Her violet eyes raised to meet his, bright and vulnerable. “You, on the other hand...you carry the coldness of the North, yet I have never felt such warmth as in the way you listen. You don't demand, you don't complain. You are different. You are the White Wolf who howls not for himself, but for his pack. And that frightens me more than any dragon or throne.”
Jon sat still, speechless. He could feel her breath mingling with his, her fingers still tracing the map in the wine. Then, taking a sip, he decided to repay her honesty with an equal truth.
In a low voice, almost to himself, he confessed. “I loved once... Ygritte. She died.”
A sad smile touched Daenerys' lips, and he continued, almost as if to justify himself. "She... was fire. Wild. She pursued me and challenged me. Yet despite that, when the night was bare and I lay beside her, I felt alone. I often wondered, “Is this love?” Love shouldn't make you feel lonely. So, I concluded it wasn't love, not the kind that changes you, that opens your soul. It was desire, anger, a need to feel alive, even against me."
Daenerys watched him closely and slowly nodded, as if she recognised every word in her own experience.
“It's the same thing I felt when I was with Drogo and Daario. A loneliness despite the warmth body lying beside me.”
The heat in the room became almost physical. Their eyes met again: vulnerable, sincere. The flames in the fireplace flickered like the beating of their hearts, and Jon realised how rare it was to find someone before whom he could truly expose himself, not physically but emotionally. Perhaps she was the only one in the world who understood him. Yet he didn't know why because they were so different. One was born a Queen, and the other a mistake of the Gods.
The queen tilted her head slightly, and a subtle, almost ironic smile appeared on her lips. “Yet...here we are, and we know the difference. It's not just passion or desire we seek. It's listening. Trust. Understanding. We seek someone not like Drogo, Daario, or Ygritte.”
She paused, letting the silence complete the sentence. Jon felt the weight of the words, yet he couldn't speak.
“Did you find such a person?” he nodded. But it was a shy nod, almost as if he was afraid that all that was a dream, and that giving voice to those words would break the moment.
“So did I.”
The fire crackled softly, the logs creaking as they broke into golden sparks. The flames danced, casting red and orange shadows on the queen's face. Each glow lit up her features: her eyes like burning amethysts, her skin seemingly sculpted by the light.
Jon realised he was holding his breath. She was just inches away, the heat of the fire mingling with the warmth of her closeness. Their gazes locked, steady as a sword planted in rock. Neither spoke. There was no need. Words would have broken the fragile tension that, deep down, they both wanted to prolong.
Every second was a step beyond the edge: the wine staining the table, the crackling of the fire, the beat Jon felt rising in his chest. The sea outside seemed further away. All that remained was her.
A goblet of wine slid off the edge of the table, spilling again. Neither of them picked it up. The candles burned slowly, and the room was filled with warmth and anticipation.
Jon leaned towards her, their foreheads almost touching. “Your grace-“
“Don't,” she stopped him, a whisper that was more than a command. “Call me Dany.”
And in that moment, the masks fell off. There were no crowns or oaths, no ice or fire. Just two souls who had stopped pretending.
“Dany,” he whispered her name, tasting the word rolling down his tongue, as their hands intertwined, two gazes letting go, like spilled wine that asked not to be gathered up.
Jon leaned in again, and the world seemed to shrink in the blink of an eye. Their foreheads touched, and their breaths mingled, warm and rapid. Her scent, a mixture of sea, ash, and distant flowers, enveloped him like a cloud, and Jon felt as if he were falling into an abyss from which he did not want to be saved. Her lips were a breath away. He could feel their warmth, almost taste them, without even touching them. Every moment was sweet torment, an invisible thread holding them suspended: the promise of a kiss that never came but already consumed them.
Daenerys's eyes were no longer those of a queen, but of a woman who allowed herself to be truly seen. A fragile, burning flame. But then, suddenly, she pulled away. Not abruptly, but gracefully, like someone breaking a spell but not denying it. She rose from her chair and moved towards the large painted table of Westeros that stood in the middle of the room. Her robe swayed behind her like a trail of smoke.
Jon still sat, his heart still pounding. He saw her place her hand on the edge of the table and lean forward slightly, as if speaking to the whole world.
“Look.” Her finger slid across the wood, where spilled wine had formed scarlet rivulets. With a slow, deliberate gesture, she traced the western coast, from Dragonstone to the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. The wine traced red borders, as if blood itself were writing destiny.
“Fire taught me that enemies are best fought where they believe themselves to be stronger,” she said in a low voice, almost a whisper, still tinged with the tension of earlier. “I thought the Lannisters believed themselves masters of the West, that their power was built on gold and illusion, but I was deceived. I sent men to take over exhausted mines, losing one of my most important allies."
She ran her finger further, towards the Reach. “But even if the Tyrells have fallen, the lands that fed them remain. If I control the harvests, I control the food. No city fights with an empty belly.”
Jon moved closer, intrigued by her plan, forgetting for a moment the echo of the near-kiss. “You want to strangle them with hunger rather than with the sword.”
She looked at him over her shoulder, with a smile that was half invitation and half challenge. “Fire destroys, but hunger breaks kingdoms from within. I wouldn't need to burn every city to bend Cersei. I would only need to close my fists around her heart.”
Wine dripped slowly onto the painted wood of the table, tracing ruby rivers through the rivers and mountains. Daenerys's finger traced the map as if destiny were written in that trail. Jon, beside her, still felt the warmth of the near-kiss suspended between them, but the words she chose brought him abruptly back to the world of war.
“But whether I want it or not, war will happen. The Lords of Westeros see me as an usurper. A foreign Queen. I won’t hide the fact that I know nothing about war, so here, now, I ask you, as a seasoned commander, as a man who has known battles greater than the songs tell, what would you do?”
Jon looked down, bothered by the weight of that question. “Songs are deceiving, your Grace.”
“Yet they speak of you,” she retorted, her tone both caressing and insistent. “Of the Northern bastard who held desperate men together at Castle Black when an army of wildlings marched upon them. Of the young brother who led an expedition beyond the Wall to avenge the father of the Night's Watch. Of the survivor of Hardhome, where even the dead rose against the living. And finally...” Her eyes lifted and pierced him. “Of the winner of the famous Battle of the Bastards. A man who took his home back from the hands of a monster and avenged the pride of the North."
Jon felt the pressure of the words and the warmth of the wine. He shook his head, unwilling to give in to flattery. “The victories were not mine.”
She raised an eyebrow, surprised as she turned. “Whose, then?”
Jon took a deep breath. "At Craster's Keep, it was my brothers who fought and won, not me. I was saved from certain death by one of his wives. At the Wall, it was the Night's Watch who defended the Castle, it was Green who held the gate against the giant, Ser Aliser commanded them, and Stannis Baratheon and his army saved us at the last moment. At Hardhome...” He paused, and a shadow passed over his eyes, too difficult to describe in words. “There, we didn't win. There, we lost more than I can count. And at the Battle of the Bastards...” Jon swallowed. “It wasn't me who won. It was the Knights of the Vale, led by Sansa. Without them, I would have been left beneath the corpses of my own men."
The silence grew thick as he looked up. “As you can see, I am the last person to ask for military advice.”
Dany looked at him, and for the first time, she laughed softly, an incredulous but not cruel laugh. "You are the only commander I have ever heard who recounts his victories as defeats. Yet here you are, alive, and your enemies are dead or gone. There is something in you, Jon Snow. Something that surprises me... and makes me smile."
Jon gave her a serious look. ‘It's the truth. No one wins alone.’
“There! You see,” she pointed out, turning back to the man. “Even when you think so down of your skills, you still manage to give the most sensible advice, Jon. No one wins alone.” Rounding the table, she came to his side, and, grabbing his hands, she addressed him. “That is why I am asking you to help me take the throne. You came here seeking help against the Strangers because you knew you could not win alone.
There was no answer from him. Their gazes became more intense, their breathing heavier, and then, in the blink of an eye, their mouths met like two waves crashing against the cliff. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her up and placing her on the painted table, keeper of conquests and war maps, which became a silent accomplice to their mutual surrender. Her fingers still traced boundaries, but no longer on the painted lands, but on his skin, pulling at his locks, at his buttons, while his hands held her as if he feared even dragons could snatch her away.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the hall opening onto the balcony. For a moment, Dragonstone trembled beneath the roar, and the storm seemed to proclaim their union stronger than any proclamation or oath. The rain did not enter, but the wind did, carrying with it the salt of the sea and the smell of the storm, enveloping the flames dancing on the ancient stones.
Daenerys laughed softly, between a kiss and a whisper, and her voice was sweeter than the wine itself. “The White Wolf and the Mother of Dragons... no ballad or lie can contain us.”
Jon responded only with grunts and his gaze: intense, eager, filled with a passion that belonged not to a king or a commander, but to a man who had finally stopped resisting.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered against his lips, nibbling on them. Her hands pulled impatiently at his clothes. First his tunic, then the shirt underneath, until he was bare. But the moment her eyes fell on his scars, a gasp escaped her, and she tried to touch him. “What-”
“Another night.” He raised his gaze to her chin and broke the kiss again.
His fingers took hold of her corset, pulling at the laces and loosening it until he could pull the top down. When her chest came into view, he broke the kiss and pulled back enough to get a good look at her beautiful body. She obviously did not hide from his gaze, nor did she feel embarrassed. On the contrary. She leaned back on her arms and, with a seductive grin, asked, “Do you like what you see, King Jon?”
“Very much,” he swallowed, drinking in her nakedness. A pair of perfect breasts stood proudly on her chest. Not too big, but neither too small. They were big enough for his hands to wrap around them. At the top, two perky pink points, hardened by the chilling breeze coming from the sea.
“What are you waiting for? An invite?” came her eager question, and he chuckled, rising one hand to touch her. Feel her weight, and the pointy tips scratching beneath his skin. He squeezed the flesh, cupped, rubbed. Leaning down, he dragged his tongue along her chest, tasting the saltiness of her sweat chest. His lips kissed between the valley of her breasts while pushing, before wrapping his mouth around one of her nipples, but opening his mouth full enough to welcome as much flesh of her as possible.
Dany cried out, throwing her head back as he sucked and bit. She tasted so lovely. Then he moved to her other breasts. But feeling that he will burst out if he doesn’t get rid of his breeches, Jon pulled up and, with his hands, fumbled with his breeches.
However, the moment he was freed, her hand immediately reached down to him, and a gasp escaped her. “My, my. You truly have a long claw down there.” And he looked at her with an arched eyebrow, as she giggled while uttering the words. “My men heard you named your sword Longclaw. But the true one you were hiding in your breeches.”
Jon groaned as he felt her stroke him. The way her hand was moving so gracefully up and down his shaft was driving him mad. Not wanting to come in her hand like a green boy, he pushed her hand off and, grasping her waist, he lifted her up like she weighed nothing and put the queen on the table. Her legs immediately wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer and forcing his hard cock to press against her bare womanhood. They both gasped at the sudden touch, but his lips were on her soon enough to turn the gasp into moans.
He moved his hips till his cock was perfectly lined up with her entrance, and with one thrust, he slammed the whole length of his throbbing meat deep into her wanton cunt, stretching and filling her walls completely and wondrously.
A loud scream from the deep of her lungs came, and he immediately worried he was too rough, “Forg-“
“Shhh,” she silenced him, then cursed. “Fuck! You are much more bigger than expected.” Swallowing, she said, hands rubbing his arms and shoulders. “Give me a moment to adjust.” Then, as she lay down, the Queen pulled him down on top of her as he began to move. “You can move.”
He did, slowly snapping his hips. Their chests were pinned together, the tongues lazily dancing. Soon, he found the perfect steady rhythm that was bringing both of them pleasure.
Of course, the fact that she had her clothes still on wasn’t making it easy, because what he wanted to suck and lick and bite were covered in that moment, but nevertheless it was still perfect.
At every thrust, his pace was getting quicker and quicker. The slapping of skin on skin was getting louder, just like their moans. And Jon could swear that he could hear her dragons roaring. Or it was the queen herself?
“So good, so good,” he murmured against her neck, sucking and biting the flesh.
When his hands gripped her thighs hard enough to leave a bruise, Dany raked down his back with her nails in response, and a wolfish groan escaped him, and his thrust became more powerful. His balls loudly slapped her ass and it was lucky that the walls of Dragonstone were thick because if they weren’t, everyone would have heard the noises of the two of them fucking.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” she chanted the words like a prayer, but then a yelp escaped her when he flipped her over, chest pressed against the Painted Table, and her arse in the air.
He did not sheath inside at once but admired the beauty of her rear in that moment. Her perfect arse that Davos implied he was staring at when they first met. Then she had a long dress to cover her. Now, she was bare to his sight.
Leaning over her, his still hard length trapped between the cheeks, Jon kissed her bare back, and in the meantime, brought his trembling hands to the laces of her dress, untying them till she was freed. Then came the pin of her dress, leaving the queen naked as the day she was born to his sight.
Kneeling, Jon planted a few kisses on her arse and gave a long lick between her legs. The Queen’s body tensed at the sudden touch of his tongue, and she cocked back his name. “Jon.”
“Another night,” he whispered against her arse before standing up and lining himself up behind her. With a swift thrust, he was balls deep inside the young woman, and they both groaned in pleasure. He held himself deep inside of her for a moment before starting to move, snapping his hips. But Dany did the same, meeting his slaps.
Fisting her silver-gold locks, he tugged on them, lifting her head up and forcing Dany to arch her back, as he slammed into her cunt. His thrusts were short and fast, and her moans quickly turned into grunts of pleasure.
“Jon! Yes! Yes!” she screamed.
He watched her arse shaking delightfully at each time he roughly thrust into her, and Jon sighed in bliss at the sight. A truly magnificent view. And in that moment, a dark thought crossed his mind, and before he could stop it, his hand smacked one of her cheeks. A yelp escaped her, and she turned her head, looking in surprise.
“Forgive me.”
“Do it again,” she panted the words, and one of his eyebrows raised before he smacked again. She never broke their eye contact as he landed another one, switching between the cheeks, while the grip on her locks tightened.
At every slap of his hand, her arse was getting redder and her cunt was tightening around his length. He pulled her up by the braid and wrapped his hand around her throat. “I wonder what your men will say when they discover that their queen, the indomitable Mother of Dragons, has been reduced to a whore.” He emphasized his point with a rough thrust and earned himself another moan from the young woman. Her cunt squeezed him tightly, but he managed to prevent himself from coming, just yet. “A royal whore.”
“Yes!” The Queen croaked and he let go of her throat. “Yes, yours!” she rasped, her voice returning to normal.
Dany dropped back down, chest pressed on the Painted Table, squelching every time he thrust inside of her, such was the wetness of her cunt pussy.
Letting her locks go and placed both of his hands on her hips. He lifted on thigh onto the Painted Table, and that changed the angle of his thrusts.
“Don’t stop, Jon,” she begged, and he had no intention in disobeying a Queen, especially when he had no intention of stopping. He could fuck Daenerys Targaryen to the end of his days, and he was certain he would never grow tired of her beautiful face and curvy figure. She was Valyrian beauty personified.
His balls slapped against her bulge with each snap of his hips. There was a moment during the act when his cock slipped out of her, not intentionally but it allowed both of them a few moments to catch their breath. His cock was completely soaked with the Queen’s juices that was leaking down her thighs and staining the table.
His body engulfed her as he peppered her shoulder with kisses. His cock was nestled between her asscheeks ,and Dany rotated her hips, rubbing her ass against his manhood, which earned herself a growl from him.
Jon pushed himself off of her and placed his hands on her hips. His cock was as hard as valyrian steel and he mounted her with a single, deep thrust. His thrusts were hard and fast, determined to send the Queen over the edge now rather than just bring her to the precipice as he was doing before.
The sound of slapping skin and Dany shouting was filling the chamber. Then one brush against her bulge and she was shaking.
“Fuck!” she shrieked. Her eyes closed and she let out a string of long moans as Jon fucked her through her coming. Her cunt tried to milk his cock, but Jon managed to hold and not spill. Not yet at least. Half a dozen more thrusts after the Queen and he felt his one release. With one last powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, breaking hed gates and filling her with his seed.
Daenerys arched her back, head thrown, lips parted and her eyes still closed, while his hand came to grasp her throat and pepper with sucks and bites.
Once his member was starting to soften, he pulled out and fell back on the near chair, panting. His heart was throbbing, his flaccid length resting on the thigh and his eyes trailed on her naked body. She was in his same state but only lying on the Painted Table. The juice coaxing her folds and leaking down the inner side of her legs.
It was insane what he has done. And shameful. He swore to never lay with a woman that wasn’t or wouldn’t be his wife because he didn’t want for his son to grow up the life of a bastard, his life, and here he has just fucked someone who isn’t. Someone who will never be. And a queen, nevertheless.
Suddenly, he heard her laughing and a look of confusion appeared on his face as she turned. “When I left Meereen, I was expecting to marry some old lord for an alliance, not to fall in love with a norther-“
“Bastard?” He finished his words, but it was enough to wipe her smile away.
“No. Not a Bastard. A king,” was her voice as she approached him. Then, sitting on his lap, the Queen whispered, her forehead leaning against his. “Would you marry me if I asked you?”
To which he replied, pulling back, “Is the queen asking me, or the woman?”
“The woman,” was her immediate reply, hand on cheek, then adding, her mask slipping. “And the Queen. For you cannot have one without the other.”
"Then the answer is yes," he replied, his hand sliding down her back, then grabbing her neck and pulling her in for a passionate kiss. Dany moaned into his mouth, her body completely relaxed. Then he picked her up and carried her to the sofa nearby. It was old, but it was perfect for what they wanted.
Lying her down, he positioned himself between her legs, lifting one and began rubbing his still flaccid member up and down her wet folds, feeling it harden to the touch. Then, once it was semi-erect, Jon slid it inside.
Hovering over her, he whispered sweet words, "My wife," he whispered, as he moved his hips and lips danced.
While the two dragons consummated their passion, from an open archway, a black raven soared into the night sky, leaving Dragonstone and the stormy sea behind, flying over the lands towards the frozen North in search of its master.