WARNING: More explicit content in this part. If that's not your thing, jump to the first break. Thanks!

VIII.

Jon's eyes flutter open a long time later, when the fire in the hearth has burned down to embers. She is warm and soft against him, her body nested in the circle of his arms. He stares down at her, careful not to move or make a sound.

She is softer in sleep, as most people are. But the effect is more pronounced on this young queen, who makes such an effort to be hard and cold against anyone who would fight to destroy her. Daeneyrs' hair is loose and splayed out beneath her, and Jon reaches up a hand to run his fingers through it. The faint scent of ash and oil wafts out from the silky-smooth strands. She frowns in her sleep, her eyebrows drawing together, and he pulls her closer, arms tight and protective around her.

Gods, this was a bad idea. He can already feel it in him, the same emotion he fought against with Ygritte. But this is different. It's older now, and sadder—yet also the same. The same reckless devotion; the same impulse to do anything and everything to preserve the person lying inside his arms.

Last time, Jon was the death of his beloved. This time, she may be the death of him.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

"You're staring." The voice is quiet and so unexpected that he jumps. Her lips curve into a smile, her eyes still closed.

"You're beautiful," he answers. He has a hazy memory of telling her that last night, when the desire was warm and close.

Her eyelids crack open. "Flattery is unnecessary at this point, no?"

Her voice is calm, but cold, and something about it sends hurt through him. He pulls away from her, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Jon—"

"We shouldn't have done this."

Her answer comes slowly. "Regret it if you must. I don't."

When he looks back at her, he's almost lost again. She lies on her side, her head braced on her elbow and one knee bent upward. The furs have slipped off of her, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Slowly, she sits up, giving him a perfect view of her breasts.

"You're unhappy," she says.

He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of sense—of control. "This makes things more complicated."

"Is fucking always complicated for you?"

He flinches. "Don't call it that."

"Why not?"

Anger builds in his chest, sudden and sharp. He pushes to his feet, feeling the cold air hit his skin. "Because it's not—that's not why—"

"Does this damage your honor, Lord Snow? To be the consort to a queen?"

"Has it occurred to you that you are the consort to a king?"

Anger darkens her face. She rises to her feet, graceful and regal even without the intricate braids and fine clothing and silver dragon-head sigil. She comes to a halt in front of him, and though he is taller and bigger than her, he still feels the full weight of her authority.

She puts her palms flat on his chest and pushes him down. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls into a sitting position, with her above him. For a moment, it feels as though he's bowing to her. Violet eyes stay locked on his face as she lowers herself into his lap, her knees landing on either side of him.

"You are mine," she says fiercely, staring into his eyes.

His cock is already stirring. "Yet you belong to no one."

She reaches down between them and strokes him. Her hands are different on him than before—harder, more unyielding, desiring to prove her dominion over him. He should push her away, deny her, reassert his authority—but he's never wanted to do anything less in his life.

When his cock is hard, she wastes no time. In one quick motion, she sheaths him inside of her, her eyes raking over his face with every inch of him she takes.

She doesn't give him time to adjust, just begins moving, her face a mask of stillness even as he groans and leans back helplessly, bracing himself with his hands flat on the bed.

"You—are—mine," she hisses again, emphasizing each word with a hard grind of her hips. "Say it."

The weakness rising in him is sudden and unexpected. He'd thought once that she could have him anywhere and any way she wanted. Now he's finding it to be true.

But instead of saying what she asks for, he admits something that a smarter man would keep to himself. "I love you."

She stills, and he opens his eyes to look at her. The mask has broken, and she stares at him with wide, afraid eyes. He sits up, bringing one hand up to caress her face and wrapping the other around her.

For a moment she's stiff in his arms. Then she curls into him, her body soft and compliant—and he picks up where she left off, surging up into her. But it's gentler now, and she's a soft woman in his arms again. She raises her head and looks at him, and he feels their connection snap into place. It's hard as Valyrian steel and permanent as the ragged cliffs of Dragonstone.

"Jon," she whispers, her eyes hot and brimming with tears—and he thinks he can hear it.

I love you, too.

When they finish, she dresses and leaves without another word. The sun has begun to rise, its light gentle and sleepy through the great stone windows. She passes her guards as she moves through the castle. If they see her state of undress and mussed hair, her path from the visitor's quarters, they wisely do not comment.

She dresses in a daze, her handmaidens tucking buttons into loops and brushing and braiding her hair until she is royal queen again. She excuses them and puts on the heavy dragon sigil, staring at herself in the polished glass mirror.

Love.

She clenches her hands around the long chain dangling from her sigil, the metal biting into her skin. She can count every mistake she made to this point, every step she took toward Jon Snow even as her advisors and her own mind told her to do otherwise. To dominate him instead. To send him away.

She had thought she loved Daario. It was calmer, more controlled than her consuming need for Drogo—but she had cared for the sellsword. She was sure of it. Yet when it came time to leave, she felt hollow when she looked at him. His insistence on staying by her side only frustrated her. There were kingdoms to conquer, and she didn't have time for the feelings of a man.

But now, she would give anything for Jon Snow to stay. For him to insist on staying. She herself had been the one to demand it, and he had been the one to tell her no. To remind her of their responsibilities to their people. She can feel it, the weakness running through her veins, controlling her impulses, pulling at her like a puppeteer.

Force him to stay. Lock him in the dungeon. Beg him. Beg him.

She drops the chain, and it settles into place, heavy over her hip. She will do none of those things. She is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons and the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

There's a light knock on the door, and Missandei enters the room. Dany doesn't turn away from the mirror, but her back tenses and her face becomes a mask of forced calm.

"Your Grace," Missandei says. It's not a question. She walks over to Dany, her footsteps a light whisper against stone, and puts a gentle hand on Dany's arm. She makes no other move to comfort her; asks no questions. But the trembling inside of Dany bursts free at that light touch, and she cries, the tears streaking down her face as she stares into the mirror.

Missandei doesn't offer solutions. Unlike many on Dany's council, Missandei knows not to suggest going North with Jon Snow—knows what that suggestion would mean. Forfeit your goals and your power for the desires of a man.

Even if he's a good man, and even if he holds her heart—Dany can never do such a thing. She's grateful that Missandei knows this.

"They're preparing his ship," her advisor says quietly. "He'll depart within the hour. Do you want to say goodbye?"

Goodbye. The word causes Dany's stomach to sink like lead. Goodbye, possibly forever, to her comely, noble King in the North.

She takes a deep breath and wipes her face, cleaning the tears away. Wordlessly, Missandei hands her a scrap of silk.

"Thank you," Dany says, grabbing both of Missandei's hands and squeezing them.

Missandei nods, her eyes kind and sympathetic.

Once Dany is presentable again, she straightens her back and turns away from the polished glass.

"Take me to him."

Jon busies himself with preparations. He wraps and secures the dragonglass weapons, counting and recounting their numbers. Then he packs his meager belongings and goes to meet with Davos, and the two men strategize about the journey home. Cersei hasn't shown much interest in them yet, but they would still do well to avoid the Gold Cloaks and Euron's roaming fleet.

Throughout all of this, Jon knows he should be feeling half a dozen things. Relief, for being released from Dragonstone at last, something that seemed impossible mere weeks ago. Excitement to see his siblings miraculously alive after all of these years. Dread at the coming war beyond the wall—a war he's increasingly sure he can't win.

But all he can think of is her. Body wrapped around him, her skin soft and glowing in the candlelight, the ends of her hair tickling his chest. The quick intake of breath when he pushes into her; the feel of her hands roaming over his back, nails digging in.

All he feels is the weight in his gut, the one he's afraid he'll never be rid of. The one that says any direction is the wrong way to go if it isn't toward her.

His sword is back on his hip—Daenerys returned it as a show of trust. Its weight is a heavy reminder of his responsibilities. The pommel carved into the shape of a wolf, taunting him with his roots, as though he could ever forget the Stark blood in his veins.

He feels awkward carrying it with Ser Jorah Mormont around; feels vaguely like a thief taking another man's birthright, however false that might be.

"Your Grace. We're ready."

Jon shakes free from his thoughts and turns toward Davos, nodding. They walk side-by-side out of the cave, Jon's booted feet sinking into the wet sand.

And there she is.

Standing on the beach, the wind whipping the red silken cape around her shoulders and lifting her beautiful silver hair. Her dress is long-sleeved and strong-shouldered, her back straight and her hands clasped in front of her. The expression on her face is placid as he approaches her. Whatever emotion she's experiencing underneath that mask, Jon can't see any trace of it.

He stops in front of her, a few paces away, bowing his head to avoid looking at her.

"Your Grace," he says, his voice odd and formal to his own ears.

"Lord Snow," she answers.

Her advisors and guard are arranged behind her, Davos behind Jon, but they are all very quiet. He feels as though no one is breathing on this cold, windy beach.

"If I die, at least you won't have to deal with the King in the North anymore."

He's not sure what possessed him to say it, but she flinches as though slapped, her mask slipping from her face. Suddenly she looks soft and trembling, even as she clenches her teeth against it.

"You have the supplies you need?" Though she struggles to regain control of her expression, her voice is cool and even.

"More than we could have hoped for, thank you." But not nearly enough.

There's no use telling her that.

She opens her mouth and stays that way for a moment, poised on the edge of speaking. Suddenly he can't stand this—can't stand any of it. His life has become a series of goodbyes, each more difficult than the one that came before.

"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace," he says, nodding to her and stepping away.

He looks toward the ship and then past it, out into the churning ocean. Dragons wail and flap their great wings in the distance, casting enormous shadows on the water beneath them. For a moment he imagines them on the battlefield, vicious and fiery as they lay waste to the Night King's army, the Dragon Queen bathed in flame astride the largest and fiercest of them.

It would be a glorious thing to behold. They would write songs about it—the way she saved the realm. They might even include the Bastard King.

He shakes his head, clearing the fantasy away. It's not meant to be. And it's possible there will be no one left to tell the tales—not after what's coming.

A light touch finds his shoulder and he turns, startled. She stares at him, her eyes steady on his face as though memorizing every detail.

Her touch starts a craving in him, one so strong that he can't help reaching for her. His hands find her shoulders, then slide up to her collar, her neck. He wants more than anything to kiss her, but he's too aware of the eyes on his back. They've shown too much already; been too open. Love is dangerous, especially when revealed to others.

They stay like that for a moment longer, his hands on her and their eyes locked. Then she nods and steps away, turning from him.

"I hope your journey is smooth," she says. He's heard enough dismissals from her to recognize this one.

His eyes find Davos and Jon jerks his head. The man steps forward, and together with Dany's followers they push the small boat into the ocean. As the salty water splashes into him, Jon can't help looking back one more time. Her eyes find his, calling to him like a beacon, hot and burning. Davos throws himself into the boat and Jon follows suit, breaking the queen's gaze. As he helps them row away, his heart seizes around one brutal truth.

This may be the last time he ever sees her.