A/N: There are a lot of Dragonstone stories, but this is mine. No lofty ambitions really, except a desire to write scenery, angst, fun dialogue (well, I try) and shameless smut.
This is unrelated to my other two stories, a slightly different style, and canon divergent. I hope it is sufficiently interesting to keep you reading. I’m not bothering with repeating the episodes tediously, this is filling gaps with my twisted imagination.
Let me know if you like it in the comments. Thanks for reading!
It was another gloomy, dank evening of chill mists, creeping up the steps and wrapping around the massive pile of cunningly wrought stone on the clifftops, and lying like a blanket over the noisy, surging sea. The sky outside her chamber windows was a livid grey bruise, shot through with veins of red and orange from the sinking sun. It had been a tiring, frustrating few days of surprises, mostly unpleasant ones, but the drama had receded with the sun’s last weak rays, leaving her dull witted and sunk in lethargy by the fire.
She was clutching a goblet of wine for comfort, pure frustration bubbling beneath her still surface, her fingers toying with the platter of fruit and cheese her friend had set down on the side table, but not picking up anything to eat. There was a lump of lead in her guts, weighing her down in the chair, though her booted feet swung and shifted, urging action, any action, to take her away from her churning thoughts.
Her destroyed fleet, her allies captured or killed by a scumbag pirate who had once sought her hand, and now sought the hand of her greatest enemy. Her precious troops, flung into the unknown, heading for the other side of the enormous, mysterious continent that was rightfully hers but a blank void to her, to win a castle that may not be worth paying the price it took to get it. And, her Northern visitor, her visitor occupied her thoughts as well, too much for her liking.
Her advisor, her only female friend in a life full of men, sat on the opposite side of the fireplace, silent and patient, there to provide advice and support if she needed it, sipping her wine delicately, her warm, golden-brown eyes checking on her occasionally with their usual care, but she was all tangled up in her mind, wandering paths of present and past that made her hide in her wine, much like her Hand. She must be careful not to let wine become a crutch to lean on, like she was always complaining about in him, but Gods, she needed a drink tonight, and damn the consequences.
Since she had left Mereen behind, she had been a calm pool of steady determination, fixed on reaching her goal of taking the lands of her mad father, certain of victory, but now the pool had been peppered with rocks, ruffling the surface, the biggest rock being the dour, sullen, intriguing man who had stood in her throne room and openly defied her with nightmares and portents, grumpkins and snarks.
Those ripples of disturbance were utmost in her mind, despite everything else she needed to concentrate on. Her fury with the erstwhile King in the North had subsided somewhat, after she had taken Tyrion’s advice and spoke with him on the steps. We all enjoy what we are good at, she had said to him glibly, and his terse reply had deepened her intrigue, annoyingly replacing her anger with something new and different. No one with eyes could deny that the man was as handsome as sin, but she had always needed more to spark her interest, and Jon Snow was interesting. Too damn handsome, and interesting, sending a flicker of heat through her, heat that she had thought was long dead.
In a life dominated by strong men who demanded her attention and coveted her status, there had been little chance to swoon and sigh like a silly maiden. When she was a girl, there was only her brother, who she had expected to marry one day, but made her skin crawl with his irrational moods and flaring violence. Her husband had terrified her, until she had learned how to tame him and cleave to him out of self-preservation, her terror turning to a deep love that was nevertheless tinged with wariness.
Ser Jorah had loved her for years with a quiet, respectful devotion, but she had not felt the same. Daario had amused her with his boldness and swagger, an unrepentant, ambitious rogue who had never given up until she yielded and took him as a lover, enjoying his inventive attentions until the lust faded, and there was nothing left. Her attempt at a strategic marriage had thankfully ended before she was forced to take Hizdahr to her bed, a prospect she had not relished. It was a line-up of misery and disappointment, with only brief moments of pleasure and contentment. No, she had no use for men other than as allies, friends, or troops, so what was flickering within her was most unwelcome.
‘Tell me what you think of this Jon Snow,’ she said abruptly, breaking the moody silence. Her friend had spent her entire life in the background, quietly observing people both high and humble, so she always valued her opinions on the people they met.
Missandei set her goblet down on the hearth, her gaze flicking sideways at her and settling. ‘I think he is a good man,’ she said quietly. ‘He has no artifice, and that is a rare thing in this world. He could not tell a lie to save himself.’
That made her snort in disbelief, though there was truth there. ‘All men lie,’ she said. ‘This much I know. The nonsense he was speaking must be some trick to get me to abandon my plans for some other purpose.’
‘Possibly,’ her friend replied. ‘But I fear it is not so.’ At her frown of response, her advisor gave a small smile, her next words much lighter, an attempt to soothe. ‘He is also very comely, your Grace.’
She hunted for words of denial, trying to bring up flaws to bat away the observation. He’s too short, he has no bloody manners, he’s downright rude, but no. ‘Did you notice his eyes?’ she said, rather dreamily. ‘In the throne room, they looked as black as pitch, but they’re actually a deep brown…eyes one could fall into. They are quite lovely.’
‘Your Grace!’ her friend exclaimed with a giggle.
‘Don’t tell anyone I said that,’ she smiled. ‘On pain of death.’
She enjoyed the giddy moment, unable to hold back her own giggle. She could have said much and more, about his fine figure, his gravelly voice, the peculiar accent like honey on his clumsy tongue, his quiet watchfulness, poised and graceful, like a wary animal, but she kept her counsel, letting the moment pass as she buried her face in her wine again.
The next morning, after a restless night disturbed by dark dreams that made no sense to her when she woke, she rebelled against her torpor and dressed in breeches and jerkin and thick cloak, and took the path to the clifftops, sending her thoughts into the cloudy sky to call down her sons to her, planting her feet to brace herself against the buffeting wind. A high, thin screech echoed through the air, a massive shadow of black and red descending in slow circles from high, the flap of wings growing louder, the screech turning into a familiar, thundering growl of affection when Drogon spotted her waiting.
His smaller brothers wheeled around as she patted and scratched his nose and around his ears, leaning into his warmth for reassurance and to counter the icy wind whipping at her cloak. As she mounted his scaly bulk and gave the signal she had no particular idea of direction, but after launching she took a sweeping pass over the rocky strand at the food of the serpentine steps, watching the small figures on the ground lurch and shout, some falling to the ground comically, but one figure standing straight and watching steadily, his neck craned upwards as she flew over.
In her mind, she saw dark, solemn eyes staring into her, and she shook her head to push the image away, digging her knees into her mount to make him turn south and west over Blackwater Bay, leaving her home and her visitor behind, Viserion and Rhaegal flanking their movements through the sky. It was a gift beyond price, to fly above the earth like a bird, and she was the only person in the world to know its value, the joy and terror and mirth. She still did not understand why she had been granted it, but great gifts always demanded payment. She felt she had already paid enough, the death of her husband and child, the long years of struggle, but it was not over. The real struggle had only just begun.
She kept her elevation high up above the sea, breaking through damp, sticky clouds that beaded moisture on her cold face, seeing only glimpses of the flat water below, dotted with the occasional trading ship or fishing boat. As she drew ever closer to the teeming city of King’s Landing, its towers glinting in the distance, she fought hard against the bubbling rage in her heart, fought against the urge to keep going and blast the Red Keep and its false queen to ashes, reign fire and justice, start a storm of flame and ash that would burn the city to the ground so that it could be built anew, all its sordid history wiped out.
But she was no monster, despite what people said, no Targaryen tyrant who cared not for the lives of the people, her possible enemies, and potential allies. So, she turned back before she could be spotted by anyone other than drunk sailors and fishermen, flying north over empty forest and rugged green and brown hills, testing her mount with battle sweeps and dives and rolls before heading home, her faithful sons following her every move.
Windswept and red cheeked, her braid in ratty knots, her body shivering with the cold, she landed where she had launched, leaving Drogon with whispered words of affection and thanks. Feeling buoyant and invigorated, she descended the rough, uneven steps down to the beach on quick feet, the low tide leaving a wide ribbon of golden sand she could walk for a while, unwilling to go back to the castle just yet. The sun was teasing her through the drifting clouds, turning the rock pools blue, then grey as she meandered and poked about like a curious child, smiling at glimpses of tiny fish and sea stars and pretty shells beneath the waters. The waves were only small rolls of white foam and glassy blue, not their usual towering, angry height, and it was almost warm beneath the cliffs, out of the muttering wind.
She reached a long spar of grey, cracked rocks blocking her path around the island, and as she went to climb it she saw someone on the far side, someone who made her duck back like a dolt, but her gaze drawn and locking on his figure. Her heart leaped stupidly, but she didn’t look away, enjoying the view while it lasted and promising to chastise herself later. The Northern king was facing the ocean, and thinking himself alone, he was actually relaxed; his body loose and clad in only a thin shirt and breeches, the linen clinging to the strong lines of his back. He must have been working in his precious cave of dragonglass, and had taken a moment to splash himself in the sea and enjoy the fleeting sun, which was probably hot by his measure.
The pulse in her throat continued to flutter, and she felt rather heated herself, watching him bend over and cup water to his face, his unruly black curls escaping their binding, the glint of a smile, his eyes squinting slightly into creases. To make it all worse, she noticed instantly he had a very nice, well-shaped arse under all those heavy clothes, and at that thought she cursed herself and turned away, running from the realisation that she was more than intrigued, she was aroused.
She retraced her steps quickly, arguing with herself silently as she walked. She didn’t want it, she didn’t need it, but it was there nonetheless, desire taking root and spreading tendrils through her mind, like smothering vines.
In an attempt to damp down her meandering, heated thoughts, hoping he would say something rude and confronting to get her anger simmering again, she invited Jon Snow to dine that night, in the small supper room off the main dining hall. He arrived with his cheerful advisor Ser Davos Seaworth, his thoughtful silence a stark contrast to the garrulous old man, dressed in what appeared to be his only outer clothes, dull and sombre, the free man she had glimpsed on the beach well hidden.
Quite unlike the unrefined savage she had expected, his table manners were neat, his drinking restrained. He was so quiet it was beginning to annoy her, wanting to hear that lovely voice again, the rough and the smooth tickling her ears, but she could strangely find no words to draw him out, only able to steal brief glances down the board out of the corner of her eyes, trying to be subtle.
Her reliably loquacious Hand did the work for her, making Snow talk by throwing questions at him cunningly between sips of Dornish Red, the replies careful and sparse, but fascinating, and tinged with a dry humour, despite the subjects being difficult, and very grim. What a miserable life, stuck in the icy North, the bastard son of a shattered house who had risen high in the Night’s Watch and then left without an explanation as to why, only to take back his home with his only surviving sibling in a messy battle of mud and blood and chaos. No wonder he was so very serious. She wanted to see that glint of smile again, that transformed his pretty face into radiance. She wanted to see those dark eyes light up with warmth.
‘Surely you have some happy tales, Lord Snow,’ she said in impulse, and his gaze moved to fix on her face, a flash of mixed emotion in those black pools confusing and stirring. She felt pinned down for a moment, her cheeks warming, her hand fumbling for her wine glass.
‘Not many, your Grace,’ he said huskily. ‘No good jokes, either.’
‘That is fine, our Lord Tyrion is full of jokes,’ she said lightly, breaking the tension and looking to her Hand, who was smirking. ‘Most of them aren’t fit for polite company, though.’
‘He has a story about a honeycomb, a jackass, and a brothel he has never finished,’ Missandei said innocently, and there was a wave of laughter around the table, and requests to hear the joke immediately. She saw it then, those full lips parting, a flash of white teeth, followed by a deep chuckle that stirred her from affection to desire to unease. It was a bad idea, getting to know him, and finding that she liked what she saw.
As Tyrion began to tell his story to great mirth, she rose from her chair and smoothed her skirts, and muttered an excuse, leaving the stuffy confines of the supper room, and escaping to the hallway. She traversed the length of dark stone walls and polished tiles, her hand sweeping over the rough stone blocks absently as she walked by, heading to a small balcony open to the night air to catch her breath and cool down.
She tried to think of dull things, difficult things, strategy and war and the defeat of her enemies, but it was useless. It had been so long since she had been properly kissed, she had near forgotten what it was like, but she wanted very much to kiss him, to find out if those plump lips tasted as sweet as they looked, to see if he would pull away in shock or take what was offered. The urge tingled in her hands as she grasped the balcony railing and stared blindly at the stars, and tingled in other places, the urge to make him murmur in surprise, and then hopefully growl deep in his throat, slip his tongue in her mouth, and wrap a hand in her hair.
‘Seven hells,’ she cursed to the empty night sky, and shook away the descending lust angrily, tilting her chin and composing her face into a mask of decorum. She did not want to go back, but if she disappeared for the night people would wonder, so she stiffened her spine and returned to the hall, her determined steps clicking against the tiles, and faltering.
With the worst possible timing, Jon Snow was walking in her direction, the wide hallway suddenly shrinking around her, as tight as a mean passage in the bowels of the castle, the flickering torches dimming, the darkness growing as a scenario flashed into her brain, making her reach for the wall in support. In her treacherous thoughts, she was pressed against the wall under the weight of leather and fur and hard muscle, a sharp yet musky scent filling her nose, her mouth open and gasping for breath, his teeth nipping her throat, hands trapped and flattened against the stone as she wriggled to fight him off, or urge him on, she wasn’t sure.
She blinked it away fast, but a low voice cut through the fog, making her blush crimson as she remembered he was there in truth. ‘Are you all right, your Grace?’
‘I am fine. I just needed some air,’ she said firmly, her gaze bouncing around until she found her composure and settled, hoping what she had been thinking did not show. In the light of the torches, his eyes were black and featureless, but his mouth was curled slightly, as if he knew.
Get out of my head, she hissed inwardly, and passed on with a jerk of her chin. One way or another, she needed to get what she was feeling out of her system, and fast, before she went mad.
Her risky gambit would play out tomorrow in fire and blood, for better or worse. Her Dothraki had already left for the mainland in the remaining ships, more than one trip made across Blackwater Bay to take them and their horses to a secret spot so they could ride hard inland without being spotted by Lannister scouts.
The flurry of activity, the planning and marshalling of her men and horses and weapons, had kept her mind and body occupied all day, leaving no time to think of Jon Snow, and his findings beneath the hard shell of the island, or what it all meant, or what those eyes of his were telling her along with his pleas for understanding and support. But it was late now, near midnight, and she was tired and vulnerable and pondering endlessly over that encounter in the cave in the earth, beautiful and terrible and filled with dark magic and history that saturated the air.
Words were spoken, serious and full of portent and destiny, but many more were left unsaid, expressed only in a thick, thrumming tension she could nearly touch, the threads drawing them closer in, invading each other’s space and reserve until at one point she thought he was going to take one step further and kiss her. Foolish as it was, she had wanted it, and badly, until she had gathered her dignity and demanded his allegiance again. The moment passed, but there was nothing more appealing than a man that gave good advice, so she could not forget and move on.
She was acting on that advice now, was about to unleash her power and regain the upper hand over her enemies, and herself, but all she could think about was him, ruining her attempts at sleep, though she really needed it.
She was alone in her chamber tonight, curled up in her great bed of state, the elaborate carved ebony wood and faded red silk canopy dating far back to the time of her ancestor King Aegon the First, who had set out to conquer the Seven Kingdoms and triumphed. But she wasn’t thinking of that heavy legacy now. As Missandei was absent, choosing to sleep in Grey Worm’s room until his return from the Westerlands, she could take the opportunity to do something she had not done in some time, to finally rid herself of her pent-up desire, purge it so she could sleep and face the morning with a clear mind.
She started slowly, stretching out on her back under the sheets and blankets, inching up her bedrobe and reacquainting herself with her body, usually used as a vessel to run and fly, fight and plot, rather than for pleasure. She mapped her skin with her hands, enjoying the feel of the softness and smoothness, the weight of her breasts in her palms, the nipples hardening to taut peaks as she let her thoughts from their cage and imagined.
A man needed to see and touch the object of their lust, but a woman could use her mind to bring herself to a pitch of release, and she did, cupping the mound of flesh between her spread thighs, her fingers delving inside to find herself slick and hot, circling the small bundle of sensitive nerves at the top of her slit until she gasped. He was so real in her fevered imagination, she could feel him under her hands and lips, the setting hazy and unfocused, but he was naked and hard beneath her, his cock pressing against her cleft as she bent to lick the hollow of his throat, nipped at his lips, writhed against all that bare skin and ridged muscle.
At the thought of his mouth closed around her breast, suckling at her roughly, she groaned and rolled over on her front, hiding her face in the pillows as she went further, mildly ashamed of herself but unable to stop working her nub slow, then fast, her wetness coating her busy hand. In her mind, her hidden, twisted mind full of want, she lost control of him, finding herself flipped on her back, open and exposed and helpless, her legs pushed back and held down with strength, and he was inside her, fucking her deeply and viciously, making her ache, making her scream and fight and give in utterly, those dark eyes boring into her as he took her like a beast, like a wolf.
She bowed off the mattress and came hard and fast, the surge of pleasure making her cry out in the silent room, the stroke of his thick cock inside her cunt so real, her walls clamped around her fingers tightly, greedy and desperate for it to become reality, instead of fantasy that faded and withered.
As her tired body relaxed into the bed in repose, her soaked fingers wiped on the sheets, her skin quivering with afterglow, she knew then, before she drifted into sleep, that it just would not work. No amount of fiddling with herself was going to make it all go away. Jon Snow was in her head, and he was never going to leave. Gods help her.