Chapter 1 - The Bed of Monarchs

The night howled with a storm, and true to the words of Ned Stark, winter had come.

Jon stared from atop Winterfell's ramparts at the north. There, leagues away, beyond the Wall that stood steadfast for over a thousand years, the dead were on approach. He had seen them time and time again, battled with them, escaped them. The Others headed an army of a thousand, thousand dead. The thought of them seeped through Jon's clothes like the cold around him did. No matter how many layers he wore, the chill cut through them like a knife.

Winter is Coming, the words of House Stark echoed in his head. His heart stirred with dread.

Pushing off the snow-crusted stone, Jon walked the battlements. Leather footfalls crunched through a soft layer of white, crushed stone and pebbles kept his traction. His cloak glided behind him, snapping with each gust that blew against him. He fought through the chill without breaking his stride. The blood of the North ran in his veins. He was of Stark stock, and their kind endured the harsh cold. Him, and his siblings. Lady Sansa, who was a woman grown now and looked more her mother than their father. Arya, who was small, and moved like a ghost through the halls of Winterfell. And Bran. Poor Bran. Crippled when he was young, he would never be a man – as much as he looked the part. Bran said so himself when they saw each other again. "Almost," he had echoed. His stare was chilling like he was staring into your soul.

"Poor Bran," Jon whispered to himself, his words a cloud.

He stopped to look into Winterfell's inner bailey. Men were hard at work preparing for the battle to come. Dragonglass was ferried from carts, and their best smiths were working around the clock to make them weapons and defenses. Daggers, spears, axes, arrows, palisades, barricades. Anything that could carry a point, it did, and it was sharp obsidian. A good stab, and wight or Other, their foe would fall. Jon hoped there would be enough.

Turning around, Jon cast his stare over the southern shelf. Even in the night, a thousand fires that spread across the field failed to illuminate the whole of the army they had. Thousands of men who were ready to fight and die to protect Westeros. Unsullied, Dothraki riders, Wildlings beyond the Wall, the Knights of the Vale, the soldiers of Winterfell, warriors of Greyjoy, and a multitude of mercenaries and fighters from small houses spread across the north. But there was more.

Overhead, two dragons zoomed by. Renewed gales swept through the world, blowing snow flurries everywhere. Jon had to plant his feet to stand his ground. Green Rhaegal, and black Drogon. They were Danerys Targaryen's dragons. The last two in the world. They had a third, Viserion, but he was killed by the Night King weeks ago. Impaled by a spear of ice, and if that did not kill him, the plunge into an icy lake did. Dragons could spout fire, but could they survive subzero waters? It was not likely.

Even with the dragons, Jon could only pray that it was enough. They faced death itself, and were making a desperate effort of it. Digging his hands into the guardrail, Jon frowned. What if all they built for was not enough? We tried our best, he told himself. We gave it our all, he rationalized. I'd rather die fighting, his mind echoed.

He would not die alone. He had friends with him. He had his family.

Jon took a deep breath, and the cold filled his lungs. You could be blind drunk, and a single whiff of the northern air would sober you up. Whatever drowsiness he felt from the night was whisked away. The pressure of building and managing an army was too much some nights. He wanted to melt away into a cup of summerwine, or let the hours pass him as he turned to training. During his time in the Night's Watch, practicing with a sword was relaxing. Showing his brothers how to defend themselves, how to attack right. It was easy when his mind was set on the here and now. But planning for tomorrow had its own host of troubles, and every day it felt as though a tight band was squeezing Jon's head.

He needed reprieve. And he knew who helped melt his troubles away.

Winterfell was his home, and he followed familiar halls deeper into the heart of it. Jon made his way to the Lord's chambers. It had been his father's once, when Ned Stark still lived. Then it had been claimed by the Boltons who soured its existence with their stink. Sansa told him that she had it upturned and redone shortly after he departed to make peace with the dragon queen. He took her word for it. There was a certain filth that clung to Jon when he first laid there, as if the dirt had clung to his very soul.

Scores of working men and serving women bowed as he passed them, muttering, "Your Grace." No matter how often he disregarded the high titles they gave him, they continued to use them. Lord-Commander of the Night's Watch, King in the North, and the red witch once whispered he was a promise prince – Azhor Ahai. But in his heart, he was always the bastard of Ned Stark – Jon Snow.

When he came to the door, he stopped and drew a breath. An orange ray of flickering light shined through the bottom crack. She was inside, he thought. Did he open for his Queen? Or did he stride in? It was his home, but she was his guest – his love.

Jon took hold of the knob and twisted it gently.

Wood creaked as he entered. The hearth was crackling with life, bathing the room in a warm glow. The bedchamber had a hand-carved desk, a framed bed of feathers and fur, and a dresser to hold a dozen wardrobes at least. For a moment, Jon thought he was alone until he turned around the barrier and saw her in the corner.

She twisted to meet him, a cup of wine in hand. She was dressed in something that looked like it was woven from snow. Her skin was fair, unblemished, and her platinum hair was done in twisted rows that draped over her full bust. What struck Jon most were her eyes. Violet eyes, Targaryen eyes, that glowed in the shadowy corner. His gaze was locked with her own, and like always, he stood in gaping awe at her radiant irises. Daenerys Targaryen. His Queen.

"Jon," she called, her cheeks raising with a smile. Raising her cup, she took a languid sip and then pressed the chalice into his grasp. He shared the same red vintage. It ran warm down his throat and sat in his belly as welcome as the hearth just a meter away from him. "Good evening."

"Good evening yourself," he returned his joyful expression. Unconsciously, they had drawn close, barely a breadth away from one another. "Does Winterfell agree with you?"

"It is nothing like the warmth of Essos," she began, twisting in place. "Sand and sun are found in excess there. Westeros itself is cold, cruel. Everything is dark. Even some halls are hard to navigate in daylight." She admitted. "But your people have been most welcoming. Well, except for… your sister."

"Sansa?" Jon quipped. "She hasn't offended you has she?"

"No," Daenerys replied, plucking the cup back for herself. "Not at all. But the way she speaks; her stare. It is something I am too familiar with. She does not take kindly to me." Daenerys' smile fell short. Jon saw the change. But was fear or annoyance that which changed her expression? "I think she mistrusts me."

"She'll come around," Jon reassured her, taking her hand in his own. She let him. "But to be fair, she has not had the most pleasant experience with Queens. Cersei held her under thumb for years. She has seen only the cruelty of Royalty." Jon could not begin to imagine the depth of her woes. Promised to Joffrey, abused by Joffrey. Taken under care of Cersei, only to suffer from her. Stolen away by Littlefinger, only to become ensnared in his game. Ramsay Bolton – the thought of his name made Jon tense up – and the depravity he put her through. A ghostly sensation came back to his knuckles, pummeling Ramsay over and over again until his face was beaten black and red; to the point where no man in all the Seven Kingdoms could recognize him.

That image relaxed Jon.

"Well," Daenerys' frowned. "My heart goes out to her. But I will make sure that she sees the good I bring."

"I'm certain she will see it, Your Maj-" Jon began.

"Shh," Daenerys interrupted, sealing a finger on his lips. Her soft digit held itself in place. "In private, you don't have to call me by my title."

"Habits," Jon grinned. Honor and conduct had been raised alongside him as had horse riding and swordplay. Discarding those facets about himself proved to be difficult. "Sorry, Dany."

She blushed at her nickname, her fair skin burning at the cheeks. "Stay with me," she whispered – although her tone was firm with command. She took him by the collar of his gambeson and pulled him close, staring up into his eyes. In their nearness, the vibrancy of her violet irises sparkled like the sun on clear water. It was hypnotizing, in a way that made you want to be spellbound.

"It's what I was hoping you'd say," Jon replied in the same hushed tone.

She pulled him down, and he pulled her up. Their lips met, melded together. She was soft, and he was firm. They were sweet as one. Eyes shut, they danced across the room. Each step was deft and measured. Neither stumbled, neither bumped. The motions made were almost as though they were practiced.

They stopped as they came in contact with the bed. Jon's eyes opened and she stood before it. His hands were wrapped around her back and waist. The latter slid down, cupping her ass through her dress. He squeezed hard, and she jerked forward into him. Her warmth radiated out through the layers and matched his own. Her own gaze met his, and she chewed her lower lip as he gave her rear another squeeze.
He let go of her and nudged forward, forcing her back onto the bed. She landed on stuffed straw and feathers with a squeak, her arms splayed out as though she were ready to make a figure in the snow. Rather than climb her, mount her as he had done, he fell onto a knee. Daenerys watched Jon go down, even raising her head a few inches needed to keep track of him.

"Jon?" She gasped. "What are you doing?"

He answered her with action. Below her frosted dress, she was still wearing her riding trousers. He hooked his hands into her belt, freed it, and in the same fluid motion yanked her breeches down. Fair flesh came into sight as he pants clung to her ankles. The dragon queen gnawed her lip again, blood rushing to her cheeks again, brighter than before. Another tug, and one leg came free. Another tug, and the other followed.

Jon removed a glove and let his calloused fingers explore her calf. "Jon," she whispered. His digits dug into her skin, hard enough to be felt, soft enough to be enticing. His curious digits turned inward, snaking her inner thigh. "Jon," Daenerys gasped. Shadowed by her dress, he found her panties – the last guard between his touch and her sex. A daring urge forward, and he pressed her smallclothes with two of his five. "Jo-oon," she moaned and her legs pressed into his shoulders.

He shimmied her to the edge by the ankle, his other hand still prodding at her covered womanhood. Daenerys found her lip again, chewing it to suppress her pleasured whining. Her eyes were shut, her head tilted back; submission and security. He would not disappoint her.

Hooking into her smallclothes, he pulled. The black lace rolled off of her hips and curled away from her thighs. Jon maneuvered himself to remove it, letting the silken fabric hang off of the ball above her heel. Her dress was pushed aside, giving him ample view of her.

A small tuft of pubic hair rested just above the hood of her clit. Like her hair, her trimmed bush was stark white. His hand came down on the lower section of her belly, sliding across her smooth skin, and passing over the kempt patch before finding her sensitive pink nub. Jon brushed his thumb against it, and Daenerys squirmed in response. Another moan stopped against her teeth, but vibrated against her throat.
Wordless, he continued. Another stroke, and she wiggled in reply. Another, and she let free a gasp. Jon smiled at her display, and yearned for every sound. He had had his time with another woman, Ygritte. His trysts with her, his love for the kissed-by-fire wildling felt like a whole other lifetime ago. True enough, he had passed from life and came back to it. It might as well have been a different Jon to mated with that free-spirited woman beyond The Wall, and again south of it.

And he had learned much from his time with her.

Lowering himself further, Jon was perfectly positioned before Daenerys' sex. Her lips were parting just slightly, tempered with a glistening moisture. He kissed her inner thigh, and came off her flesh with an audible suckle. She moaned in reply. Closer to her maidenhood, he gave her another smooch. Again, she reacted favorably. Another kiss, and he was barely an inch away from her sex. He could have sworn he saw a fresh trickle of lubricant leak out of her.

Jon leaned forward and met her nether lips, planting himself against them. Daenerys squirmed. His tongue slipped free and penetrated the wet opening. She tasted like rosewater, sweet and enticing. The dragon queen opened her mouth with a wordless cry. Her hands dug into pillows and sheets to keep her anchored. His muscle worked her, sliding in and out, lapping against her tight walls. Every little wriggle had her spasming in place. With his thumb, flicking back and forth against her sensitive clit, he all but controlled her.

"J-Jon! O-oh! Fh- M-more!" She whined between moans, her legs squeezing over his ears and parting again when clarity washed over her. She was a lithe woman, and try as hard as she might, could not have hurt him with her legs. Although it certainly seemed – while captured in the throes of another blissful wave – she was trying to crush him. The sheets rustled with her twitchy movements. Her chest rising and falling with every breath, which seemed to come harder than the last.

Another hand came to add to her pleasure. Just below his working mouth, Jon slipped a finger into the tight, sweet opening that had parted some. While one digit pumped her, his tongue continued to slide in and out. Faster than before, then slower, then faster again. Once or twice, she screamed his name – slapping her arm over her mouth in a failed effort to stop her shout.

Fresh rivulets of natural lubrication dribbled from her cunt. Jon captured what he could, letting it soak into his black beard. But more leaked down onto the sheets, letting the dark stain thicken and spread. Her sweetness tickled his nose, spurring him on.

A sudden hand grabbed his hair, and Jon froze. The fingers squeezed hard and pulled. Jon grunted in reply. "Jon," Daenerys' voice wrung out. "Come." She urged. Relenting at the second tug, Jon rose and followed the guiding hands. She escorted him to her, her eyes glowing in the faint light. Like always, he was entranced. Holding him by his damp cheeks, Daenerys forced his lips to her own. She tasted herself, and him, and moaned into their kiss.

Breaking the union, a thin trail of saliva sweetened by Daenerys' sex stretched before them. Her tongue broke it.

"Fuck me," she whispered. Her fingers caressed his face.

"Hm?" Jon turned his ear to her.

"Fuck me!" Daenerys raised her voice. "Take me." Already, one hand slid down to his waist and fumbled with his belt. "Now."

As you command, Jon thought with a grin. He leaned away from her, undoing his belt. In the same breadth, she found her dress and managed to peel it away with a few short movements. Just after he had undone his belt, his pants, and shed his layered tunics – she was already naked and waiting for him. By contrast, she was pale like milk, while he was fairer. His body was built for war, riddled with scars, and hardened by muscle. Hers was slender and soft, her waist small compared to the curve of her hips and perky breasts.

One finger beckoned him back, and Jon obeyed.

Crawling on the bed, he found her. One hand around her back, the other cupped her cheek. She turned her head to kiss his finger, the one soaked in her own juice, and she nibbled him. A playful giggle passed over his digit.

Below, she found his manhood. She took hold of him and stroked, her fingers sliding along his stiff length. She addressed every bulging vein, let her fingertips graze across his thick mushroom head, and did it all over again. Her eyes met his with a hunger behind them, a longing. Her wide-eyed wonder enticed him to meet her demand. Gnawing her lip, she guided him to her nethers. Jon looked down and watched with paralyzed awe as she brought the fat tip of his cock against her parted lips. She spread them further, welcoming him, and pressed him inside.

They moaned in tandem. All six inches speared her, filled her, and rested in her vice-like grip as though it were by design – like a sword to a sheath. She was wet, tight, and warm – oh so warm. Warmer than Ygritte had been. It took his breath away. Her inner fire burned hot, but it did not shy him away. He wanted it again, and again. To simply reside within her motionless and static was not enough. He needed to renew the sensation over and over again.

He drew back, staring at a fresh glistening layer that sat on his cock where none had been seconds before. Their eyes met again and she mouthed the words, 'Fuck me'. How could he deny her? She was his queen, and they both wanted this.

Jon thrusted forward, slowly, guiding it back into her. Her head craned back as he filled her again. Her face was wide, a gasp stuck in her throat. One hand was around his neck for support, the other was on his waist. As he drew back, her fingers dug in and urged him back in. He obliged her, pumping back into her tight cunt. He grunted, she moaned.

"Jon-" She gasped.

"Dany-"

"Faster. Harder! Your Queen commands it."

He obeyed. Drawing back only to thrust into her again. Every withdraw was met with frantic, desperate squeezes from Dany – a silent demand for him to slide back into her. Her unconscious efforts only spurned him on, driving him to perform. His lips met her own between pumps, her moans sounding off into their kiss. Her legs wrapped around his waist, tied together at the ankle – her black lace still hanging off her haphazardly.

Soft crackling from the fireplace was replaced by the unified moans, the primal grunts, pleasured gasps. Wet squelching of skin-on-skin became a song for the pair of lovers. Even the bed joined the song as wood creaked and groaned beneath Jon's rhythm. Each renewed thrust squeezed Jon's cock tighter than the time before, and the warmth that emanated from the depths of her cunt seemed to increase.

"Jon," she moaned, wrapping both hands around his neck. "Jon! Oh, Jon! Jon! Mmph! Fh-fuck me! I'm s-so close."

With a final, whorish moan, Dany threw her head back and let her voice to the air as though it were to be her last. Her womanhood squeezed tighter than ever, and Jon's practiced thrusts had slowed down as the urge to leave her was washed from his mind. He remained lodged within, giving her frantic, jack-hammer pumps to satisfy them both. The bliss was peaking, and his throaty moans flowed as freely as her single, deep one.

"I'm going to-" he warned.

But her hands already on his hips, keeping him pressed to her. The queen's sudden strength surprised even the warrior-bred king of the north. "Inside," she gasped. "Inside me, Jon!"

Again, he obeyed, but the command was more than welcome. With a final, hard pound, Jon slammed himself into her and met her lips. Although she was still moaning on the high of her orgasm, Jon did not care. Pleasure clouded his mind, swimming across his body. His cock pumped spurt after spurt of warm, potent seed deep inside of her. With every burst of warmth, she replied with another kiss-sealed moan while he answered with a primal groan that bespoke his high.

When it was done, they were in each other's arms. The blanket was drawn over them, and the fireplace was crackling with renewed life. Daenerys was all but asleep in his grasp, while Jon was still basking in the afterglow.

Outside, the evening winter storm raged on. But Jon and Daenerys were safe in each other's hold, deep in the halls of Winterfell; where Targaryen laid with Targaryen.

Just as it should have been.

