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Jon grabbed his duffel from the luggage carousel, grumbling to himself as he was jostled to his right by some shithead in a suit, chattering away on his Bluetooth earpiece as the man grappled for his own large suitcase.

Gray eyes hidden behind sunglasses glared at the fucker, who mindlessly went on his way.

He hated crowds.

Jon drew up his black hoodie, toothpick clenched tight between his teeth, yearning for a smoke after the four hour flight. He made his way through the concourse, to the wall of doors that would let him escape from the hordes of people occupying the small airport. Dragonstone was a place he’d only had occasion to visit a few times, normally under cover of night, and usually on a chopper. Once, by parachute, and he’d left via swiftboat.

Entering the place properly made him feel odd, to say the least.

He spied a tall, stoic man in a black, three piece suit, holding a small paper sign. ‘Mr. Snow’ it read, and with a sigh Jon slowly approached.

The white-haired man quirked his brows at Jon, giving him a once-over, no doubt expecting something other than the sight Jon presented. He always travelled low-key, and his black jeans, black boots, and black hoodie were rather standard fare for this sort of visit.

“Mr. Snow, I take it.” Jon nodded slightly, remaining silent, though he looked around briefly. There were eyes everywhere, he knew, even here.

“I’m Mr. Selmy. Come with me, sir.” Selmy was off, quickly, ushering Jon through the throngs of travelers, out the automatic doors and to a waiting town car parked along the curb. Jon ducked down, as the other man held open the door, tossing in his duffel and climbing in.

Neither spoke, and Jon was glad for it. He hated mindless conversation more than he hated crowds. His phone buzzed, five minutes into the drive, and he spied the button to raise the divider between the driver and himself before he accepted the call.

“What?”

Robb’s voice was tinny, through the speaker, but burner phones didn’t tend to be high quality pieces of work, as far as such things went. “Well, someone sounds grumpy. You there?”

Jon rolled his eyes, pulling off his sunglasses and staring at the scenery that whipped by through the tinted windows. “Aye. What do you want?”

He heard Robb chuckle nervously. “Just want to make sure we’re clear before you meet up with the Dragon Lady. 10 million, that’s the limit, got it?” Jon felt his jaw tense, tongue running along his teeth as he tried to still his temper.

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete simpleton, *brother*.” If Robb were sitting at his side, he knew the man would wince. Robb was his half-brother, a true Stark where Jon was a bastard, a Snow. A fact that Robb and Sansa liked to remind him of, now and then. Jon wasn’t fit to be the public face of the family business, not like his trueborn siblings. He was fit to do their dirty work, to spill blood that needed to be spilled, to be sent about like an errand boy.

“That’s not what I meant, Jon.” A heavy sigh filtered through. “Just be careful, yeah? Don’t do anything stupid.”

Jon made an offended noise, toying with his sunglasses. “Like what?”

“Like killing everyone, perhaps? Like pissing her off? We need her help, much as I hate to admit it. We have to get Arya back.” Now, Jon was growing angry, as though he of all people needed a reminder of the stakes. Arya was the only one in his fucking family that had ever treated him as something other than his father’s greatest mistake. He wouldn’t be here if not for her.

He counted to ten, willing himself not to speak the insults that were on the tip of his tongue. Family was family, and blood was blood, and he would do his duty, like he always did. At the end of the day, the Starks were all he had. “Aye, Robb, don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll take care of it. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

Jon disconnected the call, shoving the phone into his bag, settling back against the dark leather seats and helping himself to one of the bottled waters clearly left for his consumption. He took a swallow, enjoying the ice-cold liquid as it slid down his throat, rather parched from the dry, canned air the plane had provided. He wondered for the thousandth time if this wasn’t a monumental mistake, but close behind followed the disconcerting truth that they were out of options. The Lannisters had Arya, and more defenses than the Starks could penetrate on their own.

They needed Daenerys Targaryen, much as he hated to admit it. He wondered, idly, if she’d kill him on the spot. He’d come close to taking her out the year prior, a contract he’d had no qualms in taking, and he’d have managed if one of her beasts hadn’t gotten to him first, taking a large chunk of meat from his thigh and coming dangerously close to ending him, just barely missing an artery.

He doubted it.

She knew the lay of the land, just as he did. It wasn’t personal, after all. Strictly business. She’d tried to kill him three years ago, during the big row over the Northern oil fields, when she’d been dabbling in expanding her own business ventures. That was just the way things were, that was the lifestyle they’d all chosen.

The divider came down, Selmy’s stony blue gaze meeting his in the rearview mirror as he drove up a winding private road, towards the old castle that served as the Dragon Queen’s own private residence. “We’re arriving, Mr. Snow,” he said blandly, and Jon leaned closer to the glass at his left, peering up at the towering peaks of the ancient Keep. “Welcome to Dragonstone.”

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He was frisked for weapons the moment he stepped out of the car, by the hulking Dothraki guards that served as Daenerys’s own personal security forces. They all wore matching scowls, and spoke their native tongue, apparently just as capable of underestimating him as Robb was. Before he’d found himself as his family’s own personal bloodletter, he’d spent years in Northern Special Forces, and he was fluent in more languages than these fools were capable of comprehending. He said nothing, though, even as they began to mumble about him under their breath.

“Thought he’d be bigger,” the man to his left said, laughing with the man to the right as they walked just ahead of him, dark eyes peering back to glance at him as they walked through the drafty old castle.

He kept his face neutral, but gripped the handle of his bag a bit tighter. He had to watch his temper. He satisfied himself by taking in his surroundings, memorizing the path they were taking, just in case he needed to make a hasty exit. For all the roughness of this place, the dark stone walls, windows that were open to the elements, there were tasteful touches everywhere. Rich, ornate rugs lined the halls, priceless artwork placed here and there, and he was surprised to see that unlike the Stark castle at Winterfell, this place had clearly been wired for electricity, brightly lit bronze scones dotting the walls where torches might’ve once been found.

He’d been telling Robb for years that they ought to renovate their own Keep, but Robb’s taste tended to run towards expensive liquor and even more expensive women, and so such updates had been forestalled.

Finally, after endless staircases and narrow corridors, they arrived at their destination, the man to his right knocking soundly on the rich mahogany door, wrought with dark ironwork, metal dragons chasing themselves along the borders. “Watch him,” the man muttered to his friend in Dothraki, staring at Jon intently. “He’s a tricky little fuck, from what I hear.”

The door opened, and Jon pulled the toothpick from his mouth as he walked through, giving a grin to each man as he passed. “Eat shit,” he bid them each, in the rough Dothraki tongue, crossing the threshold and entering the room with as much civility as he was capable.

A bright, merry laugh sounded from across the room, and Jon gave the men a jaunty wave, enjoying their startled faces, before he turned to face her.

“Jon Snow,” she purred, crossing her arms and eyeing him from head to toe. “As charming as always, I see.” She threw a sharp look to her guards, and waved her hand dismissively. “Out,” she ordered, ignoring their hesitant looks as the door finally shut.

A yawn, decidedly canine, came from his right, and he saw her three hounds rise, slowly, coming to circle him, sniffing intently, the largest giving him a low, deadly growl as the other two took up positions just behind him. “We meet again, lad,” Jon told the dog, with a respectful dip of his chin. He glanced up to find Daenerys Targaryen watching him with a bemused expression, her startling purple eyes warm as she looked at her beasts. “Going to call them off? Or would you rather spend the next week getting my blood out of this no doubt priceless rug?”

Her eyes glittered, though it was hard to tell, from this distance, if it was with amusement or distaste. She swept a slim hand towards one of the overstuffed armchairs before the fire, muttering a command in Valyrian to her hounds, who slowly backed away and settled themselves in the corner of the room, their eyes never leaving him.

Jon complied readily enough, enjoying the warmth of the hearth and settling into the comfort of the seat as she crossed the room to the bar, preparing them both a drink. Soon enough, a tumbler was shoved into his hand. “Still a whiskey man?”

“Aye,” he said, taking a sip, savoring the fiery burn as he swallowed. He had to give her credit, she did not skimp when it came to libations. “Very nice,” he commented, smacking his lips, eyeing her thoroughly as she sat herself in the chair to his right, silver curls tumbling over her shoulder as she kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs to the side. “Still dressing like a comic book villain?” He wasn’t complaining, as the view was undeniably pleasant, the black, figure-hugging catsuit putting every curve on full display, the zipper that climbed between her full breasts offering a tantalizing invitation as to what would be revealed with one small tug.

There were some truths that simply were, whether one liked them or not, and one of them was that Daenerys Targaryen was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. She was just as deadly, just as dangerous, as she was lovely, and deep down he’d always found that it made her even more enticing, if such things mattered. They hadn’t, yet, and he planned to keep it that way, taking another sip of whiskey and tearing his eyes away to stare into the flames.

She laughed, heartily, taking a swig of her own drink. “Enough of your compliments, Jon Snow.” The laughter in her voice died, and Jon glanced back to find her face grave as she swirled her glass, the contents sloshing as she pinned him with a serious stare. “Let’s get down to business. What do you want?”

Jon returned the stare, jaw working. “I find it unlikely you don’t already know.”

That earned him a half-smile, a soundless chuckle escaping her as she studied him. “Perhaps I do, but I think I’d like to hear it from you.” She tipped her head to the side, her smile growing and turning decidedly smug. “So, go on then. Tell me why you’re here, and beg for my help.”

Jon glared at her, grinding his teeth together, fighting a war within himself to do as Robb had bid him, not to do anything stupid. “My sister,” he said shortly, finally. “Arya.”

There came a surprising flash of compassion across her face, gone quickly but there nonetheless. “Shameful, really.” She stared into her drink, tongue snaking out to lick at her full, red lips. “Some things are off limits, even to people like us. Honor amongst thieves, and all that.” She spared him a sharp look. “Or killers, in our case. Isn’t that right, Jon?”

Jon downed the rest of his drink, placing the heavy glass on the table between them with a resounding thud. “Will you help us, or not?”

Daenerys sighed, teasing a manicured nail along the lip of her glass. “I might be persuaded.” Her eyes flashed at him, licking flames reflected in those purple depths. “For the right price.” She uncurled herself from her chair, snagging his glass, pouring them both another drink, though he waved it off. Between the heat of the room and the tension that was rising between them, he needed to keep his head. The silver-haired temptress merely shrugged, amused at his refusal. “So, the better question, I think, is what’s in it for me?”

She did not return to her seat, instead standing before the great stone hearth, silhouetted in flame as she waited expectantly for an offer.

Jon pressed his lips together tightly for a moment. “Five million.”

Daenerys let out another full-throated laugh. “Try again,” she prompted, taking a sip, her eyes steady on his even as she drank. “That’s just insulting.”

He swiped a hand down his face, grimacing. “Seven.”

“No,” she answered, eyes narrowing. “Did Robb Stark send you all the way here just to piss me off?”

Jon huffed out an aggravated breath, standing as well, tensed and ready, only relaxing when he heard a threatening growl behind him. “Ten million.”

Daenerys clucked her tongue, stalking close, running a teasing finger up his chest before tapping it smartly against his chin. “No,” she whispered. “Do you know what lies below this old pile of stone, Jon Snow?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Mines. Not the gold that lies below Casterly Rock, which I doubt I need to remind you is little more than a near-impenetrable fortress.” She shook her head, swirling her drink. “Gemstones, of the rather priceless variety. Some found nowhere else in the world, naturally. My only inheritance from my dead family. I don’t need your money,” she said emphatically, taking another step, until he could feel the heat from her body more surely than from the flames beside them. “You know what I want. So, are you willing to pay the price, or not?”

He stared at her, mulishly. He had warned Robb it might come to this, his half-brother scoffing, warning Jon he was getting a rather swelled head, coming to think to highly of himself and his abilities. But Jon had known the truth, though he’d never told Robb of her previous offer, just after his failed attempt to kill her. He’d expected retribution, had been prepared for it, instead surprised when she’d offered him employment, six months after his assassination attempt. No one had ever gotten so close, she’d told him then, and a man with his skills would find ample opportunity to use them, should he decide to work for her.

“How long?” When he finally ground out the question, she gave him a victorious grin, knowing just as he did that she’d already won. She quirked her brows at him, even as a wave of miserable resignation swept over him.

She pretended to consider the question, staring up and over his shoulder, as though the ceiling held all the answers she sought. “One year,” she answered merrily. “You work for me for one year, and we’ll call it even.” She thumped him soundly on the shoulder, clucking her tongue at him. “Try not to look so glum. I’ll even pay you.” She was far to merry for his liking, no doubt having already decided on this course of action before he’d set foot on these shores. “Of course, in return, you will do as asked. But I can assure you, I’ll ask you to do nothing I’m not willing to do myself.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.” He gave her a sour smile when she tried to look offended, only to giggle girlishly at his brooding acceptance.

“Do we have a deal, Jon Snow?”

The question hung in the air, but they both already knew his answer.

“Aye,” he said, and slumped back in his chair, reaching down to his duffel and pulling his phone free. “We have a deal.”

He sent Robb a quick text, expecting some sort of protestation that he would be out of commission for House Stark for a year, trying to ignore the stab of hurt when instead his half-brother seemed jubilant that he wouldn’t have to part with a cent.

Daenerys was still studying him, curiously, when he looked up from his phone. “Your brother accepts these terms?” When he gave a jerky nod, he expected more mirth and merriment, more celebration that she’d gotten precisely what she wanted. Instead, she just watched him, her eyes blank, her face expressionless. Finally, she gnawed at her lip, and crossed to a stately desk, picking up the phone from the cradle and punching in a series of numbers.

She spoke rapid Valyrian, a tongue he was familiar enough with to make conversation, but not when spoken so quickly. When she hung up, she gave him a small smile, but it was a real one, perhaps the first true one he’d seen from her.

“Your sister will be extracted within 48 hours. You,” she said, pointing firmly at him, “will be staying here. Your term starts once she is rescued.”

Jon shook his head violently. “Hang on. I didn’t agree to that. I need my things, from Winterfell.” He had his own arsenal, weapons he loved as though they were his children, not to mention Ghost. Oh, she had her hounds, that was true, but he had one of his own, and he would not do without him.

Daenerys quirked her lips at him. “Then we will make arrangements. You can have whatever you like, but you will remain here.” She slinked over to him, hips swaying, and he swallowed hard. “You aren’t backing out already, are you?” She sniffed. “And just when I was coming to respect you.”

“Am I your prisoner, then?” He ignored the next round of growls from the heap of dogs, advancing on her, scowling furiously. “I want my guns. And I want my wolf.”

Daenerys smiled imperiously. “You shall have them.” With a haughty tilt of her chin, she peered at him. “And as for whether or not you are my prisoner,” she drawled, stroking the tip of a nail down his cheek and through the short hair that lined his jaw, “not yet.”

The door opened, then, and Jon backed away, turning to find the same Dothraki men as before. “Show Mr. Snow to his rooms, and see to it he is fed.” Her tone was clipped and firm, now, her coyness evaporating. “Tomorrow, we will begin.”

----------

Two days later, as he stared out of the window of his surprisingly opulent suite of rooms, bored out of his mind, his phone rang.

“Jon?” He found his knees buckling, scrambling to sit as relief swamped his every sense, Arya’s tearful voice echoing through the earpiece.

“Arya?” He groaned, his head falling heavily into his hand. “Thank fuck. Oh, thank the fucking gods. Are you alright?”

He heard a distinct sniff, knew she was crying, so unlike the fierce little sister he normally dealt with. “Aye, Jon, I’m fine. All in one piece, anyway.” Someone spoke to her, in the background. “Robb says you’re working for the Targaryens, now.” He heard the distaste in her voice, shrugging it off.

“Just the one,” he tossed back with a heavy dose of snark, standing and beginning to pace. “The cost of your freedom, as it were.”

That seemed to silence her, at least for a moment. “Just be careful,” she finally said. “You can’t trust her.”

Jon let out a humorless laugh. “I can’t trust anyone, Arya. But a job’s a job, and I made a deal. I can’t back out now.”

“Thank you,” his sister said quietly. “Call me when you can.”

The phone beeped, the call disconnected, and gingerly Jon sat the phone on the bedside table. It was done, at least, and while he held a certain amount of resentment in being traded about, nothing more than a pawn, he had to admire that Daenerys had been true to her word.

He was summoned, two hours later by his watch’s accounting, down to the shore, a skiff approaching that he knew to be a Stark boat, men scrambling at the dock to unload a massive crate and several trunks.

From the howl that issued forth, the moment he set foot on the dock, he knew what had arrived, and he felt a glimmer of happiness course through him.

Jon shoved away the men surrounding the crate, grabbing a crowbar from a random hand, a bit cross that someone had chosen to package up his dearest companion as though he were common freight, Prying open the side, he tossed the iron away, rushed at once by a blur of white fur as Ghost streaked out and painted his face with saliva.

He stroked the wolf’s head, tucking his face into the thick fur and taking several deep breaths, grateful for this little piece of home.

“Impressive,” came a voice from behind, and he peeked to the side to see Daenerys Targaryen walked towards him, her own great black hounds trailing behind her. She stopped a fair distance away, hardly looking at him at all, her eyes on his wolf, hands tucking into the pockets of the figure-hugging jeans she’d wore. Her black silk blouse rippled in the wind that blew in from the sea, and she gave an appreciative nod at Ghost, who whipped his head around quickly, baring his teeth at her trio of dogs. “I trust he is well-trained, Jon Snow.”

“Well enough,” he called back, his hand rising to the back of the wolf’s head, instructing the animal to hold in place with a quiet utterance. He had no doubt Ghost would obey, had no fear at all that Ghost would attack, not even Daenerys’s animals, unless he was so ordered.

“Good.” She turned, calling over her shoulder to him as she made her way back to her stone fortress. “You will eat with me tonight, Jon, and we shall discuss your first assignment.”

----------

A week later, he was in Essos, breaching a compound with a team of Unsullied under a brilliant starry sky, his blood pumping as he fired round after round at the swarm of guards who came at them from all sides. The man who he’d been partnered with, an Unsullied captain called Greyworm, gave him a grunting nod of appreciation as Jon took out the pair of guards to the man’s left, bodies dropping like flies as each bullet struck true.

“Go,” the man urged in Valryian, and they split up, Jon finding the office they sought first, jamming a thumb drive into the PC and beginning the download, as he’d been instructed. This wasn’t his usual sort of job, at least not the espionage bit of it, though killing was something he was intimately familiar with. It was, in short, the thing he was best at, and while he still felt an occasional twitch of shame at the notion, he could not deny the way it made his blood sing in his veins.

Shots fired in the hallway, then Greyworm was bursting through the door, with an impatient wave as he found Jon there. “Hurry,” he said, and Jon followed the progress bar, willing the machine to hurry the fuck up as well, until it dinged at the completion of the transfer. He shoved the thumb drive in his pocket and vaulted over the desk, loading in a fresh clip and nodding.

“Let’s go,” he muttered in his own rusty version of Valyrian, and the pair sprinted through the now body-filled halls, a helicopter approaching to extract them, not bothering to land, just tossing down a rope ladder. Greyworm motioned for Jon to go first, and he didn’t argue, pulling himself up, his heart still pounding as he threw himself into the craft and threw on ear protection. Greyworm was up shortly after, and he found himself grinning at the man and offering a thumb’s up as the blades overhead whirred and carried them to safety.

He might be little more than a well-paid prisoner, he mused, but he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself.

-----------

Three months into his agreement with Daenerys found him arguing with one of her underlings, a eunuch named Varys, in the depths of a rather considerable closet, seated at a well-lit vanity.

“You aren’t cutting my fucking hair,” he spat at the bald man. “It’s not open for debate.”

The man scowled, crossing his arms. “I’m afraid Miss Targaryen insists.” He gestured grimly at Jon’s short beard. “That goes as well. You will be accompanying her to a very formal affair, Mr. Snow, and we cannot have you recognized.”

Jon fumed, staring at his reflection. It was only hair, his mind whispered. It would grow back. But she took such liberties, sometimes, that he wondered if she was purposefully trying to provoke him, to prod and poke and find his weaknesses, to inflame them.

“Fine,” he growled, glaring daggers at the man. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Varys returned his glare, making an offended noise and scowling fiercely, brandishing a pair of shears that made him wince. “I beg your pardon? I am an artist, Mr. Snow, not a butcher. I would expect a man of your talents to understand the distinction.”

Jon just grimaced and eyed the glittering scissors with ire. “Get on with it.”

An hour later, miserable but grudgingly willing to admit the man had been true to his word, he emerged a man reborn, decidedly unrecognizable to the Northern brute he’d no doubt looked before. He looked refined, elegant, even, his curls tamed and sculpted with products he couldn’t even pronounce, shorter than they’d been since boyhood, his cheeks alarmingly bare and smooth. He smoothed his hand down the sleeve of the tux he’d been dressed in, secure only in the knowledge that the material was bulletproof.

He was led to Daenerys’s suite of rooms, stunned into silence when he saw her standing there, in front of her desk, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth as he drank in the sight of her.

She was a vision in scarlet, breasts pushed high and threatening to spill over the low neckline of the strapless dress. She positively glittered, the sequined gown throwing off a thousand points of light, slit dangerously high up her thigh, towering matching heels on each dainty foot.

Her hair was twisted up and away in an elegant updo, her the pale expanse of her slender throat bare to his heated gaze.

When her eyes widened, he felt vaguely self-conscious, palms smoothing down his jacket nervously, trying not to back away as she stalked towards him. Red painted lips split, revealing her white teeth, and she grinned at Varys who stood rather smugly at his side.

“Remarkable work, Varys. He doesn’t look at all as he did.” She smirked at Jon, askance. “One might even call him dashing, in this light.”

The dig eased his nerves, and he frowned at her, straightening. “Fuck off. I haven’t had any complaints, I can assure you.”

Daenerys blinked at him slowly, eyes burning a path from his head to his feet. “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly, something he tried very hard to ignore, a particular sort of hunger, flaring to life in her eyes. “I don’t suppose you have.”

She caught herself, it seemed to him, and pasted a bland expression on her face. “Let’s be off, then. Much to do.”

----------

“Tonight, your name is Gendry Rivers, an associate of mine from the Stormlands.” A slim brow arched as they sped along, Selmy driving them to the dinner they were meant to attend. “Try not to sound too Northern, if at all possible.”

She crossed her legs, baring a shocking amount of thigh at him. “And our mark?”

Daenerys grinned wickedly, pulling out a compact from her small, beaded bag, checking her makeup. “Our host. He’s a rather powerful magistrate, however,” she paused, checking her eyes to him, “he’s become a bit of a problem with one of my operations. I have his successor ready to take office, but I need to get rid of him in a way that doesn’t require a full-force attack.”

Jon felt his own brows raise, curious. “And that’s where I come in?” He had a gun holstered at his shoulder, another at his waist, a knife strapped to his calf just in case.

Daenerys shook her head, amused. “Not in our best-case scenario. This one, I’ll handle myself. You’re here as backup,” she drawled, “and an alibi.”

He sucked in a breath through his nose, nodding to himself. “Alright,” he finally muttered. “And what sort of associate am I, this evening? The business sort, or the kind that fucks you?” He’d found he need not bother with niceties, where she was concerned, her mouth quite possibly filthier than his own, and she just chuckled and applied a fresh layer of lipstick.

She didn’t answer until she was finished, full lips pushing against each other, red as blood, clicking the compact closed as she met his questioning eyes. “Probably best to play it as an arm candy sort of arrangement, Jon Snow. Though I have to admit I’m curious to see if you can pull it off convincingly.”

“That’s fine,” Jon said dryly, glancing out the window. “I’m rather used to being underestimated.” He stretched, as though bored, waiting until she looked away to take another gander at the bare thigh she had no compunction in revealing.

There was no denying that he’d like to fuck her. He rather thought he’d enjoy it, assumed she likely would as well. He was no slouch in that department, had learned from some of the finest whores in the world how best to please a woman, since his early years in the Northern Army. Bedsport, he’d found, was a most agreeable way to work off his excess energy, after a particularly lively mission, and he let his eyes track to her breasts, fully acknowledging they were a particularly fine pair, from what he could tell.

Yes, fucking her would be a good way to relieve his stress, but in their current arrangement seemed rather ill-advised.

“Enjoying the view?” She winked at him playfully when he raised his eyes to hers. “I’m flattered.”

Jon scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest. “Doubtful. Seems to me you dressed precisely for the *view*.”

She gave a husky laugh, toying with the chain of her bag. “Quite right. I’m pleased to see it’s effective, if I’ve even managed to snare the attention of the ubiquitous Jon Snow.”

Jon just rolled his eyes, averting his gaze firmly. “Spare me.”

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She spent the entire reception, well into the dinner, making eyes at their host, an older man named Jorah Mormont, while pressed firmly against his side. He played along, as instructed, digging deep to find the will to engage in endless, inane small talk, about the whether, and the current lemon harvest, and on and on.

Her hand found it’s way to his thigh as they ate, though her eyes remained locked on their mark. Jon couldn’t blame Jorah Mormont for being so thoroughly enchanted, and he dutifully ignore the twist in his gut every time the man blatantly stared at his companion’s breasts. He did glare at the fool, once, telling himself that he ought to, as her date.

Daenerys whispered to him, her lips barely moving, pretending to take a bite of her salad. “You look as though you want to kill him,” she muttered.

“Just playing my part,” he said with a sigh, sipping at his water. Their main course was served, and they dined in relative silence, as Daenerys proceeded to fuck the man they came to kill with her eyes.

By the time dessert was done even Jon could tell the poor sod was putty in her deceptively delicate hands, and she gave him a wink before taking her leave, tossing a meaningful look to the soon-to-be deceased Mr. Mormont as she walked out of the room. Mormont was hot on her heels, departing at the other end of the room, no doubt in search of the lovely Daenerys and her sinful dress.

Jon checked his watch, smiling sourly at the waiter who was handing out after-dinner cocktails, pretending to drink as he took note of the time. Ten minutes, she’d said, then he was to follow, just in case things had taken an unplanned turn.

He bid his time, lingering at the edges of the room, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. She did not reappear, and he felt the first bout of nerves he’d felt in some time tingle up his spine as he counted down the seconds.

Finally, ten minutes had come and gone, and he slipped from the room like a phantom, hand reaching inside his jacket as he crept down the darkened hall, listening intently. There, to his right, came a slight sound of commotion, a banging thump that made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

He grabbed the knob, cautiously, slowly turning and peering in, to find Daenerys wrestling the man to the ground, throwing a hard elbow to his solar plexus before reaching a hand to her thigh, drawing a dagger from the strap there, and shoving it smoothly into the man’s jugular.

Jon only felt the barest twinge of shame that he was hard as a rock, in the aftermath. She was panting for breath, chest heaving, watching as the life left the man’s eyes. She leaned in, pulling her knife free, wiping the red blood mindlessly against her gown before slipping it back into place, high on her thigh.

“Nice work,” he hissed, and was rewarded with a winsome smile. “Now let’s move.”

He wasn’t sure what she had in mind for the next part of the plan, but she moved with haste, taking his hand in hers and setting out in a sprint, surprisingly fast in such tall heels. They followed a path only she seemed to know, thankfully avoiding any onlookers, until she led him to a corner just by the swinging kitchen doors.

“Kiss me,” she urged, digging a hand into the back of his neck and pulling him to her forcefully. Her soft lips were on his before he could spare even a moment of disagreement, her tongue spearing between his lips and tangling with his as though she’d kissed him a million times. He groaned, hands falling to her hips of their own volition, giving back as good as he got as she raked her nails against his scalp. Gods, she tasted like wine and chocolate, decadent and as delicious as she looked, and it wasn’t completely an act as he backed her against the wall with a loud smack, pushing his hips against hers as her other hand grabbed at his shoulder, her breasts rubbing teasingly against his chest as she moaned.

He lost himself in her lips and hot, wet mouth, her tongue tracing against his in a manner that made his cock surge in his trousers, only guessing what wicked ways she would use her mouth on him if they had less clothes on, and he let his hands roam up her spine, bold enough to let one travel around to cup her breast as though she were his to take.

The slim part of his mind that was still focused on this mission told him to plunge ahead, realizing that this was the alibi she’d planned all along, knowing that if anyone came looking for them they’d been found almost fucking by the loud, noisy kitchen, far from the room where Jorah Mormont had bled to death.

She nipped at his bottom lip soundly, almost enough to draw blood, the fingers running through his hair taking hold and pulling his head back. They panted into each other’s mouths, eyes dark and wanton as they stared at each other. “Very good,” she murmured, her gaze ticking to his lips, where no doubt she’d painted him red. “Keep it up.”

He nodded, once, the sound of shouts from a distance telling them their mark had been discovered, and he dove back in with aplomb, every last ounce of want he’d harbored for her put to good use as he devoured her.

----------

They didn’t speak of that night, either of them, but it was growing harder to ignore the way she looked at him, when they were alone, or near enough that she allowed herself to lower her defenses a bit.

Six months into their agreement, Jon found himself glad to get a new assignment, the energy that seemed to crackle like a living thing between them almost unbearable. He wondered if it was something of a game, now, for them both. She pushed, and he pushed, a pointed, flirting glance, a wicked teasing comment, each one meant to challenge their established boundaries.

She didn’t take lovers, he knew. She’d been trafficked as a child, by her own brother, Viserys, sold to the highest bidder to a Dothraki war lord, somehow managing to impossibly rise above her circumstances, emerging from such a horrible experience as the most powerful, and last surviving member of her family. She’d taken over the reins of the Targaryen fortune, had reopened the mines, had restored her House, while also managing to take over large sections of Essos as well. It was she who commanded the Dothraki, not the other way around, and he learned that the Unsullied answered only to her as well, decidedly loyal in their reverence of the small, petite, poisonous woman who led them.

Jon had not taken a woman to bed for at least a year, himself, and even when he did, he preferred to pay for such services, despising the attachment such an act wrought with a passion. Attachments were weaknesses, and he had no room for them, nor want.

When she came knocking at his door, clad in a black silk robe and little else, he let her in silently, watching as she walked confidently into the chamber, allowing herself a thorough look around before she faced him.

He knew why she was there, and she did too, that much was clear. He felt a small sense of victory, that she’d cracked first, and gave her a faint smile. “Why are you looking at me like that, Daenerys?”

“Like what?” She asked the question airily, toying with the sash of her robe as she wandered to the window of his room.

Jon grinned. “Like you fancy a fuck.”

He had only one lamp lit, but even in the dim light he saw the dangerous gleam in her eyes, saw the flash of her teeth as she gave him a tempting smile. “I have to say, you have an economy of speech that I greatly admire.” She pulled on the sash with little ceremony, shrugging out the silk and standing bare, waiting. “You’re exactly right, of course.”

Jon reached for the buttons of his shirt, opening them carelessly as he gave her a long, wolfish stare. He was right; She had a fantastic set of tits, round and full, rosy tipped and begging for attention. His eyes traveled down her narrow waist, the hollow of her navel, to the juncture of her thighs, trimmed silver curls shielding her cunt, but only just barely.

He licked his lips slowly, tossing his shirt on the armchair to his right. Crooking a finger at her, he let his hand drift to the button of his trousers. “Come help me out of these.” He knew he was pushing his luck, ordering her around, and sure enough, she laughed, turning around and ignoring his command, to climb wantonly onto his bed. She rose up on her knees, raising a hand to one stiff, pink nipple, teasing it coyly as she bit her lip.

“Do it yourself, you bossy fuck.”

He watched silently as her other hand traveled lower, teasing at the juncture of her thighs, as she held his gaze. With a sigh, he set to work, tugging of his trousers and boxers in one motion, stepping out of them to stalk towards the bed with purpose.

Her eyes fell to his cock, standing stiff and erect, flushed dark with blood and bobbing slightly as he came to stand before her. “See something you like?” Her hands never stopped, as she worked herself, but with the way she was staring at his dick he thought he knew the answer. Finally, her head tipped up, and her mouth fell open in a pant.

“Are you going to watch me get myself off, or are you going to help?”

Her hair was down tonight, and he realized he’d never seen it like this before, helping himself to a handful of it as he pressed himself against her abdomen, making her hands fall to her sides as he thrust against her, yanking her head back as he took her mouth in a brutal, bruising kiss. He wasn’t a gentle man, and with the way she seemed to come alive under his forceful touch he knew that wasn’t what she was looking for.

He pulled back with a harsh gasp as she felt him grab for his cock, between them, with both hands. He looked down, the sight of those slim digits wrapped around his aching flesh threatening to make his eyes cross, watching each skillful pass she made, the moisture beading at the head of his cock only aiding her in her task. It was all the more exciting, he realized, because he knew the damage those hands could do, knew she could just as easily wrap them around his throat, right now, and choke the light out of him. Idly, his breathing growing more ragged with each downstroke, he wondered if she’d do both, a thrill shooting down his spine at the image the raced to the front of his mind.

He grabbed at her wrists, wrenching her hands away, shoving her back onto the bed and climbing atop as she stared at him in hungry surprise. “You sure this is what you want, Daenerys?” Jon gripped her thighs, wrenching them apart easily, as he positioned himself between them. Fuck, even her cunt was beautiful, pink and glistening, her thighs slick with her want. “I’m not a man made for gentle.”

She snarled at him, her ankles crossing behind his back swiftly, locking him into place, her hips circling up as she rubbed her wetness against him shamelessly. “If I wanted gentle I wouldn’t have come to you, Jon. Now fuck me, or let me up.”

Jon let loose with a growl, wrapping a hand around his cock and teasing the rounded head against her clit, slapping it against the bundle of nerves rapidly as she canted her hips again and moaned loudly. “I did say I’d do as asked,” he muttered, and thrust into her without warning, not stopping until he was as deep as he could go, the tightness of her walls around him threatening to make him spill right there and there.

He waited, as much for her to adjust to his size as for his own tentative handle on his lust, which was rapidly slipping away. “Fuck, Daenerys.” He withdrew, slowly, only to thrust again, his hips swinging with force, slapping against her flesh as she buried himself inside her willing flesh. “Fuck, so good.”

She groaned, her nails piercing the back of his neck, sharp pinpricks of pain that drove him wild. He drove himself inside her, again and again, as hard as he dared, drinking in the sight of her beneath him, lovely tits swaying with each push of his cock into her. Gods, she was so hot, so fucking wet, each thrust easier and easier, and finally he could take no more, mouthing roughly at one nipple before switching to the other.

Every time he wondered if he ought to ease up on her, she held him closer, forcing his head more tightly to her chest as he divided his attention between her tits, adding his teeth to each sucking pulls of his mouth, until she was whining and keening against him, sweat dewing her flesh.

“Gods, Jon!” She let go of his head only to scrape her nails up his back, surely leaving scarlet trails behind, hard enough to score his flesh. “More, more,” she chanted, hips rising to meet his, now, his pace bruising as she began to clamp down on his cock each time it plunged inside her. He braced himself on one arm, ripping his mouth away from her swaying breasts to look between their bodies, to watch the heady sight of his cock plowing away into her dripping cunt. He brought his free hand between them, thumbing at her clit, circling and sliding as she practically howled his name, finally tipped over the edge and coming in hard, squeezing pulses, walls fluttering and gripping his cock and she cried out garbled shouts of his name and a string of filthy Valyrian curses.

It was all he needed to chase her peak with his own, his seed spilling into her it hot bursts, and he did not slow until he had emptied into her completely, pulling out of her heated depths and rolling to her side, each of them catching their breath in the now silent room.

Finally, his heart began to steady, and his breath as well, the pleasant buzz of release wearing off, and he winced and the lines of fire she’d marked down his back. “Am I bleeding?” He sat up, baring his back to her, and grimaced when she began to chuckle.

She rose, his seed dripping down her thigh, and grabbed her robe of the floor, pulling it on slowly as she circled the bed to face him. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding as though she meant it in the slightest. She smiled, looking thoroughly fucked and utterly satisfied, her cheeks flushed and rosy, a bruise already forming where he’d sucked roughly at the skin of her throat. “I was right about you.”

He set his jaw, watching as her glorious body was obscured one more by black silk. “In what respect?”

She crossed his room, pausing at the door, peeking coyly at him when, at last, she replied. “Greyworm says you fight like a demon.” She smirked at him. “I couldn’t help but think you probably fucked like one, too. Sleep well, Jon Snow.”

Daenerys was gone, before he could respond, and he looked around his once again empty room, cock softening but still wet, his bed rumpled from their activities, the smell of sex heavy in the air.

He collapsed back on his bed, wincing anew as his back hit the sheets. “Fuck,” he groaned, staring at the ceiling.

-----------

They didn’t speak about their dalliance.

They just started fucking each other after *every* mission, instead.

There wasn’t a question, no exchange of niceties as to their current arrangement. It was simply added to their normal course of activities. Hunt, kill, fuck. Lather, rinse, repeat. After the first few instances, Jon had to admit, even to himself, it was the happiest he’d been in a very long time.

There was a tendency, amongst the Starks, to keep him at a distance. They had no issue with sending him off to do the worst sorts of tasks, to spill blood without compunction, in service to their wants and desires, but they would treat him as though he were some sort of barely tamed beast, in the interim.

In Daenerys, he found no such hypocrisy. More often than not, she was there, guns blazing, blade flashing, and it was as she promised. She asked him to do nothing she wasn’t willing to do herself. Unlike his family, she was perfectly willing to get her own hands dirty, and his admiration grew for her along with his desire.

She treated him like an equal, and there was something infinitely satisfying about it.

She fucked him with abandon, dominating him and tethering him to her bed one day, only to be on her knees between his spread thighs, sucking his cock like a highly-paid whore the next.

And never, ever, did she look down on him.

It was addictive, and as his year with her came to a close, it began to sink in that he didn’t want to leave.

The cold winds of Winterfell seemed a world away from these warm shores, and he shuddered at the thought of the biting chill, of the damp, musty halls, of his cold quarters, well away from the proper Starks, at his home Keep.

The night before he was due to leave, to make his way back to Winterfell, his personal arsenal and wolf in tow, she invited him to eat with her in her quarters.

They didn’t speak of feelings, didn’t even address them, both sure, he thought, that those weren’t the sorts of things that mattered a whit, for people like them.

But if he could love, if he was capable of it, that was what he felt for her, a twisted possessive sort of love that raged at the thought of another sharing her bed and making her scream, once he left.

They ate silently, staring at each other, daring the other to speak first with pointed, lingering looks.

Jon finally broke, finishing off his steak, fisting his napkin in one hand. “Well,” he said, more airily than he felt, “guess you’ll finally be rid of me, come morning.”

Daenerys frowned, but she stared at him still, unflinchingly. “That’s a pity,” she replied, thickly, and he had no doubt she meant it. “I’ve grown used to you, I must admit.”

She dabbed at the corners of her mouth daintily, taking great care to smooth her fine linen napkin onto the table, then steepled her hands beneath her chin. “I would like to propose a more permanent arrangement.” A brow arched, and for the first time, he saw a glimmer of unsurety, in those bewitching purple eyes of hers. “I greatly respect your abilities, Jon. You’ve become a great asset to me, in your time here. I think continuing this little project would be beneficial for both of us.”

Jon’s heart stuttered, but he remained calm, placid. “My family—”

“Will continue to treat you as their little pet henchman. Will continue to deny you a place at their table, and for what? Your father’s sins?” She scoffed, leaning back, clearly irritated, and that was perhaps most shocking of all, because it seemed to be on his behalf. “You’re better than doing their dirty work for the rest of your life, Jon Snow. We both know it.”

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together, as he tried to deny the truth in what she said. He’d made more in a year, in her employ, than in the last five working for his family, taking their crumbs and whatever paltry shares of Stark Oil and Petroleum they’d deigned to throw his way. No matter how good he was, no matter how effective he was, he was a Snow, at the end of the day. He would never be one of them.

But it was his duty. They were his blood.

“I can’t.” He made sure she heard the regret in his voice. “You know I can’t.”

She shook her head, bemused. “No, I don’t know anything of the sort. I’m prepared to offer you a stake in several of my ventures, and the freedom to take whatever side contracts you wish, along with a very healthy salary. A board position, if you want it.”

“Dany,” he started, voiced trailing off when she raised a finger in warning. He’d only ever called her that when they were naked, and sweaty, fucking the life out of each other. He hadn’t meant to say that name, it had slipped out, and it only made her angry.

“Don’t you start with that.” She narrowed her eyes at him, even though a gentle plea entered her voice. “Can’t you see how they use you and manipulate you? They ask you to kill for them, to steal for them, and for what? For blood? What do you think you owe them?” She rose from her seat, bracing her hand flat on the table, leaning across until her face was mere inches from his. “They think you’re a monster, and you know it. They’re afraid of you. They’re ashamed of you.” She jabbed her finger in the air at him now, just barely pressing into his cheek. “I’ve never treated you as such. And I never will. I’ve never lied to you, and I never will. You have potential, Jon Snow, and you’re wasting it, going back to that fucking wasteland.”

He swallowed, hard, sitting back in his chair and scrutinizing her, scowling slightly. “Maybe so. But they are my family, and I can’t just turn my back on them. Maybe it’s the only honor left in me, but I can’t.”

He stood, his chair scraping loudly, and tossed his napkin onto the table. “Thanks for dinner,” he said morosely, and left, leaving her staring after him.

-----------

Jon was up the next morning when the sun rose, at the narrow strip of runway that served as her private landing strip, watching his trunks as they were loaded onto one of her private planes. Ghost sat beside him, no doubt grateful he’d get to ride in the cabin and not in a fucking wooden box.

He felt her approach before he heard her, as attuned to her as he was, smelled her delicate perfume on the wind.

They stood together, in silence, and finally he turned, stared at her profile in the pink and gold light of the sunrise, wishing she wasn’t so fucking beautiful. It wasn’t just her external loveliness, though she remained the most stunning woman he’d ever encountered. She was cunning, ruthless, cutthroat. She took not a single ounce of horseshit, from anyone, save perhaps for him, and even so only because she enjoyed fucking him, he thought.

If she felt his stare, she didn’t acknowledge it, her silver hair swirling in the light breeze, curls dancing along the fabric of her dark blue peacoat. She looked so delicate, when she was anything but, and he realized at the wrenching of his heart that he was going to be gutted at the loss of her. He’d get over it, eventually, he’d forget the satin of her skin, the way she fucked him relentlessly, the way she clawed and marked her way across his body, how she allowed him to do the same.

They were a pair, the two of them, and he felt his whole body tense when she finally turned her head, slightly, to look into his eyes. “Sometimes your enemies are closer than you realize, Jon Snow. Take care who you trust, alright?” She clasped gloved hands together in front of her, fingers twisting together. “It’d be a dreadful waste of good cock for you to go and get yourself killed.”

He laughed, roughly, shoving his hands in his own pockets to fight the urge to embrace her. “You really say the sweetest things, Daenerys.”

She fished a hand inside her coat, pulling out a business card, a number inked in blue on the back. “That’s my direct line, Jon. If you need my help, in the future, call me.” She squinted at him, the sun glaring more brightly the higher it climbed in the sky. “But only you. I don’t trust Starks, as a rule, but Snows have earned an exception.”

He wanted to kiss her, to make her breathless, wanted to rip off their clothes and have her right here and now, but he didn’t do any of those things. Jon’s lips twisted in a sad smile, and he reached down and grabbed his duffel, as a shout came from the plane. “Goodbye, Daenerys. It’s been,” he paused, his eyes searching hers, knowing all the things he dared not say were there on the tip of her tongue, too. “It’s been interesting,” he finally finished, and extended a hand to shake hers.

She pumped their joined hands once, then twice, giving a final squeeze to his fingers before letting her hand fall away. “If you fancy a good fuck,” she said, a cheeky smile spreading her lips, even though her eyes filled with something resembling sorrow, “you know where to find me.”

----------

Jon had been home for two days before he found out Arya had left Winterfell, permanently. She’d fucked off to Braavos, apparently, and hadn’t even bothered to tell him, leaving the task for Sansa, who delivered the news with a sour smile and stony voice.

Robb had arrived from parts unknown, a woman on each arm, and had cloistered himself off in the east wing of the castle for a week before deigning to track Jon down, hungover and exhausted, by all appearances.

“Brother,” he groaned, from the head of the long table in the dining room. “Good to see you again.” Jon sat himself at the other end, his usual place, even when no one else was there. He remained silent as he was served, taking a bite of slightly charred bacon before he responded.

“I’ve been back a week, Robb.”

His half-brother seemed unsurprised, taking a swig of orange juice and grimacing, ordering the housekeeper to close the blinds to protect his sensitive eyes. “Come down here, Jon. We need to talk.”

Jon rose warily, carrying his plate down to where Robb sat, the two eating in silence as he waited to hear exactly what it was Robb wanted. A job was set for him, no doubt, and he wondered if he’d be sent somewhere to freeze his fucking balls off, a sharp pang of regret coursing through him as he thought of Dragonstone. It had been hard not to, but he forced such thoughts down, as always.

“I need you to sign over your shares, brother. And,” Robb said, tentatively, speaking a bite of eggs into his mouth before continuing, “you need to leave.”

“Leave?” Jon’s brows rose, and he leaned back. “Leave Winterfell?”

Robb nodded, oblivious to the ire that was quickly rising inside Jon. “We’re trying to play it straight, man. Bring on new investors, expand the business, you get the drift. Can’t do that with a ruthless killer like you wandering around, owning shares.”

Jon just stared at the man who liked to call him brother, but never a Stark. “Then buy out my shares, *brother*.”

Robb sighed, shaking his head. “I can’t, not right now. I had to buy out Arya, before she took off to wherever the fuck she went, and I’m a little strapped for cash.”

“No.” Jon stood, suddenly, his appetite gone. “Buy me out or fuck off.” It didn’t matter that he had a tidy sum, freshly wired to his offshore account, courtesy of one Daenerys Targaryen. It was the principle of the thing. “What would father say, Robb? You drink and fuck off all the money he made, and now you what? Want me to eat shit and walk away, with nothing for my trouble?”

Robb was finally stirred, glaring at Jon viciously. “What would father say? What would he say, Jon? To see his precious Jon running around killing people, a fucking murderer, no remorse, no apologies. He’d be ashamed of what you are, bastard, and you know it. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Gods, it would be so easy, to give into the rage that coursed through his veins, to kill Robb where he stood. Any of the present cutlery would do in a pinch. But he took a deep breath, and stepped back, Jon’s temper only just contained. “Get your shit together and buy me out, or I’ll show you exactly who you’re fucking dealing with, *brother*,” Jon spat, and stormed from the room.

-----------

He didn’t leave his room for two days, save to wander the grounds with Ghost, avoiding Robb and Sansa as well. He had no doubt she was in on this arrangement, she’d always barely tolerated him anyway. He wondered if Arya knew, if she’d even care.

His phone pinged, and it was a number he didn’t recognize, not right away. A quick check of the business card in his wallet, though, confirmed his suspicions. Dany.

‘Check your email – D’ was all she said, and he booted up his laptop, waiting for his email to load as he stroked a hand through Ghost’s fur. Sure enough, there was a message waiting, from her, and he clicked, opening the correspondence.

‘Jon,

Call it professional courtesy, but I thought you ought to see the attached contract. I bought it out, in case you were wondering. You owe me one. I’m sure you know how I’ll be collecting.

Dany.’

Curiosity ate at him, and he opened the attachment, his gut telling him what he would see, but confirmation making him feel as though he might be sick.

It was a contract, alright. A hit, on him. It happened every now and then, a hazard of the job, but when he saw the principal on it he felt his vision go red.

Robb Stark.

He stood, pacing angrily, Ghost’s tail swishing anxiously as he looked on.

There were several ways to deal with this, some bloodier than the others, but he was Jon’s blood, after all. He clicked a few buttons, the printer on his dresser whirring, and grabbed at the paper, still hot. He laid it on his unmade bed, turning away to shove everything he wanted from his spartan quarters into his duffel.

He made his way through the keep, bag on his shoulder, glaring at everyone he passed, and banged his way into the office that had once been his fathers, finding Robb slumped over the desk, drink in hand.

Jon didn’t hesitate, slamming the paper onto the surface, watching Robb pale as he saw what it was Jon had brought him.

“Jon,” he stuttered, but his voice died in his throat when Jon pulled out a pocket knife, flicking the blade open and jamming it into the wood, pinning the paper to the surface.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jon snarled.

Robb held up his hands in surrender, clearly drunk, his movements clumsy. “Are you going to kill me?” He was whimpering pathetically, and Jon realized that if he had ever loved Robb, that loyalty was gone. It was only his blood that had saved him, this time, only this time.

“No, you pathetic piece of shit.” Jon almost enjoyed the way Robb sniveled, enjoyed how he could probably make him beg for his life. “But if I ever see your face again, you’re dead. This is the only mercy you’re going to get from me.”

He turned to leave, hearing Robb begin to cry. “Same goes for Sansa,” Jon called out, uncaring. “The Starks are dead to me, and if you don’t believe me, Robb,” he paused at the door, taking one last look at the man who was a brother to him no more, “fuck around and find out. I dare you.”

Jon left the Keep, feeling surprisingly free, not stopping ‘til he reached his car, a dusty old Jeep that he’d kept running for years. He dialed a number, a few rings passing before the call was answered.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” Dany’s voice was the only honest thing he knew, now, even if they were monsters, the pair of them. He’d rather be a monster with her than pretend to be something he wasn’t, chained and held captive by people who had no love for him at all, no respect for the bonds of blood.

“I need a ride,” he said roughly, looking around to see if he was being followed.

She huffed out a light laugh. “I’ve got a transport waiting for you in Winter Town.”

Jon fell silent, taken aback for a moment. “Are you serious? How did you know?”

Dany snickered playfully, warming something dead in him. “Call it a hunch. Head to Old Nan’s, your ride will be waiting.”

He hung up, and loaded Ghost into the Jeep, not looking back as Winterfell faded into the distance.

When he made it to Old Nan’s, thirty minutes later, he saw a sleek towncar parked in the lot, the only other vehicle there.

He exited his Jeep, giving it one last longing look, leaving his keys on the carseat and whistling for Ghost to follow. When he knocked on the window, he was unsurprised to see Barristan Selmy behind the wheel. “Mr. Snow,” he acknowledged, with a solemn dip of his chin. “Get in.”

Jon did as requested, pulling his collar up against the cold wind as he made his way to the back of the car, ducking down and settling into the leather seat, Ghost lumbering in after him. He was only very slightly chagrined to see Dany there, a cheeky grin lighting up her face as he pulled the door closed.

She jammed one manicured nail against the button to raise the partition, waiting until it was raised to speak. “You don’t seem surprised to see me, Jon Snow.”

Jon shrugged, placing his duffel on the floor between his feet, stretching out and laying and arm across her shoulder to pull her into his side. “I didn’t imagine you’d go to all this trouble to let good cock go to waste. That’s the sort of thing you pick up yourself, or so I hear.”

Daenerys tried to scowl at him, only to dissolve into the girlish laugh she only seemed to save for him. He didn’t know if it was love, this thing between them, but he didn’t really know what love was, anyway. Whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t lose it. Maybe they’d never say the words, but he didn’t figure they needed to, watching as she slid a hand to his knee.

“Ever fucked in a town car, Jon?”

He grinned at her, his eyes falling on Ghost. “Turn around, you rotten cur. You don’t need to witness this.” Ghost obliged with a huff, and Jon pulled Dany into his lap, letting her legs straddle his hips as he pulled her top down, exposing her breasts to his hungry eyes.

“Gods, I’ve missed your tits.” He punctuated the remark by teasing at an already hard nipple with his teeth, moaning as she arched and gasped. “I’m a town car virgin, Dany, you’d better go easy on me.”

She laughed, even as she began to pant, her fingers dropping to his fly and unzipping him, setting his hard cock free as she began to stroke. “Never,” she said, and dropped her mouth to his throat. “You’re my prisoner, now, and you’ll take it exactly how I give it, Jon Snow.”

“Aye,” he rasped out, fondling one breast as he snaked his fingers into her pants, easing his fingers down and testing the hot wetness that had already gathered. “Strictly business.” She winked at him, her eyes telling him it was anything but, and proceeded to give poor Barristan an earful as they drove south.